We met at the Civil Service Club as planned. I came earlier, already finished my routine warm-up twenty laps of freestyle alternating with breaststroke and was now drying off by the poolside, a notebook open on the table. When she walked in, she moved with the same quiet confidence as before, eyes scanning until they landed on me.
“I’ve already contacted Suriawati,” I told her as soon as she sat down. “And you were right she’s really nice. I’ll be meeting someone through her this weekend. I want to ask about a few things.”
Her brow arched slightly. “What kind of things?”
“Well… about the ritual of inheritance for the Keris.” I leaned closer, lowering my voice.
“What’s the normal practice? I remember reading somewhere it’s always passed from male to male, never to a daughter. So if that’s true… how did it come to her? And as you said, the Keris chose her. Why her?”
She regarded me for a moment, then gave a faint smile. “Good question. Yes, usually it’s father to son. Rarely, almost never, to a daughter. But have you heard of Tun Fatimah?”
The name sparked recognition. “Tun Fatimah? Yes I’ve heard of her. She was said to be the only Malay woman entrusted with a Keris. But Tun Fatimah wasn’t just anyone. She was a legend charismatic, powerful, strong-willed. A leader in her own right. If ever there was a woman to defy tradition, it was her. In many ways, she should be an icon for all Malay women.”
I felt a thrill of possibility, scribbling the name in my notebook. “Tun Fatimah… you’ve just given me an idea. That’s my next piece. I’ll work on her.”
She smiled knowingly. “Good. And in the meantime, have you updated anything yet? Any new details she’s told you? Even fragments?”
“Yes. Most of what I’ve written down about her are her dreams. She told me sometimes not often and though I never really believed in dreams, I listened. I’ve always liked listening to other people’s dreams. They tell you something, even if you don’t believe them. So when she spoke, I wrote.”
“She told you about her dreams?”
“It was spontaneous,” I said. “We were talking about something else, then somehow the subject drifted. She didn’t even pause, just started sharing them. And I… just listened.”
“Do you have them here? I’d like to read them.” I slid the journal across the table. She leaned forward, her posture sharpening. This time she didn’t skim like before she read slowly, carefully, her finger tracing the lines as if each word needed to be weighed. Her silence was heavy. Then something shifted. She stopped mid-page, eyes narrowing, and set the journal down.
Her gaze lifted, but not at me. She stared at the empty field beyond the pool, lips moving faintly as she murmured the same passage again and again under her breath. I couldn’t catch the words, but I knew she was reaching for something buried in her memory, something the dream had triggered.
Then, suddenly, she gasped, a soft, sharp sound that made me sit upright. “Oh my goodness…” she whispered, eyes wide, almost luminous. “That’s it. The answer is right here. It’s been here all along…”
“In her dreams…” she leaned closer, her voice soft but urgent. “Read the fourth one you wrote: she was in a field, training with several others. Two men came to her, carrying a bottle. And inside a fully formed fetus. Alive. She could see the heartbeat.”
My eyes widened as she continued. “She panicked. ‘I’m not a pediatric nurse, I don’t know how to care for this child.’ But the men told her: This is a rich man’s child. People will kill it if they know it lives. She suggested bodyguards, 24-hour protection. But they shook their heads: They’ll still find it. Finally, they said, They will never suspect you. That’s why it must be you. So she accepted. She placed the bottle the living child into her backpack and carried on with her training.”
I gave a small, uneasy laugh. “I thought it was a funny dream. A baby in a bottle, in your backpack, what kind of dream is that?”
She leaned forward, her eyes burning. “Can’t you see? It’s brilliant. Think about it: you have a gem, and you know people are hunting you. Where do you hide it? Not in plain sight. Not with guards. You hide it in the one place no one would ever think to look. That’s what the dream is saying. And this ‘child’… is not a child.”
I blinked. “No?”
“No,” she said firmly. “The child is the Keris. Alive. Breathing. Conceived by none other than Dato’ Panglima Hitam himself. Don’t you see? His legacy lives inside it.”
I was silent, trying to absorb her words. She pressed on. “Read again what was written. There are four. Two already cast into the river dead. Two remain. One is in her possession. The other, somewhere out there. That’s the twin. Not a sibling as you imagine, but the other surviving Keris, forged at the same time, born of the same hand. The message is clear: the other twin is in danger. If she doesn’t act, it will meet the same fate as the first two.”
A chill ran down my spine. My throat was dry. “Oh,” I whispered. “This is… too much. Too much for me to swallow…”
“Did you contact her… or even meet her… to tell her about me?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Today. About an hour ago.” I frowned.
“But you’ve been here much earlier… which means… she came to this club too?"
I hesitated, then said softly, “Yes. I saw you both. She was talking to you.” She blinked.
“Talking to me? That’s impossible. I haven’t spoken to anyone here except you.” She tilted her head. “Think again.”
