Prime Minister, it’s time. Walk the talk, for once.

Clarion calls and abundant prints of ‘1Malaysia’ are BN’s version of a Disney fairy tale, where everyone lives happily as one regardless of race, religion and gender. Perhaps this is the ‘ever-after’ that our Federal Government leaders sleep to, just so they convince themselves that under their watch, Malaysia forges ahead in multi-racial relations. And that is why dreams are pleasant. For the reality that Malaysians wake up to every morning, or end their day with, is a stark and bitter contrast. The country may have survived colonialism but our flag now flies amidst growing extremism.



Right-thinking and peace-loving Malaysians have heard enough (but more will come our way) about lies only meant to actuate religious and racial intolerance between those from one race and religion against the others. It is against this backdrop of surging non-acceptance of others’ beliefs, increasing restrictions on rights otherwise guaranteed by our Federal Constitution and deafening ‘holier than thou’ battle cries by religion-based entities to demean the majority’s intention for a peaceful existence as this country’s citizens that Malaysia struggles to find that few moderate voices of reason.


As a Malaysian (and at the risk of receiving brickbats, a moderate Muslim), I strongly welcome the call made by 25 prominent Malays, each one of them having contributed to the Malaysian society in one way or the other, for a rational dialogue on position of Islam in the Malaysian context of constitutional democracy. The oft-quoted Article 11 of the Federal Constitution has been rehashed various times over but in light of the recent developments jeopardising the country’s racial relations and stability, the effect is certainly far from what our Constitution framers had envisioned. Now is the time, and there is no other better time for Malaysia to stand up against calculated acts of undermining our shared history and be part of finding ways (intellectual discourses and debates come to mind, certainly not threats and displays of violence) to better understand where Islam stands in our increasingly multi-racial society, and how that interplays with a person’s right to profess and practice his or her religion.


I for one, would be interested to be part of this dialogue. Coming from a family of mixed ancestries, I personally recognise how this issue craves for crucial understanding just as much as it attracts confusion. I may also be seen as hanging on to those rose-tinted shades but something must have gone awfully wrong along the way. My forefathers have had their fair share of gin & tonic and no party was complete without the waltz or cha-cha-cha but ...  there was never a bad word thrown against a person of another race. Now, some relatives are decidedly more pious in appearance but that modesty unfortunately isn't enough to stop the mouths from spewing venom against another, just because we don't share the same religion or race. 



Prime Minister, you’ve promised Malaysians on your path of moderation. And yet, your silence when confronted with inflammatory statement(s) from your Federal Minister(s) on issues concerning race and/or religion or your inaction in not punishing your fellow party leaders for seditious statements (notwithstanding calls to abolish the Sedition Act given that the Act merely operates as a political weapon against opposition leaders, academics and dissenters) or even your acts of ‘recognising’ these bad apples, begs us Malaysians one burning question. When can we expect hints of leadership from you in these times of need? Moderate Malaysians aspire for a better country for our future generations and a country is but a ship which can’t sail over choppy seas without a strong and capable leader flanked by capable crewmen.



Prime Minister, it’s time. Walk the talk, for once. Lead us from the front and prove that Malaysia will not be this time, the new stage for an adaptation of Martin Niemöller’s ‘First they came’ –




First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out—

Because I was not a Socialist.


Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out—

Because I was not a Trade Unionist.


Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—

Because I was not a Jew.


Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.


I am me, a moderate Muslim. My personal sins may delay Heaven's welcome in the hereafter, I know. But I also trust that God will not condemn me to an eternity of Hell just because I speak for another of a different religion.  

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.        

 

55 facets of a Malaysian life

Just when my Raya break comes to an end, it’s time for another long weekend. 55 years ago, my forefathers had witnessed the historic moment when the Union Jack finally came down and Tunku’s iconic words reverberated across the nation. 55 years later, the celebration continues with much pomp and splendour. While my forefathers celebrated independence as a matter of honour, our independence is now celebrated by the current generation as another guaranteed public holiday. Lest I’m accused of being unpatriotic, let me say this. The past 55 years have given us much time to develop what I see as the Malaysian way of life, including the penchant for an overwhelming number of public holidays. And in honour of our upcoming 55th anniversary, let me just share with you, 54 varied items which I think make Malaysians, Malaysians lah!

MIND YOUR LANGUAGE

54. Yup, our fondness of adding the ‘lah’ to end practically every sentence is a mystery with unknown origins. We were colonized and that introduced us to the ‘Queen’s English’. Yet, even the Queen’s English could not withstand the onslaught of what the locals call as ‘Manglish’. We don’t end our sentences with a defined note but leave them hanging with the ‘lah’ trailing for eternity. For Malaysians, it just won’t do to say ‘Come!’. Instead, it’s more often that we hear ‘Come-lahhhh’.

53. Manglish is also incomplete without reference to few other terms. If an Anglophile says ‘I believe it is, don’t you think so?’, a Malaysian is spot-on by uttering ‘I believe it is, ha-mai’. If an Westerner exclaims in disbelief ‘OMG’, it’s more Malaysian to say ‘Wallau-weh…’. And if you’re an African-American trying to chill with your fellow brothers, here it’s just a simple gesture of having ‘teh tarik’ with your ‘machas´or ‘An-ay’!

