It was 19 minutes past midnight when the phone chimed. My heart skipped one beat and sank. He was no longer with us. I could feel myself drifting back and forth in darkness, struggling in vain to get my head around this loss. There was no way out of the stifling sense of despair and disbelief.
Abdul Hamid Shafie was a classmate and a very close friend. Both of us were part of a gang of 73 fine-looking boys from all corners of the country who checked into our great school at the old Tiger Lane in Ipoh in January 1966. We travelled all the way to converge and begin what would turn out to be one incredible, life-shaping adventure.
From my home in the remote corner of Kelantan, it took me 30 hours of slow train ride to reach Ipoh. It's well worth it. Life at Tiger Lane was no bed of roses, if I'm honest. A boarding school those days wasn't a wellness resort like it is now. We were left to learn little life skills and fend for ourselves. But it was also an opportunity to forge a lifelong friendship and fraternity. At the end of it all, we'd come out stronger, and ready to beat the world.
I remember food was free and generous, five times a day, but the quality was erratic. Fine cuisine one day, tropical hardwood the next. But it was still good value compared with what we used to get at home. Beggars can't be choosers.
The internet was a long, long way off. The only semblance of entertainment was the free weekly movies, mostly the slow early-sixties Jack Palance that did little to suppress the stress. But once in a while we got to watch some real action when the horny prefects muscled in with spot checks and dawn raids to nab luckless smokers and nocturnal transients. It was quite a spectacle.
Late 60's were the dawn of counterculture and flower power. Days hardly passed without images of students somewhere protesting or high on something. In the thick of all modern temptations, it was easy to feel deprived and grow disillusioned with the Periodic Table, Calculus and other ancient inventions.
But we were good and rode the momentum, never losing sight of the hallowed mission and purpose. We'd turn to sports, debates and bell-bottoms for solace and diversion. Some of us fell in love with books and studied really hard, days and nights, ran endless experiments in the labs, asked lots of curious questions, and finally got themselves good enough grades to fly to Brighton or somewhere very far to study hard again. And, of course, some of us who played hard and won trophies and broke all kinds of records just for fun. Hamid and I, we were neither.
Well, we weren't born to love classes and books. We were deeply inspired by "Leisure", a Georgian poem we'd learned by heart. "What is this life if, full of care...". Nothing was urgent. We went through the motions and lived in the moment, so to speak. We were just happy to get by and, along the way, build some ideas and interests for a lifetime friendship.
It was in Form One that Hamid and I hit it off. I'm not sure what really pulled us to each other. He was from Selangor and didn't understand one Kelantanese word. He loved Maths while I loved nasi lemak. He was relatively well-heeled (his father drove a Ford Capri), so it was good to be his friend, if you know what I mean. The only hint of mutuality was our lean body mass and low centre of gravity, which might explain why we could never break into our school's all-conquering Rugby team.
It was in Form One that Hamid and I hit it off. I'm not sure what really pulled us to each other. He was from Selangor and didn't understand one Kelantanese word. He loved Maths while I loved nasi lemak. He was relatively well-heeled (his father drove a Ford Capri), so it was good to be his friend, if you know what I mean. The only hint of mutuality was our lean body mass and low centre of gravity, which might explain why we could never break into our school's all-conquering Rugby team.
He bunked in Black House, less than 50 metres from Blue House, my hostel. Inter-house travel was quick and easy. I could simply jumped off the window and ran over in less than one minute. So any time was a good time to make a courtesy call, or convene a serious meeting with him to plot next weekend's Ipoh outing, whether it was going to be Haathi Mere Saathi for the third time or latest kung-fu flick.
There was a small field right at the end of our hostel blocks where we'd meet in the afternoon with the other boys to test and show off our football skills. He wasn't exactly George Best, but had he been more serious, he could've carved out an exciting career with Selangor football.
Instead he elected to commit his body and soul to Cricket, a sedentary sport normally played from early morning right to dinner time over two or three straight days. He played for school, which wasn't saying all that much in the way of skill and artistry, because most who played cricket played cricket for school.
After six glorious years, we parted ways. I stayed on for two years of Form Six, a new lease of life liberated from the tyranny of Physics and Chemistry. I'd to read "Sejarah Melayu" and I'd to memorize the mouthful names of all Malay/Indon warriors and I almost went mad. In hindsight I should've stayed on for another eight years and came out of the school with a PhD.
After six glorious years, we parted ways. I stayed on for two years of Form Six, a new lease of life liberated from the tyranny of Physics and Chemistry. I'd to read "Sejarah Melayu" and I'd to memorize the mouthful names of all Malay/Indon warriors and I almost went mad. In hindsight I should've stayed on for another eight years and came out of the school with a PhD.
Hamid chose to go to ITM to do accounting. With Tiger Lane experience, ITM was a walk in the park. He later aced his ACCA to become a professional, public, certified, chartered accountant, which simply means he's an accountant. Only then I realized that he was quite clever.
