Pomegranate

 

Pomegranate.  It is not a fruit I grew up eating seasonally like the red hairy rambutan or sporadically like the red juicy jambu, but I do feel a sentimental attachment to it.  I thought it was rare or expensive – mother brought one home once and shared it with me and my sister, myself getting half a handful.  A recurring image of Tok Haji (my husband’s grandmother), is one of her sitting down at the dining table with a pomegranate on a small platter, gingerly scraping out the beads with a little fruit knife and spilling them out on a handkerchief, wearing an expression of silent pride and contentment in her gentle pout inescapable from a slightly slanted jaw.   Is it a fruit to be revered?  Its place in the classic Malay poetry, the pantun, is hardly forgotten – “merah merah sibuah delima, di bawa pergi ke Pulau Pandan...” (As red as the pomegranate that is brought to Pulau Pandan…).

I had always thought it to be an exclusively local fruit until my adult years when I started seeking it out, as well as its bottled juice, as a super food; it is actually cultivated and produced in many countries and the best seem to be imported from Spain.

While “pomegranate” doesn’t sound to me like something soft or delicate, its name in the Malay language – “delima” - does, and more in the way of being exotic.  It brings up images of a girl I befriended in my kampong, not the typical village in the outskirts, but a residential area with government –owned houses (commonly referred to as “government quarters”) laid  out in clusters according to some kind of stratification.  This government housing landscape stretches about seven kilometres into Johore Bahru town, interspersed by privately owned houses of various sizes and designs, shops, schools, the Menteri Besar’s ( State Minister) residence, a mosque, a church.  Where she and I lived, our houses were separated by seven neat rows of identical single-storey houses, each row having its own numbered lane (Lorong 1-8). 

The houses or quarters which were double unit blocks - semi-detached as they are more commonly termed  – stood closely back to back along a slope bordered by two  parallel roads called Jalan Panglima.  Our house, on Lorong 8, was at the top of the slope. It is the only block - facing out to a main road that separated it from an old Chinese cemetery - with three–bedroom units, while the others were two-bedroom units.  This is due to the fact that it is owned by a federal government department, my father being a senior technician in the Geological Survey Department, and the other dwellers worked for various Johore state government departments.  Though some people alluded to this difference as an indication of economic significance, I never did.  In fact, I always peered with delight and envy at the richly decorated living rooms and dining areas in some of the other homes, as I walked home along the lanes, thinking that the head of the family must be a high-ranking government officer.  I felt airily distanced.  Our home was cosy, but furnished with basic furniture.  Our big compound  was an outstanding feature, a luxury that filled memories of planting and harvesting – with an aunt from Ipoh who used to stay with us for a year from time to time - tapioca, pumpkin, pineapple, long beans, ladies fingers and spring onions; playing “catching”, monkey ball and police and thieves; swinging on the swing that hung crudely on the tapioca tree (pokok ubi kayu gajah); and of boys passing through using it as a short cut to the primary school nearby (Sekolah Temenggong Abdul Rahman). 

I learnt decades later that these were houses for those holding mostly clerical or technical positions of various levels in the Johore State Government departments.

My friend’s house was at the bottom of the hill, on the other side of Jalan Panglima that branched out into Lorong 1.  It was a single storey bungalow, one of three standing apart on that side of the hill.  They were also government quarters.  They seemed  to be double the size of my own house and certainly of a different class.  My mother used to attend WI (Women’s Institute) activities which were usually cooking classes,  hosted by the lady of the house, in the second house in this superior category.  I had once followed my eldest sister to visit her friend Jenny, in the first one closest to our house.  They had a big lawn and garden, regularly kept well-trimmed and tidy.  Just like my friend’s at the bottom of the hill, but that was all I could see of her home, as she never invited me in.  In fact, I always noticed how quick she was to say goodbye as we neared her house gate, after our walks in the late afternoons.     

She would always be the one to call me out to buy some snacks at the mamak shop near our school, about twenty minutes walk away.  A few times I did drop by at her house gate and called her, but either there was no answer or she just stuck her head out from the front door to say she was not free.  I was always happy to go out with her, excusing myself from whatever I was doing – even homework or reading my new story book – which annoyed my father sometimes.  There is nothing really memorable about the things we talked about, unlike those with other friends that often spring up vividly till today with animated exchanges about the latest pop songs, gossip about pop stars, teachers, boys, other girls, novels, examination blues, even our future careers.  Most of the time she and I walked in silence, comfortable in each other’s company and in the hive of the evening scape – cars moving in to fetch children from school, some already parked with music cruising from their radios, parents chatting on the roadside,  ice cream vendor and ‘kacang putih man” brightly waiting for the school children to come out.  We laughed easily now and then about some television shows we had watched recently; exchanged nervous glances and stifled awkward giggles when sometimes, we passed a group of boys who stared at us or threw greetings cheekily.  Once a handsome looking boy I was barely acquainted with passed us on his racing bike smiling into space; my friend looked down sideways shyly, smiling and said, “ he is strange.” I did not ask what she meant; we never talked about boys.  At the time, I just thought he was one of her admirers, might even have sent her a letter or something (boys and girls used to do that those days when house phone was scant and the cost of using the public phone was beyond our daily allowances). 

