To my dear friends and readers
I am now writing this blog from http://silveretchings.wordpress.com for a change of scenery. So do visit me there :)
Wednesday, 9 June 2010
Thursday, 13 August 2009
A COSTLY AFFAIR
These past couple of weeks I have attended quite a few weddings and the last was on Sunday 16th August. The venue had been as varied as the invitation cards and the themes of the decorations; they were either the parents' house, school auditorium, multi-purpose halls, clubs, or hotels. It seems also that you never really know who would actually turn up on the day. Despite the reply cards issued with the invitation, and the phone numbers printed on the card, there is bound to be the errant few who don't bother to indicate their attendance or otherwise. Not knowing the exact number that would come on the day can mean wastage for the hosts who I bet have enough to worry about. For this and the social obligation, my husband insists that we honour every invitation as far as humanly possible!
The best thing about having a wedding in the house is that guests could take their time to leave. Especially the relatives and close friends. In the absence of formality, every one could mingle about freely, chit-chat with everybody and anybody they want to, and then leave as and when they choose. All well and good if you have the space for the tents, the catering staff, etc. Often the road frontage and the neighbour's house would provide that much-needed extra space - provided the neighbours are accommodating! But, if held during the day, the afternoon sun can be off-putting; trying to appear cool and composed under the strain of the heat (or the kebaya) can be challenging. It can make you "hilang gaya" - so said a friend!
If the wedding was held at a hotel or some rented venue, there is the time and space constraint too. Once the bridal couple takes their place at the door, it is the cue for guests to leave - which means very little chance to mingle and catch up. The sit-down dinner affair with the speeches, video shows and sometimes some form of entertainment thrown in lends the occasion added formality. What with most guests (the women, I mean) dressed to the nines - beaded, sequined, silk-ed, satin-ed and bejewelled!
The current trend in the city is to engage a wedding planner - as has been practised in the West for decades - and who is fast becoming a status symbol. You could leave virtually everything in their hands - if you can afford the fee. The ones who have touted themselves to be consultants to the rich and famous would cost an arm and a leg to put up the pelamin, hantaran, the themed decorations and what-have-you. Then there are those who claim to be purveyors of good taste, but are a far cry from one. Whoever it is, this form of delegation doesn't come cheap. Some friends who have used their services said it is not money well-spent. The result is not always satisfactory and up to your expectations. It could have easily been done by a group of willing aunts and cousins with the inclination for such aesthetics - at a fraction of the cost. Except you don't get the prestige, of course.
The catering aside, there is the cost of the pelamin which I'm told can run into the thousands, the wedding trousseau (no bride has just one dress these days), which can cost a small fortune, the obligatory bunga telor and the wedding cake. Currently, it is seldom a bunga telur in its conventional form, but run the gamut of trinket boxes in silver, ceramic, silk or crystal, miniature glass cups, etc.etc. Not to mention the contents. It might be an assortment of sweets, a couple of chocolates, a piece of baulu, fruit cake, muffin or the now ubiquitous cupcake. What will they think of next?
Have you also noticed that many have been tripping off to neighbouring countries to get their cards made, the trinket boxes, the lace material and other decorative stuff? And here I am thinking that there is an exodus of shops selling these kind of merchandise in our country! Do the supposedly cheaper prices 'abroad' really justify our spending there at the expense of our own traders? Does this explain invitation cards that have become thicker and fancier? Never mind that they are going to be binned anyway. Price can't be the only consideration surely? Seriously I have seen items that are not worth the trip because of their shoddy workmanship. Some are downright tacky.
While we are spoilt for choice - and at the end of the day, it is a matter of personal choice as dictated by the size of the parents' pocket - it is easy to get carried away in our effort to be different, to keep up with the Joneses or simply to flaunt our wealth. And all for just one day, or not even that.
The best thing about having a wedding in the house is that guests could take their time to leave. Especially the relatives and close friends. In the absence of formality, every one could mingle about freely, chit-chat with everybody and anybody they want to, and then leave as and when they choose. All well and good if you have the space for the tents, the catering staff, etc. Often the road frontage and the neighbour's house would provide that much-needed extra space - provided the neighbours are accommodating! But, if held during the day, the afternoon sun can be off-putting; trying to appear cool and composed under the strain of the heat (or the kebaya) can be challenging. It can make you "hilang gaya" - so said a friend!
