Small Kindness...

The square numbered face on my wrist stared back at me in silence.

“Must hurry!” I muttered, pulling my socks and fastening the laces of my shoes in turn. With the thick winter jacket flung over me, I stepped outside the door of my rented abode at 29, Banff Road.

The early morning cold air, suddenly slapped my cheeks. My teeth chattered under my breath just as soon as I sped across the busy Wilmslow Road, towards Worldwide, the huge Muslim grocery store, just across. I was practically in gear 4, sprinting to the bus stop.

“Must not miss the bus!” I told myself. Just then, my eyes caught sight of the back of the number 111 bus, just leaving off. My heart suddenly sank.

“Good morning!” I said, trying to sound cheerful to a lady sitting on one side of a seat, slowly bringing myself down onto the seat still vacant on the other side.

”Hi!” said she, flashing her superbly white teeth from between thick pouting lips.

Just across the road, heavy machinery was at work, tugging and sawing off trunks of old trees at Wilmslow Park while I sat intrigued, beside the lady.

“Why do they have to do that?” I asked spontaneously, my eyes still transfixed at the site full of activities.

“Well! Winter can be cruel around here with strong gusts of wind. Branches might fall, hurt people and destroy things, you see!”

“I see!” said I.

“May I ask you something?” said the lady, her eyes looking directly at my face.

“Sure!” I said.

“Why do you have to wear that?” she asked.

“What thing?” I said, in a voice laced with an element of surprise.

“That! Covering your head!” she said, pointing her fingers up her head, and twisting them around in a circle.

“Oh! We call this hijab! It is what practicing Muslim women should be wearing.”

That was the beginning of our conversation. We talked and smiled, interspersed with occasional laughter. About our countries of origin, sunshine that we craved, right down to the different kinds, shapes and tastes of bananas which we missed so much! For she was from Jamaica, a country with a climate not much different from that of Malaysia. Just like any other places in the UK, seeing, eating and tasting the same sized bananas in Manchester can be very boring.

Just then, a number 111 bus turned round the corner at the traffic lights. Behind it, there was another one! I could not believe my eyes!

“Two at one time?” I said, my eyes were rolling.

“Yes! Sometimes they come aplenty, while at times when you most need them, they just don’t come!” said she, with a sigh.

“Nice talking to you!” I said, getting up and held my hand out, signaling for the bus to stop.

“Thank you too!” said she.

“Thank you? But why?” I said, puzzled. My head tilted to one side.

“For keeping me company with your pleasant stories! And your recipe for banana fritters just now!” said she, her face lightened up in a broad smile. Her hands were waving gently towards me.

“And you, me!” I half shouted, my face beaming; my feet already touching the steps of the bus.

My heart felt elated. Suddenly, the cold morning air did not seem so stiff anymore……

"We will set up the Just Balance on the Day of Rising and no self will be wronged in any way. Even if it is no more than the weight of a grain of mustard-seed, We will produce it. We are sufficient as a Reckoner." (The Quran, Surat al-Anbiya': verse 47)

Sheikh Yusuf Estes here in Malaysia….

This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity you should never miss.

Come! Meet and listen to the real American Ambassador of Islam – Sheikh Yusuf Estes, formerly a very active Protestant priest, who has now reverted to Islam.

Click here for the schedules and venues of his talk around Kuala Lumpur....

Click here for venues of his talks, entitled "Why Scientists and Doctors are Turning to Islam for Answers?" and another "Do Dakwah Now!" around Johor Bahru.

Prayers...

Was so tied down with work. It is the end of semester and examinations are on. Piles of manuscripts to be marked, tests, quizzes, assignments to be corrected, then scanned for OBE. Also a couple of theses (Masters and Ph.D.) which I need to examine.

My phone quivered from beneath the loads of papers. Message in:

“Just want to inform you. Dr. Ez’s wife is critically ill,” message from Dr. Mz, a very dedicated doctor and specialist radiologist who is now stationed at Sg. Petani Hospital.

