Dedicated to the unsung Muarian heroes of my genre...
When I was growing up in Muar eons ago, this "piazza" (square) in Jalan Daud and that in Jalan Temenggong Ahmad were the centre of focus during the last seven days of Ramadhan - tujuh likur. People from afar, of different races, color or creed came flocking to see this spectacular community effort every year come rain or shine.
Fuad, Faroukh, Akbar, Azmir... were the lords of this realm (right?) in Jalan Daud. The rival kingdom in Jalan Temenggong Ahmad was ruled by, I believe, amongst them a budding professor (our very own Shariffudin), and another son of an inspector (or was he a sergeant?)... All sons of mostly teachers.
They designed without tee-squares or drawing boards. No measuring tapes either. Not even logarithmic tables or slide rule. Outstretched hands would do! Boys and girls ranging from 5 to 20 years old pitched in to arrange and plant the poles, filled up the lights with kerosene, lit them up, and, just before midnight, doused the flickering flames and collected them. These seductive dancing lights swaying in the breeze, billowing smoke rising above the roof tops, the smell of spilt kerosene... can never compete with timed and automated new fangled LED chasing lights sculpting trees or strung on mild steel fences.
The piece de resistance - a three dimensional structure - would dominate the centre of this 0.5 acre of land. A sampan for this year - but by royal decree! Our Sultan officiated this year in the hope of reviving this dying art.
Each household contributed to the lights and kerosene. These would be re-used again and again. Some used long bamboos, cut holes in them and inserted wicks instead of the expensive tin containers for the lights. Going green even in the 70s cancelling off the huge carbon footprint. Others used glass (medicine) bottles as containers.
A sight for sore eyes... Shadowy figures of various shapes and sizes bathed in the warm glow of kerosene lights running rings around the bamboo poles. Cacophony of cheers and whoops of joy accompanied each streaming firework as it streaks across the night sky interspersed with deafening crackers. On damp evenings, hundreds would wait patiently for the last rain drop marking the beginning of hours of fun.
Soon after, another community competed for glory - Tapak Pesta along Jalan Bakri.
My family would pack the old faithful - Morris Minor - and do our rounds. We passed our own judgements on who would win the coveted but unrequited title.
I last saw these glorious creations in 1974.
When did it stop? I can't answer since I was AWOL for a long time. Then my own selfish migration to KL only meant that my visitations home are limited to either on Hari Raya eve or on the day itself. Muar in the 80s was a town full of pensioners! Ergo, no young ones around. Perhaps the 1981 crash was instrumental to the demise of this "tradition".
Perhaps nobody realises or appreciates it's full potential except for our present Sultan (who perhaps has "ulterior" motives). Me, I welcome this annual respite with utter joy not only for my generation but those after me.
At least, when or if we do make our annual pilgrimage to meet our parents, kith or kin, this welcoming site might induce you or your own to come home.
Will you not come home...my fellow migrant workers? Or perhaps your offspring could initiate this Muarian tradition in far away places like Penang (Prof. Lik Meng et al), KL (Razak, Alim et al) or JB (Zainuddin, Razak et al)? I will attempt, in my own way, to convince my benefactor to subsidise this dying tradition.
Selamat Berpuasa
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