Interlude: Damia

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It was a cold Kuala Lumpur evening.

As soon as she stepped out of the taxi, Damiawati Isahak peered towards the skies; they were dark, with heavy, pregnant clouds that threatened to burst at any moment. Wild streaks of lightning lit the sky, sending a tingling sensation, thick with ozone, throughtout the atmostphere. Damia shivered as thunder rumbled overhead. Luckily, she has already reached home. She paid the taxi driver and scuttled into the house just as the first hard rain-drops started falling.

“Oh, you’re home already. Thank God, it looks like it’s going to storm,” said Mrs. Dainawati, her mother. Mrs. Daina was reading a paperback novel, sitting comfortably on the sofa. Besides her, Mr. Isahak, Damia’s father, was lying down with one arm over his head, snoring softly. The living room was dim, with only the table-lamps switched on. Damia knew her parents liked it this way. She herself liked it, too. It added a sense of coziness to their house.

The house was an intermediate link-house in Setiawangsa. Damia and her siblings had grown up there ever since they shifted from Penang, twenty-four years ago, when she was only two years old. The house was modestly furnished, cozy and comfortable. Her parents had never thought of moving, despite technically (Damia figured) having the means to do so. For one, Mr. Isahak’s architecture firm was in the heart of KL itself, and so was where Mrs. Daina worked. They were happy there, content, and would likely remain to be for all their lives.

Damia salam-ed her mother, and took care not to disturb her dozing father, before excusing herself to shower and freshen up. She walked upstairs to the room she shared with her sisters; or more accurately, sister. The middle sister, Diannawati, was in the UK, studying accountancy. Her youngest sister, twenty-two year old Dalilawati, a fresh actuarial science graduate still looking for a job, was lying on her tummy on the bed reading a fashion magazine.

“Dating?” Dalila asked, without looking at her eldest sister.

“No la, I just got back from work,” Damia said as she unravelled her hijab. She took off the anak tudung she wore and un-bunned her hair, letting her luscious, long, raven hair fall. She looked in the mirror and noted that her hair was covering her breasts and shoulders already. She intended to keep it longer, maybe waist-length, but was now doubting if she could be patient and not get rimas.

“Not seeing Dhani?” Dalila asked, again not looking at Damia.

“No. Hey, sibuk!” Damia said and tossed the anak tudung on her sisters head. Dalila laughed and threw it back at her.

If one were to look at Damia and both of her sisters, and, for that matter, her brothers (twenty-year-old Isaac, currently doing Chemical Engineering at UTP, and seventeen year old Iskandar, 5 Sc1 SMK Setiawangsa), one could clearly see their family relationship. They were almost identical to each other, bar a few features. All the siblings shared a high forehead, sharply angled eyebrows, the Arabesque nose, fair complexion and of course, the grey eyes that they had inherited from their mother. From Mr. Isahak they inherited their tall statures, delicate fingers, dimples and luscious heads of hair. The parents were proud everytime a relative or friend would quip as to how good-looking the siblings were. And with those looks also came academic and professional excellence, too. All of her siblings were good students.

Damia talked for awhile with her youngest sister. Or rather, Dalila kept asking her about her relationship with Dhani. The truth was the whole family was surprised, albeit pleasantly, when Damia first said that she was seeing someone. Of course, they knew about how her previous relationship had turned sour, and how devastated Damia had been when it happened. Mrs. Daina in particular, was happy that Damia was seeing someone. She had remarked it meant that Damia was healed, and that the past no longer mattered.

Damia left her sister to the magazine and took a long, hot shower. She let the water run through her hair, her face and body. For awhile she just stood below the shower-head, motionless. But her mind was swirling with thoughts. She thought about Dhani Ibrahim.

I love him, Damia thought.

She remembered the day she first came to the firm for her interview, and how she first met Dhani Ibrahim. She had been calm on that day, sure of herself and confident that she would ace the interview. While she had been waiting at the Human Resources department, he had walked in and began talking to the receptionist. Damia had observed the fine, good-looking man. She noted his expensive suit, the calm strides he took as he walked, and that crop of spiked up, but neat, hair. When he had sat down across from her, Damia remembered thinking to herself, this guy is pretty cute. Then they had talked, for that short while, before she had to go for the interview.

