"Tokjai didn't eat his dinner — even though I put that much medicine in it. At lunch, he left half the bowl."
"He really didn't eat?"
"Look, he didn't! Oh well —
he'll eat when he's hungry. We're leaving, son. And don't you dare climb trees
in the dark. Go inside and watch TV. You and your father can do it tomorrow
morning."
I stretch out like a mat in front
of the old bathroom across from the kitchen. No one uses this bathroom in the
evenings. Actually, no one uses it during the day either — only Father goes in
once in a while, for nostalgia. There are two other bathrooms inside the house.
They could tear this one down, but they don't. That's the rule of life in the
village: don't tear down anything if you're not going to replace it. Since
there's no space shortage in the village, unlike in the cities, every moment
lived, every day experienced here, piles up layer upon layer. From Tossapol's
talk, I know how cramped city life is — how people live piled on top of each
other like fish in a fermented-fish jar. Ants burrow into the earth, and
similarly, humans spend their lives burrowing into the sky to build houses
inside it. The rest is well known! The hustle and bustle in the spaces that are
still left unburrowed — the game of cornering, the exhaustion like a cat
chasing its own tail… The opposite of the slowness and freedom I observe in the
village must be happening in the cities. If you poke around a little here,
you'll find the whole history of the house — not in secret places, chests, or
steel safes, but in plain sight. A piece of paper forgotten on a table will
remain untouched for ten years. A souvenir placed under the television will
stay there for twenty years. No one notices, no one minds its presence. This
bathroom is like that — it remains standing because it causes no discomfort. I
like it here. When I come here, the household can't see me. They can't see me,
but I can hear them. Their voices come to me in fragments, like a radio searching
for a worthy station — interspersed with insect chirps, gecko clicks, distant
barks, and Monk Watcharapong's endless sermons from the loudspeakers.
"Tokjai, you didn't eat your
dinner. If you have no appetite, come help me pick the custard apples."
I don't move. If I didn't eat,
there's a reason. I went to my bowl and sniffed it. It smelled wonderful —
boiled rice mixed with broth, bones that Father had ground into small pieces,
fatty bits here and there, not a single slice of chili — a dinner carefully
prepared for Mr. Tokjai. It smelled wonderful, but does Tokjai have the stomach
to digest it? I nearly vomited right there — would have messed everything up.
Good thing I pulled back. I put my tongue in the water bowl, but couldn't drink
that either. My condition must be very bad. I can't even remember the last time
I was like this. I walked slowly, tripped on the trash basket, almost fell. I
lay down by the lemon tree first, but there were too many mosquitoes there. And
the damp soil made my stomach cold. So, I got up and came here. I'm in the dark
— what difference does that make to a blind dog? — as if I'm doing it on
purpose. Tossapol is determined — he'll pick those custard apples. What does he
have to do it for? Tossapol I know — if he does a job at the most inconvenient
time, it's because he's trying to avoid something more important. I can't think
of another explanation. The garden is pitch dark in the evening — how will he
see to pick the fruits? The light from the neighbor's garden isn't enough for
anything. Don't I know that light? Coffee would jump over that wall, and I
would wait for her in that faint light on long nights.
"Fine — if you won't help me,
don't. Lie there lazily! By the way — you weren't offended by what I said this
morning, were you? I was joking — ha ha! You know, sometimes I'm glad you can't
understand me. I speak whatever comes into my head without thinking about the
consequences — that's why I'm hurtful sometimes. Not everyone can stand me.
That's probably why I'm alone — the reason for this ceaseless guilt inside me.
Huh, Tokjai, what do you say? Ahhh, if only you were human so you could
understand my troubles — we could open a couple of beers and talk under the
arbor…"
How he spoils himself like a
little child, how he knows what to say when his parents are away! That's love —
whether human or not, it spoils every being like a baby, turns them into
attention seekers. Humans use little tricks to find out if they're loved. They
sleep uncovered, they talk nonsense, they exaggerate their mistakes to measure
the other's reaction. Humans do that, but are dogs different? Like many other
things, we've also learned from humans how to behave like a spoiled brag. On
cold nights, I stubbornly sleep by the back door — do I do it because I'm cold?
