Yesterday must go down as one of the blackest days in my country's history. Three churches were torched, by unknown people on motorbikes, lobbing molotov cocktails and home made bombs. There are dips and highs in our lives, and these incidents belong in the lowest of low as far as I am concerned. I was angry, disgusted and shamed by the presumption and cowardice and hate that must have prompted this behaviour. A contravention of all that is fine, and good and upright. A contravention of all purportedly that this country stands for, and all that we should be proud of.
Where do we go from here?
Friday, January 8, 2010
Saturday, July 25, 2009
His choice
Gasing was put down at 3.45pm, Tuesday 14 July 2009. He was just over 2 years of age. This photo was taken the day before, on 13 July.
He was very sick. Dr Prem, the vet had diagnosed his condition as severe renal failure. Maybe 25% of one of his kidneys was still functioning, the other had completely failed, he said in his gentle voice. There are a lot of toxins in his system now. Its like a garbage dump where stuff had been left for days and days, and its rotting and keeps piling up. After a while, the toxins would jam his system, and he would have seizures, likely not survive.
What could I do, except to let him die a peaceful death. He who was beautiful and strong and graceful. He who is deserving of dignity. I decided then, that he need not suffer anymore. That he should move along this existence, and transit into another space, in our arms, hearing our voices in his ears as he left this life.
And so that was how it was. He knew before that he would go soon. In his eyes, I saw the sadness, the fear and finally the graceful acceptance of his fate. He walked into the house, sat by us to say goodbye. He walked over to the undertaker, wagging his tail, licking the stranger's hands, and stood by him as if to say he was willing and ready to go, to go now.
And that was how it was. Gasing came as he left; out of choice, his own volition. He chose me, he who loved me. And in return, I loved him as well as I could love anything. Even though he assumed a certain sense of dominance over Ally and Bella, and muscled his way around them, he would run towards me, ears flat, tail wagging as I walked through the front gate daily. He would jump with great joy, complete and unrestrained. And my heart would leap too, with love and thankfulness for his happiness at the sight of me. It was pure and simple. I will always miss him.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Gopeng
I went to Gopeng a few days ago, on my way to Ipoh to interview someone from the Perak State Government. My habit to stop and stare. It was worth the pause, as it turned out. Gopeng despite its name which sounds almost a reprimand, is a town of rambling buildings whispering of another time. Patterned eaves, fine dioramas, hand carved graced the forehead of each face of each building. Idyllic patterns of doves, or the mythical splendour of the phoenix and dragon entwined in the embrace of their eternal dance conjures a time in the past when such ideals and beliefs held true. In our day and age, the myths live within the walls of a computer screen and rarely inhabits our imagination. A loss I think, for imagination is the creator of the machine, and the creator is certainly greater than the creation. We settle for less, and we do not know.
Gopeng had sprung from such dreams though. The dreams of many Chinese miners who moved ceaselessly on its landscape in the 19th century in search of riches. It was tin that brought them, a tin dream that became a reality for a few, and remained a desire for many more.
Today, the mines are gone, but remains are there yet. The lines of magnificent buildings, 120 feet long, wide and high once the home of large extended Chinese families who lived in close proximity because they were so commanded by the head of the clan. The money brought many into obedience, but a few generations on, the bounds have already become undone. The moment they could, they had broken free because the closeness often bred disdain, anger and harsh words that cannot be taken back, cannot be forgotten. And so it is said, that in a wealthy family, the money will be lost by its 3rd generation.
Maybe it is true. Maybe by then too, the houses that once held the sound of so many voices are merely reverberations from the past. If you stay still within the crumbling walls of the old buildings, and strain your ear you may be lucky enough to catch the whisper of its past. Listen, for all that remains is but a wisp, a fragile insubstantial wisp that may disappear completely one day. the saddest thing is that, no one will notice its quiet exit, and life will move along. We will not even notice its demise. An unforgivable kind of ignorance that none of us should be guilty of.
Gopeng had sprung from such dreams though. The dreams of many Chinese miners who moved ceaselessly on its landscape in the 19th century in search of riches. It was tin that brought them, a tin dream that became a reality for a few, and remained a desire for many more.
Today, the mines are gone, but remains are there yet. The lines of magnificent buildings, 120 feet long, wide and high once the home of large extended Chinese families who lived in close proximity because they were so commanded by the head of the clan. The money brought many into obedience, but a few generations on, the bounds have already become undone. The moment they could, they had broken free because the closeness often bred disdain, anger and harsh words that cannot be taken back, cannot be forgotten. And so it is said, that in a wealthy family, the money will be lost by its 3rd generation.
