THE MEMOIRS OF MUSTAPHA HUSSAIN - Malaysia Today

16 Memoirs of Mustapha Hussain
Mother sympathised with us for having little opportunity to play, but
she kept us near home so as not to upset Father. However, being wily,
we still managed to slip out for a game of marbles on the road in front
of the mosque. While playing, our eyes would dart up and down the length
of the road. Each time a car stopped, we would look to see if it was
Father’s. If it was, we ran home in a real hurry, parked ourselves in our
own corners and pretended to be reading. Sometimes, we made sure heaps
of books were just next to us. This was my father’s greatest delight, to
see his sons reading and studying. For this reason, he endured weeks in
leech infested jungles to earn a living surveying land.
My father had hopes for us to become doctors. At that time the British
colonialists only encouraged two professions among the Malays –
medicine and law. Other professions such as architecture, engineering,
and accounting were unheard of and never encouraged.
He also did not allow us to eat petai, the pungent, but delicious green
beans. When we did, we quickly munched uncooked rice, to reduce the
smell on our breath.
As I got older, the Larut River was no longer forbidden. We began
to enjoy a less disciplined lifestyle. Rules were relaxed, not only because
we were older, but also because Tok Ngah Mat Zain often advised my
father not to be so hard on us.
Tok Ngah, about ninety years old, lived in a hut built by my father
on our land by the riverbank. Originally from Matang, he had escaped to
Perlis in the North and later to Pattani in South Thailand. This was after
Tok Ngah had collaborated with Datuk Menteri Larut (Chief of Larut) to
get the Larut, Selama and Krian districts to secede from the Malay Ruler
in Kuala Kangsar without British consent. He only returned to Matang
when the matter was no longer high on the British Government’s agenda.
His skin, creased like that of an ancient elephant, displayed ugly
scars. His fingers were crinkled with stab marks. We marvelled at the telltale
signs of bravery on this courageous old fighter. Yet, his scarred and
deformed fingers were deft when playing chess with my father. His selfmade
chessboard was extremely thick, almost three inches high. The black
pieces were carved out of charred wood, while the ivory-coloured ones
were from the kemuning tree.
Whenever he shouted ‘checkmate’, his voice rose to an excited pitch.
He then thumped the piece as loudly as he could. Sometimes, the sound
could be heard from our kitchen at the back of the house. That went on
every night. Their games were deadly serious.
He had a much younger wife from Pattani. For that, some people
referred to him as a bandot tua makan lalap muda or ‘an old goat grazing