Let The Game Begin!

Four more days, and hopefully I will be relieved of my current migraine-inducing stress. This thing has been sitting on my head for months and Saturday will see the end of it. For now, that is.

Granted, I am just a small cog in a very big wheel. I am talking about the annual youth golf championship, TSM Golf Challenge - In Search of Malaysian Tiger, for which I handle the organisers' public relations needs.

The tournament, now into its third year, is the premier event of a non -governmental organisation (NGO) called TSM Charity Golf, which was founded by Cabinet Minister Tan Sri Muhyiddin Yassin in 2003.

TSM Charity Golf was established primarily to raise funds for charity; in aid of underprivileged children, the destitute and the elderly, victims of natural disasters, and needy students studying abroad.

It has been in existence for five years and has disbursed a fair bit to a myriad of causes. It has also chosen to remain low-key about its charitable activities; truly, there is no need to blow one's trumpet when doing good work.

In 2006, TSM Charity Golf went a step further by organising the inaugural TSM Golf Challenge - In Search of Malaysian Tiger, aimed at identifying and honing the skills of local young golfers in the hope of producing a 'Tiger' or two from our neck of the 'Woods'.

We have had a good run since. This year's championship is scheduled to take place from Thursday to Saturday (12-14 June 2008) at Kelab Golf Negara Subang (KGNS).

Some 100 youngsters age 21 and below from all over the country have confirmed their participation. They are expected to arrive tomorrow afternoon for registration and practice rounds.

They are the creme de la creme of the local youth golfing fraternity, hailing from the various state golf associations, MGA, MALGA, Sukma, Sports Excel and the like.

The Secretariat has been busier than bees these past weeks and the strained look is de rigueur for the moment. It is getting harder to see a smiling face, but I can well understand the pressure.

Putting together a premier golf championship, like any event organising job, is tedious and exacting, with hardly any margin for error.

But TSM Charity Golf has an efficient team in place and participants can look forward to a memorable outing. Happy golfing kids, may the best Boy and Girl win!

PS: I forgot to add that the the champions will each receive a three-month, all-expense paid golf training at the PGT Golf Academy in Thana City, Bangkok. This is over and above other prizes, of course. The training package is worth RM40,000 each.

We Have Been Conned

I am so enraged I don't even know where to start. We have been had, that just about sums it up.

Now, police report notwithstanding, if I ever catch sight of that man again, I think it would not be beyond me to smash both his face and his balls.

You see, we paid RM2,200 a week ago to a guy from a furniture company, as downpayment for built-ins that we wanted to do for our new condo.

Everything seemed legit; we met many times to discuss and finalise the designs, the quotations and the materials that we wanted.

When we couldn't reach him over the weekend, Pak Abu and I decided to go to the factory in Subang Jaya this morning, only to learn that we were victim number 8.

There were seven irate customers before us and each had made a police report against this conman, as did his former employer the furniture manufacturer.

Apparently, he had been fired from the company days ago when his con jobs were discovered; he has since absconded with some RM30,000 of customers' payments.

According to the manufacturer, he is still in possession of the company receipt books and a lot of samples, thus it was easy for him to hoodwink potential customers like he did us.

To me, it is not just the money. The con job has also cost us precious time. It has screwed up our renovations schedule.

We had spent the last two weeks coming to an agreement on designs and pricing; all have come to naught. We have to start all over again.

Also, I feel so disappointed and let down. All the while we kept telling ourselves to "tolong yang sebangsa dan seagama" first, even though we had other options.

That was why we had no qualms giving the business to soft-spoken father of three, Raja Mohd Rizal bin Raja Ahmad (new IC: 730323-06-5349, old IC: A2435780) of Goodyear Court 6, USJ. (Tel: 017-3288717, 016-6983173).

Well, every dog has its day. We'll just have to wait and see about this one.

Plates of Joy

I have a thing for decorative souvenir plates, the kind that have names and images of places of interest painted or etched on them.

They are usually round and made of porcelain or bone china. But I also have acquired a few square ones made of pewter and copper.

