The coach pulled out of Beach Road at exactly 7:00 p.m., bound for Lumut. I could have flown, of course, up to Penang or Ipoh, then taken a shorter ride down. Quicker, easier. But I didn’t want quick or easy. I wanted the road, the long night that stretched between here and there.
Ten hours where I could disappear into the hum of the engine, sleep if I was lucky, or simply sit still while the city fell away behind me. We would stop first at Ayer Hitam, the little Johor town where every long-haul bus paused for food and toilets. Then on to Kuala Lumpur, where the bus would unload and pick up passengers at the Pudu Raya terminal about three o’clock, maybe four, the city still half-asleep. From there, the final stretch northward into Perak. If the traffic and weather held, we would roll into Lumut just as the town was stirring awake, somewhere around seven or eight in the morning.
After my morning duty, I went home to pack. My bag was already half-prepared, but I moved quickly, folding clothes, slipping in notebooks, checking and rechecking my travel documents. That’s when the phone rang. It was Sharil.
“I’ll be coming over later. With my mother.”
The last person I wanted to meet that day was him. And the last thing I wanted was to face his mother. I felt the walls of the house closing in. I needed to get away, far, fast, anywhere but here.
I shoved the rest of my things into the bag, not caring if I forgot something. My only thought was to be gone before they arrived. The bus wasn’t until 7 p.m., but that didn’t matter. I would leave hours earlier if I had to. I could kill time at the Beach Road Mall, wander the shops, sit with a coffee, do anything anything but stay home and wait for that knock on the door.
I told Mom about my trip, about the assignment, about needing to be in Pangkor. She looked at me with worry in her eyes, but I didn’t give her the chance to argue. Before my resolve could falter, I slipped out, my bag heavy on my shoulder, the air outside thick with freedom. Every step toward Beach Road felt like a step away from him, from her, from the weight of expectations I wasn’t ready to bear.
The night bus wasn’t just a ticket north it was an escape. His letter had come weeks earlier. Full of apologies, full of pleas for forgiveness, full of promises that one day he would explain everything, why he had walked away, why he had left me stranded just two weeks before the wedding. I folded it neatly, slipped it into my bag, and never replied.
Some things were better left unread, better left unanswered. And then one evening, after a long shift in the ward, I sat at the hospital canteen, nibbling on curry puff before heading off to my journalism class. My notebook was open, my pen resting across the page, when a shadow fell over the table.
I looked up. Sharil. Without a word, he pulled out the chair opposite me and sat down, as if the seat had always been his, as if it required no permission. I stared at him, caught between disbelief and the sting of old anger. The last time we had been this close, I had been a bride-to-be. And now here he was again uninvited, unapologetic in his presence, as though nothing had ever happened.
The conversation was short, awkward. He did most of the talking I let him. My replies were brief, yes, no, a small nod when politeness required it. After all, Sharil was still my father’s best friend’s eldest son and my childhood friend. Courtesy was the least I could offer.
And perhaps, once, much more than that. I cannot deny there was love in the beginning, the kind of young, uncertain love that grows out of shared childhood, late-night letters, the comfort of someone who has always been there. It was real enough then, even if it faded. That was why we kept writing, why I had waited so long for his replies.
But those days had long passed. What remained now was only civility, a shadow of what once was, but the anger was gone. Dissolved. Whatever fury or heartbreak I had carried once had long since burnt itself out. I had stepped forward into another life, one where Suresh’s presence now shaped my days, my choices, my future.
Sharil’s words washed over me, a tide I no longer resisted or embraced. I simply let it pass.
And then came the phone call. His voice on the line, calm, rehearsed: “I’m coming over… with my mother.”
It felt less like a visit and more like a ploy. Using his mother as bait, as if her presence could soften me, make me more forgiving. But I remembered too clearly: she was the last person who had walked into my house with that letter, the one that called off the wedding. His letter, delivered through her hands, was the final blow that sealed everything.
And now, the same mother, returned to patch things over? To pretend the past could be rewritten?The irony was almost laughable. I knew Ibu was upset the moment I told her I was leaving. Even more so when she learned Sharil and his mother were on their way.
“Why can’t you be at home when they come? It is not nice, Nita. They are here to talk about you and Sharil.”
“They’re here to see you and Ayah, not me. Sharil is just using it as an excuse. Ibu, I have an assignment due by the end of the week. Kakak has been calling me nonstop about the write-up.”
She sighed, her eyes full of worry. “What happened between you two? You grew up together… so close once. He admitted he made a mistake and asked for forgiveness. Forget the past, make peace. Ibu knows you still care for him. And think of his mother — she truly likes you. She hopes you will be her daughter-in-law.”
