Two Journeys, One Path

The man strode with purpose through the bustling street, resolute and unwavering. The traffic lights dared not impede him, nor did the chaotic rush of vehicles, each blaring their own cacophonous tune. For his mind was set on one destination, a place where he could finally lay to rest the unbearable weight of his pain.

And thus he tread, each footfall bringing him closer to his aim. Yet he paused for a moment when he stumbled upon a towering tower, the very one he had once set his sights upon. He tilted his head back and beheld its spire stretching towards the cerulean sky. This was once my destination, he thought to himself, drinking in the sight of the shining structure. He had thought that climbing to the pinnacle would bring respite from the ache that gnawed at him. But he knew that within its walls there would be so many souls, and he did not wish the consequences of his actions to be known by those beyond the tower's reach. 

Thus, he deliberately chose the most isolated spot, for he knew that there he would find the solitude he craved. He yearned to be utterly alone, and this secluded place would grant him that precious gift.

The oppressive heat bore down on him, but still he trudged on, his clothes sticking to his skin as if in protest. His eyes scanned the horizon, squinting against the glare of the sun that blazed like a wildfire above the vast expanse of blue. It was as if the ocean was a painting, brought to life by the light that illuminated the low tide current and made it dance in the waves.

In the sky, birds of all shapes and sizes soared with abandon, their wings a blur against the brilliant canvas of the heavens. Mesmerised, the man watched as one of them swooped down to the water's surface, its razor-sharp talons catching a minuscule fish in a single, swift motion.

A breathtaking sight, to be sure, he mused, though he knew that the destination he had in mind held even greater beauty.

And so, he veered down a narrow alleyway, a pathway that wound its way towards his ultimate goal. Though still distant, he chose to take it slow, allowing himself ample time for reflection. Perhaps, in taking his time, he might change his mind.

Upon the tranquil jogging path, a sense of calm settled over him, and to his right, the ocean seemed to stretch out endlessly. Inhaling deeply, he filled his lungs with the salty, briny essence of the sea. 

Onward he ambled, until at last he discovered respite in the dappled shade cast by whispering trees. The leaves and branches danced above him, guided by the tender caress of the breeze. With eyes closed and pace unhurried, he savoured the cool embrace of shadow. In this slowed tempo, the leaves' rustle became a symphony, the susurrus of the wind and the soft tacking of twigs against one another a soothing lullaby. 

Alas, that idyll was fleeting, as a sudden, fierce prickle seared his skin anew. He opened his eyes to find the haven of shade had reached its end. 

In that moment, a perspiring giant of a jogger brushed past him, heedless of his presence. Surveying the scene, he saw an array of individuals—of diverse ages, statures, and complexions—each immersed in their own endeavours, whether strolling, jogging, or running. Some chatted and laughed, others panted, each face a story unto itself. But none gazed upon him; perhaps a brief glance, but no connection forged.

A resolution took shape in his thoughts. Very well, I am decided, he mused, accelerating his stride. 

As he ambled, his thoughts meandered to a memory of days long past. 

There he was, amidst a gathering of consequential figures, convened for a seemingly simple purpose: to discuss intervention programs for underachieving students. Each educator offered their insights, and he, too, contributed his thoughts. Yet, to his chagrin, his words were met with mockery, as though his utterances were naught but refuse, unworthy of their attention.

Then entered a colleague, a teacher lauded and celebrated, the luminary of their institution. A favourite of the administrators, his tardiness to the meeting mattered not, for he was the cherished gem in their eyes. As the assembly proceeded, this esteemed educator rose and shared his perspective—mirroring precisely the sentiments the man had expressed earlier, which had been so readily dismissed. Astonishingly, the response was entirely different: the revered teacher was met with awe, his ideas hailed as revelations, as though he had imparted a wisdom transcending the bounds of the mundane.

Recalling this injustice, anger flared within him, stoked by the relentless sun. Sweat beaded his brow, dampening his face, while his perspiration-soaked shirt clung to his back. Undeterred, he pressed on, his determination to reach his ultimate destination fortified. Weariness and sore muscles meant little to him now. So, he walked, traversing the jogging path and passing by the bustling families, the gleeful children on their four-wheeled bicycles, and the stray Telomians that nosed through the waste bins scattered along the trail.

Such was his resolve that he scarcely registered the profanities he uttered. "BULLSHIT!" he spat, the word rising from his very core as he ruminated on the teacher held in such high esteem. It was only when he glimpsed an elderly woman before him, her grey hair a crown of wisdom, that he felt a twinge of guilt. She moved with a peculiar gait, her bent arms swinging in a near dance-like rhythm. Yet, despite his impassioned cursing, she paid him no heed, not even a passing glance.