My thoughts immediately flew back to the trying times, 3 years ago, while I was struggling at the Radiology Dept, HUSM, Kubang Kerian. Dr. Ez, my field supervisor during my Ph.D, who was and still is the Head of Radiology Department. Without his intervention and relentless efforts in modifying the normal procedures for the management of patients, it would have been very difficult for me, collating the data capture. It was truly through his kindness that made all that seemed impossible at first, became a reality in the end. Dr. Mz was also a Masters Student of Dr. Ez.

It was during those stressful times that Dr. Ez broke the news to us i.e. my research officer and Masters student and I. His wife (also a medical doctor by profession at the USM Medical Campus) was diagnosed with leukemia, stage 4. It was so sudden. He sounded devastated and that was understandable. For his wife had just delivered another baby a few months before that. His wife could not understand why she was drained all out each time she returned home from work. And being a caring husband, Dr. Ez attributed her lethargy due to stress at work, then caring for the new baby and the other little children of theirs. Little did both of them expected that a predicament was at work.

My heart goes out to Dr.Ez, whom I am deeply indebted, whose selfless efforts made it possible for me to complete my studies. Please do join me, to pray for him and his family. Oh Allah, please give Dr. Ez, his wife and family the strength to face this calamity. May she be cured…for truly You are the Greatest Curer of all diseases, Most Beneficient, Most Merciful…Amin, Ya Rabbul Alamin.

Sense of decency (2)...

(...continued)

My fingers reached out for the ticket from inside my purse and handed it out to the man in blue who stood waiting.

All of a sudden, the sultry woman with the nail polish stood up, her fingers in the air.

She said, “I am sorry! But my ticket is right here! In the pocket behind my back!” and then she stooped, extending her posterior wrapped in the tight pants, right in the direction of the man in blue.

The crossword puzzle man lifted his head, his lips ajar. The woman reading the book beside him, turned up her face, her eyebrows raised with a frown on her forehead.

The man in blue started to laugh, breaking the silence in the carriage.

“Well! This is one of the perks that come with this job, you know! So, I am not complaining!” said he.

There was laughter. From all over the carriage.

I stood up and offered, “Here! Let me take the ticket out for you!” and without waiting for anything else, took the little card, decked out in orange, from the woman’s behind.

“Here you are, love!” said the man in blue again, after punching a hole in the little card.

I quickly took the card from him and slipped it back to its former place. The owner, still had her fingers in the air.

“Thank you!” said she, as though nothing strange had happened. Instead, she started to blow her breath all over the tips of her fingers.

“You’re welcomed!” said I, trying to refrain from shaking my head, then the inside of me was saying, “God! Don’t these people have the slightest sense of decency left in them?”

“Are you a teacher?” said the other woman, who previously was reading her book to the nail polished woman.

My ears were still perked up.

“Oh yes!”

“Whereabouts?”

“Manchester! I have just returned from home at Notts. Going back to work at school. How about you? What do you do?” she said, still blowing her breath profusely away.

“Oh! I am a teacher too! At Greater Manchester!” said the woman, adjusting her bookmark and closing her book.

“Where are you from then?” said the other, scrutinizing her own fingers.

“Oh! I have been around to see my life partner up at Nottingham for the weekend. We have been together for quite a while. Most of the time, she travels up to my place at Manchester. But this time around, I thought I will do the traveling and spend our weekend together at Notts for a change!” she said beaming a wide smile.

Hearing that, my right hand flew to my heart automatically. The crossword puzzle man cleared his throat and shot me a glance, then rolled his eyes in the direction of the ceiling.

Once again, my inner self whispered, “She? May God forgive us!”

“Why does suddenly, this journey seem like forever? I would have to shut my ears from now on!” I told myself, my eyes looking at the square numbered face staring at me around my left wrist.

Suddenly too, I remembered the words from the Hadith (sayings of the Prophet, peace be upon him):

“When you are immodest (unashamed) then do whatever you desire.” ~Al-Bukhari~

Sense of decency...

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....)

Perseverence....

“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?

If that isn’t love… what is?

“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”