I’ll be gone for 3 weeks starting tomorrow. So my little ones, I leave you with this…

Guillan gave the floor a final swish with the mop, dumped the rag in the bucket, went down the laundry room and threw the water. That has got to be it. She was dead tired.

Grant was coming back tomorrow from his trip and she wanted everything to be sparkling clean for the occasion. Yesterday she did the windows, dusted the whole place and changed the curtains. That left her with just the toilets to clean… which she did this morning, and the floor… which she just finished. Tomorrow, all she had to do was cook. She was making pot roast, which Grant simply loved, garnished with vegetables freshly picked from her backyard.

Guillan went back upstairs and poured herself a drink… scotch, straight and stiff, one of the few habits she picked up from Grant. Damn, but her back was killing her. She picked up her glass and took it to the sitting room where she lay on the couch to ease the ache. Too much work, as if Grant would notice. He comes, he goes. That was his business. She has never come to know what he did on these trips. Grant was never one for the talking. Almost always, she would be in the kitchen when he arrives, wanting the food to be cooked just in time. That was the way he wanted it, freshly cooked. He didn’t care much for re-heating them. She would come in from the kitchen, apron strings tied snuggly on her waist and he would give her a perfunctory kiss. She’d respond with a welcome hug to which Grant would grunt, hand her his suitcase, climb the stairs and take a shower.

Sometimes, Grant would be dressed in a fresh shirt and jeans when he comes down from the room and head out the door. She used to rush to ask him where he was going, complaining that he just arrived and that dinner was almost ready. Curtly, he’d say that he was going bowling or drinking with his buddies and that’s that. Soon she learned not to care. If he asked for a beer, then she knew he’d be home to stay. Otherwise, she just shrugged her shoulders and went to bed.

Reaching for her drink, her eyes caught sight of her old picture frame perched on the end table. It was cut out of drift wood laced with shells and light-colored island gems. It was a picture of her in her old, tattered jeans and a worn jersey, frayed at the sleeves… the way young girls usually dressed in the fishing village… her village. The picture was taken the day before she left to join Grant in the city, the last day she would be wearing old jeans and jerseys.

And it all came flooding back… rising up at dawn, pulling on jeans and jersey, running barefoot to the beach, the feel of sand on her feet, of the wind tangy with the salt of the sea, in her rush to meet the boats coming in from their overnight hunt. She smiled at the memory of the friendly scuffle for the biggest and freshest fish to sell in the market, if there was plenty enough, or to take home for the whole day’s meal, if that was all the catch would allow. If she were selling it in the market, she’d be there the whole morning, and breakfast will be rice cakes and a cup of strong tea brewed from vines and herbs. Her afternoons were always free. She’d run back home, hand her earnings over to her mother and head back to the beach.

He saw the boat coming while it was still several meters off shore. Several passengers were already preparing to go down, gathering luggage, packages and children. As it docked, Ben ran to meet it, scanning heads and faces, searching for just one person. He wondered if the years and the city have caused a great change in her. They must have. The city alone does that to you. She probably wouldn’t be in jeans and jerseys anymore. But he was sure, as the sand he was standing on, that he would know her anyway. She was, after all, one of his own.

Guillan, she always had that far-away look in her eyes. Most afternoons, she’d be at the beach, watching the boat as it came in, bringing in people who’ve been everywhere… some of them visiting, some to start a new life, some coming back. Ben knew Guillan wanted to go where these people have gone. She would always tell him about what she saw watching those people… their clothes, the way they spoke and acted, their luggage. She would tell him that one day, she’d ride that boat and go some place… ‘any place away from here,’ and Ben would smile, wanting her to realize her dream more than anything, knowing in his heart that it would kill him.

