Ignorance is (not necessarily) bliss

More often than not, I wish I was a non-believer.

But not to believe is a privilege my family and I could not afford. And to deny the existence is sheer folly. Especially when what we have to deal with was not born yesterday but could be centuries ago or worse, since time immemorial.

Whether I like it or not, I was born into a race that has multiple facades. A race that is exceptionally sensitive of its own inferiorities and yet, quick to condemn others when opportunity comes knocking. A race that lends a helping hand and at the same time, uses the other hand to stab you in the back. A race where tongues may whisper words of angels and in the same breath, spew venomous and spiteful comments. It is also a race which cannot and would not separate the concepts of race and religion, at least where Malaysia is concerned. Such is the mindset that there cannot be anything other than a Muslim Malay. Putting those facts aside, there is something more pressing which I intend to address. At first glance, we cling tightly to the pillars of our religion. Prayers, reciting verses from the Holy Quran, covering ourselves from head to toe, fasting during Ramadhan and paying yearly tithes are among a few of many obligations that we must carry out in worshipping our God. And just as we believe there is the one supreme God Almighty, we are also to believe the existence of Satan and the latter's promise to use his wiles and ways to cause the sons (and daughters) of Adam to turn their backs against God. A deeper look underneath the God-fearing surface, however, would portray something else.

The same people who society sees and/or respects as epitome of faithful devouts may also be the same people who dabble with the unknown and supernatural forces. While I'm not saying all of them are guilty, I am saying that the extent or prevalence of black magic in the Malay society does cause me to look at people (regardless of what they wear or how they appear to be) and think twice. I should not be blamed for this weary mindset because even if the general Malay society denies this, black magic and liaisons with unholy forces are accepted as the 'norm'. With some families, it goes far beyond. As much as I hate to acknowledge it, it also forms the backbone of legacies from ancestors, one that we cannot run away from.

To a non-believer, stories of supernatural encounters are probably those copied from Hollywood thrillers. And as pointed out by a colleague during a recent company dinner, some of the rites and rituals seemed downright silly. He was of course, referring to a ceremony where for a brief few minutes amidst the pomp and splendour, no one else seemed to know what was whispered by the old man to the main personality. I could have chosen to stay quiet but I could not. Knowledge forbade me from accepting those remarks because no matter how silly it may look to the undiscerning eye, that brief moment was actually the most pivotal aspect of the entire event. And I told him. The event which he just commented as silly and incomprehensible was the moment of 'acceptance', a single action that ensures continuity of a long legacy. What others could not hear or see was the transfer which the supernatural forces now acknowledge and swear to protect.


I'm not sure if I'm being understood when referring to the 'transfer'. If you don't think I'm making sense, then maybe you should stop here. Leave my blog site and get yourself a copy of this movie called 'Fallen' starring Denzel Washington. In that movie, the main character was a cop burdened with solving a series of murders which mirrored the doings of a long dead serial killer. While they had thought the new murders were results of copycats, the truth was far scarier. What had happened was that the spirit of the dead serial killer had actually possessed living humans and got them to do his dirty deeds. The movie was all about Denzel's character tracking the spirit as it transfers from one body to another, leaving a grisly trail of 'catch me if you can'. Just when Denzel managed to trap the spirit and thinks that the evil will die with him (and us, heaving a collective sigh of relief), we're in for a shocker. Denzel dies but the spirit escaped by entering the body of a cat which happened to pass by at that crucial moment. And the spirit lives on...


So that's the whole idea of a 'transfer'. While I'm not exactly talking about spirits of dead serial killers running loose, the gist is there. The supernatural connection will be transferred (or renewed) from the old host to the new host. The only two questions are a) when? and b) how?. For the first question, it ranges from a period of time leading to the old host's imminent death to the actual death. In exceptional cases, it could also happen after the old host has passed on and the supernatural forces now find themselves 'house-less'. In the latter scenario, the situation will often be chaotic as surviving family members have to brace themselves against onslaughts by restless forces. As to the question of 'how', it is slightly trickier. The transfer can take place in so many forms.


