Quarrel Over a Tree

Behind our house stood a big kuini tree dimmed with clusters of fruits dangled like slumbering bats in a wind cave. If you are not familiar with the kuinis, they are the close cousin of the popular pellang (Trengganu mango) but with noticeable pungent smell that attracts kabbo or the Trengganu beetles drilling into the flesh and sleep in there until they feel like leaving it. Its delicate flesh borrows the colour of our Mazda 808, which is peach. Sometimes, it is bright orange like Dungun’s sunset. It comes in the shape of an imported apple, twice bigger than that, and the skin is peeled of by the hands of a woman (of course with a knife!) that it will snake out long like curly fries. Then, she will slice the flesh into small bits piling in a round plate and they become a good snack for back chatters to fuel their gossip activity in the evening under a shady tree. But of course, they have to take out the kabbo first.

We had a neighbour named Haji Hasang, a bulgy faced old man with streaks of silver lines on his hair and also a newly wed to a rich widow her name escaped me. People said they were rich. I did not see anything that made them rich. But Mother had always talked about the huge property they owned that a bird could peer it in awe through holes of the beautifully carved gables of their house. It did not eye-stretched for our sight but many coconut palms lingered in there side by side by the same distance within each other in an alternate arrangement to others of adjacent files. We were separated from their house by quite a number of them, and if the world was indeed flat, the kuini tree indicated the end of it. So did our house, fenced by Father to mark a clear boundary between The World where the tree stood proudly and The End where problems may rise.

Boughs of the kuini tree painted shadows into our yard, then prolonged into the bedroom when the sun settled down westward until dark where calls of prayer responded to others in varying degree of pitches from nearby kampongs. In the huge yard of Haji Hasang, the sound of crickets swelled in the bushes and kabbos woke up to hurl themselves madly at wood planks of the walls. Those arboreal bugs were the cousin of the same kind which slept in the flesh of the fruits but the former were noticeably bigger and sometimes armed with pincers.

Louder than the sound of bugs rammed to our walls, there was sometimes a blow or two, and a crack too. The latter triggered Father's fear, that the sound might come out from the broken rooftops. We decided to stay inside at that time and only went out when the sun bleached the night darkness only to figure out that the edge of the rooftop sheltering the bedroom was smashed to pieces. War had just rolled in, leaving evidence that our house had already been pre-sighted by the shadows of boughs of the kuini tree.

I had killed some of the crazy bugs that day but that could not stop the war. We were still hurled by the crazy bugs and luck might not be on our side when the boomer came in and more and more of our rooftops broken to splinters. Every time it happened, in the next morning Father would throw them ammos back into the other side of the boundary in great disgust.

One day, the old couple came to inspect the tree. Something to look at before harvesting time comes. Yes, the kuinis were dangling in clusters the blotted sunlight. Ripe ones will fall on the ground. Realizing them there, Father decided to go for a talk.

“Assalamualaikum,” Father greeted the old couple. They greeted him back. Haji Hasang smiled and shook hands with Father. His wife was rather laid back at that moment. “Actually, I really wanna talk about this for quite some time. You see… we got our rooftops broken to splinters.”

Father pointed at the damaged parts. They got some mushrooms grew on the darkened wood planks. There had been raining a few days ago that softened them like a piece of wet bread and made them susceptible to fungi.

“We heard blows for quite some time. In the morning parts of our rooftops were gone,” Father added.

“I see,” Haji Hasang replied, calmly.

“You know… some big old branches fell on it, and they took down everything but the planks. The fruits did it too sometimes. So… if you don’t mind… I would like to seek permission from you… to cut those threatening branches up there… yeah who knows someday they might fall on our children… security issues, that is,” Father explained.

There was an awkward silence for a brief moment. It seemed like the old couple was spending their time thinking.

“I will cut them by myself, so I am just seeking permission from you as the owner of the tree,” Father added.

“So what the hell of a goddamn reason you want to lacerate them! Let it be as it is!” shouted the old lady.

Once again, there was a moment of awkward silence.

“No, I will climb up by myself and cut them out by myself too. These branches are threatening my family. Can you see the damaged rooftop up there?” Father said, still holding on his politeness.

“This tree is a matriarchal property of us! Why the hell did you build this house here in the first place?!” the old lady barked.

“Be it as you wish then,” Father said, monotonously.

The couple walked away. Haji Hasang remained a man who had spoken the least. And so the tree had made us rivals.

*****

Backhoes were brought in to take down the coconut trees of the yard’s east region. Everything there was cleared up for houses development. It was said that Haji Hasang had sold it to a Johorean man many months ago before we moved in. Children milled about the area in a safe distance to witness the mass uprooting of tall coconut trees that swayed in great degree and survived even in the roughest of winds.

Haji Hasang did not watch the whole event. He chose to stay in his big house. He delivered orders instead. His younger male relatives did the job – “harvesting” job.

