Hungry again. I poke my nose out of the crack in the wall and sniff the air around me. My nose has a special ability. Besides picking up scents, it also helps me to 'see'. It is quiet. And dark. Should be safe to scamper out for food now. I dart my head out of the crack, pause to check out for potential trouble. All clear, not a person in sight. My gut tells me that it should be some time just after midnight. All the shoppers have gone home and the staff have finished and closed for the night. Although it is late in the night and all activities have ceased, the smells from the day's business still linger, especially in the basement, where the food counters are. The ghost of the deep frying oil, the wisp of cotton candy aroma, the fading fragrance of cooked meat; all these and more permeate the air in the basement. And they are sharpening my hunger pangs.
But I have not lived to my great old age while my compatriots perished one by one by being rash. Despite the increasing turmoil in my stomach, I keep my body still, except for my whiskers, which quiver as if they have a life of their own. After a minute, when I am sure that all the humans have gone, I shoot out from my hiding place in the wall like a cannonball being propelled forward. I scuttle to my favourite store, the one that sells meat skewered on a stick and roasted to perfection in thick terriyaki sauce. As usual, there are some scraps of meat left behind in the far corners under the metal counter top, too far for the stall holders to reach as they clean up the place, which is good fortune for me. But not good enough. I am still hungry after wolfing down those itsy bits of chicken and pork.
I hesitate. Should I retire to my hole? But the prospect of gnawing hunger as a bedmate is not appealing. Maybe I should go out to the rubbish chute. It is usually overflowing with the affluence of the rich. Only problem is that I'm too old to jostle with the young. Inevitably, I'm always left with the yuckiest, nastiest bits disdained even by the other vermin. I freeze. I remember a scene that I have seen today. Upstairs. On the first level where they sell the female human stuff. This building, which I call home, where I was born and where I have spent all my life having grown up in it, raised litter after litter of little baby rats, watched my sisters, brothers, half sisters and brothers, my wife and even my own sons and daughters die, is a famous shopping complex in the middle of town. Visitors who have stowed away in ships, crossed oceans and come here, the told me that my home is just a little building in a little island, a little red dot in the big, wide world. I don't care. This building is the world as far as I concerned.
When it is daytime, I usually hide in the crevices that I call home and sleep. But I can't be sleeping all the time. To pass time, I would sometimes people watch. I see all kinds of people. There would be the aunties, who have come down town for a field trip in their T-shirts and pants. They would check the price tags and put their tongues out at how much a designer kettle could cost. Sometimes, you also get a sophisticated tai tai in thei midst. But she would be walled up by her branded coolness and invisible disdain of all around her.
In the basement, they have the food stalls selling delicacies and households appliances. On the ground floor is where the female humans but the colours. The first floor sells clothing and other trinkets for the female humans. These places are where you would find more of the immaculately dressed tai tais. Besides the tai tais, there are also working ladies who drop in during their lunch hours or after works to check out the latest offerings in the store. You also get quite young girls who come and go in gaggles to boost their courage. The male humans can find their clothing on the third floor together with some of those complex looking devices. But I seldom go up there. It is too high and my old and weary bones cannot take it. Moreover, I find the females, togged out in their various finery and painted in rainbow colours far more interesting that the ususally sombrely coloured males. Although I may not be able to make out the dazzling colours the females wear, I sure can smell the many different scents that they apply on their bodies.
Today, on the first floor, there was a woman who was wearing a particularly strong musky oriental perfume. There was a young human child with her. He was holding a skewer of fish balls. As he was about to take a bite out of the first one, his mother had knocked into him, causing him to drop the whole stick onto the floor. Afraid of being scolded, the child had kicked the offensive evidence under the trolley of underwear. (My eyesight isn't fantastic. Colour-blind I may be, I'm not totally blind). When I get bored of watching people, I would skulk in the dark corners, peep from fissures in walls, and hide behind refuse bins to reconnoitre possible sources of food for the long night that is to come. Of course my hearing is much sharper than my eyesight. In fact, my hearing is even sharper than that of yours. I can hear many frequencies above those that you can perceive. but it is a double edged gift. For sometimes, I hear things that I have no wish to hear.
