After that night, he mainly remembered his mother weeping, while a big man shouted something none of them could understand. Later, he would learn the man’s words: Stop crying, stop that bloody racket or I’ll put a bullet through your heads. All he knew then, aged four, was that his mother was distraught—as they all were, huddled in the dirt of the road, bruised and thirsty, shaking despite the heat of the night.

Later on, there was a lorry, and more weeping as they were dragged into the back. As they drove off, he saw their stilt house burning along with the rest of the village. They were dropped off at the next town with nothing at all. Some had to beg the headman for assistance. Nam Teck and his mother were luckier, they could stay with Auntie Poh, who lived alone and had room in her house. She was actually his father’s aunt. He hoped his father would join them, but that never happened.

He’d never been anywhere—there’d only ever been “here”. Now he learnt the place they left was called Batang Kali, although no one talked about it. They would never go back, and to say the name would be to invoke the bad luck of that day, the misfortune that crawled into their lives like ants into untended food. Their new home was safe and dry, and some days he forgot they’d ever lived anywhere else.

A couple of times he asked his mother where Baba was, and although she wouldn’t tell him, she seemed pleased he remembered his father. In truth, he was asking because the other boys in the village had asked him. All he remembered were long brown legs, rough hands cradling him, the sour scorched stench of cigarettes.

When they were alone, Auntie Poh told him Baba was dead, shot by bad people, the government men who always made trouble. His mother would be cross, but Auntie Poh believed he has the right to know. At times like this, even the young couldn’t afford to be innocent.

His mother cried less as time went by, and their life settled into a pattern. She found work nearby, tapping rubber. He watched her go out early every morning, while the sap still ran liquid from the trees, as Auntie Poh gave him his breakfast. He attended the village school. Perhaps the schoolteacher had spoken to the class, but nobody asked where his father was.