INSPIRATIONAL TALES TO LIVE BY

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.

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.

Love wins the day

2009-11-04T13:39:00.000+08:00

By NOR ALIZA SAMAD

One woman finds her place after digging her feet in.

WE wanted to do something conventional. You know, like husband goes to work and wife – that’s me – keeps the home clean and takes care of the children. Fine.

So the letter announcing my resignation as visual presenter landed on my personnel manager’s desk. Don’t look at me, Mr Personnel Manager. I am acting under the instructions of the commanding officer (my husband), who convinced me that working mothers couldn’t give all the love in the world to the children.

Of course, I believed him. What do you mean I didn’t reason with him enough? Besides, I’m not the orator – he is.

I have been staying home much too long. Now that my two daughters no longer need me to wake up at 3am to feed them, I want to be back at work like my college friends, who take home handsome salaries.

And what has he got to say about this?

“Well, that’s very sensible of you. Frankly, I find working women more attractive and intellectually stimulating.”

Wait a minute! Wasn’t it you who said many moons ago that working women were selfish, individualistic and the cause of family disintegration?

“Gee, did I say that? Well, I guess you have to forgive me, I was green then.”

It’s very cute of you to admit the slip of the tongue. But we have two children now and had it not been for my nose, even my mother would have mistaken me for Roseanne Barr!

Now you tell me working women are more attractive and intellectually stimulating! What do you think I have been doing for the last six years – only manicuring my nails?

So he’s willing to make amends by giving me the leads and the moral encouragement to make it easier for me to find work. There were phone calls to make, letters to write, interviews to attend, clothes and shoes to match. And I had to camouflage my marvellous frame and the weight I had acquired over the years from walking between the bedroom and kitchen.

Next came the decision to accept the job offer from, incidentally, Mr Personnel Manager-turned-Managing Director. You should have seen the look on the children’s face when I broke the news during dinner.

Then the whisper from the youngest – “Who’s going to help me read my Ladybird books in the morning?” – followed by that from the older girl: ”Will you still be at work when I get home from school?”

He sipped his coffee in silence. Dinner over, I performed the final ritual of the day, washing the dishes and scrubbing the kitchen sink. The children were in bed. I walked to the bed. There he was, arms wide open, his eyes looking straight into mine.

“Loving you is stimulating enough,” he said.

Come the next day, I was back preparing his breakfast. Sorry, Mr Managing Director. He’s a much better orator than I am.

Besides, the girls need me. As for him, let’s just say he loves me deeply enough.

Reality check

2009-11-01T13:37:00.001+08:00

By Y.S. LIM

STARING sadly at an old photo of his father, Kent’s memories flashed back to his early teens, when he learnt a most invaluable lesson about life.

Kent used to return home from school with a bored look on his face. For some time now, his dad, a single parent, had noticed his waning interest in his studies. But he feigned ignorance and always appeared to be his usual busy self, working hard to make sure there was enough food on the table at the end of each day.

After completing his Year Six examination, Kent seemed to lose interest in school completely.

He started hanging out with a few dropouts who lived nearby. Just so that he would be accepted into their circle, he smoked, raced around on motorbikes and was involved in mischievous acts.

Kent knew what he was doing was wrong. He knew the consequences of mixing with the wrong company but, somehow, he lacked the will to break free from his friends.

Many a time, he would catch a look of disappointment on dad’s face. Etched deeply on that same face were lines of worry which he had not noticed before.

One day, over dinner, dad casually asked about his studies. Kent said nonchalantly, “So, so, dad.” His father nodded, then said: “Next week is the mid-term break. There’s lots to do at my office and I really could use some help. Please?”

Dad’s pleading look was too much for Kent. With downcast eyes, he reluctantly said yes.

The first Monday of the school vacation saw Kent waking up at 5am. After a hurried wash, he jumped on dad’s old bike and rode pillion to his work place.

They arrived 30 at the warehouse minutes later and he helped dad unlock the main gate, open all the doors and windows, and switch on the lights. After disposing all the rubbish from the previous day, they swept and vacuumed the various offices within the premises. It was 6.30 before they managed to sit down for a cup of coffee.

Half an hour later, before the workers started coming in, the pair had to sort out endless files and mail. This was followed by errands – they had to deliver invoices, bills, receipts and goods.

Their day ended at 5pm, but father and son were the last to leave. They had to ensure everything was in order and securely locked up before braving the rush-hour traffic home. After a shower and dinner – take-away, of course – they were off again, headed towards a school 5km away, where Kent’s dad worked as the night guard.

The morning shift guard came in at 4.45. By then, father and son barely had time to go home and clean up before starting the new day’s routine all over again.

After following dad on this hectic rounds for six days, Kent was a spent force. As far as he could remember, these were the longest days of his life.

At the end of the week, while preparing to turn in for the night, Kent’s dad said to him: “Son, if you think school is boring, you have 30 years of my kind of life to look forward to.”

That hit Kent like a bolt. It was a wake-up call for the 13-year-old.

From that day onwards, never once did Kent falter in his school work. Eventually, he made it to university and got a job that was quite different from dad’s.

Clutching the photo to his chest, Kent whispered: “Dad, I salute you for being my friend, my father, and, most of all, for being a great teacher.”

Wingless angels

2009-10-25T11:44:00.001+08:00

By LILY

It takes a food court to raise a rookie hawker.

I’VE just embarked on my own little business selling nasi lemak and Nyonya curries and have received so much encouragement and kind words, and physical help and equipment from so many people.

Before this, I’d led a pretty much “secluded” life. My partner, Jules, is blessed and surrounded by friends and that blessing has spilled over to me. My family is a godsend and I think it was through good karma that I’m my parents’ daughter and my brother’s and sister’s sibling.

Jules helped in setting up my stall; it was through his connection that I managed to get a much-sought-after stall at the food court.

On my first day of business, my father and brother were there to serve and help. I had a trial run one Friday, following my brother’s suggestion – that was clever as my rice turned out too soggy.

Jules’ colleague Stania called in the morning to ask if she, Sarah and Fiona could come over to help out. Then Stania said, “But I can’t get up at 9am!” They came for brunch and were my cheerleaders.

I musn’t forget to mention Jules’ best friends Carmen and Koi, who gave me a large rice cooker, a food warmer, friendship, and advice on how to cook nasi lemak and price my dishes. Both came as well on the first day and gave constructive criticism on the rice. I sold out on my first and second days.

When Jules was away, we’d rented a room to Irene, who has become my confidant. In my first two weeks of business, she extended her friendship. She took care of the house, walked the dogs, and did my laundry. Her company comforted me.

I’ve met several very good people in the aunties who operate at the food court. Aunty Linda, who sells drinks, is in her sixties. She works with her sister, who is ill. She has a skinny, small frame but underneath it is a giant!

Aunty Linda is generous, kind, helpful and physically strong. She advised me on the “code of conduct” at the food court, helped me set up my parasol, gave me pointers about government bureaucracy and checked on me daily. There’s a technique to setting up a parasol. Untrained, I was literally covered by it and fell on my butt from its weight.

The aunty who sells pork stew (bah kut teh) is in her seventies. She’s beautiful and well-groomed, and has a thunderous voice. She advised me not to order drinks on behalf of customers as this would anger the other drinks sellers. (Drinks are a territorial issue.) She taught me countless things and introduced me to a good chicken seller.

Yesterday, I watched from across my stall as she gently caressed the face of an old man seated beside her. I walked over to them and she introduced her husband.

There’s another aunty, who sells poh piah – she’s been checking on me, too. She told me about an old former hawker who sold delicious Nyonya rice dumplings. She asked me to learn from my mother and pass on her legacy.

There’s a “sister” Chin who sells noodles. She’s given me several contacts for carpenters, electricians, and a locksmith.

The customers who bought my food have been kind as well. One thing I’ve noticed is that they simply like walking into my kitchen and lifting the wok covers to check out what’s cooking.

I feel safer here than when I was in the corporate world.

For now, my earnings may be slightly less than what it used to be. Yet, at the end of the day, after cooking a delicious dish, I feel blessed. Thank you to all my wingless angels. You’re a godsend.

An Angel’s gift of music

2009-10-18T11:51:00.001+08:00

By SHIRLEY JOSEPH

A feisty old nun instilled the love of music in a reluctant young student who went on to become a church organist.

MUSIC has become a part of our life, and many adults and children have some sort of musical background.

I was no exception. I had the privilege to be given piano lessons by a nun at a convent near my home. She was known as Sister Angel, and was a Singaporean serving the mission of the Infant Jesus in Malaysia .

She was a petite nun who never smiled but was always determined to teach the best to her students, who comprised both the young and old.

She inherited an old piano from her father and but also had a modern Yamaha model. I actually liked playing the old piano better.

Sister Angel was your no-nonsense kind of teacher who was always stern; time management was always an essential part of the lesson. If anyone was 10 minutes late, he’d have to stand and wait till she was done with her own work. And if you came in all wet from the rain, you’d have to wait outside till you were dry enough .

That was Sister Angel – a piano teacher and a disciplinarian as well.

Besides going to school, my piano lessons became a part of my “studies’’ every year. I sat for both the theory and practical exams held twice a year.

There were times when I didn’t play the piano following the correct tempo, and Sister Angel would stop me and make me repeat the piece from the very beginning by counting aloud.

How embarrassing when the other students were around! And let’s not forget the Italian and Latin musical terms that sounded strange. We had no choice but to memorise them.

