Before the Crack of Dawn

"Father is dying, come home, please.”

As I read the first sentence of the letter, I grimaced without bothering to continue reading while I tore it to pieces and threw it into the trash can. A torrent of sunlight poured in from the translucent window on which a thin layer of dust had accumulated. The radiant sun that seldom made upon its appearance in winter illuminated my mahogany desk but failed to brighten my mind. While staring blankly at the picturesque scene of the turquoise sky which was embellished with fleecy, pale clouds, I buried my head among my knees. I was seated on the leather chair in this absurd posture as I began to muse. The snow outside the window danced the waltz down from the heavenly sky and accumulated among the pavements whereas the tranquility which was only interrupted by the striking of the church’s clock soothed my heart. Listening to the striking of the miniature clock by my bedside, I remained stationary. The serene atmosphere began to generate uneasiness in my heart until the voice of my son reached my ears.

“Father!” he was a youngster of five with pitch-black hair as my own and dark pupils which dilated occasionally as the plot of the stories I read to him at nights reached the climaxes. Clad in a pale shirt and grey trousers, the purity of his mind was not merely shown through the simplicity of his dressing style but also his miniature face on which a smile was almost unfailingly printed.

“Morning,” I replied while checking the letter is within the bin, “Ponleak.”

“Mother ordered me to inform you that breakfast is ready,” he explained while lolling upon my bed. “What are you doing?” Curiosity was manifested through his eyes which appeared to be illuminated.

“Reading,” I fabricated a lie and felt ashamed instantaneously. “A volume depicting the subject of cosmology.”

“Intriguing,” his tone was akin to an adult’s and made myself chuckle. “I was reading a novel featuring of Norse mythology.”

“Had you considered reading classical literature yet?” I inquired.

“I studied a few of Greek philosophers and Renaissance writers already,” he returned with pride, “I finished a collection of poems of Edgar Poe and The Divine Comedy lately.”

“ ‘There, pride, avarice, and envy are the tongues men know and heed, a Babel of despair’,” he quoted.

“ ‘Oh blind, oh ignorant, self-seeking cupidity which spurs as so in the short mortal life and steeps as through all eternity’ ,” I remarked as he mused.

“ ‘He that increaseth wisdom, increasth sorrow’,” he replied.

“ ‘Three things cannot be long hidden: the moon, the sun, and the truth’,” I stated while chuckling for a moment until melancholy overwhelmed my mind.

“Why?” my son determined my perturbation immediately as I shook my head mournfully.

“You remind me of him,” I explained as he seemed to be befuddled.

“Who?” he questioned me as I smiled.

“Me.”

A torrent of sunlight poured in through the translucent window which had been bestrewn with dust as beads of perspiration accumulated upon my forehead while lolling upon the mattress in the sweltering room. The floor was smudged with smatterings of dirt mingled with mud while the walls in the room were of an akin appearance with the pale paint besmirched with mold. An unpleasant smell of raw fish pervaded throughout the atmosphere as I yawned and stared with repugnance toward the mosquitoes whose constant attempt of generating raucous noises to disturb my sleep managed to create much exasperation in my mind as well. As I stretched my arms wide and stared blankly toward the view out of the window, the call of my old brother arrived upon my ears. Without even a necessary movement of perceiving the frown and displeased expression printed upon his face, I could sense his unsatisfied manner toward me for his tone was blunt, albeit his coarseness appeared as wonted toward myself.

“Darany!” his voice echoed throughout the miniature abode of mine as I grimaced. “Wake up now! You’re late for breakfast!”

Without the strength to reply for I was still fatigued by the strenuous task I was delegated by my father yesterday, I nodded as if believing he would discern my reply.

“Darany! Answer me!” he shouted. “You better wake up now, we’re leaving.”

“Alright,” I answered in a voice barely audible to my own ears.

Pacing into the room, Arun appeared in front of me and demanded, “wake up! You lazy!”

I stood up instantaneously akin to a dog following the orders of his owner while the view of the mucky waters out the window caused an indescribable sickness to overwhelm myself. My father wore a pitch-black mustache while his head was approaching baldness. The coarseness of his hands was remarkable whereas I grimaced as I perceived the unraveling edges of his begrimed shirt and the holes upon my cloth.

