Memoirs of Margaret Chan

Margaret Chan – yes, that’s what my friends used to call me. They decided that I had been mistaken for a Chinese too many times that I needed a Chinese name. They taught me how to say, “Wa emsi Teng Lang. Wa Honna Lang”. I don’t know how these words are spelt but they are Hokkien for “I am not Chinese. I am a Malay.” So, when that didn’t work, they named me Margaret Chan and I masqueraded as Margaret Chan when it suited me and I acquired quite an impressive volume of Chinese words –enough to carry a conversation.

I believe Margaret Chan was concieved in my mind when I was a mere toddler. People used to comment to Mak, “Laaa, anak sapa ni? Lain sangat. Anak nyonya mana?” And Mak used to play along and say, “Aha, anak Ah Nui kedai depan tu...dia suruh bela!” So, for a long while, especially when I felt slighted and entertained thoughts of running away from home after a quarrel with Kak Cik or when Mak favoured Lilah more, I really thought I was Ah Nui’s offspring.

Ah Nui helped her mum in that small shop by the big brick house across the road. It’s near enough for Mak to trust me to go and buy little things like matches and salt or sugar. I’d always take the opportunity to play ‘tikam’ and I remember having to stand on my toes to reach over the counter to pay her. And what a messy counter it was – full of buku tiga lima, old Chinese movie magazines and jars of asams and Hacks and Kiss Me. I always wondered how Ah Nui and her old mum knew where everything was among the clutter.

I didn’t have many friends then apart from visiting cousins, not even among those little girls whose mothers chased after them with their bowls of steaming porridge every evening. But I remember a regular visitor – a Chinese boy – a bit older than me, I think. He used to come to the house to escape the wrath of his mother. From the whisperings Mak had with Tok, I gathered that his mother was suffering from what I now know as post natal depression – but I heard Mak described it as gila meriyan. And I remember trembling with excitement hiding with him under the huge platform that Pak made in the kitchen, or in that small room under the stairs. Nowadays whenever I went home, I’d remember the boy whose name I never knew whenever I looked under the pangkin or in that small room that we now store old shoes. I never knew what happened to him or whether his mother ever recovered.

Anyway, when Pak got the transfer to Yan, we lived in front of Ah Gek’s house and Ah Gek had her nieces with her. One of them, Hooi Yong, was a classmate of mine. Very clever girl and we’d play hide and seek or do our homework together. But most of the time, she had to help Ah Gek, especially during Chinese New year, to sew up the hems or make kueh kapit. And sometimes, Poh Choo would join us. Thus my knowledge of Hokkien increased and at Chinese new year do’s where we all donned our brand new dresses with stiff petticoats underneath, no one was none the wiser about my ethnic origins. Poh Choo and Hooi Yong with their slightly darker skin looked more Malay than me.

Margaret Chan then moved back to Alor Star when Mak went to Mekah and acquired some new friends in the big house that Pak rented out to a Chinese contractor and his family. Thus besides learning the tulang belud from Tok, I also learnt how to play Chinese checkers with his two daughters who went to Keat Hwa. It was the year the song Pu Yau was a hit and I’d belt out the song with such emotions in the bathroom when Tok was having her afternoon nap.

Then, the big brick house across the road had a new occupant. Gaik Hong came to live with her grandparents and since then our friendship grew. At noon, when I waited under the big tree for the school bus, Gaik Hong would ask her trishaw man, Ah Chang to stop and give me a lift. We were like sisters going every where together. Almost every year when I go back, we’d have a reunion and last year, Gaik Hong made it to the party looking as lovely as ever. There were so many others from the primary school of SNC. Some of us proceeded to do our Form Six at Sultan Abdul Hamid College – our first direct contact with the boys whom we only used to see cycling the opposite direction to their school. Again, friends like Teng Boo, Wah Long, Hong Choo remained friends until now and four years ago we celebrated our 30th Anniversary.
Reunion of SNC friends

At ITM the Margaret Chan side of me didn’t quite lose her identity, nor forget her Hokkien for she found her soul mate in Fatimah Abu Bakar who at that time was more well versed in Hokkien than in Malay. And my dressing too alternated between the kebaya and cheongsam tops. Such was my split personality. I wasn’t complaining then and am not complaining now.

My first posting was to Penang and I lodged in Green Garden with Aunty Lucy, a stern looking lady with a no nonsence look about her. But I took to her instantly. Her small terrace house was spotless and she adopted me like a daughter she never had. Mak came all the way from Alor Star and was horrified to see me living in a house with a big altar in the front room. But seeing how Aunty Lucy took care of me, she didn't mind one bit. In the evenings I’d accompany Aunty Lucy to her temple nearby and late, late at night, together with Frieda and Uncle Boey from across the road, we’d drive along the esplanade and stop for some rojak or laksa Penang. Sometimes, when I stayed back during the weekends, I’d read stories to Darren, a young blind boy who visited Aunt Lucy. It is sad that now I have lost touch with Aunty Lucy and the Chinese family that adopted me during my stint in Penang.

Chinese New Year at Leicester Square

Yesterday I was in China Town, Leicester Square and was delighted to see the transformation in preparation for the festive period this weekend. There were lanterns and lanterns everywhere and of course the smell of oranges that for me will always remind me of Chinese New Year celebrations with my friends back home.

To all my Chinese friends, Hooi Yong, Poh Choo, Ek Ti, Adeline, Mui Ngoh, Bee Em, Ngoot Chooi, Wah Long, Kee Wan, Hong Chu and Teng Boo, Julie, Siew Phaik – Xong Xi Fa Cai....Ang Pau Gia Lai..hehe! And yes to Caroline and Annabel too if you are reading this.

And not forgetting my newfound cyber friends – Lydia, Mumsgather and Lilian – have a wonderful time with the family on this wonderful day!

Happy times with Aunty Lucy, Frieda & Uncle Boey

And last but not least – Aunty Lucy and Frieda and Uncle Boey, where ever you are, thank you for adopting me.

Knowing all of you has indeed enriched my life.

And of course, my little friend under the stairs – keep well.

HAPPY CHINESE NEW YEAR!!

The national laureate

For someone who is blessed with the gift to churn words and produce bestsellers, he seemed to be at a loss to describe my first piece for his perusal. “Your Malay is quite, er, quite....,” and I waited for what must have seemed like a few minutes before he found a suitable word to spare my feelings,”....BAD!”.

That must have been about twenty odd years ago and of course I readily agreed with the verdict. Afterall he was the editor and by then author of several books including Salina. So, who was I to argue?

Dato Samad Said or Pak Samad, remained a firm friend and a motivator, never forgetting to ask me “When is that book coming?” every time we meet and sending me his latest books by way of encouraging me to write.

Therefore I was really pleased to read of the launch of his collection of poems by the Prime Minister last week. I had received the book much earlier with his familiar scribble, "Cenderahati untuk Zaharah Othman (& keluarga) yang rajin belajar" a reference to my pursuing an MA in Traditional Malay Literature at a very late stage in my life.


And it does seem timely that I mentioned in my last entry about the trip on the P&O with a sasterawan negara – for it was with him that we spent seven hours at sea from Harwich to Hook of Holland.

The friendship with the national laureate became even closer when he married a childhood friend of mine – a great friend from those days in Yan but somehow we lost touch for while when we came to London. But during one of my trips home, I met up with Pak Samad again – at Subang Airport. He too was leaving for Europe - the result was the coffee table book Warkah dari Eropah. In that book you can see a very young and slim Kak Teh.

I am truly intrigued by his discipline – writing everything down, his thoughts, his feelings, at the end of the day. He seemed to have such an insatiable appetite for books and interests in authors and places. My husband took him to see several writers including Ishiguro while he was in London.

During our meetings he‘d take me to my favourite place to eat – Little Penang, after which we’d sit and have coffee at Deli France. I was greatly encouraged to see school children approaching him, telling him how much they appreciate his books. I am encouraged because there are children who are reading quality books and apreciating them.


During my last trip back, I had a lengthy interview with him on his writing. We sat in his lounge surrounded by books, books and more books fighting for space on bookshelves, in boxes and on the floor. And more in the kitchen. Not unlike my own house, actually.

He showed me books for children, teenagers, by authors local and foreign, all the different genres and style.

“Iread everything, even teenage novels and I read five books at a time,” he said, adding that at any one time he has several ideas for several books in his head.

What was very valuable during the interview which I recorded on video, was his scribblings in his notebooks – story plans, profiles of characters, how the stories develop.... everything is then written down by hand. No, no computer for him.

During this meeting, away from the noisy crowd at Little Penang, I had the opportunity to ask him about Salina, a best seller that has been translated into several languages, including French.

