Cringe moments

Mulling over my cringe moments, I decided that I will not feel too embarrassed if I were to share cringe moments of my nearests and dearests. In the tradition of doing things that shouldn’t be done while there are other more urgent and important work with deadlines looming ahead, I decided to tag myself after reading Naz’s cringe moments. I decided that things like cringe moments, must not be kept to yourself or else you’d die laughing - alone.

Now, here goes.

Cringe moment 1 - The line snaking to the food counter of the canteen of Block 3C in Shah Alam was so long and the only thing that kept us in line was the smell of food and for us, the songs that they played over the loudspeakers. I was there, as usual with my group, Fatimah Abu Bakar, the celebrity mum of several celebrity children, Mia, Tini, Ina and Riza, but I don’t know whether Ena, our resident squatter was there. Anyway, soon they were playing my favorite song, Just One Look and there I was, in my kebaya, prim and proper, swaying and singing along.

“Just one look, and I felt so high, high, highhhhhhhhhhh….”

Unfortunately, when I hit the high note – highhhhhhh, they switched off the player, leaving me highiiiingggggg solo,piercing the silence in a hall of hungry diners. Heads looked up from their plates and eyes from all corners of the canteen were on me. My friends didn’t help either because after the initial shock, they fell about laughing. I just wanted the floor to open up and swallow me.

Cringe moment 2 – During one of my visits home, I went to open a bank account. My friend who worked there decided to speed up matters and assigned a bank officer to help me. I gave my particulars and then waited while they processed the account. The young officer emerged again and asked me to sign on the dotted line, with instructions: Tolong tekan kuat-kuat sikit., kak.

I duly signed, tekan kuat-kuat as instructed, feeling quite flattered that he called me Kak. And within a few minutes, I was the owner of a new bank account with a bank book to show for it. I looked through but couldn’t find my signature and asked the friendly officer, “Eh signature tadi tak lekat ke? Nak sign lagi sekali?”

Needless to say, he was puzzled and my friend gave a nervous laugh and explained that the signature was actually invisible for security reasons.

Aiyyyoooo, Mak Cik macam nak pengsan situ jugak!

There are more but I’d rather tell about others’ cringe moments.

My sister and her friends were so looking forward to the wedding of one of their friend’s son. They were to bring with them all the hantarans and dressed to the nines, they proceeded from their hotel and searched for the house in Melaka. Seeing a house all lit up with marquees and lagu pengantin blaring from the sound system, they went in. As is the custom in Melaka, I was told, they were welcomed with fireworks lighting up the sky. They were ushered in and they placed their hantarans before them, and were delighted that they were early. They looked around looking for any familiar faces when a lady approached them, apologising profusely. They had gone to the wrong kenduri house!!!

As they left, the ‘real’ groom’s entourage arrived but all fireworks were used up and they entered the house without any fanfare.

My sister can compile a book on cringe moments. Here’s another one. Her husband drove her to the market. She got out of the car and told her husband to wait. After just one purchase, she came back, got into the car, took one look at the guy behind the wheel and both of them screamed with shock. She got into the wrong car. Her husband had driven ahead.

Now, with a mother like that, what do you expect of the daughter? Sorry Dena, I feel that I have to tell this. Dena is now in confinement after giving birth to a baby girl. Tahniah! Anyway, when she was doing some practical work at a firm, she was asked to man the phone. She was reading a novel and came to the part when the hero proposed and…the phone rang. She picked up the phone, eyes still glued to the dialogue in the book and said: Will you marry me?

I will end these embarrassing, cringe moments with my husband's story.

I was waiting for him at our usual meeting place, when I spotted him walking towards me. I thought something was wrong and of course, there was something wrong! He was wearing one black shoes with lace and on the other foot was one black slip ons!

He nearly caused me a heart attack, when at dinner with some friends, during discussions about plates etc, he announced that we used Durex plates. What he meant was Duralex!

And with that I tag and dare Pi Bani, Queen of the House, Puteri Kamaliah and Kay_Leeda and who ever wish to join in to tell us about their cringe moments.

