Southern comfort

The funny thing about unfit men sprinting is that they feel they’re very fast.

In my mind, I was Bolt but I was puffing and panting like the fat boy in school whose punishment was a jog to the school gate and back. This was Daejeon, where the three of us had to catch a train in another nearby station because we had got on the wrong train. We tried to run to the station but to no avail. We knew we couldn’t make it and stopped short of entering the station, breathing heavily and watching our train go by in the distance.

My friend summed up that brief slow motion run in two words, ‘That hurt’.

We had taken the early train to Mokpo in South Jeolla Province. Mokpo is the capital of the province and is located at the southwestern tip of the Korean peninsula. First impression said this was a sleepy coastal town with laid back citizens whose main occupation would be farming and fishing. After all, the Jeolla province is considered the food bowl of Korea. We were eager to hit the beach as soon as we had checked into our hotel, but the ‘beach’ in Mokpo is a small strip of sand. I realised later on that Mokpo has no beach because it was primarily a port town. The ferry terminals and numerous jetties dotting the harbor was proof. Apparently, Mokpo was an important port during the Japanese occupation and served as an important midway between Japan and China. Further back in time, the famed Admiral Yi Sun-sin would use Mokpo as an important naval base while fending off the Japanese armada. A quiet town it was, much like its simple son, the former President Kim Dae-Jung who needs no introduction.

We checked in to the old Shinan Hotel, a straight block of concrete like it had been transported from North Korea. I recalled a trip to Uzbekistan and my initial shock in Tashkent, seeing all the uniform grey buildings. It was my first sense of what USSR would’ve looked like and how communism reflected on man-made structures. The hotel lobby was crowded- a wedding I guessed, because there were many women in hanbok. I wanted to get out and breathe the air that came from the sea, the freshness that came in stops, bringing wishes into my head. We spent some time watching the coast outside our hotel, strong gusts blowing waves right where we stood, and we were glad to be away from the noise in Seoul.

Heading to the main ferry terminal, we decided to eat at a local joint before boarding the next ferry to Oedaldo Island. The southern part of the Korean peninsula is dotted with hundreds of islands, many of them known to have pristine and quiet beaches. Mokpo is also the gateway to Dadohae National Maritime Park, the largest national park in Korea. That most of the people were in shorts and sandals made me uneasy- I had clearly failed to do my homework. It was much, much warmer.

The ferry ride to Mokpo was something else. Quiet at the top level, we drank Cass and ate seedless oranges watching the gulls play with the food we threw at them. There is something about the sea, really. There’s something so different and indescribable, especially when you get used to being in a city with crowds. Oedaldo Island is about thirty minutes away from Mokpo and it’s an island popular for tourists, with a small water park done up in season. This time around, however, it was abandoned except for the few residents. We took a walk around the lighthouse and the beach, and rested by the few hanok houses facing the coast. Seeing little children played by the swings in the front garden, I wondered how they’d grow up and fall in love with each other without knowing they had been so close all along.

Conversations can be fueled by the coast and we did just that, talking about life and enjoying nature till our ferry returned. We then headed downtown to the newer part of Mokpo for dinner and then kicked back at a local bar before a late night walk along the sea front promenade. Once could see hints of spring early in this part of the country.

After eight months, I’m convinced that there are two kinds of Koreans- the ones from Seoul and the adjoining areas and the ones from outside Seoul. If one were to argue and say that I noticed the fisher folk in Mokpo alone and not the youth downtown, I’d say I’ve seen the nightlife in Jeju, Sokcho, Jeonju, Busan and Mokpo. They are very different and maybe it will take some time to really explain what I mean. My fondness for this country has been growing and I’m certain that my heart lies in the Korean countryside – where ordinary people go about their daily simple routines, where the air is fresh, where there’s a lot of green, where there’s peace and quiet, and where there’s honesty and enthusiasm at serving a weikuk-saram who can manage a smattering of hanguel.

Before sunrise ~ a short story

On a snowy February winter evening, he broke her heart. And his own.

