Siddharth suffered from bad bouts of colic as an infant, making it difficult to have undisrupted sleep for even half an hour. The excessive crying caused his cheeks to break out in pink rashes. He couldn’t be left alone in the crib and didn’t settle down until he was breastfed. One morning, after having had no sleep the previous night, I brought him into the toilet, left him inside the empty plastic bathtub and closed the door. As I stood outside listening to his partially muted wails, I took my top off and walked over to the full-length mirror beside the dressing table. My breasts felt sore to the touch. Green veins spread outwards from my nipples, like fault lines erupting from the epicentre of an earthquake site. Even with the urut makcik’s bengkong wrapping, my belly had yet to be taut. My arms looked flabby as I raised them to release my bun; my hair fell limply over my shoulders, greasy – and stinking of medicated oil. I imagined my son sucking whatever little fight I had in me as he suckled all hours of the day. He rejected bottle-feeding, and his demanding cries only subsided when he was cradled and soothed under the warmth of a body. Embarrassed men and gushing women passed him back to me as soon as he nuzzled against their chests.

I turned away from the mirror, with a slight tremor of trepidation, not used to the silence. I swallowed, then immediately held my throat. The dryness of it, coarse like salt, rubbed against my already swollen tonsils.

When I went back into the toilet, Siddharth stared up at me, punching his small arms and legs into the air, gurgling between hiccups in the blue tub. His cheeks, red and bruised, did little to dim the confidence he held in his male eyes. I don’t remember how long I stood there looking at him, but it was the trickle of water that suddenly landed smack on his belly that tore me out of my reverie. I switched off the tap and picked up my son, who had started to whine by then.

As I sat nursing him in front of the dressing table, I laughed to myself. If only I had not turned off the tap in time… After a long time, the thrill that I felt at coming so close to possessing the power to injure my father and the pride he felt at having a grandson made my knees go weak. I experienced a moment of such bliss that I pinched the insides of Siddharth’s thigh. He pushed my breast away, scrunched up his face and started to cry afresh. I cooed down at him and pressed my nipple back into his mouth.

He would cry when I wanted him to. He could also die if I chose for him to…