Creature of habits

by Nani-Syed Osman on Wednesday, June 8, 2011 at 8:56am

          After 3 years living in Kg Baru, in a one-bedroom apartment, we finally packed our bags and moved into another apartment in S. Alam. Pak Habib was commuting to his office in UiTM and we wanted to ease his travel to work, now that he’s full time. The apartment we rented was slightly bigger than the old one: 3-bedrooms with 2-bathrooms. It was located in Seksyen 8, just before the entrance to the Bukit Cerakah.
          It often rained in S. Alam; the rolling thunders and the striking lightning accompanying almost each drop. I was a mother with 3 kids, then, and was often terrified with the sound in the sky. One of the reasons for my fear came after watching an old Malay movie, when I was a kid, where the lady’s fatality was met by a lightning as she stood by a typical Malay house window. `Unfortunately, I had to put out a strong front for my children.
          It usually rained almost at noon or early evening. I purposely picked the one room without any windows and gathered my children into it. I made sure that I placed them and me, as close to the floor as possible, with the illusion that the lightning had to work itself hard to strike me, or the children. To pass the time, I took this opportunity to feed them. For every bite that they took, we’d retell and share betimes stories that I had read to them.
          One Monday, as it approached noon, the sky darkened and signs of a storm approaching were obvious.  As the first and second thunders rolled, the lightning struck and followed by another. I knew a third and a fourth were coming. I made the children dropped whatever they were doing and shooed them into the meant room.  Bending myself in my mental attempt, as if to dodge the upcoming lightning, I made sure the windows were closed as we passed them by. As soon as we stepped into the room, relieved, I let go of a heavy sigh and got them to sit on the floor in a circle, as usual. I was so good at hiding my fear of thunder that the children never notice the sulked face and the curled forehead every time the sound made its appearance.
          This was made evident when  Zaid, at 3, adjusting his cute chubby self between his sister and his brother, widened his eyes, looked at me and inquired, enthusiastically, ’Kita nak makan ye mak?  

The moral of the story is: we are creatures of habits….

Durian Binge

by Nani-Syed Osman on Saturday, May 14, 2011 at 11:27am

         Stomach protruding, legs swollen, I was as big as an elephant when I was 6 months pregnant with my 3rd born, Amir. We were renting this 1 bed-room flat in Kampong Baru, a block next to where Pak Habib's mom's resided. It was the durian season and I marveled over the idea of going on a durian binge before my EDD.
          Life was simple back then We didn't own a car. He moved around on his motorbike. Whenever we wanted to go out on a family outing, we just hopped into a cab. Kampong Baru is just 10 minutes away to everywhere.

                'Bah, nak makan durian', I said to my Pak Habib.

                'Nanti I ajak Faizul g beli', Pak Habib answered.

           His friend,  Faizul owned a car and was still single. He would take us around anytime he's free. Upon Pak Habib's phone call, Faizul arrived and they immediately left for Chow Kit. An hour later, they arrived home, empty-handed.

                   'Ni, kami dah round 1 Chow Kit. Faizul kate sume buah tak cantek. Nanti dia balik kampong, dia belikan untuk you', informed Pak Habib.
          I slumped onto the sofa when he related the news.  I had imagined its succulent flesh and taste on my tongue. The creeping aroma which managed to release itself as soon as the skin was separated, engulfing and overpowering any other smells. Dominating. 

          'Bah, I dah turun tanda ni. Mana Faizul ngan durian kampong dia?', I inquired after a 3 months of silence. My durian had still not arrived and Faizul was nowhere to be seen these past 3 months. 'Nanti bila dalam pantang, I takleh makan durian dah. Kena tunggu 44 ari la pulak'.
          He hopped onto his motorbike, his nephew, a pillion rider, and headed to Chow Kit. Half and hour later, he came back with what seemed to be a gunny filled with the fruit. I was too happy to say anything.  Newspapers spread, parang readied, he took hold of a cloth and did his magic. Both Pak Habib and his nephew were too busy with their tasks at hand that they let me enjoyed the fruit all to myself.

          'Boleh lagi?,' Pak Habib asked. I nodded. And he continued to the next one, and the next one and the next....Devouring the King of fruit, I had to pause, time to time, hands on my hips, every single time, to manage my quicken contraction...
               'Jap. Jap. Jap....,' my facial expression reflected my pain and my attempt to suppressed the raising pain.
Their gaping mouth formed, almost on cue, at the sight.   'Shh....,' index finger on my lips, I shushed them while I went on indulging my cravings.

               'Ende Nani ni biar betul? Boleh selang seli makan durian ngan contraction....,' his nephew said, shaking his head in amazement.

          'Rizal, kamu bukak je buah durian yang ke 6 tu....Ende Nani boleh lagi nih....,' Pak Habib smiled as he instructed to his nephew to continue..

Amir, Abah and Zaid

The last person to die

by Nani-Syed Osman on Friday, May 13, 2011 at 3:28am

          My then, 4-year old son, Zaid was sadden by the demised of a kitten, which he had had only for a short while. His older sister, Aishah and his younger brother Amir who were 5 and 3, respectively, shared the same feeling. He wanted to know more about death, which seemed to puzzle him and why did we buried it.