But I digress. Back to the fish balls. maybe I should go there. Should I? But all the mannequins are up there. Human think that we, rats, are filthy creatures, the scum of the earth, vermin that should be terminated. That is their opinion. Sometimes, I think that they are even more colour-blind than us. Although we rats cannot see colours, at least our world is shaded by hundreds of variations of grey. Whereas humans only seem to see their world in two colours, black and white. True, rats have brought forth damages to humans that are so vast that they are beyond calculation. But have humans ever tried to calculate the damages that they have wrought to Mother Earth, to the thousands, if not millions of other species out there in what is left of the wild, not excluding us rats? See what I mean, humans are just so single perspective. My tirade against the two legs is not caused by excessive venom and envy against the better endowed. No, it is just that I wish they would not think that they are the only ones in possession of a cognitive mind.
We, rodents, can also think and also have imaginations. And that is why now, despite the allure of a feast on the first floor, I have my doubts about venturing up there. I am pretty sure that the fish balls are still there, for very few rats would be intrepid enough to steal up there in the night. Only starving ones like me would think of attempting it. Starving. No, I have already partaken of the scraps that I found in the basement. But scraps. They were truly mere scraps, insufficient to sustain a 3kg fully grown male rat like myself. Against myself, I find myself drawn to the foot of the escalator. They usually don't disturb me but that doesn't put me at ease when they are around. They belong to a different world. i can breathe better around humans than around them. Which says a lot, considering that they don't bother me at all whereas humans are always out to take my life when they see me. And my kind.
The hunger is like a sword in my stomach , stabbing here and there, weakening me. When was the last time I had a proper, satisfying meal? I cannot remember. It has been that long. I need to eat. The instinct for survival warred against the instinct of fear. I have to eat or before long,I will become fodder for the younger and stronger ones when food becomes scarce. It happens. his may not be the wilderness but there's no difference. This place is just a concrete jungle. We animals are honest in our brutality for survival. When an animal gets and decrepit, it gets eaten. Sometimes by its own kind. Nothing goes to waste. I have no illusion. That will be my fate too. But I plan to keep it at bay for as long as I can. And so I inch up the escalator cautiously. As i reach the top of the stationary escalator, I see the trolley. It is next to a mannequin scantily dressed in matching pink brassiere and panties. I advance slowly and warily to the trolley. the fish balls are still there. I pounce upon them in my excitement. I tear out a big chunk and wolf it down ravenously, almost choking on it.
My ears prick up. Did I hear something? That sound was so faint that I'm half tempted to convince myself that it was my imagination. Against my better judgement, I poke my head out from under the trolley. Whiskers quivering madly, I can sense them. They have come out. Quickly, I pull my head back under the trolley. But not before I see the mannequin again. the position of its hands has changed. They are now stretched out like welcoming an invisible lover. I cower before the uneaten fish balls. I've lost my appetite. And I'm stuck here. Common sense prevails. I force myself to eat the fish balls. I don't know when my next meal will be coming along. Since I can't leave, I might as well do something useful.
As I chew the now tasteless fish balls, I think of some queer incidents that I've witnessed in this building. The salesgirl who had remembered keeping her stocks in one drawer the night before but to find them in another the following day. How some of the staff who came in early were surprised that the mannequins were not in their usual places. They would think that maybe their colleagues who were working in the later shift had moved them the previous night. These are all innocuous incidents that were easily explained away. There were some that were more eerie, like how in the earlier days, some of the female staff had sensed a presence in the toilets. Or the administrator who had stayed back and seen a strange lady with long hair and no legs. In fact, there were so many stories that eventually, one day, the management called in an exorcist to allay the fears of the staff.
I was born then. But my great great great great great great grandmother was. She passed the tale on to her children who then passed it on to their children and so on. In my time, I have also passed the tale to my children and I'm sure that my children will carry out their duty well. According to the old lady who witnessed the whole incident, the exorcist had walked one big round up and down the building, all the time taking notes and referring to a big, thick book. After a long time, he finally told the management that he could not do anything about it. he said that spirits by nature like places that are isolated. And that's the problem with all these big office buildings and shopping centres. During the day, they may be bustling with workers and shoppers but come night time, there's nobody around and the vast emptiness acts like a magnet, drawing the undead to it.
