by Kow Shih-Li
I remember the first time I saw Baby. She lay in a crib, one in a long line. Third cot from the right. She was wrapped in a pink flannel blanket, like a fish in newspaper. There were some others wrapped in blue and yellow. If the blues were boy babies, then I had to guess what the yellow ones were.
The young nurse on the other side of the window had walked me here. She wore a green uniform and rubber soled white shoes like the ones I used for school. They made no sound on the shiny floor when she walked. She pointed Baby out, jabbing the air above Baby's head with her finger while her mouth shaped the words "your sister'. I pressed my nose to the window. The glass felt like cold metal. If I crossed my eyes, which I did often, I could see my own reflection. When I uncrossed them, I could see the head of the brand new little sister that Mother made.
I did not want a baby sister. I did not want a baby anything, much less one that looked like a hairless chimpanzee or some other animal. She did not even look human but none of the other wrapped up babies did either.
I turned away. The hospital smelt like my doctor's clinic, the one that Mother takes me to when I have a fever. Only this was much bigger and a lot colder. I went and sat on a row of four blue plastic chairs joined together at the base. I sat on one end and if I rocked my seat, the whole row followed. Mother was not around to stop me, so I rocked back and forth, making a grinding sound.
"Stop it, girl." It was a nurse in a blue uniform. I did not hear her sneak up on me because she was wearing those same silent shoes. I stopped because she looked fierce. Her eyes bulged when she glared. The type I did not like. She was also fat which meant that if she hit me, it would hurt. When she left, I rocked a little more but the fun was gone.
I walked down the corridor. No one paid any attention to me except for a walking baby with plastic shoes that made a loud squeak with every step. He tried to chase me and I had to stop so that he would be still and the shoes would be quiet. I wanted the blue nurse to come say "Stop it" and take the squeaky shoes away but the baby's father swept him up with a laugh before she came.
I stopped at every ward and looked inside. Each room had tired mothers who looked like the air had been let out of them. Everyone had bad hair and loose clothes. The opposite of wedding dinners when all the ladies had good hair and tight dresses. The babies were like parasites, sucking the air and good hair days out of their mothers through the breast. I must ask Mother if she ever thought of me as a parasite.
I was at the entrance to Mother's ward. It had 2 beds but the other was empty today. A lady was there until last night. Her baby was in a glass box under a light. "He's yellow," the nurse had said but he looked very brown to me and not at all yellow. I hated the sight of that baby under the light. He looked like a wrinkly, newborn kitten worming around on the floor with his eyes closed. I was glad that he was gone today and there would be no more mewing sounds.
I could hear Father's voice. Mother was crying. I stood outside the door, where I could hear without being seen.
Mother kept saying,"I don't know, I don't know, I don't know."
"Don't lie to me. This is not the time." Father sounded very angry. Angrier than the time Mother scratched his car driving through our front gate.
"No, I am not lying. Please believe me. I don't know why."
I don't know if Father believed her. I don't know if I believe Mother when she says she's not lying because she does sometimes. She often says something tastes good when it does not to make me eat it. She once said she could not take me to the park because she was feeling tired but five minutes later, she agreed to go to the mall when third Aunty called. I think she lied about being tired. Like the time she lied about why she was late picking me up from school. She said she was at the grocery shop but there were no groceries in the car.
Father said, "It's impossible."
"Maybe the nurses switched…"
"I was right outside the delivery room when they brought it out."
"Please don't call her 'it'. She's your daughter."
"I can't be sure about that, can I?" Father's voice leaked out through the door and pushed through the corridors. I pressed myself against the wall so that the anger in his voice would not touch me. I decided to stay outside to keep watch for the blue nurse who might come to shush him.
Mother started crying again. "God help me, I swear. I did nothing wrong."
That day, my father left never to return and I had to hold Mother's hand for five days as she cried. Doctors came and gave her injections that made her sleep. They also gave her bad dreams because she tossed and moaned in her sleep. Baby did not feed at her breast. Nurses gave her the bottle instead and patted me on the head. They said things like, "Be a good girl", "Poor thing" or "Take care of your mummy". I never answered.
Grandma came to see Baby in the baby zoo. That was what I called the room with the glass window. She did not coo to her or tickle her cheek like some of the other grandmothers did. Mother did not know she came. Grandma gave me one hundred ringgit and some chicken rice. That was also the last time I saw Grandma, the mother of my father.
From then on, it was Mother, Baby and me. Mother went back to her work, I went back to school and Baby went to the babysitter every morning. That was how things were everyday every year.
Last week, Baby turned four. Mother said, "Let's make a happy photograph." Baby in the middle, between Mother and me, and the pink frosted birthday cake in the front. It is a very nice photograph. We are all smiling and we look the alike, as though someone had taken three photographs of the same person at different times and stuck them together.
Look at us. I have Mother's eyes. Single lidded and almost disappearing when we smile. So does Baby. When I smile, only my lower teeth show, just like Baby and Mother. Even our hair is the same, black, straight and flat falling close to the head. The only feature Baby and I have that is not Mother's is the broad, flat nose with the upturned nostrils. That came from Father.
