The Punkhawala and the Prostitute Read online

  “Are you deaf?” Hoso grunts before clearing her throat.

  “Leave her alone,” Unoko says. She is another of the fifteen of them squeezed into the decrepit boiler room.

  “Abazure,” Hoso swears. “I am not talking to you.”

  Unoko sighs and looks away, while the other women stare back at Oseki, waiting for a response. Their five-day-old make-up is melting off from the heat of the boiler room. If they wait any longer, their faces would slip right off.

  “Nobody.”

  Otouchan, do you think I should have replied? I don’t know. I don’t want to talk to these women. They look like the ladies in our village whom all the men like. You know, the kind who laugh and drink outside skinny Juro’s noodle eatery late at night long after it has closed. The kind with kimonos that slip off their shoulders with little care. Sometimes, the kimonos slip all the way down. The kind you told me to stay far away from.

  “Good, then stop talking to yourself. Some of us would like to sleep,” Chieko says. Her name is not actually Chieko. I don’t know her name, but she has a round nose just like Chieko’s. You’ve never met Chieko. She was from Obasan’s village when Okaasan and I had to stay there. Oh, how I wish I could tease Chieko that she is no longer the only person in the world with a button nose. I could tell Chieko that I found her long-lost twin sister. Such nasty thoughts to have! Forgive me, Otouchan. Chieko would never doll herself up so vivaciously like this grumpy lady. In fact, all the other women in this horrid room were already dolled up when I boarded the ship from Nagasaki.

  The ship is so grand. I have never seen anything so big and marvellous before. The Takachiho Maru. Do you think it is named after the shrine? Otouchan, it’s the one you promised to bring me to see, but never had the chance to. The one where sacred eight-hundred-year-old twin cedar trees reside. Couples hold hands and walk around them three times to receive blessings for their marriage. I remember what you told me, Otouchan. It may surprise you, but I have never forgotten the stories you told me. I just wish I had the time to receive blessings from the trees before being rushed to the port in Nagasaki. It all happened so quickly, I hardly had time to say proper goodbyes to you, Otouchan, and to Okaasan.

  Do you think the others are on their way to Singapore to be wed, too? Otouchan, they feel different from me. It could be because they have make-up on. Should I have put some on as well? Or maybe it is because they look a little older than I do. Maybe I am in the wrong room? I don’t think my husband-to-be would have approved of my mingling with these women. I knew something was not right once I boarded the ship. I remember seeing these men in uniform who looked like sailors on the deck staring at me, and the further down I went into the vessel, the more I felt trapped by the sound of splashing water closing in on me. Like going into a cave, and the views disappeared. Daylight vanished. I found myself in this boiler room that is dimly lit by a furnace. Here I saw these older Japanese ladies lying down on a wooden crate. They didn’t even bother to greet me. It has faded now, but I remember that when I first saw them they had the brightest komachi beni lip paint on. As bright as the kishaku that has returned to my stomach, taunting me again. I don’t know how it came back into me, Otouchan. It is not my fault, please don’t be angry. I did not do anything.

  I’ll never forget how it looks, Otouchan. How can we ever forget? It was in the middle of the night and you carried me on your shoulders to the healer’s hut, far from the village. I could barely walk with my unbearable stomach cramps. Otouchan, did you know that it was the words you kept repeating over and over to me as you carried me that kept me calm?

  “Big girls don’t cry. You are Otouchan’s big girl now.” Takashi soothed his only child. Even though he was made of forty years of skin and bones, he mustered the strength of a father’s love to carry Oseki uphill on his twig-like legs. A miracle they didn’t snap! Sweat dripped down the hollows of his unshaven sunken face, but Takashi hid his exhaustion from his daughter. He took a deep breath, gathered his might and continued until they reached the hut.

  “Lie…down…” Takashi instructed Oseki as he caught his breath. The air in the dimly lit hut reeked of a peculiar mix of bitter herbs, sweet alcohol and tangy vinegar.

  “Otouchan, I can’t,” Oseki said. The nine-year-old girl hugged her stomach tightly. She could barely stand, keeling over with her body after Takashi set her down from his aching shoulders.

