Aree Manosuthikit’s translation of this short story by renowned Thai writer Wanich Jarungkitanand takes us to the urban slums of Bangkok, where a university student falls in love with a young woman who lives in his neighborhood. A poignant commentary on the social ills facing contemporary Thai society, “We Both Live Here . . . in the Same Soi” is one of Jarungkitanand’s best-known stories.
My house is in a soi (a narrow street branching off a main road). It’s like a thousand other cramped and congested sois in Bangkok’s Thonburi district. Since I have no time to mingle or make friends with anyone, I know only two people in this soi: the lady owner of a coffee shop and another from a small restaurant I frequent. We’re just acquaintances. Though I know them both by name, I don’t see why they should know mine or why I should bother to identify myself.
This soi is like all other sois, harboring boisterous gangsters and delinquents. They sit idly around in the coffee shop waiting for the weekend to come. Then they scoot over to the racecourse, come back flat broke at sunset, cry like babies over the money they’ve just squandered, and then plot a way to get it back in the darkness of the night.
This soi is a safe zone for drug pushers and addicts who abuse all sorts of illicit substances, from painkillers and marijuana to opium and solvents. It’s also a haven for all classes of thieves, from bandits-in-chief to rookies and the whole gamut in between. Frequenting this coffee shop has given me the idea that if I wanted to get involved in illegal activities, I could be an agent for the experienced criminals infesting this soi who steal cars, burglarize, brawl, rob, and murder. Once I witnessed two nonlocal gangsters getting beaten to a pulp right in front of the coffee shop.
So, though this soi is alive and vibrant in the daytime, it turns to chilling silence after nightfall except around its front quarter crowded with commercial buildings and open stores. Further down the soi is a wooden footbridge and beyond that a cluster of houses each punctuated by messy overgrown grass. Scattered over that area are structures that don’t deserve to be called “houses.” This soi is home to one of the biggest slums in Bangkok.
This soi is maze-like. It branches off into three small lanes all leading to the main road near a sector crammed with houses. Further away lies another world where one can find many footbridges cobbled together by single planks and concrete strip walking trails.
The soi also has a large ditch filled with dense grass and litter, lying under the solid-looking footbridge that residents use as the main pathway. If you walk across the bridge, turn left, and continue along the ditch for about two hundred meters, you will see the rented house where my brother and I live. Immediately down another five hundred meters, you’ll reach the soi’s entrance right on the main road where many buses set off to other parts of the city.
Not many women dare walk alone in this soi at night. Robberies and sexual assaults are rampant. A concrete lane that extends further along from the bridge is barely two meters wide. It splits off into many narrow paths connected by wooden gangplanks and smaller gravel-paved footways covered with tall grass, and in some spots, polluted by the foul smell of piles of garbage. Yet, it often strikes me that this soi is located right in the heart of Bangkok. A short ten-minute walk leads right to the main road lined with tall luxurious buildings. I once jokingly asked my brother whether Bangkok is a city of hell or a city of paradise.
My brother and I moved here from another province. While he works, I go to university, where I’m now in my final year. I go to campus every day except on weekends.
A few yards from the entrance to the soi is a canal over which a wide concrete bridge allows vehicles to pass. At the edge of the bridge is a bus stop nestled under the cool shade of a peacock tree. Every morning, it is crowded with waiting commuters. I am one of them.
One morning, I run into her. I’ve lived in this soi for more than two years but have never seen her before. The soi is densely peopled but I can usually recognize every commuter who’s waited frequently at this bus stop. Her face is new; perhaps she’s just moved here. She’s in a university uniform too. I try to look at her chest badge and belt buckle but to no avail—I don’t go up-close because it would be tactless. So, when a university bus pulls over and she steps inside I find out which university she attends. It is quite far from mine . . . on the other side of the city, in fact.
I tell myself to stop thinking about her. I’m not a guy who is dying to get a girlfriend. For four years in school, I’ve never cared to date anyone. Besides, no girl on this campus would ever like me. True, I’m attracted to a few but my timidity and laziness get me nowhere. I’m neither handsome nor a sweet talker and I hardly join activities that include female students. I spend each school day hanging out with school mates, playing Takraw (cane-ball), studying in the library, and attending lectures. That’s all I do.
