Antara benda-benda yang saya tak akan pernah buang ialah ini: setem. Walaupun saya sudah tidak lagi menulis surat, poskad dan nota-nota (entah cinta, entah rindu, entah sekadar bertanya khabar). Saya simpan walaupun bukan setem kenang-kenangan.
Bila saya terjumpa setem-setem ini yang saya tahu tidak pernah saya buang, yang hilang tapi bersimpan… yang saya selongkar dan jumpa, saya jadi mahu menulis lagi. Surat, poskad, nota-nota atau apa saja yang boleh saya kirim.
Penerima pertama yang datang ke fikiran, adalah orang yang pertama mengirim surat ke saya seumur hidup saya. 1979… dari Tawau, Lahad Datu dan Kota Kinabalu.
Terima kasih Abah, kerana membuka semua pintu dan jendela dunia untuk saya keluar, selongkar, teroka, tulis dan baca. Biarlah tahun-tahun terakhir ini saya masuk semula di pintu-pintu yang masih terbuka. Untuk saya catat dan maknakan bahagia, lewat abjad dengan 26 hurufnya.
Tak ingat langsung pantun ini. Lupa betul. Lupa terus. Kalau tak kerana Edrick mengemas aras satu Mesra, tempat saya berkubang mengusahakan Airwings dari tahun 2012 sampai ke tahun 2019, memang pantun ini akan jadi bahan artifact saja. Bahan peninggalan sejarah dan bahan bukti kejiwangan saya. Habis semua buku catatan saya dibawa naik si Dedek. Buku catatan yang masih banyak halaman kosong, tak ada satu pun penuh. Kadang-kadang jiwang saya ini hangatnya cuma sekejap.
Bila diamat-amati maksud pantun saya, tak dapat juga saya imbas kembali siapa yang saya maksudkan. Siapa yang saya pandang. Dan siapa yang menggoncang jiwa saya di Disember 2010 dulu. Sewaktu saya kembali ke tanahair bertiga dengan anak-anak, jiwa saya kacau, hidup saya galau. Bumi Rasputin terlalu dingin. Dan terlalu ramai perempuan menjual kehangatan untuk lelaki-lelaki yang konon mahu mengisi sepi. Akhirnya saya sedari, di mana-mana pun… ada saja lelaki yang jiwa sepinya tak terisi oleh anak-anak dan isteri-isteri.
Atau mungkin saya menulis pantun ini untuk cerita-cerita dalam pembayangnya saja. Tentang rindu pada sepohon kundang tepi perigi tebing rumah Wan yang rajin berbuah di hujung tahun, cuti sekolah. Ada galah yang selalu tersandar di penjuru kandang kerbau sengaja ditinggalkan Aki. Tahu cucu-cucunya cuma rajin mengait kundang berbuah rendang, makannya jarang. Tentang pohon selasih yang rajin saya tanam di San Donato Milanese, tanpa tahu namanya selasih. Allora conoscevo solo il basilico. Tentang betapa berbulunya saya dengan sambal bacang yang berbulu.
Dan tentang Mimosa Pudica dengan cerita lamanya yang lama saya tinggalkan saja di Lorong Tengah, Kampung Pinang, Taiping. Tak bawa ke mana-mana. Hanya terbawa ke 2010.
Lama saya tak makan hati. Bukan tak ada hati, tapi jadi tawar hati sebab dua tiga kali yang terakhir saya membeli, banyak hati yang tak bersih. Termasuklah semalam. Hati yang sampai masih ada hempedu nya. Mempedal yang saya terima terlalu banyak lemaknya.
Saya berkecil hati.
Sudahnya saya buang saja semua mempedal, jantung dan limpa kerana tak sanggup nak membelah mempedal untuk membuang tahi, membelah jantung untuk membuang darah beku. Limpa pula cuma ada satu. Lupakan saja! Saya bersihkan hati dari segala kehijauan hempedu, ketulan darah beku, lemak-lemak yang menempel. Lalu saya garam-kunyit dan serbuk ketumbarkan dia dan goreng sesuka hati saya.
Mempedal yang bertahi mengingatkan saya… Sekitar penghujung tahun 70an, my parents tried rearing a couple of chicken. It was most likely 1977 — I remember the year because I was still the youngest child then. Tapi bila tiba-tiba we had an unexpected guest, somebody high-up in the Cekak Harimau association who was coming for lunch, my parents had to sacrifice their chicken. Seemed to me it was the first time my mother had to clean chicken she reared herself. She cried, threw up and obviously was not happy.
I can’t recall apa yang mak saya masak untuk hidangan makan siang menjamu tetamu kami hujung minggu itu. Saya cuma ingat, mak saya tak sentuh langsung masakannya sendiri. She made us (my Irish twin sister, Mas and I) watch how she siang the ayam. She specifically dissected the mempedal to memburaikan tahi dan segala isi di dalamnya. The chicken’s throats were still full of jagung, she cleaned that too. Her face was red and wet with tears and sweat. She gagged and muntah a few times, but the chicken dishes were ready in no time.
While our guest, I had no idea what his name was, makan dengan sangatlah berselera nya, mak saya sambung konon sibuk di dapur rumah kecil kami di Kampung Jana Baru itu memotong semangka. She didn’t eat anything at all. Selepas makan dan basuh tangan, since we didn’t have any serviette or tissue back then, our guest showed me how he dried his hands pahlawan style! Itu saya ingat sampai sekarang. I do it almost every time saya makan di restoran yang tak menyediakan tisu berdekatan dengan tempat cuci tangan. Pahlawan sangat!
