MANY HAPPY RETURNS OF THE DAY

Monday 29th Dec. was a day of celebration for an old friend of mine. Not only was it her 35th wedding anniversary, but also her eldest son's 34th birthday - on the very same day! Not to mention it was awal Muharam, and hence a public holiday which made it easier for us and the 100 or so people to turn up for the lunch that she and her husband held for family and friends. Plus, the restaurant serves a fairly decent Malay fare. The selection of desserts was limited for a sweet tooth person like me, but, and more importantly, the kueh pelita, sagu gula Melaka, and kueh koci pulut hitam were authentic.

For me, it was a celebration of sorts too. I had known ZB and her husband YC since varsity days, so we go back a long way. Ours is a friendship borne out of a common interest in all things literary. Our love of books found us in the same profession. Although we worked in different organisations, we stayed in touch throughout our working lives. Not often, but enough to keep track of each other.

I was at her wedding in Seremban, and dropped in on her and YC a couple of times in the early years of their marriage. Once I stayed back for dinner at their home in Kg. Pandan and had a taste of YC's gulai lemak kuning. ZB, of course, doesn't cook! But she has other endearing qualities to nourish our friendship. She is warm, understanding and one of the most level-headed persons I know. While she is critical, she is not judgemental.

I visited her in Seremban after she had just given birth to her second son, and by then her family knew that I am a friend. I was there for her eldest son's akad nikah and was present for his wedding too, some eight years ago. I wasn't always there for all the ups and downs in her life, but what we had was enough to sustain the friendship to this day.

Ours wasn't the kind of friendship nurtured over regular Sunday lunches, obligatory phone calls, shopping trips, birthday get-togethers, and the other stuff that 'friends' do together as a rule. In fact, there had been years ( and other important moments in our lives) when we had not kept in touch. But the lack of contact had not strained the friendship. We are, after all, different people, leading separate lives; but our paths have crossed, and the times that we have shared have bonded us. Our families might not be close, but my husband and children know that ZB is a friend, whose name gets mentioned often enough at home.

ZB looked happy on Monday, and I am happy for her. I am also happy to celebrate a friendship that has stood the test of time.

Wishing each and every one of you a HAPPY AND PROSPEROUS NEW YEAR. Hope 2009 will bring us GOOD LUCK, GOOD HEALTH and GOOD FORTUNE.

On the anniversary of my pilgrimage...

End-November marks the beginning of the haji-going period, and I have had my share of the 'doa selamat' kenduris. Which prompted me to recall that it was this time last year that my husband and I were having our own kenduri to bid farewell to neighbours, family and friends before our Mekah-bound trip. Occasions like these are often well-attended as ours was - most people welcome the opportunity to wish the would-be haji and hajah a safe journey. More importantly (perhaps), it is the occasion where all parties concerned can ask and give forgiveness for any wrongdoing or hurt inflicted - actual or perceived - on one another, at some time or other.

As the kenduri drew to an end, words, tears and feelings flowed as generously as did the gifts of telekung, tudung, kain batik, kain pulikat and cash. Every hug and embrace manifested hope and wishes that all would be well for us on our journey - on the physical and the spiritual front. In the doa offered in numbers, we found comfort and consolation, and could embark on our journey with the right frame of mind, resigned to what Allah had in store for us. It would be a journey, as I discovered, fraught with tests of physical, mental and, above all, spiritual strength.

At the outset, I had my fears of the 'tests' that I was told would not only be many, but in different guises and seldom obvious. "Simply accept what comes as a matter of course" was the constant advice I received before my departure. Good advice - I soon discovered, but acceptance wasn't always that simple.

Disguised in many forms, the greatest challenge perhaps was in human relations - keeping cool and composed at all times when dealing with arrogance, prejudice, impudence, impatience, self-righteousness and selfishness, to name a few. Even though these are challenges you could be confronted with just about anywhere, even at home, the millions of people, with their inherent and acquired idiosyncracies, converging in one place at the same time, increases the magnitude of the problem manifold. Adversity can bring out the best and the worst in people, and nowhere was this more apparent than in the Holy Land when people were pressed for time and space. I guess that's why stories abound of friendship souring, marriages ending, relationships breaking.

In my experience, things weren't always smooth; hitches and glitches were many - in the transportation, catering, accommodation, management, etc. It was so easy to get riled up. And even easier still not to notice the rewards - that no matter how small they were, what form they took, were blessings no less. In retrospect, the best preparation (besides the walking exercise) I thought was to develop an open mind and a big heart, and not sweat the small stuff. And not to lose sight of the purpose of the journey - ever.

We survived the 44 days, alhamdulillah - physically unscathed, sanity intact, faith unwavering and with an even more fervent desire to do it all again. Insyaallah.

A Mirror of Friendship

On my last trip to KL in mid-Nov. I planned to shop for a mirror. I knew exactly what I wanted, but previous searches in Ipoh had come to nought. Nothing was even close! It was a Sunday, and my husband and sons had planned on golf (so what's new). So, I called my good friend, T. As luck would have it, she was free and was planning to go to Sg. Buluh to get her sister, N, an orchid plant as a belated birthday present. But she agreed to accompany me on my 'mirror hunt' anyway, so I tagged along with her to Sg. Buluh. T is good to have around when you are shopping for just about anything. She's KL born and bred; so with her, the GPS would be redundant! Besides, if you're looking for someone with taste and style, she is IT.

The mirror was for my kitchen-cum-family dining area; meaning, an informal spot. A nook where the wash basin stands needed a bit of brightening up and I was convinced a mirror would do the trick. But it cannot be anything ostentatious, or anything that was going to dent my already depleted finances. Moreover, my husband had said: "Any mirror would do." As if that wasn't a clear warning to spend as little as possible on the mirror.....

We visited Silk Road in Bangsar - which has ethnic Asian stuff including mirrors, but none took my fancy, nor were they suitable for my nook. Next stop was Bangsar Village, where we decided on lunch first before resuming our quest. As we were finishing lunch at one of the restaurants, who did we meet but N and her husband! N then invited us to her house for tea since I had not been to her new house in Bukit Jelutong, and for T to personally deliver the orchid.

Before making our way to B. Jelutong, T wanted to take me to a furniture shop where she thought I might find what I was looking for. So we headed for PJ - only to find the location of the shop occupied by a car showroom. They must have moved, or gone bust. The latter was most unlikely, according to T. For consolation, she said she would 'google' it so that we could visit it at some other time. So, the search was still on.........

