Chapter 5

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Every Sunday morning I go to my sister’s house in Subang Jaya to have breakfast, lunch and spend time with her and her daughters. Every Sunday, without fail. If I really couldn’t make it, I’ll always find a way to make it up to her and her little girls.

My sister’s name is Qhairunisa. I call her Nisa, for short. She’s six years older than I am, and she’s been taking care of me ever since our parents died in Makkah, in an accident, during an umrah trip. I was in Primary One at the time, and Nisa had just started secondary school. We were taken in by our fathers second cousin, who treated us well enough. Nisa was smart, and after high school she went straight to college and all the way to become an engineer. I remember, during her first job with an oil and gas company; when she had gotten her paycheck, she had treated me and our adopted family to a dinner, and proceeded to gently convey that she would be moving out of the house, and bring me along with her. It was a not quite awkward conversation.

You see, my sister is a go-getter. Since our parents died, it seemed as if she never stopped working. It was her that paid for my education, and it was her that raised me up to become a successful human being. That I am morally ambigious is of my choosing. But Nisa; goodness radiated from her in waves. She was smart, she was savvy, she was beautiful (we inherited our looks from our quarter Chinese, quarter Arab, half Malay mother, it seemed). She had had her fair share of suitors over the years, but 6 years ago she married this man who, at the time, seemed decent enough. So we thought.

Turns out he was a drunk who hardly gave a shit about his household. But my sister had loved him and I had to concede to that fact. Given a choice, I would have had the man castrated, or shot to death. The only good thing ever to come out from their marriage was their twin daughters, who came two years into their lives together. And lo and behold, that rat-bastard left when the babies were just six months old. We soon caught news he was killed in a car accident along the Federal Highway. That was no surprise. Neither was it a loss. Nisa had cried though.

I loved my sister very much, if you haven’t caught my drift by now. And I love her daughters even more; from the moment they were born, I was as much a part of their life like I was a father. And my sister even told me that I had to be a father figure to those girls, since their real father was a useless carcass. I had consented, and the twins, Jasmine and Yasmine, were everything to me.

On this Sunday morning, I’m helping Nisa cook lunch. Or helping her watch the kids as she cooked lunch, was more accurate. Jasmine and Yasmine were four years old now, inquisitive, intelligent and, as the Malays like to say, ‘tak reti duduk diam.’ I watched the two of them, dressed in matching clothes and looking like picture perfect clones of one another, play in the garden with their cat, Cendol. They were adorable, and hard to tell apart if it wasn’t for the fact that Jasmine wore baby blue whilst Yasmine wore a powder yellow. Cendol the cat seemed particularly patient as the girl cuddled and played with him.

“A normal cat would probably have walked away or attacked them by now,” Nisa said whilst she stirred a wonderful smelling soup.

I snorted laughter. “Cendol loves them. They’re like, his siblings.”

Nisa smiled, proudly. “Yes, since day one, the three of them.”

I munched on an apple, and watched as the twins were rolling Cendol around on the grass. The cat just purred contentedly, despite what was clearly a manhandling.

“So Dhani," Nisa said.

“Hm?”

“When is YasJas going to have an aunty to their Uncle Dhani?”

I coughed on a piece of apple. “What?”

“Well,” Nisa laughed. “Thirty year old wealthy young man. Aren’t you dating anybody? Or are you gay? Please tell me if you’re gay.”

“I am not gay,” I said, a little defensively. “Haha. But no, I’m not dating anybody. Not seriously, anyway.”

“Really? There’s been no one special?”

“No, Nisa. No one.”

“You’re not still hung up over your past relationship are you? It’s been four years.”

To this I didn’t answer. Not directly at least. All I said was, “Well maybe I haven’t found the right person.”

“Or maybe you’re choosy, or scared. Or both,” Nisa said. This wasn’t the first time she led me on to this conversation. Sometimes she’d just be joking, but sometimes her tone would take on a serious manner. Like it was now.

“No, Nisa. I’m just not.. well, not there yet, if you know what I mean,” I said.

“I don’t, but I’ll pretend I do,” she said as she wiped sweat from her forehead. I couldn’t help notice how alike we looked, and how, thank God, her twins took after her instead of that bastard father of theirs. “I hope you’ll find someone who can take care of you, Dhani.”

“I’m taking care of myself pretty fine, Nisa.”

