It Was No Sacrifice.

And it's no sacrifice
Just a simple word
It's two hearts living
In two separate worlds
But it's no sacrifice
No sacrifice
It's no sacrifice at all

- Elton John

Though her face was demure and expressionless, the fisherman got the unpleasant feeling that she was also amusing herself throwing him off his feet. There is a streak of cruelty in her nature but he did not feel that she is overall a cruel person. In trying to fathom her, he knitted his brow searching for an answer he knew he would not find in the porcelain face. She remained cool under his gaze and stared back.

MingYu looked at her boyfriend stammering, desperately trying to explain how sad he was, how he had not intended to hurt her, how he had no choice (without explaining why), but did not offer any way out of the mud. Words she had been expecting to hear, there was nothing new. She had heard them all before. As his desperation droned on, a new sorrow settled on her. Not for herself, she had been through that and had emerged from the mist. But this boy, this boy he once loved was still lost in the fog. She wanted to explain that some changes were irreversible. That she was no longer the same person who left town in tears. She could not return to who she was even if she wanted to.

She wanted to stop him. But thought it kinder to let him speak all he wanted. Let him spilled out his guts. So that he will not regret that he did not have a chance to say what he needed to say. But at the same time, she knew that is a lie. For when he is alone again, the words will play in his heads and he will find there are many more things he ought to have said. As if they will make any difference. She wanted to cut through this with “Yes, I know you’re sincere. Yes, I know you’ve no choice. Yes, I know it is not your fault. But is there anything we can we do to solve it?” And somehow, when he had exhausted himself, she managed to put something like that through. That brought about an immediate, confused, embarrassed silence.

Under the weeping willow, the fisherman gazed at that pair of crystal eyes that challenged him to react. Though he could not read anything that the owner did not want him to, he felt sorry for her. He did not know why. The lady with the velvet voice saw the fisherman’s eyes softened and waited curiously to see what he will do next. But when she heard the whisper “I’m sorry”, she turned immediately to face the lake. She felt the weight in her heart and the tide rising to her eyes. Her feelings raced from indignation that an uncouth fisherman should break her composure to anger with herself for losing it. From surprise at his reaction to surprise of her vulnerability. Then they settled on the balm that maybe, finally; there was someone whom she could tell her secrets. That there was someone she wanted to tell her secret to. She knew he had turned away to look the other way pretending to watch the leaves catching the breeze.

“Now I understand” she said without explaining what it was she understood. Then silence. The fisherman waited. He had heard such silence before. The moments before a gigantic storm break; when the very air and all sound seem to have freeze. Every sense heightened for that moment yet every sense dulled in the anticipation. In the rising tension, every movement, every sound faded into the background as all consciousness was diverted to focus on the breaking of the storm.

“I’ve the best father a child could hope for,” Her voice sang with a quiver, at a pitch threatening to break. “A father who tries to anticipate your every need and fulfill them without your asking it. A father who guides you yet knows when to step back and let you grow on your own. A father who loves you more than his own life. I should be the happiest child on earth.”

“My father was also a man to respect. A kind, caring person who loves his friends as much as he loves his family. He is always ready to lend a helping hand and help those less fortunate than him. His generosity and high moral character means that we had hardly enough to eat but that is not important for we were happy. He has a wife who adores him and a beautiful child he adores. And the respects and admirations of his workers. Despite his uncompromising attitude towards management, they tolerated him because his unit was the most productive due to his capable supervision and the support his workers gave him wholeheartedly. Not everyone loved him though. His immediate supervisor, an uncharitable man who felt he did not get enough respect from my father. Things came to a head when he wanted to dismiss a sick man in my father’s unit but my father with the backing of the other workers prevented him from doing so. They covered for the sick man and increased their production in spite of one man down thus saving him. But the supervisor took that as a challenge to his authority and a slap on his face.”

“One day, I was very sick and my family needed money for the doctor. There is a Chinese saying that the poor must not fall sick. With no money kept aside, my father went round begging for help. But the few who had a little to spare wanted to keep it precisely for such a need. Even those he had helped before could not or would not return the favor. They would have gladly marched with my father into danger but they could not give away what little security they had. My father returned that night a broken man. He had been out the whole day but it was not hunger that dragged his feet or hung his head. My mother was beside herself and demanded whether he got the money though she knew he had not. “Have you asked Lao Liu?” My father nodded. “And?” “You can save Lao Chen or you can save your precious child, he said.” “How could you?” my mother wailed and ranted “To sacrifice your child for your friend. What type of father are you?” My father said nothing but sat on the stool with head bowed, the tears dripping to the floor one drop following another. Then he stood up and left the house.”

