Miqdad

 “O Prophet of Allah, go ahead with what Allah has inspired you to do. We will stand by you. 

By Allah, we will never say as the Children of Israel said, “So go you and your Lord and fight you two, we are sitting right here.”

“Instead, we will say, “Go you and your Lord and we will fight with you.

“By Allah, Who has sent you with the truth, if you take us to the end of the world, we will tolerate all hardships until we reach it with you. We will fight on your left, your right, in front of you and behind you until Allah bestows victory on you.”

Thus, Miqdad, spoke your namesake - in that delicate moment just before the Battle of Badr, when the ummah was poised between resistance and retreat.

Alhamdulillah tsumma Alhamdulillah,

7 days ago, my Miqdad, you entered this world - 

born to a silent warrior of a mother, quietly strong underneath her soft exterior; one who carried you burdened with the memory of losses few have experienced.

You enter into a family receiving you with open arms: grandparents, uncles and aunts ready to dote on you, and an elder brother so eagerly waiting to play with you.

Yet the wider world, my Miqdad, is not so welcoming.. the sacred is occupied, human lives are cheap, the truth itself under attack.

Thus we name you after an Ahlul-Badr - a warrior of Badr; 

who was, before that, a Muhajir - one who emigrated for the Truth; 

who was, before that, among As-Sabiqun Al-Awwalun - one of the first to accept the Faith.

A man who was known to be good-natured, easy to joking and laughter, yet consistently present in the struggle for the Truth; 

one who led a life long and well-spent - present from the persecution of the earliest days of the da’wah to the opening of Misr, Syam and Palestine.

A man who hated flattery and kept a low profile, but is among the lofty in the Sight of Allah.

Mummy and Papa pray, O Miqdad, that you shall emulate a sahabah who is

humble, yet courageous; amiable, yet principled; modest, yet eloquent.

Ameen

On My Son’s Birthday

On this, my son’s 2nd birthday, I pay tribute to the two most amazing women in my life: my mum and my wife. 

For it is in these 2 years that I have witnessed firsthand how much time, energy, money, sleep, blood, sweat and tears my wife has sacrificed for our son; the superhuman physical, mental and emotional strength she showed in caring for the child entrusted to us.

For it is in these 2 years that I thus found a newfound appreciation for my own mother, who I now realise went through all these caring for me before I was even able to bear witness.

For it is in these two years that I have found an understanding of the words of Allah when He said:

“And We have enjoined upon man [care] for his parents. His mother carried him, [increasing her] in weakness upon weakness, and his weaning is in two years. Be grateful to Me and to your parents; to Me is the [final] destination.”

[Surah Luqman:14]

Thank you so much, to mama/nana and yangku/mummy from myself and baby Mukhlis! 

We are truly blessed to have you both in our lives ❤️❤️❤️

Mukhlis

بسم الله الرحمان الرحيم

Alhamdulillah tsumma Alhamdulillah..

Seven days ago, an amazing blessing entered the lives of my wife and I in the form of a healthy, beautiful, baby boy - our first-born child :’D

وَإِنَّ لَكُمۡ فِي ٱلۡأَنۡعَٰمِ لَعِبۡرَةٗۖ نُّسۡقِيكُم مِّمَّا فِي بُطُونِهِۦ مِنۢ بَيۡنِ فَرۡثٖ وَدَمٖ لَّبَنًا خَالِصٗا سَآئِغٗا لِّلشَّٰرِبِينَ

“And indeed, for you in grazing livestock is a lesson. We give you drink from what is in their bellies -  between excretion and blood -  pure milk, palatable to drinkers.” [An-Nahl, 16:66]

Our child, you entered into this world as pure and sweet as fresh milk.

From your first seconds of life, your face shone with the glow of innocence. How do we put into words how much peace it gives us just gazing at you..?

Thus even in these first days of your life, your Creator has given us an ibrah (lesson) to contemplate: that there is peace to be found even in chaos, hope even in despair, love even in animosity.

What a precious lesson to take in this world you’ve been born into - one seemingly filled with corruption, foulness and hate.

