Short stories

Hungry in Guangzhou

2009-01-14T21:48:00.000-08:00

Guangzhou has intimidated me from the moment I arrived. I feel out of place buying a common lunch of soupy noodles although the food and restaurant setting are familiar. Cantopop alternating with Mandarin chart-toppers on the radio cuts through the hustle bustle sounds. A press of hungry office workers crowds the counter. The people wend their way between plastic chairs and tables. The smell, the heat, the bodies, the noise and the oily floor don't faze me. I'm smooth, I'm cool, I tell myself.

The clatter echoes around the tiled walls. I make my approach and say, "May I order, please?" The man looks at me in disdain and answers in Cantonese. He's asking me impatiently to tell him the type of noodle I want and what I want with them. I can understand that much. Boiling soup in a stainless steel cauldron hisses and gurgles, laughing at my discomfort.

The choices are laid out on the counter. I recognise liver, minced pork, meat balls, intestines, tripe and two types of vegetable, green and white. The glass case holding the noodles has a menu of Chinese characters reminding me of my illiteracy. I point at the balled-up yellow noodles. Those. I swing my finger around the assortment of meats. Everything. I point at the liver and waggle my index finger. "Everything but that," I say.

He shrugs and gives me the sideways glance I am so used to by now in this crowded city. A look I am convinced says, I have no time for the likes of you. Maybe it is just my imagination. Look, I want to say, I understand you and I hate liver but the words in Cantonese stay silent on my cowardly tongue. Perhaps it is just my insecurity in this place chock-a-block full of Chinese people who look like me. They speak Cantonese and rapid fire Mandarin. I just can't keep up.

I look for a place to sit. I smile at the pretty woman sitting across me who holds a straw in her tall glass of coffee. When the steam from my bowl fogs up my glasses, she disappears and I can't tell if she smiled back. I push my glasses up on my forehead and I can see the liver slices in there, slightly pinkish with little holes. I slide the bamboo chopsticks out of the paper envelope and snap them apart smartly. See, I know how to do this. I flex my fingers and the chopsticks meet at the tip without crossing. Watch me, I can use my chopsticks with grace. I fish out a slice of liver, dip it in soy sauce and put it into my mouth. Look, I'm not afraid of half-cooked liver. I gag a little. The texture is awful, like rotten meat and I hate it. I try to swallow without grimacing. Hello, I am Chinese like you. Hello, look at me, but the noodle seller ignores me and laughs with another customer. The pretty woman looks away pointedly.

Here, where my surname was sown, I am an impostor. Why doesn't my blood quicken in recognition of my ancestral homeland? I slurp the soup. It's good and I wonder about MSG.

On the three-hour flight back to Kuala Lumpur, I work some more, crunching numbers on the laptop. I'm dead tired but I've earned my right to feel good about a very successful working trip. It is night when I touchdown and I'm dying for a hot drink. I find an all-nighter, an Indian Muslim restaurant, and I pile a plate full of rice, tandoori chicken and pappadoms. How much, I ask the dark-skinned man standing at the end of the steel buffet counter. Six-fifty, he says. Drink, he asks?

Cham peng, I say. Two little Chinese words and the man who does not look like me knows exactly what I want. He brings me an iced drink that is milk tea mixed with coffee. I laugh with relief, knowing that here I am home.

My blood doesn't quicken here either. Perhaps it's the MSG in the tandoori.

The Coroner's Omission

2008-05-29T21:28:00.000-07:00

The Coroner's Omission by Anna Couzet.

It is all he could do. The coroner was drunk.

The picture looked black and white, if it were not for the trickle of clotted and almost dried blood around the toe. A dangling foot from a gurney, delicate, lean and young. Dead, though. A little bit of a leg follows, not much muscle, bony, rigid. It might be a female, no hair so far, or it could be a young boy barely out of childhood. I found this picture on my way out from the hospital. It might have slipped from a medical file. There was no name attached, only a number. The white square tiles on the floor and walls as a background, make this image strong and appealing. Almost a Michelangelo Pieta. The diaphanous shine of the skin, once flushed with pulsating and throbbing life, seems to have taken on the purity and smoothness of a Carrara polished marble. Now, its rests, incognito in the hands of death, once putrid, eaten away, will be forgotten implacably.

I approach a nurse passing by. She is in a hurry; the Christmas party at the doctors' quarters is in full swing. She cannot be bothered. And with a few polite words, she tells me to redirect my enquiry at the desk in charge of guarding the house while everybody is merry. As she pushes a door a few steps away, a maelstrom of sounds, voices, laughs and carols comes rushing into the empty corridor. I am left with the anonymous picture, an unidentified corpse, a body vacant of its soul in my hands. On the spur of the moment, tired of having gone through another chemo, I am almost ready to leave this picture where I had found it: on the bare, cold, sanitized and spotless floor of this hospital. It is Christmas, or soon it will be. I have lost touch with the celebrations of life. Too much pain lately, with this crab eating away at me. Thoughts of happier times come flooding into my mind as if life's resiliency wanted to intrude into this gloomy moment. I sigh. It is not over yet. Not for me. I push back a few tears, hold the picture still in front of me, and silently make a promise: I will bring you back to where you belong. Life is not finished with you too.

The front desk of that section of the hospital is hidden behind a huge board holding seasons greeting cards. A blinking cord of tiny bulbs snakes its way around words of praise and good will. I hear muffled sounds coming from behind. A young nurse and what seems to be an intern are looking through a hardcore magazine. Nudes, fleshy body parts, suggestive positions, butts, oversized breasts, hairy cunts, enlarged penises, makes me shriek at the sole view of this outrageous display. Life is for the living. And I am in between. They gather themselves at once.

'May I help you,' the young, embarrassed nurse says. I gather the little strength I have left, and bring forward the picture. 'I found this in the corridor on my way out the chemo ward.' She does not seem to be much concerned at first; I guess she has not recovered yet from that shameful moment. Indeed, I look aghast, lost, demeaned, drained, exhausted. Too many emotions have shaken this broken body. The male intern grabs the picture from my hand as if he wanted to take away from me a big burden. He hopes I will show some improving signs. I am not in the pink of health, for sure. My face is the colour of ashes. 'Where did you find this?' he enquires as if he had not heard when I spoke to the nurse. I guess he too needs to adjust. 'On the floor,' I reply dryly. 'Ah, I see ... Poor boy, another one, another victim of a drug overdose. I am sorry if this has caused you any trouble. I may have lost this picture while bringing the file to my boss.' He seems to be sincerely concerned. I dare to ask for more: 'What happened? Do you know the boy? Where is he now?' He comes out from behind the desk and takes me gently by the elbow. 'Let's have a seat over there. Shall we?' I let him guide me as if I were without will, unable to choose any direction. I take some time before picking up a seat, split between the black and dark blue chairs. He does not hesitate. Black, blue or any other colour is not a priority to him. Unlike me, anguish has not planted its claws into his brain. 'Well, we are waiting for the next of kin to claim his body. I took this picture while my boss, the coroner was trying to assess the cause of death. We get those overdosed bodies on a regular basis. I am still not comfortable around them. Something is not right. To die so young, this way, while we try incessantly to save lives hanging by a thread.' 'Yes' I say, 'I understand.'

I feel empty as if life had decided to take a stroll while I try to make up my mind about this strange and awkward situation. We are in a hospital, I remind myself. It is time for you to go home. I am not in a hurry to go home. There is no one waiting for me. I look into the intern eyes whom by now has reconciled himself to the fact that life has its own ways. In a flash, without knowing why, I grab the picture from his hand. 'Can I keep it?' I almost beg him. He looks puzzled. 'Uh ... why? Is there anything else that I can help you with?' He gets up, disappears for a while and brings me back a paper cup full of water. I take a few sips, and I slowly get up. 'Let me assist you to your car,' he offers. 'Yes, please.' We walk silently, side by side. There is not much to say. The pain is mine to bear.

I notice, on the way to the taxi stand, signs of hope, shreds of despair, torn faces in pain, shattered hope, shrieks of a child holding a colourful batch of balloons, a mother smile.

As a taxi alights by the entrance, I seize the intern's hand. 'Thank you,' I say 'for the picture. This is my Pieta.'

Tales from the Court

2008-05-15T03:11:00.000-07:00

Tales from the Court by Matthew Thomas.

"Banguuun," ordered the turbaned policeman. This signaled the entrance of Tuan Hakim Mohammed Ibdin bin Din, the resident Second Class Magistrate of Palong Likit, the local arbitrator of issues and dispenser of justice.

Tuan Hakim Mohammed Ibdin bin Din was a short, stout man with a beer belly although he protested that this was not due to any intemperate habits but to imbalances in his genes. He focused at the floor as he entered. The occupants of the court all arose in unison and bowed to Tuan Hakim who in turn returned the bow and sat himself. The crowd, then, followed suit.

Rukumani Devi, the court interpreter cum court clerk, cum file caller, cum amicus curiae of the court, cum confidant of the magistrate, cum Amway agent rose, a tinge of white ash smeared on her forehead and in a crisp yellow sari, looking important. She reeled out the civil and criminal action numbers with accompanying names of legal firms so fast that I missed mine.

She then called a second time around, this time angrily, "How many times must call-lah?"

Rukumani Devi conducted herself as would a maestro conducting an orchestra. Everything was at her fingertips, an upturned palm if she wanted counsel to stand and a down-turned palm for counsel to sit. The Magistrate, the lawyers and litigants paid her great heed.

The court house in Likit, next to a secondary forest, was a wooden structure that was once a barn, now converted into a place of justice. It had large doors in front and at all sides. As the court was not air-conditioned, electric fans dangling at the end of long poles, swirled endlessly purportedly to cool the hot air.

In the early morning of 14th January 1972 before the court became busy, there was a commotion in the courthouse. Rukumani Devi had marched into the courthouse as it was her daily routine with the day's court files under her arm, when to her shock and bewilderment, she saw seated on Tuan Hakim's chair, a monkey. It was a silver-tailed variety which Rukumani Devi recognized as a male as it had its legs raised and spread on Tuan Hakim's table. It had an altogether nonchalant look about it.

"Aiyoo, kurangu," exclaimed Rukumani Devi with a scream startled by this unexpected intrusion. Her scream did not deter the monkey as it continued to sit imperiously as though it was truly its judicially-santioned position to be there. Lawyers, litigants and witnesses rushed into the courthouse. All were taken aback by what they saw. Rukumani Devi loudly shooed the intruder. The threat only made it bare its teeth exposing pink gums. Rukumani Devi now kicked loose one of her slippers from her feet, hurled it at the monkey whose eyes trailed the flight of the footwear whilst scratching itself vigorously.

"Tuan Hakim would be here at any moment. This monkey is not moving from the chair. Andava, what am I to do?" said Rukumani Devi, this protector of the courts.

She banged on chairs, tables and cupboards and shooed, but to no avail. Her vilest tricks were doomed to failure. The recalcitrant intruder, there in a princely pose, a pillar of stone, sat oblivious to her protestations. Now Rukumani Devi realized the reputation of the court was at stake. If she did not act quickly this sanctuary of hope, this cradle of justice where even the hardest criminal is subdued not by the fist or sword but by the word, will become a mockery -- a laughing stock, subject to idle talk at the common marketplace.

At this very moment as though by divine intervention, the reverberation of gunfire was heard from the nearby plantation. The monkey, apparently accustomed to this sound and realizing that eternal vigilance was the key to survival, leaped into the air and in a moment of wanton fury vanished amongst the rafters of the building. Tuan Hakim Mohammed Ibdin bin Din opened the door of his chambers that led to his chair, quite oblivious to the happenings.

Abdullah Iskander stood charged in this court under Section 36(i) of the Road Traffic Ordinance for causing injury to another whilst driving his motor vehicle in a careless manner. I was in court representing him. As this was one of my earliest trials, I had sworn that I would not leave a single stone unturned till victory was sealed. The first witness called was the investigating officer, Inspector Azizuddin who took his stand in the witness box with a wide ricocheting salute. Before the Prosecuting Officer, Mr Maniam, could proceed with the examination of the chief witness, Tuan Hakim raised his hand and stopped the proceedings. He was writing something. This went on for a while in the absolute hush of the court. It was then that I saw from the corner of my eye the tail of the monkey from the rafters. It moved independently as though a precursor for the mechanical pendulum which in later time would tell the time.

"Right, proceed," Tuan Hakim ordered, putting his pen down.

The proceedings were rather acrimonious protestations on the irrelevancy of questions, arguments, objections yet more objections. All this while Tuan Hakim Mohammed Ibidin bin Din sat placidly with a judicious air taking down notes. He did not interfere, did not say anything, did not ask for clarification nor did he look at the witness to judge the demeanour, but just wrote. At times, when it became imperative that he intervened, he gave a judicial nod.

I noticed that Rukumani Devi was irritated by my, perhaps, all too numerous questions. I plunged ahead as a true soldier refusing to retreat under enemy fire. When it came to my turn to cross-examine, I was ruthless or at least, I thought I was. She wrote on a piece of paper and quietly passed the note to me.

It read, "Don't waste anymore time, finish case quickly. Fine for the offence is RM 150. It is going to rain soon."

I looked at her. She smiled unengagingly. "What cheek!" I thought. I plodded on. It came to a point in the cross examination where the witness was insisting the point of impact was 'X' marked in the police sketch plan and key. My onslaught did not dissuade nor threaten him. In order to buy time I insisted that a site visit would explain matters clearly. An application was immediately made by me. The prosecutor objected. Rukumani Devi hit her head with her palm in utter frustration.

Tuan Hakim stopped writing. He knocked on the far front end of the table. Rukumani Devi stood up and looked at him.

"We shall visit the site." Saying this he stood up.

"Banguuun," called the turbaned policeman. The court stood adjourned.

Rukumani Devi, now truly agitated, confronted me.

"You are from Kuala Lumpur. Look at the dark clouds. It is going to rain soon. What are you trying to prove? The judgment will be a fine of one hundred and fifty ringgit," she emphatically and decisively repeated.

"Let's see," I said, thinking 'you are not the judge'.

In a moment Tuan Hakim sent for me. I approached his chambers, pushing open the door. He, unlike Rukumani Devi, gave an engaging smile and invited me to be seated.

"Maybe I can ask Ruku to get us tea from the canteen," he stated.

"No, Tuan," I said, "but thanks, anyway."

"You are right. This tea is not tea but hot water and condensed milk, not good if got kencing manis," he volunteered this medical information, with a chuckle.

Having ensured I was reasonably comfortable, he asked, "Are you from Kuala Lumpur? You know any tile shop? Floor tiles type, organic-lah."

"I do, Tuan," I replied, as if I was an expert in this field as well. Anyway it was always safe to be in the good books of the magistrate, even more so if he was hearing your case.

"I need lebih kurang 200 tiles-lah," he continued, "for my kitchen floor. You know, my wife-lah, she insists must change." He talked and talked. "But I will pay for it, no favours here," he abruptly stated.

"I never thought otherwise," I lied.

"Honour and principles, we must uphold," he affirmed with the demeanour of a judge.

"We must," I concurred, not knowing where all this was leading to.

In the midst of our conversation, I heard the clap of thunder and suddenly it was pouring with rain.

"Maybe you can ask the salesman to send the tiles to my address," he continued. He immediately wrote me an address. "Say, within two weeks. Any earth colour will do-lah, preferably beige," he concluded.

As we sat chatting in the magistrate's chambers, yet another commotion was heard in the courthouse. Tuan Hakim got up. I stood up as well.

He whispered, "Keep this to yourself. Don't tell Ruku. She might misinterpret although she's an interpreter." He chuckled at the pun.

"Sure," I assured him.

There was a respectful knock on Tuan Hakim's door and in ran Rukumani Devi.

"Tuan, the monkey is in your chair again. What to do?"

Tuan Hakim dashed out of his chambers with Rukumani Devi and me hot on his heels. There, in judicial splendour was the monkey seated in Tuan Hakim's chair. Tuan Hakim pondered. Rukumani Devi glared. I feigned surprise. The monkey scratched itself. At that moment lightning struck and a roll of thunder reverberated. As a rush of wind filled the courthouse, a mother hen with her chicks scuttled into it seeking shelter from the rain. Another flash of lightning followed and a sharp snap echoed through the court house. The lights went out. The dangling fans heaved and ceased their circular motion. In all this confusion the monkey looked, scratched itself but never moved from its acquired position.

Rukumani Devi was on the verge of losing her temper with me. I read her mind. I was the cause of all her troubles. She looked lost, like a sleepwalker who had abdicated her sense of direction. The day's happenings were all too much for this 'high priestess' of the court.

"You see, Tuan," she addressed Tuan Hakim, "The case cannot proceed because of the monkey. We cannot visit the site as it is pouring."

She mumbled to herself, "Some people don't know when to stop," an obvious reference to me.

Tuan Hakim just smiled. "Sabar, Ruku," he whispered. "This monkey is not going to obstruct the wheels of justice," he stated authoritatively.

"Jaswant," he called to the policeman, "I am sure you can do something to get the monkey out."

"I try, Tuan," replied Jaswant and he left the court house with a bow.

"Meanwhile we continue the case from here," saying this Tuan Hakim pulled out Rukumani Devi's chair and sat down. The case continued. Rukumani Devi vacated her chair and now placed herself on a stool at the far end of the table. She refused to look at me but kept on smiling as though stating a fact, that is, I was wasting my time.

The case toiled on, amidst the lightning, thunder and rain, witnessed by the monkey, quite nonchalantly. Jaswant, bowed as he re-entered the court. He carried a worn out hockey stick, which he hid behind his back. Tuan Hakim silently stopped the proceedings once again as we waited for the other drama, placed a little above us, to unfold. Jaswant inched his way to the podium. He reminded me of a leopard that stalks its victim among the long grass of the Savanna, ever so light-footedly before it made the final leap. Surprise was the key to a successful hunt. It was everything. The monkey was so engrossed in the happenings before it that it momentarily let down its guard as Mr Singh made his approach from the rear. He lifted his hockey stick. It was like watching a flick in slow motion -- a frozen tableau from a silent film. Having achieved sufficient height, he brought the stick down forcefully and decisively at the monkey. At that very micro-moment the monkey turned. The years of unabated vigilance had paid off. It leaped into the air as the hockey stick came crashing down on Tuan Hakim's chair, causing untold damage. In the melee the long silver-tailed monkey let out a sharp shriek and disappeared once more among the rafters. It survived.

The rain continued. It was getting dark. The mother hen and its chicks zigzagged to another corner of the courthouse, protecting its chicks under its plumage. Jaswant examined Tuan Hakim's chair, then his hockey stick. He shook his head. Both could not serve their purpose any longer. Tuan Hakim realized that he would look ridiculous climbing the podium to conduct the trial where his legal abode lay in ruins.

"We proceed with the case," Tuan Hakim declared.

So we continued with the trial from where he was presently seated. Rukumani Devi was reading a magazine. Obviously she had given up, especially on me.

At one stage she turned and within my earshot spoke to one of the court clerks seated nearby, "This court has turned into a circus, we have monkeys, strongmen and clowns," an indirect reference to me.

At last the case was concluded. Submissions were made by both parties. All the while Tuan Hakim copiously took down notes. Suddenly the lights came on and the ceiling fans whined and moved. Tuan Hakim thanked us. He then adjusted his glasses and deliberated over the verdict.

"I have heard the witnesses' testimony, I have also seen the sketch plan and key, and have delved into all the possibilities as advanced by counsel and the prosecution," he said, adjusting his glasses and continued, "and having deliberated in depth, I now come to the judgment."

I looked at Rukumani Devi. She was simulating a 1-5-0 with her mouth.

"The defendant is guilty as charged under Section 36(i) of the Road Traffic Ordinance and hereby fined one hundred and fifty ringgit."

"There, what did I tell you?" Rukumani Devi muttered raising both her hands.

Tuan Hakim solemnly thanked both the prosecutor and me for the excellent presentation and got up stating, "Court adjourned."

As I was driving home on that wet evening, I told myself that I should not be too disappointed, for who can say, "There is no justice in the courts." To the injured man the offence has not gone unpunished. My client had to pay a fine of only RM 150, and I will be duly paid by my client. Tuan Hakim acquitted his responsibility in the temple of justice with my assurance that his floor tiles would arrive. Rukumani Devi has yet once again proved a point that she was right, and the monkey ...? Who knows what ran through that monkey's mind .

Postscript: the monkey was never seen in the court precinct ever again.

Steps

2007-12-16T18:58:00.000-08:00

by Ari Methi

Sham's arms and hands twirl high over his head, darting flirtatious eyes at us. "I dreaming Egyptian belly dancers lah. Why you kacau me?" He is teasing. He knows our salary, like his, falls far short for such luxury trips.

"Wake up!" Din had shouted at Sham earlier, with a point, a light elbow jab to his ribs.

"Oi!" in a heartbeat space Sham had straightened his jacket, wiped the corners of his lips, missing a spot (I don't tell him, leaving the caked spittle on his beard fodder for a good laugh later, he's good for that, always) and began his dance.

