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Chapter 4 It was a regrettable phenomenon that when people when to pay their last respects to the dead, there

were invariably those who found it fitting to gossip among themselves as if it were joyous occasion. Siti sat solemnly in the living room, trying to restrain her little brother from scampering about. At one corner of house, Puan Normala, the village gossip, was gathering a group of women to her side. Sure enough, a few minutes later, gasps and murmurs escaped from the mass. Siti's ears picked up only a couple of words but she was sure they were talking about Madhuri. The house still smelled of burnt gaharu even though the body had already been taken away. She had seen only glimpses of the shrouded body and the coffin on their way out. She had to look away. She had never really got to know Madhuri. Madhuri had given her Quran lessons when she was six or seven but they were never close. Siti wondered why.

Madhuri had always been sweet and likeable but there was this inaccessibility about the woman. Or maybe it was she who inaccessible, Siti though. She shrugged to herself as she tugged at her baby brother's arm to keep him from putting his slipper into his mouth. For a moment, the hiss and whispering from Puan Normala's corner stopped abruptly. Siti nudged away her brother's head from her view to see what had caused a sudden hush. Out in the front, flanked by a robust woman and an edgylooking man, a girl of about twenty came up the steps. She looked around hesitantly. Her eyes behind her glasses glared out rather angrily at the group of woman near Puan Normala. Then without a word, the girl pushed forward her heavy bag and stormed past the living room. Siti raised a brow. She recognised the girl. It was Azreen Saleh. Madhuri's younger sister. "I told you," said Puan Normala as Azreen Saleh disappeared into the back of the house, "that girl's nothing but trouble. Look what she just did - walking in without

greeting us. How disrespectful. No wonder her parents send her away." "Very rude," replied one of her confidantes. "Never had much manners to begin with. Remember the last time when she beat up Minah's daugther..." But she interrupted by the other woman. "I think she's just angry with her parents." "Of course she is," Puan Normala said. Her bony fingers crumpled her scarf in fits of excitement. "They didn't even wait for her to return taking he body over to the mosque." "Poor girl. She didn't even get to see her sister for the last time." "Bah," said Puan Normala. "It's not as if she and Madhuri were on speaking terms anyway." "What do you mean?" "Don't you know? Azreen hates her sister so much that she refused to even write to her. Can you imagine being so vengeful to your own familt? I tell you, she's hateful and ungrateful child. And not a drop of remorse about what happened to her mother. I knew she would grow up

to be like that. She was such an ugly little baby." A few minutes later, Puan Normala excused herself from the group of huddled women. She had some house chores to attend to. "Do you suppose it's true what she saw?" one of the ladies asked the others. "I mean, Normala couldn't possibly have seen the body, could she? Madhuri's blood couldn't have been white, could it?" Her voice was shaking and she looked nervously around. "I don't know. Do you think it could be a sign or something?" "I think the less we talk about it the better." The others nodded in agreement. But everyone knew that it would be the only thing they would be talking about for the next few days - or until something juicier came along. ******************************** Datin Sharifah sighed loudly and shook her head. Her lips were thin lines and her brow furrowed deeply as she entered

Azreen's bedroom. It was empty saved for a mattress, a chair and a few boxes of clothes. Azreen looked up from her bag and smiled weakly. How brave she was, thought Datin Sharifah to herself. Really, this was no room for a girl. But of course, Azreen had been away for so long that her father probably thought it best to just leave the room bare. They would have to fill it with more furniture and spruce it up a bit know that Azreen was back - though only for a new weeks. Datin Sharifah nodded to herself as she thought about the things she could get for the poor child. "Now," she said,"do you want to go over to the burial grounds? We can still make it before . . ." her voice trailed off. Azreen did not reply. Instead, she stared directly into the older woman's eyes and said, "Mak Cik, please tell the truth. How did . . . how did she die?" Datin Sharifah's hand moved in a flurry as she dusted the chair. "I don't think it's up to me to tell you that, my dear." "You must tell me," the girl said, her voice pleading. "Nobody else would.

