A Woman's Honor.

Originally uploaded by: rosenaldo

He woke up with a start. It was still dark. He had a dream about being lost at sea, engine dead and a storm gathering. As he braced himself to ride out the storm alone, he heard the chugging of another boat. He could not see in the dark but the sound became louder and louder and that was when he suddenly woke up.


The sound was so real. He listened carefully, heard nothing but the sea. Just as he relaxed, he heard that sound again. He jumped out of bed. Before he reached the door, he realized that he was not alone in his house. She was in the kitchen busy preparing breakfast. The sight gripped his heart and he knew from this day, his life will never be the same.


He was not a romantic man. He did not see this woman he saved as the woman he will marry. But for the first time in his life, he felt he should have a wife. Someone who could cook for him in the morning. Someone he could return to after fishing. Someone who could fill the empty spaces and emptiness in the house as she is doing. He will probably look for a simple wife among the village folk, someone who understand the way of life here and who could take the hardship and joy of being dependant upon the sea. An outsider is unlikely to fit in. There would be no shortage of prospects as he had his own house, his own boat and a good reputation. The village headman would be delighted to help him find a match. Maybe, even among one of his many relatives. He was surprised at all these thoughts flying through his head that the mere presence of this woman brought. But she would be the wrong woman for him, why he did not know.


After the initial surprise, he was no longer surprised at further changes in him. He understood the natural flow of things and how useless it is to fight against the tide. It is much wiser to go with the flow and benefited from it. When the currents of the sea changes, he does not waste time pondering why. He just responded to it.


There was economy and effortless grace in her movements. Tenderness settled in the face that was no longer fighting back and it was beautiful. Usefulness trumped beauty any time but there are the rare occasions when they came together to make a woman truly desirable. She was fair, quite different from the dark skinned beauty of the South. That exoticness added an air of mystery but also suspicion that she was somehow weaker despite her portrayer of strength as tough as any local women.


She moved through and used the kitchen as if she had been born to it. How can that be? How can she be so familiar with the unfamiliar? It suddenly hit him that there was something not quite right about his kitchen. She has rearranged it! How did she move that large earthen pot used for storing water closer to the stove? The knives and cooking utensils had been moved to the right side of it and the bowls and plates had been moved to the left. Even the kitchen cabinet had been shifted to create more rooms for movement around the stove which is now the new heart. The bulk of the woods have been shifted to a corner just leaving a few ready to be used nearby. She seemed to prefer to sacrifice preparation space for more freedom around the cooking area. The condiments and ingredients were individually prepared before hand and neatly placed next to the wok.


Like an opera show, he thought. He was always amazed at the vast amount of materials that have to be moved in for such a show. Hugh boxes after boxes of all kinds. Enough to fill a small house. Yet when the performance actually began, all the actions took place on a small stage. With this realization, also came an annoyance. She had no right to shift his things without his permission. Even if it is an improvement. She should have asked him first. In fact, she should not even do that; she should not intrude herself into his life. How can she misbehave like this? It is not proper. His annoyance born out of having no control at the course of events boiled to the surface. He will tell her off. He will ask her to leave.


He will… She turned and looked at him. Her large brown eyes robbed him of his will. He stood there rooted till his anger re-resized control. The anger now directed at himself. Why is he so easily unbalanced by her presence? Her look was steady but soft.


“I’ll leave if you cannot let me stay”.


That deflated the wind from his sail. While he was searching for something to say, she continued “I hope you’ll let me repay my debts. It troubles me greatly to owe so great a debt of gratitude. I cannot be lucky again. Besides I’ve no place to go”. He was not sure whether the last sentence was meant to make it easy for him. But he could understand that part about settling debts of honor. The village headman understood that too. He knew that to say “there is no need” is superfluous because the need is in the other party. But honor is a man’s perspective. A woman usually just accepted it and is grateful to be saved. She confused him. He thought about it for a while in silence. If she believed in honor, then he had to find an honorable way out for her.


“Can you sew?” he asked. She nodded her head.


“If you can do that, you can learn to mend fishing net. I’ll talk to the village headman. He’ll find a place for you to stay. My house is not appropriate even though there is an extra room, for there are only the two of us. You can earn a living mending nets and also doing other odd jobs. I’ve some nets that needed mending which I do have the time for and it is too expensive to get it replaced. Whenever you’ve the time, you will mend my net. When you’ve finished it, you’ll have repaid me in full.”


They both knew that a fishing net do not equate to a human life. They also knew that debts need not be settled in full (for some debts can never be) but the token and intention is important. Honor can be restored in this manner. That will be something the other party can live with. She did not reply to this suggestion.


He sat by the table and allowed her to serve him. He had not had such an elaborate and delicious breakfast since his mother died and almost chocked on it. She looked away and let him finished his meal in silence.


“I’m going now” He felt strange saying that yet elated at the same time.


