He Ain't Cool (But He's Me grandDad)
by YBLalat

One of the few most nostalgic moments that keeps resurfacing every time the calendar hits the Ramadan mark is when, upon arriving with me family and I at me grandDad's home in Sabak Bernam for the Aidilfitri festivity, the long set of wooden stairs, reaching high up to the door of the house, glares back at the small me as I stand at its bottom, looking up and with my luggage in my hands. The stairs are so high and steep that, when I was a lovable little angel that everybody adored, I always asked me Mum to hold me sweaty hands as I descend and ascend it each time.

Me grandDad's home, like any other homes in that kampong, is an elevated house made entirely from wood. Historically, that particular part of Sabak Bernam was often flooded by the nearby river during the rainy season. Sungai Tengar I think its name is. So, old folks back then built their houses high above the ground to solve the problem. However, the truth is, it was built that way as to prevent all the nasty, gigantic swamp nyamuks from getting into the house and sucking your sweet, sweet city blood. Nyamuks can only fly in the vertical range of around 2 to 3 meters above the ground (in case you don't know much about them nyamuks, you ungrateful city-slickers).

Sadly still, the lightweight gray nyamuks, the ones with the most terribly itching bite, could still slip through the fabric of your sleeping kelambus and torment you in your dreams, even if the house is elevated, like me grandDad's, a minivan's height. Me Dad prefers to park his car under me grandDad's house instead of on the lawn since it is safe from the threat of the surrounding skyscraping coconut trees (i.e. the fear of old coconuts falling on one's car).

Anyhow, the stairs keeps me reminded of me grandDad every time I meet him for Raya. He is not particularly this big, scary tough guy that shouts at kids to sit quietly when there are guests in the house or that hilarious, grandkids-loving senile goof that gives generous piggy-back rides for that matter. He certainly was not the devil who designed the stairs to be so steep just to scare the crap out of little kids like me then (his father, me great grandDad, did). In fact, he is just this stick-thin man with an all-white hairdo as his skullcap and owns the oldest nyonya bicycle known to man, who always asks me questions like, "Periksa dapat nombor berapa, 'cu?" and "Nak tengok atuk kerat kepala ayam?".

Each year that me family and I visit me grandDad's home, we would stay there for at least 7 days and with us, we bring along our heaviest luggage filled with as many shirts and pants as we could pack. The way me grandDad and his wife run their life is different from that of popular culture; they don't have washing machines and showerheads, they have the river and that was enough by their standards. Me brothers and I loved to take a dive in that cool-water river, until when I was ten, when we saw this huge, dark green biawak swimming past us as we were taking our evening bath. We were so terrified that we ran to me grandDad's house, buck-naked and in tears and screaming and urinating, all the way back.

I am not alone in liking to stay there long; me Dad likes it too. Well, of course, the place is still technically his home and all, but he particularly likes to stay there long because it makes him forget all of the paperwork and the politics and the problems of the office. It's like his very own Hawaii or Cancun beach resort. But me Mum, being brought up in a relatively-lavish suburban environment, does not share the same sense of a relaxing retreat with his husband. The notion that there will be this huge mountain-pile of dirty laundry on her shoulders once we get back home disturbs her every minute of the day. So, in the car, either it's going to or back from me grandDad's home, me Mum is never in speaking term with me Dad. But me Dad doesn't give a flying fart to me Mum's silent protest, he is just this new and revitalized person after such holiday.

Usually when me family and I arrives at me grandDad's home, it would still be about one or two days away from Raya. Fasting in me grandDad's place is best. The climate is cooler because of all of the surrounding trees and swampy areas. Furthermore, me grandDad’s wife is a better cook than me Mum, well, at least in terms of the type of exotic and rare dishes that she prepares for berbuka. Man, have you eaten something so disgusting-looking (like rotten apples swimming in a chunky-sour milk sauce) but still the taste is superb (like a roast rabbit's foot dipped in honey)? It defies the physics of the senses! It defies the laws of the spices!

But the most memorable thing I can recall about Ramadan is that once me grandDad forced me to sit on the top of the wooden stairs during the family's Raya morning breakfast because I did not manage to fast for the full 30 days. The deal was, in order for me to join them at the table for that big breakfast, I must do the whole nine yards of Ramadan. Lack even one day of fasting, even if you were as sick as a dog, you still are not allowed to join them. He does not care if you are merely a ten year-old with a runny nose or that you are his eldest grandkid. His home, his rules. You go and sit on the top stair and wait there until those who did fast successfully for the whole Ramadan finished their meals. Only then can you start eating your share.

Me grandDad's a sadistic bitch, ain't he?

At first it was hard for me to stomach his seemingly ridiculous order to just stay away from the table and sit on the top stair, but then, seeing that me Dad did nothing to halt his dad from forcing me to sit there, I just assumed that that was the way things work Ramadan-wise at me grandDad’s house. Sure I was pissed off at the old bag for shutting me away from the goodies on the table that me grandDad’s wife prepared, but what else can I do but to believe that there is something worth the punishment. Slowly, I learned to put blind faith in me grandDad’s order.

The next year’s Raya, I came back to me grandDad’s house and managed to do the Ramadan deed just as me grandDad wanted it done. Me Mum and me Dad kept telling me grandDad and his wife how I toiled greatly to complete the whole 30 days of fasting and everyday waking up early before dawn to eat with them at the table for sahur. I don’t remember how many pecks on the cheeks and wet kisses on the lips that I got me from me grandDad’s wife that day for that major achievement but I do remember seeing me grandDad smiling at me a silly smile as if he had known that I was up to his challenge. He could smell that I did not want to be excluded from the table that year. In fact, I even made sure that there were enough chairs at the table to sit everybody down the morning we had the big breakfast.

During breakfast, as we were all eating together as one big happy family, me grandDad started to talk about how kids today are not like what their counterparts were in the old days and that the problems with today’s kids are all the effect of parents not training their kids strictly in obeying the religion. He said that being strict does not mean that the parents need to enforce the whole thing on the kids on the first days of their puberty, but to wisely and gradually, train them to do it starting from the earliest age. The keywords are ‘routine’ and ‘rules’, me grandDad added. Nobody was paying that much attention to his ramblings but I did see me Dad nodding his head in agreement with it. I was pretty sure that the old bag was trying to reason his action of forcing me to not join them at the table for not fasting through the whole Ramadan last year.

Then, me grandDad rubbed me in the head with his left hand and smiled. His rubbing was somewhat vigorous and slightly chaotic because I was having trouble munching and swallowing the food while he was doing that. I don’t think he meant to do any harm to my head with that ‘passionate’ head massage of his though. Suddenly, he grabbed the base of my neck and forced it to turn towards his wrinkled, blemish-ridden ogre face and opened his mouth wide.

“Tahun depan tambah lagi ya? Puasa sebulan dengan tarawikh 20 rakaat?”

Oh, how I wanted to break me grandDad’s jaws with the soup bowl in my hand.

[YBLalat: Selamat berpuasa semua.]