They say reading to a child from birth is good. They say speaking in multiple languages is good. They say teaching the child to swim is good. They say leaving the child to cry is good. They say sleep training is hard, but it’s good. They say you have to be cruel to be kind. They say that the child will learn to sleep, will learn to sleep. The child will learn to sleep, in time. They say you need to trust yourself. That a mother knows. That a mother knows.
That a mother knows best.
Sumi called sobbing and said, I’ve had a miscarriage, the baby is gone.
I was silent for a long while.
Are you there? she asked.
Yeah, I said. I am so sorry, Sumi. How? What happened?
Doctor said there was no heartbeat.
You’ll get pregnant again. It happens a lot.
Yeah, she sniffled. I guess.
You want to come over? Want to talk about it?
No, I…just need to be alone right now.
Is Fairman around?
Yeah. We went to the doctor together.
Okay, babes. I’m here if you need me.
Bye.
I stared at the dead baby lizard on the floor. It had leapt at me when I opened the cabinet under the sink. I hated lizards and had recoiled in fright while dropping the pot I was carrying. The baby lizard didn’t have a chance. I felt terrible. I stared at its unblinking eyes, its short stubby tail, its tiny pink torso. I picked it up with a kitchen towel and winced as I felt its softness. I flushed it down the toilet and saw it swirl away. It was gone. Forever. Just like Sumi’s baby. A little black dot in her belly, never to see the world, never to be born, never to be loved, never to be named.
Alba padded into the kitchen.
Mama, look! she said and held up a piece of paper with some squiggles. Look!
What is that? I asked.
Friends, mama.
Really? But… I kept quiet. The piece of paper had lines and circles, layered on top of each other. It looked nothing like people, or friends. Well done, darling. I hugged her. Her curls had grown and a haircut was due, but I had been too tired to get around to it. She was eating well, more than ever and had put on a kilo in the last month. She smelled of milk and oranges. Her little face beamed with joy, and she hugged me back and planted a wet kiss on my cheek.
Go draw some more, okay?
Omar was back for dinner and I was in the mood to make a chicken curry. Alba hurried off, her mission confirmed. She was becoming quite the artist; going through art blocks and paints, pens and pencils. She could draw straight lines, curly lines, curved lines and many attempts at circles. And again. And again. She loved playing with blocks, placing them on top of one another, she loved her dolls—they would be in the bath with her—and she loved her books, made of fabric, which always ended up in her mouth.
There were playgroups that I went to from time to time, but were mostly frequented by expat wives who were pleasant and cordial, but I never felt close enough to confide anything. I knew that some of them were worse off than I was, had husbands whom they hardly saw, especially those who worked for big multi-nationals, and those who travelled all around the region. The diplomats had it best. Maids, drivers, cooks, security guards. The whole package.
And Papa. Well, Papa had good days and bad days. He loved Alba but I couldn’t really depend on him as a babysitter. I didn’t like taking Alba to the house as it felt sad, but also, it was a breeding ground for all manner of bacteria, vermin and snakes. Papa said that a king cobra had found itself into his study and was coiled comfortably underneath the gramophone until he decided to put a record on. The snake reared up in fright and slithered with some familiarity into a hole in the wall, which apparently led directly to the garden. I shuddered at the thought, and imagined entire families of snakes now living in my father’s house. The garden had completely overgrown as I no longer had time to visit, and the jungle had moved in. My father, tapping away on his manuscript in the midst of all that was wild. I had no idea what he was writing. No idea how he still managed to live the way he did.
Omar was travelling more and more and we saw less of him. There were times when I thought to myself that this was the life I was doomed to have. To have a husband who was there but not there. To have a marriage that was there but not there. To have a husband but to feel utterly alone. But I wasn’t alone in the physical sense. I had Alba. But I did feel those cold fingers of fear at the base of my throat and in the pit of my belly. The same pangs of doubt that emerged after coming down from a high. The cold saliva in the mouth, the clammy hands, the sweaty temple. The ringing in the ears.