Our child, let your name then be an illustration of that first beautiful lesson:

Mukhlis

- a word composed of the root letters “ل”،”خ” and “ص”; from which the words ikhlas (sincerity) and khalis (to be pure) are also derived.

Mummy and papa pray that you will grow up to be salih wa musleh - that you are in yourself good, and helps others to be good;

that you continue being a vessel through whom Allah continues giving us beautiful lessons and reminders;

that you will help us ourselves become more sincere and more pure;

that you will be a Mukhlis - one who is sincere, devoted and pure-hearted. 

Ameen..

The Malaysian Spring

SubhanAllah walhamdulillah wastaghfirullah..
Malaysian grew up before our eyes yesterday!

But the journey is far from over..and even in our celebration, we can take steps towards a more mature democracy.

Despite the historic nature of this election, it cannot be denied that it was (and still is) marred by the same diseases of the past:
petty name-calling and labelling, racism, an inability to agree to disagree - just to name a few.
No side in this election was immune from such diseases.

We as a people have to strive for an Independence, a Merdeka, from such characteristics;
to have adaab (etiquette) in democracy.

A good place to start would be to distance ourselves from blind partisanship; meaning, that the party I support  is absolutely right and everybody else is absolutely wrong.

Let us instead recognise that in this new Malaysian Spring, the flowers which will bloom shall be in the form of diverse political views - often in competition and disagreement, but altogether a sign of a healthy garden.

Let those flowers bloom, do not crush them.
We may disagree with the views of other Malaysians - find them repulsive, even stupid.
But it is only if we can agree to disagree in a mature manner, to respect others’ right to hold an opinion we don’t agree with, that this new Malaysia can be a better one.
Let us realise that those you disagree with are fellow Malaysians. Often, family and friends. Accept them as human beings, and treat them as you expect to be treated.

This doesn’t mean you should keep your views quietly to yourself. The freedom to express one’s views, after all, is a sign of a healthy democracy.
So go ahead and try to convince others. Discuss. Debate, even.
But realise that the worst argument is to tell others, emotionally, to “shut up”;
that just shows how weak your own stand is.

Stay cool.
Show good akhlaq.
Have adaab.


P.s. Congratulations, Malaysia.
Truly I am especially proud today to be Malaysian. If one day I am blessed to have children and grandchildren, I will surely tell them of the day our country achieved her 2nd Merdeka, InsyaAllah!



#MalaysiaMenujuNegaraRahmah

All praise be to Him who asks from us worship 

in solemn solitude and 

in joyous gatherings; 

through silent contemplation and 

through hearty laughter.

Ways to do ibadah today:

1. jaga solat

2. spend time with family

3. be happy!

Eid Mubarak, everyone! 

Taqabbalallahu minna wa minkum ✌🏻😬   

Papa is a Tree

Pa, I remember you arriving home from work,

hands on hips, imitating the branches of a tree:

"Papa is a tree. 

Try and climb papa!"

Gleefully adik and I obliged, 

having never climbed a real tree,

racing to climb you like the city kids we are

(and having little regard for the health of your back 😅).

It has been nearly 15 years now since we last did that.

Those years have seen us kids 

grow up, leave school, fly overseas.

While you, Pa; 

our football coach, 

our chauffeur,

our best friend, 

have stayed our steady tree. 

I guess it can be tricky playing that role..

Being that steady over the years, 

it's easy to blend into the background -

people forgetting how important you are.

As you put out roots into yesterday, 

giving us steady support;

as you put out shoots into tomorrow, 

sheltering us from Life's elements;

as you put out flowers and fruits, 

nurturing those around you;

as you put out leaves green, red and brown, 

coloring our lives.

Trees, like everything, grow old

but they do develop a certain beauty with old age:

barks scarred and wrinkled with wisdom, 

leaves no longer growing thick,

revealing the empty nests of those city kids

who once lived on you, but

now live halfway across the world.

They remember still what you once said,

hands on hips, imitating the branches of a tree:

"Papa is a tree. 