Maybe it is true. Maybe by then too, the houses that once held the sound of so many voices are merely reverberations from the past. If you stay still within the crumbling walls of the old buildings, and strain your ear you may be lucky enough to catch the whisper of its past. Listen, for all that remains is but a wisp, a fragile insubstantial wisp that may disappear completely one day. the saddest thing is that, no one will notice its quiet exit, and life will move along. We will not even notice its demise. An unforgivable kind of ignorance that none of us should be guilty of.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Words in Air
I am reading a heavy book as my cousin describes it. Seeing it on my coffee table, she lifted it briefly and said, how can you hold it up for a long period, too heavy.
Well, for the record, my ability to tote it around and strain my faux designer handbag (who buys real when you can get a Tod's Bag for 45 ringgit in Chinatown?) is purely for the sheer delight I take in its contents. The extended exchange of letters between two poets, Robert Lowell and Elizabeth Bishop, spanning the time they met in 47 to the time he died from a heart attack in 77, is an intimate potrayal of friendship and love, marked by mutual respect and regard for each other's life and work. Its extraordinary; and remembers one to shared ideals and values, the remarkable dedication to the truth that poetry demands. I have already spent many hours on rainy evenings, my reading hour between 4 and 5 daily; and as I please, on weekends, being drawn into the chatter, the discussion, the gossip, the critical questioning and comments exchanged between the two.
Of course on Sundays, it pleases me no end to spend part of the day, reading. Often a book and the weekend e-editions of Times, Guardian and some gossip stuff from Marie Claire or quick bits from Yahoo News. My coffee sits beside me, cold now. Today, the rain fell early, just before noon. I had gone swimming at 9; but the pool was besieged by more then 40 young boys after I swam for 20 minutes, so I desperately finished off another 10 minutes before leaving the happy splashing at the shallow end. It would have made a wondrous picture, the simultaneous sprays that formed a line of human fountains; much embellished by the morning sunshine forming jewels of light as they rose and fell to the shouts of joy.
I came home to my rice today. I had hungered for steaming rice today; and had put some sliced Chinese sausages, rice wine, fresh ginger and dark soya sauce into a pot of rice, to cook, while I went to the pool. When I returned and after my shower, I sliced Chinese cabbage and stir fried it with lots of garlic and ginger and a pinch of Himalaya salt. I cut green chilli padi, tore some coriander leaves and splashed generously, light soya sauce and roasted sesame oil to go with the rice. I boiled water and steeped pu-erh tea. And I sat down and listening to a story about baseball, about a miner turned famous pitcher who honed his skills by throwing stones at tin cans daily for fun, on National Public Radio, I ate my rice and cabbage. It was quite a tale and the food ever delicious. Baseball and sausage rice - I must be plebian after all, although I have seldom have declared myself otherwise. Comfort is where we find it.
Well, for the record, my ability to tote it around and strain my faux designer handbag (who buys real when you can get a Tod's Bag for 45 ringgit in Chinatown?) is purely for the sheer delight I take in its contents. The extended exchange of letters between two poets, Robert Lowell and Elizabeth Bishop, spanning the time they met in 47 to the time he died from a heart attack in 77, is an intimate potrayal of friendship and love, marked by mutual respect and regard for each other's life and work. Its extraordinary; and remembers one to shared ideals and values, the remarkable dedication to the truth that poetry demands. I have already spent many hours on rainy evenings, my reading hour between 4 and 5 daily; and as I please, on weekends, being drawn into the chatter, the discussion, the gossip, the critical questioning and comments exchanged between the two.
Of course on Sundays, it pleases me no end to spend part of the day, reading. Often a book and the weekend e-editions of Times, Guardian and some gossip stuff from Marie Claire or quick bits from Yahoo News. My coffee sits beside me, cold now. Today, the rain fell early, just before noon. I had gone swimming at 9; but the pool was besieged by more then 40 young boys after I swam for 20 minutes, so I desperately finished off another 10 minutes before leaving the happy splashing at the shallow end. It would have made a wondrous picture, the simultaneous sprays that formed a line of human fountains; much embellished by the morning sunshine forming jewels of light as they rose and fell to the shouts of joy.
