A Sense of Belonging

Once upon a time, when cornered with "Asal dari mana?" (Where from?), it took me a while to figure out an appropriate response. I could never be sure of what to say.

Short of giving the one asking a lengthy discourse in my Sumatran (paternal) and Kelantan-Thai (maternal) ancestry, I would hem and haw before settling on "Saya anak Terengganu" (I'm Terengganu born and bred).

I was young and impressionable. Terengganu was the established backwaters of the nation; it just wasn't hip to acknowledge oneself as an 'ulu' (hick) chick from the boondocks. Such was my imbecilic, puerile state of mind then.

Speaking of asal (origin), none of us, save the pribumis (aborigines) - the Negritos, Semais, Semelais, Batiks, Sakais, Jakuns, Mahmeris, Ibans, Penans, Muruts, Kadazans etc - can lay claim to having our true origin in this land called Malaysia.

Let's not kid ourselves. We are all pendatang/orang asing (immigrants/ aliens) whose forefathers adopted this country as their own and bequeathed it to their descendants, only to have us betraying that trust by questioning each other's legitimacy to be here.

The Malays, the Chinese, the Indians, the Lain-lain (oh how I despise this term!) all have a legitimate claim over this country. It matters not at what point in time before 31st August 1957 their forefathers dropped anchor along these shores. This is home. Let's not question it anymore.

For the purpose of history, my Sumatran forefathers stamped their presence here a few centuries longer than the rest (perhaps with the exception of the entourage from the Chinese court who evolved into the Babas and Nyonyas).

The Megats, whose ancestral home is Pagar Ruyung in Sumatra, arrived in Tanah Abang (Malacca) in the late 1500s to accompany a Malaccan prince in exile following the fall of the Malacca Sultanate.

They eventually made their way to Perak, pledged loyalty to the Perak royal court, and served nine subsequent Perak Sultans as Bendahara.

The Megats and the Puteris are fortunate to have a well-documented family tree. Proud as I am to belong to the clan, if you were to ask me today, "Asal dari mana?", my answer would still be "Saya anak Terengganu."

I may not have a single stick of property, nor kith or kin, left in Terengganu; it has been 35 long years since I left Terengganu, and the memory of my distant childhood in Bukit Besi diminishes over time.

But the bones of my grandmother, mother and stepfather lie buried in Terengganu soil. I can't leave them. They are family. That's why my heart belongs to Terengganu and that's why I remain "anak Terengganu" until the day I breathe my last.

Ramadan Togetherness

Nawwar looking nerdy in Pak Abu's oversized specs

"Hmm.... sedapnyaaa!" - Spoofing Nescafe ad

The family sans Naj, after makan

Breaking of Fast, Royal Lake Club, Saturday 13/09/08.

A Bouquet For Ana

There I was, happily browsing through some karaoke VCDs at Speedy's in One Utama Shopping Centre this morning, when the phone rang. It was my chatter friend Ana, who teaches English in a secondary school in Ipoh.

She was in One Utama herself, checking out the department stores for Raya clothes. She arrived from Ipoh earlier this morning for a quick visit to an ailing uncle and had to be back in Ipoh by the breaking of fast, to be with her children.

It has been almost a year since we last met. We embraced warmly, found an empty bench next to British India, and made ourselves comfortable. Under normal circumstances, it would have been endless chatter and lots of laughter over mocha or latte at Coffee Bean or Starbucks, but it's Ramadan...

I asked after her eldest, Melissa, and was pleasantly surprised to note Melissa has completed her degree course and would be graduating very soon.

I have nothing but admiration for this plucky, single mother of three who raise her children single-handedly while holding a fulltime teaching job. This diminutive woman faces challenge head-on.

I vaguely remember her pursuing her masters programme on a partime basis in Universiti Sains Malaysia (USM) in Penang; faithfully travelling up and down from Ipoh to Penang every weekend for two whole years, despite every conceivable constraint (mostly financial), to attend classes and lectures.

I asked after her studies. "Oh, I have just completed my course and have received a teaching offer in Penang," she confided. "I am taking it up because I intend to pursue my doctorate at the same time."

