Engaging with technicians from diverse domains is followed by one common experience. Be it a mason, electrician, plumber, carpenter, driver, or wall painting expert, they have all surprised me with their compulsive habit of presenting their visiting cards embossed with fancy titles and a glossy, designer look to hook potential clients even though most of them get the spellings wrong while providing the address and contact information.
They wait patiently for some minutes in the hope that I will also reciprocate by fishing out one from my wallet. I pretend to search for one in my pockets before saying I am not carrying one, though the truth is I have rarely, except once years ago, thought of getting it printed to furnish my insignificant professional credentials that can be summed up in a word or two, making the card wear an unintended minimalist look, a wasteful expenditure without any purpose.
The album of visiting cards collected from various professionals and business contacts in the past never engendered the hope of deriving any tangible benefit from investing in this communication tool for self-promotion. Now I end up tossing it away as soon as I receive one. I prefer to avoid accepting them under the pretext of contributing to a paperless, eco-friendly world, without sounding impolite to refuse a crucial piece of one’s identity in times when the search for it has become rather intense.
Printing a visiting card with scant details of identity and achievement can neither look impressive nor impress any recipient. With no scope of finding clients from the world outside my window, the entire exercise would prove futile. The tailor around the corner will never launch a campaign to promote his outlet and the grocer will not blink in favour of advertising, even if there is a real threat from the online stores delivering faster than he can. If I decide to make it elaborate, I would still have to explain my job profile. Terms like ghostwriting cannot be self-explanatory to the common man who might think I am either writing for ghosts or about ghosts or perhaps a newbie ghost indulging in writing to seek revenge or salvation.
Smitten by the competitive bug, I did once seriously ponder over making one with AD MAN written in bold. I dropped the idea as this would shed no light on my specific role, making others slot me as a flex banner supplier who also paints walls and plasters the walls of the city with film and clinic posters. It would have necessitated the disclosure of my exact role in the realm of advertising to present a clear picture of the work I did. As it appeared a cumbersome process, it was wiser to refrain from flexing the creative muscle to score brownie points from an audience most unlikely to recognise the ordinariness of this trivial pursuit deemed as art.
Skipping the tag of copywriting meant resorting to the identity of a writer, which did not go beyond the confines of a hobby. Many consider themselves writers but they do not call themselves writers as they have better designations to flaunt for social esteem. Employing nothing but the word writer means there is nothing else in the name of my pursuit to survive, as most people refuse to wake up to the possibility of writing becoming a full-time engagement that pays your bills.
The uncontrollable urge to possess a visiting card made me pay a visit to the local printer who wanted the full content of the card. I insisted on highlighting the phrase writer-cum-copywriter, much like the sofa-cum-bed expression that made him understand the duality with ease. He was honest to say he had never made a card for this category of people even though he knew there existed many people from this background. It was a fresh task for him and he introduced the idea of using stars to highlight the celebrity angle even though there was nothing starry in it. I showed him some samples to accustom him with neatness and he copied the same pattern and font and offered me a pack of one hundred pieces without any printing error.
I was excited to share my professional identity with the world around. I wanted to give it to the people I had received it from. I located several such folks, eager to gauge the reaction of the recipients. A few dropped it casually in their pocket without trying to read it while some cast a fleeting glance before putting it aside. Some struggled to read and make sense and then gave it up without asking for clarity or its relevance. A select few responded with astonishment to know writers also brandish visiting cards. It was a consolation that none of the recipients dropped it on the pavement even though I am sure some would have trashed it at home or fed it to their pets as a chewing exercise.
Within a month I had finished half the pack and the range of reactions stopped being any different. That’s when I decided to hoard the rest for better use later – for some high-profile people. When I did come across some such folks, I did not gather the courage to share it with them. As a result, the cards sat on my writing desk, only to remind me of what I had wanted – and failed – to achieve.
I had shared it with spice dealer turned promoter and he tested me by asking me to write a tagline for his housing project that was not selling fast enough, without any promise of making it a payable freelance assignment. Out of respect for the gentleman, I wrote some catchy lines and he accepted them for his dream project with a cold thank-you, with the hope that his venture would be sold out soon. I never sought any input regarding the sales figure but the fact that he made it the brand tagline meant it was effective for the growth of his real estate business. It has been quite a few years since this episode and the cards still languish with me. I am no longer excited to reciprocate by offering mine when florists, gardeners, drivers, stall vendors, gas cleaners, and milkmen offer me their visiting cards. I am not saddled with the burden of furnishing mine to assert and boost my identity that is less than relevant to the vast majority of people engaged in more profitable pursuits. I seek solace from the fact that going cardless is the next big thing in the AI-powered world that has marginalised the prestige and glamour of copywriting today.
Devraj Singh Kalsiworks as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.
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Groundhog. Groundhog Day is celebrated on February 2nd. If the groundhogs leave the den where they hibernated, the weather is supposed to move towards spring. This observance has its roots in ancient Celtic culture.
GROUNDHOG DAY
It’s Groundhog Day.
The groundhog is somewhere
burrowed deep in the ground.
Either the groundhog
doesn’t know what day it is
or he doesn’t care.
But, then again,
Christ doesn’t show up
on Christmas either.
Just your father
and his new wife
with some toys.
It’s the one time of the year,
you see his shadow.
TWILIGHT
day flies off
like cardinals
and gold-finches
night
settles
on the branches
like crows
mice
scamper nervously
across the forest floor
all the birds
are owls
WORKING MY WAY THROUGH THE DICTIONARY,
I AM NOW AT Q
Some words
have tens,
if not hundreds,
of synonyms.
Others,
hardly any at all.
That is why I’ve never
written a poem about a quark.
That word,
for want of an alternative,
would appear on every second line.
Even this poem
has to repeat the word quark
just to get its point across.
So let this be my quark poem
and leave it at that.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, Santa Fe Literary Review, and Lost Pilots. His latest books, Between Two Fires, Covert and Memory Outside The Head are available through Amazon. He has upcoming poetry in the Seventh Quarry, La Presa and CaliforniaQuarterly.
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Most of us know that Humpty Dumpty was a large sentient egg who liked to sit on walls despite his unstable shape. He fell off and was broken and that is all that is certain about his life. Various apocryphal stories have become associated with him since his accident. Some people insist he was a philosopher as well as an egg. Others claim he invented a new emotion quite unlike any other emotion in the history of the world, but they are unable to describe what it might feel like. One professor has insisted that he was not an egg but the hull of an alien spacecraft from a distant star or a time machine from the future.
My aim today is not to add to this unhappy catalogue of fictions. I have no tales to tell about the kinds of antics he performed, nor can I offer insights into his character, beliefs or aspirations. Instead, I wish to ponder something that is talked about too seldom. If Humpty Dumpty was an egg, what thing would have hatched out of him? Had his shell not been shattered by an external force, we may assume it would have been broken by an inner one, for the ovoid stage of his existence could only be brief and something within must have emerged to escort his identity further along the path of natural development.
