The four walls I call my recluse...

You are an outsider here.

However close you are to me.

You can leaf through my books, the ones I’ve collected with the pace of water filling an earthen pot on a sultry afternoon, one drop after another. You can indulge in them, in boonyi’s smuttiness or you can let the hungry tide devour you with all its literal might. You can let Rand educate you and Orwell bring you the realms of a farfetched reality. But you can’t gain from them what I have, you can’t indulge in the acumen I did.

The reds and purples and beiges sooth me, you can’t tell me they are not coordinated.

You can stare at the maps and brochures I’ve stuck on my wooden door. Deeply mahogany in shade alone. You can trace with your fingers along the route on which we trickled along the

Kwinana Highway

at the speed of a 120 kmph.you can gawk at Merlion watching over me. But dare you hope to be a part of it. Not on my Mahogany shaded door.

You can ask me what that little wooden box is doing against the window. I will tell you with all pride how I inherited this teak-wonder from my grandmother. I will tell you all about her waxy smooth hairless skin. I will tell you how she came from one of the most well known families. But when I wonder why she died so young, why she was as polite and wise as she was…I would do so alone.

The ceiling is mine to stare at, when the fan moves as fast as it can in the summers, when there are droplets of sweat running down my neck and the mattress has taken a beating because I’ve lain there too long reading a book.

You can look at every little sheet of paper funky magnets hold on my almirah, Menu cards from pubs, farewell greetings, birthday messages, all of them…but you would never gauge the pains and pleasures each have caused me.

You can look at the figurines I’ve put on a tiny wooden shelf that I painted in bizarre hot pinks and chocolate browns. But you wouldn’t know how painfully I’ve collected each one of them. The tribal Javanese families from the Museums of Jakarta, when I bargained my heart out on a scorching afternoon. The wrought iron giraffe done to detail from the evenings markets of Fremantle that made me chose between it and an opal ring set in sterling silver. I had to count my last penny to get home after I’d indulged in a jar of olives, a bottle of red and a local white man playing the tambourine. A tiny brass shoe with intricate etching from Nainital.When confronted about why I bought an ashtray, I had to feign surprise. There is that wedding souvenir I got from a Sumatran wedding I attended. How enthralled I was to be a foreigner absorbing each custom and how touched I was when I was thought worthy of attending Magdha’s Wedding ceremony.Oh Maghda, how beautiful she looked and radiant.

You can only look at these things and hope you were a part of my stories. This is my stage my little wonderland. I lie here at night all by myself; I might send you a gullible text and tell you that I missed you. I might wake up in the morning calculating the time difference between our zones and wonder if you’ve had lunch. But you will not know of it. Because my heart leaves the sleeve when I leave my sanctuary.