You broke the silence first.
“So, I’ve been wondering: do we have free will?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I read an article that everything we do is controlled by these chemicals. You and me falling in love: that’s a chemical. Jessica and James breaking up: that’s a chemical. Kevin’s one night stand: chemical.”
“So, chemicals control me? What about this?” I reached my palm out in the rain, thinking I could feel it drip down my palms.
“Yes, but also other people, other environments, other factors can affect–”
“Wait, hold that thought, is this rain falling down?” My fingers felt my dry palm.
“Wait, no, your palm isn’t even wet from the rain.”
That evening, rain didn’t really fall down – it more so fell up. In an instant, water would ripple inward on the sidewalk and shoot straight up. Where this rain came from – I couldn’t tell. But you said that the clouds wanted our heartbreak back, and that we didn’t deserve any more of their tears.
We both knew that was a lie.
Clouds don’t have free will. Rain drops don’t have free will.
“But does gravity have free will?”
“Of course, not. We think it does – but I mean, that’s why Pynchon named it Gravity’s Rainbow. Gravity goes up,” you paused – gesturing with your hands diving down – and continued, “and then, it goes down.”
“Hey, you’re melting.”
“I know. And I love you. You and I are like candles, And eventually, we have to stop burning.”
I kissed you, and shared your lips’ warmth before the rain washed you away.
“I know letting go is difficult. When I lost my wife, I was drowning in this inexplicable blob of grief. But we have to trudge forwards, however slowly, and keep our lost loved ones in mind.” My therapist tells me.
“How? He just melted. Just like that.”
Remember, candles don’t have free will.
“I think you need to accept the fact that people,” he pointed his pen to both of us, “will depart. Not melt like candles. No, they’ll pass away, and once you accept that, you will find the path forward. I know you will.”
And I – especially I – don’t have free will.
“How do I move on?” I take off my leather jacket and set it on the chair behind me.
“By telling me, who do you grieve?”
Hearing another voice, I looked up from my thumbs and saw you on the lounge chair, hands folded on your lap.
Suddenly, a red sedan swerved around you, and your beautiful black hair danced in front of your eyes, on the next lane of the freeway.
You still didn’t make eye contact with me.
“Do you remember this freeway?” The grass lining both sides of the freeway swayed at the boom of your voice.
And then I recalled the words of a wise armadillo, Sambavan, who exclaimed: “Oh, the terror of human machinations!”
“No, this can’t be.”
“Yes, it is.” You looked up and stared into my eyes, and through your eyes, I could see the disdain you held mine in.
…You see, Sambavan was crushed by a drowsy, overworked truck driver named James, whose eyelids relented to his exhaustion and – without realizing – remarked on Sambavan’s death: “Huh, a hump in the road.”
…That hump in the road made James, Sambavan’s unassuming killer, enter a deeper, drowsier trance…
“Is this I-10?” I asked.
“Yes, James. It is.”
…When James woke up ten minutes later, his semi had been hurled across I-10 in Sealy, Texas and his torso was dangling sideways.
“Wasn’t Sambavan your older brother once?” Another car – this time, a 2005 Ppontiac – approached your lane of the freeway. Its lights, grill, and bumper flickered blurrily in the distance.
“Yeah, back when I was Shamanthakamani.”
“And who taught you how to shatter the windshield?”
“Sambavan raised me… to become an opera singer.” I replied.
…Panicking in the overturned truck, James recalled what he taught his son the weekend before: Look sonny, you ought to use the divine pitch. Then, you’ll shatter even the toughest glasses in the Sydney Opera house.
“Sambavan wanted you to do opera in Sydney and become the best of the best. And then you died. And then you killed your brother.”
… James, of course, shattered the windshield with a voice of Pavorotti, climbed out of his truck, and returned to teach his son opera next weekend.
“Wait, but aren’t you–”
To this, you brought your finger to your lip and shushed me: “No. I’m not him, yet. Looks can be deceiving.”
“But–”
“If you want to find him, you must go to the broken clocktower.”
“What broken clock tower?”
“Don’t worry about it. You’ll find it in your next life.”
“How?”
