The Pathbreakers and Other Stories (Preview) by Sunway University

15.6mm

128.5mm

198.4mm

ISBN 978-967-5492-92-1

9 789675 492921

and Other Stories

Copyright © 2024 by Sunway University Sdn Bhd Published by Dialogy Books An imprint of Sunway University Sdn Bhd No. 5, Jalan Universiti Sunway City 47500 Selangor Darul Ehsan Malaysia press.sunway.edu.my All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, now known or hereafter invented, without permission in writing from the publisher. ISBN 978-967-5492-92-1

Cataloguing-in-Publication Data Perpustakaan Negara Malaysia A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of Malaysia ISBN 978-967-5492-92-1

Edited by Ivan Ling Designed and typeset by Rachel Goh Printed by Firdaus Press Sdn Bhd, Malaysia

The cover illustration was designed by Lim Li Wei, a student from the School of Arts at Sunway University

Contents

Foreword

The Pathbreakers

Tug-of-War

Harsh Winds

The Last Loaf of Bread

The Colour Green

The Daycare

The Peculiar Boy

Nusantara Crimes

The Climbing Gardener

Of Dugong and Seagrasses

Guy Russell

Paul GnanaSelvam Ksatria Baskara Prasetya Ntebeti Ntini

Mulki Ahmed Ivan Kwok Aqil Rifqi

Aneeta Sundararaj Katy Wimhurst Ismim Putera

Contents

The Thumb Sucker

103

Brittle Wings

111

Under the Waves

122

The Trials and Tribulations of a Contemporary Fisherman

133

The Entertainer

142

Darwin

150

Old Kong

161

Droplets of My Earth

171

One Step Is All It Takes

179

A Sea Nomad Speaks

191

Contributor Profiles

203

About the Blue-White Dot Competition

209

SDG Publishers Compact

210

JM Gravidez Parlingayan Philip Stenström Ferryn Foong

Stephen T. Homer Edwin Kee

Fadzlishah Johanabas Yap Li Tyng

Ryoka Tanoi

Iram Moazzam Matthew Yap

Foreword

Beneath the pages of this extraordinary anthology lies a tapestry of imagination and conviction woven by the visionary writers who participated in the Blue-White Dot Short Story Writing Competition. As I embark on this literary introduction, I am captivated by the profound impact that storytelling can have in shaping our understanding of the world and propelling us towards sustainable change. In this anthology, we witness a convergence of art and advocacy, where the power of words amplifies the urgency of our collective mission: to safeguard our planet and build a future that thrives with ecological harmony. As I read through the diverse narratives in this anthology, I am struck by the remarkable synergy between literature and the Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs). Each story becomes a microcosm of the broader global effort to achieve a sustainable and equitable future. Themes of climate change, biodiversity, social justice, and resilience intertwine, illustrating the interconnectedness of these pressing issues. Through the power of storytelling, the writers inspire us to rethink our relationship with nature and reimagine a world in which humanity coexists harmoniously with the environment.

Foreword

I commend Sunway University Press for their unwavering commitment to fostering dialogue and raising awareness through the Blue-White Dot competition. I also applaud the talented writers whose words grace these pages for their ability to kindle empathy, provoke introspection, and ignite a sense of urgency. May this book ignite a spark within each reader that fuels our determination to safeguard our planet and drive meaningful change. Let these stories be a call to action, reminding us that we all have a role to play in forging a sustainable and just future. Assoc. Prof. Dr Chen Jit Ern Director of the Jeffrey Sachs Center on Sustainable Development

The Pathbreakers Guy Russell

Long-distance estimates were that it was telluric, not tidally locked, with a hydrosphere, magnetosphere, oxygen-rich atmosphere, and in the habitable zone of a stable mid-sizer. The perfect set of numbers, and almost too good to be true. We hung briefly offshore, ingesting a rich diet of signals. The translators decoded the prevalent languages as best they could, and we fixed them in. The dominant species were endoskeletal, bipedal, and binocular, so we could pass ourselves off as indigenous with only cosmetic alterations. Mainly, we were bulkier. Security, obviously, was the number one issue. We were looking for low-crime, low-danger locality stats. And more than anything, indicators showing a high tolerance of difference. We touched down in the night-time hemisphere, on top of a flat-roofed building set in a kind of parkland. Similar buildings were spread around us, some darkened, some with lit windows. We knew it would be respirable outside but we were astonished by our first breaths of air: so pure, so fresh. “And so fragrantsmelling!” I remarked to Gen. “How do they do that?” The door from the roof had a code lock which the data kit sorted, and we went down some stairs and along a corridor. Safe stats or not, we exchanged a nervous look; attitude probabilities are perennially dodgy. Though we had weaponry, of course.

Guy Russell

Voices were coming from a nearby room. This was it. The room had rows of not-very-new chairs and a screen at the far end, showing some kind of presentation. We came in at the back and sat down quietly. “ … shacked up with a deep-space insect zombie. And undead happily ever after,” the speaker was saying, incomprehensibly. I looked surreptitiously at the natives. Their clothes were in a terrible state. But they appeared mild-mannered and weaponless. And not hungry. If anything, extremely healthy-looking. There was clapping and our neighbour turned to us. I guessed it was female, but it’s hard to tell with aliens. Gen later said male. “Hi,” said the native, “Haven’t seen you here before.” “Our first time,” said Gen. “We just dropped in. Are you local?” “A bit further off campus. You?” “A bit further along the galactic arm,” I said. “Cool,” she said. “Where did you park the saucer?” And smiled. We were astonished at her insouciance. Perhaps this planet did get a lot of visitors? “We left it on the roof,” I told her. “It’s only a three-seater. So I think no one can see it from the ground.” She laughed at this, inexplicably. She was called Shuon, or something like that. An Engineering student. And this was ‘Strange Creatures, Strange Worlds,’ her university’s Science Fiction Society. Ah, high tolerance of difference : the data kit had really excelled this time. This indigene exuded trustfulness, which meant that we were reasonably upfront about ourselves and our trip. “We gave up our jobs to travel for a bit,” said Gen. “But we don’t want to go where everyone does. We like to find new places.” “We’re only here for a planetturn,” I said. “A day,” Gen said.

