The Last Day of Tokjai (4)

 

Animal Consciousness

 

"What's wrong with Tokjai? He never used to sleep this long! He hasn't finished his food either."

My chin is spread over my paws like a slippery silk handkerchief, my body numbed by the coolness of the hard concrete, waiting in the position where I feel the least pain from the wound on my rump. Occasionally, I flick my tail to chase away flies landing on my wound. Sometimes I force myself to lick the uncoagulated blood that accelerates my end. I've been awake for a while, but I am too lazy to get up. Besides, it hurts most when I sit down and stand up, so I try to minimize those movements. Once I'm up, I want to do everything — eat, drink, pee, survey the area, bark. Otherwise, my moaning disturbs Mother greatly. Others might not notice, but I'm sure Mother feels my pain very deeply. It's a feminine perception, characteristic of those who devote the spaces between pains to meaningful tasks — the opposite of men, who see life as the sum of their sufferings and make pride out of that sum. The conversations reach my ears. Without changing my position, I listen to the sounds that are far from me but at the same time near to me…

"Did you do what you said, son? You were hanging around Tokjai's food bowl."

"No, Mother, I didn't do anything. And if I were going to…"

"So, what were you doing there?"

"I cleaned his water bowl, Mother. I do it every time I come, don’t you know?"

"With you, it's hard to tell. We spoiled you too much, and you're headstrong. If you'd had a sibling, you wouldn't be like this, but you don't."

"Look now! Why do you say that, Mother? What fault have you ever found in me?"

"I tried to take a little nap. I couldn't sleep because of what you said. I had all sorts of strange dreams. In the last one, Tokjai was digging a huge grave with his paws. 'What are you doing, Tokjai? Isn't that grave too big for you?' I asked. He turned and looked at me slyly and said, 'This grave isn't for me.' I was scared — I felt like boiling water was running through me for a moment. Seeing Tokjai speak, even in a dream, doubled my worries."

"Don't worry, Mother, even if I decided to kill Tokjai, I wouldn't do it without your approval."

"See, you're still talking about killing. Don't, son, don't say that word. No one is going to kill anyone. Tokjai is part of this house, this family, even this village. If I were sick, would you kill me right away?"

"What does that have to do with it, Mother? You're human — you can understand life and death. Can Tokjai? For him, there's only the day he's living, and each day he's living now is full of agony. I'm just saying we don't have the right to make him suffer like this. Besides, after you said no, I won't lift a finger, don't worry."

"How do you know Tokjai doesn't understand the meaning of life? And what good did all your understanding do? Who has ever benefited from your understanding of life, tell me now!"

Tossapol doesn't answer this question. After a long silence, I hear a clatter from the dishwashing basin. He's going to prepare himself a drink. He does this when he wakes from his afternoon nap, to moisten his dry throat — either iced cola or chanomyen[1]. I hear the liquid gurgling down his throat. Then silence again. Did he fall silent because he had no answer? Or because he's afraid of arguing with his mother? Maybe he doesn't even believe in the truth of what he said himself — he read or heard it somewhere and tosses it out whenever he gets the chance. There's one more possibility. Maybe his mother's question increased his doubts, made him think deeply, and he decided he was wrong. Could it be? Why not?

Tossapol has been like this since his youth: he's not a fighter. Either he gives up quickly or changes sides at the slightest nudge. He experiences his first hesitation by considering the possibility that the claim he's about to make has already been made many times by others. The thought that comes to mind may have no great value that can be proclaimed, shared, or grasped by someone in need. Even if he gets past that, somehow persuading himself that his thoughts have value, there's the matter of standing behind his ideas and defending them tirelessly. Tossapol almost never does this. He can't quite believe that the things he says could be claims worth standing firmly behind. Doubts like "What if I'm wrong?" "What if I'm unjust?" "What if there are nuances that I haven't realized?" constantly echoes in his head. Trying to examine these echoes one by one, he loses his upright posture. He bends, leans left and right, turns his head in the direction the wind blows, thus believing he's protected from breakage and fracture. He is protected; therefore, everyone loves Tossapol, everyone knows him as a pleasant, gentle, and respectful friend. But in the long run, he pays the price. While he thinks he's continuing safely down the same path, he fails to notice that the road beneath his feet has changed. When those around him find themselves — a cause to cling to, an ideal to spend a life on, a unique dream that makes them forget all other dreams — and abandon those who can't keep up, Tossapol will realize how alone he is. Maybe then he'll regret it and, in a final struggle, try to attach himself somewhere. He'll want to, but those dreamers who've spent years making a dream come true will understand his intention before he even opens his mouth. They won't accept Tossapol, and just as they refuse him, they'll insult him. They'll mock his efforts and say, "In our dark days, in poverty and misery, while we fought despite our weakness, embraced each other to gain strength, and celebrated our small victories with modest gatherings — you were not with us. Now you are the one who is alone and helpless. Why should we be with you?" Then Tossapol will hang his head, his face burning with shame like a shy child whose pleas have failed, and retreat into his own world. He'll live as someone everyone loves and die as someone no one cares for…

Am I exaggerating? Maybe! I've dramatized it too much. He just didn't answer his mother. But it's not only toward his mother that he behaves this way. When the country was divided into reds and yellows, Tossapol stayed silent. When the coup happened and soldiers patrolled the streets of Bangkok in tanks, he didn't speak up. When a female student at his school was raped, he didn't support his friends' action for a more peaceful campus. Instead of joining the protest and supporting his violated friend, he went to the movies that day with a girl as cowardly as he is. He always prefers to stay on the sidelines, and most likely his being an only child plays a role in this. When you're an only child, you're the offspring that parents dote on and watch every move. Whenever you try to make a decision on your own and carry it out, it doesn't take long to realize it was wrong. Whenever you try to go somewhere alone, you get scolded upon your return. How different can the adulthood of someone who spent childhood and early youth like that be? Perhaps the fear of parents is replaced by the anxiety of upsetting them. That's all. So as not to upset them, you don't open your mouth, you don't speak the truth, you don't take the roads you should take, you don't take the necessary measures. Living a life that won't upset your parents, you fail to realize that the sum of what you live don’t even amount to half a life.

Fine, we dogs don't have much say in these matters, but at least we can take a clear stance when it comes to communicating and expressing our troubles. If a dog barks, he's angry or senses danger. A dog doesn't start barking wondering, "Should I be angry?" If he barks, the reason is one or the other, and it doesn't take long to find it. So, if a dog barks, it's the result of a need. In humans, the situation is much more complex. First, no human can stand behind what they say with one hundred percent confidence. They always have the right not to say it, and if they have spoken, they have bypassed that right. That is, during a meal in the canteen — I'd seen many fights in the university's open-air canteen — if someone cuts in front of you, you can get angry and shout. You can also stay quiet. You can hesitate and choose to remain silent like Tossapol. Second, and more importantly: every sentence spoken, every claim made, aims to garner support for the idea it defends. If you say, "This mango is yellow," you mean to state that the mango is yellow. Fine, but if you're sure of your claim, why do you want to say it out loud? Because you want your claim confirmed by others, for someone to follow you, and for those same people, when the time comes, to defend your ideas to the death. In short, every claim made verbally aims for leadership. You can keep saying the mango is yellow for a long time, conduct research, prove the claim by various methods. The crowd that initially found your work meaningless will, after a while, appreciate it. Then they'll follow you. Thus, you'll become the leader of those who say, "The mango is yellow." Believe it or not, there's a hidden desire to gather followers in every sentence humans utter. You can test this easily by objecting to a simple sentence, persisting in your objection, and observing the results.

