Nurses' story

Chapter 36

2001 Mid-November

It was almost 8 p.m., and she was still online, scrolling through the BBC From Our Correspondents series. From the bedroom drifted the sound of Ash’s voice mingling with Nita’s, a low murmur that rose now and then into bursts of laughter.

Ash rarely laughed that freely, and the sound caught her off guard: light, unrestrained, a reminder of the child she once was. She paused, hands still on the keyboard, listening. One, a gifted storyteller the other, an attentive listener. Together, they seemed to draw joy out of the air itself.

Curious, she closed her laptop and leaned back, tempted to eavesdrop, to catch the thread of whatever story had sparked such warmth.

Every time she returned to Singapore, she made it a point to spend time with Nita. Sometimes Ash and her would even stay overnight at Nita's place, keeping her company in the quiet flat. Nita was often alone. Suresh travelled frequently for work, having finally secured a position with an American MNC in international logistics.

It hadn’t been easy for them. He had spent nearly seven months unemployed after returning to Singapore, and during that time they survived on Nita’s salary alone. But somehow they endured. When stability finally came, they decided to marry a simple ceremony at the Registry of Marriage. There was nothing extravagant about that day, yet it carried a quiet dignity. The only family from Nita’s side were her brother and sister. The rest of us her friends, Sammy, Ashwini, and I filled the space as best we could.

Suresh’s family, however, came in full. His mother, now bound to a wheelchair, beamed with happiness. The sight of her son finally settling down and to a nurse, no less seemed to ease years of worry written in the lines of her face.

Around her, siblings and relatives moved with quiet excitement, their presence wrapping the day in a kind of warmth that balanced the silence left by Nita’s absent parents.

Nita had asked her to stand as her witness, and she had agreed without hesitation. It felt like an honour, but also a responsibility to hold up the memory of her family that could no longer be there. Her father had been taken suddenly by a heart attack, and her mother had followed just a month later, breast cancer claiming what little strength she had left.

The absence of her parents was a silence all its own, yet in the midst of it, she carried herself with quiet strength. And in that simple hall, with friends and strangers both, she began a new chapter of her life witnessed by those who loved her, and by those who would come to love her still.


“See this picture… here’s your mother, and that’s me beside her.” Nita’s voice as Ash leaned closer.

“What are you all doing?”

Nita’s eyes lit up. “Ah… we were marching in the National Day Parade.”

“National Day Parade?” Ash tilted her head, curious.

“Yes. It was wonderful. I can still remember it so clearly.” Her smile softened as the memory unfolded.

Ash pointed at the photograph. “What’s that on your head?”

“Our nursing caps,” Nita chuckled. “You don’t see them these days. Nurses eventually decided to do away with them.”

“The cap looks funny,” Ash giggled.

“They were funny!” Nita laughed along. “You know what happened? We marched into the stadium in our crisp white uniforms, blue capes flowing, caps starched stiff with pride. And just as we entered” she paused for effect, “ the skies opened. Heavy rain.”

Ash’s eyes widened. “Then what happened?”

“We kept marching. You don’t stop, even in the rain. The parade must go on.” Nita’s voice grew softer.

The National Day Parade, she miss it. In her younger days, she would never missed watching it with her family. They would gather around the television, then run to the windows to catch the fireworks live from our seventeenth-floor flat facing the National Stadium.

She let the memory settle, her gaze drifting. To actually be a participant… to march in as a representative of the Ministry of Health that was the proudest moment of her nursing life.

Since moving to KL, she haven’t had the chance to see it live again.

They sat together on the bed, the photo album spread open across their laps. Nita leaned back against the footboard, a pillow propped behind her for support. Beside her, Ash rested her head lightly on Nita’s shoulder, the two of them looking more like sisters than friends of different generations.

The soft pool of lamplight fell across their faces as they turned each page slowly, pausing over images that carried stories within them. Inside the album were photographs carefully preserved snapshots from nursing school, attachments in different wards, and the countless moments that had shaped their journey. For her, it was more than just an album it was a record of who they once were, and who they had become.


