THE year is coming to an end, and so too are the stories of many lives and lifeless things that fill the Earth. But breath still remains in the angry floods that pour nightmares into us ever so often.
This day, the day after Christmas, the heavens remove their burden once more, and what they are rid of, the land and its people must take with neither gladness nor grief, but with an acceptance that is beyond what is felt.
Today, as it was yesterday, the sky is grey and the land full of dullness, as living light stayed at earth's doors, unable to enter and give pause to the people's loss.
My parents are leaning on each side of the doorpost, gazing into the surrounding floodwater. It has stopped raining, at least for a little while. Maybe the sodden clouds are weary from working all night, and in their rest give some respite to those in their sight.
But there's a cold wind blowing, and through the open door and windows it comes unbidden and unwelcome, and around us it flies unhindered. I confess I am not feeling too well. My siblings and I shiver on the wooden planks.
I hear my father calling out to someone. In the dim space between my parents at the door, I can make out the low prow of a perahu. My father steps forward and then moves gently down the stairs. He puts out his hand and I see another hand extended from the vessel. It is holding a bulging plastic bag. My father says, "terima kasih" .
At night — and it is a dark night, for electricity has been cut off — our mother tells us the friend in the boat brought some foodstuff. That's good, for a time, I think to myself.
But a little while later, in the hour when the world is asleep, it begins to rain again. Heavily. The clatter on the roof is unbearable, as is the howling of a raging wind. Are demons at war with us? I am unable to find rest, as I keep thinking about the water engulfing us.
When morning comes, and with it, light, we see that the water is as it was yesterday. Or, perhaps, it has moved up one step. I cannot say, for I cannot remember.
But the family does not dwell on this fear. Life continues quietly in the house.
In the kitchen, I watch as my mother passes a bottle of ketchup and some salt in a bowl to a neighbour. Our homes are near enough, and the kitchens, nearer still. A hand out of the window touches a familiar hand, and provisions are shared in a time of common distress.
This neighbour tells my mother she heard on the radio that the government is putting out boats to move people to safer ground. A minister made the announcement, she adds for good measure. She is quite certain, though, that the flood will go away very soon and we will be all right, unlike "those living in lower areas".
I am quite comforted to hear this. And also to hear the quacking of a gaggle of Manila ducks. I look out of a window and there they are, paddling and singing and dipping their flat beaks all at once. They belong to my parents but the water's hold on them is stronger and more delightful.
I laugh a little at them, and laugh even more a few days later when the floodwaters and fear retreat into the ground, and into the rivers in a march to the sea. Our makcik neighbour was right.
It is December 1969, and our houses on stilts are mercifully preserved. The year is coming to an end. May the floods in this land called Pahang be nightmares of the past, I dream.
Alas, more than 45 years later in 2021, it is not to be.
A version of this story was first published on Dec 28, 2014, the month of great floods
