Fissures

by Artyv K

 

In my hometown, the saman tree stands proud like a tyrant, its lush-green canopy wide despite the land under its foliage cracking in thirst. This is our family tree, nana tells me, though if I crane my neck and glance at the road outside our fencing, I can spot several of these giants hogging the length of 3rd street. It’s six thirty in the evening; the leaves of the saman are drooping in deference to the setting sun, and my grandmother is brimming with stories that may not be wholly true. We haven’t had rains in a while (indeed, that much is true). Cracks run through the crust, forming shapes and maps, some elements of perfect geometry while others like a child’s doodle. They converge below the surface of the earth, carrying away memories of thunderstorms and rain. Where do these jagged lines end? Where do these cracks lead? Do the chasms hollow out to a whole new world below? A molten kingdom where perhaps Fisher King still lives on— broken, wounded and waiting to be healed.

Anarchy begins in the bowels of utopia. And if it should be found anywhere, anarchy must linger here, brewing at the bottom of these chasms. A revolution waiting to germinate. 

“You’re going away,” nana remarks as she potters about the saman, the so-called ‘ancestral’ tree.

 

“What kind of place is it?”

I muse over the answer and tell her I don’t know.

“Some people say it’s Xanadu,” I tell her. “Life is perfect over there. Not like here.”

“No place is perfect, child,” nana dissuades me promptly. “You’ll get bored of it, mark my words.”

It’s been three years since I came to Xanadu on a work permit. It’s been three years of being confronted with utopia daily until my eyes now long for chaos, and my heart bleeds for a revolution. I see order — on roads and railroads, in the fenders lining up five paces behind each other, traffic lights blinking a steady and predictable array of colours, bay waters calm and supine; I see order even in the changing seasons. 

Aggravated, I sit in the commute back from work, the perfect end to another utopian day, and I’m reminded of the saman tree and the cracked patch of land it grows on. Because of him. Across the train car, there’s a man sitting on a beanbag. He’s sitting in the space reserved for bikes, earning himself odd looks from his fellow commuters. He is the aberrant in this picture, an anomaly in the grand scheme of Xanadu. There are plastic foils wrapped around his ankles, his dreadlocks matted and dry. Did he fall through the cracks? Is he looking for his molten kingdom too? 

In him, I discover a kindred soul, a comrade in arms.

Our transit rolls to a stop at Union City.

The man jerks awake and collects his bean bag in a hurry. He rushes for the door before looking over his shoulder and realizes he’s dropped some garlic on the floor of the train car. He returns for his treasure trove, scooping them up into his fingers as if each clove of garlic is his ambrosia and a ticket to a better place, and he dashes for the exit again, dragging himself and his things through the warning beeps of the transit.

I watch him scamper down the platform steps, falling through the crack. The doors shut, and the train leaves for another town dying under the weight of glass and mortar.

It’s alright, comrade. 

The revolution will come, I insist to the space reserved for bikes where the man had once parked himself.

I’ve sowed the seeds of anarchy already, doing my bit by stealing office stationary. 

We’ll just have to wait for the rains.