****

He first met her for dinner with a mutual friend one cold evening. He’d not expected that she’d come to see him at his work place, much less see him at all. As he began climbing down the porch, he was glad to see a lady waiting in the distance. It had been a while since such gifts had come his way. Her face was peach, fair and rounded with red splashed on her cheeks because of the harsh winter breeze. Hints of the cold showed on her red lips and her eyelashes tried to hold back tears. She was teary eyed because of the cold. He had never met anyone like that.

Three days later, he found himself unable to focus in class thinking of her. She said she’d be waiting in the lobby and he sensed she’d be early. He replayed her in his mind, the things she said when they first met, the way her confidence made him uneasy, the way she made fun of his china and his equipped kitchen with the empty refrigerator and the low fat milk. He remembered how she shut him up by saying the perfect sentences and how she walked around like a little girl in his living room. She didn’t dress like the others, he noticed. She wore something different and unexpected but carried herself well in a way he hadn’t seen for long. Only later did he realize he had shut up in surprise the whole time.

This time she prayed. He didn’t forget how she surprised him by asking him to pray before their first meal together. He felt ashamed for not having said grace before many of his meals, but glad that she knew what came first even in seemingly small things. She was a music student, a pianist who practiced relentlessly for perfection. She de-stressed by swimming twenty-five laps early mornings at the neighbourhood pool and she sought out the depths within her by painting. She taught music on Saturdays and spent Sundays in church, interpreting the sermon and leading worship. She was right out of a book.

As they ate their sandwiches, he found it hard to resist looking at her, wanting to catch every word she said. She told him she loved mushroom soup served in that place and that the teacher she’d greeted on her way in often was often seen drunk. He liked how she tugged at his wristwatch and told him she hadn’t enough time. He hadn’t felt as good as he felt having her by his side on the walk back to her music class.

****

There was silence in the car at first. She leaned back on her seat and refused to look at him. He’d said he would take her to an exhibition by a famous painter but a meeting had kept him at bay. When he finally reached her, she’d waited for over an hour and her eyes had welled up with tears, standing outside on the open street. He gave her his coat and drove her to her house, at her insistence. She later told him that when angry, she’d stop talking or start crying. She was disappointed for having waited for long and he was speechless, fumbling with words not sure of what he was really saying even as he tried to reason. The silence soon gave way as he sang a song for her, one of the few out-of-the-box things he knew, and explained random things. He drove slowly, not wanting to reach too soon fearing this would be his last time. Somewhere in between the silences, she touched his hand and said she forgave him and that it was okay. He felt a blood rush as he felt her soft hands on top of his, and with his eyes on the road, he felt her eyes on him.

She took him to a park behind her house. They hadn’t had dinner this night because they’d been making up and had lost appetite for everything but each other. She took him to places she’d walk to frequently, little corners in the park she claimed her own and told him how special it was to visit those places with another for the first time. She reached for his arm and held it with both hands, just the way he loved. He’d always felt that when a woman held a man like that, she was claiming him for herself and that he made her secure.  As they walked they talked about life, their faith, their insecurities, their hurts, their hopes, their dreams and what they liked in each other and in other things. The silences, when they came, were filled with the gentle breeze and the warmth with which they held each other. The park was empty, closing for the day but it didn’t matter. He didn’t know where the path led but it didn’t matter either.

Later, he’d distinctly remember the way she played with his small hands and kissed him on the shoulder. He was drawn by the way she looked at him and smiled, her lips curling upwards unsettling the peach cheeks. He’d recall how she touched the frown on his forehead and tell him not to think so hard and so far. He’d recall her spontaneity and how she had walked ahead backwards, facing him, in the park that night. He’d recall the way she laughed and agreed how bad he was at phone calls. He loved the way she complained about him.

On the quiet, lone drive back from the park at midnight, he smelled of her- the smell of fresh flowers on a cold winter night and the warmth of her lips on his. She turned back to look at him before the last bend home, and that look stayed. Somewhere behind, the songs they sang together on their first drive played on loop.

