When water meets fire, there’s bound to be steam. Toru wants to know, and Shelley wants to feel, but can they ever let go of themselves enough to be together?
A philosophy student, passionate about discovering the truth, Toru has cultivated a cool detachment from women, and so far, he’s successfully avoided getting entangled in any emotional traps. Nothing or nobody can interfere with his quest.
When, Toru is attracted to the equally headstrong Shelley, a literature student who wanders into the Japanese restaurant where he works, he might have met his match. Like fire dissolving ice, she threatens to melt his impenetrable reserve, but those are not her only plans.
Shelley knows what she wants, and one of those things is Toru, but will he ever resolve his insatiable restlessness? Her whole life’s ahead of her and her soul is calling. Cutting him loose, she returns to her Hong Kong world of Feng Shui, dragons, and Bruce Lee.
In this volatile alchemy, opposites attract and pull apart. Like water, these travellers must adapt to circumstances, sometimes going with the flow, sometimes crashing against the rocks. But, will they eventually find their way to the sea — together or alone?
When water meets fire, there’s bound to be steam. Toru wants to know, and Shelley wants to feel, but can they ever let go of themselves enough to be together?
A philosophy student, passionate about discovering the truth, Toru has cultivated a cool detachment from women, and so far, he’s successfully avoided getting entangled in any emotional traps. Nothing or nobody can interfere with his quest.
When, Toru is attracted to the equally headstrong Shelley, a literature student who wanders into the Japanese restaurant where he works, he might have met his match. Like fire dissolving ice, she threatens to melt his impenetrable reserve, but those are not her only plans.
Shelley knows what she wants, and one of those things is Toru, but will he ever resolve his insatiable restlessness? Her whole life’s ahead of her and her soul is calling. Cutting him loose, she returns to her Hong Kong world of Feng Shui, dragons, and Bruce Lee.
In this volatile alchemy, opposites attract and pull apart. Like water, these travellers must adapt to circumstances, sometimes going with the flow, sometimes crashing against the rocks. But, will they eventually find their way to the sea — together or alone?
Like Water
“Empty your mind, be formless, shapeless, like water. If you put water into a cup, it becomes the cup. You put water into a bottle, and it becomes the bottle. You put it in a teapot, it becomes the teapot. Now, water can flow, or it can crash. Be water, my friend.”
— Bruce Lee
Part One — Students and Teachers
TORU
I am not surprised that you left me. Sweet and sometimes sour Tempura. Is it my fault? Probably. But it is also yours for believing in me too much, for only seeing what you wanted to see and ignoring what was more important to me in the end. Are you suffering because your illusions have died? In my defence, I did not hide my truth from you. I made no promises I had no intention of keeping, but you continued to cling to your romantic fantasies. What’s to blame? The fairy tales we believe in as children? The real tragedy is your hurt feelings, but you should have looked harder and seen through me. You chose to ignore the evidence: the times I couldn’t meet because I was studying or taking photos for a wedding. What a mistake, to fall for a wedding photographer. They never have their shit together really. I will miss you, and confess I admired your pragmatism when you finally knocked me off the pedestal. Maybe you still believe I’ll come around one day, but that’s just speculation; for now, all I want to do is get to the end of this cigarette and walk out of the park a free man. Where are you now? Maybe a friend is giving you a summary of my faults. I’m a bastard. Didn’t deserve you. Am I a cynic? I am what I am. I’m not sure I am lovable. The question for you is, did you only love your image of me? If there were any hope for us, that, at least, had to die.
See that girl over there? A moment ago, I took her photo. Her face has the symmetry often considered beautiful, but she seems sad and resigned. Maybe someone like me broke her heart, and after a year, she will still be sitting there, like the skeleton in the cartoon “Waiting for Mr. Right”. Don’t waste your life, Tempura. If you want, we can still sleep together occasionally, but I don’t want to hear the C-word: commitment, which is code for its close cousin control. I mean it. You know where I am. But I can’t see myself with anyone in the long term until I know who I am. Toru, in Japanese, means “wayfarer” and it suits me because whenever I arrive somewhere, the horizon keeps shifting. I keep searching for the thing that will make me whole. I will find it one day, but for now life is pretty mundane and that’s fine because at twenty-two it’s still okay to be “on the road”, so I work at Sushiya to keep my mind free to study philosophy. It’s four o’clock and I have to head in — assume my friendly Japanese-restaurant persona. After closing, I will go home and read a bit more of Bishop Berkeley. Nothing like a bit of subjective idealism to put one right with the world. And after that? I will sleep well tonight, because tonight I will sleep alone.
TEMPURA
As I get on my Vespa and ride away, l bet he’s thinking I’ll be sad today and even for weeks, thinking about why it didn’t work out between us and why he’s so addicted to his solitude, what I call his aloneness. And I bet he thinks that it’s over. Because he says so. But actually, in the end, I was the one who made the decision to leave. The psychic I saw the other day told me it’s because of Toru’s “watery nature” that he doesn’t know what he wants. The Prince of Cups turned up in the centre of the Tarot reading as the signifier of the issue, and the Death card covering it indicated I had to “let go” before Toru could find his way. I asked when that would be, and the look in her eyes told me she didn’t advise waiting around.
In any case, it’s not my style to wait. I had to act to avoid marinading in his indecision. I haven’t given up on Toru, but he’s too involved with himself at the moment, believing himself to be the philosopher, the great thinker. He doesn’t realise how wrapped up he is in his own ego — it’s all about his journey and his enlightenment. There are many layers to a Japanese person, and as a race they can be quite solitary, intense, and disciplined. Oh, I can still come around, he said at the end. He enjoys my body, but I’m playing the long game. I also have a philosophy, inspired by my hero Bruce Lee. It is the principle of wu wei, which Lee describes like this:
Water is so fine that it is impossible to grasp a handful of it; strike it, yet it does not suffer hurt; stab it, and it is not wounded; sever it, yet it is not divided. It has no shape of its own but moulds itself to the receptacle that contains it. When heated to the state of steam it is invisible but has enough power to split the earth itself. When frozen it crystallises into a mighty rock. First it is turbulent like Niagara Falls, and then calm like a still pond, fearful like a torrent, and refreshing like a spring on a hot summer’s day. So is the principle of wu wei.
My Chinese name is Qing, which means blue, the colour of water. Like water, I have the power to adapt. My ability to transform is limitless. Water is elemental and cannot be destroyed. Nothing seems weaker than water, but nothing can stand in its way. Toru’s goal is to know, but mine is to become. He often said there was a debate going in philosophy about which is first: being or knowing, but I think it’s obvious you need to be first before you can know anything, though perhaps in the end they are intertwined. Luckily, someone else is working on that problem. I’m not that interested in abstractions.
TORU
Relationships, as you know, are not my strong point, though everyone, of course, has needs. When we first started sleeping together, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Your body, in the throes of desire, was elegant and fearless — expressively arced above me like a gymnast, you would look into my eyes to watch my developing response. Balancing on your fingertips, you’d lower your body up and down with fine control until I couldn’t hold myself back. Emotion played no part in this, but when you were gone, I did feel something close to loss and longing — perhaps the ache was strongest between my legs, but I refused to be ruled by desire. If you’re disciplined, you can always walk away.
From quite a young age, I have observed agonised lovers under the spell of desire. I saw my father gradually fall apart. If it’s so wonderful, why do we speak of “falling” in love and not “rising”? Whether or not longing is fulfilled, your routine is disrupted. You spend sleepless nights worrying about where your beloved is, who she is with, what she is doing, if she’s thinking about you or not. This is accompanied by a lack of appetite for anything normal — not only food, but everyday engagement with friends. Even housework and general hygiene can suffer. Next, your health deteriorates. Also, the belief that you are somehow in an elite group of sufferers, committed to a vision of romantic love, causes you to ignore the plentiful evidence in literature and cinema, of how these things often don’t end well.
These pour souls, addicted to their own melancholy, prefer it to happiness. Their supposed “love”, fuelled by the need for someone else to complete them, is a kind of psychological distortion. Both Freud and Jung had theories: the anima and animus seeking each other, the journey of the soul toward individuation. All desire is a manifestation of lack, therefore pouring energy into this emptiness can’t make you happy — but there’s no point in explaining this to someone in the midst of it. Usually after taking a beating or two, they find their own way out, vowing to be more careful in future.
Sometimes, these obsessed souls, often with tell-tale dark rings under their eyes, would wander into Sushiya, sit at the bar, and begin regaling me with their stories of woe. They notice I’m busy, but are undeterred — I’m a captive audience. Trying to limit their access, I might say: “Come back tomorrow, when we’re less busy”, or “Why don’t you sleep on it? I’m sure everything will seem better in the morning!” I’m not sure why I seem a good choice for a confidant, as I’m not known for my empathy. Maybe I appear calm, unruffled, going about my work, and they’re drawn to my detachment — it may be comforting after being buffeted about in the stormy seas of passion. It’s not that I don’t care, but I can’t take their whining too seriously. This attitude seems to magnetise them, as underneath it all they probably know their “illness” is ridiculous, so I give them some sake and a bowl of ramen for the journey back to sanity. Nobody really wants to be a victim.
When I met you, Tempura, you appeared very independent. Sex was just sex — that’s rare in a woman. You seemed aware that biology didn’t need the ornamentation of romantic pretensions. Trusting your instincts, you moved with an extraordinary lightness, like an animal with purpose. You knew I liked your body but also suspected you weren’t my intellectual equal, often seeming disoriented when I applied critical thinking in an argument. You would rail against logic with the passion of an astronaut whose oxygen supply had been cut off. Though it was annoying, I didn’t mind. I wasn’t after another philosopher to lock horns with — women should first be beautiful, then entertaining. To be candid, my interactions with the opposite sex were a game, and the rules sometimes needed to be made plain, to avoid misunderstanding. To use a sporting analogy, the game of football is just a bunch of sperm competing for possession of an egg. Same Darwinian rules apply — survival of the fittest! I made sure that our game took place in an arena well-defined by me, and when you wanted to push the boundaries, you found them to be firm. Perhaps concealment was your gambit.