"I didn't say he doesn't understand life, Mother! I said his view of life is different from ours because he has no consciousness. We know we will die — that's why life is important to us."

Ehh, Tossapol — almost half an hour has passed. Now, you think of answering your mother? She's already forgotten what she asked.

"What are you saying, son? Enough about consciousness and life. Look, it's cooled down. There's a hose under the barn. Take it to the garden. After you pick the custard apples, I'll water the garden. Then let's not go in again — our feet will get muddy."

"That job might not get done, Mother. Look, Father didn't finish cutting the grass. He's asleep in the swing. Let me do the grass before the meal. If there's time, I'll pick the fruits."

I hear footsteps, steps moving away, the flip-flop sound of the back of thong sandals hitting the heel. Tossapol goes to the front of the house to finish the job his father left half-done. I'm left here to wait and think, whether I like it or not. I don't move from my spot; it's still very hot outside. When it's this hot, bodies inevitably become drowsy. When the body is drowsy, the mind wanders into subjects it would otherwise find unnecessary. With the courage that comes from having nothing to lose, or with cheap opportunism that counts even the smallest gain as profit.

"There you go again, finding a way to slack off. If you hurry, you could do both. You've wandered around and wasted a ton of time. Now you're ignoring the job your mother gave you, and on top of that, you're talking nonsense… Tokjai has no consciousness, his life has no meaning. Who are you to pronounce such lofty words?"

Mother is right, all the way till the end. What had Tossapol said? Animals have no consciousness. Animals can't grasp the meaning of life. Every time I hear this, I'm sad that I can't speak the human language. Helplessness settles in my stomach like a huge lump of sticky rice swallowed without being chewed, stuck there for hours without moving an inch. Yes; if I were human, I'd take Tossapol aside and teach him how anthropocentric and biased what he said is. "How selfish and greedy are you?" I'd ask him. "Why do you see the whole universe as a system revolving around your being, gaining meaning only according to you?" I'd add. Then I'd continue without stopping. I'd lay out clearly and plainly how, when humans talk about the meaning of life, they're actually talking about a narrow concept limited to their own lives, and that even if they wanted to, they couldn't easily give up these narrow definitions. That is, when they say "the meaning of life," they're discussing the meaning of human life, because they don't know or recognize others. Naturally, they don't include dogs, cats, flowers, or insects in their conversation. Thinking they're talking about all living beings with the glitz and glamour of universal concepts that confuse the mind and flatter the ego, they open the door to an even greater disaster. We animals also have lives, and as long as we stay true to our own parameters, our lives also have meaning. To think otherwise leads the claimant straight into inconsistency and contradiction. After all, how could the life of a dog who has faithfully performed its dogly duties for fifteen years be meaningless? How could it be said that his existence is deficient?

"Tok, Tok, Tok… Where are you, my baby? Where has this animal gone? I haven't seen him since lunch. He's not in his usual sleeping spot either. Tossapol, where is my baby, Tokjai? Go look in front of the house and see if he's come there."

Mother is looking for me, but I won't make a sound. I haven't finished my thoughts on meaning yet. Let her search a little longer — even if she looks under the barn, she won't easily see me. There's a lot of junk here. Besides, her eyes aren't very strong. Let her keep worrying — I'm sick. My head is sharper than ever before, but my body is fading. Let me continue with the concept of meaning; I'm enjoying thinking about it. What I fear most is that I'll die before I finish.

Let me explain it this way. Eating, drinking, breathing, running, sleeping, sitting, wagging my tail, being affectionate, having my head patted, barking, growling… Putting all these together already reveals the meaning of a dog's life. That is, meaning is nothing more than the sum of what is done and the complex network formed by the connections among them, just like farming or doing math. The meaning of the existence of all complex systems is nothing but the sum of the elements that compose them and the visible or invisible paths connecting those elements. Isn't human life just the sum of the actions they perform? Does life have some secret meaning that I don't know about, that humans don't talk about when a dog is present? No! They live because they were born, and so do we. They struggle for good food, enjoyable times, a healthy life, and so do we. They want to have children and pass on their genes to the next generation, and so do we. I don't understand all this fuss. Every living thing lives its life meaningfully anyway. They live as they should, neither less nor more. The tales you invented afterward, the stories you imported from outside and gave a domestically produced veneer — they don't give life meaning; on the contrary, they steal the meaning of life and put in its place tools to facilitate the exploitation of others. You believe in fairy tales about life after death or before birth, kill each other, shed blood for others, and think your life gains meaning this way. I wish you could be as smart as animals, that you could use your highly developed brains not to produce baseless meanings, but to make efficient use of what exists. But no — when it suits you, you're the most evolved being, the most intelligent creature, the most creative mind. Yet when you look at your state in the world and the harm you do, many animals say, "I'm glad I'm not human." Because being human means being more royalist than the king himself, being human means a never-satisfied search for meaning that destroys your own species, other animals, and other non-animal creatures that can never be replaced. The consciousness of humans becoming so selfish and seeing themselves as the chosen beings of the universe is nothing other than the suicide of evolution, the death of the historical mechanism that produced that consciousness. Write that down somewhere. Let that be a small lesson from Tokjai, the old and veteran dog, to humanity that has lost its way. All flaws begin with humans seeing their own intelligence as absolute intelligence. Yet human intelligence is just one of millions of possible forms of intelligence. Humans are not the smartest, most supreme, or most agile — they are just different.

"He's not behind the trees in the hollow either. I looked in the concrete gap under the guest rooms. He hasn't gone under the car. I even looked inside the house in case he'd gone in — but no. You don't think he went into the barn, do you? No, don't be silly! What would he be doing in the rice barn? Besides, the barn door is locked — how would he get in? I looked under the barn, but I didn't see him. Wait, let me look again."

