The 'tudung' in all its form

It was somewhat strange attending a wedding on a week night. Simply because weddings are usually held over the weekends. Still, when nothing less than royalty were the guests-of-honour, the host probably had to work around their time-table. At least they came in full force - from the Sultan and Permaisuri to the next-in-line and his consort. Not to mention the string of VIPs that make up the Royal Court and the state government. I must admit - it was an elegant affair. Kudos to the host and his event organisers.

Anyway, as with all weddings that I attended, I was in observer mode. People-watching - the women especially - can be so enriching. What is it about weddings that seem to bring out the best in them? Best baju kurung, best handbag, best jewellery; these days - best tudung, or rather, best way to use it. Draped, drooped, and dangled. The tudung has become a fashion item. The unmistakeably Indonesian ones especially - one that you can spot a mile away - have never had it so good. On the heads of these Muslim fashionistas, they come beaded, embroidered, ornamented.

Last night, I marvelled at the way some ladies wound the selendang round their head without actually donning the tudung, and yet not a strand of hair in sight. Certainly no dirth of creativity, I must say. Hours of practice and wear to get it right, no doubt. Wish my fingers were equally deft! Of course as my eyes wandered, my mind pondered - what were we covering? The hair or the aurat? What matters? Is any form of head cover a semblance of muslimah attire? Clearly, fashion ruled the night - headwise or otherwise.

To say that I was appalled would be an understatement. But how else would you describe strong emotions that were a combination of disgust, horror and disbelief? Those were my feelings when I read about the bag-snatcher who is now in a coma as a result of being beaten up by several guys. Purportedly, to teach him a lesson for his wrongdoing. But what lesson was the Datin teaching her son, and his friends, when she (according to the newspaper) instructed him to do so? Tit-for-tat? Don't get me wrong; of course I do not condone bag-snatching, or any form of thievery for that matter. But to have someone beaten up - into a coma - infront of you? Is that not itself a crime? Almost Mafia-like, the stuff of Hollywood fiction.

What was the Datin thinking? Or, wasn't she? To drive home a point that crime doesn't pay? Or, that the title gives her the right to mete out her own punishment? If so, it is clearly a case of an exaggerated sense of self-importance. Dare I suggest 'anger management' instead? If she did actually ask her son to do her bidding, did she not realise that she was sowing the seeds of criminal behaviour in her son? If at this point he wasn't able to define the line between right and wrong, what hope is there after this? In no way can this be the track to raising a caring family, much less a caring society.

The Datin needs to learn a lesson too. That no one is above the law. If nothing else, so that other title holders will not deem it their God-given right to inflict punishment or retribution at their whim and fancy. Try turning the tables around - what if it were her son that got beaten up into a coma? How would she react? I may not have all the facts of the case; but to know that another woman can have another woman's son beaten up severely over a handbag leaves me reeling. Just as in no way can crime - no matter how minor - be justified, neither can the act of taking the law into your own hands.

I hope the guy recovers. Meanwhile, my heart goes out to the mother. I can imagine the trauma she's undergoing - something I would not wish upon any mother; not even the handbag-mad Datin.

Women of Substance

Today, as I stepped into the park for my morning walk, there was no mistaking the all too familiar smell wafting in the air. You either hate it or love it - the pungency of the durian! Simply overpowering. Too powerful to ignore in fact. No, I'm not about to enthuse about the king of fruit; nor is this an ode to nature's piece de resistance. Instead, I want to tell you about these women who are about as savvy as a Harvard marketing graduate (or even better), and made of similar stuff that Iaccoca was born with.

