New Taste Buds

Since birth, I was taught to eat on the floor. Umi once said that our holy Prophet Muhammad s.a.w used to eat on the floor; so, it is a sunnah and we should follow it because he who follows the sunnah will be rewarded a hundred times of martyr: Umi told this later when I became a grown up. In addition we also eat together in a dulang. Kids share one and parent the other one. There was one thing I was too concern about when eating. We sometimes used to share our drinks. So, when it comes to share with Umi’s, I would sip from the same spot she drinks. What does it tastes? – err…I mean, her saliva? Emm… a bit…err…a weird some taste. Abu’s? Well, almost like Umi’s – I say, the taste. They are kinda…I don’t know how to say, but it doesn’t sounds nice – I say, it’s not my flavor. The next time, when I share with them drinks, I take a glimpse on which spot on my ‘holy’ glass they nip. After all, I should only avoid that spot and drink on another. After sometime, I become used to sharing drinks without concerning anything. I said to my tongue: just ignore it and drink to the most definite pleasure!

Sneeze Craze

When I was a kid, Umi used to teach me simple sunnahs like saying Alhamdulillah after sneezing. Then, the other person who hears will reply Yarhamkallah and then I should respond by enouncing Yahdikumullah. It was quite enjoying, as everytime I sneeze, Umi would answer me back. It was kinda two way communication without saying a single word – I just whoosh and I’ll hear Umi’s reply. So, one day, I was upstairs playing something, while Umi was cooking. I sneezed. I said Alhamdulillah. Then I waited for the reply. Quiet. Just the sound of some stuff being fried downstairs could be heard. ‘Alhamdulillah’, I enunciated once again. Quiet. Since there was no reply, I moved to the stairs. ‘Alhamdulillah!’ I reiterated – this time louder. Yet, Umi didn’t hear me. My voice sunk within the loud frying sound. I was lazy to walk down the stairs, so I just yelled again. ‘Alhamdulillahhh! Alhamdulillahhh! Alhamdulillahhh!’ Until I yelled almost in tears, Umi never answered me. Feeling irritated and failed to gain attention, I cried at the rails, yet, still work my best to speak out loud till Umi hears my little voice. After a while, Umi came and held her crying son up her shoulders, not knowing what had actually happened.

Trapped

There was one cute accident happened during our early years in Farouki’s – three of us siblings being trapped in our parent’s bathroom. It was on account of us for being too jakun to experience our parent’s toilet. This sense of jakunism had raised us up to become enthusiastic persons though.

Now, there was a bathtub at the right, side by side to a sink, and a toilet bowl opposite the door. The three small kids were already in the bathroom. To ensure Umi won’t notice us, I shut the door. There we were, like small monkeys, climbing the tub up to the sink, playing with the big shampoo bottles, cleansers, shaver and other toiletries, as if we had never seen them before (well, of course kids were never exposed to those such things).

After some mess, we found ourselves trapped, for me, who was the tallest among the three, could not reach the knob. Even I forced my feet to jump with all might; I still couldn’t reach the knob. So, there we were, stamping the door like hell. ~ Umiiii!!! Bukak kan pintu ni!!! ~ Tired of stamping and yelling, we cried. After a short time, Umi entered the room. Hearing sounds of crying from the toilet, she dashed there – lo and behold! Her kids were wooing like crazy! Ilyas was already crying on his back – too miserable, perhaps.

A Name-making

We were once visited by Aunt Mala, our garrulous aunt, who stayed with her family in Warsaw, Poland. Aunt Mala, along with Uncle Din and their only daughter, Tasha, made a sojourn to our house in a particular month in 1994. I could never remember what had actually happened during their visit, but taking a glance at several pictures in my album, I could see a picture of myself standing amidst Aunt Mala and Tasha, with an almost – want – to – cry face. During their presence, we had already had a new household; my smallest sister, Hajira. From an old picture, Uncle Din was hugging her by the fireplace.

I heard from my mother that Hajira was not her actual name my parents intended to give. They initially preferred Hajar or Hajr, which means ‘stone’ in Arabic. But then, one day, my Mum, along with Hajira went to a Pakistani’s house for Ta’lim (I would describe this term later). The Pakistanis there asked her name. ‘It’s not nice. Not suitable! Hajira? No, no. Hajrah, Hajrah. Yes, that’s better. You should call her Hajrah.’ One of them suggested. For some time, Umi pondered about it and back home she highlighted the matter to my father. At last, they come to a decisive appellation; an amalgamation of the initial name and the one proposed by the Pakistanis: Hajar + Hajrah = Hajira.

