There was a certain kind of stillness. The only sound that could be heard was the drumming of the engine. The train ride was smooth, piercing the air, like wings in the wind.
Outside, everything was exquisite. My eyes were roaming across the undulating landscape, just like the folds of the ocean. Only, the colours were shades of green and the waves, static. Fields spread yonder, lined with shrubs fencing the paddocks. On the gentle slopes, small spots of whiteness, meandering here and there, looking soft and cuddly.
“Sheep? How sweet and beautiful! The Peak District. Exactly like it was 30 years ago!” said I, half smilingly.
My viva for Ph.D was just over and I was back on my sabatical leave in the UK. The train was on its way to Manchester and I was in it, after spending some time visiting a colleague of mine Nz, who was still struggling with his Ph.D at Leicester. I reached Leicester station early in the day and he was kind enough to pick me up at the station, accompanied by his eldest son. I was caught by surprise! His hair was nearly white all over! Back to his home, I was treated to a delightful lunch prepared by his beloved wife, Azam who was also my old friend.
After spending a whole day with Nz’s family, I was now back on the train. In the seat right across me, an English woman was engrossed in her book while a man sitting beside her was deep in thought, trying to solve a crossword puzzle in the day’s newspaper..
The train came to a halt after slowing down a little. A signboard written with the words “Sheffield” passed slowly by. And then all was still.
The door connecting the carriage suddenly opened and a stylishly dressed young english lady in a pair of tight white pants made her way towards the empty seat beside me.
“Anybody sitting beside you here? If there’s none, then may I?” she asked.
I quickly smiled and shaking my head, I offered, ”No! Not at all! I mean go ahead. Have that seat! You need some help with the bag?”
“Thank you, but I think I can manage! It is just up here!” said the young lady, pushing her bag to the compartment high up above her seat.
The train has started to move again, gaining momentum in a split second. The young lady rummaged something out of her small sling bag. All of a sudden, there was the smell of something strong, poking my nose and making me hold my breadth.
“Sorry! I couldn’t find the time to do this in the morning! I do hope you people don’t mind!” the lady said. Her fingers were deftly applying softly coloured strokes on to her tilted nails from a small bottle.
“My nails are ever so fragile and they break so easily. That is why I have to do this often!” said she, holding her fingers apart in the air.
“Well! I have no such problems! Tell you what? I suggest you go and have your nails manicured professionally. Look at mine!” said the other lady who was engrossed in her book just now, right across me, putting her hands on the edge of the table in front of her.
“Wow! Cool! They’re nice! Maybe I should do just that!” said the stylish lady beside me, wide-eyed.
The male passenger who was seated diagonally across me suddenly lifted his head from being deeply engaged in his paper, just a few seconds ago. His eyebows slightly raised, he gave me a shot of glance and a slight smile. Then, he dropped his face, once again immersed in the pages of the daily news, his fingers dancing up, down and across the boxes of black and white.
“Wonder why the crooked smile on his face? Uncomfortable, hearing this woman to woman talk? Must be!” I said to myself. A slight smile curved on my lips too!
The carriage door suddenly opened.
“Tickets please!” said a man, smartly dressed in a blue uniform from the carriage beyond. His face was expressionless..
(to be continued....)
“Assalamualaikum and welcome!” greeted the youngish-looking hotel owner in bahasa melayu, who apparently was already in his fifties, just as soon as we stepped onto the pavement next to the main entrance. His hands were grabbing our loads of luggage, pulling them into the lobby.
“You speak malay very well indeed!” said my other half.
“Sure do! How can we forget? We went to a school in Kuala Lumpur for quite a few years. My brother and I!” said he, motioning his hands to the comfortable seats.
“Oh! How interesting!” I said, lowering myself to the intricately decorated seats.
