The Bookworm & Silverfish

By Dr. Goutam Bhattacharyya

 

Dorji is a quiet man. He believes that books, like good friends, never let you feel alone. He has a small bookshop in Phuentsholing, locals call it P’ling, stands near the bend of a busy road. The signboard reads ‘The Bookworm & Silverfish’. Inside, the air smells of old paper, rain-soaked earth, and warm tea leaves.

The shop feels like a pause in the day. Travelers step in to rest. Readers step in to linger. Dorji never rushes anyone. He lets people browse the shelves as if they are walking through their own past.

“Take your time,” he often says, gently.

His favorite line is printed on the wooden counter in neat black letters: Books make the best companions. Dorji believes this without question. He enjoys his solitude, yet he is not cut off from the world. At night, after closing the shop, he writes online. Many people follow him. He writes about Bhutanese legends, about the calm pride of the hills, and about ghosts that walk near old bridges and ruined castles.

One legend returns often in his writing. It is called ‘The Lama of the Lost Roads’.

The story stirs again on an afternoon washed in pale sunlight. Dorji’s friend Manjit Singh arrives at the shop before a long journey. Manjit is a truck driver from across the border. He wears a bright turban and smells of diesel and dust.

“Dorji-La, I’m leaving tonight,” Manjit says. “I’ll be going right up to the northern passes.”

Dorji pours him tea. “Take your good tea leaves,” he says. “And pack warm clothes.”

Manjit grins. “Anything else?”

Dorji looks up, his voice is calm. “The mountains show strange things. Sometimes ghosts. Sometimes truths. Do not confuse one for the other.”

Manjit laughs. “And if I meet your lama on the road?”

Dorji smiles. “Offer him a lift. He helps those who wander too far.”

That evening, Manjit’s truck rolls out of Phuentsholing. The engine hums low and steady. Two students ride with him. Dawa is sturdy and cheerful. Karma is thin and thoughtful. Both study at a polytechnic and are heading home for the holidays.

They sing as the road climbs. Clouds drift across the windshield. Pine trees line the bends like silent guards. Dawa cracks jokes. Karma hums along. Yet Manjit keeps glancing at the rearview mirror. He half expects someone to step out of the mist.

The thought feels foolish, even ghoulish. Still, in such places, the mind grows strange.

They stop at Chukha for fuel. Prayer flags flutter above the station. Bright cloth strips carry printed Dzongkha prayers, pressed long ago with wooden blocks. While waiting, Manjit scrolls through his phone. He reads Dorji’s latest post.

It speaks of the Lama of the Lost Roads. The lama appears on forgotten tracks. He guides the lost. He vanishes before dawn.

“The Lama again,” Manjit mutters.

Karma smiles softly. “Maybe we’ll meet him.”

Manjit does not reply. He grips the steering wheel a little tighter and starts the engine.

By the time they reach Yangthang village, the mountains turn blue with twilight. The light thins. The air cools. Dorji calls again. His voice is soft, yet urgent.

“Be careful near Drukgyel Dzong,” he says. “The roads there are… solemnly silent.”

Manjit nods though Dorji cannot see him. “We’re almost there,” he replies. “All good so far.”

They stop at a small inn on the edge of the valley. A young monk named Penjor sits near the doorway. He sings old Dzongkha songs, slow and unhurried. His voice moves through the valley like water over smooth stones.

Inside, they drink tea. Steam rises from chipped cups. Penjor speaks without drama, as if stating a simple truth.

“Sometimes at Taktsang monastery,” he says, “you hear voices in the wind. Like travelers who still search for home.”

Dawa laughs nervously. “The wind sings everywhere.”

Penjor smiles. “Yes. But the mountains remember,” he adds. “We think we leave footprints. Perhaps they leave us.”

No one replies. Outside, the ruins of Drukgyel Dzong stand dark against the stars. The stones seem to listen. Even Dawa grows quiet.
The next day passes in a slow rhythm. Wheels turn. Mist lifts and falls. Someone hums an old song. The road winds toward Thimphu, where shops and traffic appear suddenly, pressed against silent hills.

Dorji calls once more. “The roads beyond Taba and Jungzhina are unusually quiet,” he warns. His voice drops. “People hear footsteps at night. No one opens a window. No one looks out. Some who do see figures walking, as if they belong to another time.”

Manjit swallows. “Dorji-La, what should we do?”

“Stay calm,” Dorji says. “Watch. Listen. Do not step outside for curiosity.”

That night they stay at Chimi’s Homestay. Firelight dances on the walls. The old hostess serves them rice and soup. Then she begins to talk.

“First comes the fog,” she says. “Then the steps. Slow. Careful. They circle the house. They stop at the door.”