****

He wrestled with his thoughts as reality soon came to take these dreams away. He knew there was this perfect moment, an opportunity to get to know someone from a culture unlike his own and a chance to go deeper into something he didn’t know. They had entirely different upbringings and he knew an adventure lay in there somewhere. But he saw the faces of the ones he loved at home, the faces of the people he made promises to, the faces of the elders he knew and the numerous faces that had warned him of foreign lands. He was from a small town and he knew they’d reject him as one of their own, that’d he’d forever be an illustration that elder’s would give their sons around fireplace meals on chilly nights. He had promised to be loyal to the call of home and in his head pictured what he thought was ideal. He was scared and feared too many. It wore him down and he convinced himself that there was nothing but hurt down that road with her. That it was impossible and to begin now would mean love and much more hurt. He was, as she said, too organized. He knew he’d fall and he knew she knew it too.

On that winter evening, weary and confused, he prayed and mustered up the courage to face her.  And to walk away from the best thing he had had in a long while, because he couldn’t explain the restlessness in his heart.

****

What Winter said

As the sun sets over my window, the recent words of a friend come to mind. That I must continue to write otherwise what I have will rust. There should be no excuse for the two months of silence though I can come up with many just to get by.  I must say, however, that I fulfilled the emphatic declaration in my writings last year.  That the inability to write emanates largely from the absence of good reading. That the lack of reading affects the way a person speaks. That it finally affects a person’s confidence. While this should not be considered the primary goal of reading, that it should be purely for the joy of reading and the way it opens worlds inside a person’s head, it is an important by-product which can be taken for granted. Into my eighth month in government service abroad, I am able to see the importance of calm, composed, effective and brief expression. To be able to make one’s point in a few words, bolstered with the necessary facts, is why one needs to read more and more. I have been caught unguarded a few times and waving hands frantically to express a vague point hasn’t been the most professional thing. If I were to blame anyone, it would be Comfort. I am reluctant to point a finger because I am grateful, but when Comfort comes too often, she starts bringing Sloth along. And Sloth, be warned, is a fox who so easily convinces you that hanging out with him is the right thing. Sloth usually starts the party and never leaves. I remember the song about a certain hotel that said you can check out any time you like but you can never leave.

 

*****

 

In the latter half of December, I vividly recall how scared I was behind the wheel facing a road completely covered in white. This was in Jeolla province, the food bowl of Korea and a place with sprawling rice fields and stunning landscape. I had taken my folks to the traditional town of Jeonju with its beautiful Hanok village and saw the old temple at Geumsansa. My folks were seated at the back of the car, oblivious to my fears because the white was beautiful and they were looking out of the window. I got the adventurous blood from my mother, whose idea it was to get out of Seoul at the earliest opportunity because she was keener on seeing rural Korea. I was glad to see her enjoy the snowfall even though she clearly didn’t heed my pleas to bring warm clothes aplenty. My dad got tired of the snow and the cold after the first few days, preferring to sit and read inside the warm confines of my apartment. My siblings and I frequently recall the knack our father has of shooting off witty one-liners to any and everyone. I recall how people from the villages, young and old, would visit and they would invariably be treated to a short sermon before anything else. Thousands of miles away, I was glad to be able to enjoy my father’s one liners which are best when he’s a little irritated. On a query from me if he’d like to see more palaces in the extremely cold weather, he said he’d be compelled only if the king was still there.

I drove slowly, knowing the brakes would not hold if I went too fast, and took a detour to the west coast. We reached Gunsan, spent a while at the coast and drove north through many smaller, quieter towns. My father said it reminded him of First Blood and I pictured the quiet, sleepy town in which John Rambo gets tormented by a crude sheriff. Korea is well connected and there are good roads reaching the last house even in these small towns. Simply, the importance of good roads cannot be overemphasized. I remembered my own North-east India and wondered if we were ever going to see permanent roads such as these. I wonder if it’s so basic that it’s taken for granted. Or maybe we are just so used to bad roads that we don’t care anymore. Talking about the roads back home is like talking about the weather- small talk, little significance, good to pass time and escape uncomfortable silences. It’s basic because a good road connects places, cutting costs and increasing access. When I’m driving in Korea, I’m also imagining myself driving through an uninterrupted highway from India’s North-east to Myanmar and to the beaches of Thailand. Every forty to fifty kilometers, there are designated places for rest and relief, complete with restaurants, convenience stores and coffee counters. It’s nice to see families getting out of their four-wheel drives and getting a meal or a coffee. On the weekend, the highways get choked because most Koreans are on the road going somewhere. Connectivity increases options.

