The Weight of Our Sky

  For Malik and Maryam, as proof that dreams do come true.

  For Umar, without whom this one wouldn’t have.

  And for anak-anak Malaysia everywhere.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Before I even begin to say anything else, I’m going to say this: This book is not a light and easy read, and in the interest of minimizing harm, I’d like to warn you now that its contents include graphic violence, death, racism, OCD, and anxiety triggers. If any of this is distressing for you at this time, I’d recommend either waiting until you’re in the right space to take all of that on or forgoing it altogether.

  Is that weird, for an author to basically say, “Please don’t read my book”? Maybe. But I mean it. If this will hurt you, please don’t read my book. No book is worth sacrificing your own well-being for.

  Are you still here?

  Did you get this far?

  If you did, thank you. I appreciate you. I would have, whether or not you’d kept going, but I’m even more grateful because it wasn’t so long ago that a book like this would never even have made it as far as an editor’s desk, much less exist in the tangible, typeset form you hold in your hands right now, a dream made real.

  I appreciate you because you will now bear witness to the events that have shaped my beloved Malaysia into the country it is today: The events of May 13, 1969, when, in the wake of a contentious general election when opposition parties won unexpected victories at the expense of the ruling coalition, the Malays and the Chinese clashed in a bloody battle in the streets of Kuala Lumpur, in flames and fury stoked by political interest. One week later, the death toll climbed to 196—the official number, though Western diplomatic sources at the time suggested it was closer to 600—and the powers that be had an excuse to put policies in place that differentiated between racial groups and kept those at the top firmly, comfortably aloft on airy cushions of privilege, policies with repercussions we still live with to this day.

  I appreciate you because without your eyes, your attention, your willingness to listen, as the memories and voices of those who lived through it begin to fade, this seminal point in our past becomes nothing more than a couple of paragraphs in our textbooks, lines stripped of meaning, made to regurgitate in exams and not to stick in your throat and pierce your heart with the intensity of its horror.

  I appreciate you because this is our story, and without an audience, a story dies. And we cannot afford to let it.

  I can’t say all of what you’re about to read is true; this is a work of fiction, after all, and even in nonfiction, so much relies on the memories of traumatized survivors and the words of those who write the history books, and both of those can lie. So I will say that many, many hours of research went into this, including wading through reams of articles both academic and non-, first-person interviews, expert advice, and more. You’ll notice themes you might find unbelievable in a modern context, like the fact that Melati would believe she’s being controlled by a djinn instead of consulting a mental health professional. But this was 1969: There was little treatment available for OCD in Kuala Lumpur then, and even if there was, there was also a heavy cloud of stigma associated with seeing a psychiatrist, with many believing they would be institutionalized—or worse still, lobotomized—for “being crazy.” It wasn’t uncommon then to seek traditional or religious treatment for illnesses you couldn’t quite explain to your regular doctor; in fact, it’s not uncommon now, either.

  As you read, you may also want to keep in mind that for Muslims, djinn are real. They aren’t just wacky blue creatures with a Robin Williams voice, or mythical beings that pour out of old lamps and ancient rings to grant you three wishes; they exist for us in ways that they may not for you.

  And now that I have said all this, I leave it to you, dear reader, to forge on and make of this story what you will.

  I appreciate you. Still. Always.

  Love,

  Hanna

  CHAPTER ONE

  BY THE TIME SCHOOL ENDS on Tuesday, my mother has died seventeen times.

  On the way to school, she is run over by a runaway lorry, her insides smeared across the black tar road like so much strawberry jelly. During English, while we recite a poem to remember our parts of speech (“An interjection cries out HARK! I need an EXCLAMATION MARK!” our teacher Mrs. Lalitha declaims, gesturing for us to follow, pulling the most dramatic faces), she is caught in a cross fire between police and gang members and is killed by a stray bullet straight through her chest, blood blossoming in delicate blooms all over her crisp white nurse’s uniform. At recess, she accidentally ingests some sort of dire poison and dies screaming in agony, her face purple, the corners of her open mouth flecked with white foam and spittle. And as we peruse our geography textbooks, my mother is stabbed repeatedly by robbers, the wicked blades of their parangs gliding through her flesh as though it were butter.