“Darany,” he began as I seated myself upon the plastic stool, “you caused much trouble to your brother and me this morning.”

“I owe you penitent apologies for being unpunctual,” I lied while nibbling upon the fried noodles.

“No breakfast for you, brat,” my mother stated as I bit my mouth, “I’ll save this for your brother’s lunch.”

I could visualize the cunning smile upon my brethren’s face without turning back to discern the devious beast. With a slap on my back, my father addressed me to board the boat in a matter of immediate. My brother was beckoned by him toward the cabinet in his room to retrieve the wooden oars and fishing net while I scurried toward the miniature canoe, infuriated by the favour of brother over myself in my parents’ hearts. The weather was balmy with the scorching sun above my forehead and the rickety dwellings which were supported by rigid pillars above the dingy river of Mekong. A smattering of fleecy clouds which embellished the turquoise sky contrasted the spattered village of which I was an inhabitant.

“Darany,” my brother called as he strode toward me, “look, I can carry these oars single-handed!” My urge to retaliate by throwing the oars at his face was stifled by my mind which sanity instead of rashness reigned.

“Your brother will become a sinewy man when he grows older,” my father remarked with pride. “You’re so puny.”

He’s empty in the mind, I thought.

“Look, Darany, look,” he told me while stepping into the boat, “I shall be brawny one day while you will remain miniature forever! You cannot even lift an oar with two hands at the age of forty!”

As empty vessels make the loudest sound so they that have the least wit are the greatest blabbers, I mused.

“Alright,” my father began while handing an oar to me. “Let us begin!”

The smell of the grime water generated illness in my heart as I paddled forward. My brother oscillated the oar at a brisk pace deliberately, attempting to make my father compliment his efforts. With my greatest endeavours, I pushed the wooden paddle back and fro, yet my attempt was futile as my father ignored my existence and focused upon teaching my brother the methods of fishing.

“Your great-great grandfather started the fishing industry,” he uttered as I was engrossed in my own reveries in a faraway land, “this is an important business which had grew to become a part of our family’s history. It is a tradition! A custom which shall and will remain forever in the future generations!”

My brother nodded violently as I stared blankly at the grey river which carried the passengers of dirt and mud and occasionally fish which I dreaded. The toil and strenuous tasks of my father made him akin to a disgraceful dog without a trace of dignity left upon his face which was no longer an expression of an evolved human but a primitive creature.

“Darany!” my father slapped my back again. “Focus! Look at your brother- look at how I use the fishing net. You’ll be using it one day too.” I ignored his existence as he pretended not to notice mine whereas I resumed my train of thoughts. We soon arrived upon a forest of shrubs and majestic trees which planted their roots firmly beneath the soil and dingy water. The emerald-coloured foliage blocked my view of the sky but created a picturesque scene. The tranquility of the atmosphere bought calmness toward my heart as we departed from the traditional markets in which chatter of housewives and laughter of the younger children pervaded throughout the air.

“When the water level drops,” my father resumed to explain to my brother whose witlessness was indescribable, “the prahoks come out, and you dump the fishing net into the river briskly. Pull it out within a few seconds so the fish cannot flee! And there- you’ll have a ginormous supply of fish abundant even as the food source for the entire village!”

While handing the fishing net to my brother, my father thrashed my back forcefully.

“Don’t paddle now, Darany,” he stated as he positioned the oars upon the wooden floor of the canoe. “Watch your brother.” My brother’s skills were deft while I stared in awe as he pulled the fishing net from the water strenuously. With the help of my father, the two of them managed to haul a remarkably tremendous amount of mudfish out of the river. The water in which mud and dirt mingled landed on my trouser and shirt while the fish oscillated and struggled to survive. Needless to say, their attempt was futile and only caused my father and brother to blurt into laughter. For a moment, I pitied the fish. The brown, sunburnt face of my brother manifested his perfect embodiment as a fisherman while the thought of him becoming a piscator venerated by the village as my father had been caused me to grimace.

“It is night time,” my father stated while pointing toward the sky which had darkened, “let us return.” Without his action of belabouring my back, I began paddling. As I toiled, my father and brother held a conversation upon the topic of the day’s success and blurted into laughter occasionally.

