“Ah Phine ah,” Fatima said with sheer joy a few days later, “I’m getting married before we leave. To the one I chose! How lucky is that? Who would think this was possible a few years back? Sulaiman wants us to be husband and wife before we get to KL.”
Try as I might, I could not drum up any enthusiasm. I was going to tell her that I had passed my nursing exams. I wanted to share my excitement about graduating as a full-fledged Assistant Nurse (Dental). I had longed to tell her that the two-band orange pips on the shoulder of my uniform would soon be exchanged for a solid colour. But my news suddenly felt insignificant next to hers, so I didn’t. No one attended my graduation in the end, but as I went up to receive my certificate, I thought of Mak and how her love and labour had resulted in this. I did tell her afterwards.
“Yes, I gave you a start,” Mak said. “But you did the hard work.”
For once, I did not share my innermost joy with my dearest friend, Fatima. I chastised myself later for not being exuberant about her happiness. The next time she came to share with me her wedding plans, I learnt how to disguise my own feelings and projected instead something I did not feel. I asked for details, as if I really cared. I was becoming an adult. Or was I turning into a hypocrite? Would she notice that the smile on my face did not reach my eyes? But she was so buoyed by happiness that no cloud could darken her mood. She invited me to attend her berinai ceremony together with her friends and female relatives. It was a joyous occasion, all the girls chatting merrily and teasing Fatima as her fingers and palms were being stained with henna in an intricate floral design. Yet all the time, my heart was heavy. I was losing my best friend.
“You must come to visit us in KL, Ah Phine,” she said.
I noted how she said the word, us. The sense of pride was reflected in her voice. Of possession. She no longer had to face a future alone. It was a small word but it was loaded with a huge cauldron of meaning.
Too soon, her wedding day arrived.
Outside her family’s house a tent had been set up with large sheets of woven straw mats on the sandy ground, where guests would sit for lunch. Lunch was going to be nasi minyak—basmati rice sautéed with ghee, then cooked in ground onions, garlic, ginger and raisins, with delicious steaks of moist mutton wedged in its midst. The food would be served on a giant platter placed on straw mats on the ground, and each platter was to be shared by four people. A pair of chairs had been dressed in shiny brocade and decorated with fresh bouquets of flowers, fragrant jasmine intertwined with bunga chempaka and orchids. This was the pelamin or dais, where the bride and groom would sit in regal splendour, as they enacted being a king and queen for the day, and where the bersanding or sitting-in ceremony would be held. Guests would approach the bridal couple to shower them with flowers and sprinkle yellow rice, to wish them good fortune and bless them with fertility.
“Mereka datang, mereka datang! They are here, they are here,” the young village children shouted excitedly.
All the villagers crowding round made space to create a path for the bridal couple and their entourage. The band of six kompang players started beating the Malay hand-held drums with their bare hands as they walked and recited verses from the Quran. The men were all dressed in traditional Malay attire made from satin, their sarongs made from songket or brocade, songkoks on their heads. The rhythmic drumming created a festive air and all the village children clapped to the beat. The kompang players were followed by a team of men carrying the slim trunk of the bunga mangga, which looked like palm trees, the palm leaves made out of bright tinsel that shimmered in the afternoon breeze. Later, when the drumming had stopped, these bunga mangga would be lowered and the village children were permitted to rush forward to pluck the faux-palm leaves. The respective relatives followed behind the bunga mangga carriers and finally the bride and groom. Both were dressed in matching light blue, Fatima’s favourite colour. Sulaiman was tall and his features were chiselled to fine proportions. They were a good match. Fatima’s face was made up, her lipstick a bright red. It was the one time that make-up was permitted for a village girl.
I could see how love had made her look more beautiful. It was not just due to the make-up. She practically glowed, her eyes shone. Being desired or loved must be a magical potion. Unbidden, I was caught by a feeling of envy. Would my face ever glow like that? Would I ever be loved or desired? I doubted it. Though my father has passed on a while ago, his words to me were still alive, their legacy weighing heavily
