Love in the Autumn Years II

It was 14^th February 2007 and I was in the grand surroundings of a stately home somewhere in the outskirts of London tucked away among clusters of quaint English villages along the M25. It is a grand imposing building built in 1883 and had survived the war. It's beautifully decorated walls have been witnesses to so many interesting happenings but that day I left with one story that made my day.

We were in the opulent surrounding of a room specially built for Queen Victoria. The ceiling, I was told, was painted with real gold paint. It has an Oriental feel because Queen Victoria liked it but sadly never visited it. But that day in that room I met a couple with a precious story to share with me.

For all of his seventy odd years or so, he was still the perfect officer and a gentleman. She was slightly built, dressed in a suit befitting an officer's wife. Her Oriental genes saw to it that she didn't look her age although she admitted she is a few years older than him.

They met while he was serving out there in Malaya and the nineteen year old lad from Berkshire fell hopelessly in love with the Chinese lass serving him from behind the counter. A whirlwind romance in turbulent times but they decided to get married in England. She packed her belongings, said farewell to her only aunt and boarded the ship bound for the London Docks.

There must have been many anxious moments as the ship sailed in sometimes turbulent waters matching her anxiety; the prospect of a new life in a foreign land, the thoughts of meeting her in-laws-to-be for the first time and all sorts of other 'what ifs' that intruded her thoughts during the long lonely nights in her cabin. During the day, it wasn't too bad as there were many other Chinese passengers she had befriended during the voyage.

He, in the meantime, had flown back to await the arrival of his bride-to- be from the East.

As she stepped out on to the gangway after the ship had docked, an officer in a bluish uniform rushed forward and swept her off her feet and began kissing her, ignoring her protests. Her Chinese companions too had protested, hitting him and telling him that that wasn't the 'done' thing! When he finally put her down, she breathlessly asked him who he was, as she didn't recognise him at all in this new surroundings.

The plans to get married didn't go as smoothly as the voyage; there was still much resistance from in-laws who didn't think marriage to a foreigner from out there would last.

"Today, on Valentine's Day," he said as he toasted his drink to his smiling wife, "we have proved them wrong. We are still married after more than 50 years and we have grand children. And she is still as lovely as ever," at which point I shamelessly let out a loud sob!

Last night, we were back at our weekly tazkirah and I was feeling a tad melancholic. Most of the surau mates are oldies like us; familiar faces at terawikhs, tahlils and religious discussions. There were many new comers and many young faces; students who wouldn’t miss the weekly gathering to hear the wise words of our young ustaz.

Last night, I felt almost like an invisible observer watching the goings on in that small room. I watched a friend chatting with my husband. And suddenly his head tilted a little to the direction of a familiar cheerful voice. His wife had entered the room, having arrived early from her work place to join us. During the previous weeks, this being winter, she could only make it to the gathering when we were done with our Isya prayers, and she was only in time to gently guide her husband up the stairs and across the road to their car. She has been his trusted pair of eyes during these last few years since his eyesight began to deteriorate. She edits his writings for he is a fervent and prolific writer. And that made me think, how much more we depend on each other during these autumn years. How much more we feel the need to be each other’s eyes and ears, to share more than just the odd pair of reading glasses .

So, we can only offer our syukur to Allah for blessing us with our companions. Some, like one other surau mateI have known all my life here, managed only a few years together before her husband was taken away after a sudden illness. Her picture of her young self in kebaya and kain ketat remains on her shelf next to one of her and her beloved. She accompanied him here as he needed to finish his studies. But his illness took him away. To this day, she could not face the reality of leaving the land where he is buried. Going home for good, would be like abandoning him. So, to this day she devotedly tends to his grave, pulling out the weeds and making sure it is clean. She once spoke to me about returning home for good, but I doubt it. Her love for the one who left her some twenty odd years ago, is still intact and strong. She will stay on to be with him.

Two weeks ago, she told me, she didn't even have the chance to reply him, when he uttered his final 'I love you' .

Love in the Autumn Years

It was a cool autumn morning and the sun was shining through the almost bare trees lining the winding street leading to the hospital. The couple walked silently, arms linked, both entertaining thoughts about the season, with its golden yellow leaves and almost bare branches- a season so rich in colour, yet so near the end of the year.

They reached the hospital and found their way to the breast scan unit. The woman was a bit hesitant, but he gave her a gentle push and the same reassuring look as he had been giving all these years. She registered while he sat with his Guardian among other middle aged women waiting their turn for the breast scan. He was the thorn among the withering roses and yet felt quite comfortable being there, as he had been numerous times before at pre-natal classes, baby scans, baby births – everywhere, holding her hand and giving moral support, and just being there.

Like autumn, their life together has been rich enough to make a beautiful picture. They had gone through spring and its head spinning, heart fluttering moments. Summer came as the children made their appearances and now it is autumn. But unlike autumn the season, the autumn of their life together will not repeat itself after winter. But it can be framed and treasured.

The gold plated pendant that she received on Valentine’s Day 1978 was perhaps the first and the last Valentine’s Day gift she had ever received. And she had long forgotten how to sulk as the day came and went without a register of recognition of the day’s significance in his eyes. To him, it is not important. And now to her it is not important too.

What is important is the companionship, the togetherness even if unspoken.