It is, I believe the best book ever written in Malay, and a book that has been written very much like a movie. His description of Kampong Kambing in post war Singapore comes to live – you can even smell the stench coming from the communal bathroom and at the same time hear the rendition of Arya Mala from the equally smelly toilet, while Si Bulat, the village imp, runs naked chasing the goats. All the while, the friendly banter between Kurupaya Samy and Salina in the background.

When I did Salina with my student, it was the first time that I had ever read it and cried and never wanted the book to end as it was so beautifully written. I sent Pak Samad an email to tell him so and received this : Saya menulis Salina semasa saya berumur 23 tahun, Zaharah membaca Salina semasa saya berumur 68 tahun.”

Enough said. Ah yes, Pak Samad, I also read Warkah Untuk Salmi Manja some years back and I think it is beautiful. However, I couldn't finish Hujan Pagi.

Pak Samad’s second trip to Europe coincided with our planned visit to Holland. Thus, it turned out to be a very interesting journey, first by train from Liverpool street to Harwich and then on the P& O to Hook of Holland. We had earlier booked a cabin – what with six children (two are friend’s children) with nasi lemak and sandwiches to last the seven hour passage.

Pak Samad was accompanied by the then Prof Latif Bakar who was documenting the author’s visit to Europe. So, all of us were crammed in that one cabin, downing the nasi lemak with sambal ikan bilis. Thankfully, the sea was calm or else....

We entertained the children with songs like Chan Ma li Chan, and Rasa Sayang eh as well as “Why You So Like That ah?” ...It was tedious but at least the songs, the games and quiz kept the children entertained.

It will not be long before I see the national laureate again and most probably at Little Penang eating my favourite prawn noodles. But I really do not know what answer to give him when he asks yet again...."When is THAT book coming?"

Come sail with me

Reading the comments for this entry I realised how interesting it would be to compile accounts from pilgrims who went to do the Haj by ship all those years. Even those who were in the last batch to go by sea must still be around to share their experience with us. A book project would be ideal. A radio documentary would be awesome! All I remember of my Mak’s first trip by sea (she later went twice by plane), was her stories about how those who died during the passage were just bundled off and lowered into the water. There were stories about how the sharks would snap the bodies. I supposed this is why I am so afraid of the vast volume of water – especially being out there where you can’t actually see any land. Or perhaps it was the dark memories of that night on the beach of Kuala Yan, when bodies of fishermen were washed ashore after a storm.

I have had my fair share of sailing from being on rafts to hovercrafts and the P& O – the QE2 not included of course! It wasn’t as if I have always been scared of the water. It used to be fun, foolhardy even. I had even contemplated being on the boat to accompany Dato’ Malik when he did the 17 hour swim across the channel. In fact, I had already bought my sensible shoes, flask and sea sick tablets for what was to be a very bumpy ride. But in the end, and thankfully, I opted for the wait by the Dover beach for his return. He jokingly said “Kalau Kak Teh tak pi, Malik tak berenang!” Yes, what a headline that would have made! I had actually accompanied him on a much smaller boat during his trial run in Lake Zurich – all of 11 hours!! But more of that later!

In the good old days when bridges still required a few heads to make them stable and safe ( so we were told!), we used to look forward to the visit to our other Grandma’s house in Suka Menanti. Why it was named such, I don’t know. Must research more on this.

Anyway, if my memory serves me right, there were even times when Tok Jam would actually fetch us in her rakit or raft. We could see her welcoming smile from a distance as she confidently paddled the raft ashore. Unlike the perahu, we didn’t have to pay anything of course, and unlike the perahus, we couldn’t sit as we’d all be drenched! It was all so breathtakingly exciting as we watched other children bathing, women beating their washings on slabs of stones, people ‘doing their business’ behind some trees. In fact, everything a girl needed for the inclusion in her homework for the ‘news’ book. (Of course it never occurded to me then that one day I’d be covering the Cross Channel swim, eh?)

On occassions when we had to take the perahus, we had to share of course with other passengers, with their chicken and shopping and naughty children trying to literally rock the boat! We used to be brave enough to dip our hands in the water as the boatman pushed his oars effortlessly across.

It must have been a few years later that Mak went to Mekah by sea and many an unpleasant stories were recounted. And so it must have been with these memories that when I was posted to Penang ( before the days of the bridge) I dreaded having to take the ferries across. I’d be lamenting hard and long every weekend before I could pluck the courage. And it was only a half an hour ride if I am not mistaken. But I used to sit on the bench and cry! If not for the image of Mak waiting for my return on the old iron swing, crab sambal all ready and steaming under the tudung saji, I would have happily remained with Aunty Lucy in Penang.

At the end of my stint in Penang, I had had enough of ferry rides – enough to make me sea sick even at the thought of it. The next one was on the Red Funnel ferry to the Isle of Wight – a lovely little island with its quaint villages of thatched cottages. The first trip was uneventful but during the second trip, we had a lovely surprise as there was The Tall Ships Races – all kinds of ships in all kinds of shapes and sizes and oh so so colourful – they were beautiful and I dared go out on the deck to watch and took some not very good pictures.

This passage across the Solent was okay – especially on a good day and nothing compared to the ride on the Hovercraft which I made with a friend to Calais for a day trip.

We said our goodbyes to our husbands at the train station and took the train to Dover. In the morning, there was no inkling of the turbulent at sea but not long after that it became a nightmare. I remember seeing the sea level tilting up and down from the pothole, oblivious to the other passengers throwing up all around me. Many a times we were thrown off our seats. And this, dear reader, was just right after the Zeebrugge PO ferry the Herald of Free Enterprise disaster which took 193 lives. I thought we were never going to see our husbands again. The trip back was on the P&O as all Hovercrafts were cancelled. Still, we had to hold on firmly to our coffee cups which kept sliding down the table. It was horrible.

I think I have to stop now as I am getting sea sick just writing about it. Will soon continue with more stories – especially the 11 hour boat ride on Lake Zurich with Dt Malik Mydin, and the wonderful seven hour trip on the P&O with six small children and one Sastrawan Negara all in one cabin heading towards Hook Van Holland.

Russia in Ice @ Trafalgar Square

This is just a preview of what's to come this week-end. Be prepared for a Russian invasion of Trafalgar Square this Saturday as there will be a Russian Winter Festival. I was on my way to work when I spotted this wonderful sculpture in ice and that was in the morning when it was still cold but by evening, it was already melting, what with spotlights in different colours training on it, changing the shades much to the delight of passers by.

So, this Saturday, if you are not doing anything , please head towards Trafalgar Square. I know someone will be there - blogger Pu1pu3 who is in town for a meeting. After meeting her at Benjys along the Strand and before the promised koayteow at Mawar Restaurant and a meeting with blogger Ewok, I took her to see the sculpture and how much more beautiful it is at night!

The Royal Jester aka Pu1pu3, visiting the sculpture of St Basil's Cathedral in Trafalgar Square 

The year Mak went to Mekah

The year Mak went to perform her Haj was the year of rites of passage for me and my siblings. The night before she left, I remember sitting on the bench outside the bungalow in Penang that Pak rented for three days, feeling the cold wind from the sea, on my face. And I remember with sadness that Mak would be gone in that big ship that would take her out into the vast unfriendly ocean for months and months. Before her Haj, the furthest ‘oversea’ land Mak had been to was Singapore, to visit her brother – Pak Lang. And that was with family members. And now, she was travelling alone – with just some friends from the surau and it will be the longest we had ever been separated from her. It was heartbreaking.

I remember the family photograph that we took the morning she left. I was wearing the batik pinafore that Ah Gek made for raya. So was Kak Cik but my eyes were swollen because I cried so much. Mak was wearing, what I thought was a jubbah that was way too big for her.

We said our tearful goodbyes, along with hundreds if not thousands of other families at the port and I watched Mak disappear into a sea of white jubbahs heading towards the Bunga Raya which swallowed them into her bowels. And with a final hoot – sailed off into the distance.

I didn’t want to go home cos I knew Mak was not there. I felt the same kind of emptiness I always felt when Mak went to visit Kak in KL or anywhere. But we did – we headed for our home in Yan after which we began a new chapter in our life. We were soon despatched to Alor Star to live with Tok while Lilah, our youngest sister went to stay with Abang Man and family. Pak couldn’t take care of us as he needed care as well. Abang and Nyak were there to look after him in that government bungalow in Jalan Tungku Mahmood.

