Shroud: Jinn

3 - Mangled

I was never more relieved to be inside a masjid, but it was not to partake in the solat jama'ah (congregational prayer) for Fajr prayer. I needed somewhere safe to escape from the 'thing' that was chasing me close behind as I sped away in my Volkswagen Beetle earlier.

As the imam recited the Ayat Al-Kursi (The Throne Verse), my heart lulled itself into a steady heartbeat. It was hard to comprehend but I had always felt at peace whenever I overheard someone reciting verses from the Quran. I was illiterate when it comes to anything Arabic as my paternal grandmother took me to the ice kachang ball vendor for a treat of ice-ball instead of bringing me to Quran recital classes.

I licked my lips at the memory of shaved ice moulded into the shape of a ball, drizzled with evaporated milk and various sweet syrups in different colours. The ice-ball vendor that we frequented during my childhood added squishy jellies and flavourful red beans in the centre of the ball as a wonderful surprise.

The image of the sweet ice kachang ball in my head was quickly replaced by my parents' graves. Sudden sadness hugged me close, enveloping me in its cold warmth. It was after two years of skipping Quran recital classes that my parents died tragically; I was only nine. That was also the time when my paternal grandmother stopped bringing me to the ice-ball vendor. She and I are no longer on speaking terms too, ever since I broke the news to her that I wanted to marry Melati nine years ago.

Just as the back row of the congregation made their exit, I slipped out together with them and searched for my shoes at the entrance. I mentally cursed myself when I realised that I had absentmindedly kept my shoes on in the masjid the entire time. That was a big no-no.

"MashaAllah. Alhamdulillah (Indeed, God has willed it. Praises to God)," a deep, warm voice boomed behind me. The sound of a chuckle followed and I turned around. It was Ustaz Raqib. A dashing young man with a neat looking scruff, who was two years my junior greeted me with the usual salam afterwards, shook my hand and I replied in turn. "I'm pleased to see you here. I haven't seen you for a long time. Finally, my prayers have been answered. Have you got time for teh tarik (pulled milk tea)?" He laughed and his entire core vibrated as I looked at him with a torn expression. I felt like a complete fraud standing in front of the masjid and grabbing hot milk tea with a religious man like we were the best of friends. "Of course there's always time for teh tarik (pulled milk tea). Come on!" he laughed yet again and ushered me to the stretch of street hawkers peddling their food and drinks near the masjid.

* * * ◊ ˚ ◊ ˚ ◊ ˚ ◊ ˚ ◊ * * *

My teh tarik (pulled milk tea) had gone cold and it was because I was so disturbed with what I had learnt that I was trying not to feel too sick. Murmurs of other people's conversations drowned out Ustaz Raqib's voice; it was hard not to eavesdrop. I had been so caught up with my own strange occurrence on that fateful night, three weeks ago, that I had completely tuned out whatever was happening in the village ever since.

"That's the 6th infant death today!"

"What? Another one?"

"What sort of mother would mutilate her newborn baby?"

"It was barely a week old!"

"Poor Hasnah's baby."

"Huh? I wasn't talking about Hasnah's baby. I was referring to Li Ping's newborn daughter!"

"What? Hers too?"

"The midwife went to wash her hands but she rushed back to the bedroom when she heard Li Ping screaming. She only found half of the newborn's body. The body looked like it was ripped in half and chewed. "