There were times when I felt that my piano lessons got a little too tough for me and I almost considered giving up. But after much persuasion from my parents, I continued even while I was in college .

Sadly, during my college years, Sister Angel fell ill. Despite that, she made sure that our music lessons went on as scheduled. She coughed a lot during classes and had to excuse herself each time her cough got in the way of lessons. One could even smell the strong aroma of the cough mixture that she often consumed.

After some time, lessons were disrupted due to her deteriorating health. I remember one time when she was lying down on her bed looking weak and restless. She told another nun who was caring for her that music lessons must continue as usual as the exams were just around the corner.

She corrected my work from her bed and I tried not to let her condition bother me.

Weeks later, she passed away. She was in her 70s. I attended her wake at the convent and was approached by a fellow nun who wanted my sister and I to play at Sister Angel’s funeral the next day, at the convent chapel.

Of course I agreed. As a student of hers for so many years, it was the right thing to do.

Sister Angel set the path for my future – it’s been 14 years since I became a church organist.

I’m sure she has no regrets knowing that some of her students have indeed made use of their musical talents in beautiful and wonderful ways. Sister Angel is watching us from above knowing very well that her passion for music carries on.

My son, my hero

2009-10-11T10:20:00.003+08:00

By IVORY SIM

A mother mourns a son who achieved his dream but didn’t live to tell his tale.

MEMORIES of a young boy running through the fields and throwing pebbles into the pond were still clear in her mind. He had always wanted to be a soldier. It had been his dream since childhood.

“Madam ...”

She remembered the day he was accepted into the military academy. He had been on cloud nine and had beamed his way around the house, jumping for joy. She had smiled brightly, happy that he was halfway to achieving his dream.

“... we are ...”

The day she sent him to the academy had been a sunny one. She had sent him off with a bag of clothes and personal belongings and another bag stuffed with food, mosquito repellant and extra blankets. Items she was convinced he couldn’t live without.

Her baby had grinned like a loon and kiss her goodbye before going his way.

“... sincerely ...”

She had waited anxiously for his call and worried about him. And when he called, her worry dissipated. She could all but hear the smile in his voice. He had told her about the academy in vivid detail, and talked about everything from the curfew to the colour of the tiles. She had smiled the rest of the day.

“... sorry ...”

On his first visit home, she had waited in anticipation, wondering how her baby would look like, wondering whether he had changed.

Would he be starving? She had heard things about the academy’s food.

Would he be covered in mosquito bites? But she had just sent a can of mosquito repellant last month! She had paced the house anxiously. Why was he so late?

“... to inform you ...”

The minute he stepped through the door, she had gasped. She had envisioned everything but this. Her baby had left a boy and returned, a man.

He was tanned a golden bronze. Shoulders broad, back straight. He had grinned at her, eyes twinkling and had enveloped her in a hug and said “I’m home, ma.”

“... that your son ...”

Things went downhill after that. War had erupted and the Japanese had attacked the American fleet at Pearl Harbour. The United States of America had declared war and young men had been sent out.

“... has been ...”

His calls home had become less frequent. And when he did call, it had been short and brief, for he was weary. She had prayed and waited for his next call. For a call meant that he was still alive, still living.

“... killed in the line of duty.”

If she had known a war would happen, she would never had let her baby join the army. He would have been furious but she would take an angry, furious son over a dead one any day. Tears flowed down her face. If only she had known, she would have kept him home....

Years later, after the war had ended, she received a medal on his behalf.

She had smiled when people offered their condolence and told her that her son had died a hero and that she should be proud.

She went to the park where her baby had once pretended to be a soldier.

Images of him throwing pebbles into the pond came flooding back. She dropped the medal into the pond and watched, as it sank to the bottom.

Her son was a hero. But he was dead.

Club-ful of joy

2009-10-06T10:50:00.001+08:00

By CHRIS WC

A group of “iron ladies” finds lots to smile about as they eat, sing and celebrate over the years.

IT was simply called Happy Club, a small gathering of girlfriends. This was way before female friendship groups a la Sex and the City mushroomed.

About two or more decades back, we only heard of men’s buddy-buddy groups and their many “men only” activities. Why not us too? We were all successful career ladies in our own right – business owners, directors, managers and executives – intelligent, independent and industrious women. Whatever a man could do, we could, too.

We started out cautiously, though. Everybody did not know everyone. One group of three women who used to lunch together joined another three who worked in the same building. Then in came another with two in tow. And so on it went.

There were finally, a dozen of us. We had dinner and karaoke sessions. We ate then we sang. That became our “thing” and we always had a private room to ourselves, so we would dance as well. Once in a while, we invited “guests” to join us. At one karaoke party, we had 24 successful career women, simply having great fun together. We celebrated each woman’s birthday elaborately, so with 12 women and public holidays in between, we partied every month.

We were all full-time employees working long hours, making important decisions and keeping people employed. Most of us were single; a couple were married with children. We had stressful jobs then, in very much “a man’s world”. We looked forward to the monthly get-togethers when we could unwind, release tension, really relax and temporarily forget the hard tasks that we all had to do.

We worked hard and we played hard. We enjoyed good food and good wine, and we tested all the new eateries. Nearly all of us were good drinkers. We were also mentally very strong women. Nobody ever got drunk in all of those years. Back then, there wasn’t any “don’t drink and drive” rule, so we all drank and drove, in our individual cars. Nobody had any accidents and everybody showed up for work the next day, always and without fail. What wonderful women.

Our group friendship eventually grew. From the initial “just eat, drink and be merry”, we became a merging of minds, a sharing of souls, a network of support, and a kick in the behind, when necessary. Women power at its best.

Some of us helped each other with business-related issues; some of us were concerned about each other’s health and well-being; some of us tried to mend each other’s broken hearts.

Of course, differences in opinions were unavoidable when 12 different women came together. Nevertheless, everyone wanted nothing better than to have fun together. So, our three younger women took it upon themselves to ensure that everybody in the Happy Club was happy.

One wrote, one illustrated, the other assisted. Each month they came up with a short and sassy two- to three-A4-size newsletter about, among other things, the next fun-filled get-together. They selected an F&B manager who was responsible for restaurant reservations and an entertainment manager, responsible for reservations to lounges, karaoke’s, pubs, etc. They thoughtfully created themes for the evenings, each according to the personality, preferences, behaviour and habits of the birthday girl.

We had this branch manager who always dressed super smartly, and smoked. She always had immaculate make-up on and beautifully polished finger and toe nails. Not all of us had full make-up always, but most of us dressed well.

On the evening of her birthday party, all of us had to dress up like her, elaborately and immaculately. Our two managers had collected empty cigarette packages from this unsuspecting birthday girl over time and in each packet, they had put in one cigarette and a lighter. These they distributed to all of us, quietly, with instructions to whip out the cigarette pack after the last dish had been eaten and start lighting up.

This was the habit of the birthday girl. The point was to give her a jolly good laugh. And she did. It was hilarious to see everyone do as she did, when she did. We all laughed till the sides of our stomachs hurt. The laughter continued in the cars all the way back to our homes. No one was a spoilsport, not even the non-smokers.

For the youngest birthday girl, whom we call our “baby”, all the adult women dressed following the same theme – Mickey Mouse T-shirts, short skirts and puffed sleeves, pinafores and baby-doll dresses. It was an adorable spectacle. What good sports!

This cheeky spirit was evident in all of the supposedly “hard iron ladies”. Through our circle of friendship, we learned not to judge until we really got to know someone well and to respect and appreciate each other’s differences well enough to be at ease with each other.

We had a common fund which grew into a bank account. It took us the world over; travels, cruises, shopping sprees, adventure and all. We even had a logo – yes, that round happy smiley face – to remind us always, that in the face of all adversities, we can still smile and be happy!

The road oft travelled

2009-09-29T06:43:00.002+08:00

By GIA LEE

What starts out as harmless fun – nipping little things from shops – leads two friends in different directions.

WE need to stop this,” said Kang, panting heavily. The boys peered round the corner. “Thank God. I thought they’d got us this time.”

At this, Chris burst out laughing. “Did you see the look on the fat guy’s face? He looked like he was about to explode!”

“I’m serious. We need to stop this.”

Chris straightened up. “Since when did you start having a conscience?”

“We’ve just come too close.”

“Huh?” Taking a mobile phone from his backpack, Chris threw it in the air and caught it neatly in his palm. “This,” he said, pointing the phone at his friend, “is the reason we can come too close.”

When they first started stealing, they didn’t really consider themselves thieves. They were just 13, and barely old enough to date girls. And reaching their hands just a bit further to grab that chocolate bar or that Hercules figurine was more of a dare than a crime.

But as they grew older, they moved on to bigger and more expensive items. And Kang began to feel uncomfortable about their criminal activities.

Then Chris’ mother – the sole breadwinner of the family – fell sick, and his father fled with a younger woman. And everything started to fall apart.

“Books? What for?” Kang asked when Chris told him what their next target was. “We could get food if you need it. It’s probably better.”

Chris looked annoyed. “Did we need that toy car a few years ago? But we took it all the same, didn’t we?”

“That was different.”

“It’s exactly the same, and you know it.”

So Kang went along, even though he couldn’t help feeling guilty.

“Nick the things we can sell,” Chris had always told him. ‘Nick the pricey stuff. Otherwise we’ll never make any profit.” Looking at Kang’s worried face, he’d add, “My mother needs this money.”

