"Let’s eat!" she exclaimed, placing the plates on the table with a triumphant smile.
"About time!!" the three of us chorused in mock exasperation as we sprang up and made our way to the dining table. We had been lounging in the living room, flipping through old photo albums—moments frozen in time.
She, meanwhile, had been in the kitchen, completely in her element. She had banned us from entering, as usual. Noorie, however, had been more engrossed in my journal from our UK trip than in the photos.
“Argh... Siglap Laksa! You made this?” Noorie’s eyes widened as she inhaled the aroma, dipping her spoon curiously into the broth.
“Yep, all homemade—even the noodles,” she beamed. “Took me a few tries, but I finally nailed it. Taste them—you’ll see.” Pride radiated from her like the steam rising from the bowl. When it came to her cooking, there were no debates—only reverence.
The kitchen was her sacred temple, and once she stepped inside, she became a woman possessed, orchestrating every detail with no tolerance for interference.
“I must thank Nithya’s mother,” she added, almost ceremonially. “It’s her recipe. I just perfected it.” And suddenly, things clicked. Nithya began to understand what had been quietly unfolding between them. Their hours in the kitchen had always puzzled her those long, whispered conversations, the soft laughter, the unspoken intimacy.
She used to drift away like a ghost in the room, sensing something she's was not a part of, not yet. A silent exchange between two women who knew something she didn’t.
“Since you’re not interested in cooking,” she once told me, arching an eyebrow, “someone has to take the initiative to preserve these recipes. They’ve been handed down for generations. I’m compiling them.”
At the time, she had teased her. “What’s going on between you and my mother? You both act like you’re plotting something.” She didn’t deny it. “Maybe we are,” she said with a playful glint in her eye. “A secret kitchen conspiracy.”
And now, watching her proudly serve Siglap Laksa, Nithya felt it—not just the warmth of the food, but the bond forged through recipes, stories, and love passed down through the women in our lives. This wasn’t just a meal. It was heritage on a plate.
The four of us sat together, the unspoken circle of friends. Our histories, so different yet quietly intertwined, found centred here, around a dining table filled with spice, memory, and laughter.
“…And this one, wrapped in banana leaf?” Noorie leaned in, lifting the soft bundle to her nose. The scent hit immediately—earthy, spicy, and faintly herbal. “Honestly?” she said with a laugh. “I don’t even know the name. I just know how to make it. It’s all spices and vegetables—pucuk ubi, daun kesum, and whatever pucuk-pucuk I can grab from the Geylang market. I mash them all together, lay the fish on top, coat it with ground spices, and steam the whole thing in banana leaf. That’s it.”
“Mmm… smells divine,” Nithya murmured, eyes closed, as if the aroma alone could transport her back to some forgotten place.
“What’s this fruit?” Noorie piped up, holding a round yellowish orb in her palm. “I’ve never seen it before.”
“Buah sentul!” N declared, a sparkle in her eye.
“Buah what now?” Noorie asked again.
“Sentul! You’ve never seen sentul before?” N asked, half-shocked.
“Nope! First time.”
“It’s gone extinct rom Singapore. I doubt you can find it here anymore.” N grinned. “Guess where I got this?”
Noorie shook her head, biting back a smile. “Don’t tell me… Thailand?”
“Close. Philippines!”
“Seriously?”
“Yep. I remembered the tree—it was massive, so tall it nearly touched the clouds. When I was a kid in the kampong, it stood just next to our house. Every day, we’d wait for the sound—boom!—on the rooftop. That was the signal. One of the fruits had dropped, and it was a race to see who could get to it first. I’d dash out like lightning, barefoot, no care in the world. The skin’s thick, but inside, it’s soft and tangy… almost citrusy. Really nice.” explain Nonie
“I bet it was,” said Nithya, half in wonder, half in envy.
Nonie chuckled, her eyes dancing with memory. “Every day, I’d just sit there, looking up at that tree. It was so tempting. And of course, my father would catch me and say, ‘Oh no, you’re not climbing that! It’s too high! You’ll fall and break your neck!’”
They all burst into laughter, the kind that only comes from being completely at ease—with one another, with the moment, and with the stories that shaped them. This was their sanctuary—not the walls of the house, but the invisible circle they formed whenever they came together. A circle stitched together with laughter, spices, kampong memories, and that sacred rhythm of food and friendship.
“You should seriously consider wall climbing or even rock climbing,” Noorie said, jabbing her chopsticks playfully in Nonie’s direction. “Might finally cure your obsession with climbing trees.”
