Little People

The baker gently lifted up the boy and placed him on the milky white frosting draped on a rich dark chocolate cake. The boy looked around in wonder. He leaned casually against a sugary log. Just up ahead was an evergreen fir tree, flakes of snow dusted on its branches. Chubby round toadstools, dyed a brilliant red and dotted with huge white spots, broke the monotony of the virginal landscape. Intricate fractal crystalline snowflakes adorned the ground. He stood there a little foolishly, coat buttoned up a little too tightly, with a Christmas hat draped rakishly on his sandy hair. A woollen green scarf was wrapped around his throat.

The baker then hurried off to answer the doorbell. He could hear the baker talking to someone in urgent tones over the phone, “Yes, Mr. Thomas. I assure you the cake will be done by this evening. You can come by and pick it up later.”

The baker came back into the kitchen, wiping her hands on her gingham apron.

“OK, let’s see, where were we?”

The boy watched as a cherubic girl with apple-stained cheeks and fluffy blonde curls hidden under a gray knitted beanie hat was lowered into position onto the cake. She wore a lacey pink dress beneath a thick brown fur coat. She had big blue eyes and pouting lips. The baker scattered some silver balls around the two little marzipan people and surrounded the chocolate base with colourful flowers. Then, the baker brought the cake out and placed it on a refrigerated shelf at the counter.

The crowds jostled past the bakery, heavy laden with bulging shopping bags in their arms. It had started to drizzle when a tall, dark-skinned man with a bushy moustache entered the bakery. He greeted the baker cordially and handed over two fifty-ringgit notes to her. She slowly removed the cake from its position and packaged it deftly into a cardboard box tied with pink ribbons.

The boy and the girl gaped in horror as all turned dark around them. Then they felt themselves being lifted up into the air as Mr. Thomas carried the cake off the counter. It was as though they were in a ship, swaying with the tossing waves. They heard the roar of a car engine droning in the background.

“Where do you think we are going to?” the boy asked. The girl shrugged her shoulders.

“Daddy! Daddy! I want to see the cake, please,” they heard a high-pitched squeal.

Mr. Thomas opened the box. Harsh fluorescent light flooded the winter wonderland and the two marzipan people winced involuntarily. Golden lights twinkled on a giant glittering Christmas tree towering overhead and the smell of spicy chicken curry wafted in the air.

“Ooh,” they heard little Bertha Thomas exclaim.

“It’s time for the party to begin! Come here, Bertha,” Mrs. Thomas said as she entered the living room with a freshly-baked Shepherd’s pie. The guests cheered happily.

The next two hours were a blur of chaotic activity and chatter. The boy and girl were removed from the snowy frosted cake and placed onto a plate. The cake was then cut and distributed to the hungry guests.

“Merry Christmas and Happy New Year,” Mr. Thomas said, raising his glass of Coke. “Merry Christmas,” the guests echoed. There was much laughter and eating and drinking.

Finally the party was over. Silence settled over the Thomas house. The maid came to clear up the mess and wash the dishes. She took the boy and the girl and tossed the two figurines onto the heap of rubbish piled into a metal trash can in the kitchen. Then, she turned out the lights. It was pitch black except for the distant stars twinkling in the sky beyond the half-shuttered window.

The girl suddenly burst into tears.

“Oh, what’s going to happen to us now?” she sobbed.

The boy looked at her helplessly.

“I don’t know,” he said.

She was still crying piteously. “Don’t worry,” he tried to comfort her. He wanted to reach out to her, but found that his right leg was broken. He grunted as he hobbled across a chewed-up turkey drumstick, dragging his leg with him.

“Do you think that we are going to die? The garbage collectors will probably be here tomorrow. That will be the end,” she whispered.

The boy wrapped his little arms round her. Her whimpers gradually died down. He heard her sniffle as she buried her golden locks into his shoulder.

“We will figure something out tonight,” he said resolutely.

The two little people stayed like that for some time, watching the soft silver moonlight rise and flood the empty kitchen. A dog howled in the distance and a tiny gecko skittered across the ceiling. The fragrance of the ‘pandan’ bush outside softly perfumed the fresh air of the night.

He looked down at the girl tenderly as she snuggled against him. He gently brushed aside her tears. She clung on to him desperately. Both gripped by the unspoken fear that these would be the last few hours of their lives.

He dug deep into his coat pocket and found what he was looking for. He hesitated for a few moments and then pressed it into her hand. Her big blue eyes fluttered and looked up at him as she opened her palm and saw his gift.

“But,” she started to say.

“Shh, take it. It’s yours now,” he murmured in her ear.

“Wait,” she said.

She removed something from her own pocket and held it up to the tenuous moonlight. He caught a glimpse of it before she slipped it into his coat pocket, replacing the one he had presented to her.

It was a small brilliant ruby-coloured, almond-scented marzipan heart. Just like the one he had given away a few moments before. He started to choke up and a stray tear glistened on his cheek.

He forced himself to stand and glanced around the kitchen. The back door had been left slightly ajar, held in place by a chain lock far above them.

“We can escape,” he told her and pointed at the narrow gap that led to the world outside.

She looked at his broken leg, dangling precariously at an angle. “We need to fix this first,” she said. She hunted around in the rubbish surrounding them and found a toothpick. Nudging him to sit down, she put the small wooden stick against his broken leg like a splint and wrapped it around him with a bit of string.

“Thank you,” he said. He took more of the string and tied one end around the turkey bone.

They both looked at the door, hearts pounding in anticipation.

“To freedom,” he cried as he rappelled down the slippery wall of the trash can with the girl by his side.

“And a new life beyond,” she added.

The Celadon Duck

It was her own fault, she knew as she sat on that dusty shelf at the back of the dingy old shop and reminisced about her past life. It was hot, damp and humid. Nothing like the cold winds of Korea where she had been born, straight out of a fiery furnace in an ancient artisan’s kiln.