Chris’ mother had been ill for a year now. He assured Kang that what they got from their stealing sprees went towards her hospital bills. But Kang began to see through Chris’ excuses; only a quarter of their “spoils” were used for her medical treatment. The remainder were splurged on drinks, cinema tickets, fancy watches and dinners for the girls Chris met.

As Kang lay on his bed, he suddenly felt his throat constrict and his fingers clench. He got out of his house and walked three blocks away, where he found Chris on a park bench, his arm over a pretty girl.

“I need to talk to you. In private.”

“Whatever,” Chris said, giving the girl a shrug before walking towards Kang.

“The next one. To get those DVDs ...” Kang paced up and down. “I’m not doing it anymore.”

Chris folded his arms. “Why?”

“Why?” Kang stopped in front of his friend. “Because you’re taking me for a ride, that’s why. You don’t even use the money for what you said you would. Maybe, instead of taking some girl to some fancy restaurant, you could try being a waiter and earn some money for yourself.”

Chris’ eyes flashed fire. “Is it so wrong if I want to take a break every now and then?”

“You still don’t get it, do you? We’re being hunted. The police really want us. We’ve crossed the line, we’re 18 now. If we’re caught, it’s jail for us.”

Chris looked at Kang with anger, disappointment and contempt stamped on his face.

“Jail, Chris,” Kang stressed. “A prison for adults, where they beat you up and the inmates are completely crazy. What we’re doing now is not just picking pockets. It’s plain robbery.”

“You know,” Chris started slowly. “Even if I continue this alone, even if only I get caught, they’d still know about you. There’s really no point quitting now.”

“It’s got to stop.”

“For you, maybe,” Chris said, as he turned to go. “We’re done.”

As Kang watched his best friend walk away, he wondered if going through thick and thin with someone really came to nothing in the end.

When you think about it, two years isn’t really a long time. But Kang felt as if he had last seen Chris in another lifetime. When his old pal walked through the barred door and sat down in front of him, he was utterly speechless.

“Cat got your tongue?” Chris said, easing the tension.

Kang laughed nervously. “‘You haven’t changed.”

“Not unless you count this jumpsuit.”

Kang sobered up. “How is it?”

“What, jail? It’s great, exactly like you said it would be.”

“Listen, Chris ...”

“Don’t!” Chris squeezed his eyes shut. “Don’t apologise. You got out of it two years ago. You were never like me anyway. You never took any of that money.”

They both fell quiet.

“‘My mother … it’s my fault she never got better. I spared only enough to keep her from getting worse.

“‘I know. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Chris bit his lip as he stared at the man Kang had become. The prison guard came up behind him, saying gruffly, “Twenty minutes up.”

The friends looked at each other, silent.

Chris cocked his head towards the guard. “I told them it was a one-man play all along.”

As Kang made to go, he added, “Open your windows when you sleep at night. Feel the freedom, for me.”

Making Music

2009-09-24T19:04:00.002+08:00

On Nov. 18, 1995, Itzhak Perlman, the violinist, came on stage to give a concert at Avery Fisher Hall at Lincoln Center in New York City. If you have ever been to a Perlman concert, you know that getting on stage is no small achievement for him. He was stricken with polio as a child, and so he has braces on both legs and walks with the aid of two crutches. To see him walk across the stage one step at a time, painfully and slowly, is an awesome sight. He walks painfully, yet majestically, until he reaches his chair. Then he sits down, slowly, puts his crutches on the floor, undoes the clasps on his legs, tucks one foot back and extends the other foot forward. Then he bends down and picks up the violin, puts it under his chin, nods to the conductor and proceeds to play.

By now, the audience is used to this ritual. They sit quietly while he makes his way across the stage to his chair. They remain reverently silent while he undoes the clasps on his legs. They wait until he is ready to play. But this time, something went wrong. Just as he finished the first few bars, one of the strings on his violin broke. You could hear it snap -- it went off like gunfire across the room. There was no mistaking what that sound meant. There was no mistaking what he had to do.

People who were there that night thought to themselves: "We figured that he would have to get up, put on the clasps again, pick up the crutches and limp his way off stage to either find another violin or else find another string for this one."

But he didn't. Instead, he waited a moment, closed his eyes and then signaled the conductor to begin again. The orchestra began, and he played from where he had left off. And he played with such passion and such power and such purity, as they had never heard before. Of course, anyone knows that it is impossible to play a symphonic work with just three strings. I know that, and you know that, but that night Itzhak Perlman refused to know that. You could see him modulating, changing, re-composing the piece in his head. At one point, it sounded like he was de-tuning the strings to get new sounds from them that they had never made before.

When he finished, there was an awesome silence in the room. And then people rose and cheered. There was an extraordinary outburst of applause from every corner of the auditorium. We were all on our feet, screaming and cheering, doing everything we could to show how much we appreciated what he had done.

He smiled, wiped the sweat from this brow, raised his bow to quiet us, and then he said, not boastfully, but in a quiet, pensive, reverent tone, "You know, sometimes it is the artist's task to find out how much music you can still make with what you have left."

What a powerful line that is. It has stayed in my mind ever since I heard it. And who knows? Perhaps that is the definition of life... not just for artists but for all of us. Here is a man who has prepared all his life to make music on a violin of four strings, who, all of a sudden, in the middle of a concert, finds himself with only three strings; so he makes music with three strings, and the music he made that night with just three strings was more beautiful, more sacred, more memorable, than any that he had ever made before, when he had four strings.

So, perhaps our task in this shaky, fast-changing, bewildering world in which we live is to make music, at first with all that we have, and then, when that is no longer possible, to make music with what we have left.

Truly healed

2009-09-19T16:37:00.001+08:00

By ANU GAITHRI SUBRAMANIAM

Sickness can throw a spanner in the works. But it can also open one’s eyes to other things.

I ALWAYS assumed that in order to have a great journey, I had to be larger-than-life, grab every opportunity that came my way and take the bull by the horns.

That way, I would not miss out on anything. It was the only way to lead a fabulous life. Or so I thought.

Then I was hospitalised for exhaustion and gastric. I was so sick I could barely could lift my head, let alone think. Hooked to the drip, I found myself physically incapacitated. As family members and friends rallied around, I felt like a wreck because I’d been “sedated” by the doctors.

Following their bed-rest orders, my handphone, laptop and everything else were taken away from me.

It didn’t help that the nurses walked in and out of the room every now and then, pulling, pricking and “meddling” with me every other hour. I felt like screaming, only I was just too tired to do anything.

The first few days passed uneventfully, with the same routine of doctors walking in and out, studying me like I was a new breed of creature, and nurses dutifully taking down notes whenever they spoke. I was down in the dumps and wondered if it might be the beginning of hell.

But as days passed, I realised that my room was situated right where the sun shone through. I could see it rise each morning and disappear every evening. I marvelled at the big ball of fire, so magnificently placed.

I decided to stop reading the papers for a while in the mornings, so as to take a walk around the hospital compound. And then my lessons began.

I saw a child, barely 10 years old, wiping away her mother’s tears from her cot with a hand that was hooked to drips. I noticed a frail old man keeping vigil beside his wife, who was barely breathing but muttering something in Chinese, as if she was talking to him.

I eavesdropped on the nurses exchanging notes about their dreams and how they cheered and encouraged each other on in the otherwise depressing place.

As I walked towards the lobby I saw a couple avoiding each other as someone lay in a coma, a casualty of what seemed like a bad accident. I saw fear, but out of the corner of their eyes, they were watching each other cry.

As I turned to make my way out, three adult children were exchanging furious words about who would get the house, as an old lady wept softly. We locked eyes for a while but she quickly turned away before telling her children she had a headache.

As I walked back to my room I was dumbfounded by what I’d seen. Had I been so ignorant and wrapped up in my own world that I’d stopped caring about the people around me? Had I lost touch with my faith because I was looking out only for myself?

I remembered my young cousins complaining that I didn’t have time for them. I’d dismissed them as little kids moaning. I remembered my mother telling me I simply didn’t have time to try her cooking.

I recalled my brother’s disappointed face when I told him I would talk to him later, then made a mad dash out of the house. I recalled my dad’s face when I told him I could perfectly drive on my own. And I didn’t have the time for my aunts, who thought the world of me.

Yet, I had all the time in the world to “spare” for people who promised they would come, then simply not turn up. Even my best friend, who tolerated my “busyness”, seemed to have disappeared.

My priorities were in disarray and I knew I had to seriously do something about them before it was too late.

One day, after what seemed like years, I found myself sitting on the bed waiting patiently for my parents to come get me. My sickness had been cured, but it was my soul which had truly healed.

A king’s 3 wishes

2009-09-16T18:23:00.002+08:00

On his deathbed, a monarch realises crucial lessons about life.

AFTER conquering many kingdoms, the great Greek king Alexander was returning home when he fell seriously ill. Nothing his generals did could cure him.

With death staring him in the face, Alexander realised how his conquests, his great army, his sharp sword and all his wealth were of no value to him as he lay waiting to breathe his last.

All he wanted then was to go home, see his mother’s face and bid her a fond farewell.

But knowing that he would not have time to reach his distant homeland, he summoned his generals and told them:

“I will depart from this world soon. I have three wishes which you must carry out without fail.”

With tears flowing down their cheeks, all his men could do was nod.

“My first desire is that my physicians alone must carry my coffin.”

After a long pause, the king continued, “When my coffin is being carried to the grave, the path leading to the graveyard should be strewn with the gold, silver and precious stones which I have in my treasury.”