  I know the signs; this is the Djinn, unfolding himself, stretching out, pricking me gently with his clawed fingers. See what I can do? he whispers, unfurling yet another death scene in all its technicolor glory. See what happens when you disobey? They float to the top of my consciousness unbidden at the most random times and set off a chain reaction throughout my entire body: cold sweat, damp palms, racing heart, nausea, light-headedness, the sensation of a thousand needles pricking me from head to toe.

  It seems difficult now to believe that there was ever a time when the only djinns I believed in came from fairy tales, benevolent creatures that poured like smoke from humble old oil lamps and antique rings, granted you your heart’s desire, then disappeared when the transaction was complete. I might even have daydreamed of finding one someday. And later, they took a different shape, one informed by religious teachers and Quran recitation classes: creatures of smoke and fire, who had their own realm on Earth and kept to themselves, for the most part.

  I didn’t realize they could be sharp, cruel, insidious little things that crept and wormed their way into your thoughts and made your brain hot and itchy.

  The clanging of the final bell echoes through the school corridors. “Te-ri-ma-ka-sih-cik-gu.” The class singsongs their thank-yous in unison as Mrs. Lim nods and strides briskly out the door in her severe, high-necked navy-blue dress, the blackboard covered in complicated mathematical formulas, the floor before it covered in chalk dust. I stuff my books hurriedly into my bag, smiling halfheartedly and waving as other girls pass—“Bye, Mel!” “See you tomorrow!”—and I concentrate on the task at hand. Biggest to smallest, pencil case in the right-hand pocket, tap each item three times before closing the bag, one, two, three. Something feels off. My hands are frozen, suspended above my belongings. Did I do that right? Did I tap three times or four? I break out into a light sweat. Again, the Djinn whispers, again. Think how much better you’ll feel when you finally get it.

  No, I tell him firmly, trying to ignore the way my fingers twitch, the wave of panic rising from my stomach.

  Yes, he says.

  One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two . . .

  “Well?”

  I look up, startled. My best friend, Safiyah, is standing by my desk, rocking back and forth eagerly on her heels, quivering with high excitement from the tips of her toes to the tip of her perfectly perky ponytail, tied back with a length of white ribbon. “Perfectly perky” is actually a great description of Saf in general, whom my mother often jokes only ever has two modes: “happy” and “asleep.” She bounces away through her days, dispensing ready smiles, compliments, and high fives to all and sundry, while I trail along in her wake, awkward, vaguely melancholy, and in a constant state of semi-embarrassment.

  I’m pretty sure Saf is the reason I have friends at all.

  “Well, what?”

>   Saf’s face falls. “Don’t tell me you forgot! You, me, Paul? Remember?”

  “Oh, that.” My heart sinks. The last thing I want to do right now is be trapped in the dark, stuffy recesses of the neighborhood cinema as everyone else watches one movie and the Djinn forces me to watch another.

  “Do we really have to, Saf?” I sling my bag over my shoulder and make for the door. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. There is a very specific pattern to adhere to, a rhythm that’s smooth and soothing, like the waltzes Mama likes to listen to on the radio on Sunday afternoons. A method to the madness.

  Not that this is madness. It’s the Djinn.

  “Of course we do!” Saf scurries along beside me, taking two steps for every one of my strides. “You promised! And anyway, I always back you up when it’s something to do with your Paul. . . .”

  “You leave Paul McCartney out of this.” Right foot first out the door—good. “Or any of the Beatles, for that matter,” I add as an afterthought. I mean, I’m a little iffy about Ringo, but even he’s better than Paul Newman.

  One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three.

  “Come on, Mel, please. . . .” Her tone is wheedling now. “You know it has to be today. My dad’s at some kind of meeting until late. He’ll never let me go otherwise. You know how he feels about movies.” She screws up her face and lowers her voice in a dead-on imitation of her father. “ ‘Movies? Movies DULL the mind, Safiyah. They are the refuge of the UNCULTURED and the UNEDUCATED. They erode your MORALS.’ ”

  I snort with laughter in spite of myself. “Fine,” I say grudgingly. “It’s not like Mama expects me at home anyway; she’s on shift at the hospital until tonight. But can’t we go to Cathay or Pavilion? At least they aren’t so far. We could just walk.”

