THE MEMOIRS OF MUSTAPHA HUSSAIN - Malaysia Today

68 Memoirs of Mustapha Hussain
rocking, woke me up. Struggling to focus my mind, I replied, “All right,”
at the same time trying to recall where I was.
I apologised profusely to the smiling host. The Arab gentleman kindly
replied, “It is all right, son, I know how tired you are after cycling all
those miles.” My friend told me that they had had a good guffaw listening
to me snoring and spluttering like an out-of-commission outboard motor.
That was one meal I will never forget for as long as I live. Later in
life, I often talked to my children and grandchildren about politics and
what it should be for – hunger, poverty and suffering – as opposed to its
opulent opposites.
As mentioned earlier, my mentally energetic father Hussain had great
enthusiasm for business, but with ten children in tow, he dared not resign
from his government job to go into it full time. However, he did his bit
by helping his friends. I was invariably volunteered, regardless if I was
to be paid or not. Perhaps my father had eyes sharp enough to foretell
the future, because in the later stages of my life, despite my training and
education as a civil servant, I became a businessman. Was it circumstance
or fate?
When one of my father’s cousins resigned from his government job
to venture into business, as expected, I was assigned to assist him. To
purchase his merchandise, this funny and talkative cousin took me on a
small steamer from Port Weld to Penang for fifty cents, half the fare of
an adult. The journey was exhilarating and the water calm. We stayed in
a Penang hotel, which marked my first experience as a guest in a hotel.
It was great fun!
The next day, after eating the popular Penang Indian-Muslim rice
curry nasi kandar, we purchased the merchandise, sarongs of the
‘thousand-threads’ and ‘ball thread’ variety. After an interesting trishaw
ride to the jetty, we hopped on to a small grey steamer that left at dusk.
It was a terrifying return journey – a choppy sea, torrential rain and
zig-zagging lightning. I soon threw up everything that was in my stomach,
including the nasi kandar. I ended up flat on the slippery deck, holding
on for dear life to the foot of a table stuck to the floor. No one, not even
my cousin, came to my rescue. Perhaps they were in a similar perilous
situation. Had I not held fast to the table, my life could have ended in
the murky waters of Port Weld.
A Bitter Experience
While I was in Standard IV, my brother Ahmed was in the Junior
Cambridge class. A Junior Cambridge Certificate holder could get any