If the wedding was held at a hotel or some rented venue, there is the time and space constraint too. Once the bridal couple takes their place at the door, it is the cue for guests to leave - which means very little chance to mingle and catch up. The sit-down dinner affair with the speeches, video shows and sometimes some form of entertainment thrown in lends the occasion added formality. What with most guests (the women, I mean) dressed to the nines - beaded, sequined, silk-ed, satin-ed and bejewelled!
The current trend in the city is to engage a wedding planner - as has been practised in the West for decades - and who is fast becoming a status symbol. You could leave virtually everything in their hands - if you can afford the fee. The ones who have touted themselves to be consultants to the rich and famous would cost an arm and a leg to put up the pelamin, hantaran, the themed decorations and what-have-you. Then there are those who claim to be purveyors of good taste, but are a far cry from one. Whoever it is, this form of delegation doesn't come cheap. Some friends who have used their services said it is not money well-spent. The result is not always satisfactory and up to your expectations. It could have easily been done by a group of willing aunts and cousins with the inclination for such aesthetics - at a fraction of the cost. Except you don't get the prestige, of course.
The catering aside, there is the cost of the pelamin which I'm told can run into the thousands, the wedding trousseau (no bride has just one dress these days), which can cost a small fortune, the obligatory bunga telor and the wedding cake. Currently, it is seldom a bunga telur in its conventional form, but run the gamut of trinket boxes in silver, ceramic, silk or crystal, miniature glass cups, etc.etc. Not to mention the contents. It might be an assortment of sweets, a couple of chocolates, a piece of baulu, fruit cake, muffin or the now ubiquitous cupcake. What will they think of next?
Have you also noticed that many have been tripping off to neighbouring countries to get their cards made, the trinket boxes, the lace material and other decorative stuff? And here I am thinking that there is an exodus of shops selling these kind of merchandise in our country! Do the supposedly cheaper prices 'abroad' really justify our spending there at the expense of our own traders? Does this explain invitation cards that have become thicker and fancier? Never mind that they are going to be binned anyway. Price can't be the only consideration surely? Seriously I have seen items that are not worth the trip because of their shoddy workmanship. Some are downright tacky.
While we are spoilt for choice - and at the end of the day, it is a matter of personal choice as dictated by the size of the parents' pocket - it is easy to get carried away in our effort to be different, to keep up with the Joneses or simply to flaunt our wealth. And all for just one day, or not even that.
Thursday, 23 July 2009
A MOVING EXPERIENCE
At 9.30am on that Tuesday morning on 30th June, my husband and I were part of the queue waiting to enter the historic museum on the Prinsengracht in Amsterdam. The tongues that permeated the cool morning air told me the whole world was represented in the queue. Like us, they all thought they had come early to avoid the summer crowd making a beeline for the 'museum with a story'. Alas, the queue that we joined was already halfway round the adjacent block. The sky was azure-blue, the mood was light, the voices chirpy with anticipation. But all was about to change the minute we set foot inside.
For this was no ordinary museum. This was the Anne Frank House where a 13-year old Jewish girl chronicled her life in the Secret Annexe in which she, her parents and older sister lived in hiding to escape persecution from the Nazis. The Frank family together with 4 others survived there for just over 2 years before they were finally captured by the Nazis when someone told on them. To this day, we don't know who gave them away; but we know how they 'lived' in their secret hideout within the warehouse building, thanks to a diary written by Anne that was discovered in the Annexe soon after their capture. She wrote almost every day in her diary to an imaginary friend, Kitty, like she would a confidante, to express her joy, fear, frustrations and hopes. It is truly remarkable how one so young could have been so perceptive, and could write with so much insight and forthrightness. That she managed to keep a diary under such an ordeal is indeed inspirational. Seeing the diary in Anne's handwriting was in itself a moving experience.
