Prologue

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16 May 1980, 0644
110km North of Kuala Terengganu


As the sun slowly began to show its face on the horizon, the man stands on the edge of the cliff. In the creeping light of daybreak, the azure expanse that is the South China Sea is still hidden from view. Instead, the sun casts hues of orange, violet and pink across the surface of the ocean, and the colors weave and dance in a perfectly balanced routine. The tide was low, but even from atop the cliff the man could still hear the gentle crash of waves upon the sandy shore below.

Perhaps in other circumstances, he would have scanned his eyes across the vista in front of him and exclaimed delight and gratitude to God because at that moment, he was alive and privileged to be able to witness the miracle that is the Earth. But no, he just stood still, almost near to the very edge of the rocky cliff. Should he take not more than five steps forward, he would have plunged a hundred feet below to his death.

But he wasn’t moving. He just stood as still as a statue.

An ocean breeze blew on his face, and yet he did not blink. His eyes stared into the distance as the sun slowly rose. But he was not staring at the spectacular scene ahead; he was staring into emptiness. Only when the first piercing rays of light fell upon him did he tear his gaze away. His eyes were red, as if he had not blinked for many hours. The truth was that he had been weeping.

If someone had come across the man that morning, the first thing that would have come to mind was: Dear God, this man must not have slept for ages. Indeed, he looked terrible. His hair was all over the place; a one-week-old stubble peppered his cheeks and chin. His eyes were red.

He looked ten years older than his 37 years or so. On another day, a different time, he would have come across as mildly handsome. But on this day… he just looked tired. And that he was: tired. His un-tucked shirt was wrinkled and creased, buttoned only halfway down, and the cuffs of his jeans were frayed and worn.

But nobody came across him that morning. As a result, nobody saw the weariness evident in the lines of his face. Nobody saw the sadness in his eyes, or the longing in his heart. Nobody saw him stare emptily towards the ocean.

The sun was now edging higher in the sky and the blue of the South China Sea was beginning to show. Other than the sound of the ocean and the breeze, it was eerily quiet. Nearby was a quaint seaside village. It was from that village where the man walked from. At that kampung was his car; the car he used to drive all night long from Kuala Lumpur.

All during that drive, the man was holding back a great ache in his heart. He had driven almost nine hours alone in the dark of night to reach here, without rest. When he had reached the kampung, he had parked his car and walked to this cliff, his legs burning as he ascended the rocky slope to reach the top.

And here he was.

The man was holding something in his right hand. He brought it up to his face and looked at it; it was a flower. The flower had six elongated petals, and the color was a rich golden yellow that brightened to a creamier hue towards the stem. The man took smelled it, and that was all it took. The aroma pleasant and its perfume lingered around him. The flower looked impossibly fresh and alive, like it was picked just a few minutes ago. But the man knew better.

He turned the flower in his hand, studying it as he always did whenever he was alone. He told nobody this, but he carried that flower with him almost all the time. Only he knew the secret to its vitality; why it never wilted.

Suddenly he threw his head back and screamed. It was a scream of pain. The breeze carried his voice and it echoed through the air; he screamed until his throat hurt. His breath came in hitching gasps. His lungs burned. His hands curled into fists, crumpling the flower within his fingers.

“You said you would always be there for me!” he shouted towards the sea. “You said you would be there… you said if I would wait you would always come…”

The man dropped to his knees. He felt so very tired, and he could not even cry. His tears were dry.

“You said you’d always be there,” he said. “But you lied.”

Slowly he opened his fists; remarkably, the yellow flower did not bear a single sign of damage despite being squeezed in his hand. Not even a bruise on its velvety yellow petals. It looked as fresh and as crisp as it was on the day it was picked on.

The man, only now beginning to feel the fatigue of his long journey, caressed the flower. It was a beautiful flower to him; it meant so much. Quietly he whispered:

“Kenanga…”





to be continued...