Laid to Rest
By Dorit d’Scarlett
The first time Farah hears the drum, she is kneeling in the garden with her hands buried in the soil, her mind far away. The monsoon air hoards the scent of crushed coriander and wilting pandan leaves, yet even that heady fragrance cannot ease the knot in her chest. Her fingers brush the soft stems of serai as the sound rolls through the heavy dusk—low, deliberate, like a slow heartbeat in the distance.
She stills.
‘The market’s open,’ Arif calls from the verandah. ‘Pak Abu has that nasi lemak you like.’
Farah brushes the dirt off her palms and rises. Everything she grows feels ornamental lately, a placeholder for something she cannot quite name. The garden wilts under the pressing heat—rows of chili plants bowing, kaffir lime leaves curling at the edges, the scent of turmeric and galangal thick in the damp air. Yet between each perfect leaf, each sprig—emptiness.
She tucks a sprig of mint behind her ear, more out of habit than pleasure.
***
The market is alive with noise and colour, an ever-changing mosaic of scents. Vendors call out their wares, voices rising above the clatter of woks and the hiss of hot oil. The rich scent of beef rendang clings to the air, thick with coconut and slow-cooked spices. A hawker ladles hot broth over bowls of laksa, the fragrance sharp with tamarind and fresh daun kesum. Farah inhales, the spices pressing into her ribs like memory.
She pauses by a stall where a woman in a batik apron flips thick squares of roti on a greased griddle. The dough crisps and blisters, releasing a buttery scent that reminds her of mornings long gone.
Arif catches up, grinning. ‘Do we really need more food?’ He eyes the overflowing baskets—mangosteens, petai, belacan wrapped in newspaper.
‘No,’ she admits. ‘But we’re going to get some anyway.’
A spice seller motions her over, her fingers adorned with turmeric stains. She lifts a jar filled with deep-red strands, their colour like dried blood.
‘Buah keras,’ the woman says. ‘Good for thickening. And this—’ she nudges a smaller jar forward ‘—bunga telang. For colour, for binding.’
Farah hesitates. The words cling to her skin, sticky as monsoon air.
‘Some things remember you longer than you expect.’
***
That night, the storm arrives.
Wind rattles the shutters, the sea thrashing in the dark. Farah stands by the stove, stirring a pot, the warmth of coconut milk and star anise filling the kitchen, thick as a lullaby whispered to the night. The scent of sautéed onions unfurls, softened to gold. She adds bruised lemongrass stalks, their citrus tang sharp against the richness of the dish. Turmeric stains the wooden spoon, bleeding yellow into the bubbling broth.
The rice swells, absorbing the coconut cream, each grain taking its time to bloom.
Arif leans in. ‘What is it?’
‘Nasi minyak. Grandmother’s recipe.’
Her grandmother’s voice returns, layered with old instructions and murmured superstitions. ‘The rice should be thirsty before you quench it,’ she had said, running her fingers through the grains. ‘And never stir after the first pour. Let it take what it needs.’
‘I can never make it as good as she did,’ Farah murmurs.
‘That’s not true.’ Arif closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. ‘It smells like home.’
Farah stirs the pot slowly, the ladle clicking softly against the enamel. ‘I’m not sure home has a place in me anymore.’
***
At midnight, the storm eases. Rain has soaked the market square, leaving the pavement slick, reflecting the glow of streetlamps like pools of molten gold. Yet the scent of toasted coconut lingers, thick and insistent—something too sweet to belong here, too fleeting to forget.
A sound rises in the distance—not bells, but the slow, deliberate beat of the beduk.
A deep, resonant thud. Once. Twice. The space between presses against her ribs like a held breath. Arif’s hand finds Farah’s across the table. His grip, warm but unsteady, trembles with the same unspoken fear pressing on her ribs.
‘I think it’s calling us,’ he whispers. His voice holds a strange finality.
The silence between them deepens. Farah’s throat tightens. ‘It’s just the wind,’ she murmurs. She tastes the lie in her mouth.
Arif’s eyes darken. He doesn’t blink. ‘We’re part of it now.’
The beduk sounds again—closer, heavier. The sound presses against her skull, reverberating in her bones. A sound like the pulse of something waking beneath the sea.
***
She wakes to quiet.
The air is thick with the aftermath of rain, heavy as unspoken words. The windows are streaked with pale dawn. Arif’s side of the bed—empty. Her breath falters.
She rises slowly, her feet cold against the tiles. The chair by the window holds his jacket, but not him.
Downstairs, the front door stands ajar. The wind stirs it back and forth—a soft thud, thud like knocking knuckles.
‘Arif?’
No answer.
She steps outside. The air tastes of wet earth and something sharper—like lime leaves torn from their branches.
The market square is still—stalls covered in tarps, the remnants of yesterday’s life folded away. But the adhan rises, curling through the morning air. Not yet time for Subuh.
She follows it, heart thudding. The sound leads her to the empty mosque at the edge of the square.
The door creaks open.
Inside, the long kenduri table stretches beneath the vaulted ceiling. The air is thick with the heady aroma of rice, tamarind, and charred fish, a scent that wraps around her like a warm embrace.
A feast lays untouched. Nasi minyak, its golden grains glistening with ghee and shallots. Ikan bakar, the charred skin splitting to reveal tender, spiced flesh. A sambal bowl sits in the centre, red as blood.
Farah’s breath catches. She had made this last night.
‘Arif?’ Her voice barely makes a sound.
At the head of the table, a figure sits—his back to her. Her pulse stumbles.
Arif.
His shoulders tense, as though he hears her but cannot turn. Her feet move forward, unbidden. The beduk falls silent. She reaches out—her fingertips barely grazing his shoulder.
He shifts—slowly, too slowly.
The air warps, thickening, pressing against her skin.
And when he turns, his face is not his own.
***
Farah jerks awake.
A gasp rips from her throat, sharp as broken glass. She is in bed, alone. The room is quiet. The morning light pools on the floor in weak, uncertain streaks. Arif’s side of the bed is still empty. Her breath slows. A dream. Only a dream.
But when she steps downstairs, the front door is open.
And the air is thick with the scent of nasi minyak.
The quiet ache of knowing fills her: what she truly needs is connection, not perfection. She closes her eyes and lets the silence fill her – not with emptiness, but with the possibility of letting go.
Now she understands—home isn’t something she can build with food and silence alone. It’s something she needs to find within herself, even if it means leaving his ghost behind.
Dorit d’Scarlett is a Danish-Australian writer currently living in Malaysia. My short stories and poetry are published in international literary journals.