Annus Mirabilis 2014

I was a Primary 3 pupil when the Queen of England admitted year 1992 as Her Majesty's annus horribilis. To the 9 year old me, it seemed very strange that the lady who breathes epitome of Queen's English, had somehow peppered her speech with a foreign sounding term.  Although I eventually learnt it was Latin for 'a horrible year', it took 21 years before I myself  proclaimed 2013 as my annus horribilis.

 

2013 was expected to be a year like any other. Where 12 months of routine and insignificance will pass before first of January re-appears like a fine-tuned clockwork. What I didn't expect was for 2013 to be a year of tremendous change for me. The years of pent-up frustration and work-related stress, calculated suppression of emotional outbursts, constant grappling with what I see as personal failures and a steady inward spiral into depression were bent on throwing a huge party. To which I was the host but not invited.

 

Despite the smiles I could muster as a front, it did nothing to calm my inner being. I was mentally and emotionally exhausted. Writing and speaking out are my strongholds but yet, words can't be found to describe the hell I was going through. Even with family members and friends, part of it was my pride that I will always be there for them and their troubles. The idea that I need their help was to me, a point of personal weakness. I have to always, always, always be in control. The fact that I knew I was losing control materialised in many ways. Some were more visible to the world, some were only mine to see. My pillow was inevitably dampened by silent tears. Sleep was only a brief respite as the eyes became trained to stare into darkness. Dreams were fleeting, too far and few in between. And yet, the alarm clock would faithfully ring its head to usher in a new morning. I would get up from the bed and trudged into the world thinking 'Today's just another day'. 

 

I knew I was hitting rock-bottom and dropping further. It doesn't help when I needed some space, and I got those 'you're spiritually lacking' poison to the ears instead. For the sages out there, you wouldn't know how close one is to his or her God or the extent of an individual's battle with their personal demons. In moments like these, one needs comforting words to clear their thoughts. Don't preach to those who are already eyeing that strand of rope and wonder whether it's strong enough to hang. Your words may just be the final push for them to jump from some rooftop, if only to escape from your well-meaning intentions.  

 

From those thoughts, I felt I have to make a change. That was how I took a considerable period of unpaid leave and embarked on a month-long European trip. My first solo trip, the first tick on my bucket list. The trip had its moments of fright but deliriously liberating all the same. I've written on this before (check out Recollections from a crazy journey) but clearly, you wouldn't know earlier how it was really fuelled by desperation. I returned home (in one piece, thank God) and changed jobs soon after. The decision meant uprooting myself from Kuala Lumpur to Penang but I took it in my stride. And it's here in Penang that I'm spending the last few hours of 2013 before we usher in 2014.

 

I don't know about you but tonight, I'll be having dinner with a few good friends in some restaurant in Straits Quay. Others may wish for far greater dreams in the year to come. I just want to enjoy the present and silently hoping (and praying) that 2014 be my annus mirabilis! With the Leessang first showcase in Malaysia in January and the My Fair Lady musical in February, it's starting to look like a wonderful year ahead (and possibly the start of many more exciting years to come!).

 

Have a blessed Happy New Year! Don't drink and drive. Just dance the night away :)

 

Do you want to build a snowman?

Today is 11.12.13, a day that only happens once every hundred years. It's also supposedly a good day to get married. I should know, my personal e-mail has been flooded with such messages from astrology websites. Reading each friendly e-mail only reminds me that where I'm concerned, it's not really about finding a day to say 'I do'. It's more of finding Mr. Right For Me, a gargantuan task that no man has survived. A miracle that well-meaning (and admittedly, nosey) friends and relatives are hoping to witness in this lifetime.

 

 

But then again, isn't Christmas a season of miracles? Perhaps. That's the only plausible explanation for me to have watched Disney's Frozen last night. My sister was thoroughly gobsmacked to discover that for the first time in our lives, I've actually watched an animated movie before her! She went further to pronounce that the world must be coming to an end. Well okay, that's not a miracle we're hoping for in the near future. Yet, I can't say I regretted my impromptu choice. And given that I don't really do well around kids (my sisters call it as 'natural aversion'), the fact that I enjoyed the movie very much despite a jam-packed hall of kids are miracles worth mentioning.

 

 

Frozen is Disney's fantastic take on Hans Christian Andersen's 'The Snow Queen'. After scaring generations of children with tales of the wicked Queen, the world finally learns this Christmas that behind the icy walls and beyond wintery chills, the Queen was just a terrified elder sister. One who is blessed or cursed with the gift of creating ice, frost & snow by the touch of her hands. She almost accidentally killed her younger sister when they were younger and in a bid to protect her loved ones, chose to isolate herself. There was the Disney brand of romance, of course, but the main highlight of the movie remained outstandingly the bond between Elsa & Anna. While Elsa was forced to remain distant and over time, became used to the idea of living alone, Anna can't fathom the sudden estrangement and attempts to reach out to her sister with the help of Kristoff, Sven the reindeer and Olaf, the snowman. Consciously aware that this is a Disney animation after all, I didn't think there would be emotional attachment to the characters. Somehow, my heart didn't think so and aggravated by the moving songs throughout the movie (it's just so good, I don't have a favourite. I liked them all!), the eyes did become watery at times. My only relief was that a young mother seated next to me had it worst. The suppressed sniffles were definitely not flu-related!

 

Although Kristoff was necessary as the sort-of Prince Charming who rescues Anna and Prince Hans was the charmingly insidious villain, the (snow)man of the hour has to be Olaf! His lines were just a pure mixture of innocent fun and rib-tickling sarcasm, with some even downright cheesy. If a human guy says that 'some people are worth melting for' to my face, I would probably raise both eyebrows and walk away. When Olaf said those words as he comforted Anna by the fireplace, I couldn't help but feel endeared. The cheesiness became a true reflection of how much he was prepared to sacrifice, only for him to add in a matter of seconds (and him desperately clinging to his melting face) that just ... maybe not right this second. So how can anyone not love Olaf??? I know I'm in love.

 

 

Watch Frozen if you've not done so. It's a fitting welcome for Christmas and if some of us have not the experience of building a snowman before, I can tell you this. It zaps your energy and takes up time for a snowman to appear. And when it does, at that precise magical moment, you'll forget the tiredness and will always remember the snowman, even when it melts as spring beckons. Like family, it'll remain in a special corner of your heart, as one of the fondest memories. So, do you want to build a snowman?

Senseless loss of heritage

Where real property is concerned, it’s an oft-quoted joke that the three most important factors to be considered are ‘location, location, location’. That joke is now a tragic end to a pre-historic remains of a 1200 years-old Sri Vijayan Hindu temple (known as Candi No. 11) in Sungei Batu area of Bujang Valley. Boasting a sprawling area of hundreds of acres, Bujang Valley is arguably Malaysia’s richest archaeological site and world-renowned for the preserved cultural remnants of ancient Buddhism and Hinduism as well as representing the beginning of early Malay civilisation. What is now left of the Candi’s immense historical value and significance, given its birth before the 13th century, is a piece of cleared land for a housing project.

 

 

The temple’s disappearance was discovered and brought to public attention by Datuk V. Nadarajan, a researcher on Bujang Valley history and recently confirmed by Penang’s Deputy Chief Minister II, Prof. P. Ramasamy, who had earlier researched on the Chola presence in Bujang Valley. Such destruction could have been avoided if the Merbok Land Office had monitored and notified the developer of the existence of this historical structure. Not only was this not done, the developer was also given the green-light to proceed with clearance of the site! One may argue that the developer's ignorance is not to be faulted when the supervisory powers of our Ministry seemed to have failed spectacularly.