He landed a job even before his final exams. Market for accountants was scorching hot those days. There were only four or five Malay accountants at the time. The way I see it, an accountant is highly prized and paid but the work is generally painstaking and unexciting, I mean, if you compare it with, say, a criminal lawyer, or even criminals. I might be wrong.
If you want to know, his daughter is also an accountant. So is his son-in-law. You can only guess their dinner discussion - depreciation, double declining balance and all the dire stuff. When ribbed, he'd respond with standard riposte "I didn't force her to be an accountant. It's her choice". Of course, it's her choice.
If you think Cricket and accounting are dull and dry, wait. He also played Golf. And Bowling. But let me be categorical here. Hamid wasn't dull and predictable. Never. At least not in the 55 years we've known each other. He was lots of fun with plenty of people skills and persona to charm and disarm even sociopaths. Football, Cricket and Bowling are team sports, and a dull boy couldn't have fit in so well.
If you think Cricket and accounting are dull and dry, wait. He also played Golf. And Bowling. But let me be categorical here. Hamid wasn't dull and predictable. Never. At least not in the 55 years we've known each other. He was lots of fun with plenty of people skills and persona to charm and disarm even sociopaths. Football, Cricket and Bowling are team sports, and a dull boy couldn't have fit in so well.
His sense of humour was infectious. Cliche, you'd say. Everybody claims to have a huge sense of humour. But Hamid wasn't everybody. He was an accountant who played Cricket, remember? Really, he loved good jokes and bad jokes and had plenty to share around - office jokes, Golf jokes, Headmaster jokes, Sekolah Izzuddin jokes, you name it. We kept a couple of Tiger Lane jokes just between us because only two of us could relate. The one about "do you hear voices" was a peach. Brilliant, Mid, I'll keep it forever.
Still I was stunned to see him belting out a tune at his daughter's wedding a few years ago. It wasn't a joke but it felt like a joke. My wife stopped dead on her tracks and asked me just to be sure. I forgot the song, but it was him alright. There was very little talent on offer, but you'd have to admire his swagger.
He'd been unwell for some time, so I visited him on 3 June 2020, together with Azlan and Ahmad Darus, our Tiger Lane classmates. It was a happy occasion as we'd not seen each other since February this year. Our monthly Staroba usrah had been suspended by the new government, so there was very little opportunity to catch up. Even when we did finally meet, we could see only half of each other's face.
He was jovial as we talked and joked like we always did whenever the Tiger Lane gang met for the past 55 years. His youngish looks and schoolboy smile belied his 67 years. On the way out we stopped again at the gate for a brief banter before finally breaking up, one of Tiger Lane's notorious traditions.
He passed away on 10 July.
I could write and fill up pages after pages in celebration of his life and legacy, but I'd still fall short. I'll treasure his simple gift of friendship, and remember him for what he was. Warm, sincere, generous, uncomplicated. He'd always be a lovely and loving husband, father, father-in-law, grand-father, and accountant, remember. And a champion and a beacon that will continue to inspire and shine on his family and friends.
Thank you for everything, Mid.
Footnote:
I've promised myself not go over the top with this tribute. I hope I've not. Just one more thing before I move on. It's a personal footnote, or maybe an afterthought, something that hit me early this morning while watching Manchester City, the team I've been following with plenty of passion since Tiger Lane days. Watching City's brand of flamboyant football is one of the few worldly pleasures I'm still keeping to stay sane and sensible in the face of my daughters' made-in-Korea madness.
It was Hamid who introduced me to English football in 1968. The whole concept was new to me, I mean, from where I came it was forever Kelantan vs Trengganu. But he walked me through, with names and numbers and Shoot Magazine, all so convincing that I just bought into it. He was a Manchester United fan. "Hang follow la Manchester City" He urged me. I've never looked back since.
I've promised myself not go over the top with this tribute. I hope I've not. Just one more thing before I move on. It's a personal footnote, or maybe an afterthought, something that hit me early this morning while watching Manchester City, the team I've been following with plenty of passion since Tiger Lane days. Watching City's brand of flamboyant football is one of the few worldly pleasures I'm still keeping to stay sane and sensible in the face of my daughters' made-in-Korea madness.
It was Hamid who introduced me to English football in 1968. The whole concept was new to me, I mean, from where I came it was forever Kelantan vs Trengganu. But he walked me through, with names and numbers and Shoot Magazine, all so convincing that I just bought into it. He was a Manchester United fan. "Hang follow la Manchester City" He urged me. I've never looked back since.
We'd just beaten Brazil (Hamid, standing far Right)
We didn't win anything. Medals were all fake (Hamid far Right).
These guys didn't look too happy playing cricket (Hamid, 5th)
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| Ipoh Station. Just happy without school uniforms (Hamid, 4th) |
Hamid (far Right) With Tn Hj Ahmad Dahan(Ex HM, centre)
