A debt of gratitude (Part 2 of 2)

Headnote : The preceding part to this story can be read here -> Part 1

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Simon began his father’s story.

“It was late 1942. The time of the Japanese occupation of Malaya during World War II. My parents are originally from Kluang. According to my father, he was about 5 or 6 years old at the time. My grandfather had a small provision shop near Kluang town which he operated from a rented lot owned by a respectable Malay man named Pak Haji Rashid. The landlord’s own house was located behind the shop lot, meaning that my grandfather and Pak Haji Rashid were in fact neighbours.

It was a very hard life in those days. My father said the Japanese soldiers were extremely cruel. They were especially merciless against people of the Chinese race. They would arrest and torture anyone whom they suspect is opposing them. My grandfather had seen a few of his friends lose their heads at the stroke of the samurai sword. Business premises owned by the Chinese were plundered and taken over at will. Even schools were not spared. When they ran out of firewood, the soldiers took some wooden chairs and desks from the local Chinese school. The chairs and desks from the upper floor classrooms were simply tossed over the balcony so that they crash and splinter to the ground below. Easier to burn, they said.

To avoid capture, many able-bodied men ran into the nearby jungle to hide and fight back. My grandfather was sympathetic to the cause and he secretly helped the fighters by providing basic necessities. Of course, this was a very dangerous thing to do. If the Japanese found out, he would definitely lose his life.

Indeed, this was what happened. Somehow, information about my grandfather’s activity was leaked to the Japanese and word was out that the soldiers wanted his head. That particular evening, my grandfather was hiding in the shop together with my grandmother and my father. He didn’t know what else to do. He heard a sharp knock at the back door and the voice of his neighbour, Pak Haji Rashid. My grandfather opened the back door and Pak Haji Rashid told the whole family to leave the shop and follow him to his house. The Malay gentleman had offered to hide his neighbours from the search party. Using two large mengkuang mats, he rolled my grandmother and my father in one and my grandfather in the other. He placed the rolled-up mats, squeezed between a clothes cupboard and a sidewall. He told the family of three to be quiet. Be very quiet.

My father remembers this episode quite vividly. It was dark. It was hard to breathe. He wanted to cry. He wanted to pee. He hugged his mother as hard as he could.

The Japanese soldiers came. Broke into the shop. Ransacked the place. Not finding their intended targets, they took away whatever little provisions the small store had left. Somehow, they did not search the Malay man’s residence at the back.

The following morning, Pak Haji Rashid made arrangements to transport my grandfather and his family out of Kluang. My grandfather had relatives in Johor Bahru. That was where he would hide. Before leaving, my grandfather told Pak Haji Rashid that he and his family owed him their lives. How can he ever repay such debt of gratitude? The landlord had put his own life in danger in helping out his tenant. The Japanese would have surely executed him too had they found out.

My father told me he remembered Haji Rashid’s reply very clearly. You do not owe me anything, the Malay gentleman had said. But if you wish to repay me, then just repay mankind in general. Help out those in need, even if they do not ask for it.”

Simon paused his narration. He was looking at nothing in particular in the distance.

After a silent moment, he made a slight shake of his head, picked up his teh tarik mug and took a long sip of the already cold drink.

He then looked at Suresh and me before saying, “And that is why I am here today with you, my friends. My father remains alive and healthy to this day because a kindhearted man made a decision to help someone in need, even though that someone had not asked for it.”

A debt of gratitude (Part 1 of 2)

The old man was dressed in a simple light blue short-sleeved shirt and dark grey trousers. The white kopiah on his head seemed a bit frayed along the edges. On his right hand he carried a small packet of fish crackers while his left held a large red plastic bag, presumably containing more packets of the same.

He walked with a slight stoop as he approached our table where I was having a late supper with two friends at our favourite 24-hours mamak restaurant.

“Assalamualaikum encik,” he greeted me. “Sudi beli keropok ikang? Hok ni paling baik. Dari Kemamang.” His thick east coast accent indicated that he had come far just to peddle some produce. I was about to decline the sale when my friend Simon spoke.

“Berapa ringgit ni pakcik?”

Eight ringgit a packet was the reply.

“Pakcik ada berapa peket semuanya?” Simon continued, motioning to the large bag in the pedlar’s left hand.

The old man placed the bag on the floor and began counting its contents. He had a total of ten packs, including the one he first held in his right hand.

“Okay pakcik, saya beli semua,” Simon said.