Sham -- quite the squirrel -- proceeds to advertise he has managed another publisher 'sponsored' Egypt holiday this year. His 'creativity', condoned by our superior, is promoted by their silence. It is easy to see why as Sham paves annual 'study trip' for them. I hope not to hear where our betters are going again.

Hawaii. Sham declares, promptly describing grass skirted girls with ample chest, bare thigh and the 'entertainment' they provide with gusto. Sham has stooped teasing, he's seducing now.

Din succumb, listens rapt to Sham's return to tales of nubile young girls with smooth supple skin in shimmering skirts 'of light olive tones and western features whose hips move, sway and thrust better than dangdut superstars, better than Bollywood stars even'. I see Egypt in Din's eyes, now saucers that bare his desires.

We three late thirties men, under the pall of yellowed florescent light, look nearer to fifty. Confined to a room whose white partition has turned dusky with age, furnished in dog-eared furniture and devoid of any sense of time or place by want of any window are tasked with sanctioning next years school 'workbooks'. My voice sounds closer to sixty as I hear it.

"Our meetings have to restart. Breaks over. Need to get back to work lah." I chuckle to diffuse my interruption. "If we wanted to work, we wouldn't be here lah," Sham and Din chorus the unwritten motto. I add my laughter to their's with just enough zest, lest they think I take my job seriously. I am still laughing falsely when the next publisher knocks on the door.

Our drudge through the river of publishers resumes. Each drone their products as vital- that students need them. The same spiel rerun in infinite ways, buy my books. Listening to them I feel my brain shrivel to a prune -- the seedless type. They needn't try so hard.

All their titles will be bought, by us or someone we tell to. The directive on my orientation years ago was clear, support the printing industry. Children learn what they want anyway, my then superior preached. "Publishers are flies" she had added between giggles, "that infest our halls every year after budget day." What that makes us, I wonder? If they are flies ...?

I tune from that memory, to visit my fantasy refuge. Where tranquil beneath cloudless deep azure skies, I am sheltered by swaying palm trees, worries are drained away through toes sinking in soft giving sand, leaving me solace to savour sensual sea breezes whispering pass my skin. This is my Hawaii, Din and Sham can keep their grass skirted girls.

Then Serenity steps into the room and introduce herself into my life.

Her model silhouette, ebony silk hair and soft eyes framed by a face touched by half the lines women a decade younger barely begin her. "Call me Serene." slender wrist, soft palm, she offers a hand untouched by manual labour. She holds my hand longer than she does the others.

Serene's presentation declares she comprehends the syllabus. Innocently, she has shamed Sham. In breath and depth her knowledge exposes him as charlatan, pretender to his duties. So he attacks.

Her parries are nonchalant. Each reply bites Sham conscience, every concession made carves away pounds of his pride. Serene’s grace and dedication shames Sham, he rants after she leaves, labels her "Serene the Shark". I don't listen, feeling a void waxing within me; it's there for the rest of the day.

Our responsibilities discharged, adding further 'burden of knowledge' to next year's schoolbags, we end our workday. Leaving the room I finally pocket Serene's calling card. I switch off the lights, committing her cell number to memory as I go.

I dial her number. My emptiness wanes before her voice.

Three months of being together and the days have crept to the festival season. The subject of where either of us will be for the holidays is mutually made off limits by our common silence. One more matters for us to skirt around. She doesn't ask if I'm married, I don't ask about the stretch marks around her navel.

Serene, she doesn't call anymore. Once light with interest, hollow indifference now answers my calls to her. We whisper our feelings to each other when we meet (rarely now, after our first month of passion); her words sound distant, more to convince herself than declarations. She is pulling away.

"There's a book launching tonight," she suddenly calls to say, in the manner of one calling a pet. I agree to go, to be close to her, better to be an appendage over being forgotten. We meet at the venue, a popular upmarket nightspot. She sashays in with me in tow. I hope my desperation does not show, and if it does, not too much.

"You need a holiday," Yee tells me, obviously noticing my unease. Serene, who had introduced us, still well within earshot, turns and moves away. My eyes follow her to the writer, Jac, whose book is being launched. I notice Yee watching too. I am not surprised when Serene orbits Jac. Yee hands me a glass of wine, offers a cigarette and cocks his head towards the balcony. I take the cue.

The night air on the balcony is crisp, cold. I smoke my first cigarette in years. "She isn't easy to be with is she?" Yee probes. His soft, chubby (with a permanent cherubic smile) face lets him gets away with asking the question.

"You need a break dude, you are bone tired and worn out by her" presumptuous ... if the words weren't true. Yee continues, my silence giving him ample space to, "Everybody needs a life; she has a knack of making people dedicate theirs to her. When they do, she looks elsewhere. Why? Because one can't have a life while living theirs for her! ha ha ha hah” his laughter is braced with sad, bitter, humour.

"Did she dump you?! Is that why you are saying all this?!" breaking my silence. I hear my own raised voice, its defensive, weak-the voice of a child fearing his mother's rejection.

"Dump? Dude, she never allows her conscience to be soiled by doing that. She finds ways to make people leave her," calmly delivered, as though talking to himself.

He offers another cigarette as a peace offering. I take it, return to my silence and smoke slowly, the confrontation over. From the balcony we see Serene laughing, giggling to attract Jac. She once saw me worthy of such attention.

"Dude, when you decide to live again, call me ..." he offers his calling card, I see he works on a cruise liner "... can't promise you much, but my ships sailing to Langkawi next weekend, I can arrange a 'working trip' for you. Do some light work and you can sail for free."

"Why are you doing this?" my suspicions stirred by how casually we met, this strange conversation and now his sudden offer.

"If you think she set all this up, forget it. She didn't know I was coming. But I do need help on the ship, and for however she is, she is a good judge of character." He lightly punches my shoulder and forces down the rest of his wine -- to prevent himself from saying more?

Yee offers no further explanation. I don't pursue the matter, volunteering instead to refill our wine glasses. Making my way back to the balcony from the bar the host tells me Serene has left. Back on the balcony, as Yee takes his wine glass, I accept his offer.

True to his word, a phone interview the next day, an exchange of details and I'm a crew of Yee's ships for the coming weekend. The week passes quickly, my mind numb from 'work' without a call from Serene.

Yee is right, it is light work. My tag says 'steward' but my role is more of an Usher, deemed by the hospitality manager as appropriate due to my 'good English'. My thoughts are heavy though as I go about my duties. Yee, who I am deputised to as partner Usher, doesn't pry.

We are assigned to the main event, a fashion show cum competition that takes the majority of the two nights. We join the models after the first show in the ships nightclub. There, under rapid flashing lights and music too loud, Yee reveals.

"The liner provides the models, the fashion schools (there are so many nowadays) hold their students shows on board. The models later come to the club to get noticed by the high rollers from the casino (which the liner can only operate in international waters and its main source of income) and everybody gets what they want."

The school gets a venue for their shows, the models regular work, the liner passengers. Yee and I free trips as usher, and now chaperon. An arrangement so transparent, obvious, clear and far removed from the facade of my work. I luxuriate in its honesty and celebrate living life at face value, reveling the night away with abandon.

We call on Langkawi by morning and I take Yee's advice, checking into the same beach front resort as him for a day stay. We agree to meet up in the lobby after sunset-at seven-to leave for the ship together. He finally mentions Serene as we part at the elevator. "Did she cross your mind last night?" the etched polished metal doors closes before I can answer, leaving me staring at my scarred reflection.

In my room I draw a bath, turn on my cell phone and call her. Her voice asks me to leave a message, its tone as when we last spoke. I put the phone down after the 'beep'. A missed call is message enough between loved ones. Sinking into my bath, I allow the lightness from soaking in near scalding water rise to my head, I wait for her to call back, falling asleep, still waiting.

I dream of her, of work, of life, with many other thoughts, each a woven rope. All mangled into a tightening Gordian knot, threatening to tear itself apart under its own strain, me waiting at its side for a sword to cut it before it does. But I am no Alexander. I awake feeling suffocated by the room, in water long gone cold.

Stepping out from the bath I check my phone, no calls. I leave my room hoping for relief, from feeling cornered and head for the beach. I reach it still restless, uneasy in the company of families having picnics, children frolicking between the waves, couples cozy together on sun beds. Happy people, people who are not alone, who have lives and live it. Why do I resent them so?

I keep walking along the beach, away from them, from life, and watch sand pass briskly under my feet. My unease, this tightness inside that makes my head swirl and fingers tremble, if only it would go as easily as the sand. I wish to run but my breaths are short rasps. I lose track of time. I hear her music first.

"... don't carry the world on you shoulders ..."

A holiday taker jogging with an iPod strapped to her arm. In the prime of her youth, sensibly clad in loose t-shirt over swim wear, she’s passes me from behind. She turns, glances quizzically at me, continues a distance, stops and begins jogging on the spot with earphones out, the flicks of her short dyed blond hair catching the rays of the setting sun somewhere behind me. I look to my feet again, avoiding her, afraid to infect her with my misery and continue walking.

"Don't be sad lah." She flashes a smile, still jogging on the spot as I near her. "You in paradise mah." With that she picks up her pace, and continues her jog, taking her tunes away.

"... you'll be alright ...”

Unexpected kindness, unexplained, unasked but given freely. I observe her, replaying the event in my mind as I do, until she is around the cove and out of sight. Stock still, upright where she spoke to me, the thoughts behind her words surface, rise above my distress.

Forcing my breath to deepen, I take the kernel from her act and raise my eyes to the horizon. I turn to see that which I had missed, taken for granted and abused. I begin my walk back.

Steady measured steps under blue skies burnt by the setting sun, listening to palm fronds rustling unhurried in harmony to waves lapping sand. Breathing in sea breeze, I return to the resort past steps in the sand.

Past my steps. Steps that lead only to me.

Blank

2007-09-02T21:25:00.000-07:00

by Xiang

His watch pointed to 12 noon. He was just on time. He was well-known for his habitual lateness, but with her, he was always miraculously punctual. They had a lunch date at Mum's Place, a restaurant well known for local delicacies, and the place where he first held her hand. Knowing her, she should be there waiting by now. His feet felt light as he walked towards the destination, a smile carved on his face. Meeting her has always been the highlight of his day.

Thinking back, they were not the most likely of two people in the world to become a couple. She had a tomboyish demeanour around her, frank and straightforward. And she was not one to take to fashion or make up. Not the kind of dainty ladies that he used to hope his girlfriend would be. He had always eyed the pretty girls in dresses and long hair. She only wore T-shirt and jeans.

There were often times when he wondered how it was that he came to be with her. They were not in the same faculty and never had same classes. She stayed in campus, and could be seen bustling all over it organizing events anytime of the day. He was the kind who stayed off campus and would only appear if he feels like attending classes, not that it was that frequent anyway.

However, on one rare occasion when he did come for class, he stepped out of the lecture hall only to collide head on with her running late for class. She bought him dinner that night, to apologise. They became friends after that. And much more after that.

She was there as he expected. She looked beautiful as always. He has learnt to appreciate her natural beauty, without makeup or trendiest of fashion, but it always warmed his heart when he looked at her. Being with her this past one year, he had come to appreciate her as she is. Dainty ladies? They probably wouldn't be as fun to hang out with as with her. He felt comfortable with her, just being himself.

He hid his right arm behind his back, concealing the flowers he had picked up on the way. She always said she never fancy flowers, but when she got them, it was as if he had given her a diamond ring. The way her face just sort of shone with happiness. He loved seeing that. He loved making her happy. And just thinking of that, his lips began to twitch upwards. It's so easy to smile, just thinking of her.

"Hello." He greeted her.

"Hello." She answered, with a polite smile. Then she looked away again, to some undefined focus in the space before her.

His mood weighed down a bit. Something didn't feel right. Other days, she would have leapt up to him, prancing around like a little girl and beaming all over as she replied 'hello'. Today... it felt formal, cold. Yes, she has always been fastidious about punctuality, but she had never been seriously angry with him on that before. Normally she would just nag him half-jokingly... Today, she looked more distracted than angry.

"What's wrong?" He sat down beside her as he had always done when she was feeling down. She looked a bit startled and shifted slightly further from him. Hurt pierced him like a knife in his heart.

"Do I know you?" She asked gingerly, with an apologetic look on her face. A kind of numbness sank in. It was the kind you feel when one receive news that someone close had passed away. Or the kind you get as you grazed pass a lorry on a highway in a narrow escape.

"I am waiting for someone here. It says so on my diary. This place, this time, today. But I can't remember who. I woke up this morning, and I couldn't remember anything at all. Then, I remembered some. I remembered a case when I was in high school, a girl suddenly lost her memory. Just like that. She spent three years to relearn everything from scratch again. I remember my name, I remember my parents. I remember half a dozen people who greeted me just now. But I can't remember who I was waiting for. And I can’t remember anything about him."

He sat there quietly, listening to her, not sure how to react. It was as if, like in the movie, a hideous alien had smuggled into his chest, slowly tearing it to shreds as it struggled to get out. A form of helplessness trying to get out. "She had forgotten me." he thought to himself.

"It felt as if I had lost something precious, important. And I couldn't find it again. A sort of emptiness ate at my heart. I found diaries written about this person. Full of happiness, fear of uncertainty and sometimes a little heartbreak now and then. But there was no name. I don't know this person that I felt so strongly about." She went on, eyes still focusing before her.

An urge to tell her that he was the one she was waiting for bubbled in his throat. Maybe she would remember. But on what basis was she to trust him if he told the truth? There was no name. She had mentioned heartbreaks. He would not want her to remember the heartbreaks she had regarding him. What about the happy memories? Those memories that he so treasured ...

"He must be someone very important to me. If so, why is it that he is the only one I forgot?" She was wondering out loud. He caught her eyes, deep with emotion, glistening moist, pining over the loss of someone she didn't know.

He remembered times when she cried. Their parents didn't approve of them being together. There were too many complications, they said. "She would not be happy if she married you," her parents said. His parents pointed out a lot of other girls that they deemed to be better, why choose this particular girl? And he had silently wished that she had never known him so that she would be happier. He would make himself go on without her, as long as she could be happy. Would she be happy? Seems not.

"It's strange." She smiled at him. "I don't know why I am telling you all this. I hardly talk to other people about my personal feelings, especially to someone I just met." She paused and looked into his eyes, with a sort of trust. "You just feel safe to talk to." When she smiled, her eyes looked like upturned crescents. He used to make her smile just to see that.

"Thank you for listening to a stranger rambling, I think I have to go now." She stood up, dusting her jeans. "It's been one hour since the appointed time, whoever it was must have already turned up and left by now." She said before walking away.

He panicked! If he let her leave, she wouldn't remember if he tried to ring her on the phone later. He jerked upright, and called after her. "Well, I've been listening to you for so long, I think I could be considered a friend? My name's Adrian, and you are?" He hurriedly offered his hand to her, but a bunch of flowers came out instead. He had forgotten them.

And she laughed. For a moment he was lost in her laughter, the usual carefree laughter, loud and clear. It always made him feel good when he made her laugh. She was still her, although she had forgotten him.

"Erm ... these flowers were for someone I'm going to meet ..." He rummaged through his brain for something convincing to say. "I think she's not coming today ... Would you, erm ... do me the honour of accepting them?"

"I can't ..."

"Really, I mean it. And you know what, I booked the table. It'll go to waste if I don't use it, and I seriously don't fancy eating alone. Would you care to join me for lunch?"

To his delight, she nodded.

She does not remember him, but he was determined to rebuild the relationship with her, even if it meant starting as friends again. He now knew that she was important to him, and he was as important to her, even if she didn't know it. He wanted to make her happy, just as he had tried all these years. For her, he was willing to take the chance.

Lost Laughter

2007-08-16T01:54:00.000-07:00

by Ong Kar Jin

Inside the dilapidated house, the aroma of incense and ringing of prayers intertwined in the air. A question rang in the still atmosphere. " A diamond necklace?", asked Qalif to the man next to him. The two men rose from their prayers, and one bowed to Lord Ganesha. The candlelight revealed his skin to be as fair as Qalif's. " Yes, a diamond necklace. 24 karat I think.” he muttered through reddish-stained teeth.

"Eh machaan, it's pronounced carat. Anyway ... what you propose to do?". Grinning, Anirudha took the drawing of the necklace and crushed it in his gigantic fist. Slowly, painfully, as if in suspense, he opened his mouth. "We steal."

Sadly, all Qalif could bother about was just how foul Ani's breath was.

20 February 1989, Bukit Tunku.

The midnight sky glimmered with the radiant moonlight, its rays illuminating the bungalow ahead. There was a blue gate with flower motifs all over, and a withered, unkempt garden. The owners, a British couple were away. The two thirty-something sneaked towards the house, creeping like dieting women about to steal food from the forbidden fridge. Qalif was visibly distressed, perhaps still contemplating the consequences of this act. " Qalif! Stop whining or I'll hit you on the head!" Ani, on the other hand, was a block of cold ice: slippery, cool and fast to melt.

The pair worked their way through the useless alarms and fences of the Mat Salleh's house. They had toiled to obtain all the necessary information, concerning everything they could possibly think of. All courtesy of dear Mrs. Cornwell's maid. A quarter of the profit for her cooperation. Soon, they came to the one part they could not deal with: the dog.

Qalif was terrified of dogs. Ani wasn't exactly fond of them either. They were once chased by a mad mutt for half a mile, almost mauled, before help came through. This time, there would be no help. Nervously, Ani took their secret weapon, the bone. He waved it around, making sure the dog saw it, and threw it faraway. The naive canine ran after it. Unhindered, they made through everything else without much effort.

Finally, they made it to the dressing room. Qalif impatiently yanked open the drawer right below the make up accessories, as the maid had said. And for the first time in his life, he felt truly exalted. Their inexperienced eyes feasted on the shining gold chain, moreover, at the humongous sapphire. To them, it looked like heaven trapped in a priceless mirror.

In their triumph, they forgot about their debts, their miseries, their poverty, AND the fact that they were long overdue. To their horror, they heard sirens blaring in the night. The owners must have come back, and their maid had unwittingly chickened out. " Take it and run like a rampaging cow herd!" laughed Ani, attempting to cover his worry in stale jokes. Qalif did not respond. His face was blank, but he forced a wink with his scarred left eye. He was the serious one. It hadn't always been like that.

Qalif returned to reality. The harsh reality that they were no more than petty criminals trying to fill their stomachs. In that reality, his heart was thundering, in the midst of escape. Thump. They were out of the house, into the stolen Proton Saga. Thump. Ani stomped the accelerator, his fake driving license dangling below the rear-view mirror. Thump. The sirens were getting softer, they were outrunning them! Thump. They were on the slip road, in the bumpy hills. At the moment Ani decided to look back, a tree appeared into view. Qalif tried to take over, but it was too late.

BANG! The impact of the crash sent Qalif flying out of the car, and Ani hit his head against the cold metal. Qalif had injured his head and arm, but he miraculously still held on to the necklace. Meanwhile, Ani was still conscious, but he was trapped in the car, and was bleeding profusely. He would need Qalif's help.

A most uncharacteristic, ignoble thought sprang to Qalif's mind. He could take the necklace all for himself. He would take too long a time anyway to help Ani out. " Qalif, I'm stuck. Tambi, give me a hand!" The sirens could be heard in the distance, in a sharp crescendo. Ani was his friend! After all these years, would he forsake his one true friend? It was now or never. Ani saw his hesitation, and understood. He let out everything at the top of his voice, not with anger or a cry, but a laugh. Ani laughed, a cold, sharp laugh and Qalif could only look on, bewildered. Why was he laughing? The sirens could be heard too clearly now. Puzzled and desperate, he made his decision.

He ran. Just seconds after running, he immediately regretted his decision. Too late. Qalif ran, he ran away from all his grief, from his friend, from his jail, from his death, from his life...

22 February 1989, Anirudha's family's home.

" Oh dear Qalif! It is kind of you to visit us. Ani would rest at peace with you here! I told him not to mix with those gangsters! He should have stayed with you, you would have saved him..."

Qalif could only suppress an urge to hang himself. By reflex he changed the subject, and read the newspapers to lighten him up with more political hypocrites.

[ The Star, Sunday, 22 February 1989]

BURGLAR DIES IN CAR CRASH

By L. Arathi

BUKIT TUNKU: A 36-year old Indian man's dead body was found in a slip road through the hills yesterday in the early morning. The man has been identified as M. Anirudha, a known triad member.

It is believed that the man was involved in the burglary of The High Commissioner Britian, Mr. Cornwell's bungalow. The purported burglar's last words were apparently spoken to Mr. Cornwell's maid: "Don't tell. Tolonglah." Their maid is now suspected of abetting crime.

Fascinatingly, the only thing stolen was a counterfeit necklace owned by Mrs. Cornwell. The necklace was very similar to the famous original Enchanteur necklace, and the difference cannot be told apart without professional expertise. Preliminary investigations also indicate a second accomplice, believed to be a ...

Qalif stared into the nothingness, and then he let out a laugh. He now knew the meaning of that cold, sharp laugh. Now, he no longer cared for anything. He laughed, mad he was. He laughed as if laughing was all he knew.