Your face lit up in a condescending smile and pointed your index finger to my left. The Chrome Pontiac – trying to avoid collision with you – had turned into my lane, hurtling towards me at 80 miles an hour.
“Blow the hole,” the captain commanded.
And we climbed the ladder through the freshly-blown hole, and one by one, all five of us – with our trench coats and fedoras – streamed onto the roof of the Private Securities Building. The roof overlooked the rolling Palouse hills. But this wasn’t the Palouse as you and I knew it.
It was the concrete Palouse, covered with streets, streetlamps, and artificial rivers – like arteries of a beating heart. In between these arteries were the Venetian-style houses and apartment, and at the center of it all, was this city’s undeniable heart: the clocktower.
Pointing to the clocktower, the captain remarked: “That’s our target. We have to get there before they get there.”
Then the lieutenant added: “But they don’t know the city like we do.”
My mouth spoke for me: “And they didn’t know Sambavan like I did.”
“Who’s Sambavan?”
“An armadillo murdered by James”
“Who’s James?”
“What’s an armadillo?”
“You guys better focus!” The captain clapped her hands.
The lieutenant unleashed his well-timed thoughts, “I want you to remember what the clocktower was once like. It stood three hundred feet high above those terracotta roof tiles. Now, its body sways and dances and curls – as if it’s become some lizard’s tail.”
“You know the formation. Now, we must save our clocktower!”
In a matter of seconds, the roof showed no sign of the fedora-hatted troupe, except me. A few weeks ago, I spotted a nice scented candle shop and had the sudden urge to visit it. Dropping to the cobblestone streets, I made my way to the scented candle shop…
It was almost evening when I arrived at Sam’s Scents. Looking through the shop window, I immediately recalled the candles I saw a few weeks ago: Pumpkin Spice, Cinnamon, Squash Melancholia, and Euphoria.
“Come on in,” an older brown woman invited me in, with her gentle hazel eyes, and I followed her in – the chime of doorbells floating through the shop. “We have a wide variety of candles. Whatever you want, we have it.”
Virginia creeps grew on the oakwood walls, and I could feel melon, tangerine, and (surprisingly?) ghee, teasing my tongue. Tables – filled with candles – filled the shop.
“Would you like a specific scent?”
I thought for a few seconds, and a certain scent came to mind: “Do you have saffron lemongrass?”
She smiled once again: “Follow me to the back.”
Walking carefully through the shop, I wafted the scents of Jasmine, Vanilla, Eucalyptus until we reached the backdoor.
When she opened the door, I saw a dimly-lit staircase that descended into the indeterminable darkness.
“Please, follow this staircase.” And so, I did, for hours.
The staircase was cavernous – water dripped up the limestone, moss grew in the dimmer spots between lanterns, and stalactite occasionally appeared from above.
It was clear: his cavern was made first, and the staircase was built second…
Eventually, I reached a flat clearing. At the center of the clearing was a singular candle, and the cavern’s damp odor subdued its scent.
The entire cave trembled, and that’s when I noticed: a hundred-foot long concretion hung from the cave’s ceiling. The round rock was covered in dark brown squares, and at its tip, calcite protruded another ten feet, right above the candle.
At that moment, I realized: that wasn’t calcite, no it was his head –
“Shamanthakamani, is that you?”
“Yes, Sambavan, it is.”
“Ah, so you saw the clocktower!” He laughed heartily, “Well, that’s my tail!” His laugh boomed through the cave.
“How come you don’t hate me? I killed you.”
He chuckled, “Oh Shamanthakamani, how could I hate you? How could I hate anyone? You were my little sister, my world, my everything.”
I couldn’t bear to see Sambavan’s face.
“Look, chinna. Look here. I want you to see my face. I love you more than anyone. You see this candle below me. It’s flickering, and it’s the last one – for me.”
Pathetically rubbing my tears, I cried, “No, no, don’t leave me, please!”
“Chinna, chinna, it’s okay. Don’t cry, please”
“Okay. Okay.” I steadied myself.
“Now, look into my eyes.”
So, I peered into his jade eyes. And through his pupils, I saw my reflection, submerged in an indescribable love, an indescribable warmth – but a describable aroma: saffron lemongrass.