Quite exhausted by then, he said softly: “Finally, after I’m gone, let both my hands dangle out of my coffin.”

The people who had gathered around the king wondered about his strange requests. But no one dared ask about the rational behind them.

Alexander’s favourite general then kissed his hands and pressed them to his heart.

“I assure your highness that your wishes will be fulfilled. But why?

At this the ailing monarch took a deep breath and said: “I would like the world to know the three lessons I have just learnt.

“I want my physicians to carry my coffin because people should realise that no doctor can cure every ailment.

“Doctors cannot save a person from the clutches of death. So let not people take life for granted.

“Strewing gold, silver and other riches along the path to the graveyard will serve to remind everyone that I might have spent my life accumulating riches, but I cannot even take a piece of gold with me when I die.

“So let people realise that it is a sheer waste of time to chase wealth.

“As for the final wish to leave my hands dangling out of the coffin, I want people to know that I came empty-handed into this world and I will leave the same way.”

With these words, the king closed his eyes as death conquered him.

Ride with your eyes open

2009-09-13T18:00:00.006+08:00

By JEAN

A whole new world unfolds on the LRT if people take notice of what’s happening around them.

THE Malaysian government is always encouraging people to read. Yet, books are so expensive. For the price of a book, we can have a nice, decent meal at an Italian restaurant.

We’ve been told to read “when waiting in line, on the bus or in the train”.

I was an advocate of this until recently, when I realised that people tend to lose sight of what’s happening around them when they are so lost in their books.

One time, I noticed a girl with a tattoo of a daisy on her breast while I was on a train. After that, I began to take an interest in the world around me.

The train is especially crowded after office hours and filled with grumpy, gloomy, exhausted and nasty people.

I think they’re all hungry because they’re sulky. A hungry man is an angry man. So, it’s always nice to see someone who’s not on the way home from work.

I always know when I see a someone who’s not from the city. These people are usually very kind and gentle.

They are too decent to fight for space in the train and usually line up regardless of the long line. And they mutter under their breath for having chosen the worst time to ride the train.

As a person who works in an office and commutes by train daily, I know complaining about rush-hour madness does not make things any better.

So we should all be calm and cool about it. Take a deep breath and count to 10 before exhaling. That does wonders in reducing stress levels.

Once, I noticed an Indian guy – dressed up in a simple, plain-coloured shirt and a pair of jeans, and carrying a knapsack – looking lost and helpless. He wanted to take the train to Masjid Jamek in Kuala Lumpur, but somehow got on the train towards Ampang.

Perhaps his sixth sense told him that he was in the wrong train, so he asked one of the RapidKL employees who happened to be in the train, “Masjid Jamek? Masjid Jamek?”

The employee looked him in the eye and said, “No, no. You must take another train.”

“Hmm? How?” The guy looked confused.

“Just stop at the next station, and go to the opposite track and wait for the next train,” explained the employee patiently.

More confused than ever, the passenger moved on to another passenger and asked the same question – and received the same answer.

I figured he either just came to the city or it was his first time on the LRT. It reminded me so much of myself taking the train on my first day of work. Everybody seemed to know where they were going.

Anyone who commutes by train will know that there are rules to be followed: Do not eat, do not smoke, do not drink, no indecent acts, etc.

Ocassionally, I’ll notice one or two disobedient passengers. Like as the lady who devoured her french fries and beef burger without realising that the rest of us were trying to ignore our hunger pangs.

Or the young, passionate gentleman who was so in love with his girlfriend that he kept on stroking her hair and kissing her as if there was no tomorrow.

Sometimes there are people who do crazy things to endanger the lives of everyone on the train.

A bunch of rowdy teenagers were having a loud conversation when all of a sudden, one of the boys said, “Hey! Do you know that these doors can be opened, even though the train is moving?”

All of his friends were amazed.“Really?”, they asked.

The boy, young, defiant and self-righteous, was eager to prove himself. He proceeded to slide the doors of the carriage open while the train was travelling at top speed, 20m above the highway.

He managed to open the door about 6cm and looked back and beamed at his friends.

“Wow! Why don’t you open it all the way?” asked one of his friends, obviously amazed at this daredevil act.

I was starting to think that I should whip out my camera and catch them red handed, when a wiser friend of theirs said, “Umm.... guys, I think it’s not such a good idea.’’

In the city, one cannot afford to adopt the “can’t-be-bothered’’ attitude. We have learnt through experience that prevention is the best medicine.

Once, my brother was standing in a sardine-packed train, with both hands in his pockets. His handphone was in the back pocket of his jeans.

A few minutes later, he realised something amiss and discovered that his phone was gone.

He looked around him to spot the possible culprit and just when he thought he had spotted the criminal, the train came to a halt at KL Sentral.

The thief took one long look at my brother, waved the handphone high up in the air, waved farewell with the other hand and skipped nimbly out of the train.

My brother was stunned and couldn’t believe he had just been robbed in broad daylight!

One of my friends who was in her first trimester of pregnancy was once onboard a train to Kelana Jaya. She was experiencing nausea, dizziness and yet, was too shy to ask for a seat in a crowded train.

At one point, she couldn’t take it anymore and had to sit on the floor. It was then that people were alerted to her situation and asked, “Are you alright?”

By then, she was too weak and merely gave a nod. “What else could I have done?”, she mused over lunch later.

Yes, taking the LRT is indeed an arduous task. It requires great stamina, wit and generosity to make it through to the other side safely.

Just like my own mother

2009-09-10T16:05:00.003+08:00

By NUR HAZILAH BINTI ABDUL QAYYUM

I HAVE been married for 26 years and not once have I exchanged any harsh words with my mother-in-law, although at times she drives me up the wall over trivial things.

When I got married, my mum’s advice to me was, “Just accept your mother-in-law as your own mother and you will never have problems.” I guess I have followed her words closely.

Mum got to know my mother-in-law at the wedding and they instantly became great buddies. Both of them can live together for months and go on holidays together. It’s a blessing for me that they speak highlyly of each other. I seldom have to phone mum as my mother-in-law calls her every other day and gives me the news on what’s happening with her.

My mother-in-law is a very meticulous person who doesn’t make demands on others. She works by the clock and is very particular about doing things on time.

I was hospitalised a few times and all those times, she really took very good care of me, particularly my diet, following the doctors’ instructions. After my daughters were born, I used to stay with my in-laws and she would bathe and feed the babies and change their nappies.

She has two other daughters-in-law and the best part is she doesn’t talk bad about any of us. She loves all our children equally and is ever ready to feed us. She prefers to do the housework and cooking by herself; at 80 now, she still insists on staying in her own house.

I try not to leave her alone for too long and make it a point to have lunch with her every day and ensure that she takes her medication. After lunch, we’ll sit and chat and I’ll listen to her old stories, which she has told me a thousand times.

My children are very close to both their grandmothers. They work and live in Kuala Lumpur, but whenever they come down to Klang, both will go to their grandma’s first before coming home. If they have nothing to do they will spend the night there and come home in the morning after having grandma’s breakfast.

They have also learnt to listen to old stories over and over again without any complaint. They seem to handle their grandma very well; they pull at her small ponytail and joke with her. They take their friends to her house and talk about boys with her. That shocked me because my husband couldn’t talk about girls with his mother in those days.

One day, my daughter came from school and expressed surprise that her friends are not close to their father’s mother. I guess as parents, we should let our children bond with their grandparents as that bond is very important in a child’s life.

My hubby has only one sister, who has been the binding agent for all of us. My children were practically raised by her as we used to live in the same area; many people thought she was their mother, not me.

The first time I went to my in-laws after my marriage, I found a spoon, made some drinks, then left it elsewhere. My mother-in-law was upset when she couldn’t find the spoon where she had left it.

My sister-in-law then told me this: “To make my mum happy, put whatever you take back in the same place.” I’ve followed this closely all these years, even though I don’t do it in my house.

I pray that my children will be blessed with a mother-in-law like mine. If anything were to happen to her, I guess I’d be the most affected now that my nest is almost empty and I spend lots of time with her. I thank God for the wonderful person He has blessed us with.

Here, and home

2009-09-07T09:55:00.000+08:00

By GIA LEE

A young student who has always longed to “get out” finds herself looking back.

THE truth is, everyone’s got your identity carved out for you even while you’re trying to figure it out for yourself.

“The only reason,” stressed Amy as she plonked her books on her desk, “we’re doing homework is because it’s going to us out of here.”

I looked at my best friend. “Sure. That’s what all we want to do – get out of here.”

“Oh, come on, I can do without the sarcasm. Look at this. Do we really need to know how our Sultans signed contracts in the 1800s? Or whether the people in Greenland like to fish?”

“If it’s really to get out of here, where is ‘there’?”

Amy shrugged. “Somewhere better.”

Two years down the road, somewhere “better” turned out to be thousands of miles away from where I grew up. “There” was a place where people spoke to you in perfect English, where the cashiers smiled at you and said “Here you go, love”; where dogs were cared for in loving homes and did not run astray.

“Stop whining, Jas,” Amy said when I called her from Britain to tell her about this place. “You’re on your way to making it. You’ve got one foot in a better place. Don’t look back. I’ll come when I get the chance.”

“Amy, you don’t get it ...”

“All our lives, we’ve been talking about getting away from this place. Let me refresh your memory.

“The public rubbish bins here have rubbish all around them, not in them. People stand on the toilet seats when they’re supposed to sit on them. Half the citizens here would rather spend their money on fake jewellery and pirated DVDs than a good book.”

