Chapter 13

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“Come on, we’ll miss the fireworks,” Damia said as she quickly walked in front of me. She turned around and said, “Come on Dhani.”

“Coming, coming,” I said, chasing after her a little bit, as I fumbled with the heavy dSLR camera around my neck. “No need to rush.”

“I’m not rushing, I just want to catch the fireworks before they get fired,” she said.

“What?”

“Nothing, haha. Come!” she said, smiling playfully and continued her brisk walk. I kept pace.

We were in Putrajaya on this balmy Saturday night, to see the Putrajaya International Fireworks Competition. Tonight was the last night. There were a lot of people around, and we had to park quite a distance from Dataran Putrajaya. We had arrived about ten minutes before the fireworks were schedule to begin.

Earlier, i had picked her up and we had a light dinner before making our way here. We planned to go for supper after the fireworks show. She was dressed in jeans, a pink cardigan and black hijab. Very casual, but she pulled it off perfectly. Her perfume, lightly applied, was a lovely peach scent.

We reached the Dataran, found a pretty clear spot on a grassy knoll, and I laid down a cloth so we could sit down. We sat cross legged, next to each other, as we waited. I could see other people around us, similarly sitting on picnic cloths or even jackets and scarves. There were families, couples and students armed to the teeth with cameras and lenses. There was this one guy, who looked kind of scruffy and tired, with something like four or six lenses with him. He wore a t-shirt that had ‘MR+EN’ on it, whatever that meant. I pointed him out to Damia, who remarked he must be a professional or something.

“Did you bring earplugs? This gets really loud, you know,” I asked Damia. She suddenly looked horrified.

“I totally forgot,” she said. “How loud does it get? Like mercun, right?”

I grimaced. “More like dynamite. REALLY LOUD.”

“Really? Then?” she said. “Do they sell any here?”

“Haha. No. I don’t think so. Luckily for you,” I said and fished a two small plastic cylinders from my jeans pocket. “I brought extras.”

She smiled as I handed her the foam earplugs and taught her how to put them on. She tucked her hands inside her hijab, and for awhile it looked very awkward. I laughed and she glared at me. Finally she got the little foam buds into her ears, just as an announcers voice echoed through the air, signalling the beginning of the competition. Ten minutes later, the first few streaks of light shot through the clear, dark night and exploded into fantastic patterns over Putrajaya. People began to applaud and shout. It really was beautiful.

But my eyes were looking not towards the skies; my eyes were looking beside me, to this excited young woman who was looking at the lightshow above us. She clapped her hands happily, a wide smile gracing her lovely pink lips. Lips I imagined myself kissing countless of times, and for the first time, I’d always feel guilty after imagining so.

“Dhani, take pictures!” she said. So I snapped photos of the fireworks, and of her, too. I was torn between witnessing the spectacular fireworks show, or this incredible woman beside me. She was laughing, gaily, and seemed so happy and care-free. I wonder if I had brought that out in her. I’d like to think so.

… because she’s brought out this happiness in me. I thought about my conversation with Nissa, just this past week when I made my usual visit to her house.

“Nissa, I feel odd,” I had said to her as we drank tea that late evening. Yasmine and Jasmine were already showered and dressed in their pyjamas, though not before throwing a tantrum about wanting to wear their Barney pjs, which were still in the washer. In the end, Sesame Street managed to calm them down, and here they are, the twins, watching Disney Channel.

“Odd about what, Dhani?” my sister asked. “Is it about the girl you told me about?”

“I… I think so,” I said.

“What was her name again? Diana?”

“It’s Damia, and you knew that already,” I said and threw a pillow at her.

Nissa laughed. “Okay. So what are you feeling odd about?”

“I don’t know how to start,” I said.

“Well, okay. How have you been, lately, with her?”

“Good, I guess.”

“Good? How good is good?”

I thought for a moment. “We see each other everyday now, almost, for lunch and dinner. She wishes me good morning everyday and even if she doesn't, I would. We text. We talk.”

Nissa smiled. “Then?”

“Then what?”

“Well, what is she like? How does she talk to you? What do you guys talk about?”

I thought again, recalling every detail about Damia that was in my head, which, admittedly, was a lot. It was like my mind was saturated with thoughts of her.

“She’s.. she’s lovely, Nissa. When she talks, it’s like a calming breeze, you know? It’s like, when I hear her voice, everything seems better. Even when we talk about stuff like, politics or business or food.”

Nissa nodded, smiling and urged me to continue.