The initial expression of surprise on the old man’s face was quickly replaced by a smile.

Simon then asked me and our other friend Suresh, how many packs of the keropok each of us wanted. Both of us replied that one was enough. Simon also wanted just one packet for himself and so requested the pedlar to place three individual packets into smaller plastic bags. For the remaining seven packets, the old man was instructed to go to the other customers in the restaurant and give them away to whomever he wishes.

The second look of surprise of the evening flashed over the old man’s face.

“Pakcik bagikan setiap meja satu bungkus, sampai habis semua,” Simon clarified. “Cakap yang ada orang sedekah. Boleh?”

Spoken like a true Muslim. Except that my friend Simon is not a Muslim and as far as I know, does not profess to any religion. Simon Yong is a third generation china-man of Hakka descent.

I have known Simon since we were in secondary school. Those days, I simply called him Ah Chye. That’s many, many years ago. We lost touch for a while after the final Form 5 exams when we chose different career paths. Throughout my adult working life, I had been posted to various states in Malaysia. A few years ago, I decided to return and settle down at my hometown of Johor Bahru. In that first few months I was back, my path was reconnected to Simon’s.

On the way home from work one evening, I had stopped by a mini-market to pick up some groceries. The man at the cash register was about my age. After totaling up my purchase, he asked if I’m new to the area because he’s not seen me before. Just moved back a few months ago, I answered. But I’m a local lad, through and through, I quickly added. If so, which school did you go to, he continued to ask. When I mentioned the name of my alma mater, he suddenly paused. He squinted his eyes and stared at my face in deep thought. I didn't feel any unease under the scrutiny. Many people say I have a very recognizable face. When he resumed speaking, the man behind the counter took a guess at my name. He was correct. It turned out that we were classmates from years long gone and have now reunited after a span of nearly thirty years. I asked him if he owned the store. Being the modest man that he is, he replied that he only works there but the store belonged to his father. I later found out that the family operates three convenience stores around town and that my friend Simon effectively owns them all because he holds the majority share. But as long as his father is still alive, Simon would say that the senior Yong is the owner.

After that day, we meet up regularly, usually over dinner or teh tarik at our favourite mamak joint. It so happened that Ah Chye and I support the same football team in the English Premier League. Later on, Simon introduced me to his friend Suresh, who is slightly younger than us but share many common interests. Except that he supports Chelsea. So when it comes to football talk, we trade friendly barbs at each other. You guys are okay, Suresh would say. “It’s the other red team supporters I cannot stand. Those devils think they are the best team ever.” Of course you have to say that, I reminded him, otherwise our good friend here would have to look for another lawyer. Suresh and Simon laughed in agreement. You see, apart from being a good friend, Suresh handles Simon’s legal affairs.

I had once asked Simon how decided upon his new western name. Is Ah Chye not glamorous enough, I joked. You remember the old TV series called The Saint, he questioned me back. The one with that handsome actor?

Yes, I do. Roger Moore.

Well, I think I’m as handsome as that actor, he continued. “So that’s why I took his name.” Now, hold on. I was puzzled. The guy’s first name is Roger. No lah, came the response… Simon Templar, the hero’s name! Oh, okay… now I get it (rolling my eyes).

So why not Roger, I asked again, just for the fun of it. The reply was just as swift. “You remember another TV series called Combat? The one where soldiers talk on the walkie-talkie and say ‘roger this’, or ‘roger that’?”

Sure, I do.

“Well, if I enter the army, I don’t want to be confused by hearing people calling out my name so many times, hahaha.” I could hardly suppress my chuckle on hearing the explanation. Of course, Simon never went to military service.

Simon made payment for the whole of the keropok pedlar's stock with two RM50 notes and told the man to keep the change.

It was our turn to be astonished when the old man responded, “Minta maaf encik. Saya dok boleh terima duit lebih ini. Saya datang nak berniaga bukan minta sedekoh. Harap encik dok kecik ati. Duit lebih tu mungkin rezeki orang laing. Terima kasih.”

He returned the RM20 change to Simon, smiled kindly at us and then left our table to distribute the remaining packets as requested.

“You are a very generous man, Simon. Your mother must have taught you well,” Suresh said.

“Actually, not my mother but my father,” Simon remarked. “He was the one who taught me to be kind and helpful to others. Because he was once helped by a very kind man... a long time ago. Have I not told you my father’s story?”

Suresh and I shook our heads.

“Okay… I’ll tell you. But let me finish my mee goreng first.”

