Nilofar Zimmerman

December 3, 2022 / mascara / 0 Comments

Nilofar Zimmerman is a writer and lawyer living in Sydney. She is currently undertaking a Master of Creative Writing at the University of Sydney and was the runner-up in the 2022 Deborah Cass Prize for Writing.
 
 
 
 
 

Kaa

Girl dangled her legs over the back of the truck and swung them playfully while she watched Papa and Brother.  The first thwacks of the machetes were jarring.  Thwack.  The stem.  Thwack.  The leaves.  Thwack.  The cane trimmed for transportation.  But their rhythms quickly became melodic, like an ode to the rains that had come down enough and the sun that had taken over in time.

Half-way through the first row, Papa left Brother and walked further into the field to inspect the crops, disappearing beneath a canopy of green.  Girl slid down from the back of the truck, her bare feet landing gently on the dirt.  As she moved towards the maze of sugarcane, Brother stopped and watched her.

The thwacks were muffled as she ran deeper into the field among the rows of brown stalks and green leaves, which brushed her body as she weaved through the narrow spaces between the rows.  She was Mowgli now.  She crouched down into a gap where the stems of two plants had bowed towards each other to form a small hollow.  It was the perfect den for a wolf-child.  Baloo came to visit in the den and the bear told her stories about the law of the jungle as she paced along the soil on her hands and knees, practising her hunting skills.  Don’t fight with the lords of the jungle, he told her.  Bears, tigers, panthers – they must all be respected, just like the pack.  Do you remember the pack, Mowgli?

As she pulled aside a stalk of sugarcane searching for prey she nodded and repeated to herself, the strength of the wolf is the pack and the strength of the pack is the wolf.  She pretended Rikki Tikki Tavi, the mongoose, was hiding behind the stalks and pounced over and over again, practising her surprise attack.  A faint thwacking began pulsating towards her and she crouched on her legs with her back straight and her head up, still and listening like a wolf alone in the darkness. The thwacking slowly became louder as the field fell in line with the season.  Run, Mowgli, Run, she thought.  Shere Khan is coming.

When the light waned, Papa called for Brother to put his tools down and store them in the trailer of the truck.  Girl sat in the cabin of the truck wedged between Papa and Brother.  The air inside was thick with sweat and exhaustion and their wet bodies jolted against one another as they drove along the dirt road running down the middle of the sugarcane fields for the three-minute journey to the house.  The dirt road led to a two-bedroom house made of light blue weatherboard with a corrugated silver tin roof, which was fenced in by the fields on each side and dusted with dirt blown up from the ground.

As she walked into the house, Girl was hit by the sweet smell of the tropics mixed in with the warm air that filled the living room.  The fruit bowl on the counter of the adjacent kitchen was overflowing with pineapples, mangoes and a bag of apples from yesterday’s trip to the market.  She picked up an empty pitcher from a dining table with a white tablecloth and a clear plastic covering on top and took the pitcher to the sink to fill it with water.  She began carefully measuring out spoons of Tang and mixed the orange crystals into the water, tapping the rim of the spoon three times on the rim of the pitcher when the drink was ready, just like Mama used to.

Brother shouted for his drink as he lay sprawled on the green linoleum floor in front of the television with his back against the foot of the sofa.  Papa sat in his armchair under the gentle whipping of the ceiling fan, sorting through mail.  Girl climbed onto her step stool, slowly pouring the orange drink into two glasses and adding three ice cubes to each.  ‘Here’s a cold drink, Papa,’ she said, using both hands to pass him the glass.

His face broke into a smile.  ‘What would I do without you, sweet pea?’

Brother stared at her as she handed him the second glass.  ‘I’m hungry,’ he said, his eyes red and impenetrable.  Kaa, thought Girl, as she returned to the kitchen to put on a pot of beans.  No.  The snake is Mowgli’s friend.

She picked up an apple and began methodically dicing it for Brother, just like Mama had taught her.  As she went to hand Brother the apple, she stopped to watch the laughter coming from the television screen and couldn’t help smiling along with the laugh track as the family on the screen gesticulated with frustration at one another.  As soon as Girl placed the apple in front of Brother, he began scooping handfuls from the bowl, his eyes always on the screen.  Brother began to cough and Papa let out a chuckle as he leant down to tap Brother’s back. ‘Go easy, boy,’ he said. ‘The market isn’t running out of apples.’  Brother smirked and continued staring ahead, putting another large handful in his mouth.

