Of being Brued and Jeffooied etc

Before I could sufficiently recover from being Rockybrued, I was Jeffooied (to borrow a phrase from Sharon Bakar) left, right and centre during the past few days causing an unprecedented surge in the graphs never seen before in my webstat. I have had a busy week but late one night, I sat before my pc mesmerised by the increasing number of people online. I can asssure you, the experience was not unlike watching the washing machine in action. It was... , er, mesmerising, as I stared at the number of guests online in MY blog, going from 24 to 36 to 44 and 55! I even checked to see whether I was in the right blog and not one belonging to Mak Andeh or BTB or someone equally famous. But no, it is Choc-a-Blog and my tired eyes were not playing tricks.

I then had the presence of mind to check webstat. On 14th November, there were about 1,300 visitors lurking in my archives, all being redirected from Jeff Ooi.com. To what do I owe this honour? I clicked on all his links and finally found one that says, Lat’s story – and that was where the visitors were coming from. The next morning, before I could even wash my face, there were already 60 visitors and the figure went well over 2,000 by the end of the day. Phew! talk about the 15 minute of fame...I had two whole days and I just couldn’t cope with it. I am now quite relieved to see the normal five or at the most seven, (half of which must be my siblings) pottering around in my archives.

So, what have I been up to these past few days? Quite a lot I must say. I sacrificed my Eastenders omnibus edition and X-Factor to join thousands of people at Westminster for Remembrance Sunday. It was a very emotional affair, especially watching old war veterans in their wheelchairs, with their walking sticks, marching past the cenotaph with its millions of red poppy flowers making a stark contrast to the dull and grey autumn morning. Then there were the war widows, walking proudly in memory of their husbands who never returned. I saw one old war veteran, with medals on his beret, flashing an old sepia photograph from his wartime days to anyone who cared to look, and telling wartime stories to anyone who cared to listen.

The last time I attended Remembrance Sunday was in 1995 at the Royal Albert Hall when it was the 50th anniversary of the Second World War. I attended the ceremony then for the same reason I attended the ceremony this year. Each year, a Malay ex British army veteran joins in the march. In 1995, Pak Mat Abu, now 66, was given the honour to carry the Malaysian flag as the British government honoured the Commonwealth countries for their contribution during the Second World War.

Lest we forget

Last Sunday, I caught up with Pak Mat Abu again after the parade and spotted him wearing his newly acquired medal – the Pingat Jasa Malaysia, given to those, especially in the British army and the police force, who served during the emergency.

Pak Mat was 15 when he signed up with the British Royal Artillery and served in several units in Singapore before they closed down the base. He didn’t see any action but was involved in digging trenches during the emergency.

Although he came to London in 1971 with the intention of joining up again, he resigned from the British army and went on to work with London Transport, first as a guard and later as a tube driver on the Bakerloo Line. He later drove the number 52 bus. I have known Pak Mat for a long time and he has been a source of information in my search for stories about the old Malay sailors.(here, here and here)

A few days ago, I attended another ceremony at the Guildhall in east London– a ceremony steeped in tradition dating from 1237. I was there again to witness another friend being given the Freedom of the City of London. What an honour and it came just a day before his birthday too! The first Malaysian to be given the Honorary Freedom of the City was our first Prime Minister, Almarhum Tunku Abdul Rahman Putra AlHaj in 1968. The second who was nominated and made Freeman of the city was the present sultan of Selangor. And now the third is someone who had done a lot to contribute to the fashion industry, making women feel beautiful in his creation, inspiring not only films, books but also songs, not to mention others who want to be in his choos, er shoes, following his footsteps. I have been to almost all ceremonies where he was given awards and recognitions, like the OBE, the honorary doctorate at a university and it never failed to make my eyes water. Such a beautiful, kind and humble person and I feel truly honoured to be his friend and to be able to share most of his important moments with him and his family.

Just a little something abt the Freedom of the City. In the olden days, recipients of this title were allowed to drive their flock of sheep across the London Bridge and they could go on a drinking spree and behave in a disorderly manner without fear of being arrested.

I have just come back from a meeting with blogger arena and what a wonderful meeting it was. Like the war veterans, I suddenly feel old.

So, yes, it has been an exhausting week, but I think I still have enough energy for Dirty Dancing this weekend!

Our doas for a quick recovery

We have always jokingly said that he will be alright because he has a doctor with him all the time. She takes care of him night and day. During trips abroad, the group of journalists covering him always had a tough time catching up with him. Sometimes he prefered to walk if one event was close to the next, and who are we to say differently, so we walked. When we arrived, he was fit and ready to start while we huffed and puffed, still searching for our note books.

Once in Budapest, it was a five day official visit and the schedule was packed and we groaned. At a press conference, at the end of a very long day, he took one look at us who looked like we had just covered wartorn Iraq and said, “Aren’t you all tired following me around?” and a very brave Datuk Khalid Mohamed of Utusan said, “Kalau perdana menteri tak penat mana kita boleh penat!”.

Then there was this time in Paris. We had earlier met him in London then rushed to Paris and waited outside the Palais de l’Elysée for a whole hour in the freezing cold while he had talks with Jacque Chirac. Our toes couldn’t feel anything anymore because of the cold and by the time we caught hold of him at his hotel, our jaws were still at different stages of defrosting and none of us could say anything. So he said, “You could have waited for me in Norwich!” which we did of course because he went on to inspect the Lotus factory .

I remember one occassion. He had just flown in from Argentina and there were rumours that he had fallen off a horse. There was already a crowd outside the place he was staying near Hyde Park Gate. I got to him late but he waited for me where we had a one to one interview and I think that was the best ever I had had with him since my first one to one with him in Vienna (which was a complete disaster!) He sat there looking suitably pink and healthy for a man his age. I sat there and silently cursed all the other journalists who had left me to face this great man alone. So I said, “ It looks like you can never leave the country. Everytime you do people start rumours about your health and the stock market plunged,”

He gave the most hearty laugh and I was told later that that opening, with his laughter and apparent good health restored confidence again in the market. It also restored my confidence in myself. Yonks ago when I had to interview him for the BBC, I was a naive, young broadcaster who was assigned to cover his two week long conference in Vienna. I was supplied a tape recorder that I was unfamiliar with and I found myself face to face with a man who was not only suffering from a slight cold but also showing signs of roti canai withdrawal symptoms. His two word answers and stern, frosty look was worst than that cold outside Palais de l’Elysée. My interview went out muffled, the tone was low. But he looked after us. Two weeks away from home is the maximum for us. By then we would have finished our supply of rendangs and maggi mee and would have been in various stages of wilting due to lack of Malaysian food. But he was our saviour. The last few days we found an Indonesian restaurant that had on offer sambal tumis udang petai! The great man booked the restaurant that night for all of us and we stuffed our face shamelessly.

Now, I hear he is unwell after suffering from a mild heart attack. He still has his loving and devoted doctor wife by his side but clearly Doc, it is a sign for you to slow down too. Our doas are with you. Have a quick recovery.

The Raya that was

The precious few pieces of ketupat that I had at a friend’s house is now no more than a fond memory that lingers torturously during my waking hours. I have conquered the fear of making jam tarts, the success of which is evident in the empty airtight container that I bought just for that purpose. Now, with renewed confidence, I feel brave enough to try making pulut for ketupat and for that I may need to go for meditation for a whole forty-four days and emerge when the moon is full and the air is serene. Such is the effect of that ketupat that my life will never be the same again.

