City of Shared Stories Kuala Lumpur

I never asked him why he worked at a Malay warung rather than a place that employed only migrants. I would have asked, eventually.

I first saw him four Fridays ago. I noticed his height, poise and eyelashes. 'Jernih' was the word that somehow came to mind: as clear as a creek. At about 11am, he laid out combs of bananas on tables. I twisted a banana free while looking at him. Sedekah, he smiled. The banana was nice and sweet. The taste stayed on my lips all day.

Three Fridays ago, the same thing happened. This time, my hand brushed against his while I accepted the comb. I braved myself to return his gaze, even to hold it longer. I didn't care if people noticed how wide my smile was. The banana was great, again. The rest of the day was a pleasant haze.

Two Fridays ago, I was even bolder. (What was happening to me?) When our hands brushed, I slipped him my name-card. For a split-second he seemed confused; and to me, the background sounds receded as I waited if he would say or do anything else. Was I drawing too much attention to myself? (My initial idea, which was to write my phone-number on his hand, would have been worse.)

Last Friday, he wasn't there. I asked the Mek who owned the place: what happened to the Bangladeshi? She replied: there was trouble, the whole area got raided. I asked if he'd been sent back. She said he disappeared.

I rubbed my hand, the same spot that, on his hand, I would have written on. At that moment, my hand-phone rang. Oh my heart! But it was my wife, reminding me that relatives were coming over that evening. I didn't take a banana that day.