“When he returned, my mother asked more hopefully “well?” “He wanted me to turn a blind eye to his ‘doing’. He will even give me a cut.” “And you refuse to sacrifice your principle?” my mother asked hysterically. My father lifted his head and stared at my mother coldly with a look she had never seen. “No. After the first one, that was no sacrifice.” Lao Chen was dismissed and his family lost the sole source of income. His friends and workers who would not help him save his child accused him of betrayal. His superiors were delighted for he was now one of them. And my poor father became a person he hated because of me.”

“I was too young to know all these. My father was still the loving father I’ve always known. But my mother sometime started to say things I don’t understand like “child, you must never hurt your father. You do not know how much he sacrificed for you.” My father was an intelligent man and now freed from the shackle of morality, he rose quickly up the rank to become a senior manager in the company. Several years later, the same supervisor was caught in a financial scandal and was sacked. That evening when he came to our house, I was behind the screen in the study room and mischievously decided to eavesdrop on the conversation. My father had grown rich in the intervening years and had rebuilt his reputation performing charities. I saw the supervisor made groveling appeals while my father listened kindly and offered some advices. At the end, he took out a bundle of cash and handed them to the supervisor who thanked him with tears in his eyes. Another kind act of my father to an undeserving man, I thought. When the supervisor left and my father settled down in his rosewood chair, I wanted to observe that benevolent look of satisfaction on his face. But what I saw horrified me. The face of the man sitting opposite me was not that of my father. The features were the same but I have never seen that face with the cruel smile. I covered my eyes with both hands but it was too late. The image was burned into my brain. Later that evening, my father was especially attentive and warm towards me but I shrank back until I remembered what my mother said.”

“No wonder you are so good in hiding your feelings”, the fisherman said.

“Comes with practice” she answered cynically.

“My father started his own business and became even more successful, and powerful. He was widely respected as a benevolent business man pouring money into helping the poor, building roads and sponsoring festive celebrations. “A poor man can do no charity” he said. He tried to help all he hurt especially his former group of workers. And they all forgive him except one. Lao Chen died and his wife said she would rather eat sand than took a single cent from him. But my father has his ways. He made sure the family is cared for without them knowing that it came from him. But I could not help but noticed that those few who opposed him sooner or later met with some form of misfortune. And he would then be especially generous to me. Another new toy, another new dress, another lavish dinner which I accepted gleefully. I’ll never hurt him by letting him know that I knew. This is my sacrifice.” Her voice dropped like a pebble into a bottomless well.

The breeze picked up. They lifted the flaccid arms of willow branches and the edge of her skirt. She stood there, a composed figure staring at the ripples of the water surface. You would never have guessed what she did not want you to know, the fisherman thought. She holds more secrets than the sea. She turned round and he was surprised she did not attempt to hide her tears.

“And you wonder what has all this got to do with WenCai, MingYu and me?” echoing his thoughts.

To be continued...

The Painting of Endless Sorrow.

They sat shoulder to shoulder as the rickshaw made its way nosily down the cobbled street. While her face was composed and she occasionally let out a nervous smile, he could feel the stiffness in her shoulder. She had fallen silent as if she needed to focus all her attention to curb an erupting heart. Or is she afraid to betray her vulnerable emotional state by talking? He understood. Some feelings are just too private to share even when you wanted and feel you ought to.

It must be difficult for her to come back, he thought. And he admired her guts to go back and tied all loose ends. To close this chapter in her life so she can begin a new one. At least, this is what he thought.

Her whole body suddenly stiffened and she braced herself. He looked at her and saw her eyes misting over staring straight ahead. He followed the direction of her gaze and saw two figures standing in front of the main door in one of the houses in the distance. A tall old man in his grey Chinese suit and a shorter, more rounded woman were waiting anxiously. She clenched her fist crushing the life out of her silk handkerchief. He found his own heart accelerating its beat, beating as if in tandem with hers.