I had a raya with a difference this year and I say so with a certain pride. Afterall, I made jam tarts and biskut almond London when throughout my 26 years of marriage I had never ever attempted such feat. I surfed the internet and found several recipes for biskut almond london and copied two – one on each side of an envelope which had earlier delivered a hari raya card from Malaysia. What a mistake! With such a rush of adrenalin, I soon got confused as to which recipe I was following – the one on the front of the envelope or the one on the back? But as it was Ramadan, my patience was in tact and as if on cue, I heard my Mak’s reassuring voice in the background: Kita yang buat dia – apa kita buat jadi lah!” Such wise words in such desperate moments.

It was also a raya with a difference for on the last night of Ramadan, we all gathered in our front room and did the takbir together. Tell me, how would a mother feel, hearing for the first time the voice of your just adolescent son, doing the takbir? His voice, at times breaking, at times nervous, alternated with that of his father, whose voice was still coarse as a result of a month long cold and cough. This mother felt very proud indeed and for the solat raya, which we had at Mawar, he did a repeat performance and sounded more confident.

It was raya with a difference because there was about fifty percent less tension in the morning as we all rushed for the bathroom. I had ironed everyone’s clothes, found the buttons and the pins and the keronsang and left my Jubbah till the last minute to hem it in. Which was another big mistake of course, because I couldn’t find any thread nor needle. My youngest found one of those things that you iron in and was supposed to stick and stay in place. Big mistake again because the hem came undone as we were about to go harirayaing. So in the front room of a friend’s house, daughter number one sat demurely, needle and thread in hand and hemmed in my hem. Ehem, ehem.

We are not much of a house hopper during hari raya so we stayed on at this friend’s place until there was only standing room. It was nice to see the younger ones – my children’s generation – getting together in their hari raya fineries. I had bought the girls new kebayas and sarungs but year afteryear, theyinsisted on wearing my old kebayas that had seen better days.Rehana wore my kerawanged kebaya top that I wore during my graduation at ITM in 1978, with batik panjang lipat which once belonged to her Cik Su. Nona wore Kak’s green kota baru which was handed down to me, then to rehana and then to her. With that she wore a matching kain ketat that I had made when my waist was as slim as my wrist. Those were the days. Yes, the children – now all grown ups and some still in university and some working – had all grown up together in this land they now called home. Watching them in that living room, we the parents suddenly feel so old.

It is raya with a difference too as I discovered http://www.reciva.com/ . And my days and nights are suddenly filled with lagu permintaan raya from Klasik National, kenangan menggamit memori, says the jingle. Thank you RTM 1 for making me feel so at home away from home. I heard Datuk DJ Dave with his Maafkanlaaaah, maafkan laah...and Datin Rafeah Buang with her lagu hari raya and was transported back home to my Mak’s kitchen where I knew the clans were gathering.

Yes, the clans, minus a few, went back to Mak’s place that Pak built. Like I said, Mak insisted on going back first. And I understand her reason. She wanted to be there in her own house, and be the first to welcome her children as there arrive one by one. No one can deny her that pleasure even though her heart broke when she discovered that the roof in the kitchen leaked like a sieve. According to sister number three, pots and pans were more useful to contain the water from the heavy rain, than for cooking. But Mak was in her elements, I was told, sometimes forgetting that she was fasting, offering to make drinks for those who fasted, and even asking everyone to go out for lunch – during the last few days of Ramadan. It doesn’t matter Mak, you have done enough in your life – what is a few days when your memory took leave. Allah understands. And Pak understands that you didn’t even think about visiting his grave. You didn’t forget – it is just that your brain cells are acting a bit funny. Pak understands.

It was raya with a difference because I didn’t cry on the first day of raya. I didn’t even cry when i spoke to mak on the phone even though our conversation was like one badly written script. She answered what I didnt ask and asked what I couldn't answer. But I did cry when I received some raya photos from home.

Memories of Pak this Ramadan

Everyone is talking about it. In fact some blogs, they have links to it. I have seen it, minus the sound because there is something wrong with my speaker. But even without the sound and the conversation, the message came loud and clear through the actions - and I had to stop watching it as my vision was getting a bit blurred for the tears that came trickling fast. Yes, living with an ageing person is not the easiest thing to do. The one person who used to be strong and dependable, is suddenly a child that you need to look after with tantrums and behaviour that test your patience and iman. This is certainly not a new topic here nor in other blogs.

[Iklan raya by Petronas]

The thought provoking conscience pricking video clip certainly brought back memories of life with my own father the last few years before he left us. Pak was an easy going person who gave in to the demands of his children. We were thoroughly spoilt. He would do the chores that Mak assigned us while he signalled that we leave the kitchen and go back to our books. He checked our grammar and tenses in our letters to him when we were away and saw to it that our favourite food remained on the table during our home coming. But to our young minds – that was never enough because Pak never took us to the cinema nor to the parks. But he waited up for us when we went to late night parties, and waited with us when we watched horror movies at night. He came into our rooms regularly to check that our blankets didn’t slip away onto to the burning mosquito coil. He told and retold to us stories of what he did during the Japanese occupation. All that he did.

Pak’s geniality slowly began to ebb. I was away during my adult years but coming home during the breaks, I noticed his impatience, his quiet anger that was unexplained. Sitting around the table during the meals was never easy. We never touched the food until he did. That was the rule. We didn’t talk unnecessarily. He never scattered his food like the father in the video clip, but he made unnecessary noise that was a bit irritating. For someone who reminded us time and time again never to talk with our mouth full and to eat quietly, this was a bit unnerving. Mak would sit quietly pushing her food on her plate.

Sometimes, he would sit in his favourite chair near the pillar facing the roadside. Pak never left the house because of the injuries he had during an accident. So that chair facing the door was his window to the outside world. He’d beckon the mamak mee goreng, the budak kueh from there. Even the peminta sedekah who came a knocking would come in and share his food.

He’d sit there and entertain his own thoughts. What he thought about appeared in a conversation, which to us, was with no one in particular. We knew Pak was losing it. But we didn’t admit it.

He took to sleeping in the single bedroom upstairs, where he stored everything – fruits that had gone rotten, rambutans that had gone black. In his pockets were our birth certificates that went into pieces at a touch, and many other bits and pieces that must have been there for years. In his books near his bedside, to our delight, were some crisp notes. It was while he was in this room entertaining his thoughts that we saw the great change in him. If we were washing up and if there was any noise at all, he’d appear at the top of the stairs and bellow at us. He thought we were angry with him. Any exaggerated actions, noise were translated as anger directed towards him. We never replied back, we never showed our anger but we were sad because sometimes we didn’t recognise this father who used to be so loving. We didn’t understand that old age for him was taking a different course.

But if anything, I am thankful that it was only those little things that made him different and we still remember him fondly as the one who told jokes about the Japanese, the one who made up children’s stories and songs and the one who let us off the hook when Mak showed her claws.

For we were fortunate he didn’t go wandering around the neighbourhood without a stitch on his body, like an old uncle of ours. Unlike another uncle who didn’t recognise his children, Pak on his death bed was still discussing the course I was taking at college.

This Ramadan, like other Ramadans, I remember Pak. When I watch the way my husband wake the children up for Sahur, I see my Pak in him. How he would repeatedly and patiently wake them up, just like Pak woke us up. And yes, the last Ramadan with Pak, he could still organise the Itik golek, the way he liked it. Our rayas are never without the itik golek the way he liked it.

Let us look after our parents for, among other things, we never know how we would be when we get to that age.

PS I watched this iklan raya clip again with the sound on at work and I just couldn't stop my tears. "Aku ingin Pulang", says the song in the background. And I remember my Mak as she flew home yesterday to her own home in Alor Star.

Of buah ulu (bahulu) and such likes

Why Mak insisted on keeping the geese I never understood. They were noisy, they left their droppings everywhere in the back yard and worst of all, they were vicious! I was sitting on the doorsteps, minding my own business when out of nowhere, one of these creatures made a beeline with its outstretched long neck and aimed for my tushy!!! It was painful!