“So, I’ve been wondering: do we have free will?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I read an article that everything we do is controlled by these chemicals. You and me falling in love: that’s a chemical. Jessica and James breaking up: that’s a chemical. Kevin’s one night stand: chemical.”
“So, chemicals control me? What about this?” I reached my palm out in the rain, thinking I could feel it drip down my palms.
“Yes, but also other people, other environments, other factors can affect–”
“Wait, hold that thought, is this rain falling down?” My fingers felt my dry palm.
“Wait, no, your palm isn’t even wet from the rain.”
That evening, rain didn’t really fall down – it more so fell up. In an instant, water would ripple inward on the sidewalk and shoot straight up. Where this rain came from – I couldn’t tell. But you said that the clouds wanted our heartbreak back, and that we didn’t deserve any more of their tears.
We both knew that was a lie.
Clouds don’t have free will. Rain drops don’t have free will.
“But does gravity have free will?”
“Of course, not. We think it does – but I mean, that’s why Pynchon named it Gravity’s Rainbow. Gravity goes up,” you paused – gesturing with your hands diving down – and continued, “and then, it goes down.”
“Hey, you’re melting.”
“I know. And I love you. You and I are like candles, And eventually, we have to stop burning.”
I kissed you, and shared your lips’ warmth before the rain washed you away.
“I know letting go is difficult. When I lost my wife, I was drowning in this inexplicable blob of grief. But we have to trudge forwards, however slowly, and keep our lost loved ones in mind.” My therapist tells me.
“How? He just melted. Just like that.”
Remember, candles don’t have free will.
“I think you need to accept the fact that people,” he pointed his pen to both of us, “will depart. Not melt like candles. No, they’ll pass away, and once you accept that, you will find the path forward. I know you will.”
And I – especially I – don’t have free will.
“How do I move on?” I take off my leather jacket and set it on the chair behind me.
“By telling me, who do you grieve?”
Hearing another voice, I looked up from my thumbs and saw you on the lounge chair, hands folded on your lap.
Suddenly, a red sedan swerved around you, and your beautiful black hair danced in front of your eyes, on the next lane of the freeway.
You still didn’t make eye contact with me.
“Do you remember this freeway?” The grass lining both sides of the freeway swayed at the boom of your voice.
And then I recalled the words of a wise armadillo, Sambavan, who exclaimed: “Oh, the terror of human machinations!”
“No, this can’t be.”
“Yes, it is.” You looked up and stared into my eyes, and through your eyes, I could see the disdain you held mine in.
…You see, Sambavan was crushed by a drowsy, overworked truck driver named James, whose eyelids relented to his exhaustion and – without realizing – remarked on Sambavan’s death: “Huh, a hump in the road.”
…That hump in the road made James, Sambavan’s unassuming killer, enter a deeper, drowsier trance…
“Is this I-10?” I asked.
“Yes, James. It is.”
…When James woke up ten minutes later, his semi had been hurled across I-10 in Sealy, Texas and his torso was dangling sideways.
“Wasn’t Sambavan your older brother once?” Another car – this time, a 2005 Ppontiac – approached your lane of the freeway. Its lights, grill, and bumper flickered blurrily in the distance.
“Yeah, back when I was Shamanthakamani.”
“And who taught you how to shatter the windshield?”
“Sambavan raised me… to become an opera singer.” I replied.
…Panicking in the overturned truck, James recalled what he taught his son the weekend before: Look sonny, you ought to use the divine pitch. Then, you’ll shatter even the toughest glasses in the Sydney Opera house.
“Sambavan wanted you to do opera in Sydney and become the best of the best. And then you died. And then you killed your brother.”
… James, of course, shattered the windshield with a voice of Pavorotti, climbed out of his truck, and returned to teach his son opera next weekend.
“Wait, but aren’t you–”
To this, you brought your finger to your lip and shushed me: “No. I’m not him, yet. Looks can be deceiving.”
“But–”
“If you want to find him, you must go to the broken clocktower.”
“What broken clock tower?”
“Don’t worry about it. You’ll find it in your next life.”
“How?”
