Old Malaysian relic

I am in the process of sorting out what I have scribbled on my different notepads. Here's the first of a series of texts which are are connected only by a necessary chronological bond.

This one was written almost a year ago, on the plane to Kuala Lumpur. Yet again, it talks about time, the here and there, then and now. I remember having been compelled to write after seeing a queer look in a passenger's eyes. I wrote 'queer', as it was both a mixture of awe and terror. One of the wings of the plane was swaying wildly, and one couldn't help thinking it might be torn off the next second. Nobody panicked or even said anything. Not even to one another. Nor did anybody sought to be reassured by a stewardess - perhaps because there was nothing to be reassured on. Not even a mutter, but a long, chilly silence which lasted for hours, literally. I remember nothing else. I don't remember if there was a look of relief on the passengers' face, or if I heard a long-drawn sigh with eyes closed, or if the passengers were in a hurry to leave the plane. Or if they scolded themselves for being stupid, for that matter.

Anyway, it reminded me of Bill Murray's cue in Lost in Translation: "Have a good fright." Nice Engrish pun between "flight" and "fright", the Japanese often mixing the Rs and the Ls.


Here it is.
 
 

Travelling eleven thousand kilometres at a little under the speed of sound – hardly believable then, and after. Now we are a little worried, because fighting the elements has a price. Perpetual combat against gravity, against friction, wind, cold, magnetic forces, pressure. Trying to ward off an instant, predictable death clawing at the fuselage of the plane – the Indian mountains and lakes and rivers underneath us, at ground level we look at them with awe and desire, but from the perspective of eleven kilometres, they look menacing and treacherous, stretch to the horizon – we wish we could read the cloud of milk forming in our tea so that we would know how all this will end. We would be reassured.

I am serene, for my part. Both koto and shakuhachi must be accounted for this passing decision not to worry about whichever calamity might befall us, about whichever consequence our individual actions might bring about the stage of life.

We are here and we are no longer here, cutting across distances and a commonly accepted notion of time, yet that is the same sun rising on our land. When is no longer necessary – where either, for that matter – not for the moment – these will regain their clutch in a little while. If while comes. When the end comes into perspective, more often and more suddenly than not, we wish we hadn't been that self-centered, harsh, rude, greedy or familiar with our neighbour. But the trip has to come to an end, hence we come to terms with ourselves and most of us go back on the same old tracks, even after a while – the norm is set – even though we wish right now that this reactor wasn't making so much noise, that these wings didn't sway that much.

For the time being, we are stranded on the edge of time. We exist for everybody down on the ground because we are known by each and every one of our relatives, because we appear on radars, we are seen by a child pointing at us and laughing, by lovers sitting on a bench and making a wish at the sight of the white trail in the sky. Yet we are not really there. Specially when and where down to the smallest thing could go wrong. A rivet here is more important than there – even though on one occasion both rivets have been as important. We might even have the time to realise that something is going wrong and cry or pray, or repent or disbelieve or think, for a fraction of a second that might fill in eternity, to what's happening to us, and why – we can't begin to imagine the consequences. Many of us sleep to avoid the hassle of doing one or all of the above. Sometimes one just can't be bothered to be mad.

Somewhere, between Dubai and Kuala Lumpur, sometime, sun shining bright.