But surprisingly, after that first glimpse, I can’t stop thinking about her. It’s like I’ve seen, even adored that face before. When I ask myself if she’s attractive, the answer is yes, very. She’s tall, slim, lightly tanned and wearing straight long hair tied nicely down her back. She has round eyes, a beautiful nose and the line of her lips is well defined. Whoa! How come I can remember her in such detail?
I try to push away my thoughts of her. I usually don’t care about these things anyway. It’s a waste of time, I think. Well, again, how could I let my mind wander this far! I’ve already missed a few buses.
I go to campus as usual and don’t see her again until days later when I spot her walking across the main footbridge one morning. Then I know that her house must be in this soi. I slow down to let her pass so I can walk behind her at a distance. Today is one of the few days that I don’t hurry to the bus stop. I keep walking and looking at her from behind, leaving space between us so no one notices that I’m following her. She’s properly dressed in a clean well-ironed white top and a narrow knee-length blue skirt, holding books in her right arm against her body and clutching a white handkerchief in her left hand.
Since that day, I’ve noted she always has a handkerchief in her hand, a white one.
It’s June. The red flowers on the peacock tree towering over the bus stop are bright and beautiful. I love their red tone, maybe because it’s my favorite color. I think peacock flowers embody beauty and grace, unlike the crepe myrtle that seems so fragile or the golden shower that looks elegant only on some branches. This tree’s sea of red creates a pleasing contrast with the sky’s blue hue.
I feel rejuvenated by these flowers, especially today when I can stand here, eyeing her again.
She always stands there, composed, waiting for her university bus, not restless-looking like me. But that’s not how I look today. Today I’m leaning on the peacock tree, concentrating. My buses pass, one after another, but I couldn’t care less. It’s not until her university bus pulls over and she gets on and leaves that I can begin to focus on mine.
I’m trying not to obsess. She may already be seeing someone. How could she not be, attractive as she is! I thought I would be able to suppress my feelings but I can’t. Before long, I even find myself tracking subconsciously when she leaves home.
I usually leave the house whenever I please, sometimes very early, sometimes as late as noon. But after a few days of leaving home early, I begin to notice that she sets out around seven. From then on, I scoot out from home before seven every day and pretend to wait for someone near the end of the bridge. Minutes later, I see her crossing it, coming my way.
I have a few moments to catch a glimpse of her at the bus stop before her bus swings by at seven fifteen or seven thirty to pick her up.
I confess I don’t know how to flirt with a girl. I don’t have the knack for it. When I see her walking across the footbridge, I swiftly turn away so she won’t notice me looking at her. Sometimes, I’ll pretend to realize all of a sudden that I’ve forgotten something and will walk home in a hurry. Then, as she passes me, I’ll turn around to walk behind her. Or, sometimes, I’ll race to the bus stop, stand there, delighted and excited as I watch her walking up in my direction.
Do I have a crush on her? I’ve never been this obsessed with a girl before.
Weeks turn into months. These days, whenever she comes into sight, I feel a sudden spark in my heart. I hear tick tock! tick tock! signaling she is coming my way, coming now . . . At times, I get mad at myself when my heart just can’t seem to stop pounding. It’s so loud that it deafens my ears and I dread people can hear it. Once, I even jumped on the bus to escape my condition, only to regret later that I didn’t get a good glimpse of her that day.
And that’s how I manage to sneak a peek at her every single day, except for the holidays. She’s totally unaware that she has a secret admirer, an ardent observer.
I don’t like the way things are going, though. It makes me constantly unhappy and anxious. I still can’t figure out a way to talk to her. How can I do so without appearing tacky? Even when our eyes meet by accident, I swiftly turn away, feigning a lack of interest. How on earth will I ever get to know her?
One morning, after obsessing about it all night long, I decide I have to say something to her, come rain or shine. She may not say anything back but that won’t bother me. I rise early and get dressed, putting on a school belt that I normally don’t wear. If I didn’t care what my seniors and peers would think, I might also have put on a necktie.
