Baby Thots

Baby Thots

“Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.

They come through you and not from you,

And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.”

Kahlil Gibran (The Prophet)

Alman turned 5 months on Independence Day 2012. We took him to Kelab Darul Ehsan for the first time and I showed him the colourful frolicking fish in the pond. He looked as some of them swam towards us, seemed startled and gazed at my face a few times, back and forth. I imagined the questions in his mind and talked to him about the fish, their colours, what they eat and all that. He was silent just like he usually is when I take him out into my little garden and show him the flowers and butterflies, or outside the compound to look at the big trees, though he would bend and turn in my arms as though inspecting this and that. Maybe he hasn’t caught me talking to my plants yet.

Other than that, he “ talks” quite a lot, coos, squeals, chuckles, screams and grunts as he pleases, either in response to our chats with him or what he sees on tv, when we sing to him, while playing by himself or when he tries to tell us that he needs his milk, a nap or a nappy change. He rocks backward and around now on his tummy, can do the roll and caterpillar crawl too. Also lifts his bum high and to the left or right and cries as he falls back on his tummy or backwards, as if frustrated that he can’t yet move on to the next stage….crawling on all fours or sitting? He frets, usually after a long play session, for a hug and a silent trot.

Alman and Tok share the same birthday, 31^st March. His special connection with his birthday mate is quite obvious. Ever since he demonstrated the ability to interact, he has hardly ever failed to give Tok his gleeful, wide, toothless smile in greeting. Even as he is crying for something, he would stop in his tracks for 2 seconds to give Tok a smile and then resume his crying business. He seems to tease Tok back sometimes with his sweetest, lingering smile as if saying “I know what you did……..”. Tok would put him in his training chair beside him as he feeds the cats their canned food from inside the grilled back porch. He seems to love it, looking intently at Tok’s face with a smile now and then and as he watches the famished cats lap up the wet stuff, flicks out his tongue and starts to drool himself. Well, for now we can only give him a slice of apple to lick now and then, as Dr Wong advised.   

When he looks at you without a smile, it is hard to fathom what his thoughts are. Like when he would sometimes lift his head from my shoulder and just look at me for a few seconds . Is it my heart beat he is deciphering or my breathing because my own thoughts do wander to near and faraway places as I gently rock him to sleep.

He usually wakes up his mummy with a loud happy squeal and a kick (at her tummy or face). What a blessing to be able to hear…..that most beautiful sound.

I’ve sheltered and guided my children as I see fit and then let them fly in search of their vocation, knowing that they will find their own connection with the universe. I thank God for the courage to do so. Separation has been inevitable. In my sorrow, Gibran’s words give me gladness……that my mother’s love has not held back my ‘living arrows’ from discovering what Mother Nature has in store for them.

Alman’s parents sometimes say that he is growing too fast, that they wish him to remain a baby for a longer time. Childhood years will pass only too quickly and Alman’s mum will one day have to decide when he can leave her nest.

I miss my babies too and wish I could relive their childhood years with them. Izwin’s home and I can still take her under my wings (rather armpits) sometimes when her husband is not around, but I miss the boys too much…..make a trip home soon, the both of you!    

      

   

Baby Bellas

I’m delighted to have found portabella mushrooms at Ben’s supermarket in Dutamas. That was three weeks ago when Izwin took me to suffer nostalgia at this neat coffee place there that seems to have cleverly been transported from some place cold…speaking of which, “coffee” would be a good choice for word association in vocabulary building exercise in my next English language workshop. Or even for creative expression. When I use “chocolates”, I sometimes bring ‘M&M”s to massage the words out of the students. Coffee…well, there is usually free flow at the back of the room twice a day, so there should be sufficient stimulation unless there are too many coffee connoisseurs among them who must have their special blend of Sumatran or Colombian Arabica coffee beans and what-have-you, to start spinning.

So when Izwin told me she was going to put up a stall at the bazaar in Dutamas next Saturday (4^th Aug),  the first thing that came to mind was portabella cheese burger! I found this super recipe in the Star newspaper. At times like this, I feel truly thrilled with the internet…for giving me instant information on portabella mushrooms, to realize that “Arugula” is simply wild rockets…making it possible for me to experiment right away before I get lazy again. I substituted balsamic vinegar with apple cider vinegar (for seasoning baby bellas), sweet red wine with chicken stock (for flavouring with fried red onions) and blue cheese with a cheddar and parmesan mix….voila! Oily yet detoxifying with just enough arugula and tomatoes to sanction the rich creamy taste. Other nutritious ingredients in it are olive oil, garlic and whole-wheat bread. So we can have that again soon…yummy.

Izwin has suggested that I should add in food sale at her stall. Going by her experience at a similar bazaar last Ramadan, people will be looking forward to food choices for berbuka. My inclination is towards something savoury…we’ll see.

Buffet

Alman was reclining in his rocking chair placed right in front of the kitchen door watching the four of us scurrying in the tiny kitchen making our own favourite drink  for buka puasa (breaking of fast). Azan came and just as we were into the second bite of some sweet starters, Alman gave his warning cry and that characteristic twist that signaled his wish to be out or for some company, or simply that he was getting hungry. What started as a sit-down dinner together (which is something we always look forward to in Ramadan) instantly broke up. Opah brought her plate over to  Alman on the floor, Tok joined in, Mama shifted to the other dining table so Alman could look up at her too while Abah proceeded to the coffee table from where he called out to Alman in funny voices now and again while eating with his eyes glued to some Japanese cartoons on tv. All so that Alman would not feel left out and allow us to enjoy our fill. Lion prince acknowledged the attention with little sheepish smiles and tiny sighs, and if he was hungry, he did wait till Mama finished her dinner, somewhat hurriedly, before starting to wriggle more decidedly and whine.  

That was the first day of puasa. We’d gotten wiser since then, making sure Alman is not hungry at least during the first twenty minutes into breaking fast. So he would join Abah and Mama on the cartoons and sometimes Gran and Gramps in the kitchen can hear his chuckles. “When can you be our imam, my little man?” asks Mama. Till then, we have to take turns at solat.

Alman takes charge when he suckles, demanding full attention and taking his own sweet time. Last Saturday we were at Onyang’s for berbuka. We arrived rather late and Alman was all fussed-up for his “nenen” after the usual round of greetings and teasing with Onyang and Maklong . No compromise there, so be it. But when Azan was heard and Mama politely asked if he could let her break her fast first, Alman actually stopped suckling, looked up and grinned! Fasting is especially challenging for a mother who is nursing fully at home and expresses her milk during the day at work. Perhaps Alman knows this too.   

Milestone

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Yesterday Alman turned 3 months and 5 days. In full view of his Mama, Abah and Tok, he made a successful full turn on the cloth mat without any help, bobbing his head and holding it up for just a few seconds! The applause brought me running out of the kitchen just in time to save him from  possible suffocation as the adults were getting carried away by his showmanship. That he has…I caught him grinning as he was turning on Tok’s bed later, and holding the grin at the end of the feat.

