To understand Muar in the 1950s and 60s, you first have to understand its rhythm. The town was generous and flat, stretching out without a single hill for at least twenty kilometers in any direction. Because of this, bicycles were the undisputed kings of the road. The town buses existed, but they were few and far between, running on a modest schedule for a modest population. If you missed the hourly bus, and you didn’t own a bicycle, you relied on the lifeline of the working class: the beca, or trishaw. To us Muarians of that era, the beca wasn’t just a trishaw; we proudly called it our “teksi.”
Back then, a mile-long ride earned a beca man thirty or forty cents, regardless of whether he was carrying a single passenger or three. The unspoken rule of the beca was that it could fit up to four people, provided two of them were small children. Two adults would sit comfortably on the small, cushioned sofa at the back, while the children squatted on the floorboard up front. Rain or shine, these men pedaled. During heavy monsoons, they would soak themselves to the bone, pedaling through the downpour just to earn an honest plate of rice for their families.
Yet, despite our deep respect for their hard work, a quiet tragedy hung over the profession. You could see it in their lowered gazes and the weary slump of their shoulders. Society had subtly conditioned them to feel degraded, as if their honest sweat was somehow a disgrace. They pedaled because they had no other choice.
I remember one beca man in particular. He was determined that his children would never inherit the handlebars of his beca. He pedaled day and night, sacrificing his own rest to fund their education. Today, all four of his children are highly successful in their respective fields. But the cruelest twist of fate is that they never got the chance to repay him. On the very day his eldest son graduated, the old man fell gravely ill and passed away on the journey back to Muar. That son, by the way, is a close friend of mine today.
There must have been at least a hundred becas navigating the streets of Muar during my childhood. These men pedaled to survive, quietly carrying the heavy burden of societal shame. But then, a man stepped forward and changed the narrative forever. He gave them back their dignity. That man was our late, legendary Tan Sri P. Ramlee.
The Night the Screen Lit Up
The year was 1955. P. Ramlee, then a young and fiercely promising talent, was handed the reins to direct his very first Malay film. Out of all the grand, sweeping epics that could have landed on his desk, he chose to tell the story of the common man. He chose the plight of the trishaw rider, and he cast himself in the lead role as Amran, the beca man.
Two weeks before the premiere, promotional flyers flooded the housing estates. The local Kacang Putih sellers were thrilled, quietly hoarding the discarded flyers to use as wrappers for their spiced nuts and snacks. Printed in bold, eye-catching colors, the caption read: “AKAN DATANG… PENAREK BECHA”. It featured the main cast, a gripping synopsis, and most importantly, a striking image of P. Ramlee as Amran, standing proudly beside his trishaw.
Word spread like wildfire. The Rex Cinema was going to screen a Malay movie. For us, this was a monumental event. We rarely got to watch Malay films; our usual diet consisted of English and Hindustani movies. We would watch the Hollywood cowboys, knowing the handsome man was the hero and the Red Indians were the villains. We knew to cover our eyes when the hero leaned in to kiss the heroine. But when the credits rolled on those English films, we rarely understood the actual plot. Now, we were going to watch a film where we understood every single word, every joke, and every tear. In an era before television even existed, the excitement was intoxicating.
Malaya was still under British rule, the Union Jack still fluttering above government buildings, but a cultural awakening was brewing. The film had premiered in Singapore and arrived in Muar a month later. When it did, it struck the Malay community like lightning. I was just six years old, but I was swept up in the frenzy. I excitedly told my regular beca man, Pak Malek, that he absolutely had to watch it. He just smiled and replied, “Pak Malek dah tau lama dah” (I’ve known about this for a long time). That was the beauty of Muarians; we never liked to be left out of the loop.
Our maid, Mak Yang, was appointed as our guardian for the trip, though her wide-eyed excitement made it seem like we were guarding her. Her son, Mat Siput, was tasked with securing the tickets—40 cents a seat. He managed to snag them for the third-day showing. Our crew consisted of Kak Shidah, Kak Arah, Kak Fuzi, Mak Yang, and me. We set off around 6:30 in the evening, walking the mile-and-a-half to the Rex Cinema, our imaginations running wild with speculation about the film.
By the time we arrived, the streets were transformed. The parking area was a sea of becas. It seemed three-quarters of Muar’s trishaw men had brought their families. The Kacang Putih seller was doing booming business, Chinese hawkers had hired extra hands to manage the crowds, and the air was thick with anticipation.
Inside, the hall was still brightly lit. The pre-show music drifted through the air—P. Ramlee’s Azizah, Berkorban Apa Saja, and classics by R. Azmi and S. Effendi. The place was packed with working-class families. Mothers carried babies slung in cloth across their shoulders; toddlers ran through the aisles, their laughter and shouts easily drowning out the melodies. When the lights finally dimmed, it plunged the hall into a chaotic darkness, leaving the ushers to guide latecomers to their seats—a task akin to hunting for durians in the dark undergrowth.