Datin Sharifah shrugged and sat down on the chair. Her fingers tapped in a frenzied manner on her lap. "But my dear, nobody bothered telling me in detail either. Everything was so hush-hush. Well at least from your family's side, my dear. It's all so bad. Your poor sister . . ." "I'm sure you know something," Azreen insisted. "Yes, on the grapevine. But you know you cannot believe everything you hear on the grapevine. Especially that rotten durian neighbour of yours - that terrible woman Normala. When Pak Cik and I arrived this morning, she literally jumped in front us and growled like some rabid dog. Can you believe that?" "Oh yes I can," replied Azreen. "What did she say?" Datin Sharifah scratched her neck in discomfort. She sighed. "Well, we should go home and save ourselves." "Save yourselves?" "Yes, apparently we're all cursed. Everyone on the island. Stupid superstitious woman. She said . . . she claimed that Madhuri had been murdered

and that she had put a curse on us beffore she died." Azreen strode to the window and looked out so that Datin Sharifah could not see her face. She could see the front yard. A group of women stood chaterring near the woodpile. Their distinct voices drifted to her. How she detested them. "They found her at the rubber estate," Datin Sharifah continued, her voice low wnd cautious. She did not want to upset the girl too much. "She had been missing for a few hours and her husband was getting worried. He went to look for her with a few of his friends and that was when they found her." "How did she die?" Azreen's voiced sounded far away. When Datin Sharifah did not answer, she turned around and approached the chair. Datin Sharifah sighed. "I don't know." "But you must know!" "My dear, please understand. They did not tell us anything. But I don't blame them. To them, we're outsiders." "By 'them', you mean my father," said Azreen sharply.

Datin Sharifah grabbed the girl's hand to try to soothe her. Azreen instinctively pulled it back. "He did this on purpose," she said. "He's pushing you aside like you don't mean anything to me. And Madhuri's body...he knew I would be back today and he refused to let me have anything to do with it. Why do you think he took her body away so early? Why? I'll tell you why. He did it to spite me. He wouldn't let me see her off. He..." "My dear!" Datin Sharifah cut in. "You father wouldn't do that." "You don't know him." Azreen went back to the window and her hand gripped the window pane tightly. "You don't know him at all." ********************************** Siti gave her baby brother some sweets to keep him quiet. Her mother was nowhere to be seen. She had been involved in the preparation in the morning and had been busy helping out their neighbour while Siti was left to take care

of her siblings. Azreen Saleh's sudden appearance and equally sudden departure had made her pause and think how different the two Saleh sisters were. Even Siti's parents had forbade her from befriending Azreen Saleh when they were in school, never mind the fact that Azreen was four years her senior and they moved in quite different social circles. Azreen, according to them, was a troublemaker. But whenever Siti met the girl, she saw nothing of the devil that adults claimed her to be. Yes, she could at times be spiteful and bad-tempered when dealing with people she could not stand, but Siti's opinion, those at the receiving end usually deserved it. Like Puan Normala and the gossiping horde. Under the circumstances a few minutes ago, Azreen's reaction had been quite restrained. And that robust woman, ran Siti's train of thought, must be Azreen's aunt. What was the name now? Some Datin or Puan Sri. Her clothes were very modern and looked expensive. The husband seemed very out of place and had been

fidgeting out in the front yard, trying to scrape cow dung from his leather shoes. They weren't actually her real relatives. Azreen had been sent to stay with them in their house in Penang a few years ago. There was an exchange programme in school and Azreen, being a top student, was chosen to go. Azreen got along well with her foster parents, so well that their relationship continued even after the twomonth programme ended. Datin Sharifah and her husband would visit Azreen and her family in Langkawi often. Then two years ao, they even sponsored her studies overseas. In fact, they treated the girl very much like their own daughter. Siti sighed. She wondered if she could be as lucky to futher her studies. Her father had treathened to marry her off to that annoying pimply-faced son of Pak Huzaimi who sold vegetables at the market. She would have to ask nice teacher at her school to convince her father to let her at least take her SPM next year. She sighed again as her younger brothers started brawling with each other

over a rattan ball. It was a hopeless case. She was stuck in this backward village where nothing interesting ever happened. Unless you took into account Puan Normala's version of what happened to poor Madhuri, of course. Silently, Siti wondered if there was any truth in it at all. *********************************** The woman on the rocking chair moved ever so slightly as the door to her bedroom inched open. "Madhuri, is that you?" Azreen stepped into the darkened room and shut door behind her. The woman turned her head an blinked. "Madhuri?" "No, Mak, it's me." The woman's forehead creased as as she stared at Azreen in confusion. "You're..." Azreen bit her lip. She moved slowly towards her mother. "I'm Azreen, Mak." Her mother nodded. Then she held out a hand that Azreen took and kissed.

