Meritocracy is such an intuitive concept that defining it feels redundant. Politicians across the ideological spectrum continually return to the idea that the great rewards of life: money, power, jobs…university admissions, should be distributed according to skill and effort. The ‘even playing field’, they call it, where little players in this grand political game rise to positions that fit their ‘merit’.
Conceptually, the meritocracy is the opposite of systems like monarchy i.e hereditary wealth and advantage are based on merit not a windfall of external events. And although it is widely held, the belief that merit rather than luck determines success in this world is demonstrably false. This flaw in this belief stems from the fact that merit itself is a result of luck. The merit in question depends a great deal on one’s parents, their parents and upbringing.
When I say this, it is nothing against the rags to riches success stories we see around us. Bill Gates’, Albert Einstein’s, the newspaper man’s son’s stellar success. These people beat the system and I congratulate them for it. But what of Bill Gates children vs your children. For sure, Bill Gates child is going to end up at Harvard or another such ‘prestigious’ university. Based on talent, maybe… but did that talent originate from the private schools and fancy tutors, and dad’s connections. Again, this is nothing against Bill Gates and his kids but here’s when I come back to luck intervening by granting people merit. Sure, the industry rewards successful people, however it does show us that the link between merit and one’s life outcome is barely indirect at best.
What I have stated is unsurprising, and most people are nodding their head. Yet everyone buys into this meritocracy and participates in this competition. This is even more surprising because inequality is the core of the meritocracy. The ‘even playing field’ is intended to avoid unfair inequalities based on gender, race, socio-economic standings, and the like. It’s ironic really because a meritocracy is an attempt to eliminate these kinds of inequalities but lands up causing them.
We can start to think of this as early as college admissions. Brrrr. After reading articles about what goes on inside prestigious college institution admission rooms, I am so confused about how I’m even here at UNC. To get into a prestigious institution you need to be flawless, never experience anything but success, you need to have hobbies such as sailing, or water polo or rowing, you need to be and, in their words, ‘well rounded or really pointy’. When does an average person ever have the resources to pursue such niche, expensive hobbies? If they fail, they don’t have their parents’ money to cover their mistakes up. They don’t have SAT tutors who feed you that perfect score.
I once heard that the ‘SAT measures income not academic ability’, and I don’t think I’ve agreed with a statement more.
The meritocracy is widening this gap between the elite and the average person. Only a select few people get into Harvard. This scarcity issue is manufactured, spots at Harvard aren’t valuable… they’re scarce. With their money they could double their student population but to maintain Harvard as Harvard and to make this path to the elite narrower and narrower they don’t.
So, we’ve established the meritocracy paradox and the spiraling inequality that stems from it.What now?
The first step in my eyes is recognizing the flaws in our meritocratic system. Acknowledging on a political level that privilege, and systemic advantages and disadvantages play a greater if not equal role as merit in defining one’s life outcome is essential. Then efforts must be made to actually create a level playing field.
The first, most important way is education. As of today, elite universities, prestigious private high schools to elementary schools provide intensive educations almost exclusively to the wealthy (already elite). I don’t see any reason why these institutions can’t educate 2 or even 3 times the students they do now, and why these new students can’t be from outside the elite circles. This would help widen this narrowing path to a good education across the country and would create more opportunities for more and more people. At the same time the elite aura around these schools would reduce.
I think this will have the most brilliant chain reaction of all. Less stress for students, collaboration rather than cutthroat competition, freedom to actually make mistakes, and best of all encouraging them to be who they want rather than a textbook student that these institutions do.
Even later in life, as these new group of students grow older, they are likely to be happier and pursuing passion rather than prestige. There would more space for everyone, and instead of the top 5%, we all would be better off.
The second is fiscal policy. Only when the law is on the side of the middle-class man will he actually have a shot at success. I am talking about income taxes. A study found that ‘middle class labor is the highest-taxed factor of production in our economy’. We are in a technological revolution where the rewards to replace these people with super skilled workers (the elite) or robots is greater than hiring them. The proposal I talk of is to switch this. Create incentives to hire these workers, create new technologies that a) create more jobs, and b) help these workers.
I will stress again, that these solutions in no mean will magically solve the meritocracy, as of now nothing can. Humans will always be selfish and crave to be elite. As a species we are power hungry and greedy. So, there is no stopping it. However, making it a better meritocracy and eliminating some of the problems like inequality through these solutions would be a start.
Throughout this essay I have overused words such as elite and prestige. The sooner these words stop becoming people’s life goals will be the sooner we are to eliminating meritocratic inequality. Only by acknowledging and addressing these flaws can societies move closer to achieving true equality and justice.
Bibliography:
1. Markovits, D. (2020, January 9). How meritocracy worsens inequality-and makes even
the rich miserable. Yale Insights. https://insights.som.yale.edu/insights/how-meritocracyworsens-
inequality-and-makes-even-the-rich-miserable
2. Sandel, M. J. (2021). HOW MERITOCRACY FUELS INEQUALITY—PART I The
Tyranny of Merit: An Overview. American Journal of Law and Equality, 1, 4–
14. https://doi.org/10.1162/ajle_a_00024
3. Deresiewicz, W. (2023, November 15). Don’t Send Your Kid to the Ivy League. The New
Republic. https://newrepublic.com/article/118747/ivy-league-schools-are-overrated-sendyour-
kids-elsewhere

