It wasn’t that she couldn’t find magazines in Kuala Lumpur, but the selection was limited. She sometimes visited the big bookshop at KLCC or the small, intimate Silverfish Bookshop in Bangsar. Those were good places the kind that drew readers who loved books for their ideas rather than their covers.

But the ones she truly wanted, the magazines that fed her curiosity about art, philosophy, and the human spirit those were the ones she could only find in Singapore. Each trip home felt like a quiet reunion with a part of herself she had left behind.

She heard footsteps coming down from the second floor. It was Anjali. A gentle smile crossed Anjali’s face as their eyes met. She walked slowly toward her, wiping her hands on the edge of her skirt, the faint scent of soap and detergent still clinging to her.

“Just finished cleaning up the girls’ dormitory,” she said softly, her voice carrying a mix of tiredness and warmth. Anjali pulled out the empty chair beside her and sat down. For a moment, neither spoke. The sound of distant laughter drifted from the children’s quarters, and a light breeze stirred the leaves around the garden gate. It was one of those quiet moments that said more than words, a simple pause between two people who had shared many ordinary days together.

She had known Anjali since 1998, back when the home was still at its old place a rented double-storey bungalow in Taman Kanagapuram. Back then, she hadn’t paid much attention to Anjali: short, dark-skinned, with short curly hair and faint scars across her face. She never asked how Anjali got them. There were some things you didn’t ask not unless they were ready to tell. She had learned that early in her time at the home.

“Christmas is just around the corner,” she said, trying to start a conversation. “Lots of presents and visitors.” Anjali smiled that quiet, unassuming smile of hers. She wasn’t a girl of many words, but she always greeted politely. Visitors didn’t notice her easily she kept to herself.

She had often watched Anjali from afar, this petite girl moving quietly through her chores sweeping the floor, folding laundry, carrying trays of coffee. There was a rhythm to the way she worked, steady and unhurried. Sometimes, Anjali would appear at her door with a cup of coffee or a few biscuits, offering them with that small, unassuming smile of hers.

There was something about her, a softness, a quiet strength that drew attention even when she said nothing. Now, as Anjali sat beside her, she stared straight at the road, lost in her own thoughts. The sunlight fell across her face, revealing faint scars that ran along her cheek. She never asked about them.

Some things, she believed, should only be spoken of when a person is ready. Anjali’s skin was dark, her features plain by most standards, but her smile was bright and infectious the kind that could change the mood of a room. Her English was simple, unpolished, just enough to get by with words like, “Can you get for me coffee or tea?” Yet behind that simplicity was a kind of grace, a quiet dignity that made her unforgettable.

“Taxi not here yet, Aunty?”

“Not yet,” she replied, glancing at her.

​There was a stillness between them, the kind that often came before a conversation turned tender. Anjali seemed to be carrying something unspoken.

“What’s the matter? Don’t you like Christmas?”

“I do. I like it when people come and visit us.” She paused. Her voice thinned, as if the next words refused to come.

“Did anybody visit you?” she asked gently. Anjali shook her head.

“When was the last time your mother came to see you?”

“I can’t remember, Aunty. They told me my mother is not well.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said softly. They sat in silence for a while. She studied Anjali’s face a face she could now read better than most. In her nursing psychology classes, she had learned that the face is a map of emotion, a channel of communication that speaks before words do. Like a switch on a railway track, it determines where a person’s life may turn.

Anjali’s face was one of resignation, neither sad nor happy. Both emotions had long merged into one quiet acceptance.

“Are you happy here, Anjali?” Anjali nodded.

“Uncle Joseph and Aunty Mary are nice to me. Aunty Pearly too. I like them. Whenever they come, they talk to me. But sometimes…” She hesitated.

“Sometimes?” she urged. “Go on.”

“Makcik, their words hurt me, Aunty. They scold me and call me names.”

“They do? What kind of names?”

“They said nobody wants me that’s why I’m here. That my mother doesn’t want me anymore, and that’s why she never visits.”

She saw the tears forming in the girl’s eyes, the quiet pain behind them. She reached for her tissue, wiped the tears away, and gently pulled Anjali close, letting the girl’s head rest on her shoulder.

“Is it true, Aunty? Nobody wants me? Is that why I’m here?”

“No, no, never say that,” she whispered. “It’s not true. Don’t believe those words. Sometimes people say harsh things just to hurt you. Did you quarrel with them again?”

“Yes. They make me do a lot of things. They don’t let me rest sometimes. I always get scolded, especially by the older one.”

“Did you tell anyone? Uncle Joseph or Aunty Mary?”

“I did once. But later that night, when everyone was asleep and they had gone home, the maids scolded me again. They said I’m a nobody’s child. That my mother threw me away.” She gasped softly and placed her hand over Anjali’s mouth.

“Shh. Don’t say those words again, you understand? Never believe them. It’s not true that nobody wants you. Uncle and Aunty want you. And if nobody else does, then we will.”

She paused, collecting her thoughts before continuing. “Now, Anjali, if Aunty could give you one wish, just one what would it be?”

Anjali’s eyes lifted. “I want to go home, Aunty. I don’t want to stay here. I want to have a place of my own. To work like other people. Why can’t I be like them?” She smiled.

“And so you shall, but first you must learn how to read, write, and count. Shall we start with that?” Anjali broke into a wide grin and hugged her tightly before she stood up and walked toward the taxi that had finally arrived.


"Will you be coming again tomorrow Aunty?" Anjali voice as she move to get into the taxi.


"Not tomorrow, the day after" she replied.

As the car moved down the narrow lane toward the main street, she looked back. Anjali was still standing at the gate, waving a small figure framed by the evening light.

A quiet voice rose inside her, mocking yet familiar: “And how the hell are you going to do that?” ​

“I don’t know,” she whispered to herself. “But I’ll do what I must.”