TEMPURA
Living in a maze of theoretical concepts, like Toru, is not for me. I don’t want to miss the sensuous joy of experiencing the world through the sights, sounds, tastes, and smells. Toru questions the very reality of these things and to me that is madness. Maybe there are degrees of reality, I don’t know, I’m not a philosopher, but there doesn’t seem to be much point in questioning the ground beneath your feet. When you get out of bed in the morning, you must believe the floor will hold you up! Digging beneath the surface seems unnecessary. Why not indulge in the infinite array of phenomena? It’s fascinating. You can order what you want in the giant restaurant of the Universe — and it will be served up sooner or later! With so much to enjoy, why live only in your head?
Toru wants a formula, so he can analyse life, but that’s missing the point. It’s like trying to explain the delicious taste of a mango to someone who has never tasted one — it won’t make sense until they try the real thing. Life is to be experienced intimately, at close range. You must immerse yourself. Another thing, Toru is afraid of love because it’s messy, but relationships are what make the world go round. You don’t have to be a moral philosopher, or religious, to know that even the most basic rules of social etiquette are based on that famous precept — “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you”. That’s just pragmatic. To imagine you can get above that, be independent, is a fiction. Toru has a lot to learn. Always so cool, he imagines he can live in isolation, removed from the ordinary world others inhabit.
Whilst he doesn’t deny his sexual desires — and I have clear evidence of that — Toru believes he can split his body from his mind, which he worships like a god. To him, the mental realm is pure and the body just biology. Like so many philosophers who have developed an original style of thinking, he’s driven by subconscious psychological and emotional factors. Those philosophers, mostly men, are often blind to the influence of their fragile egos, and barricade themselves inside a self-made fortress of “reason”, lying in wait for the next attacker. Toru’s habit of crawling up into his ivory tower to be “free” is an obstacle to our getting closer. I hope he can surrender his reserve, so we can be together. That’s when he’ll taste the delicious freedom he craves.
I am happy to loan him my body, but I won’t accept his projections onto me. Right now, he thinks he needs to reject me to pursue a higher goal. I can refocus my energies. Why should I be sad because he prefers to stay at a distance, grabbing sex or food from life’s sushi conveyor belt, like a hermit on an occasional binge. As I said, I believe in wu wei and that means no control. Life happens to us, and the way appears, one step at a time. Knowing this, stress and worry evaporate. Things are taken care of, and we can navigate our way, boldly trusting intuition.
I take that on faith because of Bruce Lee. He was in touch with a higher power, and knew the heavy kind of analytical thinking that dominates Western philosophy led to a paralysis of action, for fear of making mistakes. Proud of his strong and beautiful body, Lee considered himself an artist of life. Though type-cast as the “kung-fu guy”, he played in a range of dimensions, the life-force pouring through his veins. Like electricity, it sparkled in his black eyes, and when his broken body was not strong enough to contain the chi, it escaped and flowed back into the infinite pool of the Universe. In fighting, he demonstrated the state of let-go—using his opponents’ energy against them, rather than trying to dominate. Each movement arose spontaneously, and flowed through his egoless vessel.
TORU
After our break-up, I resume my routine, re-focusing on my philosophical investigations. You can’t think at that level of intensity all day, so my work at the restaurant provides a distraction — not too diverting, and often amusing.
Sushiya’s in Melbourne, near the university, in a quiet laneway just away from the centre of the action. We serve mainly students and professors, but there are also the more eccentric customers, the fashionistas … and of course the occasional celebrity honourably slumming it. Its dark wood doors are open, behind the hemp cloth noren. During the Edo period, the state of noren out the front of sushi shops in Japan was indicative of the quality of their sushi — the dirtier the curtains, the better the sushi, because people would wipe their hands on them as they left. Sushiya’s are getting grubby, as Daisuke, our head sushi chef is one of the best around. As the iconic Australian saying goes, “Fifty million blowflies can’t be wrong”. I wave hello as I walk in and don my navy blue and white striped apron.
“Hey, Toru! How’s it going? Back in the real world?” Daisuke asks. Straight out of fashionable Harajuku, his thick blond mop of hair, pink at the tips, is falling over his eyes as he bends over his work.
“There is no real world,” I reply with a half-smile and a wink because I do appreciate his affection.
As it’s Friday, there will be the usual parade of regulars coming past after five, like Daisuke’s friends Shin and Takahiro. These guys have money to spend on looking their best. Shin comes in wearing a tomato red three-quarter length coat-jacket, buttoned down the front and decorated with meaningless zips. His hair is dyed a matching red and apart from a long fringe, it’s tucked under a grey woollen beanie — Tokyo fashion. He has on skinny black-and-white tartan trousers and boots that are way too big with platforms that raise him 20 cm off the ground. Taka playfully pushes past him through the door and giggles like a girl. His thick blue fringe peeks out from under a blue fur-trimmed hat, clearly designed to protect him from the fierce cold in outer Mongolia, though he has probably never set foot outside of an urban environment. His grey-blue bomber jacket partly covers a long T-shirt that shouts the word “COOL”. That these two even care enough to match their outfits means they deserve the best quality sushi and service for their buck, and I ensure they get it. I don’t particularly like people, but I respect them and try to do a good job. After all, we all get pissed off if others don’t do theirs.
Anyway, probably tonight will be the same as any other night, except that you, Tempura, won’t be here on your Vespa to pick me up after work. After closing, between midnight and one o’clock, and after I have shared a bottle of our house sake with the stayers, I walk the two kilometres to my apartment. Going through the park, near the cemetery, I begin to think about you again. The slight flush you have after sex, but I try to put it out of my mind. It’s not helpful now I’ve set my course. A couple of students weave past me on bikes, maybe on their way to or from a party. The girl is dressed like a pirate, in a black and red striped T-shirt and with a patch over one eye. Her friend’s white, loose-fitting shirt is torn up one side and gapes open with the breeze. He is holding a beer, and raising it to me, shouts “Cheers, mate!” before they disappear into the next street. I wave back.
On the other side of the park, I round the corner into my street. One streetlight is out. I pass the row of terrace houses and then fumble in my pocket for the keys. Inside, I flop on the battered old couch and read a bit of a manga novel called Tokyo Ghoul, which is about a human who receives an organ transplant from a ghoul. Perhaps because of the subject matter, I can’t get to sleep, so I light a cigarette and go out to the balcony. If my neighbour, directly across from me, is still awake, he or she will see the faint flicker of my cigarette glowing in the dark. We have never met, but sometimes I feel myself being observed. Afterwards, longing for sleep I feel my way through the darkness to the familiar firmness of my futon, throw off my clothes and sink into thoughtless bliss.
***
Do you want to understand me, Tempura? Then I can tell you a little more about myself. My father was Japanese, and my mother was French. They met on a photo shoot in Japan. He was the photographer; she was the model. He proposed after a week and though she probably didn’t really love him, given what happened later, she aspired to be an actress and thought he might be influential, so she accepted. Alternatively, she might just have enjoyed being adored, but when she became bored with the culture and rigidity of the Japanese life, she packed her bags and went back to Paris. Better for her career. After succeeding for a short while and landing some minor roles in the occasional foreign film, she eventually married a small-time director. Anyway, it was this genetic combination that gave me my blend of androgynous looks, and that Hiroshima Mon Amour nonchalance that some girls seem to like. As I am a bit on the skinny side too, women feel the need to nurture me, which is something else I can occasionally exploit.
I am not sure how or when our personalities take on their more or less permanent shape. Some say it happens around the age of seven. A few months after my seventh birthday, on our annual family holiday at Onjuku beach in Chiba, my father received the news that my grandparents had been involved in a car accident. Their small Subaru 360 “Ladybug” had been struck by a semi-trailer. My grandfather had taken a stupid risk running a red light on a wet night with nearly zero visibility. Amazingly, he survived the crash and lived to regret his recklessness, but my grandmother wasn’t so lucky; the paramedics said her heart had stopped due to the shock of the impact, though she had no bodily injuries. I didn’t know that was possible. Anyway, the news meant our holiday was cut short, and sitting in the back of the car while my father was driving home, I felt kind of detached. For the first time in my life, I wondered about what happens when we die and whether there was life after death. I wasn’t sure what my attitude to death should be, but quickly reasoned this was too deep a subject for a seven-year-old. That I felt more curious than upset surprised me. Was I protecting myself from strong emotion? Or was it because my father, who always seemed in control and never showed his feelings, was sobbing quietly in the driver’s seat, as if there were something unacceptable about it? My mother was more comfortable with emotions, though hers didn’t run very deep. When she left him, he lost his muse, and also lost interest in his career, turning to Pachinko and regular bouts of drinking. His body was found after a scuba diving accident off Okinawa, but most of us suspected it was suicide.
As the unfortunate symbol of my parents’ coupling, I realised soon enough it would be better to strike out on my own. At sixteen, I got my first job in a sushi restaurant in Tokyo, eventually saving up enough money to sponsor myself as an international student. Wanting to lose myself and deciding to go as far away from Japan as possible, I settled on Melbourne, Australia, and lived with a local family until I could afford my own place, with the help of a modest inheritance. My father had left his Tokyo apartment to me. I never tried to contact my mother, and she never tried to get in touch with me. I supposed I might be disappointed. I suspected that she saw having a child as a liability in the world she was trying to get ahead in. I began to distrust people though, especially women. They didn’t seem particularly reliable. I enjoyed photographing them but was satisfied with façades, not expecting much more.
In my late teens, perhaps due to my early experience of my grandparents’ car accident, I became obsessed with finding the truth. I also observed that though people knew life does not last forever, they mostly just avoided thinking about death. It seemed to me then that death, and what may lie thereafter, was the single most important mystery to be solved. If there were no answer to this question, everything else just seemed meaningless. What, in fact, was the point of life, if it all ended one day? It was the quest I could not put down. I always believed if it were possible for a question to arise, the answer must somehow eventually reveal itself. I read voraciously and was attracted to science and philosophy because of their inherent logic, but also explored Eastern religions and the supernatural. I attended some lectures on Vedanta philosophy, and during one of these, the speaker related a particularly memorable story. It was about a discussion between a man and his guru sitting by a river. The man told the guru that he desperately wanted enlightenment and the guru consequently pushed his head underwater so hard that the man was left struggling for his life, gasping for breath. When he came back up, he angrily asked the guru what he was doing and if he were trying to kill him. The guru announced only if he wanted enlightenment as badly as needing to breathe would he have a hope of attaining it. I became like that guy, and quickly found ways to dismiss people or activities that might distract me from my quest. So, Tempura, I hope that explains things a bit. I hope you can see why you could never occupy a place front and centre in my life.