I fell silent.

“I’m right, Jas. You’ll see.”

So I waited, and waited, to see. Maybe I did because in Britain, the public transport was efficient and safe, the people polite and friendly, and they spoke with that smart, crisp accent. But I realised they lacked the lahs and familiar lingo we call Manglish. They said “love” and “sweetie”, not “Apa you doing?” And all around me, it was English culture, not mine.

Amy got what she wanted. She joined me a year later, having earned a scholarship to the University of York.

“This is brilliant,” she breathed, her eyes shining as she hugged me tightly. “This is it. We’ve done it.”

I smiled, because “here” was essentially a whole world apart from Malaysia. I chose to come here out of an illusion, I admit, because the outside world seemed so surreal and perfect. My disappointment was more of my own doing.

Amy and I grew up believing that “Netherworld” was amazing. Then I reached out and found that it was just okay. Amy heard me whining about the grass being greener on the other side, but she only had eyes for the positive aspects.

“Britain is great, Amy,” I began slowly, pulling away from her. “And you are right. I made a lot of friends and they’re great people.”

She turned to me, her excitement somewhat faded from her face. “But?”

“But I’m going back, after I finish this last year of my course.”

“You’re going back to Malaysia?”

I nodded, chin up, slightly defiant. “Yes.”

“Don’t you like it here?”

We were standing at the train station, where she’d just arrived. Amy looked at me as if I’d grown horns.

“I love it here.” I thought of the town that I’d lived in for the past two years, the people I’d met, the little shops I’d come to love. I thought of the luscious green fields, the cottage-like houses, and the very English essence of it all.

“‘But there’s somewhere I love more.”

Amy stared at me, as though she’d not really known me before.

“All this time,” she said, shaking her pretty little head, “I just thought you were feeling homesick.”

I gave a half-hearted shrug, feeling defensive of the country we both came from. “I’ve reserved the ticket. It’s cheaper when you book it early.”

“You’re sure about this?”

“Positive.”

Amy bit her lip. Then she linked her arm through mine.

“At least show me this place before you leave.”

I laughed, the tension in my shoulder dissolving. “Welcome,” I said dramatically. “To Netherworld.”

It was okay, because I knew that being in Malaysia and the United Kingdom were completely different. Neither was necessarily good nor bad.

Sure, I’d have to live with the scorching weather back home, with people who say “Jangan block lah” instead of “Excuse me”; with a society that was still more receptive to spending time in the cinema than with a good book.

But it was okay. “There” had been “here” all along.

Alike yet different

2009-09-04T06:17:00.000+08:00

By SUGUNA

Various things about herself remind a daughter of the first lady in her family.

It’s that time of the year when all the newspapers, shopping complexes, bakeries and radio stations come out with great ideas on Mother’s Day celebrations.

I read signs that ask: Do you love your mum? Do you look like her? Do you share the same interests?” Or, simply, “Treat the first lady to a diamond ring, or bring her over for high tea.”

For me, it’s that time of year when I bake heart-shaped cakes for those who want to give their mothers a cake. Sounds good, but for those of us who have lost our first lady, we dread the day.

The last five years, Mother’s Day has not been the same without you around. Of course, I am also the mother of two teenage boys, who will want to give me a treat.

Can I ever forget the surprise grand party we had on Mother’s Day for you years ago? The shocked look on your face when you opened the door and we screamed and started wishing you?

I think that was the best Mother’s Day we ever had. But now, it is not the same.

I remember the few occasions I took you for high tea with my girlfriends. Yeah, they enjoyed your company.

Mum, I am always asked these questions:

Do I look like you?

Not really, but when I see myself in the mirror now, I feel I look like you.

Do I have any of your habits?

Yes, like having the radio on while working or reading the newspaper, magazines and books during my free time, and before going to bed.

Do I have any fears like you?

I hate to admit this, but yes, when the boys are driving and I’m sitting beside them. And “stepping on” the brakes, like how you used to do when I was driving you around. The boys make fun of this, just like what we did to you.

Do I think of you daily?

Yes, when I’m thinking of what to cook and keep the refrigerator door open to get ideas, the way you used to do.

Do I cook like you?

I think no, as my older boy always compares my cooking with yours. He often says, “Nothing beats my grandma’s cooking.”

And the number of times he has asked why I did not get all the secret recipes from you, being the only daughter. I smile to myself, knowing there were no secret recipes or anything special, only TLC and joy in the food you cooked.

Do I miss you?

Yes, now that both the boys are in college and I have lot of time on my hands. I wish you were here so that we can both sit and talk, watch TV, and go for walks and high teas.

And lastly, what is my wish for today?

I think I will not answer this, as you knew it well. I will just say,

A light from our family is gone

A voice we loved is still

A place is vacant in our house

Which never can be filled.

Blessed with an angel

2009-09-01T13:53:00.000+08:00

By SHIDAH KAMARUDDIN

“BE kind to your mother-in-law, but pay for her board at some good hotel,” said humorist Josh Billings. This is just one of the many mothers-in-law jokes which I think is decent enough to appear in a family newspaper.

Contrary to the notorious comments about the mother of one’s partner, mine is an angel sent from above. And I’m not saying this just to score brownie points on becoming part of her family.

I had butterflies the size of the elephants in my tummy before meeting her for the first time. But they disappeared as soon as I set eyes on her.

Normally, at a meet-the-parents-for-the-first-time session, a girl has to be at her utmost best, even to the point of being fake. But I didn’t have to.

My mother-in-law has been warm and welcoming since the beginning of my relationship with my (now) husband. She’s always feeding me an endless amount of delectable dishes and treats me like one of her own.

Hence, all the dieting before my wedding was useless as I was always at her house. Good thing I could still fit into my wedding dress (with corset and sucking my tummy in).

When it was confirmed that my husband and I were expecting our first child, my mother-in-law got all excited and couldn’t sleep. She then spent the whole night cooking and baking. Although she already had three grandchildren then, she cherished the thought of having another young one to pamper.

Throughout my pregnancy, she gave me endless tips and health advice on becoming a first-time mother.

Then came the time when I had to go for an emergency caesarean delivery. I was only into my seventh month of pregnancy.

I panicked; so did my husband. Who did we call first? My mother-in-law.

She literally dropped whatever she was doing and came straight away from Seremban to Kuala Lumpur to be by my side.

When my son arrived, whose face did I long to see apart from my husband’s and baby’s? My mother-in-law’s.

As he was premature, my son had to be placed in an incubator. I stayed in the ward for almost a month to nurse and feed him.

Who stayed with me throughout my confinement? My mother-in-law.

Not only did she sleep on a sofa all that time, she fed and bathed me, took me to the toilet and gave me massages. It was like I was the baby.

Didn’t I say she is an angel? The nurses at the ward all wished that they, too, could have a mother-in-law like mine. I just couldn’t resist the chance to gloat and brag about my luck to them.

I have heard horror stories about mothers-in-law from friends and relatives, but mine is a fairy tale waiting to be told. Words just cannot express my gratitude towards her, and as I type this, the sight of her catching a much-deserved forty winks brings tears to my eyes.

What would I do without my mother-in-law? I can’t wait for my son to get to know his nenek, to be loved and nurtured by an admirable and patient woman who I am so proud to call “Ibu”.

Wake-up call

2009-08-29T14:10:00.000+08:00

By AIDA MAY

ABOUT two months ago, he died. His tragic death shook the entire world. Millions of people cried, unable to come to terms with it.

Over a week ago, she died. And it felt like life is so dispensable. At any moment, people can just leave us.

Is it only through death that we realise the goodness in life? Why does it take death to make us want to better ourselves, to help the helpless?

I’m not going to name people. Many good people die every day before we even realise their qualities.

There are too many things going on in society today. Too many things that are happening too fast. If we can’t keep up, we are ridiculed or deemed incompetent.

We are fashioned in a manner whereby emotions are supposed to be non-existent. We are fashioned by invisible beings to fear the system, to line up accordingly, to obey without question. Logic is pushed aside in broad daylight, even under the scrutiny of the public. Very few dare to question. And those who do so are treated in the same manner. We are fashioned to be robots.

Below is a speech given by a Jewish barber, a character played by Charlie Chaplin in the movie The Great Dictator. His message is urgently needed today; people need to listen to it, to comprehend it and not take life for granted.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t want to be an emperor. That’s not my business. I don’t want to rule or conquer anyone. I should like to help everyone if possible; Jew, Gentile, black man, white. We all want to help one another. Human beings are like that. We want to live by each other’s happiness, not by each other’s misery. We don’t want to hate and despise one another.

“In this world there is room for everyone, and the good earth is rich and can provide for everyone. The way of life can be free and beautiful, but we have lost the way. Greed has poisoned men’s souls, has barricaded the world with hate, has goose-stepped us into misery and bloodshed. We have developed speed, but we have shut ourselves in.

“Machinery that gives abundance has left us in want. Our knowledge has made us cynical; our cleverness, hard and unkind. We think too much and feel too little. More than machinery, we need humanity. More than cleverness, we need kindness and gentleness. Without these qualities, life will be violent and all will be lost.

“The airplane and the radio have brought us closer together. The very nature of these inventions cries out for the goodness in men; cries out for universal brotherhood; for the unity of us all. Even now my voice is reaching millions throughout the world, millions of despairing men, women and little children, victims of a system that makes men torture and imprison innocent people.

