I "Stole" - or was it borrow? - a Book!

First my apologies for not feeding you with new posts. I do not wish to offer any excuses.

Unlike other males, I was and am not the rough and tough type. My late father was a "serious" (stern-looking?) person. He enforces strict discipline upon me. Since I was a pre-schooler, my father ordered me to "menghafal" (that was his term for "study" and study, in early 1960s, means going through my own exercise books or the few textbooks that I had) every evening after dinner. This forced "reading" of my own "masterpieces" in my exercise books and the textbooks made me love - or was it addicted to - reading. And since then I simply love reading.

Newspapers rarely reach my village during my primary school days. But the cupboards in our bilik guru were well-stocked with books, thick and thin. Every time I had a chance to enter the bilik guru, I couldn't help but lay my eyes onto the well-stocked glass cupboards. Deep in my heart, I felt curious and I wish I could borrow those books and read them. But my fear of the teachers prevented me from trying my luck in asking for permission to borrow the books.

When I was in standard six, my class teacher always put a particular book on his table. One fine day, I went to his table and asked my teacher if I can borrow the book, "Ranjau Sepanjang Jalan", a novel by Shahnon Ahmad. To my dismay, he flatly said no! I didn't understand why the teacher was so "kedekut' with the book.

I still could not contain my curiosity towards the books in the glass cupboards in the bilik guru. Finally, I resolved that I wanted to "borrow" the books - one each time - from the cupboard and read them.

My biggest problem was how to "take" the book from its secure location. One fine day, I stayed behind after school. My school has no afternoon session. On that Thursday - Fridays and Saturdays were our weekend - I stayed behind after the last bell. The gardener went from room to room to lock the doors and the windows. While he was on the other end of the building, I quickly went into the yet-to-be-locked bilik guru and quickly grabbed a thick book and made a delicate casual walk towards the school-gate. As soon as I passed the gate, I opened the thick book titled "Bersama Sang Suria" and read it while walking home in the hot afternoon sun. I was careful enough not to allow my father to know that I brought home a book without any permission from the school.

I finished reading the thick book - a Malay translation of an anthology of western fables - within three days.

I thought getting the book from the cupboard was the biggest hurdle. Actually getting the thick book back was harder than I had imagined. Bringing the book in my small schoolbag to the school was already a big risk. I was restless everytime I was in the school compound. I was really afraid if anyone ever discovered the book in my possession. You see, I was a good boy; and if I was to be caught stealing, I couldn't imagine what would my father's reaction be. I would surely be caned for tarnishing his reputation. Anyway, I managed to put the book back onto its original spot in the glass cupboard in the bilik guru on the fifth day after reading it!

My lust for reading doesn't stop there! Until now no one knows that I did "steal" a book to read. In my next posting I will relate another of my experience with books and reading!

Tok Ki Had A Shotgun

It has been a while since my last posting. There is no particularly special reason for that other than sheer procrastination on my part.

My late paternal grandfather lived to a ripe old age of 90 when he died of natural causes. I called him Tok Ki (Terengganuan for grandfather, perhaps a contrite of "datuk lelaki"). During his lifetime, Tok Ki had many plot of lands. Other than the many rubber smallholdings, he also had many orchards and farm lands. A plot of his lands is located next to the Terengganu river. It was partly an orchard and partly a tilled area where corn and banana were planted from time to time.

On the river bank, there were trees including clumps of bamboo. A pangkalan was also there but it was not meant for ordinary crowd as it was steep and the water was deep, unlike popular pangkalans which were shallow and gradual. The pangkalan was used mainly by buyers of our bananas from the town who visited Tok Ki's orchards once a month.

Tok Ki had a shotgun - a licensed one. He got a gun license for the purpose of shooting the squirrels that spoil his coconuts. Once in a while, Tok Ki organises toman-hunting. Well it was not actually hunting, rather shooting the toman. Toman is a snakehead (?) prevalent in the river. Tomans are big and strong but difficult to hunt down.

I used to follow Tok Ki to such toman-hunting. The hunt involves a lot of patience. Tok Ki would sit still at the clump of bamboo on the riverbank. He threw kapok-seeds into the water every now and then and sat still. On his sides about a metre away, three or four young men stood ready to jump into the blue water once a toman is shot. We had to maintain complete silence as the slightest of noise would scare away the toman. The kapok-seeds were thrown into the water to entice the toman to surface. Tok Ki would train the shotgun barrel straight towards the water, onto an imaginery spot that he would expect the toman to surface.