Kak Cik and I shared the same fear and trepidation at the thought of living with Tok. The very mention of the word Tok would bring shudders – she never needed to live with anyone before and sending off two young girls, never educated in culinary skills to live with her, was like despatching them off to some charm school ready for the kill. The only reason I looked forward to the ‘stint’ with Tok was because we were to be schooled at the St Nicholas Convent. We were very impressed with those boxer pleat blue uniform that convent girls wore. I was to learn about the disciplines much much later.

Tok sewed baju kurungs for a living and sold bunga melur from her garden to an Indian guy who came every morning to collect them. Thus our chores before school would include picking those scented flowers after subuh. Tok would measure them in cupaks. Rumours had it that Tok went several times to Mekah using her ‘duit bunga’!

After school, we were taught the art of cooking – starting with the introduction to the various spices and herbs. Tok was not impressed with our lack of skills and knowledge. I was sent off to the garden to look for daun kesum and never to return until I found it. My hands blistered for days because I had to use the parang to peel the coconuts, crying as I did so – not unlike the anak tiri scenes in Malay movies. We were rewarded then, with trips to Mak Jah’s house down the road whenever there were Malay or Hindi movies on TV.

Tok was not the orge that she was made out to be. We learnt a lot from her – not least the tulang belud for the baju kurungs that she made. She was a tough master to learn from though and a perfectionist. Any imperfections and the air would turn blue. It took me a long time to figure out some of the similies that she used to describe our shoddy work. Anyway, we did learn. And she would reward us with blouses made from cloth remnants – patchwork to make a-go-go blouses, complete with a peek-a-boos around the neck, that were the in thing in those days, worn with tight fitting jeans that Kak bought from Singapore.

We also learnt to make patchwork, again from remnants.

But we looked forward to the weekends to go home to Yan. We soon became experts taking the two hour bus ride to the house with the Jerai as its backdrop. So peaceful, serene and beautiful compared to noisy and rowdy Alor Star. The only excitement in Yan was when the two local drags paraded in their new clothes. The small town would slowly stir to life as people peeked out of their windows, twitched their curtains and made catcalls from behind their net curtains. Or when Indonesian magicians cum medicine men pulled the crowd with their brilliant orations at the square near the market.

Pak and Abang were coping alright under the care of Nyak – someone we adopted during our stint in Yan. Pak complained that Abang made jemput pisang as big as the fist but the house was always full. Abang’s friends would congregate there in his small room and they’d be playing songs by the Beatles on the small record player. On nights when Malay movies were showing on telly, Pak would buy packets of kacang goreng for those people who came to watch. The whole village, it seemed, would turn up.

Lilah, our youngest sister was coping alright too with our cousins down the road. I supposed she too acquired the art of cooking from our aunty who was a caterer of sorts.

The highlight of our visits back would be letters from Mak. They were not really written by her but for her by someone. She was well etc, etc. Letters used to take weeks if not months.

Mak, it would seem, went on the pilgrimage with several missions. Pak had been unwell and from the moment I could speak and was able to go to the shop by myself, I knew that he was taking a kind of tonic with the picture of the tiger on the dark coloured bottles. We were always told to wrap the bottles from Ah Leng’s shop and Ah Leng knew this was the ritual. Why, we didn't know – and we didn't ask. Pak said, the tonic eased his pain in the joints, especially after the accident. Mak wasn't very happy but kept her silence. But everytime we had visitors, like a ritual, we would collect all the bottles and hid them. When there were too many, we’d sell them to the keling botol and made quite a tidy sum for ourselves.

Abang, as the eldest son, wasn’t doing too well with his studies but would rather while his time by the sea, painting pictures of the sunset. Mak wanted more for her eldest son – her only son then. One son died after birth and another son at the age of three.

Time flew fast, what with perfecting tulang beluds, the forays into Tok’s garden searching and identifying all kinds of ulams, and then Mak retuned. Almost all of her hopes and prayers were answered. Abang got into high school and later to ITM and then studied in Ireland. He was to become DG of a very big organisation. We gradually stopped having to buy those ‘tonics’ in the dark bottles with the tiger on the labels. Alhamdulilah. And most importantly – she brought us back a gift for the family. She brought back another little brother – so fair and cuddly and smelling of the minyak attar. Mak in her big white jubbah had unwittingly fooled us and the authorities that she was only a few months pregnant. She went into labour in Padang Arafah and it was on that sacred land that she gave us our brother – Mohamad Arafah – who until today is known to all as Ajie.

So that was the year that Mak went to Mekah when all her prayers were answered. We now need all our prayers to be answered for her.

Selamat Hari Raya Aidil Adha to all. Maaf zahir dan batin.

In cybernation...

Let’s say I’ve been cybernating. Its cold, still very, very cold and I had had enough food over Christmas and New Year to cybernate until there is enough sunshine out there to get out. I had been away from work a week before Christmas and it was only yesterday that I dragged myself out and braved the early morning hailstones to earn myself and the cats a decent meal.

This hiatus and hence the reluctance to update my blog in a way reflect my attempt to cling on to 2005 and stop the march of time. As the countdown began on TV to herald in the new year, I buried myself under the duvet and fell into deep sleep and woke up the following morning as if the new year never came. But who am I kidding, eh? During the last few days of 2005, some people did come over to remind me how fast time has zoomed past us.

For four wonderful days, I was in the company of my loved ones from back home. My niece Anedra and her husband arrived with their entourage, which included her parents (my sister and brother in law), her sister and her two little children to make sure that – hey – these are your grand nephews!! At the earliest opportunity, I pulled little Nasar aside and told him to take it easy when calling out my name in public – Tok Teh doesn’t sound very glamorous, you know.

For four wonderful and fun packed days, we were camped at Holiday Villa London, occupying three family suites although our house was just a stone’s throw away. This was just to ensure that we did not miss a single minute being away from each other.
the cousins

These four days were perhaps the longest I had spent with my grand nephews and many a times I caught myself sighing when I had flashbacks of those days not too long ago that I was minding Anedra, changing her nappies and putting her to sleep. I couldn’t wait for the weekends to come so that I could rush back and be with her. Then, all to soon, it was a tearful goodbye at the airport when she left for Kansas when her father went there to further his studies. And more fast forwards later, she was back here in the UK pursuing her own studies AND babysitting my children. She was always available when I had assignments in Germany and in Budapest, I could enjoy a full week away knowing that they were in capable hands. And all too soon, this winter, I was minding her children, changing their nappies and wiping their noses. Where did time go?

Wasn’t it not too long ago that Kak Cik and I were wetting ourselves suppressing our laughter in the middle of the night at her grandmother’s house in Pilah, as we struggled in the dark to change her nappies? Kak Cik had unwittingly plunged the safety pin right into my thigh. There was immediate realisation that there’s a vast difference between real life babies and paper dolls that Kak Cik and I used to play with.
Anedra & Baby N walking tall in Model Village

And all too soon too – there I was in a hotel room in Paris, sobbing into the telephone on Anedra’s wedding day because I couldn’t be there on her special day. Again, I was away on assignment.

These last few days, I kept looking at the photographs that we had taken in Stratford, Cotswold and Oxford capturing the fun moments that we had. And there were also those documenting the havoc in our hotel rooms as the cousins enjoyed every precious minute together. And during the last few days too, it dawned on me, and my aching bones that it isn’t easy anymore dashing across the room after a spritely three year old, or answering clever questions from an inquisitive five year old.
cousins

Thank you Anedra for coming over and repackaging all those years in the last four days of 2005.

Uncle Taufiq & Nasar in Cotswold Model Village


I am now officially out of cybernation.

Tales of Christmases gone by

The Two Ronnies saved the day. It used to be The Sound of Music or Poseiden Adventure but this year, there were repeats of The Two Ronnies. May be because Ronnie Barker – a comic genius – died recently. And what a genius he was and his death is a great loss to British comedy. No special Only Fools and Horses but just repeats. And of course the Queen’s Christmas message.

The Queen did her first Xmas speech to her people as well as to the Commonwealth in 1952 – mostly reflections of developments during the year, etc. etc. And this year, we are told she has snubbed her new daughter –in – law! But why am I blogging about this? Well, this is just a good excuse to tell you that for about twelve years, from a small cubicle at the BBC, I was broadcasting the Queen’s speeches ...in Malay!

The speech, in a firmly sealed envelope, was usually kept under very tight security – just in case it was leaked out to the press before Christmas. I’d get it just the day before Christmas, translate it and in a voice so unlike Her Majesty’s, I’d sit in my self op room and play Queen! So, that’s it. The next day, on Christmas Day, it’d be played out, while I sit in front of the TV at home and watch repeats of The Sound of Music.

So there – it is not as if I could write a book called, “Once I was the Queen”, hehe!