(Ong Kar Jin, at 14, was the youngest participant of the Silverfish Writing Programme.)

Beneath the Picture

2007-07-31T23:12:00.000-07:00

by Adrian Young

My son called me up and ask me to get him an old family photograph, I kept wondering what the hell was he up to now?

"Pa, I want to tell your story," my son tells me, there was something in his voice he was serious about this pet project of his.

He specifically asked for a photograph from one of our old photo albums. The old black and white photograph is at least 50 years old and has survived the many silverfish that infest our ancestral home. The picture shows a smiling family, as any family photograph should. Every picture should on the surface portray that impression for it to be considered a good picture. But beneath every picture lies a tale. Beneath this picture lies silent story that has been hidden for many years. A story that is never discussed. Much like in all old Chinese families traditions, nothing is spoken. Everything is dealt with within the family. Only what the family shows on the outside is important.

Beneath the smiles, the picture holds much. It is a story of jealousy, pain and hate. I really wonder who invented the line that blood was thicker than water. The Chinese family always keeps their dirty linen well hidden deep inside the closet. I look at the picture again, there is my aunty, whom we called Yee Che which means Second Sister, she is actually Ah Ma's younger sister, Next is my eldest sister Ling Ka. Who is now unmarried, and has devoted her entire life to taking care Ah Ma and Ah Pa. Now her legs are stiffening and she has to undergo yet another operation. Another headache. Next to her is my third sister, the shortest of all my sisters, we used to call her "3 inch nail" in Cantonese or most commonly, Pik Ka. Next to her is my second sister, I was very close to her as she was the one who was in charge of taking care of me, when I had measles. She has a birthmark painted by God over her face. We now called her Maureen, her Catholic name from when we attended a missionary school. Next to Maureen is Ah Ma.

Ah Ma, my mother, the dragon lady of the family, now reduced to aged baggage regarded as burden by every single person of the family. It's amazing how a mother can bring up nine children but not one is willing to take her. It came upon my shoulders to bear this burden, but it was my wife who suggested we took mother in. All she said was "We have two sons also Pete. One day we'll be in Ah Dak and Ah Yip's mercy". True. Mother has survived one world war, a few recessions and many family squabbles that would put some of Chinese television dramas to shame. Dad was the melancholic man, one who toiled and worked as if there was no tomorrow, whereas Ah Ma was the sanguine one who oiled our family business. She was the competent communicator, the people person, she organized lavished dinners during Chinese New Year, commanded the children and relatives, adopted children, servants alike with military precision. General Patton would have been proud to have her as an officer. Our family was very liberal. We were business people. We survived the war because we adapted. My mother did business with the Japanese during the war, that’s how we survived, all of us. She did business with the British when they came back. I remember how she would walk to the resident's office and do her stuff. She was known simply as Madam Yong, no fancy title no nothing. She didn't speak a word of English but somehow she managed to teach the Resident's wife the finer points of quilt work. At 96, she can still entertain Chinese New Year guests with rather candid stories of her golden years.

Ah Pa on the other hand, was one who would to bury himself in work. Without Ah Ma as second officer of the ship, Ah Pa's business might not have flourished so much. Maybe he was worn down because of his second business squabble, the one that I had to intervened in. He could have picked the eldest son, but he didn't. He picked me. For what reason I will never know, the business was being torn apart in two by my second uncle. When it comes to money, there is no such thing as water or blood, just cold hard cash and victory. I had to come all the way back from Australia, I had dreamt of becoming a teacher there but fate took a different turn for me. I settled the business dispute for Ah Pa at 21. Gone was my innocence. Mum has always been behind me after that

That's when the hate began, almost 30 years that dad passed away. That night, after the will was read, my family and I became public enemy number one. My eldest was in his teens, the youngest only 5. Even after 30 years, their hate and jealousy still survives, sibling love being less attractive than hate. My empire that I built by my own hands was torn to pieces. How did I survive that? The younger siblings in the picture are on the first row. I am the one on the right. Behind me is my eldest brother. The rest were all too young to know the truth, all they new was appropriate half truths. I had kept myself dumb on the facts, for the facts were much too hurtful. It is better for one to suffer than all to bear that pain. Ah Ma knew, maybe that's why she has decided to follow me. Until she draws her last breath, she says. I smile, for every year she lives she, my wife and I jokes, takes two years out of us. I looked at myself in the picture again. Although my youngest son looks like his mother, his zest, his nature reminds me of myself. One of my few hopes that I cling too now.

He should have been the pragmatist but he's the idealist. The eldest is everything he should be as a son. But the youngest is adrift. I lost that at 21. He'll lose it too, when reality weathers and drags his flying soul down back to Earth. Sad but true. He graduated in marine biology, when I would have rather he became a lawyer. Now he's left his job. Says he needs to find himself. What will I do with this son of mine? Not to mentioned that he has never once brought a girlfriend home unlike the eldest. My wife and I wonder.

"Pa, I want to tell your story."

My story? Where do I even begin? I think, turning my glance back to the black and white photograph lying on the coffee table, I can only shake my head and shudder at the thought.

Taste

2007-07-14T02:03:00.000-07:00

by Ari Methi

Damn! My boobs are still uneven! Ann swears at the mirror.

Again, she adjusts her bra padding. Several more tugs and pulls, they are almost right. A few strategic squeezes and touches later, they are perfect. Her pride, she smirks as the brassiere tops frilled edges are raised to peeks over her tank top. Putting on her peek-a-boo jacket completes her sales uniform and she steps out of the changing room to start work.

Wan, her colleague is hard at work, adjusting lingerie displays. All in stylish black, Wan had given up regaining her figure after the baby. Months of diet and gym had only buffed her up in all the wrong places. Nobody dared tell her she didn't look that good in the first place. The only reason she got the job was to make the fuller clientele feel better.

They needed it, "Etiquette" paid unabashed homage to higher specimens of the female race. Seductively posed nubile women dressed in the stores wares graced the walls as stained glass windows adorned cathedrals. Ann thought back to the small church in her fishing village in Borneo often when the posters raised this image in her head. Ann longed for home.

Wan motions Ann to check the appointment register on the cashier station. Opening to today's date she notes Michael has made another appointment. He has asked for Natasha again. Natasha is animated when Ann calls to remind her. Natasha talks excitedly about the big tip she is bound to get. Ann filters everything out except Natasha's confirmation. Inside she steadies herself for the day, as she feels it darkening in the sterile glow of the shop.

Wan attends to a pair of ladies. Giving the standard spiel as if it was new to her, she directs them to the imported section.

"These are from France here, Sicily and Spain to the left ... feel the fabric! There are no wires or frames. The stitches are artistically on the outside so you feel only gentleness.", Wan coos.
Ann watch the play unfold in the stage that is the shop. The usual men gawk at the window mannequin on their way to work as flitting interventions in the storefront forming the backdrop. Some have grown from curious to lust in their stares; some obviously covet the lingerie for themselves.

Wan continues her practice run. They won't be buying anything. They talk and touch the material as if they would. But Ann can tell. Their clothes may be the latest fashion, but it is without the fashion sense of the truly rich and sophisticated. They are also wearing their bra wrong.

The ladies continue talking to each other as if Wan isn't there. Tales of hang nails and gorging at boutique restaurants are told as life changing tragedies. A far cry from needing to eating grasshoppers (there were no fish after the trawlers came) and bathing with laundry detergent, Ann reminisces on her childhood. The ladies leave with faux farewells, utterly unawares of their good fortune, blasé about their blessings. Ann would feel anger if she did not envy them so.

The rest of the morning passes slowly as Ann sets herself the entrance.

"Can I show you something?" she repeats to prospective customers. She squeezes her shoulders together and bows slightly, exposing more of her cleavage than her five foot two frame already does. She scores some sales by selling herself this way.

None take up her offer to of showing them how the lingerie should be worn.

In between sales, Ann gossips with Wan about the latest happenings in the neighbouring shops. Changing room shenanigans and unexpected pregnancies tops the list again (what do you expect to happen when you put a group of twenty year olds who are surrounded by images of sexuality together for twelve hours every day, especially when they are busy only for six?). The more sobering subject of sales figures and management politics spices the gossip, but not too much.

Ann knows Wan is counting down to the appointment also.

And it arrives.

Natasha is early, her body is lithe, her movements graceful, her skin taunt and smooth, her face angelic. She wears her youth for all to see. Nineteen and beautiful, she is in a hurry for the world to know who she is. She squirrels herself in the back room, waiting to be called.

Michael arrives casually; the girl with him is no older than seventeen. Her name is Esi, she giggles coquettishly at the introduction. The sight of her next to the middle aged man makes Ann nauseas but ...
"What can I show you?" Ann starts, presenting herself again.

"Do you have anything new? Ranges that you haven't unpacked yet?" Michael oiled smooth voice answers. Esi grips his arm harder, pulling herself closer to him.

"This way please, Mr. Michael." Ann leads them to the "Galleria". Explaining how valued customers are allowed pre-launch views of new products.

Michael absorbs Ann's attention smugly. It has the desired effect on Esi, she is awed by the attention Michael receives and how such service is natural to him.

They arrive at the padded room. The lush padding exudes luxury and sophistication that barely suppresses its decadent origins; its true purpose is hidden thoroughly.

Michael inspects the new products displayed on the leather covered table. Ann drones the sales pitch of each product. He encourages Esi to touch them, to hold them against her. She does as she is told. They make the selection together, and Michael calls for Natasha to come in.

Esi gasps at Natasha entry, Michael explains salaciously that Natasha is a lingerie model and she shall model the selected wares for them. Michael request that Natasha changes in the room, halting Ann's move to hands over the selection to Natasha. So that Esi can see how each garment should be worn.

This is going badly, Ann thinks. Natasha nods approvingly and whispers "big tip" as she moves deeper into the room past Ann.

Ann stands in the room for the first change. There is nothing to add to what had been said earlier. The undressing and redressing brings back uncomfortable memories, memories of why she had to leave her fishing village, of why she had to leave her family and her church. Ann leaves as Natasha undresses for the second selection. Michael's hands had begun wandering five minutes ago. Esi short skirt rises up her hip slowly.

Ann keeps herself busy in the shop, peak period is about to start.

Natasha walks briskly out of the shop without a word. Her neck is bruised, her lipstick smeared and she is wearing sunglasses and her hat. Wan is besides herself with restrained panic as she attends to a customer. Ann understands and makes way to the "Galleria".

The table is cleared, the lingerie are strewn on the floor. She can see clumps of Natasha's hair on it. Esi cowers in the corner, she is wearing whats left of selection four. He must have pounced when Natasha was distracted putting it on Esi. Esi is bleeding on the floor. Michael is wiping himself with lingerie.

Michael reaches for his pants, withdraws a platinum card from the wallet he retrieves.

"Charge everything to my card." He says with an air of invincibility.

He only feels the cold spreading out from between his legs, not the kick. Ann's knee meets his nose in mid air as he bowls over. It crunched flat. Michael loses consciousness as Ann finishes by slamming his temple against the table corner. The leather saves his life.

Ann covers a shivering Esi with her jacket and leaves the room, Good, Wan isn't with a client. They agree to close the shop for the moment.

Michael is bound. A fisherman's daughter knows her knots. Wan sees to cleaning up Esi and sending her on her way. Ann reassures Esi that justice will be done, and reporting to the police will only get Wan and herself into trouble.

They reopen the store after putting newly bought hardware equipment.

Michael tried to scream when he came to in the evening, but his mouth tasted of seared flesh and had no tongue. Ann held it in her hand over him.

"We didn't survive on grasshoppers alone." Ann said as she placed the tongue on a slice of bread already thinking of the salty warmth on her lips tonight, after work, after she find a way take him back to her place.

Friends for Life

2007-07-01T23:49:00.000-07:00

by James Ooi

I could see them ending up fighting each other soon. Yeah. What a way to end twenty years of friendship from the time we were in kindergarten till now, a few years after university graduation.

I could hear them arguing. Siva was berating Roslan for having an affair with this married woman and well, telling him to stay away from trouble and not flirt with fire. But in the argument that followed, Roslan lost his temper.

Roslan shouted at Siva, "Babi punya keling! Jangan sibuk aku punya hal. Siapa kau nak nasihat aku? Kau dah lupa yang aku telah selamatkan kau dulu ya!!! Aku dan kau bukan kawan lagi mulai hari nie! Pegi mampos!!!"

[Loosely translated - "Pig of an Indian. Don't interfere into my matters. Who are you to advise me? You have forgotten that I once saved your life!!! You and I are no longer my friend from this day onwards! Go to hell!!!"]

Angered and deeply wounded at the racial slur, Siva walked off and didn't answer nor did he turn back. It was finally the last straw for him.

Ever since we had started going out again after a few years of absence because each had gone to their own separate universities, we had changed but for some of us even more. In particular Roslan had become kinda arrogant and racist in his outlook these past few years.

Sad to say that two decades of friendship finally had to end today. All because of an argument which led to an exchange of angry words and racial slurs. Ours was a friendship that was based on the fact that we lived in the same housing estate in Petaling Jaya and the fact that we had grown up as neighbors and friends who attended the same schools throughout our teenage years.

We were team mates in the local football team battling other teams not just on the field but standing by each other in some of the occasional fist fights which ensued after either teams lost. And there were many times when we came to each others aid when either one of us was in trouble. Together we became known as the three musketeers.

Funny actually it was. We were bosom friends coming from the three main races that made up Malaysia. A Chinese, Indian and a Malay. Kinda rare these days in Malaysia. But twenty years ago, this was not uncommon and we didn't have the racial segregation you see commonly occurring these days.

I guess when it comes to friendship, perhaps race does matter or does it not? Seems it does in this case. Sad to say. Seems that it does.

~ *** ~

I still remember my first day at the kindergarten. Mom had left me there alone. In the class of thirty other kids, some of whom were getting red eyed and a few were already bawling out in utmost misery, I felt miserable and didn't know what to do.

Suddenly this dark skinned tall boy looked at me and said, "You want some sweets?" Offering me a "Hacks", he smiled at me. I had never had a Hacks before and I popped it in my mouth with much thought. Within seconds the burning sensation hit my mouth and I spat the sweet out onto my right palm.

You know, for a kid aged five, spicy things normally consumed by adults are really unbearable for our delicate palate. Perhaps you may have forgotten this but I remembered it well because that was how we first met up.

I heard a laugh coming from my right side. I turned irritably to the right and there was this small sized Malay boy laughing at me. Pissed off, I handed him my barely eaten sweet saying, "Not funny, you try lah" With that the Malay boy popped the sweet into his mouth and his face suddenly contorted, "Yucks!!!"

Then we both turned onto the Indian boy and spent the next thirty minutes chasing him around the class screaming wildly. By the end of the day, we became friends and this was to be a friendship that would last the next twenty years.

Soon we found out later that we were neighbors and that we stayed nearby to each other. In the afternoons, we'd go to Siva's house for tea and his mom would fry curry puffs and fried bananas and sometimes we'd head off to Roslan's home for some pengat-pisang and later head off to watch the football game being played in the nearby field.

We hung out practically everyday. As we reached our teens, we looked at girls together and blew wolf whistles at the girls every afternoon as they walked past the football field after school. Friendship was just based on our liking for each other, common interests and the fact that we shared so much history over the years.

One evening at about the time when we were about fifteen years old, Roslan and I was walking back home from school and we saw that five Malay youths had surrounded Siva and it appeared that they were beating him. Quickly Roslan called out to some of his Malay kampong pals and we ran to the field with a crowd of ten other people behind us. Roslan shouted at them, "That's my pal. You better leave him alone or I'll get the whole kampong after you. This is our area."

Grudgingly, the five youths left and at that point in time, I really felt that ours was a friendship that transcended even racial barriers. Looking back, we were brothers in spirit even though we were of a different race.

Each of us that is.

~ *** ~

A few weeks had passed since that incident.

It seemed to me that Siva and Roslan had finally ended our two decades of friendship. I said 'we' because in a way the friendship that we had was a tri-party friendship. We did a lot of things together. Clubbing, football, eating and hanging out together.

So when the other two ended it, it seemed to me that I had lost both my friends.

That fateful evening, I met up with Roslan at the football field to talk with him and try to patch things up. It was late. About eight in the evening. Kinda dark and most people had left the field for dinner and prayers I guess.

Without telling both of them, I told Siva to come and meet me at the same place at about eight thirty later. I thought that I would try and reconcile the both of them. But I guess I could only try.

Roslan and I, we talked about the earlier incident and the clash between Siva and him. Roslan sighed, "I feel sad too. I just was too pissed when he interfered with my relationship with Mas. It's my personal matter and I know the risks of having an affair with a married woman. But it's my choice and he should leave it at that."

It was a dark night that day. No moonlight at all.

Suddenly we became aware that a group of six men had surrounded us. It was dark but through their lighted cigarettes and their voices, we knew them to be Malay youths. They were not from around the area and they were holding bottles and a few had sharpened parangs. Seeing the glinting blades in their hands, we sensed that we were in danger.

One of them spoke, "Bastard! You shouldn't sleep with another man's wife!!!" With that they started beating us. I tried to ward off the blows by putting my arm in front of me but to no avail. I felt myself losing consciousness with every blow that fell onto my head.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Roslan was lying and writhing on the ground in pain. I saw the ringleader lift up the parang to slash Roslan. I tried to reach Roslan in time but in my battered state, I could only look on helplessly.

As the razor-sharp blade swung rapidly downwards, I saw a dark silhouette of a man dive over Roslan's body. The man took the brunt and full force of the blow meant for Roslan. I could hear him groan and the gruesome sound of his neck being slashed by the parang. Despite being slashed over and over again, he refused to leave Roslan and continued to cover him with his own body.

Sirens blared.

Apparently someone had alerted the police. The youths ran for their lives. Under the headlights of the police cars parked around us, I saw Siva bleeding profusely from the many slashes on his neck and his back. Roslan held Siva in his arms as he bled continuously.

Murmuring with great effort, Siva said, "Remember the time you saved me from a beating all those years ago? Tonight I repay my debt to you, my friend."

Silent tears flowed down Roslan's cheeks as his friend died in his arms that night.

A chat with an abandoned toothbrush and friends

2007-06-16T02:34:00.000-07:00

by Yanti

I woke up this morning, as usual went into the toilet to wash my face, brush my teeth and to take a shower. I couldn't help but to notice that today, unlike on other days, the Toothbrush was staring at me. Blank. Not blinking!

"Morning", I said, and continued washing my face at the same time.

"Morning", the Toothbrush replied in a very low spirited tone. It was too obvious, very difficult to ignore or to pretend that I had not noticed. It was fishing for attention.

So typical as was of me, I instinctively felt the need to ask Toothbrush what was bugging it, probably because I cared, as Toothbrush has been in my toilet for quite sometime - although we were not exactly buddies, we were very familiar with each other. Or probably because, despite all self-denials in the world, I sort of knew what was bugging it and that I was the only person who could relate to the problem. Putting down all defences and denials, I changed my mind about asking.

"You're going to be alright", I said in a very motherly tone, hoping it would help to ease the pain.

"It has been 46 days since he last used me", Toothbrush said in that same crestfallen tone. So pathetic! I did not reply.

"Why did he not take me with him? He used me everyday before that! Am I that easily forgotten? I was very sincere, servicing him all these while!", it suddenly got so emotional. I had to say something. It may hurt but hey, reality bites! I learned that the hard way too.

"He's got that other toothbrush, remember? The one he took with him whenever he went to the islands. He must be using that other toothbrush now". I knew what I said hurt Toothbrush's heart. I felt so cruel. I didn't like myself that way.

"Yeah…. the Island Toothbrush", Toothbrush let out a deep, long sigh. I felt even worse. But I pretended like it was nothing. This is a big bad world we live in - one needs to learn to be strong and accept ugly fate as much as one welcomes good fortune.

I glanced at one of the Pil Chi-Kit-Teck-Auns which looked like it was about to say something but immediately changed its mind. The rest of the audience, Listerine, Colgate, Darlie, Glasses, Shaver and Atomic Enemas also did not say anything.

It was the Small Plastic Container which decided to butt in.

"I remember our trips to the islands, they were awesome!", Small Plastic Container said, smiling and looking dreamy - as if it was recalling its numerous trips with him before. Great, rub it in! Poor Toothbrush must be crushed by that statement.

"I've been meaning to ask you, did he actually use any of the medications I put inside you?", I tried to divert from the subject a little. I have actually wondered about it all these while. I didn't know why I never asked.

"Once or twice. He took the Paracetamol this one time when his ears were ringing non-stop after the afternoon dive during last his trip to Perhentian before the season ended last year. He slept very soundly after that", Small Plastic Container said, sounding so pleased.

"Yeah, I remember that, he did complain about the ringing ears after he came back - said he consulted an online Dive Doctor about it and it was due to the underwater pressure or some kind of imbalance or something like that", I said, trying not to recall so much. I'm getting better at it nowadays.

"And this other time he gave Panadol Soluble, or was it Medicated Plaster, to his diver friend, so proud that among all divers he was the only one who had the supply. 'My wife packed it for me and put it into my bag each time, without fail', I remember he boasted with that smirk on his face", Small Plastic Container narrated with much enthusiasm. I swallowed the story, quietly.

