WHAT COULD HAVE BEEN...)
The Big 'O'
It should have been the proudest moment of our secondary lives. After all, we were receiving our GCE 'O' Level results, the first step towards maturity, 'freedom' and entry into the national mainstream life. Most of us were already planning to continue our education at Polytechnic or Junior College. My choice was clear from the start. I am not mathematically or scientifically inclined and since my parents are from the low income group, the only way I could enter the university and do the course I was good at was through the junior college. This of course, sounds perfectly normal, if not for the fact that I could not put on my headscarf anymore in JC. Period. I knew I had initially hated going to the madrasah for precisely the reason that I had to put on the headscarf. However, five beautiful years of learning about Islam had made me love the ways of the Muslimahs and I was at the crossroad - should I continue tertiary education in a line of study that I have no passion for so that I can keep my tudung, or should I follow my passion but leave my tudung behind. My parents, especially my father, fortunately have pledged to support whatever decisions I made.
Zak, however, was mad. Stark raving mad. It was not that I never brought up the subject. It was just that the results came sooner than expected - sooner than I could broach the matter to him.
It was the day we got our 'O' level results. There we were, huddled in the Musolla, waiting passively for the results - of course we were scared, excited, numbed - you name it. Some were at the point of hysteria, even, talking animatedly non-stop. Zafirah was one of them and I had to hush her many times. When the results were released, I did better than I had expected - 10 points for my L1B5 subjects. I made it to the top ten performers, much to my embarrassment, for all ten of us were paraded in front of everybody in that musolla. I glanced at Zak's face, caught his eyes and they were smiling. Alhamdulillah! That meant his results were good as well. When I got back to my friends, of course they swarmed me with congratulations and hugs. There were tearful faces, one of which was Zafirah's. I went over and put an arm around her shoulder
'Its okay, Fir...it couldn't be that bad, right?"
Zafirah, still red-eyed, still kind of stoned, showed me her results. It was not good enough to get her a place into Polytechnic, her dream institution, but it was acceptable enough for her to continue her tertiary education at a madrasah.
"MasyaAllah Fir! You can still apply to Wak Tanjong, or Maarif..Do your 'A' there, ok? Then who knows...."
"But, I really want to go to Poly...."
I patted her back.
"Sometimes we plan, but Allah knows best...He couldn't mean to bring evil to you right, Fir? Be patient, ok? Solat istiharah and pray that everything would turn out fine, ok?"
"And you? Still going to JC?"
"Yes, insyaAllah..."
I did not realize that Zak and his friends had come near us and I think he heard my last answer for I could feel his eyes burning right through me. Yes. Burning right through. Of course, I being the 'blur-sotong' looked up smilingly at him, wanting to ask his plans. But his eyes erased the smile from my face.
"'Zak - err... why?"
"Can I talk to you for a minute? Outside?"
I nodded and followed him wordlessly outside the musolla.
"You can't be serious, right?"
"About?"
"Going to JC?"
"Yes, I am." I answered confidently.
"Why?'
"Because I want to go to NUS, and this is the cheapest way..."
"But you'll have to wear the uniform!" There was more alarm in his voice than anger this time and I actually felt guilty. He was worried. And- did I detect jealousy?
"Eza, can't you go to Poly at least, then go to NUS?" he was almost pleading.
I just smiled.
"And do engineering, Zak? You know that's not me..."
"Think about it, Eza...after three years, you'll get a diploma, then if you make it to the top 10%, you can continue straight to year two at NUS. And I know you'll have no problem being top 5% even! But in JC, if you fail, for I've heard how difficult JC life can be, you don't even have a diploma - worst - you might have to join Poly when your friends are already graduating!"
I found myself agreeing with him and I thought he actually was very proud of himself - at the logic of his arguments. But I know the sacrifices my parents made for me. My decision was final.
"I'll rather look at JC life as being in a cocoon - I am being prepared to become a butterfly one day!" I answered, softly.
"A cocoon covers itself - but not you!"
He almost spat out the words and I was totally taken aback by the animosity in the language and the tone. Was this the Zak that I had known? Most of all, his words hurt. Very much. They stabbed at my being and I know my expression was a pained one. However, Zak was intent to make me change my mind, for when he saw reasoning not working; he went for the jugular vein - guilt.