He picked his crew up from the jetty. They found him unusually quiet the whole day. After trying unsuccessfully to engage him in conversations several times, they left him alone wondering what was bothering him. But they were not alarmed as every now and then, he drifted into such mood. In spite of that, their catch was good that day and the crew was happy.


He had never been so anxious to return yet he did not go home immediately. Instead he went to the evening market to buy some food and condiments. After some hesitation, he borrowed a bicycle to cycle to town where he would be less likely to be recognized. In one of the many street which sells clothing, he approached a vendor to buy women clothing. He was thankful his dark complexion and the fading light did not show up his blushes. Embarrassed to bargain for long and he knew he paid more than he should. He bought other things that he thought a woman may need, a basin, a large metal cup, toothbrush, a towel and a hand mirror. Though he still had his mother’s things, he did not think of passing them to her.


It was dark by the time he reached home. No light was shining from his house. He quickened his steps and sweats were dripping down the side of his face. His heart was pounding madly from the exertion. Had she gone?

To be continued...

Destiny.

Midnight Storm originally uploaded by Nate Weibley

“No, I don’t want to talk about them. I don’t even want to think about them for every time I did, I stir the river bed. The debris safely gathered at the bottom churn up and its’ murkiness depress me like storm clouds on a sunny day. Then, I cannot get rid of their intruding images threading all over my brain. And my heart got acid burns. I want to forget them only sometimes I can’t.”


“So I learned to activate defense mechanisms. I had to or I would have gone insane by now or my heart would have been pounded to mash. I sleep if sleep can come. I exercise to wear me out. I keep myself busy so I don’t have to think. If these don’t help, I think of other things”.


As I speak, my mind wanders to the Fisherman of Snake Mouth. I turn to face Beth but she was no longer there. In her place, sits the Fisherman calmly smoking his pipe disregarding me.


Looking at him sitting there smoking contentedly, I feel a violent stab of envy. Sure, a person can be contented when he knew the person he loves love him in return. He can go to his grave with the smug feeling as if he had achieved something. I loved, and I was loved in return but they all eventually left me and I was left to ponder my failures. Why are my many loves not equal to his one? At this moment, I almost hate him. But I know it is not him I hate. My mind stray to what is fair and what is not. We are never fair to the one who loves us but appeals for fairness from the one whom we love.


The Fisherman could not sleep after leaving the girl that evening (September 2007 Post – “Once There Was A Hill”). He tossed and turned in his bed worrying about what will happen to her. He told himself it is not his business. The world is full of unfortunate people. They will survive, somehow. He had done all he could. But he still could not sleep. So he gave up, got up to look at the sea. That always calms him down. And there will be a full moon tonight.


He swung open the wooden door and as he stepped out, his leg kicked on something soft. He was shocked to see a figure curled up with the knees against the chest outside his door. His heart jumped when he realized it was the girl he rescued. She stirred, forced herself to sit up and looked at him with those unflinching eyes. Concern and pity overwhelmed him. She must be cold and hungry yet he said “You should not be here”. He wanted to invite her in but what would the neighbors think? While he hesitated, she stood up and walked into the house uninvited.


Not knowing what else to do, he followed her in. His chivalrous nature took over “Have you eaten?” She shook her head. He will deal with her after she had eaten. As he headed towards the kitchen, he heard a firm “No!” that stopped him in his track. She walked pass him and surveyed the kitchen cabinet. With deft fingers and a confidence of experience, she began several tasks at once, boiling water, slicing, cutting, seasoning. She was a delight to watch and for the first time in his life, he pondered what it is like to have such a woman for a wife. Before long, a pleasant aroma rose up to mix with the night air. He wondered what her cooking would taste like but was quite sure it would be delicious.


He watched her from the dining table. She carried out a large bowl of rice noodle with slices of fishes and some vegetables. “She must be really hungry. I will have to work harder and catch more fishes if I will to have a wife like this”, he thought.


(As I picture the scenes, I look over and catch a tiny smile that has stole its way up the lip of the Fisherman ghost though he pretends to act nonchalantly and continues his smoking.)


She sat opposite him and surprised him by placing the bowl of noodles in front of him. He had not expected her to cook for him. He looked at the appetizing meal but asked, “What about you?” She just shook her head. He swore he could hear the growling of her stomach. He started to push the bowl towards her but palm placed at the edge of the bowl stopped him. He was afraid to exert any further pressure fearing the hot soup will spilled and burned them both. He stood up and returned from the kitchen with another bowl. He poured half of the content into this bowl but instinctively leaved slightly more in his own. He placed the second bowl before her and in a serious voice, commanded “Eat!” Without looking up, he started eating. It tasted wonderful. He stole a look at her and was pleased that she was also eating her noodles too. They ate in silence, both lifting the bowl to drink every last drop of soup.


A sudden gush of wind slammed the door startling them. He went to secure it and smelt the dampness in the air. It was going to rain soon. That decided it. He could not be chasing her out in this weather. He went to his bedroom and came out with a spare blanket. She took it without a word, her face still solemn and defiant. He had analyzed her character, there is no reasoning with her; she is stubborn as a mule. He lifted the door curtain to his room and went to bed.


