Chapter 18

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After that faux pas a few days ago, I did what any man in his right mind would: I kept quiet, and swore that Damia would never find out. There was no way, ever, that I would tell her what happened. She wouldn’t tolerate it.

Besides, it’s not like I’m lying. Truly, I’m not. Masking truth by not telling is NOT the same as lying. Lying is telling someone a made up statement or story. Masking truth is simply not conveying what actually transpired. Anway, she wouldn’t ask me anything.

What Damia don’t know, won’t hurt her.

I surprised myself to my reaction to her past. I didn’t even know how she could fathom the guts to tell me the truth. I think other girls would have done what I did; mask the truth. But I also wondered if that action of being honest was bravery or foolishness.

I guess I believe that honesty has it’s time and place. Sometimes, truth really isn’t good enough. If truth hurts more than it heals, then why bother, right? I suppose Damia thought by telling me the truth, it’d be better for her. IN what way, I do not know. There is a degree of flattery by her choosing to tell me so… but it doesn’t mean that it doesn’t bug the shit out of me.

For the record, I was under no illusion of Damia’s ‘sanctity’. Everyone has skeletons in their closets. Like I mentioned before, my… uh, my annoyance to the matter was that I felt like I should have been the first to have tasted her. Knowing someone got there first triggered this insane jealousy within me.

But her regret was genuine. And I had to respect her for that. For one, I genuinely loved her. I loved her like I’ve loved no other before. I made a lapse in judgement a few nights ago, yes. But in my defence, I wasn’t in a correct state of mind. And immediately, I had regretted my actions, and I vowed never to repeat them again.

I believe that my love I have for Damia, and her love for me, will endure. It’s about time that I turn a new leaf. I should be ready to be the man she deserves; the man that would love and cherish her. I should be the man that would take care of her always.

Things became normal again almost straight away. I buried my mistake deep into the recesses of my memory, and Damia, too, had seemingly shaken off any inkling of her past. We were a loving, close couple again, free from worry and with all the world laid out in front for us to step into. The more days I spent with her, the better things got.

Damia even introduced me to her family; one Friday night she had invited me over to her house, where her mother, Mrs. Daina, had prepared a simple but sumptious spread and I had dinner with her whole family, including her middle sister that was studying overseas, Dianna, who was on Summer vacation. I remarked how alike her siblings and her looked, even if secretly (and by default, rather) I thought Damia was still the prettiest. Mr. Isahak, her father, was amiable if a bit quiet. Her brothers took to me quite well; I even let them test drive the BMW, much to their delight.

By the end of that night, we had coffee on the porch while Mr. Isahak smoked a pipe, and the sisters gossiped. I felt oddly… comfortable.

Perhaps there was a place waiting for me in her world.

My own family, too, was getting more comfortable with Damia. Especially the twins; every Sunday I came by without Damia, they’d hound me and pull at my shirt and ask me “ManaauntyDamiamanaauntyDamiawherewherewhere?”. I had to carefully explain to them that their Aunty Damia wasn’t always available to see them on Sundays; the first time I did so they broke into tears and asked me “Aunty Damia doesn’t like us?”.

When I had told this to Damia, she came over right away that next Sunday, and the twins had gone running to her, hugged her and almost pinned her down. Nissa was very happy. She liked Damia, and Damia liked her.

And when I saw Damia playing with the twins and clearly loving the moment, and seeing the twins loving her like she was already family, I thought to myself… maybe we belonged in each others world; maybe we were meant to be. Maybe we could even be family.

It was with this thought in my head one day that I walked alone into Cartier at KLCC, and came out with a diamond ring.

“Nissa,” I said to my sister one rainy Sunday morning. The twins were still sleeping so I took this opportunity to have a talk with Nissa. She was slicing boiled eggs for the nasi lemak; she made the best nasi lemak. I could smell the fragrance of pandan and coconut milk and the spicy sambal bubbling away on the stove.

“What? Help me cut the cucumber,” she said, handing me the vegetable. I started to slice it, lengthwise, then into semi-circles.

“I have something to show you,” I said as I finished. I wiped my hands on a kitchen towel, dug into my pocket and took out a small, square, velvet hinged box. I opened the lid and showed it to Nissa. She gasped when she saw the Louis Cartier solitaire ring.

“Dhani Ibrahim, are you joking?” Nissa said, and took the box from me. “It’s beautiful. It must have cost you your kidney or something. Do you still have a pair of kidneys? What organ did you sell?”

I laughed. “My internal organs are intact, thankfully. But I’m not joking. I… I feel ready for this, Nissa. I feel it is time.”

“You’ve only been together, what, eight? Nine months?” Nissa said, trying to be cautious, though I could read her like a book and her eyes were telling me she was glad, thankful and hopeful.

“Yes, maybe. But I love her. I love Damia with all my heart, and I want to be with her for all time. I’m not going to play around anymore. I want her to be mine, for real, for sure.”

Nissa held her hands to her heart, then embraced me. “Then I pray that you two will have every happiness.”

I hugged her back, fiercely, suddenly remembering how much she’s done for me. I understood now, how she felt responsible for me ever since our parents died. In that moment, I realized just how much we’ve stuck together over the years, and just how much she’s looked out for me.

“I love you, Nissa. I needed your blessing,” I said as we broke the hug.

“I love you too, little brother,” she said with tears in her eyes. She wiped them, and said, “So when do you intend on proposing? Don’t you want to do it the old fashioned way, with the merisik and stuff?”

“Haha,” I laughed. “Well, I guess I’m going to ask her first; then I’ll go see the parents.”

“But you’re okay with her family, right?”

“Yes.”

“That’s good. I’m happy for you, Dhani. This is the right thing to do,” she said and handed me back the ring. “Jasmine and Yasmine will be ecstatic too. They’ll get their Aunty Damia, haha.”

But first, I needed to plan this out.

Damia’s birthday would be coming up next month, in November. I intended to propose on that date. TO this effect, I began to hatch a plan. The proposal, MY proposal, must go off without a hitch. I needed it to be perfect, with no glitches or flaws.

“Shar,” I called my secretary into the office one day. “See me inside, please.”

Sharmini came inside and I asked her to lock the door. She gave me a concerned look. “Is something going on, Mr. D?”

“Actually, yes. And I want you to swear to me that this will remain our secret. If a word of anything that I’ll be talking to you about reaches outside this room, I’m going to have you fired and make you work for Restoran Pelita as a cigarette girl,” I said.

“Okay,” she laughed. “I get it. Secret. But what about? You’re talking like this is some sort of mission with spies and all.”

“I’m going to ask Damia to marry me,” I said. Sharmini was going to squeal something when I told her to hush! Be quiet!

“That’s so sweet! Oh Em Gee!” she said.

“You think? But anyway, I need you to help me plan a proposal. So, eh, write this down…”

She took out her tablet.

We spent about an hour thinking about the plan: venue, location, music, food, décor. We came out with a list of places and gifts and everything that I needed to make the proposal memorable and wonderful for both Damia and I. Then we spent another hour making calls and deciding.

In my head, I wanted Damia and I to be at a secluded, quiet place. Maybe restaurant, maybe even a private table near a lakeside or beachside or whatever. I wanted it to be as romantic as possible. I imagined there’d be a string quartet that would play her favorite songs when I went down on one knee for her. The food would have to be lovely, too.

It would, must, be, a perfect night.

Because on that night, I intend to surrender my life and love to her; and she deserves nothing less than the absolute best.

*