Promises untold.

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What would life be like if she had chosen a different route?

At 26, she had been juggling the roles of housemaid, resident cook, as well as adopted parent, sibling, and friend for six years now. She’d never intended to lose her girlhood the way she did when she crossed land and sea to work in Malaysia. Like all other human beings, she’d often lie awake at night as she skimmed through What Ifs in her head.

Maybe she’d be manning a food stand. Her days would begin at five in the morning with huge silver pots of beef broth simmering away on the stove. The sky outside would shift from the velvety darkness of night to hues of blue, the air containing a crispness she’d never find in any city. She’d then clean a basin full of beansprouts, nimbly removing their roots, her fingertips pruned from being in water too long. With hair neatly tucked underneath a bandana, she’d move to chopping coriander and chilli as condiments for the bowls of steaming beef noodles she’d sell.

Or, alternatively, she’d be toiling away on the fields as a farmer’s wife. The weather would reign over their fortune and sorrows. Day-by-day, she’d be dressed in cotton trousers folded high above her knees as she’d trudge through the fields and tend after the animals. Nights would be perfumed by the smell of the sea cucumber ointment she’d rub all over her aching joints, her back sore and bruised from carrying heavy rattan baskets filled with freshly harvested crops.

Or, what if she had chosen to marry and stay at home instead? Perhaps she’d show off a fuller body and a softer stomach, with stretchmarks across her abdomen and her buttocks — all emblems of successful births she’d relish with pride. Her husband would be her first and last glimpse of each day. While he’d be at work, she would fuss over keeping their house in tiptop condition, making sure their finances were in check and that they’d have enough to go around. Her hands would be rough and they’d have little to make do with, but at least it’d be through the expense of their own home.

Most of Imah’s nights were coloured by the notions of these other lives. All the while, the ceiling fan would whir rhythmically as her mini pink radio blared Hindi songs singing promises of love, warbling occasionally from bad static. Promises, like all the things she was promised in her life.

*This is a snippet of my revised edit of ‘Imah’, a piece I have been revisiting during my MA Fiction Workshop. 

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