Usually, I would sit behind Tok Ki leaning against the bamboo clump. And most of the time, I would be lulled by the deafening silence.

I was jolted from my near 'slumber" by the sound of the gunshot. At the same time, the young men dived into the water and went after the stunned toman. The toman was big. It took the four young men about 15 minutes to grab and hauled it onto the riverbank. The toman would then be brought back to our community well where the ladies took over. The fish would be cut into many portions. Each of the 'participants' would get a piece and others in our big family would also get a piece each.

Sometimes, the fish was cooked community-style. Most of the times we would be given our portion to be cooked on our own.

Nowadays, no one goes for toman-hunting in Tok Ki's fashion anymore. People hunt for toman using hooks and baits nowadays and they do that at Lake Kenyir. Angling is the order of the day!

My Paternal Grandfather - A Rubber 'Towkay'

In my last posting, I talked about my father and his motivational talks. Unlike him, his father - my grandfather that is - was quite well-to-do. He was said to have been born in the year 1901. He died in 1990 at the age of 90. My paternal grandfather owned many rubber smallholdings. He had many people - including my father and an uncle - tapping rubber for him. I have fond memories of him.

Once a month back then, a pot-bellied man would arrive at my grandfather's house where he and his workers gathered. The potbellied man would then weighed in the rubber sheets. Once the weighing process was over, he handed over monies to my grandfather and took away the rubber sheets. Now, my 'important' role started immediately after the pot-bellied man left. My grandfather would call me to his seat and asked me to 'calculate' the sales and the amount due to his workers. I would tear off a few sheets from my exercise book and start writing. He would orally mention the amount of rubbers sold and the unit price and I had to tell him the sales amount. For every worker, I had to also calculate the gross amount and the net amount after deductions of advances that my grandfather made to each of them. Only then the workers would get their respective due.

One interesting thing to note is that, I didn't actually produce those figures. My grandfather had actually known the answer beforehand. My role, which I discovered later, was only to confirm his calculations. When I say his calculations I don't mean that my grandfather was literate. His was purely mental mathematics...! Usually when I told him an answer from my calculations, he would say either.."uhh umm yes!" or "would you re-calculate it?" The latter response happened when my answer didn't tally with his (mental) calculation. In all cases, his were proven correct as he would say yes after my second or third time tries.

In olden days, the rubber weight was measured in terms of kati and pikul (catties and piculs). Sixteen tahils made one catty and 100 catties made one picul.

Time, Dinner and Motivational Talk - My Father's Contribution

Time is money or time is golden etc. Those are some wisdom from wise people a.k.a. the consultants. Well, the biggest influence upon me regarding time is my father. My late father was a person who cannot wait for long in any appointment and he was also a person who did not allow people to wait for him. No! he was not a somebody. He was just an ordinary folk who has little formal education. But he was fierce, as far as I am concerned.

In the 1960's, as I have mentioned earlier, we live in a kampung house with no electricity. The arrangement was simple then. My father was the sole provider for the family and my mother managed the home. Dinner was after maghrib. After dinner, my father insists that I sit up for at least five minutes rather than lying down or in any other position. His usual reason for that was to allow for the "nasi" to "jatuh ke perut" meaning to allow for the food to "settle down". One good thing was that my father kept the time by referring to his old wristwatch - a Seiko or a Titoni (I cannot properly remember exactly). And when the five minutes is up, he will utter, "dah" and only then would I be allowed to do other things.

Whenever my father calls for me, he expects me to be in front of him immediately. And he expects me to wait for him rather he me whenever we went out for work, visiting relatives etc. This informal "training" in being speedy, punctual and protocols stick with me to the present day and this habits caused frictions between me and my colleagues most of the time.

When it comes to dinner, we always had it together. We didn't have plenty of food to eat but it was just enough for everyone. During dinner we were not allowed to talk a lot nor aloud, and not to take "big" portions. We were told to take it in small portions but we could do it in many times rather than grab the biggest slices into our plates. We were not allowed to burp loudly until the last person had finished his/her meal. Most of the times, we were encouraged to finish our dinner at the same time.