The Pathbreakers

“A day. And we want to see the whole place.” Shuon laughed. “A day, to see the world.” “But we really need a guide,” I said. “To stop us doing anything that might offend or, worse, be dangerous … ” “I’ll take you,” said Shuon instantly. “Wanna go now? Can I see your saucer ?” We were astounded again, by her alacrity and her extraordinary trust of us, but very gladly accepted. Even so, she looked confused when we opened the door to the roof. Then she saw our little red XGB tourer. “Whoa,” she exhaled, and stood there completely silent. “Whoa. That is too much!” We waited, unsure. Then she shook herself. “Sorry, guys. I thought it was a pick-up line!” Whatever that was. The translator gave options from fishing to telecoms. “And you both looked so unusual—like, into gender-play! I never dreamed … ” “No worries,” I said, not quite clear but reassured. “So, are you still OK for a tour?” “Am I?” she said, which seemed to mean ‘yes’. Shuon got into the back seat and we took off. “Wow,” she said. “It’s so fast!” “Hey, this is super slow,” Gen said. “You should’ve seen us going interstellar. It’s only an XGB. And a couple of years old now. We’ll be getting a new one soon.” Shuon looked negative for the first time, like Gen had said something a bit gauche. “How’s it powered?” she asked. “Starburn,” I said. “Like, solar?” “Sure. It’s a very new technology. Before that, we couldn’t have gotten this far in a million years. Literally!” I made for the dawn, and as the cloudbank broke, the local star appeared over an expanse of sea. Below, we saw a huge shoal of fish just beneath the surface, then a block of sea-windmills

Guy Russell

above it. Then suddenly we were over a mountain range, with an incredible tongue of ice among its fangs—and after that enormous dark forests, as endless as space. It was our turn to be wowed. “People would love this,” I said to Gen. “Not just trees but whole forests. That’s got to be a selling point.” We stopped in one for ten minutes and looked up the tall straight columns and then through the pin-maze of them—into the darkness. Each one a living, growing thing. We didn’t get out. It looked cold. Shortly after, we reached a region full of ice: so unexpected in a planet this near its heat source, with this density of population. We landed. We didn’t get out again—it was freezing out there. “Not bad! How do you create this?” Gen asked Shuon as we stared through the windows. “Oh,” said Shuon, “It’s like, natural.” I upped the translator. “She means they implement some kind of balance process,” I said to Gen. “Like a systems approach.” “No, I think it means self-regulation by the planet itself,” said Gen. “Where the dominant species doesn’t input.” “Yeah,” said Shuon, “You don’t want to interfere! Else the stuff will fracking melt.” “We had ice,” Gen told her. “Way back. But it’s not good for anything. Except for being cool to look at.” Tundra, more forests, and then cities, tall or flat or mixed, with green threading through. Plains, mountains, and then the sea again—and between the sea and the land, bright strips of gold. “Beaches!” said Gen. We got out this time. I ran my hands through the sand. We all walked to the shoreline. “The sea’s so calm,” said Gen. “And I bet you could swim in it.” “I don’t know about the currents,” said Shuon.

The Pathbreakers

“I mean, it looks so clear. How do you cleanse it?” Shuon looked puzzled. “I don’t get you … If anyone puts crap in it, there are penalties. But no one would.” “They might, for competitive advantage?” Shuon looked completely blank now. I glanced at Gen. OK, Shuon wasn’t a business student, but still … “Real beaches, clean sea,” Gen said to me. “This place has endless potential.” We walked round a headland and found an eating spot with little blue chairs. The setup looked scruffy and the menu was limited. I had something called salad : it was surprisingly nice. “Your planet is fantastic,” said Gen. Shuon looked pleased. “I’m glad you like it. What’s yours like?” I described our urbanisations, our warren cities, our space station, our superfast air saucers, our never-closing shopping malls, our Starburn mining, and the usual stuff. “Wow,” said Shuon. “Sounds amazing.” “In a way it’s amazing,” I said. “I mean, if you’re lucky you can have a great standard of living. But things are very expensive now. And you can’t really do much without a lot of tech. Even then it’s safest to stay indoors. We’ve got all this,” I told her (but didn’t add, “and much smarter and newer”), “in parks. Like, special geodesic areas where you can, you know, go for a walk, tread on real grass, swim, all sorts of stuff. But it’s expensive, obviously. So people do a lot of stuff in virtual. We have great virtuals.” “But it’s getting hip to go non-v,” Gen said. “I mean, if you can afford it. Before, there was another habitable planet nearby. But it was never great and just got trashed. Now we’ve got Starburn, people are beginning to go much more interstellar. Except most places are a pain. You know: radiation, breathability, extreme temperature. You need such a load of gear, it’s no better than being at home.”

Guy Russell

“What’s really rare,” I said to Shuon, “I mean it’s not impossible, the galaxy’s big enough—but what’s so rare is to find a world where we don’t need special equipment. And yours is so fantastically unspoilt.” *** We came over some deserts but they were familiar, so we didn’t bother to stop. “Those are recyclodomes,” said Shuon, “where basically stuff you can’t mend any more gets recreated. That’s a power plant, with all the mirrors. That patchwork’s permacultures. That’s where they quarried gold, in the past—” “It’s not bad technology, considering they’re so primitive in many ways,” I said to Gen. “But,” I asked Shuon, “how do you ensure growth?” “There’s the same population for I don’t know how long,” said Shuon. She’d misunderstood again, but her answer was interesting, so we pursued it. “You let economics take care of the excess?” asked Gen. “No, I bet they don’t,” she said to me. “Bet you there’s no social pressure to have children. Have you got children, Shuon?” “Yes.” “Oh.” “Loads of them, everywhere.” “I mean, any of your own?” “Sorry, I don’t get you?” “You don’t have families?” “I’ve heard the term,” Shuon said. “There probably are some. People get into far-out stuff sometimes.” We laughed and shook our heads. This place was really something else. “What about war zones and hazardous areas?” I asked.

