INSPIRATIONAL TALES TO LIVE BY

Monsters in the family

2012-01-18T08:20:00.001+08:00

By CHRIS WC

Like it or not, some traits get passed down the line.

FINISH up all your food, think of those children without food!”

“When I call you, you answer immediately, do you hear?”

“How many times must I tell you to pick up all your things from the floor?”

Gosh! That was all me, not my mother. Sigh! I’ve turned into the one person whom the once-younger version of me swore not to turn into – my mother. Perhaps “mini me” has brought the worst in me?

Yes, I have come across a book for young children titled My Mom is a Monster, and I am comforted to know I’m not the only “monster” around. Some things never change, do they?

Decades ago, my mum was a monster, too. However, the much-mellowed side of me wholly appreciates the person that I think I’m partly turning into.

Before, my mum knew what she knew and did her best. She lived through two World Wars, and was a survivor who taught herself to read and write. If she had just one fish, she would feed the flesh to her eight children while she picked on the bones. I can’t top this. I’m proud of her strength and courage, which I’ve gladly inherited.

Now, I know better, so I do better. I’m a Baby Boomer and a late bloomer. Eight was enough for my mother but one is more than enough for me.

I don’t only tell my son to not waste food, water and electricity, or stress the importance of being neat and tidy. I show him films of less fortunate children in other parts of the famished world and pictures from the Internet of ridiculously messy homes and explain how it blocks energy flow and results in a cluttered mind and stressful life.

A picture says a million words, and yes, he got it – well, most of it. He was only four when I started telling him; now he’s seven and can keep a pretty organised room.

“Mum, just say it once, I hear you loud and clear!” “You told me not to do that but you’re doing it yourself.”

Those were from my son. Sometimes it’s like he holds a mirror to my face. If I had said those things to my mum when I was his age, I’d had a smack behind my thick skull for talking back or having a big mouth. Back then, little children must be seen and not heard. Nowadays, there is this “encourage your children to express and stand up for themselves” culture.

Yes, it’s okay that the children speak their minds. They are also people, like us, just several sizes smaller. We parents are not always right and we don’t have to be. It’s okay to say sorry to the kids.

Of course my mum will say this is madness, but I think they learn empathy and honesty, and that respect is something you earn. In the past, “be quiet, don’t ask so many questions”; “if you don’t listen, you’ll get a smack” or “the good book says to respect your parents” sufficed as answers to many unasked questions which we had to discover for ourselves later in life.

My mum had very obedient children. She said it, we did it, no questions asked. My son has learned the art of negotiation.

“You said oats cookies are healthy, so can I have more than two then?”

“No.”

“But you said there are fibres in them that will help me ‘poop’ better!”

Now it has progressed to films and staying up late at night. He gets to see sci-fi films that have an age limit of 12 years. Why? His father thinks he’s mentally equipped for it.

“Don’t worry mum, there’s no real blood, it’s just tomato sauce. The slimy-looking alien brains are just stuff made of plastic and there are no strange planets. It’s all shot in a studio, just a set-up.”

Some things have obviously changed, haven’t they? The millennium child is so smart and articulate. One part of his day can be spent in a fantasy world of computer games and yet later, he still plants his two little feet firmly on the ground.

We were watching a movie together and I get so caught up and said the ‘S’ word when the enemy was winning. Then I heard a small, steady voice beside me say: “It’s just a show, mum, you don’t have to use that word.”

Smart aleck! Sometimes I think we have created a little monster. This child knows about looking good, mix-matching and colour co-ordination. Only much later in my life did I realise I might have inherited this trait from my mother and he from me then. He also saves money.

At times, he’s a simple, carefree and joyful kid when I return with all his favourite things in the grocery bag. Or, after helping him with something, I’ll get a big hug with a huge kiss and, “You’re the best mum in the whole wide world!”

At other times, “Mum, you know I love you very very much but please don’t be mad when you see something on the floor in your office. Please don’t shout and I’m very sorry, I won’t do it again!”

Goodness! What now? I wouldn’t have dared say all those words to my mother or known how to say them when I was his age, for that matter.

I do wonder about his future years. What is a millennium teenager like? Hopefully, still a sweet little monster, just a few sizes bigger.

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2011-10-17T11:06:00.000+08:00

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This blog is closing down......

2009-12-16T10:58:00.000+08:00

My dear readers,

All good things must come to an end. I am sorry to inform you that this blog is closing down with immediate effect. I am sure you want to know why I have made this decision, right?

