Gizzards, Dust and Daddy

by Natasya Ismail

The last thing Bapak ate before he died was a plate of greasy, deep fried gizzards with a place of steaming hot rice.

Malik could lucidly remember his father’s last meal because he had admonished the aged man for having such a sinful meal a day before his monthly medical check-up. Mak did not see anything wrong with it since her husband’s gout had ceased acting up after he had cut down on his frequent mutton intake. Furthermore, since Malik had stopped paying for the cable on their boxy Sharp television, he had no reason to plant himself on the sofa, tossing peanuts into his mouth mindlessly as he watched re-runs of 8pm Sandiwara shows on SCTV. Lately, he had even been exercising more frequently, hauling his rickety bicycle down seven flights of stairs (wheezing slightly from the TB scars that grazed his lungs) and circling the neighbourhood to get some fresh morning air. So it was undeniably puzzling when Mak found him completely lifeless hours before the call for dawn prayers trickled from the portable radio speakers strapped to the windowsill by two crumbling rubber bands.

“Mak, are you going to be okay alone in this house? You are welcome to stay with us anytime you wish, Mak. I have a spare room that nobody uses,” Malik offered, as he stirred his mug of scalding perenjak tea contemplatively, a week after the funeral.

Mak barely looked up from the flimsy copy of Yassin in her fleshy, mocha-brown hands, horn-rimmed glasses slipping down the crooked bridge of her nose by the second. It had never crossed her mind to ever be lonely after her husband’s death – perhaps she was used to his absence, particularly during the first few years of their marriage. Throughout his youth, Bapak had worked as cook in various cargo ships, frequently three continents away from his young wife who was sailing in her own fantasies back in the minuscule space of their three-bedroom flat in Whampoa. Notwithstanding being a housewife all her life, Mak always used her spare time fruitfully concocting new dinner recipes, modifying existing clothes with her own designs and alterations in mind and her favourite activity to date – stitching up new pillows and cushions from scratch. For Mak, there was something fulfilling about purchasing bags of cotton stuffing and picking out rolls of fabric from the tailor to make new pillows for her husband, son and elderly neighbours who often complimented her pristine stitch work. Pillows were one of those universal objects that nobody could live without and it was her duty to administer that comfort and solace against hardened back muscles (that even Yoko Yoko could not resolve, sadly) for a deep, unfettered slumber.

“Mak? Did you hear what I said?” Malik’s guttural voice slipped into her reverie. She took off her glasses and rubbed the scratched lenses with the edge of her faded batik-printed dress. Mak had owned that dress since Malik was a child, about seven years old, where she would wipe his mucus on – for he suffered from a severe case of sinus abated by a daily dosage of Zyrtech – as he played Sonic the Hedgehog on their then brand-new television. After more than thirty years, she still fit snuggly into the dress. In fact it had become a little loose, probably from the constant washing or perhaps, the weight loss that had resulted from a restricted diet of vegetables and lean mean to prevent the onset of hereditary type II diabetes carefully formulated by Malik.

“Yes I heard you. I’ll be fine, Malik. In fact, I think I’m going to proceed with the holiday. The tickets are non-refundable anyway,” Mak answered decisively, gathering herself up.

Just months before, the couple had planned to go for a two-week trip around Malaysia, particularly the Northeastern parts, with the money they had saved for months before Bapak retired from the part-time security job he undertook to fill his time. The bus tickets, still sealed in its bright yellow envelope, were still wedged in the back pocket of Bapak’s trousers that were hanging on a hook behind their bedroom door. Mak had been particularly excited for this trip; she had never gone further than Johor Bahru all fifty-five years of her life. The portmanteau they had brought to their first and only honeymoon to Yogyakarta (technically, they only went there to attend a distant cousin’s wedding ceremony), that had been left orphaned under their bed, was dragged out from the deep cavern of abandonment, hair balls and dust, and wiped down thoroughly with a damp cloth. Mak had started packing some of Bapak’s checkered shirts and oversized Giordano pants into one of the bigger compartments, selecting the newer looking ones and discarding those that had experienced so much wear and tear over the years that they resembled ratty pieces of cloth. But now that Bapak was gone, she felt that the portmanteau was too bulky for her to bring alone. She had to look for a smaller luggage.