The Pathbreakers

“Poor areas?” said Gen. “I mean, seriously poor ones.” Shuon thought for a while. “When we get back to my home city, I can take you to our museum.” “Don’t bother with that,” I reassured her. “It’s just so we’d know where the no-go zones are. We wouldn’t want tourists mugged, or shot by security, or blown up by landmines or whatever.” “You can go where you like—” began Shuon. “Oh, you mean like, wildlife reserves? I wouldn’t take you in them. Everyone would hate us.” *** Shuon was keen to show us their ‘World Parliament’ building, in a region that had once, she said, been a desert. The building was, by our standards, tiny, squat and plain, almost as if deliberately so. We pretended to be impressed, out of politeness. But it was good to know where the decisions were made. “If we wanted to make an investment,” said Gen. “Who do we talk to here? Who’s the boss? The big cheese?” “You mean the Assembly?” Shuon said. “Yes. But I mean, the boss.” “Yeah, the Assembly is the boss.” “I mean, the boss of the Assembly.” “Yeah, the Assembly is the boss.” I sighed. Shuon was lovely but, I was starting to realise, not very bright. “OK. How many in the Assembly?” “Only 18,430. They make decisions that can’t be taken more locally. But some people say we shouldn’t have so few Assembly members. It’s a bit of a live issue, if you’re like, into politics?” “I’m sure there’s a way,” Gen said to me. “When we come back. OK?” ***

Guy Russell

Another desert, this one with miles of parabolic mirrors. We stopped again, on a little island with mop-topped trees. We sat outside in a town square. A native came by to whom Shuon spoke for a while, and suddenly we had a large yellow ‘fruit’ in our hands. I was wary—the stuff clearly hadn’t been sterilised. But it was unexpectedly tasty. “Shuon,” I said, as we sat on a bench looking at the locals passing, “Gen and I have been thinking we might like to bring back some other people from our planet.” “Cool.” “What I mean is, they’ll be staying for longer; they’ll want guidance, accommodation, feeding, local experiences. They’ll be rich people. You’re a friendly person. You could make a packet.” But she had that confused frown again. “People on our planet need holidays. It’s so noisy and pressured there.” I looked around at the patched, mended, frayed, and hand-decorated little houses. “And they could really help develop your place.” Now she looked totally uncomprehending. “Well, think about it,” I said. *** More sea—with what looked like actual coral reefs? And rainforest—the best thing yet. The immensity and verdancy of it, with rivers winding through. Then a savannah, with herds of what looked like undomesticated animals racing across grasslands. “How do people get a return from those?” I asked Shuon, but as ever she didn’t understand. “Interesting,” I said to Gen, “that there are so many other species here apart from the dominant one.” “What, don’t you have like, animals?” asked Shuon curiously.

The Pathbreakers

“Of course we do! In the high-end food centres.” “You mean you eat them?” “When we can,” said Gen, laughing. “ They’re very expensive, though.” It was a great trip. We were coming back now to the continent we’d started from, and brought Shuon back to her city. We said no again to the museum, so she directed us to her home. It was a big street house, neat but shabby like everything on this planet. I would’ve torn down the brick frontage and replaced it with a new plastic one. But the house was very large for one person. Could Shuon be wealthy ? Then it turned out she shared it with 10 other people. “Oh, you poor thing,” said Gen. Inside, it was, of course, extremely tatty. “Hi people,” Shuon said. “This is John and Gen.” The others weren’t students. They were of various ages, though their genders were, again, hard to determine. We’d hoped to find someone with a bit more nous than Shuon, but none was remotely responsive to venture ops, not even the one who was a doctor. They wouldn’t, I thought, last five minutes back home. They were more interested when I talked about our Starburnmining technology, which my father’s company worked in. “And the star, afterwards, goes out ?” said one of them, agape. “Sure,” I laughed. “But it’s OK. One thing we’re never going to be short of is stars.” No one smiled along. But certainly, there was no hostility towards us, just the occasional confused look. Nor did they want us to leave: two of them offered to share their room with us for the night. They were interested, welcoming, enthusiastic, and sometimes humorously strange—ideal locals, in fact—and we hadn’t even tipped them. ***

Guy Russell

“I think this place is the one,” I said to Gen, as we returned to the XGB. “Let’s forget the next prospect; this is it. We need to get back fast before anyone else finds it.” “I had the same thought,” said Gen. “You tap your dad for some setup. I’ll ask mine to free up some of the trust fund. We start a small group company. We get first-mover advantage. We make links with the government people. We get established before the corps move in. Then we cash out.” “And did you catch their relaxed attitude to erm, sex?” I said. “I think there’s potential there.” “And their relaxed attitude to finance! I couldn’t work out how things got paid for?” “Only trouble is, they’ve got no business sense.” “But that’s a plus,” said Gen. “If they’re all like Shuon, we won’t need to pay them anything.” “But we need to persuade them.” “We only met a few. There’ll be some who’ll be willing.” “Sure. It feels so perfect, doesn’t it?” I said. “And get this, did you latch to what they call their planet?” “Maybe not so unusual,” said Gen. “I mean, think about it: ours basically also means ‘soil’ or ‘ground.’” “Exactly!” I said. “I reckon it’s a good omen.” “When we come back. OK?” We kicked up the XGB. The little green-blue orb spiralled away from us into the blackness. Ahead now were the stars; fewer these days, but at this moment, as countless as ever.

