Bamboo, Breakfast, Beauty

He stares in awe at the beauty before him. It is a beauty so delicate and picturesque, and which he has come to associate with nature.

He stands humbled before the sky high bamboo stalks before him. They stand tall yet thin, delicate yet sturdy, intimidating yet welcoming. He suddenly feels no less intrigued nor bigger than his daughter who stands beside him, her hand clutched by his. The two stand silent for a moment, grateful for the gift presented to them.

It is early in the morning, not too long after dawn. The best time to witness the beauty of nature. Each stalk of the bamboo forest stands steadfast as a soldier, illuminated by the sun as if to glorify each soldier’s bravery. At last, the daughter breaks the trance, turning to her father with a smile.

“Pretty!” she exclaims, drawing out the word the way that young children love to. Her young father, only twenty-five, smiles down at her, his dimples coming into view.

“It is, isn’t it?” he agrees, glancing up once more at the sight before them. He is suddenly reminded of another lovely sight he had witnessed, back as a child in Morocco. He remembers a beautiful cave his father had taken him to see, hidden away by an endless array of flowers and greenery. He would be taking his daughter to that same cave, to Morocco, after spending a few days in Japan. With a slight pang of sadness, he wishes that his wife were alive and able to make the journey with them.

“Oh! I almost forgot” the man suddenly exclaims, turning to his daughter. “Grandma wants us to take some photos.” He reaches a hand inside his pocket to pull out his cellphone, but then pauses. With a smile, his eyes land on the camera strapped around the six-year old’s neck.

“On second thought, why not use the camera?”

The daughter looks down at the camera strapped around her neck, resting gently against her dress.

“I want to take the picture.”

“Go ahead."

With a carefulness that amuses her father, the girl places the camera in front of her eye, angles it, and snaps a photo. She hands the camera back to her father to take a look.

“Good?”

“Yes, very good!” her father beams at her, patting her on the head.

“Grandma will love it!”

The daughter beams back. Placing the camera around his own neck, the father asks, “Would you like to walk through the forest, now?” The girl nods eagerly.

Slowly, they make their way through the forest, absorbing every ounce of scenery around them like a sponge. The array of green stalks continues far from within view and the father wonders if there even exists an exit. There does.

At last, they come across a parting in the forest. The bamboo forest makes way for the visitors, and the sunshine in this area appears to be even more prominent. It peers through the gaps between the bamboo stalks like a young child playing hide and seek. The father and daughter emerge from the clearing and stop.

“What is that?” the daughter asks, pointing a dainty finger at something. Her father turns and to his surprise, a few metres ahead of them is a small, humble restaurant with a brilliant red roof. It is partially hidden by grass which stands taller than the man has ever seen before. His eyes land on the word “Sushi”, written in both Japanese and English. He spots a small sign attached to the door of the building, which reads, English Spoken Here.

The man frowns and reaches for the brochure in his pocket.

“Strange,” he murmurs, “I don’t remember this being on the map.” He pulls out the map and sure enough, the mysterious restaurant isn’t on it. He looks at his daughter who stares curiously at the restaurant.

“Are you hungry?” the father asks and the girl contemplates for a moment, then nods.

“Come on, then.”

The father carefully pushes open the door to the restaurant, uncertain as to what to expect.

He sniffs as he is greeted by an aroma of seaweed and rice. The sound of chopping knives against cutting boards echoes in the room. Boiling water bubbles over on the stove and he sees a man in a chef’s outfit go over to it. Another man calls out instructions in Japanese to the chef who nods. A second chef, the only non-Japanese worker, stands behind the counter. His hair is faint, grey and thin and completely gone in certain patches. He's got a chest-length beard, and appears to be the only non-Japanese worker in the room. Spying the father and daughter, the elderly man bids them over with a wave.

“Hello,” he says, revealing a surprising youthful array of teeth. “What can I get for you?”

“Hello there!” the father replies, staring up at the English menu printed on a placard on the wall.

“Hussain,”

The elderly chef turns to find one of the Japanese chefs is calling his name. Apologetic for the interruption, the Japanese chef asks Hussain a question. Hussain replies calmly in Japanese and the man nods.

Hussain smiles at the father and daughter. With a laugh, he says,

“For a second there, I almost forgot how to speak Japanese. It’s only my third language.”

“You speak it very well, my friend,” the father replies, returning the smile. “If you don’t mind me asking, do you also speak Arabic?”

Hussain stares at the father in surprise. “Yes, I do! Do you speak Arabic, too?”

The father returns this question with a grin, and in Arabic says, “Yes, I speak Arabic.”

The old man’s eyebrows raise and his eyes widen. He beams at the father. “Salaam Akhi! Who would have guessed? In all my years in Japan, this is the first time that I have come across a fellow Arab. What is your name, brother?”

“Karim,” the father replies, smiling down at the curious expression on his daughter’s face. She stares up at Hussain shyly and Hussain smiles at her.

“And this lovely little girl?”

“Her name is Hanna. She is only six-years old,” the father rubs his thumb gently against his daughter’s cheek. “We live in America but I am from Morocco.”

Once more, the old man’s eyebrows disappear into his thinning hair.

“Now this is a coincidence! I too am from Morocco.”

To the curiosity of the other chefs and Hanna, who speaks little Arabic, the new friends exchange rapid words in Arabic, which ends in laughter.

Suddenly, the door to the restaurant opens and an elderly woman walks in.

“Well then, I better get on with your order,” Hussain says. “What would you two like, son?”