Sweet Guillan. He’s known her since she was a baby… bawling in frustration cause she can’t make her brother Tom give her a ride on his bike. So Ben would pick her up and give her a ride on his. Guillan was happiest when she was on these rides, with the wind slapping against her hair and her face. She’d give little squeals of delight and wrap her arms around him much tighter. Ben loved these hugs. Even as a little boy, there was something about her that tugged at him. She made him want to protect her from anything and everything. She made him want to give her all that she longed for. Even as a child, Guillan loved going on a ride to somewhere… anywhere.

Her first day in the city had been a disappointment. Grant was late picking her up. She killed time watching people coming and going. By the time Grant arrived, she had a headache. He seemed happy enough to see that she was there, but his kiss was so different from the one he gave her when he left the island. He threw her bag at the back of the car and got behind the wheels, then waited for her to get in. The car was red and shiny and it had no roof. Guillan closed her eyes and smiled. She was starting to feel good. It felt almost like the bike rides Ben gave her… strong wind slapping her face. A loud sound made her open her eyes with a start and her heart skipped a beat. So there was a difference… Ben’s bike didn’t have a horn.

Through the years, Guillan discovered the difference between the city and her village. There were roads, and they were wide. There were buildings, and they were tall. They had bigger houses, more schools and the shops… so many of them! But she didn’t like these shops. Paying for their wares was so complicated, much more complicated than how they did it in the village where you gave your money and the shop owner gave you change. Period.

There was a lot of difference in the people too. In the city, the people didn’t take time for anything. They were always going someplace, doing something… and always, always rushing. Here, the people had shorter tempers, they didn’t wait… they expected. Even their food always had to come fast, you go to the counter and voila, dinner. She never liked these foods. They were so oily they seemed to slide down her hands before she could take a bite. And they wreaked havoc on her digestion. She also learned about, and feared, the pills these people were taking… the pills that did everything from cheer, to quiet, to kill.

And there was the difference in Grant. In the island he was sweet and he was a lot of fun. He seemed amused with everything she told him about her village and he paid her so much attention. He made her feel smart and beautiful and interesting. She felt that he wanted her to be with him so much that when he asked her to join him in the city, it wasn’t difficult to say yes. But all that has changed. For one thing, Grant was away for most of the week. When he was home, he spent most of his time with his buddies… bowling, drinking, partying and whatever else. At first, Grant would take her to these parties. She never felt comfortable around his friends though… they were loud and rowdy. They talked about money, and business and places she’s never heard of. Often, she would spend the hours just listening to them, half the time unable to understand what they were saying. Soon, Guillan began to decline Grant’s invitations. In time, he stopped asking her.


Ben remembered the day Grant’s yacht came to the shore. It was headed for the neighboring island but was having some trouble with its engine and had to stop on theirs. The yacht was so different from the boat that came in everyday. It was big and white with silver knobs at the helm. The sail flapping on the mast was of green and white stripes, with a picture of a lion overlapping a shield in the center. When the people came down, they were all wearing white button-down shirts and trousers. Ben knew they were rich people. They were noisy too, always laughing, always talking. They even had servants with them, who scampered around looking for a place where their masters could stay and get some rest while the engine was being fixed.

The villagers gathered at a distance, watching these people who came upon their island uninvited. They have never seen such opulence and marveled at the wonder of it all. They were just happy to witness such a novelty. They didn’t have it in their minds to imagine such a life, and so they watched without envy… almost considering these people peculiar in their ways. Guillan was among the crowd, watching quietly, drinking in every detail… all her dreams come alive before her.

It wasn’t long before the sailors took notice of the villagers. They noted that some of the women were real pretty. They had olive skin and round cherubic faces. Their bodies were luscious in their richness and sultry in their movements. Ben noted the way these sailors looked at the women and wanted to take Guillan away from the crowd. But she wanted to stay, saying she only wanted to watch the visitors. He nodded and walked away, knowing that she was waiting to be noticed. He sat under a tree watching the crowd, watching Guillan. He knew that pretty soon one of these sailors would notice her. She was, after all, the most beautiful woman on the village. And he was right. He sat straight, alerted as he saw the tallest of them… tanned, muscular and sporting a moustache… approach her. Soon she was smiling up at him and they were talking. After a while, he took hold of her hand and she showed him around the village.