"I wonder if he's got his supply nowadays. You know him, he's got a very weak stomach, always gets the constipation followed by diarrhoea and after that constipation again, and the diarrhoea again, it was never ending!", the Pil Chi-Kit-Teck-Aun finally spoke up.

"Yeah, that was how we became best friends, right Atomic Enema?", the other Pil Chi-Kit-Teck-Aun added. One of the Atomic Enemas nodded, tittering meekly. I knew Atomic Enema's job specification was not something you wanted to discuss out loud. It was much too embarrassing. I giggled together with them.

"I don't know. But he can find the supply himself. It's easy to buy you guys, all sundry shops and pharmacies sell your kind, you know that", I answered honestly.

"Like when he bought the Island Toothbrush?", Toothbrush who has been quiet for sometime suddenly snapped. Wow, so bitchy, I thought to myself, half-amused, half blistered.

Silence.

"Do you miss him too?", Toothbrush broke the silence, looking directly into my eyes. I could not answer the question, so I awkwardly looked down to my feet. I should have known this was coming.

"I see you sigh in here, in front of the mirror, every morning since he left. You must miss him a lot too huh? How long have you been with him anyway? 8 years isn't it?", Toothbrush insisted.

I was tongue-tied. I sighed, still looking at my feet; my whole body trembled so hard I had to lean against the wall.

And yet again, I slowly bled inside.

I took a deep breath. I forced out a smile for them.

"It'll be alright, Toothbrush. It'll be alright", I said, petting Toothbrush's head, bid them all goodbye and quickly left the toilet.

I got a life that I had to keep on living.

When There is a Will ...

2007-05-31T02:09:00.000-07:00

The man is running on the beach in his red swim trunk.

I see his calf and thigh muscles bulging and contracting in the rhythm of his steps, his biceps and triceps screaming for attention in every swing of his arms, his naked torso glistening under the evening sun like the polished sculpture of a Greek god. His stomach was flat and taut, with not even an inch of flab. The heaving chest was boasting a pair of perfectly-formed pectoral muscles, and I could not pull my eyes away from it.

"Oh God, I'm staring at man-boobs!" I feel disgusted as I pressed the button on the remote control.

With a blink the television screen turned blank, wiping off the fantasy lifeguard. Only if reality could be turn off with such ease, I wished.

I was slumped on the sofa of my living room, with a cup of instant noodle in my hand. As I slurped away the last strand of the noodle, I sneaked a peek down my legs. The pair of pudgy limbs reminded me of snooker table's legs. Instead of a flat steely washboard, my tummy was a bouncing, rotund ball of flesh. I pinched the flesh around it, and held those two inches of flab between my fingers. And if there was such a thing as a male-bra, I probably needed a B-cup for the sagging twins.

"You too can have a dream body. Don't give up!"

I turned my head to the direction of the voice.

It came from the treadmill standing proudly at the corner of the room. I was totally freaked out when it spoke to me for the first time, but now I was used to it. The treadmill was no ordinary exercise machine. It was the top-of-the-range PTX3000 model with a grey plastic console that housed an 8'' LCD monitor and assortment of buttons. From a touch-sensitive heartbeat sensor to muscle-density measurement, it had more than enough tools to tell me how in or out of shape I was. It even had a DVD drive and built-in TV receiver to ensure endless hours of entertainment while I was sweating it out. The console was held between two white metallic arms, which looked like the twin neck of the machine that linked the console to the running mill below. The running belt was made of durable plastic with a layer of black soft rubber to provide cushion to the user. There was a handle at both side of the machine, clad in matching black rubber grip, and the handles were adjustable to the height of the user.

No doubt that the machine was engineered to provide maximum comfort and safety while pushing the user to the limits of physical perfection. Else I would not have bought it two months ago.

During the first few days I woke up an hour early than usual to jog on the treadmill. Then in the evening I spent another hour sweating it out before dinner. I felt so alert and alive for that few days, until day number five. That morning I woke up with chains of lethargy coiled around my body. Every movement of my limbs was accompanied by throbs of pain. Apparently on my way to the fitness nirvana, I got sidetracked into the hall of physical suffering. But that was not unexpected, considering I had not exercised regularly for five years. It would take time for my thirty year old body to adapt to this new rigorous regime. Not so easy to be back 'in the zone', so to speak. Thus I told myself to take it easy; not to overdo it and think of long-term.

"Don't learn to fly before you learn to walk!" I quoted the Chinese proverb to myself, and grinned. Not everyone could turn words of wisdom into weapon of procrastination.

So that day I lowered my expectation and revised the work out schedule. I rewarded myself with a one-day break between three consecutive workout days. The three to one ratio sounded good. Or at least for a week it did. One cold and rainy morning a week later, I pulled the blanket over my head, and revised my schedule to a more reasonable and humane ratio of one-one.

Once my will power wavered, the ratio became alive; fluctuating and changing on its own. As of this morning, two months after I first stepped on the treadmill, the ratio was at one-seven. Yes, it had been seven days since I last touched the machine.

"Mr. Chua, it has been seven days, four hours and thirty seconds since the last time you used PTX3000. Please do not give up. It's never easy in the beginning, but it's always worth it in the end," said the syrupy female voice from the console, coaxing me back onto the painful path to physical perfection.

Its advertising blurb was not lying when it claimed 'Having a PTX3000 is like having a personal trainer at home!' I just did not expect it to nag at me! It started two days ago, and the frequency of the advices had been increasing gradually. Worst of all, there was no way of shutting it up. I already pulled its plug from the socket, but apparently the treadmill came with an internal battery in its console. More than a few times I had considered using an axe to hack the machine into pieces, but its three-thousand ringgit price-tag killed that notion.

I was about to call them to complain when my hand phone rang.

"Good evening, Mr Chua," a familiar voice cheerfully greeted me.

"My name's Agnes, and I'm calling from Perfect Solution. We've been receiving feedback from Ir PTX3000 treadmill, and we understand that you're not actively using it."

"Are you serious?" I asked incredulously.

"Yes sir! We're very serious about our customer's fitness. Here at Perfect Solution we …"

"I meant the treadmill actually sent feedback to you guys?" I cut her off.

"Yes sir! Our treadmills are programmed to inform us if the customer is not benefiting from their investment."

Wow. Not only the machine knows how to nag me to exercise, it also can seek help from outside. I could not help but being impressed.

"We ran a thorough scan on your machine, and found no mechanical or software defect. So pardon us for being so direct, but we feel the problem is you, Mr Chua."

Guilty as charged, I said nothing.

"If it's convenient, we would like to invite you to our office tomorrow. We would like to work with you on an alternative plan, or at least refund your purchase."

Wow! While many companies out there promised refund, this is the first time a company actually offered me a refund on its own accord and initiative. No complain letter was needed. Without a single word of threat uttered. And it was not even their product's defect or anything like that.

Something was definitely not right.

***

The next afternoon I was at the showroom of Perfect Solution in MegaValley shopping mall.

"Good afternoon, sir. Welcome to Perfect Solution," a young lad cheerfully greeted me as soon as I stepped into the showroom.

"Hi, good afternoon. I'm here to see Ms. Agnes Lim," I told him.

"Oh, you must be Mr Chua. Please follow me this way, sir!" The sales personnel escorted me into one of the consultation rooms at the back. It was a small rectangular room with a low wooden table in the middle, and a three-seat leather sofa at one side. An aquarium filled with myriad species of small colourful fishes was perched on a wooden cabinet on the opposite side of the room.

"Would I like some coffee or tea, Mr Chua?" he asked with a smile.

"Coffee will be great, thanks!" I answered. He nodded and left the room.

Barely two minutes later, there was a knock on the door, and a young lady stepped into the room. She was wearing a buttoned-down white shirt with black mini-shirt, which accentuated her curvy figures. Her hair was short, and tinted light brown to compliment the colour of her twinkling set of eyes. She found the perfect balance; looking very appealing without compromising her aura of professionalism.
"Hi, Mr Chua! I'm Agnes," she flashed a winning smile and held out her hand.

As soon as both of us were seated on the sofa, an elderly lady arrived with a tray of beverages and cookies. Everything seemed to operate with a clockwork precision here.

"Mr Chua, as I mentioned on the phone last night, we're very concerned about the drop of activity level in your fitness programme," her voice was soft, but firm. "And based on our latest anabolic and vital rates analysis, we do not believe that you have any physical difficulty to continue enjoying the PTX3000. Therefore, sorry if we're too direct, the problem is your mind. To be specific, you lack of the necessary will power to stay on the difficult path towards your physical well-being. "

That was a nice way to tell me that I was a lazy bum with no discipline to exercise. She flashed her million-dollar smile again, and I wondered who could ever get angry to that face?
"Well, I guess it's my fault. Sometimes I just feel too lazy to work out," I admitted.

"Don't worry, Mr Chua. That's why we're here today. I believe everyone can have a dream body. We'll help you with to achieve it. Just don't give up!" her voice syrupy sweet.

Suddenly I recognize the voice. It was the same voice from my treadmill console, but with a subtle yet important difference. Each word coming from that girl had the warmth of emotions, compared to the cold, robotic intonation by the machine. Perhaps that was something technology still cannot duplicate. Not yet, anyway.

"How are you going to help me? And how much do I have to pay?" I cheekily asked. There was no such thing as a free lunch.

She took out a piece of paper from her leather briefcase and handed it over to me.

"This is a cheque for three thousand one hundred ringgit. It's the refund for your treadmill, plus addition goodwill payment for all your troubles."

I paused for a moment, and then looked straight into her eyes, "So what's the catch?"

Her eyes suddenly twinkled with excitement, and the sweetness of her smile was raised to another level. It was so saccharine that I could have drunk the coffee on the table without a single pinch of sugar, and not noticed the difference. It would not be easy to say 'no' to her, whatever she was going to sell to me.

"The condition of the refund is simply; you have to try these on for at least 2 hours."

Agnes reached inside her briefcase again, and pulled out a silver envelope. The packaging reminded me of the facial masks that my ex-girlfriend religiously wore at night. She tore open the envelope, and pulled out a round silver patch the size of a fifty cent coin. It looked like those nicotine patch used by smokers to quit their habit.

"This is one of those medicine patches, right?" I asked.

She nodded, and explained, "Not quite, but it's something like that."

"You guys want me to try some drugs in order for me to get a refund?" The tide of anger suddenly rose inside my chest. I knew there must be a catch somewhere; most probably customized training programmes or other schemes that cost me money. But never in a thousand years would I have imagined their audacity to push drugs.

"We're not going to put any drug into your body, Mr Chua. Instead, the patch will imbue you with something that has been lacking in your system lately," Agnes replied calmly. The smile never left her face.
"And what may that be?"

She stared into my eyes, and gave me an enigmatic look.

"Trust me, Mr Chua. You're not going to believe if I tell you."

***

My feet felt as if I was running barefooted on shards of glasses. My lung was breathing in pebbles of fire, which were burning my spine. The world was spinning around me, urging me to end this torture; to collapse.

"Hang on there, Mr Chua! You're very close to your target, but not quite there yet," the robotized voice of Agnes gave me the encouragement.

"Yes, I can do it! I must do it!" my voice shouted inside my head.

About a minute later, I could feel the roller began to slow down, letting me warm down as I trotted towards my targeted distance.

"Congratulations, Mr Chua! You've completed a 2.5 km run today!" the voice came from the console three minutes and seven seconds later.

I wobbled off the treadmill and sunk down onto my sofa; indifferent to the disgusting fact that my perspiration had drenched the fabric cushion. With a practiced gesture, I flicked open a can of 100 Plus and downed its content with a long, slow but uninterrupted gulp. My body was sore and battered, but not my mind. I was happy, and frankly, insatiable. I felt like running another kilometer, but I knew the roller would not move another inch. That was another one of its high-tech features; it would push its user to the physical limits, but by using its complicated bio-metric sensors it ensure that he would not step over the line. I threw a glance at the workout chart on the wall, next to the treadmill. I had not missed a single day of the new fitness programme prepared by Agnes during our meeting eight days ago.

When she first told me about the patch, I laughed in her face.

"Oh, come on! I think this is one hell of an original idea. But, come on, you expect anyone to believe that?" I scoffed at her explanation. To her credit, her smile was as enchanting and sweet as ever.

"Honestly, this is the first time I heard of anything as absurd like this. Your marketing people get high marks not only for originality, but also bravery for even trying to pull this off. You're really insulting the intelligence of your customers! " I ranted on and on, hoping for a reaction from her. But there was none. In fact, the look from her eyes suggested that this was not the first time such accusations were thrown onto her face.

"Mr Chua, I know the concept is very radical. Your reaction is totally to be expected, and understandable," she explained calmly. She was good, very good indeed.

"This patch is the end product of many years of scientific researches by some of the top scientists in the world. It's touted as one of the biggest technology break-through in the past fifty years."

I threw a cold, skeptical stare into her eyes and she returned it with the conviction of an acolyte.

"You're serious?"

She nodded her head.

"Oh, hell! No use for me to argue this with you. If I put this on for two hours, I will get my refund back, right?"

"Yes. That is, if you still want to return the treadmill to us. Which I really doubt so," she was beaming with confident.

"No drugs or other illegal substances, right?" I needed more assurance.

"Yes, we guarantee that. It's stated in black and white in our Refund Form. Our patch has no drugs or illegal chemical." She pushed the piece of paper across the table towards me.

"It contains only pure will power," she proudly claimed.

There. She said it again. I did not hear it wrongly earlier. The patch was designed to imbue the user with doses of will power. It would increase our enthusiasm and fortify our mental strength to overcome laziness and reluctance. Just like the way those colorful pills at pharmacy counter help our body to produce vitamins.

"We always maintain the high quality of our products, so the will power in our patch is sourced only from proven athletes," she elaborated.

"Athletes?"

"Yes. From our research, we know that athletes have the strongest will power to perform daunting physical exercises. In search of excellence, most of them have to go through endless hours of training, and even overcome the pain-barrier to reach another level of physical perfection," she elaborated.

"I just hope you guys didn't source it from our local footballers!" I jested.

"No, sir, God-forbid! We always maintain the highest level of quality in our products!"

I smiled. It was an interesting concept, but I was still skeptical.

But that was eight days ago.

Today, after using a few packs of the patches, I am a believer. I had never felt so much enthusiasm and willingness, pardon the pun, to exercise as I did in the past eight days. Not even in the days of my youth. The Will Power patch was really a miracle product.

After taking a long shower, I picked up my hand phone and called Agnes.

"Mr Chua! It's so nice to hear from you again," she exuded enthusiasm, as usual.

"Yeah, same here. I just want to tell you that I'm really impressed with your Will Power patch," I told her. Of course I realized she must have already known it, since my PTX3000 was feeding them with my progress reports

"I'm glad that you're happy with our products. I believe you're getting the appropriate returns from your investment now. The samples we gave you were the extract from local athletes. When you're ready, we'll recommend upgrades to International Athletes, and finally to our Olympian Winners patch."

"Yeah, OK." I paused for a moment. "Listen, I'm really intrigued by this wonderful scientific breakthrough, so I'm wondering if there's anyway I can find out more about it."

"Sure, Mr Chua. There's a book titled Neuroscience Evolution by Prof. Alfred Milton. Outside retail price for the book is RM345, but for our customers we're offering a 20% discount."
"Huh? You guys are selling book on this subject?" my voice was layered with surprise.

"We've received so many similar enquiries from our clients. It's only natural for people to be very interested in such a marvelous technology, so our marketing department thought it would be sensible to include the book as our after-sales service," Agnes explained.

"Ok. I think I'll get the book. But it's written by this professor guy, right? I'm just a supervisor in a supermarket, with no degree or what-so-ever knowledge in this neutro-science stuff. Would I have trouble understanding the book?"

"Oh, you don't have to worry about that, Mr Chua," she assured me.

"We've wide range of Intelligence patches."

DON'T DEPEND ON ME

2007-05-16T21:44:00.000-07:00

by Kow Shih Li

I have lived with my aunt for the past thirteen years. She is forty nine and on good days, she looks no more than forty. In forms with blank spaces next to 'Occupation', she writes 'Accountant' but I am much better at managing real money. Due to this simple skill, it is my duty to balance the expenses against her pay cheque and she depends on me to get the bills paid on time. For this, I extend myself a modest allowance every month.

Aunty is my mother's younger sister, born a year apart. My parents died, both in road accidents, five years apart. I was orphaned at seven and Aunty raised me as best she could, which was not too badly at all.

We live in a house which belonged to my parents. Upon their deaths, insurance was a blessing which helped avert financial insecurity during a time of sorrow. Since Mother had been savvy enough to leave a will, the house will be mine when I turn twenty one in two years. Until then, it is held in trust by Aunty. I guess you could say that I put a roof over Aunty's head.

The roof in question is a single storey house on the corner of a street with eight feet of garden on one side and a neighbour called Uncle Thomas on the other. The garden and Uncle Thomas have a love-hate relationship chaperoned by Aunty. The garden is now overgrown with stray vegetation, pandanus gone wild and rogue lemongrass. The beds of chillies and trellis for climbing beans have been overwhelmed by barb-headed weeds, light-sapping creepers and shrubs that turn overnight into trees with thorny green trunks.

I have tried for a long time to persuade Aunty to allow that man on a motorbike to bring in his machete, motorized grass cutter and towel around his face to clean it up. She refuses. The little jungle has its fingers now on the doorstep of our kitchen. It stays just outside the boundary of what is acceptable through Aunty's sheer force of will and the fact that she occasionally pours a jerry can of kerosene on the edge and throws a half finished cigarette on it.

There was a time not so long ago when we had fresh chillies to pound and pandan leaves to put in our desserts. Smiling neighbours up to ten houses away came to cut fragrant stalks of lemongrass from our garden. There were ladies fingers hanging from the trellis and watermelons pregnant on the vine under that. We even had two rows of spinach planted on raised beds.

That was the time when Uncle Thomas could be found in our garden every evening digging, trimming, watering and tending to the little plot while Aunty made tea and white bread toast with butter and sugar. They would sit looking at the chillies until the sky turned dark with crows flying home to roost.

Uncle Thomas never stayed for dinner. Maybe because Aunty never asked him to. She was not a very good cook. I tried hard to eavesdrop crouching low under the window near the kitchen but I never overheard a conversation. I think they hardly talked. Maybe that is how things are when you get older. The only sign I saw in my covert observations, like a view you get when a curtain lifts momentarily in a short breeze, was the one time I saw Uncle Thomas pluck a leaf from Aunty's hair. She put her heart in her eyes when she smiled at him.

After the visits stopped, Aunty tended our garden with a vengeance. "I don't have to depend on him,' she would say with anger breaking her voice. It was during this period of manic gardening that Uncle Thomas dyed his grey streaks black and brought his Vietnamese bride home. We saw his friends come for dinner and barbecue sessions. We were never invited.

The garden grew erratically under Aunty's rage. The chillies shrunk in fear and the ladies fingers dropped off before they were more than the size of a baby's thumb. The spinach, on the other hand, grew larger with coarse, defensive leaves that were inedible. The watermelons split open before they could ripen and soon, Aunty stopped trying.

Then, she started collecting men. Of all shapes and sizes. Men who rang our doorbell and opened their car doors for her. Men who called and stayed on the telephone line for hours. Men she never spoke about to me. Their names eluded me but I knew them by the cars they drove. There was the one in a baby blue Volvo 740, a gaunt man who always stood outside the gate finishing a cigarette while waiting for Aunty to step out in her high heels. One in a silver Ford Laser sedan with glasses and broad ties. Another in a green diesel Pajero who always said 'Hello, young man' if I answered the door. A balding dandy in a black two door Honda Civic hatchback, in jeans and white shirts. A chauffeured executive in a Mercedes Benz who never got out of the back seat, not even when Aunty was trying to lock the gate holding up her long dress in one hand and her purse in the other.

I sometimes see Uncle Thomas do things I am not meant to see. Like when he checked Aunty's tyre pressure when the car was parked outside. Or the time he picked up our morning papers and put them under our porch because it looked like rain. Or oiling the hinges of our gate. Small signs of care or remorse, I did not know which. Aunty never noticed or pretended not to see.

I often wanted to ask Aunty if she was happy but we never spoke of such things. Like the other day, when the words were just behind my teeth. I opened my mouth and instead, told her that I was doubling my allowance, just for this month. It was so that I could go to Pulau Tioman with my girlfriend after the exams.

"Don't depend on me to take care of you," she said as she was wont to say these days. She knew I knew I did. I relied on her income to put me through school. On her presence as the only living relative I have. I depend on her to feed and clothe me the same way the garden depended on Uncle Thomas. To be stopped from growing wild and unkempt from lack of care. I do not understand why she says what she does.

Without warning, last Friday, she fell unconscious walking to the sink with the dinner dishes. When I called, Uncle Thomas climbed over the dividing wall in our backyard and carried her into the car. He drove like a madman to the emergency ward of the nearest hospital.