I was surprised to see the connectivity at Jeju-do, with excellent highways crisscrossing the length and breadth of the island. I now know that driving is a better option and I’d rent a car or take mine the next time I go to climb Hallasan. Fortunately, the kind English speaking taxi driver we had hired for the three days told us many stories and recommended well. An outdoor person, I preferred the natural destinations in Jeju to the man-made parks. For my top three in order of wonder, I place Yongmeori Coast first, Seongsan Ilchulbong ‘Sunrise’ peak second, Manjanggul Lava Cave third. At Yongmeori, I was excited to be at the place where the first Europeans landed in the 17^th century, courtesy a shipwreck, led by Hendrick Hamel who later wrote arguably the first book on Joseon Dynasty.

Almost every natural site is beautiful and unique, with Jeju’s volcanic past. The heavy snowfall on Mt. Halla disabled the chance to climb otherwise that’s usually the top on every tourist list.  Fonder memories come from the long walks along the Seogwipo coast with my folks watching the sun set over the sea like a painting, and conversations over the seedless Jeju oranges. Before I left Jeju Island, which awakened in spurts the romantic in me, the kind Mr.Baek who played host for the duration of our stay told me he would like to see me with my wife the next time. He was grinning, ‘It will be a different experience.’

 

Lest I forget

It’s a quiet eve and I was never sure I’d be here. Heck, I was never sure of anything. I remember how life was cloudy back in college and while pursuing a post graduation degree. Life was lived day to day and excuse to excuse. When I’d meet people during the period after graduation between 2004 and 2010, I’d be confronted with questions about life and the future as though I had a foreknowledge of it. But people like asking questions, and it’s no fault of theirs because that’s just the way society is. No matter how much I crib about others talking behind my back, it doesn’t change unless I change. Essentially, cribbing about other’s talk about you is just an excuse to get by and feel better about yourself. Instead, there are better things to think about – like how I can improve my habits, discipline myself, love and learn from others. Tim Keller in a sermon on authentic Christianity says that surrender of the self is one mark of a true believer. It was a reminder on how, left alone, I’m swamped with thoughts about myself, what others think and say about me and how I need to keep up any good impression others have. Like Tim Keller says about couples that live-in without marrying, I’d find myself ‘performing’ and not being true. And performance gets tiring because it’s not the natural, regular you. Ultimately, when the cacophony clears and I’m alone, God knows who I really am.

The wayward child broke a lot of ‘laws’. As a kid, I was known for wearing two suits – a full Western cowboy outfit with toy guns strapped on my waist, and a blue karate outfit with a red belt. My poor parents played the part not knowing what ominous signs these were. If that was not enough, somewhere down the line, I started to break dance and wear torn jeans to fit in. I lived in the hills and torn jeans made no sense, but for the sake of fashion people can do anything and the cold is no foe. The worst part is that the torn jeans had elastic on the waist, and no man revealed such things. Anyhow, as I grew up, I’d fit in to the part I wanted to play so often as a child. When one grows up as the eldest or as an only child, there’s a tendency to seek attention because that’s what one knows and is used to. I’d throw tantrums and fight with my brother because I wanted it my way. I threw a barrel at my brother once after fighting over it because I wanted it for my toy rifle. He still jokes about it when he shows me the scar above his eye.

In boarding school, I made many good friends with whom I know I’ll have lifelong ties, but I was not the favourite among teachers. My brother warned me several times on how I was acting too smart and teachers had given him the vibe. I recall how I was called in to the staff quarters one day and a teacher reprimanded me because I was getting out of hand. One of my favourite teachers, whom I absolutely adore, was present and nodded saying that I was losing the flame that once shone bright. On my last visit to my alma mater, an old teacher quipped, “Of all people, you did fine!” My father made a brief appearance and the principal told him I was not in good books. In school, if the principal called you or your father, both students and teachers would shake their heads whenever you walked past. If you knew my father, you’d know that his memory is sharp on these kinds of things. Years later, whenever we’d argue, he’d raise these items and put me in place.