He laid there that night with a very strange feeling he never felt before. As he drifted off to sleep, his last thought was – what was he going to do with her tomorrow?

To be continued...

Memory.

Hard & Soft: Originally uploaded by accrama

“I woke up to see you peeping through the curtain. I took my camera and surprised you with a shot. (When I had it developed, it was my turn to be surprised for you had taken a picture of me while I slept). You screamed, rushed over and tried to wrestle the camera from me. When we stopped, your laughter was replaced by tender looks from those doleful eyes. You hang on to me and did not want me to leave for the college. You also did not want to leave the apartment together with me.


I should not have left you alone. What thoughts must have gone through your head? I could not concentrate at the lecture from lack of sleep and a nagging guilt and worry. Despite several cups of coffee and constant washing of face, I could hardly keep my eyes open. I finally gave up and skipped the balance of the classes.


When I opened the door to my apartment, you ran forward to hug me. Sitting at the edge of the bed, you told me you have spoken to your priest. You told me in a rather cheerful voice that he asked you to leave me. This did not seem to alarm me. I felt it was something you had to do and that it is not something that will not come between us. I started kissing the nape of your neck as you continue speaking. It is quite similar to our situation now, one of us talking as if the other is not there. As if talking to oneself. As you continued talking, I caressed you. I slipped my hand inside your shirt and cupped your breast. You gave me a gentle scolding but did nothing to stop me. Now, I wonder why. When you already decided that will be our last moments together and if the reason came from the church, why did you allow me such liberty? Or were you just borrowing strength from the church?


The phone rang. Your best friend Gloria came over not long after that. The two of you talked in low whispers in the kitchen. I got along well with Gloria and liked her but I did not know what her opinion of me was. I did not believe she would steer you in any direction. She would listen and agree with whatever you decide as good friends will do in such matter. You need the strength of her support. I could probably change your mind then, couldn’t I? But I was only nineteen. I was not ready for such commitment. I doubted you were too. Why did we rush so fast into a situation that would force us apart? Had we taken it slow, what would have happen?


But when you left with Gloria that day, I did not expect that will be the end as in The End. I never saw or heard from you again. Not a single phone call. I did not grieve. I did not pine. I just forget. Completely.”


I stopped my rambling. I waited. I dared not look at her. I did not dare to ask any question because I felt I had no right to. I wished she will say something but the silence is not uncomfortable. It wraps round us like a warm blanket. I’m used to silence. I’m used to being alone. Before the ghosts, I was always alone. When I sat with silence, my mind wanders listlessly like a languid river. When it reached the sea, I looked up at her large expressionless eyes that were the most prominent features of her plain oblong face. Did I hurt her again? Can a ghost be hurt?


A sudden chill seized me. If she is here and if she is a ghost, then she must be dead. But how did she die, so young. A fear swept over me and I desperately hoped she is just a figment of my imagination. “Beth, are you a real ghost?” A shadow crossed those eyes and she stands up to leave.


“Please don’t go. I need you.”


“You didn’t need me then.”


“I need you now.”


“What do you want from me?”


“Please teach me how to forget.”


“You seem to be a very good at it.” I feel that cut deeply. But she is entitled to say it.


In spite of my shame, I appeal “I’ve forgotten how now. Teach me how to forget. How did you do it?”


“It is ironic you should be the one asking me. You must be really desperate. It hurts, doesn’t it? You wish the memory would just disappear. But time does not seem to dull the memory or the pain. If anything, it just exacerbates it. Do you know why? It is because you cannot let go. And do you know why you cannot let go?”


“Tell me, please.”


“No. Telling you won’t do you any good. Let us talk about what you cannot forget. Shall we start with a rainy day in a small hut in Thailand or would you rather start it with a bleak autumn evening in the heart of Tokyo?”

To be continued...

The Night Before. The Morning After.

Originally uploaded by: .bek

You stepped quickly into my apartment but stood there in the kitchen refusing to move into the room. You looked down at the floor. Your whole body was trembling. I thought you were on the verge of tears. You would not let me hold you or led you in. We stood there facing each other and I was at a loss on what to do.


Gently, I asked “do you want to go home?”


You did not answer but the question seemed to force you to a decision. Even with your head bowed, I could see you struggling with your thoughts and emotions. Then silently, you walked into the room and sat on the edge of my bed.


I sat besides you making sure that our shoulders did not touch. Looking back, it was kind of amusing, wasn’t it? Just minutes ago, we were in deep embraces but now we just sat there apart, afraid to touch. Hesitant conversations gradually stole its way in. Inconsequential and meaningless conversations to fill the void and erased the edges. As we feel more comfortable, I put my hand over and enveloped your shoulder.


