I will love you ... for all eternity

Old and frail Gary Templeton couldn’t wait for his wife to die, for Mary Templeton was a hideous old woman, the ugliest one ever to be born on this earth. Mrs Templeton never speaks, she hissed – in a high-piercing, ear-splitting shrill, soaring many octaves beyond acceptable human sound range, deafening enough to scare the dogs and other rodents; perhaps that explain why there were no cockroaches in the house, although several other neighbours have bitterly complained of such infestation.

But that was not always the case. Inconceivable as it may be, there was a time, more than half a century ago, during the war, when Mary was pretty and dainty. Gary was then a young soldier, attached with the army battalion, and hurled into the thick hostilities of land combat. But in an odd twist of fate, he unceremoniously broke his ankle when he clumsily fell into an open ditch. This happened when he took an unannounced evening stroll across the war-torn plains without his superior’s consent. So, not only was he absent from real combat for many months thereafter – of which many comrades were injured or died – he was also given a harsh corporal’s warning for disobeying camp directives.

It was in the makeshift army clinic where he met Mary, then a rookie ward sister. As with everyone else of the same age at that time, Mary had enlisted with the War State Enrolled Nurse Programme. It was in the line of staff nursing duties where tales of adventures and romance were spun, or so she was made to believe by many of her impressionable friends. It was just as good, for there were no other men in the village at time of war - even if there were - the ones that stayed behind were physically disabled, hence they were rejected from the line of duty, or they were just plain no-hopers who were unworthy to bed with.

To say that Gary and Mary fell in love would be quite contentiously debatable. They were young and physically pleasing. And as Gary had checked in early, there was no one else in the ward, for no one else has yet to suffer the casualties of war. Quite frankly, there was no other male presence for Mary to compare. It was plainly a case of first sight first choice, establishes Mary to a friend at a Tupperware party many decades later. By the time the other men were moved into the ward, Mary and Gary had by then warmed up to each other - combined with the many gossips about them by the other nurses - leaving them with an assumed notion that they were made for each other. Gary, for one, didn’t mind, for he found Mary attractive in her crisp white nurses’ uniform.

But not so these days; the face that Mary once had was no longer visible, covered by layers and folds of fat and other unsightly bodily deposits. Gary did ponder ever so often whether the young Mary was in fact in there somewhere, imprisoned by the thick coating of horrible grubby flesh. Perhaps he could, if he wish, save her from her bodily cage by sawing off those coagulated fleshy chunks from her face, neck, arms, stomach, thighs and almost everywhere else imaginable. But then he thought, it was probably not worth the trouble, because the Mary that he once knew probably no longer exist, replaced by this obnoxious hissing thing, who does nothing but hiss the whole day: she hissed at him the first thing she got up from bed, as if the hissing replaced the good morning greeting; she hissed when she huffed up to go to the toilet; she hissed at the glorious morning sun; she hissed at cat; in fact Gary believed his wife has started to hissed at inanimate objects, for ever so often he found her hissing at furniture that got in her way.

But one fine day, Mary did die. She took her daily hot soak in the tub - which over the years no longer fitted her as her buttocks was no longer able to fully enter the tub, by which then she had to tilt herself to her side to submerge – when her aortic valve burst, causing a heart attack. Gary found her, an hour later, slumped in the tub, when no hissing sound was heard in the house. Gary did not inquire of anything, nor did the doctor say anything, apart from the casual remark that Mary really shouldn’t have soaked herself in the hot tub for so long, especially during the sweltering summer heat.

For the weeks thereafter, Gary felt happy, as if his house has been cleansed of the evil spirit that had haunted it previously. He heard the happy birds chirping, a glorious sound that he has since forgotten, for even the sound of the twittering bird were drowned by his late wife’s hissing. He was pleased that he could watch a television programme without interruptions- before this either the hissing sounds cut him from the dialogue, or his physically monstrous wife blocked his view when she slowly walks past the television set, which occurs at short intervals of two minutes or so.

But then, before Gary could fully enjoy his wife’s departure after waiting for so long, he too suddenly died. This happened within a week and a half from Mary’s death. Gary slept one night and just never woke up. During the wake, many people who attended commented on how Gary could not bear to live without Mary, and what a loving couple they were, that even God could not bear to see them live part. The people felt happy for them, read meaningful verses and sang beautiful hymns for the departed couple.