I am going to make a Chinese New Year card with this photograph. Last year, I made one with a drawing of fishes with gold sequins for scales. The year before that was cut-out patterns from red paper. Father calls me sometimes. When he does, he tells me about his new job and Grandma. I hope he calls this Chinese New Year when he gets the photograph.
He will see how alike Baby and I are. How can he not see? How can anyone not see? The only difference is that Mother and I are the colour of milk tea, Baby's skin is the colour of roasted chestnuts. That's all.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Thursday, February 15, 2007
The Stalker Within
By Sabarina Abu BakarShe drove towards the small bungalow. The third time this week. Her heart sank upon seeing the well lighted room.
"Why didn't he call?" she asked silently. She pressed the negative sign on the volume button. Slowly muting Joan Jet's "I Hate Myself For Loving You".
As she neared the house, she slowed the car. Hoping for a sight of him. But it was impossible to go any slower for it was the main road she was in. Other drivers would honk and that was the last thing she needed. In between sighs, she pressed the accelerator and drove past the house. A wide junction not far ahead provided an opportunity for a U-turn. She made one and drove towards the house again.
She spotted a wide pavement in front of a paint shop. "This is perfect" she thought. It gave perfect view of the house. She stopped the car, off the engine and scroll down the window.
The small white single storey bungalow seemed unperturbed by the activities on the nearby main road. Cars, busses passed by, leaving doses of unhealthy smoke behind. Despite all this, the house still looks grand. Surrounded by pots of bougainvilleas, their colorful petals stood out against the white paint adorning the bungalow. The tall red brick walls offer its residents some privacy from the passers by. The house seemed recluse but yet, friendly.
Despite many cars in the compound, there don't seem to be much activity around. In fact, she had not seen a single soul coming in or going out of the house for the past three times she had passed by. Even his mother's helper was not in sight.
Her mind flew to one month ago when they spent their last Saturday together before he went off for his Haj trip.
"When are you due back?" she asked. He looked at her, sipped his drink and said, "IF I am back, it'll be on the third week of January" stressing on the IF. She looked at him long and hard and asked, "Why if?" sounded worried.
"It's all in God's will. You know how it is during Haj. Anything can happen" he replied calmly, avoiding her gaze. Immediately, her face softened and she continued eating.
That very conversation haunted her since two days ago when she was suppose to hear from him, but did not. She called, messaged him but none was replied. That drove her to his house. She would have rang the doorbell had she was formally introduced to his family members.
Suddenly, she saw a dark blue MPV stopped in front of the house. Followed closely behind was an apple green Myvi. The automatic gate slowly opened. The MPV went in. The Myvi remained outside and the gate remained opened.
Then, she saw someone drawn his room's curtain closed. She saw a physical shadow of a man behind the window screen. "Is that him?" she wondered. She knew it was his room. Suddenly the shadow opened the window. She slid lower in the driver's seat, hiding her face in the process. Within a split second she realized the stupidity of her action. No one would notice her. Many cars were parked by the road side. Hers would not attract any attention. Then the windows were shut close again. She let out a relief sigh.
Within minutes more cars arrived. Some parked by the house, some opposite the road. Few cars were parked behind her car. More people were seen walking towards the house. Man and women. Some went in, some lingered in the garden. Most of them looked Indonesian. She never knew Reza has Indonesian blood. The men were mostly wore songkok or kopiah. The ladies, she noticed were all in baju kurungs or kebayas. Mostly in black or white and all donned with tudungs or selendangs. Suddenly, she felt a pang of panic. This would normally mean one thing. Somebody has passed away.
The azan came at just about then. Very loud and clear from the nearby mosque. Calling all Muslims to perform their Maghrib (dawn) prayers. Little by little darkness enveloped, as the sun dips further into the western horizon. The TNB's road light were automatically lighted one by one, replacing the retiring sunlight. Soon, the roads were well lighted for passers by. Fortunately, her car was not parked under any of the road light. She remained hidden but overwhelmed with emotions.
The bright light shone through the windscreen. She was reminded of the good times. A series of " should have " thought flashes through her minds like a reel of film. She should have taken the phone, called him and just tell him that she missed him when she did. Or just confirmed his constant teasing that yes, he was special to her. She should have agreed to be introduced to
his family when he had offered. Then, she could just step into the house now instead of having to offer her prayers from afar. Now, it was too late. She would never know how he felt about her though she was sure about her feelings for him. She felt a deep sense of regrets.
A group of men were seen to gather at the main door awaiting something. A long stretcher came out from the house, carried by a group of eight people. The stretcher carried a long box covered with green cloth. Words of the holy Quran stitched in gold threat were embedded on the cloth.
Suddenly, all voices died down. A man's voice was heard reciting the prayers. The group took three steps towards the awaiting MPV and stopped. The man recited the prayers again. Another three steps were taken before the stretcher finally went into the MPV. She could see some people wiping away tears while some were seen consoling the others.
Slowly, the MPV left the house compound and went into the main road. The MPV and the remaining vehicles that followed drove slowly passed her car heading towards the graveyard located at the end of the kampong.
She could not bother to hide her face anymore. With each passing vehicle, her heart sank deeper and deeper. She felt a void in her heart. She wanted to cry out his name, scream her heart out but her voice failed her. Even her tears refused to flow. She felt so helpless and empty.
