As soon as Pak Harun turned around and began writing on the blackboard, she quietly stood up, careful not to scrape her chair, and tiptoed toward the back of the classroom. She peered out the wooden window shutters, her eyes scanning the familiar view outside the surau. He was still there. Sitting alone on the low cement ledge outside the surau, his back leaned against the wall, a little notebook balanced on his lap. His head was bent, hand scribbling intently, completely absorbed in whatever he was writing. This was the third time she had seen him in that exact spot. Always at the same time. Always in that same quiet, solitary position.
He hadn’t noticed her yet but she had been watching him. The first time was when she came early for her Quran class. She had walked right past him, pretending not to see, though her heart beat a little faster. The second time, he was there again sitting in silence, just observing. And now today, once more. She knew who he was, of course.
He was the new boy in her kampong. Rumours had already floated around. He stayed near the community centre with his grandmother whose high-pitched voice could often be heard ringing through the narrow lanes, calling out his name like a siren, usually just before dinnertime.
He wasn’t like the other boys. He never joined in their games, never tried to mix around. Occasionally, he would appear in the distance, watching them from behind a tree or near the fence, saying nothing. Still, something about him intrigued her. The way he stayed quiet. The notebook. The way he watched, not like a spy, but like someone studying everything.
And now, there he was again. She lingered a little longer, eyes fixed on him. Then, startled by the sound of chalk tapping on the board, she quickly slipped back into her seat before Pak Harun turned around. But her thoughts didn’t return to the lesson. They stayed with the quiet boy by the surau and the gandmother’s voice who always called his name “Poh Poh” Religious classes were held every Saturday morning at the surau located within Kampong Dalam.
The teacher, Pak Harun, was a retired military sergeant who had once served in the British Army. On other days, he doubled as the caretaker of the community centre. Almost all the children from Kampong Dalam and Kampong Ladang attended Pak Harun’s religious classes.
Quran classes were held on Sunday mornings at the surau as well, making the little mosque a familiar and important part of their weekly routine. As soon as the class ended, she bolted out of the surau, her slippers slapping against the ground. Tomorrow was her turn for guard duty, and she needed to prepare. She had already gathered a good stash of young green cherries her secret weapon.
These little fruits made the perfect bullets hard, small, and surprisingly painful when launched from a well-made rubber-band gun. The boys especially those from Kampong Dalam had been pestering her for days, trying to find out where she got them from, but she never let slip. Not even a hint. Only Rosli, her trusted neighbour and loyal supporter, knew her secret source.
Kampong Dalam was about 300 meters from Kampong Ladang, and along the way about 100 meters in stood the Chinese grocery shop, the only one in the area. It was a regular stop for most kampong folks, a hub of chatter and supplies.
As she approached the road, she spotted a small group of Chinese boys lounging near the shop. Her heart skipped a beat. One of them was the leader the one she knew. He knew her too. Trouble!! How am I going to get past without them recognizing me? she thought, slowing her pace. Without hesitation, she pulled her shawl over her head, adjusting it to hide as much of her face as possible. Then, with practiced calm, she began to walk slowly, casually past the shop, hoping the disguise would be enough to slip by unnoticed.
Her grip tightened on the bag of green cherries hidden in her pocket. She wasn’t going to let anything or anyone interfere with tomorrow’s mission. “There she is! That’s her!” one of the boys shouted, pointing a finger. “The sniper! The one who shot at us… get her!” Oh no. They’d seen her. Trouble! No way she could take them on. Too many. Even her silat wouldn’t help. Not this time.
Best option: run. And she did—bolting as fast as her legs could carry her. If she could just make it to the edge of Kampong Ladang, to where the community centre stood, she’d be safe. The Chinese boys wouldn’t dare touch her there.
The Malay boys were already there, playing carom and badminton. They’d definitely come to her rescue. Then she felt it. “Oh no… my shawl!” she gasped, skidding to a halt. Her hand flew to her head. Gone. “Mom’s going to kill me this time. What am I going to tell her?” She could already hear her mother’s voice echoing in her mind: “This is your sixth shawl gone missing! How can your shawl go missing? You're supposed to wear it from home to the surau and back. Never to take it off!”
No… not good. She couldn’t say “The Chinese boys were chasing me.” That would lead to even more questions. “And why were the Chinese boys chasing you, huh? What did you do this time?”
She needed a different excuse. Fast. Just then, a voice behind her called out, calm and clear.
“Is this yours?” She turned. It was him, the quiet boy from the surau. He was holding her shawl, a small smile on his face. “Yes… mine… thank you,” she replied, slightly breathless, taking it from his hands.
She noticed the mole on his cheek, and the way two dimples appeared when he smiled. His teeth were straight and white. Too perfect. Her heart flipped a little.
“I saw you the other day,” he said in fluent Malay, “walking with books. Where were you going?”
“To the library,” she stammered, surprised by how clear his Malay was.
“There’s a library around here?”
“Not really. It’s at the other community center… in Kaki Bukit,” she explained.
“Can I come along next time you go there? Is it far?”
“Not that far. I know a shortcut,” she said, warming up. “We can cut through Tanah Merah, then take the stairs down to Kaki Bukit Secondary School. From there, it’s a short walk to the center.”
“Good. When are you going next?”
“Monday. After school. Around 3 p.m.”
“Great. I’ll wait for you at the center, and we can go together?”
“Okay,” she nodded. He smiled again and began to turn back toward his house.
“Wait!” she called out. “I still don’t know your name.” He turned and said, “Kong Heng Poh. But everyone at home calls me… Poh Poh.”|
Chpt 8 / 36
