CHICKEN HEADS

CHIKEN HEADS



(C) Abdul Rahim Said, March 2013



I am a Malay. My parents are Malays. Yet I must confess that on many occasions I fail to think like an authentic Malay boy who could, intuitively explain phenomenon that occur around me from a perspective that only those deeply immersed in its culture can successfully interpret. Today is one of those days that will haunt me for the rest of my life. It is a nightmare that I would like to quickly forget.

We live in the Western part of Kuala Lumpur in a small community with about two hundred linked houses. Its streets are broad, clean and lined with tall flame of the forest. Facing our house is a big community park with a children's playground and a soccer pitch. It is slightly elevated, allowing anyone sitting on one of the benches to overlook our driveway and watch our front door without raising suspicion or alarming the guards.

Today being a working day, not many residents are up and about in the park. Except for a group of elderly ladies busy with their "Tai Chi" exercises no one is yet seated on the colourful benches along the cobble path. In the distance are some early morning joggers heading home.

As soon as my sister and I stepped out of the front door to go to school, we noticed dad who appeared more cautious than usual, anxiously glancing back and forth towards the park looking out for strangers who might be watching our house from the benches. He carefully guided us to the car telling us to avoid yellow colored rice grains strewn over the driveway. In a quiet but firm voice he said, "Quickly get in the car and fasten your seat belts".

Turning to my mum following closely behind us, he said, "Lock the grill, walk around the chicken heads and the saffron rice and get in the front seat. I'll be with you shortly!"

He picked up the garden hose, sprayed the driveway, got in the car and reversed out to the main road. We watched the auto-gate locked shut and headed to school. We had hardly moved out ten meters when I out of curiosity raised a question that my sister and I had been debating, since we got into the car. "Dad, what is going on?"

He replied, "I am as curious as you are, Khal. I do not know why anyone would want to throw yellow saffron rice and four chicken heads onto our driveway".

My parents called me Khal, short for Khalil, after Khalil Gibran, the poet that they both love and admire.

"What does it mean?" I asked my dad while frowning at my sister who had her eyes closed and ears covered with her hands as she rattled off her words in the direction of my mom.

"I don't want to know. I think something bad is going to happen. Mummy, We must go away quickly from here! "

My mother turned around and said to her, "Yes, Adele, we are going away tomorrow for your term break. This evening after school, we'll check in a hotel near the airport, darling? I am as scared as you are!"

"Dad, what does this mean?" I had to repeat, more earnest this time, hoping for a satisfactory answer.

"Khal, it is quite puzzling. I too would like to know for sure why this is happening to us! But my gut feeling is, it is not very serious. It is some form of black magic to scare us. You and your sister go to school, stay calm. Mummy and I will pick you up after school and check into a hotel tonight".

"Can I tell my friends?"

"I suppose it's alright"

The school is about a kilometre from our house. After a hurried goodbye to our parents, my sister and I joined our classmates. I could not wait to tell everyone what had just happened this morning.

I am a Junior at a small American international High School and my sister is two years my junior in Middle School. My classmates are from all over the world, as faraway as Scandinavia, UK, US and the West Indies. At break time, I recounted this morning's unpleasant experience.

"When I stepped out of my house this morning, there were four freshly cut chicken heads strung together by a yellow plastic string at our front door. Their eyes were wide open. Blood around their throats were dried up. Scattered around the driveway were yellow saffron rice and sliced green limes. It was gross! But quite scary for me. . .!"

I hardly finished my last sentence when someone said, "It sounds like voodoo to me!"

"What is voodoo?" I asked.

That guy is a Junior in another class. He is from the West Indies., "Where I come from, when you want to hurt someone or seek revenge they send bones but not chicken heads. Or more often voodoo dolls!"

The only other Malay in my class who has been very quiet listening to my story now suddenly opened up, "You must have offended someone, Khal! That guy now wants to get even. Or may be to stop you from harming him!"

This sends shock waves to my senses. Before I could ask him to explain, the bell called us back to class. Break was over. But my mind was racing trying to remember whom I might have offended recently.

At fifteen, I do not think I could have offended someone so gravely to deserve this treatment. I have been quite open and honest with people. I have" been nice to my friends. I have often shared my lunch with them. When my dad brings pizza I would cut out small pieces for everyone around me. I loaned my skateboard, give away old shoes. I even help kids from the poor neighbourhood who skate with me at the park.

For the rest of the morning, I hardly paid attention in class. My mind was elsewhere.

The thought of having helped a kid from the poor neighborhood reminded me of a pair of old skateboard shoes I sold to a fellow skateboarder whom I hardly knew at the skate park a few weeks ago. He has long stringy hair, wears tattered shorts and oversized t-shirt. What is his name? He paid fifty percent and promised to pay the balance later. He told me he comes from a poor family. He does not have a dad. He helps his mother at the food stall selling "nasi lemak". He does odd jobs to buy things for himself.

