IKAN DI LAUT ASAM DI DARAT

Bab 1

“Seseorang yang tidak mempunyai sahabat; bagai taman yang tidak berbunga.”
- Pepatah Arab



“Maafkan saya”, kata-kata terpacul keluar dari mulutku, apabila jus oren yang sedang ku minum tertumpah ke tangan Encik Murad, yang duduk disebelahku. Aku menghulurkan tisu ke arahnya, sambil tersenyum malu sambil rasa bersalah.

“Please fasten your seat belt, we are going through some turbulence”
Pengumuman Kapten kapal jelas kedengaran. Inilah pertama kali, aku dan sahabat karibku, Zila, menaiki pesawat KLM – Royal Dutch Airlines. Perjalanan ini tidak di rancang oleh ku. Tapi biasanya perkara yang tidak dirancang oleh kita itu lah yang akan berlaku.

“Kalau pesawat ni terhempas di tengah tengah laut Jawa ni, sekurang kurang nya, saya dengan awak”.
“Hahahahaha! Sehidup semati kita Qis”
“Doa lah yang baik baik sikit”
“Encik Murad, boleh berbahasa Melayu?”
“Panggil saja saya Murad. Saya bekerja di Malaysia lebih kurang 10 tahun, dan selalu juga ke Jakarta, Medan , Bali dan juga Brunei atas urusan kerja. Kalau Qis nak tahu, isteri saya berasal dari Cirebon, Jawa Barat.” Panjang lebar Murad menerangkan pada ku dan Zila.
“Ikan di laut , asam di darat di dalam kuali bertemu juga. Bukan begitu Murad?” balasku.
“Qis, lampu pasang seat belt dah padam, saya nak ke tandas sekejap.” Zila mencelah.
“Ada seorang kenalan saya, berketurunan Cina, Saleha, bertemu jodoh dengan jejaka Jerman. Jejaka Jerman ni, Andre, pada suatu hari teringin untuk berbasikal keliling dunia. Kayuhan dia bermula dari Berlin, merentas Eropah timur, sehingga sampai ke Negara Cina. Di sana dia tinggal bersama sama pendekar shaolin. Andre berminat dengan seni bela diri. Dia sendiri mempunyai tali pinggang hitam Karate. Setelah beberapa lama di Cina, kayuhan diteruskan ke arah selatan, Vietnam, Kemboja, Thailand dan Malaysia. Apabila berehat rehat di rumah kenalan nya di Kuala Lumpur, bertemulah dengan Saleha. Cinta berputik pada pandangan pertama dan setahun kemudian mereka diijabkabulkan.”
“Menarik ! Saya bertemu isteri saya, Ratna, bukan di Jawa atau bukan juga di Lebanon, tanah kelahiran saya. Kami berjumpa di Australia, semasa sama sama menuntut di Perth. Itulah jodoh namanya”.
“Ramai orang beratur tadi Zila” tanya Murad.
“Ramai jugak, mungkin sebab cemas tadi” Zila menjawab sambil tertawa kecil.
“Kalau Murad nak tau, Zila ni telah “memaksa” saya menemani dia ke Jakarta”. Tapi “memaksa” dengan murah hati, kerana suami dia telah membiayai segala keperluan perjalanan. Murah lah rezeki mereka sekeluarga”.
Tersenyum lebar Zila sambil matanya jauh memandang kepulan-kepulan awan yang berarak lalu umpama kapas-kapas lembut yang menghiasi langit biru.
“Nasib baiklah Jef percaya kat awak. Kalau tak, tak berjalan lah saya.”
“Dapatlah saya menjejakkan kaki ke tanah nenek moyang saya”, balas ku.
“Kamu berdua setuju tak dengan saya , kalau saya katakan yang kita di timur ni kaya dengan adat resam dan budaya yang tinggi nilainya. Cuma kekadang kita lupa tentang mutiara-mutiara yang berharga ini.”
“Apa maksud Murad?” jawabku penuh minat.
“Semasa saya masih kecil, saya selalu menghabiskan waktu cuti saya dirumah datuk di Jabal Qasiyun…”
“Jabal Qasiyun di Damaskus?” celah ku spontan. “Tamadun tertua manusia, banyak lokasi bersejarah disitu !” terang ku.
“Memang betul, semasa kecil, saya suka suasana ketenangan di sana dan terutamanya masakan enak nenek yang rasanya masih saya termimpi mimpikan sehingga kini. Datuk saya seorang yang pandai melayan cucu, ada saja cerita cerita nya untuk menghiburkan kami. Antara ceritanya yang saya ingat ialah mengenai seekor burung hud-hud…”
“Bagaimana ceritanya?” Zila tak sabar mendengar.