Try and climb papa!"

Happy birthday, pa..

We love you! ❤️❤️😬😬

It's easy to look down on babies;

those chubby piles of blubber who don't seem to know how to do anything  

but eat, sleep, poop and cry

(and bite - yes, Dik, I'm referring to you.)

Yet babies are doing something many of us cannot claim to be doing:

Growing up - physically, mentally, emotionally. 

Because how many of us "grown ups" forget to do just that?

We forget to grow up, and merely grow old;

living our lives blindly from point A to point B,

from task to thoughtless task.

So perhaps it is from those chubby piles of blubber

who seem to know nothing

that we have to take a big lesson;

one that we all once knew 

but many of us have forgotten:

to be amazed with everything, 

to smile sincerely,

to learn readily.

To grow up.

Happy birthday, Dik :)

(And all the best for your test tomorrow. Don't bite anyone 😑)

Birthday Book

To write a book has always been my dream - today it still is.

Then again, I already have written some books - 

if those books I wrote as a young child count:

books about the adventures of a hero in a made-up planet,

a book compiling random stories and tales of Pokemon.

And, then again,

maybe life itself is a book;

the first chapter written in words unseen

at the moment we draw our first breath,

or at the moment we start existing as a ball of cells,

or even when our parents first met.

If so then every birthday is a chapter

of a story which nobody knows how it will unfold, 

nor end;

the story of a hero in a made-up planet,

living out a compilation of random stories 

(and yeah, the odd Pokemon once in a while).

Perhaps, then, a birthday 

is a chance to take a pause.

To stop and reflect on how the story has panned out so far,

though it is so very tempting to rush to the next chapter.

Perhaps it is a chance to appreciate 

not just you, the hero of your story,

but also those 'minor' characters around you

who we too often disregard as 

playing only cameo roles -

the neighbour,

the canteen lady,

the person you passed by on the street today -

forgetting that they, in fact, have

kept us entertained, 

came up with surprises, 

gave our lives meaning

over all those chapters.

Also forgetting that those 'minor characters' 

are themselves developing; 

the heroes of their own books,

written in parallel to mine, but 

so often intersecting with my story.

Anyways,

I was gifted this book for my birthday this year:

"When Breath becomes Air"

a book not completed by its original author

because he died before he could finished it.

His wife wrote the rest.

A book about meaning, about identity, about mortality - 

a (surprisingly 😜) deep present from a person from

one of those characters in my life who turn out to be not-so-minor after all;

who has over the chapters entertained, come up with surprises, gave me meaning.

And yes, herself developed as a heroine.

Maybe I shouldn't let it stay a dream, 

and start writing a book..

If Allah wills, I'll live to see it to completion.

If not, perhaps someone else will finish it for me.

After all, perhaps 

we are not meant to finish our own book..

Thank you to all who wished me happy birthday today,

I am grateful to have everyone of you in my story, 

as I hope you are grateful to have me in yours.

(thanks Dik for the wonderful present :))

Popo's Relationship Advice

An extract from yesterday's conversation* with popo**

Me: popo sudah makan?

Popo: sudah..!

Me: saya pon dah makan pagi tadi la

Popo: makan apa? Nasi lemak ka? Kahkahkah

Me: haha tada la..nasi putih sama telur goreng saja laa

Popo: wahh..lu manyak panai ah..! Masak pon panai, semua pon panai.. Satu hari nanti lu kawen la kahkahkah

Me: hahaha popo tolong saya pujuk mama kasi saya kawen laa

Popo: aiya..lu cali sendili la.. Lu punya mama tala cali untuk lu la kahkahkah..! Haiya...mikai*** ah!

*sorry..google translate will definitely not help with this, guys

**chinese for 'grandma'

***how popo pronounces my name

Happy Mother's Day!

At the antenatal clinic last week, 

I was given the chance to operate the ultrasound device 

which detects the heartbeat of a fetus in the womb. 

Taking a while to find the heartbeat, it then took me a few seconds for me to realize how profound a situation I found myself in:

I was holding the device which allowed a would-be mother to hear her baby's heartbeat for the first time.