Remarkable still is the atmosphere of the house that could still convey the prevaling sense of gloom and acute anxiety enveloping the occupants as they tried to live with some semblance of normalcy. To have done so for over 2 years under such dire circumstances belie the imagination. As I touched the walls and pondered the state of the rooms, I was taken back to a time in the past. It was distressing, to say the least. Restricted in their movements even within the confines of the Secret Annexe, Anne and the rest of the occupants undoubtedly felt smothered in their desire to stay alive. Having read her book, I could visualize Anne stealing a peek out the window - the few times that she could - for a glimpse of the sky, the trees and the world beyond the Secret Annexe that was forbidden to her. It was heart-wrenching to see the yellow-ing warped walls pasted with newspaper cuttings and photographs - Anne's own handiwork to liven up the room and bring some cheer to their dismal surroundings. I doubt if anyone visiting the House could remain unmoved at the end of the visit.
Human suffering in whatever form would always affect us, no matter the scale. But Anne's plight in the face of imminent persecution was extraordinary; her death in March 1945 in incarceration a human tragedy. Deprived of a normal childhood, it was her spirit of survival, her fortitude amidst deprivations, and her unflagging optimism that I found so encouraging. In all the photographs that survived, Anne is always smiling, and the most enduring photograph of her is the one chosen for the cover of her book. It is uncannily haunting. If visitors had entered lighthearted and carefree, they left Anne Frank House sombre and deep in thought as we were that day. Her 'story' took place in the early 1940s, but, today, similar issues of humanity continue to plague us.
Equally penetrating were the words of Otto Frank (Anne's father) in an interview he gave before he died in 1980: "You don't really know your daughter" which must have been prompted by his discovery of Anne's innermost thoughts as revealed in her diary. Which surely must have struck a chord with those visitors like me who are parents. Maybe it was a reminder that children - sons and daughters alike - need to be listened to and encouraged to express their feelings so that parents could understand them better.
In the Diary, on 15 July, 1944 Anne wrote: "I see the world gradually being turned into a wasteland, I hear the ever approaching thunder, which will destroy us too. I feel the suffering of millions of people and yet, if I look up into the heavens, I somehow feel that this will come right again, that also this savagery will stop, that there will be peace and tranquility in the world once again. Until that time, I must hold onto my ideals. Perhaps the day will come when I'll still be able to realize them". Don't we pray for this too?
So if you get to Amsterdam - which is really worth visiting for many reasons - don't skip the Anne Frank House. Meanwhile - if you haven't already - read the book "The Diary of Anne Frank"- you'll be moved.
For this was no ordinary museum. This was the Anne Frank House where a 13-year old Jewish girl chronicled her life in the Secret Annexe in which she, her parents and older sister lived in hiding to escape persecution from the Nazis. The Frank family together with 4 others survived there for just over 2 years before they were finally captured by the Nazis when someone told on them. To this day, we don't know who gave them away; but we know how they 'lived' in their secret hideout within the warehouse building, thanks to a diary written by Anne that was discovered in the Annexe soon after their capture. She wrote almost every day in her diary to an imaginary friend, Kitty, like she would a confidante, to express her joy, fear, frustrations and hopes. It is truly remarkable how one so young could have been so perceptive, and could write with so much insight and forthrightness. That she managed to keep a diary under such an ordeal is indeed inspirational. Seeing the diary in Anne's handwriting was in itself a moving experience.
Remarkable still is the atmosphere of the house that could still convey the prevaling sense of gloom and acute anxiety enveloping the occupants as they tried to live with some semblance of normalcy. To have done so for over 2 years under such dire circumstances belie the imagination. As I touched the walls and pondered the state of the rooms, I was taken back to a time in the past. It was distressing, to say the least. Restricted in their movements even within the confines of the Secret Annexe, Anne and the rest of the occupants undoubtedly felt smothered in their desire to stay alive. Having read her book, I could visualize Anne stealing a peek out the window - the few times that she could - for a glimpse of the sky, the trees and the world beyond the Secret Annexe that was forbidden to her. It was heart-wrenching to see the yellow-ing warped walls pasted with newspaper cuttings and photographs - Anne's own handiwork to liven up the room and bring some cheer to their dismal surroundings. I doubt if anyone visiting the House could remain unmoved at the end of the visit.
