Listless in London: Dec 1 - a countdown of sorts

It was probably a blistering hot morning, that December 1 thirty years ago, followed by heavy rain in the afternoon, the kind of rain that makes you want to sleep and wake up smelling the fresh smell of grass after such a downpour.  I am just guessing about the rain because it usually rains heavily in December, the month when tents go up and buffalos get slaughtered for wedding feasts up and down the country.

Perhaps I was anxious about the rain then as the countdown began for the start of a new chapter in my life. Perhaps I was just anxious. I reckon, a bride-to-be about to start a new life in a totally different country the other side of the world has the right to feel anxious, if not downright hysterical.

Today as the rain pelted mercilessly on the window and the grey clouds stubbornly obscured the winter sun, I tried hard to remember that December 1 of thirty years ago.

It was 8 days before the big day.  The blue lace kebaya was probably ready and waiting to be picked up from the tailor’s.  There were still no shoes, nor accessories or jewelleries except for that glittering new solitaire on my finger; a constant reminder that my status was about to change.

 I remember now the excitement of being someone’s tunang, even though it was for a brief period before the change of status to wife.  I remember being told of the glow that radiated from the happiness that was bursting from within.  But I also remember the feeling of sadness as we chose our luggage, as we packed our bags – a reminder that we were going to leave our loved ones behind.

December 1 of 1979 was fifteen days before we took the flight that was to take us where we are today.  I remember the ride to the airport, the tight grip of Mak’s hand in mine and the hot tears streaming down my cheeks.  I remember rushing back to hug her at the gates as the final call was made.  Yes, I remember it all now as I type this on this December 1 2009; legs entwined under the duvet, a soft snore that reminds me he is still here and mine.

Kak Teh remembers

The Journey Continues - The tale of the blue kebaya
The Journey Begins
Heating up Memories on a Cold Morning

Has it really been thirty years?

Salam all, this piece below appeared in my column here.

ON the greyest of a grey autumn morning, I found myself in what could only be described as a sardine can of a coach, in the underground train making its way to East London.

The tea that I bought earlier in the hope of having a leisurely breakfast during the journey was fast seeping out of its styrofoam container onto the almond croissant, as it was being crushed and squashed by early morning commuters entering and leaving the train.

It was only 7.30am and work was not due to finish until about six in the evening.

Early morning commuters tend to be quite aggressive compared to bedraggled homeward bound ones.

So, after being elbowed and pushed and squashed and left with a soggy almond croissant, you can imagine the speed with which self-pity was rushing in.

I suddenly noticed how young these early morning commuters were — in their twenties and thirties; all fresh and eager to start their day. At 7.30am, I was already about to give up.

I put this feeling of melancholy down to the unusually hectic week. I had been to several cities in the far flung corners of the British Isle, trudging to get to my transport when most people were still in bed and arriving home when most people were already asleep.

I had been covering stories with journalists young enough to be my children; whose energy and enthusiasm knew no bounds. I recognised those enthusiasm and zest for I once had them. And those were the days when the ministers I interviewed were much older than me.

Anyway, when I finally found a seat, and with about 10 more stops to go, and munching on tea-soaked almond croissant, I went on a journey down memory lane.

Just the week before, I was contacted by a youngish journalist who wanted to interview me because, according to her calculation, I could easily be the longest-serving Malaysian female journalist abroad.

Note that I did not use the word “oldest”, although that too could be true.

The reality of that proclamation hit me like a tonne of bricks. I don’t know whether this is true, but yes, suddenly I felt it had been quite a long time.

Suddenly, all of my almost 30-year career in this industry came rushing in like the early morning commuters.

There was a time when it was I who chased after old Malaysian veterans and old Malay sailors. My husband once joked that a young hack would one day turn up at our doorsteps wanting to interview the makcik who came to London in the late 1970’s. It is a joke no more.

These days, when I casually mention that we came to London in 1979, most of these young hacks would retort; “... but I was only a year old then!”

Next month, it will indeed be 30 years away; and for most part of the three decades, I had been a hack; in radio, in print, TV and even dabbling in online media.

I had started off carrying the German-made Uher reel-to-reel tape recorder on assignments and it weighed a tonne! Now I carry a small digital voice recorder that could easily fit in the palm of my hand.

And remember the days when we had to rush back after assignments to bang on the old Remington? Well, today, fitting snugly into my sling bag is a cool notebook with Internet connection.

I remember the day that the three of us — Ena, Fati and I — walked into the newsroom in Jalan Riong; conscious of the stares and wolf whistles from male reporters from the sports desk. Many contemporaries have moved up, moved away and moved on.