  “Lie down...for Otouchan…” He eased her onto a bamboo mat in the healer’s hut, freshly vacated by another child who was just about to leave with her father. The child, a girl with adorable round eyes and much younger than Oseki, looked at her curiously.

  “She is sick like me?” the wide-eyed little girl asked her father. Oseki glanced through her pain at the little girl being tugged by her father out of the hut.

  “Open mouth,” a wispy but assertive voice instructed her. Oseki turned the other way and saw an elderly man dressed in a navy blue robe approaching her impatiently. He looked tired, eye bags drooping heavily beneath greyish eyes. Before she could react, he forcefully opened her mouth with his forefinger and held a lit candle near it. Bending low, he squinted as he looked down into her throat, then immediately shook his head and retreated to the wooden cabinet where many glass jars resided.

  He reached high up, shifted aside a jar filled with dried gardenia seeds and carefully moved deeper in to retrieve a transparent jar filled with a suspicious, murky yellow liquid. He placed the heavy jar on the table, grabbed a pair of long wooden chopsticks and dipped them inside. Oseki’s eyes widened as he pulled out a preserved bug of sorts, the size of a roach. A slimy, brownish red coated its furry body, which had a thick white stripe running from its nape to its black tail. Its mouth was split three ways. This must have been a creature hailing from lore, the likes of which not many had seen before.

  “This is in her stomach,” the healer claimed.

  “What is that?” Takashi asked, approaching for a closer look.

  “A kishaku.”

  “Kishaku?”

  “It’s a form of yokai.”

  “So small? I know all about yokai, but I’ve never heard of one this small!” Takashi exclaimed in disbelief.

  “Yokai come in all forms. Not just in the forms of fleeting spirits, humans or hideous monsters.” He smirked at Takashi. “The kind you say you know all about.

  “This particular yokai is smaller than the usual ones. It is but just one of sixty-three yokai germs in the Harikikigaki medical journal that can enter our bodies and spread illnesses. They can make you very sick from the inside.” The healer placed the kishaku carefully back into the jar before Takashi could examine it even more closely.

  The healer cleared his throat before continuing: “You must know that this yokai, this kishaku…will cause…an increase in sexual desire.”

  Takashi looked lost. What was the healer implying?

  “Your daughter is almost of age.”

  Takashi glanced at Oseki with concern and disbelief that his little girl could be all grown up.

  “Is there a cure?”

  “There is always a cure.”

  The healer cleared his throat again. “They are hard to come by and are costly. She has to consume dried tiger intestines for seven days. Once at dawn and once more after her last meal of the day. Boil the—”

  “Can I owe you first?” Takashi interrupted him. He couldn’t bear to look at his daughter, knowing he had to let her down again.

  “This is not a village noodle shop or some such place where you can owe money for a meal and pay another day.”

  “I can’t afford it now,” Takashi said softly. He didn’t want to alarm Oseki.

  “She can’t be helped then.” Without an ounce of sympathy, the healer shook his head and walked away to place the jar back in the cabinet.

  Tiger intestines were a far cry from what Oseki’s family could afford to consume. She grew up eating melons, barley, potatoes and whatever else was available. When there was not enou
gh rice, Hime, her okaasan, would make do with some flowery porridge. It was called that not because there were flowers in the porridge, but because there were so few grains that whatever little was in the gruel would float like flower petals. It was not a meal Oseki looked forward to eating growing up, but she would love to have a bowl of flowery porridge now for all she had on the ship was a measly crust of bread, so hard that even a tiger would hardly be able to break it apart or swallow it without getting cut. Her stomach growls and twists to the whirling of the boiler room as the Takachiho Maru jolts suddenly, the clanging in the furnace rattling louder than before.

  Oseki brushes off some coal dust that has fallen on her white kimono. It doesn’t come off. Oseki quickly blows it away and tries to dust it off again.

  “Scared of ruining your kimono, Empress Haruko?” one of the ladies jeers at her.

  “Why so beautiful? Maybe she is going to get married in Singapore. A grand royal wedding,” Hoso adds sarcastically.