No forensic evidence was collected in the wake of his death and our speculations remain purely notional. Yet I think it is possible to construct a plausible scenario using inductive logic alone. First, we must attempt to establish what kind of egg he was, reptilian, amphibian or avian. One clue is his propensity for sitting on the tops of walls. It is true that lizards are accomplished wall climbers but they tend to cling to the sides rather than dominate the summits. Amphibians have no interest in walls that are not made of water and while they might congregate at waterfall tops they are disinclined to balance on narrow brick ledges.
There is always the possibility that he was the egg of some organism hitherto unknown on the surface of our world, that he might have come from outer space, from subterranean realms or an alternative dimension. But there is no need to multiply entities beyond necessity and without evidence to point us in that direction, it is safer to continue to assume that he was the egg of a phylum familiar to our zoologists. Personally, I favour the avian origin as the most realistic. Birds are constantly perching on our walls and sometimes they fall off too, when icy winds howl or rascals in the neighbourhood acquire new catapults.
Most of us are familiar with impetuosity and impatience. We might be reckless individuals ourselves or have friends and relations who embody the blurred spirits of haste and risk. Humpty was eager to become the bird he was destined to be, whatever kind it was, so keen in fact that he acted prematurely. Instead of remaining in the nest, wherever that was located, he left it and engaged in activities that were too old for him. He perched on walls, yes indeed, but perching high safely is the prerogative of those with wings. He was an egg and probably ignorant of the laws of physics. His fall was almost a foregone conclusion.
Now it is appropriate to turn our attention to the kind of bird he would have become if circumstances had been different. He was a large egg, one sizeable enough to hold audible conversations with human interlocutors[1], so we may immediately dismiss the vast majority of our feathered friends as candidates. This leaves us with the ostrich, the rhea, the moa, and that extraordinary bird from the island of Madagascar, Aepyornis maximus, so enormous that it inspired the fable of the roc, the bird that swooped down to seize elephants in its talons. No sentient examples of these birds’ eggs have been found, however, which is a pity.
All those birds are based in remote countries, and we are compelled to wonder how an individual egg might cross the oceans that separate these species’ homelands from our own, for it was in England that Humpty had his crisis and those birds are flightless. The ostrich and rhea are too small anyway, and the others went extinct before Humpty existed. The more we consider the matter, the less likely it appears that he was the egg of a bird known to science. Thus, we draw the conclusion that he was the egg of an undiscovered bird. What might the bird have been like? Because there are no clues there is no reliable answer to this.
But there is one solution that has an elegant absurdity about it and for that reason alone I am inclined to favour it. Some years ago, I happened to be strolling through the city of Cologne. I stopped in order to check the time on my wristwatch, for I am one of those unfortunate fellows who are unable to read numbers and dials while on the move. As I lifted my wrist to my face, a dull but loud creaking above my head made me fear that an object was about to fall on me. I looked up. It was a cuckoo clock fixed to the exterior wall of an old clock shop, one of the largest cuckoo clocks in the world. And it was striking the hour.
The hatch doors were opening, ponderously and painfully, and when they were fully agape the monstrous cuckoo came out. It emerged with a great deal of mechanical effort on an extendable trellis that sagged at its furthest reach. Then the cuckoo widened its beak and after an unsettling pause gave forth a cry of astonishingly dismal cadence. It repeated this sound three times to indicate that the local time was three o’clock in the afternoon and then, as exhausted as a senescent gran, it withdrew into its sanctuary, the hatch doors slamming behind it and the whirring of internal cogs ceasing as abruptly as they had begun.
I was astonished and affronted. I felt an outrage had been committed against my consciousness, that this clock was an insult to public decency, and I found myself wishing some other bird occupied the clock instead of an unmusical cuckoo. And it occurred to me that a different bird had once done so. Certainly, it must. We all know the cuckoo’s life cycle. It hatches in a nest not its own and destroys the other eggs in order to be the solitary recipient of all the attention from the bereaved parents. If cuckoos occupy clocks, then it logically follows that some other bird once lived in them. A bird of magic. But probably not a phoenix.
What bird lived in the clock before the cuckoo? This question is the key to understanding Humpty Dumpty’s true identity. That is what I now believe, at any rate. Somewhere in this peculiar world of ours the decayed remains of a cuckoo clock may be found, a cuckoo clock vaster by many orders of magnitude than the one I saw in Cologne. The bird that was its original occupant was the one who laid Humpty Dumpty and eggs similar to him. A cuckoo invaded the nest and left an egg that hatched first and rolled out the others. Humpty Dumpty did not break on that occasion. The start of his life was a rehearsal for his death.
[1] See Alice Through the Looking Glass for more details.
Rhys Hughes has lived in many countries. He graduated as an engineer but currently works as a tutor of mathematics. Since his first book was published in 1995 he has had fifty other books published and his work has been translated into ten languages.
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There is a metronome in the next room,
knocking against felled coconuts;
The body has parts like a salvage yard
has parts, like the miniseries hacked up
into televised segments that beg you to
watch the exhibitionist whirl his dervish;
hairy and monstrous, father just home
from the bars…
Let the Dangermouse know;
it is wise to be informed –
strafing metal birds and a cradle robber
recruiter to work the malls; expired
coupons never come to collect,
this sourest of science.
Dentistry calls the canines, Marathon
comes a running, the rolling ecstasies,
the raffish unfallowed.
Destiny, the unopened suitcase.
Diving metal birds, the body in parts –
weeping linen closet, little Dangermouse
knows it’s coming:
cover your eyes mouth toes:
a great biting frost returns to these
wailing unmeasured lands.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Borderless Journal, GloMag, Red Fez, and Lothlorien Poetry Journal.
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even in Kyoto
I long for Kyoto—
cuckoo!
--Matsuo Basho (1644-94)*
My story begins at Kyoto Station, where I alight after a three-hour bus ride. I am on my way to meet my friend Yoko for dinner in the Kitayama area, and a drink at the Kyoto Hotel Roku. She and I once worked together at the same university in Naruto, but now she is an associate professor at a small women’s college in Kyoto. I head underground, through the Porta shopping center, and get on a subway bound for Kokusaikan. In spite of the crowds up above, the train allows for elbow room, and I easily find a seat. Most of the passengers are glued to their phones, some are masked. My eyes flit to an advertisement for a display of kimono. After several stops, I get off at Kitayama and find Yoko waiting at the wicket. We have a spaghetti dinner at a nearby restaurant, and then hail a taxi via Didi, Japan’s answer to Uber.
The taxi takes us through an upscale residential area featuring traditional homes. Yoko tells me that we are near Bukkyo University, originally an institution of research for monks, but now a university grounded in Pure Land Buddhism offering degrees in a variety of subjects including English, nursing, and social welfare. We are also not too far from my favorite temple, Kinkakuji. One of the first novels that I read upon arriving in Japan was Yukio Mishima’s TheTemple of the Golden Pavilion, translated by Ivan Morris, about a deranged monk-in-training who set fire to the gilded temple and burned it down. Surprisingly, none of the visitors from abroad that I have taken to this temple had ever heard of this 1950 incident or the book.