Human suffering in whatever form would always affect us, no matter the scale. But Anne's plight in the face of imminent persecution was extraordinary; her death in March 1945 in incarceration a human tragedy. Deprived of a normal childhood, it was her spirit of survival, her fortitude amidst deprivations, and her unflagging optimism that I found so encouraging. In all the photographs that survived, Anne is always smiling, and the most enduring photograph of her is the one chosen for the cover of her book. It is uncannily haunting. If visitors had entered lighthearted and carefree, they left Anne Frank House sombre and deep in thought as we were that day. Her 'story' took place in the early 1940s, but, today, similar issues of humanity continue to plague us.
Equally penetrating were the words of Otto Frank (Anne's father) in an interview he gave before he died in 1980: "You don't really know your daughter" which must have been prompted by his discovery of Anne's innermost thoughts as revealed in her diary. Which surely must have struck a chord with those visitors like me who are parents. Maybe it was a reminder that children - sons and daughters alike - need to be listened to and encouraged to express their feelings so that parents could understand them better.
In the Diary, on 15 July, 1944 Anne wrote: "I see the world gradually being turned into a wasteland, I hear the ever approaching thunder, which will destroy us too. I feel the suffering of millions of people and yet, if I look up into the heavens, I somehow feel that this will come right again, that also this savagery will stop, that there will be peace and tranquility in the world once again. Until that time, I must hold onto my ideals. Perhaps the day will come when I'll still be able to realize them". Don't we pray for this too?
So if you get to Amsterdam - which is really worth visiting for many reasons - don't skip the Anne Frank House. Meanwhile - if you haven't already - read the book "The Diary of Anne Frank"- you'll be moved.
HANDS IN GLOVES
It was a wedding reception like any other. The venue - ballroom of a reputable golf and country club in Kuala Lumpur. The decor - understated and elegant. The bride - tall and slim, with a waistline to diet for. The groom - one happy guy judging by the grin that never left his face the whole night. The food - typical Malay kenduri fare, complete with the must-have rendang pedas which in all fairness was better than some. The entertainment - a mix of French oldies more suited for the parents and their contemporaries than the newly-weds delivered by a local songbird playing the electronic organ. The speech - short and a little sweet. All in all, the ceremony moved quite swiftly with no more than the necessary fanfare. A thoroughly modern wedding in my books. Nothing wrong with that.
But here's the clanger (in my books). The hostess - mother of the groom - wore gloves from beginning to end. She greeted guests and salam-ed with the women with gloved hands. We - the guests - came bare-handed. (I mean, literally). After all, we weren't going to eat with our hands; and sure enough, forks and spoons were laid out on the table.
Why then was she wearing gloves? A tribute to MJ? Don't think so - the gloves lacked the bling. They were similar to those used by doctors in the clinics, so they were no fashion accessory either. A health precaution subscribing to 'better safe than sorry'? Presumably, then, we guests were health hazards? Was she just manifesting her fear of contracting the flu (of whatever kind) or some other contagious disease? I'm afraid too; but that doesn't stop me from attending weddings. Was it just an indiscretion on her part?
Why did I find it disconcerting?
But here's the clanger (in my books). The hostess - mother of the groom - wore gloves from beginning to end. She greeted guests and salam-ed with the women with gloved hands. We - the guests - came bare-handed. (I mean, literally). After all, we weren't going to eat with our hands; and sure enough, forks and spoons were laid out on the table.
Why then was she wearing gloves? A tribute to MJ? Don't think so - the gloves lacked the bling. They were similar to those used by doctors in the clinics, so they were no fashion accessory either. A health precaution subscribing to 'better safe than sorry'? Presumably, then, we guests were health hazards? Was she just manifesting her fear of contracting the flu (of whatever kind) or some other contagious disease? I'm afraid too; but that doesn't stop me from attending weddings. Was it just an indiscretion on her part?
Why did I find it disconcerting?
Monday, 27 April 2009
The Feline Invasion
She had obviously gone through my bin with a mission - its contents were strewn on the kitchen floor, the bin lining torn to shreds. This was the umteenth time that I had been greeted with such a mess upon entering the kitchen. In a flash I knew which 'neighbour' had been the culprit. I would often find her reclining seductively on my window sill as if in reconnaissance, and taking in the sights with an eye on my bin, but would not venture further afield in my presence. I would shoo her away each time - vigorously - thus making clear my disapproval of her implied intentions. She would walk away, but not without purring in protest with eyes that told me I was unkind. But patience and tolerance has its limits - even with cats.
