Asean-20Th Century Literatures Selected Poems and Short Stories From

ASEAN-20TH CENTURY LITERATURES SELECTED POEMS AND SHORT STORIES FROM

MALAYSIA

Country Coordinator MS. DAYANG KARTINI BINTI AWANG BUJANG Assistant Secretary International Relations Division (Culture) Ministry of Tourism and Culture

MALAYSIA

INTRODUCTION

POEMS Letter from the Bird Community to the Mayor

(Surat Dari Masyarakat Burung Kepada Datuk Bandar) Written and translated by Usman Awang Twilight of Conscience (Ufuk Nurani) by A. Samad Said Translated by Harry Aveling A Toilet Paper City (Kota Kertas Tandas) by Baha Zain Translated by Muhammad Haji Salleh In The Distance (Saujana) Written and translated by Kemala chapter twenty-two (ii) (ceritera yang ketiga puluh dua ) Written and translated by Muhammad Haji Salleh A Frying Pan (Kuali Hitam) by Zurinah Hassan Translated by Muhammad Haji Salleh

SHORT STORIES Hallucination by Keris Mas Translated by Noraini Md. Yusof A Time Once Past (Pada Suatu Masa Dahulu) by Fatimah Busu Translated by Noraini Md. Yusof Friends (Sahabat) by Anwar Ridhwan Translated by Tanja Jonid BIOGRAPHIES OF WRITERS BIBLIOGRAPHY GLOSSARY MAP OF PENINSULAR MALAYSIA

INTRODUCTION

Modern Malaysian literature is a true product of history - the result of the clash of indigenous traditions with the colonising ones from the West, most pronounced around the end of the 19th century. This clash also created a new sense of place and function for the writer and his individual consciousness. From then on he/she sought to describe new scenarios and express his/her own perspectives and opinions with more confidence and conviction. Traditional literary formulae were slowly replaced with new and original lines and metaphors, while the verse and the narrative forms were loosened to allow the writer’s personality to be expressed.

The Novel The first expressions of the self came, interestingly, through travelogues, where we also may find the early beginnings of the autobiography. Though many (colonial) scholars tended to name Abdullah Munsyi as initiator of change, it was in fact Lauddin, with his Hikayat Nakhoda Muda (Memoirs of a Malayan Family, 1788), Ahmad Rijaluddin with his description of his voyage to Calcutta in 1810, Hikayat Perintah Negeri Benggala, and Tuan Simi with a collection of post-colonial and self-conscious syairs (poets) who laid the groundwork for a long road to literary transformation. It was only after that Abdullah Munsyi barged in with his self-righteous description of his travels along the states of the East Coast of the Malay Peninsula and the events in Singapore in the 1820s–1850s. After that came, arguably a work with elements of the new novel, Hikayat Panglima Nikosa (The Narrative of Nikosa, The Warrior, 1876), written in Sarawak by a journalist Ahmad Shawal bin Abdul Hamid. Here the new was still buried in the old, for change and modernisation is a long process, not a single lonely dot on the empty page of history.

The next stage saw the experimentation with the new novel by Syed Syeikh al-Hadi, in his Hikayat Faridah Hanum (The Narrative of Faridah Hanum, 1925), written in Malay, but with Egyptian characters and context. The theme itself, though, was new in the

Peninsula, i.e. of the emancipation of women and importantly to choose their life partners. It echoed the concerns raised by Indonesian writers like Marah Rusli, which again reechoed that of Egyptian literature.

However, it was the colleague of Syed Syeikh’s, Ahmad Rashid Talu, who in fact, first brought the new narrative genre home to Malaysian characters, and their lives in Penang, Alor Setar and Kuala Lumpur, first lakah Salmah? (Isn’t so, Salmah, 1927), then in Kawan Benar (A True Friend, 1927) and Perangkap Hitam (1935). All these novels foregrounded the social problems of his community and the proposed cures.

Then came Ahmad Kato with his singularly fine work, Hikayat Cinta Kemudaan (A Narrative of Young Love, 1929). A novel of love, it describes with empathy the courage of a young couple who dared to choose each other, during the times when this was not the norm, especially when the woman was a divorcee. Told in pure and translucent Malay, it reflected a language of the times, decorous and tangential in its narration. In 1932, another Sarawakian novelist advanced the history of Malaysian literature further, with his Melati Sarawak (The Jasmine of Sarawak). Ahmad Kotot was followed by Abdul Rahim Kajai, a journalist and a short story writer. In his hands the new form found a clear and critical voice. The focus, characteristically, is still the social problems of the community, vis-a-vis in the face of the new immigrants from China, India and the Middle East. His works are now collected in Lain Padang Lain Belalang (Other Fields, Other Grasshoppers, 1961).

Among the most illustrious of early modern writers is Ishak Haji Muhammad (Pak Sako). A post-colonial writer, he was a satirist and caricaturist of the British colonial officers and other adventurers. One of them, Putera Gunung Tahan (The True Native of Gunung Tahan, 1957) a British William, was lost in the Malaysian jungles and came under the magical spell of Puteri Bongsu, the natural symbol of the power of the indigenous people of the country. In another pre-war novel, Anak Mat Lela Gila (The Son of the Crazy Mat Lela, reprinted 1966) continued the fashion that writers must be

the analysts of social problems. However in this work the young protagonist who was considered as slightly frenzied was the medium through whom the novelist speaks.

The New Poetry While prose narratives were making a strong headway, the new poetic form was slower in its development. Poets were comfortable with their age-old pantuns and syairs (poetry), which in fact found a new voice at the end of the 19th century and the first decades of the 20th.

In truth, this was the century of Syair Siti Zubaidah, Syair Dandan Setia, Syair Bidasari and also Gurindam 12. The first poets showing some vague elements of the modern were Harun Aminurrashid, Yassin Haji Maamor and Kasmani Haji Arif, in the 1920s and 1930s. It is quite clear that their experiments were very basic and raw – both in their form as well as their themes. Their lines moved along a staccato of images and quite unarranged. This period of experimentation continued through the World War II and right into the 1950s.

Post-War Novelists But the post-war years also saw the rise of some new short story writers and novelists. One of the most talented was Kamaluddin Muhammad (Keris Mas). He continued the philosophy of art of his Angkatan Sasterawan 50 (ASAS 50), the 1950’s Writer’s Movement, a group of left-leaning authors who were committed to writing about the downtrodden and the disenfranchised. For them, literature was an instrument of social progress, and subsequently they described the social issues in the villages and the rubber estates. Keris Mas’s post-colonial approach to some of his British characters did not avoid evaluating the colonial government and its officers. Later, however, he moved on to describe the new capitalist Malaysia and the desire to share the country’s riches with other races.

In his fine description, it is not wrong to name Keris Mas as the early master of the short story. With a fine sense of the real issues of the country, especially among the labourers and villagers, he was able to capture not only a visual portrait of their predicament, but also the complex tangle of their emotions. The traditional elements of narratives, like irony and even satire, were finely woven into his characters and themes.

Keris Mas often juxtaposes two different situations, as in Mereka Tidak Mengerti (They do not Understand), Kejadian di Estet (An Incident in the Estate) and Pemimpin Kecil dari Kuala Semantan (A Chieftain from the Semantan Estuary). The result is a subtle cut, as is often seen in old pantun (poet) verses.

The Post-War Verse – Sajak Baru (New Poems) It is interesting to note that Japanese Occupation of Malaya (1941-1945), which caused a great upheaval in the lives of the people, also ushered in a crop of young poets like Masuri S.N., Ahmady Asmara and Muhammad Ariff. But it also unwittingly encouraged a sense of literary identity, a pride of tradition and patriotism.

When the British returned after the war, new literary seeds have already been sown. Their poetic lines were more critical – self-conscious trials with the new freedom, and not least describing the economic difficulties of the colonised peoples under the British. Like his colleagues, Masuri’s poems were also products of the political and economic difficulties of the Malays. Sombre but also looking to a brighter future, his poems in fact ‘rejects pessimism, choosing a future of hopes. Thus he was always comparatively level headed and quite unsentimental’.

His voice is vibrant, a medium that fitted his themes. Words were measured with a sense of the modern nuances of the language. He nurtured it over several years so it may be able to describe his people and their problems.

A. Samad Ismail’s protege, Usman Awang, became a very popular poet and dramatist, not least because of his literary philosophy of ‘the arts for the sake of society’. Usman began with poetry but later branched off into drama, the short story and the novel. His themes are equally close to the people, and like his colleagues continued to describe the squalor of their poverty, as a result of their predicament of being left out of the country’s development. Among his works are Tulang-tulang Berserakan (Scattered Bones, 1966) Salam Benua (Greetings to the Continent, 1982).

Arena Wati hailed from an experience of the Malay Archipelago unlike any other Malaysian writer. His years as a sailor, captain, editor and administrator in the Peninsula and Sabah all helped him to write novels that linked the different parts of the region through its numerous characters and common themes. These characters cross natural and cultural borders, but often also cross to more universal issues. Some of them are taken from the American, Japanese and Dutch contexts and concerns, as echoes of the regional ones he found in Celebes, Java and the Malay Peninsula. Arena Wati was wonderfully productive, and in his last years, made time for trilogies that span many years in the lives of his characters. These include the Sakura and Buih trilogies. Thus his works are mine of historical, situational and regional documentation.

The works of Abdullah Hussain may be said to partly overlap the experiences of Arena Wati especially in the pre-independence years in Indonesia, in which he was a soldier in South Acheh. It comes as no surprise that his characters too became main characters in regional politics and experiences.

Abdullah’s controversial novel Interlok (Interlocked) was an attempt to describe how the three main races of Malaysia were woven early, into the raw fabric of the country. His later work, Imam, was a fair revaluation of the religious leaders of one village, and their narrow interpretation of the religion, and how even they too were not free from the struggle to retain and maintain power. The Imam himself was self-serving in their narrowness of mind.

Samad Said, a contemporary of Shahnon, came at the tail-end of the 1950s. While still philosophically a part of the Angkatan Sasterawan 1950’s, this was a period of greater discovery of the literary forms and experimentation. Samad writes both narrative prose and poetry. His famous early work Salina (1961), was set in the war slums in Singapore. Sungai Mengalir Lesu (Lazy River, 1967) continues its ugly drama. For the novelist, physical survival needs to share its urgency with moral concerns.

In a later novel, Langit Petang (Evening Skies, 1980) shows signs of greater terseness and intellectual maturity. Daerah Zeni (Zeni’s Territory, 1985) experiments with literary time in his narration. The past mixes into the present, in the mind of the main character, Lazri Meon. Samad’s favourite plot may also be seen in his two more recent novels, Ilham Di Tepi Tasik (Inspiration by the Lake, 2006) and Cinta Fansuri (Fansuri’s Love, 2007).

Shahnon Ahmad, a contemporary of A. Samad Said, is also a controversial novelist. Not only for his opposition to the ruling government, but also of his criticism of the Muslim powerful conservative groups and their less than religious practices. But Shahnon began early as the portrait artist of rural villagers struggling to survive their environment in Ranjau Sepanjang Jalan (No Harvest But a Thorn, 1966), and of nature’s dominance over man (Srengenge, 1973). His later works moved on to describe politicians, their pretences and sins. Recently, however, it was the new media, its impact on the society, the changes in its outlook on contemporary life that paraded into his sharp scope of his moral evaluation.

Thus the novels Rentung (Burnt to Ashes, 1965) and Ranjau Sepanjang Jalan paints for us the daily struggle of human beings against the indifferent but powerful forces of nature, on a wide but cramped canvas. Man, being powerless, however, must carve out little pockets of conquests or they will be reclaimed by the luxuriant and jealous nature. Shannon is best known for the life of his hardy characters that come raw from the fields and forests, walking to us in the mud of their lives.

Shahnon’s most recent development looks towards a literature for Muslim, i.e. works based on Islamic principles. Al-Shiqaq 1 (1985), Tok Guru (The Revered Guru, 1988), Ummi dan Abang Syeikhul (Ummi and Brother Syeikhul), 1992, belongs to this phase. His most recent work is a triology Lamunan Puitis: Sebuah Trilogi (Poetic Reminiscence: a Triology, 2003), which describes the relationship of man, with his God, his community and lastly, with the natural world. In 2007, he published yet another novel, Mahabbah (Love).

S. Othman Kelantan, a student of Shahnon, began writing in the 1960’s. He hailed from Kelantan where his first popular novel, Angin Timur Laut (The Northeast Winds, 1969), was set. In 1976 Juara (Champion), also a story of Kelantan, was published; it pits the various forces of the village in its full social and political tensions. Among his more recent works are Wajah Seorang Wanita (The Face of a Woman, 1990) and Ustaz (Religious Teacher, 1991).

The young recipient of the National Laureate Award, Anwar Ridhwan, began writing as a student in the university. His Hari-hari Terakhir Seorang Seniman (The Last Days of an Artist, 1980) paints a portrait of the critical times, when the traditions were being swept away, and rudely replaced by the callous and the superficial. Arus (Currents, 1985) was also much awarded and is a new phase in the career of this fresh new talent.

Perhaps Anwar’s most ambitious work is Naratif Ogoshoto (The Narrative of Ogoshoto, 2001), a novel contexting dictatorship in small states and injustice, practiced without mercy. Rich in magical realism it attempts to penetrate the mind of the megalomaniac. His most recent is Penyeberang Sempadan (Crossing Borders, 2012), in which the protagonist is hurled into the unknown and tries to find his meaning and the meaning of his life. However, it is that home country that finally takes him back, where he can live his life and find his place.

Poetry Poetry has always found its loyal poets, old and new, over the decades. For example, Baha Zain (Baharuddin Zainal) began writing as a student in the 1960’s. He came from a different phase in the modern history of Malaysia and therefore also from a different social context. His poetry clearly reflects this change. Though brought up in the village, he has found himself in the city and having to judge it, not only from the narrow perspective of the village, but also from the need for balance, a human environment that will nurture his kind.

Baha Zain is without doubt one of Malaysia’s most exciting poets today. He is a keen observer of the path of Malaysian history, but is often very involved in the issues that cover as disparate areas as morality, spiritual life and world politics. Understandably, thus his lines are not often happy ones, though his fate in human intelligence seems to say that it will help him survive his predicament.

But most unique is his poetic style. He is a poet of intellectual sensitivity, sincere involvement and a moral stance. Among his works are Perempuan dan Bayang-bayang (Women and Shadows, 1974) Dari Kertas Catatan Tengah Malam (From the Note Papers from the Middle of the Night, 1978) and Postponing Truth and other Poems (2008).

From the same generation, but unlike Baha Zain, comes A. Latiff Mohidin, a poet-painter, who naturally foregrounds images, colours and metaphors. His poems are often minimal, and use a language that is fresh and an approach deceptively simple but uniquely rare.

Latiff’s imaginative lines, surrealistic images often consider the elements of symmetry and music in their structure and design, thus offering the reader a more complete artistic experience.

His collections, Sungai Mekong (Mekong River, 1972), Wayang Pak Dalang (The Puppeteer’s Wayang, 1979) are a journey into the self of the poet, his solace and meaning of an existence in the later 20th century.

Meanwhile, in his Rawa-Rawa Marshes (1992) and Sajak Dinihari his style has considerably mellowed and his themes along with it.

With Latiff Mohidin and Baha Zain, Muhammad Haji Salleh makes a poetic triumvirate. He too began writing in the 1960’s and still quite productive in the 2010’s. In her preface to Critical Perspectives on Muhammad Haji Salleh, Zawiah Yahya (2003:10) writes, `he is a prolific writer, poet, critic, theorist, and teacher. The tensions and controversies surrounding his works, his post-colonial search for his roots and his openness to change make him a worthy subject of study’.

After long stays overseas he returned to find himself, to choose between his identities. For this reason he has also been called an `intellectual poet,’ not least also for his contemplative style and quieter voice, quite different from his predecessors.

The poet has published 14 collections of poetry, among them Sajak-sajak Pendatang (Poems of the Outsider, 1973), Buku Perjalanan Si Tenggang II (Travel Journals of Tenggang II, 1975), Sajak-sajak Sejarah Melayu (Poems from the Malay Annals, 1981). In 2004 he collates a series of poetic impressions of his year in Japan, entitled Salju Shibuya (The Snow of Shibuya, 2004). Four years after that, in 2008, poems recounting the multi-cultural life in the U.S.A. and Peru, Setitik Darah di Bilik Bundar (A Drop of Blood in the Oval Room) were published.

