I.
The last time I met the walking encyclopedia, it was on a humid afternoon in March, ten years ago at our class reunion in Ayutthaya. It would be the final class reunion I would join for reasons I will not go into. That year, the event was held inside the brand-new indoor gym, which was once an outdoor, dirt quadrangle, where we used to stand each morning in our dusty Bata school shoes, sweat on our backs, belting out the national anthem as two model students raised the Thai flag. The entire school had undergone major renovations, transforming from a humble two-story wooden structure to a modern five story building equipped with water fountains on all floors, a proper football field, and a new cafeteria.
Like all gatherings of peers bound by childhood and separated by fate and destiny, we donned our socially inclined hats and reminisced, judged, and compared, politely remarking on one’s appearance and achievements, quietly feeling less than in certain ways and more than in other ways.
At some point, the president of the organizing committee, this lady with big hair, went on stage and told us to take our seats. I settled down at one of the roundtables near the stage with five other friends whom I had kept in touch with on and off over the years. In fact, we were all part of the same gang of boys when we were kids, roaming the streets of our neighborhood in our tattered bicycles, getting into fights with the boys from the next district, and stealing cigarettes from our fathers when they were fast asleep.
The president gave her opening remarks and we half listened, distracted by her humongous hair shaped like an orb with spikes at the top.
“She probably used one whole can of hair spray for that,” Arun quipped.
“It must be windproof,” Sansern added.
“Two cans and it’ll be bullet proof,” Arun said, and we chuckled quietly.
She then announced that the school’s renovation and expansion were made possible thanks to a generous donation from a VIP. This VIP she said, was from our year. “Our year? Who is it?” I could hear people whisper. I looked over at the guys on my table and knew they were calculating the donation amount in their heads.
As soon as she said his name, murmurs erupted across the gym. The ladies ooh’d and ahh’d and Sansern, who sat next to me, choked on his saliva.
This VIP was none other than the walking encyclopedia; the eccentric boy whom not many of us wanted to associate with as kids. The boy had a penchant, or rather, as we viewed it back then, a weird predisposition to regurgitate unsolicited facts.
It all sounds harmless enough today, but one must live it to understand. Every day, at every chance, he would recite facts, a stream of information would spill out all over the place. If you stood in line next to him, he would share random trivia facts or the history of an entire country with you in a know-it-all fashion. God forbid if you sat next to him in class. No one was spared. We all felt dumb and bored next to him.
And then it dawned on me. This was the guy who had ingrained in my brain, facts I have no use for:
“You cannot breathe and swallow at the same time.”
“Your heart beats about 100,000 times in a day.”
“Your height is equal to your arm span.”
We watched him walk with a cane towards the stage to deliver the keynote speech. He took his time. Behind the podium, a warm smile spread across his face, and he nodded to the committee and the rest of us. I hate to admit it, but he looked distinguished. He looked like he was doing very well in life. His hair was well coiffed, his gold wristwatch stung our eyes, his white shirt was whiter than ours, his shoes shinier, his teeth perfect, and his cane, most likely custom made from the finest wood sourced from our planet.
We applauded. Fair enough. The walking encyclopedia had come a long way.
II.
As I sit in traffic reflecting upon that day, buried memories of my school years begin to emerge from the ground one by one.
The name ‘walking encyclopedia’ was indeed a misnomer because he was born with a slightly deformed foot and one leg shorter than the other, therefore in reality, he didn’t walk. He hobbled. The ‘hobbling encyclopedia’ would have been more accurate. And in hindsight, because his physical condition prevented him from fully participating in sports, as was common back in those days, he hadn’t much to do, but to read and study. Back then, we somehow couldn’t connect the two.
His real name was Somboon, a name that was used only by teachers and some students. Most of us called him the walking encyclopedia.
Growing up in a small district, everyone knew everyone’s business and it was no secret that the walking encyclopedia’s father had abandoned him and his mother when he was born. According to hearsay, the father took one look at his newborn son and said to the mother, “This is not my child.” The next day, he was gone.
Somboon means perfect. Full. Complete. I do not know of course, his mother’s intention. But I assume, having named all four of my own children with great thought and time, that she chose this name, hoping to erase the unfair circumstance he was born into and that somboon would be the identity he could one day claim true.
And now, more memories flood in.
I remember, despite us kids not wanting to be friends with him, he was the person we’d call upon when we didn’t know the answer to something.
“Ask the walking encyclopedia. He’ll surely know.”
And indeed, he would know. His brain was a sponge. The boy was a fact machine.
“This kid’s a genius,” the principal said. “The world’s library is in his head!”
Wanting to elevate the school’s profile with hopes of securing a bigger budget, the school entered him in a district level trivia competition which he won with flying colors. He then advanced to the provincial level, representing Ayutthaya. I remember this very well because it was televised, and we all crammed into Aunt Nim’s convenience store, one of the few places in town with a television set back then, to watch the competition.
Although he came in second, the walking encyclopedia became somewhat of a celebrity in our province, and especially so in our small district. After his win, that event remained the talk of the town for years to come.
III.
We learned of his death through the newspaper, which came as a complete shock for two reasons. One, we were unaware of the extent of his importance in Thai society. He was up there with the elites. And two, the way he died was tragic.
At the urging of Sansern, I am now en route to the funeral that will take place in Ayutthaya for seven days – a place I have not returned to since that class reunion ten years ago.
It behooves me to attend the funeral of a classmate to pay my respects, but I cannot help but feel rather strange and disconnected. I must be honest. After all, I never considered him my friend, and so we never kept in touch. He was almost, just almost, an acquaintance. In fact, I had forgotten about him until the newspapers reminded me of his existence. I’m sure I am not alone when I say this. Then again, there is nothing quite like death that can bring people together in an instant.
The light turns red and I scroll through the Class of 1961 group chat which I have been added to without my consent. Over 90% of these people I have zero interest to reconnect with, not because of hard feelings, but rather, due to a naturally occurring indifference that has materialized over time.
There is much speculation within the chat regarding how he passed. The official news reported a home invasion and a subsequent murder of the homeowner. Someone in the group has written that he committed suicide because he had a gambling addiction and couldn’t repay his debt. Another rumor circulating in the chat is that he had a secret lover for many years, and his lover had recently left him for someone younger. As a result, he died from a combination of starvation, malnutrition, and a broken heart. This seemed to be the preferred cause of death among our classmates. Sensational!
I thumb through the annals of my memory to when I was fourteen or fifteen to find a moment in time when the walking encyclopedia and I had interacted with one another. I must have at least one interaction back in school with this apparently very important and accomplished man, I’m sure.
I then remember, as if a beam of light has pierced through the crown of my head. The walking encyclopedia once said to me when we were partnered together for a social studies class assignment:
“Did you know, you can die from a broken heart? It’s called the broken heart syndrome.”
Loved this, Malisa! A great format where your writing really comes to life. Looking forward to reading more like this!