3pm on Good Friday

A highly dramatised segment of 2 hours of my life.
Warning: Long blog ahead. Read at your own perils.

She looked up again onto the long, naked glass window. Her beady eye's squinted and focused directly on top of the window frame, where the curtain brackets were fastened. Beads of sweat accumulated as they collided into each other on her folds of skin before dripping down on to the polished ash granite flooring with a silent splosh. Her eye's darted back and forth from one end of the window to the other, like an eagle looking for a prey.

Madam W is typical middle aged Straits Chinese women. She lives in a spacious semi-detached house, furnished according to her Feng Shui master's recommendation. Her some what opulent lifestyle was attributed mainly from her husband's rank and file success as a contractor. She was educated briefly at a primary Chinese medium school, before marrying the man of her family's choice at an early age. Naturally, her life was devoted to her husband, children and of course her home. Her home... it is the only world she knew apart from the fragmented stories she hears from her children and husband's conversation about the outside world. Of course, the other highly anticipated, but often sensationalised resource Madam W relies upon is the daily gossips she receives across the fence while putting out the laundry every morning. Her home was everything, and she was the boss. And she know it.

"How can this be?" Madam W hissed under her breath.

The brackets jutted out from the walls, sans track that was supposed to follow along it, like a miniature train track. But it's missing.

"How can they not fix the curtain track? I don't think I've been unreasonable to them. After all I've only requested them to change it 3 times." She thought to herself.

"Anyway, they must have made so much money out of me, I must make this worth while." Madam Wong's mind was reeling like a motion picture, thinking back on how she rejected almost every piece of curtain tracks just because it was not what she saw in Ikea.

She instinctively picked up her cellphone and began punching in the familiar number with her thick stubby fingers. She knew that number well. After all, it was one number she has dialed a thousand times for the past one week. The phone line connected with a dull beep and went until a familiar recording spoken in English, indicating the voice message. Madam Wong didn't know a single word of English but she knew it was the voice message system. A similar one that she has subscribed in Chinese.

"Damn! Why is he not picking up my call?" She muttered to herself.

She continued her dialing efforts while mumbling to herself.

The traffic on Jalan Kinabalu was peaking at it's worst at 1.30pm. Cars were inching bumper to bumper as the compulsory Friday prayer was about to begin. Cars were parked haphazardly along the curb and throngs of Muslim men were seen walking towards the National Mosque for their weekly absolution.

This has not been the best week for me as I jogged my memory on the recent events from work. Motorbikes were zig-zaging in between the lanes and I immediately erased that thought from my mind as I needed to focus on getting to St John's on time. I managed to squeeze in between a red Kancil and tourist bus at the back of me before exiting out towards Jalan Sultan Abdul Samad. All this while, the cell phone was buzzing quietly on the back seat like a fly on a hot pavement as it was on silent mode.

"Finally!" I sighed in relief as the traffic moved seamlessly all the way to the foot of Bukit Nenas. As the car climbed the hill, St Johns came into view with it's familiar twin bell towers rose from either side of the main entrance. The cathedral was at it's magnificent best on Good Friday since the exterior has been freshly painted, thanks to the generous donations from a rich patron. The building oozes authority with it's ornate art deco style, a typical design during the early 60's. The weather was extremely hot and arid. At 1.45pm, the sun shone directly above the cathedral's roof. The Indian terracotta roof tiles sucked on the heat greedily, like a baby nursing on a mother's breast and baked the interior.

Inside the church, most of the seats were already taken by 1pm, even though Good Friday service was only starting at 3pm. I walked towards the West wing entrance and scanned for J, since he was saving a seat for me. It didn't take long for me to spot him and sat myself down among the rest of the parishioners.

The service began promptly at 3pm, as I was about to doze off in the middle of the stiff ling heat. The fans were steadily blowing hot air around and being in a jam packed church on a Friday afternoon wasn't helping at all. I rose from my seat as the entrance hymn began. The service was followed by the Passion of the Cross and later by the sermon. By the time the sermon was being delivered, my mind was already struggling to keep focus as the heat steadily scrambled my brains and drained my body. The priest was belting out the Gospel according to Luke but my mind reduced the entire scripture to a monotonous drone. It was truly God's test. The fatigue, the heat, sweat building up in between the atmosphere of skin and cotton, the silent buzz of the cellphone in the pocket. It was all God's test. I pinched myself awake and kept at it. The phone was still buzzing the entire time. How annoying! I hope it is not an emergency at home or at the office. I prayed to the Lord for patience. Yet, the phone kept on buzzing. I finally relented and fished out the phone from my pocket. The number indicated a Madam W. Annoyed, I switched it off.