  “Yes,” Oseki says timidly, before realising that maybe she should not have answered.

  “Yes? Yes what?”

  Oseki feels the kishaku in her stomach squeezing her gut, as though warning her to not answer.

  “Yes, I am getting married in Singapore.”

  Silence for a second before the two women burst out in shrill, mocking laughter, their lips stretched wide and the faded paint on them almost vibrant again.

  “She thinks she is getting married? You are one stupid girl!” Hoso scoffs and scratches an itch on her back.

  “My husband-to-be is Muraoka Iheiji,” Oseki says. “He is waiting for me in Singapore. Do you all know him?”

  “You’ll get married for sure. To hundreds of men, my dear,” another Japanese lady responds bitterly, with a tinge of pity for Oseki and maybe herself. She chokes briefly after speaking, coughing to clear her lungs before sniffing the air curiously. “Do you all smell that?”

  Her question hangs in the air as everyone’s attention remains on Oseki, who has reached into her pocket to take out a shining white and hypnotising pearl the size of a pea. The revelation is made more dramatic by the timely clanging and banging from the furnace.

  “I do have a husband waiting for me. This is the pearl he gave me when he visited my family.”

  Soft murmurs break out among the ladies as their eyes fasten on the mesmerising pearl in her palm.

  “Is it real? I have never seen one before,” one of them asks, now wide awake.

  “Let me see,” Hoso demands.

  Oseki immediately shuts her hand like a clam.

  “Okay, I’ll just take it from you then.” Hoso stands and tries to balance on her geta on the rocking ship. She hobbles over to Oseki and grabs her fist, prying her fingers apart maliciously with her long, sharp fingernails. Oseki struggles but keeps her hand tightly shut around the pearl.

  “Give it to me!” Hoso shouts. Some women have rallied around her, like vicious hyenas hungry for a kill.

  Klang! Klang!

  The ship violently shudders. There is a ruckus in the furnace, followed by the strong smell of smoke. Everyone in the room loses their balance and falls. The pearl slips through Oseki’s fingers and onto the ground. She quickly goes on all fours to crawl to it as the other women lose interest, distracted by the pungent fumes. Hoso is on high alert, sniffing the air with her bulbous nose. The pearl rolls into a tight crevice. Oseki lies flat on the floor and squeezes through the gap, her slender frame just narrowly fitting. She reaches out for the pearl, the tips of her fingers almost touching it.

  “This ship will be the death of us!” Hoso howls as sparks suddenly fly from the furnace and black smoke fills the room. Hoso yanks the boiler room door open, only to wobble out to more smoke in the tight corridors. The others start to scream in panic as they scramble to get onto their feet and out of the room while the ship rocks furiously. The women have no choice but to hold their breath and escape to the deck, but not all of them have the courage to move.

  “You fool, get out from there! We have to go!” Hoso has turned back for Oseki, the only one left, her feet peeking out from the other end of the boiler room. Oseki, oblivious to everything going on, continues to stretch her arms to reach for the pearl.

  “Come on out!” Hoso yells and looks back into the corridor. She has to leave. It is now or never. Oseki tries her best to reach for the pearl but is unable to. She is stretching as far as she can.

  “Oseki, come out.”

  I heard you calling me breathlessly as I uncurled myself and crawled out of the bushes I was hiding in. The sky was dark and it was drizzling. You were looking back at me and scratching the side of your face nervously as you pressed something hidden beneath your yukata against your chest.

  “Otouchan, what’s going on?”

  You did not reply but instead grabbed me by the arm and dragged me away. I turned and saw the healer running towards us, brandishing a wooden stick in the air.

  “You scoundrel! Come back here, you thief!” the healer shouted.

  We ran as fast as we could, until the pain in my stomach became unbearable. I lost my grip on your hand and tumbled down into the mud. I looked up and saw you continuing to run ahead.

