Tai (*in english, 28 illustration)

Thinking it over, Tai gave a nod. He’d never met his father’s family; his maternal grandparents had passed not long ago. His mother had no siblings; she’d inherited their house and, selling it, paid the family’s sea vacation.

He turned out to have no one but neighbors still remembering him back there. None of them would probably care to take him in instead of sending him to an orphanage where he’d rather not end up. But what other choice he had? This paradise island took away everyone who cared about him.

“I feel like a spirit myself,” the boy muttered. “Nowhere to go. No one waiting.”

“You’re not a spirit,” the old man countered. “You’re alive. More alive than ever. You’ll stay missing until the time is right. I’ll try to secure new documents for you, as a refugee.” The mentor stood and extended his hand. “Come.”

“Where?”

“It’s about to rain. It will distract you, and you need to focus. We’ll find a sheltered spot for meditation and discuss everything there.”

“Rain?” Tai looked up at the sky, which only had a couple of small clouds. The weather seemed pleasant, the sky tranquil. How could it rain?

The old monk smiled. “Trust my old bones. They’ve known many fractures. The rain will be heavy.”

Climbing the temple stairs, Tai caught his breath and gazed at the sky in bewilderment. The wind had quickly brought clouds, changing the scene as if flipping a slide in a presentation. Rain began to fall suddenly, like a wall of water. Extending his hand from under the roof, Tai watched the raindrops linger on his palm.

The abbot and the novices had disappeared. Alone, Tai rang the temple bell and watched the puddles quickly form in the courtyard.

His hands gravitated back to the bell. He felt an overwhelming urge to ring it, filling the air with its melodious sound. Tai dreaded the silence. It felt like it could rip him apart from the inside.

Touching his belly, he muttered quietly to himself, “So much void inside. It’s not noise the rain makes. It’s mourning all the dead.”

“Are they treating you okay here?” a squeaky voice asked from behind.

Tai turned around. Alyona stood there, playing with her braid, the flower-shaped clip securely in place.

“Yeah,” the boy replied, shaking his head.

He scrutinized his sister. His imagination conjured a scene of her being swept out of her bed by a massive wave, or caught by surging waters on her way to breakfast, then violently thrown against a wall, her neck twisting before she could comprehend what was happening.

Maybe she was still asleep and never understood what happened? Is that why she has no bitterness?

Yet, Tai resolved never to ask his sister if she remembered the moment of her death.

“I’ll come to you every time it rains,” Alyona added. “Is that okay?”

“Yes. I miss you. Please come,” he blurted out, then fell silent, tears welling up in his eyes. He struggled to hold them back.

“I miss you too. Don’t worry. I’m here for you,” Alyona declared and smiled again. “We’re family. A family sticks together.”

“Yeah.”

“Chin up, brother. When the sea’s calm, I’ll take you to the dolphins.”

“Okay,” the boy smiled through his tears, much like the monk often smiled.

“You can call me when on the seashore or by any water. I’ll come,” his sister promised and then vanished along with the fading rain.

Tai closed his eyes and wiped the tears away with the back of his hand. No, the rain wasn’t crying. It was his soul shedding tears. Where were they all coming from, that much water? How could he stop them?

The abbot reappeared in front of him, holding a small plastic basket filled to the brim with elongated, round, orange fruits. He pulled out a folding knife, expertly sliced open a ripe mango along its pit, and handed it to Tai. “Eat. These are mango fruit. Sweet. Juicy.”

Tai took the mango with a hint of reluctance and sniffed it. The mango even smelled sweet. When he tasted the ripe fruit, the sweet juice was better than honey.

He bit into the flesh, juice running down his fingers. The mentor smiled contentedly and quickly cut another fruit, handing it over. “Eat. You need to regain strength. Then wash your hands, and I’ll teach you to look within.”

“How do I do that?”

“We’ll meditate. You need to learn serenity. It’s multi-layered. Anxiety serves no purpose. What you need is silence. Peace of mind.”

Tai nodded and asked, “When will I have this peace?”