“Pada zaman dahulu, di Baghdad , ada seorang saudagar yang kaya raya. Dia berniaga tekstil dan rempah ratus dari timur jauh di Baghdad. Apabila dia berniaga ke timur jauh, dia membawa pula buah buahan kering, kemenyan arab, minyak zaitun dari timur tengah untuk dijual disana. Saudagar ini walaupun kaya raya tapi tidak mempunyai anak isteri, tetapi dia mempunyai seekor burung hud-hud yang diperolehinya di benua Hindi, yang amat disayanginya. Walaupun ramai dari kalangan sahabatnya yang mahu membeli burung hud-hud itu, tetapi saudagar itu tidak mahu berpisah dengan burung tersebut. Pada suatu hari, saudagar itu akan membawa kabilah perniagaanya ke benua Hindi. Dia pun bertanya kepada burung hud-hud kesayanganya, “Aku akan ke benua Hindi, oleh kerana engkau berasal dari sana , ada apa-apa pesanan yang ingin engkau sampaikan wahai hud-hud?”
“Wahai Tuan ku yang budiman, bolehkah engkau melepaskan aku, aku ingin terbang bebas merentasi langit biru sebagai mana burung burung yang lain.” “Wahai hud-hud, aku mohon maaf kerana aku tidak dapat menunaikan permintaan mu itu, aku terlalu menyayangimu untuk melepaskan kau pergi.” “Jika begitu, sampaikan lah salam ku kepada saudara saudaraku di benua Hindi. Apabila Tuan tiba disana, pergi lah ke hutan belantara di wilayah Sind dan jerit lah sekuat kuat hati Tuan dan beritahu saudara saudaraku yang aku sihat dan cukup makan dan minum walaupun aku berada didalam sangkar yang amat cantik yang terbuat daripada emas.”
“Baiklah wahai hud-hud akan ku tunaikan permintaan mu itu.”
Apabila saudagar itu tiba di benua Hindi, dia pun menunaikan permintaan burung hud-hud kesayang beliau. Selesai dia melaungkan berita hud-hud kepada saudara saudara hud-hud tersebut, maka terjatuhlah seekor hud-hud yang sedang bertenggek diatas pohon yang tinggi, keatas tanah. Saudagar itu berasa bersalah kerana pada pandangannya, dia telah menyebabkan kematian salah seorang saudara hud-hud kepunyaannya.
Apabila dia kembali ke Baghdad, saudagar itu pun menceritakan apa yang telah berlaku kepada burung hud-hud kesayangannya. Selesai dia bercerita, hud-hud kesayangannya pun jatuh rebah didalam sangkarnya. Remuk redam hati saudagar itu melihat kematian hud-hud kesayangannya. Dia pun mengeluarkan hud-hud dari dalam sangkarnya dan meletakkannya di sebelah tingkap. Bulu-bulu halus hud-hud bergerak-gerak ditiup bayu lembut. Tiba-tiba, hud-hud tersebut membuka matanya dan terus terbang tidak kembali lagi.”
“Wah, cerita lah lagi” Zila menyampuk.
“Beautiful. Layers of lessons in life, told as an attention grabbing story,” simpul ku.
“Saya pasti orang orang Melayu pun mempunyai cerita-cerita sendiri yang diturunkan melalui lisan dari satu generasi ke generasi yang lain.”
“Betul tu, tapi saya sendiri ingat-ingat lupa. Lagipun sekarang ni, sumber hiburan banyak. Drama dan filem yang bersifat kontemporari banyak terdapat di pasaran,” Zila memberi pendapat.
Pramugari datang ke tempat kami untuk memberi makanan “halal muslim food” yang telah ku pesan melalui internet. Ada puding jagung dengan cranberry sos dan salad dan tahu bersama sos kacang. Menu utamanya pula adalah mee goreng bersama kari ayam.
“Pedas lah mee ni Zila,” aku mengadu. Aku lihat Zila makan dengan penuh selera. Zila memang suka pedas. Dia keturunan Minang.
“Ye lah, saya tahu awak kan selera Mediterranean Qis. Pasta, Pizza, Cous-cous, harira tu semua makanan awakkan?”
Aku tertawa kecil. Zila memang sering kali menjadi tetamu untuk merasa masakan-masakan ku. Di rumah ku ada berderet buku masakan Jamie Oliver dan buku buku masakan Mediterranean yang ada juga dihadiahkan oleh ibuku semasa dia ke London bersama dengan dua orang adikku, Nurul dan Muhammad. Aku ada juga menyimpan fail yang terkandung helaian helaian resipi yang ku muat turun dari internet. “Website” kegemaran ku adalah www.allrecipes.com.
