Pain and the Sea
"Son, when the weather cools
down a bit toward evening, pick the custard apples in the garden. We've already
taken the low-hanging ones, but we couldn't reach the higher ones. You can
climb up in no time and pick them all. Otherwise, the birds won't leave
anything — they eat everything in sight!"
After lunch, Mother and Father
usually sit under the arbor by the garden wall, talking for hours, most of the
time complaining about the endless troubles of their siblings — aunts and
uncles. They saw Na Ploy's husband's motorcycle at the entrance of the cheap
motel on Pu Kiyo Road; Na Krong's gambling debts are huge; Na Ning's business
is slow and she'll come asking for money soon… According to my folks, everyone
is unhappy, everyone lies, and everyone is bankrupt! I think they act this way
because their only child isn't with them as they age. The more alone they
become, the higher the walls they build around themselves; the line separating
them from others grows thicker and thicker — everyone outside is bad, including
dogs, cats, and chickens… Only we are good! If I believed even half of what I
hear, I'd be convinced that this house is the most peaceful in the village.
Granted, this is one of the few stable homes in the village; I won't deny that.
I don't know if I contributed, but Mother and Father were doing well even
before I came. So, I may have to attribute my longevity to that stability. Or
maybe there's a third factor that accounts for both my long life and their
stability — who knows? With my dog's brain, I think and think but still can't
figure out Mother's endless lottery winnings. Not once, not twice — almost
every time she plays, she wins something, even if it is a small amount. So,
they're as stable in lottery winnings as in many other areas of life.
"Did you hear me, Tos? Don't
forget the custard apples. What are you still doing rummaging through your
suitcase? Haven't you finished with what you brought?"
Today, I don't hear gossip.
Father goes to the front of the house to cut the grass. For days he'd been
saying, "Let me cut it before my son comes," but his laziness got the
better of him. Tossapol has arrived, and the grass is still up to two dog-heights.
Mother is alone under the arbor, talking to herself in a voice so low it's hard
to hear, and whenever something crosses her mind, she tosses a remark at
Tossapol. At times like this, with a pen in one hand and a calculator in the
other, she calculates the lucky number for the coming weekend's lottery. She
puts the old fan in the corner, and on the table are sliced fruits, a lottery
booklet, and a large notebook. She dozes off now and then, talks to herself,
murmurs, hears a sound and wakes up, and continues calculating the lucky number
from where she left off. Every week she goes to Pu Kiyo to buy the booklet that
will help her calculate the number for the big prize. I overheard them talking
once. The expert who wrote this book knows Buddhist texts very well. He once
studied astrology and wrote serious articles on fortune-telling for major
newspapers. He predicted both the tsunami that struck the Andaman coast and the
coup that overthrew the Thaksin government. Now, to benefit people, he prepares
weekly lottery booklets. Mother is obsessed with this — she spends hours,
concentrating deeply on numbers, ignoring the outside world while she works,
falling silent and condemning those around her to loneliness. She and Father
have clashed over this a few times. Father blames Mother: "Once you've got
the lottery tickets in your head, you neither pay attention to me nor to the
house!"
He says it but doesn't go
further, because he can't. He gets angry, annoyed, and then sits in a corner to
calm down. In this heat, naturally, he can't even be bothered to get angry! I
can't say he's wrong — the air is so hot, so thick, that even getting angry is
tiring. If I dipped my paws in mud and drew circles in the air, I'd just be
drawing pictures inside a void. Who could be angry at whom in such weather?
Even I — both because I tire easily and because I know being tired accomplishes
nothing — neither bark nor walk in this heat unless strictly necessary.
There are at least four hours
before it cools down. This heat, which numbs not only humans and animals but
even plants, will continue its anesthetic effect for another four hours.
