Back to KL, I am still feeling a little homesick. Okay, it is a little funny, but it is a little true. I am missing the emotional comfort of being so close with the people who care for me, who know the greyer part of my life, who know that my meal is not complete without the presence of specially-made-in-Binjal sambal. After 15 years, I am still the old Cekmi years ago when I was a pathetic, poetic 15-year-old boy who was craving for the lost familiarity, not wanting to let go of the soothing intimacy. And this feeling is always attached with petty stuffs I can easily find in my suitcases.

Few hours before I began the journey back here last week, my second sister had been acting like my mum, fussy over things my father would cynically take them for granted. Adamant, she managed to put some stuffs into my bag, among others:

Sambal daging
Telur masin
Tepung gomak
Ikan gelama
Gulai darat spice

Seeing her frantically put all these into my travel bag reminded me of my mum. Apparently, she tried very hard to take the place of my mother, and this was painfully heart-rending. Looking back at these little things now doubles the pain, as if the sambal is saying, “Eat me and your sister will be happy,” which is replied by the telur masin, “The sourer I taste, the happier your father will feel.” Then, tepung gomak will insist, “Swallow me to whiten your teeth so your smile will be cuter,” and answered by ikan gelama, “I will guarantee your cheerfulness.” Gulai darat spice then speaks with authority, “I am your family’s favourite, so will be yours.” And I will finally say: “Okay foods, stop talking to me, or else I will eat you guys.”

Things like that.

By the way, looking back at the modest activities during the previous Hari Raya Haji celebration, it was not that bad for a don’t-tell-me-what-to-do family. Despite the suppressed coldness among my siblings, we were able to put aside those obstacles and ended up doing few things that made me a little relieved. I won’t forget the commotion we faced the moment we were preparing satay (not 'sete') outdoor when the rain suddenly started to fall. We were making satay in the middle of the rain! Twenty or thirty years from now, this could be one of the moments to remember.

And those stuffs, unless they are not fed into my stomach, will be tokens to romanticize.