At the Gates of Heaven, the beleaguered Gary waited in line. Upon reaching his turn at the pearly gates, St. Peter announced to Gary that he will be reunited with his wife, this time for all eternity - a gift from God to couples on earth who stay faithful, loyal and devoted to each other. As the Angels of Heaven blared their horns in jubilation, and bright rays of white light beamed across the skies, Gary’s head swirled and turned, as he thought of the fate that befall upon him. The last he remembered was slumping to the ground, amidst the surprised Angels.

The Pillars of Gallata

It is a fate worse than death itself - the Pillars of Gallata. It is a high, thin rock tower – stone white - leaning itself upwards, towards the clouds and beyond. Where it goes to, and where it ends, nobody knows.

The Pillars are situated at the north-easterly region of the island of Moribha, a magical kingdom of the afterlife. The inhabitants - the Good Citizens, have lived in the realm for a long time, so as their ancestors, and their ancestors’ ancestors before this.

The Good Citizens have always lived in Moribha in peace and harmony, as has always been intended so to be by the Creator. But not all things come by the way it is intended to be. And that is how the Pillars of Gallata came about, as the ultimate punishment for those who do not fit into the utopia – the Criminals, the Moral Breakers.

The Criminals and the Moral Breakers will be tried justly by the Justices of the Creator. Once decreed, the appropriate punishment will be set out. The worse and ultimate of these punishments - the Pillars of Gallata. The Criminals and Moral Breakers will be sent to the highest end of the Pillars, to spend in all eternity. Nobody comes back, ever.

Mon-Orn is one of them. He is sent to the Pillars – his crime – he has forayed into the forbidden gardens, foraging through the bountiful of plants and shrubbery. Before he is sent there, he has been gifted with the powers of not to die of hunger and thirst.

And it is there that Mon-Orn is now - sitting on the top of the Pillar - a place where no Good Citizens have ever set eyes on. It is of a hard surface, a small square of 10 feet by 10 feet. Mon-Orn sees nothing above him, except the blue sky. Below - smattering white clouds - enveloping the underneath sky, like a puffy-cushion. Far yonder, are more of these Pillars, presumably for the other Criminals and Moral Breakers.

During the day, there is nothing for Mon-Orn to do within the confines of the top of the Pillar. He sits - and then he stands - then he sits again. There is nowhere for him to go, unless he decides to jump of the pillar to end his life.

It is worst during the night. The clouds would disappear by then, allowing the strong night wind to blow through his ear, in a loud whistling sound - a deafening hiss through his ear drums, slowly crawling its way into the sanity of his mind – as he tries to fall asleep.

But sleep is always hard to come by. Mon-Orn will forever be plagued by the fear of turning over; and falling down the Pillar; meeting his death. His sleep will never be sleep - it is a nightmare of lulling into alert unconsciousness – only to wake up by some involuntary twitch of the body, making sure that he is still safely in place in the middle of the Pillar.

After six months, Mon-Orn felt that he wanted to die. He is no longer sane – living a living death. Let death be the saviour of the torturous Pillar, he decided. Yet deep inside, he harboured hopes that, perhaps, there is a soft net cushion waiting for him at the bottom of his jump - sort of a leap of faith for those who dare tempt death itself.

So, one day, after deciding that dying will be the welcome option, and without thinking, Mon-Orn jumps off the pillar. His heart pounds loudly through the ribs of his chest as he soars down from the tower prison. He does not know when his end will come, although Mon-Orn gathers he has some time to enjoy his final moments experiencing the thrilling scenery. But he enjoys not, knowing that his impending doom will be any second, or minutes, from now.

But unbeknownst to him – and even to the Good Citizens – the Pillars of Gallata has no end. Those who fall; will fall to an unending fall, trapped in a swirling and twirling pool of plunging descend that never ends. Mon-Orn will never know of this. He will never know that he will continue this fall of depth for all eternity – that he will forever wait for that end of his life - that will never come.