Two weeks ago when Alman had his second antigen shot, Dr Wong told us he weighed 6.3 kg, about twice his weight at birth. No wonder I had lost 1.5 kg despite not keeping strictly to my back porch gym routine since Alman’s mum went back to work. Now I should be more conscious about keeping my back straight and to be more graceful when I do the “up and down” (timang2) which he enjoys so much, as my own dumb bells (which are gathering dust) are 3kg each. Poor Alman, I also use him to do the squat sometimes. Well, he gets upset from lying in his rocking chair too long and prefers to be carried around. I do try to complete at least 5 minutes on the stepper daily, but actually I break more sweat from dancing up and down the living room with Alman. For he loves moving to classic rock on Astro 860 or golden hits on 861, rather than the sweet tunes on baby tv. His toothless glee bursts into giggles sometimes as he catches my thrill at singing along with oldies like “walk right back” and “sunny”. They say classical music is good for a child’s intellectual development, so I keep “Opus” as well as Quranic recitations from channel 106, for alpha wave time…when he is falling asleep.

We have to go to One Baby World in Taman Permata this weekend and check out that colourful vinyl playmat we saw earlier. It felt cool and nice when we tried it lying down. It would be great for Alman to practice his rockin’ and rollin’!

Anto Yan

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That’s what Danny, my nephew who is expecting his first baby next month, used to call Uncle Yanto, when he was a toddler. Yan got married to my youngest sister, Pid (Rafidah), when Alman’s mum, Izwin, was 5 years old, and took her away to live in Gold Coast. They have a daughter, Izurein, and the family has settled down in a lovely suburb in Perth.

We used to call him McGuiver because he was great at DIY, would fix things we got stuck with like home gadgets and pipes, fantastic at origami, at making faces….all the creative, magical stuff. The kids used to be thrilled by his dramatization. He was spontaneous with character imitation and joked around with them a lot. The neighbours’ kids would join in, trailing after him like he was the Pied Piper. In fact, he used to envy the clowns in the amusement parks as he felt he could do just as well, have fun and earn good money at the same time. Once he offered the shopkeeper in a shopping mall in Gold Coast, to sing a song for a discount. The blessed old man agreed, Yan sang and got his discount. My kids love to reminisce the camping nights with Uncle Yan in our living room, with tents made from my king size flat sheets. Izwin has been wondering lately how she was going to make the very same tents for Alman with only fitted sheets in the house nowadays. 

Yan was home recently on holiday or rather, more specifically, to spend time with his mum who is not too well these days. He spent a few days at our home, during which time Alman was first heard to cackle and gurgle with laughter. I don’t know who was more exhausted after their bantering, grandpa or baby, as both lay asleep side by side in the middle of the living room. Yan keeps himself fit with regular gym workouts back in Perth, but takes a break from routine whenever he is home on holiday, entertain his food cravings and would allow the kilos to creep up. He would get back into shape though once holiday is over and, in his Aussie casuals, looks so much younger than his ex-schoolmates from Peel Road whom he gets together with during the holiday trips home. Those days he and the gang used to do Saturday morning jogs in the Ampang area where we live now, all through  Jalan U Thant, where they would pick up newspapers and bread hanging on the fences of those huge houses and trade them off for breakfast at the mamak stall.

He is still my McGuiver too. He fixed my wire netting on the back porch grill where the workers did a sloppy job, putting to rest my agony and anxieties over the cats squishing their way through onto the porch, and most of all, ending my antagonism at the other guys at home who had been procrastinating and ignoring my pleas to get the darn thing done. He also terminated the long suffering drip from the old shower head in the bathroom downstairs and changed fused bulbs in the house. Alman loves brightly lit rooms. I imagine a fairy dancing under the lights as Alman, staring unblinkingly at them, smiles and squeals.  

He didn’t get to trim my plants this time, but showed me exactly how to prune some of them. I wish I can get to see the lavender blooming in his garden this raya, but perhaps Alman is still too young to travel so far and I’m not quite ready to leave him even for a week.    

If ever he decides to resettle in Malaysia, Yan could make a living out of his DIY skills alone. But he is not likely to as he has lived overseas for the major part of his life and finds it hard to readjust, much as he loves his homeland and family here. The humid weather, haze, traffic jams, unruly drivers, the jostling at LRT stations, taxi drivers swarming at passengers getting down at terminus, salesgirls following him around the store, dirty public toilets….top the list of unbearable items.  And what has happened to his beloved Pasar Seni…he said it is a shambles today.  For Yan loves to revisit places where he used to work or hang out during his young days, but after half a day of city romping, he would come home quite depressed. He wants to have a word with the Minister of Tourism and suggested a panel of Malaysians now living overseas to talk about these issues on tv.  Sample questions…how does the Minister expect the mat salleh tourist to use the public toilet without toilet paper, has the Minister ever seen what the hose in the toilet looks like or touched it, how often are the enforcers checked up on. Alman’s smiles always quickly lighten up his mood again.

Yan is only voicing what we ourselves in Kuala Lumpur are much aware of and have become rather complacent about. Well, most of us, including people like me who do not go out much any more and who try to do everything I need to within the confines of the shopping mall…speaking of which brings up the subject of rising crime rates. The roots of this evil and what we get in exchange for this erosion in the quality of our lives becomes one of the subject of our discussion in the kitchen as I prepare breakfast and lunch boxes while everyone else is still fast asleep upstairs. Yan settles for black coffee and coconut buns as he animatedly compares what different governments are doing to control crime and corruption. I guess it is back to principles and enforcement…or at the crux of it, about knocking some peoples’ heads and moving their butts.

With his ardour and conviction in expressing his concerns, some people take to Yan’s behaviour as being over critical and him, fussy and grumpy (pok pek, pok pek). Well, it is their loss…you don’t lose anything by listening to good thoughts and allowing someone to relieve his or her stress. He used to get even angry as he talked about these things, but now there is a mellowness about him that allows others to feel the deep sense of caring and even sadness, in those otherwise harsh comments. Why, when we bade farewell at KL Central, he could even smile (or was it a snicker?) as he took out his luggage from the car boot that was once priced open (last July when his family came back to attend Izwin’s and Danny’s wedding) while we were having dinner at the infamous Suzie’s corner. Yan, Pid and Izurein lost most of their precious belongings then. Then ensued a night to remember with the police…sensitive topic, huh? Thank God, some hilarious episodes along the way watered down the heat. They never got back their things some of which were irreplaceable. Izaz, my youngest son, was also traumatized by the loss of his beloved old computer in that incident, especially as he was returning to university for his final semester. Yan bought him a brand new one the next day…considered as a long term loan, he said. Perhaps some of the memories in that battered computer are meant to be forgotten and the gift to usher in a new lease of life. 

Well, Yan is a sculptor par excellence and he left Malaysia to go where he can make a living out of his talent and skills. He has built a career and a name for himself in the hotel industry in Australia and has won many gold and silver medals in arts competitions on the Gold Coast and Perth, mostly for carving thematic objects in ice, styrofoam, butter, sugar. He project manages and trains others now, but is always compelled to go down to the ground to set the displays right.  He knows he is a tough trainer, but then there are no half measures about him. He sculpts, works, exercises, debates and plays (and almost everything else he does) with equal passion. Little Alman is left breathless sometimes after a “conversation” with him. My children would best understand if I stretch a little more to say “he gives what he gets and keeps his promises”….    

