He had forgiven me. But why? Why did you do it? Get so wasted like that, he said, his head on my breast.
I don’t know what to do with my life. You all seem to…and I don’t…
Know what? A sense of purpose?
It’s not just that Omar, I feel useless.
Useless? That’s harsh. Why are you so hard on yourself?
I’m sorry, I won’t do it again, I promise. I am going to be the best wife to you. Just let me start with that.
You want to?
Yes, this marriage is going to be the most important thing in my life.
It was a solemn promise. His eyes searched mine, seeking confirmation. I was going to make it right, I was going to do things right.
At the Syariah Court, Sumi and I found Marina standing next to a potted plant, smoking. She was dressed in long black pants, a long-sleeved blue shirt and her hair was tied back in a ponytail. I had never seen Marina without make-up before and I was startled.
She shrugged and smiled when we walked up to her and we both hugged her long and hard.
Hansem tak? Marina laughed.
Did they do anything to you in there? I asked.
Marina shook her head. No. But it was horrible, just horrible…
Sumi interjected. I am not a Syariah lawyer, so I don’t know how this is going to work.
It’s okay. There is someone here from Legal Aid.
She stubbed the cigarette out with a pair of men’s sandals. Her crimson toenails stuck out.
Let’s go in. You have your tudung?
Sumi and I nodded. We were on sacred ground, and our heads had to be covered.
The courtroom was smaller than I’d imagined, and it was already packed. There were at least fifty people seated and more were coming in. The large ceiling fan whirred, but it was still stuffy. I wished I had something to fan myself with.
Marina grabbed my hand and walked towards the front of the courtroom where she was met by a young lady wearing a pink tudung. We saw some empty seats and sat down.
Sumi whispered.
That must be her lawyer, she looks really young.
What’s the worst that can happen?
She gets charged, but it will be a while before the hearing. Hopefully she gets out on bail.
A side door opened and the magistrate walked in.
Bangun! A court official announced.
We stood up. The magistrate was a middle-aged woman in a black jacket and a white tudung. She nodded sternly and sat down.
Sumi whispered again. There’s a lot of cases here, this might take a while.
I had never been in a courtroom before and although this was just a hearing in the Syariah Court, I wondered how the law worked differently for Muslims. I knew that the penalties were harsher, and that there were different laws for marriage, divorce, inheritance, custody of children and crime. My conversion to Islam meant that I too would be subject to Syariah law.
One by one, the cases were tried. The magistrate was brief in her remarks.
There were cases of petty theft; two young boys caught stealing from the mosque. The sentence was two years in juvenile detention. I looked at the scrawny boys who could not have been more than 12. One was scratching his head non-stop. I wondered if he had scabies. These were poor kids from the kampung who probably stole money to buy food. When they were led away a woman in the front burst into tears, and begged the judge for leniency.
Tolonglah, tolong. Itu anak saya.
She was led away sobbing.
Then a teenage girl who was visibly pregnant and a boy of about 18 stepped forward.
Oh my god. This is the worst, Sumi whispered. Unmarried couple. They’ll be sent away and the baby will be born in prison.
Poor kids. Those poor, poor kids. There would be no possibility of bail for this kind of crime. Sure enough, the magistrate glared at them both and spoke harshly.
You will both be sentenced to two years each in jail. Your baby will be born in jail. This is what you have done to yourselves and you only have yourselves to blame.
Bloody hell, I whispered.
That’s Syariah for you. No mercy.
What about the kid?
The kid will be fine. Two years in jail, then they come out and get married. Sorted.
The two teenagers were led off separately, she to serve her time in a female prison and he, in a male one. Who knew of the kinds of horrors they would encounter in those two years? Would their love survive? There were no tears for this young couple, no family who pleaded mercy for them. They had probably been disowned by their families, shunned by their villages, cast out like lepers.
Sumi and I looked at each other, wordless.
Then Marina was called.
Rashid bin Husin. Kesalahan Section 28 dalam undang-undang Wilayah Persekutuan, Kuala Lumpur.