T told N about my quest for the mirror, and the latter suggested that I take a look at a mirror that she no longer wanted since it was not in keeping with the decor of her new house. She had left it behind in her previous house together with other cast-offs. So off we went. When we got there, I spotted the mirror right away. It sat forlorn against the front wall of the house, its glass cracked in two. That it has seen better days was quite obvious. With a white-turned-cream frame of cast iron that had florets at regular intervals, the mirror begged to be rescued. Even then, with its distressed look, it fitted my requirements to a T - the size was right, the European design so fetchingly simple, and it was old. After all, it was N's flea-market find in London some 20 years ago! But given my penchant for antiques, old is not a problem.

I have given the frame a new coat of white paint - just enough to give it an even colour throughout. The broken mirror has been replaced with a new one. It was meant to be hung landscape-style, but that wouldn't do for the wall. So it is now with the welder who would have to remove the original hook from where it is, and weld it back into another position so I could hang it portrait-wise. In a matter of days, it will assume its rightful place on the wall.

My months-long search is over, and I am as pleased as Punch. When once the mirror had been her object of desire, tended with love and care, N had given it to me without a second thought. It mirrors the generosity of a friend, and a friendship that spans over 25 years - something to reflect upon, and that will always be reflected every time I look at it. Thank you, N.

Alarming !

The house alarm would go off at anytime of day or night. When it does, it doesn't stop - till hours later when it is disarmed. Meanwhile, we suffer noise pollution of the highest order. When it happens during the day, you are deprived of any other sound you might be listening to - like the soothing strains of Kenny G or Mesuari's recital of the Surahs. It's difficult not to be irritated or annoyed. When it goes off at night, you might be abruptly awakened from a deep sleep. Which could be trauma for some people. The sound is so piercing that I won't be surprised if the elderly residents (which most are) had been shocked or startled at one time or another.

The house-owner lives in another state in pursuit of a political career. So, he leaves the house equipped to discourage burglary. Most (if not all) burglar alarms are designed to be so sensitive that the slightest movement would trigger it off. If only the house-owner is equally sensitive. They designed alarms to ward off intrusion from the two-legged kind, but forgot about the four-legged variety. Stray cats prowling for food are aplenty here, and might well have been the culprit setting off the alarm on many occasions. So I think.

An alarm that goes on for a long time is bound to attract attention, including from unwanted sources. Defeats the purpose then, doesn't it? Now anyone contemplating an unwelcome entry would be well-prepared to tackle the alarm knowing there is one. Still, it has been this way for the last 3 years and shows no sign of being resolved. Have the neighbours complained? Not openly, no. They grouse about it at the surau, though. Then they sleep on it - till it goes off again.

In Memory of a dear Friend

I got acquainted with Yip when we were both freshies and residents of Third College, Univ. of Malaya back in 1969/1970. When we served on the Junior Common Room Committee (JCRC) of the College - he as Chairman and I as Asst. Secretary – and on the Orientation Committee 1970/71, I got to know him better. In between, we had our one-on-one chats on just about anything and everything that was going on around us. I was comfortable with him, as he was with me and it was these private, unguarded moments, in all of 3 years, that reveal the Yip that I choose to remember.

Though he was several years older than most of us in the College then, earning him the nickname of ‘Uncle Yip’ from some, in reality he was no different from us. He had an eye for the pretty girls - prompting a friend to call him ‘dirty old man’- but not in a lascivious sort of way. He just appreciated beauty. He was imbued with leadership qualities that seemed natural to him, without a conscious desire to be a leader. For Yip was not one with lofty ambitions. I thought he went about his ways, as would someone with a purpose in life, earnestly, but with empathy and sympathy. Was he a special being? He would be the first to deny being one – and vehemently too. Whatever his religious inclinations, he never once assumed the moral high ground with me. Because of the person that he was – simple, kind and unassuming - making friends seemed effortless to him. Perhaps it stemmed from a magnanimity, or humanity; or simply a spirit of goodwill regardless of colour, creed or religion. Most probably, all of these.

I met him last in August 2006 when some of us, ex-Third Collegians, had a reunion of sorts to coincide with him being in Kuala Lumpur. If there was anyone I wanted to see again, it was Yip, and I’m glad I did. If for nothing else, it reaffirmed the fact that he was still the person that I knew in College. The over-30 years of no-contact simply dissipated, and we chatted again like old friends do.

I believe that he enjoyed considerable esteem among family and friends. He was the kind of man a friend would easily love and an enemy, if any, respect. He might not have been ‘perfect’, but he was perfectly human and for this alone, he touched our lives. In his ordinariness, he was extraordinary – and this was the most endearing part of Yip. This was the Yip that I knew, and the one that is forever etched in my heart – with fondness. Yip, I am proud to have called you ‘friend’ and prouder still to have been one of yours. To Lucy – you may have lost a loved one; but because of Yip, you have found a friend in me.

Goodbye, my dear friend; may your soul rest in peace.

Birthday Joy

The children had agonised over the choice of a birthday present for days. One thing for sure, though - they decided it had to be golf-related. Still, it wasn't going to be that easy; what would a hardcore golfer not have after all these years of playing the game? Over a breakfast of his favourite cucur udang (which I have almost perfected for his taste), the children presented him with his birthday present - a golf bag. He couldn't believe his eyes; much less contain his happiness. I could tell he was genuinely touched. Proud even - that his children had found him the 'perfect' gift (for now anyway). Maybe he had been hankering for a new bag, but didn't want to indulge after that splurge on the iPhone just days before. So, it was a case of orang mengantuk disorongkan bantal! He was on a high the whole day.

The children were equally delighted that they had made the right pick. They told him that it was the brand's latest item in the market, and that he should use it right away before the novelty wears out. But no, he said; "I'm keeping it for special occasions." Whatever that means. Maybe a special tournament between him and his golf buddies when he can show off the bag? But he did take a photo of it - on his iPhone, of course.

Two days later - he came home from a golf game at the Club, suitably flushed. A flush of triumph, I thought. "So, you won (again)", I said. "Yes!" he replied, and in the same breadth continued, "But I should have used my new bag!" "Why?" I asked. "Because I saw someone having the very same one!" he exclaimed. I detected the slight note of regret in his tone. Well, you win some, lose some.

Digital Joy

You couldn't mistake his glee that day; he was grinning from ear to ear like a Cheshire cat. Never mind that his car had to be towed to the workshop, having stalled in a traffic jam in mid-afternoon, in KL's golden triangle! You would think that his patience is limitless. No, not quite. It's the iPhone.

Yes, THAT very phone that created mile-long queues in the US and overnight camps on the streets of Ginza. He had his eye on it from the beginning (and has never taken his eyes off it since) - what with all the media hype. And a tech-savvy son who praised it to the skies as though he was working for Apple! After months of deliberation, he finally got it.

