Raya. A time for family. A time for celebration. A time for forgiveness.
At least that's what advertisements keep saying. I've never believed in advertisements. People have a way of making things seem much better than they really are.
I slouch on the sofa beside Abah, whose face is hidden behind the newspaper. Since he retired, this has been his routine, every day at ten in the morning. He even sits in the same position: leaning back with his right ankle on his left knee, the newspaper opened wide in front of him. The only difference is today he's wearing a navy-blue baju melayu, complete with a silver-threaded songket and a blue-black songkok.
Mira is lying on her belly in front of me, her head propped up using a cushion folded in half. She's fourteen, but she hasn't outgrown Raya morning cartoon specials. Tika is beside her, in exactly the same position. Identical twins. I can never understand them. They're wearing matching baju kurung, with white floral-prints on a navy-blue base. Ibu is wearing the same thing, only she's tailored hers into a kebaya instead of baju kurung.
Guess what I'm wearing. Yep. Even at twenty-two, I'm wearing baju melayu that matches the rest of my family, with a songket the exact pattern Abah has. But I refuse to wear a songkok, and after years of squabbling with my parents, it's my one small victory. Not that I have a say in this 'Raya uniform' matter. Six months before Raya, Ibu had already bought swaths of linen and silk to be sent to her tailor. She does this every year. To the same tailor who's been sewing our attires since I was four.
Guess how old she is.
I play 'Patapon' on my PSP, partly because I'm not into the cartoon the girls are watching--Barbie or Tinkerbell, with fairies prancing around--and partly because I have no choice but to sit here in the living area. Raya is a time for family, remember? Ibu is in the kitchen preparing a proper breakfast with Bibik. Her name is Kartika, but I've called her Bibik since I first learned to talk. Ibu said Bibik was my first word. Guess how disappointed she was. Bibik's our nanny and maid, but none of us see her that way. She's more like an aunt, a permanent fixture in the house. Ibu even ordered a baju kurung for her that matches the other ladies in the house.
The spicy scent of beef rendang being heated on the stove wafts into the living area. My stomach growls. I've had some lemang with serunding before going to the mosque at eight-thirty for the Eidulfitri prayer, but lemang doesn't taste right with floss beef. I can also catch a whiff of lontong and kuah kacang. We used to eat them with ketupat, but since none of us had deigned to learn the art of coconut-leaf-weaving from my late grandparents, we have to settle for instant rice cakes.
"Ibu," I call out without taking my eyes off the PSP. "Can we eat now?"
"Yeah, can we?" say Mira and Tika at the same time. Twins, I tell you.
"In a bit," Bibik says. You'd think, after over twenty years living here, Bibik's Javanese accent would have been obliterated. But no. Her Malay still has a certain twang.
"I'm hungry!" I say. And I'm not kidding.
Abah chuckles, sending the newspaper shaking.
"Abang," Tika suddenly says, kicking my shin. "Isn't that Kak Intan?"
The mere mention of her name sends my heart thumping. But I play it cool. "Where?" I ask, feigning nonchalance. I've been getting better at it, of late.
"TV," Mira answers.
I move my head a fraction to look at the LED TV bolted onto the wall. Play it cool.
Remember what I said about advertisements making things look better than they really are?
Scrap that.
Intan looks exactly as I remember her, even with her subtle makeup and her loose curls oh-so-professionally done. In this advertisement she's wearing a peach summer dress that accents her lean figure. The guys are ogling after her. Of course they are. This is Intan I'm talking about.
The same Intan who broke my heart when she ended our relationship after graduating from secondary school.
I've seen her in TV commercials and on billboards. She's the 'it' girl in KL fashion scene. I even heard MTV scouts had approached her last year. Because MTV VJs are all Eurasians. But she turned them down. She wanted to concentrate on her modelling career.
Of course I know all this about her even though we haven't spoken for almost four years. This is Intan I'm talking about. I've followed her web presence like a bloodhound.
I'm pathetic. I know.
"Let her go, Fiq," Abah says.
I turn to look at him. The newspaper half facing me has been dog-eared inward so that Abah can look at me directly. His face is stren, but he has that look that tells me he understands.
"I have," I say. I turn oh-so-slowly back toward the TV.
No matter how much you tell yourself you've moved on, there will always be that one person who makes your heart flutter whenever you hear their name being uttered, when you catch a glimpse of them, however fleeting.
For me, Intan is 'it'. She has always been my 'it' girl, way before the world discovered her. And she always will be.
Within seconds the advertisement ends, and another one takes over. The story of my life.
"Food's ready," Ibu calls out from the kitchen.
The girls are the first to rise. They scamper like six-year-olds to the dining table. Abah folds his newspaper neatly and places it on the coffee table. I stay glued on the sofa, my PSP forgotten on my lap.
"You'll find another girl," Abah whispers and squeezes my shoulder.
"You're right," I say. I smile at him.
But what if I don't want there to be another girl? This is Intan I'm talking about.
I finally rise from the sofa. My joints feel stiff. My whole body feels numb. Will I ever recover from this?
But what if I don't want to recover?
Just as I'm about to go to the kitchen, my handphone in my front pocket blares and vibrates. It plays one of the songs from Glee. The number on the screen is not in my contact list.
"Hellop?" I say.
"Selamat Hari Raya, Fiq."
I freeze where I stand, with one foot in the air.
"Fiq, you there?"
"How did you know my number?" I ask. My heart is doing backflips now. Even her voice is the way I remember it, soft, wispy, dreamy.
"It's the same number," Intan says. "How can I forget?"
"Why are you doing this to me?" I ask. I didn't mean to say it out loud, but I breathe easier after saying it.
"I'm sorry. I just wanted--I thought of you and--I just wanted to say Selamat Hari Raya."
"You still think of me?" It's amazing how my mind can still work.
"Yes."
I've always wanted to hear her say that. I dreamed of it. I fantasized it. But hearing her say it doesn't make it real.
"I thought you have a boyfriend now?" One after another, all models, all much taller and better-looking than me.
"Friends. I've never had a boyfriend. Not after you."
"Oh." Yes. My mind is still working, but my tongue has decided to play dumb.
"Well," Intan says. "I just wanted to wish you and your family a happy Raya. And I wanted to say sorry for what I did to you. Bye, Fiq."
"Wait," I blurt out.
"Hmm?" she says.
"Selamat Hari Raya to you too." I stop talking. For a few precious seconds, I stop breathing. "I miss you."
"I miss you too." Her voice breaks when she says that.
"Do you think--is it possible--forget it."
"Can I see you over coffee?" Intan asks. Intan, not me. "Starbucks? I'll buy you a venti caramel frappucino."
My greatest weakness, after Intan. "How can I say no to Starbucks?"
"Good. Selamat Hari Raya, Fiq."
"You too."
She disconnects the line.
My heart still thumps so wildly my chest hurts. But it's a good kind of pain.
Raya. A time for family. A time for celebration. A time for forgiveness.
Maybe the advertisements are right.
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