I wondered if Omar was having an affair. I questioned his need to be away so constantly. Work could be done via email, handphone, faxes—communication was more efficient than ever. Did he need to be away from us? Or did he just want to?
There were days when I was despondent. Bored. Afraid. Angry. Depressed. I loved my child, but I also saw her as a chain. I was tied to this life now. And there was no turning back...
The flight from Hanoi had been delayed. Omar, making himself comfortable in the lounge with a coffee and a croissant, had started working on his computer when he heard a voice behind him.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Omar…”
Nim was standing across from him in a grey suit, perfectly made up and coiffed. He stood up and extended a hand.
“Nim, what a surprise.” He gestured for her to join him. “What are you doing in Hanoi?”
“The usual, brokering a deal with the government,” she replied and sat down, crossing one leg over the other.
“Would you like some coffee?”
Nim shook her head, tilted it to one side and asked, “How’s your gorgeous daughter?”
Omar smiled. “It’s her birthday today, and my flight is late, so Del is not going to be too happy…”
“So it was a year ago in Penang? Goodness, how time flies…” Nim smiled and stared fixedly at Omar.
Omar took a sip of his coffee and debated against biting into the croissant, not wanting to have crumbs all over his tie and shirt, and asked, “How’s Imran? You still together?”
“Oh, goodness no. Imran is just Imran, you know. He’s into the news, and into himself, that’s it. No time for anything serious.”
“Right, a shame…”
“Not really. He was a great shag and that was that,” Nim replied, matter-of-fact.
There was a loud clatter and Omar jumped. Someone had dropped a cup and the broken ceramic scattered itself around the room. He wondered if anyone else had heard what Nim said. He felt slightly embarrassed and shocked at her candour.
And at that very moment the lounge manager came towards him and said, “Mr Omar, your flight is boarding soon.”
“Thank you.” He stood up and extended a hand again to Nim, who took his hand and held it for longer than she should have. “Time to go. Well, take care and…all the best.”
“You too, and give your beautiful daughter a kiss from me.” Nim smiled and for a moment Omar saw a hint of sadness in her eyes.
As he walked away from the lounge, he thought of what her lithe body would feel like under his, he thought of how she would kiss him, and how she would moan when he was deep inside her. His handphone beeped and he saw the boxy black words flash on the screen.
Alba sick. Am worried. When are you back?
His fingers worked quickly.
Will land in three hours. Don’t worry. She will be fine. xoxox
Guilt suffused him and he felt a pang of shame. His wife and daughter were in distress and all he could think about was banging a woman he didn’t even remotely like. This was a reminder of the man he used to be, when sex was frivolous, meaningless, and a stroke for the fragile ego. The fact that he was still desirable to certain women was flattering, but he was never going to be unfaithful to Del. He knew of the silent suffering she endured when he was away, and although Alba was not an unruly child, he knew that Del struggled with herself, her feel
ings of inadequacy refuting instinct, on occasion. Del needed constant reassurance, and his absence was undesired, but he had no choice. Meetings had to be held, contracts had to be negotiated, renegotiated and signed and then his work began. He was the architect of new beginnings in countries that did not have the expertise that he had. There was pride in his work, pride in the firm handshakes with the ministers and executives he met, and a promise to deliver. He was a man of his word, and he would not fail.
Omar got off the plane and checked his phone. The SMS read: High fever. Taking her to emergency at Pantai Hospital. Meet me there. Hurry!
He replied: On the way. Kiss.
As the taxi sped off, Omar leaned back on the cool seat and sighed. He knew the kind of panic Del would be in and hoped that the fever was not a sign of anything serious.
When he arrived at the hospital, he called Del, who picked up after the first ring.
“I’m in one of the wards, just ask the nurse at the counter.” She sounded harassed.
Omar pulled his suitcase behind him, walked through the hospital to the Emergency ward and spoke to a young nurse behind the counter.
“My daughter Alba has just come in. Do you know which room she is in?” he asked curtly.