The rest, of course, is history.

But what was it about Dhani that made her open up to him?

In truth, she wasn’t sure. Dhani is a very good looking guy, very, but it wasn’t looks that made her fall for him. Amir had been handsome, too. Handsome and athletic, but very alpha-male and slightly masochistic. A bit rough around the edges. Dhani, on the other hand, was good looking in a very mani-pedi-facial way; to be honest, that first time she met him, he had come across as slightly effeminate and – what’s the word? – metrosexual. But yes, Damia had to admit, he was charming; when he had spoken to her there was that sparkle in his eyes, a sparkle that seemed to hint at a wilder, animalistic side to him than what he projected. Was that the appeal? Maybe.

As she let the hot water sooth her tired nerves, her mind wandered off again to her current boyfriend. Dhani was sweet; is sweet. From his mannerisms, Damia knew he’s dated his fair share of girls. She chose not to know to what extent, but Dhani seemed like the kind of guy who would know exactly how to push your buttons… but with her, there was something ‘off’ with the way he did things. It’s almost as if he was learning how to date a girl for the first time, like he was mentally following some weird guidebook or instructions in his head on how to behave as a boyfriend.

Yet she guessed maybe that was what was endearing about Dhani. That awkwardness he tried so hard to hide when they first started to see each other. Almost like he was irritated and angry at himself. But Damia saw it as sweet and honest, and genuinely in an effort to please her. Maybe that was it.

The moment she was sure she liked him, however, was that moment he had caught her crying in the park. She knew he didn’t want to be there, and she saw how uncomfortable he had been in an emotional situation like that. But he had offered her his hand, and she had taken it, and that was the moment when they became really close. Damia thought that she knew she loved him even before he did. When he had confessed that he loved her half a year ago, at that fireworks show in Putrajaya, Damia had accepted it with no questions, because she too, was in love with Dhani at that moment.

Damia squeezed two pumps of shampoo and started to wash her hair. Dhani is sweet, yes, and their relationship had blossomed. The office had gossiped, of course. She thought that some of them were jealous, and come on, what office didn’t have gossip? As long as it didn’t get in the way of work, it was fine by her. Dhani had also brought her to see his sister and his two nieces, who were adorable. She felt comfortable with Dhani. For the first time in over a year, she felt genuinely comfortable.

She let the hot water rinse off the suds from her hair, her hands cupping her breasts protectively. As she did so she thought about that night Dhani had fondled her. What was that? Something he used to do with his exes? Or just plain lust at physical contact? She had been angry at herself for letting Dhani kiss her on the lips, and angrier still that she had enjoyed it. She had been surprised, but not angry, when his hand had slipped to her chest. No, she wasn’t angry that Dhani had touched her like that; what she was angry about was that for that split-second his hand was on her bosom, she had liked it, and had wanted to push her chest into his hands so she could feel the fullness of his hand on it.

That, she was angry about. Luckily for her, she broke away before it had gotten further. She was angry, angry because that was someone she used to be. Not the person she is now.

She finished showering, dried herself and dressed herself in a batik kaftan. She wrapped her long hair in a towel and crashed herself on the bed beside her sister, who muttered something inaudible. Damia lay down, staring at the ceiling. Her thoughts were now on the past; on the Damia she was before. On the Damia that had dated a pilot named Amir.

That Damia didn’t wear a hijab or long, covered apparel when she went out. That Damia wore regular street clothes; t-shirts and blouses, skinny jeans and tights. That Damia had, on more than one occasion, wore tops that revealed ample cleavage (her sisters and her were blessed, or cursed, depending on how you see it, with bountiful, shapely bosoms; must have gotten it from their mother’s side, as well) that, she remembered, she had let Amir poke and prod many times. The memory was painful, but she often relived it as a reminder not to repeat it again.

