The Unscrewing

All my life
I have strongly believed in things
which I do not understand

The heat got to him, just as the sandal thief had gotten to his brand new pair of leather shoes he hid under the pile of dead leaves near to the row of the wild, light red hibiscus plants, across the main stairs. They were his gift to himself, for his first week at the new branch office.

"Anak haram!" he cursed the thief, despite still being inside the masjid's compound.

Under the punishing sun, and with his two feet in cheap, thin cotton socks protecting him from the hot tar of the parking lot, he tiptoed, like a cheating husband, to the general direction of where he parked his Kancil. Like meatballs on a stick, the hot tar charred his naked toes, and the closer he got to the car, the more unbearable the heat became, which, in effect, boiled his anger over the loss of his shoes tenfold. Not a moment went by, whilst he took the car key out of his pocket and inserted it into door slot, that he not sat over the matter that those shoes were new, and leather, and expensive, and stolen.

"Babi! Bangsat!"

He swung the door open and rolled the window to the driver's seat down and with one hand, tried to flap away the damp and dusty heat from the inside of his small car. And as he did this, the late crowd from the left wing of the masjid came pouring down from the stairs and onto the parking lot, one by one of them picking off whatever part of the mess that was there: sandals and shoes, bicycles and motorbikes, lost children and tired parents, old neighbors and dear friends. A few would rush out as soon as they could while the traffic was light and fluid, and a few others would sit around and wait to see whoever else would show up coming down from the stairs. And all this would repeat itself week after week without fail, unless it rained down hard that day or the sun became too unbearable even to the friendliest of the devout.

The car's interior cooled down, and he had subsided a bit by this time, but the anger lingered still.

"Laknat."

He knew that it was pointless to continue on with being angry, with being disheartened over such a silly loss as a pair of shoes, but he also knew that the theft happened at the least, most unexpected, place.

"Datang sembahyang jumaat, tapi curik kasut orang."

And at that fact, where at the holiest of places that it occurred, he was most furious.

Sigh

It was not that the loss of his shoes that day was his first of any kind in his life to such a theft; when he was younger and when he had the leisure of preparing himself for the Friday prayer at the comfort of his own home, and not like this time when he had to rush from his office and beat the traffic out of the lunch crowd, he had the knowledge and the experience to the phenomenon of petty theft at the masjid. When he was living close to the Sekolah Menengah Sains, he knew how to deal with hostel boys who preyed on sandals and sneakers left unattended at the mouth of the masjid doors. And when he was sent to a temporary post at a FELDA in the rural southwest of the Kuala Selangor district, he was more careful with what he left behind at the masjid's unfenced compound, may it be a pair of worn boots or a secondhand Proton Wira, the drug addicts that infested the FELDA's town would be more than joyous to inspect it closer.

"Anak syaitan mana ntah."

But the small, suburban town that his new branch office is opening a market for is Heaven on Earth for good, well-off Malay families from the nearby city to start their life anew. Its location, its populace, and its clean air are the talk of the people of the state, and the masjid, a new addition to the town's physical and spiritual landscape, is an architecture’s darling, that which the Sultan himself finally got up on his ass to grace the breaking-of-the-ground ceremony. In effect, the town grew prosperous and the masjid crowded.

"Siapalah bapaknya ni?"

Most of who first came to live and start a family there were those who were given a piece of land by the government, via UMNO's network, as a retirement gift for the senior civil servant or a major payoff for the reconstruction of the 4-lane interstate highway that ran through the backyards of many kampong folks. Many of these early batch of landowners sold off what was rightfully given to them then at a bargain price to the industrious Chinese of Penang, hastily dealt through local land brokers who shaved off the top of the cream, and left them with a large amount of cash that remained stagnant for many years through poor investment choices and lucrative pyramid schemes that went nowhere. Soon, their short vision and utter stupidity outlasted their old age, and the small, suburban town became a village of village idiots.

Calmly, he took a deep breath, and let the anger seep out.

He gently placed his hand onto the steering wheel, and then both of his hands onto his seat, and both were found to be cool and nice. He pulled his pants up and tugged his shirt back into order, and he set off to drive away from the masjid's parking lot and to head towards his office, and maybe, if there happens to be a nice shoe store on the way there, he would stop and get himself a new, but much cheaper, pair of leather shoes, just so he could get by the rest of the day and not be laughed at by his co-workers.