I have been collecting these plates for years now; some bought during my own travels, but many presented by loved ones who just knew what to get me when they went abroad.

The pewter ones, interestingly enough, came from Cincinnati, USA, and were given me by a cousin who went there for an aircraft maintenance training programme.

The copper ones, somewhat like our traditional copper-tooled decorative items, were from the same cousin, purchased when he took his family Down Under for a holiday.

One has the figure of a kangaroo etched on it while the other traces the outline of the Sydney Opera House. Nifty piece of work, those.

When my son Naj was with MAS, he never failed to bring home such plates as presents for mum. In fact, he was instrumental in building up my collection.

There are two charming pieces that he brought back from South Korea and Japan, respectively. Both use cloisonne (enamel work) as centrepiece.

The former depicts a lady in hambok playing the samisen (stringed instrument) while the latter shows the map of Japan. Both are rimmed with 24-carat gold, clearly a cut above the rest.

There is another superbly crafted piece that he purchased in Buenos Aires, with the etching of a couple doing the tango.

Horror of horrors, the plate accidentally slipped from my grasp one fine day and broke into two. I shed copious tears over the incident.

The broken pieces have since been glued together but it looks so patched up that my heart aches each time I sneak a peek. It is now hidden at the back of the display cabinet.

When Naj left MAS six years ago, his best friend Dinesh (who is still flying) carries on with the tradition of bringing me plates from around the world.

Dinesh too has an eye for the exquisite, but nothing beats the pieces he brought back from Athens and Stockholm. They are simply stunning.

The piece from Athens is glazed black, with the ruins of the ancient temple Pathenon outlined in gold, while the one from Stockholm has a pale blue, glazed background and a very colourful motif.

My sister Zaridah gave me one of the most beautiful pieces ever. It is just a small piece that fits into your palm and I think she found it in a souk somewhere on her trip to Jordan.

The blue-edged piece, with Arabic inscriptions, depicts the gateway to the ancient city of Petra, that red rose Nabatean city in the Jordan desert. A truly marvelous piece.

When I was in Europe some years back on business, I took the trouble to scout around for as many such plates from as many different countries as possible.

As a result, I managed to acquire quite a few interesting pieces, from Frankfurt and the Rhine region in Germany, Austria and also Switzerland.

They are just ordinary porcelain pieces and not not as finely crafted as the oriental ones, I'm afraid, but still pretty to look at and as precious to me as the rest.

Son Joe travelled to Amsterdam on a company holiday trip last year and brought back a couple of blue porcelain plates that remind me of those precious pieces from the Ming Dynasty - very captivating.

And two weeks ago Naj went on a three-day assignment to Macau and brought home one that is a carbon copy of Dinesh's gift from Athens - with a different image, of course, but just as beautiful.

There are many more in the collection, from places as diverse as Vatican City, Istanbul, Paris, New York, London, even Hollywood. There is also one delightful novelty piece, depicting the New York Police Department (NYPD) badge!

Are all attractive and each has a story to tell. That's why I look forward to the move because that will give me the opportunity to finally display all of them, at the very least for my own private enjoyment.

The Traitors Among Us

It is very difficult to find a voice of reason amidst all the hullabaloo following the recent fuel price hike.

Nobody really wanted to listen to what Petronas president, Tan Sri Hassan Merican, or Domestic Trade and Consumer Affairs Minister, Dato' Shahrir Samad, had to say even if what they said made a lot of sense.

Who wants sense and sensibility? Where's the fun if everything makes sense?

Hardly surprising, considering it has been open season for "bantaing" the government since the conclusion of the last general elections.

Very few people want to hear the truth; it is more convenient to rile at and knock the Establishment. That's the new Malaysian way.

Gratitude, by the way, has become a precious commodity. Saying thank you is passe. It's no longer hip to be be grateful.

So what's the truth? The truth is that there has been no price increase. Read my lips. The government did not raise fuel price.