Papa beckoned Girl.  ‘You have a package from Cousin Sister’.  She clasped the brown envelope with both hands, brushing her fingers over the top right corner, which was filled with stamps bearing the Statue of Liberty.  Cousin Sister was Mama’s favourite niece.  She was a manager of Wendy’s now in San Francisco, Mama had told Papa proudly.  She had 20 employees working under her, Girl remembered Mama saying with a smile so wide, Girl could almost see Mama’s back molars.  Had left that man, Mama told Papa.  He punched her and she punched back.  Found a place in a shelter and never went back to him.  America was really something, wasn’t it?  Girl remembered the way Mama and Papa nodded their heads in agreement.  America really was something.

Girl tore open the package and jumped with delight.  ‘Another Babysitter’s Club book, my fourth one.  It’s Mary-Anne Saves the Day,’ she said to no one in particular, waving the book in front of her.  She opened the first page and sounded out the unfamiliar words, just like Mama had taught her.  As she walked back towards the stove, she pictured herself walking through the tree-lined streets of Stoneybrook, Connecticut, through the front door of a weatherboard house and up the stairs to Claudia’s bedroom for the club meeting.  Where have you been, Girl? They would say.  Come and join us.

Girl looked out the kitchen window as she dried the last dish but outside everything had merged into darkness.  She hung up the tea towel for the morning and went to get ready for bed, washing away the day under a cool shower before haphazardly drying herself and wrapping the towel around her body, eager to read her new book.  She darted across the hallway into the bedroom and straight to the dresser sitting between her bed and Brother’s bed.  She straightened Mama’s photograph of Princess Diana, which was hanging askew above the dresser and pulled out her clothes from the top drawer.  As she slipped on her underwear, she remembered Mama’s old atlas on the bookshelf.  She pulled it off the shelf and crouched over it.  She flicked through the index looking for ‘S’ and ran her finger down the page but she couldn’t find Stoneybrook, Connecticut anywhere.  She found Stamford, which was close enough.  The babysitters sometimes went there.  It was real.  She found the map and was tracing the east coast of America with her finger when she felt movement near the door.  She looked up to see Brother standing at the bedroom doorway, staring at her, his eyes darting with curiosity across her naked torso.  She quickly picked up her nightie from the floor next to her, pulled it on and went to push past him.  He put out a long arm and blocked the doorway.  She returned his stare.  He relented and she ran over to Papa, who was reading in his armchair.

‘What is it?’ Papa asked.

Girl looked over at Brother, who was walking over to the television.  Remember the law, Mowgli.  The wolf that follows it will prosper.  Keep peace with the lords of the jungle.

‘Nothing,’ she said.

Throughout the market, dotted with plastic tables topped with crates of fruit and vegetables, stall holders sat on folding chairs playing cards or throwing around lethargic banter under the sun.  Girl hopped and skipped over the dry dirt, breaking the market’s docile rhythm as she followed Papa to the truck for the hour-long drive from town back home.  She held a large piece of taro like a rugby ball and pretended to toss it to Papa.  He laughed as he loaded the truck and handed Girl a bag of apples to hold in her lap

‘We wouldn’t want these to get bruised,’ he said to Girl as he climbed into the driver’s seat.  ‘Brother has been working very hard.’

Girl fiddled with the dial on the radio with one hand while carefully holding the bag in her other hand as they jostled down the dirt road, following the island’s curve along the coast.  The radio crackled as she turned the dial and once she landed on the right song, she nestled back into her seat.  Roam if you want to, the B-52s sang to her from across the ocean.  Roam around the world.  Roam if you want to.  Without wings, without wheels.  She gazed out the open window at the Pacific Ocean stretching endlessly to their left, her bare arms peeling away from the warm leather seat like sticky tape as she sat up to get a better look.

‘Papa,’ she said, ‘How long would it take to get to America?’.

‘It would take many hours, my darling.’

‘Would I need to take an aeroplane, Papa?’

‘Yes, you would.  A large plane.  It would cost a lot of money.’

‘Papa, I want to earn money to buy a plane ticket and live in America.  I’ll work in a restaurant and have a big American house, just like the Babysitter’s Club.’

