Selamat Hari Ibu, Mak!

Mak opened the cupboard to take her selendang and from where I stood, I was rendered breathless by the wonderful scent of jasmine flowers that Mak picked from Tok’s garden to scatter amongst her clothes. And from the layers of neatly folded kebayas and baju Kedah, she took a pinkish, round container which held all her precious possessions. She picked one item and put it in a handkerchief and wrapped it carefully and placed it in her handbag.

“Mak nak pi mana?” I asked, afraid to be left behind.

“Pi ginjat,” said Mak with a knowing smile.

Mak’s ginjat activities were quite well known amongst us siblings. She usually did it some time in the middle of the month, when Hari Raya was near or when there were kenduris to attend. It was not something to be embarrassed about anymore. It was almost a necessity.

Even in the high heels that she bought from Lorong Sempit on the way to Pekan Rabu, Mak was still pint sized. So, she still needed to ginjat to hand over her precious belongings; a diamond ring, the long gold necklace or perhaps the strands of bracelets, through the iron bars, in exchange for some cash much needed, perhaps to pay for our school fees or to buy our school uniforms.

In exchange, she was given a piece of paper with lots of Chinese characters, which told her to return at a certain date, with certain rates of interest that she had to pay. That slip of paper she folded neatly and put in her handbag again.

We never questioned why Mak had to do what she did. We always had food on the table and nice clothes to wear. But sometimes, just sometimes, we’d be short of money and Mak had to make that trip to town. Pak’s pay as a clerk at the land office wasn’t much, and later his pension saw to it that we had just about enough of everything. Pak was never one to save. He’d treat us to anything that we wanted, and then when there’s nothing left, we’d have to wait until his next pay. So, in the meanwhile, Mak had to ginjat.

Other then that Mak made kuehs. Early in the mornings, Mamak Ghani would knock on the door to collect the kuehs and placed them in his baskets before making his rounds in the neighbourhood. One morning, I remember, Mak was still in her telekung, giving her salam when Ghani came. She grabbed the trays of kuehs and made for the door, the kitchen lights shining behind her. She must have looked quite a sight in her telekung at that hour of the morning for Ghani left his baskets and ran off for dear life. We had a good laugh when Mak told us what happened and Ghani never heard the end of the story after that and I bet he repeated the story to his family when he finally left for India.

Where Mak got her strength from, no one knows. After making the kuehs, she’d turn her attention to the bales of cloths at the sewing machine. She was the local seamstress, just like Tok, and both mother and daughter were known for their fine stitchings and even finer tulang belud. The income from making baju kurung would increase during raya time and these were spent on new curtains and perhaps her new set of crockeries. She’d buy us raya clothes with money Pak gave but most of the time our clothes were never quite finished as she was always busy finishing other people’s clothes.

Mak did try a hand at selling clothes and kain batiks that she bought at Pekan Rabu, but business acumen was somewhat lacking in our family. Tok, who during her younger days did just that, didn’t quite like it when Mak went selling kain batik. Once I heard her say to Mak, “Amboih, pi dengan matahari balik dengan bulan,” and Mak didn’t like that but Mak wasn’t the sort of daughter to reply back. She just bit her tongue and kept quiet. Even when Tok was fussy and very frail and couldn’t move, suffering from bedsores, Mak was very patient with Tok. She was her only child. When Tok scratched off clumps of flesh from her back, Mak was forced to take desperate measures.

“Yun minta ampun minta maaf, Mak,” she’d say every night as she tied Tok’s hands before she went to sleep. Tok would look at her with pleading eyes, like a child. But Mak had to be cruel to be kind. To not tie Tok’s hands, there’d be clumps of flesh on the mattress in the morning, with fresh sores where Tok had scratched herself.

Mak was never tired of looking after Tok, her Mak. When Tok got too cranky, Mak went for walks to Pekan Rabu, or Lorong Sempit. Or if it got worse, she went to Kuala Lumpur to stay with Kak to release her tension. But she never spoke back in anger to Tok. When she came back, she came back a better daughter.

As a mother and as a daughter, Mak sacrificed a lot. This one day of Mother’s Day is not enough for all that she had done, for all that she had given. Nevertheless, Selamat Hari Ibu, Mak. Your children will make sure you will never have to ginjat ever again!!


Happy Mother's Day to all Mothers for their undivided love and sacrifices.

Memories of an Absent Daughter

Once in a while I am asked to write something which I find most difficult to do. Recently I was requested by Her World to write a piece for Mother's Day.
Here I reproduce the whole article.

Memories of an Absent Daughter
By Zaharah Othman

Mak’s latest picture on Flikr did a lot to put my mind at peace. She is a picture of contentment as she watches the antics of her children and grandchildren at one of the many and frequent family gatherings. I found myself clicking on it many times to see her smile as it helps to take away a little of the guilt gnawing away at my conscience.
Pix by Nadya Shahabuddin.

It is the look that I want to frame forever and keep in the deep recesses of my mind. It is the look that helps erase the sad picture of confusion and helplessness as she searches for her glasses, handbag and her false teeth that she frequently misplaces. Old age has rendered this once formidable woman helpless and frustrated and more often than not confused. We have yet to hear any of us utter the dreaded word Alzheimer’s to explain her predicament.

Similarly, tucked away in my mental album are recordings of our Skype sessions together. She sits in the front room of my sister’s house in Bangi, while I sit in my lounge in London; both of us connected and communicating, courtesy of modern day technology. Once in a while she reaches out to touch the screen, caressing my face;
“Anak Mak,” she’d lament again and again as it dawns on her the distance that separates us.



Other than that I have numerous collections of MiniDVs clearly labelled, “With Mak during raya”, “Mak in 2001/2002”, and many more. In most, Mak is her busy, healthy self in the kitchen doing what she loves doing best: cooking for the family. We sit around the big table in the house that Pak built for her, while she fusses about, cooking every dish that we mentioned. A mother’s pride is being able to serve what her children crave for.

“I found some fresh crabs at the market today,” she’d say after sneaking out in the wee hours of the morning after subuh before the crowd descends upon Alor Setar’s wet market. Thus, there’d be sambal tumis ketam for me, banana spadix for abang, fresh fish on the grill for the rest of the family. She knows each of our favourites and would refrain from eating or cooking them if one of us is away.

Technology has made separation and distance a lot easier but it does not necessarily ease the pangs nor erase the guilt of being away. Mak had made it very easy for the absent child to feel less guilty. At the airport 29 years ago, she waved me goodbye as I clung on to her and hugged her for what was to be only a three-year separation.