Marina stood tall. Her lawyer, diminutive, beside her.
The magistrate softened when she spoke. She must have seen multiple cases like this. I will let you out on bail this time. But see this as a warning. If you are arrested again, you will not get off. Faham?
Then she sighed and shook her head. And took one last glance at Marina before she turned back to the stack of files in front of her. Next!
We were elated. Marina was going to be let out on bail.
Wait, no second hearing? I asked.
Let’s ask her lawyer, Sumi replied. Like I said, I am not sure how this works.
We both rushed out the courtroom and almost bumped into Marina’s lawyer.
We both thanked her profusely and took turns hugging a much-relieved Marina.
Aren’t you happy? I asked.
This happens over and over again, you know. It’s not like the law is going to change. We need to challenge it. It’s not just about me, you know. There are so many of us. And how many more times does this need to happen?
Marina stood there, impassioned, eloquent, her hands expressive.
Her lawyer spoke quietly. You need a lawyer who will fight this for you. I can’t do this pro-bono. This was a one-off Marina, I can’t. Sorry.
It’s okay, I will figure this out. Marina smiled widely and said, Thank you, darls, you are both angels for being here!
Marina was tired that day, but she woke up early and called for a taxi to Damansara Heights. It was the day of the wedding and she was to be the Mak Andam, responsible for the hair and make-up for the bride. She was no expert but her skills were good enough, and Del had insisted.
She packed a bag with all her brushes, an extra change of clothes, and a toolbox full of make-up. One of her friends, Honey, had recently left the country to go live with her boyfriend in England. Honey, who was a full-time sex worker and part-time make-up artist, had bequeathed her kit to Marina, after giving her a few sessions in professional make-up application.
Marina had never seen so many kinds of brushes in her life, nor had she seen such a range of blusher, foundation and concealer. It was such fun, learning how to contour the human face, play with colour, highlighter, blush and brush.
She got into the taxi and a few minutes later, they were stuck in a massive traffic jam.
“Apa ni?” the taxi driver muttered.
The taxi was on Jalan Tun Perak, heading towards Dataran Merdeka and there was a slight drizzle. She saw a group of teenage boys emerge from behind the taxi, they were carrying placards. Marina strained her head to see what the placards said.
Mahathir Undur! Mahathir Resign!
A large caricature of Mahathir had been cut out. It made the prime minister look like a rogue, with a misshapen nose and dark-rimmed eyes. The taxi inched forward and they heard a roar of voices, shouting in unison.
“Reformasi! Reformasi! Reformasi!”
“Protes lagi,” the taxi driver complained.
“Protests are important,” Marina said emphatically. “We have the right, don’t you know. This is a democracy.”
The taxi driver snorted. “Hmmph. Not until this man goes to jail.”
He gestured at the placard.
When the traffic light turned green, the taxi finally moved and they stared in silence at the sea of people who had turned up.
“So many,” Marina muttered.
The roar became a hum, people were straining to listen to a speaker with a loudhailer. Marina rolled the window down. She felt the energy from the crowd, the anger, the surge of hope, the air of optimism.
“Reformasi!” she shouted.
The taxi driver was startled. And he too shouted, “Reformasi!”
They smiled and chatted, barriers broken. The sky had cleared and the sun was starting to peek out.
When she arrived at the house, there were a few cars parked along the road. The security guard waved her in, smiling. Tents had already been set up for the reception, chairs and tables covered in cream-coloured fabric. Bouquets of white roses and tuberoses on tables. Fake chandeliers dangled precariously from the tent tops.
Omar’s mother greeted her, and ushered her into a large bedroom. Del was seated and already dressed in silk sarong and a kebaya top of fine French lace.
Del ran to her. “I feel sick.”
“Aduh, kenapa sayang?”
“Too many people, I can’t do this.”
“It’s just you and Omar, okay? This is your wedding day.”
“Yeah, yeah. I just feel sick. Want to throw up.”
“Throw up then. You’ll feel better.”