Pesawat penuh untuk penerbangan ini. Malah pegawai KLM semasa di KLIA tadi mengatakan mereka telah terlebih menjual 21 tiket untuk penerbangan ini. Jakarta masih lagi tetap menjadi destinasi utama. Peristiwa pengeboman hotel Ritz Carlton dan JW Marriot tidak langsung menakutkan pelancong pelancong yang ingin ke kota utama pintu masuk ke Indonesia. Ramai juga penumpang dari Malaysia didalam penerbangan kali ini. Tahun ini , tahun melawat Indonesia. Indonesia telah di nobatkan sebagai syurga untuk membeli belah dan melancong, kerana destinasi-destinasinya yang berbagai, yang mampu memenuhi selera dan minat para pengunjung. Malah tadi aku berjumpa dengan Amin berserta dengan keluarganya dan pekerja restorannya semasa di ruang menunggu. Ramai juga penumpang dari Eropah dan selebihnya rakyat Indonesia yang mungkin bercuti ke kampung halaman masing masing.
“What is your opinion on the Jakarta bombings?” tanya Murad yang mengejutkanku dari lamunan ku.
“Well, everybody is entitled to their opinions and beliefs. That’s a basic human right. However I do not quite agree with the mutilation of one’s own self in the name of Jihad for Islam. That is suicide. Rasulullah s.a.w. did not teach that to us. First and foremost Islam is a religion of love, peace and tolerance,” jawabku.
“In fact in one of the battles between the muslims and the musyrikin, Sayyidina Ali was in a one to one combat with a well known musyrikin warrior who was much taller and bigger than he was. The musyrikin fell to the ground after a long sword fight with Sayyidina Ali. He spat at Sayyidina Ali. Sayyidina Ali could have just finished him there and then. But he did not. He turned away from the musyrikin. The musyrikin embraced Islam soon after that,” Zila memberi pendapatnya.
“When Sayyidina Ali was asked why he did that. His answer was simple, when he fought against the musyrikin it was for Allah, but when the musyrikin spat at him, if he had killed him then, it might be from his anger,” aku menyambung cerita Zila.
Murad diam membisu seribu bahasa. Matanya yang biru bak air laut, merenung jauh ke depan. Dari riak wajahnya, ku pasti mindanya jauh menerawang mengimbas jutaan kenangan silam. Sesekali tangannya mengusap usap janggutnya yang tebal yang dijaga rapi.
“Ramai daripada ahli keluarga saya yang berpendapat bahawa mengebom diri sendiri itu adalah jihad. Pernah ke kita mendalami kepedihan hati mereka apabila melihat saudara sendiri di tembak, dibunuh tanpa rasa belas kasihan? Kemaafan susah di beri. Kemaafan tiada lagi didalam kamus hidup,” Murad menarik nafas panjang.
“Rasulullah s.a.w dan para sahabat pernah melalui zaman yang serupa. Para sahabat yang terdahulu, disiksa, di bunuh dengan begitu kejam kerana mereka menyebut dua kalimah syahadah. Sayyidina Bilal, diseksa dengan begitu kejam tetapi beliau masih menyebut “Ahad ! Ahad !” – Hanya Allah,Tuhan Yang Satu,” balas ku.
“Berkat kesabaran Rasulullah s.a.w dan juga keikhlasan para sahabat, akhirnya tamadun Islam dapat menguasai tiga perempat dunia. Walhal pada masa itu Eropah dalam zaman kegelapan,” Zila menambah.
“Para sahabat yang gugur, tidak mati sia-sia. Mereka merupakan para syuhada yang hidup umpama di kebun kebun syurga. Titisan keringat dan darah mereka umpama azimat yang memberi semangat kepada para sahabat yang hidup untuk meneruskan perjuangan menaikkan syiar Islam, meninggikan kalimah syahadah dan kecintaan dan kesetiaan kepada Rasulullah s.a.w. Baginda Rasul terakhir, dan kita adalah ummatnya,” tiba-tiba Murad mengakhiri kebisuannya.
“Please fasten your seat belt. We are going to begin our descend soon”
“Dah nak sampai kita,” kata Zila, sambil tangannya menghulurkan gula-gula kepada ku dan juga Murad.

