By Remy Majangkim
KOTA KINABALU: The sun rises from the east, a glorious beginning to all life. Our champion rooster – Parok – signals to the rest with pride and loudly: Rise! Rise!
Until a slipper rattles its confidence.
Annoyed, I just need five more minutes enjoying the cold misty breeze in the early morning. It’s nice to be home for Raya.
The rooster’s crow fades into the background, replaced by the gentle sounds of the house waking up. The distant clatter of pots from the kitchen reminds me that Gran is already hard at work, the aroma of food and her famous black coffee beginning their slow, delicious invasion of the living room.
I stretch, the old wooden floorboards creaking in familiar, comforting ways. This is the rhythm of Raya.
But this year, the rhythm carries a different beat. A heavier one. A sacred one.
Gran left us many years ago, but every Raya, we long for her smile and kind face. This is what love and caring meant while growing up – her presence woven into every corner of this house, every pot in the kitchen, every memory we carry.
By mid-morning, the house is a symphony of noise. Everybody is up. The ketupat cases, woven with patient fingers days before, are now plump and boiling away in huge pots. Younger cousins run around in new baju, their laughter echoing through the house. The solemnity of the Takbir has been replaced by cheerful Raya songs.
But something is different. A presence. An absence. Both at once.
We move through the motions, the beautiful familiar motions, but every so often, someone’s eyes drift to the empty corner where Gran used to sit. Where she used to direct traffic in the kitchen with a wooden spoon. Where she used to fall asleep during afternoon conversations, only to wake and insist she was listening to every word.
We laugh a little softer today. We hold each other a little longer.
But before the day truly begins, before the stream of relatives becomes a flood, we have somewhere to go. All of us. Together.
Her cemetery sits, overlooking Sungai Papar. She wanted to be buried here with her mother and to be together for eternity and watch the world go by.
We come in a procession – cars filled with new baju, with tudung and without, with cousins who will go to church tomorrow and cousins who will wake for Subuh. We come carrying flowers, carrying prayers, carrying years of memories.
Her grave is somewhat grand. Designed by Dad after our visit to Melaka, it was constructed by my father and me a year after her passing. A headstone with her name, the dates that bookended her time with us, and a single verse. The grave is clean – our older cousin from the Christian family cleared it up during Ramadan. The smell of fresh paint still lingers.
Our uncle motions for us to begin, and we recite the tahlil. The familiar Arabic words rise and fall, a prayer for her soul, for her peace, for her place in Jannah. The cousins who don’t pray stand quietly, respectfully, their heads bowed. Some hold hands. Some wipe tears. Some stare at the grave as if trying to see through earth and time to the woman who made all of this possible.
I say quietly, For her soul, rest in peace.
I step forward and place my hand on the headstone. It’s warm from the sun.
I still remember her advice to us all: “Do not fight among each other. We are family. Help and support each other if you can, but don’t break this bond. Ever.”
I was there to witness it.
Now here I am, years later, standing at her grave on Raya morning, and those words rise like they were spoken yesterday. Because they were. To me.
And I carried them. All these years, I carried them. Through every Raya, every CNY, every family gathering where the bond could have frayed but didn’t. Through every moment when choosing love was harder than choosing division. I carried her words like a torch.
After the prayers, after the flowers are placed, after the tears are wiped and the silence becomes bearable, we stand together. Someone produces a packet of ketupat, and another pulls out small containers of rendang. We eat right there among the graves because Gran would have wanted that. I could hear her ringing tone, “Makan dulu kamu sebelum jalan.” She would have wanted us to be together, to share food, and to laugh eventually.
And we do. Tentatively at first, then more freely. Someone tells a story about our aunt having to chase a chicken for tonight’s dinner. Someone else remembers how she would hide the good kuih from the children and pretend she didn’t know where it went. The laughter builds, warm and healing.
My Chinese cousin, the one who whispered about Uncle Man’s snoring last night, looks at me and says quietly, “She’d be happy we’re all here.”
I nod. “She planned it this way.”
The first day of Raya is all about family – busy clattering in the kitchen, with the wooden stove and gas stove fired up in one go. The greetings, the eating, the stories, the laughter. Uncle Man’s snores will return tonight – my cousin said she couldn’t sleep last night – and we will giggle about them again.
But something has settled. Something has completed itself.
We visited her grave together – Muslims and Christians, Chinese, Kadazan, Bruneians and Suluk, such a traverse concoction, all carrying the same blood, the same memories, the same instructions spoken to a running child years ago. We prayed for her in different ways, but we prayed. We remembered her in different languages, but we remembered. We loved her in different expressions, but we loved.
This year’s Raya is especially special. Last month we celebrated Chinese New Year on my mum’s side. It was planned chaos with fireworks and a special lion dance for the clan. The total opposite of what we experience now, in such a short period of time – a contrast that is endemic to Sabah, to our family.
Two worlds. Two celebrations. One family.
Our Muslim family would come and visit; even my aunt would volunteer to cook her famous chicken curry. We all gathered and helped to stir, and she again sent instructions while sitting next to the big pot. “Masuk ini dulu – kasi keluar wangi – baru masuk itu daging!” she muttered.
We are the bridge. Carrying the red of lanterns in one hand and the green of ketupat in the other. Somehow, impossibly, beautifully, they blend into something neither side could create alone.
Evening descends. The rendang and her famous black coffee linger in the air – we all sleep in the living room, filled with snoring from my famously large uncle. It was an orchestra that livened up the house and the giggles from the night before. We were tired after a long drive and stupendous traffic jam – alas, we arrived safely.
But more than safely. We arrived whole.
My aunt sleeps peacefully right next to him, immune after decades of marriage. But every now and then, a snort from his direction triggers fresh giggles from the corner where teenagers are still half-awake on phones, the blue glow illuminating mischievous faces.
I close my eyes and breathe in. The coffee has faded, but rendang lingers – a deep, coconut-rich scent woven into the fabric of cushions, into our clothes, and into the very walls of this house. The smell of home. Of Gran. Of Raya.
My body aches from the drive. My eyes are heavy from the day’s laughter and eating. But my heart… my heart is full.
And somewhere, I like to think, Gran is watching. Sitting on some celestial porch, drinking her black coffee, smiling at the chaos she set in motion. The family she built. The bond she protected. The love that outlived her.
I whisper the words into the darkness. A prayer. A promise. A thank you to the woman who stopped a running child long enough to plant a legacy.
Do not fight among each other. We are family. Help and support each other if you can, but don’t break this bond. Ever.
Tomorrow we wake and do it all over again – more guests, more food, more stories. But for now, in this moment, I drift off to sleep, wrapped in the warmth of family, the scent of food, and the comfort of knowing we are exactly what she hoped we would be.
We are together. We are home. We are her legacy, breathing.
This story is dedicated to every Malaysian family who lives this reality every day. To the grandparents who planted seeds of unity. To the parents who watered them. To the children who will carry them forward. And to Gran, wherever she is – thank you for stopping a running child long enough to plant a legacy.
Kongsi Raya isn’t just two celebrations sharing a calendar. It’s two hearts sharing a home. Two prayers sharing a roof. Two paths sharing a destination.
Selamat Hari Raya Semua.