The monk sighed. “All in good time. Life and death walk hand in hand. They work together. You just need to learn to see it. Take our sexton Gatun, for example. He’s eighty-two.”

Dalai Tisein pointed to Gatun, who’d settled on a bench at the temple steps and dozed off, leaning against his broom. “He’s lived a long life filled with labor and responsibilities,” the abbot went on. “He’s experienced love, separation, loss, and joy. His mind isn’t as sharp as it used to be, but he remembers his dark days and cherishes bright memories. Gatun has found peace, forgiven everyone, and let everything go. Now he simply waits for the transition. He awaits it with a serene curiosity, filled with inner harmony.”

“Is he dying?” Tai realized.

“His joints ache with pain, and his eyesight is fading,” the old monk sighed. “He’s ready to go, eager to be free from this pain. Yet, he’s not rushing death. Gatun is ready to befriend it, to accept it as his guest. But you… you too need to accept that death walks alongside us. But there’s no need to fear it. Your sister…”

“Alyona isn’t death!” Tai declared firmly. “She’s kind. She just doesn’t want to leave without me. To go… go there.”

The old man nodded. “Tai. You need to bear in mind that neither she nor anyone else should be calling you There. As long as you’re breathing, you’re needed here. Your soul made this choice when it entered you with your first cry, or your first stir in your mother’s womb—depending on what you believe in. Which faith is closer to your heart. What do you believe in?”

“I don’t know.”

The old man gave another nod. “It was your own choice to come into this world to learn specific life lessons. Until you understand them, there’s no reason to leave. And until you make room for other souls, you have no right to leave. Souls are immortal. They are always journeying, but one soul gives a birth to another. This is the cycle. Not only your personal Samsara but the breathing and heartbeat of the Universe.

“Death is but a small segment of this path. As long as the wheel of Samsara turns, we live on. We get reborn to learn new lessons. But someday, we will all reach Conscious Emptiness and hear its Silence. For that is where everything began. And that is where everything will end.”

Tai nodded, unsure what to say to the old man. What could he know about the afterworld if he could only feel it but not see it? It’s like a blind man discussing mountains he’s never traversed.

“So, souls come into this world,” the boy repeated. “Do you have children? Did you give life to someone?”

“I had,” the monk said, his expression darkening.

“What happened to them?”

“The sea took them,” he replied, becoming somber.

Tai was curious for details, but the monk looked so sad the boy didn’t feel right pressing him.

“You know what? I’ll stay on this island,” Tai said firmly. “May the sea never take anyone again.”

“Let’s hope for the best, Tai,” the old man sighed. “Let’s hope.”

Two months later, in February 2005, as Phuket’s life began normalizing and most hotels were restored, Slava Demchenko would be declared missing.

The abbot of Wat Ko Sirey would check the lists and realize that without a body and international concern, there was no case. With no family interest or bodies to claim, the Demchenko would soon be forgotten. Slava wouldn’t be remembered during the internment of Russians. Marked as missing, the gray-haired teenager would live a quiet life at Wat Ko Sirey temple, dedicating himself to serving Buddha and assisting the old monk, Dalai Tisein.

Thailand would never again endure a disaster as crushing as the one in December 2004, but the Kingdom would learn its lesson and take action.

The collective grief was not in vain. The kingdom reviewed its mistakes and soon fortified its beaches by deploying twenty-two buoys. These would form a modern, advanced tsunami monitoring system. The buoys would become part of a national alert system for giant waves caused by undersea earthquakes. On the beaches, loudspeakers would be installed to warn tourists and locals about tsunamis well before the giant waves could reach the shore.

Thailand had learned from its mistakes, and corrected them.

Chapter 7 – The White Forest

On that day, Dalai Tisein woke Tai up before sunrise. Instead of the usual routine of exercise, breakfast, and prayer, the mentor led him to a motorcycle and handed him a helmet.

“What about practice?” Tai asked, already getting accustomed to the physical demands, the omnipresent fatigue, and the constant ache in his muscles—which, strangely, had become the most pleasant kind of pain.

“Today we’re going to practice at Mai Khao Beach,” the monk declared.