52. Don’t be confused with the usage of specific terms in English here. In other countries, there is a clear difference between ‘borrow’ and ‘lend’. Here, it’s cincai-lah. ‘Borrow’ also can, ‘lend’ also can, whatever the context is. Somehow, Malaysians tend to understand each other very well, even with grammatical errors. The same goes to ‘that’s mean’ as opposed to the correct ‘that means’. Correcting your peers on it will only mean you’re directly related to the Queen of England herself!

51. Apart from Manglish, Malaysians (or at least, where Dewan Bahasa & Pustaka is heavily involved) also have another sort of language. You can call it either the ‘celup’ syndrome or simply being confused by what’s ours and what’s not. While I’m not exactly a proponent for Bahasa Melayu, I would think the language has a sufficient glossary without ‘melayu-sing’ foreign words. So why is it nowadays, that the government uses ‘Bajet’ when there’s the perfectly acceptable ‘Belanjawan’? That’s just one of the many examples which I can think of.

DRIVING, THE MALAYSIAN STYLE

50. Most Malaysians, especially when they drive, are surprisingly colour-blind. Whether it’s red, yellow or green, Malaysians tend to reach the same conclusion – go! It is after all, a matter of speed and comprehension. If it’s green, it’s understood that you can ‘go’ at a leisurely pace. If it’s yellow, it’s ‘go’ at a much faster pace with dagger eyes at the car in front of you. If it’s red, it’s definitely ‘go’ and a silent prayer that there’s no traffic police nearby.

49. Even if there’s a traffic police nearby, it’s hardly something to break cold sweat. After all, what can they do? The easy ones may be appeased by a surreptitious passing of some polymer notes even while bearing the ‘Saya tidak terima rasuah’ badge on their chest. The stricter ones will of course issue you with traffic summonses but don’t fret. Imagine them as coupon vouchers. Collect them and wait for the redemption period to be announced by the government. You may find yourself with an unbeatable offer in settling 5 for the price of 2!

48. Malaysian drivers are also mind-readers. Those driving behind us should and ought to know, by the sheer fact that our cars are inching towards the sides, that we are going to change lanes. Hence, there is no necessity to overwork the signal button. Also, don’t be alarmed if you suddenly find yourself behind a car that doesn’t move and yet, the driver fails to put on the hazard sign. You see, you’re expected to know that there’s something wrong with his or her car. So it is only reasonable for you to move on while the car’s driver remains oblivious to the angry stares.

47. Being angry while driving is nothing new for Malaysians. We’re a stressed society not because of taxing working hours but because of the hours spent on the road. It’s common to hear ‘Haiya, everywhere sure jam one!’. Despite the many highways, flyovers and tolls, we would find ourselves stuck in traffic jam every other day. With fellow mind-readers on the road purposely zooming into the tiny space between your car and the car in front of you (they obviously knew you meant to leave that gap for their benefit), one’s sanity is indeed a scarce commodity.

46. But traffic jams are also the number one excuse for Malaysians to abide by the now world-famous ‘Malaysian time’. If the meeting started at 3 pm and a Malaysian coolly walks in at 3.30, you need not ask more. Even if the question was asked, the answer will be an uncreative and oft-quoted ‘Massive traffic jam lah’.

45. Some of us thought it’s smarter to rely on Touch&Go and beat the queue. Unlike those losers who have to queue to pay cash, the privileged ones have reloadable cards which they just need to tap for access. Well, that used to be the case. Now, the operators have become even more brilliant. What used to be separate lanes for Touch&Go and cash are now merged at almost every toll. Perhaps they’re trying to push the equality line between the haves & haves not?

44. A notch ahead than Touch&Go would be the SmartTag users. It is a great invention especially since you don’t have to stretch your limbs out just to reach the machine. And considering local cars’ notoriety with stubborn windows after those first few years, it’s a blessing in disguise. So one can expect a smooth sailing, right? Wrong. You’re not a Malaysian if you haven’t been caught by the message ‘Tiada Smart Tag Dikesan’ or barred by a static railing despite having a fully reloaded Touch&Go.

43. Any self-respecting Malaysian driver would know by experience, that come festive season, all driving rules will fly out of the window. One rule constantly breached is not to park along the bylanes immediately after a highway toll. But you can’t help it if you’re a Malaysian. Particularly if you’re part of a convoy of cars headed to the same destination. Every car will need to stop and park until the last member arrives. By then, it will be a mini traffic jam impeding other cars from going through.

42. Malaysians are probably raised to believe that when it comes to interstate travel, there’s not much hope to rely on the ‘Kenderaan berat di laluan kiri’ signboards. If you’re amused at the sight of a small car hurtling down the highway like a speck of dust, you’ll surely be in awe when lorries, buses and tractors also move at full speed. Yet, please soothe your thinning patience if you’re in the extreme right lane and still find yourself staring at these giant transformers’ backside.

41. If driving on an interstate highway is a challenge, try the normal roads. You are definitely not a Malaysian if your car fails to discover potholes. If a chess player has to get past knights and bishops before reaching the king and calling it checkmate, a Malaysian driver has to navigate his way around potholes (some roads are particularly notorious for it) before hoping to reach his destination with the car still intact.

