Yet what she had long desired was not his head, but his eyes. The eyes of Haji Ahmad were open wide, just as when he had gazed at Salimah while she read the Sūrat an-Nūr, just as when he had declared her a source of sin. Salimah stared and stared at the eyes before her, stroking the lids. Her fingers trembled. Though the past resurfaced in her memories, it never repeated itself as it should have.

Like a child who has found a lost doll, Salimah cradled the head of Haji Ahmad against her chest. Drops of blood fell on her. Salimah’s eyes were tearful, shut. Her lips were half open. Moist.

No longer able to maintain his strength, Solihin dropped to his knees. His heart felt as if it would stop as he witnessed the morass of desire and grief in front of him. The throbbing of death and passion, exposed. The moon was naked, the night was damp.

Everything else happened swiftly. The sound of approaching clapper sticks grew louder. The villagers surrounded Solihin and Salimah, and beat them without mercy. Their blood had now been sanctioned as halal.

Seriously wounded, Solihin was dragged to the police station. Salimah didn’t survive. The rage of the mob flared at the sight of the woman hugging the head of Haji Ahmad, her body smeared with gore. Her snarled hair and wild eyes made the villagers’ blood boil. Clubs struck her again and again. She collapsed, thrashed relentlessly, but still her hands clutched the head. Some compassionate members of the mob closed its bulging eyes. The killing moon was pale, cold and bare.

This tragic story has been passed on and framed carefully. The beginning of destruction was a sin that we often don’t recognise: zina of the eyes. Salimah was condemned and her life endlessly discussed. Everyone remembers her in different ways. Some night, when you are strolling about in the village, cast your gaze to the sky. If the moon looks strange, like a woman who has risen from the grave, you’ll know that she has never departed.

The Porcelain Doll

There were no obvious changes after the red-cheeked porcelain doll shattered. The house stayed an old house, well maintained. It was kept clean and tidy to distract visitors’ attention from all the leaks. Though it wasn’t overly big, Grandpa hadn’t raised enough money to repair it.

Grandma didn’t want the neighbours to know that they were short of cash to renovate the inherited home so she put effort into making it beautiful. Every day she checked to see if the flower-embroidered tablecloth had any stains, if the terrazzo tiles needed dusting, if the jar in the living room was still stocked with simple pastries. Sweetie still ate from her bowl. Rice and fish.

The shattering of the porcelain doll didn’t change the world.