Cameo role that I played, I was nonetheless part of a precious moment she would probably remember for life.

There is something I've noticed about the nature of Obs & Gynae placement thus far:

it allows you to witness the wonder, the beauty of motherhood.

But it also shows you the blood and gore that comes along with it.

And as much as babies are the most adorable of creatures, 

one cannot help, on this placement, 

but to realize that a baby fits the definition of a parasite quite well:

"An organism which lives in or on another organism (its host) and benefits by deriving nutrients at the other’s expense."

(And by this definition a baby continues to be a parasite even after it leaves the host's body, 

draining the host and her spouse off their physical, emotional and mental vitality as he continues to grow. Sorry Ma 😶)

Anyways what I was trying to get at, Ma,

is that when I was holding the ultrasound device

I thought about you, and 

wondered about that moment when you first heard MY heartbeat;

the heartbeat of that parasite which until today 

has yet to grow up fully and still gives you headaches 😅

Too often we don't appreciate 

the most precious things in life until it's passed us by: 

whether it be a precious moment, like hearing the heartbeat of a baby for the first time,

or a precious person, like the lady who has always loved you unconditionally despite your parasitic nature.

This parasite has got nothing to give you this Mother's Day, Ma

except this message of gratitude 

and a video of an otter and her baby 😅

Love you much, mooch2, assalamualaikum 

(Credits to Norshahkang Shuaib who first showed me this video and thus showed me that sanity is apparently not a prerequisite for postgraduate study)

Papa's Doa

My memory is a bit fuzzy on this,

for it is after all a childhood memory..

but

I remember 

after solat maghrib 

Papa letting me sit on his lap

as he makes doa.

He says it out loud deliberately

(I suspect)

so I could hear him say:

"Ya Allah, 

make my children good people,

grant them success 

in this world and the next"

Sometimes we feel that our success

comes from 

our own intelligence,

our own effort,

or just being at the right place

at the right time.

Forgetting that all help comes from Allah

and that help came via

the help of friends,

a 'lucky break',

or the sincere doa of a father.

Thanks pa :)

Homeception

They were familiar, but somehow different;
People I love, but haven't met for a little too long.

Those four people, as they sat among an enormous pile of luggage at Terminal 1 of Manchester Airport, represented a life I kept mostly out of my mind for the past three months.


In that amount of time, everything has changed.

I have become the typical medical student; my schedule packed.
Food is on-the-go (and not-so-healthy).
I have become accustomed to the cold; 10 Celcius qualifying as quite warm.
New weather, new food and new things to learn.
New country, new friends and new commitments.

Goodbye to home cooked meals, hello to Arab-sized portions of foreign food.
Goodbye to flip flops, hello to winter boots.
Goodbye to my old life.

Hello to a new one.

It has been pretty easy to bury my head into this life so far...so much so that it is only sometimes I look up and remember: "I'm in Manchester"



Until I called out to those four people in Terminal 1 of Manchester Airport, and suddenly my two lives are one again. Because those four people...they are my family.


Mama and Papa greeted me with the customary hug. It's been the longest time yet that I've been away from the only two people I've truly known my whole life.
Adik acted cool, but I knew she missed me as much as I missed her.
And Danny was the same ball of hyperactivity that he has always been.


Not too long after that we were heading to the centre of Manchester.

During the journey l inadvertently found myself in the position of tourguide.
It's weird...me, a foreigner in this country, suddenly showing my family around MY city.

My new home.

This is the parking lot I hurriedly pass through on blustery weekdays, late to class, with barely a glance around.
Mama exclaims at how beautiful it is, Adik takes pictures, and Danny runs around.

This is my room, the bastion of my new life. Neat as I can keep it, suddenly host to the (many) bags my family brought along with them.

This is the bus I take to the City Centre. A route I have travelled often enough. Today my hyperactive bro sits beside me.

This is the path I take on the way to the Curry Mile. Usually I go with an empty stomach, today I bring along 5: mine and my family's.