The driver turns down a long driveway and drops us off at the hotel entrance. “Nice hotel!” he says.
I resist the urge to defend our extravagance, to say we are just here for a drink, and then the next day for lunch. I have been commissioned to write an article about the hotel, but I can’t afford to spend the night.
The Roku Kyoto, which opened in September of 2021 when Japan was off limits to foreign tourists, is one of eight of LXR luxury properties worldwide, and Hilton’s first in Kyoto. (Others include The Biltmore, Mayfair in the United Kingdom, and the Mango House in the Seychelles.) Along with a tranquil, storied setting (in the 16th century, it was a community for artists and artisans), the hotel offers bespoke experiences, such as a session of kintsugi with a local master of the craft, using cracked hotel pottery, and traditional papermaking using water from the Tenjin River, which runs through the hotel grounds. Guests can also opt for a New Year’s Eve package including a two-night stay, and a viewing of the sunrise over Mt. Fuji via private plane at a cost of \4,800,000. Nevertheless, the hotel strives to be a place where local residents can come for escape and enjoyment as well as high-flying tourists.
We are greeted warmly at the entrance and shown to the dimly lit bar. Walking along the basin at the center of the hotel complex, I take in the reflection of the full moon on the water. I feel like we should be writing haiku. The veranda would be the perfect setting for filming a period drama.
Resturant in TemujinEngawa: Non-tatami matted flooring Photos Provided by Suzanne Kamata
The day before, I had tried and failed to make a reservation, and assumed that the restaurant was fully booked. However, after verifying that we could drop in for a drink or a cup of coffee without notice, we decided to go ahead with our plans. As it turns out, we are the only ones in the bar at a little after eight.
A small lamp is placed on our table, and the bartender brings us a menu bound in leather. I had been planning on having the Hana-monogatari (flower story) cocktail made from seasonal herbs and flowers from the hotel garden, but the Pear Moscow Mule sounds irresistible. Yoko selects the Frozen Rum Chai, made with amazake (sweet sake). We also order a plate of chocolates.
Ambient music plays softly in the background as we catch up on gossip about former colleagues and update each other on current research projects. We speak softly in the hushed atmosphere which is broken only by the sound of a cocktail shaker behind the bar.
Our drinks arrive with paper straws. Mine has a slice of Asian pear hooked over the edge. The fruit changes by the season, I am told. I take a sip, taste a hint of lime with the kick of ginger: delicious.
“Mmmmm. This is so good,” Yoko says of her drink. We negotiate over the assorted chocolates, which are filled with raspberry and orange peels, among other things. Yoko lets me have the piece topped with gold.
Later, a couple more small groups enter the bar, but the area is spacious. Our privacy remains intact. We talk a bit more, finish our drinks, and agree about where to meet for lunch the next day.
Late the following morning, I take the same route from a bargain hotel near Kyoto Station, weaving between young women in yukata and a foreigner with brightly dyed, intricately braided hair, and get off at Kitayama. This time, as I emerge from underground, I take note of the electronic cuckoo sound chirping from a speaker, and I recall Basho’s famous poem about longing for Kyoto. Nearly 400 years after it was written, I imagine that the poem evokes the same emotion – a longing for the city in days of yore.
I have visited Kyoto many times since I first arrived in Japan. On the first, when I was just beginning to learn Japanese and still didn’t know quite what was going on, I spent the night at the residence where the previous Empress was trained in housekeeping, a rite of passage even for aristocratic girls. As I mentioned, I was partially motivated to come to Japan because of literature, namely the Heian court poetry that I learned about from a class in Asian history. I was enthralled with the idea of courtiers communicating via verse, and as a newly heartbroken nineteen-year-old, I identified with the intense longing in poems by Murasaki Shikibu and Ono no Komachi. Later, I read a novel set in Kyoto –Ransom, by Jay McInerney. What I remembered most about it was the funny Japlish phrases and scenes of karaoke, still a novelty in America in 1985. Flipping through it more recently, I came across this description of the Kamogawa (Duck River):
“From its source the river drained fields and paddies heavily fertilized with petrochemicals and manure. Closer in, the Kyoto silk dyers dumped their rinse tanks. The white herons that fished the shallows had purple plumage one day, green the next—weeks in advance of the women who brought the kimono silk in the shops downtown.”
Can this book really be what made me want to come to Japan? And yet, I also recall being attracted by the cuteness and kitsch, the Disney meets sci-fi vibe prevalent in Bubble Era Japan implied in, for example, Ridley Scott’s film Bladerunner. In any case, nostalgia sometimes leaves out the worst, and things seem to have changed for the better. As we cross the Kamogawa in another taxi, this time by daylight, I see no evidence of pollution.
“There are tons of ducks on the river,” Yoko says. “And ibises.”
“It’s famous.” I have come across many references to it in literature.
We arrive at the hotel a bit early for our noon lunch reservation, so we are shown to a large room with sofas and chairs, where we can drink tea or coffee while we wait. We choose to sit next to a window which looks out onto the basins. The blue sky, the changing leaves, and the still water create a calming tableau.
“I feel like my mind and brain are being purified,” Yoko says.
No other guests are around, and I wonder how many of the hotel’s 114 rooms are currently occupied. Perhaps everyone has already left the hotel for sightseeing.
A strip of moss runs parallel to the basin.
“It’s of better quality than the moss at Kokedera,” Yoko says, referring to another famous nearby temple renowned for its moss garden. “And you have to make a reservation a month in advance and pay \3,000 to visit!”
I write down her words, never having reflected upon the quality of moss before.
“You’d better write ‘as good as,’” she amends, suddenly aware of her sacrilege.
Finally, a gray-haired Japanese woman in a kimono emerges from the hotel and traverses the walkway between the two basins. A few minutes later, I see a Western woman with long brown hair pushing a baby in a stroller. And then a little later, a child wearing a fox mask, saunters across the walkway, slashing the air with a toy sword.
“He must have gone to Fushimi Inari Shrine,” Yoko says, referring to the popular tourist attraction known for its Instagram-worthy red torii gates.
Moss. Photo Provided by Suzanne Kamata
Just before twelve, we make our way to the restaurant, where we are shown to a table. The Japanese host/sommelier, suggests that we both sit on the same side, facing the window which provides a view of the fall foliage. He brings us the menu, and wine list.
I have already decided that I am having the wagyu burger. A glass of robust red wine would probably suit it best, but I am intrigued by the locally produced orange wine, which I’m told is comparable to a rose. Yoko asks the sommelier a lot of questions. Her partner works in wine in California, so she has visited many vineyards.
“It’s nice to talk to someone who knows so much about wine,” he says.
One of our two code-switching servers, both, as it turns out, from Nepal, pours a swallow of the orange wine into a glass for Yoko. She tastes it, but decides upon the sparkling plum wine, and the lunch course.
My image of plum wine comes from the syrupy homemade stuff we’d once received from my husband’s relative. “For when you have a cold,” she’d said. But this wine is something else – fruity, but light, and effervescent. Yoko asks where she can buy a bottle of it.