“What has been sold is the land – the soil. Not the coconut trees!” said Mok Cik Dah eagerly in a mengumpat (back chatting) session. I eavesdropped at their conversation. Mother was there too.

Rumour widespread in the neighbourhood that Haji Hasang still wanted the coconuts. He has sold the land but the coconut trees planted in the land were still his. Like a bunch of grapes fell of a dining table, the coconuts scattered around the area. Some were cracked opened, showing their white delicate flesh. The juice percolated between the sands, and children swallowed their craving for it. Haji Hasang’s workers hurriedly collected the good ones and huddled them in a safe area. Some of them took charge to guard the harvest. They were taken away soon after they were boarded into the trunks of two cars, and delivered them to Haji Hasang back and forth in three trips.

That day, Haji Hasang was given a nickname.

Haji Bakhil (Haji Stingy).

*****

Someone was looking for Father that day. His colleague had dropped him a line to tell him that. He put down his pen and left a pile of papers that needed signature of him behind and stepped out from his department’s cubicles to meet the stranger.

“There, Pok Sop,” Pok Cik Zahar said. He pointed his index finger at an old couple sitting on the sofa at the waiting room. The man was bulgy-faced, had a quite large beard, and wore a white skullcap. His wife dressed in her dark brown oversized baju kurung and had her head covered by a black shawl extended down to her hip.

“They said they want to meet the boss of your department, sir,” Pok Cik Zahar added. He snickered and went back to his working table.

Father met the old couple and greeted them with good hospitality. They exchanged lengthy conversation at the arbour. Finally the couple walked away.

Father told Mother that Haji Hasang and his wife was looking for the boss of his department without realizing that Father was the man who was holding the position. They were intended to meet some kind of a powerful and influential man of higher ranks to negotiate the end of Father's term in Dungun and later transfer him to a place where people speak in strange dialect called Kuala Berang in Hulu Terengganu.

Father said, "That’s not gonna happen. This is our house. This is our property. They thought we are renting this hut for nothing. Are we renting this hut? Huh! We bought it! I'm gonna ask that old man to take along the kuini tree to his tomb then. Oh make sure they do not forget of those valuable coconuts."

*****

I did not know how the tree died. I asked Mother, "Did you inject anything into that tree? You know... something like a poisonous fluid in a syringe or anything else close to that?"

Mother said, "No. It just died the way it wanted."

I Was Kidnapped When I Was A Baby

I was kidnapped by someone named Acik Jang. Mother got very angry that she swore her a great deal. She didn't pay the ransom so I was kept in Acik Jang's custody in a place so far away northward called Lorong Mok Pe, Kuala Trengganu. I received violent physical tortures like pinches, hugs, kisses, and many more by people I could not remember but Mother called them "siblings". Mother took me back to Dungun next day after I was crying badly like a baby. She was still angry. God kidnapped Acik Jang few months ago. Asthma.

Disassembled Mind

Mat Jeng didn't look like other passersby. His hairs were tangled like hairs of a demented ghoul. He walked about the row of classrooms, wore ragged shorts with and a t-shirt once white. He was holding a bottle of soy sauce for a reason we never knew. He mouthed some uncertain murmurs, poked his head into the entrance door of ours and shouted "arghh!!!". He dragged us out into temporary haywire. We screamed our heart out like he did, but the difference was; he did that with enjoyment while we almost had our heart explode.

He walked away a few paces, paused, glanced back at us with his contented chuckle, revealing his severely decayed teeth, and off he went to somewhere he never thought of going. Teacher, a local lad, looked calm. He knew Mat Jeng -- a mad man.

Mat Jeng was a famous figure among several other weirdos who roamed about our little town Dungun when I was still a boy. Rumour had it that he was a genius scholar when he was an altogether man. Many sad things happened to him then. I did not know what the sad things were. My friends at school told me, Mat Jeng read too many books, which finally led him into the state of disassembled brain. That got me thinking about it the whole week. Another rumour I heard was – he had involved in an accident; a stone was hurled at him (which came out from nowhere and no one knew who did that) and hit his head, resulted an obvious swelling on his forehead and you could see the swollen flesh from a long distance. He lost his mind ever since.

There was another mad man named Pok Arab. He had another nickname; Orang Salamualaikung, known for his weird everyday outfit -- putting on Arab's headgear and a sunglasses (even in night darkness) and his tendency to greet "Assalamualaikum!" at every single person he met, hence his name.

He cycled alone about the town, and sometimes traveled the whole district from Sura Hujung in the south to Kuala in the north. In his never-ending journey, he smiled and greeted "Assalamualaikum!" at every single person he met. He would pause his journey at certain places, stood there still, buried his hands in his pockets, recited a few holy verses from the Koran and Hadiths (the sayings of the Prophet) and started giving out religious lectures occupied with hand gestures which perhaps, an attempt to describe something indescribable by strings of words like heaven and hell. Unfortunately, no one was willingly listening to him.