40. While some have yet to experience the thrill of unexpectedly driving over a gigantic pothole, I’m sure all of us had driven on roads with ongoing construction works. And I must say, it’s amazing how the constructions never seem to end. Today, you may find yourself stuck in a jam because of construction at one end of the road. You think you’re smart and make a detour the next day, only to discover that you’re still stuck in traffic because the construction has moved as well.

39. Let’s now focus on the Malaysian style of parking. Regardless of what has been taught, it’s a reality of Malaysian life that parking is not confined within the parameters of a box. Generally, one cannot park along the yellow line but hey, it’s Malaysia Boleh okay. Everywhere is a parking area, including trolley alleys which would fit a Kancil nicely. If push comes to shove and you find yourself without a parking space, Malaysians will park behind (or in front of) each other’s cars. It’s then a matter of luck whether the driver leaves their number behind or not!

38. Even when a Malaysian driver parks his or her car within the designated parking lot, it’s only half a battle won. See that nearby machine which dispenses parking tickets upon payment? Well, in Malaysia, they would usually be turned into handy advertisement boards. Approached only when the ‘Ah Long stickers’ needed to find a spot. Or when Malaysians are told that the municipal officers are in the vicinity and everyone makes a mad dash to insert that 50 sen coin for an hour of parking.

REFLECTIONS OF PATRIOTISM

37. Considering Merdeka is coming soon, government buildings, streets and houses will be decked with our national flag in the name of patriotism. Cabs are not leaving themselves out of the fun too. It does not matter that the cabs are dirty or look like moving scrap metal on the roads. The cab operators would install portable flags near their windscreen or paste a bigger flag as their boot’s cover. Either way, the same flag flying high at the United Nations’ headquarters will see its lesser-privileged siblings being covered with grime and finally thrown away with the dignity of a rag cloth.

36. Speaking about patriotism, Malaysians are a peculiar lot when it comes to ‘Negaraku’. True, every school-going Malaysian will sing it every Monday before class commences. But once we leave school, there is really no other opportunity for us to sing our national anthem. We can’t sing it during major sports events simply because we’re not exactly medal contenders. Only RTM1 & RTM2 will start and end their daily broadcasting period with the anthem but then again, who would actually wait for it? We’re not like the Thais who sing their anthem with pride even in the cinema halls.

35. We should be extremely proud that ‘Negaraku’ is similar to a pop hit. It has its original version as well as the remix, thanks to a sudden burst of creativity by the government. So while my parents grew up with the slow and majestic ‘Negaraku’ (but admittedly, quite vocally taxing), I grew up singing ‘Negaraku’ in a marching-band style. No emotions were required, only pure speed and a sense of rat-tat-tat. But again, the original will always prevail over remixes and Malaysians are now back to singing ‘Negaraku’ as it should be – slow and majestic.

34. Apart from ‘Negaraku’, every school-going Malaysian child is also expected to sing their respective states’ anthem. I was born and raised in Selangor so for a good decade, I had to wail at the top of my lungs in every school assembly for ‘Duliii Yang Mahaa Mulia. Selaaamat di aatas takhta. Allahhh lanjutkan usia Tuanku. Rakyat mohon restu, bawah Duli Tuanku’. Well, my cousins in other states probably had better luck with their own songs. Perhaps their state composer recognized that not everyone is blessed with Celine Dion’s powerful octaves.

33. One thing’s for sure. Our patriotism, as reflected in the ruling government’s actions, does not lie in preserving heritage buildings. Who needs patriotism when we demolished Pudu Prison just because it happened to be in the prime Bukit Bintang area? Who cares about patriotism when the iconic Bukit Bintang Girls School had to make way for yet another mega shopping mall? Who gives a toot when a perfectly functioning Istana Negara was needlessly relocated to Jalan Duta?

32. We have with us, the 5 tenets of ‘Rukunegara’. The first tenet is not a problem, judging by the variety of religions professed by Malaysians. The second tenet is a bit suspect, considering how the royalty is subject to the whims and fancies of YBs and Y. Berhormats. The third tenet is seriously questionable. The Federal Constitution which should reign supreme, has been amended numerous times thanks to the overwhelming (unthinking) majority. The fourth tenet is, well, beyond hope. Otherwise, how could draconian statutes which suppress Malaysians’ fundamental rights be passed? Malaysians need to be taught that there is a clear difference between ‘Rule of Law’ and ‘Rule by Law’, the latter being Malaysia.

31. The fifth tenet of ‘Rukunegara’ is honestly to me, a mystery. Tourists may claim that we’re a polite lot but they must have come across protected species of Malaysians. The ones I encounter on a normal basis could hardly be described in the same manner. We cut queues, we rush for free food just because it’s free, we never apologise for our mistakes and the list goes on.