“You are now someone’s wife and you have to go with him,” she said bravely, pushing me gently towards my husband waiting at the departure lounge. When three years looked set to stretch to thirty years, she never once said, “Come back.” Last year, too weak to see me off at the airport, she said, “Go. You don’t want to miss the plane. The children are waiting in London.” She still has the knack of making things easy, without making you feel guilty. No emotional blackmail that we lesser mortals tend to employ in times of desperation and selfishness.

Communication via Skype is the only way we could talk to each other; her grandchildren fit her with a set of earphone and microphone, without which she couldn’t hear. Normal phone conversations are almost always painfully frustrating. Her impaired hearing means that she answers questions I never asked and repeated questions I had answered several times before.

This experience always leaves me punishing myself with a list of unanswered questions: when Mak could still hear, did I tell her enough that I love her, have I asked her for her forgiveness and blessings? When Mak could still see clearly, did I show my appreciation of her dedication and undivided love to her children, when she could walk, did I accompany her enough to places she wanted to go?

A punishing routine like this need not necessarily absolve or lessen the guilt of a frequently absent daughter. The punishing ritual usually finds its way into an online journal expressed in a form, which I could never verbalised. Ever.

The few precious moments I had with Mak during my trips home have left some mental pictures that will forever be there. There was the time I rushed to her bedside in the hospital after being told that she has the big C. Being away for too long, I was scared that emotionally I couldn’t cope being with her alone. My sisters had left me to change her diapers, an experience that left both of us in tears and laughter. I had put it the wrong way round and after three wasted diapers, I called for the nurse to help.

Mothering Mak is a painful yet humbling experience. It is painful not because I didn’t want to do it, but because I couldn’t come to terms with the fact that this once strong person, who had changed my diapers without as much as a moan, is now a child herself. Once, walking her to the bathroom, she nearly collapsed. Her sarung fell unceremoniously to the floor, leaving her naked and vulnerable. On her face, etched a painful look; one that said, you shouldn’t see me like this. And once, when I was supposed to care for her as she slept, she rolled off the bed and I found her clutching her head. I held her in my lap and consoled her the way she must have done to ease the pain every time I hurt myself as a child.

In happier times, she’d regale us with stories of her journeys to Mecca; recalling the experience on the Bunga Raya as she sailed the rough seas. Cleary etched on her mind as if it happened yesterday, was the busy Port of Aden, where she recalled vendors in small boats approaching their ship with their goods.

“They’d hoist a basket at the end of a long pole to show you what they have on offer and if you wanted to buy, you just put your money in the basket”, she told me as I was preparing to leave for my own flight to Mecca. She remembers the smell of salted fish that she and her cabinmates fried to eat with piping hot rice, and the sight of bodies being lowered into the sea as pilgrims died during the voyage before reaching their destination.

All these that happened forty years ago, are clearly etched in her mind. Not forgotten was also the fact that I cried on my first day at school.

That Mak’s memories can be selective is undeniable. Sitting at the dinner table with her one afternoon, she fretted about going home to the house that Pak built for her in Alor Setar. A subject she brings up on a daily basis.

“I am not well,” she had said. “I want to go home.”

“If you are not well, why go home as there’s no one to look after you there,” I reminded her.

“You can look after me,” she said looking straight into my eyes.

“I have some work to finish here,” I pleaded.

“When you were small and not well, I looked after you,” she countered my plea, hitting me where it really hurt. That was the only time she tried this emotional blackmail.

I had no answer to that and when none of us had answers for her frequent requests to go home to the house that Pak built for her, we resort to lying, an art that had been perfected over the years. Exploiting her failing memory, we had to tell her that she had just returned from the place where she thinks her chickens and duck run free in the compound which once had colourful bougainvilleas and orchids of different species. She wants to be there when passers-by stop and admire her flowers.

Although trips back to the old house have been frequent, she is now too frail to make the journey. A drive back, even with many stops, would tire her. Even the short flight back would take its toll on her health.

So, a small garden with plants from her precious plot is recreated in each of her offsprings house in Bangi and Kajang to make her feel at home. She’d be satisfied for a while and then she’d ask again, taking out her old bag to pack and repack her clothes.

All these reports are relayed to me eight thousand miles away via sms, skype and chats and these would nag at my conscience until I buy that flight ticket back. And until that happens, I pray that if Mak’s failing memory made her forget everything else, she would still remember her daughter who used to cling on to her kebaya sleeves, the one she waited for patiently after school on the old iron swing outside the house that Pak built, and the one she sang syaers and pantuns to when she was small. For all the distance that divides us, Mak is forever in my mind.

Kutu

There’s a lot of kutu talk in the family these days. The latest I heard was an unscheduled meeting by my siblings and spouses that was held under a tree at Dena’s; the main agenda was a trip to India. There had been several trips before – but mostly in the mind. But a meeting under a tree must be serious and the main question being discussed was how to fund such a trip. Thus kutu.

I remember kutu when the word was a mere kut in our family and the main kut master was Mak. From the 20 sens pocket money that we were allowed daily, we had to save and fork out 20 sens a week to give to Mak. That was considered a lot of money those days and it was quite painful to hand over the coins come Friday.

I suppose that was Mak’s way of making us save. The tabung ayam that she bought for each of us never got us anywhere. Suffice to say the effort was hangat-hangat tahi ayam. The tabung ayam ended up being raided in moments of desperation and when temptation got the better of us.

So, Mak came up with a plan; one that worked quite well with her friends; Mak Limah, Kak Nab, Mak Siah and the rest around Jalan Tunku Mahmud. But theirs was more on a monthly basis. She kept some housekeeping money, which meant we had less meat or no chicken on some days. They’d have a kind of afternoon tea for the first meeting to decide who gets the first payment. Then, subsequent payments were collected by the kutu master on her rounds, either on the way to the market or after their subuh prayers at the mosque.

I don’t think the final amount added up to a lot and Mak never spent the money on herself. It would either be new curtains for Hari Raya or a trip to visit Kak in Johore. Or sometime to get back her precious jewelleries that she had pawned at the pawnshop next to Ah Leng’s, when money was tight.

