In a large town there was a sprawling complex of apartments with many floors. They were filled with families and students and old uncles and nosy neighbours, a whole residential area slotted into tiny compartments for homes. There were crooks and cats and shrubs and washing on the lines and a scattering of small wooden stalls outside the compound selling banana fritters and fried fish sticks. I was a tenant in one of the blocks, living a rigorously busy life in the nearby city, locking up my doors in the morning and returning in the setting hours of the day.
I had a Polly Pocket collection; a huge crate of beautiful, delicate houses and tiny figurines , organized neatly in order. One day I came home to find my stack of toys arranged in a different way than when I had left. Puzzled, I let it slide. But it occurred again, and again, and again. Over the course of two weeks, I became more concerned. Who was entering my house without my knowledge, and how did they get through the locks, and what were they doing with my things? I went around the floors and asked my neighbours. No one seemed to notice. My frustration grew.
The matter still wasn't solved one warm afternoon as I took off early from work. I bumped into Kak Liya on the way up and voiced out my worries. It wasn't the first time I had complained of the issue, and I could see her becoming angry. Suddenly, she snapped, "Why does it matter so much if your belongings are being rearranged? They are not stolen, damaged or broken. Why are you getting so worked up over something that doesn't even pose as a big problem? Since when did you become so wrapped in yourself? You're becoming arrogant and self important over a simple matter."
I was not getting worked up nor was I becoming deluded or proud by my materials. I had a right to know the dealings of my possessions. I had worked my bones to gain money to collect them, and I have cherished and cared for them one by one. The values of objects are so much more than money when they're symbols of hard work, time and energy. It wasn't with mere luck that I had things to call my own, and I was determined to discover their fates. More frustrated than ever, especially with her outburst, I stomped to my apartment.
It was in such an anger that I didn't even realise the door was ajar, didn't notice that the floor was littered with tiny pink sandals, neither did I hear the shrill voices from within. Only when the sight of two little girls in pink dresses, sitting on my plush carpet happily playing with my toys that I stopped in shock. There they were, my culprits. They only managed to look at me in alarm, frozen mid play. The more I observed the more I realised they were the daughters of Kak Liya's cousin whom I had met once, far away, a long time ago. Yet here they are, relishing in my things.
I had no intentions to be harsh, but I was aware that they needed to understand the situation - of breaking and entering, or playing without permission. The thing about the young is that they are impressionable, and most social conducts are buried permanently within tenderer ages. I had a plan. Locking them in, I went around all the homes in the apartment blocks. Having raised prior ruckus, most of my neighbours were already familiar with my predicament, and gamely agreed to meet me at the ground floor assembly hall that night for a meeting.
It was Friday so I was assured I would not be disturbing their working hours the next day. All I wanted was to introduce the girls nicely, making sure they recognized everyone as friends, and teach them the proprieties of asking permission before simply using a facility. 8 p.m. rolled around, and the crowds began filling up the bleachers in the hall. I sat in a single chair facing them. The two girls (now known as Putu and Camille), were on both of my knees, and I could feel their bodies rigid with fear, fidgeting with nerves.
Time passed and the crowds only became livelier, happily joking, laughing, catching up with one another. The turn out was impressive, but so was the lack of attention. I called out once, aware that Putu and Camille were beginning to be more confused than respectful of the case, but most of my audience merely glanced once before being distracted. Some, bored, had already taken out their phones to other matters. It wasn't until someone began passing around steaming fried hot dogs that I realised my arrangments were never going to come through.
After calling out for attention again to absolutely no response, I decided to stop. I released the girls, who ran away. In my utter fury and disappointment I switched off the lights - finally to some cries of chaos. Forget the whole thing - no point gathering people if there wasn't an ounce of consideration. I had invited them on good thoughts, after weeks of conflict on my part, and if there was no cooperation, then who was I to challenge anyone? I had tried, and apparently failed. Respect and politeness were rare, earned feats in this present world. I was too tired to care.
Ignoring the jeers, I ran to a quiet landing, finding solace staring at stars. Hours seemed to pass before I finally heard a noise. A lean figure came up to me, tumbling curly hair, flopping over light eyes, a grey hoodie, faded jeans. He asked me what was wrong, and keeping the dejected tears away I lamented the situation. It was then that he looked at me carefully, and without warning, began laughing. Of course this only served to fuel my anger. I was prepared to retaliate in verbal abuse, when he calmed down and looked at me squarely in the eye.
"Don't you understand? Why must everything be such a show? Why must everyone know this lesson you want to teach, or this problem you currently face? Couldn't the same resolution be achieved in the confinements of your own life? It is a Friday night after all, most of us are not even present in mind and body - why choose such a dull lesson on a fun hour? Have you not considered your own selfishness in this gathering? There are so many alternatives to how you could have handled this in grace, and yet you possibly chose the most complicated way by involving others. Some things, some moments, be it predicaments or triumphs - should only belong to you. "
This whole saga was a morning dream that left me awake with possibly one of the most unsettling feelings. You know the universe is knocking hard when even your slumbering subconscious is beginning to channel life lessons.
