A trunk of trees blocked the road to the Bay of Bones. The trees were gray and eerie, sprinkled with ash, like an elephant's graveyard. It was another hazy morning. These days light and dark were swallowed by fog.
Imran forgot his soccer ball by the water. He used to love swimming in it. It had been at least two rainy seasons since anyone swam in the water.
The trees were stacked and too high to climb. And the forest was too dense to go around. I weaved through the pale limbs. I was whipped a few times but did not get too many scratches. I brushed some blood off and went on my way.
The old beggar sat by the side of the road, hovering over a puddle of rainwater, cleaning his feet with an old rag. I passed him. My mouth was dry and without words. I didn't like him much. He told me once that my ayah was dead. Father was still alive – still is. Ayah is resting under a white sheet with the scent of kaffir leaves and dried tobacco. He gets sick sometimes, and his cough dyes the sheets red with blood.
I was no longer a child. I was the eldest son now. Rayyan was gone. He ran and jumped onto a moving bus headed to Kuala Lumpur and never came back. Rayyan was a city man. I was sure of it.
The bapa of the night ladies saw him there once.
"Hand in hand with a lady boy," he said.
"What is that?" I said.
"A lady with a pisang," he said.
I envied Rayyan. Not for knowing what a lady boy was, but for leaving.
Mother said Kuala was where houses touched the sky like iron dragons. There I wouldn't have to eat day-old congee. I would have feast upon feast at the pasar malam. I wouldn't have to wake up to house duties. I could roam free.
The road thinned as a man on a bike cart with hay rolled past me.
"Careful, boy. There's a pack of the devil's dogs out here," he said.
"I'm not a boy!" I said, watching bits of hay scatter onto the dirt behind him. I grabbed a handful and threw it towards the bike cart. A sole strand fell at my feet. I picked it up and put it in my mouth.
A breeze hit my legs, and soon I saw the moist ivory sand of the bay ahead. A long stretch of mud, the color of coconut milk, surrounded a pool of slate water.
I treaded carefully past a group of boats drowning in the sludge, searching for Imran's ball. There was nothing. Just dumb dead fish and sodden pieces of wood. It must be closer to the water. I used my big toe to hook the earth, then pushed my shin through the wet vile, making my way closer to the bay's break.
Just as I approached the water, I saw the head of a black ox rising out of the ripples. Its eyes, once kind, were cold like black marbles.
"Vipul!" I tried running, but the sand was too thick.
The water pulled back. Vipul's broken body surfaced.
I tried to pull him out of the water using the rope leash still around his neck. A small starling flew by and took a rest from the harsh wind on Vipul's good horn.
"Shoo, shoo," I said, thrusting my arms forward. The bird fluttered around but kept its stance. I crumbled into the sand.
Vipul had been mine. He was no more than six years old. Mother traded him in town so the three of us could share a bicycle. It was a bright marigold frame, now the color of rust; the old thing sat behind the house with broken spokes. I used to unscrew the bicycle seat to hide chocolates Rayyan got for me so Imran wouldn't cry. It had no purpose now.
My eyes suddenly felt like muddy river stones. I knelt, unable to get Vipul out for a proper burial. He was too loyal to die. He was destined to be valiant—Mother had promised.
I took my shirt off and placed it over his eyes. I hugged his neck as if he were my adik. The starling sat on his horn chirping.
In the distance, a school of fishermen's children sang a song about the sun rising like fire and the sea brimming with fish.
There I was, tears dripping onto my chest, no longer willing to be a man.