As Simon chowed down his fried noodles, I glanced around to see how the old keropok-seller was getting along. He was actually doing something not quite different from what he had set out to do, except that now he is giving away those fish crackers for free rather than selling them. Even so, every person he approached was surprised at the gift and he had to point to our table to indicate the source of the goodwill...

Someone watching over me (Part 4 and Final)

Headnote : This is the 4th and final part of a short story that took too long to complete. The preceding parts can be read at the following links -> Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3.

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'I am so sorry… I didn’t know Amir has departed. I wish I had tried to look for the both of you much sooner.'

‘Now don’t be,’ my host graciously replied. ‘You couldn’t have known. It all happened quite suddenly, you know. My husband was out back tending to his favoured orchids when he collapsed. I was in the kitchen then, making him some tea. I heard something fall but wasn’t sure what it was, so I called out to him. When he did not reply, I came out to have a look. That’s when I saw him lying on the ground and his body jerking all over.’

She paused for a while. Her head was turned towards the orchid garden located at the rear of the sprawling compound, indicating to me where the incident occurred. We were sitting in the spacious verandah which the husband had built with his own hands. It was late afternoon of a bright and sunny day. A slight breeze was blowing and conditions were ideal for an afternoon nap, had it been different day. The verandah was constructed so that it faced open paddy fields, flat and green as far as the eye could see. In the distance, you could make out the balmy silhouette of Gunung Jerai, an imposing mountain overseeing acres of flat countryside. A truly magnificent view. I could well understand why my late friend had decided to uproot his city upbringing and settle down here. Indeed, it has become his final resting place.

My host turned back to me and continued, 'I was panicking at the time. I sought the help of some neighbours who took him to the hospital. He was there for one night but left us the following morning. Massive stroke, the doctor said. I informed as many of the relatives and friends as I could.’

She looked at me apologetically. 'I am sorry, I didn’t know how to get in touch with you. You went missing.’

It was my turn to say, ‘Don’t be. My fault.’

Amir and I had been very close friends while we were at university even though we studied different courses. We were housemates and shared many common interests, like movies and music. I was the best man at his wedding. I continued to be close to the couple for some time until their daughter was born. By that time, I was aspiring to start a family of my own but I wasn’t finding success in the courtship game. After two broken hearts, I took a job posting overseas and made myself oblivious to the happenings of friends or family back home. Two decades on, I decided to call it quits and come back. Amir and Maryam are the first friends in my Jejak Kasih list… and that’s why I am here now.

As I reminisce, a sweet young lady came to the verandah carrying a tray of hot tea and a plate of freshly-fried `cucur ikan bilis’ with some homemade chilli dip.

‘You remember this girl?’ Maryam asked me, as the young lady placed the refreshments on the table in front of us. She was of course, referring to their one and only daughter whom I last met when the girl was still a baby. Without waiting for my answer, she turned to address the girl, ‘Farah, this is the gentleman you have been asking about all those years ago. A very good friend of your father. The one in your baby photo where you’re sitting on his lap.’

I could see the young lady blushing. We exchanged pleasantries before she excused herself so that her mother and I could continue our conversation.

‘She’s all grown up now,’ I said. ‘How old is she? Twenty-one, twenty-two?’

Coming to twenty-three, her mother replied. ‘Amir told me that you were there during the time of her birth. And during the time when I was in that delicate state. I don’t think I had thanked you for keeping him company during that difficult time.’

I could have replied by saying that her thanks were not necessary, but kept silent because I could sense that she has more to say. There was a glint of tears at the corners of her eyes.

‘I had thought that my time has come. I would be leaving my husband and our little girl. But as you can see, it is Amir who has left us first.’ She wiped the tears from her eyes before they had a chance to fall down her cheeks.

‘I wish to tell you something… I hope you don’t mind. Something that happened during the time when I was in hospital. Except for Amir, I have not told this to anyone else. Not even to Farah.’

‘I don’t actually remember much of what happened during delivery. I must have passed out. But what I remember was the feeling of pain… intense pain. I really thought I was going to die. I kept praying to Allah Almighty… please, please take the pain away. Or if not, then please take me away. And then I remember the blankness. Cold and dark. And the pain came back again. It was like that, in cycles. I don’t know for how long.’

‘I thought I heard people whispering but all I could see were blurry figures. I thought some of the figures were beckoning me. I wanted to move and I wanted to speak but I couldn’t. And then it became dark and cold again.’

