While waiting.....

It is less then two hours to go and I have already done the chicken curry the way the sayang mamas like it and I have prepared the mackerels and the sambal, but it is too early to fry them. The house is so quiet, which is quite unusual as it is a Saturday.

Earlier, sayang mama number three phoned from work and he sounded very happy. Apparently, his workplace (a big departmental store) has provided a prayer room for Muslim staff, which is quite a development, I think. Before this he used to pray in the store room.

It is quite encouraging to know that these days, in spite of what we hear about the growing intolerance in some quarters, there are still people who are willing to make a difference.

It seems not too long ago that I was having a conversation with Taufiq, then only 7 and sitting on the worktop while I prepared food for Iftar. There were trying times for him especially when he could smell the food and the half an hour to go seemed like hours. He’d cry and burst out in anger at his siblings making fun of him. It was there in the kitchen that I told him what fasting is all about. It is not just about not eating but also about taming the temper. Surprisingly, at that tender age, he understood.

It became easier after that. He’d come home and regale us stories about what went on among those who fast in school. The headteacher had kindly provided a room for them to pray and there was almost always confusion during prayer times as everyone wanted to lead the prayer. There were arguments too about the number of rakaats. The headteacher then decided to take matters into his own hands and invited a parent a day to lead them, which I think was a very good move.

During his secondary years, Taufiq would stop at the local mosque to pray before coming home. His non Muslim friends would wait outside the mosque while he prayed and just before Ramadhan, three of them converted. And when the school decided that Muslim students could not longer go for Friday prayers because some inevitably go awol, Taufiq pleaded with the teacher to provide a room for prayers. We saw how Taufiq grew up and mature before our eyes. Come Friday, he’d prepare the khutbah for his small congregation. My sayang mama has really grown up.

While I am waiting to fry the mackerels, another thing about other sayang mamas comes to mind.

Since coming back from Malaysia, we have been trying to put on a brave face, when in actual fact, we are hurting inside. When we left for Malaysia, our two other sayang mamas, Tabby and Kissinger, merajuk and left home. We kept receiving sms’es that they were not back. I had sleepless nights wondering what had happened to them. I remember saying goodbye to Tabby; he was sitting upright on the bed and I cried, prompting the children to say that I was sadder leaving the cats then leaving them.

Tabby looked confused and he didn’t even follow us to the car. To this day, it would be about a month since we last saw him. My husband had gone out searching, calling out for him, but to no avail. I have included him in my prayers; to please keep him save and send him back to us. Some years ago when AG was back in Malaysia during Ramadhan, it was Tabby who woke up up, for sahur pulling at our duvet.


Yesterday, as we were preparing for maghrib, I saw Kissinger! He was lurking outside, unsure whether he would come in through the flap. When I shouted out his name, he knew we are back and dashed through the catflap. After we did our prayers, he just jumped on to our laps and started kissing us.

If only Kissinger could talk and tell us where Tabby is, and whether Tabby is alright. If only Kissinger would go and tell him that we are back and missing him. Please come back Tabby, everything is forgiven!

Sibling Rivalry

The din from downstairs woke me up and instantly I knew they were at it again. It was already midnight and I was worried that the yelling and screeching would wake the neighbours up. It wasn’t the first time and sadly it will not be the last.

I flew downstairs only to see the back of the older brother disappearing into the cold night air. I called out his name but to no avail. He’s gone and will not be back until he gathers enough courage to come back again.

He left home some months ago, after what I believe, was one of the most heated of sibling altercations. Jealousy has a lot to do with this. Taking sides. Camps. Whenever there was a quarrel, the sister just sat and watched. The youngest brother pretended not to see.

This problem of sibling rivalry saddens me a great deal for they used to be so close, almost inseparable since birth. Then they began to show their claws and true colours. They all seemed to gang up against him. The fights became more frequent. And one day, he left. The few times that he came back, he was more like a stranger. He’d walk in, look around and walk out again, as if the place, which saw them playfully rolling on the sofa, on the carpet, didn’t mean a thing to him. The others would watch him scornfully; ignoring him completely. Or if they felt generous, they’d give him a contemptuous scowl.

There were times when he’d lurk outside the gate, mustering enough courage to walk in. But the front door was as far as he’d get.

So, the homecoming became less frequent. That is, until recently.

We’ve never shown any favouritism. But they fought for attention and affection.

I sense that he really wants to come home. His wandering days are over and he’d want to make amends with his siblings. But the return of the prodigal son recently was such a sorrowful event.