Nonie rolled her eyes. “Hey, climbing trees was a legitimate hobby, okay? I grew up with real trees—not these pathetic twigs planted by HDB.” They all burst out laughing.
“Yeah… and let’s be honest. These housing estate trees are too fragile for you anyway. One tug and the whole tree might come down with you!” remarked Nithya
“That’s true,” Noorie added, grinning. “Even the birds don’t bother nesting in them. You’d better stick to indoor walls.”
“I miss kampong trees, lah,” Nonie sighed dramatically. “Strong, tall, and unjudgmental.”
“Unjudgmental trees?” Nithya raised an eyebrow. “Nonie, you really need to go out more.” They all laughed again—deep, rolling laughter that made their bellies ache and their eyes tear.
In that moment, the room was filled with the kind of joy that only old friends could create—where even poking fun felt like an act of love, and every teasing word was threaded with shared history.
“I love your stories,” Noorie turned to Nithya and said, flipping another page of the journal. “Especially the UK trip. That’s your most recent, right?”
“Yes,” Nithya replied with a soft nod. She didn’t mention the short detour to Kuala Lumpur. That trip was never meant to be more than a casual diversion—something spontaneous to fill the gap before heading back to Singapore.
Then she remembered the note and the knock on the hotel door. She hadn’t expected him to respond and yet, he did. It was later that night. She was alone in her room, writing in her journal, when the knock came, and there he was.
“When I received the note from the boy,” he said, standing awkwardly just inside the doorway, “I was shocked. At first, I thought it was a prank—something one of the guys might pull. But then I saw your handwriting... and our signature.”
“Our signature?” she smiled.
He smiled back. “Yes—the quotation at the bottom. That’s how I knew it was really from you.” She blinked. It never crossed her mind that those lines had become their signature but yes there's a quote, always a quote at the end of the letter.
To her, it had just been part of the game. He started it first—writing quotes, leaving verses for her to complete—and she, always eager, matched him verse for verse. It became a challenge: who could remember the next line, the next clever turn of phrase.
A secret language they had built, without even realizing it. And in that moment, memory swept her back. They were teenagers again, reunited unexpectedly in Negeri Sembilan after years apart. Once childhood friends—inseparable in their kampong days—they had drifted when their families moved to different towns.
And yet, when they met again, something clicked immediately. Not the wide-eyed games of children, but the quiet, mature discovery of minds drawn together by shared rhythm. They had spent hours talking that weekend—on the verendah infront of his house. Books were their currency, Out of all the books, Romance of the Three Kingdoms was the one that stuck.
Both of them had read it too young to fully grasp its politics, but something about its complexity—the shifting alliances, the strategy, the loyalty, the betrayals—resonated. It became their reference point. A world they returned to over and over.
He would quote Zhuge Liang. She would counter with a line from Sima Yi. They debated who was more brilliant, who was more moral, who deserved the empire. And then, it evolved into something else: a method of communication.
They began using lines from the book to pass notes in their letters, to test each other’s memory, and later, as a subtle way of confirming identity in uncertain times. So yes, that book. It was never just a book. It was a shared world—an unspoken bond forged in their youth and carried quietly into adulthood.
“Oh,” she said now, the weight of memory sinking in. “I never thought of it as our signature.”
“Well,” he said gently, “you were the only one who ever completed the quotes.”
“You didn’t have to come,” she said softly. “You could’ve just called the hotel.” He chuckled. “Call? You must be joking. Besides, my mother was on the line when the note arrived. I told her. She insisted I come over immediately. Said I had to make sure you were alright.”
“She did?” Nithya’s brows lifted.
“She remembers you. And yes, she was very clear—‘Go now. Don’t wait.’ So... here I am. Everything is okay, right?” He took a step into the room, and she felt her heart skip a beat.
“Wait. Stop where you are,” she said quickly, rising. “Let me grab my purse and sweater. We’ll talk downstairs. The café is open 24 hours.” He hesitated.
“Why can’t we talk here?”
“You don’t know how many eyes are watching us right now,” she said, pulling on her sweater and reaching for her purse. “I don’t want to get into trouble—and I don’t want you getting into trouble either.” He raised an eyebrow, still amused.
“I’m serious,” she continued, lowering her voice. “This is Malaysia. An unmarried man and woman alone in a hotel room? That’s considered close proximity—khalwat. If anyone reports us, we could be fined, or worse. I know you think the hotel staff are friendly, but all it takes is one complaint.”