MONEY, MONEY, MONEY

30. It’s trite that everything is controlled by money but in Malaysia, we can’t even control our denominations. Unlike the Franklins and Hamiltons which have remained unchanged, we change our polymer-notes denominations faster than we can say ‘Monopoly!’. The RM20 which was taken off market merely a few years ago is now back in fashion, making a statement in bright orange hue. Each of the RM1, RM5, RM10 and RM50 had also received facelifts. I don’t even want to discuss about the coins, with the latest 50 coin easily confused with its lesser 20 sen brother.

29. Part of me has this sinking notion that all that glitter may not even be real. Despite us having brand-new polymer notes and shiny coins, do we even have money in the Federal Reserves? Most would suspect that our funds are dwindling, fast. What then could inspire the government to urge civil servants to literally work until they die? The retirement age is continuously increased. With deadwood remaining in the system far longer than they should, there’s no place for fresh blood.

28. As the perfect partner in a tango of wrongs, Cuepacs too is continuously asking for a raise in salaries. Everyone welcomes a raise, don’t get me wrong. But what happens when only the digits increase but the value remains static or worse, diminish over the years? Each time a raise is announced, Malaysians have to brace themselves against the increase of prices. Goods which used to be 50 cent may now reach a Ringgit. Wouldn’t it be the same as hoarding millions of worthless Banana Tree money of yesteryears?

27. The worst part of any price increase is that the prices will never go down. While older Malaysians reminisced about getting a comfortable meal at 20 sen, the younger Malaysians can only scoff at its absurdity. Now, you can’t even answer nature’s call in a clean environment for 20 sen. A premium toilet in some middle class shopping mall is easily 50 sen and even then, the level of expected hygiene is seriously questionable.

26. And when a price increase is announced by the government, one of the most pressing issues would be the petrol rates. Malaysians would flock to the petrol stations at midnight. There will be long queues of desperados trying to squeeze that last gallon of petrol at a cheaper price to last them a lifetime. To add insult, Malaysians will always be greeted with the ‘Petrol Subsidy sticker’ at the pump machine. We are constantly reminded on how much the ruling government spends on petrol subsidies. Why then is there no reminder on these 2 facts – we’re an oil producing country (hello, Petronas?) and even with subsidized rates, our petrol price still rates higher than most countries.

25. Even with petrol subsidies, Malaysians are too aware that there is no proper enforcement. No one is stopping foreigners from enjoying those rates as we are. Yet, no one can blame the foreigners since the petrol subsidy sticker is in Bahasa Melayu. Unless of course, we expect our Bahasa Melayu, like English, to be accepted as the world’s lingua franca.

EDUCATING MALAYSIANS

24. Laugh as we may but Malaysians too may not be able to understand the effect of the petrol subsidy sticker. Why? Because the society’s grasp of the English language itself has deteriorated tremendously. With certain quarters promoting Bahasa Melayu as the only language, what we have achieved in the colonial years had been left behind. Now, we have generations of young Malaysians who cannot string a perfect English sentence without stuttering here and there. Manglish is for fun but when that gets confused as the real English, Malaysians are in deep trouble.

23. The rapid decline of English in today’s Malaysian society is really writings on the wall. We are now products of a crumbling education system, one that has lost its sense of direction. As other countries are moving forward, we take giant strides to the time of ignorance. We used to have few established local universities, with one of them able to compete against Singapore’s NUS. That’s not the situation anymore. While Singapore stands for quality, we pushed for quantity. We have allowed the uncontrollable mushrooming of public and private universities at the expense of quality education.

22. Malaysian parents are now used to the idea that their children will come home with buckets of A’s with each major examination. Getting a B is no longer an option and ‘failure’ is unthinkable when everyone gets to enter universities. No one wants to stand up and question ‘What’s the value of an A nowadays’? Everyone wants to go on the ride and be fooled into thinking that their children are geniuses. Not many are willing to accept that perhaps, a D in the old A-Level system bears more weight than an A+ in today’s STPM. Reality is harsh so let’s dream on a little while longer.

21. These very geniuses will then be accepted into the many universities in Malaysia. As these young Malaysians have been made to believe that they can change the world, they see themselves not as clerks but Roosevelts. They don’t see themselves as medical assistants but Marie Curie, in the thick of action. They refuse to believe anything less than greatness. Graduation will come and they will each leave the stage with heads held high and shoulders burdened by accolades and perfect pointers.

20. It is only when they are confronted with the demands of working life that the mirror blasts itself into smithereens of broken dreams. What they hold in their hand as prized degrees have turned into worthless papers. Not many will be lucky as seen from the statistics. Malaysia’s high number of graduates is equally matched by those who failed to get their preferred course of employment or worst, remain unemployed. But don’t worry, not everyone will abandon these young Malaysians. After 6 months of desolation, the PTPTN will still seek you out for the loans that must be repaid, regardless whether you have a job or not.

19. Well, the rot starts from the root. Young school-going Malaysian children nowadays are also taught this. The school period is subject to the upcoming festive seasons. It will never be a fixed timetable for studying for sympathetic Education Ministers will readily amend the school holidays. If a 2-day public holiday is not enough, we’ll stretch it for a whole week so that some quarters can ‘balik kampung’. Why the desperate worry for studies not to be disrupted?

