The Old Man On The Train

note:
this story was told to me verbatim by my brother, who heard it from his wife(i think). i've fiddled with it a bit.

Made it!!

That's what Amir thought as he slipped by the doors of the train just before it closed. He was rightly relieved; this was the last train that night, and it was Putra LRT. No driver to help open doors there. He boarded the train at KLCC, where he worked as a sales assistant at Isetan.

Amir took a seat as the train began to move. At this late hour, there were not many people on board. It was quiet as well. Amir glimpsed a couple, with the girl resting her head on the mans shoulder. There were a few skater kids as well, chatting (thankfully) quietly, their skateboards across their laps. There were few more less interesting people.

Amir exhaled. He was tired. It had been a busy day for Malaysian shoppers.. and consequently for him as well. He had had to run from here and there, getting stuff, helping customers et al. Sometimes he thought it would never end. His heels were blistered, partly to the running around, mostly to his God awful shoes.

Still, it was a job at least. In these hard times, he was thankful for that. Besides, this was just part time. He was planning on going back to college to further his studies, maybe sometime next year.

He leaned back in his seat, trying to catch a few Z's. He got off at Terminal Putra, in Gombak, and it was still quite some time off. He hated taking the late trains. Somehow he was not entirely comfortable at the thought of being underground, in the dark tunnels beneath Kuala Lumpur. Dark tunnels that reputedly passed below graveyards. Often he heard of stories and whispers about the underground train tunnels; of workers killed during construction, of grotesque finds, of ghosts.

But the thing that perhaps bothered Amir the most about the underground trains and Putra LRT was the fact that it was machinized. Not that he didn't think that there were procedures established in case of emergencies; rather, he would have felt more trusting of the trains if there was a driver ahead.

But beggars can't be choosers, he finally thought. He lived in Gombak, on the outskirts of Kuala Lumpur. His parents died when he was young, and in Gombak he lived with his uncle and aunt, who had been taking care of him since he was small.

The train pulled into Ampang Park station when he finally fell asleep. Before that, he managed to look around to see people getting on. Sometimes there were really cute girls who took the late train. None today though, Amir thought, a little disappointed. Instead only one old man got on at Ampang Park. Just before his eyes shut, he thought the old man looked sort of familiar.

And so he napped, waking up occasionally when the train stopped. He did not worry about missing his station, as Terminal Putra was at the end of the line. Someone would surely wake him up there anyway.

Everytime he woke up he saw the old man that had gotten on at Ampang Park. The man was quiet, ignoring the few people around him, not even looking around. Judging by his dress, he seemed to be stuck in the seventies. People did not seem to take notice of him either. Just an old man to them, probably.

Amir noticed the old man sat quite upright, with his face down. In his hands he held a small piece of paper. Amir shrugged it off, and went back to his nap.

The train stopped by more stations en route to Terminal Putra, and more people got off. In the end not more than a handful remained. Amir continued his nap, not bothering with the going ons.

He was jolted awake by a Chinese lady who said they've arrived at Terminal Putra. Amir squeezed his eyes and said a brief thank you to the lady as she walked out the train. Cool midnight air blew in from outside. He stretched as he got up, ironing out the kinks in his joints. His neck ached due to the posture in which he napped.

He noticed then that the old man in the old fashioned dress was still in the train. Odd, Amir thought. But then he thought maybe the Chinese lady had woken the old man up first and then him and then just walked outside. The old man was still sitting quietly, his head bowed down as if in prayer.

Amir walked by to him.

"Pakcik", he said. The old man barely stirred.

"Pakcik.. Pakcik, we've arrived at the last station", Amir said to the old man. He gently shook the old mans shoulder. Had this old fella missed a train?, Amir thought. He gently shook the old mans shoulder again.

The old man slowly looked up at Amir, and Amir saw that despite his aged features, his eyes were bright and seemed to be full of humor and joy, but beneath that, his eyes showed the rivers of time. He must have seen a lot, Amir thought to himself. The old man smiled, a smile that was sad. Again Amir was struck at how familiar this elderly gentleman looked. He must have seen him somewhere.

Suddenly he felt creeped out.

"Pakcik, if there's nothing else, I'm going first. Assalamualaikum", Amir said and walked out of the train. Then he felt the old man grab his arm, but not roughly. Rather, it was like a grandfather holding on to his grandchild for support. Amir paused; maybe the old man needed help to walk.

"Pakcik, do you need any help?", Amir asked. The old man did not say a word. Instead, now he took Amirs hand and placed the piece of paper inside it. Then the old man spoke.

"I'm alright", the old man said. His voice was smooth, deep and melodious... and familiar. Amir looked at him, feeling an odd nag at the back of his mind. I've seen this person. Where?