Picture from www.rezvoy.com

But I guess, geese have their functions.They make a hell of a noise should intruders enter the compound in the middle of the night. And come raya time, their eggs were most sought after.

So, whose job was it to go searching for their eggs? Being shoved into the geese pen was not unlike being thrown into a hungry tiger’s cage. I had to keep looking back in case the attack came from the back while I wasn’t looking. After collecting the precious eggs, just like Jack in the Beanstalk story, I scrambled back into the house, hopefully with my tushy intact!

With the prized eggs, Mak made kueh buah ulu. And what a preparation it was to make buah ulu! (or is it bahulu? baulu?) Mak fried the flour first and then in one big tub we took turns to whisk the eggs and sugar. And before the days of blenders and magimix, it took the entire household to whisk the mixture before it was ready. I was told that some people would use the 'penyapu lidi' for that purpose. A clean one, of course. Then, be ready for the tearful bit of the cooking process. The mixture was poured into the moulds – some simple small, round or oval ones, some big gold fish ones – before putting in a big pot on a charcoal stove, preferably outside. The lid was filled with hot sand or burning coconut husks. That’s the conventional oven! Neighbours all around you would know that you have embarked on the buah ulu making mission, with the smoke going sky high.

Mak in her present condition, is always forgetful. But a few days ago, I received an SMS from my sis in law telling me that Mak suddenly said – “Kueh raya kat Kak Teh tak hantark lagi?” Hmm, that's another tearful bit.

Well, tell her anything, tell her a lie that I do have kueh rayas but never tell her that Kak Teh is making her own kueh raya because, even in her present state of mind, she will never believe that.

With just a few days to go, and not one buah ulu in sight, I suddenly thought of making some kueh raya. In my 26 years away, I have never attempted any. Kueh rayas came from Pasar Seni – mainly jam tarts and biskut suji. The rest I can live without. Now with the customs at Heathrow getting fussier with foods from our part of the world, I have resorted to ordering from friends, looking up recipes on the internet and I even consulted Mak Andeh, who like me did her baking only in Domestic Science classes yonks ago.

This week will be a real test – if i manage to make some jam tarts or biskut badam London – that will be my achievement this century.

To those of you still whipping out delights from your oven, “Bila makan tu, ingatlah Kak Teh di London!”

err anyone can put me out of my misery - buah ulu, baulu, bahulu?

One Iftar, one Ramadan

I never forget a face.

The young girl who came out of the surau and gave me a cheerful salam looked so familiar that for a while I was somewhat distracted from performing my asar prayers. She had that sweet and engaging smile. But something was missing from that smile, something that could be the clue that I needed to pinpoint her identity.

I forgot about her briefly as I rushed to the refectory for iftar but as I was queuing for my date, I was greeted by the same familiar smile. And from that moment and before the call for maghrib, I wrecked my brain trying to put the face to a name. Usually I am very good with names. I have a knack for recognising voices, faces and mannerisms. This one mysterious smile defied me and I needed to find a way to ask her without being so obvious.

I remember the time when I was queuing up for my registration at the university, and was drawing imaginary motifs with my foot when I noticed a pair of fine slender legs firmly planted in a pair of shoes most students can’t afford to buy. I followed those legs right up to her face and almost immediately, I was able to place the famous face, which usually graced the gossip columns of tabloids and Hello magazine on account of being the estranged wife of a certain party leader and then gf of a certain dashing film star. But I had to be sure. The only way to do it was to start a conversation.

Feigning ignorance, I asked her whether we were in the right queue. She had a very posh accent and that nearly confirmed my suspicion. She said, “Yes, if you are a returning student, we are in the right queue.” I proceeded to introduce myself and she said, “I’m Jem*m*” and I continued looking as blur as sotong, as some would say, discussing the courses we were taking, in spite of the fact that the people at the registration desk were nudging each other, passing notes and eyeing her from top to bottom.

I could try that trick again with this mysterious girl but I had to act fast and direct. So I said, “You look familiar,” to which she replied with a question,”Are you from Malaysia, because my mother is from Malaysia.” Now, that offer of information was all I needed. But I continued and said “I am so and so” to which she replied, I am F”.

It could have been the effect of fasting, and it could have been the date, but I looked straight into her eyes and said, “No, you are not F, you are S,” The sweet smile still lingered at the corner of her mouth as she insisted that she was F. I stood my grounds and insisted that she was S. My children would have strangled me with their bare hands if they were around to witness such display of audacity. Finally her face fell and she said, “Alright, I am S”.

And with that we performed our maghrib, during which I thanked God that I had at last found her. I had known this sweet young girl since she was 12. We had both changed. I was of course very much older. She had grown to be a very beautiful young lady. We had both donned the hijab since we last saw each other.

She wouldn't have guessed I'd be back at university. She only knew me as a hack hounding for news of her whereabouts. And I would never have guessed that she'd come to my uni to do another degree. She didnt need it, or so I thought.

S was catapulted to fame because she was a gifted child who was accepted by Oxford Uni at an age when most children were still giggly and silly. She didn’t invite publicity but the press, including me, were at her doorsteps all the time. I spent a day with the unusually gifted family and came home and appreciated my children even more because at 12 they still had their childhood. S on the other hand didn’t have any friends except for children older than her that she tutored in Maths or those she played tennis with. She didn’t know any pop stars or pop groups and didnt play with pokemon. Even at uni, she couldn’t really adjust with life at campus, she couldn’t go to students gig or do’s like the rest of the students who were older than her. She was chaperoned everywhere.

Anyway, during her uni years, we left her alone at the request of the university but as if meticulously planned, after her final papers she disappeared and hit the headlines again. We were back on her doorsteps searching for answers for her disappearance. I even wrote her several emails to no avail. She only replied to the Daily Mail exposing a family drama no one suspected before. She explained her reasons for leaving in a manner so uncharacteristic of an obedient and faithful child. But the year she stayed away, she rediscovered her childhood, she discovered friends and she found love.

I remember my meeting with S that fateful day in Ramadan two years ago, as I broke my fast at the uni again today. It was a very matured and confident S who I met on the way to the surau that day. One who had chosen to go back and reclaim her childhood. It was that confident smile that threw me off my tracks.

You see, I never forget a face.

The crying has stopped. For now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, the crying has stopped. For now.

Fussing over fasting

“It’s only a few more hours. Be patient,” I said, hearing Mak’s exact voice and words cajoling me to carry on fasting. Our third had been whining about her sore throat and Daddy has given up with sweet talk and handed over the job of dealing with the half alive creature on the sofa, for me to handle.

“Okay, let’s go shopping, and you can get anything you want”, said I trying the retail therapy approach that I heard so much about. I saw a flicker of interest and some signs of life. An hour later we were making our way to China Town following our hearts’ desire to buy everything and anything edible in China Town, from Coconut juice to fresh yellow noodles and belacan and all kinds of Oriental products. With whatever energy left in us, we dragged the over loaded shopping trolley to Soho in search of fresh fruits and vegetables as they are known to go quite cheap at that time of the day. Soho, during the day is quite respectable. The fruit and vegetable market cammouflages the more seedy business that comes to life as darkness falls. The surau that sits snugly between shops of dubious nature advertising anything from Oriental massage to promises of full fledge whipping, was full of activities as people went in for asar prayers. Its a strange little place, this Soho.

I got my fruits for the day and was about to make our way to Selfridges for fish, when I saw a fish stall selling mackerals at a quarter of what Selfridges would have charged us. The reason I had always bought fish from Selfridges was because of the guaranteed freshness. I am not a great fish eater but a fussy one. But while there I planned to buy some krispy krim doughnuts and child number three can also do her retail therapy there. But as it happens, we were too tired to carry on. So it was five whole mackerals from the cute little stall at the top of Berwick Street and Nona had to make do with two novels, one by Maya Angelou and the other by Zadie Smith. That should keep her quiet for a few more days.

