No. This is not a dream. Nonie blinked. I am not dreaming. I cannot be dreaming. But here she was—in a strange house, in an even stranger situation. Before her sat three pairs of eyes, staring at her unblinking.
Three boys. Identical. Triplets. Same haircut. Same white shirt and blue shorts. All perched in a row like small judges at a secret tribunal. They didn’t speak to her, but whispered among themselves in a language she understood just enough to feel paranoid. It wasn’t alien to her ears, just... not hers.
She looked away, letting her eyes wander around the room. It was a simple house. Supposedly Chinese, but… not quite. There were no deities, no scrolls, no red-lacquered cabinets. Sparse. Neutral. Almost undecorated.
She reached for the only reading material on the table—a worn copy of Female Magazine. Not her type of magazine at all. She always found such publications a little distasteful: too much fluff, too little truth.
But she needed something—anything—to look at. She flipped through a few pages, trying to appear unfazed. But she couldn’t help it. Her eyes kept drifting back to them. The triplets were still staring. They were adorable. And terrifying.
She smirked to herself. Maybe I should give them a shock therapy. Say something wild. Just to see how they react.
“Are you sure this is big brother’s girlfriend?” whispered the one in the middle.
“Yeah,” said the one on the left.
“Elder sister said she’s the one.”
“But she looks so Malay,” said the one on the right.
“She is Malay,” replied the middle one.
“Is this the one he said liked to climb trees?”
“Must be.”
“But… she’s wearing a dress.”
“Shh! Be careful,” said the middle again, narrowing his eyes. “She understands Mandarin.”
Nonie blinked, fighting the urge to laugh. Busted. She continued to pretend to read, flipping through Female Magazine while her ears stayed sharp. She had been in this situation before.
In the hospital staff room, when the Chinese nurses came in and switched to Mandarin, assuming she wouldn’t understand—she let them. They didn’t know that she understood Mandarin, or that she could follow conversations in Hokkien, Hakka, Teochew, and more. She never corrected them.
Why should she? It was better this way. She could listen. Learn things she wasn’t meant to hear.
The voice of her Tok Guru surfaced gently in her mind: “Never show others your skill unless the situation warrants it. A true warrior moves quietly. Low profile is strength.” She smiled faintly to herself.
“No, I don’t think she understands,” whispered the one on the left.
“Big brother said she does,” the middle one replied, still watching her closely. She looked up, amusement twinkling in her eyes. Then, in clear, calm Mandarin, she said: “Your big brother is right. I do speak Mandarin.”
The room fell completely silent.
“Argh!” the three boys gasped at once. Wide-eyed. Frozen. Caught.
“I told you so!” the middle one hissed, elbowing his brother.
“I told you she understood!” They stared at her now with that classic child expression—half-guilt, half-awe—the look of someone caught red-handed doing something very naughty.
Then, after a long pause, the middle one asked, dead serious: “Is it true you like to climb trees? Big brother said so.”
She burst into laughter. “Well… when I was your age, yes,” Nonie smiled, “I loved climbing trees.” She leaned in a little. “Did your big brother tell you he used to join me, sitting right up there on the tree branches?”
“Ya, he did!” the one on the left nodded eagerly.
“Well,” she grinned, “I also used to steal rambutans with the boys, and do many, many other naughty things kampong kids got up to.” Their eyes widened.
“Wah! You still climb trees?”
“No… not anymore.” She winked. “Now I climb mountains. And walls.”
“Mountains and walls?” the middle one echoed, stunned. “Didn’t your big brother tell you? We climbed Mount Ophir. And next year, we’re planning for Mount Kinabalu.”
“Wah!!” All three gasped in unison. Their little jaws dropped in perfect sync.
“When big brother comes home, I’m going to ask him. I want to come too!”
“How do you climb walls?” asked the youngest, practically bouncing.
“There’s a way,” she said playfully. “With ropes. Safety harness. Special shoes. And a whole lot of guts.”
“Do you fall?”