It shall explore the fascinating way in which trees communicate with each other through chemical signals and root networks, revealing the complex social lives of the forests.

Bibliography (CSE Style Citations)

1. Wohlleben P. The hidden life of trees: what they feel, how they communicate: discoveries from a secret world. Vancouver, BC; Berkeley: David Suzuki Institute / Greystone Books; 2006. doi:9781771642484

2. 1. Wohlleben P. The secret wisdom of nature: trees, animals, and the extraordinary balance of all living things: stories from science and observation. Billinghurst J, translator. Vancouver, BC; Berkeley: David Suzuki Institute / Greystone Books; 2019.doi:9781771643887

3. 1. Stebbins RC. Connecting with nature: a naturalist’s perspective. Arlington, Va: National Science Teachers Association; 2012. doi:9781936959891

4. 1. Horton TR, editor. Mycorrhizal networks. Dordrecht: Springer; 2015. doi:9789401773959

Essay::

In the heart of an ancient forest, once upon a time, a new life was born. A life that began as a tender shoot reaching and grasping for dappled sunlight through the leafy canopy above.

Through the cycles of seasons, and years passing by the tree bore witness to a symphony of life unfolding around it, a symphony conducted not through birdsong, the rustle of leaves or the patter of rain but through the secret language of trees, a covert dialogue woven into the fabric of our existence.

A humble oak tree stands guard in the viridian green tapestry of the woods. Its roots branch far and wide and intertwine with the bountiful tapestry of the earth. It is a complex tangle of life concealed beneath the soil, a network that extends far beyond the reach of its humble

branches. In this hidden underworld, mycorrhizal threads weave an intricate narrative. It is here that the tree discovers the first whispers of the secret language that draws this infinitely green conglomeration together.

Mycorrhizal; tiny fungal threads that wrap around thick tree roots. Winding all around the forest floor, the mycelium forms a wood-wide web that allows individual plants to help one another transfer water, nitrogen, carbon and other minerals.

A long time ago, the sapling felt a gentle nuzzle of the wind, a whisper, a sound, a message carrying tales from distant leaves. As the sapling’s roots grew deeper into the soil, it became a participant in a dialogue that transcends spoken word. It was a chemical language, letters and

words written in soil, carried by breeze and shared through the underground fungal networks that maze the earth beneath our feet.

Soon the little sapling found its parents. Whose seeds had birthed this new life. Through this newfound network, the parents passed the little sapling water. When the soil wasn’t fertile enough, they sent it nutrients. The sapling found that it had a family.

As the tree grew older, it came to learn of a theatre of botanical drama in the nexus. It discovered that the network wasn’t just used to share resources but to steal them as well. It saw a thieving plant extend its tendrils into the mycorrhizal network, pilfering the photosynthate,

the lifeblood from a nearby tree. It saw its nexus of hope and love become a spectral courier and an accomplice to the larceny, ferrying carbon from the vulnerable tree to the robber. It found that much like humans; it was only the survival of the fittest.

In tree language, secrets aren’t exchanged through petty gossip, but through the release of chemical signals.