          My Pak Habib tried to explain to him and make him understands the meaning of the word 'death'. But it was futile. Every examples given were met with his shaken head. He even pulled Aishah and Amir into the conversation, in the attempt that Pak Habib would simplify things to their level.

          I was just afraid at the idea of explaining things to my children. Pak Habib, once, laughed at me when I attempted to explain how the eletrical current enables the televison to function. "Oii.... anak u tu baru 4 tahun....u terangkan macam dia dah 14 tahun...faham ke dia tu?", he chided. 

          If Pak Habib was unable to handle this, he might get to me, next. 

          True enough. Seated next to Pak Habib, he moved a step to his left, just close enough to reach me, eyes opened slightly wider than usual while his right brow curved higher,  to whisper, 'Mak tau tak?'. 

          As predicted, I made the attempt to elaborate on the idea and finally I saw him beginning to nod, en suite by both Aishah and Amir.  

          A smile formed on Pak Habib's face and we were glad that it finally made sense. Just to ensure that it did, Pak Habib asked, 'Zaid nak tanya abah ape-ape lagi?'.

          Zaid fell back into the step facing his father and wondered aloud,'Kalau sume orang dah meninggal dalam dunia ni, sape nak tanam orang yang meninggal last?'

Zaid and Abah

Jogging: My bubbly self...

by Nani-Syed Osman on Sunday, May 8, 2011 at 5:00am

Yong and I would carry on with our weekend jogging. As we approached the end of our lag, one morning, a male jogger was just beginning his.He threw us a warm smile as we crossed path. "Hai, cikgu. Matahari dah tegak baru nak mula jogging?," I questioned the jogger. Since we live in Tanjong Malim near UPSI, most people we ran into are teachers. Very presumptuous of me.
We decided that we'll have tosai for bfast and headed to the usual 24hr mamak restaurant. I like to pick the table closest to the street to avoid the aroma in the restaurant.The morning conversation was usually steered around our children and when is our next TT. A car swerved quite next to our table and out came the male jogger. He closed his car door and  stepped into the restaurant.
As he passed our table, both Yong and I looked up and Yong said to him, "Cepatnya cikgu? Berapa round hari ni?".
The male jogger stopped and answered, "2 je. Dah lama tak g jogging ni kena mula pelan-pelan. 2 tu cukup la buat masa ni".
I added, "Lagipun dah panas ni. 2 pun ok lah sbb yang pentingnya keluar peluh".
"Meh cikgu, nak join kami bfast?," being the normally friendly me, I invited him to join us at our table although we were almost finishing ours.
He smiled at the offer and declined,"Eh...takpe." and walked to an available table slightly far from ours.

As our gaze was still upon him, I asked Yong, "Sape tu Yong?"
Yong turned and looked at me, "Eh? I tak kenal sape. I ingat you yang kenal dia....."

The moral of the story is: Kami ber2 memang peramah!!!!   :-)

Poket Depan Baju Kurung

by Nani-Syed Osman on Sunday, May 8, 2011 at 12:09pm

All my years as a youngster, my baju kurung had a gentleman's pocket, sewn - top left. I had not own one with a side-pocket, common to others. Money was always tight and I usually had only a pair made each year. And, as my palm grew wider, so did my pocket. In 1981, F5, I asked my late mother to do one without, but she insisted that it was best.


Freshly ironed, I adorned my baju kurung, excited that the F1 Orientation Week would take place soon. As one of the receiving committee members, I was ready to assist the newbies to their rooms and help concerned parents pacified them.  Questions were thrown at me in regards to locations and things to expect.... and being my bubbly me, I was just too happy to lend a helping hand.


One after another, bags were being hauled up the 4 flights of stairs into the girl's dormitory. Since they were still petite compared to the lugged bags, I automatically took control over them. Despite their respective parents' disapproval, I continued offering my assisting hands, smiling, "Takpe pakcik, makcik.  Memang tugas saya."


I made sure that the freshies' belongings were locked into their respective lockers before pulling out their bedsheets. Demonstrating to them how to make their beds, I said, "Meh sini akak tunjuk cara nak bagi tegang cadar ni. Nanti bila kena kemas katil, buat macam ni ye?", a common reminder to the little ones.


As the 5th parents descended the staircase, I walked them to their parked car. Offering my hands to salam, I lowered my head as I placed, softly,  the tip of my nose on the back of each parent's right hand and managed a brief curtsy (which was common back then to illustrate respect). When, I brought my body to a standing position, a quick gesture approached my pocket. Taken aback, I saw that it was a rolled 1 Ringgit Malaysia, stuffed into it. I shook my head to show that it would be inappropriate for me to accept. "Ambek la...buat beli aiskerim", was the common respond.


At the end of the day, I had collected 12RM: a combination on 1RM and 2RM per parents, which was a lot for me. I had never had that much amount in my hands.


I related the incident and my fortune to my late mom when she came for a visit that first weekend. She smiled and winked at me and said, "See. Emak knows best".


The moral of the story: Never question your mother...Happy Mother's Day, Mak. May you rest in peace, if Allah permits.
- 31 Dec 1937 to 18 Dec 2008.


Asmah Mohd Noor

A sudden pang of old memories appearing and flooding my cluttered head. I've realised i've missed u....pls be reminded dat u were never absent in my memory...regardless...