The Slap

The cane was never spared when I was growing up. Grandma was pretty adept at wielding it, mostly on my derriere and calf. Occasionally the sole too received a hefty dose.

True, I was the so-called ‘cucu kesayangan opah’ (grandma’s blue-eyed girl), but that didn’t stop her from knocking me black and blue for misbehaving. And I deserved every whacking I got.

Truth be told, it wasn’t just the cane. Her wooden clogs got into the act with my back more times than I care to remember, to the point where I could accurately gauge her terompah throwing skills and successfully dodged the flying footwear.

And then there was the “chilli” treatment, dished out as the ultimate punishment for using foul language (that woman lip-read like a pro; she could tell even if you swore under your breath).

Having one's lips "tenyeh-ed" (vigorously rubbed) with chilli would set one's extra-curricular activities back for a day, for the process would leave one feeling as though the lips had expanded tenfold (imagine collagen-injected lips, and only at the cost of one red chilli).

There wasn't much pain really, just discomfort. And of course unrepentant brat that I was, I would wear the 'new' lips, skewed, slurring speech and all, like a badge of honour. Milking it to the max I surely did.

While I wasn’t exactly a naughty child, I got on her nerves often enough to earn demerit points. I was tomboyish and more interested in hanging out with my friends, mostly boys, than in finishing my homework.

I was in my element climbing trees, stealing rambutans, playing rounders, galah panjang and hopscotch, the swing and the solid-iron carousel at the edge of the community padang.

It mattered not that sometimes I played in the blinding Bukit Besi rain with nary a care for my school uniform and canvass shoes, let alone my safety, from lightning, gushing waters et al.

Linguistically, at age 10 I was also quite eloquent in the mencarut (swearing) department, courtesy of my more daring schoolmates who learned them by hanging around the salt-of-the-earth kind; the mine workers and labourers.

It was the swearing part that got to her the most. She went livid at the merest hint of a swear word. My grandmother hardly shouted or yelled at me. Instead she would hiss under her breath, working herself up to a dignified, controlled fury before deftly lashing out with whatever was at hand.

Where Grandma was voluble, candid and quite temperamental in ruling the roost and doing all the disciplining, Grandpa was cool, quiet and reticent. He never raised his hand at me all the years I was growing up, until I was 14.

It was then that I became the unexpected recipient of The Slap, Grandpa's swift sleight of hand delivered with such dexterity and panache that it remains forever etched in the deep recesses of my mind. It also marked the first and only stinging slap I ever received in my entire life, then and now.

I was then in Dungun English Secondary School (now known as Sekolah Menengah Sultan Omar), chalking up good grades in my studies and actively involved in extra-curricular activities especially sports, representing the district in high jump and hurdles at State level.

I was also within the amorous sight of the 18 year-old head prefect who made no bones about his interest in yours truly. It was a heady, intoxicating feeling, to be coveted by the Head Boy who used an intermediary to deliver mush-choked epistles to the object of his fancy.

Every evening he would wait until I finished my game practice (volleyball or hockey). Then he would accompany me home, cycling slowly while I took leisurely strides to my house which was about 20 minutes’ walk from the school. He would see me to the door; only after I entered the house and closed the door would he leave.

One day we arrived at my house just as the muezzin’s call for Maghrib prayers (the azan) began. As he ushered me towards the front door, it was suddenly flung open from inside and Grandpa appeared, looking grim. The young man quickly extended his hand and salaamed, after which he beat a hasty retreat.

As soon as I entered the house, Grandpa closed the door, spun me around and delivered two stinging slaps, one on each cheek. They came so suddenly that I was caught completely off-guard. Shocked beyond words, I ran upstairs to my room and bawled my eyes out.

Strangely enough, no one said a word, not then and certainly not since. I cleaned up and came down for dinner, carefully avoiding Grandpa’s eyes. Grandma prattled on at the dinner table, as usual. The maid and our two workers (we had a sundry shop then) pretended as though all was well with the world.

Life went on. The boy left school, went on to Sixth Form and eventually to university, and naturally forgot all about me. I too left school, worked, married, went abroad, had children, returned home, went back to school, graduated, got divorced, remarried.

Grandma passed on; Grandpa followed suit 14 years later. There was no one left to explain and make sense of Grandpa’s lapse that led to The Slap.

My late aunt once theorised it could be the call of the azan that triggered him off. She could be right for Grandpa was a deeply religious man.

To see his teenage granddaughter clad in T-shirt and shorts, standing together side by side, in close proximity with a non-muhrim young man at the door smack in the middle of azan Maghrib was too much for the old man. It insulted his religious sensibility. Maybe.

NOTE:
I had wanted to include this in my post earlier on, but thought the better of it. With the benefit of hindsight, I think it is worth mentioning.

There was one particular line my late grandma was so fond of using, directed at me each time I cursed under my breath. She would go:

"Mu kato ggapo tu hah?? hah?? hah?? Muluk mache b**** naik tanggo!" (What are you muttering under your breath hah?? Your mouth is like the pudenda climbing the stairs!)

Oh God, what a graphic description! The old lady was a hoot!