Continued
Muthu looked at Lina, at pearl hairpin Mrs. Tan left, at scar that was crescent moon, at hand that was holding Arjun's under bar where no clipboard could count.
Muthu smiled into his glass and said, "Good. Rain stopped, you still come. Good."
That night, Lina went to her room above Ah Hock sundry shop, wall sweating, cats fighting, window facing back lane where bar lights visible if lean. She didn't need to lean tonight. She knew lights on.
She wrote in small notebook where she kept debts of heart, not money, page after ARJUN - BOY FROM BAGAN JERMAL / BUTTERWORTH / MAK MANDIN - SAME BOY, STILL HERE: AH MAN'S HOUSE - RAIN GIRL - NOT HIDING ANYMORE.
Arjun went to his room behind bar, cot made for one made for two, mirror cracked same corner, calendar 1972 pretty girl faded pink, photo of mother face-up, Seiko watch stopped at 3:15 shaken to start, fan clicking every seventh turn since 1941.
He wrote on back of receipt paper, because good paper for bills: AMMA, I posted letter yesterday, post office man said arrive tomorrow, mothers always still there. I have friend who doesn't need rain to come in. She teaches me to stay without hiding.
He folded it, put with letter already posted, as if second letter could catch first.
Outside, no rain. Georgetown hot, but somewhere in hills behind Baling, clouds gathering for Kuala Ketil, rain that pours in buckets, makes zinc roofs sing and paddy fields disappear, kind of rain where girl can leave house and no one hears bare feet. But tonight, in Love Lane, no rain needed.
Bar remembered. Chengal wood cool in morning, warm afternoon, hot night. Fan clicked. Clock lost seven minutes. Mynah bird under cloth said Stay, then No rooms!, confused about business model, but learning.
Every jetty in town was a lesson in goodbye. Until someone stays put and calls it home in spite of itself. And some homes, after confession, keep shape of you, like bamboo board bed that scratches back so you remember, but this time you remember you chose to come in without rain.
The next morning, May 9th, it rained in Georgetown, not buckets, but drizzle, soft like breathing on window. Mr. Chew did inventory at 7 AM, three sharp raps on bar, not door, because doors already open.
He counted limes 30->10 very good business, tamarind 100g->50g testing and remembering, gula Melaka gone smoke good very good.
He wrote at bottom small blue Bic: People - 2 staff who confessed on floor with Nasi Kandar plates empty, still here, not hiding. Love - enough to be short tomorrow too.
Lina went to market, 30 limes, auntie said making love potion ah? She said testing, new batch, and smiled.
Arjun carried ice, two blocks, one each shoulder, like mother carried gas cylinders.
At 2:15, they went to Muthu's, low plastic stools, shoulder touching, rice steaming, extra cabbage for Lina, last ladle darkest bottom for Arjun, same, same, good.
Muthu said, "Rain yesterday in Kuala Ketil, my cousin said, heavy, zinc singing."
Lina said, "I heard."
She didn't need rain to come in anymore.
That is how bar remembers Ah Man's house. Not in detail, but in choice. Rain girl becomes day girl becomes woman who doesn't need rain.
Georgetown survived on people passing through. Some people stay long enough to make them home. And some homes, after you tell story of bamboo board bed that scratches, keep scratch as map you don't need anymore, but remember anyway, so you know where you been.
Enough to be short tomorrow, too, but in good way.
Bar kept turning, fan clicking every seventh turn, clock losing seven minutes, mynah bird learning Stay, two photos behind bar 1938 and 1978, two rooms that were empty but not anymore, two people who ran and learned to stay without hiding.
And outside, ferry blew horn 7:30, low and mournful, ferry that could take you home in hour if you wanted, ferry that still ran no matter who argued, no matter who left, no matter who stayed.
Arjun didn't twitch. Lina didn't look at lights. They were home.
He kept photo under mirror face-down since 1977, face-up since May 5th when Lina turned it with infinite care.
Photo of mother, younger, stern, beautiful in way Butterworth mothers beautiful, hair oiled, sari crisp, eyes that could see through any lie, like she knew son would leave and come back and leave and come back.
Morning inventory next day, May 10th, was different again, because after confession, inventory changes.
He had clipboard, but also had two small packets of kuih, one for each, from morning market, because Ah Lan said if you knock at 7 AM you should bring kuih, otherwise you are rude. Chew never listened to Ah Lian about mahjong, but listened about kuih, because kuih is important.
Limes 30->10, very good business. Tamarind 100g->50g, still testing and remembering. Gula Melaka gone, need buy. Whiskey House Pour gone, need buy. Glasses 22->22, miracle. Cot upstairs 1->1 but heavier, oil tomorrow, definitely oil tomorrow.
Chew wrote at bottom, small blue Bic, so small no one couldn't read without glasses: "People - 2 staff who went for Nasi Kandar at 2:15 and came back shoulder touching, confessed on floor, still here, and not hiding. Inventory - full. Love - enough to be short tomorrow too, but in good way, like kuah campur."