She once occupied the place of pride on some magnificent mantelpieces draped in colourful brocade, a glint in her glassy eye and an elegant sheen on her glazed jade-green feathers. She had watched as nobles welcomed foreign emissaries to grand pillared halls and merchants discussed international trade under her tapered beak. She had survived a stormy sea journey on a rickety junk, shivering in fear as she lay wrapped beneath layers of cloth while hoping that they reach the shores of China soon. And another journey, wrapped in layers of crinkled brown paper, as the Chinese diplomat’s grandson (who had inherited her from his grandfather; a tall bespectacled man with the family name of Loke who had been given the duck-shaped incense burner as a gift from his Korean counterpart) fled the war-torn city of his birth and headed for the balmy tropics to escape from the advancing enemy forces.

It was initially a rough start in a new land. The diplomat’s grandson, who never had to do menial work in his life, started off as a labourer in the tin mines. She would watch him hungrily wolf down scraps of salted fish with his plain white rice, then fall asleep on a straw mat in exhaustion. A far cry from the luxurious feasts and comfortable beds he used to enjoy back home. Nonetheless he kept her by his threadbare cotton pillow. A reminder of bygone days. He got his first break after scrimping and saving for two years, starting his own textile business selling cheap shirts on the five foot walkway. Then he married the neighbour’s daughter, a sweet but plain-faced girl, and moved into a small kampong house in Brickfields. She was then placed on the side of the family altar, next to a gold-plated statue of a reclining Buddha and the ancestral tablets. She watched as the family grew and the business expanded, following them as they moved from each home to every successively bigger home.

And one day, she saw them. Her ‘real’ counterparts. By then, the Lokes were living in a low white-washed brick bungalow adjacent to the Lake Gardens. A family of Lesser Whistling ducks, who often paraded past the living room on their way to the muddy pond at the foot of the hill on which the house was perched. They would strut past, preening their slick brown feathers with slim black bills and pecking at the sandy ground. She thought of her centuries of being parked on countertops and mantelpieces, and for the first time in her life, she wished for the sunny liberty that the duck family enjoyed. When the lights had been put out for the day, she would stare at the stars twinkling beyond the window frames and dream of frolicking in the cool waters of the pond. And so she tried to escape into the freedom she so sought. Tried, and tried. One fine day, she finally succeeded.

“Aiyah, Brian, why you so careless one? I told you to be careful when you play in the living room. Now you have broken Gong Gong’s favourite porcelain duck that he brought from China! He will be so mad when he finds out, Brian,” the diplomat’s grandson’s wife, now an elderly lady with grey hair and a bent back, scolded her five year old grandson when she saw the shattered light green pieces on the marble floor.

“But, Po Po, it wasn’t me!” the mop-headed lad protested.

“Now, Brian Loke, this is even worse! We have taught you not to lie, haven’t we? You know what is the ‘rotan’? You were the only one in the room till five minutes ago. Seline! Seline, come and clear up this mess,” she called for the Filipino maid and dragged her grandson out by his T-shirt collar.

And so the duck found bits of herself swept up into a dustpan unceremoniously and chucked onto the heap of rubbish just outside the front gate. The reality was nothing like how she had imagined it to be. The sun and rain made her porcelain glaze crack further and left dirt stains on her feathers. A stray dog came in the evenings and pawed through the trash, causing her to tremble in fear that he would fracture her further. Lines of fire ants crawled over her at night, carrying bits of cake and sugary treats. The smell of the decaying rubbish and the stagnant drain water in the ‘longkang’ nauseated her. The duck family, far from embracing her as one of their own, snootily ignored the broken celadon duck which lay helplessly on the wayside.

She met Uncle Chan one day when he was on his evening walk through the neighbourhood.

“Hullo, what’s this?” he stopped and peered at the broken duck. He picked up a piece of her back and dusted off the soil, examining it with a critical eye.

“Interesting,” he murmured to himself. He plucked a huge leaf from a palm that was growing opposite and picked up the broken pieces carefully.

She found herself on a wooden table top in a cluttered workshop. Uncle Chan put on his black-rimmed spectacles and uncapped a bottle of glue. He wiped each piece carefully and arranged the shattered pieces on a sheet of newspaper. Switching on his work lamp, he used a small paintbrush to apply glue onto the jagged edges and slowly assembled her together again.

After a few hours, Uncle Chan wiped his brow and smiled.

“Yes, we are finally done,” he said with a satisfied look on his wrinkled sunburnt face.

But the celadon duck knew that life would never be the same again. No one would want her, with cracks running down her back and on her base. She looked like a three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle. Not like a treasured antique any longer. She knew that her fate would be to languish, forgotten, on the dusty shelves of Uncle Chan’s vintage shop forever.

A typical rainy day in Kuala Lumpur. When the late monsoon rains would drench the city in never-ending sheets of fury, drowning the streets in tea-coloured flash floods and causing the traffic to halt to a stand-still. A middle-aged Chinese man darted into the shop, shaking off the raindrops from his wet hair and black umbrella. Uncle Chan looked up from a watch he was repairing.

“How can I help you?” he said.

“Nothing, I mean, this rain… is just so heavy. Phew. Thank you boss, I’ll just browse around and take a look for now,” the stranger huffed as he closed his umbrella. Uncle Chan nodded and returned to his work.

The stranger slowly walked around the shop, looking at the eclectic collection of wares with a keen eye. His umbrella was hooked on his left elbow and he mopped his dripping brow with a square handkerchief. He lingered for a few moments as he bent down and looked at the duck. She looked back at him wordlessly. There was something vaguely familiar about his eyes and nose.

The stranger straightened up and went to Uncle Chan at the counter.

“Yes, what can I do for you? Found anything interesting?” Uncle Chan said.

“Yes. That…that duck. How much for it?”

“Oh, you sure you want it? Never really thought of selling her. Found her while I was having an evening walk one day and fixed her up nicely,” Uncle Chan looked at the stranger and rubbed his chin.

“The duck reminds me of my grandfather’s favourite antique which he brought from China. According to Gong Gong, it was a gift to his grandfather from a Korean friend. But one day, it suddenly broke and my grandma threw it away. Never saw it again,” the stranger mused. He retrieved his leather wallet from his pocket and took out a platinum credit card marked ‘Brian Loke’ in embossed gold lettering.

