The Sad Part Was Page 10

  You have to count yourself very lucky that you’re reading my exposé. Let me tell you something – but don’t pity me once you’ve heard it – because it’s bound to happen sooner or later.

  I won’t be able to continue with this exposé for long. Any moment now, I’m going to vanish into thin air. And we shall never meet again. Therefore, you ought to make the most of your time with me. It’s all to your own benefit.

  Prabda Yoon, whose name appears below the pathetic and untrustworthy title at the start of my exposé, that’s him, that’s the guy I’m talking about. He’s the one who upped and decided that my name was Marut. He’s the one who wants to order me to sit by the sea. He probably thinks the title is so snappy. “Marut by the Sea.” Stop, please, before I fall backward laughing. Did you know that when the incomparable Mr. Prabda dreamed up this title in the brain that, in his head, is truly massive, he still had no idea what the story was going to be about? Now that you know, what do you think? Your opinion can’t be too far off mine. That’s right: this guy’s a scammer!

  OK, just for fun, as an experiment, let’s help this Yoon brainstorm. Suppose my name is Marut and, for whatever reason, I have to sit by the sea. What should my emotions be while I sit and stare at its waters? Maybe I feel lonely. That’s the easiest feeling, either lonely or sad. People go and gaze out at the ocean in order to let go of unhappiness, don’t they? It’s such a huge amount of water. And salty to boot. It correlates with the amount of sorrow that’s flooding the watcher, eroding their heart with a saltiness that’s hard to cure. How’s that for a story? It’s bound to excite a reaction in one or two impressionable people. Moved, these people fall prey to Yoon as they read, and become his emotional slaves. It’s that easy.

  Or, if we want to give Yoon a little more credit, maybe he’s not the type to dream up something so simple. Suppose the story is more complex, full of artistic and linguistic refinement (yeah, right). Suppose we don’t know who Marut is. He’s not even the protagonist of the story. Let’s say the real main character is a child (to give the impression that Prabda is fond of children). Let’s say it’s a boy named Asshole. (Oh, he likes these unusual names, all right – anything to get your attention). Befitting his name, the kid is a surly rascal. He doesn’t listen to his parents. If his mother so much as touches him, he kicks her. If his father dares to pet him, he gets a slap for his pains. Little Asshole wins the award for the nation’s most ungrateful child. Then, one day, his parents couldn’t put up with it anymore. They decide to stuff their evil child in a sack, throw him in the boot of the car and find some quiet stretch of sea to send him floating far away, out of range of their eyes and ears. When they reach the seaside and complete their intended business, they get back into the car and prepare to drive home. Suddenly, a man walks by their car. It’s none other than Marut. He strolls along until he decides to plonk himself down on a spot of sand. He looks straight out at the horizon. To have Marut sit by the sea, that’s all we need.

  Believe me, Prabda’s stories don’t get any better than this. I myself could write ten or twenty a day. But I might kill myself first – it’s too easy. The examples I brought up are his specialty. In other words, the type of bizarre story which he makes end so cryptically, as though the harder it is to understand, the better. If you try asking Sir Yoon what the meaning of each of his stories is, believe me, he’d chuckle deviously, heh heh, before answering, “Why don’t you try asking the stories themselves?” Or else, “The meaning? What do you think the meaning of your life is? The meaning of my story is the same.” Or, “If I knew, why on earth would I write?” Or, “Not knowing is the purest knowledge.” Listening to that makes me want to strangle him until his eyes pop out of their sockets. People of that sort deserve to die, nothing more.

  Do you know the kind of problems they have, those people who are writers or call themselves writers? Oh, they have a lot of problems. They’re the type who’ve had trouble integrating into society ever since they were children. They think everything is terrible. Ugh! They’ll pass comment on all sorts of things – from the cleanliness of tap water to religious wars between extremist factions. They act as though they know it all because they’re terrified that people will think they’re dumb. They can’t stand to be labeled as stupid. Why? Because they hate stupid people to the core. They complain day and night that world civilisation is deteriorating. But who do you think is making it deteriorate? People like Prabda are at the heart of it. Not only do they fail to make themselves useful, they create nothing but negative sentiment, a deadweight that is piling up thicker and thicker over time and burdening society. One day, it’ll cause us all to sink into the ocean.

  Prabda, he acts as if he’s easygoing. He wears T-shirts and simple trousers, strolls through the streets trying to look as down to earth as possible. People like him sometimes sport the traditional garments of some local tribe or another, as though they’re advocating some kind of phony cultural preservation. But if you dig deeper, you’ll find most of them have nothing whatsoever to do with the culture in question. It’s largely trend-following; the only culture on show is that of the tribe of corny artists. Its chief perpetrators are those who like to prop up bars from evening through to morning, preaching at the younger generation. These people should have all their teeth yanked from their gums, then the pulled teeth should all be placed in a glass case and exhibited as a cautionary tale, so the public will realise the true cause of civilisation’s decline.

