The Khong Guan biscuit tin
Under Nur's bed there's a Khong Guan biscuit tin. The metal lid with flower prints, the kind you find in any shop in Toa Payoh. There are no biscuits left inside. There are stones, buttons, pieces of sea glass, a nut, and a myna feather. Every object has an exact place. His grandmother Aminah never touches the tin.
The first stone is gray with a white vein. Smooth to the touch, the size of a thumb. Nur found it on Changi Beach at age five. Aminah wanted to go and Nur wouldn't move. He was looking for more. He waited twenty minutes crouched in the sand, turning stones, rejecting the ones that didn't pass the touch test. The selection criteria are his alone.
At recess he does the same. He looks for things on the ground while the others run. When he finds something that interests him, he pockets it in his overalls without comment. At home, he washes it under the tap and places it in the tin alongside the rest. The tin gets heavier every month. If it was ever lost, something would really break.







