the frog jumped out of the money plant pot. highly agitated, it glared at the trail of black ants scurrying back from the desk on the other side, loaded with some goodies from the breakfast crumbs. then it hopped angrily to the corner of the balcony where the repotted african mask plant had just got itself another fine, wavy edged leaf and was nodding to itself in a satisfied sort of way.
The trumpet flower cringed back noticing the frog’s expression. the lavender smiled moodily. another sunday drama coming up on the balcony.
“so you think it’s drama, do you?” lashed out the frog, bifid tongue all a-twist.
the red dragonfly, who had just started frequenting the balcony, flitted behind the monstera leaf.
the pair of grey squabs in the nest on an upper stem, huddled closer, startled. their fine feathers fluttering as they looked around helplessly. where was their mother? she was large and pink and green and her wings covered them, so comforting that felt. helpless feathers fluttered again.
the lavender arched a spike and simpered, “so you you can read thoughts now?”
she had known the frog for a long time, he rarely got to perturb her any more.
“we can all read thoughts if we want to,” the frog snapped, “that’s not the issue. but why must there be a gap, this infernal gap? this impregnable partition, to be factual!”
“what gap, frog?” murmured the lavender.
“The one between the thought and the expression. that pestiferous, exasperating, infuriating gap!” the frog was practically hopping, incensed.
the trumpet flower shook its head in bewilderment. what was the frog going on about? the red dragonfly burrowed further behind the monstera leaf. things weren’t looking good. when the frog irrupted like that, the entire balcony was shaken.
every space has its sense of peace and composure. when the frog’s in its money plant pot, lying back and looking up gleam in bulging eye, muttering lofty sounding things, all’s right with the balcony.
was there any need really to think of things like thoughts and all that? and then, partition? well, there had been one of those close by, the yellow sunbird reported, and it hadn’t been such a good thing. the bird had heard about it from a chatty whimbrel at sungei buloh which was on its way to the bay of bengal.
“partition?!!” it had twittered, “ohhh, never never never never never…” before plunging its long beak into the sand and digging up a worm.
just then, the wisp of pink appeared by the frog.
“mind the gap!” said the wisp of pink with an absolutely british accent.
the frog looked huffy, then it wobbled, then giggled.
no, no, the sound of a giggling slimy green frog isn’t pleasant at all. my deaf left ear didn’t hear a thing, but my right ear did. i was eavesdropping as usual on a sunday afternoon… for some reason i can hear all my balcony creatures then.
what the frog had grumbled about was on my mind. it had a point. why this gap between thought and expression? something inevitably gets messed up in that transition. it’s not like the other gap that the frog had mulled over one day, the one through which you enter freedom.
the wisp of pink looped around me and winked.
winked? but it had no eyes… how on earth…?
“someone on the other side thinks wisp of pink has no eyes, so how can it wink…” said the frog with a superior, all-knowing air, “but she doesn’t wonder why the african mask plant is also called the amazonian elephant ear, or that it has neither africa nor the amazon in its genes. its parents are from south east asia and the philippines. huh!”
the new leaf of the african mask plant chortled.
a stir in the air, and the pigeon mother flew in to hold her squabs close. the trumpet flower began to relax and nudged the lavender.
the frog leapt up in the air, paused for a second and did a back flip into the money plant pot.
i saw the red dragon fly zip out from its hiding place and beat a hasty retreat.
………………………………
welcome back, frog, creatures of my balcony. it’s been a while, ten days short of six years. i missed you. dear reader, thanks for bearing with my tête-à-tête with another world. it might look like all fantasy, but let me tell you, it so absolutely isn’t.
some sunday kind of stories