What has happened is that the govenment has done away with fuel subsidy, which naturally raises the fuel price up to a realistic market level. That's the truth, unpalatable as it may be.

Alas, when the people were enjoying low fuel price for umpteenth years due to the subsidy, nobody saw it fit to credit the government for it.

Even when the subsidy benefited our neighbours up North and down South across both borders, we didn't bat an eyelid either. Generous, weren't we?

And that was OUR subsidy that they were enjoying. It was only when the perk was taken away that all hell broke loose.

So spare me your self-righteous pontifications, please. I am sick to the core with it. Just give credit where credit is due.

Look around us and see where we are today, compared to the time when we had just achieved nationhood.

It is a sad day indeed when we have one of our own giving his own country a lowdown in the company of strangers abroad.

It is even worse when the one doing it doesn't even qualify to vote in his own country anymore, having married an orang putih and taken foreign citizenship in the name of worldly wealth.

I have a few choice words for these kind of people. Traitor. Petualang. Ingrate. Ass-kissing lapdog.

I am not oblivious to the country's political scenario and its many ills. I know a wrong when I see one and there have been many "wrongs".

But I have also seen many "rights" which, sadly enough, are not acknowledged and given their due recognition because it is more exciting to diss the Establishment.

Twenty-two years of Dr M and four years of Pak Lah - and the latter is taking all the crap from a bunch of pseudo-politicos determined to play to the galley. How sad.

They say there are neither friends nor enemies in politics. Yesterday's bitter foes can be today's bosom buddies. How true. It's part of the game.

Make no mistake, though. The corridors of power, on whichever side of the divide, reek with stench. It is the devils' playground, a place where angels refuse to tread.

When Sports and Sleep Collide

For the past few days, Pak Abu is completely out of range even when he is within both sight and earshot. Don't bother making small talk; he is in Planet Sports in a galaxy far, far away.

Going by past experience, he returns to Planet Earth only when whatever's currently on TV comes to an end; the flavour of the moment is French Open.

Pak Abu is a passionate armchair critic of all things sport. Don't risk watching sports with him if you don't fancy listening to his choice commentaries of how things should ideally be.

Pak Abu has a special knack for working himself up into a frenzy, especially where football is concerned. A diehard Liverpool fan, Pak Abu just knows how the Liverpool team should be managed.

Likewise, he also has some choice advice for Alex Ferguson on how Manchester United team should be run, if he can understand Ferguson's Scottish burr, that is.

Pak Abu and I have a long-standing agreement, that I would camp in front of the TV on nights when he stays up to watch programmes of interest to him like golf, tennis and soccer.

My job is only to keep him company. I am not expected to give my two-sen worth at any cost because sports is not my territory.

Sometimes though, I itched to take a few potshots at Pak Abu, especially when he started on Ferguson and MU, which happens to be my favourite team.

The funny thing about Pak Abu is that he has this tendency to fall asleep on the sofa no matter how exciting the game may be.

Heaven forbid if I switch off the TV in the midst of his rhythmic snoring, for he would suddenly wake up and give me a glare, as though he has never been to La la Land at all.

I managed to wring some concessions from Pak Abu for our new pad, mainly because I want to sleep in my own bed on championship nights.

We are going to have Astro in the bedroom. Hallelujah!

Of Faith and Friendship

I read somewhere that if you can count your best friends on one hand, you are very blessed indeed. After all these years, I am still not lucky enough to have that privilege.

There are friends, and there are friends. Many, unfortunately, are fairweather friends and in times of trouble you know exactly who they are.

They are the ones conspicuous by their absence in your shrinking circle the moment you hit a rough patch. They are the ones with a thousand excuses when contacted for help.

They are also the ones who would, pointedly, keep you at arm's length and out of their social circle for fear you might cast your gloom on them. In other words, they avoid you like the proverbial plague.

Sadly, with the exception of a select few, the same applies to kith and kin. You are no longer made to feel welcome in their homes, for fear you might ask for the inevitable - help.