‘I heard a voice. A soft tone, not speaking but reciting. I recognized a phrase. Something familiar. “Salaamun kaullan mirabbir-rahim (peace, a word from a merciful Lord)”. Was I dreaming? I tried to open my eyes to see who was reciting those familiar lines… but I couldn’t. So I recited the words myself. Peace… and it felt peaceful, no longer that much pain. I think I drifted off to sleep.’

‘And then later, I don’t know how long, I heard the voice again. I fought hard to open my eyes. I saw a dim figure sitting by my bedside. When my eyes finally managed to focus, I saw that it was a middle-aged woman dressed in uniform. Not white like the other nurses but in light blue. She must be the head nurse or matron, I thought. She stopped her recitation when she saw me open my eyes. “Oh, you are awake,” I heard her say. “Praise be to Allah Almighty. They all thought you’ve gone, my dear… but I’m not one to be giving up so easily. I’m staying by your side until you come back.” I wanted to say thank you to her but my mouth just made mumbling sounds. She shushed me and told me to rest. “Go back to sleep, my dear. But don’t go too far. We’ll talk again tomorrow.” And I went back to sleep.’

‘The next day, or what I think to be the next day, I heard the soft voice again. This time I woke up quite easily and could see it was the matron of the night before. I manage to say the salaam and she replied in kind. I was able to speak a few words but she told me not to talk too much as I was still fairly weak. She then told me to continue to pray and be strong. Have the will to live, she said, because you have a beautiful daughter and a loving husband waiting for you at home. If you continue to recover like this, the doctors will let you go home in no time. It felt so wonderful to see a smiling face after those many hours of being in the dark and cold of nowhere. We chatted for a bit more before she advised me to go back to sleep. Before dozing off, I managed to look closely at the name-tag pinned to her uniform. Khadijah was her name. I managed to mumble a “Terima kasih, Kak Jah.” I heard her reply, “Sama-sama, Maryam” as she tucked me under the blanket and brushed my forehead with her nice warm hand.’

‘I finally recovered and later was allowed to go home where I saw my little girl for the first time. The most beautiful baby you’ll ever see. Amir told me that I had been in coma for five days. It was touch and go, he said. The doctors weren’t too confident that I would make it.’

‘I asked my husband to arrange to send some flowers to the hospital ward as a thank-you gift. On the accompanying card I wrote a brief note of appreciation to all the doctors and nurses for their good work. I made a special mention of gratitude to Matron Khadijah for being so kind and watching over me during the most trying period.’

‘A day after the flowers were sent, I got a call from the hospital. It was the Head Nurse who wanted to say that the flowers have been received. But she wanted to ask me something else. The matron by the name of Khadijah that I mentioned, could I describe her please? Well, I said, she’s middle-aged, slightly plump, fair skin, soft voice and the sweetest of smiles. Yes, that’s her, I heard the Head Nurse say. Well… if you know who she is, then why are you asking me?’

‘There was short silence. “Err… I’m sorry Puan Maryam, I’m just checking to be sure. Matron Khadijah is no longer with us.” What? I asked back. You mean she has resigned or retired? I just had a chat with her a few days ago.’

‘I heard the Head Nurse hesitating in her response. “Matron Khadijah works… err, I mean used to work with us. But she is no longer here. She died of breast cancer, five years ago…”’

Regrets...

"I should have listened to you," she says.

The soft sigh is only just audible. She looks out of the restaurant window but her eyes do not seem focussed on anything in particular. The gleam of tears pooling down the corners of her eyes can be clearly seen. I feel like holding my hand out to wipe those tears away but I am not sure how she will react. So I remain still... and silent.

The small boy sitting next to her happily munches down a slice of pizza. He doesn't bother his mother much, just occasionally asking her about this or that ingredient he finds on the topping. Seems like the first time he is tasting pizza and he is liking it.

She turns her head to look at me and continues, "He divorced me almost one year after I gave birth. He said that his first wife gave him an ultimatum. Either me or her. Of course I lose out. The family of the first wife is rich. They are the ones who support his business. If he leaves her, his business will go down."

"And what do I have? Compared to her, I may have youth and beauty... but that counts for nothing now. I am not rich. I cannot compete with the first wife on that. So I try other ways... I wanted to be a good wife, I treated him well, I loved him as much as I could. But in the end, the power of money beats everything."

"Men are only concerned about themselves. About their own comfort and happiness. About short-term gains. They don't care if they make life miserable for others!"

