The back lane of our house was where everyone in the neighborhood sold their wares. It had become that sort of economy -people helping people. Yea there were some luxurious Turkish delights as well as the more commonplace items like cheap brown bread and coconut cream rice with anchovy sambal salsa wrapped in banana leaf. I had a stand there myself: just a money box and a tray of my papaya buns, 5 for 5RM. Together with fees from giving piano lessons, I made just enough to eek by every month. Granted, as a mentally challenged person, I received a fair amount of subsidies.
Ashiv liked papaya. I've never tasted confectionaries these good, he told me point blank. How do you make them? He asked. Key lime, their zest, and mayo, I replied. Plus the papaya has to be firmish. I just can't stop, Ashiv replied, between bites of the hot-dog shaped bun. He licked his fingers like a sensuous woman as I watched him, feeling excited. It must have shown because he soon came out to me: I'm gay. If you have a problem with that, it's not your fault. Nor yours, I replied. He melted at once.
The Pope says gay marriage is okay, said Ashiv. But what is marriage but license to be closer to a person than legal otherwise? I replied. Sex is spiritual, ownership is of the world. And what of same sex? He asked. Whatever it is written to be in your vows, I said. He sat in the corner of my room while I tapped lightly on the keys of the baby grand. I have to go, he announced, looking troubled. It was a long while until I saw the young man again.
It cost 2RM for an hour of tennis at the house down the road. Jerry's back yard had been converted into a faceted gel wall and hard court where players could hit like squash and receive the balls back at the correct speed and spin. All I had was an old Dunlop Pro I got off the seconds rack at Sports Direct, one trip to Kuala Lumpur. The handle was wrapped with sport tape and the strings were budget spinners from Decathlon. To save money, someone had invented a tensor vending machine. All you had to do was roughly string the head and slot your racket into the cabinet which would tighten up everything and knot-seal it in place for 1RM -took just 10 seconds.
The pretty Euro girl I was hitting with on Jerry's wall-court turned to me and said, it's SO hot. Yes, it is, I said. Everyday mostly. I was referring to your game, she laughed. Really, I said, standing taller. No, your other game. Sett? I inquired. It was a simple but devilish tic-tac-toe clone with 3 levels of pieces and Scrabble-like scoring. Played it on the plane -in the gaming room. How so? I asked. It's short and sweet and good for after gambling drinks. We play it with our winnings chips. I was humbled and nodded slightly. Come on, she said, tilting her head. I followed her to the backpackers' hotel round the block.
Since the once weekly making outs with my very short ex-girlfriend I knew from university in Manchester, I had had no further partners. What's your name, I asked, anticipation growing. Martina, she replied. She pulled her tennis dress off her lanky frame and stepped into the curtain of filtered rain and recycled water that poured perpetually down the raised concrete trough of tropical plants, the centerpiece of the common bath area. What about you? She called out. It IS hot, I said, joining in.
Are you a Malay Malaysian? she asked. Why? Because this would be wrong according to your constitution. To touch, to fall in love? I asked. I had not expected a debate but Martina had a sharp intellect. I was a student of law in Switzerland she said.
Isn't it true you practice the ketuanan? She meant the superiority of the Malay race as opposed to the pendatang, or later migrants such as my parents. To mix with other superior races would help the ketuanan wouldn't it? I replied I didn't really know, but yes, genetic diversity is known to produce better children. Many sultans practiced it, not just in Malaysia. But the Malay religion is a barrier to genetic mixing, she said.
Malaysia is a one way street to heaven if not a moral cull de sac in many respects, I replied. Pitting race-religion against superiority-freedom is a contradiction born of colonial concessions made in poor, not to say bad faith.
If a constitution is this unclear it should be dispensed with. Didn't God make us male and female? She approached me, her bare skin dripping with rivulets of water. A constitution made under God's auspices makes it difficult for a suitable woman and man to make love. I didn't come all the way to your country to share an ice cream at IKEA. We have that already. I knew what she meant as I took her in my arms.
-END OF PART 2-
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