Another Bustaman's Take on Hari Raya

My two sisters have been reminiscing on Hari Rayas past. Here's my version, nine years removed from them.

Our Raya holidays will always begin with a trip to Merang cramped in my dad's Ford Escort, later upgraded to the Ford Spectron. Always, without fail, I will get sick in the car. This fact is as dependable as the Penyimpan Mohor Besar is a man. Thus, I don't remember the sights and sounds of the annual road-trip we'd take back to my grandmothers'. I remember the headaches, the bile slowly rising in my throat, the futile attempts of swallowing my own vomit so as to avoid another derision from my deservedly disgusted brother, and finally I remember curling up on my mother's lap, fingers tightly clutching a plastic bag filled with frothy yellow liquid and studying the patterns of the black rubber mat on the floor of the front seat, my head occasionally being bopped by my father's hand as he changes gears along the winding roads of rural Trengganu.

On Raya eve, I would mostly just limit myself to the Bunga Api Kucing Hitam, or was it Cat's Eye? but my brother had an arsenal of fireworks, whatever Kedai Che' Long had in her supply. We didn't go walking around the neighborhood carrying lanterns and I didn't bother to smell whatever it was my grandmother was cooking in the kitchen. I just followed my Abang for as long as he'd let me. On Raya morning I'd eat ketupat palas with sambal daging and then brace myself for another car trip, this time to Besut where I was born.

Whenever I think of Besut I think of the sun-dappled porch of my grandmother's house. The wide double doors and the red cement steps is the site of many family portraits, of many in which I am not even in it. My mother has eight siblings, so that makes for a very noisy and crowded Raya indeed. But by the time I was around, many of my aunts and uncles were already married and spending Hari Raya with their in-laws. So it was usually Cik Yah's family, Uncle Din (who married late) and Aunty Nun's family who'd often arrive late in the evening. We will always make a trip to neighboring Kota Bharu to visit Tok Cik Joh who more often than not will be promoting her latest jewellery. This is also where I developed my aversion to sweet kuihs as her house will be filled with them, as any good Kelantanese house should on Hari Raya, and my dad would always tell me to try the jala mas but I never would, being repelled by it's violently orange hue.

But the Hari Rayas of my childhood was not always filled with food and car trips (two things that don't really go well together in my case.) Rayas in Kuantan is usually spent walking around Taman Kemunting with my Assunta friends, collecting Raya money. We'd get 20 cents per house and end up with like 1.40 to spend on sweets or Barbie trading cards. One particlar Kuantan Raya I insisted on following my brother to the movies, the one time he got to go out without adult supervision. We saw some crappy Malay movie that had Os and Shah Reza. I don't remember the title. Anyway, that movie trip was memorable because some creepy dude felt up my butt in the cinema. True story. Don't worry, it wasn't a traumatic experience for me because I didn't know what the heck he was doing feeling up my butt and I didn't know the connotations that went along with said act. I just thought he was a weird man and changed seats. I guess my naivete saved me from completely freaking out. I don't know if my brother knew what was going on.

Childhood for me is divided into two parts: The Kuantan years, where life was filled with sunny, empty days of climbing trees and Muqaddam classes and galah panjang; and the Kelana Jaya years where everything went to shit. There were some good times, sure, but Hari Raya after that was never the same. My dad started spending more time away from the house and my brother, the only other man in my life up until that point, did the same, choosing the wonderful company of his high-school friends in that beautiful locale we know as the neighborhood 7-Eleven. So the Kelana Jaya Hari Rayas of my childhood were strained and awkward, filled to the brim with forced civility and TV as a means for escape. It got better as I got older, once I stopped caring. You know you're grown up when Hari Raya doesn't excite you anymore. I have to say, though, the best part of Hari Raya in KJ then was the trip to Setapak, where I get to eat yummy lontong and listen to my brother-in-law's father laugh his deep belly laugh over something his grandson Ihsan did.

Eventhough I have not celebrated Hari Raya in Malaysia for the past seven years, I do not long for Hari Rayas past as my sisters do. I do not wish to spend Hari Raya anywhere else other than with my family. Where I spend it is not as important to me as the people I spend it with. We can make our own Raya rituals, our own Raya traditions and memories. I doubt my kids will be longing for Seattle Rayas in their future. Hopefully, their Malaysian Hari Rayas will be filled with laughing cousins and doting aunts and uncles.

Selamat Hari Raya Aidilfitri. Mohon Maaf Salah dan Silap. Drive safely and don't choke on the Batang Buruk!