The Crooked Mirror and the Stubborn Ink
SURA stood before the slanted little mirror hanging on the kitchen wall – a mirror so distressed it couldn’t tell the truth if it wanted to – and stared at the tattoo on her arm. There it was, plain as daylight, the name Tedi, carved into her skin like a stubborn mistake she couldn’t scrub out. It struck her, as it often did, that love must be the most peculiar ailment in the world, capable of making a person do all manner of foolhardy things, this being just one of them.
Why in tarnation would a woman go so far as to tattoo her sweetheart’s name, or whatever he was, on her arm? The thought tickled her now, in a darkly amusing way, though it hadn’t been so funny back when her heart was lying in pieces on the floor. At the time, she supposed, it had seemed like a fine idea. No, more than fine – downright poetic. She’d been in love, or so she told herself, and when you’re in love, reason packs up and leaves town. It had felt grand, eternal, like she was swearing an oath to the heavens themselves.
But, oh, how time has a way of making a fool out of the heart. Now, that name was no more of a tribute than a cracked gravestone. It sat there on her skin like a bad joke, a punchline she couldn’t escape. And Tedi? Well, he was long gone, having taken his promises with him and leaving her with nothing but this permanent little reminder of how wrong things could go when a person gets carried away by sentiment.
Sura squinted at the tattoo. It didn’t even look like it belonged to her anymore. It was like finding someone else’s luggage in your closet – awkward, misplaced, and full of things you’d rather not deal with. She had half a mind to have the blemish tattooed over, but something stopped her. Maybe it was laziness. or maybe it was that stubborn little streak in her that always said, “Well, you did it, so you might as well own it.”
She snorted. Love. That’s what had done it. Love – an affliction as old as time, and twice as painful. It had a way of making people believe in things like forever, even when forever was nothing but a pipe dream. She’d thought she was different, that her love was different, but the tattoo on her arm told a different story. It told a story of foolishness, of blind faith, and of a girl who had wanted so badly to believe in something that she’d taken a needle to her skin and called it devotion.
She turned away from the mirror and shook her head with a wry smile. Maybe one day she’d cover it up with something else that didn’t make her want to roll her eyes every time she saw it. But for the moment, it stayed – a little souvenir from the land of foolish choices. After all, what’s life without a few mistakes to laugh about later? And if she couldn’t laugh about it yet, well, at least she could smirk.
A Chance Meeting and a Fateful Day
The day was supposed to be a fine one, one she’d been anticipating for months. She had met Beni by chance in Serian town – a serendipity that had the feel of providence – while in the company of her cousin and a mutual friend. It was the early 1960s, when the world was still wrapped tight in the bindings of conservative values, and young folks like Sura navigated love as if walking a tightrope over a pit of watching eyes. Still, under the careful supervision of her father, brother, and an uncle, she and Beni had managed a few brief meetings. And each encounter had only deepened her conviction that the man, with his easy charm and kind eyes, might be the one.
But fate, as it often does, had other plans. The day Beni braved the dense jungle paths to visit her village, he saw it – the tattoo. His reaction was subtle but unmistakable, like the sudden hush of a forest before a storm. His gaze lingered on her arm for a moment too long, his mouth pressed into a thin line. Whatever words he had come to say were swallowed by the sight of that ink. He mumbled an excuse about needing to head back to Serian town, and before she knew it, he was gone – on the next bus back to his village, and seemingly out of her life.
The Silence That Spoke Volumes
For months, Sura’s efforts to reach him bore no fruit. Then one Saturday, a chance encounter happened – one of her cousins crossed paths with him in Serian town. When her name came up in conversation and questions arose about his next visit to the village, he responded with vague remarks, sidestepping the topic with an air of detachment. Gradually, the harsh reality began to settle in Sura’s heart, heavy and unyielding, like a stone sinking irretrievably to the depths of a river. Though no explicit words had been exchanged, the truth was unmistakable – Beni had severed ties with her. And she didn’t need an explanation to understand why.
The days that followed were a battle between her heart and her head. Sitting on a mat on the kitchen floor, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea, she let the quarrel play out.
“Now, Sura,” said Logic, her inner voice of reason, “you can’t blame the man. That tattoo’s a constant reminder of another fellow. It’s only natural for him to feel uneasy.”
“But to leave without so much as a conversation?” countered Heart, her ever-hopeful companion. “That’s no way to handle things. Love is built on understanding, not avoidance.”
Tea and Tough Conversations
Seeking clarity, Sura turned to an aunt, a mother of five and a woman wise enough to balance sympathy with practicality. Over the clatter of cups and the comforting aroma of tea, they talked.
“Didn’t he notice the tattoo before?” her aunt asked, brow furrowed.
Sura shook her head, thinking back. “I don’t think he did. I always wore long sleeves when we met in town. I hoped that if he ever saw it, he wouldn’t think much of it.”
Her aunt leaned back, lips pursed in thought. “Well, maybe he didn’t think much of it at first. But when a man’s got time to sit with an idea, it can grow into something bigger than it is.”
Sura sighed. “If I were a man, I wouldn’t let something like this bother me.”
Her aunt chuckled, a low, knowing sound. “That’s easy to say when it’s not your eyes that have to look at another man’s name daily. Folks have their limits, Sura, and Beni’s might’ve been that tattoo.”
The conversation brought no grand revelations, but it eased the weight in her chest. Still, as the days wore on, her thoughts circled back to the ink on her arm and the man who had turned away from it.
The Voices Within
Alone in the quiet of her home, Sura found herself arguing again with the voices in her head.
Logic spoke first, as it often did. “You could remove it, you know. Painful, yes. Expensive, sure. But it’s an option.”
Heart bristled at the suggestion. “Why should she have to change herself for someone else? If he can’t see past the tattoo, maybe he’s not the right man.”
Sura traced the edges of the name with her finger, the ink no longer a symbol of love but a relic of her younger self. “It’s just a part of my story now,” she murmured. “Not the whole story.”
Logic persisted. “Covering it with a new tattoo could signify a fresh start. Something meaningful to you now.”
Heart scoffed. “A fresh start doesn’t come from hiding the past. The right person will see beyond the ink.”
Sura stood and poured herself another cup of tea, the voices still at odds. It was true, she thought, that everyone carried their shadows. The tattoo was hers – a mark of a chapter in her life, not the whole book.
Acceptance and Moving Forward
In the days that followed, Sura began to find peace in the idea that the tattoo wasn’t the problem. Beni’s reaction had revealed more about him than it did about her. If he couldn’t handle a piece of her history, what hope was there for the future?
Logic, ever pragmatic, offered a final word: “Better to know now than later. At least you’ve seen his true colours.”
Heart, softer now, whispered in agreement. “The right person will understand. They’ll see you for who you are, not who you were.”
Sura smiled at the thought. She didn’t need to erase her past to make room for her future. The right man would accept her, with or without the tattoo.
As she stepped out of her kitchen and into the sunlight, Sura felt lighter. The weight of her past no longer pressed so heavily on her shoulders. She had no way of knowing what lay ahead, but she knew this: she would face it with her whole self, ink and all.
Because love, true love, wasn’t about perfection. It was about seeing the flaws, the scars, the tattoos – and loving anyway.
“Love is like an hourglass, with the heart filling up as the brain empties.” – Jules Renard (1864-1910), a French author and member of the Académie Goncourt best known for his journals, which were published posthumously and offer a detailed and introspective look into his life and thoughts.
DISCLAIMER:
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the Sarawak Tribune. The writer can be reached at www.hayhenlin@gmail.com
