Lamentations

“Did it rain on your way here Reena?” I ask.

Today, the 8am Monday morning sky is unusually grey. 

“Yes madam, a little bit,” she replies, scanning the room for its mess. She’s in a green T-shirt and black 3/4 tights.

“Did you manage to sleep ok, your house ok after the earthquake?” 

“Yes all ok. Just scared little bit.”

“You have any family in Myanmar still?” I keep on with my questions. 

“No no, someone here in Thailand, someone in Nepal.”

Reena was at our 19th floor apartment on Friday afternoon when the 7.7 earthquake that struck Myanmar impacted Bangkok too. First the ceiling started to crack, Reena ran to Rahul and made him get under the table. Water from the swimming pool on the 34th floor spilled down the side of the building like a fountain. They were nauseous from the swaying building. Together they climbed down the stairs. People were shouting, a woman was crying, others had packed suitcases and would drive off, but mostly people were shaken. They stepped over cracked wall plaster and grout that had popped out because of the movements. It wasn’t until 5 hours later that they were given the go ahead to return upstairs again.

Bangkok was shaken. I was stuck at a traffic light when it happened. I thought my BYD was glitching, then I looked at the car to my left and realised it was him moving back and forth like a maniac, not me. But it made me nauseous. It wasn’t until Maher called me and asked if I felt the earth quake that I realised I too had felt it. I was almost at my cello lesson when it happened. 

Maher got under a table at an architects meeting not far from Chatuchak. The chandelier swung like a pendulum. Leïla was at school and evacuated to the field. She stumbled onto a friend and felt nauseous when it was happening. Considering we were all lucky with the soft soil Bangkok is built upon, most buildings danced with the quake, and didn’t crumble. It’s the logistics and fear of the aftershocks and potential damage that kept the fear and nerves on edge. 

After cello, I was trapped in the middle of  6 lanes of traffic. What should have taken me 40 minutes from cello to home, took me 7 hours. The BTS train system had been shut down, certain risky highways were blocked, ambulances were zooming around picking up mothers about to deliver babies, many ambulances continue to be on standby at the building under construction near Chatuchak that had collapsed with hundreds of construction workers now trapped under a huge pile of rubble.

By the time I got home at 9:30pm, Leïla had taken a boat and walked home from school. Maher had taken a one and a half hour motorbike taxi from the architect. I hugged them all, peed desperately, drank a lot of water, and ate a meal. The weekend was one of being together and of resting. 

By 11am this Monday morning I drive up to my studio space in Phrom Phong, make a quick stop at Aroon cafe for my usual pick me up.

I wave at the woman behind the counter. 

“Jasmine tea?” She asks me, smiling sweetly. 

“Ah thanks,” I say, acknowledging the familiarity with which she knows my usual order, but I need something stronger if I am to get anything done. It’s a heavy, grey Monday morning. “I’ll take a flat white, the usual; medium roast, hot, take away please!”

As I’m settling my bill I ask her, “How are you? Your home?” 

“In Bangkok or in my country?” She asks me.

Oh wow, how did I miss that.

“Both,” I reply clumsily. 

“Here in Bangkok, all ok” she smiles, “and in my home, it’s ok for me, my family is in the capital, in Yangon.”

“Over there it’s ok, right?” I repeat, more for me than for her. 

“Yes, Yangon is ok. But my friend…”she pointed behind her to where her colleague usually stands, “her family is in Mandalay.” She shakes her head, her eyes are wet.

“Oh,” I say as I step away from the counter to make room for the dark haired woman behind me waiting to make her order.

I smile sympathetically as I collect my order and walk to my 11th floor studio. The door is right next to a window. Today there’s a man there, dressed in the building technicians uniform. He is staring out of the window into the grey sky. As I approach my door, he turns around, embarrassed, to give me room. His features are those of a Burmese man. His dark eyes and face are wet. 

I quickly slip into my studio, scan the space, the ceiling, the walls, pick up my cello case that’s fallen to the floor. All other objects are still in place. I fix the wonky painting and play the cello, practicing for my exam this Friday. The room is filled with the sound of lamentations.