That was my life again for three weeks...

Three weeks of Papa's lame jokes, Mama's lovely cooking, Adik and Danny's voices.

In the past few weeks I lived in 3 separate hotels in 2 different cities, a lakeside cabin, and even a canal boat. I should be travel-sick by now. But somehow, I'm not.

Because here's the thing: I feel more at home than I've ever been in the past few months.


Here's the reason, then, why I buried my head into my "new life" in Manchester...
It was a self-defense mechanism. I wanted to keep myself from being homesick, from missing my old life too much.

But this is not my real life. I am my parent's son, my siblings' big bro. That's who I am. My family...they are my real home. My life.


I guess it took my family to travel halfway across the world to meet me here for the message to truly hit, well, home.


As I write this, I have already left my family at Terminal 1 of Manchester Airport. The time I welcomed them to my city just three weeks before seems like a lifetime away now.

Mama cries, just as she did at KLIA 3 months ago. But they have their lives to get back to.

And so do I.

But suddenly I can't imagine living that life again; hall to class, class to hall.
Nobody to greet me as I step as I return to a home which is not truly a home; life alone.



My family, my true home has left.

Goodbye guys...

The Chronicles of Dayah

WARNING: THIS STORY IS EPIC

The year is 1990. There hangs an awkward silence over the dinner table. A man breaks into cold sweat as his mother, without a trace of emotion, sizes up his girlfriend.

Will the relationship work out?

Or will true love be smashed irreparably against the unreasonable expectations of a mother?

Those questions bear heavily on every mind at the table save for one: a hyperactive 5-year-old girl named Dayah. She is the only cucu of the family, the apple of her grandparents’ eye, and allegedly as cute as a China doll (refer to pic above). Also, Dayah has taken a liking to this man’s girlfriend; constantly calling her cheerfully: “Aunty Esther, Aunty Esther!”

Suddenly, as if on cue, she jumps on the table and starts singing and dancing. The man breathes a sigh of relief as his mother and father laughs and claps along to the tune of their grandchild’s impromptu performance. All tension in the room seeps away; the ice is broken.

A year later the man and his girlfriend is married, the next year she gives birth to an adorable little boy named Mikhail.

On that basis it can be argued that Kakak Dayah, as I would call my eldest cousin, had a crucial role to play in my birth; that she broke down the walls to my grandma’s heart, so that my Mum could move in and win it with her charms. Without which I would not be here.

Mindblowing stuff right there, dude…

Kak Dayah: mastermind who made marriage possible.

Yet, I never really saw Kak Dayah as a puppet-master of my conception.

Instead I have always seen her as the natural Head of the Council of Grandchildren (CoG). After all, for 5 years Kak Dayah was the only member of the CoG – before Kak Nadhirah came along (henceforth to be called Kak Ngah)

Then I arrived, becoming the third-in-command of this esteemed organisation.

The membership of CoG did not stay at three for very long though; soon after came Taufiq, my BFF <3 <3 <3 (agak gedik di situ...)

Then my sister came along as the 5^th CoG member.

Next, Ajmal a.k.a. “The Weirdo”.

Later still, Akhyar at no. 7.

Inayah a.k.a. “Penan” next.

Aqashah a.k.a. “The Sumo” at no. 9.

Danny boy my bro at 10^th.

His partner-in-crime Haikal at 11^th.

Along with Aishah at 12^th.

Then Baby Chu my sis at 13^th.

And last but not least, Raziq at 14^th.

But the story, of course, is not as simple as an addition of cucus.

There has been no shortage of drama, intrigue and Korean drama-like twists.

A few dramas which come to mind include (but are not limited to):

1. Kakak Dayah’s epic struggle for the family’s attention as Kak Ngah’s birth stole the spotlight away from her.
2. Taufiq and I were arch-nemeses as toddlers, beating each other constantly (with fists). And stealing each other’s pacifiers. And pushing each other off baby chairs. But then we became buddies, and today only a petty MU-Arsenal rivalry (which MU totally dominates) is a thorn in our BFF-hood <3
3. Dan lain2 lagi.

