Tuesday, September 30, 2008

Samak Meshwe and the Aroma... Eid Mubarak

I cooked for my Arab friends. They cooked samak meshwe the other day for me.
The difference is I used Malaysian spices and herbs, and they used olive oil and butter, and cheese, lots. Normally my friends would all congregate to the kitchen and waited with anticipation, drooling, and dripping, while I cooked.

This time.. the house was so very quiet, extremely quiet.

Esam shouted from the living room...
"Mohamed!! What have you done to your socks!!!!"

"Why? What's wrong?"

"I am going to throw them stinking stuff. I am. And I'm going to do it right now!!!!"

"Heyyy.. it is not my socks you are smelling, you skunk. It is the belachan* I am using in my cooking"

"What's Belachan?"

"It is prawn-paste that brings out the best in Malay cooking, especially sent by my mom. You!!!!"

"Ohhh my God! Why didn't you say so right from the beginning? It wouldn't have smelt SO bad should I know it is in your cooking, and NOT coming from your socks you Malay!!!"

I laughed my ass* off

And still laffing


The closing of Ramadhan brings back lovely memories I had with Essam and the gang. We jested, we quarreled, we fought; but most of all we loved each other to the core.

Here's wishing a very special Eid Mubarak to my readers, and to Esam Bahr, Abu Gasim, Mostafa(5 different faces, 5 different Mos), another Esam (A. Gader), Ahmad B, Sami B., Naguib, Enver K, Anwar Suleman, M Al-Warady, A. Al-Abbasi, Tahsin Zonguldak, Ibrahim Cevik, Ramadhan Taseltein, K. Beroglou, Zubee K, Abu Abd Salam, Khaled Ireland (F Whitbread), Zuher, Slimane Debbar and his twin, Youseff Guelma, M Guidom, Ismael Batna, and the many more who will storm in any minute now "HOW COULD YOU FORGET ME, MOHAMED?? HOW DARE YOU!!!! "

Please do forgive me

.

Thursday, September 25, 2008

What Atar-Rude Awakening!

4 Nelson Place West looked very decent from outside. In fact the buildings are shaped in a crescent. Not as glamorous as the prime residence, THE Crescent, but, not bad either. Tony, the almost handsome 30 something from Manchester, lived in the next block with a shabby black coolie. Some days, it looked less shabby than Tony did. But Ton was a great lad who repaired cars. He'd go underneath the wreck and spent hours spreadeagled. Perhaps he'd resigned to life without his parents, who disowned him at 18.

It was a funny idea when I first heard about it in 1973, in Bournemouth. A couple charged their son rental for lodging with them when he reached 18.
Absurd!
Unheard of!
Un-think of!
But that was true.

Ton lived in the next block. In our block lived Ahmad B, Naguib A, Hamed E, Enver K, Osama T, yours truly, and a British family on the first floor. I cannot remember who lived in the basement flat. Collectively, the ladies and would-be's were Mirvat, Houda, Latifah, Enees, Nouha, Esma, and our Sameerah. The would-be men were Abdullah, Ammar, Khaled and their Omer. And that was quite overpopulated by any standard.

Mr Polish Wally would be wallied if he was reported to the authority for having these blooming third world population in his flats, but who would? Who could? To get one of those flats one had to join the queue of married students who could not get an accommodation on the campus, where the waiting could be for as long as a year if not two! (or even three)

I could not complain even when the stairways was dilapidated. One could almost touch the walls and be sure that you could do hand painting straight after. The air was almost musty and I would always hurry into the sanctity of our flat, to catch my breath. Ahhh fresh air would sell in that stairway, Mr Wally.

On a clear summer day when the sun shines beautifully one may be tempted to picnic on the verdant grass only to be disappointed by the many 'kuehs' left behind by such as Tony's coolie. This ONCE only exploration would never bring you to touchbase with the grass again. So Tony and his many friends *shhh, the flower children*, who made a lot of noise into the night, and their canines had the whole field to themselves. Sometimes they played frisbee, sometimes they just layed sunbathing; among the kuehs.

When summer was over, our patience was rewarded. We moved into a new home in the city: 18 Claverton Buildings, Widcombe, where the Kennet and Avon canal joins the River Avon, just minutes away from the bustle of Bath city centre. The previous tenant had completed his PhD and left for his home-country. Ahhh what a bliss indeed. From our living room we could see people leisurely walking along the banks of the River Avon which would see them to the famous Pulteney Bridge over the cascading, dreamy and misty weir. Alternatively, a stroll alongside the banks of the canal would lead to the picturesque Sydney Gardens and the splendid countryside beyond. At night, the prized view came in the form of illumination from The Bath Hotel, candle-lit tables, and warm soft lighting reflected symmetrically inverted on the tranquil surface of the lake.

I left the cob-webbed stairways of Mr Wally's property to the expanse of the magical vista of Mr Coombes' Claverton Building. I left the treasure-hunted field (for kuehs) of Nelson Place to the romantic walks among weeping willows, smelling fresh air on River Avon, admiring the intriguing water-keys that lets a boat float down-stream on the idyllic Kennet and Avon canal.