Before their engagement was called off, before she found out that Amir was fucking left-right and all-around, they had been dating four years. She had given herself to him for the first time at the beginning of the second year as a couple. It had been in that damned apartment in Cyberjaya, the one Amir had gotten from his rich parents. They had been coming home from the F1 race in Sepang, and Amir said he wanted to stop by that apartment to ‘rest’ for awhile. Damia had known exactly what was going to happen in that apartment. And though she would never admit it to anyone if asked, she had wanted it to happen. She was in love, and she believed at the time she’d do anything for Amir. She even remembered that, on the pretense of having gone to an F1 race, she had cut-off denim shorts, and a white tank-top with a red colored bra on that day. Amir had put a hand down her tank-top in the car, then again as they sat on the couch in that apartment, and those clothes had ended up on the floor, and she only put them on again late at night, when she insisted she needed to be back home.

Damia sighed as she lay down and thought about those days. After that day she somewhat led a double life; she’d put on baju kurungs and tudungs as she finished her studies at UIA, then be in baby-tees and jeans whenever she was out and about with Amir. Amir had brought her to the apartment in Cyberjaya at every opportunity they had, and she never once said no. This went on for four years (with no accidents, remarkably, as Amir never used protection), through their engagement that third year, and even during that fourth year, which was the year that birthday ‘surprise’ happened. She remembered how first she thought Amir would have been at his parents house, so had brought a cake there, and when he wasn’t and his parents (and would-have-been inlaws) had told her Amir was in Cyberjaya, she drove there to deliver his cake. She suspected nothing. Part of her had believed that, because Amir and her had such a sexual relationship and that she was in love with him, she was the only one Amir had made love to. Imagine her surprise then, when she had unlocked the door using the spare key Amir had (foolishly, in hindsight) given her, he saw her fiancees naked buttocks and balls slamming against the vagina of this Malay girl with red hair and the fakest eyelashes, who turned out to be her ‘best friend’.

There had been screaming, there had been crying. There had been revelations from her ‘bestie’ that that wasn’t the firs time, and she wasn’t the first or only girl. There had been weeks and months of intense arguments, pleading, and all sorts of conflict. But in the end, she could not forgive him. The furthest they got as a means of amendment was the promise that they’d reveal nothing about their physical relationship to both sets of parents; he would keep secret that they’ve had sex, and she would keep secret that he was fucking girls left and right.

With the support of her family, the engagement was called off, and Amir had become a wreck of his former self. From time to time, he still pleaded with her, which made her have to change contact numbers many times.

That was over a year ago. Almost two years ago.

Within that time, she took it upon herself to change; not who she was, but how she’d live. She might not be able to change who she was, or what she’d done, but she could become a better person in the future. So Damia prayed more, asked for His forgiveness, and though it took months, she found peace with herself. She began wearing the hijab, and mostly covered up her well-shaped body. Of course, she was also slightly vain about her looks, therefore she wanted too, to be stylish. And it worked. She begin a life as the new Damiawati Isahak, who dressed stylishly while also covering up; she focused on work and now found success again.

And found love again in the shape of Dhani Ibrahim.

This time her thoughts turned happy. She even smiled to herself, which earned her a bonk! on the face with a pillow, courtesy of Dalila.

“Hey!” Damia called out. “What gives?”

“You. Smiling by yourself. Weirdo,” said Dalila.

“Let me be.”

Dalila raised an eyebrow. “Thinking about Dhani?”

Damia felt her cheeks flush. “Yes. Dhani.” Dalila rolled her eyes. “Untung la bercinta.”

They laughed. Yet Damia knew her sister was right; untunglah bercinta. After Amir she thought she’d might as well give up. She was tainted by her experience. She came to the firm to work, to make her mark. She found love, as well. She thought of all the nice things, wonderful things Dhani has done for her in the past half a year or so. Those lovely meals they have together, the text and phone conversations, the teasing and laughter they passed back and forth; her hand slipping into his and how she could rest her head on his shoulder. Even the touch of his lips on hers for that brief, sinful moment. And how, even after telling him about her most personal secret, he still chose to love her and be with her.

She had concluded that Dhani Ibrahim was someone special. That is was right to be in love with him, to love him.

Maybe Dhani could even be the one I will be with for the rest of her lives, she told herself. I pray that this love does not go astray. I love you, Dhani Ibrahim.

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