“What do you mean you’re going for the holiday? Bapak left us barely a week ago and you’re talking as if he, he never died.”

Malik’s protuberant eyes dilated with indignation and disbelief of his mother’s nonchalance of the situation. In retrospect, Mak had somehow envisaged that he would react that way, had even thought of going away without informing him. Even if she had decided to abscond, Malik would not have noticed either way; he barely visited them when Bapak was alive, spending half a year on sabbaticals to work on his medical journals that were at times, left unpublished and clogging the drawers of his work desk. When he really needed the money to sustain his frugality, Malik proofread Biology textbooks for Marshall Cavendish to pay for his meals and rent that, fortunately, he never missed. Mak had conjectured that Malik would be a surgeon by now, married (happily or not seemed too subjective a matter) with two kids and another one on the way, when they had decided to take up the bank loan to fund his medical school fees all those years ago. But she never had any tangible reason to display any form of resentment towards him, not a tinge of disappointment, for she knew that it was his life and all she could do was give him her blessings. She had never stopped him from doing the things he wanted to – so why was he?

“The trip is in two weeks, Malik. It’s not as if I’m going off now. Anyway, it would be a waste if I didn’t go. Bapak wouldn’t like that. You know how he is with money,” she said simply, spreading margarine on a piece of Gardenia bread with a spoon.

Sprinkling sugar onto the buttered pieces of bread, Mak felt she deserved this singular cheat from her persistent no-carb diet fixed meticulously by Malik when her blood sugar results came out less than desirable three months back. At that juncture, she had staved off every possible perpetrator to her previously uncontrolled consumption of refined sugars – tins of Danish butter cookies and unchilled cans of Sarsi leftover from the Hari Raya celebrations in the pantry cupboards were swapped for packets of Quaker rolled oats and boxes of Jacob wholewheat biscuits that tasted significantly more tasteless than cardboard. Mak had never allowed a word of complaint or resignation escape her lips throughout the stint; instead she busied herself preparing meals for Bapak, steeping chicken broth for hours in the kitchen for his lunch as means of resisting the looming, dark feelings of self-pity that threatened during lonely afternoons. That morning, she had dressed herself and went down to the bakery just opposite the block to get a freshly baked loaf of milky-white bread whose fluffy texture reminded her more of the delectable sponge cakes she used to munch on as a child.

“I still can’t believe you’re doing this. Look at yourself, Mak. It’s like you’re relieved that he’s gone!” Malik ejaculated accusingly, the flames of his rage almost visible from his clear irises.

“Watch your tone, Malik. It’s your mother that you’re talking to. I’ve never stopped you from doing the things you want and here you, judging my decisions based on your wrongful assumptions. Bapak will always live on in my heart. My life doesn’t stop there just because he’s gone!” she retorted, slamming the plate on the counter as a sudden tremor had weaved its way onto her shoulder blades.

Buttressed by her imposing outburst, Mak sauntered back to the dining table and crossed her legs insouciantly on the seat next to Malik. The crusts of sugar rimming the bread had begun to caramelize on its own from the balmy afternoon heat, allowing for sacchariferous succulence when her prosthetic teeth sunk into the sandwich. If not for Malik’s bedraggled appearance at her front door, she had the whole day planned out to herself. At around midday, she had thought of taking the bus to Parkway Parade to shop for inexpensive carry-ons that she could bring to the trip instead of dragging the excessive (no matter how memorable) portmanteau throughout. In the midst of that, she would probably detour for some tea in a café that had lavish, upholstered seats and house-baked goodies like the ones she saw splayed on the pages of Epicure magazine – those rounded, varicoloured cookies called macarons. Mak had never been able to step foot in a café when Bapak was still alive; he favoured polishing teh sarbats in sticky, overwashed mugs along Arab Street rather than burn a whole in his wallet for a china of slow-roasted arabica coffee. Yet, she chose not to retain any oppressive memories of her marriage to a man as stingy and fastidious as her son turned out to be.

