The Village of My Father

This is how houses in my grandmother's village looks like. In fact this is a sample of traditional houses in Buton Island, Southeast Sulawesi, Indonesia. It is made from wood, usually the floor also made with wood, and is made as such that nail is doeen't need to put to building together. If you've ever played with toys which you could assemble till it form a house or other, you would understand what I mean.

The house in the picture is standing almost all of my age, nothing change except the floor which now made from wood, to prevent too many wind comes from below. I remember it used to be very cold sleeping inside, but I'd rather keep the bamboo floor if I may choose. 

The best part of this is the old beloved sea at the back. Wake up in a cold morning turned to be very enjoyable moment since my uncle used to put fire at the shore, and we would sit there.... waiting for the sunrise. You could not see the sunrise since it rise on the other side of the road, but the velvet sky, the wave and the morning breeze was enough to make you dream.  Ah.. how I miss it even now...

JOGAR!

About My Blog

I like solitaire, not as a game since I only played solitaire long ago but rarely. But I like the philosophy. I

kind of think that life is another game of a solitaire. You wouldn't know which card will throw open, but you have to manage all the good and the bad ones  to continue survive till the end.

But life is not a game, what you do now will determine what you will get at the end. That once you fail to manage, it means game over, there's no chance to return again all the way from the start.

It is, that if you fail this life, will mean torment in the hereafter.

Pictures in this blog are those from my old solitaire @ multiply. So if you do see one or two article or pictures which are similar and not attributed to its original source, then you now the reason.  though it's only to begin with.

Any comment to share experiences are welcome!

JOGAR!

And I Remember You

Ramadhan’s coming.. and I remember you. Years has passed since you gone to your Lord, But your voice, your shadows still here… hanging around.

There were times I feel the longing of meeting you, just once in a dream, seeing you smile, a little pat on my shoulder, saying that you proud to have me as I am now. Dear father, your little girl is a grown up woman now.

The mosque is calling people to come from its tower, and I remember you. Remember how I hate the cold water very early in the morning.. when you poured one bucket… yes the whole bucket.. on my head when I was so lazy to get up for Fajar praying. The habits which had made me to dry my pillow from time to time, showing my laziness of getting up early.

Time passed by, and I remember you…

“How should I know the direction for praying? Ask people there, they know better than your father, and stop calling everyday, there are better things for your money to spend!”

Dear me, how much I depended on you before, even asking for praying direction when I was in a far away country, which had made you laughed. Yeah, how could you know? I should start stopping to depending on you and asking whatever question I have only to you.

“Thank you for helping your father!” You said when you gave me back a small amount of money you have borrowed some weeks passed. I was surprised! I know some parents even insist their children to pay back after raising them with care and love, or the least if not insisting, they thought it is children’s obligation to help their parents. But a ‘thank you’ always came from you most of the time.

“Is in not mother said this morning that she will do all the washing tomorrow?” I asked when I saw you wash your clothes in the bathroom. “Your mother is working everyday, she must have some time to rest. This is nothing and I can do it.” I was touched! I have seen men, my friends’ father, even my elder brothers who spent their time in reading news paper or talking with their friends, instead of helping their wives. I’ve seen you cleaning the garden, climb up the roof, cooking or washing the dishes sometimes when necessary, ironing your clothes or sewing a button to your shirt. How lucky my mother I think! And wonder… would there be anyone out there like you…

“I will leave you this, en example of spirit, an enthusiasm of your father to live his life. I would not leave you with inheritance, you know your father has nothing to bequeath to, except this, an enthusiasm to live and never give up trying, fight my life for my family, my wife and children. You’ll see that when your father just staying home, it will mean he’s dying. Make your work for your life and not life for your work.” And I had cried, cried over those words you said when I insisted on having something my friends had which you could not gave me. And I remember you, feeling tears at the back of my eyes. Yet when I have so many things I want and could share with you, you’re no longer here.

And I grow up, learning a lot from you, trying to be strong in times of burden as you had shown with your strength.

And Ramadhan’s coming, and I remember you. You are not perfect, but you’ve taught things which are worth to remember, far worth to be practiced. May Allah’s mercy be upon you, my beloved father.

JOGAR!