DO YOU THINK WE'RE BEGGARS?

DO YOU THINK WE'RE BEGGARS?

I wiped the sweat that was dotting my fore head. Aahhh... I feel better now. I was glad that after having gone through an eight hour journey from Medina, we have finally arrived in Mecca.

     "Ladies and gentleman, sisters and brothers... Alhamdulillah, we have now arrived at the apartment. This is where we will be staying until the end of the Hajj season," I said, standing up as the bus came to a halt.

     Everyone looked relieved. They must have been very tired sitting in the bus for so long, and going through a journey where all they could see were only hills and bald mountains, deserts and rocks...

     "If there's nothing else, can we all get our bags and things and then gather at the lobby?" I added.

     One by one they came down and collected their belongings, taking them to the lobby of the apartment. I divided the pilgrims into the several groups, with each group comprising 10 - 12 people. Before entering respective rooms, my husband, Rosley Mat and I brought each pilgrim to their room.

     We needed to know whether the room was fine, and whether the pilgrims were happy with their beds and cupboards, or whether the toilet was functioning, and whether the bathroom was fine, among other things.

     "This is your apartment. You can put your bags here, and have a rest on the bed and then do your prayers," I said, leading the final group into their room. 

     Each one entered and placed their bags down, thanking us in the process. They all rested on the bed, except for one person. The 50-something man placed his bag on the floor and started surveying the room. He never said a single thing.

     "How's the room, sir? Are you..." I hadn't even completed my sentence when he interrupted me.

     "What? Satisfied? This... this... what kind of room is this?" snapped the big-size man. I was shocked at being snapped at so suddenly and for no apparent reason. He stood in front of us. Enraged, he pointed his finger at my husband and I.

     "Cik Fatimah, Encik Rosley... what kind of apartment has you given us?! It's not only run-down, there's paint all over the place. And what's all these ropes hanging everywhere?" he asked.

     "Cik Ibrahim, it's true that this apartment is rather old. There's no cupboard. The ropes are for us to hang our clothes," replied my husband softly.

     "Just use ropes? Huuuh," he says, his lips protruding.

     "That's one. And what about this bed? It's bad enough than it's metal, it's also makes so much noise. And a sponge mattress? How do you expect me to sleep on this thing?!" Ibrahim continued to complain. He said that the carpet was old, and that there was no table, and many other things.

     "Why didn't you give us a hotel?" he yelled. My heart felt like it was going to drop. This man can't be serious, I thought. His temper was so bad.

     "Encik Ibrahim, like I had said earlier, we didn't book a hotel because it is Hajj season now and hotel are expensive. We are running a medium-cot package, so we have to stay in an apartment so that a lot of other people can also go to the Holy Land. Anyway, we are here to do our ibadah, and not for vacation. Encik Ibrahim, don't..." my sentence was rudely interrupted.

     "Ahhh, enough! There's no need to lecture me! If you wanted to make a profit, this is not the way!" he yelled again.

     Hearing his words, my blood began to boil. I was embarrassed and angry at the same time. I look at everyone in his room. They all remained silent. My husband immediately attempted to placate Ibrahim, coaxing him to remain calm and not raise his voice. But, he was ignored. Ibrahim was still angry.

     "Cik Fatim, Encik Rosley..." he said, looking sinister. "Both of you must be really stupid. How could you even think to get us to stay in such a crappy apartment? What do you think we are? Vagrants? You *****!!!" he snarled.

     It felt like world had suddenly gone dark when Ibrahim started to hurl obscenities. I may have made mistakes before but no one had ever cursed at me like this before. I felt so humiliated at the time. I felt like crying but I contained myself.

     "Encik Ibrahim, just be patient... I will..." said my husband, calmly.

     "What patience?!! Do you both know... in Perlis, this kind of place is only good enough as a toilet! Bastard!" he said, looking at us ferociously. 

     Once he said those words, it was hard for us to remain patient anymore so we bid everyone farewell and left for our room, If we had waited any longer, God knows what other obscene words he would have hurled at us. We also have our pride.

     "Astaghfirullah," I repeated over and over again as we walked. My pride felt really challenged. I had received complaints from pilgrims before, but had never been cursed at or degraded in this way. We had also rented apartments before but never had a single pilgrim compare it to a toilet.

