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My Nokia 3200 hand phone rang, and I read 'Mummy' on the LCD screen. With a feeling of dread that I rarely felt, I answered the phone.
"Hello?"
"Ira, Tok Siti..." my Mother sobbed. Two and two clicked together, the long expected but not really appreciated notion came to mind.
"Is she...?" I need not finish the question.
"She died last night." I inhaled deeply, and let it out. “I found her this morning, not breathing.”
She was 89 years old.
Tok Siti was the last surviving matriarch from both parentages that I have. Tok Wan, Nenek and Datuk Hitam had all died before. She taught me to smoke cigars, and I remembered her constant chewing of the sireh. The squishing sound of teeth grinding upon sireh, the white chalk applied of the forest green leaf, the seed of the sireh, and the red stain left in her teeth. I used to find it so fascinating.
However, for the last 9 years of her life she was bedridden, senile, constantly lying on her side, chanting the zikir, watching the 1 o'clock news; courtesy of a wayward drug addict clobbering her head with a club and stole her gold jewelry.
Her frail form laid out on the bed has both been the source of resentment and curiosity for me. I barely remember any conversation that we ever had, except of her scolding me for smoking too many cigars at the age of 5. Her unfortunate senile mindset let wandering constantly from the present to the past, never recognizing me or my siblings. My, yet undeveloped, mind could not comprehend then the reason why we couldn't go on family holidays, why we were at home all the time and not out holidaying 'just like everyone else'. I used to resent the fact that we could never go out long because my Mother insisted that we shouldn't leave grandmother alone at home for too long. I resented the fact that my chores included spoon feeding her with buns soaked in tea to soften it for her to eat. She influenced the life at home so much and so much of my Mother's attention was on Tok Siti instead of her nuclear family. Instead of me, how jealous was I of my Mother's affections.
However disjointed the memories I have of her, she was actually a remarkable woman. You see, Tok Wan my grandfather died from colon cancer when the youngest of her brood was about twelve years old; leaving her with seven children to feed and raise. Back then; being a single mother and/or a widow was an even more challenging than it is now. Tok Siti, didn't merely raise her children well, she was also one of the wealthiest woman in the Bayan Lepas district, and had the fortune of being one of the few women educated to be Federation of Malaya's first British-trained teachers in Penang. She was also a businesswoman, investing here and there in various ventures also owning land. She was shrewd, hardworking, fierce, and a fighter. Many remembered her kindly, and she was even awarded a medal for her accomplishments.
How did she do it, you ask? From what I could glean off my Mother, each of her children was sent to separate homes of impoverished relatives who loved and treated them each as their own. Since my grandmother cleverly chose relatives with children of the same age. My uncles and aunt grew up no less enriched or loved. In fact, they had substitute fathers, extra mothers, more siblings, even more cousins, and the list goes on. We ended up with having the whole village (now town) behind Tok Siti's bungalow house as family.
I remember my younger days there fondly, for every Hari Raya Aidifitri (Eid) spent there, my pockets would be stuffed with green packets of money given by affectionate relatives.
As I stepped there in front of the now un-kept yard of my grandmother's bungalow, taken care of by my eldest bachelor uncle Pak Cak, I felt numb. Despite not really feeling anything for the old lady who was on her way from my home in Kuala Lumpur to Penang, she was still family, and her blood flows in my veins. Hell, I even have her temper, or so I have been told. I had grudgingly accepted that she would always be a large part of my life, but as I stood there, I saw only the derelict home in its former glory when there was still life and laughter in it, instead of sombre elders; Mak Ciks and Pak Ciks in their mourning attire.
I wore a bright blue baju kurung, her favourite colour. That earned a few odd looks.
I couldn't believe that she's not around anymore.
When her body finally arrived from Kuala Lumpur in a police body van with my parents she was carried into the cleared living room and laid on a soft mattress. Her head was placed facing the direction of the Kaabah and despite being wrapped in white Kafan cloth her face was allowed to be revealed so that we could kiss her cheeks and see her one last time.
I did so, looking at her peaceful face. She looked like she was asleep, finally at rest, her face as sinless as a baby.
Then we read Yassin for her soul, asking Allah to forgive her sins, for her afterlife to be wonderful, for her soul to be set to rest.
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Azira Aziz
There are no definitive truths, there are no definitive facts, all we have are mere opinions, of which significance is derived from consensus.
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