Azreen scrutinised her mother's face in the dim light. Wrinkles had crept up around her eyes and mouth. The ones on her high forehead had deepened since the last time Azreen saw her. The crack of light from the window reflected the vacant eyes and the skelatal figure. A protruding scar ran down her left cheek. "Have you come to sell us some fruit?" said the woman suddenly. "I told Huzaimi we don't need any papayas." Azreen felt her legs go limp. "No, Mak. I'm Azreen, your daughter. I'm home from London." A frail hand reached for her. "Azreen?" "Yes, Mak. It's me," she said. She swallowed. What was the disease done to you, Mak? The woman did not catch the trembling voice of the girl standing in front of her. She smiled broadly. "Oh, you're home you're home!" She patted Azreen's hand. "I missed you. We must celebrate. Tell...tell your sister Madhuri to prepare a big lunch. We must celebrate." Azreen closed her eyes. "Madhuri..." she started quietly. "Did Abah tell you

what happened to Madhuri?" The woman blinked hard to remember. "Madhuri? Oh, yes, I remember. It's her wedding today." "No, Mak. That was two years ago," Azreen snapped. She caught herself and took a deep breath. "Why didn't Abah take you along to burial ground?" "Burial ground? What was he doing there?" Azreen clenched her hand. "Come, Mak. Let's go." Her mother flustered and fumbled as Azreen helped her up and put her into her wheelchair. "Where are we going, Madhuri?" she asked Azreen when they made their way past the crowd in the living room. "Are we going to see the doctor again? I don't want to go, Madhuri. Please don't make me go." Azreen did not reply. *********************************** It was as if the trees were crying that day at the funeral. The brown leaves floated down and curled up lifelessly on the ground. The sky was overcast, threatening

rain. A soft smell of jasmine lingered in the air. The metal wheels of the chair crumpled the dry leaves as they moved towards the site. A couple of heads turned as their arrival. Saleh Abdullah straightened up. His broad back was to them but they knew that he had heard them. "Abah," came Azreen's voice, strong and loud, almost defiant. Her father halhturned his head but said nothing. His hard profile was outlined by the dim sunlight that filtered in through the trees. Her mother twisted in her chair. "Azreen? Why are we here? Where's your father? You said we'll meet him here." Saleh Abdullah then spoke. "Take her home." His voice was low, like a faraway thunder. "Saleh, oh, you're there. I didn't see you. Why are we here?" Azreen's hand rested gently on her mother's shoulder. "We're here to see Madhuri, Mak." "What? But Madhuri's back home with Ghani. She's not here."

Saleh turned around fully and glared at both mother and daughter. "I said, take her home. Now." His face was as black as they heavy clouds above. Someone moved behind Azreen. It was Datin Sharifah. "I'll take her home," she whispered. "No, Mak Cik. She will stay." Her aunt blinked in confusion. A man came forward and rested his hand on Saleh's arm. "Come, let's not fight here." "Stay out of this, Ghani." Saleh took a couple of angry strides towards his daughter. But before he could reach Azreen, Haji Ghani moved in to block his way. Datin Sharifah took the chance to quickly manoeuvre the wheelchair out of the incoming battle. "I'll take your mother home, Azreen. And I think it's also a good idea if we all leave as well." Azreen let go of her mother. But she stood stubbornly still. Her father eyed her stonily as the others left the grounds. Then he returned to his position and paid no futher attention

to her daughter. Haji Ghani sighed inwardly. Another disaster averted. He nodded at his sisterin-law who remained rooted to her spot a few feet away. She did not even bother to nod back. He sighed again, his wrinkles deepening in melancholy. She was so unlike her sister. Ah, Madhuri, how I'd miss you, his heart crushed at the remembrance. He whispered to himself a little prayer and returned to his own spot to pay his last respects to his beloved wife. There was a sudden waft of jasmine. How it reminded him of Madhuri; how she loved to put the flowers on her silky black hair; and how she would laugh when they fell gently on her lashes. ************************************ It was not until late evening that they left the burial ground. A lone shadow treaded lightly up to the stone and sat down. Azreen stared blindly at the place where her sister was buried. Her hands were cold - as cold as her heart. Why couldn't she feel anything? She had shed

no tear, felt no sorrow for the loss. Only numbness. And she hated herself for it. Footsteps feel behind her. She looked up. A young man stood half-hidden by a tree. Even in the darkness, she could recognise his silhouette. After two years away from home, she could still remember his face so clearly. He gave her a weak smile. He did not make any sound or movement. Azreen turned back to the mound and said a prayer. When she turned back, he was gone. She stood up, dusted away the soil from her clothes and left the cemetery. Across the road she could make out his figure on the low fence. It was he who spoke first."How are your studies?" "I'm doing well." She took seat next to him on the wooden fence. "And you?" "I'm all right, I suppose. Why aren't you at the village hall for the kenduri arwah?" Azreen shrugged but said nothing. They spoke for a few minutes on meaningless things. The real subject that