The old woman's nonchalant attitude caused his thoughts to meander once more, alighting upon a memory of an Easter gathering at the home of his relative, Steve.

Amidst the festive cacophony, he found himself adrift, surrounded by animated conversation, all others seemingly enthralled by the exchange of stories. Alone with his meal, he sought direction.

Then, Steve unveiled his karaoke set, beckoning everyone to join in the revelry. So commenced the chorus of voices, each performance met with resounding applause. At length, Steve called his name. "Remy! Your turn!" With trepidation, he took the stage, selecting his song. He knew well his own lack of melodic prowess, yet he also knew that he was not alone in that deficiency. Yet as he sang, the room seemed to forget him, the guests turning to other distractions. By the song's conclusion, the revellers remained immersed in their conversations and their feasting, leaving him to feel the fool.

With these memories stirring his spirit, he hastened his stride.

Drawing ever nearer to his destination, the formidable metallic pillars of the bridge loomed before him. Aching to arrive, he recoiled from the spectres of memory that haunted him, the echoes of voices that berated him as foolish and worthless, undeserving of any good fortune. He yearned to silence them, to obliterate their cruel whispers.

Yet fate seemed determined to thwart his efforts. An innocuous wooden bench stirred the most painful recollection of all. He cursed the unassuming seat, his thoughts carried back to the day his mother was lost to him.

A serene day at school found him teaching his pupils about the wonders of nature and photosynthesis, seated upon a bench while they sat cross-legged before him. Their behaviour exemplary, he was wholly absorbed in his instruction. And then the call came, announcing his mother's hospitalisation after a fall in the bathroom. Without hesitation, he abandoned his post, offering no explanation and seeking no permission, making haste to the hospital.

The devastation upon learning of her passing was a wound that would never heal. His rock, his beacon of hope, the one person who believed in him without reservation, was gone in an instant.

He marched ahead with purpose, his steps quickening as he surrendered to his tears. The taste of salt lingered on his lips, a mingling of his own sweat and the ocean's briny breath. It was impossible to discern where one ended and the other began.

As he stumbled onward, the tide rose and swelled, a symphony of waves crashing and cresting with increasing intensity. The noise engulfed him, drowning out his sobs and filling him with a sense of insignificance. It was as if the universe itself conspired to silence him, to ensure that his presence remained unnoticed in the vastness of the world.

Shortly thereafter, the combination of tears and hastened pace took its toll, leaving him breathless and spent. Though he longed to reach his destination posthaste, his body demanded respite. Succumbing to its pleas, he halted, bending at the waist, hands resting on his knees. A mingling of sweat and tears cascaded to the ground like a summer rain. Undisturbed by the gentle breeze, the acrid scent of his own perspiration assailed his senses, eliciting self-disgust.

As if to cement his self-loathing, a group of youthful joggers and skateboarders glided by and regarded him with the same indifference they would a tree or a trash bin. This only steeled his resolve to complete his quest, yet he could not deny the weariness that coursed through his very being. And so, he took a brief moment to inhale and exhale, wiping his furrowed brow with a hand slick with sweat.

Once his breath had regained its steady rhythm, he straightened and tilted his gaze skyward, squinting against the brilliance of the day. The sky, mirroring the azure hue of the ocean, evoked memories of home. His mother, enamoured with the colour blue, had filled their lives with its many shades: crockery, laundry baskets, garments, furnishings, even the fateful toilet upon which she'd struck her head, precipitating her demise.

"I need you, Mama," he murmured, his voice a tender plea. And with that, he lowered his gaze and resumed his purposeful trek.

He continued onward, passing by intermittent areca palms and the ever-watchful casuarina trees, their brown cones strewn about the ground, crunching beneath his feet. Though he endeavoured to stifle the memories, the casuarina trees' uncanny resemblance to Christmas trees proved too potent a trigger. 

His previous year's Yuletide season had been a desolate affair, his solitude stark in the absence of his parents. As an only child, he faced the world unaccompanied, and it seemed his existence held little meaning to his relatives, none of whom reached out in any meaningful way.

Only Steve offered a modicum of care, though even he had chosen to spend the holidays in Korea with his family. The oppressive weight of Christmas Eve night had been unbearable, the darkness swallowing him whole, the carols and decorations a cruel mockery of all he had lost.

Tears streamed down his cheeks as he strode, every so often wiping them away. 

At long last, almost without warning, he found himself at the threshold of his destination, so close he could nearly grasp it. Gazing at the large rocks scattered along the path leading to the bridge, he steeled himself for what lay ahead.