The sommelier explains that the hotel’s wines come from the nearby Tamba Winery, which is open to the public for tastings in the fall. It’s a short drive from where we are now. Their wines sell out quickly just in Kyoto and are mainly used by restaurants.
Yoko’s first course is pesto-dipped scallops submerged in vichyssoise made with white beans. She invites me to taste it. I dip my spoon into the shallow bowl. The bright green of the basil is a surprising delight. There is a bit of a crunch.
“What is that crunchy thing?” I ask our server. “And what kind of flower is that?”
“Just a moment,” he says, and ducks away to find out.
The answer: croutons, and linaria.
I am almost regretting that I didn’t choose the lunch course as well, but then my burger arrives, along with a generous serving of fries, and I am glad that I skipped breakfast. I probably won’t need dinner, either.
I’d imagined that all wagyu was from Kobe, but the host tells us that it’s Kyoto beef.
Yoko’s second course is marinated salmon with spinach, potatoes, onion, and amaranth flowers. The server spoons duck sauce around it.
“Is there a lot of duck cuisine in Kyoto?” I ask Yoko, my mind going to the Kamogawa.
“Yes,” she says, “But I don’t think the ducks are from the river.”
Lastly, we have dessert—a fig cradled in a chocolate shell, topped with a dollop of cassis ice cream. The plate is painted with sauces. It is exquisite to both eyes and tongue.
Before leaving the property, we stroll around the grounds taking in the lawn where morning yoga and meditation are held, the orange tree and lavender beside the thermal pool (the peels of the former are used in footbaths at the spa), the exercise room redolent with cedar and cypress with a vista of Takagamine Mountain.
As we prepare to leave, Yoko suggests that next time, we treat ourselves to a hot stone massage in the spa, followed by afternoon tea on the veranda overlooking the stream. We can come in the winter, when there is snow frosting the mountain, for a different view. Yoko says that she might come by bicycle, and I vow to wear sneakers, so that I can walk from the station. Instead of longing for the past, we look to the future.
*This translation is from Kyoto: A Literary Guide (Camphor Press, 2020), translated, collated, and edited by John Dougill, Paul Carty, Joe Cronin, Itsuyo Higashinaka, Michael Lambe, and David McCullough.
Suzanne Kamatawas born and raised in Grand Haven, Michigan. She now lives in Japan with her husband and two children. Her short stories, essays, articles and book reviews have appeared in over 100 publications. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times, and received a Special Mention in 2006. She is also a two-time winner of the All Nippon Airways/Wingspan Fiction Contest, winner of the Paris Book Festival, and winner of a SCBWI Magazine Merit Award.
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When you encounter something beautiful,
Even if you are not familiar with beauty,
Be willing to approach it,
Rather than hesitating and distancing yourself.
When something good is in front of you,
Even if it feels unfamiliar,
Show an interest,
Instead of being overly critical and parting ways.
When you encounter something true,
Even if you usually don't care much about it,
In the realm of human existence, truth is necessary.
Knowing that truth ultimately stays with us,
Accept it, instead of discarding it like an old rag.
Unacceptance, leads to inevitable collisions,
And regrets -- both big and small.
You end up being tossed around and remain indecisive at every turn.
Ihlwha Choi is a South Korean poet. He has published multiple poetry collections, such as Until the Time When Our Love will Flourish, The Color of Time, His Song and The Last Rehearsal.
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Mrs Heather Richards’ aeroplane landed at the Bangkok airport after a gruelling eleven-and-a-half hour flight.
Her initial enthusiasm since leaving Stevenage and England seemed to flag a bit even before the landing. The uninspiring food lay heavy on her stomach, the people sitting by her – mostly Brits — made no attempt at casual conversation. The choice of pictures bored her to sleep. Mrs Richards squirmed in her seat as the faces of Francis and Jonathan floated queerly in her somnolence; the first in grievance, the second in indignation. Had Jonathan found her quickly scribbled note? Would he ever understand her sound resolution, however painful for him? Thick clouds suddenly hid the late afternoon sun. The aeroplane began to descend. How glad she was when they finally landed and could rid her mind of these disturbing, contorted faces.
Bangkok’s early evening heat and humidity made her gasp for breath as she stepped out of the airport into a taxi which wildly drove her to the Lamphu House. The sultry air seeped into her hair, silkily, penetrated the pores of her kneaded, wizened skin like the bites of tiny insects. She rolled down the window but the hot, oily air left her panting. She felt like candle wax melting under the ardour of the flame.
Shown to her pleasant, airy room at the Lamphu House, Mrs Richards dropped onto the bed and stared blankly at the slow turning sails of the ceiling fan, turning and turning lethargically. –No, there was no other choice — a fey voice reminded her. No other choice ! She pricked up her ears. Let Jonathan relish his despondency, you must bear the burden. You must now find what has gone so mysteriously missing.
After a cold shower she felt much relieved. Then at the downstairs café-bar she ordered a fine dish of Pad Krapow Moo[1] which she enjoyed immensely. At the reception desk she enquired about buses to the coastal town of Mawdaung in the province of Prachuap Khira Khan where her son had been teaching. According to her plan, she would begin her investigations there. She refused to believe that Francis had become a monk to hide from the law; refused to think of him as a criminal, although she was perfectly aware of the accounts of the drowned children at his school through newspapers and her hired detective’s report. But she wanted details of these facts. Where that evasive detective had failed she would prevail. Mrs Richards knew her mission would not be a sinecure, but it was her only hope; perhaps her last gesture of maternal love towards her only son, whom she believed to be still alive.
And this gesture of maternal love brooked no concessions … no repining after-thought.
Bright and early the next morning Heather Richards, dressed in a flowery robe of light cotton, agreeable to the skin, sandals and a huge straw hat, made for the bus terminal. The heat had already begun to rise. “Was it possible that Francis relinquished his British upbringing to embrace Buddhism?” she mused as her clear, blue eyes followed the swaggering gait of a bow-legged dwarf crossing the dusty street. His hunched back oscillated wavily through the particles of dust that his erratic movements caused. The sun rose ever higher. She stopped to wipe the perspiration off her wrinkled forehead.
Soon, through a concussion of vehicles, animals, men and women in sarongs, and locals in Western clothes, Mrs Richards caught sight of the bus terminal wavering dreamily amongst the colours of this moving spectacle. It all so amazed her. The scents, too, of juniper and camphor from the temples, jasmines, all amazed her. She experienced moments of unexplicable excitement, of enigmatic fervour; an almost religious experience.
The man at the ticket office spoke excellent English. She bought her ticket without even queuing up, an exploit she considered odd, given the fact that her guide book warned visitors to South-East Asia that queuing up at train or bus stations could last hours ! Be that as it may, armed with her ticket, she regained her hotel, had a quick lunch of tom yum goong[2] at the café-bar and packed her meagre belongings. She would leave on the morning bus.
