He's here. He's gone.
Have you ever been amazed by any person you've only met or known for a short while?
I've been amazed by an unbelievable brother-in-law. Thing is, he keeps on amazing me even after more than 30 years. I know you've been amazed by your mother or mother-in-law or the odd uncle but that smacks of nepotism. In our clean country any form of favouritism is now unlawful and is investigated by five different ministries. Instagram and infantilism are fine.
But, really, what I mean is somebody you experienced only very briefly, like a week or maybe a year, but long enough to leave a lifelong impression. You wish you knew him longer or had more of him. The irony is that, had he lingered on, he'd probably be no longer remarkable. Here's my short list:
1. Datuk Anwarrudin Ahamad Osman
I had probably ten bosses during my 30 years in Petronas. Some were good-looking, some were industry average, while one or two were simply acts of God. Datuk Anwar was the fairest of the lot. No scientific study has conclusively shown any correlation between CEO's physical appearance and his company's balance sheet. But for the average staff, a sexy boss is a good start.
By chance of structure, I'd to report directly to him when he was CEO of Petronas Dagangan. (I wasn't his driver, please). I've to admit that, the day he came in, I was very nervous for about two seconds. Two seconds. His smile practically disarmed the beast and the boy in me. He had this charming habit of switching freely from Free School English to Penang Mamak Malay in one single breath. I saw some of the most intimidating people swept aside by this ploy. During a meeting with Shell, the macho MD was visibly upset with his staff for forgetting to bring along a file or a letter. Datuk Anwar quickly defused the crisis with "I did that all the time" face-saver. I've never met anybody who's so cool and composed that nothing could possibly upset him. In this age of intense competition and insane KPIs, Datuk Anwar was a whiff of fresh air.
We had our share of run-ins and lighter moments, of course. The most unforgettable one was when we'd to attend a cabinet meeting chaired by the then PM Tun Dr Mahathir. We'd to brief them on Petronas plans for bunkering business. I could see that Datuk Anwar wasn't too happy. He suspected that Petronas President was just washing his hands and sending us to the slaughter. We prepped Datuk Anwar until he's ready to melt PM. In Malaysia, there's no bigger meeting than the cabinet meeting. Anwar (Ibrahim), Rafidah, Samy were all there. Before our turn, there were some strange projects discussed. So I got bored. And sleepy. I just fell off and was down in dreamland when I felt a sharp shove into my ribcage. Then I heard Datuk Anwar whispering "Apa hang nak mampoih ka, PM dok tengok hang tidok !"
2. Professor John Boot
Don't be fooled by the name. Professor Boot was a Dutch. Dutch are broadly boring people. You name me one exciting Dutch person if you can pronounce it.
Anyway, this Dutch don taught me Probability and Statistics at a university in upstate New York in 1983. Statistics, like Dutch persons, is never exciting, unless you're a sadomasochist. The problem was, the quantitative part of my IQ hadn't developed much since standard six. And now I'd to pass graduate Statistics. If I failed, my two-year study leave would be reclassified as a two-year study tour.
But this Dutch was no douche. He brought the dead subject alive with unorthodox teaching larded with plenty of wit and wisecracks. I still remember braving an early morning snowstorm to attend his class. Prof Boot used pornography to explain some sticky statistical concepts. So nobody skipped his classes. One day a dog strayed into our class, without a blink the clever professor declared "haha, random walk" alluding to another complex statistical tool. In his hands statistics was simply cool and fashionable.
I did very well. And not only that. My pathological fear of numbers was all gone for good, allowing me to lead a normal life. Ha ha ha.
3. A Deliverer in New Brunswick
It all happened so fast I never got to keep his name. There's no Android in 1984 to catch him.
I was travelling through the eastern side of Canada after my last paper, with wife and our one-year old boy, in a rented Ford Taurus or Ford Taunus, can't recall which Tau. My object of desire was Prince Edward Island.
I was well on the way, cutting through Nova Scotia and New Brunswick, when we're stranded. One of the tyres shot and went flat. It's almost dark and dinner, and the highway wasn't exactly Federal Highway. Cars passed by once in two or three days.
I was struggling with the tools and wife was comforting my wailing boy by the roadside when a car pulled over. A big-size man came out and told me not to do anything. "You wait here, soon as I get my kids home, I'll come back". In less than 10 minutes, he's back. Boy, he's bigger than my car. He changed the tyre faster than the Red Bull pit crew. Before I could say thank you and get his name, he simply vanished.
4. Mariezka
Not an ordinary name, but who's to blame.
I was starting a Petronas service station project in Indonesia in 2004 when I first met Mariezka at our marketing company office at Bapindo Plaza, Jakarta. She immediately struck me as exceptional - only in the sense that she's so plain and ordinary. With all those Indonesian artistes and so on, my benchmark was high. Born in Bangka island, she had a degree in engineering, or architecture, or whatever.
The company CEO (a Jawa Batu Pahat named Faris Mustafa) proudly announced that Mariezka would be assisting me in Jakarta. I had about 25 years' experience and she'd three or four years of odd jobs. Faris must be on dope. He might as well give me a Mongolian model.
