Most of us are prisoners to at least one of these, if not all—money, insecurity, ambition. This realisation first struck me years ago when I was around 23, while sailing from Yokohama in Japan to Singapore. The vast expanse of the sea was breathtakingly beautiful, the breeze cool and inviting, the rhythmic hum of the ship I was on was musical, yet my thoughts drifted in stark contrast to the serenity around.

The ship moved steadily eastward across a calm sea. In Yokohama, I had dared to steal a few hours of freedom from the demanding work schedule which had been keeping me on toes for the past few days. Back then, I was an engineer on a merchant vessel, young and restless, but bound by duty to my seniors — a couple of bitter men who wielded their authority with a cruel precision. I had been eager to explore Yokohama city, my heart filled with the thrill of adventure. But these men, hardened by their own insecurities, denied me permission. “Rest,” they said, for the ship was to depart at 1 a.m., and my presence would be required at work late at night.

By 6 p.m., when my morning shift at work had ended, my rebellious spirit had taken over. Quietly, without fanfare, I slipped out to cover what I could in the six inviting hours between 6 pm to midnight that day. A clandestine escape for a 23-year-old Punjabi boy who refused to have his life’s reins held by others.

In my mind, Japan was a land of cherry blossoms, kimonos, minkas, bonsais, and women with soulful, almond-shaped eyes that tilted gently upwards at the corners. But the Yokohama I encountered that evening was far removed from this image. Around the port, I wandered through silent streets flanked by concrete and glass buildings. Closed shops stood as mute sentinels, no restaurants or cafe or watering hole was open, and the hum of life was conspicuously absent. It wasn’t the Japan of my imagination, but it was still captivating in its own stark, modern reality and beauty.

When midnight struck, I returned to the ship, knowing well that my act of defiance would not have gone unnoticed. The bitter men must be waiting. I imagined their faces marked with disapproval and the sharp sting of angst knowing they’d been bested. Bitter men, I have learned over the years, grow even more bitter when faced with a rebel. But by then, I hoped they knew they weren’t dealing with a boy who could be tamed.

I quickly donned my work gear and descended into the engine room, ready to face their silent judgement. As I entered the control room, I saw them. Their glares were like blunt daggers to me. I carried on, focusing on my tasks with the skill and dedication I had always prided myself on. What unfolded that night became the stuff of folklore, retold over the years in different forms by people who were there, and also those who were not there but had heard through someone else about the unsual incident that transpired. But that’s a tale for another time.

Coming back. The memory of Japan bubbled to the surface past Sunday when my 14-year-old son, out of the blue, asked me, “Papa, would you want to visit Japan? Should we plan a trip there?” The question stirred something deep within me. For 25 years, the Japan I imagined and the Japan I glimpsed in those fleeting hours have lingered in my mind, unfinished and unresolved.

Closer to 50 now, I am no longer that rebellious young man, unshackled and without ties. Life has shaped me, anchored me with a family and responsibilities, and happily so. But my son’s question made me dust off an old memory. I pulled out the diary where I had once written down places I longed to see. And there it was—Japan. I added it back to the list, quietly promising my son, myself, and Japan that one day, we would return.

It’s strange how, even after decades, ambition continues to remind me of its presence, despite my deliberate attempts to banish them – money, insecurity, ambition – from my life. Perhaps, I am, or perhaps we are all, prisoners, in one way or another. And perhaps, the trick lies not in escaping them, but in learning to live with or beyond their reach.

While this whole set of ideas flashed in my head, I sensed that my son was by me still, excited and anticipating a response. I assured him, “Yes, we’ll plan a trip within the next few years.” What I did not tell him is that I too have a few unfinished and unresolved matters relating to memories of Japan. I wonder if my son would read this post ever, and ask “What happened that night?”.

Would you want to know? Comment below or contact me, and I shall continue the second leg in another post about the experience that made me realise that there is realm beyond money, insecurity, ambition… and that would become my guiding beacon.