Angel in a Turban

In the shade of some dripping palm fronds, I was sitting at the edge of a bench, waiting for my brother to pick me up.  Many tall buildings of glass and steel adorned the area in the vicinity of KLCC, the busiest hub in the city. 

My eyes, fretful with impatience, were searching for the rust-biege colour of my brother's car amidst the traffic that drifted up and down the road.  A spell seemed to have been cast upon everything, pulling them along the road in opposing directions.  As time passed by the frenzy took on a more feverish note.  Weren’t we all moving along life to earn our keep?  A break would interrupt the flow of regularity, and the gap would have to be mended before reestablishing the continuity of your journey, or so I thought. 

From somewhere just beyond the depths of my own thinking, a strong singing voice pulled me back to reality. I directed my eyes to where the singing came from, amid the free-flowing crowds, to the owner of the voice, a tall, thick-set Sikh coming down the path­way with his head held high, the hem of his untucked, chequered long sleeved-shirt flowing and flapping gently in the wind around his dark slacks, revealing a golden buckle of a black leather belt that glinted off the sunlight.   

I could not make out the song that the Sikh man was singing, but the spiraling rhythm of the words suggested, perhaps, a folksong in his native tongue.  Indeed, it was so lively and catchy that I almost found myself humming along.  Unrestrained by his height and build, the man's pace was light and jaunty, keeping in tune with the song, exuding a kind of vibes that seemed to have softened the hectic flow of traffic and pedestrians around him. 

While returning my gaze to my cell phone, the singing suddenly stopped and a boom­ing “Good afternoon, brother” split the air.  Before I knew what was happening, the large body of the Sikh sat down beside me, making me gasp, my eyes widening.  He faced my protesting eyes with a penetrating pair of deep-set eyes. His nose, whose ridge slightly crooked, appeared  like a hook on his squarish, sun-browned bearded face.  He let out a guffaw, followed by a wave of his hand, and said, “Don't worry, brother.  You're very lucky today!”

“What do you mean?” I asked, struggling to keep myself composed.  What right did he have to intrude into my privacy?

“The star of good fortune is shining upon you,” the man said, tapping my shoulder with his large, hairy hand.  “All the good things are in store for you this year.”

“Why are you saying that?” I asked, though I could not help feeling amused.  Recently, I had been struck by a stroke of bad luck; twice in two months, my cell phone had fallen and the repairs had cost me a fortune. 

“If you don't believe me, let me tell you how many members there are in your family.”

“Be my guest,” I said, still thinking about what he just said.  I was starting to wonder though, was he a con man? 

“Now, what can you see on this paper?” he asked me, taking out a small piece of paper from his breast pocket and showing me. 

“Nothing,” I replied, while several questions came fleeting through my mind, in­clud­ing what was this guy up to?  I was deeply suspicious of strangers, especially when I was far from home, having recently traveled from Miri to Kuala Lumpur. 

He crumpled the paper into a ball and thrust it into my hand.   

“Don't open it until I finish with my guess.”

I clenched the paper in my hand, its edges poking into my palm, feeling self-conscious as some passers-by looked at me.

“Now, showtime!” he said with a twinkle in his eyes.  “There are five members in your family.”

“How did you know that?!” I burst out, surprised, impressed, too. 

“Maybe I wasn't accurate enough,” said the man, flashing a quizzical smile.  He then added, “To date, there are seven of you, including your sister-in-law and a girl, your only niece.” 

He paused, as if giving me time to digest what he had said.  The steady noise of traffic seemed to have become stilled.  All I could hear was my own breathing, deep and rapid. 

“Am I right, brother?”

I made a gulping sound as I nodded with disbelief. 

“You may now open the paper,” said the man. 

I opened it, and my breathing seemed to stop altogether.  The number 7 was scribbled on the paper.  

“When—when did you scribble the number on the paper?” I asked, the hairs having risen at the back of my neck and along my arms.  I had goosebumps. 

The man chuckled and added, “To wrap up my presentation, some of your names start with A, R, S and J.  One more thing, all your dates of birth are either on 21, 22 or 23.”

I was totally blown away, unable to utter a word. 

“May I have the paper back?”

My hand shook as I returned him the paper.  He smoothed it out with the flat of his palm, folded it, and restored the paper inside his breast pocket.

Giving me a wink, the man stood up and slapped his hands against his trousers, as if telling me that our conversation was coming to an end.  He fished out his wallet and asked for a donation.  Not bringing much cash with me, I gave him a few ringgits in appreciation, duly impressed. 

He said it was just enough for him to sit down for a drink.  Then, in a tone of finality, he gave me some advice, “Brother, to achieve more success, you have to get rid of some bad habits and stop all the unnecessary, convoluted thinking.  Be kind to yourself.   Love your family and spend more time with your parents.  Be patient with them.”

I smiled and wished him a good day.  Suddenly, he was gone!  Like dollops of colours washed off a palette.  Gone before my eyes!

A gentle breath of wind blew into my face, bringing with it a sweet, refreshing scent, one that I was unfamiliar with.

Some dried leaves fell by the roadside.  An extended Chinese family walked past:  a middle-aged woman holding a baby in her arms, a young girl licking on an ice-cream cone, an old woman walking on a stick, a young boy with his hands buried in the pockets of his dark hoodie, and a middle-aged man pushing an elderly man in a wheelchair.  There were seven of them, talking with one another in Cantonese.  The leaves crunched underneath them as they passed by.  One by one, while turning a bend, the family had left my sight.

Struck by the coincidence, I continued to watch them, as questions rose inside my head:  Who was this Sikh man?  How could he have vanished without leaving a trace?  My mind was still in a whirl as I watched the unceasing flow of traffic going left and right in front of me. 

Could this man be an angel? An angel in a turban?   Nevertheless he left quite an im­pression on me.  He even made my day with his trick and the good news!  Maybe some good luck will come my way as promised!  Either way, he gave me a good story to share with my brother and with my family, too—all seven of us.

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