Voices on the New Diasporas - an MIT student journal
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Ode to the Lotus People
by Han Zhu
The last rays of sunlight, soft-hued tendrils whispering indecipherable promises, peek in through the mesh window screen. The orchids outside sway and bend to the gentle sweeps of a warm July breeze that stirs up the thick stagnant air. My hair, tied in a long braid, clings heavily to my back as I shift uncomfortably on the creaky wooden piano bench. The organized musical phrases I create on the piano clash with the cacophonous “cree cree” of crickets outside. My hands, quickly finding their way across the dirtied ivory keys, are sticky with sweat. Every few minutes I have to stop playing to swat at some mosquito that has found its way through a hole in the blue mesh of the metal screen door. I can hear my grandma’s voice outside in the common yard, the familiar inflection rising and lowering in pitch as she chats with the neighbor lady in the local dialect. Strangely, even though I have trouble with the dialect, something in the way my grandma speaks allows me to glean meaning from her words. Her mild murmurs contrast sharply with the hard and foreign rapid-fire utterances of the neighbor. I am pushed by curiosity and sheer boredom to eavesdrop, picking out fragmented bits of my grandma’s sentences. “—of course! …she’s such an obedient child...always listens to what I say…yes, she’s here for the summer…she’s growing up so fast… my son started her on the piano this year and she’s already playing like this…even though Han-han is setting such a good example, Jingjing and Tianyuan are out playing…” Her voice trails off as they walk further down the yard, presumably to the kitchen house to cut and wash vegetables for dinner.
I turn my attention back to the unfeeling music sheet in front of me, but my mind is no longer on piano. I have just been sorely reminded that my younger cousins, Jingjing and Tianyuan, are probably cavorting around the lotus pond right now, daring each other to grab for the biggest and greenest leaves growing tantalizingly just out of reach. At this time of year, the circular lotus leaves are mature and sturdy; they float lazily on the surface, ready to be plucked by anyone willing to risk getting wet. Tianyuan usually grows more daring the more he becomes smeared with pond mud. I can envision him wading into the cool shallow water, a cocky grin spreading on his face, eyes searching for the unripe green pods embedded in the center of generous spreading pink petals. Jingjing, of course, always goes for the blossoms themselves to weave into crowns for her hair.
I want to be there with them.
Precise black marks printed in neat rows fill my vision, though they are not as clear as they should be. Despite the increasing lack of light, I am not inclined to turn on the bright interior fluorescent bulbs. I am so familiar with the piece—Bach’s two-part invention in D minor—that I no longer need the sheet music to play it. Despite this, I find it an oddly difficult piece to play, especially on days like this. Fast-paced, conflicting, and beautiful, its complex flow tells a story between two opposing forces. Left hand and right hand each have their own independent parts, and each part is as important as the other. They are two contrasting melodies battling for dominance just as much as they harmonize and complement each other.
The left hand is deep, almost guttural, as it springs around in the bass clef. It jumps and stretches in the most unpredictable of places. Occasionally, it spins into a rumbling trill, intimate and alluring in its rawness. My grandma used to tell me stories of the Lotus People—lotus creatures in shapes of tiny humans. Their trunks, arms, and legs are all made of thick, rigid lotus roots, and their heads are made of green seedpods. They live inside the creamy petals that rise above the water, coming out to play whenever their favorite humans are around. Fickle and playful, they are pure animated works of nature, free to live only by nature’s laws, seducing and tricking humans to abandon their sophisticated duties in favor of childish pleasures. The Lotus People are cunning, yes, but above all they are children themselves: simple beings that candidly enjoy the pleasures of frolicking across the still green waters and dancing with the dragonflies. There is not much they can do to human children, who are free to play without even needing to be “tricked” into doing so. It is the adults who must watch out for the trickery of the Lotus People. When I was younger, Jingjing, Tianyuan and I would play games at the pond with the Lotus People, exploring the extent of their watery home with our imaginations and, by extension, our left hands. We would taste the sweet lotus seeds, breathe in the summery scent of pond, and feel the cool night breeze on our damp faces, laughing as the Lotus People slipped in and out of view. Their song—like the melody of my left hand—is fickle and hard to grasp, and yet its presence is undeniable as it flirts with the right hand’s melody and bends the direction of the piece.
