When Prices Rise

Someone once said when you start seeing makeshift food stalls sprouting all over, particularly in front of not-so-humble abodes, it is an indication that the hard times are back.

I don't know how far this is true but I did see this phenomenon onwards of 1998 in the middle-class township of Subang Jaya where I then resided.

All of a sudden, there were stalls upon stalls selling all kinds of food in my erstwhile neighbourhood, from breakfast fare nasi lemak (rice cooked in coconut gravy) to teatime treats pisang goreng (banana fritters) and kuih muih (desserts & sweetmeats), to convenient takeaways such as burgers.

All that was needed were a sturdy table, an umbrella big enough to cover the table and a couple of chairs, and perseverence, and a business was born.

I have yet to see this happening anywhere near Taman Tun Dr Ismail (TTDI). Then again, the largely silver-haired population of TTDI comprising government pensioners and well-heeled wargamas (senior citizens), are already a self-sufficient lot, their toiling days a distant memory.

While taking a breather at the Kuala Lumpur Golf and Country Club (KLGCC) yesterday evening, I fell into conversation with Asmadi, one of the waiters whom I know quite well.

The affable and soft-spoken Asmadi, who hails from Kelantan, has been with the club for more than a decade. In his mid 30s, Asmadi is a father of three, with the fourth on the way.

Since traffic was slow in the lounge, we had plenty of time to talk. Like everybody else these days, we commiserated about the escalating food prices and the looming hardship.

His wife quit her work to take care of their children. Her working wasn't worth it, he says, because there was hardly any money left after paying the babysitters, her meals and transportation to and from work.

He worries about not earning enough to support his growing family. He says he needs a side income to supplement his meagre salary. "I don't know kak, maybe open a foodstall somewhere," he vaguely adds.

"I have been learning in the club kitchen too, kak, just in case an opportunity presents itself to run my own little makan place," he confides with a smile.

I can only hope that such an opportunity comes his way soon enough. He is a likeable, hard-working young man who deserves every chance to make it during these increasingly difficult times.

Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow

My elder daughter Ann had just ended a nine-year relationship, her longest ever. It was her first, so naturally she was feeling low, although the replacement is already in place.

Fat hope, guys! We are not talking men here, although I am not quite sure whether that's a good or a bad thing.

Since the day her once-trustworthy Kancil left her stranded on the Klang highway at 3.00 am a month back, she had been contemplating with the idea of trading the almost decade-old car with something newer and more dependable.

In fact, I had been urging her to sell the Kancil for some years now. After all, the gearbox had been changed twice already, and we have not even talked about other breakdowns.

But she had a fond attachment to that dirty green jalopy. it was her first wheels, bought when she just started working.

Naj, who was then working in Penang, took over the Kancil when Ann went to further her studies in Michigan, USA six years ago. She came back to a pretty beat-up thing, but fell in love all over again.

She could have bought a new car when she started work as a journalist but steadfastly refused to even consider it. I was the one living on edge because the car was no longer reliable.

Of course it could still take you from Point A to Point B, but there had been occasions when it took an extended R & R enroute, worrying half the clan in the process.

Anyway, yesterday she invited me to lunch, provided I drive to her apartment, park my car there and leave in hers to go 'makan' in One Utama, which I obliged.

The new wheels, black in colour, is a nifty little thing. What came to my mind was the little black dress. She looks equally good in both the dress and the car. Nice job, Ann!

Such Shoddy Workmanship

The wall is damp; something is leaking in there. I noticed it on Saturday when I moved the wardrobe to the opposite end of the room, to make way for another piece of furniture.

The fast-spreading watermark is as prominent as the black fungal growth already appearing on the wet patch. How could this be? We only moved in a month ago!

I know it has something to do with the air-conditioner because the damp spot is directly underneath the air-con unit. I think the unit is not installed properly.

The contractor sent his man to check out the problem on Monday. Tomorrow his workmen will come. Definitely they wil have to knock down part of the wall to attend to the problem.

