jangan dikenang
soft skin hangs over his skeletal fingers
a hard smattering of scabs scale his legs
with varicose veins, veiled by the kain pelikat
the old man sits in his chair,
having forgotten already how to operate
the phone screen is adjusted by his son,
and slowly it plays a sixties song.
the slow and steady beat
expands to fill vacant space
between the man’s two ears
a looping melody
of days,
a cache
filled with memories:
he’s sixteen, smelling salted seaside air, (he’s sixteen when he’s working to keep his brothers
swimming in the saline sea all on the mainland, even if it means being on his feet for hours,
that lap at his feet working, working, anything for their education.)
and soak his (neglected) school worksheets
— at this age, the music that accompanies him is
the song of a ship’s call, and the humming bass
of conches along the shore.
he’s twenty-something when he gets married,
to some tempestuous beauty
whip-smart and meticulous
A steady beat of jaunty tambourines herald the celebration,
and the excited hammering of his heart
seems to follow
in time (he’s twenty-something when he gets married
and all his siblings mutter and gossip about his wife’s commandeering personality, and how she’s taken him away from the family.)
(he doesn’t know how to tell them that being a taxi driver means
knowing the roads before driving.)
(He knows. He knows her like he knows the roads,
and he’s married her because he trusts her.)
he’s nearing forty, a quartet of kids in tow,
and with them they bring the sound of
exhilarated laughter interspersed
with shrill shrieks like accordions
and they pad around the house
in circles, never-ending
music wafts from the radio:
upbeat, resonant percussion
mix with the vibrant flutter of the guitar,
accompanied by the accordion
and tied with a crooning voice
have always accompanied his life even before he knew they were
— the hallmarks of a sixties malay masterpiece
follows his children
through the house as they
leave behind:
chipped ceramic tiles, (cracks in his marriage— she’s demanded too much from him,)
pencil lead stains, (her children are stains upon her reputation— failures.)
and a faint memory of childhood (a son desperate to return to easy A-stars and validation.)
(he finds himself in the middle of a road
and lost, the once-familiar roads are now
foreign as the little tablet things are.)
(Like his wife is, languishing and sorrowful
and nothing at all
like that lively lady from before.)
—it is much easier to leave behind
the bad and sink into the few good things left.
the old man drags slowly,
His finger across the unfamiliar screen
back to the start
and allows himself to forget.
Dina Anati Binte Muhamad Raffi pursues writing to encapsulate the dreamy haze of her mind’s eye, drawn to writing fantasy.