jump to chapter: 1 | 2

They are left alone.

The tides swinging the small Chinese catamaran to the direction of the shore, the visible stretch of land, a green thick colour like the angry strokes of an unhappy artist. The air to breath tastes salty for them in that shabby catamaran. Land is what they have been dreaming for the past sixty or so days and nights on the unkindly waves of the dark deep ocean. None have a laugh left or even a little smile to break the happiness. All had only a little prayer to the short sturdy man on the horseback, their 'guide'.

The feeble energy, the impetus in each of them is of their stubborn souls, except for the one without, the impish baby boy!

The wavy berthing caused the catamaran to shake, for the last time. The land is only a step away. The first to come out is the oldest and the strongest of them all. The rest needed a pair of hands. That is the weakness of the human; the rest of the animal kingdom seems devoid of this helplessness. The pair of hands from the old man tied the catamaran to a thin black tree trunk. Then the strong palms opened towards the boat and the boatpeople.

A girl about four to five years of age, with a dirty ponytail is handed over by her father. Then a cold and blue-skinned, the mischievous, her little brother, who did not make the journey without the feebleness left within. Still the little girl is happy, she could stretch her legs, spin around and take her little brother in her short arms, she thought.

"Death was on board, everyone tasted a bit, your little brother swallowed the whole of it, because he was too stubborn", her mother told her.

The old man found a place under a tree and few men dig the earth for the most stubborn, to put the impeccable innocence to rest.

What next?

The land smells different from theirs. The land has a different colour too. The land tasted the same, at least for the little lucky or rather unlucky one, the blue-skinned, the cold and stiff.

They had to destroy the catamaran, another sacrifice, the other offering to the almighty, perhaps. Men with their last drop of energy started making a hole in the middle of the big boat. Water gushed in; the salty sea was so thirsty it drank the whole hull. They had to untie and push her away, as far as they could. It should rest in a place where the tides won't find her and so the authorities.

The sacrifices, they buried two, in the new land and the other in the depths of the blue ocean. "The Lords must be satisfied", the old man mumbled.

Faces, no more yellow but tanned and shiny with stains of the days passed in the sea. Many were still throwing up a thin yellow streak of bile, squatting and even lying on their shoulders, especially women. The children seem to be fine. They must be fitted with a different mechanism in their heads not to get the sickness. May be that part of the brain has not developed yet in them. The children have already found things from the new land to play with. The little girl with the dirty ponytail is annoyed than sad to the old man for being so rude to her brother and was angry to her mother and father for the earth to swallow her little brother. She wanted to join the rest of the kids, to play, but again she wanted to see her baby brother's face, once again.

She found herself happy after a while, the happiness that comes across even in the darkest moments, like a shooting star, for few seconds or may be more especially in a child. She thought, all the attention her little brother had carried away from her parents is returning; that is a genuine reason to be happy.

She remembers her mother often crying whenever her paternal grandmother visits her home in their province. When father is out for work, grandmother starts in a low voice only to end in shouting and screaming,

"The useless, gave a girl to my loving boy, useless, why God you gave this unlucky womb for my loving son to fill the seeds, worthless womb, useless girl, useless …useless"

The little girl used to think, "I will also be a 'useless' one day, only if I have a daughter, yet another useless as my mother. But why is it that only my mother and myself. I know why, because we are not men, since my father is never called 'useless' by any, I am a little woman and my mother a big woman and my grandmother an older woman. But she is also a woman, but no one dares to call her useless. May be once you are an old woman, no one calls you useless anymore. It is fine then, once I am an old woman I will be no longer useless. I will also be able to call my daughter-in laws and even daughters and granddaughters "Hei useless", if they give daughters to me".

The little girl wants to play.

"Let us play", the children said together, they are not tired any more; the land they stand upon is their new playground, they too missed it for a long time.

The little girl pulled her ponytail hair to the front of her shoulders and she galloped like a pony towards the other kids. Let us play, they keep saying.