I assumed many boys in the neighbourhood knew about her, because Delima was a beauty – tall and slim with long legs (with a slight hunch that I thought was more mentally rather than physically induced), peachy golden complexion, long-lashed soft eyes, sharp nose, pretty rosy lips that broke easily into a smile, light brown wavy hair that was always pulled back into a small pony tail.  She always wore nice colourful clothes with some fine gold jewellery, reflecting a life of ease and opulence.  Was rather soft-spoken too.  I used to feel somewhat awkward beside her, being shorter in my short bob haircut, plain shift dress or culotte pants, and Japanese slippers. Her fair feet were always clad in dainty slippers.

I admired her beauty, thought she was of mixed parentage with middle-eastern ancestry, but I never asked.  I have heard people say her father was fair and distinguished-looking.  I never saw him.  Her mother who I saw once, did not  look like her. She always smelled like she had freshly showered and held a scent which I liked very much.  That too I never asked; to this day I wonder if it was talcum powder and have tried to trace it; the closest I get to it is Yardley’s sandalwood talc, still different. Or was it a perfume from Mecca, though certainly not one of the common varieties of “minyak atta.”

Why did I not ask her all those matters that I wonder about later especially after I was told that  she had passed on ( may  she rest in peace) at a relatively early age due to illness? Even in those times, I suspected she refrained from talking about her family.  Nor was she curious about mine.  In retrospect, it was her cheerful disposition, warmth and unspoken sincerity that made me drop anything I was doing each time she came over.  It was that certain quietness about her that made me content to walk with her even in silence.  I was active and competitive in school, both in studies and extracurricular activities, led teams, represented school in debates and sports.  Great friendships and camaraderie were forged through these activities, but the element of rivalry inherent  in such relationships, either momentarily or more deep-rooted,  sometimes diffuse solidarity and affection.  Delima did not share this part of my life; in fact, I never saw her in school – in the mornings we would part when I entered my class which was closer to the school gate.  Outside the tumult of hormonal changes during this period of our youth, was stress from peer pressure, studies and not least of all, economic pressures and parental expectations.  Being with Delima, my friend after school, life seemed simple and carefree.  It seemed as though all serious life concerns were suspended when we were together on those brief walks.  Our village was perfect, the air sweet, the familiar sounds  and faces comforting.  There were two mamak shops.  We didn’t even mind the mamak’s teasing us while we deliberated over what to buy – dried plums (asam boi), peanuts, pickled ginger or chocolate wafer.  Delima always had her coins in a pretty little purse while mine were usually in my pocket.

Yet underneath her simple demeanour, I detected an extraordinariness about her.  I wondered about the restrictions imposed on her – she always had to rush back and I had never seen her with any other girl though there were a few other girls from our school in the neighbourhood, who I went out with occasionally.  In later years,  after she had left this world, her name was frequently mentioned among the men who grew up in the neighbourhood.  Some of them used to play badminton at a badminton court behind her house.  Some of the comments were : “she was endowed with beauty…she was mysterious…lonely, shy, demure…looking for something…something mystical about her.” But none dared approach her, it seems, except, as far as I’ve been told, the one who crossed her path on three consecutive days at the same spot and time; despite being encouraged by her smile which he thought was “most sincere”, he only managed a brief exchange of greetings while hardly stopping in his tracks.  He admitted to being astounded by her looks and after the three encounters, being intimidated by her aura of a “matured lady.” If ever she was invited to a house party, which was the trend then –an avenue  for boys and girls to socialize - nobody told me about it.   

A few months before our  SPM exams, Delima stopped coming to my house.  Then I started seeing her walking along Jalan Panglima with a young Chinese man who lived in the end house on Lorong  5.  He must have been a teacher because she was taking tuition from him in preparation for the exams.  I think we did have a last walk home together on one of the exam days.  She did not tell me anything about him, but I learnt from my younger sister who was a friend of his sister, that Delima and he were courting.

We went separate ways after SPM exams.  My father retired from government service at about this time and my family moved to a private residential area on another side of town.  I never saw Delima again.  I had always thought she married her tuition teacher, but was informed by a reliable source that she married someone else, worked in an office and had a family.

In those days, most girls started dating after leaving secondary school.  Some went on to sixth form,   where they first experienced coeducational schooling; others went on to teacher training colleges, nursing colleges, technical colleges or commercial classes offering secretarial or accounting certificates and diplomas.  The more ambitious ones pursued further education after sixth form and many met their future husbands in the university.  Probably the majority immediately found jobs (typically clerical level positions), in the government or private sector, and got married earlier than others.    There were yet others who got married soon after finishing school and settled down quickly into motherhood and housewifery ; perhaps some of them were the more privileged ones who were not obliged to give their families financial support, some drifting damsels, or beauty queen hopefuls  sought out by wealthy suitors.  I did not bump into Delima in the sixth form fraternity nor heard about her to be in the college-bound lot ( a distinct group as most of the colleges were still in their infancy then) , so I assume she did not pursue tertiary education. 

 She is gone now but fantasizing meeting up with her, were she still alive, fills me with the warmest feelings.  I would ask her all those questions I held back, questions that did not seem important then.  Deep inside I cared about her, but I was not sure if she needed anything from me other than my brief company.  Was she looking out for anything or any one on those walks? I miss the peaceful moments beside her, her smile and easy laughter, her smell, her fair face.  What a lovely bride she must have been.  One of the men said she looked like Sarimah, the legendary Malay film actress, only more beautiful.       

Pomegranate is mentioned regularly in the Quran as an elixir with rich nutrients.  Eating the fruit without wasting any part of it may require some patience and necessarily passion for it too.  A quicker way to deriving its goodness is  drinking the juice in its pure form, a good thing to be addicted to, though in moderate doses.