Yan fought a long battle with nicotine and just a few years ago, kept his promise, as much to himself as to his family, to win it. And then to embark on weight lifting just before becoming a quinquagenarian vis-à-vis replacing tar-infused Marlboro packs with whey-filled packs on the torso….is that phenomenal or what you can call a paradigm shift? Can’t say I am not delighted at the multiplier effect, as my eldest son, Idzfan, also stopped smoking last year when he moved in with Yan’s family upon taking up a contract with an architectural firm in the city. Well, he still indulges on a puff or two when he is home on holiday, but that was the way with Yan too when he was weaning off the sticks for many years.

(5 days later)

Danny’s wife, Dorrati, has delivered a healthy baby boy. We brought Alman to visit his cousin in hospital and Yan came along too, thrilled at the opportunity to snap a very early picture with his grand nephew. What will kissing cousins Muhammad Alman and Al-Iman Danish call Anto Yan…..Toyan?

*Read more stories about Yan and his family in “The New Chapter”.

                                                A Prayer

“Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

The courage to change the things I can 

And the wisdom to know the difference”

MORE ANGELS THAN DEMONS

Too many tarry tales of the abominable taxi driver have been poured down our memory lane that I  feel compelled now to share some of my more pleasant encounters with this segment of service providers, if only to cleanse the stigma a little.

Dragon Angel

It was 6am when I had to rush my 8-year old son who had a sudden asthma attack, to Tawakkal Hospital.  The radio cab arrived promptly that grey misty morning and I urged the driver to get us to the hospital as soon as possible.  My son was coughing badly and vomited on a good half of the backseat before I could push a plastic bag over his mouth.  I was already spluttering apologies when the driver turned around and gently told me that there was a box of tissues at the back, asked what was wrong with my son and then offered a bottle of “Poh Sam On” (translated “Dragon's Blood”),  a very pleasant smelling massage oil for 'relief of breathing difficulties, stomach aches and other aches and pains'.  He even told me to keep it as he had another full bottle to spare. For many years since that day, my son had been using it, not too often, but insisted on having it ready by his bedside and I even packed a bottle for him when he left to study in Australia.  At 28, he may have grown out of it, but I still wonder if it was the memory of that very kind soul with his ethereal calm, or the oil itself that had soothed him all those years. I wish I had asked for his name or contact number, but my heart was in my mouth then as he dropped us in front of the emergency ward.

Father Figure

It was one of those occasional days when I made arrangements with my nine-year old son to pick him up at school on my way home from work.  We had agreed on the specific time and spot to meet.  The traffic delayed me slightly and when I arrived in the taxi, my son was not at the spot as promised.  The road on Bukit Nenas was very busy and the taxi had to trudge back and forth while I made inquiries about my son.  The taxi driver, a Chinese man in his forties, was very patient all the time and even offered to wait a little longer after I had given up searching myself, voicing his concern over how my son was coming home.  I assured him that he would ride home on the school bus.  As I got out of the taxi later, he quipped “Take good care of your children.  They need you most now”.  I wish I had better parting words of gratitude than just “thanks” accompanying the fare and tip, but then my anxiety had left me tongue-tied.

Tok Taxi

I used to charter a taxi for almost 2 years when my two elder children were in kindergarten and the baby in nursery.  I did not have a a maid then and the reliable taxi driver was a crucial link in the efficient management of my daily affairs and my children's well-being.  On top of the agenda was my baby's breastfeeding schedule. The old man was always punctual but I knew much later that he had a heart problem and did get angina pains during some of those journeys home ( when he would suddenly slow down and appeared detached).  He had a gentle disposition and was always cheerful.  He assured me that he was nevertheless under control and would not put our lives in jeopardy.  I believed him.  Besides I knew he needed the income.  He was in the best of health though throughout his pilgrimage in Mecca.  He also admitted laughingly (only after I insisted on knowing the truth) that  my daughter did wet the backseat of the taxi during several of the long mid afternoon rides to grandma's when she fell asleep, exhausted after school.  Our daily routines with the grand old Pakcik (Tok to my children) was  a most enjoyable episode in our lives that we always reminisce with a tinge of sadness.  He had retired to live in his kampong in Malacca.  I pray that I will meet him again someday, here or in the hereafter.

     

Tip for Tat

The taxi drivers usually asked which route I would prefer to take to my destination.  I always suggested they use the one that would take the shortest possible time, leaving the decision to their good judgement.  Despite the threatening jam, I could breathe easily when they assured me that they would get me to work on time or said, “Don't worry, I'll try my best to get you home as early as possible” as if they knew about my after office chores.  My stresses during those early motherhood and career days must have been pretty obvious because I remember some of them telling me to relax and asked what music I preferred.  A few had even asked me to lie back and sleep, they would wake me up when we reached my home!  

Then there was Mr Yap who would always be at my office foyer in less than five minutes after my radio cab call.  It was getting quite mysterious until he told me one fine day that my call would usually set off  a race among the cabbies as I was reputed to be a generous tipper and a non-fussy passenger! Well, the tip would usually buy them not more than a roti canai and teh tarik  By the way, Mr Yap used to be a road surveyor's technician and a tycoon's driver cum bodyguard.  His tales of the rich and famous were told in unfaltering, if not perfect, English.

Speedy Gonzales

Anas's sunny personality, his freshly scented taxi with its miniature cars and floral bouquet adornments     and continuous pop and slow rock selections should put his call card on top of the pack, but I would only ring him when I am in a terrible hurry to be somewhere.  He simply races his way through the streets and what more the highway.  I have little doubt about him handling the wheels with deftness and caution, but moments in his taxi always bring me closer to God.  In between zikir, I would chat with him, hoping he would slow down.  Sometimes it works.  He has a seventeen year old boy whom he dotes on, runs a successful drapery business with his wife and has a large closely knit family.  He is quite up to date with celebrity gossip and has hearty opinions about many current issues.  His high spirit is contagious. 

While rides with Anas give me cold feet, those with Ah Keong raise my pulse.  For he would not only press on the accelerator inadvertently, but also frequently bumps himself in his seat somewhat rhythmically.  Once  when I told him to slow down, I caught a twinkle behind the dark shades he perpetually has on under his cap.  He  still scares me a little, but I know he takes his job seriously too and perhaps has no other way to express his creativity.

 Attention Seeking Apek

Like everyone else earning a living, the taxi driver needs to release his tensions from time to time.  I found one who started complaining to me about his backache as though I had anything to do with it just because halfway through the journey home, I asked if he could detour a little way to fetch my daughter from the tutor's place.  He even showed me a kind of traditional gadget that he used to relieve his backache.  When I suggested regular exercise, he went on to lament on his weight problem, all the time grumbling as well about having to detour.  I believed he was actually enjoying my attention and  beginning to be a little flirtatious.  I continued to humour him and while he was still moaning about the detour, we found ourselves in front of the tutor's house.  My daughter's excited chatter silenced him.