A new day and an alien land full of opportunities, that is how the grown ups feel. Is she calling, is she saying something? The success lies on understanding her. It is said that, this is no big land like their homeland. But the land is so rich, anything and everything will grow, bloom and reach fruition. You lay a seed and forget about it, it will one day be calling you, may be after several years, on your way back home from a hard day. Look at me, I made it, look at my branches, the fruits, they are all my creations, may be have a taste. But don't take all of them. May be take a seat, lean on my young and strong trunk, dream about your lover, do gently fold her silky hair to the back of her lovely red ears, admire the life in her eyes, give a kiss to her velvety cheek, but don't hurt that soft skin. Take a nap and forget about the paths you have taken to reach me again, and please do not think again on what next, once you open your eyes. Make love to the one you want, get rid of that ache, let it be not your lover. Your love to her is still pure; her body does not exist for you. Let it be whoever you like, it is never a crime if you are under my shade, because I suckle her breasts, the purest, the mother, this red earth, the never-ending stream of chastity that is what I thrive on. But again, please do not take a piece of me, just taste a little. I am the promised land, at least part of it.

To start from nowhere, like an ejaculate of ink on a virgin piece of paper, awkwardly is it not! Yes, but you see what did they leave behind? Nothing. But not just nothing if you think for a moment, the culture, what about the culture. What culture did they have? What culture does she have? What culture does he have? What does the old man has? What are they carrying on their backbones? All those inherent messages encoded in the solemn spine covered in a long thick bone, which carries their notions, and ultimately their deeds.

They are the bravest; the only ones with the spine standing straight like a tall and strong tree trunk, at least they believe so. The rest of the creatures have their spines a burden to carry on their back, the sun could spread the warm wings on. They must be really brave with their spine erect; they could kill and eat anything, any living creature with or without the spine facing the ultimate source of power, the blinding sun. Are they proud of their cultural heritage, inherited through millions of generations? They will know once they have to adapt and possibly adopt another.

The sun is waking up; the mere power of that image wakes all living and even dead, giving a boost. It was never like this in their old village, never this shiny, never in this time of the day, so early in the morning. That is a good sign to start with, probably. Having to live with the ultimate source shining just for you, the whole long day, make use of me, is that is what it means. Look at him, the moment he showed up, the rays are so sharp and shiny. One just fell on the little girl's shoulder and woke her ponytail. The fog is clearing up, so fast that one could see the landscape stretching its wings like a colourful bird, the lush greens, the yellows, the reds, and the crimson.

"Look, please everyone look, look there are other catamarans, there are people, shops and houses", the little girl screamed.

Everything is suddenly waking up, as if just came out from the red earth, just after the mighty sun showed up. Moments ago, they thought they landed in a remote area of this new land where they have to find food, shelter all by themselves, from the nature, like in the very beginning of mankind. But no, it is definitely a no; they are in a port that is for sure.

The children stopped playing, the little girl with the dirty ponytail is again screaming. "Mother look there are people, mother look look…."

Everyone is watching the same, a township appearing from the midst of the land, which curves almost a semicircle along the sea, a light blue shadow. The sea is no more dark and death, but a fine blue shallow lagoon.

Are they been watching them? Through the clouds of fog with their curious eyes, may be the port dwellers are invisible to the immigrants but not the other way around. Why to be so concerned or worried? The immigrants have their guts speaking for them. Their neighbours in their province in China have prospered working here in this land, the money they sent to their village, the brick houses they are building, the good dress their parents and family are wearing, the good food they have been talking about, it is all from here.

"So why to worry, we will be doing the same soon, make money, the goodness and wellness follows", they enchanted.

Better clothes, better food, better money to send back home, perhaps even to the little girl's grandmother, though she was never nice to her daughter in law in the past. The little girl's father might send monies to that old woman in China. He might wish, let her as well taste value of their hard work, money they earned, the money with more value and respect. The relentless dreams keep on forming in every single soul. They disembarked a catamaran in the early hours of today, which is by now yet another delusion of the yesterdays.