“I’ll pay you seven thousand for it. My grandfather’s been dead for almost twenty years now but I still want to get the duck back. It was our family heirloom,” Brian said.

Uncle Chan nodded and walked over to the shelf, picking up the celadon duck and packing it into a cardboard box.

“Go ahead, she’s all yours now.”

Dry Bones

He shuffled along the broken pavement, the sunlight glaring into his eyes from the bright blue sky arching overhead. Beads of sweat accumulated on the crew-cut stubble on his scalp and dripped onto his dirt-stained Pagoda singlet. An endless stream of people pushed and rushed past him on their way to work, shopping and various appointments. He stopped momentarily and stared at the crumbling derelict walls of the Pudu Jail which were being demolished.

**************

He screamed in pain and gritted his teeth as the bloody rotan made contact with his shredded flesh, sending a searing pain rippling through his back. The afternoon heat arose from the baked concrete and a blue-bottle fly buzzed around his ears.

"Satu lagi," he heard the cry ring out.

Krakk! He screamed again, his cries of anguish echoing along the rusty chain-link fence.

***************

A young secondary schoolboy in olive green trousers swung past him, the boy's messenger bag crashing into his side. He jumped, startled. He turned angrily but the boy had already disappeared into the crowd, oblivious to the surroundings thanks to the loud pop music blasting through a set of new headphones.

He rubbed his eyes. He could still feel the pain coursing though his nerves, memories of his long imprisonment in Pudu Jail. That era of his life had long passed and the jail was merely a run-down concrete shell full of ghosts of yesteryears. But these ghosts were still haunting him. His hands started to tremble violently and he knew that it was time for another drink. He dug his hands deep into the pockets of his tattered khaki shorts. He swore. There was no money there. He noticed his stomach starting to rumble too. He kicked a pebble into the ditch in frustration and turned to join the sea of passer-bys.

The sky was starting to darken. Flocks of sparrows and swifts wheeled overhead, returning to their homes. He glanced at the gathering traffic congestion. He paused outside a cafe along Jalan Bukit Bintang, the aroma of freshly-brewed coffee and baked breads wafting onto the streets and tempting him. The waiter standing at the door tried to shoo him away, "Eh, berambuslah. Don't dirty our place. We need to run a business here."

"Please, let me have a bit of your leftover food. I'm hungry," he pleaded with bloodshot eyes.

The waiter peeked outside quickly and sighed. "Fine, fine. Go by the back door and perhaps the cook may give you something to eat."

He went to the back door, accompanied by a mangy orange-coloured stray cat that had adopted him along the way. A middle-aged Malay washerwoman opened the door and scrutinised him. "Masuk cepat. I will find something for you to eat."

He crept into the damp kitchen and squatted in a corner. The washerwoman handed him a stale burnt croissant and he started to wolf it down hungrily. The cat meowed and melted into the murky darkness outside. The Malay lady said, "Finish it off quickly and off you go." She turned back to her heaps of dirty dishes soaking in soapy basins.

He licked the last crumbs of bread off his fingers. Beyond the open doorway, he could see the dimly-lit dining hall. Not many customers there. From his vantage point, he spotted a gilt-framed painting of bucolic rolling hills and tendrils of white mist. He turned to look at the washerwoman, who was still preoccupied with her work. "Hmm, I can probably sell that painting and get enough money for my next fix," he thought.

He crept past the waiter who was preparing a cocktail behind the bar and quickly removed the painting from the wall. He hid behind the stainless steel racks of pots and pans, surveying his escape route. Good, there was no one in the kitchen. He was just about to make a dash for the back door when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Stealing something? Unfortunately for you, someone alerted us just in time." He turned to find a burly Sikh security guard with a thick beard and an indigo blue turban swathed round his head. "Come with me. We will sort this out at the police station."

"Hold on, this man is my guest! Why are you arresting him?" a shrill voice demanded.

"Mr. Andy, we caught him stealing from your restaurant," the guard explained.

"This man is my cousin from Kota Bharu and the painting is a gift for his family. A souvenir from his trip down to KL," said the thin bronze-skinned man dressed in a dark gray Armani suit.

The security guard kept silent and released his grip slightly.

"In fact, Ah Seng, you forgot to bring along the RM500 I left out here for you," the man opened the cash register and held out RM500.

He didn't know quite what to say.

"Sorry sir, I see there's been a misunderstanding. I assure you this will not happen again," the guard apologised.

After the guard had left, he could not contain his curiosity any longer.

"Sir, you know that I am not your cousin and that I intended to steal from you. Why, then, did you do that?"

Mr. Andy merely smiled. "Do not forget, never forget, that you have promised to use this money to start a new life. You no longer belong to evil but to good."

He was silent for a few minutes, then he nodded and quietly slipped away. And for the first time in years, there were tears in his eyes. He looked up into the incandescent orange glow of the city lights and saw, silhouetted amidst the towering skyscrapers, a cross.

"A new life," he whispered to himself.

Note: This article originally appeared in Zes-T, a publication of Damansara Utama Methodist Church (DUMC)

Eggs and Ketchup: A Christmas Story

He sat in a corner of the coffee shop, his right hand cradling a porcelain cup of warm buttery kopi-o. As he sipped the thick beverage sweetened with condensed milk, he could feel it sloshing down his throat and warming his cold innards. He flipped through the thick stack of papers before him – pages and pages of scribbled mathematical equations and pencil-drawn diagrams. A torrential downpour had just passed, and though the late morning sun was already shining outside, there was a residual drizzle pattering against the greenish glass window-panes. It was rather quiet and as the owner of the coffee shop walked by, he asked why business was slower than usual that day.

“It’s Christmas Eve, y’know. Most people have left town by now. In fact, I’m going to close my shop early today and have Christmas dinner with my family.”

He smiled and said nothing. He stirred his drink thoughtfully.

“Here, sir. Your usual order of two half-boiled eggs.”

He nodded amiably and reached for the cracked yellowed porcelain saucer decorated with arborising green fronds painted on the rim. The two brown-shelled eggs jiggled and nudged against each other as he dragged the plate towards him.