Of course not. I'm seeing if they'll cover me with a cloth, thinking I'm cold.
When I do something wrong, I kick the ground like a goalkeeper who's conceded a
goal — the comparison belongs to one of Tossapol's friends. I want them to
think I've learned from my mistake. Even if I know what I did wasn't wrong, I
feel bitterness inside. Because everything repeated becomes a habit. Everything
that becomes a habit becomes easy. Everything that becomes easy becomes cheap.
I hear scraping sounds from under
the rice barn. He's definitely getting the ladder — he'll lean it against the
tree, then climb. Can that ladder be trusted? It's a rotten thing left from
Father's father. Mother is right — the boy is looking for trouble. That ladder
was used when this rice barn was built; that's how old it is…
"Om pra ma puud go may chia[1]"
What's with this kid? He wouldn't
sing that song unless his heart was broken. Earlier, he was saying things like
"I'm hurtful, then I regret it." Don't I know! The biggest problem
with humans is not that they're not smart enough to understand animals — it's
that they can't admit that animals are smart enough to understand them. If a
feather landed on Tossapol's soul, I'd feel the weight crushing his heart
before his mother would. The dots connect themselves so quickly; the picture
becomes visible. So Suthina has left him — apparently. He must have done
something stupid, upset the girl. He's been tight-lipped since coming home,
avoiding talking about her. With his parents here, he kept his mouth shut; now
that they're gone, he's acting melancholic — so there's a crack. Even worse —
water is seeping through.
"Om wat ma puud go may
chia"[2]
There's a buzzing in my head — I
can't hear the rest of the song Tossapol is singing, only the chorus I know by
heart reaches my ears clearly. Maybe he's not singing anything — the billions
of images in my head are playing tricks on me. How much longer will this storm
last? A ringing bell; the rustle of windblown leaves; the unnatural clatter of
a mechanical repetition from afar; the high-pitched voice of the Chinese
merchant who comes once a week in his pickup, selling miracle cures. All this
chaos throbs not in my ears but inside my brain. It's as if I'm sleepy, but I'm
not — the waters of my mind are receding, my brain is drying, a dark blue
nebulous mass rubs against the inner walls of my mind, flashing, sparking —
lights like cat's eyes at mountain peaks before rain — I see with my mind's eye
the embers turning to flames. Thousands of photographs flash one after another
in my head. In each, details of a different memory — trivial, mundane things
that never occurred to me before, that I never once thought about. A clothespin
falling from the line and touching the tip of my foot; the shabby rags that
smell like moldy rice porridge because they got wet in the rain and weren't
dried properly; my tired eyes staring at green leaves stuck to branches with
glue; my triangular ears turning toward the meaningless screams of children
playing badminton in front of the house; the powdered faces of students passing
on bicycles, looking at me; Elder Brother Tam's laugh as he went to his death;
a dry leaf falling from a tree and landing on my nose as I watched Coffee
swaying away from me…
"Look, Tokjai — this is how
it's done. No light, can't work in the dark, the rungs of this ladder are
rotten — all excuses. Do you know what the lazy do best? Talk. How do I know?
From myself, ha ha ha! How many jobs have I done since I arrived… Ahhh"
First, I hear crackling — the
snap of breaking branches — then a dull thud. Paaat — something makes a sound
like wood hitting wood — but also the sound of wood not hitting wood — the
sound of a bone hitting soft ground. Paaat — sometimes worth a lifetime. Paaat
— a summary of a life wishing to rise from its sediments. Paaat — as hard to
say again as a dead person breathing. Paaat — the total weight of all the
unanswerable responses to the question, "What scientific explanation can
soothe a mother's pain at losing her child?" Paaat — and the vacuum of
silence left behind by heavy trucks. I wait for a while — hopeful and anxious.
Then Tossapol's complaint comes — very weak, like a newborn puppy yipping,
searching for its mother's teat. Tossapol sounds like he's talking to himself —
sleep-talking or mumbling in class.