The disappearance of the fog is complete. The new immigrants are part of the port now, at least geographically. From the dark thin tree there opens a path, a red and narrow one that would take them to the township and the port. Every member in that group has a small trunk and a small bundle of clothes.

The trunk has their past in the form of inert subjects; the cloth bundles have the smell of their yesteryears, innate memories. Someone is approaching, must be the darker Siamese, the law enforcement people, cannot be anyone else. The little girl see fear in the eyes of her parents and the even in the old man; it is a different kind of fear, not that she saw while they were in the depths of the deep dark ocean on board the catamaran.

There was a clustering amongst them like different magnets with different sense and grades of magnetism. The little girl joined her father, she is holding his short thick leg with both her arms, and her mother had her bosom hiding behind the broad backbones of the man, her husband. The clusters moving individually like a solar system, every group has a sun in the middle and they are all one, the catamaran made them one. They are uniting, making a circle surrounding the invisible sun holding the clusters together. The Chinese-ness is what they wanted to remember and forget at the same time. They have to admit that they are Chinese and at the same time they have to forget that they are Chinese. They have been keeping that as a dictum while in the long journey out in the deep dark sea.

The little girl have to forget her name, she has to forget her mother's name, she has to forget her father's name, but she do not have to forget her little brother's. He is the dogged, the invisible, and now the luckiest, perhaps. The rest have to struggle through to reach that status. But again, they are not here forever; they tried hard to remind themselves. Once this land gives them everything they will leave, they wish. Then perhaps the little girl has to remember her name, her mother's name, and her father's name and forget her little brother's. They reminded themselves; this is only a transient setting, a port to dwell upon, a country better than their own, if worked hard and saved prudent, one could return with all those wealth and return to their province as a rich and famous.

"We will be back in our motherland, we will be back, and yes we are Chinese and we belong to China and will be back in any case, either getting deported or else in a bright future were we become rich from this country". One could hear almost everyone has this in his or her weak lungs squeaking out.

The little girl and her mother have a different prayer, to the 'guide', who came, helped and disappeared. The mother is telling the child not to forget him and they are trying to envisage the features, his nose, his eyes, his chin, the cheeks, to make it a face so that they could recognise, if they meet him again perhaps not in the shadows of clouds but on this very red earth, someday.

From a distance they could see, two young men approaching. Darkly tanned, wearing dark trousers and white slack shirts probably in their early thirties walking in long strides through the crimson path. They said together, "Welcome to Siam" in two different Chinese dialects. Soon everyone realise the big mistake, the drowning of the catamaran and the uncertainties on the legality of their migration. Everyone sighed; most have tears filling up in their eyes.

Back in China, in the provincial village, their chief who himself claimed to have ventured to Siam and was deported or had to escape from this country because of some unknown reason misinformed them. The village chief once called for a meeting in his home and told the horrifying stories from and about Siam that he heard and encountered. The stories were all made up; at least now every one from the catamaran knows all those terrible stories were from an unsuccessful mission or a failed and weak mind.

The people approached them were none other than the Chinese migrant community representatives from that port. They are in fact in need of more manpower, which is great news. Some of the senior immigrants have become wealthy and even owns part of the port and so its business. The richest Chinese, who own almost ten ships which trades in and around the southeast, sent the two men. He even has plans to expand his network to the western world, they said. The welcoming has become part of their new tradition and culture, it seems.

"There were many before, and there will be many more after you", the two representatives laughed at each other while greeting one by one.

The only difference the newly arrived conceded is a terrible misinformation regarding the whole process of landing and sneaking into opportunities. By then they are so excited, everyone has nearly forgotten about their sunken catamaran.

They all had his or her laughs and giggles back, especially when they heard the greeting in Chinese dialects. Even the little girl is laughing and her father is hugging her and his wife, unusual never happened before, even when the big waves lifted their boat up in the air. Watching this with a little astonishment is the little girl with the dirty ponytail. She see tears in her mother who is staring at the sea and the small heap of fresh soil under a tree, "My lovely why you left us, I miss your cheeks and the little forehead". The mother bend down and kissed her daughter's forehead instead and said, "Koong my child don't ever leave us, we have only you".