The next poet, a prolific writer, Kemala has authored stories and plays. He is now mostly known as the Sufi poet, in search of union with his Creator. Among his works are Meditasi (Meditation, 1972), ‘Ayn (1983), Titir Zikir (Sounds of Hymns, 1995), Mim (M, 1999) and Syurga ke Sembilan (Ninth Heaven, 2009).

Drama For this very short introduction we may only name the more important dramatists, as space is indeed limited.

Two early pioneers have made substantial contribution to its development. They are Shaharom Husain and Kalam Hamidy. In the years leading to Independence, in 1957, Kalam Hamidy gave audiences who were used to the traditional drama a dose of the new. As realism seeped in, Mustapha Kamal Yassin and Usman Awang become its champions.

In 1962 Ali Aziz’s Hang Jabot Menderhaka (Hang Jabot Rebels, 1962) it was Jebat who was given to stage, allowing his dissenting self to dramatise his side of the story. Later, Usman Awang too took up the intellectual battle between Hang Tuah and Hang Jebat, in his Matinya Seorang Pahlawan (Death of a Warrior, 1992), making him the hero of the poor and disenfranchised. However, in his Tamu di Bukit Kenny (The Guest at Kenny Hill, 1968) Usman searches for the soul of administrator charged with the development of their people.

Further development in drama was seen in the works of Noordin Hassan, Bukan Lalang Ditiup Angin (It’s Not Weeds Blown by the Wind, 1970) and Tiang Seri Tegak Berlima (Five Centerposts Standing Tall, 1973). Noordin experimented further with his Islamic Theatre of Faith, Teater Fitrah with Jangan Bunuh Rama-rama (Kill Not the Butterflies) and “1400”.

And Syed Alwi’s Tok Perak, Old Man Perak (1974), Dinsman’s Jebat and Protes, followed this rare line of rebellion in Malaysian literature.

Hatta Azad Khan staged his Kerusi (Chair, 1976), which also chose social rebellion as his main theme, with the Baling protests on behalf of the poor people of Baling as it’s background. He rose to become a popular playwright in his Mayat (Corpse, 1980) which

12 continued a semi-absurd line of logic in trying to understand the significance of life and death, but with much humour and irony.

Mana Sikana (Abdul Rahman Hanafiah), another prolific writer has many plays to his credit, among them Pengadilan (Judgement) and Bunuh (Murder) staged in the 1980’s and the 1990s. Pasir-pasir di Pasir Salak (The Sands of Pasir Salak, 2012) is his most recent play. He has worked and staged plays with his students in Bangi, Singapore and Tanjong Malim, where he taught.

The young dramatist, Zakaria Ariffin, writes scripts for the stage and the TV. His most well-known work is Pentas Opera (The Operatic Stage, 1988) that was first performed in 1989. In the meantime he has often directed and acted in some of his own plays and those of other playwrights.

Women Writers The women writers in the different genres found themselves in an unequal world, long dominated by men. It was only in the 1960’s that there was a breakthrough into both the narrative and the poetic spaces. Fatimah Busu, for example, has a long and ambitious career. Beginning with stories and poetry, she then began writing novels. Her notable works include Salam Maria (Greetings from Maria, 2004) and Missing Piece Pt 1 and Missing Link Pt. 2 (2006).

In the meantime Zaharah Nawawi has published Nasib (Fate, 1986), Suara Ombak (Sound of the Waves, 1994), Orang Perjuangan (Fighters, 2005). Khatijah Hashim emerged in 1968 with her Badai Semalam (Storms in the Night), a popular work. She continued with Merpati Putih Terbang Lagi (The White Dove Flies Again, 1972) and Langkah Pertama (First Steps, 1994). Her protagonists are often exemplary women from the village who have succeeded against all odds.

Among her most recent works are Dua Dimensi (The Two Dimensions of Khatijah Hashim, 2008), poem and sketches by the poet. At present she is composing pantun and publishing them. Theirs are important names in the novel scene.

In poetry, Siti Zainon Ismail (also a short story writer and novelist) often combines her literary talent with the artistic and the scholarly, for she is a painter and lectures in the university. Of note are her Bunga-bunga Bulan (Flowers of the Moon, 1992), Nyanyian Malam (Nocturnal Songs, 2004) and Bait Senandung Malam (Lyrics for the Nocturnal Refrains, 2009).

Likewise Zurinah Hassan too writes prose as well as poetry. While Siti Zainon’s are gentle and contemplative, Zurinah often drops us on the hard earth of reality, when dealing with her relationship with people close to herself, and also her stand on the place and rights of women. Both these poets are well known for their works that illustrate a clear inclination towards feminism and a pride in being a woman writer. Their writing careers span more than four decades, and have mellowed with the times.

Many are the younger writers who have begun to write in the 1990s and thereafter. However, this little introduction is just a background to the writers chosen for this anthology. So we would like to refer those interested in further information on the recent development to Muhammad Haji Salleh’s, An Introduction to Modern Malaysian Literature (2009).

A Literature Of Malaysian Writers The national language of Malaysia is Malay, and thus it has been the main medium of instruction in the schools. However, the country has about 100 languages in all. In the second millennium we notice that the spread of the national language has reached far and wide. We may find writers from both Sarawak and Sabah whose mother tongues are not Malay, but are speakers of Iban, Bidayuh, Kadazandusun, Bajau, Melanau and Chinese, yet writing and contributing to the national literature.

There are also other writing circles in English, Tamil and Chinese. Some of these writers (especially those writing in English and Chinese) have carved their names abroad, winning international writing awards. However, due to space constraint, writers who are chosen for inclusion in this selection are those who have been writing consistently and winning significant awards in the national language.

POEMS

1. Letter from the Bird Community to the Mayor (Surat Dari Masyarakat Burung Kepada Datuk Bandar) Written and translated by Usman Awang

2. Twilight of Conscience (Ufuk Nurani) by A. Samad Said Translated by Harry Aveling

3. A Toilet Paper City (Kota Kertas Tandas) by Baha Zain Translated by Muhammad Haji Salleh

4. In The Distance (Saujana) Written and translated by Kemala

5. chapter twenty-two (ii) (ceritera yang ketiga puluh dua ) Written and translated by Muhammad Haji Salleh

6. A Frying Pan (Kuali Hitam) by Zurinah Hassan Translated by Muhammad Haji Salleh

LETTER FROM THE BIRD COMMUNITY TO THE MAYOR (Surat Dari Masyarakat Burung Kepada Datuk Bandar) by Usman Awang

Lord Mayor we the bird community called a meeting one fine clear morning on the roof of the deserted Parliament building.

All sent their intellectuals to represent them, all but the crows, for they were too busy mourning their loved ones, shot dead and drifting down the River Klang.

Special guests came as observers, A delegation of butterflies, Involved in the issue.

Lord Mayor, though we had no hand in electing you since franchise is not for the feathered, still we honoured you for your promise OF A GREEN CITY.

Alas, they have desecrated THE GREEN of nature to worship THE GREEN of dollars since Kuala Lumpur’s mud turned to concrete we birds have been the silent sufferers the late Belatuk was crushed under a felled tree Merbuk was conned by the name Padang Merbuk While he and his kind were cooped in cages

The Pipit delegation are protesting against the insult in your proverb “pipit pekak makan berhujan” (deaf sparrows feed in the rain) Pipit and Punai both feel it’s most improper of you to call certain private parts of your anatomy by their names, when you well know your ‘pipit’ and ‘punai’ can’t fly, (you have deflated our egos in the process of erecting yours)

Lord Mayor, this letter request that in your wisdom you will protect each branch, each root, each leaf, each petal, each brower, for these have been our homes through the centuries, and it would also be for the good of man, his health and happiness, his peace of mind, to let nature and its myriad beauties bloom in the brilliant sun

Translated byThe Poet Source:Salam Benua-Greeting to the Continent, 1982.

TWILIGHT OF CONSCIENCE (Ufuk Nurani by A. Samad Said)

The mountains are angry now… We come, compelled to seek the map, to understand ourselves and our world.

One terrible century of destruction has taught us nothing. Greed made us sinners. Our knowledge did not show us how to love. We were bewitched.

We are lost in the jungle, living with lizards and scorpions; fighting lions and crocodiles. We planted no flowers, read no poetry, ignored *Rabi’a Balkhi when she told us to clear our robes, disdained the environment.

We were tricked by demons, caught in passing spells. We exchanged doubt for disbelief, honour for confusion.

The wind blew where it wanted. Perhaps the answers were hidden in a cave somewhere, we found only dazzling lies.

In each of us is a rainbow - we were blind to the light.

The world was alien to us, we poisoned it, rather than try to come to terms with a realm we disliked.

We were caught in illusions, Enchanted by rank, taunted by lust.

We were dynamite waiting to be lit.

Dimly through our dreams we saw rainbows shining across a glittering silent lake. We thought they were an illusion. We let the kijang deer run free… they never came back.

We were too busy talking to hear any answers, and too afraid of the noise.

The maps were wrong in error, we trusted them even though they led us to islands covered with scorpions.

We made offerings, and wore turbans, but never listened to the sermons or believed in the wrath of God. We followed evil winds.

We ignored the rainbow. This should have been an age of wisdom, when all men would live in peace. We should have been saints, we should have unlocked the mysteries of God’s love and human endeavour.

Instead, we watched the forests burn, the map of wisdom fall to pieces in the swamp, and listened to the hidden delights of sin.

Did we fail, or were we tricked? We laughed as the light of conscience faded, we were lost on the endless sea.

Over and over again we whisper : what did we want? what have we found?

Kuala Lumpur October 1 – 11, 1988 ______is a ,(العرب زین) and Zayn al-'Arab (بلخی رابعه) a nkonk lualu op ,)Rābi'a Balkhīکعب بنت رابعه :Rābi'a bint Ka'b al-Quzdārī (Persian* semi-legendary figure of Persian literature and was possibly the first poetess in the history of New Persian poetry

Translated by Harry Aveling Source: Ballad of the Lost Map-Balada Hilang Peta, 2009.

A TOILET PAPER CITY (Kota Kertas Tandas by Baha Zain)

This is a city of chaos, With barbed wires as nerves, Ancient, corroded and tetanic, Threatening all movements and visions. In its haze of dust and soot That crushes sober Ph.D minds, talents and temperaments All have been ensnared in tangled days From the same cycle of repetition - A white morning to wake up in, That later surrenders itself to the toxic night.

This is a nest of grand planners, Everyone at his position, Planning comprehensive strategies, Computing on bank cards, Scrutinizing news of coup d’etats over the telex, Libel suits by politicians against the editors, Tracker dogs from the newsroom, morphine pushers in coffee-houses. Everyone recognizes the smile of waitresses who bring the beers. Receptionists, dancers and florists Are but momentary distractions For all that irritates

And hastens rage.

This city of hard bricks Is an abode of conflict, A rendezvous for the forces of destruction. Student leaders, labourers, managers and scholars Are but slabs of city life. No matter how sombre We may not escape from ourselves, We, who build but dislike this grimy city, That is cancerous to the encircling green.

We cannot escape from the boredom That offers yet another day. So what’s best? Collect paper napkins Made from hundred-year old trees, Write verses on them To be read by the garbage collector: This is toilet paper From a tissue-paper culture. A solution emerges: I might as well resign tomorrow, And register, not at the labour office, But go job-hunting in the big hotels, Because prostitution is the most profitable profession.

Translated byMuhammad Haji Salleh Source : Postponing Truth and Other Poems-Menangguhkan Kebenaran dan Sajak Sajak Lain, 2008.

IN THE DISTANCE (Saujana by Kemala) bring yourself to the snow-field and personality to the deep jungle shrill barkings of night-dogs fall steeply into the emptiness of dawn where is the final edge of pure forgiveness? in the distance. eve was ignorant of sin deceived by temptation paradise was under trial everlasting pleasure making her uncomfortable & sick eve wanted maturity escaping from adam’s captivity. and as for adam separation wasn’t a caltrop but nectar pleasure wasn’t a green image but a yearning that flew through the sky sprouting on the earth left alone and isolated.

in the distance. in the snow-field molecules were more beautiful serenity was the beginning of life self. a flower of negligence cast out from god’s paradise eve searching her own way. in the distance

Translated by the Poet Source: An Anthology of Contemporary Malaysian Literature, 1988.

Chapter Thirty-Two (ii) (ceritera yang ketiga puluh dua) by Muhammad Haji Salleh

"During these times Melaka was populous, all manner of merchants gathered here; markets lined the way from Air Lilih to Kuala Muar; and from Kampung Keling to Kuala Penajuh there was no longer any need to bring the fire, as whenever one stopped one found houses; from this side of the country to Batu Pahat, too, Melaka was full of people, because during these times the subjects of Melaka were one hundred and ninety thousand altogether." i and in the season of fruits, flowers and mangoes shower colours into the dark green of leaves, all along the road of villages from melaka to the south, fruit fragrance floats into fields and appetites, doors and noses of children fishing in streams, into memories of ancient women and young maidens pounding rice, into the calculations of new merchants adding profits for a harvest-time dowry. the mangoes of air lilih are as sweet as muar's rambutan the durian of durian daun are red as polished copper the kedondong of jugra are brittle on teeth of girls waiting for their wedding. all along the way jambus fall into their shadows, dukus turn purple on trees, tubers fill the hill-sides. in the night bananas are shared with birds and foxes, sentuls rot between their branches, the langsat is wasted. bullock carts nod into kampungs. from air lilih wheels whine uphill

and loosely chase down wet and green valleys. each time the bulls are tired or my son cries a small village awaits behind the hills. water and fire are offered with an invitation to taste new fruits and rest on the verandah. the cheerful goodbye is loaded with baskets of langsat and parcels of duku. gracious are my people, all along the way houses in clusters from road to river, villages as strung beads, bending with curves, straightening with the straights.

ii melaka's house is wide-lawned a sail-roof and verandah breezy, do stop by, good friend the sun is hot, the day yet early. a sail-roof and verandah breezy steps of stone and china tiles, the sun is hot, the day yet early the morning has come to our stalls. steps of stone and china tiles carved windows with swinging doors, the morning has come to our stalls with trengganu songket and hued head-dresses. carved windows with swinging doors dandies from kedah's realm, with trengganu songket and hued head-dresses you may test these blades from mataram.

dandies from kedah's realm bajus are sewn by tailors of palembang, please try these blades from mataram handsome on the young, defenders of kampungs. bajus are sewn by tailors of palembang worn by courtiers from upstream, handsome on the young, defenders of kampungs the style malay and the craft a dream. iii the smell of the market hypnotises five villages from pandan mats and platforms, rafting upstream, calling to remote collectors to gather their rattan, rubbers and mountains roots. mak cik embun sells dodol that glitters like sumatran gold its shine is coated with oil of the gading coconut. a tray of sweetmeats from grandmother jam's kitchen its rice clear, its sugar from melaka. maksu melur, the wife of pak lela, the puppeteer of sungai rambai, carries on her head cakes of many tastes to the market, to which she comes late, because her cakes are many, and so are her children. at the market’s southern end nadim sits before his cencaluk his vase clean, his baju the colour or the bay, his shrimps fine, taken from tanjung keling when the water was calm and the moon full. the heap of fishes is offered with pride, senangin for friers or kedah curry, terubuk for afternoon roasts, the ray fish and mackerel for the whole family,

sauteed shrimps or squid with vegetables, peppered mussles, shells in coconut and lemon grass and the most delicious, ikan parang for masak asam. all the fishes are arranged on the scaly board, pulled up by his nets from the dawn straits.

iv the melakas are many and the streets loud, all day long the market is brimming with traders clothes adorn the shops, give colour to trees and bushes and the dark of the shadows. at the junction a minangkabau dramatises his medicine, cures for rheumatism, failing eyes, slack muscles of the old, waning women's desires, and the most popular, roots that rout all pain. at the edge of the village a young singer plucks his kecapi, accompanying the sorrowful song of a dejected lover. from between the knotted sounds of the bazaar the drums beat out a dondang sayang, tempting feed to remembered steps, to dream of dances with the kampung beauty, returning old men to a rhythmic youth, to old stories, stowed away from children. all morning traders flow in surrounding hamlets, northern towns and creeks that drain brown hills, bringing honey from forest trees, coconut sugar, cloths from a thousand malay islands, all taken from the earth, sea and air. melaka is prosperous because it is proud, it prevails because its knowledge is refined by a weighing mind,

unafraid of the new, and always aware of the wrongs. there were a hundred and ninety thousand then, when the country believed in its people.

