Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 2020complete | Page 557

resembled my celebration gowns, where language became music, where train station bathrooms were
cleaner than my dining room, I had no idea what to do, who to be, and how to behave- absolutely no idea.
Eventually, I did manage to find my way to the little box of an apartment that my Uncle offered to lend my
Mother and I. It was by tradition for the ‘Scholar’ of the village, the student who achieved the highest scores
at the end of the year, to leave the village and face the terrors of the city outside. It was our responsibility, or
so that’s what they glorified it to be, to learn the mechanisms of society beyond the village walls and bring
back knowledge and revenue- the latter being more important. So here I was, peering out the dusty
uncleaned window of my new home into the gaping jaws of society beneath. It was too late to turn back, I
had spent every last penny on my train ticket.
I was reluctant to come in the beginning. I convinced myself it was the filial piety made me despise leaving
my widowed elderly mother at home alone in the irresponsible hands of my brother, but in truth, I was
scared. I feared that my stuttery Cantonese that I spent hours upon hours trying to perfect wouldn’t be
sufficient, I feared that my work would be sub par and unappreciated at the firm, I feared that I would not
belong in the Greater Bay Area. Macau had its rich culture and booming tourism industry; Guangdong had
its prosperous technology firms and manufacturing; Hong Kong had one of the world’s greatest economic
markets; while, my little humble home of Hemu, what did it have? Hemu was famous for making milk tea.
A burst of sudden laughter shot out from behind me, as chitter and chatter bubbled from the mouths of my
colleagues. Aside from not wanting to face the wrath of my elders, this job was the only reason I agreed to
come. Ever since I was able to walk, I had always dreamt of being an architect. I yearned to see my rough
sketches on paper materialise into a three-dimensional work of art, to see people walking in and out of my
models turned real, to know that something, something beautiful yet practical, was a product of my hands.
Perhaps I was over-optimistic, but the buildings were what I came for, not the wave of loneliness that
suddenly overwhelmed me as I stood in the crowded office.
Lunch was the worse time. The architects and the designers, the managers and even the building
practitioners, all flooded out of their cubicles, separating into little cliques as they jabbered away so quickly
that their words sounded like nothing but the chirps of birds. I stood there meekly, the anthem of
apprehension pounding away in my chest, I didn’t know what to do. Suddenly I had lost all my words. I
raked my brains of the simplest Cantonese phrases that I practiced in the mirror like a lunatic in the months
prior, but nothing came. My sweaty fingers tugged at my favorite cardigan which looked like a child’s
pinafore next to my fellow architect’s immaculate suits. I clenched my jaw in an act of desperation, trying to
mask my nervous fear with a cloud of strength and confidence. I stepped forward, a single word slipped
from my mouth.
“Can-” Everyone turned. Their piercing brown eyes seemed to see right through my shaky facade; they
seemed to laugh silently at me, chortling at my plea to fit in; even little Jeanine -who reached no higher
than my shoulder- seemed to smirk ever so slightly at her partner from across the room. “Bathroom?” I
continued, my words choking in my throat as though someone had cinched a noose around it. It was the
only phrase I remembered. The balding manager with round glasses that perched atop his head smiled a little
condescendingly, like the way one would coo at a young baby, and point me down the hall.
Away they turned, and once again I was left alone in the steely office.
I missed the taste of home. The boiling Xinjiang spices that made your eyes water and your nose run, but
filled your heart with the warmest embrace. They say the Greater Bay Area was the national centre of
opportunity, with newly started up industries, not only were employment prospects bright for fresh
graduates, it also promised space and support for entrepreneurship and innovation. It was going to be the
best living environment: clean, hi-tech, a one hour commute zone from everywhere you could possibly
want to be. Though these fantasies may be true for people with bubbling personalities and aspirations as high
as the sky, like Jeanine, it was not what I wanted. Right now, standing in the office, squinting at the
unfamiliar Traditional Chinese characters on the wall, I just wanted to be home. Even though we were from
the same country, we spoke a similar language, shared the same history, the people of the Greater Bay Area
felt alien.
I powered through the weeks to come, mindlessly burying myself in heaps and heaps of architectural
paperwork. I had learned to ignore the chuckles that would fill the office throughout the day, the playful