Saturday, January 12, 2008
Holy Bitchy Mok
Introducing Mok – the living legend of bitchiness.

At 70, Mok is still strong and energetic. She lives alone in a house next to my family’s house. It is the gracious gift from her children who do not want to live with her. Even her many grandchildren are reluctant to stay near her sight. But that’s not a problem for Mok, because Mok is very rich. To accompany her at night, she pays Mok Nik Jaroh (an old friend of hers) RM5 per hour. Hmm, that’s RM1200 per month, considering that Mok Nik Jaroh spends 8 hours every night with lonely Mok.

But there is one little problem – she is extremely senile. She keeps her money everywhere in the house and she doesn’t remember where she puts them. During Hari Raya, kids like to visit her because, if they get lucky, Mok will give them RM50, which she mistakenly thought as RM2. God Bless Mok, say the kids.

So what makes her a living legend? Her powerful tongue.

Everybody in the kampong knows that she likes to mind everybody’s businesses. Just right after her return from Mekah, she couldn’t wait to catch up the latest gossips – whose wives just got divorced by the husbands, or whose husbands just got beaten by the wives. Adding to this naturally-acquired skill, she likes to pass glaring remarks for my family members behind everybody’s backs. Eh, why your sister so clumsy? Hey, I think your brother is so stupid. Isk, how can your father drive Toyota only? Hey, why your sister study in Egypt when she becomes ustazah only? Alahai Cekmi, why he want to be a lousy teacher like his father?

That's Mok.

Of all these poor victims, the person who suffered the most was Ma, my late mother, who befell under Moks’ powerful regime for many painful years. For many years of Ma’s life, Ma always became the subject of Mok’s nastiness. Being bullied mentally, Ma was tolerant with Mok’s meanness. I remember Ma’s cool and patient face whenever Mok said unpleasant things to her. She just smiled. She indeed sacrificed a great deal to please Mok’s crazy demands, which included taking care of Mok’s paralysed mother for many months.

However, nothing seemed to satisfy Mok’s hunger for sweet brutality, as if Ma was her biggest enemy. Mok sometimes said the meanest things to Ma in front of close relatives and friends during Hari Raya gatherings. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the chance to ask Ma about what actually caused the bickering relationship between her and Mok. I am not sure whether Mok had asked for Ma’s forgiveness before Ma left this world for good, but I am sure Ma has forgiven all of Mok’s various sins.

Did I hate Mok? Nah. How could I? No matter how much I detest the holy bitchy Mok, she will be forever stuck in my family, because she’s in my blood – she’s my auntie, my father’s one-and-only sister.

For all Ma’s sufferings, I wish Mok a good life in Heavan. Opss, not yet, she’s still around.

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mused by cekmi @ 5:45 PM  
Sunday, January 06, 2008
What, Putu Halba?
“Mi, do you want Putu Halba?” she asked me.
“What? Putu Halba?”
My Ummi looked at me in disbelief. She probably thought that her step-son was a lying asshole, a Kelantanese who had forgotten his own root, who didn’t even know the existence of some fine Kelantanese delicacies. But I was saying the truth – I really didn’t know what the hell putu halba was.

Back at my house, I saw my family members savouring over something in the kitchen. I was curious and asked, “Hey, what are you having there?”
My Ummi looked at me with a smile and said, “Putu Halba lah.”

I took a bite, hoping that its taste would not be terribly awful. I put it in my mouth. After a few bites, I stopped. Oh my God, that warming sensation, that sweet taste, that rich flavour – they were irresistible! Putu Halba impressed me that I couldn’t even move a muscle. I finally said, “How I could not taste this before? It’s heavan, Ummi!”

Before leaving to KL, I wanted to taste the newly-discovered Putu Halba again. As it was very late in the afternoon, most of the stalls selling Putu Halba were out of stock. I was frustrated, but I didn’t just give up. I kept looking and looking around Pasir Mas town until I spotted a stall selling Putu Halba. Phew.

“Makcik, give me 5 putu halba now!” I said impatiently.
“I am sorry, all these are reserved for the other customers.”
“What!?” I was getting more impatient. This is critical, I thought.
“Please Makcik, don’t do this to me. I am leaving KL tonight and I really need to have it now!” The other customers were looking at me, probably wondering if I was sick of a terminal illness who was going to die any moment if didn’t eat Putu Halba.
"Please Makcik, just give me one only! Please. Just one,” I begged her further. The Makcik seller looked at me strangely and said, “All right, all right. Take this one. This is for free. My sedekah.”

Hooray! My plea was successful – I swallowed my one and only Putu Halba, extremely happily.


I might be heads over heels with the enticing menus at fine western restaurants, but deep in my heart, I am still a typical Kelantanese who is desperate for sweet, intoxicating, traditional food, like Putu Halba.

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mused by cekmi @ 6:50 PM  
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Meet cekmi – a confused Kelantanese man who is continuously amused by his blurry budu past and his modern chopstick life. As he moves further up towards his worldly pursuit, he moves even closer down to his original state of buduness. These are his budu tales.
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