Escape
From suffocating familiarity to delightful unfamiliarity
One drop. Two drops. Three drops. Four…and I lose track.
Now it’s too many drops at once, on my arms and face. I like this a little too much. Who wouldn’t desire a moment of respite when life’s pressures seem stifling? Who wouldn’t thirst for a splash of water when you can’t feel the air in your lungs?
My house is brimming with relatives today — people I recognise but don’t really know—so many of them. I run out of breath, recalling their faces. Not to mention their delightful thoughts.
After squandering away all his money and trying to drink away his problems, one of them would comment on a high schooler who wants to be a singer, “Oh, how stupid to pass up the golden chance of getting into medicine! Science, technology, and law are excellent options, too. Your silly dreams are going to ruin your life.”
Another relative would reply, “The arts are pleasant indeed, but it’s impractical to pursue. My son wants to be a photographer. The other day, I made it clear — he can click pictures as a hobby after completing his maths degree and getting a job. His real talent lies in maths, you see. He could settle abroad with all the scholarships he has earned.”
The rest of the family would mentally orgasm over this fellow’s supposed bright future. But not without adding the feats of their children to the conversation — one of them stays awake all night to study; another doesn’t have any friends because bad company can ruin a girl’s character. The delightful dialogue in my extended family doesn’t end.
These days, delight is a foreign emotion to me. So I have come to this park. Sitting on this bench beside this lake is a relief. The sun has just set. This lake has a water fountain at its centre, with lights.
I can’t see it properly in the daylight. But it gets clearer as darkness slowly falls. The light keeps changing colours. It makes the water seem red; then it turns pink, orange, yellow, green, purple, blue, and back to red again. It’s nothing special. But I can’t seem to move my eyes.
I have so many thoughts, like the static on a cable TV. I don’t know what I am thinking; all the channels are playing simultaneously. Before I realise, it’s already seven in the evening. Everything is dark, except the lampposts on the busy street outside the park and this fountain inside.
I can hear street noise — cars honking, rickshaws and bicycles pedalling, people chattering, and shopkeepers arguing. None of that matters. The sounds seem distant; I can easily shut them out. Much like the static in my brain, there is so much of it that there might as well be nothing at all.
The park is busy, too. But none of these people know me. So they don’t care. They are sitting silently, gazing at the water, just like I am. They don’t glance at me sideways, wondering why I’m not speaking to them. They’re not curious about me. Here, I don’t matter. And that is truly delightful.
More people are here in this park, sitting on benches surrounding the lake, than there were back at home. Strangely, I feel more at ease here, among strangers. All of them are looking at the water and the changing colours of the light, but I know no one is really looking at that. Every person is thinking of something. I wonder what.
The breeze blowing from the opposite direction is sprinkling little drops of water from the fountain onto my face. I close my eyes and extend forward. It’s not enough to drench me, but I can feel the air and water all around. It’s like they’re here to caress and comfort me. I don’t get out much; I’m always cooped up in my room, peering over a novel or watching movies. Today, this park refreshes me.
From where I’m sitting, I can see a young girl standing at the edge of the lake, leaning on the railing. She is on the phone with someone. As she paces the pavement rapidly, my eyes draw to her. I wonder what she is escaping.
I have brought my phone and earphones so I can listen to loud music to drown out all other sounds, as I do back home. I thought there’d be more noise out here than at home, and there is, but I don’t feel like putting on earphones and listening to music today. Maybe it’s not the noise I dislike. Noise is impersonal; the sound of familiar people talking is not.
I unlock my phone and check the time — it’s half past seven. I lock it and put it back in my sling bag, along with the earphones. An old man and a little boy are sitting beside me on the bench. They’re probably related. The boy runs about. The man keeps an eye on him. He calls the boy, and he comes running back to his grandpa; it’s a game. They’re not escaping anything. So maybe it is just me.
I fancy a stroll. While walking around the lake, I keep close to the railing. The lake is oval-shaped. As I finish one complete round and get back to the bench I was sitting on, I see others have occupied it. There’s no space for me, so I keep walking.
I stand near the railing to feel the breeze and watch the fountain thrust water up into the air; it falls back down, only to be sucked in again. The history of this water intrigues me. It’s probably centuries old.
Maybe it once rested in an emperor’s palatial lake. On a scorching day, it evaporated into a fluffy white cloud; it travelled for ages until it reached a damp forest, where it came down as rain. The water fell on lush leaves and trickled to the ground, where it seeped into the soil. Making its way to the groundwater, it finally flowed into a river. After years, the water reached a dam where its flow was interrupted; it was stored in a reservoir as part of the town’s water supply, which was used to create this lake I’m witnessing today.
Maybe centuries later, someone like me will stand by a river in the hills. The same thoughts will occur to them. Some of the water from this lake may be flowing in the river in front of them, but they will never know. It’s wondrous how little things connect us. We can be linked to someone from the past or the future without ever knowing them.
My phone starts ringing. I know it’s Mom. After staring at the familiar number, I decline the call. I crave unfamiliarity right now.
It’s a quarter past eight. I have to get back home now. I stand there a while longer, staring blankly at the fountain. The deep blue light pierces through the water; its depth is endless. All my thoughts empty out while the blue takes over. I stand there until my mind is completely blue. Then the colour changes to red. I glance away.
Finally, I receive the call and start walking homeward.
Love my work? You can buy me a coffee to show your support. Because there’s nothing a writer loves more than coffee 😉
It's a quite a reflection piece on people's desperate ways to control future vs the immortality of water , how it flows not caring where it will end up because it might turn into rain but never not exist.