.
"It's sinful." He said with finality, like an ustaz proclaiming the death sentence.
"Says who?" I fired back at him; his patronizing tone has finally brought out the dragon in me. I was rude. Very rude.
I glared at him and he glared back at me.
"You know what I mean..."
"No, I don't! And if you refused to understand that, then I DON'T CARE! I'm only going to wear the uniform in school...I will cover my aurah to and coming back from school...I promise..." my voice was hissing and I was gritting my teeth towards the end.
"But you will still show your aurah!" his voice actually rang loud with incredulous anger.
"And what is that to you? Why am I actually explaining myself to you?" I challenged him.
"You are MY GIRL!"
"Then you better treat me like one!"
He actually moved as though he was about to hold my shoulders, to shake me to my senses then he realized before it
was too late, letting his hands fall limply by his side, face red, ears red. His eyes were red too.
I think our 'skirmish' was a trite too loud, for when I stormed out of the conversation and into the musolla back, all eyes
were at me. I sat down, livid. When Zak entered the musolla, all eyes were on HIM, and he sat down, livid. We were two brilliant, angry students.
And, yes, I did not get to ask him where he was going. As if I cared...
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I showed the acceptance SMS from MOE to my parents and they were beyond delighted. I have never seen them so happy before. Pride was written all over their faces. I was so touched to have made them this happy. Mak hugged me very, very tightly and I have never seen Abah smiled that wide before. They all knew that college and 'A' Levels was the first step to a degree and I had their full blessings. Being the eldest, they wanted me to be a good example to my younger siblings. I was also the first among my cousins to have made it that far academically. All of my cousins were already working, most at factories. 'She's a QC now, you know!' My aunt would brag to my mother. 'She gives me half her salary every month!' That somehow hurt my mother more than the fact that I was still schooling. My cousins had, well, contributed to their family's finances, whereas my father was still slogging it away to feed his family. Fortunately for me, my mom's commonsense and patience overtook her desire to be one of the Joneses. Of course, my cousins treated me and my siblings like the poor kids that we were. Once, I visited my aunt and did my prayers in my cousin's room. Heeding my mom's advice, before leaving, I put on the cheap Yardley compact powder and rose-shade lipstick. My cousin saw me and immediately remarked loudly,
'Eh! Did you put on my Nutrimetics lipstick?'
I felt insulted but managed a smile and shook my head. I had to show her the Yardley cosmetics before she believed me. I was poor, yes, but I have my principles too...better remain poor than go begging at relatives- my mother's principle cascading down to her children. From my father, I learnt about perseverance - he never took MC for work - come rain or shine, he would always be at the office - on time. Always. We were poor, yes. In financial need, yes. 'Beggars'? No. My honour is my pride. As long as the source of income is halal, I have no qualms to undertake part-time work during the school holidays. I have worked as an 'office-girl', even a part-time maid, replacing my mom when she couldn't report to work. There was just once, I remember, when my mother innocently met my primary school Principal to ask for financial help. My father was just a security guard at that time. I still remember the Principal, Mdm S, 'lecturing' my mother on the virtues of being thrifty, saying things like if my mother could afford a television, then she should not be there asking for financial help. Absolute nonsense, I thought at that time. But I remembered my mother's face. She left the room red-faced; anger and deep embarrassment were all mixed up in her being. She never personally asked anybody for financial aid anymore after this. I, however, went on a 'rampage' - a mission to help my family by whatever means that a teenager could do. I never fail to apply for free textbooks every year, once even receiving 'lunch coupons'. Putting aside the embarrassment of buying food with coupons, I was thankful that my mom need not worry about my daily expenses then. Zafirah used to whisper how Zak would stare back at the students' who smirked, scoffed or stared at my lunch coupons. My hero....
Zak...yes. He didn't seem like a hero now - more the villain who taunted me, with threats of hell beckoning at me. How could he not try to understand? If it's painful to him to IMAGINE me in a skirt, it is more PAINFUL for me to have to wear it. How could I even allow a 'non-muhrim' to 'see' me, when only my husband is allowed that?!! My husband. The tumult, the strain of the stress filled me at this thought that I could not stop a tear from falling. Ya Allah! I am so thankful that Thou art the Most Merciful, Most Benevolent...I know You will judge my heart and not by what I wore.