Tug-of-War

Paul GnanaSelvam

The towering bluish-green casuarina trees that lined along Padang Ipoh looked solemn and parched. Their gargantuan branches stooped like willows against the carpet of grass, its luscious greenness seemingly untouched by the recent hot spell. Leka turned her attention to the activities on the field. A cacophony of noise arose from the students gathered in the large rectangular field. The district-level junior track and field events were coming to a close but her two teams had not won anything. Nor had they qualified for the next state level sports meet. Now where has that boy gone? Leka fumed as she wandered around the hawker stalls along the edge of the field. She was looking for Ang Meng Tat—the only promising star of her school’s team. Panting slightly, she made her way back to the temporary podium where the teachers and parents were seated. Scanning haplessly top to bottom, left to right, she came to the grim realisation that Ang Meng Tat was indeed missing. I need to win something, she fretted. She shuddered at the possibility of returning to school empty-handed and defeated. With her retirement looming at the year end, she could not afford to let anything affect her Key Performance Index. Losing at the games would reflect badly on her annual appraisal, not to mention the increment that was going to make a significant 11

Paul GnanaSelvam

difference to her last drawn salary, upon which the life-long pension will be calculated. Besides, this year would also be her last chance to compete for the yearly award—the Anugerah Guru Cemerlang. Though she had bagged at least a dozen of these teaching excellence certificates, she felt this was her last opportunity to prove her worth in a career that spanned 35 years. Leka refused to be pessimistic. Her team had qualified for the final rounds in both the tug-of-war and shot put events. Her last chance to contribute a medal to the school principal’s collection before her retirement the following year was still open. She can still prove that at 58, she is still the feisty teacher who believed that all children were equally gifted and it was the teacher’s role to push them to greater heights. The podium was filled by a plethora of coloured tee-shirts: green, white, yellow, red and blue, each representing different schools and its teams. Leka’s was green. She spotted a few splotches here and there, almost blending into the flat field. In a little while, they should be gathering in front of the podium for the final events, where the tug-of-war and shot put would take place. The teachers were scattered about in a few small groups under opened umbrellas, clearly interested in the events unfolding before them. Leka climbed up the bleachers and sat behind the emcee. She was almost breathless as she massaged her sore calves. Through the laminated shades of her sunglasses, she scrutinised the field again for her students. They needed to start assembling for their events soon. Very soon. Four months ago, Leka had been glad. It had been her dream to return to her hometown at Ipoh and settle down post retirement. After almost a decade of serving in East Malaysia, the Order of Transfer had finally arrived. However, her joy was short-lived. Being assigned as Form teacher for the last class of Year Six pupils in an all-boys school, teaching Physical Education

Tug-of-War

did not do justice to her 35-year experience in Mathematics. To say the last few months had been an emotional roller coaster was an understatement. She had the most unruly and boisterous bunch of students. The boys seemed hell-bent on agitating her short temper and exhausting her. They were hyperactive and suffered from short attention deficits. Squabbles erupted without warning, peppered with colourful vulgarities and curses in all kinds of known, and unknown, dialects. They made sniping remarks at her. They were interested in every subject under the sun, even spiders and grasshoppers—but not actual learning. The other teachers had sarcastically wished her good luck on her first day. Every morning, even after three months, she still left the staff room to go to class, hoping the days were shorter. And just her luck, with the year-end exams lurking round the corner, her class was chosen to represent the school in the district’s junior sports meet. “Students in the last class also need to sit for the exams,” she had argued with the principal, En Hamdan. “In fact, they need more attention. You cannot bend teachers to conjure up magic by multitasking them. You speak as though 21st century education is not frustrating enough. As if coping with online teaching and data-based analysis and reporting is not enough. This is stressing me out, En Hamdan. I am not even qualified to teach P.E. I am already teaching them Mathematics. Furthermore, I smell a rat—is the sports meet someone else’s work dumped on me?” she asked smugly. The school principal got up from his chair with a start. He brought his fist close to his mouth and coughed in short bouts. He tried to smile, the wrinkles on his cheeks stretching like those of a cat’s whiskers. “You are overthinking Madam Leka,” he explained. “You were given this very task so that you would

Paul GnanaSelvam

not be burdened with whatever you mentioned just now. Since you are already on your way out, I think you can mellow down with classroom duties. Furthermore, we cannot jeopardise the school’s exam results, as well as its curricular achievements,” he clicked his tongue. “After all, students in the last class may not be too concerned about their academic pursuits.” And just like that, Leka was appointed as the school’s Sports Director—albeit temporarily. The responsibility for ensuring that the school qualified for the state level sports meet now fell on her shoulders. “What about the younger teachers?” she protested. “Remember, the final appraisal is upon you, not them,” En Hamdan retorted. So much for retiring gracefully! Leka’s anxiety heightened as the cool breeze brushed against her sweat-drenched body. She breathed in and breathed out after counts of three. She recalled how the priest had smirked when she blurted out the name that needed to be blessed that morning. “Birth star?” “Only name.” “Morning, morning bring trouble.” And that’s the truth, Leka telepathically spoke to the smiling Goddess suspiciously. She only had Ang Meng Tat’s impressive monthly test result for maths, where he had scored three and a half marks out of 50, but she managed to complete the archanai nevertheless. Chanting Ang Meng Tat’s name three times before leaving the sanctum, she fervently hoped that the deity at least recognised a Chinese name, unlike the disapproving priest. Ang Meng Tat sat in the last row of the class due to his height. Among the boys, he was the quietest and carried a rather pensive impression. Leka had tried interrupting him a few times, only to be returned with a frown. Was he dreaming? Concentrating? Nobody

Tug-of-War

could guess. Leka also observed that he had no clue about the goings-on in the classroom. Somebody had to tell him for him to keep up with the crowd. He actually relied on the goodwill of such individuals who often translated instructions or literally summed up the events that were unfolding in the classroom. Sometimes, if he’s called to answer a math question, he would stand up and stare questioningly back at Leka. Then, usually, the boys around him pointed out the page number or the required solution. Leka, too, found that Ang Meng Tat’s mathematical ability matched a pre-school child’s. He could add and minus up to two digits, but not multiply or divide—even if his head was on a chopping board! She regretted mentioning that to him for he burst out in a fit of laughter when it was translated to him. His schoolbag, nonetheless, was the bulkiest and his water container the biggest. He wore neatly-pressed school uniforms and seems to be engaged only during P.E lessons. Among the boys, Ang Meng Tat was the most athletic and muscular—features she knew she could take advantage of by putting him up for the shot put event for the district’s sports meet. The boys in white and green tees had begun to gather at the right corner of the podium but there was still no sign of him. Leka got down from the podium and walked towards her team. Two female teachers wearing straw hats were busy prepping their team for the tug-of-war. They seemed to be in an unusually jovial mood. Leka noted that their boys even had white kerchiefs tied around their wrists and were dusting chalk powder off their palms. As for hers, she noted with consternation that they hung around whispering, while the other team was testing their grip on the thick rope. My team is no match for the rivals, she sighed. The referee raised a red flag. The teachers moved away. The white and green teams lined up, their chests puffed out like courting pigeons. Leka’s team members were comparatively shorter. How do they produce children these days? she thought with