The problem is exacerbated for shopping centres because of all the mannequins and pictures of models in trendy clothes. Because spirits usually like to make their homes in the form of human likeness. For private homes that are invaded by spirits, the exorcist explained, he would advise the owners to get rid of any artifact that has human or even animal form. But he knew that it would no be quite possible for the shopping centre to do so. He had no solution and so he would not charge the management a single cent. So the management was back to square one. After much brainstorming, they adopted the draconian method of coming down hard on any staff who dared to talk 'nonsense'. And thus, the stories gradually died down to be replaced by 'legends'. Only the very oldest and longest serving staff remembered. But they know better than to blab, if they want to safeguard their pensions. As for the younger ones, the odd one who stays back late to clear some work may have some strange incident, like hearing strange sounds or feeling like there is someone else in the the room besides themselves. But the next day, when they report the event to their colleagues, they are always assured by the older ones that everything is fine and that unusual chapter would be due to their imagination.
It is left only to us, the inhabitants of the building at night, to see the truth, when we hear the sighs, the yearning for lost life; when the shadows move, the imitations for what is no longer.
In the basement, they have the food stalls selling delicacies and households appliances. On the ground floor is where the female humans but the colours. The first floor sells clothing and other trinkets for the female humans. These places are where you would find more of the immaculately dressed tai tais. Besides the tai tais, there are also working ladies who drop in during their lunch hours or after works to check out the latest offerings in the store. You also get quite young girls who come and go in gaggles to boost their courage. The male humans can find their clothing on the third floor together with some of those complex looking devices. But I seldom go up there. It is too high and my old and weary bones cannot take it. Moreover, I find the females, togged out in their various finery and painted in rainbow colours far more interesting that the ususally sombrely coloured males. Although I may not be able to make out the dazzling colours the females wear, I sure can smell the many different scents that they apply on their bodies.
Today, on the first floor, there was a woman who was wearing a particularly strong musky oriental perfume. There was a young human child with her. He was holding a skewer of fish balls. As he was about to take a bite out of the first one, his mother had knocked into him, causing him to drop the whole stick onto the floor. Afraid of being scolded, the child had kicked the offensive evidence under the trolley of underwear. (My eyesight isn't fantastic. Colour-blind I may be, I'm not totally blind). When I get bored of watching people, I would skulk in the dark corners, peep from fissures in walls, and hide behind refuse bins to reconnoitre possible sources of food for the long night that is to come. Of course my hearing is much sharper than my eyesight. In fact, my hearing is even sharper than that of yours. I can hear many frequencies above those that you can perceive. but it is a double edged gift. For sometimes, I hear things that I have no wish to hear.
But I digress. Back to the fish balls. maybe I should go there. Should I? But all the mannequins are up there. Human think that we, rats, are filthy creatures, the scum of the earth, vermin that should be terminated. That is their opinion. Sometimes, I think that they are even more colour-blind than us. Although we rats cannot see colours, at least our world is shaded by hundreds of variations of grey. Whereas humans only seem to see their world in two colours, black and white. True, rats have brought forth damages to humans that are so vast that they are beyond calculation. But have humans ever tried to calculate the damages that they have wrought to Mother Earth, to the thousands, if not millions of other species out there in what is left of the wild, not excluding us rats? See what I mean, humans are just so single perspective. My tirade against the two legs is not caused by excessive venom and envy against the better endowed. No, it is just that I wish they would not think that they are the only ones in possession of a cognitive mind.
We, rodents, can also think and also have imaginations. And that is why now, despite the allure of a feast on the first floor, I have my doubts about venturing up there. I am pretty sure that the fish balls are still there, for very few rats would be intrepid enough to steal up there in the night. Only starving ones like me would think of attempting it. Starving. No, I have already partaken of the scraps that I found in the basement. But scraps. They were truly mere scraps, insufficient to sustain a 3kg fully grown male rat like myself. Against myself, I find myself drawn to the foot of the escalator. They usually don't disturb me but that doesn't put me at ease when they are around. They belong to a different world. i can breathe better around humans than around them. Which says a lot, considering that they don't bother me at all whereas humans are always out to take my life when they see me. And my kind.