“Yes! We came from Burma. And during that time, we went to Malaysia to seek greener pastures. Times were getting difficult back home. However, after a few years, renewing visas was quite a hassle, so our father decided to find another country where we could settle in. Now, we are Norwegians and my children study here in the UK. My youngest, still in Cambridge while my eldest just graduated from St. Andrews, Scotland,” he related his past history.
He handed us the keys and ushered us to our rooms; small but very clean. That night, we took a walk in the summer night and had our dinner at one of the numerous halal eateries nearby. We were on our way home to Malaysia, after spending some time in Manchester, while attending our son’s convocation.
“Come in and enjoy your breakfast!” said the elder brother to the one who greeted us yesterday, early the next morning; his voice, cheerful and friendly.
“Thank you!” said my other half as we made our way to the breakfast table, in a cosy sitting area down at the basement.
At the other end, a couple was speaking in a language we could not understand. Once in a while there was laughter when our host joined in their conversation also in the same language.
“What would you like? Coffee, tea?” said the cheery voice again.
“Coffee please! And which country are they from, may I ask?” said my hubby.
“Norway! That is my country now, after we had to move from our country of origin.”
“We just got to know from your younger brother that your family once stayed in Kuala Lumpur. And the two of you went to school there too! Is that true?”
“Yes! It is true!” said he. In his hands were two pots of hot coffee.
“Why didn’t you just stay put?” said my hubby.
“Well! Our visa needed to be renewed every now and then and father had to go through the trouble to get it done. We were offered a permanent place to stay somewhere in East Malaysia. You see, we were city boys; grew up in Rangoon. At that time, Rangoon was not anywhere near what it is now. Beautiful, modern and a city full of heritage and life. Of course, we would not be able to adjust if we move to a remote place like East Malaysia. Father understood and that was why we landed in Norway.”
“But why Norway?” asked my son-in-law.
“Did you know that by owing a Norwegian passport, one does not need a visa to enter whichever country? Father did his homework very well and he was a well-read man. His decision was a wise one. Two of our siblings are doing business in Oslo and take charge of our family home there. While my younger brother and I man this hotel and another restaurant situated at Edgware Road nearby. Once a year, we would fly to Oslo and gather as a big family,” he said, handing us trays of toasts with butter and jam.
“Is your father still around?” said I, curious, helping myself to scrambled eggs, tempting looking mixed beans and corn, with red peppers thrown in spicy tasting sauce. How delicious!
“Oh! Yes! He is already in his eighties but still up and about. He was the one who started our family restaurant while our mum helps us here in this hotel. In the mornings, I will be here and at night, I will be helping out at the restaurant. My brother will take over this place at night.”
“You are a hard working man and full of perseverance!” quipped my other half, sipping his cup of coffee while our daughter fed little Nuha some toasts, lined with butter and jam.
“My father always said that you should enjoy doing what you want to do. Then you may reap the harvest of success. He is already well into his eighties and my mother is in her seventies. Both are still healthy and active. Father loves reading and follows whatever that is going on in the world. We are practicing Muslims, do our prayers, fast. Likewise the other pillars of Islam. And one thing I want to share with you. Not a single day went that our hotel is unoccupied. There will always be someone asking to stay. In fact, our place is very popular amongst Muslims because we serve only halal food.”
We sat mesmerized while enoying the scrumptious and filling breakfast that our friendly host had prepared with his own hands.
“I would like to share something too! Our granduncle was the first premier of Burma at that time. Dr. Ba Maw, a muslim lawyer, famous for his struggles to free Burma from the British. In fact, he decided to take up his doctorate in Bordeaux, France just to spite the British and to send them a strong message of his dislike for them. If you were to go to Myanmar now, you would see lots of schools, colleges, hospitals and public places named after him.”
“Those years in Burma, the muslims, even though are a minority, are highly regarded in the society. Because they are highly educated and profound in their knowledge. Furthermore, the economy of the country was mainly held in the muslim’s hands,” said the zealous hotel owner.
“We will definitely come here if we happen to be in London again!” said my son-in-law.