A tiny clot had grown in the one of her many arteries. Like a miniature stopcock, it blocked the free passage of blood to a part of Aunty's brain. Deprived of oxygenated blood to feed and keep it alive, this part of her brain died and along with it the nerves and puppet strings it was attached to. Aunty lost the use of her left side and her speech.

I saw frustration in her eyes and shame in the set of her head. When I fed her, her lower lip could not close over the spoon. Her eyelid sagged with her cheek as though her face was carved of butter and left out to melt. Her tongue lolled in her mouth and I knew it could not mould the sound coming from her throat into words. She could have spoken and I would have learnt to understand her but she stayed totally silent for five months.

I suspected that she tried to speak when she was alone, away from prying ears. No one would hear then that her consonants sounded like vowels and imagine her tongue like a wooden spatula filling her mouth. I guessed at this because when she did speak, it was clearly audible and the words were perfectly formed.

She said,"You can't depend on me now." There were no tears.

"It's OK, Aunty. You can depend on me," I said.

I wanted to hold her hand then but I did not. I wanted to say that I was so afraid she would die when she was at the hospital and I would be a seven year old again in a funeral parlour. But I did not. I said, "Uncle Thomas and I are going to start fixing up the garden."

Uncle Thomas and I tore up the wilderness in our backyard. We planted a carpet of soft, springy grass, a border of tiny star-like purple flowers and a climbing plant with bold yellow trumpet blooms which hugged the perimeter fence. The structured fronds of big palms shaded a multitude of plants with variegated leaves. Begonias on the ground and hanging pots of flowering petunias looked like candy kisses on some mornings. Our garden became a profusion of pretty things.

On some evenings, Uncle Thomas and I sit on the porch looking at the morning blooms close into themselves and put their heads down. Occasionally, his wife would come over with 2 cans of 100-Plus and dainty snacks laid out on a plate. She would sit with us for a while with a smile on her smooth, young face. Sometimes, we would just sit in the gathering gloom of dusk and wonder about what goes on inside my house.

Eating for Free

2007-05-01T02:50:00.000-07:00

By James Ooi

Sitting down at my favorite hawker stall in Jalan Alor this morning, I was just about to tuck into my bowl of dry curry chicken noodles. The skinny guy sitting in front of me got up abruptly and just sprinted out of the shop.

Suddenly the lady noodle seller Ah Sim screamed and another guy selling snacks outside the shop started running and shouting in Chinese, "Hoi! Hoi! Kannineh! Pok Kai!!!"

Loosely translated that literally means "Hey! Hey! Fuck! Damn!!!"

Pandemonium broke out. In the ensuing chase, some tables got upturned and some plates fell to the floor and broke with a noisy piercing clatter. A minor scuffle ensued as the pursuer managed to catch up with the non-paying fugitive. Then the hawker guy sat on the fugitive's shoulder to keep him still and immobilize the bugger.

The other lady hawkers came and started batting him with brooms, ladles and kicking the shit out of him. I am sure it wasn't pleasant for that poor chap who was being bashed for eating and running off without paying.

Still I couldn't help but find it so funny.

***

I remember those days when I was a student and I didn't have much money to eat. I often thought of like eating and not paying. But somehow I never did that. It was not because I am a good person. It's just that from my early childhood my parents have instilled in me the idea of asking for something and paying for it.

And nobody ever asks for free food unless it's from their relatives or their own parents.

So what did I do when I had no money? I just didn't eat and just accompanied my pals and watched them eat and drink. Most times, they would offer me free food anyway. So it wasn't that bad.

About 30 years ago in Petaling Jaya, there was this supermarket called 'Thrifty' and at that time it was probably one of the few supermarkets in town. I used to collect card pictures of birds and animals that were free gifts coming with the condensed milk cans that my parents bought monthly.

As an eight-year-old kid, playing with these cards was a lot of fun. My brother and I would have endless hours just playing with them and we would often fight over them. Yeah, over nothing but plain old colored cards with pictures of animals. Silly huh.

So at the supermarket we would see these cans of condensed milk and the playing cards attached as free gifts. And the thing was it was so tempting to just reach out and take the cards. The more I thought about it, the more desirous I became to snatch a few. In the end, my brother and started stuffing our tiny pockets with these cards.

Two tiny would-be robbers. One aged eight and the other aged six.

We tore off the playing cards from the cans and stuffed our pockets with them until we would hardly fit another card in. We thought we had got away with it. Happily we ran off to find our parents.

But it was not to be.

Suddenly this huge gigantic security guard, a Sikh guy who appeared to be like a huge gorilla to us boomed loudly, "Stop!!!" We stopped dead in our tracks. At our age, a full-grown adult is so damn bloody huge and a hairy adult is also very scary.

We thought it was lucky that our parents were around. We thought we were safe but instead we got a terrible scolding and were caned until our legs bore red-caned marks on our calves. It was a lesson in honesty and perhaps that's why we never felt like stealing anything for that matter from that day onwards.

It was like if we didn't have money for it, then we'd forego it.

***

It was chaotic. People were rolling around in the street on this bright early morning. Struggling, thrashing and screaming. You can probably imagine the chaos.

There was a fight going on and the 'thief' was severely outnumbered by one man and five old women. A mass and tangle of hands legs and arms waving about wildly. It seemed to me that the hawkers especially the old ladies took perverse pleasure in pinching and kicking and touching the young man all over. If I saw it right, this old lady even grabbed at the guy's crotch. For what reason I just could not imagine.

Possibly she hasn't had sex for years I guessed after looking at her age and haggard looks. And this was the moment that she can finally touch some poor bastard's cock without fear of retribution. Thinking about it. What's the problem with paying for three-ringgit worth of noodles? Don't have the money, just wash plates lah. For God's sake man!!

I think getting your privates molested by some horny old hawker is much more dehumanizing than just washing plates or getting told off for not having money to pay for food.

It really doesn't pay to abscond after eating a meal and not pay. If you have to choose, then abscond from a pretty hawker. That way when she beats you, you can scuffle with her and cop a free caress or cuddle rather than get some old lady having her horrid way with you.

But that's just my point of view lah.

The L-word On the Beach

2007-04-16T01:23:00.000-07:00

by Chua Kok Yee

Lisa was ten years old when she found a message in the bottle.

She was on holiday with her family at Pulau Pangkor, and strolling along the beach with her eldest sister, Mabel. The sun was sinking into the ocean, leaving fading layers of orange across the graying sky. The ocean shimmered with reflections of the remaining sunshine; a welcoming prelude to the twinkling of the stars arriving soon from high above.

Lisa was shuffling her bare feet along in the soft sand, when she came across a half-buried bottle.

"Ah Jie! Look, there's a bottle there!" she pointed it to her sister. Mabel, who was seven years older than her, picked the dark green bottle up, and dusted away the sand. Then she pulled out the cork, and fished out a roll of brownish paper from inside.

"Is it a pirate's treasure map?" Lisa asked anxiously. She was already wearing an eye-patch and holding a long sword in her mind.

"Hahaha, no, it's not! It's just a message in the bottle," her sister told her.

"A message? What does it says?" Lisa studied the note in her sister's hand.

Both of them were standing at the edge of the water as Mabel's slowly unfolded the roll of note. Even though she squinted, her eyes lightened up when it traced through the lines of the note. Her lips sculptured a smile, and she read the message in the bottle to her little sister. Those simple words seemed to glide across the paper, sailed through the air before it anchored inside Lisa. That evening, under the embrace of the tender sea breeze and vanishing daylight, young Lisa received the first love letter of her life.

If you're holding a small piece of my heart; no matter where you are , I will never be alone again.

Twelve years later, Lisa wrote her first love note on a beach.

"You sure you're OK?" Mabel's voice over the hand phone was soft and tender, with a hint of concern.

Of course I'm not. I just found out that ex-my boyfriend is a pretentious jerk who has been cheating on me all this while. I gave him everything; treated him like a god and asked for nothing more than his love. It hurts like hell when I found out that the person I genuinely love think of me as just another conquest. When we kissed for the first time; I was thinking how special it was. But it must have been just another routine for him, another steps in his scheme to get into my pants. It made me feel so stupid; I'm so frustrated and angry with myself!

"Don't worry, Ah Jie. I'm OK," Lisa told her sister. Her pains were entrenched too deeply inside that she would not be able to share it even if she wanted to. Besides, she knew that she must overcome the pain on her own; only she could stitch back the pieces of her fragmented heart.

"When are you coming home?" her sister asked, but Lisa knew the question was from her mother.

"I'm not sure yet. Most probably next month or so after the results come out." At that time, Lisa was working in a beach resort in Cherating while waiting for the results of her university final examination. But Lisa did not go home the following month.

Upon her graduation, the management of the resort offered her a permanent position. Since she has always loved the tranquility of the seaside, she decided to stay on. From the day she arrived at the beach, she had been religiously taking slow walks along the beach late in the evening. She loved the sound of the waves as it gently rolled over the sand, and then slowly recede into the sea, taking along all the regrets and hurts of yesterday.

During one of her evening strolls, she saw a young girl working building a huge sand castle. The girl, most probably about seven or eight years old, was diligently scoping out buckets of sand with her plastic spade, and then patiently re-shape them as the walls, towers or blocks of her castle. The castle was quite impressive for a young girl to build on her own, with a tower on each of the four corners of its square wall, and a huge tower in the middle of the courtyard.

"Hi there!" Lisa squatted down near the east tower, and waved at the girl. The girl has a pair of huge eyes, and her brownish hair was tied neatly at the back. She looked at Lisa for a moment, then her little lips curved to a smile before she continue to pile wet sand onto the basement of the centre tower.

"That's a nice castle you have there," Lisa tried to coax a conversation.

"Thank you. I hope she'll like it," the girl barely lifted her eyes from her castle.

"Who is it for? Is it for me?" Lisa teased her.

"No, you silly! It's a present for the Mermaid!"

"Oh? You know the mermaid too? She's my friend too. I think she'll love it!"

"Really?" the girl eyes widened with joy.

"Yeah. It's a very nice castle," Lisa assured her.

"I hope tomorrow she will come visit the castle, and we can play together," the girl said, her face brimming with hope.

Lisa stood up, and looked further out towards the sea. A heavy feeling of dread came to her heart as Lisa confirmed her anxiety; the girl has built her castle too close to the edge of the water. When the high tide comes in the morning, the castle will be washed away. Tomorrow the girl would come back to the spot with great hopes, only to be disappointed by the disappearance of her castle. But how do we tell a child that, sometimes in life, our honest toil and pure intentions worth very little?

Lisa stood in silence as the girl put small flags on the top of the towers.

"What if tomorrow when you come here the castle is gone?" Lisa asked. She felt she had to gently prepare the girl for the impending disappointment. The girl continued to adjust one of the flags as if she was ignoring the question. After the flag was straight and flapping in the evening breeze, she returned a question to Lisa,"How can the castle be gone?"

Lisa unconsciously bit her lower lips,"Maybe some bad people steal it?"

The little girl stared at her for a moment, before she gave her a smile that seemed too wise. Then she told Lisa,"It's OK.

"You won't be sad your castle is gone?"

She shook her head as she flattened the western wall with her spade, "The mermaid don't like it anyway."

"How do you know that?" Lisa did not quite understand her. Her bafflement must had been comically obvious on her face, as the girl giggled at her expression.

"You're so silly! If the mermaid really likes it she will protect it. No one can steal it then!"

Lisa would not had expected that answer in a thousand years. She stood there for awhile, slowly contemplating the words, while waiting for the girl to complete the castle. Later that evening, after sending the girl to her hotel room, Lisa returned to the sand castle. She brought along a chopstick, and scribbled the words from her heart onto the wet sand next to the castle. That night, Lisa wrote her first love note on a beach.

If you're holding a small piece of my heart; no matter where you are, I will never be alone again.

Three years later, someone finally replied.

That evening, Lisa was strolling along the beach as usual when she noticed a peculiar shape on the edge of the water. Under the fading light, it looked like a huge semi-circular wall of an abandoned sand castle.

"Oh, no! Another grave for the pet!" Lisa moaned. In the past, she had a few cases of kids burying their pets on the beach. She had nothing against kids paying a meaningful last respect to their beloved pets, but a hastily-dug grave on the beach usually meant floating carcass when the tide is high.

But as she walked closer, she realized that it was not a grave. The pile of pebbles and rocks were arranged carefully in circle, with a layer of plastic sheet wrapping the inner wall. It was quite crude, but the two feet high circular wall played its role to perfection by preventing the seawater from invading inside.

Lisa stared unbelievingly at the words in the centre of the circle.

In her heart, she was hoping that a man will find the words she left behind on the beach, and he will keep them in his heart to protect them from being washed away by the waves. Then one day, he would look into her eyes and then return them to her, word by word.

She had never expected, or dared to hope for, anyone to actually physically preserve her love note on the beach! Now she did not know what to do!

Shall I leave my hand phone number or what? Or maybe email address too?

Lisa pulled out her chopstick, and wrote down her phone number underneath the original message.

"Hi!"

Lisa turned around and saw a girl. She was a tall girl, with a fashionably short and spiky hair. Her large almond eyes were diamonds that sparkled on her smooth round face. The white singlet she wore accentuated her womanly curves, and her slender legs looked great in a pair of khaki shorts.

"Hi!" Lisa replied, feeling the color rising in her cheeks. She has written so many times on the beach, but always alone in the dark. No one has ever caught her doing it before, and she suddenly felt vulnerable. It was like reading aloud the most intimate poem in her diary in front of a stranger.

There was a wall of awkward silence between them, before she pointed to the writings on the sand.

"You wrote those?" she asked, her eyes wide with anticipation.

Lisa nodded her head.

A wave of disappointment washed over the girl's pretty face, and sluiced out the lustre in her eyes. She withered, with her slumped shoulders and bowed head, like a morning rose under the afternoon sun.

For a moment Lisa was perplexed by both the girl's question and reaction. Then the cursed needle of realization slowly drilled into her heart, and injected bitter doses of reality into all the sweet possibilities. Lisa searched for the stranger's eyes, demanding the answer to an unnecessary question.

"I'm sorry," the girl apologized without lifting her head.

"It's OK," Lisa lied.

"Really. I'm sorry. I didn't know who wrote it, but it was so romantic. I thought it was by a guy, so I.." she explained.

"It's OK," Lisa said, this time she meant it.

The girl and her were so alike; both victims of their own lonely heart. Inside, they built an incomplete puzzle of love, and waiting for the arrival of the final piece. It was a cruel twist of fate that they heeded each other's call, even though they did not have that final piece.

"Thanks," Lisa said. The girl lifted her face, and stared at her with eyes as clear as that morning's blue sky.

"Yeah, I wish it was a guy, but at least you get it. You knew what to do, and that means a lot to me," Lisa told her.

She nodded, and beamed a sunshine smile that Lisa thought was the sweetest she had ever seen.

"At least now we know there are still some romantics out there, and we can always hope, right?" she replied with the words that were lingering on Lisa's tongue.

"Yes, we still can hope," she murmured to herself.

That night Lisa and the girl sat together on the beach and shared stories of loves, heartbreak and hopes. When the morning came, they hugged each other, bid farewell and never see each other again in their lives.

SAMBAL AND SALSA

2007-04-02T03:23:00.001-07:00

By Rumaizah Abu Bakar

Carlos stepped into the elevator. He nearly did not see her standing still in the corner, looking very demure in her light yellow baju kurung and matching tudung. The bright colour complemented her fair complexion. "Happy Monday Morning!" she beamed at him. Her smile lit up her face. He ran his fingers through his dark blonde hair. "Morning, Dr Salina!" he replied with a forced smile, trying to hide the cringe in his chest.

"It's about time you stopped calling me doctor," she protested sweetly. She looked at him for a while. "Hmm...That is a nice tie." "Thank you." He struggled with another polite smile. He felt his forehead starting to sweat.

He breathed a sigh of relief when the door opened on the fifth floor. "Catch you later," he quickly stepped out and strode to his office. A petite young woman in a light pink blouse and black skirt was arranging the papers in the trays on his desk. "Morning, boss," she chirped. "Shall I get you a cup of coffee?" He looked at her, straight shoulder length hair framing her fair oval face. All of a sudden, Dr Salina's image appeared on his secretary's face.

He shook his head, he must be hallucinating. She stared at him. "Are you okay, boss?" she studied him for a while. "Whaaaa..what?" he stared at her, still trying to regain his focus. "You looked like you have just seen a ghost. I have never seen your green eyes so shiny before." She joked, not sure whether to laugh or to be concern.

She realized that he has not responded to her remark. "Boss?" now she was getting worried. He shook his head again. He blinked his eyes and tried to focus on the movements of her lips. "Perhaps you should rest for a while?" she pulled the chair behind the desk and motioned for him to sit down. He sat, put his elbows on the desk and cupped his chin.

"You do not seem too well. Shall I make an appointment with Dr Salina?" she asked him. "Whoa! No!" he jumped up from his chair. She shrieked. "What's the matter, Boss?" "No, I am fine. No need to see the doctor."

He tugged his collar to loosen up his dark green tie a bit. "What meetings do I have today?" he deliberately put on his most authoritative tone. She took out his appointment book. "I have arranged a meeting with Ms Tan of GVH Sdn Bhd in 30 minutes time. She is sharing a new Human Resource development software." She continued going through his appointments for the day.

Her phone rang. She picked up the phone on his desk and pressed a button to take on the call. "Yes. Oh, she is early. Do me a favour and take her to the conference room, dear? Thanks." She hung up. "Ms Tan is already here. Shall I ask her to wait in the conference room?" "No, no, I can see her now." He said. He opened the door of the room. "Ms Tan, hello, nice meeting you," he held his hand. "I'm Carlos. Thank you for coming." "Thank you for giving me a chance to share our latest software," she said. They shook hands.

She pushed her round glasses further up the tip of her nose. Ms Tan was dressed in a smart black jacket and matching short skirt. She had her hair neatly tied up in a bun. She switched on her laptop and adjusted it to face both of them. "If it is okay with you, I shall do a short presentation and then I can clarify any query you may have," she looked at him. "Sure. Sounds good to me," he nodded.

"This is the latest tool that every Human Resource manager should have," she went through the slides, pausing now and then to make sure that he followed her. He nodded impatiently, eager to get to the last slide to know the cost of the software.

When they reached the fifth slide, suddenly she stopped. "Oh, it is hot in here. If you don't mind, I'd like to take off my jacket. He shrugged, "Sure, go ahead." She got up, took off her glasses and then slowly removed her jacket. He struggled to hide his impatience.

She hung the jacket on the back of her chair. His eyes nearly popped out. Underneath the formal top was a very low cut black dress. The material was so sheer and it clung to her body so tightly that he could clearly see the outline of her bra and the g-string that she was wearing.

To his amazement, she swiftly let down her hair, twirled it slowly with her fingers and batted her eyelids at him,

She took a few steps closer, her eyes never left his face. "Hey, Latin Lover. Hmm… Carlos is a Mexican name. You are Mexican, isn't it?" She pressed her body against his.

His eyes fluttered. He felt his heart speeding like the LRT train on the track. "What the…" he muttered under his breath.

"I love to Salsa," she moved her body seductively up and down. Then she swayed her hips to imaginary rhythm, her eyes burned with passion.

Suddenly, the door swung opened. She stopped in her track. In stepped Melissa. "Sorry to interrupt. If you don't mind, I would like to learn about the new software too." He nodded at her and smiled appreciatively.

She sat next to Ms Tan and took out her notepad. "Sure," replied Ms Tan, her face wrinkled like the back of an orange. Carlos and Melissa both pretended not to notice the piercing look she gave Melissa. She put on her jacket and quickly went through the rest of the presentation. Shortly after, she was done and was out of the room. They looked at each other with rounded eyes.

"What has just happened in there?" he raised his eyebrows at his secretary. "Sorry boss, I thought I checked out her background thoroughly already. I must have missed something," she apologized. "That's okay, Melissa. You have done a fantastic job of screening my appointments so far, almost like the CIA," he teased. They laughed.

They adjourned to his office. "How did your date go on Friday, boss? She winked at him. The feeling of faint returned. His head started to throb. He rubbed his temple. "Boss, you have just turned pale again," she looked at him worriedly. He tried to relax and spoke calmly, "Oh, it was good. Dr Salina and I went to Nelayan for buka puasa. The food was delicious, spicy, just the way I like it. The Sambal Belacan was fantastic!" "Oh, you enjoyed her company then?" she enquired. Was there a hint of jealousy he heard in her voice? He was not sure.

Her phone rang. She picked it up from his line again. "Hello. Yes, Dr Salina. Let me see whether he is free. Just one minute." "You want to take this call?" She mouthed silently to him. He shook his head. She gave him a quizzical look. "I'm sorry Dr Salina. He is engaged in a discussion. May I take a message?" She paused for a while. "Okay, will do. Bye". She hung up. "Dr Salina asked if you could kindly return her call." He nodded. She arranged the papers in a pile and stacked them against her arms. "Anything else, boss?" "No, that's it for now. Please close the door on your way out. Thanks." He massaged his temple again.