I’m standing there, nervously, near the footbridge, sauntering up and down to make it appear as if I’m not waiting for anybody. I have to strike up a conversation today and walk with her to the bus stop. Thirty minutes later, fretfully, my hands turning cold, I see her strolling across the bridge. My heart starts to thump hard, so hard my ribs almost split apart.
Here she comes, across the bridge. Her right hand is clutching her books, a small black purse over her chest and a white handkerchief in her left hand. She’s coming down . . . over here . . . closer . . . right here she is . . . she’s about to pass me . . . she has already passed me . . . but I still can’t get my mouth to open.
I don’t pursue her to the bus stop. Instead I walk home. Angry at myself, I bang my head against the door. I lie down, motionless, staring at the ceiling for almost two hours before I can get myself up, leave home and take the bus to school.
I know her university. I once thought of taking a stroll there because I might get lucky by bumping into her. But what’s the use? I can’t even bring myself to talk to her here where I see her almost every day!
It’s going to rain. The peacock flowers at the bus stop are fluttering to the ground. These days, it isn’t enough to see her just in the morning. I also wait for her in the evening of the days I have no class or come home early. I hang around the coffee shop, the bus stop or near the footbridge, hoping for another chance to see her. As I’d hoped, I finally see her again. After hanging about for a few days, I see her getting off the university bus around six o’clock.
I think she probably knows by now that we live in the same soi.
If she actually does, I’d be very happy because she normally pays no attention to anyone amidst the hustle and bustle of the thousands of residents in this soi. Also, it’s not just me who’s attracted to her; other guys are too, including those hooligans who boorishly call out, ‘Hey cutie!’ or yell out some vulgarity I don’t want to hear. Yet, she’s always poised, calm, and unbothered.
I’ve tried to figure out other ways to approach her. How come it’s so hard to talk to a girl? When I think about writing her a letter, I chicken out. How can I write to her when I don’t even know her name? I once followed her at a distance until she walked into her house, a typical wooden structure enclosed by a tall corrugated-iron fence. I don’t know who else lives in her house, so how can I get my letter to her? I’m too shy to hand it to her myself. I suppose I could pay some kid to be my messenger but I also back out of that idea. Actually, I back out of every idea. Why on earth am I feeling this crazy about her? We’ve never even had a chance to introduce ourselves.
What about one more try? This time, I’m going to approach her and get to know her no matter what. But today doesn’t seem a good day. The hooligans hanging out on the bridge are noisily hissing and catcalling after her. So I back off again and watch from afar. She looks upset. So, quietly, I walk behind her as I normally do.
The next day at sunrise, I come down to wait for her again. This time, she’s walking alone. There isn’t a single hooligan around which means no one will get in my way. She no longer has that upset look. As she approaches, I start to walk making it look as if I just left home and stumbled upon her on the way. The wind is very strong today, as strong as my heartbeat. She’s here . . . passing me. Damn, I still don’t have an opening line ready!
“Isn’t it windy today?” I utter my first line hastily so she can hear it before she’s gone.
It really is windy because the words I just blurted are swept out of her earshot. My lips tremble so much that my voice is swallowed up. She passes me, completely unaware that a man had just mustered up all the courage he could find to strike up a conversation with her.
For a while, I remain there, standing, watching her go. Then, I begin to walk, following her from behind, feeling downhearted. At the bus stop, I gaze at her, thinking I’ve got to do something today. I just did the hardest thing of my life; the rest ought to be easier to handle. If I don’t follow this through, I may die young from a panic attack.
I stare at her intently from behind but she doesn’t seem to realize because she’s busy looking for her bus. As soon as it comes into sight, she relaxes. In that split second, she turns toward me and our eyes lock. Maybe that’s what I’ve been expecting to happen, so right away I give her a smile.
I can’t believe my eyes! She smiles back! I look over my shoulder. No, there’s no one there! That smile is for me. I look back at her. Now, she’s giving me a bigger one as she steps onto the bus. I can’t take my eyes off the bus until it disappears from sight. Suddenly, I feel that the whole world is brighter than ever and those red peacock flowers are smiling with me.
