whimsical offerings

It was a beautiful afternoon, one that reminded me of gorgeous summer ones in Aalen. Into the bookstore I went, leaving the warmth behind the glass doors and headed straight towards the fiction area. I stopped in front of the M row and scanned the shelves for Murakami. Aahh, here we go! I picked up the only copy of The Elephant Vanishes available and looked through the titles of the short stories inside. ‘On seeing the 100% perfect girl one beautiful April morning’* was the title of the story that Kit wanted me to read.

A sad story, don’t you think?
Yes, that’s it, that is what I should have said to her.

With those last lines, I closed the book and leaned against the bookshelf. A huge grin appeared on my face, and from ear to ear it widened, threatening to transform me into one of Jim Henson’s muppets. I spilled out onto Orchard Road among a sea of pedestrians, the grin still on my face but in more normal proportions. Crossing the road as the pedestrian traffic lights blinked 18, 17, 16… I thought of why I never saw or remembered how my 100% perfect guy looked like in my dreams (and how it did not matter at all, not knowing while dreaming). Then I am reminded of the movie Turn Left, Turn Right and that Polish poem* in it. Somewhere between recalling the name of the poet and Takeshi Kaneshiro, I got lost making up a fictitious story about a boy and a girl who trade favourite passages from books as declarations of love across a distance, before finally snapping back into reality as I avoided a near collision with a guy in front of me.

Like the movie and the poem, the story aches with the possibility of a fairytale, a hope embedded in hearts wreathed with loneliness, more than they would ever care to admit. On this busy pedestrian crossing, as strangers traded glances in the briefest of moments, one can picture a bunch of stray thought bubbles born of different owners with the same longing, taking flight in the cool breeze of a sun-drenched afternoon. Like orphaned helium balloons, higher and higher they climb till appearing no more than just speckles of grey among cotton candy clouds. That possibility to some, may be a mere fantasy, yet to many, it is most certainly worthy of belief.

*On seeing the 100% perfect girl one beautiful April morningin The Elephant Vanishes, a collection of short stories by Haruki Murakami
and Love at First Sight,
a poem by Polish poet Wislawa Szymborska.

live another day, for me

I asked you if there was one question you could ask God, what would it be? You answered that you would ask Him, “Can I come home…? Like, now?”. Cool, I said, awkwardly, trying to find the humour in an answer that left me stunned. Then I felt a sadness I couldn’t explain as the weight of that answer sank in.

“What can you do?” she asked me,”There’s nothing you can do to change how a person feels about this. Can you give him the happiness or purpose he is seeking for? Can you fill whatever void he has? Short of talking to him, nothing, right?”. There is something about the matter-of-factness in the way she asked that question that reeks with helplessness, her voice strong yet apparent in hurt, somewhat echoing a reluctant surrender. I don’t know which one is easier, accepting the fact that I want to help but I can’t or that my help cannot change anything. Either way, it feels absolutely horrible. It makes me angry.

“Help him decide to help himself… I think God tries to thwart attempts by sending in people who care. Easier said than done, but you have to try, even if you know in the end, the decision is not yours to call.” Wise beyond her years, she offered some bittersweet advice anchored in reality.

I told you before that I know should you decide to end it all someday, I will not be able to stop you but for now I most certainly will not cease trying to influence your thoughts about it. You may or may not know it, but I am not the only one trying to do so.

poetry on the wall

The Ramayana tells the story of Prince Rama of Ayodhya who battles Ravana, the demon king of Lanka in order to rescue his kidnapped wife, Sita. Along the way, he is aided by Lord Hanuman, a vanara from the kingdom of Kishkinda, and many other cool characters like Jatayu the garuda-like eagle. It remains one of my favourite stories, having first read it as a ten year-old from among the pages of Childcraft’s Myths and Legends. And so it was that when I was looking at Tum’s colourful art pieces displayed on a sidewalk in Kanchanaburi one hot afternoon, the one piece that I had to bring home was the sole one that depicted a scene from the Sanskrit epic tale of adventure, morality and Hindu teachings.

I love how the vivid colours and intricate patterns combine to make the chariot look like it is ablaze. The whole piece was painstakingly carved from a piece of cow’s hide using just a hammer, a nail and a blade, and the colours painted with dye. This afternoon while spring cleaning my room, I chanced upon an unused frame belonging to the landlady which was an exact fit for Tum’s beautiful piece. Now it hangs nicely on my bedroom wall and delights me to no end.

seeking for good ripples

I don’t know if his family still lives there but I think of Tony every time I drive pass his house. I remember asking why nobody knew and how could he have been so alone with whatever he was facing, that he had to take his own life. I remember feeling awful that we lived a few rows apart and that I’ve neglected the “friendship forever” and “keep in touch” phrases scribbled into each other’s autograph books during those last days of innocence. I remember being overwhelmed by a stifling sadness when I saw the faces of my old classmates eleven years later at his funeral and getting a déjà vu of all those feelings when I met long-lost cousins that gathered for Amah’s wake. I know you don’t accept refunds of gifts but there is mercy, right? I hope he is no longer alone. Everytime I think of him, I am reminded that I need to listen more or pay a little bit more attention to those around me. Maybe that is his legacy to me, or perhaps my tribute to him…
……..

