Flight

I am too near
for him to dream of me
there is no ocean
holding up the flight
of wind

Daughter country

THERE is a place in China called Daughter Country. There are no husbands and every night, men knock on women's doors looking for a warm bed.

I am sure that there are favorites, given the privilege of flinging open unlocked doors in the short hour between afternoon and darkness. For them, the bed comes with a cooked meal and warm lips to kiss after a shared shot of mao tai.

The children will then be sent to bed with quiet admonitions of respect and equitable distribution of attention for significant others. And the adults will play, maybe even weave dreams of life together.

Or will they?

In Daughter Country, how can you scheme to fill a bowl of rice for next day's evening meal when there is no certainty as to whom you share this bowl with? This day's catch is yours, but tomorrow's could be handed over to the lady next door. Then again, your bed will still be warm, if someone else knocks.

"Will someone knock?" you ask yourself. The trick is in recognizing his. Rather heavy because of callused working hands, the slight shuffle of feet as he waits for your greeting. What happens if you open your door and find his friend smiling sheepishly?
Do you close the door on his friend's face and wait for that right knock, except that you hear it answered next door?

Ah! Many envy the lives of women in Daughter Country. Imagine, being able to choose the man you wish to be with! Your prerogative to have someone different every night or just one for the whole week.

But that is cold comfort.

We all live for forever. Chucking our choices for that one favorite who sees himself growing old beside you. A choice between hangover mornings and quiet nights nursing coffee with a shot of brandy. A choice between comparing notes and conversations about growing mangoes.

But still, how I envy the women of Daughter Country! Their ability to ask for no more than a night, a quick toss in the hay without so much as drunken good byes in the morning. Instead, we are tied to the burden of generations of tiyas and their unwritten rules of womanly conduct. One night has to mean forever.

Or, should it? Who says we have to hide under the cover of tequila and vodka? Unhappy spirits that fling the cloak of repression off our shoulders. Throw the rulebook to the stars and ask them to rewrite it! Maybe they will laughingly fling it back at you and say there are more interesting things under the night sky.