I had plans for those unsuspecting mackerals. Since the start of Ramadan it had been lamb curry, lamb kicap, chicken sambal but no fish. So I had plans for those mackerals and disturbing visions of Ubi setela's creation for her berbuka loomed large before my eyes. Yes, it has got to be Ikan belah belakang sumbat sambal – and I am sure it has a more glamorous name than that. Sambal belacan features prominently of course as I have at last stock up on belacan. And the sotong will do just fine, swimming merrily in the sambal tumis amongst bits and pieces of petai that used to be contraband goods in our household. Now, we are told it has medicinal qualities, so stinking breath not withstanding, the sotong sambal will be with petai.

Among the crowded shelves in one of the shops in China Town, I found a gem of an item and even as I slipped it into my shopping basket, I drooled shamelessly into my sleeves. It was one of those soft (smelly) ikan kering and properly fried with slices of onions and chillies, it can certainly stand on its own with steaming hot rice. That should complete the menu and all I needed now is the look of approval around the table.

Actually, cooking for my lot is not difficult. Take hubby for instance. Nak makan apa? Apa-apalah ( as in nak pi mana? mana-manalah!). And even if you slaved over the stove for two hours or two minutes, the reaction would be the same. Hmmm sedap! Anyway, all the above didn’t materialise until last night because I was too tired after lugging all those foodstuff halfway across London. So we made do with mee hailam (hmmm sedap!) and Nona tried her culinary skills at toasted bagels with soft cream cheese and smoked salmon. What a weird combination. But there you are. I never promised that we are a normal family.

Tonight will be my first berbuka night out as I dine with fellow bloggers Pu1pu3 and ewok at Holiday Villa. The buffet menu is just fantastic and at £16.00 per person – it should be. But I will just have to nibble because at 8.30 there’s a proper dinner invitation at the same venue. Kak Teh will have to try her level best and behave as the guest of honour is a former Agong. Watch this space!

UPDATE: Well, I was such a glutton tahap maksima. For berbuka I had two helpings of crab sambal and was well into the next course of nasi ayam when I was reminded thatI had another dinner at 8.30.
At the proper dinner - true enough I couldnt let anything in anymore - not the scallops, not the satay nor the nasi goreng kampung. BUT I couldnt resist the lobsters. Sorry tak boleh ambik gambar - sebab nanti nampak tak senonoh sangat, kan?

Cerita ceriti bulan puasa

Jam pada handphone menunjukkan pukul lapan apabila Kak Teh terima sms daripada anak bongsu ‘Ramadan starts 2moro”. Alahai, Kak Teh masih dalam studio dan akan sampai rumah paling awal jam sepuluh malam. Manalah sempat nak beli itu ini nak isikan freezer. Nasib baik bawang, cili kering semuanya Kak Teh dah blend simpan siap dalam peti sejuk sebab senang kalau nak masak nanti.

Sampai rumah, anak-anak semua dah berjemaah di belakang bapa mereka, berbilalkan yang bongsu, bersolat Terawih. Kak Teh terus buatkan bubur lambuk atau kanji, yang sememangnya wajib untuk keluarga ini dalam bulan puasa. Bubur tu jugalah yang kami makan untuk sahur. Alhamdulillah tak ada yang cerewet.

Dua tiga bulan dulu, sedang lepak-lepak depan TV tak ada kerja, Kak Teh mula bercerita kosonglah dengan budak-budak. Teringat masa kecik-kecik dulu berpuasa. Orang tua-tua puasa kita pun nak puasa. Sahur, kita yang dulu-dulu bangun menyibuk di dapur. Makan sampai dua tiga kali tambah – Masyaallah! Tapi tak sempat tengah hari perut dah buat hal, tekak dah kering. Sekejap-sekejap pergi kumur mulut nak basahkan tekak. Kononnya kumur mulut, tapi dua tiga tegak minum air. Balik ke dapur buat muka letih lagi!

“Mama! How could you!”

“That’s terrible!”

Itulah yang dilemparkan pada Kak Teh semasa anak-anak dengar cerita Kak Teh masa kecik-kecik dulu. Ya lah, kita kecik kan. Kata seorang anak Kak Teh, “We never did that Mama, even when we were small! You’re terrible!” Kena lagi!

Lepas tu pulak, orang tua-tua nak solat terawih, kita pun nak ikut sama. Bukannya untuk apa tapi sebab ada janji bubur lambuk atau kanji yang memang menjadi kesukaan Kak Teh dari kecik lagi. Masa kecik tu, masa ikut solat orang tua-tua dari belakang, kita cuma mampu kumat kumit mulut. Yang lebih kecik dari kita, cuba tiru kita jugak..kumat kumit mulut. Yang budak-budak lelaki lagi teruk. Depa cerita, kalau depa tau ada orang dok ikut depa solat –sengaja pula depa buat sudden movement . Nakal betul!

Tapi anak-anak sekarang memang mula belajar awal, ada minat lebih awal. Baguslah.

Semasa Kak teh berpindah ke rumah sekarang ini ada juga sebuah keluarga Melayu yang tinggal tak berapa jauh dari sini. Kami mula berkenalan dan anak gadisnya lebih tua sikit daripada anak-anak Kak Teh. Datang bulan Ramadan, lebih kerap dia di rumah Kak Teh. Rupa-rupanya nak kongsi puasa bulan puasa sebab tak ada siapapun di rumahnya yang puasa. Dia terpaksalah bangun sahur dan siap makanan sendiri sebab tak ada yang mau melayan. Entah ke mana dia sekarang ni, Kak Teh pun tak tau dan harap-harap, dia masih berpuasa. Kesian juga teringatkan anak gadis yang berpuasa dan berbuka sendiri.

Di satu tempat kerja kak teh pulak, ada seorang kawan dari Syria. Dia mula-mula kagum kerana kita boleh bertahan puasa di sini. Katanya banyak cabaran – kena datang kerja, kena jawab telefon, melayan orang. Aiikkkk? Orang di negara kita pergi ke ladang, sawah, ke laut tangkap ikan – tapi bulan puasa, kita puasa jugak, kan? Tapi tak apalah, lama-kelamaan, dalam masa dua tiga tahun Kak Teh kenal dia, dia dah mula puasa. Alhamdulillah.

Dua tiga hari ni fikiran melayang pulak kepada Mak di Malaysia. Masa bulan puasalah dia melayan sungguh kerenah anak-anak. Nak makan apa semuanya dia buat. Sekarang ni Mak cuma dok merajuk di rumah adik, sebab tak ada orang yang nak bawa dia balik ke rumah dia sendiri. Bulan puasa dia nak puasa di rumah sendiri. Tapi dia tak boleh dok sendiri lagi. Jatuh tengah malam sapa nak tau? Jadi adik, kakak yang dengar rungutan dia nak balik tu buat diam saja. Tunggu raya – semua akan balik ke rumah Mak yang Pak buat untuk dia dulu tu. Yang dia kata Pak tak bagi dia tinggal kosong saja.

Alahai Mak, kalau Kak Teh tak perlu kerja dah banyak duit dalam bank, dah tak payah terkejar sana sini, Kak Teh balik jaga Mak di rumah Pak buat untuk Mak tu. Tahun ni pulak T nak periksa penting. Jadi hati tu terbelah bagi.

Cakap pasal Taufiq, dia balik dari sekolah bawa berita gembira. Dua orang kawan dia yang ikut dia ke mesjid untuk solat zuhur selepas sekolah, mengucap syahadah dengan dia sebagai saksi. Mereka sudah lama tertarik dengan agama kita dan mereka mau menyambut Ramadan sebagai saudara baru. Alhamdulillah.