Family. He had not heard that word for some time. It was a word that he would have preferred to forget.

“Hey, Jason! Pinnochio!”

He turned around to see the class bully, Giant, walking down the school corridor. Giant was his nickname, given thanks to his large chubby frame and his physical resemblance to the character in the Doraemon cartoons.

“How’re your fake mommy and daddy? Have you become a real boy yet?” Giant sniggered.

“They are my real parents! How can you say that they are fake?” Jason retorted angrily. He leaned against the row of lockers, arms akimbo.

“Haha, can’t you tell? Do you look anything like them at all?”

Jason looked at his hands. That was true. His parents were fair with dark brown eyes and tousled wavy black hair. The hands that greeted his gaze were black and shiny.

“Betcha joints creak when you move, Pinnochio. My mom says you were picked up from a rubbish dump.” Juno, another boy, joined in the taunting.

He felt his jaw stiffen. He clenched his fists.

“Be careful not to lie, Metal Boy, or your nose will grow long like a carrot!” Giant laughed and snorted. Juno joined in the laughter.

“Bye kiddo!” the two boys ran off as the school bell rang, signifying the end of the recess period. Jason did not return to his class. He slumped against the steel wall of the nearest locker. Could it be true? Fake parents? Did they truly love him or was he just a toy or a pet to them?

He stepped off the school bus that evening, opened the door of his home and headed straight for the kitchen. Mum was there, stirring a pot of chicken soup.

“Mum, I need to ask you something,” he said, placing his school bag on the tiled floor.

“Yes, sweetie. What is it?”

“Do I really belong to you? Why do I look different from other people? Juno said that I was picked up from the rubbish dump,” he asked plaintively.

“Son, you know that we love you very much,” his mother said. Just then, his father came into the kitchen and looked at Mum.

Dad sighed and looked away, “Martha, perhaps it’s time we tell the boy the truth.”

Mum said nothing.

“Come here, Jason,” Dad said as he pulled up a chair.

It was then that he learnt the story of his birth. Or so-called birth.

On a swelteringly humid Saturday afternoon, Dad was walking home from the bus stop after work when he heard a strange whirring sound coming from the local rubbish heap. His curiosity piqued, he stepped off the path to take a look. It was then that he saw the robot. It was buried under a heap of dead leaves, apple peelings, rotting vegetables and empty mineral water bottles. It did not seem to be functional, its eyes a dull red with no glow left and its left hand rotating aimlessly in an obvious malfunction. Being a robotics professor in the university, Dad decided to try and fix the robot and brought it home.

He had forgotten all about the salvaged robot till Mum came across the black metal humanoid contraption in the cluttered garage one day, coated with dust.

“What’s this, honey?” she asked as she dusted it off and brought it into the living room. Dad turned and looked at her, cradling the broken robot in her arms. She came and set it upon the marble-topped table. They looked at the metallic figure together.

“He looks so adorable, Raj. Where did you get him from? Do you think you can fix him?” she asked hopefully, her hand in Dad’s.

Dad turned Jason over.

“Yes, I believe so, dear. Picked him up at the dump on Jalan Kasturi. Why?”

“It’s just that, somehow, he appeals to me. He looks like he needs a home and a family. Poor little guy. Dear, you know how much I want a kid but we haven’t been able to have one so far?”

“Martha, you know that’s not important to me,” Dad murmured, caressing Mum’s hand.

“But we’ve tried so hard for so long with no results. Perhaps, he’s God’s gift to us? A son,” she said.

“A son. At last,” Dad echoed, touching the welded burnished plates lovingly.

Knowing the truth did not make it any easier. The school environment is not an easy one to thrive in for children who look different from their peers. Jason spent most of his time in school reading books in the library and solving mathematical equations. He had no friends. He could not participate in any sporting activities or playground games as his physique and stiff joints did not allow him to be physically active. However, his teachers found that he had an affinity for mathematics and he found himself in the accelerated class, and from there on, he was a freshman at Harvard at the ‘age’ of ten. University was the same. Unable to communicate with his human peers, he never joined in the rowdy parties and pub crawls, preferring to while away his free time writing scientific papers in the safety of his cramped apartment. He soon acquired a reputation as a lone genius. An eccentric brilliant scholar who was a social outcast. 

Jason took the eggs and cracked them against the edge of the saucer. The semi-translucent egg whites slid out followed by the wobbly liquid golden yolks. Without thinking, his left hand reached for the yellow plastic bottle of ketchup and squirted the bright red sauce onto his eggs. He was just about to stir the ketchup into the mess of egg when he paused. It suddenly dawned on him that he had learned to eat his eggs that way from his Dad.

“Pass me the ketchup, Martha,” Dad would peek at Mum from over the edge of his morning newspaper.

“It’s on the table. Get it yourself,” she would say.

Jason would watch as Dad drowned his breakfast egg in ketchup and slurped it down.

“Oh come on, Raj. All those colourings and preservatives can’t be good for you,” Mum would often complain as she watched him eat. And all Dad would do in reply was to grin mischievously.

It had been five years since he had any contact with Mum and Dad. Despite the academic success and various accolades he had received, he often questioned why they had revived him and thrust him, an outsider and alien, into the human world. Perhaps he would have been happier, rusting away among the garbage and broken glass bottles. Among inanimate objects. His own kind. If only Dad had not cleaned him up, installed his memory chips, redesigned his organic energy processor in order to allow him to enjoy human food and invented the emotion chip for him...

He sipped the mixture of tangy tomato-flavoured sauce and egg slowly from the saucer. Then he retrieved his mobile phone from his side compartment (which he used as a pocket) and scrolled through the list of contacts. He found the entry marked ‘Appa’. His finger hovered over the lime green ‘dial’ button for a split second; then he pressed down upon the button and held up the phone to his ear.

Silver Needles

She shuffled into the kitchen and switched on the fluorescent light overhead. It flickered to life, illuminating a lone gecko which chirruped noisily and scampered away in search of a meal. The sound of the ‘azan’ reverberated through the twilight air and the children playing in the football field ran home to their mothers and homemade dinners, laughing and chattering. She opened the fridge door and retrieved a carrot, green ‘sawi’ and a plastic pack of noodles.

