Sleepless In Sydney

I first spotted them on my way to Darling Harbour.

Bullets. Four of them, seven metres high, imposing in absolute rigidity. Full metal jackets. A sculpture that didn't toy around with ambiguity; it was clear what the bullets implied. They exuded a plaintive sentience which, while inescapable, was only a part of the full message.

At their feet, lying in haunting finality of the aftermath, were three bullet shells.

The shells lay scattered at the base of the sculpture, eternally evocative of the horrors of war and the absoluteness of death. An indigenous tribute to the sacrifices of the Aboriginals of Australia, the Yininmadyemi Memorial is placed on a pathway shaped like a boomerang. It is shaped so to symbolise the boomerangs handed to departing soldiers by their families. Much like the ANZAC Memorial that stood a few hundred yards away, it asked you to question the significance of our debates in the light of its consequences.

It is hard to argue politics or religion when the rich wage war and the poor die.

Does the prudence of War or the benevolence of God matter to those families who handed soldiers a boomerang? A symbolic token of the hope that much like a departing boomerang, these soldiers would soon return home

But they never did.

* * *

The history of Australia originating as a British penal territory is just subterfuge for the real criminals it harbours: the seagulls at Circular Quay. I know you didn't expect to pocket such contentious inside scoops so early into a blog post but if you didn't want controversy you shouldn't have invited the king, eh?

The bluntness and inherent hostility that I was forewarned to expect from the Aussies were fulfilled instead by the birds and animals. Kangaroos, koalas, cockatoos and crabs. Corrupt critters that cattily created convulsions. For the sake of posterity, reflections of this trip would be remiss without recounting the story of my last ever act of kindness, so let us all settle in for the incoming trauma.

It was a fine day in Sydney and it seemed nothing could go wrong. On the itinerary for the day was a maiden tour of the Sydney Opera House - a building I had seen on countless NYEs on the news as the first landmark to welcome in the new year. It was a big day for my sightseeing portfolio. After all, such days are rare in which you get to visit an iconic landmark for the first time in your life.

No stone was left unturned in my preparations. Groomed to the boot in your typical #influencer attire, I was out to rack some pictures for the ages. One of those 'that's me at the Sydney Opera House' polaroids that be a momentous addition to my fridge magnet memorabilia display.

It was a fine, fine day. Nothing could go wrong.

In the bustle and vibrancy of Circular Quays, a decision was made to taste a Hungry Jack's burger because I was, after all, in the land down under (can't you hear, can't you hear the thunder?). So we were to be found perched on a bench overlooking the Harbour Bridge, paper bags of coveted burgers in hand to satisfy our quotidian cravings. This was a moment to savour. A memory to sink in the soothing effects of a vacation, as I brought out a pack of fries from my bag.

I should've known then it was too good to be true.

I heard an unctuous coo and found myself staring at a most charming little seagull. It looked at me, then at the fries and back at me. While I harbour no linguistic expertise in seagull communication, I got the message. I tossed some fries for this angelic cherub sent straight from heaven to ingratiate at my feet, glancing around to see if the media had snapped my noble act of kindness.

Of course, at this point resident Australians, former veterans of Circular Quay or gurus in seagull psychology must be shaking their heads (if not point-blank banging them into a wall) at the apparent blunders of my youth. But with great hubris, I must inform you that it was not even my biggest blunder that day.

Hey, when I'm out in the field it's all or nothing hombre.

So I continued to feed fries to my newly adopted pet up till a point where it felt like my altruism was being pushed a bit too far. With current currency conversion rates in mind, I was tossing a significant amount of my negligible wealth down the throat of this archangel. To top it off, there didn't seem to be any media around to create viral 'kind tourist feeds cute bird' videos so my return on investment was pretty minimal, if not non-existent.

At this point, any normal person would've had a heart-to-heart with the beneficiary. You know, just casually highlighting the fact that the bird was overstaying its welcome. No hurt feelings, just some 'no offence's and 'just FYI's. A most mature, sensible understanding between man and bird.

That's the right way - the wrong way would be (in a completely hypothetical scenario, of course) to point a giant piece of the burger at the seagull twitching in unbelieving excitement. It would let out a rapturous caw and flutter its wings like any human would flutter eyelashes. The wrong way would involve miming a giant toss of the burger right at the bird for it to devour, and at the last moment pull out and laugh at its hurt indignation.

I must be stupid for even considering it, forget actually doing it.