He sat down, adjusted the crotch of his pants, and stabbed the car key into the ignition block --

Pang!
Pang!
Pang!
Pang! --

"Encik! Encik!"

Suddenly, an old man twice his age came running to the front of the Kancil and repeatedly slapped the car's hood with his bare hands, shouting and remarking to stop and get out of the car. The old man's facial expression seemed to indicate that he was desperate and angry and ashamed and awkward to the situation at hand, all at the same time dragging a teenage boy, probably his son, by the shirt's collar.

"Kenapa, pakcik?" he asked, half-shouting, as he got out of the car, and only in his socks.

"Saya mintak maaf banyak-banyak, tapi anak saya curik kasut encik", the old man replied.

As he said that, he pulled the boy from behind and to his side, so that he could show the face of the young thief: the teenager was onthe verge of bursting into tears, but he looked like he could still pull it off and get away from this as the innocent one. The boy's facewas red as fire from the heat that came from the blistering sun, the father's rough handling of his neck, and the embarrassment thatcame from being pulled around like a feedstock and accused of thievery in public, but above all else, his squinting small eyes were filled with confusion.

"Macam mana pakcik tahu anak pakcik yang curik kasut saya?"
"Saya nampak encik... jalan takde kasut... terjengkit-jengkit."

The father was catching his breath as he tried to finish his argument, while the boy kept his gaze low and his lips zipped shut, sometimes slowly wiggling away from his father's grip on his neck. But each time he lost an inch, the father would quickly jerk the boy's collar and tightened his grip by another two inches.

"Isteri saya... dia nampak... budak ni ambik."

Prompted by the father's glance to the back, the shoeless young man looked over.

At the background, the mother to the teenage boy was gaining her steps towards her furious husband and her docile son. She was a plump old woman in a white telekung with a large green plastic bag in one hand and a pair of leather shoes in the other, and she was rushing as fast as her lungs could take her. A worried, confused mother, coming to the rescue of a delinquent son who ignited the temper of a husband.

"Anak saya... datang tadi... pakai selipar jepun."

Moving away from his wife, the father's stare then fell heavy onto the teenager, and as he was regaining his breathing little by little, he gave the boy a rough shaking with both his hands, as if to remind him not to defend himself, or to say a word of his own, until he had finally caught his breath and said his piece.

The young man tried to calm him down: "Sabar pakcik, tarik nafas dulu."

A few steps more and the mother would have witnessed how her husband's shaking terrified the boy. He had one of his hands glued to the inside fabric of his pocket, and the other hand, with its fingers opened and trembling, unsuccessfully fending off his father's clusters of spit and shout from landing onto his face. Each time that the father's face drew closer to his, the boy would cringe forward and drew his two knees together, anticipating that he would be shouted at again, and he would try to shut his eyes so tightly as to not let the father's voice through to his eardrums, even from his eyelids and the sockets of his eyes.

"Kau kasi aku malu ya, Jali", the father whispered angrily to the boy.

Gradually, the father began to gather his wind back, and his grip onto the boy's collar became tighter, as if his anger had finally taken over him from the effects of the adrenaline rush and his shortness of breath.

"Jadi pencurik kau ya, hah?" whispered the father, this time nearly biting off the boy's ear.

The young man saw this and he placed his hand onto the father's shoulder, signaling to him to calm down and to loosen up his choke on the already tearful boy. The father responded with a quick, fake smile, nodding in agreement and trying to be polite whilst keeping his anger under control, and he let go only one of his hands, and kept the other at the boy's collar still; only this time, in a slightly relaxed hold.

Suddenly, the mother slowed down, despite getting closer to the action.

The shoeless young man noticed this, and he was alarmed by her slowing down. Stealthily and without the husband noticing, the young man traded glances with the boy's mother, in the hopes of trying to convey the sense of urgency of the situation between the father and the boy to her, while also keeping an eye on the father, who was then in the process of being totally consumed by his anger and in a hurry to unleash his wrath onto the boy. The mother, short on breath, saw this, and picked up her pace once more.

"Pakcik, biar saya..."

But her husband had already exploded, and the boy nearly fell onto his knees:
"Datang masjid curik kasut! Kasi malu aku ni bapak kau!" he screamed to the boy.
"Mintak maaf, Pak! Mintak maaf!" pleaded the boy, with both hands covering his face.

