Captain

It was late evening on Sunday, 25 October when the message crashed  in.

"Uncle, Daddy dah pergi"

It hit us like a bale of bricks, sending each and everyone reeling in despair and disbelief.  

On any other day, a message like this is as meaningless as "I'm on my way". Except that this is no ordinary day.

Because that message can only mean one thing: he has just passed away.

Our friend, Mohd Haniffah Ismail, has passed away.

He'd been hospitalised for the past ten days, down with some kidney complications. The prognosis wasn't very encouraging, so we just prayed and hoped. Deep down we were ready for anything and resigned to any eventuality. 

But the news carried such pain and torment that we could never have prepared enough for it.

We're totally, utterly heartbroken, and overwhelmed with utmost sorrow and sadness. There's simply no words of comfort and an easy way to come to terms with this sudden and tragic loss. 

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Calling him a friend is an injustice. Because he's much more. He's our friend, our tireless tutor and a leading light who has helped us navigate the intricacies and  thick and thin of Quran reading. Because of him, I can read better than before.

He'd always introduce himself as Anip. I guess that's how his late teacher mother used to call him. Only a  few of us call him Anip. The rest call him Captain, a homage to his thirty over years as an impeccable  pilot with Malaysia Airlines.

He's the first person I came to know in Bukit Jelutong. We bumped into each other while working out along the lake one fine afternoon way back in 2021. After short pleasantries, he proceeded to compliment my speed, my energy and even my shoes. I knew that was pure PR but I was happy all the same. We hit it off immediately, and on most days we would be seen walking around the lake together. 

Physically we can't be more different. He's taller, younger and maybe slightly better-looking than me with fuller crop of hair. He's an OP (Old Putra), meaning he went to RMC and came out without injuries. I'm not a pilot, and he's from Kuala Pilah.

But we both have a soft spot Ilmu Tajwid. The first time he talked and expounded on it, I could immediately sense his exceptional mastery of the subject. 

Tajwid can be tougher than teak. Its foundation is rooted in a table that condenses the Makhraj and Sifat of all the 28 Huruf in the Quran. It looks suspiciously similar to the notorious Periodic Table, only more intimidating. It's difficult to memorize and fully understand it if you're a layman or a lazy man.

But Captain not only knows this table by heart, he can also effortlessly explain all the rationale behind it. Huruf Ain sifatnya Tawassut, sebutannya tidak tertekan, tetapi sedikit mengalir, he explained. Brilliant, Captain. To this day, I still can't quite get he whole idea.  

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I later found out that he was the facilitator for a Tadarus group at the Bukit Jelutong mosque, led by an experienced teacher (Dato Ghazali). Captain is Dato's competent sidekick who'd ably deputise whenever Dato is absent.  This all-man group called themselves Kumpulan Timur Laut. A funky name and a throwback to 60's Kugiran,  and I like it.

Soon he would rope me in and introduce me to Dato and other members of the group, mostly retirees and late bloomers, like me. They all looked happy and hospitable and it took me no time to blend in. Joining this group will go down as one of my best decisions ever.

We would meet every weekday morning at the mosque and take turns to read, each with his own proprietary tone and tune. There's no annual fees or anything, but you've to be ready to be diplomatically corrected by Dato or Captain, or by both if you're lucky enough. 

Captain would come for Subuh prayers at the mosque lugging his faded yellow bag full of Quran and Kitab. After prayers he'd proceed to a corner to set up his laptop and speaker and patiently wait for us. (I'd always be the last to file in and he'd smile and gave me a thumbs-up every time). He did this every single day and very rarely took a day off, maybe five days a year. 

And he'd be the last to sign off, at around 9 AM - three hours at the mosque every morning. And another hour in the evening for Maghrib and Isyak. In my book, people like this will go straight to heaven.

For the past few months that Dato has been unable to join us, Captain has been filling in as both our facilitator and teacher. He's virtually our Captain.

He's never vocal or outspoken in any way. He speaks in low notes, the way a flight Captain would talk to his passengers about the weather and the clouds. But somehow he's very well-connected. He knows almost everybody inside the mosque, and outside. Perhaps it's a measure of his humility and sincerity to reach out and build the ukhwah.

And they all know him. From the Bangladeshi handyman to the part-time imams, all the way to the Generals and Tan Sris. It's like he has some uncanny aura and charisma that attracts. 

And inevitably his friends would soon become my friends. I must tell you, these are all good-looking guys whose idea of fun is assembling at some watering hole for a meal and post it in the group chat for the benefit of those who missed out presumably due to "Visa restrictions". Hilarious. Thanks for bringing me to these precious people, Captain. I'll be forever in your debt. 

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His youngest child (Iman) is a medical graduate. He was worried because this new generation has a mind of their own. But he was all fired up and determined to see Iman become a medical officer (MO). He was willing to do or give anything, even driving her to hospital everyday or relocating, as long as she's willing to complete her housemanship.

One day he came in for our daily walk, glowing from ear to ear. Iman will be posted at the Shah Alam Hospital for her housemanship. It's less than 10 km from his house, so there's no need for him to relocate. Our daily walk became weekly walk because he'd to "Grab" his daughter home in the evening.   

When she got through her first part, he was over the moon and took us all for a round of kari kepala ikan in faraway Port Dickson. He'd be visibly stressed out whenever his daughter was up for an assessment. In his own words "seeing her go to work is an achievement of the day".  After two torturous years, she completed her housemanship without any glitch.

On 27 September, Captain flew to Sibu with his wife to get her daughter settled for posting at Sarikei Hospital.  

I can still recall, while walking by the lake, he passionately recounted how he'd safely landed the Triple Seven in extremely treacherous winter nights. He'd to call all his flying skill and talent to the fore. There's plenty of pride in that, but nothing compared to the joy of seeing his youngest daughter starting as a MO at Sarikei Hospital. All his prayers, persistence and unwavering belief had paid off.

On 25 October, he drew his last breath and returned to the mercy of Allah.

Iman, if you ever read this, I just want to let you know that your Daddy is truly extraordinary and you've made him very happy. 

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Captain and I, we have our own battle of wits. I call him Kepteng, and he returns the favour, calling me Boh.  Our messages are mostly mixed Kelantanese/English. I don't hang out all that much, and for that he'd label me, in jest, as "Tak suka bermasyarakat".  Every time I had a new or colourful outfit on, he'd come and touch it approvingly and ask where I bought it. There's many more, but let's leave them for another day.  

If there's any regret, it's not joining him and a few others on a trip to Padang last August. He harassed and hounded me days and nights to join. If I'd known, I wouldn't have let him down.  

It never crossed my mind, not in one thousand years, that I'd one day write this piece about you, Captain. I almost  choked while writing this. You've never really left.

I know you like the way I write. But you'll never get to read this. Wild and wayward as always, I think you'll love it. 

Rest well, Captain.