Note

भगवान का नाम दयालु

A quick note for myself.
As a fan of languages, these are the languages I should master by the age of 30 (insyallah):

- Semitic languages
- Hindi 
- Tamil
- French
- Javaness

Untold tales.

Listening to tales from Opah gives me a mashed up feelings of happiness, sad, enlightenment and other side emotions as well. Since she's not well after the mild stroke, her speech was impaired and she's not strong as she used to be.

So this semester break I'm here with her, keeping an eye on her just in case Bibik needs any help. So last night during dinner, we had Maggi Kari because Opah was longing for it. She said:

'Opah ni teringin nak makan Maggi. Makan nasik dah muak. Bibik! Masakkan Maggi, kita semua makan Maggi malam ni. Tapi, diam diam tau. Jangan bagitau mama. Nanti mama marah Opah.'

We laughed, then I assist her to the kitchen. During our secret dinner, she starts telling stories how she met with Atok in the 50's. Opah is telling her version of 'How I Met Your Atok' in between her mouthful.

She met with Atok via a friend. Atok, from Sungai Besar Selangor, was in MCKK, Perak and Opah, Pasir Putih Ipoh origin, was in a mengaji school in Ipoh. So the friend approaches Opah telling her that someone wants to get to know her, and she wasn't that reluctant to say no. From there on, they sent letters with photos of each other, with good news and bad news, with a date to meet and so forth. Opah told me, she only met with Atok about 3 times because Kuala Kangsar and Ipoh back then was quite far by bus, and Atok wasn't from a rich background. 

The first time she laid her eyes on Atok, butterflies were all over her stomach. She felt queasy and anxious. It's no surprise, because Atok was heavenly handsome. With the MCKK uniform, white shirt and trousers and shining black shoe and hair was combed to the side with a curl in front, those were the heart-throb fashion back in the days. 

She continued her stories from when Atok went to ask for her hand, their first house, the children, the ups and downs of their life, and her last moments with Atok before he died of stroke. 

'Masa Atok meninggal, Opah langsung tak nangis. Dari hospital, kat rumah masa ada jenazah, sampailah kebumi. Opah tak rasa apa apa. (pause) Tapi bila malam tu tidor Opah nangis sampai Subuh sebab baru Opah rasa sunyi sangat malam tu tak ada Atok..'

By the time she finished her stories, clear tears shed from her eyes. I heard she murmured silently 'Opah rindu betul Atok, insyallah nanti jumpa.' and Maghrib was called upon. She got up, went to her bedroom and I stayed there in the kitchen. It made me realise, she's strong on the outside but on the inside she is very fragile.

Why?

ในชื่อของพระเจ้าพระผู้ทรงกรุณาปรานี

Everyone has their own personal style of garment in regards when it is time to 'hit the sack'. Some people are comfortable in satin pajamas, others like to have only baggy and loose shorts on while others prefer to be indecisive and indifferent on the matter. For me, I prefer myself to put on a nice cotton t-shirt and a sarong.

Why sarong? 

Whaa, lelaki Melayu terakhir! 

You're weird. 

Tak takut ke terselak nampak ****?

Among other popular reactions. I recently asked myself the same question, why? After hours of intense deep reflection, I obtained some acceptable answers to the rhetorical questions.

One: As a Melayu by heart, our family are proud of the customs. Abah used to wear sarong whenever he's at home, but not anymore. He's been westernised and prefer shorts instead. But back in kampong, it is a familiar view to see all the uncles and abahs wearing sarong. Maybe I picked it up from there. The funny thing is, among all the cousins I am prominently seen in a sarong.

Two: I don't like it when my *youknowwhat* can't move freely as it pleases, or as motion wants it to move about. Sarong has unlimited (so to speak) space for it to move and for me to be comfortable as well. Plus, it reduces the heat trapped inside. Higher chances for me to have healthy babies! *wink.

Three: In any cases, I would option for a squatting toilet rather than a sitting one. It's just more comfortable. So in the case of sarong vs. pantaloons, sarong can easily be lifted up once the call of nature kicks in and I am one of those men with bowels eagerly to release the stress whereas with pantaloons, I have to take it off and hang it somewhere in the toilet. That takes time and I don't have time for all the little shenanigans. Verdict: sarong wins!

Inevitably, sarong RuLeZZz!

Kita.

Kita kata “astaghfirullah” tapi hati masih gemar akan maksiat.
Kita kata “wa atubu ilaih” tapi jasad masih melakukan dosa sama.
Kita kata “wa nadimna ya Allah” tapi kesilapan lalu masih kita ulangi.

Kita kata “subhanallah” tapi kita tidak mampu menghayatinya.
Kita kata “alhamdulillah” tapi kita masih tidak bersyukur dengan kurniaanNya.
Kita kata “Allahuakbar” tapi cinta kita lebih kepada dunia.

Kita kata “ma fi qalbi ghairullah” tapi masih ada ruang di hati kita untuk insan yang tidak halal.
Kita kata “aku tak layak ke syurga, tapi aku tak sanggup ke nerakaMu” namun kita hidup di dunia seakan-akan kuat untuk rasa pedih api neraka.

Kita kata kita ingin mendekatiNya,
Namun amal kita tak seiring dengan kata-kata kita.

Saya malu dengan sepasang mata kurniaanMu ini,
Kerana air mata yang mengalir seakan-akan sia-sia.
Saya malu dengan tangan yang sudah lelah mengelap air mata,
Kerana tingkah laku pemiliknya ini tidak menggambarkan saya kesal.
Bahkan saya malu dengan sang burung yang berkicau,
Kerana saya insan yang dinodai dosa..
Sedang sang burung tidak disentuh walau sekelumit dosa.


- Anonnymous, of Tumblr.