The earth is calling, the crimson path flanked with thick green, the colour of liveliness, you touch that colour it bleeds, the nectar of life. Koong followed her father he followed the strong old man and he the two representatives. On the way the representatives said many strange things about their new land and whispers an odd fact that this is the year 2473 in Siam not 1930.

They are given a large room; it is more than a room, may be a small godown for the goods to be kept before shipping, perhaps. Again clustering happens, families finding corners. The room has only four corners still people are searching for more corners, so that they could be a family, together, facing each other leaning on to the brick wall. There are lots of mats made of bamboo peelings piled up on the floor. Everyone can have more than one mat, as you wish. Koong helped her father in gathering about four mats. She stretched her legs tried to recline on her back. The roof made of hey and bamboo, just one look and a sudden twist of the contents in the head, and the swaying. Someone is singing a lullaby to Koong.

Koong sees herself lying down in a cloth cradle and being gently pushed up and down, who is putting me to sleep? She thought. She watches him, her brother, and a healthy man by now with a handsome smile, unlike her father, more like the guide who vanished into thin air. He has a very strong pair of wrists; he is holding the wooden plank of the cradle, which separates the two knots of clothes that connects to the rope above extending to the roof, on either side.

"Sleep my sister, please go on close your eyes, sleep my big sister", she heard.

Koong felt the warmth, while watching his face and then as the swaying goes up and down she see him again and she lost his face and again she see the handsome face. She cried, "Oh my handsome young brother", she wanted to say more but now the warmth is all over her and it is sticky and smells like dead rotten meat. Koong is throwing up on her pyjamas and on the mat. She screamed, as loud as she could. She called her mother, a perfect nightmare in this clear dark whiteness. She could not believe the amount of rotten food and bile just disgorged out; it is all green, yellow and brown with swollen rice grains, rice from home, back in their village, in China.

The representatives asked them to leave their stuff in that big room and follow them to the nearest government office to register themselves so that they could be a part of this port and so this country.

Koong had to wash her entire body before she could see anyone. She is taken to a nearby canal at the back of the godown where the water is muddy red in colour. She took a dip with her dirty clothes on. She washed both her clothes and the yellow shiny skin in that rusty water.

They walked towards the office following the two good men. There were not many that enthusiastic, they got no attention at all from the crowd on the street and the shops. All were busy with a new day in this small port township and the migrants a new life.

^^ back to top ^^

"Koong, Koong…. Koong", mother was yelling. "Food is ready, enough playing for today get back here"

I must run, only one call and that is the first and the last. Ignoring would be like ignoring the hunger or simply no food. There is always competitiveness amongst us the children when we have our supper served, no time to waste and no food to waste. I have seen the same awareness in the eyes of our parents as well but they have their ways to mask that emotion, they usually talk about something strange in such a state. We are eight individuals, four adults and four children in my uncle's house. If one were to count the amount of food, it must be enough for two hungry adult sized bellies. But that is the training; we know how to eat even a bowl of rice divided into as many as ten.

The food is still scarce even in this new land; poverty shares their bed, their dreams, and their days and nights. Koong hear people say, "Remember we are immigrants; remember we are Chinese". They are used to having a single meal a day. Koong is hungry most of the time, and she knows how to keep that tamed without weakening her senses and spirit. If one asks, Koong would reply, "I know how to play when you have only one meal to swallow in a day and the night to come, drinking more water".

They will ever remember the drought back in their village; the water was dirty and thick. They have to filter them using old linen and keep for hours untouched, unshaken, the dirt settles down and one would pour it carefully to tumblers and they could have a drink slowly and gently with extreme control of their breathing. But things are better so far in this new land, better than where they belong, like everyone else Koong's father also tried to believe in the philosophy of a better life.

"We have rules here, in my uncle's house", Koong would say. They moved here almost six months ago, and Koong has cousins and friends whom she has never seen in her life. It is a shabby slum in the midst of Bangkok city where they share with uncle's family who is her father's elder brother. He came to this country several years ago and has been out of touch rediscovered his younger brother or perhaps they discovered him. It was purely fortuitous, while in the port town Koong and her parents had to stay in the godown for several weeks before they could start a life their own.

