Crushed Petals

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I lightly fanned away the smoke from the chicken satay skewers, not wanting the charcoal to overpower the nutty flavour. I silently watched as the meat turned slightly crispy on one side before flipping to the other. The aroma particularly curled up from the grill making me somewhat dizzy.

The sun was shining down upon me as if its penetrating rays were making me feel like a crab trap in a boiling pot. I loosen my hijab in hopes the slight breeze would cool down my skin as the sweat trickled down my back like warm soup, and my tied-up hair gnawed onto my scalp, allowing headaches to settle in.

‘Sudah ke?’ A boy, no more than fourteen wondered if the satay was done.

I shook my head, handed him the simple task. The mixture of food and smoke had made its home by mingling with my clothes and getting rid of the smell would be difficult if I left it too long. I walked towards my house, or what looked like a house. It was a makeshift of a pile of random stuff that somehow had managed to uphold people in it. It was propped up by wooden stilts, the walls were made from braided bamboos, and the roof was built out of rustic tins.

The life of a villager was simple, men would leave early morn and come back late afternoon, only to work as a rubber tapper. Women would be a stay at home mom, carrying their infant in a makeshift cradle on their backs while picking out vegetables and fruits to sell to the market. Every day was a competition on who gets to eat the next few days.

I sat at the wooden stairs, admiring the children playing football made from balled up ragged t-shirts wrapped in plastic bags. The sounds of laughter faded into distant memories of the nearby river. How the cold crisp, unpolluted air plunged into my nostrils and cleansed my lungs. I remembered how Mother-Earth wept from a gash between two boulders. How the water looked like blue-silk flowing down the mountain, and it appeared like crystal glistening above it. Fishes flopping its body among the pebbles and brushing their tail against the green moss.

‘Kakak.’

I snapped my eyes open, looking down at the pig-tailed girl. How I would miss her calling me sister. Her brown doe-eyes filled with endless possibilities of a brighter future. Her lack of teeth didn’t tether from her bright smile and her soft expression was a gift that I would cherish but eventually would be nothing but just echoes among cloudy days.

‘Mari masuk, Aisyah.’

I gently tugged her wrist, persuading her to come inside. She waved her friends goodbye, promising another day of wild adventures.

I patted a spot near the window where a white hijab was neatly placed, waiting for Aisyah. I wanted us to be under the same skies one last time while we watch the white cotton balls sailed through the open space, passing gracefully towards any place it wishes. This was the only light we could afford. Electricity was too uncommon in the village, and we were lucky enough to even own a kerosene lamp to which we rarely use. It was the last thing our late-father gifted us. I untangled her pigtails, brushed the stubborn knots out before putting them in a tight bun. I twisted her body, listened to her mumbling the A, B, C, wondering what letter comes next.

I lifted the white hijab over her head, fashioned a pin under her chin to secure it in place. I flipped the edges and tied it around her neck and stuffed the loose hair back inside. I lightly pinched her cheeks, to give her that rosy look.

‘Cantik, Kakak.’ She admired the hijab.

I held her against my chest, unable to control my tears. I slowly explained to her how she was going to be away from my mother and me. How she would be responsible for the household and to care for her husband. After tonight, a man’s body would look scary at first, but soon she’ll be accustomed to it. It would gradually fit in her daily routine. She asked me if she could come and visit. I squeezed her, breathed in her lilac scent and I shook my head. Mother wouldn’t allow her to shame this family. She had to bear it on her own, for she had become a young woman. A bride, a wife, a soon-to-be-mother for a much older man.

‘Aisyah!’

Mother tried to rip her out of my embrace, but with the little strength that she possessed, she held onto me.

I gripped onto my mother’s skirt and begged, ‘Mak, aku tahu kita miskin.’ I emphasised the state of our house, the frayed clothes that we wore, the lack of security and privacy we own. My mother stood there, eyes glared at my pathetic attempt to save my sister.

‘Tapi Aisyah kecil.’ I stressed the height and body difference of Aisyah. She was too young and too small for the likes of that animal.

‘Eh!’ My mother pointed her finger in my face, calling me all sorts of insults she could think of.

‘Ambil aku, Mak.’ I thumped my chest repeatedly, pleaded with her to replace me instead of my little sister. I questioned her ability to be a mother, how she could sell Aisyah off to a fifty-year-old man who had a wife and two kids.

‘Sudah!’ The open-handed slap came unannounced, as it sounded like thunder and it felt like an open wound poured in salt. Black scattered dots covered my vision, as I barely comprehend what my mother was spouting.

I felt Aisyah’s tiny palm trying to soothe the warm spot as my mother continued her reasoning. How he was a good man with a stable job and was not like one of those useless men who hang around and does nothing all day. We would be able to replace this roof and not worry if our only mattress would be soaked by the rain or that I had a chance to finally be able to finish school. The dowry would be enough to cover the expense for months, maybe a year.

She told me how I could be selfish when we had nothing at all, and this man had given such generosity for a small price.

Mother had to peel Aisyah’s fingers from the death grip she had on my clothes, lecturing her about becoming a good daughter. Aisyah called out to me, demanded my attention, but I was helpless as I watched her dragged away, betrayal etched in her expression and her eyes had frozen like the surface of a winter pond. I quietly listen in to their solemnisation.

Was Mother right?