  You might have a book (or several) that you cherish, that will always have a special place in your heart. It might be a book that made you cry your eyes out. It might be a book that made you laugh. Or it might be a book that gave you hope, that inspired you to continue living your life. Readers, believe me: take that book out of its special place in your heart and burn it. Don’t let a few hundred sheets of paper, a few cartridges of ink, a few hundred thousand letters (or even a few million) put boundaries on your life. You should comprehend by now, given my elaboration thus far, that whoever wrote that book dearest to you is no finer a human being than anybody else. He has no clue what he’s done. Do you know how I got the opportunity to pop up and communicate with you today? It’s simple. Prabda hasn’t come up with a plausible reason for why Marut is sitting by the sea.

  You might be thinking that I’m part of his genius. Don’t. You might be admiring him, thinking that he has creativity to spare. That he uses deep, strange ideas to write stories that are complex and layered. Honestly, I’m not a character he created. He never intended for me to be fooling around on this page. And as soon as he sees what’s happening below his fancy title, I’ll disappear from this world of letters. No way will he let me continue to roam free.

  Don’t think I’m scared. I actually want him to deal with me as soon as possible, so I can finally escape from this worthless situation. I can’t stand playing a part like this in the imagination that fools the world. The quicker he gets rid of me, the better. Hey! Come on, buddy! Yoon! This way! I’m here, jerk! Can’t you hear me, you dummy?

  I guess he’s still sitting with his brain empty somewhere. So pathetic, don’t you think? He thinks he wants to be a writer, to move ideas from the world of imagination through writing. He can barely move faeces through his rectum, never mind imagination.

  While we still have some time, why don’t we help Prabda think about how he can improve his life? Is it possible for him to keep doing what he does, but with a purer heart? What can he do to stop deceiving people?

  First, I think he absolutely must admit to himself and society that he’s stupid. Yes, his IQ is no higher than a duck’s (which is a reasonable IQ since ducks, as far as birds go, have pretty decent ideas), and he has no right to inflict the few thoughts that he does have on hapless bystanders. No, I don’t want him to sit at home doing nothing. He should spend the majority of his time sweeping public roads, watering plants under elevated highways, or wiping windows around the city until they’re s
parkling clean, before he applies himself to the task of moving whatever it is through whatever channel.

  How do I know Prabda is stupid? Of course I know. I’ve known him since his brain was just developing. Did you know that Prabda likes to tell anyone who’ll listen what a passionate devotee of literature he is? But does anyone know how many books he’s actually finished reading? Oh, the number isn’t that high in the double digits. The ones he really remembers are even fewer. He might talk the talk, like he knows a whole slew of important works. In all seriousness, if you made him take an exam to test his knowledge of the world’s influential literature, he might be able to answer two or three questions tops. The rest would be pure waffle, just as he’s waffled his way through life since he was a kid. He might be able to namecheck plenty of authors – especially those whose books are known to be ‘difficult’. Why? Because he knows that the more challenging the book, the fewer the people who’ve made it through it. It’s a crafty strategy to cover up his ignorance. This is a sad fact that he has to face and accept before he can hunker down and create more work.

  You might be thinking to yourself, why do I hold such a grudge against this young man? Oh, I’m no more interested in him than I am in dust particles in the air. But whenever I get the chance to come out and expose what I genuinely know, I have to use the time as wisely as possible. No matter what, Prabda has more influence than I do – he’s out there; I’m in here. At the end of the day, I can’t compete with him. When I see the opportunity to exert some influence, I have to make the most of it. Don’t hold it against me. You might even come to want to thank me at some point. I might be opening your eyes, be it a lot or a little.

  I don’t even want to think about how Prabda’s future will turn out if he keeps behaving the way he’s acting now. Oh readers, let’s help him out a bit. Don’t let him wallow in his false beliefs. Let me tell you, he thinks he’s free, at least in terms of thought. That’s what he said. I’ll tell you for your own good: (you all should heed this, too, because there are many among you who think as Prabda does) freedom, whether physical or mental, doesn’t exist. Physically, everyone is a slave to the air, the sun, water and food. Mentally, the majority at least are slaves to language, culture, tradition, etc. People’s servitude is so et cetera. So don’t make me laugh by saying that you’re a free thinker. Do you want me to prove it to you?

  The appendix.

  You see only that, and yet your mind can’t help but follow along. Everyone knows the word “appendix.” You think whenever someone utters the word “appendix,” you know for sure what the person is talking about. But how many times in your life have you seen an appendix? Some people may never have seen one at all. Nevertheless, you’re convinced that you know what an appendix is. That’s enslavement to language. It creates an image in your head, even though you’ve never had any first-hand experience of what’s behind the word. Don’t let me bring up the head or the heart. Otherwise it might get too deep, and we’d venture too far into Prabda’s favourite territory.

  I know that I’m wasting my energy, that the outside world to which you all belong will ultimately continue its course as before. What can I, myself, do to fix it? Prabda will continue to be besotted with his own imagination. But I’m praying that at least he doesn’t become any more successful than he already is. Please, may more and more people discover his true colours, and turn away from every single one of his letters. Then who knows, he might finally go and do something that’s actually useful. I still maintain that he could do worse than sweeping the streets, for a start.

