I was away during the weekend and stayed over at a relative’s place to help with preparations for a cousin’s wedding. It was one of the few occasions where my mother’s side of the family [my mother has 13 siblings, including half-siblings and adopted ones] get together and contribute to the event. It was also one of the times where we would catch up with each other with news and gossip while we labor over jobs ranging from preparing over hundreds of bunga telur door gifts to hauling and moving around furniture.

The wedding day itself was yesterday, and it was a merry occasion. Our side of the family alone has well over 400 people and the opposite family brought with them another few hundred more. Toss in neighbors, friends, colleagues and remote relatives, there were easily over 1,800 guests on that sweltering hot Saturday - not an uncommon sight in any Malaysian wedding, no matter what your ethnicity is.

One thing about this particular wedding though, is that my uncle [father of the bride] invited a group of martial arts practitioners, the Malay traditional self-defense art of silat. Which school of silat it was I forgot, but it struck a chord in me. As I watched, I realized that having a silat performance before the wedding couple is a tradition that is quickly losing its foothold among the urban Malays of today.

Two young boys, no more than 12 years old each, dressed in fancy silat costumes stepped up and performed the opening stances of their art. Their horse stance were fickle, their punches flimsy and their kicks shallow. Despite that, I watched them in awe. Though their limbs were moving in an obviously amateurish fashion, they had a strong passion burning in their eyes - passion that I have not seen for many, many years since I left behind my silat practices back in Kedah.

At that moment, I was flooded with emotions of melancholy and nostalgia.

I missed the days that I would sweat out my youth under the canopies of tall and shady Jelutong trees. We would plant our feet firmly on the ground, horse stances at ready and unmovable, the soles of our feet cooled by the moist earth and soft green grass. We threw punches, swept our heels over our opponents’ heads in roundhouse kicks, and sent drops of perspiration aloft as we jumped, leapt and rolled away from attacks. We would regularly change our sparring partners in a round robin fashion, so that each of us would learn how to combat people of different speed, height, weight and skill.

We soaked our silat clothes in sweat, tears and body odor. We suffered cuts, bruises, sprains and sustained injuries to our muscles, minds and hearts. We were taught lessons of honor, pride, and humility. Of course, it wasn’t all serious business. We enjoyed moments of light-hearted fun, too. After our training, the tok guru would be telling us humorous folk stories and of his own youthful misadventures while he puffed away at his hand-rolled cigarettes and the occasional lessons about the birds and the bees. Every time he did, we would all listen with our eyes all focused at him, ears perked up and each of us holding a glass of ice-cold rose syrup prepared by our lovely female club manager.

As I watched the two boys sparred each other I couldn’t help but let a smile leak through my face, and I felt a sudden warmth in my heart as one of them pinned his opponent in an elaborate arm lock - a common element found in almost any form of Malay silat throughout the Malayan Archipelago.

I thought about this tradition, long and hard. I remembered the wedding days of my aunts and uncles, when they were held in kampungs and everyone in the neighbourhood would contribute to the event. I remember how there were ALWAYS pesilat [silat performers] voluntarily presenting themselves before the couple to demonstrate his school’s signature opening stances. There was once performance that was so impressive, it left a distinct memory in my mind…

It was during an aunt’s wedding in Muar, when a young man - probably in his early twenties - stepped forward before the couple and presented the art of his silat. His horse stance was firm, with legs that drew power form the earth, his fists thrusted outwards with strength and elegance, his kicks sent invisible force through the air, stunning the audience who watched him from the sides.

After that, a challenger from another school would step in the ring, kneel before the couple and honor them with his palms together over his head. He would assume his stance and dare the standing pesilat to take him on. So they dueled. Two young men, dressed in nothing more than thin, faded t-shirts and tattered jeans giving the best of their arts. Punches connected with resounding thuds and kicks clashed with each other before one of them, the challenger, left an opening after delivering a left hook. The first pesilat quickly reached in under his opponent’s arm and sent him into submission with a firm headlock. The crowd went wild, and groom blessed the winner with a gift of bunga telur. That was well over a decade ago.

My mind then flew to the wedding I attended just two weeks ago, at a luxurious hotel in Subang. Guests were seated at tables until late at night, all primmed and dressed up. Waiters in stood their bleached uniform and served drinks with faux gestures learned from 3 hours of rigorous training. It was a night of formality and protocols, elaborate decorations and pretentiousness - in Holden Caulfield’s words, it was a “phony” event.

The couple arrived at the ballroom doors and stood on a stretch of red carpet that lie before them, and the sounds of digital kompang funneled through giant speakers in the hall. Guests would stretch their necks and crane their arms to snap a digital image of the couple walking down the aisle. Three men with packs and pouches - each holding a different dSLR kit - would buzz around the newlyweds taking different pictures of the same people, as they were paid to do. Multimedia presentations, speeches, modernized tepung tawar and after that a lush banquet for the guests with modern Malay music in the background. A merry occasion, yes, but it lacked the warmth and spirit of a traditional wedding.

I almost wonder if you feel the same pang of loss as I do.

I think if I’m going to get married, I’m going to find a dikir barat troupe, some silat performers, and maybe a tukang karut so my guests can enjoy a wayang kulit show. If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll even get a kuda kepang group to perform. Hey, I’m a Malay, and there is absolutely no reason that should stop me from having an occasion saturated with Malay culture and heritage, right?