Of Mak and Ramadhan

For the third time yesterday I was stirring bubur lambuk on the stove. The aromatic smell of lemon grass and santan coming from the pot was unbearable and we still had two hours to go. The handphone rang and the voice at the other end asked,”What are you cooking, mama?”

“Bubur lambuk”, I answered to be greeted by a triumphant “YES!” and what must have been a punch in the air too.

I successfully negotiated Krispy Kreme Doughnuts from Harrods. My sugar level is dangerously low, I pleaded. It was an easy deal – bubur lambuk and Krispy Kreme Doughnuts!

Mak never failed to deliver what we, her children, craved for during Ramadhan. Or come to think of it – even outside the month of Ramadhan. On days she couldn’t cook bubur lambuk, or what we in Kedah called Kanji, she’d ask us to bring some food over to the mosque and queue up for the kanji prepared by the tok bilal there. And as far as I can remember there’d always be kanji on the table.

There’d be crab sambal for me, sambal belacan and ulam for Lilah and kari kepala ikan for the others. We all had our own cravings and favourites. One thing about Mak, when one child was away, that favourite food would also be missing from the table. She couldn’t bear to cook them and eat them without thinking that her child had been deprived of that food.

As I prepared the crab sambal that my youngest requested, my thoughts turned to Mak. This year, she might not even realise that Ramadhan is here again. She might have been told, she might have attempted to fast, but at the end of the day, she would have forgotten that she was fasting. During the last Ramadhan, she even offered to make drinks for everyone. Her memory is fast going but I am pleased to hear that she has not forgotten people around her. She repeatedly asks the same questions but she doesn’t forget names and people. And I hope and pray that when I return, I will be greeted with the same “Anak Mak dah balik!”.

Last night Nona, who is spending time in Malaysia, said her Tok was coughing in the middle of the night. She thought of bringing her a glass of water but didn’t want to wake her up. If she did, she’d be greeted with the umpteenth, “Bila balik?”

Nona would have been spoilt rotten had Mak been well and steady on her feet. Even with the language barrier, she would have communicated her love to her grandchild through her cooking. She came to London when Nona was born and looked after her for six months. For six months, my kitchen was spotless, my front room was in order and my tattered cushions were mended. My garden was in full bloom. One day, I came home to what looked like a new sofa. She had taken some old curtains and hand sewn them and fitted the sofa nicely and made them more presentable.

My friends moaned when she left for Malaysia for during her stay, the house was always full as she loved to cook for my friends. I cried when I came into the kitchen. She had rearranged everything in the cabinet and I couldnt find a thing!

I admit I had conspired with Kak Cik not to let her know that Ramadhan is here. She has her medications and vitamins to take but she’d be worried sick about missing her fast. She’d worry about when she’d be able to pay back the fast. But the positive take about her forgetfulness is that, yes, she forgets what she was worried about.

I missed Mak’s cooking. And somehow this Ramadhan, I missed her waking me up for sahur.