Tossapol will linger a while longer in front of the back door, clean his sneakers,
ask me, "Tokjai, want to play soccer on the field in front of the
school?" stack the food from his suitcase here and there, wash my food
bowl — he'll do this with the sincerity mixed with guilt of a pious monk
performing an act of worship that he's been unable to do for years, finally
finding the opportunity — and glance at the chili peppers behind the kitchen
counter, getting melancholy for a few seconds. Then, as if late for something,
he'll walk quickly into the house without saying a word to anyone. I know
Tossapol — he can't stand being outside long. He'll find an excuse, go inside,
turn on the fan, and lie on the mat spread in the middle of the living room
until the pain in his bloated stomach subsides after the meal.
"Okay, Mother, Tos will take
care of it[1].
Look at the package I put on the table. I bought these dried squids when I went
to the sea with friends. I'll get some beer tonight, and Father and I can snack
on them. These red ones are very spicy — don't accidentally give any to Tokjai."
They did once, yes. I remember
that so well! I had grown up and become uncontrollable. I couldn't easily hide in
holes like in the early days. Tossapol thought for a long time and finally
decided to send me to his parents' house in his village. This happened just a
few days before the school closed. With the semester ending, everyone was
moving out of the dorm. Bags, suitcases, things to throw away, piles of books
and notes… In that chaos, Tossapol forgot that I might be hungry. Though,
honestly, he forgot his own hunger too, in the rush to tidy up. He forgot, but
my stomach was growling — a dizzying experience for a dog who has never missed
a meal. I searched high and low for something to eat in the room, sniffing left
and right, checking every forgotten thing under the beds. The room was full of
belongings, books, odds and ends, plastic containers, and gecko droppings — but
not a single edible thing. Then I spotted leftover noodles from one of
Tossapol's friends from the night before. It was sitting in a dark corner under
the bed. There were small pieces of meat in it, but most of it was spicy soup.
I hesitated — better safe than sorry! I sniffed it carefully. It didn't smell
bad, actually. "The taste is probably fine," I thought. Besides, my
stomach was a black hole — even if I didn't want it, that red liquid would go
down my throat greedily. I dipped my tongue into the bowl and began eating
noisily. At first, the taste was quite pleasant. I thought my stomach was
celebrating, but it wasn't long before the true face of pain revealed itself.
The fire starting on my tongue spread into my mouth, my palate, my teeth, my
throat. I was burning, burning fiercely. I stuck out my tongue and rubbed it on
the cold floor to relieve the pain, but it didn't help much. I rolled on the
ground, tongue out, mouth wide open… Tossapol saw me then, and immediately knew
I'd eaten the spicy noodles. He grabbed me with both hands and carried me
outside. He put me on the wet grass. I voraciously chewed the wet grass, trying
to extinguish the flames in my mouth. Meanwhile, a spark jumped to my nose. The
tip of my nose started to burn slightly. I could neither smell nor taste a
thing. All I had was the coolness the wet grass left in my mouth, the molten
iron hissing across my tongue, the sharpness of the cold blade that constricted
my throat… It took half an hour for the fire burning inside me to go out — half
an hour of writhing there, half an hour of telling myself, "I'm about to
die, and it will all end." I didn't die; I got through it with just a
little diarrhea and nausea. From that day on, Tossapol has been sensitive about
putting spicy food near me. He's careful himself, and he never hesitates to
warn others to be careful too.
"We never give Tokjai spicy
food, son! That's the kind of carelessness you show. We're so careful that
sometimes we even cook Tokjai's food separately on the stove."
"Okay, Mom, I just said it
casually because they're so spicy."
"Enough about spice and
squid — who did you go to the sea with, I want to know? Was Suthina with you?
You brought her last time; she was nice; we got along well. She's handy with
housework too — not like those Bangkok society girls who find laundry, dishes,
and sweeping disgusting. I thought, 'Finally, my son has found a decent girl,'
and I was happy — but no! You didn't bring her. Explain — why didn't she come
here?"
Mother isn't going to let this go
— she'll take it all the way. Maybe she already suspects that Suthina is
history, that her son is now seeing a new girl. She suspects, but she doesn't
want to let on. As long as Tossapol is here, she'll ask about Suthina, because
she's the only one Mother knows. At the same time, she'll try to fish for
information about the new girl. This subject is far more important than winning
the big lottery jackpot. Where is she from? What does she do? How old is she?