“Don’t know, Bu. I just… need time.”
“You must have quarreled again. What did he say this time? Tell Ibu. Later, when he comes, Ibu will talk to him.”
I forced a smile. “Don’t know, Bu. Maybe if he stops singing Negaraku to me, and I stop answering with Majulah Singapura, maybe there will be peace. But right now… his singing is only getting louder. And I cannot take it anymore. So I just want to keep quiet and go away for a while.”
Her frown deepened. “You cannot run away like this all the time, Nita."
The bus finally lurched forward, pulling away from Beach Road. I leaned back in my seat, the fourth from the rear, and exhaled. For the first time all day, I felt free. As if the weight I had been carrying dropped the moment the city lights began to slip past the window. It was like being a bird released from its cage, flying into the night sky with nothing but distance ahead.
The bus was half empty. A few scattered passengers dozed with their heads against the glass, others flipped through newspapers or fiddled with snacks. I knew it wouldn’t stay this quiet more passengers would board in Johor Bahru, and again at the small towns along the route. But for now, I didn’t mind the solitude. As long as the wheels kept turning, carrying me further and further away from Singapore, I was at peace.
I reached into my bag and pulled out an envelope, the latest of many. Suresh’s handwriting, neat and familiar, stared back at me. His 105th letter. He always numbered them, week after week, so that neither of us would lose track. I smiled at the bold “105” in the corner, amused and touched by his persistence.
Inside, his words were simple but steady, like the man himself. He wrote about his first few months in Indiana, the shock of the cold, the strangeness of his American roommate, the rhythm of classes that had finally begun to settle. Small things, ordinary things, yet to me they were treasures.
I read and reread the lines, tracing the sentences with my eyes as if they could anchor me. His words were medicine, a balm for the ache Sharil had left, for the loneliness I sometimes carried like an extra weight.
On that long night bus, rolling northward past the Causeway and into the dark highways of Malaysia, his voice on paper became the companion I needed most. At some point, the words on Suresh’s letter blurred, and I let my eyes close. The steady hum of the engine, the sway of the bus, lulled me into a light, uneasy sleep.
I woke briefly when the bus pulled into Ayer Hitam. The smell of fried noodles and strong coffee drifted in as passengers shuffled down for a midnight break. I stayed in my seat, half-dreaming, clutching my bag like a pillow. Again, in the small hours, the bus jolted into Kuala Lumpur.
The neon lights of Pudu Raya flickered through the windows, and voices rose as people boarded and disembarked. Then silence again, and the road stretched northward into the dark. It wasn’t restful sleep, but it was enough. Each time I woke, the bus was further from Singapore, further from everything I needed to leave behind.
By the time we rolled into Lumut, the air had changed. Salt hung thick, the smell of fish and the sea tangled with the diesel of waiting ferries. Fishing boats bobbed lazily against their moorings, their paint peeling but still bright in the sun. Nets lay piled on the decks like sleeping creatures, heavy with the memory of the night’s catch. The ferry horn bellowed, sharp and commanding, and my heart gave a small, familiar thrill: that moment when the land surrenders and you are carried toward somewhere new.
I leaned against the window, watching the miles dissolve behind me, the hum of the bus still in my body. This wasn’t just another trip, not just an assignment. Pangkor was my first real break as a freelance journalist, my chance to write something beyond the wards and night shifts, beyond hospital walls.
Something that might be read, remembered. I thought then of how, as a nurse, I had always observed, the rise and fall of a patient’s chest, the tremor in a hand, the change in a pulse. Now I would do the same with words: watch, record, translate. Different tools, but the same calling, to witness, to tell.
Pangkor Island lies off the coast of Perak, on Malaysia’s northwest shore, where the Straits of Malacca stretch wide and restless. A small island, home mostly to fisherfolk whose houses cling to the eastern side facing Lumut and Teluk Batik. The ferry ride from Lumut takes only forty minutes, but the journey to get there, nine, sometimes ten hours by bus from Singapore — feels like a passage into another world.
I arrived at the jetty just as several trawlers nosed their way in, their engines rumbling low and tired after the night at sea. Men in rolled-up trousers and rubber boots leapt lightly onto the planks, shouting instructions as crates and nets were hoisted up and over, spilling with silver fish that caught the light like coins. I stood there for a while, camera in hand, clicking away, trying to freeze that raw rhythm of island life into frames I could take home.
At its heart, is still a fisherman’s village. You can feel it in the rhythm of the island. By the jetty, fishing boats bob in the tide, nets piled high like tangled hair, and long racks stretch under the sun with their bounty: ikan bilis, cuttlefish, squids, all spread out to dry. The air itself carries their presence. Long before you even reach the town, the smell greets you, sharp, salty, unmistakable. Some might wrinkle their noses, but to me, it felt like the island’s signature, a smell that says: this is Pangkor, this is who we are.