Am I going too far? On the contrary, we're just beginning. Let's look at Tossapol's second claim. What was it? Dogs have no consciousness. How do you know? Or rather, how did you arrive at that conclusion? Using your own consciousness, right? What does that mean? It means my consciousness denies the existence of yours because mine is superior. That is, I have absolute consciousness, or there is an absolute consciousness and I somehow carry it inside my brain. All consciousnesses other than mine are either hierarchically weaker or dismissed because their existence cannot be proven. I can ignore the boastfulness in this claim, but I cannot ignore its logical impasse. Humans know very well that the genetic difference between them and chimpanzees is less than 2%. That is, with a 2% addition or change, a chimpanzee can become human. Let's indulge in a little fantasy and add another 2% to the 100% human. Let's call this 102% human a "tuman" for clarity. Could we stop this tuman from looking at 100% humans the same way contemporary humans look at chimpanzees? When tumans start experimenting on humans kept in their homes, and start looking down on their consciousness, won't humans object? They will, but because they can't surpass the intelligence of tumans, and because they don't speak the tumans' superior, convoluted, multi-layered, complex language, their rebellion won't amount to anything. Worse, tumans will study human behavior, prepare reports, and announce to each other via communication devices of a sophistication humans can't fathom — how instinctual, mechanical, and devoid of tuman-like feelings and rationality human behavior is. Because for tumans, understanding the meaning of life — tuman life — is only possible by being tuman, and living beings other than tumans cannot grasp the meaning of life. Of course, here the tumans, just like humans, would make the mistake of imposing the meaning of their own lives on others. Since the superior mechanism they call tuman consciousness belongs only to them, they will see themselves as superior to all other living beings. They will acquire strange habits to add meaning to their lives that no other living beings' mental powers can reach, and they will attribute the inability of other beings to understand those habits to their low intelligence, lack of consciousness, or at best, the meaninglessness of their lives. Looking at humans, the tumans will make the same mistakes that humans make when looking at other beings. The problem of the meaning of life will occupy the tumans' minds just as it occupies humans' today. Tumans will engage in serious debates; those who choose Path A to assign meaning will wage war on those who choose Path B. Path C and D will ally to try to defeat B. Path D will be smarter, offering strategic support to A but not standing by them in peacetime. This hubbub will continue for a long time. That is, while humans continue living their ordinary lives, they will find the tumans' meaningless quarrels unnecessary, irrational, even stupid. Just as the pet cat of a man reading the newspaper finds his master's behavior every morning pointless, humans will see tuman behavior as equally empty and foolish.

"Aha, there you are! How did you get so far back there? Come on, get out and walk around a bit. Stretch your legs. The vet recommended you move. The wound will get more infected if you stay still. You haven't moved since lunch — you've been sleeping nonstop. It's hard to tell if you're dead or passed out! Look, Tossapol is here. Until he leaves, my mind will be on you. Come on, get up, get up. Come on, Tokjai!"

She pokes me with a long iron rod. First, I growl but soon give up this irritating attitude. She means well — as always, she's on my side. Leaning heavily on my numb legs, I slowly get up. I pass through the rusty, dusty items — this is the only place in the house whose smell hasn't changed in fourteen years — and put my feet on the ground that the sun has been beating down mercilessly since morning. The air has cooled a bit, but it's still very hot. I can feel Mother standing beside me. She laughs by herself, murmuring at the same time. The bittersweet joy she's feeling splits every word she says like a knife splitting a watermelon in half. I sense that she's both happy and unhappy at the same time. Both at peace and uneasy at the same time.

"Come on, Tokjai, go toward the front of the house. Look, Tossapol is cutting the grass. You love the sound of the lawnmower. Wander around a bit, drink some water from the duck-shaped pot by the garden gate, pee by the wall, bark a few times… Do these things so I know you're still being Tokjai. Do them so that your exhaustion and silence wear less heavily on our hearts."

---

[1] Iced milk tea. 

The Last Day of Tokjai (3)

  

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.

Yer Üstünden Notlar: The Last Day of Tokjai (4)

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[1] In Thai language, it is common for a person to mention themselves as a third person.

[2] Spicy papaya salad

The Last Day of Tokjai (2)

  

2. Let Your Name Be Tokjai!

 

Tossapol was a university student back then. I'm talking about fourteen and a half years ago. He found me in the bushes in the cafeteria garden and decided right away to take me in. I was about three or four months old. I was awfully cute, like the white of an egg. Boil an egg, peel it, and put three black dots on it — there you have baby Tokjai. How could Tossapol's soft heart resist such adorableness? He melted right there in front of me, mixed into the heat of the asphalt, vanished on the spot. But while he melted, many people didn’t. One of them was the dormitory's tyrannical matron. You could kill her, but she still wouldn't let a dog past the student dormitory door. Tossapol pleaded until he was hoarse, but he couldn't convince her. So, he had no choice but to leave me in the garden. He tied me to a tree with a very long rope and made a makeshift shelter to protect me from the rain. I was there day and night. He never missed giving me food and water. He came at lunchtime to check on me. If he was going to hang out with friends in the evening, he'd stop by before sunset to feed me. He seems indifferent, but Tossapol is responsible; his mind won't rest if there's a task awaiting his attention. You could even say I had a hand in making him so responsible. What? Why are you surprised? Surely, you're not hearing for the first time that the transformed can one day transform their transformer! Anyway, let's not get into heavy topics. If we dive in, we won't surface again. So yes, I stayed in the garden, tied to a tree, under a little arbor.

The other students living in the dorm gradually took an interest in me too. I quickly became everyone's dog. Sometimes I'd go up to Tossapol's room hidden under his T-shirt, but I couldn't stay the night. He was so afraid someone would complain. And he wasn't wrong — even the slightest disturbance could be grounds for him to be kicked out of the dorm. Though being in the garden was more advantageous for me — an unparalleled opportunity to understand life and observe humans. I learned one by one who was friend and who was enemy. I barked a lot with my thin little voice, wagged my tail, and made myself liked by every passersby. My rope was long, so I often forgot I was tied to a tree. My brain wasn't developed enough yet to question whether that was good or bad. My food was always in front of me, and so was everything that wasn't food! My life consisted of sleeping, eating, and circling the garden. In short, I was happy — if being loved doesn't make a living creature happy, what else could? There was just one problem — a big problem, not just a little big, but a very big problem…

There are many stray dogs on campus. They're everywhere because they know university students love to share their food and affection. Wherever there's shade or a street vendor, several of my kin are sure to be stationed. The dogs here fill their bellies one way or another. So new dogs keep coming to campus until an equilibrium is reached. By "equilibrium," I mean: you'll go hungry, and when you find food, you'll pounce on it. No one dies of starvation, but no one gets fat either. If there's enough food to make some dogs fat, new dogs inevitably enter the campus from outside. That reduces the per capita food supply. If famine threatens, the weak — especially newborns, the elderly, and the sick — die, and the per capita food supply increases. Still, it's a more comfortable environment than outside the campus because the walls around the campus act as a deterrent to outsiders. In short, because the internal equilibrium point is slightly higher than the external one, the inside is more attractive.