Back in secondary school, I used to cry out of frustration when I got interrogated with questions about you that I couldn’t answer. Those were definitely intense years and girls can get a bit brutal, especially overzealous missionary ones in an all girls’ school. I just got confirmed and I was all fired-up to do your will and share the good news. Yet, they tore me apart. I couldn’t defend you, I didn’t know all the right answers. I still don’t but nowadays, I am hardly fazed. I only bother to discuss when I know the intention behind the asking is worth our time. I can’t help it, I get mad when people ask questions to set me up for religious transplants. I am just not evangelist-material or evangelist-friendly. Speaking of which, I still don’t get why they don’t get it. Why is there a need to save people who have, technically, been saved or are not on any endangered list? What is the preoccupation with such a wanton exercise of futility? Is it so difficult to celebrate the good in common rather than fight over the differences? This is perhaps why family feuds are just about the nastiest ones around.
……….

I’ve always asked you questions, and though you’ve never really answered any of them, I keep asking. I apologise for the oft repeat of the same questions and ones that I already knew the answers to. Most of the time, my questions led to more questions and a lot of confusion. Why is that? Is this what it means to have faith and to build upon it? Can a monologue be a discussion? When I do find some semblance of an answer, they came about indirectly through the words a stranger uttered (sometimes not even to me), something the priest said in his homily, an episode of a popular tv drama series, a song I heard, a line in a book I am reading, heart-shaped bloodstains on C-fold paper or just some falling leaves. Were you trying to connect with me or was I desperately connecting subtext in my surroundings to you, and thus coming up with realisations as answers? Anyhow, I hope you know that I worry at times. My biggest worry is that my reception is flawed (or that maybe you got tired of listening to me) and therefore the answers I am coming up with are self-serving. That would be quite frankly, disastrous. So, can I have some reassurance from you sometimes, once in awhile, once in a blue moon, that I’m going about this the right way… please? Thanks and yeah, I’ll be coming in for some connection tuning soon… don’t give up on me, okie?

harbinger of light

The sun shone bright and lovely today. A brief few hours amidst a week of gloom, rain, cold floor tiles and a nose that threatened mutiny; a good omen.

Today, I let go of all that remained.
No bonfire, no lingering… no big deal.
It feels wonderful.

absolutely wicked

The Bitter Stickgirl chronicles the misadventures of a girl searching for love, poignantly told in a series of simple illustrations, with a delicious streak of wicked humour and the essential dash of irony! Two of my favourites:

lousy cupid

i love claypot frog porridge

the small things

The noodles were springy and simple. It came in a clear broth filled with chopped cilantro, little cubes of pork lard, assorted fish cake slices, fishballs, and some char siew. Half the joy of eating it was dressing it up to your taste with the condiments provided on every table. Sweet, sour, salty and spicy translates into sugar, pickled chilli, fish sauce and dried chilli flakes. You add a bit of everything, stir up the noodles and slurp away. The other half is eating one’s second bowl at 2 a.m. with a glass of gaa fae yen at a hawker stall opposite Patpong, with a bunch of dearest friends (some in their pajamas) and surrounded by tables of drunk Japanese guys, noisy ladyboys and other interesting shady-looking characters.
……….

“Up and down. Up and down,” said Goong with a wide smile, leaning on the frame of the kitchen door, shaking her head as she watched Meng Teck, Ah Tan and me lock the bicycles for the umpteenth time today. We were having a whale of a time exploring the town and the quaint little lanes dotted with guesthouses and village homes along the river. At fifty baht per bicycle for the whole day, we rode the bikes everywhere till our butts were sore. Several times daily we carried the bicycles up and down the steep cement flight of stairs that separates the guesthouse entrance from its riverside rooms, much to Som the ginger tabby’s bored gaze and the guesthouse staff’s continued amusement. Baa, we must appear to be… baa baa baaw baaw!!
……….

There is a sliver of a moon on my left and a fluffy shuriken sun on my right. Cotton candy clouds fills the sky in between. A whiff of diesel in the air and the hum of a jet ski engine roaring away in the distance accompany waves gently lapping upon the shore. I can feel my complexion turning another shade toastier. Hopefully it would by now look like roasted macadamia nuts coated with a glaze of honey and not burnt almonds. My fingers and toes are looking a bit like prunes though. Lying on my back afloat in the sea, staring up at the sky… this is bliss revisited. I am happy.