One day the tree was suddenly attacked. A group of insects descended with hunger and greed and threatened to strip its leaves bare. At that moment, instead of crying for help the tree released a set of volatile compounds in the air. This chemical whisper was carried by the trees to warn its neighboring companions of the impending danger. It was a message encoded in the air we breathe. It was an urgent plea to fortify themselves.

The neighboring trees, wise to its distress, altered their own chemical compositions and lifted their defenses by activating certain parts of their immune system against the common foe. In this show of resilience, the forest formed bonds unseen by a casual observer. It was a pact of survival, a testament to the interconnected lives that pulse through the forest.

As the seasons passed, the tree better understood the nuances of this chemical symphony.

Every tree, whether pine, birch, maple or oak contributed their own notes to this grand composition. The pine sang of its fortitude against the winter breeze. The birch hummed with adaptability, bending gracefully in the wind.

In the spring, as the buds stretched open from their winter slumber, and the first leaves emerged there was a sense of joy in the air. The chemical signals exchanged during this season carried a scent of hope and abundance.

As summer came around, it brought with it a new energy. The lush green leaves harnessed the sun into energy that courses through the tree’s veins. The mycorrhizal network, buzzing with activity, became a channel for the exchange of nutrients, a grand market spread beneath the

soil.

And then winter. Everything was slower in winter. The once bustling network slowed down and chemical exchanges became rare.

The mycorrhizal threads beneath the soil, the wifi that connected all the trees together, not only helped the trees share nutrients but also share the essence of their existence. When one among them surrendered to the ravages of diseases, the entire network mourned. Through this web, the demise of one tree became collective and was felt by every tree.

Through this secret language, the tree came to understand that though its life was rooted in one place, it was part of something much bigger, a grand narrative that exceeded beyond the reach of its bark and branches. The whispery rustles of its leaves and the sway in its branches and the chemical signals it released were all a part of a grand saga. In the secret language of trees, it not only found survival but a sense of belonging.

inding Nemo was the first of many Disney movies I watched growing up. From these movies I could quote countless lines and reenact scenes without a thought, but if you told me to quote Hamlet, I would be blank. So, the question stands, what has shaped me more and what has molded our generation into who we are today?

Disney was most our first examples of how people interact in the world and is THE model that children grow up seeing. Through movies like Finding Nemo, it shapes how individuals view themselves and one another. All this is to say that Disney’s narratives contribute to the ideologies we carry into adulthood.

Finding Nemo is not just a compelling story of a cute clown fish, it is in fact a showcase of Disney’s ability to seamlessly integrate profound themes in its stories without being preachy. The mainstream storyline is the adventurous journey reconnecting dad and son. But in Finding Nemo I discovered a sunken treasure – a multifaceted representation of disability.

Unlike the other fish, Nemo is born with a physical disability of a small fin which he affectionately calls his ‘lucky fin’. Throughout his life, he has learned to adapt to it, portraying this as a testament to his confidence. At his school, a microcosm of a diverse society, his peers embrace and admire him, showcasing the importance of acknowledging and celebrating differences.

Contrary to assumptions, Nemo swims just as proficiently as his peers, challenging the narrative that disabilities limit individuals. The film delicately unfolds Nemo’s journey, reflecting the real-life experiences of people who defy expectations, even in the face of underestimation from those closest to them like Nemo and his father Marlin. Nemo’s disability becomes an integral but positive part of his identity, transforming him into a teacher of valuable lessons.

What makes this movie standout from the conventional narratives is its refusal to reduce Nemo’s character to his disability. Unlike many stories, the movie avoids the pitfall of typecasting Nemo into the stereotypical role of a disabled person facing continuous misfortune.

Instead of emphasizing Nemo’s physical difference, the representation of disability is presented as a socially created concept, rather than a state of body to which value judgements are assigned. This helps portray his ‘disability’ as a playful element in the movie.  I think it is this approach that allows the disability aspect to seamlessly blend into the narrative, subtly floating past the mainstream audience. The success of diversity in this movie lies in the non-traditional portrayals of disability, presenting a more relatable representation. In the end, Marlin learns to trust in Nemo’s capabilities, and the movie disapproves the stereotypes about disability and Nemo is triumphant.