You stiffened, and then relaxed. You leaned over and rested your head on my body. I softly brushed it with my hand and ran my fingers through your hair. I held your head to my chest to hear the thumping of my heart that must have sounded like an echoing boom from an endless cave. There was a spreading wetness on my chest. You were crying again. But your hand tightened round my back as if afraid I will draw away. The other hand reached out for one of mine and clasped it. We held each other like this for a long while, sometimes giving each other a little squeeze to show our affection. That was how I will always want to remember us.


It was a serene and comfortable but temporal state. It could not last. For passion does not flow like languid water. It crackles, erupts and burns, fiercely.


We reached out for each other. Our tentative kisses became more intense, more urgent. The dam had been breached. There were no further restraints. The emotions we had kept in check burst forth. Nothing matters any more except giving all and possessing all in return. Your strength was surprising. Your hunger was amazing. I found your desire for me so beautiful. And that fierce tenderness I felt, how can that not be love? It was too beautiful to be called lust.


I looked up at Beth and saw tears in her eyes. In a trembling voice, she said “I was so ashamed of the intensity of my emotions, so ashamed I never knew what my heart is capable of holding. And how little control I had over it. All that my heart can feel, I felt it all at once. Fearful and joyous, troubled and euphoric, hopeful and sad. Yes, sad because I knew I was lost. Overcame by a desire I had no control of nor did I even want to try.”


“I was brought up a proper Catholic,” she continued. “What we did I knew was wrong. What we did was sinful. And I was so afraid. If what I felt was not love, then it must be lust. But I was beyond the point of caring. Tomorrow I will confess and leave you, but tonight…”


“And then when I was ready to give you all, you asked the most stupid and hurtful question. I had also not heard a more beautiful or noble question since. “Are you a virgin?” I froze. You did not wait for me to continue for it was not a question to you but a stating of fact. “You must save it for the one you will marry.” With those words, you destroyed me that night. As your words sliced my heart, it also severe any doubts and hope I may have. You were such a beautiful person. I loved you.”


I reach out to hold Beth but only touch air. Tears roll down her cheek and drip onto the floor collecting in a small puddle. I do not understand the reality of the ghost world or how it relates to ours.


“I am not a weak person. I do not cry easy” Beth said. “But you make me vulnerable. I hate it and I don’t. I was a happy person, you changed that. It took me a long time to be happy again.”


“I’m sorry” I said.


Yes, I remembered your easy laughter. In a crowded bus ride to Pasay, I was amazed how easily you made friends with strangers and talked to them like old friends. When I asked you what were spoken, you always reply “oh, nothing.” But then, you will volunteer interesting details about this person and that. I could never be like that and admired you for it. I am sorry I hurt you. But it was you who left me the next morning.

To be continued…

Manila Bay Sunset.

Originally uploaded by Darkia.

I remembered that evening when we walked along Manila Bay just before sunset. It was your favorite time of the day when everything was coated rust brown like that of a sepia photograph. Made it kind of magical, timeless you said. But you knew it was an illusion for the moments are fleeting. That is why you treasured it so much. You allowed me to hold your hand but when I slipped my arm round your waist, you slipped away laughing. Then you came back and held my hand again.

We had dinner in a restaurant where the staffs were deaf-mute and we made our order with sign languages. You laughed at my attempts to make myself understood. You found reasons to laugh at almost anything. Sometimes, when I thought you were laughing at me, you will grab my arm to dissipate any hurt feelings I may have.

At the bench in the park behind the bush under the swaying coconut tress, you let me kissed you. As your lips melted in mine, a sigh that sounded like a great release escaped you. A warmth spread all over me and I was assailed with a great tenderness to protect and possess you at the same time. I squeezed your body close to mine. Was this lightness of being, this euphoria, this racing of the heart, this tenderness, was this love? I remembered asking. They said you will know when you fell in love. They said a lot of things. They said you will always remember your first kiss. I forgot mine for twenty years. I was drowning in passion yet I found myself asking, “Is this love?” You were right. I think too much.

But you blew these thoughts from my mind when you kissed me again with greater passion. You seemed to have lost your inhibition consumed by a hunger as great as mine. Our lips, our tongues swam like big fishes thrashing in a shallow pond. We were losing control when you suddenly pulled back and pushed me away. We were both panting. You would not meet my eyes. You buried you head on my chest, clenched fists beating my back. When you raised it again, my questioning look was returned with an enigmatic smile. Why did I feel it looked a little sad?

In the long taxi ride back to the apartment, we punctuated our conversation with kisses. Out of the blue, you wanted to hear me sing. You always laugh at my singing but I was never offended. You promised not to this time but I knew you lied. I sang for you Cliff Richard’s “Bachelor Boy”.

When I was young my father said
'Son I have something to say'
And what he told me I'll never forget
Until my dying days

He said son you are a bachelor boy
And that's the way to stay
Son you'll be a bachelor boy
Until your dying days

You said my singing was terrible but you love it. I believe you.

When the taxi reached my building, you hesitated and then you shyly followed me into my apartment.

To be continued...

The Girl Who Sang To Heaven

Wind originally uploaded by Walking Turtle.

