When Lina was awoken by the sound of thunder, she was alone on the island. The air was cool and bullfrogs croaked. It was that brief moment when the summer sun had set but the stars hadn't yet appeared. Lina rubbed her eyes and looked around. "Hello?" she called. "Celia? Marie?" There was no response.

The moon was rising now, shedding light on the island. They had always called it "Forgotten Island" because no one but they seemed to remember its existence. It wasn't on any of the maps they could find, and even the forest rangers didn't know about it. Lina loved that the island, hidden in a heavily-wooded side stream of the l river, was a secret between the three friends—her, Celia, and Marie. But now Lina was here alone, and it was night. Worse still, it was her own fault.

"Come on, Lina, let Marie row the born." Celia had said. Marie was two years older than Lina, but she was a hopeless rower. That's why Linn refused and rowed the boat to the island.

The argument that followed the refusal took the usual form. Celia took Marie's side, as she always did. Lina exploded and yelled at them to just leave. So they got back in the boat and left.

A bolt of lightning crossed the darkened sky, accompanied by a deafening thunder clap. The storm was here. As the first cold raindrop slid down her neck, Lina's mind returned to her current problem. She was stuck here by herself. She just hoped she didn't become as forgotten as the island. The thought of it sent a chill down her back.

Suddenly, Lina spotted something in the water. It was a boat, and inside it were Marie, Celia, and Marie's dad, who was steering through the fast flowing waters. As the boat approached, they saw Lina waving and the worried expressions on their faces turned to relief

In her excitement Lina jumped into the river. Only once she was in the icy water did she remember how fast the water was moving. Luckily a strong arm reached into the water and pulled her out. She smiled weakly at Marie's dad and, without a word, hugged Celia and Marie. They didn't seem to mind becoming wet.

Armenian musician Astrid Poghosyan, a 28 year-old violinist, takes great pride in the Chinese name she picked for herself, Ma Xingxing. This summer, she has been busy making preparations for a series of in-person and online music events and cultural exchange programs. Poghosyan said she always puts all her energy into the projects which she takes part in, whether they are online or online events, as she believes that every little effort will help her realize her music related dreams.

“I believe music knows no borders (边界), and cultural exchanges through music are especially important during the COVID-19 pandemic (流行病),” she said. Having studied and worked in China for 12 years, Poghosyan has now become a real China hand, skilled at the country’s language and culture. Such a multicultural background has certainly helped her stand out at her present job. For Poghosyan, the life she now leads is a far cry from when she first came to China in 2009 to study violin at the Shanghai Conservatory of Music. At that time, Poghosyan could not speak a word of Chinese. “And my high-school-level English wasn’t of much help at that time,” she said. “So I decided to learn Chinese to solve the communication problem.”

She has a strong desire for Chinese movies, traditional festivals and history stories, all of which helped her through the difficult language-learning process. As she gradually buried herself in the Chinese language and culture, she also started to make Chinese friends and explore the energetic city life of Shanghai.

“Since I first came to Shanghai, I have always been impressed by the kindness of the people here,” she said. “Even when I couldn’t speak Chinese, in the first days, everyone I met gave me a big smile. Their smiles have made me feel the warmth of the city.”

Every auntie I know has a kitchen drawer containing a carefully maintained collection of yoghurt dabbas. Dabba is Indian word for ‘box,’ but it refers to all manner of containers, too. Dabbas are saved and reused again and again most of the time.

When I was a kid, my mother cut no corners when it came to food, sparing no effort to cook the meals—after a full day at the office. The leftovers would inevitably(必然地) find their way into yoghurt dabbas.

But just as every auntie cherished her dabbas, every uncle hated them. My own father, a generally easy-going man, carefully avoided the drawer of dabbas. When he felt annoyed at the dabbas, my mother would shoot him a look that would surely have killed a weaker man and place her dabba carefully back in its drawer. Occasionally my father would get fed up with the overflowing drawer and clear all the dabbas. But my mother would simply start the process of collecting them again.

When I went away to university, my mom used to cook food and send it back with me with strict instructions to wash the dabbas and bring them home. But when I did so, I felt embarrassed with the eyes of my roommates on me. Eventually, I found my way to a big company and had a family of my own. Like my mother before me, I’m also the proud owner of an extensive dabba collection.

They truly are the most useful of objects, with uses ranging from food storage to toys for my children. It is a source of a strange and indescribable comfort. When I married my husband, my mother was concerned. “You know, you come from very different backgrounds,” she said. Dealing with cultural differences is surely an adventure. But the other night, I heard my husband yelling in the kitchen, and the next morning, I found my dabbas in the recycling bin. I narrowed my eyes a little as I fished them out, washed them up and replaced them in their drawer. I was practising my mother’s death stare.