Another factor contributing to Nemo’s normalized portrayal is the diverse range of aquatic companions and sidekicks in the film. A standout figure among them is undoubtedly Dory, the lively blue tang and Marlin’s sidekick who is easily one of the most recognizable and popular characters in the film. Dory, however, suffers from chronic short term memory loss. Although her condition presents challenges, in the film it becomes a source of comical charm. Her uniqueness is evident when she proves to be the sole character capable of reading English and speaking whale, showcasing her extraordinary abilities that transcend her disability. Dory’s adaptability also shines though as she navigates key moments in the story revealing a character whose abnormality is not a limitation but rather an endearing trait. This is important as ‘how individuals are portrayed in popular media can have a profound effect on how they are viewed by society at large’. Marlin recognizes Dory’s vale despite her adversity and would not have been able to complete the journey without her.

Some other additions to this lively cast that make this more representative of society than most animated movies include Marlin who grapples with anxiety and trauma following the loss of his wife, introducing a layer of complexity rarely explored in animated films. Jacques, the shrimp in the dentist’s fish tank who exhibits obsessive compulsive tendencies adding another dimension to the diverse cast in this film. There are also the very humorous, ‘Vegetarian Aspiring Sharks’ engaging in their 5-step program. Each step in the program satirizes the typical stages of self-help or addiction recovery programs, adding a commentary on the societal expectations and assumptions imposed on individuals. Look at it closely! This movie is an ocean of representation.

All of the remarkable, “abnormal,” even freakish characters in “Finding Nemo” swim with and against the undertones, and neither “overcome” their so-called physical and intellectual “problems,” nor prevail “in spite of” them, as conventional narrative and stereotypes would prescribe. And as for graphic illustration, they far exceed their two dimensions.

he party hall is almost ready now, chairs, banners, balloons and an explosion of every single colour of the rainbow. To the far right is the popular pin the donkey and to the left a table, stocked with every child’s dream a mountain of cupcakes and a sea of every candy available in the local retail store. Next to the entrance sits a bare and eager table designated for gifts, the only one excited for the horror to come. With the squeak of the last balloon being twisted into shape, the hall is ready, it is the last moment of silence, the queen of this land before she surrenders her throne to the phantom of the children’s army.

 And with that a melting pot of asynchronous florescent footsteps burst through the the entrance of the hall, may the queen of silence rest in peace. Among the chaos a grown man, possibly the party organizer, sinks in a sea of hyperactive 3 year olds, desperately trying to create a method to this madness. As if the cacophony weren’t enough the overhead speakers begin to blast with the oh so familiar notes of the “Wheels of the Bus” melody partaking in a growing mess of discord.

The once proud mountain of evenly stacked cupcakes is now a cascading landslide. Stubby uncoordinated hands grab and snatch for the brightest cupcakes complacent to the structure crumbling down. Within moments the floor is covered in grease and frosting, one must be careful to not stand in one place for long for their shoe might get stuck. The only thing that seems to be building up is the pile of gifts. Sheets of dinosaurs greet those of princesses and the striped and the polka dotted ones beam at the top of the hill and Loosely tied bows and ribbons intertwine through the lot. 

I carefully maneuver my way through a maze of chatty mothers gushing about their child’s latest achievement and a pair of judgy eyes from the only teenager here and wind my way up to the cupcakes. Eyes shut I throw my hand into the fire pit/wresting pit hoping to score and after the 2 most traumatizing minutes of my hands I land up with a cupcake. The base of the cake is lost under the gargantuan heap of frosting, the only rainbow that hurts my eyes. I bite into it, my teeth sink into the velvety texture of the cake, 2 seconds of bliss before the sugar takes my taste buds on a dreadful roller coaster. The sugar migrates across my tongue causing it to twitch and turn in agony. 

However, when one observes carefully, there lies an orchestra among the turbulence, an orchestra of exuberant children, music that transports you straight to your crib and happiness beyond belief.

eople always talk about the calm before the storm. How the day flips from being quiet to  dangerous how there is a period of unusual tranquillity before it. But I never really understood  that.  

For me it was always chaos before and the calm, the calm came after. 

I am in school, I can see the clouds. They gather, a silver fade, from the strongest of greys to  the softest of whites and have commanded the skies today, unforgiving…un-nerving. They are  molten silver, dragged downward by the rain that holds it in its delicate frame. Soon the clouds  will struggle to withstand the burden of the weight and give in. Next comes the wind, the  enchantress stirring the trees into a vortex of dance. Tiny twigs and little leaves flurry across,  waltzing in harmony. Suffocating…I know. 

