LAST week, the kitchen, in the house that Pak built, was filled with laughter, chatter and banter once again. As always, the table was overladen with food; home-made and bought from favourite eating haunts nearby.
Most of us siblings and spouses, children and grandchildren had arrived from Kuala Lumpur to the house, along what we fondly called White Water Lane, for a long-awaited reunion.
For a long time during Mak’s old age that led to her passing five years ago, it was left abandoned and would have collapsed due to termites and the ravages of time and, of course, neglect. But Ajie, my youngest sibling, decided to go back, and the renovation of the big house where we grew up would have made our late parents proud.
The house holds too many memories to let it go.
I remember the house that was newly built that became our pride and joy as it stood majestically beside Tuk’s house. In its early days, it was the centre point and refuge for relatives near and far.
Pak Lang and family used to come from that faraway island of Singapore. He is Mak’s brother from another mother. He and his siblings grew up there. Pak Tam would come back during his break from the army and, now, as I dredged up memories of days gone by, I see Pak Teh approaching the house, grinning from ear to ear as he lugged fruits all the way from Baling.
As we sat eating in the kitchen, I swear I could feel Mak’s presence; padding around making sure we had enough to eat; once in a while joining in the banter. Or, she would sit on the pangkin or raised platform and watch with satisfaction her brood eating what she had cooked.
I used to hide under the raised platform with a small Chinese boy, who frequently ran away from his mum whom I was told was suffering from postnatal depression. We would stay there until it was safe to come out.
It was on the platform that Tuk, when she moved to live with us, would sit by the window looking out to the back garden, and sort out jasmine flowers from her garden and measure them in pots ready for the Indian man from the flower shop.
After subuh, there would be trays of kueh that Mak had made to sell to vendors. That helped support our monthly school fees, as did her meticulous sewing on her trusty Singer.
Mak would sit quietly in the light sewing Raya clothes for her scores of customers. We had to be content with clothes which were hastily hemmed up in the early hours of Raya morning.
It was also in that kitchen that we took turns to beat the baulu mixture with eggs from the geese we kept in the backyard.
Pak loved the kitchen. While we were banned from doing household chores, he would help Mak with peeling onions, and topped and tailed the bean sprouts.
Although our two big bathrooms were beautifully done up, I missed splashing water with Kak Cik when we had our bath, squeeling with laughter much to Tuk’s annoyance.
In her last few years, Tuk could only shuffle on her cushion to and from the bathroom.
She, like Pak, breathed her last in that front room that was and still is our commune, sleeping under huge mosquito nets.
The rooms upstairs were also beautifully done. I remember Pak checking on us to see that the blankets did not fall on the mosquito coil.
Mak’s last few years were spent with my siblings in Bangi and was missing the home that Pak built for her. She was always asking to be sent back.
Had she gone back now, she’d be happy to see flowers blooming in the garden that she so much loved. A new swing had replaced the old one that was stolen.
As we left a few days after, looking back at the house, we were happy to see that there’s so much life and soul that was temporarily lost. That’s the house that Pak built that will forever be Mak’s house.