“Aunty… tell me a story?” Ash pleaded, her eyes bright with expectation.

Nita laughed softly. “Alright… let Aunty think of something.”

Since the day they arrived, Ash had been insatiable, always asking for more. And Nita never failed her. Each night she had a new tale to tell funny, tender, sometimes bittersweet. Ash drank them in, listening wide-eyed, and She often found herself marveling: Where does she find all these stories? They seemed to flow from her as naturally as breathing,

“Once upon a time, in a land called Malacca…” Nita’s voice softened, lilting with that familiar storyteller’s cadence. “Now, Malacca was a great country rich, powerful, and home to many warriors. You’ve heard before of the legendary Hang Tuah and his four companions, haven’t you?”

“Yes!!” Ash’s reply came quick and eager.

Nita smiled. “This time, Aunty won’t tell you about Hang Tuah. Tonight’s story is about someone else.”

“Who?” Ash’s voice was full of anticipation. She, listening just beyond the doorway, could almost feel her daughter’s excitement.

“You see, Malacca’s fame and wealth drew traders from across the seas. But it also stirred envy. The Portuguese, desiring Malacca’s riches, invaded. The Sultan managed to escape… but many of his loyal men were captured. Among them was his most trusted warrior, Panglima Megat. The Portuguese thought: If we take him to Portugal, if he sees our land and our power, he will fall in love with it. Perhaps he will even join us. And so, they carried him away across the seas, bound for Portugal.”

“Now, Panglima Megat was a clever man,” Nita continued, her voice steady. “He knew that if he tried to escape, or showed the slightest resistance, he would be imprisoned or killed. Then he would never see his homeland, Malacca, again.

So he pretended. He agreed with everything they told him, always nodding, always smiling. For more than ten years he lived in Portugal. They even changed his name called him Fernando. They truly believed he had become one of them. So convinced were they, that they made him an officer in the Portuguese army. Imagine that the Sultan’s most loyal man, now wearing their uniform.”

Ash’s eyes widened.

“But back in Malacca, deep in the forest, there was another group. These were the resistence fighters: men and women who had not abandoned their land when the Portuguese came. They vanished into the jungle and swore to continue the fight. They harassed the Portuguese day and night, striking from the shadows.

Many soldiers, even their collaborators, were killed by these fighters. The Portuguese were desperate. They thought: If only we can find their leader, if we can capture the leader, the rest will fall apart. But the problem was, no one knew who the leader was. No face, no name"

Nita lowered her voice, as if drawing Ash closer into the secret. “So, when Fernando or Panglima Megat returned to Malacca, the Portuguese gave him one mission: to capture the leader of the resistence fighters. Fernando had heard whispers about these rebels. He was curious. Perhaps even excited. And so, with four of his most trusted men, he marched into the forest… to hunt for the leader.”

"Meanwhile, the leader of the resistence fighters had also heard whispers of the new officer returned from Portugal. Calling the men and women together, the leader said, “We have a big fish here. Let’s capture him alive and exchange him for our brothers and sisters held in the Portuguese prison.”

So they laid a trap.

When Fernando marched into the forest with his four men following a tip-off he believed was true he was in fact walking straight into bait carefully set by the resistence fighters.

Hidden among the trees and thick undergrowth, eyes watched his every move. And the moment he crossed into their snare, the jungle erupted: shadows closing in, men springing from behind bushes.

In an instant, Fernando and his soldiers were surrounded. By the time Fernando realized, it was too late. Calmly, he raised his voice: “I would like to speak to your leader. I carry a message from the viceroy.”

The leader stop temporarily as the voice of Fernando penetrated through. A familiar sound then a voice rang out from the trees: “We will never submit to foreign invaders. We will fight to the last drop of blood!”

