by Isabelle Li
Kieran was carrying a plate of food, looking for a seat. Lei waved at him and pointed to the chair next to me. At close quarters, Kieran felt tall, strong and serene.
Tong told us that ninety per cent of gay men in China married heterosexually. I was surprised, but Kieran merely nodded and carried on eating.
‘Do you not eat meat?’ Lei asked.
‘I’m vegetarian,’ Kieran said.
‘Is it for religious reasons?’
‘Not really—it’s for compassion.’
‘But in nature, big fish eat small fish, and small fish eat prawns. It’s the natural order of things.’
‘I quite like eating beans and lentils. I guess it’s just easy for me.’
‘Do you get enough iron?’ I asked.
‘Well, the iron in plant-based food is harder to absorb. Vitamin C helps. So I try to have orange juice with meals.’ He pointed to his glass and smiled at me.
When we finished, Kieran and I went to get four plates of fruit for our table.
At the break in the afternoon, Crystal and I took a walk. It was a clear day but the air was damp. We crossed the manicured lawn and turned behind the line of conifers, where we identified other trees—oak, maple, birch and beech—matching the English and Chinese names. We walked on a stone path largely in shade and covered with moss and lichen. At the juncture was a pond covered in rusty red vegetation. The fountain was no longer in operation, and the carved stone cherubs had turned green. We heard the sound of gentle knocking, shovelling.
Behind the hedges, two men were working on a new section of the stone path. Flat sandstone rocks were piled at a clearing, and next to them was a wheelbarrow with half a load of sand and cement. One man was in his sixties. He stood up like a soldier, solemn and dignified. He greeted us on his way to the pile in search of suitable rocks. The other man was Kieran, in workman’s pants and a singlet. He looked up and smiled at us, and then carried on with pushing the rocks into place. The rocks ranged through white, yellow, purple and red, with intriguing shapes and patterns. The dappled sunlight fell on the two men working silently.
‘I wonder why he calls it Indigo Yoga.’ At the turn of the hedges I looked back.
‘It might be a cryptic way of saying the practice can take you beyond blue.’ Crystal followed my eyes. ‘Shall we go to his class tonight?’
The yoga studio was rather spacious. A few people were already there. Catherine, the Canadian scholar, was the centre of attention. ‘When I proposed it, I thought such a wild idea would be shot down right away. But the Faculty was really open-minded.’ A few people nodded. ‘He has a large following, which is weird, given he doesn’t even have a website. He gives each posture a unique explanation. You know what’s normally called a frog pose …’ She separated her knees, stretched her groin, and rested her chest on the floor, with her head turning to one side. ‘He calls it “listening to your footsteps”. It must be quite powerful for people who have lost someone.’ Crystal and I stationed ourselves at the back of the room.
Kieran walked in, wearing muslin pants and a white caftan. ‘Who hasn’t done yoga before?’
I raised my hand. He moved a step aside to gain a better view of me and smiled.
He asked us to lie on our backs and to put the soles of our feet together, knees out and eyes closed. I sensed he was moving towards me and opened my eyes. He lowered his face next to mine and whispered, ‘Do as much as you can, but only if you feel comfortable. Stop if there is any pain.’ He smelled like trees. He rose effortlessly and moved away without a sound.
At first I was distracted, but when I synchronised my movements with my breathing, I became less self-conscious. Crystal seemed to know what to do just by listening to the Sanskrit names of the postures. ‘Focus on your own practice. Look inwardly. You are already perfect,’ Kieran said.
I often felt Kieran was giving his cues just to me, although I knew they would be applicable for everyone. ‘Plant your foot into the ground, and grow like a tree. Elongate. Tighten your abdominal muscles. Breathe in, let the feeling rise up through your body. Breathe out, let the feeling amplify from your heart.’ Whenever I struggled with a posture, he would give an easier alternative.
