When I think of an untainted reality, I see a green-tinted vision of Malé City, nestled between poetry and childhood memories. I see tholhi swimming through the turquoise blues by the jetty, and my younger self sitting on top of the black cannon. It was a time when the sun was kinder – a friendlier warmth upon brighter trees, and sea breeze unscathed by the bustling streets. It is easier to imagine when I close my eyes and hold my breath, but it is tiring to shut my senses to find that place. The blank page before me has become as daunting as the streets, but I refuse to let it get in the way of my calling.
The promise of the metropolis comes with no warning: everyone needs an escape to survive in Malé City. When the dregs of the city clings to my skin, my only salve is to write or be alone. I’ve been sitting at my desk for the past few hours, but all I’ve achieved are ink-stained fingers and a dull body ache. A reclusive life can lose its charm when the itch to find a flow is insatiable behind these walls. It’s too easy to give up on sea-locked land so defined by routine, but I needed a release.
A reclusive life can lose its charm when the itch to find a flow is insatiable behind these walls. It’s too easy to give up on sea-locked land so defined by routine, but I needed a release.
Walking out the door, I was greeted by the foreboding that hangs around the city. From land reclamation to churning more concrete, our lives are ever-changing yet we’re stuck in our ways. Although this metropolis is geared like a machine, an odd glimpse prevails of the paradise it professes. There is an old temple tree in the corner of the pavement across from my house, with long green leaves, prominent veins, and velvety white flowers with a bright-yellow heart. I remember the little joys from picking up fallen flowers, and the little sorrows from seeing them trampled over.
Life was simpler when I was younger, when there were no worries that the tree could cease to exist. It made me recall the thousand-flower tree that graced the plot of land beside my house. I climbed that tree every morning growing up, and the very first day I saw it in full bloom was the very same day that it was cut down. Seeing its body lying flat on the soil, I felt a deep sadness that resurfaced throughout my life.
Already losing hope in finding a spark, I trudged along a road so frequently taken. I noticed the shops that have changed over the years, and the surviving trees that formed a pretty canopy. Looking up to admire the swaying foliage, I reminded myself to not get attached. With no destination in mind, I reached the marble clearing in front of Sultan Park. Now robbed of its relic and a hazard in the rain, it no longer reflects the place it once was. No lush modernity could revive lost sentiment.
Even the pathway across from the park once held distinct memories. Made of white sand amid the other bleak streets, it was a simple pleasure that beheld our origin. As I walked along the marble through the fallen leaves, there was still some relief at the end of the path. Surrounded by grass on two sides from the centre, Sagarey Park still holds a lovely tradition. Like the balmy evenings from decades ago, a hundred wings soared through the sky as people gathered with fistfuls of rice. It was a sight so mundane, yet nostalgia in plain sight.
In this momentum of a sudden emotion, I found myself crossing to the markets by the sea. There were bundles of bananas loaded on the pick-ups, and a row of vendors with piles of fresh produce. I rarely walk through this ever-busy road, but I was always amused by its ancient buildings. With the old-fashioned windows and peeling paint, the walls and their marks carry ancient history.
On any other day, I would rush through the crowds with my eyes on the ground, but I finally felt a kindling of the forgotten spark. Holding my breath past the odour of the fish, I walked along the docks and towards the pier. As I stood atop the edge and peered at the sea, it was a sight so surreal – too magical for the city. Gentle and majestic, myriads of rays were swimming below my feet, with a touch of reality from a floating orange peel.
Time slowed down amid the bustling market, and in these seconds of clarity, a graceful maakana flew over my head. I held my gaze until it perched atop a roof, and noticed the sky changing her hues. The clouds were a vision in golden lining, and it dawned on me that a wilderness exists within the constraints of the metropolis.
On the way back, I processed how much the environment has changed, and how solace in nature is sought from the exterior. From the rows of fithuroanu in the roads of Hulhumalé, to the cosy coves on Villingili beach. These were once a luxury that existed in the capital, with the trees of Usfasgandu beside the lost gaadiya, and when Artifical Beach was untouched by congestion. The influence of modernity is one that is contagious – all these islands face the imminence of change. To survive the reality of living in the capital, one must acknowledge the abject and the ordinary.
Once I reached home, I slowly walked along the tomb of my tree, and caught a blessed glimpse of a sapling on the wall. For the first time in my life, I felt a slight shift in my deep-set grief, and a sense of alignment glowed from within.
Aishath Sara Arif is a poet, writer, and editor from the Maldives. Growing up in Malé and now studying in Boorloo (Perth, Western Australia), her writing explores nature, identity, and nostalgia, often referencing culture, childhood, and words from Dhivehi language. She is currently in her final year of a Bachelor of Arts degree at The University of Western Australia, majoring in English & Literary Studies with a minor in Creative Writing.