She appeared in every family photograph, never smiled, aged or missed a family gathering and apparently had no intention of leaving
EVERY family has photographs nobody can explain. There is always that one picture tucked into an old album, yellowing at the edges, in which someone appears who nobody quite remembers. Usually, there is a perfectly reasonable explanation.
An old neighbour. A distant cousin. Someone’s school friend. The woman who lived three doors down and apparently attended every wedding, birthday and Hari Raya open house in the neighbourhood. And then there are photographs that make you stop.
We found them during a clean-up. My mother was throwing out barang-barang lama (junk) after my nenek (grandmother) passed away. Boxes of stuff we hadn’t touched in over 30 years. There was one box which contained the usual archaeological treasures of family life – faded letters, receipts for things nobody remembered buying, a dried-up fountain pen and photographs of people who had long since become names rather than faces.
The photographs were found in a lidless tupperware inside a big brown enveope labelled “GAMBAR” (photos). Inside, our whole life.
Me as a baby with no hair. My sister with braces the size of a bridge. And photos of a cousin brother who had lived with us after his parents died. Raya photos, birthday photos, photos where everyone is squinting because the sun was too strong.
And in every single one, standing at the back, is the same woman. She’s not in front. She never smiles. She’s always slightly out of focus, like the camera didn’t quite want to catch her.
Long baju kurung. Hair in a bun. Hands folded. Nobody knows who she is.
“Eh, siapa ni? (Who is that)” my mother asked, holding up a photo from Raya 2005. There she was. Behind my father.
“Tak kenal, bukan famili tu (don’t know, not one of us),” he said.
We flipped through more. Raya 1998. She’s by the pokok bunga (flower bush). My cousin brother’s graduation 2002. She’s behind the crowd. My cousin’s wedding two years ago. She’s in the background, near the buffet table. You’d miss her if you weren’t looking.
Maybe a relative from my grandmother’s side? Then my sister pulled out the really old photos. Early 70s. Some were black and white. My mother and father as young parents. My nenek was even younger. And, standing at the back, in the exact same baju kurung, is the woman. She hadn’t aged a day.
We went further back. Raya 1960. The photograph was faded and scratched. My grandparents stood in the front. And there she was. Back row. Same face. Same bun.
I laughed to make light of the moment and said: “Maybe she’s the family photographer. Ghost with a long contract.”
Two nights later I woke up at about 3am. I don’t know why. I just did. My phone was face down. No notifications. I went to the kitchen for water. On the fridge, my mother had put up a few of the old photos. The more recent ones. The ones with her in it. In the 2005 Raya photo, she had moved. Before, she was behind my father. Now, she was one step closer to the front. I told myself I was tired and was seeing things. I went back to bed. The next morning, the photo that was dated 1982 was on the floor. Face down.
We started calling relatives, scanned the photos and forwarded them. A chorus of comments and queries popped up in the family group on WhatsApp and Facebook.
“Siapa perempuan tu?” (Who is she?)
“Eh tak tahu.” (Don’t know)
“Macam kenal muka.” (She looks familiar). One of my mother’s aunts replied after midnight: “Janganlah share gambar gambar tu. Simpan baik-baik, jangan main-main.” (Don’t share the pictures, keep them locked away. This is not a joke). Ten minutes later she unsent the message.
My sister said: “Maybe she’s tied to the house. Waiting for something.”
My mother said: “Maybe she’s waiting for someone to remember her name.”
This comment stayed with me. I pondered on it for a bit.
My father started digging again through nenek’s things. Letters, old ICs, wedding albums. And in nenek’s circa 1950 wedding photo, at the very back, very small – the woman. On the back of the photo, in my grandmother’s neat calligraphic handwriting: Arwah Kak Timah, pembantu rumah. Janji jaga anak cucu.
Kak Timah – the maid who worked for my great-grandparents. Died in the house in the 1940s of high fever. She was only 24. No family claimed her. As the story goes, my great-grandparents took her in and she was so loyal to them that she promised, on her deathbed, to look after the family’s children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
We didn’t throw the photos away. We put them in a new album. On the first page we wrote: Untuk Kak Timah. Terima kasih menjaga kami dengan baik. (For Kak Timah, thank you for taking good care of us).
The figure in the photos stopped moving after that. She still appears sometimes, blurry, a shadowy figure, always in the back, as if she was hovering over us. Hardly visible to the naked eye, but clear enough to those who are familiar with the story.
Now when I catch sight of her in new photos, I say a silent prayer and recite Al-fatihah (opening chapter of the Quran and a central part of Muslim prayer).
Last Raya there were 20 of us in a group photo. And at the back, unmistakably, Kak Timah. One of the younger cousins pointed at it later. “Siapa nenek tu?” (Who’s that?)
We told her: She’s family. She nodded. No explanation needed.
Maybe that’s what ghosts are. Not entities to be afraid of but people we forgot to remember. People who never quite left because they had something to do. Those who kept their promises, even after they were long gone. Some promises, it seems, have no expiry date. And some families take 70 years to remember someone’s name.
The house feels less empty now. As for Kak Timah, she finally has a place in the family album and apparently, a permanent spot in every Raya photograph. Boo!
The Sun Malaysia