Not one to miss out on a golden opportunity, they ply their wares at the park from as early as 5.30 am every morning to make sure that they will not miss out on the early birds at the park. Between them, they have designated their own space - at intervals along the 2.5 km circular track outlining the park. Their table? Ready-made - the concrete park benches - upon which to display their merchandise. There is the taufu woman who sells just about anything that's made from soya bean, fish balls, and then some. There's the sprightly 60-something - who, given half the chance can sell ice to the Eskimos - with all manner of things gadgety and Chinese (meaning, made in China). "Trust me!" she squeals, at the top of her voice, to a lame onlooker - "Exercise only cannot; must massage at home, maa." If it is just your luck, you might depart with the massage thingy that promises to sort out your aching joints, in all directions. She is persuasion personified! Then there is the queen-of-fruits - with her colourful array of starfruits, pineapples, papayas, pomelos and rambutans. "Homegrown", she's quick to add with a swish of her rubber-gloved hands. I suspect she means organic compost too. Another one specialises in breads and buns, all neatly wrapped in plastic - "Ready to take away". And still another - the forlorn-looking woman who sits patiently by her styrofoam container, selling cartons of goat's milk. A white cardboard stuck on each side of the container extols the qualities of goat's milk that makes you wonder if it is already too late for you. Then, of course, there is the durian woman. She doesn't bring a lot of durians, mind you; but they all get taken up by the time the walkers straggle home, leaving her free to embark on her exercise routine.

The durian may be irresistable; but these women are simply gutsy! You might disapprove; after all, there is a time and place for selling. They are in the way of people enjoying their morning walk. The smell of the durian ''pollutes'' the crisp morning air, and obliterates the subtle fragrance of the bunga tanjung. Do you come to the park to have vendors in your face and ears?

But if selling is their livelihood, these women have chosen as good a place as any. Talk about location. Every morning people come in droves to the park - you have a potential market right there. If someone is selling, someone's bound to buy. Resourcefulness knows no time and place, and these women have got it.

On the death of a friend

FL was part of our 'gang' in university. We met in our first year as undergraduates residing in Third College, Univ. of Malaya. As our rooms were on the same floor, it was inevitable that we would bump into one another often along the corridors. Plus, we had common friends. Naturally, the seeds of friendship were sown and nurtured through the three years in Third R.C. as we played, ploughed and persevered through our studies. These were exciting times as we were of the age when we were coming into our own and discovering our place in the merry-go-round of life. By the end of the first year, FL, NO, ZB, HD and I had become a 'gang'. Not that we were inseparable. We had other friends of course, but there was an affinity among us. FL would take us to her house in Sect. 16, PJ where we met her parents and siblings. Her mother was a gracious lady - immaculately groomed each time I saw her, never a strand of hair out of place. She reflected a woman of stature - in manner and speech. FL's father (now deceased) - whom she pictured as a strict and no-nonsense man - would make the effort to talk to us whenever he was around. The oldest son - ML - now a famous personality in his own right, was ever so charming, and even then, as a schoolboy, he was the epitome of PR (public relations). We visited several times with FL, and I remember being warmly received every time. FL reflected her family well - courteous, kind and well-meaning.

Sad to say, after graduation, our paths seldom met, although I kept track of her through common friends. We all attended her sister's wedding in the Sect. 16 house, but our meetings since had been few and far between. In 2006, FL, NO and I met for lunch at Secret Recipe in Taman TUN. By then, the three of us were retired from employment; but FL was facing a dilemma of sorts. She even contemplated returning to JB, and starting some kind of home business like 'baking'. Of course, she never did, as I discovered later. We exchanged mobile nos. and had been in touch through sms ever since.

A couple of months back, NO, ZB and I visited FL in HUKM a few days after she had had an operation in her back. As expected, she was bed-ridden and complained of pain and discomfort. But I thought she looked well, and she kept up her usual cheery self for much of the time. Just like her. It was divine mercy that brought us together on that day. Except for ZB who lives in KL, I am from Ipoh and NO lives in Kuala Terengganu. But on that fateful day, we were all in KL and we arranged to visit her in hospital. Unknown to us, it was the last time we would see FL.

Yesterday evening, NO called from Kuala Terengganu to tell me that FL had passed away earlier in the day. Apparently, she never left the hospital. A friend, ZA, had called me two weeks back to say that her smses to FL had gone unanswered. ZA said it was not like her at all. Naturally, she was concerned. ZB and I had been meaning to visit her again, but we never managed it. With regret.

Takziah - to her husband and only daughter, to Mak Chik and ML. FL touched my life, and I remember her with fondness. Semoga Allah mencucuri rahmat ke atas rohnya. Al-Fatihah.