Fernando stiffened. There was a ring in that voice a shape of sound that struck through him like a remembered name. He knew that voice. For a breath he felt the world tilt memory and present folded together.

The undergrowth moved and the leader stepped forward, slow and deliberate. Fernando’s mouth went dry. He took a step and then stopped, as if the earth itself asked him to wait.

The leader halted too, and they looked at one another the way people look when they suddenly see a life they thought they had lost.

Nita fell silent.

Ash wriggled in frustration. “Then what happened, Aunty? Did they fight?”

Nita smirked, reaching for her glass. “Wait, Aunty is very thirsty. Be a dear and pour me some water first.”

“Aargh! Aunty…” Ash groaned.

From the doorway, She smiled and softly whisper, Nita you never change. She remembered the old days in nursing hostel: Nita, spinning her stories, drawing everyone to the edge of their seats… and then stopping suddenly with a laugh, saying she had to run to the toilet.

“Aunty, please!” Ash begged. “What happened next? Did they fight?”

“No,” Nita said at last.

“Why not?”

“Because they knew each other.”

Ash blinked. “They knew each other? How?”

Nita leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “The leader he came to capture was a woman… and as she stood before him, he realized she was his fiancée.”

“Huh — fiancée?” Ash blurted, incredulous.

Nita nodded, eyes softening. “Yes. You must know when the Portuguese captured him and carried him away, he had already been promised to the Penghulu’s daughter. They were to be married, but invasion tore them apart. In Portugal they tried in every way to make him one of them. They offered brides, riches, comfort but he refused. Handsome and brave as he was, his heart belonged to only one woman back in Malacca. He never stopped believing she lived.”

“The Penghulu’s guards had rescued her when her family was slain. From the hilltop she watched as they carried him, bound, to the ship. In that moment she swore she would never wed another. She would wait for him, no matter how long. She believed he would return.

Meanwhile, Panglima Megat too received word that his fiancée had been saved by the Penghulu’s men. Knowing she was alive gave him strength and hope.”

Ash’s voice was small. “Oh then what happened next?”

Nita’s smile turned grave. “When Fernando realized who stood before him, he took off his uniform. He donned local clothing, folded the Portuguese coat in his arms and faced the men who had followed him for years. ‘We will not kill you,’ he told them quietly. ‘You have been kind to me in many ways. Go back to your homes. Return to your loved ones. Take this uniform to your superior. Tell him this from me: you may try to make me one of you, but I will never be one of you. I have remained faithful to my people and my country. Now you will deal with the two of us.’”

He pushed the uniform toward them like an offering, then turned to the woman who had waited all these years. For a long moment there was no triumph, no shouting only silence, thick with recognition. Then, slowly, the two of them stood side by side, joined by their band of resistence fighters, ready to carry on the struggle against the foreign invaders, the Portuguese.


--------------

They managed to catch the afternoon bus back the next day. It was half empty, rolling steadily toward Kuala Lumpur and would reach by late evening. Sammy had wanted them to take the flight, but she refused. She wanted the bus. She needed the road.

Because this was what it was all about—the moving. How many times had it been drummed into her head? The stationary condition is the beginning of the end. So you move or you fall back and are left behind.It was the same drive that lived inside her.Like driving a car. The act itself could be therapeutic sometimes an escape, sometimes a way to breathe again.

After every drive, she felt lighter. When cornered, pressured, she would get behind the wheel and head for the highway. The long stretch of road ahead always promised release.But it demanded discipline. All her attention fixed forward. No distractions. A single lapse, and you go off the road. That could not be allowed.

So you stretch your eyes as far as they can see, preparing before you arrive at the point. Always scanning the horizon. Always ready. And you don’t look back. Never back. Because she knew movement was survival. And she was not done moving yet.

You only glance at the mirror once in a while. But if you’re on the highway, on a long stretch of empty road, what is there to keep glancing at? After a while, you forget about what’s behind you. The things you’ve left. You don’t look back anymore.