Marina walked Del to the bathroom. Del quickly doubled over, heaving. Yellow bile spilled out into the toilet bowl.
“I can’t do this Marina, I can’t do this.”
Marina took some toilet tissue, folded it into two and wiped Del’s mouth gently.
“Come on sayang, let’s make you beautiful.”
I looked like my mother.
My hair was wound tightly into a French twist, covered by a light veil, which fell softly onto my shoulders. The lace kebaya, the white silk sarong with hand-drawn flowers, the beaded satin shoes. Creamy pearl studs and a single pearl pendant. My eyes, smoky. Nude lips. I had never looked like this.
This was a woman who was going to get married. I was that woman.
I was seized with a sudden gust of trepidation. I started hyperventilating. I did not know what to do.
I sat down and looked at my hands. Twirls of red henna wound themselves intricately into a flowery pattern that covered both hands. It had taken hours and hours to draw on and hours more to dry.
Del, are you okay?
I nodded and looked out the window. The day was perfect. It had rained the night before and I had slept deeply, lulled into a cavernous universe. I had dreamt well and woke rested and fresh. The air was cool, lush, green. The leaves had been bathed and were glossy with hope.
Marina sat in the corner and lit a cigarette. Omar’s sister Lulu poured herself more white wine.
Lulu had arrived from London the night before. She was jetlagged, had barely slept and was already on the way to being completely drunk.
Eh, jangan minum sampai mabuk, okay. The party hasn’t started yet!
But Lulu didn’t care. Then there was a knock at the door and Omar’s mother walked in.
It’s time.
Lulu swigged the last of the wine, pressed some lipstick onto her already crimson lips and said,This is it! She giggled excitedly.
I started walking out the door, Marina and Lulu following me. Marina towering in heels and a sequined pink kebaya. Lulu in a white baju kurung.
I entered the living room and was gestured to a chair. Beautiful Persian carpets had been brought out and spread on the floor, where people I didn’t know sat, men on one side, women on the other. I felt as if all their eyes were on me. In the centre sat Omar and the Kadi, facing each other. The air was thick with expectation, incense and the sweet scent of white lilies. I sat down, my stomach in knots. Omar’s head was bowed, his eyes closed. He was wearing a cream-coloured baju melayu and a songkok. We had matching outfits. He looked so handsome. Our eyes met and he smiled. I felt better. He got up and walked towards me. All heads turned. I wanted to run back into the room. All those eyes staring.
Omar kissed me on the forehead. I took his hand and kissed it. That was it, the gesture had sealed us as man and wife. He led me to the centre of the room and the Kadi recited a blessing. I heard cameras clicking.
Bismillah-ir-rahman-ir Rahim. Allahu Akhbar, Allahu Akhbar, Allahu Akhbar.
It was done.
Then, a blur. Food. Plenty of it. Lamb kurma, beef rendang, pickled little pink onions that looked like baby mice. Us seated at the head of the tent, glass chandeliers above. Omar feeding me with his right hand. Me feeding him back. Papa looking lost. Fairman, Sumi and Imran waving like mad and blowing kisses. I took a sip of the sickly sweet pink drink and felt my stomach lurch. I got up, excused myself.
Omar looked concerned. You okay, sayang?
Marina grabbed my hand. Kenapa? What’s the matter?
I smiled weakly and said that I had to go the bathroom.
I ran into the living room, past the guests, little children in bright outfits, almost tripping on the carpet, dragging Marina after me. The Indonesian maids staring blankly. Clutching the banister up the stairs. Into the bedroom. The bathroom. And face over the toilet bowl. I retched violently, the remnants of the pink drink and then streaming yellow bile. My face was drenched with sweat, and I imagined streaks of Mac powder and mascara running down my face.
Ya Allah, Del, what is going on with you?
I stumbled to my feet, and saw my face in the mirror. Lipstick smeared, eyes watery. I looked pale. My mouth still dribbling with saliva.
Del, do you think you’re…
The bathroom door opened and Omar uttered the word.
Pregnant?