The Convert

Lee used to charge a bit more for hourly bookings, but he was the most professional of the lot, so I did not mind.  He spoke little and had a serious air about him, so I was surprised when one day he quietly told me that he was attending classes at Perkim.  He was getting married to a young Malay kindergarten school teacher who had been his passenger for some years.  I was touched when he divulged that his wife had left him with their young daughter when she was nine years old (she must be in her twenties now).  He had had to be mother and father to this girl who was then becoming to be a very difficult teenager.  He had to send home food to her everyday and washed her clothes!    I was happy to hear that his future in laws had blessed the marriage.  He actually looked sixty then though was fit and clean-cut.  Lee drives his taxi less often nowadays as he has to take care of his two little girls and still drives his wife to and from the kindergarten.

Tan Bee Seng

I am not joking. I almost choked when he gave me his card at the end of the journey because the ride, with rain  pouring outside, was actually 'bising'!  He started singing loudly as soon as I got into his taxi,  stopping in between to tell me that singing was the best way to cope with stress.  'Why', he said,' life is wonderful. We should celebrate. I make a lot of people at the office happy with my singing'.  It seemed that he had a regular office job.  Despite his Chinese slang, the English songs went off quite well and I found myself singing happily  along to his rendition of Elvis Presley's “Can't help falling in love with you”, to his utter delight.    I never called him after that.

The Debonair

Dressed in an expensive looking long-sleeved white shirt, Alan had a certain aura that immediately told me he did not belong in the taxi driver's seat.  It was a short trip home, but he managed to tell me that he used to be a millionaire, but had lost all his money in Genting and his three wives had left him.  He  seemed lost but still kept his humour.  I thought he could be in a hair cream commercial, but did not tell him so.

This other one, bespectacled and heavily bearded, baffled me, but the trip was also too short for me to interview him.  I had hopped into his cab after watching my daughter's recital at the music college where she studied.  He saw her  and started asking me about her studies with a lot of interest.  He spoke impeccable English in a genteel manner, so much so that I was conscious not to break into Manglish.  He went on to say that children should be allowed to follow their passion and not be over materialistic, quoting his son who had been a successful IT consultant in the USA and was then home, too burnt out to do anything.  Then he peered at the  mirror and told me I had a beautiful voice, like that of Rubiah Lubis.   As if he knew that I adored this not-so-well-known singer of the sixties! I felt quite elated as I alighted from his cab, watching my lady steps. 

The Informed Citizen

There were also avid readers among the taxi drivers who would pick up the paper at every traffic light pause or continuously read throughout the crawling pace.  Some would make critical comments about a particular newspaper's contents and style and even the journalists' credibility.  Not that they all knew I was from the New Straits Times.  It was interesting feedback from the man in the street on the social  impact of certain policies like the rap on traffic offences, trade offences, etc.  Over the years, I   gathered, from this sector of the public,  conciliatory remarks on policies implemented under the Mahathir administration and  awe for the leader himself.

Like you and me, the taxi driver earns a living for his family whose quality of life he strives to improve.  Educational policies are one of his biggest concerns.  Chan was proud to tell me that his two sons were doing well in UPM and another in Form Five.  He was among the few who never grumbled about anything and has continued to drive his taxi till today even though all his sons have graduated  and are holding good jobs.

Kid Galahad

Nekmat was not a taxi driver.  He was a lab technician at the university where I used to work and he welcomed the extra income when I asked if he could be our part-time driver.  My children thought he was the coolest dude.  At 6.45am every morning, the four of us would march out as his turbo-engined proton saga swerved by our street corner and halted sharply in front of the house.  His air-con  misted  the windows and my children continued to sleep even above his funky music.  Weaving his way  nonchalantly  in the heavy morning traffic, Nekmat always appeared in control and confident in his reclined driver's seat.  On the few occasions that he was a bit late himself, he waited in the car until my sons   got past the school gate, ready to pounce on the meagre prefects if they much as dared to jot down their names.   He would drop me at work in good time, then sped to work twenty minutes away.  During those two years, I believe his wife, a nurse at a private hospital, took evening shift as often as she could so that Nekmat could drive us in the mornings. God bless them.                             

Full-time Personal Drivers...No!

Twenty two-year old Bob was always late in the mornings, but I could never get angry with him for too long because I knew he usually had only three to four hours sleep most nights after serving my heavy daily work hours in the hospitality business then.  I allowed him to catch some sleep in the office during the day, but he did not want to appear lazy and preferred to do some light admin work instead  Perhaps either due to  insufficient sleep or sheer bad luck, the new company Proton Wira went through four major repairs in the six months that he served as my driver.  Thankfully, no one was ever hurt.  My  children loved sleepy Bob, but I was quite happy to let him go back to his normal life, especially football and friends.

I thought Ellie was a gem of a find.  She had four classes of driver''s license with what sounded like an impressive track record, was attractive and quite well-dressed.  Besides, she was a single mother to a very cute little boy who appeared endearing and deprived.  She fitted handsomely behind the wheel of our new Mazda 626, but it jumped the curb, smashed ball bearings, etc which broke my husband's heart.  Subsequently, we let her drive me and the children in the old Toyota Corona.  Besides not knowing KL roads well, Ellie was perpetually late, had to bring  along her son whose tantrums neither she nor I, could control.  I watched in horror as he deliberately poured coke and peed in the car. Years later, my children told me how embarrassed they were when Ellie used to honk all the way from the bottom of the slope to where they waited at school and most days they were the last to leave.  I certainly would do a more thorough  screening of someone who has ever been a truck driver,  regardless of the truck size. 

Then there was Zul who I found out, only two weeks after he started work, had obtained his driver's license just a few days before I hired him.  He lied about his driving experience.  He had none.  Luckily he did not have to drive the children and it was only me who arrived one hour late at work for   two weeks.  I gave him a month's pay and returned to my cabbies.

Mates for Good

Sobri and Halim used to be my staff in the university in the 80s. They were bright and among the few who could speak English quite well.  They took early retirement and have been running their own taxi business for years.  Professional on the job, they know the roads well, keep their taxis very clean, always arrive on time and drive at a comfortable speed.  Sobri has regular bookings from expats residing here or on short term trips. I sometimes engage him for my overseas visitors.  For airport pickups and city tours, I rely on Halim and his five-seater.  On other days, Sobri helps me run my errands and even advises me where to get particular plants I want for my garden.  He knows quite a lot about gardening and actually enjoys waiting for me at the nursery, catching a slow puff and  chatting away with the nursery hand.

For quick trips to the local grocers or the banks down the road, Azhar or Lan who work in the country club nearby, are usually at hand as they drive their taxi during off hours.  They would know where to take me to buy parts for my broken garden hose, bricks for my potted plants or a better replacement for my clothes line.

Anas seldom drives me nowadays, instead he has become my professional handyman who fixes my curtains, broken cupboards and the like.  He was indispensable when I moved house, making sure paintings and mirrors were placed exactly where I wanted them without the slightest damage to the walls.  

I have been depending less on taxis since my children started driving, but I find myself needing these few guys frequently.  I still call the radio cab from time to time and sometimes meet some of those drivers from yesteryears, now thinner and white haired.  They always ask about my children, especially those who were entrusted to drive my little ones around without me in the cab.

Living It Up

Not all my journeys in the taxi have been pleasant, of course.  I did get my share of fright and harassment from some drivers though these were few and far between.  The wonderful ones I met had not only served me well, but had also given me many life lessons and a peek into lives on the other side of the fence.

