Little Stories 329: Playing the Card

Sofi and I were both sick last week. She got it first. Sofi vomited almost 10 times within the span of 8 hours and developed diarrhea once she started medication. She was weak, feverish, nauseous, and close to dehydration. She stayed home for the entire week.

48 hours after Sofi's first episode, I fell sick too. I woke up after midnight, sweating, sitting at the edge of the mattress, trying to make it to the toilet, waiting for something that felt like it was making its way out of my body. Then came the vile vomiting. I was too weak, I couldn't even stand up afterwards.

I had to call for reinforcements. I texted my siblings' WA group and asked for help. My brother came and took care of me throughout the night. The next morning, Af took Sofi so I could rest. I slept and slept the whole day. I couldn't keep my eyes open. The fatigue had taken over my entire body. My muscles ached, I was feverish, and my stomach cramped. In the afternoon, my sister came with chicken soup and took care of me. I slept again. They all took their turn T^T

Af brought us to the clinic the next day. It was probably stomach flu. We went back to Ma's after I got an MC for the day. I asked my sister to drive us because I was still too weak. Being at Ma's meant I had support if I needed it. We stayed there until the weekend.

-

I asked for help from my village because I knew, then, when to ask for help.

Being a single mother means knowing when to play "the card" and having the courage to ask for help, knowing full well that nobody owes you a rescue. Sometimes you'll be reminded that you are not important enough to someone. Sometimes people will drop everything and sit beside you through it all. 

And that, perhaps, is a lesson worth reflecting on.

Note: To those who slept next to me through my half-conscious dramatic episode, I put you in my special box in my heart ❤︎⁠ 

Little Stories 328: Still Singing Along

It goes back more than twenty years, to a time when I listened to their songs on my MP3 player on repeat while walking to kuliah.

The internet was still a luxury then. If I wanted to go online, I had to queue for a computer at the campus computer centre or the library and wait for my turn. New music was not something I could summon instantly with a tap of a screen. I only got to refresh my playlist when I went home and asked my then "friend" to help me hunt down songs on LimeWire.

Then I entered Uniten and became an IT student, so the internet became the norm. I had access to the world, and I also had a relationship with an Indonesian boy who helped me explore more of that realm (not sure whether it was official; we would probably call it a situationship these days). So my love for Indonesian bands grew during my university years, much to the confusion of my siblings. They felt it did not suit my personality. Then again, a lot of my playlist probably does not match people's perception of me. But I do speak in music, and I love the beauty of words in songs.

So, a lot of my young adult life was accompanied by their songs. 

They were there through various phases: situationships, drama, heartbreak, yearning, and love. This was "personal", personal.

When I saw the poster for the concert, I shared it with my sister immediately. I had to go this time; I missed the last one. We bought the tickets early and I waited for months. Last weekend, we spent four hours there, being entertained by these middle-aged men, way past my normal bedtime. I was excited, to say the least. I'm still not sure whether it was right to drag my sister along. She had gone to the previous concert and was not nearly as excited as I was, but she came along anyway. Kesian kot.

And it made me wonder: if I went to a concert alone, how would I feel?

I'm dragging my other sister to see another concert later end of year. I imagine myself sitting there alone, enjoying the music without worrying whether anyone else is having a good time. Maybe I would enjoy it being by myself in a crowd. Maybe then I would not have to drag anyone along anymore. Maybe it would be my thing. 

Like the running, you know. 

Little Thing 344: Who Would I Tell?

I read a good book recently. It came to me by surprise, and I knew nothing about it going in. Some people have said it reminds them of Piranesi, but I disagree. It never made me feel as suffocated as Piranesi did. I Who Have Never Known Men by Jacqueline Harpman is a 1995 sci-fi dystopian novel:

It follows thirty-nine adult women and a young, unnamed narrator who have no memory of their past and are kept imprisoned in an underground cage by silent male guards. When the guards suddenly abandon them, the women escape into a desolate, lifeless world. From there, the novel shifts into an existential exploration of isolation, freedom, and what it means to be human, as the women—and eventually only the narrator—try to survive in this barren wasteland.

Not as sprawling or messy as Dostoevsky, this book gave me the same feeling as The Road by Cormac McCarthy or Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro. It quietly dismantles your assumptions and leaves you staring at the ceiling, wondering what remains when everything else has been stripped away.

It made me question my existence on a Saturday afternoon, which is perhaps the highest compliment I can give a book. I am still thinking about it days later. 

If I can no longer share anything with anyone, what is the point of my existence?

I have always taken pride in my ability to embrace solitude. Over time, I have accepted that my difficulty in connecting with others is simply part of how I am wired. But the book left me wondering: if there were no one to share my thoughts with, through conversation, writing, art, or any other medium, would those thoughts still matter?

Would a poem still be a poem if no one ever read it? Would a story still have meaning if it remained untold? Would love, grief, joy, or curiosity carry the same weight if they existed only within the boundaries of a single mind?

Part of me wants to believe that meaning can exist independently, that a life can be worthwhile simply because it is lived. Yet another part wonders whether meaning is something we create together, whether our thoughts become real only when they are witnessed, received, or echoed back by another person.

Perhaps that is what unsettled me most about this novel. It is not merely about isolation. It asks what remains of our humanity when there is no audience, no community, and no one left to remember us. And whether meaning is something we possess, or something we give to one another.

-

As someone who has spent most of her life writing, I found myself carrying that question long after I finished the book. We often say that we write for ourselves, but do we really? If there is no reader, no witness, no possibility of being understood, does the act still hold the same meaning?

When I write, who am I writing to?

Tu lah, writers are funny in that sense, we call it solitude bagai, then spend hundreds of pages trying to reach someone. Kemooon sisterr. 

Little Thing 343: The Things We Endure

Last night before bed, Sofi asked me to massage her legs.

“Mami, today I sakit kaki. But I tahan. I did not cry.”

Yesterday, we spent four hours at Kiddytopia. She played the entire time. Afterwards, we went for lunch and bought groceries. Before we went, she had promised me she would not throw a tantrum from being too tired. I told her, “Remember that we are going to have fun today, ok?”.

The day before had been difficult. She had spent hours at the playground near our house in the evening after swimming earlier that morning. Maybe she was also overwhelmed from being in kampung for almost a week. That night, she cried and complained that her legs hurt so much from all the activities. She refused dinner, refused everything, and only wanted to sleep.

So when she said she wanted to go to Kiddytopia the next day, I was surprised. I thought she would want to stay home and recharge. But we went anyway, because she was being so nice about not wanting to ask me for anything. 

But 4 hours. 

She endured the pain and did not complain because she had promised she wouldn’t. Even though I knew how exhausted she must have been. Even though there were little lebam-lebam on her legs from falling while playing at the indoor playground. Even though I knew she was famished because we had delayed lunch far beyond her usual time. Even though she had to do more walking to buy groceries afterwards. 

Before we left, I told her, “This is your choice, so you kenot ngada2 afterwards, okay?”

And she did.

She endured the pain, hunger and exhaustion, by choice.  Not even one complaint.

At the end of the day, she looked at me and said, “I had so much fun today, Mami. Tq Mami,” before giving me sweet little kissus.

-

If they wanted to, they would.

And if you say you would do something, do it. Easy math, even a 6 year old understands that.