KISAH Futures Anthology
Around the Dataran, a hesitant crowd was building. People still stood apart, the customary two-metre radius. But they were there, and more were coming. Many even with unmasked faces! She saw visitors gathering around the umbrellas. Beneath, others like her were busy. A little muddled and slow perhaps, from years of no practice. But she could see a spark in them, the warmth of anticipation spread over their faces. As she worked, she felt the old familiarity creeping back into her aged fingers. There was an art to this, a certain rhythmic speed. Peel, slice, dunk, deep-fry. But actually, it was all the unassuming in-between moments that separated a good pisang goreng from a great pisang goreng. The banana’s texture, just a touch closer to firm than soft. Its ripe, heady fragrance. Silky-thick batter chilled just enough to crisp up agreeably. Listening to the boiling oil that smothers the fritters to quieten down. Recognising that perfect, almost translucent yellow-gold at which to scoop them out. A boy, head barely higher than her table, sidled up, eyes open wide. She felt a touch of nervousness; she couldn’t remember the last time someone had stood this close. She ventured a rusty smile, suddenly remembering that he could see it. He stared back at the growing pile of banana fritters on her table, mouth slightly agape. She realised he has never seen a food stall, maybe never tasted a pisang goreng either. She picked one up, offered it to him. The boy took it, and tentatively bit in. She heard the muffled crunch, and imagined the warm, oily sweetness spreading through
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