  Saf shakes her head firmly. “The Rex,” she says. “We have to go to the Rex.”

  I shoot her a glance. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that Jason’s father’s sugarcane stall happens to be right across the street from there, right?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Saf says innocently, playing with the frayed end of her hair ribbon and doing her best not to look at me, a blush spreading like wildfire across her dimpled cheeks. “I just . . . really happen to prefer watching movies at the Rex.” I can’t help but grin. Saf can fool a lot of people with those good-girl looks and that demure smile. But then again most people haven’t been friends with her since the age of seven, when she marched right up to me on the first day of primary school, while everyone else stood around looking nervous and unsure, and declared cheerfully, “I like you! Let’s be best friends.” On the surface, we’re polar opposites: She is bright where I am dim, cheery smiles where I am worried frowns, pleasing plumpness where I am sharp, uncomfortable angles. But maybe that’s why we fit together so perfectly.

  “You are so obvious,” I snigger, jabbing her in the ribs, and we dissolve into giggles as we run for the bus.

  I hoist myself up the steps—right foot first: good girl, Mel—and the Djinn suddenly rears up, ready and alert. I feel a sickening weight in my stomach. The right-hand window seat in the third row, my usual choice—the safest choice—is occupied. A Chinese auntie, her loose short-sleeved blouse boasting dark patches of sweat, dozes in the afternoon heat. Whenever she leans too far forward, she quickly jerks her head back, her eyes opening for a split second, her face rearranging itself into something resembling propriety. But before long, she’s nodding off again, lulled by the gentle rolling of the bus.

  I can feel the panic start to descend, that telltale prickling starting in my toes and working its way up to claim the rest of me. If you don’t sit in that seat, the safe seat, Mama will die, the Djinn whispers, and I hate how familiar his voice is to my ears, that low, rich rasp like gravel wrapped in velvet. Mama will die, and it’ll be all your fault.

  I know it doesn’t make sense. I know it shouldn’t matter. But at the same time, I am absolutely certain that nothing matters more than this, not a single thing in the entire world. My chest heaves, up and down, up and down.

  Quickly, I slide into the window seat on the left—still third row, which is good, but on the left, which is most definitely, terribly, awfully not good. But I can make it right. I can make it safe.

  The old blue bus coughs and wheezes its way down the road and as Saf waxes lyrical about the dreamy swoop of Paul Newman’s perfect hair and the heavenly blue of his perfect eyes, my mother is floating, floating, floating down into the depths of the Klang River, her face blue, her eyes shut, her lungs filled with murky water.

  Quickly, quietly, so that Saf won’t notice, I tap my right foot, then my left, then right again, thirty-three sets of three altogether, all the way to Petaling Street.

  Finally, the Djinn subsides. For now.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “WE’VE GOT SOME TIME,” SAF says as the bus deposits us on the corner and rumbles off down the road. “Wanna go listen to some records?”

  “Sure,” I say, “but I have to make a call first.”

  Saf rolls her eyes. “Again?”

  “You know I have to, Saf,” I say, feeling around in my pocket for a ten-cent coin. “You know my mom always wants me to check in after school.”

  “Fine,” she grumbles, and we head for a nearby pay phone. I grab the receiver and push my coin into the slot, hearing the clink as it rolls down into the depths of the machine. Saf hangs back a few paces, waiting for me to finish.

  Three beeps, and then nothing.

  I start to sweat. Come on, come on, I think, fishing around in the depths of my bag for another coin. In the distance, Saf pulls monstrous faces at me, and I stick my tongue out at her in return, trying my best to quell the panic rising in my throat, threatening to choke me. Mama falls to her death from a great height, her body hitting the ground with a thud that echoes through my head.

  I dial the number again.

  Come on, come on, come on.

  The Djinn howls, and I tap my feet quickly, right first, then shifting left, trying to appease him. Three, six, nine, twelve, fifteen . . .