Later in her life, Koong always remembers very clearly the way herself and her parents where found or rather discovered and taken by her big uncle to the big city.

While in the port township, Koong's father had to work as a porter, a ship cleaner, and an assistant to a cook in a short period of time. That is where he met some merchants who came from the city of Bangkok to the port. They visited the Chuichau restaurant for a meal where he worked. Since he knew only one Chinese dialect and not many words of Thai, he kept talking in the dialect thinking the whole world understands what he has been saying. Many instances it worked very well. Those merchants where kind, they also came from the same province in China long before. It went into a good amount of conversation, they were eager to know the current happenings back in their province and in China. Koong's father has been waiting for someone to have a chat, though in the midst of his busy job as an assistant cook and supplier. They talked about many things, the revolution, the Kuomintang and the Japanese; they also talked about their home province that had little effect socially or geographically, but a lot in economic downside. They believed that the little geographic differences where all due to the economic and the political tragedies, which indirectly rooted out many natural green lands and rich farmlands dull and grey.

The merchants asked for his family name and hearing it they said they know one with the same back in Bangkok, who is running a small business and an eatery. The long lost brother of Koong's father is found, he dreamed, and he see light at last in the darkness, as it was for any other migrant families at that time. The merchants promised to bring the news to his brother in the big city.

Several months went past swift and slow, and on a hot humid morning Koong's father's elder brother just appeared in front of the Chinese restaurant in the port township searching for his younger brother, just like that, without any warning.

They waited for the hot day to melt and through the crimson eve they took a bus to the city of Bangkok. In that bus, they carried their bundles again, memories in their hearts to the new home in the city of angels. They travelled through roads flanked by paddy, corn and sugar cane fields and little dark elevated wooden houses. The crimson and gold is everywhere, the warm air to breath smelled the feathers of the golden sun. Though tiring the journey it gives them a sense of hope. The more one breath in the colours of landscapes the more one feels the life in it. While a gold feather from the sun touch Koong's young cheek, while she taste the dried earth and hay carried along by the wind she see and tastes in them her own existence, perhaps. She must be happy, she wanted to be part of all these. She could not understand all that hue and smell. She keep seeing only the darker, the healthy and strong men and women. The bus moves fast when compared with the bullock carts and the buses she is used to.

So swift the land passes by, did she see him, the young handsome face; is he carrying a long plough on his strong naked shoulder? Does he posses a dark tan on his skin, and a wide hat made of straw on his head. Who would have made it for him, must be the long slender fingers of a beautiful Chinese woman. Koong's forehead banged on the rusted rod of the window, the dream is dead but she is awake. The bus is moving fast.

There is a paddy field awaiting rain and her peasant on the left side of the road. There is nothing much on that earth, heaps and heaps of hay and smoke from some. Towards the land, the horizon is bright with a crimson cap, golden ribbon tied in unease. Countless palm trees and other green and bushy trees fading into the colour of darkness, so swift one could almost see the darkness falling like rain on a mirror. No one in the vicinity to compare the heights of those heaps of hay and the trees and soon everything disappeared into a black thick mist. The chirping of lovely and nasty birds returning to the nests were muted by their roaring bus. Most of them were new to Koong, she has not seen these colours in their wings before. Everything is as in a glass-framed backdrop except that they all are lively; there is so much life in everything.

"Where is he my handsome little man?" Koong searched in vain again. It is getting dark, the thick air is black by now and the land blinded her eyes. She started getting chills from the remains of the heat and the cool gushing blackness covering the bus, which just blanketed her mother, her father, her newly discovered uncle and all those who seated in the bus. Those who are awake mumbled different sounds to make the one seated next and near laugh, cry, giggle and even silent. Koong slept again and did not wake up until the end of the journey. The sudden silence from the engine failed to wake Koong from sleeping but her father shook her shoulders vigorously, "Don't sleep like a dead, you are girl". It is nearing midnight in Bangkok.