Papa chuckled.  ‘What about your Papa, my darling?  If you lived in America, who would look after me?’

Girl smiled at Papa, then looked out across the windscreen at the ocean to the left and field after field of sugarcane on the right.  ‘Of course, Papa.  Don’t worry, I’ll always look after you.’

They arrived at the house as the light was starting to fade and Brother was pulling up on his bicycle.  Girl put the bag of apples on the seat and slid from the truck before carefully lifting the bag out with both hands.  She walked over to the front door watching over her shoulder as Papa patted Brother on the back.

‘You’re doing a fine job, boy,’ Papa said. ‘I think we’ll get a good price for the harvest this year.  In a few weeks, we’ll be ready to the take the first batch to the mill.’

Girl walked straight to the kitchen counter, taking an apple from the bag and washing it.  As she slowly diced the apple for Brother, she remembered Mama’s gentle encouragement.  A little smaller, a little smaller, Mama would say to Girl, showing her how to cut the apple.

Girl sat in her nightie on a bundle of cane under the moonlight, watching Papa tie down the stacks of cane piled high onto a large trailer attached to the truck.

‘Can I have a go, Papa?’

‘I’m sorry, my darling, I need to make these very tight.  Otherwise, I’ll be dropping parcels of cane all the way along the coast.’

‘Why can’t I come with you, Papa?’ Girl said.  The bundle of cane she was sitting on jiggled slightly as she fidgeted one leg.

‘Who will look after Brother while he carries on with the cutting?  That is your important job for the harvest and I know you will do it well.  Now it’s time for bed for all of us.  I’ll be leaving at first light, but I should be back at night.’

Girl woke up several hours later and looked across the dark room.  Slap.  Slap.  Slap.  The sound was faint but certain.  She could just see Brother’s eyes fixed on her from his bed, his hand moving up and down under the covers.  Her heart was beating quickly and forcefully.

Kaa.

Kaa is watching.

Kaa is waiting.

She took a deep breath before getting out of bed and walking softly across the hallway to Papa’s room.  She lay down in bed next to him and closed her eyes.

Remember, Mowgli, remember.  If you fight with one of the pack, you must fight him alone and afar.  Lest the pack be brought into the quarrel.  Lest the pack be brought into war.

With Papa gone at sunrise, Girl spent the morning at the house doing her jobs.  Papa will be so pleased, she thought, as she wiped the dirt from the outside of the doors and windows.  She imagined she was Pippi Longstocking getting Villa Villekulla ready for her sea captain father who was coming home from an expedition.  As she pulled towels down from the clothesline, she put her face to them and breathed deeply.  They smelled like Mama to her.  A mixture of detergent and the crisp cleanliness that only came from a day of baking in the hot sun.

At lunchtime, Girl packed a shopping bag with a thermos of Tang and a plastic container of fried cassava, rice and beans and walked down to the field nearest to the house, which hadn’t been cut yet, squinting into the distance to look for Brother among the sea of green.  She took a deep breath and walked further down the dirt road along the edge of the field, holding the bag with one hand and brushing the leaves of the sugarcane with her other hand.  As she wiggled her fingers in the empty space between one of the rows, a hand lunged forward and grabbed her wrist tightly, pushing her against the crops.  ‘You’re late,’ Brother said, glaring at Girl, his face and chest centimetres from her own, the beads of sweat on his forehead hovering over Girl like they were daring her to move.  She dropped the bag onto the soil and as Brother released his grip, she clutched her wrist and ran deeper into the field, weaving between the rows of sugarcane and looking for a path through the jungle.

*

Brother came in after the day of felling, slumping down at the dining table and turning on the television.  His shirt was wet; the day’s heat had defeated him.  On cue, Girl began cutting his apple.  A little bigger, she thought, a little bigger.  She put the bowl of apple in front of Brother and turned towards the sink to prepare the pitcher of Tang.  Measure the powder carefully.  Mix it into the water, just like Mama said to.  Then a hard thumping interrupted her evening ritual.

She turned around to see Brother holding his throat with one hand and banging the other on the dining table.  She dropped her spoon and stumbled backwards in surprise, catching herself against the counter.  Kaa was gasping for air.  His steely eyes demanded attention.  Help me.  Mowgli, you must help me.

