When the economic downturn hit, more and more people found themselves barely scraping by. Many turned their backs on the so-called civilized city, packed their bags, and returned to their hometowns where the cost of living was far lower than in the capital. Staying in the big city simply wasn't worth it anymore no matter how hard you worked, it was never enough.
Even those earning fifty thousand baht a month were feeling the strain.
Yes… not enough.
I would know.
I'm one of them.
My name is Lekha Wuttiwattana. My nickname is the same as my real name. Some friends call me "Le," others shorten it to "Kha." I've never really minded either way.
I'm twenty-five this year right in the middle of that so-called unlucky age.
I sit staring at the water bill, the electricity bill, the condo rent, the car payment, the credit card statements then switch over to my banking app to look at my salary. I try using a calculator. I round things down. I juggle the numbers again and again.
And that's not even counting daily food expenses.
I feel like I'm about to faint.
Not enough… fifty thousand… and not a single baht left.
How did I end up here? A man earning fifty thousand a month, living in the heart of the capital, and still can't make ends meet.
I'd heard bits and pieces about the worsening economy government announcements about rising living costs, plunging stocks, soaring oil prices, blah, blah, blah. I never paid attention.
Not until now.
Now that payday comes—and I don't feel even a flicker of happiness.
Who would've thought inflation would get this bad?
Grandma worked so hard to send me to an international school since I was a kid, all so I could land a high-paying job one day. And I did. I work at an international trading company. But the lifestyle that comes with that kind of circle former international school kids, corporate professionals, refined tastes demands a refined budget to match.
My condo payment alone is fifteen thousand baht. Add another five thousand for utilities because I keep the air-conditioning running nice and cold all month.
The car installment is another ten thousand. Gas costs around five thousand. Then there's car washes and maintenance on top of that.
A cup of branded coffee costs over a hundred baht four thousand a month, just like that. Then social gatherings with friends, new designer accessories, "social obligations" gifts wedding envelopes, temple donations, ordinations, baby showers…
It never ends.
Where did it all go?
…Should I just ask Grandma for money?
No, no. I can't do that.
In the three years I've been working, I've sent Grandma money… what, once a year at most? If anyone found out, where would I even hide my face?
She always says she's fine. The fruit from her orchard sells well enough. She doesn't struggle for food or money. The house is hers, no rent to pay. There's a small stream running past the property. The electricity bill is low because she had solar panels installed.
Grandma has never once held it over my head that she raised me. Never once asked me for money. Not even after what my parents did to her dumping me on her doorstep when I was little and disappearing without a trace.
She's the kindest, most generous person I know.
Maybe because she's so simple, so undemanding… that's why my parents and even I barely paid attention to her. We all assumed she'd be fine no matter what.
Since I graduated and started working, I haven't gone back to the orchard house. Not even to Chanthaburi. I never felt the urge to return.
I've grown used to paperwork in a chilled office, to the hum of air-conditioning. In my mind, Grandma's old wooden house in the middle of a fruit orchard has turned into some wild, overgrown jungle hardship lurking in every shadow, maybe even a ghost waiting to jump out at me.
A fantasy I invented, just to give myself an excuse not to go back.
So Grandma ends up coming to visit instead.
Every time she does, she brings bags and bags of fruit from the orchard so much I can barely carry it upstairs. And what do I do? I don't even eat most of it. I hand it out to friends and my boss because I get tired of it.
Honestly… when I really think about it, why did I try so hard to become a city person in the first place?
Ten years ago.
Bangkok—the city of dreams.
A place that promised progress, a better life, something perfectly polished and extraordinary. Everything here, the ads said, could transform you into someone special. Someone above the rest.
That was the kind of propaganda a fifteen-year-old boy swallowed whole.
Back then, I was tired of the simple life waking up early, eating plain food, working in the orchard under the blazing sun, drenched in sweat, yelping whenever I came across a fat green caterpillar. I couldn't help comparing that life to the glossy commercials of the capital: towering buildings, handsome actors and beautiful celebrities, office workers in sharp suits, elegant dishes artfully plated in rooftop restaurants with panoramic views. Everything looked classy. Elevated. People with flawless pale skin dressed in striking fashion, as if they'd just stepped out of a shower dusted in powder every minute of the day.
That must have been when it started.
When I begged Grandma to let me transfer to an international school in tenth grade.
And once I entered that world, the open-minded ideas of foreign classmates and wealthy Thai friends slowly replaced the old thoughts I used to have.