I guess I am stupid because I did do it.

(you better run, you better take cover!)

As I guffawed at my chicanery, the seagull glowered at me and I gradually lost all my mirth. We were now locked in an eternal staring match and I had no idea how to break it. So I decided to ignore my irate, watchful sentry and raised the burger to, at long last, take a bite of the hyped delicacy I was waiting to feast upon.

A most deafening caw was heard and the bird lunged at me, knocking the burger onto the ground. Mayonnaise and ketchup were sprayed over my white trousers, ones I had been saving for that one eternal picture at Opera House, mind you. A chorus of caws was heard, and a mob of seagulls lunged from the heavens above, where they had been circling in wait for their charming bait to secure the coveted Hungry Jack's burger.

All I glimpsed was a flash of white, as fifty beaks tore apart my beautiful burger. Vanished in three seconds. But it clearly wasn't enough, as the mob turned to look at us with longing, eying the paper bag that held more tasty treats.

We didn't need linguistic expertise to get this message. We fled for our lives.

As we scampered from the scene of crime more birds lunged at our hands, knocking the bag to the ground. By the time I registered the mugging and looked back, the fries had already been completely ingested and now they started to circle us, cawing incessantly and baying for blood.

That day I learnt the meaning of true loss.

We ran for more than a mile, before cooping ourselves shut in the closed, airtight confines of (you guessed it) a Hungry Jack's restaurant.

Ever since that day, while it may not be an albatross, I carry the haunted memories of my brutally assaulted burger around my neck. I'm not sure if scientific etymology has a moniker for the 'constant fear of being seduced and instantly mobbed by a flock of seagulls' but I have it. My travels and experiences have engendered a phobia that never existed.

Now, I share with you this gruesome encounter in hopes that no young man, once full of spirit and vitality, is ever subjected to the trauma of having his heart broken and smile stolen by a bunch of seagulls. Along with the British inmates, I'm pretty sure the first ships that set sail for Australia had locked in their cellars (usually reserved for the nastiest criminals) the ancestors of these very devilish and delinquent birds.

* * *

In a small, dark theatre at the Waradah Centre in Katoomba amidst the Blue Mountains, smoke piled up on the stage as a prelude to a short drama on the Aboriginals of Australia.

While the smoke built up to hype the first scene, the mind, being a notoriously fickle beast, started to replay the events of my travels Down Under up till then. I had flown into Australia with a similar smoky opaque haze over my knowledge of the country's culture, history and people. Having spent a considerable amount of time in the UK, I envisioned it to be a warped extension of the culture I experienced back there. In a quest for exoticism and distinctive cultures, my limited knowledge of Australia was quite a deterrent. This was not a trip driven by the creeping and probing pangs of wanderlust.

But by the tail end of my travels, the follies in my assumptions had been highlighted, ridiculed and ruthlessly eliminated as I sat in the small, dark theatre watching the smoke unfurl the first act.

A man smeared with body paint walked onto the stage and picked up a didgeridoo. He put it to his lips and a staccato drone soon started to echo around the theatre. The drone reverberated in my mind as I walked up to the Sydney Opera House, nervously flinching at any sound of a bird. A design of multiple shells swayed by the era of Expressionism, born out of architectural conflict and tensions. Marvelling at the fact that something so huge, so well documented and so frequent in pop culture is quite protective of its grandeur and wealth in intricacy up to the point of close vicinity.

The drone of the didgeridoo now started to change notes as I walked across the imperious Harbour Bridge. The iconic Coathanger, the 'Iron Lung', that was prematurely inaugurated by a mutinous soldier on the day of its opening while the Premier of New South Wales watched in incredulity. An accompanying set of drum beats now matched my steps as I walked into the Sydney Cricket Ground, gaping at the statue of Steve Waugh celebrating his heroic century in the face of months of widespread criticism and apocalyptic tabloid articles. An eternal bronze imprint of an emblematic moment of national triumph.

On a day when Steve Waugh's own brother, Mark Waugh, gave up on watching the match to head down to the Randwick racecourse instead. While he bet on a horse that didn't win, his brother, on whom the stakes were high to fail yet again in a period of poor form, and who would possibly be forced into retirement with another failure, came out on top.

The rich cricket history was on full display, and I was a ravenous, incoherent babbling toddler once again. With a rhythmic pattern of drum strokes, I was introduced to elements that would utterly fascinate any avid fan of cricket folklore. As the drum picked up tempo, so did the flashes in my memory.