My parents never reared any more chicken after that foodful day. I never saw any mempedal (gizzard) full of tahi again until yesterday. Looking back, I am not sure if my mom actually sedih having to cook ayam yang dibela sendiri or she genuinely geli having to gut the gizzards. She let everyone makan ayam puas-puas that day. Us kids especially. Di tahun-tahun 70an dulu, ayam adalah lauk orang kaya. It was a meal to brag about! I heard that the Cekak Harimau guy was a rich man, so my parents must have been segan kalau hidang lauk ikan sepat masin atau telur masak kicap saja.
We did not have any chicken meal for quite a while after that special lunch. But less than a year later, ada telur baru menetas in our family. My Irish twin sister and I got ourselves a little sister.
Sewaktu melihat ini, aku seperti terhantar ke jalan-jalan menuju Melegnano dalam hujan petang di bulan-bulan April dan Mei tahun dua ribu satu. .
Pada hujannya, pada comotnya, pada runtuhnya bangunan-bangunan yang entah apa sajalah sejarahnya. Tak pernah terlintas bahawa akan ada rindu buat Melegnano sesudah lapan belas tahun. .
Apakah anak-anakku akan rindu pada Kuala Lumpur yang membuang sejarahnya seperti membuang sampah? .
Monchiesku…
Aturlah langkahmu di Mariposa. Dan sekali-sekala bayangkanlah jalan berbukit kecil kita di Mesra.
When I heard the story about a tardy ruler from someone who had to wait for him, I was skeptical. But when thirty minutes dragged on to three hours, and the same tardiness seemed to be fashionable as it happened in three occasions within just two to three days… my heart bled blue. Oh how I wish the stories were not true.
.
For days on end the stories disappointed me. Hearing more stories about the same ruler who is actually well known to have made people wait, somehow hurt the very core of my soul. I don’t understand why, and for some reason I was in denial. So much so that I went looking for the hukum of tardiness. Oh how I wish the rules were above the ruler.
.
And then I remember Ustazah Khadijah who used to wait for my whole class to come back from the science lab to attend her Agama period at the end of the afternoon session. I, for one, used to drag my feet to her class until one gloomy late afternoon when she had enough of our tardiness and told us that God would be fair to those who make others wait.
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No matter how well we have served God and how kind we have been to people in this life, there is something about time that many will be denied heaven for, she reminded us. And that is if we are tardy. For punctuality is a promise. A trust. And one who breaks his or her promises of time purposely will be denied the best of the hereafter.
.
.
“Tuhan dah janji dah. Tak tepati masa kat dunia ni, kat akhirat satni hangpa tunggu lah pulak sampai Dia redha kat hangpa baghu buleh masuk syurga. Tak keigha lah hang sapa kat dunia ni, hatta seorang raja.”
I once read…
“Write injuries in sand, kindnesses in marble.”
.
I guess that’s why I write.
..
And I was reminded of this unrelated children’s song:
In a cavern in a canyon,
excavating for a mine,
dwelt a miner forty-niner,
and his daughter, Clementine.
.
One of Kitreena’s teddy bears is called Clementine.
I cook. But almost every time I say that I do cook, I get a funny look. A doubtful look. And it always comes down to my look. I don’t have the look of someone who cooks, or someone who even knows how to cook. So they say.
.
And almost every time I get that funny, doubtful look from those who do not believe that I do cook or I do know how to cook… I feel the urge to prove that I don’t only cook, but I am a hardcore kampung cook. (People think I’m a city mouse.)
.
I eat stinky things: petai, rebung, tempoyak, jeruk maman, you name it. I eat rotten preserved food as well: ikan pekasam, telur asin, kulat sisir, any moldy but edible food… I am bound to give it a try, and more often than not, will like it.
.
What surprised me today, though, was not what I can eat or cook. It was my retained ability to use the kampung kitchen tool that I haven’t used for more than 30 years. I even have one at home — that I packed to Australia, Oman, Italy, Canada, Russia and back to Malaysia — for wall decor.
.
.
.
There I was, at one corner of the anjung dapur, menampi beras pulut hitam destined to be bubur for our minum petang. And my mind was already busy thinking of the other traditional kitchen tool I have not used since I fled that fateful fire of Padang Masirat.
.
I am on a quest for a good set of batu giling now.
I hope you never lose your sense of wonder
You get your fill to eat but always keep that hunger
May you never take one single breath for granted
God forbid love ever leave you empty handed
I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean
Whenever one door closes I hope one more opens
Promise me that you’ll give faith a fighting chance
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance
I hope you dance
I hope you dance
I hope you never fear those mountains in the distance
Never settle for the path of least resistance
Living might mean taking chances but they’re worth taking
Lovin’ might be a mistake but it’s worth making
Don’t let some hell-bent heart leave you bitter
When you come close to selling out, reconsider
Give the heavens above more than just a passing glance
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance
I hope you dance
(Time is a real and constant motion always)
I hope you dance
(Rolling us along)
I hope you dance
(Tell me who)
I hope you dance
(Wants to look back on their youth and wonder)
(Where those years have gone)
I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean
Whenever one door closes I hope one more opens
Promise me you’ll give faith a fighting chance
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance
Dance
I hope you dance
I hope you dance
(Time is a real and constant motion always)
I hope you dance
(Rolling us along)
I hope you dance
(Tell me who)
(Wants to look back on their youth and wonder)
I hope you dance
(Where those years have gone)
(Tell me who)
(Wants to look back on their youth and wonder)
(Where those years have gone)
Questa è Enida 