The Black Notebook at the Ramadan Market

Pagi itu di pasar Ramadan, tangan aku laju mengatur talam kuih, tapi hati kelam-kabut; buku kecil berkulit hitam—nyawa resipi turun-temurun—entah ke mana melompat.

That morning at the Ramadan market, my hands moved fast arranging trays of kuih, but my heart was in a panic; a small black notebook—the soul of my inherited recipes—had leapt off to who knows where.

Tanpa buku itu, sukat resipi arwah Nenek Timah tinggal angan; catatannya selalu ringkas, "secubit rasa, segenggam yakin," yang belum sempat kuhafal.

Without that book, the measurements of the late Grandma Timah's recipes were just a dream; her notes were always terse, "a pinch of taste, a handful of faith," which I hadn't yet memorized.

Terkial-kial aku menyelongkar guni tepung dan kotak plastik, mata melilau sepanjang lorong sayur, hati bagai direbus.

Flustered, I rummaged through flour sacks and plastic crates, eyes sweeping the vegetable row, my heart felt like it was boiling.

Peniaga-peniaga jiran menepuk bahu, "Sabar, dik, rezeki tak ke mana."

Neighboring vendors patted my shoulder, "Be patient, sis, what's meant for you won't go far."

Azan Zuhur berkumandang; di serambi surau pasar, aku duduk bersila, menenang nafas sambil memintal doa.

The noon call to prayer rang out; on the market surau's veranda, I sat cross-legged, steadying my breath while spinning prayers together.

Tiba-tiba corong pembesar suara berkeriut, lalu suara bilal menyebut, "Barang hilang: sebuah buku catatan hitam bertampal pita batik; boleh tuntut di kaunter keselamatan."

Suddenly the loudspeaker crackled, and the muezzin's voice announced, "Lost item: a black notebook patched with batik tape; can be claimed at the security counter."

Bagai disambar harapan, aku bergegas ke penjuru pasar, hampir berlaga dengan budak lelaki kurus penjual karipap yang memegang buku itu erat-erat.

As if seized by hope, I hurried to the market corner, almost bumping into a skinny curry-puff seller clutching the book tight.

Katanya, dia menjumpainya terperosok bawah bangku kayu di hujung lorong, rupa-rupanya tercicir sewaktu aku berkejar mengejar pembekal santan pagi tadi.

He said he'd found it wedged under a wooden bench at the end of the row; apparently it had slipped out while I was rushing after the coconut-milk supplier earlier that morning.

Aku membuka buku di situ juga; helaian resipi baulu arang yang sudah pudar masih setia, ada tompok minyak kelapa seperti cap jari nenek dahulu.

I opened the book right there; the faded page for charcoal-baked baulu still stood faithful, marked with specks of coconut oil like my grandmother's old fingerprints.

Lega meruap ke muka; aku hulur upah kecil, namun budak itu menggeleng, "Cukup kakak kirim karipap lima ketul buat bilal."

Relief bubbled up to my face; I offered a small reward, but the boy shook his head, "Just send five curry puffs for the muezzin."

Aku ketawa kecil, lalu menambah pesanan kuih untuk surau—biar berkatnya berpusing-pusing seperti talam di tangan.

I chuckled, then added an order of kuih for the surau—let the blessings go round and round like a tray in hand.

Malamnya, kuih dari dapur naik elok ke permukaan kukusan; saat kembang baunya memenuhi ruang, rasa-rasanya yang hilang tadi bukan sekadar buku, tetapi tenang yang kini kembali, bagai sirih pulang ke gagang.

That night, the kuih rose perfectly to the surface of the steamer; as their blossoming aroma filled the room, I felt that what had been lost wasn't just the book, but a calm that had returned, like the betel leaf returning to its stem.