He would usually be home around this time. She would be watching her favorite Hong Kong soap opera on television as he entered the porch on his old sputtering Honda motorcycle. She would get off the couch, switch off the television and pour a glass of cold water for him. He would wave at her from the front gate, remove his leather shoes at the door and hug her as he entered the house. After gulping down the glass of water, he would then head to the back of the house for his shower.

She arranged the vegetables on the edge of the rusted sink, washed the ‘sawi’ in a small plastic tub and emptied the packet of noodles into a china bowl. Then she went over to the fridge again, opened the freezer section and took out an orange plastic bowl which contained a few left-over fish balls, fishcakes and limp red-striped crab sticks. She glanced up at the clock. It was almost half past seven.

As she prepared the evening meal, she would hear him hum his favorite 90s pop songs as the water splashed onto the tiles in the bathroom. She would place the plates of food on the table and put the cutlery next to the dishes. Then she would start rinsing the wok while waiting for him.

She scraped and sliced up the carrot. Then she scattered a few pips of garlic and shallots onto the stained plastic chopping board and used a cleaver to smash them, mincing them into minuscule bits. She poured some peanut oil from the flask into the wok and tossed the garlic-shallot mince until she could smell the burnt fragrance rising up from the hot metal surface.

He wasn’t home yet. She wasn’t perturbed. She had expected this. She would wait for him. Then she would be able to ask how his day went as they ate dinner together.

The wok was ready. She added the fish balls, fishcakes and crab sticks and stir-fried the ingredients till the crab sticks started to unravel into lacy seafood-flavoured sheets. The vegetables went in next.

He would often tell her stories of what happened at his work place. She heard it all – the scandalous affairs going on between the manager and the office staff, the disputes with the Indonesian contract workers, the details of the negotiation with the overseas clients. She would listen, nodding while she ate.

She leaned against the sink, looking intently at the spindle-shaped rice noodles. They had a slippery, slick feel as she slid the mass of writhing noodles into the simmering ingredients in the hot wok. These were his favorite noodles – the ‘lou shu fun’. He had loved them for as long as she could remember. She knew that he would enjoy his dinner that night. Perhaps she could even fish for a compliment. She smiled indulgently as she stirred a stream of briny, brown soy sauce into the wok. She dished up the food into two plates and left them on the counter.

She cracked two eggs into the emptied wok and watched as the globular yolks turned a warm golden saffron on a base of pure white. Just as he liked it, she thought. The eggs went on top of the individual servings of noodles, reflecting the glow of the fluorescent lights in an oily sheen. She sprinkled chopped spring onions onto the steaming noodles and glistening eggs.

Twenty years. The time had disappeared in a flash. She glanced at herself in the mirror as she balanced one plate on each hand and headed to the dining area. When they first moved into this house, her hair was jet-black, her cheeks pink and supple. He was still young then. He used to have such a cheeky grin in those days. Now her hair was streaked with silver and her joints creaked as she walked. She wondered if he had ever noticed.

It was pitch-dark outside save for the fluid glow of the streetlamps lining the street. She wiped the grimy surface of the table, put the plates down at their respective places and arranged the chopsticks and spoons next to the polka-dotted placemats. She sat down on her own plastic stool and inhaled sharply.

“Son, it’s time for dinner,” she whispered.

On the coffee-table in the hall, lay a stack of yellowing newspapers, half-open. A heavy, dust-covered porcelain ash-tray kept the papers open at that position. “Engineer, 27, dies in horrific car-crash along the Karak highway,” read the title of the top article on that page.

Broken Objects

He held up the glass globe to the shifting Sunday morning light. Flecks of make-believe snow drifted delicately onto the bronze covered ground and dusted the shoulders of the gold-painted angel statuette. The warm yellow sunlight glanced off the upward tilt of the angel’s carved wings and trumpet. He flicked a small hidden switch at the side of the wooden base and waited.

Still no sound. The angel remained still, silent and unmoving. He squinted through the swirling flecks and tried to recall whether Uncle Chan’s shop would be open yet. He could not remember. He sighed, reminiscing about how they had picked out this Christmas trinket at Marks and Spencer last year. Although it was November, the malls were already decked with towering evergreen plastic conifers and the cheerful strains of Yuletide carols blared from overhead speakers. She was giggling as she pointed out how the angel’s halo looked like a wreath wrapped around its head; her hand gently brushing against his calloused fingertips. He had accidentally found the switch at the base and the soft tinkling bell-like melody of the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy by Tchaikovsky played as the angel twirled around on its base, surrounded by drifting white artificial snow.

“For your Christmas present,” she playfully jabbed his side as she reached for the ornament on the shelf and they went to the counter to pay.

He lowered the globe back into the brown paper bag, wiping the stray tears off his cheek as he did so. It was his fault, he knew. She had discovered the incriminating Whatsapp messages on his Samsung phone one day and she had confronted him.

“What have I done wrong?” she asked him tearfully, sorrowfully. He was mute. They both stared at the cold cups of coffee on the table between them. There was no meager excuse or reason that he could offer her. He put his head between his hands. She shook her head. He did not dare look up at her. A sniffle, hurried footsteps, then silence.

Thus she was gone. Three years of trust; broken and gone. Just like that.

He paused on the eroded concrete step outside the shop. Good, an ‘Open’ sign hung in the doorway. He rapped smartly on the door and entered.

“Mr. Keiji, what can I do for you today? How are your mom and dad? Have they come back from Hokkaido yet? Think your mom mentioned that she was going to visit her sister there,” Uncle Chan looked up from the watch that he was mending and smiled.

“Yeah, they just left two days ago. I think mom really missed home. It isn’t the same here, you know. Even though she has been married to dad for almost thirty years now. Say, Uncle Chan, can you fix this for me?” he placed the globe on the glass countertop. Uncle Chan put on his gold-rimmed spectacles and turned the ornament upside-down, studying the wooden base and the small black plastic switch closely. Keiji watched him expectantly.