18. Fluidity (or lack of discipline) is also apparent from how easy it is to change our syllabus. What my younger cousins are studying for their History today is different than what I studied a decade ago. When I was a school student, our history started in year 1403 when Parameswara founded Malacca. Now, it seems that everything before Parameswara’s conversion into Islam had been conveniently blacked-out. I am guessing Malaysians do not know that once our history is lost, we would have no future at all.

SPORTS
17. Something must have gone awfully wrong in our preparation for international meets. Take the Harimau Muda for instance. Hearing their repute made me braved the crowd at Bukit Jalil for the friendly against Man City. I wanted to witness the re-emergence of the Harimau along the likes of the late Mokhtar Dahari and his peers. What I saw instead, was probably a cub being toyed around by the Blues.

16. With the recent Olympian feat by Datuk Lee Chong Wei, we are seeing more people taking up badminton. Kids are now playing badminton on the streets in equal number as football. But Datuk Lee’s time will soon come to an end and who’ll lead the challenge then? Even with the Sidek brothers, our last badminton glory as a nation was back in 1992. After that, it was as if Malaysia is no longer a respected contender. Could the last Thomas Cup be our swansong as Indonesia and other countries march to improve their game?

15. So desperate is the government for sporting heroes that those who won are handsomely rewarded. My respect and kudos goes to the first Malaysian female Olympian, Ms. Pandelela Rinong. Not only did she get lucrative sums and a scholarship, her win could also cause a man to lose his family jewels! Jokes aside, why are we not producing champions even with the money at stake? The recent London Olympics saw tiny nations making their mark in the medal tally. I’m sure that if we compare in terms of infrastructure, Malaysia is much better off. Yet, our best record is only 1 silver & 1 bronze.

14. Is it possible that our failure to produce more world-class champions stemmed from an inferiority complex? I watched the nail-biting match between Datuk Lee and Lin Dan the other day. While the match itself was tense, I found myself even more tensed by the comments by the local newscaster. After one great shot by Datuk Lee, this man had the nerve to comment “Itu dia. Kesombongan Lin Dan memakan diri” or something along those lines. The level of maturity displayed was most unbecoming. Especially since Lin Dan did emerge as the champion and Datuk Lee relegated to a painful deja-vu moment.

FOODS GALORE

13. If Malaysians can be described in one word, we are definitely ‘foodies’. No hunger pangs can remain unfulfilled when food is available 24/7. If the Brits have to make do with pubs once the shops close at 5 pm, Malaysians are luckier. Not enough with countless fast-food chains, we have what is uniquely Malaysian – the mamak bistros. You name it, they have it. From roti planta to tandoori to maggi goreng, they serve it even at the ungodliest hours.

12. With Malaysians, don’t try telling us that there is specific food for specific meal times. It’s not a case that one can only eat toasts for breakfast, meat for lunch, scones for tea and pasta for dinner. Malaysian stomachs are trained to accept anything that’s food. So, don’t be alarmed if you see a Malaysian youth having nasi lemak ayam berempah for dinner right before bedtime. It’s our culture.

11. Well, maybe having too much of good things will never be good. Just as we are notorious for being good eaters, I’m afraid Malaysians are also quite high up in the obesity ranking. Most of us eat but only a few will actually hit the gym to keep the expanding waistlines in check. With a high fondness for carbonated drinking, more and more Malaysian youths are overwhelming us with their rotund figures.

10. The recently concluded puasa month is a good example of how obsessed Malaysians are with food. Ramadhan is all about moderation and curbing your weaknesses for temptations, food included. Yet, you could only be amazed at the available buffet spreads and humongous bazaars to mark the end of every fasting day. Muslims (and non-Muslims) can be seen buying food on a daily basis as if they knew Armageddon will come the very next day. So much for resisting temptations.

9. It’s no different for Raya. There will be abundant delicacies on the table, enough for one to gain whatever weight that’s shed over the past 1 month. And if your own house runs out of food, don’t fret. There will always be open houses to attend to. One can be assured that the spread will not disappoint, particularly those hosted by politicians in the run-up to the next general election.

POLITICS
8. Since we’re talking about the next general election, that in itself is a mark of a true Malaysian. Everyone has been second-guessing as to when Ah Jib Kor will call for it. Popular belief is that it has to coincide with the school holidays. It’s not surprising since students need yet another break from studying, adults want to leave their offices for the thrill of voting and schools are perfect premises to store those suspicious extra ballot boxes for a convenient win here and there.

7. What marks a run-up to the general election is the naming process of candidates. While party leaders have yet to make official announcements (how could they? Since election date has yet to be determined), constituents are getting a feel as to who will be vying for their areas. Banners and buntings, some already displaying faces of potential candidates, are already up and hanging. Festive cards bearing the stamped signatures of incumbent ADUNS or Parliamentarian wannabes have made their rounds, enough to give citizens like us, not so- subtle clues.

6. Once every five years, Malaysians will be treated to displays of oratory skills. Some are undeniably better than the others. They can sell ice to the Eskimos and life insurance to the kamikaze fighters. The rest are not so good, leaving us to think, ‘Wallau-weh, is this the idiot we want to put in the august house?’. But then again, it doesn’t really matter though. Malaysian politics has never been praised for outstanding individuals. Rather, we’re more known for the party whip system where members follow the orders of their party and not the demands of the voters. So really, our painstaking effort in ensuring that the ‘X’ doesn’t go beyond the box, doesn’t really make a difference.