TEMPURA
It’s July, after the break-up. I’ve graduated, but not too brilliantly. I’ve also realised academia is not for me. Maybe the world didn’t need another thesis on Hamlet, and it probably didn’t help being involved with a Japanese version of him. As I get on the plane to my birthplace of Hong Kong, it feels good to cut from one path and step firmly onto another. I know there’s no such thing as a wrong decision and I can always course correct, so even though I have no clear plans for my future, I’ve offered to help Mum with her interior design business there. It will be distracting to mix with the artists and designers of the feng shui crowd, but also grounding to be earning some real money, so I can dine more frequently at that giant restaurant of the universe, and order some of the more exotic dishes!
Mum always wanted me to marry a rich Chinese, someone that could keep me in the style she always dreamed of, but she also chose someone like Toru for herself. My father was a drifter, and she fell for his charm even though she probably knew he might leave one day. Luckily though, when he did go off in search of his personal El Dorado, she had met enough people in the right circles to start her own business and she was good at it. In fact, my pragmatic streak probably comes from her. Then she found Xin, who was like an older brother to me. The head designer, he’s original and confident, both in his creativity and the schmoozing that needs to happen when you are trying to get ahead of the game in a place like Honkers. Also, he has a stabilizing influence on her when she gets in one of her moods or consumes too much of her favourite “poison”.
My flight is liberating. I am back in control. When I arrive at Mum’s place she is not in, but I know where the key is, behind a loose brick in the hall, so I let myself in. I look around and see a couple of empty wine glasses and some dishes still in the sink, signs of a modest party the night before. Having been away, even though her apartment is enormous (by Hong Kong standards), it seems much smaller to me, but the enviable view of Victoria Harbour opens into infinite space. I notice some new furnishings — a gorgeous fusion of Asian and modern, combining dark wood and glass with sumptuous upholstery and colourful embroidered silk cushions. The aquarium is still at the entrance, a symbol of good fortune and prosperity. Of the many rules and regulations of feng shui it is the one that many people implement.
One humid afternoon, after the first time we made love at my small apartment on campus, Toru asked me about feng shui. Lying back on the bed, we watched the multi-coloured fish with gold fins and tails swimming overhead in the breeze from the open window, the hooks in their bellies supporting tiny, red-and-gold lanterns with long silk tassels — my lucky fish mobile.
“I like that,” he mused. “Had it long?”
“Mum’s house-warming gift — she practises feng shui. There’s an aquarium in her apartment, and as a little girl, I was fascinated by those fish moving around, going about their business in the tank. I could watch them for hours. One time I asked her why there was only one black one, amongst the red. She told me the combination of eight goldfish and one black moor symbolises prosperity, energy, and good fortune.”
“Hmm, wonder why.”
“It’s also important where the tank is placed. If you’re facing the door from the inside, it should be placed on the left, to bring in a surge of energy and prosperity. And you probably know that eight is lucky in China —it’s because the pronunciation of ba sounds like fa, which means to make a fortune.”
“So, it’s all about money? In Japan eight is lucky too, but it’s more to do with its shape. The fat bottom symbolises prosperity and growth.”
“In China people try to squeeze as many eights as possible into car number plates and pay megabucks for an apartment on the eighth floor, to get high social status.”
“You believe in it?”
“It’s everywhere in Hong Kong, so hard not to notice. Mum loaned me a book by Lillian Too, a Malaysian master. Her style involves placing auspicious five element objects, such as Money God and Tortoise around the house, to restore harmony. The more expensive, the more luck they bring.”
“Of course,” Toru replied, laughing. I poked him in the ribs — lightly, but he flinched.
“You can be cynical, but Mum’s business is thriving. She’s got a strong sense of style, but it’s not just that — she’s good at establishing rapport with clients, and savvy enough to know when a little give and take on the money side of things will seal the deal. Good word of mouth spreads like wildfire on our small, populous island.”
“So, she runs it by herself?”
“She’s got a business partner, Xin, who’s like an uncle to me. His style’s eccentric, and popular amongst the ‘pink’ client group. Together they’re dynamic. They found each other by chance, and then the business really took off.”
“That may be so, but why is superstitious bullshit always so fascinating to people?” he replied, teasing me. “Speaking of superstition, what’s your star sign?”
I laughed: “In the Chinese system? I’m a dragon!”
“Figures! Enthusiastic, confident, not afraid of challenges, willing to take risks! And in the Western?”
“Pisces.”
“Also figures. On the one hand you’re driven and active, wanting to be busy and successful, but on the other you just want to pull the covers over your head and stay in bed all day.”
“How come you know so much about astrology, if you don’t believe it?”
“You have to know the enemies of reason, in order to defeat them!”
I jumped on top of him, and he flipped me over, while I kicked and squealed — then we made love again. That afternoon we made love twice, or three times and the sweat stuck to our skins, whilst the fish danced above our heads. A gentle splashing sound coming from the tank brings me back from my reverie, and I see that some of the fish have surfaced, making tiny movements with their mouths open. I give them some food, and then notice I’m also hungry. It’s early evening, so I take the long ride down in the lift to the ground floor and start exploring the dining options.
The street is busy with an array of choice. I settle for some noodles and chicken dumplings. I send Toru a text: Guess where I am? What am I NOT doing? Dreaming of you ☺…but of course he won’t believe me. We both knew the sex was great. Addictively good. I know he loved my body and the way it responded to him. We had the chemistry that could keep us in bed for days, just coming up for air and food occasionally, but that’s not everything that’s needed. I want a man who knows what he wants, and that should be me. So, while Toru is discovering himself, I will find entertainment elsewhere. It’s not hard to find things to amuse you in a place like this: the crowds, the shopping, the wheeling and dealing. Everything is bright, loud, and colourful. It’s also easy to get lost and find oneself caught up in the throng, going someplace you hadn’t intended to go. In a word, it’s just what I need right now.
TORU
Now to the beginning of our story. The day I see you for the first time the restaurant is busier than usual, and I am taking an order from a couple of Chinese students with identical, black-rimmed glasses, when I notice you sitting at one of the outdoor tables, reading. Your black shoulder-length hair is cut carefully to look slightly ragged and frames your heart-shaped face. You are dressed in a grunge-chic, grey, knitted V-neck sweater, which hangs loosely over your shoulders. It has two large holes in the sleeves and is much too big for your tiny frame — maybe it’s your boyfriend’s. When I approach your table, I am reluctant to disturb you. You seem engrossed in the book, and when I ask if you want to order, you hardly look up. I can’t tell much from your expression either behind the sunglasses. In a bored voice, you order the Tempura Special and green tea.
“What are you reading?” I ask.
You show me the cover, without looking up and reply with slight annoyance: “Norwegian Wood. Have you read it?” For some reason I’m relieved that it’s Murakami.
“I’ve read others of his, not that one —IQ84. It’s longer, not as popular.”
Your sunglasses slide slightly down your faintly freckled nose. I notice it’s a bit retroussé. It’s important for a woman to have an elegant nose. So, for the love of Murakami, and because of your elegant nose, I bring you the Tempura Special and add an extra-large prawn. Maybe it’s your way of sucking your green tea so loudly and the way you hardly look up from your book, how you seemed transfixed by another world, that attracts me. But if I were honest, it is because you seem oblivious of me.
I say “Meshiagare” and introduce myself.
You say “Itadakimasu”, but you are not Japanese.
TEMPURA
Entering Sushiya for the first time, it seems dark, even though it’s around midday, so after motioning for a menu, I sit at one of the outdoor tables. The waiter, who is chatting to a couple of nerdy looking foreign students, indicates he has seen me. I feel his eyes on me when I turn to go back outside. I turn and catch him looking. He smiles and bows. That’s when our story starts. I put my sunglasses back on. Their main purpose is to protect me from unwanted attention. I don’t mind sunshine. Taking out my Murakami paperback, I begin reading while waiting for him to come over. As he approaches my table he moves like a cat, unhurried and sleek. Slightly taller than medium height, I figure he is possibly Eurasian. His long fringe flops over one eye as he asks for my order. He brushes it back and I feel his gaze resting on me as he waits to receive my order.
I look up at the specials board and respond with: “I’ll take the Tempura and some genmaicha please.”
He brings me the genmaicha and seems to be looking at my book, maybe trying to figure out if it’s literature or pulp fiction. I decide to help him out:
“Norwegian Wood. Have you read it?”
“Not that one. I’ve read IQ84 though.”
“Don’t know it.”
I adjust my glasses on my face and look back down at my book. Can’t a waiter just be a waiter? When my food comes out, I notice he has added a large prawn.
“Meshiagare. That’s bon appetit in Japanese. By the way, my name’s Toru. May I ask yours?”
I’m silent, so he adds: “Guess I’ll just call you Tempura then,” and walks away, looking back over his shoulder to catch my smile. “Welcome back whenever you’re hungry.”
I go back to Sushiya a couple more times over the next month and my new name sticks, despite my occasionally ordering a different dish. Then one day Toru invites me to dinner. He suggests a French bistro, Paris Go. I agree, though I’m not a big fan of rich food or heavy sauces. It’s an intimate little corner bistro, serving traditional French fare. Crisp, white, tablecloths, linen napkins and generously sized wine glasses adorn the tables. A velvety, cherry-red seat with a high back runs along one wall. The smaller tables have bentwood chairs, and old art deco posters on the walls feature can-can dancers from the Moulin Rouge. Toru knows his way around the menu and wine list, making a few suggestions, but I feel a bit embarrassed so when the waiter comes to take our order I say:
“I’ll have the filet mignon and pommes frites.”
“Steak and chips?” The waiter adjusts his glasses and suppresses a laugh.
“For two,” Toru tells him, and I like that he covered for me. When it arrives, I can’t conceal my appetite and start stuffing myself. I think it’s always better to be yourself from the beginning. If you’re not afraid to show yourself as you really are, there won’t be any ugly surprises later.
Toru observes, “You’re eating like a sumo. Not very graceful. Do you eat like that all the time?”
“Sorry, but I’ve been almost living on cat food for the past month. While writing my paper, I’ve hardly come up for air.”
“Maybe we should have gone to MacDonald’s. Did you know a good metabolism is important for longevity, and apparently also linked to high intelligence?”
“Really? That’s true of course.” I laugh, accepting the compliment.
“What are you writing about?”