What she said next almost broke me. "Would you and Pak Abu represent my family at my convocation in March next year? My kids are not likely to make it and there isn't any one else." Oh girl, you can count us in to be with you on your big day! Insyaallah..

Pustularly Yours

Pix: ganoderma lucidum (lingzhi mushrooms)

I am writing this while furiously scratching my bare head. To the uninitiated, it might look as though my hair is the sanctuary of a thousand lice (Eeeeee!). In reality, My scalp is exploding with little pustules and they itch like hell.

The wooden back scratcher is close at hand. Occasionally I reach out to it to rake my back. I know the pustules are there too. This is because I can feel a slight pain when the scratcher roughes over them.

If anyone takes a peep at me now, alone in my study - scratch scratch scratch, type type type, scratch scratch scratch - they might just assume I am doing a monkey dance. Frankly, with all these scratching, I do feel like a monkey at the moment.

Seriously speaking, this is all Pak Abu's fault. Worse still, the dear man meant well. But before I warm up to the subject of blaming Pak Abu (woo, I like this, it's not often I get to blame him for anything!), in all fairness, let me provide some background details (ehem, I subscribe to balanced reporting).

As much as I dislike health supplements of any kind (I find it tedious gulping a fistful of tablets every day), Pak Abu is a disciple of them all - herbs, roots, ginseng extracts, royal jelly, multivitamins, calcium tablets, ganoderma and all the other watchamacallits.

He takes them for a multitude of reasons, so he says; to boost energy, detoxify his body, increase metabolism, strengthen his bones. I am not surprised, of course. After all, he needs all the 'proppings', as it were, since he is an avid golfer.

He tried to induce me to take them too but I wasn't too keen. But the man was so hard on my case that I finally gave in (now you know who can't be a Jane Bond; I buckle under pressure).

Some time back he got started on this ganoderma lucidum thingy - it's a kind of mushroom, also known as lingzhi. He swore by it. So to please him (and to get him off my back, of course), I started taking two capsules daily. Hardly a week later, all hell broke loose, on my scalp, that is.

Therein lies the irony. I got him off my back, only to have my back plastered with those darn pustules. What a trade-off!

He was elated. "You see, your body is full of toxins! Now they are being expelled through those pustules!" All these are not making sense to me. He is the one puffing two packs a day and I am having the pustules? Where the heck do all his toxins go? Where are HIS pustules?? This is sooo unfair!

Singing The Blues Away

The STF singing quartet 1971

(from left): Zam, Jon, Kama, Minah

I like to sing, that goes without saying. However, I can't, and have never been able to, reach the high notes, so no Celine Dion, Mariah Carey or Siti Nurhaliza songs for me. No regrets either, because I am not a fan of theirs.

Unlike some of my regular karaoke buddies at the Club, I have never taken voice lessons. There are two reasons for this; firstly, I don't take my singing that seriously to merit coaching, and secondly, it somehow feels wasteful to spend money just to improve one's karaoke skills.

Had singing been my bread and butter, I probably would have thought differently. I did, in one brief moment of madness eons ago, consider singing as a career, but shelved the idea for I didn't want to hasten my grandma's demise (she said she would die of shame, if I sang for my supper).

In fact she was pretty voluble in berating me for daring to even harbour the notion of becoming an anak wayang (her term, not mine). But I shall spare you the gory details to save us both the embarrassment.

Oh, I forgot to mention that I sang with a kugiran (band) when I was in my teens, growing up in Dungun. We would perform at weddings and social functions for a small fee. It was a five-man band; the lead guitarist was also the lead singer while I was the female vocalist.

To a certain extent my grandma, bless her soul, was quite indulgent of what she termed as my 'nonsense' because she knew I loved to sing. She even sewed my dresses when there were invitations to perform. But that was the limit of her support. She made it clear she didn't want a chanteuse in the house.

When I entered boarding school in 1971 after my LCE, I found kindred spirits in three other girls who shared my passion. Minah, Jon, Zam and yours truly teamed up to form a singing quartet - we called ourselves The Vandovers (I can't, for the life of me, remember why!) - took part in the school talentime and won second place.