“Yes, I believe so,” the old man said at last.

“How long would that take, Uncle? Could you please call this number and let Tina know when it’s done?” he slipped a blue note into the old man’s age-spotted hand. Uncle Chan nodded and tucked the piece of paper into his breast pocket.

“Come back in two weeks, Keiji.”

He was attending a meeting when his phone rang. He excused himself and leaned against the doorframe of the conference room, watching the traffic beneath swirl like ants on a sandy anthill. “It’s ready? Yes, yes. Thank you. I will come by this evening. Sure, see you then, Uncle Chan,” he said.

He opened the door and entered the dark, dusty shop. Uncle Chan was perched on his high wooden stool as usual, polishing a bronze vase.

“Five thirty,” Uncle Chan said.

Keiji nodded in response and sat on the stool opposite Uncle Chan, watching the old man work quietly but deftly.

He heard the doorbell chime and the old wooden door creaked open, letting in a shaft of sunlight from the bustling world outside. He stood up, heart beating rapidly in anticipation, and looked at the entrance anxiously.

“Tina.”

The bewildered frown on her face revealed a struggle between joy, sadness and anger. There were tears glimmering in her dark brown almond-shaped eyes as she finally stepped towards him.

“I’m sorry,” was all he could say.

*******

“Faërie contains many things besides elves and fays, and besides dwarfs, witches, trolls, giants, or dragons; it holds the seas, the sun, the moon, the sky; and the earth, and all things that are in it: tree and bird, water and stone, wine and bread, and ourselves, mortal men, when we are enchanted.”
― J.R.R. Tolkien, On Fairy-Stories

Conversations over Coffee

Note: This article originally appeared in Zes-T, a publication of Damansara Utama Methodist Church (DUMC)

They were old friends from the same cell group while in college. When Nigel returned to Malaysia for a holiday, they decided to meet up for drinks at a café nearby.

Karen: Hey Nigel, long time no see! How’s life?

Nigel: Hi Karen. I’m doing well. Just back for a short break so I thought we could meet up. I haven’t seen you since…

Karen: Yup, since my wedding…lah. That was five years ago.

Nigel: Ya lor, haven’t even met your daughter. Where is she today?

Karen: Her daddy has taken her for her Gymboree class. That is why I have a bit of free time this afternoon.

Marissa: Hi guys! Sorry I’m late. Have you guys ordered anything? Coffee? So when are you coming back for good, Nigel?

Nigel: That is a good question. I’m still thinking about it. I wish I could put out a fleece on the ground like what Gideon did [Judges 6:36-40]. Or ask God to write his plan for me on rainbows in the sky!

Karen: Aww, come on… I heard you had a good job offer in one of the multinational companies. Besides, I met your dad at the coffee shop that day and he is really keen for you to come back. He must be feeling quite lonely since your mum passed on.

Nigel: I know. My main reason for returning will be family. But when my boss heard that I was thinking of relocating, he offered me a promotion and asked me to stay on in London.

Marissa: Why don’t you pray about it, Nigel? Perhaps then you will get a clearer idea.

Karen: Actually I have often wondered about this ‘praying about something’ business. How sure are we that when we sense this or that, the decision is the right one? How can we, as mere mortals, discern God’s will?

Nigel: I think whatever decision we make, it has to be in line with the Bible. Obviously if it does not comply with Scripture, it is not God’s will.

Karen: Marissa, how about yourself? Seeing anyone new? Thought I saw a status change on Facebook.

Marissa: Sigh…

Nigel: Why? He looked like a pretty decent guy. Engineer was it?

Marissa: Looks can be deceiving. I just found out that he was seeing someone else on the side and that he actually owes the loan sharks a huge amount of money.

Nigel and Karen: What!

Marissa: Haha, yes, I dumped him like a hot ‘keledek’. My mom, pastor and friends also advised me to as well.

Nigel: I think that was pretty sound advice. Proverbs say that ‘plans fail for lack of counsel, but with many advisers they succeed’, right? [Proverbs 15:22] Thank God that you had good people around you. They were your cell members, right? Sounds like your ex- had plenty of red flags and your support circle helped you to discern wisely.

Marissa: Don’t worry. I’m OK now. It’s just that – it’s so frustrating when you think that things are going well in your life and suddenly this stuff hits you in the face. I thought this guy was ‘The One’ but looks like I’m wrong again. I feel like such a fool.

Karen: Life can be tough, Mar. Just read something on a blog this morning. Let me get my iPad – there it is. Henri Nouwen said, “Our life is full of brokenness – broken relationships, broken promises, broken expectations. How can we live with that brokenness without becoming bitter and resentful except by returning again and again to God’s faithful presence in our lives?”

Nigel: Thankfully we have a Father in heaven who loves us. Look at this other quote by Brennan Manning.

Marissa: Wow, so many quotes today from the two of you.

Nigel: “Define yourself as one radically beloved by God. God’s love for you and his choice of you constitute your worth. Accept that, and let it become the most important part of your life.”

Marissa: Yup. And of course, the oft quoted Romans 8:28 – ‘And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose’. But when things go wrong, somehow that can be quite difficult to believe.

Karen: That’s why you need family and friends to encourage you as well, dearie. And we need to be consistent in terms of our walk and relationship with God.

Nigel: Anyway, if I do come back, the new company wants to expand my job scope. I’m not too sure I can do it. That’s another thing to consider. Perhaps I just need to build up my confidence.

Karen: You were always the top performer in class, Nigel. I’m sure you’ll be alright.

Marissa: Sometimes we have been given gifts and talents and we can figure out what to do with our lives based on the gifts or talents we already possess. Even back in the Old Testament, we have people who had their specific vocations. Remember Tubal-Cain the metal worker and Jubal the musician in Genesis? [cf. Genesis 4:21-22]

Nigel: I guess you have a point, Marissa. Even in the church setting, different people are called to different roles and tasks. We can also utilise our natural abilities in the things that we do.

