Nepte was a thick, silent boy. He had the customary slit-eyes, porcupine hair, and the button nose, which was always running.
Nepte was a thick, silent boy. He had the customary slit-eyes, porcupine hair, and the button nose, which was always running. The face was unusually scarred for a nine-year-old. He spoke very little, and reminded us of his presence only by making occasional disgusting noises with his nose.
His brother, Wangchuk, was an exact replica, except that he had a weakness for boogers. When the brothers stood together, it gave an impression of a jagged Stonehenge. The other two ufffd Thinley, and Sangey ufffd were two of the best shooters of the clan. Yes, we were out hunting. The bows were long, and flexible and strong. The arrows were of the bamboo kind, and were tipped with tin foils. Cold, sharp, and deadly.
Nepte stopped dead in his tracks.
"Shhhh," he whispered.
"Something in the bushes."
"Where?" four excited voices.
"Straight ahead."
We followed the finger. Something indeed was moving.
"It's a piglet."
"We'll find out in a second," I said, and pulled the bowstring, ready to fire. Five finely pointed arrows shot out. Three of them found their mark. The movement stopped immediately.
A blood-curdling wail erupted.
Mister Dorji had this strange habit of walking in the jungle, every day, armed with a copy of the Bhutanese national newspaper, Kuensel, and a water bottle. We had often speculated about this little adventure of his, and today was the day of realisations.
He was standing there, his Bakhu gathered around his waist, his mouth forming a perfect "AAA" and letting out a continuous wail. The missiles had indeed found their mark, and were sticking out of his derriere. He was making no attempt of pulling them out.
It was in this present avatar that he drew out his Kukri, and charged at us, the arrows still hanging out of his bum, in a grotesque fashion. The missiles bobbed up and down as he ran. Luckily for us, he could not see our faces because of the fog. We ran blindly, until we were out of the jungle, and in the safety of our houses.
Footnote: Mister Dorji could never identify his assailants of that fateful evening. Legend says that he walked all the way to his house with the projectiles, making him look like a bald peacock in a lurch. Since we were next-door neighbours, I heard dreadful wails all night. We learnt that he potty trained himself overnight.
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