The Black Cat Chronicles

* Penang
The Kapitan Keling Mosque sits like a silent anchor in the heart of George Town, Penang a place where sea winds carry the scent of salt and prayer. Its white domes gleam under the afternoon sun, and the courtyard fills quickly on Fridays with merchants, travelers, and men whose stories change with the tide.

For Bagheera and Batu, the mosque is more than a house of worship it’s an information hub disguised as sacred ground. Traders come here from the mainland, dockhands from Butterworth, drivers from Perak, pilgrims on their way north. If there’s talk to be heard, it will surface here, between ablutions and the rustle of sarongs.

They arrive together but part ways before stepping into the prayer hall. It’s their habit two shadows that never cast the same line. Inside, the sermon rolls through the marble arches outside, pigeons swirl above the courtyard like scattered thoughts.

After the prayers, the crowd spills out into the sunlit corridors. Conversations bloom in low tones half about faith, half about business, and a few about things best not said aloud. Batu lingers by the ablution taps, pretending to fix his sandal strap. Bagheera drifts near the entrance, adjusting his songkok, eyes scanning faces.

Both men are listening not for sermons, but for slips of the tongue. In a place like Kapitan Keling, gossip travels faster than wind, and sometimes, truth hides inside a whisper carried by men who believe no one is listening.


* Madam
The Madam stirred close to noon, the weight of sleep lifting slowly. The sanctuary was hushed in the midday heat. Two cats were curled on the kitchen chairs, their bodies rising and falling in rhythm. When she passed, one opened an eye, gave a faint, questioning meow, then tucked its head back into sleep.

She reached out, patting them both lightly before moving on. In the living room, another pair dozed across the table as though it belonged to them, tails hanging lazily over the edge. Outside, near the metal gate, a lone cat stretched in the sunlight, its shadow thin against the wall.

The house felt alive in its stillness a place where the day belonged to the animals, and she was merely passing through. She took her shower, dressed, and approached the small desk where her laptop waited. Before heading out for her lunch appointment, she leaned in and typed a new pantun into the chat room:

Burung merpati terbang berkawan,
Hinggap seketika di dahan jati.
Besar mana ganjaran dijanjikan,
Hingga sanggup semua berburu kuasa ini?

Then she closed the laptop and slipped out quietly. One of the boys had already left for work, his slippers missing from the step outside the door. The other, Ravi, was in his room doing his work, as he always told her. Before driving off, the Madam paused by his door and gave a soft knock. There was a moment’s silence, then the creak of a chair. He turned, smiling the same quiet smile he always did. No words were needed. That was their way a simple exchange that meant I’m awake, you’re here, I’m leaving now. His sister had gone out earlier in the morning.

The Madam had knocked gently on her door to greet her before she left, and the young woman, half-awake, had waved from her bed before slipping back into sleep. The sanctuary had its own rhythm everyone moving at their own pace, the cats drifting between rooms like ghosts of comfort. The Madam stepped out, locking the gate behind her, ready for the meeting that awaited after lunch.

She didn’t take the same route back to her car this time. Instead, she chose the longer way around she needed the walk, and she wanted to see Jack. Jack was the one-eyed male, short-haired with a long cream-coloured tail. One late evening, she had received a call about a cat with a bad eye infection, abandoned at a public housing block in Kampung Ara. When she found him, his left eye was swollen and leaking pus. She took him home that night, cleaned the wound gently, and brought him to the vet the next morning. She named him Jack.

The vet prescribed several eye drops and told her to observe him closely. But Jack’s temperature rose, and he became weak and lifeless. She brought him back to the clinic, where the vet said the only way to save him was to remove the infected eye. After the operation, Jack recovered quickly, moving about with new energy perhaps relieved that the pain was finally gone. He stayed at the sanctuary through his neutering and vaccinations, then, like most felines, decided to seek his own space. He found it three houses away, with a neighbour kind enough to let him stay.