Your face lit up in a condescending smile and pointed your index finger to my left. The Chrome Pontiac – trying to avoid collision with you – had turned into my lane, hurtling towards me at 80 miles an hour.
“Blow the hole,” the captain commanded.
And we climbed the ladder through the freshly-blown hole, and one by one, all five of us – with our trench coats and fedoras – streamed onto the roof of the Private Securities Building. The roof overlooked the rolling Palouse hills. But this wasn’t the Palouse as you and I knew it.
It was the concrete Palouse, covered with streets, streetlamps, and artificial rivers – like arteries of a beating heart. In between these arteries were the Venetian-style houses and apartment, and at the center of it all, was this city’s undeniable heart: the clocktower.
Pointing to the clocktower, the captain remarked: “That’s our target. We have to get there before they get there.”
Then the lieutenant added: “But they don’t know the city like we do.”
My mouth spoke for me: “And they didn’t know Sambavan like I did.”
“Who’s Sambavan?”
“An armadillo murdered by James”
“Who’s James?”
“What’s an armadillo?”
“You guys better focus!” The captain clapped her hands.
The lieutenant unleashed his well-timed thoughts, “I want you to remember what the clocktower was once like. It stood three hundred feet high above those terracotta roof tiles. Now, its body sways and dances and curls – as if it’s become some lizard’s tail.”
“You know the formation. Now, we must save our clocktower!”
In a matter of seconds, the roof showed no sign of the fedora-hatted troupe, except me. A few weeks ago, I spotted a nice scented candle shop and had the sudden urge to visit it. Dropping to the cobblestone streets, I made my way to the scented candle shop…
It was almost evening when I arrived at Sam’s Scents. Looking through the shop window, I immediately recalled the candles I saw a few weeks ago: Pumpkin Spice, Cinnamon, Squash Melancholia, and Euphoria.
“Come on in,” an older brown woman invited me in, with her gentle hazel eyes, and I followed her in – the chime of doorbells floating through the shop. “We have a wide variety of candles. Whatever you want, we have it.”
Virginia creeps grew on the oakwood walls, and I could feel melon, tangerine, and (surprisingly?) ghee, teasing my tongue. Tables – filled with candles – filled the shop.
“Would you like a specific scent?”
I thought for a few seconds, and a certain scent came to mind: “Do you have saffron lemongrass?”
She smiled once again: “Follow me to the back.”
Walking carefully through the shop, I wafted the scents of Jasmine, Vanilla, Eucalyptus until we reached the backdoor.
When she opened the door, I saw a dimly-lit staircase that descended into the indeterminable darkness.
“Please, follow this staircase.” And so, I did, for hours.
The staircase was cavernous – water dripped up the limestone, moss grew in the dimmer spots between lanterns, and stalactite occasionally appeared from above.
It was clear: his cavern was made first, and the staircase was built second…
Eventually, I reached a flat clearing. At the center of the clearing was a singular candle, and the cavern’s damp odor subdued its scent.
The entire cave trembled, and that’s when I noticed: a hundred-foot long concretion hung from the cave’s ceiling. The round rock was covered in dark brown squares, and at its tip, calcite protruded another ten feet, right above the candle.
At that moment, I realized: that wasn’t calcite, no it was his head –
“Shamanthakamani, is that you?”
“Yes, Sambavan, it is.”
“Ah, so you saw the clocktower!” He laughed heartily, “Well, that’s my tail!” His laugh boomed through the cave.
“How come you don’t hate me? I killed you.”
He chuckled, “Oh Shamanthakamani, how could I hate you? How could I hate anyone? You were my little sister, my world, my everything.”
I couldn’t bear to see Sambavan’s face.
“Look, chinna. Look here. I want you to see my face. I love you more than anyone. You see this candle below me. It’s flickering, and it’s the last one – for me.”
Pathetically rubbing my tears, I cried, “No, no, don’t leave me, please!”
“Chinna, chinna, it’s okay. Don’t cry, please”
“Okay. Okay.” I steadied myself.
“Now, look into my eyes.”
So, I peered into his jade eyes. And through his pupils, I saw my reflection, submerged in an indescribable love, an indescribable warmth – but a describable aroma: saffron lemongrass.