Way back in the 1990s when my PR consultancy business was booming, I had a lot of friends. People I didn't even know crawled out of the woodworks to be my friends.

It didn't help that I wasn't "kedekut" (tight-fisted) with what little that I had, thanks to my late grandmother's constant drumming to be equally grateful to God and helpful to man at all times.

But when business folded towards the end of the decade - a painful aftermath of the 1997 financial meltdown - I was left pretty much on my own, with a mountain of debts and not a soul in sight to lend even a shoulder, let alone money.

That was when reality hit home. Struggling to make ends meet while raising four children single-handedly, I remember going from job to job trying to earn a decent living.

Even after I lost my house to pay off debts, the family remained upbeat. So what if we no longer had a house to call our own, and by the same token, no friends left? We still had each other.

Of course life was tough going. But I learned to make the best out of the worst. I remember thinking I didn't need these so-called friends to get on with my life.

In my sphere of existence then, I saw them as a liability to me, not me as a liability to them as they would have had it. Put that way, I had an easier time coping.

That was also the time when I turned inwards, seeking solace in prayer. It didn't matter what people said - they could smirk for whatever it was worth - but it was never too late to make your peace with God.

There is a lot of truth in the principle of faith; for as long as you don't lose faith in God, you will be alright under any circumstances whatsoever.

Friends may desert you in times of trouble, but rest assured God won't. He is the only one who matters above all else, and the only ONE truly worth it.

Spell-chequered!

A news article in the Malay Mail today (Tuesday, June 3, 2008) had me howling with laughter, lifting my spirit somewhat.

Titled "Spell-checker runs amok", the article recounted how some American high school students in Middletown, Pennsylvania, ended up with new last names in their yearbook, no thanks to a computer quirk.

Apparently, the publishing company that handled the yearbook printing had used a computer spell-check to minimise spelling errors, conveniently forgetting that the book is littered with names of students.

As a result, some students were christened with new, and in some cases unflattering, last names. Consider this: Max Zupanovic is listed as "Max Supernova", Kathy Carbaugh as "Kathy Airbag" and Alessandria Ippolito as "Alessandria Impolite".

"It was kind of funny, but kind of rude at the same time," rued Ippolito. You have my sympathy, you poor thing.

I only hope Kathy Carbaugh sees the funny side of her new surname, Airbag. At the very least, 'Airbag' goes in tandem with the 'Car' in her real surname, and that's cool.

I, for one, know I would not exactly be jumping with joy to be associated with any 'bag' - windbag, eyebag, oldbag, scumbag, fleabag, dirtbag - except perhaps 'moneybag'. Wishful thinking, that.

I don't use spell-check because I abhor American English. Also, I don't take too kindly to the spell-checker's insistence that I change the name of my beloved Dungun to Dungeon.

That, my friend, is sacrilegious!

Mak In Remembrance

Mak with four of her six daughters. From left: me, Zahana, Hanizah & Zaridah. Not in pix Zanariah & Norliza.

It has been such a roller coaster ride these past few days with mum's death and all, that I feel life has gone a little off-tangent.

There is this feeling of emptiness slowly gnawing inside, a yawning chasm that only serves to heighten the pain.

In a way I am fortunate because I am one of those placid, boring old souls not given to much excitement and displays of emotion.

I have always been the kind who keeps things bottled up inside and this time it is no different; I grieve in silence.

Even though I am mum's firstborn daughter (I have two brothers ahead of me), we never had that traditional mother-daughter relationship.

This is because I never grew up with her. Instead, being the eldest granddaughter, I was farmed out to be raised by Opah (Grandma) and Tok Ayah (Grandpa) from infancy.

I grew up to be a loner, spoiled and quite brattish too, revelling in my status as "Opah's favourite" to the exasperation of everyone.

Having said that, mum and I got on reasonably well together as we age, especially after I became a wife and mother myself.

When my grandmother died six years after my marriage, it was to mum that my parental loyalty shifted.

Mum was hard to fathom. Quiet and retiring, she had the patience of a saint. She also never raised her voice nor her finger at any of her children.