“I’m going off now, Mak. I have some work to do at home. I’ll visit you whenever I’m free, though I can’t promise it would be so often,” Malik said after a long, tense pause.

Scooping her right hand with his, Malik gingerly kissed the cool skin of his mother’s fingers. Mak nodded, relief spooling within her, as it was still early for her to carry out her previously forestalled plans. On the other hand, Malik was still reeling over his mother’s peculiar behaviour as he crossed the threshold of his childhood home, slipping his feet into the battered cork sandals bought from one of his sabbaticals in Egypt. In the efflorescence of his now-estranged relationship with Mak, Malik felt that her presence dominated every crevice of his world. As a child of seven, with his oiled jet-black hair parted severely in the middle and polo tee tucked aggressively into his Bermudas, Malik genuinely believed that he would die if anything abysmal happened to his dear mother. During obstreperous family gatherings where tirelessly gossiping aunties sat huddled together in a dripping mass of obstinate post-pregnancy fats and salacious juice, Malik would tug firmly at Mak’s dress and tail her wherever she went. Older cousins often teased him for being a ‘mummy’s boy’ when he refused to join them in their expedition to fish out a cigarette box from any of their uncles’ pockets which was followed by passing a stick around and taking gawky puffs in the void deck. When Mak’s market trips seemed to have protracted longer than usual, Malik would keep guard in the balcony, clutching his Hot Wheels as horrid images of Mak being kidnapped by masked men and getting knocked down by a car jostled for space in his mind.

Just as he entered Junior College, Malik’s endearing love for Mak began to falter when his eyes first caught the slender, tanned runner’s legs of Andrina Chin whom he later dated for six months before going steady a year before ‘A’ Levels. The love he thought he felt for Andrina was different from the love he had for Mak – it made his breathing particularly laboured as they sat in the theatre watching an insipid Marvel movie, each could feel the heat penetrating the cotton material of their clothes, as his fingers crept surreptitiously beneath her dress. P.E lessons were the hardest for Malik whose palms would be slick with sweat whenever one of Andrina’s nipples seemed to have slipped out of her sports bra as they did sprints around the track. This newfound erotica aroused something within him that Malik never thought he had. Although he started spending less time at home with Mak, their relationship remained unwavering as he poured out his hearts’ contents to Mak every other evening as the Pyramid Game flashed across the dim screen of the television. Mak responded to his poetic admiration of Andrina Chin, who shared his passion for Dante and Lacanian thought, in a series of agreeable nods and dissimulation for the elder woman knew that two strong personalities could not simply work out.

The couple proved her hypothesis wrong for the next few years; on their fifth anniversary, Malik had proposed to Andrina in the obligatory setting of a romantic candlelit dinner in a French restaurant that was offering a half-price promotion on ala-carte items. They got married three months after and spent a week in Phuket on their honeymoon where they locked themselves in the villa in its entirety, only getting dressed to get microwaveable meals from 7-11 that they wolfed up right after the sex. But as they said – mothers are always right. Six months later, Malik returned from his sabbatical in New York to a pregnant manila envelope on the study desk that contained divorce papers from Andrina. He never mentioned the reason of their separation to Mak, and the latter did not probe either. Following the divorce settlement, Malik barely spoke to her anymore as though he could not face any other woman, not even his own mother, after what had happened.

That day was the last time Malik saw her before she took the first flight to Kuala Lumpur the following weekend. They had shared a two-minute phone call the night before, Malik bidding her a safe journey, reminding her that he was just a WhatsApp message away if anything were to crop up, Mak promising that she would get him a keychain with the first line of Dante’s Sonnet: Beauty Of Her Face (his favourite of Dante’s) carved on teak wood from the Sarawakian jungles. As he glued himself at his desk mulling over a thesis on African sleeping sickness, Malik received snippets of her travels through tagged posts on Facebook where slightly askew shots of Mak drinking coconut juice in a warong, shades perched on her tudung, and a Nepalese friend she had made in the hotel she was staying intruded his timeline. The captions were addressed solely to him: ‘Mak drinking fresh coconut juice. So sedap, Malik!’ and ‘Malik, wish you were here. Meet my new friend from Kathmandu, Anita!’ The last post was of her and Anita perched on a rickety sampan, in the middle of a river illuminated by fireflies, as they gave the camera the ubiquitous ‘cheese’ post as they clutched their handbags on their laps, concealing double-tiered tummies.