Suddenly, a beeping sound from her phone startled her. She groped in the dark searching for her phone. With squinted eyes she pressed a button. Her jaw dropped upon seeing the message , "My mother's Indonesian maid had an asthma attack. She passed away at 2.30 pm today - Reza".
Her tears flew like a broken dam. Sadness and relief intermingled.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Win
by Kasturi Siva
"The possibilities are endless," he thought. He just needed one or two more "wins". Tonight maybe, if he was lucky. It was pasar malam night in one of the housing estates in the small town nearby, about thirty kilometres away from where he lived. There would be an endless number of makciks, mamis and ah pos weaving their way in and out of the stalls, clutching purses. Better yet were the ones who carried handbags, awkwardly, as if forced to use them to please their children who may have given it to them on their last birthday. He preferred handbags to purses. Strap ... that’s what he looked out for. Always made the job easier.
Later, after a "win", it always amused him how he would attempt to dispose of these bags. He thought about that stupid guy who was caught snatching handbags and was splashed all over the papers, the one who kept all the women’s identity cards. "What an idiot," he thought. "Did he think they were mementos of his skills, like headhunters keeping the heads of the enemies they had beheaded?"
He, on the other hand, prided himself on leaving no evidence. He usually tried to rip the bag into pieces and place them in separate plastic bags in the trash. Once though, he was lucky enough to "win" a Ferragamo. He recognized the brand– he had educated himself by observing logos and expensive items while sauntering in the shopping malls. He had always been interested in what the rich did with themselves. He knew he was not meant to be an ignorant low class guy. He had told himself this repeatedly, even in his sleep. He would teach himself what the government and his parents lack of money could not.
The Ferragamo handbag was a dark brown leather one. Leather so soft and sensous that when he buried his nose in it, he smelt cows and remembered growing up amongst herds of them in a small village in Bukit Mertajam. He became sentimental about the bag and on a whim, presented it to a sweet young thing he was going out with at the time. If she was surprised how he had obtained it, she didn’t show it. With a satisfied sigh, he remembered how he had been amply rewarded for that gift. Yes, once in a while, it was a good thing to do something differently from what he would normally do. Consistency may make perfect sense but deviation often brings unexpected pleasures.
Glancing at the old table clock in his room, he realized he had better have a bath soon. It was the same ritual before he ventured out to seek a "win". He entered the tiny bathroom with the cracked blue floor tiles and turned on the water tap full. When the pail was almost filled to the brim, he dipped into it with the plastic dipper and doused himself in cool water. He scrubbed at himself vigorously with a bar of Lux soap. At this point in his bath, he almost always thought about his mother. Back in the estates of Bukit Mertajam, his mother too had bathed with Lux soap. It was one of the few luxuries his family could afford and certainly the only one his mother allowed herself. Everything else in their home lives was ordinary or even less so. In a wooden longhouse shared with fifty other families, a bar of soap in a shiny packaging, adorned with the smiling fair face of some woman seemed like a slice of heaven, even if the woman on it looked nothing like any of the women who lived there.
His mind wandered back to his mother. She would emerge from the bathroom, after her evening bath, with her slightly damp faded batik sarong and a floral printed cotton blouse. Her hair would smell faintly of jasmine scented Tata hair oil. She would go straight to the small altar they had in a corner of the main hall and perform her prayers to the many different faced Gods, always begging them for mercy and protection. "You must pray everyday Kanna, God must never be forgotten, no matter what you do", she would instruct him and his siblings. At least, he had not failed her there, he thought wryly.
After his shower, he went to the small side table at the corner of his room where there was a picture of the genial elephant-headed Hindu god, Ganesha. He dusted off the table quickly and lit the incense stick and oil lamp. He closed his eyes and prayed. He prayed to the Remover of Obstacles to clear his path to a safe and bountiful "win" tonight. And as always, he prayed for the soul of his mother to rest in peace. He smeared the holy ash on his forehead and smiled. Feeling clean and blessed, he was ready to take on the world now.
The table clock showed 7.30pm. Dark enough to be safe and yet early enough to anticipate full purses and bags with money not yet spent. These days, even vegetables and meat cost so much that people were forced to carry so much more money with them, even to the unassuming pasar malam. He heard the shouting above his flat start up again. Damn Chinese bugger, always yelling at his kid. He knew the man beat the boy too. He heard the sounds of flesh connecting with flesh. He had seen the boy around. A thin pale fellow of about nine or ten with short spiky hair, a sorrowful face and sometimes bruises of various hues on his arms and face. He had a birthmark the size of a twenty sen coin on his left cheek. It did not stand out, amidst the bruises he usually wore on his face. Still, he noticed it. One of these days, he decided, he would go up there, bang on the door and demand to know what was going on. Then he would rescue that child from all the abuse he suffered. He would be his hero. He himself never had a hero to rescue him from his own darkness. He had waited and waited all those years after his mother had died and left him and his five siblings to survive the wrath of their drunken father alone. He had waited to be rescued but nobody came. He knew how difficult it was to fill his heart with hope although all it had trapped inside it was a torrent of venom and anger. He sighed loudly. He had no time for that now. Besides, listening to the yelling only made him feel less cleansed, somehow. As if the effect of his bath and prayers were eroding with each curse he overheard.