was on both their minds was left untouched. "It's late. We'd better leave now." He left her by the junction where the broken road sign read 'Jalan Putri'. Azreen watched quietly as he walked away. Always, no matter how long it had been, always she felt a sense of loss whenever she saw him. And there was only one person who could cause such emotional damage to her. Madhuri! *********************************** Azreen had been thirteen when she met Mohd Asraf. He was two years older and was prefect in their school. He was smart and handsome and would always give her big friendly smile each time they met in their editorial club meetings. But that was all he did. She doubted he even remembered her name. Until one day. She was sitting on the stone steps of the empty school hall with a thick storybook on her lap all alone because her girlfriends had gone to field to watch the boys play

football. She did not feel like joining them. It was not because she hated football; it was because she rather be in the playing field than on the spectator's bench. And besides, she just couldn't put the storybook down. Suddenly, a shadow fell upon her book and when she glanced up, she saw Mohd Asraf grinning at her from the top of the stairs. "Hi," he said. She slapped her book sshut and murmured, "Hello." "You're Azreen right? Why aren't you at the field?" he asked as he sat down beside her. "Um, I need to finish this book." Then when he did not speak, she added as an afterthought, "Why aren't you there either? I thought you were in the team." No sooner hadd she said it than she wished she had bitten her tongue. "How did you know I was in the team?" he said, his eyes boring into her. Azreen felt her cheeks burn under his gaze. "A friend told me." How could she not know? All the other girls in class were infatuated with him and he was all they talked about during recess.

"I see." He lifted his left food. "I have myself to blame," he explained. "I twisted my leg yesterday when I got down from the school bus. I must have been too excited about the game and literally leapt from the top of the steps. And tripped." He did an instant replay of the scene, pretended to wince in agony and hopped around the hall on one leg. Azreen laughed. He grinned and sat down again. Suddenly he said, "I saw you playing hockey with Leela and her friends that day. You were really good." "Thanks." "Look, the guys and I are planning to have a little hockey match next Friday and my friend, Hock Seng, can't make it. Would you like to play?" "You mean..." Azreen was too shocked to go on. " Would you like to replace Hock Seng? He won't mind. Neither will the guys. They'll be really impressed when they see you play." He gazed at her earnestly. "And you'll be playing too?" asked Azreen. "I mean, with your injury..."

"It'll heal by next week. So is it a yes?" She let out a laugh. "Yes. I would love to." "Okay then!" He jumped up. His injuried foot did not seem hurt any more. "See you next Friday, right after school. We're going to bulldoze the opponent!" They did indeed bulldoze the opponent. The other boys were at first sceptical about the bookish bestpectacled girl with the fiery personality. But she put an great show, even scored a few points for their team. They tipped their sweaty hats to her and the boys by the end of the semester. Girls in her class began to cast suspicious eyes in her direction. What was wrong with that girl who behave so unladylike, laughing like a bunch of hyenas with the boys' hockey team, and was always hanging out with Asraf after class? The girls could not decide whether to be disgusted or jealous of her. "You know," said Asraf to her one day as they were walking home from school, "I don't think I've met anyone like you before. You're so different." Azreen made a face at him. "What do

you mean? And you'd better come up with a good answer or this hockey stick will end up somewhere between your ears!" He grinned as he moved instinctively away from her. "Cool down, will you? Ionly meant that I've never met anyone who is so nerdy and ganas at the same time." "Ganas?" cried Azreen, raising her stick. "I'm not aggressive!" Her friend burst out in uncontrollable laughter. "Right, you proved your point." Azreen stuck out her tongue at him. When he was done laughing, he said, "But seriously, you're good in your studies and you're brilliant in the field as well. It's hard to be good at both. I know I'm barely keeping it together." "But you're well-liked. People swarm around you like flies to a garbage can. Like maggots to rotten meat." "Thank you for those flattering words." Azreen's smile faded a little. She tapped her hockey stick on a rock absentmindedly. "It's not easy to be like that. Socially accepted, I mean. Look at me. Everyone hates me."

"Not everyone," Asraf said. "The hockey guys like you." "They probably think I'm weird." "Well, I like you," said Asraf with a shrug. "But then again, I have a fascination for weird stuff." Once again the hockey stick rose threateningly. He scuttled away with a chuckle. "Goodbye, weird friend. See you in school tomorrow." The broken road sign creaked as Azreen walked up the stone steps were overgrown with lalang and a few metres away, the jungle loomed. Soon, passed a bend on the pathway and the growth cleared, and the land stretched modestly towards the half-wooden, half-concrete house that stood slightly away from the rest of the village. ********************************* The house was darjk but a dim light from a lantern flickered from a window. The villagers had all left. The front yard was empty. Mak Cik Sharifah must have left. She had mentioned that they would be