“Mai Khao?” Tai repeated, unfamiliar with the name.

“It means White Forest,” the old man explained. “Though there are hardly any white trees left there. If we earn enough money, I’ll show you the Sirinat National Park. You can still find white trees there.”

“Where is it? Is it far?” Tai asked with a yawn.

He’d explored the area around the temple over the last week, but the prospect of venturing to a new place was thrilling—a new adventure, new emotions, and new spirit animals, which he was beginning to accept as part of everyday life.

Tai had started to classify the astral animals and other creatures he noticed around people. A few days of observation had taught him that these creatures reflected either a person’s character or their mood. Sometimes, they even served as a person’s guardian spirit, often unbeknownst to them.

The only creature Tai had ever seen around the monks was a white dragon, spotted with the abbot of another temple. Dalai Tisein was probably right about it being a family totem.

But what does that mean? Is it like a guardian spirit, but better? Stronger? Tai pondered. But his mentor wouldn’t elaborate on that. Perhaps he didn’t know the answer either.

Tai yawned again, promising himself to explore this mystery later. The world was revealing its secrets to him gradually, one at a time. For instance, he’d noted that Phuket was less humid than the Russian Far East, making his sleep more restful, breathing easier, and exercise more enjoyable. Or was it just the tropical sun?

He wasn’t bothered by mosquitoes or gnats here, unlike during similar heat back home. He felt fully rested after just six hours of sleep, plus he’d grab an extra hour’s nap in a hammock by the temple at midday when the sun was at its peak and the abbot sent him to rest in the shade after lunch.

The monk had mentioned that the Kingdom did have mosquitoes but mainly in the north, which was farther from the coast, with more forests and swamps.

“The beach isn’t far. It’s on the northwest coast,” the old man finally answered. “We’ll get there in less than an hour. The northern beach was spared by the tsunami. It’s wild, with barely any… what’s the word you call it? Barely any amenities, yes. The coast is steep. That’s why the big wave hardly reached it.”

Tai frowned. “That’s good.”

Any mention of the tsunami dampened his mood. However, the monk couldn’t completely avoid this topic. As a compromise, he’d quickly shift the conversation to something more pleasant. “At Mai Khao, you’ll find mangrove trees and casuarinas,” he added. “They’re known as Thai pines. Europeans love setting up pines for Christmas, right?”

“Pines?” Tai perked up. “Wow! Of course, we love them. I wanna see them. Let’s go.”

Tai was already used to palm trees with green coconuts around the temple, nearby banana trees, and ginger plants. The bright plumeria flowers the monks used to decorate Buddha statues or give to tourists with blessings lasted a long time without wilting and were nearly scentless. Plumeria garlands were worn for beauty or given as offerings to Buddha. With added candles, these flowers served as the only source of light at night.

The manat bracelets, tied around the wrists, were particularly popular with tourists. These amulets, charged with protective energy, were given out at temples, meant to be worn until they naturally unraveled. Made from rough fabric, they often lasted several months. However, few tourists knew that after a month of wearing a manat, it could be removed and tied in a car or at home for good luck, or even hung on an item of clothing—but only above the waist.

With careful handling, manats could last for several years, but in that case they became hazardous. Due to frequent contact with skin, they collected dirt and became breeding grounds for bacteria, particularly in a hot climate. Hence, monks prohibited gifting them; they could only be passed on to those in immediate need of a blessing.

Tai had seen manats getting charged by monks, acquiring a glow—and probably a healing power.

Grabbing his helmet, Tai sat behind his mentor, wrapping his arms around the monk’s waist. His hands were bandaged. The mentor had soaked boxing wraps in aloe, which turned them black, and wrapped them around the boy’s hands to expedite healing on his scraped knuckles, preventing infection. Tai really shouldn’t have struck the pillar with full force only a few days into his practice.

“For every punch, there are consequences,” the mentor told the boy, instead of lamenting. He actually liked his student’s perseverance; he’d only step in when Tai’s effort began to harm himself.

Dalai Tisein started the motorcycle and immediately accelerated in second gear. The old man rarely shifted gears, probably fearful of losing his slippers to any abrupt foot movement.

