by Michael Lai
Of all the stories about Valentine’s Day I have heard of before, none are as baffling as the one that actually happened to me. I am not saying this to convince you that the rest of this story is worth reading – it is simply the reaction that I get from people who I have told the story to. If this sounds impossibly hard to believe, here’s a story about someone who did something on Valentine’s Day out of spite and learnt that maybe indifference is not necessarily the opposite of love or hate.
Before I get to the story (and because it is somewhat important to understand for the story), have you ever read something in a book that sounded so profound, or a quote so insightful, that there was no way to fully comprehend its meaning until you have experienced it for yourself?
If you have, then I am sure you can appreciate the power of the words in these stories, and why some people prefer the written words to images. And if you haven’t, then I want to share my experience with you. But just before we get started, I want to give you an idea where to find them so you can save some in your memory bank to pair it with your next life-changing experience.
Often these occur near or at the end of the book, for example, take the passage in the parting letter that Monte Cristo leaves for Maximilian in Chapter 117 of the Count of Monte Cristo: “There is neither happiness nor misery in the world; there is only the comparison of one state with another, nothing more. He who has felt the deepest grief is best able to experience supreme happiness.”
I can’t say that I have experienced the kind of grief that allows one to know what supreme happiness feels like. Perhaps I might have tasted the fleeting joy that can leave you with inexplicable sadness in your heart that doesn’t seem to go away, but the highest levels of ecstasy earned through the deepest of misery still awaits me. So I have saved this one for later.
You can also find them at the start of a book, like the first lines in the book Shantaram by Gregory David Roberts: “It took me a long time and most of the world to learn what I know about love and fate and the choices we make, but the heart of it came to me in an instant, while I was chained to a wall and being tortured. I realised, somehow, through the screaming of my mind, that even in that shackled, bloody helplessness, I was still free: free to hate the men who were torturing me, or to forgive them.”
I have no doubt that many of us have learnt lessons of love and tempted fate through the choices we have made, but I doubt that our moment of realisation usually arrives in such a dramatic and instantaneous fashion. There have been many arguments and disagreements in relationships that have provided clarity and shaken me out of my irrational and emotionally fragmented thought patterns, but these moments come only after retrospectively processing the events. So I have saved this one for later as well.
Maybe this is why I stick to the shorter and the more vague quotes, because they are much more relatable and likely to happen to us in life. Or perhaps why the saying that ‘the opposite of love is not hate, but indifference’ is something that I experienced, but in a very different way.
The story didn’t begin in a Murakami-esque fashion, even if it might have made for a better story. There was no beautiful spring morning, and I did not walk past the 100% perfect girl as arranged by fate.
I was a volunteer at a museum, and had been there for quite some time. I enjoy spending time with the older volunteers who have been there for considerably longer than I have and probably will. They were like fountains of wisdom from which I was happy to take an occasional sip from with a gently cupped hand on a hot summer’s day, if only to sooth my discontent from being directionless in life, and seeking some greater purpose that I had not been able to find. Nevertheless, I learnt many things from them about life, and also the many faults and problems with the museum exhibits that the staff will not have time to fix, and which the volunteers do not have the authority to either.
I was well-liked by the older volunteers (at least I thought so), probably because I was young and eager to learn, and it seemed like that most of them were no longer in regular contact with their own children (if they had children). So they took me under their wings and made me feel welcomed, as if I was a member of an extended family. And perhaps it was this misguided feeling that somehow I should be liked by everyone there (not the least because I was offering my precious free time to volunteer for the museum) that caused the problems to come later.
And unlike the Murakmi short story, she was very attractive (I would later find that she had been doing some modelling), her medium short, straight jet black hair blending seamlessly into dark black uniforms worn by the staff to distinguish them from the distasteful brown garb of the volunteers. The alluring combination of her captivating looks and youthful arrogance would have stood out even if she was unfortunate enough to be in volunteer uniforms. But still, I sensed it every time I was within ten or fifteen paces from her: She’s not the kind of girl for me; I saw the disdain in her gaze just as they are reflected in mine.
So on the occasions where our shifts were unfortunate enough to overlap, I would brace myself for the cold and unnerving glance from her, and then see that same pair of eyes light up to greet other staff, visitors and volunteers (yes, all the other volunteers!). It was as inexplicable to me as it was infuriating, not the least because my pride and ego was already driving me headfirst into the nadir of a soulless and meaningless quest (but that’s another story).