Indeed, she had chosen to travel light and fast. Heather Richards had not come to Thailand as a tourist but on a mission … a very special mission. On the bus speeding to Mawdaung the morning sun, glowing orange, crept slowly over the crests of the bamboo forests. She brooded over Francis’ misfortunes, his mysterious disappearance. Intuition told her something had gone amiss. Something had not been touched upon during the investigations. All her thoughts converged on that ‘something’
The bus didn’t pull into the Mawdaung terminal until the following afternoon due to several unexpected delays and two flat tyres. Exhausted but determined, Mrs Richards followed the indications on the map and notes she had taken in England until she spotted Francis’ school perched on the brow of the hill overlooking the tragic bay, now, however, having regained its initial configuration, although the scars of that terrible event could still be detected here and there. The security guard escorted her to the office of the headmistress, a certain Anong Saetang, who on the phone two days back sounded not overly enthralled to meet Mrs Richards, judging by the frostiness of her voice.
Her ‘welcoming’ phrase stunned Heather as she strode deferentially towards the woman who throned behind her majestic mahogany bureau: “What did you expect by coming here, Mrs Richards, a letter of recommendation for your son’s exemplary teaching and moral qualities?” Mrs Richards stopped dead in her footfalls, stunted by the violence of such a ‘greeting’; Her face sunk. “The deep wounds of the parents who suffered loses of their loved ones remain open,” rasped the headmistress. “Do not expect any help from them nor from our school. Besides, your son has gone fugitive for over eight years, and I can assure you not one of the parents who lost their loved ones caused his equivocal disappearance.”
These words, spoken with pontifical stiffness, jolted Mrs Richards to the core of her pride. She had not come either as a defender or accuser of her son’s conduct, but only to learn more of Francis’ flight. To call his disappearance equivocal made her blood boil. She clenched her fists …
“He ran off like a coward,” pursued Miss Saetang, happily noting her ‘guest’s’ surging rage. “And perhaps like an arrant renegade he is still hiding behind his monkish mask.” She snarled. “And I will also inform you that because of your son’s irresponsible attitude, the headmaster was sacked!”
Mrs Richards’ glowered at her, eyes ablaze. She thrust out her square jaw in defiance: “Well, I’m sure you had no qualms about that since you’re now seated in his fine cushioned chair!” she riposted with overt disdain. Miss Saetang, shocked at the barely disguised insinuation was about to retort but her ‘guest’ put up an authoritative hand: “I’ve heard enough of your overbearing uncouthness towards my son. Whatever had been the fault which caused such a tragedy, I apologise for him. But do not try to overwhelm me with your supercilious self-importance and contemptuous righteousness.” Miss Saetang remained stoic in her sephia-upholstered chair. “And may I ask what has been done with his belongings?” Mrs Richards added tersely, staring at the headmistress with overt contempt.
The other threw back her haughty head: “They’ve been burnt and his bungalow fumigated with juniper leaves. At present, a pleasant gentleman from Scotland is teaching at our school, and I will add, is doing an excellent job of it.”
Mrs Richards jeered : “I’m sure he is!” She turned her back to the headmistress and walked out of the office without a goodbye, leaving the door wide open …
Infuriated but undaunted by the unsophisticated welcome of that brazen hussy, Mrs Richards took a last glance at the lieu of her son’s mournful destiny, and that too of those poor school children, a shared destiny that only an act of God could have brought about … and perhaps, too, a bit of heedlessness on the part of her son …
Although weary from a sleepless night and from that woman’s disdainful bantering, she directed her footsteps to the bus terminal, bought a ticket for Bangkok, and waited patiently for the night bus, a three hour wait, time during which she struggled with her thoughts. She needed to travel to Laos, but first had to meet the Laotian consul, Mr Inthavong, who had issued the visa to Francis. He would surely provide her information about her son … information and hope! As she ruminated these thoughts, she ploughed through a delightful dish of gaeng daeng or red curry. Indeed, the former barmaid was beginning to enjoy Thai food, spicy though it be. More tasty than that British Airways slop or that over-cooked fodder at the Lawrence’s Duck or Grouse …
Once in Bangkok, she bought a ticket for Wiang Kaen where the Laotian consulate was located. She had to change buses, but thanks to the smooth roads she was there the following afternoon and lost no time in locating the charming two-storey bungalow. She had spoken to Mr Inthavong on the phone from the Lamphu Guest House and he was expecting her, his voice as excited as hers to get to the bottom of Francis’ imbroglio, which he considered scandalous given all the rumours that his name had produced in Laos and abroad.
To tell the truth, bus travel in Thailand had become somewhat of a second nature to Mrs Richards. Those passengers who spoke a smattering of English greeted the ‘old lady’ from England warmly, plied her with coconut milk and gaeng daeng. She was beginning to feel quite at home here ! Some passengers even taught her several words in Thai, especially the names of the savoury dishes she now so relished. The ‘old lady’ from England began to sense her son’s fascination for this country, for Southeast Asia. There was something large and generous about the inhabitants, and the looming mountains mantled in thick forests, something so unbridled. A something that lacked in England, so regulated, so close-fisted. Francis had deciphered this nobleness of spirit, this betokening loftiness. Was this why she too had come ? And Jonathan ? She hadn’t written one letter to him as of yet. Well, he would just have to wait …
Before meeting Mr Inthavong, Mrs Richards indulged in her favourite dish at an outdoor eatery near to the consulate, a sai gok [3]! Delicious. How Mrs Richards loved those sausages …
At nine o’clock sharp she was at the consulate gate. The same puffy-eyed, indifferent security guard who had sized up her son some eight years back now sized up his wizened-face mother. She quickly explained (or rather gestured) her urgent need to see Mr Inthavong. The guardian nodded lethargically, then shuffled off to the front door of the consulate with her passport. Several minutes later Mr Inthavong came flying out to greet his friend’s mother. All agog, he ushered her into his spacious, air-conditioned office.
“How delighted I am! How delighted!” an enthusiastic Mr Inthavong tooted sonorously. Mrs Richards smiled unable to put in a word. For the loquacious consul had read the police reports, had even made enquiries with the secret police in Laos, coming to the conclusion that Mr Richards had not been abducted and was alive, living in Upper Laos in one of the Mekong River temples. Mrs Richards’ eyed glowed with renewed hope. She even stamped her feet in joy.
However, in order to ferret out the whereabouts of her dear son, Mr Inthavong would arrange for her to be accompanied by one of the monks at the Jin Jong Jaong Temple in Pak Beng where Francis had been studying. The proposition brought tears to Mrs Richards’ sleepless eyes. She did not know how to thank the kind consul, given the fact, too, that his non-stop volubility left no intervals to do so.
He picked up the phone and called his wife upstairs, notifying her that they would have a very important guest with them for a few days.
Mrs Richards objected: “But sir, truly … “
“Please … Please, it is our pleasure. We had your son stay with us for three or four days. Our conversations were most illuminating. He even played with our two children like a big brother.” Mrs Richards hardly believed that one could converse with the winsome Mr Inthavong. Nevertheless, the consul’s wife, a middle-aged woman of exceptional beauty, attired in a silken sarong of ochre, over which she had thrown a beautifully embroidered black shawl led her upstairs to the guest room of their lightly furnished flat.