Or maybe he doesn’t want his robe flapping in the wind? Tai guessed. Unaware of the monk’s exact reasons, he still resented the moped moving too slowly. His mentor could totally use a scooter with an automatic transmission and handlebar levers for gas and brake.

You don’t even need slippers to ride it. You can do it barefoot. But the temple must be really strapped for cash if their abbot is working side jobs.

So the boy held back his scooter advice. Poverty isn’t a vice.

They moved slowly along the designated two-wheeler lane, riding almost at the roadside, allowing anyone who wished to pass. In the early morning, these were mainly three-wheeled tuk-tuks, where a mobile mini-kitchen had been attached to a motorcycle instead of a sidecar, with a canopy stretched over it protected the vendor from rain and sun.

The canopy was stretched directly over the metal rods welded to the motorcycle and the makeshift sidecar. It was a home-built solution, yet no Thai police officer ever stopped them. They were neither a traffic obstruction nor a danger to their riders. Why fine those who worked and survived as best they could? The government preferred to stay out of it, lenient toward off-the-books incomes. Their earners did pay some taxes, after all.

The motorcycle moved unhurriedly, giving Tai plenty of time to take in the surroundings. Thailand was mourning its dead. The spirit houses, found near every café, restaurant, home, and office, were overflowing with candles and flowers placed as offerings alongside photos and prayer sheets. Temples were open around the clock. The overloaded island airport mostly received military planes. All charter flights were canceled, and local flights were diverted to the nearest airport of Krabi, two hundred miles away from Phuket.

Planes were continuously flying overhead. The arriving military and rescue teams were restoring order on the island, cleaning up the affected beaches, and clearing debris. Tai wasn’t aware of these efforts but noticed that the locals’ usual sabai lifestyle—laid-back, unhurried, and measured—had accelerated in recent days. In the disaster’s wake, everyone moved more, prayed more, and made concerted efforts to help those affected.

The old monk knew that all locals had voluntarily shortened their daytime breaks. The tsunami aftermath had shifted their focus towards the salvation of soul rather than bodily needs, making the island’s temples unusually crowded. All except Wat Ko Sirey, where two novices and the sexton were in no rush to conduct proper rituals for everyone who came to pray to Buddha. Few were willing to take the long hike to get there.

As they traveled, Tai noted a lot of Muslims among the local commuters. Women in hijabs were a common sight, speeding along on motorbikes, browsing roadside shops, and riding pickup taxis. These pickups often had plank benches installed in the back to transport more people; some had a canopy shielding the passengers from the sun. Safety measures like seat belts were absent, but the police didn’t interfere unless the driving was reckless.

Tai could’ve never distinguished Muslim women from Thai Buddhist women if not for their specific attire—the hijab. They worked, raised, and educated their children just like the local women. It was even harder to tell Muslim men apart from Thai Buddhist men since they wore the same plain clothing.

Just short of the Sarasin Bridge connecting Phuket to the mainland in the north, Dalai Tisein turned towards the coast. Exiting the island at that time was problematic; a checkpoint was set up checking documents of all non-military and non-police transport, causing a substantial queue. The monk was well aware of that, keeping in touch with various parts of the island during these tough times. He chose not to risk taking Tai, a foreign boy without ID, beyond Phuket’s borders.

Parking his motorbike in a palm tree’s shade, the mentor stood on the seat, picked a couple of coconuts from the tree, and briskly walked towards the sea. Along the way, he poked a hole in each coconut with his folding knife and handed one to his student, albeit without a straw.

“Drink. The Kingdom’s sun will always dry you out. Whenever you get the chance, drink as much fluid as you can.”

“Thank you.” Tai accepted the gift reluctantly. To him, coconut milk tasted like soapy water. He only drank it because it was excellent at quenching thirst.

Tai loved scraping out the coconut flesh afterward, but reaching it was a challenge with the small hole the mentor had made. Asking for the knife to use with his bandaged hands felt awkward, so he decided to wait for a better time.