When karaokeing, I think I fall into the all-encompassing category of "Bolehhhh lah", which means I won't ruin your appetite if I sing while you eat, and you may even feel entertained. While I can't rate my own performance, I know this much - you won't choke on your food.

I am not particular about genre and language and I have a decent repertoire of English, Malay, Indonesian, Hindustani, Chinese (Mandarin/ Cantonese/ Hokkien) and Thai songs. My forte is ballads although I am quite comfortable with asli and keroncong. And I lurvvv dangdut!

I like Thai songs because I understand the language. My Thai was pretty decent once, by virtue of my serving the Thai Tourism Board for four years. But singing Thai songs to a Malaysian crowd is like entertaining a bunch of deaf mutes. They looked at you blankly. Even the applause was muted, as though they weren't quite sure whether to clap or to boo.

Over the years, I have built a collection over 400 karaoke VCDs - original, cover version, pirated, remixed - you name it, chances are, I have it. That translates into some 5,000 songs.

More recently, I bought a karaoke system that comes with two microchips of another 5,000 songs. Where I'm going to find the time to learn all these songs, only heaven knows. But I do spare a couple of hours a day exercising my vocals - no, not by nagging Pak Abu - but in anticipation of the next karaoke session.

Life is simple. Life is good. I love it!

Reflections

There are a lot of things in life I am both wary and weary of; from bad drivers and lousy parkers to conmen and snatch thieves, from fairweather friends and deceitful kin to tale carriers and yarn spinners, from pessimists and nay-sayers to the opinionated, the prejudiced and the holier-than-thous .. the list is endless.

While hardly a model citizen and paragon of virtue myself, having had the unenviable past of being a shallow-thinking moron in my younger days, I try to redeem myself by trying to be more accepting and less judgemental. Be that as it may, I would be the first to admit it is easier said than done.

Given my age, I guess it is no big mystery that I tend to view things from the perspective of a half-centurian who is all too aware of her own mortality.

The death of my mother in May this year brought home this realisation that I, representing the subsequent generation, am not too far away from that eventuality myself.

Which is why, I have difficulty understanding some people in my age group and older (and I am talking about the ones I am acquainted with personally) who just don't seem to be satisfied with their lot in life.

I can well understand if the ones grousing earn minimal pay and have problems making ends meet each month. But we are not talking puny little lots here (with a recent Beemer model in a multiple-car garage, it can't be that puny, can it?).

Lest it be misunderstood, I speak without malice. It is just a reflection of my thoughts, more lucid in this blessed month of Ramadan, brought about by someone's remark about Pak Abu and I settling for an apartment the size of someone's parlour.

"For the money that you paid for this place, you could have bought a piece of land and built a bungalow just outside the city." It is an innocent, true enough statement.

The thing is, I would have, IF I had wanted to. But I didn't. All I wanted was a decent roof over my head; more specifically, a cozy little pad, safe and secure, in a place where everything is within reach.

I found my little corner of paradise tucked away in centrally-located TTDI, in a condo development largely populated by pensioners and retirees. And the size of my living quarters is nobody's business but my own.

When death comes a-calling, what good is a multi-storeyed bungalow in prestigious Damansara Heights, sparklers enough to light up downtown Kuala Lumpur, a king-of-the-road whose engine purrs like a Rhineland fraulein, and stocks and shares and cold hard cash by the millions?

You can't take them with you, not a single darn thing. So when is enough well and truly enough?

When Sleepiness Reigns

I find it rather disconcerting that one week has lapsed since Ramadan began. Before you know it, Shawal is upon us. And I am still wringing my hands at the kitchen sink, alternately preparing for buka puasa and sahur with hunger in my belly and sleep in my head. Darn it, time flies way too fast. Slow down world, I wanna get off!

For the first time in my adult life, I nodded off while partaking sahur this morning, head bowed low paying homage to a plate of rice. Only when the spoon slid from my grasp, hitting the marble table top in an almighty clatter, was I startled out of my slumber.