The mind is like that too, always on the move, like the cars. Always processing thoughts and emotions. We are never free from its activity. Even when the body is still, the mind keeps running. Thoughts racing ahead, too quick to hold. You try to catch them, to pin them down, but they slip past. Sometimes you manage to write them in a notebook.

More often, they vanish like cars flying past on a busy highway, or like passing winds. Invisible, but felt. And then you ask yourself can the mind ever be still? Can you ever sit in silence, without thinking of anything?

And if you could, if emptiness is all that’s left is that what freedom really means?

As the bus moved along the highway, her thoughts moved with it. Suddenly, she became conscious of everything along the road the trees, the signboards, the other vehicles traveling the same route. Being on the move awakened something in her. It stirred her awareness.

She noticed details she might have ignored before: the colour of the car beside the bus, the people seated inside it, the letters on a passing signboard. Even the rubber trees, the oil palms, the tall grass by the roadside—all of it called for her attention.

Movement does that. It moves the body, yes, but it shifts the consciousness too.Running is another kind of movement. Then, you are the one propelling yourself forward. And in the motion, you can get lost.

Suddenly, everything around you falls away. What remains is only the stretch of road ahead. You feel the tiredness. The sweat streaming down your body. But none of it matters.Because in that moment, you are in a world of your own. A world that is only forward. Always forward.And you don’t look back.But being on the bus is a different kind of movement. It carries a different feeling, not the same as when you are the driver.

On the bus, you don’t need to watch the road ahead. Someone else does that for you. You place your trust in the driver, hoping he will bring you safely to your destination.mSo what do you do? You sleep. You read. Or you simply sit and observe the world as it passes by.

The trees, the plants, the other vehicles they blur past, just like the thoughts that run through your mind. You think you’ve left them behind. But they’re not gone. They remain like an old tape embedded in the mind, replaying itself over and over again.



The bus swayed gently as it sped down the highway toward Kuala Lumpur. She leaned against the window, watching the blur of passing lights. Her thoughts drifted back to that night at Nita’s house, the laughter, the stories, and then the sudden shift when Nita grew quiet and serious.

“I’m going to show you his picture… I hope you won’t be shocked,” Nita had said, her voice almost a whisper. She remembered how Nita had reached beneath the stack of photo albums in her study table drawer and pulled out a scrapbook, its edges frayed, the pages heavy with years of newspaper cuttings.

With careful fingers, she had turned the pages until she came to one. And there, staring out from the yellowed print, was Sharil. Even now, on the bus, she felt again the jolt of recognition as if the man from Nita’s tales had stepped out of legend and into her hands.

Shock rippled through her. Her hand flew to her mouth.

“Oh my God… that’s him?” Nita nodded. “Yes.”

“I wish you had shown me earlier.”

“Would it have made any difference?” She fell silent. She knew the answer and Nita was right. It wouldn’t.

“But in KL… his name isn’t Sharil. In the papers, in the magazines… it’s always another name.”

“Of course. You don’t expect him to use his real name, do you?” Nita’s tone was calm, almost matter-of-fact. “He has a new identity now new name, new birth certificate. Even his birthplace has been altered, from Singapore to Johor. Who could dispute it? Only his family and the very closest friends know the truth. And they keep it very quiet.”

Her voice dropped. “Oh… but you keep calling him Sharil.”

“Because that’s the name I knew when we first met. That’s the name I choose to keep. When he comes to Singapore, he’s Sharil. Up there in KL, he may be someone else. But I will never call him by any other name.”

Silence settled between them, heavy and unspoken. The weight of it all lingered in the room. There was a pause. The weight of it all lingered between us.

“What’s the time now?” Nithya asked suddenly. They were sitting in front of the TV. Ash was nearby, completely immersed in her Kim Possible Game Boy, the one she had bought her earlier.

“Almost ten o’clock.”