A common style is usually identified as the 'deathbed scene'. As the old host draws his or her last breath, the chosen successor will often be drawn to the dying person's side. Whether the successor knows or not what is in store, is of course a completely different story. It could be a simple verbal assurance along the lines of 'Yes, you may go now. Rest in peace', a kiss on the forehead or clasping of the hands. Another form of transfer (which is often downplayed by many in terms of importance) is the act of accepting the deceased's possessions. Many fail to realise that the readiness in taking the deceased's money and other valuable items equals to their acceptance of the deceased's supernatural friends as well. And just when you think 'acceptance' can only happen with a conscious state of mind, think again. A personal experience has taught me that these forces can invade your realm of dreams in their bid to get a new host. What happened to me was this. I was approached by two figures bearing uncanny resemblance of a loved one. While one figure remained rooted, another kept advancing towards me with outstretched arms. I didn't know what I did but I managed to wake up from that dream. To this day, I continue to miss that person who was so dear to me but I would not have liked a repeat of what I dreamed.

Some of my relatives chose to ignore our history by refusing to discuss it. Like ostriches hiding their heads in the sands, they seemed to think that our past will easily disappear. They forget two things. We will die but those forces remain. And upon our deaths, the living will find out, sooner or later, that ignorance is not necessarily bliss.

Wishing

I've tried (desperately) to hang on to my age but yesterday came and despite me being thankful I'm alive and well, the life calendar now shows a new page. 2-8. *Cue* you may now sing me a birthday song and bring in the cake. Clap! Clap!

Yes, it was my 28th birthday, just in case you're still curious. Unfortunately, the date that has just passed really didn't mean anything except for the part where -

(a) there's only one more birthday before I turn a decade older. But then again, as a friend had helpfully pointed out, we grow older every day (and since we're at it, by the seconds and minutes too) and not only by the year or even decade;

(b) I'm now officially a year older than Mama's age when she gave birth to me. That's another feather to my cap after I turned 25 and still no signs of the other half (much less a walk down the aisle). You see, Mama settled down at 25. And if I'm to consider myself really accomplished, I just found out from Mama that my late maternal grandmother had given birth to 7 kids by the age of 28. So if the world puts me, Mama and Tok Mak on the same timeline, I would definitely know where I stand;

(c) even when I'm inching closer to my third decade, there are moments when I feel like time has not passed by at all. I will always be my parents' daughter, the one whose expressions remain unchanged from her toddler days. Like Abah said, I'm blessed to be able to turn milk into yoghurt just by staring at it, haha. And despite the steady increase in age, my parents will always be able to see through my mood swings, sorrow and heartache regardless of the masks I tried to fool them with. To them, I think I will always be the little girl who moved together with them into our present (and only) house. Back then and before the birth of my sisters, I was alone and the only friends I had were our neighbours' boys who are of the same age as me. My parents, especially Abah, enjoy recounting (and perhaps embellishing) stories about how I would sit by the drain and call out those boys for conversations through our then wire-fences.

And even if I'm earning my own money right now, no amount would be sufficient to stop Abah from reminiscing about the day I had offered to treat both of them with Nasi Ayam. I believe I was around 4 years old and had with me, a crisp 10 ringgit note. According to Abah, he asked me whether I was ok in treating them lunch and I said yes. When it was time to pay, the little girl gave her 10 ringgit and had a crestfallen look when the Nasi Ayam seller didn't return the 10 ringgit to her. What she received instead was loose change, a fact which she could not comprehend despite agreeing to treat her parents earlier. So Abah had to fish out his own money, return the crisp 10 ringgit note to the daughter and the story became a permanent fixture in my history. Some say it's a story of plain cheapskate-ness. I prefer to see it as appreciation of economic reality at a young age. To my credit, I would always emphasise that when my special day comes (if any), I would personally foot the bill for two plates of Nasi Ayam for my parents!;

(d) I received gifts from my sisters and friends. Like today, I received in my mail, a canvas print from Syazwina who's still in Tasmania for her architorture course (pun intended). She didn't mention she had a gift in store for me but Abah had spilled the beans the day before, haha. Before you say it's just a canvas print, let me point out one small but very significant detail. The photograph was taken by my own sister! Impressive, eh? And note the cute grey card, also handcrafted with love, hahaha.


