chapter_2-_The_Short_Stories

PEN 0035English 3

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Chapter 2

The Short Stories

FOSEE , MULTIMEDIA UNIVERSITY (436821-T)

MELAKA CAMPUS, JALAN AYER KEROH LAMA, 75450 MELAKA, MALAYSIA.Tel 606 252 3594 Fax 606 231 8799URL: http://fosee.mmu.edu.my/~asd/

Institute of International Languages Multimedia University

(ILMU)

Centre for Foundation Studies and Extension Education (FOSEE)

PEN0035 English 3 Chapter 2

Check-inSurya Ramkumar

“Good morning, Mrs Nair, how are you today? Shall I get you your usual?” It’s 5 am on a Monday morning, and I might be forgiven for wondering if she was going to pass me my usual ‘large cappuccino with extra sugar’. But no, the usual is an aisle seat by the emergency exit in the non-smoking section.

Imke has the early shift on Monday mornings at the KLM counter. She has been there every Monday morning as far as I can remember, and can’t be blamed for not knowing that today is everything but the usual. In a few hours, I could be the first woman CEO of Biacorp, managing multi-billion dollar revenues and over 200,000 employees, or just as easily, be on the next flight home, after being fired from a company I had worked with for over twenty years. Imke takes less than a minute to look over my e-ticket and pass me my boarding pass. As I walk towards the boarding gate, still in a daze from not having had my early morning coffee, I instinctively look over my shoulder. I saw two loving faces, riddled with anxiety, praying that their only daughter would travel safely and wishing the very best for her, while trying very hard to keep up an encouraging smile.

*************It had been thirty years ago at the Chennai Airport, then known as the Madras Airport. I was barely fifteen and feeling uncomfortable in an oversized T-shirt and my first pair of denim pants.

The journey had started from Wadakkanchery – a small village in India, half an hour away from the nearest big town. I had been accepted to one of the most prestigious junior colleges in Singapore and the glossy brochure that arrived with the acceptance letter had advised that I bring an assortment of notebooks, paper, pens, a few sets of uniforms, and all the books in the very long book list that had warranted a little booklet all of its own. Achan and Amma had been busying themselves for several weeks with all the tiny details, with love and care as only parents can give – Achan making many calls to several bookshops and more than a few trips to the city to get all the books. Amma trying to work her way down the list of things I had been asked to bring, all the while making her own additions to the list – new clothes in the latest styles she had heard from the city bride next door who had just moved in to her husband’s home in the village, food for the journey just in case I didn’t like the food served on the flight, home remedies for all imaginable and unimaginable ailments, and not to mention a large collection of picture of gods and goddesses that had always protected her family, and now will travel with her daughter to keep her safe and away from troubles of any sort.

Then there were the ladoos, made by the old lady with the wrinkled face who lived next door, the fresh murukku that my aunt had brought all the way from her home that was almost a day’s bus-ride away, a huge packet of roasted cashew nuts from my high school English teacher and a can of salted mangoes that Amma had carefully kept aside last month in a large ceramic jar so it would be ready just in time to travel with me and brighten up the bland Chinese and Malay dishes I would soon be eating. They were all packed, unpacked, and then packed again into the huge brown suitcase, which was almost as tall as me. Everything had finally fit

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into it, Achan had picked up my tickets, the visa was stamped – and there was no turning back.

Shamu, the help at the nearby grocery shop, had struggled to load my 40kg bag into the autorickshaw that took us to the roadside bus stop. It was just a long highway, the only one in the town that had no potholes, and had no markings whatsoever to show where the bus would stop. But Krishnan, the bus driver always stopped at the exact same spot, and everyone knew where the spot was. Everyone in Wadakkanchery, that is. Baijju, the autorickshaw driver insisted on waiting till the bus arrived and loading the huge suitcase onto the top of the bus. I tried to ignore the fellow passengers who were staring at us by now. In about 40 minutes, the bus arrived at Trichur’s “Shaktan Tampuran” bus stop – I wondered for a moment what Shaktan Tampuran, the mighty emperor that he was known to be, would have done if he had to leave his home and travel to a faraway land? Would he have killed all the butterflies that seemed to flutter madly in his stomach with one quick swipe of his sword, or would he have used his diplomacy to induce them into a temporary coma? His lofty statue offered me no answers, as my parents accompanied me to the Trichur railway station. Five inconsequential hours later, the Kanyakumari express arrived to take us to Madras.

During the whole length of the journey, I didn’t say a word. Amma was still not very convinced that it was a great idea for me to go; I was but a little girl. Comforting words from Achan, followed by a stern look, made her decide not to say much more. I didn’t dare to open my mouth. I knew that I wanted to go. I badly wanted to see the world. To be out in the open and to be free. Yet, I didn’t trust myself not to say otherwise. To confess how truly scared I was and how, no matter what I did, the butterflies just wouldn’t stop fluttering. I stared hard at the Competition Success Review, still stuck at the first question in their IQ test. Twelve unforgiving long hours later, we were in Madras – the land of heat and dust. Just getting off the train makes you want to rush into the shower and stay under it forever. But then the water is so salty and hard, it will make you want to rush right out again.

It was already late for bed, and we had a long day ahead. The soft couch at Hotel Riviera just couldn’t lull me into a slumber deep enough to forget my fears. I woke up in the middle of the night, with the moonlight shinning on the bed where my parents were sleeping, their peaceful faces veiling the unspoken misgivings. I sat up on the couch and stared at them for hours, wondering if they knew how much I would miss them. I could hardly resist the urge to sneak out of the hotel room and take the next train home. Thankfully, sleep had other plans for me and I drifted into a dreamless slumber.

The morning passed in a rush. Breakfast, shower, prayers and a long cab ride later, we were finally at the Madras airport. The airport was a colossal mess. I had expected peace and calm - clean hallways and smart men in uniform. I might just as well have stepped into a fish market. We somehow managed to find two others who were traveling with me. Their city accents and smart clothes didn’t offer me much comfort. Worried that I might start to cry, I forced a smile and convinced my parents that everything would be alright. They asked me yet again about my passport, my ticket and the foreign currency that I had just obtained.

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Despite all my attempts to make the clock stop, it had ticked away and the hour was finally here. Farewells were never my thing – I rushed through them with a hurried hug and kiss. It was time for us to proceed to the check-in queue, which had over forty people ahead of me. I waited with my two fellow students, exchanging little pieces of information about ourselves, and waving to our parents in the distance every once in a while. We swapped stories about how difficult our interviews were, which colleges we were going to, how troublesome it was to find some of the text books, how sad some of our old classmates were when they didn’t get this scholarship and so on. Sandeep told us that his cousin had been to Singapore last year and how everything was nice and clean, but that you had to study the rule books as soon as you can or you might be fined for unknowingly breaking one of the umpteen rules. I made a mental note to procure one of those rule books as soon as the plane landed.

“Next please,” came the impatient voice of the lady at the Air India check-in counter. She stared at my 40kg luggage with disbelief, and frowned when I produced a letter permitting a student baggage allowance. After looking me up and down a few times, she asked me if I was traveling with my parents. Determined not to be scared any further by a grumpy old woman, I eagerly quipped that I was traveling with two friends. Unconvinced by my answer and with the frown now permanently plastered on her face, she handed me my boarding pass, along with a strict warning to proceed to the boarding gate without any further delay. I clutched my passport, my ticket, some name tags and my new boarding pass and proceeded to the boarding gate. Desperately looking for a last beacon of reassurance, I glanced over my shoulder. And I saw them – two loving faces, riddled with anxiety, praying that their only daughter would travel safely and wishing the very best for her, while trying hard to keep up an encouraging smile.

******************“Gooie Morgan, Mevrouw, Kan ik u helpen?” the KLM assistant’s voice

startled me out of my daze. “Nee, dank u,” I mumble and absently wave goodbye into the wide open space, suddenly confident that I wouldn’t be taking the next flight home.

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Her Three DaysSembene Ousmane

She raised her haggard face, and her far-away look ranged beyond the muddle of roofs, some tiled, others of thatch or galvanized-iron; the wide fronds of the twin coconut-palms were swaying slowly in the breeze, and in her mind she could hear their faint rustling. Noumbe was thinking of “her three days”. Three days for her alone, when she would have her husband, Mustapha to herself….It was long time since she had felt such emotion. To have Mustapha! The thought comforted her. She had her heart trouble and still felt some pain, but she has been dosing herself for the past two days, taking more medicine than was prescribed. It was a nice syrup that just slipped down, and she felt the beneficial effects at once. She blinked; her eyes were like two buttonholes, with lashes that were like frayed thread, in little clusters of fives and threes; the whites were the colour of old ivory.

“What’s the matter, Noumbe?” asked Aida, her next-door neighbour, who was sitting at the door of her room..

“Nothing,” she answered, and went on cutting up the slice of raw meat, helped by her youngest daughter.

“Ah, its your three days,” exclaimed Aida, whose words held a meaning that she could not elaborate on while the little girl was present. She went on: “You are looking fine enough to prevent a holy man from saying his prayers properly!”

“Aida, be careful what you say,” she protested, a little annoyed.But it was true; Noumbe had plaited her hair and put henna on her hands and

feet. And that morning, she had got the children up early to give her room a thorough clean. She was not old, but one pregnancy after another-and she had five children-and her heart trouble had aged her before her time.

“Go and ask Laity to give you five francs’ worth of salt and twenty francs’ worth of oil,” Noumbe said to the girl. “Tell him I sent you. I’ll pay for them as soon as your father is here midday.” She looked disapprovingly at the cut-up meat in the bottom of the bowl.

