Reunion

I t was the old man. He had come back. One of the workers recognized him as he mingled with the crowd. Perhaps it was fear. Or the aloofness that he portrayed that made him so conspicuous. Even now, as then , he looked sinister. He just stood there. In his tattered dirty shirt, reeking of samsu and his wild unkempt hair touching his shoulders. He had been here a long time ago, years before the bulldozers had moved in. It had been his home.

They had a project on the boards. A skyscraper reaching out into the emptiness, with offices and apartments, escalators and lifts. A dream needing fulfillment.

The neighbours had moved out. Clutching their belongings, they had left with the same resignation to fate that humankind comes to accept on these occasions, With their compensations, to start a new life somewhere.

Yet he had refused to move.

At first it had been taken as a sign of stubbornness that comes with old age and the uncertainty of moving away to a new life elsewhere. Then again there was some sign of rebellion against authority (and people in the know whispered that the old man had once dipped himself in politics and come out dry). But laws had been gazetted, court injunctions and notices served. And he had stayed. Finally they had called the police, whom he kept at bay for four hours with a parang before they overpowered him.

They said he was mad.

And he had come back the next day for the last time, slashing a bulldozer operator with a parang before they brought him to court. He said nothing during the trial and nothing afterwards.

Just a defiant stare.

A look difficult to describe, akin to contempt at times. And he had spat at the judge and the defence attorney. The judge ordered him locked up in an asylum. And they had to drag him away from the court, screaming unintelligible words.

There were rumours afterwards. A dead wife, some said ,who had promised to come back one day. Others talked of him being the disciple of a saint buried in a mound near his hut.

And the body.

It gave some credence to the stories. Suprisingly intact and preserved, it could have been buried yesterday. It was in a wooden coffin in a mound near the old man's house. So life-like in death.

So calm. A beautiful young woman.

And then the troubles that had delayed work, sometimes for weeks. Superstitious labourers refusing to work. Speaking of death, of danger, of bad omens, of curses, of 'ilmu hitam'. And they could have been right.

Eleven deaths before the building stood in all its splendour. The deaths had all been macabre. They found three workers smashed against the ground one mornmg, dead from a fall. A man dying of heart attack after screaming for help. Two men crushed by a ton of bricks. ( Boards of inquiry had been convened and matters laid to rest. Negligence and carelessness of the workers, lack of safety control had been blamed as reasons for the deaths.)

Now the old man had come back. Released perhaps . And he stood there. Looking. At the thousands of glittering lights, at the building that stood on the home he had once so jealously protected.

And the rumble. It had been felt before. It could have been mistaken for a drill being used across the road. A slight rumble, building up into a crescendo.

And then the cracks. A few at first on the lower walls. Then more. Almost as if the building had come to life and wanted to tear itself apart. The cracks. Spreading. Tearing. Stopping at a wall perhaps for a second , then just as suddenly continuing.

Panic had broken loose. The calm happy crowd that had lined the roads outside the building to watch the opening ceremony had turned into a terrified mob. A mob that was pushing itself away from the building with the blind fear that comes with panic. The panic of dying before ones time. (An official inquiry would find the right scapegoats. The architect and surveyors for not bothering to survey the land that had faults right down deep in the earth. Faults had caused the earth to shift and the building to tilt and break up. The contractors for the poor concrete that had been put into the construction.)

The cracks were spreading faster now, merging, stopping, and enlarging before the first piece of rumble tuimbled down. Smashing into a thousand pieces on the road. Spreading debris in all directions. Leaving iron girders standing.

The old man just stood there watching. His face had suddenly contorted. A smile perhaps. Or an evil grin. It was so hard to tell. He broke through the cordon ,running and screaming, into the dust that swirled around the building as the rubble tumbled down. Nobody moved to stop him. It was almost as if destiny had given its command. He just ran. Into the crashing boulders of concrete. Towards death. Screaming. Even amidst the crashing of concrete his scream pierced out.

He wanted to be heard today. Perhaps for the first and only time in his life. His mad scream. Again and again. Garbled at first.

A name.

Something.

"Timah". Yes. A name.

"Timah." "Timmmahhhhhh. Balek. Baleekkkkkk."

The crowd sensed the fear. It was coming to terms with the unknown. They might have heard it before. In a less fearful tone. Inside a morgue perhaps. He was still clutching his fists, screaming himself hoarse when the concrete pillar crashed on him.

In that split second the crowd heard something else. Perhaps it was the cry of the old man before the boulder smothered him. But it sounded different. It sounded feminine.

A wail. A mad mocking wail. Nobody spoke. Nobody said anything.

It was two days before they dug the body out. There was a note in a pocket. In Jawi. It said, "When will you come back , Timah?".

In death, his eyes told their own story. Something in the way he died told it too.

Something more than words could tell.

Victory perhaps.

Or the happiness of reunion.

Glossary:

Parang a cutting edge weapon/tool used in cutting down shrubs and bushes.

Samsu intoxicating drink

Balek come back, return

Ilmu Hitam Black magic.