"Kak Hafiiiiiza! Your friend!!!" my youngest brother almost screamed.
Startled, I opened my bedroom door, almost in a daze and almost instantaneously, I then found myself staring point blank into Zak's startled eyes. Correction. I caught his nervous smile FIRST, before I saw the shock in his eyes. It was, I think, only about a few seconds of staring, then he went really, really red in the face - he was red all up to his ears, and then he quickly turned his back on me. TURNED HIS BACK ON ME! I was about to scold him when I realised, like a big boulder come crashing on top of my silly head that I was in my home clothes! O My Allah! IN MY HOME CLOTHES, for goodness sake! I slammed the door shut - a confused girl with anger, embarrassment and guilt all mixed up. And my hair...my hair was in all its full, tangled 'glory' - falling about and below my shoulders in its messy, curly waves...
I refused to open the door.
"Eza! " Zak's voice was soft, almost pleading.
"Go away!"
"I am sorry...ana asif...ana asif jiddan..."
I felt a lump in my throat.
"Go away! My father's at work and my mother at the market! It was stupid of my brother to let you in!"
There was a long pause and I thought he had left. Then he spoke again.
"Please...I need to see you."
"Why?"
"It's important."
Curiosity got the better of me. I dressed up and opened the door. Scowling. This was only the second time he came to my house. The first time was when we were twelve and I almost killed him when he choked on my mother's pineapple tart. Now, I almost wished I had.
"I am sorry for not calling you up first -"he began and I glared at him. Then I felt so utterly dejected that I looked down at the patterns on my brown carpet. What's the point! The whole world is going to see my agony anyway...
"This is for you..."
In my haze and confusion, I did not notice something on the floor - it was a bouquet of white roses and sitting perfectly happily in the middle of it was a single red rose, blooming in all its full splendour. White. Purity. That connection suddenly choked me and the carpet's pattern was blurring.
"Don't - you look so much like a girl -"
And I smiled. He always knows how to make me smile...
"But I am, Zak...and I'm no more going to be a girl...'
I don't know why I said that. I just felt like I had aged ten years just minutes ago. The sound of the key turning at the gate and my mom's face peering in made both me and Zak turned around. She took a look at Zak, then at me, and I guessed she sized up the situation pretty well. Her eyes rested on the flowers. Zak stood up and smiled rather hesitantly, giving her the salam.
'Waalaikumsalam! And what's your name, young man?'
'Zakaria, aunty.'
'Ohhhhh...Have we met before?'
'Err...yes...when I was twelve, I came here, with friends for Hari Raya....'
'Ohhhhh...the one with the tart and the one who went for the operation?'
'Err...yes...aunty. Yes.'
'Ish...should have brought chocolates instead, this girl don't like flowers!'
'Makkk!'
'Really? Oh...' Zak really looked crestfallen.
'Never mind! I like! Thank you, son!'
Then she chattered on and on about me being not like other girls, that I was a roughshod, when she got to the point of being worried that I may never get married, I was appalled. Zak was smiling so broadly, nodding his head that I couldn't actually decide who to 'kill' first - my dear mother or Zak, the smiling idiot.
'Mak - your fish..It's dripping blood!'
"Oh! MasyaAllah! Okay, okay...no, thanks son, I can manage...you two go on...it's cooking time now...you're staying for lunch?'
'Yes-'
'No! He has to go home...to help his mother - wash the laundry!'
I had meant it as an insult, but he was still nodding his silly head, still smiling. He sat down and nervously handed the flowers to me.
'I don't really like flowers -'
(I saw the smile wiped out from Zak's face. Serve him right!)
'But I do love roses - especially white ones...Thank you....'
Instead of beaming, he was now frowning, a pained expression that was unreadable. What's wrong with this guy? There was a moment of awkward silence and I almost wanted to bring back my mother so that we could hear her chattering when Zak finally opened his mouth.
'I...err, want to say, all the best in college...I...hope that you'll do your best and make me, err, I mean, your family proud...'