Scrolling through the pictures impassively, Malik felt a sudden chord strike within him. A chord that suggested of unabashed enmity that his mother’s life seemed far happier than when she was back home in the presence of Bapak and him. Even she wasn’t as that jubilant during his convocation ceremony where she had a Thai silk baju kurung especially tailored for the occasion. She looked free; liberated from the domestication she had submitted herself to for the past thirty-five years where her life revolved around pondering over what to cook for dinner, perpetually dusting undusty shelves and managing the lives of the two men that depended on her more than she them. An absurd thought crossed his mind – perhaps Mak had purposely fed Bapak gizzards that night just so she could go on this holiday alone, unperturbed by Bapak’s constant whining on how uncomfortable the airplane seats are and how salty the rectangular boxes of nasi lemak that came with the package. It was all part of an elaborate plan to get rid of him. The vibration on his phone threw him off his reverie, making him slam the laptop a little too roughly. ‘Mak’ was reflected on the screen, gloating into his thoughts like a formidable character embroidered by his own fantasy.

“Assalamualaikum. What took you so long to answer the phone, Malik?” Her falsetto rang in his ears, making him realise how he actually missed hearing her voice.

“Waalaikumsalam. I was just swamped with some work, Mak. Anything wrong there?”

“No, no. Everything’s fine. I just wanted to update you that I’ve just reached Sabah. You know my friend, Anita that I showed you on FB? We parted ways just now because she’s heading back home but we managed to exchange numbers!” Mak enthused, the signal crackling a tad.

“Oh, that sounds great, Mak. Mak, if there’s nothing else, I really have to go now. I’m boiling some pasta so I have to get it off the stove now,” he lied, pretending to sound hurried as his eye swiveled to the kitchen where the imaginary pot was spilling scorching-hot water on the worn linoleum.

“Wait, wait, Malik. I have something to tell you before you go. Actually, I’ve made another a friend, a man. A widow actually from Singapore too. He’s backpacking alone and we just happened to cross paths in a ferry we took to one of the islands. I want you to meet him when we get back. Will you meet him, Malik?”

A tense, almost cacophonous silence ensued as Mak’s words ebbed and flowed weightlessly in the air, sporadically brushing against Malik’s numb skin with agonizing electricity. He almost forgot to breathe. His fingers shuffled around the clutter on his desk, unearthing a rusty mustard tin filled with cigarettes from the rubble and a lighter he had stolen from Ah Leong Convenient Store just because he didn’t want to waste thirty cents on it. As he fumbled to light the cigarette with one hand, Malik thought of two ways to end this conversation: 1) he could simply hang up, which would subsequently portray an unspoken anger 2) he could be the good son and say, “yes Mak! It’s my pleasure.” Either way, it would raise conflict and conflict was what he loathed. But Mak was on vacation and she could not be happier than she was. Nicotine entered his lungs, emitting in curls of smoke from his nostrils. Everything seemed clearer with rokok.

“Ok, Mak. I’ll see him. Goodbye.”

Finishing the cigarette that was slowly blistering his fingers, Malik gazed at a framed picture of Mak on his desk. He never kept one of Bapak. Bapak didn’t like his picture to be taken and if it were taken, his eyes would always be closed as though caught in mid-sleep. The woman, who stared back him with expressionless eyes and pursed aubergine lips, seemed like a stranger now. It was like he never knew her because she was always, and only ‘Mak’ to him. Never an actual person with her own story. And now, there was not only one stranger he had to face. He was about to have a new Daddy.