When we were small, Christmas was always with Uncle D and Aunty T. They celebrated Christmas and we just joined in the fun. I remember one particular Christmas in Port Dickson where we booked a bungalow to see the new year in. Uncle D dressed up as Santa and we children had so much fun. Aunty T cooked her delicious chicken curry and roti parata to go with it. That used to be Christmas. I don’t know where Uncle D and Aunty T are now but I certainly hope they had a wonderful Christmas. For us, we just sat in front of the TV, like every other year to watch repeats.

Our arrival in London 26 years ago was just a few days before Christmas and I had expected a white Christmas of course, just like the ones we see on TV. I was very disappointed. Christmas is of course, very much a family affair. So we were quite touched that for the first few Christmases, we were invited by close friends to join them at the family table. There I was, with funny paper hat, perched uneasily on my head trying to tackle those horrible Brussel sprouts. And again, after dinner, we’d watch repeats, play scrabbles or do the jigsaw puzzle. The mother died a few years later, one of the brothers migrated to Brazil and the other died recently. But I must add this, we became so much a part of this family that when the brother died, I was in the car following the hearse and was seated in the front row as a family member. So, this year, M won’t be knocking on our door with gifts for the children or papayas from his brother in Brazil.

Christmas parties at the office start very early. At the BBC where I used to work, there were a lot to cover but none would match parties by the Far Eastern Service. While the Eastern Europeans would serve nuts, cheese, crisps, sandwiches and of course drinks, ours would have mee goreng, currypuffs, rendang and satay – very popular indeed! This year, I gave Christmas parties a miss.

In our own household, when the children were small, they would insist on a Christmas tree and presents but we explained to them that it wasn’t our culture or religion. The children, however, did involve themselves in Christmas plays at school. Little T was one of the three wise men, and much later his father gently told him that perhaps we should just be in the audience and watch and not participate at all. He pleaded and became one of the donkeys instead. That sort of minimised the role a bit.

When halal butchers started stocking halal turkey, we used to have roast turkey but I have never really taken to turkey. The meat is dry and tasteless – but perhaps it is the way I cooked it. We’d have roast turkey with nasi tomato – don’t get me wrong – we were not celebrating. This is so we could keep stuff our face while watching repeats. The next day, it’d be turkey sandwich. And if there’s anymore leftovers, it’d be turkey curry!

One particular Christmas break, on impulse we booked a cabin in Wales. Of course, I had with me a ready roasted chicken, loads of ingredients for curry and bread. The place we booked was a long way away from Swansea but it was a good break – no tv, no repeats for that year. A friend who had booked a cabin for his family had already arrived and we had a wonderful Malay dinner in a cabin in the outskirts of Swansea. The wind was howling outside, it was bitterly cold but the chicken curry and bread kept us quite warm throughout the night, while we played scrabble. The next morning the children went to feed the farmer’s goats and chicken while the grown-ups went to fish – and we had salmon and air asam for lunch. And I wonder what they had for repeats that year.

A good friend of ours decided to tie the knot of Christmas Day – so since then – must be about ten years ago, we would be over at their place to celebrate their anniversary. And we’d have turkey of course, among other things. After which we’d watch repeats or perhaps some old Malay movies. But this year, they are celebrating their anniversary in Bali. Why is everyone going away?

But a couple of Christmases were quite tragic. One night we came back from a celebration at a friend’s place. Before turning in, H, as usual, called out to the cat to come in. He was one of our first few cats. We didn’t even have a name for him. Then H was too tired and went to sleep. The next morning, there was a knock on the door and a neighbour told us that our lovely cat had been knocked down by a car. H was full of remorse – blaming himself for not going out to search for his cat. AG cried silently for it was this cat who kept him company while he did his work at home and we were all in tears.

I was wrapping presents a few days ago for our neighbours when Nona reminded me that I had forgotten someone. So, I went out and bought a box of chocolates for Sandra’s mum. Sandra was Nona’s childhood friend. Sandra used to knock on the door for Nona in the morning to go to school. And Sandra, in her sweet voice, would always stop me on the way out to say cheerfully, ‘Hi, aunty – how are you?’ But not anymore.

Two Christmases ago, I came back and found Nona in tears. Sandra died in a hit and run, yards from her house. Her mum was inconsolable and so was Nona. This Christmas, Nona took the box of chocolate to Sandra’s mum and came back with a present. It was necklace – Sandra’s necklace and her mum wanted Nona to have it.

And of course, how could we forget last Christmas – indeed, how could anyone forget last Christmas when we woke up the next day and saw tragedy unfolding on our TV screens.

And now in my best Queen's high pitch voice "Beta ucapkan selamat tahun baru - dan senyum-senyumlah selalu".

Law for The New Family

The last few entries of Choc-a-Blog have been a big moan about the bitterly cold weather. But yesterday the temperature rose to a dangerous new level. I am not one to swear BUT the air was turning blue as I tried to digest the new Islamic Family Law that was passed in Malaysia yesterday! Make no mistakes, this is indeed Law for the New Family!! Not a new Family Law. What’s new about the way women are being treated?

I was alerted to this news by a call from the BBC who wanted to interview me on this matter. Felt an utter prat as I had not been following it but gosh the shock and the anguish that followed – it really ruined my day. I had wanted to blog about today – the anniversary of Choc-a-Blog. A year ago I meekly started this blog and got two comments and a year later Choc-a-Blog is still here – Alhamdulillah. I also wanted to blog about this December being an anniversary month of sorts; it was our 26th Wedding anniversary and thus our 26th year in the UK. This means I have spent more years here than in my own country – but this doesn’t mean I am not concerned about what is happening back home. I am VERY concerned.

Let us look at the snippets of news from the last few days:

“Women senators who have been up in arms against the controversial family law Bill, which they say will lead to erosion of their rights, will have no choice but to vote for it.

All talk of breaking ranks to vote against the Bill dissipated after Minister in the Prime Minister's Department Datuk Seri Nazri Aziz spoke to them in small groups before talking to a group of 25 senators, including the 19 women.

Anxious to ensure that Barisan Nasional senators toe the line, he warned that he was invoking the Whip and ordered the 19 Barisan women senators to vote for the Islamic Family Law (Federal Territories) (Amendment) Bill 2005 when it comes up for debate today.”

Yeah , right Nazri!!!!! Well done! But, a touch heavy handed, don’t you think?

And let us look at what’s causing the concern:


"1) The right of a husband to claim a share of his existing wife's property upon his committing polygamy
Husbands have an equal right to a wife's property; likewise she has a claim to joint property acquired during their marriage.

2) Making polygamy easier for men
While a husband may be able to prove that his proposed marriage is necessary, he does not have to prove it to be just.

3) Forcing a wife to choose either maintenance OR division of joint property upon a husband's polygamous marriage
Syariah law makes it mandatory for husbands to provide maintenance for a wife throughout their marriage. Islamic law entitles her to both.

4) Enhancing the husband's right to divorce
This gives an additional right to divorce for the husband, which used to be the prerogative of the wife; he may escape paying any form of compensation.

5) Allowing a husband to get a court order to stop his wife from disposing of her property
The husband has no right to his wife's property since she is not obliged to provide maintenance for him or his children. That is his responsibility.”

And what did our Women, Family and Community Development Minister Datuk Seri Shahrizat Jalil say?

"It is necessary for us to take one step backwards so we can move 10 steps ahead. We have to look at the bigger picture," she said at the Parliament lobby while a group of women senators nodded in agreement. Also present was Minister in the Prime Minister's Department Datuk Seri Nazri Abdul Aziz.”

Shudder! Shudder!

I just couldn’t describe the feelings I had yesterday – but disappointment and despair should sum it up. I am disappointed that with all the outspoken, vocal, intelligent women that we have, we are still taking steps backwards. Shouldn’t be we fighting and protecting one of our own rather then let heavy handed men bully us into agreeing to anything? Haven’t we seen enough injustice as it is – even without those five humiliating clauses above?

I just depair because, whenever anyone here talks about the injustice of Islamic law allowing men to marry more than one, I will always defend it, quoting well quoted quotes about being fair, about being caring to all parties concerned. And most importantly, I say, I am proud that at least in Malaysia, there are laws to protect women, wives, whose husbands want to take on a second or third wife. Other than having to prove that they can be fair in dishing out their money and love and attention (which is of course a joke), they also have to ask for the permission of the first wife. Now, this can still sound very strange to non Muslims. Whaaat? You mean, the first wife will still accept that?

And, I proudly tell them, there are even wives – first wives – who do go and ask for the hands of the intended to be her husband’s second wife. More clanging of jaws on the floor!

