CHAPTER 1

Found

The crowds at the Sunday bazaar begin to thin away with thedecline of the sun towards the upper end of the riverside town.Kassim has just finished eating the rice given by Mak Minah,a generous lady who runs an economy rice stall at the bazaar.Licking the leftover gravy off his lips, he sits on a curb besidethe bus stand and looks intently at the slowed-down transactionsbetween vendors and customers. The vendors begin to packup their stalls, while the customers are in haste to go home.He never comes to the bazaar when it is thick with people. Hemakes his usual appearance at the bazaar around five o'clock inthe evening, always sitting in the same spot, biding his time andwaiting for an opportunity to collect unsold, wilted vegetables.

"Come over here, Pakcik, I have some vegetables for you!" aChinese vendor named Wong hollers while beckoning him overwith a wave of the hand. A grateful smile is etched on Kassim'ssagging, wrinkled face. He props himself up on his walkingstick and rises from the cold concrete stone of the curb. Hestruggles for balance because the long sitting has given him pinsand needles in his legs. Taking a deep, raspy breath, he adjuststhe tilted songkok on his skeletal head and staggers in Wong'sdirection. The cramp, tingling sensation gradually subsides witheach dragging movement of his feet.

When Kassim reaches Wong's van, the tall, pot-belliedvendor asks him to open his dirty sling bag and shoves tworust-coloured cabbages into it. Kassim, whose voice is hoarse,says thank-you. He turns on his heel and walks deeper into themarket, against the homeward flow of people. His shadow trailslong behind him in the dimming, ochreous light. Somethingcatches his eye, and he bends down to pick up three straybananas from the rubbish-strewn ground. He puts them into hisbag and resumes walking.

He makes an obligatory stop at the rubbish dump of thebazaar. There are a few skinny, mangy cats in the dump gnawingbarbequed-chicken bones with ravenous relish. They scurryoff in a freak of timidity at the sight of Kassim. The old mansmiles bitterly to himself. Don't they know that I am like them,too? He bends over and starts combing through the rubbishfor empty tins and bottles—he earns a pittance by sendingthem to recycling centres. Kassim has grown immune to theoverpowering stench. Halfway through the search, he hears twopeople talking several metres behind him.

"Mama, what is that old man doing in the rubbish dump?"

"He's looking for food."

"How dirty he is."

"If you don't study hard, you may end up like him."

"I don't want to, Mama!"

"You should study hard from now on. Read as many booksas you can."

"Mama, reading books is so boring. I'd rather read comics."

"Boring? Laziness will make you become like that dirtyman!"

"I am not dirty, Mama!"

"Because I make you clean."

Kassim can feel the weight of their stares on his back. Helooks over his shoulder and sees a woman about forty yearsold and a boy who cannot be more than eight or nine. Theyare sizing him up with covert sneers on their faces. Theirconversation comes to a halt when Kassim's eyes meet theirs. Thewoman looks away in uneasiness. She whispers something to herson, and without looking back, they hurry off in the direction ofthe car park. Kassim envies them a great deal. They have eachother, but he has no one other than himself.

By the time Kassim calls his scavenging a day, the lastvestiges of twilight have faded, and the whole town looks like apicture blotted in with ink. His bag is bulging with the emptycans and bottles. With a sigh, he retraces his way back to the busstand. His feet shuffle amid the waxing and waning sounds ofpushcart wheels. The buzz of voices around him is wearing off.Streetlight halos illuminate the dark streets. Vehicles roar pasthim, sending gusts of wind into his face. He blinks away thedust, clears his throat, and spits a glob of phlegm into the grassverge that borders the road.

When he reaches the bus stand, he feels as if his frame ofbones is dismantling into a heap. He is dog-tired. He wants tolie down and sleep on the straw mat in his house. If possible, hedoesn't want to wake up. He is tired of his long life. Sometimes,he cannot help wondering whether God and His angels have losttrack of his soul. He is wasting his life as one of the living deadon earth.

Suddenly, he catches sight of two men across the road. Theirfaces are not visible in the faint lamplight, but Kassim can tellfrom the size of their bodies that they are tall and well-built.It is not the first time Kassim has seen them. He saw them inthe same spot several times over the past four weeks. He has astrange feeling that they are looking at him. Who are they? Whatare they up to? Can others at the bus stand see them, too? He canfeel his skin crawling.

Kassim heaves a sigh of relief when a bus trundles into viewon the shoulder of the road. It rumbles to a halt beside the busstand and disgorges a stream of passengers. And then everyoneat the bus stand piles into the bus, ignoring the poor old manwho is too weak to join in the frenzied rush. It takes Kassim agreat...