Anyway, with us, it was 20 sens. I remember gathering around the kitchen table one night. I was very excited. There were several match sticks of various lengths. Mak held them tight in her hand and each of us pulled out one. The one with the shortest received the first payment. How exciting!! But the excitement was shortlived as one soon realised that being the first to receive meant you have to keep on paying until everyone got their share. And believe it or not, Mak was always the last to receive hers and by the time her children had received theirs, no one wanted to play anymore! Sorry, Mak.

The last time I played kutu, the amount had increased to £100 a month. Wow, that was a big increase from 20 sens. And with ten Cik Kiahs contributing £100 a month, it was a handsome amount in the packet that went a long way; some as far as Harrods or Selfridges. But unlike playing with Mak, I had to discipline myself and prise out the monthly payment of £100 until it was over.

Over the next few months, there will be a few kenduris as two nephews will be tying the knot. Methinks its kutu time again. Anyone for a game of kutu?

Mak, oh Mak!

The scene is clear in my mind. Mak is sitting on the sofa, folding the clothes. It gives her quite a satisfaction to be doing something like that. She feels useful. It is the safest task to give to Mak these days as it is no longer safe to allow her to hang clothes or wash the dishes. Once in a while she looksup to watch the programme that Kak Cik is watching in between her sewing. And then suddenly, she drops the bombshell.

“Dia tu dok belakang rumah Zaharah, ” Mak said.

“Sapa, Mak?” asked Kak Cik puzzled.

“Dia tu laa, yang dalam TV tu. Masa Mak pi London, dia dok di belakang rumah Zaharah,” she told Kak Cik.

Kak Cik almost dropped a few stitches upon hearing this. The “dia” in question was none other than America’s queen of chatshows, Oprah Winfrey. And how she came to be my neighbour behind the house, was Kak Cik’s mission to find out. Thus the text message that she sent me.

These days, text messages from my siblings about Mak would throw me into a gamut of emotions. This one had me almost rolling on the floor laughing before sadness set in with the realisation that Mak’s memory is getting from bad to worse. What goes on in that mind that used to be so sharp, no one knows.

Over the years Mak visited me three times and she certainly enjoyed her stay, not once complaining about the cold. Abang used to tease her; "Mak pi London berapa kali dah, tak pass, pass pun!"

Before her first trip, Abang had prepared her with a few important English words. He told Mak, “Kalau immigration tanya apa-apa, Mak kata; Yes, No, Alright!”. And she’d just laugh because Abang was forever teasing her. She had missed Abang a lot when Abang was in Belfast but it was impossible to visit him, not when bombs were exploding everywhere. And again it was impossible to visit Kak Cik when she was in Kansas. With me in London, and Tok Su and Mak Cik also in London and Kak Niyah in Kent, she felt it was time to visit.

Mak came in the summer of 1980, bringing with her, her crisp cotton kebayas and kain batiks and high heeled shoes. She was quite stylish. No amount of coaxing would make her wear trainers or walking shoes when we went walking in Kensington Gardens or Hyde Park. She loved the parks as she loved the roses and the summer blooms.

The second time Mak came was after Nona was born. Again it was in summer. I remember how my friends would look forward to dinner at home because it was truly home cooked food. But what I don’t remember is anyone with any remote resemblance to the chat show host and now close friend and supporter of Obama.

But we do have a close friend from Kenya who visited us often when Mak was around. Perhaps it is Jane then that she had mistakenly thought was the great Oprah. But if Mak wants to believe that Oprah was my neighbour, then let it be.

I hear Mak is now chirpy and happy. And without her teeth. She had misplaced her set of teeth that had sent everyone looking under the bed, under the pillow and even in the bin. But it is gone. The last time she misplaced it, it was found in the drawers. This time it is gone forever. But Mak will be flashing her happy smile soon, because a new set is waiting for her at the dentist!

More on Mak:

Mothering Mak

Raya with Mak

The Lie Must Go On

The Crying Has stopped ..For now.

The house that Pak built - where is it?

The last chat with my brother left me with a despondent mood that is not about to lift any moment soon. As usual the topic of conversation was Mak. She was insisting that some one takes her back to the house that Pak built for her. But that is nothing new. She does that on a daily basis these days.

Yesterday, as my brother was getting ready to go to work, she insisted that he takes her to work with him, and leaves her at a certain junction where she would proceed to her house. Considering where he works is somewhere near Melawati, she has got a long way to go indeed, back to her home town in Alor Setar.

But what is more worrying is that when Ajie asked her where her house is, she went quiet and looked very confused and couldn’t even remember where her beloved home is. And this is sad. The house that she keeps yearning to return to, the one that is keeping her alive in her waking hours and one that fills her dreams when she goes to sleep, is nowhere near her radar screen these days. In her mind, the house still has a garden that is perpetually in full bloom and orchids with a riot of colours that would stop people in their tracks and stare in admiration. Somewhere in the deep recesses of her mind, they are still there, awaiting her return. But for now, she couldn’t place where that house is.

These last few years, Mak has used the same excuse that Pak never wanted her to leave the house that he built for her. We never heard this when Pak was alive. Pak would have wanted Mak to stay where she would be cared for by her children. And that is where she is now. There is no denying that Mak feels closer to Pak when she is there. She wants to go and visit his final resting place and offer her prayers. She also wants to offer her prayers to Tok, but that big house is no place for her, not even with a companion or a carer. For now it has become a place to go back to during Raya, and once in a while in between. And that is certainly not enough for Mak.

That Mak is feeling this attachment with Pak who left us some thirty years ago, is rather touching. When we were growing up, we never saw even a hint of lovey-doveyness between them. I suppose in those days, a public display of affection, even in front of their own children, was a no no. There was no Yang or Abang, or any such terms of endearment that we heard. But the loyalty and devotion were obvious for she cared for Pak right until he breathed his last. The companionship that they shared was evident. They were hardly apart – except of course when she went to Mekah and when she spent time looking after Kak when she gave birth.

Looking back, I remember that they spent most of their time together in the big kitchen. While she prepared food, he helped peel and chop the onions so finely and top and tail the taugehs. At other times, he kept her company reading the Straits Times or doing the Crossword puzzles while she went about doing the chores.

Pak was housebound most of the time since his accident and this meant Mak was practically on her own when she went to kenduris and do’s or visiting friends and relatives. Pak was contented with being at home with his newspapers and TV. Once in a very long while, he’d take us to the cinema – in two trishaws. And that was a treat indeed. One treat that I remember to this day, was the trip to Penang where we stayed at a resthouse. And yes, he bought us Black Magic chocolates, which in those days were like gold dust.

