The Sweet Smell of Heaven

The Rehal (Quran Stand)

Pix copied from rumahbatik@indonetwork.co

Over the weekend, we were invited by our adopted son to dinner at his girlfriend's pad in Pantai Hillpark, where I spied two obviously well-fed cats sprawled contentedly on the wooden floor of her plant-filled, kerchief-sized balcony.

The duo, one a local breed with orange and white markings and the other greyish white peculiar to Siamese stock, eyed me with interest as I advanced to give them a pat each. As soon as I reached them however, both bolted. But not for long.

The orange cat proved friendlier than the two, for she later waddled over to the well-scratched, cream-coloured sofa where I sat, and rubbed her body against my leg. The Siamese at first kept his distance but later cautiously approached and started sniffing at my handbag on the floor by the sofa side.

That was when the girlfriend said "Uh oh!". I looked up enquiringly, and she explained that the cat had bad breath. No, make that awfully, incredibly foul breath. "Habislah your handbag!" She added for good measure.

Obviously she didn't know me well. My love for these furry felines is such that I could, and would, endure anything just so I could have them near, for a touch or a cuddle. Also, I have had numerous cats with unbelieveably rancid breath before, so it was no issue.

She said she had taken the cat to the vet, who had told her that the poor thing had gum problems. At nine years of age (63 in human years) there was nothing much that could be done except to put him on prescription. And he has been taking medication regularly ever since.

The cat's rotten breath somehow rekindled bittersweet memories long dormant when I got home that night, and I resolved to write about it when the time was right. Well, here it is. By the way, it is not just another story. It is a lesson well-learned.

Unlike many children, I started learning the Quran later than most. I finished the Muqadam (a collection of must-learn verses, the minor Quran as they call it) at the age of 10 and started on the Holy Book proper only at 13.

At that time my grandfather had just retired from his clerical job at the Bukit Besi iron mine. He bought a piece of land in Dungun, 22 miles southwards by the sea. It was a prime acre by the main road not far from Dungun General Hospital.

There he built a two-storey building, turned the ground floor into a sundry shop and the top floor into our living quarters. He also built a single-storey shoplot next to the building, and two units of kampung houses behind the main building. All three were then rented out.

The single-storey shoplot saw many tenants over the years during my childhood but none as memorable as imperious Mok Ku Teh, the blue-blooded baulu maker.

For the uninitiated, baulu is a a traditional kueh (sweetmeat), a kind of spongy cake made of lots and lots of eggs and sugar, and good as a teatime treat. Kampung people usually eat it dunked in black coffee.

Fair-skinned Mok Ku must have been a real beauty in her youth; she was still comely in her 50s. I am not privy to how Mok Ku and Grandma came to know each other, but they were the best of friends. Now, Mok Ku Teh's baulu was famous throughout Dungun and that I can vouch for.

My best friend Hamidah (daughter of the family maid/helper, Mok Cik Selema), whom my grandparents adopted to keep me company, and I sometimes would go over to Mok Ku Teh's little shop next door and watch her at work. She wouldn't allow us to help, though.

At around 3pm on certain schooldays and most weekends, Hamidah and I, dressed in baju kurung, with a selendang covering our hair and a copy of the Quran under our arms, would trudge along the criss-crossing kampung path, walking past tall, swaying coconut trees, clumps of kemunting (purple berry) bushes, and attap-thatched huts, to a wooden house on stilts belonging to Tok Ku, our Quran teacher.

Upon arrival, our first task would be to draw water from a nearby well and fill the two humongous tempayan (water jars) flanking the wooden stairs leading up to her house. Then we would wash our feet using a gayung (a kind of ladle) made of coconut shell, before entering the house for our daily lessons.

We would sit in a complete circle around her, our Quran in place on a carved wooden rehal (special Quran stand, pix above) and begin reciting. The number of students at any one time varied, usually 10 to 15, boys as well as girls.

The birdlike old lady was Mok Ku Teh's mother. While not imperious as the daughter, Tok Ku was nonetheless one fierce teacher who taught with a cane in hand. She would make us recite the verses over and over again until she was satisfied with our pronunciation.

Now, Tok Ku had one major problem. Her breath was a real stinker. Even now, I feel like a snitch telling this story, but you have to hear me out. For a good reason.

Of course, now that I am almost as old as Tok Ku then, I know she was probably suffering from halitosis. Whatever the case, Hamidah and I almost always nearly gagged when she peered into our faces to correct our recitation.

It wasn't long before Tok Ku's predicament came to my grandmother's knowledge, no thanks to my blabbering. I didn't realise Grandma overheard my bellyaching, and asked me about it. My woes came pouring out - how we couldn't stand the foul smell and didn't feel like continuing our lessons with her.

When I finished griping, Grandma took a deep breath, looked me in the eye and said evenly: "What you smell is not stench, it is the sweet smell of heaven, from the mouth of an old woman who teaches the verses of the Holy Quran to an ignoramus like you."

I was speechless. And properly chastised. Truth be told, in the months to come, her bad breath became tolerable to the point where it ceased to be a problem because, somehow, we were no longer aware of it. Thanks to that blessed woman, Hamidah and I completed the entire Quran almost two years later...