Kak Teh's other cringe/weird moments are here:
Kak Teh vs Techie Thingies
The Weird Wide World of Kak Teh

Gangguan

Being a freelance, I tend to find myself in different places doing a lot of different things in different settings. I could be sitting in a courtroom of the Old Bailey or enjoying a spot of polo in the suburbs of London or in a hundred year old castle in a far flung corner of the British Isles. And these would lend myself to different situations, every time.

Carrying on with Puteri Kamariah’s spooky thread, where she narrates with the skills of a penglipur lara to an audience with spookier stories to tell, I would like to tell of my own story of ‘gangguan’, which coincidentally happened only yesterday.

It was to be an early morning call and after subuh, I braved the cold autumn wind to a studio I remember I had the pleasure of working in before. I remember very clearly, it was situated near the canal and quite close to a Muslim cemetery. These days, I take mental note of things like this.

After introducing myself to people that I had to work with, I settled down to prepare myself physically and mentally to do the task assigned by an agent.

In spite of the temperature dipping very fast outside, the small studio I was in was quite warm and I began to perspire. It was not like the usual studios that I am accustomed to – but good enough to do the job at hand.

Flipping through the scripts, I felt a strange feeling coming from the pit of my stomach, one that would engulf my whole being with an intensity that made me perspire even more. But time was ticking and time is money – for the agent and for the owner of the studio, who I could see from the glass panel dividing us.

This feeling would come and go. But I persevered as a professional should and would, leaping over the most difficult words and terms effortlessly, defying even those that would challenge my tongue into doing a trip that I am most notoriously known for….spoonerism. But every fifteen minutes or so, I could feel the strange feeling again. And most times, it would make its presence heard.

Beads of sweat started to appear on my forehead and I signalled to the studio manager to give me a five, which he kindly did. We were to do this several times as the ‘gangguan’ became very frequent.

“Don’t worry,” said the studio manager, eyeing the clock and calculating mentally the hours and pounds that he would get from the delay and extended studio time.

“Take your time,” he added, sounding somewhat eerily, like an accomplice in a bad horror movie.

Even after the fresh cup of tea that he made me, I still felt uncomfortable, but I soldiered on, pages after pages, and people who listened to this recording, would not have suspected anything.

During one of the breaks, the agent burst through the door and I intimated to her what I was experiencing. She looked at me sympathetically and whispered, “Don’t worry. The French voice over artiste in the next studio is experiencing the same thing.”

So, it wasn’t just me. But it still didn’t make me feel any better.

When the session was over, the studio manager and I sat down and checked the recording before I scooted off to another assignment.

And lo and behold, the strange feeling that had been disturbing me throughout the three-hour session was clear for all to hear.

“Yes, we get this a lot especially during early morning recording sessions. People coming in without or with little breakfast. The stomach growls and rumbles. So, there is nothing to worry about. It is quite natural”.

Kak Teh's strange encounters:

The Polo'ing Experience

The Tongue Tripper

Haunting Memories

Ode to Pak Malim: An Epilogue

My favourite autumn picture

Pantuns, syaers and seloka, never failed to provoke the sense of playfulness that exists even in the most serious amongst us. The teasing, the challenge and counter challenge and its very allusive nature make the pantun an all time favourite. It is certainly my all time favourite, especially in moments of despair, in times when the world gets too serious, and the politics threaten to get too ridiculous.

My Choc-a-bloc blog is just what its name suggests – choc-a-bloc with all sorts of rants and jottings of just about anything from my cats and sayang mamas to things trivial that occupy my waking hours and sometimes my restless nights. So, when I feel the need to de-stress, my mind goes into a pantun mode. And as you can see I had even devoted syaers to blogspot and spammers. Oh, Kak Teh, do get a life!

As the 99^th commenter, Edelweiss noted, this certainly reminds us of the time when Abang Malaya bursts into my blog with such beautiful thought provoking lyrics that not only reflect on our time at Jalan Riong but also the occasionally rant and frustrations about the current political situation. And Abang Malaya, like Pak Malim caught the popular imagination and elicit the playfulness in us that resulted in long, and contagious balas membalas – from so many people. And Abang Malaya, like Pak Malim was anonymous and this provokes our curiousity even more in our quest to find out their identity – the people whose pens and cursors dance effortlessly to beautifully crafted words.