Koong's uncle has three ugly boys and a very beautiful wife, Kiang and two rooms in a long stretch of shacks built of dark wood, tin sheets and asbestos. All the homes are connected to each other; one's boundary or wall is another family's boundary or wall. They share. The rooms transforms into an eatery in the hot humid blinding day, for those who come to have a bowl of noodle or soup. In the night it becomes theirs where they would spread the bamboo mat to rest their swollen feet and dusty souls.

The two small rooms are a single room divided with a thin layer of asbestos sheet to a left large room and a right smaller one. If one splash a bucket of water in one room it seeps into the other, but they still call them in two different names, the leftroom and the rightroom. They lived in the right smaller room, Koong sandwiched in the middle of her father and mother.

Koong sleeps soon after her father stretches his strong arm for her cheek to rest. She turn her face away from his and will hold the palm for a while, move her fingers over the calluses, she count them one two three four and another row of four and several small ones. She scratches them and even tries to peel one or two. Her father never says a word or pulls the palm away. It is all hers just before sleep, then comes the sleep fairy, the goddess and Koong remember the way her grandmother described the fairy, "She is all so white and skin like water, you cannot touch, because it drips, you just look at her and close your eye lids" and then the palm with calluses is no longer hers.

Koong's mother is a graceful woman, but never looked that beautiful as her auntie Kiang but her father is a handsome man than her uncle. But Koong thinks she is the prettiest in that area of the slum, the pretty newcomer they started calling her, she wishes.

"You must not play with only those boys. Why don't you sit and play like those girls next door? You are no more a little baby girl, you are going to be six years old, remember that. Do not behave like boys, you are never a boy, the only son God gave me has gone back to him, and you will never replace my son. In fact, you must not be playing at all, you must help us in the kitchen", mother serves with the first meal at noon.

I wanted to say, "Yes, I am not your son and I am always helping, what else am I doing in this world". Eat food and help my mother and auntie. There are lots and lots of fun out there, near the muddy canal. Perhaps you two should join me once so that you both could listen to all the stories they talk about. Most of all I am learning a new language from the dirty boys and my cousins, the shaven heads. The Chinese girls next door are boring, only with whom I am allowed to mingle, what are they doing, either helping their parents or still talking in our old dialect, nothing new, nothing exciting.

There is a new topic of discussion for the men near the canal, Koong understands. "Things are changing again", they say. The kingdom is in peril that is what the old and the wise that hang around have to say. There is the king and a queen, and several prince and princess live in the golden palace of white castle. Koong have heard the magical stories of the handsome prince and beautiful princes. Their pictures appear in the newspapers and on the walls of every single household.

The young are learning to read and write so that they can read the newspaper for the elderly and the illiterate. Everything is in the newspaper, things about war, things about the past while peace prevails, things about invasions, things about love affairs, things about rice and farmers and even death. These are new developments here. "It was not like this several years ago", an old wise man says, regrettably.

He continues, "And then there was enough rice to feed everyone in this kingdom and even to give to the needy in other neighbouring nations. All we had to do was to work in the fields and there were enough earth and seeds to do so. Wake up in the morning go to the fields and work until dark. Seasons change for us so do the crops, they grow long green leaves, lively buds, goes golden and swing in the wind during harvest. Rice fields extending to eternity, healthy farmers and healthy crops, no complaints. Long live the king we all prayed". But now he complaints "Things are changing, hope it is for the good, long live the king".

I do not understand a thing but still I pretend I know everything, I copied the words of the old wise man near the canal to my father while I was searching for the strong yellow cool skin of his arm to reach the sleep goddess, the fairy. Then suddenly, he pushed me aside, may be for the first time.

"Hush…hush… what did you say? These words are only for the old and the wise and the local people to talk you must never and do not forget that you are a girl, a Chinese girl" he was upset I could feel it even in that darkness of the night.

"She is only six" mother whispered.