There is now a bit of sting in her voice. I don't want to add fuel to the fire so I continue to remain silent. She turns to look outside again... biting her lip as if trying to stop herself from further outburst.

I look closely at the son, slowly chewing on his food and oblivious to his mother's anger. Very well-behaved young man. He is around 4-years old, slight build towards skinny and with very fair skin. A thick crown of hair with facial features undoubtedly oriental. I have met the boy's father only once before but it is as clear as day that the boy has his father's looks.

"I know what you're thinking," she says as her eyes dart from me to the boy and back. "Every time I go out to the local market with my son, people always say the boy looks like his father... anak Salim Apek. He has taken everything from me. Even my son cannot have a bit of my look in him!"

I let time pass by a bit before finally responding, "Looks are not everything... but I guess you do not believe me. You place too much importance on looks. Did you not use your looks to catch his attention in the first place?" The next sentence in my mind is, and look where that has taken you. But I leave that part unspoken.

She shoots a spiteful look at me and say, "You are cruel, you know... but very kind." A hint of smile is finally evident, but it disappears almost instantly. She shakes her head and repeats, "I should have listened to you, all those years ago."

"So what do you want to do now?" I ask.

"I am broke," she says. "He has not given us any money for the past two years. After the divorce, he provided the maintenance quite regularly but then he started to slack. Business problems, he said. I had to go back to court to get him resume paying. The judge has already given the order but he gets away with a thousand of excuses. I cannot afford to pay the lawyer any more to fight him."

"You know, the last time he came to see his son was during hari raya last year? The boy was just 3-years old then. Look at him now. I don't think the boy even knows that he has a father."

"I need to find work. But at the same time, I can't afford to pay someone to look after my son."

She looks lovingly at the young man, pats him gently on the head and with an unwavering voice say, "I am going to give him up."

Someone watching over me (Part 3)

To read the preceding parts, click here -> Part 1 and Part 2

It has been 3 hours since they wheeled his wife into the surgical room. By normal convention, the longer the duration of surgery, the more complicated it is. But Amir is a patient man... he knows that all is now in the hands of the Almighty. He waits... for whatever news that comes. Seems like waiting is becoming something he gets to do often nowadays.

The doctor emerges from the surgical room and approaches him. He couldn't read the tired doctor's face for signs of any clear news, be it good or bad.

He is about to get up from his seat when the good doctor motions for him to remain seated. The doctor takes the empty seat next to him.

`How are you holding on En. Amir?' the doctor asks.

`As well as can be, I guess,' he replies. `But still, praise to Allah for giving us the health and strength to carry on. Hope that you are holding on too, Doc.'

The doctor nods in agreement. He isn't sure how to start relaying the news. But after more than 20 years experience of being an O&G specialist, he has mastered the skill in telling news in a tactful manner.

`A most amazing thing happened today,' the doctor begins. `We brought your wife into the room and were preparing for the operation. Just before we were about to start, her vital signs stabilised. I was a little surprised and waited for a while to check and make sure the machines were really reading it right. Then I noticed her eyelids start to flicker and slowly open. By God I thought, she's regaining consciousness... '

`I saw her hand move slightly and I offered to hold it. Her eyes were looking straight at me... as if she wants to say something. So I leaned over and she then whispered something to me... she said, "Doc, promise me you will save my baby." I couldn't say no.... so I said, yes I promise. She smiled a little and gave a very slight nod.'

`What happened next is something I cannot explain. I have never seen anything like it. She went into labour and after a few pushes, the baby is delivered. Like any normal delivery... it is like she never had any complications before. It is like... the baby is meant to live.'

`Because of your wife's history of thyroid cancer and her radiotherapy treatment, there were other specialists present during the delivery. You know.... err... we were a bit concerned about the physical health of the baby. But we needn't have worried. You are the father of a very beautiful and perfectly healthy baby girl...'

The doctor pauses for a while after saying that last sentence. Amir knows that what follows would be the part containing the bad news.

`But... ,' Amir prompts the doctor to continue.

The doctor lets out a low sigh and resumes, `But when we cleaned the baby and was about to show her to the mother.... your wife lapsed back into coma, start to lose a lot of blood and we had to take emergency measures. The last two hours was spent trying to save her.'

`She is now stable but it is still touch and go. I am sorry I cannot promise you very much...'

Amir looks into the distance. He tries hard to understand the situation and fights back the urge to let the tears flow. The waiting room suddenly feels very quiet.

He finally breaks the silence. `Thank you Doc, for trying your best. Can I see her?'