Syaers and pantuns feature quite seriously in my life, especially after doing my MA in Traditional Malay Literature and verses from Syaer Bidasari and Syaer Dang Sarat, which I am still studying, come dancing in my mind to distract me from the mundane things that I do.

So, thank you to all – especially to Pak Malim, Kucing Ray yang Alim and Abang Malaya, whoever and whereever he is and to those who sportingly responded in such hilarious manner and rhymes, keeping me awake and alert and certainly laughing to myself a lot during these gloomy, wet and dreary days of autumn. Thank you. I have thoroughly enjoyed myself and I hope Pak Malim will still visit me.

Pantun memantun is not unknown when I get together with my siblings. Let me leave you with a taste of our brand of pantuns. After overdosing ourselves with food that Mak cooked and more from the stalls in and around Alor Setar, we’d sit lazily around the big family table, eyeing the piles of plates in the sink. Then someone would break the silence:

Baju lama baju lusuh,
Hai, pinggan banyak sapa nak basuh?

About Syaer Dang Sarat
Dang Sarat's Debut in Liverpool
A Tragic End to Dang Sarat

An Ode to Pak Malim, Kucing Ray yang Alim

It has been a terrible start to the day. It would seem as if winter has come to drive away autumn with all its might; the rain, the strong winds and the cold. From where I am sitting, I could see a carpet of golden leaves on the ground, the aftermath of last night’s ferocious attack.

So, any thoughts of going out also went out of the windows and I opted to opening YM windows and cyber windows that allowed me a peak into the outside world without the fear of being blown away.

I went to Norway to see my newfound friend, made my ritual visits to Puteri Kamaliah just to be spooked once again by her eerie stories and many more. Then I decided to look at my own blog traffic, who comes a knocking via which blog. And to my surprise, a visitor found his/her way to choc-a-blog by googling Pak Malim, the ubiquitous cat that is roaming blogosphere, leaving its lyrical pawmarks everywhere.

Pak Malim never fails to provoke a smile and tempt the uninitiated to try a hand at his own brand of verse. I have found him at Puteri’s, Pi Bani’s, NJ’s and Kay’s.

So, it is high time, says Kak Teh, sipping tea with a squeeze of lime,
That we devote an ode to Pak Malim, kucing Ray yang alim.

What do you think, asks Kak Teh, tickled pink!

An Ode to Pak Malim, Kucing Ray yang alim

Siapakah gerangan Pak Malim, banyak orang tertanya,
soal Kak Teh dengan mulut tenganga,
pandai berpantun dan berseloka, agak Kak Teh sambil membaca
dengan sungguh leka.

Pak Malim ke sini dan ke mana-mana,
merayap di alam siber, singgah di sini dan sana,
membawa maksud yang sungguh bermakna,
kata Kak Teh penuh kagum dan terpesona.

Pi Bani beria sungguh nak belikan sardin satu tin,
Untuk Pak Malim yang mungkinkah dari Mantin?
Kak Teh nak merisik asal usul Pak Malim apakah
pakai ilmu batin,

Siapakah dia tanya Kak Teh kepada seorang datin,
Dak aih!! kata Mak Datin, dia bukan dari Mantin,
tambah Mak Datin sambil memakai tudung satin,
mungkin dia kucing yang makan ikan tin,
dan kekadang bermadah bahasa Latin.

Pak Malim yang suka mengelat, kagum baca
Puteri Kamaliah pandai bersilat,
ketawa Kak Teh memikirkan Pak Malim macam ulat, mengelat,
bersilat tapi tak lupa solat.

Nak tahu jawapan Kak Teh melawat Pi Bani,
tengok Pak Malim peluk kera terlalu berani,
Kak Teh tahu Pak Malim pernah ke Indonesia,
pada Kay-Leeda, dia bocorkan rahsia,
Hish! katanya lagi, di sana dia peluk bohsia!

Awatlaaa, Pak Malim, nasib baik kucing bukan manusia!

Bukan bohsia dan kera saja dia suka peluk,
Big Bird juga dia tak kira makhluk,
kepada NJ dia cerita begitu teruk,
Kak Teh ternganga terkejut beruk!