Karim’s eyes quickly scan over the menu. “Nothing too fancy, please. Can I just get the veggie sushi platter and,” he pauses, contemplating, “I’ve never had hot and sour soup, before. I’ll try it.”

Hussain nods approvingly, “Good choices!”

As the elder chef begins to prepare the meal, a second chef comes over to attend to the elderly woman. Karim and his daughter head over to a table to sit down. A sense of peace and comfort lingers in the air and as the father watches Hussain cook, he is reminded of when he used to watch his own mother in the kitchen. A pang of worry and guilt strikes him at the thought of her.

“What are we eating?” Hanna asks, peering up at her father. Her little legs swing back and forth, back and forth, knocking gently against her father’s knees.

“Sushi and some soup. You will like it!” he assures her.

"Ok.”

Her father smiles. That was the one thing he liked most about Hanna. She never complained.

Karim glances over again at the elderly woman. He can’t help but think about how much she reminds him of his own mother, not in appearance but in demeanor. She is old, eighty something he would say, but she had a graceful and calm demeanor about her that everybody had associated with his mother. Her voice was gentle yet had an authority about it that commanded respect. She orders her meal, says something in Japanese to the chef who nods, and exits the restaurant.

“That woman reminds me of my mother,” he says to Hussain, who stands nearby enough to chat while cooking.

“She is a very kind woman. She likes to come here every morning and order soup for breakfast. She is a retired teacher."

“Ah,” Karim says absentmindedly, his eyes on his daughter who is staring delightedly at the beautiful green plant beside her. His mind, however, is elsewhere. Hussain notes it.

“What’s wrong, son?” he asks gently, pouring rice into a pot to be boiled. Karim turns to him,

“I am just thinking of my own mother. I feel guilty leaving her to go to America. She begged me to go live there, and I would never disrespect her wishes. Plus, she had a point. She said that there are plenty of opportunities in America and I have indeed been fortunate enough to see them for myself. She is very old now, though, and I don't like being so far away from her. I know that she is being taken cared of by my sisters and brothers but…” his voice trails off.

“The same thing happened to me,” Hussain replies, setting the timer on the stove. Karim watches as he pulls out fresh seaweed. “Actually, I never went to university. I always wanted to be a chef and I just wanted to start cooking right away. My mother, however, advised me to get some “international experience”. She said it would look good on my resume. She was right, it helped. I was able to travel the world and cook with some of the greatest chefs. Now however, I am happy to just cook in smaller restaurants and help out young chefs.” Cleaning a knife with a cloth, Hussain adds, “My mother was very happy for me yet, like you, I did miss her greatly and wish I had just stayed in Morocco. But perhaps I would never have had this same level of success."

Karim nods, “I know. My mother is very happy for me but sometimes, all the same, I wouldn’t mind packing my bags, taking Hanna and leaving for Morocco. I miss my siblings, too. Perhaps I will end up going back, even just for a year or two. I will talk it over with her and my siblings. I video call them weekly so, God willing, when I do so this week, I'll bring up the subject.

Hussain nods, “Well, my friend, you are lucky that you are still very young. At least,” he chuckles, “you are much younger than me. Your life is just beginning. If you want, you can indeed leave for Morocco. It’s not too late.”

Hussain leaves him for a moment to prepare the soup. Karim sits in thought.

“I like him,” Hanna says.

“Hussain?”

She nods and her father smiles, “Yes, he’s a wise man and very nice.”

After a few minutes, Hussain returns.

“You know what I was thinking about?”

Karim shakes his head. Hussain goes on,

“This world is very fast-paced and, “he pauses, choosing his words carefully. “There is an emphasis on seizing every opportunity which comes your way. You must seize the best possible career. You must seize the best possible education. You must be the best. I do indeed believe that we should always strive to be our best selves but sometimes…I think that this constant competition and ambition can make us forget about the simpler things in life. Sometimes, it makes us forget to slow down and appreciate some of the smaller blessings, like a loving family or a good friend. You know?”

Karim nods, thoughtfully, “That’s a very good point. I myself had that same thought while I was in university. It was a constant race to get the highest possible grades and to have the best job. Everybody would ask each other, "what do you want to become?" IF you didn’t answer with an “acceptable” career, if you know what I mean, well, then you would be seen as inferior.” Karim pauses then adds, “But I think we have come a long way from that. Still, though, you are completely right, akhi, this world is very, very fast and something I can't help but think to myself that it isn't worth it. When we die, will our grades matter? Will it matter if we were a doctor or a teacher? Will it matter if we were rich or poor? No."

Hanna looks at the two men curiously and says, “I don’t want to be the best.”

The two turn to look at her in surprise. Hussain smiles,

“What do you mean, my love?”

She pauses and her father notes that her cheeks have gone slightly red.

“I mean…I just want to be good. I don’t care if I am the best, I just want to make everybody I love happy.”

Hussain bears a broad smile and Karim fondles his little daughter’s hair.

“I couldn’t have said it better myself! Yes, love, all that matters is that we appreciate everything around us. Like family, good friends or…” he disappears for a couple of minutes and returns with a grin, soup and sushi in hands. “Good food.”

With a laugh, the father takes the meal, “Shookran akhi, this looks very good! Mashallah.”

He gently pushes the sushi before his daughter.

“Eat, love.”

Curiously, Hanna takes a dainty small bite and her eyes widen with delight.

“Yummy!”

As the daughter and father eat, the father spies something out of his peripheral view. He looks up to find that a small young girl, no older than Hanna, clings delightedly to her mother’s leg. She laughs, a laugh as sweet as honey, and beams up at her doting mother. They are the epitome of love. They are the epitome of peace.

Karim smiles.