Awal Muharram

 

19.07.2023/30 ZHJ

Today is the first day of the new year on the Muslim calendar – 1 Muharram 1445 H.  Friends and relatives had exchanged new year greetings and well wishes on Whatsapp yesterday.  At 7.05 this morning, the hue in my dimly lighted room still blended with the darkness outside.  Usually at this time, as I fold up my prayer robe, the first rays of daylight would already be peeking through the slit between the windowsill and the lowered blinds.  I went in to the bathroom to get a better view from the window and realised that it was actually still quite dark, and drizzling.

It is a public holiday.  I allowed myself the occasional five minutes curl-in-bed throwback before assuming the morning chores.  Alman and Ishmael were still sleeping soundly, having spent a late night, as they are allowed to do on nights preceding school-free days, playing chess and cards with Tok and Opah.  Ishmael, now 8, has recently acquired a passion for magicians and their magic acts; I’ve incessantly been prodded to watch and rate his fast increasing magic tricks – rather impressive actually; I usually give him 6 to 8 out of 10 points.  Alman is 11 and is steadily pursuing his passion on the guitar, started since he was 6.  He has had a few simple compositions to his name, participated in school ensembles and has earned a second electric guitar.

I have to state here that I am writing on this blog for Ishmael as well (not only Alman and others in my dedication note at the beginning) – to remember me by and recollect his childhood days with me.  Why, Alman now cannot imagine that Opah had ever stepped out of the house daily to go to work; even when the mobile phone was already on hand to record history, I was always too busy and in too much of a rush to think about preserving images of me in suits and holding a briefcase, to show off to future offsprings.  So I hope this blog will create not only graphic images of Opah, but an insight into her thoughts and feelings, their place in her heart and her moments with them – when they are old enough to want to read it.

Alman and Ishmael both love the early hours of the morning on off-school  days, when mum and dad, and usually Tok too, are still sleeping in. Coming down the stairs, they would expectantly call me, knowing how delighted I would be to give them the first hug or peck of the day and ready to take their breakfast requests – each such morning never losing its novelty.  They would seek me out in the backyard hanging out the laundry, or pulling out weeds in the garden, and would even knock on the bathroom door - if I am not within sight.  Lingering separation anxiety, sense of entitlement or plain demanding – I embrace them all and they know I thrive on it.  Mum and Dad are alert on check and balance to avoid over pampering (slightly to my chagrin sometimes) and maintain discipline.  Well, suffice it that in their small world (after all) that “Opah is the strongest woman…the best cook in the world…should be our English teacher in school.” Little do they know that my fantasy is to run the school canteen so they and their friends will get better nourishment from school.

So this first day of Muharram – a holy day celebrated by Muslims and an auspicious day for introspection and contemplation – is passing by like any other ordinary day, a public holiday to be enjoyed.  Sometimes Alman and me would start off the day with a short walk - around the block and past the little bridge over the rooky stream, to the mosque, and back again.  But since it is raining continuously this morning, he and Ishmael hastened to their laptops in their own corners across from each other in the living room, waving a perfunctory request for toast with butter and jam (Alman) and mini pancakes (Ishmael).  They usually relish their time deciding on their breakfast menu on weekends, but on this blessed middle-of-the-week off-school day, they want to optimise every given minute on games– roblox, especially, does this to them.  Alman is not allowed milo before a breakfast meal – because he tends to drink too much of it throughout the day – so he cuts short his own choices.

July has started off a season for reuniting with friends from primary and secondary school, a Whatsapp group formed.  Exchanging old photos and jolting each other’s memory with peculiar cues like a bobbly walk, bug teeth or a swishing cane to conjure faces or recall a teacher’s name, brought back anecdotes and chronicles of yesterdays in SIGS (Sultan Ibrahim Girls’ School – primary and secondary) in Johore Bahru – in the late 50s, and 60s. Memories of the way we were – the formative years, beginnings, friendships, life-defining moments, adventures – will take endless online chats and gatherings, to share.  Many have touched me to tears – of joy, sadness, gratitude.

We are now in our early 70s.  Each time a coffee or brunch session comes up, the excitement we feel is similar to what we felt on our daily journey to school during those years– for most of us looked forward to school to meet our friends more than anything else.          

We may have forgotten many things too, some people forgetting more than others.  At the moment there is information overload, stories of old and new intertwining and going back and forth.  I feel compelled to process some of the poignant and the succinct bits and layers as we retract the trajectories of our shared childhood and teenage years - I do not want to forget them.  Some have asked me to write our stories too.  So I will try to fill them in this blog, reminding myself  to always use my chair support, keep a good posture while writing, and to take regular breaks, as my back is not quite as supple as it once was, and has started to ache.  In any case, I am definitely driven to the task.