The ceiling fans whirred, doing their best to brush away the thick smoke of a hundred cigarettes. Then, the screen flickered to life, and a hushed, reverent silence fell over the crowd.
The film opened with Encik Marzuki, a wealthy but notoriously stingy man, waiting for a beca. Then came Amran. When P. Ramlee appeared on screen in a battered cowboy hat, his checkered shirt torn and his trousers patched with mismatched cloth, the audience erupted. Almost half the hall broke into thunderous applause. They weren’t just looking at a movie star; they were looking at themselves.
Untuk memahami Muar pada era 50-an dan 60-an, anda perlu memahami denyut nadinya. Pekan ini sangatlah murah hati dan tanah rata, tiada bukit bukau walau sejauh dua puluh kilometer ke mana jua arah anda tuju. Disebabkan itu, basikal adalah raja di jalan raya. Bas bandar memang ada, tetapi operasinya kecil-kecilan dan jadualnya jarang-jarang. Jika anda terlepas bas, dan anda tidak memiliki basikal, anda akan bergantung kepada nadi golongan marhaen: beca. Bagi kami orang Muar zaman itu, beca bukan sekadar kenderaan roda tiga; kami memanggilnya “teksi” kami dengan penuh bangga.
Pada waktu itu, tambang satu batu menjanjikan tiga puluh atau empat puluh sen kepada penarik beca, tidak kira sama ada dia membawa seorang atau tiga penumpang. Peraturan tak bertulisnya, beca boleh memuatkan maksimum empat orang, asalkan dua daripadanya adalah kanak-kanak. Dua orang dewasa akan duduk selesa di sofa kecil di belakang, manakala kanak-kanak akan bersila di papan lantai hadapan. Hujan atau panas, mereka tetap mengayuh. Di musim tengkujuh, mereka rela basah kuyup mengharungi hujan lebat semata-mata mahu mencari sesuap nasi yang halal untuk keluarga.
Namun, di sebalik rasa hormat kami pada keringat mereka, ada sebuah tragedi senyap yang membelenggu jiwa mereka. Anda boleh melihatnya melalui pandangan mata yang sering tunduk dan bahu yang lesu. Masyarakat secara halus telah membuatkan mereka rasa rendah diri, seolah-olah peluh jantan mereka itu suatu kehinaan. Mereka mengayuh kerana tiada pilihan lain.
Saya ingat seorang pakcik beca ini. Dia berazam anak-anaknya tidak akan mewarisi tongkat kemudi becanya. Dia mengayuh siang dan malam, mengorbankan rehatnya demi membiayai pelajaran anak-anak. Hari ini, keempat-empat anaknya sangat berjaya dalam bidang masing-masing. Tetapi takdir memainkan peranan yang paling kejam; mereka tidak sempat membalas budinya. Pada hari anak sulungnya bergraduasi, pakcik itu jatuh sakit dan meninggal dunia dalam perjalanan pulang ke Muar. Anak sulung itu, kini, adalah sahabat rapat saya.
Mungkin ada lebih seratus beca yang memenuhi jalanan Muar zaman kanak-kanak saya. Mereka mengayuh untuk terus hidup, sambil memikul beban rasa malu yang tak terlihat. Tetapi kemudian, muncul seorang insan yang mengubah segala-galanya. Dia memulangkan maruah mereka. Insan itu ialah Seniman Agung kita, Tan Sri P. Ramlee.
Malam Skrin Itu Menyala
Tahun 1955. P. Ramlee, anak muda yang sedang mekar namanya, diberi amanah mengarahkan filem Melayu pertamanya. Daripada banyak kisah epik yang boleh dipilihnya, dia memilih untuk menceritakan kisah rakyat marhaen. Dia memilih kisah penarik beca, dan dia sendiri memegang watak utama sebagai Amran.
Dua minggu sebelum tayangan, risalah promosi mula diedarkan ke setiap kawasan perumahan. Penjual kacang putih sangat gembira, mengutip risalah yang dibuang orang untuk dijadikan pembungkus kacang dan kuaci mereka. Tertera dengan warna yang garang: “AKAN DATANG… PENAREK BECHA”. Ia memaparkan barisan pelakon, sinopsis yang menarik, dan yang paling memikat, gambar P. Ramlee sebagai Amran berdiri di samping becanya.
