The Minorities by Suffian Hakim

Author:Suffian Hakim
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-981-46-5528-6
Publisher: Epigram Books
Published: 2019-01-28T16:00:00+00:00

To most, Changi heralded images of a state-of-the-art airport known for its clockwork efficiency and the kind of cleanliness that could transcend godliness. But there was a side of Changi that hid in the shadows. This side had military bases and colonial-era structures and decrepit residential buildings and Pakcik Dollah’s bookstore. This was the side we sped along—the five of us in my mother’s Toyota—and then we went even further. Shanti sat next to me. In the back seat, Diyanah was sandwiched between Cantona and Tights. My occasional peeks into the rear-view mirror revealed that Diyanah was positively enthralled by all this. Her gaze followed every car, climbed every tree from trunk to crown, and reached to the height of the blue sky above.

She was the first to speak when we reached Changi. “Something’s wrong.”

“What is?”

“That black car has been following us,” said Diyanah worriedly. Sure enough, there was a sleek black Audi behind us. It looked familiar, but black Audis were not a rare sight in Singapore.

“Singapore is small,” I said to Diyanah. “The chances that a car took the same route as us to reach a rather limited set of destinations is…I can’t do the maths. Cantona?”

“I don’t know how many roads and destinations there are in Singapore,” he replied.

“I can’t give a definitive answer.”

“He was following us from your home,” Diyanah said.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” I said. I turned the wheel and brought the car into a small lane—an old shortcut to the Old Changi Hospital. Sure enough, the car sped past behind us. “See? Nothing to worry about.”

After about two bumpy minutes on the dirt road, we reached the whitewashed survivor of British colonialism—the abandoned, unused Old Changi Hospital. Even now, in the light of day, it looked foreboding and sinister. Its white façade, framed by decaying wood, seemed to invite passers-by to enter and be swallowed by the secrets hidden inside. We followed the crumbling road that led to its main entrance as dead leaves rustled underneath. I parked by the entrance, and wondered for a mad moment if I would be fined by the traffic police for doing so.

Through the rusty metal gates, Diyanah led us into a dusty lobby where we treaded on dead leaves strewn all over the floor. At a singular receptionist’s table, yellowed, cobwebbed files littered its surface.

Diyanah stood before it. She cleared her throat and recited aloud into the emptiness, “Saya benar-benar mahu melihat anda, saya benar-benar mahu bersama anda, saya benar-benar mahu melihat anda, tetapi ia mengambil masa yang terlalu lama.”

“What was that?” Shanti asked.

I laughed. “The lyrics to George Harrison’s ‘My Sweet Lord’, translated to Malay.”

“Our administrator is a huge fan,” Diyanah explained.

“Any chance your administrator was a grumpy Malay man when he was living? Became a ghost earlier this year?”

“Dude, there are many people out there who were fans of George Harrison,” Cantona muttered testily. “Your father wasn’t the only one.”

I wanted to retort, and I wanted to retort very harshly. But Diyanah spoke before I could.

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