 

 

Yet, it is undoubted that the sheer negligence involved has resulted in a senseless loss of heritage. It is a black mark for Malaysia, especially when other countries are part of a global effort to safeguard historical treasures for future generations. Against a backdrop of worthless rubble and bygone eras, we must realise that saving ancient historical monuments like those in Bujang Valley as well as other areas in Malaysia is a solemn duty imposed on all Malaysians. Similarly, the Federal Government must have the political will to act and punish those who destroy or abet in destroying our country’s rich historical tapestry. Regrets, apologies and even promises to rebuild are unacceptable for a lost piece of history. Even if the Candi was rebuilt in the 1970's using original materials as reported, we can't simply be satisfied in building another Candi (with new materials to boot!) on the original site. The debate has never been about building a new shopping complex to replace the old. The anger lies with the blatant disrespect towards our shared history, albeit historical monuments. If the relevant bodies are not held accountable for this debacle, a sequel to ‘The Lost World of Bujang Valley’ would be most unsurprising.

 

I am now living in a state which boasts of UNESCO World Heritage sites. While the island may be jam-packed with tourists during weekends, everyone clamouring to visit these protected areas, I do feel a sense of pride that there are heritage areas in Malaysia after all. Just as I travel overseas and chase after foreign historical monuments, I fully understand the breath-taking awe which overwhelms guests to my island. Every right thinking citizen of the world would realise that what we call as heritage including monuments and historical places are 'presents' from the earlier generations. And what we deem as our present is really our gifts over time to our younger generations. Although I welcome the Kedah State Government’s issuance of a stop work order against the developer, it remains a fact that a historical monument has been destroyed. Hence, measures must be taken to ascertain the offence(s) and prosecute the offenders.

 

 

The Kedah State Government should use this unfortunate episode to galvanise its efforts to preserve their remaining historical structures and artifacts. The Ministry of Tourism and Culture, particularly the Ministry’s Department of Heritage should also take immediate steps to list Bujang Valley as a UNESCO Heritage Site. By the way, I don't see a point of sending delegations overseas to promote Malaysia when there is little or nothing to be promoted about. We don't need another shopping mall, everyone has one. But how many visitors can proclaim that they have a monument they're proud of? I am not an architect by training. Yet, I could, and so should you, appreciate Frank Gehry’s observation that - 

‘in the end, the character of a civilization is encased in its structures’.

A bite of class

On normal days, my lunch will cost something less than a red hued note. If I'm lucky enough, I can even walk away with a fed tummy thanks to a green slip. For Fridays however, I tend to over-indulge myself. There will be a main course, a drink and one dessert, a combination that easily sets me back with one big satisfying (and yet, discreet) burp and the lone RM50 flying to the till. I may get some change in return but the purse somehow then loses its shine.

 

So there I was, dipping my breaded fish fillet and chips into the tartar sauce at one of my favourite cafes. It's a far cry from my usual marinara spaghetti, a choice that was compelled by an innocent question by the shop owner. When he said 'Leng lui, are you ordering the same thing this week too?, I had to prove him wrong. All bets are off as my eyes scanned the menu and my mind shrieking 'No Marinara!' before the finger points at Fish & Chips. It took the whole 3 scoops of chocolate ice-cream with whipped cream and chocolate sauce later to convince me that Marinara can wait another week.

Still recovering from the throes of despair, I did what a reasonable person is expected to do nowadays - surfed the net using iPhone.  And boy, that's the second mistake I did. What greeted me, and I simply had the itch to click on it, was the headline screaming 'A meal at the most expensive restaurant in the world costs US$600!' From a person who thought RM50 for lunch was already grand, I now know my station in life. It's a far, far, far cry from those who can spend RM1800 for a fleeting culinary masterpiece.

While I've had the privilege of visiting those three cities, I've to admit with much regret that I never once had the opportunity to dine in either Kitcho in Kyoto (listed as the number 1 most expensive restaurant. At US$600 per person, it is reverently described as the high temple of 'kaiseki'. Although my vocabulary doesn't go beyond 'Set Lunch/Dinner Deals' and the likes, kaiseki is a style of traditional Japanese cuisine consisting of a series of small, intricate dishes), Le Meurice in Paris (number 2 on the list. At US$509 per person, one is allowed to be transported back to the pomp & splendour  of Louis & Marie Antoinette. Well, at least before the Dauphin and the Dauphine had their unceremonious date with Madame Guillotine in 1793) and Masa in New York (at US$450 per person, it is number 3 on the must-go places when one dates in the Big Apple). How's that for a bite of class?

Anyway, I don't think I'll ever step foot on their hallowed grounds. Unless who knows, they decide to run a kitchen soup for weary travellers. Till that day arrives on my doorstep, the nearest I've ever been to these food temples are the Michelin starred restaurants in Singapore's Marina Bay Sands. It's not to say I've actually eaten their delectable morsels but rather, just having enough courage to pause by their restaurant entrance and take a quick look at the menus. Such courage was easily defeated by the sight of their prices for the entrees and completely evaporated at how much I need to pay for their mains. As a customary practice, I'll move on to either the nearby food court or Krazy Burgers, places where the Singapore dollars will not hurt me more than it should.

To top my misery, I've just realised I'm booked for three consecutive weekend wedding dinners in December. If there's a fourth or more invite, I've to set my priorities right. Need to worry about how much is the ongoing rate for wedding ang paos than a meal prepared by a Michelin starred chef!

 

 

 

The Dark World - A sort of review

I managed to catch 'Thor The Dark World' in Midvalley last Friday midnight. Having rushed straight from the airport thanks to a delayed flight, there was no tingling anticipation of watching the long haired sledgehammer-wielding demigod fight an army of dark elves from Svarthalfheim. Instead, I was tired and rather sleepy. It didn't help that the first thing that came to my mind when we found our seats was that I can sleep for the next two hours. That didn't happen, not when I was flanked by sisters who are ardent fans of Marvel comic-based movies. While one sister is watching the movie for the second time, the other could hardly contain her excitement that the sequel is finally here. Just as the movie was about to start, I casually asked 'So, what was Thor 1 all about?' The darkened hall spared me from their incredulous stares.  

 

It turned out that I didn't need much explanation. For a two hour tutorial, I think I understood the whole semester's syllabus. There was Thor, there was his ever present sledgehammer. Throw in a slightly broader Sir Anthony Hopkins, a Rene Russo that can pass off as a mortal version of Liv Tyler's Arwen, some dark elves who looked like they've just escaped from a recent Halloween shindig and impressive (but expected) computer graphics for us to gape at. As for Natalie Portman, I'm always at crossroads when she's involved. I think she's a good actress but what spooked me when she was the Black Swan was somehow missing from Thor. That's regrettable, especially when she had the all-powerful Aether running through her veins.  

 

And then, there was Loki. I never thought a villain could look this good. It could be his jet-black tresses which honestly speaking, left me confused. Beyond the cinema hall, I have never thought men with long hair as appealing. Not when my current hair cut is shorter than theirs. If it's not the hair, I must have been mesmerized by his eyes. No doubt, he was incarcerated in a cell for most parts of the movie but how was it that I (and come on, so would you if you've watched the movie) felt his contemptuous affection for Thor with a slight raise of the eyebrows? Or the measure of his grief when told that their mother was killed? I even felt sorry for Malekith when Loki's steely stare accompanied his words that nobody will understand his rage. Coincidentally, there was a speck of dust in my eyes when I thought Loki had died. Well, let's not deliberate on this point further. Anyway, the best part would be Loki's lines. I'm unsure whether I should thank the scriptwriter or the actor. Either way, they definitely delivered me some much needed sanity boost from the doldrums of everything Thor.         

 

After an onslaught of Marvel movies these past few years (you name it, I've watched it all. Whether I actually remembered the plot is of course, secondary), I thought it's finally time for a breather. You know, to get back to the time of simple movies - boy meets girl, fall in love, face major crisis along the way and still live happily ever after - without having buildings blasted to pieces every 5 seconds or weird looking creatures spewing even weirder sounding languages. I almost got that relief when the credits started to roll, and that's when I saw a bluish-green Benicio Del Toro. 