“Ah,” he nodded slowly, the smile fading just a little. “the khalwat law”
“Exactly. I’d rather not make headlines tonight,” she said, managing a half-smile. “Let’s go downstairs. The café is open all night—and I could use the fresh air. My friend will be back soon. She’ll want to crash immediately. We’re checking out early in the morning, and then heading to the Indian High Commission.”
He laughed, clearly amused. “Relax. The people here know me. If anything, they’d send me a heads-up before anyone else. So... the Indian High Comm? Why?”
“For a visa.”
“You’re going to India?”
“She is. Not me. I just want to go home.”
He glanced around. “Where is your friend, anyway? I didn’t see her.”
“She’s... out there somewhere.”
“At this hour?” Nithya shrugged. “You don’t know her like I do. KL is her playground. She’s got friends, contacts... probably stories she’ll never tell me. She asked if I wanted to tag along, but I’m too tired. I needed stillness tonight.”
He smiled, a little more gently now. “I’m glad you contacted me. Really. It surprised me—but I’m glad. Come on, let’s go downstairs. I want to show you something. I think you’ll be very interested.” And so, they sat at the dimly lit café till 3 a.m.—talking, reminiscing, rediscovering. Just like old times.
“You should submit it to the editor,” Noorie said, still flipping through the journal, breaking Nithya's train of thought “I’m sure he’d take it. And the pictures—you’ve got an eye. They’re fantastic.”
“I plan to,” Nithya replied, tapping her pen thoughtfully. “I just need to summarize everything first. They’re too detailed—we don’t want to overwhelm the reader.”
“Why not?” Noorie grinned. “They’re good. I loved reading about your adventures—and the people you met along the way, especially that bit at Speaker’s Corner.”
“Oh yes, Speaker’s Corner...” Nithya’s eyes lit up as the memory surfaced.
She and N, had come to London together. But true to form, N had her own rhythm—her own way of slipping in and out of plans without ever causing alarm.
That morning, as they were preparing to head out, N turned to her casually and said, “Why don’t you go on ahead to Hyde Park? Speaker’s Corner will suit you. I’ve got a small errand to run—I’ll meet you there later.”
No further details. Just that calm, familiar tone of quiet certainty. With N, there were always errands—never quite explained, always discreet. And Nithya had long learned not to ask. So she went on her own, curious, unsure… and ended up stumbling into one of the most memorable experiences of the entire trip.
It was a cool Sunday in Hyde Park, and curiosity had pulled her there like a magnet. Nithya had heard of it before—this strange, open space where anyone could stand on a box and speak their truth—but seeing it in action was something else entirely.
There were Muslims quoting the Quran, Christians waving Bibles, Jews with Torahs tucked under their arms, and a dozen other fringe groups, each jostling for space and attention. It was a cacophony of belief, debate, and performance art, all rolled into one.
“I stood there, just watching, fascinated,” she recounted. “Especially this heated argument between a Muslim preacher and a Jewish student. You could feel the tension. Both quoting scripture like it was a fencing match.” She paused, then chuckled.
“And then I saw this young Caucasian guy—alone, standing nervously on a little foldable platform. He looked like he’d been building up courage for hours, but no one was paying him any attention. Just completely ignored. So, I thought, poor guy. Okay, I’ll be your audience. I walked up and stood in front of him, tried to look engaged.”
“What did he talk about?” Noorie asked, intrigued.
“That’s the thing—I tried to follow. He started with British politics, something about party infighting… then, completely out of nowhere, he veered into Chinese politics. He started rambling about the Cultural Revolution.”
Noorie raised an eyebrow. “Wait, what?”
“I know, right? And just then, this Indian guy walks up and stands beside me. And I swear to you, like magic, the speaker suddenly shifts his topic—from China to India. Next thing I know, he’s talking about the Indian revolution. Then—boom!—he’s on about the Chinese-Indian border conflict.”
Noorie burst into laughter. “He probably saw the two of you standing there and panicked—like, Ah! My audience is now ethnically mixed—I must adjust accordingly!”
“Must be!” Nithya laughed too. “But then something amazing happened. As soon as he had any kind of audience, even a confused one, more people started joining. It just snowballed. That’s the magic of Speaker’s Corner. One voice can attract another, and soon it’s a crowd.” She paused, remembering the rhythm of it all—the swaying crowd, the passionate voices, the flurry of flyers in the air.
“And then,” she added, “he suddenly shifted gears again—from Indian-Chinese border conflicts to World War I and II.”
“What!” Noorie choked. “I swear. It was like watching a live version of Wikipedia. I was just waiting for him to mention Napoleon.”