When I looked up again, the old ghost was gone. In his place sat a female ghost wearing a delicate white dress with little pink flowers that stirs and floats. At first, I thought it was the moonlight ghost coming to blame me again for what might have been. But then I noticed the short hair. A vaguely familiar figure like someone I knew from a long time ago but had long since forgotten. A rather cheerful voice asked, “You said she was your first love, what about me then?”

That shocked me. The melodious voice that floated across like riding on a breeze, I had heard it before. Though, the question is accusatory, I detected no resentment, regret or malice in the tone. In fact, it sounded playful as if she was deliberately pulling my legs and taking pleasure in my discomfort.

I racked my brain but I could not recall anyone I was intimate with before Kansas. No, I first tasted the bitter wine of loneliness in the wind-swept plain beneath the cloudless sky. In long walk in empty fields where not even an animal stirred, the winds sang me their woeful tunes. They mocked me that man cannot survive alone and only the wind can roam unfettered. I believed them. I learned man needs love only after having drank the dew of solitude. So there cannot be anyone before Kansas.

“Oh, how completely you’ve forgotten. You forgot the laughter but you could not forget the tears. I should cut and make you bleed, then your tears will nourish my memory. I think I would rather be hated than forgotten.”

Again, there was laughter in her voice. If I meant something to her, why is she so cheerful? But I am now quite sure I knew her though there is just no recollection except for the voice I had heard before. My mind went over all the girls I knew but I could not place her. I could not fit a memory to the voice that sings.

“You said I sang to Heaven.”

I felt blood rushing to my face. Oh, my god! How could I forget her? She observed me with great interest seeking to peer into my feelings beyond the embarrassment. I could not meet her eyes and hang down my head to avoid her steady gaze. She said nothing but continued looking intensely, a smile appearing at the corner of her sensual lips. She is quite ordinary looking but there are moments when an inner brilliance shines through and you will think her terribly attractive. Like now.

Finally, I found the words “I’m sorry, Beth. I have not forgotten about you but I do not know why I have not even recalled you once this last twenty years. Please forgive me.” I said honestly.

“And do you really remember me now?”

I first met you in the apartment above mine where I stayed as a student next to a Coca-Cola bottling plant in Manila. In the apartment of a good-natured American soldier who looked a lot like “meathead” (the son-in-law of Archie Bunker in “All in The Family”). He has the same moustache and a loose relaxed manner that made his six foot frame cuddly. His wife is a slim shiny brown skin Filipina and they have two young children, a bouncy baby boy and a beautiful girl with naturally curvy hair that is neither dark brown nor gold. Both were fair and looked more like the father. I never see him with a shirt on in his room but always with a chequered sarong round his waist. They were a happy family and friendly to strangers. So I used to drop in, the only warm place in this drab concrete building where the corridor was the only common thing shared by its inhabitants.

I did not know what you were doing there nor how you knew that family and I never asked. I only remember hearing you sang that day I was there. A voice in need of no music. When you sing, people stops to listen. It is not like a storm that seized attention by its volume and power. No, it is like a running drizzle moved by shifting winds. You strained to hear the softest note. It is like the light quivering of the bamboo leaves on a still summer day. Like the dripping drops rolling off roofs surrendering to the puddle below. Like the splintering waves expiring with sighs on unyielding rocks. I stood there afraid to breathe, worried the coarseness of my breath will mar the perfection of your song. I fell in love with your singing before I fell in love with you. Or is it I fell in love with you because of your singing? Or is it I think I fell in love with you because when you sing, you were the most attractive woman in the world to me?

“Ha ha, you remember. And after all these years, you still do not know if you love me.”

“But you’re right. Whether I truly love you or not, you’re my first love.”

“Contradiction. You are always the confused one and good in confusing others. Do you know that is because you think too much? You feel too much too. Then you need to ask – what is this I’m feeling? Then you go on, like a dog chasing its tail. Whether you love me is not as important as whether you remembered me.”

Yes, I remember now. But I do not know why I forgot everything about her for so long. When the memory now is as clear as the tinkle of the metal spoon against the crystal glass. I felt I have wronged her.

“It is okay.” There is gentleness in her voice. “You did not forget but you bury me. Why, I don’t think even you know.”

Her seriousness suddenly evaporates like the mist under the rising sun. She laughed, “We can explore that together later. But now, tell me more. What else do you remember? I want to know.” Her whole body was shaken by her merry laugh. And tonight, I am glad I have company.

To be continued...

Left Behind.

Kuala Lumpur Railway Station: Originally uploaded by: Magnus Caleb

“I know about being left behind” I said in the quiet of my room, the curtain drawn.


In the platform of a partially crowded railway station in Kuala Lumpur under the Moorish arch, we rushed to say what we could not finish the last couple of days in breathless whisper. Our eyes kept darting back to the train waiting on the track. We both knew when she climbed in, we can never return to the type of relationship we had. And when we meet again as we surely will, there will be an unbridgeable gap between us.