Sometimes, father would say during dinner: "makan cepat sikit, ayah nak membaca" . We knew that there was some issues he wanted to 'share' with us or to put it bluntly he wanted to give us a tongue-lashing. And I would be thinking during the meals what wrongs did I commit for the past few days.

Now, the "membaca" part was not nice but was orderly in a sense. My father would mention the incidence that makes him angry and he would gave us his analysis of the incidence and warn us not to do such wrongs. Usually we sat down silently during the "membaca" time. Don't get it wrong, my father did not "baca" (read) any text. "Membaca" was the euphemism for telling-off session. One good thing from my father's "membaca" session is he never put us down, rather he would gave reasons and justifications for his "larangans" (the don'ts). But "membaca" sessions are not our favourite part of our life.

Come to think of it, the "membaca" sessions, our imposed-by-father dinner etiquette and time-protocols that shaped my life are the best things that contribute to my success later in my life. My father never mix scoldings with meal-times. I consider his "membaca" sessions as the present-day motivational talks except that his was more of a sermon as we rarely question his exhortations.

Time, Dinner and Motivational Talks - three things that shape my life! courtesy of my beloved father. He did it without formal training in parenting.

Ilir or Gi Kualer (Going to Town)

In my last posting, I talked about the Terengganu River around which my life after school revolves. Nowadays, we go to town or in some cases downtown as frequently as we please. It was nto so in the old days!

Kuala Terengganu was 'recognised' as our State Capital but I seldom went there. Money was extremely scarce therefor shopping was unheard off when I was a small boy. However, once in a while or rather in a blue moon, my parents 'offered' us a chance to go to town. And going to town in the old days was by passenger boats; not by buses or taxis. The term used for 'going to town' was 'ilir' (pronounced as 'e-lay') meaning going downstream or "gi kwaler' (meaning going to the river mouth - that's where the State Capital was and is located anyway).

Such an offer of tagging along our parents to town - due to its rarity - creates extra excitement in us. The preparation - mentally - starts the evening before the day of the journey. We usually go to town on Saturdays. I - or we - would take our bath at the community well in the evening before the day of the journey. I would show my best behaviour the whole day lest the punishment for any mischief includes a canceled offer of gi kwaler!

After dinner, Mom would take decently-looking shirts and pantaloon! (Youngsters can guess what this means). Usually there was no choice anyway as I would only have a pair of "new" clothes for this purpose. Mom would iron the clothes, folded them and put them near the centre pillar in our house.

I would go to bed early and most of the time, I would dream about the trip to town. I was not sure if I did grin in my sleep. And yes - your guess is as good as mine - I would wake up very early the next morning. I would take early morning bath at the community well. The extremely cold water from the well was worth the suffering considering the joy of gi kwaler! I would get dressed very fast and my father would comb my hair using the popular hair cream at that time - Brylcreem in plastic packets! Shirt was tucked-in. No shoes but I wear slippers.

At sunrise we walked to the river and waited for the right passenger boat. When the boat was within sight, mom would wave the handkerchief and the boat would came to the pengkalan (base or jetty). We boarded the boat and it moved on picking up other passengers along the way.

The boats use diesel engines similar to the ones used for the steamrollers at that time. They are slow but steady. I enjoyed watching the valve-holders - ladies please ask your friends what are these - moving rhythmically up and down - while the boat moved along the river. I usually fell asleep about half-way to the destination due to the journey's monotony.

The trip to town took about half-a-day. At about noon, we took our trip back home. The same monotony repeats itself. One thing that i wonder at that time was how did the boatman know who disembarks at which pengkalan. The fare for the journey was 20 sen one-way. Children traveling with adults pay no fare.

Once we reach home, usually we savoured the kuehs that were bought in town usually ketupat, badak (almost similar to keria) etc. And the best part of going to town was telling your friends about it in my next outing in the River. Their gaping mouth while listening to my narration of the journey gave me great pleasures. And the next trip to town may not be coming in the enxt six or seven months. And during the monsoon, there was no gi kwaler as no boat would travel in the swollen Terengganu River.

Sungai (the River)

Our kampung is located near the Terengganu River (Sungai Terengganu). Although my family house was not actually on the river bank, the river was part of my growing up life. In my last posting, I described our connection to the grandfather's well which never went dry even during droughts. But that didn't prevent me and my siblings and cousins from enjoying ourselves in the River.