I faintly recall that in sixth grade, the principal had been teaching English and I yelled out that it was time for a break. The next slide would show me and my best friend crying for mercy in the principal’s office clutching our school bags. My friend who was profusely pleading innocence had joined me because of laughing at my comment. It’s also amusing how as a teen, I could find ways to ask my folks for more money. For instance, I did chores only because there was a monetary benefit at the end. I once wrote a letter to my father when I turned sixteen, trying to convince him why sixteen years of age was a landmark because of which I needed more money. During my teens and into early twenties, I thought I was pretty smart.

I had plenty of friends in college and was proud to have made it into a tough University. I was so committed to the wrong commitments that eventually led to blind alleys. I struggle to say ‘no’ even today and my seniors remind me that being able to say ‘no’ is the true sign of maturity. My dad would joke about how people reported about me to him that in Delhi, I’d be seen in a rickshaw everywhere waving my hand in acknowledgement. If one is not careful, anything enjoyed only for its own sake could very well turn to idolatry and lead to the wide gate which leads to nowhere significant. I’m trying to remind myself to stay firmly footed, remembering where I buried the hatchet, so I won’t make the same mistakes again. The truth is that in University I met many people who did me a lot of good and who remain caring and loving till today. I don’t want to decry times when things haven’t gone so well. I don’t want to be quick to criticize what seems bad and quickly praise what seems good at face value. On closer scrutiny, each part of life is precious, loaded with lessons and granted by God’s abundant grace. Anything less than gratefulness would reveal my sense of security in other things.

Recently, a Korean had invited me to dinner at a Japanese sushi restaurant he frequented. It’s a quite challenging to talk to someone using less English, more Korean with a bit of charades thrown in. He told me he wanted his children to become diplomats because they get a chance to make peace between warring nations. The DMZ and the constant threat of war to South Koreans would put it in perspective.

Sometimes I pinch myself and wonder how and where I got here. And why I’m here. Every call is as important as the other because it’s a piece in the bigger picture and to deny that would be to claim that the purpose of everything is knowable now. So far, I have played rebel more often than not. In major life decisions so far, only once did I commit an outward act of obeying my parents and that too grudgingly. It changed my life. I’ve seen a few countries and vastly travelled my own India, learning by observing. I have been rewarded with a chance to work for my country for no particular trait that sets me apart. In competitive exams, everyone knows what the odds are and after a while, particular traits cease to matter.

At best, I can only make a feeble attempt at a summary of my life so far. My point is that through thick and thin, through all experiences, through people I meet and relationships I’ve forged, I’ve become a better human not because of my ability. Frankly, ability has a small role when circumstance is on stage. The shaping of events and making smooth the rough edges have come because of circumstances that I’ve been led to, by an infinite God who knew me when I was in my mother’s womb. He knew my name. At thirty, I am overwhelmed not by anything else, but by the fact that I’ve been allowed so much and that I’m a recipient of tender mercies and amazing grace.

 

 Because the sinless Saviour died

My sinful soul is counted free

For God the just is satisfied

To look on Him and pardon me

 -          CL Bancroft, 1863

 

 

 

 

 

 

A day in the life of a wanderer.

It’s when I’m having my best sleep that I’m usually woken up by a phone call way past breakfast time. The fuzzy voice on the other end was a Japanese classmate who wanted to know where I had reached. Of course, I was over sleeping when I should have been making my way for an appointment. I tried to sound fresh after clearing my throat, unsure whether my friend on the other end of the line would be convinced. I reluctantly pulled myself out of bed and reached Jongak Station at about half past ten, wondering when brunch would be. It was I who had made an appointment for all university classmates to meet at ten a.m. to practice a song for the coming week’s Korean singing competition. I had been late as usual, and the elderly Japanese classmate was not too pleased. He told me, in half-Korean and half-Japanese, that I had said ten o’clock.

Let’s just say I’m learning a lot from the East Asian sense of timing. The Korean’s I’ve had appointments with have always been early. The local driver picking me up for appointments says he’ll be there at six o’clock but his first phone call comes at forty minutes past five. I always remember hearing that keeping time shows how much you respect the other person and his time. I’ve been failing so far.