Can you imagine what I had to go through every time she's had her 'fun'? After picking up the bits and pieces on the floor, I would have to mop the floor (never mind that I had done it just yesterday, or the day before) to remove all stains and traces of her visit. Her point of entry is the window which I leave open from dawn to dusk for ventilation purposes. Certainly not to usher her in. It isn't the bin alone that gets her attention. If I leave meat or fish to defrost on the kitchen counter, you can be assured that she would have a go at it soon enough. The feline sense of smell never fails her.
Why do the neighbour's cat ransack my kitchen bin? Aren't they fed enough at home?
Instead of having one more thing to worry about, I have decided to keep the windows of the kitchen closed whenever I'm not in it. Which of course keeps the heat in, and makes it a hot spot! Whether anything's cooking or not.
Thursday, 23 April 2009
An Anniversary Tribute
Dear A, N & P
Our wedding anniversary came and went, but none of you remembered because we didn't receive a single greeting. Not even an sms. But don't worry - I won't hold it against you! Just pray that we would have many more to come.
It's our 28th, you know, and I have so much to be thankful for - to and for your father for the most part. We did not give each other gifts on our anniversary. I certainly didn't want one from him. Have I told you that he is God's gift to me, and when you have that, what more could you want? But I thought my gift to him would be to tell you about the kind of man that I married, so you would know more about the man that is your father.
Now that you are all living apart from us, and I am moving towards my twilight years, I worry that I might not have the time nor the capacity to tell you things. Things that I think are important for you to know, to remember lest you forget, or even worse, take for granted. And for you to have an idea of what its been like for me these past 28 years with him. You might think that this is going to be one of those mushy-mushy stuff and I would be going all sentimental. Maybe; but, bear with me, please....
Papa is the embodiment of love. When you were born, I knew I could not have given him a greater cause for happiness. It was as if he was made for fatherhood. It was never too much work, too heavy a burden, or too great a responsibility. He was quick to wake up nights to feed you, change your nappies or simply to take you into his arms, to coo and croon in your baby ears so that you were lulled to sleep. And this from a man who could fall asleep just about any time, anywhere. He ran with and after you, fell off the bicycle as you were learning to ride and ate off the spoon he was feeding you with. When you were cranky, he would take you in the car and drive around the neighbourhood till you fell asleep.
If you thought your teenage years were difficult, they were no easier for him either. While he relished the role of father, he was mindful of the other duties that came with it. Not least of all, that of disciplinarian. But never have I seen such a role undertaken with so much empathy and understanding than that displayed by him. He never shouted, raised his hand, nor saw the need for a cane. Instead, you were made to see your mistakes through gentle words, never harsh ones; to see reason without rebuke.
You would recall the numerous family meetings we had where you were always listened to. Ah, yes - listening. That's another trait he bears so well. He didn't impose his opinions upon you, but wanted to impress upon you that there are always two sides to a coin. When you were at fault, his actions were never punitive. He was mindful that you were living out the vulnerability of youth as he once had. Just recall the time when you and your friends were caught smoking in school, and when you chose to play truant and not go for tuition. I was enraged, and your father thought it was just "one of those things" that boys did. Serious though they were, those meetings never ended on a dour note. Can you still recall the many anecdotes from his childhood that he dispensed so casually that you weren't even aware that it was the lesson of the day? They were moral lessons dished out with his brand of humour. And you thought he was just being the 'historian' father!
He always welcomed your friends because if there's any one who values friendship, it is he. He never had to choose his friends - they chose him to be theirs. He has friends from his childhood, his schools, his college, his university and from God knows where. He's touched them all because of the simple and unassuming man that he is - who never forgets an acquaintance, much less a friend. It amazes me that on several occasions, when we least expect it, there would be someone there who would know him.
If you choose to raise your voice, to cast a disdainful or disapproving glance, to snap because you're irritated, just remember that your father hardly ever does. When you see fit to fret and frown when you can't get what you want; when you choose to give up, or to give in to indolence and mediocrity, think of your father. He is the one who got you where you are today, and has made life comfortable for you through sheer hard work and selflessness. To not make an effort, to not go that extra mile, would be to disrespect his propensity for diligence. Remember his "Don't be afraid to dream" motto? Have you forgotten the notes of advice (booklet) he wrote each of you when you were in your mid teens? As you know, he doesn't write much; but those are words from his heart, painstakingly chosen to guide your entry into the realm of adulthood.