There was a knock at his door. "Carlos, it's me," he heard the rough voice. "Yes, Brian, do come in." Oh no! What does his boss want this early in the day? The door opened and he caught the sight of the 6' British man's bald head first. Brian was wearing a charcoal grey pin stripe suit. He entered and sat on the chair across from him. "You have a minute?" Carlos started quivering. His arrogant boss actually asking permission to take his time indicated that he has unpleasant news.

"So, how's everything?" Brian smiled broadly. "I see that you have done great work. Everything moves like clockwork here." Oh no! If he was being generous with praises, then he has some really, really bad news. Carlos nodded. He stared blankly at his boss' plain light grey tie. As far as Brian was concern, ties only came in two colours, grey and blue. He shivered, anxiously waiting for the other man to speak up. He toyed with the pencil in his hands.

"I was going to ask you for lunch but I just remembered that it is Ramadan and you are fasting," Brian let out a laugh. Carlos pretended to laugh too. Stupid Mat Salleh, after ten years of working in Kuala Lumpur, he was still ignorant to the Malaysian culture and also to Muslims' religious observations. "Hey listen, I have an opportunity for you," finally he got to the point. "The Human Resource Manager in Qatar has just resigned. We thought that this would be a great chance to tap into your strength, good to further develop your Middle East exposure. Your being a Muslim would help a lot too."

Carlos pressed his fingers together under the desk. So, that was what he wanted to share. He resisted the urge to yell his head off. Qatar was bad news! There was nothing there. No friends, no entertainment, no social life. It would be like hell on earth for a swinging bachelor like him.

He took a deep breath and looked directly into Brian's eyes. "How long?" That was his main concern. Brian paused for a while and cleared his throat. "Emm…we are not sure yet. Maybe three weeks at the least. It depends, may last until three to six months if the situation does not improve." Carlos sighed loudly, not realizing that the pencil in his hands has broken into two pieces.

Then, came his next question, "What happen to the onsite workers there?" He maintained his gaze. "Oh, nothing much, just a tiny misunderstanding with the new Dutch Project Manager," Brian laughed nervously. "What kind of misunderstanding?" he persisted. "Our new guy is only starting to familiarize himself with the local culture, what with fasting and all. It is a small matter, really. He just needs to understand that he can not expect the same volume and hours during Ramadan. That's it. Simple solution!"

Brian lowered his gaze to his hands. "And…?" Carlos pressed on. "Okay, okay. Rumours had it that they were planning to murder him on Thursday. So we need to fly somebody there fast!" Brian finally spilled it out. Carlos swore under his breath and hit his fist on the desk, "Wonderful!" he yelled. Typical egoistic expatriate tale!

Melissa came running in. "You called me, boss?" she panted. Brian quickly stood up. "I'm done. We can talk about this later." He stomped out of the room.

Melissa leaned at the edge of the desk. "Bad news?" she asked him. Carlos frowned. "Yes. I'm being seconded to Qatar." "What? You can't go!" the crisp in his secretary's voice startled Carlos. "What did you say?" "You can't go, boss. I mean this place needs you. You brighten up the office. You motivate everybody here to work hard."

Tears were welling in her eyes. Carlos was surprise. He did not see that coming. "Oh! We are still talking about it. It's not final yet," he tried to console her. "Don't worry, I'm sure we can resolve this somehow."

After Melissa left his office, he walked across the room to the large window panes and looked outside. It was a hot day; in fact, it had not rained for days now. He saw a purple Mercedes parked two lots away from his silver BMW. He looked at the plate number. Dr Salina's car! What was she doing parking at their staffs' lot? The other tenants of the building have a separate parking lot on the other side.

His thoughts flew to the incidence during the weekend. He received a bouquet of red roses from an unknown woman on his birthday recently. He did not care at first. Secret admirers were not his cup of tea. He preferred bold and direct women. However, being a curious and nosy bunch, his staffs did a bit of detective work and tracked down the sender. It was a doctor from the clinic on the tenth floor. He has not noticed her when he did his occasional medical check-ups.

Nevertheless, he called her and invited her to join him for break fast later that day. He did not like dining alone anyway. They agreed to meet at the Nelayan Restaurant at 6.30pm. Wearing a comfortable blue Hawaiian shirt paired with three quarter pants, he chose a table outside overlooking the tranquil lake. It was a cool and breezy evening.

He nastily imagined shocking the doctor by wolfing a large helping of oysters, prawns and a dozen types of other unhealthy food. Top that with chain smoking and a huge amount of liquor. He chuckled quietly to himself.

When she arrived, the graceful lady was ushered to his table. She looked elegant and yet at leisure in a white Indian print blouse and matching pants. So, this was the mysterious Dr Salina! He was surprised to learn that she wore tudung.

They ordered the express East Coast break fast set. 20 minutes later, the waiter arrived with a large round silver dulang filled with assorted dates and kuih as well as Nasi Kerabu and several curry and vegetable dishes. He asked for Sambal Belacan, she was amused. "Hmm…you like spicy food?" "Yes, Sambal is my favourite." He smiled. "Oh, you are mixed…Mexican-Malay right?" she smiled back. He nodded. "My father is Malay-Arab. My mother is Mexican." "Oh! That explained the green eyes," she exclaimed. "If your father had been Malay, you would end up with brown or black eyes and nothing else," she teased. They laughed.

"Why do you wear tudung?" he finally asked after they were done with their meal. "Why? You don't like women with tudung?" she challenged lightly. "No, I don't!" He did not even hesitate to keep his thoughts to himself. Let's see how she would react to that statement.

She was calm though. "Okay, you are entitled to your opinion," she replied coolly. They continued conversing for a few hours. He found out that she was an intelligent woman from a family of overachievers. Both of her parents were professors and all her siblings were medical doctors. Surprisingly, he also realized that he enjoyed her company very much.

After dinner, they decided to adjourn to the lounge nearby to listen to the live band. She excused herself for a while and he waited at the sofa. He ordered a glass of white wine for himself and a fresh orange for her. She returned ten minutes later and he was shocked to see that she had removed her tudung. He gasped as she sat next to him on the sofa. Her long straight hair fell softly on her shoulders. She looked angelic, a perfect picture of innocence.

They listened quietly to the R&B medleys played by a Pilipino duo. Shortly later, their drinks arrived. She looked at his wine. "Hey, you are drinking. I want one too." Amused, he ordered a bottle of Chardonnay. The waiter returned with the wine and two tall glasses. They sipped their drink slowly and started to relax further. It was not long before he felt her reaching for his hands. Oh boy! This is going to be a long night, he thought.

They chatted while she held and caressed his hands. After a few glasses of liquor, she became more and more mellow. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard her saying, "I love you." He looked at her in disbelieve. "I love you," she repeated the words again. "Don't worry, I'll take care of you."

Suddenly he felt hot and started to sweat. Is the air conditioning not functioning properly? He wiped his face and neck with the back of his hands. "What's the matter, darling?" she looked at him affectionately. "Nothing, it is just hot in here. I need to take a shower when I get home," he told her. "Don't worry, I'll take care of you. I'll bathe you," she smiled sweetly, a little bit creepily too. Whoa! What is happening here?

"It's getting late!" He immediately stood up. "We better make a move. Need to wake up early tomorrow." "Oh!" She looked surprised and slowly got up too. They dropped by at the cashier counter and he took out his American Express card. He settled the bill and then walked her to her purple Mercedes parked in front of the building. He waved to her and then proceeded to his car on the other side of the parking lot.

It was already 1.00am when he pulled his BMW into the parking lot at his apartment in Stulang Laut. He took the elevator up to his unit on the 8th floor. He pulled the key out of his pocket and pushed it into the key hole. "Hey, Carlos," he heard a high pitched voice calling him. This is eerie. He must be imagining things.

"Carlos, you live here?" the familiar voice again. He turned around in a fright. "Dr Salina! What are you doing here?" His heart was in his mouth. "I live here too, on the 12th floor. I saw your car parked downstairs and went to see your unit number printed on the parking lot," she grinned. "What a coincidence! Now we can visit each other anytime," she cooed.

She tilted her head to one side and continued smiling at him. Her long hair flowed softly in the evening breeze. Was she glowing in the dark?

He pushed the door open. "Nice meeting you again. I need to go in and get some sleep, early start tomorrow. Catch you some other time," he quickly stepped in. "Sure. Good night and sweet dreams," she blew him a kiss. He closed the door behind him, double locked it and pushed the latch. He leaned on the wall and breathed a sigh of relief. It was only when he took off his damp clothes that he realized how much he had been sweating all night.

"Boss, phone call for you," Melissa voice startled him and brought him back to the present. He blinked his eyes and turned away from the window. "Who is it?" he asked her. "It's Dr Salina again," she winked at him. "Oh, tell her I am busy," he waved his right arm to dismiss her. She raised her eyebrows. "If you say so, boss," she turned around and strode out of his room

He felt faint. He walked back to his desk and sat on his chair. He leaned his head on the back of the chair. He was really tired. He did not have much rest during the weekend.

After the date from hell encounter on Friday night, it took him a while to fall asleep. The next morning, he was rudely woken up by the sound of his door bell, ringing non-stop. He looked at his clock, it was only 6.00am. Was it an emergency? Swearing under his breath and wondering who would be bothering him at that godforsaken time of the day, he got off his bed. Wearing only his pyjama bottom, he dragged his feet sleepily to open the door. He yawned several times and rubbed his eyes.

"Hey sleepy head!" the feminine voice jolted him wide awake. "Dr Salina! What are you doing here so early?" he yelped. It was still dark outside. He swiftly hugged his naked body. "Oh, it's a beautiful day; let's go brisk walking in the park before the sun rise. Early bird catches the worm." Looking all perky in her red track suit with her long hair neatly tied up in a pony tail, she gave him that chilling smile again. He mumbled a quick apology and gave an excuse about missing sahur and being tired before shutting the door in her face.

That was not the end of it. Later in the evening, she dropped by again to invite him to break fast at her place. Naturally, he declined. On Sunday evening, he nearly screamed hysterically when she brought over a deck of Nyonya six-tier Tiffin and a basket of plates and cutleries. She said the Tiffin compartments were filled with rice and all her specialty dishes for breaking fast for two. Apparently, she had been slaving in the kitchen all afternoon, pounding out her old family recipes.

Melissa walking back into his room interrupted his deep thoughts. She passed him a piece of paper. "Message from Dr Salina," she told him. He read it: Carlos, I have good news! My parents will be in town this weekend. I am arranging a buka puasa dinner so that they can meet you.

He sighed and leaned back in is chair. He knew he had to do something and he needed to think fast.

There was a loud knock at his door. "Carlos!" It was Brian again. "Yes, please come in," he said. When he saw the bald Caucasian man, suddenly he knew what he had to do. "Brian, have a seat. We need to talk," he said. Brian pulled the chair across his desk and sat down. Carlos seemed to be in a much better mood than this morning. "What's the matter?" "I have been thinking about our conversation just now. I agree that it is a good opportunity for me to go to Qatar." He could not believe those words were coming out of his mouth. Neither did his boss.

"I beg your pardon?" Brian looked at him as if he was mad. "No, it is a good time for me to handle another overseas assignment. I'm sure it would just be for a few months, right?" he put on his most convincing tone. "Well, I don't know what to say. That is good news!" Brian was obviously delighted. They talked a bit more, joked and laughed out loudly. Half an hour later, Brian left his office in good spirit and he went back to work.

"Boss?" Melissa was perching at his desk. He did not notice her returning. "Mr Brian said you have agreed to go to Qatar," her voice was so soft that he had to strain to hear her. Oh no! He had forgotten their conversation. "It will only be for a few months. Don't worry, I am still in charge of the Human Resource matters here," he tried to pacify her. "It won't be the same," she nearly wailed. He looked at her carefully. Her eyes seemed red, swollen. Had she been crying? "Are you okay?" he asked her gently. She nodded. "Hey, we can still correspond through the phone, emails and video conference if need be. I would be back before you know it," he assured her. She was still quiet.

She then went out to take a few boxes and placed them on the floor next to his books cabinet. She took out his books one by one and started to pack them in the boxes. She seemed troubled.

A twinge of guilt swept over him. "Melissa, if you are not doing anything later, let's have coffee at Starbucks downstairs, shall we?" She gave him a half smile and nodded.

Three hours later, they sat facing each other at a table located at a secluded corner of Starbucks. He sipped his decaf late while she stirred syrup into her iced lemon tea. "I'm sorry to drop this bombshell on you," he began. "But I can assure you that this is only temporary. I won't be there forever." "I know, boss. I understand," she said unexpectedly.

Her smile suddenly became wider and her eyes twinkled mischievously. She put both her elbows on the table and stared at him for a moment. "Boss, I have something to tell you."

"Ok...," he nodded encouragingly and waited; question marks were dancing in his mind. What now?

"I just spoke to Mr Brian. He said you could use a secretary there and with your increased portfolio, you can benefit from having someone who is already familiar with your working style." She beamed at him. "So, he has agreed to let me follow you to Qatar," she finished. She paused to observe his reaction. He stroked his chin, "Well, this is a surprise."

He was silent for a while, trying to digest the news. He was not sure whether Melissa going along would benefit him. In fact, he was worried about her safety, a single young woman in the Middle East. What was Brian thinking? Why was he not consulted on a crucial matter like this? Something was not right with that picture.

"And there's more," her eyes sparkled again. "Yes?" He was getting to be nervous now. "Mr Brian said I could stay in the apartment unit next to yours. The company's driver can take us to the office. I'll take care of you, boss. We'll make a great team," she purred. Her words kept on repeating in his ears. "I'll take care of you."

To his horror, the image of Dr Salina flashed on Melissa's face. Her long, straight hair was flowing softly. Her face shone. Was that a halo around the top of her head? Her lips mouthed, "I'll take care of you."

He saw the room spinning very quickly. The furniture twirled around them. Then, everything went blank.

Baby

2007-03-01T02:06:00.000-08:00

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.

The Stalker Within

2007-02-14T22:20:00.000-08:00

By Sabarina Abu Bakar

She 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.

Win

2007-01-30T00:43:00.000-08:00

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?

Angry

2007-01-15T23:34:00.000-08:00

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."

A match made in Heaven

2006-12-30T02:17:00.000-08:00

By James Ooi

I was just sitting at Starbucks on a rainy Sunday afternoon. It was drizzling softly, little raindrops just falling incessantly forming a translucent screen of water drops as I looked out at the quiet street outside.

For a place that's full of action in the evenings with people partying their guts out, Bangsar sure is quiet on a Sunday afternoon. Peaceful even. Across my table, there's this attractive Malay girl dressed in a beige dress that would have been demure if not for the plunging neckline which showed off her ample chest.

Quite a fair woman for a Malay lady, I must say. She highlighted her wavy shoulder-length hair in shades of brown and gold. Her face is serious as she types and peers in full concentration at her laptop screen, sipping occasionally from her steaming cup of coffee. She doesn’t smile much. Probably because she doesn't want to attract any unwanted male suitors.

But dressed as she is. How can any man resist talking to her, much less avoid looking at her. She bends down to collect a dropped pencil. I get an fortuitous eyeful of her full breasts. At that moment, I decided that I would try to get to know her and perhaps get her hand phone number as well.

What the heck man? The most I would get is a slap but that's provided if I am too forward. And the least I would get is, "Please go away." And what I hope for is a smile and the start of something new perhaps. Later on, a meeting for dinner. And who knows what else. My heart beats wildly in anticipation.

I look at her for a moment too long. She senses me looking at her. She looks up and our eyes meet. I smile at her. She smiles back at me. Irresistibly I wink at her. She blushes and that's my cue. I walk over to her table which is just five feet away from me.

Just five feet away from a relationship with her and God knows what else. It's now or never as Elvis used to sing. And for me, it was now. As I walked over to her table, I knew it was going to work.

This time.

We had been dating for the past year or so. Actually a year two months and eight days from the day we actually first met. I can still remember our first meeting, the smell of her scented hair and how she looked on that first day. Reading the first part of my tale here, you pretty much would have guessed it I must say.

In case I forgot to mention the fact, well I am Chinese and Maria my girl friend is a Malay girl. In Malaysia, well that's not a well-accepted thing and because of religious implications, well this kind of matches are by and large a rarity.

The first few months of our courtship was a very traumatic thing with our parents on both sides objecting strongly to the relationship. But we prevailed and after about nine months, plans were afoot for a wedding. So we had gotten engaged just after nine months of dating.

And I know that is was fast by any standards.

We weren't young. I was in my late thirties and she was in her early thirties and we were pretty sure and happy that we would be together for a lifetime if not more. Could we have been lovers in another lifetime? Could we have gotten to know each other previously? I don't really know. Just that we seem to click so well together.

Sometimes my brother Joe would kid around with me, "Koko, so now how? No more bak-kut-teh and your favorite pork sausages man? How about your daily char-siew-pau?"

I laughed and said, "Can still eat beef and other stuff wat. Also not forgetting my beef steak and thank God I can still eat roti canai and tosai man! If pork is something I gotta give up, I guess I can lah for Maria."

Then Peter my younger brother said, "Hey I heard you gotta sacrifice your foreskin to the butchers. You do already? Did it hurt?"

Grinning, I said, "During the circumcision, nah. After they sew you up, it kinda tingles a bit. But you better not get an erection because that could really hurt as the swelling can pull at the sutures and that’s when you can scream bloody murder."

Aside from the initial questions and stuff, everything kinda settled into the normal scheme of things. We got on with the plans for the wedding. Maria got along with my family and relatives well and they loved her and drew her into their hearts. As for me, things couldn't be better. My future in-laws warmed up to me after the initial objections and more than made up for it with the warmth and acceptance that came once they realized that Maria and I had decided to be together for life.

We went for the wedding photo shoot. A full day of posing and changing into different suits for the photo session. It was so tiring at the end of that day. You wouldn't believe how exhausting having a whole day photo session is. No wonder being an actor pays so well. It's a lot of hard work. And that also when you don't even say a single word.

Things were working so well that I was beginning to wonder. Did I do something right in previous life or what? I never felt so happy before in my life before. But I had this nagging feeling that one wasn't meant to be so happy.

I just couldn't understand why she didn't turn up at the wedding reception. She had been missing for the past few days. She must have changed her mind. At least she could have called me and told me about that. Rather than let me wait at the hotel with the crowd of guests there. I felt that it was a betrayal of the worst kind to me.

Groggy and in a state of vertigo, I looked up and there she was standing looking at me. She was standing there in her wedding dress. God, she never looked so beautiful to me. There were tears in her eyes as she tried to be brave and smiled at me.

"Honey, I am so sorry."

"Why? Why? Why? I don't understand."

"Sometimes things don’t work out the way we want it to. I had wanted so much to spend the rest of my life with you. I just want you to know that I love you with all my heart and I always will."

Reaching out to hold her, it was then that I woke up with a hangover in my apartment. Was it a dream? Did she actually come to see me? I couldn’t decide whether I had dreamed it or if it was figment of my imagination?

I had drunk myself silly the night before. I knew it was wrong to drink. I just couldn't help it. I was feeling depressed and broken-hearted. Lost and alone. I just couldn't cry anymore.

All cried out.

I heard someone at the door. Slipping the morning paper under my door. It was Maniam. He delivered newspapers from the mini market store of his, on the ground floor of the condominium. He was a very reliable guy and on time every morning.

Stumbling towards the door, I picked up the day's edition of The Star. Looking on the headlines, I suddenly sat down looking at front page. It just read, "Bride dies in Car Crash"

And outside the balcony the rain had started to drizzle again. Just like the first day I met her. It was raining then as it was now.

Kelly

2006-12-22T23:46:00.000-08:00

By Zuraidah Omar

Sarah first saw him one morning when she was driving past the guard-house into the club-grounds. He was standing on the slope of the hill, oblivious to others, surveying the scene before him. She was mesmerised by his looks and the dignity with which he carried himself.

She saw him very often after that. He was usually at what must be his favourite place in the club, standing all alone by himself at the same spot on the hill-slope and looking as if he hadn't a care in the world. Who is he, she wondered.

It didn't take long for Sarah to find out. One day, she ran into one of her friends at the club's cafe. Ella was a longstanding member of the club and her level-headedness had made her the de facto counsellor in her circle. People turned to her for help, advice or just someone to talk to. Nothing went on in the club without Ella knowing about it. Sarah and Ella knew each other well enough not to stand on ceremony or indulge in small talk, so after ordering herself a teh tarik, Sarah joined Ella at her table and cut to the chase.

"Oh, him. That's Kelly," Ella said. "Why? You like him or what?"

"He's quite a looker," Sarah replied.

Ella smiled and squeezed Sarah's arm reassuringly. "I'm so happy to see you up and about again. I know that relationship of yours with Terence was a bit of a disaster."

Sarah grimaced, thinking of the rocky time she had with Terence, a trying time that stretched for almost a year. They had started off well enough when she first met Terence but it wasn't long before he showed his true colours. "I really did my best, you know," Sarah explained. "But he was so unpredictable and temperamental. I tried hard to love him. I think that he didn't trust me enough. I just couldn't cope in the end so I had no choice but to call it quits."

