This short story is a work of fiction, written from the perspective of a Wangmo’s father-the main character in the story. Though it may resemble real life experiences, the characters and events are fictionalized.

In this piece, Wangmo’s father is playing dice with his friends, and they start making comments about his wife. The author wants to show the complicated feelings between the husband and wife, and how people are sometimes kinder and more friendly to outsiders than to their own family. And also to show what is happening in the background of Wangmo’s father’s life — that leads him to be violent towards his wife.

Wangmo’s father loves playing sho (dice). People say he has luck in his hands. His opponents sometimes complain that his constant winning feels unreal. But Wangmo’s father makes the funniest, most shameless jokes when he plays. “Sho para menny gyap manyung, tsenla bhomo menna nya manyung” (I have never unturned the dice to a one (ace), and never spent a night without a woman). Everyone bursts into laughter at his comment. He has a natural spark for entertaining others. But somehow, his fondness for talking to people often puts him in difficult situations, especially when men talks about his wife.

“Oi… I was at your house yesterday. Lucky you—your wife makes such tasty chyang,” one says. The other adds, “Maybe she is good in bed too..” The laughter bursts out among the players. Wangmo’s father can only smirk to maintain his coolness around friends but underneath, jealousy starts to rise in him. He finds fault with his wife that men could make such comments about her. For a man, someone like him who was never taught how to love a woman, he believes he can fix his wife’s character with his fist. His father used to tell. “This will do you good,” while thrashing him. So that’s what he learned—what was passed down to him; thrashing can only fix someone.

Pasang slams the sho dice on the board with a loud thud. “I also need a bottle of chyang from your wife,” he says. Wangmo’s father remains silent. He can’t tell his wife to stop the alcohol business, because it’s what keeps her busy at home. But he has always hated the way men lingered at their home—how they lean against the doorway too long, how their eyes slide over her body like she belonged to no one. He hates that she never turns them away. She pours generously, as much as they want, sometimes even more.

He doesn’t know what pains him more—that she keeps giving, or that he doesn’t know how to ask her to stop.

The day before, Wangmo’s father had seen his wife and the man from the Mustang— talking, laughing like old friends. The main door remained closed. He was stuck outside. He couldn’t go inside or leave the house. They sounded too comfortable, too alive, as if they were a newly married couple. His wife’s laughter felt too foreign in his ears.

He peeked through the crack of the door. On the ground near them sat a mug of half-finished chyang, the rim stained.

From behind the half-sized wooden door, he saw her daughter, Wangmo, peeking her head out, her eyes just reaching over the edge. She watched them. He didn’t know what was going on inside his daughter’s mind, but he sensed the same strangeness in her face, too, the way he felt. He could sense his wife’s different ease, which she hadn’t had while she was with him.

“I’ve been to Muktinath on foot, that time…” his wife was saying, her voice light to the man.

The man responded brightly, “Now there are so many Indians, all barefoot, yogis with their dreadlocks and saffron robes... It’s like walking through another world.”

He lifted his mug, then set it down again. “Next time I go, I’ll bring you some blessed water from Muktinath temple,” he added with a grin.

On the other side, Wangmo blinked. Her mother laughed again, and it struck her—this version of her mother was different. This woman joked, listened, shared stories. She was nothing like the quiet, tight-lipped woman who sat across from her father during dinner. Wangmo didn’t know why, but this side of her mother felt warmer, somehow easier to be around. And for some reason, she liked it. Later, when the man from Mustang was about to leave, he reached into his pocket for some money. His wife gently pushed his hand back. “Next time,” she said. “You can pay then. Wangmo’s father went inside the house soon after the man left. Not a word said. Not a glance given. Wangmo’s mother didn’t ask where he was coming from. Inside, the house grew still. His wife rinsed the mugs in silence.

“What are you waiting for?”, his opponent shouts who is waiting patiently for his turn after Wangmo’s father. As he throws the dice, memories of his wife with that man flashes through his mind. It triggers his anger more. After the game is over, the wallet packed with money, he goes to Chungda’s alcohol house and asks for a bottle of raksi. He doesn’t speak for a while, and gulps down all raksi in one go. His mind is still disturbed by all the men’s voices about his wife, and the laughter with the Mustang man a week ago.

He pours himself a drink, then looks at Chungda who has been single and unmarried for all her life. She has a daughter whom everybody teased as an illegitimate daughter; nepali ko chori.

“Why aren’t you married?” he asks.

“I was,” she says. “Well… not officially. My family didn’t accept him.”

“Why not?”

“He was a police officer. An outsider. My mother said the police kept many wives. But he loved me. Truly.”

“Didn’t he come back?”

“He did,” she says quietly. “But I had to think of my daughter. I told him to leave. It was better that way.”

They sit in silence for a while. He takes another sip.

“Why are you here anyway?” Chungda asks. “People say your wife’s chyang is better than anyone else’s in the village. You should be in your own house”

He doesn’t reply. Instead, he sips and smiles.

“I wouldn’t be able to talk to you if I didn’t come here,” he says, teasing.

Chungda laughs. “Men these days….” she doesn’t complete the sentence but Wangmo’s father senses the irony.

“Maybe you can be my wife,” he jokes.

They both laugh out loud. Wangmo’s father enjoys his own laughter which doesn’t come easily at his own house.

The time flies by. He checks his old watch. It’s 10 p.m. He had found the watch years ago on a narrow trail leading into the jungle. His wife had warned him not to wear things found on the road. “They carry other people’s luck… or bad luck,” she’d said.

“It’s just a watch,” he replied, brushing her words off.

After three bottles of raksi, his body start to feel warm, but something else is heating up inside him—an anger he can’t shake off.

He walks into the house now, footsteps heavy. He sees two pairs of shoes by the door—his wife’s and his daughter’s.

He swings the door open.

“Look who’s here,” Wangmo’s mother mutters, almost to herself. “The shameless husband who doesn’t know how to return home.” whispering.

Wangmo sits beside her, eating her dinner quietly.

“What did you just say?” he snaps.

The kettle on the stove lets out a sharp hiss. His mind drifts to all the other men he’s seen in this house, talking, laughing, drinking his wife’s alcohol.

He looks at her now. For a brief second, everything else fades.

“Sit and eat your food,” she says calmly as if not to alert her daughter.

“You whore,” he spits out.

“Wangmo is here. Watch your mouth,” Wangmo’s mother says, placing a protective hand over her daughter’s.

He kicks the alcohol drums across the floor. “So, this is why you brew all this alcohol? To bring men into the house?”

“What are you saying? Why would I do that?”

“What about that man? The one you let in with the door closed?”

His eyes are red. His voice shakes.

“It’s none of your business. If I don’t make alcohol, where can I get the money from. Will you give me? Never in my dream..” she says, her voice rising.

He turns to Wangmo. “Come with me. You don’t belong with her.”

Wangmo doesn’t move. She holds her mother’s arm tighter.

Her mother speaks firmly this time, “Stop it. She’s scared.”

He steps forward and reaches out, but his balance is off. He sways—and misses.

His hand hits the boiling kettle instead. Hot water splashes everywhere. Steam rises instantly, filling the room. There’s a sudden silence. Everything freezes.

Then Wangmo cries out—the boiling water has splattered onto her arms and neck.

Even her father stops cold, eyes wide. He hadn’t meant for this. Her mother rushes to her, pulling her back, trying to wipe off the water. But it is too late. The damage is already done.

Sho (Tibetan dice game)