I navigated the now forming back-row to find me a place in the much coveted front row, the ultimate saff. I was enjoying the view, the expanse of the open space in-front of the congregation, when a whiff of cheap atar jolted me from my journey across the undulating city scape, and the unfurling best sights Bath could offer to the refreshingly, tranquil subuh congregation at the Tan Sri Ainudin Wahid's Mosque in Taman University .

The Imam said the takbirat in his best voice, and I duly followed.

Ahh would that my place in the grave, be vast, and pleasing to the eyes, like a piece of the garden of Jannah. At least it is with the view like from Claverton Bldg and not from Nelson Place West.

Monday, September 15, 2008

There Goes My Only Possession

As I shuffled to straighten the first row I was in, I thought of my Mom. She has left this world and is only able to be directly related to me now through the doa's and my good deeds. When 'anak Adam' leaves this world, she is cut off from it except through 4 channels. And one of these channels is the possession she left behind in the form of 'anak yang soleh yang mendoakannya'.

Autumn set in early in Bournemouth.
The resplendent colour that seared through The North Park was remarkably scintillating.
The companionship of park-football cotton-balled into a sweet memory to bring with me to bleak Manchester.Listening to 10cc on the air-wave doing 'I'm not in Love' was poignant.
We boys hugged each other, oblivious to the gazing eyes [ the more they gazed, the more we hugged each other, haw haw haw *smile*]

The last of the summer-school students left for their home in the Continent.Bournemouth was prepared for the coming forlorn winter..The only warmth I could look forward to was my meagre possession which i must cart off to Manchester.
yes.. it could be very lonely.. now I must admit.
As my memory turned back the pages, I could see the happy years I'd had before.
And now, there goes one of my dreams. There goes my only possession. There goes my everything.
Sigh.. if I cannot function to specification (as anak yang soleh), there goes my mom's only possession.
There goes her everything too.

I sobered soon enough when the Imam said his Takbir for the solat subuh.

Monday, September 08, 2008

Anyone For a Papaya?


At 10.06 am on a Saturday, the third day of Ramadhan, this my dad had to say:

"Mmm.. anyone for a Papaya??"

[Hello! This is Ramadhan, and your son my dear was already 10!]

And with a sheepish grin he'd dangle the juicy papaya, eyes smiling (my 6th too is endowed with smiling eyes). Along with papaya came Pisang Bunga ( pisang embun, i believe). He couldn't bear to watch us went through with the puasa *S*; funny but true. My dad was a very pious man by any standard, but he succumbed to pitying his children ( I translate that to 'loving' his children).

Needless to say, we took that as a command to break our fast. Hishhh.. don't let my kids read this.

On the other end of the scale, Countess was trained early, since she was a toddler, to fast. Everybody in her mom's household did that. And they pass down this tradition, religiously. One day I chanced upon a nephew eating, and drinking, but in front of his regimental mom&dad, he was fasting, and happily sat at the dinner table, looking tired (*) at 7.19 pm.

And needless to say, Abdullah was induced into fasting early (yes, we did have our arguments of when to start..but CB gave in). The beauty of Abdullah's fasting was that his mom impressed upon him very early what the great qualities of good Muslims are, and fasting is one such.

When Tim Graham of the Tyning, Widcombe, wanted to bring Abdullah along with his son, George (Pidge) to watch Cuty Sark that came to birth in London, he wrote us a letter asking for permission that Abdullah could break his fast, so they could all enjoy the outing. We relented of course. And even if Tim had not been so kind and understanding, Abang had the facility of a musafir, thus breaking of fast was a matter of choice.

Thursday, September 04, 2008

Not Even a 10-seater Table

Time stood still for many days.

Now there is movement, albeit slow and sluggish. And it was in this blessed month of Ramadhan that I met great personalities, here in the blogsphere. Ramadhan Kareem to you great friends.

This year's Ramadhan is taking shape, but the colours are waning. Perhaps it is natural to have less people around as the year marches on.. i'm sure it is natural .. but, pardon me, I can't help the tinge of sadness welling up inside me now.

Normally the dining table was abuzz at iftar. Hands criss-crossing reaching, and sometimes fighting for delectable savouries. A few had to give in, and sit at the satellite-table; not a glamorous destination for sure. Normally Adik, ARahman and Eha, sometimes Huda had to do it when the population swells. It was not a very happy compromise, but they never complained, and I thought it was natural for the younger ones to yield.

Only this year that I got the tail-end of the typhoon; they did mind. Though Dad could not decipher the 'resentment', their mom had to bear it all.

This year we opt for a 10 seater dining table, keeping the satellite for a rainy day. Oh yes, everybody was beaming and lots of past stories of pent-up 'frustration' surfaced.

"I was always satellite-d"

"Why do I always have to be away from mom and dad, and granny? Why cant the elder siblings too, take the satellite?"

Yes.. why cant they? Funny I never thought of them resenting. In front of Dad, everything seems calm and sweet. Underneath... only mommies could discern.

And the sweet thing about this banter is that they are able to enjoy venting out their 'frustrations' and laugh together at their predicament.

And.. this year.. the table is a quarter occupied, not even half. No one could blame me for this forlorn mood. Not even a 10-seater table could bring back time.

I must get used to this population thinning. And that I will spend more hours with le Countess, just the two of us..

And it can get really lonely