Before the rickshaw even came to a complete stop, she jumped out and rushed forward. There was a heartbreaking cry of excitement, joy and anguish all combined into a shattering note of broken string from the older woman. They rushed into each others arms and the cries of many subdued nights all bursts forth in copious volumes. Their bodies shook even as they grasped each other tightly. The tall thin man remained rooted where he stood, his face screwed up tightly forcing back the tide. He looked stern, disapproving, but the tenderness in his eyes betrayed him.

The old man lifted his eyes and saw the fisherman. He could not bring a smile to his frozen face so he gave a slight nod of acknowledgement. The fisherman had by now arranged his face into one of neutrality and he lowered his head in a polite gesture. They both stood behind and a respectable distance apart from the two women still convulsing in deep embrace. Gradually, on what seemed liked a very long time to the two uncomfortable gentlemen; the cries subsided to be followed by a long line of questionings and protestations in-between. MinYu (yes, that is her real name he learned that day), through her quiet sobs just replied to every questions with “I’m alright, I’m alright”. At this juncture, the man broke in by saying “we are making ourselves a spectacle, let us go inside before we continue”. Everyone suddenly realized that is a wise thing to do and they all went in depriving the neighbors of further dramas.

(Min means nimble, sharp, quick, and sensitive. Yu means rain. So should he consider her nimble rain, the image of a gentle rain running with the wind pleases him or should he thought of her as sharp and sensitive rain. In the end, he thought both are appropriate and the name suited her well).

Inside the courtyard before they stepped into the guest hall, MinYu introduced them. “These are my parents” she said to the fisherman. And to her parents she said “This is Chong, my husband.”

Even though he knew they would have suspected such a possibility, they still could not hide their shock and dismay. After a few stunned seconds, it was elder Chen who recovered first. “What manners! Welcome In, come on into our humble abode.” He admired the way he recovered from the shock thus saving all of them from further embarrassment.

The hall was not lavishly decorated but it had a large picture of high cliffs pushing through dense suspended clouds. A poem in classical calligraphy read:

I long to live among the clouds
Hidden from friendly eyes
But the source of my sorrow
Return me to its muddy water.

He had asked MingYu to read it to him when they were shown to their room. He thought it was beautiful and complemented the painting well but it was so sad. Why would anyone want to hang such a depressing piece in their hall? MingYu was surprised by his innocent remark and a thoughtful expression crossed her face. He thought he had offended her and started to apologize when she said “No, you did not”. It was then he realized that this is the first time she had connected her misfortune with the poem and cursed himself for being so stupid not to see it coming. He was about to make a second apology but knew the damage was already done. Instead she said “you continue to surprise me” and he knew she meant it as a compliment.

He asked who the poet is but she told him it was actually written by a relatively unknown poetess. Poetess is not held in high regards but his father is a man of rare taste and not governed by fashion. It made sense, he said, “women grieved more than man” which brought another smile to MingYu.

After a brief time together, MingYu went to have a private conversation with her mother in her room while old man Ng received the fisherman in the hall. “I heard that you’re a fish merchant”

He looked at the old man’s hopeful eyes and decided to come clean with him out of respect “No, I’m a fisherman.” Then as a second thought, he added more for the old man’s benefit than his own. “I have my own boat and a crew working for me.”

“I see.”

In spite of himself, he could not help thinking. What do you see, Chen XianSheng Did I disappoint you? I’m sorry I’m not more deserving of her. And for once, he wished he was rich so he could assure him that he could give a life of comfort to MingYu.

“A fisherman’s life must be tough.”

“It is okay once you get used to it.” Looking at the bookcase full of books, he said “To me, the life of a man of letter is tougher.” He immediately regretted saying it, worried that the old man may think him a country bumpkin.

Instead, the old man laughed. “I guess you are right. Every profession has its own difficulties but most of the time, it is only difficult because we are not familiar. I’m just worried whether MingYu can get used to such a life.”

The fisherman shared the same thought so he said “I’ve the same worry. I’ve asked her to reconsider. She is free to leave anytime she wishes.”

This time the old man looked at him with genuine surprise. He stared at the fisherman for a prolonged time not sure what to think. He must have approved for he gently patted the fisherman’s hand and said “Thank you. Please take good care of MingYu for us. It is her luck to find you.”

“No, I’m the lucky one.”