I bark into the void. Then I
gather all my strength and get up. The sounds stop. Dead silence — the silence
of death. Only the chirping of crickets in the air, and the noise of me bumping
into things. My foot catches on a piece of paper, I break free, step on a
curved shard of broken bowl. Passing between the barn and the bathroom, my head
hits a long wooden stick. Worst of all — as soon as I enter the garden, the
bushes brushing against my rear touch my wound. I want to scream, but I hold
back. I have no time to think of my own troubles — I'm an old dog waiting for
death. As Mother said, every day I live from now on is profit. But what about
him — a young man, yet to marry, to become a father — a boy like a pillar. If
not Suthina, there'll be another girl. Sniffing, I find Tos. There's a faint
smell of blood in the air — the smell of life, mingled with sweat and grass. I
find him, but I think he's unconscious. He doesn't say a word to me, doesn't
ask for help. I bark again. I touch his face with my wet nose — he doesn't like
me touching his cheek with my nose. I lick his ear. No response. The blood is
coming from his head — behind his right ear. Terrible things cross my mind —
pitch-black scenarios rising from the bottom of a well. I see Mother crying; I
see Father retreating to a corner, head bowed, silently looking at the ground.
Ah, Tossapol, what have you done, boy! If I couldn't hear your breath, if I
didn't hear the rattle in your chest, perhaps I'd lie down beside you and wait
for death to come to me then and there.
"The job is yours, Tokjai.
Come on — show that you're a good friend, prove yourself one last time."
I say this to myself. I must set
out without wasting time. Bantaen is four kilometers from here, and the
hospital is at the entrance of the district. I don't know how long it will take
me to cover four kilometers in this condition, but I have no other choice. If I
bark at the next-door neighbor, will they understand that there's been an
accident? The neighbors on this side wouldn't care, but the other neighbors —
who use their machine to hull our rice — might help. Without thinking about
what I might bump into, what might hurt, I make my way to the front gate.
Luckily, the gate isn't fully closed — it's left ajar. I slide my paw into the
gap and push; it opens easily. The village road is empty — the voices of young
people singing and drinking come from afar, and the wind carries a smell of
burning. I bark in front of the neighbor's gate for a while, but no one comes
out. There's not much sound from the house either — maybe no one's home. And I
have no time to lose — with Tos lying there…
I put all the strength my old
legs have into it. I head toward the edge of the village, toward the pomelo
market and Mother's school — like a motorcycle with a flat tire. I won't have
to cross the road even once — a huge advantage. I'll walk along the edge; I'll
use my nose, my ears, and my wounds to determine what's around me. My right
back leg hurts badly — when I put weight on it rapidly, a pain like the wound
being torn open appears behind me. Though I almost fall sometimes, I get up and
continue. My legs are like a folding chair with loose screws — the bones are
still intact, but the joints are untrustworthy. I find the main road by
sniffing and listening, but the rest will be much harder. I'm a blind, lame dog
who has thrown his injured body between trucks hauling sugarcane, zigzagging
pickups, and tractors driven by villagers drunk on rice whiskey. None of that
worries me — or rather, it shouldn't. Having nothing to lose will make me a
cowardly hero — I know that too. I'm ready for this cheap heroism — with all my
being. What matters is that nothing happens to Tossapol — that his future is
saved.
As soon as I reach the corner, I
turn right. At the same pace, I pass silently by loud young men on motorcycles.
My heartbeat is normal; my speed isn't bad; I'm in no state to think about my
upset stomach or the wound behind me. Until I reach the hospital, I am not Tokjai
— I'm just four limping legs. I'm not going to change the world — I'm going to
save Mother from deadly grief. Children on bicycles pass me; those who know me
tease me: "Tokjai, what are you doing here?" "You've lost your
way, Tokjai — turn back!" "You'll get run over — besides, you can't
see." They mumble but don't stop trying to understand my situation. I
continue on my way like an old explorer. Sounds and scents fill my world — I'm
as comfortable as a bat ruling its cave. Still, I sometimes stop to make sure
I'm going the right way. I draw my own conclusions from oncoming vehicles, lazy
dogs lounging by the road, villagers drinking beer and singing in front of
shops, and trash burning by the roadside. I will finish this road — I will
reach the hospital gate and howl bitterly. Mother will understand that
something's wrong — that Tossapol fell and cracked his head.