Girl stood immobilised.  She began to move forward but hesitated and turned back to the pitcher, closing her eyes.

Drink deeply but never too deep, Kaa.  That is the way of the jungle.  Mowgli watched as Kaa struggled for breath until finally, the snake fell to the jungle floor with a thud, its gaze fixed towards some distant place.

Girl opened her eyes and turned towards the dining table, swiping the tears off her face with both hands.  Then she reached into a cupboard and picked up a packet of rice.  Papa will be hungry.

Min Chow

November 29, 2022 / mascara / 0 Comments

Min Chow is an emerging Malaysian-Australian writer and second runner up for the Deborah Cass Prize in 2022. She works, lives and writes on Wurundjeri land. Her work has also appeared in the Life in the Time of Corona anthology and Peril magazine. She is working on her first novel.
 
 
 
 
 
 

Melonshine

Papa announced that I would start riding to school with Preeti.

Her, with the sticky eyes.

We had both been in the same class since the start of the year but we had never spoken. I could only remember her going blink blink blink in the corner and her sudden burst of cackles among the group who needed extra help in Matematik.

The battered white Proton Saga pulled up when it was still dark outside. Uncle Balan waved, “Good morning!”

Preeti sat in the front with the window rolled down, munching plain cream crackers from a plastic container.

She sang out, “Haiiiii, Lim Bee Hoon!”

“It’s Samantha,” I replied flatly, watching the wet biscuit paste tumble inside her mouth from one cavity to another.

Preeti blinked. “Sam-what?

“Sa-MAN-tha. My name is Samantha.”

We picked up four other people, all piling in the back sleepily, squeezing and trying to shrink ourselves to fit. The smell of starched uniforms and morning breaths filled the car, along with Uncle Balan’s hair oil and Preeti’s cream crackers.

A girl from a year below was practically sitting on top of me. I felt my warm Milo breakfast swish and swirl dangerously in my stomach. I focused on staring at the younger girl’s left hand clutching her water bottle, a curious map of knots and untidy sewing stitches that started from the base of her thumb down to her forearm.

The journey would take nearly an hour, on dusty roads past tall towers exhaling one long, continuous sigh after another into the sky the colour of the muddy drain that ran behind our house. The Proton sped past endless patches of disemboweled red earth, raw and seething as heavy machines and their claws continued their assault, thud-thud-thud.

Papa liked to use the word ‘development’ when we got to this stretch, back when he drove me to school. He said the trees were making way for important, well-known companies from the USA to give local people jobs. Even to those from the plantation, like Uncle Balan. They were friends, helping us out and we needed a lot of help. Bright foreign names appeared on these big towers that were built in what seemed like weeks. I recognised only Mattel from the boxes of my old Lego sets and Barbie dolls.

My favourite part was when we drove past the airfield where the Australian fighter jets were parked, gleaming under the smoked, watery sun. The air force station had been there for many years. Long before I was born, long before Papa arrived. He said the Australians too were friends, like the USA. They came to help us fight off the bad guys as they had more power, more weapons, more everything.

I saw these Australians sometimes at Berkat, the first department store with air-con that opened just a few months ago. They’re just stopping by, Mama absently said to no one in particular. The airforce families lived over on the island, near the beach, where their children went to a special school. I imagined 10-year olds like me with names like Debbie, Luke, Glenn.

Once past the airfield, the Proton finally pulled up in front of the school foyer just as the bell went. We tumbled out of the car, dizzy from the heat and Uncle Balan’s sharp lane changes in shift change traffic. I wiped sweat off my upper lip with the sleeve of my white shirt and caught a whiff of hair oil.

*

“Mama,” I said as I set the plates on the table. My father ate at the factory canteen most nights of the week.

“Can I please not go in Uncle Balan’s car anymore?”

“I can take the school bus, like Suzy and Tina. It’s very safe.”

Mama didn’t say anything. A moment later, she came over and placed a hand on my cheek. It was warm and damp, and it said, be a good girl please.

Being a good girl was the easiest on Sunday, my favourite day. When Papa wasn’t too tired, he took us in his treasured second-hand Nissan on the ferry across to the island. The island was where we belonged, our future forever home. We were leaving the mainland behind and moving over in a year. Papa said the same thing last year but there had been a delay with his promotion to ‘corporate’. But it was going to happen. One hundred per cent. He would be the first local man in the factory to go this far.