She searched her memory, then froze. “Wait… there was someone. Just outside the club gate a lone tourist. She asked me for directions to Tekka Market.”
A slow smile spread across my face.
“My God…” she whispered. “That was her?” I smile at her
“But she looked and sounded like a tourist! British accent, a map in hand, a backpack, sneakers, black Bermudas, black t-shirt, even a Merlion cap.”
“That’s her, all right.”
“You told me she was a local.”
“She is. Which means now she’s seen you in person, and she’ll take it from here. If she decides there’s a need, she’ll contact you directly. She knows where to find you.”
“Ooooooh…” The exclamation escaped before I could stop it. She stared at me. “But why? Why all this? Why the disguises? Why not just walk up and say, ‘I’m her’?”
“She could. But she won’t. She knows exactly what she’s doing. And I’m sure there’s a reason.”
“Definitely,” she said, still not recovered from the shock. “Her face… I’m trying to remember her face… but I can’t. Why? And that voice how could I not realize? It was so perfectly British, the kind of accent that could fool anyone. People would have thought she was just another tourist.”
She rubbed her temples, eyes narrowing as if replaying the moment. “But those eyes… sharp, searching. Now it all makes sense. She was looking straight at me the whole time, even while I was showing her the way to Tekka Market on the map. I did wonder then why she kept her gaze fixed on me as I walked back into the club.”
Her words softened into a murmur, almost to herself. “She was right there… and I never saw it.” I didn’t say anything. Just slid the black journal across the table.
“Okay this is the journal you’ve been asking for. Take your time with it. I’ll be in the pool.”
She stayed silent, almost reverent, as her fingers brushed the cover. Gently, she opened it, turning a page, then another, never once looking up. I slipped away toward the pool, unsure if I’d just made a mistake.
The first dive cut through the water like glass, cold and cleansing. I pushed myself into a few laps of freestyle awkward, uneven strokes. I was never strong in freestyle, and since Suresh left for the States, I hadn’t come here much to practice.
My arms tired too quickly, my breath shallow. Still, the rhythm steadied me. Swim. Surface. Breathe. Repeat.Every so often, I paused at the pool’s edge, lifting my head just enough to glance back at her. She was still bent over the journal, flipping pages back and forth, brows drawn tight. Focused. Intent. She hadn’t once raised her eyes toward me.
And I couldn’t shake the unease rising in me. Was I doing the right thing? Or was I just playing into a joke one of Sharil’s elaborate ways to lure me up to Kuala Lumpur? I wanted to believe him. God knows a part of me still wanted to.
But this… this talk of “returns” and shadows moving in secret… it was too much to swallow. Who are these people? What do they really want? And if what he says is true if they mean to stir up trouble, then don’t I have a responsibility to act? To bring this to someone’s attention before it’s too late? But who? Who do I turn to?“
If I come across that stupid author Salman Rushdie, I’ll kill him,” Sharil’s words kept circling in my head. He had said it so casually, as though it were nothing.
“Why would you want to kill that man?”
“Don’t you know? The book he wrote blasphemous, mocking the Prophet.”
“You’re talking about The Satanic Verses?”
“Of course. Don’t you know?” His voice tightened, almost impatient.
“I do. But tell me one thing: have you read the book?”
“Read? That book should be burned! And Rushdie should be executed without mercy!” For the first time, his words frightened me. A cold knot formed in my stomach. I didn’t know this man anymore.
“So… you haven’t read it?”
“It is haram even to touch! Anyone who reads it should be punished.” I raised my eyebrows, staring at him.
“Well, you’ll have to punish me too. Because I’ve read it. In fact, I own a copy.” His face froze. “What? You own that book? How could you? Where did you get it? It’s banned in Singapore!” I gave him a slow, deliberate smile, one I knew unsettled him.
“They can ban all they like. But I decide what I read, not them, not you. You have a problem with that?”
He stared, stunned, anger flooding his face. “You must throw it away. Give it to me, I’ll do it for you!”
“No. You’ll never touch my books. Do you know the difference between us? At least I read it. I understand why Muslims are so angry with Rushdie. But you? You just repeat what others tell you, without even knowing which part offends them. You follow blindly.”
His mouth opened, then shut. For a moment he looked as if he didn’t recognize me. Abruptly he pushed his chair back. “I need to go. Matters to attend to at the hotel.”
And he left.I sat there, my hands trembling under the table. This wasn’t the boy I grew up with, not even the man I thought I was arguing politics with. This was something else someone who could speak of killing as easily as of ordering coffee. For the first time, I felt truly afraid of him.
