As the year 1997 graciously released its hold on the stage of time, it carried with it a sense of temporal slipping away. After our year-end examinations, I found myself somewhat uncertain about my performance. The results, when eventually revealed, fell within the realm of mediocrity. However, they were enough to promote me to Form 2 in the upcoming year.
Many events left their marks on that year, but one unforgettable memory is the haze catastrophe that befell our nation. Johor Bahru, a bustling urban enclave, found itself engulfed in this environmental disaster, leaving a lasting impression on my memory.
During the haze's oppressive grip, even architectural marvels and the Singapore Customs complex across the causeway disappeared behind an impenetrable shroud. Fortunately, we were spared from any catastrophic consequences.
Life within the Asrama remained highly regimented. Order prevailed from Dorm 1 to Dorm 4, and the grip of control continued to tighten around every student's existence. Nevertheless, I underwent a subtle transformation as I navigated the turbulent waters of adolescence.
I grappled with the complex emotions brought on by this new phase in my life and chose to go along with its unfolding. One noticeable change was in my voice; even my friends noticed it. This shift in my vocal tone left me momentarily puzzled, as though I were wrestling with the incongruity of my own auditory experience.
In the case of my peers, they, too, experienced similar changes. The physical transformations were especially evident. Once pleasant voices now gave way to hoarse, grating tones that resembled the mournful croaks of monitor lizards suffering from throat ailments.
One lethargic afternoon found me reclined on my bed, partially conscious, dreading Encik Hussin's summons. Suddenly, a stampede of adolescents thundered down the staircase, disrupting my fragile tranquillity. Intrigued, I decided to investigate the source of the commotion.
I followed the noisy crowd to the notice board outside the lower-level lavatory, where several sheets of paper had just been posted. Curiosity piqued, I joined the group of curious students, eager to decipher the contents of these new notices.
To my surprise, these papers contained information about our dormitory placements for the upcoming year. Each student was assigned to new quarters, as the rules decreed that no one should stay in their current dorm. The news was met with palpable excitement.
I, too, awaited with bated breath to learn my new dormitory assignment. However, I couldn't help but feel a pang of discontent, as it was evident that our lives in the hostel were entirely controlled by Encik Hussin. His authority was supreme, and we had no say in these matters.
As I read the list, I was disappointed to discover that I had been assigned to Dorm 6, the most remote and least desirable dormitory in the hostel. It had a reputation for being both squalid and isolated. Unfortunately, I had no say in the matter.
But there was a silver lining—I would be sharing the dorm with Bel, a trusted friend and fellow inmate of Dorm 6. His presence provided some emotional relief, as I could confide in him about my concerns. Surprisingly, Bel seemed unfazed by our new living arrangements.
Encik Hussin didn't just dictate which dorm we would be in; he also orchestrated the spatial arrangement of our sleeping quarters. This level of control extended even to our sleeping berths, a disconcerting intrusion into our personal lives that left no room for protest.
With precise instructions, Encik Hussin assigned beds to each student, leaving no room for choice. Fate determined that Bel would have the bunk right above mine, a source of unexpected comfort.
However, my fleeting contentment was overshadowed by the absence of a fan in my designated sleeping area. Dorm 6 had only one fan, located at area near to Dorm 7. The sultry nights that followed, without proper ventilation, left me vulnerable to relentless mosquito attacks.
As the end of the school year approached, Encik Hussin directed us to move to our newly assigned dormitories, a ritualistic transition that prepared us for the year ahead. Reluctantly, I bid farewell to my former dorm and settled into the far corners of Dorm 6.
I had never ventured into this forsaken dormitory before, and my initial impression was far from favourable. Dorm 6 appeared neglected and marred by the absence of former occupants. Its grim appearance, coupled with its isolated location, left me disconcerted.
The ominous atmosphere of daylight gave way to the malevolent intrusion of nightfall, as swarms of voracious mosquitoes infiltrated my inadequate mosquito net. I felt vulnerable, as the relentless mosquito attacks marked my first night in Dorm 6. The prospect of enduring an entire year within its confines loomed menacingly.
On the very day I was set to return home, a fever struck me, perhaps a result of recent indignations or the ceaseless mosquito attacks that weakened my immune system. Upon arriving home, I collapsed onto the family sofa, overcome with profound vulnerability.
My mother, her eyes filled with concern, gently touched my fevered forehead and whispered, "My poor child." Despite my transition into adolescence, remnants of my childhood behaviour lingered, and I made modest requests with childlike innocence. I tried to downplay my illness as a common fever, but my mother's vigilance persisted. She noticed my emaciated appearance and questioned if I had been eating enough. I remained silent, tacitly acknowledging the truth of her observation.
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