Pak Malim ceritalah sikit tentang diri sendiri,
asal usul kamu dari mana datang ke mari,
setakat nak kenal lagi, kata Kak Teh sambil memberus gigi,
Kalau lah sudi, kita berpantun lagi,
pujuk Kak Teh hampir nak terjatuh perigi.

Baiklah Pak Malim, kucing Ray yang alim,
Kak Teh tanya dengan baik, bukannya zalim,
mana Pi Bani, sambung pulak seloka,
Kak Teh dah penat gelanggang pantun dibuka,
Puteri Kamaliah marilah ikut sama,
pujuk Pak Malim, berentak berirama.

Tapi, Kak Teh masih tertanya, siapakah gerangannya Pak Malim, kucing Ray yang alim??

Himpunan seloka/pantun/syaer Kak Teh:

Me and My Syaer on the no: 7
Syaer Untuk Sang Suami
Syaer Sang Isteri
Balada untuk Abang Malaya
Syaer Sang Spammer
Syaer untuk Blogspot
Syaer Hari Kebangsaan
Syaer Sibuk Sakan
Syaer Pilihanraya

The Notebook

I believe in carrying a notebook, no matter how small it is. Growing up, it used to be filled with new words that I came across while reading a book or those I found in advertisements or signboards. Now, apart from the usual ‘Things to do/buy’ lists, I pen down my thoughts, intros lost in confusion and titles of books that will never see the light of day. But a notebook I do carry.

It was a terribly cold day yesterday, one that promised snow, but the snow never came. I was somewhere in Trafalgar Square and desperately needed to get to somewhere warm. And Waterstones by the corner of The Strand and Northumberland Avenue, offered a brief respite. I walked out a few pounds (sterling) lighter and my handbag a lot heavier with three books – one, The Notebook by Nicholas Sparks. This one book compounded my belief in the importance of the notebook.

Notebooks, no matter brief the scribbles, no matter trivial the contents or illegible the writings, offer glimpses of moments in your life, never to be thrown away or discarded for it will leave you forever. Reading it back will provoke a frown, solicit a chuckle but most likely it will open a floodgate of memories.

Over the years, I have been privileged to share glimpses of jottings in notebooks by people who never thought that one day his or her notebook would be a point of reference.

The late Datin Peggy Taylor with her chest full of history

When Datin Peggy Taylor left, she left a suitcase of history, among them notebooks in various sizes and colours, with anecdotes of her life in Malaya, her friendships with famous names, and jottings of historic moments that we can’t find in history books today. It was in the midst of helping her to type out these jottings from her notebooks that Peggy left us last March and now her voice from the past is coming back to me. It wasn’t easy transcribing Peggy’s writing; but it transported me to her past in India, the voyage on the ship to Malaya, the fun theme parties in her house and the way Tunku did the ronggeng. Afterthoughts were written in slants by the side of the page and towards her last few months, she took to leaving blank pages opposite her jottings, to fill in what she had forgotten. At times, she’d phone me up in the mornings to add in what suddenly came to her during her restless nights.

Almost two years ago, the weather just as bad, I said goodbye to another friend. I had known of his heart condition for some time since I acquired his friendship. When he went, no one knew about the notebook that he left behind. He told me about it because he wanted me to read and see if his jottings would help someone else in his condition. I told his sister about this notebook and she found it among his things that she packed to take home. It was jottings about how he felt during those early days when he was undergoing a heart transplant; his fears and apprehensions, his sorrows all neatly written down while he was in and out of hospital.

During this week alone, I had a chance to glimpse into two people’s pasts – again all written down in notebooks.

Glimpses into our past

During these few months, I have occupied myself with one story, which has now made headlines in the media. It all started with a brother of a plane crash victim who wanted to know more about the incident that happened 58 years ago. It was his initiative that led to the discovery of the plane which crashed in the jungles of Malaya on 25^th August 1950. It was during our second meeting with the brother that I discovered, among the things that were sent back in a box to the parents, was a notebook. It was a blank notebook but it is now being filled in with the journey of the discovery of the plane, by his surviving brother. That will make one fine reading one day.

