The pickpocket

 

Macalister Road on a Sunday morning was the perfect spot. Big crowd, plenty of distractions, lots of tourists.

The scent of musty old books reached my nostrils and its familiarity made me smile. Many of the old Indian Muslim vendors here were my friends. When I was small, they welcomed me into their shops and allowed me to choose a title from their towering stacks of second-hand books. I’d sit quietly in a corner to read page after page, escaping to worlds of fantasy, romance, and dreams, where life always seemed to be much better.

But today, I wasn’t here for the books. Today, I was here to work. It was almost the end of the month, and Tok Pah had her grocery list ready. It wasn’t a long list since it’s just the two of us living in Lorong Maqbul for many years now—and for many years more, I was sure. At the very top, in big bold letters, she’d written tembakau. I grinned to myself thinking of her weakness for it.

She never could part with her tobacco, or her snuffbox containing the many ingredients and implements needed to satisfy her betel chewing habit. It was almost therapeutic for her, this preparation of a quid of betel. As the dust and chaos of the day settled into the approaching quiet of the night, she would sit cross-legged on the floor, drag her snuffbox closer, and begin the important ceremony.

From her betel box, a wooden container with elaborate carvings, she would pick a betel leaf, smear a smidge of lime paste on it, then scatter strands of aromatic tobacco, a tiny piece of clove, and slivers of betel nut. Folded into a small leaf parcel, in they would go into the long, cylindrical brass mortar, to be crushed before she balled them up and lodged them on the inside of her cheek for hours. As the hours wore on, her lips would be rouged and swollen as though she’d been kissed roughly and loved it.

“Who have you been kissing ah, Tok Pah? Is it Tok Ali?” I enjoyed teasing her about her other love interest, our neighbour three doors down, the widower. And she’d blush all pink and grin widely, baring her red-stained teeth.

Sometimes I wondered what life would be like if there was a man in our lives. How that would change the routine of our twosome existence. Tok Pah had lost her only child—my father—twenty years ago, and her husband five years later. My long-missing mother was something of a taboo topic in our household and was never openly discussed. For many years, it had been just my grandmother and me keeping each other company. Lately, the house felt far too quiet for just the two of us.

But no, I couldn’t bear to let Tok Pah suffer withdrawal symptoms. Her snuffbox needed to be fully replenished every month, or I’d have to suffer living with a sulky old woman for weeks. That, and the fact that she was my only living relative and there was no one else left to fuss over.

I shoved my hands deep into the pockets of my jacket and wriggled my fingers. They were itching to wrap themselves around some foreign bills today.

*****

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