He's a struggling writer. He aims to write only what he's experienced in his life.
I’ve always felt I’d never get the glimpse of the sunlight the following morning. This fear of mine has followed me like a shadow for quite a long time from that noon on Wednesday, 28, Nov' 1979. These I days I just recollect it as dreaded noon.
I took a bike lift, back to the Seminary, at the opposite end of the city from Bishop's House.
I had come to Bishop's House along with other seminarians in the morning to assist Fr. Christopher who was given charge of the whole show from setting up the stage till the end of the cultural programme in front of the Cathedral in the evening that day.
By 12 o'clock, the stage was almost done. So, my friends had already returned by rickshaw. I was the only left behind. So, Fr. Christopher gave a lift on his bike.
The road through the main city was almost empty that noon. So, he drove the bike faster.
As we were about to reach the cross road near the Tezpur Hospital, Fr. didn’t obey the hand signal the traffic had given.
He didn’t stop, instead, he pressed on the accilator.
Result, the bike whizzed right through the axis of the cross road.
Within a flash, I saw his head turn left. Then he still twisted the accilator to full.
While the bike whirled like a bullet, I saw the bumper of the Ambassador car which was nearly fifty meters away a flicker a second ago, loomed like fang of cobra just a meter away, about to smash us.
I was about to jump on it from the fast moving bike.
"Ahhhh," I was still hanging on the moving bike.
"Tuck." The car touched the tip of the bike.
The traffic whistled at us. I turned my head to the right. I saw the car bumped at a rickshaw on the wayside, while our bike picked up faster and faster.
In a fleeting moment, we passed by the hospital and arrived at the seminary.
I kept my mind cool and calm for the show:
"Bloodshed at Sunset Hotel" on the stage in the evening of which I was the lead cast.
Mother Teresa was the guest of honor.
I had a close call from the threshold of death.
Bamoni Hill, Tezpur
No More Walk with Him Again
After two years
Fr. Christopher and I kept the story of the threshold to ourselves.
I went for a walk on Friday evening to Bamoni hill from Bishop's House with Jimmy and Teja.
"Life is just like a butt. I puff the cigarette, when it's over, I smite the butt away." Teja said pulling a long breath with a grin.
Jimmy gave a puzzled look at Teja.
I was feeling the flow of the Brahmaputra below. I said nothing.
"Teja met an accident." Jimmy informed me with a grave face the following Sunday morning, when I was alone lying in my bed in the room.
We then rushed to the hospital passing through the panicked crowd outside. We couldn't get in through the gate. So, we waited for a while.
Then returned back with gloomy faces and heavey hearts.
In the afternoon, I got the news, "Teja passed away."
No more with him again.
Bamoni Hill, Tezpur
After fifteen years:
I met a Lama in Kathmandu.
"What's death?" I asked the Lama in my first meeting.
He smiled then said about his life instead.
"In this life, I am born from a Tamang family. In my previous life, I was born in a Tibetan family in Tibet.
My life was very short there.
While I was meditating in a forest, somebody stalked from behind and chopped off my head."
I was only 16 years old. Even in this life, I won't cross forty."
Gaping at his face, I kept quiet.
Samden had told me about the Lama. That Lama's fortune telling went accurate. He could cure the sick. He could halt a flying bird in the sky. He's just 32.
Ater four years:
"Will Bill Clinton be impeached?" Priscilla asked.
Sitting cross-legged on the bed, he closed his eyes and rolled on his rosary for a while.
"Nothing will happen to him. He will remain as the president. His position is strong." He replied opening his eyes with soft smile.
He asked them if they had more questions.
“No more to ask.” She said.
Priscilla and Eva from America had come along with me to call on the Lama.
Video on the Palm
I waited for the right time for the answer. My turn was overtaken by a sick person.
"What do you see?' The Lama asked.
"Nothing." The man muttered.
"What do you see?" The Lama insisted.
After seconds, "I see clouds in the sky."
The Lama repeated the question.
As time tickled by, "Oh! I see my wife in the cloud!"
"What's she doing?" Lama asked further.
"She's waving her hand, calling me." Said the sick.
"What do you want to do? Do you want to go?"
"Yes." replied the sick.
"She's still calling me." His voice got excited.
The Lama instructed him, tell her thus, "no no. I won't come now. Time hasn't come for me yet."
The man repeated Lama's words.
"What's happening?" The Lama pressed on.
"My wife is going away. She's waving farewell. She's disappeared." man replied in a exhausted voice.
The Lama called a monk to go downstairs and light 108 butter lamp for the man.
"Take him to a Moslem fakir in Birgunj for healing. I'll be in Kathmandu only for a week." He advised the sick man's family.
Then we namaskared the Lama and left for Boudha.
© 2020 gyanendra mocktan