A resounding beat and I was walking past memorabilia for the legendary Richie Benaud. Another, and I was gaping across the fence at the indoor nets at Stuart MacGill coaching the future of cricket. A walk from the dressing rooms down to the field which was being prepared for the upcoming Ashes test. A nascent bass now joined the other percussions. A bass that penetrated my heart as I passed a plaque in memory of Phil Hughes, and another for Sir Donald Bradman - whose bronze nose incoming batsman often rubbed for good luck and avoidance of the ominous, unlucky number 87.

A final flourish of the cymbals, as I rubbed the Don's nose and looked up to find myself staring out at the infamous SCG.

Another Aboriginal descendant, smeared from head to toe in body paint, now emerged amidst the lingering smoke and broke into a traditional dance. While his legs twirled and twisted to the beat, grotesque expressions flitted through his visage. Funnily enough, I saw similar expressions of delight, fear and disappoint at the Star casino where thousands thronged daily to try their fortunes. Their faces twirled together like the sinuous feet of the dancer and now I was amidst the serenity of Wendy's Secret Garden. Four elderly women perched on a bench right in front of a sign that poeticised the eternity of youth. Another twirl and I was on the Bondi-Coogee walk, gazing at scores of tombstones at the Waverley Cemetery.

The man with the body paint now introduced a burning piece of wood. The aroma wafted down to the crowd. The didgeridoo started to mellow, and the men in paint started disappear in the rapidly emerging smoke. The act was now coming to an end, and smoke was released one final time to fade out the performers. They left behind the burning wood, and it's gradually permeating aroma. While the tendrils of incense wrapped around me in the theatre, in my mind I was back where it started.

Back at Hyde Park, inexplicably attracted to the Yininmadyemi Memorial. I was pulling myself away from its magnetic aura to walk past a group of people indulging in some impromptu salsa. Buskers, street dancers and pedestrians celebrating life in the shadow of the ANZAC Memorial remembering the grief of sacrifice. The soul of the city, of Sydney, in teasing glimpses. In the distance, the gothic spires of the St. Mary's Cathedral created a most picturesque backdrop.

The benevolence of God and the prudence of War.

I am now led away from the anguish, pain and grief in these war memorials by her. Led away from the memories of the soldiers who never returned. Past the Archibald Fountain, up the steps of the St. Mary's Cathedral, in the shadows of its twin spires. A shining light that guides me through the high arches and sits me down at the pews.

The permanency of the incense is now starting to fade, and so is the smoke. My mind, hitherto plagued with multitudes of thoughts and emotions, now starts to unwind. A church choir stands at the altar, and with the gesture of the bishop starts to sing in utmost harmony.

Just like that, there was light.

At that point, isolated from all the chaos that plagues the world and rages the mind, I was alleviated. There and then, with the mellifluous chorus of voices that ached of love, spirit and pain.

With them, with their spirit, with the transient harmony, with the unspoken unity and with her, I had for a moment found God.

* * *

If you liked what you read then do help me by sharing this on social media platforms of your choosing (Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, G+, Reddit I ain't picky). We're all artists somewhere, in some field, and this is just my form of art that would truly find expression if more people get the inclination to read it.

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A Tale Of Two Songs & Two Broken Hearts

In a little black cab ride two passengers. Two lovers. It's one of those quiet Sundays where the ominous overcast clouds resign denizens to the comforts of their homes. As this little black cab trundles along, so must we as this is where our story lies. Within, the radio emanates the voice of a certain Elton John crooning about a tiny dancer, but to the couple it is rendered incoherent by their thoughts.

While they are present, physically, in flesh and blood in that little taxi taking them towards uncertain yet definitely divergent futures, their mind and soul are entwined in a journey through the past.

You see, it is now time for her to leave. To head off into the sunset for good. This ride would be their last together on a long, treasured journey of love. The last ride, yet they are abnormally awkward and incapable of stringing together any reasonable form of communication. Between the sparse, inconsequential snippets of small talk there is mostly silence.

Incredible how two people who had so much to talk about on a daily basis now cannot sustain a conversation in their last discourse.

But the little cab carried more than the couple. Of course, there is the driver - a blissfully unaware driver he may be, as his thoughts were stubbornly fixated on the steak dinner he would be feasting on that night. Blissfully oblivious to the apparent tragedy he is now an unintentional perpetrator of.

