Prologue & Chapter 1

16 May 1980, 0644

110km North of Kuala Terengganu

As the sun slowly began to show its face on the horizon, the man stands on the edge of the cliff. In the creeping light of daybreak, the azure expanse that is the South China Sea is still hidden from view. Instead, the sun casts hues of orange, violet and pink across the surface of the ocean, and the colors weave and dance in a perfectly balanced routine. The tide was low, but even from atop the cliff the man could still hear the gentle crash of waves upon the sandy shore below.

Perhaps in other circumstances, he would have scanned his eyes across the vista in front of him and exclaimed delight and gratitude to God because at that moment, he was alive and privileged to be able to witness the miracle that is the Earth. But no, he just stood still, almost near to the very edge of the rocky cliff. Should he take not more than five steps forward, he would have plunged a hundred feet below to his death.

But he wasn’t moving. He just stood as still as a statue.

An ocean breeze blew on his face, and yet he did not blink. His eyes stared into the distance as the sun slowly rose. But he was not staring at the spectacular scene ahead; he was staring into emptiness. Only when the first piercing rays of light fell upon him did he tear his gaze away. His eyes were red, as if he had not blinked for many hours. The truth was that he had been weeping.

If someone had come across the man that morning, the first thing that would have come to mind was: Dear God, this man must not have slept for ages. Indeed, he looked terrible. His hair was all over the place; a one-week-old stubble peppered his cheeks and chin. His eyes were red.

He looked ten years older than his 37 years or so. On another day, a different time, he would have come across as mildly handsome. But on this day… he just looked tired. And that he was: tired. His un-tucked shirt was wrinkled and creased, buttoned only halfway down, and the cuffs of his jeans were frayed and worn.

But nobody came across him that morning. As a result, nobody saw the weariness evident in the lines of his face. Nobody saw the sadness in his eyes, or the longing in his heart. Nobody saw him stare emptily towards the ocean.

The sun was now edging higher in the sky and the blue of the South China Sea was beginning to show. Other than the sound of the ocean and the breeze, it was eerily quiet. Nearby was a quaint seaside village. It was from that village where the man walked from. At that kampung was his car; the car he used to drive all night long from Kuala Lumpur.

All during that drive, the man was holding back a great ache in his heart. He had driven almost nine hours alone in the dark of night to reach here, without rest. When he had reached the kampung, he had parked his car and walked to this cliff, his legs burning as he ascended the rocky slope to reach the top.

And here he was.

The man was holding something in his right hand. He brought it up to his face and looked at it; it was a flower. The flower had six elongated petals, and the color was a rich golden yellow that brightened to a creamier hue towards the stem. The man took smelled it, and that was all it took. The aroma pleasant and its perfume lingered around him. The flower looked impossibly fresh and alive, like it was picked just a few minutes ago. But the man knew better.

He turned the flower in his hand, studying it as he always did whenever he was alone. He told nobody this, but he carried that flower with him almost all the time. Only he knew the secret to its vitality; why it never wilted.

Suddenly he threw his head back and screamed. It was a scream of pain. The breeze carried his voice and it echoed through the air; he screamed until his throat hurt. His breath came in hitching gasps. His lungs burned. His hands curled into fists, crumpling the flower within his fingers.

“You said you would always be there for me!” he shouted towards the sea. “You said you would be there. You said if I would wait you would always come…”

The man dropped to his knees. He felt so very tired, and he could not even cry. His tears were dry.

“You said you’d always be there,” he said. “But you lied.”

Slowly he opened his fists; remarkably, the yellow flower did not bear a single sign of damage despite being squeezed in his hand. Not even a bruise on its velvety yellow petals. It looked as fresh and as crisp as it was on the day it was picked on.

The man, only now beginning to feel the fatigue of his long journey, caressed the flower. It was a beautiful flower to him; it meant so much. The locals call this flower the Kenanga. To the man, it was more than that: more than a flower.

It was his life.

***
Chapter 1

April 10, 1952

Kampung Bukit Pantai, North of Kuala Terengganu

Seven years ago the Great War ended and the world has since tried its hardest to be at peace. Despite whispers of a new rivalry between two mighty countries, everywhere across the globe, nations had been or were being rebuilt. In other places still, new nations were being formed, and the fabled empires of centuries past were slowly losing hold on their once highly prized territories.

