LONDON: SOME years ago, I was sitting at a restaurant here, watching a pile of food on a small table for two people. The young man sitting adjacent to me looked at me and smiled. He introduced himself as Jalil. Just Jalil.
We got talking about cats. He loved cats. In fact, he loved animals. That was the reason he was here, doing a stint at the Zoological Society of London, looking after the animals there.
And when I told him that both my husband and I write for the New Straits Times, he said his mother was also a writer and wrote children’s stories, and also had a column in the NST.
With two common favourite subjects, we got on like a house on fire. When he later left to go to the gents, his friend told me that he was, in fact, Tunku Laksamana Johor Tunku Abdul Jalil Iskandar Sultan Ibrahim, the son of the Sultan of Johor Sultan Ibrahim Sultan Iskandar and Permaisuri Johor Raja Zarith Sofiah Sultan Idris Shah, a name I am much familiar with as we had indeed shared a page for our columns in the NST.
The friend turned out to be his bodyguard, who missed Malaysian food so much that Tunku Jalil would order as much as he could and also have leftovers to take home.
It was from then on that I met and became friends with the Sultanah of Johor, through her son who had introduced himself as just Jalil, who spoke with much love and affection about his mother.
Jalil became a constant companion at Tuk Din Restaurant in Paddington. We would talk about all sorts of things, especially his plans to hike up Mount Kinabalu.
One day, Tuk Din Restaurant was packed with Malaysians who had been stranded because of a volcanic ash eruption in Iceland. We were sitting at our table and talking when suddenly, we were alerted to the fact that a thief had slipped in and stolen a customer’s handbag.
In the frenzy, Jalil had run off. His body guard went after him. Apparently, Jalil had gone after the thief.
That was Jalil — a caring, unassuming young lad with no air of pretension whatsoever.
The last few times I met him, I noticed how painfully thin he was.
This year, when we met at a restaurant in Harrods, he spoke about how he dreaded chemotherapy and was hoping for an alternative.
But he was his cheerful self, almost always very playful, trying to “photobomb” our photo sessions.
I was kept informed of Jalil’s condition via constant messages from his mother, whose concern and fear were understandable. She said he was trying to be brave and almost always had to tell her not to cry.
Just a few days ago, the Sultanah kindly read to him a message that I wrote about the time we met at Tuk Din Restaurant. The day he introduced himself as Jalil. Just Jalil. And the message I got back was: “Yes, he remembers that day very well.”
May Allah bless your soul and place you among the pious. You will be terribly missed, Jalil.