“Not to the ground. If you slip, the safety gear catches you.”
“Wahhh! That sounds like fun! Can you teach us?” They got up and shuffled closer — one flopped down beside her, another settled right in front, eyes shining. The third leaned in with an almost conspiratorial smile.
She looked at their identical faces, their freshly buzzed haircuts — the kind that looked straight out of National Service — probably Poh Poh’s idea, she thought. Low maintenance, he once told her with that familiar grin.
“Sure,” she said, chuckling. “I’d love to. You’d all look like little spiders crawling up the wall.” The boys giggled. The ice was completely broken.
“I’m back—” Swee Lee’s voice rang out from the front door. “Father’s on his way. You’re not in a hurry, right?” Before Nonie could reply, the triplets were already on their feet.
“Bye!” they chirped in chorus. “We’ll be next door. With Furhan!”
They shuffled off like a small army, leaving behind a trail of giggles and the faint smell of talcum powder.
Nonie laughed softly. “No, no plans for today. Not yet.”
Swee Lee stepped into the room, placing a paper bag on the side table. “So. You’ve met the triplets. They’re my sister’s”
“They’re adorable,” Nonie smiled.
“But how do you tell them apart? I tried to spot differences — nothing. Not even a slight change in the shape of their nose or eyebrows. They’re completely identical.” Swee Lee chuckled.
“Easy. Their voices and their eating habits. One likes only the egg white, one only eats the yolk, and the last one won’t touch eggs at all.” Nonie’s eyebrows lifted.
“That’s amazing. So alike… and yet so different.”
“Exactly. Even their personalities are different. One’s always asking questions, one’s always breaking something, and the other just wants to be left alone with his toy soldier collection.”
They both laughed — not just at the boys, but at the strange and lovely way life arranged people.
“Swee Lee…” Nonie’s voice softened. “We went through training together. Same postings, same shifts. I never realised you were Muslim.” She paused, choosing her words carefully.
“You never even talked about it.” Swee Lee smiled, gently.
“That’s how we are. Low profile. Especially my father — he prefers it that way.”
“Why? Did Chinese people ever harass your family?”
“Not really. Never anything direct. I still have Buddhist and Christian aunties, uncles, cousins… and they’ve always accepted us. No drama. We still keep many Chinese traditions — as long as they don’t contradict the faith.” Nonie nodded slowly.
“I’ve noticed that. Chinese culture is… strong. Rooted. Even converts keep their family name. There’s a pride in heritage.” She hesitated before adding, “I know of a few Malay friends who’ve left the faith… they’re treated terribly. Cursed, shamed, even by their own families.”
Swee Lee’s face turned solemn.“Yes, I’ve heard. It’s sad. My father always says — faith should be free, not forced. If someone no longer believes, we shouldn’t chain them to it. That kills the faith more than letting them go.”
There was silence for a moment. Then Nonie smiled — the kind of smile that comes when someone says something true, something rare. “I like your father.”
The voice rang out in her memory — fierce, unyielding. “…What can they do to us? Apostates should be killed, they say. That’s their answer for everything. If someone challenges the norm, just erase them. But do they really think we won’t fight back?” She had been there — silent, mostly. Listening.
But once, she had asked a question. Not to challenge them, just to… see. “What happens if you die?” she said quietly. “Where will they bury you? You know they won’t allow your body in the Muslim cemetery.”
One of them burst into laughter — loud, free, and bitter. The kind of laugh that comes when fear finally cracks. “Why should I care where they bury my corpse? When I’m dead, I’m dead. I’m more concerned about where my soul will go — if there is a soul.”
One of them replied. She had grinned then. “It’s absurd how people fight over dead bodies. The physical doesn’t matter anymore — we should be asking what comes after. Or if anything comes at all.”
Nonie hadn’t replied. She didn’t need to. She wasn’t even sure what she believed. But one thing was clear — We cling so tightly to form, we forget to search for meaning.