Berita tersebar bagai api marak. Panggung Rex akan menayangkan filem Melayu! Bagi kami, ini satu peristiwa besar. Jarang sekali kami dapat menonton filem Melayu; selalunya kami hanya menonton filem Inggeris dan Hindustan. Kami tonton filem koboi, tahu lelaki kacak itu wira dan orang Indian itu penjahat. Kami tahu perlu menutup mata apabila wira mencium heroin. Tetapi bila kredit akhir berbunyi, kami jarang faham jalan ceritanya. Kali ini, kami akan menonton filem di mana kami faham setiap patah perkataan, setiap jenaka, dan setiap air mata. Di zaman sebelum televisyen wujud, keterujaan itu memabukkan.
Malaya masih di bawah pemerintahan British, Union Jack masih berkibar di bangunan kerajaan, tetapi satu kebangkitan budaya sedang membara. Filem ini mula ditayangkan di Singapura dan sampai ke Muar sebulan kemudian. Apabila ia tiba, ia menyambar komuniti Melayu bagaikan kilat. Saya baru berusia enam tahun, tetapi turut hanyut dalam gelombang itu. Saya beritahu penarik beca langganan saya, Pak Malek, yang dia mesti tengok wayang ini. Dia cuma tersenyum dan menjawab, “Pak Malek dah tau lama dah”. Itulah indahnya orang Muar; kami pantang ketinggalan kereta api.
Mak Yang, pembantu rumah kami, dilantik menjadi penjaga kami ke panggung, walaupun matanya yang bersinar-sinar membuatkan kami rasa kamilah yang menjaganya. Anaknya, Mat Siput, ditugaskan membeli tiket berharga 40 sen. Dia berjaya mendapatkan tiket untuk tayangan hari ketiga. Rombongan kami terdiri daripada Kak Shidah, Kak Arah, Kak Fuzi, Mak Yang, dan saya. Kami bertolak sekitar 6:30 petang, berjalan kaki sejauh satu setengah batu ke Panggung Rex, sambil berimaginasi tentang apa yang akan kami tonton.
Apabila kami tiba, jalanan sudah berubah. Kawasan letak kereta dipenuhi lautan beca. Nampaknya tiga perempat penarik beca di Muar telah membawa keluarga mereka. Penjual kacang putih rancak berniaga, tokey Cina menambah pekerja, dan udara penuh dengan debaran.
Di dalam, dewan masih terang. Lagu pra-tayangan kedengaran sayup-sayup—Azizah, Berkorban Apa Saja, dan lagu-lagu R. Azmi serta S. Effendi. Panggung padat dengan keluarga kelas pekerja. Ibu-ibu mendukung bayi berselendang di bahu; anak kecil berlari-lari di lorong, gelak tawa mereka menenggelamkan melodi lagu. Apabila lampu akhirnya dipadamkan, dewan menjadi gelap gelita, membiarkan pekerja panggung membimbing penonton yang lambat mencari tempat duduk—umpama mencari durian di semak samun pada waktu malam.
Kipas siling berpusing laju, cuba menyapu asap rokok yang berkepul-kepul. Kemudian, skrin bercahaya, dan satu kesunyian yang penuh takzim menyelubungi penonton.
Filem bermula dengan Encik Marzuki, orang kaya yang sangat bakhil, sedang menunggu beca. Kemudian muncul Amran. Apabila P. Ramlee muncul di skrin dengan topi koboi lusuh, baju kotak-kotak yang koyak, dan seluar bertampal, penonton meletus. Hampir separuh dewan bertepuk tangan gemuruh. Mereka bukan sekadar melihat bintang filem; mereka melihat diri mereka sendiri.
Amran and Azizah
The story revolved around four central figures: Amran (P. Ramlee), his heartthrob Azizah (Sa’adiah Ahmad, playing Marzuki’s daughter), the despicable kampung villain Ghazali (Salleh Kamil), and the arrogant Orang Kaya Marzuki (Udo Omar).
Salleh Kamil’s portrayal of Ghazali was so convincingly wicked that he became the most hated man on screen. I once read that during a screening in Singapore, Salleh was sitting in the audience. When the lights came up and people recognized him, they hurled insults his way; one person even spat at him. That was the sheer brilliance of his acting. He remains, in my eyes, the greatest villain the Malay silver screen has ever produced, even though the real Salleh Kamil was a remarkably gentle soul.
The emotional peak of the film arrived when Azizah and Amran’s forbidden love collided with her father’s cruel class prejudices. There is a scene that is forever etched into the minds of my generation. Azizah, desperate and weeping, begs Amran to take her away from her toxic family. Amran, knowing his place in the world, refuses to ruin her life.
Azizah: “Kalau kau tak mahu bawa aku bersama, lebih baik saja aku mati.” (If you do not want to take me along, it is best that I die.)
Amran: “Kalau kau inginkan mati, aku pun tak ingin nak hidup.” (If you wish to die, I have no desire to live.)