Pada hari pertama bulan yang mulia ini, Kak Teh teringat pula seorang lelaki tua yang baru ditinggalkan isterinya. Tahun ini dia bersahurdan berbuka sendiri..tiada isterinya yang selalu melayan apa yang dia nak makan. Kesian.

Kak Teh nak ke dapur untuk masak. Lagi dua jam, kami akan berbuka..entah berapa ramai yang sempat pulang berbuka bersama..

Selamat menyambut Ramadan kepada semua yang sudi datang bekunjung ke blog Kak Teh!

Unknotting knots, Nang Nak and a week of literature and high fashion

It was just as well that I had prepared myself physically and mentally for the past few gruelling days or else I’d be a total wreck by now. A long overdue promise to pamper myself saw me suitable berkembaned in a batik sarung in a sauna for half an hour. That was followed by some initially gentle kneading on my much abused back and shoulders that I nearly fell asleep. The Thai masseuse sure knew how to use every part of her limbs to untangle my ‘knots’. It was all thumbs, fingers, knuckles and even elbows and knees.

My first Thai massage experience was last year in Bangsar and unlike the one I had last week in London, the masseuse in Bangsar was all action and no talk, while this one talked to me about all sorts of things from techniques of unknotting knots to Nang Nak – the origin of. I had seen Nang Nak several times and had even presented a paper in Paris two years ago about it, but too much talk of Nang Nak in a dimly lit room and glimpses of the masseuse’s long tumbling hair covering her face as she bent down to knead me, was a bit unsettling. Anyway, I left the spa feeling like a new woman, hoping that my other half felt as much too.

Like I said, this was a fortnight that saw me running around like a headless chicken. You’d think that as a veteran headless chicken, I’d know the ropes by now, but NO!

‘tis the week that a lot of people turned up to do events. It was a happening week, so to speak: two kenduri tahlils in between fashion shows and a weekend conference in Oxford. ‘tis the week when the euphoria of material pleasures were put in check by reminders that this world is just a temporary stopover.

Anyway, this being the London Fashion Week, I was pleasantly surprised to get a call from Malaysian designer Tom Abang Saufi about her debut in London. She was invited by Asia House to showcase her collection to the British public.



And I trotted off to that hoping to get a few more of Tom’s fabulous Pua sarongs to add to my collection of no less than 10 in the cupboard. In the end I didn’t buy any because I have most of the designs and as for her batik ‘buttonless and zipless’ collection, that can wait after winter. Afterall, Tom is opening her very own shop opposite Jimmy Choo Couture in Connaught Street.

It was also at Tom’s do at Asia House that I met the most incredible woman – Tunku Azizah, the Tuanku Ampuan Pahang and patron the Fertility Foundation, who tirelessly works for the benefit of childless couples. Her own struggle to have children after six miscarriages in nine years, is enough to make you thankful for the lot that you have at home.





Then, I had a weekend conference in Oxford and what a wonderful weekend it turned out to be, listening to experts discussing seventeenth and eigteenth century manuscripts during the day and enjoying a bit of Balinese dance and haunting tunes of Sundanese music in the evening in the auspicious surroundings that is Oxford University. We listened in awe to descriptions of some lewd syairs in what must have been the only known porn literature in old Malay manuscript, and we were transfixed by jottings of the only known Malay POW who worked on the Death Railway in Burma. This guy, whom I will write about in a proper entry, was a real survivor. His jottings, which he later compiled in neat Jawi, tell of how he survived being tied up a tree for a week, eating frogs and other insects in the jungle, burying his buku 555 in the ground away from the searching eyes of the Japanese soldiers, falling in and out of love with local damselles who helped him along his escape routes and many, many more. Watch this space.

Then all too soon, it was back to the big white tent at the Natural History Museum, that showcases the top names in British designs. This year, I had recruited Sayang Mama number three to be my official photographer as Her Blurness couldn’t take good pictures anymore. Studying my understudy is not the easiest thing to do. I get anxious too easily as soon as she puts away her camera or misses an opportunity to photograph a celebrity.

Day one, Ben De Lisi’s show was fashionably late by 45 minutes. In the meantime, D list celebs and model wannabees sashayed arround the waiting area, trying to catch the eyes of photographers. This event turned out to be an assembly of famous children of celebrities; daughter of Bob Geldolf tirelessly giving interviews and posing, daughter of Dato JC smiling shyly into the camera and children of the Rolling Stones. Daughter of Kak Teh did her bit and took pictures of these famous children.

Day two – a quite relaxed event at Bernard Chandran’s. A bevy of Malaysian socialites turned up filling the front row. Bernard’s Spring and Summer Collection is certainly something of a jaw dropping event – beautiful and only for the daring with the right curves at the right places.

Tomorrow, it is Singapore’s talent abroad – Ashley Isham whose celebration of punk and romance for his autumn winter collection, was a great hit. I am pretty sure, it will be a repeat performance or even a better one this time.

And yes, after that, I’ll be off to the Dorchester as someone will be arriving from New York. I can already feel the knots forming on my back and methinks its time for another backrub.

So, you're sixteen, eh?

The day he started his weeklong work experience, wearing his new Zara pants, he looked so smart I nearly cried. He was so excited that he couldn’t wait to rush out of the door, giving me only two quick kisses. Only two, when it used to be four or five. I shouldn’t really be complaining, as he is after all almost an adult – he will be sixteen on the sixteenth. So, two kisses cannot be that bad. It is better than none.

He left me alone with my thoughts and memories of the day he came into my life. I remember the day the labour pains came just as H and I were enjoying a bar of Galaxy in the birthing room. When the pain came, I just wanted H to go and tell the midwife that I had changed my mind, that I didn’t need another baby. After all, we already had three. But the waves of pain were persistent and the bar of Galaxy lost its appeal. The next thing I knew H was nursing an aching and bruised arm as a result of being tugged and pulled and scratched in my attempts to make him share the pain. But the pain went with the realisation that I had been blessed with another boy to complete our set!

And all too soon, the toddler who used to cling to the back of my chair and cover my mouth with his chubby little hands whenever I tried to speak on the phone, grew up to be my closest ally, confidante and friend. The little boy whose hand I held throughout our car rides because he was scared of the dark, became my reliable bodyguard on our shopping trips together, my constant companion to just about anywhere, an easy prey to my endless emotional blackmails. A harsh critic of my satorial non-sense, he tolerates my idiosyncrasies which seem to embarass his siblings.

I remember the look on his face the day I started wearing the hijab. He was beaming from ear to ear. He must have been only twelve when I reasoned with him that I was not goingt o wear the tudung just because he wanted me to. I had to make him understand that when I wore it, it was because I was ready and that it must come from the heart. He understood. But it never stopped him from whispering “You look nice, Mama” everytime I donned a scarf to go to the surau. Now that I have a collection of Sri Munawarah’s wonderful creations, his smiles of approval never left his face ‘cos he loves how neatly the tudungs framed my face as he no longer had to sweep in the strands of hair that strayed out of my otherwise clumsily tied tudungs.

Yes, he tolerates me and humours me and for that I am glad I didnt cancel the order that day sixteen years ago. The little baby we brought back from the Hammersmith Hospital has given me so much joy and happiness and I hope and pray that he will continue to be the loving, dependable and reliable son that he is. To my sayang mama, have a wonderful birthday and although I will not be with you to celebrate this day, I will be thinking of you. Love you heaps, my little Batman!