Guillan noticed that dusk had settled. She got up from the couch and washed her glass. She thought about dinner and contemplated on whether to have the left-over fried chicken and if she wanted to have it cold or maybe heat up some soup. She decided she didn’t want any and turned to go upstairs for a bath. Preparing her bath, she put in more crystals than she normally did. Her muscles ached and she was unusually tired. She wanted more bubbles to soothe them.

Watching the foam build up, she remembered how the waves of the sea slumped to a froth as they reached the shore. She’d stand where the sand was wet and wait for the foam to cover her feet. She did this while watching the boat come in. She did this with Ben… old Ben, sweet Ben. He had always been there for her. His people were her people and they knew the same kinds of things, spoke the same language, and trusted the same age old ways. Their life in the village was so full of mundane things that it made no room for much else. So the people there lived and grew old not wanting more than what the village had to offer. They didn’t know any better, or did they? The villagers were happy people; they were simple and plain but comfortable in their haven and unadorned by scheming plans for things that were more and better. Ben wrote as soon as she left, and wrote a lot after. For some reason, she never wrote back. Perhaps because in her heart, she knew that responding to those letters would make her weaker, more unable to hurdle the vagrancies between the village and city lives.

Suddenly, Guillan was filled with such longing… for the sea, for the village and for Ben... awareness of how much she has missed them slowly creeping up her every nerve. Coming to the city has made her realize her dreams. Sadly though, some dreams, she now knew, were only good for the dreaming. Yes, the city was far grander than the village, no doubt about that. But it was only grand in substance, not in essence. Roots grow strong and sturdy where they are planted. The city has always made her feel small and lost, wanting to belong, always being left out. What, then, was she doing here?

Guillan got up from her bath. There were things to be done.

Ben remembered the day Guillan left for the city. She bought new jeans and a nice shirt from the market for the trip. She was so beautiful… haven’t left the island yet and already she looked different. They went to the beach early to wait for the boat. They made promises to write each other. He even suggested that he might come and visit her one day. All the while, she smiled and nodded while fumbling on her clothes, her luggage and her purse. Watching her as he spoke, he knew that in her heart and mind, Guillan has already left. He wrote her lots of times but she never wrote back.

Desolate at another empty afternoon, Ben walked home. He knew he’d be back tomorrow, same time. He didn’t know how much longer he’d be doing this, only that he’d do it. So long as he spoke Guillan’s name, he’d keep on hoping.

Ben was trudging along the beach as the boat pulled to shore. There were only a few passengers this time, not unusual for the season. As always, he scanned the heads in search for Guillan and stopped dead on his tracks. Could it be? Of course her skin was lighter than he remembered and her hair was cut in a different way… but she had on the same tattered jeans and frayed jersey she wore the day before she left. Guillan! Ben ran as fast as his feet would carry him, unable to stop for breath, and with arms wide open.

He caught her in a bear hug as soon as she stepped off the boat, his steps trampling on the water and splashing both of them wet.

‘Ben! What are you doing here?’

‘Waiting for you…’

‘But how did you know I was coming? I only decided last night and was unable to send word.’

‘Guillan, I’ve been waiting for you since the day you rode that boat.’

By all counts, this would seem to be a love story and it could be. But with all intent, I wanted the whole thing to be a metaphor. So if you’ve got the time, go and figure it out. Me, I just wish that my every homecoming will be welcomed by my country the way Ben welcomed Guillan… with a sense of recognition and with arms wide open.

Some of you would probably think there’s too much sentiment wasted here. Maybe so. But you probably wouldn’t know how it feels to come home until you’ve had a chance to come home. I’ve always thought it was the best part of a journey.