After this they stopped talking about such personal matter which though is necessary is difficult and a little painful for the men. But with mutual respect, they found it easy to talk to each other about other things. They were both genuinely curious about the other’s way of life. The tension evaporated and they felt comfortable enough to give their personal observation and opinion on the topics they discussed.

The old man noticing the fisherman’s interest in his favorite painting was happy to take him for a closer look and explained its beauty. The fisherman asked, “The painting of the hills is so serene but the emotion of the poem is so troubled. I hope you don’t think it rude of me, but can I ask why you would hang a painting with such a sad poem in the hall?”

The old man smiled broadly at the question “It is sad but it is not depressing, or it is depressing only if one yields to it like one would to opium, allowing it to sap all your energy. Let me see how I can explain it better.” He thought about it a while and then thought the only way was to use a personal example. “When I bought this painting, I had the same feeling. I found it very beautiful but thought it would be more appropriate in my study room which was where it spent most of its time in this house. Then one day, while looking at it; I thought. The source of my sorrow is sad and a little painful, even today; but it did not destroy me and is not continuing to. Rather, it taught me valuable lessons, made me the man I am and taught me how to treasure, not only love but also life itself. So while I can hide myself away in the hills, I will never be free of the swirling, agitated waters of the river I swam in. So why deny it? From that day, I moved it from my study to my hall. It is not a grim reminder of my lost. It is a reminder of what I have become from my lost. I treasured both, not separately but as a single entity. For me and what I had lost has merged into one. And I don’t find myself depressing! Ha-ha.” The old man let out a loud laugh.

Listening to the old man, the fisherman seemed to have fallen into his own thoughts. Surveying the painting and as if speaking to himself he said, “How relevant to MingYu too.”

That remark shocked the old man into silence. His face turned somber and sad. The two men stared at the painting both wishing that MingYu’s outcome would be as positive as the owner of this painting.

MingYu and his mother came into the hall, sorrow were erased from their faces and replaced by a new gaiety. They can almost be described as happy. “You two seemed to be getting along fine, what is the laughter about?”

The old man said “Your husband. He is amazing.”


MingYu looked at the fisherman with pride, “He is, isn’t he?”

To be coninued...

Story Of A Small Town.

A small town has many tales
Full of joy and sorrow,
If you come to a small town
You can reap a bountiful harvest.

- Teresa Teng’s “Story of a Small Town”

I think she was recognized in the station of that small town. Heads turned, hushed whispers followed our passage. She just walked through like one would through a mist, conscious of, but treating it no more than a mild annoyance on the road to her destination.


The minute she stepped down the train, she transformed back into that serious, intense, rebellious woman he first met. Holding her head high, she projected an air of invulnerability and even a tinge of haughtiness. He now knew this was not her true nature but even then, he had to recall her tenderness to convince himself that it was all an act. But it was more than acting. It was as if she had stepped into the skin of another woman. Everything about her changed, the way she carried herself, the way she walked, talked and her general facial expression. If it was acting, it was flawless. I observed the transformation with amazement and not a little admiration.


And she didn’t just cut through the crowd. She nodded to some and exchanged greetings with others in a steady confident voice. At her request, I’ve worn my best set of clothing. The only silk I owned that was passed down from my dear departed father. It was hardly worn (never saw my father in it) sew in the timeless fashion of a conservative gentlemen. All I need to do is to live up to the apparel. I took the cue from her and assumed a leisurely bored air. It was amusing to note the response and respect people paid to the clothing. I had initial misgivings but as I walked along I began to feel a sort of secret enjoyment that I did not know I possessed. Maybe I am also an actor at heart. She was opening doors in me that I did not even know was there. And as an actor, I found I could put guilt and embarrassment aside as I had become a different person. There was a strange sense of freedom that a poor fisherman from down South can never possessed. It changed me that day. And though I was and always will be a fisherman at heart, I was no longer the same fisherman. And though I will always be with the sea, my world has reached beyond that sea.


I picked up strange dialects with different intonation, heavy, guttural and to my unfamiliar ears spoken fiercely as if in a quarrel. The ladies’ speeches were flighty, lighter but faster like an excited sparrow skipping on freshly hoed earth. But when she spoke the dialect, it sounded different. It was like the flight a gliding sparrow over a field of grain, musical. She did only casual bargaining as if it was beneath her station to involve in deep haggling. But she was firm with her prices and walked away if they were not met only to have the hawker running after her to accept her offer. She bought several pounds of choice cuts reddish pork, two fat chickens all tussled up, several rolls of succulent Chinese sausages, a large bundle of fresh “Emperor’s Green”, a few flasks of aromatic rice wine – enough to prepare a feast for a king. She then beckoned a street urchin without shoe to send them to an address written on a piece of paper and a note announcing her return. The grinning boy with the unbuttoned shirts happily clutched the few coins she paid and hurried away with the load.