There was always smiling and chatting on Sundays spent on the island. Nothing would upset Papa, Mama’s eyes danced and her shoulders dropped.

We ate in Western restaurants with air-con, their windows drawn tightly shut so it was dark even during the day. There was a tealight candle and a vase with a single plastic flower on every table. Papa ordered Fish and Chips, Minute Steak and Spaghetti Bolognese without fail. I preferred chicken rice, but I would pick at the chips and say things like “This is so delicious!” and “I could eat this every day!”.

After that, we visited the supermarket that stocked imported products, where many airforce families shopped for jars of Vegemite and chocolate shaped like frogs. Mama bought a packet of Tim Tams once as a treat for Chinese New Year and stored most of them in the fridge for over a year before they had to be thrown out. Mostly, we drove around the airforce neighbourhood near the beach looking at houses. I pointed out luxurious features, real or imagined, lying within the lacquered gates.

“That one has a balcony! Maybe even a pool!”

“Next year,” Papa said in his jolly Sunday voice, one resolute finger in the air, “we’ll have something grander.”

*

One morning, Preeti held a small black tube as I climbed into the car.

She caught me staring and said, “I’m keeping it for Amma. See? She says the colour is bright and lovely. Like me.”

Preeti’s Amma worked for an airforce family on the island and came home once a month. She cooked and cleaned for them and called the adults Sir and Mum. Mum had given her the lipstick for Christmas, even though Preeti’s Amma was Hindu.

Preeti uncapped the tube revealing the crayon with a flat top and sniffed greedily. She handed it to me, gesturing for me to smell it. I turned the lipstick tube over in my hands. Melonshine, it said on the little shiny sticker at the bottom.

The tube turned up everywhere with Preeti. She showed it to everyone in class, fiddled with it even when we were meant to stand still at Assembly. Uncle Balan had spoken to Cikgu asking special permission to allow it.

I started rolling my eyes and soon Suzy joined me. It wasn’t as if Preeti could do anything with it. Make-up was forbidden, except when we got to perform at the year-end concert. Girls like Preeti didn’t get picked for that.

Preeti trotted behind me as we were heading out to recess. Suzy and Tina raised their eyebrows at each other.

“Lim Bee Hoon! What are we playing today?”

“My name is Samantha,” I hissed.

“Cikgu doesn’t call you that. Your name is Lim Bee Hoon-lah.”

“My friends call me Samantha.”

“OK. But I’m not calling you your fake name.”

She parked herself on the grass near the edge of our circle without taking care to cross her legs. We could see her underwear and I made a show of screwing up my face and pinching my nose, making Suzy and Tina giggle.

*

“There are too many of us in the car. It stinks and I can’t breathe the whole way.”

“The windows aren’t even automatic!”

“She’s a bit dumb in class too. She doesn’t even know what’s eight times nine. Eight times nine!”

I went blink blink blink, by then an impression that I repeated almost every day. Unlike Suzy and Tina and my other classmates, Mama didn’t laugh and said enough.

I was still moody on Sunday when we left to see the new bridge. The Nissan joined the massive queue of mainland families eager to cross what they were calling one of the longest bridges in the world. A real global treasure, right here at our doorstep. Papa usually preferred silence in the car until we got to the island, but he popped in a Michael Jackson tape and drummed his fingers to the beat on the steering wheel. He could have waited in line the whole day.

Two hours later, we reached the gate and paid the toll. As the window rolled up and we passed into the transit area, I felt something shift in the car. Mama cleared her throat and glanced at Papa. He smiled at her and changed gears purposefully, climbing the freshly painted tar as Michael sang why why tell ‘em that it’s human nature for the third time. It was so new and modern, not one pothole in sight we could have been part of a blown-up Lego set Mattel from USA made right there on the mainland.

Soon, we were on the bridge, cruising above the water. My stomach fluttered like on the rides at the pesta, only this was much better. We were practically flying across the strait! The tiny stubborn strip on the map that had kept us apart from the island, now linked and forever changed. As the crest of the bridge appeared before us, the sea too had transformed, from the colour of mucus to a sparkling turquoise.