Translated by the Poet Source: An Anthology of Contemporary Malaysian Literature, 2008.

THE FRYING PAN (Kuali Hitam by Zurinah Hassan)

In the old house Where I was born Is a frying pan, My mum’s loyal companion, The whole day through.

On the stove, with its dancing content Was my mother’s delight, While we waited in anticipation.

Over the countless years - Day and night - We were sustained by the content Of the old frying pan.

The woman who loved her frying pan Hugged us. Did we not see The soot in her eyes, Feel her skin scalded by the hot oil, Her hand darkened by the smoke, Her forehead singed by the heat? The heavy meals made us sleepy, Unaware of her cough and wheezes, Her lungs, now grazed by smoke and ash?

We were unaware And neither did mother.

She only relished the joy Of seeing her children full and content.

Over the years The frying pan justified itself, Till we left and lived in the distant city.

(2)

Now in my spotless new kitchen, No ugly pan lies around. When there’s time to spare, and this is very rare, I prepare meals from my non stick pan, sparkling and expensive, which I wash gently. as though bathing a baby with a soft detergent, diligently following the instructions.

Mother came to stay, one day, Helpful as ever. Serving and relishing her food Makes her happy.

Finished with the meal, She helps to tidy up the kitchen, Used to cleaning the old pan, She scrubbed my pricey wok,

With a bristle brush. Out came a scream from me,

“You have ruined my pan! Do you know how much it cost?”

Sorrow descends upon mum’s heart, Tears in her eyes, Fury in my face.

(3)

Mother has been laid to rest, I feel a remorse within, That a frying Pan has been cherished More than a mother’s love.

Now the pan hangs on the kitchen wall, Unaccompanied by mother’s love, A quiet symbol of her life. Can we give it a price?

Translated by Muhammad Haji Salleh Source: Dewan Budaya, November 1996.

SHORT STORIES

1. Hallucination by Keris Mas Translated by Noraini Md. Yusof

2. A Time Once Past (Pada Suatu Masa Dahulu) by Fatimah Busu Translated by Noraini Md. Yusof

3. Friends (Sahabat) by Anwar Ridhwan Translated by Tanja Jonid

HALLUCINATION by Keris Mas

He merely lay on his bed. There was a sense of nervousness in his heart: Perhaps he was crazy. The doctor had said he was suffering from hallucination – seeing things that did not really exist. He had also heard the doctors talking of psychosis, schizophrenia and other such terms. He realized that those terms were connected to emotional disorder. But he felt good too because he knew he did not hit that girl. So he couldn’t be crazy. The ward was quiet till the first visitor appeared at exactly 12.45. And, like yesterday and the day before, the first to arrive was his friend, his room-mate. “Waalaikum salaam,” he replied to his friend’s greeting. His reply was as soft as his friend’s greeting. After a couple of minutes of looking at his bed, pillows, going through his locker, and trying to sit at the edge of his bed, his friend began to speak: “You’re looking much better today,” using the same line he’d used yesterday and the day before. And like yesterday, he said this without much of a smile, except for his eyes. The atmosphere was again quiet. He and his friend look on at the visitors that trickle in alone or in twos or in a crowd, heading towards the various beds in the spacious ward. “I suppose you’ll be out in a while,” his friend began after the two of them were quiet for a while.

He turned to face that guy. It felt as if his friend was expecting an answer from him. “Perhaps in a day or two,” he explained. In truth, he did not know why he said that to his friend. After a while he continued, “What did Tuan Guru say?” “He says you will be getting married.” This time it seems that the response was quicker than usual. And there was a dry smile on his friend’s lips.

Time seemed to move at a snail’s pace, slowly but surely. Gradually, the few afternoon visitors began to leave. His friend too started to leave, taking with him his light body and lonely face. The once-fulfilling quietude was now taken away by his friend. He was now left with his loneliness. The quietness of the psychiatric ward greets the coming of the evening. He was not surprised when his friend spoke of Tuan Guru stating that he would be getting married. He recalled the incident of the previous evening. His parents had taken up Tuan Guru’s advice. They’ve agreed to ask for the girl’s hand in marriage. He heard Tuan Guru, his parents and the doctor talking at the edge of his bed. According to Tuan Guru, the devil in woman and man is constantly trying to bring out uncontrollable and lustful behavior in us. Even if one managed to control these lustful feelings, anything could happen if one’s faith was not strong. What the doctor called hallucination, according to Tuan Guru, was a possible future incident. Tuan Guru explained what in fact is happening. This boy, according to him, was possessed by the devil. The devil presented pictures or images to break his faith. If it wasn’t what the doctor called hallucination or the devil’s play, many other unfortunate incidents such as fights or suicides could take place. And if not those incidents, adultery could occur Nauzubillah, said Tuan Guru. Finally he heard Tuan Guru’s advice to his parents. Marriage is the only safe path, according to him. Marry off this boy. It tickled him to recall the great life experience he had undergone at the tender age of 21. He smiled as his heart told him: go on, get married. The devil cannot be fought with only syringes and pills. The devil can’t be locked up under veils and restrictions. At the boarding school, he’d never bothered about having relationships with girls. His sleep was always filled with lovely dreams. If he read any pornographic texts during the day, his lust would increase and during the night he would recall all that he’d read in those delicious dreams. In one usual incident he heard the teacher talk about lifestyle of the people in many secluded islands long ago. It seemed that these people would

37 gather for a feast during full moon, under the shadows of coconut trees by white beaches, with sounds of the breaking waves in the background. There would be music or drums played as the men and women danced away. At the height of the intoxicating dance, the young warriors picked their partners, ladies in grass skirts with only dried leaves covering their succulent breasts. They hid away under the shades of small bushes away from the beach. The teacher never went as far as describing what actually took place behind those bushes but his imagination filled in the details and he saw the warrior and the maid fornicating, fulfilling their lusts. He smiled to himself as he gazed at the quiet ward. He recalled the nights when sleep was difficult and he was the warrior performing a great dance in his disco-like bedroom which was in semi-darkness. He danced with a beautiful monkey. He became so aroused that he led the monkey to the back of his house and fulfilled all his lust on her. He was now older, no longer a teenager. He hardly experienced any wet dreams now. Even if he dreamt of the female monkey, she acted viciously, trying to tear his skin and flesh with her sharp teeth. He merely got nightmares, which caused him to lose sleep. Whenever he saw beautiful and sexy girls, and there were many around now, he would get aroused. He hoped for a good wet dream the same night, but it never happened, not like before. There was a slight commotion in the bed next to his. The elderly patient refused to be transferred to another ward. The disturbance did not bother him. And he was unaware how the old man was finally taken away. He remembered reading an article about masturbation and asked friends if such things actually took place. Had it ever been committed by a Malay. He was laughed at and realized that such things take place in all parts of the world. He became angry when his friends accused him of having committed it at boarding school. It was assumed that such things happened freely in boarding schools, especially among teenagers. Besides being angry and humiliated, he also felt uncertain. It seems like a stupid thing to do. Unnatural, plus it would require concentration. Wouldn’t that disturb one’s nerve system? And he felt that it was a sin to self-fornicate with the help of dirty mind.

The worker in white overalls entered pushing a cart for the afternoon drinks. The quiet was slightly disturbed, like the surface of a pond when naughty hands throw in pebbles. He too was disturbed. His memories slipped away. And he wanted to finish his drinks so that he could perform his Asar prayer by his bed before the evening visiting hours. However calm returned to him when the other patients began to enjoy their drinks. And his memories returned. An oval face with a lovely complexion the colour of a langsat appeared like a portrait in an intricately-designed white frame. Her eyes, her nose and her face were all well-proportioned. And her small, cute chin merely peeped out from under her neck, how unimaginably lovely it was. The image was now crystal clear in his eyes. It was that of a girl in his office. She wore the baju kurung and wrapped scarf on her head, showing only her face. The girl hardly ever mixed with the fellow male colleagues. He was keen to get to know her; to find out why she did not wear the usual office attire; why she did not mix around like the other women. But he never found out. He was too shy, embarrassed, and afraid to even greet the girl. As days went by, his interest in the girl began to increase. And now, the other girls – those with skirts and dresses who either intentionally or otherwise showed off their inner thighs – no longer interested him. His heart no longer quivered when he looked at them. But his heart raced when he looked into the sweet, lovely oval face that was neatly covered with a headscarf. He wished he could hug the girl with the covered head. At times, just like during his days at boarding school, he would let his imagination run. He pictured the girl unveiling herself to reveal her lovely hair. He imagined the beauty and sweetness of the girl as she slowly shook her head to untangle her beautiful hair. He saw her lovely long neck and her soft fair skin. He imagined her as she undressed herself, pulling her baju kurung over her head, revealing breasts neatly kept in a thin bra. His heart swelled. Astaghfirullah al-azim. He felt as if he had been awoken from a dream, a delicious yet unfinished dream. He looked around the ward. It was still calm and quiet. His memories continued. He had been eager to speak of his love interest to his friends but was too shy. He wanted to tell his grandfather about it but was afraid that the

39 old man might tell on him to his parents. He was afraid of the consequences. But what would have been the consequences? He didn’t really know. Besides he was not staying with them anymore. A few months into his job and he’d decided to move in with his friend Karim. At his parents’ home, he was constantly anxious. His mom and dad worked and his younger siblings attended school. They only get to meet in the evenings. There were times when he didn’t get the chance to speak to them for days. His parents usually had evening functions to attend to, at least a couple of nights in a week. Then the historic event happened. Karim was caught committing khalwat with a girl, in the room they shared. He was so fearful at the time. He feared that he might be dragged into the awful scandal. Karim was six years his senior and was always talking about marriage. The girl who was with him was the one he’d been meaning to marry. Karim had met her at the park. The first time he went to a disco, Karim introduced him to her. She was pretty and a lovely person, in manner and disposition. She danced well, not like the monkey in his dream. She also had a sweet name, just the last syllable of the full name, “Ni”. When the Qadi asked at the syariah court during the khalwat case, her full name was used, and it sounded just as sweet: Arni binti Osman. Arni binti Osman and Karim had previously advised him to find a partner, a steady girlfriend. Like the two of them, he too should plan to settle down. Marriage would enable one’s life to be calmer, more manageable, and one’s heart would be better settled to attend to one’s work. Arni had asked, “Why don’t you want to find a “friend”?” He answered, “A friend?” Just ask Karim how many friends I’ve got at the office. “Those friends don’t mean anything. The friendship ends after 4 o’clock.” “So what kind of friend would mean something?”, he questioned.” “A steady girlfriend, like I am with Karim. Do you know we’ll be getting married soon?” “Don’t you have such plans?” Karim asked. “What plans?” “Plans to marry.”

Arni added, “Marriage is necessary, you know! So that your life would be better organised. One’s heart would be more at ease to face the work at the office. The money would be better kept, blessed even, as it is not wasted away here and there.”

He said nothing. He didn’t believe that he could get a girlfriend as Karim and Arni hoped for him. He didn’t like to dance or hang around at coffeehouses, at the cinemas or walk aimlessly with girls in the park. He’d been considering ways to be acquainted with the girl at the office – the veiled one. He longed to know the shape of her body. Marriage? He had not thought of that. He recalled his mother and father. They had never found the kind of peace at home as Karim and Arni hoped for upon marriage. All of a sudden he was reminded of the friend who had visited him earlier. This friend was better suited to him. He was a god-send especially at a time when he needed a new place since Karim and Arni got married. The new guy was looking for room too. Ustaz Abdullah who gave weekly talks at his office had introduced the friend, to him. The second time they met was at surau Tuan Guru Kampung Maulana. It was also the time he got to know Tuan Guru and became his student. His life was more settled with this new guy, they both disliked going to the movies, or the disco, and both didn’t have girlfriends and had never been to an amusement arcade or the park. He hardly hung out with other guys. He tended to go places with the new companion. He was happy that no one bothers him at work. Yet his intention of getting acquainted with the veiled girl was now stronger. Everytime he thought about it he sought refuge in God, astaghfirullah al- azim. He fasted now and again, and woke up in the middle of the night to do extra prayers and zikir. Perhaps he truly loved the girl. People say that love is blind. He smiled recalling his friend’s comment that love is not blind, in fact it can see all things hidden even clearer. He awoke from his day-dream. The nurse had arrived. He felt his blood rush as the nurse folded his sleeve and placed the sphygmomanometer on his arm. It felt as if those soft fingers were listening to his nerves. He looked at her face. He tried to return the lovely smile on her face. He had to admit that she was beautiful and he wished he could say something but as usual he was dumb.

Not long after that, as the nurse was taking another patient’s blood pressure, the visitors begin to arrive, two of whom were his parents. His friend did not turn up. He was eager to know if Tuan Guru would come, as he had done the day before. His heart was at ease with Tuan Guru by his side. Once he had braved himself and ask Tuan Guru why he seemed to hate getting to know girls to the point of never having a girlfriend, unlike his other friends. He also asked why he seemed to have mixed feelings about his officemate, the veiled one. Tuan Guru said that was God’s blessings, it showed that God loved his servants. Not everyone is as fortunate to receive the blessing. Only the selected are able to keep away from women. A woman, according to Tuan Guru, is a creature most liked by the devil to be used as a weapon to break the faith of Muslims, in fact to create havoc in the lives of mankind. However, according to him, we are still human and we depend on one another to procreate, for the benefit of mankind. Hence, we are bound to be tempted towards women by the devil. And the devil may use all kinds of women, even the veiled ones. Tuan Guru advised him to do as much fasting as he could and if possible, to marry soon. As Muslims, according to him, we’ve been encouraged to marry as soon as we have the financial means to care for a wife. He hoped Tuan Guru would visit him today. And he listened to the advice his parents gave him – do not think too much, they said. Relax yourself so as you’ll recover soon, and be able to return home. He realized what a blessing it was to have his parents. He never used to feel this in the past. He remembered how unpleasant it was in the past to have parents. At that time he had already made up his mind to take up Tuan Guru’s advice. He wanted to marry to release himself of the vivid imaginings snaking their way under the head scarf and baju kurung of the girl. He mentioned his intention to his grandfather, and was soon called home by his father. The first thing his dad asked was his financial status, had he saved enough for a wedding. And the first thing his mother asked was, did he have a girl in mind. He was greatly disappointed. It had never occurred to him that he would need to save to marry. He had always thought it would be his parents’ responsibility. About a suitable girl, he felt that too was up to his parents’ choosing. It was decided that he had to wait until he had enough saved and a suitable girl in mind. The major task seemed to

42 be about choosing the right girl. He has never gotten to know a girl. He did think about getting his mother to ask for the veiled girl’s hand in marriage, but he did not have enough guts to do so. Besides, he knew that his parents would not approve of the religious type.

He was happy now to have parents, especially these two who were caring and wanted him to get well soon so that he would come home. What a sweet feeling it was. Yet Tuan Guru has still not appeared. He began to feel disappointed again. He recalled the unfortunate incident that got him to this ward. He could still picture the exact day and moment that the god-forsaken event took place: he had gone to the party alone. There were many people, and everyone was well dressed. Yet in front of him he could only see women; they were sprouting out of a beam of light from the back of a giant stage. As time went by the number of women seemed to increase. They were dancing gracefully in long dresses that were loose and torn from waist down, showing off their white thighs. The colours were mixed to a maddening effect: red, yellow, orange and purple, all brightening up the entire party. People had their hands in the air and were waving them from side to side as they cheered. But the women didn’t notice them and were gradually disappearing. Some seemed to disappear from the bottom as they walked off, others from the top downwards. Meanwhile from behind the giant stage with its bright light, more women seem to sprout out, in even greater numbers; their eyes were lovely and big, with curled eyelashes, they also had lovely wide smiles and showed off their white yet sharp teeth. Some time went by as more women appeared and disappeared under the shine of the red, yellow, orange and purple lights. The audience was in frenzy, some were shouting, sighing, while others were on their hands and knees hitting the ground as they cried. He stood there looking shocked and amazed. No one knew him, and he knew no one except his parents who were pushing each other. All of a sudden Tuan Guru appeared looking angry and murmuring something. Tuan Guru held his shoulders. And suddenly the veiled girl too appeared. He tried to move towards her but his feet would not budge. He felt as if his legs were caught in cement and he was being dragged around. Tuan Guru helped him to gradually move forward, a step at a time. Bodies were everywhere. And each face was looking away from the veiled girl. They were all

43 shouting with hatred and fear; looking for the many women who were there but had now disappeared. He nearly reached for the veiled girl, but all of a sudden his leg failed him and he was stuck in the cement. Tuan Guru was no longer by his side. Though his parents were there, they didn’t pay him any attention. The veiled girl slowly took off her scarf. She revealed her long, thick, dark hair which touched the ground. And she took off every piece of clothing on her. Her body was covered by thorns. The thorns began to grow outwards as if to try to pierce him. He tried to cry for help but his voice failed him. He wanted to avoid being pierced by the torns. He wanted to see the girl as she was before but he was not able to speak his mind. He got hurt, angry; too hurt and too angry. He held a stick, and he hit her with it. He was shocked when a few of his office mates tried to hold him down and get him to sit at his table. At a glance he saw the veiled girl sitting across him, looking shocked. He thought she was looking at him, and her look seemed sad. His head began to ache and he tried to massage it with his hands. And before he knew it, he was waking up from a slumber, feeling very tired. He was in the psychiatric ward. His parents and friend were seated at the edge of his bed and the Tuan Guru was talking to the doctor. There were no more visitors in the ward now. Everyone had gone home. He lay alone on his bed. The weird experience had happened so fast, and it no longer disturbed him. His mind was at ease. His parents, Tuan Guru, his friend, they all held a new meaning in his heart. He made a promise to himself never to allow his imagination to get the better of him, not to wander off into someone’s veil or baju kurung. He hoped that the proposal of marriage that his parents would carry out on his behalf would be accepted. He was not crazy, merely saw things that weren’t really there, the devil’s play.

