by Leya Kuan
Land of which the heart of my feet grazes upon–
I walk, slowly, my feet submerged in mud and rainwater,
There is no shade above my head, but all the better,
I relish in knowing the comfort of calling in sick,
I pass by another kopitiam, crowded as it always is,
An auntie uses the same old wok from the nineties,
An uncle’s spit flies out as he groans about politics,
A migrant worker sweats–relieved that the rain relieves him;
I stop and stare, a sight I’ve seen a hundred times before,
And long before that, the rain is pouring, it’s lingering: finally, it’s gone.
Land to which my soul, my jiwa belongs–
I make my way back home, the grass is cut, the clouds are near,
The keys clatter against each other: my house, my gate, the backdoor…
The sun will come out again, maybe tomorrow, maybe next week,
The smell of pandan travels from my neighbour’s door to mine,
When I reach my kitchen, I return the favour–pale santan boiling in the pot,
I change into my old, discoloured sarong and wait for the rice to be ready,
Rice, rice, rice; what I had for breakfast I shall have again for lunch and dinner,
I take two steps back, and half a step forward,
Yet that’s how it’s been, it’s how it will forever be, always and all along.
Land that I harness in my hands–
At supper, I sit next to these strangers, as we
Watch a badminton game on the screen from an old projector,
I have no idea who’s who, but I cheer as the one in the Malaysian uniform scores,
I yell when the others yell, and I curse when they curse,
My tongue is foreign, it knows the languages of the land,
The match ends at midnight, the crowds disperse into the dark
I sit and await the news of a public holiday on my phone,
For when the festivities vanish, I am still free, but too alone,
But at least it is quiet, and there are no headlines on the newsstand.
Land for which my blood flows and sheds–
I look around me, the national flag is planted everywhere,
At the end of every street, at the turn of every corner,
But you feel so distant, like a faraway dream that only I know,
I speak of you to people, fawn over you, shout my love for you,
And people tend to look at me like a desperate, spurned lover,
But all the things you are are mine as well,
And I know nothing–I am a mere frog in the well,
Come tomorrow morning, there will be nothing to be said.
Leya Kuan is an eighteen-year-old college student from Malaysia. She is hoping to study abroad for her political science degree, and her favourite writers include Lu Xun and Pramoedya Ananta Toer. Leya dreams of changing the country one day, but maybe it’s not possible just yet – so for now, she’ll just listen to Chet Baker and live in the past