I owe you one, Pak!

The answer to Kak Cik’s question that had been plaguing me since my return from the Holy City, came in a flash just as I was folding the mat after Subuh prayers. I knew then that I’ve got the right answer and I don’t have to feel so bad now.

During our conversation after my one week Umrah, Kak Cik asked whether anyone who looked like Pak appeared before me at all. I said no. And deep inside I was disappointed as Kak Cik continued her story that during her Haj, someone who looked remarkeably like Pak appeared before her almost every day. So, why was I denied this? I have heard that things like this do happen in Mekah, but no one who looked anything remotely like Pak appeared. In fact, when she was in the Masjidil Haram after finishing her Quran, she looked up to find someone who looked like Tok. I never had this experience and I was beginning to feel a tad denied. Didn't know there was any favouritism in the family. May be a week was too short for anyone to make any appearance.

But now I have my answer. The very reason Pak appeared before Kak Cik was that Kak Cik was the only one who was not present when Pak left us. We were all there, all around him. Kak was there, so was Abang, Lilah and of course Ajie, still so young and already losing Pak. I remember that day so well. I had been called home as Pak wasn’t getting any better, but when I arrived Pak could still talk. He asked, “Where’s Kak Cik?” and I replied, "Her plane will be landing at four". Pak adjusted his glasses, looked up at the old clock that he religiously wound every other day and simply said, “Tak sempat dah”. True enough, he went at two and Kak Cik arrived a little too late. The same explanation for Tok’s appearance. Kak Cik was in Mekah when Tok left us.

Pak himself never made it to Mekah. He had been ill all his life but Mak made sure that she performed the Haj on his behalf during one of her trips there. But I remembered him in my doa as I stood there before the Ka'abah and I prayed that his soul is placed amongst those blessed.

When I think about Pak I think about unresolved issues – there were things I wish Pak had done for me and there were things that I wish I had done for him. I never had the kind of Pak who would accompany his kids to tuition or take them to the park. And I remember how I ached for that but knew the impossibility of it all. Pak hardly left the house after his accident, and it was really not his fault. But I remember feeling pangs of jealousy whenever I see friends being driven by their fathers. But Pak made up for all these in other ways. He waited for us while we watched late night movies on telly and switched off the lights while we scrambled into bed and pulled the blankets over our heads. Once or twice in the middle of the night, Pak would come into the bedroom and cover us again with the blankets that had slipped on to the floor. Once, he came just in time to see the blanket nearly on fire after falling on to a burning mosquito coil.

He also rescued us from housework by helping Mak in the kitchen and even signed our report cards without his glasses on! He’d repeat his war time stories as we sat by his couch listening for the umpteenth time how he rescued a young British soldier from the advancing Japanese party. We got used to the smell of his Curve Cut tobbaco and took turns to put Tokohon plasters on his aching back.

Pak was a product of the colonial system and demanded that we spoke and wrote in English all the time. Our letters were corrected in red and returned and we read and read anything and everything that had writings on them. We fought over the newspaper to finish the crossword puzzles and he finished my badly turned out scones that I made in Domestic Science class. I remember that I was in tears when the scones turned out all hard. But Pak ate them all.

All these Pak did for me and I couldn’t even fulfil his one simple wish. Everytime we told him that we were going to town to buy the latest songs on record, he’d ask for Sri Mersing. “Get me Sri Mersing,” he’d holler as we cycled fast past the front gates. Of course we didn’t get him Sri Mersing. It was so.. so, ...er uncool. We’d be searching for the Beatles or Engelbert Humperdink and heaven helped us if anyone heard us asking for Sri Mersing!

So, that is one regret. Hmmm, no wonder Pak didn’t want to see me.

Anyway, Pak would have been pleased to know I am where I am now. I left four years after he left us and I brought with me, in that one suitcase of memories, a small piece of his blanket, still smelling of Curve Cut Tobacco and Tokohon plasters.

PS

Pak would have loved this rendition of Sri Mersing by Siti Nurhaliza. Thanks MA.