Does she know how to cook? Is her height compatible with Tossapol's, her
disposition with his? Is she willing to marry an Isan man? — Suthina seemed
willing! I've memorized these questions because she asks them every time
Tossapol introduces a girl about whom he says, "Maybe I'll marry her."
There's the determination of a mother wanting a grandchild in the questions she
asks her son. Tossapol is 38. How much longer will he keep his mother waiting?
I only need to prick up my ears a little to understand that. What follows will
be torture for Tossapol, an interrogation for Mother, and entertainment for me.
After all, the meal is over.
Though I didn't eat much. I had no appetite. When I leaned over with worry, I
felt nauseous, dizzy, and a cold wind passed through me, freezing all my
hollows. I gave up, withdrew. I tried again, and still couldn't. I only swallowed,
without chewing, the pieces of sticky rice that had painkillers in them. I
drank lots of water afterward, as if I had eaten a lot. The rainwater from this
morning's rain is still fresh; the more I drink, the more I want. If my eyes
could see, I'd look at how I appear on the surface of the clear water. It's
clean and sweet — much more delicious than the chlorinated dam water from the
tap. After the meal, as usual, my brain starts to fog. I'll soon doze off under
the table. Tossapol has opened one of his bags and is showing his mother the
things he brought from Bangkok and its surroundings. The rustling of opened
packages, the nauseating smell of dried seafood, Mother's complaints turning
into nagging…
"No, Mother, Suthina didn't
come to the sea. She was busy that weekend. I went with friends from work. We
swam a lot, played guitar and ate seafood salad."
Slowly, slightly dragging my back
legs, I walk toward the shade under the rice barn. Amid the dirty, rusty tools,
as I move without tripping or bumping into things, I remember the first time I
saw the sea. It was a cool evening in the middle of the rainy season. The sea,
calm after the rain, had swallowed the entire sky, mimicking the image of stray
clouds and chronic grayness like a mirror. Sky and sea looked at us like twin
siblings. Their stance was so close, so friendly, so intimate that no one could
quite believe that the beauty before us was actually a giant monster that
didn't hesitate for a moment to punish those who disobeyed it. Of course, I
didn't get too close to the waves gently licking the shore, and of course, I
wasn't fooled by their rhythmic sounds turning into music. Once, I approached
the water — the metallic smell of the salty water that touched my feet and the
wetness it left on my paws were enough to make me decide to turn back. The sea
was beautiful to me from a distance, attractive for its sound and sight. I was
determined not to enter, not to become a prisoner of my body, not to get too
involved. Maybe if Tossapol took me in his arms and slowly, gradually, put me
in the water… The thought crossed my mind for a moment, but I wasn't sure I
really wanted that. I thought I'd panic if my feet left the ground. I'd panic,
and the fear forming in my heart would end my life. The mere thought of such an
event terrified me. If a friendly hand would teach me that my fears were
groundless, I wouldn't object — but events didn't unfold as I'd hoped.
At one point, Tossapol's
long-haired friend — the one who'd played guitar and drunk beer along the way
and had gotten a tattoo on his arm a few weeks earlier — wanted to pick me up
and throw me into the sea. "Don't worry, dogs' natural abilities are
enough for them to survive in the water," he said to the other young men,
though I didn't find it very convincing. Tossapol was talking to the somtam[2]
seller by the deck chairs and didn't even hear what the long-haired one said. A
fear deeper than the deepest pits stabbed into me. Water, waves, cold, being
away from Tossapol, darkness, the solid ground under my feet suddenly
disappearing… If it all came upon me at once, I couldn't bear it — I'd let go,
give up without fighting. My inner fear accumulated, accumulated, accumulated,
and finally erupted like a volcano. I started struggling, flailing, barking. It
was clear the long-haired one wouldn't give up, but I could still stop him.
Seeing no other option, just as he was about to throw me into the sea, I bit
his wrist lightly. The pain forced him to let go, and I fell, tumbling through
the air.