The serene atmosphere generated not calmness but rather delightfulness for the arrival of nighttime in my heart. I regarded myself as a nocturnal animal who enjoyed the solitude from the society. After obtaining a novel which I hid cautiously beneath my mattress and a notebook below my pillow, I strode out of the room while chuckling to myself at the bizarre posture my brother remained in during his sleep with his hands upon his forehead and the left foot on his right knee. The pitch-black scene did not horrified myself but rather created pleasure within my heart whereas I scurried out of the accommodation as silently as a mouse pacing athwart the kitchen food after committing a theft in which it took a piece of cheese.

The wooden door was opened vigilantly by my hands while I hurried up the ladder which connected the rickety panel of the floor to the top of the house. The roof was rigid, and therefore, I was able to diminish my fear of falling off or the structure collapsing. With my left hand upon the fringe of the roof, my right foot pushed my body upwards. As I settled on the peak of the abode, jubilance overwhelmed me. In my hands were a novel featuring the topic of classical mechanics and a notebooks in which I drew sketches depicting the constellations of each night. The picturesque of radiant stars illuminating the dark sky which seemed to stretch out into infinity caused a bizarre delightfulness to overwhelm myself. All of a sudden, the village I inhabit in appeared to be miniature while the entire nation had became diminutive in my heart. My hatred and repugnance toward the my brother being the favourite child seemed to be petite and trivial. The beauty of the universe each night was a reminder to myself of the insignificance of my troubles which were disposed of from my heart instantaneously as I gazed upon the luminous stars.

“What do you mean you don’t want to be a fisherman?” my father was shocked by my statement which I had long buried within my heart.

“I dread the business of fishing,” I remarked, “I loathe the idea of my future years being spent upon this career in which one merely throws the net into the river and pulls it out. ‘My mind rebels at stagnation.’ I aspire to become a person who can accomplish the true dreams within my heart. I shall not be exaggerating if I say that I abhor our family’s fishing industry.” The torrent of words poured from my mouth imprudently while my father stared blankly at me. Whether it was disappointment or melancholy that his expression indicated, I did not mind anymore. I disrelished my days of yore in which my liberty was restricted by my family’s tradition and my desire to please my father.

“You already have a successful son,” I resumed, “a remarkable one, why shall you insist in torturing myself and agonizing my aspiration for freedom?”

My father’s face was as pale as snow whereas his pupils dilated for a few times as I uttered my feelings which I had hidden for numerous years and throughout my childhood.

“What shall you do then?” he inquired at last in a nonchalant manner. “You were born to be a fisherman! All of the males in our family were fisherman. You are just selfish and care only for yourself- you are destroying the reputation of our family! We had been venerated throughout the entire town, no, not just the town- the whole district regarded us as the most remarkable fishermen.”

“Perhaps I was born into a wrong family,” I returned, infuriated, “I was never destined to be piscator!”

“How can you not be?” he replied, as exasperated as I was. “You’re my son, you’re your mother’s son! And you are meant to be who you are supposed to be.”

“My skills at fishing is not deft as Arun’s! You never uttered a single compliment at my endeavours of improving or performing better. I was diligent, yet you never noticed!” I shouted at him.

“You’re right,” he uttered at last, “perhaps it had been a mistake- I wished I never had a son like you.”

“Father?” the voice of my son arrived upon my ears again as I feigned a smile on my face.

“Yes?” I replied.

“You were lost for a moment, weren’t you?” he inquired as I chuckled.

“Indeed,” I replied, “I regret a lot of things.”

“Such as?” he questioned while I stared out the window.

“I hate myself,” I answered with frankness, “all these years, I tried to fade the memories of his into oblivion, yet I failed.”

“ ‘The suffering may be moral or physical; and in my opinion it is just as absurd to call a man a coward who destroys himself, as to call a man a coward who dies of a malignant fever’,” my son told me. “You committed a significant mistake, whose details I do not acknowledge, yet you can undo it simply not by regretting but conducting an action which you wished you could’ve done.”

I remained stationary while my son let out a genuine smile which touched my heart.

“Had you, Ponleak,” I began as he listened attentively, “ever been to the water village of Cambodia?”