Reminiscing

Two days ago, I was driving around KL. Seeing as how it was 9.30am on a weekday morning, I had a relatively quiet drive, and as usual when things are quiet, my mind starts to wander. This time, it wandered to the Rayas of my childhood.

I remember how as a child, Raya was a holiday to look forward to. Well, we looked forward to every excuse to not go to school, but Rayas were something else, something extraordinarily special.

Raya meant that we would be going back to my grandparents' in Muar! It meant that I'd get to see my cousins for extended play sessions! It meant lots and lots of yummy grub, all day long. It meant pretty new clothes and the chance to wear them nice, shiny necklaces and bracelets we were so rarely allowed to touch. Most of all - and best of all - was DUIT RAYA!! *G*

Raya holidays were always the same. The morning before Raya, Mum would pack us four kids into her Volvo station wagon. She'd lay the seats flat and spread a mattress in the back. Then, she'd heap us all onto the mattress along with a jillion pillows, blankets and cushions and pack the bags right at the rear door so that in the event the door spontaneously pops open the bags would go first before her precious children. And as soon as she had the bags wedged against the rear door to her satisfaction, she'd order us to lie down, close our eyes, shut up and go to sleep, she didn't want to hear a peep from us, not a single peeeeeep the entire drive to Tok's house. The amazing thing is, we would actually DO it; shut up, close our eyes and almost burst from not uttering a single peep. We didn't dare. That woman terrified us. *smile*

But thanks to the sleep we got (albeit forced), we would jump out of the car the moment we arrived at my grandparents' house and be ready to join in whatever game that was in progress. Kejar-kejar, police-and-thief, galah panjang, ketingting, you name it. Thing is, as small children my siblings and I spoke barely a word of Malay whereas our cousins spoke almost nothing but. I have no idea how we managed to communicate, but I suppose we did - and communicated well at that - as small children are wont to do, regardless of languages spoken. I don't remember it ever being much of a problem.

There were about twenty of us grandchildren when I was that age. More came later, but when I was a kid, there were only two sets: the teenagers, and us. There were about ten of us younger kids and we stuck together.

My grandparents had a few fruit trees on their modest plot of land. I remember one Raya when we were all playing, and a male cousin my age came up with the brilliant idea of climbing up one of the trees. Nobody else thought it was a good idea, but he talked soft-hearted me into climbing it with him. His pleas were heart-wrenching. So he and I climbed up this lovely-looking tree .. and what surprises awaited us! A few branches up, we spied a beautiful bunch of ruby-red rambutans! Bare seconds later, we made a second, more interesting but by far less pleasant discovery: kerenggaaaaaaaaaa!! We fell out of that tree hard like a couple of nangka busuks, and were subsequently chewed out by our parents, laughed at by our cousins, and grounded to the kitchen for the next few hours. *laugh*

Then there was the time the maids found me and my sisters squatting inside the chicken coop because we wanted to look for chicken eggs...*laughs*

One thing lingers: the smell of Tabard that our parents religiously (not to mention very vigorously!) rubbed onto our skin before allowing us outside to play. And to this day whenever I smell smoke off sparklers and pop-pops, I close my eyes and see in my mind us as children, writing our names bright in the black night. I remember how much pleasure we derived from such a simple game, what endless fun we had from the two short minutes the simple sparklers afforded us, and how it seemed anything but simple.

At night, it was us kids' chore to set out the mattresses for sleep, under our parents' supervision. My grandparents have a decent-sized house, and the living room would be packed wall-to-wall with mattresses as bedtime rolled around. Raya was also the only time we were not forced to sleep early, although anyone who stayed up playing congkak when everyone else was trying to sleep would be told the hantu congkak goes around at night looking for children to play congkak with. *lol* They told us that every night, every year, and it never failed to get us to shut up, and curl up under the blankets, sometimes shaking with fear. :o)

Raya morning would start with us being wakened at 8am. There would be a rush for the bathrooms (there were only three!), which resulted in sometimes five of us bathing together at the same time. Then we would dress in our new Raya best and have breakfast as soon as my grandparents came back from sembahyang Raya and visiting the kubur. Invariably, breakfast would be the ketupat, lodeh and sambal kacang sotong my aunt had cooked in the wee hours of the morning. Anything else and it would not have been a Raya breakfast. :o)

This would be followed by a whole morning of photography, followed by the distribution of .. DUIT RAYA!!!! Heheeeee!

My grandparents had ten children: five boys and five girls .. which summed up to helluva LOT of duit raya! Eeeheehee. Right after all photographs had been taken, there would be a yell of "Pak Ndak bagi duit raya woi!!" and a rush to queue in front of Pak Ndak: youngest first, the oldest right at the back. Salam, "Selamat Hari Raya Pak Ndak", take angpow, kiss cheek, biiiiig hug .. and two steps later gleefully open the packet. And right after the last person in line had received their packet would come the cry "Mak Bang woi! Mak Baaaaaaaaang!!" and another rush to be first in line. We always knew the order in which we had to line up, but the mock-mad rush was always, always part of the fun.

The only time spontaneous order would occur was when it came to collecting duit raya from my grandparents. They would sit side by side and we would shuffle past them decorously, all rowdiness put aside, but not smiles nor spirit. They always got the biggest kisses and biggest hugs even if they didn't give the biggest angpows because they were our Tok Ayea and Tok Mat. And after the last of the cousins had received their angpows, it was our parents' turns to give our grandparents their Raya wishes. And it was always a quiet moment, even for us kids, full of emotion as we watched our parents kiss their parents hands, then their feet and ask for their forgiveness and blessings.

Then there would be a lunch of beryani gam, ayam masak merah and rendang daging, a whole day of just hanging out at home as a family, eating rojak at the Tanjung whilst out on an evening stroll, followed by a dinner of mee SinSin or KFC by the barrels.

We no longer have Rayas like those. Nobody really has the time anymore, nobody could be arsed, and family politics have gotten in the way of our being a family. It's amazing how things have changed, or were things so simple then only because I was a child, unable to comprehend unpleasant nuances, or perhaps just able to shrug it off as unimportant.

I've said it once, and I'll say it again. Maybe children should be left to rule the world.