My Hairstyle = Bold Always

In this house, I had my first haircut; Umi is my first barber. Squatting on a small pink bench, I left my bunch of hair to be bulldozed by the kinda oblong – shaped machine. Calmly, Umi stripped my hair, line by line as I watch them fall to the old newspaper. My first haircut was like a cast from Umi’s own hands– I had never let my hair grow longer than an inch – since then; this is my fixed hairstyle for ages.

First Pinch

The first time of being punished was a very remarkable one. My mum was a pinch master – until I have reached my teen ages, I, still am feared with her sharp pinches. Her first pinch made me shriek to the top voice. I could not remember why I was punished – maybe because of bullying my young brother, Ilyas. On top of seeing the red spoiled mark on my right foot, I burst into tears. The loud scream, I say, may have stimulated her to instantly fetch the feeding bottle, three – quarter full with milk. Then, on the double seat sofa, laid I, a four year old boy who was not supposed to nibble teats anymore. Sipping the creamy milk from the tit after a hue and a cry leads me to a deep sleep. The feed bottle slowly move to the left, slip after the small teeth, fall down to the floor and roll a bit before it stays still. Later, Umi fetched the bottle and placed it on a table.

An Annoying Annecdote

It was a gloomy evening of 3 when a little kid strolled down the garden and paced the narrow stony pathway to the other side of the house. For one clear mission – to find the staircase – he pushed his little body fast towards the end of the path. The little steps came to a halt when the kid was tapped harshly at the shoulder. Instantaneously, he twisted and found a guy of early teens giggling. Within a second, the mischief slid away beyond the thick ferns. There, amidst the garden, was the little boy, crying on account of being disturbed. He ran with a loud woo to his mother and asked her to usher the naughty guy. Out comes the sympathy mother to the garden, with her veils and purdah on. After a while, she went in and left the kid playing outside. Then comes the guy, again, tapping the boy’s shoulder hard and then run a giggle away back to his hiding. Off goes the little kid, crying back home, nagging again for his mother’s help. This anecdote reiterated a couple of times and the mother gets sick of her poor little child. For the last time, the mother brings her child in and locked the front door shut.

Farouki's

At a particular corner of the square – plan – view of Townley Garden is an old – looking double storey house. The garden was large enough to park a car and a motorcycle. A short drive at the left end, a stretch of a row of trees – kinda pine, serving as the garden’s wall, and a stony path at the other end made up a simple garden of Farouki’s.

The white front door, facing the drive leads a living room of an old sofa set two small tables, a small fireplace and a thick old carpet wrapping each inch of the cold floor. Not to forget, there was also a white shoe rack aside the front door.

Straight ahead of the living room is the heart of the house – the kitchen, which I could say small, but wide in length. The arc was remarkable since I used to play simple computer games at the small corner there.

The bedroom I used to sleep with Maryam and Ilyas was just right beside the small hall stretched from the left side of the fireplace. There was actually no bed, so we spread out our own mattress and sleep together in the everyday – freeze – to – almost – death cold night . I could never forget a stupid habit of curling half – naked in my dark green mattress – I could not imagine why did I felt good for doing so. Well, a kid is just a kid. From the wooden door of my bedroom, I could see the master bedroom straight away at the other end.

The backdoor was the least visited place, since the backyard seems to daunt me as if it was a thousand - years - abandoned graveyard. The square backyard was too dark and ugly – there were too much wild bushes, along with big massive trees of gargantuan shadows. Even the wooden fence at the end was almost invisible for it was covered up by incalculable wild tendrils. Nevertheless, I’d stepped at the spooky backyard for twice or thrice, as I was too keen to know how it feels to be in the middle of the patch.

Our neighbor upstairs seems a true stranger to me. I can’t remember whether they – yes, they are a couple – are black, white or Pakistani. I accidentally saw them for just a couple of times and never ever saw them again. Yet, I was too curious to know how they could live upstairs since my little eyes had never seen any signs of staircases. And because of this curiosity, I spent my life at Farouki’s house searching for the hidden staircase. Sounds like a detective story, huh? =)

A New Life Starts

1993 was the starting point of my life in England, for my father was going to pursue his doctorate in Electrical Engineering. That was no tinge but a great step of memories that colored four years of my boyhood life. This world of true harmony and beauty was among the best epoch of my own life that I have ever gone through ever since. A brief route told by Umi, my Mum: we were first at Normandy Road, near Ayub Kika’s house (I’ll describe later who Ayub Kika is), then at Farouki’s * and last at Bayat’s*, both in the small, peace, and lovely residential area of Townley Garden. The humble domicile at an enigma street of Normandy Road had never result a clear image, so the only things I could recall was life at Farouki’s and Bayat’s.

