Until one innocent evening, while tossing a ball with their daughter down the hall, fate decided to intervene. The ball bounced high and higher than it should have and landed exactly where it wasn’t supposed to. Her husband dragged over a ladder to climb up. The ball rolled off harmlessly. But then he spotted something else, wrapped in old Batik and a red cloth.
And that night, after their daughter had gone to bed, after the lights were off and only the ceiling fan hummed in the dark, he said it quietly. “I found it.” No accusation. Just a statement of fact. She didn’t answer at first.
Just lay there, eyes open. “You told me you wouldn’t bring it back.” Still silence.
Then she whispered, “He was so obsessed with it. How could I say no?” A sigh escaped from his side of the bed. He turned, but not to face her.
“I just don’t know what it means. What it brings. It’s not an ordinary thing.” He was calm, but she could hear the disappointment tucked beneath his voice.
Not the first time she had gone her own way. He knew her. She was full of surprises and secrets. Her thoughts drifted to other surprises. The keris wasn’t the first. There was that time, years ago East Coast Park, a casual night out, just the two of them.
A gentle sea breeze, lights flickering along the path, and the sound of waves close enough to hush the world. And then the interruption. Four boys. Young. Loud. Too confident. Two pushed her boyfriend to the ground.
The other two lunged at her, reaching for her bag. They didn’t expect what happened next. She moved without thinking. The bag became a weapon swung hard into one boy’s face. The second got a sharp kick to the knee.
Both stumbled, shocked. They ran. When she saw her boyfriend still down, one of the others trying to kick him She hurled her bag straight at the boy’s back, then launched into a full silat side kick. They scattered like pigeons. She rushed over, helping him up.
He stared at her, dazed. “Wow… I didn’t know you could fight like that.”
She smirked. “You’re not supposed to know.”
Later, over dinner, she finally told him. About the silat. About her father. About Haji Shukor. About the years of training that no one in her family noticed, except her father who had kept the secret close like a shared pact. He listened. Quietly. No judgment. Just eyes that held a new kind of respect.
She remembered how he had looked at her, years ago her boyfriend then wide-eyed and breathless after watching her fight off four robbers like it was nothing. That had been the first time someone outside her father had seen that part of her, the part she had kept buried, wrapped tight like a family secret.
He just smiled and said “good to know my girlfriend knows self defence, then I don’t have to do all the work” and they both laugh.
And now, years later, it had happened again. Same man but his role as change, from boyfriend to husband. Another truth revealed. Another reaction but not wonder this time. Worry. Resistance.
“I wrapped it up,” her husband said. “Put it in the prayer room. Bottom drawer.”
She had nodded in the dark, heartbeat steady. Until he added, “I’ll throw it away one of these days.”
And just like before, she knew it was time to speak. That’s when she sat up, fast. Sharp. “Don’t you dare.”
He turned to her, startled. “It’s just an object—”
“It’s not just an object,” she snapped. “That keris was handed to me by my father. His last gift.” Her voice rose, firm and clear. “I may be your wife. But I’m still a daughter to another man. You throw that keris away then you throw me away with it.”
He stared at her. No reaction. But he didn’t say a word after that. She turned away, pulled the blanket over her shoulder, and muttered under her breath: “You married a storm. Don’t act surprised when it rains.”
Back at the balcony again, she looked at the keris. Its metal surface catching the fading light, like it was listening waiting. “So what now?” she whispered to it.
“ You really didn’t want to stay hidden, did you?” A thought crossed her mind ridiculous, but somehow not. “You don’t want to be a secret. Like some secret love affair” She chuckled. “You want to be part of the family, is it? You could’ve just said so, you know.
No need to sabotage the ball game.” The keris, snug in its cloth, offered no response. But she swore just for a second it felt like it was smiling. She still couldn’t quite comprehend it.
“How,” she muttered to the keris, “did the ball even get up there?” She had replayed it in her head a dozen times. The throw wasn’t even that strong. The angle was all wrong. By physics alone, the ball should’ve bounced off the ceiling, or landed on the floor, or hit the wall and died a quiet death behind the sofa.
But no. Somehow miraculously, theatrically it had arched just right and plopped itself perfectly onto the top of the display cabinet.
“You planned it, didn’t you?” she narrowed her eyes. “You whispered to the ball: ‘Come. Find me. I’m here, its time. Ta da! ” She folded her arms and leaned forward like she was talking to an old friend or an overly dramatic houseguest who overstayed their welcome.
“What am I supposed to do with you, hmm? You have own shelf now,” she muttered. “I even bring you here to my sacred place. The balcony. The holiest of holies. The very place I can disappear” She rolled her eyes. “But don’t expect a Saturday pooja session, okay? That man that husband of mine can sit for five, six hours straight with his rituals with the cleaning up and all, including dressing those idols up. I can’t even finish my laundry without taking a break. I don’t chant in Sanskrit for hours. But I’ll keep you here. Safe. Quiet. I’ll honour you in my own way.”
She raised an eyebrow at the keris, half teasing, half sincere. “We’re stuck with each other for now. So let’s make this work, we need to compromise. I will keep you clean. Neatly wrapped, stored properly, a nice polish every now and then. Maybe once in a while I’ll bring you out, and we can talk. alright?”
The keris didn’t respond. Naturally. She sighed, softer this time. And them this scene comes into her head…She remembered standing barefoot on the edge of the kampung field, watching the other girls play. Laughter everywhere, tiny voices calling out names for their dolls talking to them, dressing them, feeding them, scolding them.
She had never been into dolls herself. But she loved watching them play. Loved the care, the attention, the little world they created. Years later, she found herself watching her husband the same way, as he cleaned the pooja room. Gently wiping each image. Washing them, drying them, dressing them. His hands tender, methodical. Focused. What did he see that she didn’t?
And then at the temple, she had seen it again. Deities being bathed, perfumed, placed on swings. Songs sung to them as if they were children, as if they could hear. As if they needed the love. Something clicked. It was the same instinct, wasn’t it? Not superstition.
Not ritual for the sake of ritual. It was that human need, to care for something outside of yourself. To project soul into form. To give meaning to the thing you hold. Dolls. Deities. Daggers.
She looked at the keris again. “So that’s what this is,” she murmured. “You’re not just a blade. You’re my doll. My god. My ghost.” A pause. “No pressure.” She reached forward and picked it up gently, letting the weight settle into her palm.
Slowly, she ran her fingers along the metal, from hilt to tip, then back again, tracing the quiet curve with something close to awe. She turned the blade in her hand and studied the base, the meeting point where metal kissed wood, where steel merged with the carved holder.
The carvings fascinated her. Were they Javanese? Was this the true keris of Datuk Panglima Hitam? “I need to find out,” she murmured. “What you really are. Where you really came from.”
Then, without thinking, she brought the keris close, and kissed it softly, right where the metal met the wood. Not as worship. As instinct as if honouring the place where power meets responsibility.
She slid the blade gently back into its sheath, hearing the soft click as it settled in place. She took the batik cloth, wrapped it with care, then added the red cloth over it, the same way her father had wrapped it. It felt right. Balanced. She held it for a moment longer before rising to her feet.
This time, she didn’t hesitate. She walked it back into the prayer room. Opened the bottom drawer. Placed it inside, centred, respectful. Closed the drawer. Then she stood there for a while, the silence folding in around her.
“Don’t worry. You’re not my last surprise.” And with that she walked away towards the bedroom.
