Sweet Milk, Bitter Candy

Kelantan, 1941

The Japanese arrived not with roars, but with rows of sampan through the rivers, flowing from Singora into Tumpat like a quiet flood that no one could stop. They didn’t scream orders at first. They just smiled. Smiled with teeth too straight, too clean for war. The village bent its neck in fear. And in the heart of the village, hidden behind banana trees and whispers, lived a girl named Salsabila Mat Pi.

She was thirteen. Thin as a stalk of serai wangi, fragrant lemongrass. Skin like lightly burned rice in the wok. Her voice was soft, almost melodic when she did speak in Kelantanese dialect, but mostly, she didn’t. She watched. She observed. She listened. She remembered. Everything. Every single thing. Especially recipes.

The first time they asked her to cook, it was a Tuesday.

“Just chicken,” said the interpreter, who looked away when he spoke. “For a small group of soldiers. Your food is famous, all your maternal line cook well. A token of... peace.”

Her mother clutched her younger sister. Salsabila stepped forward.
“Ayam gulai lemak (Chicken in coconut milk gravy with bird’s eye chili). I’ll cook it.”

She stirred the coconut milk slowly, folding in garlic, ginger, lemongrass, lime leaves, Thai bird’s eye chili and turmeric. Her hands didn’t tremble, even when the soldier hovered by the fire. He watched her thighs like hawks as much as her cooking.

The next time, they asked her to dance. It started with just music, a scratchy tune from a box radio. One soldier clapped. Another laughed. Someone handed her a pink scarf.

“Just once,” said the interpreter. “To make them happy.”
So she moved. Slowly. Awkwardly at first. Then smoother. The food stayed the same, for now. But it didn’t stop.

Cooking turned to dancing. Dancing turned to swaying. One soldier placed his hand too low on her back. Another tugged the scarf. They told her to remove her scarf. Her hair, midnight black was too beautiful to be covered. Every night, a new demand. Every night, a new rule rewritten.

That’s when she remembered the old book her grandmother, Che Mek once buried in a rusted tin.

“Buah keras”, she said. Candlenut. “Sedikit menyedapkan. Banyak, membinasakan.” A little enriches, but too much, like fire, it would destroy.

So she cooked.

Ayam gulai lemak cili padi Siam. Fragrant. Creamy. Hot. She added a little more candlenut powder than usual. Just half a spoon, the first time. Nobody noticed. It doesn’t taste like anything. But the diarrhea came by morning.

The next week, they made her dance longer. She added a full spoon. When one soldier leered too hard and blew her a kiss mid-bite, she smiled coyly. And added two.

The longer the dance, the more powder went in. The quieter she became, the more they craved her food. It was the gravy they loved. They said it was magic. And it was. Because by the time one of them drank straight from the bowl, he was already dying.

That evening, the soldier leaned back against the wooden post of the house. Sweat soaked his collar. He tapped the rim of the clay bowl.

“You... masak ini sendiri (cooked this by yourself)?” he asked in a fragmented Malay language. Salsabila nodded. She didn’t smile.
“What’s inside? Susu (Milk)? You put susu (milk)?”
"Santan," she answered flatly. Coconut milk.

He scooped another mouthful. Thick gravy dribbled down his chin. His eyes, half-lidded, dropped again to her thighs. She sat just within his line of sight, her kain batik sarung pulled high for the heat, for the lie. Let him look. Every look was one more spoonful.

“Hot,” he said, panting. “Very hot.”
“Cili Siam,” she said. Thai bird’s eye chili. “Saya suka pedas.” I like it spicy. He grinned.
“Saya suka... semua.” I like everything.

He didn’t notice the glint of powder on the edge of the spoon she hadn’t stirred in completely. He thought it was the residue of cooked coconut milk.

Five years earlier, at Pak Long Deraman’s house, Salsabila was only eight. Her feet didn’t yet reach the floor when she sat on the wooden kitchen stool. Her Auntie Sopiah was scrubbing her hands, over and over, though they looked clean. A welt was forming near her collarbone, purplish and cruel.

“Mak Su,” Salsabila whispered, “Ngapo nangih (Why do you cry)?”

Sopiah didn’t answer. She just reached for the batu giling, the grinding stone and began pounding something soft, oily.

“Mu tau buah keras (do you know candlenut), Sal?” The child shook her head.

“Oghe ingat untuk bagi pekat kuoh. Tapi tok nek kito... tau lebih. (People think it’s for thickening of the gravy). But our ancestors... knew better.)”

She paused, her eyes going hollow.

She told Sal, when you ground it too fine, use too much, it burns the stomach from the inside. Like acid. It only needs coconut milk, strong spices to carry it and boil it well. No smell, no taste, no trace.

She smiled, bitter and tired.

“Pokcik mu pukul kawe lagi. Tak po, biar dio raso penyakit dio sendiri (He abuses me again, I’ll let him eat his own wrongdoings).”

And then she wiped her tears with a corner of her kain batik, and went back to grinding.