It was probably fatigue, I don't know, but it must have been pretty entertaining, for Pak Abu and Naj didn't breathe a word until the spoon clanged. Only then father and son suddenly became very concerned and oh-so helpful. The spectacle must have been worth it.

I recall one hilarious episode concerning my niece Karina (now wife and mother) when she was a teenager a decade ago. Her mother Sofwanah used to be quite a taskmaster when it came to subuh (dawn) prayers. Kak Nah would go from room to room, waking everyone up, prodding the liat (reluctant) ones with a rotan (cane).

My own kids, who used to spend weekends in their aunt's house to be with their cousins, weren't spared either. Mine were naturally liat with a capital L but they were intimidated enough by Kak Nah to meekly submit.

They related to me this story about Karina and her 'special' subuh prayers. Seems that Karina once sujud (prostrated) and promptly fell asleep with her face on the prayer mat and her rear-end hanging engagingly, gently snoring in blissful slumber.

It was her mother who sensed something amiss with the inert, prostrating form, and gave it a hearty shake. And the kids thought their cousin was just trying to score brownie points with a lengthy ayat (verse)!

Gives a whole new meaning to "Bottoms Up!" don't you think?

Dungun On My Mind

Sunrise Solitude

Teluk Bidara I

Teluk Bidara II

Teluk Bidara III

Kemasek Hideaway

Tranquil Tanjung Jara

Rantau Abang, Where Love Blossomed

Crab-catching At Sunrise

Gentle Men, Rough Seas

off Tenggol Island

Placid Waters, Hidden Cove
Tenggol Island off Dungun



Haji Man Coffeeshop
(for the best nasi dagang in town)


[Picture credit: Kelnsha/Yinghaw/Runwitme]

The Final Farewell

To paraphrase crooner Andy Williams, "Where do I begin?" Where, indeed.

Serene and peaceful Bukit Kiara Muslim Cemetery is as good a place as any to begin my journey, although this tranquil piece of God's acre off Taman Tun Dr Ismail is more likely to be the final resting place, marking the end of one's brief wanderings on this good earth.

The sky was overcast, and dark clouds spanned the horizon as I threw open my windows this morning. The sun peeped briefly by mid-morning, its golden rays reflected on the glass panels of my balcony door, before retreating into a blanket of clouds.

The sky brightened considerably by two thirty in the afternoon as we wended our way amongst the marble tombstones to the site where literary giant and journo extraordinaire Pak Samad, who passed away yesterday evening after a brief illness, had just been buried.

We arrived as talqin was being read. We had not planned to be late. Unfortunately, something cropped up at home that needed immediate attention. I didn't lament our late arrival, truly. I was there to bid him goodbye, sadaqah my prayers, and offer my condolences to his family, especially my former colleague, his daughter Nuraina.

It was heartening to see so many of our media 'old-timers' at the site, people I used to work with, whom I had not met for decades. How good it felt to once again meet up with soft-spoken Zabedah (Kak Bedah), a contemporary of Adibah Amin and one-time editor of Berita Harian's Women's Desk. From her I learned of the demise, two years ago, of her husband and erstwhile Berita Harian supremo, Abang Din.

I kissed and hugged gentle Rashidah, wife of poet-novelist Datuk Samad Said. Shidah once wrote for Berita Harian but is now attached to Datuk Kadir Jasin's outfit, Berita Publishing. My eyes strayed to the grand old man of letters Pak Samad Said himself, sitting contemplatively under a shady tree.

And then there was Hanim Melan with her husband Johan, formerly of Malay Mail and The Star respectively, both of whom spent a good many years in New York where Johan was a correspondent, my one-time boss and editor Aziz Hassan (still a bachelor after all these years), and bosom buddy Muharyani Othman, once a specialist writer with NST, who had recently thrown her lot with Bernama.

I spied Ahirudin Atan (blogger Rocky) perched on an embankment trying to get a better view for his camera, Bernama TV head honcho Datuk Suhaimi immaculately attired and obviously from work, and Datuk Mahadzir Lokman (Dale), my one-time neighbour/yakking partner during the halcyon days of TV3, who has evolved into a celebrity himself.