After the practice, we walked around Insadong hunting for a place to have lunch. The wind was harsh this morning but leaves were falling all around like yellow snowflakes, absolutely beautiful. Insadong is a larger version of Delhi’s Hauz Khas with art galleries and vendors of all kinds of wares, with small alleys leading to dozens of restaurants and cafes all quaintly decorated. Tradition and modernity mix well in the Korean sense of décor and I’m impressed by how they can set up a place.  I ate bokkeumbap –fried rice with eggs and bacon, with dumplings on the side in memory of those beloved Tibetan momos.

I was in a mood to read and was wishing for an open air cafe since the clear day offered plenty of sunshine. On clear days like this, I make the quickest excuses to get out of the house and all to-do lists are conveniently brushed aside. I decided to take a walk along Cheonggyecheon in downtown Seoul, an 8.4 km long drainage stream from the Seoul of yore that had been restored in a superb urban renewal project. Since it opened in 2005, it has been an important tourist spot for both foreigners and Koreans. On this day too, many people, young and old were walking along both sides of the stream. Lanterns decorated the stream, as part of the ongoing Seoul Lantern festival, adding additional color and inviting gasps from locals. I’m slowly getting convinced that Koreans in general are the outdoor type and the abundance of restaurants and cafes bolster my claim.

I got a call from a doctor friend who was desperate to get out of the meeting he was in. While he was dedicated to his profession, his excuse was that it was in Korean and he didn’t speak the language. I took a brief walk to the magnificent City Hall, the new glass building rising above the older, colonial-era one. The metro rail in Seoul is fascinating, a mesh of networks that connects places even out of Seoul. Combined with the prompt bus service, it is not hard to see the benefits of an efficient public transport system. It cuts time and costs and it’s convenient. I suppose the measure of development and progress is when a permanent way is found to make things better for all. I met my friend at Sinchon station and we headed to Yanghwajin, which had a cemetery for missionaries who had given their lives for Korea. It reminded me of home and how the decision of a few to obey and honor God in a distant part of the world they didn’t know forever changed the lives of an entire race. In Korea too, missionaries had set up schools and hospitals and also helped to abolish class hierarchy. HG Underwood, who established Yonsei University, was buried here. A simple plaque marks the burial place of OR Avison, who with Mr.Severance established Severance Hospital that is currently one of the best in Korea.

We walked to Hapjeong, willingly losing our way exploring the quiet and cozy neighborhood in between. Hapjeong is the quieter and more mature extension of Hongdae and there’s almost a point in between that mark the difference. The young college crowd suddenly drops and gives way to mellow, less noisy restaurants and cafes that look so inviting. Most of the cafes have superb décor, testifying to the Korean sense of style. I may not particularly be fond of skin tight trousers but I’m all for minimalist, antique style cafes where I can get lost in time sipping a latte.
Another friend joined later as we walked around Hapjeong on a breezy evening, trying to spot a dinner joint. Later, for dessert, we watched a local jazz quartet play hits from Duke Ellington and Nat King Cole. A late night snack was in order before getting home and some local fried chicken was ideal. Koreans make it quite well and Seoul is dotted with joints serving their local favorite, fried chicken and beer.

 

The day had been tiring but I had to check one more item. Manchester United vs. Aston Villa.

The leaf changes

It’s the first time I will see fall completely. I’m living in a land where there are four distinct seasons and where I come from, I know summer and winter with plenty of monsoon thrown in. There is a slight chill in the breeze and I hug myself on my early walk to catch the bus to university. The leaves have begun to show a different tint and I’m told the colours that will envelop the peninsula can leave one speechless. As I wait, warmer clothes come out of the closet and I feel the change.

I lost an aunt last week. She had had her second kidney transplant and she was recovering from the operation when I last met her. The toll of the heavy medication was apparent and it had become difficult to have a normal conversation. In the few meetings, I was glad to see her and glad to see her recovering though I couldn’t say much. There are those situations in life when it’s hard to say anything and when sometimes your presence is all that matters no matter how unfit you feel being there. The worst times are those when you want to help in some way but help is beyond your reach. Then again, whatever the oddity, presence is better than absence.

My aunt would take care of me and my brother whenever we made the pit stop at Delhi on our way to or from boarding school in the late nineties. I remember her lining us up as kids on several occasions and doling out pocket money to, including my cousins, five of us. We would happily rush to Priya Cinema to catch the latest Hollywood fare and eat burgers. Closer home, she would always offer a meal whenever I landed in Dimapur. She would make sure I was comfortable and treated me like a son who is visiting. Being away from home for most of the time, I saw less and less of her until the diabetes took a toll and the hospital visits began.