The hunger is like a sword in my stomach , stabbing here and there, weakening me. When was the last time I had a proper, satisfying meal? I cannot remember. It has been that long. I need to eat. The instinct for survival warred against the instinct of fear. I have to eat or before long,I will become fodder for the younger and stronger ones when food becomes scarce. It happens. his may not be the wilderness but there's no difference. This place is just a concrete jungle. We animals are honest in our brutality for survival. When an animal gets and decrepit, it gets eaten. Sometimes by its own kind. Nothing goes to waste. I have no illusion. That will be my fate too. But I plan to keep it at bay for as long as I can. And so I inch up the escalator cautiously. As i reach the top of the stationary escalator, I see the trolley. It is next to a mannequin scantily dressed in matching pink brassiere and panties. I advance slowly and warily to the trolley. the fish balls are still there. I pounce upon them in my excitement. I tear out a big chunk and wolf it down ravenously, almost choking on it.
My ears prick up. Did I hear something? That sound was so faint that I'm half tempted to convince myself that it was my imagination. Against my better judgement, I poke my head out from under the trolley. Whiskers quivering madly, I can sense them. They have come out. Quickly, I pull my head back under the trolley. But not before I see the mannequin again. the position of its hands has changed. They are now stretched out like welcoming an invisible lover. I cower before the uneaten fish balls. I've lost my appetite. And I'm stuck here. Common sense prevails. I force myself to eat the fish balls. I don't know when my next meal will be coming along. Since I can't leave, I might as well do something useful.
As I chew the now tasteless fish balls, I think of some queer incidents that I've witnessed in this building. The salesgirl who had remembered keeping her stocks in one drawer the night before but to find them in another the following day. How some of the staff who came in early were surprised that the mannequins were not in their usual places. They would think that maybe their colleagues who were working in the later shift had moved them the previous night. These are all innocuous incidents that were easily explained away. There were some that were more eerie, like how in the earlier days, some of the female staff had sensed a presence in the toilets. Or the administrator who had stayed back and seen a strange lady with long hair and no legs. In fact, there were so many stories that eventually, one day, the management called in an exorcist to allay the fears of the staff.
I was born then. But my great great great great great great grandmother was. She passed the tale on to her children who then passed it on to their children and so on. In my time, I have also passed the tale to my children and I'm sure that my children will carry out their duty well. According to the old lady who witnessed the whole incident, the exorcist had walked one big round up and down the building, all the time taking notes and referring to a big, thick book. After a long time, he finally told the management that he could not do anything about it. he said that spirits by nature like places that are isolated. And that's the problem with all these big office buildings and shopping centres. During the day, they may be bustling with workers and shoppers but come night time, there's nobody around and the vast emptiness acts like a magnet, drawing the undead to it.
The problem is exacerbated for shopping centres because of all the mannequins and pictures of models in trendy clothes. Because spirits usually like to make their homes in the form of human likeness. For private homes that are invaded by spirits, the exorcist explained, he would advise the owners to get rid of any artifact that has human or even animal form. But he knew that it would no be quite possible for the shopping centre to do so. He had no solution and so he would not charge the management a single cent. So the management was back to square one. After much brainstorming, they adopted the draconian method of coming down hard on any staff who dared to talk 'nonsense'. And thus, the stories gradually died down to be replaced by 'legends'. Only the very oldest and longest serving staff remembered. But they know better than to blab, if they want to safeguard their pensions. As for the younger ones, the odd one who stays back late to clear some work may have some strange incident, like hearing strange sounds or feeling like there is someone else in the the room besides themselves. But the next day, when they report the event to their colleagues, they are always assured by the older ones that everything is fine and that unusual chapter would be due to their imagination.
It is left only to us, the inhabitants of the building at night, to see the truth, when we hear the sighs, the yearning for lost life; when the shadows move, the imitations for what is no longer.
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