Could he be the one to send these chicken heads? No, he couldn't. But then again I cannot be too sure. I have not seen him lately at the park. Did I say anything to him about his delay in paying the balance? Did I insult him? I am not sure!

I was still deep in thoughts at the end of the school day. Dad picked us up and checked us into the airport hotel. I remained quiet all day until dinner time.

"Dad, do you think that kid who owes me money for buying my shoes could have done this?"

"I don't think your friend is that mean. Anyway no worries, we'll leave this for your uncle to solve while we go off to Sydney. Go get some sleep. Tomorrow we'll have to get up by five to be at the airport by seven. Goodnight". He tucked us in. While waiting to doze off, I heard dad talking on the phone with his brother about the chicken heads.

I was awakened at midnight by a bizarre nightmare.

There were four big chickens with no heads running around our driveway looking for me. They were upset because they could not eat the yellow rice or drink the green lime juice served in large bowls. I am not sure why I said they looked upset because they were headless. I felt they were upset. That's it. They were sending out messages to me. Their spirits seemed to tell me that they were angry. I sneaked into my parents room and slept on the floor. No use waking them up. I'll explain in the morning.

We took the shuttle to the terminal. At five in the morning the four of us were like zombies. Once checked in and with some breakfast everyone started to brighten up. However, no one mentioned the chicken heads or why I was found sleeping on the floor in my parents' bedroom.

On board, bound for Sydney, I used my I Pad to Google "black magic" sites. The journey of seven hours on the Airbus 380 was very enlightening. I learned a great deal about black magic from all over the world. Folk magic in Malaysia, Africa, India, West Indies or among the aborigines of Australia are similar. They use bones, strands of hair, old clothing, dolls, mirrors, incense to coax or punish victims.

In my short review I came across a book on "Malay Magic: An Introduction to the Folklore and Popular Religion of the Malay Peninsular" written by Walter William Skeat in 1900. It seems to be a very comprehensive book that I hope to look into some day. On the plane it was difficult to read something that deep and serious.

At another site I became acquainted with the blog of Edamaruku, President of Indian Rationalist Association. I like what he said about magic. "If you get to know that some tantrik, paid by your arch enemy to kill you, has managed to lay his hands on your handkerchief or a strand of your hair, don’t panic. just laugh. For whatever mantras he may chant over a midnight fire in the local burial ground and cruelties he may commit to your handkerchief, it cannot harm you as long as you are not afraid. If you are afraid, yes, you could die - out of fear that is".

That was all I needed. I was no longer afraid. I want to laugh off this chicken head incident and have a great vacation in beautiful Sydney.

We enjoyed ourselves in Sydney. We went on the "hop on hop off" bus to see the city. We took a tour of Sydney Harbour. My mum and dad insisted that we visit the Sydney Opera House and get some culture. During the day we hung about at shopping malls and ate at restaurants serving delicious dishes at night. Someone suggested that we ought to try a Malaysian restaurant close to our hotel but my mother told us it would be better to try food from other countries because "We can always get that at home!"

Dad decided that in case my sister and I would like to pursue our studies at Australian colleges, it would be a good time to take a drive and visit a few. We took a leisurely tour of University of Sydney, Macquarie, University of Technology Sydney and University of New South Wales.

Mum told us that one of her friends sent her son to University of Technology Sydney to study hotel management four years ago. He must have graduated by then. Dad knows an old friend from Penang now teaching at Macquarie. We were invited for tea at the campus. He is a professor in Organisational Behaviour and encouraged me to attend Macquarie when I finished high school.

On the last day of the vacation, mum and dad thought we ought to buy some souvenirs for our friends and grandparents. Adele has a long list of friends. My dad remarked that she ought to shorten the list limiting only to her really close friends. "Otherwise, we'll have to pay additional baggage charges at the airport". She cuts down her list to ten favorites and buys trinkets with koala bears and Sydney all over them. How very touristy of my sister. I am sure they'll like her for thinking of them.

As for me, I think my grandpa would like chocolates and grandma may appreciate some beautiful Australian hand crafted scarves. Of course the cherries in season would be perfect for her taste buds too.

At the Sydney departure hall I experienced that sinking feeling I often get at the end of a vacation. Except this time it was more extreme. I would have to go back to face the aftermath of the chicken heads. For the last one week I had put that at the back of my mind.

In spite of the advice from the President of the Indian Rationalist Association, my fear is quite real. I do not fear harm by charm but I am more concerned of what I could have done to someone for him to unleash such wrath. I wonder if it is actually directed at me.

We arrived home safely. The driveway is clean. There was no trace of chicken heads, blood or saffron rice. My dad said that my uncle had arranged for a thorough cleansing of the place when we were in Sydney.