From there, I made my way to the hotel…I checked into a small hotel near the beachfront , nothing extravagant, but comfortable enough. The lobby was quiet, its rattan chairs and ceiling fans giving off the feeling of an old seaside holiday postcard. My room overlooked a narrow strip of sand I could hear the waves faintly from the window.
The staff were warm, eager to make me feel welcome. They asked where I had come from, and when I said “Singapore,” their faces lit up. A boy carried my bag up the stairs, and I promised myself I would tip him later, even though he refused politely.
The room itself was simple: clean sheets, tiled floor, a desk by the window, just enough for me to write in comfort when the time came. I took breakfast at the hotel, a simple plate of fried noodles and a mug of kopi that tasted strong enough to keep me awake for days.
From my table by the window, I watched the town slowly stir to life: shopkeepers rolling up shutters, children in bright uniforms cycling to school, fishermen trudging past with nets slung over their shoulders.
Over breakfast, I laid out my plan for the day. I didn’t want to rush into beaches or tourist spots just yet. I wanted to feel the island first, to catch its pulse. The best way, I was told, was to walk down to the jetty at dawn or late morning, when the trawlers came in. That was where you saw Pangkor most honestly, men hauling crates heavy with fish, women waiting with baskets, the sharp smell of the sea and salt and drying ikan bilis already in the air.
Notebook and camera packed, I set off on foot. I wanted to listen, to watch, to let the island reveal itself one scene at a time.
What’s so special about Pulau Pangkor? I have to admit, it is a beautiful island. A soft breeze threaded through the morning air, the sun bright and generous, and golden beaches stretched before me like a promise. The water was crystalline blue, cool against my ankles when I stepped in. I told myself that in the evening I must return for a swim. After coming all this way, it would almost be a sin not to. The island has its own quiet grandeur. Mountainous at its heart, its curves are ringed by a road of about thirty kilometers, the locals tell me cyclists love to test their endurance there. Off the coast are three smaller islets two are reachable, one of them Pangkor Laut, famed for its seclusion.
Life here is simple, tied to the sea. Fishing settlements fringe the eastern shore facing Lumut and Teluk Batik. About nineteen thousand people call this place home, a small community, but with an island’s strength of character. Everywhere, the island breathes a rhythm so different from Singapore. There are no skyscrapers here, no rush of MRT doors opening and closing, no constant pressure to move faster, achieve more. Instead, there is the slow flap of fishing nets drying in the sun, the cries of seabirds wheeling overhead, the smell of salted fish and cuttlefish drifting long before you reach the jetty.
Even the air feels unhurried, as though it has all the time in the world. Perhaps that is what makes Pangkor special, not just its beaches or coves, but the way it strips away the noise of life, leaving only the essentials: sea, sky, and the quiet space to breathe again.
The prices struck me as reasonable though I have to be careful with that word. In Johor, we Singaporeans have earned ourselves a nickname: the Southern Migrating Birds. Why? Because when we cross the Causeway, it doesn’t take long before you hear us flocking around the shops, chirping in unison: “Wah! Cheap! Cheap! Cheap!”
A chorus of bargain-hunters. And yes, I must admit, we really do sound like birds. Typical kiasu Singaporeans always hunting for the best deal, always afraid of missing out. So instead of “cheap,” I shall say affordable, fair, just right. Words that fit the rhythm of this island.
The bicycle kiosk owner gave me a warning before I set off. “Some roads, miss, better you don’t take. Too steep. Dangerous for people not used to it.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice as if sharing an island secret. His breath smelled faintly of clove cigarettes, his eyes narrowing in the sun.
“Just two weeks ago, a tourist lost control on one of those slopes and tumbled into a ravine. By the time rescuers reached him, he was already gone.”
I gripped the handlebars tighter, suddenly aware of the weight of the bike beneath me, the thin rubber between me and the road. It was a sobering reminder that paradise has its edges. Beauty and danger often live side by side here on this island, and perhaps in life itself.
By noon, hunger tugged me toward a row of little food stalls just off the jetty. The air was fragrant with sambal, fried shallots, and grilled fish still crackling from the pan. Smoke curled upward, stinging my eyes, and I could hear the rhythmic clang of woks meeting spatulas. The plastic stools wobbled beneath me, the tables slick with the faint stickiness of spilled kopi.
