The Notebook

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

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

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

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

The late Datin Peggy Taylor with her chest full of history

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

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

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

Glimpses into our past

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

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

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

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

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

Rest in peace, Ms Sibert

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Other tributes to Ms Sibert:

MarinaM
Queen of The House
Zlaa
Naz
Sue

My Diwali Story

My dearest R,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am sorry.

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

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

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

Zara.

And Happy Diwali to all my Hindu friends.

Confessions of a Facebook Hacker

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

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


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

So, my darling Facebookers:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Facebooking my sayang mamas, MUAHAHAHAAHA!

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

Selingan

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



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


This is one of sibling revelry in Geneva recently.



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



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

The house that Pak built - where is it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shopping with Nek

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Journey Continues - the tale of the blue kebaya

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Malaysian students organising Malaysian nights too found my collection useful.

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

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

The girls in hand me downs from Kak.

Bohong sunat di pagi raya

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Selamat Hari Raya

Selamat Hari Raya Kak Teh Ucapkan
Kepada semua pembaca budiman
Ketika sampai ke akhir Ramadan,
Silap dan salah harap maafkan.

London raya hari Selasa,
tamatlah sudah kami berpuasa,
Malaysia pula raya lusa,
macam mana ni tak sama masa?

dua hari kemudian......


Terima kasih kawan dan rakan,
singgah di sini memberi ucapan,
kita raya sepanjang bulan,
makanlah makan, jangan tak makan!

The Journey

Having arrived late, I sat in the last row of a very crowded prayer hall. From the back, I could make out familiar figures of regular members of the congregation just from the designs on their telekungs. The very, very regular ones, usually the early birds, have secured their place in the front row; there were some new faces, students and visitors somewhere in the middle and the last few rows were mothers with their children, praying beside them.

Watching children as young as seven already doing the terawikh, I thought how lucky they are to have the opportunity to start so very young. I started my own journey not too long ago at a very late age. I offered all kinds of reasons for not doing so; no one to look after the children, work etc – all of which to me personally translated into shying away from the unknown and unexplored territory. I was scared that people in the congregation might judge me. I’d attend the usual Friday night prayers but never terawikh. I’d wait in the canteen of Malaysia Hall with the children while hubby did his prayers. But a few friends coaxed me and like last night, I found myself sitting in the back row. No way I was going to sit and pray in the front row and then lead others astray.

Nowadays, I am more confident as more and more I feel I belong, and more and more I feel the need to be nearer to Him.

With this handful of friends, I learnt and from what I learnt, I taught the children who tagged along. These are the handful of friends who have made the journey with me; they had started earlier and they have guided me. Last night looking at some of the children sitting obediently by their mothers’ side, reminded me so much of those times with my girls; coaxing and cajoling them, constantly answering questions of “how many more (rakaats)” after every prayer.

A mother swept her daughter’s hair from the forehead under the telekung – such familiar gestures and I turned to my now grown-up daughter sitting beside me, and I am still doing the same to her. She no longer asked “How many more” and no more the bored look as she is now a regular and part of the congregation.

Our son who as a young boy followed his father to pray with the men, is now our own bilal at home and sometimes leads our prayers.

The members of the congregation have become a part of the extended family for us. The banters, the jokes and the sharing and caring – many have been here as long as I have. We have seen many ustazs come and go, and currently we have a young and talented ustaz with many ideas and programmes to entertain us and feed our souls. But one constant factor, though, is our bilal. Imams/ustazs come and go, but our bilal remains the same and it is a kind of comforting factor listening to his call for prayers as well as his accompanying the imam during prayers.

Two nights ago, we had an azan competition. There were less contestants for the children’s category this year but it is still an encouraging sign. The winner is a boy I had seen since he was a baby. And indeed like all other parents present, his parents never left him behind but encouraged him to join in. Children like him grew up in this familiar surrounding. There’s no one to frown upon parents bringing children, except for one occasion when some self-righteous guy banished my son to the back row in a tone that humiliated him in front of other adults. But it is the kind of encouragement and tolerance amongst the adults that nurture and encourage the young ones to participate.