Mon-Orn will live through this drop forever, perhaps till the end of time itself. He will not find his death, nor will he find his peace. It is a fate worse than being on top of the Pillar – it is the Creator’s punishment for those who try to seek escape - even though it is through death.

It is a fate worse than death itself – the Pillars of Gallata.

Mr. Govinda

Mrs Govinda opens her eyes to a glorious morning. She can hear the chirpy-chirps of the thrush, right outside the little garden of her little single-storey bungalow. Rays of sunbeam pierced through the little gap of the undrawn curtains, causing a glare in the otherwise dim room.

Mrs Govinda turns around. The bedside is empty. Her husband is up early today, she thinks to herself. Mrs Govinda quickly gets up, eager to wash-up and fix her husband’s breakfast, of chapatti and dhal; something she had dutifully done for the past five decades of their married life.

She can hear her bones creak as she hoists herself from the comfortable bed. She is not as young as she was, not at 70 years of age. Every morning is a struggle. But as long as she is alive and breathing, she must fulfil her wifely duties to Mr Govinda.

As she slowly brushes her teeth, she wonders where Mr Govinda is. He is in a habit of waking up early, either to take morning walks, whilst smoking his pipe; sometimes he’ll be up reading the Bhagavad Gita, a new-found spiritual habit which he picked up recently, inspired by the practice of the ex-President of India, the great Dr. Abdul Kalam.

After her wash, Mrs Govinda finds no one in the hall. Neither is Mr Govinda in the porch veranda. He must be out walking then; though usually, at this time, he would have been back, for he often complains of getting sunburnt from the morning sun. Mrs Govinda thought no more of it as she carries on her business of preparing breakfast.

One hour after getting breakfast ready, there is still no sign of Mr Govinda. The chapatti and dhal has turn cold. Mrs Govinda begins to worry. Mr Govinda is a person of habit, punctuality is his trait. He is never late for any appointment; and loathes the latecomers, bitterly complaining to his wife of how irresponsible so-and-so can be. He also has a regimented timetable; he never ever strays from his predictable schedule of the day.

Perhaps he has met an accident? Quickly, Mrs Govinda turns to focus on preparing lunch, instead of thinking of such awful thoughts. She has decided to make mutton curry, though it is not in the family doctor’s list of recommended diet for Mr Govinda. But she thought that Mr Govinda might be tired and hungry from whatever he may be doing, that today may as well be a good day for a mutton treat.

The hassling work of preparing the mutton curry appears to have taken Mrs Govinda’s mind off her husband for a while. But when the aroma of the curry emanates from the boiling pot; and the click of the cooking pot for the rice went off, in a loud clacking snap, Mrs Govinda is jolted from her cookery activity. She quickly looks up the wall clock: it shows 12.45pm. And still no sight of Mr Govinda.

Mrs Govinda gave herself another 15 minutes, and at 1pm she makes a call to her daughter. Anousha’s tired voice can be heard at the other end of the line; she must have had a hard morning at work, thoughts Mrs Govinda. “Yes, ma ...”.
“Your father, he’s not back yet.”
There was silence.
“Anousha, are you still there?”
“Yes, ma”, came her daughter’s weary reply.
“Appa, he went out for a walk. He is still not back yet, it’s already lunch time. I’m very worried.”
Again, there was silence.
“Anousha, did you hear me?”
“Yes, ma. I’m still here. Don’t worry, ma. Everything will be ok. I have to go now. I’ll call you tonight, ma.”

The line went dead. Mrs Govinda is disappointed at her only child’s lacklustre attitude, so uncaring of the affairs of the family. Her next call was to the police station, but again she is made disappointed: she is told that she can only lodge a missing persons report after 24 hours.

That whole afternoon, she sat down by the phone; she had gone without breakfast or lunch. She did not even dare to go to the toilet, afraid that the phone might ring and she would have missed it. She imagined Mr Govinda, with the only coin he has, making that important call for help from an obscure phone booth.

But by the late evening, she knew some thing has gone terribly wrong. By that time, she has cried many times all over, feeling alone and confused; in between cursing Anousha for not calling back. And she has also decided, at that time, that she needed to look for Mr Govinda on her own. Perhaps he is just at the corner; maybe he fell and was unconscious. She cursed herself for not going out earlier: and that she was just moping away the whole afternoon when Mr Govinda is somewhere out there needing her help.

