To the pianist, I can hear practicing early in the morning. Your cadence keeps me company, as I sit on my balcony in the early hours, waiting for another day to hit me. You started learning recently; I remember the dusky grey hanging heavy and silent, before. I am glad you did; many of us don’t start at all, on things we should have started a long time ago. You falter, miss the keys. We all do. Yet you keep going. Not all of us do. Your fumbling fingers seem to me, the most human thing, in a world fascinated with flawlessness. You’ll get there too — to perfection, I’m sure — but you seem to be in no rush. I sense the frequent breaks you take. The sea starts to swell in that vacuum. I sit there, breathing deep. You must be too. Because when you come back you bring so much more with you. The keys oblige and my heart finds its rhythm again. The sea softens; lulled by your melody. There is something about the music you play. It sounds familiar, yet it carries something unmistakably fresh. You don’t want to be someone. You want to find you. What a rare quality. Your evolution gets me through the darkest hours of the night, and the eerie quiet of the world that comes with it when the thoughts in my head are the loudest. I want you to know that I see you, even though I haven’t actually, ever. That you teach me the power of new beginnings; and of allowing oneself to wander and wobble, before one can run.
To the lady who I see standing at the bus stop every morning, with her daughter all dressed up. It’s not even 6. The schools don’t start till 8. So I can guess how far your daughter needs to go in search of a better future. You take public transport. So I know that the better future your daughter seeks is for all of you. If the present is all you can afford to give her — a two-hours bus ride to school every day — you will wait by her side. Come rain or storm. And come they do. This tiny little island of Penang; lashed by torrents often. I see how you hold the umbrella on those days; all for her, none for you. It is love; as true and endless as the sea that lies beyond the bus stop. I see you, and I see the sea. You win, lady; hands down. The sea is endless by nature. You, by choice. I want you to know that I see you. That you teach me true love is the littlest of things; which as it turns out, are the biggest of things.
To the person who prays, every day, on the floor below mine. We’ve never met. But the wafting fragrance of your incense sticks awaits me in my living room when I come back, after dropping my child off at school. It’s amazing how much of the world we can welcome in by leaving a few small windows open everywhere, is it not? It's lavender, my favorite; a special thank you for that. Those silent hours when I am alone in the house are the hardest; the soft mumble of your chants helps. I don’t know what it is that you pray for. To make things the way you wish them to be, or for them to stay the way they are. But I do know that you pray every day. Without fail. If it is a change you are praying for, you are teaching me that it takes time. Dedication. And more than anything, it takes faith. Things don’t magically happen. One has to keep chiseling with an incense stick, at the life they seek. Patiently. A valuable lesson, indeed, for someone like me; building a nest all over again. In a place, I don’t know. In a country that doesn’t know me. Every day, I take the stick of your spent up incense stick and place it in my nest. And then I line it with faith that I am learning from you; invisible yet substantial, like the memory of the lavender I carry with me for the rest of the day. Though, I sometimes wonder if you pray for things to stay the way they are. In which case, you teach me gratitude. No one in this world has enough, ever; until they learn to redefine what enough means. How can I complain about having to make a new nest all over again when the alternative was to be burnt down with the forest? We made it out. We are here. To start afresh. Few get that chance. I want you to know that I see you; even though I haven’t, ever. That your lavender makes me breathe easier; with hope and gratitude.
To the hawkers in the Medan Selera, from whom I often buy lunch. The days I come to you are the days that I am most defeated. My child would be home soon, and I haven’t cooked. I need you to give me something to nourish him with. As a mother that is the biggest sin, I know. Not being able to nourish my child. But I admit that some days, I can’t. I just can’t. We were packed off to this country — my child and me — to be safer. Not my husband; he had to stay behind for a job that pays for our safe life. Packed with what, though, because when I look inside all I find is emptiness. Like a closed fist, full of sand, rinsed by the waves. Open the fist and there is nothing. Nothing. Nothing to answer my child’s innocent but incisive questions with. Why did this happen? Why must we leave our country? How does our religion make us a target? They taught us about a kind of star in school; a supernova. A star unable to produce enough energy to keep going, hence it folds in on its heavy and dense core. I come to you like that; when I come to buy lunch. Ready to collapse into me; from guilt, from hunger. I still remember the day you pushed me to try Nyonya cuisine. You didn’t even need language for that. We didn't speak the same ones, anyway. So you smiled. With your eyes. I had asked you for the only thing I found familiar in all of your fare. You had dismissed that and pointed at the unfamiliar. Malaysia was still new. Everywhere I went I had carried a knot, tucked behind my navel. Your smile had eased that spasm in my belly; hence, my belly was all yours, to feed as you please. I ate foods I couldn’t even pronounce the names of. But I liked them. And they liked me too, thankfully. Confident of handling more, I came back to you; again and again. Hungering for not merely food, but flavours. Not just nutrition, but novelty. Not only smiles but now a bit of small talk too. You delighted me every single time. How limited my world would have been without the tangents of tastes you have added to it. Though I still don’t know enough Malay to tell you how much I appreciate it all, I know you know. Your portions are getting bigger. You’ve shown me how a little generosity towards a stranger can make a place feel less alien. For teaching me — a driftwood — that the shores it washes up on can become home. Reminding me, that from the dark realization that home is nowhere comes the lightness of the knowledge that it, hence, can be anywhere.