Syazana, on the other hand, had passed my birthday gift to a friend who had visited Korea, in advance. However, despite her reminders and my friend's reminders (must be weird for him to keep on holding to a girl's accessories), I never did manage to retrieve my birthday present. I think now would be a good time for me to give my friend a tinker.

And thanks to the generosity of two friends, I will be watching Chris Botti performing with the Malaysian Philharmonic Orchestra on 6 December 2011! One of them tried to fool me by saying they got a ticket free but hey, I could not be expected to fall for that, right? Since I knew there's nothing free in that part of the world (I should know, I've been a subscriber for quite some time). Anyway, YTS & TGG, thank you!;


(e) friends and acquaintances remembered my birthday and left me with birthday wishes. While I'm never one for reminding people of that 1 day and harping on presents, I do believe technology has eroded my faith in the age-old saying 'It's the thought that counts!'. Before facebook came into our lives, I knew for sure only my immediate family and a super small group of friends actually remembered my birth date. While the number of wishes may be minute, I knew that when they wished me 'Happy Birthday', they really remembered it was my birthday. Now, I would receive a staggering number of birthday wishes from people on my fb list but with it, comes this nagging sensation. Do they wish 'Happy Birthday' because they really remembered someone's birthday? Or is it a mere glance at the 'Events' column of their profile showing which friend is now turning a year older. To be honest, I'm guilty of the same offence too. Apart from close friends whose birthdates are stored in my handphone, my online postings of birthday wishes depend on whether or not I had the chance to go on facebook for that particular day. So it's no longer about having the thought that counts. It only counts if you're an active facebook user!; and

(f) I had the chance to meet up with two sets of friends, both important in their own ways. The first was those I had known since 6 years old. We had travelled the uncharted path of primary school together for five years, went separate ways but somehow reconnected after a lapse of almost two decades. It was with this group of friends that I had a buka puasa gathering last Thursday and it soon turned out to be an impromptu early birthday party for me.

The second set was my faculty batchmates who I had studied with during 2003-2007. We were strangers at first but after years of being baked, grilled, roasted and panned by our law lecturers, it was surprising that we ended up as friends. It was with this group that I celebrated my birthday in a quaint restaurant along Jalan Yap Kwan Seng yesterday.

That's all for now. I'm still reeling from the fact that I'm now a year older. So forgive me while I run elsewhere for a breather.

Ain't It Funny

For many reasons, the title of Jennifer Lopez’ song hits the right note for the things which have caught my interest or those which I wanted to blog about.

First, my updates on my dancing class last Sunday. Before anything else, my parents forgot that my Sunday afternoons are now taken up by my new interest. So, they were somewhat caught by surprise when I came down dressed in silvery tights and loose top, picked up my handbag and rushed out of the house at 11.15 a.m. Unlike the previous week's class, I reached the dancing school well ahead of time. While waiting for my instructor’s earlier class to end, I took the chance to mentally go through the series of steps which were taught last week. And thank God I did that because this time around, the class was slightly different. For starters, we couldn’t face the mirror and practice those steps. The instructor wanted us to actually move around and not stay rooted in one place. The seven female students (including moi. May I take this opportunity to lament the dearth or non-existent male dance students?) stood in a big circle with the instructor sitting by the DVD player at the side. Once everybody was in position and JLo’s song comes blaring (which is what I’m using as background music to write this entry, by the way. It’s really killing two birds with one song, as I try to write and do a mental Samba), we started dancing. Well, I would like to believe we were dancing. It's much better than telling you about flailing limbs and dizziness as we tried to twirl across the studio. But one thing's for sure. It was really great to be able to dance with the instructor. Now, I meant it as a seriously platonic comment. Samba is, after all, a dance meant for couples. To dance alone, despite knowing the steps, just doesn't seem right. And with a partner (nevermind that he's my instructor. Am pathetic, I know), it actually made the steps alive and breathing to the music. To show how inspired I was, I even played JLo's song on youtube and tried to dance in my living room. Mama was my sole audience and as I tried to retrace the steps, I must have looked downright funny. My legs were definitely moving but my arms had to 'rest' itself on an imaginary partner's shoulders. Think it took everything of Mama not to laugh or make comments that may just scar my dancing shoes. Well, I think I've now learned the complete series of steps for beginner's Samba. So, who knows...I may write another entry on my next class as I hopefully progress to more complicated steps. I just hope my limbs are able to withstand the music.