As she is about to step out, a bright yellow envelope, bearing her name in big bold letters, catches her eye. It is almost as if someone had come in and left a surprise birthday greeting. She looks on, and decides to open the envelope. It in, was a worn-out note. Strangely, it was in her writing, in small cursive waves.

Mrs Govinda reads the note, slowly and trembling, before slumping down to the floor, tears rolling down her cheeks.

The note reads: -
Meera, don’t worry. This is a note to you, myself. If you’re reading this, you are probably looking for Krishna again. I’m sorry. Krishna is no longer here with us. He has left us 2 years ago. But you don’t remember, Meera. It’s ok. The doctor says this will happen time and again: - it’s Alzheimer.
You’ll get over it, Meera. As I have got over it yesterday; and the days before, so will you.

Mrs Govinda sits there by herself, thinking of her departed Mr Govinda.

Raindrops against the glass window

I bid farewell; I make my way
And as I steer across my destination
The tempest weather greets me with sombre clouds of grey.

I look up to see the sky, it is dark and forbidding
I smell the chill air; I know the evening blustery storm is stirring
I gaze across the fields, and I see little children running for home
Sweeping all over, I feel the gusty wind blowing in all directions
And I can hear the tree leaves hushing in a whispering tone
I see a stray kite fluttering away, soaring up and high
Up and up it goes! Soon it is lost within the shadowy open-sky.

I reach my destination; the rain has fallen all around
I hear the rumble of the thunder; I see the radiant spark of the lightning
In a flash it goes! A brilliant flicker briefly illuminates the dim surrounding.
As I walk on the wet murky ground, I listen to the rain hitting hard
The rainwater overflows and streams downhill along the narrow way path
It gushes all over; it surges down from the old building structure
The torrent of moving water creates a rippling effect in rapture.

I now walk alone in the rain; the pathway is dark, cold and windy
But I see no one around; the building is desolate and lonely
I am tempted to turn back; and not carry on with this solitary journey
But I cannot! I have to go on; I cannot make myself turn back again
I will not subject this crossing in vain
I have to make my way alone; only with my thoughts to accompany
And as I walk in forlorn, the drizzle continues to pour down all around me.

I reach the building; I am now sheltered from the rain
I find my place; the echo of the storm is now faint
But as I sit to read, I hear the raindrops against the glass window
Drip-drop! Drip-drop! It goes, in mournful sorrow.
My thoughts are distracted; I find it hard to think
My mind wonders incessantly
I cannot help but reminisce of thee.

Kumari - Part 2: The Wedding

There is an air of festivity around the quarters. People are seen, bustling up and down, with busy-bee activities of some sort. There is commotion all over, in a joyful manner. The womenfolk appear to be the more industrious of the genders.

The locale of attention is the temple, situated in the deep west-end corner of the settlement, its existence of which is largely unknown by the non-locals. It is a small temple; with humble design, marred by lack of funds. The overall structure is coated by inferior white paint; a substantial part of the colouring has already been peeled off by the weathering effect of the sun and rain. The shrine is appropriately situated at the central point of the temple; with the divine Indian deity sacredly placed in the middle of the shrine.

It is to this celestial being that the locals would seek answers to their prayers; blessings to their undertakings; guidance to their endeavours; and assurance of protection and safety to themselves and their loved ones. It is this unassuming and modest place of worship that acts as the focal peak of the spiritual and devotional needs of the residents of the quarters. So much so, unlike the diversity of religious beliefs of the populace, the communal devotional observance to the temple deity acts as a common thread that binds the quarters’ inhabitants.

The activity reaches feverish peak during the evening, upon the commencement of the wedding. During that time, the whole of the temple has already been decorated delightfully, to mark the auspicious event. Scores of colours has been ornamented all over, and the familiar decorative displays, usually kept in the temple’s store at the back, are put on view; re-used again from the previous wedding held some months back.

The excited people take their place, some quickly placing their bags or other form of belongings on the vacant seats, marking their intention of reserving the empty spot for their preferred individual. The animated crowd clearly contributes to the boisterous noise, enveloping the chants of the resident priest, though the priest’s voice is enhanced by the faulty microphone, which only works now and then.

