Traffic

The Strait of Malacca is the opposite of the Indian Ocean. After all that open water and the occasional suspicion of a horizon, there are ships everywhere. The view has become crowded with intentions. Each vessel is going somewhere definite, and several appear determined to demonstrate that my understanding of distance and direction is not a useful navigational resource.

Small fishing boats crossed at improbable angles. Lights appeared before dusk, adding another layer to a scene already rich in things I could see without properly interpreting. Radio traffic continued without pause. The sounds overlapped with the steady presence of the ship beneath us, turning the bridge into a place where attention seemed both concentrated and carefully distributed.

Priya allowed me to stand at the back on two conditions: I was to touch nothing, and ask no question beginning with what happens if. I accepted immediately. These seemed sensible limitations on a passenger whose principal technical qualification is curiosity. I put my hands safely out of employment and tried to look like an unusually well behaved item of furniture.

From there I watched her work. There is warmth in being allowed to remain, even when the permission comes wrapped in a warning accurate enough to be embarrassing. She did not have to explain that the traffic mattered more than my education. The view did that perfectly well. I kept my questions to myself, particularly the speculative ones, and discovered that silence can be a surprisingly useful contribution when it is the only one available.