makes an odd rasping sound. It takes a while for me to realise it is deliberate. I scan his bio-data almost automatically, reading his 84 years in 6 lines and 1 alphabet. He speaks Malay.
I go to him. The odd rasping sounds are words.
What do you need, Uncle? I ask, in spite of the language. I think I catch the word tandas, which means toilet, I think. A thick canvas chord runs industriously around his waist and behind the mattress. I’ve seen those chords before – bundled by every bed. I know that on some nights, when family isn't around to, they hug my grandfather to sleep. But I have never seen them in use. Until now. I do not understand him. I put my hand on his loose shoulder, trying to pretend that his thoughts would seep through his stained pajamas and diffuse into my arm.
He tries to sit up, but the green vines catch his vertebras and root them. I tell him I will get the nurse. I try to speak with my eyes, but I don’t really know how to.
The nurse hurries in; a young Chinese girl who immediately picks up the sharp, loud voice of every nurse, doctor and officer that enters the geriatric ward. The old man is getting frustrated. She croons and cajoles and probes. In Hokkien. I cringe and tell her he speaks Malay. Her plastic face falls to her feet and scuttles away to bring back a Malay colleague.
Apa? The second nurse calls into the hollow of bed 56. The other patients begin to stir and frown. Uncle 56 relaxes gratefully into familiar words. He begins to explain. The nurses are tightening the knots.
He’s demented lah, the second nurse flicks a laugh carelessly. The two nurses giggle, link arms and leave.
The rasping begins all over again. I cover my ears and sit tightly by my grandfather at the other end of the ward.
The rasping is no more. Now I am sure I heard the word tandas.
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