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mybukz · 6 years

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Work in progress: Steel Orchids by Sharmini Marilyn

Sharmini Marilyn’s love affair with reading began with the Peter and Jane series in the ‘80’s. Today she divides her time between her one husband, two children and flocks of students. Stealing a few minutes a day to write keeps her sane. Sharmini says, “This is an excerpt from my work in progress. I have not finalised the title yet and am using my working title “Steel Orchids”. The story takes place in 2010 and 1942. In 2010, after a major blunder in her career, journalist Adira is put in “cold storage” and assigned to interview World War 2 survivors. She meets Jamilah—a cantankerous, depressed old woman living in an old folks’ home who gives Adira a hard time. In her personal life, Adira is also battling a strained relationship with her parents and a rocky new love interest. When the story moves to 1942, it shows Jamilah in a different light. After a personal tragedy, she befriends Sybil Kathigasu. Together they support the anti-Japanese movement and bravely do the right thing even when it is life threatening. As Adira unravels the truth about Jamilah, she draws wisdom and courage to change things around in her life.“

*** Excerpt from “Steel Orchids”

Ipoh, July 1942

Jamilah swings the cangkul down with all her might, her skinny arms trembling with effort. It nicks a chunk of the scorched earth before hitting a rock underneath. She straightens, leaning on the long wooden handle, breathing hard. Rivulets of perspiration run down her shaved head, disappearing under the collar of her baggy shirt.

Shading her eyes, she surveys the small garden. So far, her meagre crops have been safe from the marauding Japanese. They are reluctant to venture out to where her hut is, at the foot of the greenish-blue hills surrounding Ipoh. In these parts, their fear of being ambushed by guerrillas has been greater than their need for food.

Okra, eggplant, spinach and long beans grow valiantly in the sweltering heat. Except for the long beans, the rest still have a few days before they are ready to be harvested. She’ll boil the long beans for dinner with some wild tapioca she managed to scavenge yesterday evening. There will be enough left over for her to wrap in banana leaves and give to the guerrillas or occasionally young women who hide in the jungles behind her hut.

Suddenly, the rumble of an approaching vehicle shatters the quiet evening. A flock of birds burst out from a nearby tree, chirping noisily. The cangkul falls from Jamilah’s hands. Vehicles this far out of town can only mean one thing.

Ali, her husband of three months, appears bare-chested at the top of the stairs. His skin stretches tautly over his ribs.

“Milah, run! Go and hide until I come for you.”

“No, Ali,” she rushes towards him, stopping at the first rung, “let’s go together.”

He glances over his shoulder as the rumble looms nearer, his face as white as the slaked lime paste that is used to bind betel leaves. “It’s no use, they’ll keep coming back until they find one of us here. They can take our chickens and food, but I won’t let them take you.”

“I won’t leave you! We agreed that I’ll pretend to be your deaf and dumb brother if they came here.” The thought of what the Japanese would do to her if they realised she’s a woman makes her want to throw up, but she plants her feet firmly on the ground, staring defiantly up at Ali.

The vehicle grinds to a stop on the other side of their hut. Ali races down the stairs and gives her a sharp slap on the cheek. Jamilah’s hand flies up to her face, her jaw dropping. Ali has never, ever, ever so much as raised his voice at her.

“Think of the baby!” His eyes are ablaze with terror.

Their front door thunders. A man’s voice shouts for the door to be open—first in Japanese, then in Malay.

Jamilah crams a fist into her mouth, choking back a sob and whirls around. She runs, crashing through the undergrowth bordering the garden. A minute later, she slows down and doubles over. Searing pain radiates at the side of her abdomen. The only sounds in the cocoon of the gloomy jungle are her ricocheting heart and ragged breathing. That doesn’t fool her though. She knows her every move might be watched from well-camouflaged hideaways.