"What's this, Tokjai? Have
you taken a liking to Zoltan? Don't let your end be like his!"
The voice comes from behind me,
but I don't want to stop and answer. I don't like the dogs around here anyway,
and they don't like me. They're not bothering me now, but in the old days — if
I were healthy and strong — they'd band together and attack me, make me regret
being born. "Go back to your village or we'll kill you right here,"
they'd threaten, grinding their sharp teeth. I rarely came here anyway — only
on days when I followed Zoltan excessively. Or on the rare occasions when Zoltan,
after reaching the lake, took the main road instead of going back the way he
came.
"Fine — go on, let the cars
crush you. The world will be rid of one snob. Ha ha ha…"
The laughter mingles with the
roar of passing cars. I think of my old friend Zoltan — the road, the suffering
that the road offers, to forget those who want me to return home.
Zoltan was a sailor from Hungary.
What business does a Hungarian sailor have in a village in Isan? I had asked
myself the same question. When I met him, I didn't even know where Hungary was.
If you're a young dog born and raised in Thailand, with every intention of
dying in Thailand, not knowing about a country thousands of kilometers away is
perfectly normal. When I finally learned, my surprise multiplied tenfold. At
first, I wanted to ask him, "Was there no other place to go, man, that you
had to come to this village where not even the dream of the sea is
dreamed?" But then I learned what his trouble was. Zoltan had married a
woman who lived in our village. For six months he works at sea, earning money;
for six months he rests on land, gathering his strength. He spends his days
ashore in his wife's village, helping with the sugar cane and corn harvests on
the fields her father bought. And they have a daughter, Mia, who goes to
primary school.
I also know that he grows
mushrooms in a dark shed by a small well in his garden. I saw it once —
mushrooms sprouting from holes in plastic pipes — but I couldn't stand the
heavy smell of mold and came out quickly. He and his daughter would go door to
door selling the mushrooms. Sometimes I'd tag along. Since there were no
children in our house and they had no dog, the girl and I became good friends.
But my real friend was Zoltan. He liked me; I resembled the dog he'd left in
his homeland. Sometimes he'd get confused and call me Okos. Then he'd add,
"You're a smart dog — you deserve that name." During his days away
from the sea, he ran a lot to avoid gaining weight. Or rather — like the other
villagers — I initially thought that was why he ran. The foundation of our
friendship was laid during these runs together. When I saw Zoltan, I'd follow
him and run with him until I was tired.
What cemented our friendship
wasn't the running itself, but Zoltan sharing his troubles with me as we ran.
He'd tell me all his secrets — the seas, the ships, the strange events happened
on them, and more importantly how the sea is a more reliable place than land.
"If you live on constantly shifting ground, you have to hold the hands of
those around you," he said once. Then he added, "The first test of
friendships formed in hard times is easy times. I've seen so many souls that
came together against a common enemy start devouring each other once the enemy
was gone — I can't trust anyone in this world." He'd talk as he ran,
bringing his phone and earphones so people wouldn't think he was talking to
himself. He never played music — he'd talk to me or to himself. Which amounted
to the same thing to him, but still. He was a full man looking for a place to
empty himself — just as you don't mind spilling a few drops if you're running
with a full bucket of water, he didn't regret anything that fell out while
running.
Sometimes he'd ask himself and
answer: "Mr. Tokjai, guess why I run?" Naturally, with my tongue
hanging out, trying to keep up with his pace and ignoring distractions —
chickens and female dogs — I didn't think of an answer. He wouldn't keep me
waiting long. "People think I run to be healthy, to live long, to look
attractive. It's nothing of the sort. I run to not go crazy — I run so that
this solid ground under my feet doesn't take my mind from me. Just as a baby
sleeps soundly in a rocking cradle, I'm comfortable at sea. Life on land is killing
me — if it weren't for my child, perhaps…" He wouldn't finish; he'd fall
silent. Of course, I didn't understand what he meant. Perhaps thinking that I
didn't care — that I was just a simple dog — he'd stop in the middle of the
road. He'd stare at me, look me up and down with questioning brown eyes.
