The next day, my stomach growled hungrily like a savage beast as I rolled my head around grumpily on my desk at the office. Breakfast that Melati prepared for me in the morning tasted bland to the point that it was unpalatable. At least, she did not serve me spoilt food. I had stopped eating at the first bite and slipped away to the nearest peddling hawker that prepared soft-boiled eggs dashed with white pepper and soy sauce. The sharp hunger pangs felt like an army of praying mantis were stabbing me relentlessly with sharp mini-swords in place of their legs. I should have ordered extra.
I turned my head to the side and opened my eyes groggily. Out of habit, I flicked my wrist to look at the time, hoping that lunch was near.
That was the fourth time today.
I had forgotten that I was not wearing my watch. Again. My mind drew a blank on the last moment that I wore it on my wrist. I must have misplaced it somewhere.
I rose my head up slowly from the desk and was dumbfounded when something glinted at me. With my mouth agape, I rolled the item between my fingers.
Dr. M. Lim.
The prominent engraving was as clear as daylight. I could have sworn that my desk was empty before I laid my head down to rest earlier. I stashed the gold pen in my scrubs shirt pocket and sprung from my seat. I swung the door open, startling a few nurses who were walking by. I mumbled a hurried apology and squinted my eyes to see further down the hallway. I had no idea why I was searching for Kamsaton but there I was, scanning for her.
I sighed defeatedly as I walked back towards my office but I stopped short when the clock on the pristine walls stared right back at me. My spirits were lifted immediately.
It was time for lunch.
* * * ◊ ˚ ◊ ˚ ◊ ˚ ◊ ˚ ◊ * * *
"Pakcik, mee rebus satu mangkuk. (Uncle, one bowl of mee rebus.)" I raised my index finger slightly to the much older Malay man wearing a sarong, an off-white undershirt, a pair of slippers and a white religious cap on his head.
I tried to find a comfortable spot in the crowded space where men in crisp, smart shirts and women in work dresses were happily eating their bowl of mee rebus. The aromatic, sweet and thick brown gravy made heavily with mashed sweet potatoes never failed to make my mouth water. The man was my favourite mee rebus seller because he added ground peanuts and udang geragau which were small krill shrimps, to the mix of ingredients. He always poured a generous amount of the gravy over the blanched yellow egg noodles and topped it with garnishes like sliced green chillies, crispy fried shallots, one hard-boiled egg, half a small lime, mini square fried beancurd and a drizzle of dark soy sauce. Just breathing in the rich flavours of the piquant dish was enough to make my mouth water.
This street was always popular during lunchtimes with itinerant roadside vendors that whipped up food for customers on the spot. I carefully made way for a thin Chinese man with greying hairs under his straw hat as he balanced the shoulder yoke that was attached to a heavy basket at both ends. One of the baskets struggled under its weight as it contained a huge pot of boiling water while another basket was filled with an assortment of ingredients.
"Maaf, dah tak ada lagi, nak. Kalau nak, esok datang siang sikit, ye? (Sorry, it's finished, child. If you want, come earlier tomorrow, yes?)" the Malay man replied.
I forced my frown around into a tight smile, showing the much older man that there were no hard feelings. I walked away but stopped in a few steps when I heard the unforgettable catchphrase.
"Goreng pisang! Garing-garing! Goreng pisang! Garing-garing! (Banana fritters! Crispy crispy! Banana fritters! Crispy, crispy!)" a young boy about nine or so, sang out the catchy jingle while balancing a big basket with a tray of fried banana fritters on his head. I waved him over and ordered two pieces from him. He was bare-footed and the holes in his dusty white singlet were half-hidden by the unbuttoned oversized plaid shirt. The khaki shorts looked like it needed a good wash as it was coated with black soot from the passing vehicles' exhaust fumes.
"Abang, awak kasi saya terlebih. (Big brother, you're giving me too much)," the boy pointed out as he looked at the one-dollar note in my hand.
"Ambil lah. Abang tak ada duit kecil. (Take it. I don't have small change.)" I lied. I did have small change.