The child went off with the empty bottle and Noumbe got to her feet. She was thin and of average height. She went into her one-room shack, which was sparsely furnished; there was a bed with a white cover, and in one corner stood a table with pieces of china on display. The walls were covered with enlargements and photos of friends and strangers framed in passé-partout.

When she came out again, she took the Moorish stove and set about lighting it.

Her daughter had return from her errand.“He gave them to you?” asked Noumbe.“Yes, mother.”A woman came across the compound to her. “Noumbe, I can see that you’re

preparing a delicious dish.”“Yes”, she replied. “It‘s my three days. I want to revive the feasts of the old

days, so that his palate will retain the taste of the dish for many moons, and he’ll forget the cooking of his other wives.”

“Ah-ha! So that his palate is eager for dishes to come,” said the woman, who

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was having a good look at the ingredients.“I’m feeling in good form,” said Noumbe, with some pride in her voice. She

grasped the woman’s hands and passed it over the loins.“Thieh, souya dome! I hope you can say the same tomorrow morning……”The woman clapped her hands; as if it were a signal or an invitation, other

women came across, one with metal jar, another with a saucepan, which they beat while the woman sang:

Sope dousa rafetail, Sopa nala dousa rafetail Sa yahi n’diguela. (worship of you is not for your beauty, I worship you not for your beauty, But for your backbone )In a few moments, they improvised a wild dance to this chorus. At the end,

panting and perspiring, they burst out laughing. Then, one of them stepped into Noumbe’s room and called the others.

“Let’s take away the bed! Because tonight they’ll wreck it!”“She’s right. Tomorrow this room will be…….”Each woman contributed an earthy comment which set them to laughing

hilariously. Then they remembered that had work to do, and brought their amusement to an end; each went back to their family occupations.

Noumbe had joined in the laughter; she knew this boisterous “ragging” was the custom in the compound. No one escaped it. Besides, she was an exceptional case, as they all knew. She had a heart condition and her husband had quite openly neglected her. Mustapha had not been to see her for fortnight. All this time she had been hoping that he would come, if only for a moment. When she went to the clinic for mothers and children are compelled her youngest daughter to stay at home, so that—thus did her mind work—if her husband turned up the child could detain him until she returned. She ought to have gone to the clinic again this day, but she has spent what little money she possessed in preparing for Mustapha. She did not want her husband to esteem her less that his other wives, or to think her meaner. She did not neglect her duty as a mother, but her wifely duty came first—at certain times.

She imagined what the next three days would be like; already her “three days” fill her horizon. She forgot her illness and her baby’s ailments. She had thought about these three days in a thousand different ways. Musthapa would not leave before the Monday morning. In her mind, she could see Mustapha and his henchmen crowding into her room, and could hear their suggestive jokes. “If she had been a perfect wife….” She laughed to herself. “Why shouldn’t it always be like that for every woman – to have husband of one’s own?” she wondered why not.

The morning passed at its usual pace, the shadow of the coconut palms and the people growing steadily shorter. As midday approached, the housewives busied themselves with the meal. In the compound, each one stood near her door, ready to welcome her man. The kids were playing around, and their mother’s calls to them crossed in the air. Noumbe gave her children a quick meal and sent them out again. She sat waiting for Mustapha to arrive at any moment….he wouldn’t be much longer now.

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An hour passed, and the men began going back to work. Soon the compound was empty of the male element; the women, after a long siesta, joined one another under the coconut palms and the sounds of their gossiping gradually increased.

Noumbe, weary of eating, had finally given up keeping a lookout. Dressed in her mauve velvet, she had been on the watch since before midday. She had eaten no solid food, consoling herself with the thought that Mustapha would appear at any moment. Now she fought back the pangs of hunger by telling herself that in the past Mustapha had a habit or arriving late. In those days, this lateness was pleasant. Without admitting it o herself those moments (which had hung terribly heavy) had been very sweet; they prolonged the sensual pleasure of anticipation. Although those minutes had been sometimes shot through with doubts and fears (often, very often the thought of her coming disgrace had assailed her; for Mustapha, who had taken two wives before her, had just married another), they had not been too hard to bear. She realized that those demanding minutes were the price that she had to pay for Mustapha’s presence. Then she began to reckon up the score, in small ways, against the veudieux, the other wives. One washed his boubous¹ when it was another wife’s turn, or kept him long into the night; another sometimes held him in her embrace a whole day, knowing quite well that she was preventing Mustapha from carrying out his marital duty elsewhere.

She sulked as she waited; Mustapha had not been near her for a fortnight. All these bitter thoughts brought her up against reality; four months ago Mustapha had married a younger woman. This sudden realization of the facts sent a pain to her heart, a pain of anguish. The additional pain did not prevent her heart from functioning normally, rather it was like a sick person whose sleep banishes pain but who once awake again finds his suffering is as bad as ever, and pays for the relief by a redoubling of pain.

She took three spoonfuls of her medicine instead of the two prescribed, and felt a little bit better in herself.

She called her youngest daughter. “Tell Mactar I want him.”The girl ran off and soon returned with her eldest brother.“Go and fetch your father,” Noumbe told him.“Where mother?”“Where? Oh, on the main square or at one of your other mothers’.”“But I’ve been to the main square already, and he wasn’t there.”“Well, go and have another look. Perhaps he’s there now.”The boy looked up at his mother, then dropped his head again and reluctantly

turned to go.“When your father has finished eating, I’ll give you what’s left. It’s meat.

Now be quick, Mactar.”It was scorching hot and the clouds were riding high. Mactar was back after

an hour. He had not found his father. Noumbe went and joined the group of women. They were chattering about this and that; one of them asked (just for the sake of asking),” Noumbe, has your uncle (darling) arrived?” “Not yet,” she replied, then hastened to add, “Oh, he won’t be long now. He knows it’s my three days,” She deliberately changed the conversation in order to avoid a long discussion about the other three wives. But all the time she was longing to go and find Mustapha. She

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was being robbed of her three days. And the other wives knew it. Her hours alone with Mustapha were being snatched from her. The thought of his being with one of the other wives, who was feeding him and opening his waistcloth when she ought to be doing all that, who was enjoying those hours which were hers by right, so numbed Noumbe that it was impossible for her to react. The idea that Mustapha might have been admitted to hospital or taken to a police station never entered her mind.

She knew how to make tasty little dishes for Mustapha which cost him nothing. She never asked him for money. Indeed, hadn’t she got herself into debt so that he would be more comfortable and have better meals at her place? And in the past, when Mustapha sometimes arrived unexpectedly – this was soon after he had married her – hadn’t she hastened to make succulent dishes for him? All her friends knew this.

A comforting thought coursed through her and sent these aggressive and vindictive reflections to sleep. She told herself that Mustapha was bound to come to her this evening. The certainty of his presence stripped her mind of the too cruel thought that the time of her disfavour was approaching; this thought has been as much burden to her as a heavy weight dragging a drowning man to the bottom. When all the bad, unfavourable thoughts besetting her had been dispersed, like piles of rubbish on waste land swept by a flood, the future seemed brighter, and she joined in the conversation of the women with childish enthusiasm, unable to hide her pleasure and her hopes. It was like something in a parcel; questioning eyes wondered what was inside, but she alone knew and enjoyed the secret, drawing an agreeable strength from it. She took an active part in the talking and brought her wit into play. All this vivacity sprang from the joyful conviction that Mustapha would arrive this evening very hungry and be hers alone.

In the far distance, high above the tree-tops, a long trail of dark-grey clouds tinged with red was hiding the sun. The time for the tacousane, the afternoon prayer, was drawing near. One by one, the women withdrew to their rooms, and the shadows of the trees grew longer, wider and darker.

Night fell; a dark starry night.Noumbe cooked some rice for the children. They clamoured in vain for some

of the meat. Noumbe was stern and unyielding: “The meat is for your father. He didn’t eat at midday.” When she had fed the children, she washed herself again to get rid of the smell of cooking and touched up her toilette, rubbing oil on her hands, feet and legs to make the henna more brilliant. She intended to remain by her door, and sat down on the bench; the incense smelt strongly, filling the whole room. She was facing the entrance to the compound and could see the other women’s husbands coming in.

But for her there was none.She began to feel tired again. Her heart was troubling her, and she had a fit of

coughing. Her inside seemed to be on fire. Knowing that she would not be going to the dispensary during her “three days”, in order to economize, she went and got some wood-ash which she mixed with water and drank. It did not taste very nice, but it would make the medicine last longer, and the drink checked and soothed the burning within her for a while. She was tormenting herself with the thoughts passing

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through her mind. Where can he be? With the first wife? No, she’s quite old. The second then? Everyone knew she was out of favour with Mustapha. The third wife was herself. So he must be with the fourth. There were puckers of uncertainty and doubt in the answers she gave herself. She kept putting back the time to go to bed, like a lover who does not give up waiting when the time of the rendezvous is long past, but with an absurd stupid hope waits still longer, self-torture and the heavy minutes chaining him to the spot. At each step Noumbe took, she stopped and mentally explored the town, prying into each house inhabited by one of the other wives. Eventually she went indoors.

So that she would not be caught unawares by Mustapha nor lose the advantages which her make-up and good clothes gave her, she lay down on the bed fully dressed and alert. She had turned down the lamp as far as possible, so the room was dimly lit. But she fell asleep despite exerting great strength of mind to remain awake and saying repeatedly to herself,” I shall wait for him.” To make sure that she would be standing there expectantly when he crossed the threshold, she had bolted the door. Thus she would be the devoted wife, always ready to serve her husband, having got up at once and appearing as elegant as if it were broad daylight. She had even thought of making a gesture as she stood there, of passing her hands casually over her hips so that Mustapha would hear the clinging of the beads she had strung round her waist and be incited to look at her from head to foot.