Translated by Noraini Md. Yusof Source: People on the Bridge: An Anthology of Asean Short Stories, 2001.

A TIME ONCE PAST (Pada Suatu Masa Dahulu by Fatimah Busu)

Khadijah stood by the river, looking down. It was only a small one and located in front of her house. If she were to shout aloud from the bank, the sound could still be heard back home. Its water was murky. Frequent rains in the past few days had raised the shallow water to knee-height. Two bamboo baskets, hanging from a wooden pole, were filled with tubers from gadung plants and lay immersed in the water. The pole was buried deep in the riverbed about an arm-span away from the bank. A raft, which she had made yesterday evening with Jenab from the trunk of a benggala banana tree, was still tied to the branch of a kelumpang tree. It was meant for the children. The raft was downstream, about two yards away from the pole and the gadung-filled baskets. Two big bunches of the banana had ripen. Their trunks were big and long. They had been most suitable so she cut them into two, thus making four logs of about an arm-span each. These were then rolled down to the bank. The four pieces of banana trunks were sandwiched and later pierced with the young branches of the langsat. In the evening, Jenab and Si Kiah had tried out the raft by riding it to the opposite bank. She looked across to the other side. No one else had arrived at the river. The early morning was still dark and gloomy. The air was humid, as if awaiting another downpour. Gray, voluminous clouds covered the skies. A south-eastern wind blew towards the leaves of the trees – the kelumpang, rubber and coconut that were growing along the river bank. Khadijah squinted her eyes. The old batik sarong that she had used for her daily baths felt comfortably threadbare and warm on her skin. She raised it to her knees and slowly walked down the slope of the bank into the water. She stood beside the baskets, knee-deep in water, and began to stir the gadung, pure white in colour. The tubers had been sliced thinly into small round pieces. There were some bunga air fish fry and tadpoles caught in the baskets. She scooped them up into her palms and happily released them back into the stream. Their presence meant

that the bitter poison from the gadung had been washed off and the tubers are now edible. Khadijah carefully lifted the baskets and released them from the pole. She allowed the baskets to drip dry before hefting them up the bank. She carried one in each hand. Suddenly, she heard her name being called from across the stream. “Jah, is that you soaking the gadung?” Mak Cik Jirah asked. Khadijah turned and saw Mak Cik Jirah wading towards her. “Ah, Mak Cik, you’re out early today. Where are you off to?” “I saw the baskets of gadung yesterday. The tubers are now clean. There were tadpoles and fish fry. I was thinking, who else would prepare gadung here except you, so that’s why I’m here. Could you sell me some, say a scoop or two?” She came to the point where Khadijah was standing and gladly eyed the gadung in the baskets. “Come, let’s climb up. Here, let me help you with one,” Mak Cik Jirah offered. At the river bank, they placed the baskets on the grass. “You’ve collected and cleansed a whole lot of gadung,” said Mak Cik Jirah. “Just these two baskets,” replied Khadijah, “let me get banana leaves to wrap some for you.” Khadijah walked towards a nearby clump of Bengal banana trees, and tore off a leaf with her hands. Walking back to the baskets, she rolled the leaf into a big cone. Then, she half-filled it with hefty fistfuls of the tubers. “That’s enough, Jah” said Mak Cik Jirah, “How much is that?” “It’s alright, Mak Cik, there’s no need to pay. My pleasure and this is for Mat Yin.” “Khadijah, you’re always giving me things. You know I have nothing to give in return.” “There is always God, Allah Taala, Mak Cik. He will give me back in return. Would you like to stop by at my house?” “I should go home straight away. Mat Yin and his father haven’t had a bite to eat yet this morning.” “How is he? Has he recovered from his fever?”

“Yes, he’s getting better, but he dares not come out yet. You never know, Japanese scouts might see him and arrest him again if he leaves the house. Bidah said that there was much confusion in Lambor when she went there to buy rice. The Japanese soldiers terrorizing the town in order to seize young men to be taken to Burma, be careful, Jah, the Japanese might take your grandson, Deraman into custody.” “I know. I don’t let him leave the house anymore. They had already taken his grandfather. Deraman is the only one left for me to hang on to now. The rest are all girls, you should know.” “I have to go home now, Jah. Thanks for the gadung.” “Oh, it’s nothing, Mak Cik.”

Mak Cik Jirah climbed down the bank and waded across. The river was not that wide, only about five arms-span, and the water only knee-high. Khadijah clutched the two baskets and headed home. As she was climbing up into the house, she saw Jenab taking some coals from a bonfire behind the house into the kitchen. Deraman was still asleep, curled at a corner of the room. Kiah was playing with Si Esah, while another toddler, Si Timah, was playing with some banana leaves hanging on the clothes in the front deck. As soon as she realized Khadijah’s return, Si Timah started to whimper and slide on her buttocks towards Khadijah. Khadijah scooped the toddler into her arms and sat on the threshold with Si Timah on her lap. Loosening her worn sarong, she started breastfeeding her. Si Esah, who was of the same age as Si Timah, could only look on silently. Khadijah felt sad as she watched Si Esah sucking on a banana stalk. It had been many months since Si Kalsum, the children’s mother, last came home to check on Si Deraman and Si Esah. Their welfare was now her responsibility; she had to decide on what they eat and drink. Their mother had disappeared with their father and Khadijah did not know where they went. As the children’s grandmother, she had to take care of them and ensure their survival. If only Cik Su had been here, then life would not have been too difficult. At least Cik Su could help her plant tapioca and go fishing. Instead, she had to do everything herself.

She placed Si Timah on the floor to play with Si Kiah and Si Esah. She entered the kitchen and used two bamboo rods to hang the gadung over the stove. She smiled when she thought of the big earthen jar, filled with smoked gadung, buried with it too. Now, should anything bad happened, they would, at least, still have food. Jenab entered the house with some burning coals in one half on a dried coconut husk. She swung the husk slowly as she walked, leaving behind a trail of white smoke. The ends of the trail slowly dissolved into the air. “Go get a bit of gadung from the basket,” ordered Khadijah, “grate some tapioca and steam it with the gadung.” Jenab carried the burning coals into the kitchen. She slowly blew the coals, which she had placed on some dried coconut leaves on the stove. A few minutes later, plumes of smoke filled the kitchen and a fire was lit. She added some firewood. Then, from underneath a pile of coconut husks beneath the stove, she pulled out two clumps of tapioca, each the size of her big toe, to peel and later grate. Khadijah placed a pot in front of Jenab. She had put three scoops of gadung into it. Jenab started grating the tapioca. Khadijah began filling the still dripping gadung into hollowed bamboo cut-outs to dry. Meanwhile, Jenab had already mixed the grated tapioca with the gadung in the pot and covered it with the lid. After making sure that the fire was not too big, she put the pot on the stove and let the mixture simmer slowly. She did not want to burn their food.

The southeastern wind brought rain regularly to the village. Sometimes it poured down heavily, and at others only a light drizzle trickled from the sky. On heavy days, gray clouds weigh down the dark horizon. After five days of drying on the kitchen shelf, the gadung was ready for storage. Khadijah used a few fistfuls of dried banana leaves to wrap the smoked gadung. It would then be stored in another big earthen jar. Should any of her family from Morak stop by on their way to Lambor to buy rice on Friday, Khadijah planned to send some of the dried gadung to her mother. It had been long since Khadijah last went to Morak. Cik Su had been gone nearly a year and a half ago and since then, it had only been a couple of times when she had gone into Morak herself. Those were during the Aidilfitri and Aidiladha celebrations.

Even then, she had gone and come back in a day. There was just too much to do at home. The least she had to do now was to go into the belukar across the river, which belonged to the royal family, to search for dried pineapple leaves; make rubber scraps; and seek stems of bemban kicap plants; pick coconuts that had dropped, bertam leaves as well as dig out gadung tubers. When the villagers of Kampung Paluh ran out of resin and pineapple vein threads, they would come and buy from her. But if the people from Kampung Surau wanted the threads, she would personally send to their homes. This was because they were of royal lineage. Some members of the royal family from Kota Bharu had taken refuge in Kampung Surau ever since the Japanese invasion. They had even sold some of their old mosquito nets to her. Sometimes Mak Cik Jirah would come to help Jenab comb pineapple leaves for their veins to make thread. This had to be done very carefully and quickly, for the thread had to be dyed and dried in the hot sun on the same day. If not, the thread would not be strong and would snap easily when sewn. This was why many people loved to buy her thread. The other reason was also because her colors did not run. She would use only dark red dye made from sepang wood soaked in water and dark reddish purple from the soaked flowers of a senduduk shrub. Like all nights, once the children had gone to bed, Khadijah would start her work. She would begin twisting coconut husks into long coils of rope, wrapping resin made from rubber scraps in dried banana leaves, weaving baskets from bemban twigs and even sewing the edges of mosquito nets that she had cut to make shawls. Tonight, Khadijah tried to meet orders from a villager in Kampung Surau for scraps of rubber resin. She wrapped the rubber scraps, which had been cut into long strips, in dried banana leaves, each about thumbsized and a hand-span long. The night was very dark and quiet, broken only by the sounds of cicadas clicking behind the house. Light from the rubber resin, which she had lit and then placed in a wooden cage, left a ring of light on her working hands. She had planned to twist some more of the coconut husk rope, maybe about two arms span, after wrapping the scraps. If the work could be completed tonight, then tomorrow she could start sewing the bertam leaves that she had cut and placed under the house yesterday. Maybe the following day she could then be able to change her leaking attap roof.

Bak! Bak! Bak! The frantic knocks on the bamboo wall beside her made her jump. Her heart started to beat fast and she felt as though it would drop from its own beating. “Ijah! Ijah! Quick, retreat with the children! Quick ... the Japanese are coming this way! I saw them on the road just now! They have reached Haji Tuk Bakar’s house, I don’t know what happened there after that.” It was Pak Cik Amat and Mak Cik Embung, the only old folks left living near Khadijah’s house, about plots of land away. His words stunned her. “Where are you going to run?” she asked. “How can we run in the dark? It’s pitch black!” “Quick, Ijah! Quick!” His voice was already ahead of the house, disappearing into the darkness. Khadijah quickly woke Deraman and Jenab up. “Quick! Quick! Wake-up! Wake-up please! Bring your pillows! Bring your blanket! Quick!” “Quick! Deraman, carry Esah! Bring your pillow! Jenab, carry your sister! Come on, Kiah! Bring your pillows! Quick! Quick!” Khadijah ran into the kitchen to grab the few bags of rice, a few packs of dried gadung and some tubers of tapioca. She reached for the rice pot, a bottle of salt and some dried fish hidden beneath the stove and dropped them all into an old gunny sack. She had made the sack from a worn gunny material she had previously used to bathe in. She saw a sickle on the wall and added that to the other things. She then left the kitchen. When she reached the threshold, she put some of the rubber resin and rope into a basket made from bemban stems, which she had only just completed weaving last night. “Have you all taken your pillows?” asked Khadijah. The children were standing by the door, like sentries. She lifted Si Timah, who was clutching two soiled pillows and starting to cry, and carried her in her arms. Deraman had Si Esah tightly clasped to him. She was still asleep, her head placed

against his back. Her fingers still clutched two pillows and a blanket. Si Kiah had another pillow and her blanket under her armpit. “Go down!” Khadijah ordered. “Go to the raft down at the river. Quick! Look in front of you, and be careful!” She handed the cage with the lighted resin inside as a torch to Deraman. She raised it high to light their way. After everyone had left the house, she shut the front door and went beneath the house. Opening the chicken coop, she took a handful of bertam leaves and clasped them tightly to her right side. She hoisted the filled gunny sack on to her head and clutched the basket in her left hand. It was only when she felt cold from the night air that she realized she only had a sarong wrapped around her body. Reaching the clump of benggala banana trees, Khadijah slashed at a few of the green leaves with the sickle and dragged them down the river bank. The bedraggled group crawled down the bank slowly. When they reached the raft, she placed the sack and basket on the front end of the raft. She used the leaves to line the floor of the raft, laying them like mats. She loosened the bertam leaves and scattered them on the banana leaves. Then, she pulled the raft closer to the bank. “Jenab! Quickly get on the raft! Give me your sister!” Khadijah took Si Timah from Jenab’s clutches. Jenab climbed on the raft gingerly. “Put one of the dried leaves on the pillow,” said Khadijah. She then placed Si Timah horizontally on the pillow in front of Jenab. “Deraman, put your sister on the pillow next to Si Timah! Careful, don’t let the torch blow out! Put the cage beside the basket.” She continued her instructions, “Jenab, use one of the dried leaves to cover your sister’s chest, Si Esah’s too.” After that, Khadijah lifted Si Kiah and sat her behind Jenab. “There, hang on to your sister’s waist tightly!” she told Si Kiah. The little girl immediately wrapped her arms around Jenab’s waist, “Hold on to your sister, hold Esah tight, Jenab! Deraman, let’s push the raft downriver. Let’s do it quick! You sit on this side. Kiah! Hold on to your sister! Jenab, don’t let go of her! Hold on tight. Use the blanket to cover your body.”

Khadijah wrapped Si Kiah’s body with a dry banana leaf like she was a jackfruit. Jenab unfolded a blanket and wrapped it around Si Kiah and herself. With the other end, she covered Si Timah and Si Esah’s chests. She then covered their feet with a few of the leaves. Deraman moved in position on the nearest to the bank while Khadijah stood and pushed from the other, which was in the middle in the river.

The raft glided slowly downstream in the dark and quiet night. There were no stars in the sky above. Once in a while, leaves and branches from kelumpang trees that drooped down to the surface of the river brushed against them and sometimes blocked their progress. The water was now getting deeper. From knee-height, the water had become waist-deep. As they neared Kampung Bunut Rawa, the first crows from a cockerel could be heard from the cluster of houses on the river bank. The river was now wider and deeper. The water flowed faster too. Khadijah and Deraman could no longer walk along the river-bed. Their feet no longer touched ground. They must have reached the deepest part of the river. They no longer pushed the raft instead hung on as it flowed downstream. They maneuvered the raft with their feet so as not to adrift any further to the middle of the river. Khadijah incessantly reminded Jenab to hold on to Si Timah and to Si Esah, Si Kiah to hang on to Jenab tight and for Jenab and Deraman not to fall asleep. Si Kiah had already fallen asleep, slumped against Jenab’s back. The fire from the rubber resin had long ago burnt out, but by then the night was no longer too dark. When they finally reached the edge of Pohon Tanjung, the first light of early dawn lit up a small part of the eastern sky. They continued adrift towards Kampung Sungai Pinang. Khadijah planned to walk from Kampung Sungai Pinang to Morak instead of continuing the journey by river as the distance would be shorter. She also feared it would be more dangerous to go by river during daytime.