Obviously it has been leaking for quite a while because the damp patch is pretty big. This is so very annoying. Why couldn't they do it right the first time?

Worse still, the wall in question divides the master bedroom and the study and the wet patch can be seen in both rooms.

It takes a lot to get me all rankled up because I am not easily pissed. But this obviously shoddy workmanship is getting the better of me, especially because it is so unnecessary. Now you know who is not getting any recommendations from yours truly.

Fascination With Screen Spooks

While not an ardent movie fan, I cannot resist spine-chillers, especially those dealing with ghostly apparitions, hauntings, demonic possessions and such.

Likewise, I only watch similarly-themed programmes on Astro, namely 'Ghost Hunter', 'Ghost Whisperer' and 'Hauntings', and the occasional spooky tales on HBO or Star Movies.

This is, of course, apart from my perennial favourites National Geographic, Discovery Channel, Animal Planet and AFC (Asian Food Channel).

Pak Abu and the kids can't understand why I like to scare myself silly. It is pathetic, I know, especially when I watch these eerie tales with a cushion at hand, ready to cover my face at the slightest creak or tweak.

I have been known to 'mute' the audio when the going gets too tough. My logic is that a silent scream is a better bet than turning myself away from the screen.

I honestly can't explain my fascination with the morbid. Guess here's one ideal candidate for psychoanalysis, considering that I also prefer true-life crime stories over other genres.

I love autobiographies but won't touch romance with a ten-foot pole. Humour I don't mind but fiction isn't my cup of tea at all, although I do pick a title or two occasionally, based on recommendations, book reviews and the bestsellers' list.

Somehow I find real-life murder mysteries very engrossing, especially because there is always a closure to each story. At the end of it all, I like happy endings.

Going to the cinemas is not an option because my movements would be restricted to my seat, and I prefer to stand up and walk away when I cannot stomach any particular scene.

In 1987 I went to a cinema in Petaling Jaya at the invitation of a colleague to watch 'Ruthless People", a comedy starring Bette Midler and Danny De Vito.

It took me 14 years before I stepped into a cinema again. In 2001 Pak Abu and I went to the cineplex in KLCC to watch 'Pearl Harbour'.

The most memorable moments of the movie were the ones when Pak Abu snored loudly (and had to be forcibly awakened) while the bombs were falling on Pearl Harbour.

If you did catch the movie, you would have known how noisy and lengthy the bombing scene was. How Pak Abu managed to sleep through it all still beats the hell out of me.

To my eternal delight, cinemas today are no longer cramped, there are less seats in each auditorium, and the seats are nicer and definitely more spacious and comfortable.

You can stretch your legs without kicking the butts of the person sitting in front. I was also surprised to note people didn't seem to eat kuaci (melon seeds) anymore in cinemas!

Anyway, for the last couple of nights Pak Abu and I have been getting cosy watching eerie tales 'The Reaping' and 'The Messengers'.

We have quite a few more to plough through before he returns the entire bunch of DVDs to his golfing buddy Amin.

Quiet and reserved in public but very much alive in Pak Abu's company, Amin seems to spend his days golfing and nights watching DVDs, considering the ultra-huge collection that he has.

Please excuse me, for I have another spooky tale to chill my blood with before I hit the pillow....

Yesterday Once More

Left: Misi (nurse) Sabariah, our Wan Su (youngest aunt), circa 1962

Yesterday the past came a-calling, crowding my thoughts with events of long ago when life was uncomplicated and love was abundant. And I have En Mohd Som to thank for it.

It was his jottings in response to my piece Rumpus of the Rump (Thursday, July 24, 2008) that set the motion for my reflections of a unique lifestyle long gone.

If my memory serves me well, En Mohd Som arrived in Bukit Besi with all the right credentials; good education, young, single and quite a looker (and obviously very very eligible). It was thus no surprise that his arrival set the hearts of some young maidens of remote Bukit Besi aflutter.

