Concubine Lane
Bismillah This night might be the last one for me. My mother came to my house just after Subuh today. By her undone tudung and her distraught face, I immediately knew something was wrong. Maghrib is coming, and I know that I am running out of time. I am starting to hear heavy footsteps and crackles of torches outside. I have never feared death, but I have never welcomed it either. Whispers of unwelcomed visitors outside grows more and more discernible. Along with the noise of drizzle, their murmurs start to sound like the start of a hail. When a man knows that he is at the verge of his death, only breathing at the mercy of time, his memories will flash within his skull, like watching an old movie of made-up pasts. I would like to be remembered as a thoughtful son. But to be honest I could not bring myself to think of the loving face of my mother, or the battle worn body of my father. I can only think of Liling, the Chinese girl living in Concubine Lane. And the more I think of