“The little girl?” she replied. “This way, sir.”
Omar followed the nurse, who could not have been more than 22 years old. He followed her into a ward, walked towards a bed covered by a blue curtain and pulled it apart. Del, seated in a chair, got up and flung herself at Omar.
“Thank god you’re here,” she cried, hugging him tightly, visibly shaken.
Alba was asleep, her eyelids fluttering. He felt fearful, seeing his daughter lying there, like that.
“What did the doctor say?”
“It could be bacterial or viral. They don’t know yet. But they’ve given her a suppository to bring the fever down.”
Omar hated the stench of hospitals, ever since his Tok had died. Her medically induced coma meant daily visits, a terrified, yet distant father, crying relatives and hushed, sometimes heated discussions with doctors and nurses. The smell had never left him.
“Can I speak to the doctor?” he asked the nurse who was standing by the other side of the bed.
“He is doing his rounds now,” she replied looking at her watch. “But he will be here again in half an hour.”
Omar leaned over and kissed Alba on the forehead. She felt warm. He pressed his hand on her cheek, which felt cool. Her eyelids fluttered and opened.
“Papa…” she whispered and started crying.
Omar sat on the chair, pulled it closer to the bed, pressed his lips on her cheek and said, “Papa’s here, baby girl, papa’s here.”
It wasn’t much of a birthday.
Alba had to be on antibiotics for a week, and how she hated that bitter yellow liquid! How she wailed and cried and screamed. How she lost weight, and colour from her face. How weak she became, how fragile and helpless she seemed. How listless and fretful she was. Nothing pleased her. Nothing made her happy. Not the cartoons she loved, not the music, not the pens nor colour pencils, nor the books, nor the bubble baths. She cried endlessly, she would not sleep, she would not give us any rest.
When Omar said he had to leave again, I screamed at him. I lunged at him and said that I had not slept in days, that I was tired. So, so tired. Please, Omar, don’t leave. Can’t you tell them that your daughter is sick? That I can’t cope? Please, Omar, I am begging you. Please, Omar… Please.
But he would not listen, he left anyway, saying that the job had to be done, that people depended on him, that promises had to be kept, that Alba was well enough, that she was eating again, and sleeping more. That I had to be strong, that children get sick, and that they are stronger than we think. That it will be fine. It will be fine, Del, it will be fine.
And so he left. And I was alone again with Alba.
And in my tiredness, and in my fatigue and in my day-old pyjamas, unwashed, oily hair and face, furry teeth and seething anger, I screamed at my sick child crying in her cot, at her standing there crying, in unchanged nappy and streaming snot, I screamed at her and said things that I should not have, I wailed and cried and tore at my hair and pyjamas and curled up on the floor I wept like her, my child staring at me wailing, and I like a crazed creature, spouting curses and venom, squirming in rage, my toes curling, my fingers reaching to grasp, pick, throw, shatter, all things in my way, I crawled on all fours until I reached the fridge and uncorking the bottle, drinking all that was in there, all the liquid that was clear and cold and refreshing and I drank it all until I was sated, the liquid fire silencing me, silencing all that pain, silencing it all, until my head felt light, and the stillness washed over me like a fog, and gave me sleep.
On 31 October 2003, Mahathir Mohamad ceased to be Prime Minister of Malaysia. He was replaced by his deputy, Abdullah Badawi, the soft-spoken, well-liked politician who hailed from Penang. Malaysians were joyous, exhilarated, relieved. The demagogue that was Mahathir was gone, it was the end of an era, the end of darkness and finally, there would be light.
All across the city, people celebrated. It was Halloween, after all, and there were parties from Bangsar to Cheras, Bukit Bintang to Damansara Heights. Mahathir masks were popular, caricatures of his fleshy eyes and jowls were paraded on faces, and Anwar’s transposed black eye was met with howls of laughter, jibes and jubilation. There were parties on rooftops and bars, terrace gardens and bedrooms.