There were a few Chinese stalls and Malay ones too, but I decided to start with the Malay fare ikan bakar charred and smoky, rice neatly wrapped in banana leaf. Eating here, elbow-to-elbow with the locals, felt far more satisfying than dining in the polished quiet of the hotel. This was why I came.It didn’t take long for them to notice me.
A lone Asian girl with a camera and a notebook, sitting by herself at a food stall, I didn’t quite fit. Local women usually came in groups, chatting with friends or family. Tourists were easy to spot too, but they tended to move in pairs, or in noisy groups trailing behind guides.
I must have looked out of place, because one of the uncles finally leaned over and asked, “Adik, dari mana?”
“Singapore,” I replied. That one word was enough. It spread quickly, passed from table to table until it seemed the whole warong knew. Suddenly, I wasn’t just a stranger eating ikan bakar. I was the girl from Singapore. Faces lit up, and before I knew it, they were pulling me into their stories… how, as young men, they had crossed over to work on construction sites, how Orchard Road looked when it was nothing but mud and promise, how they had lived crammed in wooden barracks and still managed to laugh.
Now, older, retired, they had returned to Pangkor, carrying those memories like treasures they pulled out to polish once in a while. I thought about the Orchard Road I knew gleaming glass towers, endless shops, tourists spilling out of air-conditioned buses and for a moment, I felt as though I were peeking into a Singapore that had already slipped away, one I could never touch except through their words.
I sat there for hours, listening, laughing, scribbling fragments into my notebook, regretting only one thing: I hadn’t brought my tape recorder. Their voices, their laughter, their pauses all of that deserved to be captured whole. Instead, I had to trust my memory, and the hurried words in my journal.
Just after three in the afternoon, I made my way back toward the hotel, but decided to stop by the A-Camp site first, a modest place for budget travelers, where a night’s stay cost no more than RM20 or RM30. The place was simple: rows of wooden chalets on stilts, laundry strung between poles, the smell of woodsmoke and fried ikan bilis drifting in the air.
It couldn’t have been more different from the neat, tiled quiet of my hotel, but it had its own kind of charm. Before I left Singapore, my ex-roommate had pressed two small packages into my hand.
“Do me a favor,” she said. “Deliver these when you’re in Pangkor.” One was a box of chocolates for a family she knew well. The other meant for someone else, I tucked safely away, to be delivered later.I hadn’t expected much when I arrived at the A-Camp site with the first package. But the moment I mentioned her name and handed it over, the entire family seemed to light up…The father came out from the back, his face breaking into a grin.
The mother wiped her hands on her apron, still smelling faintly of cuttlefish. Even the children appeared, peeking from behind the doorway before running forward, their eyes wide with curiosity. They treated me as if I were an honored guest rather than a stranger, and for a moment I wondered: what was my ex-roommate’s real connection to this family?
There was history here, something deeper than casual acquaintance, but I didn’t ask. Some stories, I’ve learned, reveal themselves only when they’re ready. Before I left, the father asked if I would like to join one of their trawlers on its next trip out to sea.
“We go out at two in the morning,” he said with a grin, his eyes glinting as if daring me to say yes. “You can watch how we fish.”
How could I resist? The idea sent a ripple through me, the thought of being out on the open sea, the dark horizon slowly breaking into dawn, nets dropping into the water and rising heavy with the night’s catch. It was equal parts thrilling and intimidating.
I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I knew this was a story I couldn’t miss. I promised I’d be ready, and his eldest son would fetch me from the hotel. As I walked away from the camp, the afternoon sun slanting low over Pangkor, I could already feel the adventure tugging at me, like the tide pulling quietly but insistently at the shore.
Just past midnight, his eldest son came to fetch me from the hotel on a motorbike. The roads were almost empty, the island wrapped in silence. Only the whirl of the engine and the occasional bark of a dog broke the stillness.
I clutched my small bag tighter, the cool night air whipping against my face as we rode toward the jetty. By two, we were out at sea. The trawler creaked and swayed beneath my feet as we moved further from shore, the lights of Pangkor shrinking into the distance until they were just a faint shimmer behind us.
“You’re good. Very steady!” the son laughed, clapping me on the shoulder. “We had a tourist once, an ang moh lady ,wah, she vomited the whole night!”
I smiled faintly. Truth was, I had felt the nausea rising earlier, but I’d fought it back with deep breaths and a dab of minyak kapak. The sharp menthol sting cleared my head, kept my stomach in check. Now, standing on deck with the night air sharp against my cheeks, it felt less like survival and more like wonder.
He introduced me to the crew as if I were a close family friend. They nodded, offered shy smiles, then slipped back into their rhythm, their movements practiced and quiet. I felt oddly honored, as though I had been admitted into some small circle I didn’t quite deserve to enter.