Jegatheeswary takes her place among the small, but principal group, alongside with the priest; for it is her daughter who is getting married. She looks on as the priest goes through the ceremonial solemnity rituals of the marriage. She then looks at her daughter, Kumari, before turning her gaze towards the crowd. Jegatheeswary is aware how sad and forlorn her daughter looks. The assembly of invitees are clearly too preoccupied with small talk among themselves to realize the condition of the bride, although it is expected, within their community custom, of any bride to display a cheerless disposition, as if to indicate her heartrending emotion of leaving her own family.

But Jegatheeswary knows better, Kumari’s face bears not the conventional mournful put-on-show; she truly feels her daughter’s honest sorrow. Her daughter, the bride, and yet so out of place in her own wedding, as she sits there submissively beside Shan, her husband to be. It is a mismatch, her daughter, 18 years of age, so young and small in stature, compared to the burly Shan, who at 34; appears already hardened by the harsh reality of life’s offering.

_____________________________________________


As Kumari sits there on the bridal pedestal, taking her place beside Shan, her designated spouse by the end of the ceremony, her mind races back to the day when her marriage was announced to her unexpectedly.

It was supposed to be an ordinary, but otherwise happy day. It was 3 months into her holidays after her STPM examinations. She has already got a part-time job as a kindergarten teacher. Her future was in place for her – she awaits her examination results, confident of securing a place in the local varsity, although she secretly knows the course to be offered will not be a popular, nor would it be one to her liking. But it did not matter, as long as she gets to higher learning, she will be the first in the family and extended relatives to so succeed.

And she is now working, earning money for the first time. Although the salary was low by comparison, the elation of earning one’s pay check is incomparable in feeling. It is not the cash amount that matters, but the emancipation of sorts to be able to fend for one; feeling the sensations of independence and adulthood.

In the midst of her new progression, Kumari also has Vicnesh constantly in mind. They had been an item since Khairul’s birthday bash. They had met up more often after school, Vicnesh walking Kumari back home during the afternoons. And when Vicnesh has his runs in the late afternoon, Kumari will conjure up flimsy excuses to go back to school, to cheer him on. But they both never went aboard with their meet ups, not with the exams so near the corner then. A week after the examinations, Vicnesh told her that he will be going to stay with an uncle, who has a stationery business in another state; he will be helping his uncle in the shop, to pass time while waiting for the exam results. Vicnesh promised to write, once he settled down.

That fateful afternoon, as Kumari was walking home from work, she noticed her father standing at the door. Something was amiss, she thought, as her father was never home at that early afternoon. She walked straight in, without acknowledging her father. He did likewise. He just picked up his sling-bag and went off, presumably to work.

Her mother became the bearer of grim news, instead. Jegatheeswary told Kumari, in a motherly hush tone, yet uncannily firm – that her father has decided, the day before, to marry Kumari off to Shan. Shan has been a family friend, of sorts. Kumari’s parents have known Shan’s parents all their lives. They had lived in the quarters prior to this, before moving away to the public flats in another area, though within the same locality; and still within driving distance from the quarters. The idea to pair them off has always been on the cards, suggestions in jest have been made several times prior; before a formal proposal came through the week before. Kumari knows that it is within their custom, that her father has the sole discretionary authority to so decide on her life.

_____________________________________________


Kumari sits alone in her new room – the bridal room. The wedding has ended more than an hour ago. She is now at Shan’s home, now also her home. Shan had rented a flat; which is just across that of his parents. This will be their matrimonial home.

Kumari looks around. The room is simply arranged, with a queen-size bed, a small cupboard and a small dressing table. Kumari remembers the furniture in the hall is equally bare - a sofa set with an out-of-place rattan chair. It is uninviting, devoid of homely charm. She is still in her bridal gown, sitting there, alone. She is unsure as to what she should do, as a wife. Is she to take her bath, she ponders. Shan, her husband, has not come home with his new bride. He has been drinking throughout the wedding. He was already drunk to the brim when the guests left, except for a few close friends of his that Kumari knows not off; those friends were the one who insisted that Shan carries on drinking, insisting that it is obligatory as a celebration of happiness. Where Shan is now, Kumari does not know. All she knows is to just sit there, waiting.

