Where My Heart Is

Of all the places in this world, the one that the Almighty loves is the mosque, and the one that He loathes is the market. 

The reason simply, in the mosque there are acts of His remembrance. In the market (shopping centre, the mall etc.) people are absorbed in worldly transactions. I’m not so sure what would be the category of a surau in the shopping centre. Anyways ....

In my younger years, whenever there’s a school holiday I frequented my kampung’s mosque, especially during the Maghrib and Isya prayers. The last Thursday night (malam Jumaat) before the announcements of the SRP (right, I’m ancient), SPM and A-Levels results, I made a point to ask the Tuan Imam to mention my ‘hajat’ before the commencement of the Surah Yassin recitation. My hajat was that I hoped to get good results. 

If you have more than 40 people reading the Surah Yassin concurrently, the doa will surely be granted, without doubt. All worthy praise to the Almighty. I wonder why, not many students nowadays (or even during my time) resort to this. Sure work one (but of course, you have to study and work hard, on your dissertation, your viva etc. if you are in the universities).

Once in the UK, the mosques were the only place to mend the broken heart. One summer, I practically rented a room on top of the Carrington Street Mosque (al-Furqan), courtesy of Imam Shah-Sahib. It felt like heaven. Able to call out the azan, and opened the mosque doors during Fajr at 3.30 am. There are other notable mosques in Glasgow like the University Mosque (Dakwatul Islam) as well as the Central Mosque, which is bigger than the Regent’s Park Mosque in London.

Back in the country, my heart was very much full of glee (dah tak broken2 dah). 

Remember those lovely girls I introduced to my mum in JB? 

Whenever I had a rendezvous with them, as soon as it’s the time for prayer, I brought them to the mosque (I love the huge, white washed and airy Masjid Abu Bakar). Initially, it was kinda gawky as some of them were wearing tight skirts and all. But after few times, they voluntarily brought their own telekung. Hoping that all of them, stay steadfast in their daily prayers.

My first ever date with my wife was near a mosque in her college. The catchy ice-breaking para-phrase “I’m the great grandson of Tok Guru, your dad’s god-father”, was inspired in that very mosque.

At present, the nearest mosque from my house is the grand Masjid Al-Husna, opposite the cute lion statuette of Sunway Pyramid. In the month of Ramadhan, I bring the whole family for the Tarawikh prayer there.

The house and the mosque, that’s where my heart is. 

To Sir (Madam) With Love: On Teachers Day

To Sir, Cikgu, and Everyone in Between

What do my dear father, my uncle Pak Alang, my mother-in-law, my eldest brother Yeop, my big brother Yang and his wife Kak Yang, my beloved wife, and even my ex have in common? They are all teachers — remarkable ones at that. I hold deep affection for each of them. Excluding the ex, of course. My wife is reading this.

On a fine summer day at Stirling University — a place so scenic it makes landscape painters feel inadequate, all lochs and glens and Trossachs — I crossed paths with a PhD student from Malaysia. After swapping stories, he looked me in the eye and said, "Your father is the reason I am here. I owe him everything."

Eh, really? I nearly choked on my shortbread (should be nasi lemak ... but that time I was in Scotland mind you).

It turned out my father had once urged this young man to stay in school and quietly paid his boat fare home. This was the swinging 60s — a time when such a small act could redirect an entire life's trajectory. When I told my father, he was pleased, but unsurprised. Humble as always. I suspect that boy was far from the only one.

Then there's Yeop. Napoleon Hill once said, "If you cannot do great things, do small things in a great way." Yeop didn't just read that quote — he apparently took it as a personal challenge.

Posted to a remote primary school in the Jelapang area in the late 80s — the kind of place that doesn't appear on GPS, tucked somewhere between a waterfall and a prayer — Yeop proceeded to turn it into the Kinta District Champions for girls' hockey. Not despite the school's size. Because of his belief in it. His students excelled on the field and in the classroom. I once had the honour of giving a motivational talk there during the Summer holidays. I like to think I helped. Yeop's daughter, by the way, became the most adorable Malaysian hockey player to ever grace a pitch. The apple doesn't fall far from the dugout.

My brother Yang, meanwhile, has always had the endearing habit of dangling his achievements just low enough for me to jump at them. He once announced, with great ceremony, that he'd passed his driving test in ten hours. I did it in six. Yang, if you're reading this — yes, I'm still counting.

But credit where it's due: during his time at MCKK in the early 90s, he pulled off something considered borderline miraculous — more than two classes of students scoring A1s in Additional Mathematics. In those days, that wasn't just impressive. It was the sort of thing people whispered about in the staffroom.

