Chapter 13 - Familiar, Yet New
Chapter 13: Familiar, Yet New
Meilin stood in front of her mirror a beat longer than usual.
Her scarf wasn’t compulsory—Rafiq had told her that, gently—but tonight, she wore one anyway. A soft, ivory square tucked neatly under her chin. Modest. Respectful. Still herself.
In her bag was a small jar of her mother’s sambal. She held onto that—it grounded her more than anything else.
When she arrived at the doorstep of Rafiq’s family home, it was Nur who greeted her.
“Hi,” Meilin said, exhaling.
Nur grinned. “You look great. Come in, don’t overthink it.”
The air inside smelled like turmeric and lemongrass. A pot simmered gently in the kitchen. Family photos lined the walls—graduations, a wedding, Rafiq’s childhood smile just slightly crooked.
Rafiq’s parents rose from the dining table.
His father, dressed in a simple striped baju Melayu, had an air of quiet steadiness. His posture straight, his expression unreadable at first—serious, but not unkind. When their eyes met, he nodded in greeting. “Selamat datang.”
His mother stood beside him, hands clasped. She wore a soft lilac hijab and an apron still dusted with flour, as if she had been baking earlier. Her eyes lingered on Meilin for a second longer—assessing, maybe, or just unsure of how to greet someone who was, until now, only a name.
She smiled, a little more reserved, and Meilin offered the sambal with both hands.
“My mother made this. I helped. A little.”
There was a flicker of something—maybe surprise, maybe appreciation—as Rafiq’s mother accepted it.
“Thank you. Please, sit.”
Dinner was set out simply. Ayam lemak, stir-fried vegetables, warm rice, and sambal belacan. Meilin felt the weight of every utensil, every pause between conversation.
Nur kept things flowing. “She’s the one who sings better than me,” she said, winking.
Meilin laughed softly. “I only sound good next to your brother.”
That earned her a glance from Rafiq—a glance full of unspoken warmth.
His mother asked measured questions—about Meilin’s work, about whether she cooked often, and if she found Singapore too fast-paced. Her tone remained polite, even warm, but it held a kind of watchfulness.
Rafiq’s father mostly listened. There was a steady presence in him—a stillness that reminded Meilin of elders back home, the ones who spoke little but saw everything. When he did speak, it was with purpose: a question about Jakarta traffic, a thoughtful nod when she described her work, a quiet chuckle at Nur’s teasing.
He asked about her family. Where they were. How often she called home. His tone wasn’t intrusive, just practical—as if trying to understand how her roots had shaped her.
When Meilin mentioned how she was slowly learning about Islam, he didn’t comment. But he gave the smallest nod and said, “Belajar perlahan-lahan. Apa yang ikhlas, kekal.” Learn slowly. What is sincere, lasts.
Meilin answered sincerely, not embellishing. She talked about her childhood church choir, about early morning MRT commutes, and how her favourite hawker stall uncle never smiled but always gave her extra taugeh.
By the time the plates were nearly cleared, something in the room had loosened.
Later, in the kitchen, Meilin offered to help. Rafiq’s mother handed her a towel without protest. They stood side by side at the sink, passing dishes without a word.
Then, softly, Rafiq’s mother said, “I heard… you’re learning. About our way.”
Meilin paused. Then nodded. “Yes. Still learning.”
His mother rinsed a plate. “Would you like me to show you how to take wudhu?”
There was no pressure in her tone. Just offering.
Meilin blinked. “Now?”
“Better after food than before,” she replied, as if it were the most natural thing.
They moved to the bathroom. Rafiq’s mother demonstrated the steps slowly—washing hands, mouth, nose, face, arms, wiping the head, the feet. Each movement was calm, deliberate.
“This is not just for cleanliness,” she explained. “It’s also intention. A way to begin.”
Afterward, they sat on the edge of the couch. Rafiq’s father joined briefly with a mug of kopi in hand. He didn’t speak much, but when Meilin asked something small—what zakat meant in daily life—he answered with a quiet clarity that revealed how deeply he practiced what he believed.
Rafiq’s mother, now more at ease, took the lead. She spoke about the five pillars—faith, prayer, charity, fasting, pilgrimage—not like a textbook, but as a thread that wove itself into her everyday. She told a story of her own first Ramadan, how difficult it was to wake for sahur with young children, how Rafiq once fell asleep mid-prayer and they both laughed quietly for minutes.
It wasn’t a lesson. It was a letting in. A mother passing on a story.
“You don’t have to know everything today,” she said. “Just know why you want to.”
Meilin nodded, heart full.
When it was time to leave, Rafiq’s mother handed her a small container of leftovers.
“Next time, stay longer. We can cook together.”
Rafiq walked her to the MRT. Under the streetlamps, their steps matched quietly.
“She reminds me of my mother,” Meilin said. “Careful. But kind.”
Rafiq smiled. “She said you were sincere.”
Meilin’s chest warmed.
—
That night, she sat at her desk and opened her journal.
She paused before writing. The night had left her with more than one emotion—relief, wonder, fatigue, and something she didn’t yet know how to name.
She thought of Rafiq’s mother’s hands, gentle but firm as she guided the water. The weight of his father’s words—few, but sincere. The feeling of sitting among people who didn’t fully know her yet, but didn’t close the door either.
It had felt like being invited into a language she was only just beginning to speak.
She wrote:
Sometimes, love opens doors quietly. Not with declarations, but with someone showing you how to wash your hands, and letting you belong at the sink beside them.