What were the advantages of not driving my own vehicle during those years ? Besides saving me the stress of plodding through the jammed roads alongside other uptight drivers and risking road bullies, the reasonable fare was what I paid for the luxury of some solitude for introspection, a quiet read, snooze after a long day or just day dream (most drivers do not chat).  It had enabled me to reach home in time for Asar prayers, banter with my children before they ran off to the field and before I myself ran off to the gym or into the kitchen.  When the family gathered again for the evening, I was always reenergized enough for another session of activities, having had a rest earlier on the road.  Besides, I don't have to think about when the car was due for service, repair, tax, insurance or even  if the tank was filled up for the following day.

Yes, given my inability to drive, the taxi was ( and still is) an indispensable vehicle for making my days productive,  and the taxi driver my trusted friend....more often than not.      

God sends down angels and demons, but He watches over all without a wink of sleep.

 22nd May 2009

            

             

TESOL Practicum Hangover

I woke up this morning with a slight dizziness and a feeling of glue stuck to my eyes.  Is this what a hangover feels like? Well, I guess a full weekend of TESOL practicum sessions would go down as well as, if not more than, a bottle of cognac would to intoxicate anyone!

After Module 4 exam on Sunday 25^th March, I did not receive a single call or sms from anyone in class.  I imagined people were holed up with their lesson plans and rehearsing for practicum as I edited mine twice myself during that week with some additional points which I eventually forgot to present anyway.  By Friday 30^th, time must have started to drag for everyone because…boy, weren't we ever raring to go to get that 45-minute presentation over and done with!

The fever had to come down somehow before the curtain rose and it did.  Some people assumed practicum was starting at 10am instead of 9am, so while waiting for the latecomers, there was time for the first candidate, Gucharan Singh, to pace up and down and crack a few weak jokes to diffuse the tension.

It was a new Gucharan who took to the floor. Hair and mustache neatly trimmed, gone were the t-shirt, lounging pants and sandals.  The long sleeve white shirt, tie and shiny black shoes, hands in pockets and cool, firm gaze underneath bushy brows gave him the persona of my English teacher, Mr Bakshi, way back in the 60s though Bakshi made me more nervous because I never saw his eyes throughout his classes.  He always had sun glasses on and I had always suspected they were to hide his tears that came too easily whenever he read Keats or Wordsworth.  Gucci's half smile made his mood difficult to predict too anyway so no one dared to play the fool or look any where else except at him or the worksheet.

Then came fresh-faced fair Wendy who reminded me of my slender geography teacher.  Wendy took us to the dining tables of folks across the continents from Scandinavia to China, testing our comprehension of the passage on why some preferred fish while others could now afford to eat strawberries throughout the year.  Wendy was just a tad nervous, but she steadied herself after writing on the whiteboard.

Agnes turned dietician with her lesson on a balanced diet and the evils of fast food…which woke us up!  We didn't care what that guy said in the tape.  Life's no fun without Mc D and Kentucky Fried Chicken.  Miss Choy firmly told us to listen again and stick to vegetables, fruits, blah, blah, blah….yeah, right.

Puteri daintily taught us to mind our p's and q's in asking for directions.  And most of all, before giving directions to anyone,  to make sure we knew exactly where the required location was and to remember our left from right or we'd be sending people to the police station instead of the school!

Tall Norina made us feel even smaller seated there primly after being told to be quiet and to raise our hands before saying anything.  Our lips were sealed until she called us out one by one to say 'many water' or 'much water', 'furniture' or 'furnitures', etc.  When it came to 'cake', some smart Alecs started looking at each other…can count or not?  No one dared say anything however, but after getting a few 'good' and 'very good' from her…wah, bodies started shifting and soon answers were raised in unison and all of us scored 100% in the exercises…yay!

Divya, Tara, June M. were such a delightful bunch!  The 'Puppy Love" story came alive with Divya's sunny smile throughout the lesson, who could get any part of the story wrong? Tara kept up the smiles looking, in her trendy white dress and beautiful sandals, as chic as Cameron Diaz whose career history we had to read, understand and remember before we could leave our seats and get raunchy in the middle of the class.  My o my, just to grab a seat to avoid having to answer a question, people ran, pushed and jostled the two gentlemen with their bums!  And not to mention the deafening squeals and tables falling backwards.  Poor Duncan had to take the box several times, but then he got the most sweets and wafers for getting the right answers and wrong answers, too…not fair, teacher.  But we couldn't complain about that as sweets, chocolates and wafers were abundant from then on.  June was in command training us on how to use Queen's English and behave like proper ladies and gentlemen in fine dining restaurants.  And about waitering in such a restaurant…at last I got to relive my childhood fantasy as June brought props and all.  Kudos to the kids, but I have to put the blame on the three of you for starting the sugary stuff flowing and getting everyone even more hyperactive than ever right through the following day.  But then the next morning I did not have time for breakfast or rather, was too nervous to eat, so thank goodness for an  Oreos left in my handbag.   I munched on that in the car on the way and I guess that kept me from fainting in the middle of my presentation.  Low sugar and high tension don't mix very well.

Sunday session started off on time with Mrs Selvamony's tables on countable and uncountable nouns.  Not only had we to figure out whether or not RM30.00 was enough to make 3 dozen sandwiches of 3 varieties, but after counting and stacking up all the  sandwiches neatly, my partner and I had to figure out which of the ingredients were countable and uncountable!  But then demure Josephine was so patient, who would complain?  She reminded me of my standard six class teacher, Miss Navamani.  We adored her and her beautiful saris but one day she sent me and my friend out of the class (and we were teacher's pets too) for giggling and refusing to tell her why.  We decided to stand outside and be stared at for one hour rather than tell her that we were laughing at the cute little shakes her bum made underneath the thin sari as she wrote on the board.  Hah, but wait…didn't we catch Josephine in a giggling fit in Duncan's class? Duncan actually asked her if she would like to go out and compose herself.  Thank goodness, I was afraid he was going to ask her to stand on the chair because by that time Duncan was already in his element, asking Puteri if she was on cloud nine when he caught her bantering with Gucci who could not get over the fact that 'cloud' could take an 's'. 

And guys (now I sound like Tracy, for heaven's sake) did you know then why Josephine was freaking out?  Norina must have twitched or something from across the class to remind her of an 'X' rated joke she made during lunch.  Actually I had been secretly anxious too over what lesson plan Norina was going to deliver after I overheard her one day telling June that she was going to teach something 'outside the topic' and I saw June's jaw drop!  Hardworking Norina should join the golfers, don't you think?  Way to go, Norina! (wink)

Delectable, delectable Suhaila displayed her kitchen that certainly got messed up throughout the TESOL days.  We sorted out the countables from the uncountables from her sink to the kitchen table where a little bird landed beside her lecture notes.  We will never forget which vegetables can and cannot be counted after that spicy Mexican dish got to our heads and made us shake, shake, shake to the tunes of Jambalaya.  Never mind that she brought out Collins Cobuild Advanced Learner's English Dictionary to clarify that "son of a gun" is acceptable pleasantry, nobody else could have made me go dancing "do se do" with Duncan.  Talking about Collins Cobuild, that big book now sits proudly on my work table and I'd never lose an opportunity to show anyone who comes near, the symbols to help one pronounce words correctly.  My daughter pointed out that I was getting to be "kepochi" and I told her "Darling daughter, being 'kepochi' is sometimes sharing".  Ssh…did you know that Dr Ann George certified Su as a trainer during evaluation?  Yah, I can just see her waking and shaking up those sullen faces in the hospitality industry.