Schools ended at 12.30 pm back then and tuition classes were unheard of at that time. We had to attend quranic classes after school. By 2.30 pm, we were really free to do whatever we please, so to speak. Usually we went looking for nyior muda (young coconuts) or jambu butir banyak (guava) in the belukar (bushes) or padangs (open fields). One of the cousins was a good tree-climber ( I can't climb, you know) and he was duly given the "honour" of plucking the coconuts. Everyone including me can get up the guava trees anyway. After savouring the young coconut flesh or the guavas, we usually proceeded to the River.

We spent usually the whole afternoon in the River. Some played Tarzan, swinging from the tree on the back and got into the water after a few swings. We swam and play to (read: toll with silent l's) a kind of hide-and-seek equivalent. Those who can swim play this. In my case, I usually get pinched or ear-twisting treatment from my mother whenever I got home late in the evening.

Initially I couldn't swim. Neither did my siblings and cousins. We learned swimming by using nyior komeng (fleshless coconuts which float when in the water). We held the to our chest and splashed our legs in the water. If there was no nyior komeng around, we wear our sarong and tied the bottom into knot between our legs. Then we beat the water until the tied sarong became like a ballon around our waists. If we decided to act lazy we just paddled with ur hands and we looked like swans in the lake. Or we could be horizontal - looked like ants - and use our hands to swim. That was how we learned how to swim. After sometime we could do away with the nyior komeng or the sarong. That's when our freedom in the water began!

Life was fun back then. Nowadays I dare not dip into the River for the fear of crocodiles and uneven river bed due to sand-mining. My swims are limited to occasional splash in hotels' kolam renang!

Note: My wife and I can swim but none of our children can!

Mandi (taking baths, take a swim, wash oneself etc)

Mandi, a simple Malay word which can take many meanings in English, depending on how one does it. Our kampung is located next to the Terengganu river. Our family house is not really on the river bank. It was about 400m away. Although there was flood every year back then when the Terengganu river burst its bank during the monsoon, our house were spared as it was on higher ground. I am not going to talk about the flood or the monsoon this time, although the Monsoon Cup is about three days' away. How did we take our baths back then in the 1950's & 1960's?

All my paternal grandfather's children build their houses around his. There was no piped water supply back then. But my grandfather dug a well near his 'big' house. The well had concrete walls, unlike the open-pit-type used by others. Our routine was that every evening, just before dusk (maghrib time), all of us - my parents and siblings, cousins, uncles and aunts - congregate near the well. There were two timbas (water buckets each attached to a rope) for the well. Families take turns to draw the water from the well and take their baths. Soaps were optional and even one who had soaps used them sparingly and irregularly. While two families were having their baths - mandi di perigi - the others chit chatted on a gerai - wooden platform built about one-a-half foot above ground. Going by the speed, most likely the last few families managed to take their baths well after dark.

In the morning at about 8.00 - 10.00 am, the womenfolk use the well for washing the clothes - a laundromat perhaps hehhee - while gossiping - I presume as I never use the well at that time. Morning baths were done very early at about 6.30 am. And our mid-day mandi were in a different location - talk about that in my later postings.

The well was about 70m from our family house. It passed - back then - my grandfather's banana orchard. I dreaded using the small footpath from the house to and from the well each morning and after dusk as the footpath was unlit and footwear was optional at that time. There were shrubs on each side of the footpath, even on the banana orchard side.

I dreaded too to having to go to the well after all the families had taken their baths, something that I had to do once in a while. I fear the tiger(s), snake(s) and other nocturnal animals or beings. Once I had to take my bath at 8 pm. And I was not in my siblings good book at that time. As soon as I reached the well area, I heard the sound of the timba being used. "Thank God, at least there is someone for company", I muttered to myself. I realised that that was not the case. I threw my sarong onto the gerai and quickly reached for one timba. There was no one there. I knew that one of the many spirits was trying to have fun on me. I was thinking of aborting the mandi but my fear of my father was stronger. So I made quick 'showers' from a few bucketfuls of water from the well, grabbed the sarong from the gerai and ran post-haste back home. Well, the dripping waters and the wet-sarong draping my shivering body provided ample proof to my father that I had indeed taken my bath!

Footnote: the family well had good and clear water supply year-long and it was never dry even during droughts. Unfortunately, after my grandfather's death my sister (mis)uses it as the sewage tank for her imposing house!