The Survivors

When I was much younger, people always said this city was a concrete jungle. Not anymore now, as many high-rise blocks are built of steel and glass. These days, caged homes, butchered rooms, and shrunken flats are the fashionable local terms in the media to describe the living space of many. Something should have been done for that, but I feel despondent, and hopeless about the whole situation. Hopefully, this is only my pessimism.

Worse than the concrete gridlock of dwellings is a rigid belief in inevitability and unchangeability. Some people, having a nomadic mindset of following whatever sustains their survival rather than waiting for the return of the rain, may suffer less from such a belief system. For others, to survive such a sense of unchangeability seems futile; living each day becomes forced labour, and the future becomes today.

Last Monday, after staring at the ceiling for over 30 minutes, I decided to go hiking in the nearby reservoir. I took the easy catchment trail because it rained the night before and the dirt paths might be hard to walk on. The fact was that I feared I wasn’t up to that after a long period of laziness, and the catchment trail was flat and well-paved with cement and asphalt.

The thunderstorm alert was issued through the weather app on my phone while I was having a cheeseburger breakfast. On the train to the start of the trail, the sky turned grey. I thought it suited me well, and I did not have to worry about the scorching sun.

Maybe because it was Monday morning and I started late; the trail was quiet. After passing the first exit point, for about 20 minutes I did not meet any person again. Then, a thunder boomed and distant rumbles became louder and louder. Before I could start worrying about the change of weather, the rain pattered on the asphalt trail surface, followed by the gusty winds. I searched out the folding umbrella hurriedly from the rucksack and tried to find somewhere for shelter. Of course, there was nothing to take cover from the rain except a pine tree. For the next 15 minutes, I was standing in the draining rain and clinging to the flimsy umbrella, fearing that the half-opened umbrella would be overturned by the strong winds or that I might be struck by lightning. I had never stayed outdoors amidst such a great lightning display. Nobody passed me, and I was alone. I was scared and felt paralyzed. Would someone know if something happened to me? This thought kept running through my mind. How silly of me to have come here to get thoroughly drenched like this! I kept blaming my decision.

The thunderstorm eventually passed, and the sky started to clear. I was soaked through.

As I walked towards the next exit, I realised that after the torrential rain, everything was cleaner, brighter, sharper, and realer. The little grass on the asphalt path caught my eye as I was trying not to step into the puddles of water. I never noticed their existence in the past, but now they stood out against the dark asphalt. 

They root themselves in soil less than half a centimetre deep. On good days, they would not have a single drop of water for days or even weeks. They would be trampled on and wheeled over by the heavy traffic of hikers and cars on the weekends. They would hardly be noticed or appreciated. Yet they were in every single crack and crevice. They are the survivors.

I took shelter and was scared; they stood in the rain and gratefully took what was given to them. And they do not give up.

I admire them.