“Good. Come I want to show you something.” She moved to the computer and switched it on. I sat beside her and watched. They were in a chat room. She wasn’t really familiar with chat rooms. She do went online mostly to read: nurses’ networks, research articles, journals on palliative and rehabilitation care. It felt strange to see all those conversations ticking away like a different language.

“Okay. He’s out there somewhere.”

“Where?”

“One of those people.”

“But there are so many IDs in there… how do you know? Doesn’t he know your ID?”

“I change my ID often same for him. Just for fun.” Nita laughed. “A game we play, that’s all.”

“Oh.” She watched her, confused but curious. Nita began to type strange words, several lines that looked like quotations.

Empress_XiaoQiao: “The empire, long divided, must unite long united, must divide. Thus it has ever been.”

She glanced at Nithya “You’re Empress XiaoQiao?”

Nithya laughed. “Now we wait.”

“Wait for what?”

“His response. If he’s out there, he’ll respond.”

Within minutes it appeared, buried among the chatter:

Shadow Lotus: “When order crumbles, chaos follows when chaos reigns, heroes will rise.”

“There did you see it?” Nita said. “That’s him, alright.”

She looked at the screen again. The sentence didn’t make sense to her. Nita kept typing:

Empress_XiaoQiao: “In troubled times, great men prove their worth.” (This time in a smaller font.)

Almost immediately came the reply, mirrored in the same font and size:

ShadowLotus: “And when heroes meet, the world is never the same again.”


“You keep saying it’s him. Who is this ‘him’?”

“Sharil.”

“Oh.”She let it be. Sitting beside her, she leafed through her nursing journal, one hand absentmindedly stroking the cat curled in her lap. Every so often she glanced up, watching Nita at the keyboard absorbed, her face lit only by the glow of the screen.

The words flickering past looked like English, yet strung together they made no sense to her. She studied the rhythm of it instead. Each line of text arrived in the same font, the same colour, the same size, as if deliberately mirroring. Whenever Nita changed the font, he followed suit. When she paused, he paused.The exchange had no sound, no shape she could decipher, yet it moved with a strange precision like a private choreography, performed in silence for an audience of two.

“Romance of the Three Kingdoms,” Nita clarified when she asked her. She was even more confused.

“Chinese literature… you’ve never heard of it?”

She shook her head, still surprised, as Nita began to explain. She had never imagined that Nita read Chinese literature and there were so many other things she never expected from her. Their friendship had always been like that: each discovery revealing another layer, another hidden talent. It felt less like knowing someone completely, and more like embarking on an adventure together never certain what you might uncover next. Perhaps that was what made their friendship last. There were no expectations, no demands to be someone else. Just the freedom to grow, to surprise each other, and to keep discovering along the way.

“The Romance of the Three Kingdoms was the first book he ever bought me. A birthday gift, right after our first meeting in Negeri Sembilan.”

“Oh.”

“He reads it too?”

“Yes. He’s the one who introduced me to Chinese literature especially Romance of the Three Kingdoms, and many others. So I use it as our reference. If it’s him, he’ll know and respond accordingly. We spent hours discussing that book in our early days.”

“You did? So Romance of the Three Kingdoms is your code book?” She stared at Nita strangely, wondering where all this was leading.

Nita only smiled.“Maybe you should read it. I have an extra copy bring it home with you. It may come in handy one day.”

She looked at Nita, unsure what she meant. But that very night, she opened the book and began to read.

“A lot of things happened… first my father passed away, then my mother. And I got tired of working in the ward. At first it was fun the emergencies, the rush, all of it. But after a while, I needed a change.”

They were sitting in the garden by her block, enjoying the evening breeze the next day. Ash was nearby, circling on her little bicycle. She kept glancing over, making sure Ash was still within sight. She was still struggling. Once or twice she slipped and fell, but instead of giving up she climbed back on and tried again. A determined girl. She knew Ash would eventually make it on her own.And She was learning, too to control herself. Instead of rushing to Ash side every time she fell, She stood there and called out encouragement, letting Ash get up on her own. Letting her try again.

