The Weight of Our Sky(18)

He pauses to gulp down some water. “On my drive, I saw columns of smoke rising from different neighborhoods—Dato Keramat, Chow Kit. The city is burning, and who knows when it will stop?”

There is silence at the table. Vince is poking at his food with his chopsticks, deep in thought; Frankie is chewing furiously, his brows furrowed. Auntie Bee’s eyes are closed, one hand over her mouth as though to keep her thoughts from spilling out. When she finally speaks, it’s in a whisper.

“Why is this happening?” she says.

Uncle Chong sighs. “Hard to say, ah Bee,” he replies. “You know lah, the government will say it’s the Communists at work. Who knows? They could be right. But I think the truth is that this has been brewing for a long time, ever since we were working to gain our independence in fifty-seven. The Malays resent the Chinese for taking over the urban areas, getting rich while so many of them remain poor in the kampongs. . . .”

“As if that is our fault.” Frankie sniffs. “Who asked them to be so lazy?”

Uncle Chong goes on as if he hasn’t even spoken. “The government was divided even then. Some shouting about preserving ketuanan Melayu—Malay supremacy. Some trying to push for a Malaysian Malaysia, not just a Malay one. Some insisting the Chinese need to protect our own interests. And the Indians are left to gather whatever scraps they can. How do you expect unity to grow from seeds of self-interest? Look at those riots in Penang last year. . . .”

The Djinn’s ears perk up at this, and he begins to pound gleefully on my heart, each thud echoing loudly in my ears. The riots in Penang, he says. Don’t those sound familiar? I hate that he speaks. I hate that he reminds me. I don’t need reminding. The hartal riots were how Abah died. And now Mama will die the same way, the Djinn crows. Isn’t that sweet?

I can feel my cheeks burning. I zero in on my food bowl and begin to count all the grains of rice I can see, but only the perfectly white ones, untouched by even the merest hint of sauce or gravy. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven . . . Around me, the conversation continues.

“But why, though?” Vince says, his voice rising. “Why now? When did it get so bad? My friends and I, we’re all different races, nobody says, Oh, you’re Chinese, we can’t be friends, or Oh, you’re Malay, guess you’re on your own, then. That’s stupid.”

“Some Malays—not all of you, my dear,” he says reassuringly as he glances at me, “some Malays think the government has been giving the Chinese too much face.”

“What does that mean?” Vince asks, frowning.

“It means they feel that they welcomed us into the country and in return we take from them—jobs, land, money—and the government doesn’t do anything to stop it.”

“But that’s stupid,” Frankie interjects. “This isn’t Tanah Melayu anymore. This is Malaysia. When they declared independence from the British twelve years ago, it wasn’t just the hard work of the Malays that did it, it was everyone—Malays, Chinese, Indians, everyone.”

I’m too busy counting rice grains to focus properly on what he’s saying, but somewhere in the dim recesses of my head where the Djinn doesn’t lurk, I remember my history teacher Puan Aminah pointing out the obvious Hindu influences in the ruling kingdoms of ancient Kedah, the marriage of the sultan of Malacca to the Chinese princess Hang Li Po. “Do not ever let anyone tell you that you do not belong here,” she had said, looking at us intently. “We all do. There is space for us all.” Saf had leaned against me then—history always made her sleepy—and I remember so clearly the smell of her hair and the way it brushed against my face that I almost burst out in sobs right then and there.

Instead, I tap furiously against my knees, willing the tears away. I wonder if those men in the cinema, or the ones shouting Allahu akbar in the streets, were ever taught the same lessons.

Uncle Chong leans back in his seat, taking off his glasses and running his hand over his eyes. “You are right, son,” he says slowly. “But when you are fighting for your rice bowl, you don’t think about how many hands were needed to grow the grain. You only think about who’s out to steal your portion. Do you see?”

The room is silent while everyone else contemplates Uncle Chong’s words and I contemplate my own ever-moving fingers, intent on not losing count.

“I think I prefer the Communists,” Auntie Bee says suddenly, and we all look at her. She shrugs. “What? Better an outside force we can unite against rather than the bickering that divides us from within.”

? ? ?

We have barely finished the dinner we pretend to enjoy so as not to hurt Auntie Bee’s feelings when it begins. From outside come the sounds of bangs, crashes, yells. Auntie Bee’s face is pale. “Frankie, go and make sure the door is locked,” Uncle Chong says, his face grim. “The gate, no need. Don’t go outside. Vincent, you check the windows. Make sure everything is secure.”

When they return, the five of us huddle around the large transistor radio in the living room, and through the crackle of incessant static we hear the words “emergency” and “twenty-four-hour curfew.”

“What does that mean, Ba?” Vincent asks his father, who is pacing up and down the room, lost in thought.

“Hmm? It means we can’t go out. We can’t leave the house.” Uncle Chong rubs his forehead, sighing.