Sungei Wang and the Bad Man

There was once upon a time, when Sungei Wang was the first and newest shopping center in all of Kuala Lumpur. The terrazzo tiles were shiny white and the air-conditioning blew vigorously, sometimes accompanied by white streamers flapping out of the vents with manic gaiety. I don’t remember very well, but it seemed like five levels all looking down into a central, square area – connected by many escalators. Everywhere the tapping of feet tramping up and down these five levels echoed endlessly and blended in with the Chinese pop songs, or Malay ballads or Lionel Ritchie coming out of the cassette tape vendors on every floor. Clean neon signs blinked without any dust or grime, yet…from the humid, traffic laden air outside.

What do people do on the weekend? Whole families come and stroll in the cool clean breeze and bright lights. They come from all over, from the suburbs, from outlying villages – Cheras, Kampar, Klang, Kajang. They tramp all over industriously window shopping, looking for a shrewd bargain.

I looked over from the dismal choice at the bookshelves in front of me and there was a Bad Man talking to my little sister. He was dressed like an office worker in a white shirt and smart slacks. He was a very confident Bad Man, smooth and sweet like a barracuda gleaming in between the humanity passing around us. My parents had left us there and gone to do an errand, assuming a bookshop would be a fairly safe place. There was no one else near us, the place seemed deserted as I craned my neck to see if they had returned. Yinmei was only four years old but she had a mulish expression on her face, she was a smart kid. She wasn’t buying any of this chat from the Bad Man, he was offering to buy her a book. He was in between us. I was twelve and hypersensitive, I knew he was dangerous with his smooth eyes and his smooth words and I felt like a little fish in front of this barracuda. I knew that Bad Men who lose face or felt like you threatened them would retaliate in ways I could never imagine. I may have been twelve but I already knew that, the boys in my town got angry if I wouldn’t speak to them. They threw invisible stones at your back.

I blurted out chattily, “That’s my little sister!” I had to buy some time till my parents came back. He turned his cold barracuda eyes on me, face softening as he judged my youth, the ribbon in my hair, my deliberately innocent face. My sister looked at me in a puzzled manner, how often had we heard the old adage, “Never talk to strangers!” I felt in my bones I had to keep talking, babbling brightly and innocently, and not in any challenging manner. What if he picked up my light little sister and ran away with her? His legs looked very long. I felt sick, I kept talking like an idiot twelve year old who didn’t know about Bad Men. “Do you like books? I like books very much!”

He was edging us closer and closer to where the shop turned into the walkway. There wasn’t an entrance to the bookstore, it was open along its entire frontage. I don’t think people shoplifted books a lot. I tried to get round to the same side as my little sister. He was cajoling, “Come, let me buy you some books or some toyslah!” “We not allowedlah, supposed to look only,” I whined. He held his hand out to my sister. She looked at me. I looked round carefully to see if my parents were in sight. The crowds milled around us, walking past ceaselessly. Could I tell someone? If I stopped to try to tell someone, would he disappear with Yinmei? “Let’s walk around the bookstore!” I said, like I wasn’t sure if I should accept such a treat. “My parents might be coming back in a little while.” We walked around the shelves. I had nodded to my sister to take his hand, I walked alongside, close as a limpet, and as frightened. I could tell he wanted us to leave the shop. He was losing his patience, he knew they would come back for us soon. I am stupid, I am stupid, I am stupid, I sang in my head. “Let’s go to the shop next door,” he said. I blinked at him innocently. “Watch your sister!” my brain screamed. “There might be something nice there,” I said slowly as possible. Walking slowly as possible.

There was my Father! He was coming up the escalator. “Dad!” I called out. He looked suspiciously at us. The Bad Man dropped my sister’s hand and I grabbed it. The barracuda was sidling away. He told my father he was just keeping an eye on us. He swam off into the crowd. I can still see his face. Thwarted. Hungry. My father looked at me. “You are the oldest,” he said. He took my sister’s hand and we all went down the escalator. The River of Money swirled all around us. He never mentioned it again. I never got to explain to my sister why I had her hold the Bad Man’s hand.

Badminton and other Sport

Aunty Siti lets us play in her corner garden. We are the children from across the road, although I am just visiting. I come here every week after music lessons to stay with Aunty Lin. For some reason, no one is home at my house. Sharon, John and Tommy are my gracious hosts. I went to kindergarten with Sharon who is the eldest, and to Sunday School. I don’t really remember doing any of that, but our parents remain friends and they kindly take me in. I am a bookworm. I shun althletic activities, though on sports days they make me run the 100m and do the high jump. John and the neighbour boys have set up ping-pong; and when we tire of that, there are badminton games to keep us playing all afternoon.

However, being with the other kids is lively. We are all about 10 or 11 or 12. Suddenly I relish the competition, the precise click of the ping-pong ball and the airy thwack of the shuttlecock on the sweet spot of the racket obsess me and I begin to actually play a sport. For once, I emerge from the world of dreams and feel the grass spring under my Bata shoes as I leap in the air in Aunty Siti’s garden.

The neighbour boys are all related to each other, they are two sets of brothers who live next door. They call themselves Little Brother – Big Brother/ Little Cousin – Big Cousin in the chinese custom. Later on, they may get English names, as is the Malaysian custom. Little Brother is their leader, despite being the youngest. He is born in the Year of the Monkey, and he is mercurial. I have yet to meet any other boy who talks as much as he does. He organises us. Shoves us into doubles teams. The months go by and we have all played against each other and partnered each other in turn. Mostly I speak with Little Brother, as he is the most expressive. We are the communication twins, we make leaps of imagination together. The others speak cantonese among themselves. I can understand it. The cousins don’t speak much English and Older Brother stands aloof because he is older.

Everyone is intent on the game, we move aside for our doubles games, stepping up for the stroke of our bats, of our slams and smashes. No one ever bumps into each other. It is rhythmic, even graceful, and mostly silent except for Little Brother’s commentary, his story which pulls us through the days and months.

Of course everything changes one day. We are all talking through the fence. What game do we play today? Little Brother wants me to choose. But he doesn’t want me to choose the game, he wants me to choose the boy I like the best. Little Brother is insistent and emotional. I guess now, it is because he knows inside that he is my 11-year old soul mate and he wants me to declare it. I feel anxious and betrayed. The games stop abruptly as the boys prowl the chain link fence, and I hide with Sharon, John and Tommy in their shared room and wring my hands. There is an older, more experienced shade of me which stands in the corner of my gaze. This other me knows disaster is approaching. I cannot choose Little Brother, he is too little and he has forced my hand. He’s lured me into my body and now he wants to pin down my mind.

I think that if I were older, I would like to have a crush on Little Cousin, he doesn’t say much but he has a noble brow and seems like a decent and honorable fellow. So I tell Little Brother this. I write Little Cousin a poem which he doesn’t understand and he is nonplussed by it. No one speaks to me, and Little Brother is wrathful. I can feel it emanating from the blank windows next door. Aunty Siti’s garden is silent. She must wonder where the children have gone. I never play badminton again as I have learned the shame of choosing.