She bent over the table looking over the displays of hair pins. The stall owner was just about to fawn over her when she silenced him, just with the lifting and holding up of her hand. She looked over them until her eyes came to rest on one that had a phoenix craved on a turtle shell. I thought it was too old for her but she held it tenderly, brushing it like one would stroke a cat. The intuitive stall keeper volunteered “only 50 Yuan for a sharp lady who appreciates quality”. She immediately put it down and walked away. “20 Yuan!” but she continued walking. I took a 10 Yuan note and pressed it into the protesting keeper’s hand and hurried after her with the hairpin.


We took a corner table in the balcony of a restaurant overlooking the busy street. She ordered the food and we sipped Oolong tea waiting for it. A player somewhere was playing a sentimental canto-pop, “We met in the middle of an empty street…” Away from the crowd, she seemed relaxed, even happy. Though now and then, a shadow will fleet across those fathomless eyes, which raised her eyebrows without her realizing it. She quickly dismissed it like one intended on having a good time despite an approaching storm. And she told me stories. Stories about the town and the people in it. I waited anxiously to see it if the stories will lead her into it. Though as interesting as the stories were, what I was dying to know was her role in it. She told the stories with so much details and feelings that she must have lived them but there was no mention of her though I was sure the observations was made by her personally. The tales told me she was happy in it. Why did she leave?


She looked across the table at him listening intensely to her tales. A little smile escaped her lips to be followed by a frown. He too loved her tales and she told them to him by the lake under the weeping willows, on the branch of that large oak where they dangled their feet, in the empty classroom of the school on a weekend, even in that old cemetery at night when eerie winds blew and where the tales were shared by more than the two of them. She loved to pour out her heart. She did her thinking in her words. And she always came to have feelings for those who appreciated her tales. “What is a story-teller without listeners?” she once said. “You gave meanings to my tales, so you gave meanings to me, to my existence.”


Now a fisherman was listening to her tales. He wished he was him. But it could not be. It will never be. She felt that tug at her heart and tasted the bitterness in her tongue. Her eyes threatened to betray her. But she forced them all back. She will not cry again. She had cried enough. She swore she will never shed another tear for him and she will keep that promise. She will defeat her sorrow. That old sorrow that she refused to indulge in. If she has to take on new sorrow to replace it, that is okay. The new sorrow will not have him in it. Slowly, the new sorrow will drown the old and him along with it. Only then will she be free. So she will embrace new pain to drown old one. It made strange sense to her.


Even to herself, she did not want to admit that she also needed to drown her shame. She was convinced she can only love one man in her life. So she held her love until she was sure she found the right one to give her heart to. Her suitors were many but she bid her time until her soul-mate came along.


When she was ten, reading a book under a tree at the back of the school; she heard a quiet voice softly enquired “what is that you’re reading?” She looked up at his shy face with hair neatly combed and parted in the middle. His hands behind his back and he was gently swaying like a reed in the wind. His eyes were on her spotless shoe and there was a gathering glow on his cheek. That day, she told him his first story until it was interrupted by the recess bell. But the next day, he came back to hear the rest of the tale. When she ran out of tales from the books, she made up her own. She could spin a tale from anything, a blade of glass swaying in the wind, a bent old lady struggling down the street, a smile on a young girl’s lips, a flash of lighting, a striking of a bell or the twinkling of wind chimes. He would challenge her by calling up an object, a scene, a person, anything and she would effortlessly continue her tales from there. It became a sort of game between them.


Everyone in town knew they were destined for each other. People would smile and pointed them out as the town’s pair of Mandarin duck. Everyone assumed they would marry once they came of age including their parents who had no objections to their relationship. She never has another boyfriend, there were no need to. She found her soul-mate early and the other suitors just melted away into the background. She grew up pretty, vivacious and witty. Many boys were interested but all they could do were to envy him and they did not try to be more than friends. It would not have matter anyway. She would simply be not interested. She had found her “one-love” early and she had no need for any other.