She slowed her steps as she neared the neighbour’s house and called softly, “Jack…” From beneath the garden chair, a familiar cream figure stirred. The one-eyed cat lifted his head, tail curling in a slow flick of recognition. He didn’t move closer, just watched her, close enough to see her, but never close enough to be carried. That wasn’t his way. He simply watched her from a safe distance, calm and certain, as though guarding her in silence. She calls him One-Eye Jack.

Before she could say another word, a rustle came from the drain nearby. Out squeezed Junior the white and brown short-haired male with the short, curly tail. His body was solid, almost round, built like a little wrestler, but his voice betrayed him: a soft, high-pitched mew, delicate as the ice cream man’s bell. Unlike Jack, Junior loved attention. The moment he saw the Madam, he dropped to the ground and rolled onto his back, belly exposed, paws flailing in mock surrender.

Dust clung to his fur, but he didn’t care. He mewed again short and sweet as if to say, I’m ready for my turn. The Madam laughed quietly, crouched, and gave his belly a light pat. “You’re getting heavier, Junior,” she murmured. He blinked, purred, and rolled over once more for good measure. Jack remained where he was, one-eyed and dignified, keeping his silent watch from the shadows.


* George town, Bayan Lepas Night Market

The Bayan Lepas night market was already alive with noise frying oil popping, traders calling, the scent of Penang Laksa drifting thick in the air. Putih sat quietly at a food stall, a bowl of laksa cooling in front of her, watching the tide of people move through the narrow aisles of tents and lights.

She had been waiting almost half an hour when her contact appeared a young mother, modestly dressed, her two daughters clinging to her hands. The woman looked tired but relieved to see her. “Sorry, kak, bus lambat,” she said softly. Putih smiled, waving it off.

“No worries. Come, let’s eat first.” The girls’ eyes were already fixed on the Ramli Burger stall nearby. The mother tried to protest, but Putih insisted, waving to the vendor.

“Two burgers for them, one rojak for you.” They ate together, sitting on plastic stools under a bare bulb. The talk was easy about the girls’ school, the father working shifts, the rising price of rice. Putih listened, nodding, occasionally smiling at the girls as they teased each other over the fries.

Only when the plates were nearly empty did Putih ask the question. Her tone didn’t change it slid into the conversation like a sigh.

“About the name you mentioned last time… have you heard anything more?” The mother hesitated, glancing at her children, then leaned closer.

“I need more information,” Putih said softly. “Who was talking about it? You got his name? How many of them were there when this was discussed… their names too, if you can remember.”

The woman’s eyes flicked around nervously. She spoke in a low tone, words hidden beneath the market’s noise. Putih listened without interrupting, her expression unreadable. When the conversation ended, Putih simply nodded, filing every detail away.

“Good,” she said quietly. “You did well.” The woman gave a small, grateful smile. The air between them carried unspoken understanding the kind that needs no signature or promise. When the girls finished their food, they strolled out together through the market, passing stalls selling soft toys and hair clips.

Putih stopped and knelt beside the girls. “Choose one each,” she said gently. They looked to their mother, who smiled shyly and nodded. At the taxi stand, Putih helped them in, giving the driver the address. As she handed the fare through the window, she quietly slipped an envelope into the mother’s bag.

The woman noticed, of course they always did but she didn’t speak of it. Instead, she reached out, clasped Putih’s hand, and said softly, “Thank you, kak. I’ll call if I hear anything.”

Putih returned the grip, warm and firm. “You always can,” she said. The taxi pulled away, its taillights fading into the maze of the night market. Putih stood there for a moment, the air heavy with the scent of roasted peanuts and sea breeze, then turned back toward her hotel.


* Madam
The café was quiet, tucked between a florist and a tailor shop. Ceiling fans turned lazily, carrying the scent of brewed coffee and lemongrass from the kitchen. Across the table, the client spoke with careful enthusiasm outlining the company’s needs, talking about deadlines, reports, and the usual numbers that filled her weekday meetings.

The Madam listened attentively, her pen gliding across the page, neat and precise. When the client excused himself to the restroom, she reached for her phone. The screen glowed with a new message a reply written in the same poetic rhythm she knew so well:
Mentari condong di ufuk petang,
Bayang panjang di laman desa.
Ganjaran besar sukar ditentang,
Tiga banglo bisa dibina di Malaysia.