5. The bottom-line is this. It’s a myth that we can expect our politicians to follow Abe Lincoln’s words that it is the government by the people for the people. It’s reality that these YBs are where they are because they expect the normal tax-paying Malaysians to serve them. In short, we elect our own Napoleons. In that sense, we’re really dumber than the French. They had no choice when the real Napoleon Bonaparte seized power. For Malaysians, we literally hand over our lives and rights with a simple mark.

4. We don’t talk about Conservatives, Labour or Liberals. We don’t even care about Democrats and Republicans. For Malaysians, we only seemed to know the Alliance or later as it is popularly known, Barisan Nasional. Quite recently, we came to know of another brand, still in its infancy, Pakatan Rakyat. In fact, it has been drummed into our heads that without BN, the four riders of Apocalypse may just come and destroy our beloved country. So much so that many are left confused, not able to distinguish that BN is just a political party and not the country itself. Politicians as well as governments come and go. Only the country remains, that is, if she can still withstand the long-term damage.

3. With Pakatan Rakyat’s convincing win in the last GE, BN saw its grip on several states weakened. This is an important facet to the local political scenario where states and federal government work hand in hand. BN may have oppressed Kelantan by cutting its deserving funds once the state was won by the Islamic Party of Malaysia (PAS). Yet, same trick cannot work twice. Pakatan Rakyat’s successes in Selangor (an important stronghold considering the volume of taxes paid) foiled BN’s plans of returning. In fact, BN’s tricks may just push the undecided voters in the opposite direction.

2. Malaysians have seen 6 Prime Ministers over the country’s 54 years of existence. Current generation of Malaysians may only know the latter 3. But it’s the current one (and many suspect would be the last from the ruling party based on the R-A-H-M-A-N belief) which we came to be reminded how powerful a woman can be. Wives of previous PM, despite their own personal achievements, have never made their mark save for being ‘the PM’s wife’. Now, Malaysians regularly get confused between the rightful Queen and one who is wrongfully addressed as the ‘First Lady’. So influential is she that she gets to do, among others, co-deliver Raya message to the public while the Queen remains silent.

1. And we’re finally at the number 1 spot on what makes us Malaysians. The ruling government’s theme in celebrating our 55th anniversary is ’55 tahun Janji Ditepati’. For the life of me, I do not know what promises they have fulfilled. I suspect, most of you don’t know either. Unless of course, they promised the colonial leaders back in 1956 that once independence is achieved, they’ll drain the country dry in every possible aspect. If that’s the case, then nothing could be more ‘Cemerlang, Gemilang, Terbilang’ than that. Another bonus point is that every destruction is completed or almost complete before ‘Wawasan 2020’! So what really makes us Malaysians? Our gullibility. We believed them for 55 years. It is time for a change. Otherwise, there may not be a ‘Malaysia’ in existence regardless how often ‘Salam 1 Malaysia’ is uttered.

This has been a bumper edition, even by my standard. Nevertheless, Selamat Menyambut Hari Kemerdekaan ke-55 to each and every Malaysian. Let the parades go on (and I'll revel in extra hours of sleep in my comfortable bed on Friday!).

Between the Innocence & Experience

Recently, I tried to get in touch with my former STPM English Literature tutor. Since we parted ways in 2002 (I know this would be the give-away as to my age if one does the maths), I knew she has obtained her Ph. D and I've progressed to working life after 4 years of reading law. Somehow, I managed to obtain her mobile number and we exchanged a few sms-es, words that reflected the strength of memory against passing years. Regrettably, our face-to-face meet remains elusive until today. But if I do get to meet her, my wish would be to discuss again over cakes and coffee, William Blake's Songs of Innocence & Experience.

You see, the me in 2002 couldn't understand what was the deal in studying William Blake's words. I aced my Literature paper for sure but that was that. When I was still a student, Blake's poetry was merely a component in the STPM syllabus together with Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing, Austen's Emma and a few other short stories. But with each passing year of adulthood, I begin to belatedly realise the impact of Blake's observations on what separates the dreams and reality of life. And with the ongoing Raya celebrations, never did I feel more keenly, that I may have just stepped over the threshold of youthful innocence and straight into the jaded embrace of experience.

It is a pity considering that I used to like the idea of Raya, very much. After a month of fasting, who could fail to look forward to a month of mouth-watering food? And with generous relatives readily parting way with packets of money over a small forehead to hand gesture, nothing could beat that equation. Even when I stopped 'receiving' and became a 'giver' despite my unchanged personal status, I still had no complains. But that Syawal enjoyment for this year seemed to have completely evaporated. In its place came this sense of frustration that the ties that bind us together, may have been too tight until it reaches a point of strangulation. Well, this is how I felt, lest some quarters feel offended.

