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Home for Raya

My mother is pleased that I have lost some weight since the last time she saw me. Trust me, I'm not that thin but at least my family has stopped calling me Michelin Man. (Yes, my family is very cruel). My mother is also pleased that I dress in a more 'ladylike' fashion now, because I arrived at the airport wearing a pink, flowery shirt-dress. It’s only now that she’s discovering that that outfit was the only thing I brought home with me that would fit her ideas of lawa.
Things would be perfect if my eczema hadn’t flared up again and I wasn’t spending raya with the skin on my face and hands red, angry and itching.

My mother sighs, “Kesian anak mama ni. Dah kurus, tapi muka comot.”

First day of Raya at my grandmother’s house was rather muted, mainly because most of my cousins were not due to arrive till later. My grandmother is mostly grumpy, barking orders at her daughters. My mother manages 3 days before she has a bust-up with her own mother.

At least my grandmother’s sister’s house was packed full and I got to catch up with some of my second cousins who I haven’t seen in a while. One has inexplicably gained an American accent many years after she left the United States and one has grown so tall and buff I thought he was a sesat Hindi film star.

Inevitably there were lots of questions about my skin and lots of people going, “Ha, doktor pun boleh sakit ke?”

Initially I just smiled and shrugged but after the umpteenth time I got the question thrown at me I replied, “Oi, doktor pun manusia, bukannya Superwoman,” to which thankfully, my relatives saw the stupidity of their question and shut up.

By the time we went to my Dad’s hometown in Melaka, my skin had improved a lot, but I got bombarded with a different question instead, which had somehow magically not appeared on my relatives’ lips in Seberang Perai – “Kere dah berpunya ke?”

The question is asked softly, when my aunt pulls me aside to speak to me alone. Such sympathetic smiles I get, when I shake my head and say no, I do not ‘belong’ to anyone yet. Admittedly, the two aunts who did the asking were some of my nicer aunts and the one no-nice aunt that I did meet did not care enough about me to ask about any impending nuptials, instead shouting questions about my brother in Dublin whom she had looked after when he was small.

The not-nice aunt, Makcik R, shall we call her, has always frightened me a little, so I’m rather wary and not very fond of her. She is the most aggressive out of my father’s many sisters and still, after all these years, dislikes my mother and continues to make snide comments about her, not only to my mother’s face but also in front of her children. When not making underhanded comments about my mother, Makcik R, like my dad’s other relatives, tend to go, “Wooooooii!!! Cilaka kau Lateeepp!! Ko dah berapa bulan tak balik, ko tak tegur aku pun! Lahabau kau!!!”

Since my paternal grandmother passed away a few months ago and my grandfather died several years before, their house was devoid of the usual Mob, as we kids called our dad’s relatives, with only Makcik R and her husband living there now. (Unlike my maternal grandfather, my paternal grandfather favoured his female children so the family house was willed to Makcik R.) I was relieved not to have the usual crush of relatives whom I barely recognise. Family gatherings on my dad’s side of the family are never small, my dad being one of eighteen siblings. When you consider that each sibling is married at least once and has an average of four children each, you can imagine the wall of aunts, uncles and cousins that I am confronted with each raya. To make matters worse, my grandmother’s genes must be some kind of a super dominant type, because nearly all of her children and grandchildren look like her, including me. So when you see The Mob en masse, it’s like seeing a community of clones in various stages of development, some who are shouting at you to come over and give them a kiss and a hug.

The other member of the Melaka Mob who shouted at me this year was my dad’s younger brother Pak L, who offered his services in finding me a husband. Things must have come to a bad pass when a male member of the family wants to help me find a partner. The ladies must have given up.

Still, I think I’ve come out of this raya relatively unscathed. I haven’t had any potential suitors shoved in my face. The rich aunt hasn’t said anything about me being abnormal because I don’t have a boyfriend. I haven’t quarrelled with my parents although my mother did with her mother. Only two people have asked for a diagnosis of their vague symptoms and assorted blemishes. And we all made it home in one piece. Alhamdulillah.

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