As soon as he made a cautious entrance through the flap, Tabby who was sprawled on the floor, sprang to his feet with such a meow that caused his brother to make a hasty retreat. The jealous streak in Tabby was so unbecoming but of late he has been so territorial and possessive, especially of his master. Only he has the place on his chest, purring away contentedly. Only he can sit on his lap while he types away at the computer. Only he can laze on the prayer mat while waiting for his master to finish his prayers. His brother’s return would certainly be seen as a threat.

When they were small, we called them the Kray Brothers, after the infamous East end duo. Then when the older one left home, we called the younger one Tabby. Then one day, Mary, our next door neighbour mistook Tabby for Stanley. That was how we knew Tabby’s brother had taken refuge in a neighbour’s house. That’s how we knew he was called Stanley.

Stanley knows that the flap of our backdoor is always open to him. There will always be a bowl of milk and a tray of Whiskers whenever he feels like coming back. We still love you, Stanley Wan.

Other rivalries:
Pillow Talk and Impossible Dreams in A House Divided

Notes from My Lounge

They say the sun is out. It is almost officially spring, they hasten to add. There’s even a cluster of daffodils outside the front door and the cherry blossoms are looking very beautiful indeed lining the street all the way down to Betsy’s. But I am in no mood to budge from the comforts of my lounge, from the warmth that my duvet can offer, and not too many miles away from the steaming tea and coffee in the kitchen. These last few days I have been nursing a very bad cold which is accompanied by fever and a monster of a headache.

It seems that almost everyone I know has had this and some got it worse. So, I am allowing myself this rest; stockinged feet, warm duvet, monopoly of the remote control and a veto power as to what’s on telly.

But most days when my fingers are not taking me a-surfing across blogosphere, or I get tired of repeats of Vicar of Dibley, I look out of the garden door and contemplate what I should do to the garden when spring comes and my energy returns. This is a perennial thing ; the planning not the gardening. There’s certainly plenty to be done, considering it is looking very much like a place David Attenburgh would discover some dying species.

It has been left neglected since Mick, our neighbour and volunteer gardener was taken ill and then was taken away from us one spring when I was in Malaysia. The garden that was once full of tomato plants, sweetcorns, daisies, daffodils and geraniums of all colours and variety is bare and neglected. Even the apple tree gave up on us. The only tree that has been standing steadily eversince Mick plonked it in the ground some 20 years ago, is the evergreen that we brought back from Rachel’s garden in Weybridge. It is now taller than the house, overwhelming the pear tree belonging to our Polish neighbour.

I myself gave up on the garden when hayfever took the better of me.

The last time we put anything in the ground was sometime last year. In February. Somewhere between the evergreen and the dying apple tree is our beloved Jasper. He left us a year ago after being with us for almost 14 years. He wanted to go quietly and spare us the pain but we brought him back.

He was a shadow of himself – once the terror of the neighbourhood, who roamed the garden and streets with his head high. I remember giving him a bath right here in this living room, because he was not smelling as he should and I wanted to hold him and make everything all right for him. He didnt resist but whimpered and later walked to the bathroom and pushed the door shut. When I called out to him, he managed a weak meow and then he was gone.

I miss my Jasper.

Growing Up and Growing Old with Awang Goneng

SELAMAT HARI RAYA
MAAF ZAHIR & BATIN
DARIPADA KAK TEH SEKELUARGA

An update:
A special Hari Raya indeed! We have all received our presents. They came through the post from the publishers. Six copies of Growing Up in Trengganu!!!
All the sayang mamas got one each and are reading about their grandma, whom they had never met , about their grandfather they met very briefly and most important of course about the experiences and the environment that had helped shaped their father. What a wonderful present!


Congratulations my Awang Goneng from Mrs Awang Goneng.

I will never forget the morning I woke up as Mrs Awang Goneng. I was checking my emails when I read one that addressed me as Mrs Awang Goneng as opposed to the usual Mrs Wan, telling me to forward the email to Mr Awang Goneng as the sender had not been able to reach him.

The sender was indeed someone from the publisher of the book, Growing Up in Trengganu and since the AG in question was busy typing on his PC behind me, I just forwarded the email to him. Life during the last few months had been like that – we sat back to back, each facing our own PC, forwarding and replying each other’s mails.

When AG (as he is now known among blogger friends) said GUIT was very much a top secret project, I can assure you that he was telling the truth. I was literally in the dark until only quite recently. I’d wake up to find him sitting in semi darkness typing away. Writing comes to him quite effortlessly whereas for me, I’d toss and turn a few times before I could produce an intro.

