“Last time your father lost his IC.˚ We looked around the whole house, cannot find. But you found it behind the cushion. There. If we lose things in this house it’s usually you who can find it. And your father used to say it’s because of your big eyes.”
The camera moved to show Jamilah’s old bedroom. There was a cupboard with one of its hinges broken that was fastened with raffia. A hand appeared to open the cupboard to show yellowed magazine posters of Cliff Richard and Tom Jones pasted on its inside doors. Then the camera moved to reveal the bed. It moved in to show one of its legs, propped up by a folded-up scrap of newspaper.
“Your father loved you. You remember last time, when we had those lucky draw tickets? He always put your name down, even though you were just three years old. Jamilah Binte Abu Bakar. He said you would bring us luck. Then when you learnt to write, he let you fill them up by yourself. Because of that, you always remembered your birth certificate number.”
The camera then moved into the kitchen, and it lingered on a shot of the table.
“When you were small, we would put you on the table. You were not so heavy at that time, and you liked to play with the dish cover. You opened and closed it like it was an umbrella. We fed you at this table. But when we went away you started to cry because you didn’t know how to climb down.”
Jamilah became conscious of her own body and thought how ridiculous it would be to want to sit on that table again. And all those lucky draw coupons. She remembered filling them up, but why had she never brought her parents any luck? There were all these prizes that were promised, three-day-twonight holidays to London, luxury cars, gold watches; whatever happened to all that wishing, all their laughable hopes?
She thought of what a terrible woman her mother was. How could she show Jamilah these shots? What was she trying to do? It all pointed to the fact that a house with no children had no memories. When Jamilah looked at the empty house on the screen, she saw toys spilled onto the linoleum, she heard footsteps, a baby’s faraway cry. She regretted coming to her mother’s house. She regretted having a mother, and she regretted not being one. But when Maimon spoke, Jamilah realised that she was the cruel one for having such thoughts.
“When I look at all this,” Maimon said, “I know he is around.”
Jamilah looked at her mother.
“I know he didn’t go to Som’s house. He’s decided to stay here. He loved me more. He loved us more, you know, Milah. You see.”
In the next shot, there was Maimon sitting on the floor, doing crochet. Sunlight was falling in from the windows and bouncing off her spectacles. When her crochet needles moved, they caught the light and sent out glimmers.
“He’s looking at me while I’m working. He knows I amthinking of him.”
Jamilah reached her hand out and pressed the stop button. Static roared on the screen. Maimon stared at her daughter.
“Mak, I have to go.”
At the door, Maimon pressed the video camera into her daughter’s hands.
“Take it,” Maimon said. “It’s yours.”
While walking through the void deck, Jamilah was seized with a sudden urge to sit down. She found a park bench and placed the video camera by her side. She tried to recall why she had not allowed the video to keep on running.
As she was watching the screen, she had sensed how there were actually four people in the living room. Both mother and daughter felt it and felt themselves shudder with the knowledge. They were watching and, at the same time, being watched, by a child who was not yet born and a husband not yet gone. They were in the company of ghosts.
A cold wind was seeping through the trees. From far away, Jamilah could hear an MRT train urgently pounding the rails. She stood up to leave and left the video camera on the bench. After a few steps, she turned back and switched it on. The video camera whirred and its red light started blinking. On its viewfinder was Jamilah, walking towards the direction of the MRT station, becoming smaller and even smaller.
ORPHANS“I can feel myself happy now,” said Karen, looking at Teck How who was at the wheel. “I realised that you’re never really happy until you say it. I’m happy. When I say it I really start feeling it.”
“That’s good,” said Teck How, his eyes on the road signs.
“Look at all this. Look at the radio. It’s got BBC˚ programmed on it. Was that what you listened to before you met me? Was it?”
“Not really.”
“What’s on BBC anyway? Do they play songs? Or is it just people talking?”
“Sometimes there’s songs and sometimes there’s talking,” said Teck How.
Karen paused and looked out of the window. She caught the look on her face in the side mirror. In the afternoon, outside light burst through the branches of the trees as they slid down the expressway. The sky was a light blue with no clouds.
“I was just thinking,” Karen suddenly said, to nobody at all.
“Thinking about what?” Teck How threw a glance at her.
“Is the radio on this station because you know I like it? Some men don’t like love songs. Did you just tune it to this for me?”
“Well, I think so, Karen.”
“So you don’t really like it, but it’s there because I’m here?”
“Well, not really, I don’t mind the songs.”
“You don’t mind them, but do you prefer something else?”
“I don’t care. I just listen to the radio while driving because it’s relaxing. You know what I mean.”
“Yes I know what you mean,” Karen said, before pressing the number ‘3’ button that changed the channel to BBC.
“When I was in school my teacher told all of us to listen to the BBC because it