But sweet memories totally outweigh them:

1. Acting out of P. Ramlee scenes for nenek/atuk’s birthdays.
2. Random Cucu Day incidents (Mak Long tripping over a log comes to mind) :D
3. Being forced to say “Mak Chu is pretty” everytime we visit rumah nenek (I’m totally not kidding) -.-
4. Ajmal’s consistently odd facial expressions.
5. Pak Yep’s stories (starring elephants and snakes. And the trademark line “Ko jangan salah paham…!”)
6. Taufiq and I curi2 main snooker on Raya eve quietly so that Pak Yep won’t wake up and catch us.
7. Playing badminton with pizza boxes as rackets.
8. Playing football with balloons.
9. Trips to the 7/11 near rumah nenek in Mak Chu’s car.
10. Main mercun on Raya eve until kena marah by neighbour T.T
11. Watching Jeepers Creepers 2 on Raya eve.
12. Being called a “Kendil” (a species of monkey) -.- by Inayah.
13. Calling Inayah “Penan” in return 8-)
14. Beating Aqashah at Fifa 12 (despite him using the Classic 11 team :DD
15. Dan lain-lain lagi.

Between the first cucu and the 14^th lies 25 years, and how much has changed in those two and a half decades.

Kak Ngah is a teacher now. Seriously.

Taufiq in five years will be Dr. Taufiq, or Ustad Taufiq. Or both. :O

I’m not too far behind, also studying to be a doc.

Adik is studying to be a lawyer. Seriously.

Ajmal is taking his SPM soon, Akhyar and the Penan not too far behind.

Aqashah is a Standard 5 boy who is also a Pengawas Perpustakaan (macho kot).

And who knows what the Danny, Haikal, Aishah, Baby Chu, Raziq rabble will turn out to be one day?

But perhaps I am going a little off topic here…after all, this post is titled “The Chronicles of Dayah”. Hehe. So let’s get back to Kak Dayah.

And what has our protagonist been doing these past 25 years? She has gone to school and graduated, opened her own business, moved into her own house, gave countless Head of CoG speeches (primarily during atuk/nenek birthdays)…and fallen in love.

As of last week…THIS HAPPENED *jeng jeng jeng*

The engagement

But wait…there’s more!

During the engagement ceremony, my Mum was Kak Dayah’s make-up artist. The former “Aunty Esther” now puts on make-up for the girl who once upon a time sang and danced on the dinner table.  22 years on it is the 5-year-old who will soon be married.

And so the story comes full circle.

In the end, I guess this post is not just the story of Kak Dayah growing up; it is a story of how the family has.

This Raya I realized how much the family has changed. No longer are we spirited little kids dying for mercun on Raya eve. No longer do Taufiq and I stay up to play snooker as quietly as we can, so that Pak Yep wouldn’t wake up and catch us. Now the older cousins stay up to take advantage of rumah nenek’s Wifi, and are put in charge of making sure the younger cousins are asleep.

Before I get too sentimental, lemme just show some pics, aite? T____T

The Chronicles of Dayah in Pictures

Kak Dayah spotted at Mama & Papa's akad nikah. I can't help pointing out Ayah Ngah's 'Mat Rock' look :pp

Pic featuring an early Cikgu Kak Ngah

By the look of things, the founding of CoGG (Council of Great-Grandchildren) is not too far off :D

Kak Dayah: still at rightful place as Head of CoG

This is the chronicles of Dayah.

But it is not just her story, it is ours too…

Men of The House

The drizzle has just stopped as I write this post.

The fresh scent of rain wafts in through the window ahead of me. All is quiet. Not too far to my left Papa is on his laptop, working. Downstairs Baby Chu is up and watching the TV. And not too long soon Danny will be back from school, noisy as always.

Adik is at UITM as I write, as she has been for two weeks. Mama is in Bangkok for a conference. With the exception of Baby Chu, it is only the men of the family left at home. Yet it hasn’t been the macho bachelor’s experience of Maggi meals, futsal-til-late-at-night-followed-by-ping-pong-til-later-at-night which I have kinda expected.  

