Echoing What’s Important To You

The damp wind was howling between the windowpanes. The periodic salvation it brings to the usually stuffy night ironies with my witnessing of Grandma’s demise on her bed. She was trying her best to convince the small audience around her that she was well. Yet, she was failing miserably, as the faces of my parents grow weary with the passing of every second. They knew the inevitable was to come.

It was then Grandma gestured from her sickbed for me. Breaking myself from my various thoughts, I obliged and leaned closer towards her. The overwhelming odour of medicine filled my nostrils.

“I’ve heard you’ve just got your driver’s license. Why don’t you take your Grandma out for a night?” Grandma said with a wink, “I don’t want just any girl to be your first date.”

Surprised by her request and also her sense of humour at this time of tragedy, I naturally nodded. There were cries from Dad, saying that she was too weak to still be going out so late at night. She snapped at him furiously, insisting that only she and God alone knew how weak she was. There was nothing we could do to stop her. Anyone would tell you it is impossible to deny a dying request by someone you love.

People usually say that a day starts in the morning, but the day I started to love my country started that night…

“Why don’t we go for some teh tarik first?” said Grandma who was already seated comfortably, “It has been ages since I had one.”

My inner instincts kept me from saying ‘no’, and the next thing I knew, we were at the mamak joint just around the corner of my house.

As two glasses of teh tarik were served on the table, the grin on Grandma’s face became obvious to me. It was as though a heavy burden was lifted away from her. The damp city air around us was with a tinge of burned ash, as motorcycles and cars dash across a few feet away. Yet, there was a sense of serenity around Grandma as she started sipping her beloved teh tarik. I know this was the first time she tasted one before she had diabetes.

“Why do you think this tea is our national drink?” Grandma asked me with a glistening in her eyes. I helplessly shrugged my shoulders.

“To me, a cup of teh tarik always reminds me of sticking together,” said Grandma, “All the different ingredients – milk, tea and sugar – have to stick together to make a cup of delicious delicacy.”

“In the same sense, Malaysia has three main races,” said Grandma with a sudden voice of conviction, “And none of them is negligible.”

Admittedly, I was a little uncomfortable with the sudden burst of sentiments by Grandma. Yet, it was a thought that many would feel ashamed to utter, or worse, a thought that many would just ignore. There she was, a frail old woman, spilling out her innermost wishes for the country that she loves.

“I just love the way they make teh tarik. Do you know why the ‘pulling’ of the tea makes it so much tastier?”

I shook my head.

“Because they still stick together in the end,” said Grandma as she buckled herself up in the car once more.

It was already near midnight when we reached our next destination – our old kampung house. The swaying palm trees looked ever so lively as the wind ruffled its leaves, a stark contrast to the unmoving concrete pillars of the city. This was where all it began, I thought.

Without a word, Grandma walked herself to the front door, a creaking sound matching her last movement of nudging it open. There was no unlocking involved. The door did not have locks. It did not need them.

I observed as Grandma scoured the rickety house for something she clearly treasured, for she was moving so swiftly as though rejuvenated by a sudden surge of energy. Maybe it was because this was the place she led most of her healthy days, I thought. It must be true, as she jerked open a dusty cupboard and took out something that reflected the fluorescent light from the attap ceiling.

I plodded towards her and I could see why Grandma’s eyes were already wet with tears. It was Grandpa’s medal of honour. I have never seen Grandpa in person before. Neither did Dad.

I squinted at the medal that Grandma was holding, on it was etched – Wira Negara, 1957.

Grandpa served in the Malaysian army.

A sob broke the silence of a few minutes. “You know, they were just like the spilt tea when making teh tarik,” smiled Grandma, clearly trying to hold back her beckoning tears, “We just couldn’t pull them back into the cup.”

A tincture of disappointment and pity was felt in Grandma’s tone as she spoke. Yet the years that shaped her wrinkled face has also sculpted the vehement spirit of this single parent. No more was she angry at her fate; instead she channels her emotions into the love for the country that her husband fought for and into the hopes that no lives should be sacrificed again.

“Do you know why I asked you to bring me here tonight?” asked Grandma.

Again, all I could do was shake my head.

“Because this was where I started my life with my beloved hero – your Grandpa – before he ended his life to protect the land where we both are standing upon.”

As she was saying these words, she slowly let herself crumble to the ground beneath. She waved my hand away as I tried to get her back up. Clutching the medal on her right arm, she lowered her gentle face on the ground and kissed it with her lips.

“Stick together. Be proud of your roots. Be brave,” she stared at me and whispered with what was left in her.

“And never let the tea spill, ever.”

A muffled sob echoed eerily around the deserted house.