The semester started with us students, lecturers and departmental staff mourning the loss of our head of department. During the first week, before each class commenced, we would stand for a moment of silence to remember him. Generally the lecturers spoke something good about the deceased, but I remember one particular lecturer who offered an unusual way of remembering our dearly departed. Grief and its expression aside, what positive things could we recall of the dead? What have we learned from him/her? Were there any happy moments that we shared with him/her? If yes, how were they like?
I never expected that my semester would similarly end like the last one did with deaths of the people I knew. On Friday I just finished my last paper and started my semester break when I received news that the teacher who taught me Malay while I was in Form Three passed away. My immediate response was to check the main social media platforms on which I knew my juniors would post the sad news. I kept refreshing my feeds. In the end the reality sunk in and I felt - still feel - a heaviness in my chest.
On Friday night I was supposed to have dinner with my video assignment group members, a small party thrown as a token of appreciation to some friends outside the department who helped us in the process of producing the video. I thought of conjuring some excuse and skipping that gathering, but in the end I steeled myself to show up.
Being one of the earliest to arrive, I sat at the far end of our table even though a couple of friends offered to swap seats with me so that I wouldn't be left out of the merriment. Hanging out with a large group inevitably means that people will break into and interact in smaller cliques. In my case I was listening more than I was speaking to three friends. I was keenly aware that throughout the dinner, somebody from the other end of the table would turn their gaze on me, just to check whether I was happy. So I obliged - joining in the conversation here and there, putting on a smile from time to time. I took care not to overdo it, of course, lest they feel guilty for me being at the corner forcing laughter faking smiles.
I was tending to my thoughts regarding my late Malay teacher the entire time. I was - am still - shocked at her sudden passing and felt a sharp jab to my nose as I thought she won't be celebrating Hari Raya with her family. I thought about her children, who were still young when I graduated from high school. I reminisced, thinking about the times when she would unlock that small gate connecting our high school to the neighbouring primary school, allow her children through and wave at them as they repeatedly said their goodbyes to her. I've witnessed this scene many times before and what struck me the most was the same kind, motherly smile she would give her children. That genuine smile that would sometimes, if you were lucky enough, find its way into her classrooms.
She was such a sassy teacher - till now I could remember how funny she was when she was in the mood. Like when she saw two students sharing a chair, she'd advise them not to do so, otherwise their buttocks would be lopsided ("punggung senget sebelah"). She was a diehard fan of Malay singer Siti Nurhaliza, often praising the loveliness of her songs and claiming to be a Siti Nurhaliza wannabe. I think I learned quite a lot of Malay words and phrases through her eccentric teaching. Once she asked me to demonstrate to the class how to "melentik" (as if I knew the definition of every Malay word). Another time she declared that scorched rice stuck to the bottom of a rice cooker tasted nice ("kerak nasi sedap").
There were times when her humour left her, of course, like the rest of us mortals. When she got into a rage and unleashed her volley of angry comments, I would be very pissed at her and at the same time I couldn't help but admire her use of Malay language. It's as though she found a way to tame the language like a pet and trick it into doing her bidding. Anything she said had the capacity to hurt but were beautifully constructed in terms of grammar. Her choice of words, even when scolding a student, was an indirect, impromptu Malay language lesson (though not the most pleasant one).
When she was serious, she'd talk to you in a softer tone. After she drilled into you what she thought was serious matter and deemed that you'd taken in the lesson, her tone went back up and she'd crack some joke to smooth out the earlier seriousness. I still remember and hold to one of her advices: Don't fall into the vicious cycle of chasing after new technology. She saw students kept changing their mobile phones so she challenged the practice of switching new phones every few months, saying that it is an utter waste of money as there will always be newer, better and faster phones that one will just get addicted to this bad habit of "upgrading" phones. (For the record, I only switched to a smartphone last year after my old feature phone's battery died out on me.)
I will always remember this awesome and spirited teacher, for her sass, her sarcasm and her guidance in matters pertaining to not only language but also life itself. It is really unfortunate to lose her days before Hari Raya Aidilfitri. May she be returned to God. Salam takziah to her family.