As the song on the radio shifts to Axl Rose singing about the stinging November rain, the driver nonchalantly tapped his knuckles along on the wheel. His only analysis of his passengers was that they were there, and they seemed to be together. Beyond that, he neither knew or cared.

So he continued to ruminate on the delectable wonders of his dinner to come while stealing furtive, unfocused glances at his patrons. Furtive glances that looked but saw nothing. There seemed to be a world of contrast in context between the front and back seat of this vehicle, but we don't get to choose our side.

We just play our parts.

At what cost?

But even apart from the internally salivating driver and the inwardly despondent couple, there seemed to be another passenger in that vehicle. Unseen and unheard, but there was something there that was adding considerable gravitas to the imminent tragedy. It seemed that invisible fumes were emanating from the couple, and coagulating into a tenacious nebula of abstractions. So dense was its existence, that it could almost be felt, be touched. A near tangible cloud of emotions hovers between him and her.

Who said emotions are abstract inventions of the mind?

Don't you feel the physicality in the extremes? The lightness of pure joy and the heaviness in unending sorrow?

The toxicity of these fumes must have gotten to him and her. With each passing second, it seemed she was headed for a destination she didn't want to go. Even though he often admired her composure and self-conviction when confronted with any adversity, today it seemed she was mentally deflating by the second.

At that point he felt a need to lighten the mood. She was always the more expressive one - the one who wore her heart on her sleeve. Her heart, however, was not something he wanted to see or discuss right then, for it would've surely pierced him. In contrast, he had always been the restrained one - a miser of expressions. Emotionally unavailable and stingy to the point of disbelief, that often his impassiveness was treated as indifference.

He couldn't even remember the last time he had openly wept for something or someone.

But he was certain to make this one last memory a happy one, rather than a weepy one. So he quipped a feeble joke reminiscing one of their silly adventures. She gave a short laugh that ended with a sudden abruptness. He wasn't looking at her - his reminisces were directed towards the fogging window. For some reason, he couldn't bring himself to look into her eyes.

If he had, he would have seen why she stopped.

"Don't leave her and go."

But someone had noticed why. The driver, now rudely distracted from reveries of his dinner, had chanced a stare through the rear-view mirror. What he saw succumbed him, and he couldn't help blurting out in instinct.

He looked at the back of the driver's head in incredulousness.

"What?"

"I said, don't leave her and go."

He found no appropriate retort, so the driver plunged on.

"I have no idea who you guys are and what you have between you. But I saw the way she looked at you, and the look she had when she turned away. If there's one thing I can tell you - don't leave her. Don't leave this."

The unflinching reflection of the driver in the rear-view mirror was staring, point-blank, at him. But, taken by the unexpected sermon coupled with his internal helplessness, he just stared back. Probably his helplessness showed in his eyes, as the driver's piercing stare softened to one of empathy. Apparently, this was stemming from more than just instinct, as he decided to continue.

"These are special moments of your life and they will never come again. I once had the privilege of conjuring a similar look in a woman."

"Where is she now?"

The driver gazed into the distance, and sighed.

"Married. Two kids. Married to someone else. You see, I too had the choice you do today. But I chose to leave."

In the back, he insensitively laughed it off, as he knows no other escape. Her response was equally anomalistic.  On any normal day, she would've pounced on this little love story, interrogated the driver on all the finer details until she had another solid, irrefutable story to add to her scrapbook. Another solid, irrefutable testament of true love.

But today she said nothing. No 'how did you two meet?', 'what did you like about her?' - nothing. Today, her little scrapbook was lying tattered. She couldn't bring herself to pick it - her talisman for love.

Today, she didn't believe in it.

When I look into your eyes, I can see love restrained

But darlin' when I hold you - don't you know I feel the same?

Gentle drops now start to fall from a vanilla sky. He looked at the droplets racing across his window and couldn't help musing at the timing. He had always felt authors and directors overdid rain as a plot device. How convenient that it would start raining when the story required a gloomy emphasis?

Yet, the dismal irony of his life was such that none of his own saddest memories ever played out in bright sunshine. Whoever held the strings to his destiny was definitely playing by the book.

As the cab drew closer to the railway station, and as the clock ticked closer towards that final goodbye so did the rain get harder. It was now a steady drizzle, and all the world was gloom.

