Roots

There is a Malay saying that no matter how high an egret flies, it will come down once in a while to rest on a buffalo's back. This is a story about my recent homecoming of sorts.

Mother's resting place

SINCE my mum passed on about five years ago, I had travelled back to the kampung less frequently. It was just not the same without her.

 But deep inside there has always been the feeling that some things were there waiting for the day that I shall come back, at least for a visit once in a while. When I could not resist the calling one day, I packed, filled up the gas, and made my way back to where I had spent some of the early chapters of my  somewhat colourful life.

 I had travelled far and wide, on account of my profession. I've seen a lot of things, met a lot of different people and encountared various cultures along the way. But I never forget what my late father said to me one day long ago, that I must never forget my roots.

 The sun was already behind the tree-tops when I got back to Kuala Kepis, that far-flung kampung I mentioned in my first posting, accompanied only by my youngest daughter, Aisyah. There was a slight breeze as we stepped into our first stop, the place where both my parents were laid down to rest years ago.

 It was Ramadhan and the place was all cleared up of weeds, in preparation for the coming Aidil Fitri when people would usually come there to offer prayers for those who had left earlier.
 I offered my little prayer for my parents who were laid next to each and quietly hoped that I have grown up to become the man they had wanted me to be.

 I was by her side when mother breathed her last and when the doctor placed his hands on my shoulder, I knew she was gone. I was sad but only for a while, for I knew that all her life, she had done nothing but to prepare her nine children for their lives ahead. And she had done well.

 Close to being an illiterate (she only knew how to write her own name), mother was however aware of the need to send her children for education. 

 In fact she didn't quite like it when my late father decided to move to that kampung after he retired in 1970, simply because the place had no electricity and piped water at the time. She was worried that without electricity, her children's future would be as dark as the nights in the kampung then.

 Fortunately, father had saved enough money to build a small house at a place closer to Bahau, and where there was electricity. We moved there in 1972 and my world opened up a bit. At least, we could read our books better at night.

 The house in Kuala Kepis was left empty and soon it had to fend for itself against the formidable forces of nature -- the wind, dust, heat and most of all, termites. It stood no chance and one by one the planks that once upon a time were neatly arranged and securely nailed to provide us protection against the elements started to rot and fall off.

The house in its final days

 When I reached the house that evening, it was no longer safe to enter. What was once a window to the living area was now a gaping hole and as the wind blew, an old calendar flapped inside. It was a calendar of the type that showed the dates for horse racing.

 For a while I stood looking at the window, thinking of the times I had peered outside when it rained, to watch the water gushing from the zinc roof onto the ground below. I could almost hear the noise the rain made as it fell on that roof.

 My 'playground' behind the house was no more. It was overwhelmed by thick undergrowth and a rice field where I once played hide-and-seek in was bone-dry as no one had maintained the once effective irrigation system.

 That night as I spoke to an uncle after a delicious breaking-of-fast meal prepared by my aunt, we talked about the days when there was much life in the place. As he slowly puffed out his cigarette smoke, I could sense his longing for those good times.

 I told him we'd probably won't see those times again and he nodded, saying the younger generation would not want to stay in the kampung anymore. But I guess the younger generations are not to be blamed for leaving. I know, as I left too once upon a time, in search of my own little place in this world.

 As I advanced further in search of my destiny, the kampung went the other way as it drifted further into memory. Apart from my late parents' graves, my attachment to the place has grown thinner over the years. Even photographs I have of the place had turned blurr and yellowish over time. Soon it would be impossible to see them altogether.

 As I drove back to the city that night, I thought that that was what life is all about. Everything changes and nothing stays the same forever. 

 Like most of them who left, I don't really know if I'll ever come back. But I guess I'm like that egret in the proverb -- no matter how far it flies, once in a while it will hop on the buffalo's back.

ENDS