Anyway, one day I'm eating the boiled rice that Tossapol put in front of me, mixed with broth from the meat-and-noodle soup, along with small pieces of meat. My tongue is practically dancing in the soup, my nose drunk on the smell of meat — if I didn't rein in my short legs, I'd fall right into the bowl. Even if the world collapsed on my head at that moment, I wouldn't care — that's how lost in it I was. And right then, a black shadow appeared beside me. What's this? A huge black dog. He'd come right up next to me and was eyeing my food. Do I look like an idiot? I barked, but he couldn't care less! And my voice is so tiny — maybe I should say I "yelp." This dark monster relies on his size. I walk toward him — he retreats a couple of steps, but that's it. He knows I can't do any harm to him. Even if I hop and jump, I can't reach his neck. I looked around to see if anyone would help, but there's no one in sight. It's between eight in the morning and eleven — the time when students are most numerous, but the campus is emptiest. But I don't give up — even though I'm small, I can still protect my food. I keep growling, showing my teeth, running toward this black dog to strike fear into his pitch-black heart. And then, suddenly, I feel a sharp pain in my scruff, my feet leave the ground, and the world starts spinning around my head. My barks are replaced by high-pitched screams that sound like a baby crying. Yipe, yipe, yipe… It hurts so much. The first time in my life I'm bitten, the first time a stranger's teeth pierced my flesh. How was I supposed to know what pain felt like, how was I to know it could kill me? The black dog flings me to the other corner of the garden. Thank goodness for my rope. I can't go too far, but when I hit the ground, my head feels strange anyway. It's as if all my strength has been drained, the blood in my veins froze, my muscles became rigid. My head is on the ground; blood seeping from behind my ears mix with the dirt. I see the black dog then — he's gobbling down my food. I hear him smacking his lips as he happily swallows the meat, watching him twist his tongue like a snake, leaving not a scrap of meat in the bowl. Then everything slowly went dark. At first, I thought it was early evening, but it's not — it's something else. It's as if the dog in front of me grows so huge that he swallows me, the garden, the entire campus. Everything goes pitch black. Such utter darkness that even with my eyes open, I can't see a thing.

When I open my eyes, I'm in Tossapol's room. There are five or six students around, all in shorts and shirtless. In the corner, a fan is humming, its drone grating on my ears. One of the students is playing guitar; two are humming a song whose lyrics they don't fully know. One is by the window preparing his instant noodles. The others' voices come and go — they're joking among themselves. My eyes are open, but I can't walk. My legs won't hold me. I noticed then the white cone around my neck. Is it to keep me from looking behind me, I wonder, or is that black dog still… No, no — what would a dog be doing here with Tossapol nearby? The top of my head is incredibly itchy. I try to scratch it with my back paw but can't. The slippery plastic surface of the cone keeps me from reaching the itchy spot. I try rubbing my head on the ground — still can't. I flip over, hoping the top of the cone might touch the itch and relieve it a little. No — this thing around my neck is so rigid. It's not some flimsy thing made from unused kitchen odds and ends; it's clearly designed to stop me from touching my wound with my paws. But I don't give up — I wiggle around desperately where I lie, hoping it might help, that I might just reach that spot on my head.

Tossapol lifts me into the air when he sees me spinning circles on the ground with my rear. "It's time to give you a name," he says in a gentle voice. The festive tone in his voice confuses me. So, the situation is better than I thought. Meaning this pain, this dizziness, this party of fleas on my head… Are these signs of improvement, or am I dying and Tossapol, in a last effort, trying to fool me? "Were you very scared of that black dog?" he asks. Scared? I don't know fear — I never have and never will. I was a little startled when I first saw that big, dark menace, that's all. Wouldn't anyone freeze if someone two or three times their size suddenly appeared beside them? Anyone in my place would have turned to stone. The guitar-playing kid says, "Put the animal down. Look, the poor thing's in shock." Tossapol puts me down. I push myself, trying to stand, leaning on my trembling knees, but I'm dizzy. I take a couple of staggering steps — I look like the crabs I would later see at the seaside, emerging to greet the evening sun. I fell immediately. "Let your name be Tokjai[1]," he says. "Since you were so frightened, since you were so scared shitless." The guitar-playing kid stops. "What did you say? Tokjai? Really?!" Tossapol nods slightly. He lifts me back up to face level and looks into my eyes, which I can barely keep open. "Yes, his name is Tokjai from now on." They laugh — I don't know if it's at the strangeness of my name or at my eyes, loosened by the anesthesia. They laugh; my stomach churns. They roar with laughter, and in me, waves rise. Then a force pushes at my gut — a scoop pressing from my stomach to my throat and then to my mouth, tearing out everything inside me… I spasm and vomit all over Tossapol's bare chest.

The laughter intensifies; the walls of the room seem to close in on me. "First Tokjai, now we're also grengjai[2]," I say to myself. Tossapol stands there as if unsurprised. Not the slightest complaint shows on his face. He pulls a tissue from a box under the bunk bed and cleans the yellow vomit trickling down his chest. "The vet said he might vomit — it's from the anesthesia." One of the students handed me a wide cushion. "Here, lay your Tokjai down on this. If you keep lifting him in the air and shaking him like a toy, this is what you get. Let the animal sleep. He has stitches on his head. He won't fully be awake for at least twelve hours." I lay on the cushion and then fall in sleep — a deep, unbroken sleep. Dreamless, waveless; I drift for hours in a deep burgundy void, as if lightly brushing against the softness of velvet. The cone stays on my head for a week, and it's a good thing. Because of it, my wound doesn't get infected, and I heal quickly. After that, the barking and running resumed. The matron lets me stay in the dorm. It turns out she saw my tiny body lying in blood on the ground, and as soon as she saw me, she took me to the vet in her own car. Then she gave Tossapol strict instructions: "I'll pay the vet fee. Don't worry. Raise the puppy in your room from now on. As long as no complaint reaches the university rector's office, I'll protect you. I don't think anyone will complain anyway. Just don't let him bark at night. This animal can't live in the dormitory garden. He got lucky today and survived, but if other dogs attack him tomorrow, we won't be able to save him. Look how that raging dog's teeth pierced your little dog's tiny head!"

That's how it happened. Almost fifteen years have passed since that incident. I remember all the details as if they happened yesterday. The trick isn't remembering — it's being able to tell yourself, to make yourself accept your own weaknesses and stupidities. Looking at the Tokjai of years ago, not belittling him, not scolding him, trying to understand the decisions he made. That's the sincerity every confession to oneself must have; otherwise, voicing memories loses its value. As they drift from reality, they become meaningless and turn into empty talk. If I'd brought these memories to mind ten years ago, I might not have been able to recall much. I would have been ashamed of myself, of what I lived through, afraid that the charisma of Tokjai, who once commanded everyone in this village with his power and authority, would be scratched. But now I'm old, in my "I don't care about anyone" phase. I have no authority to lose, no charisma to scratch. So, for me, the shy postures of young girls who tug at their swimsuits the first time they go to the beach, poisoning their day with the worry "Is this too revealing?" — that's long behind me. Because one of the most important things I've learned in my fifteen years of life is this: the cause of shyness, victimhood, and touchiness isn't the places that are exposed and visible to others. It's what you hide. Those who have nothing to hide, who don't nurse an ego ready to be crushed, who aren't bothered to see themselves as ordinary — they have nothing to be ashamed of, victimized by, or offended about. Yet it seems I needed to grow older, to have life roll over me, to realize this truth. Some lessons aren't learned just by observing, listening to people, or dozing in front of libraries. The price is high. You pay once, and the veil lifts from your eyes. After that, you spend the remaining hours of your life thinking you're different from others, imagining that your future tomorrows will be better than your past yesterdays. And you don't live long after learning some truths. You can't — some truths are too heavy; you can't carry them for long…

"Tokjaaaiii, Tok Tok Tok… Where are you?"

