Anger is essential if one is to survive this world. It’s not just a degenerate emotion that destroys everything in its path. If it were so completely destructive, why would people of every religion in the world imbue God with it? “Don’t do that! Allah will get angry,” my aunts used to say. People use it with children all the time. Be good and avoid the wrath of those with the capacity to strike you down in an instant. Your entire life may be governed by this simple principle — Be good to avoid angering those who have more power than you.

There is no denying it, our past stinks and seeps into our present. Occasionally I get such a potent whiff of history that my mind spins and my stomach lurches.

So I watch her work and put all her energy, all her force, all herself, all is inside her work. Does she think that this is what life means? She goes to work in the dark and comes home when it’s dark. Does she know what the world looks like when the sun is shining?

Your mother wasn’t upset. “Scars stay with you so you don’t forget,” she said. She seemed almost satisfied.

Sometimes, when you are busy and children ask funny questions, you don’t think so much. You just answer quickly so they will leave you alone. If you don’t answer, they will just keep asking or they will go and do something very bad.

I struggle to discover what these silent sons of mine want, but words have always failed me. They are sullen even as they tell me they are okay. I know they are lying but there is nothing I can do.

The first sound a child hears is very important. It determines character. A Muslim child always hears the Azan first. Words in praise of God. Words to live by.

Can you lose your inborn talents? Can the gifts you come into this world with be taken away without your even noticing? Maybe it’s my fault for wanting always to stem the fires within me? Perhaps there are some fires that should be allowed to rage on?

It was a tried and tested remedy. Go home, take two Panadols and fall into a deep dreamless slumber. The next morning awake in a hazy stupor, go through the daily routine and as soon as all obligations are met and affected parties satisfied, repeat procedure with Panadol. Continue routine for several days, months if necessary… it all depended on the magnitude of the cut.

Difficulties were fires. If you kept them in check, you could learn from them. You simply had to know how to fan them the right way.

My body shakes with a million different fires. Feet that look like yours warp and the corns split so you see craters of infinite variety, some pus-filled Lake Toba. The weakness in my limbs, the thick weight on my head and chest and the slow burning inside me that never reaches the skin, bring me closer to you. My afflictions bring me closer to you.

Scar tissue — it’s a new layer of tender skin, lightly covering the wound. Still a vulnerable spot, the slightest little knock might tear the skin so it bleeds and the remembered ache from the old wound intensifies the pain from the latest blow.

You know all those bad girls who take off their selendang and put round their neck like fashion-show? One day, when the wind is very strong, the selendang will catch the wind. Then it will swing up and down and then round and round so fast, very fast, until it traps the spirit of the wind. Then it will grow long and thick and wrap itself round and round and round this girl’s neck. And then, when the girl cannot breathe, it will swallow her whole. Be careful, girl, be careful how you wear this.

Anger ignites fires or do fires ignite anger? Did the dispossessed, their rage burning within them for years, finally strike a match to enlighten an oblivious region of their dissatisfaction? Or were the fires the primary cause of the dissatisfaction, inciting through its searing heat, the fury which is colouring the country a bright crimson, as its people imitating the violence of the flames spill the blood of thousands?

Somewhere beneath the surface of this body, a fire, maybe even several fires, are burning. The flames within me are licking away the moisture, feeding on my blood so that my body resembles a land struck by drought. I no longer possess that fine solid sheet which used to conceal my veins and other inner parts as efficiently as anyone else’s skin.

Pride. The worst kind of fire. It starts somewhere below the gut, creeps through the liver, climbs quietly up the heart, and moves into the lungs. You never notice it until it’s too late. It’s uncontrollable by the time it gets to the head. There it rages, blowing hot air through the ears. It’s a spiteful hissing above the echoing vacuum between the ears. All thoughts get evicted or burnt. When the fire ceases, only black ashes remain. Imagine. Ashes in your head.

I think there’s something wrong with my lungs. Maybe I have an allergy or hay fever. I think it might even be a fracture they forgot to fix. I worry about it a lot. I can picture the broken rib impaling my lungs, my heart.

They want me to contain the raging fires within me. They need me to appreciate glowing embers, to understand that even weak flames need to be managed with a lot of careful planning.

But what is the point of buying vegetables in plastic bags? Everything from the supermarket smells of plastic. Everything from the market smells like it’s supposed to.