A collective sob rippled through the cinema. Beside me, Mak Yang broke down, weeping as if her own son was leaving her forever, while the three of us kids awkwardly patted her back to console her.
Like the best of love stories, it ended happily. Amran married his Azizah and earned a respectable place working for his reformed father-in-law. And as the curtain began to fall, the true magic happened.
Terima Kasih, P. Ramlee
The beca men in the audience stood up. They didn’t just clap; they cheered. Some were heard shouting, “Terima Kasih P. Ramlee!” (Thank you, P. Ramlee!). For the first time, they weren’t just surviving; they were seen. They were celebrated.
On the ride home, squeezed together in a single beca, our driver sang the movie’s hit song, Azizah, and we all sang along under the night sky. The following Sunday, I asked Pak Malek if he had seen the movie.
He grinned, “Pak Malek tengok tiga kali” (I watched it three times). All the way to school, he sang Azizah with the swagger of P. Ramlee himself, and I happily sang the backup vocals.
From that day forward, the trishaw men of Muar pedaled with their heads held high. The shame was gone, replaced by honor, pride, and a profound sense of belonging. They knew their daily toil was the vital heartbeat of their town’s transport system. And they knew it was P. Ramlee who had reminded the world—and more importantly, reminded them—of their worth.
Amran dan Azizah
Kisah ini berpusat pada empat watak utama: Amran (P. Ramlee), buah hatinya Azizah (Sa’adiah Ahmad), anak gadis Marzuki; Ghazali (Salleh Kamil), pemuda kampung yang jahat; dan Orang Kaya Marzuki (Udo Omar) yang sombong.
Lakonan Salleh Kamil sebagai Ghazali begitu meyakinkan sehingga dia menjadi lelaki paling dibenci di layar. Saya pernah membaca bahawa semasa tayangan di Singapura, Salleh duduk menonton di kalangan penonton. Apabila lampu dibuka dan orang mengenalinya, mereka mencaci makinya; ada yang tergamak meludah ke arahnya. Itulah kehebatan lakonannya. Dia kekal, pada pandangan saya, penjahat terhebat yang pernah dilahirkan oleh perak Melayu, walaupun Salleh Kamil yang sebenar adalah seorang yang sangat lembut hatinya.
Kemuncak emosi filem tiba apabila cinta terlarang Azizah dan Amran bertembung dengan prejudis kelas bapanya. Ada satu babak yang terukir kekal dalam memori generasi saya. Azizah, dalam tangisan yang meruntun jiwa, merayu agar Amran membawanya lari dari keluarganya yang toksik. Amran, sedar akan darjatnya, enggan merosakkan masa depan gadis itu.
Azizah: “Kalau kau tak mahu bawa aku bersama, lebih baik saja aku mati.”
Amran: “Kalau kau inginkan mati, aku pun tak ingin nak hidup.”
Satu dewan menangis. Di sebelah saya, Mak Yang tersedu-sedu, menangis seolah-olah anak lelakinya sendiri yang akan pergi buat selamanya, sementara kami bertiga yang masih kecil janggal menepuk-nepuk belakangnya memujuk.
Seperti kisah cinta agung yang lain, ia berakhir dengan kebahagiaan. Amran mengahwini Azizahnya dan mendapat tempat yang layak di sisi mertuanya yang sudah insaf. Dan apabila tirai mula melabuh, keajaiban sebenar berlaku.
Terima Kasih, P. Ramlee
Penarik-penarik beca di dalam dewan bangun berdiri. Mereka bukan sekadar bertepuk tangan; mereka bersorak. Ada yang kedengaran melaung, “Terima Kasih P. Ramlee!” Buat pertama kalinya, mereka bukan sekadar hidup menampung perut; mereka dilihat. Mereka dirai.
Dalam perjalanan pulang, bersempit-sempit di dalam satu beca, pakcik yang mengayuh kami menyanyi lagu Azizah, dan kami semua turut menyanyi di bawah langit malam. Ahad berikutnya, saya bertanya kepada Pak Malek adakah dia sudah menonton wayang itu.
Dia tersenyum lebar, “Pak Malek tengok tiga kali”. Sepanjang perjalanan ke sekolah, dia menyanyi Azizah dengan gaya persis P. Ramlee, dan saya dengan gembira menjadi penyanyi latarnya.
Sejak hari itu, penarik-penarik beca di Muar mengayuh dengan kepala yang mendongak. Rasa malu itu telah hilang, digantikan dengan maruah, harga diri, dan rasa kepunyaan yang mendalam. Mereka tahu titik peluh harian merekalah nadi pengangkutan pekan mereka. Dan mereka tahu, P. Ramleelah yang telah mengingatkan dunia—dan yang lebih penting, mengingatkan diri mereka sendiri—tentang nilai dan martabat mereka.
