CHAPTER 11 — BOOK II
The First Fast
(November 2002, Sydney)
The change did not announce itself.
It appeared first as an absence.
At lunch, Embong did not eat.
Geoffrey noticed on the first day and said nothing. Boys skipped meals for reasons that did not require explanation. By the second, it was no longer incidental.
“You’re not eating?” he asked.
Embong shook his head once. “I am.”
Geoffrey waited.
“Just not now.”
A pause.
“Ramadan,” Embong added.
The word settled without definition.
Geoffrey nodded, though he did not understand it yet.
The next morning, Geoffrey woke before the alarm.
The house was still. Not silent—never completely—but held in that narrow space before the day declared itself. He lay there for a moment, then heard movement below. Light, deliberate.
He got up.
In the kitchen, the lights were low. Embong stood at the counter with a plate set out—rice, an egg, something reheated without effort to improve it. A book lay open beside the plate.
“You’re awake,” Embong said.
“What time is it?”
“Early.”
Geoffrey leaned against the doorway.
Embong turned a page, took a bite, drank water, then looked back down at the text.
“It’s sahur,” he said.
Geoffrey stepped closer.
“You eat now?”
“Before sunrise.”
“And then nothing?”
Embong nodded.
Geoffrey looked at the plate again, then at the open book.
“You study like this?”
Embong shrugged. “It’s still time.”
Geoffrey let out a short breath.
“That seems… inefficient.”
“It’s not about efficiency.”
The answer came without resistance.
Embong pushed a second glass toward him.
Geoffrey took it.
He did not leave.
By midday, the difference became clear.
It wasn’t hunger.
It was time.
Time separated itself into visible pieces. Hours did not disappear into each other the way they usually did. They accumulated. Geoffrey found himself aware of the clock without checking it.
The exam timetable sat folded in his pocket.
He already knew it.
At lunch, he sat where he always did.
He opened his bag, then closed it again.
Embong didn’t look up.
“You don’t have to,” he said.
“I know.”
Geoffrey rested his hands on the table.
Around them, conversation continued without interruption. Someone complained about a paper. Someone else laughed too loudly. The ordinary noise of boys who believed the day would end regardless of what they did.
Geoffrey watched them without interest.
The afternoons were different.
The light shifted earlier now, softer at the edges. Geoffrey sat outside on the steps, notes open but not moving. Words stayed where they were. He read them, understood them, then read them again as if repetition might change something.
Embong sat beside him, pen in hand, writing steadily.
Not fast.
Not slow.
Just continuous.
Geoffrey glanced at him.
“You’re not tired?”
Embong didn’t look up. “I am.”
“And?”
Embong paused, then continued writing.
“And I still have to do this.”
Geoffrey nodded.
That seemed to settle it.
By late afternoon, the day narrowed.
Everything unnecessary fell away.
Geoffrey became aware of small things—the dryness at the back of his throat, the weight of his own breathing, the sound of a car turning into the street two houses down.
It wasn’t discomfort.
It was clarity.
He said, after a while, “Why does it feel slower?”
Embong capped his pen.
“Because you’re noticing it.”
Geoffrey leaned back slightly.
That was the only explanation he needed.
Inside, the house remained quiet.
The kitchen was prepared without urgency. Plates set. Glasses placed. A small bowl of dates at the centre.
Nothing began.
Geoffrey stood at the counter, looking at the arrangement.
“Do you wait?” he asked.
Embong checked the time.
“Yes.”
When it came, it came without announcement.
Embong reached for a date.
He held it for a moment, then ate.
Geoffrey did the same.
The sweetness was immediate. Not overwhelming. Just precise.
He drank water next.
The first sip was sharper than expected. Not relief—something closer to completion.
He exhaled once.
Embong continued eating without change in pace.
No visible satisfaction.
Just continuation.
That night, Geoffrey stood at the window.
The house had returned to itself—lights on, doors opening and closing, the ordinary sounds of movement.
He tried to locate what had shifted.
Nothing had happened.
No argument. No decision. No visible effort.
And yet the day had not felt like any other.
He did not try to explain it.
The next morning, he woke again before the alarm.
This time, he didn’t hesitate.
Downstairs, the light was already on.
Embong looked up.
“You’re early.”
Geoffrey shrugged. “I’m awake.”
Embong gestured to the counter.
Geoffrey stepped forward.
The plate was the same—simple, unconsidered beyond necessity.
He sat.
He ate.
At school, he still brought lunch.
Sometimes he opened it.
Sometimes he didn’t.
No one kept track closely enough to notice.
Embong didn’t comment.
The exams came and went.
Papers were written. Time was called. Pens were set down.
Outside the halls, boys compared answers they could no longer change. Some celebrated too early. Some went quiet.
Embong folded his papers neatly.
Geoffrey followed.
They did not discuss results.
Days passed.
Not quickly.
Not slowly.
Just distinctly.
Geoffrey found himself less inclined to fill silence. Less interested in speaking without purpose. More aware of where time went when he did not pay attention.
One evening, he said,
“It’s not really about food.”
Embong shook his head.
“No.”
Geoffrey nodded.
He did not ask what it was about.
He understood that the answer would not improve if spoken.
On the last evening, the table was set the same way it had been on the first.
Dates. Water. Plates arranged without urgency.
Geoffrey stood in the kitchen, watching.
When the time came, he reached for the date without waiting.
He ate.
Then drank.
He did not look at the clock.
Later, in his room, the house settled into sleep around him.
Geoffrey sat for a while, not doing anything in particular.
The day did not feel finished.
It felt contained.
Complete.
He leaned back, eyes on the ceiling.
He did not have words for it.
But he knew it was not temporary.
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