"Tapi...(But...)" he hesitated.
"Belilah ais kepal dengan duit baki itu. Abang belanja. (Buy an ice ball with the balance. My treat.)" The amount was more than enough to purchase more than one. One syrup-coated ice ball cost ten cents. "Duit penat. (Money for your hard work.)"
He smiled at me with gratitude, "Ini cukup untuk adik-adik saya. Saya akan beli untuk mereka. Mesti mereka suka. Terima kasih, abang. (This is enough for my younger siblings. I will buy for them. They will love it. Thank you, big brother.)
Just as he turned his body away in search of other customers, I stopped him, reached for his right hand, placed two ten-dollar Malayan notes in his palm and closed it. "Yang ini, untuk adik dan keluarga. (This is for you and your family.)" He should be in school at his age. If he was helping his family financially at this time of the day with worn out and ill-fitting clothes, it meant that he and the rest of his siblings were unable to afford any education.
His eyes brimmed with tears and he hugged me earnestly. "Semoga Tuhan murahkan rezeki abang sekeluarga! (May God bless your family's sustenance!)"
I ruffled his hair lightly in a friendly gesture and chuckled, "Aamiin. (Amen.)"
He broke away from the hug and walked away from me, a slight bounce in his step as he did. My eyes made contact with the mee rebus seller's and he gave me a slight nod, indicating that he approved of what just happened. I smiled back in embarrassment that someone happened to witness my act of charity and I bit into a banana fritter as I scoured the area for other available options for lunch.
The food in my hands would not last long and I would be hungry soon after. Everywhere was insanely crowded as people from the working class milled about the streets and eateries. In the end, I lingered outside a shop that I knew my religion would not approve because the place served pork and lard, among other options. Heck, I would not even allow Saleha to eat at such a place as it was obviously not halal. I looked at their menu sign for any available "safe" alternatives such as seafood dishes and saw fishball noodles soup and ban mian sliced fish porridge but even that was highly questionable as the cook would have undoubtedly used the same crockery and utensils for prepping and cooking the dishes, pork or not.
I guess I would have to answer for my sin.
"Lǎobǎn, nǐ yǒu chī shénme? (Boss, what you want to eat?)" the waitress greeted me as I lingered hesitantly in front of the shop.
I scratched my head sheepishly. I knew I should not eat here but I was tired of consuming sandwiches from the small coffee shop at the hospital and the mobile hawkers that I usually frequented were out of my favourite dishes. I had thought of getting some vadai, a fried savoury snack made from legumes and spices, from the South Indian uncle down the street but like the banana fritters, I would be hungry again in a couple of hours. I needed something more filling.
I entered the eatery, settled down at a table and ordered a bowl of fishball noodles soup. I was grateful that my facial features were predominantly Chinese thanks to my late father's genes and my late mother's soft features. It made it much easier to walk into the eatery with less shame. I used the same deceitful way during my childhood and teenage years to deceive the Malay and Indian-Muslim vendors when I wanted to buy food in the day during the holy month of Ramadhan, which was the fasting month for Muslims. I was not proud of it but one had to admit, it was rather ingenious. Sure, there could be Chinese Muslims but it was a rare sight in Singapore as the Chinese community are predominantly Buddhists, Taoists or Christians, to name a few.
The waitress clutched around the bowl of fishball noodles soup, careful not to dip and scald her thumbs accidentally in the steaming dish. With my tummy rumbling with excitement, I waited impatiently for her to set down the food. Not even bothering to cool the food down first, I happily dug in clumsily with the pair of chopsticks given. It had been a while since I handled a pair. The noodles kept dropping inside the bowl when I tried picking a few strands up, earning a few giggles from the waitress. She placed a hand on my shoulder teasingly and whispered that if I wanted her to feed me, I could have said so. I shook my head and laughed awkwardly. She finally left my table when another patron called for her attention. Relieved of her departure, I made do with swirling the strands of noodles into a decent-sized ball and plopped it into the soup spoon.
