It’s a Sunday in the village. I am just going about some daily chores in the house. A young Timorese woman, her hand pressed tightly on her abdomen, is writhing in pain on the road side, in front of my parents’ house, with her husband holding her to ensure she won’t collapse to the ground. The pair is making their journey back home, with their little son walking ahead of them with a plastic bag containing clothes, every now and then he keeps turning back to check the progress of his parents stumbling on very slowly and painstakingly behind him. For the young woman, even making a small step like this requires monumental effort due to the pain she’s suffering.
My sister and I quickly rush out to the road and upon enquiring, invite the couple to take a rest at the small pondok in front of the house, I provide the woman with a glass of plain water to which she quickly downs in a few gulps. She must be very thirsty. I symphatise with the family’s plight: the woman’s very sick and her face’s grimacing with pain, with her emaciated and extremely fragile frame suggests she needs to seek immediate medical care. There’s moisture in her eyes but I can’t tell as to whether its tears of pain; her Timorese husband looks worried and helpless, their son’s half shaved head revealed some presumably healed marks which I figure he must have suffered from some kind of ailment too. I then ask the husband whether he would like to bring his wife to the hospital but he declines saying they prefer to go back home.
We later learn that the couple are immigrants without proper travel documents hence the reason for them to shun treatments in hospital. We offer to send the family home, a more than five minute’s ride away, in our kancil. At their destination, the parents and the boy alight from our car, the adults with a word of appreciation; the young boy, oblivious to the predicament of his parents, flashes an innocent smile and gleefully waves us goodbye, perhaps happy at the thought of the canned drinks,cakes and a packet of sweets in the plastic bag he carries, which we earlier gave him.
As we drive back, I can’t help thinking about the grim prospect for the young woman, and the uncertain future lying ahead for the immigrant family. But the young kid is being temporarily sheltered from the harsh reality of life. He can burrow under the cover basking in blissful moments of having a slice of cake, a drink and some sweets which for a child is what moments of happiness are made of…. Life resumes to normalcy in our household after that, but in another place just minutes’ drive away, a husband is in agony contemplating his partner’s possible life-threatening illness, the persistent fear of being caught by the authority and a dire need to bring enough money home to make life a more palatable existence than what it really is now…
In the evening, while following my brother back to KK, I set myself in a contemplative mood pondering about other people’s worldly problems, about the young Timorese couple and their son, and my own destiny. At some point and under the drizzling rain, I see many cars parked along the roadside as well as in an open area; a small group of people congregating on top of a hill accommodating a Muslim cemetery, taking shelter under a makeshift tent. A funeral ceremony is taking place for someone who has just breathed his/her last breath on earth. As if seeking confirmation, I mention to my brother that when a muslim dies, his/her remains must be buried on the same day, to which he replies in the affirmative, adding that for relatives staying abroad they might not be able to say their last good-bye to their loved ones due to the urgency of the funeral, which is quite unfortunate.
I wonder if the person was old and grey hence his/her passing was inevitable, or he/she had suffered miserably before death, or met a terrible accident hence gone before his/her time? I wonder if his/her passing would be deeply mourned by loved ones, and if his/her dependants would lose directions in life now that the breadwinner is gone, or if there were members in the congregation who’d think that his/her passing in the holy month of Ramadan was a blessing for the departed? And that his/her soul would surely be placed `di tempat orang-orang yang beriman dan soleh/solehah’ ?
If the Messenger of Death had been merciful and resolved to wait a little longer, the deceased would have been able to celebrate Hari Raya Puasa which is merely days away, hence be able to indulge in a little merrymaking with his/her loved ones, as a way to cherish his/her final moments on earth before leaving…
Earlier in the day, my elderly father has related to us about a young Bruneian couple who had just been engaged, who were killed in a road accident in front of a kedai borong, a place where we always frequent, near Beaurfort. The woman perished on the spot while the man died on the way to hospital.
`kesian’ my father said. I know my father. He is a strong man and has seen and gone through so much in his life. Sometimes he speaks with hard won wisdom in his eyes. Yet there’s a certain emotional vulnerability about him which makes him easily affected by what has transpired in and around him. And I wonder if my father was also comtemplating his time on earth when commiserating the tragedy befalling the young couple, gone way before their time..
It’s still drizzling as we near KK. I like to think of the drizzles as a blessing from heaven, for the living as well as the departed..
As I finish writing, I silently make a wish that may the young Timorese woman be fully recovered from her pain, and she is able to cook a decent meal for the family tonight, that there’s laughter as they partake in the food being laid on the table, knowing that however hard life is for them, there are times when worry can be temporarily laid aside, and to simply indulge in little moments of well-being and togetherness like this…
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