Kites

Returning from work yesterday, Joanne, a friend from the Process Control Department, sat next to me on the B bus.

"Hi, Faizal. May I sit here?"

"Hi, yeah, sure. How are things?"

Joanne is seven months pregnant. From behind, she looks like a minivan. Joanne and I used to serve in the same section when we first arrived in Bintulu. She took care of the power generators and the electrical distribution network, while I handled the desalination unit and the boiler water systems.

Since moving on and joining the Process Control Department five months ago, Joanne has been busier taking care of herself than anything else. This is her first child, and she is handling it all on her own. Her much-older husband is in Kuching, his startup IT business is based there. Every other week, he would come down to Bintulu to visit her in her small rented room.

"When are you going for your maternity leave?"

"December the tenth", she replied. "I want to langgar Chinese New Year. My family is very excited, especially Ma and Pa."

"Are you also taking unpaid leave?"

"No, I am not. Maternity should be just enough."

She quickly got up and sat back again, adjusting her seat. The bus crawled to a stop, manuevered a bump, and picked up speed again. Up ahead, neighborhood kids were playing.

"Have you thought of a name?"

"Not yet. But my hubby and I have talked about it."

I nodded politely, a modest "u-huh", and casually looked away into the reflection on the mirror. I have never understood why girl newly-weds always refer to their dear husband as hubby.

The bus stopped at the junction of Taman Asian and "Pulau" --a small congregation of houses isolated on all sides by storm drains-- and unloaded half or more of the passengers. As they shuffled down to the door, Joanne, who knows each and every one of them by their first name, smiled and greeted goodbye.

The bus door closed slowly with a mechanical whimper.

"What's going to happen afterwards, Joanne?"

"Afterwards? What do you mean?"

"Well, are you going to bring your little baby here to Bintulu?"

Immediately, she looked away and became disconcerted and quiet. The healthy pink glow on her cheeks had all subsided.

"Well, my hubby thinks...", she was hesitant to continue on.

I looked away so as not to put her in a difficult position. I did not want her to feel compelled to provide me with an answer.

The bus turned into the housing area's playground where all the neighborhood kids come to play soccer, kites and basketball every evening after school. A cool spot to hang out, kids of all ages fill the playground even if there were no games that day.

That evening, the playground was packed with boys flying their simple homemade kites and the girls sitting around on the borders of the soccer field, looking up into the brightly colored sky, smitten and impressed by the boys' display of ingenuity. The landscape was bedazzling, full of light, loud with laughter and vivid with colors.

It felt like a carnival of some sort, lively and truly uplifting.

"I hate the thought of not being able to take care of my baby."

She spoke in a dire whisper, almost only audible to herself. The baby will be taken care of by her mother in-law, she explained, until she could get transferred out, or the husband's business has reached a comfortable point whereby she could resign from her position. In the meantime, every other week, she will try to visit them, husband and baby. She understood that that would mean a lot of sacrifices, but she said she has no other choices.

The bus stayed its course, due farther south. Joanne and I watched on as the kites floated by. They staggered up and down, struggling to keep afloat the strong evening breeze.

This is a tribute to all my friends who are working mothers, written in the middle of 2007.