Once the pain in her side ebbs, she retraces her mad dash and cautiously approaches the edge of her garden, making sure to stay hidden in the bushes. Two Japanese soldiers are picking her vegetables, even the unripe ones. Their squat bodies are no taller than hers. Another one stands near the stairs, holding a squawking hen under each arm. She hopes they shit all over his khaki uniform. Ali is nowhere in sight, but she can hear voices from her hut although she can’t make out what they’re saying. Her fingers feel the grassy soil quietly until it curls around a large rock. She grips it hard, feeling the sharp ridges cut into her palm.

An inhuman scream from the hut rips Jamilah in two. Ali.

The still air carries his shrieks to her clearly. “I don’t know them! It’s not me!”

Ya Allah, what are they doing to him? Tears pour from Jamilah’s eyes. The only thing keeping her rooted to the spot is Ali’s last words to her.

Another chilling scream. “There’s no one else here. I’m just a useless farmer living alone.”

When the deafening crack of a gunshot cuts off Ali mid-scream, it might as well have killed Jamilah. From her crouch, her forehead hits the hard ground as her arms lock around her waist. She rocks back and forth, keening soundlessly.

A few feet away, the soldiers continue to strip her garden bare.

The moonless night is filled with the riotous cacophony of cicadas when they find her. She’s curled up on her side, staring glassy-eyed at her home, oblivious to the stones digging into her flesh and the bites of fire ants and mosquitoes. The taller guerrilla with the limp squats down. The stench of his unwashed body assaults her.

He taps her shoulder. “Kakak, what are you doing out here? What happened to you? Where’s Abang?”

“They killed him.” Her voice is toneless. There’s no need to elaborate who ‘they’ are.

The men look around wildly as if the Japanese could be springing out from the undergrowth at any moment.

“Have they gone?” The other guerrilla asks. Before the war, girls would have been swooning over his looks.

Jamilah spits. “Yes. But don’t worry, Ali didn’t betray any of you.”

The taller guerrilla jumps up. “Someone must have betrayed you and told them we come here for food. Even very strong men break under their torture. It’s not safe for you to stay here anymore.”

He bends down, holds her under the armpits and pulls her to a sitting position. “You have to leave, Kakak. Hide in the jungle or go to your relatives far away from Ipoh.”

“Ali was all I had. I can’t leave him.” Her head snaps up. “I can’t leave Ali, in there, to…to… the rats will…”

“No! If you move his body and the Japs return, they will realise Ali was lying and he would have died for nothing.”

“He’s my husband. I need to see him!”

The handsome one clutches her arm. His calloused palm chaffs her skin. “Your husband has gone. What’s left in your hut is not him. No women should see things like that.”

Jamilah flings his hand away and reaches up to grab her hair but her fingers form empty fists. It tips her over the edge. She hammers her head, wailing from the depths of her soul. A rough palm clams over her mouth and she is yanked to her feet by the two men on either side of her. Half carrying, half dragging, they take her deeper into the jungle until they come to a gurgling stream. They drop her under a towering Meranti tree and step back. Jamilah crosses her arms over her chest and looks past them stonily, her grimy face a criss-cross of tear tracks.

“As soon as it’s light, you have to leave here. Follow the stream. It will take you to the next town,” the taller one instructs.

The other one crouches in front of her until she is forced to look at him.

“Don’t stay in the jungle for too long. Not all our brothers share our respect towards women.” He drops his gaze meaningfully to her chest.

Jamilah instinctively tightens her arms. He jerks his head once and straightens. Then the two of them turn around, the rustle of their footsteps receding until all that she can hear is the sounds of the jungle. A twig snaps. Something makes a small splash in the stream. She shivers. Her threadbare shirt barely provides any protection from the plummeting night temperature. Dampness from the layer of rotting leaves on the ground seeps into her pants.

Tears leak down the corners of her eyes as her hand drifts down her stomach. “I’ll keep us safe,” she whispers.

#Sharmini Marilyn #Steel Orchids #work in progress #fiction #Malaysian fiction #Malaysian literature #women's fiction #historical fiction

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