He suggested that we regard the practice as a self-expression and use our emotions as energy. ‘Hold one thought and breathe it in and out. Remember, every breath counts.’ I suddenly had a thought, and once it emerged I felt it had been there for many years: I’m a person without a first language.
‘Surrender to it,’ Kieran said, while we were doing a seated forward bend.
After the class, some people went to talk to him and others booked in for his one-on-one sessions. ‘You’d better book in before all the slots are taken,’ Crystal said, her eyes red. Indeed, most were already booked. The only session available was his last session at 9 pm the following day, so I booked myself in.
‘Are you an owl or a lark?’ Kieran asked from behind my shoulders.
‘Neither. I’m suffering from jetlag.’
He added an extra session that evening at 10 pm.
I take the Bakerloo Line and find my way to the restaurant at the bottom of Denmark Hill. The polite, smiling manager ushers me to an immaculately set table. My mother is already there. She is wearing the silk coat she bought in China, with striking red on black floral patterns.
‘Try the chicken zafrani.’ She points to the specials board.
I order dal instead.
When the chutneys arrive, she says, ‘Lili, you don’t seem yourself lately. Do you need to see someone?’
The dal is cooked to perfection, as is the accompanying saffron rice. But I don’t have any appetite.
Kieran’s suite was in a different wing. The living room had been emptied of furniture. He and Catherine were having a drink, sitting on the mats. There was such a familiarity between them that I felt I had intruded. I also felt a strong dislike of Catherine. Because she had made the arrangements for Kieran to be here, she seemed to claim ownership of his presence.
I did not back away. It was my timeslot. I stood at the door, my back holding it open.
They exchanged a couple of kisses and Catherine left. ‘He’s all yours now.’ Her Canadian accent seemed more pronounced than Kieran’s.
‘What would you like to do for the session?’ he asked.
‘Yoga,’ I said.
He laughed. ‘How are you feeling after the class?’
‘Good.’
‘You’ll feel some muscle pain tomorrow. Right now you are probably experiencing a pleasurable fatigue.’
The word ‘pleasurable’ embarrassed me. We were sitting cross-legged, and the floor was like a big bed around us.
‘Let’s do some breathing exercises.’
He turned off the light. We sat next to each other, facing the open window. The spring air was fresh, with whiffs of fragrance. The night seemed very quiet, except for the soft calls of birds in the distance, and the rustling of leaves. The moonlight was bright enough to cast shadows on the floor.
‘We’ll start with breath of fire, then some cleansing breaths, and towards the end, the breath of truth, and relaxation.’
I started to feel hot after a few breaths of fire. Kieran told me to breathe into different parts of my lungs, direct the energy to different chakras, visualise different colours, and count to a certain number. Whenever I was lost, he would remind me. After a while we breathed in unison. For the breath of truth, he told me a mantra and we chanted.
When it came to relaxation, Kieran closed the window and told me to lie flat on the mat. He then covered me with a blanket. He started to direct my breath. I tried to stay awake but he said I should let my thoughts go, let my feelings go, and let my body and my mind drift into a weightless freedom.
I woke up the next morning after a long and dreamless sleep. It took me a moment to remember that I was in the Blue Mountains, and then I realised this was not my own bed in the resort and I was still in the loose-fitting clothes I’d been we
aring the night before.
The living room was filled with morning light and cool, fresh air. The two mats were laid together, one on top of the other. Outside the open window, a flock of crimson rosellas were grazing on the lawn.
I skipped breakfast to make it to my session. Catherine dominated the panel discussion. Her bookish stubbornness was charming and off-putting all at once. She talked passionately about her research into the complexities of the grief reaction in the elderly undergoing spousal bereavement. She had designed a very comprehensive self-report questionnaire, which measured traumatic stress, coping style, crisis support and professional intervention. She lost me at her hierarchical regression analysis.
This was the last day of the symposium and the program finished early. People gathered in small groups, exchanging contact details and promising to stay in touch.
