Matriarch
1960
Before leaving the classroom, Salmah glanced furtively at
her schoolbag on the floor beside her empty seat – she was forbidden from
taking it with her- and headed straight for the school gates. Her pinafore was still hardly creased, her
rubber shoes chalk white as she had not had time to play before school started. It was the first class period of the afternoon
school session; the class teacher had started collecting school fees, which was
less than 2 ringgit then. Sal,her
nickname, did not have the money and was told to go home right away and come
back with it as soon as possible.
Dashing past the school gates, eyes downcast, she walked as
fast as her feet in the tight, sole-beaten shoes, could carry her – from Jalan
Yahya Awal, up the hilly road to Jalan Abdul Rahman Andak (past SIGS secondary
school), left and down to Jalan Ngee Heng and up a cut-through back road
to Jalan Tebrau that opens out to the
heart of Johore Bahru town.
Raising her head to look left or right only when crossing a
road, her mind was, all the way, foggy and her heart skipped a beat now and
then. After what seemed like hours, her house came
into view at the sloping end of Jalan Tebrau, and only then did she feel the scorching heat of
the sun stinging her head and searing her eyes
as the tears welled - her steps quickening on the path to the short
staircase and breaking into a run as she saw her mother on the verandah. Mother hugged her and let her sobs gush and
subside, stroking her head silently as she thought of what to do…she knew why Sal
was back from school too soon, this was not the first time.
Telling Sal to keep an eye on the little ones playing on the
floor, mother went down to the workshop adjacent to the house where her father
worked as a carpenter. Sal usually
played along with her sisters and brothers at whatever game they cooked up with
the scant toys and scraps they could gather, but today her mind was clouded
with the image of handing the dreaded 2 ringgit to Cik Saleha…will it be
possible now, how long will she have to wait?
School had just started and her bag was still there. Oblivious to their shrieks of delight, she kept
her gaze on the corner where her mother disappeared.
About 20 minutes later, mother appeared with Pakcik Man, who
worked with her father in the workshop.
Mother handed her the 2 ringgit, told her to keep the change carefully
in her pocket later and thanked Pakcik Man as he took Sal’s hand and hurried
her down to the shed at the side of the house, where his bicycle was
parked. At the bottom of the stairs, Sal
turned her head sideways and met her mother’s eyes…a look that has graced her
memories of her till today.
Pakcik Man helped her up to perch sideways on the bicycle
“palang” between his seat and the handle bars and told her to hold tight on the
centre part of the bars. She held on
convincingly, feeling only the warm calm
breeze caressing her face and gently blowing back her hair as Pakcik peddled stealthily
uphill and downhill – closely retracking
her 6 km homebound route; now she could look coolly at cars and buses passing
by, longingly at the fruit-laden rambutan and mango trees at the houses along
the road, at other cyclists and finally the sundry shop in front of the school.
As Pakcik stopped in front of the school gates, Sal hopped
down, thanked him several times and ran into class. It was now nearing the end of the second
class period; Sal took out the money from her pocket and without a word, handed
it to Cik Saleha who took it silently with just as much as a perfunctory nod,
and opened her record book while Sal waited for the change.
Everyone was too eager to leave the class for the 30-minute
recess; no one asked her anything – perhaps they knew and understood. Together they walked noisily to the school
canteen.
1973
Sal met me at the foyer of University Malaya’s 1st
College where she had been a resident since her first year at the
university. I was studying in UiTM in
Shah Alam. We were both in our final
year of study. I was on the verge of
breaking up with the first love of my life- by then in the fourth year of
courtship. It was inevitable; the
distance between us was growing wider as our adolescence faded into our adult
years, giving us new perspectives of life.
In the comfort of Sal’s neatly kept room, we talked for hours well into
the night. Sal had met her beau by then
and was glowing. She introduced me to
him before I left. His smile matched
hers; I knew they were meant for each other.
2011
I was right. They
looked perfect together when I met them briefly at my daughter’s wedding, by
then pursuing their own careers, holding senior positions in government
service, and raising 5 boys.