Karen: Yeah, God appointed some to be apostles, some to be prophets, some to be teachers, etc, etc. [cf. 1 Corinthians 12:28]

Nigel: Well, would still appreciate your prayers as I reckon I still need some guidance on where He wants me to be. I’m going to take some time alone with God to consider my options before deciding. Maybe even fast and pray…

Marissa: Sure thing, bro. Some people pray for the right doors to be opened and the wrong ones to be closed. It means that His will can also be revealed through our circumstances and opportunities.

Karen: Just remember that the Bible also says, ‘Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.’ [Philippians 4:6]

Nigel: Thanks gals. Hey, I have to make a move now, meeting my dad for dinner.

Karen: I have to pick up the hubby and baby as well.

Marissa: I guess that’s it for today then. We’ll see each other online as usual? Facebook?

Nigel: Sure thing! Let me get the bill.

Karen: Thanks Nigel. Bye!

[Image copyright of Gerald Chong Art www.gerartchong.com]

The Storm and The Whisper

He dashed up the spiraling metal stairway, his face flushed with anger and indignation. His coworkers stared at him, stunned, steaming cups of coffee in their hands. He reached the top of the stairs and flung the rusted steel door open. The place was deserted, just as he expected. Fresh air rushed into his lungs and filled his alveoli. He ran to the edge of the building and leaned against the metal railing.

He screamed. The noise of the traffic below drowned out his long cry of anguish and desperation. His blue silk tie flapped in the rushing wind.

Energy spent, he slumped against the vertical bars of the railing. He held his head in his hands and sobbed, tears streaming down.

This wasn’t how he expected life to turn out. He had worked hard for the company for the last five years. He had risen from a junior executive to a senior manager in that time. He spent his weeknights and weekends in the office, putting in extra effort just to get that little edge. And it had paid off so far. Until…

“Joshua,” he caught the warning glint in his boss’ eye that morning when he strode into the office, whistling as usual. The song died on his lips.

“Meet me inside,” came the oft-dreaded phrase.

His boss beckoned to the black leather armchair. He accepted the seat with trepidation and sat down. His boss removed a file from his desk and handed it to Joshua.

“Can you explain this?”

Joshua froze. It was a project that he had handled last month. To his knowledge, everything went well and the client was happy with the results and services provided. His company had made a tidy profit from the job.

“Mark has alleged that you received a nice sum from Mr. Hassan in order to secure the contract. There are also claims that you used cheaper materials in order to the complete the job but pocketed the balance. He has provided photographic evidence and even the copies of the cheques that you had banked in.”

“But boss, you know that isn’t true! I have worked for this company for so long. That isn’t how I do things!” he protested.

“I would like to believe you but the evidence so far is pretty strong. Unfortunately this case has been reported to the authorities and they will definitely need to conduct a probe. I will need to suspend your involvement in all projects until we clear this up. We might also be looking at some other candidate for your current post, especially if these allegations prove to be true. You better be prepared, Josh.”

Numb, he twisted his hands. He nodded and said thanks. He closed the heavy wooden door behind him, a grim faced boss watching as he left the room.

Joshua looked up. Dark clouds clustered overhead and flashes of lightning zigzagged across the purple canvas of the monsoon sky. Flocks of birds flew to their hidden nests, alarmed by the rumbling thunder.

“Why, God? You know I am an earnest worker. I have been honest and trustworthy. Yet there are jealous people who slander me. I have had enough! Perhaps this just isn’t worth it!”

The wind howled and whipped his black locks about his stained face. He stood up and looked at the impending storm without fear.

The rain came. Not in a gentle pitter-patter or a light drizzle. It was a typical torrential tropical late afternoon downpour. The kind that brought downtown Kuala Lumpur to a standstill and inundated the roads with flash floods. The rain soaked through his clothes and dripped off his nose. His hot tears mingled with the relentless cold droplets. The thunder boomed around him like celestial Chinese drums beating in random rhythm, fierce bolts threatening to incinerate him as he watched. A mere finite creature looking on beyond the edge of infinity.

The rain stopped after half an hour. The skies cleared and shafts of sunlight pierced through the swirling white clouds, gently warming his damp skin. Puddles of water left on the rooftop shimmered like constellations of tiny stars pooled on the cement floor.

He looked at his wet leather shoes.

Then a quiet voice spoke to his heart.

“What are you doing here, Joshua?”

“This is unfair, Lord. I am the only one in the office who tries to do business ethically but now, they are trying to slander me and get rid of me. I have worked so hard but now all has been in vain. My reputation is ruined. I don’t even know if I can get sufficient evidence to clear my name since they have falsified the photographs and documents.”

A sense of peace came over him as a comforting whisper provided relief.

“Yes, I will not fear man. I know in Whom I believe in and I will have faith there will be evidence to prove my innocence. After all, I did not do those things which Mark has accused me of. I will not give up easily,” he said resolutely in reply to the still small voice.

He arose and walked towards the open door.

Oryx

As the hovercraft approached the docking station, Oryx swiped the controls on her screen to maneuver the ship into the space allocated. Around her, there was a soft pleasant hum from the ship’s computer. It was a busy colony, the Alpha Psi CXIV and she could see the traffic of various ships coming and going from the port. The communications relay buzzed with static and the mangled babble of twenty different languages. She ran her fingers through her short brown hair, frizzy and slightly spiky, and reached for the mug of coffee with her other hand. As she sipped the lukewarm liquid, a trickle of the brown beverage dripped down the side of the mug and stained the white porcelain surface. It had been a long journey from the Io moon colony and she had been piloting the hovercraft alone. She rubbed away the remnants of sleep from her puffy eyes.

It had been a difficult ten days for Oryx. Not so much physically although she had to fly on her own, navigating the stars with only Benji for company. He wasn’t bad company. He was more quiet than usual, as if he could sense the gradual change in her mood. She glanced toward the corner in which he lay, moping and occasionally thumping his tail on the floor. Ten days away from home, in which she had the time and solitude to replay events from five years ago in her mind over and over again. Had it been that long ago? It was already two years since the end of the Last Great War that had defined their era.

