Plastic Surgery

He seemed so familiar.

“Have we met before?”
“I don’t think so,” he said, smiling bashfully.
“It’s just that, you remind me of someone I recently met. Maybe it was someone else.”
“Yes, it must have been.”

We parted ways; he towards the street, and I towards the temple, in the same direction as the green horizon. I couldn’t quite figure out what was so familiar with him. His hair was black or dark brown, and he wore a loose white jacket with a pair of baggy blue jeans as if deliberately tailored to be two sizes too large. He was young, looking to be in his mid-twenties. As with almost everyone else I saw going about their daily routine, his clothes looked like they had just been purchased the day before. When I asked him for directions, the smooth cadence of his speech was creamy with a hint of hazelnut, and reminded me of someone else I recently met. The resemblance could not only be explained by cultural tendencies of the region. After a brief moment, I shrugged off my contemplation, and focussed on where I was heading. I pushed forward, thinking about my journey and how it arrived at a pivotal moment in my life. I would finally know what to do and when; what to say, and how.

I walked the few hundred meters leading towards the esteemed temple grounds, gradually converging with a growing crowd of tourists. They came from all regions of the world. Most of them visiting this small but industrious nation for the first time included the temple as part of their itinerary. The temple’s tall and emblematic front view appeared on souvenirs and postcards; an instantly recognizable mainstay of the country. I wasn’t much of a pushover for historical sites, but a brief visit to this temple would only take an hour out of my day. With only another full day left on my trip, I thought it best to check this place off my own itinerary, especially after hearing a loud roar from the direction of the temple. It sounded like some sort of oversized tiger announcing its presence every few minutes. Despite the roar’s deafening volume, people kept marching towards the eminent landmark. I stayed on course as well, when a hunger pang suddenly jolted me, unannounced. Despite having eaten a hefty breakfast barely three hours prior, I was already feeling weak.

“Is this dish spicy?”
“Yes, a little bit spicy. If you do not like spicy food, I recommend you try this one here.”

During my two-week stay, I ordered my first and only bowl of local soup, served with noodles and fish. It was a mess to look at: a multicolored mishmash that floated aimlessly, confused and delirious, and only held back by its round and rigid wooden container. Despite the lack of presentation, the broth and the texture of the meat ended up firing up my taste buds with a delightful combination of creaminess and spice. Its rich mixture of flavors flashed a bright red beam right into my eyes. Every time my taste buds were subjected to its characteristic spiciness, the vibrant color momentarily flooded my vision. It was a very delicious soup. A trip such as this one was certainly meant for indulging new culinary discoveries, and due to the inevitable weight gain, I would eventually have to adopt a more disciplined routine upon my return. Although I always found it challenging to keep my hands off my favorite sweets and desserts back home, I remained confident that I could cultivate the discipline needed this time around.

Slurping the delectable broth, I looked around the tiny restaurant whose windows reflected all its patrons after darkness had settled outside. I was the only foreigner. All the others consorted in an incomprehensible language as they ate and exchanged pleasantries after a hard day’s work. Through their gestures and the rhythm of their conversations, I found they all acted very similarly, and not in a way that merely derived from local customs. They exhibited an almost identical personality and presented the exact same disposition. And despite not understanding a word, I could not mistake their courteousness and charisma, exuded effortlessly. The scene reminded me of my high school days during which I stared down at my bleak cafeteria lunch, trying to pretend I wasn’t eating alone. Everyone else sat in their well established groups, unloading much conserved energy after another dull morning of classes. Even back then, I tried to decode what it was in my personality that made it difficult to thrive with others.

Upon finishing my soup, the phone rang: my boss from the other side of the world.

“Where are you?” he barked.
“I’m traveling.”
“For how long?”
“For the next two weeks. I just started my vacation.”

He ordered me to prepare a presentation for a meeting his team was conducting in two days, then hung up. I looked at my watch: nearly seven in the evening. I resolved to complete the presentation that very night. There was plenty I wanted to accomplish on this trip, and didn’t want any lingering thoughts of work.

“May I have the bill?”
“You have to pay over there.”

I walked over to the reception area near the front, and paid for my lunch. As I exited the enormous cafeteria where travelers from many countries crossed paths, I decided to go for a stroll on the observation deck. Some fresh air would serve me well before the long flight home, I thought. I was instead taken aback by the muggy air, and immediately retreated into the cooler temperature of the vast terminal. Walking past a row of fashionable clothing and jewelry stores, I spotted a souvenir shop selling various representations of the city’s famous landmarks. The image of the temple was everywhere. It evoked my memory of the nice young man in his mid-twenties who helped me find my way. If memory served me correctly, he was with two attractive women about his age. Friends of his, I assumed. When I was his age, I would have considered myself incredibly fortunate to be in the company of two attractive women, let alone any woman. I never understood the fearlessness of certain men.

