There is this park, near where I live, that has always been there.
If you pass by the Federal Highway headed south, just before the new highrise apartments that block the skyline of my hometown, just before the train station that stands lazily and belligerently at the side like a stubborn child that refuses to have his dinner, there is a lake.
You won’t see much of it, because the trees there are the oldest in town, and huge and sprawling, branches and leaves aiming hopefully for the sky. You’ll see short glimpses of the water, usually still, green from reflecting the nearby shrubbery and the thick clumps of aquatic plants. It won’t seem like anything much. You might even mistake it for a sewage treatment centre, like the other ones placed thoughtfully alongside traffic-heavy highways.
But no. It is a lake within a huge park, and it has been there all my life.
It used to be a place for us, growing up. We would go there on weekends or on weekdays, and we’d lace up our shoes and gamely trudge along the walking pathway that frames the lake. We’d go as near to the water as we dared, but as neither of our parents fancied the idea of scooping their children from a cold, slimy lake, we were cautious. We used to ride our bikes haphazardly, struggling when faced with the 25 degree slope up the trail, and the joggers would move around us and occasionally give us a little push if we were threatening to glide backwards and into the lake. There was a restaurant on the other side called ‘Crocodile Farm Restaurant’, and the waiters would tease us with stories of crocodiles coming up to eat our kung pao prawn and yong chao fried rice.
Then we grew up, and we got caught up in exams and the daily humdrum of being Malaysian students, and somewhere along the way, going to the lake became a chore. It became something our parents did alone, when we’d be too lazy to get up for a brisk walk, and eventually it came to the point that they’d nag us to go. Being teenagers, we held our ground by slouching even further into the couch. And then I went overseas.
So I haven’t been in years.
Today was a restless day. It came on the tail of restless nights and a half-workday (on a public holiday) and meeting my old high school girlfriends and eating more candy that is advisable and feeling hit by a wave of inertia that I don’t want anywhere near my life. I was sleepy, tired, agitated, and close to tears.
“We’re going for a walk at the lake”, Papa said in his authoritative voice, which we usually ignore.
“Okay”, I said this time.
We went. My new shoes still felt strange on me (because they are MEN’S shoes) and I was dressed in strange colours. When we reached the lake, it felt like going back. I was the stranger reluctantly come home to an unchanged memory. The trees were in the same place, and they looked the same, and there were those people walking around with buckets and fishing rods. By the time we parked, rain had fallen. Papa made a comment about how the rain was the kind that would drop by unnoticed. “The kind that comes for a while, and then just stops.” I was staring at the lake ahead, taking it in, mp3 player at the ready. The plan was to walk with umbrellas, but my hijab would be cover enough, I reasoned. Besides, I’m too clumsy to walk and handle an open umbrella.
I tried not to feel too self-conscious walking around the circuit. I put on Tina Fey’s Bossypants audiobook, and it was some comfort listening to a person talk on end and airing out her thoughts about raising children and about how crazy it was to fret in an already privileged life. She is hilarious, and her game shamelessness encouraged my own. I ignored the fact that the same joggers had passed me twice in the same time I took to go one lap; I avoided staring at their proper exercise attire and comparing it to my own pink-and-purple striped thing that looked like I was getting ready to go to bed. I walked ahead. The path was getting to me, and so was the mud. To avoid the ongoing construction by the side, I walked onto the grass.
It felt smushy and nice. So I did it again.
Here is how my logic works: Walk in grass. Grass is slightly muddy and transfers some dirt to new walking shoes. Walk purposely and carefully into puddle of water to wash off mud stains. Proceed to walk into grass again for that natural feel. Shoes get more mud. Walk into bigger puddle of water. Shoes get soaked. Who cares by this point – puddles are fun, and so is the grass, and you’ll cross that shoe-scrubbing bridge when you come to it.
When I reached the acknowledgements of the audio book, I switched to Yamandu Costa’s Mafua, which is a lovely ode to the 12-string guitar and to the senses of Brazil. It is magnetic and gentle, bewitching and familiar. And that was when I really stepped back and took it in.
The lake – our Lake – is a beautiful thing. The largest, truest patch of the richest greens I had ever seen, in a lovely arrangement you’d be hard-pressed to find anywhere else in town. It is small in comparison to older parks in the state, but it had the thickest grass and the most magnificent trees, and there it stood, unyielding and growing, as the world around it grew more greedy and more obsessed with concrete. The lush foliage helped us ignore the passing cars and the rising roads, each built on top of the other. The lake remained in the middle of it, feeding it with water and nutrients and life. People fish there everyday, though I rarely saw them successful. Perhaps the practice gave them an excuse to stare at the still water; perhaps it answered their patience with an inner peace.
In my last year of university, I lived at an apartment a little farther away from university. It forced me to walk for half an hour each way on the generous walking paths, shaded by huge pale trees that changed colours with the seasons. There was also an incredible amount of possum droppings, but we’ll have to ignore that. Whenever I felt frustrated or sad or anxious or restless, I would vent my thoughts to the trees, as if asking them what they thought and wanting them to pass some wisdom from their many years of standing by and watching us humans being silly with our lives. I could have a little cry as I briskly made my way down Elizabeth Street and they wouldn’t mind. I would look up and remember God and thank Him for creating all this. That, I miss most about my long walks.
One of my longest heart-to-hearts was with my senior and dearest Banoffee Pie, when we were lost on the hill in Wilsons Prom. As we negotiatied sharp branches and tried to read footsteps in the dirt, we talked and talked and I shared my worries and problems. She listened to me with her heavy eyes and would squeeze my arm empathetically at the right moments. She is now married and has just given birth to a son.
I wonder how the years escape us, even though we were sure we had looked quite hard.
But I know I haven’t been looking hard at all. If I had, I would have heard the creaking of the branches as they inched up the atmosphere; would have noted the seasons passing from unbearable sun to endless rain; would have known the day the flowers would bloom well before they did – the way I used to, once upon a time.
Today, I remembered how important it is to look, the way I did in the best time of my life so far. To look, rather than let everything pass me by.
O our lord, You have not created (all) this in vain. Glory be to You. Save us then from the torment of fire.
