Growing Up

Asdea is actually the first alphabets of the names of my family, i.e. Ahmad, Sue (my wife), Diarna & Elinn (my daughters) and Alann (my son).

My father passed away peacefully on the 1st December 2005, about a year after my mother's demised. It's when someone who was an important part of your life is gone that you start to recall the times we had together. Such is the case now for me. Perhaps, in reading this, my children can relate to the experiences of my growing up. As to my siblings, what I write is basically the way as I saw it.

I grew up with my siblings, my brother Ismail, who is 11 month older than I am. We all called him Mail (pronounced as Maa-ale). I knew that he was my parents blue-eyed boy being the eldest. Perhaps when I came along too soon for them,where instead of relishing the joys of parenthood with your first-born, another one came along. I can imagine that joy turning into a nightmare, double the nappy changes, one crying after the other at night.....

Nevertheless, as far as I can recall, both my brother and I constantly fought (sometimes literally) for our parents' attention. Actually it was more me than him. Where normally parents make the elder sibling give way to the younger, with my brother and I, it was normally the other way round.

How far back can I remember? Well, perhaps as a 4 year-old, living close by to my late grandmother (on my mum's side) and my paternal grandparents. At that time, my father (whom we all affectionaltely called him "Bah", short for Abah) was driving a Moris Minor, you know the type where the indicator props up simulating actual hand signals. It was a very popular car then, this being in the late 50s.

I loved getting around in that car. My favourite position was sitting at either window side so that I can see the indicator propped up. If it didn't, on my father's cue, I just give a slight knock and it would flick up. If it didn't go down, then I would push it back in. How joyful it was until one day, anticipating that it would not go down, I gave it a hearty push. It came together with a sickening cracking sound. My dad asked what was the sound and with my face white as sheet, answered meekly that it was the right indicator. He tried the indicator switch, but it didn't work, not even with a hard knock at it. Alas, it had gone limped. Of course my brother, never one who missed opportunities, started to tease me, which made me cry. My dad said sternly that since I broke it, then I must use my hand to make the turn signal upon his instruction. I guessed Bah being an educator, knew child-psychology because it was a task that I delighted in very much. So each time that he had to drive the car, I was made to go with him as the right-hand side indicator. You can imagine how sad I was when he got that broken indicator repaired.

Bah grew up with siblings, which you would need more than 2 hands to count. It was a very large family. Each time we visited my grandfather, the first thing that he did was to take me and my brother to the shop down the road. There he would buy whatever we wanted. We were in fact his favourite grandchildren. If he got into Bah's car, he would sit in the front passenger seat, a place of honour. I would be in the front with him as well, not sitting on his lap but standing in between the seat and the door. Either I was really small then or the cars were made differently then.