Papa’s mouth hung slightly open the entire time. Mama kept looking over at him and back at me, her pale hand on her throat while she swallowed several times. At the top, dwarfed between the towers that reached into the sky in the bluest shade of blue, the Nissan sputtered twice, as if in awe. The journey was over in less than ten minutes. It was the fastest crossing to the island we ever made but it felt like we had gone much, much further.

*

Suzy and I were trying a new game. We sat on the ground under the cool, deserted Blok D stairs, with our pinafore skirts pushed up. We were taking turns running our fingers down each other’s lap. The first to give in to the tickle and laugh would be the loser.

It was funny at first. Suzy’s fat fingers tiptoed up and down my lap, tripping over themselves and it was hard not to giggle. When her turn came to sit still, I pretended to play the piano on her lap, with extra sound effects. We had just gone twice when Preeti appeared and plopped down next to us without asking.

She studied us for a little while before putting her lipstick tube down and cracked her fingers until a few of them popped. With a tongue out in concentration, she raised her right fourth finger and hovered it above my lap. She looked at me briefly and when I didn’t say anything, she placed the finger on me. So gentle was the landing that I wouldn’t have known if I hadn’t been looking. I froze as her finger started trailing upwards, light as an insect. It carefully carried on north to the middle of my lap before it gained speed and slid towards the edge of my underwear.

Suzy too had stopped moving, her eyes wide and glittering in the dimness. Preeti’s breathing was the only sound we could hear. The same softness now descended, silky tips of a make-up brush skimming downwards over tiny bumps that had sprung up on my skin. I felt hot and cold all over, a fever almost, like the kind I got sometimes with the shower head. The kind you didn’t want to stop.

Suzy jumped back suddenly with a yelp. A thin puddle had crept slowly to the edge of her shoe. I stood up, thigh still tingling and stared down in shock as a stain bloomed across my pinafore skirt and fluid pooled in my white ankle socks. I felt the wetness, just as the sharp, sweet tang of acid hit my nostrils.

Preeti’s finger was still suspended in mid-air when I turned to look at her. In the near-darkness, I just about made out her eyes. Blink blink blinking the terror away.

—

Papa heard from Uncle Balan at work and didn’t miss a beat when he got home. When he was done, he pushed me into the storeroom and latched it shut from the outside. I couldn’t reach the lights, even when I climbed on top of the stack of old newspapers. I sat sobbing, fighting off the hug from the darkness around me, the black creatures emerging.

—-

“Inside or outside today?”

I smiled brightly, “Let’s play inside today.”

It was Preeti’s turn, and she went looking under the desks and behind the cupboard. Anyone else could see there was no one hiding in those places. I waited in the wings, alert and ready.

Uncle Balan arrived late that day to pick us up, after everyone else had gone. He seemed distracted and deep in thought, so I guessed he was no longer upset. The girl with the stitched hands was jerking about next to me, confused if she was meant to sit back or lean forward. I pushed her back and a fold in my skirt fell to one side, exposing the back of my leg. She gasped.

“You should cover those hands up with gloves,” I snapped at her.

Nobody said anything in the car for a long time. When the car came to stop at the lights, Uncle Balan pulled up the handbrake and twisted fully in his seat to stare at me. I could see he was mad, perhaps even madder than Papa had been the other night. I turned away, my heart beating so loudly I could hear it over the motor engines around us. A kapchai throbbed next to us, carrying a younger boy sandwiched between his father and mother, an Ultraman bag from Berkat over her shoulders.

Alone in my room, I retrieved from my bag the prize I claimed at recess. I uncapped Melonshine and dabbed the glossy red on the back of my palm. It turned brown on my skin like rotten fruit, and I kept pressing the flat top of the stick into it to make the colour shine red again. I decided I would keep it for a day or two, just long enough for Preeti to miss it. In case her Amma returned and asked for it.

Preeti didn’t turn up the next day, or the one after that. One week passed and Mama told me that they were putting me on the school bus because Uncle Balan couldn’t drive me anymore. I shrugged and carried on with my homework.

When no one was looking, I let myself into the storeroom and locked the door behind me. I twisted the tube open with my fingers and felt the blackness breathe unhappily on the back of my neck, down my bare arms and my thighs, like Preeti’s fourth finger. I brought the tube close to my nose. I smelled the sugary wax and pressed the stick to my mouth, imagining the places the colour had touched.