I came home to my rice today. I had hungered for steaming rice today; and had put some sliced Chinese sausages, rice wine, fresh ginger and dark soya sauce into a pot of rice, to cook, while I went to the pool. When I returned and after my shower, I sliced Chinese cabbage and stir fried it with lots of garlic and ginger and a pinch of Himalaya salt. I cut green chilli padi, tore some coriander leaves and splashed generously, light soya sauce and roasted sesame oil to go with the rice. I boiled water and steeped pu-erh tea. And I sat down and listening to a story about baseball, about a miner turned famous pitcher who honed his skills by throwing stones at tin cans daily for fun, on National Public Radio, I ate my rice and cabbage. It was quite a tale and the food ever delicious. Baseball and sausage rice - I must be plebian after all, although I have seldom have declared myself otherwise. Comfort is where we find it.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Chapel and perms
It has been a predictably tropical day. Heat and a reluctant breeze and the glory of brilliance at sunset. Right now, it is gold everywhere, as though a way of seeking forgiveness for a harsh twistingly hot day. I am beautiful, be tolerant. The way of life.
I spoke to several school friends today. We are bound by a memory as tenuous as one can imagine; at least three decades of life have separated many of us. Still, I never fail to comprehend this that binds us. We revert for most part, to speaking to each other as though we were sixteen again. The same banter. The same tone. And voila, we show ourselves to be the same persons we were. There's the agreeable one, the tough one, the irritating one, the bitchy one. A motley crew. Ah, but we love each other, in an unforgettable way. A completely irreplaceable way.
The occasion was a high tea. A fundraising event for the school which started as an intention to fund repairs to its tired facade, lately rendered irrelevant by the receipt of a large sum of money, amounting to RM 560,000 from the government. A gesture to make up to all mission schools for the long running neglect. A sort of discrimination that's outlived its origins actually; because there are no "real" mission schools anymore. They are pretty much nationalized. No pastors conduct prayers; no nuns or brothers sweep through the corridors anymore, instilling the stern discipline that's shaped many a child who have passed through their hallowed halls.
I remember the American pastor, Rev Paul West who came to conduct chapel classes with non Muslims. My eagerness to recite John 3:16 so I could win the coveted bookmark of the day. I remember raising my hand, being called and being handed the bookmark by the genial Rev West, his dark rimmed glasses perched on his aquiline nose; his blonde hair brushed carefully aside, his blue eyes lighting up at my earnest recitation. For God so loved the World...
His wife, Mrs West, was dark haired, cropped short and wavy enough to look suitably fashionable. We who had straight dark hair could never achieve her casually chic style unless we created voluminous waves with a perm. My mum agreed to pay for a perm for me once, and it was disastrous. I looked as old as the ladies who walked out of Ah Kwan's perm parlour, my mum's favourite haunt at that time when I must have been eleven or twelve years old. It took a while before my hair became long and straight again. At sixteen, I tried another longer perm and it still did not work. I think I was in my late twenties when I stopped perming my hair, trying to achieve that casually chic look Mrs West had, which fired my imagination so.
I spoke to several school friends today. We are bound by a memory as tenuous as one can imagine; at least three decades of life have separated many of us. Still, I never fail to comprehend this that binds us. We revert for most part, to speaking to each other as though we were sixteen again. The same banter. The same tone. And voila, we show ourselves to be the same persons we were. There's the agreeable one, the tough one, the irritating one, the bitchy one. A motley crew. Ah, but we love each other, in an unforgettable way. A completely irreplaceable way.
The occasion was a high tea. A fundraising event for the school which started as an intention to fund repairs to its tired facade, lately rendered irrelevant by the receipt of a large sum of money, amounting to RM 560,000 from the government. A gesture to make up to all mission schools for the long running neglect. A sort of discrimination that's outlived its origins actually; because there are no "real" mission schools anymore. They are pretty much nationalized. No pastors conduct prayers; no nuns or brothers sweep through the corridors anymore, instilling the stern discipline that's shaped many a child who have passed through their hallowed halls.
I remember the American pastor, Rev Paul West who came to conduct chapel classes with non Muslims. My eagerness to recite John 3:16 so I could win the coveted bookmark of the day. I remember raising my hand, being called and being handed the bookmark by the genial Rev West, his dark rimmed glasses perched on his aquiline nose; his blonde hair brushed carefully aside, his blue eyes lighting up at my earnest recitation. For God so loved the World...
His wife, Mrs West, was dark haired, cropped short and wavy enough to look suitably fashionable. We who had straight dark hair could never achieve her casually chic style unless we created voluminous waves with a perm. My mum agreed to pay for a perm for me once, and it was disastrous. I looked as old as the ladies who walked out of Ah Kwan's perm parlour, my mum's favourite haunt at that time when I must have been eleven or twelve years old. It took a while before my hair became long and straight again. At sixteen, I tried another longer perm and it still did not work. I think I was in my late twenties when I stopped perming my hair, trying to achieve that casually chic look Mrs West had, which fired my imagination so.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Another Bird
My neighbour's Indonesian maid, Ani, called me from the gate. It was Sunday morning, yesterday. She was holding a bird in her hand and my dogs, especially the mongrel Gasing was becoming rapturous from instinct to devour the shivering bird. The cat had done its deed. That ginger cat I had seen, basking in the sun. Sure and silky. her eyes had flicked back and forth in the early morning sunshine, flexing her claws in readiness.
