Of me and budu

Image credit here.

Me and budu, we’ve come a long way. Way back when I was in primary school, living with both my grandfather Bak [now arwah] and step-grandmother Tok Pi, of whose name comes from the abbreviation of her name, Rafiah. She now lives in Pekan, Pahang but that’s another story.

Now to get this story started, I’d like to make one thing clear. I don’t eat budu. Call me nebbeng or do’oh lalu but I could never, intentionally, take the budu bottle and sprinkle a few dashes on my piping hot rice, or pour a few spoonfuls of budu in a mangkok and mix with lada jarung [bird’s eye chillies] which are khennyet [crushed] and sprinkled with some lime juices.

When I was in primary school, I once went home and found myself surrounded by budu smell. Strong, foul smell of pickled anchovies that now filled the whole area of my home. Now home at this time was my Bak’s house, situated a few meters away from the famous Terengganu poet’s house, J.M. Aziz. The home was a place where I grew up as a child, tough child I would say as my mother worked as a tailor at shop rows in Steseng Bah Kuala Terengganu from 7am to 7pm, when the Bah Meroh would pull over at the street in Kampung Baru, sending home the kampong people who worked in bbando [town].

By now I almost died. I can’t eat budu, worst still I can’t even stand the smell. I hurriedly climbed the stairs, changed my school uniform as fast as I can, and avoided at all cost to go to the kitchen, where it smelled the worst. I ran to my aunt’s house, Mok Ting, and told her of the budu smell. She told me that now that my Bak has closed his small grocery shop by the main road in Kampong Baru, they [my grandfather and step-grandmother] have decided to take the job of filling the budu into small bottles and later selling them.


I figured it didn’t pay much, but as my Bak was not someone who would just lazy around all day long, he needed to do something. Anyways, it was not a day-job. They only need to fill the budu into the bottles – the size of coca-cola glass bottles – about twice a month. So for the next few years of my life, well into my secondary school years, I would have to come face to face with the smell of one delicacy that I loathe wholeheartedly. So much for a budu seller’s granddaughter.

It’s not the taste that makes me steer away from budu, but it was the smell. I’m not sure how budu is made, but I’m pretty sure that the combination of all the ingredients makes it addictive. I mean, one of my nieces would not eat anything without budu, as I once saw her poured budu into a bowl of mi rebus [yellow noodle with black pepper-infused broth]!

To smell budu, of which to other people is as tantalizing as the taste of budu itself, is so foul to me, and everyone in the family knows how much I loathe the smell that whenever we gathered at the dining table, no one dared to put the mangkok budu in front of me. They would put it far away from me, and I would endure the smell of the budu while everyone dips their ikang kembung panggang or goreng [grilled or friend mackerel] in the budu mix.

I am the only one in the family, or probably the whole Kampong Baru Seberang Takir who do not eat budu, I think. However, I do believe that somehow, I must have accidentally taken budu in several occurrences in my life, especially when my mom cooked Bubur Lambuk or Sayur Labu, a dish made with labu air or bottle gourd cooked in simple watery black pepper broth, mixed with shredded pieces of ikang selayang.


I remember once while eating the sayur labu, I told my mother sternly to not to put any budu in my dishes. Proud as I sounded, I am the youngest daughter in the family and being the closest to mother, of course she would listen to me – or so I thought. And I was saying this while having the sayur labu with hot rice, ikang kembung goreng [fried mackerel seasoned with blended red chilli paste, salt and turmeric powder] and sambal belacan, or belacang as we Terengganu people call it. My eldest sister Kak Long was there, and she was about to say something when I noticed my mother nudged her. I think she was about to say “But there was budu in the sayur labu!”.

Later, I think a few years later, I managed to confirm my curiosity when one day I asked my mother how to cook sayur labu, and as she was telling me the ingredients, she slipped the word “budu”, and I went “Doh selame ni massok sayur labu mok memang letok budu ah?” ["So all this while you've been adding budu into the bottle gourd dish?] to which she replied, “Ho lah, dok letok budu dok jjadi sayur labu lah. Bubur lambuk ggitu gok. Kalu dok letok budu, dok rase lah ikang dalang bubur tu” ["Of course. If there is no budu in the dish, then it will not be called as the bottle gourd dish. So does bubur lambuk. If there is no budu in the bubur lambuk, then the fishy taste will not be that good].

Duped for life, that’s how my history with budu is.

Like I said in the beginning, me and budu, we’ve come a long way. No matter how much I try to avoid eating budu, it will always linger silently in the background, waiting for the right moment to jump into the dishes that I eat.