“You see, Swee Lee…” Nonie began, her voice firm but controlled. “The problem with some Malays — as I see it — is that if given the choice, they would erase their own cultural identity. They’re ashamed of their past. But why?” She didn’t wait for an answer.
It had been gnawing at her for years. “In Malaysia, I’ve heard it said that Malay civilisation begins with Islamisation. That’s the official line. And that makes me angry. As if before Islam arrived, we were nothing — just monkeys swinging from trees. As if the Malays didn’t have any civilisation, no culture, no voice. What are we then? A sponge? Absorbing everything, discarding everything, never keeping anything we can truly call our own?”
Swee Lee nodded thoughtfully. “Every culture has its challenges. In Singapore, we’re lucky. The government allows freedom of religion. But in China, Chinese Muslims still face serious discrimination.” Nonie sighed.
“Yes, I know. And maybe I’m being harsh. But until Malays come to terms with the idea that out there are Malay Christians, Malay Hindus, Malay Buddhists — and can stand beside them without fear or contempt — we haven’t matured as a people.”
She leaned forward slightly. “We’re stuck. Spiritually. Emotionally. Culturally. The Chinese and Indians can celebrate their differences and still stand united. Why can’t we?”
She looked away, then added: “The ‘other Malays’ exist. But we try them erase them. We try to silence them. Pretend they’re not part of us. But you can’t keep silencing minorities forever. Because eventually… they rise. And when they do, we’ll realise they were part of us all along.”
A pause. “Many will hate me for saying this,” she said, almost to herself. “But this is how I see it.”
Swee Lee placed her cup gently down. “I agree with you.”
“Now back to us here… I’m still trying to come to terms with Poh Poh,” Nonie said, shaking her head gently. “I mean… all this time, I never knew he was your brother. But… why’s your surname different?”
“Big brother?” Swee Lee laughed softly. “He’s not my real brother. Not by blood.” She paused.
“I’ll let my father explain. That’s actually why I insisted you come today. He wants to talk to you about… him.”
“Oh.” Everything still felt like a dream. But it wasn’t. She was here, in this unfamiliar but strangely comforting house — all because of him.
Her mind began to replay how she got here...
It had started innocently — back at the hostel. She was unpacking, settling in. The girls had come, first the Malays, then the Chinese A/Ns. Introductions all around. “I know you… she was in my PAN batch…” Light chatter.
Then Swee Lee wandered over to her study table and spotted the photos. They had known each other casually since their pupil assistant nurse days. Swee Lee was three years younger — sharp, observant, polite. But what she said next caught Nonie completely off guard.
“This house…” Swee Lee pointed at one of the framed photos on the desk. “I know this house.”
“My house,” Nonie said casually. “You stayed in Kampong Ladang?”
“Yes.” Swee Lee leaned closer. “There was a girl who stayed in that house. I can’t remember her name… but she had a nickname “NOI”. Everyone used to call her that.” Nonie felt her breath slow.
“How do you know about the girl?”
“My big brother. He used to live in Kampong Ladang too. He always talked about the house beside the community centre. One day he showed me a picture — of him and a girl standing in front of that very house.” Nonie’s heart thudded.
“What’s your big brother’s name?” But Swee Lee hadn’t answered. Not that day.
And when she met him again later in Chinatown, she hadn’t told him either. Not yet. She needed to know more first. All these years she had thought Aunty Mary and Uncle Freddie were his only family. He never spoke about his parents — and she had never asked.
And now here was Swee Lee, calling him “Big Brother.” Who was she to him? A cousin? A stepsister? A foster sibling? She had to find out. Just then, a calm voice came from the doorway.
“Assalamualaikum…” An elderly man stepped into the house.
Both women stood and returned the greeting.
“He came to us when he was only seventeen,” the elderly man began, his voice steady with memory. “I still remember… a quiet, serious boy. Said he wanted to convert.” He paused. “But we advised him to wait. He was still underage — legally under the care of his grandmother. And we knew… she would never allow it. So we told him: hold on. Wait until you’re of age.”