I can hardly concentrate in class. I can’t wait for the clock to strike four. I’ll ride the bus back to the bus stop and wait for her bus to bring her back. But I’m stood up. She didn’t come back with her bus today. She might be very busy. I comfort myself with that thought as I walk back into my house. I’m in such a good mood that my brother is surprised because my mind is totally preoccupied with a happy plan about what I’ll say to her tomorrow. She noticed me. She smiled at me. She probably doesn’t mind talking to me anymore. Tomorrow morning, we will officially introduce ourselves to each other.
I get up earlier than usual. I walk down to the footbridge and wander around for a while before I spot a white handkerchief lying on the ground. I recognize this handkerchief. It’s the one she always has in her hand. I happily pick it up. It has stains of morning dew and dirt on it. She may have dropped it late last night on her way home. I continue to wait for about half an hour until late in the morning. I think she may either have gone to school very early or skipped school today. My thoughts roll on as I walk down the soi to the bus stop, feeling alone. But I am happy that I found her handkerchief. I will hand it to her when we meet again. This time, I won’t look so awkward because, with this handkerchief, I have a good excuse to approach her. I fold it and insert it gently inside my course book.
I come back earlier than usual in the evening. I don’t want to miss her bus. I sit waiting for her like I usually do. Excuse me, is this yours? You didn’t mean to throw it away, right? I think this is yours. I keep on trying to figure out the best line to say to her. But I don’t get the chance because her bus has already gone. It’s nearly six and she’s still not here.
Two police cars with sirens blaring drive up into the soi. A swarm of people gathered. Another gang fight, I assume, as I plod down the soi, feeling lonely.
From the entrance, I hear folks saying that someone is dead and see people, especially children, running far down into the soi. Ahead of me, a crowd gathers near the footbridge. An ambulance races past me.
They must have found a dead body by the bridge. This damn soi is so unbelievable. It’s the third time something like this has happened. Last time, a gangster got killed in a knife fight near that very bridge. I’m thinking that after I graduate, I will move out of here with my brother. I’m so sick of this crime-infested soi. But I figure that I’d better not move before I get to know the girl. Maybe if things go well, as I fancy they just might, I may not even want to move at all.
I am about to head straight home, thinking that the corpse had already been removed from the ditch, when I hear murmurs from the crowd about the victim being a girl. So, instead, I push my way through to take a good look at the body.
The next morning, I come down to wait for the bus later than usual. I don’t spend even a second hanging around the bridge like I used to. I buy a newspaper from a newsstand at the entrance of the soi. I see pictures of the girl I had yearned to know and even dreamed about on the front page. From the headline and the detailed story, I come to learn everything there is to know about her. I learn her name, her hometown and the people she lived with. But what does it matter now?
Still inside my book is her handkerchief. I open the book and peer at the white fabric in anguish. It’s late July. Most of the flowers from the peacock tree have tumbled to the ground. A withered petal drifts down from above and lands right on the handkerchief, the red petal resembling a bloodstain on the white cloth.
Translated from the Thai by Aree Manosuthikit
Wanich Jarungkitanand (1948-2010) is a well-known Thai writer and columnist who penned novels, short stories, and newspaper and magazine columns. His masterpiece, In the Same Soi (Soi Diew Kan), is a collection of short stories that brought him a SEA Write Award in 1984. The translated version of “We Both Live Here . . . in the Same Soi” is one of the fourteen short stories in this collection. His work encompasses a wide spectrum of genres: classic, realistic fiction, mystery, suspense, sarcasm, and humor. His narratives have been described as simple yet revealing and insightful. They are notable for their lively depictions of mundane everyday life that raise awareness of social ills. His novels Cobra, When the Wind Blows and Dolls were made into films and plays. Wanich passed away from leukemia in 2010.
Aree Manosuthikit was born and raised in Bangkok. She moved to the U.S. in 1999 where she pursued her MA studies in TESOL in California, taught ESL in Virginia and worked as a freelance translator and interpreter in Washington, D.C. She received her Ph.D. in Second Language Acquisition in Wisconsin. Upon returning to Thailand in 2015, she accepted a position as a lecturer at a research university in Bangkok. She is currently working on her research on SLA, language ideologies, and multilingualism. She has published academic papers in international journals such as Applied Linguistic Review and Kemanusiaan, the Asian Journal of Humanities. She is now taking a renewed interest in translation through which she hopes to make more Thai literary works internationally known.
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