Also paying homage to the memory of Pak Samad was my ex-colleague Swithin Monteiro, now retired, and yet another former colleague, Ishak Nengah, now an accomplished and much sought-after master of ceremonies. Ishak and I shared the common bond of having started work at the newspaper on the same day in 1973.

Despite the teeming presence of well-wishers, Nuraina graciously fielded questions from both the media and the visitors. Before leaving, I enveloped her in a warm embrace and kissed her wet cheeks. We left with a prayer in our hearts: "Ya Allah, please forgive arwah Pak Samad all his transgressions and place his soul in the company of the blessed. Amin."

Ramadan Redemption

A couple of pleasant surprises (for me, at least) awaited when Pak Abu and I attended solat tarawikh (special prayer during Ramadan) at our condo's surau (prayer hall) on the first day of Ramadan.

The bilal (muezzin) was a primary schooler, probably around 10, while the imam was a teenager no older than 15, albeit a competent one.

While I had never prayed in a congregation led by a teenage boy before, I was nevertheless impressed with both his fluency in reciting the many verses of the Quran and his humble demeanour.

After three consecutive days of tarawikh, it dawned on me the prayers were led by a different teenager each time. Later I learnt they are students of a religious school (sekolah tahfiz) nearby, who regularly participate in activities organised by the surau committee.

As I sat there in silent contemplation, I realized how inadequate I am in so many ways. Inexplicably, these young men had made me feel so jahil (ignorant) and unschooled. The spectre of my spotty agama (religious) past returned to haunt this sorry self. Oh boy, don't I have a lot of catching up to do!

Isteri Mithali, American-style

I came by this article while sorting out old issues of my Royal Lake Club newsletters. It first appeared in American magazine Housekeeping Monthly in May 1955. This must be the American Isteri Mithali (Ideal Wife) guide. Have a good laugh.

THE GOOD WIFE'S GUIDE

Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready. This is a way of letting him know that you have been thinking about him and concerned about his needs.

Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you'll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh looking.

Be a little gay and a little more interesting for him. His boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it.

Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives. Gather up schoolbooks, toys, papers etc and run a dust cloth over the tables.

Prepare the children. take a few minutes to wash them, comb their hair and change their clothes. They are little treasures and he would like to see them playing the part.

Minimise all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer or vacuum. Try to encourage the children to be quiet.

Be happy for him.

Greet him with a warm smile and show sincerity in your desire to please him.

Listen to him. You may have a dozen important things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first. Remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours.

Make the evening his. Never complain if he comes home late or goes out to places of entertainment without you. Instead try to understand his world of strain and pressure and his very real need to be at home and relax.

Your goal: try to make your home a place of peace, order and tranquility where your husband can renew himself in body and spirit.

Don't greet him with complaints and problems.

Don't complain if he's late home for dinner or even if he stays out all night. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through that day.

Make him comfortable. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or have him lie down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him.

Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soothing and pleasant voice.

Don't ask him questions about his actions or questions his judgement or integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him.

A good wife always knows her place.

Cikgu Unta

Some time back, son Naj recounted the story of a standoff between a participating teacher and the facilitator of an English language workshop conducted under the New Straits Times' Newspaper-in-Education (NIE) programme.

The said teacher constructed a sentence that goes - "The camel stores water in its hump." The workshop facilitator rejected the sentence, pointing out that camels do not store water in their hump. The hump is for storing fat.

The teacher was very annoyed. She insisted the sentence be accepted in toto because it was grammatically correct. The facilitator refused, saying that facts supersede grammar, more so for an educator like the workshop participant.

The facilitator reasoned that the workshop materials would be used by participating teachers as a teaching primer for students when those teachers returned to their respective schools. Thus, this teacher's students might assume that camels store water in their hump because their teacher said so.

The lady teacher was adamant about the correctness of the sentence construction and refused to budge. The facilitator was equally adamant about getting the fact right first before accepting the sentence. Unfortunately, I have forgotten who gave in at the end.