At noon, Muthu's queue went around corner at 1 PM, Indians, Chinese, Malays, all sweating together. At 2:15, Arjun and Lina sat on low plastic stools, shoulders touching, rice steaming, extra cabbage for Lina, last ladle darkest bottom for Arjun, same, same, good.
"Same?" he asked.
The bar at night in May 1978 had its own weather.
Outside, monsoon had tried to come early, then changed mind. Inside, weather was made by people. When Mrs. Tan came at 8 PM and ordered less ice because teeth hurt, weather was cool. When sailors came at 9 PM and wanted heavy glass, weather was heavy. When Muthu's son came with friends and wanted Batch 3, weather was smoky.
Lina and Arjun worked side by side, not touching, but close enough that no clipboard could measure distance. That distance, Chew had once measured as 2 feet, because he was bored and measured with ruler. Now distance was less than ruler, more than hand.
At 12 midnight, after close, after chairs up, after till counted, after Ah Lan gone home muttering about love potions and extra limes, Mr. Chew went upstairs to watch small black-and-white TV that showed only one channel and snow. Mynah bird covered with cloth, muttered "Stay" once, then "No rooms!" louder, like it was practicing both business models.
Red emergency light on. In its glow, bar looked innocent again, or maybe it looked like what it really was — place built on leaving where two people decided to stay, at least for little while, at least until they were short again.
Lina picked up cloth. Arjun picked up rag that was too clean that morning.
"One more?" she whispered, holding up glass, Batch 3, handle with care.
She slipped past him, barefoot still, hair hastily tied, pearl hairpin catching red light, but now on purpose. He watched her go, up stairs that creaked in three places, two of which he now knew how to avoid if he wanted to be quiet, one of which he always stepped on if he wanted her to know he was coming.
Door upstairs opened crack. Morning heat would rush in six hours. But for now, night heat rushed out, and with it, story of Ah Man's house, bamboo board bed rough, rain girl who thought rain could cover everything, day girl who learned she didn't need rain to come in.
Downstairs, bar looked innocent. Thirty limes had become ten. One bottle had become empty. Two glasses missing again.
Inventory, as always, short.
And as always, Mr. Chew, upstairs with TV turned low, pretended not to hear cot creak — first near head, then middle, then near window, all three now, because they were no longer trying to be quiet — and wrote in his own private clipboard, no one never saw, in small blue Bic:
"Hotel - still standing. Bar - still leaking. Boy from Bagan Jermal / Butterworth / Mak Mandin - same boy, different names, still here, still trying to stay, learned to listen. Girl from Kuala Ketil / Balik Pulau - same girl, different stories she tells to protect herself, still here, still learning to not need rain. Me - still counting, but maybe some things should be short. Love - ? Enough to be short tomorrow, too, rain or no rain."
He put clipboard down, turned up TV, and let them disappear for night, because staff, after all, deserved to disappear a little too, especially after confession.
Outside, ferry blew horn, last ferry, low and mournful and familiar, ferry from Sultan Abdul Halim that could take you home in hour if you wanted, ferry that still ran no matter who argued, no matter who left.
Arjun didn't twitch. Lina didn't look at lights. They were home, in room behind bar, cot made for one made for two, fan clicking every seventh turn since 1941, bamboo board bed memory scratched on back but now just memory, not map needed anymore.
Enough to be short tomorrow, too, but in good way, like kuah campur, like tamarind whiskey bitter then sweet at end if you waited, like confession that is not tears but Nasi Kandar on fingers and two empty rooms that suddenly felt less empty.
Kuala Ketil in 1976 was paddy, rubber, dust, sky too big, and also gossip that moved faster than rain.
When Lina left, $8 bus ticket, $11 saved from selling kueh, canvas bag, address sweated off palm, village said she exaggerating. Said father would never. Said she bored and wanted attention, wanted to go Penang where girls become waitress and forget family. The temple aunties told her to pray harder. Father said nothing, which in village is saying everything.
Ah Man said nothing too. He was at sawmill, carrying wood heavier than ice, tanned, quiet. When she passed with bag to bus stop, bare feet? No, shoes that time, shoes she saved, he looked away, sunny day look. Rain girl gone.
That is why she remembered him not as villain, not as hero, but as boy who liked rain girl not day girl. That distinction mattered more than any touch. Touch fades. Distinction stays, like bamboo board bed that scratches back so you remember.
To Be Continued:
DISCLAIMER
This work is a work of pure fiction. All characters, names, incidents, dialogues, and locations including Hotel Malaya Bar, Mr. Chew, Lina, Arun, Shankar and all its regulars, staff and patrons are entirely fictitious and products of the author's imagination.
Any resemblance or connection to any actual place, whether still standing today, renovated, demolished, or bombed and destroyed during the Second World War, is purely coincidental.
Any resemblance to any person, whether alive, dead, buried, cremated, or committed to the sea, is also purely coincidental and unintentional.
No identification with actual persons, living or deceased, or with any existing establishment, is intended or should be inferred.
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