And yet the very next evening, there he was again. Sitting at the same place in Swenson’s, smiling as though nothing had happened. I stopped and looked at her again. She was still absorbed, turning every page of my journal carefully, even pausing over the little scribbles I had left at the bottom, as though she could decipher my half-formed thoughts. Who was she, really? At the journalism class I had asked around, casually, hoping someone might know. Nobody did. They only said she was a regular someone who occasionally took part, sometimes giving a talk, usually on social issues. Polished. Well-groomed. Always calm, always articulate.
I had seen it myself. The air of confidence when she spoke, the way she could command a room with just her words. Her English was flawless, her sentences crisp and deliberate, yet when she switched to Malay, it was equally superb. She seemed to belong in both worlds without effort.I envied that. Me, I stumble over my Malay. I still wonder how I ever managed an “A” in Malay Literature. Maybe sheer luck. Or maybe I had memorized the right passages and the examiners took pity on me.
Either way, my spoken Malay is a constant embarrassment clumsy, heavy on the tongue. She, on the other hand, wore language like a second skin. Watching her, I couldn’t help but think: how much else about her lies beneath that polished surface?“
Fantastic weather… You’re a good swimmer, no wonder your boyfriend insisted you should compete,” she remarked as I sat across from her, towel draped over my shoulders.
“Nope. Competition isn’t for me. I swim because I love it.”
“Well, why not join the inter-ministry swimming meet? Don’t think of it as competition — more like a chance to meet people, network, maybe even make friends. Socializing is just as important as swimming.” I gave a half-smile.
“Hmm, maybe. All this while he’s been the one coaching me. Now that he’s not around… I don’t know if it’s possible.”
“You’re in SGH, right? Then join their team. Start with the Ministry of Health swimming meet. If you’re good, they’ll select you to represent the ministry at the inter-ministry level. I know they have track and field, badminton, cross-country, I’m sure there’s swimming too.”
“I’ll think about it tonight.”
“Good. Just treat it as a friendly match, not competition. We’re not meant to be rivals — we exist in one big, happy family.”
“So are you’re going to accept this invitation?” she asked.
“Not sure… I need to think about it.”
“Is it your work? Trouble getting time off?”
“Not really. I’ve got plenty of leave even some public holidays to clear.”
“Financial, then? I can arrange for your travel costs to be reimbursed.” I shook my head.
“That’s not the issue either. I just want to know why I should go at all. What’s my purpose?”
She held my gaze for a long moment, then slowly reached into her bag. Without a word, she slid something across the table. Her identification card. I picked it up. My eyes locked on the logo printed there. Familiar. Too familiar. I’d seen it before in newspapers, on television.“
Now,” she said softly, “we will talk about us.” A pause. “I know you’ve been asking about me.”
My stomach lurched. Gosh… she knows. “I do not want to hide anything from you. You must know who I am, where I’m coming from. The last thing I want is for you to feel betrayed as if I had lied or misled you into doing something against your will. This must be voluntary.”
“I see.”
“Take it as… for the sake of our community,” she continued, her tone steady but urgent.
“I’ve listened to you. I share your concerns. If there are foreign elements intent on disturbing the peace we’ve built, then it is my concern too. And it should be yours. We must stop them. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes.”
“My concern is not with that small group of Singaporeans. I’ve seen their names. I even know some of them. I can handle them. But this—” she leaned in slightly “—this Malaysian element. That is different. As you wrote in your journal yourself, there are people like Sharil, pro-Malaysia, who speak of returning. But why? To what end? Think, Nithya. We are a small community. Struggling, yes but surviving by our own effort. Every step upward we’ve earned ourselves. And that is how it must remain. Together, with the other communities here, and under our own leaders. We stay as one, we move as one. That is our only hope. The last thing we need is a fundie, whispering poison into our midst.”
I nodded. I agreed with almost everything she said, but held my tongue. Better to listen now, to let her words sink in. Each one felt like a weight being laid carefully in my hands.
Later, we took our dinner together at the club restaurant on the second level. I took the bus home. She had offered me a lift, but I refused. I needed to be alone for a while. She dropped me at the nearest stop where I could catch a direct bus back. It was just past nine. A double-decker waited at the curb, half empty.
I climbed to the top deck and slid into the front row. The city lights stretched ahead of me, blurring a little at the edges. I felt the heaviness settle in my body tired, drained, both physically and mentally.How did I get myself into this? The question pulsed through me. I wished, suddenly and fiercely, that Suresh was beside me. His steadiness. His laugh. Maybe once I reached home, I would call. By now he should be back at his hostel.
As the bus hummed its way toward Serangoon Road, I reached into my bag and pulled out the envelope she had pressed into my hand earlier. Inside was a small sheet, neat rows of numbers. Five post boxes: Orchard. Changi. Tampines. Hougang.
And the last one Bedok Central. My eyes caught on it, heart giving a sudden skip. Bedok Central. The number looked familiar. I leaned closer, tracing it with my finger, trying to recall where I had seen it before.