He quickly left his room, locking it behind him, carrying his motorcycle helmet and keys in his hand. There was no one else around tonight. The other two guys seemed to be out. The flat was quiet and dark. He didn’t bother to switch on the light in the hall. He let himself out quietly and went in search of his motorcycle. In his mind, he concentrated on winning. “It is all up to God Kanna, it is our fate what happens in our lives. But the brain is not there for nothing”, his mother had told him one day while feeding him some rice mixed with boiled lentils and shaped into uneven balls in her dark calloused hands. "If you eat all your rice, you will grow very good brains and then you can be a big man one day", she assured him. "You wont have to live like this," she said as she indicated with her head, the cramped and noisy long house they had lived in all their lives in the estate. As he sat astride his motorcycle and strapped on his helmet, he thought to himself, "Yes Amma, I will be a big man one day. And I wont have to do this anymore. Just a few more big "wins" and I can start something on my own", he assured his dead mother and himself, as he pulled down the dark visor over his face.
As he cruised slowly towards the pasar malam area, he kept his eyes open for possible victims and his body alert for snoopy policemen. He spotted a matronly Makcik walking alone with a fat purse in her hand. He contemplated her purse with some hope until he spotted her big black umbrella swinging from her other hand. "Too risky," he sighed to himself. His dark watchful eyes roved over the crowd as he pretended to fiddle about his motorcycle and helmet. Suddenly, he spotted her. A Chinese lady of about 50 or so, with a blue flowered blouse and black pants and more importantly, a big handbag swinging carelessly from her right elbow. She was not on the main pasar malam road yet. If he was going to do this successfully, he would have to act fast while she was on this road, which was perpendicular to the main one and not crowded with stalls and that many people. He decided to go for it. This was something he had learnt in this business; one had to be swift, fearless and practical.
He took a deep breath, pictured the Ganesha in his room and revved hard on his motorcycle accelerator. As he neared the Chinese lady, he stuck out his long left arm toward her. She, perhaps sensing something, suddenly turned her head in time for his arm to knock at it hard on the right. As she lost her balance, he jerked at the handbag strap and wrenched it off her elbow. It came off easily. He usually made it a point never to turn back and look. This time though, he felt his head, almost of its own volition, turn around. He saw the lady crashing to the ground and rolling toward the large monsoon drain. He took in her startled look, the open-mouthed but silent scream and noticed how she tumbled in head first into the drain, like the Olympic divers he saw on television who dived into twinkling blue pools with their sleek wet heads first. The lady however went in with far less grace. With all his might, he jerked his gaze back to the front and concentrated on making a quick escape. As he maneuvered his motorcycle through the shocked and thankfully inert passers by and turned on to the main road, he saw the lady’s face in his mind. Although he knew she could not have seen his face through the visor, he felt her startled eyes bore a hole in his back. He sped down a labyrinth of roads which he knew like the back of his hand. When he finally pulled over at the fringes of a secondary jungle about ten kilometres away and switched off his engine, his heart was thumping wildly in his ribcage and his breath was still coming in shorts spurts.
Like a child opening a much anticipated present, his hands shook as he opened the handbag and searched inside. "Ganesha, Ganesha, help me please," he prayed fervently. He found a pack of tissues, a hair clip and a half bottle full of "minyak angin cap kapak". These he tossed aside impatiently while cursing in disgust. Then he spotted a smaller embroidered purse, bulging with coins and a wad of bank notes tied with a rubber band. He yanked at the rubber band and quickly counted the notes – there was two thousand ringgit in total. He leaned back on his motorcycle, feeling dizzy and not believing his luck. He wanted to shout out loud, whoop in joy and laugh madly. This would be a great boost to the growing pile under his mattress, his entry into starting his own car wash business. Who would have thought that old lady would be carrying this much cash on her, he wondered with a shake of his head. Anyway, he wasn’t complaining. "Amma, I’m almost there. Almost there ...", he whispered.
He looked down at the handbag, still in his hand and searched for anything else it may contain. He pulled out a bunch of papers folded in half. He squinted in the fading light and realized it was some official document with a government stamp on it. "Lembaga Kebajikan Negeri Selangor" it said. He read the first few lines. He couldn’t understand why his eyes remained riveted to the words when he would have ordinarily just thrown the papers away. He continued to squint at it and tried to make sense of the print.
It was an official approval from the state Welfare Department for a certain Chan Ah Moy to adopt and take custody of her grandchild, Lim Wee Siong. The administrative and legal fees of RM1800 was to be paid in full by a certain date, which he realized was the day after this, without which the approval would be revoked. A police report attached to the approval document came loose from its paper clip and fell to the ground. He picked it up. The report was against a Mr Lim Ah Leng for physical abuse of and neglect of his only child, Lim Wee Siong. There were pictures of the boy, showing various marks of abuse, taken from different angles. He stared at the photos. The face of the boy stared back at him with vacant eyes, eyes that looked like they had been waiting a long time to be rescued. He crumpled the papers and slid to the ground. He closed his eyes but all he could see was the birthmark the size of a twenty sen coin on the boy’s left cheek. Who would rescue Wee Siong now?