 

All he said was 'Four more stones to be recovered'. That's when I know I'm doomed for yet another round of Thor. But wait a second, did I just see Odin transforming into Loki??? With the heaviest of heart, I know I've a task to complete. I have no choice. The saga continues.    

 

 

 

Gunning it right

Malaysia's crime watch is yet again stained by the tragic passing of JAIP's Ahmad Rafli Abdul Malek. From a nation that reads about shooting fatalities in other parts of the world, we have become somewhat accustomed to a drastic change of mindset. Malaysians are now being subjected to violent crimes as constant as the daily weather update. While we're less affected by typhoons and superstorms, every Malaysian on the street is now an unwilling participant in an invisible game of Russian roulette. It doesn't matter if one is in the comfort of his house or being driven to grab breakfast or finding solace in a temple or merely waiting for the traffic light to turn green. Once you're chosen, your last living memory could probably be staring at the wrong end of the gun. Not everyone will be lucky.

 

Nevertheless, I'm gravely disturbed by calls for religious enforcement officers to be equipped with guns. While the late Ahmad Rafli may have lost his life, his death should not be the key to unlock Pandora's box. Without disrespecting anyone, a gun is not simply a toy one buys from Toys 'R' Us or to be distributed around like candies during Halloween. A gun is made of steel, as cold as the heart of one who decides to kill. Religious enforcement officers are mortals, susceptible to lapses in judgment and reason just as we all are. And how exactly will these religious enforcement officers be trained to shoot? I doubt the guns are purely for ornamental purposes. Even with our properly trained cops (let's give them the benefit of doubt, shall we?), we have come to accept that guns (and since we're at it, even patrol cars) can mysteriously vanish in many ways. It's only a matter of flipping the coin between the sewerage system or the sea, unless of course, we're entertained by another absurd reason in due time. Add on a high number of security guards running around with fake MyKads (and as we've read recently, some will go to murderous extent to ensure the money remains with them), we'll have our own version of the Hunger Games! Only one good thing can come out of this - me being spared from forking out a good RM15 just to watch Jennifer Lawrence being hunted down.  

 

But seriously, what will the next reaction be? Ordinary Malaysians marching and chanting 'We want guns! We want guns! We want guns!'? If that becomes a reality, we might as well call in Clint Eastwood and turn this country into a sprawling shooting site for 'The Good, The Bad & The Ugly'. No pun intended, by the way. It's amazing to consider that while Great Uncle Sam is grappling to tighten their citizens' access to firearms following episodes of indiscriminate shootings, we're possibly heading towards the other end. 

 

A knee-jerk reaction without a clear mind is the last thing we should do in this instance. Look at the bigger picture and ask ourselves how the shooters got their hands on these weapons. If they were smuggled into the country, were our officers sleeping on the job? If they were, shouldn't they be transferred elsewhere or demoted? If the weapons were originally reported as missing or lost, shouldn't the officer in charge be held responsible? If the weapons were registered to private individuals, shouldn't the owner be tracked down and dragged to Court? If a Minister or even the country's top cop gives a mind-boggling answer as to where the weapons might end up, shouldn't they be accountable too?

 

We need to gun those questions right before more arms are released on the streets. I'm not an English football fan but I'll prefer watching the Gunners in action than worrying over who will be gunned down next. 

 

*My thoughts and condolences to Ahmad Rafli's family on their loss. Al-Fatihah. 

 

 

 

Recollections from a crazy journey

*This entry would have met a silent end had I chosen to delete my draft folder in its entirety. It eventually survived, just because I felt it's necessary to remind me of the journey I never thought was possible.

 

“You must be crazy!”

Those four words was the automatic reaction from family members and close friends. Nothing else was said but judging by their horrified expressions, the apocalypse could very well be knocking on our doors. It was either that or I was doomed to meet a tragic end in a Hitchcock thriller. And all I did was to announce my month-long solo backpacking trip across the United Kingdom and Europe!

To them, I was probably a marble short for wanting to travel alone. Well, I may be petite but my marbles are definitely intact. So much so that when an uncle remarked that I was still too young and I will be bored out of my wits for not having a travel companion, I offered my thoughts. At 29 years of age (this is not an attempt to hide my current age. I know I've turned 30 since then), my peers are already having school-going kids. If they’re old enough to have children, surely I’m old enough to choose my flight of freedom. As for travel companions, there are those whose existence is no better than an overweight baggage that comes with high tax and serves absolutely no purpose. I’d rather take my chances in striking up conversations with the locals, even if I’ve to resort to violent hand gestures and comic facial expressions.

When 28 March 2013 came, I was one of the many passengers waiting to board Malaysia Airlines flight MH 004 bound for London Heathrow. With a backpack half my size as hand-carry, I was extremely grateful that my economy-class seat was on the A380’s Upper Deck. Having seen the long queue of fellow economy class passengers on the Lower Deck, I imagined myself as somewhat a celebrity (although what I wore could hardly be described as ‘airport fashion’) leisurely sauntering to my seat. Well, that daydream quickly vanished when I saw what it meant to be in the A380’s First and Business Classes. If I thought my seat’s legroom was enviable, it was incomparable to what the privileged few will enjoy as they dine using fine china in ample comfort, thousands of feet above sea level. In the meantime, I should just feel thankful that the seat next to mine was empty (for the time being, at least!).

The neighbour did turn up and just as I silently hoped he was a dashing young man, traces of greying hair along a receding hairline silently removed my hope. While not a smile or “hello!” was exchanged, our hands did find themselves briefly clasped together when the plane was rocked by air turbulence. That moment of solidarity was quickly replaced by the occasional battle of wills over the center armrest! A Hollywood flight romance was clearly not on the cards.

My adventure started the moment I landed in London Heathrow. The initial euphoria of being back in London was dampened when I realized that I had placed my return flight ticket in my checked-in luggage! Seeing that many fellow passengers were holding their passports and unused flight tickets in their hands, stories of strict British immigration officers deporting suspicious travellers came to mind! As I inched my way closer to the immigration counter, sweat began trickling down my spine (it could be my nervousness. It could also be that wearing a winter jacket in a heated area was not such a good idea). While the British officer was scrutinizing my passport, I began to mentally recite a list of reasons as to why I should not board the next plane back to Kuala Lumpur. If necessary, I was also prepared to squeeze those tears out (no handy feat, considering I had no onions with me!). For all the mental exhaustion I was subjected to, it came as a surprise when the British officer merely looked at me and asked, “Girl, are you travelling alone in the United Kingdom?”. My ‘yes’ seemed to have left him very amused that no mention was made about when I will return to Malaysia. I guessed he has not seen enough pint-sized Asian female travellers with courage (or craziness, depending on one’s point of view) to actually travel alone.

I was not only travelling alone, I was a traveller on an extremely tight budget and schedule. Having wrangled invitations to spend my nights abroad with kind friends, a major bulk of my fund was already spent on securing cheap train and domestic flight tickets for advance travels in United Kingdom and Europe. Left with little spending money and even lesser contingency fund (I brought those plastic cards along but will try to resist them, as long as possible), I’ve to be wise in choosing my battles. With a Nottingham-bound train to catch the next morning from Paddington, I chose to spend my first London night in Heathrow Airport itself! I saved a couple of British pounds and became what Tom Hanks was in ‘The Terminal’. Indeed, that night taught me a few lessons. First, the airport is not a hotel. The metal seats are no replacement for our comfortable beds (some were desperate, they slept on the floors). Second, when I actually managed to secure a padded bench next to the Belgium Airline check-in counter, there will always be someone else who wants it too. I had to leave my warm refuge (together with my luggage in tow) to answer nature’s call at midnight (and everybody knows, the cold weather only helps to increase the urge to pee!). I was gone only for a matter of seconds and a man was now sleeping comfortably in my place. Not to be defeated in this game, I steeled my bottoms on the metal seats across his bench and waited. After what seemed to be an eternity (it was one hour, but hey, try braving the winter chills yourself and see whether you can keep track of time!), he finally got up and left. I did a happy jig and rushed to reclaim my throne. Was blessed with a couple of sleeping hours before Heathrow came alive with cleaning machines zooming past and I woke up to see a steady stream of Belgium Airlines’ passengers queuing.       