A Nation of Alphabets

A Nation of Alphabets. That came to mind when I read our newspapers online recently. I am afraid we are fast running out of alphabets. How many alphabets do we have compared to the number of datuks/dato’s? And the number keeps increasing every Sultan’s birthday. Oh help! Soon we will have to resort to the use of Arabic letters. Datok Ba, Ta, Tha etcetrea, etcetera.

I thought we only have Alphabet Soup.

First we have Dr M...there’s a good ring to it. And it was a natural progression that he is now Tun M. Then came Datuk K and you get visions of bushy moustache, millions in the bank and our CT. Though not necessarily in that order.

And now there’s a Datuk R!!! More millions and more maskawin! More oh dear.

Datuk X are those who cannot be identified in court.

Those were the days when initials were used by our singers or artistes of yore. P Ramlee, L Ramlee, R Ramlee. AR Tompel, S Ahmad and many more. Now our singers prefer to use their own name or nickname - Mawi is good, so is farah, Dayang, Ziana Zain.

In blogosphere we have our own, starting with President BTB, OSH, CK, CL, MA , Kak N, AG, KD, AM, Lady K, MM, QOTH and yes, many more.

Oh, if I am not wrong, Datok Samad Said's son, the talented and wonderful Az is actually a very clever attempt by the writer and his wife to name their son using just first and the last letter of the alphabet.

Here’s KT signing off on a lazy Sunday, in an attempt to update her blog. Btw, sometimes, I am also known as Kak Z.

Ps Someone just told me of Datuk Q!!
Lots of Datuks in a queue!!!!

An evening with Art Fazil

After last night, I am convinced that in my other life, I must have been a back up singer of sorts. Or even a member of a groupie. An aborted plan to go to the movies saw us back at Mawar, listening and singing along with Art Fazil. Art Fazil on a Saturday night at Mawar is worth missing the X Factor for. He was in his elements, playing to a packed audience enjoying their fried koayteow, and some appreciative ladies dancing to his rendition of ‘My Girl’.

But for me, his version of ‘Engkau Laksana Bulan’ and ‘Fatwa Pujangga’ was enough to get me singing all the way down Edgware Road competing with the Saturday night revellers making their way home. My husband has perfected the art of listeningbut not hearing, if you know what I mean, while my children pretended they are not with me.

The week before Art surprised us with an old song the title of which escapes me right now – but something about an adik manis walking in the rain without an umbrella, being chatted up by an abang who offered to walk her back. Alas, she had to let him down gently as she has ‘Anak lima’....This is what I like about Malay songs. Some are so downright flirtatious.

But an old time favourite of mine that Art knows he has to sing whenever I am around, is “Anak Melayu di Kota Inggeris "– a song that he wrote himself, and dare I say about himself! In his voice that has a kind of rough edge that would send Sharon Osbourne swooning, he lamented about life in this Kota Inggeris and missing petai and sambal tumis. And, he says, "Aku masih suka gadis Melayu!" Can’t wait for him to release this song, and it is about time too Art, after your album Nur.

Art has a knack of writing songs that touch you where it is supposed to touch you.
Take his Merindu Kepastian, for example :

Andai kau menjadi merpati,
biar ku jadi sang bayu
agar kita sering bertemu

or this one

Andai esok aku menjadi tanah,
sudikah engkau menjadi bunga,
hiasi dadaku.....

All together now............Ahhhhh!

Art should actually try for X factor and I will round up a group of supporters to hound Simon before he could even form a smirk on his face. I know I have Ewok's support.

I think, having failed to realise my ambition to be a forensic scientist, I would have loved to be a back up singer, swaying in the background, snapping my fingers in rythm. Did I not write about my debut with Raihan a few months ago? And what about the time when I sat on the steps with David Arumugam, holding the mike while he sang Hingga Akhir Nanti? I couldn’t manage the high note, though, but suffice to say, he gave me the honours to say, “Ma kaseeehhhhhhhh!”

High notes are a no no to me. Alas, my voice is one that you hear in the lift saying, “ Tingkat Satu, Tingkat Satu” or on the plane “Kita akan mendarat sebentar lagi, sila pasangkan tali...” or recorded messages that go, “Nombor yang anda dial tidak ada dalam perkhidmatan. Sila cuba sebentar lagi”. messages thatdrive you crazy!

Art Fazil can be found here and he sings at Mawar Restaurant on Saturday nights, accompanied by the wonderful and talented Mofa on drums.
(and Kak Teh in the background!)

This entry is dedicated to fans of Art Fazil who keep writing to me asking about him.

Syaer Hari Kebangsaan

Wahai semua rakyat Malaysia,
pembaca Choc-a-blog samalah juga,
hari ini hari yang mulia
49 tahun merdeka sudahnya.

Kak Teh bangun di pagi hari
di negara bekas penjajah yang sejuk ini
semangat berkobar “Negara ku” nak nyanyi
suara tak keluar ketawa sendiri.

Sudah lama di perantauan
namun anak Malaysia, masih ku tuan
tak kira di mana arah tujuan
kesetiaan kepada negara masih ketahuan.

Walaupun hari ini hari Merdeka
tak boleh berehat sebab terpaksa kerja
negara bekas penjajah mana ada cutinya
tak ingat kah depa, hari ini harinya????

Tak apalah pembaca, Kak Teh undur dulu,
mencari makan sekadar sesudu
berpestalah anda kibarlah bendera tu
kuatkan suara, nyanyikan NegaraKU!!!

SELAMAT MENYAMBUT HARI KEBANGSAAN!!

Memories of Merdeka

As I was washing the flask to make tea for the journey to Brickendonbury for the Malaysian Carnival last Saturday, my mind took a nostalgic trip down memory lane. There I was, standing by the sink in my crisp, newly ironed uniform, washing my bluish green tupperware tumbler to fill it up with iced tea and then carefully wrapping it with a small Good Morning towel and finally securing it with a rubber band. This I placed safely with egg sandwiches Mak had prepared for the long hot day we school children had to endure lining up the streets for the Merdeka day celebration. Sometimes, it was merely to catch a glimpse and wave our flag to the motorcade taking the Sultan and the Sultanah to their own celebrations, or sometimes to stand in the parade grounds, to listen to speeches after speeches. Mak's sandwiches would have been long gone by the second speech.

The reason we endured the long hours of standing by the roadside was because at the end of that long day, we were rewarded with free tickets to the cinema. That made it worthwhile. Even if some fainted along the way.

My earliest memories of Merdeka was of Kak Cik rehearsing enthusiastically and with such feelings, her speeches for the 'Pertandingan Syarahan'. It was 'the bulan bahasa kebangsaan' which started with inter school competitions and culminated at national level. Kak Cik made it to state level and had a table full of trophies to show for her success. I enjoyed watching her on stage. Thinking back, how well, how confident and how proud we were then speaking our own national language. And how easily too we slipped into English.

Anyway, another event that marked the celebrations for Merdeka Day was the arrival of the Filem Negara vans in the small town of Yan. We knew that this meant free movies on big white screens out in the padang. Of course, like the free cinema tickets, we had to endure an hour of government propaganda clips, which we would while away chatting to friends or eating kacang putih. But yes, I remember these very well. Mak would make her excuses to Pak and we’d have a family picnic on the lawn, in the moonlight.

Later, Merdeka Day celebrations also meant lots and lots of practice of the Scottish or Irish Dance. Scottish or Irish Dance at a National Day celebration? Yes, I am afraid so. While other schools like the SAS showed off their lenggang lengguk mak inang, we from St Nicholas Convent (hooray!) jigged and hopped and weaved in and out in our kilts and funny berets. We stood out of course but we made it a Merdeka Day with a difference.

Then, of course, when I got myself into the school band, we marched from our school, the Sultan Abdul Hamid College (another hooray!) all the way to the stadium, all the while playing the angklung or the drums. Those were the days, eh?