The fisherman looked at her falling into her reflections. He frowned at her growing silence but did not say anything. Let her get it out of her system. I wished she would share it with me but he knew he was not and could be no part of it. And he could not help. The only good he could do was just to be there for her.


She suddenly realized she had slipped into silence. She looked up embarrassed and saw the frown on his face which he immediately tried to hide.


“I’m sorry.”


“Is there any way I could help?” he asked even though he knew what the answer will be.


She shook her head. I must break free of this malaise, she thought. That is my past. It has no relevance to my present and my future. I must break free. I will. I must.


“Sorry. It will not happen again” she said not too convincingly. She knew that she can keep it at bay guarded but when her guard was down, it can silently creep behind and overwhelm her. But I will beat it. It will take some time and much effort but I will beat it into submission. It is alright to suffer but it is not alright to be defeated. And I will not be defeated. My pride is all I had left. But that thought almost broke her and she had to gallantly struggle to regain control. I don’t know why I’m still so vulnerable, she thought. I hate it and I hate him for making me feel this way.


She regained her composure, smiled at him, held his hand and said “let us go. It is time to go home.”


“Wait,” he took out the hairpin and gave it to her. He liked the look in her eyes. She carefully wrapped it in her embroidered handkerchief. They sat in the same rickshaw as it went rattling down the dirt road.

To be continued...

A Train Away From It All.

He looked out the window at the countryside scenery of padi fields and duck farms as the train laboriously chugged along the metal track grinding and groaning on its reluctant journey. Acres of static greens, instead of endless spread of turbulent blues. The swirling clouds dancing on the clear blue over land told him a different tale than when they were over the sea. It was a tale he could not decipher. But land did not seem so fearful, so far. Maybe, it was because she was with him.


He turned to look at her gentle feature lost in troubled thoughts. The firm pursing of her lips and the intense focusing gave her a stern expression. At that moment of weakness, he said softly “Yes, I will marry you”.


She was jolted and turned to him with a surprised and shocked expression, her guards completely down. At that moment, he glimpsed another hint of the vulnerability that was so carefully shielded.


“I’ll marry you if it is the only way to solve your problem. But we do not have to stay married when it is done. I’ll marry you in name but you will still be a free woman.” Those words did not come easy but they are words he wanted to say and he was amazed at his courage for saying them. It was liberating. But there were more waiting, he will have to force them out.


Her intensity dissipated. Replaced by a tenderness that melted his heart. Her eyes were like a waning moon on a misty night reflected upon a serene lake. And it watered. It sought to convey gratitude that no words could express.


That gave him the encouragement to say what he really wanted to. “But I hope to marry you because we love each other. I know I can, no. I already do love you.” As a fisherman, he was often called to make instant decisions which could decide the outcome of a catch or the safety of his crew and even in matters of life and death. For the most crucial needs, he relied on his guts instinct and he had never been wrong where it really mattered. His instinct told him more convincingly than his heart that he had fallen in love. “I’ll wait for you, to love me. But you do not have to wait if you do not want to. You can leave whenever it suits you.” These however were not words he wanted to say but he had to. As a gentleman whom he felt he is, he is compelled to. It did not make him feel more generous. If anything, it made him feel silly for surely such this she could decide for herself without any suggestions from him.


To his surprise, she covered her face with her hands and started to sob. Silent but violent sobs that shook her body, letting out whatever she had bottled inside her little frame. She lowered her head keeping her face hidden as if in shame. It was painful to see. He hesitated but then rested his hand on one shoulder to console her. It was warm to his touch though he had kept his hand almost just floating above her skin. After a few seconds, he rested it more firmly and then gripped it communicating to her, he was sharing her pain. Amid her sobs, he heard her weak, broken voice “I’m sorry. To put you through this. I’m truly sorry.” And he knew then she did not love him, yet.


This realization strangely gave him a boost. He gently pulled her over and she rested her head on his shoulder. That was how she fell asleep as the train cut through the land taking them to a place he had never been or ever thought of going. He thought about how his crew will be waiting for him in the jetty this morning and felt guilty. They will go to his house and found it empty. There will be a buzz this morning as people looked for him and the dilemma his crew will be facing on whether to take the boat out to fish without him or to continue to wait. And later that evening, the whole village would be in an upheaval. He hoped someone would go into the house and found that hastily written note that said he had to be away for a few days on urgent business and the speculation that came with it. What was that, that took him away? The visualization unsettled him and troubled him for causing the people who cared for him so much worry. But as he felt her stirred against his body, there was no doubt in him that he did the right thing.


