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Sat, Aug 30, 2008
New Straits Times
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Farewell, my father
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>THERE is a moment in every woman's life when she has to part ways with the very first man she'd ever loved - her father, of course. It doesn't matter how this happens. Whether it's death - due to a long illness or a sudden demise - it simply means that the person who has been mentor, guiding figure, friend and father is no longer around to cheer her on.
It is bound to happen, she knows. But in her heart of hearts, she wants to believe that he's invincible, a rock that will never crumble.
How could he, when he was the one, with Mum's helping hand, who had built her up, brick by brick?
But as everyone with ageing parents knows, this is not to be. The mills of God do grind on inexorably and as seasons come and go, the passing of our loved ones is inevitable.
Babak died at age 82 on Aug 13.
If memories were pretty little shells, I have a whole beach strewn with them. I had known from small that Ali Abdul Rahman was a darn good dad.
Growing up with my five siblings, I never knew that we were cruising precariously on his modest income, combined with Mum?' equally small earnings as a schoolteacher.
You see, life was rich, so much so that I thought we were wealthy. On Mondays at school, I often had to stop myself from gushing to friends that I had a whale of a family time over the weekend.
I don't know how my parents managed it but if it wasn't a picnic at Johor Baru's Lido beach, it was a day at the Kota Tinggi waterfalls with home-cooked nasi lemak to boot.
If the circus came to town, we'd make that half-mile trek to watch the tigers and elephants do their tricks. The smell of sawdust and popcorn fills me with a longing for those carefree days.
It was not all thrills and spills though. He did spot checks on our schoolbooks and gave quizzes on general knowledge. He'd test our minds by putting 20 things on the table and asking us to list them down after he's covered them up, for example.
There were little rewards like chocolates and coins to gain, if you scored. These games were for my older siblings but I absorbed everything and at age five, was as sharp as a whip, I must say.
There were days when Dad would sit with Mum on the verandah of our little house and conjure up talent or acting contests where we were asked to sing or act out little scenes. There was much laughter and music.
December would be all about making a beeline across the Causeway to Robinson's or John Little's where we were allowed to revel in the twinkling lights.
Even way back then, Dad knew that a "work hard play hard" concept was best. I now see how these things are exercises in character- building. There was little need for any kem bina semangat and such.
Even when he retired early from Customs, former footballer Dad became the president of the Johor Football Referees' Association. He'd drop in at football matches to check on the state of affairs, with all of us in tow. We became pretty good at gauging when a player was "offside" or when a red card should be flashed.
Dad's full life came to a slow grind after his heart operation and subsequent bedridden state. How it must have further saddened him when he lost the sight of an eye and the good use of his limbs.
Still, he read the newspapers, as always, from end to end. And he always knew what was happening in every part of the world. He?d still perk up each time my brothers enlightened him on the latest in the football world.
He knew how much we adored him. But the occasional trips we'd make to the hometown to visit, bogged down always with work commitments and everything else, is but a tiny drop in the ocean of things he'd done for us.
His legacy is mostly in the intangible but invaluable stuff he'd given us. People have often enquired how I could maintain a sense of humour and hold myself together through dark days. Tearfully, all I could think of is, "You could too, if you had a Dad like mine..."
Rest in peace, Babak...
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