What do you give a girl who already has everything? You can choose to give her something she doesn’t need or want. And you can choose to try and hurt her somewhere you know it hurts everyone – our pride and ego. Yet I had nowhere to start. I never spoke to her before, and no one really talked about her. But it seems like luck was on my side this time, as I had overheard a brief conversation while walking past the common area about someone who she had hoped to hear from soon, as Valentine’s Day was coming up.
I already had the motive, and an opportunity had presented itself, so now I just have to find the means to execute the perfect crime.
“And who is this for?” asked the florist, standing among the sea of red laid out in the store.
“It’s for a special person,” I replied, and the smile on my face grew wider, as I imagined how the events would unfold. “What would you recommend?”
“You’ll want the single stem boxed rose then, I mean, it is not always about the quantity. That way you can show her that she is the only one.” And so she picked out a stem of rose from a bunch, carefully placed it in a box and wrapped it all up. “And what would you like written on the card?” She asked, as I took out my wallet to pay for the weapon of my crime. I had thought about this part for some time, so there was no hesitation as the exact phrase rolled off my tongue, and I watched as she dictated it in her best handwriting.
As luck would have it, I didn’t have to wait long to return to the scene of the crime. Valentine’s Day fell on the day before my shift, and I had a feeling that everything had proceeded as planned. As I put on the volunteer uniform to get ready for the usual Saturday shift, I had the same macabre tainted and twisted excitement as a perpetrator of a crime anticipating the headlines on the news report. But the biggest shock came to me when our paths crossed on the museum floor – it was not that of the soul-crushing disappointment that I had eagerly waited for, and wanted to see her try to hide from her face. She even managed a nonchalant smile towards me – and it was clear that her mind wasn’t preoccupied with some pain that she wanted to hide, rather some sparks of joy that she wanted to contain. What exactly had gone so terribly wrong?
At the end of the shift, our paths crossed again at the bus stop. As much as I wanted to know the exact turn of events, it was also a risk that I did not want to take unnecessarily. However, she was the one who spotted me and motioned for me to sit next to her. She was waiting for her bus to arrive.
Even as I approached her hesitantly, it was quite obvious that she was glowing inside. The radiance of her smile on the outside was irresistible, and it enveloped my disappointment. Now I was the one trying to hide my emotions and feelings.
“Hi, I know we don’t talk to each other much, or even at all,” she started, “but there’s really no reason why we should be so hostile towards each other because we see each other all the time.”
“That’s true,” I admitted, “but I think that’s pretty silly because I don’t have anything against anyone that works at the museum, maybe except for all the managers that think they know better. Take for instance the choice of colours in the volunteer uniform.” It was probably the best that I could come up with at the time, although I don’t really remember what I said.
“You know something?” she started, “I don’t know why I am telling you this, but I received the most beautiful gift and message yesterday.” I also couldn’t figure out why she was telling me this, or why those were the words that she said. I was genuinely confused, but also felt her happiness.
The slightly uneasy and awkward conversation was interrupted by the oncoming bus, and her movements indicated that it was time for her to go. “Maybe we’ll start talking to each other more?”
“Maybe.”
And so my eyes followed her onto the bus as it disappeared into the distance. I remember a quote saying that ‘the opposite of love is not hate but indifference’, yet I wasn’t feeling any of the emotions that I was supposed to be.
One day, when both of us find out what the other doesn’t know, maybe we’ll feel the things that we are supposed to.
P.S.
We did strike up some conversations in the following weeks, and she shared many things with me. I listened to her struggles, her hopes, her dreams, and her upcoming plans of returning to her country of birth.
The last time that I saw her wasn’t at the museum, but at an event that she was working at just before she was going to leave the country. She told me that I should come and see her after work, and I did turn up to the event to see her one last time. But I never spoke to her again, and I found the handwritten note I was intending to give to her in my desk drawer many years later.
Don Miguel Ruiz talks about every human being having a personal dream of life, and that dream is completely different from anyone else’s dream. Our dreams come from all the beliefs that we have, and it is modified according to the way we judge, according to the way we are victimized. That is why dreams are never the same for any two people. Yet how often in a relationship do we aspire to be the same, to think the same, to feel the same, to dream the same?
He also goes on to say that “in the track of love, there is justice. If you make a mistake, you pay only once for that mistake, and if you truly love yourself, you learn from that mistake. In the track of fear, there is no justice. You make yourself pay a thousand times for the same mistake.”
Have you ever read something that sounded so profound, or a quote so insightful, that there was no way to fully comprehend its meaning until you have experienced it for yourself?
Michael is a sporadic creator (who doesn’t write a lot these days). The SOUL (Science, Origami, Ux Design, Linguistics) of his existence can be found in the intersection of art and science, and at his LinkTree.
Isonomia Quarterly 