Paul GnanaSelvam

chagrin. If it were not for Balakumar and Suhairy holding the fort, they would be a joke, she deduced. The two straw-hatted teachers made their way to the podium. “Looks like Snow White’s little dwarves are down there,” one said. “Pity them,” the other replied. Leka fumed. Did they not realise I am within earshot? Then the two teachers deliberated about whether the dry grass would be a point of contention against their team. “That’s enough! I’ll stick hay into both your mouths if you don’t keep quiet!” Stunned, they stared at Leka open-mouthed and walked away. “Let the best team win!” she called after them, rolling up her sleeves. Leka turned her attention to her green team. She was positive she had given the students enough practice. But were they fit enough? Although Balakumar and Suhairy were tall and rangy, they were overweight. The other boys were all medium built and thin, trotting around in flimsy frames like ikan bilis. Wonder what they fed children these days. Either they were fattened up on junk food or they seem to have to have no flesh or muscles, probably due to limited outdoor activities. She knew most parents gave their children mobile phones or tabs to be occupied. Maybe this was the result of modern parenting—pubescent-reaching boys walking around with no muscle mass protruding from their arms, chest or calves. Everything so flat, she sighed. Ang Meng Tat is an exception, she reckoned, but what did he eat? Good grief, she slapped her forehead. I’m their teacher, not dietician. Why am I even thinking of all these? A coin was tossed to determine who pulled from which side. The two teachers from the rival team immediately protested, saying that the grass on one side was drier, therefore slippery. Their claims were dismissed by the referee.

Tug-of-War

Leka edged closer to her team. Balakumar slung the end of the rope over his shoulders and fastened it around his waist. The boys pushed their heels into the ground and lightly hung onto the taut rope. At the sound of the whistle, the two teams began to pull at each other. In no time, the green team had pulled the white team beyond the centre line. The crowd cheered. Leka could only smile half-heartedly, conscious of the cards in their favour. For the next round, the winning team switched places. Leka’s heart sank as she saw her team being dragged over the centre line with ease, her boys toppling on top of each other like a deck of cards. Dry grass, she admitted unwillingly. Her team slumped dejectedly on the ground; the boys from the white team had to help them back on their feet. They shook hands and retreated to their respective places on the podium. There was one more ordeal. This could kill an old woman like me, Leka sighed. The quarter-masters were marking the sectors for the shot put throw, in front of a painted round white slab on the left corner of the podium. “Teacher, teacher,” two boys called out to Leka. “We found him.” They pointed to the furthest end of the mile-wide field. Her knees were almost creaking when she reached Ang Meng Tat, who was squatting under the shades of a large rain tree away from all the chaos, sucking a neon green popsicle. Seeing Leka’s approach, he got up questioningly. “Do you know where you are?” Leka raised her voice. “Ipoh Padang,” he answered groggily. Sleep had puffed up his eye bags and one side of his face had turned pink from disrupted blood circulation. “And what are you wearing?” Ang Meng Tat blinked quizzically. “You know what you are supposed to wear today, don’t you?”

Paul GnanaSelvam

After a five-second pause, he mumbled sheepishly, “School shirt.” “And what colour is school shirt today?” she asked menacingly. “Green.” “Why are you wearing long pants? What am I going to do?” she asked him. “You need to help us to win, do you know that?” Sighing loudly, she produced a plastic sachet from her handbag. It contained the grey holy ash that she had so painstakingly obtained from the temple. “May I put this on you?” she asked. Ang Meng Tat stood still, deliberating. Without waiting for his consent, Leka applied a thin coat of ash on his pimpled forehead, wrapped the remaining vibuthi and pushed it into his shirt pocket. “This is for good luck,” she said tersely. Ang Meng Tat grinned widely, finally registering the implications. It had taken Leka considerable time to explain shot put to him. He was the fittest compared to Balakumar and Suhairy. Though he was the slowest in the class, she was not giving up on him. Though he may take ages to read and forever to write and consistently came last in the exams, he still had the potential to do well in sports. Leka felt this would help to give him a sense of achievement and pride—even a chance to prove his worth. She had taken into account that children like Ang Meng Tat rarely had the opportunity to shine, partly because they came from families with poor educational backgrounds. It was also children like Ang Meng Tat who dropped out from school the following year! She could not teach him the rules of the game by word she realised. However, he had learnt it by observing. After a few practices, he exhibited a focused, sharp and an almost effortless ability in tossing the six-pound copper ball within the designated conical sector. Where others failed, he excelled. He was dead accurate.

Tug-of-War

The white team’s participant had forfeited two of his throws but managed to land his final one. Ang Meng Tat was next. His name was finally called out. He walked into the netted enclosure and took his place on the circular concrete slab, still clad in his school shirt. Thankfully, someone had given him short pants to change into. Ang Meng Tat’s eyes darted about, examining the crowd of spectators, his teammates, and Leka. Did he lose something, or is he panicking? Leka wondered, her heart almost missing a beat. The rest of the team gathered behind him. In fact, Balakumar was massaging Ang Meng Tat’s shoulders and arms. Though teachers and trainers were not allowed near the event grounds, Leka stayed stubbornly with her boys. “Push, not toss, Meng Tat, look,” said Leka, pushing up one hand against her neck and exerting it. “Push, ok, push, not toss,” she repeated forcefully for the last time, though she doubted if any of her words entered through his piercing stare. Ang Meng Tat held the copper ball gently pressed between his jawbone and neck. The whistle blew. He had sixty seconds to thrust it into the funnel-like sector before him. Suddenly, he halted. Ang Meng Tat looked around undecidedly, as if he had been sucked into a wormhole and could not return to the current dimension of time. The boys, noticing this, began to stir. Some started laughing. Bewildered, they shouted at him to toss the ball. Even the referee instructed Ang Meng Tat to toss. He must be having an anxiety attack , Leka surmised, or got sucked into one of his usual trances. Quickly pushing her way through the spectators, she arrived at the front of the event’s location. She clapped her hands a few times to distract him but to no effect. Leka noticed that curiosity had driven the two hatters to the field. A number of other teachers too had descended from the podium to investigate. Leka shook her head. Just when everyone began to shout at the top of their voices, Ang Meng Tat stirred from his hazy stupor. He tossed the ball into the open sector as if he was throwing away an orange. The