They're calling me. I think the meal is over. Though it's probably not. Father eats faster than everyone. While the others continue eating, he comes to me, fills my bowl, and pats my head. I should go now — enough nostalgia. Life can't handle sentimentality, but for some reason, the older I get, the more I enjoy digging up the past. Every scent in my nose, every sound filling my ears corresponds to a second, a moment of my fifteen-year life. Today's episode was because of the magnolia tree beside me. Its trunk is outside the garden, but its branches hang over inside, shedding onto this spot everything beautiful about it. Whenever it drops its flowers, it drags me back to the unageing past, breaking down the locked doors of memories. There was also a magnolia tree in the garden where the black dog bit my head. Yes, now I remember. I'd admire its thick branches spreading from its huge trunk, watching with wonder this tree's majestic posture defying gravity.

"Tokjaaaiii, come on, my baby. Your food is ready. Look, the ants will eat it if you don't."

 Yer Üstünden Notlar: The Last Day of Tokjai (3)

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[1] Tok means “fall or drop”, jai means “heart”. Tokjai means “shock of fear such that the heart fell off”.

[2] Being embarrassed. In the Thai language, there are so many words that include the word jai (heart). Deejai (happy), Jaidee (kind), Jairai (aggressive) etc…

The Last Day of Tokjai (1)

                    

1. Homecoming 

"Haven't you died yet, Tokjai?"

He thinks I didn't hear, but I did. Just because my eyes don't see doesn't mean my ears don't hear! Quite the opposite: since my eyes can't see, my ears work even better. I can hear everything, from the rustle of a falling leaf to the crackle of dry grass under the sneaky chickens' feet as they slip into the garden. "Haven't I died yet?" Ha! Look at yourself, you Bangkok baby! He blurted out this ominous word the moment he stepped through the garden gate and saw me in such a disheveled state. Of course, I barked! Why wouldn't I bark? Wouldn't you be angry if someone said something so tactless and tasteless to you? Wouldn't you shout, wouldn't you raise a ruckus? And my reaction isn't even out of anger; it's out of disappointment — or rather, the possibility of betrayal by an old friend I considered as closest to me. I know he's joking, that he isn't being serious, or at least that he said it in a moment of excitement! Maybe he's even thinking of my well-being — who in this world doesn't want good for others! Everyone wants good, yet the world is overflowing with evil. So, wanting isn't enough! People just don't understand this. They think that if your intentions are good, you'll spread goodness into the world, that happiness will ripple across the earth because of you, all problems will be solved, and love will conquer the hearts darkened by hatred. But you need to use the right method, the right tone, the right steps; you must turn your back on all guides except the truth… Above all, you must be patient, stubborn, and careful. Even I, in my dog's state, am aware of this. Unfortunately, Tossapol isn't very different from other people. The tools he uses and the way he uses them are flawed — what can he do? He's condemned to the usage of language, that inadequate adjutant so prone to misuse.

We dogs don't have the problem of being misunderstood. Why? Because we communicate perfectly with our tails, our heads, our tongues, our paws and noses when needed, our teeth and eyes when needed. Only with each other? No, we communicate well with all other animals, including humans. That's why we never do anything that would require us to apologize. Humans, on the other hand, trust their intellect far too much and can never accept the rusting of their natural abilities, which grow stumpier each day from disuse. So, they make blunder after blunder, most of the time not even realizing their tactlessness, and their hurtful words go unpunished.

 "Why do you talk like that, son? Tokjai will be sad! Especially these days…"

Thank goodness the mother rushed over immediately, choking off that sentence as if shoving a dirty, rusty rag into his mouth. Women — especially those who have given birth — are more sensitive to pain. Even if they can't help, they don't fail to respect those who suffer, lessening the pain. That's what I've learned in all my years of life. Unlike men, who turn pain into a point of pride, women chew the thorn when necessary and swallow whatever belongs to the past. Because they realize very early that pain is inevitable. They know all too well what it means to carry a life, what hardship the one who gives birth endures to bring a life into the world. They also know that no scientific truth can console a mother who has lost her child. Because they know…

"Oh, come on, Mom! I'm joking. What's up, Tokjai? How many years has it been, two or three?"

Not two, not three! This fool was here last year. He even brought a girl along with him, a jasmine-scented, thin-voiced, tiny, timid thing. I kept sneezing, then moved away toward the back of the garden. Now the girl isn't with him. I haven't caught her scent or her voice. Is she still in the car, maybe? I doubt it! What would she be doing in the car in this heat? So, they've split up. How many is this now, Tossapol? And you people accuse us dogs of promiscuity. Because we're animals, we have no morals, we can't restrain our bodily desires, right? At least we make babies, returning to nature what we take from it. You humans spend your time amusing your heart, passing the time, wasting resources. Worst of all, those who can't even do that accuse those who can of surrendering to "animal instincts" with such ridiculous charges! I mean, bravo!!! You're both guilty and powerful.

"Let me see, has your surgery wound healed? Ooooh, the wound has healed, but you still stink to high heaven, Tokjai. Fifteen years have passed, and you haven't bathed once."

He's talking about the tumor on my left front leg. The vet removed that calcified tissue with surgery last year. I was limping back then, but I surprised everyone by healing completely — most of all Tossapol. He must have heard on the phone that I'd healed, so now he's pretending in front of me. Fine, let him do his human flattery; I'll teach him a lesson when the time comes. Though I've grown quite old now. I've become indifferent to such small faults. I no longer get angry at the stray dogs loitering in front of the garden gate, nor do I chase the chickens that sneak in from the neighboring garden. Was I like this in my youth? When I barked, the roof of the neighbor's chicken coop would collapse. The road in front of the garden would instantly narrow, and those stray dogs would look for holes to flee into. Now I've even come to miss my own voice — it's like almost forgetting how a healthy organ felt after it's been injured and unused for a long time. Ahhh, old age! All the world's hubbub, with its vibrant colors, parades before me, and I just stand aside, content to watch all this beauty. I don't lift a paw to join the game. I just watch; a rigid remorse settles inside me, and the pains enveloping my body stab into my bones as if taking revenge for all the things I didn't do in my past life.

