Under the Dark Moon

Chapter 1

Spice Heritage

For about nine months I floated in the dark and when I saw the light and breathed the air, I cried. It must have all began around the 1st of November 1936 I guess that one of the 50 – 300 million of my dad’s virile sperm found my mother’s fully developed descending ova that resulted in the conceptualisation of their 6th child. On the 31st July 1937 I was delivered by a midwife, Tome Arshad, at No. 27 Merican Road, Penang. She wrapped the severed umbilical cord and the expelled placenta bathed in blood, amniotic and allantoic fluids, in banana leaf and rags, and quickly buried them in the soil behind the house. Dr Babjee Ahmad and Khatum Mastan decided to bless their sixth child with the name Ahmad Mustaffa (The choice of God).

As my dad was busy with work in Kedah, the midwife registered my birth with the Registrar of Births on the 3rd, August 1937, unfortunately leaving the Child Name’s column blank. Thus officially I had no legal name till the 17th November 1949 when my father had to make a sworn declaration in front of the Magistrate in Sungei Petani and for some reason again before Mr R. Dorai Raju, the Commissioner for Oaths, Supreme Court of Penang on the 31st July 1962 to confirm that the child born at Merican Road was Ahmad Mustaffa. In addition to the blank left in the name column, the midwife reported my mum’s and dad’s race as Bengali. The Malays, at least in Penang refer to Sikhs as Bengalis but for sure my grandparents were not Sikhs. I don’t blame the midwife for the assumption as my parent’s features were more of

the Indian Sub-Continent profile than Malay. It makes no difference what part of the world I originated. I am proud to be Malaysitan.

These inaccurate entries were also rectified in my Dad’s sworn statements. Of the 12 children, none of Babjee’s other children had serious problems with their names or birth certificates. Remarkably in those days all the babies were delivered at home by midwives (bidan).

Today most would-be parents would have booked their hospital rooms and their chosen specialists well in advance of their baby’s arrival. The home-delivery of some babies still occurred unexpectedly or in motorcars and with no negative health consequences. Such remarks usually of delivery without professional help will no doubt draw a flack from women. My wife remarked, “you give birth next time” when I tried to preach the benefits of going back to the traditional practice.

Now giving birth in a maternity ward is natural. The birth of another sibling in a family always becomes gossip especially among the aunties – “He looks like his mother” said one. Another rebutted, “No his fair skin is like his Mum, but his features are out of the mould of his Dad” and in between the chewing of raw tobacco or betel leaves the arguments continued while little Mustaffa slept. I grew on mother’s milk as was with all my mother’s children. Even after my immediate younger brother was born, I clung on to mum’s bosom and suckle the best nutritional liquid nature provided competing with my younger brother. In fact, when I was 8 years I would still suckle when my mum was breast-feeding the newest arrival. Up to the 1950’s breast-feeding in the open was not a curiosity grab of attention by seekers of news or social media.

“Features alone do not run in the blood; vices and virtues, genius and folly, are transmitted through the same sure but unseen channel.” – William Hazlitt