“Not to mention the hostilities you faced with the Malay staff there especially the men.”

“Well, yes… they were there. But I wasn’t bothered.”She shook her head.“They mocked you in the staff cafeteria. Made crude remarks in public, just to embarrass you. And all because you married an Indian man. I bet if you’d married an ang moh, the reception would have been very different. That’s our Malay community mindset.” Nita turned, surprised gave a small, tired laugh, but her eyes clouded..

“How did you know?”

She smiled and went on.“Among Malays, marrying a white man is like moving your social status one level up. But marrying an Indian just an ordinary Indian man suddenly people see you as lowering yourself. Ridiculous, isn’t it?”

Nita stayed quiet. Ash cycled past us, wobbled, and fell again. She called out encouragement as Ash got up, brushing the dirt off her knees before climbing back on.

Nita was still silent, and She could see the hurt she wasn’t saying. Some wounds don’t need words.

“Oh, I’m from SGH too, remember? I still have friends there. They saw it. They heard it. And they told me.”

She wasn’t surprised at the kind of reception Nita would received. Not many would be open to such a relationship.

Once, at Mount Elizabeth, a Malay man was admitted. Almost all the Malay staff there even the health attendants turned hostile towards him and his family.

“He will die and go to hell… he and his family will be burnt in hell…” Those were the words She heard. She pretended not to pay attention, but all the while She was listening. How sad. This family had done nothing to deserve it, except for being who and what they were. And the irony they were courteous. They were polite to all the nurses.

Yet what they got in return were curses and slanders, simply because they were Malay-Christians. Later, the man explained to me that their family had been Christians for generations. Entire generations of Malay-Christians.


“All these are not for me anymore. Nursing has been good to me I still love it but I need to slow down and focus on other things. Especially Suresh. The first few months weren’t easy. He may have graduated top of his class, but when he came back, it was hard to find a job. Worse still, he had spent so much time in the army he had no real working experience. It was difficult for him, and for me. We needed a lot of adjustment. I resigned from SGH and moved to a community hospital nearer to our home. I even did a deed poll to change my name so the new hospital staff wouldn’t know me.”

She paused.“ I stopped going to Swenson’s, where I used to spend my evenings. No reason to now, since Suresh was back. Then one day… I received a note from Sharil. Asking about me. Pleading with me to contact him.”

“Oh! But how did his letter reach you? You sold your parents’ house and moved on to another?”

“Singapore Post has a redirection service. I subscribed to it.”

“Ah… I wish KL had such services. It would save me time informing every authority whenever I move. I’m about to shift again, to our second house since moving here. I hate it so troublesome. The move from Singapore to KL was already hard. We had to stay in a hotel for two weeks because our house wasn’t ready. Two weeks of hell. I missed my home, my kitchen, my library, my sewing machine… even my BBC.”

“So what did you do?”

“I called him. Told him I was in Australia, undergoing my nursing course.”

“Why?”

“…Because I didn’t want him to know the truth. When he heard from one of my relatives that my parents had passed away, he became even more insistent. He wanted to meet me.”

“He doesn’t know about your marriage to Suresh?”

“No.”

“Oh…”

“I know what you’re thinking. But I had to do what I had to do. He won’t give up hope. He’ll do whatever it takes to bring me back to KL, if not to himself, then to his mother. You know how it is promises parents make to each other. He’s the kind of man who will hold on to that. And his mother she would pressure him. She’d mobilise the relatives. And they would come after me: ‘Your father cared for us when Sharil’s father was sick and after he died… he did so much for us. How can we neglect his children now?’ You can imagine the rest. All this would be too much for Suresh. I don’t want anything to come between us again. And I know Sharil well enough he would do anything to claim me as his responsibility, because of that family bond. So I had to play the game accordingly.”

“…And that’s when you suggested the chat lines. To keep him where he is.”