Paul GnanaSelvam

boys slapped their foreheads and roared with laughter. They playfully knocked into each other, unable to control themselves with laughter. “Two more tries,” Leka announced hurriedly. This time, thankfully, Ang Meng Tat remembered the game. He stayed behind the second half of the circle instead of leaving. Miracles do happen, Leka reminded herself. Ang Meng Tat held the ball proportionate to his height and weight—pitching for the right balance. He bent his right leg and raised his arm gracefully. At the sound of the whistle, he turned his waist and lurched towards the toe-board, nearly tripping over, but successfully threw the ball. The audience—a blend of white, red, blue and green teeshirts—erupted in frenzied cheering. Some of them even called out his name. Seemingly fully awake now, Ang Meng Tat slowly inched his way backwards from the circle which would forfeit him from the game. Alarmed, Balakumar called out to him and shouted on top of his lungs to ask him to stay within the circumference. The score was being recorded and the referee hadn’t signalled for the final throw yet. Everyone waited. The referee rolled the heavy metal ball towards Ang Meng Tat but he remained immobile. Somebody handed him a bottle of water, from which he took small sips. “Ang Meng Tat!” Leka called out. He turned towards her. She showed the thumbs up sign. But he did not pick up the ball. Nothing stirred him. Not even the wind. Not even the hundred or so anticipating eyes. His face was expressionless. I must distract him. Pulling her duppatta across her body and knotting it tightly at her hips, Leka got up and began walking to the end of the cone-like sector. Noticing her movement, some of the spectators began cheering her on too.

Tug-of-War

She stood straight, arms raised outwards. “A!” she shouted. The crowd obliged in kind. She ducked her back, lifted and arched her elbows. “M!” Standing straight and stretching her arms, she yelled out the last alphabet with all her might, “T!” This is going to kill me, she muttered, sensing a sharp pain rising up her spine. As Ang Meng Tat finally picked the ball, the crowd roared, “AMT! AMT! AMT!” His face had gone red. As the whistle blew, Ang Meng Tat bent his right leg and twisted his hips ever so slightly that when he did the toss, it unfolded with an almost balletic grace—and the ball landed… nine meters within the designated cone shaped throwing field. Leka jumped up jubilantly. The boys in white, green, red and blue tossed Ang Meng Tat up and down, yelling ‘Malaysia Boleh’. One of the hatters gave Leka a friendly pat on the back. Her team may have lost in the tug-of-war, but was now qualified for the state-level shot put event. It was past midday by the time Leka collected the medal from Ang Meng Tat and the stack of Certificate of Participation from the organisers. These were to be presented to the participants at the next school assembly. She ran her fingers along the gilded corners of the certificates—these should keep the principal happy! One by one, the boys came to shake hands with her. Ang Meng Tat was the last. He slipped his hand into his shirt pocket and pulled out a gold chain with a pendant hanging on it. Detaching the pendant, his eyes glittered as he handed it to Leka. She took it and examined it closely. Embedded in the silver casing of the pendant was a miniature figurine of the sitting Buddha. Smiling sheepishly, Ang Meng Tat clasped his palms reverently, bowed before her, and walked away. Leka was too astonished to warrant a response.

Paul GnanaSelvam

Taking a moment under the shades of the casuarina trees, Leka gazed at the serene Buddha statuette and breathed in relief. Teaching is a rare gift, she reckoned. Maybe it’s time to shed the KPI, or that coveted teaching award, she contemplated. A teacher teaches, no matter what, she was sure, even if it meant teaching P.E. The students from the last class had not only given her their best but a meaningful exit.

Harsh Winds

Ksatria Baskara Prasetya

On the rocky, wind-swept massif that towered over the silent city of New London. two men, mere specks of grey on the great expanse of white, were halfway on a treacherous journey. Racing against time, they hoped to reach the orbital launch platform that once connected the remote Antarctic city with the world before it was too late. With cumbersome equipment, heavy packs, and thick snow impeding them, movement was slow— progress slower. Holding out his holo-compass, the man in the lead looked on in dismay at the long, pulsating red line—their path—snaking up and out from the arrow marking their position on the threedimensional landscape. The cold, harsh winds had sapped all his strength, and every muscle in his body burned with exertion. The Antarctic tundra was a slow and insidious killer, but the man had even greater worries on his mind. Turning back, he shouted to his companion, “Captain! This is ridiculous! We’ve only covered three kilometres in two hours! We’re never going to make it to the platform before nightfall, and we’re sitting ducks out here! It won’t be long before we’re caught with our pants down in the middle of a snowstorm!” The Antarctic snowstorm had acquired a reputation for ferocity ever since the global weather system broke down. The best and brightest minds on the planet hadn’t yet found a way 23