The drawn itinerary was packed, featuring cities like Nottingham, Edinburgh, Glasgow and Durham for my first week. The next stop was Cambridge for some scholar-ish escapade. Although I could never rely on my intelligence to be a Cambridge student, having a friend who actually studies there was a plus point. Even when the colleges were closed for mid-term examinations, I was allowed to walk on the hallowed grounds of King’s, Trinity and St. John’s. Despite being awestruck by the colleges’ scholastic history, the sight of their many signboards demanding visitors to ‘Keep Off the Grass!’ only gave me the perpetual itch to run on their precious green grass! Needless to say, I did not attempt such risky action out of respect to my friend (and fear of the military-styled porters). Realising my super huge sacrifice, my friend took me out for a morning of punting. As the guide regaled us with facts and myths of the famed university, I spotted many others who came, saw the dastardly signboards and unlike me, chose to conquer the grass by running all over it! At that moment, I could only sigh and lamented “If only I did it…”.

I then moved on to Cardiff and was the happiest when my train finally arrived at Cardiff’s Central Station.  It was a homecoming to visit familiar places and old family friends. I came thinking I would immediately recognize the city I last visited 15 years ago. What I didn’t expect was how much Cardiff had developed beyond the train station’s compound. Some of the old landmarks had been replaced by modern shopping outlets and roads which used to have heavy vehicle presence are now pedestrian-access only. Just as I was feeling overwhelmed, that was when I saw the quaint ‘Hayes Snack Island’ tuck shop in front of St. David’s Hall. It was where my family and I used to have our morning breakfast and tea in the late 90’s. Undoubtedly, the old faces that manned the counter would have been long gone but luckily, their sandwiches and yes, the occasional whiff from the nearby underground restroom remained true as I remembered them! Even the walk to my friend’s house on Redmond Road was nostalgic as it was just a street away from where my family used to live. As I pulled my trusty luggage along the cobbled pathway, I passed the much-loved Queen Street and pretended that my family was waiting for my return to Bedford Street. By now, I think I must sound crazy but I guess it can’t be helped.

Not all was gloom and doom though. I met up with Dad’s old family friends and had a nice day out with them at the famed ‘Big Pit’ in Blanaevon. For a day, I was a Welsh coal miner, complete with the head protector and the weighty oxygen tank. From going down to the underground shaft to walking along long winding tunnels (at times, in pitch darkness), the experience left me humbled at the difficulty these men had to undergo for a living. We ended our lovely meeting with a nice dinner at a gorgeous family run tavern somewhere in the Vale of Glamorgan. The next day, I went to explore Cardiff Bay and again, I was so taken aback by the development that had taken place. While I visited the Welsh Parliament (known as the Senedd), I was asked by the Welsh guide as to why someone from Malaysia would go all the way to visit Cardiff (he must have assumed that it was my first trip to Wales). I honestly answered that “when I came here years ago, it was an instant first love for a smitten teenager. But now that I’ve returned as an adult, I felt sad that so many changes had taken place until I’m no longer linked to the past”. 

With these mixed emotions, I left for London for a four night stay. There was nothing extraordinary to tell about my days in London, except that it coincided with Baroness Thatcher’s funeral. Even then, I chose to avoid central London on the funeral day and opted for a day at Windsor Castle and Eton College. My nights were all at Shaftesbury Avenue where I found myself in different theatres each night for different West End performances. To tell more about London would just be to repeat paragraphs out of a well sought tourist guide book.

But I’ve to share my adventure upon leaving London’s St. Pancras International on the Brussels-bound Eurostar. Having known that I will reach Brussels’ train station at 10 p.m. and catching the ICE train for Berlin at 6.30 a.m. the next day, I planned to repeat the Heathrow episode i.e. spend the night at the train station in order to save a couple of Euros. What I didn’t expect (and may this be a lesson for any of you who are planning to do the same!) was that Heathrow is nowhere near to what Brussels had to offer. By comparison, Heathrow is a five-star hotel whereas Brussels is, well, a refugee centre after a great war (purely based on my imagination. Not that I’ve experienced or observed the effects of refugees escaping a great war). The minute I alighted from the Eurostar, I was slapped by the extremely chilly winds. I walked around the station, hoping to find a spot that was spared from the dreadful wind. There was none, save for dark corners which I was not brave enough to explore. As I mulled over my (lack of) options in the station’s main hall, a lady came to sit nearby. Judging that she could be spoken to, I smiled and cautiously asked “Mademoiselle, parlez vous Anglais?” (Madame, can you speak English?). Luckily, she said yes and I asked whether there was any waiting area in the station for travellers to spend the night. She shook her head. When I told her that I’ve to stay at the station for the night, she exclaimed “Goodness, you can’t do that! The station is not safe for tourists.”. She left soon after and I moved to another part of the station. For the next 8 hours, I came to realize what she meant. Chilly wintery nights in Brussels meant that the station is a heaven for local drunkards and homeless people. There were of course, other fatigued travellers who were just wearied of me as I was of them. A station guard came with his huge Alsatian and started to chase off the drunkards and homeless people as the station is closed from 12 a.m. onwards (the stubborn men would return each time, if only to catch minutes of sleep). I was spared only because I showed him my Berlin-bound train ticket and said I have nowhere else to go.  He was very kind, advising me to take care of my belongings and be very careful after the station reopens at 4 a.m. Perhaps he felt sorry for me as he would continuously make his rounds around my seating area. Even with the security guard, I couldn’t afford to sleep or even go to the toilet. Once I’ve strapped my luggage to the metal seats, I began writing in my journal for time to pass. When I got bored, I did what I think scared the drunkards and homeless men around me. I practiced my dance steps, oblivious to eyes that peeked from slumber and saw a crazy Asian girl dancing cha-cha-cha alone in the open! I survived the night and was only thankful when my train to Berlin finally made its arrival. 

Berlin offered me other forms of adventure. I climbed up Berlin’s Victory Column in Tiergarten, all 285 steps, when I was so sure that I could drop dead with every step I take. Needless to say, the feeling when I completed the climb was one of exhilaration! The view of Berlin was well-worth every creak of my lower limbs. Unfortunately, the same can’t be said about my kind host. He climbed with me until the top, not saying a word about his fear of heights until I asked him to go nearer to the railings for a photo! He looked as if he could pass out there and then. My only regret was not taking a shot of him at that moment. It would have been a good snapshot for collection. Thanks to his recommendation, I even took a guided bike tour of Berlin and in those 4 tiring hours, I saw more than remnants of the Berlin Wall as a tourist would usually do.  I actually felt like one of the Berliners zooming in and out of the streets, passing and stopping in front of tourist haunts (Bradenburger Tor, Holocaust Memorial and Topography of Terror remain as favourites), honking our way to warn unsuspecting pedestrians and catching our breath by their famous Reichstag. My stay in Berlin was made complete when I purchased my own original (kid size!) German football jersey. I didn’t have time to get the name ‘Klose’ sewn at the back but who am I to complain?  

My last stop was Paris. And just as the words of ABBA’s ‘Our Last Summer’, I spent my time walking along the River Seine with few glances at the majestic Tour de Eiffel and munching croissants that only the French can make. By this time, I was sad that my trip was coming to an end. Obviously there are always lists of things to do, places to visit, people to meet before hitting the bucket and still, I never thought the things I did or experienced during my travels were even possible in my lifetime. In this memorable journey of my youth, I travelled between 6 countries, moved from one place to another using trains, buses and flights that departed on time like a fine tuned clock (at times, leaving me flustered as I had to navigate flights of stairs with my monster of a luggage), mustered enough courage to converse with the locals in deeply accented English, Welsh, German and French and as you’ve read earlier, received many wonderful memories in return.

