Put Your Head On My Shoulder

When I was in secondary school, I was part of a gang of naughty boys who were always running away from class to see movies.

One of the boys was from a small town in Malaysia. His relative had bought a house in Singapore and let him take care of it. During holidays the bunch of us would have parties at the house and invite the girls we knew to dance all night.

Among them was a young lady with long, long hair. She was already working while we were still studying. At that age we all loved more mature girls and we kept on dancing with her. The music changed from Rock ‘n Roll to slow tempo songs. ‘Put your head on my shoulder’ by Paul Anka was the most popular song. We hugged.

Later my friend married this beautiful, longhaired woman. I was the best man and the driver. We drove to his small town. There was a lorry waiting. Inside it sat the local band. They played the theme music from ‘Bridge over the River Kwai’ to welcome us. By the way, they played the same thing in funerals too!

It was the local tradition for the bride and groom to circle three times around town to announce they were married and so we did.

The wedding party was held at the school hall. Everybody was invited. The headmaster was asked to give a speech. It was not every day that he got a chance like this so he made sure it lasted an hour, and everyone fell asleep. I was drunk at the dinner party. The next morning, we parted.

It was not until ten years later that we saw each other again. I returned from abroad to see my friend. He now ran a petrol station along the highway. He told me that after they married his wife opened a beauty parlour. Business was good. After all she was from the big city and knew all the latest hair styles. But tragedy struck. She got polio and was paralysed from the waist down.

“Hurry up! Bring me to see her!” I felt choked.

They lived in a dimly lit old Chinese house. It hurt so much to see her hair messy and face very pale. The three of us held each other tight and cried. Calming down, she asked, “Do you remember how we made punch by mixing orange juice, lemon juice and a whole bottle of gin?”

“Do you remember you were so shy that I had to pull you up to dance with me?”

“Do you remember after we got drunk, we squeezed together under a big blanket naked?”

“Yes, Yes.” I held back my tears.

The moon shone on the top of the coconut trees. My friend carried her on his back. The three of us walked down a small road in the village. We went there to see a bomoh, the equivalent of a sorcerer in Malay. She heard that he could perform miracles and insisted on giving it a try. I obliged.

We went into a bamboo hut. There were dozens of people sitting on the floor. All of them had brought gifts of fruits, silverware, clothes, chickens and eggs. The bomoh received them all without saying thanks.

An assistant lit some spiced wood. The room was filled with smoke. This made the atmosphere more eerie.

The bomoh started to perform his magic. With a wave of his hand, a small explosion occurred. When he pulled back the mat on the floor, green gems and rubies appeared. Everybody was amazed.

All the people who had come for help gathered closer. The bomoh touched the head of a sick child. He was cured immediately. A man’s swollen stomach flattened.

It was our turn. The bomoh took out an egg and rubbed it on the girl’s leg. And then he cracked the egg in a bowl. Little red worms spilled out from the egg, swelling and writhing in the bowl. They were alive!

My friend and his wife bowed deeply and offered presents.

I knew those tricks when making movies. The people surrounding the bomoh were obviously his gang. The little worms were compressed red paper hidden in his fingers. When the paper came into contact with the liquid, it expanded to look like worms wriggling.

I did not have the heart to tell them the truth. How could I?

They were happy. They sang ‘Put your Head on my Shoulder’ all the way back home. I never saw them again.