“Did he?”
“No,” Nithya laughed, “but he was definitely circling around to it. I think if we had stayed five more minutes, we’d have ended up in ancient Mesopotamia.”
They burst out laughing again, tears welling in the corners of their eyes. “I love that place,” Nithya said, wiping her cheek. “Pure chaos. But also... kind of beautiful. That’s the beauty of Speaker’s Corner,” Nithya said, her voice softening slightly. “You never know what to expect. It’s unpredictable, chaotic… but kind of brilliant.”
She leaned back, remembering the energy of it all. “And honestly, it’s a great way for someone to overcome their fear of public speaking. The people there—so responsive, so accommodating. Nobody booed him. Nobody tried to put him down. Even when he jumped from British politics to Chinese history to the World Wars... everyone just listened. Some confused, some amused—but all present.”
“It’s like live theatre,” Noorie said.
“Exactly,” Nithya smiled. “Unscripted, raw, and strangely… moving.” For a moment, they sat in companionable silence, the laughter lingering like a warm echo in the room.
“Then,” she added, “the Indian guy turned to me and whispered, ‘Do you understand what he’s trying to say?’ I told him, ‘Nope.’ He nodded and said, ‘Me neither,’ and just walked away.”
“I think I’ll call that entry ‘The Day I Became an Audience of One.’”
“You should,” Noorie said. “And don’t leave that part out. That’s the kind of story people remember. It’s human. It’s weird. It’s real.”
Nithya then turned to N and asked “So… you going to tell us about the love of life?” finally giving voice to the question that had been hovering unspoken between her for weeks.
She've been curious ever since that memorable visit to the Moroccan guy’s restaurant. As soon as we arrived, he had introduced us—proudly—to his rowdy circle of friends, who seemed to live inside the restaurant like it was a second home.
Within minutes, they were belting out songs in French, Arabic, and whatever else came to mind. Then came the part I’d never forget—some of them, half-jokingly (I hoped), stood up and began shouting “Lee Kuan Yew! Lee Kuan Yew!” at the top of their lungs while throwing up mock Nazi salutes. I just blinked, trying to decide whether to laugh or leave.
N, of course, remained calm as ever, giving no visible reaction—like she’d walked into much stranger scenes before. But then, as if none of that had happened, she and the Moroccan promptly disappeared into the kitchen, leaving me outside with his son—a polite young man in his twenties, studying computer science at a local commercial college.
He was eager to talk about Singapore, full of questions about our education system, urban design, and multiculturalism. I indulged him, grateful for the distraction—but I couldn’t help wondering what was going on behind that kitchen door.
They emerged nearly half an hour later. She didn’t say a word about what had happened in there, and I didn’t ask. That’s how it’s always been between us. There are boundaries. Silent understandings. If she wanted to share, she would. And if she didn’t—I’d leave it at that.
But I did notice something: the Moroccan looked... elated. As if he’d just been given a secret to life. And before we left, he held her hands and said, “Promise me you’ll come back.”
“Love of his life?” Noorie echoed, raising a curious eyebrow. “A Moroccan?”
“Well…” she said with a mischievous smile, “he wants to call me the love of his life. I let him. But he’s definitely not mine.”
So how did you two even meet?” Noorie asked.
“Speaker’s Corner,” she replied, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“During my previous trip.”
Noorie blinked. “Wait—Speaker’s Corner? You mean, the place with all the holy book shouters and conspiracy theorists?”
“Yes,” she said, unfazed. “And that’s where we found out we shared the same passion.”
“Which is?” we asked in unison.
“Food. And cooking.”
“You mean to say you found a fellow foodie at Speaker’s Corner?” Noorie laughed.
“Exactly,” she said, her tone deadpan. “He came up to me after watching a Chrisitan and A Muslim preacher argued—or maybe it was before, I can’t remember—and asked, ‘Are you Malay?’ I said yes. His eyes lit up. ‘Good,’ he said, ‘maybe you can help me' “Help with what?”I asked “He said there was this one dish he was dying to learn how to make. But the Malays at the student center wouldn’t tell him. Too secretive, apparently.”
“Typical,” muttered Noorie. “And so, he brought me to the Malaysian student center,” she continued. “Straight to the canteen. He pointed at one stall and said, ‘That lady—she’s guarding the recipe like it’s national treasure.’”
“What dish?” I asked. She started giggling before she could answer.
“No, seriously—what was it?” Noorie asked. “You’re not going to believe this…” she said, grinning. “Sambal belachan.”