Never mind about my lesson.  I was just getting carried away with nostalgia over English literature classes with teary Mr Bakshi and feisty Mrs Lim (in form five) whose saliva would rain on us in the front row as she got into Pip's character in "Great Expectations".  So I did hold myself in check, I hope, remembering that I had only 45 minutes to spew my tale.  But in the last 3 weeks of preparation, I had my moments of panic and I was like an octopus (see Gucci, now I'm stuck on you.. I mean your lesson on similes and metaphors)  trying to pick out gist of principles from each module to fit into my lesson plan.

Tracy, I really cannot remember now what you taught us because I was overtaken by the serenity you exuded up there when I was all the while expecting your usual bouncy self.  Tracy who would not hold back her guffaw whenever she was tickled nor discriminate her tone when she got excited, was actually speaking slowly and reaching out to everyone.  I do not know what Dr Ann George saw, but I know you loved your moment out there…your passion showed, your lesson plan was secondary.

Duncan's teaching aids were simple but unforgettable.  How more authentic can you get than a bunch of his daughter's countable color pencils and little paper boxes of uncountable grains.  You had proved to be such a wonderful sport by the time your turn came that we were only too ready to jump to your aid if anyone questioned your choice of quantifiers or plurals.  We left Gucci to mutter to himself about that 'cloud' thing.                            

       

Juvy got us loud again with Jennifer Lopez's music.  We read, danced and played.  The kids would love you, Juvy, especially if you continue giving only ferere roche as rewards. 

I was rather tired out by the last practicum but hey, what a resounding finale! I had always sensed something about Santhi from her occasional answers in class, the twinkle in her eyes as she glanced at me each time I tore open my m&m's under the table and the way she grinned every time Puteri asked for exam questions.  No offence, Put…I actually love your openness…Puteri Bilkish of the Arabian Nights, with that beautiful face, who can resist giving you anything you ask for?  Anyway, Santhi had that no-nonsense aura out there.  Her lesson moved briskly and she had a commanding tone that was not harsh but only firm.  But her choice of Star Wars for a reading piece left me and my group (Suhaila, Josephine…) shamefaced as we are not Star Wars fans.  June, Divya and Gucci from the other side left us with no room to even think through the questions, let alone  answer them.  In any case, I'd recommend Santhi to any school principal any day.       

Alas, our pride was somewhat redeemed when Dr Ann George gave Josephine and me a bow at closure (ahem!).  Don't mind us, guys (you got me good, Tracy!) It is just that we'd been through the school of hard knocks much earlier and yet still going, through the uncountable years of our second adulthood.  Yes, no matter what anyone says or how many more lessons on countable and uncountable nouns we have to go through (God forbid)…. Josephine, Puteri, Tracy, Wendy, Norina and me will take "years", though plural, as an uncountable noun, so heavens be helped!    

My only regret is that our lecturers could not be there.  But rest assured, Mr. Yeo, no one disappointed you.  Funny how one-liners sometimes can change one's world view about something, like what your statement about Confucious did to mine.  It is a truism that cannot be incorporated in Module 1, yet cannot be disputed.

Guess we are back to routine and I have to get going to work, class...hmm.  Like "this old house" in my lesson, SBS Centre now holds another treasure chest of memories for me with all you lovely people.  I told you guys to " write from your heart", didn't I?  That's what I have done and I am not going to edit this, so if any of my words do not ring true or offend anyone, I stand to be corrected and to beg your pardon.  Long live TESOL, SBS Centre, Cohort 8 lecturers and the inspiring Dr. Ann George ! (clink, clink)        .   

4th June 2008

ABAH’S LEGACY

At an age when marriages were more often arranged, Abah (1902-1989) chose his own bride, leaving her other suitors envious for a long, long while.  He was 36, she was 16 and within 20 years they brought 8 children of different personalities into the world.  As the children grow into their busy years, whether they realize it or not, the footprints Abah left behind  continue to guide them in their life paths.   

Abah could not have known the meaning of the word “professional” in those days, but that was exactly how he conducted himself throughout his years in government service.  During the colonial period, Abah completed schooling up to “Standard 8”, a level equivalent to Form Four today, leaving school only to join the work force in order to supplement his parents’ income from rubber tapping and support the family.  After several odd jobs, Abah registered with the federal government service and enrolled in a short course that qualified him to be a Geological Surveyor Assistant in the Geological Survey Department.

Evidently proud of his work, Abah used to tell us about the purpose of his field trips and the processes involved in tracing minerals in rocks.  Sometimes before a trip he would show me the exploration map and the reports he prepared upon his return.  Abah would be away for a week or two in the jungle each time and these were anxious days for mum.  We were too young to worry too much, but after Abah related how, on one trip, a tiger prowled around their tents for several nights, I dreaded the times Abah was away and counted the days endlessly.  My first sight of leeches were those Abah came home with in his boots.  Abah’s return was always an exciting time for us.  Sometimes he brought home smoke-dried deer meat that mum would turn into delicious rendang. 

From his daily office routine to the field trips, punctuality and discipline at work were unshakeable laws that he grounded in us.  Discipline included having a good night’s sleep and taking enough food before work.  I guess that was how Abah showed his caring self in his no-nonsense manner, to the young men from the kampong whom he hired for each field trip.  Some of them stayed the night at our home before a trip and it was during these times that I saw Abah’s high empathy for his wards and how he took care of their welfare.  Once my sister and I followed him to Mersing in a land rover to deliver their salaries at their homes by the seafront.  These were the rare times that Abah showed his gentler side, when he brought us into each of their homes to convey his thanks personally to them and their parents. He was known to be generally curt to staff in the office, but in these fishermen’s homes I only saw the warmest smiles on his face and respectful small talk while he nodded approvingly at my unabashed repeat helpings for the tea, kueh and goreng pisang served.    

Whatever formal learning he acquired was passed down to us as he coached each one of us on most nights during our primary and early secondary school years, as much as he could especially in Mathematics and English.  These sessions were not the most exciting times of our days then, though we can now look back and rejoice over them, as Abah was a hard driver who would not tolerate any slacking in concentration.  While the girls were subjected to fearsome nagging, my brother, the only boy in the family, was privy to a very firm tear jerking twisting of the ear from time to time.  My eldest sister who later became a school teacher, could not escape his style and was reputed to be a cane swishing dedicated teacher with whom the students had a love-hate relationship.       

Abah could lecture about the beginnings of the earth, volcanoes and the planetary system better than any of my geography teachers.  I always felt his sense of awe at God’s work of creation whenever he went over the subject with me again and again, sometimes holding me up against my will during my playtime.  He was also my first English teacher who instilled in me my passion for the language.  Not neglecting our own language and Jawi, he put his first 5  children, including me, in the Malay medium primary school before we entered the English stream through the “Special Malay Class” in Standard Four.  Using whatever materials he could afford,  from two-way dictionaries, dreary old books from the second hand bookshop and the “Straits Times”, Abah drilled me daily in comprehension and vocabulary.  It was our mutual joy when I presented my ‘top of the class’ distinction marks for English at the end of each term throughout my primary and secondary school years.