Heather Richards spent a wonderful three day sojourn at the Inthavong’s, listening to Mr Inthavong enlightening her about her son’s prodigious teaching talents and odd, but heroic plunge into Buddhahood. Mrs Richards and Mrs Inthavong, tea-cups held high, sat politely, nodding their heads in approval, oftentimes quite perfunctorily. As to the children, they ran amok, upsetting furniture, fighting over toys or books, much to the stoic displeasure of their mother and to the manifest joy of their father.
To make her stay all the more enjoyable, Mrs Inthavong, a marvellous cook, served her guest with mok pal[4],tam mak hoong[5], and her very favourite dish, sai gok, those mouth-watering sausages served with khao niaw, sticky rice. And the more Mr Inthavong jabbered on, the more Mrs Richards’ images of Jonathan, Stevenage and England faded from her mind. It were as if she had returned home after having spent many years as an immigrant in the West. An odd sensation really that she herself could not quite fathom …
With many tears shed by both parties, Mrs Richards parted from her benefactors and boarded the same Nam Ou boat that had eddied her son to Laos. Whilst the sturdy vessel cleaved the waters of the Mother of all rivers, Heather let her thoughts drift back to Jonathan. How was he spending his time? In idle gloom, drowning himself in self-pity, wandering aimlessly from one room to another … from one pub to another, pissing it up with that fatuous Andy, plunging into the hissing cauldron of lust? She knew that leaving Jonathan alone for so long would be devastating to their marriage, but Francis … Yes Francis … He was alive somewhere in the wilds of Northern Laos, waiting for his mother’s maternal embrace. This she knew. And this Jonathan never understood. Would she ever write him a letter to explain this inexplicable presentiment ? She pursed her lips. As to Francis, he had been right from the very beginning: their home, neighbourhood, England as a whole had been too tiny for his august ambitions and dreams. “I’m sure he takes after me,” she gloated aloud as Ban Houei Sai rose to her extreme excitement.
The same collective taxi that sped the ‘Western monk’ to Pak Beng now sped Mrs Richards. The sun rose high. The heat too. She patted her neck and cheeks, fanning herself with her straw hat.
Stepping daintily out of the packed taxi at Pak Beng, she was warmly welcomed by two monks and quickly escorted to the Satu or Venerable Father. There in a spacious room for visitors, the ceiling fan stirring up the midday heat, he reminisced over her son’s seven-year sojourn at the temple. The wiry Father did not believe that Francis had been killed at the Pak Beng Grand Hotel, nor that he had been kidnapped by a group of Thais. Witnesses confirmed his presence in Upper Laos, albeit the reasons for his leaving the temple and travelling to Northern Laos remained obscure.
“And where would my son be?” implored Mrs Richards, wringing her knotty hands. The Venerable Father eyed her compassionately and in a mild voice intoned :
“Reports from wandering monks say that he may be living in the temples of Hatsa, Chao Dan Tra or U-Thai. I have received several letters from Mr Ithavong and assured him of my staunch collaboration in helping you locate your son. Please, stay with us several days and gather strength, the journey up north will be strenuous. You will be accompanied by Jai, one of your son’s former students at Luang Prabang.”
Mrs Richards clasped her hands in gratitude and stammered humbly that she would be honoured to spend a few days at the temple. “You will be given Francis’ cell, quite comfortable if you are not too accustomed to five-star hotels.” She smiled, waving her hand. The Satu stood, a sign that their audience had come to an end. She immediately rose out of her cane chair, bowed and was escorted to the ‘Western monk’s’ cell by Jai, who an hour later, knocked at her wooden door with a huge dish of tam mak hoong and khao niaw.
For those three days Mrs Richards did indeed relax, partaking of the temple’s excellent food, sauntering in the gardens, observing the monks’ morning and afternoon exercises. On the second day of her stay, she strolled to the Grand Pakbeng Hotel and thought of doing some enquiries there, but on second thought let it drop. No doubt, the staff would have changed by now, and the personnel would not even understand her questions.
On her last day at the temple before setting out with Jai, the Satu offered his honourable guest an ochre-coloured robe of pure cotton and a new pair of sandals. She placed a hand to her forehead and bowed, so beholden was she to this revered, saintly man.
Like snakes slithering with difficulty upstream, Mrs Richards and her guide Jai, slid their way upon the sullen waters of the Nam Ou River on an eight-padded chaired vessel. They were the only passengers. The stoic Jai. The uncanny silence of the surrounding jungle. The muteness of the navigator frightened her. Jai sat alongside her, face taunt, eyes alert, back straight as an arrow. His English was excellent. But his translated information to her was always measured in a very bland, monotonous tone, like a machine registering the input and output of data. She wondered whether or not the monk had chosen to accompany her or was chosen, against his will. He never sought to converse with her, nor did he ever smile, unless perfunctorily. Mrs Richards did not take this badly ; it was no doubt Jai’s personality, and she respected that. His presence alone comforted her in the mission to be completed. Nevertheless, Mrs Richards experienced this ghastly silence as an equivocal omen; a silence mantled by thick wavy wisps of mist through which oftentimes she caught fugitive glimpses of frail floating barks or dugouts, catamarans, rosy water buffaloes bathing, gigantic rhizomatous configurations of elephant ear leaves arching over the swirling waters.
The navigator had heard of this ‘Western monk’ praying in the temples of Nong Kiaw further upriver. But this was a few years back. Mrs Richards winced. Jai nodded his tonsured head.
The days wore on and on. They slept in village guesthouses, or in temples, eating sticky rice and fish served by monks clothed in saffron-coloured gowns whose velvety footfalls stealthily stole across the marble floors of the temples, their tonsured heads blending dreamily into dim corridor frescoes as the sun set behind the incandescent forests.
At Muang Khwa, Mrs Richards hired a dugout paddled by a huge muscular man. Here the river churned up a frightening white foam. The brittle hull shook at each cross-current, at each turbulent whirlpool of the dappled greys of the dangerous shoals of sunken rocks. The towering cliffs cast ominous shadows on their frail vessel. The sun was at its zenith. The courageous Heather beheld the most startling images: gutted jungles, lush foliage suddenly illumined by flaming orange foliage, bevies of buffaloes bathing in the mud of the banks, kingfishers perched on their coarse backs. Her eyes feasted on these primeval scenes, and with each lattice-work of aerial or gossamer vines, with every grunt of the black pig or sight of a stilt-home precariously sinking into the ever shifting clayey banks, she became more and more fascinated by the marvels of this living spectacle; by the savage vortex of energy into which she felt drawn. She no longer envisaged a Jonathan … a Stevenage … an England. She had penetrated the pristine world of Francis! Yes, she knew she was drawing nearer and nearer to him. She felt the horrors of his forced solitude, his lonely struggle for survival … the horror! The horror!
Meanwhile the dugout struggled upriver where former guesthouses lay in ruins, covered with thick vines. Where the eateries were scarce. Rare were the temples that offered them food.
