A life well prepared
Raised by two mothers who gave her different gifts but a shared foundation, Tunku Azizah reflects on the love, discipline and quiet lessons that prepared her for a life of service and responsibility.
I have often thought that Allah was especially kind to me in giving me not one mother, but two.
One gave birth to me. The other brought me up as her own.
My parents divorced when I was only one year old, and from then on I was raised by the woman I called Mother. I never thought of her as a stepmother. That word never belonged in our relationship because she never treated me as anything less than her own child.
And my Mummy, the mother who gave birth to me, never allowed any distance or jealousy to exist between us. In fact, she would often say to me:
“I could not have done a better job in bringing you up than Mother did.”
That sentence says everything about the generosity of both women. I was blessed to be loved by two mothers, each of whom gave me something different, and together they prepared me for the woman I would eventually become.
From Mummy, I believe I inherited the artistic streak in me.
The nimble hands. The instinct to create. The love of colour.
Mother was not artistic in that way, nor was she particularly nimble with her hands. That part of me came from Mummy. And these came from Mother, the fascination with beauty, jewellery, textiles, interiors, food, craft and all the little details that can transform something ordinary into something special.
Mother gave me something equally precious. She gave me training. Discipline. Confidence. Responsibility. Religion and an education for life that no classroom could ever have provided.
It was never written down. There were no certificates. There was no formal curriculum. Yet looking back today, I realise it may have been the most important training of my life.
Mother was a wonderful cook, and from the time I was young she always took me into the kitchen with her. That was where another part of my education began.
I stood beside her while she cooked and learnt her recipes directly from her, not simply from written instructions, but by watching, tasting, remembering and doing.
She taught me the little things that recipes rarely explain. How something should look. How it should smell. When it was ready.
What needed a little more of this, or a little less of that. She passed her recipes to me one by one. And then, because she saw something in me even then, she told me:
“I am sending you for cooking lessons because you will be a great cook one day.”
Looking back, that sentence means so much more to me now. Mother had already taught me how to cook. The lessons were not because she could not teach me herself. They were because she wanted me to develop whatever ability she believed I had.
She wanted me to learn more. To become better. To take what she had given me and go further. That was Mother’s way.
She never kept knowledge to herself. She passed it on, then encouraged me to build upon it. So much of what I know about food began in that kitchen beside her.
Her recipes became part of my own repertoire, but more than that, she taught me what cooking really meant.
Food was never merely food. It was hospitality. It was memory. It was family. It was how you welcomed people, comforted them, celebrated with them and showed them that they mattered.
And cooking was only one part of my education beside her. I became Mother’s right-hand man, her errand girl, her helper in almost everything.
Before important ceremonies, I would help her dress. We would choose her jewellery together.
Sometimes I would take three or four different necklaces and combine them to create an entirely new arrangement.
I would play with pieces, imagine new combinations and even come up with ideas for new tiaras for her to wear.
Mother delighted in it. She used to call me her “Asprey Garrard.” I smile when I remember that now.
I did not know then that I was learning design. I simply thought I was playing with Mother’s jewels.
I did not know I was learning styling, proportion, colour, presentation and the confidence to look at something beautiful and imagine it differently.
That creative instinct itself came from Mummy. But Mother gave me the opportunity to use it.
She gave me the playground. She gave me the confidence. She trusted my eye. And because she trusted me, I learnt to trust myself.
That was the extraordinary thing about Mother’s way of teaching me. She did not sit me down and say, I am preparing you for your future. She simply allowed me to participate in her life.
I helped her run the royal household. I watched how she received people, how she organised ceremonies, how she dealt with staff, how she planned a table, a meal, an event or a journey.
I ran errands. I solved little problems. I learnt to notice what needed doing before someone had to tell me.
At the time, it probably felt like ordinary life. Today, I understand that it was an education in leadership, service and responsibility.
A royal household is not sustained by grandeur.
It is sustained by preparation. Someone must remember. Someone must anticipate. Someone must organise. Someone must make decisions. Someone must understand people.
Someone must ensure that hundreds of small details come together so seamlessly that nobody else even notices the work behind them.
Mother taught me how. She taught me informally, almost invisibly. But she trained me extraordinarily well.
When I married and left home, she cried every night for six months. I had been her helper, her errand girl, her companion and her right hand.
But what neither of us could fully have known was that everything I had learnt beside her would follow me into the next chapter of my life.