Yesterday, I saw one notebook with Malay pantuns, penned during the writer’s time as Prisoner of War in Changi. Admittedly, the pantuns and other verses were scribbled in pieces of papers but they were neatly transferred into this notebook, which has been kept since the end of the second world war. It must have been the pantuns and other verses that kept the writer sane during what must have been a torturous and horrendous time in prison. It never ceased to amaze me the almost flawless old Malay that the young MCS officer wrote in his notebook. I had a difficult time trying to explain one naughty verse about heaving bosoms, to his son.

That notebook from a prisoner of war brought me back to the story that I heard at a conference some years back from a scholar who showed me scribblings and jottings from one of the few Malay POW who worked on the Death Railway in Burma. Apparently, the writer scribbled on pieces of papers and hid them in pots and in the ground whenever a Japanese soldier marched by. These jottings were then transferred into notebooks once he made his escape. It was quite a riveting read.

I will continue to carry my notebook around. If anything, it will tell people how much lambchops I bought from our local butcher and what Kissinger and Tabby were up to during the day.

Kak Teh's other notetakings:
History in a suitcase
Goodbye
A painting incomplete
Goodbye, My dear Peggy
A weekend of sorts
Dear Diary

Rest in peace, Ms Sibert

Talk to any former students of St Nicholas Convent, Alor Setar, and the conversation will inevitably turn to Ms Sibert, our former headmistress, who not only put the fear in our hearts but also made sure that our uniforms were starched and creaseless, the hems were well below the knees, our hair neatly combed and tied back, and no chatting during assembly.

Today, I woke up to the news that Ms Millicent Sibert has passed away in Penang.

She was in her eighties. Thank you QOTH for leaving me a message this morning. This was confirmed by a journalist friend in Penang. The sad news is now seeping through the ex SNC network, thanks to sms and YM’s.

Pix of Ms Sibert at a recent reunion with QOTH's batch

Most of us have our own memories of Ms Sibert. I remember her arriving in the trishaw in the mornings and we’d scramble back into straight lines in the canteen waiting for the assembly to begin.

No running along the corridors, no speaking in any other languages but English. A strict disciplinarian she was and today, we are grateful for all the rules and regulations and disciplines that have shaped us into what we are today.

Rest in peace Ms Sibert from all your former students at SNC.

To the family and friends she left behind, our heartfelt condolence.

These are some of your former primary school students at a reunion in Alor Setar some years ago.

This article "A Loving Mother to 6,000 girls" was written by T Thant in the NST on 22.5.2000

Other tributes to Ms Sibert:

MarinaM
Queen of The House
Zlaa
Naz
Sue

My Diwali Story

My dearest R,

This Diwali, I suddenly thought of your mum. I met her at a friend’s house. Her vivacity and warmth just meant she stood out in the room full of people. I took an instant liking to her. She was intelligent, friendly and she was pregnant - with you. The evening went too fast and soon it was time to go.

It was at our hostess’ door that we kissed goodbye. Patting her belly, she said, I want you to teach my child Malay. I want him or her to be able to speak Malay, at which point I laughingly said, yes, sure, call me when you are ready and we said goodbye. Our last goodbye.

We had heard of the move your parents made, taking you away to foreign shores, where they worked. But what stunned us most was the news of your mum’s sudden and untimely departure, leaving you when you were only sixteen months old. Your father, needless to say was devastated.

I had forgotten the promise we made in jest at the door of our friend’s house, a few winters back. But promises, even in jest, tend to find it way back. I received a call from your Dad who had heard that I dabbled in this and that and part of what I dabbled in was teaching Malay. We reminded each other of the time we met when your mum was still around, and foolishly, I agreed to give it a go – teaching you Malay.

When I first set eyes on you, I fell in love with you the way your Dad fell in love with your Mum. You had those big round eyes of hers and the biggest and sweetest smile, that is, when you chose to share your smile with me. The smiles became more frequent when you became more comfortable with me.

It was understandable that you were suspicious of my presence in that huge apartment of yours. After all, after your mum’s death, you only had your Dad, and K – your nanny. I was after all a stranger who only knew you as that bulge in your mum’s tummy. It took a while to win you over.