It is anyone’s guess what still remains in Mak’s mind. Whatever it is, it must be some beautiful thoughts and memories of time spent with Pak, in the house that he built for her.

Bohong sunat di pagi raya

“Zaharah masak apa?” she asked for the fifth or the sixth time in between coughs, while Eena held the microphone close to her mouth and the speaker close to her right ear.

“Masak nasi tomato, Mak!” I lied, loud enough for her to hear and clear enough to prick my conscience on this Hari Raya day.

“Masak apa lagi?” she was adamant to know, as she knew how limited my culinary skills are.

“Ah masak Ayam Portuguese macam Mak ajar tu, ayam golek macam Pak suka makan tiap-tiap hari Raya, daging masak kicap, banyaklah lagi”, I said so convincingly that I was beginning to it believe myself. There were chuckles in the background; chuckles of disbelief coming from the other half and the children who had been denied of a Raya meal.

“Yang tu sajalah dia tau masak,” she said turning to Eena, my niece. Such is the confidence Mak has in me.

Mak and I skyped this raya morning my time and evening Mak’s time. When she was aided to the front of the computer, I didn’t think I could continue the conversation with her. She looked so frail as she had been seriously fasting for the past week. I said seriously because at other times, she didn’t even know that it was Ramadhan. Sometimes, she thought my siblings were doing puasa sunat. But during the last week of Ramadhan, she fasted. And on Raya day, with visitors all day long in Lilah’s house, Mak decided to help with the dishes. And no one could stop her. Lepas tu dia penat. It was in that state that I saw her on my screen and I wanted to look away, because I didn’t want to see Mak like that. For a few minutes when she asked me how I was, I couldn’t speak for the lump in my throat.

I lied to Mak about cooking because I wanted her to believe that her son-in-law and her grandchildren were well fed that Raya morning. I didn’t feel so bad because they joined in the conspiracy as well. My other half had actually bought a whole lamb but because of the unexpected announcement of Raya on Tuesday, the lamb in several parts, is languishing in the freezer.

For several days and nights, all we, (husband and I) saw was the computer screen. Raya morning after subuh, I stopped a while just to change the tablecloth I bought from Fenwicks and put some jam tarts and biscuits that Nona brought back from Malaysia. (I don’t do kueh raya. Last year I tried, but I suspect, it was mainly so I could blog about it.) Then we were off to Malaysia Hall for prayers. All along the way, I had the laptop on my lap, typing away until we reached Whiteleys where Rehana parked the car. Rehana is our driver these days as Nona, after gallivanting in Thailand and India, has gone to spend Hari Raya in Geneva.

And all the way to the High Commissioner’s residence in the leafy suburb of Hampstead, I was furiously banging on the keyboard. As the car turned into the exclusive enclave with big houses behind tall hedges and walls, I plugged in the mobile internet thingy, pressed the right keys and voila! mission accomplished! I could at least enjoy the rest of the day. And my family had free food at the open house hosted by our Foreign Minister.

Raya mornings, come rain, shine or thunderstorm, Mak would have a spread ready for us. Ayam Golek was a must. Pak’s favourite. And of course, nasi tomato to feed the whole clan that would descend soon after prayers at the Mesjid Sultan in Alor Star.

How she managed it, we never knew. Pak helped her with peeling the onions and slicing the vegetables. The rempah and chilli paste would have been done by the little Indian lady who came weekly to grind our chillies and spice on that big slab of stone just outside the kitchen.

All these Mak did quietly but efficiently to ensure that her husband and children got their hari raya feast. All these, in spite of the fact that she had tons of baju kurungs with tulang belud to make for her regular customers. Yet, there’d be the food ready on the table.

“Selamat Hari raya, minta ampun minta maaf, Mak,” I half whispered. “Minta ampun minta maaf sebab Ah bohong pagi raya ni – bohong sunat, Mak! “

Mother of an excuse

We are planning a sisters get together, just for a few days but a precious few days for us. Kak Cik has already made her way to Geneva and she has already listed the places that we should visit. Lilah is packing her bags to make her way to London before we all troop off to meet her there. The last time Lilah was in London was in 1981, the year it snowed so heavily that Kensington Garden was like a fairyland. I remember that so well because she ventured off to the park with Oli while I was still in bed and both of them were stuck in the lift and we had to call the firemen to the rescue.

We are all excited, of course and we have planned a thousand and one things. My Rehana will be joining us from Brussels where she will be attending a meeting and then when I leave them to come home because of some work commitments, Rehana will try to bring them to Paris for a whirlwind tour – a snapshot with Eiffel Tower in the background will do to show the folks back home.

It is a pity that Kak can’t make it and Nisa has to stay at home to look after Mak.

Yes, Mak. At the back of our minds, with all this planning, is Mak. We are all praying that she will continue to be in good health, no emergencies, no problems. All the while, although she is mostly with Nisa, my sister-in-law and Ajie, she spends the weekends and holidays with Lilah and also with Kak Cik. But everyone is nearby and would drop everything to be by her side, when necessary.

But how do you tell Mak where and when you are going? For the last few years, our conversations with Mak are well scripted. All our infos must tally. They are not lies but we have to be economical with the truth. Because if Mak knows the real truth, then she starts fretting and finds excuses to go back to the house that Pak built for her.

This reminds me of those days leaving the children behind for some non-work related sojourns. It was always with excuses of going to the hospital, the dentist, or work. The number of times I used the line going to the dentist, if they were true, would have left me toothless by now, but at that time it worked.

I bet Mak used to do that on us when she had to go out for a breather. I remember her saying, “Mak nak pi tengok orang sakit. Mak nak pi doctor,” and we’d all be gullible enough to believe even though Mak was dressed in her finest to go for a hospital visit. And now we are playing the same game with her.

Lilah is dreading that moment when she has to tell her why she would not be around for a few days, in fact for a few weeks. It will have to be a meeting, a course – Mak understands that a kursus would take a few days. And by now, she must be wondering why Kak Cik has not been making her morning appearances with her breakfast takeaways. Am sure Nisa and Ajie must have fobbed her off with some excuses, like ‘Kak Cik balik Pilah, ada kenduri,” repeated a number of times.

I imagine her taking it all in with all the innocence of a child, and then she’d repeat the same question again fifteen minutes later. For all her forgetfulness, she knows when her offsprings are not around.