2016
I cried for Sal as I read news, in her Facebook, of the
sudden demise of her youngest son in Canada – just after completing his
studies. I wrote in my condolences,
sharing her grief silently. Even when I
saw, just months later, her normal cheerful exchanges of news with family and
friends on Facebook, and marvelled at her inner strength, I could not disengage
myself from the inherent sadness – I think I never will whenever I think of her. My youngest son is about the same age as
hers. I am not habitually active on
Facebook; I only open it when my heart wills me to.
July 2023
Greeting each other on the newly formed Whatsapp group of
our primary and secondary school fraternity, Sal and I felt the urge to meet
and catch up on all the years we had been apart.
I carefully choose my outfit to meet her, eager for her approval. I wait patiently with another friend for her
to arrive on the train. Soon she is by
my side, still about 3 inches taller than me in her slightly high- heeled pumps
( I am in flat sandals). We embrace,
dissipating the years that set us apart.
We have both been home-makers (though unlike me, she took early
retirement)), holding the fort to nurture our loved ones and enable them to
pursue their dreams and vocation. Her
husband, a renowned surgeon, continues to offer his expertise to the medical
world while her four sons are professionals in their own fields. She is in good health, has travelled widely
and performed Haj. With the multiple
hats she is wearing in assuming responsibilities for the welfare of younger
members of her extended and combined families ( hers and her husband’s), it
seems like she is destined to be the matriarch of the clan.
This reminds me of a line from Murakami’s “Birthday
Girl”:
“No matter what they wish for, no
matter how far they go, people can never be anything but themselves.”
From a young age Sal had always helped care for her younger
siblings, including sewing clothes for them and assisting them in school work; later
on, she assumed the big sister role for her husband’s siblings as well.
Being good with her hands, she had led art and craft projects
for school exhibitions, always ready with her creative suggestions when we
needed to produce some artistic displays or other. For an English project, she drew a ballerina,
and painted a sunset for my poems. Not
only did she do these with a quiet presence and cheerful demeanour, she also
socialized very well with the girls in school in a most unobtrusive manner – a
fact that I was oblivious to at the time, but which I now conclude on, after
seeing how far she surpassed all of us in the SIGS Whatsapp group in remembering
our school mates (not only their names and the classes they were in, but also
where they lived, how they came to school, and other related matters).
No, far from depicting the archtype of the busybody –
because I knew her to be the humble, polite and obliging girl who laughed
easily – she has always been a free spirit who truly enjoys the company of
others. I remember her at campfires although
she was not a member of the Girl Guides, picnics at Lido Beach with girls from
other classes, at butterfly catching romps at Happy Valley with the boys who did not interest her in the way they
did the other girls…though she would giggle in gossips about our crushes and
tease our blushes, would even convey my timorous greetings to the boy next door
(her door).
She had such a cheerful disposition that I did not suspect ,when
I had caught her, a few times in class, crying silently with her head in her
hands on the desk – thinking she was feeling unwell or had a fight with her
siblings – that it was due to hunger, a truth she never admitted at the time
but revealed to me recently while we were reminiscing times in school. There was simply not enough food at home or it
could not be prepared in time before school.
There were several times when I too cried while walking to school
because I could not bring the money for a book or school fees when it was due,
but I had never cried because of food.
My house was just a 15-minute walk from school, so I had more time to
wait for breakfast or lunch and could dash
home after school when the hunger pangs hit me.
Sal had 6 km to tread in the sweltering heat or rain to and
from school (though her strides did grow steadily since the days of Cik Saleha
the school fees superintendant). Like
“The Loneliest Runner” whose daily ordeals were prescient sprints into the
Olympics, Sal’s daily walk (and run) were precedented drills for the star
player that she became on the school hockey team. Her family stayed in the house at the end of
Jalan Tebrau throughout her school years. Except for the lone walk at odd hours when she
was forced to return home to get the school fees, she did have a companion or
two for part of the daily journey on most days, usually arriving home well after
sundown, unless she was offered a car ride by a school mate living in the
adjacent residential area- with whom she still keeps in contact today.
So there – like the incandescent North Star that lit her
journey to school at daybreak, and back home at dawn, Salmah continues, in our twilight
time, to shine and light up the sea of our memories – of our glorious days in
SIGS.
You left lasting strokes and permanent colours in our
metamorphosis, Sal, and they are securely framed in our hearts and in our
minds. May Allah bless you always and
may you live to be a hundred!