But, what I didnt tell them is that of course, when hubby takes second or third wife and all are hunkydorry with schedules and time tables stipulated, are the stories that I heard about hubbies sneaking back to new wife’s bordoir, even when it is not her turn on the schedule. Where is the justice in this?

And now, when the husband entertains thoughts of taking on another one, he can now claim his first wife’s existing property??? And I foolishly thought that what a woman earns is hers and what the man earns is for both of them to share. Now, does it mean he can take her share and share it with his new whats’it?

What happens to the wife who follows the husband overseas to study – works her butt out to finance him and upon returning home, suddenly she doesnt seem to fit in with his crowd anymore. Suddenly, he looks at her and she has let herself go. Why, because she has been working her butt out to support him – to see that he gets the qualifications to climb the corporate ladder. And when he takes a second wife, he is entitled to whatever she earns? *& )(*&^!! Yes, sorry, this is because I have seen these before too.

Let’s not even talk about making poligamy easier.

I have seen enough who sheepishly come to London to solemnise their second or third – the imams here do not ask for the first wife’s letter of consent. It is thus their duty to register when they go home.

One wife who suspected her husband’s intentions, contacted all registry offices and finally found out. She nearly killed herself and her child. Perhaps she had not been paying attention much to the husband because all her life was devoted to a child born with Down’s Syndrome. Such is life.

I might not be making much sense as I am quite, quite angry still . No, I am furious. Let us voice out our concerns – if not for ourselves, for our nieces, daughters and our sisters in Islam.

Also pls see Mak Andeh.
For analysis by Suhaini Aznam, pls read:

http://thestar.com.my/news/story.asp?file=/2005/12/25/nation/12960570&sec=nation

That's it Zai! Give him an earful!

Picture taken from The Star - sorry - pinjam

Guess what I did last Sunday?

Usually even wild horses couldn’t drag me out of the house on a Sunday. It was a bitterly cold morning that only bowls and bowls of mee bandung or laksa kedah would suffice to see me through the day. Instead it was to be a Sunday like never before. And it was horses that took me away from the pile of ironing, away from the omnibus version of East Enders. I was dragged, not quite kicking, to the London International Horse Show!!

I was late! I didn't want to go but I went nevertheless, taking the tube and later a taxi that cost a bomb for the short distance between Earls Court and Olympia! I was told to get the invite at the reception. Gave my name – Z...Wan. and I was handed a card that says Wan Z.... “This is not mine – she is a celebrity,” I said to a puzzled receptionist. So, off I went with the card that says : Presidential Box! Not only was it an invitation to watch the qualifying rounds but also to watch it, while having lunch in the Presidential Box!!

The view:

The velvet curtain to the box opened to reveal that...I was late. The guest of honour, a Jordanian Princess, some Lords and of course our own princess – Wan Zaleha Radzi were already there! And what a view from where we were seating!

Not that I know much about the show jumping - there were lots of appreciative Oooohs when the horses made it and a chorus of Aaaaahs when a pole dropped. But I concentrated more on the lunch on offer. It was very nice – they had roast lamb on the menu but a kind waiter came and told us that we could have vegetarian instead.

my lunch
Wan Z was two seats away from Z Wan and I could hear her explaining the whole thing to other guests. She is afterall an expert in these things. She looked lovely – and I remember meeting her once – just once in a studio at TV3. She was doing the voice for my documentary. And she remembered too, which is nice.

There is something about horses that is so beautiful – horses have a combination of power, strength and at the same time they are graceful and agile. It is such a beautiful animal!

The highlight of the event, for me, was the prize giving ceremony. The band played the theme song of Mission Impossible and with that, we marched down with the Princess. I tell you, it was so exciting – I could hear my heart thumping in rythm with the theme song! And yes – we were so close to the horses – they looked magnificient. A friend said, the most beautiful thing about the horse is the eyes. I daren't go THAT near! But what they left behind on the ground wasn’t too aromatic, I must say. I loved it when the winner, Robert Smith and his horse Kalusha rode off in a fanfare of applause – and £60,000!!!

The winner & the Princess
On the tube back, I reflected on the day’s events. My Mak would have disapproved of my presence there. Horses are, afterall, connected to gambling. Remember those calendars with pictures of pretty women in cheongsam holding on to a horse? These would symbolise the dates of racing. I just love those old calendars.

Never in a month of Sundays had I dreamt I would be there - watching a horse show from a Presidential Box. Yes, so that was what I did last Sunday – and I missed East Enders!

Wan ZR

Thank you for little pleasures.....

This came in the post this morning

Hooray! Yum! Yum! Drool! Drool!

BUT look at these that can't be eaten!!!

....because they have this!

So, moral of the story on this cold, wet, gloomy winter morning is "You've got to be grateful for little pleasures...no matter how little!"

Just a Snip

The doctor beckoned me to his room. He had some quiet words with me and I left, cutting a forlorn figure walking down the long hospital corridor, with abang’s comforting words to my youngest son, still ringing in my ear. He said:

“Aaaah, Its not such a big deal! Just one snip and you’ll be a man!! Masa Pak Lang dulu..heh!......” he went on narrating how brave he was when facing the Tok Mudin and his sharp, gleaming knife, batang pisang and all that. Well, that was his version. Mak had a different version of course.

Yes, I was sent out of the surgery because the doctor knew I would create a scene, had a fit, faint or go hysterical as my son was being ‘done’. He sent me off to the canteen with instructions to come back after half an hour. Is that all it takes these days??

After what seemed like an agonising 30 mins at the PMC brand new canteen, I walked up. I was almost in tears to see the little boy I left half an hour ago, now a man, walking like a cowboy towards me, holding one end of his kain pelikat so that it didn’t touch the sensitive area.

All these must have come flooding back to him last week when we visited three month old Y who had his snip. He cringed when he saw little Y already in his nappies and cringed even harder when Y’s mum gleefully described how it was done. She watched it.. Watched it? I nearly died just waiting for ‘it’ to be done.

When the eldest had his done, I was lucky as my husband was there with him. I had requested anaesthetic, a blind fold, a hard thud on the head...anything, anything to knock me out. But doctor said: anaesthetics only for patients – okay lah! On the way to the clinic in Kampung Baru, I was already having problems breathing. By the time they went in, I almost collapsed in the waiting room. Didn’t I read somewhere that a doctor had accidentally cut off more then necessary?

During the last visit home, two nephews had theirs done. I just love listening to the uncles and other male cousins who would just gloat about how brave they were sitting astride the batang pisang. They were never scared – em, perhaps, just a little. To this day, I never really know, or dare ask what the batang pisang was for.

I heard one story about someone not a million mile from this blog, who decided at the very last minute, to postpone the snip. Not that he succeeded. He spent the days recuperating, singing “Aduh, Mak sakitnya...”

That wasn’t so bad. I heard Abang and Abang Tam and the other cousins were singing P Ramlee’s “Beginilah nasib, diri ku yang malang, Oh Tuhaaaannnnn!..
When they were feeling a bit better, from their sleeping area with their sarungs suspended high up to the ceiling, they’d play cowboy and indians, shooting at each other, right into the night. Of course they made a speedy recovery when visitors came with money filled envelopes. This usually helps.

Anyway, I still have four in our household that needed to be ‘done’ – Tabby, Moaner, Kissinger and Jasper. Aaah, give me more air!

The Lie Must Go On...

The water flowing down from the imposing Jerai that formed the backdrop of our quiet little town, was, needless to say, very cold. I shiver at the thought of that afternoon, that episode, after our Quran class. It wasn’t the quick dip in the cold water that made me shiver, just the thought of what we did after that.

“We came here to get clay for the art class. That’s all,” Kak Cik said taking matters into her hands. “Listen, we need not tell her anything”.

We were perhaps about nine or ten when we began this conspiracy against Mak that was to continue until now. Kak Cik seems to take charge in matters like this. I meekly obey when she says, “Listen”. You see, Mak must never be subjected to any worry. Imagine had she known that her two little girls were splashing about in the river behind Mak Aishah’s house, she’d be worried sick. That’s for sure.

And we don’t want that, do we? We have seen what she went through when Abang did his disappearing act. He sold his bicycle and with what little he had, took off for some adventure. I didn’t see Mak cry but I know she didn’t sleep at night, waiting up for Abang. And the same thing happened when he went up the Jerai and came down carrying a huge python. Or the time he spent nights at sea, with the fishermen. Abang must have told her he was there to paint the sunset.

We must never make Mak worry or sad. She had never seen us quarrel or heard us raise our voices to each other. This means we grit our teeth or just hiss out whatever we want to say to each other when she is around. We do not bring up any sensitive subjects in her presence. One look from Kak Cik, my sentences will hang midway. There are taboo subjects. London is taboo. Cos she wants to visit me. So no one talks about London.