It was now early morning and the sky brighter. Khadijah could see in the distance the part of the river bank where people had stopped. The grass around that area had been trodden bare. A path, earthen red, trailed from the water edge. “We’ll get on to dry land soon,” Khadijah said. Together with Deraman, she maneuvered the raft closer to the bank, but their feet still could not reach river bottom. Suddenly, Khadijah felt her feet touch a submerged log, so she pushed hard against it to propel the raft to the side of the bank. It was only then that their feet touched ground again. They continued to push and pull the raft till the front edge hit the bank. She quickly lifted Si Timah and held on to Jenab’s hand as they stepped off the raft. She then handed Si Timah to Si Jenab and hoisted Si Esah. The toddler was given to Deraman as she clambered on the raft again to get Si Kiah. They were all wet. Jenab and Si Kiah’s sarongs had dropped into the water. Even all the pillows were soaked except for the blanket around Jenab. Drizzle began to fall upon them. Khadijah cut one of the banana leaves, put it on her head and on that, the half-soaked gunny sack. Si Timah was clasped to her right side while her left hand held another leaf as umbrella over the toddler. Water from the sack dripped down the cut leaves on to her head. Deraman carried Si Esah and two wet pillows. Jenab clutched the basket, a wet pillow and a dripping sarong. Si Kiah was left to carry the cage. “Deraman, go get some more leaves from the raft for everyone,” Khadijah ordered, “and use them to cover your heads.” Deraman did as asked and handed one leaf each to Jenab and Si Kiah. The group was now ready. They crawled up the slope. When she saw a cluster of kebatu banana trees, Khadijah stopped and called out. “Deraman, get the sickle and cut us more dry leaves,” she said. Putting the pillows on the ground, he carefully, without tearing any, cut some leaves. “Please slice off the middle stalk,” she instructed.

With his help, she wrapped the leaves like a blanket around all the girls. It gave them some warmth and made them a bit more comfortable. They found a small track in the thick undergrowth and walked towards Morak. Deraman led the way, followed by Jenab and Si Kiah while Khadijah tailed behind them. They stopped a couple of times when monitor lizards, squirrels and flying foxes suddenly crossed their path. From the belukar around them, snapping sounds of dried leaves and twigs being trodden accompanied their journey. Sometimes, they had to force their way through the drenched overgrown and clinging branches of a tampung besi tree that obstructed their progress along the trail. When they reached the edge of Kampung Paluh Rawa, they saw a big clump of thorny bamboo trees near paddy fields that provided some shade. The light rain had finally stopped. The sun had risen over the horizon though still hidden behind some clouds. They put all the things on the ground. Khadijah cut some branches of a salun tree, cleaned and used them as seats for everyone. The group was quiet and hungry. The moment she was seated, Khadijah started to breastfeed Si Timah. “Open the sack, Jenab,” she instructed, “And take out some of the tapioca. Take one tuber each and eat. Give one to me too.” Jenab looked into the sack, searched around for a while and then handed one tuber each to Khadijah and the others. Skillfully, Khadijah skinned the tuber with her sickle and bit into the white flesh. She took a few mouthfuls, munching quickly to soften it, then spat the gob out into her hand and fed it to Si Esah’s hungry mouth. Jenab helped to skin the tubers for Deraman and Si Kiah. They had nearly finished eating when they suddenly saw a group of five of six Japanese soldiers approaching. The uniformed men were cycling from the edge of the paddy fields towards them. Khadijah knew that if they were to dash away together as a group, the Japanese would detect them. She had heard people said that should you come across the Japanese, you were not to run because they were like dogs, if you ran, they would chase after you barking, but if you stood still and pretended to bend down to pick up a stone, they would run instead!

“Deraman! Jenab! Go and hide behind that anthill”, Khadijah spoke in a low voice. “Quick! Don’t make any sound, and lie flat on your stomach!” Khadijah’s body began to shake uncontrollably and her knees suddenly felt weak. She frantically sought courage and inner strength by reciting the Kursi verse and doa Bismillah Enam as she wrapped her head and body with the wet blanket. She smeared some wet earth on the face. Her fate now lay with Allah Taala, she silently told herself. “Ya Rabbi, please protect us,” she prayed aloud. When the troop came closer, she saw their rifles, with the gleaming bayonets, slung over their shoulders. She purposely made Si Kiah cry by grabbing the bit of tapioca from the child’s hands and giving it to Si Esah. Si Kiah started to wail loudly and tried to wrestle it back from Si Esah’s mouth. Si Esah’s cries joined the cacophony. The soldiers were now only about four yards away. Khadijah quikly stood, pulling Si Kiah up along with her. She bowed her head as she had done numerous times when praying. With her right hand, she pressed on the crying girl’s head hard to make her bow too. Si Timah began to sob when she saw the men. All the while, Khadijah repeated the verses and prayers quietly as her eyes checked whether the Japanese halted or continued on their way. Her quick eyes counted their bicycles, eight in all. None stopped. When the troop had passed about three yards ahead of them, she stood upright. “Ya Allah, thank you for your blessing,” she cried. Suddenly, the soldiers leading the way stopped and looked back. He said something to the others ahead. Khatijah’s heart jolted. Trembling, she bowed her head again and stared at the ground. From the corner of her eyes, she saw the last man opening a small bag hanging from his handlebars and then walked back towards them. Khadijah pictured herself being dragged away while the children were left stranded there. The Japanese feet planted themselves in front of her. “Hah.” She heard his gruff bark and raised her head, but still with her eyes downcast, not daring to look him in the eye. He held out his fist suddenly, in which was clutched

round, brown, and palmsized biscuits. He offered them to her. She nodded her head quikly a few times and cupped her hands. He poured the biscuits into them. “Thank you tuan, thank you tuan.” Her head bobbed a few more times with eyes still downcast. The soldiers continued on their journey. She stood and watched them walking towards the small town of Wakaf Baru until they disappeared from her sight. The shaking of her body had not stopped. Tremors spread along her body, as if she was stricken by malaria. “Jenab! Deraman! You can come out now!” The two scrambled out of their hiding place. Their faces were pale white. “They gave us biscuits,” she explained, “come quick, we’ll trail along the edges of the field over on the other side. It’s a longer way, but that’s all right. We’ll take a different route. Who knows, they might come back, quickly, walk faster!” She was still in shock and had not recovered from that encounter, but steeled her heart. She did not want the children to see her fear. Keeping four aside, she divided the rest of the biscuits equally among them. As they munched, they gathered their things quickly. The biscuits were stale and left a rancid aftertaste in their mouth, like old rice that had been soaked too long in water. But for Si Timah and Si Esah, it was their first taste of biscuits. They would be able to reach Morak before the mid-day zuhur prayer if they continued walking without making any more stops. By now, their sarongs were also nearly dry. As she was about to step forward, Jenab saw the back of Khadijah’s sarong wet and bloody red. “Mak!” she called out, “There’s blood on your sarong, at the back!” “Yes. There’s so much blood!” Deraman too stared at his grandmother’s buttocks. Khadijah handed Si Timah to Jenab and placed the baskets back on the ground before loosening her sarong. She twisted it around until the bloody patch was facing front. She then urged the group to continue their journey along the bunds of the paddy fields towards Kampung Morak. When they approached the edge of the village, the sky was cloudly. Khadijah could feel the warm, sticky blood draining down her thighs as they walked, but she was not going

56 to stop for any reason. She had looked back a few times and seen the red drops trailing behind her. It had only been six months since Si Timah’s birth and maybe this was her first period. She silently explained the blood as that. The group continued its procession silently. When Si Kiah whimpered, Deraman passed Si Esah to Jenab and carried the girl piggy-back. They passed no one along the way. All was quiet. The paddy fields were deserted and overgrown with wild grass. It was clear the villagers had not worked the fields for a long time or gone fishing in the muddy waters. There was no one left to toil the land, for many of the young and able men had left the village. If the Japanese had not kidnapped them, they would have gone into hiding in the jungle. The only men left were the old and decrepit. The women, whether young and old, dared not venture far from their houses. Even if any of them wanted to plant paddy, there were no more cows and buffaloes. The Japanese had confiscated all their animals, which they slaughtered for dried meat. There was not even any seed left for all the grains had been cooked. When they came across golden bunches of ripe buah larak tahi kucing, they picked them as they walked. Other ripe fruits abound in the area: white bemban, tiny tampung besi, flashy red mata ayam, and shining black serai bubu. All these they plucked and stuffed into their eager mouths. The sun was directly above them when they finally reached the edge of the village. They could now see the attap roofs and wooden walls of the clusters of houses belonging to Khadijah’s family. The sight gave them hope and fresh energy; their step became brisker. From afar, Khadijah saw her mother, draped in a sarong, coming down the steps with a pail in one hand. “It’s Tuk Wa!” Jenab cried excitedly, “Tuk Waaaaaa! Tuk Waaaaaa!” Tuk Wa Lumat turned and then scrambled down the steps as she flung the pail to the ground. She tottered towards the fatigued group, pouncing on Si Timah, who whimpered and clutched her mother more tightly. The old woman prized her away and carried the girl. “Come, come!” Tuk Wa Lumat gestured at them and walked briskly towards the house. The children washed their feet before climbing up the steps and entering the house. Khadjah placed the gunny sack on the front steps to dry, feeling thoroughly

57 exhausted. She felt like sitting on the steps, but was afraid that she would leave stains. So, she washed her bloody feet and climbed up into the house. “Give me a sarong, mak,” Khadijah pleaded, “this one is wet with blood.” “Why is there so much blood?” asked Tuk Wa Lumat. “I don’t know, I’ve not had my period for some time now,” she answered. Tuk Wa Lumat took a thick sarong made from a wheat gunny sack, which was hanging on the wall, and gave it to her daughter. Khadijah changed into it and bunched up her old one, then squeezing it tight between her thighs to stamp the flow of blood. Slowly, she lay down on the threshold, tired and light-headed. She dropped off to sleep, the older woman fed the children with boiled tapioca mixed with soft young papaya and some boiled baby banana. The food was cold, but the children ate it ravenously without disturbing Khadijah. After cleaning up the leftovers, Tuk Wa Lumat let the children play in the kitchen. She then went out to where Khadijah was sleeping, on her side, facing the wall. The floor underneath her was covered in blood. The patch of sarong beneath her buttocks was also drenched red. The old woman sat down gingerly and slowly shook her daughter awake. “Ijah! Ijah! What’s wrong with you?” Khadijah’s torso moved as she turned to face her mother. Her face was pale and her lips bloodless. Tuk Wa Lumat panicked. “Are you ill, Jah? There’s too much blood. Your sarong, your buttocks, all covered in blood.” “I don’t know, mak,” Khadijah said slowly, “I have a headache, so tired, no energy.” “Are you miscarrying?” asked Tuk Wa Lumat “No, no, of course not.” “Then, what? There’s just too much blood, Ijah! What is wrong? Shall I call the midwife?” “As you wish, mak. I’m too tired.” Her eyes and mouth closed slowly. Her face was bloodless. Tuk Wa Lumat became frantic. She thought for a while, then ran to the bedroom to get an old sarong and a scarf, and then dashed out of the house. She rushed to the shed where all the

58 harvesting tools were kept. It was not far away from the house. She searched around her, looking to the left and right and then to the back of the shed. “Akub! Akub! It’s me, your sister Ijah is here. She’s bleeding, I think she’s going through a miscarriage. She looks too weak. Help, Akub! Go call your Mak Cik Gayah. There’s no one else to go!” “How can I go out Mak? People will know,” Yaakub replied. “Here, you take my sarong, use it to cover your head. Wrap it around you too, people will think you’re a woman. Go get a basket and clutch it under your armpit. Go quick!” She slipped the sarong under the door of the shed and stood beside the pile of firewood. A few minutes later, Yaakub crawled out, wrapped from head to toe in his mother’s sarong with a big basket clutched under his armpit. After seeing him off, she prayed to God for his safety and went up to the house again. Yaakub was the only male left in the village, who had escaped the last Japanese abduction. The others all eight men, either young or old, had been taken away by the Japanese soldiers last Thursday night. It was close to late afternoon asar prayer when Mak Cik Gayah, the village midwife, arrived. Khadijah was by then too weak and no longer able to talk. All the children were gathered around her except for Deraman, whom Tuk Wa Lumat had hidden behind a cupboard which she had pulled away from the kitchen wall. In that little space, just barely enough to fit a rolled-up mattress, Deraman was squeezed in. The midwife attended to Khadijah immediately, touching her body here and there and looking closely at the blood still pouring out of the loins. “Kak Lumat, this is not a miscarriage, this is not her period either,” she said. “What is it then?” “The blood is too fresh, very red, it’s not like dirty blood, which is dark red and there’s discharge too, a lot of it. I think it’s a leech. A leech has crawled into her body.” “Innalillah! How can this be, Gayah?” “We have to act quick, Kak Lumat. Go ask the children to get lots of ash from the kitchen, a pail of water and some tobacco. Then pound some ginger, fresh turmeric, add water and then squeeze the juice. I need the juice. Oh, and bamboo, a small, young and hollow piece of bamboo! Water! Boil some water!”

Tuk Wa Lumat jumped to the biddings, dragging, Jenab and the children into the kitchen with her. She took two fresh cuts of ginger and turmeric from beside an earthen jar filled with water, washed them cleanly, and then briskly sliced them thinly. She ordered Jenab to pound them into a paste in a mortar while she scooped ash from the stove. Three big stones, arranged into a triangle, made up the stove and ash had accumulated in the middle of them. She grabbed a few scoops into a container made from the curved broad base palm flower-sheaf. She then scooped up some water from the earthen jar and filled up a dipper made from a big coconut shell. She took a big clay pot from the kitchen ledge and a spat of tobacco from a wooden box on the food cupboard. All these she brought to Mak Cik Gayah’s side. She rushed to the earthen jar by the front door and took some more water from it to fill up the clay pot. She ran into the kitchen to start a fire and boiled the water. The midwife poured some water in the dipper onto the ash in the palm container. The mixture bubbled as she stirred it with her right hand. She left it aside for some time to let the ash base sink to the bottom of the container, leaving a clear solution on top. Meanwhile, Tuk Wa Lumat had gone down to the ground to get some young peleting bamboo from the grove her late husband had planted as a fence on the side of the house facing downstream. Jenab was still pounding ginger in the kitchen and the pestle hitting the mortar played a rhythm keku-lekuk-lekuk. Tuk Wa Lumat made Si Esah and Si Timah sit next to Si Kiah. When the mixture in the container had cleared, the midwife poured some carefully into the dipper. “Ijah, raise your head a bit here, I want you to drink some of this. It’s just ash mixed with water, insya-Allah, if there’s a leech in your body, it will crawl out.” Khadijah slowly opened her eyes and raised her head with some help from Mak Cik Gayah. The old midwife put the cup to Khadijah’s lips as she mumbled some incantation. Khadijah sipped the potion slowly with her eyes squeezed shut and her face began to pucker, wrinkling the lines around her eyes. “Finish it, Jah,” Mak Cik Gayah persuaded. Tuk Wa Lumat brought in a stick of the young yellow bamboo, about the size of her little finger. She handed it to the midwife, together with the knife she was holding.

The old woman cut off one segment between two joints and rounded one end by carving it slowly with the knife. “Bring me the brown spine!” said Mak Cik Gayah, the midwife, “if you can, find the clean one.” Tu Wa Lumat clambered down again to the ground and tore off one dried coconut leaf. She leaned it on the front steps. After climbing up, she pulled it up and handed it to Mak Cik Gayah. The midwife carefully scraped off the leaf to get the brown spine. She whittled and cleaned it until it was white. She measured two hand-span and cut. After that, she poked the spine into the hollow bamboo and twirled it a couple of times. “Here, please soak this in hot water,” she said, “and bring the ginger and turmeric juice.” Tuk Wa Lumat quickly did as asked. Jenab had finished pounding the fresh turmeric. The old woman scraped the mixture from the mortar into a porcelain bowl. She added some cold water from the earthen jar, and squeezed out the juice into another bowl. She fished out the soaked bamboo stick with a ladle and then left the kitchen. After placing all the things near the midwife, she sat down next to her. The midwife pinched some tobacco and squeezed it into the juice. “Lie flat, Jah,” she ordered, “Raise your knees and spread your legs.” She wiped some of the blood off with piece of cloth and then inserted the bamboo stick into Khadijah’s vagina. She pushed it in until only about six inches of the stick jutted out from between Khadijah’s legs. The midwife sipped some juice into her mouth and then carefully spat it out into the mouth of the hallowed stick. She did this many times until all the juice in the bowl was used up. It was only then that she carefully pulled out the stick and put it on the floor. One end was smeared red in blood. ‘Jah, don’t put down your knees, leave them raised,” she urged Khadijah, “even if you feel tired, just hang on, be strong, Jah, there, lean your right knee against the wall. We’ll get a pillow for your left one.” Tuk Wa Lumat ran into the bedroom and brought out a few pillows. They were arranged to cushion up Khadijah’s left knee. “I’ll sleep here tonight, Kak Lumat,” Mak Cik Gayah said, “I need to check if the leech crawls, out or not.”

