Yesterday afternoon I was on my porch, dreaming, waiting for Pingu to come home. Beyond the fence, a trio of schoolboys appeared. They sucked through their teeth and asked me: “Bang, rokok satu?”
“You kat sekolah, mana boleh bagi?” I said.
“Kita tak bagitau siapa la,” one of the boys said. “Lu jangan takut.”
So I said: “No, no, no,” and made to go inside.
“Cibai pundek,” the boy said. I had been sitting in my underwear. He said: “Lu suka hisap konek ka?”
I gave him a finger and shut the door. Moments later there were thuds and the sound of wood, clattering. They were throwing pieces of broken writing desks into my garden. A T-shaped piece — from that part of a desk that you put your feet on — landed close to where I had been sitting.
I opened the door and pointed my camera over the fence. They crouched behind a cement flower-box. I didn’t get more than a few shots of huddled, white-shirted backs and blurred, running figures.
Except for these boys the school was unusually quiet. If they didn’t have anything better to do, well — neither did I.
Taking the T-shaped piece I put it into my bike’s basket and rode to the school gate. I got a visitor pass from the guardhouse. I went to the office and put the T-shaped piece into the Head of Co-curriculum’s hands. I showed him the photos I’d taken.
“I will look into this matter,” the Head of Co-curriculum assured me. “Actually they are having exams now.”