“Yes,” Nita replied. “But also to make him talk. He still tells me about the group he’s involved in… and I have to pretend I’m interested. Sometimes I even agree with him. No more quarrelling over trivial things. I just let him speak. And when he starts talking, he tells me a lot. More than he realises. And I need that information.”

“Ah… so that’s how it all began.”

“Yes.”

“Suresh knows about all this?”

“Yes.”

“And how does he feel?”

She exhaled slowly.“Many times I wonder… what he really sees in me. He believes in me. He trusts me so much. He understands that between Sharil and me, there is nothing but family ties. You can’t just sever them completely.”

She nodded.“He truly loves you. This is unconditional love.”



The bus slowed. Ahead of us, traffic was gradually building up another accident. A container truck had skidded and landed in a drain. As they passed, other vehicles slowed too, drivers and passengers craning their necks for a better look.

They still had a long way to go. Another three hours. The bus made an unscheduled stop at the last rest point, several passengers rushing off to use the toilet.Ash sat beside her, headphones on, humming softly to Michael Jackson from her portable CD player completely unbothered by the accident or the traffic.

She smiled. She had all his songs in her own collection. The moment Ash heard his music, she loved it. Amazing how, after all these years, his songs still spoke so easily to young minds.Sammy had told her to call him once they arrived at Puduraya.

He would fetch them, then take them out for dinner. “No need to cook,” he said. He is a good and a patience man. Often he came home looking drained. He rarely complained not because life was easy, but because he didn’t want her to worry. She could sense it anyway: the way his shoulders slumped, the silence that hung heavier after the German takeover of his office.

The old rhythm was gone. Nothing felt the same.Their marriage, too, had always been simple, low-key, stripped of ornament. Just the Registry of Marriage, witnessed by Nita and Suresh. No banquet, no rituals, only a signature and a promise. It was enough. It was real.

Sammy had left the army to join an American company, one that fed his love for cyber security a field he had already been drawn to during his military years. He carried that passion with him into civilian life, but the takeover changed things.

The company was no longer the place it once was. Still, he pressed on.She wanted to return to work. Not because the household desperately needed it, but because she wanted to ease his burden. To share the invisible weight he carried so quietly. Love, she realized, is not only about standing by someone in joy, but about recognizing the silent wars they fight and choosing to stand in those shadows with them.

“The money is not the issue,” he reassured me one night when she told him of my intention to return to nursing. “I want you to take care of our daughter, not the maid. She is the only one we have. If you want to do something, do it but not for money. Once you’re paid a salary, a lot of things come with it: commitments, obligations. We don’t need them right now. One person’s income is enough.”

Later, She received an approval letter from the Malaysian Nursing Board. They would register her name, provided she had an offer from a hospital. She missed nursing badly. The urge to go back was always there. But She had many reservations. She knew herself too well. She didn’t want to end up in the same situation again forced to choose between family and career. Because She knew once she stepped back in, she would be back in the flow. And once she was in the flow, she had the tendency to get swept away by the current.

Was She strong enough to resist it this time? Her constant thoughts. She didn’t want to live in guilt. Before, it was different she was single then. The only ones she had to think about were my parents, and even then she still had my siblings to share the responsibility. But she was a workaholic. The hospital became her home, wounds her passion. The last thing she wanted now was to create more wounds.

“We can always go back,” she told him. “Is the workload you’re facing now worth it?”

Frankly, it was her who really wanted to return. There were so many things she wanted or was supposed to do back home. All of them were on hold because of her absence. It wasn’t easy to commute up and down, not with Ash in school and her commitments to the Homes.

So everything else had to wait until the time was right. Life might not be the same if they went back. The luxuries we were enjoying now would not follow us. But she was prepared for that. She was not born with a silver spoon in my mouth. They had worked hard to get where they were, and she was not afraid.“I am still doing nursing,” she reminded myself.

“But of a different kind.”

