Chapter 6
Thinking of what I had gone through before — the ache, the confusion, the shame — I refused the invitation.
My reason was simple.
I feared God.
From the very beginning, I had wanted to run from that shadowed world. My life with Tuan Khairil had opened doors I never knew existed — doors that led into corners of human desire both intoxicating and terrifying.
He was clever in ways I could never match, and I was naïve enough to be drawn into his orbit. I became obsessed. Without him, I felt like a madman. I could not sleep unless I imagined the comfort of his strong arms. His embrace had become a kind of longing I could not explain.
One morning, as I was getting ready for school, I overheard my mother speaking quietly with my father. Their conversation, which I first thought was about the usual family matters, turned into a wave of sorrow.
My mother had to find another job — Tuan Khairil’s contract had ended. He was leaving for his home state.
My heart sank. I left the house without a word and ran straight to his home. But he wasn’t there. I called out his name again and again, the echo of my voice vanishing into the empty air.
Had he already left?
My steps grew weak as I sat down on the front steps, my breath shallow, my chest tightening. I buried my face in my palms and cried until my body trembled. Tears streamed down like rain that refused to stop.
Then, a pair of rough, familiar hands touched my shoulders. I turned — and there he was, standing before me with that same kind smile. I threw myself into his arms, sobbing, and he held me close.
After my tears subsided, he led me inside. We had breakfast together. He explained that he had only gone jogging and stopped by a stall for food.
“Is it true that you’re leaving?” I asked, my appetite gone.
His eyes darkened. He nodded slowly. The truth pierced me like a blade.
“What about me then?” I whispered.
He smiled faintly. “We’ll still be as we are. Only distance will separate us. My feelings for you will remain.”
“But we won’t see each other again!” I protested.
“I’ll find time to visit — once a month, I promise,” he said, taking my hands in his.
“But Sarawak is so far. The journey isn’t cheap,” I murmured.
He brushed my hair gently. “Don’t think about that. I’ll keep my promise. Believe me.”
And so, I believed him. I vowed to wait. My heart would belong to him, and him alone.
A week later, Tuan Khairil returned to his homeland, leaving me behind with a grief that felt endless. To soothe myself, I buried my mind in studies. With the SPM examination near, I worked harder than ever — determined to make my parents proud.
Two months passed. No letter came. None of my own letters were answered.
“Maybe he’s busy,” I told myself. “Tomorrow, perhaps the postman will bring his reply.”
But tomorrow never came.
When the exams ended, there was still nothing. My heart grew cold. He had forgotten his promise. He had vanished from my life, as though he never existed. Out of bitterness, I forced myself to forget him.
When the SPM results came, they were good enough for me to enter Form Six in the city. I moved into a boarding school — a new chapter, a new beginning.
There, I learned that what I had once experienced with Tuan Khairil was not so unique after all.
Several seniors in the dormitory whispered and laughed in ways I now understood too well.
But I refused their advances. The memories of my past were pain enough.
My reason was simple.
I feared God.
“You’re quick to give excuses,” I teased Brian. “As if you were some kind of saint.”
He chuckled, swirling his drink.
“I just didn’t feel like it. Besides, they’re not my type. I don’t go for ‘baby fish’. Waste of time.”
I laughed aloud. Among mak nyah and gay circles, young men were indeed called anak ikan — “little fish.” A term at once humorous and strange.
“But I’ve always wondered,” I said.
“Wondered what?” Brian glanced up at me.
“Isn’t it true that these things usually start in boarding school?”
“Not always. Even those who never live in hostels can fall into it,” I argued. “Good or bad doesn’t depend on the place — it depends on the heart.”
“Still,” Brian countered, “in an all-boys school, things can happen easily. I had a friend once — bullied because he refused to do what the seniors demanded… Imagine, a boy of sixteen already knowing such things. Where do you think they learn it from?”
“Friends. Pornographic videos. Curiosity,” I said flatly. “That’s often how it begins.”