"I'm alright. Go home young man. I can look after myself from here", the old man said. Still, he did not get up. Amir just nodded awkwardly, said 'Assalamualaikum', and walked away.

As he stepped out of the train and took a few steps, he held out the piece of paper the old man had handed him on the train. It was yellowed by time, and the ink on it seemed faded and blotted. Amir tried to ascertain what was written, then saw it was in Arabic script; in Jawi, written intricately and in flowing cursive. He wasn't that good at Jawi.

Amir turned to see if the old man was behind him, intent on asking him why the piece of paper with Jawi on it. Instead there was no one. He craned his neck to catch a glimpse, to see if the old man was still in the train.

But no. No one there. Not a soul. And he was sure as hell that the old man did not just pass him by either. Feeling a bit disturbed, Amir rushed off home, and went straight to bed.

The next morning as he had finished showering and had breakfast, he suddenly remembered about the piece of paper the old man on the train had given him last night. Amir told the story to his uncle, and asked his uncle, who was there at the breakfast table with him, if he could read Jawi fluently. His uncle said yes, so Amir got out the note from his backpack and handed it over to him.

His uncle, a gentle man of 59, put on a pair of thin glasses and looked at the note. He noted how intricate the Jawi was, and proceeded to read the note out loud:

Maafkan aku kerana meninggalkan kamu semua. Maafkan dosa-dosa aku kepada kamu semua. Tetapi dengan pemergian ku ini, aku hanya berharap dapat bertenang untuk selama-lamanya. Aku pinta hanya satu.. tolong jangan siarkan filem-filem dan lagu-lagu ku lagi. Aku mahukan ketenangan.

Remuk redam hatiku hancur
Airmata di Kuala Lumpur

Yang benar,
Teuku Zakaria bin Teuku Puteh

His uncle finished reading the note and slowly took off his glasses. They stared hard at each other. His uncle mentioned the name that had signed the letter, speaking slowly and almost in disbelief; yet when he looked into his nephews eyes, he knew that Amir was not lying, not one bit.

Amir felt a chill down his spine.. then at the same time he felt a palpable sadness in his heart. Now he knew why the old man on the train had looked so familiar.

"Teuku Zakaria bin Teuku Putih was..", his uncle said. But Amir did not need his uncle to tell him. He knew all too well.

"P. Ramlee.."

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Jannah

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Jannah walked quietly along the street that led to Sogo. It was night-time, and Kuala Lumpur seemed to have died. There was hardly a soul. Occasionally a car or taxi would pass by. She ignored the headlights as they crossed her body, casting warped and twisted shadows on the sidewalk and walls.

She just kept on walking.

Jannah held the bundle she was holding close to her body. Wrapped in layers of warm cloth, a tiny hand poked its way out. Jannah noticed this, and stopped for a moment to tuck the infant securely in the cloth. She gave it a gentle kiss on the forehead, whispering softly to the child.

Just as she was about to reach Sogo, she turned into a quiet alley, fearfully looking around to see if anybody noticed her. She walked deeper into the alley, and suddenly began to sob. Some of the tears fell on the face of the infant she was carrying, and she wiped them away.

Ya Allah forgive me for what I am about to do, she thought. I have sinned against myself, my faith, against You.

She stopped by near a dumpster that was against a wall. She looked around again, and, convinced that nobody was around, she began to lay the infant beside the dumpster... and stopped. It was dark in the alley, but in that darkness she saw the twinkling of light in the eyes of the baby. The baby had opened its eyes, Jannah thought. It, she thought again.

Suddenly compassion took over as she looked deep into the eyes of the infant. She sat on the floor, leaning against the dumpster and held the infant close to her chest. She sobbed hoarsely, hiccupping. She kept saying "Forgive me" over and over again. She kissed the infants' forehead, and it made an odd mewling sound.

Jannah slammed her head repeatedly against the dumpster, feeling that she should be hurt as penance for the sins she has committed. She slammed her head one final time, and leaned back, crying, praying to the God she has almost forsaken.

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Jannah was born some 24 years ago to a wealthy set of parents. She had a brother who was three years older than she was. As a child they had had everything they could ever have wanted. They were not close though.

Her brother grew up to become a renowned and notorious ladies man, and had at any given moment, a dozen girlfriends. Her brother, Ilyas, was the proverbial alpha male.

Meanwhile, Jannah had grown up spoiled and bratty, used to getting her own way. To her, there was no other way except hers. And as she grew, so did her beauty. Even her name meant 'Heaven' or 'Eden', depending how you saw it.

Jannah flaunted her beauty during her teen years, and, as her brother had done before her, began to sleep around. As a pretty young thing she found out that boys and, indeed, men, came in the scores, flaunting her, wooing her with money and luxuries. When she was fifteen she gave up her body for the first time to a 34 year old architect, and in turn she had received a brand new Rado watch. Her parents, being wealthy, never suspected anything. They thought the world of their daughter.

