I climb to the upper floor to join my daughter at the window. Yes, I see them, and several more from the neighborhood are joining them. There must be at least 20, including young men and children. Most of them are our regulars.
Pak Dayat keeps throwing glances at our window as he talks with the others. Surely the tinted glass is dark enough that he can’t see us watching them.
I thought I knew them well. They have all been nice to us, especially after my husband’s death. I appreciate the business they bring. I try to reciprocate whenever I can by meeting their needs, sometimes special requests for certain types or brands of rice. I also let them open credit lines and pay their bills at the end of the month. I gave them extensions to pay their credits when they came up with some hard luck stories. Some of them still owe us money.
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But now with my customers gathering outside, I don’t know what to think of them anymore. Some are wearing headbands, and one or two are carrying bamboo spears. They look fiery, ready to fight or attack.
Are they going to harm us?
I look to the left of the street, where people — many with headbands and bamboo spears — are looting and setting fire to shops. I see men and women, carrying televisions and other electronic sets, laptops and mobile phones. I see them wearing new clothes, shoes and hats obviously from shops they have just ransacked. Some are binging on pizza and bread from the bakery opposite our store. Some are carrying paint cans from Om Halim’s store.
They seem wild and happy. Looks like a street party. I see some familiar faces among the looters.
The crowd is now just two stores away. Smoke billows from stores further up the street.
I start to panic. Think, think, think. I simply cannot come up with an answer.
There is a loud bang on the main door. And then another one, and another one. Afterward, we hear repeated knocks. And they are loud.
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My daughter starts to cry with fear. Her brother soon joins in the wailing.
“You both stay here. Don’t look out of the window,” I order them, not certain if I am making things worse or better for them. “I’ll go down and see what they want.” They cry even harder.
Has the crowd really reached our store?
Another loud bang on the door.
“Who is it?” I ask, almost screaming to make sure the other side hear me amidst the commotion outside.
“It’s Ismail, ncik.” I recognize his voice.