Yes, I admit its got looks. Are looks deceiving? Not this one - its as good as it looks. Some brilliant features including the touch-screen technology. So, he's been fiddling with it all the time, trying out its features, and breaking out in smiles every now and again. A very satisfied customer, I tell you. Everything else has become second fiddle, including the Golf Channel (though not quite golf itself). Now I even wonder if its going to make any difference if Tiger Woods were to suddenly appear on screen after that hiatus of his. Would he put the iPhone away?

But its fine with me really. You know, nothing could be more pleasing than to see someone - especially your nearest and dearest - get what he wants. Though far from selfish and miserly, my husband isn't really one to splurge, and certainly not on himself. So the iPhone - which isn't cheap - is a rare indulgence on his part.

But, my worry is this - my husband has a knack of 'losing' his handphones. I've lost track of the actual number; including one that fell into the sea off Langkawi, the one that got left behind in a restaurant when it was only 3 days old, the one that was forgotten in the locker room of the golf club, the one that got stolen when someone broke into the house, and a handful of others. Call it misfortune or bad luck. Or whatever. But I suspect carelessness has something to do with it also. So now I pray that the attention to the iPhone is not going to be short-lived - when the novelty wears out!

Nothing compares to it, he said. Really? Let's see - there is that Blackberry coming in December, isn't? Should I get it - just for a bit of competition, maybe?

But for now, what is the measure of a man's happiness? Its the iPhone!

My Aunt and Alzheimer's

Clutching the pink plastic mobile-phone in the palm of her right hand, giving it the occasional shake in an attempt to elicit some kind of sound, she was oblivious to anything and everything around her. "Hullo! hullo!" she kept saying into the phone, plainly irritated when receiving no response. Her daughter, NA, who had been looking on, stepped forward to relieve her of the 'phone', telling her that the battery had run out. She then took hold of a hair-roller and tried several times to place it on her head - in vain - only to draw out another series of disgruntled moans. She then took a face towel and draped it round the roller, much like how you would hang an item on a clothes-line. Then, she took a comb and gently ran it through her grey-peppered hair. I hugged her; she sat still - without the slightest hint of response, much less a recognition.

The last time I visited, some months ago, she was gripping a rubber duckie and squeezing it hard incessantly, somewhat enthralled by the sound that resulted. When that had exhausted its fascination, she put it aside and rummaged through the bag of toys for something else. First, a plastic mobile phone, then a rubber tennis ball. Silently, intently, she examined the object in her hand - like someone trying to figure out a piece of the puzzle. Most times, she would just stare into space, or at the TV - her face devoid of any emotion, her hand stroking her thighs.

At other times, NA said, she would look out the window pointing her finger at something, and insist that someone was trying to get into the house. Or that there was something going on across the road when it was in fact deserted and as quiet as can be. Out of the blue, she would call out the name of her sisters or brothers and asked that they be served something or other. As if they were visiting her at home. Why doesn't so-and-so call - she would ask in dismay. Only, how do you make her understand that they are all deceased?

Which is worse? That she has no inkling of the world she is in - much less of who she is - or that she is unreachable to us? We have all become strangers to her; even her two daughters who tend to her 24/7. She is in a world of her own, unfathomable to us, as ours is to her, I think. Though in her 80s, she exists in a time somewhere between adolescence and her early years of marriage, and keeps recalling those times, giving you snippets of her younger days.

It is impossible to hold a conversation with her; instead, you let her talk and then humour her, and indulge her every whim. Even if it is way past midnight, or in the wee hours of dawn when she cannot sleep. The funny thing is, she gets angry when you don't. When she doesn't get what she wants (because most times you can't make out what it is), she becomes irritated, and throws a tantrum - like a child. In a lot of ways, she has become a child, dependent on outside help for all her physical needs.

From her bed, she does things that bear a semblance, though remotely, of the things she used to do - like teaching adults in a KEMAS class in the late 60s. She refuses to leave her bed, and has to be cajoled and carried to the bathroom. She is overweight, and her daughters need an extra hand to get her to the bathroom, or anywhere. At times when she becomes unmanageable, they resort to medication to calm her down. On her good days - few and far between - she seems to be in the present, if only for a split second.

Such is the toll of Alzheimer's disease on my aunt who was once active, independent and dependable. Her husband died when her second daughter was still an infant. I'm sure raising her two daughters on her own was no walk in the park for her. Nor can it be for them, now that the role is reversed. It is preordained, isn't it - that they have remained single, and are able to devote their life now to whatever remains of their mother's. It can't be easy for either of them - trying to make sense of an incomprehensible existence, knowing that no amount of tender loving care can ever bring her back.

As I took my leave, I hugged her again and clasped her hand in mine. Still, all I got back was a cold, empty look. Which would be the same - when I visit again.

Post-hari raya thoughts

Last week, my heart went out to the relative (my mother's cousin) whose children took their time coming home that at one point she, teary-eyed, thought that they weren't coming back at all. And, she worried that the food that she had cooked in anticipation of the anak cucu's homecoming would go to waste. Then there was the physically and mentally-challenged cousin of my mother who waited by the door on his wheelchair wondering if anyone would visit at all since his mother had passed away just before Ramadhan. There was also a friend and her husband who spent hari raya in Switzerland, not with their aging parents and family because, according to her, "my parents understand". I wonder.

I was mindful of my mother's reminder - that we should make it a point to visit older siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, and the like during hari raya. We might be too busy at other times, she said, but there was no excuse during hari raya. In my younger days, I never gave it much thought; but now that I am in the ranks of the senior citizens, this ziarah-menziarah tradition has assumed a greater significance and a meaning well beyond a mere show of respect for the elders and the older.

So, I was more than elated when during hari raya, I had my fair share of visitors. My cousins and second cousins came, with their husbands and children in tow. I had not seen some of them in years and was grateful for the chance to re-connect. My husband's family - his siblings and their children and children-in law - also spent a day with us, as they do every year on third hari raya day. I, in turn, did my share of courtesy calls - from my eldest brother, to my eldest sister-in-law, my husband's uncle, my aunt and other older relatives around Ipoh. This is one tradition that I am keen to uphold, because, as warranted in Islam, it emphasises the familial bonds, and provides an opportunity to bury the hatchet (if any). It underlines the importance of the salam. During hari raya the gesture extends beyond a mere handshake to incorporate 'forgive and forget', and usher in a new chapter in the relationship.

