Saya tak sangka Hasmah meninggal dunia, kata Dr M

The author does not wish to write about Dr Hasmah Ali as a national figure. Too much has already been written about her contributions to the nation, the medical world, public health, family, and society. All of that is true and deserves to be remembered. The author only wishes to share a little about Hasmah as she knows her. About a woman the author saw up close when he once helped care for and manage Dr Mahathir Mohamad.

There is one thing that can still be heard in her voice. Every time the author met Mahathir, he would usually bring various things. There would be a problem. There would be an issue. There would be something to think about. There might even make Mahathir think more than necessary. One day, after leaving Mahathir's office, the author saw Hasmah waiting outside.

Hasmah called out to the author. She smiled. But in that smile, the author understood something. That is what a wife is. She knows every time the author meets Mahathir, there is a possibility that he might think, ruminate, or take something seriously. For the author, her words were not angry. They were love, which sometimes comes in the form of small gestures.

There is another story the author remembers, told to him by Mukhriz when they worked together. It concerned the late Mahathir's old house in Alor Setar. One time, the old sofa in the house was replaced with a new one. Shape-wise and color-wise, they were almost identical. Almost no difference could be seen. But as soon as Hasmah entered and saw it, she knew.

"The old one, which one?" The author wondered how someone could recognize a sofa that is almost the same. The answer was easy, as Hasmah knew the house. She knew what was inside it. She knew her position. She knew the belongings used by the family. And for her, a thing did not necessarily have to be replaced just because we think a new one is prettier or more comfortable.

That old sofa had a story. To us, it might just be a sofa. But to her, it was part of her house and her family's life. There, the author saw another side of Hasmah that is not often told. She was not just a doctor. She was not just a wife of a Prime Minister. She was not just a woman standing beside a great national figure. She was also a very knowledgeable homemaker.

She knew her house, her family, and her husband. And this was clearest when she saw them eating together. Hasmah would ensure what was in front of Mahathir was suitable for him. How much rice, which fish, which chicken, how much of what to take and what not to. Small things like that might never make it into a history book. But for the author, that is where we can truly see a life.

For decades, people saw Mahathir as a nation-builder. But at home, he remained a husband. And by her side, there was a wife who observed, cared for, reminded, comforted slightly, and perhaps unnoticed, ensured the man who spent so much of his life thinking about the nation also ate, relaxed, and cared for himself. Today, as Hasmah has gone, the author remembers not her title of "Tun."

Instead, the author remembers a woman who once waited for the author outside her office and asked, "If you don't bother, Det, can you?" The author may have once thought it was a small reprimand. But today, the author sees it as a very big sentence. Because sometimes, love does not come in the form of beautiful words. It comes in the form of a wife waiting by the door.

It comes in the form of a woman who knows which sofa belongs to her. It comes in the form of hands determining how much rice the husband should eat. And it comes in the form of a wife who, after being with her husband for over 70 years, still watches him like a wife watches her husband. That is Hasmah as the author knew her, not from a book or drama, but from close quarters.

And perhaps that is the most cherished memory. Al-Fatihah for Dr Hasmah Ali. May Allah bestow mercy upon her soul and place her among those who are devout. And to Mahathir, the author can only say: After so long, there is someone who always reminds Mahathir about eating, resting, and not thinking too much about everything. The house must feel very lonely because there is a loss that cannot be replaced.

Not because she is named Hasmah, but because she is a wife. The author is a former editor-in-chief of the Tun Dr Mahathir Mohamad Institute for Policy Studies. This article is the author's perspective and may not represent FMT.