The first slurp of noodles made me miss my paternal grandmother. She cooked it often when I was still living with her at the shophouse. I tried to visit her a few times in the first year of my marriage but she made it clear that she refused to have anything to do with me by throwing down random stuff at me through the second-floor window, adding more unnecessary gossip for the neighbours. She was upset that I did not choose a nice Chinese woman to settle down with but instead, ended up marrying a Malay woman instead, just like what my late father did. My face suffered the brunt of her door slamming whenever I took a chance to reconnect things with my paternal grandmother every Chinese New Year Eve. I came alone each time for I knew that seeing Melati would only invite her wrath. But even that did not appease her and only added more discord.
I never knew my maternal grandparents for my late mother was raised singlehandedly by her father who passed away due to tuberculosis while my late mother was pregnant with me. Her mother, too, passed away but a few days after childbirth.
The cause of my late parents' deaths was still a mystery to me. I chanced upon their dead bodies in bed when I came home from school one day. My grandmother was not home at that time. She told me she was out playing mahjong on that day even though the fortune teller at the market told her that it was an inauspicious day to gamble and she was a highly superstitious woman. My late father was still dressed in a white singlet and sarong, the same clothes that he wore before he went to sleep. He looked peaceful. I always wondered if he felt any pain when he left this world. But my late mother was dressed in a white prayer garb and her eyes were staring towards the ceiling. It was unusually strange for her to lie in bed wearing that as the sacred garment was only reserved for the five daily prayers.
I knew that all these deaths occurred due to lack of access to immediate medical help. All these tragic events had spurred me to become a doctor.
I was halfway through the meal when it dawned on me that I had yet to recite the prayer before eating. There was a different prayer to be recited during meal times in case one had forgotten to do one before. Maybe I should just stick to a cursory bismillah. I tapped the chopsticks by the side of the bowl, letting the noodles hang at the end while debating what to do. I was torn. It was not exactly halal either. Would it even count?
So much trouble just to eat. Meh.
I opened my mouth wide and continued gorging on the noodles until there was none left and finally popped the fishballs in my mouth one at a time. Bringing the bowl to my lips, I slurped down the heavenly soup noisily.
As I placed the empty bowl down, I dug around for a handkerchief in my pants pocket. Instead of a plaid cotton handkerchief, I pulled out a floral mint embroidered handkerchief with the capital letters "M&M" handsewn in a corner by Melati herself in glossy red threading to signify our love for one another. "M&M"; Melati and Mustaqim. Saleha always found the initials amusing because it sounded like a popular brand of confectionery.
I had asked Saleha to grab a fresh pair of men's handkerchief from my drawer in the morning before I left for work because I did not want to enter the master bedroom and be in the same room as Melati. Unfortunately, I did not check if Saleha had taken the right one as she had stuffed it rapidly in my back pocket when she hugged me goodbye. Now that I thought about it, she had a cheeky smile plastered on her face.
My daughter could be so sneaky at times.
For some reason, I chose not to use the handkerchief and stashed it into the pocket of my scrubs shirt. My fingers made contact with my pen briefly and I paused which could only mean one thing.
The cave did not happen.
But there was that same nagging thought at the back of my mind. I mumbled to myself, "Did my pen mysteriously appear or did it never leave?"
"Lǎobǎn, nǐ hǎole ma? (Boss, are you finished?)" the waitress asked as she stood by my table waiting for my signal that it was okay for her to clear the empty bowl away. I was not sure how long she had been standing there.
I nodded awkwardly as I stood up, "Hěn hào chī. Xièxiè. (Very delicious. Thank you.)
* * * ◊ ˚ ◊ ˚ ◊ ˚ ◊ ˚ ◊ * * *
"Bhai, teh sarbat satu. (Big brother, one extra strong black tea with ginger.)"