Morning came but there was no Mustapha.When the children awoke they asked whether their father had come. The

oldest of them, Mactar, a promising lad, was quick to spot that his mother had not made the bed, that the bowl containing the stew was still in the same place, by a dish of rice, and the loaf of bread on the table was untouched. The children got the taste of their mother’s anger. The youngest, Amandou, took a long time over dressing. Noumbe hurried them up and sent the youngest girl to Liaty’s to buy five francs worth of ground coffee. The children’s breakfast was warmed-up rice and with a meager sprinkling of gravy from the previous day’s stew. Then sahe gave them their wings , as the saying goes, letting them all out except the youngest daughter. Noumbe inspected the bottle of medicine and saw that she had taken a lot of it; there were only three spoonfuls left. She gave herself half a spoonful and made up for the rest with her mixture of ashes and water. After that she felt calmer.

“Why, Noumbe, you must have got up bright and early this morning, to be so dressed up. Are you going off on a long journey?”

It was Aida, her next-door neighbour, who was surprised to see her dressed in such a manner especially for a woman who was having her “three days”. Then Aida realized what had happened and tried to rectify her mistake.

“Oh, I see he hasn’t come yet. They’re all the same, these men!”“He’ll be here this morning, Aida.” Noumbe bridled, ready to defend her

man. But it was rather her own worth she was defending, wanting to conceal what an awful time she had spent. It had been a broken night’s sleep listening to harmless sounds which she had taken for Mustapha’s footsteps, and this had left its mark on her already haggard face.

“Im syer he will! I’m sure he will!” exclaimed Aida, well aware of this comedy that all the women played in turn.

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“Mustapha is such a kind man, and so noble in his attitude,” added another woman, rubbing it in.

“If he weren’t he wouldn’t be my master,” said Noumbe, feeling flattered by this description of Mustapha.

The news soon spread round the compound that Mustapha has slept elsewhere during Noumbe’s three days. The other women pitied her. It was against all the rules for Mustapha to spend a night elsewhere. Polygamy has its laws, which should be respected. A sense of decency and common dignity restrained a wife from keeping the husband day and night when his whole person and everything connected with him belonged to another wife during “her three days”. The game, however, was not without its underhand tricks that one wife played on another; for instance, to wear out the man and hand him over when he was incapable of performing his conjugal duties. When women criticized the practice of polygamy they always found that the wives were to blame, especially those who openly dared to play a dirty trick. The man was whitewashed. He was a weakling who always ended by failing into the enticing traps set for him by woman. Satisfied with this conclusion, Noumbe’s neighbour made common cause with her and turned to abusing Mustapha’s fourth wife.

Noumbe made some coffee-she never had any herself, because of her heart. She consoled herself with the thought that Mustapha would find more things at her place. The bread had gone stale; she would buy some more when he arrived.

The hours dragged by again, long hours of waiting which became harder to bear as the progressed. She wished she knew where he was…..

The thought obsessed her, and her eyes became glazed and searching. Every time she heard a man’s voice she straightened up quickly. Her heart was paining her more and more, but the physical pain was separate from the mental one; They never came together; alternating in a way that reminded her of the acrobatic feat of a man riding two speeding horses.

At about four o’clock Noumbe was surprised to see Mustapha’s second wife appear at the door. She had come to see if Mustapha was there, knowing that it was Noumbe’s “three days”. She did not tell Noumbe the reason for her wishing to see Mustapha, despite being pressed. So Noumbe concluded that it was largely due to jealousy, and was pleased that the other wife could see how clean and tidy her room was, and what a display of fine things she had, all of which could hardly fail to make the other think that Mustapha had been (and still was) very generous to her, Noumbe. During the rambling conversation her heart thumped ominously, but she bore up and held off taking any medicine.

Noumbe remembered only too well that when she was newly married, she had usurped the second wife’s three days. At that time she has been the youngest wife. Mustapha had not let a day pass without coming to see her. Although not completely certain, she believed she had conceived her third child during this wife’s three days. The latter’s presence now and remarks that she let drop made Noumbe realize that she was no longer the favourite. The revelation, and the polite, amiable tone and her visitor’s eagerness to inquire after her children’s health and her own, to praise her superior choice of household utensils, her taste in clothes, the cleanliness of the room and the lingering fragrance of the incense, all this was like a stab in cold

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blood, a cruel reminder of the perfidy of words and the hypocrisy of rivals; and all part of the world of women. This observation did not get her anywhere, except to arouse a desire to escape from the circle of polygamy and to cause her to ask herself – it was a moment of mental aberration really --- “Why do we allow ourselves to men’s playthings?”

The other wife complimented her and insisted that Noumbe’s children should go and spend a few days with her own children (in this she was sincere), By accepting in principle, Noumbe was weaving her own waist-cloth of hypocrisy. It was all to make the most of herself, to set tongues wagging so that she would lose none of her respectability and rank. The other wife casual added – before she forgot, as she said – that she wanted to see Mustapha, and if mischief-makers told Noumbe that “their” husband had been to see her during Noumbe’s three days, Noumbe shouldn’t think ill of her, and she would rather have seen him hereto tell him what she had to say., To save face, Noumbe dared not ask her when she had last seen Mustapha. The other would have replied with a smile, “The last morning of my three days, of course. I’ve only come here because its urgent.” And Noumbe would have looked embarrassed and put on an air of innocence.” No, that isn’t what I meant. I just wondered if you had happened to meet him by chance.”

Neither of them would have lost face. It was all that remained to them. They were not lying, to their way of thinking. Each had been desired and spoiled for a time; then the man, like a gorged vulture, had left them on one side and the venom of chagrin at having been mere playthings has entered their hearts. They quite understood, it was all quite clear to them, that they could sink no lower ; so they clung to what was left to them, that is to say, to saying what dignity remained to them by false words and gaining advantages at the expense of the other. They did not indulge in this game for the sake of it. This falseness contained all that remained of the flame of dignity. No one was taken in, certainly not themselves. Each knew that the other was lying, neither could bring herself to further humiliation, for it would be the final crushing blow.

The other wife left. Noumbe almost propelled her to the door, then stood there thoughtfully for a few moments. Noumbe understood the reason for the other’s visit. She had come to get her own back, Noumbe felt absolutely sure that Mustapha was with his latest wife. The visit meant in fact: “You stole those days from me because I am older than you. Now younger woman than you is avenging me. Try as you might to make everything nice and pleasant for him, you have to toe the line with the rest of us now, you old carcass. He’s slept with someone else – and he will again.”

The second day passed like the first, but was more dreadful. She ate no proper food, just enough to stave off the pangs of hunger.

It was Sunday morning and all the men were at home; they nosed about in one room and another, some of them cradling their youngest in their arms, others playing with the older children. The draught-players had gathered in one pace, the card-players in another. There was a friendly atmosphere in the compound, with burst of happy laughter and sounds of guttural voices, while the women busied themselves with the housework.

Aida went to Noumbe to console her, and said without much conviction,”

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He’ll probably come today. Men always seem to have something to do at the last minutes. It’s Sunday today, so he’ll be here.”

“Aida, Mustapha doesn’t work,” Noumbe pointed out, hard-eyed. She gave a cough. “I’ve been waiting for him now for two days and nights! When it’s my three days, I think the least he could do is to be here – at night anyway. I might die…”

“Do you want me to go and look for him?”“No.”She had thought “yes”. It was the way in which Aida had made the offer hat

embarrassed her. Of course she would like her to! Last night, when everyone has gone to bed, she had started out and covered quite some distance before turning back. The flame of her dignity had been fanned on the way. She did not want to abase her still further by going to claim a man who seemed to have no desire to see her. She had lain awake until dawn, thinking all over and telling herself that her marriage to Mustapha was at an end, that she would divorce him. But this morning there was a tiny flicker of hope in her heart.” Mustapha will come, all the same. This is my last night.”

She borrowed a thousand franc from Aida, who readily lend her the money. As she followed the advice to sent her children off again, to Mustapha’s fourth wife.

“Tell him that I must see him at once, I’m not well!”She hurried off to the little Market nearby and bought a chicken and several

other things. Her eyes were feverishly, joyfully bright as she carefully added seasoning to the dish she prepared. The appetizing smell of her cooking was wafted out to the compound and its Sunday atmosphere. She swept the room again, shut the doors and windows, but the heady scent of the incense escaped through the cracks between the planks.

The children returned from their errand.“Is he ill?” she asked them.“No, mother. He’s going to come. We found him with some of his friends at

Voulimata’s (the fourth wife). He asked about you.”“And that’s all he said?”“Yes, mother.”“Don’t come indoors. Here’s ten franc. Go and play somewhere else.”A delicious warm feeling spread over her. “He was going to come.” Ever

since Friday she had been harbouring spiteful words to throw in his face. He would beat her of course….But never mind. Now she found it she would be useless to utter those words. Instead she would do everything possible to make up for the lost days. She was happy, much to happy to bear a grudge against him, now that she knew he was coming – he might even be on the way with his henchmen. The only means of getting her own back was to cook a big meal….then he would stay in bed.

She finished preparing the meal, had a bath and went on to the rest of her toilette. She did her hair again, put antimony on her lower lip, eyebrows and lashes, then dressed in a white starched blouse and a hand-woven waist-cloth, and inspected her hands and feet. She was quite satisfied with her appearance.

But the waiting became prolonged.No one in the compound spoke to her for fear of hurting her feelings. She had sat down outside the door, facing the entrance to the compound, and the other

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inhabitants avoided meeting her sorrowful gaze. Her tears overflowed the brim of her eyes like a swollen river its banks; she tried to hold them back, but in vain. She was eating her heart out.