What then is to be said of siblings who did not visit their older ones? Of children who prefer an overseas holiday instead of balik kampung? Some list friends on their 'must visit' agenda, and relegate family to the 'kalau sempat', or not at all. What of relationships taken for granted, and feelings ignored? Would I, should I, be like some parents who tolerated the conduct of sons who never spend hari raya day with them but chose instead to return to their in-laws or elsewhere year after year so as not to offend their wives? Because the parents never complained, the sons and daughters-in-law never knew the meaning of compromise. So, they hurt in silence. What of daughters/sons-in-law who feel that fidelity and allegiance is only due to their side of the family and not their husbands'/wives'?

How much does it matter that hari raya is a time to seek and give forgiveness, to cast aside past grievances so as to resume relationships on a clean slate? Isn't it a time to be charitable - not just with money, but more so with feelings?

I pray that I would not lose sight of traditions such as this; and that my children would uphold it as best they can - not for the food and the fanfare, but for the true spirit of Eid-ul-fitri.

To those who visited me - I thank you again for coming and for showing me you care.

Selamat Hari Raya

Boy, am I glad to be back on blogosphere! My Internet connection was really acting up for the past few days; apparently, the connection had been erratic for the whole neighbourhood. Anyway, I'm glad I'm in time to wish all a "Selamat hari raya. Mohon maaf sekiranya tersilap kata, terkasar bahasa, tersinggung rasa. Semoga kita diberkati dan dirahmati Allah".

I don't suppose I'll have time to blog for the next few days - if previous rayas are anything to go by! Hope by that time the connection would have improved & I'll be able to post as usual. Would be nice to be able to just sit down after all the flurry and the fluster :)

These last few days have not been good for me - health-wise, that is. With the weather vacillating between rain and sunshine, I found myself a little under the weather, with a throbbing headache thrown in. Or is it the fasting? Or the age? A bit of all, I think. But I only needed to go to the surau to dispel whatever bouts of self-pity I might have. And, for a dose of humbling experience!

During buka puasa with the women, the conversation revolves around who's got what. And I'm not talking material here. With most being in their mid-60s, and a handful in their 70s, they're talking ailments. A says she can't take salt; B says she has to cut down on santan; C complains of high cholestrol; D speaks of reduced sugar intake; and the list goes on... And while I count myself lucky, alhamdullilah, that I am not yet afflicted by any of these (not that I know of, anyway), I am reminded of the need to control my diet.

For solat, some of them have to sit; some struggle to get into one position from another; and some others simply remain in one stance - because of aching limbs, bad back, and no-longer-supple joints. But solat they do. And most endure the 20 rakaat for terawih prayers - every night. So telling of a case of "the flesh is weak, but the mind is willing". Will power at its most potent, don't you think? Again, I am reminded - of the need for regular exercise.

So what's a slight fever, running nose, and headache?

My husband decided that the house needed a new coat of pain, and I couldn't agree more. We were only going to have the exterior painted since it needed a facelift badly, and the interior painting would have to wait - until we can afford it, and when we have decided on the colour.

But, boy, was I in for a shock. First, the painter turned out to be a woman whose "Assalam mualaikum" couldn't be more chirpy. And, she's Chinese. Second - after barely a day's work, the garden was in shambles. She had to first remove the old coat of paint by peeling it off using a water-jet which left zillion bits and pieces of paint scattered on the ground. Not a pretty sight, I tell you. And, naturally, the flowers, the trees, the leaves, and everything else in the garden were not spared either. The garden path - if you can make it out - was completely covered in flakes of paint, rendering it a patch of white (the colour of the previous coat). An utter mess.

I feel sorry for my husband. He, with the green fingers, was the 'architect' of the garden which he started from scratch 3 years ago. He looked forlorn just looking at the chaos; possibly even wondering if it would be a 'garden' again. Me? I'm wondering if I'll survive the clean-up job next week.

A Linen Loss

I was upset this morning - over a white linen top that never found its way home after a visit to the dry cleaners. A phone call to them inquiring about it only got back a negative answer, much to my chagrin. I don't know what upsetted me more - the loss of the blouse or the blase attitude of the proprietor!

If nothing else, an attempt on their part to look for it would suffice. Even the appearance of an attempt. Instead, I got this rather terse voice on the other end of the phone which, in no uncertain terms, declared that they had been very careful with everything that we sent to them, and were very sure that no item had gone astray! He even implied that I might have been careless and had misplaced it. If only he knew the care I accord to all my possessions, not least to an item of dress! I'm far from infallible, of course. But, misplacing a blouse? No way! Anyway, that put paid to any further attempt on my part to discuss the matter. Furthermore, I was fasting and didn't want to pursue it lest my temper got the better of me.

We send clothes to them for dry-cleaning by the dozens, and the bill each month is no paltry sum. I expected at least some form of acknowledgement of our 'loyalty'; some kind words, some empathy. After all, it isn't as if their system is altogether fault-free. They would count the number of items you send, rather than itemise each piece. So, chances are...

I have turned my closet inside out, but to no avail - reinforcing my certainy all the more that I had included it among the other items for dry-cleaning. My husband - true to his sympathetic self - suggested that I get a replacement instead of fretting about it. It won't be the same, I tell you. Do men even know the extent women go to when picking out an item of wear? When I want to buy something - particularly a top - I would have the visual in my head, and would trudge through each mall until I find the exact piece that fits my mental picture. And so it was with the linen top. White is an easily available colour for a top; but I doubt if I can find the same one now.

So, I will continue to agonize over the loss - till I find a replacement - for the blouse and the dry-cleaners.

Buka Puasa

During Ramadhan, the families in Taman LT would buka puasa together at the neighbourhood surau. Each family would contribute a certain sum for the morei based on the minimum per head required by the caterer. Over the years, the number has dwindled because most of the children have left the nest, leaving only the parents. So now, at the most, there would be 5o people every night - with an average age of 65!

It's quite a good tradition really. Apart from forging the silatulrahim among the residents, it means that the elderly and the lonely would not have to cook for themselves, and would have company for buka puasa. It also means that there would be more than a mere handful making up the jemaah for the maghrib prayers as all those present for buka puasa would then adjourn to the prayer hall for solat maghrib. As most of our houses are within a stone's throw from the surau, we would go home after the solat maghrib and congregate again for solat insya and tarawih.

I moved here three years ago because my husband wanted more leisure time (for golf and gardening) which he couldn't get enough of in KL. As for me - though very much the KL girl at heart - Ipoh is my birthplace, so I had little reason to protest the move. So, while I'm relatively new to the community here, it didn't take me long to assimilate; after all, I speak the 'lingo' and you can't get more local than that!

