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 her, the lonelier I get.

I thought of writing a letter to her, but I figure that I do not have much time. And I am afraid that I might say things I should not say. But loneliness is not the last emotion I wish to feel before I close my eyes. So here I am trying to remind myself of the happiness she brought me. Though this worn-out propaganda poster is the only one I can find. May the words written on the back of it be immortalized with fire. Along with this house and my tired body.

I first met her when I paid my visit to Sir Clarke’s residence. Like most British Officers in Tanah Melayu, the house is not his from the start. Though unlike most British Officers, he forbids anyone from wearing any footwear in his house. It felt weird to have my feet touching a wooden floor while speaking English to an Englishman in a British uniform. It also felt weird to lay my eyes on Liling in her Hanfu while catching whiffs of Pantai Puteri’s breeze. Before I left that day, I shyly glanced at her in the hope if being caught. And by Allah’s will she did.

I remember the nights we spend together walking along the banks of Sungai Udang. She would be in her peasant’s dress and I would be in my officer’s uniform. Underneath the darkness, I could barely see her charcoal painted face. But the moon’s glint was enough for me to read her lips as she speaks, and that alone is enough for me.

When Imsak comes, I’ll pass through Concubine Lane under the guise of patrolling. I know that she will come out to her upper balcony after Zuhur to dry her clothes. I reckon she enjoys my discreet visit, for every time I look at her from the kedai kopi opened opposite her house, she always seems to be adorned. Her face covered with white powder and her hair tied into a bun decorated with beautiful ornaments.

The bilal has started calling the azan. Maghrib has come to greet me. I have to perform my last prayer. Dear mother, dear father, forgive your son for his foolish decisions.  I am sure Siti can bring our family out of that old shack with the money that I gave. Oh Liling, I wish to meet you again tonight after Isyak. But the sight of your beautiful face while you stand underneath the Sun this Zuhur is enough. I am after all a man with little desire for luxury. May we reunite again in the afterlife.

Amin.