The sound of distance tom-tom was being carried on the wind. Time passed over her, like the seasons over monuments. Twilight came and darkness fell.

On the table were three plates in a row, one for each day.“I’ve come to keep you company,” declared Aida as she entered the room.

Noumbe was sitting on the foot of the bed – she had fled from the silence of the others. “You mustn’t get worked up about it,” went on Aida. “Every woman goes through it. Of course it’s not nice! But I don’t think he’ll be long now.”

Noumbe raised a moist face and bit her lips nervously. Aida saw that she had made up her mind not to say anything.

Everything was shrouded in darkness; no lights came from her room. After supper, the children had refrained from playing their noisy games. Just when adults were beginning to feel sleepy and going to bed, into the compound walked Mustapha, escorted by two of his lieutenants. He was clad entirely in white. He greeted the people still about an oily manner, and then invited his companions into Noumbe’s hut.

She had not stirred.“Wife, where’s the lamp?”“Where you left it this morning when you went out.”“How are you?” inquired Mustapha when he had lit the lamp. He went and

sat down on the bed, and motioned to the two men to take the bench.“God be praised,” Noumbe replied to his polite inquiry. Her thin face seemed

relaxed and the angry lines had disappeared.“And the children?”“They’re well, praise be to God.”“Our wife isn’t very talkative this evening,” put in one of the men.“I’m quite well though.”“Your heart isn’t playing you up now?” asked Mustapha, not unkindly.“No, it’s quite steady,” she answered.“God be praised! Mustapha, we’ll be off,” said the man uncomfortable with

Noumbe’s manner.“Wait,” said Mustapha, and turned to Noumbe. “Wife, are we eating tonight

or tomorrow?”“Did you leave something when you went out this morning?”“What? That is not the way to answer.”“No, uncle (darling). I’m just asking……Isn’t it right?”Mustapha realized that Noumbe was mocking him and trying to humiliate

him in front of his men.“You do like your little joke. Don’t you know it’s your three days?”“Oh, uncle, I’m sorry, I’d quite forgotten. What an unworthy wife I am!” she

exclaimed looking straight at Mustapha.“You are making fun of me!”“Oh, uncle, I shouldn’t dare! What, I? And who would help me into Paradise,

if not my worthy husband? Oh! I would never poke fun at you, neither in this world

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nor the next.”“Anyone would think so.”“Who?” she asked.“You might have stood up when I came in, to begin with….”“Oh, uncle forgive me, I’m out of my mind with joy at seeing you again. But

whose fault is that uncle?”“And just what are these three plates for?” said Mustapha with annoyance.“These three plates?” she looked at him a malicious smile on her lips.

“Nothing. Or rather my three days. Nothing that would interest you. Is there anything here that interest you….uncle?”

As it moved by a common impulse, the three men stood up. Noumbe deliberately knocked over one of the plates.” Oh, uncle forgive me…” Then she broke the other two plates. Her eyes had gone red; suddenly a pain stabbed at her heart, she bent double, and as she fell to the floor gave a loud groan which roused the whole compound.

Some women came hurrying in. “What is the matter with her?”“Nothing…only her heart. Look what she’s done, the silly woman. One of

these days her jealousy will suffocate her. I haven’t been to see her – only two days, and she cries her eyes out. Give her some ash and she’ll be all right,” gabbed Mustapha and went off.

“Now these hussies have got their associations, they think they’re going to run the country, “said one of his men.

“Have you heard that at Bamako they passed a resolution condemning polygamy?” added the other. “Heaven preserve us from having only one wife.”

“They can go out to work then,” pronounced Mustapha as he left the compound.

Aida and some of the women lifted Noumbe on to the bed. She was groaning. They got her to take some of her mixture of ash and water…

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Jasmine’s FatherPaul Tan

It’s such an irony. I had always thought that marriage for my only child Jasmine was a given. As with all my other siblings, marriage was not only to ensure one’s continued progeny, it was protection against censure and unwanted speculation. Most importantly, it was the best safeguard against loneliness, especially in one’s twilight years.

Jasmine today is still single at thirty-five, living it up in Vancouver where she migrated. From what she tells me, her calendar is always crowded with interesting appointments with

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chatty, effusive people. Weekends are spent trekking some pristine patch of nature or learning the finer points of wine-tasting. There is never enough time, she declared. I, on the other hand, am a widower who spends a good part of his days alone in a comfortable three-room flat in Marine Parade.

Not that I mind it now. I am perfectly content with this arrangement that affords me solitude and quiet reflection. I have reconciled myself to the unlikely prospects of noisy nuptials for Jasmine, especially when one weighs in her passion for her new- found home and her friends there.

Of late, in her weekly communications, her disdain for Singapore, or at least its men, has become more strident. She increasingly chooses to interact with Canadian men, rather than men from the Asian community there. Those guys are so with it, articulate and sporting, she declared, compared to Singaporean men who were graceless, guarded chauvinists with the charm of a flea. I did not understand all her idioms, many of them trendy American phrases but listened intently anyway.

Jasmine has always been vocal. Apart from her familiar gripes about the dearth of interesting Singaporean men, she also felt passionately the need to get away from a system which she felt routinely discriminated against her. This was something she had often shared with me over an after-dinner glass of wine. She labelled it The System - a sum of cold bureaucracy, inept management and prejudiced decision-making.

Her boss, a Chinese former government scholar, was determined to marginalize her by shunting her off to less important projects and not looking after her interests during the annual appraisal exercise. He was threatened by her outspoken manner, the speed of her decisions and her strong presentation skills. That was why the last round of appraisals, she believed, was little more than an opportune moment for him to engage in character assassination.

The last straw was when they promoted the nerdy colleague seated across from her. She fumed, how can he be promoted when he clearly has less experience than I have? She insinuated that there was an element of sexism - and yes, even racism involved - because that Chinese guy was simply undeserving. Obviously, she concluded, The System, which she already had precious little faith in, was irredeemable.

Jasmine told me then, with that resolute glint in the eye, that on her last day, she will expunge all those important files which she had been responsible for and expose her boss as an inefficient oaf who shirked responsibilities and was focused on hogging all the credit and limelight. Why should the incompetent braggart (or politicking bastard or witless brown-noser - Jasmine

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had a list of colourful, derogatory epithets) benefit from the groundwork she had so diligently laid in place?

The stories Jasmine told me frightened me. They were so full of fierce convictions and rancorous blame, her office appeared to be a dangerous minefield. I was concerned. How could there be such blatantly unprofessional behaviour in a well-known company, in a country distinguished by its sense of fair play and meritocracy? I was outraged as well, especially when I reminisced about the musty but quiet staff room where I spent decades of my life, where the atmosphere was one of placid diligence and civil discussion. I had never been at the receiving end of such unjust treatment at work. My heart went out to my daughter.

I am not sure whether she actually did delete the files from her computer after her resignation. I can only hope she did not. Perhaps I will ask her the next time she calls. Even with her frustration, I had been unaware that Jasmine had plans all along to leave for different pastures. Perhaps that is a shortcoming on my part, being a father who was not good at picking up nuances and the subtle calibrations of gestures. I was tending to my bonsai plants when Jasmine told me one Saturday morning that her application for a Canadian PR was successful. I was surprised, to say the least, and in my haste, lopped off one of the miniature tree’s branches.

“Damn!” “Dad, are you listening?” “Yes, I heard you. When did you? Why - ?” “It’s a long story. You know I’ve had enough of The System

here, with its pretence and reluctance - no, inability - to recognize real ability. It’s a sham and I don’t want to be part of it anymore.”

“Jas, have you thought through all the implications?” My tone was measured but at the back of mind, I suspected that I did not figure in her plans for a different life abroad.

Almost as if she read my mind, she said, wearing that familiar face of fierce determination. “Yes, I have. I’ve already typed out my letter of resignation and will hand it to that moron in the office tomorrow. Then I will step up my job hunt. I have already been in touch with on-line recruitment agencies and headhunters. It’ll only be a while before I get an offer. I am sure by the time I leave in August I will have a concrete offer. In the worst case scenario, I will continue the job search there. I have lots of varsity friends and many contacts?”

I mentioned the uncertain economy, which was summarily dismissed as well as the high tax rates in Canada, which she said had been taken into account. Once again, as had been the case since her teens, Jasmine was not going to bow down.

“Dad, I should go now while I’m young. And while you’re still

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relatively young too. You still lead an active lifestyle here. You know I wouldn’t go if you weren’t leading an independent life. It’s just PR you know. I can come back anytime.”

I put my shears down noisily - it made a startling sound in our verandah - and walked away wordlessly. It was not anger really, even though it may have appeared that I flung down the shears in a rage.

Though I didn’t articulate it, I was mostly disappointed with her easy presumptuousness and a decision-process so apparently effortless I needed no consultation until the very end. If consult was even an appropriate word to use.

When Jasmine was a little girl and my wife was still alive, I used to dream of my twilight years filled with grandchildren, pleasant strolls on the beach and the occasional leisurely adventure abroad. I have a favourite photograph of Jas as a girl of five or six, straddling a tricycle and wearing a ridiculously large party hat.

We had just come from her birthday celebration, a modest affair of dinner at one of the roadside hawker stalls beside a canal. That canal has since been realigned and the land surrounding it is now home to a peach-coloured condominium with full-length tinted windows. I have never pointed this out to Jas, even if I am sure she remembers the happy moment. She would not be interested to know more and worse yet, I fear she believes nostalgia is for the weak.

We did not speak about her migration plans directly until one month before her departure when packing and other domestic arrangements intruded into our daily routines. At that point, I told her that though it was not easy for me to understand the desperate need to get away, I saw no point in trying to dissuade her. As she responded by elaborating on the opportunities abroad, her friends there, the severely flawed system here, the unbearable weather, I nodded, content to make sympathetic noises. By then I had prepared myself for the impending departure and living alone.

