I had initially hoped that it would be a festive entry, regaling my readers (I wished it was millions but well, I’ve to admit only a countable few actually knew my blog address) with the many exciting and fun-filled episodes of Raya 2011. And as cream to the cake, putting up photos to the extent that you’ll probably think I’m either an avid photographer or a camwhore. Well, there’s a reason why I started this entry the way I did and typing the operative word in bold just in case the joke is missed.
With considerable restraint on my part from using colourful vocabulary, I can only say this. Raya 2011 was a dampening mixture of pre-Charles Dicken’s Christmas Carol and ER (minus the good looking actors, of course). Perhaps it’s a sign of me getting older but that argument should necessarily fail because Mama and her siblings are still very much taken with the whole merry-making. Despite meeting each other almost on a weekly basis, my maternal relatives are still able chat away the hours during Raya and in my father’s oft-quoted words, reheating that old cauldron of soup yet again. Unfortunately, I do not share the same camaraderie with my cousins to withstand hours of chitchatting. This I have to admit as a personal failing given my less-than-likeable character (you’ve got to call a spade a spade. There is no other way). Either that or I’m unable to appreciate our common traits or to tolerate the many differences we have despite sharing the same lineage.
Talking about the same lineage, the case should probably be somewhat different with my paternal cousins. I’ve yet to meet any of my cousins which undoubtedly is pathetic. Unlike my maternal cousins who I do meet up with regularly, paternal cousins are best described as ‘once in a blue moon’ kind of existence. Out of my father’s numerous siblings, I can say confidently that I will only meet up with children of my dad’s one sister and another brother during Raya. For the rest, ‘perfect strangers’ come to mind. So perfect are we in refusing/failing to acknowledge our blood ties that strangers would share a better connection upon meeting each other. I should know. A friend I know is close to my cousin and imagine her surprise to discover we’re related.
By now, you would probably think I’ve some sort of dysfunctional extended family to enjoy any festivities at all. But that hasn’t been the case all along. I used to enjoy Raya very much, even after my sisters left for their studies abroad. This year’s festivities however, were overwhelmed by stories of deaths, infections and medical complications. Just three days before Eid came knocking, the angel of death visited my grand-aunty. Honestly, she was not my favourite relative to warrant cascading streams of tears. But respect and decorum required us to make the long journey into the remote area of Sungai Ayam, somewhere in Batu Pahat, Johore. By the time we arrived at 11 plus in the morning, the deceased was already neatly wrapped in the burial cloth. Unlike the deaths of other family members, I did not feel any grief. In fact, the feeling was one of indifference as I watched others walked in and out of the house. A death has taken place but the emotions that followed did not seem to jive. Could it be that a living heart has turned cold? No pun intended though.
With considerable restraint on my part from using colourful vocabulary, I can only say this. Raya 2011 was a dampening mixture of pre-Charles Dicken’s Christmas Carol and ER (minus the good looking actors, of course). Perhaps it’s a sign of me getting older but that argument should necessarily fail because Mama and her siblings are still very much taken with the whole merry-making. Despite meeting each other almost on a weekly basis, my maternal relatives are still able chat away the hours during Raya and in my father’s oft-quoted words, reheating that old cauldron of soup yet again. Unfortunately, I do not share the same camaraderie with my cousins to withstand hours of chitchatting. This I have to admit as a personal failing given my less-than-likeable character (you’ve got to call a spade a spade. There is no other way). Either that or I’m unable to appreciate our common traits or to tolerate the many differences we have despite sharing the same lineage.
Talking about the same lineage, the case should probably be somewhat different with my paternal cousins. I’ve yet to meet any of my cousins which undoubtedly is pathetic. Unlike my maternal cousins who I do meet up with regularly, paternal cousins are best described as ‘once in a blue moon’ kind of existence. Out of my father’s numerous siblings, I can say confidently that I will only meet up with children of my dad’s one sister and another brother during Raya. For the rest, ‘perfect strangers’ come to mind. So perfect are we in refusing/failing to acknowledge our blood ties that strangers would share a better connection upon meeting each other. I should know. A friend I know is close to my cousin and imagine her surprise to discover we’re related.
By now, you would probably think I’ve some sort of dysfunctional extended family to enjoy any festivities at all. But that hasn’t been the case all along. I used to enjoy Raya very much, even after my sisters left for their studies abroad. This year’s festivities however, were overwhelmed by stories of deaths, infections and medical complications. Just three days before Eid came knocking, the angel of death visited my grand-aunty. Honestly, she was not my favourite relative to warrant cascading streams of tears. But respect and decorum required us to make the long journey into the remote area of Sungai Ayam, somewhere in Batu Pahat, Johore. By the time we arrived at 11 plus in the morning, the deceased was already neatly wrapped in the burial cloth. Unlike the deaths of other family members, I did not feel any grief. In fact, the feeling was one of indifference as I watched others walked in and out of the house. A death has taken place but the emotions that followed did not seem to jive. Could it be that a living heart has turned cold? No pun intended though.
To make things worst, it was a day trip on a Friday. And just as we thought that the trip into Sg. Ayam was arduous, the return trip was frighteningly painful. As a general rule, we can always assure ourselves that driving back would be faster. Yet, despite raking in the kilometers, it was as if we will never leave Pagoh. The drive was excruciating and I had to stop for a couple of times to knock off those sleepy yawns, something I’ve not done before. That trip knocked us out for the next two days, reducing a what would have been the last Ramadhan weekend into extended sessions of nap time.
Then, Raya finally came. With new clothes, a more ernest attempt at applying make-up and the ever familiar favourites of ketupat and Aunty Yah's sambal kacang, it should have been a Raya worth remembering. Well, I discounted the fact that the epidemic flu bug that has been going around town (to which the epicentre is somehow my relative's house) is sufficient to kill any celebratory mood as we hear people wheezing, sniffing and best of all, inconsiderate individuals letting it all out in huge bursts of sneezes to the quiet chagrin of others. Seriously, there are medications designed to keep the flu bug under control, and those affected individuals do not know of such existence.
It has only been 3 days of Raya but enough for me to think what's the big deal with Raya itself. I'm blogging in office now as Friday comes to an end and weekend beckons. But wait, a weekend in Raya is never mine to begin with. A weekend that comes only means more houses to visit and more of those neverending 'smile, kiss, how are you? when are you settling down?' cycles. Well, I just have to bear with it for another 27 days or so. Till my next entry or until my sanity wears out,
'Selamat Hari Raya Aidil Fitri. Maaf Zahir & Batin'.
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