“To those who can hear me, I say, do not despair. The misery that is now upon us is but the passing of greed, the bitterness of men who fear the way of human progress. The hate of men will pass, and dictators die, and the power they took from the people will return to the people. And so long as men die, liberty will never perish.”

Humans are cynical. We are unkind. And we make excuses to justify all our crimes, consciously or sub-consciously. Bluffing is allowed as long as it is not outright lying. White lies are okay, people say.

This is all nonsense. If you bend the truth, it wouldn’t be called truth anymore. Why do we gossip? Why do we wage wars? Why all the hatred? Why attack another person for money, or fame? Is it necessary to kill one another to survive? Is this a loftier side of human nature – to cause harm to others?

It’s tiring reading about all these negative things in the papers. It’s tiring listening to trivial arguments on the news. It’s heart-breaking watching your own nation boast about racial unity and religious freedom to the world when, in fact, things are quite the opposite back at home.

We are going around in circles, following illogical ideologies on how a society should be managed, how our education system should be. We aren’t progressing; we are stagnant. We’ve been debating about unity, race and religion since independence. The same three topics for 51 years and still no improvement. Isn’t this alarming?

I am a young adult, a kid at heart. And like any other young adult, I blame adults for screwing up the world, the environment, our future. Adults are greedy, driven by the will to succeed at all costs. At what price? Politicians meddle with our education system for their own interests: will it be Science & Maths in English or Bahasa Malaysia? Do they not think of the students who struggle and fail to cope in university, where the scientific terms are all in English? Do they even care?

Are the young unable to cope with modernity and the political agenda? Are we blind and unable to lead?

No, we understand. We aren’t prejudiced. But we are fashioned to fit in with today’s society – one that scares me.

Then a good Samaritan comes along, and dies. Someone famous who did good for the world. Someone who had been trying incredibly hard to improve the way of life. Someone who was trying to show society just how messed up it is and how to clean up that mess.

The death of such people is like a slap in the face. It makes you brave. It stops everything, even for just a second. It wakes you up to the fact that life is fragile.

So, put down that cane and hug a child.

Ah Gu our McGyver

2009-08-26T12:24:00.000+08:00

By TAN HORNG HAN

Working trips down south enable a young man to see a new side of a beloved uncle.

AH Han, on your wedding day, why don’t we go play tennis in the morning before you head off to receive your wife?” exclaimed my uncle during one of my business trips down to Johore Bahru recently.

Now, had this suggestion come from anyone else, it would not have surprised me. But my uncle? Someone who has always been a stern father (to his children), and a strict uncle (to others like me)?

Early this year, my company posted me for business assignments every fortnight. And every time I headed down south, I would make it a point to visit Ah Gu (my mother’s brother) and his family. In fact, I dropped by so we could engage in our all-time favourite game – tennis.

Ah Gu has been a teacher all his life; even after retirement, he is still very much sought after by many who wish for their kids to excel in Maths. Perhaps it is his profession that is responsible for his disciplined nature, be it at work or home. Nevertheless, my frequent trips to Johor Bahru, which began this year, allowed me to “reconnect” with a new side of Ah Gu.

To begin with, I never knew he is a handyman who can fix practically anything that’s goes wrong around the house. He fixed a leaking roof, repaired a chair the bottom of which had come loose, and even installed a water heater all by himself. You should have seen the way his face shone with pride when he told me, “Ah Han, because I fixed the water heater all by myself, I’ve saved at least a hundred ringgit on labour charges!” So there you have it – our very own McGyver!

I have also discovered that Ah Gu is a sentimental guy who keeps all the little souvenirs given him by his ex-students. During one visit, , he even showed me an autograph signed by a fellow graduate from his batch that studied at the-then English College in Johore Baru more than 40 years ago! He told me that he would be taking the autograph with him to the wedding of his student’s daughter last month, so they could regale those good old days.

Being the stern person that he is, I never expected Ah Gu to be a great storyteller, too. Had he not shared his stories with me – especially those concerning his father – I would not have known that my grandpa made one of the best curry fish head dishes in town, or that he sent his kids off to school almost every morning with freshly steamed pau. Or that grandpa spoke fluent English.

The fact that grandpa was a chef to a royal family also surprised me – I never knew we had a “celebrity chef” in my family. (He died when my mum was only 12, which means I never knew him at all.)

There is a proverb which goes, “What you don’t know won’t hurt.” That’s true, in most aspects of life, but not when it comes to family, especially someone you love dearly.

The hi’s and bye’s we exchanged a few times a year, during Chinese New Year and the school holidays, did little to draw me closer to Ah Gu. Had it not been for my trips down south for work, I might never have found out that, despite his nonchalant reaction, he really appreciated the surprise party (masterminded by my cousin Andy) which his kids threw for him and his wife when they came to Kuala Lumpur for my wedding recently. What I really want to say is that we may have lots of family gatherings, but how much do we really know aboutour relatives, especially the elderly ones? I believe that visiting Ah Gu and aunty, having dinner together, and thrashing each other out on the tennis court, have helped me uncover so much more about them and our family.

So, if there’s someone in your family whom you really want to connect with at a deeper level, go ahead and act on it. You never know how much you can gain from that person.

As for my Ah Gu, may he be blessed with wondrous health, superb abundance and another dynamic 71 years!

One moment

2009-08-23T08:19:00.000+08:00

By C.H. CHEAH

Just five ringgit could have made someone’s day.

AS I was walking home the other day, I saw an old woman sitting on the pavement.

Her clothes were worn and stained, and fer face was smudged with dirt. Her white hair was matted and plastered to her scalp, it must have not have been washed for a long, long time. She was sitting on a pile of flattened cardboard boxes. She had a kind face, but it looked worn and tired.

As people walked by, she would held out a frail, shaking hand and pleaded, “Money for food, please?” Most just passed her by; some gave her disgusted looks. Some put small change into her hand – at that, she smileed, bowed her head, and softly said, “Thank you”.

I reached into my pockets and felt for coins but all I found was a five ringgit note. A thought came to me: Why not make the old lady’s day by giving her a fiver? But it was a fleeting thought, soon gone.

I kept searching for loose change until I finally found 20 sen – but by then, I had walked some distance past the old woman. I looked back, and she was looking at me with bright hope in her eyes. She had seen me searching for my pockets and was obviously hoping that I would give her something. But it was only 20 sen! I felt bad, and, reluctantly, I turned and walked on. I could imagine her downcast and disappointed face as she looked at my retreating back. Not many people had given her anything; every sen must have meant a lot for her.

I couldn’t forget the old lady that day. I could have just given her the five ringgit that I had. I almost did, why did I stop? I could have just turned around and walked a few paces back to put some money in her hands, why didn’t I? I had the money, and it is not like I couldn’t spare it. It might have made the old lady’s day. It could have bought her a meal that would have warmed her at least once during long cold days on the streets. She looked so frail and weak...

I decided to find her again the next day and give her some money. Enough for a warm drink and meal, perhaps even a change of clothes. I walked that way again – but she was not at her usual spot. The next day I walked the same way again, but again she wasn’t there. This went on for a week, and at last I gave up and thought that perhaps she might have moved elsewhere. Perhaps the people around here had not been as charitable as she had hoped. I certainly hadn’t been.

I have not seen the old woman again; I am not sure where she is now or how she is doing. What I do know is that I had missed a chance to do a good deed. I should have done what I’d felt was right to do at that moment.

We are all creations of the same Creator, brothers and sisters on earth. Sometimes, moments are given to us to help someone, to extend a hand, to make someone’s day just a little better. Little deeds like these, done by lots of people on earth, are what that will make the world a better place.

Don’t miss your chance to help someone when it comes knocking at your door, don’t regret that you did not lend a hand to fellow human being when she needed your help. We can make our world a better one just by helping each other like the brother and sisters that we really are.

A Taxi Driver

2009-08-19T22:46:00.000+08:00

Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. It was a cowboy's life, a life for someone who wanted no boss. What I didn't realize was that it was also a ministry.

Because I drove the night shift, my cab became a moving confessional. Passengers climbed in, sat behind me in total anonymity, and told me about their lives. I encountered people whose lives amazed me, ennobled me, made me laugh and weep. But none touched me more than a woman I picked up late one August night.

I was responding to a call from a small brick fourplex in a quiet part of town. I assumed I was being sent to pick up some partiers, or someone who had just had a fight with a lover, or a worker heading to an early shift at some factory for the industrial part of town. When I arrived at 2:30 a.m., the building was dark except for a single light in a ground floor window. Under these circumstances, many drivers would just honk once or twice, wait a minute, then drive away. But I had seen too many impoverished people who depended on taxis as their only means of transportation. Unless a situation smelled of danger, I always went to the door. This passenger might be someone who needs my assistance, I reasoned to myself. So I walked to the door and knocked.

"Just a minute", answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor. After a long pause, the door opened a small woman in her 80s stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940s movie. By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years.

All the furniture was covered with sheets. There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.

"Would you carry my bag out to the car?" she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman. She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb. She kept thanking me for my kindness.

"It's nothing", I told her. "I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother treated".

"Oh, you're such a good boy", she said. When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, then asked, "Could you drive through downtown?"

"It's not the shortest way," I answered quickly.

"Oh, I don't mind," she said. "I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice". I looked in the rearview mirror. Her eyes were glistening. "I don't have any family left," she continued. "The doctor says I don't have very long."

I quietly reached over and shut off the meter. "What route would you like me to take?" I asked. For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator. We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl.

Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.

