Dipika Kohli
By Dipika Kohli
Once at a house party around the time I was in my early twenties, after giving up on art school in New York and moving back to the Triangle, I met someone cool. This nice lady, a bit older, whom I wasn’t expecting to say this, but she said it. She said, ‘Oh! That’s what you want to do? Wow. It’s really quite refreshing. You’re not trying to be a doctor, lawyer, or engineer. Frankly, I’m just so, so tired of all that.’ (I was, too.)
Maybe you can relate? I want to write something relatable, this time, since ‘similitude’ is something writers are supposed to try to aim for when we write. So that there’s a reason for you to read, because what would be the point if there wasn’t something in it for you? I mean, this was the month I almost didn’t write this piece because at Thanksgiving when I visit people who are related to me, I really do freeze up. I mean, you can’t talk about the quote you find so amazing with them, this one:
“The laws of physics applied to what we know of the universe at large aren’t enough to build a full cosmological theory encompassing the birth and death of galaxies as well as the history of the entire universe. The cosmologist need supplementary info and almost always the extra ingredients take the form of philosophical preferences or aesthetic judgements.” — The End of Physics, Theory of a Unified Theory, by David Lindley
Nope. Cannot, as they say here in Cambodia. Can. Cannot. It’s quite simple and handy. Language is a great way to get to know a culture, I feel. So, for fun, I’ve been taking some drop-in Khmer language classes, so as to get a better understanding of this place and relate better, speaking of relating. After all, I’d learned some Vietnamese when I was in Viet Nam, though admittedly, you kind of had to, if you wanted to get by there, and here, more people speak English, so, as weird as it is and as annoyed as I’d been with people who live here this long without fluency, I know it can happen. This summer was me in Japan and I’d forgotten I can speak Japanese. There was all kinds of delightful relating happening, and I made two new friends. We are in a LINE group and it’s super nice, and cool. I love this, because small talk is the stuff of life that makes it fun and relaxing and leads to big talk, later. When you’re all very comfortable with each other. Talk, like all that universe stuff in the quote. Philosophy, art, existentialism… you know.
This is why, I imagine, it felt so cozy when the lady acknowledged my multi-dimensional life interests and goals. I was happy to have her go, ‘Cool.’ Maybe it was the validation. Maybe it was the honesty. Maybe it was the novelty of it. You could just talk to her; she was listening to you. The you of you, not a shell she was projecting her own idea of you and what you ought to be onto. That is not fun.
When I write and share here, I realize I’m writing to her and others like her. Middle-aged women who had these ideas about what a life was going to be in the United States and, largely, I’m going to guess, went along with the program. But who harbor a secret side. A side that let herself be herself, away and apart from the glaring crowd, out from under a microscope of scrutiny, and gleefully blissful in her own private sphere. A protected one that she is alone very much in charge of, and there, she is aware of herself, and invites only the closest and most trusted to join her in. To know her.
We could share in our mutual understanding that when you can’t beat ‘em, you don’t have to join ‘em, as the saying likes to advise. No. You can simply… leave.
Now, this decision doesn’t go over well here in Cambodia when you talk to people about it because family is family and that’s how it is, out here, too. But sometimes you can get through. Sometimes, you can see younger people going against the ritual, the traditions, and doing their own things. I’m sure that it’s a worldwide trend. I’m hoping that people are getting the chance to explore their potential identities before fixing up something that isn’t them, and agonizing about it, later, acting out on unfulfilled desires and scapegoating the poets in this world who do their own things because that is more them, and they can’t help it. Art gets made, thanks to those folks, and I’m glad for that, because I love to see it.
Dipika Kohli is an author who is based in Phnom Penh. Discover her books at kismuth.com and other projects at dipikakohli.com.