[Bukit Besi was a mining town in the middle of nowhere in Terengganu, with no access road and reachable only by air and keretapi lipang, a wagon train carrying ore from the mine to the seaside town of Dungun, where they were loaded onto barges to be taken to Japanese ships anchored far out at sea].

The fact that En Mohd Som (Matsom, as my dad called him) remembers comely nurses Aminah and Mimi is further testimony of where his eyes frequently strayed.

Unfortunately enough, at eight years old, my heart was a tad too young to be smitten. Otherwise I would probably be among those paying homage to his shadow too..he he he.

He and my stepfather Zainal became fast friends. They played tennis together and he used to drop by our home on many occasions.

In a place where the orang putih (whites) reigned supreme, they were among the handful of locals who were members of that exclusive Bukit Club, with its swimming pool, billiard room, a well-stocked bar, weekly movie shows, frequent dances and parties.

We lived a life somewhat cocooned and removed from the ordinary. Our shopping was done at The Store, an establishment more at home in Tennyside than Terengganu, with its cold room of cuts and its array of British-only products.

Bapak (Father) was so fond of buying us Smarties as special treats that each time I see Smarties in the shops today, I would be reminded of my Bukit Besi days.

Thursday nights saw us at the Bukit Club, clustering in from of a big screen with the rest of the orang putih kids waiting for the movie to begin.

Since Friday was (and still is) a day of rest in Terengganu, Thursday evening was when the fun began for the expatriate crowd. Those were the heady days.

Everybody was in Bukit Besi to work, make money and gain experience . The expats came and went in quick succession. But the latter groups weren't as accomodating and eventually the arrivals trickled to a stop.

I left in 1967 to enter secondary school in Dungun, eventually moving on to a boarding school. And that was the end of my association with Bukit Besi.

The mine closed down not long after, and my parents moved on to Johore where Bapak worked in a bauxite mining company for a decade, before returning to Dungun for good.

He bought a neat little bungalow by the sea where he lived with mum until he died peacefully in his sleep in the late 1990s.

To En Mohd Som, thank you for leading the way down memory lane. It was a trip worth its weight in the best grade of iron ore!

[PS: Mum died of renal failure on May 31, 2008, hardly two months ago, in Dungun. But we kids of the Zainal & Norzaliha clan would love to meet up with you one of these days. I am reachable at kamabakar@yahoo.com].

A Funeral and A Wedding

First of all, my apologies for being away from blogsphere for five days. There were too many things to attend to lately that writing was relegated to the bottom rung of the ladder.

To make matters worse, by the time the day was done, my mind switched off automatically. Creativity too took a well-deserved vacation, rendering me staring helplessly at a blank screen for hours at a time.

There was another morning burial at the Kg Sungai Pencala Muslim Cemetery last Saturday, making it the second burial in as many weeks. Al-Fatihah.

Over the weekend I indulged in a favourite pastime - shopping for books. Got meself two deeply disturbing true-crime stories interesting enough to keep me glued to the pages for over two days.

Without A Trace by Marion Collins details the true story of how Robert Durst, a powerful New York real estate millionaire, degenerated from wealth and affluence to a cross-dressing fugitive suspected of murdering and dismembering an elderly neighbour.

The False Prophet, a chilling account by Claire Booth, had me pondering about the fragility of the human mind long after I finished the book.

It revolves around a young Mormon missionary named Taylor Helzer, whose twisted devotion to his church ended with a series of gruesome murders in the name of God.

Last night, we had Ann-Marie and Thong for dinner. I prepared my Hari Raya dishes - nasi minyak (ghee rice), ayam kuzi (a chicken dish) and rendang daging (dried beef curry) - which had the kids drooling from miles away.

Ann-Marie who is French, is Pak Abu's friend from his university days in London. Her husband, the soft-spoken Thong, is Malaysian by birth.

They are in town for the bi-annual visit to Thong's mother and family members in Kuala Lumpur. They would be leaving for their home in Strasbourg, France on Wednesday after a month-long holiday in Asia.