It was me who was beaming this time. He then seemed to fumble in him back pocket. He has a gun?! I was about to do a wisecrack when he actually took out a small, white box. He took in a deep breath. A very deep breath. He looked like he was calming himself down.
'In the name of Allah, Most Gracious, Most Merciful...
My eyes grew wide. He took in another long breath. His voice was low, controlled and musical. That voice can put one in a trance, I swear.
'Eza...I am going to the polytechnic to do engineering. If I have good results, I plan to continue my studies overseas, after my NS, insyaAllah. That will be about eight years from now. I am a nobody now, but by then, I hope, insyaAllah, to come back as a somebody and then...and then... I hope you'll be there, waiting - for me. If you can, please accept this. If not, I'll just - you just keep it...it best fits you, anyway...'
My heart literally skipped a beat. Finally, I managed to get my hand to obey me and it took hold of the box almost gingerly. I managed to glance at the kitchen door and was grateful that my mom was not watching. I opened the box, and there, again, like the flowers, sitting prettily, was a simple, silver bracelet, with three silver roses and silver hearts. I wore it on my right wrist. It was beautiful.
Zak gave a little laugh, out of relief. Then he went red in the face.
'Alhamdulillah...thank you, Eza. Thank you...Can I ask you a favour...could you like- keep your hair short, until I come back? I - I can't stand it that some other people are looking at your beauty...'
My beauty? Awww.... No boy's ever said I was beautiful before...
My mother's shadow fell across the hallway. She had been listening all this while???
'So, will you stay for lunch, Zakaria?'
'Err, no aunty. Thank you so much for the invitation. I really have to go...Eza, I call later? Send my regards to uncle, aunty! Assalamualaikum!'
'Waalaikumsalam!'
In his haste to leave, Zak almost hit the opened doorway. Before I closed the door, Zak looked at me and nodded his head. I managed a nod back and a shy smile before he disappeared behind the lift doors.
I couldn't see anything else after this except roses and silver bracelet.
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Zauji
It was chaotic. The euphoria of people whispering and giggling and pointing at me was unbearable. I even had some unknown cousins giving me knowing winks, of which i winced back in response. To stay cooped up in that bedazzled bedroom almost took away the sanity in me. Yet, it was the only place where I could have some peace. I did take a look outside and what greeted me was more pandemonium - little cousins chasing each other, some crying hungrily, a group of neighbours preparing the sireh leaves; placing the plucked flowers inside the funnel-like leaves, then sprinkling perfume, the sound of spices sizzling in the huge pot, the smell of the nasi briyani and chicken cooked in red, tomato hot gravy - oh! I never knew people can be busy and happy, crying and happy, hungry and still happy at the same time! I knew I sighed countless times - but the words and admonishing of the elders had to be obeyed.
"Eh! Your blood is 'sweet' - go in, go in!"
"Amboi!!! You're an impatient one, aren't you?" and more winks followed.
I swear by the end of the day, these people are surely going to get sore eyes or become one-eyed giants, for heaven's sake!
Sighing for the umpteenth time, I looked around the room. It was beautiful, nonetheless. The deep, blue velvet bedspread was sewn by my own dear mother and myself. Together, we spent quiet and gossiping time together, sewing beads on it. If you can imagine a hockey player like me, with a needle and thread instead, well, you would have understood how tedious it was for me. But i doggedly pursued. These hockey hands will not give up! My heart will not give up! My mother was a terrifyingly terrific coach. The result, nonetheless, was kind of spectacular - deep blue velvet with sprinkles of beads and silver leaves littered on it. It reminded me of the night sky and stars. Many, many brilliant stars. And above all, it reminded me of Zak.
The bedroom door opened noisily and I was jolted from my thoughts. The moment the lady peered into my room, all sense of decorum left me for I stood up, ran and literally shouted:
"Zafiiiiiiirah!!!"
Oh! I hugged her so firmly, she must have had the wind knocked from her. I did not want to let her go.
"You came back, you came back - Alhamdulillah! When did you arrive from Syria?"
"Just...went straight here...OH! Look at that?!!"