The cab squelched to a halt, and it was time to get done with it. The driver got out to remove the luggage, and he tried to assist. As he handed over the fare, and the driver grasped his hand and gave him a stare as if to say he expected better. As the driver sat back into the driving seat, he wistfully exclaimed,

"You've opened some old wounds today."

The driver started to rummage in his glove compartment. From behind stacks of receipts an old mixtape CD was unearthed. He slotted it in, and closed his eyes as love ballads started to swoon his mind.

She reminded him of a west side story.

He had to leave the driver there, shipwrecked in his brainstorm, as he had some wounds of his own to create. He turned to look at her, but she was fixedly looking at the station. Looking, but not seeing. He could trace raindrops running down her cheek. They could have been tears - he never knew because he never asked.

He just didn't want to know.

They make their way to the platform. The train was already there. But there was time, so they waited in silence. This deliberately prolonged sense of togetherness that could not, and would not, be broken with words. Anyway, what could they have said at that moment?

They looked at each other, and he marvelled at the journey they had travelled; the little transient world they had created in between the first and last time he looked into those eyes. The journey from the first song to the one today. He was now lost in reflection of their first encounter. Oh, what a night! A song that prophesied and encapsulated their bond, played in the background, as they created their own special time. Back then, egged on by Four Seasons, it had seemed so easy, so inconsequential. To approach her, strike up a conversation and get to know someone new.

What's the worst that could've happened? A conversation, an encounter and a dismissive thought?

At what cost?

So with nothing to lose, they sweetly surrendered to a certain bewitchment. A rush like a rollin' ball of thunder, spinning their heads around and taking their bodies under.

Oh, what a night
Why'd it take so long to see the light?
Seemed so wrong, but now it seems so right

It was now time.

In popular media, airports are often recurring motifs for farewell. But airports didn't do for him - the final visual of someone who was once something special to you, now heading walking past the check-in counters. Just walking through another door.

It failed to nail in the finality, you understand.

The real deal, for him anyway, was a railway station. Amidst your immense grief, sorrow or even hidden delight at the good riddance (you never know), there is poetry in departure. Now you weren't waving to your past as it walked through a door - you waved it onto a train. Of course, that was in normal circumstances. He might as well be waving at the station master, because she was resolutely walking away from him to find an empty coach. Not once did she turn back.

But these are the sadistic traits of railway stations.

The train waited, and so did he. Driving in him the finality - the physical barrier that now existed where once there was unshackled intimacy. At that point, he felt it must be easier for the one boarding, as they had a purpose, a destination. He, however, now thrust into sudden isolation on this platform, was heading nowhere.

The pain of leaving is well documented, but he refuted that. Everyone understands the anguish in leaving - it is an accepted corollary of our decisions. If the pain was that unbearable, if it was indeed agony, she wouldn't leave, would she?

No one talks about the larger, inconsolable and incurable pain. The pain, the scorching, isolating agony that succumbs the one who stays.

The train started to move.

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot?

The world forgetting, by the world forgot

Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind

Each prayer accepted, and each wish resigned

A conversation, an encounter and a dismissive thought.

What was the cost, the ultimate price, of it all?

As the train turned a bend and disappeared out of sight, he turned around to walk back. But he seemed disoriented. It seemed a part of him was rooted to the spot - a part of him was being left behind. As he walked his feet were peculiarly off-direction, his fingers peculiarly jittery.

On his face, one solitary tear.

Grief is the price we pay for love.

* * *

This is a work of fiction. All characters and incidents depicted in this short story are by-products of the author's imagination and any resemblance to actual events or people, whether living or dead, is purely coincidental. 

* * *

If you liked what you read then do help me by sharing this on social media platforms of your choosing (Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, G+, Reddit I ain't picky). We're all artists somewhere, in some field, and this is just my form of art that would truly find expression if more people get the inclination to read it.

You can like this blog's Facebook page here, follow the Twitter feed here, follow me personally on Twitter here, like the Instagram post here or upvote this piece on Reddit here.

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The Bizarre Contradictions of Thailand

A young Buddhist monk, an oblivious Moken child and the inescapable Eye of the King.

Within these three, I was presented a Thailand of bizarre contradictions.

* * *

In the heart of Bangkok, you will find Wat Pho, the Temple of the Reclining Buddha. Sprawling nearly fifty metres in length, the figure that rests in this temple portrays Buddha's final stance as he declared all composites perishable and entered into a state of nirvana.