"I also run to have beautiful dreams. Because the best dreams are seen not
while sleeping — but while running." He'd burst into loud laughter
afterward. For a second, I'd be happy, thinking he'd stop running, but it wouldn't
take long to realize I was wrong. That day, he ran twice his usual distance,
brutally punishing his legs as if expelling some pain.
And one day, Zoltan left, never
to return. Summer came, scorching the fields and everything in them; the rainy
season came, flooding everywhere; the dry season came, chilling our evenings —
but not a single word from Zoltan reached the village. Then one day, we heard
that his wife had sold the house and fields and left the village. "That
woman was never really from our village anyway," I heard them say once.
Another time: "A ship sank — they could neither reach him dead nor
alive." Some villagers didn't believe this news. "No way — he looked
like a man with a lover in every port. He must have another wife, maybe even a
family, in another country," most said. "Besides, he met his wife in
Rayong — one of the ports where his ship docked." Words in the villagers'
mouths grew longer and shorter; Zoltan's absence seeped into every house, every
room, every dinner table, like a powerful medicine for boredom. No one noticed
it those days, but I was the one most saddened that he wouldn't return. At the
same time, I was happy for him. I always imagined he wasn't dead — that he
continued breathing somewhere, with the sea alive inside him. And if I could
walk this four-kilometer road — blind and lame — on this ominous evening, the
credit is due to Zoltan and the legacy he left with me.
I follow the strong smell of
medicine coming from my right. I feel as if I'm using the last drops of my
strength. I could collapse any moment — but to have come this far, to have
stolen five minutes from death — is that too much? As soon as I turn right, the
asphalt road is behind me, and I enter a road paved with small stones and
coarse sand. The smell increases — medicine mixed with alcohol and cleaning
supplies — with a slight smell of urine and diesel. I can't tell where I am,
but sensing parked vehicles nearby, I stop and bark long and hard. At first, no
one pays attention, but after a few minutes, a man whose identity I can't
determine comes.
"Get out of here — why are
you barking?"
I keep barking. The hospital must
be very close. Mother and Father must be somewhere around here — I have to
reach them. No one can stop me.
"You — you! Is that you, Tokjai?
How did you get here?"
I feel the man's hand on my head.
His thumb strokes between my eyes. I like it, but I have no time for such
displays of affection — with Tossapol lying there…
"Wait — I'll go tell them
inside. Ajarn Supaporn is here — I saw her a moment ago. Did you come with them
in the pickup? Well then, I would have seen you when you arrived. No, no — you
just came now. But how! If you came all this way with your eyes like
this…"
I hear the man's footsteps
receding. I'm exhausted — I have no voice left, no breath. I feel all the
world's sounds and smells rapidly receding from me. I lie down where I am — my
heart nearly leaping from my mouth. I try to ignore the taste of blood pooling
around my tongue, but this warm, insidious fluid keeps increasing. My stomach,
my intestines — everything clenches. I rest my chin on the dry soil; there are
sharp, small stones under my belly, but I have no strength to find a more
comfortable spot. Soon, I hear Mother and Father's voices. "Tossapol,
Tossapol — did you bring Tokjai?" they say. Then everything goes dark. The
light in my mind — which I've grown accustomed to its dark blue — goes out
entirely; I'm left with pitch darkness. I remember the rest in fragments; every
now and then, a spark flashes, showing me what's happening: the hard, grooved,
cold surface of the pickup bed touching my skin; Father driving twice as fast
as normal, slamming on the brakes; leaving me in the car when they arrived home
and taking Tossapol to the hospital in the other car; returning very, very late…
When Tossapol's weak but cheerful voice reaches my ears, I feel a little
stronger, but I no longer have the energy to show it. The way he keeps saying,
"You're overdoing it" pricks my heart. I'm glad Mother asks Father
for help to lift me out of the pickup. The way Father picks me up with almost
trembling hands, lays me down in my favorite spot, puts his hand on my rapidly
rising and falling stomach, murmuring something, lighting mosquito coils and
placing them around me, covering me with a cloth… I experience all of this as
if thinking of a sweet memory.