THE STORY OF MUSHKIL GUSHA

ONCE upon a time, not a thousand miles from here, there lived a poor old wood-cutter, who was a widower, and his little daughter. He used to go every day into the mountains to cut firewood which he brought home and tied into bundles. Then he used to have breakfast and walk into the nearest town, where he would sell his wood and rest for a time before returning home.

One day, when he got home very late, the girl said to him: ‘Father, I sometimes wish that we would have some nicer food, and more and different kinds of things to eat.’

‘Very well, my child,’ said the old man, ‘tomorrow I shall get up much earlier than I usually do. I shall go further into the mountains where there is more wood, and I shall bring back a much larger quantity than usual. I will get home earlier and I will be able to bundle the wood sooner, and I will go into town and sell it so that we can have more money and I shall bring you back all kinds of nice things to eat.’

The next morning the wood-cutter rose before dawn and went into the mountains. He worked very hard cutting wood and trimming it and made it into a huge bundle which he carried on his back to his little house.

When he got home, it was still very early. He put his load of wood down, and knocked on the door, saying, ‘Daughter, Daughter, open the door, for I am hungry and thirsty and I need a meal before I go to market.’

But the door was locked. The wood-cutter was so tired that he lay down and was soon fast asleep beside his bundle. The little girl, having forgotten all about their conversation the night before, was fast asleep in bed. When he woke up a few hours later, the sun was high. The wood-cutter knocked at the door again and again and said, ‘Daughter, Daughter, come quickly; I must have a little food and go to market to sell the wood; for it is already much later than my usual time of starting.’

But, having forgotten all about the conversation the night before, the little girl had meanwhile got up, tidied the house, and gone out for a walk. She had locked the door assuming in her forgetfulness that her father was still in the town.

So the wood-cutter thought to himself, ‘It is now rather late to go into the town. I will therefore return to the mountains and cut another bundle of wood, which I will bring home, and tomorrow I will take a double load to market.’

All that day the old man toiled in the mountains cutting wood and shaping the branches. When he got home with the wood on his shoulders, it was evening.

He put down his burden behind the house, knocked on the door and said, ‘Daughter, Daughter, open the door for I am tired and I have eaten nothing all the day. I have a double bundle of wood which I hope to take to market tomorrow. Tonight I must sleep well so that I will be strong.’

But there was no answer, for the little girl when she came home had felt very sleepy, and had made a meal for herself, and gone to bed. She had been rather worried at first that her father was not at home, but she decided that he must have arranged to stay in the town overnight.

Once again the wood-cutter, finding that he could not get into the house, tired, hungry and thirsty, lay down by his bundles of wood and fell fast asleep. He could not keep awake, although he was fearful for what might have happened to the little girl.

Now the wood-cutter, because he was so cold and hungry and tired, woke up very, very early the next morning: before it was even light.

He sat up, and looked around, but he could not see anything. And then a strange thing happened. The wood-cutter thought he heard a voice saying: ‘Hurry, hurry! Leave your wood and come this way. If you need enough, and you want little enough, you shall have delicious food.’