I’m not sure I can write Pok Arab’s history in good depth. Too many rumours evolved into variations of exaggerated stories about this mysterious man. But the most famous one I’d heard about Pok Arab was about his journey during his younger days. It was told that he had been too obsessed with mystical part of religious teaching the wrong way. He spent the rest of his life thinking of matters beyond his mental ability, such as, How God looks like? or Who created God in the first place? However, there was one thing I loved about this man -- which was the way he lost his mind in searching for truth.

In 1999, a strange man was given a weird nickname, "Mat Boggel", became a part of daily talks among coffee shops' morning dwellers around the town. Mat Boggel was a man who wore nothing but a long piece of cloth wrapped around his loin area, only covered part of his belly and his butt. When it was blown by strong wind, God helped him, that sight wasn't suitable for minors. One fine day, when the wind was as cruel as people around him, he was taken away to a mental hospital in a place called Tanjung Rambutan.

I haven't forgotten the moment I asked Mother regarding those unfortunate people – “Mok, orang giler masuk syurga dok?” (Mum, will a crazy man find his way in heaven?).

She said, yes.

Do I have to be crazy to go to heaven, Mother?

Ha! Ha! What a naughty boy. Keep yourself accompanied by good deeds everyday, and there's a big palace for you there.

I wanna go to heaven.

Haven't you missed your Zohor prayer today, son?

***

A Dungun man from Dubai named Kamal Musa had posted a comment about Mat Jeng. He said, copied verbatim:

"Mat Jeng passed away before his mum perfom the Hajj. Glad, his mum was not worried about his late son while she's in Mecca... knowing that no body will take care of Mat Jeng mkn minum sakit demam dia. Mat Jeng is lucky enough to have wonderful mother.."

Thank you Mr. Kamal Musa. Al-Fatihah to Mat Jeng. May he found peace in Jannah!

Deleting The Past

I have taken out my old posts as they turned out to be a joke for me right now. I laughed at myself. If it wasn’t about the bad grammar, then it was actually about the way I think back then. I was a tortured soul embodied by a fine-looking skin. Tortured soul acts more like a devil than a wise brain; it is pleasant to look at but deceiving. It means business. I am mad. I am a psychopath. I admit. That’s because I feel things deep. I am deleting the past that I hardly let go. I am not trying anymore.

Catfish

While slurping a cup of warm bitter tea, right after having the last bit of irresistible spicy ikan keli masak sambal for lunch, I was teleported to the other world where snippets of my childhood memories paraded in mind like grainy moving pictures projected from an old dusty cinema film projector.

I saw Father jerked back his fishing rod sidearm a few times. It bent down half moon like a grass blade blown by sea breeze. His muscle-rippling arms fought hard the resistance relentlessly and aaah finally, the divine relief – as if he was having a glorious pee after a long morning assembly.

“Ah! A fish, finally!” said Mother.

Father grinned.

“Is that ikang keli? It has whiskers,” I said.

“Dok ahu gok (I have no idea),” Father said.

“Ikang keli mana dudok dalang laok (No keli ever live in the sea),” Mother explained.

“Ikang duri kot (That must be ikang duri instead),” Father suggested. He was still holding the fishing rod. That poor thing, still got its mouth hooked, was laid on the ground that it flipped and flapped and quacked like a duck.

“Ikang dukkang tu! (That’s dukkang fish!)” said a man who was approaching us. His very thick moustache wagged as he spoke. He was thin on top, dark-skinned, and smelled so hanyir, which is the smell of the nearby wet market. I saw him fishing near us. He had stood there a lot earlier than us already, probably missed his garek (early evening) prayer intentionally, as Mother speculated. He generously handed Father his baits. Smelled like rotten fish. Because they really were. He taught Father to cut the flesh into bigger bits because dukkang liked it so much and off he went.

That night, Father caught many dukkangs. Mother marinated them with salt and turmeric. Fried. I didn’t really like the taste. The next day, I told my friends at school about dukkangs we caught that night. “Semalang ayoh aku dapak banyok ikang dukkang! (Last night my dad caught many dukkangs!)” I said. They laughed. They said, dukkangs eat shit.

Marital Inflammation

She was battering our kitchen's window with her palms. Her chest waved heavily under the thin fabric of her pajama. Panting. Her hairs were messy. Her meagre face looked pale under the hues of the kitchen's fluorescent light. There was a gold necklace slung around her neck, laying helplessly on her protruded collar bone.

I knew it had happened again. It was not the first time. Somewhere from the pitch darkness, a fierce voice of an old man darted into cracks of the wooden walls. I knew the voice.

