Secret Love

Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?

Stumbling haphazardly through college, one barely had the time to breathe, let alone fall in love. With the assignments, the projects and examinations, I had no time for serious love. I permitted myself to harmless flirting, but love was a definite no-no. That was until I saw her.

Up till recently, I was still unsure why I fell so helplessly head over heels over this girl. Two years on, the feelings have subsided. We have moved on along our own separate paths but sometimes I still see her or chance upon an old photo. I cannot help but smack myself on the head and ask myself, “What the hell was I thinking?”

The truth of the matter was that this girl was not exceptional. She was no Aphrodite, no Helen of Troy. She was the quiet one in school, spending her time mostly alone, always rushing off from one place to another. Myself, I was not exactly Mr. Popular either. But neither was I reclusive or friendless. I would say I was pretty normal, an average Joe. But this story is not about me. It is about her.

I never knew she even existed till after a year in college, when fate almost brought us together. I say almost because technically, I was nearly ten feet away from her. I was shuffling behind her, when she glanced back and our eyes locked for all of two seconds. She quickly turned back and hurried off, as if she had just made eye contact with a mass murderer. There were no fireworks, no birds chirping around me and instead of angels singing, I heard the discipline mistress shouting at me for being late. But I knew this was the start of a secret love.

From our first encounter, it seemed as if we were meant to be together. I kept bumping into her around school. I found out she sat in front of my class during lectures and slowly began to piece together her daily routine. This girl, she moved like clockwork. She would be in school the same time every morning, sit at the exact same spot in lectures and have her lunch at one sharp in the canteen (at the same spot and buying food from the same stall of course). She would then proceed to the library and seat at the back to study.

I began to think that maybe this girl was obsessive compulsive and a wee bit psycho. But I realized how easy her uncompromising routine made it for me to stalk her. Yes, that is right. I freely admit that I ‘stalked’ her. Of course I did not follow her home or wait for her at bus-stops, but I started to look forward to seeing her in school. A day would not have been complete without having a glance at her. She was not the weird one. I was.

It sounds pathetic, but I was addicted to her like a drug. I was addicted to the half-second glances I got each day. My friends laughed at me. They could not understand what I saw in her and honestly, neither could I. I knew things were starting to spiral out of control when I started to use metro sexual hair products and had begun to write poetry dedicated to her. I knew I had to make a decision. I was going to make my move. The moment I decided to, I regretted it at once.

It sounds easy, to just go up to a girl and start a conversation but trust me it is not. Either that or there is something hopelessly wrong with me and I am a social imbecile. I think the main reason why I was so afraid of making contact was the fear of rejection. I was not prepared for an ego bruising. I kept giving myself excuses. We did not know each other, we had nothing, and I really mean absolutely nothing, in common. I would have given up on my hopeless pursuit but she just would not let me.

The moment I resolved to abandon my fancy dreams, she just had to smile. I will never know if she smiled at me, or was just smiling at something in my general direction. I sleep better at night believing that it was me she smiled at though. This was the smile that would have launched a thousand ships. This was the revelatory smile. At that point it hit me why I was so hopeless enamored by her.

Obviously testosterones played a huge part, but I believe it was the fact that I never ever got to know her better, the fact that she always seemed out of reach that drove me crazy in love. She was the forbidden fruit. And men being men would always want a bite of the fruit. What we cannot have is what we want most dearly. There was no happy ending for my story. I spent a month rehearsing the perfect lines, planning for the perfect time to make my move. I was supposed to talk to her at prom. She did not show.

Looking back, I can only laugh at my own foolishness. My secret love taught me a lot. She showed me my insecurities, she gave me valuable life lessons, and she did it all in the ten minutes we actually saw each other. That is right. After a year and a half, the total times we have bumped into each other would not even amount to ten minutes. I cannot remember how she looked the first time we met. I cannot remember her smile either. But I still remember her name, and that is my secret.

A Poison Tree

A Poison Tree

I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine.
And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

William Blake

What it Means to be Asian?

First, what is Asia? Asia is a continent bounded by Europe and the Arctic, Pacific and Indian Oceans. It is the world’s largest continent. Sixty percent of the world’s population is Asians. So what exactly does it mean to be Asian?

Does it simply mean to be born and bred in Asia? If so, then why the distinction between Asians and Europeans, Americans or even Africans for that matter? If this is the case, then a person of non-Asian descent born in Asia should be Asian, but this is not true. Surely all of us must share a particular trait only inherent to Asians.

This trait should set us apart from our Western counterparts. Perhaps it is our physical characteristics that underlie our dissemblance. Asians generally have smaller frames then our Western counterparts. However, the trend of Asians being smaller is quickly reversing. With better nutrition, many Asians now are well-built. Japanese people once seen as ‘tiny people’ (with the exception of sumo wrestlers of course) now can boast of professional baseball players as big as the Americans themselves.

However, assuming that the recent trend of big-boned Asians is a new phenomenon is untrue. While many South-east Asians, Chinese and Japanese used to be small-sized, Asians from countries closer to Europe have never been small-sized. In fact, these Asians are more likely to be mistaken as Europeans rather than Asians. Obviously, physical characteristics can never define Asians because Asia is simply too diverse. Asians come in all shapes and sizes and in different shades of brown.

Perhaps then, to be Asian is to value diligence, hard work and filial piety. Nonetheless, the traditional illustration of the Asian farmer working from dawn to dusk in rice fields is outdated. Instead now we see the rise of the dragon and the elephant. Countries such as China and India are competing fiercely with the economies of first world countries. In Asia, the focus has shift from agricultural to manufacturing and we are quickly progressing into a more developed continent.

It is undeniable that the frequent compliments directed to Asia for developing at such breakneck speeds is pleasant to the ears. The truth of the matter though is that we are still behind America and Europe. The only reason why we can develop so quickly is that we can emulate the past progress and developments of the West, avoiding their previous mistakes and improving on current practices.

Countries like Japan, India and China are well-reputed innovators. Can we say then that to be Asian is to embody the spirit of innovation? I think not. Neither can we say that to be Asian is to embrace Asian values such as filial piety, as mentioned earlier on, exhorted by the likes of Confucius. Such moral qualities are not alien to our Western counterparts and secondly, Asia is not made up of China alone.

So right now, we are back to square one. Asians are not homogeneous physically. Our value systems are to a certain extent similar to value systems worldwide. Thus, to be Asian means to be different physically, but similarly morally then. Nevertheless, such an answer would not be unique. A person who asks what it means to be American or European may be answered similarly and the answer would not be wrong.

Simply put, being Asian is no different than being Western, African or Australian. For me, it means being a member of the global community and doing our part as responsible global citizens. Separating us by grid lines on the map only leaves opportunities to discriminate. It forces us to focus on differences instead of similarities. It encourages division instead of unions.

Asia is also known as the land of the sunrise. This metaphor symbolizes new beginnings and opportunities but let us not forget that to complete a day, the sun must set on the other side of the world. Asia is just one half of a whole. By virtue of location we may be branded ‘Asians’, but ultimately we are global citizens first.

A Dream Within A Dream

A Dream Within A Dream

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

Edgar Allan Poe