I bid adieu to this brief respite from life as I caught the Rossy bus to Charles de Gaulle Airport on 26 April 2013. And with even better seats onboard Malaysia Airlines flight MH 021, I was heading home with one realization. I may have had a crazy journey but this travel had enriched me in so many ways. And if I may add to Lao Tzu’s wisdom that the journey of a lifetime begins with a single step, I don’t mind repeating that step, again and again.

*I've been warned that a travelogue is incomplete without photos. Am still trying to find courage to sift through the photos fit for public consumption without perpetually going 'OMG. What was I thinking?!*

Prisoner of birth

Whenever I had to fill out official forms in Malaysia, there will always be that mandatory 'race' column. With one seemingly insignificant tick in the right box, I proclaimed my right to all and sundry that I'm a Malay Bumiputera. To me, it was just a nod to my (majority) ancestry. I've never been ashamed to admit I'm a Bumi, that is, until I discovered days ago that my birth right reduces me to a blood-sucking leech who will steal if left unaided.

 

This discovery is not without personal ramifications. Whatever doubts I had in the past conveniently find its way back to the surface. First on the list is the strength of my qualifications. Had I studied abroad, whatever grades I achieved will be solely mine to trumpet or to whimper. If I was an Ivy League university student and obtained a commendable 2:1, it's an acknowledgement that my brains are still working. If I settled for a second-rate university and failed, it's  then obvious that I'm not exactly an intelligent being. So, how should I judge myself as a Bumi who read law from University of Malaya? Did I earn that degree because I had a somewhat functioning brain? Did I pass because I took time to attend the lectures and tutorials? Perhaps. But then again, it could be simply because I'm a Bumi. I may not have the brains but lucky enough to be part of this exclusive majority group which God decreed as one that is protected from womb to tomb. A species that has no survival skills in this modern economy rat race unless it is lent a helping hand by other races. And the same species that think it's their God-given right to order others to leave whenever things don't come their way.

 

 

Some may feel that being born a Bumi is skipping down a path of sweet smelling roses. Well, take a closer look while you sniff and don't be shocked by the hidden thorns. They will prick you when it's most unexpected and the hurt is yours to bear alone. One thorn I came across was during my university days. As a law undergraduate, I was part of the faculty's moot team from Year 2 right up to my final year. Along with my team mates, we would slog in the moot room over the presented hypothetical issues and sacrificed our holidays whenever there is a moot competition around the corner. As my team mates were all non-Bumis & I am usually mistaken as a Chinese, we were constantly plagued by concerns that the team may suffer in the hands of narrow minded judges for visible lack of Bumis. Despite teams' anonymity in such meets, it was inevitable that the universities were easily identifiable by the composition of races. We had no choice but to seek out potential Bumi mooters to join the team. By doing this, we ultimately encouraged unwilling participation from one who's born in the right race and abandoned those who are keen but of a different category. I may have chosen to be a mooter on my own accord but was I selected because I was a Bumi? Maybe. I may have been a relatively successful mooter but did I win because of my heritage? Possibly. Till the end, the amount of certificates and trophies received is somewhat marred by that nagging doubt.

 

 

The working world proved nothing different. Save for one, my former colleagues were all non-Bumis. While I had nothing but good camaraderie and professional relationships with most of them, the question I'm always asked about during family meets would be this. Why are you working in a Chinese firm? Don't you want to work for the Government? These questions bugged me to no end. It was then that I realised the questions were not as important as the reason behind it. What they're admitting by asking was that because I'm a Bumi, I could not survive the rigours of working in private practice. Because I'm a Bumi, I'm expected to sway my hips to the slow rhythm and one race mindset that continue to pervade the civil service. And when I accepted my current job in an opposition-run state government, my action is viewed by certain quarters as no better than an act of treachery against my race. Nothing is said about my qualifications because honestly, does that even matter in the first place? If I join the right government, I'm doing what's right by them, abandon all personal dreams and become a Bumi warrior. But when I joined another government, it's all about me being used to promote hidden agendas. Whoever said it was easy to be a prisoner of birth?

 

 

So yes, be warned that I will steal if you don't come to my rescue. I don't need to explain but to just admit. I'm lazy and stupid. I can't stand on my own two feet unless the national agenda continues to give me handouts and benefits.  And when I give birth to more little Napoleon beggars, I know what to answer if my children should one day ask why this country is still in the backwaters. Because others have run away to countries which promote equal-opportunity jobs, operate on merit and protect everyone who deserves to be protected. We had to stay behind as Bumis and continue preserving our inherent rights in honour of 'Negaraku, Tanah tumpahnya darahku'. Because frankly, we can't survive anywhere else.        

 

Being smart, without the phone

To what extent is our dependence on smartphones?

 

It's probably the same value as the oxygen we breathe, if not more.

 

I was on board a flight back to Penang last night. From where I was sitting, the picturesque island dotted with flickering lights framed by a pitch-black background was beyond words. For that brief moment, I was filled with both wonder and humility at being alive and blessed with sight. A slight drop in the air pressure, however, reminded me that the plane was getting ready to land. I peeled my eyes from the window and as I switched on the reading light, I saw at least three fellow passengers who were not bothered by the aerial view or the pilot's announcement that we're about to land. Their world revolves around their smartphones, even when we're descending from thousands of feet in the air.

 

While I silently recite prayers for a safe landing (I don't quite fancy my end to be part of a metal wreckage. There's a big difference between resting in peace or in pieces!), the girl sitting in front of me was busy posting up comments on her Facebook wall. While she travels on a budget airline, she must have done so in a bid to hide her status as one of the most socially active persons on Earth. It is highly possible that the world may just come to a complete halt and the riders of Apocalypse will run amok if we don't know where she is and what she's doing at that exact second. She may be thinking that she's doing humanity a favour by updating her status and posting comments at the expense of other passengers' safety. So what if a plane full of passengers meet their premature end thanks to her? It should be of little concern that our epitaphs will read, 'Here lies beloved son/daughter/child of so and so. A life cut short by people obsessed with smartphones.' On the other hand, her epitaph will probably read as 'Stay connected. I've checked in to the other side'.

 

Across the aisle, a middle-aged lady was jabbing her phone screen furiously. With freshly painted nails, she seemed hell-bent that her message(s) must reach the intended recipient(s) that very minute. Judging by her speed and intensity in typing out the messages, we could only imagine the importance of such messages. She could very well be a high-powered Wall Street broker or a nation's president, where one sms from her dictates global financial catastrophe or grave security concerns. I very much regretted the missed opportunity of reading her messages. If I'm to meet my maker earlier than scheduled just because one lady couldn't stop fiddling with her phone, I think I deserve to know whether it's over her 'I'm landing soon. Get the car ready' or 'Urgent meeting. FYA' message. Either way, I doubt she'll have time to type her farewell message if our number's up. But if she does manage to do so amidst a chorus of screams, this will be it - 'Going to die soon. Life's too short for instant messages.'

 

A male teenager two seats away from me was blissfully oblivious that death doesn't only affect the old. But then again, that knowledge may not be important at all. He's evidently an ardent gamer boy who treats his phone as a lifeline  Lights were continuously flashing against his face as he tried to outwit the game and move to the next level. His complimentary slice of cake and water remained untouched, his concentration solely on the game. He seemed to be travelling alone and as family members will usually wait for the arrival of their loved ones, he may have someone waiting for him too. Yet, family members will also have to wait around whenever there's a plane crash. Instead of embracing their loved ones in the brightly lit arrival hall, relatives will face the gory task of identifying the remains on some cold hard slabs. While his game is his world, he forgets that each passenger on an ill-fated flight is also someone's world. You can re-set a game but you can never return a life taken.