“Yes, yes, that’s good.” Tuk Wa Lumat replied, “Why don’t you go and do the asar prayer, first, what do we do with this bowl of water, Adik Gayah?” “If the leech doesn’t come out by midnight, we have to make more ash and tobacco mixed with water and get Ijah to squat over the bowl,” she said. It was near to sundown when relatives, mainly very old men and women, dared to leave their houses to come and visit Khadijah. The midwife relentlessly checked on her throughout the day, and by evening when the Maghrib prayer was over, the blood flow finally stopped. Mak Cik Gayah, the old midwife, was relieved. Tuk Wa Lumat meanwhile cooked some rice mixed with the gadung Khadijah had brought her, grilled some dried haruan fish and boiled some tapioca shoots for dinner. After all the visitors had left, she invited the midwife to join the children for the meal. She kept some rice aside for Khadijah, in case she had some appetite later. After the meal, she brought down some of the food to Yaakub who was still hiding in the shed. When all the children were asleep in the bedroom, the two old women sat beside Khatijah, talking quietly in the dim light of the lighted resin. “Last year,” the midwife whispered. “Si Meryam’s daughter-in-law who lived in Kubang Sepat had this happened to her too. It was only the next day when the leech wriggled out of her. It was only a leech. There was another person in Kebakat, the year before that, who did not seek help and died. She didn’t know a leech had crawled into her.” Both women fell asleep. They awoke suddenly when they heard Khadijah twisting and moaning. “I feel something crawling out,” Khadijah cried. The midwife quickly shone the light between Khadijah’s legs. She saw two fat, oval shaped and shinning black lumps, about the size of a child’s arm, wriggling on the floor. “They’ve crawled out,” she exclaimed, “two of them” “They’re out?” Tuk Wa Lumat asked, bending over and looking at where the midwife was pointing, “Astaghfirullah! They’re huge!”

“They’ve gorged themselves on her blood, they can’t suck another drop, they never stop until they’re satiated. But if there’s no tobacco-ginger-turmeric juice, they’ll never crawl out. They’ll just remain in the body sucking blood, until the person dies. Only then they’ll crawl out.” Tuk Wa Lumat went into the kitchen and came back with a piece of firewood and a broken flower-sheath bowl. The midwife then rolled the leeches using the firewood into the bowl, scooped a fistful of damp ash and smeared it on them. A few minutes later, the leeches vomited blood and the ash turned reddish-black in color. They began to shrink slowly until the two leeches, now only about thumb-sized, lay writhing in the ash. “Mak, I need a drink, some water please,” Khatijah said, “I’m so thirsty, my throat feels so dry.” Tuk Wa Lumat ran into the kitchen again, boiled some water and frantically crushed a fistful of dried coffee beans, which she had taken from a basket on the shelf. She made some coffee after the water boiled in a clay pot and mixed in some coconut syrup from a flask jar. She brought the coffee out to Khatijah and Mak Cik Gayah in two porcelain mugs. The coffee gave some colour to Khadijah. But the midwife still forbade her sleeping on her side in case there were still other leeches inside her. She waited and checked on Khadijah till noon prayer the next day, but no more leeches came out. The blood flow had long stopped. The old woman was now satisfied. “I don’t think there’s any left,” she said, ‘I should go home now, if you have any fresh haruan, boil and add lots of turmeric to the soup and drink it. I’ll come back to check in a day or two.” ‘How much for all these, Adik Gayah?” asked Tuk Wa Lumat. “There’re some dried gadung in the sack, give some to Mak Cik Gayah. A pack or two, there’s also resin from rubber scraps,” Khadijah whispered. “There’s no need for the resin, I have made some too at home. But I would like some of the gadung, I’ve finished my supply.”

Khadijah and the children stayed in Morak for more than a month by which time she had recovered fully. She felt she had been there too long for she even had time to complete weaving a few mats from flattened strips of bamboo. There were many pandanus trees growing on the paddy bunds in Morak. Their leaves were healthy, long and wide. She would be able to bring home a few of the mats. She worries about the few chickens left behind, the tapioca plants that were only waist high when they left the house. So, she finally made up her mind to return home that Friday, joining the group of people travelling to Lambor to buy rice. Tuk Wa Lumat packed some scoops of dried coffee beans, a bottle of coconut syrup, a pack of haruan fish, dried puyu fish, a few of the live catfish she had reared in a big earthen jar and two cupaks of rice. Khadijah began packing all their things on Thursday evening. She had wanted an early start the next dawn. Suddenly, screams from Zakaria, Tuk Wa Lumat’s grandson who had appeared out of no where, stunned the whole village. “Come out! Come out! Everyone can come out now! The white men are back … the Japanese have surrendered,” he screamed repeatedly. “Where did you hear this?” Tuk Wa Lumat asked. “Everyone is talking about it at the pier, it’s been a few days,” Zakaria replied. Khadijah was overcome with joy. Yaakub came out of hiding from beneath the house. Male relatives appeared suddenly, having left their hiding places which were kept secret from each other, one by one. Some seemed exhausted and many others pale. Khadijah and her children finally reached home after the noon prayers. The front door was broken and flung wide open. The floor was covered in civet and bat droppings. Their hoe, curved knife and cleaver were, all gone. Cloth from wheat sacks, which had been left behind but not yet sewn, and mosquito nets were stolen too. Mats and pillows had been taken away. Clay pots and some steel pans from the kitchen had also been stolen. All the chickens had disappeared. When they checked the pen where the tapioca had been planted, not even a stick was left behind. She wondered how she was to cook for that day.

“Deraman, clean the floor. Jenab, you wash the kitchen with the younger children,” Khadijah said, beginning to take charge, “I’m going to Tuk Cik Amat’s house to get some coals, maybe also borrow a pot, or two.” A few minutes later she returned with a porcelain pot and the coals, cupped in a coconut husk. A wisp of smoke trailed from the coals. After lighting a fire at the stove, which she had made from blocks of dried rubber wood, she handed the pot to Jenab. Khadijah left the house and walked round the back to the clump of areca-nut trees growing beside the paddy fields. She searched for some flower-sheaths to make food wrappers, plates and water containers. As she stood clutching a few pieces of the flower-sheaths under her armpits, Khadijah stared across to the edge of the paddy fields towards an orchard that looked bluish-green in the distance. At one point, she thought she saw a figure walking on the bunds towards her. But when she wiped her eyes and opened them again, there was no one. Only the fields stretched out as far as her eyes could see, deserted. Khadijah turned towards her house and looked at her surroundings: a house with an attap roof and bamboo walls, a few coconut trees, bacang and langsat fruit trees, and a small garden to plant tapioca in, her neighbours called it her land, Khadijah’s land, or the land that belonged to Khadijah. With that, she returned to her home and her land. Tomorrow would be another day, and if all were clear, she would go to Wakaf Baru to sell the bamboo mats. Maybe she could buy a hoe so that Deraman could help her plant more tapiocas.

Translated by Noraini Md Yusuf Source: In the Shadows of the Palms: An Anthology of Malaysian Short Stories, 2009.

FRIENDS (Sahabat by Anwar Ridhwan)

The first virtue: patience. Nothing to do with simple waiting. It is more like obstinacy. (Andre Gide)

I have paced this small room countless times. With each step, each glance outside, seeing the millions of snowflakes falling from the Manhattan sky (like flour falling through a sieve onto the buildings and the streets), I think of how Nuriah is doing in the operating theatre. Her husband is with her, worrying; surely he is even more worried than I am, after all, this is the birth of his eldest child. Sometimes my emotions mock my attitude: why should I be worried and nervous when it is my friend’s wife who is giving birth? But my attitude holds out, defeating emotion with a quote by Sigmund Freud, that if we can share (in this case, all the hard times) this is the poetry in the prose of our lives.

On the corner of 104th Street Broadway there is a rather old single-floor building. I think it was built a few years before the Second World War. The interior of the building attempts to defy its age, especially the lobby. When I open the glass doors to the building, a patterned red carpet welcomes me. Nuriah, her husband and I enter. This was about a year ago. I walk towards the receptionist, who doubles as the telephone operator. She is Caucasian, probably aged about sixty, older than the building itself. “Good morning. I would like to see Mr. Yaakob, please,” I say. “Mr. Jacob?” she asks. “Mr. Jacob, the owner of the building?” With a sidelong glance at Nuriah’s husband, I smile. “Yes,” I reply. “On what business? Do you want to rent rooms?”

“Well, we intend to. But we would like to meet him first. We are from the same country. In fact, we used to live in the same village.” “Oh,” she says. “You are in luck. Mr. Jacob is around this morning. Please go to that office (points to a door not far away) and knock before entering.” “Thank you.” I said. Without wasting any time, the three of us head for the room, knock on the door, open it and enter. “Assalamualaikum,” I say. Yaakob is stunned for a moment. “You must be Anwar, right? The son of Madam Habshah, the midwife?” “Correct,” I reply, and shake hands with him. “This is Ismail, and his wife, Nuriah.” He shakes their hands briefly. “I have to leave for New Jersey in five minutes. Is there anything I can do for you?” “We need rooms. Two rooms.” “You’ll have to ask the receptionist outside. Hopefully there are still some available.” With this, he gets ready to leave. We, too, go out immediately, to meet the elderly woman once again. Yaakob passes quickly behind us, carrying a bag. He opens the door and steps outside. “We need two rooms,” I tell the receptionist. “You’re in luck,” she answers, flipping through the register. “There is one vacant two-room apartment on the second floor. The previous tenant moved out just yesterday, and you’re here today. This place is very convenient. Only one block away, on 103rd Street, is the subway. Please fill out and sign this form.” She hands me two forms. One pass to Ismail, the other is for me.

From that day onwards, the three of us lived in apartment 2J on the second floor of Yaakob’s building. There was a rather small living room and a kitchen, next to which were the bathroom and the toilet. In the beginning, it was rather awkward for us to live in such a confined space, sharing a bathroom, toilet, and the living room that we turned into a study and dining area.

Ismail attends lectures at Columbia University. I am at New York University, either at its main campus in Washington Square, or its campus on 42nd Street, or on East 55th Street. Most of the time, Nuriah is alone. Every time I look at the building from a distance, especially from the entrance to the subway on 103rd Street Broadway, behind the faded buildings, I am in awe of Yaakob, now known to his employees as Mr. Jacob. We used to live in the same kampong, but he is about 15 years my senior. Although we lived in the same kampong, we were never close friends. Aside from the age difference, which made us have different groups of friends, I left the kampong when I was 13 to live in a boarding school in Sabak Bernam. From then on, I seldom returned home, except during school holidays. Yaakob’s parents I remember well, though. They owned several paddy fields and coconut plantations. While the other villagers were still ploughing the fields manually, Yaakob’s folks had already bought a Hino to plough their large plots. They owned a “diesel buffalo”. They were the first to own a radio, the first to have an AJS motorcycle, the first to own a Hillman automobile, and the first to go to Mecca by flight. When I was in secondary school, I heard that Yaakob’s parents had passed away. Coming back home a month later, I heard that Yaakob had sold all his paddy fields and the coconut plantation. After that I lost track of him. Only two years ago a friend of mine in Ithaca told me that Yaakob was now a prosperous businessman living in New York City. I remember the Yaakob of old, the one who rode his bicycle to the English school, the one who would team up with a Chinese boy to share in buying the fish caught in the trenches around our paddy fields when the season came. Once again, we meet on God’s Earth. “We’ve been renting this place for two months now,” Ismail says all of sudden while we are watching TV one night. “And we’ve been paying the rent for two months. We’re supposed to pay for the third month this week, but the Malaysian Students Department (MSD) hasn’t transferred our money yet.” “How now?”

“Tell you what,” I say encouragingly, “I’ll see Yaakob tomorrow morning. I’m sure he’s a reasonable man. I’ll tell him that we will pay the rent once the MSD sends the money.” “You think he’ll agree?” “Insya-Allah. He is one of us after all.” “Well, try it then.”

At around 8:00 the next morning, coincidently I have no lectures, I knock on the door to Yaakob’s office. After entering, I give salam and sit down before him, explaining why I am there. “What?” he bellows. “This is not the welfare office. In our agreement – the one that you signed – the rent has to be settled during the first week at the beginning of every month. At the b-e-g-i-n-n-i-n-g. Listen, there’ve been a lot of people asking for rooms.” “We’re not trying to delay,” I tell him calmly. “The problem is that the MSD hasn’t sent us the money yet. Once we get the money, we’ll settle the rent.” “Kampung boy,” he says, his voice harsh. “This is New York, not Sungai Besar. There, if you run out of salt, you can run next door, borrow some; if you run out of sugar, you can always get a cup from the neighbours. And you can pay them any time you like. Maybe in one week. Maybe in two.” Silent, I bow my head. “You have four days,” he says. I get up. Before leaving the room, I say, as usual, “Assalamualaikum.” But this time, I say it unusually soft.

When the day comes, we are still unable to settle the rent. All the money we have is just enough to get us through another week or two. When I go to see Yaakob, he can tell from my face what I am about to tell him. He bangs his fist on his desk. “Kampung boy!”

“What to do? The money from the MSD is not here yet. They can’t be blamed either, they have to take care of thousands of students.” “Is that my problem?” Yaakob asks. “No, but….” “If I went by my instincts, the three of you would have to move out,” he says, looking right into my eyes. After a few seconds of silence, he asks, “Where’s Ismail?” “He’s upstairs.” “Both of you will come with me now. Wear some old clothes. Tell Nuriah that you’ll be back around midnight.” “Where are we going?” “Do you want to come with me, or move out?” I don’t reply. I hurry back up the stairs to the second floor. Not much later, Ismail and I are back in his office, dressed even worse than the beggars in Harlem.

“True enough, that night, both Ismail and I get home at 1:00 in the morning, dog- tired. We have been scraping the walls of an Italian restaurant in Greenwich Village. Over the next two days we paint one section of the restaurant walls and wallpaper another. Yaakob shows us how. On the last night, Yaakob suddenly talks, “This kind of work is quite lucrative. When I first come to New York City, this is what I did, until I saved up enough to buy that apartment block on 104th Street. Even though I can be considered pretty well-off now (“A millionaire,” I interject), I still like doing this. As for your rent – I consider the work you have done here as payment. But remember, make sure all payments are settled on time from now on.” I say, “Thank you.” Ismail thanks him as well, “From me, too. Thank you.” “Hm.” Yaakob’s ‘slave labour” is attractive because of the dollars it pays. Which is why Ismail and I continue to “sign up” with “Mr. Jacob’s employment agency” over the next few months, even though the MSD sends us our money on time. A number of urgent jobs are completed with our help. If not for the two of us, Yaakob probably wouldn’t

have been able to complete so many jobs at the same time. With the extra work, we also have more money on our hands.

One September night, Ismail whispers to me, ‘Nuriah is pregnant.” “How far along is she?” I ask him. “Probably about three months.” “Oh, man. You should have put that on hold first. Going to a hospital here costs a lot. It’s not like the GH in Kuala Lumpur.” “I guess we’re just like tapioca. Stick it in, and it grows. But Nuriah doesn’t look pregnant, does she? It’s probably like that for chubby women.” “When are you going to see the doctor?” “Tomorrow.” The next day, Ismail and Nuriah go to the clinic. They only return around noon. “Not three, but five months,” whispers Ismail. “Five months? In that case, you’ll be a father come January. “January,” Ismail says in low voice. “Why don’t we look for a new apartment? With a baby, this place will no longer be suitable.” “I agree,” I answer truthfully. “Why don’t you look for an apartment? Near Columbia University? Don’t worry about me. I can find a room at the College Resident Hostel on 110th Street.” “Okay.”