Every night after prayers, there’s the morey. More than the food, which are always sponsored by members of the congregation, it is also the camaraderie that exists that binds us all together. After morey, a few would stay back for the taddarus and next week we will all be there to witness the khatam Quran.

Last Saturday was my second Qiamulail for this Ramadan and Insyallah next week, we will meet again for the last one. I am grateful to Allah for giving me this realisation before it is too late, before ill health and age take over and make it difficult for me to serve Him.

Ustaz’s zikir munajad never failed to move me. We recite the powerful and melodious zikir together, feeling every word, every message. And personally, when it comes to Laa illaha illallah, al malikul hakkul mubinnn, Muhammadar rasulllah.. without fail, tears would be streaming from my eyes. This is the part of the zikir my husband used to recite to the children as they go to sleep.

God willing, I hope to continue on this journey, for there’s still a long way to go. I will take on this journey knowing that there’s a place for me there, even if I need to squeeze in a chair in the back row, and in ustaz’s words, be elevated in status, although our knees have failed us.

Three Ramadan stories

Story 1

There was a hush in the courtroom as the man in black suit, songkok perched smartly on his head, a Quran in hand, approached the bench.

“My Lord,” he stammered looking straight at the presiding judge, “ tonight is the night when the doors of heaven are open wide. It is the night of the Lailatul Qadr. If you release me, I will pay for your tickets to Malaysia to see my birthplace.”

Watching him from the public gallery of the Old Bailey courtroom, my heart sank. From day one it was obvious that the case was not going his way. His further attempts at mitigation only hastened to persuade the judge that he needed treatment.

“I will be getting lots of money as Salman Rushdie is writing my life story. I can pay for your return ticket to Malaysia,” he said, believing every word that tumbled out of his mouth.

Suffice to say, it was in the dank and pitiful meeting room at HMP Brixton that I saw him again. It wasn’t the place for him, not for what he did. He was surrounded by hardcore criminals, tattoo on their arms, violence etched on their faces. He cried for most of the one hour that I was allowed to see him, begging me to get him a transfer back to serve his time in Malaysia, the country he left some forty years before. He started off on an adventure but it was interrupted by love.

He rambled and and I listened, trying to sieve facts from fantasies, trying to find justification in locking him up with robbers and murderers.

“Datin,” he pleaded, forcing me to bite my lips for fear of laughing. “I want to go back. I don’t like it here.”

Ten minutes later, I was a Puan Sri. Such was his mental state that all I could do was listen to his life story, his love story and stories of his very, very sad childhood; all jumbled up with tales of his friendship with Prince Charles and other world leaders and celebrities.

That was our first meeting in Ramadan several years ago. He asked if I could bring him an alarm clock during my next visit as the guards had taken away his alarm clock. It was disturbing other inmates when it went off when it was time for him to take his sahur. He also wanted a new copy of Surah Yasin. When he thought that the guards were not looking he gave me a letter from under the table. It was to be the first of several letters that I received when he was held at Her Majesty's pleasure.

The next visit saw him a happier person as he was then moved to another place – an open prison where he could tend to the gardens that was his lifelong passion. Nevertheless, his state of mind had not improved. Without friends, he took to talking to worms under the floorboards.

I saw him several time after his release and quite recently too. Ahamdulillah he is well. Salman Rushdie never wrote his book and the judge never got the return ticket to Malaysia. He didn’t even recognise me as the Datin/Puan Sri who visited him during Ramadan.

Story 2

A life wasted...

The crowd leaving the mosque after terawikh prayers made their separate ways home. The man in the beige kurta-like shirt crossed the motorway and turned into a side road. It was a warm summer’s night but not many people were around; most probably watching TV or at the pubs. He hastened his steps, perhaps at the thought of continuing the meal that he had after iftar, or perhaps at the thought of his wife who had not been too well during the first week of Ramadan.