That 'dirty' job was left to Bapak, who would roll up his "Berita Harian" newspaper to swat his kids by way of disciplining them.

Comical as it may seem now, that roll of newspaper never failed to put the fear of God into them all.

By the way, Bapak was no ogre; he was a big softie and one reluctant disciplinarian. But somebody had to do the job!

My mother was a fiercely independent woman. Even In her declining years, she refused to lodge with any of her children, preferring to live on her own in her neat little bungalow by the sea in Dungun.

Fortunately, my sister Ani and her family live just two doors away, so she wasn't without company.

When she was stricken with renal failure, however, mum grudgingly allowed herself to be transported to Kuala Terengganu, to be under the care of another sister, Idah.

She loved coming to Kuala Lumpur, making the rounds visiting her children and grandchildren. As her health rapidly deteriorated, however, her travels became fewer and far between.

Mum enjoyed travelling and before her illness, she even made a trip to the United States to visit our youngest sibling, Liza, who lives and works there.

Oh, my mother, bless her soul, was also a vainpot and we loved to tease her about it. Her illness notwithstanding, she would strive to look good at all times. Not a hair out of place, always.

I am ashamed to say I did not inherit this trait of hers. With my occasional worn t-shirt, faded sarong and mousy hair, I have been known to be mistaken as the family maid!

With mum's passing, we have lost a matriarch. I am afraid I am not up for the job, at least not just yet, and I don't think anyone among us could fill her shoes.

In retrospect, we have a lot to be grateful for. We have had a wonderful person to call Mother. It was God's blessing upon us. We couldn't have asked for more.

Requiem For My Mother

From left: Mak Nor Zaliha(arwah), Ayah Ngah Aziz (arwah), Ayah Cik Ali, Wan Su Sabariah (arwah)

The children had been looking forward to the "balik kampung' trip to Dungun over the weekend with much anticipation and excitement.

After all, it was their cousin Reeta's wedding, and with a large clan like ours, weddings are festive occasions unto themselves, with kith and kin coming from all over the country to share the merriment and joy.

Little did I know when I left Kuala Lumpur for Dungun in the dawn light of yesterday (Saturday, 31st May 2008) that I was going home to welcome a new nephew-in-law and to bury my mother, all on the same day.

Granted, the news that had been filtering from Terengganu for the last month or so about her health had not been good, but we truly had not expected Mak to pass away just 10 minutes after my niece’s akad nikah (solemnisation of marriage).

Then again, the will of God is not to be denied. We, the siblings, took comfort in the fact that all of us were there with our respective family members to bid our beloved Mak a final goodbye.

Mak had been on dialysis thrice-weekly for the last couple of years. Although in failing health, she was all excited about the forthcoming wedding because it afforded her an opportunity to meet up with relatives and loved ones who live out-of-state.

However, the night before the wedding Mak had a mild stroke and was rushed to Dungun Hospital. She took a turn for the worse and was taken by ambulance to Kuala Terengganu Hospital in the wee hours of the morning.

She passed away peacefully at the hospital at ten the following morning, barely 10 minutes after Reeta’s wedding was solemnised in Dungun.

It was the weirdest of feelings, really. Guests arrived in droves to attend the kenduri and bersanding ceremony held at a beach resort half-a-mile away, just as the body arrived from Kuala Terengganu.

So all of us siblings had our tasks split into two; some attended to the wedding guests while others began preparations for the burial.

Mak was 73 when she breathed her last and was buried after Asar prayers on the same day. She was laid to rest in a cemetery by the sea in the waning evening light, to the rush of the waves in the near distance.

We were fortunate to have our eldest brother, Yusoff, qualified in managing the affairs of Muslim death, taking the lead in the burial.

My sisters and I also felt blessed to be able to do our final duty as her daughters – to bathe and shroud her body – in preparation of her final journey.

It was so heartening to see her numerous adult grandsons, armed with shovels and spades, working alongside their fathers, uncles, cousins and an assortment of male kin, participating in the burial of their beloved matriarch.