(the name stands for its owner)*

Asphyxiated

Our family’s first home in Malaysia was in Sri Rampai, Selangor. The only memory left is me suffocating myself with a five cent coin in a wardrobe. It was on a particular evening my little eyes caught sight of a coin somewhere on the floor in my mum’s room, upstairs. It seems like something edible and I put it straight inside my mouth. There was a sense of pleasure that leads me to open Umi’s big wardrobe, climb inside, squat down and let myself flavor the coin. As it wobbles around the cavity, the coin suddenly slipped down and struck my throat; it stuck there. The feel was damn dreadful – it was as if I was smothered by a noose. For a while, I choked and am not able to voice out a single sound. Painstakingly, I crawled out from the wooden wardrobe to the door, not knowing what to do. ‘Arrk…agh…agh...umi..tolong lah... ’A mother has indeed, a brilliant instinct. On the nick of time, Umi was already in front. Alas! Her child was suffocating half – dead! Buk! Umi gave a motherly smack on my back. Thanks god, the coin shot out my mouth after a couple of smack. There I was, staying still on the floor, blue - faced and shocked.

Tickle MAX!

As far as this soul had ever remembered, the only anecdote at Wan Fatimah’s dwelling was being tickled half – dead by Kak Ida, my niece. Wan Fatimah, my Mum’s mum was willing to keep her eye on me during my mum’s delivery – it was my younger sister, Maryam. I could never imagine the whole house but the hall I slept with Kak Ida. It was stretched long from end to end, amidst the wall a TV set, with two vases of old petals, standing on a firm wooden shelf clamping the TV. Small jars of something ambiguous for a kid to observe, and some frames of old, old pictures were set apart in a row on the top shelf. The long stretch was the track he used to escape Kak Ida’s unstoppable libido for tickling. Yet, his ten years old cousin would never let go of him – no matter on which spot on the stretch does he run, she will catch and tickle him to the max.

The Hero of Tears

Tok Salam, my respected Grandpa used to call me bintang air mata (The Hero of Tears), for I cry a lot during my little ages. Even if I lost my Mum for a short while I would burst into tears. Ironically, these current days (I could say since high school), I hated crying – and I even almost can’t cry. Any super touching anecdote or TV dramas would never disturb me. Neither. Yet, I still cried during my teen years (for some reasons), which I would recount later in this long piece of handiwork.

An Enthusiastic Child

The absence of both his parents – awaiting a new coming household – was a tiresome, helpless, yet a zealous one. A triple vroom from Pak Tam’s bike was enough to alert him to seek for a hope – bringing event – he was longing: his parents’ return. From an enigmatic hope to a routine, every day the small boy would make a beeline to the locked grill of the front door, watch his uncle’s motorcycle pass by and quickly turn and run upstairs to view a clearer site. A baby’s sprint would never result a satisfaction. Upstairs, he would see nothing; no bikes, no Pak Tam. All was just a quiet sound of a kampung environs – the slow, calm breeze and the roar of very few cars speeding off the corner – for Wan’s humble domicile is positioned aside a turn. The little boy was extremely keen to flavor the clearest view of Pak Tam’s riding his motorbike to the front gates,so one particular day, it happened to be that Wan forgot to lock up the grill and it was left opened a quarter. The eager boy innocently slipped out and made his way up to the gate. Lo and behold! At the very moment roared Pak Tam’s bike, twirling through the bendy entrance and giving a sudden halt right in front of the little boy’s foot. A piece of usher was enough to engender him crying all the way back home. Not to forget, the sullen boy got his Drypers wet.

A kid's first memo

As far as I’ve ever known, my first limpid memo of my life is hurting my own toe. A three years old kid never knows what a pestle can do and bring to him – neither benign nor a deleterious effect. Too enthusiastic to know what might happen if the black, rough and boulder object aside the sink is touched, the greenhorn tried his best to reach it by his own. Not to his favor, it toppled down, straight onto his small, lovely toe, leaving him in a loud scream of agony. For the first time in his life he screamed an ultimate excruciation. At that very instantaneous spot, toddled his pregnant Mum to the three- feet sink, picked him up her fine shoulders and cradled the poor kid. In his mind, still vivid, is the figure of the buaian – rocking up and down, with the ultimate pleasure and harmony a small baby can flavor. Awaken out of nowhere, the very first sense he felt was a rough, yet gentle hand of her sympathetic Grandma, Wan Zainab.

The Journey Begins...

This long tale is a reminiscent of my entire childhood memories that I have ever remembered. The prose narrative of my life that occasionally runs wildly across the virtual horizon will I put together in this piece of saga. This is no tarradiddle but my true lifeline...