The silence of the night was suddenly interrupted by the screeching of tyres; which initially looked as if joyriders were having fun racing along the deserted road. One car was chasing the other not far ahead, then just at the junction of the road, the one behind rammed the other on the side. Then all the man in the kurta shirt could see were flashes that looked like fireworks, momentarily lighting up the night. He stood transfixed as if watching a cops and robbers drama on TV but when the realisation of what was unfolding before him set in, he ran as fast as his legs could carry, passing the car with a body slumped at the wheel.

He arrived home shaken. It took him quite a long time before he felt comfortable enough to walk to the mosque for terawikh again.

Story 3

Why Kueh Gula Melaka will never be the same again....

Thoughts of kueh gula melaka that his wife made for iftar haunted him throughout his terawikh prayers. He couldn’t concentrate as his mind kept thinking of the burst of sweetness of palm sugar that melted in his mouth a few hours earlier. The imam had decided on long verses that night and as usual it was 21 rakaats, none of the 8 that the neighbourhood surau was doing.

The doa’s after the witir prayers seemed unusually long but soon enough, he scrambled out of the mosque and after locating his slippers, said goodbye to his mates and made his way home, the lights from the houses on each side of the road guiding him on his trusty old bicycle.

He made his way straight to the kitchen only to find scraped coconuts left overs of the delicious gula melaka that had been plaguing his mind the whole evening. His disappointment turned to anger.

“Don’t worry, Sayang, I will make some more for sahur,” cajoled his wife sweetly, leading him out of the kitchen to the bedroom.

Like a dutiful wife, she woke up early, washed her hair and prepared the kueh gula melaka, inserting generous pieces of palm sugar in balls of dough before plunging them in hot boiling water. Then she proceeded to roll them in desiccated coconut. She took the pot of boiling water out to the adjoined kitchen that also served as a toilet at night, as it was more convenient than going out to the bathroom, a distance away from the house. Gently, she woke her husband up, promising him the most delicious gula melaka ever made. He needed no more persuasion and woke up and hurried to the kitchen to relieve himself before sahur.

And then, from the dark unlit kitchen came a scream that pierced that silence of the Holy night.

“Oh, dear, I should have thrown out the hot water,” thought the wife guiltily, downing the kueh gula melaka to drown her sorrows.

A disclaimer:

Stories 1 & 2 are based on real events.

Story 3 is just something my mother told again and again when we asked for kueh gula melaka. Tak ada kena mengena dengan yang hidup atau yang mati atau yang tercedera!

Travails of a Cyber Backpacker

More pictures here: Nona in Rajasthan

The 1233 for Luton left from the spanking new St Pancras International where I took the Eurostar to Paris a few weeks ago. It is a sort of extension right at the end of the building and I had to dodge people with bags and trolleys as I was going against the flow to catch my train. I wasn’t fussy about where I sat as it wasn’t going to be a long journey and I reckoned that the half an hour journey would take me through a few more chapters of Preeta Samarasan’s “Evening Is the Whole Day”. I really wanted to know the goings on in the big house in Kingfisher Lane after Chellam’s unceremonious departure.

The seats on the First Capital Connect were quite comfortable, and minutes after it pulled out of the platform, we buried our heads in our reading materials. The young teenager opposite me was devouring the pictures in Heat magazine while the gentleman on my right concentrated on The Reluctant Fundamentalist.

It took awhile for me to realise that I was staring for a good five minutes on page 44 with not a word sinking in. My mind was making its own journey and so I looked out of the window to see how the suburbs of London was being treated in the last few days of summer. Hedges were already neatly trimmed and shrubs cut in preparation for autumn, but there were a few optimists with their BBQ sets still outside their conservatories, hoping for one more sunny day to return.

According to the BBC weather forecast, we were in for a long wet and windy spell and true enough rain began pelting on the windows and I was thankful when we disappeared under a tunnel.

As we emerged from the tunnel, I blinked a few times. Right before me were clusters of huts with zinc roofs dotting fields that looked barren and dry with nothing to offer skinny cows and even skinnier goats roaming aimlessly in search of food and water. Pot bellied children clung on to their mothers’ faded sarees, as they walked gracefully balancing pots of water precariously on their heads. A few turned to wave at us without spilling a drop of water.