When Mak was looking after arwah Tok, once in a while, she too needed a breather. Tok wasn’t an easy person to look after. But Mak endured her last few years patiently putting up with a Mother who used to be strong and independent and a perfectionist. So, when she needed a break, she’d make a visit to Pekan Rabu or Lorong Sempit to get some new materials for her baju kurung. That was her retail therapy. She needed this time away, even for a short while, to come back and be a better daughter to her mother. Sometimes, she needed a longer time away and would leave Tok in the care of Tok Som, but all the while in Kuala Lumpur where she visited her own children, she worried about Tok.

When the time comes and Lilah tearfully says goodbye to Mak, and we all meet up in Geneva, Insyaallah, we know that for all the beautiful places that we will be visiting, we will have Mak in mind. We will look at the beautiful flowers in early summer and think of her because she loves flowers and gardens. We will feast our eyes on the intricate and fine crockeries in the shop windows and remember how she lovingly kept her collection. We’d sit around eating and joking and all the while each of us will be missing her presence. Mak always sits quietly, watching us banter at the dinner table, and all the while happy that her children were around.

Mak may not know that there is a day dedicated to her and she doesn’t even care. But from thousands of miles away, as a daughter who has not done much to look after her Mak other than think of her in her daily prayers and write about her in her blog, I offer my undivided love and gratitude for making me what I am today, and for letting me be where I am today.....without any question, without any condition.

HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY TO ALL

More on Mak:

Mothering Mak

The lie must go on

The crying has stopped ...for now

The homecoming 2

The events of the almost two months' so called break were beginning to fade away as the plane began its descent. Most of England were still asleep but we were sure that our children whom we had not seen for so long were there, waiting at the arrival lounge. Thank God none of the luggage were missing and the immigration waved us through without any questions.

From a distance we saw them, all excited. And how they have grown – even two months away made a difference! With them were two of our closest friends in this community that's become our family away from home. Only close friends would take the trouble to wake up at that unearthly hour and prepare us the most scrumptious nasi lemak so unlike the one served on MAS!

In the car we all wanted to talk all at the same time and nona being nona missed all the junctions and turnings and we ended up on the way to Uxbridge! That's not the most exciting part of the homecoming, the best was yet to come.

Finally on more familiar surroundings, the car which was in the middle lane of the by then very busy road of office workers going to work, stopped. Just like that! A kind soul behind us pushed the car to a safe spot and we called the RAC. Standing by the roadside, in my batik blouse bought in Pasar Payang, Kuala Terengganu and still in my heels with its bling-bling, I suddenly felt the gush of the cold winter wind that defined the distance that divides the world that still has my Mak and my loved ones and the one that has my home, children, cats and a neglected garden.

The car just gave up on us and refused to budge, giving out a strange whining sound. Nice RAC man told us to get back into the car for a slow tow home.

If the girls were chatting away, I didn't quite hear them. I was reliving the hectic schedule of the past two months as Nona slowly steered the car behind the RAC truck. Looking out of the window I was transported back to Singapore, where it all began. It was the launch of GUiT – the publisher's launch. We had hardly recovered from jetlag and there we were hobnobbing with writers young and old. AG could hardly open his eyes but he was already signing copies of GUiT. Needless to say, it was mostly GuiT related events that whizzed by – those that took us to Terengganu of old and new, to university lecture rooms and bookshops for booksigning events.

I saw my siblings; teasing, laughing and reliving our childhood from lounge to kitchen to dining room. I saw my nieces and nephews, all grown up and adorable. And I saw and heard Yaya and Hilman, belting away “Oh Dewiiiiiii, Aku cinta pada mu sampai matiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii”

Then I saw visions of Mak, sometimes frail and forgetful and sometimes alert and her witty self. I heard her endless questions, repeated almost always at five minute intervals. I saw her curled up body on the sofa with the tv on, or her small figure in the white telekung perhaps doing zuhur for the second time or asar before its time. But does it matter, Mak? It doesn't for He understands.

I heard her plea to take her home to the house that Pak Built for her. I replayed the conversation at the dinner table one evening:

“Mak nak balik. Mak demam.”

“Kalau Mak demam buat apa nak balik. Sapa nak jaga?”

“Zaharah la jaga Mak.”

“Ah ada kerja sikit. Mak duduk sini lah”

“Masa Ah demam Mak jaga....” she said looking straight into my eyes, pleading. I quickly turned away to hide my shame and my guilt. I had no answer. I had no excuse. And right there on the A40, being slowly towed away by the kind RAC man, my hot tears flowed again.

The last few minutes before leaving for the airport, I crawled up to her and placed my head gently on her boney chest and closed my eyes while she patted me as if to sleep. I could have stayed there and be her baby again and listen to her syairs and hikayats that she used to tell. But she said, “Jangan lambat pi airport. Nanti kapai terbang tinggai. Anak-anak dok tunggu.”

I also saw the reunion in marriage of my childhood friends who were brought back together in the holy city during Haj, after being divorced for more than a year.

And most vivid in my mind was our time together, my AG and I; those moments of separations when we had to part at the KL Sentral, those anticipated rendevous at KLCC. Who says being warga emas doesnt have its romantic moments?

Nice RAC man deposited us safely back on our driveway. It was a far cry from the send off at KLIA when we were whisked away to the VIP room because a certain member of the Royal family had wanted a meeting with Awang Goneng. Such is life.

A review of GUiT in The Star by Dina Zaman - Local Boy Makes Good (Tales)
A review by blogger Sharon Bakar - More Awang Goneng

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.

The home coming

The last three days, either before leaving London for KL or leaving KL for London, are definitely the hardest for me. It gets to me when I am packing. That is when I feel the rush of emotions – sad to leave my loved ones behind, yet happy at the thought of meeting the loved ones I have not seen for a while. Such is life when you choose to stay away.

The 15 minute Heathrow-Paddington Express which I took after arrival, offered me a chance to reflect. Wasn’t it only yesterday that I looked out of the window and saw greeneries so green and the sky so bright and blue that they could only be painted on a canvas? And now I saw grey skies and trees with hardly any leaves and fields still white with frost. Wasn’t it only yesterday I waved goodbye to my loved ones at KLIA – the usual scene – hug, hug at the departure lounge, followed by the usual cry of –“Dont come back so soon!” as I went down the escalator. Such is the love my siblings and in-laws have for me. I didn’t shed a tear during this goodbye. I laughed and I joked, telling Mak I’d be back sooner then she could turn around in her wheelchair. But as the lights dimmed and the music played softly ready for landing, I felt hot tears streaming down my cheeks. The words on the screen, “Thank you for flying Malaysia Airlines” began to look blur as I let out the tears in the dark as there was no one to see me cry.