Today being the 7th day of Raya, I must make this observation. As what I've shared with my sisters who are (fortunately for them) abroad, Raya has lost its joys. The going-arounds I enjoyed as a kid has lost its appeal and is now, a form of stress. Despite Raya being one whole month, it seems that everyone make it their business to visit and be visited within the first few days of Raya. My Mum will definitely not appreciate this coming from her daughter but I find it extremely vexing. Where my maternal relatives are concerned, it is seriously nothing but a game of 'Musical House'! You'll see the same people congregating together from one house to another. And if that's not enough, there's even cases of visiting the same houses, again and again. Perhaps my relatives are a tad too generous but seriously, to revisit the same house(s) just because the host is now preparing a different dish than what was served on the first day of Raya? Sigh.

That's not all. For this year, there was also the planned 3d-2n get-away for my maternal family members in Cameron Highlands. From the 4th to 6th day of Raya, I was under the same roof with each of Mom's siblings and their respective family members. Add a grand-aunty, a second cousin and my uncle's in-laws, there were 28 of us in a colonial bungalow with a sprawling compound. Don't get me wrong, I actually enjoyed the get-away and the cool weather helped tremendously. But the irony was that these 28 people are the same company in whose presence I spent the first 3 days of Raya! Yet, everyone makes it a big deal for their houses to be visited in those preceding 3 days. Woe betide if I fail to make those visits or refuse to eat what has been served in each of those houses. If only you could imagine that I visit at least 3 houses a day and each host expects guests to devour their food as if it's the last meal on earth... People call it fulfilling one's social obligations. I call it an unwarranted absurdity.

I know it's Raya and Syawal's all about strengthening the family ties but I'm left to wonder. Is an individual's sanity not important enough? This question looms in the face as the long Raya break comes to an end tomorrow. With work that can only be described as stressful, I need my weekend breaks more than ever. I need the weekends to just chill at home in peace without fearing that my tv-bonding time will change into kitchen duty. And yet, I don't see that the coming weekends will be mine. With relatives' weddings filling the weekend's diaries and more Raya visits to do and expect (which is not surprising considering that we've only started with Dad's relatives today), I only hope Syawal ends fast. At least, that's when the chaos will subside and calm re-appears.

p/s: I recently turned a year older but even that was a not a cause for celebration. After all, what's another jaded year of sarcasm and cynicism? Hmm...Alphaville's Forever Young on repeat is infinitely appealing.

Unimpressive Mediocrity

Had I been given the choice (or the opportunity and funds to do so), I would have preferred to study overseas for my undergraduate degree. But as a Yiddish proverb goes (and don’t ask me how I got to know a Yiddish proverb of all things), men plan and God laughs. And I did almost everything according to plan i.e. search for the right courses, hunt for respectable overseas universities, apply for admissions, thumbed the local dailies and surfed the Net with utter devotion in hopes of finding scholarships and when the relevant bodies called up for interviews, prepared myself for the possible questions that could be asked. But God must have laughed hard because despite all that, I somehow found myself as an undergraduate at a local public university for the next four years. My only consolation was that I got the course I wanted. And I only needed about 30 minutes of travelling time on the Federal highway from my house to the university. It was a sheer relief that the short distance meant no necessity for me to stay in university residences.

Anyway, I thought my undergraduate life was pretty uneventful. We did study (I think) and the close proximity to Midvalley Megamall was enough to inspire moments of distractions and active participation in non-academic related events. Most importantly, I’ve been asked on what it felt to be studying at the Law Faculty, numerous times. My response each time would be typically boring – it’s the same feeling as any undergraduate studying any course in any public university. Don’t get me wrong. I’m immensely proud that I was able to enter the Faculty and able to graduate on time (phew!) but beyond that, I did not think much about my university’s status. Although university officials would like to repeat the oft-quoted comment that our university is a premier university, I could not see it as a justification for self-inflated importance.

In fact, it is a (dismal) truth many failed to acknowledge that our local universities are nowhere up the ranks in terms of global recognition. Perhaps my university is a premier university when one compares it to the other local public universities and private universities. But in an era of rapid globalization, the yardstick should never be your own country’s universities. That’s akin of settling for the title of ‘Jaguh Kampung’ and resting on one’s laurels when other universities race towards progressive strides in achieving world-class status.

My university which was founded decades ago (some would like to believe a century ago) is now, at best, an institutional relic with unashamed reliance on past glory. Take away that history and my university would be not that far ahead or different from other local universities. It was this fact which hurt the most when a local daily reported that my former university managed to be ranked no. 167 out of 700 universities in a ranking exercise. University loyalists would be quick to point out that by being no. 167 and the highest Malaysian university on the list, it is a remarkable achievement deserving respect and the whole pomp and celebration. Don’t forget people, we have approximately 533 other universities lagging behind us!

But then again, who would bother with trying to count those that you’ve left behind? I’ve yet to see any sprinter checking to see who’s behind them in a race to the finish line. All they care is who’s ahead of them. The same principle would naturally apply to universities. What’s important is that my former university is nowhere near its sibling university, the National University of Singapore which is ranked at no. 28 or even Nanyang Technology University. Considering NUS shared the same lineage as my university, it speaks volumes of my former university’s deterioration in excellence when we think of 167 vs 28. I’m bad at Maths but even I myself could see the huge disparity.