After work in central London, I’d make my way to north London. In summer, the walk up the lonely path to your place wasn’t too bad, but in winter it was a struggle. But I persevered because that huge smile waiting for me at the door was well worth the walk and the cold.

To say the two hours spent with you were lessons in Malay would be a violation of the job description. We played with your train set, read your books and messed about on the floor of that spacious apartment. We went to the playground where I pushed you on your bike and chased you around, pointing out to you, ‘daun’, ‘bunga’, ‘anjing’ and ‘kucing’. I think we had more fun in the garden than in the apartment.

The apartment was more like a shrine for your mum – she was everywhere, her pictures, her things – it was as if she never left. She would have been proud of the handsome son you were growing up to be. You were also very intelligent.

But as we became closer, it also became more difficult for me to leave. Already I was struggling emotionally. The few times that you cried when you saw me leave left me an emotional wreck. I couldn’t help you who definitely needed your mother, nor could I help your Dad who was still struggling to come to terms with your mum’s death.

To this day, I remember the last evening we had together. You wanted me to stay for dinner. While K placed the plates, you arranged and lit the candles on the kitchen table; one for Daddy, one for Mummy, and one for Zara, for that's what you called me. I choked back tears I shouldn’t be showing in front of a four year old. And then when dinner was over, you cried and pleaded; Please don’t go Zara.

When I left late that night, I knew then I couldn’t go back. I cried all the way back in the train full of rowdy passengers. And like a coward, I phoned your Dad to say I couldn’t teach you anymore.

I am sorry.

Today, as I write this, I know you must have grown to be a handsome young boy. I was sorting out some old pictures and found some pictures of yours. I also googled and found some on the net and read your Dad’s beautiful story of his love for his young wife, snatched away from him so soon after their marriage. And I remember one Hari raya or was it Diwali celebration in London when I bumped into your Dad and you looking so handsome in that Indian Kurta.

This Diwali, I felt the need to write to you to explain why I left without a goodbye. But I will never forget that dinner by the candlelight when you begged me not to leave.

Your Mum was a true Malaysian. Even on foreign land she wanted her son to learn Malay. So here’s a few more Malay words “ Selamat Menyambut Diwali, R.” And take care of your Dad.

Zara.

And Happy Diwali to all my Hindu friends.

Confessions of a Facebook Hacker

Do you have any idea how difficult it is to put on a serious face, pretending to be working hard on a story for the Sunday Times, when what you are actually doing is hopping from one Facebook account to another? All courtesy of one sayang mama who had actually left his/her Facebook without logging out!

MUAHAHAHAAH!!! (I've always wanted to do this!) And this is not the first time. This sayang mama is so going to get it from his/her siblings! Muahahahaha!!!!!!


I have resisted Facebook invites mainly because I am loyal to blogspot. I enjoy blogspot and I enjoy interacting with my readers in blogspot. I don’t need to be prodded and pelted with tomatos or being superpoked, whatever that means.

So, my darling Facebookers:

Dena, you are hungry all the time – it runs in the family. What's new? And the wait will come to an end soon and I will be lumbered with another cucu saudara! Life is so not fair!

Wani in Manipal, you are supposed to be studying forensics and not eyeing your lecturer! And while you are doing that, close your mouth! You're drooling.

Norashikin Amin, so, what’s the 20 year old mystery? I thought Man is no longer a mystery.

Nazrah, when you’ve finished shampooing Dena, I need my hair done too.

Nona, are you serious? You are reading Roots and VS Naipal????

and to Nona and KakD, your posing memosing in Yvoire is soooooo Minah perasan!

Oh the list can go on, but I need to get on with my work and my stomach is aching trying to suppress laughter while Sayang Mama is sitting in front, unsuspecting of my forays into their worlds!

Happy Facebooking my sayang mamas, MUAHAHAHAAHA!

Kak Teh's other confessions:
Confessions of a Compulsive Liar
Confessions of an Aunt
Confessions of a Techie Idiot
Confessions of a Spoonerism Surrefer
Confessions of a Spoonerism Surrefer and other Weird Things
Confessions of an AlleyCats Die Hard Fan

Selingan

Work is piling up yet I have to destress, kan? So I took to doing scrapblogging with a vengeance! This will be the selingan for now. I did this (when I should be working) using www.scrapblog.com Try it!