And when my brother Yusoff, overcome with emotion while reading the talqin, faltered, it was our nephew Anas, a recent hafiz, who calmly continued where his uncle left off. His opah would have been proud.

Goodbye my dearest Mak. May you have a peaceful journey and may Allah subhanahu wata'ala bless you and place your soul in the company of the faithful.

We know we will miss you tremenduously and with so much pain in our hearts. We know we will shed tears of sorrow whenever we think of you.

Worst of all, we know that Hari Raya and 'balik kampung' will always be a poignant reminder that you are no longer with us.

But we will always love you until we breathe our last. You will never be far from our thoughts. May you rest in peace, Mak. Till we meet again, Al-Fatihah.

The Kindness of A Stranger

Naj & yours truly with Auntie Nora, UK 1976
Michael & Janet taking Naj for a stroll


Some years back Pak Abu and I made a stopover in London on our return from Basel, Switzerland, after attending an international exhibition that our company had an interest in.

Both of us had good reasons for wanting to be on that familiar terrain again; Pak Abu wished to visit his alma mater, the University of Westminster, in the heart of London while I wanted to pay a courtesy call on my former landlady up north in West Hampstead.

Mrs Wilkner, the lady in question, loomed large in my life in the mid 1970s when I was a bright-eyed young wife with a baby to care for, and very far away from home.

She was kindness personified, a woman with a heart of gold who took it upon herself to ensure my infant's continued well-being, although at that time she was dealing with her own personal heartache.

Then in her 40s and still quite a looker, Mrs Wilkner was very motherly apart from being fiercely protective of my son, Naj, whom she babysat for free when I went to work.

Naj was born on a cold, wintry day in University College Hospital, Euston Square, at a time when Christmas lights adorned the streets and the department stores, and Christmas carols filled the cool evening air.

I remember the day we took him home from the hospital, and there was the 'reception committee', Mrs Wilkner and her two children, Janet and Michael, anxiously waiting to welcome the baby.

Most evenings the duo would come up to my bedsit, asking for permission to take the baby for a stroll at a nearby park. Almost always I would oblige, bundling him up in layers of blankets to fend off the cold.

Like a ritual, I would descend to Mrs Wilkner's living room in the basement, where we would have tea and biscuits and she would woefully lament her husband's 'indiscretions', as she delicately put it.

Young as I was, I knew all she needed was an ear, and I was a willing listener. All the time, this beautiful woman was the epitome of grace and my heart bled for her.

When Pak Abu and I knocked on her door that spring morning almost 30 years later, it was Mrs Wilkner herself who invited us in. She told us her husband had passed away some time back and that Janet and Michael were living on their own nearby.

We stayed awhile making small talk before departing. She showed us the backyard, now turned into a garden, with ornamental faeries and gnomes amongst the plants. Once, that backyard was just an expanse of grass, with a big tree at one corner.

Mrs Wilkner was getting on in years and looked frail. When it was time to go, I left with a heavy heart, knowing I may not have another opportunity to pay homage to this gem of a woman who left an indelible mark in my life.

The Art of the Artless

It sure seems like everything qualifies as art these days, from the eclectic to the exclusive, the pleasing to the nauseating. Nothing is sacred anymore.

Has the world become a stage full of perverts masquerading under the guise of arts and culturalism to promote sleaze? Going by what we see around us, that statement is not very far off its mark.

Human excreta, the genitalia, dead foetuses, live mutilation of animals, nudity, even sexual acts; you name it and chances are it is being exhibited in a museum or gallery somewhere to the delight of some and revulsion of others.

Take Musee De L'Erotisme in Paris, touted as the perfect stop for those with a penchant for sex and erotica, with its collection of erotic objects from around the world, displays on the history of Parisian prostitution and modern erotic arts.

Yet another is Venustempel in Amsterdam, arguably the world's oldest sex museum, where one can 'savour' the rich stock of erotic paintings, sculptures, manuscripts, recordings and even private interactive viewing booths.

