April 12 marked a black spot in my life. The night before was uncomfortable. It was a very busy week at work, a few assignments were due at the same time, I had a test coming in the morning and final exams were just 2 weeks away, and I had to deal with an infestation of some unknown creepy crawlies on our bed. The itch of the insect bites kept me wake most of the night, and strangely enough my wife and kid were spared from their fury. Half the night was gone when I decided to sleep in the office room instead.
At exactly 0625 hrs, my mom called, and the news was, Ayah Ngah had just collapsed into a coma and had to be rushed to the hospital. I was having a test that morning, so my mom told me to go for the test and she will update me of any news. Alas, news came sooner than later. At exactly 0701, my mom called me again; Ayah Ngah had passed away.
My state of mind immediately after was some kind of numbness, perhaps from prolonged strain of the week, added by lack of sleep throughout the night, and the news sounded like “Oh… he’s gone…”. As usual, wife and maid did all the packing, and I went into the shower. Under the hot sprinkle of water, reality sank in; Ayah Ngah was gone, and he was gone forever. Bits of memories flashed in my mind, and getting out of the shower, I burst into tears in the arms of my wife.
Ayah Ngah was the husband of my father’s elder sister, and in the family circle he was the ‘old man’, the one everyone looked up to, the one who had veto over decisions, the Maharaja, the figure of authority. He was the de facto family elder and his opinions carried weight in every conversation. He retired from the police force many years ago, and he had always been around ever since I can remember. Throughout his retirement age, he suffered from a genetic eye condition which rendered him practically blind. But despite that, he remained to be very formidable and commanding, perhaps the very traits carried on from his younger days in the police force. He was the symbol of the family, and a model of sheer willpower and spirit of never-giving-up no matter what the odds were.
In the extended family circle, I had always been the ‘one who is never around’. I left home very early in life to attend boarding school in Perak, went to further studies in Johor soon after, and build up my family and career in Penang. Everyone else pretty much stayed around central region, particularly KL/Selangor. Being away for so long perhaps made the most of my character; independent, perhaps a tad rebellious. However being away sets the quiet distance between me and the family.
Gatherings were very common and frequent, especially when practically everyone lived just around. Even my parents in Seremban were just about an hour away from KL, and therefore Ayah and Mummy Ngah’s place in SS3 Kelana Jaya had always been the de facto gathering place of the family. That small 2 storey terrace house was where my generation of cousins grew up with each other while the parents sit down together in the kitchen having all sorts of conversations, be it Siti Nurhaliza vs Noraniza Idris, Mahathir vs Anwar Ibrahim (me being Anwar’s man though, so I kept away from this conversation because apparently everyone else was Mahathir’s), children’s issues with examination results, looking for jobs, joining a band, getting caught with whatever, weddings, funerals, bank loans, a piece of land they had been trying to sell, car loan, house loan etc. etc, you name it. The place was also where our grandmother passed away, which kind of brought us, the cousins closer together during my early teenage years, visiting her whenever school was on holiday and reciting the Yaasin for her up till her death. My generation of cousins, the 80’s babies had all grown up now, and we had been replaced by the 90’s babies, the second cousins, the MTV generation.
In the house though, one constant always remained: Ayah Ngah, who will always sit at the head of the table in the kitchen, and who will always sit on the sofa by the front door afterwards for coffee. I remember during my earlier childhood, he used to make me sit on his lap, and he would ask me all sorts of questions especially about school and studies. I’m quite sure every one of my generation had to go through that one time or another. Even after the children had grown up, he still played that role, giving out advices and his insights whenever he felt necessary, or when no one else can, especially the parents.
It felt sad, how someone who had always been there suddenly wasn’t. To me, Ayah Ngah’s death represented the first of his generation in our family to go. His was the first death in my adulthood, and with his demise came the cold hard truth that sooner or later everyone’s turn will be up. It made me question myself, whether building my life 6 hours away from everyone else was worth it for selfish reasons, or simply because it was meant to be. Being away gave me the freedom to live my life as my own, at the expense of missing family events and relationships. It showed, how over the years I kept running out of things to talk about with my cousins, how I shied away more from everyone and frantically looking for common ground. I hardly knew anyone anymore, and it made me wonder at my funeral, who would I be remembered as? Will I die a lonely death, or will friends and family from here and afar be there for my final Solat Jenazah and accompany me to my final resting place?
Dear Ayah Ngah, you had always been there and I especially had taken you for granted. Looking back, I knew I should have spent more time talking with you, getting to know you better instead of the usual “How are you?” and “Fine, thank you.” Now, should-haves and could-haves no longer matter, and all I can offer you are just prayers, al-Fatihah and Yaasin. May Allah bless you in the after-life.
We rushed back to KL and arrived just in time for Solat Jenazah, and I stood watching every moment beside Ayah Ngah’s grave as they buried him beneath the red soil of Bukit Kiara. The mood was somber, and the sun felt like just inches above our heads. The experience touched something deep inside of me, and I’m sure many of us in the family felt the same way, perhaps more so since they were much closer to him than I was. It was a reminder, and one I would not forget for the rest of my life.
Al-Fatihah to Haji Zakaria bin Mohd Don, and may Allah bless his soul with barakah till Judgment day.