Anyway, during my first Ramadhan here, I noticed that most of the women would come armed with several pieces of plastic bags and rubber bands. My curiosity was put to rest when, as soon as buka puasa ended, the women would bring out their plastic bags and fill them with the leftover food, which occasionally would be quite substantial. This then would be their sahur meal, obliterating the need to cook. So, for the price of one meal, you can actually get two. If you don't mind having the same food again, that is. Of course some would say they are tapau-ing for their cats. Whatever. At least the food don't get wasted.

Daylight Robbery

Last night, the 'breaking news' for breaking fast at the surau was the recent spate of break-ins in the neighbourhood. The latest casualty - Che O, a seventy-something woman who lives alone in a double-storey bungalow that has been her abode since the late 70s. She had turned in for the night, and was rudely awakened by noises at an unearthly hour - around 3 am. The intruders were trying to enter her bedroom which, fortunately, she had locked, and it was when they were fiddling with the lock that she became aware of them. She screamed her lungs out, and that sent them scampering.

With the arrival of the police, Che O discovered that the intruders had actually gathered together the stuff that they had intended to cart away - some electrical appliances, household items, and even the gas tanks from the kitchen. You would think that they had the 4-wheel drive or a one-ton lorry on standby to cart away the spoils of their 'adventure'! Obviously planned, although they did not plan on the old lady being home that night.

Not too long ago, we were alarmed by the theft of man-hole covers - by someone with a penchant for besi lama - to feed a trade that has seen prices go through the roof. For houses that have been left vacant for long periods, or those awaiting new tenants, nothing that is the semblance of besi is spared. Gone are the window and door grilles, and even the gate! We were sure that these thieves operated during the night when everyone was fast asleep. We couldn't have been more wrong. 'Witnesses' said they saw a couple of men at the house, mid-morning, furiously at work - removing the grills and gate - and thought they were the owner's workmen; so, didn't bat an eyelid! The immediate neighbour - the lady-of-the-house herself - decided to be friendly and tegur them with "Rajinnya!" To which they replied - nonchalantly - "Mestilah, Mak Cik; nak cari makan!" Of all the nerve... And she thought them "too young-looking to be thieves". So much for stereotyping!

And yet, we know better than to go around suspecting every Tom, Dick or Harry (or rather, Mat, Meng and Mutu) that appears to be even remotely suspicious. Closeby, in the next neighbourhood, the intruders operate during the day when most men are at work, leaving only the housewives and children at home. Nowhere is safe these days; not even in your own home. Whatever happened to 'rumahku, syurgaku'?

When they fled Che O's house, they left behind a grim reminder of their visit - a parang! Scary, isn't it? To plunder your belongings is one thing; but, doesn't that tell you that they might not be averse to hurting people as well?

The most worrying is the fact that most of my neighbours are retirees. Many couples are in their seventies, living on their own, while some are widowed. They are hardly in a position to fight off any intruder, and are therefore easy prey. I'm no spring chicken either, and am home alone during most part of the day. I am very much a homebody and relish my time at home. Until now - when even the slightest sound in the garden would make my heart skip a beat. When I'm alone at night, I am like a nervous wreck. And, fast developing a phobia for 'home alone'.

Joss Stone-You Had Me

[via FoxyTunes / Joss Stone]

This is my favourite from Joss Stone. It is so upbeat. When she was discovered at 17, a few years ago, she was hailed as a hit right away, and was predicted to take the music industry by storm. She actually did. Do you like it?

Ramadhan is here again.

Today, the 1st day of Ramadhan, it is raining ceaselessly. Can't complain really; it must be the Al-Mighty's way of helping us cope with the fasting. Better rain than the unrelenting heat these past few days that has left you dry and withered. Rain brings life to a standstill, with a tinge of gloom. It is the after-the-rain atmosphere that I look forward to - nature comes alive in its true colours. Rain is nature's cleansing agent. The leaves are awashed in all the myriad shades of green, having been 'washed' of the dust and dirt. The flowers seem to bloom in real earnest - like a young girl sticking her head out to catch the breeze. The roads have had a 'bath', beckoning you to walk on them barefoot. There is the smell of freshness and an air of vitality. Life reborn and rekindled. My spirit is uplifted, ready for another day. Rain! Rain! come again.

The 'tudung' in all its form

It was somewhat strange attending a wedding on a week night. Simply because weddings are usually held over the weekends. Still, when nothing less than royalty were the guests-of-honour, the host probably had to work around their time-table. At least they came in full force - from the Sultan and Permaisuri to the next-in-line and his consort. Not to mention the string of VIPs that make up the Royal Court and the state government. I must admit - it was an elegant affair. Kudos to the host and his event organisers.

Anyway, as with all weddings that I attended, I was in observer mode. People-watching - the women especially - can be so enriching. What is it about weddings that seem to bring out the best in them? Best baju kurung, best handbag, best jewellery; these days - best tudung, or rather, best way to use it. Draped, drooped, and dangled. The tudung has become a fashion item. The unmistakeably Indonesian ones especially - one that you can spot a mile away - have never had it so good. On the heads of these Muslim fashionistas, they come beaded, embroidered, ornamented.

Last night, I marvelled at the way some ladies wound the selendang round their head without actually donning the tudung, and yet not a strand of hair in sight. Certainly no dirth of creativity, I must say. Hours of practice and wear to get it right, no doubt. Wish my fingers were equally deft! Of course as my eyes wandered, my mind pondered - what were we covering? The hair or the aurat? What matters? Is any form of head cover a semblance of muslimah attire? Clearly, fashion ruled the night - headwise or otherwise.

To say that I was appalled would be an understatement. But how else would you describe strong emotions that were a combination of disgust, horror and disbelief? Those were my feelings when I read about the bag-snatcher who is now in a coma as a result of being beaten up by several guys. Purportedly, to teach him a lesson for his wrongdoing. But what lesson was the Datin teaching her son, and his friends, when she (according to the newspaper) instructed him to do so? Tit-for-tat? Don't get me wrong; of course I do not condone bag-snatching, or any form of thievery for that matter. But to have someone beaten up - into a coma - infront of you? Is that not itself a crime? Almost Mafia-like, the stuff of Hollywood fiction.

What was the Datin thinking? Or, wasn't she? To drive home a point that crime doesn't pay? Or, that the title gives her the right to mete out her own punishment? If so, it is clearly a case of an exaggerated sense of self-importance. Dare I suggest 'anger management' instead? If she did actually ask her son to do her bidding, did she not realise that she was sowing the seeds of criminal behaviour in her son? If at this point he wasn't able to define the line between right and wrong, what hope is there after this? In no way can this be the track to raising a caring family, much less a caring society.

