The Weight of Our Sky(30)

“JS for Jagdev Singh,” he says, following the direction of my gaze. “Although when my wife is angry with me, she says it stands for Jolly Stupid!” I laugh then, and suddenly feel better.

“I don’t suppose you want this back. . . .”

He looks at the crumpled square in my hand and grimaces. “You keep it,” he says. “I have plenty more.”

“Let’s go,” Vince says, looking up and down the street. “We have some eggs to collect.”

“How egg-citing!” Jay says, grinning.

“How long is this going to go on, Jagdev?” Vince asks him.

“I dunno, Vince, I think some jokes are egg-xactly what we need right now,” I tell him, and Jay laughs delightedly as we make our way toward Klang.

? ? ?

As we drive on, we pass shiny red trucks laden with men in blue-and-red uniforms bearing stout truncheons—“FRU,” Jay explains to me. “Federal Reserve Unit, the riot police”—and roadblocks staffed by armed guards who demand our credentials. Each time, Vince shows them the curfew pass, and we’re waved on. Once, we are asked to submit to a search of the vehicle, so we stand by patiently and I count off the seconds in my head as an overzealous army officer pokes among our bags of rice, medical supplies, and other provisions, hoping, I suppose, to unearth secret weapons.

“Do you have to do that? We’re just taking food to people who need it,” says Vince. “Can’t be too careful,” the young man says, flashing us a grin. “We need to make sure you aren’t a danger. We are here to protect the people.” And he sticks his bayonet right into a bag, piercing it through so that rice spills from the jagged tear, all over the floor of Jay’s car.

On my right, a sharp intake of breath from Jay, though he doesn’t say a word; on my left, Vince narrows his eyes and I can tell how furious he is. It’s difficult not to be. Times are scarce, and one bag of rice could get a family or two through many a long hard week.

Finally, after sixty-seven sets of three and at least two scenarios where my mother has died excruciating deaths, we’re told to load our things back up and move on. “All clear,” the man says, with another grin and a thumbs-up.

“Thank you,” Vince says.

The man looks at him. “Thank you, sir,” he says.

Vincent takes in a sharp breath, and I bite my bottom lip so hard I taste blood.

“Thank you, sir.”

? ? ?

When we finally reach Klang, we have no problem finding the abandoned lorry exactly where the owner says he left it. By some miracle, not a single egg inside it is smashed. “Everyone we meet is going to be so egg-static to see these,” Jay says, and even Vince cracks a smile. He hasn’t spoken a word since we left the roadblock.

We split up then, the better to get supplies to more people. We divide the spoils, Jay taking the lorry, Vince taking over driving duties in the car, and me sliding into the front seat to keep him company. Our next stop, he tells me, is a row of houses near Sentul.

When we arrive at the first home, we’re greeted with glad cries by the occupants: a young Indian woman who says her name is Mala, and her white-haired mother, wrapped in a shabby green sari. “I’m so glad you are here,” Mala says, clapping her hands at the sight of the rice and the eggs we bring to her door. “We need your help. Please come inside.”

Vince and I trade glances. “Of course, ma’am,” he says politely. As we follow behind her, he leans in. “Be careful, and stay close to me.”

Inside, a man lays sprawled on a mat on the floor, the back of his head sporting a large bandage. He sits up when he sees us, eyes wild and poised to flee, or attack—I can’t tell which. “It’s all right, Roslan,” Mala says gently, and he calms at the sound of her voice.

“He was running away,” she explains to us. “He tripped right in front of our house and banged his head against a rock. I was peeping out the window and saw him. So I quickly pulled him inside before anyone could see him.”

I smile. “You are very kind.”

She dips her head gracefully, too shy to acknowledge the compliment. “The thing is, he doesn’t want to stay here. He wants to go home.”

“Please,” the man says, his voice hoarse. “Please. I’d like to go home to my family.”

“All right,” Vince says slowly. “So what’s the problem?”

Mala clears her throat. “The problem is that Roslan lives in Segambut. He’s worried that he’ll be hurt on the way from here to there.” She catches my eye. “There are a lot of . . . unfriendly . . . areas for him to pass by.”

Vince catches on faster than I do. “Chinese areas?” he says.

“Areas that may not be . . . as friendly toward a big Malay man walking on his own.”

There is a silence as we all take this in. Roslan trembles, and Mala’s mother totters to the kitchen, returning with a cup of hot tea. She sits beside him on the floor, stroking his back softly while he sips at it. The green and gold threads of her sari shimmer as she moves.

And that’s when it hits me.

“A sari,” I say aloud. “We need a sari.”

“What?” Vince looks at me like I’ve sprouted horns.

“We could dress him in a sari. I mean, look at him.” Everyone turns to look, and Roslan shrinks a little from the weight of our gazes. “He’s dark—tall, but not impossibly tall for a woman. He can drape the shawl over his head so nobody sees his bandage. And if he rides in the back with them”—I gesture at the two women—“it’ll look like we’re just driving a group of Indian ladies somewhere. No Malays in sight.”