Because even though I know how noisy Danny is, I also know that even he won’t be able to truly break the silence which has enveloped us all day.

The quiet in the house is not a mere absence of sound – it is the absence of two loved ones. An absence as tangible as the raindrops drumming on the windowpane just a few moments ago.

It is said in Islam that Allah created the first woman, Hawa, from the rib of the first man, Adam.

But it doesn’t mean she is inferior to him.

It just means that, like a rib, a woman is always close to a man’s heart. And without her he is incomplete.

Miss you, Mama and Adik :-/

Sincerely,

Men of the House

P.S. Papa and I are planning to play ping pong tonight :D

Mama's Boy

The fever was more stubborn than I thought.

It began right after Math SL Paper 2 on Friday – giving new meaning to the phrase ‘exam fever’. So after Friday prayers I decided to take a few hours’ nap, hoping to wake up fine and nerdy to face the next test.

I woke up nerdy; but not fine.

So that night I slept early, but to no avail. Saturday morning and I was still light-headed. Ironically, it was one of those rare moments where I was eager to study. But the irony is lost when you consider that an IB final exam was less than 72 hours away, and it was Chemistry HL, FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE!!!

Saturday afternoon – my family was to come over to KMB for lunch. Great. Just what I needed: my mum to fuss excessively over a fever which I was already excessively fussing over =.=’

For most of the lunch, though, things were going quite smoothly. We talked about Adik’s education, Danny’s football game, etc. … basically anything other than my fever. Then, suddenly:

“Bang, why are you wearing a sweater??”

Caught.

Cornered, I had to admit that I was having a fever. Before I could finish my sentence my Mama’s hand had shot to my neck (to check my temperature, not – thankfully – to choke me to death).

As expected, the lunch proceeded after that with irritated questions (“Why didn’t you tell Mama earlier??”) to blindingly obvious statements (“Dahlah tengah exam. You don’t want to tell Mama you have a fever”) and the absurdly farsighted (“You are going to become a doctor! Macam mana ni kalau nak take ubat pun tak nak??”). <-- O.o

Reluctantly, my family eventually left KMB. I thought that would be the end of that, and they had (thankfully) left me alone to wage my private crusade against this darned stubborn fever.

But no such luck.

A few hours later, an SMS from Papa: “bang, we’re coming at nite to bring ubat for u”

Quite incredibly, my parents – like a pair of superheroes on steroids – have squeezed into their hectic schedule a visit to the family doctor to obtain some medicine for me. That night I met them once again, still in my now-starting-to-smell-funky sweater (showers are optional during exams; according to expert opinion). I sat resigned as Mama explained with the thoroughness of an experienced medical officer which medicine to take, how many times per day, and at what dosage. And then Mama brought out a Tupperware containing what no medical officer could ever do for me – a home-cooked meal warm with love.

I was touched, of course, but in the silent way teenagers usually are to their parents. Mama and Papa then offered to take me back home for what’s left for the weekend, but I declined saying it would affect the momentum of my studies. But I guess my ego had a say in that too – I stubbornly wanted to defeat this fever alone.

But Mama proved to be even more stubborn. She visited once again on Sunday night, then on Monday night, all the time bringing hot home-cooked meals and tireless reminders to “eat the ubat, especially the antibiotics. Finish the antibiotics!”. Once, mama even brought over an electronic thermometer ("more accurate") - no joke... :OO

Tuesday – I was, Alhamdulillah, well enough to take both papers of the Chem HL exam without blacking out halfway. Remnants of the fever remained, but I have mostly kicked its stubborn butt out. Thanks, in no small part, to Mama and Papa as well.

By the end of the week I was completely fine. When Saturday rolled along so did my parents for lunch. It was then I noticed how tired Mama looked. It wasn’t just my fever Mama had been losing sleep about – Adik had just gone through an interview for a scholarship, and knowing Mama I knew she was just as stressed out about the interview (if not more) than Adik was.