I, too, was shaped by extraordinary teachers. Mrs Lim at SK Methodist ACS Sitiawan — seemingly fierce, secretly kind, the classic combo. Mr Velupillay, my cricket coach, who handed me fifty ringgit (now worth around RM 185) during the U-16 MSSM and threw in free Physics tutorials because apparently he believed in compound investment. The sweet Ms Venny Lee, my 5S form teacher. Ms Zuraidah, my A-Level Chemistry teacher — with whom, I must say, we had genuine chemistry. And Mr Willie Ross, my Technical Drawing lecturer in Glasgow University, who delivered every lesson in a Scottish kilt with the energy of a man who had absolutely nothing to prove. 

Evidently, lecturers count too. The list, it seems, is longer than I thought.

To all of them — the patient ones, the fierce ones, the quietly generous ones who paid boat fares and gave fifty ringgit and wore kilts without irony — Selamat Hari Guru.

If you wanted the sky I would write across the sky in letters That would soar a thousand feet high To you, with love

Those awkward years have hurried by, why did they fly, fly away? Why is it Sir, children grow up to be people one day?

What takes the place of climbing trees, And dirty knees, in the world outside? What, what is there that I can buy?

— To Sir With Love, Lulu

Mommy Dearest

I would like to dedicate this to all the mothers in the world. Especially to my dear mother Puan Hajjah Khadijah bt Kamaruzzaman (and others who also bears the same name).

Dearest Mak,

I love you so very much. Nothing else matters than your wishes. I know that I was not a very 'ideal' son or 'anak yang soleh' in a true sense, as I would like it to be. Moreover, now I'm mostly occupied, especially with my work, my own family and all.

I knew that I did not really make your life easier, especially during my early childhood. I was not a healthy child back then. Every other month or so, you had to seek doctor's advice and medication on my not so-strong lungs. So much so that the Vicks VapoRub (in the blue glass canister) was my best friend.

My best friend when I was a small boy

I also knew that I did clung to your bosom until I was four years old. Back in the early 70's where the kebaya was in high fashion, I knew I was a nuisance and behaved like a little prick.

Mak and my eldest brother Yeop

Obviously Mak, these writings goes to your late mother, my dearest opah Hajjah Embun bt Lebai Ahmad. 

Oh God, I really missed her, now that she's mentioned. Opah was really a kind woman. She taught me a lot of things about life as a Kampung Boy. She taught me the Quran. She showed me how to feed the chicken, and how to sent them back to their 'reban' at dusk. How to take their eggs in the 'sangkar' without upsetting the mother hen. I knew things like how to make water filter using few layers of sediments, rocks and granules. As well as the process of making the mengkuang mat, from start to finish and other things only a kampung boy knew. 

Opah even gave me 20 ringgit when I said I wanted to go to town to meet a friend.

'Grandson, whatever it is, don't break someone's daughter's heart.' 

I was like 'terkedu' when I heard she said that. Well, she's the Tok Guru daughter, by the way. I spent like RM13.50 at the KFC with eehhmm, my friend, who's a girl. I hope and pray that Opah now resting in what said by the Holy Prophet, in one of the Garden of the many Gardens of Paradise and may the Almighty illuminates her grave and expand it as far as the eyes could see.

Dearest Mak,

Here, I would also want to clarify something. Remember, when Ayah and Opah had plans for me when I came back from Glasgow. You too had your own plan. You introduced me to one of your friend's daughter. She's very sweet, fair, lovely, with brunette wavy hair, hazel eyes and exotic name (reminds me of my princess Ayra). 

Not that I felt awkward knowing that she came from a 'lord' family and the father a Datuk has a big bungalow at SS2, and loved to karaoke all night long, as opposed to dear Ayah who's a mosque-goer and always waking up at night offering solat tahajjud and all. Not that at all. The reason simply, she smokes, and her breath stinks.

Now, that I have taken it out of my chest, I would like to thank you also for not accepting those lovely girls I introduced to you in JB. Else, I'll be writing a blog entitled 'From JB with Love', or 'Bukan Kemahuan Fikiran'.

So Dear Mak, 

Thank you very much giving birth to me, for taking care of me when I was feeble and helpless. I'll make doa to the Almighty after every solat, so that He forgives all the wrongdoings and have His infinite Mercy on both of you and Ayah, and will love you both much more than your love for me.

To all the mothers in Malaysia and in the whole world especially to the mother of my lovely kids (ok, ok ... you too MIL), you are our saviour, you are our everything.

Happy Mother's Day

My dearest Mak and me