And we have learnt to deal with certain situations quite early.

I remember how she’d patiently wait while we read letters that Abang wrote from Belfast. When we finished she’d ask:

“Abang kata apa?”

“Dia kirim salam,” we’d reply after digesting the chronicle of explosions which had happened within earshot of Abang’s rented accomodation. This was in the seventies.

“Amboih – tujuh lai surat, dia kirim salam saja?” came the retort.

”Aaha – dia kata dia sehat,”

And so the lie goes on and on. Or perhaps, it should be termed being economical with the truth. Why would we be telling Mak the truth? Censorship was exercised very early in our household and storylines get changed very easily during conversations among us siblings when Mak suddenly makes an appearance.

Kak Cik has devised an effective way to let us know when storylines have to change. A very painful one too. I’d get a very strong kick under the table and believe you me – the storyline WILL change.

For example:

“Pak Tam kerabat pokok moktan (rambutan). Lepaih tu jatuh....” the story got interrupted as she sensed Mak's slow walk into the kitchen.

“Pak Tam?” Mak was curious about her brother. You see her hearing is selective.

“Dak, pokok moktan Pak Tam lebat tahun ni,” Another lie – another version of Pak Tam’s accident that resulted in his broken leg.

When Kak Piah was very very ill, carloads of relatives were visiting her at the hospital. And of course they’d visit Mak as well as Mak is now easily the great grandmama of all in the clan. The official version was that they were all attending kenduri of some friends that Mak didn’t know, or something like that. I find that hard to believe cos Mak seems to know everyone.

And when Kak Cik herself went into hospital to remove something which was not supposed to be where it was, there was a wall of silence. No one knew how to explain. But deep inside, I think she suspected something.

And another thing, we do not speak in English when she is around. She knows that is one way we are talking about things we dont want her to know.

And the conspiracy still continues – for it must. The last few days had seen a frenzy of sms’es and yms and phonecalls back and forth.

YM form Ajie "Dont say anything to Mak, Ok?"

SMS from Lilah - "she doesn't know - so dont say anything".

And the phone call from Kak Cik, “Listen, we must not tell her, okay? She must never know. We need not tell her anything,” said Kak Cik, taking charge once more, and I was transported back to the riverbank, standing there, shivering and almost in tears.

“Yes,” my voice broke as it did on that afternoon on the river bank.

Kak Cik sounded very strong. She said that she is alright. But she is lying too – we have been in this game for too long. I knew that she went into the shower and had a good cry and came out to face Mak again as if everything is alright.

When I called home, I was pleasantly surprised that it was Mak who picked up the phone. I was taken aback by the strength in her voice and more importantly, was happy that she could hear my voice.

“Mak sehat?” I asked not daring to utter more than three words.

“Mak sehat. Zaharah sehat?” she always called me by my full name.

“Sehat, Mak” we both lied.

Training My Thoughts

With robotic movements of the Stepford Wives, I joined other early morning commuters, hands clutching steaming hot take-away coffees, newspapers under armpits, to board the 0830 to Norwich. Unlike other days, today I had ample time to find a comfortable seat by the window to take in, for the last time (at least for now) the wonderful English countryside from the warm comforts of my window. Aaaah, the early birds get to choose – so many empty seats, with tables facing outward bound, where you can see where you are going or backwards, cos you can see where you’ve been.

I chose one in the middle carriage as it’ll be near the exit of my intended station and prayed that no one sat next to, in front of or adjacent to me. I was in no mood for small talk. And proceeded to bury myself in the morning papers.

Aaaah, what is the world coming to these days.... “Sex Slaves Gang Jailed” screamed the headlines in the free morning paper – the Metro. “Sex slaves sold at Gatwick” – revealed another headline. Young girls as old as 15 and sixteen are being lured from Lithuania with all sorts of promises of fun, excitement and probably the line that London streets are paved with gold.

So, so sad, I thought as the train pulled out of Liverpool Street Station. I hope the four caught will rot in jail...but I bet there are many more, perhaps in hiding, perhaps still running their despicable trade under a different guise! The door from the adjoining carriage opened and a couple sort of rushed in – the girl, a young lass of perhaps 16 looked around for seats and I prayed she’d give the empty seat next to me a miss. The gentleman behind her – no, I wouldnt call him that – he had this roguish look about him – somehow, he didn’t fit in with the early morning commuter crowd. Not like those I was accustomed to seeing these last few mornings, a bit dodgy, I thought, as I returned to the news that I was reading.

“We were promised that we will have a fun time at Halloween,” one girl was quoted as saying, “but as soon as we got here, our passports were taken and we were sold to brothels and pimps. And.....” I didn’t get to finish reading the sentence as I felt my space being invaded...by the young girl who had hundreds of other empty seats to choose but took the one next to me. But there was something about her. Her vulnerability, as she looked around wide eyed, timid even. No – scared is the word.

And...what about the rogue I saw behind her? I thought they were together but there was a certain hesitancy before he took the seat three rows away, facing us, his eyes never leaving the girl, I thought.

As the girl plumped herself beside me, I caught a whiff of her perfume. Hmmm, a bit too early for perfumes as expensive as this, I thought and I became suddenly self conscious of the scent that was coming from me. Its the minyak gamat balm that I had lavishly rubbed on my hands to ease the old joints in the winter cold. Instinctively, I pulled out my gloves and put them on.

But the strong whiff of gamat balm was still getting to my head though it worked wonders on my joints.

The young girl, still under the scrutiny of the rogue, which I now assumed was Lithuanian – from the Baltic region, anyway, was applying her bright red lipstick to those bee stung lips. The guy in pin striped suit adjacent to us looked up from his laptop and I thought - that’s not a look, its a leer, an ogle! And did he just licked his lips, those very lips that he kissed his wife goodbye with???? How dare he!

Aha!!!! I get it now! My eyes were darting from rogue man to young bee stung lip girl to randy pandy in pin stripes! I know why she sat next to me...she felt safe. May be she missed her momma back in Lithuania ( or perhaps her grandmomma!) and my motherly instincts took the better of me and I stared back hard at rogue man. I have read about things like this before. They ply the morning train to whatever destinations and pick up clients along the way. The pickings from the likes of pin stripe suit man could more than double the highly priced peak time return ticket to Norwich. Hmmm...

My heart was pounding. My coffee went cold and my almond croissant untouched. Having done her lips, young Lithuanian girl, for that was what I was sure she was, slowly lifted one shapely leg and crossed another shapely one, revealing her fish net tights underneath the knee-high leather boots. Gosh, they do get well paid in this business, I thought, making a mental calculation of the miserable hourly rate that I got plying this same route every day for the past two weeks!

From the corner of my eyes, without making it too obvious, I looked into her small mirror as she did her eyelashes, her red moist lips parting as she did so. Pinstriped suited guy had by now forgotten why he switched on his lap top and I swear he was drooling.

Rogue guy looked around uneasily and returned his beady eyes to Marlena – yes, that must be her name. Marlena – or it could be Veronica – names you see on small cards posted on telephone booths around London. He looked more than interested as Marlena or Veronica or whatever flicked her shoulder length hair back revealing long slender neck. I gasped! What was thatttttttttt? What have they done to the poor girl! A big blue, purplish bruise! Oh, how she must have suffered! She must have fought back. The reports did say they were threatened with beatings should they retaliate.

My head was racing and I knew I must act fast. I must save this young girl from anymore dirty paws that’s waiting to maul her. And wipe that lecherous look from your face, pin stripe baldy and go back to your wife and children!

Then suddenly – “Ting Tong! The next destination is Chelmsford. Please ensure that you take all your luggage with you. This train will now stop at Chelmsford”.

Marlena slung her handbag over her shoulders, walked past rogue man and was soon out of my sight even before I could put on my Superwoman cape. Rogue man stood up and walked behind her...aha! At the platform, Marlena flew into the arms of a forty something old woman screaming.......”Mummy! I missed you” and rogue man – (or was he?) sauntered up the overhead bridge and disappeared.

I went back to the newspapers, sipped my cold coffee and made a mental note, never again to use gamat balm. It does things to your tired brain.

As I was munching muruku

I sat on the 0815 going towards East Anglia, feeling very much like Michelin’s grandma trying to feel my feet under those layers and layers of socks. I had rolly-pollied down the platform just minutes before the train pulled away and plonked myself, quite breathlessly, on the seat and I swear I must have bounced up and down a few times much to the amusement of prim proper lady sitting in front of me, trying to concentrate on her John Grisham.