They were huddled together under a warm blanket watching an old movie on the couch when it happened. She could still remember the title of the movie – Midnight in Paris. Their fingers entwined as they watched the main character bumble his way through the ancient cobblestoned streets of old Paris. Then she heard heavy blows on the door, angry shouts and the trampling of boots on the corridor. His fingers were forcibly forced apart from hers. She could hear the hammering of the truncheon on his bloodied temple and see his look of desperation as he was dragged out of the room by two uniformed policemen.

She hadn’t known then.

Benji whimpered and licked her hand. His round beady eyes pleading for love as he looked up at her. She sighed, wiping a stray tear from the corner of her eye.

“Explorer 312, please standby for docking.”

Her fingers flitted across the screen and flicked open a tab. A familiar face met her gaze. She pressed on the ‘Info’ button.

Name: Jorgen Yen Kendricks

Aliases: Arrick Cheng, Damon Reich

Date of birth: 10 July 2371

Place of origin: Colony 78, Mars

Species: Human

Occupation: Scientist

Charges: Espionage, Biological warfare

She had just started a new job at the Defence Research Centre as a civilian scientist. Rumours of war were spreading via the underground cyber networks. Officially, the government dismissed all such claims. However, they were secretly recruiting scientists to deal with the gathering clouds of doom on the Eastern Front. Oryx was one of them.

 Ironically, they had met during a coffee break. She had just spent the last seven hours staring at molecular simulations and mathematical formulae. “That’s it, I need a break,” she announced to her teammate and pushed her chair away from the desk. Bleary-eyed, she stumbled towards the pantry to make herself a cup of strong coffee. She leant against the wall as the replenishing machine whirred and hissed. A frothy cappuccino appeared. She held the warm drink in her hands and sipped slowly. She turned to return to her desk, images of shifting carboxyl groups playing before her eyes.

She heard a splash as her plastic cup collided with a thin wiry young man with a lopsided grin, an unruly mop of black hair and deep brown eyes. She flushed pink in embarrassment as the hot coffee seeped into the fabric of his white coat. “I’m sorry. Oh no, I’m so sorry,” she tried to wipe off the stains with her tissue.

“Nah I can just wash my coat later. It’s OK,” he tried to reassure her as he helped her to remove the stains. “By the way, I’m Arrick.”

 “Err…I’m Oryx,” she mumbled, still flustered. A half-empty cup of froth in her hand.

 “I work in Lab 5. How about yourself?” he asked.

 “I’m new. I just joined Lab 8 two weeks ago,” she said.

 “You alright? Let me walk you back to your office,” he offered, pushing the door open for her.

They were soon spending breakfasts, lunch breaks and soon, after-work dinners together. She discovered that he was the son of a lawyer from Michigan, Earth. He loved old movies, quirky music and Chinese food. He had graduated with first class honours from her rival university, which gave them much to talk about. Soon, their conversations even involved brainstorming about their work and latest projects, albeit not revealing confidential portions of their assignments.

“Explorer 312, welcome to colony Alpha Psi CXIV. Please present your documentation for inspection. Please state purpose of visit.”

“Alpha Psi CXIV. This is Dr Oryx Pietr. You can inspect my papers when I come aboard. I am here for the trial.”

The days of crammed courtrooms, polished oak panels and wooden gavels had been long over. She found herself on a metal stool in front of a panel of five stern-faced judges. The glare of the fluorescent lamps overhead was unsettling.

Her eyes met his. He looked away, ashamed.

“Oryx Pietr. You may begin your testimony,” the chief judge, a steel-haired lady said.

She knew that every word she said was being recorded. She left nothing out.

“Your honour, I met the accused while working at the Defence Research Centre.”

“Were you aware that he was married or that he had assumed an alternate identity?”

“No, ma’am. I was not aware,” she said emphatically.

“Please proceed,” it was an order.

“It was only after his arrest that I found out that he had been secretly copying the files from my computer and passing the information to the enemy. This was done without my knowledge. I only knew him as Arrick Cheng. I also had no knowledge of his marital status. He had told me that he was single.”

The questioning went on for another 15 minutes. Finally one of the judges held up his hand and said.

“That’s enough, Dr Pietr. You may return to your quarters. Thank you for your assistance today.”

She nodded and got up to leave. As she walked past the glass chamber where he was held, she had a glimpse of the haggard figure hunched on his chair. He had become gaunt, a haunted look on his unshaven face. She looked away resolutely. Her fingers fiddled impatiently with the vial in her pocket.

“Oryx! Oryx!” he cried out suddenly.

She tried to walk on, willing her heart to become stone. Her thumb poised above the cap of the vial, waiting for the right moment to pop it open.

“I’m sorry. Please forgive me,” he pleaded, his palms pale against the thick, bullet-proof glass. “Please, Oryx.”

“The accused should remain silent,” the chief judge thundered.

His brown eyes looked into hers. She could see anguish and sorrow reflected in them. She remembered all the suffering that he had caused her. After the incident, she lost her job and was detained for a week on suspicion of being a spy as well. She was only exonerated after video evidence from the laboratory and her home were reviewed. Her supervisor had to sign a statement affirming her character and work ethics before she was even allowed to go home. As war broke out, she was kept under home arrest with strict security due to concerns regarding her loyalties. After the war, she became the curator of a small museum of natural sciences near her new home far away from Earth. As for her heart, she kept it strictly under lock and key. She would never allow herself to be hurt again.

"I’m sorry,” his words echoed in her ear.

She closed her eyes grimly. If she snapped open the cap of the vial now as she had planned, she knew that the ventilation ducts would carry the virus throughout the building. He would die. As would she, and many others in the vicinity. She thought that she had been prepared to pay the price for revenge. But she wasn’t prepared for this.

She tucked the vial into the deepest recesses of her pocket and inhaled deeply. Perhaps this was what forgiveness looked like. A breath of fresh air devoid of bitterness. An unmapped future, full of hope. A new life. And there was always Benji. Benji would be waiting for her aboard Explorer 312.

“I forgive you,” she heard herself saying.

[Image copyright of Gerald Chong Art www.gerartchong.com]