"The possibilities are endless," he thought. He just needed one or two more "wins". Tonight maybe, if he was lucky. It was pasar malam night in one of the housing estates in the small town nearby, about thirty kilometres away from where he lived. There would be an endless number of makciks, mamis and ah pos weaving their way in and out of the stalls, clutching purses. Better yet were the ones who carried handbags, awkwardly, as if forced to use them to please their children who may have given it to them on their last birthday. He preferred handbags to purses. Strap ... that’s what he looked out for. Always made the job easier.
Later, after a "win", it always amused him how he would attempt to dispose of these bags. He thought about that stupid guy who was caught snatching handbags and was splashed all over the papers, the one who kept all the women’s identity cards. "What an idiot," he thought. "Did he think they were mementos of his skills, like headhunters keeping the heads of the enemies they had beheaded?"
He, on the other hand, prided himself on leaving no evidence. He usually tried to rip the bag into pieces and place them in separate plastic bags in the trash. Once though, he was lucky enough to "win" a Ferragamo. He recognized the brand– he had educated himself by observing logos and expensive items while sauntering in the shopping malls. He had always been interested in what the rich did with themselves. He knew he was not meant to be an ignorant low class guy. He had told himself this repeatedly, even in his sleep. He would teach himself what the government and his parents lack of money could not.
The Ferragamo handbag was a dark brown leather one. Leather so soft and sensous that when he buried his nose in it, he smelt cows and remembered growing up amongst herds of them in a small village in Bukit Mertajam. He became sentimental about the bag and on a whim, presented it to a sweet young thing he was going out with at the time. If she was surprised how he had obtained it, she didn’t show it. With a satisfied sigh, he remembered how he had been amply rewarded for that gift. Yes, once in a while, it was a good thing to do something differently from what he would normally do. Consistency may make perfect sense but deviation often brings unexpected pleasures.
Glancing at the old table clock in his room, he realized he had better have a bath soon. It was the same ritual before he ventured out to seek a "win". He entered the tiny bathroom with the cracked blue floor tiles and turned on the water tap full. When the pail was almost filled to the brim, he dipped into it with the plastic dipper and doused himself in cool water. He scrubbed at himself vigorously with a bar of Lux soap. At this point in his bath, he almost always thought about his mother. Back in the estates of Bukit Mertajam, his mother too had bathed with Lux soap. It was one of the few luxuries his family could afford and certainly the only one his mother allowed herself. Everything else in their home lives was ordinary or even less so. In a wooden longhouse shared with fifty other families, a bar of soap in a shiny packaging, adorned with the smiling fair face of some woman seemed like a slice of heaven, even if the woman on it looked nothing like any of the women who lived there.
His mind wandered back to his mother. She would emerge from the bathroom, after her evening bath, with her slightly damp faded batik sarong and a floral printed cotton blouse. Her hair would smell faintly of jasmine scented Tata hair oil. She would go straight to the small altar they had in a corner of the main hall and perform her prayers to the many different faced Gods, always begging them for mercy and protection. "You must pray everyday Kanna, God must never be forgotten, no matter what you do", she would instruct him and his siblings. At least, he had not failed her there, he thought wryly.
After his shower, he went to the small side table at the corner of his room where there was a picture of the genial elephant-headed Hindu god, Ganesha. He dusted off the table quickly and lit the incense stick and oil lamp. He closed his eyes and prayed. He prayed to the Remover of Obstacles to clear his path to a safe and bountiful "win" tonight. And as always, he prayed for the soul of his mother to rest in peace. He smeared the holy ash on his forehead and smiled. Feeling clean and blessed, he was ready to take on the world now.
The table clock showed 7.30pm. Dark enough to be safe and yet early enough to anticipate full purses and bags with money not yet spent. These days, even vegetables and meat cost so much that people were forced to carry so much more money with them, even to the unassuming pasar malam. He heard the shouting above his flat start up again. Damn Chinese bugger, always yelling at his kid. He knew the man beat the boy too. He heard the sounds of flesh connecting with flesh. He had seen the boy around. A thin pale fellow of about nine or ten with short spiky hair, a sorrowful face and sometimes bruises of various hues on his arms and face. He had a birthmark the size of a twenty sen coin on his left cheek. It did not stand out, amidst the bruises he usually wore on his face. Still, he noticed it. One of these days, he decided, he would go up there, bang on the door and demand to know what was going on. Then he would rescue that child from all the abuse he suffered. He would be his hero. He himself never had a hero to rescue him from his own darkness. He had waited and waited all those years after his mother had died and left him and his five siblings to survive the wrath of their drunken father alone. He had waited to be rescued but nobody came. He knew how difficult it was to fill his heart with hope although all it had trapped inside it was a torrent of venom and anger. He sighed loudly. He had no time for that now. Besides, listening to the yelling only made him feel less cleansed, somehow. As if the effect of his bath and prayers were eroding with each curse he overheard.
