It was a hot Sunday afternoon. I was having a nap after a heavy lunch
at my in-laws' house in Jalan Setiaraya when I was rudely awakened.
Six strange men were upon me, one holding down each limb and another
who put a black hood over my head. I had just enough time to catch a
quick glimpse of their leader, an elderly man wearing a battered
songkok, who kept circling us, taking care not to be seen by me.
"Siapa Dalam?" the leader, whom I took to be the bomoh-in-charge,
asked me repeatedly. This time he had come around so that he was just
next to my right ear.
I figured I ought to appease him and say something plausible.
"Azlan," I answered, truthfully.
"Jangan tipu, siapa dalam?" he retorted.
"Boy, the truth is certainly not what he's looking for," I thought. He
clearly wanted some demon in me to answer him. But honestly, there
were no demons lurking in the labyrinths of my psyche, just me. I
decided to play some reverse psychology on him and decided to keep
answering him with just a simple "Azlan."
"Siapa dalam? Saya cabar kau, keluar sekarang!" he shouted.
"Boy, is he going to be disappointed," I thought. I decided to stay
cool and recited the Al-Fatihah in a soft, but slow and steady voice...
"Bismillah..."
"Siapa dalam?" he asked again, this time with some frustration setting
in. At some stage, about an hour into the proceedings they removed the
hood and I could see my sisters- and brothers-in-laws sitting around
me watching the goings-on like some kind of bizarre spectator sport.
"The bastards," I thought as they just sat there as if brutal
assailants performing an exorcism were part and parcel of their
weekend. Needless to say, they hardly lifted finger to help me. My
wife had gone downstairs, too distressed, to observe the proceedings
of this bizarre spectacle.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, the bomoh gave up, and told my
mother-in-law, "Baik bawak dia pergi hospital."
My assailants helped me up and hand-cuffed me ("Were they policemen?"
I asked myself). I was bundled onto an orange Mitsubishi Galant and
driven to University Hospital. At one point, somewhere along Jalan
Damansara, I felt like putting my hands over the driver's head and
strangling him, but thought the better of it.
At UH, they took me through to see a medical officer, Dr John Teoh,
but not before one of them gave me a punch in the left eye, the
bastards. It made a percussive impact that sent sparks and stars
flying in my head. I was sure Dr Teoh saw them punch me but he
remained outwardly oblivious. Even when I complained to him of the
"police brutality" he remained unconcerned and dismissive. He didn't
seem interested in anything I had to say and was clearly more
interested in what "the policemen" had to say.
But what do they know? Besides my name, I didn't give them anything.
It was at this point that I gave Dr Teoh his nickname, "The Bastard."
Soon I found myself in Ward 5, restrained to a bed as I was obviously
not in favour of spending any more time in this nuthouse and wanted to
go home.
Eventually, I spent about a month in Ward 5. I couldn't get along with
Dr Teoh for obvious reasons and a lecturer, Dr Goh, who had much more
empathy, took over my case.
As expected, I was heavily sedated and my regime consisted of 250 mg
chlorpromazine, 10 mg haloperidol four times a day with some benzhexol
to counter some of the worst side-effects of these medications.
### 610 words ###
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