Daughter Awwa dropped by after work while Joe followed suit with girlfriend Lily soon after. Ann, who had to work late, requested that Joe 'tapau' (take away) some of the food home. I, of course, gladly obliged.

After dinner we watched a recording of Maude's wedding to Ahmed, a Moroccan Muslim. There were a lot of singing, ululating and dancing. Maude is the only child of Ann-Marie and Thong.

Despite her French-Chinese heritage, the sweet-faced and pint-sized Maude looks so endearingly Melayu. We wish the handsome couple a lifetime of bliss.

Thong said they would be going to Morocco mid-August to attend a wedding celebration hosted by Ahmed's family.

He also mentioned that they were considering retiring here under the Malaysia My Second Home programme. I think that would be swell.

Sometimes I think we are so unappreciative of what we have. It takes someone totally removed from our sphere to tell us how lucky we are, for the things that we take for granted.

Rumpus of The Rump

[Kama at six]

No one likes a prolonged hospital stay, I'm sure. Who could possibly enjoy being confined to a hospital bed and fed bland food for an extended period of time? It's like being punished for falling sick.

All my life, I was hospitalised for a long period only twice; the first time as a six year-old and the second at the age of 31 for a C-section due to breech pregnancy.

While having a C-section is nothing to shout about, my hospitalisation due to severe burns as a preschooler was traumatic to both my grandparents and I.

The tale of how my derriere got scorched would have been hilarious had it not been such a painful experience.

It is an episode that has gone down the annals of our family history, to be retold time and again for its 'mirth value'.

That my posterior has been recorded for posterity is truly not a tribute I would have chosen to remember me by. Alas, this behind has made it to the front and there's no turning back!

The year was 1960 when I ended up for one month in Bukit Besi Hospital, lying on my belly with a severely burnt rump.

Young as I was, I could remember every little detail of the events leading to that fateful moment.

It was a sultry afternoon and I was on my skipping ropes, skipping in the front yard of our kampung house with a cat on my tail. The cat jumped as I skipped, trying to paw at my feet.

The house was a wooden structure on stilts, with eight rungs of stairs. My eldest brother Yusof once accidentally rolled down those very steps, headlong into a huge basket of roti (bread) placed there moments before by our local Bengali breadman.

Those days breadmen carried their bread for sale in big wicker baskets and walked from house to house carrying those baskets on their shoulders.

Our Bengali breadman had just placed his roti-laden basket at the foot of the stairs when Yusof, then three, missed a footing and came tumbling down.

Fortunately, his fall was broken by loaves of soft bread, much to the chagrin of the poor breadman whose supply for the day was completely ruined.

Back to my celebrated rump tale; Tired from all the skipping, I ran up the stairs with the cat in hot pursuit, and plonked myself down on what I thought was a chair set against the wall.

Suddenly there was this sizzling sound and the smell of burning flesh. I screamed and passed out. The next thing I remember was lying on my stomach in a hospital cot. The pain was excruciating.

I had accidentally sat on a hot oven; that old-fashioned round metal oven with a tiny glass window, widely used for baking in the '50s and '60s.

Grandma was baking a cake and had not counted on me to come running into the house and sitting on her oven when there were so many chairs around.

I was told that my stepfather, who was home at the time, grabbed hold of me and lifted me off the oven, leaving my flesh sizzling on the cover.

He then cradled me face down and ran all the way to the hospital which was a short distance away. My aunt Wan Su, a nurse at the same hospital, took over the task of caring for me.

I remember my grandma sleeping in a bed next to the cot most nights, going home only in the morning to do her daily chores before returning again at night to keep me company.

Much later my grandmother would tell me of soft little hands caressing her face while she slept, and of Wan Su telling grandma about a little girl who died in the cot that I occupied.

Wan Su would also tell of the phantom of a young Indian woman with long flowing hair and clad in a white sari, seen most nights running past the paediatric-cum-maternity wing where I was, before disappearing into thin air.

In any case, my one-month hospital stay was a memorable one. The 'mems' (wives of Bukit Besi's expatriate staff) came in droves, bringing presents.