We lived in government housing quarters throughout Abah’s years in government service. These were decent 3-room single storey semi-detached houses as far as I can remember. Five girls usually cramped in one room while the babies slept with mum and Abah and  the only brother took one room. We were happy enough, too anxious about essential matters like food and clothes, to complain about sleeping arrangements. If I had sometimes cried while walking to school on days that Abah could not provide school fees or books on time, he must have cried inside more often as five of us were schooling at one time and education was always a sacred matter to Abah.  On a salary of less than RM1000 per month, he saw his 8 children through school.  All but one completed secondary education to secure long-standing careers,  5 obtained tertiary education and 4 went into the government service that he was so proud of.

Our diet those days were simple, but Abah made sure it contained adequate body-building foods.  We were seldom short of eggs, sardines, ikan bilis and milk (evaporated and condensed) among other essentials and the frequent santan in gravy and “pengat” could only have been more beneficial than otherwise for it made our simple meals special each time.  He lectured us against sluggish brains and teased that no amount of powder (make-up) was good without proper nutrition to ensure good skin underneath.  That did not make Abah insensitive to our teenage vanities because he always ensured there was a bottle of hazeline snow for me together with mum’s scented hair oil and fragrant ‘florida water” in the monthly grocery supply.  Going fourteen was a clumsy growing period for me and when Abah suspected that I was dieting, he told me that I need not worry about eating if I exercised enough, a tenet I subscribe to up to this day.

If there is one thing that I regret not keeping as part of Abah’s memorabilia, it is a light grey metal rectangular box about 1 ½ ft square by 4 feet that we called “tin nambong” that was the food container that Abah brought on his field trips. I used to watch him fill it up with cans of sardine, ikan bilis, salted fish, etc. I still wonder sometimes if he actually put some aside for us before he packed for himself. I used to check it out when Abah unpacked his stuff after a field trip and the musty smell from the empty tin nambong still lingers in my nostrils.     

Abah  retired from government service in 1973 as a Geological Surveyor Senior Assistant. He was not considered for promotions to a more senior level due to some “disciplinary” record during his earlier years when he was twice reprimanded for arguing with his British superiors over academic matters and staff welfare.  Abah was a straight-talking person and when he stood his ground over a principle he upheld, he could become quite aggressive. Abah respected people, not ranks and when he found his boss to be inadequate in his subject knowledge, arrogant and inconsiderate towards workers especially labourers, he made no reservations to speak his mind which offended his superior. He used to tell me that the  expats were discards from the British stock, that the government sent only graduates with general degrees to serve in Malaysia.

Nevertheless, Abah had high regard for the British system in general and this encompassed the language, style of dressing and all things ‘made in England’. Anything manufactured in Malaysia or China he considered to be of inferior quality or ‘common’. Although we were usually on a low budget for everything, Abah somehow managed to steer us to a taste for ‘Clarks’ shoes, western branded clothes and mum always had only real butter for her hari raya cookies.

Abah’s reserved nature and quick temper made him appear cold generally, but those close to him know his warmth and compassionate nature.  He was particularly protective of women and children.  He was close to his mother and took special care of his less priviledged sisters.  Once a 5-year old girl unknown to us was murdered in our neighbourhood.  Abah was deeply affected and visited the murder spot to say his prayers.  When mum was in hospital to deliver the youngest child, Abah washed clothes and got me to help him in the kitchen.  I used to be fascinated with the stuff he brought home when mum was in confinement to ‘ warm her blood’ which included brand’s essence of chicken and brandy (taken by the spoonful only).  Abah would make ‘air jampi’ for anyone in distress in the family, from childbirth to examinations and it always worked wonders

Upon retirement Abah bought a house for the first time, a corner lot single storey house in Johore Bahru. I helped him plant rows of red and yellow roses, hibiscus and the ivy tree. He continued to support the family on his pension though part of his responsibilities were then relieved by the elder siblings who had started to work.  Minor ailments of old age perhaps made him become more forgetful and grumpy, but he nevertheless settled into retirement years gracefully. He had a cycling companion to go to the surau with,  was prompt at each prayer time, did the daily marketing, read the papers, watched wrestling on TV with mum, played with his grandchildren, took them to Quran classes on the bicycle and walked them to the grocer’s for ice cream and snacks everyday.  Conscious of the evil of lifestyle diseases, he kept to light meals with minimal sugar, oil and santan. He was treated for stomach ulcer once and his health improved remarkably..

I was happy to see that he stopped complaining about his ‘athlete’s foot’ that was so hard to cure during his field trip days.  Abah’s eyesight and hearing deteriorated as he went into his 80s.  He had to have his cataract removed and wore special glasses but refused to wear hearing aids.  We had to take away his bicycle after he was reported to have been nearly knocked down by the bus.  Perhaps with that we also took away any lingering vestige of youthful vitality left in him as his health deteriorated quite rapidly after this.

Though his lungs were blackened from prolonged smoking that also caused him to wheeze constantly in later years, doctors declared that for an 86-year old his general health and spirits were in excellent condition.  He enjoyed his curut (cigar) up to his last years.  Three months before he died, mum took away his curut box after the doctor warned of bronchitis.  I used to oblige him with 2 or 3 cigarettes behind mum’s back. 

On a fine day in his 87^th year, Abah asked me to take him to a doctor to check on his weakening knees. As usual, he dressed quite immaculately, used brycream  and combed his hair.  The doctor told it was a natural degeneration of health, but since Abah insisted on strengthening his knees, he was brought to the physiotherapist for knee exercises.  He was happy to accomplish a set of 3 knee raises and promised to return.  Alas, the exercise must have been just the breaking point as he complained of exhaustion later that day and became increasingly disoriented, though he continued to have the long baths he loved 5 times a day, before each prayer.  During the next 3 days, he had no more sense of coordination to light a cigarette but would wake me up in the night to ask for his matches which he would just clutch to sleep.   

On that fateful day in 1989, just before I left for work after taking 3 days leave to tend to him, I lined up 5 of his grandchildren who were then causing quite a furore in the house with their antics, to salam and kiss his hand.  I still remember his smile, hardly recognizing each child.  I was last in the queue and that was the last time I saw him alive.  I was told later that just about an hour before he collapsed in the bathroom, he asked if I was coming home that night.  He was destined to draw his last breath and surrender to the Almighty on his beloved wife’s lap and in the close presence of his eldest daughter.

Abah taught us about the joys of simplicity while seeking quality of life.  He showed us, up to the last 3 days of his life, what it means to strive for what we want and to enjoy what we have.  His spirituality was expressed in a simple advice he gave me from time to time]about gratitude, sharing and sincerity in everything we do.  A preacher with few words, ‘godliness’ was a term he included in his occasional brief letters to me when I was studying overseas.  

Up to this day, Abah still provides food and a roof above our heads as the family home was initially acquired from his retirement funds and mum spends his monthly pension money that is endowed to her, on food.  It is a nominal sum that, spent with gratitude and the spirit of sharing, has not only supported her well for 18 years now but also produces bountiful spreads that are sufficient to feed us, our children and grandchildren whenever we visit.