“That famous, celebrity couple: Hamlet and Ophelia. You know, why they broke up. It’s complex, there was a ghost involved.” He looks up from his food and I see I have got his attention. It seems that’s when he really starts to desire me.
“And what about you, Toru? What are your interests, apart from philosophy, I mean? Do you do anything from the neck down, like sport?” I tease. “A lot of Japanese guys like baseball, right?”
“Not me. You might have noticed I’m a bit lacking in muscle. I should probably build my physique a little, but I won’t go to a gym. They seem to be populated by narcissists obsessed with body image. I’m more attracted to the solitary sports, like swimming and yoga. You probably know what they say about guys who do yoga, but at least it has a higher purpose — to make you one with the universe.”
“I haven’t tried it. I want to, but not sure I would be any good at meditation. I have that restless leg thing that comes on in confined spaces like aeroplanes and cinemas. It’s embarrassing. I just want to kick something, move, so I’m better off swimming or running.”
“Right, that figures.”
“What kind of philosophy are you into — Western or Eastern?”
“Both, but suspicion of the latter seems to run in the department. Here’s a story for you. In my second year, we had a Logic lecturer, a tall gangly American, who used to go around barefoot in the style of Socrates, even in the middle of winter. Because of his eccentricity, he developed quite a cult following amongst the undergrads who thought he was cool. Anyway, one day I wandered into the departmental library to find him stacking books on the highest shelves. He told me he was on a mission to re-organise the library so that all the books on Eastern religions would be on the top shelves, well out of reach of students. He didn’t care that the books would now be in the wrong place!”
“Ha-ha! Yeah, I’ve heard that the Philosophy department is a refuge for the weird and outlier elements of academia.”
“It’s mostly true. We also had a crazy Polish lecturer, Professor Swarovski, an old timer in the department. He was enormous, with a big mop of straggly white hair streaming off the top of his head like bolts of electricity. He had a corner office in the Old Arts building, with a good view of the South Lawns, where a lot of students would have their lunch. One day a group of Christian Union students set up two huge speakers right outside his office with the aim of spreading the “Good News”. When the Christians started proselytising, he stormed out like an angry lion, forcefully pushed over the speakers, and roared at them to take their unsubstantiated dogma elsewhere. They fled in terror.”
“That’s hilarious! Serves them right.”
“Yes, and it was also bold — unusually gutsy in such a theoretical field, to put your body behind your beliefs — most people stay right up in their heads.”
“So, tell me about your thesis. What’s the subject?”
“It’s in the field of epistemology, which investigates knowledge — how we know what we know. I am mainly interested in the ideas of a Scottish philosopher, George Berkeley. He was a bishop in the Church of Ireland and believed what we call reality is all in our heads. He claimed there is no such thing as an objective universe, that we can’t prove there is anything outside our subjective experience. In other words, how do you know you aren’t just a brain in a jar?”
“And you believe that?”
“It’s an interesting question, very Eastern — they talk about the illusoriness of existence. Who’s to say we aren’t just in The Matrix? Anyway, it’s important to think critically. Not many people do. Most are content with what Socrates called the unexamined life. You know, eating, drinking, sleeping, sex …”
“But those things are kind of fun, aren’t they?” I ask, digging deeper.
“Yeah, but I guess if I never got beyond them to what is really true, I would be disappointed.”
“So, you’d take the red pill?”
“Yes, but I don’t expect everyone to be like me.”
I begin to wonder just what that is, and why he asked me out. I don’t want a relationship with a brain in a jar. I drift off a bit and so he asks:
“Where were you just now?”
“Oh, nowhere really, just wondering how big a jar would be needed to house your brain … shall we get the bill?”
“No dessert?”
“Maybe ice cream on the way home.”
We walk down the street and stop for gelati. It’s a hot evening at the end of summer and there are a lot of people on the street, a buzz in the mainly Italian restaurants and street cafés. Spruikers offer to seat us at one of the outdoor tables decked with red-and-white checked tablecloths. The smell of garlic pizza saturates the air. I’m not sure where tonight is going, or even where I want it to go. I am attracted to Toru, there’s substance under the easy-going surface, but that’s where we stay for now.
“How’s work at the moment?” I ask, distracted by the surroundings and licking away the last of the lemon gelato.
“A little tough this week. One chef’s down with the flu, so there have been some complaints about service, the usual customers getting confused about the difference between sushi and sashimi, getting angry when they see raw fish on their plate,” he laughs. “But if you correct them, it’s a losing game, because the customer, who is usually not right, needs to feel in control of the experience. It’s not about the food. They want to be a king or queen. You know the story of the Emperor’s new clothes?”
I nod: “But it’s normal to want to feel privileged … part of the reason we eat out and also why we pay a lot for it.”
And then he asks: “Can I walk you home?”
I look at my watch. It’s just gone midnight. “Sure, I’m close by.” We walk to my small apartment near the uni campus. I ask Toru if he’d like to come in for tea and offer the spectrum: “Green, black, white, or red?” He opts for green and looks around for the best place to sit, but there’s not much choice so he sits in front of the TV, on my old couch.
“This is comfy.”
“Yeah, it’s called the Norsborg.”
“Ha-ha. IKEA, right? Place names and geographical features. Which one is it?”
“Not sure.” Taking control by grabbing the remote, I start flicking through the channels.
“What’s on?” he asks, without much interest.
“Looks like Doctor Who …”
“I don’t watch a lot of TV,” he says, “mainly just after work to wind down.”
We watch a whole episode of Doctor Who, followed by a Scottish movie whose hero is a sheepdog. After that, it’s 4 am and the moment has gone. Neither of us is quite ready for more, so I kick him out: “Sorry Toru, I need to get some sleep. My essay’s due Monday.”
He accepts calling it a night and has likely forgotten what my paper was about.
“Sure, that’s fine … let’s see each other again soon? Come to the restaurant tomorrow evening … I’ll cook dinner for you after work, at my place.”
I’m a little surprised at the offer: “But you deal with food all the time, don’t you just want to unwind? We can get takeaway or go out.” I don’t know why I pretend to be the motherly type. I’m the opposite.
“I would be honoured,” he says and does the signature ninety-degree Japanese bow. I laugh, and he draws closer to kiss me lightly on the lips, sealing the deal. With that established, and a wave over his shoulder, he leaves.
TORU
“Cats are a gateway drug to neighbours.”
—Nick Harriot
When I get home, I have my usual cigarette on the balcony. I’m still awake when it starts to get light outside but eventually go to bed, hoping to sleep in at least till midday. I wake up to a loud rapping and walk bleary eyed to the front door, which I open to find my neighbour Sara, standing there with her arms full of my huge fluffy ginger cat, Tomo. Sara is Vietnamese, small and slim, with eyes full of concern for the world. She’s in her second year of studying medicine. Her long, straight hair is dyed a reddish brown and tied in a ponytail. She is wearing a bright yellow tank top which shows Garfield with arms spread wide over a caption that says: “Free Hugs”. Her thin legs stick out of a pair of tan Ugg boots. The cat is almost half her size, but she is strong, so he feels secure in her arms.
“Thanks, Sara, I forgot to open the window for him last night.”
“No problem,” she replies. “He slept at my place last night. You know I like Tomo, and I think it’s mutual. But just thought you might be worried.”
Sara knows I often work late and that I don’t always feel like a long conversation. I take Tomo out of her arms and give him some salmon sushi leftovers from the restaurant. I gave him some wasabi once and he’s only recently forgiven me for that. As an experienced street cat, I thought he might be able to handle something a bit harder. In any case, he’s done well for himself shacking up with me. God knows what he used to eat before I found him looking like displaced royalty, at the rubbish bins near our front doorstep one night. I brought him in for a midnight snack, and he came back for more the second night. After that our relationship progressed to the occasional sleepover and then he more or less moved in. I draw the line at some of his homeboys though and told him if he wanted to hang out with them, there were conditions; he couldn’t bring them back for supper.
Tomo is in the habit of paying Sara a visit when he isn’t happy with the menu at home or when he needs some TLC and a woman to fuss over him. He seems to understand that sometimes I need a night alone too and so forgives me for the occasional lack of consideration when I lock him out of the apartment. Often, I find him curled up on the doormat outside, or like last night, he stays over at Sara’s. A nice salty dish of restaurant-quality sashimi usually works to make it right between us again. He is a practical cat after all, and his beggar days are not so far behind him.
It’s Sunday, my day off, but I got my days mixed up and told you to meet me at the restaurant. As I didn’t get your number, I intend to go in to keep the date. First though, I will take my bike for a spin around town and look for some inspiration for a photography competition I want to enter called Urban Moments. For recognition? Not really, more urgent is immediate financial gain. I’m confident with the camera. My father taught me the basics and I considered taking it up as a career, but philosophy won out in the end. Even though it has eluded me so far, I still have the bug in my gut about finding the meaning of life, but I quickly discovered that academic philosophy isn’t really about the love of wisdom and more of an intellectual game with strict rules of engagement laid down by the gatekeepers. Still there are some good philosophers, Berkeley being one that seems on the right track.
After coffee and a healthy burger, I wind my way along the river towards the city. The bike is not aging well, but it still works, and I need the exercise. If that photo-worthy “urban moment” happens to come along, I’m not sure if I will make it back in time for our assignation, or if you will wait. Consistency in relationships is not my strong point, but I don’t want you to discover that just yet.
Sometimes I wish I could just stop my mind and find that still point at my centre, but meditation is difficult. Distractions are everywhere. I think about Basho’s famous haiku:
“Sitting still, doing nothing, spring comes, and the grass grows by itself”.
As human beings, are we just a part of nature? If the grass grows by itself, then maybe we are unnecessary in the scheme of things. Who or what observes? In the early stages of meditation, they say, the contents of our minds are not still, but if we watch our thoughts, they loosen their grip on us and we can detach and slow down. One day I would like to pursue this path, perhaps find a guru in the Himalayas, but I’m still wrestling with my distrust of authority. There is always a place for questions. Maybe I should be content with not really knowing the ultimate truth or reality, but for now that’s out of reach, and I can’t stop knock-knock-knocking on heaven’s door.
I find a place by the river, and lying back in the grass, look up at the sky. Whilst the sky looks blue, even that blueness is a concept, an illusion, only an appearance in consciousness. None of these common-sense ideas can be trusted. Wasn’t that Descartes’ view? He wanted to find something he could trust beyond doubt, but just ended up with more mental abstractions. An ant bites me on the big toe and so I suddenly re-enter the phenomenal reality, the world of the “ten thousand things” according to that wise old Chinese philosopher Lao Tse.