I threw up once again.
I rinsed my mouth. Our faces together in the bathroom mirror. Husband and wife.
Gently, he took my hand and sat me down on the bed.
Marina smiled, her manicured hand covering her mouth.
Oh darling, darling Del. He kissed me on the forehead, then gently on my cheeks. And we fell onto the white, embroidered pillows and started laughing.
* * *
I threw up every day for 39 weeks.
The doctor said, It’s severe morning sickness, one in every ten women gets it.
Every morning it was the same. Bright yellow bile, doubled over, head in the toilet bowl, then the sink, then the toilet bowl again. Omar couldn’t take it anymore. In the first weeks, he would stand behind me, holding my waist with both hands, while the violent retching pulled at my back and neck muscles. When I got bigger, he couldn’t reach around me and I couldn’t bear to have him near me. My body felt like it was being torn apart and the sounds that came out of my mouth were that of a wild animal. The deep guttural moans would range in registers from reptilian to feline.
He said he felt guilty. Sorry, my god. Jesus fucking Christ. Del, I am so sorry.
Sorry for what? Getting me pregnant?
For months I only ate crackers, dried sesame-flavoured seaweed and soupy noodles with tofu. Nothing else would stay down. If it was bland, it was good. The scent of laundry detergent made me nauseous. Traffic made me nauseous. Music made me nauseous. My body had become an unknown creature. I yearned for soft pillows and lemon scented candles, new-age music and long stretchy black skirts, snow, maple syrup on thick buttermilk pancakes, sticky fudge on vanilla ice-cream, bread soaked in balsamic vinegar. I was in danger of becoming anaemic. Apart from the folic acid and multi-vitamins, I had to take iron, zinc, magnesium. More pills. I could not eat meat; I could not face a lamb cutlet, pink, dead chicken thighs, fish with glassy eyes. I stared at animal parts in supermarkets, trying not to gag. Instead, I caressed apples, peaches, grapes, avocados. I could not watch any violence on TV, no machine-gun wielding heroes creating carnage. No wars, no alien invasions, no winged creatures with supersonic eyes. No haunted houses, or dead girls with long, wet hair. No ghosts or exorcisms, no de
monic possession.
The baby grew and grew. The little black sac on the ultrasound became a heartbeat. Then a spine, floating in amniotic fluid. Then fingers, toes, bones, eyes, teeth. I went for long walks, did yoga, tried to listen to Mozart and Shostakovich. Sat cross-legged, meditated. Swam. My black maternity swimsuit stretched until the seams were visible. I rubbed my growing belly and thickening thighs with lavender and olive oil. Omar stroked my back at night. We made love sideways. We slept like spoons. I wanted him sometimes to be rough. But he was afraid of hurting the baby.
It isn’t going to make a difference you know.
It just feels weird. I don’t want to hurt it. The movement…won’t it jiggle it too much?
The baby is in the womb, sayang. She is safer in there than she will ever be.
Safe. Yes, she was safe in there. Safe, from the big bad world.
I had managed to make a baby this time. My body worked. It did what it was supposed to do. A miracle. It was going to be a girl, I just knew.
One day as I was reading, I felt a lurch and I saw an impression of a foot. A little foot with toes. My baby’s toes. My baby in there.
I thought of Mother and her pregnancy and remembered that photo of her pregnant with me. It was taken on a beach on the east coast, in Kelantan. Papa sitting next to her. She was wearing a flowery dress and her hair in a short bob. They both wore sunglasses and his hand was on her belly. They looked radiant.
I wondered where it was, that faded photo. I thought of my father and I decided to call him. The thought of his brooding face made me stop after the second ring tone. I needed to be happy. I was going to be a mother and I had to let my sad father go.
It was going to be a girl.
I had met a midwife, Lisa, and together we planned the birth. I had wanted it to be at home, in the bath tub surrounded by music, incense and candles but Lisa, originally from East London, had said that it would be risky, and if there were problems with the birth, there could be serious consequences.
Once We Were There Page 14