There was a stunned pause—then we all burst into laughter. Noorie, mid-sip of her orange juice, nearly choked.
Sambal belachan?” Noorie wheezed.
“Yes!” she laughed. “He was obsessed. Said he’d never tasted anything that spicy, stinky, and addictive all at once. So I taught him.”
“And?”
“Well,” she said, eyes twinkling, “that day in the kitchen I showed him how to make it, I happened to glance in his fridge and saw pineapples.”
We both leaned forward. “And…?”
“Imagine this,” she said dramatically with her both hands waving in unison trying to describe a scene with her hands.
“Sweet, juicy pineapple—and sambal belachan. One’s seductive and fragrant, the other smells like a dead rat roasting on open fire. And then… they merge becoming one”
“You’re so cruel” Noorie gasped, already laughing.
“As soon as he tasted it,” she said, “he went into some kind of culinary orgasm. Clutched his chest and said, ‘I will love you forever!’”
We doubled over with laughter.
“And then,” she added with a grin, “I told him another secret.”
“What now?” we groaned.
“Cincaluk.”
“No!” all three said in unison, smacking the table.
“You traitor!” Noorie accused.
“If the Malaysians knows about this, they're are going to revoke your honorary status.”
“Why?” she shrugged innocently. “I’m just spreading joy and fermented shrimp paste.”
"you're exposing their trade secrets!" Noorie continued. Another explosion of laughter filled the room. We were at my place.
Nithya's parents were away on a group tour to Indonesia, and her sister and brother were out. The house felt unusually quiet, so she decided it was the perfect opportunity to invite the ladies over for dinner. She had wanted, for some time now, to introduce Noorie to this particular circle of friends.
She didn’t tell her much beforehand—just said they were fellow nurses with interests outside the Nursing, like her. She figured it was better to let things unfold naturally. Some things are best left unsaid, at least at the beginning.
She still remember the first time she met her. Of course, she had heard of her before—everyone had. She’d taken over the company after the sudden disappearance of Encik Johan. But she didn’t give her much thought then.
She generally stayed away from management and avoided the office altogether, for obvious reasons. She didn’t want her cover blown. No one at the hospital knew she was also working as a part-time journalist.
It wasn’t a job, really—not in the traditional sense. It was more of a passion, something she kept entirely separate from her nursing duties. At the editor’s advice, she always wrote under pseudonyms.
Even the photographer who sometimes accompanied her on assignments didn’t know what she did full-time. Her only real contact point was the editor himself. He was the one who had introduced her to the publishing house, and she'd maintained that discreet arrangement ever since.
If an assignment came up, he’d get in touch. If she needed a photographer, he would coordinate. Otherwise, she'd take her own photos, write the piece, and submit it directly. Payment was prompt. No questions asked.
He knew where she worked but never called her at the hospital. She’d seen Encik Johan a few times before he vanished, but they’d never exchanged more than polite greetings. He struck me as private. Maybe too private.
As for Noorie—our first meeting was completely unplanned. The editor had called that morning, asking me to meet him at the Geylang Hawker Centre. He had another assignment lined up. When she arrived, she was already there, seated with him, deep in conversation. That was the first time she saw her in person.
“Ah! Good, you’re here,” the editor said as Nithya approached. “Let me introduce you… one of our writers.” She turned toward me as he spoke, extending her hand. We shook.
Her grip was firm—confident—but not overbearing. Her eyes held mine for a moment, direct and purposeful. It wasn’t the stare of someone sizing you up. It was the glance of someone who had already decided to take you seriously. She smiled. Not the forced, practiced smile you get from people who’ve learned to survive office politics. No. This one was natural, grounded. And just like that—I liked her. It was instant.
Like love at first sight, but not the romantic kind. More like recognition. You know how some people enter a room and something in you recoils, instinctively? She was the opposite of that. She had an aura—calm, competent, unpretentious.
“She’s a nurse too, just like you,” the editor continued.
“Oh, really?” she asked, her curiosity genuine. “Which hospital?”
“SGH,” I replied, a little cautious. “But I’m just an assistant nurse.”
“Wow, that’s great,” she said, visibly brightening. “I was an assistant nurse too—two years, then I got selected for the student nurse program. I’m at NUH now, orthopedic department. It’s really nice to meet you. The editor’s shown me some of your articles—I love them. They’re good. Really good.”
A Staff Nurse, Nithya thought to herself. Of course. Just great. I was already having a hard enough time navigating some of the staff nurses back in the ward—now she had one standing here, introduced as a peer… or worse, a possible superior. She smiled, polite but reserved. As soon as the editor handed over the assignment brief, she found an excuse to leave.