Cooking. Entertaining. Managing a household. Organising ceremonies. Understanding protocol. Choosing jewellery. Designing. Working with craftsmen. Seeing colour and proportion. Managing people. Improvising when plans went wrong. Creating something beautiful without unnecessary extravagance.
And above all, understanding that service is often found in the things nobody sees.
Years passed. Life carried me much further than the young girl running errands for Mother could possibly have imagined.
Then, in October 2018, Mother was diagnosed with liver cancer. By then, time had become precious.
In November that year, I overheard her speaking to Datin Paduka Seri Hajah Mariam Aziz of Brunei.
She said:
“I pray to Allah that I will live long enough to see her become Queen of Malaysia.”
There was no reason then to imagine what was about to unfold. My husband was still Tengku Mahkota of Pahang. None of us could have anticipated the extraordinary events of January 2019.
Following the abdication of Sultan Muhammad V as Yang di-Pertuan Agong, circumstances changed with extraordinary speed. In Pahang, because of the age and incapacity of my father-in-law, my husband ascended the throne as Sultan of Pahang. Soon afterwards, he was elected Yang di-Pertuan Agong. And I became Raja Permaisuri Agong.
Mother’s prayer was answered. She lived to see it.
There was another gift too. Mother gave me a beautiful diamond necklace that she herself had worn when she was Queen of Malaysia.
When my official portrait as Raja Permaisuri Agong was taken, I wore her necklace. To everyone else, it was a magnificent piece of jewellery. To me, it was something entirely different.
It was memory. It was continuity. It was a mother’s blessing. And perhaps it was also the completion of a lesson that had begun decades earlier, when a little girl stood beside Mother choosing her jewels and inventing new ways for her to wear them.
Mother saw my official portrait. She saw me become Queen. Then, in March 2019, she passed away.
She had prayed only months earlier that Allah would allow her to live long enough to see that day. Allah granted her prayer.
When I look back upon my life now, I see the hands of both my mothers everywhere.
From Mummy came the artistic instinct. The nimble hands. The love of colour. The desire to make, design, sew, embroider, decorate and imagine.
From Mother came the discipline to put those gifts to work. She taught me how to cook. She taught me her recipes. She taught me how to run a household. How to receive people. How to organise. How to prepare. How to serve. How to observe. How to think ahead. How to carry responsibility without making a performance of it.
One mother gave me the creative streak. The other gave me the training to use it.
And perhaps that is why, even today, when I sit down with needle and thread, arrange flowers, cook a meal, design a piece, choose colours, organise an event or transform an idea into something tangible, I feel traces of both women in what I do.
And perhaps that is why this latest needlepoint collection means more to me than simply bottles, placemats and coasters.
I designed and hand-embroidered each needlepoint piece myself, stitch by stitch. When they were completed, I photographed the embroidery and reimagined the designs for another life: on bottles, placemats and coasters.
What began in my hands as needle and thread became something entirely different, yet the original handwork remained at its heart.
In many ways, that little collection brings both my mothers back to me.
The artistic instinct, the nimble hands and the desire to create came from Mummy.
The discipline to finish what I started, to think about how something should be presented, used and shared with others came from Mother.
So when I look at those finished pieces, I see far more than a design.
I see inheritance. I see training. I see two mothers.
And I see how beautifully Allah can take the gifts planted in a child many years ago and allow them to bloom much later in life.
For years, I thought I was simply helping Mother. Now I realise that she was teaching me. For years, perhaps I thought Mummy merely understood my artistic side. Now I realise that part of her lives in my hands.
I was never raised by one mother replacing another. I was raised by two women who loved me enough to recognise the place of the other in my life. That may be one of the greatest blessings Allah gave me.
So when I look at the woman I became, I cannot claim the credit alone.
To Mummy, thank you for the artistic streak within me.
To Mother, thank you for your love, for the quiet, informal and priceless training for the life I was destined to lead.
Between the two of you, you gave me something no school could ever have provided.
A life well prepared.
With all my love and gratitude:
اللَّهُمَّ اغْفِرْ لَهَا وَارْحَمْهَا وَعَافِهَا وَاعْفُ عَنْهَا
Allahummaghfir lahā warhamhā wa ‘āfihā wa‘fu ‘anhā.
O Allah, forgive her, have mercy upon her, grant her peace and pardon her.
Al-Fatihah
Tunku Azizah Aminah Maimunah Iskandariah is a master’s candidate at the International Institute of Islamic Thought and Civilisation (ISTAC), International Islamic University Malaysia.
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