Malaya however, was facing its own problems. Communist guerilla fighters were causing havoc, hiding in forests and attacking the British who were still resident in the country. In other parts, political leaders were already discussing and negotiating the independence of Malayan soil. It would be a long road ahead for the forefathers of the nation.

But here, in this quaint village about one hundred kilometers north of Kuala Terengganu, the news of the world and the struggles happening within the borders of its own country were as relevant to the village folk as television was to a buffalo. Sure, some of the people in the kampung kept abreast of things. Most that did were the young men and women, ambitious, eager at the promises of a better life and wealth held by the prospect of a free and peaceful country. But these people were few, and most of them began to leave the kampung in search of a better life in bigger cities.

The rest, though, were content to stay where they were. To many of these people, the kampung was their world. What happened beyond its boundaries did not matter. The folk were happy the way they were, blissfully ignorant and uncaring for what lay outside the dirt paths and stilted houses of the kampung.

As the name would suggest, the kampung was situated along a stretch of beach, which, at the time, had white sands and clear blue waters. It was not a large kampung, and the houses seemed scattered and disorganized. In 1952, there were perhaps 500 souls who made the kampung their homes. The name was generic, unimaginative; Kampung Bukit Pantai. A rocky cliff, a hundred feet high, and overgrown with tropical trees and shrubs, dominated on side of the kampung where it jutted out on to the ocean. The beach was long and wide, lined with coconut and other tough, twisted trees that could stand the sandy soil and near constant sun.

The houses were traditional Malay style, and this was a time when wooden houses were well built and often beautiful in their own timeless way. Built on stilts, the raised houses had vacant space beneath them, where the residents stowed supplies such as firewood and nets. The narrow streets of the kampung were unpaved, and during the rainy season got muddy and nigh on impossible to walk on. In the center of the scattered houses was a small mosque that also served as a community hall of sorts. A lone coffee shop was situated near the beachfront; its proprietor was a woman with skin tanned dark by the constant sun. The customers were always the kampung folk; nobody else.

One would have to walk ten minutes before encountering the road that took the children of the kampung to the nearest school, which was another half and hour’s walk away. This paved two-lane road was narrow, and if one followed it southeast away from the kampung, it eventually joined with a larger road that went all the way to Kuala Terengganu. The kampung folk would go to the bigger city about once a week: to get groceries, or more often to sell their goods.

For Kampung Bukit Pantai was a fishing village. About 18 boats were beached; each boat belonged to a particular family. The boats had modern internal combustion engines, but that was where modernity ended. The boats, made of wood, were hand built, each of them unique. In years to come, this skill would be highly esteemed, but many of these fishermen would not live to see the day. The fishermen wove their own nets, often spending hours beneath a shady tree with their family or friends. The nets were their main source of income; without it, they might as well starve.

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Ten-year-old Syukor sat glumly on a pangkin; a raised wooden platform used as a place to sit on or rest. His father, Ramli, sat beside him with his brothers: Rahman, Rafiq and Rakib. His brothers were all older than him. Mr. Ramli was a fisherman; he owned on one of those long boats and went out to sea with his elder sons as often as he could. When they would come back to shore, Syukor and his twelve year old sister, Rafidah, would often go running to the beach and the two of them would never cease to wonder at the fishes their father and brothers would bring back. To them, the fishes seemed exotic and alien, creatures of a different kind. There were snappers, and mackerel, groupers, and even the occasional shark. Not a lot of these fish wound up in their own ancient refrigerator; most of it was sold off to a wholesale buyer, or is brought to the bigger towns.

Young Syukor was glum because earlier in the day during breakfast he had asked his father if he could come with him on the next fishing excursion.

“Absolutely not,” Ramli had told his youngest son.

“Why not? Abang Man, Fiq and Akib get to go. And so does Pakcik Amran and Abang Jakpa,” Syukor protested, his voice squeaky and small. Pakcik Amran and his son Abang Jakpa were somewhat his fathers ‘shareholders’ in that Mr. Amran had built the boat together with him. They shared whatever profits they received from their fishing.