Ksatria Baskara Prasetya

to protect New London from the storms, and the city routinely went into lockdown at any time—even a weak snowstorm was detected—with warnings which ranged from days to mere hours in advance. The only reason the city existed at all was because the rare earth metals it sat on top of were too vital for humanity to go without. Two men on an open plain didn’t stand a chance. The other man, several dozen metres behind him, stopped his slow trudge through the snow and took a moment to catch his breath before replying, “You know we can’t go back, Howard. Even if we survive it’ll be a death sentence for the both of us. We either make it to that platform and leave the Earth behind, or we’re going to be the last men ever to die on this planet.” Howard wiped the sweat off his brow and sighed, “I know, Stewart. I know. I just don’t think I’ll make it. I’m not built for this kind of physical exertion.” Against his better judgement, Stewart laughed, “You always spent too much time in the lab for your own good, Howard.” “I did my fair share of exercise but nothing can prepare you for this!” Howard shouted back. “And as a marine, aren’t you supposed to be leading the way, Captain Steward?” A faint smile appeared on Howard’s face as his friend tossed a few obscenities at him by way of reply. He turned back towards the platform and admired the magnificent steel structure glistening in the fading sunlight. Yet, only by turning his snow goggles into binoculars with the flick of a recessed switch does the full glory of New London’s orbital launch platform become clear. Rising up from the steep, weathered cliffs of the mountains shielding the city from the worst of the Antarctic storms were the sturdy metal girders suspending the platform high above the dangerously soft snow cladding the mountainside. Resting safely in their rigid embrace was the platform itself, a stout ingot of metal that had borne the brunt of a thousand rocket launches and landings.

Harsh Winds

His eyes found themselves resting on the magnificent vessel that would bear them to safety. A sleek hybrid between plane and rocket, it represented the pinnacle of human engineering, and the reflection of the sun on its aerodynamic structure gave it something akin to an angelic halo. It was a beautiful sight and filled Howard’s heart with pride to be a member of that incredible species—the human race. Howard blinked several times from the glare, and to his surprise he found a sinking feeling had poisoned the uplifting pride in his chest. He had seen many rockets preparing for launch over his many long years, even several of this exact type, but no matter how frantically his eyes searched, he could not find those telltale signs. There was no billowing coolant, no connecting gantries, nor scurrying men. No, by all means, the rocket before them was not merely preparing for liftoff but was already ready— Something is wrong! The possibilities whirled through his mind. The SecretaryGeneral had made clear that all surviving humans had to leave the Earth alive, with only one caveat. If the base commander has chosen to launch now, that could only mean that the safety of the rocket itself was at risk. In this part of the world, there’s only one thing that could take down a rocket, and that would be a snow— Oh God … ! It was like Howard had been punched in the gut by a million fists. He could feel his very soul, all the hope he had left, leaving his body. Oh no. Oh no, oh no … Tears welled up in his eyes. We are going to die here after all. Tearing off his goggles, Howard turned and looked back at the Captain. The man had been a total stranger whom he hadn’t known a single thing about a year ago, but they had become the closest of brothers.

Ksatria Baskara Prasetya

They had the most unlikely of meetings, the two of them. The worst sabbatical of his life had left Howard stranded in West Virginia when the United Nations announced Operation WALL-E—a mass evacuation of humanity from Earth. They could never have guessed that it would precipitate the collapse of society, but when it did, they dispatched a green Marine captain to escort him to safety. Howard remembered their first meeting fondly: he had been trying, and failing, to hunt deer when the man walked into his field of view dressed in khaki overalls. After the understandable confusion had been cleared up—at the loss of one bullet but not life or limb—the two had gotten on dashingly. If only they knew what life had in store for them next. They had gone places, the two of them. They had trekked through fiery blazes in Appalachia, rummaged through the ruins of war-torn Atlanta, wandered across the searing Arizona desert, and braved the wild storms of Pacific, supercharged by global warming, on the voyage to China. They had paddled through the inundated ruins of Shanghai, ridden a battered train over miles of desert that once was the richest farmland the world had ever seen, and flew a propeller plane over the Himalayas past peaks shorn of snow. Each time chasing rockets that vanished like phantom mirages right before their eyes. And now … they were most likely going to perish at Nature’s vengeful hand, a few miles from salvation. Stewart had finally caught up to Howard while he despaired, and he patted his friend reassuringly on the shoulder. “What’s wrong, man? You look like you’ve seen Death.” Howard wiped a tear off his face. “Stewart, it’s all over. They’re giving up on us.” Suddenly, his friend became animated, and Howard’s heart started to ache. “Hey, don’t get down now! We’re so damn close—we’re gonna make it! It’s only several more miles. We’ll be safe on the ISS in a few hours!”

Harsh Winds

“No … ” Howard shook his head, at a loss for words. How do I tell a dead man he is … ? Taking a few steps back, the Captain asked with uncertainty, “Howard, what are you doing … ?” Slowly, carefully, and deliberately, Howard folded out the portable radio transmitter he had been carrying on his back. Its long legs sunk deep into the thick snow, and it took a few moments for Howard to align the wide parabola with an invisible satellite lurking high up in the sky. It buzzed to life almost instantly, and then and there all of Howard’s worst fears were realised. “Gentlemen, this is the UN Secretary-General speaking. Do you copy?” An awkward silence enveloped the pair as the wind solemnly blew past, playing a soft funeral dirge for the doomed men. There was only one absolutely final thing what those words could mean. “Howard—” Stewart’s shaky voice was cut off by a deafening roar. A blinding light engulfed the plain as the rocket blasted into the sky—at a snail’s pace at first, but it quickly accelerated. Both men turned to watch as salvation slipped just out of their grasp. Howard willed the invisible hands of gravity to clasp around the escaping vessel and bring it back down to Earth, but it never happened. Howard and Stewart could only stare in silent horror as the magnificent spacecraft flew higher than the sun, up and up and up, away from the wretched planet they called home, and away to safety on the ISS. Away from them. Which meant … They were now the only humans left on Earth. With the weight of the world crashing down on his shoulders, Howard kicked the antenna over in a fit of anger before all his energy leached into the snow, felling him onto his knees. He watched helplessly as his tears stained the pure-white

