THROUGH THICK & THIN, FOR KEEPS

SHE was a rich city girl who became a nurse to escape her wicked stepmother. He was a poor, uneducated soldier from the kampung. They were both 21 when they met in war-torn Congo, Africa, and fell in love.

Such was the beginning of a nearly 40-year love story. It’s a story that I am intimately familiar with because the two sweethearts were my parents.

My father Mohd Johar Bachik was a Javanese serving in the army. He was the first group of Malaysian troops to serve as peacekeepers with the United Nations Operations in Congo (UNOC) in 1960.

My mother, Maduah Kamarzah @ Maznah Kamariah Ghulam Dastahir, who was of Indian Muslim and Pakistani descent, was a nurse sent on the same mission.

Their desire to marry, however, met with objection from both sides. Hence, there were no family members present at the ceremony. Their “wedding” photo show them both in uniform Despite the lack of wedding finery, they made an exquisite couple.

Each time we looked at the picture, my mother would repeat the story of the “great Congo days” and how they “eloped”. My parents did not have an official reception or a proper bersanding but they had no choice since they had little money and no family support.

My stern maternal grandfather, Ghulam Dastagir Ghouse Miah who hailed from Uttar Pradesh, looked down on my father as a “stupid kampung boy” because he had merely scraped through his Primary Three in Malay school in Merlimau, Malacca.

In contrast, my mother came from a good family and was city born and bred. She was only a month old when her mother, Mas Jumah Bibi, died from a fall. She was raised by her stepmother with whom she did not get along.

The youngest of seven siblings, my mother passed her Junior Cambridge at the Convent Bukit Nanas with flying colours. The only reason why she quit school and joined nursing was to escape from her stepmother. Her dusky colouring did not meet the approval of my paternal grandmother, a typical Malay woman, who described Mak’s skin as “the lowest bottom of the kuali.”

After the wedding, my grandfather gave my father a cheap mattress and pillow as a sign that he had given away his rebellious daughter.

They and their children would become the outcasts of the clan. My siblings and I were never invited to any kenduri or weddings. But despite their different backgrounds, my parents made a formidable pair who raised us well.

Because we were so self-sufficient, we never had the need to reach out to the rest of the family, no matter how rich or influential they were. That, in a way, shaped our individualistic minds and independence.

Ayah made up for his lack of education with charm and a great sense of humour. Though simple, he had a beautiful heart, endlessly helping those in need. He was extremely affable, and would hold conversations with anyone on the street, regardless of race, age or gender. His best buddies were Ah Seng, the fishmonger, Haji Bakar, his mosque comrade and Raju, the Indian barber.

He hardly knew a word of English but after being around Mak for more than three decades, he could speak the language quite decently. And each time Mak corrected his pronunciation and made fun of his tenses, there would be hearty laughter from them, which was a pleasure to hear.

Over the years, our family lived in several ramshackle wooden houses in squatter areas around Kuala Lumpur. Ayah finally presented Mak with their first, proper “brick” house, 15 years after they got married.

After the May 13 tragedy, Ayah quit the army and became a guard. He took up night classes and plunged into the goldsmith business, risking the little “gratuity” money that he got from the army.

His hard work paid off and he was finally able to give Mak her first gold chain, a modest car and a terrace-house in Petaling Jaya, in late February in 1990.

Ayah had always called his wife Intan, or Tan for short,which means rare diamond. And the name stuck throughout their 38 years of marriage.

Mak and Ayah were almost inseparable, except for when they were both at work. I remember fondly the bahulu, muruku and capati-making sessions, which were very much family affairs.

We kids would gather around the stove on the floor and my father would dish out a spoonful of ghee on our capati that Mak had made.

Only Ayah was allowed to break open durians or cut mangoes, Mak’s favourite fruits. We children got our share but the best pieces were always reserved for her.

Where our religion was concerned, we had to balance between my father’s deep religious principles and mother’s liberal ways which shaped us into reasonable, moderate, well-grounded Muslims.

My father developed diabetes in 1995 and two years later had to have his left leg amputated. Mak was devastated. A day before his leg was amputated, he insisted on coming home from the hospital to hold a kenduri.

He invited all of Mak’s siblings who by then had accepted our family. His last message to them: “Please look after Tan when I am gone.”

My father passed away on April 2, 1997, a day after the operation. It was so unexpected that we were all in shock. Mak broke down and, like a scene from Bollywood, wailed, yelled and howled.

We had always joked that she was a drama queen each time she threw a tantrum with Ayah but we were still unprepared for the “drama” during the funeral.

Mak fainted three times causing much alarm. The most pitiful sight was when she collapsed at the grave.

My mother was an exceedingly voluble person but she changed overnight after Ayah left us. She found solace in religion. She wept openly in the months that followed, missing my father even more each passing day. After that, she withdrew into silent grief and locked herself in her room.

In August 1999, we learnt that Mak was dying of leukaemia. She took it very calmly. She loved us dearly but her love for Ayah was much more. During her last days she would whisper to me, “Zie, your father is waiting for me ... I can see him already.”

She passed away three weeks later on Aug 23, just five days before her 60th birthday.

I miss my parents very much but I always console myself that Mak and Ayah are together again and as madly in love with each other as ever!

BY ZIEMAN - PUBLISHED 12/2/2006