THE MEMOIRS OF MUSTAPHA HUSSAIN - Malaysia Today

32 Memoirs of Mustapha Hussain
on a regular monthly basis. One lived in a small hut by the river; the
other in a room underneath our house that stood on pillars eight feet above
the ground.
They could not live in one house, let alone one room, because Sinnapen
was of a higher caste than Darma, a pariah or ‘untouchable’,
according to books I read. The great Indian leader Mahatma Gandhi had
the support of people like Darma, who wanted the abolition of such an
oppressive system. I hear it is still strong in India, though in Malaysia, it
is a dying practice.
Even as a boy, I wholeheartedly sympathised with Darma. I noticed
that when he went to buy dosai (an Indian pancake) from another Indian,
he had to stand far away from the seller. When it was time to receive the
food or his change, Darma had to stretch both his hands way out to
collect them. I was told that even at the toddy (intoxicating fermented
juice from coconut trees) shop, pariah Indians had to drink from enamel
mugs specially set aside for them. What justified this inhuman discrimination
among men? It is no surprise that Islam spread rapidly in Bangladesh,
because according to Muslim doctrine, all Muslims are equal in the eyes
of Allah.
The Indians I knew sat cross-legged on mats and ate with their fingers,
just like us Malays. Some made small neat rice balls and threw them into
their waiting mouths. Some drank from glasses raised several inches
above their mouths, with not a drop spilt. Now, whenever I see a teh tarik
man perform, cooling his tea by repeatedly pouring it between two handheld
containers held far apart above each other, it reminds me of my
younger days. I also saw Indians eating off banana leaves. Apparently only
the poor ate out of plates, as they could not afford to change their ‘plates’
every time they ate.
Other than those working on British estates, some Indian labourers
worked on rubber smallholdings belonging to Indian owners at the back
of our house. They often came to my mother asking her to help mend
their clothes or to borrow our flour mortar. We always helped them. Sometimes,
they begged us to let them listen to our gramophone, or to watch
us play the accordion and harmonium.
Every now and then, a travelling Indian musician would knock on
our door. He was usually accompanied by a dusky young girl, a trained
monkey, or both. Naked except for a wrinkled sarong and headgear, he
would play his harmonium with very agile fingers while singing Tamil
songs. In between, the mischievous emaciated monkey performed little
tricks to amuse the audience. At the end of the performance, the lethargic
girl went around holding an enamel mug to collect donations.