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LAMB TO THE SLAUGHTERRoald Dahl

The room was warm and clean, the curtains drawn, the two table lamps alight and the one by the empty chair opposite. On the sideboard behind her, two tall glasses, soda water, whiskey. Fresh ice cubes in the Thermos bucket.

Mary Maloney was waiting for her husband to come home from work. Now and again she would glance up at the clock, but without anxiety, merely to please herself with the thought that each minute gone by made it nearer the time when he would come. There was a slow smiling air about her, and about everything she did. The drop of a head as she bent over her sewing was curiously tranquil. Her skin -for this was her sixth month with child-had acquired a wonderful translucent quality, the mouth was soft, and the eyes, with their new placid look, seemed larger darker than before. When the clock said ten minutes to five, she began to listen, and a few moments later, punctually as always, she heard the tires on the gravel outside, and the car door slamming, the footsteps passing the window, the key turning in the lock. She laid aside her sewing, stood up, and went forward to kiss him as he came in. “Hullo darling,” she said.

“Hullo darling,” he answered.She took his coat and hung it in the closer. Then she walked over and made

the drinks, a strongish one for him, a weak one for herself; and soon she was back again in her chair with the sewing, and he in the other, opposite, holding the tall glass with both hands, rocking it so the ice cubes tinkled against the side.

For her, this was always a blissful time of day. She knew he didn’t want to speak much until the first drink was finished, and she, on her side, was content to sit quietly, enjoying his company after the long hours alone in the house. She loved to luxuriate in the presence of this man, and to feel-almost as a sunbather feels the sun - that warm male glow that came out of him to her when they were alone together. She loved him for the way he sat loosely in a chair, for the way he came in a door, or moved slowly across the room with long strides. She loved intent, far look in his eyes when they rested in her, the funny shape of the mouth, and especially the way he remained silent about his tiredness, sitting still with himself until the whiskey had taken some of it away.

“Tired darling?”

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“Yes,” he said. “I’m tired,” And as he spoke, he did an unusual thing. He lifted his glass and drained it in one swallow although there was still half of it, at least half of it left. She wasn’t really watching him, but she knew what he had done because she heard the ice cubes falling back against the bottom of the empty glass when he lowered his arm. He paused a moment, leaning forward in the chair, then he got up and went slowly over to fetch himself another.

“I’ll get it!” she cried, jumping up.“Sit down,” he said.When he came back, she noticed that the new drink was dark amber with

the quantity of whiskey in it.“Darling, shall I get your slippers?”“No.”She watched him as he began to sip the dark yellow drink, and she could

see little oily swirls in the liquid because it was so strong.“I think it’s a shame,” she said, “that when a policeman gets to be as senior

as you, they keep him walking about on his feet all day long.”He didn’t answer, so she bent her head again and went on with her sewing;

bet each time he lifted the drink to his lips, she heard the ice cubes clinking against the side of the glass.

“Darling,” she said. “Would you like me to get you some cheese? I haven’t made any supper because it’s Thursday.”

“No,” he said.“If you’re too tired to eat out,” she went on, “it’s still not too late. There’s

plenty of meat and stuff in the freezer, and you can have it right here and not even move out of the chair.”

Her eyes waited on him for an answer, a smile, a little nod, but he made no sign.

“Anyway,” she went on, “I’ll get you some cheese and crackers first.”“I don’t want it,” he said.She moved uneasily in her chair, the large eyes still watching his face. “But

you must eat! I’ll fix it anyway, and then you can have it or not, as you like.”She stood up and placed her sewing on the table by the lamp.“Sit down,” he said. “Just for a minute, sit down.”It wasn’t till then that she began to get frightened.“Go on,” he said. “Sit down.”She lowered herself back slowly into the chair, watching him all the time

with those large, bewildered eyes. He had finished the second drink and was staring down into the glass, frowning.

“Listen,” he said. “I’ve got something to tell you.”“What is it, darling? What’s the matter?”He had now become absolutely motionless, and he kept his head down so

that the light from the lamp beside him fell across the upper part of his face, leaving the chin and mouth in shadow. She noticed there was a little muscle moving near the corner of his left eye.

“This is going to be a bit of a shock to you, I’m afraid,” he said. “But I’ve thought about it a good deal and I’ve decided the only thing to do is tell you right

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away. I hope you won’t blame me too much. And he told her. It didn’t take long, four or five minutes at most, and she say very still through it all, watching him with a kind of dazed horror as he went further and further away from her with each word.

“So there it is,” he added. “And I know it’s kind of a bad time to be telling you, bet there simply wasn’t any other way. Of course I’ll give you money and see you’re looked after. But there needn’t really be any fuss. I hope not anyway. It wouldn’t be very good for my job.”

Her first instinct was not to believe any of it, to reject it all. It occurred to her that perhaps he hadn’t even spoken, that she herself had imagined the whole thing. Maybe, if she went about her business and acted as though she hadn’t been listening, then later, when she sort of woke up again, she might find none of it had ever happened.

“I’ll get the supper,” she managed to whisper, and this time he didn’t stop her.

When she walked across the room she couldn’t feel her feet touching the floor. She couldn’t feel anything at all- except a slight nausea and a desire to vomit. Everything was automatic now-down the steps to the cellar, the light switch, the deep freeze, the hand inside the cabinet taking hold of the first object it met. She lifted it out, and looked at it. It was wrapped in paper, so she took off the paper and looked at it again.

A leg of lamb. All right then, they would have lamb for supper. She carried it upstairs,

holding the thin bone-end of it with both her hands, and as she went through the living room, she saw him standing over by the window with his back to her, and she stopped.

“For God’s sake,” he said, hearing her, but not turning round. “Don’t make supper for me. I’m going out.”

At that point, Mary Maloney simply walked up behind him and without any pause she swung the big frozen leg of lamb high in the air and brought it down as hard as she could on the back of his head.

She might just as well have hit him with a steel club. She stepped back a pace, waiting, and the funny thing was that he remained

standing there for at least four or five seconds, gently swaying. Then he crashed to the carpet.

The violence of the crash, the noise, the small table overturning, helped bring her out of her shock. She came out slowly, feeling cold and surprised, and she stood for a while blinking at the body, still holding the ridiculous piece of meat tight with both hands.

All right, she told herself. So I’ve killed him. It was extraordinary, now, how clear her mind became all of a sudden. She

began thinking very fast. As the wife of a detective, she knew quite well what the penalty would be. That was fine. It made no difference to her. In fact, it would be a relief. On the other hand, what about the child? What were the laws about murderers with unborn children? Did they kill then both-mother and child? Or did they wait until the tenth month? What did they do Mary Maloney didn’t know. And

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she certainly wasn’t prepared to take a chance. She carried the meat into the kitchen, placed it in a pan, turned the oven on

high, and shoved it inside. Then she washed her hands and ran upstairs to the bedroom. She sat down before the mirror, tidied her hair, touched up her lops and face. She tried a smile. It came out rather peculiar. She tried again.

“Hullo Sam,” she said brightly, aloud. The voice sounded peculiar too. “I want some potatoes please, Sam. Yes, and I think a can of peas.”That was better. Both the smile and the voice were coming out better now.

She rehearsed it several times more. Then she ran downstairs, took her coat, and went out the back door, down the garden, into the street.

It wasn’t six o’clock yet and the lights were still on in the grocery shop. “Hullo Sam,” she said brightly, smiling at the man behind the counter. “Why, good evening, Mrs. Maloney. How are you?” “I want some potatoes please, Sam. Yes, and I think a can of peas.” The man turned and reached up behind him on the shelf for the peas. “Patrick’s decided he’s tired and doesn’t want to eat out tonight,” she told

him.“We usually go out Thursdays, you know, and now he’s caught me without

any vegetables in the house.”“Then how about meat, Mrs. Maloney?”“No, I’ve got meat, thanks. I got a nice leg of lamb from the freezer.”“Oh.” “I don’t know much like cooking it frozen, Sam, but I’m taking a chance

on it this time. You think it’ll be all right?” “Personally,” the grocer said, “I don’t believe it makes any difference. You

want these Idaho potatoes?”“Oh yes, that’ll be fine. Two of those.”“Anything else?” The grocer cocked his head on one side, looking at her

pleasantly. “How about afterwards? What you going to give him for afterwards?”“Well-what would you suggest, Sam?”The man glanced around his shop. “How about a nice big slice of

cheesecake? I know he likes that.”“Perfect,” she said. “He loves it.”And when it was all wrapped and she had paid, she put on her brightest

smile and said, “Thank you, Sam. Goodnight.”“Goodnight, Mrs. Maloney. And thank you.”And now, she told herself as she hurried back, all she was doing now, she

was returning home to her husband and he was waiting for his supper; and she must cook it good, and make it as tasty as possible because the poor man was tired; and if, when she entered the house, she happened to find anything unusual, or tragic, or terrible, then naturally it would be a shock and she’d become frantic with grief and horror. Mind you, she wasn’t expecting to find anything. She was just going home with the vegetables. Mrs. Patrick Maloney going home with the vegetables on Thursday evening to cook supper for her husband.

That’s the way, she told herself. Do everything right and natural. Keep

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things absolutely natural and there’ll be no need for any acting at all. Therefore, when she entered the kitchen by the back door, she was

humming a little tune to herself and smiling.“Patrick!” she called. “How are you, darling?”She put the parcel down on the table and went through into the living room;

and when she saw him lying there on the floor with his legs doubled up and one arm twisted back underneath his body, it really was rather a shock. All the old love and longing for him welled up inside her, and she ran over to him, knelt down beside him, and began to cry her heart out. It was easy. No acting was necessary.

