Hello, it's past 12 midnight here in Nottingham. I'm having trouble sleeping (but only because I've been sleeping during the day haha) so I wrote a fictional story. I really missed writing. I used to write a lot in my old blog. I'm sure AF & LBJ secretly followed it but it has now long been abandoned by yours truly. Note that this story inda kena mengena dengan yang hidup atau yang mati. It only reflects my boredom and cheesiness.
Aku Masih Tunggu
The young Malay girl looks out the window, her rosy cheeks dampened with tears as if seeing the still unfamiliar and undying hustle and bustle of the city for the first time. But it’s not the first time she’s sitting on her musty bed, looking out into the crowded street of drunken poets, writers and artists; she has lived in her cold stuffy room in the middle of noisy Soho in Kota London for almost a year now.
What am I doing in this farway land?
I don’t belong here.
I belong in the Abode of Peace, not in this chaotic city. I belong under the scorching sun, in the padi fields with Babu, on Bapa’s bicycle around the kampung yelling “Kueh! Kueh!”.
She wipes her tears off her cheeks.
Apa gila kah aku bila terima offer ini?
Was I mad in accepting this scholarship?
At this time the country is opening up education opportunities for young women who excel in their studies. She is one of them, chosen to study English Literature for her flair in the language.
She realises that doing this will free her family from poverty, but at this moment she ignores the thought as she yearns deeply for someone back at home.
She rolls over and reaches for a rusty tin box perched on her antique wooden dressing table. She blows out the dust that coats the lid and takes it off, sniffing in the familiar scent of home that is emanating from a collection of crisp letters that came from her keluarga, kawan and kekasih.
Bapa’s Jawi writing tells her to ingat kenapa kamu dihantar ke sana, to be careful of the cosmopolitan city and to not be swept away in the culture. She can smell the scent of Bapa’s rokok, and strangely finds herself missing the whipping curls of his cigarette.
Babu writes about the new recipes of kueh she’s invented and talks about how adek has taken over her job of selling the fresh cakes.
His letters, she thinks. I must find his letters.
She empties the contents of the tin box onto her bed and rummages through to find a crisp brown envelope spelling out her address, so-hoh-lon-don. She takes out the letter inside it and reads out loud the contents as her homesickness is magnified by a million:
Sayangku, Juita.
Surat ini ku tulis di atas titian dekat pantai semasa senja. Ingatkah dikau akan waktu kau bersamaku disini?
Yes, she thinks to herself. I was always there at the end of the day. I was always there after you worked hard catching fish to feed your mother and your sisters.
Aku rindu akan kata-kata manis mu, Juita. Sentuh-sentuh lembut mu. Gelak tawamu.
Aku kesunyian tanpamu.
Tapi kau janganlah gelisah, sayang. Pabila kau merenung keluar jendela ketika malam yang larut, ingatlah, siang jadi malam jadi siang, aku masih tunggu.
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