Then there are the jealousy fits that have been cropping up lately. If I don't go mad before I die, that'll be a miracle. Is it easy to leave the village to these inexperienced, work-shy, idle, ungrateful dogs? I hobble around here, perform my guard duties without fail even when I'm sickest, wander the garden whose every corner I know by heart without bumping into a single tree despite my blind eyes, share in all this family's troubles in good times and bad — and before I've even died, these three or four mangy mutts of unknown origin try to claim the garden and divide up my inheritance? No way! At least until I die, until I'm buried in the nicest corner of the garden, until a rickety fence — even if just made of tree branches — is built around me, I won't give up my soil. I'm aware they're waiting for me to die with bated breath, so that dawn can break for these marauders, right? Let them come and pee on the bushes in front of the house if they dare. I'll make them regret not just invading my home but also being brought into the world as dogs.

"You know Tokjai's condition, son. The vet came last month. He said there's no way of saving him. It's cancer — even surgery can't help now. He's gotten too old. Look, all the dogs from his time are dead, even the puppies they gave birth to are dead, but Tokjai is still alive. He holds the title of the village's oldest dog ever, and he won't give that title up easily."

Yes, the tumor from last year healed completely, but afterward a huge wound formed where my right back leg joins my tail. It wasn't the same vet who'd done the surgery, but his assistant who came this time. A young girl who smelled strongly of soap and whose body I imagined to be as slender as her voice. She gave me medicine, but it hasn't done any good. The wound keeps growing, and the area I need to lick with my tongue keeps expanding. Even though I can't see it, I can guess the wound's size and how disgusting it must look to outsiders. The father — Tossapol's father — applies the medicine every morning and evening, and I growl at him a little because it hurts. The medicine numbs the wound so I can't feel that part of my body for a while. Also, they think I don't know, but I notice them putting painkillers in my food. I sleep constantly after meals — not just a little, but for hours on end, soundly. I wake up when the painkiller wears off. Then more food, more sulfur-smelling powder on the wound, my whimpering bark like a fussy child, the medicine taking effect, and another long, deep sleep. That's how boring the cycle of old age is. Whether you're a dog or a cat, even a human — it doesn't change. Don't I know death? Grandmother passed away right here in this house. That poor woman suffered so much from her liver. Medicines, needles, pains, aches, moans, doctors, that gloomy atmosphere that settled over the house after death… At least Grandmother had her children by her side. I will die alone — maybe Mother and Father will be nearby. My greatest wish now is to breathe my last while listening to their everyday conversations, even from a distance. Yes, let them talk about ordinary daily tasks when I die. I don't know, something like, "It hasn't rained in a long time; if the water level in the dam drops any lower, the rice in the fields will be ruined." And the other, "The neighbor's daughter will be riding on the water buffalo cart at the Pomelo Festival." Let them even have fun, play music, sing songs. Let Tossapol's young uncle drink beer and sing his favorite Isan[1] songs with his raspy voice. While they're talking about such things, answering death in the most beautiful way with joy and dancing, I'll quietly close my eyes and take my last breath. I'll slip away into nothingness like a guest who no one noticed arriving or whose departure is only realized long after.

"Well, fine then, Mother, let's just give him poison and let him die quickly. Isn't that better for poor Tokjai? Look at him! His suffering grows worse every day."

No, he didn't say those words. He couldn't have said them! Even if he did, it doesn't matter much, because he couldn't do it. Humans are like that — they love empty talk. Challenging, threatening, making plans, dreaming, deceiving others. They need to make plans to feel good about themselves, to prove to themselves that they can do something worthwhile. Let alone Tokjai, his companion of fifteen years — he couldn't even kill a grasshopper that jumped into his lap. Look how much he loves me. His fingers stroking the top of my nose, so soft, like the careful touch of someone trying not to wrinkle a silk shirt. With the nails of his other hand, he cleans the gunk from my eyes. What a beautiful feeling this is, how pleasurable — I can't describe it. Our friendship, which hasn't diminished over the years, hasn't lost its intensity, and grows inversely with distance. What human can emerge victoriously from a love constantly tested by distance without losing anything? We dogs are different — we have a love that ignores time and space. He touches the top of my head with his palm from time to time, stroking my fur backward. His voice trembles when he speaks, like a student unsure of his answers in an oral exam. I know, I know it well! I've gone with Mother to school many times. Until she retired, we left the house together every morning and returned together the same way in the evening. She taught, and I dozed either by the classroom door or under the desk at the very back. Sometimes I didn't doze off — I listened to the lesson. I watched the children most of all — how they went to the board and answered all the questions excitedly, how they shouted out together, the immense happiness spreading across their faces when they got praise from Mother — it all made me happy.

"Would such a thing be right, son? He's been our dog for fifteen years; he's part of the family. How could we take his life with our own hands? Don't you know what a great sin it is to take a life? Just because you live far from your family and do business with foreign companies in the big city, have you forgotten the most basic principles of our religion? If that's the case, come to the temple once in a while. The new young abbot explains beautifully how we should live our lives, giving examples from the Buddha's life and adapting them to our modern times. He's been abroad, and because he explained Buddhism to foreigners, he simplifies everything, choosing his examples carefully. Come, you won't regret it!"

She pulls her hands away from my head, and I remain motionless in the same spot. My tail, like a car wiper running out of power, starts to stutter, then stops. Maybe Tossapol is quite serious in his words; maybe he really did come here to kill me. In his mind, he'll ease my pains, save me from my suffering. But he doesn't know that my deepest suffering is leaving this family, this village, this house, and the children who pass by the front of the house on their way to school. How it wrenches my heart to know that the coolness the rain brings will still make the village dogs happy after I'm gone. Yes, even when I'm not here, the morning sun will warm the delicate bodies of the sleeping dogs; even when I'm not here, village children will pedal their bicycles to school; even when I'm not here, Aunty Pim will come with his plastic bags full of khao dom muts[2]. I wonder, will they ever say, "There used to be a white-furred, beautiful, sweet dog here"? They won't! When even humans are forgotten after two or three generations, what is this longing in me? What am I so worked up about? And does this idiot think it's easy, my illness? Is my loyalty to the Patthanachai family being tested by such pains? Does he think it's easy for me to go out the garden gate, barely make it to the spot where I always pee, leave my scent there, and then return to the garden without anyone noticing my blindness? Is it easy to leave Mother and Father alone in this huge house? Why do humans always center themselves when thinking about the living beings around them? Tossapol thinks I need his pity and can't live without his help. But what about the reverse? Can you live without me? You tried once, and you saw you couldn't. Now as the inevitable day approaches, the fear that those days will repeat grips Mother and Father. Tossapol is young, so he doesn't know the anxiety of being left alone, but Mother and Father… There's only one Tokjai in this world. If he departs, what will become of you?

"Well, Mother, is this really better? Look, it's not just Tokjai suffering — you two are having a lot of trouble too. I love Tokjai as much as anyone, but it breaks my heart to see him like this. Look at that wound — soon there'll be maggots breeding in it. Maybe they've already bred and we just can't see them! There's already blood pooling around the edges, like a lily pad shriveled in the middle of a marsh, dripping onto the concrete drop by drop."