Syukor had looked up to his father, trying to plead with his eyes. For most of his short ten years, Syukor always wanted to go out to sea with his father and brothers. He would rather much go there instead of school. Not that school was bad… but the open ocean seemed to hold a much more interesting and satisfying life for him.

“No,” his father had said while dipping a piece of boiled plantain in desiccated coconut and sugar. “You’re still small. The open ocean is no place for a child to be. Besides, we don’t go out there to have fun. It’s work! And very hard work!”

“But I can do work as well! Look at Abang Man Abang Fiq Abang Akib!” Syukor exclaimed. His eldest brother, Rahman, was twelve years older than he was; Rafiq was ten years older, Rakib nine.

“Abang Man, Abang Fiq and Abang Akib have all finished school and are big boys. You are still small and you’re better off at school. Study well and you don’t have to be a fisherman like your old man here.”

Syukor stamped down his foot. “But I want to be a fisherman!”

His father had looked into his determined eyes; for a moment there Syukor thought he would get angry. But the expression on Mr. Ramli’s face softened and he smiled. He laid a gentle hand on Syukor’s shoulder. The gesture seemed to be one of surrender.

“Syukor, Syukor, Syukor… you’re such a feisty boy. Your brothers’ weren’t like you at all!” he sighed. “Maybe the times are changing…”

Syukor’s hopes glimmered. “So I can come with you on the next trip?”

Mr. Ramli’s eyes twinkled. “I have something even better for you to do…”

And here was Syukor on the pangkin with his father and siblings… weaving and fixing nets. He felt disappointed and hurt, and his hands were sore from handling the rough nets. His father just looked at his bemusedly, while his brothers were talking amongst themselves about whom the prettiest girl in the village was. Finally bored, Syukor excused himself and strolled down to the beach, which was just a two-minute walk from their stilted house.

He was barefooted, and as he walked he kicked the sand in frustration. He saw the boats lined up on the shore; some of the fishermen were out at sea, and they weren’t all there. Syukor walked amongst the boats and laid his hands on the hulls and sterns, feeling the woodwork beneath his fingers. He picked at some barnacles (though he did not know what they were) and caught the tiny white crabs that scuttled beneath the shadows of the boats. Then he walked to the waters edge and let the waves lap at his feet. The water was warm, and the sun shone brightly above him across the skies; skies that were the brightest blue that he had ever seen. Young Syukor stared out towards the vast sea.

All he wanted was to be on a boat, miles away from land, catching fish with his father. But that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon, he thought. He sighed inwardly, content for now with waiting for his chance to pull in nets so heavy with fish they could cause a smaller boat to overload and sink.

Syukor walked along the waters edge, going northwards towards the tall rocky outcrop that gave the kampung it’s name. The cliff walls looked rough and sharp, and Syukor could see foliage growing out of its surface. The crashing of the waves seemed louder the closer he got to the bottom of the cliff. He looked back and saw his house and his kampung hundreds of meters away. He was surprised he had walked quite far, and now the bottom of the cliff was mere yards away. He came to it, and looked up. He thought he’d never see something so tall again in his life. Running his fingers across the surface of the rock, he was surprised at how smooth it was.

He followed around the edge of the cliff, entering the low mangrove forest. As he walked he looked at his feet, cautious of snakes and other dangerous creatures. He followed the wall of the cliff, and though he did not realize this, he had walked halfway along the circumference of the cliff itself. He was vaguely aware that the forest started almost immediately had he walked a mere two hundred feet to his left; but he was scared of the forest. Even in this daylight, it looked foreboding and dark. Who knew what lay beneath the darkness of the canopy?

Syukor came across a gradient that rose gently and saw it led to the top of the cliff. He thought twice, and decided to walk up the hill. The vegetation was less dense here, perhaps due to the fact the cliff was mostly rock. He began to walk up the incline, and it took him a good twenty minutes or so before he reached the top. He walked cautiously to the near edge. The sight took his breath away.

From one hundred feet high, he could see across the ocean, so blue, so huge. Looking to his right he saw his kampung, and the boats on the shore. Coconut trees were lined along the beachfront, almost arranged in their neatness and order. His mind wondered if he was the first kid to climb this cliff and look at this view.