The Indian man flung a hand towel over his shoulder and begun mixing my drink, "Mahu tarik? (Want to have it pulled?)" I nodded enthusiastically. I always enjoyed the airiness of pulled tea and the extra foam that came with it. "Minum sini? (Drinking here?)" he asked, looking at me and I shook my head. He skilfully pulled my tea alternating between the two tin cups. I looked at the fascinating sight as the pulled tea went over his head and back into the second cup. Finally, he poured the contents in an empty condensed milk tin can that already had a red raffia string tied through the hole in the centre of the lid and at the hinge. He pressed on the side of the lid and wedged it inwards, sliding the tin a little to allow the uneven lid edge to stay closed. Holding the tin can up by the string, he passed the drink to me and I handed over fifteen cents.
I made my way back to the hospital briskly. As I reached the small garden on the first floor, I saw a familiar face smiling back at me from one of the benches. A small grin tugged at the corner of my lips and it almost became a full-blown smile, but I quickly toned it down. I walked over towards Kamsaton to greet her.
"Having your lunch?" I asked the most obvious question as I gestured towards the black kuih kochi in her hand. She popped it into her mouth and gave me a small nod.
God, I miss those things.
"Come sit with me," she scooted over and made way for me on the wooden bench.
"Uh, I really shouldn't. My lunch break is almost over." I raised the tin of strong black tea slightly towards her. My eyes stayed transfixed on the unwrapped kuih kochis in her lap. I was strongly tempted to have a taste.
"Oh, you ate out?" she asked full of surprise as her eyes fell on the milk tin full of black tea. "Your wife didn't pack lunch for you?"
Melati did set aside a packet of nasi lemak - a Malay fragrant rice dish cooked in coconut milk and pandan leaf with fried anchovies, fried groundnuts, fried yellow stripe scad fish, a few slices of cucumber, a triangle-shaped omelette and a dollop of sambal tumis (sauteed chilli paste) - but I intentionally left that back at home as I did not want to taste another bite of her awfully bad cooking. I wondered if the last trimester had anything to do with the sharp decline in her culinary skills. "She did. But I accidentally left it at home. I had a couple of goreng pisang (banana fritters) and uh," I looked away, slightly ashamed, "Noodles."
"Sounds filling. Do you have space for kuih kochi?" she asked. I was hugely relieved that she did not question more about the noodles.
"I really shouldn't," I still felt guilty for eating all of her kuih kochi last time.
"I made extra. Here," she took out an embroidered handkerchief and placed five kuih kochi in the middle and tied the handkerchief up like a bundle. "Have a few. Don't go around sharing it with someone else," she teased but there was a slight seriousness in her tone.
"Thank you."
"Would you like a sip of my cooling drink?" Kamsaton poured the familiar drink in the overturned tumbler cover that doubled up as a cup and offered it to me.
I openly declined and raised my tin of steaming black tea again, "It's okay. I've got my drink covered. Thanks again for the kuih kochi."
There was a touch of disappointment in her face but she regained her composure and waved me goodbye, "See you again, Dr. Lim."
As soon as I entered my office, I took one of the desserts out of Kamsaton's handkerchief and carefully wrapped the small bundle back in place. I slowly unravelled one of the kuih kochi from its banana leaf wrapping and popped it into my mouth in one foodgasmic bliss. Soon after, I found myself parting the blinds on my windows to take a peek at Kamsaton still sitting at the bench down below.
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A/N: I know. I know. A full chapter of food and nothing but glorious food. I was hungry when I wrote this. XD Was it obvious? But I also wanted to show a little back story on Mustaqim and how his parents passed away.
The mystery behind the golden fountain pen. What are your thoughts?
I know some of you are expecting the Penanggal to appear almost every chapter but as much as I want that to happen, unfortunately, we can't have every woman in the story pregnant or with babies dying all the time. Too much of a good thing, or bad can have a desensitising effect.
I'm really excited for you lovelies to read the next chapter though. :)
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CREDITS:
Background Music: Myuu - Deep Voice
Youtube Link: https://youtu.be/m8L4mfRUU1E
Channel Link: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCiSKnkKCKAQVxMUWpZQobuQ