“If you know what I mean,” she said, this time smiling sarcastically. “I love you Dhani, and I just wish for the best for you, you know?”

“I know.”

“Who knows, maybe you’re going to find the love of your life. Somewhere out there, anyway. But anyways. Come, call the girls in, let’s eat.”

I called out to Yasmine and Jasmine, who rushed giggling and screaming towards me. Cendol followed, too. We spent the rest of the afternoon playing games with the twins and talking about lots of stuff. But I avoided mentioning anything about relationships.

***

The next Monday I decided to ride my motorcycle to the office. Technically I was on leave, but I had something to finish. Instead of donning my business suit, I just took a shirt and jeans, and wore my motorcycle gear on top. On the bike, it took me less than half an hour circumventing notorious Kuala Lumpur traffic to reach work.

As I walked into the elevator lobby some ladies sent glances my way; two ladies in their hijab and baju kurung, a Chinese woman who looked older but still had lust to spare, and a young Malay girl in a midi-dress who was probably in for an interview at one of the companies that resided in the building. I made a mentol note of her face, in case I bumped into her again. She seemed young, naïve and eager to please. Easy prey for an experienced hunter like me. I made sure, as I entered the elevator, to glance at her and give her a smile. She smiled back, of course, as expected.

The thought of picking her up later crossed my mind. I could use a good suck and fuck. Yesterday’s very brief conversation with Nisa about when I’ll find her an in law was stuck in my head. It left a bad taste. The truth was, I really am not bothered to find a girl to make into a wife. God no.

The thought of marrying someone is so far fetched for me; nowadays I can’t digest the idea of going home to the same person night after night, fucking the same woman night after night after night. Why would I want that? And look what happened to her own marriage. It’s just that, when Nisa mentions it, I can’t help but feel bothered. Anyone else, I’m fine. But not Nisa.

Must be some sort of weird, big sister power.

I reached for the button to close the door, and then I heard a familiar, husky voice say, “Excuse me, wait, sorry.”

It was the girl I saw in HR a couple of weeks ago; the beautiful, Arabesque girl. She stepped into the elevator, turqoise hijab wrapped around her head and neck in the now infamous ‘Hana Tajima’ style, matched to a sky blue kebaya with with matching songket sarong and six-inch, white stiletto heels.

What was her name? Dania? Damia? Yes, Damia. Damiawati Isahak. She glanced at me, registered her recognition, and flashed a smile my way. Her pink lips parted to reveal pearly white teeth.

“Hello,” she said. “Dhani Ibrahim, right, the investment banker?”

She remembered, I thought. Of course, who wouldn’t.

“Hi, Damiawati Isahak. Officially our legal executive now, I suppose?”

“Yes,” she laughed. It was a pretty, musical sound. “It’s just Damia, if you’d like.”

“I’d like that very much, Damia,” I said. Our eyes locked for a moment. Her gray eyes seemed to swirl like a cloudy storm. I almost got lost in them. Then I noticed the elevator wasn’t moving.

“Uhm, it seems that we’ve forgotten to press for our floor,” I said.

“What? Oh, sorry!” she exclaimed. She pressed the button and laughed again. But she didn’t look at me, and as the elevator ascended, we were quiet. She stood about a foot in front of me, to the right. I observed her physique again, noting how superb her proportions are. I wanted to see her face.

“So you live nearby?” I said.

She turned her head. “Quite. I live in Setiawangsa.”

“Oh, so it's the Putra then?”

She shook her head. “No, I drive.” Then she seemed to finally noticed I wasn’t in formal attire. “You’re not working today?”

“I’m on leave, just have somethings I need to finish. I’ll be off before noon, more like.”

“I see,” she said, and turned to the front again. I wanted to see her face. Again.

“When I come back, maybe we can have lunch?” I said, suddenly. In my head, I went, whatthefuck? I’ve never asked ANYONE from work to go out for lunch with me. I always had my lunches alone, or with one of my playthings if I needed an afternoon quickie.

But Damia answered, this time without turning around.

“Maybe.”

A silence ensued until we reached our floors. She got off one floor below me. As she exited the elevator, she turned her head, ever so slightly, towards me. I saw a ghost of smile upon those pink lips. And as the doors closed, I heard her say:

“See you, Dhani Ibrahim.”

Elevator doors closed. Ding. 

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