One particular gift I recall with such clarity was a beautifully handmade Raggedy Ann doll clad in a gingham dress.

The hair, pleated down the middle, was made of yellow wool, while the rest of cotton and calico stuffed with kapok. The doll was big, almost half my size.

The 'mems' were friends and acquaintances of both my parents and grandparents, especially grandma who was an active member of that venerable British institution, the WI (Women's Institute).

I have precious little to show for that terrible experience. The pain is long gone and the scars have faded over time.

What remains is the memory of kindness and compassion shown by a motley group of strange white women to a scared and suffering little girl.

New Twist To Old Tales

Many years ago a close friend playfully poked fun at me by saying I was old before my time because of my penchant for kata orang tua-tua (old wives' tales).

She said I always had a story to tell in relation to whatever was happening and that I was forever dipping into my grandmother's 'treasure chest' of quotations and sayings to prove a point.

Honest to goodness, I had never quite seen myself from that perspective. I guess it must have been galling for some people to hear me dispensing with age-old advice to suit all occasions.

But I can't think otherwise. I grew up with a convenient litany of do's and don'ts from one of the world's most persuasive grandmothers. So I am merely following tradition.

Grandma said never to leave your bed empty for three consecutive days for it invites unseen 'guests' to frolic on it.

If you have to, flip the mattress up against the wall or cover it with a sheet. Don't forget to strip the bed bare upon your return and put new sheets on, so you won't be sleeping on any bekas (stains).

In the kitchen, never leave food exposed overnight. Cover everything to avoid it being peed or spit on (honest!) by your ill-mannered "housemates".

Cover your head when doing "a big one" because these unseen pranksters sometimes take immeasurable fun in dumping the crap on you, literally!

Since I liked to sing (still do), grandma cautioned me against doing it in the kitchen for fear of me marrying an old man.

What the lady didn't know (she never did, thank God) was that I was hoping to marry an old man! (Just for the record, I changed my mind somewhat when I saw more of the world).

I can hear some of you twittering (in nervous laughter?) as you read these seemingly silly advice.

In all likelihood, my kids would roll their eyes heavenwards with a "there she goes again" look of dismay, while Pak Abu would be more to the point with just one word - mengarutlah! (what utter rubbish!)

Now let's put a modern twist to these things. Of course you shouldn't leave your bed uncovered. You don't want to share a bed with all kinds of airborne particles, do you?

And uncovered food? Well, anyone with half a brain can tell you that germs and bacteria thrive in exposed food.

As for covering your head while crapping, I think this refers to the old days when outhouses were the norm. God knows what lurked on the roof of an outhouse.

If you are doing it in the pleasant environs of your bathroom with its flushed toilet, hot-and-cold water and tastefully arranged floor and wall tiles, the need to sit on the 'throne' with a towel on your head seems comical at best.

And singing in the kitchen could be distracting. In days of yore when cooking was done over open fire using firewood, you had to pay full attention to the tasks at hand, or you might end up burning the house down!

Whatever the case, I will continue with my tales, old wives notwithstanding, because it makes one's life richer for the knowledge, ridiculous as they may be.

Tormenting A'e

My kitchen is doing a roaring business these past couple of days; I think the kids miss home-cooking, no matter how badly mum cooks.

We had rice again tonight, the second time in three days. That's a lot of rice, considering the family usually opts for non-rice meals for dinner.

Awwa's friend Ismail (A'e) called during dinner. He sounded breathless. He told Awwa that he and friend Vinod had just taken flight from their office in a hurry.

A'e directs the production of TV commercials and his office is a two-storey converted bungalow in Taman Tun Dr Ismail.

He is a pretty level-headed guy not easily given to excitement, so it was a surprise to know he took to his heels this time around.

It wasn't the first time A'e was tormented by 'something' while alone in the office, but he had managed to keep a calm exterior all these while.

But today it happened in the presence of Vinod and they decided it wasn't worth the effort to hang around waiting to be scared out of their wits for the second time.

