The after-school pick-up is usually a time of action. A time of wrangling kids while they shout promises to catch up with friends and fling their backpacks into the boot without a second glance.

But for my family, it was a slow affair.

It was a time to feast. 

The moment we reached our family van, my mum would wrench open the rickety side door and reveal a small blue Coleman esky full of ice, packed to the brim with pop tops, Prima Juice, and if it was hot, ice blocks. With gusto, we would grab our drinks and then dive into the cardboard insulated containers with aluminium foil tops to see what Mum had made that day. Ironically, the kids in the fancy SUVs would check out our van to see what was going on in the ‘Shah Mobile’. 

The Shah Mobile was what classmates dubbed our ride – a secondhand disability support vehicle that my parents bought to take six kids from A to B. It was a huge part of my childhood. The eight-seater Mitsubishi Starwagon had no power steering, curtains made of repurposed fleece blankets, and a mysterious stain on the back seat that we could never get out. 

But none of that mattered, because it worked. 

While other friends snacked forlornly on chips, the Shah Mobile was a riot. For Mum, having six hungry mouths to feed meant that preparation was of paramount importance. Countless hours of driving to school, swimming lessons and tutoring meant that Mum had to figure out a streamlined after-school feeding system.

If you want a step-by-step guide on how Mum managed to expertly prepare the containers packed to the brim with chicken biryani, beef curry, sardines and rice, kicap ayam, chicken curry, asam pedas and nasi goreng every day for us to eat, here’s what she said:

Rinse and repeat every day for six years, without sick leave or annual leave, until you become such a fixture in the school car park that the other kids become envious and wish they had what your kids were having.

When I was in primary school, my mum had gallstones, but we were too busy with our own lives and eating to notice her taking a break in the driver’s seat and breathing through the pain.

This is the kind of person she is – endlessly self-sacrificing. 

When she grew older and us kids began making our own homes, she delved deeper into the histories and meanings of particular dishes. She explained that udang nenas lemak is a family classic, for example, and is made using fresh prawns and diced pineapples with fragrant turmeric and coconut milk. It’s a special occasion staple, just like the mud crabs she buys when we would revel in the glory of the claws and dig for their sweet flesh.

We always had fresh food at home because there were never any leftovers for my mum to freeze. Not once has Mum complained about all the work that goes into her cooking – instead, she speaks of the satisfaction of seeing all of us being well-fed.

There was another job for the Shah Mobile. Every month, Mum would use it to drop Dad off at the airport. Dad chose to stay behind and work in Singapore while the rest of us lived in Sydney, Australia. His visits were initially every month, but tapered off as we got older, until my parents eventually divorced. In one particular photo, as we saw Dad off, Mum reminded us to ‘look sad’. The truth is, even with Dad gone, we still had her food and our Shah Mobile. In those moments, sadness was something we momentarily forgot.

When the Shah Mobile eventually took its last breath, it did so forcefully, honking non-stop in the early hours of the morning, until we got NRMA to get it towed. 

Today, when I drop off my nieces or nephews to school, it is a completely different scene. They are escorted to the car by their teachers and have a meal waiting patiently for them at home.

While I can appreciate the luxury of a new car, I couldn’t help but think the Shah Mobile had more character. It didn’t have all the bells and whistles – but like Mum’s food, it didn’t need to. 

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