Although there are several months left, the rooms have to be booked early. In October, Ismail is told that a two-room apartment on 115th Street will be vacant from January 1st. I haven’t got anything fixed about my room yet. Ismail offers that I can stay at his apartment until I get a room. Once I get a room, I can move out. In December, Ismail and I give Yaakob notice that we will move out at the end of the year. Yaakob writes it down in his diary. After this, Ismail takes Nuriah to the clinic again. I remember that day, snow began to fall, blanketing the vehicles and the ground. A few days later, rain washes the snow away; removes it from our sight. At noon, Ismail

and Nuriah return. While Nuriah goes to lie down on their bed, Ismail whispers to me, “I feel really bad to have to tell you this. I know you will scold me. Nuriah is probably going to have a caesarean.” I am quiet for a moment. “I’ll try to help, financially or otherwise. I know that a C- section costs more than a regular delivery.” I would like to scold him, but this time I don’t have the heart to do it. We do not talk long about Nuriah. Talking about the new apartment seems to make my friend forget his worries for the moment. Two days before Christmas we begin packing our things little by little. On that day we also let Yaakob know we will vacate the apartment on the 31st of December. Unexpectedly, four days before year’s end, Ismail receives a telephone call which shocks us all. The apartment on 115th Street won’t be available until the 1st of February. The tenant has extended his tenancy for another month.” A few minutes later, I am in Yaakob’s office, “Looks like we have to stay here for another month.” “You can’t do that!” he says angrily. I explain, “The other apartment won’t be vacant until February 1st.” “That’s not my problem,” he says. “I already have new tenants, from Hong Kong. You told me you would move out on the 31st of December. I have already signed a contract with them.” “Cancel the contract.” Harshly, he says, “It’s not that easy, kampong boy. A contract is a contract. If I have to go to court here in New York, you know what would happen.” “So, how?” “The three of you have to move out on the 31st,” he says adamantly. “You are no Malay!” The words, which I myself feel are rather harsh, just shoot out by themselves. “You have no compassion! It’s not like you don’t know that Nuriah is almost due to give birth. How much are those Hongkies paying?” “Four hundred.”

“Fifty dollars more than what we paid,” I say, a little sarcastically. “Let us stay for another month. We’ll pay you five hundred.” “My, my, kampong boy,” his tone is sarcastic as well. “I remember when the MSD sent your money late and you came to see me with your sob-story. Now, with some cash in your hands, you can be arrogant and offer me more.” “I’m not being arrogant, I’m just thinking about Nuriah. Also….” “You know, when I came here 10 years ago, I had 20 dollars in my pocket. I didn’t have it as easy as you. Learn something about facing hardship in a foreign place. This is not Sungai Besar, where your neighbour will put you up for the night if your house burns down, or where you can fish in the trenches when you have no fish to eat. Where you spend your whole life working your tiny plot of land, and the ones growing rich are the middlemen.” I cut in, “We helped you with a lot of your jobs, Ismail and I. I can’t believe you cannot help us out now.” “I have signed a contract,” he says, his voice unyielding. “You and Ismail should have signed a contract for the other apartment. So that people don’t play around with you. This is not Sungai Besar, kampong boy. There you may able to lease a whole paddy field by giving a verbal agreement, or you can make a will and divide up your land without putting it in writing. In the end, the heirs will squabble about a tiny plot of land.” If there is one person on this Earth who does not know the meaning of anger, it is Ismail. When I tell him what has transpired in my discussion with Yaakob, he sits calmly and leafs through his diary. “There is a Chinese saying,” he says with a calm voice, “a mistake committed at one moment brings misfortune for whole lifetime (he continues to leaf through his diary). Hmm, he may be able to help (points at something in his own handwriting).” “Who?” “Nordin.” “I have never heard you mention him before,” I say.

“He used to live in Brooklyn. He’s just moved to 73th Street. We met by change on the subway. He asked me “Malay?” and I nodded. I gave him my telephone number and address. He gave me his address … and his telephone number.” “Try calling.” Without hesitating, Ismail calls and tells of his misfortune. A few minutes later the conversation is over. “So?” “He says he has only one room, his bedroom. The three of us can sleep outside, in the living room.”

On the 3rd of December, the three of us move to Nordin’s tiny apartment. It is a wet day, with white snow falling from the Manhattan sky. Ismail has dropped Nuriah off in a taxi. Then, Ismail and I transport the boxes containing our books, suitcases and the few household item that we possess by subway – we enter the subway on 103rd Street, take the Number 1, and emerge again on 72nd Street, walk one block, and finally we are there. Nordin’s apartment is on the third floor. The building doesn’t have an elevator, so we have to take the stairs. This is where I am now, in Nordin’s tiny apartment. A few months ago, he made the decision to leave FAMA and study at a college in New York. At first he lived in Brooklyn, but he got tired of commuting and moved here. Now, his funds are slowly depleting, while the application for a scholarship or study loan from MARA remains unanswered. To make some money, he sells watches, umbrellas or winter clothing on the sidewalks. I have been staying here for seven days. Early this morning, Nuriah was groaning in pain. We carried her downstairs. Ismail took her to the hospital in a yellow taxi. Ring! Ring! Ring! I rush to get the telephone which is at the corner of the room. It is Ismail. “Anwar”, he says on the other end, “I’ve got a son.” “How is Nuriah?”

“Alhamdulillah, she is okay.” “I’ll be there in a bit.” I rush to put on my thick clothes to ward off the cold. How can I express my joy to this couple, friends who have laughed and cried with me? Probably, a single flower will do.

Translated by Tanja Jonid Source: In the Shadows of the Palms: An Anthology of Malaysian Short Stories, 2009.

BIOGRAPHIES OF WRITERS

USMAN AWANG (July 12 ,1929 - 29 November, 2001) was a Malaysian poet, playwright and novelist and a National Laureate (1983) who was educated at a Malay School. Named Wan Awang Osman, his early writings employed many traditional forms and literary aesthetics. With time, Usman’s writings composed new and more modern lines.Usman also crossed the racial lines writing of his Chinese and Indian neighbours, with a sensitivity and sincere regard. Later, through his various travels abroad, his poetic form became consequently looser, though far from being prosaic, often with a quieter narrator to tell its story.

His poem included in this collection, “Letter from the Bird Community to the Mayor”, is famous to let nature and its myriad beauties bloom in the brilliant sun. Paralleling the poet’s original appeal to humankind to hear the many voices of the natural world, the piece juxtaposes a variety of bird calls as a plea to the mayor of the city to keep the city green. Nevertheless, development continues, represented by the resonating percussion comprising interlocking rhythms by various traditional drums and found objects. The bird calls become dissonant as the city’s mud turns to concrete. The woodpecker is crushed under a felled tree, the turtle dove is conned by the name ‘Padang Merbuk’ and the birds are imprisoned in boxes that humans call cages.

ABDUL SAMAD MUHAMMAD SAID is better known as A. SAMAD SAID. His other pseunonyms include Hilmy Isa, Isa Dahmuri, Jamil Kelana, Manja, Mesra or Shamsir. He was born on 9 April 1935 in Kampung Belimbing Dalam, Durian Tunggal, Melaka. A. Samad Said was awarded the Southeast East Asia (SEA) Write Award in 1979, and Malaysian’s prestigous literary award Anugerah Sastera Negara (Malaysia National Laureate) in 1985. He is the fourth National Laureate. He had always kept an interest in literature and creative writing ever since his school days. His contributions to the national and international literature are in the forms of novels, poetry, drama, short stories and essay. His first work, was the novel which helped elevate Malay literature to the international arena and this draws the line between A. Samad Said and ASAS 50 writers. Other significant works include Sungai Mengalir Lesu, Langit Petang, Hujan Pagi, Daerah Zeni, Wira Bukit, Lantai. T. Pinkie, Di Hadapan Pulau and Al- Amin. A.Samad Said often explores the reality of Malaysian society, especially the philosophy of war and humanity in his writing. The impact and struggle of war, shaped much of his conscience and war themes and settings are potrayed in Salina, Sungai Mengalir Lesu, Langit Petang, Lantai T. Pinkie, Lazri Meon Daerah Zeni and Di Hadapan Pulau. Samad’s poetical piece, "The Twilight of Conscience" however, laments mankind’s refusal to learn from past mistakes and its fondness to live in ignorance. He leaves asking us if we knew what we wanted and what had we found in our living without wisdom.

BAHA ZAIN or Baharuddin Zainal was born in Perak on 22 May 1939. A poet of two conflicting worlds-- the village and the city --he has developed a poetic style and a philosphical stance woven over time from these two different environments of his own personal life. He is the 12th National Literary Laureate (2013).

Baha Zain is a keen observer of Malaysia (with many poems dedicated to describing it and its inhabitans), but he also belongs to a greater world, which offer us London, Palestine and Jakarta. For this poet the dignity of the man, his values, and his meaning make for important themes. He is most famous for his moral honesty and self-analysis, always true to his emotions and beliefs. Refined and wound around important ideas, his style has been able to give words to the universal as well as the unique situations he found himself in.

“Toilet Paper City” depicts the modern city as chaotic and disintegrating, being poisoned by acid rain as well as rotting away by violence and injustice.

AHMAD KAMAL ABDULLAH (KEMALA) was born on 30th January 1941 in Gombak, Selangor. He obtained his doctorate in 2000 from Universiti Kebangsaan Malaysia. Despite being celebrated as an accomplished poet, he is also known for his short stories. His collection of poems include Ayn’, Pelabuhan Putih, Titir Zikir and Sum-sum Bulan Rawan. His short story anthologies are Anasir, Firuzia and Mata, Merpati dan Sebuah Rumah. He was the recipient of the S.E.A Write Award in 1986. In 2011 he received Anugerah Sastera Negara (National Literary laureate).

“In the Distance” was originally written and published in Eve (1975) in Malay version. Later, this poem was translated into English and compiled in an anthology of Emas Tempawan= Burnished Gold (2004). This poem is selected for this project according to its weighing when discussing the substances of gender issues from the Malay point of view. By using the figure of Adam and Eve, this poem explores and evaluates the implication of gender bias which is constructed by the socio-culture institutions. This poem address gender biases that imprint and constructed in socio- culture, regarding male and female biological appearances. Women are given their own right to speak and to identify themselves equitably. Kemala gives the Malay Muslim man’s perspective on concept of freedom and happiness as lived by Adam and Eve. When two values collide, each goes his or her own way.

One of Malaysia's laureate poets is MUHAMMAD HAJI SALLEH who is also a well known scholar and critic. He was born in March, 1942 in Taiping, Perak and received his early education in Bukit Mertajam High School and the prestigious Malay College Kuala Kangsar before leaving for the Malayan Teachers College at Brinsford Lodge, England in 1963. He continued his postgraduate studies at the University of Malaya in Singapore and later, at Michigan University in the United States. Muhammad has numerous publications of poetry, literary criticisms and translations of Malay literature in English. He also won numerous writing prizes both from Malaysia and abroad and these include Australia Cultural Award (1975), ASEAN Literary Prize (1977), National Laureate (1991), the SEA Write (1997) and MASTERA Literary Award (2000).

One of Muhammad's most studied works is his Sajak-sajak Sejarah Melayu (Poems from the Malay Annals, 1981) which contains 34 chapters of which one is included in this collection – “chapter thirty-two (ii)”. In this piece, Muhammad captures the sights and sounds of old and pre-colonial Malacca, once an important Centerport in the Southeast Asian region. There was already a refined civilization, a strong economic and cultural centre and it is this distant past which one might wish to compare with the present 'grandeur' of a highly material and culture-less world we live in.

ZURINAH HASSAN was born in 1949, in Alor Setar, Kedah. She received her bachelor’s degree from the Science University of Malaysia, Penang and is a creative writer mostly known for her poems and short stories. She received the SEA Write Award in 2004 and in 2013 was conferred the title of Sunthorn Phu Poet Laureate, the Poetry Prize for ASEAN countries. She has published two anthologies of short stories and collection of poems. Her poems Keberangkatan won the second Putra poetry contest. Her books of poems are Sesayup Jalan (1974), Disini tiada perhentian (1977), Keberangkatan (1985).

“A Frying Pan” won the Malaysian Premier Literary Award in 1997 and was chosen as a text subject for secondary schools. “A Frying Pan” has been translated to English, French, Spanish and Russian. This poem expresses a representation of a mother’s sacrifice in raising her children. The children however were blind of their mother’s hardship and sacrifice until she had passed away. Zurinah exposes an old pan and her persona’s non-stick pan to record an irreversible past and one’s self- absorption with modern and material living that undermines kindness and generosity of the others.

KERIS MAS (Kamaluddin Muhamad, 10 June 1922 - 9 March 1992) was a prominent Malaysian writer and was one of the founders of the literary movement, Angkatan Sasterawan ’50 (ASAS ’50). He was known for his short stories, poems and novels. In 1976, he received the Hadiah Pejuang Sastera (Literary Pioneer Award). He became the first recipient of the Anugerah Sastera Negara (National Literary Laureate) in 1981. He was also conferred an honorary doctorate in literature by Universiti Science of Malaysia in 1989.

Keris Mas also produced missionary themed short stories, according to the developments of the 1980s, eg short story "Grandma" and "Hallucination".

FATIMAH BUSU is one of the few Malaysian women writers who persistently write and despite tough competitions with younger writers, continues to be a part of Malaysia's leading and respectable writers. Born in 1943 in Kampung Pasir Pekan in Kelantan, she was first trained at Women Teachers' Training College in Malacca but pursued her doctoral studies at the Universiti Sains Malaysia (USM) and later taught at USM until her retirement in 1998. A versatile writer who explores numerous genres other than short story or novel, she has been winning prestigious writing prizes as well, mainly short stories.

“A Time Once Past” is chosen for this anthology's inclusion because the story represents a period of Malaysian history (Japanese Occupation during the Second World War) from the perspective of a married Malay woman, living in a rural setting. The horror of the Occupation on local population was captured realistically by Fatimah. However, she also showed the human aspect of the occupying forces e.g. the kindness of a Japanese soldier in giving some biscuits to the female protagonist at a point when she thought she and her family would be harmed. Fatimah believes that the only way to overcome challenges in life is through one's own hardwork and quick-thinking. The rest will be one's total submission to the will of Allah. Fatimah Busu is a feminist who has much respect for local values especially those of Islam and Malay culture.

Mohd Anwar Ridhwan (better known as ANWAR RIDHWAN) was born on 5th August 1949 at Parit Satu Timur, Sungai Besar, Selangor, Malaysia. He was awarded Anugerah Sastera Negara (Malaysia National Laureate) on 20th October 2009. In 2002, Anwar Ridhwan was awarded SEA Write Award (Southeast Asia Write Award), Bangkok, Thailand. Among his best novels were Hari-Hari Terakhir Seorang Seniman (The Last Days of An Artist, 1979), Arus (The Current, 1985), and Naratif Ogonshoto (Tales of Ogonshoto,2001). Throughout his short story writing career, Anwar had won Hadiah Karya Sastera Malaysia (Malaysian Literary Prize) for four times for his short stories “Perjalanan Terakhir” (The Last Journey,1973), “Sesudah Perang” (After The War,1976), “Sasaran” (Target, 1982), “Sahabat” (Friend,1983), and “Menjadi Tua” (Becoming Old (1982/83). His propensity to creative new conventions has resulted in his writing short stories in a style which is clearly different from his contemporaries. His new creative technique, coupled with his ability to delve deep into the psyche of his characters, has resulted in a myriad number of short stories like “Dunia Adalah Sebuah Apartmen” (The World in An Apartment), “Sahabat” (Friend), “Menjadi Tua” (Becoming Old), “Dari Kiev ke Moskova” (From Kiev to Moscow) and “Tik! Tik! Tik! (Tick! Tick! Tick!).

"Friend" is chosen for this anthology because it marks a particular period of a nation in which young people were sent abroad to study and return to build the nation. It also portrays the betrayal of a fellow friend who had migrated to New York, now a successful businessman. Anwar recorded the hardships of living abroad and the need for community support and he interposes this with the individualistic attitude adopted by a former village neighbour who had migrated and done well in New York City.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

USMAN AWANG SELECTED PRIMARY WORKS Usman Awang. Kaki Langit. Kuala Lumpur: Asiah Ent., 1971.

Usman Awang. Gelombang: sajak-sajak pilihan 1949-60. Kuala Lumpur: Dewan Bahasa dan Pustaka, 1979.

Usman Awang. Degup jantung. Kuala Lumpur: Pustaka Melayu Baru, 1981.

Usman Awang. Salam Benua. Greetings to the Continent. Kuala Lumpur: Dewan Bahasa dan Pustaka, 1982.

Usman Awang. Puisi-puisi Pilihan. Kuala Lumpur: Dewan Bahasa dan Pustaka, 1987.

SELECTED SECONDARY WORKS Syed Husin Ali. “Asas 50 dan cita-cita kemasyarakatannya” - Bengkel Asas 50 dan Sastera Melayu Moden (22-23 Aug 1980). Kuala Lumpur: DBP, 1980.