Apparently, A'e was doing his work upstairs when he saw the heavy drapes being parted by unseen hands. Both men felt the pricking on their napes and decided to leave.

The last time it happened, he was alone in the office and had fallen asleep at his desk when a loud cackle woke him up in the wee hours of the morning.

It must be some mischievous being playing a prank on him. Whatever the case, I don't think he should be alone in that office. Don't tempt fate. Also, there's safety in numbers.

Let me conclude with an amusing tale. For many a night since we moved here, the three of us - Pak Abu, Naj and myself - heard furniture being dragged around and heavy footsteps coming from the unit immediately above us.

I mean, who in his right mind would move his furniture past midnight every night? Not only that, we also heard the occasional drilling sounds (using an electric driller no less), at 3 am!

One night Naj gave me a sidelong look and said, "Are you sure there are people living up there Ma?" I got the chills just hearing that.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, I took a peek at the upstairs unit and saw laundry being aired to dry.

And this morning someone was having a loud phone conversation from the balcony of the unit above.

So there are real people living up there but what were they thinking, drilling holes at 3 am? Watch this space. It may get interesting...

Pak Abu's Golf Breather

[ Left: Beatrix Potter's original Peter Rabbit illustration]

My elder daughter Ann is on sick leave today. Her sinus has acted up again, she is having a slight fever and her voice sounded thick over the phone.

But I managed to persuade her to come around for a late lunch. She turned up about three, bearing a surprise present too.

A month back she had asked me for my list of "To Buy" books and I had given her a couple of titles by Bill Bryson not available the last time I visited the bookstores here in Damansara.

I had read previews of both and had set my mind on buying them; Bill Bryson's African Diary, about Bryson's travels in Kenya, and Made In America, his take on the evolution of the English Language in the United States.

What I didn't know was that Ann took the trouble to place an order for the two titles with Borders Bookstore at The Curve.

The books arrived last week and she collected them over the weekend. Thanks Ann, that was very thoughtful of you.

Wonder of wonders, Pak Abu is taking a one-day break from golf today. He had been golfing daily for 15 days straight, which I thought was stretching it a bit.

Just the other day, while running an errand in Kelana Jaya, he took a tumble on an uneven pavement. Luckily he wasn't injured.

He really had me worried then. I thought his knees had given way due to fatigue; fortunately it was just a miscalculated step.

We rarely watch movies together, be it at home or in the cinema, simply because I am not hot on films (unless they are eerie stuffs like ghost stories and such).

But yesterday I cosied up to the man a bit (just to keep him company, he he), watching Miss Potter, about that famous author and illustrator of children's books, Beatrix Potter.

The movie was filmed against the backdrop of breathtakingly beautiful Lake District in northwest England, while Beatrix Potter was played to near-perfection by that talented actress, Rene Zellweger.

I think boredom really set in for Pak Abu today. He watched The Other Boleyn Girl and Pride and Prejudice in quick succession.

I can't wait for Tuesday to arrive - he's better off on the golf course for sure.

Back In The Karaoke Groove

It's past midnight and Pak Abu and I had just returned from our karaoke session at the Royal Lake Club (RLC), our first in eight weeks.

It was great meeting those diehard karaoke 'kakis' again after a two-month absence. Many presumed we went for an extended holiday abroad.

Little did they know I was wallowing in self-pity at home; wheezing, sneezing and coughing, croaking my way in a world devoid of scent and aroma, and getting on everybody's nerves.

Poor Pak Abu. I know he missed his weekly dose of Broery and Ronald Keating and Eagle, among others. And singing alone at home is so lame, compared to belting 'em out with friends.

The karaoke session at the RLC is held weekly, every Sunday from 7pm to past midnight. This is because the club doesn't have a dedicated karaoke lounge; instead it utilises one part of the bar where professional singers usually perform on weekdays.