I love this one of Nona and her cousin Wani jumping over the Tajmahal when they were in India.


This is one of sibling revelry in Geneva recently.



This is a postcard I made for our loved ones left behind. Ingat jugak, kan?



And this - you can look but musn't laugh! Featuring Charlie's Angels in "The Great Swiss Escapade"!! Don't miss it! Coming to a cinema near you!

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.

Shopping with Nek

Tok, in the days when laser was unheard of, was already known for her mulut laser. Thus, Mak poking her head out of the window to beckon in a vendor would prompt Tok to look up from her daily task of picking bunga melur in her garden or from her sewing and let out a tirade such as this: Why don’t you all put a signboard outside the gate, inviting all vendors in?

Yes, why not? The trail of vendors to the house would include the Chinese Man selling carpets and lace table cloths, the Indian guy with all manner of materials latest from his part of the world, the mak cik selling trinklets and gold accessories, the Mamak Mee goreng and those selling kuehs in the afternoon. They all made a trail to our front door knowing very well that time spent at number 13D, was time well spent as they’d get their returns soon enough.

Pak wasn’t too fussy about what Mak bought: the various coloured tupperwares and pyrex of different sizes and shapes were always useful during kenduris and birthday parties. The carpets made an appearance once or twice a year. Pak only called in the mamak kueh. He never went out, so the vendors came in.

In a way, it was more like having your personal shopping time, without the rush and the dizzying and maddening crowd of Lorong Sempit or Jalan Tunku Abdul Rahman.

There’s the usual bargaining tactics. Mak was quite good at bargaining; feigning to be indifferent and most not interested in the wares spread out before her.

The vendors too had their tricks; dropping a name or two of other possible interested parties. Once the transaction was almost done, out came the Buku 555 and a plan of payment was drawn out.

For this raya, I poked my head out of the YM "window" and called out to Nek to see if she had any new items for Raya. I hate shopping and browsing and spending hours in shops in crowded Oxford Street isn’t my idea of a good time. So having Nek come over to my window is certainly the best alternative, without having to leave the comforts of my living room and not upset Snowbell dozing on my lap. All I needed to do was buzz Nek and beckon her over.

“Salam, Nek! Ada apa kali ni Nek?” I asked.

“Eeeeeeeee, Kak Teh! Ada banyak! Cantik-cantik. Ada beg Coach ni. Eloklah pakai untuk hari raya,” she said employing her tried and tested sales tactics.

“Alaaaa, mahal laaa, tak mampu. Tak ada ke yang murah-murah sikit?” I asked.

“Lalalala.....Kalau berkenan Nek boleh bagi discount kat Kak Teh. Ni yang last dah. Kalau tak mau Nek nak hantar balik,” she tried again.

And yes, that did it. I clicked frantically on the page of Coach bags, picked one and closed my eyes and typed – YES!

See how easy that was? And within five days, I was already carrying the brand new bag for my hari raya visits.

Nek has more in store – that was just to whet the appetite. She came back after her LA raya trip with more bags and accessories to tempt me. Again, I had a private viewing session – and needless to say I succumbed to Nek’s sales tactics once more. This time, it wasn’t for me. I bought one bag to be delivered to someone dear in Malaysia as a present. See, no hassles!

If you want to shop around and see other collections of branded goods and accessories, then go to Ninnie’s. There’s no need to worry about parking space or the rush back to beat the traffic jam. Take your time to browse around and your spouse wont even suspect where you've been. Just put on your most serious 'hard at work' look on your face.

Before venturing to Nek's, I went shopping here to get new tudungs for Raya. I am no expert in tying tudungs but these Ezy Peazy Tudungs are a real godsent. I picked a few and had them delivered just in time for raya.

There was one year when I ordered the most delicious fruit cake online.

So, really, there's no reason to get into the rush and come back home tired and worn out. By buying online – the only damage you get is of course to your bank account, which is unavoidable, and also to your manicured nails.