Deliberately, he navigated the rocky path, shifting his weight from one large stone to another, arms outstretched for balance. He was struck by the irony of taking such care when his ultimate destination was the turbulent ocean below. It seemed absurd to pursue the height of the bridge when the churning waters were already within reach. Still, he pressed on.

In a split second, his heart stuttered as a group of dark-skinned, red-haired boys materialised before him, wholly absorbed in their meal. He recognized them as "pilak" – a derogatory term employed by the locals to describe the persona non grata who hailed from the sea. His gaze fell upon their sustenance, the remnants of a meal likely scavenged from a nearby rubbish bin.

For a suspended moment, they regarded one another. Fear shone in the eyes of the boys, save for the smallest among them, whose expression held only innocence. Compelled by an inexplicable urge, the man offered them a strained smile, seeking to convey that he posed no threat. The youngest boy's voice, sweet and childlike, broke the silence. "Are you going swimming? I love swimming too." His elder companions swiftly hushed him.

A sudden realisation washed over the man as he gazed upon the boys; they stirred memories of his own students. He recalled the warmth of their embraces, shared in times of joy and sorrow. Time and again, they had offered him love, even when he felt undeserving. As the youngest boy's words rang in his ears, he was struck by a profound truth: in that moment, HE EXISTED.

His eyes were drawn to the ocean, and he released a scream that reverberated across the water. The Pilak boys scattered in terror, but the man was overcome with wild laughter. Their fear confirmed his existence; he was not the phantom he had believed himself to be. Further affirmation came in the form of a woman's voice, tinged with an American accent. "Hey, sir. Are you okay?"

He turned to see a fair-haired, blue-eyed couple clad in athletic wear. Grinning broadly, he replied, "Yes! Yes! I'm alright!" The pair continued their jog, the woman suggesting, "Let's get out of here."

The subtle nuance in her pronunciation of out, almost as if it were oat, struck a chord with the man. Canadian, he mused, smiling. It was not the accent itself that mattered but the fact that they, too, had acknowledged his existence.

Breathing deeply, he left the rocky shoreline behind and strode homeward, offering smiles to the joggers and cyclists he encountered along the path. Every child he passed reminded him of his cherished students, and he resolved to keep living, if only for their sake.

***

As Remy made his way back, he encountered the very same individuals he had crossed paths with before. The towering, muscular man, the wizened old woman, the rowdy teenagers, and the families, all of them viewed through a different lens. Once they had been haughty and dismissive, but now they seemed much more genial, offering him smiles as if they too had taken note of his altered demeanour. 

Might they be mirroring me? he wondered. 

As the memories flooded back to him, he saw them in a new light, much like the flickering of a candle illuminating different corners of a room. They reminded him of a time when a seasoned teacher by the name of Cikgu Hairizal had leaned in and whispered, gesturing towards the superstar teacher, "That's exactly what you said. And you said it much better." 

Another memory surfaced from the depths of his mind, of a night when he had sung karaoke and thought no one had paid him any attention. A young woman, whose name he couldn't recall, had said to him as she left the party, "That was a nice song." He had replied with a simple "thanks" and a grin. 

And then there was the last Christmas season, when his students, both present and past, as well as his former schoolmates, colleagues, and college mates, had inundated him with warm wishes. 

It was amusing, really, how much one's mood could alter the way memories and circumstances were perceived, like the changing hues of a stained glass window as the sun shifted across the sky.

The newfound certainty of his existence, recognized and acknowledged by those around him, buoyed Remy's spirits. As he walked through the busy, bustling streets, filled with speeding vehicles and their impatient honking, the cacophony failed to ruffle his feathers. To him, they were simply a symphony, a chorus of life that he relished. 

Onward he strolled, eventually pausing to glance up at the slender, needle-like spire of the towering skyscraper. The sun glared beside it, compelling him to blink away the bluish afterimage that lingered within his vision when he returned his gaze to the road. What a foolish decision, he mused, to have chosen that as my final resting place.

It wasn't long before he reached a backstreet, its walls decorated with graffiti bearing cursed words. Once it had seemed to taunt him, but now it was nothing more than a common sight. He fished out his keys and pressed the unlock button, causing his car to emit a comforting tok-tok sound.

But as he drew closer, he was met with an unexpected sight. There, in front of the 7 Eleven, stood the Canadian couple he had crossed paths with earlier. Remy offered a small wave and the Canadian man quipped, "Hey there, buddy. So, uh, you finished hollerin' and chucklin' at the ocean, eh?"

Remy grinned. "Yeah, I'm done," he replied, slipping his soaked and sweaty body into his car.