I take some photos of the river and the ever-changing sky. The light and shade of the day pass over me and as it gets close to dusk, the first mosquito buzzes around my head. By now I am tired of my endless stream of thoughts and looking forward to seeing you tonight. I also wonder if this is when we will sleep together for the first time.
TEMPURA
I walk in and take off my bike helmet. My hair is tied in pigtails, to keep it out of my eyes when I’m riding. Toru is on the other side of the bar having a beer with one of the chefs, who looks more like a member of one of those pretty Japanese boy bands. I’m interested in meeting him, and I imagine his dishes are as meticulously crafted as his appearance. Toru waves me over and introduces him as Daisuke, but he quickly appraises the situation and after acknowledging me with a smile and a quick nod, throws his apron on, and goes back to the kitchen.
“I like your hair like that,” Toru says.
I notice he is not dressed in his Japanese waiter garb. “Didn’t work today?”
He smiles and shrugs.
“Forgot it was my day off … nevertheless, I’m here, as you see … ta-da!” he says sweeping his hands over his skinny body. “Do you want a drink? Tea, a beer?”
“G & T, thanks.”
“A gin drinker, eh? That’s ominous!” he says, and then elaborates: “Did you know that according to an Austrian study, people who prefer bitter tasting drinks like gin, can be prone to anti-social personality traits like narcissism and Machiavellianism?” He winks.
“Really? I don’t know what to say. That may be right, I guess,” though I am not quite sure who Machiavelli is. Perhaps a fashion designer.
Afterwards we hop on my Vespa to go the three blocks to his place. I drive fast, confidently. He touches the place on my left shoulder blade where I have a small tattoo of a spider and asks: “A black widow? Should I be afraid?”
“Yes, definitely — better hang on tight,” I say as I speed through the orange light.
When we arrive, there is a reddish-coloured cat curled up on the doormat, waiting. Then it does that cat-hunch thing when it sees us coming up the steps, at the same time letting out a small miaow in acknowledgment. I tell him I speak cat too and give him a neck rub. He seems to like it and rubs himself up against my legs.
“Does he have a name?”
“Tomo — it means friend.” “Tomo,” I say softly. “What have you eaten today? Get a mouse or two?” Toru stands back observing. He seems a bit suspicious of my “What’s up, pussycat?” act.
Tomo looks up at me as if embarrassed at not having anything to show for himself. As an experienced street cat, he clearly feels the need to act like the tough guy in front of the new woman in his master’s life. He eyes me slowly and carefully as if considering: “Are you just a one-nighter, or worth getting to know? As Toru is mine, if you’re a serious rival, there’s no point in developing a friendship as I will urgently need to figure out how can I get rid of you.”
Toru unlocks the door and Tomo pushes his way in. I follow. The living room is strewn with newspapers and books. There’s a clothes horse where a lot of black clothes are drying. He could have tidied up a bit, but I’m not Marie Kondo, so I pretend not to notice. Tomo’s eyes are fixed on me. I stare back and poke out my tongue at him.
“Why did you do that?” Toru asks, having not understood the subtext of the “me and cat” dynamic.
“He’s so handsome,” I say, “but I can tell he’s fiendishly possessive.”
TORU
I close the door behind me, and you turn around innocently, the cat’s new bestie. You look like a porcelain doll and I notice that your eyes are not quite the same colour. I feel a rush of desire and unhinging one of the straps from your shoulder, the one with the tattoo, I press myself hard against you, but then hold back for fear you may break. You grab me tightly and reach inside my jeans. We move to the bedroom, and you are strong and determined as you feed me into you. I try not to come. Tomo tries to join us, but we shut him out and make love to the sound of his persistent miaows. It starts raining and the atmosphere becomes heavy and sticky with humidity. The sound of the rain and Tomo’s miaows are rhythmic like a techno soundtrack, and that is how I will always remember this night. You come first and I feel your taut muscles relax around me, then I come. Afterwards, you don’t look at me, but make patterns with two fingers on my lower belly, figure eights, like a child playing with finger paint. I start to get hard again and wonder how many men you have had. Maybe you started young. I push the thought away, but it haunts me afterwards. Your eyes are on me now, hard to read, curious and aware. I feel your breath on my face, and you whisper that you are ready for anything I want to do to you. My suspicions are confirmed, unexpected and too much, but it is also what I want. This time, you are softer, more pliable. I go down on you, but you don’t want me to and pull me back up firmly. You want me inside you, you say, to find your centre, to go so deep that you can’t breathe. I comply like a slave and burst against your insides, like I am swimming for my life. It is delicious and strong. You are flushed and satisfied for now. Also, the rain has stopped.
After we finish, we let Tomo in, and he sits upright at the end of the bed, waiting to be fed. Finally, our own hunger forces us to act. You speak first: “I thought I was invited for dinner.”
“You were, and it’s coming up,” I reply, “but first — smile for the camera!”
You look worried that I might after all be some pervert who is going to post pictures on the Internet, and resist at first, then decide to trust me. You stick your tongue out at me from under the sheets and wrapping the almost-white sheet around you, do a few quick poses — you look like a tiny precocious Greek goddess. I snap away. My limbic brain is confused: sex or food? It decides food first, then maybe more sex. But you’re already putting your clothes back on, so I get dressed too and go to the kitchen to do a quick fried rice: Mushrooms, prawns, an omelette. I chop some spring onions and sprinkle them on top, before handing you your bowl: “Madame.”
“Thanks, I’m starving!”
I open a bottle of pinot gris from the fridge and find some almost clean glasses. We decide to break the rules and add ice. The wine goes down well with the fast food, and I wonder why food always tastes better after sex. Tomo is being patient, anticipating the scraps from the restaurant, which tonight are not forthcoming. He gets a gourmet can of tuna.
You look around the room and spy my copy of Berkeley’s A Treatise Concerning the Principles of Human Knowledge on the coffee table next to an ashtray I “borrowed” from Sushiya.
“Is this the guy you wrote your thesis on? What’s it like?” You pick it up gingerly and leaf through a few pages, as if scared it will bite.
“Yeah, that’s him. Hard to say. Do you read philosophy?”
“Some. Mainly the Eastern stuff. You know Eckhart Tolle?”
“Who wrote The Power of Now and looks a bit like Bilbo Baggins, you know, from The Hobbit? But he’s German, isn’t he?” I return.
“Yeah, but his attitude and what he talks about is quite Eastern and mystical.” You’ve started curling a piece of hair around one finger.
“Well, he’s considered New Age really — hard to tell how much is borrowed from Eastern thought. Some people think he’s a phony. May I have that back?” I say pointing to the book. You seem a bit bewildered now, so I take my copy of Berkeley out of your hands before you start tearing out the pages.
“Oh, sorry — do you?” you ask.
“Do I what?”
“Think he’s a phony.”
“I’m not sure I can always tell what motivates a writer. He seems genuine in some ways. His story is interesting and unique enough, but it’s wise to be careful about these so-called gurus. They often start with a small following. Next thing you know, they ask for a larger podium, so all their followers can see them. It’s a trap, for both.”
“Anyway, I liked the book,” you say defensively, “and if lots of people like it, there must be some truth in it, right?”
“So, you’re saying that it wouldn’t matter if he were a fake if you got something out of it? That’s the most important thing? Not whether he’s authentic?”
A bead of sweat has started to trickle down your face and is about to hit your nose before you wipe it away. “I guess so. I don’t really know.”
“It’s an interesting question, isn’t it? Look at the Orange People and Bhagwan Rajneesh. He was a respected philosopher and guru to many, but never gave up his collection of Rolls Royces and Rolexes. Some judged him for it, but growing up poor, his attachment to possessions was just another part of him. In the end, does it matter how much stuff you have? Does it make your ideas untrue? It’s all in the appearance or the ‘maya’ as they say.”
“What’s that?”
“The illusion of phenomena.”
“Oh, you mean the world out there?”
“Well, that’s another question. Is there really a world out there?”
You point to Berkeley. “He didn’t believe it?”
“Pretty much, you can’t prove any of it really exists apart from your perception of it.”
Your eyes widen. “So, how do you know?”
“Investigate it. Ask yourself how you know anything.”
The atmosphere has gotten a bit heavy, and to be honest, I can’t be bothered either. Why spoil an almost perfect evening with philosophical cerebration?
“Can I have some water?” you say, and when I bring you a glass of sparkling from the fridge, you take some greedy gulps, and start fumbling in your pocket for your keys.
“Make sure you don’t drown in there!” I joke, but you’re looking at your watch and I sense this is more than you bargained for. You make the decision.
“Anyway, Toru, I’m off … thanks for the dinner and drink and all.”
You pick up your bright pink helmet from the couch and kiss me slowly on the mouth before saying: “See you soon?”
I am relieved, smile and open the door for you, before replying: “Yes, please. That would be very nice.”
You look around and ask: “Where’s Tomo? I want to say goodbye.”
“Probably gone out again. Didn’t get enough attention.”
TEMPURA
We’ve been seeing each other for about two months. We’re fire and ice, but that’s the nature of attraction, isn’t it? The fascination with the other — vive la différence! We’re always compelled to try to understand and integrate the qualities of our opposite that magnetise us. But I think Toru finds intimacy a threat— he’d rather remain aloof. That’s my challenge and I have a perverse desire to make him lose control and want me more than he wants his independence. I don’t have a strategy yet — but I’m working on it.
Pushing back the Sushiya noren again, I arrive just before knock-off time. He did tell me to come back whenever I’m hungry. Ha! Toru and I don’t often meet in the daytime — our story unfolds under cover of night and very often under the covers too. That’s my forte. I love sex with Toru, and he tells me he thinks of me naked all the time, so I know I have power over him, though he thinks he is in control.
Tonight, even though I ate dinner, I’m craving some Japanese food, so when I sit at the bar and Daisuke comes over, seemingly in a good mood, I ask him if the kitchen is closed.
“In your case, we can make an exception. What would you like tonight – the usual, or something else?”
“Some gyoza would be great, Dai!” I smile with pleasure at the thought of his delicious pork dumplings, which I will wash down with a cold Asahi.