After that as an adult, I don’t remember much, except that during one celebration, in the throes of early courtship and romance, we walked hand in hand to watch the performance at the Lake Gardens. Everything became a blur then. Not that I ceased to be patriotic but other matters took over.

Matters that took me to London. Ironically, it is here, eight thousand miles away that this feeling of patriotism made its way back into my heart, where even a glimpse of the National Flag or the soulful tune of Negaraku would bring tears to my eyes.

The Malaysian community in the UK has always celebrated the National day in Brickendonbury at the vast and green fields of Tun Abdul Razak Rubber Research Centre. This is a great place to meet other Malaysians other than in Oxford Street. There’s usually lots of fun and games and food galore. Malaysians and friends from all corners of the UK would come in coaches and cars and vans to join in this fun ala Family Day.

One year, I decided to test my culinary and business skills and with some friends we set up a food stall.
I made mee bandung, sardine rolls and currypuffs while my friends made capati and keema mutton. What a fun day we had , with people queueing up to get more and more and by the end of the day, it was declared the best mee bandung this side of the English Channel.( Well, that would be easy, wouldn’t it?)

The year after, I decided to do a repeat performance, but while I was stirring the gravy, I realised my heart was not there. I was looking longingly at my friends playing netball and those in the musical chair. It was then that I realised that business is not my thing. I left the gravy to boil and joined in the fun in the musical chair, winning second place. There!

For quite a number of years I was the MC for the day, but this year I decided that I wanted to have fun instead. Once I was even asked to coach a group of children to sing patriotic songs, and oh! how it touched my heart to hear them sing Setia...

Last year the bombings and fear of bombings saw to it that the carnival was cancelled. But when we got news that it is back on this year, I decided to go. As Ewok had already booked a place to sell her ice cream, I booked a place in her ice cream van and together with my son and another friend, we left early Saturday morning for Hertfordshire. The weather in the morning wasn’t very promising. It started raining and we were worried that the ice cream would not sell. But how wrong we were. The queue to the ice cream van started at 9 and ended when all the other stalls had packed up to go. Picture this, ewok assisted by two Mak Cik bertudung selling Yorkshire Da*le Ice Cream.

I met a few bloggerfriends such as Newkidontheblog, marlinda, atok, kak ngah and Ibu71. And guess who else I met? AlexYoong! It was eight years ago that I was Alex’s companion to a Merdeka Celebration at Four Seasons Hotel in London. And that drew a lot of attention from other Mak Datins present.

But one Merdeka Day will remain clearly in my mind. That was the year Princess Diana met her tragic death. I remember it so clearly because I heard the news as I was on my way to cover one of the celebrations with my cameraman. Instead I ended up doing a coverage of the crowd in front of Buckingham Palace.

Well, Selamat menyambut Hari Merdeka everyone, wherever you are!

Related entries:
Bahasa Jiwa Bangsa
Jamaluddin Alias and that Gush of Patriotism

Tribute to a Special Lady

During the last few days, we sat in Kakak’s living room, enjoying a bit of snacks, flicking through old albums and generally talking about this and that. Once in a while I half expected Kakak to poke her head through the window between the kitchen and the living room, asking us whether we wanted any tea or if there was enough food. She never did. And then reality set in. She will never walk through that door to the living room again or ask me if I need more sugar in my tea because just last Monday, we buried her in the place she wanted to be – the Garden of Peace.

The last few weeks had been a difficult time for all of us – especially for Kakak’s family that she left behind and for my children, whom she looked after since they arrived into this world. But it had also been a time of reflection and a time to start growing up. Since the doctors diagnosed the Big C five months ago and since watching her succumb painfully to the dreaded disease, we had all seen the changes in ourselves too.

Kakak came into our lives at a time when I desperately wanted to pursue my career and at the same time be a supermother. In other words, I wanted to be a Superwoman – and Kakak afforded me that. Life before Kakak was a bit of a shamble. I’d take our first born to work, meet up with a nanny ( a different one most days) at the office, breastfed him on demand and did my work. On certain days, my husband would take him to his office when I did my live daily broadcast . But we knew that this couldn’t go on and and we needed to place our trust in someone to look after our son – and Kakak fitted the bill perfectly.

Kakak came to London from Singapore in the late sixties, joining her newly wed husband who had served in the British Airforce. Their four children and our fast growing family of four soon grew up together as a family – a kind of extended family away from home.

Kakak and Abang saw to it that the children were well looked after, well fed while we pursued our career. From the day she scooped our eldest (who was then one) into her arms, we knew we had found the right person. When the rest came she was there to take charge. It was a pleasure to see the children so happy and contented in her living room. Most days, she’d prepare us dinner and on other days fried noodles or beriani ayam ready packed in old Margerine containers to take home. When we had assignments abroad, we didn’t have to worry about who would look after the little ones.

During weekends, we’d ferry Kakak, her children and ours to the mosque for their religious classes and more often than not, the evenings would be spent in her living room watching old Bollywood movies, eating fried noodles or keropok.

It has been about 24 years since we met this family from Singapore who had made such a difference in our lives. The last few years, we had been more concerned about Abang’s health and our children, now not needing anymore nannying, took turns to look after their ‘uncle’ and run errands for their ‘aunty’. After all we live only 10 minutes away from them across the A40. Kakak had complained once in a while about migrane and chest pains, but it was Abang that we were worried about as he lost the use of his fingers and finally his mobility. Kakak’s medical tests didn’t show anything. But the last few years, I admit shamefacedly, that I had not looked in as often as I should have because I had been pursuing my studies. But my children still visited while I phoned once in a awhile. But I never detected the change in Kakak.

I vividly remember a phonecall. Kakak, who was always bubbly and would speak endlessly about almost anything, was just replying to me in “aha, ha, and aha”. Yet I didn’t suspect anything. Our youngest who went to sit with her that afternoon came back and said aunty hardly acknowledged his presence. Kakak used to talk a lot. A goodbye at her doorsteps would usually last half an hour and if the weather was good, it would continue to the car. The first time she was admitted into hospital, it finally dawned on me. Apparently she had gone to her own doctor and then got confused. She couldn’t say anything. Her doctor suspected a stroke and when she was taken to Charing Cross Hospital, they found the offending lump in her brain and later two more in her lungs.

When I saw her that day, she was a little better although she still thought her year of birth was 1874. A succession of chemotherapy later saw some drastic changes; she lost weight and she lost her hair. Last May we celebrated her birthday in the visitors’ room on the eleventh floor of the hospital. She knew and we all knew it was her last. Although she was tired, she was happy to see most of the children she had cared for and her children and grandchildren.

There had been changes that had gone unnoticed. While she was in hospital, I cooked in her kitchen for Abang. Kakak had left clues that we had not picked up. Things that shoudn’t have been in the fridge were there, the usually organised cabinets were not as they should be. There was tea among spices and some important ingredients were nowhere to be seen.

It was two Thursdays ago that I got the dreaded call at work. The doctors were calling in her family and close friends as they didn’t think she would last the day. H was at work and quickly made his way there, R was in the library and hastily left, N and T who were at home dropped everything to be with their aunty. They were all in tears when I got there and we started reading the Yassin. Kakak was by the having difficulty breathing but could still acknowlege my presence.