Thousands of miles away, in the quietness of the space I had held so high, I am able to see the price of detachment. I wish I had given of myself more when she visited Delhi or when she made her hospital visits. It takes a death to make one realize the importance of living. It takes a loss to make one see how far you’ve walked from what really matters. To live and not to celebrate life with others, not to be grateful to God for every minute of it, not to bless others with it, is to live in utter selfishness. Not to know that is even sadder. With some people, sometimes all you get is one chance and at the end, an account full of blessed relationships is worth more than the money a life may never live to spend.

****

Two other stories involve some close friends. After a six year drought, two friends will live and travel together for the rest of their lives. There were various obstacles, including a stunning period of long-distance relationship, and they will get married this month. Success and fruitfulness comes with God in the centre of any undertaking and undoubtedly, many, including myself, have learned from the patience and prayer and their trust in God. He’s too humble for a drummer of his ability and she’s too humble for the talents she has. To put it in perspective, she’s a Naga and he’s from South India. It’s amazing how God breaks stereotypes and stretches boundaries, far beyond the eye can see. I’m in awe. I’m too tiny and insignificant to even begin to understand the ways of my Creator.

I grew up with this one friend, from boarding school to college to our separate professions. We studied Commerce, although he isn’t too proud of that, and he went on to take on his father’s business. Few of us friends would fondly call him Shah Rukh, given his unfading popularity with the ladies. My only complaint was that he never gave us lessons on this rare talent. About two years ago, he met a fine lady who settled him and they will soon be man and wife. Undoubtedly we are proud of him because she gave him the balance and stability that took us all by surprise. If there was one word to explain friendship, it’d be loyalty. From the time I met him as a rough fifteen-year old, he’s been there through it all and he’s been the same person. This despite the many times I’ve failed to keep my appointments. This kind of friend is one who has felt the impact of your weakness and stayed the same.

In writing this, I celebrate the significance of important lives and the important commitments they make. In being absent, I realize I gave this part of my life away to serve my country and the calling God gave to me. I’m always grateful for what I have, for it is filled to the brim.

In hurting for the loss of my aunt, I celebrate her life- and the life of my friends who are beginning anew. In learning to accept my own absence in important occasions, I learn to celebrate the presence of joy in others.

‘You make known to me the path of life; in your presence there is fullness of joy; at your right hand are pleasures forevermore.’  - Psalm 16:11

For a thousand years.

Koreans tell me that the rainy season is over. It’s usually over by August. They then reluctantly murmur, almost an afterthought, this is a typhoon, abnormal.

It was raining in Gyeongju when I got off the KTX. I chose stubbornness even though I knew Koreans take their weather forecasts seriously. Typhoon Sanba was expected to hit the peninsula and I had made plans to explore what I’d heard was one of the most historically rich towns in Korea. I had forgotten about the previous month’s Typhoon Bolaven and Typhoon Tembin.

I don’t dislike rainfall. In fact, I like the freshness it brings in the air- trees look brand new, you’re set up for an evening of coffee over a book or a little romance, and you’re assured a good night’s sleep. It’s just that sometimes the rain can make you take quick decisions and put a sense of urgency in otherwise laid back plans.

I found myself inside a cab within no time, and thrust the sheet of paper in my hand towards the driver. It had the address of the inn where I’d booked an ondol room. He looked at it, paused and said we could’ve taken the bus. It would’ve saved you money, he added. I looked out and a stupid tourist look reflected off the pane.

Gyeongju is a small town in south eastern part of the Korean peninsula in Gyeongsangbuk-do. On a flat map, it’s between Ulsan and Pohang. It was the capital of the Silla Empire for about a thousand years and was the centre of unified Korea for over 250 years before it fell to the Goryeo dynasty. (circa 935 AD)

Bulguksa.