When I had peeled off my coat and jumpers and whatnots and piled them neatly like freshly made laundry on the empty seat next to me, I proceeded to take in the English countryside whizzing past.
The once yellow fields of rapeseeds are now bare, succumbing to the harsh winter that is intruding into autumn like an unwanted guest. The farmer’s cottage looked so calm and peaceful – the only hint of life being the soft, willowing smoke coming out of the chimney. Oh, how I envy the farmer’s wife cuddling up to the farmer under their feather-filled duvet, warmed by the crackling fire from their fireplace.

And how I envy the sheep their thick coat of wool as they stood still, dotting the bare field, as if they are glued by blue tacs to the ground. Oh, how I envy.....stop it, stop it , stop it! I told myself as I furiously munched my muruku, grinding them to a paste and downing them with strong starbucks latte that I had bought at the station.

Alas, at this ungodly hours of the morning, as the temperature dipped further and further, self pity was also fast setting in, especially when thoughts of what I was doing in good old sunny Malaya three weeks ago flashed by like those unsolicited Tourism slide show . Oh what am I doing here? It is cold and wet and gloomy!

“Yes, what are you doing there?” “How long more are you going to be there? “ “When are you all planning to come back and work here?” “ Do you plan to queue up with other OAPs (Age Old Pensioners) for your pensions at the post office?”

Those are the harsh, no nonsence, mind probing questions from friends that came like flashbacks...questions I don’t have answers to. I swear prim proper lady peered from behind her Gucci framed glasses, taking her attention away from Grisham momentarily. Had I been talking out loud to myself? Am I going crazy? I smiled sheepishly and continued munching my muruku courtesy of friend from good old Malaya.

Next month (and I thought I had stopped counting) it’ll be 26 years away from good old Malaya – the Malaya where I can wear my colourful kaftan up and down the streets and eat roti bakar with generous dollops of planta margerine and even more generous spread of kaya, at any time of the day or night. So, it has been 26 years of cold wet and glomy winter and I still can’t get used to sitting on cold toilet seats in the morning, without it giving me a jump start. Twenty six years and I still yearn for mee goreng mamak that never failed to bring tears to my eyes and make me rush to the toilet in five minutes flat – yet I keep on yearning, especially on a cold, gloomy day like this. When the train pulled in at a small station, I half expected a food vendor to come rushing to the window with nasi lemak and beehoon goreng and even kacang kuda rebus. Prim proper lady looked up unamused as if she could read my mind. Dream on, she seemed to say, raising one well plucked eyebrow before turning back to Grisham.

As the train left the platform, it seemed to be going through a wad of cotton wool. Gone were the leafless trees and the bare fields and I was feeling a tad claustrophobic. It was fog! Even prim proper lady seemed a bit ill at ease by this change in scenery. She muttered something under her breath that betrayed her breed and background. I only knew this after watching many repeats of To The Manor Born.


Self pity was rushing in at full speed and I overdosed myself with more muruku as if that would help, but it only brought back memories of that brief but fun evening at a deepavali open house eating chapati and curry to the sound of Selamat Hari Raya by a sittar player. This can only happen in good old Malaya.


The fog lifted but it failed to leave my mind. It was still foggy and muddled up – my mind, that is. Someone cleverly mentioned my life as one being cradled on two cultures. It has made it more muddled, that’s what it has done. And what have I done in my 26 years here? It stocktaking time!


Anyway, the scenery outside the window was becoming more interesting. The little lanes snaking into the woods were white against the dark gloomy background. It was like strokes of white chalk on a painting. The ground was frozen! Even the streams running alongside the tracks were frozen. Luckily I had my layers and layers of jumpers and shawls! Then, like wads of cotton wool, they drifted down gently settling on tree tops and roof tops turning it into fairyland at Christmas time. And as I stepped off the 0815 from King’s Cross, I felt the first snow drop of the season, on my nose.

Confessions of an aunt

My dearest A,

You missed alot of fun during the last raya gathering cos you chose to do some more important (read: boring) things at the UN. So, here’s the story in brief. But I also take this opportunity to slip in a confession or two.

I wont talk about the food. Suffice to say, there were plenty. But we catered - no one bothered to cook and many a times your uncles slipped out and came back with mee goreng Shariff.

You know we have a ritual of taking family photographs, right? This year, two of your cousins fought to sit on my lap and I suffered under a combined weight of 24 stones that very nearly not only broke the chair but also my poor bones. They were Abang Am and Kak Oli – the oldest of your cousins who I used to balance on my lap and spoil them rotten. No, that is not the full story for if they have their own blogs or a say in this entry, I will be arrested by the NSPCC.

So, I will confess and tell the truth and nothing but the truth.

You know that I have a reputation among my siblings, your mum included, one they have viciously circulated among their children in my absence, adding this and that making a mountain out of a mole hill. It also doesn’t help that their children too (you included) have memories so strong of their Mak Teh that they have now passed on to their children. And I think this is so unfair. I now wonder why your younger cousins eyed me suspiciously everytime I approached them with presents. "Beware the one bearing presents", they must have said.

I thank God that our family is such a fertile lot that during my visits home, I would always be greeted by an addition - a newborn niece or nephew and now I even have grand nephews. But the sad thing is that the parents watched me like hawks. They have even formed a protective circle around sleeping babies and this really breaks my heart. Even memories of them doing so bring tears to my eyes as I am never allowed near any of my cuddly wuddly nieces and nephews, whose chubby cheeks I love to pinch and whose tiny toes and fingers I love to bite. Oooooh, and those delicious little ears! I love talking to them and waking them from their deep, peaceful sleep, much to the annoyance of their parents.

I really don’t understand the fuss – babies do go back to sleep, when they are tired. (Or when I am tired). What is a pinch or two? Or a bite and lots of hugs and gomois that usually leave them breathless? It is all done in the name of love and affection of an aunt.

My own children to this day endure my pinch on their less chubby cheeks. They have grown into quite normal adults, none showing any signs of being mentally scarred by what I subjected them to. Don’t you think so too?

Come to think of it, my nieces and nephews have done rather well inspite of or perhaps because of the Mak Teh treatment. I treasure Eena and Wani’s company as we ventured out to KL – they are now my partners in crime. But I must say this, I still have a lot of apprehensions and fear being driven by Kak Di. I fear her little feet couldn’t reach the pedals. But hey! Zhafri – wa caya lu lah! You know, he has grown into quite a hemsem young man! But I wonder why he speaks into his pillows so much! Hish, budak2 muda ni! And I suspect Am and Oli who sat on my laps were just doing so to actually break my bones to get back at me!

But A, I have one heartbreaking story to tell you.

When it suited them, your parents, allowed you to sleep with me. I truly enjoyed changing your nappies and pinching your cheeks – well, both, in the process. But one weekend, I came back from college with mumps. And Olah (your maid), didn’t know any better and allowed you to sleep in my bed. That night, your mum, aided and abetted by your dad, sneeked in and took you away from my side. And I cried myself to sleep and promised that when I have my own children, no one will ever take them away from my side ever again.

Anyway, this trip, I was really delighted to see the youngest addition to the family, Sofea, but she has lost lots of the chubbiness but still delicious enough to be eaten alive. But I wonder what Pak Ajie and Kak Nisa have told her cos she has this defensive gestures whenever I went near her, even when she was asleep. They have even taken to sleeping with their arms protectively around her at night. In the day time, she walked around covering her cheeks when I was near.

Anyway, I was not alone in 'torturing' these little children, you know. Well, Tok doesn’t have Astro and we needed to amuse ourselves. So, we took turns. Don't be fooled by Pak Su's banker look, which hid a real sadist in him. We pretended to hit the mother and gleefully watched her cry. This we did several times. I even have them on video and you can watch on your return. Even Kak Nisa and Pak Ajie joined in with the worst mental torture a child have to endure. It went like this: "Sofea sayang sapa? Mama ke Papa?” If she said Mama, Pak Ajie pretended to cry. When she said Papa, Kak Nisa pretended to cry leaving her so traumatised and confused. And they say I am cruel! But we had such fun. We used to do that to you too.

But I have to confess to one other thing that I did and which to this day I am most shameful to talk about. I hope that when little Hilman grows up, he will find it in his generous heart to forgive me.

You know that Hilman is very much a fan of Siti Nurhaliza. Who isn’t? I happened to have a picture of Siti and me in London. I also happened to have a raya SMS from Dato Lat, which says “Selamat Hari Raya from the three of us: Siti Nurhaliza 0123456789
Mawi: 0198765432 dan yang terglamour, Lat and family (his number). So, overcome by a wicked thought, I told Hilman that I have Siti’s number (fake of course!) and he pestered me to phone Siti, for 4 year old Hilman wanted to propose to her – and warn off Dato K! So, I was in a real fix and had to rope in your dear sister in this sting. I gave her half an hour’s notice to practice being Siti . (Sorry, Siti – Kak Teh minta ampun!)