And then there is the Icelandic Phallological Museum, the "Museum of Pricks" if you will. Located in Husavik, Iceland, it is dedicated to phallic specimens belonging to all the various types of mammal found in Iceland.

On display are 100 specimens belonging to 36 different kinds of mammal. Interestingly enough, the museum has also received a pledge of a future specimen belonging to homo sapiens.

I say kudos to the fellow game enough to donate his prick and balls upon his death in order to complete the exhibit!

Not to be outdone, even India has a museum aimed to disgust. True to its name, Sulabh International Museum of Toilets in New Delhi showcases all things, well, toilet.

It traces the history of the toilet from 3000 BC and offers fun facts (Louis XIV purportedly used to relieve himself while holding court), examines toilet customs from around the world, and toilets in relation to arts and literature, from poems to chamber pots, apparently.

And as recent as November 2007, Sulabh created doors and window planks made of human faeces and put them on display at the Lisson Art Gallery of London. I can understand cowdung (as cooking fuel), but human excreta as doors? Urgggh!

In the realm of mass nude photography, there is Spencer Tunick, from Brooklyn, New York, who has become famous for photographing thousands of naked people in public settings worldwide.

Calling himself a contemporary artist, Tunick set a record for naked photography with a photo of 18,000 people in the buff in Mexico City on May 6, 2007.

And just a week back, a Sydney art gallery was forced to suspend an exhibition featuring nude pictures of pre-pubescent boys and girls by photographer Bill Henson. Henson himself is now facing possible obscenity prosecution.

Whilst the art community in Australia defended his action, calling his public censure a blow to "artistic expressions", Australians in general strongly condemned what they saw as child pornography, with Prime Minister Kevin Rudd calling the photos "revolting."

Hoi polloi that I am, unschooled in the 'finer points of art appreciation' unlike Bill Henson and his arty-farty bunch, I certainly feel this is the kind of "art" we can darn well do without.

The Songsang Way To Heaven

It is amazing how gullible some people can be when common sense tells us to always exercise caution. Put it down to naivety or foolishness, or sometimes, plain greed.

Otherwise, how else can you explain being taken in by stories e-mailed to you, almost always from an impoverished African country or another, about some 'filthy rich' sods naming you heir to their 'millions'?

You sit there drooling about the millions purportedly coming your way, oblivious to the fact that you are required to deposit your own money in a foreign bank account somewhere to 'process' this new-found wealth of yours.

And then there is the matter of religion. I have always thought that with the kind of religious instructions drummed into us since childhood, we would have acquired an in-built resistance towards any ajaran songsang (deviant teachings).

But I guess I underestimated the gullibility of some among us. All it takes is one person's charisma, and lo and behold, another cult takes root, garnering new disciples ready to embrace anything new, different and I suppose, exciting.

Remember Ayah Pin and his 'Sky Kingdom' cult? Tagged the "Teapot Cult" to the bemusement of the world for its central objects of veneration such as gigantic teapot, kettle, ark, umbrella, crescent moon, vase etc, this deviant sect in Besut, Terengganu, provided endless fodder for readers until it was suppressed by the authorities in 2005.

Today Harian Metro highlighted yet another cult, Pemuda Kahfi, allegedly active in the Klang Valley. Their modus operandi is covert preaching car-to-car in parking lots of shopping complexes, mosques and hotels.

The report said Pemuda Kahfi advocates only one daily prayer as opposed to Islam's requirement of five. The weekly Friday prayer is also deemed frivolous and unnecessary.

But I believe the icing on the Kahfi cake is that you can literally pay your way to Heaven. All you have to do is make a certain amount of payment to your Tok Guru (religious teacher) and all your past sins will be absolved. That certainly takes bribery to a new high!

Islam teaches us that God Almighty is Most Compassionate and that we pray to Him for forgiveness and mercy. The prayer, by the way, is FOC. Now, if you can do it for free but choose to pay for it - that's not very clever, innit?