  From the crevice, I peep over my shoulders at the women coughing and trying to escape from the boiler room. Some fall to their knees, crawling. They scream without sound, out of breath as the squealing of the furnace gets louder, as though any moment it might burst. I reach out one last time and finally feel the pearl. I hold on to it tightly, but it is too late to try and escape. Around me, sparks rage on like firecrackers, a sign that I don’t have much time—or any at all—left. I move deeper into the crevice, thinking of you, Otouchan. All I can think about is how much I hope you can come and save me. Like you did when I fell down onto the wet soil, and you turned back and ran towards me as the healer approached. You looked at me like I was your everything. I know you will save me, Otouchan. I am right here.

  Otouchan, I feel an immense heat that I have never felt before as I curl myself into a ball. The pain in my belly clenches and strikes again. Otouchan, please come for me, I am scared.

  A thunderous shake.

  Bright lights.

  Then, the most beautiful silence consumes me.

  3

  ON REPEAT, TUGGING the cord down then at ease, my mind wanders past the never-ending echo of the motion and thinks only about you. Curious. Wanting to know. An urge to know what you are thinking of. Are you dreaming of me all the time, or just sometimes?

  Sometimes, I would gently blow your fringe aside your face as I lay on our mat watching you sleep. Sometimes, I would whisper to you, hoping to gently wake you without startling you.

  “Good morning, Renuka.”

  If you were still sleeping soundly like a baby, I would count down the moments until you were awake.

  Ten.

  Nine. Are you dreaming of me?

  Eight.

  Seven. You are the only one who doesn’t judge me.

  Six. Maybe if you had punished me, I would have become a better person.

  Five. Then I wouldn’t be here.

  Four.

  Three.

  Two. Wake up, please.

  One.

  A jubilant cheer ushers in the brand-new year of 1870 along with the clinking of glasses. The celebrants are a group of well-dressed Europeans who fill the second level of a well-built Palladian-style house by River Valley. Light from beautiful hanging argand lamps bounces off the gloss of the freshly repainted white Madras chunam plastered walls. The glow from the second level spills onto a well-groomed courtyard with a mighty tembusu tree overlooking it. The house was originally built for, and belonged to, the much-respected Dr Thomas Theophilus Rothwell, acting surgeon-in-charge at the Lunatic Asylum. He had retired and returned to England to take care of his niece, Tillie, who was unwell.

  While he was in Singapore, the Lunatic Asylum became revolutionary under his leadership for doing away with the straitj
acket. Patients instead had their hands locked in padded canvas gloves that were tied around their wrists to prevent self-injury. To Dr Rothwell’s dismay, purgative treatments were still needed to help patients—even those who were showing signs of recovery—expel the foreign bodies that were causing their lunacy. Surgeons like Dr Rothwell tried their best, doing all they could do to help.

  An elderly Chinese helper dressed in black trousers and a white jacket attends to the partygoers, pouring a bottle of vintage Bordeaux into glasses and topping up others with pale ale. Even with its new owner, the home continues to host distinguished guests.

  One of the guests, Thomas Dunman, the commissioner of police and the president of the Tanglin Club, raises a hand slightly to indicate that the pouring should stop. Cornering some other guests is John Henry Pratt, a mathematician who wrote a book with a title so long that it felt more like the first paragraph—A Treatise on Attractions, Laplace’s Function and the Figure of the Earth.

  “Gentlemen, I have to confess that I felt the title was a tad too short for my liking, but my publisher felt otherwise.” John Henry Pratt, for all his mathematical genius, is apparently ungifted at interpreting body language. It is clear that the three gentlemen before him are dying to escape after having run out of courtesy smiles and the neck muscle strength to continue to nod along politely. Amongst the other twenty or so distinguished guests, at the other end of the room, is Frank Athelstane Swettenham, a renowned Malay interpreter. He leans in close to a well-spoken gentleman, Robert Carr Woods, the first editor of The Straits Times, the two engrossed in conversation.

  “Gentlemen, if I could get your attention…”

  The one who made the announcement was Osbert Emerson Read, the new owner of the home, but his voice had little presence. A spruced-up and stylishly dressed man of medium build, Osbert may look like a man of import, but he is not being treated like it. Nobody is paying him any attention. The guests carry on, absorbed in their conversations. Osbert summons an unnaturally loud cough.