A friend of mine had asked whether I was proud of the fact that my former university is ranked no. 167. I could only reply ‘What pride? Empty ones?’ And with no disrespect to my former university’s achievements, I told my friend this -

“Imagine yourself queuing for a buffet spread with 166 people ahead of you. By the time your turn comes, you do wonder whether you get to eat what you want or merely settling for other people’s leftovers”.

And taking a cue from a Korean drama series I have just watched, I will always remember what the mother’s character said to her daughter when the latter proudly announced that she got no. 2 in her class. The mother was proud of her daughter’s achievements but was realistic enough to point out that ‘being second is an achievement. But when you find yourself in a situation where there are only two competitors, being no. 2 is also a loser. So try harder to become No. 1 so you’ll never have to feel the pain of losing’.

At no. 167, it’s time to take a reality check. Wake up and smell the hard concrete, especially when you have other 166 universities reminding you that there’s nothing to shout about unimpressive mediocrity.

What's the big deal with Raya?

I had initially hoped that it would be a festive entry, regaling my readers (I wished it was millions but well, I’ve to admit only a countable few actually knew my blog address) with the many exciting and fun-filled episodes of Raya 2011. And as cream to the cake, putting up photos to the extent that you’ll probably think I’m either an avid photographer or a camwhore. Well, there’s a reason why I started this entry the way I did and typing the operative word in bold just in case the joke is missed.


With considerable restraint on my part from using colourful vocabulary, I can only say this. Raya 2011 was a dampening mixture of pre-Charles Dicken’s Christmas Carol and ER (minus the good looking actors, of course). Perhaps it’s a sign of me getting older but that argument should necessarily fail because Mama and her siblings are still very much taken with the whole merry-making. Despite meeting each other almost on a weekly basis, my maternal relatives are still able chat away the hours during Raya and in my father’s oft-quoted words, reheating that old cauldron of soup yet again. Unfortunately, I do not share the same camaraderie with my cousins to withstand hours of chitchatting. This I have to admit as a personal failing given my less-than-likeable character (you’ve got to call a spade a spade. There is no other way). Either that or I’m unable to appreciate our common traits or to tolerate the many differences we have despite sharing the same lineage.


Talking about the same lineage, the case should probably be somewhat different with my paternal cousins. I’ve yet to meet any of my cousins which undoubtedly is pathetic. Unlike my maternal cousins who I do meet up with regularly, paternal cousins are best described as ‘once in a blue moon’ kind of existence. Out of my father’s numerous siblings, I can say confidently that I will only meet up with children of my dad’s one sister and another brother during Raya. For the rest, ‘perfect strangers’ come to mind. So perfect are we in refusing/failing to acknowledge our blood ties that strangers would share a better connection upon meeting each other. I should know. A friend I know is close to my cousin and imagine her surprise to discover we’re related.


By now, you would probably think I’ve some sort of dysfunctional extended family to enjoy any festivities at all. But that hasn’t been the case all along. I used to enjoy Raya very much, even after my sisters left for their studies abroad. This year’s festivities however, were overwhelmed by stories of deaths, infections and medical complications. Just three days before Eid came knocking, the angel of death visited my grand-aunty. Honestly, she was not my favourite relative to warrant cascading streams of tears. But respect and decorum required us to make the long journey into the remote area of Sungai Ayam, somewhere in Batu Pahat, Johore. By the time we arrived at 11 plus in the morning, the deceased was already neatly wrapped in the burial cloth. Unlike the deaths of other family members, I did not feel any grief. In fact, the feeling was one of indifference as I watched others walked in and out of the house. A death has taken place but the emotions that followed did not seem to jive. Could it be that a living heart has turned cold? No pun intended though.

To make things worst, it was a day trip on a Friday. And just as we thought that the trip into Sg. Ayam was arduous, the return trip was frighteningly painful. As a general rule, we can always assure ourselves that driving back would be faster. Yet, despite raking in the kilometers, it was as if we will never leave Pagoh. The drive was excruciating and I had to stop for a couple of times to knock off those sleepy yawns, something I’ve not done before. That trip knocked us out for the next two days, reducing a what would have been the last Ramadhan weekend into extended sessions of nap time.

Then, Raya finally came. With new clothes, a more ernest attempt at applying make-up and the ever familiar favourites of ketupat and Aunty Yah's sambal kacang, it should have been a Raya worth remembering. Well, I discounted the fact that the epidemic flu bug that has been going around town (to which the epicentre is somehow my relative's house) is sufficient to kill any celebratory mood as we hear people wheezing, sniffing and best of all, inconsiderate individuals letting it all out in huge bursts of sneezes to the quiet chagrin of others. Seriously, there are medications designed to keep the flu bug under control, and those affected individuals do not know of such existence.

It has only been 3 days of Raya but enough for me to think what's the big deal with Raya itself. I'm blogging in office now as Friday comes to an end and weekend beckons. But wait, a weekend in Raya is never mine to begin with. A weekend that comes only means more houses to visit and more of those neverending 'smile, kiss, how are you? when are you settling down?' cycles. Well, I just have to bear with it for another 27 days or so. Till my next entry or until my sanity wears out,

'Selamat Hari Raya Aidil Fitri. Maaf Zahir & Batin'.

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.

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!