She reached out to hold my hand. She was always the strong one. I was concerned. What if someone recognized us? As she applied a gentle squeeze, I admired her strength. She was always truer to her feelings and I was a little ashamed. I had a rush of feeling. I wanted to hug and pressed her against my breast but I did nothing. Her eyes watered. She released one hand to rub them and then assured me that she was alright. I did not know what to say or do. I was an idiot.


If I wanted to do anything drastic, that was the time. Was she waiting for me to ask her to stay? And if I did, what would she say? Maybe, I should ask anyway. At least, it will make her happy that I asked. But what if she says yes? That thought frightened me for suddenly all the problems associated with that decision rained down on me. My shoulders felt the weight and they sagged.


I was saved by the whistle. “Love is not everything” I told myself. Passengers were scrambling on board. She was squeezing my hands so hard they hurt. Soon, we were the only ones left standing. There were curious looks from those on the benches waiting for the next train and passengers who had already found their seats. “She had no future with me”. The conductor moved along the train and blew his whistle again impatiently. She bent over and kissed me on the cheek. I had not expected that. She was crying again.


She climbed hurriedly on board the last segment. One hand holding the railing, the other waving as the train slowly moved away. I waved back and kept waving till it disappeared. Then I was left with my guilt, unable to move away from the spot, eyes fixed on an empty track.


I grew silent as I relived the past. I would have prefer to indulge in it a bit more but the old ghost intruded with a disturbing question – “She left you that day. But did she leave you or did you leave her?”


I became angry. That was an unfair. I suffered too. It was for her good. We would not be able to make it work. I was going to go on with a thousand reasons but I suddenly became tired. Over the years, I have tried convincing myself hundreds of time that we, I made the right decision. If I cannot convince myself, how can I convince a ghost?


I fell into silence again. And the ghost and I nursed our private thoughts in the silent, empty room as the night closes in.

To be continued...

Once There Was A Hill.

Staring at the sea... Originally uploaded by me jules

There was once opposite his village a spit of land that curved out to sea in an arch which ended with a solitary hill. When the sun sets, the fisherman liked to walk along the beach till the sun is framed against the hill at that exact position he would like it to be that day. That would be the spot he would choose to sit and idly gazed as the ball of fire doused its flame beneath the waves. Sometimes, he would climb the hill behind his village just as the sun was sinking mumbling Wang Zhi Huan’s poem “If one desire to see further, one has to scale higher.” He amused himself by timing his ascent to reach the peak the moment sun disappeared. He often examined his feelings when he was early, late or precise and found them inconsistent and sometime contradictory to what he expected to feel.

The hill is now gone. There is no angle out there now in the sea for the sun to be coy. They tore it down for the earth and rock to build jetties and wharfs. The padi fields and duck farms from Shekou to Shenzen are also gone along with any hills along that stretch. Huge mechanical monsters gobbled up the proud hills and spat them out to fill fields till all that is left is just an ugly flat land. Buildings sprang up all over the places and outsiders with no attachments for the land descended upon it like invaders from the North overwhelming the residents. The villagers lost their voices for they had become the new minority clinging to a way of life these newcomers have fled from.

He missed that hill. He loves it more now that it is gone. The absent hill reminded him constantly of his loss. He never once told the hill how much he loved it. There was never any need. Now he wished he had.

He had no love for these newcomers. Wherever they were from, they assumed an air of superiority and boasted about the places they left behind. Their focus was only on how to make money as fast as possible. They were rude, impatient and look down upon the local’s way of life as backward while they cramped themselves in unsanitary quarters no better than the farmer’s pig sty and went to work in sweat shops just as bad. They wanted to imitate the ‘modern way’ having no real idea what that is except making lots of money. So they aped the Honkies they saw in TV and put on an air to differentiate themselves from ‘ordinary’ Chinese. The villagers stayed away from the newcomers whom they viewed with equal disdain.

One day returning from his evening walk at the edge of his village, a figure rushed towards him, stumbled and fell. Instinctively, he bended down and pulled her up to stare into a pair of frightened yet defiant eyes. There were rushing feet and shouts as several men ran towards them. The girl pulled away but some reason he held on to one of her arm preventing her escape.

“Thank you brother” one of the men breathlessly said. They were newcomers.

“Why are you chasing her?” he asked.

“Oh, she owed us money. Tried to run away without paying.”

He looked at her for confirmation. “They promised me a good job in the city but now they wanted me to be a bargirl.”

He released his hold on the girl. Turned to face the men and told them bluntly “you cannot take her away” hoping that his voice was not shaken by the pounding of his heart.

“Friend, don’t give us trouble” he threatened. The five men spread out to cut off their escape.

Suddenly, there was a shout. “Hoi! What is the problem?” A group of villagers came upon them and now it were the newcomers who were outnumbered. The villagers were armed with sticks and poles of their trades.