Much later and after more presterings from a love struck Hilman, I called ‘Siti’ (and this I have on video which will be shown during my confession when Hilman comes of age). Your dear sister, I must say, did pretty well and even agreed to his proposal, much to the surprise of your Bro in law sitting by her side. Hilman, to say the least was beaming! BUT trust your sister not to know any of Siti’s songs – so when he asked her to sing, Jeling Menjeling, she suggested lagu Balik Kampung instead!

Anyway, I sighed a sigh of relief when Hilman went to sleep with a smile on his face, still clutching the photo. I didnt have the heart to pinch him and disturb his dreams.

So, my dearest A, we missed you and to the rest of my nieces and nephews, I am sorry, Mak Teh

In Praise of the Kaftan

To friends and relatives who visited me during raya and found me not in any Raya clothes, please forgive me. I did buy some baju kurungs to get in the raya mood but trying them on in the air conditioned changing rooms just isn't the same as wearing them in the sweltering temperature of Mak's kitchen. So, whenever I had the chance, I’d slipped into those wonderful, cooling and comfortable batik kaftans, ignoring Mak’s repetitive (for she is so repetitive now) questions – “Laaaa, tak mandi lagi?”


What is it about kaftans that makes people think you have not had a bath or ready for bed? I sincerely believe that the Malaysian kaftans is so undervalued and under rated, but of course we are not talking about those mass produced ones. I have quite a few of those, with arm holes that allowed people to see more than the armpits...gross! For some mothers, they find it easy to breastfeed their babies thru the armholes– hahaha! (sorry)

Anyway, I am so delighted to discover some very beautiful new designs of the kaftans that really ought to be seen out in coffee bars or garden parties. So, of course, I bought a few and wore them everywhere. Such an easy concept. Just a big piece of cloth sewn on both sides and a hole for the neck. In fact, if you can get a few of your Mak’s old lacy selendangs, just sew on both sides and you get one fashionable one without having to pay hundreds of RM, for that is what they cost at the shops.

The good thing about kaftans is that they come in one size and can hide a multitude of sins. Of course the danger is that you tend to forget the bulges that you are hiding and become comfortable with that.

Anyway, back in cold gloomy London, I attended a fashion show at the Four Seasons Hotel two days ago and caught up with an old friend, a batik designer Khalid Shamsuddin. I am in awe of Khalid and his designs. Of course, Khalid’s designs and collections are not new in London. His designs made an appearance at this year’s London Fashion Week in the Eric Way Collection and also for Lewre’s shoes. He designed for Jendela Batik when they had a show at The Dorchester.

Khalid’s soft colours and unique designs were such a hit – and I set my eyes on one particular black number with a big butterfly in front. It looked so good on the model. And kidding myself that I’d look good in it too, I parted with whatever RM I had left in my purse and bought it.



Now I will have to wait for a warm summer evening and an invite!

PS I 've had loads of problem putting pictures here. Anyway, the above pictures are just some of Khalid's creations. The black and white kaftan with the big butterfly is now MINEEEEEEE!!

PPS - Thank you for all your comments - very,very interesting read. I have bought some Batik Kaftans for English friends and they were disgusted when I suggested that they wear them to sleep. Bergen, pls blog abt your aunt's business. Ummi, thanks..the softness? Must be my extra tyres. Thinktankgirl - u saw & heard?

I once threatened to wear a beautiful and colourful silk kaftan toa friend's BBQ but my children did a counter threat and refused to come along. One even said, Mama, if you stand in the middle of the road, motorists might mistake you as the traffic light!

For your info, Khalid is known as the Pareo Boy after introducing the Malaysian Pareos to Club Med. He also created the Baju Laut popular among tourists.

Raya with Mak

It was 1610 London time when MH4 landed at Heathrow yesterday. While waiting for the doors to open, memories of the last two carefree weeks came flooding back. Two weeks of being spoilt and dare I say- two weeks of being a spoilt brat – and enjoying it! So now its back to the harsh realities of being a mum, a wife and as I write this, at 0430 (jet lagged!) I have just under three hours to rest before my first assignment – a breakfast meeting with a Minister! And I can bet you, I will be dozing off by 5 pm and hopefully someone will wake me up for another assignment at 1930 at Four Seasons. No rest for the wicked.

The harsher reality is the weather PLUS the realisation that my coat is still not at the cleaners.

Will I sound irresponsible if I say I had really enjoyed my two weeks away from my husband and children? Throughout the time I was doing my studies, my Mak fell, injured her head, was ill several times. But I pushed aside all negative thoughts and soldiered on with my studies. I ignored blogs with entries on Mothers. I was in denial but I silently prayed that Allah gives me this chance to be with her during Hari Raya. When I prayed alongside with her the morning of Hari Raya, I thanked God, that I was back home on that special day with Mak. Alhamdulillah, I can say that the first part of the holiday, I was with her and my siblings all the time. When Abang came back from the Middle East, Mak couldn’t stop smiling. She was chirpy and active. All her children were with her in the house that Pak built for Mak and she watched us up to our mischiefs. We were her little children, arguing, bantering and teasing each other, and at other times, we were mothering her – telling her off for walking miles in her own home that she has left for the past six months or so, brushing this and sweeping that. We humoured her and played along when she talked about staying back in the house and not wanting to move back to KL. We conspired with other relatives against her and psyched her up for the trip back...and she played along too, knowing deep down, she has no choice anymore.

In a way, it is sad. She was THE strength for not just us her children, but also for all her siblings and other relatives. The house that Pak built used to be the centre for relatives to get together. The kitchen was always full of relatives sitting around eating and eating and talking about old times. We’d move from the kitchen to the hall and back and still had plenty to talk about. And Mak would feed all of us endlessly.

Now, she has been reduced to a nomad, moving from one child’s house to another, carrying her small bag of necessities. With all the love she has around her, she is frustrated that she is now incapable of doing things for herself, that she has to depend on other people.

Everyday while we were at the family home, she woke up with this smile on her face and padded to the front room to see her new table. Ajie had bought it for Raya. And Nisa bought a table runner that pleased her enormously. She didnt want a table cloth as she wanted to see the polished wood. The table first became her excuse to stay back. Then, one day before the trip back to KL, she feigned illness. We played along and later we overheard her chat with the neighbour – she admitted, she no longer has any say – she goes where ever we take her.

In the middle of the nights when we were there, she did her rounds in that big lounge that has become our communal bedroom. I was reduced to tears when she came over and covered me with the thin blanket that had slipped away. Once, I woke up to see her stroking Ajie’s hair forgetting that Ajie is already a father of five! Earlier, against all protestations, she slowly pulled a mattress and some blankets to one corner of the lounge. “Ni untuk Abang” she said, refering to the beddings. Yes, Abang has no one to care for him now that Kak Piah is gone and Mak knew that she needs to mother him again. In a way since Kak Piah’s passing, she has found it in her to be strong for Abang.

Last week we brought her back to KL and on day one, she was down. She didnt want to leave the house that Pak built for her and her orchids and her plants that she loves so much. So, we put plan 2 into action. Lilah brought over Ajie’s small children to be around her. Lilah did her chores walking past her every few minutes to show that there are people around her. I was, of course, out shopping and meeting friends. She’d ask after me, but she is also resigned to the fact that I need to be with a group of childhood friends whenever I am back. She knows that when I am with them, I would either come back at 3 am or not at all. She allows this irresponsible child in me and perhaps also realised it is too late to change me. Well, at my age I can’t be up to much mischief now, can I? Or, can I?

On the last night, I slept with her and watched her sleep. She is so small and frail but she still has so much love that has touched so many. She has given so much and expects so little in return.

So, last raya, the house that Pak built for Mak was full of fun and laughter again and that should keep Mak happy for a while. When I left yesterday, Mak at 88 was a picture of health. As she hugged and kissed me, she whispered “Jangan lupa Mak”.

The Captain’s announcement brought me back to reality and as I pushed my bag out, I called Taufiq’s mobile phone. My husband answered and said he was still at home. I was a little disappointed but we did agree to meet in Paddington instead of Heathrow. But once outside, I saw a familiar figure trying to hide behind a pillar! He was up to his old tricks again! And there was Taufiq trying to suppress his laughter seeing his father acting like a teenager!

Aaaah, we do need to let the child in us out once in a while and I certainly did during my 2 weeks home with Mak. Now, I am ready to be a Mak again. And hopefully a better one!