She had grabbed both my hands and was looking a bit enviously at the red henna pattern on them. I had chosen the simplest of design - a blooming sunflower on the top of the hand, followed by two slender vines that clung for dear life on my ring finger and little finger. That was all. But somehow, the red orange henna brought out the fairness of my skin. Zafirah said it was exotic. She then giggled. Good old Zafirah! Her eyes then went big in sudden rememberance. I looked at her questioningly.
"What?"
"All these five years..five years of engagement....and you guys have not met each other, not even once?"
I nodded my head, smiling.
"And all these years...all you people had was the webcam and 3G to see each other?"
I smiled dreamily.
"Can't blame him...he only has his mother, you know ...and since he was offered to complete his Masters in Nanotechnology, well, I thought, why not? America isn't so bad...."
Absence makes the heart grows fonder. It was a long distance love affair indeed. I remember his voice, his voice and his
voice. He seemed to have put on some weight in a good way - he had been working out, he said. He has grown taller too, as had I, but I told him to stop, or he would have to go on his knees just to look at me.
Zafirah was shaking her head.
"You people are nuts, you know...after all these years and still nuts..."
" I know...I know..."
I was still hugging her tightly when the Mak Andam barged her way into the room. She looked at Zafirah, saw the imploring look on my face, then with audible 'Pfftt!' she nodded her head.
"Okay, she can stay...but STAY OUT of the way!"
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I heard him coming long before I saw him. The kompangs made sure of that! Their rhythmic beating seemed to have a life of its own - seemingly shouting in joy - heralding the coming of the bridegroom. My heart was beating in synced with it. It was beating that fast! The 'Tok Kadi', or Marriage Solemnizer, had been waiting outside the room. He had came to see me and after cracking a joke which I did not appreciate at all, because I was just so nervous, he asked me to sign a document, signalling my consent to the marriage.
There was a commotion outside, and I knew Zak and his entourage had arrived. I could not hear what was happening outside but the marriage solemnization ceremony was taking place. I knew the Tok Kadi would have held Zak's hands tight, and asked him to repeat after him the marriage vows. I knew the Tok Kadi was reminding Zak of his duties as a husband. Husband. That sounded so alien, so wonderfully, alien. I tried very hard not to tear, for I fear the thick lashes would come out or something or the mascara would smudge on my painted face. Tough that I was, a tomboy that I once was, I wanted to look my best for him. For him alone.
"Oh my God!" Zafirah exclaimed, dramatically holding her chest. The ceremony was over. In one breath, Zak was my husband. Dunia and akhirat. Amin. I looked at Zafirah. She came to me and whispered in my ears:
"He is so - "
Before she could finish, Zak was already at the doorway. I looked up but quickly looked down again. But not before I saw him smile. His winsome smile! I knew I went red in the face. Five years overseas had done him good. He looked leaner - gone were the boyish look on his face. He was taller, yes, and fuller. What was so different about him was his hair - he wore it longer now, so that the waves were at his neck, under the tanjak (Malay traditional headgear) - everywhere. Maggie Mee at its best. He looked the proverbial Sultan or Hang Tuah or both. He really took my breath away, resplendent in his matching off-white baju Melayu and soft purple songket outfit. I know my heart was in my mouth as he stooped down and goaded by the elders, held out his hand for the 'batal air sembahyang' ceremony - which actually was meant to signify that this was the first time we held each other's hand. True. Very true. It was the first time we were holding each other's hand and I took his rather hesitantly. His hand felt warm and it was quivering too. As I kissed it, a show of respect, a tear fell involuntarily on it and almost automatically, Zak's other hand was wiping another one away. He stooped and whispered,
"Don't do that...you look so like..."
"A girl...?"
"No..a woman..a beautiful woman...zaujah.." he said, the last word almost deliberately slowly.
And as he kissed my forehead, I saw our beginning together flashed in front of me like a fast forward movie - being ten year olds, the plasters, the silly cat and mouse game, Rahima, the operation where I almost lost him, the separation pain and uncertainty and I know, everything does not matter now. Nothing else matters. Not the finery, nor the glitzy celebration.
Ya Allah! Please bless this union. Now and forever.
My zauji is home. For good.
And the proverbial ship, as it is, has come back to shore.
And the shauqina, the missing and the yearning, has finally come home too.
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