Mohammad Mokhtar Hassan. Key concepts in Usman Awang’s short stories: developing a critical tradition. Kuala Lumpur: Dewan Bahasa dan Pustaka, 2006.

Muhammad Haji Salleh. Seorang Penyair, Sebuah Benua Rusuh: Biografi Usman Awang (A Poet and Revolting Continent: Usman Awang' Biography). Kuala Lumpur: Dewan Bahasa dan Pustaka, 2006.

A.SAMAD SAID SELECTED PRIMARY WORKS

Abdul Samad Said. Salina. Kuala Lumpur: Dewan Bahasa dan Pustaka, 1975.

Abdul Samad Said. Langit Petang. Kuala Lumpur: Dewan Bahasa dan Pustaka, 1980.

Abdul Samad Said. The Lazy River. Kuala Lumpur: Institut Terjemahan Negara Malaysia, 1981.

Abdul Samad Said. Keledang. Kuala Lumpur: Wira Bukit, 2007.

Abdul Samad Said. The Morning Post. Kuala Lumpur: Institut Terjemahan Negara Malaysia, 2009.

SELECTED SECONDARY WORKS Sohaimi Abdul Aziz, Rasa-Fenomenologi: Penerapan Terhadap Karya A. Samad Said. Kuala Lumpur: Dewan Bahasa dan Pustaka, 1998.

Rosnah Baharuddin, Belahan Jiwa Wanita dalam Novel A. Samad Said. Kuala Lumpur: Dewan Bahasa dan Pustaka, 2000.

Saniah Binti Abu Bakar. Dunia Kewartawanan Dan Gaya Penulisan Dalam Novel-Novel A. Samad Ismail. Tesis. Serdang: Universiti Putra Malaysia, 2000.

BAHA ZAIN SELECTED PRIMARY WORKS

Baharuddin Zainal. Perempuan dan Bayang-bayang. Kuala Lumpur: Dewan Bahasa dan Pustaka, 1974.

Wajah : biografi seratus penulis / Susunan, Baharuddin Zainal dll. Kuala Lumpur: Dewan Bahasa dan Pustaka, 1981.

Hikayat Umar Umaiyah / Diselenggara oleh Baharuddin Zainal. Kuala Lumpur: Dewan Bahasa dan Pustaka, 1988.

Baharuddin Zainal. Postponing truth & other poems = Menangguhkan kebenaran & sajak-sajak lain / Baha Zain ; translated by Muhammad Haji Salleh. Kuala Lumpur: Institut Terjemahan Buku Negara, 2008.

Baharuddin Zainal. Kumpulan Puisi Terpilih. Kuala Lumpur: Institut Terjemahan Buku Negara, 2013.

SELECTED SECONDARY WORKS Sirih Pinang : kumpulan esei budaya / Penyunting, Baharuddin Zainal, Anwar Ridhwan, Ayob Yamin. Kuala Lumpur: Dewan Bahasa dan Pustaka, 1983.

Mencari imej Malaysia : dialog sastera, seni rupa, seni bina / Hamdan Yahya dll. Perak: Yayasan Kesenian Perak, 1998.

Esei dan puisi Baha Zain tentang penulis dan persekitarannya. Kuala Lumpur : Dewan Bahasa dan Pustaka, 2000.

KEMALA SELECTED PRIMARY WORKS Kemala. Meditasi. Kuala Lumpur: Venus Art & Stationery Supplies, 1972.

Kemala. Eva: puisi pilihan 1963-1973. Kuala Lumpur: Dewan Bahasa dan Pustaka, 1975.

Kemala. Laut takjub: kumpulan 25 cerpen pilihan. Kuala Lumpur: Dewan Bahasa dan Pustaka, 2011.

Kemala. MIM: kumpulan puisi Kemala. Kuala Lumpur: Dewan Bahasa dan Pustaka, 2011.

Kemala. Sumsum bulan rawan: kumpulan puisi 2002-2010. Kuala Lumpur: Dewan Bahasa dan Pustaka, 2011.

SELECTED SECONDARY WORKS Mohamad Mokhtar Abu Hassan. Proses penciptaan puisi A. Wahab Ali, Dharmawijaya dan Kemala. Kuala Lumpur: NABIL, Jabatan Pengajian Melayu, Universiti Malaya, 1990.

Kemala. - in. V. A. Pogadaev. Malayziya. Karmannaya Entsiklopedia (Malaysia. Ensiklopedia Saku). Moscow: "Muravei-Guide", 2000, hlm. 254-255.

Anna Pogadaeva. Intertekstualiti Dalam Puisi Kemala. Editor Irwan Abu Bakar dan Victor A. Pogadaev. Kuala Lumpur: eSastera Enterprise, 2011.

MUHAMMAD HAJI SALLEH SELECTED PRIMARY WORKS Muhammad Haji Salleh. Sajak-sajak Sejarah Melayu. Kuala Lumpur: Dewan Bahasa dan Pustaka, 1981.

Muhammad Haji Salleh. Pengalaman puisi. Kuala Lumpur: Dewan Bahasa dan Pustaka, 1984.

Muhammad Haji Salleh. Watak Tenggara. Kuala Lumpur: Pustaka Cipta, 1993.

Muhammad Haji Salleh. Beyond the Archipelago. Athens: Ohio University Centre for International Studies, 1995.

Muhammad Haji Salleh. Rowing Down Two Rivers. Bangi: UKM Press, 2000.

SELECTED SECONDARY WORKS Md. Salleh Yaapar. Postcolonial quest for Malay poetics: the case of Muhammad Haji Salleh. Leiden: International Institute for Asian Studies (IIAS), 2004.

Mohammad A.Quayum. ' On a Journal Homeward: An Interview with Muhammad Haji Salleh' in Postcolonial Text, Vol. 2, No. 4 (2006).

Mohd Irfan Abdullah. “Budaya dalam puisi-puisi Muhammad Haji Salleh”. Ph.D Thesis, Pulau Pinang: USM, 2013.

ZURINAH HASSAN SELECTED PRIMARY WORKS Zurinah Hassan. Sesayup jalan: di antara puisi-puisi yang ditulis dari 1967 ke 1973. Kuala Lumpur: Federal Publications bagi pihak Universiti Sains Malaysia Press, 1974.

Zurinah Hassan. Keberangkatan. Kuala Lumpur: Dewan Bahasa & Pustaka, 1985.

Zurinah Hassan. Pesanan dari Gunung Ledang : A message from Mount Ledang. Kuala Lumpur: Dewan Bahasa & Pustaka, 2004.

Zurinah Hassan. Facing the harbor: Menghadap ke pelabuhan. Kuala Lumpur: Institut Terjemahan Negara Malaysia, 2010.

“Malaysian poet Zurinah Hassan has been chosen recipient of Thailand’s ‘Sunthorn Phu’ Award”, 1 September 2013, http://www.bernama.com/bernama

SELECTED SECONDARY WORKS Hidup dari jendela kereta api; Perkahwinan – Kata seorang perempuan. Diterjemahkan oleh Marina Eliseeva, Victor Pogadaev, Maria Boldireva. - dlm: Sumur di Ladang. Puisi Melayu Tradisional dan Moden. Penyunting B.B. Parnickel. Moscow: Persatuan Nusantara, 1996, hlm. 102-103.

Muhammad Haji Salleh. Bahawa Aku Pernah Hidup: Zurinah Hassan Sebagai Pentafsir Waktu Dan Peristiwa, “Seminar Kefahaman Budaya ke VIII: Zurinah Hassan - Sirih Pulang ke Gagang”. Kuala Lumpur: Dewan Bahasa & Pustaka, 2004.

The Signification of flora in the poems of Zurinah Hassan according to the Malay Theory of Methodology. Samsina Abd Rahman and Muhammad Fazil Yusof. Malay Literature Journal, 23, 2 / Disember, 2010: 87-123.

KERIS MAS SELECTED PRIMARY WORKS Keris Mas (Kamaluddin Muhammad). Koleksi terpilih Sasterawan Negara Keris Mas 1922-1992. Kuala Lumpur: Dewan Bahasa dan Pustaka, 2006.

Keris Mas (Kamaluddin Muhammad). Rimba Harapan. Kuala Lumpur: Dewan Bahasa dan Pustaka, 2003.

Keris Mas (Kamaluddin Muhammad). Saudagar Besar dari Kuala Lumpur. Kuala Lumpur: Dewan Bahasa dan Pustaka, 2003.

Keris Mas (Kamaluddin Muhammad). Darah dan air mata: kumpulan cerpen pilihan Keris Mas 1922-1992. Kuala Lumpur: Dewan Bahasa dan Pustaka, 2006.

Keris Mas (Kamaluddin Muhammad). Jungle of hope. Kuala Lumpur: Institut Terjemahan Negara Malaysia, 2009.

SELECTED SECONDARY WORKS The memoirs of Keris Mas: spanning 30 years of literary development translated by Shah Rezad Ibrahim, Nor Azizah Abu Bakar. Kuala Lumpur: Dewan Bahasa dan Pustaka, 2004.

Blood and tears/Keris Mas; translated by Normala Othman. Kuala Lumpur: Institut Terjemahan Negara Malaysia, 2010.

The big businessman from Kuala Lumpur, Keris Mas/translated by Normala Othman. Kuala Lumpur: Institut Terjemahan Negara, 2011.

FATIMAH BUSU SELECTED PRIMARY WORKS Fatimah Busu. Ombak Bukan Biru. Kuala Lumpur: Pekan Buku Publications, 1972.

Fatimah Busu. Lambaian Tanah Hijau. Kuala Lumpur: Dewan Bahasa dan Pustaka, 1980.

Fatimah Busu. Dark night of the soul in Fables of Eve. (trans Harry Aveling). Kuala Lumpur: Dewan Bahasa dan Pustaka, 1991: 247-282.

Fatimah Busu. The missing piece. Kuala Lumpur: Citra Kurnia Ent., 2005.

Fatimah Busu. Salam Maria. (English translation). Kuala Lumpur: Institut Terjemahan Buku Malaysia, 2012.

SELECTED SECONDARY WORKS Matheson, Virginia. “From class to culture: social conscience in Malay novels since independence” in SOJOURN: Journal of Social Issues in Southeast Asia, 4(2):286-292, Aug 1989.

Joshi, BN. “Emergent Voices of Southeast Asian Women Novelists”. New Delhi: MD Publications, 2010. Ebook.

Mohamed, Maznah and Syed Muhd Khairidin Aljunied (Eds.) Melayu: politics poetics and paradoxes of Malayness in “Gender, Islam and the Malay Nation in Fatimah Busu’s Salam Maria”. Singapore: National University of Singapore Press Pte. Ltd., 2011.

ANWAR RIDHWAN SELECTED PRIMARY WORKS Anwar Ridhwan. Arus. Kuala Lumpur: Pustaka Cipta, 1985.

Anwar Ridhwan. Sangkar – Kumpulan 22 Buah Cerpen. Kuala Lumpur: Dewan Bahasa dan Pustaka, 1997.

Anwar Ridhwan.Tales of Ogonshoto, translated by Solehah Ishak. Kuala Lumpur: Dewan Bahasa dan Pustaka, 2004.

Anwar Ridhwan. Kumpulan Drama Anwar Ridhwan. Kuala Lumpur: Dewan Bahasa dan Pustaka, 2009.

Anwar Ridhwan. The Last Days of An Artist. Kuala Lumpur: Institut Terjemahan Negara Malaysia, 2009.

SELECTED SECONDARY WORKS Hajijah Jais. Novel-Novel Anwar Ridhwan. Kuala Lumpur: Penerbit Universiti Malaya, 2006.

Pogadaev, V. A. Tvorcheskie Poiski Anwara Ridwana (The Creative Searches of Anwar Ridhwan) - in.: Anwar Ridhwan. Bili i Nebili Ostrovov Ogonsoto. St.-P.: Paideia, 2006, p. 3-5.

Tengku Intan Tengku Mohd. Ali. “Novel-Novel Anwar Ridhwan: Satu Analisis Semiotik”. Tesis Phd. Fakulti Sains Sosial dan Kemanusiaan, Universiti Kebangsaan Malaysia, 2006.

GLOSSARY

Air lilih name of place asar afternoon daily prayer Assalamualaikum Peace be upon you (a greeting) Astaghfirullah exclamation to show surprise or astonishment Astaghfirullah-al-Azim Arabic for I seek forgiveness from God attap roof A Malay traditional house

Baju Kurung a type of collarless Malay shirt or blouse worn with sarong or pants Bajus cloths Belatuk wood pecker bacang Mangifera foetida belukar bush; secondary forest bemban kicap soy sauce benggala Bengal bertam leaves pasly leaves

Cencaluk Cuisine of Malaysia made of fermented small shrimps or krill cupaks measure of capacity for padi

Dodol sweet toffee-like confection Dondang Sayang literally love ballad, originated in Malacca sometime in the 15th century, influenced by traditional Portuguese folk music Dukus Lansium domesticum Durian daun name of place in Malacca, located in part of southern Peninsular Malaysia

FAMA Federal Agricultural Marketing Authority Federal House government house GH General Hospital Haruan Channa striata

Ikan Parang herrings Innalillah We are truly Allah’s (exclamation) insya-Allah If God wills

Jambus guavas 94 kampung village Kampung Maulana a place in Pahang, a state of Malaysia located northern part of Peninsula Malaysia Kampung Morak a place in Kelantan, a state of Malaysia located northern part of Peninsula Malaysia Kampung Paluh a place in Pahang, a state of Malaysia located northern part of Peninsula Malaysia Kampung Surau a place in Perlis, a state of Malaysia located northern part of Peninsula Malaysia kebatu banana tree kelumpang name of tree khalwat being in a closed space with someone of the opposite gender, whilst not being married to him/her Kecapi a type of traditional Indonesian musical instrument Kedahs a state of Malaysia, located in the northwestern part of Peninsula Malaysia Kedondong of jugra umbrella Kota Bharu a place in Kelantan, a state of Malaysia located northern part of Peninsula Malaysia Kubang Sepat a place in Perlis, a state of Malaysia located northern part of Peninsula Malaysia

Lambor a place in Pahang, a state of Malaysia located northern part of Peninsula Malaysia Langsat Lansium domesticum maghrib evening daily prayer mata ayam Ardisia crispa; name of a tree MARA Malaysian Government Agency for business and industries Masak asam Malay cuisine Mataram is the capital of the Indonesian province of West Nusa Tenggara The Melakans people of Malacca, located in the southern region of the Malay Peninsula Merbuk turtle dove Minangkabau ethnic group is indigenous to the Minangkabau Highlands of West Sumatra, in Indonesia Morak a place in Kelantan, a state of Malaysia, located nothern part of Peninsula Malaysia MSD Malaysian Student Department Muar’s rambutan Nephelium lappaceum Linn

Nauzubillah Arabic for “God forbid”

Palembang capital city of the South Sumatra province in Indonesia pantun poetry peleting straw Petaling Jaya a place in Selangor, a state of Malaysia, located southern part of Peninsula Malaysia Pipit sparrow Punai wood pigeon puyu Anabas testudineus

Sabak Bernam a place in Selangor, a state of Malaysia, located southern part of Peninsula Malaysia Salung an old Siamese silver coin equal to 1 ⁄ 4 tical Senangin sea fish Senduduk Melastoma Sentuls santol (Sandoricum koetjape) serai bubu Cymbopogon Sungai Besar a small town in Selangor, one of the states of Malaysia Sungai Rambai a small town in Malacca, one of the states of Malaysia tamping besi a kind of rare food tree Tanjung Keling name of a place in Malacca, located in part of southern Peninsula Malaysia Terubuk Toli Shad is a fish water Trengganu songket hand-woven fabric in silk or cotton, and intricately patterned with gold or silver threads tuan respectful form of address to a chief or head or respected person Tuan Guru religious teacher

Ustaz religious teacher

Wakaf Baru name of a place in Kelantan, located in part of northern Peninsula Malaysia

(The names of places referred to in the poems and short stories may be found in the map) PENINSULAR MALAYSIA

A Time Once Past – Fatimah Busu

Friends – Anwar Ridhwan

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Friends – Anwar Ridhwan Hallucination – Keris Mas

Letter from the Bird Community to the Mayor – Usman Awang

Chapter Thirty-Two (ii) – Muhammad Haji Salleh

Source : geosmkakl.blogspot.com 97