Brian nodded slowly. “First they watch… then they want to try. And the innocent ones become victims.”
“Including you?” I teased again.
He smirked. “My case was different. I was trapped — by Tuan Khairil himself.”
“So yours was a ‘shark’, not a ‘small fish’?”
He burst out laughing.
“I don’t choose by age. As long as we connect — that’s enough. Youth or maturity, it doesn’t matter.”
When his laughter faded, I asked, “So what happened next?”
“I couldn’t stand life in the dorm. I requested a transfer to a school near my village.”
His eyes drifted away, staring into the distance.
I knew there was more to come.
Even as I tried to forget, the memories of Tuan Khairil refused to fade. Then came Cikgu Kamal — and my heart, long closed, began to open again.
He wasn’t my teacher, and yet I would often cross paths with him. Each time, I smiled sweetly, but he never returned it. Not even a greeting. He seemed almost to dislike me.
He was not particularly handsome, not charming in the usual way — quiet, serious, almost stern.
And yet, I was drawn to him. I couldn’t understand why.
Through other students, I learned bits and pieces about him. None of it brought me closer.
He was an enigma.
But desire has a way of persisting.
In time, opportunity found me.
A theatre rehearsal for Teacher’s Day forced me to stay after school every afternoon. From the field, I would watch Cikgu Kamal playing football with his students. His movements were calm yet powerful. I felt something inside me stir again — something I had buried long ago.
One evening, I had to walk home because my bicycle was borrowed. The sky was heavy with clouds. As I trudged along the muddy path, a familiar sound approached — the hum of a motorcycle.
It was him.
I pretended not to notice, though my heart whispered a silent prayer: Stop. Please stop.
And he did.
He stopped right beside me, smiled, and offered me a ride home. He was heading toward a nearby village anyway.
At first, I refused politely — but he insisted.
As I climbed on, my heart raced. I could barely breathe when he handed me the helmet, his voice steady, kind.
The wind roared as the motorcycle sped forward, the scent of evening rain in the air.
The road into my village was unpaved — red earth and potholes everywhere. With each jolt, I nearly lost my balance. Instinctively, I clung to him.
“Hold on to my waist,” he called out over the sound of the engine.
And so I did — shyly, then firmly. The warmth of his back seeped through the chill of the air.
Moments later, the rain began to fall — lightly at first, then pouring down like an unleashed storm.
There was no shelter nearby, only the endless stretch of rubber trees. We were drenched before we could even find cover.
By the time we reached my house, we were trembling from the cold. My father welcomed him in and told me to bring Cikgu Kamal a towel and a sarong.
As he changed, I turned away, though my heart beat loudly in my chest.
Dinner was simple, but comforting. Later, he and my father talked while I pretended to do homework, stealing glances from behind the door. There was a small mole below his lip — something I had never noticed before.
The rain showed no sign of stopping. My father suggested that Cikgu Kamal spend the night. I was told to prepare a mattress beside my own bed.
Though it was a small space, it felt like a secret joy.
That night, the sound of rain filled the silence between us.
He spoke of his family, his home in Melaka, his students. His voice carried a calmness I hadn’t felt in years.
But as the cold deepened, my mind wandered to the past — to Tuan Khairil and the warmth I had once known.
I shook off the thought. Forget him. He is gone.
When I turned, Cikgu Kamal was lying quietly, facing away.
“Cikgu… are you asleep?” I whispered.
He stirred. “Not yet. Why?”
“I’m cold,” I murmured. The words escaped before I could stop them.
He chuckled softly. “Then cover yourself well — up to your neck.”
I smiled faintly beneath the blanket. The quiet returned.
Somewhere in that silence, a storm raged outside — and another, gentler one, within my chest.
He shifted slightly. The space between us seemed to dissolve, filled instead with the sound of rain on the roof.
No words were needed.
The night held its own conversation — unspoken, trembling, human.
The rain fell harder.
The heart, softer.
And in that moment, what could not be said became understood.