If ever there was one who overcame the odds in life, it is he. He knows no privilege other than that earned through sweat, and yet he never envies those who have it easy, preferring to dwell on the positive. Not one to hold a prejudice or a grudge even towards 'friends' who have let him down, he is inclined to think the best of every one. "The eternal optimist", I would say! In bad times, he does not wallow in self-pity; neither does he blame the world for any shortcoming. His ability to laugh at himself is so endearing, and his up-to-his-eyes laughter so heartwarming. Success and money have not gone to his head. Devoid of fussy tastes, he does not turn up his nose at Bollywood films, nor is he apologetic about his liking for rice, petai and cucur udang. Sad stories on TV move him to tears. His friends say that he is 'London-trained'; to me, and I say this fondly, he is still very much the Kuala boy.
In as much as I would like you to become your own person, it wouldn't hurt to emulate him. If you could be half the man he is, I would have done something right. I have often wished that I had had the time to tell my in-laws that they had done a great 'job' with him. Because, among other attributes, this is a man whose actions are always leavened by humility.
Your father is not an outwardly religious man, but he is certainly God-fearing. If having decency, respect and consideration for others, magnanimity and integrity is not the bedrock of religion, what is? As a wife, hardly a day goes by that I don't feel loved. And respected. Alhamdulillah. And you asked me why I gave up my career when I was in my heyday?! I was enamoured with him from day one, and I am still wowed by his charm. If anything, age has only brought out the best in him. Given my inherent faults - and you know I have many - your father has tolerated them all, and despite the 28 years, I have yet to hear him complain. He endures it with the kind of tolerance threshold that a man should have for his wife (and then some) giving me such a leeway that even you might think that I am taking advantage of his good nature. There is precious little not to love about him. How can you not love a man who is more concerned with your comfort and convenience than his? His golf buddies call him a suami mithali! They also call upon him to organise golf games because he has the knack of making people turn up.
When we were in university, my friends and I used to exchange thoughts about the kind of man we wanted to marry. Some wanted him to be handsome, some wanted him rich. Me? I wanted a 'good' man (without the foggiest idea of what that meant). Now, do you even wonder why I consider him God's gift to me? If he appears saintly, he is not - but close. He is not without weaknesses or failings and he would be the first to admit it. Do I live a charmed life with him? Almost. He regrets he can't give me a 'Taj Mahal', but anywhere with him is my taj mahal.
Would your future spouse say the same of you?
All my love,
Mama
Our wedding anniversary came and went, but none of you remembered because we didn't receive a single greeting. Not even an sms. But don't worry - I won't hold it against you! Just pray that we would have many more to come.
It's our 28th, you know, and I have so much to be thankful for - to and for your father for the most part. We did not give each other gifts on our anniversary. I certainly didn't want one from him. Have I told you that he is God's gift to me, and when you have that, what more could you want? But I thought my gift to him would be to tell you about the kind of man that I married, so you would know more about the man that is your father.
Now that you are all living apart from us, and I am moving towards my twilight years, I worry that I might not have the time nor the capacity to tell you things. Things that I think are important for you to know, to remember lest you forget, or even worse, take for granted. And for you to have an idea of what its been like for me these past 28 years with him. You might think that this is going to be one of those mushy-mushy stuff and I would be going all sentimental. Maybe; but, bear with me, please....
Papa is the embodiment of love. When you were born, I knew I could not have given him a greater cause for happiness. It was as if he was made for fatherhood. It was never too much work, too heavy a burden, or too great a responsibility. He was quick to wake up nights to feed you, change your nappies or simply to take you into his arms, to coo and croon in your baby ears so that you were lulled to sleep. And this from a man who could fall asleep just about any time, anywhere. He ran with and after you, fell off the bicycle as you were learning to ride and ate off the spoon he was feeding you with. When you were cranky, he would take you in the car and drive around the neighbourhood till you fell asleep.