While the gigantic likeness in itself is arresting, it is the countenance of Gautama Buddha that gets to you. Many things in Thailand, especially Bangkok, (which I shall get to in a minute) left me rather disconcerted. Certain oddities, certain discrepancies that I, to date, cannot get my head around. But there was no indelible ambiguity about what I saw on the face of Buddha at Wat Pho.

He was at peace.

There is a distinctive absence of pain, fear or anger on the visage. Adorned with a certain unmatched tranquillity that is so contagious, that it even puts the viewer at ease.  At the Temple of the Reclining Buddha, which is also incidentally hailed as the birthplace of the traditional Thai massage, you will be given an opportunity, literally and figuratively, to seek reprieve from what lies outside those walls.

With nothing but your best interests at heart, I would suggest you go there and seek it.

You see, unlike the permeating aura of Buddha's serenity in the temple, Bangkok, in contrast, is in absolute chaos.

Roughly 35 times larger than Thailand's second biggest city, Bangkok encompasses a world of its own. But I just cannot leave it at that - too mild a description for you to truly envision the urban spectacle. Instead, I would like to ask you to picture a colossal circus where all acts are being performed at the same time. The trapeze artists soar over you while a lion roars at your side. A hysterical clown prances around pulling faces while gymnasts contort themselves into spectacular formations. The jugglers, stilt walkers, acrobats, knife-throwers and fire dancers.

But in this figment of your imagination where are you?

You? Why, you are the ringmaster.

In Bangkok, one of the largest primate cities in the world, there is a conspicuous proclivity to tourism. But it didn't stop there. It seems, as a consequence of years of ingestion of spurious hyperbole, this disposition for tourists has now transcended into ceaseless freneticism.  

It's omnipresent. As you walk on a curb, tuk-tuk drivers honk at your left while waiters holler from the right. Street vendors squawk incessantly while displaying their fanciest and least useful contraptions.

The sights, sounds and smells. Deliberately induced, to deliberately inundate.

You cannot fight because Bangkok will win. It has seen tourists like you, equipped with their belief in internet research and trusted opinions. It will take those in its grip, crush them and ask you to give up.

So you should. It is a battle you won't win; a lost cause. The tuk-tuk driver is looking at you expectantly, hoping you'll agree to his proposal. For a moment, all the sights, sounds and smells seem to recede and you are on a little stage in an empty theatre. Two little spotlights shine on you, and the tuk-tuk you need to board.

Choice is an illusion, really, I reflect as I helplessly climb onboard. A little rev of the engine, and we're off.

As we zoom past districts, it seems you would need time to truly understand Bangkok - to tap into the essence of the city and connect with its soul. But such luxuries cannot be afforded by tourists with an agenda, hence the corollary confusion that this city cannily feasts on.

However, one aspect stands out with acute clarity - there is no mistaking the king.

One picture of Maha Vajiralongkorn, the tenth monarch of the Chakri dynasty, can be found all over Bangkok. Draped in gold, standing against an opulent backdrop, the king is unflinching in his gaze. This image follows you every mile in the city - on billboards, building facades, digital signage and even at the back of tuk-tuks. A short biopic plays in the theatres before every movie, to an audience that is compelled to stand for its duration.

It seems that every corner is under the Eye of the King.

Under his gaze, we're being whisked from one overpriced attraction to another by a community of drivers and hawkers. All of them seem to be in cahoots over our unfamiliarity with this teeming metropolis and the intrinsic monetary value of its products and services.

The blatant obviousness of the circus is not lost on the traveller yet we still do it. We grab the cheese. We do everything they say we should do, in hopes of finding those treasured travel memories in the labyrinths of manipulation.

In the house of Jim Thompson, the champion of the Thai Silk industry, you will find a peculiar apparatus in his bedroom. On a desk lies a box shaped like a television set, complete with a transparent glass panel. Behind the glass is a convoluted miniature mansion with scores of little doors and windows.

In the 1960s, Thompson preferred this as a form of entertainment over a television set. A mouse would be put in the glass box and it would go through the multiple inlets and emerge from another. A maze of tunnels connected each hole, so no one but the mouse knew where it would emerge next.

The children would stay glued, hands splayed against the glass panel, watching in utter fascination as the mouse seemingly appeared from thin air. The adults indulged in their own form of entertainment - gambling high stakes on the hole that would produce the next mouse.

In present day, I feel like I'm in a giant mouse house myself.