`We are preparing to send her back to ICU,' the doctor replies. `You'll be able to see her in a short while.'

`No,' he says, `I mean my daughter.'

`Oh, of course. Follow me please.'

He follows the doctor to another part of the hospital and is shown the newborn baby girl. The moment he lays his eyes on her, he knows she is the most beautiful baby he ever saw. After waiting for so many years, he is now finally a father.

But does getting this new love of his life means that he loses another in exchange?

Someone watching over me (Part 2)

To read the preceding part click here -> Part 1

He first saw her in the university library. She was sitting alone at a table with a few thick books around her, intently reading one and occasionally writing down notes. She was dressed in a simple beige-coloured blouse and denim jeans… it surprised him that he had not noticed her earlier. He had started to help out at the library since the start of the term after completing his degree in Library Science the previous academic year. She must have been coming to the library before that day but somehow managed to remain inconspicuous, to him at least.

But it was only three weeks later that he managed to work up the nerve to say something. He had been observing her the past weeks and noted that she mostly spent time in the library in the afternoons. Sometimes she would study with some friends but most of the time she was alone. None of the friends who have accompanied her so far, are men. That afternoon, she was again alone and was tidying up the table to go home. She brought a thick book to the checkout counter where he was on duty.

It is now or never, he thought.

As he scanned her library card and stamped the due date on the book, he noted the book’s title. `An Introduction To Fortran Programming’ by some overseas professor with a weird-sounding name. Whoever thought to call a 2-inch thick book `Introduction…’ must have got his bearings wrong.

As he handed the book back to her, he said, `That’s heavy stuff you're reading.’

She smiled and replied, `Yes, literally.’ He can’t help but smile back. The ice has been broken.

The polite greetings the following days became easy… but it was not until another three weeks that he found the guts to ask her out for a date. Well, you can’t really call it a date because it was just a drink at the cafeteria located opposite the library.

Their friendship blossomed and he continued courting her throughout the three years she took to complete her degree. They married the month after she graduated.

It was a happy first few years for the young couple. She easily got a job at a multi-national computer chip manufacturer while he had secured a permanent posting at the university’s library a few years earlier. There were no signs of the stork arriving yet but they were not unduly worried.

And then in their third year of marriage, the bad news came to the surface. She had been complaining of sore throat on a number of occasions which were treated by the standard prescription of antibiotics and lozenges. The illness came and went. But when her voice became hoarse and breathing became difficult, they decided to seek specialist advice. After a few tests, the diagnosis was heartbreaking.

She has thyroid cancer…

Someone watching over me (Part 1)

He looks down hard at the piece of paper the doctor has handed to him. It is a form of some kind… neatly printed out with check boxes alongside lines of text that explains the choices available. He has been requested to tick his option and sign at the bottom of the form.

'Can you give me some time, Doc… please..,' he says.

'Okay,' the doctor replies. 'But don’t take too long. I am sorry to have to ask you to do this.' The doctor gives him a gentle squeeze on his arm as he leaves the room.

The room in the Intensive Care Unit is quiet now except for the rhythmic beeps coming from the life monitoring machine. Tubes and wires are connected all over the patient who is now in a deep state of unconsciousness.

Amir looks at the pale-white face of his wife Maryam lying on the hospital bed… and his eyes slowly starts to well up with tears.

He speaks to her in that soft and gentle voice of his. 'Yam, I don’t know what to do… they have asked me to choose. I know I made a promise to you that we will save the baby… but I can’t do that. Yes, we have waited for ten years to get him. But… I can’t let you go. I just can’t…'

'It no longer matters to me that we might not have another baby… because I don’t think I can find another you. I am sorry to break my promise… but I want you to come back. Please.'

He wipes away the tears that have wetted his cheeks. He ticks a box on the form, signs it and leaves the room to pass the paper back to the doctor.

The doctor takes a look at the form and then nods in agreement.

'We will try our best to save them both,' he trys to reassure the man who has just signed the consent.

The doctor then directs his surgery team to move into action. The clear and specific instruction being that in case of any life-threatening emergency, the mother's life comes first.

Conversations

She was sitting across him in the cosy restaurant of a 5-star hotel. Her hands were twisting the teacup on its saucer, a clear sign of edginess.

`You’ve not finished your dessert,’ he says, looking at the half-eaten apple pie on the small plate on the table.