Crystal was leaving. We stood in the fine drizzle while waiting for the Chinese scholars. Red blossoms had come out on the bare branches of the apricot trees. ‘This drizzle is called apricot rain in China,’ she said. ‘It dampens rather than wets people’s clothes.’ She did not seem to hear the soft thudding from the misty garden. Tong and Lei came with their luggage and Crystal helped them on to the minibus. ‘Good-bye, Lili,’ she said. I held her hand over the open window until the bus started to move. Then I stood, watching, until it disappeared at the bend in the road.
I crossed the lawn and walked behind the line of conifers. The new section of the footpath was nearly completed. The solemn man was working alone.
‘Could I give that a try?’ I asked.
He gave me the pair of gloves Kieran had been wearing the day before. My fingers could feel the shape of his hands.
The sandstone rocks showed deeper colours when they were wet, revealing more of their austere beauty. A trench had been dug to make room for the rocks. The edge of the path had to be on the same level as the ground so that people would not trip over, and the middle of the path was to be slightly elevated to prevent water from accumulating. The only tools we used were a hand spade and a rubber mallet. I selected the rocks and laid them out, matching the shapes and thicknesses, and waited for approval from the man before bedding them into the sand and cement.
When we finished, it was nearly dusk. I had missed the yoga class and my legs were quite sore from squatting. There was a delicious pink in the sky, and it filled my heart with anticipation.
My mother picks some pumpkin from her plate and puts it on mine. Like my father, she has a logical, scientific mind, but, unlike my father, she is fiercely driven. To her, I must be such a mystery, and maybe a disappointment.
‘I met someone in Australia. He’s a yoga teacher and lives in Vancouver.’
My mother chews for a long time and eventually swallows. Her thin neck moves and I can almost hear it. She is about to take another mouthful, but changes her mind. ‘There are more Chinese there and a good university,’ she says thoughtfully.
The waitress comes to clear the plates. She has an oval-shaped face and light brown skin, bearing the delightful smile of someone who has grown up in a community where people’s lives are closely intertwined.
My mother normally prefers savoury foods but today she asks for the dessert menu and orders barfis decorated with vark.
‘We got to know each other really well.’ I pick up the conversation after dessert has arrived.
My mother chews a barfi slowly. I know the silver leaf on the sweet has been pounded between layers of animal intestines.
‘I might move to Vancouver.’
At nine o’clock, I turned up at Kieran’s door.
‘How are you feeling today?’
‘I can feel my legs, back and shoulders.’ I touched the various parts of my body.
He instructed me to lie on my front, and relax. He started from my shoulder blades, pressing one point at a time, and asked me to rate the pain level. Then he told me to breathe deeply into the pressure of his hand and breathe out slowly to release tension. When the pain level subsided, he moved on to the next focal point.
‘You seem to know where I feel pain.’
‘I can sense the tightness.’ He pressed my thoracic spine. ‘This is where grief is stored. Breathe into the back of your lungs.’
I felt warmth coming through his hands and shut my eyes. I had been thinking about my next research topic, and it dawned on me that I should research the grief that comes from loss of language.
‘Now it’s releasing. That’s a quick shift,’ Kieran commented.
Good research is an ontological experience—I remembered Seema’s advice.
I turned onto my side and rested my top leg on a bolster. Kieran pressed the outside of my thigh with the heel of his hand.
‘Ouch,’ I cried out.
‘This is the gallbladder meridian, to do with courage.’
I winced again.
‘Try the heroic breathing. Imagine you are larger than life.’
The pain eased.
Kieran told me to lie on my back. He placed one hand on the side of my head and the other on top of my shoulder. ‘Push your head and shoulder against my hands, harder, harder. Now breathe out and relax.’
I felt my neck growing longer.
‘This is called Proprioceptive Neuromuscular Facilitation.’
‘Your hands must have eyes. They can see through the skin.’
He laughed.
