On Fridays - Short Story

Caught in a torrential downpour I hail a passing taxi. I have to run for it and I accidentally step into a puddle and splash myself. It's a share taxi and the front seat is already occupied by a Sikh, so I help myself to the empty seat in back. After struggling to close my umbrella, I finally shut the door. As I settle in, I'm surprised to find another back seat passenger: a young Malay woman reading a letter.

In her yellow baju kurung and matching headscarf, the woman looks no older than twenty. She has a subtle, innocent-like beauty, with a complexion that is golden brown, lips that naturally pout, and eyes that are shaped like almonds. The eyes, I presume, are dark brown--if only she would look at me. But she doesn't, which is a shame: a smile from a stranger can go a long way on a rainy day.

Despite the weather and the heavy traffic, the Malay driver is making good time. He's a Muslim and has Koranic verse stickers on both the glove compartment and the space above the radio. The radio, however, is out of commission--someone has ripped it out. Jury-rigged beneath it though is a cassette player and spewing out is a medley of late '50s-early '60s hits sung by the same two (though not the original) artists with this steady, monotonous, pop beat in the background. As far as I can tell this particular cassette is standard for all Malaysian taxis--I hear it about every third one and rarely do I get the same taxi twice. I sit back and relax and soon find myself silently humming along with the music.

Each Friday I make this same sixteen-kilometer trip to George Town, on the island of Penang, to teach English. Besides giving me a little pocket money and a much needed break from my painting, it also gives me an opportunity to observe my surroundings. I find the tropical flora, at times, overwhelming--so different from back home and one of the reasons I came to Malaysia. Later I'll try to recapture these impressions on canvas, which, in a way, will bring me back full circle.

The Sikh, whose turban nearly touches the ceiling, is chatting loudly with the driver. Half of their conversation is drowned out by the music. The driver laughs about something as he reaches over and turns on a small fan that is mounted on the dashboard midway between them. The fan makes a humming noise as it oscillates back and forth. Using a filthy rag the driver wipes the fog off the front windshield. When it gets sufficiently impossible for him to see, he switches on the windshield wipers. After four swipes, he switches the wipers off--no doubt to save on his battery.

The driver suddenly slides across two lanes of traffic, narrowly missing a pair of rain-soaked motorcyclists and two cars, and slams on his brakes to pick up a heavyset Indian woman. Normally when caught in this situation I'd step out and let the two women sit together. Because of the rain and the speed at which this woman is charging for the door, I prudently slide across the seat to make room for her. But she and her purple sari keep coming, so I keep inching closer and closer to the Malay woman until I'm hemmed in with just enough space to breathe, with the newcomer's dripping umbrella and equally soaked plastic bag of fruit pressed against my leg.

Throughout all of this not once do the Malay woman's eyes stray away from the pages of her letter. Since I'm practically sitting on top of her, I can't help but notice that she's crying. Maybe she has been crying all along and I just wasn't aware. I chastise myself for being so insensitive. Yet, what could I have done?

The woman is gripping both pages of the letter as if she is afraid to let go. What words, I wonder, are written on those blue pages to make her cry? Is the letter from a boyfriend, or a fiance? Is he breaking off their relationship? Or is it from a relative informing her of a death in the family? Large tears swim inside her eyes. The tears slowly trickle down her cheeks onto her pretty yellow outfit.

The more I look at this crying woman, the more I have the urge to reach out and touch her hand, to let her know that I sympathize with her plight, whatever it may be. Perhaps I could offer my shoulder; everyone, now and then, needs a strong shoulder to cry on. Yet I refrain because, like the driver, she is Muslim. My making any advances toward her, even in good faith, may cause problems. Even if she didn't object, the driver may get the wrong idea. Outraging the modesty of a Malay can be a serious crime in Malaysia. I could go to jail or even get kicked out of the country. The papers are filled with court cases presented with scantier evidence. Present are three potentially hostile witnesses who could easily misconstrue my intentions: people just don't go around touching strangers of the opposite sex, particularly a woman who is a Muslim.

Still, I feel I should do something, even if it's just a small gesture, something to reassure this Malay woman that the whole world isn't all that bad.

Rain continues to beat down on the roof of the taxi. It's a steady beat, an additional percussion sound to accompany the pop beat from the cassette and the hum of the oscillating fan. Flyovers make convenient concrete umbrellas for dozens of motorcyclists parked underneath them, waiting out the rain. Meanwhile, the driver frantically wipes at the windshield with his rag. He rolls down the window nearly all the way and pokes his head out to get a better view. Rain splashes into the taxi and onto the Malay woman's letter, and she doesn't even seem to notice. Finally the driver remembers the windshield wipers and switches them on. Then back off again.