What Will Be, Will Be ( 1 )

THEY say you cannot escape your destiny. What is meant to be yours, one way or the other will be yours, even if it takes a circuitous route to reach you. By the same token, if it isn’t meant to be then it never will be, despite your best effort and the most skillful planning.

In 1965 my elder brother Fauzi, arguably the brainiest of our lot, became the first in the family to be selected for boarding school.

He entered Sekolah Datuk Abdul Razak (SDAR), then in Tanjung Malim, with the dawning of the 1966 school year, before moving on to ITM and eventually to Nova Scotia to graduate in Fisheries.

In 1966, I was in primary six at the same school, Sekolah Kebangsaan Bukit Besi, and gearing up for my own rightful place in the sun (so I thought). Just like him, I had been doing reasonably well myself throughout my six years of primary school.

I had never dipped below third placing in my studies, had represented and brought honour to the school in sports, debates and elocution contests many times over, had been head librarian since primary five and was eventually made head girl.

But the school board had other thoughts. They decided not to nominate another pupil from the same family for the same honour two years in a row.

When queried, the school vice-principal, Cikgu Amin, gave this lame excuse: “Takkan nak bagi kat adiknya pulak? Baru tahun lepas bagi kat abang dia.” (I don’t think we should offer a place to the sister when we already did to the brother the year before).

Never mind the fact that I was my own person, with my own personal achievements. I happened to be Fauzi’s sister and the one-year age gap between us was too close for comfort for the school board, so I didn’t make it.

I was only 12 and took the 'rejection' rather badly. I sulked for weeks. I had worked hard for it and knew I deserved it.

Worse, I had pinned my hope so much on a boarding school that I had not even considered other options. It was akin to “masuk sekolah berasrama penuh” or bust.

That year saw two boys from my batch allocated places in boarding schools; the head boy, hefty Yusoff Ahmad, went to SDAR in Tanjung Malim and skinny but brainy Abdul Rashid went to Sekolah Tuanku Abdul Rahman (STAR) in Ipoh.

For the first time, the quota for girls was left unfilled despite my batch having two or three consistent high achievers, the names of whom I can still recall; Norlia dan Mariani.

In 1968, two years after my departure from Bukit Besi, the school acknowledged the academic achievements of my sister Zahana by sending her to Sekolah Tun Fatimah (STF), Johor Bahru.

And four years on, in 1972, another sister, Zaridah, won a place in Kolej Tunku Kurshiah (TKC), Seremban. In a way, the family felt vindicated.

But for luckless me, it was the Remove Class of Sekolah Menengah Inggeris Dungun some 22 miles away. For all intent and purposes, I had missed the boarding school boat (bus?)

Did I as much as whine and whimper in Dungun? Not on your life! Starting school in that small-town sekolah menengah turned out to be a blessing in disguise.

Eventually I began to see a much bigger picture. I ended up having a ball of a time, acquiring Chinese and Indian friends for the first time in my life. In Bukit Besi, all non-Malay pupils attended the English primary school adjacent to our sekolah kebangsaan.

I was also learning Mandarin, indulging in school plays, debates and poetry reading sessions, not to mention joining a small-town band and singing at weddings and functions for a token sum.

We were young and oh so carefree. We studied hard and played hard. We organised frequent group outings, cycling in convoys to Sekayu waterfalls, Tanjung Jara, Teluk Bidara and Paka Bridge.

We had endless picnics by the pristine Dungun beach in the evenings where we brought our battery-operated turntables and vinyl records, set up campfires, unrolled our mengkuang mats and spread our simple snacks, whiling away time until the sun disappeared over the horizon.

And then there was the 'Head Boy' episode that saw me undeservedly earning a stake in the school's popularity contest for whatever it was worth. “The Slap” and Grandpa’s momentary loss of reason notwithstanding, I was having good, clean fun.

By the time Lower Certificate of Education (LCE, equivalent to today’s PMR) came a-calling in 1970, all thoughts of boarding school had evaporated into thin air. I was happy where I was. Friends were aplenty and the teachers were simply fantastic.

It was during the third term school holidays, in the midst of the 1970 monsoon season, when the school called. My LCE results had qualified me for a place in a boarding school. My name was duly nominated and accepted.

Four years after I had given up all hopes of becoming a boarder in an elite school, the opportunity presented itself. I was to make my way down South, to Johor Bahru, register myself in Sekolah Tun Fatimah (STF) in Jalan Larkin, and begin Form Four.

Was I elated? Well, not really. Why? Because I cherished Dungun English Secondary School. And I loved Dungun with every fibre of my being. Most of all, I didn't want to leave my wonderful friends and charming teachers.

I was scared of the unknown. I no longer had a single confident bone in my body about leaving home. I didn’t want to go anywhere. I wanted to live under Grandma’s wings forever...