Her eyes lingered on the words for a moment, calm but focused. The tone was clear the reward was real, and the stakes had just grown higher. Then, before leaving for her meeting, she sent out another line the question that mattered most:

Ombak kecil di tepi muara,
Buihnya hilang dibawa arus.
Siapa pula yang menawar ganjaran,
Berani benar membeli kuasa yang halus?


She left her reply in the chat room, then scrolled through the ongoing conversations chatter, jokes, speculation, none of it worth her attention. With a quiet exhale, she placed her phone face down just as the client returned and settled into his seat. The discussion resumed smoothly.

She noted down the requirements, asked a few precise questions, and promised to send the proposal before the end of the next day. Professional, efficient, unflappable just as expected. When the meeting ended, she stepped out into the afternoon heat, the hum of traffic folding around her.

As she walked toward her car, a thought lingered, unshaken by the businesslike calm she wore on the surface. The rewards. Who could afford to offer something so large enough to buy not one but three bungalows in Malaysia, and for what purpose? For a diamond?
No. This Permata Timur had to be more than that. Something far more valuable. Something important enough to make powerful people move in silence. She unlocked the car and paused for a moment, her hand on the door handle.


The sun glinted off the windshield like a shard of glass, bright and sharp. Then she got in, her expression unreadable, the question still circling quietly in her mind.

* Selangor, Shah Alam Surau
By the time the women’s dakwah session ended, the air inside the Shah Alam Mosque was thick with the scent of jasmine and talcum powder. The crowd of ladies lingered in small clusters, their voices soft but lively a comforting blend of scripture, recipes, and gossip.
Among them sat Keris, her face half-hidden beneath a soft black niqab, eyes framed by the curve of a hijab so perfectly folded it would have passed any ustazah’s inspection. To the untrained eye, she was just another quiet attendee a modest woman with kind eyes and an attentive smile. She listened. That was her craft. The ladies chattered freely about husbands who worked too late, about a new bakery in Section 9, about whose daughter just got engaged.

Keris laughed when they laughed, nodding politely when someone quoted a verse. She knew when to lean in, when to fade into the background. When the timing felt right, she joined the flow of talk with effortless grace. “Eh, anyone here ever heard of Permata Timur?” she asked, her tone light, curious as though she were simply joining in the chatter about jewellery and weddings.

The name slipped into the circle like a drop of perfume noticeable, but harmless. One of the older ladies adjusted her tudung and replied, “That name sounds familiar, sister. Isn’t that the gold shop in KL? My niece bought her engagement bangle there expensive, but nice design.” Another chimed in with a laugh. “Ah! Permata Timur! Their price naik already. These days even small chain also can’t afford.” Laughter followed, soft and easy.

The topic drifted to wedding dowries and the price of gold, and just like that, Permata Timur dissolved back into everyday gossip. Keris smiled behind her niqab, nodding along as if she too were lamenting inflation. Nothing solid, no hints of anything deeper but she kept listening anyway.

Even ordinary talk could hide an edge if you knew how to hear it. As the women began to disperse, Keris lingered by the shoe racks, pretending to fix her scarf while watching the last few stragglers leave. The sun was dipping low beyond the mosque courtyard, painting the marble floor gold ironically, the same gold everyone was lamenting. She exhaled softly. No leads today.

But she would be back. After all, in Shah Alam, rumours travelled like prayer quietly, but they always found an ear willing to listen.

* The Silent Watcher

The glow from three screens paints the small apartment in shifting shades of blue. Siti sits with her headset off, her fingers resting lightly on the keyboard. The only sounds are the hum of the fan and the soft ping of incoming messages. She’s logged in under different names across five chat rooms
• ISCS (Islamic Circle for Seekers)
• Murtad Malaysia–Singapore (both the public and the private channels)
• Malaysian–Singapore Forum
• Tabligh International Group
• Malaysia & Singapore Tabligh Network

Each one with its own rhythm, tone, and language, some in English, some in Malay, a few slipping into Arabic phrases. Siti doesn’t talk. She listens. Her digital notebook is a map of words and patterns: usernames that repeat across groups, topics that resurface with small differences, phrases that change meaning depending on who says them.