Salsabila never forgot the smell of raw candlenut: soft, oily, like crushed almonds left in the sun. Her small hands itched to touch the powder, not for revenge yet, but to remember. To keep it.

Back to present in Kelantan of the year 1941... “Kau letak apa ni?!”
What did you put in this?!

The soldier's voice cracked. His bowl clattered to the ground. He was bent now, gripping his belly. Sweat darkened his uniform. Another soldier called out, but Salsabila remained kneeling, gently wiping the edge of the spilled gravy with a cloth.

“Too spicy?” she asked softly, tilting her head. No one saw the sliver of a smile curl on her lips. Behind her, her mother rocked the baby sister, humming a lullaby out of tune. Outside, a rooster screamed, as if it knew.

He was the fattest among them, Corporal Hideo, loud and constantly sweating, the kind who laughed with his mouth full and barked Malay words like he was choking on them.

“Ayam!” Chicken. “You, girl! More gravy!”

Salsabila carried the second bowl to him. She didn’t look at his face. Only the bowl. She made sure it had extra. Not just candlenut, but the oil skimmed off the top. The poison bloomed best in fat. He slurped it clean like a good dog. Gravy dripping down his neck, catching in his collar. One hand on his belly, the other fanning his shirt open. His lips were stained and swollen red from all the chili. His eyes glistened when he looked at her legs.

“Very good. You make this?” She nodded. “Yes.”
“You like me?” he asked. She didn’t answer.

“You quiet girl. But so pretty. Maybe I marry you after war.”
She still said nothing. She stood there, calm as a candle in a storm.

That night, he didn’t sleep. By dawn, he was writhing in his tent, pants soaked, breath short, the stench of bile and shame in the air.

By noon, he was dead.

A hushed panic broke out among the Japanese. But none of them looked at Salsabila. Instead, it was Pak Da, the local informant, who said it first.

“Maybe he... stepped on busut semut api,” he said, lowering his voice, eyes darting around. “Cursed anthills. People die like that here. Foaming, burning inside.”

One soldier crossed himself. Another spat on the ground.

Salsabila was in the kitchen, rinsing the bowls in cold water. She didn’t smile. But her fingers paused for a moment over the rim of the second bowl. Her thumb touched the faint oil ring. Two bowls. Enough for the fat one to die. She said nothing, just carried the clean bowl back to the rack, and lit a stick of lemongrass to chase flies from the kitchen. Behind her, they were already burning the soldier’s uniform.