"It's like that sometimes," Ella consoled. "Some things work out and some don't. But don't let it get you down. Don't give up."

"I won't," sighed Sarah, thinking of yet another failed relationship after Terence. "There was Pancho, remember?"

"Oh yes, I remember. We thought you had a lot of guts-lah. First an Australian, and as soon as you pulled yourself together, an Argentinian. What happened with Pancho anyway? It was so short-lived. I thought you liked him."

"Yeah, one of those things. In Pancho's case, I got along fine with him but then someone else came into the picture and I didn't have a chance. I was quite miserable. That's why I stopped coming to the club for a while, and when I did, I saw you-know-who."

"Poor you but never mind, you will have better luck with Kelly. He's available but it won't be easy getting to know him. He's got a very protective mother and what she says, goes. She dotes on him like nobody's business. She's got to like you first before anything else."

"A mama's boy, eh?" Sarah became a bit unsure because that would just complicate things. But Kelly's magnificent image came into her mind and she knew what she had to do. "Never mind. I'll just go with the flow. Can you introduce me to his mum?" She asked Ella.

"No problem. She swims at the club-house very often. I'll call you when I see her. Just relax for now. He's not going to go anywhere."

Ella was true to her word. The next day, she called Sarah on her mobile phone. "Are you in the club? Kelly's mum is by the swimming pool. Come over quick." Fortunately, Sarah was nearby and she was by Ella's side in next to no time.

Ella pointed out to a petite lady with short hair sitting in one of the deck chairs. "She's quite a chilly padi, you know, so watch your step. Come on, let's go and meet her." The two of them sauntered over to the lady.

"Hi Sue," Ella called out. "How are you? Long time no see."

Sue looked up and countered, "What are you talking about? We just had lunch together not long ago."

Ella sat down on the deck chair beside Sue's. "Getting old already-lah. So many lunches, can't remember when or with who. Done your swimming?"

"Yeah, did a few laps. Got to go soon. What's up?"

"I want you to meet my friend Sarah," Ella said as she gestured to Sarah, who had been standing a little apart, to sit beside her. Sarah extended her hand to Sue and the two shook hands. "Pleased to meet you. Have you been a member here long?" Sue asked Sarah, who replied, "Quite some time but I don't swim much."

"Right! Let's not beat about the bush-lah," Ella interjected. "Sarah saw Kelly the other day and she has taken a liking to him." Sarah felt her face going red. Good grief, she thought. Doesn't Ella have any finesse? How could she just say it like that? She could just see Sue look at her in an appraising manner.

"He's quite good-looking and really tall," Sarah blurted, feeling more embarrassed and admonishing herself in her mind. What a stupid thing to say. That will really earn you points with Kelly's mama.

"That's what a lot of people tell me," Sue said.

"Just right for you-lah, Sarah," Ella cut in. "All your previous ones are rather short, if you ask me. Someone your size needs something bigger."

"Ella!" Sarah blushed again, feeling suddenly self-conscious about her weight.

Sue laughed. "Ella's quite a joker, isn't she? Anyway, Kelly has only just come to Malaysia, you know. He has been overseas all this while."

"Oh, no wonder I've not seen him around before," Sarah was still feeling tentative, not sure of what Sue was really thinking about Ella's sudden revelation.

Sue looked hard at Sarah. "I suppose Ella must have told you about Kelly and that I'm looking for someone for him," she said. "But he's very particular about people, you know. I am too. Ella and I have been friends a long time and I trust her judgement. So if she thinks you and Kelly suit one another, I'm okay with it. He's solid and steady. You'll feel very safe with him."

That's fast, Sarah thought. She hasn't gotten to know me well enough yet. "I think you will like Kelly," Sue continued. " But like I said, I'm very particular. I have to know that you're serious about him and that you'll take care of him the way I take care of him. He's very special to me."

The conversation was going too far and too fast for Sarah's liking. She just wanted to get to know Kelly and it was beginning to seem as if she was committing herself to a long relationship. Why is Sue in such a hurry to get Kelly out of her life? "Is there anything I need to know about Kelly?" Sarah asked carefully, hoping not to annoy Sue with her question.

Sue shrugged her shoulders. "Nothing really," she replied. "Being a big guy, he needs his space. But as long as you treat him right, he'll be good to you. I'm getting very busy with my business these days and don't have much time to spend with him. It's nice if he can have someone else in his life."

"I really should meet Kelly first, don't you think?" Sarah tried to bring the situation under control. "For all you know, he might not like me."

"Don't worry-lah," Ella assured Sarah. "I'm sure Kelly will like you. You are such a gentle person, with a lot of love to give." She then turned to Sue, "I fully recommend Sarah to you. You don't have to worry a thing about her. She's a very caring person."

"I'm sure you are, Sarah," Sue smiled and patted her on her arm. "But you're right. You must meet Kelly first. What about tomorrow at about 10am? I'll meet you at the cafe."

Sarah couldn't wait for the day to be over. That night, images of Kelly floated in her dreams. Sarah was sure that she and Kelly were kindred spirits, even soul-mates. She had sensed it when she first saw him. True, he had ignored her when she drove past him, standing on the hill-slope. Perhaps he had things on his mind. Well, they would be meeting one another very soon and he wouldn't be able to ignore her then.

Sarah was at the cafe well before 10am the next day, but when the appointed time came, there was no sign of Sue. Sarah wondered if Sue had changed her mind. She didn't want to order a cup of coffee in case Sue turned up, so she just sat at one of the tables, anxiously checking her watch every few minutes.

Sue walked into the cafe some time later to find an anxious-looking Sarah. "Really sorry, dear, to keep you waiting. Come on, let's go and meet Kelly. He's just outside." Sarah got up so quickly that she almost knocked the chair down. Sue laughed, "Don't worry, he won't run away."

And there he was, standing outside the cafe - the handsome hunk who had caught Sarah's eye. He looked even better at close range. He was tall but there was a calmness and steadfastness about him that was reassuring to Sarah. Kelly looked at her tentatively as she walked up to him. She reached out slowly and put her hand on his shoulder. His brown eyes softened.

"So Sarah," Sue asked. "Would you like to ride Kelly now or do you want to fix another time?"

Sarah nodded; she had met the horse of her dreams.

The Spirit of the Swallow

2006-12-13T22:21:00.000-08:00

by Yan Lai Peen

It was dawn and my pet chicken had just begun to crow.

"Shi Yan, wake up, Shi Yan." Someone was shaking me.

Through the slits of my half-opened eyes, I saw Niang sitting on the edge of my bed, peering into my face. Behind her was her maid holding a tray, looking like a dark, tall and imposing tree stump. At her foot was a basin of water.

Niang gently shook me again. I grunted and rubbed my eyes, wondering why I was having an audience. Her maid set the tray down at the foot of my bed and the glimmer of a pair of scissors caught my eyes.

Niang knelt down and cradled my feet in her hands, then dipped them into the basin of warm water. I was puzzled; it wasn't my birthday. I was still half-asleep when she dried my feet, rubbed them with peculiar powder and cut my toenails. I saw her take something - it looked like a roll of cloth - from the tray and unroll it. Then, she grabbed my right foot.

"Niang…" I protested groggily. My mother looked up but said nothing. She held the rough bandage to my foot and bent my last four toes all the way towards the arch of my sole, seemingly sparing my big toe. The cloth went tightly round my foot that I began to feel needles and pins. Then she gave a sharp tug around my heel. I yanked my foot at her chin, throwing her off-balance.

"Niang, why?" I asked in bewilderment, fully awake now, and tears already welling up in my eyes. Niang's cold and clammy hands clutched at mine and she whispered through gritted teeth, "It's for your own good, guai nu. You'll thank me one day. Don't cry." She avoided my eyes but nodded at her maid, who immediately shoved a blouse into my mouth. Then, her maid pinned down my wrists.

"Good girl, good girl." Niang muttered. Her hands moved deftly. When the bandage reached my toes again, Niang forcefully broke them, two by two. Crack! Crack! It thundered in my ears in the stillness of the dawn. Pain shot through my entire sweat-drenched body. I choked on my own cries and wailed through the gag while Niang continued to press my heel to what was left of my toes, swiftly completing another round, never once loosening the grip of the bandage. My pet chicken echoed my wails as though crying in sympathy, as though on my behalf. My eyes, wide opened in horror despite the gushing tears, slowly rolled up towards the ceiling, then rolled sideways. Niang and her maid looked grotesque, their faces contorted and grey. Every thing became grey, then black.
On the following day, Niang held a cane and flicked it in front of my face.

"Walk!"

Sobbing, I tottered around the courtyard in searing pain until the sun was directly over my head. Niang was still flicking away, by then at my rear end. Beads of sweat trickled down my forehead and into my eyes; I collapsed onto the ground in momentum with the stroke of her cane.

"Get up!" Niang said. I saw several maids peeping at me from the corners of the walls and I reached my hands out to them.

"Leave her be!" my mother barked at the maids. "Otherwise she'll be just like you!" She turned back to me, "Get up!" Looming threateningly above me, she held her cane high. I stared defiantly at her. "Or you won't eat tonight," she said loudly enough for the maids to hear.

I looked away towards the maids and reached out my hands once more.

"Help me," I groaned.

Thwack! came down the cane on my thighs.

"Aaaaaaahhhhhh!" I screamed, tears pouring down my face, mixed with sweat and, as I then believed, blood. I fell flat on my stomach. My outstretched hands dropped onto the ground and my palms curled into fists. Thwack! again.

"Aaaaaaaahhhhhhh!" I wailed louder. In my blurred vision, I saw Niang walk away with her maid. The maids scrambled away. I was drenched in my own sweat and urine. I pounded my fists on the ground, pressed my wet face against the earth and cried until the sun set.

My childhood ended that day. I was only five years old. As compensation, Niang gave me a new friend, Xiao Yu. She was to follow me everywhere and spend every moment with me. I later learned that the young maid who attempted to come to my aid that evening with a bowl of porridge was Xiao Yu. She was given five strokes of the cane by my mother who had hawk eyes. Xiao Yu limped for three days.

Every three or four nights from then on, Niang commanded Xiao Yu to leave my room. On those nights, my feet were bound tighter than before as my mother chanted "san cun, san cun, san cun." Before she came in, I hid in a cupboard or under my bed hoping Niang couldn't see me and would go away. But she always managed to find me and dragged me out of my hiding place while I howled for release. When I knew my protests were futile, I squeezed my eyes tightly shut, pressed my lips together and gripped the edge of my seat until my fingers were white and numb. And throughout the process, I clenched my jaw and thought of that day I fell on the ground in my own urine and ate dirt.

Every day for two years, I sat in the confines of my courtyard, learning how to embroider shoes for my then four-inch feet. From where I sat each day, I could see the hills beyond the courtyard walls and the swallows that flew above my head. I embroidered images of them onto my shoes while my brothers ran past me, carrying with them wicker toys. One day, they saw me gazing dreamily at the swallows and paused in their step.

"Look at you!" elder brother scoffed. "You're such a miserable sight! You'll be shut in here forever while we enjoy the warm grass beneath our feet!" I looked at their feet and then mine while they continued to laugh derisively. I glared at them and fumed. There was only one thing I could do; mustering all my spit, I did it.

"Xiao Jie!" Xiao Yu gasped, shocked. "They are boys and can do what they like. We must accept our fate." I stared at her with disbelief.

"No! That's not true! I can do what my brothers do! I will!" I heard my brothers' laughter in the distance as they ran off. "I've forgotten how it feels like to run and skip," I said softly, head bowed. "But one day I will fly away like a swallow."

The day came when I turned fifteen. Father announced that I was to be wed. For nights, I lay awake, thinking what would become of me. Then one night, I realised the time had come.

After the night's meal, I pulled Xiao Yu aside.

"Xiao Yu, we leave tonight." I whispered.

"What?" Xiao Yu exclaimed. "Where to? Why?"

"Shh! I am serious about this." I looked at Xiao Yu desperately. "I will soon be Merchant Wang's fourth wife if I stay here. He is older than father, Xiao Yu! I heard that he even beats his wives." The image of Niang holding the cane above my head flashed across my mind and my stomach lurched. "If we don't escape tonight, I'll be trapped forever. Forever, Xiao Yu."

"Escape?" Xiao Yu gasped. "Master will beat me to death if he finds out, Xiao Jie! I can't, I can't do this. How could we escape? They'll surely catch up with us!" She backed away and shook her head vigorously.

I seized Xiao Yu's hands and said, "Do you remember what I said many years ago that morning in the courtyard? I'll do anything to run away. Believe me, Xiao Yu, we can do this together, we can! You will help me walk. We'll go far, far away where they can't find us. This is my only chance! Help me. We will leave at midnight. There's no moon tonight; no one will see us. Xiao Yu, please, I can't do this without you, you must help me!" I began to drop to my knees.

"No, Xiao Jie, no! Please don't kneel," Xiao Yu whimpered. She bit her lip and looked up at the sky. Then she slowly nodded, looking like a rabbit caught in a snare.

After everyone had retired to their bedchambers, Xiao Yu and I gathered our money and some essentials. We stole through the kitchen and past the outdoor waste chamber. The only sound we heard was the scurry of drain rats. I carefully unlatched the backdoor and stepped across the threshold.

"Don't look back," I said.

We started walking very slowly but we kept our pace. I leaned heavily on Xiao Yu and staggered on in silence. The air was heavy with fear. When we heard a clang in the distance, we jumped. It was the gengfu shouting out the time and clanging on his cymbal. We realised that we had walked for an hour. The gengfu's voice moved slowly out of earshot and silence hung heavily in the air once more. I dug my fingernails into Xiao Yu's arms like my toenails dug into my soles. The blood and pus that oozed from the ruptured boils seeped through the crevices of my feet.

"Let me carry you, Xiao Jie," Xiao Yu murmured. She bent down and I climbed onto her back. Her frail body quivered as she tried to secure me on her back and maintain her balance at the same time. Then, we continued our flight, slower now than before.

The wind began to howl, first like a lost child, and then it became louder and louder til it sounded like a hundred restless souls weeping. Leaves swirled around us as the strong wind blew. The dimly-lit lanterns which hung outside the doorways that we passed cast an unearthly luminescence on the walls as they swayed and creaked. An animal ran across our path. Xiao Yu let out a small yelp and staggered on.

Not long after that, we came to a bridge. Xiao Yu paused and panted. I saw a stone at the other end of the bridge but could not make out what was etched on it. I sucked in a deep breath and gripped her shoulder tighter.

"Don't look back," I said in a barely audible whisper as I breathed out. She carried me slowly across the bridge into an unfamiliar territory. We had left our village. We moved cautiously in the dark across the field and into another village. Lanterns were scarce. An animal yowled in the distance.

Suddenly, there was shuffling of feet behind us.

"Listen!" Xiao Yu gasped, freezing momentarily in her step. My hair stood on end and I darted my eyes to the left and right.

"Can you hear that sound? Is master catching up with us? We will die, we will die," she whined. Twigs broke on the ground behind us. I gripped her shoulder tighter. My heart pounded like a big magistrate's gong against my chest.

"Don't follow us. Go away, go away," Xiao Yu sobbed and wobbled forward as quickly as she could. I squeezed my eyes tightly shut. "Faster! Faster!" I tried to say but only chokes escaped my lips. The sounds behind us came closer. In her panic, Xiao Yu stumbled on a hard object and all I saw then was the ground coming up and slamming on my face. I shook my head in shock while Xiao Yu got back on her feet as swiftly as lightning.

"Crawl! Crawl!" Xiao Yu almost shrieked. I looked up at her, dazed. She grasped me by my arm and pulled hard, dragging my knees over the stones on the ground. I whimpered but nonetheless clawed my way over sand, earth and puddles. We dared not stop to look back. I clambered on for what seemed like an eternity.

When we made a turn around a corner, Xiao Yu exclaimed, "Look!"

In the fog, I could make out the silhouette of a derelict temple. I heaved a sigh of relief and without letting my gaze leave the dilapidated building, I crawled towards it as quickly as my raw knees could endure.

Once we reached the step, we scrambled past the cobwebbed doorway and hid behind the front wall. There we sat huddled, panting and keeping as still as statues, as though a single movement would shatter the fragile calm. We remained in that position for a long time, listening intently for any more sounds. When we heard nothing else save for our own breathing, we regained our spirits.

"Xiao Yu, please get me some water," I said wearily and closed my eyes. Hearing no response from her, I opened my eyes and saw her gaping.

"Where…where from?" she stammered.

"There must be a well at the back of this temple," I sighed, fingering my foot gingerly. "Go quietly and be careful." She gaped at me with her wide terrified eyes. I squeezed her hands and said, "Guan Yin will watch over us."

When she had gone, I tenderly removed my shoes and unwound the soiled bandages. Upon her return, Xiao Yu stood still a few steps away, staring fixedly at my naked feet. Then she hurriedly dumped the bucket at my feet and shrank back. I heard her retch in a corner. I avoided her gaze; neither of us spoke a word. I cleansed my wounds and decaying feet, and cut away the rotten flesh while Xiao Yu made a fire, occasionally clutching at her throat when stealing glances at me.

"Xiao Yu, you are no longer my little maid but my dear friend," I whispered to her later as we huddled together, before sleep claimed us. I dreamed of swallows in flight above green hills and rolling waters.

When we awoke, my feet had dried and the fire was still kindling. I tossed the ten-foot soiled bandages and my three-inch shoes into the flames. The bandages turned into ashes and were carried away with the wind. The shoes blackened and shrivelled. I wrapped my feet with soft cotton cloth and pinned it securely. The sun was rising from the horizon when we headed to the jetty, hand-in-hand.
We boarded the boat just as it sounded its horn.

"Don't look back," I said.

We never did.

Someone Special

2006-12-05T18:31:00.000-08:00

by Laura Bakri

I first noticed the little girl as I paused from setting up my stall with items stored overnight in drawers under the tabletop. She was hanging back a little near the automatic doors to the car park, just at the corner by the newsagents next to its stand of multi-coloured plastic handheld windmills and across from another retailer's rack holding row after row of plain white t-shirts emblazoned with bastardised logos and sly puns on famous slogans.

Her big brown eyes were huge in a tiny heart-shaped face as she looked intently past the hanging cotton blouses of the stall next door at my little white cart with its tiers of display shelves and red latticed panels. As I continued laying out earrings and bracelets of jewel-toned glass Murano beads and hanging up embroidered evening bags at eye level on hooks depending from the roof of my mobile display, I watched from the corner of my eye as she scuffed the toe of one shoe on the heel of the other, then took a step closer. Sensing that she was a little uncertain, I decided not to go into my usual mode of cheerfully making eye contact, smiling and beckoning over with friendly chatter and welcoming gestures potential customers attracted to my pretty goods.

Most such persons were female, teens to smart career women and shopping housewives, looking to buy a trinket or two. This child of about five or six years, dressed prettily in a white frock with puff sleeves and pink smocking on its bodice, looked much like any other little girl following her mummy shopping on a warm sultry midday, and for a moment, as others walking by obscured her, I wondered if she might be lost. Then, as she came into view again, a lady in a black baju kurung and white lace selendang straightened up from whispering in the girl's ear, patted her shoulder and handed her something, then moved away towards the travellator up to the main floor.

Scrunching her fists into her skirts, the small child carefully made her way over to where I was just putting out the last of the cute little handphone straps from Thailand, her tiny white shoes tapping daintily closer on the cream tiled flooring. A sweet voice piped, "Excuse me, Auntie," as I finally looked directly at my diminutive visitor.

"Hello adik, that's a pretty dress you're wearing!" was my cheerful greeting. It worked, as the first smile I had seen from her shyly spread across her face.

She took a further step forward, releasing her right hand and placing it on the edge of the lowest display shelf, tipping up on her toes to see the merchandise neatly laid out before her, now level with her chin.

"Are you looking for something special?" I asked brightly as she carefully eyed each item in turn. As she looked at me and nodded once, I stepped closer and handed her one of my small fabric floral hairclips, adding, "Something special for someone special?"

The suddenly troubled look in her eyes surprised me, but she quickly veiled it with thick black lashes and when she looked up again her face was resolute and smiling once more.

"Yes," she said clearly, "something special for someone special. Ibu says my kakak is going way soon to a beautiful country. She will be with new people and learn many new things, so I want to give her a present. Something nice so she will still think about me even though she's far away. Something nice so she won't forget."

She looked carefully at the flowered hair ornament, then raised herself up on tiptoe again to peer once more at the other items.

"I want kakak to always remember me, no matter what," she confided, raising her head to look up at the hanging display of handphone covers clipped to a wire strung across the centre of the cart. She seemed particularly drawn to one in red silk and black velvet, brightly standing out from the rest of its fellows in the middle of the line, and following her gaze, I released it and handed it to her, simultaneously relieving her of the purple orchid hairclip. She looked at the cover intently, then glanced up at me and nodded twice.

"How much is this, please?" she asked politely, her left hand in which I saw the flash of red bill notes finally leaving her skirts.