Kumari froze when she hears the front door to the flat opening. She didn’t look back as Shan comes into the room, stumbling. She hears him mumbling, inaudible, as he slumps on the bed with a gregarious laugh. She feels herself trembling. This is not the wedding night she has fantasized of, not during when she daydreams of with Vicnesh in it; definitely not as it is playing out now, like a freakish nightmare from a horror matinee. Her mind is all blurry, almost as if she herself has consumed pints of hard liquor as well, shutting of the reality. She recalls her name being called; she recalls being violently pulled to the bed; she recalls her husband coming on top of her, his weight slumped heavily against her as she turns her face away to escape the strong smell of liquor from his mouth. She closes her eyes and turns her mind away; allowing her to be oblivious to the ensuing rough physical violation of her body.

The Merdeka Flag

An exasperated Helen Chong manoeuvres her way out of the maddening crowd. Petaling Street was not what it used to be, she thinks to herself; apart from the jostling throng of people. The volatile weather condition, relatively clear about half-an hour ago, has its sunny skyline replaced with dark bellowing clouds. The strong breezy wind made its way towards Helen, as she hastens her footsteps. She has, on one hand, her oversized LV handbag; and on the other, a huge plastic bag; in it, container bags of fried pork.

She has just purchased the fried pork from the famous shop in Petaling Street – it is the place to get Chinese fried pork, especially if it is meant to be a cuisine gift for important clients. Helen Chong is a real estate negotiator, specializing in high-end office blocks. She has been in this industry for the past 15 years, making her one of the leading agents within the Klang Valley vicinity. It will be one of her corporate clients that she will be graciously offering the boxes of fried pork to.

Helen curses herself as a she feels the little droplets from the slight drizzle on her head. As it is, she is already late to fetch her daughter from school. Lavinia is 8, and is in Standard 2. At Helen’s insistence, Lavinia is enrolled in a private Chinese school – her one and only precious daughter will not be registered in a public school. Money is no objections; Lavinia must be educated exclusively in her mother-tongue. Helen will definitely be late, by which time Lavinia would have been waiting for some time. The thought of kidnappers taking captive of her offspring went through Helen’s mind. It is so rampant these days, in this country, thinks Helen to herself.

As she darts across the road, her mobile phone lets out a boisterous deafening ring. It is her husband, but Helen has not the luxury of time to answer his call, despite knowing that he is making the call from Shanghai. She knows that it is one of his daily buzz, just to report on his well-being, and to catch up on any newsworthy event out of the ordinary. She can always call on him at his hotel later. She knows her husband’s dreary routine – work, go back to the hotel and watch CNN. In any event, her husband would be flying back in two days time. His business in China has been moving along well, the trips there have now been a familiar fixture in their marriage routine, she misses him not now.

Despite the good income provided by her husband’s trading enterprise, coupled by her immoderate sales commissions, both Helen and her husband are still intent to migrate. Their documents are already in process, so says their immigration lawyers. If all goes well, an affirmative reply will be forthcoming in a few months. Helen has been toying with the choice of relocating to either Melbourne or Sydney - that is where most of her relatives and friends are, anyway. Helen has wanted to move away ever since Lavinia was born. Her self-assurance in the country is wanting – education, healthcare, quality of life, the hot weather, bribery and recently, the increase in urban crime rates. Helen wants the best for her daughter, and she fervently believes the unsurpassed offer lies across the seas.

Helen looks at the time, it shows 6.45 pm. The sky, already dark, and the drizzle begin to convert to a downpour. Unfortunately and untimely, she was unable to find a parking spot earlier on, and had to resort to putting her car in a far-flung car park. Helen is tired and hungry; the thought of walking in the rain disgusted her, when, almost immediately, she sees an alley. It would be a convenient short-cut to the car, she entices herself. Without even a brief consideration, she proceeds into the alley lane; her rush makes her somewhat oblivious to the lurking dangers of the dark unlit walkway.