Omar and Fairman were in the office, having sealed another contract. They had just ended a conference call with their partners in Lagos and had gotten the go-ahead for another project that would start in 2004. Fairman thumped the table. Omar smiled and nodded his head.
“Wow, I was a little worried about that one, to be honest. Especially now.” Omar loosened his tie and sat down at his desk, putting his feet up.
“I told you, I would sort it out, and I did,” Fairman replied. “Come on, let’s have a drink.”
Omar slid open the drawer on his right and pulled out a new bottle of single malt. He rolled his chair over to the left to pull two crystal snifters from a bookcase. Fairman ruffled his hair, took out a handkerchief from his pocket and started cleaning his glasses. Omar peeled the thin metal covering off the top of the bottle and pulled out the cork slowly.
“Aaah,” he sighed as he inhaled deeply. He poured generously into the two glasses and passed one to Fairman.
Both men looked at each other and chuckled.
“To us! And to Pak Lah. May we live long and prosper!”
“Indeed,” replied Omar with a laugh. “Jesus, I’m fucking knackered.” He put his feet back up on the desk and looked intently at the glass before downing the rest of the whisky.
“Whoa, slow down there,” Fairman said.
“Listen, Del’s had a really hard time since Alba got sick…”
“That, I do know,” Fairman replied, “Take some time off, go on…”
Omar cut him off. “No, actually, I need Sumi to convince Del to get a maid.” Omar’s frustration took over. “She…she can’t manage… Look, the work is what keeps us going, our wives know that and they need to figure it out…we’re making real money now, and Del needs to get a bloody maid.”
“Del’s stubborn that way, she wants to do it all—on her own.” Fairman agreed.
“Alba’s two now and soon she’ll be at playschool. Del can get her life back, go back to work,” Omar continued, pouring himself another drink.
“Doing what?” Fairman leaned over and poured himself more whisky.
“She could work for Imran, go back to journalism…” Omar took a sip.
“Hmmph, that guy’s gotten too big for his boots.” Fairman started waving his hand. “He’s become some kind of celebrity journo…he’s on all these talk shows, on CNN and the Beeb, it’s bloody weird.”
“He has become a bit of an expert on the country, hasn’t he?” Omar said. “He’s more than qualified.”
“Yes I suppose, but he’s a changed man. That woman who tagged along with him to our wedding…well…anyhow. He’s in the big league now.” Fairman clicked his tongue.
Omar felt it on the tip of his tongue to say something about Nim, but he changed his mind. Nothing had happened, so there was in reality nothing to talk about. They finished their drinks in silence, as if pondering all the possibilities that Imran had in his grasp now.
“Are we good?” Fairman stood up. “Time to hit the road.”
“Yup, I’ll leave in a minute, you go ahead.” Omar poured himself another drink. “Last one, promise.”
“Good night. Say hi to the missus, and yes… I’ll have a word with Sumi.”
Fairman strode out and shut the door quietly. As his footsteps faded away, Omar swivelled his chair round to take in the view. He particularly liked it at night. From where they were, the skyline gleamed and glittered and the promise of a new country beckoned. But for Omar, it also spelt uncertainty. Malaysia had been governed by a ruthless and powerful man for 22 years. Things had a pattern, a place. Order had been created and carefully, albeit ruthlessly applied. People only knew fear, and fear had worked well. Too well. A new Prime Minister spoke of things unknown, but there was a glimmer of hope, a glimmer of a more effective democracy, and a chance of possible freedom.
“Freedom,” Omar muttered under his breath. “Whatever the fuck that means.”
He poured himself another whisky and as it swirled around in his mouth, he thought of the millions that they stood to gain from the Nigerians, the ongoing contracts in Vietnam and Kenya and he suddenly felt invincible. A hunger appeared like a simmering ball in the pit of his belly and that surge of promise beckoned, the world beckoned, the knowledge of profit beckoned. He, Omar Tunku Malik, was on a path that he never ever thought he would be on, and that, was the promise of freedom.
Once We Were There Page 19