Last farewell

This morning I attended the funeral of a grand aunt - my mother's aunt - who breathed her last yesterday evening. The last time I visited her was about two months ago. She had become hard of hearing, her speech incoherent, and her body reduced to skin and bones. Not really surprising for one who was past 90. Over the last few years, she had become invalided and needed help with practically everything. But as I clasped her frail hands in mine, she gazed into my eyes and I could sense that she barely recognised me. Not that she was at fault. Her mental faculties were still sound - in the sense that she showed no sign of senility. But I did not visit her enough over the years to expect her to recognise me at the first instance. She visited us often when I was growing up, and was an important member of the 'senior circle' on my mother's side who would always be included in important family occasions like weddings and kenduri. Naturally, as she and I got older, I saw less and less of her. Still, I remember her dearly as one of those who was always nice to me. Of all my mother's aunts and uncles, she was the last to go. I must remind my children that they must visit aunts, uncles, cousins and other relatives whenever they can, and not limit the visits to festive occasions only. The bond must be kept and kindled, and especially so when someone has fallen ill. As I looked around at all the relatives from near and far who took time to bid her a last farewell, I'm sure one thought was on everybody's mind.

What is to become of the son she left behind? You see, this is a special child, who, as an aftermath of a brain surgery when he was very young, is left severely handicapped and hapless. With all limbs contorted, he moves by means of a wheelchair, and 'speaks' in grunts and groans, understood only by his mother. She had devoted the last fifty years of her life taking care of him as only a mother would. While mother and son had not been for want of anything material, her constant worry had been that she would die leaving him behind. She did. Amidst all the funeral preparations, he sat quietly in his wheelchair with tears streaming down his cheeks endlessly. It was heart-wrenching to say the least. In spite of it all, even he understands death, and the loss of a loved one. In his mind, he is probably pondering his fate too.

Al-fatihah.

Questions

All I ask is only this
That in my life
I see myself as I am
With my smiles and tears
And all in between
As I am
One spirit in a universe of millions
I ask only
That this thought remains with me
As I grow older
That I may never grow too old
To say I may be wrong.

Thinking in English is un-Malay??

At a workshop in KL recently, I befriended a young lady who wanted to know what I thought of the view that Malays who think in English (and speak English) are less Malay. I was floored, not altogether by the opinion, but that it should still prevail to this day. Such a perception, I think, has its roots in the populist sentiment that one should not glorify one's former colonial masters, and that speaking their language is seen as doing so. An emotionally-charged issue, no doubt. And, somehow, the natural deduction is that if you speak in English, then you must also think in English. That's almost bordering on blasphemy, no? Anyway, this is what I think:

Language, or speech as the case may be, is a vehicle of expression or communication. In any language, it has to be appropriate to the subject matter and to the audience in order to convey the message or to make yourself understood. Your ability to articulate your thoughts, no matter in what language, would also determine its clarity and coherence.

How you think, i.e. your thinking process (the cerebral function?), is another thing altogether, and it can be in English, Mandarin, Urdu or Greek. Undoubtedly, this process of forming your thoughts is influenced and moulded by many factors - family, economic and social background, education, peers, even books you read and films you watch. I believe that a person is a by-product of his upbringing and the culture that he has assimilated. So, how does thinking in English make you less Malay when you were born Malay, raised in a Malay family with all its accompanying Malay values, and grew up as a Malay?

Are you less Malay if you choose to replace all these influences with elements un-Malay? Like having kippers for breakfast instead of nasi lemak? Wearing the hat instead of the selendang? Does one have to think in English to wear a dress? Or, does wearing a dress means one is less a Malay? Which begs the question: what makes a Malay? Is it the clothes you wear, the language you speak, the food you eat? Are these not just the forms - the external manifestations? What about values that you uphold? What matters surely is not what language you use to think in or speak, but the values that you represent. And sound universal values can come in any language.

What of the person who thinks in English and then express his/her thoughts in Malay? Does that make him/her more Malay? Thinking in English does not equal thinking like an English. Nor does wearing a hat, dress or shoes in the house make you any more English than saying 'How do you do?'

What about me? Not only do I think in English, speak in English (albeit, when the occasion calls for it) but also write in English! Oh dear (how English of me), that makes me less a Malay thrice over.

Think about it. Whatever your language. As long as you THINK.