From the car window, I could see birds flying in rows. I could not tell which lands they were heading to or coming from. Suddenly, the fear of flying that I had felt when I was about to embark on a journey to distant lands after graduating from university, driven by the twist of fate, resurfaced. Back then, I was flying towards my future; strangely enough, the same feeling took me back to the past. I was also carrying the tears of the disciples of Ahmad Yasawi. I added the Syr Darya and Amu Darya rivers, as well as the Mekong River. I was going to street corners to construct my sentences of love. I didn’t want to sit on benches and watch life go by while people passing by asked, “Where are you going?” Yes, “Where to?” “Life, where are you going?” Every drop of ink flowing from the pen, every person passing by, every second passing from life, every blood vessel traveling through the veins, and every tear shed from the eyes. Where are you going?
Just like the days-long journey of the disciples of Ahmad Yasawi, I also completed my journey by changing three planes and traveling by road in a vehicle. Mekong had opened its arms and became a home, a friend. These red lands where the sun rises found color on the cheeks of slant-eyed people. I found life in their color, my path was illuminated.
When I got hungry, the “tom yum” soup that appeared in front of me was like a summary of my life. It was hot as if flames were coming out of the mouth, but it was equally captivating. I still couldn’t figure out the ingredients in it, but I can’t forget the effect and charm of this soup.
The hot weather on rainy or rainless days and the culture of spicy (or non-spicy) food didn’t make things any easier! Especially the monsoon rains that lasted for months! It was like eating something sweet after the spice.
Mekong hosts many beauties. Its muddy water didn’t diminish its beauty. Even when taking a boat ride, the fish and “sticky rice” on the table generated a distinct flavor that left a lasting memory. This sticky rice, as its name suggests, could stay intact without falling off as long as it wasn’t torn apart like bread.
I don’t know what poems or stories everyone has filled into their youth, but I returned home from Mekong, where I spent my youth, with a bouquet of memories. Each one had a different color, scent, and language. It was the most precious and special gift that remained from my youth. Nowadays, it accompanies my memories from where the sun rises to where it sets.
