Home Is Where The Heart Is

A long time ago I sold most of my things, packed the rest in a case, and sank my savings on a one-way ticket to somewhere far away. It was by no means the first time I’d done it, not to mention the countless times I’d nearly done it, but it was the last. I was a dreamer, and an impulsive one at that, always looking for what other people called “home”. Had there been affordable tickets to the moon, I might have tried there. As it was, I planned to start in Thailand and work my way around Asia, as that seemed the likeliest continent.

I have mentioned a certain car accident in previous musings, and it’s perhaps worth mentioning again, as it was really far from accidental, or incidental. I was visiting another city to say some farewells, a week before my Asian departure. The drive almost prompted a departure from my earthly frame instead. Not only was my life miraculously saved though, it seemed replaced by a brand new one: new eyes, new ears, a new heart and new aspiration. What could, (and perhaps should), have been a disaster, was a mystifying blessing, and it changed me for good.

“What!? Will you live in a hut made of straw?” asked an incredulous school friend in her nice clean semi-detached house, nursing her nice clean child on one knee, as I drank tea on her matching 3-piece-suite. “Bangkok?? Do they have buildings there?” It was then I really wondered that we ever had anything in common, and it was then I realised that we no longer did. From various others I heard that Bangkok was especially AWFUL / unhygienic / unsafe / unsavoury / undesirable in every way. Needless to say I didn’t take their word for it, especially since none of them had been there.

Still euphoric from the previous week’s miracle, I fell hopelessly in love with Thailand, especially Bangkok. Nothing could repel me, so besotted was I. The scent of drying fish or the aroma of an open drain were only parts of a greater mystery, and thus enchanting. I lived in a state of wonder and thankfulness, a new-born child in a full-sized body, fervently exploring a world I’d so nearly just left behind on the westbound M5.

I arrived at the start of monsoon. From a veranda I would watch the sky as it jealously gathered navy blue cloud with long grey fingers, until its arms could hold no more, and the whole hoard was spilt on the earth at once. The traffic thickened and curdled, borders between road and path were eaten away by hungry torrents, where sandalled feet sloshed towards any cover they could find. It was at those times I liked to go for a walk.

I went out bare-headed, daring myself not to flinch as the salvo pummelled my back and shoulders. I would faintly distinguish the whites of eyes and the shouts of the locals as they insisted on my coming under whatever they had as shelter. Giving me up as a lost cause, and not wanting to save me badly enough to follow me into the deluge, they let me carry on to further shouts and gesticulations ahead. I found after my first outing that acid rain was the reason for the general uproar—the shirt I was wearing, washed and worn countless times, had bled its colour. My skin was dyed blue from the shirt and my eyes were ruddy, but it didn’t put me off doing it again. That sort of rain was made to be enjoyed.

That year bore the most extreme flooding for two centuries, which I considered highly auspicious. Everything seemed to carry on as normal, just at a slower pace, and with rolled up trousers. Shops stayed open, but just didn’t make use of the lower shelves. My favourite form of transport was the river bus, whose service was completely uninterrupted. It was the fastest way to anywhere, especially then, and my favourite haunts—the temples—were never far from one bank or another. It was all part of the fun wading knee or thigh high to the jetty through what was normally a boat terminal, discovering the hard way where each type of boat did and didn’t stop, and on which side of the river. No direction can be the wrong direction on an adventure anyway.

My favourite temple was Wat Pho—a 20-acre site with many elegantly spired temple buildings, and over 1000 images of Lord Buddha. I loved to visit the largest, reclining 46 metres long and painted gold. He lies in such a small temple building, that going inside is exquisitely overwhelming. I imagined he walked in there at human height, then expanded to fit the room in a huge golden bliss, and has stayed there ever since, smilingly in repose.

I loved the people most of all—their fine features, sweet smiles and refined etiquette. One only need witness the roadside industries and mobile market stalls to know that this is about as far from a defeatist or self-pitying race as it’s possible to be. A country that has resisted invasion for as long as Thailand would necessarily have a resilient strain, retaining depth and purity of culture, as well as a few quaint idiosyncrasies. Ironically, the country believed by my kinsmen to be frighteningly unevolved, I found to be far more civilised than my own; at least in the qualities that matter to me most. In soulfulness, sweetness, happiness, kindness, nobility, and respect for others, they are centuries or even millennia ahead.

I took a job teaching English to employees of a Japanese motorcycle company. My students would arrive around 7am and I would stay with them until they started their working day (whence my own work ended and my temple tourism commenced!). The lessons were not compulsory, but rather mildly encouraged by the employer, so those who turned up were of a particularly positive and grateful disposition, even for a particularly positive and grateful country. As a conversation exercise I once asked a lady with a modest vocabulary what she had done before coming to the office that morning. I expected she would know such words as “breakfast,” “toothbrush,” and so on, but that was not nearly enough. She had risen at around 4 to perform various complex medicinal tasks for her ailing mother in a different house, then to pray for around an hour in various ways, followed by the dressing, feeding and dispatch of various children into the care of others, so she could leave by 6.30 for a voluntary English lesson.

I adored them all, and got to know them well. Through such warm and open smiles as they had, vocabulary was no barrier to friendship. They asked me to eat with them on the evening of my last day. It was an elaborate outdoor restaurant with very traditional fare. They seemed hardly to eat at all, so busy were they passing me new things to try, and making sure my bowl was never less than half full. Every mouthful was watched by many pairs of eager eyes. There was a conspicuous table laden with wrapped boxes, which I naturally assumed was for another party. But then ensued a formal presentation for me, with accompanying speeches, followed by a box from each person. Apparently it is a high compliment to buy someone a gift for the home. I was soon trying to carry more huge decorated table lamps and carved wooden animals than I could even fit in a taxi. I gave them so little, and yet they seemed to receive so much. Ironically, I’m certain I learned much more from them than they learned from me. Also ironically, I was sure I had found home at last. Months later postcards would arrive at my mother’s house (the only sure address I could give) in neatly scribed and charmingly broken English, signed by one or all of them.

I once imagined I would stay there forever, but Destiny had other plans. She somehow convinced me that I was badly needed in England; that I should spend any money I’d saved on a one-way ticket back, and forget my love affair with Thailand. I dutifully obeyed, to find not only that I was not required where I thought I was, but neither was I welcome. I was in Bristol at the start of winter, a long way from family, and no longer knowing who my friends were. I had no money, nowhere to live, no job, no belongings, and no way to get back to my Asian “home”. I would have been inconsolable, had there been anyone there to console me. All the unutterable beauty and joy I’d seen in everything had gone, or at least I no longer had eyes for it.

Destiny knew what she was doing though. In tricking me to come back, she was giving me a deeper happiness than I could have imagined; it just took a little time to see it that way. Stripped of all I called safe and beautiful, I had no choice but to cry to God and to meditate. The seed of spiritual searching was sown a long time before, but it took some fairly arduous conditions for it to blossom.

My inner myopia healed completely within a year. Gradually, through Sri Chinmoy’s teachings, I discovered that building the outer life on a foundation of inner strength cements it into something infinitely more abiding, meaningful and beautiful. At last I realised, as Destiny had known all along, that home is where the heart is.

“Like the deer who runs
To and fro
Looking for the musk,
You will discover that
The supreme Reality
Is inside your heart.”
—Sri Chinmoy
From Seventy-Seven Thousand Service-Trees, part 16

Photograph by Kedar Misani