 

There's only a sense of relief that the plane landed without any mishap. Still, I couldn't shake off the feeling that any flight could be one's last, especially when irresponsible people get on board. It's a silly question but seriously, can't you be smart without the phone?

 

  

Out and about, discovering Penang

Friend and sister flew in, within hours, on Saturday midnight and Sunday morning, for a short jaunt in Penang. While they may not be related by blood, these two Sagittarians are definitely bonded by their cosmic ties. So similar are they that both forgot to bring their bathing towels! And while I'd like to think that my house can double up as a BnB, it did provide a 'bummer!' moment when I realised that I only had a spare towel. Obviously, one of them had to settle for something else as a towel and I think now's the opportune time (and reason) to get an extra one (or two) towels.

 

But fun we did have. We picked up my sister from Bayan Lepas in the early hours of Sunday morning. As the arrival hall was packed with freshly minted Hajs and Hajjahs, it was not difficult to spot a young female traveller with prominent Oriental features lugging a big wheeler around. Minutes later, we were already cruising our way to Jalan Penang for a hearty dose of Nasi Kandar. A heavy breakfast/brunch/lunch at 9.30 a.m. The rest of Georgetown may not be stirred awake at this time but for the Nasi Kandar faithfuls, their pilgrimage knows no boundaries. There was already a long queue for a plate of those Nasi laden with an overload of gravy and whatnots.

 

Sya will definitely remember this Nasi Kandar outing for one reason. She had what could only be described as a 'Nasi Kandar Accident', a streak of gravy on her otherwise white spotless blouse. The same one that was just lovingly being ironed in the morning before we left to pick up Syazwina. If that happened to me, I would have lost my mind and wail over the death of my blouse. Sya merely took it in her stride. We headed home to store the bags, took a few minutes to check out the list of 'places to go and things to do' and headed out back again.

 

The quest for the day was to hunt for Penang street arts, caricatures and paintings on buildings that could be both glaringly obvious and mysteriously hidden. Either way, it seemed to be a very fun thing to do, even for locals. Well, fun was thinking about it, not when we found ourselves literally under the scorching sun! Only two pieces of art were spotted before it was decided that a break was sorely needed. That's how we found ourselves, with sweat-trickled backs, at Lebuh Tamil's 'Ais Tingkap'. Syazwina and I ended up sharing an Ais Tingkap, a sweet syrup drink with a slice of coconut flesh. I wasn't really taken by it but hey, I will now know what is 'Ais Tingkap' whenever I hear about it.

 

A quick hop to Chowrasta was next on the list. Bought bags of pickled preservatives and was about to continue with the art hunting session when Sya proclaimed the death of her sandals. Could be God's way of sparing us from further heat as we quickly made our way to Gurney Paragon. And yes, the mall is not a place for young or novice drivers. The ride up to the multi-storey parking (we finally found a spot at Level 7A) was rather scary, having to drive the car along sharp bends and protruding pillars. Anyway, new sandals were eventually purchased, we almost got a taste of some funky looking desserts (I guess they are pretzels, like those of Aunty Anne's) and ended with some desserts at Ben's. I've to say this though. The trip to Ben's was merely because I wanted to eat in the old St. Jo's building and soak in the distinct colonial feeling.

 

It was raining cats and dogs when we left Gurney Paragon. The drive along Gurney Drive in that weather brings to mind a scene from the Korean movie, Haeundae. Was scary and the fear was not lessened by the sight of trees swaying from side to side. But we managed to return home, freshened up and waited for GC to pick up for dinner. Now, the biggest treat of the day has to be the dinner venue. The whole jam heading to Batu Ferringhi was worth it when we stepped into Ferringhi's Garden. Set against a secluded garden with a rustic décor, the mouth-watering dishes that came with affordable price tags were only marred by the slow service. Other than that, I have to mightily recommend this place for anyone who wants to enjoy the company of loved ones.

 

Once the mandatory photographing session ended, we made our way to the Hard Rock Hotel. Sya got her Hard Rock purchases and I discovered how lovely the toilets were. Struck by a sudden (and violent) bout of diarrhoea, I flushed everything out from the system while listening to some old rock tunes. The 40 minutes ride from Batu Ferringhi to our place in Ayer Itam became a monumental feat. I had to will my stomach and bowel to remain calm at every bend and red traffic lights! Luckily no untoward accident happened and we reached home safely past 10.30 p.m.

 

While I'm at work now, the two Sagittarians are making their rounds around the city area. I wonder how many photo shots will they take.

 

 

Waze-ing around

I am now, an avid Waze user. Not out of sheer interest to discover new routes (I'm neither adventurous nor attracted to the idea of being a cabbie). Rather, the sinking feeling that without Waze, I will be driving around the Penang island like a hamster running around on wheels. Getting tired but not getting anywhere.

 

It was with this fantastic manmade invention that I managed to reach places. Or avoid getting lost thanks to a wrong turn or two. Though I've to say, my journey(s) will always somehow require driving through  back lane alleys, narrow housing streets and stretches of roads that seem to lead to nowhere and then, there it is. My intended destination. Just when I thought all hope is lost and the only way to go is homeward-bound.

 

Driving is no longer a chore but when one drives in Penang, it is an entirely different ballgame. I should not be surprised because I did drive around in KL and as they say it, nothing beats KL drivers (or speed demons, if we're to term them the right way) and traffic jams. However, Penang drivers have to cope with so much more. In KL, I would curse at those teenagers riding their bikes like they're the next Valentino Rossi. But how do you react when your speed is cut by old men on ancient looking motorcycles zigzagging across the road at their own sweet leisurely pace? Worst still, some of them will actually smile while doing it, leaving me with no choice but to return the smile (with clenched teeth. Doubt they'll notice the difference though). You'll also find many of the road cleaning workers leaving their cleaning tools right on the streets, instantaneously becoming a challenge for drivers to avoid them while driving.

 

I was at Gurney Drive last evening and for the first time, saw a car that stopped in the middle of the roundabout! If a KL car would inch its way to enter mainstream traffic, this young Penangite chap was comfortable enough to just flick on his signal board and waited. And wait he did, causing a backlog of road users who were unable to pass the roundabout until he moved his Kancil ass. Oddly, no one honked. It was as if that particular stretch of Gurney Drive was enveloped by this few seconds of 'Zen'. People were happy enough to wait and did not see any fuss in raising hell. My blood pressure did go up before I'm reminded that I'm not in KL. Guessing I've to act like Penangites when I'm in Penang (despite my car's registration number, reminding all and sundry that a Selangor girl is behind the wheel).

 

With Waze, better traffic conditions and learning to accept that nothing is impossible on Penang streets, I really think I'm settling down. The next goal is to hunt down the food joints!

 

On my own

Living on my own forces me to wade through unfamiliar waters.

 

What used to be the whole bulk of my monthly income (after all the dastardly deductions have been made) solely at my disposal is now compartmentalised into rental, utilities, groceries, petrol and meagre savings. Previously, I would only think of the things I can buy with my income. Now, I worry more about the mandatory expenses rather than getting that new pair of shoes. From 'pick and pay', I became a 'look and consider'. A window shopping trip nowadays will be just that, a trip on a weekend to see what's hanging in the dressing windows. Few hours later (after I've burnt enough calories from the sheer frustration of walking around like a headless chicken), I'll return to my minute home with bare hands. No more of those big, bulging paper bags for me to gleefully toss around.