A few minutes later she got up and went to the phone. She knows the number of the police station, and when the man at the other end answered, she cried to him, “Quick! Come quick! Patrick’s dead!”

“Who’s speaking?”“Mrs. Maloney. Mrs. Patrick Maloney.”“You mean Patrick Maloney’s dead?”“I think so,” she sobbed. “He’s lying on the floor and I think he’s dead.” “Be right over,” the man said.The car came very quickly, and when she opened the front door, two

policemen walked in. She know them both-she know nearly all the man at that precinct-and she fell right into a chair, then went over to join the other one, who was called O’Malley, kneeling by the body.

“Is he dead?” she cried.“I’m afraid he is. What happened?”Briefly, she told her story about going out to the grocer and coming back to

find him on the floor. While she was talking, crying and talking, Noonan discovered a small patch of congealed blood on the dead man’s head. He showed it to O’ Malley who got up at once and hurried to the phone.

Soon, other men began to come into the house. First a doctor, then two detectives, one of whom she know by name. Later, a police photographer arrived and took pictures, and a man who know about fingerprints. There was a great deal of whispering and muttering beside the corpse, and the detectives kept asking her a lot of questions. But they always treated her kindly. She told her story again, this time right from the beginning, when Patrick had come in, and she was sewing, and he was tired, so tired he hadn’t wanted to go out for supper. She told how she’d put the meat in the oven-”it’s there now, cooking”- and how she’d slopped out to the grocer for vegetables, and come back to find him lying on the floor.

“Which grocer?” one of the detectives asked.She told him, and he turned and whispered something to the other detective

who immediately went outside into the street. In fifteen minutes he was back with a page of notes, and there was more whispering, and through her sobbing she heard a few of the whispered phrases-”...acted quite normal...very cheerful...wanted to give him a good supper…. peas...cheesecake...impossible that she...”

After a while, the photographer and the doctor departed and two other men came in and took the corpse away on a stretcher. Then the fingerprint man went away. The two detectives remained, and so did the two policemen. They were exceptionally nice to her, and Jack Noonan asked if she wouldn’t rather go

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somewhere else, to her sister’s house perhaps, or to his own wife who would take care of her and put her up for the night. No, she said. She didn’t feel she could move even a yard at the moment. Would they mind awfully of she stayed just where she was until she felt better. She didn’t feel too good at the moment, she really didn’t. Then hadn’t she better lie down on the bed? Jack Noonan asked. No, she said. She’d like to stay right where she was, in this chair. A little later, perhaps, when she felt better, she would move.So they left her there while they went about their business, searching the house. Occasionally one of the detectives asked her another question. Sometimes Jack Noonan spoke at her gently as he passed by. Her husband, he told her, had been killed by a blow on the back of the head administered with a heavy blunt instrument, almost certainly a large piece of metal. They were looking for the weapon. The murderer may have taken it with him, but on the other hand he may have thrown it away or hidden it somewhere on the premises.

“It’s the old story,” he said. “Get the weapon, and you’ve got the man.”Later, one of the detectives came up and sat beside her. Did she know, he

asked, of anything in the house that could’ve been used as the weapon? Would she mind having a look around to see if anything was missing-a very big spanner, for example, or a heavy metal vase.

They didn’t have any heavy metal vases, she said. “Or a big spanner?” She didn’t think they had a big spanner. But there might be some things like

that in the garage. The search went on. She knew that there were other policemen in the garden all around the house. She could hear their footsteps on the gravel outside, and sometimes she saw a flash of a torch through a chink in the curtains. It began to get late, nearly nine she noticed by the clock on the mantle. The four men searching the rooms seemed to be growing weary, a trifle exasperated.

“Jack,” she said, the next tome Sergeant Noonan went by. “Would you mind giving me a drink?”

“Sure I’ll give you a drink. You mean this whiskey?” “Yes please. But just a small one. It might make me feel better.” He handed her the glass. “Why don’t you have one yourself,” she said. “You must be awfully tired.

Please do. You’ve been very good to me.” “Well,” he answered. “It’s not strictly allowed, but I might take just a drop

to keep me going.” One by one the others came in and were persuaded to take a little nip of

whiskey. They stood around rather awkwardly with the drinks in their hands, uncomfortable in her presence, trying to say consoling things to her. Sergeant Noonan wandered into the kitchen, come out quickly and said, “Look, Mrs. Maloney. You know that oven of yours is still on, and the meat still inside.”

“Oh dear me!” she cried. “So it is!” “I better turn it off for you, hadn’t I?” “Will you do that, Jack. Thank you so much.” When the sergeant returned the second time, she looked at him with her

large, dark tearful eyes. “Jack Noonan,” she said.

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“Yes?” “Would you do me a small favor-you and these others?” “We can try, Mrs. Maloney.” “Well,” she said. “Here you all are, and good friends of dear Patrick’s too,

and helping to catch the man who killed him. You must be terrible hungry by now because it’s long past your suppertime, and I know Patrick would never forgive me, God bless his soul, if I allowed you to remain in his house without offering you decent hospitality. Why don’t you eat up that lamb that’s in the oven. It’ll be cooked just right by now.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Sergeant Noonan said. “Please,” she begged. “Please eat it. Personally I couldn’t tough a thing,

certainly not what’s been in the house when he was here. But it’s all right for you. It’d be a favor to me if you’d eat it up. Then you can go on with your work again afterwards.”

There was a good deal of hesitating among the four policemen, but they were clearly hungry, and in the end they were persuaded to go into the kitchen and help themselves. The woman stayed where she was, listening to them speaking among themselves, their voices thick and sloppy because their mouths were full of meat.

“Have some more, Charlie?” “No. Better not finish it.” “She wants us to finish it. She said so. Be doing her a favor.” “Okay then. Give me some more.”

“That’s the hell of a big club the gut must’ve used to hit poor Patrick,” one of them was saying. “The doc says his skull was smashed all to pieces just like from a sledgehammer.”

“That’s why it ought to be easy to find.”“Exactly what I say.”“Whoever done it, they’re not going to be carrying a thing like that around

with them longer than they need.”One of them belched.“Personally, I think it’s right here on the premises.”“Probably right under our very noses. What you think, Jack?”And in the other room, Mary Maloney began to giggle.

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MariahChe Husna Azhari

It was seven in the morning on a typical day in the small village town of Molo. The main trunk road from Pasir Puteh to Kota Bharu was already choked with the bicycle traffic from school children wending their way to the three main schools in the village. Long past subuh time, the mosque was empty. The hub of activity was now the market square where men congregate to have breakfast. Breakfast could be the various nasi, roti canai, or the myriad Kelantan breakfast tepung.

That particular morning, though, most of the men were not eating their breakfast but instead their gaze was fixed on the main entrance to the square. Seven a.m. was a bit late for breakfast; already the first slant of sunlight was filtering through the eaves of the blinds in the market. The men were getting restless. They were definitely waiting for something to appear. Very soon after, however; there was much excitement. All eyes were transfixed on a figure coming through the entrance. It was the figure of a woman. She was delicately balancing two huge basins on her head, her hips swaying gaily to and fro with the rhythm of the balancing. That particular gyrating seemed to mesmerise the men and glue them to their places.

There was much to mesmerise as far as Mariah was concerned, for that was the name of the lady with the two basins on her head. Mariah was a nasi seller in Molo, in fact the nasi seller in Molo. Every morning at seven sharp she would walk past the market entrance into the village square and mesmerise the men with her swaying hips as well as her nasi: nasi kerabu, nasi belauk and nasi dagang. Rumour had it (started by women folk) that her nasi weren’t much to crow about, but it was a combination of Mariah’s swaying as well as her easy smile that made all the men flock to the village square. Many a nasi belauk breakfast remained cold and uneaten in the houses as men ignored their wives' cooking and paid tribute to Mariah's instead.

Mariah also had another asset. She was without a husband. Note that I didn’t say either divorced or widowed. It would not have mattered either way in Kelantan. The most important thing was she was not with a husband. This was not to imply that she was not decorous in her manners… on the contrary, she was very

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much so… but men seem to want to partake of her nasi more because of her unmarried state.

Mariah had been married once, but her husband had passed away soon after. There had been many suitors after her husband’s untimely demise, but Mariah had seemed singularly uninterested. Rumour too (also spread by the womenfolk) had it that it was our Mariah who drove her husband to an early grave. This rumour was never corroborated by medical evidence, so we will never be able to confirm this allegation. Fifteen years after her husband’s death, which would make her fortyish, Mariah would easily pass for a beauty in her late twenties. Mariah was tall and well-proportioned and moved gracefully. No, not gracefully but sensuously. Her face was unlined, her complexion fair and her very dark, very black eyes appeared to glow. Mariah always had on a short kebaya which accentuated her well-proportioned curves. As a concession to propriety she used to cover her head and part of her torso with a kain lepas, a two-metre traditional head and body cover much favoured by the working womenfolk of Kelantan. The Kota Bharu Nickies or the more modern women prefer either a sliver of a scarf or go bare-headed, but in Molo one does not go about without a kain lepas. To do so would be to incur the wrath of the village Imam, who was the guardian of modesty and propriety and enforcer of stringent mores.

On that particular morning, the Imam was with the men, falling on Mariah’s nasi belauk with much relish. His wife’s own nasi belauk was still waiting for him on his kitchen table under the tudung saji, getting very cold indeed. The Imam’s wife was pottering about in her spotless kitchen, muttering about the Imam’s lateness for breakfast. The Imam liked his nasi belauk and his wife took great care in its preparation. Her culinary skills were not her only attribute; her housekeeping was also a model to be followed by other womenfolk in the village. One could always call at the Imam’s house at any time of the day, guaranteed to be greeted by a well-turned-out wife, hot tepung and fragrant surroundings. The Imam’s wife was somewhat assisted in this respect by not having grubby children who would mess things up. It was the only flaw in an otherwise perfect marriage.