Her head was heavy and his arm was going numb from the pressure but he tried to keep as still as possible in spite of the uncomfortable position. His mind wandered back to last night when she entreated him to follow her back to the village for her to do something she had to do. What it was she could not tell but it was very important to her. After which, she would be free and she promised to be a good wife and served him well the rest of her life. He was somewhat offended. Did she take him to be the type of man who will accept such kind of bargain? To her, it may be an honorable way of settling a debt. But how much difference is there between her proposal and those of the lady of the night for didn’t they both offer to sell themselves for money irrespective of how worthy or urgent the cause? A sale is still a sale irrespective of whether it is to one customer or many customers. He knew actually there are many subtle differences; he knew questioning it this way is unfair to her. But he could not help it. Maybe, he was secretly angry to be put in such a situation where there can be no win for him. Or was he angry that he was been made use of because he is a good man. The fact she did it reluctantly and that her need was so great that she has no choice only assuage his unhappiness somewhat. But he is not one to dwell over this type of conflict for long, same as he is not one to push aside thoughts when they came up. He let them have their said and them let the sea breeze blew them away.


Only now the wind that blew was from the land. They had a different smell. Sometimes of damp earth, others of dusty roads or polluted towns. Each minute, the train was taking him further away from the sea and he now began to feel a certain longing slowly starting to assert itself. But he liked looking at those leathery skin water buffaloes with those ridiculously large horns casually walking in the mud occasionally flipping its tail. He also liked the view of the mass of white ducks that stood out in great contrast with the dirty ponds. And when suddenly for no reason, one duck scrambled away in a half swimming, half flying rush; all the others quickly followed in a blind panic. Suddenly, the thought hit him. If she were to ask him to stay with her on land far away from the sea, how would he answer? Would he choose her or the sea? He was seized with a panic himself for he knew that is a choice that he will regret whichever way he chose. Is this always going to be the way with her? Difficult choices?


She woke up. Sat up straight, straighten her shirt. There was a dash of color on her cheek. Was that a blush?


“You are a good man.”


“I tried to be” he replied matter of fact.


She was about to speak, then checked herself. Yes, he thought. No apologies please. It would get tiresome if repeated throughout the whole journey. Instead, she took on the role of a guide explaining in detail the towns and places they passed through. Her voice low but clear with great confidence as she explained the geography, history and culture of the places they passed through with the authority of a researcher. He was amazed at her knowledge and listened rapt with attention as she cleverly spun in anecdotes with facts to make the tales engrossing. She seemed even more in element than when she was in the kitchen. And when she quoted poetry, doubts began to seep in. She must have read the worries written on his face for she asked “What is wrong?”


“I did not know that you’re so well educated.”


She was so caught up with her tale that she did not realized that she had exposed herself. She would not want him to feel insecure in any way so she reach out and hold the hand closest to her. He almost made an involuntary withdrawal on first touch before her hand caught his and held on to it. He looked at her soft smooth hand holding to his hard coarse one. This did not dispel his doubt but he liked the feel, so his fingers closed in on hers. How many more surprises was she hiding?


“I’m not well educated, just had a little bit of education. It only appear impressive to…” she quickly changed the subject by directing his attention to a passing sight. He was not fooled “To a country bumpkin? Was that what you were going to say?” He thought but did not let on what he was thinking.


“This is not going well. What can I do?” she pondered when he surprised her by saying “I enjoyed your stories; please continue telling them the way you did.” She looked at him. She smiled and thought. “You are not a regular chap, are you?”


She enjoyed herself telling and sharing stories with him all the way. He was an attentive and intelligent listener asking questions that was challenging, delighting her in seeking for the answers and sometimes offering his thoughts on it as well. She had not expected to find herself enjoying such a stimulating conversation with a fisherman. She was not a snob but had confused intelligent and wisdom with education as young people tends to do. “He is more intelligent than many of my classmates.” The thought somehow pleased her, a lot. Now that the ice has been broken, she used more poetry and proverbs in her conversation and he seemed genuinely interested and asked her to explain the meanings. And when he questioned the ways some metaphors were used, his naivety and puzzlement caused her to laugh. At other times, he showed a surprisingly quick grasp of difficult concept and complex association. And even offer his comparison with life in the village and of the sea. He was not shy to disagree with the ideas of poets. All this she found to be stimulating and even enlightening. Before the end of the journey, the thought did occur to her that the idea of living with this man may not be as great a sacrifice as she originally thought.