As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, "I'm tired. Let's go now." We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico.

Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been expecting her. I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.

"How much do I owe you?" she asked, reaching into her purse. "Nothing," I said.

"You have to make a living," she answered. "There are other passengers," I responded. Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly.

"You gave an old woman a little moment of joy," she said. "Thank you"

I squeezed her hand, then walked into the dim morning light. Behind me a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life. I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly, lost in thought.

For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift? What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away? On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important in my life. We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments. But great moments often catch us unaware—beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.

PEOPLE MAY NOT REMEMBER EXACTLY WHAT YOU DID, OR WHAT YOU SAID,...BUT THEY WILL ALWAYS REMEMBER HOW YOU MADE THEM FEEL.

A suitcase full of love

2009-08-16T19:03:00.000+08:00

By RACHEL LEUNG

Leaving home to study taught a young woman that some things never change.

I WAS studying in London in the late 1970s. That was the beginning of my four-year journey, during which I discovered the most amazing love I have ever known.

I bade a teary farewell to my family at Hong Kong’s Kai Tak Airport. With tears still in my eyes, I boarded the plane, knowing that I wouldn’t be able to hear from them for almost a month.

My flight was delayed for 36 hours at New Delhi. My parents were spared the agony of knowing this news because there were no cell phones for instantaneous communication then. I arrived at Heathrow on a chilly Saturday evening, lugging a large suitcase with one hand and a 1.5-foot long radio-cassette player with the other, and a carrier bag on my shoulder.

Fast forward 28 years and I see my eldest son embarking on a similar journey on his own.

We bade each other farewell at the KLIA, fondly and sadly. There was a lump in my throat, and my eyes were misty. But on the whole, it wasn’t like the separation I had years ago. My son, who had a 3.5kg laptop hanging from his shoulder, a backpack on his back, and a large suitcase, waved me goodbye.

Things change, but the only thing that never changes is the large suitcase that every student carries overseas. It is filled with warm clothing and food that a parent knows her child will miss. Daily essentials like clothes pegs, washing powder, toothpaste, and a rice cooker are carefully packed inside. These are things that the parent knows her child will need during the first few weeks in a foreign land, when he still doesn’t know where to shop. It is a suitcase that contains all the love a child can carry.

Upon settling down at my college dormitory, I set off to write my first letter to my parents. The letter would take more than a week to reach them and I had to wait another week or so before I could hear from them.

Every letter from my family was hastily opened and each word read and re-read. My father replied to every one of my letters without delay. He never said that he loved me in his letters. But through the lines, I knew he must have read my letters umpteen times, trying to make out whether I was happy or not. Was I eating well? How were my studies?

He had many questions to ask me but had to wait for at least three weeks before he could get my reply. In the meantime, he kept reminding me about what he had said before: eat well, put on more layers of clothing, and so on. As a daughter, I called it nagging. Now that I am a mother, I understand that it is called love.

When my son arrived at the Perth airport in Western Australia, he was met by his friend. We heard his voice again eight hours after bidding him farewell. During those hours of being incommunicado, I was agitated, not knowing whether he went through customs alright or not. What if his friend forgot to fetch him?

I thought of my parents and wondered how they could have put up with weeks of uncertainty before my first letter arrived. How did they go through their lives when every minute of their days was spent worrying about me, not knowing whether I had arrived in London or not? And, was I able to find my way to the college?

I only called my parents once a year, during the Chinese New Year. I made the international call at the main post office at Trafalgar Square. When my call was put through, I quickly delivered my prepared message. After all, a three-minute phone call at that time cost me almost a quid, so there was no time for nonsense like, “Mama I miss you”.

We Skype our son at least once a week. We can see each other through webcam. We talk for hours, not only my son and me, but the whole family, at the same time. It is like chatting at the dinner table, except that physically we are miles apart. I am spared the agony of uncertainty, like what my parents went through years ago, when news only came with the postman.

When I graduated, my parents were unable to go to London and share my joy. I sent them my graduation photo which I took at a studio. It’s still hanging on the wall of their living room today. This photo signifies all the sacrifices they had made to give me the best education possible.

Last September, we went to Perth to attend my son’s convocation. Compared with my parents, I had a much easier time when it came to sending children overseas.

I discovered my parents’ love during my four years in London, a love that I never realised was always present until I left them. It is an endless love which is passed from one generation to another.

My sacrifices for my children are insignificant compared to my parents’ for me. I thank them for giving me this endless love, which I can pass on to my children.

Understanding aunt Nina

2009-08-14T10:20:00.000+08:00

By M. DEMORI

Armed with beauty and a penchant for thrift and cleanliness, a woman grows old minus the things that matter most.

THE most famous person in my family is my aunt Nina. There are three qualities that have made her popular among family and friends: her beauty, her thriftiness, and her love of tidiness.

Aunt Nina keeps a noticeable, slightly faded, picture of herself when she was 17 on a side table in her bedroom. An exquisitely sweet oval face framed by short brown wavy hair. Bright almond shaped eyes and a delicate mouth. A prince would have been smitten.

Aunt Nina, however, did not marry a prince. Her husband was a very ordinary man who worked as an electrical engineer on cruise ships, thus leaving her the true queen of the home for many months of the year and for many years.

But being practically single for such extended periods of time did not bother her in the least because in truth, aunt Nina wasn’t married to her husband, she was married to her home.

Aunt Nina owned a lovely double-storey detached house which had a big garden planted with flowers, fruit trees, and vegetables. Fresh produce helped her save money; she didn’t have to buy from the market. There were also chickens for eggs and meat, and more savings, of course.

Even with a magnifying glass, one would probably not have found a speck of dust on any of the furniture, the walls, the windows, or the floor of her home. The other women in the family said she spent the whole day with a dust cloth in her hands and that her mania wasn’t worth the shine.

But I never agreed with them. I truly admired her capacity for hard work; what surprised me was that her house, although perfectly shiny, never felt warm.

It was not advisable to barge in on aunt Nina at will, for if she was busy, she would not hesitate to tell you so and ask you to leave. I, therefore, had to plan my visits carefully.

She did have a proper living room with a comfortable sofa, but the place for guests was the kitchen, more constrained and much easier to clean after they left.

The kitchen also had a large clock on the wall that was aunt Nina’s ally in making the best use of every second of daylight. You were always aware of how precious time was in her presence; you had no more than 30 minutes. Time for talking and socialising was truly a waste, with no money to be gained from it. The hours of the day were really for cleaning, tidying, painting, planting, harvesting and storing.

To make the most of her time, aunt Nina had only one child, a son who, at one stage, seemed to have a promising future.

In my late teens and before I moved overseas, I remember having some pleasant and constructive conversations with him. For a while I thought that aunt Nina had done a really good job of raising him and that we not only shared the same surname but also belonged to the same family.

Unexpectedly, however, he dropped out of university, got a clerical job, took a wife and settled into an uneventful routine – possibly, to please his mother.

Aunt Nina never travelled more than 50km from her hometown. Travelling was tiring, useless, and expensive. Besides, it would take her away from her chores and allow dust to settle on the furniture or in the corners of the floor.

I don’t think aunt Nina ever had a visitor staying over at her house in all her life. This would have been terribly burdensome as people would have most certainly displaced things and caused an unbearable waste of time.

Once, when a niece living overseas asked her to go and stay for a week, she unceremoniously declined, saying that everyone was happiest in her own home.

Aunt Nina saved on everything. She cooked the produce of her own garden and ate only at meal times. When she went to the shops, she made sure she got the best, and cheapest, of everything.

She didn’t remember birthdays nor recognised celebrations, weddings and family events. She had neither the time to attend them, nor the money to waste on gifts.

If anyone ever existed only for herself, it was aunt Nina. I did not mind her love of solitude and desire to be completely independent. I never envied her beauty, nor did I harbour hopes of a share of her supposedly large bank account. And although her spotless home was a mirror of perfection, it would never suit my own incurable tendency to scatter things everywhere.

All I waited for was a word, or gesture, that showed she cared. But it never came.

The last time I visited Aunt Nina was two years ago. At 85, she was still beautiful and had a velvety smooth complexion, albeit with some lines of time. We sat in the spotless kitchen exchanging pleasantries. And, as was her custom, a furtive glance of her bright eyes at the clock on the wall told me when it was time to leave. As she walked me to the gate, she bent now and then – not as swiftly as before, but with the same wilful determination – to pluck little blades of grass that had stubbornly defied her order for perfection and dared to grow out of the gravel pathway.

As I once again admired her relentless commitment to labour, it was hard for me to think that all her efforts would not earn her some ultimate good. I also realised that time will fill some gaps, but it will make others insurmountable.

Who I Am Makes a Difference

2009-08-12T05:42:00.000+08:00

Please pay special attention to the last two sentences of this story. A story worth passing on:

A teacher in New York decided to honour each of her students in high school by telling them the difference they each made to her. She called each student to the front of the class, one at a time. First she told each of them how they had made a difference to her and the class. Then she presented each of them with a blue ribbon imprinted with gold letters, which read, "Who I Am Makes a Difference."

Afterwards the teacher decided to do a class project to see what kind of impact recognition would have on a community. She gave each of the students three more ribbons and instructed them to go out and spread this acknowledgment ceremony. Then they were to follow up on the results, see who honoured whom and report back to the class in about a week.