At lunch on the following day my uncle arrived with another Malay soothsayer, or "dukun". He referred to him as our "ghost buster". He wore a long flowing white Thobe complete with a polished rattan walking stick. His face glowed. His hair, completely white matching his long goatee. He's well mannered and soft spoken, reminding me of Gandalf in "Lords of the Ring". If my uncle were to tell me the man is a Sufi and walks on water I would have believed him.

After lunch we sat facing this expert. He slowly told us what happened last week was not very serious. Someone who does not want us to harm him has paid one bomoh to cast a spell on our family. Then he turned to me and said, "I hope, my son you can forget this incident and stay away from this person whom you met at the skate park" .

I looked at my dad. He shook his head, telling me he has not said to anyone about the boy I befriended at the skate park. How does this stranger know? I looked at my mum, she too shook her head.

He continues, "I would like you to forgive him. He likes you but he cannot repay your kindness. So, he goes to this bomoh in the squatter area not far from here to prepare this concoction. Now, did you, my son get angry with him about some money?"

Now, I think this guy must be either an authentic seer or a pretender who employs an informer at the skate park. How does he know that this kid at the skateboard park has not paid me the balance? How does he know I was angry? But then again I did raise my voice when this guy last called saying he could not pay. That was the last time I talked to him.

My uncle now turned to me. Reading my thoughts, he quickly cleared my doubts by saying, "This learned and wise man, Khal, is not from here. He comes from a state in the East Coast. I managed to convince him to come out here to help us. He has not been in KL at all. It took a lot of convincing to ask him to even consider leaving his kampung for one day! Let's hear him out. OK Khal?"

My mind was working extra hard. He has not been here before. How does he know there is an Indonesian bomoh in a squatter area not far from here?

What he said next freaked me out. "This boy you met at the skate park ! Does he have long stringy hair? Did he wear tattered shorts and oversized t-shirt?"

My dad nodded urging me to respond. My mum and sister looked on intently at me. They have never met this boy.

Looking down at my toes, I mumbled "Yes!".

I thought that would be all. He continued. "Did he tell you he comes from a poor family?"

"Yes", I replied.

"That he does not have a dad?"

"Yes" to that too. What was this leading to, I thought raising my eyebrows. My dad looked at me patiently watching my every move.

"Did he tell you he helps his mother at the food stall selling "nasi lemak".

"Yes, sir"

"Did he also tell you that he does odd jobs to buy things for himself?"

"How true!" I replied. It is like playing back a recorder.

Turning to my parents he said, "That's just to confirm with Khal here the person who has done this. His name is Hafiz!"

My uncle turned to me and raised his eyebrows "Well?"

"Yes, Uncle. I think that is his name". How does he know so much? And why would Hafiz do this to us?"

"He is upset. When he said he might not pay you that day, he heard you say a bad word. It may have not been to him directly. But more importantly he is not a good person". He paused and watched for our reaction.

I remember cursing a little loud using the four letter word I picked up from the American kids who casually use it as a form of expressing frustration.

" He wants to get your used shoes without having to pay more than what has already given you. But he does not mind paying the Indonesian bomoh to cast this spell on you". The seer calmly concluded.

"I would have given to him for free but he wanted to get it at half the price dad paid for it". I replied with my parents smiling approvingly for my generosity.

My dad walked over to my chair, patted my back and said, "It's alright Khal. Live and learn!"

Looking directly at the learned man and my uncle, my dad posed a question that has been on our minds since the day the unfortunate fowls landed at our doorstep. "So, what with the chicken heads and the rice then?"

"No harm done. Four chicken heads held together by a yellow string is a symbolic way to tie down the four of you so you won't do anything to him".

"We won't anyway, right?" my dad replied nodding his head in our direction.

The learned man went on "Yellow rice is to ward off evil that might be redirected against them in return. The lime always accompany the rice as a symbolic cleansing element."

By this time we were all exhausted. My mum and sister excused themselves and disappeared upstairs after thanking the two visitors. My dad and I walked them to the gate along the driveway that not long ago was sprinkled with yellow rice, green lime and decorated with chicken heads. We thanked them for their help.

Back in my room, I pondered on my ignorance. That I, born a Malay is naively ignorant about this culture. I am not like the other Malay kid in my class who was spot on when he said someone wanted us to stop harming another. The learned man now puts a face to that person in the form of Hafiz, a fellow skateboarder. I envy that Malay classmate of mine who is in tune with Malay values and culture.

I have no sympathy for Hafiz who having knowledge of the subtle art uses it to achieve an unenviable end.

I cannot believe that in the twenty-first century our Malay values are still deeply rooted in superstition and animistic practice. I may yet read the book on Malay Magic just to get to the bottom of the values of my forefathers.

I take solace in the words of the President of the Indian Rationalist Association that if I allow myself to be plagued by such idiosyncratic practice I may yet die out of my own fear rather than by the invocations of these wayward charlatans.

My best bet is to be wary of these unsavoury elements. More importantly, from now on I shall be careful befriending strangers whom I encounter at a skateboard park or anywhere!