He quickly left his room, locking it behind him, carrying his motorcycle helmet and keys in his hand. There was no one else around tonight. The other two guys seemed to be out. The flat was quiet and dark. He didn’t bother to switch on the light in the hall. He let himself out quietly and went in search of his motorcycle. In his mind, he concentrated on winning. “It is all up to God Kanna, it is our fate what happens in our lives. But the brain is not there for nothing”, his mother had told him one day while feeding him some rice mixed with boiled lentils and shaped into uneven balls in her dark calloused hands. "If you eat all your rice, you will grow very good brains and then you can be a big man one day", she assured him. "You wont have to live like this," she said as she indicated with her head, the cramped and noisy long house they had lived in all their lives in the estate. As he sat astride his motorcycle and strapped on his helmet, he thought to himself, "Yes Amma, I will be a big man one day. And I wont have to do this anymore. Just a few more big "wins" and I can start something on my own", he assured his dead mother and himself, as he pulled down the dark visor over his face.
As he cruised slowly towards the pasar malam area, he kept his eyes open for possible victims and his body alert for snoopy policemen. He spotted a matronly Makcik walking alone with a fat purse in her hand. He contemplated her purse with some hope until he spotted her big black umbrella swinging from her other hand. "Too risky," he sighed to himself. His dark watchful eyes roved over the crowd as he pretended to fiddle about his motorcycle and helmet. Suddenly, he spotted her. A Chinese lady of about 50 or so, with a blue flowered blouse and black pants and more importantly, a big handbag swinging carelessly from her right elbow. She was not on the main pasar malam road yet. If he was going to do this successfully, he would have to act fast while she was on this road, which was perpendicular to the main one and not crowded with stalls and that many people. He decided to go for it. This was something he had learnt in this business; one had to be swift, fearless and practical.
He took a deep breath, pictured the Ganesha in his room and revved hard on his motorcycle accelerator. As he neared the Chinese lady, he stuck out his long left arm toward her. She, perhaps sensing something, suddenly turned her head in time for his arm to knock at it hard on the right. As she lost her balance, he jerked at the handbag strap and wrenched it off her elbow. It came off easily. He usually made it a point never to turn back and look. This time though, he felt his head, almost of its own volition, turn around. He saw the lady crashing to the ground and rolling toward the large monsoon drain. He took in her startled look, the open-mouthed but silent scream and noticed how she tumbled in head first into the drain, like the Olympic divers he saw on television who dived into twinkling blue pools with their sleek wet heads first. The lady however went in with far less grace. With all his might, he jerked his gaze back to the front and concentrated on making a quick escape. As he maneuvered his motorcycle through the shocked and thankfully inert passers by and turned on to the main road, he saw the lady’s face in his mind. Although he knew she could not have seen his face through the visor, he felt her startled eyes bore a hole in his back. He sped down a labyrinth of roads which he knew like the back of his hand. When he finally pulled over at the fringes of a secondary jungle about ten kilometres away and switched off his engine, his heart was thumping wildly in his ribcage and his breath was still coming in shorts spurts.
Like a child opening a much anticipated present, his hands shook as he opened the handbag and searched inside. "Ganesha, Ganesha, help me please," he prayed fervently. He found a pack of tissues, a hair clip and a half bottle full of "minyak angin cap kapak". These he tossed aside impatiently while cursing in disgust. Then he spotted a smaller embroidered purse, bulging with coins and a wad of bank notes tied with a rubber band. He yanked at the rubber band and quickly counted the notes – there was two thousand ringgit in total. He leaned back on his motorcycle, feeling dizzy and not believing his luck. He wanted to shout out loud, whoop in joy and laugh madly. This would be a great boost to the growing pile under his mattress, his entry into starting his own car wash business. Who would have thought that old lady would be carrying this much cash on her, he wondered with a shake of his head. Anyway, he wasn’t complaining. "Amma, I’m almost there. Almost there ...", he whispered.
He looked down at the handbag, still in his hand and searched for anything else it may contain. He pulled out a bunch of papers folded in half. He squinted in the fading light and realized it was some official document with a government stamp on it. "Lembaga Kebajikan Negeri Selangor" it said. He read the first few lines. He couldn’t understand why his eyes remained riveted to the words when he would have ordinarily just thrown the papers away. He continued to squint at it and tried to make sense of the print.
It was an official approval from the state Welfare Department for a certain Chan Ah Moy to adopt and take custody of her grandchild, Lim Wee Siong. The administrative and legal fees of RM1800 was to be paid in full by a certain date, which he realized was the day after this, without which the approval would be revoked. A police report attached to the approval document came loose from its paper clip and fell to the ground. He picked it up. The report was against a Mr Lim Ah Leng for physical abuse of and neglect of his only child, Lim Wee Siong. There were pictures of the boy, showing various marks of abuse, taken from different angles. He stared at the photos. The face of the boy stared back at him with vacant eyes, eyes that looked like they had been waiting a long time to be rescued. He crumpled the papers and slid to the ground. He closed his eyes but all he could see was the birthmark the size of a twenty sen coin on the boy’s left cheek. Who would rescue Wee Siong now?
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Angry
by Catalina Rembuyan
Anna knew that she should not have brought her children past the chocolate store, but she took her chances and decided to walk past it anyway because she was in a hurry. They would miss the train and wait for another fifteen more minutes, and Anna was feeling tired, hungry, and uncomfortable. Dried perspiration made the bangs of her hair cling together hideously. Samuel had finished a bawling session twenty minutes ago and his head was upon her shoulder, fast asleep. Trailing close to her side was Samantha.