As I'm whisked from one tourist attraction to another, I must confess I must be the most clueless ringmaster of any circus. Yet, I am integral to the show. Without me, none of these acts, gimmicks and cheap tricks have meaning. I give them purpose and hyperbole.

Without me, there is no show.

The tuk-tuk has started to slow down. We are approaching a large fluttering veil, behind which it seems lies the culmination of this performance and its unabashed obviousness. As I step over the shards of another broken fourth wall and pull aside this veil, I find myself at Khao San road - the centre of the backpacking universe.

A street that in the past was a market for selling rice, hence the name which literally translates to 'milled rice'. Yet today, I'm buffeted by a platoon of lights, music, barbecued insects and hawkers trying to intoxicate my sobriety with consumables of multiple forms - whether solid, liquid or gas.

The short road with the longest dream, or so they say.

Probably because everyone here is under some sort of influence? That would explain another sobriquet for this street - a place to disappear.

I, however, am in no mood to disappear or lose complete control of my senses. But it seems I'm doing Khao San a disservice - affronting the sentiments of these pedlars as I exasperatedly turn down their provocative offers. My rejections only fuel their frenzy. I'm copping verbal blows to the head and knees to the gut, engaged in my own little Muay Thai skirmish with salesmen, at the centre of the backpacking universe.

A lost cause, a battle I will lose.

Constantly and parasitically badgered by insidious hawkers of seductive practices. Goading and probing, urging us to indulge in vices - to revel in the carnal notoriety of Bangkok. They know, like all tourists before us, that we will relent at some point.

They will get to us, shatter that fragile glass wall of resilience, but they just don't know which lucky one will be our breaking point.

So they leech and suck the fortitude out of you so you can fund their daily wage. There is a certain crudeness to their practices - the niceties are plainly fraudulent, almost mocking the way we are attracted to gimmicks. Early this year, I witnessed a similar anarchy in tourist expenditure in Agra, which resulted in a highly fragmented distribution of money into multiple hands. Hands that would have to keep hounding new preys every day to scrape through life.

Anarchy, it seems, has been deliberately introduced and sustained. But it doesn't seem unintentional.

It seems Bangkok thrives on chaos.

* * *

The ocean is hostile today.

I'm reclining at the isolated Nui Beach in Ko Lanta, but I cannot rest easy. Incoming thunderstorms have enraged the ocean, resulting in yawning waves that only seem to get larger with each minute. One of my companions is blissfully snoring at my side, but the waves keep me restless. The might of the ocean is often lost to us city-dwellers. Mightier powers have succumbed to the maw of the brine beast, so if these waves were to creep up to us (which they were doing second by second), it would be foolish to challenge my luck any further by attempting to relax on this beach.

Yet in the Krabi province, the ocean's vicissitudes notwithstanding, we found some peace. Here, on this secluded little island, there was a distinctive lack of hawkers. Even the Eye of the King had intermittent outposts. Not the most popular tourist destination in Thailand, yet the people seem happier and more affable to tourists. Despite not being able to match the standards in Bangkok, Patong or Phi Phi, they are still more content with the virtue of their services.

I'm pulled away from my thoughts by a most unexpected sound.

The rumble and crash of the ocean's rage almost deafens the sudden sound of uninhibited laughter. From the village behind me, where the houses are all on stilts in preparation for the imminent floods, runs a little boy. In his palm is clenched a little yellow toy truck. He spots me, flashes a toothless grin, and runs straight ahead towards the sea.

I think he is from the Chao Le tribe, the sea gypsies.

The people of the sea.

There is no flicker of fear on his young face. The fury of the ocean excites him, teases him. For months he has played at this beach alone, with calm waters for company. In its current state of agitation, the boy has found in the ocean a wild side that he approves.

He rummages through the debris on the beach and breaks a little stick from flotsam. The water has brought him gifts today. He goes about creating more toys for himself, only looking up to serve me his widest, most toothless grin every few minutes.

For a moment, it's just us. Me and him. Worlds and lives apart. On this secluded little beach, in our little bubble. Another set of spotlights, one on me and one on him. Yet in this instance the context is vastly dissimilar to the previous. I'm incredibly boring to him - just another human. Another human apprehensive and unwilling to test the ocean's fury, reposing in the mundane. The boy, however, has mightier tasks at hand, as he creates a little shovel and starts digging with purpose.

The innocence and blissful obliviousness of youth.

Unaware of the vast destruction of the tsunami, spawn of the very ocean they worship, in 2004. Unaware of the politics and bigotry that shuns his kin from living a normal life. Unaware that he belongs to a tribe that fears extinction?

