A Random Story...

Dear Reader,





Would you like to hear a random story? For I am in a random-story-telling mood. Well, here goes...



Have you ever been approached by an individual with short-cropped hair, wearing a white shirt, plain tie and immaculately pressed trousers, often accompanied by at least one other, almost identically attired individual? Well, I have. Kind of.



Let me start from the beginning.





It was a perfectly normal day; the only remarkable occurrence being that almost the entire family [including me] was outside in the yard, enjoying the sunshine. My younger brother, Nethaniel, shirtless and perspiring heavily, was rambunctiously playing with the dogs. I was sitting on a rattan chair, situated directly in front of the side door, just in case the whole furry, panting group descended upon me and I needed to beat a hasty retreat.




My cousin, Linda--or Lini, as we all tend to call her--was pottering about the garden, doing something to the chilli plants, I believe. Or maybe she was starting a fire for us to roast marsh-mellows over, later in the evening. I don't quite remember that detail, but it isn't really relevant to this story. Moving on.



Our Indonesian maid, Julia, was near the front of our yard, collecting wood or sweeping leaves off the driveway, or some such thing. An industrious, bustling being, is Julia. She always seems to be busily employed doing something, but, to this day, I haven't managed to figure out just what that something is. Anyway, as I was saying, Julia was in the front part of the yard, and therefore she was the closest one to the Big Gate.




I espied the two aforementioned gentlemen from my rattan chair, which was quite a long way off from the Big Gate, actually. They were both carrying backpacks--though, to my everlasting regret, I didn't notice whether they were carrying them on the same shoulder or not--and were both about the same height and build, and they were both white...Caucasian, I believe, is the politically correct term.



My house is situated on a hill. Yes, very picturesque and interesting, my sentimental reader. But not if you're on foot, climbing your way to the top in the afternoon heat, hatless and in a long-sleeved dress shirt. There was a light breeze that day, though, if I recall correctly. So, it probably wasn't that bad for them. Oh, yes, I seem to remember their matching ties fluttering slightly in synchronization; or perhaps it's just my lively imagination at work.



However it was, I was fortunate enough to detect their impending arrival as they were still on the crown of the hill, ascending slowly, each holding what looked like a book in their hands. They were obviously from some religious group, bent on spreading their doctrine to all corners of the globe, on a mission to enlighten every unlucky native and heathen that they came across--or pursued, rather.



Without further hesitation, I jumped from my chair and proceeded to hide behind our car. The car, a Pajero, succeeded in shielding me from their otherwise penetrating gaze. I could still peek out from behind the fender without being seen, though. So I happily stayed where I was, leaving everything to Julia's capable hands.



The two strangers accosted Julia, and called her to come up to the Big Gate, which, incidentally, is kept closed at all times, for obvious reasons. Six reasons, actually. All of which came racing down the driveway at full speed, yapping and barking for all they were worth.



My cousin and brother, only now noticing the two closely-shaved gentlemen in earnest conversation with Julia, joined me behind the Pajero, giggling and 'shushing' each other like a couple of 8-year-old schoolgirls.



My younger sister, Daniella, was inside the house, and had come out to see what all the barking was about. We each gesticulated violently at her to keep quiet and to come join us in hiding. When she failed to comprehend our chaotic miming, I dragged her bodily towards the car and whisperingly updated her on our present condition.



Although we could see what was happening clearly enough, we were too far away to hear what was being said. Then, Julia suddenly turned around and called out each of our names in turn, her shrill voice almost drowned out by the incessant barking.



"Kak Lini!" A slight pause as she waited for a reply.

"Kak Bethany!" Again, no response.

"Daniella!" Yeah.

"Boy!" As a last resort.



That remote method of communication proving ineffective, she made her way up the driveway to seek us out, probably a bit puzzled by our sudden disappearance. As she came up to the side door, she saw the four of us crouching behind the Pajero. Using various gestures and hand signals, with liberal lifting of eyebrows and mouthing out of indistinguishable words, we managed to make her understand that we didn't want to meet these two strangers, and that we wanted her to make them go away. Julia dutifully walked back to the Big Gate to get rid of the two gentlemen, in the politest manner possible, of course.



After a short and, for the audience hiding behind the Pajero, muted conversation, the two gentlemen departed as suddenly as they appeared, apparently meaning to harass--I mean, enlighten our neighbours as soon as possible.



Later we asked Julia how she managed to dispatch them so expediently. She said she had informed them that they could not preach their doctrine here, as it was a Malay household. We all looked at her in disbelief. We thought perhaps she was making a joke. Surely they didn't fall such an obvious lie. Why, the entire time they were at the gate, there were six dogs barking at them. A Malay household indeed! At first we were incredulous. Then, when Julia assured us she wasn't making a joke, the funny side of the whole thing kicked in. I haven't laughed so hard in a long time.



Alright, if you aren't a Malaysian, you're probably a bit in the dark here. You see, my international reader, Malays are prohibited by their religion to come into contact with dogs. That means they can't even touch dogs, let alone keep one for a pet. Let alone six.



And so, there it is. My [mostly] true story. With a few literary embellishments here and there. Poetic licence, and all that.

I sincerely hope my little anecdote manages to cheer you up, dear reader. It certainly cheered me up, just by remembering it.

Well, it's that time again, my dear reader. Until next time; parting is such sweet sorrow...or whatever.







Yours,



Figgy the Storyteller