“In this village, nobody dies of food,” Mak Esah muttered later that night. “Only from what they bring with them.”

~~~

His name was Private Kazuo, and he was different. He didn’t leer. He didn’t laugh too loudly or grab too hard. He once tried to return her fallen comb, without looking at her. That alone made him suspicious.

Now, he stood in the kitchen, one foot nervously tapping the wooden floor. His face was young, almost soft, but something in his eyes had hardened.

“Kau (You),” he said in halting Malay, “you always cook the chicken.” Salsabila kept her back turned. She was slicing lemongrass.
“Yes,” she replied. Nothing more.
“Corporal Hideo... die. You know?”

She gave the faintest nod.

“You give him food. Same as others. But he... two bowls. More than anyone.”

She turned to face him, finally. Her gaze was unreadable.

“You think food kills him?”

Kazuo hesitated. Swallowed. Glanced at the large bowl on the bench — filled with the same ayam gulai lemak cili Siam, bubbling gently over a charcoal flame.

“Maybe... something wrong inside.” “You want proof?”

Before he could answer, Salsabila stepped forward, lifted the ladle, and poured the gravy into his bowl.

Then, never breaking eye contact, she sat on the floor, took the bowl in both hands, and drank. Slowly. Every last drop. Gravy streaked her lips, dribbled down her chin to her chest. She wiped it with her kain batik. She set the bowl down. Licked her thumb.

“Still alive,” she said softly. “Anything else?”

Kazuo was silent. Embarrassed. Ashamed. He never asked again. But that night, as he sat outside watching the moon, he wondered, “Why did she drink his bowl?”

Because of course, Salsabila didn’t poison all the bowls. Only the ones she chose. And the fact that she drank his? That meant something. He just didn’t know what.

“Japanese stomach like silk,” Mak Esah once said. “But ours? Ours are trained on fire and famine. We eat to live. We don’t live to eat.”

The rain had stopped hours ago, but the earth still steamed. Salsabila sat cross-legged beside the open fire, her kain batik sarong pulled to her calves, sleeves rolled to her elbows. She was brushing grilled catfish with a thick glaze of soy, chili, and tamarind, the smoke curling into her hair.

Private Kazuo sat a few feet away, watching her in silence.

“We call this ikan keli,” she said without turning. “But tonight, I'll make it your way.”

He blinked. “Japanese way?”

“Yes. You said before you miss home. So I use miso and mirin from your old stock. One bottle left.”

She had listened. More than he thought.

He lowered his head, murmured, “Arigatou.”

The fire crackled. The skin of the catfish blistered and hissed. Her back was to him, but he could see how sweat had soaked through the fabric of her kebaya, clinging to her spine, to the curves of her shoulder blades. Her braid stuck to her neck. The fire lit her from beneath, she looked older, almost unreal.

Kazuo looked away, ashamed.

She was a child. A clever, weary child who had already seen too much of men. And yet, she cooked like a wife. Moved like a ghost.

“You’re different,” he said suddenly.
She looked over her shoulder. “You too.”
A moment passed between them, light and dangerous. She turned the fish again.

“Food is safe,” she said finally. “I prepared for you gently with more care.”
He gave a small, breathless laugh. His face turned pink from shyness. “I know.”

They ate quietly. Fingers sticky, mouths warm. When it was done, she washed his hands with lime water. He bowed low. She didn't stop him.

“Why you help me?” he asked softly, almost afraid of the answer. “Because you looked away when my scarf slipped.”

He froze. She stood, picked up the empty plate, and left him sitting by the fire, full, shaken, and completely hers.

A few weeks after the catfish, he came again. This time, without a bowl. Just a cloth bundle in his hand.

“For you,” he said, placing it on the wooden bench.

Salsabila blinked. The cloth was smooth, fine, pale blue with small painted cranes. Japanese cotton. Not from the local market, surely. Imported. She stared at it, unsure.

“You can... make kebaya, or selendang,” he offered, awkward. “It’s soft. Good for hot nights.” “Why?”
“Because I asked you to cook again.”
She nodded slowly. “Grilled?”

“Yes. Eel.”

She raised an eyebrow. “We call that belut. Hard to find now.”

He reached into his satchel and pulled out a salted one, carefully wrapped.

“Found in army trade. I saved it.”

“You want grilled Japanese style?”

He hesitated. Then, quietly. “Yes. My mother... used to make unagi kabayaki when I was small. Before school. When I was five.”

Salsabila didn’t answer.

She took the eel, cleaned it gently, and began preparing the marinade: soy, gula nise (palm sugar), lime, a little fermented rice water she'd hidden under the bed. She didn’t look at him, but she moved slower, more intentionally, like this wasn’t just another order. That night, as the unagi sizzled over fire and smoke clung to their clothes, they didn’t speak. But Kazuo watched her. And this time, not her body. Just her hands. How they moved with memory. How she didn’t measure, she knew by instinct.

When she handed him the plate, he bowed. Deeper, longer than before. “You remind me of someone.”
“A girl?”
“No,” he said. “Peace.”

She blinked once. That was the closest thing to love anyone had ever told her.

Later that night, she unfolded the cotton again in her room. Between the folds, she found a note stitched in tiny thread. Japanese characters she couldn’t read. But in the corner was a small red stamp, like a family crest, perhaps. Proof that it came from home. She never asked him what it said. But from that day on, she wore the cloth as a waistband, whenever she cooked something she didn’t poison.

They were nearly caught.

It began when Lieutenant Shunji, a higher-ranking officer, fell sick after a shared meal. Unlike the others, he survived but not quietly. He raged. Demanded answers. Blamed the young boy-turned soldier who knows too many Malay words and too kind to locals — Kazuo.

Kazuo was dragged before the fire, beaten once, twice, enough to taste metal. Someone whispered, “death by blade”. But then she stepped forward.

Salsabila.

She wore her sheerest kebaya, gifted once by a Thai trader. No camisole beneath. Just skin, gleaming like brushed gold under the lanterns. Her kain batik was tied high, as if innocence were just a myth from yesterday. She began to dance. Slowly. Arms soft like seaweed in tide. Eyes heavy-lidded. Each sway, each shift, a calculated lullaby for men drunk on war and rice wine. Laughter erupted. Sake bottles passed around. Someone clapped. Someone else asked for more. The fire roared.

Kazuo was forgotten. By dawn, he was reassigned. Away from Tumpat. Far from her.

They met one last time before his transfer. By the hill where candlenut, buah keras grew. Its leaves jagged like old wounds, its seeds round and deceptively smooth. He stood there, uniform neat but his eyes ruined.

She handed him a small linen pouch. “What’s this?” he asked.
“Ground candlenut. Dry, but potent.” She smiled faintly.

“Use only when necessary. When you need diplomacy... with a sharp edge.” He chuckled. “You’re not an innocent girl.”
“No,” she said, eyes steady. “I’m the war they’ll forget to write about.”

He bent slightly, unsure, respectful and she leaned forward to kiss him. Just once. A dry kiss. Honest. Without longing. But full of memory.

Atiqah Ghazali-alKashif is a Malaysian writer whose works slip between shadows where femininity resists, rituals linger, and memory tastes like smoke. A marketer and former educator, she writes fiction that dances with history, grief, and desire, often through the lens of Southeast Asian women whose strength lies not in loud rebellion, but in quiet defiance. Her storytelling blends cultural detail with psychological depth, shaped by her Kelantanese-Terengganu roots and her life between continents. This is her debut appearance in Scribbled.