The wood-cutter stood up and walked in the direction of the voice. And he walked and he walked; but he found nothing.

By now he was colder and hungrier and more tired than ever, and he was lost. He had been full of hope, but that did not seem to have helped him. Now he felt sad, and he wanted to cry. But he realized that crying would not help him either, so he lay down and fell asleep.

Quite soon he woke up again. It was too cold, and he was too hungry, to sleep. So he decided to tell himself, as if in a story, everything that had happened to him since his little daughter had first said that she wanted a different kind of food.

As soon as he had finished his story, he thought he heard another voice, saying, somewhere above him, out of the dawn, ‘Old man, what are you doing sitting there?’

‘I am telling myself my own story,’ said the wood-cutter.

‘And what is that?’ said the voice.

The old man repeated his tale. ‘Very well,’ said the voice. And then the voice told the old wood-cutter to close his eyes and to mount as it were, a step. ‘But I do not see any step,’ said the old man. ‘Never mind, but do as I say,’ said the voice.

The old man did as he was told. As soon as he had closed his eyes he found that he was standing up and as he raised his right foot he felt that there was something like a step under it. He started to ascend what seemed to be a staircase. Suddenly the whole flight of steps started to move, very fast, and the voice said, ‘Do not open your eyes until I tell you to do so.’

In a very short time, the voice told the old man to open his eyes. When he did he found that he was in a place which looked rather like a desert, with the sun beating down on him. He was surrounded by masses and masses of pebbles; pebbles of all colours: red, green, blue and white. But he seemed to be alone. He looked all around him, and could not see anyone, but the voice started to speak again.

‘Take up as many of these stones as you can,’ said the voice, ‘Then close your eyes, and walk down the steps once more.’

The wood-cutter did as he was told, and he found himself, when he opened his eyes again at the voice's bidding, standing before the door of his own house.

He knocked at the door and his little daughter answered it. She asked him where he had been, and he told her, although she could hardly understand what he was saying, it all sounded so confusing.

They went into the house, and the little girl and her father shared the last food which they had, which was a handful of dried dates. When they had finished, the old man thought that he heard the voice speaking to him again, a voice just like the other one which had told him to climb the stairs.

The voice said, ‘Although you may not know it yet, you have been saved by Mushkil Gusha. Remember that Mushkil Gusha is always here. Make sure that every Thursday night you eat some dates and give some to any needy person, and tell the story of Mushkil Gusha. Or give a gift in the name of Mushkil Gusha to someone who will help the needy. Make sure that the story of Mushkil Gusha is never, never forgotten. If you do this, and if this is done by those to whom you tell the story, the people who are in real need will always find their way.’

The wood-cutter put all the stones which he had brought back from the desert in a corner of his little house. They looked very much like ordinary stones, and he did not know what to do with them.

The next day he took his two enormous bundles of wood to the market, and sold them easily for a high price. When he got home he took his daughter all sort of delicious kinds of food, which she had never tasted before. And when they had eaten it, the old wood-cutter said, ‘Now I am going to tell you the whole story of Mushkil Gusha. Mushkil Gusha is the remover of all difficulties. Our difficulties have been removed through Mushkil Gusha and we must always remember it.’

For nearly a week after that the old man carried on as usual. He went into the mountains, brought back wood, had a meal, took the wood to market and sold it. He always found a buyer without difficulty.

Now the next Thursday came, and, as it is the way of men, the wood-cutter forgot to repeat the tale of Mushkil Gusha.

Late that evening, in the house of the wood-cutter's neighbours, the fire had gone out. The neighbours had nothing with which to re-light the fire, and they went to the house of the wood-cutter. They said, ‘Neighbour, neighbour, please give us a light from those wonderful lamps of yours which we see shining through the window.’

‘What lamps?’ said the wood-cutter.

‘Come outside,’ said the neighbours, ‘and see what we mean.’

So the wood-cutter went outside and then he saw, sure enough, all kinds of brilliant lights shining through the window from the inside.