If you thought your teenage years were difficult, they were no easier for him either. While he relished the role of father, he was mindful of the other duties that came with it. Not least of all, that of disciplinarian. But never have I seen such a role undertaken with so much empathy and understanding than that displayed by him. He never shouted, raised his hand, nor saw the need for a cane. Instead, you were made to see your mistakes through gentle words, never harsh ones; to see reason without rebuke.
You would recall the numerous family meetings we had where you were always listened to. Ah, yes - listening. That's another trait he bears so well. He didn't impose his opinions upon you, but wanted to impress upon you that there are always two sides to a coin. When you were at fault, his actions were never punitive. He was mindful that you were living out the vulnerability of youth as he once had. Just recall the time when you and your friends were caught smoking in school, and when you chose to play truant and not go for tuition. I was enraged, and your father thought it was just "one of those things" that boys did. Serious though they were, those meetings never ended on a dour note. Can you still recall the many anecdotes from his childhood that he dispensed so casually that you weren't even aware that it was the lesson of the day? They were moral lessons dished out with his brand of humour. And you thought he was just being the 'historian' father!
He always welcomed your friends because if there's any one who values friendship, it is he. He never had to choose his friends - they chose him to be theirs. He has friends from his childhood, his schools, his college, his university and from God knows where. He's touched them all because of the simple and unassuming man that he is - who never forgets an acquaintance, much less a friend. It amazes me that on several occasions, when we least expect it, there would be someone there who would know him.
If you choose to raise your voice, to cast a disdainful or disapproving glance, to snap because you're irritated, just remember that your father hardly ever does. When you see fit to fret and frown when you can't get what you want; when you choose to give up, or to give in to indolence and mediocrity, think of your father. He is the one who got you where you are today, and has made life comfortable for you through sheer hard work and selflessness. To not make an effort, to not go that extra mile, would be to disrespect his propensity for diligence. Remember his "Don't be afraid to dream" motto? Have you forgotten the notes of advice (booklet) he wrote each of you when you were in your mid teens? As you know, he doesn't write much; but those are words from his heart, painstakingly chosen to guide your entry into the realm of adulthood.
If ever there was one who overcame the odds in life, it is he. He knows no privilege other than that earned through sweat, and yet he never envies those who have it easy, preferring to dwell on the positive. Not one to hold a prejudice or a grudge even towards 'friends' who have let him down, he is inclined to think the best of every one. "The eternal optimist", I would say! In bad times, he does not wallow in self-pity; neither does he blame the world for any shortcoming. His ability to laugh at himself is so endearing, and his up-to-his-eyes laughter so heartwarming. Success and money have not gone to his head. Devoid of fussy tastes, he does not turn up his nose at Bollywood films, nor is he apologetic about his liking for rice, petai and cucur udang. Sad stories on TV move him to tears. His friends say that he is 'London-trained'; to me, and I say this fondly, he is still very much the Kuala boy.
In as much as I would like you to become your own person, it wouldn't hurt to emulate him. If you could be half the man he is, I would have done something right. I have often wished that I had had the time to tell my in-laws that they had done a great 'job' with him. Because, among other attributes, this is a man whose actions are always leavened by humility.
Your father is not an outwardly religious man, but he is certainly God-fearing. If having decency, respect and consideration for others, magnanimity and integrity is not the bedrock of religion, what is? As a wife, hardly a day goes by that I don't feel loved. And respected. Alhamdulillah. And you asked me why I gave up my career when I was in my heyday?! I was enamoured with him from day one, and I am still wowed by his charm. If anything, age has only brought out the best in him. Given my inherent faults - and you know I have many - your father has tolerated them all, and despite the 28 years, I have yet to hear him complain. He endures it with the kind of tolerance threshold that a man should have for his wife (and then some) giving me such a leeway that even you might think that I am taking advantage of his good nature. There is precious little not to love about him. How can you not love a man who is more concerned with your comfort and convenience than his? His golf buddies call him a suami mithali! They also call upon him to organise golf games because he has the knack of making people turn up.