The Datin needs to learn a lesson too. That no one is above the law. If nothing else, so that other title holders will not deem it their God-given right to inflict punishment or retribution at their whim and fancy. Try turning the tables around - what if it were her son that got beaten up into a coma? How would she react? I may not have all the facts of the case; but to know that another woman can have another woman's son beaten up severely over a handbag leaves me reeling. Just as in no way can crime - no matter how minor - be justified, neither can the act of taking the law into your own hands.

I hope the guy recovers. Meanwhile, my heart goes out to the mother. I can imagine the trauma she's undergoing - something I would not wish upon any mother; not even the handbag-mad Datin.

Women of Substance

Today, as I stepped into the park for my morning walk, there was no mistaking the all too familiar smell wafting in the air. You either hate it or love it - the pungency of the durian! Simply overpowering. Too powerful to ignore in fact. No, I'm not about to enthuse about the king of fruit; nor is this an ode to nature's piece de resistance. Instead, I want to tell you about these women who are about as savvy as a Harvard marketing graduate (or even better), and made of similar stuff that Iaccoca was born with.

Not one to miss out on a golden opportunity, they ply their wares at the park from as early as 5.30 am every morning to make sure that they will not miss out on the early birds at the park. Between them, they have designated their own space - at intervals along the 2.5 km circular track outlining the park. Their table? Ready-made - the concrete park benches - upon which to display their merchandise. There is the taufu woman who sells just about anything that's made from soya bean, fish balls, and then some. There's the sprightly 60-something - who, given half the chance can sell ice to the Eskimos - with all manner of things gadgety and Chinese (meaning, made in China). "Trust me!" she squeals, at the top of her voice, to a lame onlooker - "Exercise only cannot; must massage at home, maa." If it is just your luck, you might depart with the massage thingy that promises to sort out your aching joints, in all directions. She is persuasion personified! Then there is the queen-of-fruits - with her colourful array of starfruits, pineapples, papayas, pomelos and rambutans. "Homegrown", she's quick to add with a swish of her rubber-gloved hands. I suspect she means organic compost too. Another one specialises in breads and buns, all neatly wrapped in plastic - "Ready to take away". And still another - the forlorn-looking woman who sits patiently by her styrofoam container, selling cartons of goat's milk. A white cardboard stuck on each side of the container extols the qualities of goat's milk that makes you wonder if it is already too late for you. Then, of course, there is the durian woman. She doesn't bring a lot of durians, mind you; but they all get taken up by the time the walkers straggle home, leaving her free to embark on her exercise routine.

The durian may be irresistable; but these women are simply gutsy! You might disapprove; after all, there is a time and place for selling. They are in the way of people enjoying their morning walk. The smell of the durian ''pollutes'' the crisp morning air, and obliterates the subtle fragrance of the bunga tanjung. Do you come to the park to have vendors in your face and ears?

But if selling is their livelihood, these women have chosen as good a place as any. Talk about location. Every morning people come in droves to the park - you have a potential market right there. If someone is selling, someone's bound to buy. Resourcefulness knows no time and place, and these women have got it.

On the death of a friend

FL was part of our 'gang' in university. We met in our first year as undergraduates residing in Third College, Univ. of Malaya. As our rooms were on the same floor, it was inevitable that we would bump into one another often along the corridors. Plus, we had common friends. Naturally, the seeds of friendship were sown and nurtured through the three years in Third R.C. as we played, ploughed and persevered through our studies. These were exciting times as we were of the age when we were coming into our own and discovering our place in the merry-go-round of life. By the end of the first year, FL, NO, ZB, HD and I had become a 'gang'. Not that we were inseparable. We had other friends of course, but there was an affinity among us. FL would take us to her house in Sect. 16, PJ where we met her parents and siblings. Her mother was a gracious lady - immaculately groomed each time I saw her, never a strand of hair out of place. She reflected a woman of stature - in manner and speech. FL's father (now deceased) - whom she pictured as a strict and no-nonsense man - would make the effort to talk to us whenever he was around. The oldest son - ML - now a famous personality in his own right, was ever so charming, and even then, as a schoolboy, he was the epitome of PR (public relations). We visited several times with FL, and I remember being warmly received every time. FL reflected her family well - courteous, kind and well-meaning.

Sad to say, after graduation, our paths seldom met, although I kept track of her through common friends. We all attended her sister's wedding in the Sect. 16 house, but our meetings since had been few and far between. In 2006, FL, NO and I met for lunch at Secret Recipe in Taman TUN. By then, the three of us were retired from employment; but FL was facing a dilemma of sorts. She even contemplated returning to JB, and starting some kind of home business like 'baking'. Of course, she never did, as I discovered later. We exchanged mobile nos. and had been in touch through sms ever since.

A couple of months back, NO, ZB and I visited FL in HUKM a few days after she had had an operation in her back. As expected, she was bed-ridden and complained of pain and discomfort. But I thought she looked well, and she kept up her usual cheery self for much of the time. Just like her. It was divine mercy that brought us together on that day. Except for ZB who lives in KL, I am from Ipoh and NO lives in Kuala Terengganu. But on that fateful day, we were all in KL and we arranged to visit her in hospital. Unknown to us, it was the last time we would see FL.

Yesterday evening, NO called from Kuala Terengganu to tell me that FL had passed away earlier in the day. Apparently, she never left the hospital. A friend, ZA, had called me two weeks back to say that her smses to FL had gone unanswered. ZA said it was not like her at all. Naturally, she was concerned. ZB and I had been meaning to visit her again, but we never managed it. With regret.

Takziah - to her husband and only daughter, to Mak Chik and ML. FL touched my life, and I remember her with fondness. Semoga Allah mencucuri rahmat ke atas rohnya. Al-Fatihah.

Last farewell

This morning I attended the funeral of a grand aunt - my mother's aunt - who breathed her last yesterday evening. The last time I visited her was about two months ago. She had become hard of hearing, her speech incoherent, and her body reduced to skin and bones. Not really surprising for one who was past 90. Over the last few years, she had become invalided and needed help with practically everything. But as I clasped her frail hands in mine, she gazed into my eyes and I could sense that she barely recognised me. Not that she was at fault. Her mental faculties were still sound - in the sense that she showed no sign of senility. But I did not visit her enough over the years to expect her to recognise me at the first instance. She visited us often when I was growing up, and was an important member of the 'senior circle' on my mother's side who would always be included in important family occasions like weddings and kenduri. Naturally, as she and I got older, I saw less and less of her. Still, I remember her dearly as one of those who was always nice to me. Of all my mother's aunts and uncles, she was the last to go. I must remind my children that they must visit aunts, uncles, cousins and other relatives whenever they can, and not limit the visits to festive occasions only. The bond must be kept and kindled, and especially so when someone has fallen ill. As I looked around at all the relatives from near and far who took time to bid her a last farewell, I'm sure one thought was on everybody's mind.