I had a Polly Pocket collection; a huge crate of beautiful, delicate houses and tiny figurines , organized neatly in order. One day I came home to find my stack of toys arranged in a different way than when I had left. Puzzled, I let it slide. But it occurred again, and again, and again. Over the course of two weeks, I became more concerned. Who was entering my house without my knowledge, and how did they get through the locks, and what were they doing with my things? I went around the floors and asked my neighbours. No one seemed to notice. My frustration grew.
The matter still wasn't solved one warm afternoon as I took off early from work. I bumped into Kak Liya on the way up and voiced out my worries. It wasn't the first time I had complained of the issue, and I could see her becoming angry. Suddenly, she snapped, "Why does it matter so much if your belongings are being rearranged? They are not stolen, damaged or broken. Why are you getting so worked up over something that doesn't even pose as a big problem? Since when did you become so wrapped in yourself? You're becoming arrogant and self important over a simple matter."
I was not getting worked up nor was I becoming deluded or proud by my materials. I had a right to know the dealings of my possessions. I had worked my bones to gain money to collect them, and I have cherished and cared for them one by one. The values of objects are so much more than money when they're symbols of hard work, time and energy. It wasn't with mere luck that I had things to call my own, and I was determined to discover their fates. More frustrated than ever, especially with her outburst, I stomped to my apartment.
It was in such an anger that I didn't even realise the door was ajar, didn't notice that the floor was littered with tiny pink sandals, neither did I hear the shrill voices from within. Only when the sight of two little girls in pink dresses, sitting on my plush carpet happily playing with my toys that I stopped in shock. There they were, my culprits. They only managed to look at me in alarm, frozen mid play. The more I observed the more I realised they were the daughters of Kak Liya's cousin whom I had met once, far away, a long time ago. Yet here they are, relishing in my things.
I had no intentions to be harsh, but I was aware that they needed to understand the situation - of breaking and entering, or playing without permission. The thing about the young is that they are impressionable, and most social conducts are buried permanently within tenderer ages. I had a plan. Locking them in, I went around all the homes in the apartment blocks. Having raised prior ruckus, most of my neighbours were already familiar with my predicament, and gamely agreed to meet me at the ground floor assembly hall that night for a meeting.
It was Friday so I was assured I would not be disturbing their working hours the next day. All I wanted was to introduce the girls nicely, making sure they recognized everyone as friends, and teach them the proprieties of asking permission before simply using a facility. 8 p.m. rolled around, and the crowds began filling up the bleachers in the hall. I sat in a single chair facing them. The two girls (now known as Putu and Camille), were on both of my knees, and I could feel their bodies rigid with fear, fidgeting with nerves.
Time passed and the crowds only became livelier, happily joking, laughing, catching up with one another. The turn out was impressive, but so was the lack of attention. I called out once, aware that Putu and Camille were beginning to be more confused than respectful of the case, but most of my audience merely glanced once before being distracted. Some, bored, had already taken out their phones to other matters. It wasn't until someone began passing around steaming fried hot dogs that I realised my arrangments were never going to come through.
After calling out for attention again to absolutely no response, I decided to stop. I released the girls, who ran away. In my utter fury and disappointment I switched off the lights - finally to some cries of chaos. Forget the whole thing - no point gathering people if there wasn't an ounce of consideration. I had invited them on good thoughts, after weeks of conflict on my part, and if there was no cooperation, then who was I to challenge anyone? I had tried, and apparently failed. Respect and politeness were rare, earned feats in this present world. I was too tired to care.
Ignoring the jeers, I ran to a quiet landing, finding solace staring at stars. Hours seemed to pass before I finally heard a noise. A lean figure came up to me, tumbling curly hair, flopping over light eyes, a grey hoodie, faded jeans. He asked me what was wrong, and keeping the dejected tears away I lamented the situation. It was then that he looked at me carefully, and without warning, began laughing. Of course this only served to fuel my anger. I was prepared to retaliate in verbal abuse, when he calmed down and looked at me squarely in the eye.
"Don't you understand? Why must everything be such a show? Why must everyone know this lesson you want to teach, or this problem you currently face? Couldn't the same resolution be achieved in the confinements of your own life? It is a Friday night after all, most of us are not even present in mind and body - why choose such a dull lesson on a fun hour? Have you not considered your own selfishness in this gathering? There are so many alternatives to how you could have handled this in grace, and yet you possibly chose the most complicated way by involving others. Some things, some moments, be it predicaments or triumphs - should only belong to you. "
This whole saga was a morning dream that left me awake with possibly one of the most unsettling feelings. You know the universe is knocking hard when even your slumbering subconscious is beginning to channel life lessons.
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