 

Thanks to existing credit card bills which never seem to go down to zero, everything now also comes with a  'pretty but do I need it?' tag. While this self-restraint flies out of the window whenever I'm back in KL (I'm pretty sure they have powerful shamans casting spells over the buyers), I'm very much guarded when in Penang. So much so that I'm now more comfortable with telling the saleslady 'I'm just browsing' instead of 'Do you have it in my size?'. Perhaps my current address has some sort of influence over this change in behaviour. My two room flat is big enough for an individual occupant but I know some of my neighbours live in the same amount of space with at least 3 or 4 other people. What I call as my temporary sleeping arrangement is a cramped home to many of them, most who get along by walking, riding the public buses or relying on their trusty motorcycles.  

 

Despite my small home, I began to be more aware of how much electricity I consume or how much water I waste. Every flick of the switch or the turn of the tap is a reminder that I've to pay for what I use. Though the bills for October have not reached my doorstep (yet), I'm trying hard, very hard, to save where I can. Often than not, a single kitchen light will work for me to cook & watch television when daylight disappears. While my living room is air-conditioned (as like my bedroom), the standing fan provides more than comfortable relief. Luckily Penang seems to rain often so the heat is still bearable, even without the air-conditioner.

 

While I'm pursuing this personal challenge (to live as moderately as possible), it becomes a stinging mockery to discover that some family has been using up to RM2.3 million of people's money to fund their utilities bills! Apparently, the same mouth that states the need to cut subsidies for citizens (for strange reasons like preventing diabetes. Clearly, our intelligence is severely undermined by this grossly-misleading justification) is not tied to the same body that enjoys 2.3 million worth of free electricity, water and God knows what else. When I think about how many of us will not even see 2.3 million in this lifetime, it's preposterous to think that for a few, this amount merely covers their yearly utilities.

 

It's ironic. Thieves and robbers are put behind bars for stealing. Those who waste the citizens' money fly in private planes and sleep in gilded comfort. What's the difference between these two groups of men?    

Those that I used to know

I read in today's newspaper that a woman and her family were harassed by loan sharks thanks to non-repayment of loans taken by the husband. While I feel sorry for the unfortunate family, I know they are not the only ones to have suffered. Just as there are many flyers found stuck on traffic lights, bus stops, construction pillars, toilet cubicles (one does wonder if this is an effort to encourage reading while doing one's business) or even blatantly advertised on taxis (and if I may add, cheapens the look of our already notorious cabs), there are many more unreported stories beyond the confines of the press. For whatever reasons that have compelled the borrowers to resort to such drastic action, we are usually left incensed & outraged at the loan sharks' heartlessness.

 

Before we condemn the loan sharks to the deepest pits of Hell, think hard. The loan sharks are just doing what they do best, financial transactions between willing lender and willing borrower albeit at a higher interest rate than what is usually charged by lawful financial institutions. They are referred derogatorily as sharks but then again, they are not nuns, right? These people don't run charity shows or establish salvation armies to save desperate souls. They're simply in for a business, one that is  governed by 'give and recoup' basis and devoid of any emotional attachment.  While we dry our tears, let's also consider the following. When these borrowers signed their names above the dotted lines, they know that they're borrowing from loan sharks. They know that the interest will escalate when the loan is not settled. They know that loans must be repaid or someone will face the consequence(s).

 

So who's actually the heartless party?

To me, it's the borrower. But I know another group that is more heartless than one who borrows from a loan shark. One that borrows from a friend and refuses to pay. I should know. There have been a few people who abused our bonds of friendship and took advantage of people's generosity. Our bond has since disappeared, as fast as the words 'I'll pay you back, thanks!' left their mouths and my money left my account. They have become people that I used to know and a reason for me to blog about.

I'm trying to see these encounters as an expensive lesson. One that is best reflected in an American proverb,  "In God we trust; all others must pay cash". To me, the basis of an enduring friendship is the trust that the people I've become friends with will not let me down. They can count on me to help whenever possible and for them to be there when I need them. Instead, I discovered that trust is like a crumpled piece of paper. Once it's gone, it can never be perfect.

It's most annoying to think that one stands to lose a friend or friends from doing them a favour. From my own experiences, these 'friendly loans' are always without interest and backed by nothing but your friend's mere request for help at their critical moments. While I may have my own financial concerns to settle (mind is inevitably reminded of the dastardly credit card bills and other installments gnawing at a huge chunk of whatever peanuts I bring home), it becomes secondary when a friend comes for help. During that moment, it's always a tug-of-war between who needs my money most. Between saying no (and keep your finances in order) or yes (and keep your friendship alive). I tend to choose the latter because I thought I was being kind. On a hindsight, it's not kindness. It's sheer stupidity. For our so-called bond which I had treasured, is worthless to them. Had they considered our friendship, they would have remembered to pay. And if they can't pay in full, then they would have at least attempted to pay in installments. There's nothing wrong or shameful about that. I know I pay my own bills in installments.

Most, if not all, chose to completely forget to repay. Ambrose Bierce summed it up most beautifully, 'Forgetfulness. A gift of God bestowed upon debtors in compensation for their destitution of conscience'. I remembered a time when I myself needed that money back. So desperate was I that I sent out sms-es asking for repayment. It was not an easy thing to do, as I thought I was being a bad friend in requesting for my own money to be returned! When my friendly reminders were conveniently ignored, I then knew that what was originally a loan became a forced tithe on my part. Donation to undeserving people. But some that I used to know were not only deprived of conscience. They must have undetected Alzheimer's disease as well. One particular person even had the audacity to ask for more loans without any reference to the outstanding sum. Having been bitten once, I checked with other friends and they confirmed that they too have lent money without clue as to when they'll get it back. That was when I gave this person a call (more expenses on my part!) and said that I will not lend any more money until I'm repaid. I finally got my money back but that was the end of our friendship. No amount of Facebook add-friend invites or calls on her part will tempt me to resume our friendship.

I will not walk barefoot on shattered glass when the other person wears shoes at my expense.

P/S: I must have sounded like a female Ebenezer Scrooge but I really do treasure my friendships as much as a healthy bank account. Don't you think the same way too?





   

 

Faith

Much have been said and argued about the controversial judgment delivered recently by the Court of Appeal. Some lauded it as a stamped approval of how a certain word belongs to a particular race professing that particular religion. Some saw it as a preposterous decision that infringes the rights of a certain group of believers to call their God by a certain name. Many are just keeping quiet, perhaps having their own stand but prefer not to rock the boat further. As for me, I have never discussed this issue with anyone. What I'm stating below is just my opinion, one which I feel is my freedom to write about. It is not meant to condemn or condone what has occurred.

 

I am a Malay Muslim. The fact that I belong to this group should automatically warrant me to support the decision. Yet, I can't. For what strength is the faith to me if I'm easily disturbed when other faiths address their God(s) with the same name as I do mine? The God I believe in is also known by his 99 other virtues, each bearing a name which will more often than not, be reflected in the names of the male Muslim followers and their sons. I'm honestly flattered that other faiths have also accepted the Arabic term 'Allah' as the equal to the widely-used 'God'. Does my faith in Him become lesser when a person of another faith uses the same reference? It doesn't. The same goes to the fact that my family members call me by my personal name and friends/acquaintances call me as 'Raja'. Some friends, for varying reasons, call me just like a family member would. That act doesn't change the fact that we're still not related by blood, no matter how close we may be.

 

Certain quarters have also been very vocal that the idea of using the same name to address God by different religions may confuse the Muslim believers. That it'll lead to apostasy and downfall of the religion. While there's merit in that, the argument itself should not be the basis of denying others to call their God in whatever name they choose. And if that argument is accepted, it doesn't say much for the strength of our belief then. I may not have been a good student during my religious classes or a good practicing Muslim for that matter but I know one thing for sure. It's a whole spectrum of difference between accepting Allah and Muhammad as his Prophet on one part and God, his Son and the holy Spirit on the other. Conversions will still happen whether or not another faith calls their God as 'Allah'. People leave their religions for the simplest reasons like marriage and what they stand to gain from such conversion. I doubt they'll even consider what God's name may be as part of the picture!

