I am her first born. The picture (left) was taken when my dad was transferred to work as a clerk to the Penggawa of Gunung Barat, now the district is known as Mahligai after the small town of the same name. Mom used to tell stories of how she was perceived by the villagers when she was first relocated to Mahligai from Manik Urai, a new village created by the British and the birthplace she shared with all her four siblings, my brother and I. Getting to Manik Urai during those days, either you travel by train or by boat to reach Manik Urai and the trips was a whole day affair. She was thought to be my baby sitter, a fact she always quickly corrected.
She was holding me facing the rented house. I remember it was too big for four of us. My brother and I used to ride a tricycle going round from one room to another with ease. The living room was practically empty as we congregated often in the area next to the kitchen, in a veranda facing the an inside well where we have to lower bucket to get water for everything.
There was a big star fruit tree in front of the house. The bigger house directly in front of ours was the landlord. The landlord was one of those wealthy folks in the village who befriended my dad and their friendship lasted until my dad passed away. When I was around five, we moved and relocated to Kampong Pak Badol, a smaller village about 3 miles to the south of Mahligai. The five years old remembered travelling there on a trishaw with his little brother sitting on mom's lap and the trishaw was packed with pots and pans and kitchen utensils. It was on a hot sunny day and I remembered we inched at a snail pace along passing rice fields and a scattered houses along the road. Then we came across rubber trees and as we moved along we came across a soccer field and at the end of it sat a small school building.
Dad was one who retained friendships well. Whenever I traveled with him, there would be someone who approached him to say hello and he would introduced me to them.When we moved to Pak Badol, our meetings and interactions with those who befriended us in Mahligai were becoming less and lesser. Even though whenever there were occasions such weddings or funerals when we met, I could feel their warmth toward me and especially toward my little brother. He was the cute, good looking and fairer skin one whereas I was a wide eyes lanky skinny dark brownish big brother. Older girls and women would pick on my brother's cheek and often to his disdain while I was ignored. They would hug and kissed him and commented on his fair skin and long eye lashes and my brother would often try to run in circle avoiding the catches of embrace. To this day, I must say, my brother inherited my father's social skills more so than I. The irony was when some 20 years later, Haji Yusuf, our first and last landlord was there attending to my dad's funeral rites by washing his body and covered it with white shrouds.
Dad was one who retained friendships well. Whenever I traveled with him, there would be someone who approached him to say hello and he would introduced me to them.When we moved to Pak Badol, our meetings and interactions with those who befriended us in Mahligai were becoming less and lesser. Even though whenever there were occasions such weddings or funerals when we met, I could feel their warmth toward me and especially toward my little brother. He was the cute, good looking and fairer skin one whereas I was a wide eyes lanky skinny dark brownish big brother. Older girls and women would pick on my brother's cheek and often to his disdain while I was ignored. They would hug and kissed him and commented on his fair skin and long eye lashes and my brother would often try to run in circle avoiding the catches of embrace. To this day, I must say, my brother inherited my father's social skills more so than I. The irony was when some 20 years later, Haji Yusuf, our first and last landlord was there attending to my dad's funeral rites by washing his body and covered it with white shrouds.
Dad built a house in Pak Badol and his father, my grandpa, the fisherman and carpenter was helping him. I remember watching him pounding away the trusses building the roof of our new house. Later, I found out that the villagers volunteered and help chipped in building the house. The land space was offered to us for free and the house sat next to the gate of an elementary school. Dad told me later that he was encouraged by a group of village elders to move and relocate to the village. He was from Perupok, a fisherman's village some 14 miles east and mom was from Manik Urai, some 100 miles southwest, a new village built by the British administration to deter the infestation of communist elements in the populace. Malaya and Greece was the only two countries that succeeded in fending off communism and the country was turned democratic.
So, when we were in Mahligai, we were strangers and we strived and thrived. When we were at Pak Badol, we strived even more so much so that Pak Badol remained our home town for we do not have any other to call it a home. Mom and dad were great "anak dagang" and their ability to win over local people was superior indeed. Perhaps, this is how the spirit of emigrating is alive and kicking in me.
But now, even though I chose to be spending the rest of my life in a land of my choice, the land of my birth is not that far from my thoughts and spirit. Just take a look at this picture: one represents the land where I was born and the other represents the land of my choice. And they are both beautiful and boy, am I lucky or what?
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