The leader of the pack spoke conciliatory “Ah, it is only a small misunderstanding, a small misunderstanding” but from the look of it they are not willing to give up so easily. Some of them dug their right hands into their pocket reaching for something.

“Let me through, let me through.” A shriveled old man with a bad leg hobbled into the circle. He was the village headman. He ignored everyone and limped to the leader and they talked in low voices. An intense negotiation seemed to be going on punctuated by fierce looks and threatening gestures. Then the rough thug with the unbuttoned shirt and tattooed arm and the frail old man just stood there staring at each other.

The thug then gave a nod, turned and walked away, hastily followed by the rest of his gang. The fisherman walked over to the headman but he shut him up with “don’t say anything. I’ve been waiting a long time to repay you for saving Xiao Lo’s life”. He wanted to protest but the disapproving look from the headman told him not to. So instead, he just gracefully said “Xie xie” bowing his head which brought a wide smile to the old man. “Very good, very good” the old man sounded very pleased.

Everyone then left leaving him alone with the girl. As he stood there watching them go, he recalled how he saved the old man’s grandson when a huge wave washed the inexperienced youngster into rough sea. It was nothing. It was a natural thing to do. And he was embarrassed to be repaid for it.

He suddenly realized the presence of the girl, turned and said to her “you’re free now.” With that, he rushed to catch up with the departing villagers.

To be continued...

The Old Fisherman of Snake’s Mouth*.

Fishing wharf at sunset, originally uploaded by James Yin

He had seen it all. When Shekou* was just a sleepy fishing village seemingly untouched by time at the southern tip of the land mass called China. What happened in the rest of China did not matter much here except as news during breaks dictated by the weather and tides. The sea matters more than China. The sea matters more than anything. It is their life. That is all a fisherman needs to know. And the sea is good to the fisherman who understands.

The old man thinks he understands the sea. For seventy odd years, he could not leave its sight for more than a day without feeling a tremendous loss. He is too old to go out to sea now but he still needs to hear its endless whispers and to feel its salty embrace. He could not sleep otherwise.

Especially after that day when he returned to find a silence so deep it drowned out even the mourning of the sea. He knew even before he stepped through the door. Tears welled up in this eyes and his heart sank like an anchor into the deep. He stopped in the middle of the hall. Something made him wanting to turn and dived into the sea from the balcony of his stilted hut to seek its solace. Instead he covered his face with his calloused hands and openly wept. Before long, he was bawling like a kid expelling his grief. Sank to his knees and cried loudly. Not even in his mother’s funeral had he cried like that.

“You’re all I had now” he said to the sea. “And it is not enough. I missed her too much.”

But he continued living with the sea. And it sang to him. Every night before he went to bed, he listened to the familiar song of their courtship to her death. Sometimes it is as sweet as the honey lemon that ripened under the mid-day sun. Other times more bitter than the gourd from farmer Lee who is said to water them with his tears. He swallowed them all. Then he went to sleep on his side of the bed. Titled his head to whisper a gentle goodnight. Stretched his hand out under the blanket to hold a phantom hand.

In the morning everyone treated him as that cheerful old man with plenty of advices and wisecracks that he freely dispensed. Younger fishermen came to him for advices on the sea. Older friends came to share his cup of tea. Young men asked him how to approach young girls. Young girls asked him how to attract young men. Children came to hear his tales. No one talked about his loss. No one offer consoling words. That is the way of the village. That is their ways to help him heal. And that is how he became “a most respected elder” in his village.

I never met him in person. Though I had walked along the beach made entirely from the discard of oysters and cockle shells. I loved the crunching and crackling sounds made when I stepped on them. How many generations did it take to produce this quantity? To fill this beach, I wondered. I imagined this must be the same pleasure people in the North got from threading on dried autumn leaves. Further ahead, I saw several shirtless young boys running on the cockle beach. The youngest was completely naked and chasing the others. I felt some concern. Wouldn’t the shells cut their feet?

Years later, on a quiet night when I recalled that evening by the beach, I got my answer without asking for it. “No. Their feet have eyes and your leather is not tougher than their soles”.

He never told me about his life. I just knew. I do not know how I knew. I just did. And as he paid me more visits I knew more about him. Maybe I am absorbing his memory as he recalled them. Maybe he is doing the same to me. Maybe that is why he can provide answers when I am not asking for it.

To be continued...

Conversation with Ghosts.

gates1, originally uploaded by Nachosan

The Gate of Hell will be flung open this month and all manner of ghosts will descend to Earth. No weddings would be held in the Ghost Month and the Chinese will refrain from going out at night. Yet they will turn out in force to shows held by temples to appease the spirits. To gawk at sexy young girls in scrimpy dresses gyrating on purpose built wooden stage.

There used to be an air of respectability for such shows when opera singers trained by their ancestors from one generation to the next performed solemn acts of despairs. The painted faces and long sleeves in high pitched unintelligible renditions were no match for the advent of the broken voice exposed body parts. The spirits must be pleased for they did not object.

