by Io
Penang, 1938.
A woman stood in an apartment above the busy streets of central Georgetown.
The afternoon was alive with the sound of trishaws rattling against the cobbled roads, the wafting smell of spices stained the humid air, making its way into her room. Years had passed since she first arrived in this land, but the droplets forming on her hands and face still held memories of the spraying seawater that pelted her during the journey. Sweat, heavy like the child she carried in her, trickled down the grooves in her face as the tropical sun spilt its light through the wooden shutters, illuminating the darkness in her small sanctuary. And despite the undisturbed layer of dust that had settled on the empty shelves, the cramped room faithfully served as her home.
Slowly, she walked through her apartment and sat by a rocking chair that cleverly faced the open window. Her gaze turned towards the azure sky, her chair swinging to the rhythm of city streets beneath as the woman caressed her growing belly. It was a lazy afternoon; merchants chatted amongst each other while customers found respite in the shade cast by their large rattan parasols. A few found their way into the tailor shop below her, their conversations creeping through the floorboards. The owner swiftly started pushing and pleading them to try out exotic silks or new batik prints. She had heard this exchange many times as she sold her ornately designed cheongsams that soon grew too tight against the swell of her stomach. Her dresses were passed around by gawking customers until the delicate silk slowly frayed from being tugged on by greedy hands. Her heart ached whenever she sold those pieces of herself with a smile whilst feeling the weight of coins inside her palm. Bit by bit, she gave herself away until barely anything remained. All that was left was a small jade piece she kept inside a candy tin hidden in the back of her closet, small and carved into the shape of a teardrop. The red string tied around the pendant was now loose and unraveled, with threads that barely held everything together. It had frayed along with everything else. The memory of the day she received it from her mother served as a memento of the life and people she left behind. But to the woman, it was a cruel memory from a crueler time. Her mother’s harsh tongue was an ocean away and now all she had was a cheap stone and resentment to remember her by. Those memories lingered as constant as the buzzing mosquitoes outside her wooden shutters, and her thoughts lingered into the hazy evening.
By the time sunset had stained the sky with turmeric gold and flashes of purple, the city roared to life. Most were out, mingling with strangers and sharing drinks on the roadside. As people streamed in and out of the streets, kicking up clouds of dust that coated their pants and skirts, the woman remained by her window. A knock on the door broke her stare on the group of well-dressed men in suits stumbling their way out of a coffee shop. One of the men who saw her transfixed gaze tipped his hat at her before running off with a cheeky grin on his face. The years hadn’t treated her kindly, and as she stood floor-bound, she wondered whether the man who gave her this child also looked out of his window with longing for a partner himself. If she were younger, perhaps the night would have been spent dancing through the streets and finding someone to warm her bed—a ridiculous thought, but it made her giggle nonetheless. On the other side of the door, she was greeted by an old man who she recognized was her neighbor. Before she knew it, she had invited him along with his elderly wife into her apartment and seated them on a small circular dining table. With only a few pieces of chipped china left, she prepared a simple dinner of porridge and pickled greens under the observant watch of her guests who spoke softly to each other in a language she couldn’t recognize. Attempts to converse with them revealed nothing, but the jagged scar that ran down the old woman’s face and slight tremor in her voice told her all she needed to know. The cruelty of men had a firm grasp on many women’s pasts, and the woman couldn’t help but offer her silent condolences to a fellow survivor. Friends were a scarce commodity in the city, and fate always had a strange way of bringing the desperate together.
Suddenly, as she was setting the table, a crash echoed through the room. She spun around with a firm hand instinctively rested on her stomach. Coins and bills lay sprawled on the floor, a tin can rolling across the wooden floor. Although startled, quiet scuttling revealed the furry culprit whose beady eyes met hers for a brief moment before it retreated past the reaches of the candlelight. Groaning, the woman staggered from her seat and attempted to pick up the money, slowly counting the little that was left. It wasn’t much; just enough to last until the baby came. Although the woman considered working a little longer, her body was not what it used to be after so many years. It was forged by the struggles that came with motherhood, and made to survive life in the city. The long hours of work grew calluses on her hand and distance between her and her children. Brought to a strange land where the only constant was the green of the palm trees and the sweltering sun, it was no surprise that one by one, they left. They returned to their own homes, while she tried so desperately to build her own. When this child came, would they too join the hustle and bustle of this city, or abandon everything for another just like she once had?
As the woman prepared an apology about the mess, a reassuring hand reached out from the dark and landed atop her shoulder. She turned to see the elderly lady looking at her, warm light dancing across her face and a gentle smile fixed on her face. The silence that hung between them said more than words ever could. The woman had seen that smile before. It was the smile of someone who recognized her suffering; the smile of someone who once had to live by making the same sacrifices; someone who promised her everything would be okay. It was the same smile her mother had that day on the docks as she sent her daughter off into the world for a final time. Slowly, her facade slipped, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t stop her disingenuous smile from trembling and the tears welling in her eyes from cascading like a waterfall down her face. With it, a heart-wrenching sob escaped from her throat, unleashing more anger, fear and sadness than any woman should be forced to bear. And as the moon crept higher into the inky black sky, the old woman never once removed her hand from the woman’s shoulder as she stood steady against the crashing waves of sorrow.
And so the woman wept. She wept for the old lady and her scar that symbolized her fight for survival. She wept for the beautiful and cruel world that she was bringing her child into. And most importantly, the woman wept for herself. Her life. Her pain. Her family. Her tears wouldn’t change anything, she repeatedly reminded herself—the past was already written in stone, and yet she couldn’t seem to stop her voice from ringing through the night. However, beneath it all, her tears represented something else. Each drop that fell was filled with her hopes, her dreams, and her future. She longed for a place to call her own, where her child would grow up healthy, happy, and loved. She wished to grow old surrounded by people she loved and who loved her back. And finally, she wished that she would see her mother again. Even the city seemed to shudder in acknowledgment of her determination and quiet declaration to not only survive but live.
That night was just like any other, but for the woman who cried in the heart of Georgetown, it was her first step towards home.