He went back to the house, and saw that the light was streaming from the pile of pebbles which he had put in the corner. But the rays of light were cold, and it was not possible to use them to light a fire. So he went out to the neighbours and said, ‘Neighbours, I am sorry, but I have no fire.’ And he banged the door in their faces. They were annoyed and confused, and went back to their house, muttering. They leave our story here.

The wood-cutter and his daughter quickly covered up the brilliant lights with every piece of cloth they could find, for fear that anyone would see what a treasure they had. The next morning, when they uncovered the stones, they discovered that they were precious, luminous gems.

They took the jewels, one by one, to neighbouring towns, where they sold them for a huge price. Now the wood-cutter decided to build for himself and for his daughter a wonderful palace. They chose a site just opposite the castle of the king of their country. In a very short time a marvellous building had come into being.

Now that particular king had a beautiful daughter, and one day when she got up in the morning, she saw a sort of fairy-tale castle just opposite her father's and she was amazed. She asked her servants, ‘Who has built this castle? What right have these people to do such a thing so near to our home?’

The servants went away and made enquiries and they came back and told the story, as far as they could collect it, to the princess.

The princess called for the little daughter of the wood-cutter, for she was angry with her, but when the two girls met and talked they soon became fast friends. They started to meet every day and went to swim and play in the stream which had been made for the princess by her father. A few days after they first met, the princess took off a beautiful and valuable necklace and hung it up on a tree just beside the stream. She forgot to take it down when she came out of the water, and when she got home she thought it must have been lost.

The princess thought a little and then decided that the daughter of the wood-cutter had stolen her necklace. So she told her father, and he had the wood-cutter arrested; he confiscated the castle and declared forfeit everything that the wood-cutter had. The old man was thrown into prison, and the daughter was put into an orphanage.

As it was the custom in that country, after a period of time the wood-cutter was taken from the dungeon and put in the public square, chained to a post, with a sign around his neck. On the sign was written ‘This is what happens to those who steal from Kings.’

At first people gathered around him, and jeered and threw things at him. He was most unhappy.

But quite soon, as is the way of men, everyone became used to the sight of the old man sitting there by his post, and took very little notice of him. Sometimes people threw him scraps of food, sometimes they did not.

One day he overheard somebody saying that it was Thursday afternoon. Suddenly, the thought came into his mind that it would soon be the evening of Mushkil Gusha, the remover of all difficulties, and that he had forgotten to commemorate him for so many days. No sooner had this thought come into his head, than a charitable man, passing by, threw him a tiny coin. The wood-cutter called out: ‘Generous friend, you have given me money, which is of no use to me. If, however, your kindness could extend to buying one or two dates and coming and sitting and eating them with me, I would be eternally grateful to you.’

The other man went and bought a few dates. And they sat and ate them together. When they had finished, the wood-cutter told the other man the story of Mushkil Gusha. ‘I think you must be mad,’ said the generous man. But he was a kindly person who himself had many difficulties. When he arrived home after this incident, he found that all his problems had disappeared. And that made him start to think a great deal about Mushkil Gusha. But he leaves our story here.

The very next morning the princess went back to her bathing-place. As she was about to go into the water, she saw what looked like her necklace down at the bottom of the stream. As she was going to dive in to try to get it back, she happened to sneeze. Her head went up, and she saw that what she had thought was the necklace was only its reflection in the water. It was hanging on the bough of the tree where she had left it such a long time before. Taking the necklace down, the princess ran excitedly to her father and told him what had happened. The King gave orders for the wood-cutter to be released and given a public apology. The little girl was brought back from the orphanage, and everyone lived happily ever after.

These are some of the incidents in the story of Mushkil Gusha. It is a very long tale and it is never ended. It has many forms. Some of them are even not called the story of Mushkil Gusha at all, so people do not recognise it. But it is because of Mushkil Gusha that his story, in whatever form, is remembered by somebody, somewhere in the world, day and night, wherever there are people. As his story had always been recited, so it will always continue to be told.

Will you repeat the story of Mushkil Gusha on Thursday nights, and help the work of Mushkil Gusha?



* * *



A hand and a foot do not clap together.



Proverb.





Idries Shah: CARAVAN OF DREAMS, The Octagon Press, London 1968