The real chaos is here. In the school as parents scramble to collect their children. Even the  storm waits, for it knows never to get in the way of a concerned mother and her child. As time  flies and the clouds conglomerate into a breathing mass of destruction, panic crescendos for the  few left waiting. I am still waiting. 

The real chaos is also on the street opposite, as rusted corrugated metal shutters protest violent  downward thrusts by owners. As police sirens and unsettled children wail into the thunder. And  as a bright green umbrella upturns so will our luck. 

I can see it… we all can see it. A war of the heavens. Bows of lighting falter against the swords  of thunder. It is like liquid golden ore streaks are being forged into the black above my head. It is  Zeus’s destructive play field, and we are all at his mercy. The ground trembles.. it shakes, it  shivers, and as the sun crawls back into hiding so must we.  

We climb down to the storm shelter of the school, prayers in mind, fingers crossed. … 

The first golden rays of sunlight break the horizon. The kind of light that goes all the way to the  soul. The roads felt the sunlight invigorate its crumbling surface, a reward for surviving the terror  of the night. Like I said.. calm…no more chaos. Leaves and bits of concrete lay jumbled on the  grounds, remnants of the plethora of items that were stolen by the dark and carried away into  the night. 

At one corner lay the splintered remains of our gardening shed, plants nowhere in sight. Our  garden a cornucopia no longer, now a scattered mess on the mud with little more than an odd  petal here and there. A patter of raindrops can still be heard, dripping from the roof, breaking  into a splash as they strike the ground. A monotonous repetition, a song, echoing the rendition  from the nights orchestra. 

There is a sweet petrichor that begins to waft. Bitter- sweet. The same scent that transports you  to the first rains in spring. All around you see people rejoicing, thanking their gods for their  protection. There is no fear, there is relief. More and more people begin to gather near the  streets around the school, prepared to face the losses of the night. Preparing to face years of  hard work be torn away in a single night.

There are however the children, the innocent children… unaware of the losses, jumping in the  puddles and giggling with their friends. Little bundles of joy and hope reminding everyone of the  happiness, for we have survived the cold night to witness another day.

t’s funny how the long brown table in our dining hall can switch roles so fast. During the day her job is to  hold the daily mail and unfinished homework, as well as plates of cookies, a pit stop for hungry bellies  in the house. But at night she is a beauty, a piece art adorned in the finest linens, prettied up with  rouge placemats and matching napkins. The long brown table has become a Sunday evening family  ritual and somehow in an almost magical way she quiets the differences between us so we can enjoy  a meal together. 

My father is seated in his oak carven throne at the head of the table, in the day you would find him to  be a rather serious man but tonight he’s a story teller, a man of incredible mystery and cheer. With  every slice of pie served up a cheesy joke comes as a side. To my right mother sighs, almost in  perfect balance of his jovial spirit she brings forth a salad with a newsletter of the stories of the  comings and goings of the neighborhood. Updates of birthdays, invites, funerals and the banter below  the grapevine are all shared with tiny edamame dumplings across the long brown table. 

On the other end sit the tattlers, their lips dolled in the brightest shades of lipstick, they eat dinner  like it’s poisoned, each forkful tinier than the last in hopes of sustaining the trending diet of the  season. Every now and then you’d hear the occasional “you didn’t even tell me she was engaged”  from that end followed by their judgy eyes hovering up and down the long brown table 

I sit with dad, mum and my little sister. She eats her food like he has a bag of mixed colored candy.  Picking off all of her favorite things first and then when half satisfied pulls a face at the rest of the  meal. When she does eat though, she inhales the food in front of her, licks her fleshy lips and grabs a  plate of hor’s d’oeuvres complacent of the fact that her sleeve, drenched in a mixture of oils and  crumbs smeared against the long brown table.  

It’s not a perfect family but it’s my family, soon I will head off to college and my sisters at the other  end will be married and we may not get to sit at our long table any more, and so we do what we can,  each Sunday by Sunday we continue to share bits of our life around our long brown table.

melting pot of people burst through the immense gates and a series of asynchronous footsteps twirl skyward through the mahogany stairwells. The towering luminescent bulbs look over us and beam as a slight breeze nods in our direction and the sun waves goodbye. Further downward 70 yards of thick spring grass are barbered to perfection silently awaiting the magic. Ten minutes till the big game.