She introduced herself to AWAM [ All Women's Action Society ] , through their virtual group message board one of the non-governmental organisations she had decided to dedicate her time to.

“I cannot go back into a structured institution again,” she confessed. “Not now. At this point in time, I prefer the wilderness where life is flexible, where I am free. I go where I am needed, do what I can within my limited capacity… and then I move on.”

She saw many wounds, especially among the women volunteers in the organisation. Many were still trying to cope with their trauma. They appeared assertive, successful some even had businesses of their own. But she could see the masks they wore.

All it took was the right trigger, and the mask would crack. You touched that raw place, and they would break down. Masks are like the chrysalis meant to protect, to give the young butterfly time to mature. But eventually, the shell must break. The wings must spread. Only then is the cycle complete.

True freedom is when you can open your wings and fly without pain, without fear, without guilt.

“So why didn’t you continue with your hospice involvement in Kuala Lumpur?” Nita had asked.

“I did… or at least I tried. But it didn’t work out. I saw conflict. Maybe I was wrong but my way of doing hospice care is different, that’s all. I just felt it was time to move on, to turn to something else. Unless there’s a real need, or someone comes to me with a request, then maybe I’d consider it again. But at this moment, something else caught my attention.”

She tilted her head. “What?”

“Violence.”

“As I go about doing my part at the home, talking to the children there, I see disturbing signs. Most of these children come from violent backgrounds. I hear stories of different abuses the sexual and the mental ones are the most disturbing. Physical abuse is easier to see mental abuse is so subtle. You have to spend time with the children, talk to them, and then the signs are there.”

“Like?” Nita asked.

“As I see it, violence is a cycle. You need to break the cycle. You cannot eradicate violence entirely, but you can reduce it. These children need healing. If they are not healed, they will carry the trauma into adulthood and too often they become the perpetrators themselves.”

“So where will all this lead you?” Nita asked.

“I don’t know. Seriously, I don’t. But it feels as if everything is set up for me. There’s an invisible force pulling me in the direction I’m meant to go, and I follow almost unconsciously. I don’t question which road I’m heading down I do what comes to me, I act on it, and then I move on.”


She must have dozed off, lulled by the hum of the engine and the rocking of the bus. Her head jerked up at the sudden shout the driver’s voice cutting through the haze of half-sleep.

“Kuala Lumpur!” he bellowed, loud enough for even the deepest sleepers to stir. Around her, passengers roused themselves, gathering their belongings with practiced gestures. Plastic bags rustled, overhead compartments clicked open, the aisle filled with movement.

She blinked, disoriented for a moment, then hurriedly tied her hair back, the way she always did before stepping into a crowd.Her hand reached instinctively for her bag. She slung it over her shoulder, heavy with more than clothes and books heavy with the weight of conversations, laughter, tears, and secrets whispered in the stillness of a deserted stadium.

Beside her, Ash stirred, rubbing her eyes.“Your things,” she reminded gently, touching her arm. “Don’t leave anything behind.”

Ash nodded, fumbling for her own bag. Together they checked the seats, making sure no scarf, no notebook, no memory was left scattered in the dark recess of the bus.

The vehicle hissed as it slowed into the terminal. Outside, the lights of Puduraya flared against the pre-dawn sky harsh, fluorescent, and yet oddly welcoming. The smell of exhaust, the cries of porters, the shuffle of footsteps all rushed in as the doors swung open.

They joined the stream of passengers filing down the narrow steps. At the threshold, she paused for a brief second, casting one last glance back at the now-empty seats. It felt like closing a chapter.

Whatever the road had carried them through, it would stay written there, between the echoes of laughter and the silence of unspoken grief. Then she stepped down into the restless heart of Kuala Lumpur.

The night’s conversations slipped into memory, but their bond tested, deepened, transformed travelled with her still.

The journey of two nurses had ended, yet somewhere in that ending, another beginning waited.

[ End ]