A Basketful Of Figs, cont'd.
Jun. 19th, 2009 10:32 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jolantruSomehow or rather, our family house has become an important “base”. I roll the word in my mouth: concrete, tasteless. Awful. Refugees turn up at our doorstep and Mother takes them in. Soldiers from the Army decide to set up a communications center, right smack in the middle of the courtyard, under the fig tree. They are sweet enough not to move their bulky metallic equipment around too much. The whole place reminds me of a marketplace. A sad marketplace, with no wares to be sold and with only stricken expressions, accompanied with jerky and pained body language, as people try to comprehend what is happening to them and around them. The words I hear are not delicious or savory words. I try to ignore them, but I end up tasting them, remembering them. It is pungent like the bitter dark herbal teas, composed of bark, root and other plant parts, that Mother makes all the time to alleviate disharmony and imbalance in bodily yin or yang. And as children, we always remember the bitterness most keenly.
I am put in charge of feeding the refugees and the displaced. Mother and First Aunt get up every morning to prepare the large pots of rice congee, adding only salt for taste and stirring it frequently so that it reaches a creamy consistency. The soldiers try to ensure a steady supply of rice for us and they help out too, carrying the bags of rice on their bronzed shoulders. They are all about my age, perhaps slightly older. University-age young men.
The fragrance of cooking congee seems to instill a sense of normalcy and routine. I dish out bowls of hot congee quietly and dutifully. It is a comforting pattern and people cling to patterns, especially when their worlds are thrown into chaos. While I hand the bowls out, I struggle with my own internal conflicts. I want to go to university and read botany. I want to do so many things. The war has affected us, put a stop to anything.
There is a young soldier by the name of Benjamin I end up talking to all the time. He is fresh-faced, his dark hair cut close to his skull. I notice his eyes: they are aquamarine. He speaks fluent Bahasa, a wonderful language that I relish and love, a gift from my Peranakan grandmothers. He is also the son of immigrants from immigrants. He speaks clear flowing Mandarin, the pu-tong-hua of the Chinese government. His words taste like magic.
When my chores are done, I would sit under the fig tree and he would come over to join me. We sip the hot congee slowly and pretend that there is no war, no danger. Just the soft rustle of fig leaves and bird song. It is firmly summer now and the heat permeates everything, even through clothes. I can see ripening fruit, singles, clusters of them, hanging on the tree. Would there be a basketful of figs this year?
“So you taste words?” Benjamin asks me, his eyes sparkling. Like the sea, I muse. His words are warm amber honey, smooth and fluid down my throat.
“Yes,” I reply, staring at the milky congee, unsure of what or how to feel. I might have come across to him as feminine. Indeed, I was born a girl. Yet, I feel more masculine inside. Perhaps, I am androgynous. Oh, all the conflicts of youth.
I am acutely conscious of his gaze.
“I think it is called synaesthesia ,” he says and I nod. The word tastes like lemon fizz on my tongue. He is trying to make small talk and in this tumultuous time, I welcome it.
Soon he is called away to man the communications equipment and I am left alone, under the sheltering tree.
~*~
Cass,
Oh my god, they just declared full-scale war. [BLOCKED COUNTRY NAME] is not going to relent, in spite of the UNAPC’s warnings. [ERROR] I can’t write a lot, because I think they are monitoring our messages. Not sure by who and which side though. [ERROR] [SCAN USER/SENDER]
This war is all screwy, unpleasant and disgusting. [ERROR]
Ash [CONFIRM USER/SENDER?]
I am put in charge of feeding the refugees and the displaced. Mother and First Aunt get up every morning to prepare the large pots of rice congee, adding only salt for taste and stirring it frequently so that it reaches a creamy consistency. The soldiers try to ensure a steady supply of rice for us and they help out too, carrying the bags of rice on their bronzed shoulders. They are all about my age, perhaps slightly older. University-age young men.
The fragrance of cooking congee seems to instill a sense of normalcy and routine. I dish out bowls of hot congee quietly and dutifully. It is a comforting pattern and people cling to patterns, especially when their worlds are thrown into chaos. While I hand the bowls out, I struggle with my own internal conflicts. I want to go to university and read botany. I want to do so many things. The war has affected us, put a stop to anything.
There is a young soldier by the name of Benjamin I end up talking to all the time. He is fresh-faced, his dark hair cut close to his skull. I notice his eyes: they are aquamarine. He speaks fluent Bahasa, a wonderful language that I relish and love, a gift from my Peranakan grandmothers. He is also the son of immigrants from immigrants. He speaks clear flowing Mandarin, the pu-tong-hua of the Chinese government. His words taste like magic.
When my chores are done, I would sit under the fig tree and he would come over to join me. We sip the hot congee slowly and pretend that there is no war, no danger. Just the soft rustle of fig leaves and bird song. It is firmly summer now and the heat permeates everything, even through clothes. I can see ripening fruit, singles, clusters of them, hanging on the tree. Would there be a basketful of figs this year?
“So you taste words?” Benjamin asks me, his eyes sparkling. Like the sea, I muse. His words are warm amber honey, smooth and fluid down my throat.
“Yes,” I reply, staring at the milky congee, unsure of what or how to feel. I might have come across to him as feminine. Indeed, I was born a girl. Yet, I feel more masculine inside. Perhaps, I am androgynous. Oh, all the conflicts of youth.
I am acutely conscious of his gaze.
“I think it is called synaesthesia ,” he says and I nod. The word tastes like lemon fizz on my tongue. He is trying to make small talk and in this tumultuous time, I welcome it.
Soon he is called away to man the communications equipment and I am left alone, under the sheltering tree.
~*~
Cass,
Oh my god, they just declared full-scale war. [BLOCKED COUNTRY NAME] is not going to relent, in spite of the UNAPC’s warnings. [ERROR] I can’t write a lot, because I think they are monitoring our messages. Not sure by who and which side though. [ERROR] [SCAN USER/SENDER]
This war is all screwy, unpleasant and disgusting. [ERROR]
Ash [CONFIRM USER/SENDER?]