Ten minutes later he’s back, with some impeccably presented little dishes — condiments, soy and wasabi, arranged attractively on the tray, the pink pickled ginger carved into a rose. He places the plate in front of me and brushes his long fringe off his forehead.
“Doesn’t that get annoying, the hair in your eyes when you’re cooking?” I ask.
“Not as annoying as when an attractive customer comes in and I’m not looking my best! You never know when the love of your life could walk into the room. Can’t be caught off guard in this Instagram world, ha-ha!” he says with a twinkle in his eye.
“Admirable dedication! Let’s take a selfie together then, to not waste your effort!”
“Okay.” He scoots round to my side of the bar and we both do the ubiquitous V sign. I click, twice. He smiles broadly and nods in approval.
“Has Toru seen you yet?” he asks.
“No, is he out back?”
“Not sure. He might have stepped out for a cigarette — oh, here he comes!”
Toru ambles over, not looking at us, and butts out his cigarette in the potted bamboo to the left of the bar.
“Ready to go?” he asks.
“Almost. Just chatting about your unhealthy addictions,” I say provocatively.
“Is that the smoking or the other thing?”
Daisuke takes my plate and with an impish smile says, “I’ll lock up! You guys go home and enjoy the other thing.”
TORU
Standing outside and enjoying a cigarette after a long night at the izakaya, I am wondering how I can extricate myself from what is beginning to be an uncomfortable emotional entanglement. In fact, it’s the fact that I really like you that worries me. You’re so easy to be around, and don’t make any demands, so I sense a trap opening to catch me off-guard. Sooner or later, I will feel so comfortable with you that we might move in together — for convenience’s sake — and it will feel right, because to be sexually involved with your best friend, who is different from you and complements you, makes it easier to be yourself. Not to mention the convenience of only paying rent on one apartment, or not having to travel between apartments. Easier also to share the everyday expenses and household duties. You even get along with the cat! Soon Tomo will be playing us off against each other and extracting snacks from the one who didn’t feed him last time. One must always be on the alert. This kind of dependence develops after a long period of unwatchfulness, born of a thousand small decisions to choose the easy road, over the more difficult path of carving out your own future. A slow attrition of freedom.
Tonight, I plan to counteract that, by exercising my will, and making a deliberate choice. I have already waited too long. Because of my laziness, or cowardice, more rightly, I feel weaker and more vulnerable. But I can get it together. I come from a race with the tradition of committing hara kiri in shameful situations. As I’ve said, I don’t want you to suffer — I am prepared to absorb the damage — so we can both be free to learn what we can become. We’re too young to settle down. The connection must be severed soon — that’s certain — but I’m just not quite sure how.
Coming inside, I see you chatting with Daisuke. Maybe flirting? I acknowledge the slight twinge of jealousy. It strengthens my resolve. I walk over, nonchalant: “Ready to go?”
You make a remark about my habits. It’s irritating that you think you know me better than I know myself, and I’m disgusted that we are already like an old married couple, suffering under the other’s wry sarcastic character observations.
“Okay, Toru, let’s go — I can see you want out of here!” you say, not guessing how true that is!
“Shall we go to yours?” I suggest, thinking it may expedite a quicker getaway later. “Actually, I have a surprise for you. I booked a hotel in the city.” Mischief
crackles off you.
TEMPURA
I haven’t told Toru it’s my birthday. I don’t need gifts, just an excuse to escape my tiny student accommodation and my noisy neighbours. As Toru is a minimalist, I haven’t gone over the top with the luxury, but chose a small boutique hotel in the heart of the city, the Adelphi. It’s in an old art deco building with a rooftop swimming pool. Mum sent me some birthday cash, so the hotel is my treat. With the money left over I went shopping at Victoria’s Secret — Part 2 of Toru’s surprise.
When we get there, it’s after midnight. We order champagne to the room, and it arrives in a silver ice bucket fifteen minutes later, via a Chinese room attendant who is probably a business student. He smiles as I recognise his disguise and then leaves silently, except for asking if there would be anything else for the evening. We acknowledge him with a “No, thanks”. After the first glass, I excuse myself to go to the bathroom, strip and hop into the whorehouse-red, lace, Baby Doll lingerie I bought earlier. I pile my hair up in a chignon and put on pink lipstick. I also bought some toys, which I have hidden in the bedside table: a black silk blindfold and matching silk handcuffs. Nervous but excited, I enter the room on four-inch, red-velvet stilettos, fastened with buckled ankle straps. In the meantime, Toru has raided the minibar and there are some open packets of peanuts on the bed. He’s also turned on the TV and is watching the CNN news. People in an unknown South American country are screaming and running from a landslide that is the result of an earthquake. In the rescue effort, ambulances and paramedics are everywhere. Dead or mutilated bodies are being carried off behind the reporter, whose expression is as deadpan as if he were doing the weather. I perceive a challenge ahead as this is not the best entrée to get Toru in the mood for the activities I have planned.
“Can I have a peanut?” I ask shyly, to get his attention.
“Sure,” he starts to say before looking up to admire what is now before his eyes.
“Can I have it between my legs, please?” I ask.
Toru is unsure, but smiling slightly, so that’s a good sign.
“Do you want me to come over so you can insert it for me?” I continue.
“They’re pretty salty. Are you sure you want me to do that?!” he replies, raising an eyebrow.
“I think you heard me, Toru. But I am willing to help you a bit. If you lie back a bit further, I can come closer and let you investigate, you know, where the best point of entry might be.”
I go over and straddle him: “Take your time exploring, and when you find the right place, you might want to lick some of the salt off, and then kind of slide it into me with your tongue — that might be best for me.”
I am hovering above him now. As he peels off my bra straps, he gently cups my left breast and grabbing the nipple between his teeth, sucks it slowly. Both nipples are erect now, when I feel him slide his fingers into me. Like the heroine in “The Princess and the Pea”, I feel the light pressure, but am not sure, so I ask:
“Do you have the peanut I asked for? Please do as I say. It’s my birthday, so I think you can oblige me, since I have gone to the trouble to organise this evening for us, and you did not even bring me a gift!”
“I’m sorry, Tempura,” he says politely — contrite and so Japanese. “I will do that for you now. But do you mind turning over on your stomach? That might be easier for me.”
“Yes, but first show me the peanut. I’m not sure if I can trust you.”
He holds up one hand which contains the small nut. He puts it into his mouth and moves me onto my stomach.
“Don’t worry, once it’s inside you, I will remove it, without using my hands at all.”
“I’m sure you will be gentle. Just use your tongue. Is it nice and rough, like a cat’s?”
“Yes, I think so. Please let me know if it’s too rough for you.”
“Hmm, I will not only let you know, but might have to punish you!”
“I must try to avoid that — I’m sure you’ll be very strict with me. If I hurt you, I deserve the strictest punishment you can think of.”
“Well, you better start soon then, and I’ll cry out if I’m in pain.”
“Yes, please let me know if it’s good for you.”
Toru’s head is buried between my legs now — he’s licking me gently, then with his fingers, positions the legume before pushing it into my open sex, wet with longing for him.
“Is that good, Tempura? Can you feel it inside you now?”
“Yes, thank you. That is what I wanted, but now, you must make certain it doesn’t get lost. Please remove it with your tongue again. Also, I don’t want to climax too soon, so take your time.” After about five minutes, my whole body is quivering with pleasure, and I want him so badly, but decide not to make it too easy for him.
“Unfortunately, Toru, though that was very nice, I had an orgasm, and I asked you not to let that happen, so I’m afraid you will have to be punished. First, you will need to eat that tasty peanut, and then you need to sit on the edge of the bed with your palms facing up, so I can punish you properly.”
“Oh, I see. I’m sorry to have disappointed you, though I secretly know you want to keep me here as your slave for a bit longer. In fact, as it’s after twelve o’clock, it’s not your birthday anymore, so you’ll have to set me free.”
“Yes, you’re right. But you cannot avoid punishment. Do as I say.”
Toru sits at the edge of the bed as instructed and pops the peanut into his mouth, chewing it slowly. Meantime I have retrieved the blindfold and the silk ties.
“You must trust me now, that the punishment will be exactly right for your crimes and not too much. Do you trust me? Then close your eyes and let your body go limp.”
As he does so, I strap the blindfold over his eyes.
“How is that? Not too tight? Now lie back on the bed with your arms above your head.”
He obeys — my willing slave. I tie his hands together and to the bed head, ordering him: “Spread your legs!”
He obeys and I tie each leg to a bed post. Then I wait until he asks.
“What are you going to do?”
“I think you know. So, I hope the torture will not be too bad!”
“Please start, it is agony waiting in the dark.”
I sit on my haunches between his legs and take his erect penis between my teeth, sliding my tongue over the glans, flicking at it. “If you come, the punishment will be prolonged, so please hear my instructions carefully. You MUST NOT COME. I take his whole penis in my mouth now, deliciously savouring it, sucking, and rolling it around with my tongue. Toru’s body is shaking, and he is trying to get free, but he is being held by the strongest silk cords I could buy for fifty percent off in Chinatown. Finally, one snaps, and he quickly unties himself. I now know I’m doomed. He gets up and chases me around the room until catching me and throwing me down on the soft mattress he plunges his enormous swollen dagger into my soft, pliable body until I come, again and again and again. At last, he releases himself into me and we lie, spent, for a long while gazing into each other’s eyes until finally he gently says: “Many happy returns.”
“Thank you, Toru.”
“The pleasure was all mine, Mistress.”
***
The next morning, early, I take a swim in the rooftop pool. Through the glass bottom you can see the city workers in the laneway, going about their day, lattes in hand. I’ve left Toru to sleep off last night’s “ordeal”. When I re-enter the room, he’s sitting on the bed with a towel wrapped around him, just out of the shower. Jumping on the bed, I remove his towel and moving onto him again, shake out my wet hair like a shaggy dog. He holds both of my wrists and throws me on my back. We make love once more and then change, before going down to breakfast — muesli and fresh fruit, followed by eggs on toast and black coffee. Looking at Toru across the table, I know something has changed between us — a deeper bond has been forged. I am glowing with triumph, though I try to conceal it.
TORU
Just after sunrise, in the cool, late-summer morning, I’m lying in bed pretending to be wasted, while you don your black one-piece swimsuit. I take a quick peek at your long slender limbs as you slide your suit first over your hips and then over your firm, pale breasts. You put on your white hotel robe and slippers, and close the door quietly behind you. After you’ve gone, I observe the shrapnel of the birthday surprise party — lacy panties lying forlorn at the side of the bed, the abandoned sex toys, the empty bottle of champagne. I get up to check that the DO NO DISTURB sign is still in place on the outside of the door and take a long shower, probably washing my hair with the body foam, because those neat little bottles lined up on the bathroom bench all look the same.