One morning, the dugout hauled on to the bank, the navigator ran off to fetch water whilst Jai to gather mangoes and papayas. Mrs Richards sat upright in the dugout, weakened by a diet of one meal a day, exhausted by lack of sleep and the incessant mosquitoes. Haggard, her face red and sore from the heat, her lips swollen from insect bites, she had the nerve-racking impression that the jungle was closing in around them … slowly … ever so slowly. The navigator suddenly emerged from a thicket, threw a gourd of water into the dugout and pushed it out into the current.
“The Western monk is at U-Thai!” he shouted out hoarsely as he turned to her.
Words that Mrs Richards hardly understood but whose coarse inflexions she deciphered instinctively. He began paddling in strong strokes, the muscles of his naked back breaking into runnels of sweat. But where was Jai? She looked back towards the bank: No one! Nothing! She tapped the navigator on the shoulder. He smiled, nothing more. The dugout waded through a gaggle of reed and thistle. Above, the spiralling precipices arched over them, the sun had long since vanished, and a creeping blackness enshrouded them. Mrs Richards was now on her own … all alone, like Francis. She fixed her fatigued eyes on each bend of the great river, on each scene of their long-awaited reunion rehearsed again and again … and again …
As the steaming mist of evening tide rose off the white-crested waters, Mrs Richards’ vessel disappeared into their thick folds, the splashing of the navigator’s paddle fading … fading away, borne into the darkness and distance …
Paul Mirabile is a retired professor of philology now living in France. He has published mostly academic works centred on philology, history, pedagogy and religion. He has also published stories of his travels throughout Asia, where he spent thirty years.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
A leaf settles slowly to the ground.
It flutters and weaves in its fall.
It lands and rolls over and over,
It stops behind a small rock.
Its productive life seems to have ended.
In March, it began as a yellow-green bump.
A bump on a limb, high up on a tree.
Then, May, and June, July and August
Those were the productive months,
Oozing sugars and other nutrients.
Removing CO2 -- exhaling Oxygen.
Doing leaf things.
Then, the colour changes back to yellow, then brown.
Its grip on the limb weakens and it slowly falls.
Now, on the ground, a new existence begins.
Its productivity is not over.
It nestles with other leaves.
Narrow, broad, round.
Turning brown and crisp, fragile.
A walker shuffles through the leaves,
They mix and disintegrate.
Pine needles add to the pile.
A bicycle rolls through the leaves.
Leaves are broken and chipped.
The pile changes as pieces are smaller and smaller.
No longer leaves.
Then dust; mixed remains from a thousand leaves.
The dry, cool air breaks down the leaves.
Matter that once produced food for the tree.
Now seemingly useless and discarded.
Then the rains come, the dust slowly dissolves,
It seeps into the ground enriches the soil.
Roots pull the material in,
It moves up the tree.
It nourishes the spring growth,
Buds form on the branches.
Yellow-green bumps.
Bumps that will become leaves.
Leaves that will give life to the tree.
Leaves that will fall.
Leaves that will turn brown, turn to dust, be dissolved by the rains.
Taken up by the roots and nourish the tree,
Emerging bumps that will become leaves.
And it repeats, and repeats, and repeats forever.
Ron Pickett is a retired naval aviator with over 250 combat missions and 500 carrier landings. His 90-plus articles have appeared in numerous publications. He enjoys writing fiction and has published five books: Perfect Crimes – I Got Away with It, Discovering Roots, Getting Published, EMPATHS, and Sixty Odd Short Stories.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
It was the year 2020. When most of the world was lacking connection and normalcy, I had the privilege of being in Sri Lanka, an island that I had referred to as ‘home’ but hadn’t truly been my home since I left at the age of eighteen. Being here gave me connection with a sugary coat of ‘normalcy’. I had my affectionate family, who made lockdowns entertaining with the purchase of a ping pong table, the nightly binge of true crime documentaries and the occasional games night, including a terrible decision to play ‘Cards Against Humanity’. I had a relationship with my boyfriend in all the physical sense of the word after two years of long-distance phone calls. I had my friends who were all a 15-minute drive away. I had a flexible job where I could interact with smart and passionate coworkers, something I ignorantly thought I wouldn’t find in Sri Lanka. Add to that, countless long weekends and public holidays, mostly spent in the beach towns down south, a region brimming with excellent food options, tasty cocktail bars and magnificent sea swims – truly this was an island that brought comfort, safety and security.
But I wanted more.
This romanticised version of the pandemic years spent in Sri Lanka, while all true, evoked such strong feelings of being lost, purposeless, and devoid of self-worth. This most comfortable of comfort zones made me feel completely out of sorts and yearning for something different. Long, sleepless nights of overthinking, questioning and wondering, “What on earth am I doing here?” Did I spend four years in an exceedingly difficult academic environment and four years working in the most ambitious, individualistic, enlightening city to land up here? Did my parents really spend thousands of dollars on American college tuition for me to end up back home feeling like a failure?
The initial move back home in May 2020 was going to be temporary. I was placed on furlough from my job in London and I believed it was best to wait it out back home. I thought that once the pandemic was all well and done, which would obviously be in a few months, I’d return to London, like nothing had changed.
As I fell in deeper with the aesthetically pleasing confines of beautiful beaches in Trincomalee, the delicious home-cooked meals, the hugs from my parents, the kisses from my boyfriend, the cuddles with my little nieces and nephews, and the long weekend trips with friends, it would be an outright lie to say I wasn’t relieved when the furlough continued and ultimately, ended with the expiration of my work visa. That seemed to seal the decision. I had no way back to the United Kingdom. Sri Lanka was to be my home now.
Looking back at that time, it was like being given this Trojan horse of a cozy, tender, warm embrace, disguising claws that pierced slowly, leaking poison and disillusionment. The surrounding Indian Ocean was as confining as it was endless, as isolating as it was welcoming, as suffocating as it was refreshing.
*
Scrolling through social media, I compared myself to others. And no, it wasn’t the mindless glazing-of-the-eyes watching Tik Tok or Reels but the reading-every-post-with-anxiety on LinkedIn. I compared myself to my friends in New York City, progressively moving up the ladder with impressive promotions and new six figure salaries. I compared myself to my best friends, living their lives independently, powering through their work passionately. I compared myself to peers in my graduating class who seemed to be smashing it in whatever life path they were on. And I felt thoroughly sorry for myself.
While pleased to be working with smart individuals at my WFH startup job in Sri Lanka, the lack of growth and opportunity for professional development made me itch. There were too many moments in the middle of workdays, where I laid sprawled across my bed, staring up at the fan and berating myself down a black hole. I switched between two toxic mindsets, one telling myself that I was no longer worthy of doing exciting, cutting-edge, fulfilling work and the other questioning why I couldn’t be content with all the positives that I had around me? Why did I always want more? Why did I always have this “grass will be greener” frame of mind? Why couldn’t I just ‘be’? This second mindset would set in when I heard my mum’s call to come for her home-cooked lunch of rice and curry. Wasn’t I begging for all these luxuries when I was living abroad?