She battered the window harder than before, crying and pleading for help. I barely understood her words since the turbulent emotion really took a heavy ride in her, galloped mercilessly in her chest. Mother and Father walked hurriedly from the living room to unlock the kitchen's door. But it was a hopeless effort. She disappeared as the fierce bark foreran the gentle click of the unlocked door.

It was her husband -- a skinny old man, tall, dark, but hardly stood ramrod -- back ache. Part of his silver lines on his apex were kept underneath a white kopiah (skullcap), therefore he was a godfearing man, because norm had it that every godfearing man wore it. He was armed with a supple rattan stick.

Mother told me that he was a retired eminent figure of Dungun’s political landscape. He belonged to a political party where men wore skullcaps and despised two towering specimens of the government named Mahathir Mohamad and Anwar Ibrahim. Our neighbour next door, Pok Cik Seng, joined his ship, except he was a mediocrity. And he wore skullcap too, all time.

Neighbours were gathering outside their house already and chattered with each other in a small group. Others craned their neck from the window, looked lost in curiosity of uncertain things in the dimmer rays of twilight, but later joined the swollen group of men and women before their sight that smelled of anxiety. They did not know of what would happen.

"Mok Cik Lah is being beaten by her husband and it's brought outside already!" as the self-chosen leader might had told to the curious ones.

I joined in to socialize with the kids, in another group swelled with wilder hypotheses. Among all the immature heads, we shared a common thought; that the old man was guilty as charged by the mature ones. Verdict; he's a bad husband -- the string of words that came out from eavesdropping at adults' conversation.

Marriage affair wasn't a part of our mental makeup. We neither articulate nor feel emotions connected to Mok Cik Lah. We did not capable of defining "a happy marriage". Unfortunately, we enjoyed the show! We thanked God that the trouble wasn't come from our families.

That night, we witnessed the whole event.

Nobody wanted to mess with other people's marriage problem. It's a taboo in our society. Mother could not do anything too when Mok Cik Lah suddenly appeared from the darkness, ran towards Mother, and cried out "tengok tu Bak nok katok Kak Lah! (look! Bak wants to beat me!)"

She had been running in circles. She had no where to go.

Mother said, "Sabor Kak Lah... sabor..." (calm down Kak Lah, calm down.)

I saw Bak walked swiftly to Mok Cik Lah. He raised his rattan stick into the air. He barked, "Maghi sining mung! Maghi sining!" (come here! come here!)

He pointed the tip of his rattan stick to Mok Cik Lah while repeating the same sentence. His voice turned louder and huskier as he did that. I could feel the sense of rage pressing around him. That stick was so magical that pointing at Mok Cik Lah with it had made her crouched on the tarmac. She propped up with her hands and cried helplessly when Bak approached her in his upsurging rage.

Futile neighbours watched Bak grabbed her wrist and dragged that puny woman back into their house. Each step he made, she resisted it. Bak raised his mighty stick and whipped his wife. Mok Cik Lah shielded the hit with her small palm. Bak raised the stick once again but he didn't hit because Mok Cik Lah had finally moved her feet, pushing the outcrops of the tarmac with her soles in a fading intensity of resistance. But it didn't set down the raging intensity from Bak. He shouted and jerked back her wrist now that Mok Cik Lah stood limply on her feet, hurling herself upon a man who was dragging her back to the house where brutal punishment awaited. She kept crying and shrieking her heart out until the dimmer light of the moon blotted by the eerie-looking night clouds.

*******

Bak died few years later. Aged 77. Mok Cik Lah later married her family's driver after they were caught in the act of indecent behaviour by local religious department officers in the same house she lived with Bak. All characters in this story have undergone 'namelift' for privacy purpose.

Going Out Fishing

Besides acting as a problem solver for the whole world crisis while watching news on TV, a true man goes fishing. So I went out fishing. Or prawning -- if this word does exist in the dictionary. I am in madness of catching fresh water prawns at a secret location where stars twinkle in resplendent yellow.

Apart from eerie trolls and goblins, this secret location promises good catch if the sun shines so bright all week long that it makes our dear prawns underneath this six-feet deep stagnant water going frenzy, thus, drooling over our bait. While the gullet of those poor worms bloated with the water from the pond, we were doing some charity works by donating our warm blood into the gullet of mosquitoes. They never thanked us. It takes a hard time for me to figure out that fishing trains patience. I cursed mosquitoes for all the skin rashes I received.

Too much of waiting, I scoffed when the grudging rains started pouring on us. We went back empty handed with an unpleasant sight of our flip-flops besmeared by mud. It's rainy season in Sarawak and prawns dislike rain. But we could see ourselves walking back to that secret location once the sun shines eagerly the next evening and it's a fat chance since this is rainy season. I have told you that.

No matter what happen, I'm gonna keep myself persistent with this prawn hunting activity. I'm sorry if I am some sort of in a writer's block mode. Don't blame me. Blame the prawns.