  “Hello?”

  Relief floods through me. “Hello! Umm, hello. Can I speak to Nurse Salmah, please?”

  “Is that you, Melati, darling?” I recognize the raspy, sandpapery voice of Auntie Tipah, Mama’s friend and colleague, who goes through half a dozen cigarettes a day—“Never in front of the patients, though, darlings, hand on heart!”—and swears she’ll quit each week.

  “Yes, ma’am. Just checking in.”

  “Same time every day. You’re better than any alarm clock I’ve ever had! Hold on, I’ll get her.”

  Another pause; I quickly fill it with numbers. Three, six, nine . . .

  “Hi, Melati.”

  “Hi, Mama!” She’s alive. She’s alive! My whole body sags with relief, and for a moment, I allow myself to breathe.

  It lasts about ten seconds. Because of course I should know better by now. The relief never lasts. The threat of death still hovers, like a shadow I can’t shake. The Djinn still demands his price.

  “Everything okay?” she asks, the way she does every time I call. The sound of her voice and the familiar rhythm of our daily ritual soothes me. She isn’t hurt. She isn’t dead. Everything is okay.

  “Yup.” I clutch the receiver, pressing it close to my ear, twirling the cord tightly in my fingers. “Everything’s fine. Are you okay?”

  “Yes, sayang, I’m fine. A little tired. I’m on shift tonight; I’ll be home late. Mak Siti has your dinner, okay?”

  “Okay.” I make a face, even though I know she can’t see me; Mak Siti is our neighbor, and dinner with her means rice, a meager slice of fried fish, and a watery broth filled with wilted vegetables, all eaten to the accompaniment of the meowing of five cats and a litany of complaints, criticisms, and grouses.

  “Don’t complain.” I can hear her smiling; she knows what I’m thinking.

  “I’m not! I
’m going to the movies with Saf, okay?”

  “On a Tuesday?”

  “Yeah, her father isn’t home.” Mama knows all about Pakcik Adnan and his rules.

  There’s a pause. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

  What is it about mothers? The woman is psychic.

  “I’ll be okay, I think,” I say, twirling the cord tight around my fingers, watching them go from pink to white. “I might call again later, though.”

  “Fine, but don’t go home too late, and make sure you do your homework.”

  “Okay. Bye, Mama. Love you.”

  “Bye, sayang.”

  I hang up feeling much better. The numbers have done their job. Mama is safe.

  Or is she?

  Did I miss something? Was there a tiny pause before she said, “I’m fine”? Did she sound sick or hurt? I run over the entire conversation again in my head, sifting through the words for hidden meanings and missed clues. It feels as if the Djinn’s sharp teeth are gnawing away at my frayed nerves as I hover at the phone booth indecisively, biting my bottom lip. Is she really safe? Should I call her again, just to be sure?

  Do it, he whispers. You’ll feel better. What’s the harm? Make the call.

  I pick up the receiver again, the plastic still warm from my hand, my fingers poised to dial.

  Then I set it down again with a bang. From where she stands a few steps away, Saf looks up at me, startled by the sudden noise, and I try to shoot her a smile. No, I think to myself firmly. Mama is fine. You talked to her; you heard her yourself, telling you everything is okay. Don’t listen to him and his lies.

  I walk away on leaden feet, trying my hardest not to look back.

  • • •

  The numbers started out as a game, as they so often do for little children. If I can win three games of “one, two, jus” in a row, concentrating hard to anticipate Saf’s rock, paper, or scissors, then Abah will let me listen to that scary show on the radio. If I make it home from the bus stop in exactly twenty-seven steps, then Mama will have made my favorite bubur cha cha for tea, sweet and hot and laden with sweet potatoes and yams and bananas. If I can lastik at least five geckos off the wall, fashioning a makeshift slingshot out of my fingers and the orange rubber bands that came wrapped around our rolled-up newspapers each morning, then they’ll let me stay up late tonight. When it worked, it was a tiny act of magic, a small miracle that only fueled my belief in the power of the numbers; when it didn’t—and, of course, it didn’t, more often than not—it only meant that I’d been doing it wrong.