GUIT has indeed given me a peek into the world that my husband lived in, a world I never knew existed before this. There is a good reason for this. Two weeks after getting hitched to this Awang from Trengganu, we left for this foreign shores. That was almost 28 years ago and by then I had only visited Trengganu twice; once as a cadet in Kesatria (those good old ITM days) and the second one as a young bride being introduced to hordes of relative-in-laws who spoke a strange kind of language to me, calling me names such as Mek Jarroh!

In fact, the week in Trengganu was almost like a crash course in Trengganuspeak that didn’t quite work. Before becoming his Mrs, I had never once heard him speak in his Trengganu dialect. In fact I had never heard him speak Malay! Our courtship was conducted in English entirely and it was such a cultural shock to the system when the morning of the night before, sitting at the breakfast table with my new in laws, I heard strange words coming out of this man who had become my husband.

I learned and remember a few such as bekeng, songo and se’eh. And now with the guide to Trengganu speak in GUIT, I hope to understand him more.

It was under the tree right in front of the big newspaper office in Jalan Riong that the question was asked.The question that was to change and map our life for this past 28 years. We were sitting in his old battered VW when he said, Do you want to go to London or stay here? I didn't think twice and for selfish reasons, I said London. I wanted to smell the fresh spring flowers and experience the first drop of snow and various things that he talked about in his lovely long letters to me when he was the London correspondent. I wanted him to take me by the hand, like the words he sang to me from the song by Ralph MacTell, and lead me through the streets of London that I had become familiar with from days spent playing Monopoly. Yes, I wanted to come to London.

And London did something to him and to me. He yearned and talked about his Trengganu a lot. It takes being away for so long for someone to remember clearly how things were in those days.

For me, the words he paints of Trengganu make me want to go back and see it again, the stories that he tells of his Cik (mother) make me wish I had known her and had tasted the delicious food she used to prepare for him when he was small. She could have taught me a thing or two. I had seen her photographs, but I never knew her. It makes me wonder whether she would be proud to have me as a daughter in law. I guess I would never know.

Anyway, before I get too sentimental, I believe the book will hit the bookshops in Malaysia and Singapore soon. I think the publisher has also taken it to the Frankfurt Book Fair. So, to quote
AG in his entry here, “ go out and buy a copy or three, and recommend it to your teh tarik man, workmates, mother-in-law and the man/woman you exchange glances with at the traffic light. It will, if anything, keep an impoverished author in work.”

And if I may add, that will indeed help to buy an extra can of cat food for his loyal friends who kept him company when he was doing the book.

Please look at the write up by blooker central here.

Researcher at work

Proofreader sleeping on the job

Snowbell giving a helping hand











Researcher at work











Pix 4: Photo editor













Spellchecker








Praying together for GUIT to be a bestseller

The Gift

There’s not much one can do when one has a bad back. You lie down and contemplate the spider web at the corner of the ceiling, the curtains with several hooks missing, the dandelions fighting for survival with the grass growing longer by the minute, and the window badly in need of a good wash! And there’s not much you can do about it.

Since coming back from Malaysia, I’ve had fever, flu and now that dull aching pain in my lower back. I have a history of slipped disc and I can tell you it is the most painful thing after childbirth. It happened some ten years ago and a few days ago – the pain came back and I am too embarrassed to say how it happened.

Okay, I might as well tell all as I have not much to blog about.

I was lying down watching TV and drifting in and out of sleep, when Snowbell came in with ‘a gift’. One look at ‘the gift’ Nona who was at the computer jumped on to the stool, Taufiq made a dash to the bathroom, Rehana locked herself in her room, hubby continued with his wirid and moi? Well, I tried to dodge ‘the gift’ still alive and running around in a daze in the front room, and in doing so brought back the mother of all pains.

Snowbell

It is hard to be angry with Snowbell for too long. She meant well and I am sure she wanted me to enjoy ‘the gift ‘ as well, the way she did tossing it about before it made an escape. But, she shouldn’t have presented it so close to me as I was dozing off watching a very boring documentary on TV. She practically placed it near my face – I don't know whether I was more scared of the little mouse, or the little mouse was more scared of this screaming mama doing the jig in the front room.

Cats, and I now have five with Jasper gone, have a habit of bringing in gifts like this. Many didn't survive the journey in their mouth from the garden, though the cat flap and into the house. But those that did, try to escape. Once, Tabby brought in a dead squirrel and presented it at our feet. then Kissinger brought in a big lifeless pigeon and proudly displayed his prize in front of the TV.

So, that’s it. This time you are spared of my usual long rants as I cannot sit for too long and write long rambling pieces.

Have a nice weekend!