Waves

 

    At the village, there was a legend that he was born in the river. Once, a toddler-form child just emerged there, or at least, that’s what they told. They never saw his mother pregnant, but the folk saw her play with a toddler. He was taken to the riverside every afternoon.

    And that remained his favourite place – even though he had long after moved into the noisy city. His favourite place was close to the river: that was his getaway, his hideout when life was too much to bear. He loved watching the waves and tides for hours and not doing anything. Not doing was a thing back then. Somehow that river symbolized life to him. It was stable, unchanging, flowing continuously, no matter what: he could have changed his career, wife, city, could have gone off to the wrong path, but that river always calmed him down. 

    Not doing was a thing back then: it wasn’t empty doing actually. His mind was running in waves, as well, together with the river’s, working in mysterious ways. He was emptying his head, heart, and fasting his body. It worked all the ways. It recharged him and once he returned to the city, he felt something had changed in him. For a while, at least.  

    When he dropped out of his university course, he came to the river and his salty tears mixed with the sweet water of Khlong Khaem. It was good to know that some more drops of salty water reached the beach, mixed with the water of the river. 

    When his girlfriend moved out, he came to the river instead of staying at home: he enjoyed the calmness and tranquility of the river and the fading away sounds of the chants from the nearby Buddhist temple. He truly recognized nature’s healing power that night. He came back there often: to draw, to write, to bathe. That river meant life to him, after that he had believed his life had been over. 

When he reached the point in his life not knowing what to do, to build up a career for someone that he doesn’t even know, or to start his own business, he came to the river, again. He came there frequently, every weekend, while once he realized he had been there for an entire week. The river gave the answer for him, he needn’t have thought about it more: the following day he gave in his resignation, and came back to the river to find out his life path again. 

    Later on, when he met his later wife, it was the place he took her first. The woman soaked her ankles in the river and enjoyed its calmness: he took pictures of her and of them; and then again in years, of three, four of them. The rivers witnessed all. It truly meant life to him: he took his children there, and his wife, and later on his wife’s ashes. It did not rise, it flew continuously, stable, carrying ashes as well as tears. He dropped his head, he didn’t talk, he just stood there, fascinated by the river, by the flow of water and by the sound of it. The river did not stir, did not make any waves. 

    His last route led to the river too. He couldn’t walk, he asked his grandchildren to carry his wheelchair, he slowly stood up, bent forward; he claimed he wanted to look at the pinky-tailed fish, for one last time. The grandchildren were playing, they didn’t care about the old ill grandpa. They only looked there when they heard the sound of the waves and they got scared by not seeing their grandpa. The river did not stir, did not make any waves. He was safe, down there. With all his tears, with his wife, with his pink-tailed fish, with his entire life.