Reflections Through Water
By Nimi Vachharajani, a first-year ETA
One of the first Korean words I learned in my city was 물멍, mul meong. It’s a word that most novice Korean language learners are unlikely to have come across, and it roughly translates to the act of staring at water—any kind of water, whether it be in a fishbowl, a pond, or the ocean—and becoming fully immersed in its presence.
My school is a marine sciences high school, and so naturally, there are always about three fish tanks in the teacher’s room where I work. Coincidentally, my school is also on a hill that overlooks the ocean, so being surrounded by all kinds of water all the time, I often find myself 물멍-ing without even realizing that I am doing something that is such a distinct part of the culture here, in the eastern coastal city of Pohang.
Being made aware of the existence of such a term was like discovering the external manifestation of a concept that had existed within the realm of my mind forever. The more I thought about 물멍, the more memories 물멍 unlocked. Memories all somehow connected by water, resurfacing simultaneously.
***
The waters of the Arabian Sea that line the city of Mumbai were warm yet turbulent, painted with hues of brown and gray. Reminiscent of complicated times—memories of eating corn on the cob with the sound of waves crashing in the background, the chatter of visiting crowds, the playful laughter of children and kites flying through the hazy polluted air. Moments of childhood. And later, memories of returning when I could no longer see the world the same way.
The gray hues in the water evoked dread. The waves crashed onto the shore with a painful loudness that drowned out the spirited sounds that were mere echoes of what had once been. Sights, sounds, and smells that had once been so dearly familiar now operated with a profound lifelessness.
What truly stood before me and what I saw in the visual of my mind’s eye were oceans apart. Things had changed and they would never be the same again.
But,
time heals.
Water heals.
***
Halfway around the world, the waters of the Pacific Ocean—waters that color the coast of Santa Cruz a bright turquoise blue—were waters of hope. From a time when the currents no longer retained invincibility, walking through tumultuous waters felt like more of a welcome challenge than fighting against the force of a thousand oceans. Allowing the cool, calm waters to tantalize my toes, I focused all my senses, inhaling the ocean’s salty notes and permitting the sound of crashing waves to soothe me again as it once had.
***
Now, I find myself on the other side of that very sea.
Since moving to Pohang, I have passed by the ocean on the bus every single day on my way to work. With every passing day, it only grows more mesmerizing. On sunny days with blue skies, the East Sea is a bright yet rich blue. Overcast skies transform the same sea into a beautiful blueish gray. With every prolonged gaze, I discover the water’s ability to evoke emotions intertwined with memories I had packed away secretly like a message in a bottle thrown out to sea, the memories that I had attempted to banish to depths I had desperately hoped were out of reach.
***
I find myself facing the waters of the East Sea in a different timeline, as if my entanglement with the other, now faraway seas was an eternity ago, in another lifetime even. Pondering by the waters on the coastline of Pohang makes all my timelines, all my worlds, all my lifetimes collide in my mind. Yet when I look at it, all I see is a mirror. A mirror of growth. The touch of the seas of the past now shines in a nostalgic light that carries every memory and paints it a calm, collected blue.
As I continue to 물멍 on a regular basis, my mind floods with an increasingly intensifying awareness of the impermanence of my stay here. And as turbulent as the waters of my mind may get—with the high tides and the lows, the soaring crests and sunken troughs—I wonder with the excitement of a pitter pattering raindrop which of the seven seas will give rise to a metamorphosis again.