What matters are those times; when he woke up two or three times during the night to read and check on her attempts at feature writing, when he travelled miles to bring their first born to wherever she was for the baby to be breastfed, when he bought her not flowers but books to read and enrich her mind, when he made her leg of lamb and roast potatos at the end of her long day at work.

What is important is that wait; at the platform, at the book shop, at the cafe. Fifteen minutes, half an hour, one hour – with the knowledge that the other will turn up.

What is unforgettable is the picture of him reading books on pregnancy, on PMT, on migrane and poring over recipes to make keropok when she craved for keropok while heavy with child, and tying her shoe laces as she was too big to bend down and do it herself.

What is also precious is that reminder to take vitamins early in the morning, the gentle tug at midnight with a glass of water and vitamins that he feeds her. What is more precious is the ‘Bismillahirahmanirrahim’ that he utters as she swallows the vitamins and goes back to sleep. Similarly precious is the “Tawakkal tuAllah’ from him that accompanies her daily as she sets out for work.

Last night, at the usual place by the fountain, she waited for half an hour. After all these years, she knew he’d turn up. After all these years, she was aware that he was lost among the bookshelves of Waterstones. But she waited. And yes, did he turn up. No more tantrums and sulks of those spring years or fiery anger of summer. This autumn stage of our life has become so predictable; as predictable as the leaves falling, as predictable as winter being around the corner. With that realisation, I think love in the autumn of our life is not too bad at all – even without the flowers and the chocolates.

So, without much fuss, today she says thank you and let us make the most of this autumn years in our life.

Thank you for another year

The letter was dated some time between Dec. ‘78 and Jan. '79. Postmarked London. And that must be one of the hundreds of letters that I received from the same address that I must have read hundreds of times. And today I took out the old dusty bag containing the letters and read them again but that particular one is the most significant because it has in writing what transpired over the phone in December 78.

It is also significant because it ended weeks of agony and tears in the bathroom. It confirmed that the conversation across the ocean wasn’t an imagination. And more importantly, he had not changed his mind or gone cold feet. He did ask me to marry him. The reason for the delay in the arrival of THE letter was Britain was going through what has now gone down in history as The Winter of Discontent. Rubbish were left rotting and not collected, hospital services were disrupted and so was the postal services – my life line in the absence of the now can’t-live-without sms, ym and emails.

Danny Boy had walked up the creaky steps of the old office in Light Street, Penang, with that cheeky smile on his face. He had in his hands lots of letters and documents which he had collected from the post office, and I could see that one bulky one in the all too familiar light blue envelope was meant for me. But he took his time, enjoying the look of anxiety on my face and intent on prolonging my misery, went round the office distributing the letters, leaving mine to the last.

When I did get my hands on it, I left the intro of my story for the day hanging in mid sentence, in the old Remington and locked myself up in the bathroom to digest the contents of the letter. I read it again several times during lunch under the big tree in front of Ho Peng (or fashionably known as Cafe de Paris), with Olivia Newton John belting out Hopelessly Devoted To You from the old jukebox, and again during a trishaw ride to the bus stand with the sound of Junglee blaring from the old transistor of the trishaw puller. True love is never meant to be straightforward and as for me, it was one merry-go-round.

That phone call and that letter brought our relationship a step nearer, though not any steps easier. For one, Mak couldn’t pronounce his name. And two of many others, He didn’t want an elaborate hoohaa of a wedding, preferring a simple ceremony at the mosque while my side of the family was already on page four of the guest lists (negotiations with TV3 must have been in the pipeline) .

And another big issue – I love babies, he loves cats. I wanted ten children, he wanted none.

All these pre-nup negotiations were conducted via airmails which took ages to arrive but the man himself turned up unannounced at my rented accommodation in Green Garden. And the rest is history. On the 9th of December 1979, there was a compromise of sorts. No big hoohaa, just a handful from the office – even Kak Adib who suspected that there was something between us, was not invited. Fati (of the now famed Cinta and AF) was there as she was instrumental in making me go out on that first date with him. Her words which rang clear to this day were: ‘You change you mind, you jaga!’, she said threateningly as I was getting ready in our dorm waiting for him to fetch me.

We bersandinged on two cushions in Abang’s front room in Jalan Telawi, Bangsar. No big buffalos died for our kenduri. After two weeks of visiting relatives, we said goodbye at Changi airport and flew into cold, gloomy London.

Its a good way to start married life, if you ask me. No relatives to poke their noses where it is not wanted and no mother’s house to run back to when you have a tiff. Any misunderstandings or harsh words, I took myself to the bathroom and the kitchen and scrubbed them clean. And love and honeymoon in a cold climate is most recommended. Never ask for promises. I never did. And I treat every extra year that we are together as a bonus from HIM.

Living in each other’s letters is one thing, but living with each other is another, no matter how hot your words of undying love was in those blue single lined letter pads. Adjustments had to be made, compromises to be sorted out. But isn’t that what marriage is all about? We didn’t have ten children, but not for lack of trying, of course. We have four now. Alhamdulillah. But I lost three more after that. He changed his mind about children and wanted more. I couldn’t, so we have six cats instead. Four children and six cats in 27 years. Alhamdulillah.

And guess what? Mak can now pronounce his name.

PS

Last night, he wanted to take me to Iceland, but it was freezing cold. So, we took a cab to Beirut, instead. We had a lovely walk, the cold night air was quite refreshing and that was enough to whet our appetite for the mixed kebab we had bought from Beirut in Shepherd's Bush.