“Thanks, I’ll get started on this,” Nithya replied folding the papers. “I need to get back to work.” That wasn’t true. She had the rest of the morning free. But she needed distance. She seemed nice—too nice, maybe—but Nithya wasn’t ready to let someone from management, even an ex-nurse, see through the quiet double life she was leading. Best to keep the lines clear. For now.
A few days later, during her lunch break, she received a surprise. There she was—standing at the reception counter just as Nithya walked back into the ward. Her heart skipped. "Now how the hell does she know where I work? I had only mentioned SGH—never the ward. Even the editor didn’t know that detail. SGH is a massive hospital. How did she manage to track me down?" Thought Nithya
“There you are,” she said, smiling. “I knew I could find you here.” Nithya approached her, still slightly dazed.
“How did you know I was in this ward?” asked Nithya
“Oh, that’s easy,” she said casually. “I have friends around. I just mentioned your name. The rest of the information fell into place.” Of course.
Nithya nodded. “I see.”
“I’d like to talk to you,” she added. “Maybe after work, one of these days. If you’re free.”
“Talk about… what, exactly?”
“Oh, a few things,” she said, her tone light, but her eyes held something deeper.
“Don’t worry—the editor’s told me not to mention anything about your work with the publishing house to hospital staff. That stays between us. You have my word. But there are a few things I’d really like to ask you—important things. Only if you’re willing, of course. I won’t pressure you.”
Nithya's mind went immediately to the worst. “Is this about Encik Johan? Or the publishing house? Because honestly, I don’t know anything. I barely spoke to him, and I—”
She interrupted gently, “Yes, partly. It’s about Encik Johan... and some other things too. I believe your insight might help me connect a few pieces I’ve been trying to put together. Please?”
We met a few days later, after our shifts, at the staff canteen. And that—that was how it all began. She never shared much, not directly. She never needed to. But over time, Nithya able to picked up fragments. Bits and pieces that formed a larger picture.
Most of it came from whispers—gossip among staff, unconfirmed murmurs. The Malay community in Singapore isn’t large. When something stirs, especially in our circles, word travels fast. Nithya slowly came to understand that the publishing house, long assumed to be stable, was in serious trouble.
One day, over coffee, her guard slipped a little. She spoke about the issues she was facing—especially at the Johor branch. She looked tired that day. Not physically, but emotionally. Frustrated. Strained. She confessed she was trying to save the company. Said she was still hoping someone might come forward to take it over. Someone who cared enough to rebuild it, rather than let it collapse.
She didn’t ask me for anything that day. She just needed to talk. And Nithya listened.
“So, what’s your gals’ next trip?” Noorie asked, settling deeper into her seat.
“I’ve been thinking about the Silk Road,” N replied. “Would you like to join us?”
“Silk Road?” Her eyebrows shot up. “Yes! But not immediately—it’ll probably be next year. Needs a lot of logistics and preparation.”
“Okay, I’m in!” Nonie said, grinning.
“This is exciting. Where have you gals been all this time? I feel like I’ve been missing out on life!” the confession from Noorie
“Welcome to the club!” Nonie laughed. We all stood, lifting our glasses in impromptu cheers.
“To new adventures and old friendships!” Nithya toasted.
“To crazy plans and new found love” Noorie added, glancing sideways at N with a smirk. Then Noorie turned fully toward her, eyes gleaming with mischief.
“Okay, since we’re celebrating… tell us—who is the real love of your life?”
“Yes, spill it!” Nithya joined in. “You’ve hinted enough. Come on, give us something.”
N gave a long-suffering sigh, but the smile tugging at her lips gave her away.
“He’s… somewhere out there in the Brunei jungle. On training.” There was a beat of silence. Noorie blinked.
“Wait. You’re telling us… your true love is a jungle man?”
“A Tarzan, to be exact,” Nithya said dryly, unable to resist. That was it. The room exploded in laughter. Noorie nearly spit out her drink.
“You mean to say, while we’re stuck with civil servants and accountants, you’ve got a vine-swinging commando”
N just shrugged, smug and amused. “Well, he can cook rice in bamboo over open fire. That’s a useful skill.”
More laughter followed—free and loud, echoing around the room like old songs. And just like that, the night wrapped itself in warmth and ridiculous joy. One of those rare evenings where everything—past, present, love, laughter—found its way to the same table.
Chpt 16 / 36