Most of all, Abah showed me the distance, depths and heights a man is capable of reaching to when his love is unconditional.  How do we reciprocate that love eternally?  Abah visits me in my dream sometimes when I am troubled…perhaps he still worries about his children 

As I watched them lower Abah in his grave, I felt a profound sense of peace for a man who was leaving only contentment behind and no burden for anyone.  I believed that when it would be my turn to leave this world, I need not feel so scared knowing that Abah would be waiting for me.  I still do.

May Abah’s soul rest in peace.  Amen.

14^th February.2007

MY SISTER, MY MENTOR

Striking a firm matronly figure in cheerfully colored baju kurung, matching tudung and fresh lightly powdered face, AK used to pace herself cautiously up the 3 flights of stairs to her class at the university twice a week. She will be 64 years old this June 28^th and has just renewed her part-time teaching contract at the university for another semester.  Always happy to continue giving her contribution to training teachers for music education, and thankful for the supplementary income, she will probably manage the stairs with gusto this time around after taking up yoga and regular walks during the semester break.  For AK has always put in discipline and dedication in all she does, be it her career at the Curriculum Development Centre, teaching, preparing meals, sewing, hosting, and now exercise.  Her long nagging backache was gone after the third yoga class and she is always exhilarated after a long walk with her friends.  Talk about putting one’s heart to the task!

My memories of AK as a child are few but quite clear.  While I played with dolls and chased chickens in the backyard, AK was always busy in the house.  Often clad in her petticoat and camisole after shedding her school uniform, she would be bent over homework, helping mum in the kitchen or sorting out the laundry.  Being the eldest in a family of 8 siblings, she always seemed to be in control beside mum and it is her sober expression that recurs in the images of these years in my mind.  However, I do recall her raunchy games with my brother too, the second eldest, in which her laughter never lasted long as my brother would lose and bawl his lungs out, sending Abah to his side. One of my happiest memories were the cousins’ concerts where AK would train me to sing, dance and dress me up to my heart’s content for the show.

Yes AK has always  been proud of her brother and sisters though she used to dread it each time mum got pregnant ie after she turned twelve and was trained enough to take over mothering during mum’s confinement – washing all laundry including mum’s maternity stuff, cook for the family and make sure all siblings were clean and fed. Abah would help a little in the evenings after work, and make sure she was up to the mark in her school work.  I guess that was how AK learned to be stern with us kids.  She had to simply because she cared and was meticulous in her ways.  There were enough cry babies among us to throw her off balance and Abah was a disciplinarian.

Later childhood memories with AK are more vivid.  Always busy between school, extracurricular activities and housework, she was a picture of energy and enthusiasm.    She was an outstanding student, a leader in school and had many friends of all races.  Her smiles were more apparent during this period though she continued to be quite strict with us.  Nevertheless, she used to take me and an elder sister along for school sports, picnics, camp fires and new year visits at her friends’ homes for which she would always make sure we were nicely attired.  In fact, AK designed and sewed all our new clothes for hari raya as well as cushions and curtains, stitching way into the wee hours of the morning before the big day every year.  She shopped for fabrics and trimmings herself and my own frocks always mired attention.

AK had big dreams for herself and our family which survived on Abah’s sole income from a government job.  However, she had to make a big sacrifice.  She had to leave her seat in form six and enroll in the Malaysian Teachers’ College that would secure her a job and enable her to support the family in two years’ time. 

Our lives were transformed when AK started teaching.  Abah had always put high emphasis on education and health and AK naturally followed suit – we started attending tuition classes and had what seemed then luxury food, more frequently.  Even being confined to bed with fever and bronchitis became a pleasurable experience as AK would bring home fresh milk, fruits and chocolates.  We had our first television and family car and  modern appliances that made housework lighter.  I had an early start into classical and romance novels as I sneaked them out one by one from AK’s collection.  Tagging along on her monthly spree at the beauty counter and tailor, I was also fascinated by skin care, make-up and fashion by the age of twelve.

I still wonder to this day how she managed to stretch her teacher’s salary to such lengths even though she did get additional income from giving private tuition.  AK did her best to let her siblings get all the education they needed while she herself persevered over 10 years to achieve what must have been a childhood ambition, that is, to play the piano and successfully complete the ABRSM curricula and exams.  With this qualification, AK obtained a JPA scholarship to pursue a first and second degree in music education in the United States.  Just turned 40 then, AK must have left with a clear conscience as all her siblings except the youngest who was still in college and another who remains as a “special child”, were settled in their careers by then.

AK earned her credentials through 3 grueling though enriching years, and went on to give another 14 years of dedicated service to the Ministry, inspiring her younger colleagues with the stamina and passion she showed in her work. An educationist at heart, she is still there, eight years into her retirement.

Though AK has never been married, her maternal instincts must be quite strong to have tended to her siblings the way she did and to continue giving moral and financial support to their children.  The experience living with younger people on campus must have nurtured these instincts too as she seems to show more compassion for our children’s growing pains and ambitions than she did for ours.  Weekends saw her driving alone to visit nieces in residential schools in the next town or preparing elaborate meals when they visited.  And now there are grand nieces and nephews to amuse her too.

AK has always lived with our parents in the home she acquired through her government loan and life savings.  Abah’s dream for a bigger house was fulfilled two years before he passed away.  Mum and AK have always been like sisters and today they share the same bed as mum is quite frail.  Being the middle child, I must have been lost in my own secret garden while mum breastfed and AK washed and cooked.  While the two youngest girls had the longest time nestling under mum’s armpits, AK could not have known what mother’s pampering was like and always had to give up her play time for household chores.  Perhaps mum is pampering her now by cooking her favourite dishes despite having to make laborious efforts in the kitchen.  In spite of protests from younger siblings, mum insists on it and I wish they would leave them alone as cooking and sharing the meals together are the highlights of their day.  There is nothing more heartening than seeing two golden girls living it up!

AK has carried her title ‘Long’ with the fullest dignity, emulating Abah’s core values and principles.  A perfectionist coming from the old school of discipline where the cane is usually at bay, she may sometimes appear a bit too dogmatic and direct in her approach, but then that is a challenge for the younger ones, to respond to positively.  After all she has the gentle heart of a woman.

I was not aware of having a mentor during my growing up years, but I do know now that AK had influenced me a great deal.  Looking back, I can see much more of her than mum in my childhood and I first knew I could rely on her when she made me up so beautifully for the cousins’ concert at the age of five.  Then on, her stoic show of commitment and responsibility at home, in school and at work, her relationship with friends, her style, talents and ambition could only inspire me to strive for excellence.  I even imitated her handwriting and signature which have stayed to this day.  She had played her own parental role for her sisters who went on to become wives and mothers.  Her only brother she pampered like a favoured son.

AK has always rejoiced in family gatherings in her home, but these days she seems rather withdrawn and her tears flow easily as she reminisces over old times and talks about family members living abroad. 

I suppose eldest sisters and aunties like AK are rare.  Or could it be that they are overshadowed by single mothers? Otherwise the leisure industry would have created “Aunties’ Day” too, another perfect occasion for feasting and celebrating life while we show our gratitude to those who have truly touched our lives.

26^th June 2006