What is to become of the son she left behind? You see, this is a special child, who, as an aftermath of a brain surgery when he was very young, is left severely handicapped and hapless. With all limbs contorted, he moves by means of a wheelchair, and 'speaks' in grunts and groans, understood only by his mother. She had devoted the last fifty years of her life taking care of him as only a mother would. While mother and son had not been for want of anything material, her constant worry had been that she would die leaving him behind. She did. Amidst all the funeral preparations, he sat quietly in his wheelchair with tears streaming down his cheeks endlessly. It was heart-wrenching to say the least. In spite of it all, even he understands death, and the loss of a loved one. In his mind, he is probably pondering his fate too.

Al-fatihah.

Questions

All I ask is only this
That in my life
I see myself as I am
With my smiles and tears
And all in between
As I am
One spirit in a universe of millions
I ask only
That this thought remains with me
As I grow older
That I may never grow too old
To say I may be wrong.

Thinking in English is un-Malay??

At a workshop in KL recently, I befriended a young lady who wanted to know what I thought of the view that Malays who think in English (and speak English) are less Malay. I was floored, not altogether by the opinion, but that it should still prevail to this day. Such a perception, I think, has its roots in the populist sentiment that one should not glorify one's former colonial masters, and that speaking their language is seen as doing so. An emotionally-charged issue, no doubt. And, somehow, the natural deduction is that if you speak in English, then you must also think in English. That's almost bordering on blasphemy, no? Anyway, this is what I think:

Language, or speech as the case may be, is a vehicle of expression or communication. In any language, it has to be appropriate to the subject matter and to the audience in order to convey the message or to make yourself understood. Your ability to articulate your thoughts, no matter in what language, would also determine its clarity and coherence.

How you think, i.e. your thinking process (the cerebral function?), is another thing altogether, and it can be in English, Mandarin, Urdu or Greek. Undoubtedly, this process of forming your thoughts is influenced and moulded by many factors - family, economic and social background, education, peers, even books you read and films you watch. I believe that a person is a by-product of his upbringing and the culture that he has assimilated. So, how does thinking in English make you less Malay when you were born Malay, raised in a Malay family with all its accompanying Malay values, and grew up as a Malay?

Are you less Malay if you choose to replace all these influences with elements un-Malay? Like having kippers for breakfast instead of nasi lemak? Wearing the hat instead of the selendang? Does one have to think in English to wear a dress? Or, does wearing a dress means one is less a Malay? Which begs the question: what makes a Malay? Is it the clothes you wear, the language you speak, the food you eat? Are these not just the forms - the external manifestations? What about values that you uphold? What matters surely is not what language you use to think in or speak, but the values that you represent. And sound universal values can come in any language.

What of the person who thinks in English and then express his/her thoughts in Malay? Does that make him/her more Malay? Thinking in English does not equal thinking like an English. Nor does wearing a hat, dress or shoes in the house make you any more English than saying 'How do you do?'

What about me? Not only do I think in English, speak in English (albeit, when the occasion calls for it) but also write in English! Oh dear (how English of me), that makes me less a Malay thrice over.

Think about it. Whatever your language. As long as you THINK.

Moving furniture...

Today I moved the furniture around - again - for the hundredth time. You see, I get into this mood when I have to do something creative, so it's either painting, drawing or redecorating - not necessarily in that order, of course. I would get up in the morning with this creative urge nagging on my mind, desperate for an outlet. So this time around it was redecorating. Actually I haven't done it for a few months now, and by my standards, that's a long time. Why? Because I have to do it all alone now that I no longer have a maid (but more peace of mind) and the children have left the nest (all too gladly, I'm sure). I've done it on my own before - piece of cake! Only now age is catching up (faster than I like) and moving furniture is not quite the doctor's prescription for moving the joints, is it? Something could simply crack, or worse, become disjointed like the leg of a table when it is moved too much. A daunting possibility, no doubt. Still, it hasn't stopped me. Yet.

Why do I do it, you might ask. Most times, simply for a change really. I like that I can create a new look in the sitting-room, bedroom or dining-room each time I move things around. It might be the same old chair, desk or sofa but with a new twist, or angle, the ambiance changes. And change is always refreshing, isn't it? You don't have to turn the room topsy-turvy every time; you'll be surprised that even minor changes can do the trick. Moreover, familiarity does breed boredom, if not contempt.

If the furniture could talk, they would be saying "Enough! Enough!" Or, "Not again!" As did my children whenever they were roped in to help. While the maid was left with little choice but to humour me, my husband would conveniently escape with the lamest of excuses. But not before cautioning me that I should be mindful of the placement of a table or chair - it might be in the way of his knee! Other than that, he's appreciative of the changes I make - and why not? It cost him nothing, except occasionally the labour of hanging a picture or two. My daughter thinks I have some kind of disorder - a syndrome of sorts - but I think (I hope!) that it's more of a creative streak. Mind you, even when I have other things more pressing to do, I still do it. For that uplifting feeling when I see the end result. Don't you think that's why some women sew, string beads, try new recipes?

Happiness for a Course?

A course on 'Happiness' is being offered at Harvard and in Hamburg, Germany - believe it or not. It was the topic on a foreign TV magazine programme a couple of days ago. Not a gimmick, I tell you, but a serious discourse involving psychology, ethics, philosophy and gymnastics. Seriously, has happiness ever been taken so seriously? According to a source (who appeared dead serious), it was an attempt to resolve our present day woes which are making us "unfulfilled". Simply put, the Course (in no way simplistic) attempts to produce a "reliable, responsible and confident" individual. Which mere education does not?
Baffling thought, really. How does one go about teaching 'happiness' when one can barely define it. Or if one can, is it not subjective? I can't even begin to put 'happiness' in words; it could be one thing now and something else later! Depending on the mood-of-the-moment. The concept of happiness borders on the ethereal, doesn't it? Perhaps, just as well - we could do with something that can offset the cold hard facts that confront us by way of global warming, nuclear threats, terrorism and the like and counterbalance it with something more in the realm of emotional intelligence, can't we? Even if it is for a mere couple of hours a week in the sanctuary of the classroom.