When the morphine ceased to have anymore effect, she’d open her eyes and try to speak. That night I slept on two chairs by her bedside, listening to her breathing patterns and finally fell asleep only to be woken up by her attempts to pull off her gas mask. That afternoon, she was more alert looking at us intently, one by one. She acknowledged her visitors and squeezed my hand tight and even asked me what day it was. We whispered to her the syahadah and she moved her lips to show she understood. Once in a while she sipped the zam zam water that I brought back from umrah recently. By evening her legs had gone stone cold and the nurse told us that her body had started to shut down. We still harboured hopes that Kakak would stay on until the next morning when her son was due to arrive from Singapore. That evening, Abang, who had been in his wheelchair by her bedside since she was admitted, asked me to check on Kakak who had gone all quiet. She seemed to be asleep. I touched her hand, it felt warm and told Abang that Kakak was finally asleep after a restless afternoon. But how wrong I was. She went very quietly and very peacefully without us realising it.

It must have been around nine when she slipped off quietly. I didn’t cry and couldn’t cry as there were the younger ones, my children and her children who were witnessing their first experience of death. There were calls to be made. The nurses allowed us time to be with her and it was about 3 am that we all went home leaving Kakak in the mortuary during the weekend as we couldn’t register her death for burial.

That weekend saw me endlessly cooking and cooking in Kakak’s kitchen. It was my way of coping. We had tahlil every night since then. Kakak’s children coped admirably – got the death certificate and registered her death and then we raced through the heavy Monday morning traffic to East London mosque for the jenazah prayers. We then paid our last respects to Kakak before following the convoy to the Garden of Peace in Hainnault. It was indeed a peaceful and serene place – far, but nice. Many other members of the Malay community were buried there. Kakak would have liked that.

Kakak would have been pleased too to know that her surau mates were there. For the next three days, they sent food to the house, telling us that Kakak had cooked for them when she was alive.
Kakak’s next door neighbour who hailed from Pakistan told us how every Ramadan, without fail, Kakak donated to her village in the border with Afghanistan, sometimes enough to feed a whole village and even helped build a well in one. It then emerged news of her generous donations to schools around here. How little I knew of Kakak during the last few years of her life.

As we walked back to the car, leaving Kakak to rest in her final resting place, I thought back to the times she visited us at home. Everytime before she left, she’d say, “OK Zaharah, Kakak jalan dulu!”

Yes, Kakak, thank you very much and Al Fatehah.

Can I tell it in pictures ...?

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I captured these images while on the march last Saturday to add my voice to stop the killing - of children no matter where they are. Stop the suffering, stop the torment. These are images we see on telly almost every hour on the hour, and most often than not I look away. I look away beacuse I feel so helpless. I look away because there is one other image that keeps playing in my mind, one that is so heartwrenching - A mother was in the boat leaving with a group of others for safety, her hand outstretch, she was begging the soldier to turn the boat around to get her three year old, (if I am not mistaken) left behind with her other son. Picture cut to two boys crying - hands reaching out to the mother as the boat sped away. The brother trying to console his three year old brother is a child himself. I cannot get this image out of my mind. I pray to God that the family is back together.

The summer that was

Mr Haidari would have been appalled, to say the least, at what they are doing to his country. He’d roll his eyes heavenwards, raise his hands in despair and return to his frugal meal of tuna sandwich and tea, resigned to the fact that peace is forever denied in his country that is Lebanon. He’d be sad and heartbroken that his country is now in ruins and his countrymen are fleeing for safety, dodging the relentless barrage of bombs and mortar attacks. Like Mr Haidari, some of his countrymen are fleeing in search of a safe haven.

But bombs and mortars and killings are nothing new to Mr Haidari. He left some years ago when the killing got to his doorsteps.

He had just given his salam in the mosque after zuhur prayers when he was summoned home and what he saw was to haunt him to his grave. Brutally mutilated bodies of his loved ones were everywhere in his front garden. He couldn’t tell which limbs belonged to which child and in his haste, only had time to bury his wife’s decapitated head, grab a few things and left.

These gruesome events were mercilessly replayed in his mind, day and night, night and day, haunting his very soul. These gruesome events he narrated to us in a voice, perhaps already devoid of emotions. It was the Druze, he said, who wiped out his entire family. He made his way to London and felt almost at home in the area around Bayswater and Edgeware Road where Lebanese restaurants fill the air with Lebanese music and Lebanese people spill on to the streets as night falls.

We met Mr Haidari one summer afternoon in our favourite Ice cream bar in Whiteleys. We had never seen him before this, but after several ice creams, my husband decided to befriend the old gentleman sitting quietly contemplating his tea, at the table that was to be his for several months if not years after that. His robes had seen better days and he was in need of a shave but his manners were impeccable, betraying his upbringing and his background. He’d rise to his feet as I approached his table and kiss my hand in the manner of a perfect gentleman. And he’d stand up again when we left. Several meetings with Mr Haidari at the Ice Cream parlour made him comfortable enough for him to tell us what had happened and what brought him here.

He had a successful business, he said, one that took him to South east Asia. He was rich, he travelled the world. But the incident that afternoon in his front garden sealed his fate and changed his life forever. It was correct to say he was just a shadow of his old self. You could tell he was used to expensive suits but he said nothing of the one he got from Oxfam. One that he wore throughout summer and also throughout winter. One that badly needed a wash.

Anyway, we got to know Mr Haidari well enough to bring him home for weekends.

For most of the time, he’d stay in the spare room praying. He didn’t mind if we had to go out during the day but during the night, he’d be standing by the window, waiting for us to come home. One night he told us why.

He said he was scared that we might not return. That we’d suffer the same fate his family suffered. We were the only family he had.

His visits became less frequent. We couldn’t persuade him to wash or change. His mind began to wander but my husband still visited him in his small room, where he said he heard voices of people coming to get him. We also introduced him to another friend who gave him a permanent table at their restaurant, with free meals in rerturn for lessons in Arabic. That seemed acceptable to him - for a while - until he disappeared again. The last time I saw him was one cold day in winter, standing by the bus stop in Westbourne Grove.

I went back to Malaysia the following summer, the summer that was as hot as this. And I received a distraught call from my husband. There was a knock on the door, he said. It was the police. Mr Haidari was found slumped in his room and had been gone for perhaps a week. Among his few possessions on the table was just a letter naming my husband as his next of kin.

He was to identify what was left of Mr Haidari. But he didnt ‘cos he couldn’t. Mr Haidari had been dead for a week during one of the hottest summers we had ever known. It was a very sad man who rode in the police van with the black bag containing what was once Mr Haidari . But he gave him a proper burial.

This hot summer, the thundering bomb shells raining on Lebanon just reminded me of Mr Haidari. Al Fatehah to Mr Haidari and innocent victims of the bombings.

A Brief Announcement

I have not quite disappeared from the blog world, but have been terribly busy lately. As I can't quite predict when my next update will be, I have appointed a bisu tuli and buta to be my spokesperson, he who had been writing about my little adventures and misadventures that I had shared with him, and he with the rest of the world.

Anyway, just for a brief moment - yesterday was my big day!

My day

For Mak Andeh

Will certainly update when I have some time to breathe.

Raihan at Holiday Villa, LONDON

Salam to all,

Raihan @ Islam Expo

Raihan, the popular nasyeed group from Malaysia, now performing in Toronto and then later in the week in Trinidad and Tobago, will make their way back to London on 18th July and will be performing in Holiday Villa.

The show: 8 pm
The Price: £25 including Malaysian buffet
Date: 18th July 2006
Contact: lagendalondon@yahoo.co.uk or phone: 02072580269
Venue: Holiday Villa,
37, Leinster Gardens,
Bayswater.

Nearest tube stations: Bayswater (Circle & District Line)
Queensway (Central Line)

Something for the weekend

Received this sms:

A book is to be launched soon in Malaysia as a counter attack on Dr M - one that is controversial since the release of Da Vinci Code. This one is called:
"Dah Benci Kut!"

Personally, I think someone should come up with one that is entitled: "Takkan Kut!"

Anymore bright ideas?

Have a good weekend and I will resurface from the mountains of exam papers soon for some fresh air.