Soon the heat begins to licks our faces and coils around our bodies like a serpent on its hunt. Sly drops of sweat tumble down hundreds of faces and peel through layers of roughly applied paint. Across me a sea of bodies adorned in red and green synthetics mill about the benches, moving back and forth like waves brushing across ashore. A string of scarlet hats stamped with the very celebrated crest are dotted in heaps all across the stadium. 5 minutes till the big game

I turn to the right, beside me is a young girl, decked in an oversized sea-green jersey and shorts, the kind that stretch like a rubber band. She ploughs through a perfectly innocent bag of potato crisps feeling no need for manner or remorse. She then moves on to lick her fleshy lips and turns her attention to inhaling anything remotely sweet insight. To my left, seated beside me is a man adorning powdered white hair and a matching goatee. A time chisselled face decorated by his blood-flecked eyes that bear the scars of a long-lived life. He sits patiently and calmly wearing an angelic smile, observing the commotion around him. A ferocious grunt beckons my attention to the other end of the stadium. It is all a blur, a furious collision between the rouge and the emerald seem to have the crowd in a fluster. An army of men in black soon arrive to dissolve the mess. 1 minute till the big game.

 A large siren echo’s through the stadium, followed by hoots and trumpets beckoning the game to begin.

am now in a crowd with my mother and the crowd is moving. When it moves, I must to, and if my tiny feet fail to keep up, I risk being trampled underfoot. Each person moves as if unseen hands drag them this way and that, pulling their eyes to one thing and then another. The shared breaths, the pressed bodies, the conglomerate of body odour and cologne and the warm bodies are closing in. They never stop and so we won’t either. My hand is laced into my mother’s we begin to move.
Catching on to the stumbling rhythm, my eyes adjust to focus. It is as if the monochrome of the day had been exterminated, for in the crowd everything is colour. The colour of regal turbans, saffron, scarlet and amber bouncing above the canopy of the crowd. The colour of the paradigm of sarees, fuchsia, violet and turquoise swirling the streets, skilfully avoiding stamping feet. And the colour of the footwear, chestnut scandals, glossy black oxfords and rainbow coloured juttis scurrying against the grey of the road. The rays of sunlight play a game of shadows against the tarmac as bodies shift relentlessly and endlessly. The light loves to play. It reflects of the sequins of a purse onto an over polished briefcase onto a phone and then disappears. Every time I think I’ve caught them, the cheeky rays bounce out into the oblivion of the crowd. I feel a sharp tug on my right arm, it is my mother reminding me that I am slowing down, I must never slow down.
My feet are pushing to move faster and my nose is overcome by smells, a horrible mishap in the recipe of air. My nose can taste everything. The excess amount of sweat, the extra cup of cheap perfume and the un sieved melange of foods. There is however the tiny sweet aroma of flowers, almost lost but still there. The measurements are all wrong. I move faster to outrun it.
I am running but I forget to look, I bump into something…no, someone. It is my mother. She stopped. She stopped? I am scared. Everything else is moving. I wonder why risk it, and then I peep behind her. Amidst this storm, unbothered and unfazed by anything around him is a Chailwala manning his makeshift kiosk. His rich broiling tea cascades from a large steel jug into a legion of greedy plastic cups. He moves swiftly and carefully, the wrinkles in his hands a testament to his accuracy and grace. A Van Gogh at is art he sits still on a wooden cart. The calm, the eye of the storm. Everyone around him is still too. The man has this effect on us. The effect to make us stop in storm to savour a cup of tea. He serves an eager customer with a smile plastered on his face, grabbing at the brass and copper coins and thrusting them into the deep pockets of his kurta. He does this again, then again and again. My mother gets her tea and drinks it, it doesn’t seem like much afar but seems to have rejuvenated her and all the others in a way I will never understand. The empty cup is tossed into a street bin and we start to move again.
I am familiar this time. I will not make the same mistakes. With my elbows out I move with the crowd. It is much clearer now. I can see a woman, bag of groceries in one hand, child in the other. The child’s wails are drowned in the crowd, audible only the poor mother. There is also a porter, carrying luggage for a pompous lady trailing him as he shoves people left and right to clear a path for her highness. And then there is boy, about the same height as me, lost as much as I was, being dragged the other way by his mother. I wish him luck for the crowd can be deadly.
Funnily enough I did not realise that I was out. I was out of the crowd. Out of the smells and the bodies and the lack of personal space. I was out. Looking at it now the crowd seems different. The crowd has a life of its own like enchanting shoals of fish. There is chatter between buyers and sellers. Old friends catching up, new friends made. Inside it is busy but the hustle and bustle is what shapes these markets. It is harmonious chaos. It is the crowd.