`I am not actually hungry,’ she responds. He just nods, sips his coffee and looks at her in silence. It is obvious that she wants to say something but probably finding it hard to know where to begin. The restaurant is practically quite now, with most of the lunch crowd already gone.

She takes a deep breath and then asks, `Why are you leaving?’

`It is time to do so,’ he answers with a subtle shrug of the shoulders.

`There must be more reasons than that?’

`Yes, there are I guess… but it won’t make a difference for you to know.’

`Uh-huh… who am I to be asking you these things, right?’, she rhetorically asks in a resigned tone.

He does not give an answer... because he knows there isn’t a correct one.

Salam Aidilfitri 1430 Hijrah

Ayam kampung dalam raga,
Jadi korban hidangan raya,
Buat semua sahabat blogger,
Mohon ampun maaf dari saya.

Salam Aidilfitri dari Oldstock dan famili

To all friends and readers who have dropped by with the warm wishes, I wish the same to all of you too. Enjoy the holidays, watch what you eat and have fun.

It may be a while before I get back online, so I thought this would be an appropriate time to present the third part of my (still-in-progress) short story.

To read the opening part, click here -> Part1
To read the second part, click here -> Part 2

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A Bingo Straight To The Heart (Part 3)

Although I had often seen Joe together with Aida around campus, that was the first time I was introduced to him. Joe looks like most other overseas Malaysian male students; dressed in faded jeans, army surplus jacket and sporting long hair that reached the shoulders. In fact, his hair is longer than Aida’s. Except for the jeans, Aida’s look is a direct contrast to her friend. She is a petite girl who likes to keep her hair neat and short, almost tomboyish. Her cheerful personality is the opposite to his soft-spoken demeanour but they seem to get along pretty well. We see them together so often that we consider Joe to be Aida’s boyfriend. I like Aida a lot, so a friend of hers is also a friend of mine.

Our weekly Scrabble session is quite well known amongst the female Malaysian students in Sheffield. Usually there would be six or seven of us who want to play. Since a maximum of four can play in any one round, we would draw lots for the first round with the loser of that first round giving way to a new player. The loser will also end up making tea or preparing refreshments for the rest of us, thus the added incentive of trying not to finish last. Anita and I would normally finish tops with Lin or Nooraini most often coming in third. Aida and the other juniors are the regular tea makers. Although she speaks fluent English, Aida seems to have a problem with vocabulary. But that did not stop her from continuing to play and enjoy the game, such was her positive spirit. Our sessions would often last till late at night and sometimes even to the wee hours of morning. About the only time that we do not play is when most of us have something else to do like catching a movie or the like, and about four weeks before term exams.

That day, Noor offers to sit out the first round while Joe declined to play. He says that he’ll be happy just watching.

Lin started the round with a five-letter word (PLATE) for a reasonable opening score of 20 points. Next was Aida and then Anita. I had drawn a lousy rack, five vowels and two consonants, and could only start with meagre score of 9. Lin, the joker in our group, poked fun at me. Feeling slightly embarrassed with a male guest present, I stole a glance at Joe, who is sitting just behind his classmate.

For her next move, Aida was excited as she has spotted a possible `hook’ to the first word `PLATE’. She was in the process of putting down her tiles to make `MARCH’, with the `R’ hooking onto the end of `PLATE’, hence making two words in a single move. Just before she finish arranging her tiles, Joe suddenly quipped, “Hang on! You can make a better word than that.” He then looked around at us and asked, “I hope you guys don’t mind me helping Aida a bit.”

“It’s okay with me,” I said. Having seen her finish last so often, I’m not against Aida getting some help once in a while. Anita and Lin did not seem to mind either.

Joe softly discussed his option with his girlfriend, whose face suddenly lit up and cried, “Yes!”. She then rearranged the tiles she had put down plus the remainder on her rack to come up with the word `CHARMED’. She had just played what we call a Bingo in the game of Scrabble, which is a play of seven letters or more in a single move for a bonus of 50 points. The `D’ is now hooked to the first word that Lin made, to come up with `PLATED’, hence earning her more points. She ended up scoring a whopping 79 points on that single move alone.

It was the first time Aida has played a bingo, and her overwhelming delight was obvious for all to see. She was punching clenched fists in the air with glee and crying out, “Yes! Yes! Yes!”. It took a while for her to calm down. It felt good for me too, to see she has achieved something, even though with a little help. She thanked Joe profusely and with both hands, suddenly pinched Joe on both his cheeks as if he was a baby. “I could marry you for this!” she said. Joe’s reaction to all this was a simple kindly smile. I couldn’t help but smile a little myself.