Mai Khao Beach stretched along the coastline for eleven miles. The first thing that struck Tai, after tossing his empty coconut into a nearby trash can at the parking lot, was the complete absence of tourists.

It wasn’t just the early hour; the beach was deserted and wild, with no umbrellas or vendors. No jet skis zipping along for amusement. Along the sandy stretch to the rocks, as far as the eye could see, Tai only spotted a lone fisherman. He’d cast his rod into the incoming waves or throw a net into the receding waves, pulling fish into a basket at his side, or catch shrimp with a small, handy net and stuff them into the basket as well. The best catches would soon be delivered to nearby restaurants; the rest would make his breakfast.

As the sun began to rise above the horizon, the morning freshness dispelled the lingering gloom from the tsunami’s aftermath. The mentor walked to the sea, wet his toes, and took a deep breath. “It’s going to be sunny all day,” he declared, then briskly trotted south.

Tai didn’t even bat an eye. Dalai Tisein’s weather predictions were better than those from the meteorological center.

“I’d rather take a walk,” he dropped. “The national park is at the end of this beach, and we’re at the very start. Let’s test your endurance on the sand.”

“Are we walking eleven miles?” Tai asked, not particularly thrilled by the challenge.

Trudging that distance in light sandals was unappealing. Tai had quickly ditched the sneakers he was accustomed to from his home country. Good for running, they became stifling and overheated in this climate, feeling like walking on hot coals. And without socks, sand got inside.

The mentor had trained him to get around the temple barefoot, or in sandals for longer distances. Tai accepted this local custom, but the temple had no spare footwear in his size. He had to wear sandals a size too large.

The markets these days were not well-stocked. Trucks loaded with goods often languished at military cordons. A state of emergency had been declared across the country, all entertainment events canceled as Thailand mourned its losses. The Kingdom entered a period of recovery.

“And the same distance back,” Dalai Tisein added with a smile. “I’m not about to waste extra money on park tickets for both of us. Funds are tight.”

“Are we sneaking in there?” the boy wondered.

The monk raised an eyebrow. “Sneaking in? I was born long before they cordoned this place off in 1992. What right do they have to charge for access to a public place? We’ll enter from the sea, through the back door. Of course, that’s if you still have the energy to marvel at the pines.”

The pines, right! Tai remembered and picked up his pace.

His attention was soon captured by a large military airplane, painted dark green, coming in for a landing somewhere at the end of the beach, near the cliffs. Tai realized the airport was very close to the beach. He’d never been into watching airplanes, but here by the Sirinat Park, they seemed to take off and land right overhead.

I wish I could hop on one and fly back to Russia to see the snow again, Tai thought wistfully.

But no one was waiting for him there. That dampened his spirits again.

His disappointment was immediate. The local pines were nothing like those back home. Instead of coniferous needles, these tall trees had deceptive horsetail-like leaves, so small they indeed could be mistaken for needles.

Approaching a casuarina, Tai inhaled deeply, hoping to catch that scent reminding him of the New Year celebrations. But the scent was different as well. Moreover, the tree didn’t look much like a pine because of its trunk shape and broad branches.

Losing interest in the fake pines, Tai noticed an abundance of hammocks. Made from fishing nets or rough, woven fabrics, these were a common sight, hanging from sturdy trunks by every café. All Thai people, no matter where they worked, indulged in an afternoon rest on a hammock on any day that wasn’t a mourning day.

The sun was already scorching early in the morning. Few were eager to work under such intense heat. Yet, no one was resting either. The Thais seemed to find a compromise; they worked at half their strength, spending more time in the shade and waiting out the heat.

Heavy labor was reserved for early morning or late evening. At dawn, elderly owners of a beachside restaurant were already busy clearing debris around the trees, tidying up the area from fallen leaves and fake needles, and picking up stray trash.

“Maybe we should help them?” Tai suggested. “Will they pay us?”

“If you want to help, never ask about pay,” the monk chided him, but then added, “But you’re right, we’re looking for paid work. These elders work for their own pleasure. They start it early, before the heat sets in. We shouldn’t disrupt their enjoyment of life.”

“Okay.”