Second, a recent facebook chat I had with a friend who's currently studying abroad. I may have initiated the conversation because I asked him about possible accommodation in Kota Kinabalu for a friend's wedding. The conversation however took a different turn when he asked me whether it was possible for him to ask me on 'something'. That 'something' turned out to be him wanting my views on the recent controversy surrounding 8TV's Ramadhan advertisement. That advertisement has since been retracted but people are still in opposite camps as to the message behind that particular advertisement. He started the ball rolling by telling me what he thought of it. In short, he was offended at the thought of how a certain race was offended by that advertisement. He was of the view that it was just a case of making a mountain out of a molehill and that people should just chill out over a non-issue. He agreed it was a stupid ad but to call it racist was unjustifiable. I was left perturbed. And I had to disagree with him.

To be fair, I did not watch the advertisement. Probably the main reason was because I hardly watch local tv programmes nowadays. My time is a bit too precious to be spent on listening to government propaganda or their one-sided attacks on the opposition. Well, I have digressed as usual. Anyway, I told him that even if I did not watch the actual advertisement, so much have been discussed on it that it's almost as if I had seen the ad on tv.

To me, it was simple. For an advertisement that wishes to highlight the holy month of Ramadhan, surely there are much better premises to pick from to convey such messages. It obviously doesn't look good to do so while harping on other people's faults. I agree that there are certain quarters of the society (including the Malays themselves) who would go about eating at the Bazaar Ramadhan without scant regard to those around them who are observing the fasting month. But one should never narrow it down to a particular race as indicated by the features of the actress in question. When it happened the way it did, I find it to be racism. Although it may be subtle and mild as compared to the anhilation of Jews by way of gas chambers, it is still nonetheless, a form of racism. I tried to point out that wouldn't it be funny if Malays are depicted in a negative light instead? After all, Malays are themselves, not perfect. If that really happens, we would have the political leaders up in arms for attacking the majority race. The same voices which said 'chill la' will also be the ones yelling themselves hoarse to kick those 'ungrateful ones' out of this country.

My friend pointed out that there was in fact an advertisement showing how a Malay man refused to give up his seat to the elderly in the LRT. Well, point taken. But I had to remind him that there was a consequent uproar which resulted in the removal of that advertisement. So it serves my point. Especially when one takes the holy month of Ramadhan into consideration, there should be more sensitivity to the angle of the intended message. And just as Ramadhan is not only a month for fasting, Ramadhan is also a month for us to reflect on our faults and redeem ourselves. It doesn't serve anything if we stop our mouths from eating and drinking but allow our tongues and minds to criticise others. God is not stupid or blind or deaf. Most importantly, I'm a believer that you teach others best by your own conduct. It is pointless for us to preach on the moral high grounds when our behaviour denotes the extreme opposite end.

I should end this entry with a few parting notes -

(a) I just realised we're already in the second week of fasting. How time flies. I wish to wish fellow Muslim brethren a 'Selamat Berpuasa' and hope that this holy month brings you great satisfaction and improvements in all aspects, be it spiritually, emotionally, mentally or physically;

(b) on a personal level, I'm happy to say that this year's terawih prayers have been the best for me. For those who know me, I'm not actually what you can describe as the devout faithful. Well, miracles are made each and every day, right? Hope it continues for the rest of the month, God willing; and

(c) as usual, I've successfully lagged behind on my blogging. This entry was supposed to be a Sunday's script but considering it written on a Wednesday, I guess nothing much has changed in that aspect!