Three days before my planned departure, I started packing. There were books, books and books, mostly autographed by the writers and some bought at the spur of the moment. By the look of it, the books alone would exceed my baggage allowance. Then there’s the clothes, the gifts from friends old and new and the food stuff. And I only had two bags.

“Mai Mak tolong lipat,” said Mak, offering to help with the clutter that was beginning to cause Milah the maid, serious concern. Mak is already an expert in packing and unpacking. After all, she has been living the life of a nomad, moving from one child’s home to another. Her protestations and appeals to go back to the house that Pak built for her are mostly met with silence or excuses.

There was a jovial beat to Mak’s banter while she helped me.

“Bila Zaharah balik, Mak pun boleh balik Alor Star. Dah lama tinggal rumah kosong,” So, that was it. My departure was going to be used for another appeal to go home. Earlier, we had asked her to stay on because a grandchild was leaving for India. Then she stayed the duration of my stay. We now have two more excuses up our sleeves. Another grandchild is leaving for Geneva. And Abang is leaving for Libya.

“Mak mesti tunggu sebab Azril nak ke Geneva. Lepas tu Abang pulak nak balik Libya,” I offered, remembering Lilah’s reminder about what to say when Mak broached the subject again. These days, most of our conversations with Mak are scripted, carefully composed to cajole her to stay, to coax her to eat or even to persuade her to come out with us.

“Mak tunggu laa, lepaih tu Mak kena balik,” she insisted and I left it at that, especially when her attention turned to my DVDs and books. Her eyesight is still good.

“Anak sapa ni?” she asked pointing to a boyish looking Sudirman on the cover of the CD collection that Kak Chah Hassan had given me.

“Penyanyi! “ I mouthed the word to her and she nodded. She picked up the new magazine Tell and started flicking through. “Laaa, sapa letak gambar Zaharah di sini?” she asked when she saw my picture in the magazine. She continued until she came to the picture of Toh Puan Rahah and said, “Macam nak kenai orang ni!” I told her it is Toh Puan Rahah and she remembered perhaps meeting her and Tun Razak when they went to campaign in Yan. She certainly remembered shaking Tun’s hands.

I looked at her intently and marvelled at her memory. At 90, she remembers certain events very well. But sadly, she cannot remember what she had asked a few minutes before.

“Anak sapa ni?” she asked again, picking up Sudirman’s CD, the curiousity so plain and so genuine in her voice.

Thankfully, Mak was in good health throughout my stay. She coughed a little during the nights that I slept with her. And I remember reaching out to stroke her back to ease her cough. She’s all bones. My Mak is all bones, but as I sit in this dark lounge of mine typing this, I see her as someone fit and strong and yes, beautiful. This is the only way I can cope.

Mak notices every crease in your clothes, “Baju tak seterika, ka?” or the fact that your ring or bracelet had not had a good polish. I remember us just lying down on the bed, Mak in her telekung waiting for asar. I slept beside her. Then her 30 year old grandson joined us, sleeping on the other side. Mak stroked his head, knowing that this grandson will leave her soon. Kak Cik then plonked herself beside me. Mak then reached out to both of us, "Ish, anak-anak Mak sehat-sehat!” She said proudly as she wrapped her arms around our ample bodies. And we allowed her to baby us in this manner, reminiscence of the times when we’d fight to sleep on her lap to listen to her renditions of some hikayats or syaer.

Yes, Mak helped me to pack. But once she left to go to the toilet, I had to unpack again for there was everything in that bag that was not mine. There were undies that I bought for her, Nisa’s and Kak Cik’s scarves, the children’s books and even the karipap that I bought for tea.

We have to indulge her these days. Take the money that she offers to buy groceries as her contribution, allow her to hang the clothes outside, even let her do the same prayers again and again because she insisted she had not done them.

We had some crab sambal left overs for dinner just before leaving for the airport. She remembers that crabs are my favourite. We had only crab claws. So, instead of eating, Mak took out the flesh from every claw and put them on my plate. She used to do this when we were small and she is still doing this some fifty years later. It is not because she had forgotten I have grown old, but she still remembers I am still her baby.

MH2 landed early. My husband was still in bed and I told him we’d meet at Paddington Station and have breakfast there. Seeing him wondering around the station looking for me, Malaysia now seemed a thousand miles away. For once, he was early. In fact he was a day early yesterday when he waited at Heathrow at the crack of dawn. The three weeks of book talks and launches and lit fest and meeting friends and relatives were then duly covered over breakfast of tea and chocolate croissants.

Mothering Mak

I coaxed her to the TV room while I searched for a channel – any channel - with programes that would interest her. At first she seemed reluctant but I told her there was a Malay drama on RTM 1. I need her to be in the TV room so that I can keep an eye on her while I do my work. Everyone is out and I can’t afford to fail them the way I had several times before.

It is almost a week since I left London. This trip does not promise to be any different from the rest. And why would it be? As a freelance, I do not deserve a break. The word holiday does not exist in the diary of a freelance. That chance of a free flight comes but once in a blue moon and I grabbed it when it came, knowing that I will have some days with Mak. Just a few precious days and today is one such day.

With my track record of looking after Mak, none of my siblings are taking any chances. Still fresh in their minds is that episode when Mak rolled off the bed and on to the floor. I found her clutching her head and in the panic, I couldn’t find Kak’s room to get help. My excuse was I was jetlagged and Mak slept too near the edge of the bed.

They have also not forgotten the time when I couldn’t help Mak with her diapers when she was in hospital or the time when I nearly dropped Mak in the bathroom when she fainted. And how could they forget that night when Mak woke up and was thirsty. I led her by the hand to the kitchen when she reminded me that the alarm in the hall was on. So, not unlike Catherine Zeta Jones and the ageing Sean Connery in The Entrapment, we crawled in the dark to the kitchen, and all the while Mak was clutching her stomach, with tears rolling down her cheeks. She was laughing so much. The next morning Ton told us that the alarm was always switched off when Mak was around. Hmmm, now they tell me!

Today, I have got her right in front of me. Kak Cik said, “Don’t forget to serve her lunch at 12.30!” and with that she disappeared down the road. She had made some porridge and soup and crispy chicken that I had helped to dice. But Mak wanted rice. She must have her rice. Porridgy rice doesn’t count. So, she ate very little and when I was washing up, I poked my head around the corner and saw her walking with one sharp knife in one hand and a ripe mango in the other. There’s no way you can stop this woman. So, I had to stop what I was doing and peel the mango for her.