 

One of the most fundamental tenets a Muslim must cling to is to believe 'qada' and 'qadar'. That everything has been planned and will happen according to God's will. Although this itself invites attractive arguments, like how far should we try before saying 'I'll leave it to God' or becoming lazy just because one thinks it's already God's will, the tenet applies to the religion itself. One may be born a Muslim but there could never be a guarantee that he or she will leave this world as one. Similarly, another may have been born as a non-believer but chooses the beacon of light that God offers and dies a Muslim. For us Muslims, we are promised heaven in the afterlife only after we've atoned for the sins committed in this world by way of different levels of punishment in Hell. Correct me if I'm wrong but surely, one cannot get this confused with another faith's promise that everyone will be resurrected in heaven's welcoming embrace thanks to God's son who died for the sins of others.

 

We may at times be ruled by emotions but let's not use that to kick reason out of the window. Faith is a personal thing, one that you choose to believe in or not. It shouldn't matter what your God is called as. Instead, it matters most that when you profess a certain religion, you believe that God is with you, however He is called.   

    

 

One man's speech is another man's entertainment

I'm still getting used to the idea that Friday has an absurdly long lunch period. Back in my old office, Friday's 1.5 hour of lunch break is possibly the greatest way to end a hectic week. My ex-colleagues and I would actually have time to eat and chat at leisure without constantly looking at our watches and fearing that we'll walk into office a minute past the deadline. And when that lunch period ends, we'll trudge back to the office with a constant mental mantra of 'TGIF!'. The remaining working hours became easier on the nerves as Saturday & Sunday roll by (and pray that clients don't have that sudden desire to meet us over the weekend!) and if we're lucky enough, discover that a public holiday falls on the dreaded Monday.

 

At my new office, that lunch period stretches to 2.5 hours. Obviously, meetings and what-nots may still be arranged during lunch periods (I think this is the perk of being a professional. One doesn't seem to need time to rest or eat. Nothing warms the fuzzies of our hearts, assuming we have one in the first place, than to work as others enjoy some time out) but for today, I actually had the freedom to enjoy those super long 2.5 hours all to myself. Yet, I found myself leaving office at 12.45 p.m. with that uncomfortable feeling that I'm playing hooky (since a normal working lunch on Mon-Thurs starts at 1 p.m.). Others have left promptly at 12.15 p.m. or earlier, considering that the Komtar lifts are very unforgiving in shutting the doors without delay. With 6 lifts plying at least 22 floors of civil servants, trying to enter the lift during peak times is the same as winning lottery. One needs to wait for a long, long, long time. Even then, one may end up disappointed.

 

With my lunch done in matter of minutes (as I've come to realize that my appetite is ravenous these days. Blame it on the overdose of Nasi Kandars), there was at least 1.5 hours at my disposal. Walked around the nearby malls for window shopping and knowing I can't buy anything at the moment, decided to head back to office. A glance at the watch showed I've 30 minutes left. Of all the days, I chose to enter via the state government's main entrance. Made my way and began to hear a man's booming voice through a loudspeaker with supporting chants. Curiosity struck and I inched myself closer to the crowd, trying to figure out the message they intended for us. That was when a colleague stopped me in my track. I was so engrossed in listening to the speaker that I completely did not see him in front of me. He asked that I enter the office via the side entrance. Through him, I got to know that this particular group would assemble themselves in front of the main entrance after every Friday prayers to condemn the Chief Minister and literally everyone who works for him. Policemen stood nearby but made no move to apprehend anyone. Interesting and scary at the same time. Judging by the crowd, I could be mistaken that there was some grand pasar malam sale going on smack in the middle of Komtar.

 

But that got me thinking. It's his right to speak up even if it means him condemning my colleagues and I. Things that he said may not be pleasing to the ears but he's entitled to spew nonsense and provide a form of twisted entertainment to those listening. I do not see any harm in that. After all, I am guilty of ranting about people and I hardly use polite forms of expressions in my remarks. The listener(s) will decide. No matter how persuasive the speaker is, it is no justification to let the brain cells remain idle without weighing the merits and cons of the arguments. To silence anyone that opposes you through curtailment of their basic freedom would naturally mean that our freedom will one day be silenced too. I wouldn't like that.

 

 

On This Island

Three things happened to me in September this year. All of which I could never imagine as even remotely possible.

One, I quit practice. This may seem to be mundane news (especially when one considers lawyers as football players, always changing clubs when the transfer window opens) but it's a big thing for me. I've never worked as anything but a litigation lawyer (those few months as a stringer with a local newspaper back when I was a pre-university student doesn't count. The satisfaction of seeing the bylines did not translate that much for my expenditures). And even when I graduated with a law degree from a local university and tempted by so many career options, I still ended up dressed in black & white for most days and going into Courts to be harassed by clients, opposing counsels and trodden by those few Judges who must have come from a part of Hell which even the Devil runs away from. Anyway, I was in my 6th year of practice, just a few months short of having the right to have pupils of my own (or as some would put it, fresh blood or latest victims doomed to stay in the same part of Hell referred to earlier!).

Two,  a consequential effect of the above naturally meant me leaving my employer firm. Again, this would sound nothing extraordinary if not for the fact that I've been with this firm from day 1 of my pupillage. In a blink of an eye, my former pupil master became my boss and having stayed with the firm for 6 years or so, I was somewhat accepted as the one that would never leave. Over the years, I saw new faces joining the firm and just as we become colleagues and friends, they leave for greener pastures. While the sea of humans moved in countless directions, I became the shoreline, moving ever so slightly depending on the waves but unrelenting in etching a line in the sand. But the sand too must have been washed away for I found myself at crossroads. A professional life that was marked by personal questions of 'Is this what I want to do for the rest of my life?' and doubts of whether I can find a better pursuit for a more balanced approach to life. In the end, I decided it was time for a change and that resolution led to me handing over to my former boss, that piece of white envelope with a solemn typed note.

Honestly, I do not know if I'm headed to greener pastures or merely finding my way to a green swamp that swallows everything in its path. Whatever the outcome, I think I'll regret it less than not taking the step at all. That step also meant me moving to the island, Penang to still do something legal-related but in a different dimension and with different perspective. I shall not elaborate more on my job (it's going to bore your ears off. Legal stuff does that to almost everybody I know). I will however, write more on my move to Penang. Coming from a girl who has stayed with her parents for 3 decades (save for the periods when I travelled or those 6 horrendous days which I'll always remember as the University's orientation week), this move was scary. For the first time, I've to do everything on my own. While I've cooked (yes, that's why the word 'miracle' was invented in the first place), washed my own clothes and cleaned my house before, everything was done with the knowledge and comfort that my parents were just steps or a shout away. Now, it becomes something totally different. If I don't cook and too lazy to drive out, it means I've to starve for the night. If I'm tired to wash my clothes, I either have to spend money to hit the laundry centre or have to wear dirty clothes. And for the first time in my life, I discovered this morning how scary it is to get locked out of your own toilet without having the spare keys! It was not a pleasant experience to rush to the toilet after the stomach decided on a grand impromptu performance and finding that the door had accidentally locked itself. Well, it was my fault (since no one was in the house except me) but at least, I've learned how to unlock the plastic foldable door. With a loose latch that easily locks the door from the inside, I've to remind myself to always ensure that the latch remains upwards before I shut the door. Either that or I've to yank and bang on the door, to be simultaneously done with a prayer that the door doesn't completely fall off!

I hope I'll love my time on this island with much to do and explore. I'm not exactly a foodie (and God knows, one just can't have too many Nasi Kandars without expanded waistlines) but I do enjoy the quaint heritage gems strewn about on this island I'm calling as home. In the meantime, I'll get the basic Hokkien phrase book, just so I don't disappoint the many Hokkien speaking locals here!