When we were in university, my friends and I used to exchange thoughts about the kind of man we wanted to marry. Some wanted him to be handsome, some wanted him rich. Me? I wanted a 'good' man (without the foggiest idea of what that meant). Now, do you even wonder why I consider him God's gift to me? If he appears saintly, he is not - but close. He is not without weaknesses or failings and he would be the first to admit it. Do I live a charmed life with him? Almost. He regrets he can't give me a 'Taj Mahal', but anywhere with him is my taj mahal.
Would your future spouse say the same of you?
All my love,
Mama
Tuesday, 24 February 2009
A Mother's Worry
Whenever we are in KL for longer than a day trip, my husband and I would stay with our yet-unmarried children in their 3-room condo in Damansara Perdana and upset their sleeping arrangement come bed time. My daughter would have to give up her room - the master-bedroom - for us and sleep in her eldest brother's room, while the latter would have to cart his pillows and blanket to sleep in the sitting-room on a spare mattress. My other son gets to keep his status quo. And so it has been for the last three years.
Which has given me more than a passing glimpse of my children's goings and comings. All three are working adults - young, foot-loose and fancy free, as yet untethered by marital responsibilities. They leave the apartment before 7.30am every morning on a working day, and don't return till after 9pm or later on most evenings. When they do, they only have sleep on their mind. As they get caught up in their working lives, I fear that they are losing touch with one another. Even before they have a family of their own.
I had tried to nurture a closeness among them from the time that they were children and in their teens when we did a lot of things together as a family. The weekend trips, the holidays, and the eating and playing together times. In the mid-90s, we formed our own bowling team that I named 'Family Matters'. We used to (and still do occasionally) have regular family 'meetings' to discuss something that was either important, or significant in our life, and to drive home the importance of communicating among ourselves, to listen and be listened to. I had hoped that this would pave the way for them to communicate, to confide in and support one another in times of need, especially when we parents have departed the earth.
It worries me that they are not interacting enough with one another, that they are living together but each is really on his/her own. They hardly sit down together for a meal. Even when we are in town, it is increasingly difficult to get the five of us together for dinner. Have they succumbed to the daily grind of their job leaving no time and energy for anything else? Is the pursuit of money and career an overriding concern? I know they have to earn their living; there are bills to pay, but I wonder if 'time-management and prioritizing' is not a problem here.
Which has given me more than a passing glimpse of my children's goings and comings. All three are working adults - young, foot-loose and fancy free, as yet untethered by marital responsibilities. They leave the apartment before 7.30am every morning on a working day, and don't return till after 9pm or later on most evenings. When they do, they only have sleep on their mind. As they get caught up in their working lives, I fear that they are losing touch with one another. Even before they have a family of their own.
I had tried to nurture a closeness among them from the time that they were children and in their teens when we did a lot of things together as a family. The weekend trips, the holidays, and the eating and playing together times. In the mid-90s, we formed our own bowling team that I named 'Family Matters'. We used to (and still do occasionally) have regular family 'meetings' to discuss something that was either important, or significant in our life, and to drive home the importance of communicating among ourselves, to listen and be listened to. I had hoped that this would pave the way for them to communicate, to confide in and support one another in times of need, especially when we parents have departed the earth.
It worries me that they are not interacting enough with one another, that they are living together but each is really on his/her own. They hardly sit down together for a meal. Even when we are in town, it is increasingly difficult to get the five of us together for dinner. Have they succumbed to the daily grind of their job leaving no time and energy for anything else? Is the pursuit of money and career an overriding concern? I know they have to earn their living; there are bills to pay, but I wonder if 'time-management and prioritizing' is not a problem here.
Though they are young and yet to be in the prime of their lives, I fear that they may have allowed the rut to set in - the mistake of being indifferent. All relationships are fragile; sibling relationship is no different. The natural bond needs nurturing to remain strong and impervious to outside influence. Have they become too self-absorbed? Or don't they care enough about one another? If this is so, where did I go wrong?
Tuesday, 30 December 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, 25 December 2008
Sunday, 30 November 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, 27 November 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, 8 November 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, 5 November 2008
In Memory of a dear Friend
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
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.
Tuesday, 4 November 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, 23 October 2008
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!
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!
Monday, 13 October 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, 9 October 2008
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.
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.
Monday, 29 September 2008
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 :)
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 :)
Wednesday, 17 September 2008
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?
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?
Tuesday, 9 September 2008
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.
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.
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