curry1
the room is small, but well organised. a kitchen sink stands opposite the large balcony windows. if one were to peer out, one would make out the scattered treetops and a few bungalows here and there, before the land opens out into a wide expanse of water, the lake shimmering white in the warm spring sun.
a few tribal masks, a small bookshelf with classic Japanese literature, a short rack on the outside for one to dry their clothes, and the usual kitchen cutlery and cups. they line the walls of the room. it is a homely place, where the slanted rays of the sunset lightly caress the tatami flooring. a singular kotatsu sits comfortably in the center of it, its four sides lined with plush cushions, a strange sight for such a traditional looking place. it seems to beckon at us, the yellow and blue a splash of pastel in the dull-coloured room.
let me know if you need anything else, our host calls from outside the door. her clipped british accent sounds strangely out of place, garbled and alien even, after hearing weeks of Japanese. as her footsteps echo down the steps, you sigh, throw down your luggage and plop down on one of the cushions. i watch the cushion surface crumple under your weight, a ruffle spreading out, puffing up its blue surface.
the seiko clock on the wall reads 4:36pm. you look expectantly at me, cocking one eyebrow. dinner? i ask. no shit, you reply, all rough edges, voice laced with irritation. a grimace escapes my lips inadvertently, and i move to put on my sneakers.
*
shifting trees, swaying in the spring wind. their leaves make the shadows dance along to the tune of the sun and the season. we walk along in silence, each step sounding jarringly loud in the gentle silence that wraps us in. languidly simmering in the pot of time is this moderately warm spring evening, with the expanse of the empty countryside road stretching out before us. the hills loom over from behind us, the mountain gods watching our uneasy journey down the slope.
a bend in the road, a tall green sign, neatly printed japanese lettering. kanji, that was what they called it, was it? 2 weeks into japan and i still was unfamiliar with it. if you'd had realised this much, you would be amusedly disgusted. this thought brings a smile to my lips.
something hot spring to the left, you translate clumsily, looking over at me. i wordlessly turn to the left, and i hear you hurriedly jog over to keep up with me.
*
bored out of your mind, you fall back into your old habits and start humming a familiar tune. vaguely wondering where i may have heard it before, i preoccupy myself with admiring the quiet countryside sights. of how a couple of awkwardly green maple leaves litter the ground, of how the pink camellia japonica flowers gives it a sprinkle of colour. of how crisp and clean the air tastes, even this late in the evening. the smell of japanese curry drifts out from one of the houses.
two drifters off to see the world, i suddenly found myself singing along to it. you're beside me now, still humming. theres such a lot of the world to see. you're smiling, lips faintly slanting upwards. we're after the same rainbow's end. the smell of curry gets stronger. the lights ahead of us seem to sparkle in the lengthening evening rays. waiting around the bend.
“my huckleberry friend,” your warmth seeps through my thin cardigan, the warmest i've felt in a long time.
curry for dinner it is, then, i announce to no one in particular, hints of a smile forming on my lips.
💐