The dim passageway is not the back lane of the shops, as initially thought by Helen. It is actually a pathway pavement to the little marketplace. Being a day market for the convenience of the locals there, the place is now gloomy and empty, apart from a few loitering vagrants, which added to the shadowy sinister atmosphere of the location. The stench is somewhat unbearable; it is a potpourri of pong of the slaughtered animals from the butchers, causing Helen to feel nauseatingly queasy. Seeing the light from the end of the market-alley cheered Helen.

As she reaches the last stall, a man jumps out on her, with a large butcher’s knife. Helen breaks out in a piercing scream. The robber points the razor-sharp knife at her, giving it a slight sway back and forth, indicating the macabre end if the mugging does not end in his favour. Helen is shaking all over, breaks of cold-sweat appears on her forehead. The robber directs to her costly-looking LV handbag. Helen quickly gives the bag to him, her hands trembling uncontrollably as she passes the purse to her assailant. As the bandit rummages through the bag, Helen notices that the man is a foreigner, judging by his physical looks; and young, perhaps no more over 25. Then Helen sees a passerby, a Chinese mother with her young daughter. The lady witnesses the larceny, but quickly turns away, hushing her daughter to safety. Helen’s heart sank.

Then out of nowhere, a fat elderly Malay lady appears at the scene, shouting at the robber, startling him in the process. The robber turns around and starts to wave the knife violently. Almost at that instance, a burly man appears, to defend his wife. The hefty Pakcik swings his shopping back to thwart the attack. The Makcik joins the fray, oblivious to the dangers. Seeing the engage, the robber becomes more violent, now more intent to injure anyone who can foil his livelihood. The Pakcik caught sight of a Malaysia flag on one of the vegetable stall, complete with a big pole stick; it was one of the many pole-flag put up for the Merdeka celebration. Quickly, the Pakcik pulls out the flag and uses it as his weapon. It becomes an uncanny bludgeon stick. In a swoosh, the long stick-cane hits the robber on the head, the cloth-flag draping over him, making him fall flat on the dirty market ground; in the process, he loses grip of the knife – it flings to one corner before lodging itself into the side-drain in a loud cling. Seeing the robber clumsily wrapped the Makcik runs up and gives him a strong kick in the stomach; ending the battle. The Pakcik has to hold on to his feisty wife from hurling further physical abuses. The robber, sensing he is beaten, runs away, whilst trying to free himself from the entangled flag.

The Pakcik and the Makcik then looks at Helen, with an assuring smile. The Pakcik picks up the LV bag, passing it to Helen. No words came out from Helen; she is still badly-shaken. The Makcik gives Helen a squeeze on her shoulder, as if telling her it’s all over.

Helen’s heart is still thumping swiftly as she sees the valiant elderly Malay couple walks off.

Hush, little Caitlin.........

Hush, little Caitlin…
For she awakes long before dawn.
The night is dark and still;
of calm and tranquil
A dim overcast
That the eventual daylight will come to steal.

Hush, little Caitlin…
For she is peering out through the window
Squinting her eyes through the unlit gloom
Trying hard to catch a glimpse outside from her bedroom.
There she stands, tiptoe, in her yellow pyjamas and tiny stockings
The breezy wind softly blows her hair as she stands there, wondering.
What goes out there? What goes out there?
Out in the darkness still, out in the rose-bed garden, across the misty air.

Hush, little Caitlin…
For she hears the twitter of the cricket; and the swish of the tree leaves
She hears the silly croak of the toad; what magical sound the twilight weaves
She hears the drip-drop of the night dew,
Trapped within the tree-willows, beside the garden-chair
What goes out there? What goes out there?
Out in the darkness still, across the foothill, within the dark forest lair.

Hush, little Caitlin…
For she sees the pot-plants she has tended the morning before
Mummy has promised beautiful flowers that she will adore.
And now she hopes to see the flowers blossoming in awe,
But the flowers must be sleeping, so it seems
For she sees her flowers curled up, slumbering off in a dream
Cuddled together, shimmering under the moonlight, in a twinkling gleam.

Hush, little Caitlin…
For she bade her garden plants good night
I will see you tomorrow again, she said, in the morning daylight
Little Caitlin is happy and contented
For she has shared the still of the night, in that little instant
And she will tell mummy tomorrow,
Of her little adventure, of her night-time moment.