Jannah did not bother to study in school despite her above average intelligence. All she was concerned about were her luxuries and men. Then, when she had finished school, the oddest thing happened.

One day whilst their parents were enjoying a vacation overseas, Jannah found herself at home with just her brother. Ilyas at the time was studying Engineering at a nearby university. Jannah found him that day at the swimming pool of their multi-million ringgit home. He was doing laps. Jannah had trained her eyes on him, and suddenly was struck at how handsome her brother was. Absently she went to her bedroom and put on a skimpy bikini, and went straight away to the pool.

She flaunted her body to her brother. She did not feel odd or ashamed at all, just a sense of absentness. And it seemed Ilyas took notice as well. They talked for a moment, first like the siblings they were, but then more and more like strangers who stumbled upon each other at a bar. And though some part of her was saying it was terribly wrong, she found herself feeling delighted and excited each time her brothers eyes fell to her chest and her long, smooth legs.

She took leave from Ilyas, walking slowly and deliberately, knowing Ilyas was looking at her. She went up to her bedroom and began to undress. Her heart was thumping. Soon she heard footsteps and through her bedroom door, saw that Ilyas had come up. Ilyas paused when he saw Jannah looking at her. She was holding a towel up to her chest. She stared hard at Ilyas, even as he began walking towards her. When he came into her bedroom, they fell into each others arms, not one of them thinking they were doing anything wrong.

Their torrid, dirty affair continued from that day. They took turns sneaking into each others' bedrooms after their parents went to bed. Ilyas would come back from his classes early to be with his sister. Jannah did not at all feel guilty or remorse or disgusted. In fact, the more often they did it, the more she became aware of her brother.

Eventually she fell in love with him.

And then two years ago when Ilyas mentioned that he was moving into his own place in Kuala Lumpur, an apartment near Jalan Putra, Jannah immediately made plans of her own. She told her parents that she had gotten a job and wanted to live on her own. Her parents, clueless and adoring their daughter, had agreed.

In fact, Jannah moved into an apartment in the same building as Ilyas, and they continued their affair. Then one day last year, Jannah became pregnant. She had argued with Ilyas about it. Ilyas wanted her to abort it, whilst Jannah suddenly had an epiphany. Fearing for his reputation and the wrath of his parents' Ilyas suddenly fled the country, leaving his own sister and the mother of his child alone.

Jannah almost fell apart. She avoided seeing her parents and family, claiming she was busy. She cut off her ties from her friends, with the exception of the closest ones. Even so she told them that she did not know who the father of her unborn baby was. Day by day, as her belly swelled, the fear of God grew inside her. She began to question her life, and she began to realize the mortal sins she had committed.

The child that was growing inside her was her own brothers'. Jannah and her brother Ilyas had spent years committing an unspeakable act, an act condemned by religion and society alike. How could she bring the child into the world? But she has done enough, she thought. She will not add murder to her list of wrongs.

Then a month or so ago, she gave birth to the child. She had given birth alone, in HKL, with no one by her side. She had looked at the child, and had pleaded to her doctors not to take photographs or release statements to the public. The doctors had agreed. Then Jannah had taken her baby home. For a month or so she tended to the child, hardly leaving her apartment. She tried to contact Ilyas but to no avail. When she left her house she took the baby wrapped in the most concealing of clothes.

For the child was deformed. The infant had 6 fingers on each limb, but instead of hands and feet, they terminated in an odd claw like appendage, resembling pincers with three prongs on each side. The infant's forehead was flat, the nose missing; in its place were two flaring nostrils. The eyes were black slits, obsidian and depthless. The infant had a cleft upper lip. When the infant cried, the sound it made was cat-like, hoarse.

Jannah cringed every time she saw the child; but another part of her cared for it. Her instincts were at odds with one another. A part of her always wanted to just leave the infant and run; another wanted to stay and atone for the sins. So she spent a month in limbo, feeling that she was slowly growing insane.

Then today the infant had refused to stop crying no matter what she did. The infant, a female, had gone on crying until the night when Jannah, who was feeling mad and sad and angry, wrapped it up in bundles of clothes and went out with it. She could not take it anymore.

So she found herself beside this dumpster, holding her misshapen child in her arms. She cried, sobbing hoarsely, audibly begging for forgiveness from the Almighty. She looked at her baby again; she looked at the deformed face, and held the infants' claw-like hands. The baby seemed to be peacefully looking at her. Could she leave an innocent soul here to die, a soul borne of her own flesh and blood? Would she do it to save her self, sacrificing an unsullied life?

Ya Allah forgive me, she said in her heart, cradling the child in her arms. She looked towards the skies, as if hoping for an answer, but the skies remained as they were, dark, black as jet, and as silent as Death.

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