Quarrelsome couples who called at the Imam’s place for arbitration would be sobered by the domestic serenity of the Imam’s abode. They would all gape enviously at the surroundings and forget to quarrel. They would listen attentively to the Imam’s sermon and exhortations to peace, hang their heads in shame and make new resolutions, but promptly quarrel again as soon as they got home. Their own domestic atmospheres were just not congenial enough for peace. But enough said about the Imam’s exemplary household, more important events were unfolding.

As the Imam’s wife was vigorously scrubbing at an already spotless sink, there were salutations from the front door. It was a delegation of womenfolk from the village headed by Cik Gu Nab, one of the local women leaders. She was a teacher at a local primary school. Cik Yam wiped her hands and bade the visitors in. They were unexpected but not unwelcome. Cik Gu Nab made small talk for a while, commenting first on Cik Yam’s exquisitely appliquéd safrah before launching into the matter at hand. The matter at hand turned out to be none other than Mariah.

“Cik Yam,” began Cik Gu Nab, trying to put the matter across as delicately

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as possible, we mean our sisters no harm, in fact we are very happy if each one of us goes about doing her own thing. As we often say, each woman to their own rizq. In fact, we feel very bad about having to come to you. We don’t like to backbite our own sister”

Cik Gu Nab cleared her throat and looked at the others for assent. Having got it in the form of gravely nodding heads, Cik Gu Nab continued: “Cik Yam, the problem now is that one of our own sisters is not doing her own thing at all, but instead meddling with other people’s”.

The Imam’s wife Cik Yam listened attentively.“Who do you mean, Cik Gu Nab?” Cik Yam asked, “er,…this

troublemaker?”, wondering what this meandering of Cik Gu Nab’s was leading up to. Cik Gu Nab was known to favour a touch of melodrama and to use it to maximum effect always.

“Why, Cik Yam, we mean Mariah, of course, the nasi seller! Don’t tell me you don’t know what she’s been up to!” Cik Gu Nab looked peeved at Cik Yam’s ignorance of important village matters.

What can Mariah possibly be up to, thought Cik Yam. Mariah was apt to go around in her short and loud kebaya, but she was always properly covered by her kain lepas. If she hadn’t been so, the Imam would have reminded Cik Yam to pay her a visit. So it couldn’t have been the kain lepas.

“No, I don’t know, Cik Gu Nab. What has she been up to?” Cik Yam smiled sweetly. Cik Yam knew about most village matters, but not quick enough, it would seem. She was always too busy with housework to gossip. Besides, it was not considered proper for the Imam’s wife to be caught gossiping.

“Cik Yam,” continued Cik Gu Nab, “Mariah has been enticing our men to abandon their homes for her kedai merpati. You know her nasi cannot be that special. Why, I am sure for one she cannot beat your nasi belauk.” (Cik Yam readily agreed). “But why do all these men seem hell-bent on eating breakfast at her place? I reckon, I mean we reckon she has put something in her nasi.” Cik Gu Nab paused for breath.

“I can’t believe that, Cik Gu Nab! God forbid!” Cik Yam considered her next words carefully. "We cannot accuse Mariah of something so grave without any concrete evidence. That’s terribly unfair, you know, Cik Gu Nab. Perhaps that ‘something’ you alleged she put in the nasi is just plain skill, Allah knows.”

Cik Gu Nab started. She felt she was being reproached. She did not like this allusion to her cooking skills either. Certainly, it was not her forte, still Cik Yam was being very malicious, she thought.

“I didn’t say ‘it’ enticed all the men, Cik Yam. My Cik Gu Leh (Cik Gu Nab’s husband), for instance, would never dream of having breakfast anywhere but at home. Some men do get easily enticed, some don’t. Speaking of which, I saw the sainted Tok Imam himself having breakfast at Mariah’s” Having delivered this stinging repartee, Cik Gu Nab stood and left in a huff. In a pointed rebuff, she did not even say a proper farewell.

Cik Yam went a deep shade of crimson. Cik Gu Nab’s last retort was as good as a slap on the face. Cik Yam, incidentally, was a seasoned politician. The words stung her, surely, but she did not flinch. She was unnerved, but she quickly

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regained enough composure to smile at the rest of the delegates, served them her beautiful tepung and indulged in the social niceties required. Replete with Cik Yam’s tepung and fortified with the latest gossip, the ladies then left. Only then did Cik Yam sit down to think of a way to settle the issue with the Imam. He was not going to escape unscathed, that she was going to make sure of!

The Imam went about his usual business and came home at 12:30 to have his lunch. Cik Yam was there to greet him; she took of his kuffiyah and gave him a clean sarong to change into. The Imam looked at his wife with obvious pride. There was not a living man in Molo who did not envy him for having such a devoted wife. But then, quick as lightning, as always he would look around at his empty house and let out a sigh. Why couldn’t his wife bear children like other women? Some women, it seemed, have the fecundity of rabbits, but not his wife. Like all men of his generation, it never occurred to him he could be the culprit in his wife’s supposed inability to bear children. As far as he was concerned, bearing children was a woman’s job, and if she didn’t there was something wrong with her. Fertility had nothing to do with men.

“Is lunch ready, Yam?” asked the Imam.“Why, yes, Abang, it’s under the tudung saji,” replied Cik Yam. The Imam

picked up the tudung saji for his lunch, but much to his surprise it turned out to be the morning’s nasi belauk. He was stunned into silence for a good few minutes. Cik Yam took the opportunity to confront him.

“I thought you would still like to finish off my nasi belauk after you breakfasted at Mariah’s. After all, I have to prove that my nasi belauk is still edible compared to Mariah’s especially since the whole village saw you eating away, behaving as if your wife has never prepared nasi belauk for you! And Abang, I had to learn of it through someone else too!”

Cik Yam threw the tudung saji on the floor, narrowly missing the Imam’s foot, then ran sobbing to their bedroom. What the hell is happening, thought the Imam. How did she know I had breakfast at Mariah’s. It must have been one of the womenfolk.

“Oh …women! They are so impossible; why do they have to go around making life difficult for men? Beats the hell out of me,” muttered the Imam in vexation.

It was the only time he had ever gone to Mariah’s. And he had done so only at that Cik Gu Leh’ insistence. Cik Gu Leh had been extolling the virtues of Mariah’s nasi belauk, but really Cik Gu Leh is no authority on the subject as his wife Cik Gu Nab, as everybody knew, was a hopeless cook. The Imam begged to be excused, but Cik Gu Leh was most persistent. So finally, the Imam relented. The nasi belauk was, as he had expected, passable, but no more. It did not surprise him in the least. The thing that did surprise him was Mariah herself. At the thought of Mariah the Imam smiled dreamily to himself. What a woman she is! The Imam became transported to another time, his youth…

When the Imam was a young man of fifteen his father had voiced his wish for his son to be sent to Pattani in Southern Thailand to learn under the tutelage of a well-known Sheikh. His father had spent a few years there himself but had not progressed very much. He had always nursed a secret ambition for his son to be the

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scholar he could not be and in doing so exculpate himself. The Imam had protested, full of other plans. He had no stamina for the arduous task of being a scholar. He feigned indelicate health, but his father had decreed. The Imam, under protest and under duress, was sent to Pattani. The Imam was miserable in Pattani, moping for his mother and his friends rather than studying. But Allah is great and the Imam’s misery was soon alleviated.

One day when he had been in Pattani about three month, the Imam took his water pot to go to the communal well for his ablutions. It was around two or three in the afternoon when there were not many people about. The Imam saw from a distance a young lady drawing water from the well. Perhaps she thought there was no one about so her head was not covered. The Imam saw her tresses in their full silken glory. The white of her skin on her bare throat was blinding. The Imam stopped in his tracks, then took full flight. He ran trembling to his hut, panting and breathless. He took a drink of water and reflected upon the event. Who could that beautiful creature be? “I love her,” he said to himself. “I love her and I shall make her mine. I want no one else,” he vowed. He felt his head. It was throbbing as hard as his heart, as hot and feverish as his passion. Then he learnt that the object of his ardour was the daughter of the Sheikh himself.

The Imam kept the burning secret to himself. Even his housemates never knew of this love. The Imam’s behaviour was nothing but exemplary. His manners were extremely correct, especially to the ladies. He was punctilious in the performance of his duties. If the Imam was consumed with love, the Sheikh was the last person to know. The Sheikh thought that the Imam stayed for the love of the Deen. It is true that as the years passed the Imam grew to love the Deen and the Sheikh, but so too did his love for the Sheikh’s daughter grow. In the Imam’s final year, the Sheikh was entrusting more and more of his duties to his model pupil, the Imam. The Imam was conducting kulliyahs, performing prayers and sometimes even paying courtesy calls on the Sheikh’s behalf.

He is grooming me to take his place and to be his son-in-law, thought the Imam. How full of hope he was! How sweet were the days as they passed for the Imam! How he patiently waited for the day when the Sheikh would broach the subject to him but it was not to be. The Sheikh did broach the subject of his daughter to him but only to invite him to his daughter’s wedding to a cousin. The Imam was shattered. His world crashed around him. Pattani was nothing but a cauldron of smouldering embers. The Imam packed his books and bade good-bye to his Sheikh. He was really very fond of the old man and also very grateful for the tutelage, but he had to go. The Sheikh begged him to stay to look after his mosque for him, but the Imam gently refused. If it were not for the agony of having to see his beloved as somebody else’s wife, he would have stayed.