So it is good to be six, I will be pardoned even for talking nonsense. I was calling her the sleep fairy, let me sleep I had to get rid of the heat and wetness of this dark night.

Today is Sunday but Koong's father is out for work before dawn. Koong always wakes up with imprints of the bamboo mat on her left cheek or sometimes on the right cheek. Her beautiful auntie is not that happy today morning.

No obvious reasons, the rice must be over in the wooden storage drum, probably. Every supper is cooked with only two measures of rice that was the case even before the brother and family arrived from the port township. Lunch is always noodles drowned in soup water. The first few days after they joined the family, there was an additional measure to rejoice, and then it gradually reduced until it attained a grain-by-grain reduction reaching back to two measures. There are four hungry children and four young adults. Big uncle has bought the smallest ceramic bowls for serving rice after his brother and family joined him. The crockery looks as small as the ones used for serving Chinese tea but they all can have more than one serving. Chopsticks also help in increasing the number of times the rice actually reaches the mouth. They all count it when it happens, subconsciously so as to feel full at the end. Soup fills their hearts and everyone praises the goodness and greatness of soup and compare with a bowl of rice.

"Have more soup it is so nutritious", says Koong's father to be followed by her mother then uncle and lastly the beautiful auntie. The children agree by having more soup, which is nothing more than a cloudy liquid with little dark islands of oil from the melted fat of a pig. They actually are full and satisfied with those meals and are ready to find the respective sleeping spots.

Today for some extended reason, my beautiful auntie Kiang has a puffy red face. She is not talking much and not looking at us the children and even my mother. She must have enough reason to be like that. There must be several reasons starting with the sharing of the rooms. Now all the ugly cousins of mine sleep with my big uncle and beautiful auntie. There must be something seriously wrong in that, I overheard. Sharing the food must be another reason though my father is earning little monies as a street vendor. My father's income is not enough to buy rice for his family but it is of course an additional figure when you add up the total income of the household, end of the day, mother reassures. But it should be compensated with my mother helping them running the eatery, the noodle and soup shop. My mother is actually doing more work than my auntie Kiang these days. My mother looks tired, sweaty and red with the heat from the charcoal furnace and the humid hot air roaming in this land. Then why this sudden change, it must have been there unnoticed and today everything has reached her beautiful face to glow as red and swollen, Koong tried to understand the grown ups.

Perhaps with all these beauty she has also charming dreams and hopes for tomorrow. She understands more about herself as every day passes by, the comments people make must have serious outcomes, at least in the beautiful mind of hers. She probably started realising her hidden charm and bodily beauty from the words of the laymen and the middle-class and the intermediate climbing-class or the soon to be wealthy Thai-Chinese. All those thoughts are getting projected in every single word she speaks, the words, which does not fit into the walls of their wooden home.

Kiang has a thin and fine voice like a Chinese opera singer and velvety hands where the veins run criss-cross like pilgrims in search for a sacred place. They are everywhere like a branching blue river, her pink skin is so thin, stretched so fine over the well designed muscles and bone underneath. The pointed chin has a dot of sunshine or the burning fire reflected. The perfectly painted eyes are so bright and half closed flaring towards the side of the face under the thick dark eyebrows and droops down to the elegant sharp nose in the middle. Two dimples hidden on the cheeks appear only while she smiles with happiness. Hair is lustrous and shines like a black stallion, one could caress, smell and cover it all over the eyes and face after melting down into her. A perfect long neck with few hair coils behind the ears, straight shoulders spread down to form two perfectly round breasts. A slender waist one could hold on to forever and a pair of round and soft buttocks, which always held the cloths she wear. The most attractive part would be her smooth and round legs, which stretches down to the muddy earth as two tiny feet with ten toes and pearl like nails which are pink once cleared-off from the dirt and dust. It is almost unbelievable she conceived and gave birth to three children.

She should not be here in this slum with not that handsome man and the ugly children making noodles and soup all through the year. Everyone who visits the eatery had this feeling about her one time or other while admiring and committing adultery by staring past her beautiful body. She is prettier today with that undistinguishable emotion still residing in a concealed form in the beautiful heart of hers. The heart has to be beautiful too with the rest of her being so adorable.