Glancing at the price tag high above her head next to the line, I replied, "Fifteen Ringgit," and looking at another tag on the shelf top, added, "And if you like the hairclip, that's only Eight Ringgit. Would you like both? I'll give you a special price of Twenty Ringgit, that's Three Ringgit off."

Shyly, she nodded thrice and confided, "Kakak loves orchids, so she will like the hairclip. Kakak also likes red and she's always talking on her handphone, so - " she suddenly paused and bit her lower lip, then looked up at me bravely and smiled once more.

Silently empathising with the little one, I rang up the sale. As I placed the handphone cover in a white box and began to gift wrap it with cream paper, she shyly asked me to leave the hairclip unwrapped. Puzzled but obligingly, after I tied a jaunty red ribbon on the cream parcel, I dropped it and the hair ornament into a small plastic bag and handed that over to the girl.

"Thank you Auntie," she smiled, then carefully turned and walked off. Bemused, I watched her taking quick little steps up the moving walkway, then driven by a whim, turned to my sales assistant setting out flowered slippers by the side of the cart and said, "Could you keep an eye on everything for a moment, please? I just want to pop up for a minute."

As I emerged by the side of the pharmacy, I caught sight of the little girl going up to the lady in black who was by a food stall. As I moved towards them, I saw the lady bend down a little, nod as the child mouthed something, and then take the hairclip out of the bag and place it in the little girl's hair behind her left ear. Straightening, she took the child's hand in her left, picked up a purchase in her right, smiled and nodded to the serving girl in her white apron and black tudung, and walked towards the entrance.

Reaching the display of traditional Malay kueh, neat packets of nasi lemak and plastic containers of meehoon, I was surprised to see the serving girl, who sometimes pops by my stall during her breaks, surreptitiously wiping away a tear.

In response to my enquiring expression, she inclined her head in the direction of her recent customers, who were now getting into a dark blue BMW. "The family always buys kueh from me," she said, and added, "it's so sad, such a pretty girl, the adik will miss her kakak so much ..."

"Well, it's always hard for a little sister when the big sister she adores goes away to study overseas, but I'm sure they'll keep in touch, and her kakak will be back during the holidays, you know ..." I hastened to assure her, then trailed off as I received a blank stare in return.

"No, no, you don't understand - the little girl asked her mother to put the orchid clip in her hair so her sister could see her favourite adik wearing her favourite flower when they said goodbye. She also asked her mother to put her sister's handphone safe in the cover she just bought so that they could always be in touch," she explained, and at my continuing lack of comprehension, elaborated, "The mother had just been telling me her eldest daughter passed away of leukaemia last night and the burial would be soon, after Zohor, so she was quickly getting some lunch for her youngest girl before the funeral."

And as the azan sounded from the nearby mosque, I looked out to see the little girl's solemn face silhouetted in the passenger window as the car pulled silently away.

Chestnut Chocolate Mooncake

2006-11-23T02:15:00.000-08:00

By Rumaizah Abu Bakar

Chef Chen sat calmly at the round table. His hands clasped in his lap. He looked distinguish in his tall white hat and matching uniform with his initial neatly sewn above the pocket. He waited patiently as the lady and two gentlemen took their seats at the table.

Seated on his left was the Communications Manager, Mimi, looking cheerful in her light gray suit and pink buttoned down-shirt. Her short wavy hair framed her youthful round face. With her Indian blood, she was dark for a Malay lady. "Hi Chef Chen, I can't wait to taste your lovely desserts," she chirped. That brought a smile to his lips. "And I can't wait to serve you, Ms Mimi," he quipped, equally good-naturedly. In her early 30s, Mimi was much younger than the others.

Max the new Director of Food & Beverage sat on Mimi's left, looking slightly nervous in his round glasses. He had on a formal navy suit with a light blue shirt and aquamarine tie. "Good afternoon, Chef Chen," he greeted the man with a faint hint of a German accent. "I'm sure you have a surprise dessert to dazzle us."

Chef Chen smiled widely, "Yes, Sir. I hope you will be pleased," he said with a slight bow.

At last, Justin, the Swiss blond curly haired gentleman in the black suit and mustard tie took his place on the Chef's right. The Chef got up and bowed courteously to his last guest before sitting down again. "Chef Chen, how are you today? All ready?" he looked at the chef and flashed his famous childlike smile around the table.

"I'm good, Sir. Thank you."

I stood quietly in the corner of the restaurant's private dining room. This is the best spot to observe the group. Chef Chen turned to look at me. "Chef Francois, shall we start now?"

"Yes, Chef Chen, whenever you are ready. It is your show, you are the boss!" I did not smile, I seldom did anyway, but I could see that my words had increased his confidence.

"Very well," he looked at the waiter. "Lim, please bring out our surprise," he patted the young man's shoulder.

"Certainly, Chef," Lim replied politely and tiptoed to the kitchen. He reappeared a few minutes later with two plates filled with the chef's dainty sweet creation. A waitress followed closely behind him, balancing a plate in each hand. They served the group.

"Ladies and gentleman, this is dark Belgium chocolate mooncake filled with chestnut and orange peel filling," he gestured for them to start.

"Hmm…this is good," Mimi put her thumbs up. "It is sweet and crunchy on the outside, and then the moment you bit into it, you'll be enticed by the softness and sourness within the crust," she said a bit dreamily. I quickly took out my notebook and jot down her comments, so did Chef Chen.

It was Max's turn. "It does look sexy on a plate," he winked at Mimi.

"Hmm..." she mumbled.

"However, the presentation can be improved," he commented. The packaging-man, they nicknamed him. To him, appearance or wrapping was more important than the content. "The colour is dull, there is no highlight. Perhaps you can include a tiny ice sculpture next to the mooncake. That will make the dish more elegant," Max added, obviously pleased with his idea.
I sighed. After years of working together, I could sense Chen's quiet discomfort, a painful expression in his eyes.

Justin did not seem amused. "How many of this do we need to serve?" he raised his eyebrows quizzically. Trust their Resident Manager to rescue them.

"We are serving 500 pax, Sir," Chen answered.

"For God sake! We can't make 500 miniature ice sculptures! Our staffs will not be able to do anything else. There will be like twenty functions happening at the same time. It is a busy day for the hotel, we can't afford this." Irritation was clear in his voice. "No, Sir, we can't afford it," I said curtly and immediately signaled to Chen.

"So, are you happy with this, Sir?" Chen asked Justin gently.

"Very good, Chef Chen. You have a winner," he complimented him. "No more food tasting after this. For the big gala dinner, Jade Restaurant's very own Chef Chen will present his Chestnut Chocolate Mooncake!" Justin chuckled, looking like a satisfied kid. He raised his cup of Oolong Tea for a toast, the others followed suit. Chen smiled slowly and nodded.

After finishing their tea, they quickly got up and left the room. It was a hectic day. The kitchen team has taken enough of their time and they were all eager to get back to work.

I pulled a chair at the table and sat next to the chef. "Don't worry, Chen, we are doing the right thing," I assured him. "I don't know, boss. I still don't feel comfortable doing this," he sighed. Chen was a man of integrity. He was brought up the old fashion way by his dim sum peddler father and dish washer mother in a village in Malacca. Come to think of it, I had the same upbringing by my retailer parents back in my hometown Lucerne. Only that we had turned out quite differently.

He seemed so troubled that I felt like patting his shoulders to assure him. However, that was not my style. I was known as a man of few words and even fewer sugary gestures. I have been told that our colleagues from the other departments feared me. However, my brigade of sous chefs knew me very well, and to them I would show a side of me that most people did not get to see. I wanted them to succeed. I care about their future and I would do anything it takes to see that they get the recognition that they deserve.

Unfortunately, doing anything it takes also mean camouflaging the truth, as Chen put it. I would simply pass it off as taking teamwork to a higher level. It was unavoidable. To succeed, one needed to make sacrifices and this included one's own pride.

***

I recalled the day Max broke the news to us during a daily kitchen operation briefing three weeks ago. "We are hosting a fundraising gala dinner for the cancer foundation. Four renowned Chinese chefs from prestigious hotels in Asia Pacific have been selected for this occasion. Each of them will prepare a dish for a four-course fusion dinner next month," he looked at the whole
kitchen team. "The good news is…," he paused for effect, "Chef Chen is one of them!" he hit the table in front of him with his hand.

A few quiet moments passed and then they started to cheer, "Chef Chen, Chef Chen, Chef Chen…" The jolly Chinese chef was everyone's favourite, he was the sunshine after the rain.

I looked at Chen, he was blushing. I smiled. "Chef Francois, can I see Chef Chen and you in your office now," Max asked me.

"Sure," I answered coolly. Generally, I could not stand the sight of my new superior but this time I was curious to hear what he had to say. He followed Chen and me to my tiny office located at the end of the main kitchen. I opened the door and closed it behind them.

My secretary was seated near the door, busy typing away. She looked up to wish Max good morning and then resumed her work. "Okay, gentlemen, you heard my announcement just now," Max begun, a slight nervousness in his voice. We both nodded. "We are expecting 500 guests. As the gracious host, I have requested that Chef Chen do the honour of closing the ceremony with one of his wonderful desserts. The committee has agreed to my suggestion. They have assigned the other dishes to the other chefs." He smiled happily at both of us.

I could not believe what I have just heard. "Did you say dessert?" I asked icily.

Max seemed startled by the coldness in my voice. "Yes. Is there a problem?" he asked me. He pushed his hair behind his ears nervously.

Chen stood timidly next to me. After a few seconds, I spoke, "You should have consulted me first. There is no masterpiece of a fusion Chinese dessert that we can prepare for 500 guests!" I retorted angrily.

Max seemed genuinely puzzled. "I don't understand," he mumbled.

"For maximum quality control, our hotel policy states that we are to prepare hot dishes no earlier than three hours before an event. This means that we are not able to serve a decorative Chinese fusion dessert for a large size dinner!" I glared at him.

Max cleared his throat "Well... I see. I'm sure we can work it out somehow," he laughed, his enthusiasm sounded faked. "What about chilled desserts? I'm sure these can be prepared earlier," Max persisted.

"Delicious as those may be, none is attractive enough visually. Our chilled desserts are definitely not meant for a showy dinner!" I snapped. Max did not say anything. "Max, if the other three selected chefs are going to use our kitchen on the same evening, we have to deal with triple egos, on top of everything else. That is not possible!" I insisted.

"Use your creativity; open up your mind a bit. Do it differently." Max urged on. "Come on, Francois! A man who made Executive Chef at the age of 29 should know what to do. I know you won't disappoint us," he swiftly dismissed me with his right arm, nodded at Chen and opened the door to step out.

I was fuming. The moment he was out of sight, Chen spoke, "What do we do, boss?"

"Hmm...I think we may have to resort Chef Philipp's Western fusion dessert. That can be prepared in advance," I said.

Chen looked shocked. "What? Really?" he asked me in disbelieved. "That means we need to ask Max to present Chef Philipp instead," he reckoned.

"No!" I said firmly. "This is your show. The Pastry Chef will have his turn.We shall pass Philipp's recipe as yours," I decided. "Max did ask us to use our creativity and do things differently."

He shook his head to the left and right in disagreement. "I'm sure this was not what Mr Max meant, boss."

"Oh, come on, Chen. This dinner only stages Chinese chefs, remember?" I reminded him further.

Despite Chen's repeated protests, I managed to convince Philipp to agree to my idea. We were close friends and Philipp trusted me. Moreover, he was still relatively young and had a long way to go. Chen, on the other hand, was meant for bigger shores; he was too talented for a small sea like this. The cancer foundation fundraising gala dinner was a prominent event. It would be graced by the country's top connoisseurs. Esteemed members of high society and celebrities
from Asia Pacific would be present, the Who's who, and with them came the regional media. There would be mass exposure on all the chefs on show. Chen would be noticed. One of the bigger fish would offer him a job at a renowned kitchen elsewhere. Although I valued Chen and knew that it would be tough without him, I had to do it. This was for the man's best interest. A genius in the kitchen like that should not be stuck here forever.

So, I asked Philipp to create a few of his magnificent fusion desserts, something with a touch of oriental. He slaved in the kitchen for a week, while Chen watched guiltily. "Don't worry, Chen. This is your day, I'll scratch your back and next time you can scratch mine," he winked at the man. Chen laughed. Slowly, he started to warm up to the idea. As the day got closer, miraculously we managed to get Chen's full consent

***

The dinner was a huge success. It was a memorable evening of glitz and glam. The four famed chefs took turns parading on the stage and bowing to the guests. In return, all the guests stood up and gave a thunderous applaud. Shortly after, the organiser invited the four gentlemen to step down and adjourned to the next function room for the press conference.

Mimi was already waiting for Chen near the door. She looked chic in a black evening dress. "Nervous, Chef Chen?" she teased him.

Chen smiled, "A little bit, Ms Mimi. Don't worry, I remember what we have discussed," he assured her as they proceeded to the next room. After briefing him in detail a few days ago, she had made him go over the answers to her anticipated questions over and over again. She knew only too well how important the event was to the hotel. There had been wide news coverage with feature articles on the chefs published in several publications in the region.

Chen noticed me walking quietly behind them. My presence was significant to him. It boosted his confidence when I was around. The chefs sat down behind a long desk, their white hats stood tall in unison. Placard with their names were placed in front of them. One by one the hungry media fired up their questions. Their main target was the charming award winning chef from Perth. He had a chain of fine dining restaurants in Perth, Beijing and Kuala Lumpur.

I watched them carefully. The journalists tonight were an aggressive bunch, unlike the usual Malaysian press. Perhaps most of them were from other countries, I observed their accents and complexions, Australian, Hong Kong, India, among others.

Finally, the interrogative Indian broadcast journalist directed his question at Chen. His cameraman immediately zoomed in onto the chef's face. "Chef Chen, tell us how did you get the inspiration to create the Chestnut Chocolate Mooncake?" I watched Chen moving his eyes slowly around the room. I held my breath. "You can do it, Chen," I mouthed silently to myself. Why was he taking so long? My heart started to stammer.

I was relieved when he finally moved his lips; alas he was going to speak. "Ladies and gentlemen..." he began. "I'm afraid I can't take credit for the Chestnut Chocolate Mooncake." "It was actually the creative invention of my colleague, Chef Philipp Hanns," he continued in a small voice; he then shifted his gaze to the floor.

I felt my heart in my mouth. The audience gasped. The room was dead silence.

"No!" I saw Mimi, Max and Justin turning to look at me. In fact, all the people in the room were staring at me.

To my horror, I had screamed out loud. The chilling images continued flashing on my mind. I pictured Chen's 20 years of culinary career being flushed down the toilet; and with that went my own as well.

My Grandpa's Funeral

2006-11-14T23:08:00.000-08:00

by Chua Kok Yee

My grandpa passed away this morning, and now I am late for his wake.

Slowly I trudged towards the temporary awning that occupied the narrow street in front of my aunt's house. There were large white lanterns hanging on two opposite top corners, both adorned with Chinese characters with my grandpa's name and age. Despite my poor command of Chinese I could read the character of our family surname, and the numbers 'six' and 'five'.

Underneath the awning were a few rows of plastic chairs and three round tables draped in white cloth. The tables were occupied mostly by elderly guests, engaging in idle conversations while munching away on groundnuts. Sporadically, there were bursts of lively chatters that countered the supposedly solemnity of the occasion.

About ten members of a local Buddhist sect were chanting inside the house compound. Their chorus of incantation filled the night's air with a sense of calm sadness. It's a haunting tune that penetrated deep into the soul like a melodious spear of sorrow.

At the entrance of the living room, the huge black-rimmed picture of my grandpa smiled at the visitors from the altar. The golden urn in front of the picture was filled with joss-sticks, its smoke shrouding the altar in a thin white cloak. There were a few plates of fruits and vegetarian food offerings around the urn, all sprinkled with specks of dark ashes. My grandpa's wooden casket was behind the altar, occupying the middle of the living room. Its lid was opened, offering a final window for the mourners to bid him a farewell.

My mother and the rest of the family were standing in front of the altar in rows of three, holding a yellow booklet in their hands. An elderly monk in yellow robes said something to them, and they began to flip the pages of the booklet. Those who found the particular pages began to chant the Buddhist incantations; their hoarse voices disturbing the harmony of the sect members'.

I was contemplating joining them in the ritual when I saw him.

He was sitting at the back row, alone and isolated from the other guests. Wearing a white long sleeved shirt and a pair of beige pants, he looked as if he was going to the school where he washeadmaster for the past twenty-five years. His grey hair was neatly combed to the back, revealing the prominent forehead on his square face. His slanting eyes were hidden behind the thick glasses of his black-rimmed spectacles.

I walked over, and sat next to him.

He looked intently at the proceeding near the altar, without any hint of acknowledgement of my presence. Perhaps he was enjoying the unintentional comedy of my young nephew, who was obviously lip-synching the incantations as he could not read Chinese. Maybe he was trapped in the deep wall of his own thoughts. Or probably it was presumptuous of me think that he could see me just because I could see him. For a moment we shared a room of silence amidst the droning chatters and incantations.

"It's nice for you to come by," he turned his head and gave me a warm smile. There was a blissful calm in his voice which discomforted me. I was more accustomed to his loud voice, always with a hint of anger, which often sent fear into my heart when I was a little boy.

"Sorry I am late," I apologized.

"It's OK. A few minutes doesn't make much difference now, does it?" he replied.

There was a plump guy sitting in front of us, and he turned around to throw a puzzled glance towards our direction. I returned to him an assuring and comforting smile, but anxiety was already written on his pale face. Abruptly, he stood up and made his way to the crowded tables at the front row, clumsily knocking down a chair in his haste. Although most people do not have the gift, or curse, of vision beyond the living world, they still could sense it at an instinctive level.

"Hahaha, that guy was one of my students. During his younger days, his friends used to mockingly call him Fearless Lim. I guess some people never change," he chuckled at the plump guy's antic.

"Can't blame him. It took me years before I finally stopped being afraid," I put out a defense for Fearless Lim.

"It must have been hard for you. I always knew you're different ... special since you're young," he continued.

"Really? How did you know?" I asked. Not many people knew of my gift, and even less would understand it. Even my mother thought I was either lying or delusional when I told her about it. Even today she still does not believe me.

He paused for a moment, as if he was pulling out pieces of words from the recess of his memory.

"Your eyes. I've been a teacher for over twenty years, and seen thousands of kids growing up. But I have never seen anyone with eyes like yours."

"You have the oldest eyes pair of eyes I have ever seen."

I did not say anything, contented to let my raised eyebrows to implore further explanation. He took another long pause before he continued, "I could see that you had an old soul, even when you were just a young boy. I remember one day when you were about nine or ten, I looked into your eyes and i thought to myself; this boy had seen way more death and suffering that children at his age should."

I remained silent, letting his words to slowly caress my soul like a cold night breeze. I never knew that he understood the burden of the gift that had chained a shadow of gloom to my soul. His words, even if it was a bit too late now, felt like pillars that helped to hold off some of the weights in my heart.

"Why you never tell me this when…" I paused to reassess my choice of words, before rephrasing my question, "Why you never tell me this before, grandpa?"

"Perhaps the living is not granted with the clarity of the dead."

In front of the altar, even among the grieving members of the family, my eldest aunt was a picture of wretchedness. Her usually radiant face was now haggard and tears were streaming down her cheeks from her puffy eyes. Her voice was hoarse and dry as she recited the incantation between her sobbing. Grandpa pointed towards her and turned his face towards me.

"Do you think she's crying for me, or for herself?" grandpa asked me.

"Of course for you," I said, knowing well that was not the reply he wanted. It was an easy question that demanded a difficult answer.

"Maybe. Or she could be crying for herself. Her tears could be out of the regrets for things not said or done, while I was still alive and she had the chance to."

After a long, heaving sigh he continued, "My point is, we often realize the important things only after it's too late."

My grandpa and I sat in silence again, lost in our own mist of contemplation. At the crowded table a few metres in front of us, Fearless Lim was stealing glances in our direction as the colours of fear, doubt and confusion took turns to paint his round face.

When Grandpa spoke again, there were tears welling up in his eyes, "I should have done more for you. At least I could tell you that I understand your burdens. Perhaps it would have made some difference, and you would have not done it."

"It's OK, Grandpa. That's all in the past," I tried comfort to him, despite being stabbed in the heart by the truth in his words. I could have been walking on a totally different path if he had been there for me. Any word of comfort from him, or anyone else, back then could have been the barricade that held me from falling into the abyss of depression. A long, suffocating depression which eventually drove me to suicide at the age of twenty two.

The sobbing at the altar had become louder, at times even drowning out the incantation. A few friends were consoling my eldest aunt who was weeping hysterically, while the other family members were struggling to maintain their composure. My Grandpa flinched uncomfortably at the scene, as if every tear rained a needle onto his heart.

"Maybe it's time for me to move on," he told me as he stood up. There was a flash of reluctance in his teary eyes, which was swiftly replaced by a gleam of steely resolve.

He clenched his hands onto mine, "I'm glad that He sent you."

"It's an honour for me, Grandpa."

Together, we walked towards the blinding, pure light.

END