No one can tell Mak what not to do. One morning, at Lilah’s house, Lilah came to wake me up and told me to sleep with Mak as she was going for her Arabic class. I must have taken my own sweet time because when I came down stairs, I couldn’t find Mak. I had visions of Mak wondering down the road, broom in one hand. I searched everywhere – she was outside – hanging out clothes to dry.

The next day, I found her at the breakfast table, looking quite upset. And on closer inspection, I realized that she was munching her food with difficulty as she had misplaced her false teeth. So, we started a hunt for her misplaced false teeth; under her pillow, under the bed, in the bathroom and in the sink. I dread to think what she had done with it. Perhaps she had flushed them in the toilet. But we found them in a glass where she usually keeps them during the night.

Looking after Mak these days is not unlike looking after a child. Her memory is still great. She asks after my children,; remembers their names. She still mispronounces my husband’s name – well at least she is consistent! But she is also quite repetitive. She’d ask the same question about five times. And every time, you’d have to answer with the same enthusiasm as if you are hearing the question for the first time.

Lying to her is the cruellest thing that we have to do. Although she is resigned to the fact that she will never go back to live in the house that Pak built for her, she will still ask to be sent back to Alor Setar. "Mak nak balik. Hantar Mak balik sorang pun tak apa," she'd say.

When there's no response as my siblings had perfected the art of selective hearing, she'd ask what day of the month it was. She still has the mental ability to work out that the end of the month means that she gets her pension, and thus can pay for her own flight back to Alor Setar. Thus the standard answer would be, "Baru 14 haribulan Mak!" Every other day would be the 14th day of the month. Mercifully, she too forgets that she had asked the question several times before. May God forgive us for all these lies.

I was dreading the day I had to go to work. We had prepared her that I am back here to work and that I’d be away staying at a hotel for four days. I thought she understood. But that morning, she saw me packing and as I left, pulling the bag behind me, her face crumpled and tears streamed down her cheeks. Then she hugged me again as if she didn’t want to let me go. It was not unlike saying goodbye to a little child. In a desperate attempt to make me stay, she said,”Nanti balik Mak mungkin dah tak ada!” she said and I jokingly asked (for I had to jokingly do so!) “Mak nak pi mana?”

When I returned four days later, the look on her face was priceless! Like the look on my children's faces when they were small, when I appeared at the door at the end of a long day at work. Today, Mak is happy that I sat with her and ate with her. I was not too far away from her as she watched her drama Melayu. And when I last checked, she had dozed off peacefully only to wake up for her prayers.

Mak, oh Mak, how did you ever manage to look after us?

The crying has stopped. For now.

For now, she has something to look forward to. For now, she will busy herself with packing, unpacking and repacking her small bag, rearranging her neatly ironed clothes before the promised flight home.The crying and the sulking have stopped. For now.

These last few years have not been easy – not for Mak and not for those looking after her. But my siblings, my sisters and brothers in law soldiered on, sometimes with excuses but sometimes with necessary white lies. And most of the time, by pretending not to hear.

That Mak has been whining and fretting to go home to her house that Pak built for her, has been the topic of our phone conversations, ym’s and sms’es. I had never heard Kak Cik sounding so exasperated the last time I spoke to her. Mak had tried everything; crying, sulking and even refusing to eat as a protest. She feels unsettled, a nomad, even in the homes of her own children who dote on her day and night.

That Mak can no longer be on her own is something we had all decided a long time ago; since she fell in the bath room, since she put a burning mosquito coil under her bed, since we caught her trying to tie her plants together in the garden, since a chest of drawers fell on her when she pulled it to get up from the floor. And more importantly, since she was diagnosed with the big C. And lately, Nisa informed me, she would eat, sleep and wake up thinking she is still fasting. Her forgetfulness is worrying.

We got her a maid but the maid ate earlier than Mak, slept earlier than Mak and woke up later then Mak. So, we packed her off home. We have decided that we cannot trust anyone outside the family to look after her.

Mak wants to be with her chickens, ducks and geese – she has forgotten that they are no longer there. She wants to water her orchids and plants and the melur garden that Tok left her. Kak Cik, in her effort to make Mak feel at home away from home, had taken some of her orchid plants and planted them in the gardens of every house in Kajang and Bangi that she lives in, so that she can see a bit of her garden wherever she goes. But that is still not enough. Her strongest argument remains: Pak never wanted me to leave the house that he built for me. With this, they had to pretend not to hear.

Listening to all these, I am left with this feeling of helplessness so much so that in conversations that I usually have with myself in the kitchen, while preparing for berbuka, I argued the possibility of just leaving everything and everyone here and spend the time with her, the last few years of her life, and make her happy in that house that Pak built for her. If I have tons of money in the bank and not have to run around earning a living and worry about bills and children’s schooling, yes I’d do that. With a PC and an internet connection in that part of the world, I can still earn a living. But while having a supportive husband who will not say no to such a noble intention, what about being absent during the most important year in my son’s schooling? And even if I can stand the pangs of separation from my loved ones here, can I cope with looking after an ageing Mak who has lost most of her faculties?

I remember spending time with her in her hospital room. I just looked on like a bystander, as everyone fussed over her, Even young Eena knew how to cope while I looked on. As an excuse, I filmed her on my video camera, only to let my emotions go in the privacy of my own home when I watched it again, and again and again.

There was this time, I took her to the toilet. I had to turn away as she undressed. My Mak has become a child who needs looking after. So, I shouldn’t really be looking away, but I did. And during the night, when I slept with her, this child, rolled off the bed and fell. My siblings looked after her for years and she never fell off her bed, and that one night I slept with her, she fell and hurt her head. And I could only cradle her in my lap, as she had cradled me when I small. And look at the time I was left on my own to change her nappies. I am quite hopeless.

Mak sleeps a lot these days, I was told. Which is good as she has less time thinking about the house that Pak built for her. I remember looking at her while she slept, and at times I was tempted to put my finger near her nostrils to check her breathing, like I used to when I was small. I was so scared that she might just stop breathing if I took my finger away. I am still scared.

Yes, for now, Mak is happy and looking forward to that journey home. Everyone will be back celebrating raya in the house that Pak built for Mak. The front of the house will be filled with cars again, the house will be filled with laughter and the front room, with assortments of sleeping bags and suitcases. The kitchen will be full of activities. Mak will be looking forward to see the new table we bought her last year. And she will be looking forward to visit Pak and Tok again.