The ISCS room is lively tonight, young seekers, curious questions, enthusiastic converts. But Siti’s eyes are on two accounts that post identical answers within seconds of each other, as if pre-scripted. Siti opened a new tab and scrolled through the familiar blue interface of Facebook. At the top of her bookmarks was a page she monitored nightly: Murtad Malaysia–Singapore. It had started years ago as a discussion board for interfaith dialogue, but somewhere along the way it had turned into an ideological battlefield.

The comments moved faster than she could read, filled with long threads of scripture quotes, personal testimonies, and sarcastic memes. Siti didn’t post. She just watched. Tonight, the page was on fire again. A new post had gone viral, a quote image saying: “Faith should be chosen, not inherited.”

In less than an hour, over 200 comments poured in. At the center of the storm were two familiar names: Dzulfiqar and Nurulhuda. Dzulfiqar’s replies were stern and relentless. He wrote in thick religious Malay, laced with Quranic verses and a tone of righteous pity. “You people have been misled by the Western mind. There is no freedom in falsehood.”

Nurulhuda fired back almost instantly: “And yet your faith needs the government to protect it. If truth can’t stand on its own, it’s already broken.”

The replies kept climbing: 100, 200. Others jumped in, fanning the flames. Siti sipped her tea and scrolled slower, reading not the words but the voice behind them. She’d been following Nurulhuda SG for months. Sometimes the account sounded like a young Singaporean woman, casual English, light slang, jokes about hawker food. Other times, the tone was clipped, formal, almost academic. The same profile photo, same account but clearly a different mind at the keyboard.

At least three people, she guessed, each taking turns, keeping the same face alive. When she refreshed the page, the thread had already mutated, new memes, new insults, the conversation scattering into chaos. But the profile picture of Nurulhuda SG was still there, bright and smiling.

Siti stared at it for a long moment, whispering to herself, “Whoever you are, you’re not just arguing. You’re running a game.” She hit save, closed the laptop, and sat back. Outside, the faint hum of traffic carried over the border bridge the sound of two cities forever talking to each other, even when they pretended not to.

The Tabligh rooms are quieter but more structured. Voice notes of bayan talks, meeting times, travel plans. Most harmless. Some… not quite.

The Singapore–Malaysia Forum Page was one of the busiest corners of Facebook, a chaotic, ever-moving digital pasar malam that never slept. With more than 80,000 members, it was where everyone came to talk about everything: food, jobs, travel, politics, and rumours that crossed the Causeway faster than any bus. Every post was a snapshot of border life.

By day, it was practical:
• Courier updates: who was running parcel drops from Johor Bahru to Ang Mo Kio, which driver could “settle fast” at the checkpoint, and who got stopped at customs for carrying durian again.
• Job alerts: Malaysians asking about cleaner, factory, or security guard work in Singapore Singaporeans hiring domestic help or part-timers in JB.
• Makan tips: endless lists of “best nasi lemak in Skudai,” “cheap seafood in Permas,” and “JB cafés giving SG discount.”

By night, the tone shifted, slower, friendlier, more personal. Members shared short videos, jokes about traffic jams, and nostalgic photos of both sides of the bridge. Sometimes, they argued over football. Sometimes, over whose side had the better char kway teow.

And always, in the background, someone was watching. Siti never commented. Her account looked ordinary, a profile photo of Penang laksa, bio line saying “Travelling between two homes ❤️”. She used the page like a listening post, studying how people moved, what they cared about, and which names kept reappearing.

The forum wasn’t political. It was too human for that. But hidden between the chatter were fragments that told real stories, a driver complaining about being questioned too long at customs, a young man bragging about new “sponsorship” for a cross-border religious event, a woman asking how to send donations “to the same group that helped last time.”

Most readers scrolled past without noticing. Siti didn’t. For her, this noisy digital marketplace was more than gossip, it was a map of movement. Who travelled where. Who funded what. Who disappeared quietly from the comments after saying too much. She often thought: If you want to understand a country, don’t read its newspapers. Read its forum pages.