Chapter 3
When I wake in the morning, it is to the sound of screaming. The garbled words, bright sun, and unfamiliar room of the xaikilren1 combined disorient me and I take a moment to breathe and desensitize before I start my day. When I refocus myself, I gather my few items, brush myself off, and leave the small room into the long hallway. The room adjacent to mine has it's door wide open, and the sounds seem to emanate from there. I peer in.
In the room, many dark clothed government officers stand in a circle, seemingly attacking a man in the middle. The officers obscure my vision of the man, and I can only guess what he has done to be attacked here. An officer catches my eye and glares - a signal I can't deny. I step out of the room and begin to walk down the hallway.
In the foyer, I thank the receptionist and sign out. I walk into the city, where all is unfamiliar and so I decide to find a prayer room of some sort to ground myself. It takes a few streets and turns of uninformed wandering but I eventually find one, nestled between two restaurants.
Inside, I walk up to the altar, kneel in front and pray. I pray, grounding myself, and I wait until the words I say envelop me, wait until I am bathed in Being. And then I remember.
The woman on the table with the illness is not my mother, and the home is not mine (thought it has been before). The streets of the neighborhood are though, and the smells of the cooking food have always been rooted deep in my memories. I kneel at the altar and beg All to let me let it go. But hiding from pain is not in the way of Being.
Somewhere, though I know it isn't real, I hear a voice. Some Iradei2 reminds me of my illusions. I make what I want to be real, manifesting it like some deluded broken critter, lapping at the dust as though it is water. And, at the altar, grounding myself, I remember.
The woman on the table with the illness is not my mother, and never will be. She will die soon, succumbing to sickness, in much the same way my own parents did. And so, blocking out death, too afraid of my body that within to see truth, I replace the two. The woman on the table with the illness is not my mother, but I have to much grief to see anything else
At the altar, I thank Sa Irhadei3, remove myself from the ground, and enter back into the street. It is now, I realize, how truly lost I am. I am in the streets of Miakotu, far east from anywhere I have called home. And I have nobody I know, not my family, not myself.
The nextdoor restaurant is food from Vijakta, the sort of food eaten only by the very rich or very poor. I fall into the latter of those categories, and the restaurant seems to cater to that demographic as well. Inside, ambient music, lights, and smell surround me. I find an empty table and sit, ordering on the device in the center. I order a Vijaktan Mikdobet, and wait.
While I wait for the food, I look around. Of the ten or so tables, two others are occupied. One hosts a couple sitting together, eating unrecognizable dishes, conversing in Gakja4. At another, a group of four chatter noisily in Naloei, and I pick up snippets. Much of it is small talk yet their answers are intriguing and it provides something to ease boredom.
The group seems to be friends catching up, talking about each other's lives. The one in the furthest corner, with the lighter hair seems the most interesting to me. Their Naloei seems broken and they speak in a heavy Djik accent, yet when they speak about their going-ons, it is always profound and intriguing. The man next to them asks how their work is going, and I strain my ears to listen to their response.
"Ná ko anla, té temkir ko andial. Ken, i.. khen té te temkir ka te manak deketi te tek ka i... sa doloxi al sa imhen ko temkir ko, i.., temkir ko donakaril?"5
The statement is interesting enough, but then the man responds "Sa donakaril ko domenisin?"6 to which another one of the four hisses "Ke! Kilo!"7. The rest of the discussion happens in murmurs low enough that I cannot hear and so I wait at the table in peace, playing with my Lome8 until the food comes.
The food comes quickly, warm and colorful, a trademark of the cuisine. I say a quick prayer and eat.
The food is much needed, and so I do not spend much time savoring it; rather I let it slide down my throat, almost burning my insides, as I lap it up as though I have not tasted food in days. Which is mostly true.
After the food, I thank the server and and pay. The group of four seems to finish at the same time I do, and I let them leave just before I, as I entertain the possibility of trailing them out of curiousity. The possibility is short lived though, as the four hop into a parked vehicle outside, and drive off.
the outside fades to quiet and i am lost once more, a mid-day orphan, alone. the tall grass nearby is tempting and the afternoon heat is pushing my exhaustion. with nothing to do i decide to rest. I lay my head against the soft reeds and when it is calm outside and within, I sleep.
1tl: one-room, like a motel
2tl: god
3tl: the gods
4tl: the language of vijakta
5tl: "It is well, it is important work. I, uhh, we are working to allow fuel to go to, uhh, the river for the workers, uhh, machine workers?" (Broken Naloei. Grammatically correct would be "Ná ko anla, o té temkir ko andial. Khen té te temkir al te manak sa deketi te samik ka sa doloxi al sa temkirimhen ko donakaril")
6tl: "the goverment machine?"
7tl: "Hey! Quiet!"
8tl: a mobile device
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