FOOTSTEPS OF MY FATHER

In the name of Allah The Most Beneficent The Most Merciful

My father was not rich. In fact he was quite poor. But he has a heart of gold. And I was only lucky enough to know him for just 3 years.

I do not have memories of my father like other people who are fortunate enough to have their fathers until they become adults. All I have in my memory of my father are like still pictures. Like photographs in an album.

However, there were two vivid "pictures" I distinctly remembered about him.

I remembered him playing his violin in front of our rented house in Penang. I was told by my mom that he was an avid musician. Loved music and sports too. Winning quite a few badminton tournaments in his hey days. He played other musical instruments like the piano, guitar, accordion...

When I was a kid, I found his two piece white suit buried somewhere underneath other old clothes. That was the suit he worn when he had a gig. I imagined him wearing the white suit which is starched and ironed immaculately... and playing the grand piano on a grand ship. How I wish I could hear him play.

Unfortunately being a musician could not bring enough money to support his big family. There were eleven of us. So he had to work hard in the docks, under the sweltering heat to feed us. He cycled almost 10 km a day to his workplace and another 10km to get home. His skin sun burnt. His face gaunt.

Yet my mother told me if he came back from work and found one of us sick, he would immediately take us to see the doctor. I could imagined how exhausted he was but I guess a father's love knows no boundaries. Love can overcome even exhaustion.    

Sadly...the other "picture" I remembered of him was on the day of his death. I remembered him lying there...in my grandmother's house, like he was sleeping...with a faint smile on his lips. I remembered my five year old sister crying uncontrollably ( which is strange because she said she didn't remember anything) . She was my father's favourite daughter. And my brother playing marbles under our stilt house...oblivious to the  surroundings.

So every time I return to my place of birth , Penang...I would imagine seeing my father in every nook and corner of the island. At the docks, at Padang Kota Lama, at the old mosque, at the village, at the Kopitiam, even imagining seeing him on the streets  cycling to go back home from work.

 Even when we had moved out from Penang and in my adolescent years,I used to go back to my kampong, I was amused when the villagers used to stop me and asked.."Anak Pak Haroon?" (Are you Haroon's daughter?) even years after my father passed away. He must be very famous! He must have done something really good...for people to still remember him.