While work was a huge factor contributing to my discontent, lifestyle was a secondary, significant reason. Disclaimer, disclaimer, disclaimer that everyone has different priorities and are in different stages of life and I spent a lot of time (over)thinking about my priorities. I wanted new experiences. I wanted to be pushed outside my comfort zone to do things that terrified my introverted self. I wanted to work remotely from a Greek island. I wanted to pick up Spanish again and stay in Barcelona for the summer. I wanted to take a creative writing course in Paris. I wanted to hop on a flight and visit my best friend in Munich, where she was living on a farm. I wanted the luxury of having a multiple-year multiple-entry Schengen visa which would be stamped every few months. I wanted a different passport. I wanted to go for an innumerable amount of plays, whether they were in small, 30-seater spaces with no set design or in beautiful, historic theatres where the lead actor is naked almost the entire run time (for artistic purposes apparently). I wanted to watch Jodie Comer in Prima Facie. I wanted to laugh hysterically at a live interview with the legendary Phoebe Waller-Bridge. I wanted to listen to the beautiful minds of Konkona Sen Sharma, Nandita Das and Aparna Sen discussing the perils of censorship in their films in India; watch a match at Wimbledon; find a way to go to the Berlinnale Film Festival. Enjoy the Edinburgh Fringe Festival.
I wanted to do so many things.
Could I find these things while living in Sri Lanka? I convinced myself that I couldn’t.
*
Recently, at my one-year work anniversary in my current job, my manager thoughtfully said, “Thank you for always striving for excellence.” While very kind words, they made me understand something I perhaps always knew about myself, without ever being explicitly told. Always striving for excellence even as a type-A young person, pushing for excellent grades, in order to go to an excellent college in the United States, and ultimately, secure an excellent job. (I’m exhausted just typing out this sentence.) And after being extremely fortunate to work with intelligent and supportive people and have challenging, exciting projects, my own benchmark for excellence kept rising.
I wanted to really enjoy my work but also be challenged by it. I wanted to learn from diverse, brilliant colleagues. I wanted to learn new technical skills. I wanted to have workshops with Product teams on developing new AI functionalities and how best to position them in the marketplace. I wanted to brainstorm with the Content team on how to best partner with a certain Tamil British-Indian actress and not feel like the token voice of diversity. I wanted the promotion and the salary bump and the senior title and the recognition and the reputation. And if not now, then it was in the five-year plan. I can say that this is what New York City does to you, but that would be a lie. It’s me. Hi. I’m the problem, it’s me.
All this ambition drove me straight into a brick wall, dissolving my confidence in my own capabilities. I blamed Sri Lanka. I blamed a whole country for making me feel like this.
Soon, the island was facing its worst economic crisis since independence and to watch the destruction of possibility, willpower and any minute form of political stability in real time was heartbreaking. I won’t even attempt to put into words the plight of Sri Lankans who lost almost everything, unable to access the most basic essentials of fuel, electricity, cooking oil, milk powder and medicines. By early 2022, ‘home’, an island that had nurtured me, that gave me the most special roots, that offered me safety and security, was broken. In my siloed social bubble of international school kids, foreign-educated graduates and Colombo’s upper-middle class families, I desperately wanted to get out. And so did thousands of others who did not want to waste their potential in a nation that was falling apart at the seams.
After years of only regarding Sri Lanka with fondness, I found that bitterness, resentment, and animosity towards my island nation magnified to a point where I couldn’t even hold a conversation with friends who could leave but were choosing to stay. Give me a work permit, give me a Western passport, give me a student visa, give me anything that will allow me to leave this place.
A family meeting was called when my black mood permeated through the home, along with wine, cheese, and a whiteboard to discuss my future plans — the pleasures of coming from a business family — efficient but with alcohol. My family, the ever-loving, supportive, encouraging guiding lights in my life, told me point-black, “You need to leave.” In an atypical South Asian, fashion, they said, “Do what makes you happy. Get a job or do your Masters. Travel everywhere.” My sweet parents, knowing that they would once again be empty nesters with my brother and me elsewhere, knowing that they fully enjoyed having the house full again, also recognised that their kids would be their happiest selves outside of Sri Lanka.
To have diametrically opposing emotions about the right path forward is confusing to say the very least. If I chose to remain in Sri Lanka, it would have been because three people lived there. My parents were not getting any younger and more substantially, we treasured each other. My partner and I were finally living in the same city after years of distance and savouring every moment of togetherness. And to have all three people only having words of encouragement further deepened the guilt.
But I wanted to be selfish. I didn’t want to stay because I’m a patriotic citizen contributing to the brain drain. I didn’t want to stay because I’m a good daughter or girlfriend. I wanted to leverage my resources, my experiences and most importantly, my LinkedIn, to do the impossible. A broken island meant I had to put together the pieces. For myself.
To leave or not to leave? And to which part of the world? To return back to the country where I have the privilege of residency but do I want to live in the land of mass shootings and a work-till-you-die mentality? Or to pursue an entry into the U.K. through a student visa by doing an unwanted MBA? Or to strive for the most idealistic, unrealistic scenario — a job in London?
But in that snug, tightly wrapped, a-little-too-hot Anokhi[1] blanket of a comfort zone, the decision was always clear. Maybe one day, I’ll make my peace with my ‘home’. Maybe one day, my blood won’t boil with frustration when I’m on Sri Lankan soil for more than a fortnight. Maybe one day, I will feel the affection again. Maybe one day.
Fast forward two years to the present day, sitting in my cozy flat in London, having just spent a few electrifying weeks in Greece, riding on a high from a successful partnership with a certain tech juggernaut, and preparing for next week’s launch of a new AI product, I appreciate my new ‘home’. It might not be the island I once thought I would spend the rest of my life in, and it’s a little colder and gloomier than the tropics. But the possibilities are endless once again, my dreams are daring once again, and life is feeling full once again
Nitya Amalean is an emerging writer and storyteller. She was born and nurtured in Sri Lanka, college-educated in the United States and currently, lives in London where she works for an audio media company.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL.
PAINT STRIPPER
This corrosion, for better bearing, ended,
stench of solvent above the flower box
flavours distended, unwatered, to demise.
I once feared being pounced on,.
people doing other than eating.
Minding their business, chatting to content.
Esoteric art hangs on the wall.
Selling for an orchestra, singing well,
enjoying the radio mumbling overhead.
Looking out on the cycle path, saying prayers
against the river's deluge, a fractured coursing
still only in one direction, catching fire.
The sun dances on various monuments,
sinking drinks al fresco, eating ad nauseum,
memoirs of the stony dead staying regardless.
Sweet wild flowers inhabit the tables,
scent bred out for better bearing
allergens eaten to hold for dear life.
A portmanteau life, an ersatz existence,
eat and somehow leave, bereft of information
imparted, sightseeing for dear life.
Patricia Walsh was born and raised in the parish of Mourneabbey, Co Cork, Ireland. To date, she has published one novel, titled The Quest for Lost Eire, in 2014, and has published one collection of poetry, titled Continuity Errors, with Lapwing Publications in 2010. She has since been published in a variety of print and online journals across Ireland, The UK, USA, and Canada. She has also published another novel, In The Days of Ford Cortina, in August 2021.
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