I can almost hear Tok reprimanding me: Bukalah tingkap banyak-banyak, ajak semua orang mai jual itu ini. Pantang tengok orang jual barang!

The Journey Continues - the tale of the blue kebaya

As she walked down the stairs to show me what she would be wearing for Hari Raya in Geneva, my heart skipped a beat. It was as if the outfit was made for her, waiting for her to choose it from amongst other kebayas in the wardrobe. The sight of Kak Di, my niece, in that kebaya brought a flood of memories rushing back. The kebaya is four years older than Kak Di, and had made the journey from Malaysia across the oceans nearly 29 years ago. It was the kebaya that I wore for my wedding.

The start of the kebaya journey with Rehana (middle) carrying on the tradition.
Kak Di continues the journey.
In fact, I had been toying with the idea of keeping the kebaya back in the old suitcase I keep under the bed. After all, none of my girls could wear them anymore. It was a favourite with them during hari rayas and weddings. But this year, the girls had outgrown it. In fact, there are still several of my old kebayas and kota bharu with matching batik sarongs, still hanging in their closet. And these too have seen several rayas and weddings since I packed them in my suitcase for what seemed to be a very long honeymoon after just two weeks of getting married.

I seem to remember very vaguely the shopping trip to buy the material. It was in old PJ town. Not much thought was given to what kind of material I wanted for our special day, but I remember that I wanted something that I could wear more than once; something that wouldn’t look out of place at a function or a simple kenduri. I didn’t relish a wedding dress that would only gather dust in the wardrobe. So I settled for the dark blue lace, while he picked a lighter blue for his baju Melayu. And as an afterthought, a white lace to wear over my hair. No perms, no long hours at the salon, but a simple rinse and blow dry at home.

I brought several other pieces to send to the tailor, so I could wear them to visit relatives before our departure to London. And even those I packed with me, ignoring warnings that the cold London weather is not the place for thin flimsy kebayas. I even wore one on the flight here regretting almost immediately upon arrival, as it was below 10 celcius!

But it would seem that I wore nothing else BUT the kebayas here in London. The first airing for the blue lacey one after the wedding was to the Buckingham Palace Garden party. 22^nd July 1982 was a warm summer afternoon - a perfect day for a garden party. With Aishah Ali and Dina Fuad, all in our finest Malay traditional costumes, we took a taxi to the Palace. Aishah was in bright red, I was in dark blue and Dina was in rich green. We nearly stopped the traffic. Never mind that we couldn’t get to see the Queen; we were too short and our path was blocked by people in tall, fancy hats. But I believe it must have been one of the Queen’s officers who asked us: Are you from Thailand? What a disappointment!

Anyway, the blue kebaya made another journey to the Palace Garden party a few years later and this time I was accompanied by Rehman. Another warm summer day and we decided to end the afternoon with a short walk to Harrods in Knightsbridge, for tea.

I wore most of my kebayas to work at the BBC World Service in Bush House, where a kebaya was certainly not out of place amongst Vietnamese ao dais, Indian sarees and the Burmese longyi.

Alas, four children later, the waist is just a fond memory of the good old days and most kebayas were banished in suitcases under the bed, including the blue lace kebaya - only to be taken out and stared at longingly, wishing for the return of the waistline.

But all was not lost. As the waistline grew, so did the children. The girls took to wearing my kebayas and in them I saw me, even if it was a fraction of me that I saw.

Malaysian students organising Malaysian nights too found my collection useful.

One favourite short kebaya of mine is one that I had made in Penang, for my graduation. I remember parting with quite a hefty sum to pay the tailor for the fine kerawangs, plus the kain batik susun to go with it. I was in that short brown kebaya, and had a flower in my hair, while Fati and Ena were in their best as well, and our picture appeared in the newspaper the very next day. Fame at last!Up until last year that was also a favourite with my girls.

Several kebayas were hand me downs from my eldest sister, a kebaya queen in her heyday, and these too made their way to the children’s closet. Nona loves Kak’s green kota bharu which I think will soon make its way back to Malaysia to see who else can wear it. Like the blue lace kebaya, the end of its journey is nowhere near.

The girls in hand me downs from Kak.

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! “