by Dr Rahim Said
I had the distinct privilege — or perhaps the misfortune — of being seated next to a well-known Ustaz on a recent flight.
You’ve probably seen him on TV, calmly teaching children how to recite the holy scripture while radiating the sort of saintly patience you’d expect from someone who’s either deeply spiritual…or hiding a darkly comical domestic arrangement.
As per the custom from where he came from, the man extended his hand. “Salam,” he greeted warmly.
Now, the problem with such encounters is not the greeting itself but what follows. There’s a whole book by Eric Berne called What Do You Say After You Say Hello?, which should be mandatory reading for anyone trapped in 4D cinema experiences like weddings, long-haul flights, or meetings with distant cousins from Baling.
So, small talk it was.
But lurking behind my polite nods and benign curiosity was a nugget of gossip I’d heard whispered in “kopi tiam” circles — this elderly, highly-respected Ustaz had four wives. Four. One for each week of the month, perhaps?
I’ve always wondered how a man manages such a setup without collapsing from exhaustion or constant verbal artillery.
“Would you like me to switch seats with your wife? Is she on board?” I asked, feigning innocence.
He chuckled, raising four fingers like he was ordering drinks at a mamak stall. “No, no. All of them are safe and sound at home.”
“All of them?” I echoed, my journalistic cynicism kicking into fifth gear.
“Yes. Four,” he confirmed, face glowing with the satisfaction of a man who’s either conquered marital diplomacy or completely surrendered to it.
I couldn’t resist. “How do you manage, Ustaz?”
The old sage leaned in, his voice adopting the tone of a man about to reveal the nuclear codes. “In life, young man,” he began, “there are two fundamental principles. If your wife is upset with you, hurling words faster than an auctioneer on meth, stay cool, calm, and collected. Let the storm pass. Then… dress up, go out. Preferably to the second wife.”
I was aghast. He wasn’t even pretending to be metaphorical.
“And if the same scene repeats?” I prompted.
“Go on to the next,” he replied, his eyes twinkling with the wisdom of a man who’s probably seen a kitchen knife waved in his direction more times than I’ve seen nasi lemak packets. “Silence is golden. Eventually, they’ll realise no amount of anger can change your ways.”
I felt an urgent need to notify the United Nations about this level of domestic Cold War strategy.
“That reminds me,” the Ustaz continued, “of a Mexican proverb: A woman marries a man for his character and then spends her life trying to change it.”
It was so philosophically outrageous I nearly ordered a double espresso.
“And what about the second principle, Ustaz?”
He smiled. “If a wife merajuk (sulks)…pujuk (cajole her).”
Simple. Brutal. Effective.
By the time we landed, the soundtrack of Madu Tiga was ringing in my head: Kalau dua-dua merajuk, Ana kahwin tiga…” so sang P. Ramlee, our creative and far-sighted acting and singing legend. He would’ve been proud, too.
I disembarked wiser, if slightly traumatised. Who knew polygamy was less about love and more about strategic exits and advanced levels of emotional dodgeball?
Four wives. One Ustaz. A lifetime of Olympic-level conflict avoidance. Better a little fire to warm us than a great one to burn us.
WE