Last night, I was talking to my father after mum had drifted
off to sleep. After the crisis, my parents have been under rough weather. Tough
times usually complicate matters and so the fabric of home has become a little
twisted lately.
I brewed some tea and in the dim light of the lamp, my
father told me stories about the history of Gengis Khan and Akbar. When I
listened to him, I wondered what kind of a person he was. One wouldn't think
that so much crisis had befallen my father lately, or even through the course
of his life. Something about the way my father tells stories or talks about
distant histories of civilizations during troubled times like this...something
about this anachronistic storytelling feels like walking through this rich and
evergreen forest. You look around and you see that maybe some trees have been
felled or some flowers have wilted and little portions may be dead for right
now. But all this is just a trickle of time, a moving trace across an expanse
that seems to go on and on but the forest knows that it's just a season.
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