I hear footsteps. Father walks past us with bags in his hands. He rarely speaks; he knows these conversations are a waste of time. The garden gate closes. They haven't brought the car inside yet. I wonder why? Slowly, I'll withdraw to a corner. The family is together; they have much to talk about. Mother will surely ask Tossapol about that girl. Father is also unhappy. "Come back to the village, take care of the fields," he says, but Tossapol's head is in the clouds. Would he ever come back to the village? In Bangkok, he has air-conditioned bedrooms, offices with white plaster ceilings, living rooms whose walls aren't prowled by insects, bugs, and various reptiles on their evening hunt. And why would a sensible young man leave behind the fair-skinned, well-groomed girls of the big city to return to the village? What would he do in the village? Hang out with the dark, skinny village girls whose greatest dream is to find a foreign husband and leave not only the village but Thailand itself? Doesn't he know that life here isn't for him? Is that return only possible when the fire of life begins to lose its flame? Life in the village is like an infection that never heals, seeping into the skin like hot, sticky pus, boiling away there. Inertia isn't a choice; it's nature's domination over humans. Once the drought sets in, the villagers' state is no different from frogs floundering in a dry riverbed. Idleness so enslaves the young that, with no work to do, they find solace in mischief, alcohol, and, rarely, drugs and violence. What can Tossapol do in this desperate place where everyone except the elderly and children dreams of the big cities?

"Leave Tokjai alone now. Go wash your hands thoroughly with soap in the sink. It rained this morning; all the pots are full to the brim. Then we'll eat. Don't worry about Tokjai either. We take care of him; we manage somehow. Where has it ever been seen to grow old without pain? If we killed everyone who suffers, no living thing would remain in this world. He'll live with us until his appointed time comes. When death separates him from us, we'll bury him in the corner of the garden."

The voices grow sparse, turning into intermittent murmurs from a distance. Only Tossapol remains by my side now. On the other side of the garden, where the tables and chairs are, they eat three times a day. After meals, they give me the mash they make from the leftovers. Since Mother's retired teacher's pension and Father's income from the rice and sugar cane fields all over the village bring in good money, they eat meat-heavy meals, and naturally, I get good leftovers. Compared to the other dogs in the village, I'm very lucky. That's why the vet says I've survived all these years, shrugging off every illness I've caught and even maintaining my weight, thanks to this food. In all my years, the number of times I've lost my appetite and refused the food put before me is less than the fingers on one human hand. In this way, Mother compares me to her son. Sometimes she quietly comes over while I'm eating and watches me admiringly. I can feel her breath, her affectionate gaze; as I lick the bottom of the bowl, I sense the satisfaction mixed into her quiet happiness. "He eats just like Tossapol," she sometimes says, "smacking his lips, rudely, as if he hasn't had a single bite in a week…"

"Okay, Mom, I'm coming. What is that heavy smell? It must be from his wound. It'll be hard until I get used to it."

When he too leaves my side, I sniff the ground and find the swing set up by the mango tree. The shade beneath it never disappears; this spot is cool all day. Sitting down hurts a little — when I bend my leg, my wound screams, like a broken bone being stepped on. To lessen the pain, I shift my body weight to my front legs and squat down slowly, stretching my back leg. After my chin touches the ground, I slightly bend my back leg and move into a lying position. After they've eaten, they'll call me. Until then, I'll listen to the sounds of cars and motorcycles passing by. These sounds are good for me — for my old age, and most of all, for the jealousy building up inside me. Silence is the worst; when it's quiet, I feel forgotten, tossed aside. Listening to the flow of life, knowing that despite my advancing age I'm still witnessing this flow — that's the most effective medicine for me. In the past, I barked at every passing motorcycle, jumped over the garden wall to chase cars, and chased the dust cloud behind a car until I reached the main road. Now I only bark at other dogs, and even that is low in intensity. I don't want them to see me — to know that my eyes don't see any longer, that my legs have lost their strength. Oh, those days — in my youth, I'd even confront dogs twice my size, challenge them fearlessly. Especially that black dog in Chonburi… Was it black? Yes, it was black, pitch black. How could I forget! Could I ever forget?

"Mom, there were mangosteens in the bag. A friend from the office gave them to me. He picked them from his garden. Let's not forget to eat them."

Voices come, laughter; everyone is happy, cheerful; there's a mountain of hope for the future at the table. When the son of the house comes, each person's share of total peace increases. There's a pleasant smell in my nose, something sweet, but I can't figure out what it is. From the barn in the side yard come the grunting sounds of pigs. A rooster crows in fits and starts, as if he has a bone stuck in his throat. A motorcycle passes the front of the house, kicking up a cloud of dust. The smell of dust fills my nostrils. Life flows like a river, diminishing and increasing. And here I am, on the damp soil, tongue out, eyes blind, waiting for the moment when the huge wound on my rump will grow and swallow me whole. I have no choice but to recall the old days. Whatever exists lies in the healing power of memories — the only pleasure of old age is being grateful that painful days no longer cause pain. Most of all, there was that moment when that huge black dog came at me, stared into my eyes with his venomous gaze, grabbed me by the scruff with his trap-like teeth, and lifted my feet off the ground…

"Okay, son, we'll eat the fruit after the meal. Come on, sit at the table now. It's almost two o'clock; we're all hungry. Besides, sit down and let's talk about that girl — what was her name?"

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[1] Northeastern Thailand

[2] A popular Thai dessert made of sticky rice, banana, and coconut milk. It is steamed-cooked in banana leaves.

Chapter 2: Yer Üstünden Notlar: The Last Day of Tokjai (2)

The Clock

 

He owed his reputation to the enormous wall clock he constantly carried under his arm. At first, those who saw him thought he was joking, or at least that he was simply moving the clock from one place to another. But as the days passed, it became clear that things were not at all as they appeared. Every morning he left his house with the clock under his arm, walked to every corner of the school with it, entered classrooms with it, placed it on the table before meetings and occasionally pretended to clean it, navigated the cafeteria with difficulty but confidently — a clock in one hand, a food tray in the other — and he never parted with his clock even when going to the bathroom. In the evenings, he would tuck the clock back under his arm and head home, books in one hand, dinner in the other.

Students had no trouble getting used to this surprising sight, because the clock-carrying teacher posed no threat to them. On the contrary, the whole thing could be considered a source of entertainment. In the early days, whenever students saw the teacher, they would pester him with remarks like "Sir, what time is it?" or "Excuse me, your hour hand has fallen off," but in time they grew accustomed to the normalcy of the situation. Besides, the teacher who walked around with a clock had no other particularly noteworthy qualities. The clock's effect — spreading like a contagious disease — had not changed the fact that the teacher was a beloved and respected person.