They had only a few more minutes to go and after juggling Samuel and her card wallet at the ATM machine, Anna told Samantha to move faster. As they headed towards the ticket counter, she heard Samantha's tiny rubber soles squeak on the beige ceramic floor. "Hurry up, hurry up, we don't want to miss the train dear!" Anna said, attempting to sound as jovial as possible. Anna fended off a drop of sweat falling on her nose from her forehead.
They walked out into a small marketplace of candies, toys and fashion accessories. There were crowds of people moving to-and-fro from station to station. A large television screen was repeating advertisements over and over again, filling the station with the same jingle over and over. A small stall bore what seemed to be ten huge manila cards all emblazoned with the word 'SALE!' '20%' and '50%, like giant battle flags, as though challenging a larger store -- a warehouse store, it said - boasting the same bargains. A Chinese man played around with the buttons of a cell phone he was trying to sell to a young lady in a hijab. A child not much older than Samantha bounced in an electronic ride that was stationary, and not too far away from him a mamak stood beside a shelf selling magazines and newspapers. In the middle of the station some people were setting up a small wooden platform for an unidentifiable promotional event. Small stalls littered the area selling cheap knock-offs for twenty ringgit, even less. Some of them were dominated by real estate agents advertising homes yet to be built. Anna felt hot, uncomfortable, and impatient.
Anna saw the chocolate shop. It was a very small shop, but it had all of the richest and the tastiest chocolates that could be found in the Klang Valley: chocolates coating raisin jelly, chocolates coating more layers of chocolate coating nuts, chocolates white and sweet, and chocolates hidden in caramel shells. She felt an urge to grab one rise in her, and thought of stopping for a minute or two - which, she reminded herself; she had no time for, and marched straight on towards the ticket counter. Then she heard Samantha yowl.
"I want a chocolate!"
Anna did not reply.
"I want a chocolate mommy!"
I wanT a chOc-a-lEt mOmmee! Anna could never admit that, despite her pride in Samantha, she had often felt insulted when she realized how staccato her accent was compared to the smoothness Samantha's ending 't', which rolled off her tongue in perfect ease. Blame Spongebob Squarepants, Anna often laughed as friends, relatives and neighbours coo'ed over Samuel and Samantha. Once, a relative had been careless and slipped a truthful opinion: your daughter doesn't sound a bit like you, she sound so angmoh, you sound like… and then the relative paused a few seconds before saying you sound just like me lah. Hor hor.
"Mommy!"
A sense of revulsion rose in her as she thought of the thousands of three-year olds and four-year olds going Mommy! Mommy! in their high-pitched wailing accented voices, wailing and wailing and begging for chocolate and will you not ask for chocolates I want them to but we are going to be late for our train! Don't be so stupid you're so smart with your accent all brains no sense -
"Mommy I want a chocolate!" said Samantha and Anna could hear Samantha's squeaky rubber soles heading further away from her, towards the chocolate shop. Something inside Anna screamed: you spoiled child! You spoiled child! You have all the luxuries in the world! When I was young we had no accents and we listened! We listened!
Anna took two large steps, grabbed Samantha's tiny arm and dug her nails into her. Samantha screamed.
"You don't listen to me again! You don't listen to me again!" Anna breathed her threats through gritted teeth. Samantha screamed again. All around them people stopped and turned to look, gazing accusingly at Anna. Anna felt the weight of their accusation pile on her head: she doesn't know how to control her child! Look at her child, so noisy, turning this station into such an unpleasant place! A terrible mother! A terrible mother!
"You shout again I pinch you more!"
Samantha gave one last bitter howl, a howl Anna thought would never end, howling and howling and filling the air with thick shame, until the howl turned into a whimper and Anna heard a sob. Moments later Anna heard another howl on her shoulder. Samuel had woken up and was bawling his heart out, confused and frightened by the commotion, sensing the bitterness in his mother's voice. Samuel's tears sparked more tears from Samantha and a fresh flow of tears poured out of her eyes.
Just then, Anna heard a rumble beneath her. The train had arrived.
There was no way they would be able to catch it on time. Anna let go of Samantha's hand and looked at her weakly. Samantha's tears were streaming down her face and on her shoulder. Anna patted Samuel over and over, attempting to console him, escaping the wrath of Samantha's gaze. The tears that flowed from Samantha's eyes were tears of genuine pain and humiliation. Thousands of people were looking upon Samantha and accusing her: what a horrible child she was, what a horrible child she was. Even her mother does not love her. Her mother was horrible! Her mother was horrible! I hate you!
As Samuel's bawls ceased, Anna looked at the chocolate store, and then at Samantha's wrinkled, tiny, and wet face. I hate you! - Anna could hear those words ringing in Samantha's mind, and again: I hate you!
Anna could not bear those accusations anymore. "Please don't be angry at me," begged Anna, but it was an unspoken plea.
Instead, Anna patted Samantha's head and said, "Look, we've already missed the train. Ok lah," said Anna, wiping her daughter's tears with her hand, "I'll get you some chocolates. Don't cry."
Anna knew that she should not have brought her children past the chocolate store, but she took her chances and decided to walk past it anyway because she was in a hurry. They would miss the train and wait for another fifteen more minutes, and Anna was feeling tired, hungry, and uncomfortable. Dried perspiration made the bangs of her hair cling together hideously. Samuel had finished a bawling session twenty minutes ago and his head was upon her shoulder, fast asleep. Trailing close to her side was Samantha.
