Bonda Bedah and Mak Temah's popularity has been gaining incredible momentum and I have been busy with my work as a drama trainer (IT NEVER ENDS) and little holidays in between.
So anyways, here I am again. Hopefully this starts off yet another slew of snarky and hopefully hilarious posts on this recently abandoned blog. Haha.
One thing that I would like to share with all of you in this returning post is the reason for the feeling of pride in my little chest. I took part in the 24 Hour Playwriting Competition by TheatreWorks and given the fact that I have to complete writing an entire play in 24 hours and I slept halfway through it, it is a miracle that I got 3rd place for it!
YES! 3rd place yo. Pretty drag proud of myself. I haven't had the courage to go for these competitions because of this thing called self-doubt (I have it, and in excess whether you believe it or not) but man. First time, and already clinching the 3rd place speaks a lot about what I have always been afraid to do.
My play was titled Lanang (Boy) and although they left out half of my father's name (see the link below), I am happy I did it. So here at A Son Of A Peach, I am going to share with you snippets of paragraphs from the play. Hope you all enjoy reading it!
Synopsis:
Following the death of an enigmatic matriarch, Hajjah Ruminah Binte
Salimin, the play talks about how her favourite grandson, Adi Bin
Razali, and her daughter Habsah Binte Marzuki, cope with regret,
unfulfilled dreams and the fragility of life. The relationship
between mother and son is further strained when Habsah, after the
death of her mother becomes a completely different woman than she was
before, much to the disappointment of her son.
This
one man play (one actor, two roles) aims to showcase a beautiful and
many times, a flawed relationship between a boy and his grandmother
and a daughter with her mother.
Lanang (Boy), a play by Hafidz Abdul Rahman
My
grandmother, Hajjah Ruminah Binte Salimin was an immigrant from
Medan, North Sumatra, Indonesia. At the age of five, she came to
Singapore with my great grandparents and settled in a small village
in Jalan Eunos. At the age of 14, she was married to her first of
three husbands. When she married my grandfather, her third marriage,
she was 24 years old and would in the end gave birth to 13 children,
10 boys and 3 girls. My mum was the youngest girl, the third last
sibling in this huge family.
My
grandmother never went to school, never touched a book. She was, as
some would put it, the quintessential uneducated, child bearing Malay
housewife. And like every quintessential uneducated, child bearing
Malay housewife, she toiled with her bare hands to raise a family. A
huge family may I add.
My
late grandmother had a gift. She was a brilliant masseuse. Dislocated
knees, sore muscles, pregnancy related problems that require a rub
here or a stretch there; she could do it all. So at 35 years old, she
decided that she didn't want to sell food and kuehs from a makeshift
stall by the roadside anymore and decided to put her gift to good
use. She would work as a masseuse and help her husband find more
income to provide sustenance for her growing family. And before long,
she was sought after by everyone on this island. This was the start
of her 35 year long career as a masseuse.
.
.
.
She
used to affectionately call me “Lanang”, which is Javanese for
“Boy”. She would spend her afternoons watching programs
broadcasted only on Indonesian channels with the help of a TV antenna
that my mother had bought for her at Yaohan, now known as Thomson
Plaza.
The
reception was never clear and the images shown on the television
screen were always grainy but my late grandmother didn't mind it at
all. I guess that was her small little way of holding on to a piece
of home; being able to watch an Indonesian channel on television,
even if everything was grainy and hazy.
And
that was how I got bitten by the Bollywood bug. Every afternoon at
4pm, Surya Citra Televisi, otherwise known as SCTV, would air old
Bollywood movies till seven in the evening, just in time for the
Mahgrib prayers. So there I was, lying down, head resting on my late
grandmother's outstretched arm and watching an old Bollywood movie as
usual. It was a hot afternoon and my grandmother smelled of baby
talcum and a hint of lemongrass oil. I, till this day, will never be
able to forget that smell.
.
.
.
And
for the first time ever, I finally understood the magnitude and the
amount of love that my late grandmother had for me. I knew my late
grandmother would do anything for me. She was a very strict lady or
at least that was what my mother told me, but her generosity was
unparalleled. If she was down to her last dollar and you were in
need, my grandmother would give the dollar to you, without batting an
eyelid. That was why her sustenance in my opinion never seem to
cease, no matter how much people owed from her, no matter how much
she spent on her children and grandchildren. I guess that was God's
way of rewarding her.
.
.
.
Fast
forward two years and here we are in my living room, and a paranoid
mother to boot. I know my mother is getting better and she has learnt
to cope with the death of my grandmother pretty well. I miss my late
grandmother. But more than that, I miss my mother. I miss the old
Habsah Binte Marzuki. Coping with the death of a loved one is not
easy. But when you come to terms with the very fact that everyone
will die, one way or another and you accept the fact that there is
nothing you can do to stop it, only then will you realize the
importance of now, the present. I am starting to feel like a
motivational speaker here but really now, in all honesty, you can
mull over the past
and you can plan for the future but never forget the importance of
the present.
The
present is not a memory, not a likelihood, it is tangible, it is
seizable and it is meant to be appreciated and lived, vicariously,
precariously and may I add, lovingly. If anything else, the death of
my grand mother taught me one thing. A mother can take care of ten
children, but you don't know whether the ten children can even take
care of one mother. My grandmother had thirteen children, and yet she
died all alone. (pause)
I better go fetch my brother from school now. Beacause if I don't,
let alone the present, I won't have any future whatsoever. (smiles
and walks upstage right, exits)
.
.
.
My
sisters were probably right. I probably drove him crazy with my
uncompromising stance on cleanliness. No wife would want to admit
that she is a nag, but if there is an award for nagging, I'd probably
win it. And I have 19 years of experience in nagging so that probably
is a good foundation to drive anybody crazy.
My
divorce was a fairly peaceful process. There wasn't any fights, there
wasn't any arguments about who would get the custody of the children.
When I got divorced, after 19 years of marriage, my eldest son Adi
was already turning 19 and my youngest was already 13 years old so my
children were already big and definitely didn't suffered from any of
that post divorce traumatic syndrome rubbish. My kids were very wise
beyond their age and they respected our decision to separate. So I
had it easy, to be honest. There wasn't any tantrums, any tears, any
tension. A trip to the family court was all it took. My divorce was
finalized in less than half an hour.
.
.
.
Throughout
my marriage with Razali, my mum have helped me on the side by
constantly buying for my household needs. Razali is a carpenter and
he has been working at the same company for over ten years and he was
happy working and drawing a minimum wage. I had to go work in order
to get extra income for my family. I have four mouths to feed at
home! My mum, Hajjah Ruminah Binte Salimin, bless her soul, she would
accompany me on my weekly trip to Geylang Serai for grocery shopping
on the pretext of accompanying me but when it comes to paying, her
hand was always the quickest to pay for things first.
“Nevermind,
use that money for your children” was what she would always say to
me. My son Adi was her favourite grandson, much to the annoyance of
my other siblings. Even they had children and even they were Hajjah
Ruminah's grandchildren. Why the unconditional love and showering of
gifts be reserved only for Adi my son?
.
.
.
