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An unexpected incident

Updated: May 24


The temple grounds were everything I had imagined—no, more than that. So much more.


Daigo-ji in Kyoto stood quietly beneath a sky powdered with pink, the cherry blossoms in their full, fleeting glory. My heart pounded the moment we stepped through the wooden gate. I could barely contain myself, and the humongous grin that was creeping up on my face.


“This is it,” I whispered, gripping my phone tightly. “Finally.”


I had spent months reading blogs and counting down to this family trip. I had followed photographers on social media, and saved every post about Kyoto’s sakura season. In my mind, a dream shot of the perfect moment in the perfect place had been planted. There was going to be a perfect caption too. It was going to be something poetic, something cool. I could not wait to post it and tag my best friend, Brandon, back home, and rub it all in.



“Careful,” my mum called after me, smiling as I darted ahead but I barely heard her. Every step felt electric. The air was fresh and clean, smelling full of promise like spring itself.

I lifted my phone and turned on the camera. Blossoms floated in the air like pink confetti, and the morning sun added that splash of gold, as if everything was captured in an Instagram filter. I framed the shot and held my breath.


But just as I tapped the shutter—


“Too many people! Move, move!” a voice shrieked from behind.


My shoulders stiffened, my excitement instantly twisted into irritation as I turned around and glared at a woman in a blindingly pink outfit who barged through a group, waving a selfie stick like a sword. She snapped her fingers at her partner, shouting instructions in rapid Mandarin. Her jarring voice sliced through the air, graceless.


I watched with my lips pressed tightly together. Why was it always them?



I hated how predictable it felt. Just like the time in Seoul, or that museum in Paris. They were always loud and always pushy. I knew I was being unfair but I could not help it, not when my prejudice was being fed by one bad encounter after another. My jaw tightened as annoyance tugged at the edge of my emotions. It was like I had already decided what kind of person she was the moment she opened her mouth.


“She just ruined the shot,” I muttered under my breath to my dad.


He gave me a sympathetic look. “She is... enthusiastic.”


Whatever she was, the moment I had planned and waited for was slipping away. I stepped to the side, hoping to escape her orbit, but she circled the cherry blossom tree like it owed her a stage. She struck a pose beneath the lowest branch, jabbing at her sheepish husband, burdened with bags and a cumbersome tripod, to adjust the angle.


Then she reached up.


“No, no, wait. Let me hold it like this!” she barked, tugging at the branch until the blossoms drooped above her head for the perfect selfie.


My stomach dropped as my disbelief flooded my eyes.


“Is she seriously—” I began, but it was too late.


Snap.


The branch broke clean off, and petals burst into the air, drifting down like shocked whispers. Gasps rippled through the courtyard followed by a buzz of disapproval which rose from the crowd. The woman blinked at the severed branch as though surprised, then let it fall without care. One or two raised their voices but no one approached the pink monstrosity.


“It is just a twig,” she muttered, brushing petals off her shoulder.


I stood frozen, rage bubbling in my chest and fists clenched at my sides. The stillness and reverence of the place had all been crushed under her careless grip, and part of me wanted to shout, to call her out, to confront her so she could feel the weight of what she had done but nonchalantly ignored. I imagined myself storming over, saying what everyone was thinking but my voice caught in my throat.


Then, he appeared.


A monk stepped forward from the temple path, his movements so calm they felt like part of the wind. His robe swayed softly around his ankles, and everyone parted and made way for him, a petite figure who said nothing and whose face showed nothing.


He bent and picked up the broken branch with both hands, his fingers moving with such care, as if he were lifting a wounded bird. Then he laid it gently on a mossy stone beside the tree, and with his palms pressed together, he bowed once, slowly and deeply.


To the branch. To the tree. To us.


In that moment, silence descended and washed away the gathering unpleasantness, and the loud noise inside me stilled.


The woman stood dumbfounded, her arms dropping as she backed away without a word.


The monk carried no anger and no judgment, and his quietness had said more than any scolding ever could.


He had said nothing but he had said a lot.



Back at the hotel, I could not shake the feeling.


My parents had gone for a nap, but I sat alone by the window, watching the soft light dim behind grey clouds with unseeing eyes. I had taken plenty of photos, but I could not bring myself to post them. My phone was in my hands, my fingers hovering above the screen showing the covet pixels of pink, but my heart was not in it anymore.


What would I even write? How could I capture what I had really seen?


A deep aching shame was writhing in me as I recalled not her behaviour, but of my own. How quickly I had judged. How easily I had dismissed her before she even did anything wrong. How coloured my lenses were. The incident haunted me.


I no longer saw individuals, only stereotypes and that morning at the temple, I had wanted to be the hero, the one who respected the Japanese culture, the one who cared. But the one who saved the day was the wordless monk who reminded me, us, what respect truly looked like, what caring for another human really meant.


I went to bed with a hollowness, heavy and unshakable.


The next day, I saw everything differently.


I started noticing things. A Chinese toddler offering biscuits to a stranger. A young Chinese couple helping a Japanese elder up a bridge. A Chinese mother who shushed her children on the train. I smiled when someone asked for directions in Mandarin, and this time, I did not flinch.


We visited more shrines and more gardens. The blossoms were still beautiful, but not as much as the kindness and humanity in people that I was finally beginning to register. I had missed so much before, blinded by my own assumptions.


I never did post that photo.


Instead, I wrote a message to Brandon at the end of the trip, not with a picture, but with a story—about a monk, a broken branch, and the moment I finally understood what it meant to see someone clearly.


I've returned with a more language-heavy piece, juxtaposing long sentences with well-placed short ones to keep the rhythm. Once again, the emboldened ones are there to help you keep track of the emotional changes and growth. The italicised ones are there to highlight the usage of the rule of three, a technique used to emphasis a point through repetition of keywords, ideas, or structure.

This is a piece that invites the reader to confront their own assumptions and biases. It is a timely social commentary, given the rise of post-pandemic tourism and the cultural clashse that inevitably ensue, and the extensive coverage of badly-behaved tourists (and not just from China!). We would do well to remember that many of what we construe as bad behaviour is nothing more than cultural differences, and that we should not be riding on high horses. If we truly want others to see our point of view, perhaps kindness would go a longer way.

This would also fit well with the following questions:

  • Write about someone who inspires you

  • Write about a time when you had a memorable incident

  • Write about a time when you were on a holiday






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