So what? Because I bit a human,
am I suddenly a bad dog? If I bit him, you shouldn't blame me, but him, for
leaving me no choice but to bite! Since we live together in this world, and
since you possess both mental and physical superiority, you should treat us
little friends with kindness and care. Considering the average human is five
times larger than the average dog, you can better understand what I mean! We
are forced to live in the world you designed for yourselves. The roads are
built to your step; bridges, houses, doors, windows, parks, gardens… Imagine,
in an order established by creatures five times taller than you — if those who
built that order don't make a special effort for your comfort, and on top of
that neglect, they mock your incompatibility and torture you — how long could
you endure it? Would you patiently wait for the day they understand you, or
would you, at the first opportunity, teach these creatures the lesson they
deserve? I hear you already choosing the second option…
Anyway, back to the story. I fell
into the water, but it didn't take me long to run out. I hadn't fallen into
deep water, but I hadn't escaped getting wet either. Damn water had soaked my
snow-white fur. And it was seawater to boot! I couldn't lick it off; once it
dried on me, the salt residue would remain, and wherever I went, that
disgusting seaweed smell would follow me. I ran to the edge of the asphalt road
and sat with great disappointment on the pavement, whose cracks were filled
with sea sand, waiting for Tossapol to come with a clean towel and dry me.
Thank goodness he came, dried me, and fixed the bitterness in my heart. From
that day on, I've hated water, hated it touching my body. Maybe if that
long-haired idiot hadn't frightened me like that, things would have been
different, but there's no going back to change the past! What happens early in
life — that becomes our character, lives with us, and finally goes with us to
the grave.
I can say that I owe my not
having bathed even once in the last fifteen years to that incident. It wasn't
easy to forget the trauma — I use "forget" because I never got over
it. I trembled until morning, my stomach ached from the weight of fear, my
throat knotted into lumps. Even as I lay in front of the tent they'd set up on
the beach, listening to the laughter of the young people drinking beer and
singing, my heart was not at ease. Still, I kept watching the sea from the
corner of my eye. After all, it wasn't its fault; the fault was the one who
introduced me to it wrongly. If they'd shown me the wet, dangerous sides of the
sea gradually, in small doses, at our first meeting — who knows? Maybe I would
have loved the water and the coolness it brings. For years, during Songkran,
while everyone else is having fun with water outside, I hope you can now
understand how resentment has eaten away at me. Because otherwise, I was as
captivated by the sea that day as anyone seeing it for the first time.
No, the sea didn't smell like
Tossapol's open bag on the dining table — it brought me the scent of unknown
worlds and people. So much so that for a moment, I even smelled the fishermen
who sank with their ship centuries ago, the lovers separated by waves that
swallowed one and not the other, the giant monsters believed to live at the
bottom of the sea, the deserted islands that adorned the dreams of melancholic
youths who couldn't cling to life, the sailors like Zoltan who preferred the
sea's fickle surface to the land's solid ground, and the strict captains who
gave those sailors no quarter. In my tiny form, chasing the ball Tossapol
kicked into the sand at his feet, the scent of exotic flowers from faraway
lands came to my nose. In the breeze that caressed my fur was hidden the
message that life — despite all adversities — is a time to be lived and then
forgotten. When the sun turned into an orange ball and the waves battering the
shore lost their strength, I closed my eyes — back then, I had eyes that could
see, eyes that made me love life — and I imagined the line where sea and sky
meet slowly opening. It was as if the line were grasped by two great hands from
above and below, and reality — hidden from all earthly creatures — began to be
unveiled clearly before our eyes. Yes, the line I dreamed of that day was death
itself — the greatest secret of life, the most impenetrable unknown. The sea
had taught me, in a way I never expected, just how close death is. I didn't
fully grasp it fourteen years ago, when I was a tiny puppy, but today I
understand all too well the soft counsel hidden behind that horizon line, which
becomes more instructive as it gets thinner. That night too, as now, my brain
was intoxicated by the dense wind touching my nose and skin. Watching the
shimmering phosphorescence on the pitch-black water, I slowly sank into the
black gelatinous substance forming under my feet, and spent the night in the
soft arms of a deep sleep, like a lover's embrace.
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