I was glad to see much of the traditional style architecture still preserved in many buildings. That there were no outrageous skyscrapers helped, because that was what I wanted to get away from. Tiled roofs provided shelter from the rain for most houses and on a rainy day, everything looked grey and painted from the past. After regaining strength and enthusiasm over hot thol sot bibimbap and thongthongchu, we started at the 8^th century UNESCO World Heritage Sites of Seokguram grotto and Bulguksa Temple, both representing the peak of Silla Buddhist architecture.  Seokguram, on the slope of Mt.Tohamsan, has a large sculpture of Buddha surrounded by 39 other engravings portraying the enlightenment with the statue facing the sea. Humidity and moisture in the grotto led to modifications ultimately leading to a glass covering, devotees having to be content with worshipping from a distance. The thick fog, rain and the weekend crowd gave reason enough to quicken my pace towards Bulguksa temple. This temple was originally built in 535 AD and is known for its wooden architecture and stone terraces. They say Bulguksa represents the Buddhist utopia taking its form in the terrestrial world. Visitors to Gyeongju are taken to these two sites by default and I recall the cab driver asking me about them even before I’d mentioned my destination.

Koreans take their tourism seriously. They are really good at advertising and selling their history, culture and sights. I wasn’t too impressed by the 7^th century Cheomseongdae Observatory and the Daereungwon Tomb Complex, though the area around the burial mounds has been developed into a nice park.  I suppose I expected more in terms of structures, like an old existing Silla palace or fortress instead of relics and remains of what were. I think India has spoiled me – considering variety and choice of historical places. I felt like a modern king zipping from the turrets of Mehrangarh Fort in Jodhpur and swooned at Hampi from Matanga Hill. But such thoughts were interrupted by a nice dance from a cultural troupe at Wolseong park with kimchi, tofu and makgeolli on the house.

Part of the palace complex of the Silla kingdom was an artificial pond called Anapji, where kings held lavish banquets and from where thousands of artifacts were found. I made the right decision to be there at nightfall, when the lights around the complex came on and people walked around with lanterns. Reconstructed pavilions reflected off the still surface of the pond, transporting me to the time when kings walked there, entourage nervously following.

About 18 kms from Gyeongju is the well preserved Yangdong Folk Village. Public transport is good in Korea, reaching the interiors with buses leaving at regular intervals (The only rider is the need to know the language to read the signs and get on the right bus). We reached the station on an early saturday morning and found a bored bus driver waiting for passengers at the stop. Yes, I go towards Yangdong but you’ll have to walk a bit from where I stop. Sure enough,from the bend where we got off it was a ten minute walk to the information centre welcoming us to Yangdong Folk Village. Founded in the 15^th century, it is a village preserving architecture and traditions from the Joseon era, with a taste of the class system seen in the dwellings of the aristocracy and the tenant farmers. While the former had houses with tiled roofs built on higher ground, the latter had houses with straw-thatched roofs built on lower ground. There are small tea houses where one can try local flavours along with rice cakes.

We entered a small traditional house which was a han sik jip (a Korean restaurant, but han sik jip is more like a ‘house for Korean food’ and describes such places more aptly). I was eating at a house of village locals from history- dusty old ceiling with a straw hat hanging on the wooden wall, an old table fan in the corner, a low table made of thick wood and a small box which had the long steel spoons and chopsticks. I pulled the straw mat and sat cross-legged, slightly uncomfortable but too hungry to complain. I thoroughly enjoyed Cheonggukjang, a stew made of fermented soyabean and tofu with rice on the side. It was like playing at home, because I was basically having Axone with rice and the Koreans are surprised to see me wolf it down. A worthy mention is a variation of cheongju, a clear wine made of pine needle and mugunghwa (the national flower of Korea) which the owner had brewed and recommended. It was different from anything I had tasted and it was good.

I didn’t want to leave the village because I could just explore some more and drink some tea and time travel. But the rain came down heavily and the Gyeongju National Museum was still left before the KTX back to Seoul. The museum houses the artifacts found in the ruins of Gyeongju and is a rich repository of knowledge and information. Much of the Silla thought was molded by Buddhism and it is fascinating that Indian and Chinese monks roamed this part of Asia proselytizing folks thousands of miles away. India figures in a lot of these conversations.

Ruins and tombs, folk village and a good museum topped with local food and brew – I came away richer, typhoon or not.