This action is taken as this blog receives lukewarm responses from surfers so there is no point of maintaining it as I have other important things to do during my free time. But you can still get the latest updates of my upcoming events by checking out my personal blog at http://zukidin.blogspot.com. From now on, this is the only blog of mine that will be updated on regular basis.

Lastly, I am sorry for any inconvenience caused.

Thank you in advance,

Mr Marzuki bin Zainuddin

Tel: +60129617100

e-mail: zukideen@gawab.com

The sophisticated village boy

2009-11-30T10:10:00.001+08:00

By NAGA R. AMPALAM

An outsider finds out that it takes more than a knowledge of wine to get into the inner circle of the select.

AT three score and 10 years, I finally fulfilled my daydream of going on a cruise in the northern latitudes, with the sole aim of filling a gap in my education – primarily in the areas of food and beverage.

I was most fortunate to be in the company of the well-heeled and knowledgeable, from whom I expected to reap that which money could not buy. My jacket from the pasar malam and the borrowed tie were not quite in keeping with the standards of the dress code; however, everybody was fully supportive of my grit and determination.

The choice of wine at dinner especially fascinated me; there was talk of a good year and a bad year, which I thought were matters best left to astrologers. Opinions were exchanged across the table and references were made to vineyards the world over with the same familiarity I would have of the football field in the next village.

Some could even distinguish the various fruit flavours in the wine; all this while, I was under the impression that wine was made from grapes only. Even the wood of the wine cellars was identified with the same ease, and the casual display of such uncanny talent was truly awe-inspiring.

After the waiter had been summoned and the bottle of wine he presented inspected, the ensuing dialogue and gestures – sniffing the cork, holding the glass high against the light, swirling the wine, inhaling its vapours, and sipping the offering and throwing back the head with eyes closed – were more bewildering to me than the mysteries behind prayer beads.

Notwithstanding, I put on a “to the manner born” front and joined in the revelry until, through the corner of my eye, I saw the wine waiter heading in my direction.

“I recommend the red wine, Sir.”

“Make that a full-bodied one”, I said, offhandedly.

“Very good, Sir.”

He came back in a flash and with a flourish honed by years of experience, presented a bottle for my scrutiny. As I polished my spectacles, I whispered a fervent prayer and desperately tried to recall all the motions I was now supposed to display.

To my horror the bottle was labelled in French. Nonchalantly, I continued my inspection, looking for familiar words. Alas, there were none. I then gestured the waiter for his opinion and he favoured me with a litany of the virtues of the vintage – in French, of course.

I nodded approvingly but felt uncomfortable with his constant reference to something that sounded like “bodoh”; I was not sure if he was referring to the origins of the wine or the mentality of the diners he was serving.

Flaunting a nifty device in equally nifty hands, he brandished the cork for me to inspect. I held it to my nose (in the way the learned did) and declared that it was somewhat musty.

“And rightly so, Sir. You have just sniffed the wrong end.”

I managed to overlook this remark and indicated that he should pour. In the subdued lighting of the dining room, I picked up the glass by the stem, held it against the light, noted its paleness, its lack of bouquet and the absence of any flavour.

“This wine tastes like water,” I declared disapprovingly.

“Sir, you may wish to put down the glass of mineral water and try the wine instead.”

And with that, I made a mental note not to tip him at the end of the cruise.

Emboldened by my learning curve on the Baltic cruise I wasted no time putting into practice, back home, my newly-acquired insights into the fine art of wine drinking.

Knowledge, much like manure on the village vegetable plots, must be spread around for good effect. Adopting this maxim, I gathered some neighbours and we scouted around for fine dining outlets where I could preach, with missionary zeal, to the uninitiated. The local mamak shop, Curry House and the Red Table Cloth were where I put into effect my wine pairing skills.

First, we would summarily dismiss the scantily-clad sommeliers before getting down to the business of choosing a wine. For starters, it was invariably a vin ordinaire served in tumblers, which we gulped down with many a yam seng chorus.

By then my group would have imbibed a sufficient amount to display rosy cheeks and unrestrained behaviour. The scantily-clad sommeliers would now have given our table a wide berth, beyond the reach of wandering hands.

This was the signal for me to proceed to the wine for the main course. After long and careful consideration of the menu, I would wisely settle for a Rose to go with Chinese cuisine, or the heavy-bodied all-time favourite – the venerable Careles Rossi 2008 (from select vineyards of California) – for the Indian dishes.

The group would now be ecstatically thumping my back in recognition of the unparalleled service I was providing.

For dessert I would offer a round of Win Fortified Wine, much to the delight of the neighbourhood matriarchs, who’d start reminiscing about their post-natal care. Coffee would invariably be followed by fine cognac, from the house of Sahib.