A recognizable jingle played out of the terminal’s speakers, prompting passengers’ attention before an announcement. Flight 927 was boarding, which I knew to be the one departing roughly an hour before mine. I still had time to mosey along the terminal’s stores before heading to my gate. And then my phone rang.

“Hello?”
“Hello, we are confirming your appointment at 2pm today.”
“What appointment?”
“You have an appointment scheduled for 2pm.”

Surely, someone must have accidentally dialed my number.

“Do you need the address?”

I hesitated, but curiosity drew me in.

The office was located in the affluent section of the downtown core, about fifteen stops from the metro station near the temple. I knew I wouldn’t have time to visit the famous landmark whose image made up the vast majority of fridge magnets and miniatures. I retraced my steps, walking for no more than a couple minutes, when the young man in the white jacket and the baggy jeans, accompanied by the four ladies spotted me.

“Do you still need help?” he asked me.
“No, no, thank you…I uh, I realized I have to be somewhere else.”

The young man smiled and nodded, sparking my admiration. Had I been so helpful and charming at his age, I would have been much further in my career and life. His maturity amazed me. It was as if he had lived years beyond his age and managed to crystalize his demeanour following a lifetime of learned lessons. I started to wonder if he truly was in his twenties.

The monstrous roar startled me one last time as I headed back to the metro station. It was quickly followed by a rattle in my pocket, which I instinctively confounded with the terrifying bellow of the beast. I flinched, before realizing it was my phone ringing again.

“Hello?”
“How are you doing? How’s your trip?”
It was my mother.
“I’m doing fine. It’s been an amazing trip so far. How are things back home?”

My mother began to recount the last few days’ events back home. While I listened intently to the banal details of her daily routine, I began to wonder if this woman whose voice was spot on was indeed my mother. While she related her anecdotes, I quickly glanced at my phone to confirm that it was the correct number; and it was. For a reason I could not substantiate, I knew that I was on the phone with an impostor.

“Mom, I’m sorry, but I’m just about to enter the subway station and there’s no signal.”

In truth, I had spoken on the phone during subway rides in this city, with no issues. I shuddered to think of this imposter’s devious plot, but I needed to redirect my thoughts, for I was faced with the other mystery of an unknown caller beckoning me to an unknown place.

The people around me maintained a perfect posture and moved with exquisite grace and poise. Men and women of different ages managed to organize themselves within the chaos of embarking and disembarking passengers at each station. I must have spent the equivalent time of seven or eight stations studying this impressive display before moving on to the advertisements plastered above the hand railings. One of them presented a man’s face with some arrows circulating around it, with some words in the local language taking up most of the right side. Although I couldn’t understand what the advertisement wrote, I deduced it to be of some sort of procedure.

“Won’t you take a seat.”

The creamy beige leather chair made me feel weightless. The ceiling lamps’ warm light and the soft classical music absorbed by the acoustic moss walls immediately immersed me in an aura of relaxation. I scanned my surroundings and examined the reception desk a few meters away from the waiting area, and immediately understood that I had been here before, but I couldn’t place the exact moment in the chronology of my travels.

“Wait a second…”, I thought. “Didn’t I already go to the airport to head back home? What am I doing back in the city?” I remembered the mugginess of the observation deck, and the announcement of Flight 927. I didn’t dream of it. I had been at the airport to catch my flight home. How could I have made it back to this office waiting area; did I not miss the plane?

Calm classical music kept playing, dismissing and defying my gnawing thoughts. This jarring juxtaposition of sudden concern with the tranquility of Bach’s Goldberg Variations became unbearable. The soft leather caressing my body didn’t help either. I stood up as if to avoid getting swallowed whole by the chair and rushed towards the receptionist.

“Excuse me, do you know how long it will be?”

The young woman offered a reassuring smile, which made me all the more anxious.

“It will just be a few short minutes. Would you like to have some water?”

She pointed to her left, where a ribbed glass dispenser was placed atop a small round table. A few twists of lime floated in the water, inciting me to fill a cup. As I took a couple of sips, my crippling thoughts began to vanish like thirst. The lime cut through the blandness of the water at just the right loudness. It was still water, but water with a unique kick to it, and in that moment, I pledged to slice limes once back home.

A woman who appeared to be in her early thirties stepped out of some hidden door and called my name as she arrived at the reception desk. She wore the kind of clothing medical professionals would have worn if high fashion branched off into hospitals. Her tailored uniform was exquisite with its carefully selected layers of complimentary blues and whites. With the perfect poise of a runway model, the woman ushered me into a cozy area to a doctor’s examination room modernized with the same soothing decor and musical choice as the waiting area. We sat down on similar creamy beige chairs of expensive leather.