While we lament the soaring fuel and food prices on our home front, I think it is taking its toll on the big companies as well. (No consolation right?). I was at a shopping mall in Ipoh last week and was just milling around a department store when I felt very uncomfortable after about ten minutes. I was beginning to perspire around the neck when all I had been doing was walking around very leisurely. It was the latter part of the afternoon and there was hardly a crowd to speak of. In fact, apart from the sales personnel and the odd shopper or two, the store was almost empty. Then I realised that either the air-conditioning was turned off completely, or it was turned on just so that it was barely detectable. Still, the discomfort was beginning to get to me and I just wanted to get out of there, pronto.
Among other things, I think there are people who go to shopping complexes to escape the outside heat, even momentarily. And while one may have set out simply to browse and look-see, the comfort provided by the air-conditioning could induce one to stay longer. The longer one stays, the more the temptation to spend. Isn't that what the stores hope for after spending millions so we could shop (or window-shop) in relative comfort? Store ambiance and creative displays are one thing; but how long can, and would you stay in a store/shop when perspiration beads start to form? Nothing beats the comfort of an air-conditioned premise; that alone is one of the draws of the shopping mall. Without it, the condition might be akin to the open-air or wet market where you would normally buy whatever you want and dash off. Which was exactly what I did that day. Perhaps it was a cost-saving measure on the part of the store or the complex management, an act of frugality when times are hard. But I think it will turn shoppers away. Worse still, it will be the death of retail therapy (for me, it would!).

The Sufiah Yusuf case begs reflection - on raising children. There is a lot about the case that would no doubt leave many a parent stumped and stymied. As parents, we raise our children the way we think fit under the social and economic circumstances that we find ourselves in. How they would eventually turn out is anybody's guess really. Our tools (for me, anyway) are the education and the upbringing that we ourselves had. Parenting is not a skill to be learnt from schools or books. Or is it? Parenting is a know-how that we pick up as we go along, with each child. Really?

Sufiah's parents believed that they had come up with the best way to school their children - on a strict regime at home under freezing conditions (according to media reports). And why shouldn't they? The three elder siblings of Sufiah - no less intelligent, surely - seemingly turned out alright. So what happened with her? I can only speculate (with no attempt at being Freud).
All parents know that each of their children is different, and cannot be treated like another product on an assembly line. What more a prodigious child. Is she then a victim of circumstances, of well-intentioned parents who had taken the one-size-fits-all approach? Then again it is not her academic achievement that is in question here. Being able to gain entry into Oxford Univ. at 12 was undoubtedly success personified. This alone would have augmented her parents' confidence in their homegrown education system. But what have haunted me since was the mother's fear that it could have been their desire for success that turned the daughter against them. Were they bent purely on academic success that they failed to pay attention to Sufiah's emotional make-up?

As she ponders her daughter's fate, I was drawn to reflect on mine. Being a mother of three, I had my fair share of the challenges of raising children. They are now young adults, trying to carve out a life on their own. They did not turn out as I had wanted them too. And what did I want? That they all enter university and graduate, albeit not necessarily with flying colours nor in the course that I would have preferred. Not all of them did - and I agonised over the 'why' umpteen times.

I did not come from a rich family. There was always food on the table, but no luxuries nor extravagances. My mother was a traditional housewife whose preoccupation was cooking for the household - a husband, a sister, seven children and the frequent (some daily) visitors. It was a mundane life that I recoiled from, helped along by her constant reminder that I had to do well in my studies if I did not want to be bound to the kitchen my whole life. A view that my father shared wholeheartedly albeit not quite in the same vein. For her, it sufficed that I always managed to advance to the next level each year, and my bringing home report cards that had no red marks. My father was the one who set the standards. He was not easy to please. I found myself having to perform up to his expectations every time although he never expressed it. Hence, I grew up with the fear of failing academically, of letting him down. I studied hard in school and always made the grade all the way to university. And, with God's benevolence, I have a good life.

In raising the children, I harped on academic achievement as the only way to success in life. I enrolled them in good schools which we had to pay for. I failed to realise that it must have been difficult for my children to emulate me because they are different in nature. While I had hoped to inspire them to do their best, I failed to appreciate the differences in their ability, needs and aspirations. I never asked them what they wanted. I should have raised them to realise their own ambitions, instead of pandering to mine. Then I realised that my upbringing had been far more significant in the way I raised my children than I had bargained for. I forgot that they were growing up in a different time altogether from that of mine. Perhaps I had imposed standards and values which were not necessarily consistent with theirs, and the only way for them to be true to themselves was to 'fail' me.

I should have devoted my time to helping them realise their individuality and nurturing their inclination, instead of casting a mould for them. It is a lesson learnt and I am humbled by it. I have learnt to let go and can only pray for their happiness. While they are not all graduates, they have qualities that I am proud of which will no doubt help them achieve the kind of success that they want. I have resigned myself to acceptance and while I empathise, I hope that Sufiah's mother can do the same.

Are we making too much of Sufiah Yusuf? This is a case thousands of miles away that has some do-gooders ruffled beyond their senses. Don't we have girls on our own shores who have for some reason or other joined the world's oldest profession? What makes the news? That she was a Maths. prodigy who had gained a place in the prestigious Oxford Uni. at the tender age of 12? Of course that was newsworthy and I remember feeling quite elated as I did last Sunday reading about Cassandra Yong, dubbed the piano princess' in the NST. But does she merit a rescue from the Govt. (or us for that matter)? Is there a save-the prostitutes campaign that has escaped me? I watched the video-interview that the London newspaper had with her, and no where did I sense a call for help! She was actually quite nonchalant about her 'job', and sees no stigma attached to it. In fact, I thought she's enjoying the fruits of her 'labour'.

So why the fuss? Because this is a Muslim girl? Granted that we Muslims have an obligation to see that others are guided onto the 'right' path when they have gone astray. But this is a case thousands of miles away. This is a 23 year old who, prodigy or not, would have weighed her options and made her choice as she deemed fit. Not unlike we mere mortals with average intelligence. Surely her mother and her siblings would have sought help from the local resources. It is not as if the UK is void of Muslim organisations/community services that would be more than willing to exercise their religious prerogative. At the risk of seeming callous, I would say this is really a personal crisis, that does not merit a government involvement, and better resolved by the family, one way or another.

But what should concern us is our ability to handle child prodigies. Have we got such a mechanism in place? Is there provision in our education system for precocious children? Rare though they may be, we should be ready to handle them when they appear. Can we even recognise one among the millions?

Lately, there is the case of Adi, supposedly a Maths. genius for one so young. What's been done about him? The last I read, the situation with him was not quite what it should be if we are indeed concerned about child prodigies. This is a matter that warrants intervention, instead of leaving it to the parents alone. I also recall many years ago of the child (from Kedah?) who could recite the Quran from a very early age. Having received all that publicity then in the media, he is now a mere farm hand. What ever happened to the prodigiousness? Did he lose it, or did we?