To the lady on the eighth floor of the building next to mine. I see you through your kitchen window. Leaning against the sink. Still in your work clothes. Eating leftover crumbs from the school lunches. I wonder if that is all you get; crumbs? It looks like a scrub suit from this distance; the kinds they wear in the hospitals. That would explain the sunken shoulders. And the look on your face; of a warrior who has seen too much, yet, must keep fighting. Then, I see the two tiny bodies rush in. There is hugging. Lots of kisses. Stories are exchanged. Snack packs opened and offered. Wounds and nicks collected during the day, kissed and caressed. A tornado, in a quiet town. And then, just as quickly as it came, it leaves. You take a deep breath and exhale. Brush the crumbs off your fingers. Pull your hair into a tight bun; it sits atop your head. If no one will give you a crown, you will make one for yourself. The muted sun meets your face; tipping its hat to you before retiring for the day. You, on the other hand, are just getting started. I see you chase dinner, and dishes, and homework, and laundry, and the next day’s school lunches. The descant of a soprano in the opera that is your life. Showing the world how far one can go on mere crumbs. Showing me. I want you to know that I see you. And learn from you, how to find the strength inside me; standing by myself, in a tiny corner of my messy kitchen, by a sink spilling over with dishes, in a house way past a mess. How letting my shoulders sink for a bit, will help me swim again, through another brutal day. I do find it impossible sometimes. A child needs so much. And I don’t think I have much left in me. Because the world ravaged me. Or more accurately, because I let the world ravage me; by chasing the fallacy of mattering. By doing jobs that didn’t matter; and being there for people who didn’t matter. And one day, we had to leave all that behind and run. Now, I stand by the kitchen sink, panting and consumed. You teach me what comes after that moment. Eating the crumbs. Fixing the hair. Putting the dinner on the stove. One foot after another. You remind me that true courage is feeling daunted while managing to find tiny slivers of strength to do what one needs to.
To all of you who carry me, I thank you.
For being the scaffolding that holds my incipient life here, together.
I came here with very little; when running to safety, one travels light.
I came with even lesser, inside of me.
And then I saw you all.
I have started to fill up again.
To the person who prays, every day, on the floor below mine. We’ve never met. But the wafting fragrance of your incense sticks awaits me in my living room when I come back, after dropping my child off at school. It’s amazing how much of the world we can welcome in by leaving a few small windows open everywhere, is it not? It's lavender, my favorite; a special thank you for that. Those silent hours when I am alone in the house are the hardest; the soft mumble of your chants helps. I don’t know what it is that you pray for. To make things the way you wish them to be, or for them to stay the way they are. But I do know that you pray every day. Without fail. If it is a change you are praying for, you are teaching me that it takes time. Dedication. And more than anything, it takes faith. Things don’t magically happen. One has to keep chiseling with an incense stick, at the life they seek. Patiently. A valuable lesson, indeed, for someone like me; building a nest all over again. In a place, I don’t know. In a country that doesn’t know me. Every day, I take the stick of your spent up incense stick and place it in my nest. And then I line it with faith that I am learning from you; invisible yet substantial, like the memory of the lavender I carry with me for the rest of the day. Though, I sometimes wonder if you pray for things to stay the way they are. In which case, you teach me gratitude. No one in this world has enough, ever; until they learn to redefine what enough means. How can I complain about having to make a new nest all over again when the alternative was to be burnt down with the forest? We made it out. We are here. To start afresh. Few get that chance. I want you to know that I see you; even though I haven’t, ever. That your lavender makes me breathe easier; with hope and gratitude.
