You may hate or like this story - whatever it is, this has been most therapeutic for me.
The characters in this story? Well, Zak is real. He is of course, a combination of many personalities, but as a person, he is real. He exists. Hah! wonder if you can guess who....Eza is something like me, but not me. Well, not always. Especially the part at the madrasah. That's the part where you'll find a little bit of this person, a little bit of that. :) This story does refer to persons still alive, so if you think you know some of the characters, or think you are one of them, well, maybe you're right!!!
So, here goes...
The past is sometimes remembered with such clarity, that it seemed only yesterday that the events happened, only yesterday we saw that special smile, those precious tears and that special person. It is a cliché oft told, that the past is always looked upon with lenses of rose and gold and nothing can quite replace it. Nothing…
I wish I could say that this is a biography. It is not. Life was a beautiful journey for me, but not as rose coloured and eventful as what I am writing now. I am pretty much an ordinary person. I wish too that I could say that this is fictional. It is not. Most, if not all of it, is based on my experiences and narrated as seen from my perspective. The characters are mostly, if not all, real – based on people who have come and gone in my life or still form a part of it now. Reality it is not. Nor is it fantasy. I guess, in the end, this is something one has to do lest one forgets…and I certainly do not want to forget…….
@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
Primary days
I still remember the first time Zak stepped into the classroom. That was when all of us were in primary four. He was a transfer-in student from our neighbouring country, and like all transfers cases, became a curiosity to all of us. As he stepped into the classroom on that sweet, cool morning, he looked very unsure – he was short and small for his age and had this slight stoop which made him look even shorter. What I remembered most was his complexion, he was darker than the rest of us, with downcast eyes and a very nervous, shy smile. Oh! What a smile it was! I have never seen a boy smiled like that before! Foreign transfers in have a reputation of being, well, slightly not as bright as we were and I remember feeling a pang of pity – was this boy like the rest – very blur and very dull? Our English teacher must have felt the same as me for she looked very kindly at this ten- year old boy. Zak, from the moment he stepped into my life, has always commanded attention. In his quiet, unassuming way was attractiveness that girls would swoon and endeared him to them.
Did I swoon for him? Not at that time. I was what one would call a tomboy, before that word today has become tainted to refer to something else much, much more sinister. During my time, a ‘tomboy’ is simply a girl who is well, more of the outdoor type than the normal girl is. A ‘tomboy’ is a girl who doesn’t mind getting her dresses dirtied by the mud, who would rather play football with the boys than be under a shady tree, dreaming of Prince Charming –yucks!!!! I wasn’t so tall myself, yet I still towered over Zak. I was what one might call ‘petite’ and I enjoyed deluding people who thought I might just be blown away by the wind. They always underestimated my speed on the field, or the power in my hand as I hit the hockey ball gleefully into the goalpost. I am darker than my sister and have always considered myself somebody whom you would not give a second look if you pass her on the street. People always mistaken me as a non-Malay, many saying it wasn’t my dark skin that added to the illusion – it was also my features. I do have a sharper nose than my sis and my hair was not really black – when the sun caught it at a certain angle, my hair is well, not exactly black. I have been mistaken as an Indian girl, and at best, a Eurasian. Both of which did not affect me much. My preoccupation has always been with sports. Where my childhood peers, the girls, played ‘masak-masak’ – pretending to be good cooks and loving housewives, I was with my male cousins, becoming their goalkeeper. My legs and arms were always with bruises – I was always bumping against the wall or other as I ran down the class corridor, or as I kicked boys like Imran for daring to touch the ball I was playing with. I was rather bossy too – no, I AM bossy, a legacy to all first-born. A bit of a busybody, ‘mak kepo’, should you say. And boy, do I love to tease! Boys would run away from me because of my teasings. I remember looking incredulously at this male classmate burst out crying because I said he walked like a crab and looked like a shark. Well, it’s true! He still does now, even after all those years! I shrugged, I wasn’t bullying them – just having fun! What’s wrong with having a bit of fun??? Zak was not spared either. In fact, he became my favourite boy to tease. I don’t know why. Maybe because I was taller than him and he looked so – alien!! U-huh!
“Did you come from Trengganu? I heard the girls are very beautiful, but the guys are as dark as you!!”
“Eh! Your English is so Malaysian lah!”
“Why you walk like that, eh? You’ll never hit the doorway even if you jump!???”
And so on and so forth. My teasings were greeted with the same winsome smile and a livid face which became livider depending on the embarrassment he felt and the ‘offensiveness’ of my teasing. I would have teased him more, if not for the sharp eyes and frowning face of Cikgu Ruzina, who would turn into a lioness every time she saw any of us even gave a boy a glance. You see, she was from the old school where boys played rough and girls were demure and smiled and talked in hushed tones. She found me rather annoying and would reserve her most awesomely furious expression for me. Yup. Just for me.
End of Chapter 1