At first, the other teachers could do nothing but laugh helplessly. Because no one could bring themselves to ask this teacher why he constantly carried such a large clock. Eventually, when students couldn't remember the teacher's name, they would describe him as "You know — the one with the clock!" The name suited him so well that the other teachers and school administrators quickly adopted "the clock teacher" as well. Since the teacher also attended district-wide meetings with his clock, he soon began attracting attention beyond the school. On the day the district governor came to visit the school and stepped into his classroom for an inspection, he was met with the following unusual scene: when a student arrived late to class, the clock teacher first asked for the time. Upon determining that the student's watch was behind his own large clock, he set the student's watch forward to match his. Without asking any further questions, without allowing the student to fabricate excuses to defend himself, without even bothering to warn him not to be late again, he simply continued the lesson from where he had left off.

The governor watched all of this in astonishment, and at the end of class called the teacher over and asked the meaning of what he had witnessed. The teacher replied with two simple sentences: "The student's watch was running behind, so I corrected it. Isn’t it our duty as teachers to correct what is wrong?" And he said no more.

From that day on, no one asked questions about the clock, nor made jokes about it. The clock had become a part of the school. Perhaps because students now faced the same question every time they arrived late after the clock teacher appeared, — whether out of a little shame or a desire to flee the image of a "great witness" that the sheer size of the clock conjured — they began arriving to class exactly on time. The school principal, who had never started a single meeting on time in his life, now felt ashamed under the gaze of the great clock — a gaze that seemed to say "You're late again, sir!" — and had begun making efforts to start meetings on time and finish them as close to the promised hour as possible. The cooks and other staff who worked at the school became unable to work without a clock as their guide. Meals were not served before their time; the cafeteria was thus occupied only during set hours. The maintenance workers began driving hard bargains over the phone for supplies and equipment to be brought in from outside. If purchased materials were not delivered exactly on time, they resorted to threatening the supplier companies with paying as little as half the agreed price. Among those who benefited most from all this were the teachers responsible for discipline. Complaints had decreased visibly compared to the start of the school year, dropping to a level that could almost be considered nonexistent. Everyone at school was debating punctuality; those who used to arrive late to their appointments were now exactly where they needed to be, on time. The presence of the clock was spreading through every corner of the school — slowly, but with lasting force, like tea diffusing through hot water. People had suddenly found an impartial witness to the disputes among themselves. No one any longer recalled that, before the clock had entered their lives, mutual tardiness had been met with tolerance. In the past, even when someone arrived half an hour late to a meeting, people would consider it trivial and carry on as though nothing had happened. While people had once worn their watches merely as flashy accessories, now that the great clock had become a part of their lives, the colorful and showy bracelets on their wrists had transformed into small bosses who held sway over them, taking orders only from one great authority. All the other clocks in the school began falling under the dominion of this great clock, and every clock that adjusted its hour and minute hands to match it declared its submission to this irresistible force through the language of its posture.

Shortly thereafter, the lion emblem on the school's crest was removed and replaced with the image of a clock. The school's official seal had taken the form of a simple figure — its hands made of two pen strokes — with the inscription beneath it reading: "Punctuality is respect for humanity." Many teachers began using the date the Great Clock had appeared as a historical reference point when speaking of the past. Phrases like "My first son was born six months after the clock appeared" or "In the first quarter of our second year with the clock, he walked around school with his arm in a cast the whole time" became common phrases and were eventually standardized by the school principal. After a rule was introduced requiring a single clock to be used in all sporting competitions, the clock became a referee who could validate a goal scored in the final minute of a football match, or an inspector who could prove that the principal's tennis matches did not last more than three hours, as he himself claimed. These changes at the school were naturally observed from the outside with a mixture of wonder and satisfaction. So much so that at the end of the second year with the clock, the school was named the most punctual school in the province. Everyone knew that such an award category had been created solely for them, and yet this did not stop the wild celebrations that took place — within the limits the great clock permitted, of course. Fires were lit in the school courtyard; a photograph of the great clock taken at ten to two was hung everywhere. When the celebrations were brought to a close near ten o'clock in the evening at the clock's insistence, people rubbed their alcohol-blurred eyes, set their wrist watches one final time, and went home. No one yet knew of the miracle that would take place the following morning.

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That day, classes began as usual and ended as usual. Students, with the habit two years had ingrained in them, were in their classrooms exactly on time; the teacher had ended the lesson at the moment his clock told him it was time to go. No one would have noticed that, just as the clock teacher was leaving the classroom, a repairman's apprentice — who had clearly never heard of the great clock — had suddenly burst in while fleeing a giant hornet chasing him, and collided with the teacher, had they not heard the crash that followed the clock's fall to the floor and its shattering. Yes, the clock had fallen and broken. Shards of glass, pieces of spring, and tiny gears now littered the floor. The hour and minute hands had parted for the first time in a long while and scattered to different parts of the classroom, at a distance where they could not see each other. A great silence filled the room — a silence more disturbing, more maddening, more garrulous than even the most violent noise. It was clear this silence would not last long. The clock teacher was seen inside the school without his clock for the very first time. As if concealing the anger on his face, he immediately picked up a broom and began sweeping. The students rushed to help when they saw their teacher holding a broom. Within a few minutes, all the pieces of the clock had been consigned to the wastebasket. The teacher left the classroom in quick strides. Without the clock, the students were at a loss for a while as to what to do. So, what would happen now? The clock was broken — would there no longer be a "Mister Time" roaming the school with his enormous clock? Or would he go down to town today and buy a new one?

The teacher came to school the next day without a clock — and late. And not just him. The whole school was late. The principal moved the morning meeting to the evening without giving any reason, and announced this change of plan after the original meeting time had already passed. In the cafeteria, food began being served half an hour early. The cleaners swept and mopped at random hours. Students either didn't come to school that day or arrived late. And those who did arrive late, not knowing what to do in a place without a clock, first tampered with the settings of their own wristwatches, then wandered aimlessly around the school grounds — up and down, left and right — like a flock of sheep without a shepherd. It was as though everyone had woken from a long sleep. What kind of dream was this that had lasted a full two years? How could a school that had been ruled by a strange order for two full years change so suddenly, so quickly? The clock had broken, and everything had at once been condemned to clocklessness. For all this time, the people who had never asked what the clock meant now spent not a single second reflecting on this sudden change either. The chaos lasted a few days, but in the end gave way to an equilibrium that was worse than what had been before. A few people brought up the old days and dared to mention the "great clock," but were accused by the others of bringing back memories of those terrible times — even of being reactionary. Life drifted on as it had two years prior. At the end of that period, the clock teacher — his name had not changed after the clock broke — requested a transfer and left for another school in the north. The clock on the school's emblem remained just as it was. But in a school full of people who asked no questions and considered examining the past unnecessary or even a betrayal, one year later no one could remember why the image of a clock had been placed on the emblem at all.

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Ali Riza Arican - August, 2001 / Klaeng, Thailand