The day was very short may be because it is a Sunday, that is what those kids who goes to school says. I do not know what Sunday means, Koong complain to herself. For me every day starts with sunshine and every day ends with darkness with hunger always hanging around. Everyone talks about seven days, I will understand what does that mean when I grow up to be a woman who can have a man and children, mother says.

My mother stresses the word 'even' Sundays your father has to work; he is working so hard for my mother and myself. So Sunday is special, it has to be. That evening I watched my father coming home, from a distance. He has the sling made of long half cut bamboo resting on the shoulder with two bamboo woven baskets hanging on each side like a big balance. He knows how to keep the balance even if one weighs more than other. His strong hand over it controls the balance, he told me that once. While his waist waggle harder there is less money in his pocket, goods are returning home unsold. But if he walks in ease with one hand casually over the bamboo bar, he must have sold and earned and so with much relaxed muscles and mind, my mother says so. In either case my mother welcome him with only one face, a smiling and happy one.

Koong's mother helps her husband unload but he never let her do so. Still she helps but there is nothing to be helped, but it counts, may be she will place her hand over him, on his palm or the fingers, as if unintentionally, a greeting of senses from each other, only their souls sigh, no one will hear or even see it. They are husband and wife, they share, is that is what that means or something more like 'I am here' 'oh yes I am here too my lady'.

I saw that first, a square big frame lying inside the bamboo basket. And I know that it is not for me because I cannot think of anything like that for me to play with. I have only friends and cousins in and around this slum to play with. So what it could be?

My father uncovered the frame; my cousin brothers and even aunty Kiang watched except my mother, that was a grey and black painting of a man dressed in expensive ornaments and velvety clothes with a sword and crown. I recognised him as one in the newspaper, those wise men read near the canal.

My father used a large stone to fix a rusted nail on the asbestos wall; it actually reached the other side of the room, the leftroom of my big uncle. Father called mother who is busy getting a tumbler of water for him, "Yei look here, the king on his coronation, hope he is doing fine wherever he is today, offer your prayers daily, you too the little one, it will bring good luck people say. He isn't here in this land any more, in exile but his blessing will be, that is what all have to say"

My father is in a good mood unlike auntie Kiang. He stared at the photo for a while stretching his knees on the wooden floor. Is he chanting or is he murmuring. He had this smile as if he found something, I do not know what but it has to be a good thing, and I am sure.

Is he praying, one cannot say whether he could pray, certainly he cannot read or write? But prayers are from deep inside; they take the form of words and if released make sounds pleasant. One could hear people chanting without knowing they are actually praying. Back in the village, they have gods to pray to but not well received by the revolt and were not simply suitable for the practise of revisionism.

What is he dreaming of, no one knows except himself. Koong gave him the second tumbler of water, which he emptied in one single gulp. Wiped his sun-tanned face with the small cloth hanging on his shoulder. Koong helped her mother who is helping the beautiful auntie, they were busy preparing the supper and there is something special tonight, one dried fish and fresh water spinach, Koong's father bought. It must be a feast today, they know.

The dinner was heavy for all of them the sleep fairy even dined with Koong, she felt. Like in any other night, before her ears getting closed soon after her eyes she heard her mother whispering in a sad tone to her father "Kiang is going to have another baby"

There is no reply but he also seems worried about the fact that Kiang is going to have another baby, the darkness agreed. Koong is with her white fairy sleep goddess but she could not shut her ears as she always does. She is hearing voices unheard of, is that her white fairy; no it can't be, she thought. The scary sounds extended through the night. She knew soon that she is not in the middle of her father and mother but near to the wooden boundary wall of their small hut. But Koong had no fear as she is in sleep.

That night was full of dreams, he came not as usual and they played and played until Koong could not lift her arms or legs and even the eyelids. She slept in her dreams watching his sharp eyes, the handsome face. When she woke up she was alone, all alone with the crisscross marks of the bamboo mat on either side of her young cheeks.