The mother dropped the plastic bag and the shoes, and began running towards them:
"Kenapa kau tak berak je kat mimbar, hah!" the father shouted, louder this time.
"Pak, saya...” the boy tried to reply, but his weak knees failed him and he fell.

The father picked him up from his knees and squeezed his cheeks together to stop him from talking back to him, and the boy struggled to get away from the father's hold. He was already profusely in tears, and the mother saw this and she tried to shout out from where she was, hoping that her cry might bring some senses into her husband's head, but her running and her shortness of breath from it hindered her efforts.

"Kenapa kau tak kencingkan sekali Pak Imam tadi!"
"...mintak maaf, Pak..."

She had not yet reached them, but the father had already started using both of his hands violently onto the boy's face and shoulder, pulling and pushing him away, rocking his body and rattling his skull, and culminating in him kicking the boy's heels and feet with the tip of his thick, hard sandal; once, twice and then stopping, and then continuing on with him shouting and howling. The boy's only defense was his drowned out replies, his pleading to the mercy of his father, which seemed to only aggravate his fury.

"Anak tak kenang budi! Pencurik, ya!"
"...mintak maaf, Pak, saya..."
"Kau nak jadi macam abang kau, hah!"
"...maaf, Pak. Mintak maaf..."

The young man noticed the father's augmenting maltreatment, and sought to --

Pang!
Pang!
Pang!
Pang! --

The same moment the father was done slapping his teenage boy across the face with both palms of his hands, the mother arrived, and she immediately dropped onto the dirt to the faltering embrace of her teenage boy, who was then lying on his back, and in between the state of disorientation from the severe rattling of his skull and the state of great pain from the blows the father gave him. His cheeks were red, his ears were ringing and blood was slowly dripping from his nose and the corner of his lips. He was in such a numbing pain that his tears had stopped coming out altogether and his knees no longer shaking.

But the father was not finished:

"Kau tunggu situ! Aku ambik raket badminton kau dari motor, aku libas kepala kau!" said the father, and he picked up the tail of his kain pelikat before turning around and walking away from the two, hurriedly. The sight of his wife sobbing like a widow next to the weakened body and the broken spirit of their teenage son had no effect on him, as he marched on and past the two, with anger still seething.

A small crowd of the local townsfolk had gathered around the boy and the mother, and a few men in the same age group as the boy's father, possibly his dear friends, had followed him to his motorcycle, parked a few yards away from the shoeless young man's Kancil, trying to talk him into not punishing his teenage boy anymore, that he had had enough of his wrath, and that they had had enough of his wrath.

"Kenapa kau bantai anak kau kat masjid, Haji? Mencuri, pun..."

Meanwhile, a quiet, heart wrenching atmosphere blanketed the boy and the mother, both of whom were in tears and on the hot tar of the parking lot, with the crowd around the two watching silently, somberly.

"Biar kitaorang tolong bawak anak kau ni balik ya, Sariah, ya."

And all this while, the young man whose new leather shoes were the cause of all this, he simply stood there, freezing, motionless and in his socks; caught between the storm of the father's righteous wrath, the dire hopelessness of the
mother's sprint and the helplessness of the teenage boy's guilt trapping him.

Like the small crowd that had gathered, he was simply a powerless witness.

Then, the boy's mother, in her distressed sobbing, looked up to the young man, and said:
"Encik... kasut encik."

"Ah, ya, makcik!" he promptly replied, and hurriedly he went to get them.

On his way there, he picked up from the ground the old woman's green plastic bag, which she used to carry her purse, her telekung anda change of clean clothing for the Friday prayer, and then he picked up the pair of shoes, one by one, and using the outside fabric of his shirt's arms, he gave them each a swift swipe to dust off the dirt and the grass and to bring back the brilliant glitter of the expensive leather cover and the addictive luster of the new shoes look --

"Ya, Allah!"

But then, suddenly, and as if he had seen Death, he realized: "Ini bukan kasut saya, makcik!"

Stunned by what she heard, the boy's mother instantly turned towards the young man, stood up, half frozen and half deaf, and saw clouds of darkness fast approaching the horizon of her eyesight, like an impending thunderstorm encroaching the corners of the day, and onto the final canvass of her consciousness was the standing image of her husband, with a badminton racket in his hand, being held back by the men.

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