How tall is this cliff? He wondered. He decided to look over the edge. He moved carefully, inches at a time. He was worried that the ground might suddenly give way and then that would put an end to his dreams of going out to sea and becoming a fisherman like his father. Syukor peered, stretching his neck out, but he could not see the bottom, so he moved closer. That was when he heard the crumbling sound, and suddenly felt the rock loosen and shatter beneath his feet. In one split second his short ten-year-old lifespan flashed in his mind, and he thought of how sad his parents will be when they would go looking for their youngest son when he failed to come back for dinner, only to find him at the bottom of Bukit Pantai in a million pieces.

The bit of rock he was on gave way; Syukor felt his body began to fall and he screamed. He began to imagine the ground below rushing up at him and then nothing but blackness as his body was crushed upon impact. He closed his eyes, waiting for his doom, his tiny heart praying for forgiveness and feeling an insurmountable regret for having the foolishness to come up the cliff and peer over the edge. He screamed. But something happened then:

He didn’t fall. He was still screaming, but that was all he was doing. Bewildered, he opened his eyes and saw his feet hanging in the air. That somehow terrified him even more. He began to flail his feet and swing his arms wildly, looking for purchase. But his back was to the cliff; was he stuck on a branch? But then he felt his body actually lift up, and float, and in one instant, he was back on the cliff, yards away form the edge. He scurried on the more stable ground, sweating and terrified beyond belief.

What had happened? He looked around him. It was quiet; the momentary drama of him falling had lasted perhaps no more than ten seconds. In the greater scheme of things, nothing was amiss. Syukor stood up, breathing rapidly. He could still see the ocean, and the beach, and his own kampung from here. He ran his hands across his body, trying to ascertain if he was real or if maybe he did fall and had died and he was now nothing more than a ghost.

And then a voice called out, “Assalamualaikum.” Syukor yelled and spun around surprised; he fell on his buttocks.

It was a girl, and not just any girl. It was the prettiest girl Syukor had ever seen in his decade old existence. She could not have been more than his age. She had the fairest, creamiest skin, and her hair was a silky, shiny black. It cascaded over her shoulders, reaching to her waist. She was wearing a golden yellow sarong wrapped around her small body, and the cloth flowed around her feet. Her shoulders were bare. Syukor saw her forehead was adorned with a piece of metal, perhaps silver, as it shone brightly in the daylight. And then he saw her eyes and he could not believe his own: they were an olive green.

“Assalamualaikum,” the girl said again. Her voice was soft. Syukor looked around him, wary, but he had been taught it was rude to not answer a salam, so he did.

“Waalaikumussalam,” he said. The girl smiled at him and offered her hand. He looked at her oddly, and after a moment’s thought, took the hand and got up. The hand was soft as silk. He rubbed the seat of the faded shorts he was wearing. “Who are you?”

The girl stood in her place. Syukor noticed a lovely scent was in the air. “Who are you? Did you save me from falling?” he asked.

The girl nodded. “I saw you about to fall, so I decided to help you.”

Syukor frowned. “You saw me? Were you watching me? Following me?”

“I saw you come up here, if that is an answer,” the girl said. Suddenly she was the one who looked cautious and afraid. Syukor eyed her curiously; who was she? But he thought he owed her a token of gratitude.

“Well… thank you for saving me from falling.”

The girl smiled politely. Syukor had no concept of attraction at the time, so he was not aware of the complex emotions that were swirling in his heart.

“I think I better get going now… I don’t want to have another accident,” he said. He paused for a moment. “Are you from around here?”

“I am here,” the girl said, which Syukor thought was a strange answer. Maybe she was from another kampung? After all there were other kampungs along the beach. But what was she doing here? A bit bothered, nevertheless he dismissed the thought.

“Thank you again. I better go now,” he said. The girl stood there, her hands clasped neatly in front of her. A breeze blew her hair around her face, and Syukor thought again how pretty she was. He thought she was even prettier than the girls his brothers were always talking about, and she was only a child still. She couldn’t have been any older than him.

“Well... Assalamualaikum,” he said.

“Waalaikumussalam,” the girl said, and that was all she said. Syukor made his way back down, but just as he was about to do so, he turned around to look at the girl again.

She was gone.