‘Sorry for taking up your bedroom last night.’
‘You fell asleep and I didn’t have the heart to wake you.’
I raised my chin to look up and his face was upside down. ‘Maybe I should give you a massage instead? You must be tired.’
He smiled and we swapped positions.
‘You probably need to take your shirt off though.’
He lay on his stomach. His back was muscular but some parts were asymmetrical. ‘They are old injuries from dancing.’
I did not know where to start.
‘If your hands can’t see, try closing your eyes.’
I closed my eyes and pressed gently on the muscles along his spine. Under my fingers was a strange landscape with ridges and valleys, alive, breathing. I felt more confident as he started to relax, my left hand deft at finding knots, and my right hand strong in applying pressure.
‘Your thoracic spine seems fine,’ I said.
‘Once upon a time it was filled with grief.’
‘Where has it all gone?’
‘Released through yoga. There were times when the only way to get through was to stay in frog pose for a long time until the physical discomfort became greater than the pain inside.’
I stopped. I lay next to him and he turned to face me. His eyes were gentle and clear.
‘If you leave for Canada, your dad and I might go back to China for a while.’
‘You love living here.’
‘Yes, we love it, but more for you. The first day we arrived, we thought only of you. We hoped one day you would go to Cambridge. You went to Oxford—the same. Our dream has come true.’
‘You don’t object to my moving to Vancouver?’
‘I just want you to be happy, but I never know how.’ My mother looks away.
‘What are you going to do in China?’
‘We’ve been invited to be Long River scholars. It’s a scheme to attract overseas Chinese.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘We didn’t want to leave you. We already left you once and have always regretted it.’
Before he fell asleep, Kieran told me his stories from a different era. His arms looped around my neck and waist, as though hanging on to a tree trunk to prevent himself from drowning, his mind far away. I was still awake after he had started to breathe rhythmically, a soft, bellowing breath, practising even in his dreams. I slipped out of his embrace, and rolled him away from me. He gave out a childlike sigh and obeyed.
I came back to my room and turned the light out. I could hear the distant sound of people talking in the p
ub, continuing their farewells. I fell asleep eventually and dreamed I was again in Kieran’s class. He said grief was indigo air and I was to breathe it in and compress it, make it as small as a vertebra in my thoracic spine.
I woke up. In the half-light of dawn and the reminiscence of my mind, the past and the present came together, and all problems seemed trivial. But as I gained more consciousness, the sense of hope dissipated. I noticed an envelope under the door. Inside was a sheet of paper with a telephone number, an address and three words: Come to Vancouver. I curled up and clasped the note between the palms of my hands. When I woke up again, morning light had flooded the room.
I walked around the resort one last time. The new path had already blended in with the groundcover and the shrubs. Some rocks had started to turn green after the rain, their mossy past emerging. The trees rustled and the sun shone through the spring leaves. I thought of all that I had known back home, and all that I would come to know in a new country. I took a deep breath and stepped onto the rocky path, my body light and my heart free.
Go Troppo
Subject:
Moth Orchid
Date:
17/09/2012
Status:
Not Sent
One can’t escape the past, a shadow behind one’s heels, with altered shapes under different lights. I’m in Singapore, where I once lived but never loved. At a sniff of the air, a touch of the moisture on my skin, or a glance at the morning’s colours between the skyscrapers while I float in the pool, all memories resurface. I’m drowning again; my heart throbs; my eyes ache. The tropics, they consume me.
I’ve never been hedonistic, so I’m destined to be a misfit one degree north of the equator. The appeal of the tropics is in the exposure: windows and doors are wide open (not to invite, but to be indifferent); families have all their meals out (at coffee shops and hawker centres); and the fashion is to wear as little as possible (singlets, shorts and thongs). There’s no privacy and no desire for personal life. Every day is the same as every other day; life, as monotonous as death. Hence the hedonism: the locals work, eat and shop like there’s no tomorrow.