Kuala Lumpur Golf and Country Club (KLGCC), however, has its own karaoke lounge with a reasonably good (but sometimes cranky) sound system. The lounge opens daily from 5pm to midnight, except Sundays.

Comparatively, RLC is more systematic in its approach. In RLC, if you want to sing, you write down your name and membership number on a white board provided.

Then you jot down your choice of song on a slip of paper and pass it to the DJ. Yep, they have a dedicated DJ even though the session is only once a week. You may bring your own CDs if you so desire.

The system is fair and orderly. The DJ announces your name when your turn arrives and you step to the front to sing. You are allowed one song per turn.

In KLGCC, you write down your choice of songs on a slip of paper and pass it to one of the two waitressing staff on duty.

Unfortunately enough, the duo have to do everything - taking orders, delivering food, making and pouring drinks, serving members and guests, clearing up, attending to the till, taking in song requests, keying in song codes, managing the karaoke console, delivering microphones to patrons, not to mention coping with alcohol-intoxicated customers.

Small wonder they always manage to get the patrons' singing turns screwed up, much to the latter's chagrin. We too had been at the receiving end a couple of times.

The system, haphazard at best and unreliable at worst, depends on the memory of the staff to remember whose turn comes first.

It works well when there are less than six patrons to attend to, but goes haywire when a large group of people descends upon the place.

This usually happens when there are private functions like dinners and parties at the club, where guests adjourn to the karaoke lounge for 'happy hours'.

Because KLGCC is not strictly a members' club, there are plenty of walk-ins patronising the place. In fact, many regular patrons of the karaoke lounge are non-members.

In KLGCC, each person or group is allowed two songs per turn and this again gives rise to a lot of complaints by some patrons.

Imagine, a single patron gets to sing two songs, a couple also gets the same, so is a group of eight people. Trouble usually begins when a group (usually those with one drink too many) demands more songs.

Why the management does not consider placing a fair and workable system as well as a specific personnel to oversee the karaoke function, beg answering.

Whether a patron is a member or a guest is beside the point. It IS a karaoke lounge after all and this complaint is nothing new. Is anyone listening?

To me, karaoke is a good way to let off steam, to destress and relax. Whether you sing off-key or you croon like a pro make no difference; you get a hearty applause all the same!

I am glad my 'vice' is limited to just club karaoke with a bunch of like-minded old foggies. We may never win any singing competition, but heck, we certainly know how to enjoy ourselves!

The Morning Burial

It has become a habit of mine since moving to this place, to observe the Kampung Sungai Pencala Muslim Cemetery down below for a minute or two as I slide open the balcony doors each morning.

Somehow, it makes a good start to the day in that it keeps death within view, thus helping me put my life in its proper perspective. Peaceful and serene, the place does have a calming effect on me.

This morning, however, there was a hive of activity at the northern end of the cemetery. Upon closer inspection, I saw a group of men digging a grave.

Innalillahi wa inna ilaihi raji'un (we are God's own and to Him we return). Someone had just passed away.

I went about doing my housework but returned to observe the goings-on every now and then. They had put up a huge umbrella and unrolled some mats by then.

As I sat there by the window, I thought of my mother, who died of renal failure just two months ago, and of my beloved grandma whose death in 1980 due to cancer had left such a big void in my young life.

I thought of the two people I would have loved to care for and cherish - Pak Abu's parents and the in-laws I regretfully would never know.

Lost in thought, I didn't realise the procession bearing the jenazah (body) slowly making its way to the gravesite. It was then just past ten. There were some 50 people accompanying the body.

I couldn't see the body being lowered into the grave because of the wall of people surrounding it, neither could i hear the talqin (prayers for the dead) being read because it was quite a distance away.

Nonetheless, I put my hands together until the prayer ended. The burial ceremony was completed by 10.45 am and the last few people, presumably the dead's family members, left at about 11 am.

Semoga Allah mencucuri rahmat keatasnya dan meletakkan rohnya dikalangan orang-orang yang beriman (May God bless him/her and place his/her soul in the company of the faithful). Al-Fatihah.