"One beautiful night..." That's how stories usually begin, and this trend would continue in our time. Allow me to share my short narrative in the tradition passed down to us.
One night, perhaps during my fifth-grade year, our group of friends planned a simple celebration as winter approached. After discussing the need for food (and, of course, some drinks), one friend—whose name I've forgotten—suggested chicken. "Chicken!" I thought aloud. "Where would we get it?" I asked. In those days, obtaining chicken wasn't difficult, but we were broke. Despite being the sons of civil servants, their pocket money often vanished on useless things. "Not very difficult," one friend broke the silence, looking at me. "We'll eat the one we've been waiting for since last year." Another friend clapped his hands together and declared, "We'll need to catch and prepare it tonight," he continued, "Tashi, your mom shouldn't find out. If she asks, we'll lie." I nodded, unable to speak a word at first, but I masked my discontent and assured them that my mother had no business interfering with our plans. Soon, we headed to my house to capture the rooster.
A year earlier, the same group of us returned from Kalikhola after a day of winter swimming. We were soaked below the waist, eyes red, and faces dried from hours in the water and sun. Hungry, we always found reasons to swim, often without our parents noticing. Chungku took out Nu. 85, if I remember correctly, and gave it to Ngawang for junk food. Suddenly, someone suggested buying chicken. Ngawang and Chungku ran to a nearby house, while the rest of us eagerly awaited their return. I noticed Chungku smiling, but not Ngawang,who was behind him. "Chick!" I exclaimed. I couldn't fathom what we were doing, or what we would do next. Chungku explained, "Our money isn't enough to buy a grown chicken." He gently placed the chick in his palm, patted it, and said, "The uncle was kind enough to give us this little one to raise until it's grown." I thought to myself, "Hell!" "Tashi, can we raise this at your house?" asked Ngawang, and the others nodded eagerly. "We'll tell your mother it's a Tshed-thar." I didn't object, but I didn't show approval either. I listened to everything they said and managed to convince my mother.
I peered through a hole to check for my mother. She wasn't home, and no one bothered to inform her, even if she had been there. Our collective mission was to find the rooster. I probably knew where the rooster slept, but I followed them, mimicking their actions and hoping to see my friends lose hope. Unfortunately, I didn't notice any of them losing interest. They were doing everything they could to find it. Finally, a friend spotted it on a branch of a small mango tree that had grown in front of our thatched house. My heart sank. I couldn't utter a word that would save the rooster's life. I could only wear the mask they wore. But catching a rooster wasn't as simple as you might think! Hours of chasing were no easy task. My friends were sweating, and some even quarreled over missed attempts. At one point, I took advantage of their exhaustion and suggested we try again the next day. Somehow, the rooster ended up inside the stacked firewood on our ground floor. There was no chance of getting it then. I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking it was all over.
But that wasn't the end. Plan B? We would somehow acquire a chicken that night. So, we decided to sneak into a neighbor's house. I trembled as my brave friends slipped in without a second thought. I was only concerned about how we would escape if caught. Ironically, they returned not with a chicken, but with homemade pickle. "Run!" whispered one, "towards the school." I never once thought about turning back. I can't recall how I made it to the school campus. When I looked back, I was alone. Finding a place to sit, I couldn't help but laugh. A few minutes later, I heard my friends approaching. "What were you guys up to?" I asked in a hushed voice. "Bring it here. Let me taste it," I demanded with a chuckle. "We must try again tomorrow. Let's keep watch during the day. Our chicken is a Tshed-thar; we can't kill it," Ngawang explained. The four of us silently ate the pickle, although that didn't mean we disagreed! It felt like hearing a magical word. Embracing them, I departed as it was already late at night.
I wasn't there for the second night's hunt. I heard they only managed to steal more pickle from the same house. What they did next remains a mystery to me, as well as to you, dear reader. The chance is never zero.
Was this fate or karmic connection? Although we raised the rooster to eat, it ironically earned the title of Tshed-thar. We couldn't bring ourselves to eat it because of a white lie. I believed in the philosophy that intent matters, but in our childhood story, our intentions and reality were contradictory. We intended to kill it, but in the end, we raised it as a Tshed-thar. Our family was awakened every morning by the rooster, replacing the alarm clock of the modern world. Nearly five years later, my mother's acquaintance needed a male chicken for breeding purposes. She gave it away while I was away. The story doesn't end here, but my narration does.