Unaccustomed as I am to public affirmation, I was pleasantly surprised when the weekly neighbourhood meeting nominated me for the honorary role of Wine Consultant for all organised dinners in our village. This is a heavy responsibility, but one which I will strive to fulfil in all humility.

But I digress.

The time had come for me to venture into social adaptation, with its bewildering array of behavioural norms. And how better to do so than to go on a Mediterranean cruise and visit the lands of ancient culture and civilisation and, to boot, with the same select group to which I was already beholden for launching me into the stratosphere of wine connoisseurs.

We gathered for pre-dinner cocktails and the conversation flowed fast and furious, on topics ranging from politics, economics and security to fine foods, apparel and books.

While someone was expounding an issue, all the others would be wringing out the last vestiges of their memory, searching for words of wisdom for the next topic, which they could introduce.

“Read any good books lately?”

On hearing this, my heart leapt for joy. This area was my forte, for I am widely read on Enid Blyton, Mills and Boon, not to mention the more heavy Aesop and the mother of them all – Harry Potter. Did I mention it before? Truly, good looks, youth and modesty run in my family; however, in a moment of exuberance, I abandoned the last attribute (momentarily) and launched into an exposition of the latest Harry Potter title.

In this season, the Mediterranean is legendary for balmy weather, but no sooner had the words left my mouth, a sudden chill prevailed. Shawls were gathered close, eyebrows were raised and there was an unexplained shift of interest to the hors d’oeuvres and the paintings on the wall, amidst ear-shattering silence.

“Paul Krugman has put forth a very forthright view on managing world globalisation, don’t you think?”

The group sprang back into life; I shrank and slid into an abyss of anonymity.

Till death do us part

2009-11-22T09:35:00.000+08:00

By SOW LAI-GANESAN

True love is nourishing, rewarding and constant

WEDDING vows, irrespective of religion, race or custom, are generally similar in nature: Through thick and thin, for better or worse, till death do us part.

Most couples tie the knot out of love and passion, whereas some get married out of obligation or even out of compulsion. I was one of the lucky ones. I married a man I truly admired.

Although marriage is believed to be made in heaven, couples, whether rich or poor, are bound to have rows and disagreements along their matrimonial journey.

Many may wonder why their spouses’ annoying habits, which they could readily accept before marriage, suddenly become intolerable. Telephone conversations that could last from dusk to dawn before marriage cannot even last for two minutes without a tiff after marriage.

We’ve heard of how couples who are so madly in love and decide to get married end up getting divorced after just three months. Or of Romeos who suddenly loath their Juliets so much that they treat them as punching bags after they become man and wife.

How do you define love and marriage? Could it be that love is blind and marriage is the eye-opener? Or is love just a game and marriage a gamble that many lose because they were hoping to mould each other into someone they wanted but failed to do so?

Lust, visual pleasure and material comforts alone cannot hold a marriage together for long.

It saddens me to see the tremendous increase in divorce and domestic violence cases in recent years. The frequent man-made and natural disasters that happen around us should open our eyes. We should be grateful for what we have. Love, patience and tolerance is the main key to a blissful marriage.

The path my husband and I shared after our marriage was not easy and smooth, especially with the addition of our two children and some financial setbacks. There was laughter and tears, sunshine and stormy days.

Once, my husband was so stubborn and obsessed about his troublesome car that after months of endless arguments, I wanted to pack my bags and leave.

When marital problems arise, many people tend to ponder all the negative aspects, thus adding fuel to their anger. I too could not think of the happy moments we had shared – but could I end our relationship because of a car?

Of course I could. There were a thousand and one other excuses I could have used to leave him. But when our marriage was in trouble, I sat down and thought about things for days.

Wedding vows were not made to impress but to be fulfilled, unconditionally. I had sworn to be with my husband through thick and thin, yet, why couldn’t I get through this difficult situation with him? After all, he had accepted my flaws and shortcomings. So I abandoned the idea of leaving.

Ego and pride led me to believe how great and rational I had been as a wife, until two unfortunate events made me realise I was indeed lucky to have him as my husband.

I was wrongly implicated in a mistake made by someone else and ended up in serious trouble. The impact was so great that it destroyed my reputation and my future was at stake. My whole world collapsed.

For months, I endured humiliation and blame for something I had not done. I had no one to turn to. Relatives and friends could only watch sympathetically while my foes were laughing behind my back.

To add insult to injury, I discovered a loved one had done something that hurt me deeply. The betrayal and deception made me wallow in defeat and depression. The double blows were too much for me to bear; I lost my will to live.

