Remembering mother

Beloved mother passed away some three and half years ago while I was still in Switzerland. I came home a day after the funeral and only managed to see her still-fresh grave and partake in the tahlils (recitation of prayers) the next few nights. I don't think a day ever passed without me thinking of mother and saying a prayer for her thereafter....

Mother died at the age of eighty six, in her own home, bedridden for some six years but still very much in command of her home and destiny, with the assistance and care of ever-loyal, patient and efficient Marti. I would go home and visit her once a month for a few days. I would sit by her bed and talk to her, tell her about things happening in the family, gently massage her forehead and the side of her head which she liked, or just sat there reading my books or papers, or texting my messages. She was happy to just have me around for that short period. She did not say much but would sometimes surprise me with remarks or questions about things from like twenty five years ago! I always made sure I bring her a gift, however small and insignificant and this pleased her very much and she showed it. And when it was time for me to leave she would insist that Mar prop her up on her bed so she could sit and watch me driving away from her bedroom window..... Always with a prayer for my well-being and safe delivery.

I miss mother very much but I am content with the belief that I had been a good son to her and had received her love and blessings till her very last day. In my young days I was rebellious and must have been difficult and tiresome as only a youngster could be. I was the last among my siblings to leave home at age 20 when I entered University as I was not allowed to go to boarding school (pampered last child everyone must have concluded!). I remember a rather difficult period when mother would find every fault with me and I would feel miserable, hurt and unloved and found solace only by pouring it all out in my diary! Years later I finally understood that it must have been a menopausal period for her and I was a sort of punching bag for all the anger and frustrations at things she did not understand happening to her then.

Mother was a strong person and was very much in command. It could not have been easy bringing up six children and being conveyor to father for all his siblings and relatives as father was the eldest remaining member of his family and he was not a man of many words. But mother handled it all well, and she was well-respected by father's relatives - they come to her for everything, and she would always make sure father settle whatever issue that was at hand! She was also financially savvy, we were never short of anything and our house was constantly filled with stay-in visiting relatives and there were plentiful food all the time. She was always doing some small businesses which augmented the family income, like making her famous 'halwa maskat' (which took four hours of laborious stirring over slow charcoal fire), and huge earthen pots of 'acar buah' (fruit chutney). I was often sent to deliver the orders to her customers and would get a tip for my errand! She taught me well - at the age of 11 when I was in Standard 5, she gave me a monthly allowance of RM5 and told me to manage it, no more daily pocket money henceforth. And I did, rather well too (to this day I must say), also thanks to the generosity of more independent elder siblings.

My beloved, dear mother was not necessarily easy, she had a strong mind of her own. She was extremely generous, always giving, and considerate and so perceptive, and very loving in ways I could not understand then as a youngster. It was thus such a sad development when at the later stage of her life she stopped being the active, commanding person that she was and became so totally dependent on others. I could write a book about mother, but the memories best remain in my thought.

Some years back, my three brothers and I visited an ustaz to get his advice what we could do to help lessen mother's suffering in her bed-ridden condition. At the end of of the consultation I asked the ustaz about a regular recurring dream I had. I often dreamt that mother hated me and would do things to hurt me and make me cry. The ustaz only smiled rather knowingly without saying anything, while two of my brothers rather in a fondly snickering tone said something to the effect that it was precisely because I was mother's favourite son, and that the meaning of dreams was always in the reverse. Only Allah knows!

May the Almighty Allah always bestows his blessings on my beloved mother and father. Amin.
I love you both always.....