  There. I feel Prabda’s imagination creeping near. My surroundings are starting to grow colourful, to acquire shape and form. I’m starting to see the outlines of myself. OK, come here, stupid! You can fool other people, but you can’t fool me. Here! Do what you want with me. Give me my face, layer on my personality as you will. Construct whatever storyline for me you please. I’m always ready. At least I got to use the time up until now to humiliate you. That’s some satisfaction. Oh, it’s here. A square frame. A white box. Don’t tell me – it’s a room! Oh! If only I’d bought a lottery ticket, I would’ve won the jackpot. It really is a room. What kind of room is this? Purple curtains, how passé. There, a window’s popped up. A table, a chair, a bed, pillows, bed sheets, a blanket, a lamp, a door, a phone, a mirror, a TV. Hey, you! Why such an old model? A wardrobe, a refrigerator. Oh, there’s even a picture on the wall. How much are you going to promote the arts? Don’t tell me this is a hotel room. There, there’s a white towel draped over the back of the chair, too. Ooh! There’s even a balcony. Not too shabby. Aaah, my body is starting to acquire flesh and blood, dear readers. In a second, my face will appear. In a second we’ll know…

  My name is Marut. What I see through the window in front of me is a boundless ocean.

  The indigo water stares, unblinking, at my face.

  The Crying Parties

  The same room was no longer the same. The carpet had stayed the nasty shade we’d nicknamed “upchuck green,” and traces of our memories remained on its surface in the form of faint blotches, resembling a perfect mélange between abstract art and a pile of vomit – strictly speaking, we ought to call it “realism,” as what looked like puke stains really were.

  In those days, when we used to organise a crying party every week, the four of us would frequently throw up on that carpet. Our stomachs couldn’t handle June’s brutal cocktail recipes. She claimed to have enrolled in a “Creative Cocktails” course at one time. We didn’t really buy that. In our opinion, her ‘inventive’ recipes were bound to kill somebody someday.

  “Stop exaggerating,” June would object. “I create art, not poison.” June was quite proud of her artistic spirit.

  It was a rented studio apartment in a tall building that poked stiffly up, like a concrete phallus, on a boisterous corner of Bangkok. June had moved in when she was a third-year in university, the reason being its proximity to the campus. After she graduated, she stayed loyal to it, though she could have easily shifted to a fancier place with her five-figure salary.

  She worked as a copywriter at a well-known advertising agency. “The work of a copywriter like me is copying the work of real writers,” she liked to quip, then cap the statement with a roaring laugh. We couldn’t help but join her in a chorus of laughter to amplify the sound of her happiness.

  June’s favourite form of humour was self-mockery, for which we provided plenty of ammunition. Whenever she was down, no matter for what reason, instead of consoling her, we’d usually ambush her with even harsher stuff, then end with: “Goodbye, June, we know you’re going to go home and kill yourself. See you in hell.” June would smack us hard on the back and grin.

  But the last time we said to her, “Goodbye, June, we know you’re going to go home and kill yourself. See you in hell,” June went home – to this room – and really did kill herself.

  I couldn’t eat anything for several days after I heard the news. I was constantly nauseous. We all turned into zombies for weeks. Who could believe what had happened? I hoped not to find June in hell when we landed there; I hoped she’d been permitted to go to a better place.

  A new tenant had moved into the apartment. He was an IT guy straight out of the nerd copybook. His name was Lert, and he probably wasn’t more than two or three years older than us.

  Lert knew before he moved in that a woman had committed suicide in the apartment, but the rent, which the landlord was forced to reduce by almost half, encouraged him to ignore the spooky atmosphere. He wasn’t particularly concerned anyway. Lert talked a big game, saying so what if this room was haunted by the ghost of a young woman? Young female ghosts held no fear for him. He told me on the phone that he had a secret charm especially for shooing away ghosts, but he wouldn’t say what it was; when we eventually set eyes on him, we guessed that it was simply his face.

  Oh, Tae, Num and I had made plans to party this evening when w
e bumped into one another at a friend’s wedding a few weeks ago. We all worked full time now, so we didn’t hang out that often. But whenever we did see each other, what leapt into everyone’s mind at the same moment was June and the crying parties.

  —

  We all missed June dearly, but we didn’t miss each other that much. Our history was, we kind of hated each other’s guts. We’d started to hang out together for one reason only: we were each infatuated with the same girl.

  The four of us began as enemies. June wasn’t pleased when she realised that she was the cause of our feud.

  “You four should call a truce,” she suggested. She then convened a meeting so a ceasefire could be declared. It was a miraculous and commendable act – we were a group of pathetic males just itching to fly at each other’s throats, yet one woman managed to turn foes into friends. I had no clue how it happened, but June handled it effortlessly. All she said was, “Let there be peace,” and there was peace.