My exact age evades me now, but I know that I was around the age of seven or eight, and had lived in Africa for at least three years: I had bared witness to tragic poverty countless times before. So why was this one girl causing my body to ache in such a way that I’d never felt before? Why was my chest being crushed?
The next few steps became the most painful ones I’ve ever taken, each one lasting a lifetime at least. I took out the money I had in my pocket, money my mother had given me for a taxi in case I got lost which was highly probable in these streets. This was not enough I thought. Not enough to change her life in any way, not enough to give her the same opportunities in life as me, not enough for her to buy anything as useless and fun as I had and not enough to eat half of the plate of food that I had enthusiastically set out with my family to eat this night. It was not fair. What in my life had I done to deserve all that I had? Nothing. I dropped the note in her cup, feeling guiltier about this seemingly kind act of generosity than I had ever felt in my life.
A fleeting glance at her face was all I took, but it was enough to send my mind into spiralling, desperate turmoil. Only later did I remember how she meekly uttered, “khob khun ka{2}”, too tired to say much more. She did not care about who I was or how I felt; I was nothing more than the note in her cup, the next meal.
It was at this point that my body reminded me on its need for air. It seemed at first a strange and difficult notion; an action to be considered instead performed automatically. Such was the state of my mind. My nose was blocked, so I parted my lips an inch. The gasp, and sputter, as well as the rivulets of tears that streaked down my face like the train tracks above me were like the release for all the emotion I had built up inside. The tears lessened the discomfort, and cleared my head.
My family sat around the table, with their steaming plates of glistening, wonderful food untouched, unsure of whether or not to begin. I sat a distance from them, but close enough to rest my head against the rim of the table. I couldn’t look at the food. My sister gazed at me with a worried excitement. My mother, at the subtle insistence of my father, repressed the urge to wrap her arms around me and console her child.
My father understood though, he looked at me with quiet understanding, behind which I could see what I later ascertained to be pride. Pride in the fact that his son had finally cried, had taken a considerable step on his path to manhood and higher level of understanding. Understanding of the “way the world is”, humanity and fairness.
I did not eat that night, nor did I partake in even a drink of water. Consequently, I did not sleep either, but instead I stayed up all night, desperately trying to make sense of what I saw, my hunger, the only link I felt I shared with the girl though we were both humans. Children. Our lives parallel yet so very far apart.
{1}: Wai – Traditional Thai greeting in which palms are pressed together in a prayer like manner
{2}: Khob Khun Ka – Thank you