Ksatria Baskara Prasetya

snow beneath his lowered head. The tears flowed freely, and a constellation of darkened snow gradually formed and grew in size and complexity until it reflected the intricacy of the starry night sky. The sunlight even made the stars twinkle as it bounced off the tiny microplastics in the snow. Even here, in the pristine arctic environment, we find traces of the selfishness of humans, and it's the last thing I ever see … God, it’s so beautiful … *** It was an eternity before Howard became conscious of the shuffling of someone trudging through the snow and the grunts of physical effort in the background. He gradually noticed the cold sting of his tears on his bare cheeks, and the long yellow rays thrown onto the ground by a rapidly setting sun. Am I still alive? Howard, still in his dream-like reverie, lifted his head up, and sure enough he could still see the snow and the mountains and the sky and the launch platform. All of it was real. His world was real. He was real, and— I’m … still alive. With great effort, he forced his tired body to move once more, and he unsteadily got on his feet. He could feel his muscles aching with pain, but strangely, he didn’t seem to care. The world could end tomorrow, yet all he was interested in was finding his friend. “S-Stewart?” “Over here, Howard.” Howard slowly turned around, and was surprised to see his friend painstakingly nailing a tent stake into the snow. Perplexed, Howard could see Stewart clearly meant to set up their tent in the hopes of weathering through the storm, but …

Harsh Winds

“We’re dead men walking right now. What’s the point, Stewart?” Stewart whispered softly. “We’re human beings, and human beings never give up. It’s part of our greatness.” Howard frowned. “Look around us, man. Even in this most pristine of environments, humanity has found a way to taint the soil and poison the air.” He took a moment to pick up a piece of plastic he had found in the snow. “The pollution from New London has been strangling local ecosystems to the point of total collapse. The strip mining of rare earth metals that sustained the city has produced toxic dust and tailings which has despoiled a thousand acres of virgin tundra. We haven’t seen a single living creature since we set foot on Antarctica. Humanity has found a way to ruin every single good thing Mother Earth has given us, and yet most of us still bear no guilt. Humanity brought the climate crisis onto itself, and yet we refuse to accept the responsibility. Why struggle any more in the name of humanity? Why not just give up, and end our suffering?” Stewart stood up and faced him. “Because that’s not who we are. That’s not what humanity is. Humanity is a million evil things, but there are things that make life worth living. Love, family, friendship. They give us tenacity. Faced with a lack of time, disunity, and even downright treachery, humanity still managed to unite together to fight the climate crisis, although by then it was far too late. The results are incredible: we have had the fortune to see some of those wonders in person. The buffalo roam free in the American Midwest, the beavers have been restored to Europe’s rivers, and even the ancient aurochs have been brought back from extinction. Great dikes and levees held back the rising seas, while vast irrigation systems kept agriculture alive and massive nuclear reactors supplied us with vital electricity. Our actions have brought evil to New London and a million other places, yes, but that does mean we should

Ksatria Baskara Prasetya

ignore all the good we have brought to this world. We may have failed in the end, but not for the lack of trying. Without our collective efforts, billions more might have died. Humanity stands among the shoulders of the giants in this universe because of what we could accomplish in the circumstances, even if we came up short in the end.” Stewart looked towards the setting sun. “Through a thousand challenges humanity has endured, and it will endure through this one. What matters more, though, are the actions of individual humans, for the whole is only ever as great as the sum of its parts. Humans, time and time again, have risen to the challenge and stared death in the eye, even if it was the last thing they ever did, not because they had to, but because it was the noble thing to do. And with risk, comes reward. The space program, which until just now held all our hopes and dreams, was a once desperate pipe-dream that represented humanity’s last shot at survival, and beyond all expectations, it delivered boundless dividends. You know this better than I do. Humanity has won bets with greater odds.” “Considering all that, do we, as the last humans ever to die on Earth, have any good reason to give up our fight? Our ancestors and forefathers stand with us here, and they give us the strength and the will to continue trying.” Stewart laid his tools on the snow and moved closer. Putting his hands on Howard, he intoned solemnly, “The wind is rising, but we must try to live.” He stood up and backed away, holding out his hand, “Will you help me?” ***

Harsh Winds

The howling of the wind had reached a feverish pitch. The ear-splitting sound penetrated their minds and soaked into their bones, consuming all that it touched. Yet Howard didn’t mind it much. A reflective blanket was wrapped around his body, and in his hands was a warm mug of hot chocolate that he nursed with his cold hands and took small sips from every so often. The sweet, earthy taste of cocoa on his tongue was invigorating. Right across from him sat Stewart, who was quietly reading a copy of Playboy, of all things, in the faint light of their electric lantern. Howard had not the slightest idea where he had gotten it. It was too loud for any kind of conversation, but Howard was perfectly content with resting in silence. Sitting quietly in their tiny two-man tent, anchored to the ground by a spider’s web of cables and wires, Howard felt that all had been finally set right with the world. The hot chocolate helped a lot. If the two of them had died then and there, he would have been at peace. It happened in an instant. Howard would never know what went wrong—maybe a guy wire snapped or maybe they didn’t hammer in the stakes far enough or maybe they had forgotten to tie something down—but something gave way, and he barely had time to fumble open the tent flap and jump out before the tent lifted off the ground. The frost came hard on his unprotected skin; the only thing Howard noticed was that Stewart didn’t make it out in time. “Howard!” came the sudden cry from the bundle of supports and fabric and a human being that was quickly swept away in the wind. “Stewart!” yelled Howard, reaching out vainly into the distance.

Ksatria Baskara Prasetya

It was the last time he ever saw or heard his dear friend. This was it. This was the end. There was no way out for him. This was where he died. But Howard wasn’t afraid. It’s so cold. I never thought anywhere on the planet could be this cold. Wow, it’s really something else feeling the cold seep into your bones. Man, I’m really sleepy. In this cold weather it’s likely that my body will be covered in snow and remain perfectly preserved for centuries. Maybe when humanity returns to its home planet in the future after colonising the stars, they’ll find my body and they’ll be able to revive me, and I’ll get to meet Stewart’s far-off descendants and I’ll be able to tell them about our adventures … The cold is making me so, so sleepy. I can’t remain awake for much longer. Oh, wow, it’s cold. Thank you, Stewart, for helping me remember. So, so cold … Sleep beckons to me … Good night, beautiful world. Thank you for everything.