As it turned out, she's anything but ordinary. She had more talent than all those fake artistes combined. I've not met anybody with so much flair for people. As we're starting a business, I'd to see a lot and all sorts, of people. Of course I'd had plenty of experience with Indonesians before, but they're maids and plumbers in Subang Jaya. Indonesians in Jakarta were different league. They're good with the language. No means No, and Yes means No. Plus they had this attitude that all Malaysians (except Siti Nurhaliza) abuse and iron their maids. Clearly this time they had the upper hand.
But we had Mariezka. Even the wackiest anti-Malaysian fanatics fell for her finesse. She bridged the gap and smoothed things out, and I had not even one problem seeing and talking with the people. It's tough for an Indonesian campaigning for Malaysia, but she took it all in her stride, with clear conscience that all this would lead to a more competitive Indonesia. We got our license, bought a piece of land, and built and operate our first service station in Cibubur. I could see her deft touches everywhere. 25 years experience counted for little in Jakarta. She simply turned the tables on me. I learned a lot from her. Of course she did also learn from me: a few Kelantanese words.
The Bangka engineer or whatever simply took the Indonesian oil and gas industry by storm. I'm serious. Migas loved her. Shell wanted her. Pertamina courted her. But she loved Petronas, only to discover that the self-styled global champion was already in love with restructuring and will never, ever get tired of restructuring. One year before I retired, Mariezka joined Schlumberger as a global consultant, or whatever, earning more than Faris.
5. Haris Budiarto
An Indonesian, if you don't mind. We knew each other for a very brief period in 2004, but long enough to leave a lasting memory. Pertamina and Petronas were working on a joint service station in Jakarta, and Pak Haris was my counterpart.
Nothing spectacular about him. With dark Javanese complexion and retreating hairline, you'd never mistake him for Brad Pitt. But I could feel his glowing warmth and, most critically, his deep sincerity, a priceless commodity in a land crawling with cronies and showmen. He helped me navigate my way through Pertamina, and after three months its "kantor pusat" became my second home in Jakarta.
Pak Haris had this nasty habit of grabbing the bills. He paid for my rounds of sop bontot, bebek, pepes, gurame and jus sirsak whenever we'd the chance to settle down for nasi padang. His excuse was always the unimaginative one-liner "Nothing lah, Pak", which was one letter longer than his routine greeting "Bagaimana, Pak " whenever we met. To him, friends had no price.
After six months our bizarre project fell through, but we still kept in touch right into my retirement. He's later transferred to the provinces and we never had the chance to meet again. But he did promise to call me if he's in KL for any reason. This was the only chance for me to at least buy him lunch and reciprocate with "Nothing lah, Pak".
In June 2011, I messaged him: "Apa khabar Pak. Kapan ke KL?". No response. After two days, it came:
"Pak Haris meninggal, Pak. Kecelakaan di Surabaya".
6. Mohd Fadzil Man
When I was in secondary school, I wished I could talk and write like Fadzil Man. I mean talk and write in fast and proper English. My first language was Kelantanese, which was closer to Arabic. English was, to quote Paul McCartney, a long and winding road.
We're dorm mates in Blue House hostel when I was in form two and he in form five. He's a prefect, debater, rugby player and, for good measure, the best science student in school. In short, he's everything I wasn't. But we somehow hit off and got along very well. I suspect he had a soft spot for Kelantanese.
But what really inspired me was a short story he wrote in the school magazine. The title was "The Vegetarian", about our world being attacked by a group of leaf-eating aliens in 1968. Funny? I thought so, so I thought nothing of it when I first saw it, I mean, I'd had enough problems with my meat-eating school mates, why bother with tree-loving aliens. But when I read it, I read it again. Man, it's so good. The English was crisp and the plot was tighter than any Jack Palance movie.
I'd started reading English books before that, but this alien tour de force reinforced my shaky belief that reading and writing wasn't a waste of time. I was high on Sherlock Holmes, and he noticed that and wasn't too happy. One day he dropped by and handed me a copy of "The Murder of Roger Ackroyd" by Agatha Christie. Try this, same stuff, but richer, he said. He's right, Agatha Christie was fuller and sexier. I still keep some of the twenty or so titles he gave me, with his name "Fabima" inked on every copy. Of course, I never got to be like him. I didn't want to be the best science student and become a scientist.
I certainly write better now than I did in form two. Fadzil went on to become a very successful (and very rich) psychiatrist (yes, a shrink). All along his plan was to be a doctor, and he had no plan B. Occasionally he'd write on his Facebook, mostly about his travels and golf flings. The flair is still there, but that alien invasion is better.
7. Ustaz Arshad Ahmad
You may skip this one. You wouldn't know Ustaz Arshad. I didn't know him. I only knew that he was the imam at our USJ 2 mosque. I also knew that he's a part-time imam because he had a day job at UIA.
I liked him because I liked the way he read the surahs. He didn't showboat with the holy verses. He read with no tone, no tune, just tajwid and tartil. His lectures (tazkirah) were short and straight, with no jokes, no Hindi songs, no cheap, petty politics. Dull and dreary by the standards of today's crowd of ustaz-rockers, his old-school and minimalist ways impressed me as unique and most fulfilling. He's exciting in the way that door knobs are exciting.
My interaction with Ustaz Arshad was limited to formal salam and smiles. I promised myself that one day I'd approach him and tell him that I was his number one fan, and he shouldn't change his style. I kept pussyfooting until 2011 when I saw somebody else lead the prayers for one week, then two, then another person. Apparently Ustaz Arshad was very ill, and this reinforced my resolve to meet him.
He never recovered.
