I was waiting for my parents at a restaurant. More of a habit rather than out of boredom, I took out my phone and began flipping through the images in my Gallery. Those photos mostly consisted of patients' data, different doses of Tinzaparin given according to body weight, ward check photos, some random-photos-I-took-and-thought-to-post-them-on-instagram-but-later-decided-not-to-and...
a picture of my uncles, aunts, late Opah and my parents all sitting in one circle, talking to each other at the'family area' of my Opah's wooden kampong house. At the background, one could see the children sleeping on mattresses out in the open, with no walls or bedrooms to separate the sleeping areas. This was taken when I was in primary school, which was about more than 15 years ago.
I was struck by good old memories and reminiscences of my childhood. Till now, I had always been proud and happy to say that I had lived a fulfilling childhood, having the best of both Kampong world from my father's side and modern world, having lived in the city since I was born.
When my siblings and I were young, my parents would often take us to the kampung during school holidays. I distinctly remember my father parking his car in front of the balai raya and off we would cross a wooden bridge over the river that separates the main kampung road and the area of which my Opah's house is situated. The wooden bridge was so frail and narrow to permit heavy vehicles to tread upon it.
In fact, I also remember the time when the bridge was destroyed during a heavy downpour that in the end, we all had to cross the river to get to my kampung. Upon crossing the river, we had to hike up a bit over an ascending ground which later brought us the familiar view of my aunt's house in front, my Opah's house in the far left and my Moyang's house next to it.
It was a wooden structure built on stilts, with two extensions at the front and at the left constructed on the ground.
We would often walk to the left side of the house, knocked on the door and there was a clay buyung that collects rainwater for us to wash our feet before entering the house. A view of the Ruang Tamu and the kitchen greeted us. On our left, there are numerous old-fashioned racks built to store crockery and other household items. On our right, a dangerously steep wooden staircase with widely spaced rungs with no railing for us to hold on to our dear life leads to the upstairs.
This dangerous staircase had stood witness to many of my cousins injuring themselves when playing and descending down from it. A concrete pangkin covered with rubber mat was constructed next to the staircase, an ideal place for the folks to have an afternoon chit-chat over kopi and pisang goreng.
Upstairs, there were 3 rooms, only one of which is properly used as the bedroom for my uncle and aunt who is living there while the other two just served as store rooms. I remember the existence of a big old-fashioned 4-poster steel bed in one of the rooms. When the relatives came, we would all gather at the wide living space outside those rooms. At night before bed, mattresses would be taken out and spreaded on different corners of the area. Each mattress would usually be occupied by the members of the same family although I'd usually chose to sleep with my Opah and female cousins. We were very young back then so aurat wasn't an issue for us.
The floorboards would creak when we walked on it while the whole house would shake if any of the younger cousins ran across the area during a tag game. This would lead them being reprimanded, to which they later played in silence.
On the walls, my Opah had hung handcrafted decorations made from empty vitagen bottles I had consumed when I was a child. My family and I lived in Penang back then. My Opah stayed with us for a while and during that period, she would collect every single vitagen bottles that I had consumed, washing them and threading the together into a big flower shape decoration. This simple act touched my heart till this very day. Perhaps she wanted to make a memory of me, or perhaps she was struck with creativity at that time she saw those vitagen bottles.
I especially enjoy the time when it was raining whereby I'd sit in front of the tall traditional window and looked outside at the rainwater falling down to the land, creating puddles of mud water. The geese quacked and seeked shelter under the wooden houses. The sound of the pitter-pattering on the zinc roof had a calming effect rather that it being irritating or annoying.
It got better at night. The cold wind seeped through the cracks of the wood, lulling us to sleep. The house was dimly lit by the white candles and burning mosquito-repellants coils. The crickets sang in harmony in throughout the darkness of the night. It was rather peaceful, and there wasn't any worry of whether there would be thieves or intruders.
Morning came. The once quiet house was stirred with the sound of its residents waking up by one. The young ones were allowed to sleep while the older cousins were ushered to wake up and perform the subuh prayer. Mattresses were rolled up and kept inside the room.
Our childhood activities included bathing in the river in the afternoon, playing hide and seek, roleplaying and many other activities that did not include anything electronics.
Soon, it was time to return to the city. Everything was packed up and we were ready to go. As we were about to descend the ground to cross the river, I looked behind and waved to my Opah who was sitting on the staircase of my great-grandmother's house. She looked sad. So was I. But I was immediately cheered up by the thought that in the next few months, she would come to visit us in the city and live with us before going back to her own home in the kampung.
My Opah passed away in 2005 and since then, there was no such gathering of relatives held in that house.
In 2014, we went back to the kampung to meet our eldest aunt there. The river was still there. A sturdy concrete bridge was built over it which allowed cars to pass through. I walked to the old house and my heart was filled with moments of nostalgia. Everything still looks the same. The house stood dilapidated over the years. My great-grandmother's house stood empty next door. We sat in the car as Dad drove through the village. When we were all much younger, those houses were all occupied. I remember opened windows, opened doors, elderly people lounging outside the house. I also remember a lady sitting on the wooden staircase in front of her house. Now, all those visions were replaced by the sights of abandoned houses, with overgrown bushes covering the ground.
Dad chanted the name of the people who once lived in those houses, all of which had now left the world. The once bustling kampung where everyone knows everybody is now left to decay.
We could not blame anyone though. It is just a small village, and people moved out to seek better life and opportunities, as compared to living a simple life in the kampung. Time has changed. One day, my beloved kampung might not even exist anymore.
I shall not lament for the past, as it had been good for me. I shall not cry because my childhood days had long left me now that I am now an adult. It is time to move on. Like what Dr Seuss had said "Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened,".
All in all, I am glad I had had the experience of living in the kampung, as not many friends my age had the chance to do so, so as most of the kids of current and future generations.
