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My grandfather died.
And I don't know how I feel about it. I don't know how I'm supposed to feel about it. I think I'm sad and solemn...but maybe not sad and solemn enough? I didn't really know him that well; there was a language barrier. But far from that being a consolation or justification for my feelings (or lack thereof), it just makes me feel guilty. For not trying to get to know him better. For not sitting down and listening to him talk, even if I didn't understand what he was saying. For not enjoying every second we were together when he was alive. For not feeling more than I feel right now.
He was a storyteller. He was tough, he was wise. He was funny. And now he's dead.
I didn't cry when I got the news. I was in shock, I guess. I was at the library, researching my stupid Malaysian Studies assignment. My mother called me.
She said hello and her voice was subdued, quieter than usual. I said hello back, unsuspecting.
"Pui Bang passed away," she said, in that quiet voice.
"What?" my breath came out slowly in a sort of gasp, drawing the word out reluctantly and unbelievingly from my throat.
When we hung up I didn't cry. I just sat there for a second, then continued doing what I was doing, in a sort of numb state. I glanced at my phone, wondering what time it was. I wanted to remember every detail. It was 5:23 p.m., 22nd of December, 2009.
We went back to the longhouse on the 24th--the flight was booked before we knew Pui Bang had died. Me and my mother stayed back with me when the rest of the family--father, sisters, brother, cousins and...Julia--had gone ahead of us because I still had classes. Summer semester. My [other] cousin managed to get a seat in the same flight with us; she hadn't planned on going back at all this year. She had exams on the 31st, and she needed to study. But deaths in the family tend to change plans somewhat.
His coffin was outside our door, on the verandah. It was beautiful. Polished wood with gold-coloured finishings. They built this wooden shelter around the coffin and draped it with...anything they could find, I guess. There was pua kumbu over most of it, and Christmas tinsel hanging from the front. There was a fluorescent light at the top. They covered the back of it with the 'good' carpets. One had a picture of a matador and a bull in a coliseum, the other had peacocks on it with some sort of Babylonian-looking building in the background. It would be funny if it wasn't so touching and sweet. We clustered around it, being quiet and remembering him, sometimes telling each other funny stories about him. From time to time one of the puis (grandmas or grandpas) or aunties would start crying out loud. They sing when they wail. Even if you don't understand a word, there's such raw emotion behind it that just listening can make you start crying, too. I'm starting to tear up just remembering it.
The picture of him was brought from Bintulu. Our plane landed in Bintulu airport, we took a taxi to a hotel in Bintulu City and my dad picked us up there. We went to town, ordered the picture, had breakfast and basically wasted time for about an hour until the picture was finished, then took it back with us to the longhouse. It's a good three-hour drive from Bintulu City to my longhouse. So there we were, me and my cousin, with Pui Bang sitting between us.
The funeral was on the 26th, we were waiting for all the relatives to come back. The men lifted the coffin onto some long, sturdy pieces of wood--I would say sticks, but that doesn't sound very sturdy, does it? They wrapped him up with tarp--the kind that's orange on one side and blue on the other--tucking and folding it in the corners of the coffin, and I couldn't help thinking it was like they were wrapping up a Christmas present. On top of the tarp they placed a white sheet with a red cross in the middle. They carried him all the way down to a car outside and placed him in the back of it. There was a shelter there, too; more pua kumbu-type cloth draped on top of the back of the four-wheel-drive using bamboo. We drove to the cemetery, a whole procession of four-wheel-drives with colourful pieces of cloth waving from sticks of bamboo strapped to the vehicles.
They buried him in a sort of mausoleum made of tiles. You know those Malay tiled well-type things, where you scoop the water out to take a bath? It looked a bit like that. The men lowered the coffin into it, with lots of shouted directions and advice on coffin-lowering techniques and strategies. We put some of his possessions in there with him, but most of his children and grandchildren wanted to keep some of his stuff to remember him by. They covered the top with planks of wood, sliding them in and slotting them together like a jigsaw puzzle; all the pieces fit together. We said a prayer and sang a song: a Kayan translation of the hymn 'Sweet By and By'. I cried a little at that point. When we were done, they sealed him in on the spot. Spread the wet cement on top of it and everything. I didn't stay for the whole thing. Me and most of the other relatives went back a little after the first layer of cement. A few stayed behind, until all the tiles were put on.
I'll miss him. I know I will. I don't remember much about him from my baby and toddler days, which is a shame because I could still speak Kayan then. My older cousins still remember, though. Cousin Helen the Nurse told me a funny story about him. Helen and two other cousins--Cousin Lini (who is Helen's elder sister) and Cousin Lina--wanted to follow Pui Bang to the farm one day. There was, however a formidable obstacle: tall, sharp lalang grass that threatened to shred their little baby-legs to ribbons. Helen was all for it--she had always been the tomboy of her family--but Lini and Lina didn't want the grass to cut them. So, Pui Bang told them all to climb into his huge ajat (basket-bag-thingy) and he carried all three of them through the mean grass field. Helen said they were sitting in the ajat with their hands gripping the edges, looking like three little excited puppies.
Sharp grass was no problem for him. Neither was fire or charcoal. He had rhino skin. Seriously. I remember this one time a few years ago. It was Christmas; we always go back for Christmas. The younger boy-cousins were getting too noisy with the firecrackers, and continued setting them off even after Pui Bang told them to stop. Finally he couldn't stand it any more. He confiscated one firecracker from the boys, lit it, and held it in his closed fist while it went off, all the while glaring fixedly at them. He didn't even flinch, he didn't even blink. They proceeded to run for their lives--as only little boys recently instilled with the fear of God can. Needless to say, it was quiet for the rest of the day.
Yeah, I'll definitely miss him. I think I'll draw him a little something, just to acknowledge his existence. That was the main reason for this post, also. To declare loudly into the void, "My grandfather existed. And I'm sad he doesn't anymore." Well, at least not in this life. I'll see him when I get to heaven.
P/S: I started this post on the 28th of December and I'm finishing it on the 5th of January. Nyehh, typical.
Yours,
Figgy...just Figgy.
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