Believe it or not

After what must have been one of my most hectic Saturdays (a wedding lunch, a religious prayer in the afternoon and a formal evening dinner which I was Mom’s escort. I was also Mom’s driver for the day), I was planning for a laid-back Sunday. You know, the kind of Sunday where I would do nothing but eat and sleep. Given that it was also the last Sunday before the start of Ramadhan and Sunday night would mean the beginning of 30 nights of terawih prayers (Insya Allah), the ticking minutes and hours of the day were indeed precious.

Well, I’ve to say the plan started out quite well. I woke up around 10-ish and since I’ve done my laundry as well as the bulk of my ironing the day before, I felt quite relieved. Yes, I’m a bit of Monica (from Friends. Not Lewinsky) when it comes to house chores. Anyway, it was 11 a.m. after I was done with a quick shower and ironed a few more blouses. Mom was already in the kitchen reheating the briyani leftovers for brunch and I thought I was set for a lazy Sunday. But it was here when Mom reminded me of a meet she had with a former teacher of mine a few days ago. Mom persuaded me to call my former teacher and despite my apprehension, I was soon on the phone with my former teacher.

The call was short, more of taking up from where we had left off. Since I last met my former teacher when I was in Standard 6, we had quite a bit of catching up to do. Obviously, she basically knows the 101 of my life since then, thanks to my parents who must have filled her in with the must-know essentials. I didn’t get to ask her much about her life though, especially when she informed me that she’s currently in Singapore! On my part, I felt I could wait to ask her personally if that means saving my phone bills from reaching the ceiling! But before we ended the call amidst promises to meet up pretty soon, she asked me to drive to Taipan before 11.30 a.m. The clock on the wall was already showing 11.20.
Lunch was regrettably an abrupt event, with mere spoonfuls of briyani rice. With a barely full stomach, I was on the road.

I arrived at my teacher’s place a little over 11.30. Call me silly but despite my teacher’s absence, I could feel the trepidation as I walk up the two flight of stairs. It was strangely a case of my 27 year-old self disappearing and replaced by a tiny (perhaps some of you would say ‘tinier’) long-haired girl of 12 years old. As I made my entrance, I really felt time did not pass and I was sucked into my past. It was no longer 2011 but somewhere prior to 1994.

For the first time in 15 years, I finally returned to that once-familiar surroundings. With walls lined with full-length mirrors, brown wooden flooring and wooden bars where I used to hold while doing pliés, I was definitely back in the ballet studio. As I stared at my image, the childhood memory of wearing leotard, soft pink leggings with ribbon-strapped ballet shoes and long hair that’s neatly tied in a bun came for a fleeting moment. But the vision was only briefly for it soon made way into my present, me with short hair and casually dressed in jeans and tees. And in the place of my former ballet friends who were of the same age as I was, were three other girls who must not have been an inch more than 14 years old.

The male instructor was not surprised to see me there. Without much ado and no introduction, I was asked to join the three girls as they move about in the studio. One of them was wearing strappy sandals while the other two were barefooted like me. I tried to follow their steps but coming in at the end of a cha-cha-cha lesson was sheer bad timing. I was just moving my legs, trying to coordinate them to imitate what I see with scant regard to what is right and left. Well, it was to my enormous relief when the instructor said that he will teach us how to dance the Samba.

That relief was short-lived. The images I had of Samba from movies were exciting. Dancers would be dancing along to the infectious rhythm and enjoying the time of their lives. Well, time for a reality check. In the one hour that followed, all I could feel was sweat trickling down my spine as we tried to follow the instructor’s moves. The excitement was left forgotten as my befuddled mind tries to remember the different sets of steps. There was the infectious song all right but as the tune was stopped time and time again when we commit errors, the song became something of a broken record. The hour ended with the instructor asking us to practice those steps before we return the following weekend.

So that was how I spent my Sunday afternoon (and how I will spend the rest of my Sunday afternoons in the near future) with aching limbs. In case you’re not able to understand what I’ve written thus far, let me put it to you gently. I’ve begun attending social dance classes, believe it or not. I figured it’s much better than gym and I still get to lose some weight, fingers crossed. And if there’s any social function which may require a spot of dancing, then I may not be that hopeless a case. But then again, it takes two to tango. So I may have to continue looking for the other half who wouldn’t think a request for Waltz as a craving for ice-cream!