They haven't noticed yet, but
I've already learned that the inevitable end awaiting me won't last until
morning. The ground beneath me is no longer still — it's shaking violently,
trying to swallow my body and close over me. The time will come; the earth will
cave in, fill my mouth and nose, and stream into my eyes. I won't see the morning,
but with my condition, I can imagine it: the back door will open, creaking as
usual. Birds will chirp, sticking their heads out timidly from the narrow gaps
between roof and ceiling; mosquitoes, tired from a night of work, will retreat
toward the bottoms of shoes smelling of sweat; the ash from the coils around me
will scatter in the wind from the open door; the hum of the neighbor's
rice-hulling machine will spread to the village's remotest corners; the pigs
will grunt and dive into their morning slop. Mother will take up her
long-handled broom and sweep last night's dead moths; Father will plug in the
thermos to make coffee. One of them will call my name: "Good morning, Tokjai,"
or "Are you hungry, Tokjai?" When they see me lying curled among
those dirty rags, they won't realize I'm dead. "He's tired," they'll
say. "He's sick — leave him alone for a while," they'll say. "He
was worn out yesterday — let him rest up today," they'll say. "What a
splendid dog you are — to have walked four kilometers in your condition,"
they'll say. Tokjai, who for the last thirteen years hasn't left a spot in the
garden untrod, can no longer move even his tail — they won't notice, they won't
see. Father will turn on the radio to listen to the morning news; Mother will
peel and slice mam[3]
for breakfast. Tossapol will come out the door, a huge bandage on his head, as
if drawn by the sizzle and smell of the round slices of mam hitting the pan.
His raised nose will twitch left and right. "My head hurts a lot,
Mother," he'll say, afraid to mention his hunger. He'll scuff his feet for
a while — probably because he hasn't put on his sandals properly. Mother will
look at Tossapol with eyes that say "som-nam-na."[4]
"Get up and thank Tokjai," she'll say. Then she'll add, "If you
don't listen to your mother, this is what happens. And tonight, you're going to
Khon Kaen for a CT scan." Tossapol will nod and come to my side, poke me
left and right. "Thanks, Tokjai!" he'll say half-heartedly. "I'm
very hungry, Tokjai — are you hungry? I'm going to give you the best part of my
meal today," he'll say with a loud laugh. When he gets no reaction,
he'll get worried. "Mother — he's not moving at all. He never used to
sleep by the door when we were around," he'll say in a broken voice.
Mother will come — carrying a basket of boiled rice or a meat-cutting board.
She'll put what she's carrying on the table, look at me, check my breath, put
her hand on my stomach. Then she'll look at Tossapol with glistening eyes and
say, "Tokjai pai suwan leo."[5]
A huge teardrop will appear in Tossapol's eyes. It will remain there for a long
time — like an avalanche on a mountain peak, waiting for the tremor that will
trigger its fall. It won't flow, won't fall to the ground, won't trickle down
his cheeks. When Tossapol sees a dog that looks like me, or encounters a memory
of me in some corner of the garden — only then will this drop burn his gaze,
mist his pupils, blur everything in his field of vision. He'll say, "Tokjai
pai suwan leo," while wondering what to do with the breakfast leftovers —
and this phrase will stick to his tongue until the day he takes his last
breath.
I won't be here — I won't see,
hear, or smell any of it. Who knows — maybe I'll be deep in conversation with Elder
Brother Tam, maybe running with Zoltan through endless meadows. He'll be
telling me about his troubles again, and I'll be stopping occasionally, being
lazy. Perhaps I'll see that dormitory director who let me into her room when I
was injured, and I will lick her hand. Maybe I'll find that man who tried to
take us to Cambodia and bite his leg. I'll meet Coffee by the walls cracked by
the moonlight; I'll bark at the short-panted children returning from school in
the evening; I'll walk among other dogs with pride in my uninjured body. Above
all — I will become a huge drop in Tossapol's eyes when my name is mentioned,
and I will continue to watch the world in all its glory from behind that water
bubble. And at the same time, I'll grumble about those I've left behind. I, Tokjai
Patthanachai — as the youngest son of this family — loved and was loved while
living, tasted peace, freedom, and pain to the fullest, and never betrayed
those who trusted me until I took my last breath. I lived quite well. I am
dying well. Goodbye!
--- THE END ---
November 2016 – May 2017
Changzhou, China