The son walked me through the trawler, pointing out its parts: the small cabin, the winches, the radio channels they used to speak with other boats. He even showed me the radar, a glowing screen, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat, marking the presence of other trawlers nearby. The air smelled of salt and diesel, and the steady hum of the engine vibrated through the floorboards, carrying me deeper into this world.
“How do you know there’s fish out there?” I asked, watching the dark waves stretch endlessly.“It depends on the weather,” he said. “If it’s full moon, we don’t go. Too bright fish hide. Radar can still pick up schools, but nothing beats the eyes.”
He raised his hand, pointing across the water. “See there? The surface moves differently. More restless, more alive. That’s where the fish are.”
I narrowed my eyes, trying to see what he saw. To me it was just waves upon waves, shifting in the moonlight. But to him it was a language, ripples, shadows, glimmers all speaking of abundance hidden just below. And in that moment, I thought: maybe life is like this too. Some people only see waves. Others can read what lies beneath.
I saw several crew members suddenly pointing toward a restless patch of sea.“There! There they are!” they shouted, voices high with excitement. Then, just as quickly, the noise died…Silence fell across the deck, broken only by the low rumble of the engine as the skipper cut the throttle and shifted to manual.
The trawler glided forward with deliberate slowness, like a predator stalking its prey. At once, the men sprang into action. Nets arced into the water, slapping against the surface. The skipper steered in a wide circle, encircling the invisible mass beneath, while the crew fed the nets overboard with practiced rhythm.
Their movements were quick, efficient no wasted gestures, no hesitation. When the circle was complete, they gripped the ropes and began to haul. At first, it seemed effortless, the net rising obediently. Then the load grew heavier, straining their backs and shoulders. The ropes creaked, their muscles tightened, until finally the skipper gave a sharp command in Chinese and they engaged the winch.
The machine groaned, pulling the net slowly, heavily, out of the sea. Silver erupted from the water, a thrashing, glittering cascade of fish tumbling onto the deck. The air filled with the sharp tang of scales and brine, the deck alive with movement. The men laughed, shouted, their eyes gleaming in triumph.
Twice more they repeated the dance, each time the net bursting with life, until the floor itself seemed to shimmer with scales. At last, the skipper raised his arm, barked a final order, and the crew stilled.
“Enough,” he called out in Chinese. “Time to go home.”
As the engine roared back to life, I stood at the edge of the deck, watching the sea close again, erasing all signs of what had just been taken from it. It felt almost sacred the hush, the frenzy, the harvest, the silence again.We turned toward Pangkor. The deck was still damp and glistening from the catch, silver scales sticking to the planks like confetti from some secret celebration.
Most of the crew, exhausted but satisfied, stretched out on the floorboards, stealing an hour’s rest. The skipper leaned back against the wheel, casual but watchful.
“The whole ship is on radar,” he explained. “It’s programmed to find its way back to the jetty, so we can all sleep. Once we cross into Pangkor waters, the alarm will sound and wake us.”
Radar.The word struck a chord, sharp and sudden. I froze for a moment, remembering her voice calm, cryptic during our late-night interview.
“When you’re in Pangkor… if you are brave enough, and when they invite you… go with them. The skipper will explain to you about the radar they use in fishing. Then try to visualize what I’ve just told you.”
And here I was. In Pangkor. On a trawler. Listening to a skipper talk about radar as if it were second nature a machine detecting what the naked eye could not see. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine her words again. Was that what she meant?
That her own sense her strange ability to know when something was about to happen worked like this? A kind of invisible radar, tuned to signals the rest of us could never detect? For the first time, it didn’t sound impossible.
“You’ve heard of radar?” she asked me suddenly, on that night back at Mount Elizabeth.
“I think so.”
“Then tell me what you know. I want to hear it in your words simple, no electronics jargon.”
I thought for a moment. “Radar is an electronic system that detects electromagnetic waves. Like the ones in air traffic control, or on ships, or submarines. It tracks the position and movement of objects.”
She nodded, satisfied. “Good. That’s the idea. Now, have you ever heard of the power of touch?”
“No,” I admitted.“If you have time, try an experiment. Go out into a public place. Ask for directions. But when you do, touch the person a light pat on the back, or a brush on the arm. Nothing forceful. You’ll see people will be more receptive, more willing to help.”
“They really do?”
“Of course,” she said, smiling faintly. “Touch is one of the most powerful forms of non-verbal communication. Think about it: how do you feel when your mother hugs you?”
“Comforted,” I said softly.
“Safe.”
“Exactly. Now, think again. Last night, when I walked into the patients’ rooms after report what did I do?”