She pauses. The fire crackles. Suddenly, a sharp cry cuts through the silence. Dawa jumps. Karma grips his cup.

The hostess smiles faintly. “Just the night,” she says.

Later, everyone sleeps. Everyone except Manjit.

He wakes up upon hearing a sound. It is soft. Rhythmic. Almost kind. It fades in and out, like breath. He walks to the window and opens it.

There is no one outside. Only the majestic pine trees are sighing. Only the cold air murmurs. Far away, a monastery bell and the chanting of prayers drift through the dark.

Manjit closes the window slowly. He sits back on the bed. He remembers Dorji’s words.

‘Sometimes ghosts. Sometimes truths’.

By dawn, the truck climbs toward Dochula Pass. The sky turns pale. Prayer flags stretch across the road like tired birds. Manjit feels worn, yet his hands stay steady on the wheel.

A lone figure stands by the roadside. Manjit slows.

“Where to, Lama-Guruji?” he asks.

“Jakar Dzong,” the lama replies. His voice is gentle. His eyes are the calmest Manjit has ever seen.

The lama sits in the front. He looks out at the hills and smiles. “We should stop at the chortens,” he says. “The wind here is full of prayers. The mountains pray too.”

They stop near the 108 stupas. Mist moves between them like breath. No one speaks for a while.

Later, they halt at a small roadside shop, a tshongkhang. Tea is poured. Steam curls into the cold air. The lama bows.
“Thank you,” he says, and walks down the path.

The truck moves on.

Hours later, Manjit slows suddenly. On a ridge ahead, the same lama stands. His robe glows faintly in the sunlight.

“That’s him,” Dawa whispers.

Manjit blinks. He slows the truck. In the next moment, the ridge is empty. The lama is gone, as if he never stood there.

That night, Karma speaks softly. “In Bumthang, there is a story,” he says. “A hermit lama befriends a spirit. He learns to be in two places at the same time.”

“Maybe,” Dawa says, half-smiling, “we met his twin brother.”

Manjit does not reply. As he lies awake, he hears a faint tapping, like a staff touching the road. There is no voice. No knock. The sound fades. He stays still.

Their journey continues to Punakha, a hill town shaped by prayers and rivers. From there they climb to Gasa village. The hills open into a silence so deep it feels alive. Steam rises from a hot spring. The three sit together in the warm water. No one jokes about ghosts here.

Back in Punakha, the unease returns. Dawa and Karma stare at their phones.

“We have two new followers,” Karma says. “They look the same.”

Two girls. Same smile. Same mole near the brow.

Manjit laughs. “Maybe one girl lives two lives in digital duniya.”

That night, their host, Tashi Sangay, speaks of Gungtong, a haunted house in Tsento village.

“The television turns on by itself,” he says. “It chants. It does not speak.”

In the morning, they drive past the house. A prayer wheel by the gate spins slowly. There is no wind. Dawa grips his seat.

“I saw a blue light,” he says. “Inside, it’s quite weird.”

No one argues.

The mountains keep their stories. They do not explain them. And none of them, it seems, ever truly end.

Days later, they meet the lama again. He walks beside the road near Trongsa. A wooden staff supports his slow steps. The air smells of pine and dust.

Dawa leans close and whispers, “The same boy who gave us medicine… I hear he is calling this lama for a puja.”

The lama looks up. He nods, as if he hears what they do not say.

“The house remembers,” he says softly. “Walls too remember.”

No one asks what he means.

In Trongsa town, they stop near the old dzong. An elderly man sits in the sun and watches the road. When Manjit asks about the lama, the man shakes his head.

“The Lama of the Lost Roads died twenty years ago,” he says. “But people still meet him. On quiet roads he appears from nowhere. He shows the way.”

That evening, as the light fades, Manjit returns to his truck. A small note rests under the windshield wiper. It smells faintly of incense. The words are written in a careful hand: ‘The unseen travels with you to light the way’.

Manjit folds the note and keeps it in his pocket. He does not show it to the others.

The road carries them farther east. Mist drifts in and out of forests. Villages appear and fade, where time moves without hurry. In Mongar, a school-teacher joins them. His name is Pobitra Sen. He says he comes from Lhuntshi village, but his home is in Kolkata.

“I like the mountains,” Sen says. “Here, silence speaks louder than traffic.”

Night falls. The truck moves steadily. Manjit glances at the rear-view mirror. For a moment, Sen’s reflection blends with another face. A boy’s outline appears, faint and still.

Manjit blinks. He looks again.

This time, only Sen is there, reading quietly in his seat.

A flutter rises in Manjit’s chest. He tightens his grip on the wheel. He keeps his eyes on the road and drives on, as the mountains watch in silence.