And here was her unwitting prey. What could I do but take her in, this young mynah who was injured but fierce and feisty too. Snapping her bright yellow beak at my fingers. I put her in a cage. I tried to feed her mashed papaya. I placed dry coconut husk around her, as though that would have helped at all. It was not her space. She leapt, and clawed and battled but I was afraid to let her go. I thought she might have been injured by the cat, and she would flail and fall to the ground and die.
She did die, just two hours later. Just fell over and curled up. I am not sure if it was madness at being imprisoned; or the sweep of a ginger claw. It was late when I came home, and I had no inclination to clear her feathered body in the dark. As a result, I had trouble falling asleep, worrying that, in the heat, invisible organisms would worm their way into her still perfect body. By morning, things could become ugly. I would then have to throw away the old wooden cage which looks perfect hanging in my crumbling backyard porch. Would I need to use a large grey bag. That's how bodies are disposed. I fell into a fitful sleep.
This morning, just after light, I lifted her and found no sign or smell of decay. She was soft and limp still, almost warm. I placed her in a plastic bag and prayed that her soul would soar now, unimpeded by claws and good intentions. May she fly high, fly high and free.
And here was her unwitting prey. What could I do but take her in, this young mynah who was injured but fierce and feisty too. Snapping her bright yellow beak at my fingers. I put her in a cage. I tried to feed her mashed papaya. I placed dry coconut husk around her, as though that would have helped at all. It was not her space. She leapt, and clawed and battled but I was afraid to let her go. I thought she might have been injured by the cat, and she would flail and fall to the ground and die.
She did die, just two hours later. Just fell over and curled up. I am not sure if it was madness at being imprisoned; or the sweep of a ginger claw. It was late when I came home, and I had no inclination to clear her feathered body in the dark. As a result, I had trouble falling asleep, worrying that, in the heat, invisible organisms would worm their way into her still perfect body. By morning, things could become ugly. I would then have to throw away the old wooden cage which looks perfect hanging in my crumbling backyard porch. Would I need to use a large grey bag. That's how bodies are disposed. I fell into a fitful sleep.
This morning, just after light, I lifted her and found no sign or smell of decay. She was soft and limp still, almost warm. I placed her in a plastic bag and prayed that her soul would soar now, unimpeded by claws and good intentions. May she fly high, fly high and free.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
The first
Today would be the day. I decided this morning, when I opened my eyes and the light was still grey, the air still cool.I could hear the birds singing outside, as they do at first light, regardless whether it was limpid and weak, or whether it was bold and bright. Just like one's mind sometimes. When you decide, you stay the course.
And so this letter, one of many to follow I hope. The way we could link our lives, our thoughts, our memories together. For every reason, for whatever reason. The need to gather threads grows stronger with age, does it not. And we bundle them together sometime and hope for our own illumination even more than posterity.
Today, the bird that came to me yesterday, given by a neighbour who rescued it from the claws of a cat, fell over and died. A fledging who only knew short flights, and who opened its beak wide to be fed by its tired mother. Maybe it died from hunger, from fear, from cold from a relentless storm late last night. Who knows. It will never know of course, that its image is now locked in my memory. Its face peering at me when I tried to whistle its mother's song. The final image, for me and for him.
Who knows indeed what perspectives we possess? We all stand in our own spheres, and our paths cross and we are held by an invisible bond, of blood and of memory.
And so this letter, one of many to follow I hope. The way we could link our lives, our thoughts, our memories together. For every reason, for whatever reason. The need to gather threads grows stronger with age, does it not. And we bundle them together sometime and hope for our own illumination even more than posterity.
Today, the bird that came to me yesterday, given by a neighbour who rescued it from the claws of a cat, fell over and died. A fledging who only knew short flights, and who opened its beak wide to be fed by its tired mother. Maybe it died from hunger, from fear, from cold from a relentless storm late last night. Who knows. It will never know of course, that its image is now locked in my memory. Its face peering at me when I tried to whistle its mother's song. The final image, for me and for him.
Who knows indeed what perspectives we possess? We all stand in our own spheres, and our paths cross and we are held by an invisible bond, of blood and of memory.
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