He looked down for a moment, then continued. “And then, just like that — he disappeared.” A quiet hush settled in the room. “We thought we’d never see him again. But a few years later, he came back. Same boy. But older. Stronger. He said he was twenty-one now. His grandmother had passed. His uncle and aunt had given him their blessings.”
The man smiled faintly, eyes clouded with memory. “I went to meet them myself. Good people. Gave him their support. And from that day on, he came back to us. Again and again.” He looked at Nonie warmly. “We’ve been his other family ever since.”
They were asking her about the training — what the schedule was like, how the first day went. She answered them. She smiled. She nodded where needed.
But her mind was elsewhere. It had never crossed her mind — not seriously, not until now — all these months while they’d been going out, while they laughed over dinner, while they walked quietly side by side. They talked about everything. Almost everything. Except religion.
He tried once or twice to bring it up. But she had stopped him. “Not now,” she’d said. “Let’s not talk about that.” It depressed her. It still did. She knew this conversation would come, eventually.
And with it, the impossible question: “Would he convert?” And if he didn’t? Her father would never accept him. She could already see it — the arguments, the disappointment in his eyes. She didn’t know if she could bear it. But neither could she bear the thought of losing Poh Poh. Not again. Not after finding him, after all these years.
So she did what she always did.She pretended. She pretended it wouldn’t happen. That love might be enough. That if she didn’t name the problem, it might quietly disappear. But it wouldn’t. And she knew that. It wasn’t fair.
To meet him again, after all these years — only to face losing him once more. This time not because of distance. Not because of timing. But because of belief. The image returned suddenly — the Chinese boy sitting quietly at the back of the surau. Alone. Watching. She hadn’t thought of that memory in years.
And then came the voice, that same voice in her head that often narrated the things she didn’t want to face: “His father died when he was very young. Caught in the riots. Mistaken identity. They thought he was Malay — he looked more Malay than Chinese. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
He was their only child. “His mother had to work. A Malay neighbour took him in — raised him like their own. Fed him, taught him, brought him along for religious classes. That’s where the influence came from.”
She remembered someone once saying his mother was a heavy smoker. When lung cancer claimed her, the Malay family tried to adopt him legally. “But the welfare department said no. He still had family — a grandmother. She lived with her daughter, his mother’s only sister. They sent him back to them… to Kampong Ladang.” That was how he ended up there. That was how their lives intersected.
Two children from two different worlds — brought together by something neither of them chose. And now, years later, here she was… sitting in his family’s house, with memories thick in her chest, and her heart twisted with the question she could no longer pretend didn’t exist.
She remained silent, listening to the elderly man speak. His voice was calm. Steady. The kind that didn’t need to raise itself to be heard. “All these years, when he was with us… he talked so much about his kampong days. And always… always, there was this one particular girl he never forgot. He didn’t know what happened to her. Just memories. And longing.
Then one day, he returned, eyes bright, smiling to himself. He told us: he found her. Almost every day after that, he spoke about you. And now, seeing the two of you together — how close you’ve become — it brings peace to our home.
For the good of both families, I’d like to propose something simple. You’re both at a good age. We can do this respectfully. Quietly. I will speak to your father. I know him — he is a respected man in the kampong. Leave the arrangements to us. His aunty and uncle are Christian, so we will handle it on our side. What matters most is the solemnization. Once that’s done, the rest is noise. People will not talk.”
She lowered her gaze. All these years, she had been looking up — chasing stars, comets, constellations. Always upwards. Searching for answers in the sky. And all the while… this person stood quietly before her.
She had never looked. Not really. Not fully. The line from Butterfly Lovers surfaced suddenly in her mind: “I am hearing, but I do not hear. I am seeing, but I do not see.” She blinked slowly, then raised her eyes to meet his. Her voice, when it came, was soft.
Almost a whisper. “I leave it to you… and to Father… to decide what is best for us. I will follow. But there’s one thing I want to know.”
A pause. A breath.
“What’s his Muslim name?”
Chpt 32 / 36
