Mei Yee Chin is a Malaysian born-Australian and aspiring writer. She works full-time as a data scientist, but numbers aren’t the only language she speaks. If you’d like to get in touch, you can find her at naomei.c on Instagram.
KELINCI
Sitting on the night plane departing Melbourne,
With a mild discomfort in my tummy,
I wish I hadn’t ordered extra chillies in my banh mi.
Birds eye chillies, a familiar sensation on my palate since young.
You’d pick me up after school and on our way home, we’d walk hand in hand and with my backpack on your shoulder.
Sometimes, you’d pick me a wildflower.
Always, you’d ask: “Bagaimana sekolah?”
Sometimes on lucky days, the rice cooker dings! as soon as we arrive home.
With bowls of steaming jasmine rice, you’d make two servings of sunny side up with the yolk still runny and fresh homemade sambal.
Still in my school uniform, we sat on the cool marble, savouring the harmony of simple flavours.
You taught me how to eat with my hand:
- Shape rice with right* hand into small ball on plate.
- Pick up rice using all fingertips.
- With thumb, push food forward from base of fingers into mouth.
* Using left hand was a no no because that’s what we use to wipe our bum.
You’d have extra birds eye chillies on the side, munching as you go.
By feeding me chillies, you were toughening me for the world beyond your maternal arms.
The lingering smell of aromatics on your body, most strong at the tips of your fingers.
I remember you,
Squatting on the floor, granite pestle and mortar held between your feet,
The surface, smooth and worn from use.
Rhythmically, you pound away chilli, garlic, shallot, lemongrass, galangal,
The wonderful clink! of stone grizzling stone.
The contents inside dissolving, vibrant glistening mush.
What did you think about?
Do you pound and grind away your sense of longing,
Isolation,
Grief?
Tied down to a family outside your mother tongue,
While across the Java Sea, your own sons and daughters grow,
Memories of their ibu fades.
Did you ever resent me?
From my incessant demands:
“Kakak Ani, kakak Ani.”
T(h)rusted to perform parental roles in my formative years.
You gave me unconditional love, but within reason.
Because at the end of the day, we were tied not by blood,
But ink on paper,
Where you’ll leave once your contract ends.
Can love be transactional?
On the plane, I notice my seat is the same as my arriving flight before – 23D.
23Dead? Morbid.
I turned 24 recently.
It seems like my memories of you have long since expired.
So, when did I forget about you?
You were once all I knew.
I barely remember your face,
But your blackened front tooth, I recall clearly.
Looking back at old photos, I can’t seem to find you.
It was always me with mom and dad, and lots of candids of me being silly.
You’re behind the camera,
Documenting.
As a child, you were all knowing.
I asked you what 兔子 is in Malay,
But you gave me the Indonesian translation.
So, I was marked down in school.
In my selfish naivety, I was surprised and disappointed at the revelation.
I’m guilty; I didn’t even know your real name.
You’d be in your 70s now.
Do you still think about me?
Do you remember me?
Are you alive?
Funny to think that you’re almost like a long-forgotten ex.
But this was a parent-child breakup (if that’s even a thing).
Most primitive, the parental love, lost.
I imagine you living in one of those long wooden stilt houses elevated from the ground,
Surrounded by papaya and coconut trees.
Inhaling the evening soft breeze,
I hope that in your arms lie a cucu or two.
When one of them points to a white, fluffy creature in the picture book,
You’d tell them that it’s a kelinci.
© Mei Yee Chin, 2023
be:longing 