In Trashigang, Sen grows restless. He walks more. He speaks less. One morning, near an old chorten wrapped in moss, Manjit checks the cargo. He finds a small bundle tied with faded cloth. Inside lies a letter, thin and yellowed with age.

The name on it stops him. Jigme.

The letter is written years ago. It is from Sen’s student, the boy who drowned.

“I am going away to help lost spirits cross the bridge, it says. I will bring back your book when I return”.

Manjit folds the letter carefully. His hands feel cold.

That night, a young boy named Jigme travels with them. He sleeps in his mother’s lap. In his dreams, he murmurs, “Uncle, the Lama is walking again.”

Manjit lies awake after that. Sleep does not return.

The next day, Sen finally speaks. His voice is calm, almost casual. Dawa and Karma stare at him as he explains the mystery of the two identical followers online.

“They are twins,” Sen says. “In fact, they are part of triplets.”

“And the third?” Karma asks.

Sen looks out of the window. “Lost,” he says. “Or waiting.”

In Kanglung, Dawa and Karma search Sherubtse College. They ask around. They look through records. The third sister, Nimaa, is nowhere to be found.

When they return, Sen only smiles. “There is something ahead,” he says. “You will see.”

As the journey nears its end, the lama appears one last time near Deothang village. He stands by the roadside, a strange staff in hand, as if he has always been there.

He looks at Sen. His voice is gentle. “Your student was never far,” he says. “You carried his memory. Now let him walk his own road.”
Sen nods. At a small shrine, he places the letter beside a butter lamp. The flame flickers. The wind rises. The pages lift and scatter, like white birds set free.

The truck rolls downhill toward Samdrup Jongkhar, aka ‘SJ’, the border town. Clouds part. Sunlight spills across the road.

Manjit glances in the mirror. For a moment, he sees the lama and a small boy walking behind the truck. They grow smaller. Then they fade into light.

The road continues. Quiet. Clear. And finally, at peace.

A few days later, in Phuentsholing, Dorji receives a parcel. It is wrapped in handmade paper and tied with thin string. He opens it slowly, as if time has softened inside the package.

There is a single prayer bead. There is a small parchment. On it are written the words: The river carries what the road forgets. There is also an old sepia photograph. It shows three figures. A young lama stands on one side. A schoolteacher stands on the other. Between them is a boy, smiling shyly at the camera.

Dorji holds the photograph for a long time. The light in his shop fades. Outside, a truck rumbles past toward the mountains. Its horn echoes once and disappears.

Later that week, the journey returns to P’ling. Mr. Sen asks everyone to meet near Hotel Khamsum. “Just come,” he says, smiling. “No questions.”

A bulky man waits there. His name is Thinley. He greets Mr. Sen with warmth and respect. “Sir,” he says, bowing slightly. “It is good to see you again.”

“I see you have grown stronger,” Sen replies.

But it is the woman beside Thinley who draws all attention. She steps forward calmly.

“My name is Nimaa,” she says.

Dawa and Karma stare at her. Ya, it is the same smile. The same small mole she has near the brow.

She looks at them and laughs softly. “My sisters have been following you,” she says. “They told me everything. The messages. The questions. They enjoy such pranks.”

She pauses, and then she adds, “We are triplets. My sisters work in different regions. their names are Dawa and Karma.”

For a moment, no one speaks. Then everyone laughs. The mystery loosens and falls away. The identical faces. The strange messages. The half-fearful guesses. All of it finds a simple, human answer.

The Lama of the Lost Roads does not appear. Yet the road delivers something gentler. Not a ghost, but connection. Not an enigma, but playfulness.

Mr. Sen speaks softly, almost to himself. “Every return is a beginning.”

The small gathering ends with handshakes and quiet goodbyes. Mr. Sen grips Manjit’s hand firmly.

“It has been a fascinating journey, Manjit-ji,” he says, adjusting his spectacles. “We had a fine truck and a finer company. My road now takes me back to Kolkata, where the silence of the mountains gives way to the roar of the city.”

He turns to Dawa and Karma. “Remember,” he says, “the best surprises arrive without asking permission. And always look for the third part of any mystery.”

That evening, back in his shop, Dorji places the prayer bead beside his books. He looks once more at the photograph and smiles.
Outside, the road stretches on. Quiet. Patient. It is still full of stories.

 

Dr Goutam Bhattacharyya from India is a researcher of Plant Sciences, teacher, poet and writer based in Ahmedabad, Gujarat, India, passionate about capturing the essence of Indian culture, history, and everyday life through verse. His works explore regional pride, heritage, and nature with an accessible lyrical style. His creative writings are published in different Anthology books and magazines, the latest being a short story, ‘A Rare Reunion’, published in ‘Kitaab’ a Singapore-based South Asian literary magazine having excellent literary quotient.