     "Be patient. These are tests from Allah," my husband said, try to appease me. As soon as I got to the room, I immediately laid down. Tears welled up in my eyes. Ibrahim's words: 'a house like this we just use as toilet' kept replaying in my ears. I never expected that he would dare to swear like that because prior to leaving Mecca, I had already explained to him and the other pilgrims that they will be staying in a medium grade apartment while staying in Mecca. It was not going to be a hotel or a condominium, and would be in line with the price of the package.

     "It's ok, Cik Fatimah. We're going there to do our ibadah; we're not going for a holiday. If we wanted to stay in comfortable place, we'd just stay at home. It's not that I want to brag, but my own house is also grand..." I recalled Ibrahim's words when he was at our office to pay the fare.

     But now? Why had the opposite happened? What made me even more annoyed was the fact that the other pilgrims didn't make a fuss or even complain even though their rooms were also the same. I tried to forget about it to avoid the situation from getting any worse. I didn't want my relationship with other pilgrims to be affected. These sorts of things could even affect our attention when doing our ibadah. I wanted my husband's and my relationship with him to return to normal.

     That night, I waited for Ibrahim. I wanted to chat with him but when I saw him entered the dining hall rather late and with a disgruntled expression, I decided to cancel my intentions.

     "Maybe after he has eaten," I said to myself.

     But with not even half his food eaten, I saw Ibrahim rushed to wash his hands and leave. It was also the same the next day. He came down for breakfast late and as soon as he finished, he rushed out again to return to his room.

     "What's wrong with Encik Ibrahim?" I asked Ghaffar, his roommate.

     "Stomach ache. He said since the first day."

     "Stomach ache? Oooo, that's why I saw him rushing to go back to his room straight after his meal last night. His hands were rubbing his stomach..." I said.

     "That's right... the thing was turning, writhing like a cat fish," Ghaffar said, with a chuckle. That afternoon we gathered to go to Tana'im for umra. But Ibrahim could not go. Stomach ache, he said. That was also what Ghaffar had told me. 

     In short, Ibrahim was like that every day. My husband had taken the pilgrims to the mosque to pray. Ibrahim would follow, albeit a bit later so that he could relieve his bowels. After giving salam, he would scurry back to his hotel. A frown would be etched on his face and his hand, pressing on his stomach. In his haste, he would just push aside all the other pilgrims coming into the mosque. When we met with his room mates, my husband and I asked about Ibrahim's condition.

     "Oooo... really bad, Cik Fatimah. Every moment he is rushing to the toilet with a stomach ache. He would go straight back to his room after finishing his prayers. If we want to go to the mosque, we always have to wait for him to finish first. Every time he returned from umra, from the mosque, the first place he heads for is the toilet," said Ghaffar.

     "Sometimes it was funny watching him rushing to the toilet. But to laugh out loud... too scared... who knows, we might get it from him," piped in Shukri, also a room mate of Ibrahim's.

     Whether it was wuquf in Mina, at the bazaar and anywhere else, Ibrahim would look for the toilet. We brought him medicine from the clinic and pharmacy, but they were all ineffective. Because of his diarrhoea, Ibrahim's body became really thin. He completely lost his appetite.

     Because he had no energy, he couldn't walk for very long. He was easily tired, his body sapped of energy. He spent most of his time lying down in his room. While other people did their umra and prayed in the mosque, Ibrahim would be spread out on his bed, rubbing his stomach and running to the toilet.

     "Encik Ibrahim, have you taken Zamzam water? It's holy water, the best water created by Allah. Maybe your stomach ache can be cured if you drink it," I said.

     "There's no need for Zamzam water. I have a stomach ache, not dying of thirst. If I'm thirsty, there's pleny of mineral water in the shops," he replied, arrogantly.

     I could only shake my head. I really didn't know how to make him realise his folly. His body was already weak and sapped of all energy, yet he remained arrogant. Was the fate that had befallen him a punishment from Allah for saying that the apartment he was given was only suitable for a toilet? I don't know. One thing is for sure, we found that his diarrhoea was only cured when we left Mecca and departed for Medina.

N / F : FROM "THE BEST COLLECTION OF STORIES FROM MECCA", BY MASTIKA.