Seven of us

BHAVNA KHEMLANI is a lecturer at the Bangkok School of Management, a wellness coach, and the co-leader of the Bangkok Women’s Writers Group. Here, Bhavna writes about her inspiring experience of cleaning up the garbage in the city that is her home.

We are here for that glamping trip so we can pick up the pieces other people leave behind. Many people call us garbage collectors. We call ourselves “Environmental Poets.”

In a world where concrete towers overshadow nature’s whispers, we gather in a hidden grove, our words a shield against the encroaching tide of consumerism. Our verses are seeds, planted in the hearts of those who listen, hoping to spark a revolution of conscious choices.

As we embark on this new government-assigned project, footsteps crunching over scattered debris, crackling plastics protest our intrusion. The clinks and clanks of metal cans and glass bottles mingle with the rustling of paper and the squelching of organic waste, creating a chorus of chaos that echoes through the beach.

Clink clank
Clink clank
Crunch crunch
Crunch crunch

Crow cawing, ‘AWW! AWW! AWW! AWW!’

We are seven. There sure is a lot of noise. Noise of crackling plastics, breezy wind, hooting for us, and varied fabrics left behind weeping the hard works from sweatshops. We decide to take a break from collecting.

The clatter of tent poles being assembled, the rustle of recycled tarps being spread out, and the boisterous banter among our group fills the air blending with the distant hum of motorboats. Volunteering to collect fallen branches for a grove bonfire, armed with trash bags, we split into teams.

Later, gathered around the crackling bonfire, our faces light by its warm glow.

Amidst the ancient trees, we take our pens dancing like leaves in the wind, crafting lines that flow like rivers of thought. Emotions swirl like storms within them, a tempest of concern for the Earth’s fragile balance. We write of oceans choking on plastic, of forests felled by greed, and of a planet yearning for healing.

As we write, our words become a lyrical parody with similes, each comparison a thread connecting human actions to the rhythms of nature. Plastic waste is a suffocating serpent, coiling around the Earth’s throat. Deforestation is a symphony silenced; a heart-rending melody lost to the wind. While we collectors accept a new project to go to the beach and grove.

We sing
We cook
We write

Our green boots
Crunch crunch
Thump thump

But amidst the somber notes, a glimmer of hope emerges. Our poetry celebrates the sustaining resources that might yet be nurtured. There is the noise of emerging hope. The noise of our collective thoughts. The noise of people like us who gather to pick up what others leave behind. The noise speaks of solar panels like sunflowers, turning their faces to the light. Wind turbines, like modern-day wind chimes, and sing songs.

And then, as the sun begins to dip beneath the horizon, an aroma wafts through the grove. Thai basil and lemongrass mingle in the air; a fragrant reminder of sustenance found in mindful consumption. A feast, crafted from locally sourced ingredients, awaits us.

We gather around a wooden table adorned with dishes as vibrant as our verses. Pad Thai, a tangle of colors and flavors, speaks of diversity and unity. Tom Kha Gai, a harmonious blend of coconut and herbs, whispers of balance. Each bite is a pledge, a declaration of allegiance to the Earth’s well-being.

We seven environmental poets travel around the country to embrace the difference between clutter, declutter, and waste. Hoarding is a new age disease, and recycling, reprogramming, and restoring is the cure for every age. Its insidious whispers slither like an anaconda in the shadows, hiss its demands for more, the gulp of possessions swallowed whole, followed by another insatiable hiss, craving yet another acquisition to satisfy its voracious appetite.

Hiss hiss hiss
Gulp gulp gulp
Hiss hiss hiss
Gulp gulp gulp

Bellies full and hearts alight, we return to our pens the next day, ready to take on the world with our arsenal of poetry and purpose. The grove echoes with our verses, a chorus of hope and determination. And as we write, we know that our words, like seeds, will take root in the minds of those who listen, inspiring a movement that could change the course of the little ants.

The red ants and rats are very much aligned in their teamwork. They’ve had enough rations that will last a long time, so they make a lot of noise.