They had only a few more minutes to go and after juggling Samuel and her card wallet at the ATM machine, Anna told Samantha to move faster. As they headed towards the ticket counter, she heard Samantha's tiny rubber soles squeak on the beige ceramic floor. "Hurry up, hurry up, we don't want to miss the train dear!" Anna said, attempting to sound as jovial as possible. Anna fended off a drop of sweat falling on her nose from her forehead.
They walked out into a small marketplace of candies, toys and fashion accessories. There were crowds of people moving to-and-fro from station to station. A large television screen was repeating advertisements over and over again, filling the station with the same jingle over and over. A small stall bore what seemed to be ten huge manila cards all emblazoned with the word 'SALE!' '20%' and '50%, like giant battle flags, as though challenging a larger store -- a warehouse store, it said - boasting the same bargains. A Chinese man played around with the buttons of a cell phone he was trying to sell to a young lady in a hijab. A child not much older than Samantha bounced in an electronic ride that was stationary, and not too far away from him a mamak stood beside a shelf selling magazines and newspapers. In the middle of the station some people were setting up a small wooden platform for an unidentifiable promotional event. Small stalls littered the area selling cheap knock-offs for twenty ringgit, even less. Some of them were dominated by real estate agents advertising homes yet to be built. Anna felt hot, uncomfortable, and impatient.
Anna saw the chocolate shop. It was a very small shop, but it had all of the richest and the tastiest chocolates that could be found in the Klang Valley: chocolates coating raisin jelly, chocolates coating more layers of chocolate coating nuts, chocolates white and sweet, and chocolates hidden in caramel shells. She felt an urge to grab one rise in her, and thought of stopping for a minute or two - which, she reminded herself; she had no time for, and marched straight on towards the ticket counter. Then she heard Samantha yowl.
"I want a chocolate!"
Anna did not reply.
"I want a chocolate mommy!"
I wanT a chOc-a-lEt mOmmee! Anna could never admit that, despite her pride in Samantha, she had often felt insulted when she realized how staccato her accent was compared to the smoothness Samantha's ending 't', which rolled off her tongue in perfect ease. Blame Spongebob Squarepants, Anna often laughed as friends, relatives and neighbours coo'ed over Samuel and Samantha. Once, a relative had been careless and slipped a truthful opinion: your daughter doesn't sound a bit like you, she sound so angmoh, you sound like… and then the relative paused a few seconds before saying you sound just like me lah. Hor hor.
"Mommy!"
A sense of revulsion rose in her as she thought of the thousands of three-year olds and four-year olds going Mommy! Mommy! in their high-pitched wailing accented voices, wailing and wailing and begging for chocolate and will you not ask for chocolates I want them to but we are going to be late for our train! Don't be so stupid you're so smart with your accent all brains no sense -
"Mommy I want a chocolate!" said Samantha and Anna could hear Samantha's squeaky rubber soles heading further away from her, towards the chocolate shop. Something inside Anna screamed: you spoiled child! You spoiled child! You have all the luxuries in the world! When I was young we had no accents and we listened! We listened!
Anna took two large steps, grabbed Samantha's tiny arm and dug her nails into her. Samantha screamed.
"You don't listen to me again! You don't listen to me again!" Anna breathed her threats through gritted teeth. Samantha screamed again. All around them people stopped and turned to look, gazing accusingly at Anna. Anna felt the weight of their accusation pile on her head: she doesn't know how to control her child! Look at her child, so noisy, turning this station into such an unpleasant place! A terrible mother! A terrible mother!
"You shout again I pinch you more!"
Samantha gave one last bitter howl, a howl Anna thought would never end, howling and howling and filling the air with thick shame, until the howl turned into a whimper and Anna heard a sob. Moments later Anna heard another howl on her shoulder. Samuel had woken up and was bawling his heart out, confused and frightened by the commotion, sensing the bitterness in his mother's voice. Samuel's tears sparked more tears from Samantha and a fresh flow of tears poured out of her eyes.
Just then, Anna heard a rumble beneath her. The train had arrived.
There was no way they would be able to catch it on time. Anna let go of Samantha's hand and looked at her weakly. Samantha's tears were streaming down her face and on her shoulder. Anna patted Samuel over and over, attempting to console him, escaping the wrath of Samantha's gaze. The tears that flowed from Samantha's eyes were tears of genuine pain and humiliation. Thousands of people were looking upon Samantha and accusing her: what a horrible child she was, what a horrible child she was. Even her mother does not love her. Her mother was horrible! Her mother was horrible! I hate you!
As Samuel's bawls ceased, Anna looked at the chocolate store, and then at Samantha's wrinkled, tiny, and wet face. I hate you! - Anna could hear those words ringing in Samantha's mind, and again: I hate you!
Anna could not bear those accusations anymore. "Please don't be angry at me," begged Anna, but it was an unspoken plea.
Instead, Anna patted Samantha's head and said, "Look, we've already missed the train. Ok lah," said Anna, wiping her daughter's tears with her hand, "I'll get you some chocolates. Don't cry."
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