There were once three women, wise and bold, who travelled far in search of a miracle foretold. Some say they were witches, some say they were queens. Perhaps they were none such and nothing in between. Across seas and deserts they roamed afar, to chase after a falling star. Three wise women, they walked like kings. Three wise women, these gifts they did bring…
The Queen
You suggest a new place. We always eat the same things, you say. But they are safe, I counter, and you jolly well know we do not have a good track record in trying new places. There’s always a first time, my dear, you coo, perhaps we shall break the string of bad luck this time.
Of course, the steamboat restaurant we choose turns out to be abysmal.
This is okay. The hot clouds of steam that rise from the pot endlessly help to mask my tears. They come eventually though I try hard to prevent them. It’s over, I say, it’s final. Why does my heart hurt so bad, I ask, why? It feels horrible. No one said this was going to be a real, physical pain. It hurts so bad, I wail.
You hold my hand. Palm covering palm. You do not tell me that I will heal and then find another. You do not tell me I deserve better and will so discover. You do not tell me this will pass with time. You just hold my hand and tell me you are so sorry I am hurting and that you would do anything to stop the pain if you could. You can’t. We both know that. But your hand over mine, palm covering palm, perhaps that is all the balm I can handle for now.
I shake in rage and remorse. You never let go, not once.
The Diva
I have just told you the truth. You are not saying a thing. You just look at me, a stern face.
You should have told me earlier, you say. I ought to beat you, you add.
You beat me anyway, I say, you are a violent woman.
Idiot, you hiss but that got you smiling any way. I know you well.
I have always known, of course, you say. It certainly took you long enough to come out. How about the rest?
The rest?
Datin and Boy Boy – surely you don’t think you are getting away without telling them?
Oh dear. I haven’t thought of that. This is when you take over. We will invite them over to your place for dinner, you say. Make sure you have alcohol, you add. There’s the wedding vodka Manuel and Gosia brought me from Poland. That will do, you say. Get them drunk and it will be easier.
In the end the wedding vodka helps mostly to get me drunk and it isn’t easier at all. It takes one shot, then another, and another, before my entire revelation is complete. You are there beside me the entire time, holding my hand, my unexpected saviour and my best friend. You never let go, not once.
The Poet
The air smells of garlic.
This is strange, I say, I can swear I smell garlic. You chuckle and tell us it’s wild garlic we are smelling. Their white flowers pop out from the green, green bushels. A fragrant landscape, fit for eating.
Devil bends down to smell a flower. It really does smell like garlic, he says. She told you already, I say. Devil doesn’t like garlic or anything aromatic. I like perfumes, he says. Brandwhore, I accuse. You’re worse, he replies.
You keep smiling at us, and ask us if we want a photograph taken. We nod immediately. This is our first time in Bath, our first time travelling together. It feels special. It is special. We want memories captured and preserved. We are tourists and young lovers. It’s what we do.
We wade into the middle of the sea of wild garlic. I wrap my arms around him, nice and snug, my face close to his. I can smell him smiling at you. I smile too, for the camera but also for you. I see our joy reflected in your face. You have always told me I would find love again, that I will be happy one day. You were certain. You have prayed and held on to your hopes for my happiness. You never let go, not once.
There were once three women, wise and bold, who travelled far in search of a miracle foretold. Some say they were queens, some say they were dreams. All I know is that they were never what they seemed. Three wise women, they stood like kings. Three wise women, oh what gifts they have been!
Epilogue: The three behind the three
— MEENA —
I flirted shamelessly with Meena the first night I met her, in plain view of the entire restaurant and despite the fact I knew she was happily married. I couldn’t help myself; she was intoxicating. Here was a woman so full of life, and full of desire for more. It was both alarming and arousing.
It was really her intelligence and warmth that made me hers for life. A friend, yes, not a mate, but I guess we can’t have everything. We have been through so much together over the years and no one has quite encouraged me with my blog as she has. I trust her judgement and her taste. I trust her.
So it was to her I turned when I had my worst break-up ever (even worse than when She Who Shall Not Be Named locked me up in her apartment and wouldn’t let me go till I threatened to call the police – I eventually called The Mom of She Who Shall Not Be Named instead). Not many women could handle sitting opposite a grown-up man crying in public. In a dodgy steamboat restaurant no less. But Meena did.
And time passed. The pain lessened, then disappeared, replaced with gratitude and forgiveness. And friendships grow and deepen. As they should, if we do it right. And Meena and I have always been so right. (Pity she’s already taken. Damn.)
I love her.
— NISA —
We dated for two hours, the final two hours before New Year’s Eve became New Year’s Day and fireworks filled the night, the sky. We were both completely drunk, of course.
It seemed a good idea at the time. We were at a mutual friend’s party, got absolutely smashed and then met each other. Dating for the remainder of the year, why not? As I held this astonishingly beautiful woman in my arms (mainly to prevent her drunken ass from falling onto the ground) and she pointed at random stars/bursts of fireworks and named them one by one, I sort of fell in love, just a little bit.
Of course we broke up once the fireworks died down. The next morning I was gone (back to my own bed in my apartment; it was more comfortable) and you woke up on our friend’s couch not remembering my name, even. Little did I know that this sort of randomness and casual disregard for continuity was going to colour our friendship for the rest of our lives.
Nisa and I have accused each other of emotional torture and sexual harassment, taken the other to emergency wards and sat through various crises. She has approved (or disapproved) of my partners, given her blessing to just one (the current fellow, thank goodness). We shout at each other a lot, our laughter a thunderstorm, the roar of a stadium. When we sing, children cry. (Really.) We have never travelled together for fear of being blacklisted by various airlines.
No one else calls me on my bullshit quite as often or vigorously. This girl has balls (and wouldn’t think twice of smacking me with them if I misbehave).
I love her.
— PEY —
You cannot help loving Pey. She has that quality about her which brightens up your entire day. A smile, a kind word, a generous energy that emanates the entire distance from Bath to Kuala Lumpur. I sometimes call her my pixie, my Faerie Queene, my wise White Witch – all these cheesy, rubbishy fantastical names because, quite simply, she’s magic. (And that’s not rubbish.)
I remember her telling me she liked Before Sunrise and Before Sunset, and I knew at once she was a romantic too. I remember sitting in the audience listening to her read her poems, and there it was – the romance and the magic, perfectly wrapped up in her words and her verses. Pey is as haunted by words as I am – the daily cravings to put pen to paper, the withdrawal symptoms if we don’t.
We don’t see each other very often, once a year if we are lucky. The distance does that. And we are busy, we are. Our lives take over. It’s easy to lose touch, to disappear. But never disconnect.
We write letters, and every word I read brings a smile to my face or a tear to my eye, every sentence and every verse a drop of romance, a smear of magic. Pey reminds me there is so much good and beauty in the world. Pey reminds me to write when I don’t. She reminds me why I have to.
I love her.