So, the crying has stopped. For now.

SELAMAT MENYAMBUT HARI IBU

Salam semua,
Antara sedar dan tak sedar, banyak yang Kak Teh terfikir tentang apa yang nak blog untuk Hari Ibu. Dua tiga hari ni, Kak Teh demam teruk juga...mula-mula ingatkan Hayfever yang memang Kak Teh dapat setiap tahun menjelang musim bunga dan musim panas. Tapi lama-lama, badan panas sejuk, tulang sengal-sengal..kepala semakin berat. Sahlah Kak Teh dapat flu. Jadi, sebab tulah, satu apapun tak dapat tulis untuk Hari Ibu.

Dalam keadaan begini, terlentang tidur banyak juga yang datang melayan fikiran. Teringat Mak yang lebih sakit, lapan ribu batu jauhnya. Masa Kak Teh balik tahun lalu, Mak sakit kuat. Malah orang semua dah baca YAssin. Kak, Kak Cik, Abang, Ajie dan Lilah semuanya tak jauh dari Mak. Semua berjaga siang malam. Kak Teh saja yang jauh, dengar cerita dari jauh. Cuma dapat menangis dan berdoa sempat jumpa Mak. Alhamdulillah, Kak Teh dapat beli tiket dan terbang pulang.

Sampai saja ke rumah, Mak nampaknya macam tak ada harapan. Dia pandang lama muka Kak Teh, dia kata, "Anak Mak dah balik, anak Mak dah balik." Kak Teh dah tak berdaya kata apa-apa. Kak Teh ingat itulah mungkin kata-katanya yang terakhir. Tapi dengan takdir Tuhan, Mak menjadi segar semula. Dapat berjalan dan makan seperti biasa. Kak, yang menjaga Mak siang malam, jatuh sakit pula dan terpaksa tidur di bilik lain, takut jangkit pada Mak pulak.

Dan Kak pesan, jangan bagi tau Mak dia sakit, sebab nanti Mak risau. Tapi Mak, seperti mak mak lain, dia tau. Dia kata, "Lebih baik Mak yang sakit daripada anak-anak Mak sakit. Mak tak sanggup tengok anak-anak Mak sakit,"

Kak Teh bayangkan, kalaulah Mak tau Kak teh sakit, dia pun tak boleh duduk diam. Selalunya kalau anak-anak sakit, Mak masak moi - atau nasi bubur dengan sup ayam. Apabila makan, terus selimut dan terus kebah. Baik cepat. Mak akan usap-usap kepala.

Masa Mak sakit dulu, anak-anak yang jaga Mak. Memang tak sama.

Mak ialah seorang yang bersih dan cermat. Makanan yang dibawa kepadanya mestilah dalam talam yang beralas. Semuanya mesti beralas. Selepas mandi, dia nak pakaian yang sudah diseterika dan bersih. Dan mesti pakai minyak wangi. Dia kata, "Mak dah lah sakit, jangan bagi orang tengok macam orang sakit." Betul jugak, kan?

Semasa dia menjaga emak dia sendiri (Tok Kak Teh), teruk juga sebab masa tu umur Mak Kak teh dah dekat 70 tahun. Tok dah tak boleh jalan. Tapi cerewet. Tapi semuanya dia nak buat sendiri. Letak saja flask air panas dengan kopi, dia buat sendiri. Ambil baju yang dah kering dari luar, dia sendiri yang lipat. Orang lain lipat tak cantik. Semuanya tak kena.

dengan mak

Pix by Nadya Shahabudin

Kalau Mak dah tension, dia pergi ke pekan Alor Star, tengok-tengok kain murah buat baju. Dia pi Pekan Rabu, beli barang. Kalau tension tu menjadi-jadi, Mak terbang ke Kuala Lumpur, dok dengan Kak Cik atau Lilah atau Ajie.

Bukan orang tak tau Tok. Dia rajin berleter. Daripada Mak berdosa melawan dia, Mak keluarlah - pi release tension. Biar Mak Som jaga Tok. Mak Som tu tak berapa dengar, jadi, apa Tok kata dia tak ambil kesah.

Semasa Tok dah teruk sangat, belakang Tok dah dapat bedsores. Kesian. Semua ni pun, Kak Teh dengar khabar dari jauh. Lagi banyak Tok menggaru, lebih banyak keluar daging-daging belakang dia. Keisan.

Tiap-tiap malam, sebelum tidur, Mak akan hampiri Tok. Dia kata," Mak, Yun minta ampun minta maaf, Mak. Yun terpaksa ikat tangan Mak. Kalau tak ikat nanti Mak garu lagi," Menangis Kak Teh dengar Kak Cik cerita kat Kak Teh dalam telefon. Sabarnya Mak. Esok dia lepaskan balik ikatan tu. Jadi, tok tak menggaru sangat. Kalau doktor datang balut pun, dia garu jugak.

Masa Tok sakit, masa menjaga Tok, Mak tak pernah sakit. Malah, dia tak boleh sakit. Sebab tu lah selepas Tok pergi, dia mula sakit. Baru dia boleh let go!

Kak Teh terfikir, bolehkah kita jaga Mak , macam Mak jaga Mak dia?

Di sini, Kak Teh nak ucapkan beribu terima kasih kepda Kak Cik, Lilah, Ajie, Kak dan Abang kerana menjaga Mak. Kak Teh jauh, cuma boleh hantar duit beli vitamin, duit tambang kapal terbang dia nak ke sana sini, dan Kak Teh tetap berdoa supaya Tuhan ringankan beban sakit Mak.

Dalam dua tiga hari ni kata-kata ini bermain di kepala Kak Teh:

Pimpinlah tangan Mak semasa Mak boleh lagi berjalan,
Bercakaplah dengan Mak semasa Mak boleh lagi dengar,
Tenunglah mata Mak semasa Mak masih lagi boleh melihat,
Ucaplah sayang kepada Mak, semasa dia masih lagi boleh faham.

Dari nak tulis sikit, dah jadi banyak, sehinggakan sup ayam panas yang anak letak tepi komputer dah jadi sejuk. Sang suami buatkan sup macam Mak buat dulu.

SELAMAT HARI IBU KEPADA SEMUA IBU-IBU DI SINI.

PS
Mak, anak Mak nak balik tak lama lagi, tunggu, ya?