If I will to tell I can talk to ghosts, they would ask in all seriousness what they looked like. For in my culture, you are not mad if you can see ghosts. You are just “gifted”. And will be consulted. By learning or faking some rituals, you will be in demand, respected and can earn a decent living acting as a medium between man and ghosts.

But if I will to tell that my ghosts do not conform to the generally accepted notions of what ghosts look and behave like. If I will to say I don’t see hungry ghosts, vengeful ghosts out to right a wrong, vicious ghosts whose sole purpose is to harm the living, female ghosts that floats with long hair in long white gown or cheongsam red out for revenge, ghouls in the employ of those practicing the black arts and demons of all descriptions, always horrid and blurry. If I don’t see their dead relatives. If I will to say my ghosts just appear to have a quiet conversation without speaking, then they will know I am mad.

So I tell no one.

If I am mad, I rather keep it to myself. If I do not behave according to their generally accepted notions of how a madman behave, then to them I am not one. So I tell no one about my conversations with ghosts.

To be continued...

Blame It On The Moon.

Moon1, originally uploaded by mellow-d)

A very long time ago. In a small town called “little apple” for it was also named Manhattan. They took me to a small mound of a hill and proudly told me “on a clear day, you can see all the way to Wichita”. All I saw was a flat land golden with ripening wheat that stretched for ever until the gold met the blue. It was breathtaking and when the wind blew, it was as if the land moved. Maybe my eyesight was bad, I could not pick out Wichita.

But my eyes picked her up immediately that night they took me to the best chicken restaurant within driving distance from the university. Even before we were seated.

There was a noisy commotion as we joined tables to form one long enough to accommodate all of us. I was the only Asian among the cowboys. My heart was not into the conversation. I was not hearing what were said. It was pounding madly as I made up my mind to approach her.

Her face was shielded by her long hair as she bent over the piano but I knew she is beautiful. Her hands were raised and she plunged them down with dramatic yet graceful flourishes. Fingers flew over the keyboards and melody filled the room. I wished my new-found friends would just shut up and listened. The beers came and cheers were raised. It never tasted so bitter. I was in love.

I stood up and walked over. Prompting loud cheering, hooting and piercing whistles. I ignored them all. I was amazed that in my first trip to a foreign land, my behavior was so uncharacteristically me. I would never dare if this was back in my own country. If I stopped walking, I knew my legs would fail me.

I stopped by the piano as she finished her song. She looked up.

And smiled.

My heart stopped beating. Time froze. The world around us stopped happening. I did not remember whether I ate any chicken that night. If I did, I could not remember its taste. I could not remember how I got home. I only remembered smiling on the bed, unable to sleep. My heart swirling, swept by caressing waves of raw emotions.

Then.

She was a Vietnamese. She was married. My world crashed.

I received a phone call. She wanted to meet. I callously asked why. As if, she had done me wrong. She said she wanted to invite me out to look at the moon. There was a long pause. I wanted to go. I wanted to find out whether there can be anything between us. I fervently hoped.

But I was an honorable young man back then. My first love. My first heartbreak. I gave some silly excuse. She never phone again. And from that night, the moon never looks the same. I know it accused me of betrayal and cursed me with endless heartbreak. And the one songwriter whom I have always wanted to meet is the one who wrote “Blame it on the moon”.

I suspect she is one of those who come to visit.

To be continued...

Their Sound of Silence

They talk to me.

But I never hear them speak. I hear clearly what they say in the silence. I don’t know how. But I know it is not telepathy. Most of the time, it is like the whispers of soft wind moving through silk curtain. Or I imagined it as such. Sometime, like the low growl of an animal.

Most of the time, it is like the conspiring conversations of trusted friends. Though I hesitate to call them that. For they are ghosts. And I don’t know if they are friends.

Sometimes they tell me stories. I listen. If I ask a question, they may or may not answer. It can be frustrating at times especially when I don’t understand what it is, they are saying. I hate the silence when there are still things left unsaid. But they won’t humor me. I can’t demand answers. I have to accept with not knowing. And that is difficult. Answers, answers! Why can’t they just reply something, even a lie? How I hate silence!

Sometimes they prompt me to talk. Not to say I need a lot of prompting. Their mere presence on a day when I’m under the weather is enough to make me reflect, to reminisce, to pour out my heart like red wine on a white table cloth. I’m suspicious, of course. But after the first few times, I threw cautions to the wind for who are they to repeat my miseries. To other ghosts? I laughed and drew comfort from my recklessness. I laughed again when I realized that I would not trust my secrets to any human being but I will trust them to ghosts.

To be continued...

My Ghosts & I

I don’t know how many of them there are.


I do know there must be at least 3 – male, female it.


But there could be many males, many females and many its. Often I can’t tell them apart. Especially when most of the time, they don’t take on distinct forms. And sometimes, I’m quite sure a single entity takes on different forms and different voices.


Maybe I’m mad.


Maybe I can talk to ghosts.

To be continued...