“Yes! Please do! Insha Allah! This strategic location, near to the shopping area of Edgware Road. Plus the fact that it is only within walking distance to the Paddington underground and main train station, conveniently connected to the Heathrow Airport. We are proud to own this place since 4 years ago and are always grateful to God for bestowing us his bounties,“ said our host, his face lighting up in a broad smile.
We acquired lots more life experiences from our two hosts during our two nights’ stay. The hotel which is situated at the tree lined Sussex Gardens, full of greenery and colourful blossoms, in the middle of a 200 year old Victorian terrace. It is not surprising that their family is thriving very well, being listed as one of the top ten budget hotels in London. Their restaurant too!
We now know where we would stay if we happen to be in London again, God willing. Why don’t you?
“How many days will it take?” said a man standing, his hand on the surface of the glass.
“I am not sure, mister! One day? Maybe two? We’ ll see! Is it alright?” said another, obviously the owner of the store, behind the counter.
My documents were being made into copies by the shop’s assistant while I stood, waiting beside the glass wall near to the exit. My eyes swept across, in the direction of the sound of the voices.
“Are you sure?” said the man again, his gaze somewhat intense, from behind the glasses perched on his nose. On the crown of his head, a white kopiah (skull cap), his silver hair jutting out here and there from under the headgear, framing his face, which was full of earnest.
“Yes! For sure! Don’t worry! Tell you what? I will call you, when it is ready. Why don’t you write your number here?” said the smiling young man behind the counter again, handing a piece of paper with a ball point pen and a receipt.
“Alright then!” said the silvery haired man, this time, the seriousness on his face, subsiding a little. He held out his right hand, which was previously holding onto the glass counter, from the big pockets of his apple green teluk belanga (traditional malay dress), his quivering fingers desperately scribbling.
More smiles and nods. The man in the baju melayu turned towards the exit.
Then suddenly, it dawned on me. My heart flipped. The man was struggling on his feet. No! On his one foot! Hopping! In his kain pelikat (sarong), towards the glass exit. And then, my heart flipped again. One of his sleeves was swaying too! And there was nothing there as well. He then held the one arm he had left, to open the door. Holding the door ajar with the shoulder with no arm, he hobbled onto the corridor, the armless sleeve, swaying even more in the wind. Deftly, his foot jumped over the drain onto the road in front of the store.
Beyond the tarmac, a lady in a helmet sat, patiently waiting on a motorbike, the engines running. Just then, her face broke into a smile, aggravating the deep lines on her face, as she saw the man. She held out her hand to his outstretched arm, putting it on one of her shoulders. Her other hand caught on another helmet in a basket, across the bike, gingerly putting it on the man’s already stooped head. Her fingers played lovingly around her man’s chin, fastening the straps. Just like a wife who is faithfully toying her man’s necktie on his way out to the office. The look on her face like a mother softly gazing on her baby, deep in slumber. While her man, no longer having the intense and fierce veil on his face, as in the shop earlier on. Instead, contentment and tranquilness. His gaze on her, like a small child being fussed over and his collar tinkered with his mum’s fingers, while at the school gate.
He heaved on her shoulder and then, they were off, the man holding onto her tight, with the one he had left. My eyes followed them as far as I could see. My neck straining like a giraffe holding them in my sight.
“Maam! Here you are!” said a pretty voice, startling me. Her eyes were smiling.
“Oh really? Thank you!” said I, not quite over yet with what I had just seen.
Payments were made and as I traced my steps to the car, I could not help thinking.
“Glorious is Allah! A true gift from Him. Symbol of undying faithfulness and companionship. If that is not love, then what is?”
Silently, I uttered a prayer, “May God continue to shower His love and nurture the beautiful feeling that we share with our other halves; the trust, care and lovingness that we have for each other …amongst us all…Amin”
There was a certain kind of stillness. The only sound that could be heard was the drumming of the engine. The train ride was smooth, piercing the air, like wings in the wind.
