Dada 98

’We could we just sit here quietly together ,’ he would say.  

Tolerance would fill the room after my beatings, the contrition and then after that, his soft footsteps on the stairs.

The policeman had a scalp almost shaved like a Buddhist monk and soft almond skin. He came across as very reasonable and actually quite kind in spite of sometimes the darting of the eyes or the fact that I had killed two young white men.

The next day a lawyer came to see me in the prison. He was short and chubby and looked as if he dined well. His hair was carefully slicked back and in spite of the heat (I was wearing a tee shirt and shorts) he was wearing a dark suit with a white shirt and a blue tie. The tie and the collar looked damp, the way his neck folded over it.

He put the briefcase he was carrying under his arm down on the wooden bed introduced himself as Mr Ramallah and told me he had studied my file. My case was a tricky one he said but with the right application he was sure we could make the best of it, if I put my trust in him.

I assured him I would and he nodded and said that the investigating officers were very reasonable men. I nodded and he said,

Let’s get down to business.

He sat on the bed and explained that that they had obtained certain information about my private life. They found out that my Dada had recently died at an old people’s home and that I took drugs. They had made enquiries upriver. The prosecution learned that I had appeared very calm on the day of Dada’s funeral and I was seen with Mo the day afterwards. Here, he fluttered at his sleeve and suggested that we were acting in an illicit manner and contrary to the laws of this country. 

‘I’m sorry to have to ask you this’ my lawyer said ‘but it is very important. And it will be a key argument for the prosecution if I have nothing to counter it with.’

 He wanted to help me. He asked me if I had been upset that day. Although I found the question surprising, I told him that I had been furious and he immediately brightened up

‘Because of your Dada’s death?’ he asked and I replied’ no, not at all. Death is a part of life. It was the absence of my Ma and Da and me having to travel all that way into the jungle, all heat and the fate of my Dada, of a love almost lost but not quite because something worse replaced it. I was furious. I hated their obsession of being correct Malaysians’

He looked embarrassed for having to ask the question but more embarrassed for me. I told him that since I had out what I thought was the secret I had finished with my studies and went to live to with Dada. I didn’t analyse my emotions any more. I just put one front in foot of another with each new day. It was difficult to explain. I loved Dada very much but that didn’t mean anything now. Every normal person sometimes wishes the people they love would die and  the ones they hate even sooner.