She had secretly wished that this train journey could go on forever. She had not been this carefree for such a long time. But the train pulled up with a screeching stop to their destination and she was slammed hard against her waiting troubles.

To be continued...

An Impossible Situation.

He stood in front of his house, afraid to go in. He knew of the crushing emptiness waiting, should he find her gone. Not one afraid to meet his destiny, he pushed the doors aside and walked into the dark.

The sea never stopped its mournful tune but all he heard was silence, and the beating of his heart. His legs did not want to move forward. He was ashamed his feelings were making him weak. Resolutely, he stepped forward. The package he was carrying hanged like a useless baggage on his hand so he threw it on a chair and marched into the kitchen expelling his breath.

She was not there. He suppressed his anxiousness and braced himself for disappointment. He lifted the curtain to his mother’s room in the hope she was taking a rest. She was not there either. He had expected a soft blow of disappointment which he will shrug off like water on his fishing coat. The blow that slammed into him and crushed his heart, squeezing the life out of it; he was not prepared for. He swallowed his saliva and weakly stumbled out of the room.

His eyes now accustomed to dark, saw the food laid out on the table under a food cover. A weak smile forced its way up. At least she had the decency to cook him dinner but he did not feel like eating. He will feel better tomorrow morning. He sat on his bed and was about to lift up his legs when with a shock he saw her sitting on his writing chair next to the table opposite his bed. Questions ere pushed aside as he hurriedly lit the small oil candle. He was sure she had been crying. Where is that strong woman he met yesterday and left this morning?

He stood there over her, not sure what to do or say next. She looked up and all he could think was how beautiful she was.

“Will you marry me?” she asked.

He stared at her in disbelief. Then, reality stepped in. He was no fool and he would not jump into conclusion. To calm himself down, he pulled a chair from the hall and sat down besides her. He looked at her calmly and asked “Why do you want to marry me?” He immediately realized his mistake. That is an impossible question to answer. “Sorry. Please tell me your trouble and how can I help?”

She lifted her head and he saw her pride. He was not sure what she will do next. Angrily get up and leave? Calmly explained herself? He waited for her decision. He can see her struggling with her options.

“I’ll be a good wife…” He did not like where this is going. But she stopped. She bowed her head and said “Sorry” in a low voice. “That is not what you want to hear. You have been kind and honest. I owe you more than an explanation but there are things that are difficult to say. Please understand. I am not hiding. I just cannot tell.”

“How can I help you?”

She went straight to the point. “I need money.” Alarm bells began to ring. He dreaded what he will hear next. Instead he asked “How much?”

“Three thousand yuans.” That is a lot of money. In fact, it is almost his entire savings. Savings he was putting aside for his marriage. He looked at her. She looked back into his eyes. He cannot read them but they are challenging him to doubt her. Should he? Why even take the risk? He would be a fool to take such a risk for someone he did not know. A fool even for someone he did. Why did she need the money for?

He checked himself and not allowed himself to stoop so low to satisfy his curiosity. If her intention is to deceive, all he received will be a lie. If he did not want to lend her the money, the reasons would make no difference. If he really wanted to, the reasons would not matter. He was a dilemma because he wanted to trust her and for her to think well of him.

“I’m sorry”, there was no change in her facial expression but a shadow fleeted across her eyes.

“Please understand”, why is he apologizing? “I could not give you an immediate answer. I need a few minutes to think about it.” She nodded and looked down at the table as if pondering what she is going to do should he turned her down.

He has a practical way of dealing with difficult decisions. Instead of asking what he should do, he asked what he will regret more not doing. Will he regret more not helping her in spite of the risk of being cheated (which he did not think so but could be wrong)? Or regret losing that amount of money? The answer was clear to him now.

He went and extracted out a heavy box from under his bed and unlocked it. He counted out the money and placed it before her without saying a word. There was no word of thanks. But were those tears at the edge of her glistening eyes?

He was stunned when she said “I’ve a more difficult request.”

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...

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...