Tranquillity had been restored in the village after the visiting customers had departed. It had been a good day for most of them, the fresh fish and fruit had all been bought; Kim Guek’s nasi ulam was completely sold out, as was the bunga rampay. Teenage Hassim was counting his coins gleefully; to earn money whilst having fun was his idea of a good venture. He was already planning what to teach for the next market day. Maybe he would teach the budak bandar, town kids, how to make their own kites and how to glass the strings for competitive kite-flying. The villagers went about packing up their makeshift stalls, as they conversed in low murmurs. Peace was theirs again, except for the vociferous clamouring and cawing of the sea and shore birds—the whimbrels, sandpipers, black-necked terns and the pacific golden plovers, who had swooped down to fight to feed on the entrails of butchered fish left out for them. But the village folks did not mind the cacophony. They knew that if the birds pooped in the process of feeding, their poo was nourishment for the life in the ocean, sea grass and seaweeds in the sea meadows. All creatures of nature have an intrinsic link with one another.
Kim Guek allowed herself to rest on the straw mat on the floor by their back verandah, to catch the sea breeze. She lay on her side, her head resting on a small wooden pillow. The serenity of her face and posture made her look like a reclining Buddha.
“Mak, the pillow is so hard,” said Pansy. “Shall I bring you the cottony kapok or duck feather bantal?”
“Tak payah! No need. There’s a time and place for each type. Natural wood emits healthy enzymes and a wonderful energy,” said Kim Guek. “The properties in the wood help to soothe my pressure points and rebalance my chi. After the kind of day we had, with all its activity, it’s good to regenerate. Nature is our natural pharmacy. Ask Sister Catherine. Don’t you recall that she believes that her oak tree has similar healing properties?”
Pansy knew she had so much more to learn about the efficacy of nature. She too was soothed by nature, surrounded by trees, flowers and wild life. That was why she was riding to her favourite spot. Her mother had given her permission to go out on her own, as the place she was going to was not usually frequented by others at this time. It was late afternoon by the time she was making her way to the quarry-lake which she always pretended was Lake Windermere in Wordsworth’s Lake District, though it was hardly even a pond. The lake was created when the earth was excavated for the fine white sand to be made into sheet glass for window panes in town. Kampong houses still had to make do with wooden or louvred shutters that completely blocked out the outside light when closed. The lake was where she liked to sit and ruminate and read her poetry books.
Pansy rode past avenues of tall fields of maize, the ears of jagong, dangling and tantalisingly ripe for picking. Some city folks expressed a phobia of passing through such paths, as they could not see above or beyond the crops. Although Pansy was dwarfed by them, she did not feel any such apprehension, yet she reminded herself to return before dark, as the depletion of light could turn familiar shapes into sinister shadows. As electricity had not reached the rural villages, there were no street lights. Her bicycle trundled across the wooden footbridge that spanned Sungei Ketapang, making her bum go up and down on the bicycle seat in some discomfort.
“I thought all Peranakans were rich,’” she mimicked in falsetto.
In her coconut-frond woven bag, she carried a flask of tea, some epok-epok which Mak Siti had given her, small pasties stuffed with spicy mashed potatoes, and the gift from Sister Catherine. The obnoxious boy had sounded like some of her convent school classmates who spoke with a distinctive, authoritative kind of tone, the kind used by people confident that they lived in brick houses where they had running water, flush toilets, electricity, and full-time amahs. It grated like fingernails scratching the blackboard. Pansy was already intimidated by her posh school, with its colonial façade, and was made doubly so by these schoolmates. Some of them put on airs and spoke as if they had an orchard full of plums in their mouths.
“Hey, Ulu! Why do you always have mud on your school shoes?” one of those girls had asked Pansy. “Doesn’t your amah clean and blanco your shoes for you?”
“Look, Ulu! The threads in your canvas shoes are showing,” said one, as if Pansy was unaware. “Time to get a new pair.”
“Your uniform is all creased!” another remarked with a sneer.
“Oh dear, your hair is so wild…. Really like orang ulu…”
Of course, none of them had to ride a bike to school. The girls stepped out of smart motorcars chauffeured by Ahmads and Babu Singhs, with their canvas shoes immaculately blancoed white, as they did not have to traipse through muddy fields, their uniforms in pristine condition, pleats starched and ironed perfectly. And of course, they could afford a fresh blouse and pinafore each day. Standing beside