As it turned out, luck was not with me in that opening round. I continued to draw terrible combinations of letters and, for the first time, finished the game in last position. For the first time too, Aida finished tops. The once unthinkable situation of me making tea for the group became a reality.

... to be continued.

Fiction, continued...

Headnote : The opening part of this story can be read in the post of 30 September 2008, here -> Part 1.

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A Bingo Straight To The Heart (Part 2)

Sheffield, England – Winter of 1990

During our student days, me and my three housemates were Scrabble freaks and we play the game for hours on end almost every Saturday. It was the winter break and I was in the final year of my Accountancy course. Aida is two years my junior, studying Civil Engineering, the only Malaysian girl taking up a technical course out of the twenty Malaysian girls studying in Sheffield at that time.

Aida stayed in a rented flat a few streets away from our house and she and her housemates often join us on our Scrabble sessions. On one particular Saturday afternoon just before the Christmas holiday that year, Aida as usual turned up at our door for a Scrabble session, but this time without her girl friends. Instead, she had brought along her classmate, Johari.

“Hi guys!” chirped Aida in her ever-present jovial voice as soon as she stepped into our hallway from the cold outside. “This is my friend, Johari. I hope you all don’t mind me bringing him along. Dee and Ann are away at some friend’s place so I’ve invited Joe to join us.”

It was the first time we were having a male visitor in the house and Mei Lin, my housemate who had opened the door, looked at me for a sign of approval. Aida’s friend had already stepped into the hallway and it would have been very discourteous and awkward to turn him away.

“No problem. Please come on in,” I replied.

“All right!” Aida exclaimed, smiling widely as if she had struck the winning lottery or something. “Joe, this is Kak June, that’s Mei Lin and over there is Anita and Nooraini,” she continues to introduce us.

“Hello,” Joe said. “I hope this is not too much of a trouble. Aida thought that you guys may need an extra hand at the game and has asked me to come along.”

“No trouble!” I said, “You are most welcome to join us.”

I wasn’t sure if I was entirely truthful when I said that at the time.

... to be continued.

Salam Aidilfitri

Ketupat palas serunding daging,
Nasi dagang ikan tenggiri,
Hidangan enak dari pantai timur.
Buat sahabatku di alam blogging,
Salam ukhuwah di Aidilfitri,
Semuga berkekalan sepanjang umur.

Maaf zahir dan batin dari Oldstock dan famili.

Ar Raudah Mosque in Bukit Batok, Singapore where I'll be performing my Aidilfitri prayers, insyaallah.

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To all my blogger friends and everyone who has kindly dropped by, I wish you Happy Holidays. Watch what you eat, okay? Stay cool and see you after the break.

To tide you over until the next post, the following is the first part of my attempt at writing fiction. Just a short story that was first written years ago but re-discovered recently on an old 3.5" floppy. Luckily the file was still intact. Although written some time back, the story is still a work in progress (how's that for procrastinating, huh?).

A BINGO STRAIGHT TO THE HEART (Part 1)

It had been a very trying day. The drizzle that began early that morning further compounded the inevitable traffic jam in Kuala Lumpur on a late Saturday afternoon. My spirits weren’t particularly high that day; it hadn’t been for the past few weeks. There were problems at work and my car’s air-conditioning chose a nice time to run out of gas. Bummer.

I was in the lift lobby of the Ampang Puteri Specialist Hospital, waiting for the elevator to take me up to the 3rd floor where my father was being warded. The lift seemed to take ages to arrive, as things are wont to be whenever you are in a hurry. I had not noticed the tall gentleman standing a few feet behind me when he spoke.

“Assalamualaikum. Sorry… but are you Junainah?”

I turned my head, slightly surprised to see a smartly dressed young man who somehow knew my name.

“Alaikum-salam. Yes, I am.” I replied. The young man’s face does not look familiar to me, but then again, I’m poor at remembering faces.

“You studied at Sheffield Hallam University about 5 years ago, I believe. I don’t think you remember me but I was at your house once in the winter of 1990,” he said. I was searching my memory bank when he continued, “We played Scrabble that day, together with Aida and your housemates. I’m Johari, Aida’s classmate, or former classmate I should say.”

The mention of the Scrabble game suddenly brought the memories flooding back. Of course, now I remember! How can I ever forget that day; it had been a day of many `firsts’….

Update 08.11.2021 : Perhaps it is time for me to complete this short story...