“You introduced us as the night staff. Checked their wound dressings, IV sites…”
“Was that all?” she pressed.I frowned, trying to recall.
“I don’t know. Was there something else?”
She leaned closer, her eyes glinting in the dim light.
“I touched them. Every single patient. Except for the police inspector.”And in that moment, it clicked. I replayed the scenes in my head, her hands brushing a shoulder, a palm briefly resting on a wrist, a casual pat so natural I hadn’t even noticed. Something invisible had passed between her and the patients. A signal. A reading. Her radar.
"Next, you’ve heard of body aura?” she asked.I shook my head. “This sounds even stranger to me.”
“We all have body aura,” she continued calmly. “As long as you are alive, your body produces an aura one unique to you. Your body aura is different from mine, just as mine is different from yours. Each and every one of us carries our own.”
She leaned forward, lowering her voice as if explaining a secret.
“What is body aura? To me, it’s an energy field created by the cellular activity happening inside us. Every second, our bodies are alive with activity metabolism, impulses, movement. All that generates energy. That energy extends outward. You can’t see it with the naked eye, but it’s there.”
I frowned, still skeptical.
“If you have the time, you should read more on this,” she added, almost defensively. “I can’t go too far or it will start sounding like a lecture. I’m no expert. I just know we have body aura and we have a radar system in our body too. We are all born with cancer cells, for example. Some are triggered, others stay dormant. Genetics, age, environment, food many things play a role.”
She paused, looking at me intently. “Cancer cells kill if they’re not removed or controlled. But body aura, and the body’s radar system these can be tools, if we learn how to use them properly. To me, they are powerful tools. And I’ve used them, quietly, in my nursing practice.”
“Did you see the ward?” she said, her tone carrying both weariness and pride. “I’m lucky if I have two assistants: one enrolled and one ward assistant. On a good night, I’m blessed if I get two enrolled nurses. But sometimes, I have only one ward assistant, because an enrolled nurse cancels their duty last minute and there’s no replacement. It’s a nightmare, especially if the ward is full and several patients are cardiac. And sometimes, we don’t even have enough telemetry units. So you have to rely on something else to get through the night.”
“I thought you all wouldn’t have this problem,” I said. “Private sector, contract nurses, better pay, I imagined you’d have more than enough staff.”
She shook her head. “Shortage of nurses is a global problem. It’s everywhere. Most registered nurses prefer private duty with single patients, less stressful, and better pay. Floor duty is different. We have nurses, yes, but not many. And they choose which ward they want to work. It’s like the system itself works against you sometimes.”
She paused, studying me carefully, then asked, “Have you ever heard of the term data capture?”
“Yeah! That I know. I took short course in computer programming”
“Impressive… what programming language?”
“Qbasic, Java and C”
“Ah! Now it explains it,” I said. “I saw you with all those notes on QBasic.”
She smiled faintly. “So this is what happens. My touching is usually spontaneous. Yes, I check the wounds, the IV sites, their parameters but if it’s an elderly patient, I’ll also touch their forehead, feel their body temperature. Technically, I don’t need to. But over time it has become a ritual. I must touch them. And when I touch them? I capture their ‘data.’ More specifically, their body aura. And that information registers in my head.”
She lifted her hand as if holding an invisible sheet. “Did you see what I usually carry? I draw tables. Each table holds all the patients’ information: diagnosis, age, gender, medications, treatments, telemetry, oxygen everything. What are these? They’re my visual maps. And once I’ve mapped them visually, the data in my head arranges itself like a mind map. That’s how it works for me.”
She leaned back, her eyes glinting with mischief. “And once that’s done my radar goes up.”
“Radar goes up? Where?”
“Up here.” She tapped the top of her head and laughed at my expression. “Invisible radar, but it’s there.”
Her tone softened, almost conspiratorial. “When my radar is active, I can sense movements in the ward. Which patient is awake, who is walking to the toilet, who is sitting up to drink water. All the subtle movements in the rooms… I pick them up, even from here at the nurses’ station.”
“You do?” I asked, bewildered. “But… how?”
She shrugged lightly. “The radar, the body aura, the data capture, the maps, mental and visual. These are my tools.”
Then she tilted her head, studying me carefully. “Do you still want me to continue? We can stop here, you know.”
“Please, please continue… I’m trying to absorb all this,” I had told her once.
Now, on the way back, those words echoed in my head. The crew slept in the main trawler, sprawled across the damp wooden planks, their snores mingling with the hum of the engine. The skipper had retreated to his tiny bay. I stayed awake. I climbed to the rooftop of the trawler and stretched out on my back, letting the night air wash over me.