Re-affirming that I am no slave of desire, I start making plans, imagining the scene of our imminent break-up. It will have to be at your place, or somewhere public, not Sushiya. It can’t be too soon, so not to spoil your birthday memories, and not too close to the beginning of semester. That would be unfair, unchivalrous. You’re probably thinking, last night brought us closer. That’s where you’re wrong — strength of desire has nothing to do with it. Like a wet bar of soap, the tighter your grip, the quicker my escape.
You come back from your swim, slightly cold, with gooseflesh, and your nipples are poking through the suit. As you peel it off over your shoulders you climb onto me, seducing me again, so we make love once more before going down to breakfast. When you look at me from across the table, like the cat that got the cream, it only strengthens my resolve.
TEMPURA
Pre-semester on campus is alive with excitement generated by new students full of expectations, eager to make new friends and impress. In late February, things are gearing up for orientation, or O-Week, but I feel strangely disconnected from my studies. My mojo’s gone fishing and I’m not sure why. Whilst I’m limping along, trying to adjust my thesis, I find myself daydreaming and losing focus, finding any excuse to ignore the deadline. After the latest meeting with my supervisor, where I tried to seem enthusiastic about his suggestions, I felt like such a phony. I’m sure he wasn’t fooled, but he knows enough to let me work it out for myself.
Change is on its way with autumn just around the corner, but whilst the leaves are not yet turning, there is some coolness in the air. Sitting underneath the famed Moreton Bay fig in the Carlton gardens, I observe its branches spreading out in different directions — same as in life: some paths bear fruit, others are bare. I’m sure this tree has seen its fair share of young lovers seated beneath its protective mantle — nervous while still establishing their relationship, or perhaps more settled, meeting for lunch between lectures.
I’m meeting Toru in a few minutes. He wanted to catch up before he goes in to work for the evening. I say goodbye to the tree and make my way to our agreed meeting place, the fountain in front of the Great Hall of the Exhibition buildings. As I draw closer and observe how the huge, hulking mermen at the base of the fountain support the next tier where four young boys join hands in a circle dance, I am confronted by the passage of time. On the next highest tier are images of native flora and fauna and at the very top a boy is holding a clamshell above his head, ha, as you do.
The fountain speaks to me, saying we stand on the shoulders of our ancestors. None of us is alone. A great mystery supports us; our destiny unfolds as we trust our next step. Above the boys are symbols of the arts, science, commerce, and industry — there are musical instruments, a telescope, sailing ship, steam engine and globe of the world. I think of the Chinese ceremony of “zhuazhou”, also known as “the first birthday grab”. When a child turns one, long noodles are served to ensure its longevity. Several objects representing different careers are placed in front of the baby, and the relatives watch to see which object the child goes to touch first — this supposedly determining their future vocation. Traditionally, they were things like stamps, Chinese philosophy books, pen and ink, paper, an abacus, coins, jewellery, flowers, food, cooking utensils, scissors, and thread, but in more recent times more modern objects might be used like computer tablets. I think I would have been attracted to something bright and shiny, like silk fabric or jewels. Maybe the coins, but I can’t remember.
Whilst lost in this reverie, I hear a sound behind me. I turn and see Toru looking a bit dishevelled. He jumps off his bike and wheels it over. He’s wearing a white T-shirt with the enso graphic: a broken circle, the Zen symbol for developing perfection.
“Let’s sit over there,” he says, pointing to some shade. He’s looking a bit unsettled, and I immediately feel a knot tightening in my stomach.
TORU
Tempura is standing at the fountain, with her back turned to me, as I dismount my bike. She raises both hands to push her shiny black hair back behind her ears — it’s being blown about by the breeze. I admire her slim, shapely body, clad in tight-fitting black jeans and a loose-fitting duck-egg blue, silk kaftan top, embroidered at the neck with tiny white flowers. As she turns and looks at me, she cocks her head to one side, like an unsure puppy, puzzled by my expression. I feel like a bad boy, about to break someone’s heart, but when it’s done, I know I probably won’t miss her that much. She’s just a girl, who will soon be in my past, as a pleasant experience, but one of many more to come. Even so, right now, I’m torn between following through with my intention, and just pretending everything is as usual. That would of course be the easy thing to do, but I know it’s just my weakness surfacing. I could justify it with the go-with-the-flow philosophy everyone is so enamoured of, but that road leads to the tram terminal, and I’m not yet ready to end my journey. The future is open wide.
“Are you okay? You look a bit pale,” she says gently.
“Yes fine, you know I’m not the outdoor type.”
“Vampires and philosophers, right? Glad to see me?” she says disarmingly, and I smile.
“You’re looking good, I have to say.” And then we are in each other’s arms, the fountain murmuring in quiet celebration behind us. I’m sure she made a wish, or more likely cast a spell. In broad daylight she unzips me and slides her hand down my pants. She holds me tight to her as I say: “You better let me go. There are some children coming this way with their teacher.”
“They’ve seen worse in the museum,” she laughs.
TEMPURA
I must think fast, as it seems my doom is approaching. Toru has that look of detachment I’ve come to fear. I’m trembling inside as I quickly use the strategy of Tao to divert him: using the energy of his lust against him. My intuition is good — it works. When he leaves me to go to work, I know I have narrowly escaped losing face, so I make plans for our next encounter, but before that, I will work out my exit strategy.
Standing by that fountain today, I had an epiphany about our relationship, and also about my thesis, in which I argue that Hamlet really does love Ophelia, but that he is distracted by his grief, the loss of his father, which absorbs all his emotional energy. The genuine affection he feels for her becomes clouded by his anger and desire for revenge. He is full, taken over by these other emotions and therefore cannot be open or transparent with her. I don’t wish to be Ophelia, driven mad by an indecisive lover, who has other priorities over me, so I’ll leave him, but also leave the door slightly ajar. He can keep his projected ideas about women being a mere sport and a pastime. I am the subject in my life story, so I refuse to be Toru’s object, sitting on a shelf until he decides he wants to play with me again. Let’s see what happens when he’s thrown on his own resources. He may only know what we had when it’s gone, but if he doesn’t, I’ll already be on my way.
There are some things I know about Toru — he covers his fear of losing someone he cares about with bravado, downgrading any attachment and denying intimacy, when he feels it. Nevertheless, I’m not one of those girls who won’t take a man at his word. If he wants to leave me, I’ll let him go, but it’s better to quit before being fired, so I get in first, and write him a letter.
Dear Toru,
I was planning to tell you today that I’m leaving Melbourne, but when we’re together, it never seems to be the right time. I am not sure for how long, but after I submit my thesis and hopefully graduate, I need time to consider what’s right for my future. My heart is calling me home to Hong Kong, which I haven’t seen for 5 years. I want to see my mother again. We can stay in touch. Visit me if you want, but I think you also need some time alone before you can really be with another person, and I can’t wait to get on with my life. You need to be free to discover who you really are. If we re-connect, when we better know who we are as individuals, then that will be a free choice, and not born of compulsion or need.
Tempura
And that’s how we break up. Toru calls me and we meet one more time. He tells me he would still like to see me from time to time, but I know what that means. No free lunch for him. I spend the next couple of months focusing on my thesis and finishing what I started. Somehow, knowing I am going to change my life and re-invent myself makes it possible to tie up the loose ends in preparation. Better to go cold turkey — the sooner he feels my absence, the better. Some days, I miss him like crazy and have to tie myself to the mast not to crumble. I cope by adopting a minimalist lifestyle to feed my discipline. I begin selling off my possessions and living with hardly any furniture. I sell the Norsborg — my old friend whose soft cushions hold too many memories. I even begin sleeping on the floor. I need to feel my grief, to be rid of it sooner. Unburdening myself of emotional baggage means I can travel light and carry nothing from the past with me onto that aeroplane. When newly established in Hong Kong, I can re-assess things.
TORU
I’m listening to the radio when Zombie, that song by the Cranberries, comes on. That was a favourite at karaoke when you and I used to get together with a bunch of friends from uni. You always told me I was too much “in my head”. Those evenings were a lot of fun, and a recurring event, until they became too competitive, and people began hogging the mic for themselves. You were by far the best singer. We had our signature tunes. You had a penchant for Amy Winehouse’s Just Friends. One of mine was Nirvana’s About a Girl. I grab my guitar and start strumming a few chords, reflecting that Kurt’s lyrics could be a bit obscure, but it’s a good pop song about just needing someone to hang out with, minus the complications — an “easy friend”.
The questions rise in my head again: What do I really want? What is the shape, the form of that elusive thing? Is it a woman, an idea? A god, THE God? Can we be truly free? Can we be in a relationship and still be free? I’m with you, Kurt, an easy friend is all I need.
I finally go to bed but wake up with a headache. Did I dream about you again? Obviously, my unconscious is not done with you yet. The restaurant doesn’t open for dinner till five, so I have time ahead of me. I open the window to let in some fresh air. It’s a cool, breezy, autumn day. Down on the street, I see a tall guy in a trench coat, probably an academic, walking his poodle, which is a little on the scruffy side — not one of those beautifully coiffed dogs usually owned by a certain kind of woman. It’s said that artists, particularly writers, prefer cats to dogs. Maybe that’s because cats are more aesthetically appealing or because they have a watchful quality. Incidentally, cat owners are often atheists too, more likely to be eccentric and to dislike following the herd. I had a friend who believed cats were psychic. He told me that after a particularly traumatic break-up, he received regular visits from his neighbour’s cat. The cat, called Lewis, would come by once a day, and just hang out with him, until he eventually got over the girl and then the cat just didn’t come anymore. Tempura, you remind me of a cat sometimes. You know things you often don’t talk about, or at least I get that sense, and well, you disappeared too when you sensed I didn’t need you anymore.
Tomo jumps on my lap and fixes me with a hard stare. I don’t like to anthropomorphise, but I sense he blames me for the fact you are not turning up anymore.
“Chill, brother! We’re tough. We’ll be fine. We always used to be, didn’t we?”
He jumps off my lap, clearly not convinced. Unlike Lewis, he has no compassion.