Wrapped up stubbornly in a battle against my fever, I forgot to look at Mama.

I know this post is about six weeks late – I should have posted this in Mother’s Day, not Father’s Day.


I don’t think I have thanked you enough, Ma. Happy Belated Mother’s Day. And I’m sorry for being so stubborn…I guess, in that sense, I’m just being Mama’s boy :-/ Love you.

P.S. Happy Father's Day Pa! I’ll post something for Father’s Day soon, k? (mebe in the next 6 weeks) :pp Luv u! 

P.P.S. Disclaimer: egos do not cure fevers. Ubat and home-cooked meals do J

51

I guess Papa at the ping pong table epitomizes the way he has lived his life: playful, constantly on the move and irritatingly cheerful (Mama would totally agree with me on that last one).

Let me paint you a typical situation at the ping pong table:

Sweat glistening on my brow (and other parts of my body not appropriate to be mentioned on a U-rated blog), I deftly stroke the ping pong ball across the table. It is beautifully hit, spinning through the air I am convinced that my 51-year-old Dad would be unable to reach it. I am wrong. Somehow he stretches forward and replies with a brilliant cross-court ball. Caught off guard, I cannot touch it even if my life depended on it. It is my Dad's 21^st point of the game. Victory for him. Another spirit-crushing defeat for me.

The insidious smile on his lips grows, and a primordially evil sound arose from them:

"YEEEEEESSSSS!!!!"

I have so far won a not-so-grand grand total of ONE game against my Dad. My Dad, on the other hand, has won…let's just say more than one. I've lost count, to be honest.

And it is killing me! This is a man 3 decades older whose me beating me constantly…how can this be happening, you ask?

No, it's not skill. I'm just as good as Papa in that respect (seriously!). Fitness? Come on. Practice? My Dad has barely played ping pong in the last few decades. So how then?

This is how: Papa plays with a composure befitting his years. He plays with a smile on his face. And irritating as it is, I respect him for that. The smile gets wider (and more evil) the bigger his lead, and eventually erupts in evil celebratory laughter after 21 points. Never have I seen him without that evil smile. When my Dad plays, he does with the belief that he will win. A confidence that has come with age. Evil confidence…

But there is one area though where Papa's confidence is, I think, misplaced: his health. Mama constantly lectures Papa to not drink cold drinks, or oily food, but Papa goes on with it anyway. There's little anyone can do to stop him. Hell yeah, "Stubborn" is a prominent feature on Papa's CV.

Papa, when it comes to matters of health, you should LISTEN TO MAMA! And I'm sure you will eventually. Like a player who initiates a last minute comeback to win the set, I am sure you will make the right decision in the end. There are a few things that comes with age. Sometime in the last half-century (yeah, you're that old Pa), Papa has added "Wise" to his CV after "Playful", "Cheerful" and "Lame" :p

Pa, this is not an insult to you. When we call you an old man (and I speak on behalf of Mama and Adik too), it is in a lovably respectful way; as one would describe wine made flavorsome by age. (Not that I would know how wine tastes like).

In the end, this post is not (just) the rant of a son who has lost to his dad (unfailingly). It is a tribute to a Dad who is a credit to his 51 years.

A friend of mine (his name won't be mentioned to protect his identity) at the futsal court told me: "for his age, your Dad is a very fit guy". Of course, as most sons would do, I answered with a shrug and a "nyehh…!", but honestly, I agreed with him. I can only wish to have Papa's futsal skills when I'm 51.

As a son, I just hope he will keep it up. It would be a shame for all that skill to go to waste just because you can't run anymore. So, once again, LISTEN TO MAMA when it comes to eating habits! *high-five from my Mum* :p

I am a sore loser (I got it from Mama). But Papa, if there is anyone I am to constantly lose to, I am happy it is you. It is an honour, sir.

Stay healthy, Pa. We all want you around for another 51 years. I may need that amount of time to finally beat you at ping pong :D

Happy Birthday, Pa.

I just give chance for your birthday la...