“How are you feeling today?” she asked, with the type of smile and impeccable disposition I started to become accustomed to.

“Confused. I’m not sure what I’m here for.”
“We’re here to check up on you after the procedure. It’s been exactly one week.”

She took note of my blank stare and turned towards a monitor where she played a video of the two of us, with the date marked one week prior. As she raised the volume, I listened in on a fragment of our in-screen conversation.

“How long will the procedure last?” I asked her.
“Approximately two hours. It is possible you will not remember certain parts of today, but any day before or after will be remembered.”

In the video, I nodded as I sat upright at the edge of the seat.
“So you’ll be enhancing my neural pathways for courage, discipline, and patience.”
“And social acumen that is both verbal and non-verbal,” she added.
“Yes, that’s right. But what if any of these pathways are missing to begin with?”
“In most cases, you should already have a pathway for these traits. We work on the existing foundation to boost them. It’s like building a highway where an unpaved road used to be. There’s almost always something to build on.”

“But if there was nothing to begin with – let’s say, social acumen – is it possible to create new neuron pathways to boost that quality?”

“Absolutely. In fact, whether or not there was a pathway to begin with, all enhancements consist of creating new connections.”

In the video, she turned towards the monitor and pointed at an image that filled the entire screen.

“This is a map of your own connections, and these are the areas where we will be enhancing your discipline. You already have a fairly well developed set of pathways for patience. Your least developed pathways are for courage and social acumen, so those are the areas we will be focussing on the most.”

“Okay, that’s good. Now, what about maintaining this long term? Will I lose any of these new pathways over time?”

“You only risk regressing in the long term if you do not use them. Just like muscles that risk atrophying over time if they aren’t exercised. As long as you keep engaging them, it will remain accessible and natural.”

I sat motionless at her response, prompting her to continue.

“When the procedure is over and your neural pathways are enhanced, all those targeted characteristics will be optimized, and you will feel as if it is all perfectly normal - as if you were always this way. This is better than putting in years of effort, wouldn’t you say?”

All at once, I remembered having arranged for this procedure, and having planned an entire trip around it. It was finally fait accompli: a non-invasive surgery which rewires neural pathways, taking advantage of the brain’s plasticity. Plastic surgery for the mind, they called it. It had risen in popularity among certain elite circles, and was starting to break out into the mainstream in this country. The cost was astronomical. Some parents of limited means were known to save up a fund as soon as their child was born, only to offer the surgery as a graduation gift when they reached the legally required age.

Upon learning my intentions, my own parents were staunchly against it. Yet, a thirty-five year-old man with his own means was not impeded by such protests. My mother pleaded with me in the kitchen while she waited for her banana bread in the oven: “Aren’t you afraid of the risks? You’ll be rewiring your brain! So many connections that get made over your life, and you want to tinker with that?”

And she went on and on, listing a plethora of scientific names she looked up, denoting illnesses and impairments which supposedly could affect one’s perceptions, past and present. I didn’t care. I lived my entire life fighting to find my courage and discipline, with no noticeable progress. I had hit a ceiling; the ceiling of my own potential. I wasn’t built to accomplish more, and if I truly wanted to get ahead, it was time to consider this new measure at my disposal.

“Doctor,” I continued in the video, “if you’re going to create some new pathways, does that mean that you’ll be erasing already existing ones?”

She didn’t flinch.

“Yes. Having mapped your entire neural network, we are able to make calculated decisions on which nearby pathways are expendable.”

She leaned towards me and made an announcement.

“Flight 735 is now ready for boarding.”

I headed towards my gate and lined up in one of the zones, based on one’s assigned seat. Zone 4. I must have looked at my boarding pass at least three times to confirm it. The wait was predictably long. While people played with their phones, I looked out the large windows and observed a plane in the clear midday sky, making its descent.   Were it not for the noise around me, I would have heard its roaring jet engines propel it to its eventual landing. Eventually, my zone’s lineup started to move. I took a couple of intermittent steps, when my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was my boss.

“I’m just about to board a plane.”
“I need you to give me the data from last week’s trial.”
“I wasn’t in the office last week, given I was on vacation. What I would like to recommend is you reach out to Greg. He’s got everything you need.”

I surprised myself at the assured timber in my voice. It was, for the first time, overflowing with conviction.

“Okay,” said my boss. And he hung up.

Before placing my phone back in my pocket, I noticed a couple of missed calls from a familiar number. The impostor had tried to get a hold of me again. I immediately blocked her number and placed the phone back in my pocket, resolved not to concern myself with that number again. My boarding pass and passport safely clasped in my hand, I thought about the next few days, as well as the next few years. I would finally know what to do and when; what to say, and how.

Daniel Sumarto, May 2026

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