They scurry with a synchronized frenzy, their tiny feet tapping a staccato rhythm against the wood. Each movement is accompanied by the soft rustle of leaves disturbed and the faint clicking of mandibles as they work in unison through a series of subtle chirps and continuous clicks that reverberate through the grove.

Click click click
Click click click

The rats, equally industrious in their endeavors, add their own contribution to the cacophony, their gnawing and scratching creating a background melody of determination.

Chomp chomp chomp—
grind grind grind
Chomp chomp chomp—
grind grind grind

The urban jungle’s concrete embrace, a tiny oasis of green unfurls its rustling leaves. A garden, a sanctuary, where nature’s heartbeat pulses in vibrant hues. Jasmine tendrils reach for the sky like ballet dancers frozen, mid-pirouette, their fragrant breath mingling with the city’s symphony. Did we actually take a pause to understand how the cities became a suction pipe to consumerism and technology?

Behind the jasmine tendrils we set to work with shovels in hand. The rhythmic clatter of metal meeting earth fills the air. Each scoop sends a shower of debris cascading down, accompanied by the dull thud of soil hitting the ground. The metal blades bite into the dirt with resolute determination, their sharp edges slicing through layers of neglect and decay. The shovels lift and deposit their loads into a waiting wheelbarrow. The sound of gloves adds a contrasting note with the soft swish of rubber. Hands clad in protective gloves work tirelessly to sift through the dirt and waste.

Clatter clatter clatter
Thud thud thud
Swish swish swish

Storytelling is different these days. We tell stories to sell more. Beneath the emerald canopy, a solitary poet sits, her heart a canvas splashed with emotions as vivid as the flowers around her. With each stroke of her pen, verses bloom like wildflowers after a summer rain, capturing the essence of a world in flux. She is an empath. One of the wonders of the world.

In the midst of her poetic reverie, a tantalizing aroma diffuses through the air. Thai basil, like a secret whispered by the wind, tickles her senses again. Her stomach responds with a symphony of anticipation, the flavors of Pad Thai and Tom Kha Gai dance in her mind like characters in a play and she looks at him. The second wonder of the world, the famous chef and farmer.

A medium-sized food cart emerges like a mirage with screeching wheels, a burst of color against the green backdrop. The chef, a culinary artist, wields his wok like a magician’s wand, conjuring a feast that transcends mere sustenance. Flames leap, the wok sizzles, and aromas intermingle, creating a crescendo of flavors that harmonize with the poet’s verses. As the remaining five of us are watching, the empath poet wonders with compassion around the wok.

As the first bite touches her lips, the very essence of the garden is captured in that morsel. The Pad Thai’s tangled noodles mirror the intertwining vines, each ingredient a note in a sensory symphony. The Tom Kha Gai, a delicate ballet of coconut and lemongrass, pirouettes on her tongue, evoking the garden’s whispers. She calls out to the teacher of gratitude. The other wonder of the world.

Each of us pour forth our own essence and as we near sunset it is time to light the bonfire. So, the wonder of passion decides to take that responsibility with the wonder of care. We believe if we ignite our passion with care we can achieve so much, and it allows us to take each step at a time.

As we clear the remaining garbage, we don’t let the soggy waste disturb our taste buds. We are very much in sync with the rustling banana leaves.

We start to place banana leaves around the bonfire. There was some hay found so we place that as well. Then we gently place our towels around it. It is enough and quite comfortable for each of us to sit.

I realize we are all here as a reminder of nature’s resilience. The wonder of love has natural flavors that paints a world alive with interconnected beauty. There is more noise to make!

By now we have so many bags. Each movement elicits a sharp crinkle as the plastic materials shift and settle against one another. The rustle of paper and cardboard adds a softer undertone to the chorus, punctuated by the occasional clatter of glass. Together, these sounds create a different melody. The melody of garbage. 

Seven of us—empath, chef,
compassion, gratitude, passion, care,
and love plant seeds and pick up
the pieces other people leave behind.

Crinkles, rustles, thuds
Crinkles, rustles, thuds 
Clatter—clatter—clatter

Seven of us—empath, chef, compassion, gratitude, passion, care, and love plant seeds and pick up the pieces other people leave behind.

We garbage collectors know how to sing and write.

Our glamping trip has not ended, yet.