staying at a hotel in Kuah on the main island. Azreen almost wished she could leave with them. But she could not-must not-run away again. Not this time. She must gather her strenght and face this. She pulled off her headscarf as she climbed up the steps to the house. Her father was not around. He was probably still at the kenduri arwah. She peeked through the bedroom door and saw her mother fast asleep, curled up like a kitten with a curious smile on her face. Azreen shut the door quietly. She busied herself unpacking her bag in the near-empty room. She arranged the mattress on the floor and smiled gratefully when she found two tiny throw pillows that Mak Cik Sharifah had left her. They had to be the ones she saw on the backseat of their car. The thoughtful duo also left her two bottles of water, bananas and oranges in a basket and a bag of disposable toiletries. She opened the window to let in the night air. Crickets cried loudly from the back of the house. There was a slight whiff of smoke from shrubbery. She was about to turn away from the window when a

sudden movement outside caught her eye. A dark shape fleeted across the gate and disappeared down the pathway. For a moment, she thought it looked like a woman with streaming black hair. Madhuri? No, that was impossible. So who or what could it have been? She strained her eyes to see. But it was gone. From a distance, she heard the soft cry of a hungry cat. Her hands grabbed the shutters and slammed the window shut. She jumped onto the mattress, grabbed a pillow and buried her head underneath. For now, she wanted to forget that she was home. Let her deal with it tomorrow morning. ************************************* "Siti, aren't you coming in to sleep yet?" "Yes, Mak, but I need to finish up the last few chapter first," called Siti from the veranda where sha sat with her textbook open on her lap, but her eyes were wandering past the street in front. She had been sitting there studying ever since

she could escape the house chores. It was difficult to study under such circumstances. Her baby brother was still wailing his lungs out from the bedroom. The veranda was her refuge. But out here was yet another kind of distraction. She had seen Mohd Asraf walk by earlier with someone, possibly Azreen, but it was too dark to tell for sure. Funny, she never knew they were close. He had just started as a trainee teacher at her school the year before and she had heard that some of her classmates had written secret love letters to him. She was not surprised, of course. He was tall man with thick curly hair, very dashing and charming but he hardly impressed Siti. He was too attractive for his own good. Girls fell for him left and right, only to have their hearts broken because he only had eyes for one. Siti chuckled to herself. Since when did she becomes so jaded and cynical? Oh, forget about them. She should be studying, not making character judgements. Siti bit the end of her pencil in thought. Poor Azreen. She must feel terrible losing

her sister. How different from Madhuri she was. Ah, Madhuri, the enigma. What was it with Madhuri that made people like her? Her husband doted on her. He would buy her jewels and beautiful expensive clothes and take her on long vacations. Ah, to capture the heart of a rich village headman! He was a bit old for Madhuri and already had a wife of many years but he was a respectable man. Siti wondered if she herself would ever accept being a man's second wife. No, she decided that she would be too possessive to share! Siti laughed at herself again. Enough of day dreaming! Back to work! *********************************** Haji Ghani's first wife got out of bed and marched purposefully to the adjoining room. Her husband was still flipping throug the photo album of his wedding two years ago. SHe could see him fingering the enlarged photo of Madhuri's smiling face. "Abang," said Puan Fatihah "don't you want to come to bed?"

Her husband shrugged slowly and gave her no reply. Puan Fatihah bit back her rage and managed another query, "You'll be all right? Don't you need a rest already?" Haji Ghani shook his head. "I'll come in later." Puan Fatihah stepped back and closed the door. Her legs brought her to the living room where a few framed photos of Madhuri graced the wall. She almost grabbed one and threw it out of the window . Instead, she took down the olivecoloured curtains that Madhuri had bought herself and put at their home. Yes, their home! She rued the day that girl grew up and came into their lives. Madhuri had dominated their home and ruined Puan Fatihah's peaceful existence with her husband. Puan Fatihah detested that girl, and hated her husband for his weakness. And she despised herself for giving in to him when he asked for her permission to take Maadhuri as his ssecond wife. Pua Fatihah dragged the curtains to the room where her husband kept all his precious possessions. The room was filled

with carvings and carpets imported from the Middle East, drapes with images of the Kaabah, wooden statues from Indonesia and traditional instruments from the Malay sultanate eras. Puan Fatihah walked over to a glass cabinet and carefully removed valuable keris that was on display. With a smile, she ran the wavy-bladed dagger viciously through the thin cloth. Perhaps scissors would do the job better but at least Puan Fatihah could feel the satisfaction of the keris tearing jaggedly through the fabric. She threw the torn pieces into the dustbin before going back to bed, feeling much better than she did half an hour ago.

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