The Imam came home grieving to Kelantan. His mother understood the grieving and in a few months found him Cik Yam. Cik Yam, though no raving beauty, was an accomplished cook as well as being modest and extremely virtuous. She had been an obedient and excellent wife, but she was not the Sheikh’s daughter. The Imam had been happy with Cik Yam and gradually as he grew older the hurt had eased. He had not thought again of the Sheikh’s daughter for a long time… that is, until that morning, when, by the fate of God, Cik Gu Leh had

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dragged him to Mariah’s kedai merpati…“Oh Mariah…” sighed the Imam. “Why do you have to be so like her… my

long-lost love, the Passion of My Youth? Oh Mariah, why do you have to look like her from your toes right up to your eyebrows! It’s a test. By Allah! It’s a test.”

The Imam became very frightened. He left the table, took his ablutions and quickly went to the mosque.

“Let me find refuge there,” he though. “Save me, O God.”What had his Sheikh always said in times like this? He quickly recollected.Abase Yourselfto the One You Love.Passion is Not Easy.Indeed, passion is not easy. “I have dispensed with thee, O Passion.. I have

divorced thee thrice.”The Imam kept repeating this litany as if in prayer. After the afternoon

prayer the Imam stayed long in prostration. He dallied in the mosque. He came out but went in again. Finally he went in and fell into a troubled sleep, something which he had never done before.

The days passed. Things appeared normal. The Imam was punctual in his prayers and diligent in his duties, but his heart was in turmoil. He remembered a verse from his Pattani days…

O lady of excess who strips away myacts of devotion in every state.There is no kindness in my woundEither it is by abasement and it isattached to passion, or it is by might and it is attached to KingdomIf you’re in your immunity, itprotects us and if you’re in the sea,you come in the boat.It was either from Fusus Al-Hakam, or the Knowledge of Man, the Imam

could not be certain, but it certainly seemed apt now.The Imam tried to go home to Cik Yam after subuh prayers, but every time

somehow, in spite of himself, he would be by Cik Gu Leh’s side going to Mariah’s for breakfast. Mariah saw nothing amiss. She treated the Imam with reverence and courtesy, befitting his station and stature. She served him the choicest morsels on her best cutlery. He was, after all, the village Imam.

The Imam would take the nasi belauk without averting his gaze from the plate in accordance with the Quranic injunction for men to lower their gazes. He would tremble slightly, but the men in the kedai merpati attributed that to extreme modesty. “The Imam is an extremely modest man,” thought the other men, “not used to the company of women.” Every time he took the nasi belauk from Mariah he would feel a pang of guilt, remembering his wife’s nasi belauk under the tudung saji.

“Forgive me, oh God, for men are weak,” supplicated the Imam silently, spooning nasi belauk into his mouth. After the nasi belauk the Imam would still tarry, nursing a cup of coffee with Cik Gu Leh. At least, that was how it looked on

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the surface. That was the time the Imam would use to steal long lingering glances at Mariah. His heart ached with the pent-up longing for the Sheikh’s daughter. Oh Mariah!...

Things would never be the same again for the Imam. He spent the nights in supplication, asking God for succour. He was frightened of the emotions stirred up by his unintentional meeting with Mariah. It was too colossal for him to handle. And yet he felt elated. He believed it was fated, a part of a grand design by God to heal his heart; but on the account of a woman? Can a beautiful alluring woman be a part of a healing process? It seemed so profane to the Imam. But why should a woman be more profane than a man? Did not the Prophet himself say that three things are pleasing to him, prayers, women and perfume? There you are! Proof, exoneration for the Imam. He felt resolved to do what he had to do. Cik Gu Leh would be his emissary.

The Imam chose the occasion well. It had to be on a Thursday night, the eve of Friday. After prayers and long supplication, the Imam went to his bedroom. Cik Yam was sitting on the bed waiting for him to finish. He knelt by the bed and kissed Cik Yam’s hands. Cik Yam was surprised by this reverent show of affection but did not say anything. Cik Yam waited. The Imam kissed Cik Yam’s knees and then placed his head on Cik Yam’s lap. Cik Yam stroked his head lovingly. Immediately as if released by a valve the Imam’s hot tears fell on Cik Yam’s sarong. Cik Yam felt the hot tears on her skin as it seeped through the sarong. Cik Yam lifted the Imam’s head and looked at him questioningly. Fifteen years of marital bliss had left its mark. Love and understanding shone through Cik Yam’s also tear-filled eyes.

“Tell me what grieves you, my husband, and I will make it better for you,” Cik Yam whispered to the Imam. At these words the Imam felt himself choke, but he steeled himself. He told Cik Yam of his unrequited love for the Sheikh’s daughter. He told Cik Yam of his pain and longing. He then told Cik Yam of Mariah, how he had fought his emotions and how he had lost. He begged Cik Yam’s forgiveness, kissed the hem of Cik Yam’s sarong and asked for her permission to take Mariah as his second wife!

Cik Yam jumped up as if struck by a bolt of lightning. Can that dreaded thing most feared by women be real, happening to her? Please God, let it not be true, she prayed. Why couldn’t it have happened to that lazy Cik Gu Nab, who couldn’t even fry an egg properly? Why her? The loving devoted wife, the model housewife? Why? Why? Despair and humiliation all came and passed through Cik Yam’s heart. She threw herself on the bed and wept piteously.

“O wretched, wretched self!”By then Cik Yam was racked by despairing sobs. The Imam tried to hold

her, but she pushed him away. Finally the Imam managed to capture her in his embrace and placated her with promises of his love and continuing devotion.

“I love you and will always love you, Yam. Nothing can change that. I will always be your husband. I will care for you, Yam” … he said in between kisses on Cik Yam’s forehead, hands and finally, in the final act of submission, on Cik Yam’s feet. Thus the night passed and in the morning with the first rays of sunlight, Cik Yam said “Yes” to the Imam’s request, on condition of equality. The Imam had

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breakfast at home with Cik Yam and he himself spooned the nasi belauk into Cik Yam’s mouth.

Three days after this even, the whole town of Molo was rife with speculations. Word got around the village that the Imam was taking a second wife, and that person was none other than Mariah!

“Isn’t that rather odd?” gossiped the villagers. “The Imam and Cik Yam have been married for fifteen years and Cik Yam is a model of virtue.”

“Then of course Cik Yam is childless…,” voices trailed away.The men in the village were all excitedly handling this issue in their own

ways. They had all at some time or other in their lives fantasised about having second wives, but sadly, neither their wives nor their budgets were accommodating enough. Cik Yam became a paragon of virtue. Women wondered how she could have easily succumbed to the whole arrangement. The men, on the other hand, wondered what Quranic ayats the Imam blew on Cik Yam’s face to subdue her. Perhaps he knew something they didn’t. It was difficult for everyone to agree upon one common reason. There was, however, something that everybody definitely agreed upon and that was … Cik Yam would certainly be found sheltering in the shade of the Umbrella of Siti Fatimah (the Prophet’s daughter) on the Day of Judgement. “Mashallah!” they all whispered reverently in awe of Cik Yam’s virtue and steadfastness; would that they were as strong as Cik Yam!

But what of Mariah, the object of all this commotion? She continued, serenely unaffected, with her nasi belauk selling until the very day she married the Imam. When Cik Gu Leh, the Imam’s emissary, came to her house asking for her hand, she had been surprised, to say the least. The Imam was not on her list of prospective suitor. Initially, she had thought Cik Gu Leh had come on his own behalf: Cik Gu Leh had been most partial to her nasi. Cik Gu Nab had even begun sending threatening messages. But Cik Gu Leh had come for the Imam. Mariah only dithered for a day, then said “Yes”. The Imam was the man to marry, if she would ever wish to marry. A man of religion would be the only person worth marrying after all those years of self-imposed celibacy. She wondered why the Imam had ever considered marrying her. Cik Yam was a model wife. Mariah was, in fact, slightly in awe of the pious Cik Yam. Mariah felt like a harlot in her short orange kebaya, sitting beside the robed Cik Yam. Cik Yam had been kind to her and allayed her fears. Truly Cik Yam was an angel, to willingly share her husband with her, Mariah the blousy lady, untutored in religion, in fact untutored in everything except nasi belauk selling!

“It’s all Allah’s decree,” sighed Mariah. “So be it.”Mariah’s wedding surpassed even her own expectations. Her relatives, in

deference to the stature of the new husband-to-be, organised the wedding with particular zealousness. She took out her savings from nasi belauk selling and prepared a bridal chamber grander than that of her first wedding. In an uncharacteristic show of flamboyance and extravagance, Mariah had her wedding finery tailored in Kota Bharu, no less. Her first husband had not been an Imam, there had been no need for such fuss. Guests streamed into the house compound from sunrise till sundown, heaping compliments upon her and congratulating her.

“Well, at least they harbour no ill feelings towards me,” she noted.

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After the isha’ prayers, with the guests finally departed, she sighed with obvious relief that it was all over. Mariah found herself alone in the bridal chamber, ready to again begin life anew as a married woman. The Imam saluted at the door, and she replied, giving him permission to enter. The Imam was dressed in a white jubah and white serban, looking resplendent. Mariah noticed that the serban was held in place with the ends fashionably tied back. She suddenly realised how physically attractive the Imam was: tall, well-built and with measured movements. Mariah quickly averted her eyes from his piercing gaze and looked demurely at her hennaed hand. He came forward, took Mariah’s hand in his own and kissed it fervently and long, inhaling the heady scent of Mariah’s Tabu perfume. His eyes closed, his dream realised, the Imam managed a hoarse “Thank you, God, for Your Bounty,” before Mariah’s perfume completely enveloped him and his senses.

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