It has been five years of emptiness. Five long years.
Just after fajr the day after the fire, I watched you on the lawns of the house in Jalan Budiman. I was back snuggling to a cozy blanket, willing away tired limbs spent looking for salvagable things. Then I heard your gentle sobs that quickly almost turned into quiet wails. I quickly went out to you. I wanted so much to hold you. To hug you and say its okay, we are all here for you. But what do you say to a person who has lost everything?
Ayah you gave us hope. What I'd give to keep on reading the Yassin in the little room on the seventh floor. As the gentle breeze of the south china sea kisses your temple, I caught a slight twitch and a frown. Yes I am here ayah, in the flesh.I wanted so much to run my fingers through your white hair. But I was scared that a sudden movement would trigger some of the alarms. You are so wired, see. Bit I never gave up hope. I just wanted you to get well. Come on ayah get well. We can make that trip to Mekah again , remember that? I would push you in that wheelchair. Just tell me where you wanna go. I'll push you.
Ayah you taught us humility. You were at home with the biggest names and friends to the common people. How they came in droves on Raya days. These are not political constituents. Just friends who wanted to say hello to you.
Ayah you gave us perseverence.It was tough moving up the corporate ladder. Remember when we were in Port Dickson the first time? We stayed in the smaller bungalow. As we were walking on the beach I showed you the bigger bungalow that was reserved for General managers and above. You asked me, " when are we going there?" I said we will ayah. And we did, didn't we?
When times were hard and I was scrounging for a place to live you called me to take whatever comes my way. And work myself up from there. We have moved to a new place now. Slightly bigger, room for everyone. I remember mak used to say, " its not that I dont want to stay at your house, but its a bit small." She would probably like this one. Both of you would. We have a small Koi pond that is my retreat from the world.
Ayah you gave us love. Anna and I are so blessed growing old. Nana is going to Melbourne for her Masters in June. Mimie is in the UK reading actuarial science. Amir is making both of us proud in the sporting arena. Hakim is...well, Hakim, and we love him dearly for that. They are the future, seeing the world through your eyes.
Ayah you instilled in us belief. When the little boy received the baton from the third runner he knew that he was going to cross the line first. Second was nothing. Second doesnt get to shake hand with the district officer. Second doesnt get bragging rights on eleven year olds. That was the belief. Who is going to forget " ayah yakin anakanda akan memperolehi kejayaan yang mengkagungkan (sic)".
Ayah you taught us compassion. Towards the end I had realised that we were not going to have our little conversations anymore. Remember those? We did not really talk did we ayah. But we communicated. You would decipher ever so brilliantly my little tantrums and unrequited quest to be always right. A nod here, a smile there. We were one of a kind. Some noticed your advancing dementia. I didn't mind one single bit. You can ask me the same question over and over again. I'll answer each and everyone of them a thousand times and more. And you can ask them again tomorrow.
What do you say to a man who has lost everything. If I can have that single moment again with you ayah, that day after fajr in Jalan Budiman, I would tell you that the world is a better place because of you.
Some of us have done well. Some of us are just hanging on to dear lives. Others are going with the flow. But all of us have had your unconditional love and guidance. For that we give thanks to the Almighty.
Salams ayah, wherever you are.
Al fatihah.
Just after fajr the day after the fire, I watched you on the lawns of the house in Jalan Budiman. I was back snuggling to a cozy blanket, willing away tired limbs spent looking for salvagable things. Then I heard your gentle sobs that quickly almost turned into quiet wails. I quickly went out to you. I wanted so much to hold you. To hug you and say its okay, we are all here for you. But what do you say to a person who has lost everything?
Ayah you gave us hope. What I'd give to keep on reading the Yassin in the little room on the seventh floor. As the gentle breeze of the south china sea kisses your temple, I caught a slight twitch and a frown. Yes I am here ayah, in the flesh.I wanted so much to run my fingers through your white hair. But I was scared that a sudden movement would trigger some of the alarms. You are so wired, see. Bit I never gave up hope. I just wanted you to get well. Come on ayah get well. We can make that trip to Mekah again , remember that? I would push you in that wheelchair. Just tell me where you wanna go. I'll push you.
Ayah you taught us humility. You were at home with the biggest names and friends to the common people. How they came in droves on Raya days. These are not political constituents. Just friends who wanted to say hello to you.
Ayah you gave us perseverence.It was tough moving up the corporate ladder. Remember when we were in Port Dickson the first time? We stayed in the smaller bungalow. As we were walking on the beach I showed you the bigger bungalow that was reserved for General managers and above. You asked me, " when are we going there?" I said we will ayah. And we did, didn't we?
When times were hard and I was scrounging for a place to live you called me to take whatever comes my way. And work myself up from there. We have moved to a new place now. Slightly bigger, room for everyone. I remember mak used to say, " its not that I dont want to stay at your house, but its a bit small." She would probably like this one. Both of you would. We have a small Koi pond that is my retreat from the world.
Ayah you gave us love. Anna and I are so blessed growing old. Nana is going to Melbourne for her Masters in June. Mimie is in the UK reading actuarial science. Amir is making both of us proud in the sporting arena. Hakim is...well, Hakim, and we love him dearly for that. They are the future, seeing the world through your eyes.
Ayah you instilled in us belief. When the little boy received the baton from the third runner he knew that he was going to cross the line first. Second was nothing. Second doesnt get to shake hand with the district officer. Second doesnt get bragging rights on eleven year olds. That was the belief. Who is going to forget " ayah yakin anakanda akan memperolehi kejayaan yang mengkagungkan (sic)".
Ayah you taught us compassion. Towards the end I had realised that we were not going to have our little conversations anymore. Remember those? We did not really talk did we ayah. But we communicated. You would decipher ever so brilliantly my little tantrums and unrequited quest to be always right. A nod here, a smile there. We were one of a kind. Some noticed your advancing dementia. I didn't mind one single bit. You can ask me the same question over and over again. I'll answer each and everyone of them a thousand times and more. And you can ask them again tomorrow.
What do you say to a man who has lost everything. If I can have that single moment again with you ayah, that day after fajr in Jalan Budiman, I would tell you that the world is a better place because of you.
Some of us have done well. Some of us are just hanging on to dear lives. Others are going with the flow. But all of us have had your unconditional love and guidance. For that we give thanks to the Almighty.
Salams ayah, wherever you are.
1 comment:
al-fatihah..
u miss him.but yet u r calm ther=)
p/s:da date of the post-my 20th birthday
4th july o9..5tahun mak pergi pdNya~
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