My grandfather Motiram settled in Chiang Mai, working first at a watermelon farm and saving his earnings to purchase the beginnings of his small business in textiles. He started very small, and took his bolts of fabric to communities that were not used to commerce and opportunity coming to them. The people of the hill tribes around Chiang Mai became his loyal customers and also his friends. I believe they — Motiram and the hill tribe people — must have shared an understanding of what it meant to be outsiders, immigrants, people in search of community and home.
His idea came in a flash,
the momentary blindness that
comes from looking at the sun,
even just for seconds. When
the spots of light floated away,
he saw what he could do.
His investment: three bolts
of cloth, one under each arm,
one tied to his back, and a
shiny pair of scissors, hung
by a string from his waist,
catching the sunlight as they
swung back and forth.
When they saw him coming,
leaning into the hill, arms
full, something shiny
dangling along, they
were curious. And when they
understood that he had
brought this cloth to sell,
they were surprised. He was
not asking for anything –
no food, no shelter for sleep,
no favors at all. He was
bringing something. No
one did this.
The villagers ran for
their money. Hidden
away, buried in the dirt,
rarely used. They gathered
around the man. As he cut
the fabric with a zip of his
scissors, the women’s eyes
sparkled with the vision of
children darting about, bright
clothes swirling, of husbands
in fresh shirts, even of themselves
draped in flowing color.
Amphibious 