The Devil Wears Batik - By Cassandra Wijesuria

Written By: Cassandra Wijesuria

Category: Short Story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In the vibrant tapestry of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, Cassandra Wijesuria presents "The Devil Wears Batik," a short story that delves into the life of a village seamstress with the gift of foresight. Set in the colorful and culturally rich backdrop of Pasir Puteh, the narrative explores themes of secrets, tradition, and the unseen truths hidden within the intricacies of daily life. Through the discerning eyes of Mak Timah, Wijesuria weaves a story that captivates with its blend of cultural authenticity and profound insight.

About the Work

"The Devil Wears Batik" is a masterful exploration of the power and burden of foresight. Through vivid imagery and evocative storytelling, Cassandra Wijesuria paints a picture of a traditional seamstress whose gift reveals hidden truths. The narrative is rich with cultural nuance, offering a glimpse into the complexities of village life and the weight of secrets. With a tone that balances warmth and foreboding, the story leaves readers contemplating the fine line between tradition and truth.

The Devil Wears Batik

Original Submission by Cassandra Wijesuria

THE DEVIL WEARS BATIK

By: Cassandra Wijesuria

(951 words)

There is a saying in Pasir Puteh about their favourite person: ask Mak Timah to sew your clothes, and your marriage will last a lifetime.

But the wiry, sharp-eyed 70-year-old seamstress neither laughed nor corrected that statement.

It was on a sunny Tuesday afternoon when their village Imam, Aiman, brought along his bride-to-be, Sara, for their scheduled appointment. Their Nikah, planned 6 months away, was all the kampung could talk about because the couple was well-loved by all.

Given his youth, Aiman was unlike the Imams of old, more jovial than austere. He volunteered his time and energy, from soup kitchens to coaching the boys’ football teams after school.

Sara was the perfect match for him; right family, right temperament. She was among the first teachers at the new learning center Aiman had established for autistic youngsters learning the Quran.

Mak Timah smiled as she watched Sara take in all the rows of silk and batik lined up like soldiers. She tenderly touched a silk one as she asked excitedly, “Sayang, I was thinking of having blue -”

“Lavender, sayang.” came Aiman’s clipped answer.

Sara blinked, “Oh, baiklah abang,” she demurred, her voice a tad softer than earlier.

Aiman smiled, as though this was some inside joke. “Nasib baik she’s marrying me kan? She forgets things.”

Mak Timah didn’t laugh.

The material of choice was a lilac silk kain batik lepas. It featured darker patterns in amethyst, with the bunga penuh that complemented as a bengkung for the sampin.

Mak Timah lined up the batik for measurement and the silk touched him. That was when she saw it.

The batik was drenched in black ink as though someone had spilled oil across the garment. The ink flowed, unabashed in its revelation to none except Mak Timah.

The ink was never wrong. Her gift of foresight was a blessing when she came of age, but a curse as wisdom overtook.

The words scalded her tongue but were uttered in another’s cruel voice:

Syaitan.

It had been thirty-two years since the incident. When Mak Timah had tried to speak up, the bride-to-be had slapped her, saying that only a devil would poison a woman’s happiness.

By the week’s end, half the village stopped bringing their clothes to her. Her no-nonsense mother reopened the shutters and said, “A devil rarely arrives looking like one.”

Silence had kept four generations of seamstresses in business. Eventually, collective amnesia returned. Some truths cost more than a tailoring shop in Pasir Puteh could afford.

Aiman must have noticed she looked pale, because he turned around in alarm, “Eh, makcik? You OK ke? Rupa macam tengok hantu. Jap I bagi you kerusi.”

***

Mak Timah sighed inwardly as she took in Sara’s measurements. She’d been thirty-two when she’d started. A mere three weeks into the Nikah, she was twenty-four inches.

Sara’s voice quavered as she talked about Aiman, but not in the way a blushing bride would normally speak, apologizing every few sentences. “Aiman kata I cakap banyak banyak. It’s OK. I’ll get used to it.”

Aiman arrived for his final fitting that same day. His line of sight landed on Sara, and his gaze became like ice.

“Adik, boleh tolong makcik ni? Nak ajar you how to tie the batik pancung.” Mak Timah said kindly. Sara nodded nervously.

Her hands were shaking so much when she approached Aiman, but she said nothing. He gripped Sara’s hand so hard she let out a small whimper as he hissed.

“Nanti khawin macam mana? Stop being so sensitive. Paham?”

“Ye abang. Faham,” she whispered.

As Mak Timah fastened the bengkung around his waist, it confirmed the worst. The entire belt was soaked in the accursed onyx ink.

When they left, Mak Timah switched the sign from “Buka” to “Tutup”. Staring at Aiman’s garment like a serpent come alive, she picked up her needle and thread one more time.

***

By all accounts, the wedding was a success, another marriage that would surely last thanks to the sewing prowess of their friendly neighbourhood seamstress. But on that rainy Tuesday afternoon six weeks later, Mak Timah knew better.

Sara came in, her eyes hollow and red-rimmed. The loose baju she was wearing did little to hide the bruise on her neck. Now, she was holding Aiman’s Baju Melayu the way a child is ready to hurl a toy. She quietly placed Aiman’s wedding garments on the glass cabinets.

“I know it was you.”

Mak Timah pretended to busy herself with her ledgers.

Sara adjusted the garment to show the words Mak Timah had sewn that night after Aiman’s final fitting, pushing it so the older woman could see:

Syaitan jarang muncul berbentuk syaitan

It was hidden behind the seams of his highly detailed gold butang; the five buttons on the cekak musang, representing the five pillars of Islam.

“I thought I was imagining things. That’s what his mother said. I believed her…until I found your stitching.”

Mah Timah looked up as she met the younger woman’s eyes, one reflecting fear and the other reflecting pain behind wisdom. “How can I repay you for your kindness, Mak Timah?”

“Leave him sayangku. Tu saje”

***

Sara left quietly, clutching her car keys as an oblivious couple walked into the shop. The Indian groom looked utterly overwhelmed amongst the sea of batik and colours, while his bride, tudung-clad in ivory and peach, did the talking.

“Er, makcik? Can I see the blue and silver batik pattern?” the bride asked as the man nodded, seemingly relieved with her choice.

Mak Timah smiled as she gathered the batik of choice. As she measured the batik against the man’s shoulders, she stiffened. The batik was drenched in black ink.

THE END

The Devil Wears Batik/

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a prestigious platform celebrating diverse voices in the literary arts. This competition invites participants from around the globe to share their unique stories and poetic expressions. It serves as a vibrant stage for writers to showcase their creative talents and engage with a worldwide audience, fostering a community of literary enthusiasts and professionals alike.

We extend our heartfelt thanks to Cassandra Wijesuria for her participation in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 with her short story "The Devil Wears Batik." Her narrative skillfully captures the essence of cultural tradition and the secrets woven into everyday life. We are grateful for her contribution and the rich tapestry of imagination she brings to the literary world.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.