Above me, the sky was endless a spray of stars, sharp and cold, no moon to soften them. Around me, nothing but black water. No shoreline, no lights. Just me and the sea.It was both terrifying and strangely comforting.
Suddenly, I remembered The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway. The old fisherman, the marlin, the endless battle, nature as both cruelty and compassion. Out here, it made sense.
Then my hand brushed against my bag. The tape recorder. I pulled it out, pressed play, and let her voice spill into the night.
“What happened last night?” her voice crackled through the tape, calm but edged with something I hadn’t heard before. “After we settled down, I sat updating my reports. As usual, I raised my radar.“
But around two a.m., something strange happened. Suddenly, I couldn’t detect anything at all. Nothing. Yet I could still hear the toilet doors opening and closing. Do you remember I told our ward health assistant to check the second-last room? Two patients were there. Both regulars, and I knew their routine well.“
She came back and reported that one of them was in the toilet. But if that was true, how come I couldn’t sense any movement? So I sent her to check the other side too. Same thing. Patients awake, moving about. I could hear them but my system… nothing.
“So what did it mean? That my radar was not in sync. And the question is: why?”
A long pause filled the tape. Then my own voice from that night smaller, curious asked: “Why?”
“The answer is only one: death.”
For a moment I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. It took me a while to digest it. Death?
“Yes, death,” she said firmly. “He is out there somewhere in the ward, and playing tricks on me.”
“Death… is he?” I stared at her, confused. “Playing tricks on you?”
She went silent for a while, studying my face, then shook her head. “Look, this is a bad idea altogether. I shouldn’t even talk about it. We better stop here.”
“No please don’t. I don’t doubt your words. All this is new to me, but I am open. I need to understand. About this death… and why you call it he.”
She sighed. “I don’t know. I just like to refer to death as He. It’s easier for me to handle a He than a She. That’s how I see it.”
“Okay,” I said quietly. “I’m following you.”
“Yes, he is,” she said matter-of-factly. “We all say it if your time is up, you go. You die. Nothing to argue about. Somebody crosses the road, gets knocked down by a car, and dies. What do we say? Poor thing, his time was up.“
But in a hospital, it’s not so simple. If someone collapses with a heart attack or drowns, I can’t just shrug and say, well, it’s his time. No. Especially not when I’m certified in CPR. If I stood there doing nothing, I could be charged for negligence. That’s a failure of my duty of care. So I do what I must I resuscitate, unless there’s a doctor’s order or the family says no active intervention.
That’s the law, and that’s the ethics of nursing.” Her tone softened, almost weary.
“Eventually, I’ve had to accept that death is unavoidable. If it’s meant to happen, it will. Nothing I do can stop it forever. All I can say is that I did my part. Then I move on.”
She leaned back, gave a dry little laugh. “You see, death is a funny fellow.”
“He is?” I repeated, staring at her. For a moment, I wanted to believe I was talking to a rational person.“
So to me, it’s like a game I play with him,” she said evenly. “Who will reach the patient first Him, or me. I cannot afford to have a patient ‘found dead.’ That’s embarrassing. It shows negligence on my part. That is why I came up with this radar, the data capture, the mapping, all to help me prevent that from happening.”
She leaned forward. “What happened last night? I believe my system was blocked. Jammed.”
“You’ve heard of jamming?”
“I think so.”
“He jammed my system. Or more specifically, he blocked it, cast a net over the radar to make it look as if everything was normal when it was not.”
My skin prickled. “He did all that? But how do you know which patient?”
She gave me the same patient, weary look as always. “I told you, I do not know. I just know something is going to happen.”
“But I saw you choose those five patients,” I pressed. “How did you know it was them?”
“Simple,” she said. “You saw me looking through their charts, their case notes. What do you think I’m doing? Their blood results, X-rays, ECG reports all these give me additional information about their condition. The rest is just experience. I told you about the power of touch, about body aura remember? You just… know it.”
She tapped her pen on the desk. “These are tools. Like any machine if you use it often and maintain it well, it helps you do more than just routine patient care. But when your radar system is overloaded, when it stops functioning properly from overwork… then you rely on your invisible friends.”
“Invisible friends?” I blurted, resisting the urge to laugh. Oh no. First the invisible radar, now invisible friends. I caught her expression that look. The same one she used to give me back at Toa Payoh hostel whenever she was about to say something outrageous. Half-amused, half-challenging, as if daring me to follow her down the rabbit hole.
“Do you want to know about my invisible friends?” she asked lightly.“Why not?” I sighed, my stomach growling. “So tell me about these invisible friends of yours.”
And suddenly, I was really hungry.