“Fuck you, Tomo! What’s the point in keeping you around if you’re going to be like that?”
I have a small breakfast of fruit and granola with yoghurt, then divert myself by going to the 11am hatha yoga class at Urban Yoga. The teacher, Shakti-ji, isn’t Indian. That’s her spiritual name given by her guru. She is at the front desk when I walk in and greets me with a big grin and a “namaste” that rises on the final syllable in surprise at seeing me this early in the day. She has a gap between her two front teeth, which I find quite attractive. She wears her long dark hair in two long plaits that hang to just above her smallish breasts. I’m pretty sure she’s not wearing a bra. Lost in that thought, and looking to check, I hear her say, “Toru. I tolerate you. You know that don’t you?” She has a big grin on her face.
“Appreciate it,” I reply.
“Best get changed, grab a mat, and go in. I’m about to start class.”
“Okay, Shakti, but patience is a virtue, isn’t it?”
“So is punctuality.”
“Aww, but you are not allowed to hurt my feelings. Ahimsa, non-harming, right?”
“Right, but I might risk harming you just a little in order to adjust your attitude.”
“I’m shocked, Shakti. Please be gentle with me!”
I’ve thought of asking Shakti out on a date, perhaps because I doubt it would lead to anything serious, which makes it a safe bet. I’m certain I wouldn’t be a good match for a yoga practitioner, because I’m not into all the rules and regulations of a formal spiritual practice. But despite all that, by the end of the class I ask Shakti if she wants to have lunch at a local organic vegetarian restaurant and am surprised when she agrees. We pick up a bottle of organic wine and sit at a little yellow 1950s Formica table near the back.
“This is nice, isn’t it?” I offer. “Glad you could tear yourself away from the ashram for a bit.”
“Well, it’s not like an ordinary job, you know. You can’t just knock off at the end of the day,” she replies seriously. I hope I haven’t offended her, so I quickly backtrack:
“I suppose not. Have you been teaching long?”
“About five years. My background is in classical ballet, but I got tired of the injuries. I knew I already had the discipline for a spiritual practice and was always curious about yoga.”
As she says this, I recall how gracefully she moves around the studio — the perfect, cultivated posture of a ballerina.
“Does it take long to acquire that air of detached benevolence?” I ask.
“Ha-ha. It’s not so much a matter of time, but vigilance — part of the ongoing practice. The people I knew who practised seemed so calm. I envied that. It offered an antidote to the competitive environment and giant egos of professional dancing.”
“So that’s what drew you more than the health benefits?”
“Yes, I suppose so. As an alternative to the craziness of the world it can become surprisingly addictive, but in the end, the two are intertwined. Most people are drawn to the hatha yoga exercises, to improve flexibility, but when they notice the physical benefits, they’re inspired to search for more.”
It’s early afternoon and the sun is streaming through the venetian blinds, illuminating the bindi on Shakti’s forehead. It sparkles brightly over her ajna chakra. Her beauty is ethereal, as if backlit from another world.
“I can understand that. I guess I was attracted because my mind is always working overtime, but I’ve been cautious about immersing myself in the cosmology. I’m naturally sceptical. Is there a lot to it?”
“Yes, of course — there’s a vast and ancient literature, divinely inspired by Indian rishis or seers, and many different schools of thought, most of which have their roots in Patanjali’s system of the eight limbs of yoga.”
“How does a beginner know where to start?” I ask.
“It can be overwhelming, but the goal is samadhi or ultimate peace. You must keep focused on that. Everyone’s different, so you can choose one of four main margas or methods: bhakti is devotion, raja develops self-control, jnana is the path of knowledge, and karma is the way of work or action.”
“So, do you choose, or does the path choose you?
“I think it’s just obvious to most people which form suits them. The paths are different, but you can’t separate them — they lead to the same goal.”
“But yoga is not a religion, right? Even though it grew out of Hinduism?”
“That’s right. You can keep your faith, whatever it is. That doesn’t impact your practice. Patanjali’s system includes an ethical framework. The yamas and niyamas represent the way we relate to the external world and our internal world respectively.
“How so?”
“It’s a bit like the difference between ethics and morals. I can try to describe them briefly for you. As you know, ahimsa is the basis and involves not inflicting harm on any being. That’s why we are vegetarian. Then there’s satya, which is truth or integrity. Asteya means not coveting anything others possess. Brahmacharya is abstinence, or channelling your sexual energy towards union with the Divine Source. Finally, there’s aparigraha, which is non-possessiveness in all its forms. That’s also a challenge for many.”
“How about you? I can’t imagine it’s easy to follow these principles in everyday life. There would be a lot of distractions.”
“I try, but I’m also realistic, and I don’t beat myself up if I fall off the wagon. It’s good to be aware of your weaknesses and the things that tempt you.”
“Such as?” I ask.
“We have a yoga philosophy course if you’re really interested. There will be an info session coming up. Why don’t you come to that? Oh, here’s Jyoti … shall we order?”
Our conversation has been interrupted by an effervescent young Indian waitress approaching our table. She is wearing orange clothes, and a sandalwood mala around her neck. I let Shakti choose the dishes, and after twenty minutes Jyoti brings out some steaming hot Asian noodles and exotic-coloured vegetables. It’s a kind of fusion dish, with a lot of ginger, garlic and chilli. We tuck in.
“The food is great here, although strictly speaking, as a yogi, garlic and chilli are off limits, because they are stimulants. Also, you’re not supposed to eat for two hours or so before class.”
“So, you must get hungry in the evenings?” I offer.
“You get used to it. It’s just the body — good servant, bad master. And small sacrifice for spiritual enlightenment,” she muses.
“But you drink alcohol?”
“Yes, occasionally. I like to appear normal, even though I’m not really.” She winks. “I know it’s a cliché, but everything in moderation is the rule. You have to keep balance in your life, along with the discipline. Sometimes people give up because they can’t sustain it.”
“And what about sex? I can’t imagine many giving that up easily. Must be an advanced stage?”
She laughs. “Well, a lot of wannabe yogis baulk at this and think you must suppress sexual desires, but after some time you don’t need to connect that way anymore. You should only go down that road with a light heart. And it’s not a competition for spiritual brownie points. People can still choose to have a family. In traditional Hindu society the role of the householder was just as valid as that of the ascetic.”
“So, what about gurus? How do you find a guru?”
“So, there’s a saying: When the student is ready, the teacher appears. A guru is someone who leads you out of darkness and into light.”
“Meaning you don’t have to search for a teacher?”
“Well, you’re not really in control. The guru appears when you can’t go any further on your own. Anybody or anything can be a guru. Whatever comes along to take you to the next level. Ramana Maharshi worshipped a mountain called Arunachala”.
“Ramana Maharshi?”
“He was an Indian who, at seventeen, had a near-death experience. He saw through the fear, the tricks of the mind, and became enlightened. Many claimed to be his followers, but he never sought disciples or claimed to be a guru. After attaining samadhi, he kept silence for twenty years.”
“Seriously?”
“For many, talking can just be an indulgence. A way to stave off feelings of isolation and insecurity. We don’t need to talk as much as we do.” She motions to Jyoti to bring the bill.
“Sorry, Toru. I do need to get back. I’ve got another class soon, and Madan will wonder where I am.”
“Okay, understand. I’ll come to the info session. I’m intrigued now.”
Jyoti brings the bill to the table, and I pay. I feel kind of light, after the vegetarian food. It’s pleasant, like there’s space between the atoms of my body.
“Thanks for lunch, Toru. It was lovely, and if you have more questions, just ask. You may want to come by on Saturday afternoon. Swamiji is giving a lecture.”
“Swamiji?”
“My guru.” She is beaming now, radiant when she speaks of him: “I’ll text you the details. Bye for now, Namaste.”
“Namaste.”
I head into work, excited about the possibilities offered by this new path, and spending more time with the luminous Shakti.
***
As I make the restaurant ready for the first patrons, I feel happy to re-enter a familiar domain. My mind feels over-stimulated after the conversation with Shakti, but Tempura, you don’t need to think of that as a threat. Your favourite table in the corner is empty and I feel a twinge in my heart at your absence. I remember the way you looked at me the last time I saw you — sad, but detached, in the way you might have to be when severing a limb which could infect the rest of your body. You have something of the samurai about you, unwavering, and resolute.
At the end of a normal and not too busy weeknight at the restaurant, I really have to do some study. That paper on Berkeley is not going away. Do you want to know what kind of people decide to become philosophers, Tempura? Well, I can tell you, it’s the ones who can’t tolerate uncertainty. I am writing and trying to define the nature of our reality, about how we know what is real and I still cannot really refute Berkeley’s argument that it is all a matter of perception: “Esse est percipi” — to be is to be perceived, because how do we know for sure that anything exists outside our subjective experience? Another way of putting it is the world is what we think it is. Many traditions bear that out, including vedanta and shamanism in its many forms.
I look at the text message that just came in:
Guess where I am? What I am NOT doing? Dreaming of you ☺
And I wonder where you are, what you are doing and why you sent this cryptic message.
"Life is cyclical - straight lines to most destinations don't exist."
This singular line most wonderfully summarizes the journey that we watch Toru and Shelley go through in Like Water by Rita Minzenmay. Two passionate people trying their best to understand themselves and their place in the world, these two characters are entrancing. I couldn't put the book down, constantly wanting to know what decisions they'd make, how they'd find their way back to one another.
Toru, a philosophy student burdened by the need to know and understand, and Shelley, an interior designer who doesn’t have time to deal with abstracts, are an unlikely pair. But their undeniable chemistry leads them to constantly flow into each other. We get to see the way they and their relationship evolve through everything from the general uncertainty of growing up to major life events. And while you might not agree with every choice they make–sometimes they don’t either–you can’t help but root for them.
The writing was very philosophical, which could potentially be off putting for some readers, but for me made it that much more engaging. It was fun to see these characters parse through their feelings and ideas and confront what it is that they truly believe in. It made me consider things about myself and my own beliefs that I may not have otherwise thought about. At the heart of it, it also dug into the scariness of feeling, of letting yourself rely on and be close to others, of loving others. If nothing else, I believe the author did a wonderful job of getting at the tension between wanting to protect yourself but also wanting someone to know you intimately.
It’s important to note that this book contains sexual content, as well as mentions of violence. However, if that is not a deal breaker for you, I’d recommend this work to anyone who enjoys stories of self-discovery and complex romances.