“It’s as if we never run out of conversation. And to be honest I don’t want to. I just want to keep on talking to her, and getting to know her more and more. She’s amazing, Nissa, God,” I said, suddenly amazed and exasperated. “She’s so charming, so witty and smart. She’s not like those shallow girls I’ve.. I, uh, dated or went out with before. Every time I talk to her, I just want to keep going on, to hear what she has to say, to know what she likes or doesn’t like or whatever, anything so I could just keep on talking to her and looking at her.”

“Dhani, I haven’t heard or seen you like this, for… well, years. This Damia must be really something.”

“I don’t know exactly what it is about her,” I said. “She’s so different.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Nissa asked.

I shook my head. “It’s the best thing.”

“So what are you feeling odd about then?”

I contemplated for a moment. “Nissa, after… you know, after all that I went through with those girls years ago, and after looking at you, no offence, I don’t know if it’s something that I would want.”

“But?” Nissa prodded.

“But Damia… she’s, I don’t know. I can’t stop thinking about her. Seriously, Nissa, I can’t. I close my eyes and she. Is. There.” I sank back into the comfy leather sofa.

“Dhani,” Nissa said and edged closer to me. She held my hand in hers. “Dhani, why are you denying the fact that you’re in love with this girl? Come on, I know you went through shit, and I know you think that relationships don’t make sense. And I don’t blame you. I mean, look at mine, right?”

I looked into my sisters tender, loving face.

“But,” she said, “But it doesn’t mean that what has happened before, or what has happened to me, will replicate itself. It’s life, after all, right? We’re not always in control of it. There are things that, no matter how much we deny or try to stop it, will happen anyway. And what’s the fun in predictability? Come on. Stop denying what you’re feeling for this girl.”

“What if I’m wrong again, Nissa?”

Nissa shrugged. “If you’re wrong, you’re wrong. But more importantly, what if you’re right? This was meant to happen to you Dhani. You deserve it.”

Inside my head, I thought I’m not too sure about that. But after months, I could no longer deny that my sister was right.

The fireworks boomed and banged in the night sky, drawing intricate patterns and colors to the cheers of the hundreds if not thousands of people who were there tonight to see it. On ground level, I could hear the clicks of thousands shutters as people tried to capture the patterns on camera. Damia, too, had gotten hold of my dSLR and was shooting away. She was pretty good at it, too. Turns out she’s an avid amateur photographer with her own dSLR. She asked me to check her flickr page when I went home, and I promised I would. I was slightly embarrassed because to be honest I only have a dSLR because it looked cool.

I looked at her and I thought about the times we spent together so far. There were many now. We had gone to the zoo together one day, and had lots of fun there, taking pictures and looking at animals. We went to Broga Hill two weekends ago, where we had sat quietly next to each other and watched the sun go up. There was this time I took her to watch a play at Istana Budaya, and she had made me accompany her to a wedding of a friend of hers, and everyone at that wedding thought we were a couple, which, realizing or not, neither of us refuted or denied. We had watched more movies together, and gone on countless dinner dates and lunch dates. We talked on the phone after work, and exchanged good morning and good night wishes daily. I even stopped minding whatever office gossip existed about us. The guys have stopped hitting on her when they realized we spent a lot of time together. Even Sharmini, my secretary, gave me an approving thumbs up one day when I said I was having dinner with Damia.

I thought I was Dhani Ibrahim, The Flower Heart. I thought I was beyond love, and that love was for the weak. That love is a delusion. Was I wrong, all this while? Because all those times I spent with Damia, slowly and surely the walls I built around me came crumbling down. And all those times… all those times felt right.

I looked at her. There was something, in the shade of her eyes. In that smile that she seemed to be contemplating, whether to give or not. That smile that was also a smirk, that made her expression seem to say I know you’re looking at me, but at the same time it was as if she was holding back, holding back being beautiful because she’s actually trying to be as humble as someone like her can be. I sighed. It was more than mere prettiness, or merely beautiful. It was borderline angelic; divine.

“Damia,” I called out, quite loudly amidst the sounds of people and fireworks. She lowered the camera and looked at me, her grey eyes piercing and bright.

“Yes Dhani?”

“I love you, Damia,” I said, and you have no idea how much effort it took for me to say it, how heavy this sinking feeling I felt in my stomach was when I said it. I had thought of a pre-word, a corny introduction, but in the end I just said what I felt for her. Damia looked at me, her expression slightly puzzled, but her cheeks turned rosy red. Then she took off the camera from her neck and set it down. She sat down next to me, and edged closer until she was somewhat neatly tucked into the rook of my shoulder and arm. Her perfume was intoxicating.

“I know, Dhani Ibrahim,” Damia said. “I love you, too.”

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