Does extinction really scare people who feel they are already culturally dead?

Intriguing that the propaganda that promotes Bangkok as a culturally diverse hot spot is unmindful of the cultural intolerance in the rest of the country, especially South Thailand.

Our bubble is burst as another young man jogs from the periphery. He is heading for the sizeable fishnet washed ashore. The boy looks up, gathers his walking stick, and rushes to give company. The man is now hacking at the net, trying to rummage for valuables he can sell at the market.

The boy jumps around him, poking his stick through the net. A mighty wave hits his feet. He screams with joy and runs back to the beach. Yet, as the wave retreats so does he into the water.

There is no fear, just the blissful obliviousness of youth.

He is one of the Moken tribe, the Chao Le.

He is a child of the sea.

* * *

"What do I need money for?"

Across the table, grinning ear to ear, sits a Buddhist monk my age. I am sitting on a wooden stool next to Wat Chedi Luang in Chiang Mai, under a large canvas banner that spells 'Monk Chat Programme'. Visitors can opt to converse with Buddhist monks in order to learn more about their lives and practices. In turn, the monastic would be able to practice his English.

Within a few minutes into our discourse, conditioned by the socially-ingrained requisites of life, we were quick to bring up the apparent absurdity of a life without money. But the monk was unconcerned, rather unhesitatingly dismissive.

"What do I need money for?"

Really, what do you need money for in life? The immediate requirements that come to mind would be for a house and food. Traditional Thai culture denotes that all you need for a happy life is a house with a kitchen garden next to any body of water. It seems self-sustainability, and not money, is conventionally on higher priority.

As we walked through a little farm in Chiang Mai, smelling the flowers, fruits and leaves that our guide handed to us, we soaked in her infectious fondness for Thai food. As we sat there, grinding our curry paste in a little pestle and mortar, we came to appreciate the little spices and ingredients that added flavour to their simple, organic stews and soups. It would be hard to find a restaurant in Thailand that serves you delectable Pad Thai, Khao Soi or Tom Yum in extreme quantities.

It is neither too much, or too less. It is just the right amount. A trickle-down effect of the Sufficiency Economy or New Theory of Agriculture philosophies introduced by the previous monarch, King Bhumibol Adulyadej.

Anyway, I digress. What else do you need money for?

Or rather, what else do you need money for to sustain life? Amongst the plethora of requirements pouring into your head now, how many can you classify as a 'distraction'? How many of them can you classify as absolutely essential?

A composite that is not perishable?

I looked at the Buddhist monk and I saw a man with no artificially induced cravings, societal pressures or self-doubt. A meditative life that aims to eliminate passion, aversion and ignorance. He openly admitted he had no idea about his future, yet seemed curiously unruffled by that thought.

I wonder what it feels like to not live for the future? We study volumes and work exhaustive jobs to build for an idyllic future. In hopes that all these decades of effort and stress would lead to a calm, peaceful and happy life down the line. In hopes of attaining our own corrupted and artificially-induced interpretation of nirvana.

But it seems the race begins to define us - as we grow so do our goals, our greed. We outstrip our stop line - that once-sought idyllic moment of ultimate happiness now collects dust in the past because we are now chasing something bigger and flashier.

A cycle of rebirths, a chronic brawl between passion, hate and delusion. The race to ultimately, somehow, attain a happy life.

On one hand, at Khao San, Patpong, Patong or Phi Phi, Thailand was hellbent on convincing me that in order to be happy I needed to splurge money to consume food I don't need, drink liquor I don't drink, inhale gas that would take me on a false reprieve, watch a contorted show that would teach me nothing, buy contraptions for which I have no use and seek validation that has no end. Yet, their fundamental beliefs stand in stark contrast.

It is incredible that the land that shelters simple ideologies for happiness is as eager to exploit a visitor's penchant for the convoluted, senseless and pretentious. The distractions that the Buddhist monk shuns are the same that the hawkers shove in your face.

It seems they are living life their way by capitalising on you not living it their way.

They count on you to do everything they would never do, and you do it. Like rats chasing some cheese, we are coerced by our self-imposed impetus to complete this race to attain a happy life. But as the years roll past, taking with them milestones we have now crossed that no longer placate the hunger, it seems evident that it was just chicanery for the mind. The race was never to attain a happy life.

The race is our life.

* * *

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