keongzai

I had a strange, lucid dream last night. Retelling it below, with additional context in (parentheses).

I was spending the day with N before sending her off to take a bus back to Malaysia. I was wearing a brown batik sarong with a matching bandana. I had a pair of tight blue shorts underneath the sarong.

(I dated N briefly back in high school but we’re no longer in touch. The last I heard, she had moved to Malaysia with her husband and kids. And no, a sarong is not my usual fashion choice.)

We said our goodbyes and she boarded the bus. I walked to my bus stop to take a bus home to my mum’s. A bus came but it was full so I took the next one.

On the bus, I kept fidgeting with the sarong. The straps were too short so it kept coming apart, exposing the shorts underneath. I felt self-conscious, awkward and uncomfortable, as if everyone was staring and judging me.

(I hated my body growing up. It was a constant subject of ridicule, even from my own sister, who would call me names like “big backside”.)

My stop came and I pressed the bell. The bus took an unexpected left turn, up a road towards a hospital. I wasn’t sure where the bus was going so I decided to get off and walk the rest of the way.

I walked through parts of the hospital, past the staff entrance, through a car park and emerged close to home. There was still a small stretch of forest to go. I didn’t have my keys with me so I called my mother to check if she was home.

I held up my phone, an earlier version of the iPhone, plugged in the wired headphones and dialed. The first time, the number saved was wrong. The second time, I manually entered the number and the display showed “Leighton Hill” so I hung up. I tried again for the third time and this time, the call connected.

(My mother lives near a hospital. I remember that small stretch of forest when I was growing up. I was told it’s dangerous to play there but nothing in Singapore was too dangerous. It’s now gone to make way for a car park. I have no idea what Leighton Hill is in my memory.)

The call rang once, twice and on the third ring, my birth mother picked up.

(I was adopted at birth. My birth mother is my adopted mother’s sister. It was common for babies to be given away to family or friends in that era.)

“Are you on your way home?” She said gently.

“Yes, I’m not far. I won’t be long.”

At this moment, I could hear my adopted mother screaming into the phone: “HAVE YOU DONE THAT THING I TOLD YOU TO DO? IF YOU HAVEN’T, YOU BETTER NOT COME HOME! WHERE WERE YOU THE WHOLE DAY? I TELL YOU, YOU BETTER HAVE A GOOD REASON FOR NOT DOING THAT THING YET! HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO REMIND YOU? WHERE ARE YOU NOW? TELL ME, WHERE ARE YOU???”

(Read that again as loud as you can but channel your innermost rage monster, then amp it up 10x.)

I hung up and walked the rest of the way home, feeling sad and beaten down.

I woke up shortly after.