The right hand retaliates, stepping determinedly on the high notes in the treble clef. It has a drive that leads the piece onward, maintaining its overall continuity. The repetitive theme is emphasized by the right hand, reminding the piece of its essence and function. The right hand is limiting yet indispensable. Without the responsible right hand, the piece would be sprawling, erratic, lacking a theme or true meaning. My music would be anarchy, without any force to bring it back into scope. My grandparents brag to their friends about my piano playing abilities, my willingness to word hard, my maturity. They expect great things of me. Children are not restricted to which hand they should prefer, but I am thirteen and reaching the muddy shores that mark the end of childhood. While my younger cousins spend their time with the Lotus People, I spend my time refining my right hand.
“Hanhan! You need to keep practicing hard for your piano lessons tomorrow. I know you won’t let me down.” My grandma walks in with a tired smile on her face, the skin around her eyes crinkling as she looks at me fondly and expectantly.
“…Yep. I will.” I smile back, projecting as much eagerness as I can muster. Jingjing has probably picked three lotuses by now. She has always wanted to make a necklace out of lotus petals. I wonder if she will succeed this time. Tianyuan must already be peeling some of the early-ripened seedpods and tasting the delicious white flesh of the fruit…
“Well, keep on going. Try not to get distracted, all right?”
“Okay.” No, I must stop ruminating on these childish desires. I must not let the Lotus People seduce me with their tantalizing sweets and the smell of wet freedom. My grandma has stopped telling the Lotus People stories. She sides with the right hand, and I do not want to side against her. I embrace my grandma, surprising her with my sudden act of affection and feeling her cool presence wash over me. The forces gluing me to my place in the piano bench are not simply my duties as a budding adult; the biggest motivation is my duty to my elders, whom I love. If my right hand can keep them content, then that is the hand I must nourish more. In the end, it’s the right hand that matters, the right hand that dominates me.
I am right-handed.
Or am I? The screen door squeaks closed behind my grandma as she leaves. The stillness of the room after she leaves suffocates me. An incomplete thought still hangs in the air, waiting for me to grasp and examine it. A fly swings dangerously close to my eye, startling me into sitting back down on the piano bench, which protests with a creak. I think to myself, just because I am growing up does not mean I must entirely abandon my childish side, does it? I am right-handed, yes, but my left hand does not hang limply by my side all day. It is still able to create trills, arpeggios, and chords, forming waves of beautiful music to complement my right hand’s singularity. Without the left hand’s accompaniment, my music would be plain and lacking in depth. Seducing me would not even be worth the Lotus People’s time. I realize with a start that I had almost fallen into the trap of trained apathy that catches so many other children, blinded by their parents’ expectations. It is all right to please your parents, but what a tragedy it would be if you were to lose sight of your desires, colored by the delicious greens and blues and pinks of the Lotus People.
What exactly are my desires? What is it about the fast-flowing, fluid dialogue between my left hand and my right hand that has captured my attention more fully than the pond down yonder? For what other reason, aside from duty, do I sit for hours on end practicing the art of music? Sometimes the Lotus People can be right under your nose without your realizing they are there. When I look at the well-worn keys of the piano, the wrinkled pages of sheet music fluttering slightly as the night breeze filters in, I can see the vague outline of the Lotus People, waving their tubular arms and chattering excitedly about something I can’t hear.
I regain my position and prepare to play. A fly lands busily on top of the music sheet and I wave it off. Without further ado, I close my eyes and plunge into the music. The notes suddenly sound sweeter, resonating much more strongly than I remember. My wrists bend and flex, my arms enforce the strength in the notes, and my entire body sways like a lotus stalk in the wind. The night breeze blows in the scent of water and lotus leaves. When my eyes open, I can imagine tubular creatures dancing along with my hands across the keys. I laugh out loud as their tiny voices whisper in my ear, “Can you hear our voices? Can you hear?”
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