“Let me tell you a story,” she began, her voice dropping low. “Night duty, full house, open ward. You know the type like our old hospitals in C-class.”
“Yes,” I nodded. “Like Alexandra’s long corridors.”
“Exactly. So this staff nurse is updating her records at the station. She looks up, and suddenly she sees a figure sitting by a patient’s bedside. Still. As if praying.”
A chill ran down my arms. “Okay… continue. I’m listening.”
“The nurse does nothing. Too frightened to go near. She waits. Until the night nursing officer comes for her rounds. Then she blurts it out what she saw. Immediately the officer rushes to the patient’s bed, with the staff nurse trailing behind. And what do they find? The patient burning with fever. Very high.”
I leaned forward. “Oh! What did they do?”
“The usual,” she said simply. “Called the doctor on call. Sponged the patient to bring the temperature down. Ordered investigations. Later, they found out the patient had a perforated appendix. Straight to the operating theatre.”
“Wow.”
“You see, that is the invisible friend I’m talking about,” she said quietly. “They are out there. For whatever reason, they appear to help us, to nudge us, to make sure we don’t miss what’s right in front of us. But you have to be conscious of them. Otherwise, you’ll dismiss them as shadows, or tricks of the mind.”
Her eyes softened. “You shouldn’t be afraid. They’re harmless. They’re our friends. If you sit with night nurses the ones who’ve done permanent nights for years each of them will have a story, or two, or more. You’ll see. It’s part of our world.”
She smile. A thin, sinister the kind that brought to mind the terrifying nun from ghost stories, like the one in The Exorcist III.
Then, in a softer voice, she added: “In a rational way, I think when the patient’s fever spiked, his energy field became so disturbed that it manifested into something the nurse could register. A form, a figure, so she could relate to it and act. That’s all. The form doesn’t matter what matters is the message. Something is wrong.”
I exhaled, half-relieved. “Aaah… that last statement, I can relate to.”
“So whats your story?”
“Let me tell you what happened one night,” she began. “I had a patient in a single room, on blood transfusion. She’d been on blood for days, and suddenly that night her fever spiked to almost forty degrees. The consultant couldn’t explain it.“
Across the hall was another patient, an elderly man in a double room. I was in and out of the lady’s room all night sponging her down, taking hourly temperatures. Each time, I’d glance at the old man. And every time, he was busy with something washing, cleaning.
Almost midnight, he suddenly insisted on taking a shower. Odd time for it, but he waved me off: Don’t worry about me. Take care of the lady across. As if he knew something was wrong with her.“By three forty-five, her temperature was still seesawing, and I was exhausted. My two assistants had gone on their break. I told them I’d rest thirty minutes and to keep an eye on the old man.
There was a sofa in the staff room. I had just closed my eyes when I saw them three small figures, dwarf-like, feminine. They came up to me, shaking my hands, urging me not to sleep. I was so tired. I told them, Go away, go away, just let me rest a little. But they wouldn’t leave. I pleaded: Please, just leave me in peace. Finally, they disappeared. And then no warning. A huge one came. Towering. It felt like I’d been hit with an electric shock. I jerked upright, wide awake.”
“So, what did you do?”
“I went out and grumbled to my two assistants. The whole thing happened in less than five minutes. They were shocked to see me coming out of the staff room so soon. I told them I’d been disturbed whatever was in there refused to let me rest.
So I gave up and went to the nurses’ station. Better to switch off my head for a moment there, then pick myself up again to finish the report and start the morning routine.”
“Go on… I’m listening.”
“I’d barely put my head down for a minute when my assistants rushed over. The elderly man wasn’t breathing.”
“Wow! What did you do?”
“Activated Code Red, started CPR. But eventually we had to let him go. The consultant told us to stop the family had given their directive. His condition was already bad. His heart was almost seventy percent gone.”
I swallowed. “So… who were those figures?”
She looked at me, eyes calm, almost kind. “I really don’t know. But they are definitely my friends. Death was about to happen and I was too tired to sense it. So they came to warn me. That’s all. It’s not good to sleep when death is near.”
She must have seen the confusion written on my face, because she gave a small laugh.
“Look, Nithya. Don’t get too tangled in the names. I call them ‘invisible friends,’ but in rational terms, they’re just my intuition in disguise. You can call it instinct, gut feeling, energy field whatever you like. The form doesn’t matter. What matters is, it helps me notice what others might miss. It keeps me from failing my patients.” Her eyes softened again.
“Call them friends, call them symbols, call it intuition. The name doesn’t matter. What matters is that it works.” Those words stuck in my mind as I sat back, chewing on her words.
Maybe she wasn’t crazy after all. Maybe she had just found a different language for the things most of us ignore.