ronic isn’t it?, how faces of such sadness and exhaustion are leached into creating the gifts of joy. 

Amid the purr of the machinery and the gentle hum of the sowing stations, unfolds the creation of a child’s best friend. 

Decapitated stuffed bodies of fur, velour and cotton cue to obediently and separately waiting for their heads to be sown on, further beyond these faceless and souls balls of fluff wait for tiny black buttons to be jabbed into their blindingly bright skins. They reach the end of the cue arms wide open for embrace, ready to take its place in the world of marketing facades.

In the far right of the room a growing and neglected pile of bodies and cotton are being tossed. They are the ones that are deemed unfit. Unfit because their skin wasn’t the right shade of blue or their eyes were far too close to chant the little children outside the corrugated metal doors.

Safer than them yet shuddering from a metal walkway over the assembly room, I turn and carefully approach the other side. Immediately my nostrils take a beating from a toxic and acrid smell, my eyes follow to an even more ludicrous site. Thousands of meters of demure white fabric down and churn in large cauldrons of chemically engineered dye. Minute by minute ghastly neon colours suck the purity and innocence out of the fabric into dangerous vortex.

Surrounding them masked monotonous figures adorn desiccated and bland wardrobes, afraid that they dare not steal the spotlight from the real stars of this factory. Gravity drawn shoulders and bent heads scurry about the container, their sweaty palms shielded in the safety of their gloves. They are the ones who are truly trapped. Stuck in a cycle, waiting for the day that they would be replaced by the likes of a new shiny robot.

In the middle of this metal walkway is a plastic box that bears the title ‘Production Samples’.

In it is a pyramid more daunting than Giza, a pyramid of every kind of bears. Who ever thought the colours of a rainbow could look so haunting. One holds a blood red heart inscribed with the phrase I love you while another sneers in a blue bow tied ribbon. I pick one up, this one is painted pink, its fur so soft and seducing to my skin, its maliciously cheerful smile and beady onyx eyes staring into my soul. I drop it within seconds.

I turn back to look at the process and how it carries on again and again, no pauses, no rests only trying to engineer gifts of happiness.

he garden is always a shade brighter after the first rains. The dew is perfect pearl beading more exquisite than any wedding dress, effortlessly following the curves of the earth. The harlequin beneath shines through, a rich dark grass upon the nurturing soil. Embedded in this soil are the legs of a bench. Simple planks fixed together, weathered by the many seasons given. It is almost as if one could see the compilation of its precious years in the layers of varnish. The water seeps from the bench through my woollen sweater as I sit and observe the garden. 

At this time of day vast silence reigns over the land. A banyan tree, the center piece of this arrangement, stands bathed in the nascent rays of the rising sun and casts a lake of shadows into the grass. A slight breeze sails around it and the aerial roots begin to perform a waltz. The young leaves breathe the hues of green and the promise of the coming season. A bird swoops down in her earthy-toned browns, a vibrant gentle shade that reminds me of the rich woodlands. She hops about through the wands of grass as if the earth were her trampoline. The creature then twirls through the massive branches, perches herself upon the highest one and begins her song. A chorus of never repeated notes is welcome in the quiet of the morning. She is a Nereid, her song mystical and alluring. 

The base of the tree seems like a whole new realm. Two little Mexican red belied squirrels frolic through the forest of roots in their way, they fiddle skip and hop, unconcerned about anything around them.  Around the tree, a copse of cypress pines flank it on one side and a thicket of peaceful bushes stands guard on the other. Aphrodite’s children are birthed in these bushes. Hydrangea festoons through its green mother, opening its petals to the world. 

It is rare to find peace like this, the bliss of the morning. I stand up the damp soil welcoming to my foot and head back home.