I turned to look at my travelling companions to see whether they were witnessing what I was witnessing. The girl with the Heat magazine was no longer there but in her seat was a fat woman trying to calm her baby by suffocating him with her ample breast. The gentleman with The Reluctant Fundamentalist too had disappeared and next to me was a skinny old man in his dhoti snoring loudly and plainly oblivious to both screaming child and ample breast. In fact the whole carriage was a scene of pandemonium. There were fans whirring from the ceiling of the carriage and there were people, sitting on the floor, being trampled on by a couple of cross dressers in their bright coloured sarees, making their way to the next coach. They ignored hurls of insults and lewd jokes, pulling their tongues out from chilli bright lips, which served to excite their teasers even more.

Looking out of the window again, slums with dilapidated houses in various stages of neglect and repair whizzed past and billboards displaying the latest that Bollywood can offer had the handsome Shahrukh Khan staring unsmiling at me. And as if on cue, a melodious and haunting sound of the sittar pierced the midday air, followed by the beat of the tabla, prompting the passengers on the floor, the cross dressers with their tongue sticking out, and the fat lady with baby at her breast to jump on their feet and break into one of the most syncronised Bollywood dance I ever saw.

Even the snore of skinny man next to me sounded melodious and he suddenly opened his eyes and broke into a Mohamad Rafii number.

I would have joined in the fun if not for the announcement that the train was approaching Luton and a reminder for us to take all our belongings. Like a dream rudely interrupted, coach C of the First Capital Connect returned to its normal albeit boring calmness as it pulled into Luton station.

I stepped onto the platform into wet and soggy Luton, annoyed that my dream of India was interrupted. I put it down to the puasa as well as the many sms’es and reports that I received from Nona about her train journeys since arriving in Mumbai. After a subtitleless Bollywood movie in Mumbai, she and her cousin took a train to Ahmadabad, before going to Udaipur where, hot on her heels was a very enthusiastic young man with chat up lines, that will make you roll on the floor laughing.

Example of chat up lines :

Did it hurt you when you fell from heaven?

Which country is suffering now that you are not there?

(And I thought the best dialogues come from India!!)

Anyway, Nona and my niece and friend are having a wonderful time in India. Right now they are in the picturesque mountain resort of Manali, after a 15 hour car ride from Delhi. A punctured tyre, stops for mutter paneer to break their fast, they arrived in pitch dark Manali at about midnight.

“Its like Geneva, mama,” she gushed on the phone to me from the balcony of her hostel when morning unveiled Manali’s beauty with the snowcapped Himalayas in the background.

That is indeed a stark contrast to the experience camping in the heat of the Thar Desert of Jaisalmer, where they started their first day of Ramadan. If I could expel the nagging feeling, I think waking up for sahur, in the early morning before the sun rose in the Thar Desert, being served with boiled eggs by two male guides, has a romantic touch befitting any Bollywood movie.

Well, her journey had taken me on my own journey of India via google and blogs published on travels in India. I made the same train rides from Mumbai to Ahmadabab to Udaipur, where among the ruins of a palace she was surrounded by locals who touched and stared at her. Sleeping in the trains during the nights seemed to be the norm, a cheap way of travelling without having to stay in hostels. From Jaipur they left for Jaisalmer in the soaring heat that I could almost feel from cold and wet London. I prayed for their safe journey to Agra where they feasted their eyes on the Taj Mahal before moving yet again to Delhi.

I caught up with them in time at a travel agent where they booked a car and a driver that had taken them to Manali, then to Shimla and back to Delhi.

The next few days will see them making the tracks to Sikkim in the west and then a two day train ride to Bangalore. After that, I think, I should be able to rest (my fingers) after crisscrossing the Indian continent, thanks to Google.

Other train journeys:
Manchester Musings
Tales From The Tracks
On the 1302 from Kings Cross with Tunku Halim
Training My Thoughts
As I Was Munching Muruku
A Malay Experience in Roman Exeter
Train of Thoughts
A Story Untold