One of the boys in the class went to a junior executive in a nearby company and honoured him for helping him with his career planning. He gave him a blue ribbon and put it on his shirt. He then gave him two extra ribbons and said, "We're doing a class project on recognition. We'd like you to go out, find somebody to honour, give them a blue ribbon, then give them the extra blue ribbon so they can acknowledge a third person to keep this acknowledgment ceremony going. Then please report back to me and tell me what happened.

Later that day the junior executive went in to see his boss, who had been noted, by the way, as being kind of a grouchy fellow. He met his boss and told him that he deeply admired him for being a creative genius.

The boss seemed very surprised. The junior executive asked him if he would accept the gift of the blue ribbon and would he give him permission to put it on him. His surprised boss said, "Well, sure." The junior executive took the blue ribbon and placed it right on his boss's jacket above his heart. As he gave him the last extra ribbon, he said, would you do me a favor? Would you take this extra ribbon and pass it on by honouring somebody else?

The young boy who first gave me the ribbons is doing a project in school and we want to keep this recognition ceremony going and find out how it affects people.

That night the boss came home to his 14-year-old son and sat next to him He said, "The most incredible thing happened to me today. I was in my office and one of the junior executives came in and told me he admired me and gave me a blue ribbon for being a creative genius. Imagine. He thinks I'm a creative genius. Then he put this blue ribbon that says 'Who I Am Makes A Difference' on my jacket above my heart. He gave me an extra ribbon and asked me to find somebody else to honour.

As I was driving home tonight, I started thinking about whom I would honour with this ribbon and I thought about you. I want to honour you. My days are really hectic and when I come home I don't pay a lot of attention to you. Sometimes I scream at you for not getting good enough grades in school and for your bedroom being a mess, but somehow tonight, I just wanted to sit here and, well,just let you know that you do make a difference to me.

Besides your mother, you are the most important person in my life. You're a great kid and I love you!" The startled boy started to sob and sob, and he couldn't stop crying. His whole body shook. He looked up at his father and said through his tears, "I was planning on committing suicide tomorrow, Dad, because I didn't think you loved me. Now I know you care. This is the happiest day I've known."

The boss went back to work a changed man. He was no longer a grouch but made sure to let all his employees know that they made a difference. The junior executive helped several other young people with career planning and never forgot to let them know that they made a difference in his life......one being the boss's son. And the young boy and his classmates learned a valuable lesson.

Who you are DOES make a difference. You are under no obligation to send this on to anyone...not to two people or to two hundred. As far as I am concerned, you can delete it and move on to the next message. But if you have anyone who means a lot to you, I encourage you to send him or her this message and let them know. You never know what kind of difference a little encouragement can make to a person. Send it to all the people who mean anything important to you, or send it to the one, two, or three people who mean the most. Or just smile and know that someone thinks that you are important, or you wouldn't have received this in the first place.

Remember... I give you a blue ribbon. Who you are makes a difference, and I wanted you to know that!

Colourful chords

2009-08-11T15:32:00.002+08:00

By LEONARD SELVA GURUNATHAN

Music is the cord that connects a father and son in life, and death.

JULY 24, 2009, 1.30am. I had just nailed the last piece with my band at a jazz lounge. Immediately, I rushed to the hospital, lugging a deckchair.

My brother-in-law Joseph and mum were there with dad, who was very ill. Joseph had been great; I asked him to go home and get some rest.

Dad got up frequently at night and we had to help lift him. Mum couldn’t do it alone, but the emotional support she gave dad was overwhelming. I’d never seen such strength and calm. She said he had been asking for me.

In the morning, my sister Christina came to the hospital and I could see the strain in her eyes. She had been looking for alternative medicines and treatments for dad. Before I left, she shared what dad had told her. He shared a lot of things with her, especially his medical condition.

As I drove home, I recalled what dad had shared with me.

There was only one thing we’d always shared – music. He was fond of saying that God touched him through music.

I remember happily holding his hand in church while listening to a brilliant blind organist, Mr Peter, when I was eight. Dad and Mr Peter were from the same orphanage. He used to say that had he been given the chance to learn music, he would have been a good musician.

During mass, dad and I would look at each other whenever a good hymnal was played, especially one of the Tamil hymns which still move me today. The first thing dad would talk about after mass was the music. He’d give me a review of Mr Peter’s playing and somehow, I felt we had the same taste.

Back home, he would flex his vinyl collection of The Shadows and The Beatles. I got to know Michael Jackson through dad. Somehow, he coloured my life with music.

When I was 11, he sent me for organ lessons. Although the piano was more popular then, dad loved the organ and he wanted me to play for the church. To him, the best venue for a musician is the church. I couldn’t agree more.

I struggled to learn some hymns on my own. After learning one, I approached the choir leader and voiced my keenness to be a church organist. She told me to learn more songs first. I was sad, but dad said I would be a great organist one day. That made me smile.

It was he who told me there was a working pipe organ in Penang. I made my way to the church to listen to it being played. My goal then was to be an organist at the church.

Dad bought an electronic organ for me and my sister. He always kept it super clean. He loved Bach and I got hooked on him too.

I began to dream of giving a recital at the Dewan Filharmonik Petronas (DFP) in Kuala Lumpur. When that came true in 2007, it was a proud moment for dad.

July 30, 2pm. As I adjusted my collar in the mirror, I remembered that the last time I’d felt as knotted was before my first recital at the DFP. Now, a daunting task lay ahead of me: dad had died the day before and he’d always wanted me to play at his funeral. As my younger sister Angelina said, “I know it’s tough but you must play ...”

The mass began with me playing the hymns. It was an electronic organ, but that day it seemed like the majestic pipe organ at the concert hall. Everything sounded rich and splendid. I kept my emotions in check; the fact that dad was a disciplined man helped me focus on the service and the music.

After I finished the final hymn, Abide with Me, my music colleagues started coming up to convey their condolences. The dam burst and I wept like a baby.

The joyous times in my family had always been coloured by music – Angelina on tabla, Christina and mum singing, and me playing the organ. Dad would sing along. It’s a great gift he shared with me, a beautiful form of art from a beautiful person. Rest in peace and enjoy the music up there, dad.

Soothing sands of home

2009-08-07T13:55:00.000+08:00

By NIK NUR ‘ATIQAH NIK MUHAMAD

Important life lessons learnt in a little East Coast town make it the centre of the world for a fiery, young urban woman.

MOST of my friends label me an urban ghetto queen. I admit I do have some characteristics of street divas from Harlem. I am in-your-face, loud and ferocious. My two-gigabytes leopard skin crystallised I-pod is packed with hip hop music. One of the women I look up to is Kimora Lee Simmons, or, should I say, Kimora Honsou?

Just as Beyoncé Knowles has Sasha Fierce, I, too, have my own alter ego. Usually I put on a mask as I go out to meet strangers. No, I don’t have any insecurity issues. I just cannot be 100% me on the world stage.

I preserve my made-in-the-metropolitan character the entire time. Only certain persons can see the real me. Those special humans are my parents, relatives and friends.

I show myself completely when I’m with them – no make-up, push-ups or anything fake. There is only one place for me to recharge myself. Where I morph into a butterfly without having to worry if my wings are bejewelled or if my flying technique follows the latest fashion. This extraordinary destination is the birthplace of my beloved father – Pasir Putih, on the east coast of Malaysia.

Every now and then I must go there. I need to take off my polyester jersey dress, viscose waistcoat and denim hipsters for a plain cotton baju kurung. The villagers smile at me sincerely, talk to me pleasantly and I can see their humility.

Our conversations are never about money, status or the rat race. They are about health, family and studies. I could sit for hours listening to the villagers’ stories. They would serve me hot tea and traditional delicacies, just the way I like them. I exhale all the pollution from the city and inhale the breeze of blissful life.

Pasir Puteh has always been my secret love. It is where I embrace my roots and feel grateful for God’s gifts. It is where my grandma, Che, taught me moral etiquette through the way she carried herself. She was the ideal woman whose demeanour was hard to imitate. She was polite, courteous and gentle – traits I truly adored. Always seen in her baju kurung Kedah paired with kain batik, Che embodied the spirit of the feminine Malay woman.

My fondest memories of Che go back to my school days. Every time as Eid’l Fitri neared, I couldn’t wait to celebrate. After my family arrived in Pasir Puteh, we would unpack and rest for a while. As dawn closed its curtain around us, my senses were all ready to enjoy an appetising dinner. My aunt would tease me, or mum would warn me to wait, because I was so eager to eat.

At night, female family members would gather in the kitchen to cook traditional fare for the first day of Syawal. Most of the time, Che would be the chef who showed them how to wrap the sweet sticky rice in daun palas. I used to look on in admiration from the side of the fridge.

Whenever she saw me, Che would call me to sit beside her. “When you are grown up, you can help, okay!”

As the sun rose up, my cousins and I would wake up early to take our turn to bathe. Che’s house has a well nearby and the water is generated by a pump – and that is the most refreshing shower ever!

After the icy bath, I would walk shivering into the room and catch a glimpse of Che. Her hair would be patted with olive oil, smoothly combed to the middle. She would coil her hair and press some water-based powder to her face.

She would glance at me and smile as she said, “Go and get some clothes on, tubby!” As fast as a bolt, I would run to my room. Then I’d hear her laughter over the plank wall.

Now I’m a third-year university student. I am all grown up but I can’t learn how to make ketupat palas or anything else from Che as she passed away last year. All I have are memories ... and a lot of them.

I was really blessed to have her as my grandma. I always close my eyes and remember ... I’m the granddaughter of Che and her blood flows in me, always!