To the hawkers in the Medan Selera, from whom I often buy lunch. The days I come to you are the days that I am most defeated. My child would be home soon, and I haven’t cooked. I need you to give me something to nourish him with. As a mother that is the biggest sin, I know. Not being able to nourish my child. But I admit that some days, I can’t. I just can’t. We were packed off to this country — my child and me — to be safer. Not my husband; he had to stay behind for a job that pays for our safe life. Packed with what, though, because when I look inside all I find is emptiness. Like a closed fist, full of sand, rinsed by the waves. Open the fist and there is nothing. Nothing. Nothing to answer my child’s innocent but incisive questions with. Why did this happen? Why must we leave our country? How does our religion make us a target? They taught us about a kind of star in school; a supernova. A star unable to produce enough energy to keep going, hence it folds in on its heavy and dense core. I come to you like that; when I come to buy lunch. Ready to collapse into me; from guilt, from hunger. I still remember the day you pushed me to try Nyonya cuisine. You didn’t even need language for that. We didn't speak the same ones, anyway. So you smiled. With your eyes. I had asked you for the only thing I found familiar in all of your fare. You had dismissed that and pointed at the unfamiliar. Malaysia was still new. Everywhere I went I had carried a knot, tucked behind my navel. Your smile had eased that spasm in my belly; hence, my belly was all yours, to feed as you please. I ate foods I couldn’t even pronounce the names of. But I liked them. And they liked me too, thankfully. Confident of handling more, I came back to you; again and again. Hungering for not merely food, but flavours. Not just nutrition, but novelty. Not only smiles but now a bit of small talk too. You delighted me every single time. How limited my world would have been without the tangents of tastes you have added to it. Though I still don’t know enough Malay to tell you how much I appreciate it all, I know you know. Your portions are getting bigger. You’ve shown me how a little generosity towards a stranger can make a place feel less alien. For teaching me — a driftwood — that the shores it washes up on can become home. Reminding me, that from the dark realization that home is nowhere comes the lightness of the knowledge that it, hence, can be anywhere.
To the lady on the eighth floor of the building next to mine. I see you through your kitchen window. Leaning against the sink. Still in your work clothes. Eating leftover crumbs from the school lunches. I wonder if that is all you get; crumbs? It looks like a scrub suit from this distance; the kinds they wear in the hospitals. That would explain the sunken shoulders. And the look on your face; of a warrior who has seen too much, yet, must keep fighting. Then, I see the two tiny bodies rush in. There is hugging. Lots of kisses. Stories are exchanged. Snack packs opened and offered. Wounds and nicks collected during the day, kissed and caressed. A tornado, in a quiet town. And then, just as quickly as it came, it leaves. You take a deep breath and exhale. Brush the crumbs off your fingers. Pull your hair into a tight bun; it sits atop your head. If no one will give you a crown, you will make one for yourself. The muted sun meets your face; tipping its hat to you before retiring for the day. You, on the other hand, are just getting started. I see you chase dinner, and dishes, and homework, and laundry, and the next day’s school lunches. The descant of a soprano in the opera that is your life. Showing the world how far one can go on mere crumbs. Showing me. I want you to know that I see you. And learn from you, how to find the strength inside me; standing by myself, in a tiny corner of my messy kitchen, by a sink spilling over with dishes, in a house way past a mess. How letting my shoulders sink for a bit, will help me swim again, through another brutal day. I do find it impossible sometimes. A child needs so much. And I don’t think I have much left in me. Because the world ravaged me. Or more accurately, because I let the world ravage me; by chasing the fallacy of mattering. By doing jobs that didn’t matter; and being there for people who didn’t matter. And one day, we had to leave all that behind and run. Now, I stand by the kitchen sink, panting and consumed. You teach me what comes after that moment. Eating the crumbs. Fixing the hair. Putting the dinner on the stove. One foot after another. You remind me that true courage is feeling daunted while managing to find tiny slivers of strength to do what one needs to.
To all of you who carry me, I thank you.
For being the scaffolding that holds my incipient life here, together.
I came here with very little; when running to safety, one travels light.
I came with even lesser, inside of me.
And then I saw you all.
I have started to fill up again.
Radhika Maira Tabrez is a writer, editor, L&D specialist, TEDx speaker, and Radio Show Host. Her debut novel In The Light Of Darkness won the much-coveted Muse India – Satish Verma Young Writer Award in 2016. Radhika’s stories and essays have appeared in over a dozen anthologies and magazines since then. In 2018, she became the first Indian ever to speak at a TEDx event in Bangladesh. She won the Rising Stars India Award (2017), and 100 Most Inspiring Writers by Indian Awaaz (2018). She was one of the Program Mentors for the Chevening Writers Series held in Malaysia in 2020. After short stints in Dhaka (Bangladesh), and Penang (Malaysia), Radhika is now building a new nest in sunny Kamloops.
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