During that period when I truly believed that even God had turned His back on me, my husband was there. Every night he would coo when I cried, hug me till I fell asleep and he stood by me until the clouds cleared.

The incident proved that true love could prevail amidst any adversity. He was my strength, my pillar.

I have to thank my husband for being there for me when I needed him the most.

We celebrated our 25th wedding anniversary this year. God willing, we will have many more years to share, till death do us part.

To my dear husband Ganesan Murugesu, there is no better way to thank you than to tell the world what you have done for me. Thank you for your love and tolerance, for accepting me, for lifting me when I fell, for being there whenever I needed you.

I cannot promise there will not be any squabbles in the future, but I can assure you that I will always love you, from the bottom of my heart.

Happy Silver Jubilee, my love!

Facing reality

2009-11-15T10:31:00.002+08:00

By SUEYI LAI

A frail body can house a stout heart, as a young medical student learns from her first patient.

SHE was my very first patient as a third-year medical student in Dalhousie University, Nova Scotia, Canada. It is noon on Sunday as I type this in the hospital.

When I came in this morning, I was told that my 92-year-old patient had had a massive GI bleed (bleeding from the gut) last night.

And to think, this was the patient whom I thought could be discharged when she was first put under my charge.

The tiny, fragile lady who weighed only 40kg had deteriorated rapidly within three days, because of a bout of C. diff enterocolitis (infection in the gut), shock and now, BRBPR (bright red blood per rectum).

I had gone to see her this morning with a staff doctor.

The doctor was discussing her medical treatment with the nurse standing nearby when I saw that she wanted to say something. But she stopped short as staff doctor continued talking.

I noticed she didn’t try again, but it would have been something she’d have wanted to let out.

So I nudged her and I asked aloud (because of her hearing impairment): “I noticed you wanted to say something Mrs ... What is it?”

Then I stroked her hand like how she always liked, like how she was when they were taking blood from her artery and she didn’t once wince despite the pain that most people would are not able to tolerate.

She said, “Oh, I just wanted to say goodbye,” with eyes staring blankly upwards.

I didn’t hear her clearly the first time. “Sorry, Mrs ...?”

“I just wanted to say goodbye dear.”

And I could feel the tears welling up somewhere inside me.

I said, “I’m coming to see you later Mrs ...”

She went on, “It’s about to end.”

The staff doctor was a little confused. “What’s about to end?”

At this point, the nurse, probably bemused, jumped in and answered: “Her life.”

The emotional well within me was starting. But nothing showed on my face. I just felt so ... I don’t think sad was the word – it didn’t even come close to how I felt.

So I walked to the sink and washed my hands for quite awhile, just trying to hold myself together. It wasn’t easy, hearing her words and knowing that there was truth in them. She knew she was going to die. And all we could do was to be there for her.

Her daughter came. This was the same daughter who had cried before me on my second day of caring for this patient.

The doctor and I took her to a private room and told her about what her mother had said. She was in tears and I sat next to her. I was in control of my feelings. I had to be – we’re supposed to be their pillar of support in times like this. All I could do was comfort her.

Then the doctor left her to cry. I asked her if she wanted me to be there but before I could finish my sentence, I broke down too.

Then, amidst her tears, she laughed and said, “Sweetie, you can’t get too involved in this.”

I laughed, too. “I know, but I can’t help it. I’ve taken care of her and I know her.”

She told me everything about her mother and how she felt guilty about not being able to come to the hospital last night – she isn’t able to drive at night.

I told her, “I don’t want you to feel it’s your fault at all, because your mother wouldn’t have wanted that.”

She knew that too, but just needed to hear my words of reassurance.

We talked about her mum and laughed over her. The tears and laughter were good for both of us.

For me, it was cathartic. As for her, she was now ready to face the truth and handle the reality.

She joked once more: “You can’t get too emotionally involved in all your patients, you know.”

I said: “She’s my very first patient and taking care of her was one of the best things I’ve done.”

She hugged me and said, “You’re such a sweetie. Thank you.”

I stood there, feeling much better.

One last tissue and she wiped her tears clean before walking over to see her mother. I did the same too, before going to see the staff doctor .

Well, this is for the old grandma I took care of – the lady who has been a trooper all the way. The one who laughed and said someone had put blusher on her when I mention that her cheeks are rosy pink. The one who showed me strength even when she was so fragile.

My very first patient.

Monsters in the family

2009-11-09T06:53:00.003+08:00

By CHRIS WC

Like it or not, some traits get passed down the line.