My “Muhammad”

Let me tell you about my father. He was a regular army fella – a stickler for discipline. You could set your clock by his timing! Never ever be late deliberately – he would just wait for ten minutes beyond the appointed time. You could be rest assured that if you found him praying, it would be within ten minutes of the azan. I guess he liked the number 10!

Bapa was a jovial man; an indulgent father to us girls, a gentleman to all women especially to mak (mother), and a man to be reckoned with to my brothers and all other men. I remember overhearing a piece of advice he gave to my cheeky brothers, “Hampa esok kalau kawin jangan dok nak buat bini hampa tu hamba pecacai hampa. Jangan dok nak memerintah itu ini. Bini hampa tu bukan orang gaji. Tolong depa buat kerja rumah. Jangan tunggu sampai depa berleteaq. Itu suma anak orang. Mak pak depa bagi kat hampa suruh jaga betui-betui bukan suruh buat hamba!” [When you marry, don’t treat your wives like slaves. Don’t order them around. They’re not your maids. Help them with the housework. Don’t wait until they nag. They’re all someone’s daughters (entrusted in your care). Their parents wed them to you for you to take good care of them, not for you to enslave them]. And he lived every word he preached. He hanged the laundry, swept the compound, did the daily marketing, fixed things around the house, minded us kids, always quick with “please” and “thank you” and a lot of other activities as well except cooking. Bapa was a terrible cook! He couldn’t tell the difference between sugar and salt!

So I grew up seeing my brothers cook, clean and do myriad house chores – quite cheerfully and without whining. Most of them still do till today. And most of them are more adept at cooking and housekeeping than their wives. Much as they teased us girls, they were always protective, loving, caring, courteous and gentlemanly toward us.

Bapa was “warak” (pious). Right into my late teens, I used to think that all adults pray, read kitab and recite the Quran all the time. I used to think that they didn’t need much sleep because I saw bapa doing this in the early hours of the morning till daybreak. I had this habit of waking up in the wee hours of the morning to read my story books. When we had guests, he would shorten his prayer sessions. He always reminded us that visitors to our home are blessings Allah sent to us and we were to treat them as VIP. He would apologise to us when he did something unreasonable to any of us. I could always air my opinions freely and he would listen attentively. He never made any of us feel stupid or small. Even when he scolded us (“us” usually being my older brothers), he was never harsh – but definitely stern.

Bapa taught us values through his actions. He was a man of his word – an honourable man. Through him I learnt a fair bit about religion – stuff beyond my tender years. He was a master storyteller, great at simplifying things so a kid could understand. He forgave readily, was always quick to help, had a great sense of humour and made every trip out of the home seem like a great adventure. But he also had a temper (he was a Leo!) – unleashed when strongly provoked. However, he was also quick to apologise.

It was his routine to perform maghrib and isyak prayers at our village surau. On the way he would pass a group of youngsters strumming their guitars on the street corner (those days people walked). He would greet them with a salam and a smile and, at times, would stop to listen to them play or just chat about music. Then he would excuse himself and head on to the surau. By and by, the crowd at the street corner lessened until there was none there close to maghrib prayer. When bapa passed on, a couple of these guys told me that they were embarrassed at being seen loitering on the street corner when bapa walked by. He never once preached to them yet he touched their conscience by his conduct. Many of these “tough” guys wept shamelessly at his funeral and clamoured with each other to be pallbearers.

The kampong had never seen such a massive turnout for a funeral as on the day bapa died. Cars were parked all the way to the zoo (which was about a mile from our kampong). The kampong folks willingly ferried these mourners on their motorcycles. People overflowed to the street for the “jenazah” (janaza) prayer. The cemetery was filled with mourners – bapa was the second person to be buried there. And for the next two years we had a constant stream of mourners at our doorstep – those who were apprised of his death late. I somehow became the designated guide to bapa’s resting place whenever I was around.

My father wasn’t a VIP or anyone remotely famous. Yet he was loved and respected by many. I have never seen so many grown men cry as I did at his funeral. Even the imam broke down when he read the “talkin”. There were also quite a number of non-Muslims present. It was obvious that some mourners came immediately upon hearing of his demise – some were in shorts and slippers! I later found out that they were at the wet market when they got the news.

Bapa will always be my hero. I still miss him terribly. When I envisage my “Muhammad”, bapa always comes to mind….I guess it’s true when they say that a girl is always in love with her father…..