Last week, looking through my collection of paper cuttings and pictures from assignments throughout the years brought back the excitement and joy of being a journalist. I just love meeting interesting people with interesting stories to tell.

I just love how interesting human interest stories found their way to me.

Experiences of people like Datin Peggy Taylor, the Pak Cik Sailors, the British veterans and many more had served to enrich my own life’s experience.

Has it really been 30 years?

The announcement on the train signalled my stop. And joining in the crowd of commuters spilling onto the platform into the cold autumn air, I suddenly felt rejuvenated again.

Then......
Starting out...

 

 



















 Reporting from all over Europe and with conjoined twins just before the operation

These last few weeks.............................

See the fresh faces?

A whiff of spring and a hint of summer...

It was wonderful to be able to open the windows and let in the fresh air but the snag was the whole of London rushed in as well. Well, that was my first whiff of spring in this country as the pangs of homesickness started to fade away as I discovered friends, Malaysian restaurants and work; though not necessarily in that order.

The world outside my window was a multicultural one, judging from the smell and the snippets of conversations that drifted in through the net curtains. From my window came the whiff of donna kebab twirling tantalisingly around the grill, while customers queued up patiently for their orders. It was a more welcoming smell then the stench of boiled cabbage or grilled smoked salmon escaping from under the doors, wafting along the corridors of our apartment. Once in a while came the sweet aroma of sisha, perhaps swept across by the wind from Edgware Road that was and still is a little Beirut in London. Out in the streets, there was the unmistakeable fragrance of attar that clung on to you even if you just had a slight brush with someone Middle Eastern in the shops.

Indian and Chinese restaurants had always flourished in this area where tourists from all over the world converged in search of their own cuisines away from home.

Further afield, I could see trees and flowers in full bloom in Kensington Gardens and at anytime of the day, there’d be streams of people walking to the park, either to feed the ducks, take their children for a stroll or just for a roll in the grass. I quite fancy the idea of a roll in the grass, if not for the stains on the clothes and grass in the hair. This, I suspect, was the result of too much afternoon TV on my own.

I had my favourite spot under a tree, where I sat with a book unopened and unread as I watched the world go by, reflecting on what was it that brought me to this place called London. People seemed to be friendlier as the days got brighter. They stopped to say “Hello, luv!” and went on their way, with their Times or Guardian tucked under their arms and little obedient puppies following behind. Little old ladies would head purposefully for the lake, with bits of stale bread in plastic bags to feed their little friends in the lake.

Spring brought a big sigh of relief as I was able to free myself from unsightly leg warmers, itch inducing tights, gloves and scarves and kick off my knee high leather boots to walk freely in my kebaya along Queensway.

It was that kind of an evening yesterday in Queensway. But, no boots to kick off and no kebaya to fit in. And a roll in the grass was just a fantasy that never materialised. We took the number 7 home instead, catfood in Tesco bag and the evening papers tucked under our arms.

Other listless entries:
Listless in London 1
Listless in London 2
One Autumn Day in the Life of a Malay Mak Cik in an English Town

The Old Diary

It is actually a tired old diary trying to masquerade as a Filofax. It is leather bound and in quite a sorry state as it had spent a good many years in a box with some old tapes; both rich archives of old stories and events of years gone by.

It is my 1997 diary – six years after I started life as a freelance – six years after I regained confidence to get a proper diary, or personal organiser as some preferred to call it. I said regained confidence because after more than ten years waking up to routine work, life as a freelance is less predictable and at first I wasn’t sure whether there’d be any work, any projects coming my way. What if I had blank pages staring back at me with doodles adorning them; no important appointments and assignments?

By 1997, I realised that that was the least of my worries. It was a good year, alas like this year, it ended with a financial crash in SEA that had a domino effect everywhere.

Organise my life it didn’t, but it sure looked impressive carrying a bulging Filofax. In those days, anyone young and fancied themselves upwardly mobile, must be seen carrying one of these. I wasn’t young, but I still fancied myself upwardly mobile.

Anyway, mine was a freebie that MAS used to give to their first class passengers, and I got mine from one of those privileged ones.

I scanned through the pages, littered with phone numbers and names jotted hurriedly in places they shouldn’t be. There were calculations in pencils, email addresses in lipliners and cryptic messages that defy logic and common sense, especially written in columns that say finance. But that shows how organised I was/am.

But that’s not the point of this entry. This is the year that started with an entry that says:

Another year! Wonder what’s in store!

It was a cold start to the new year, but from the entries right through the pages, it seems that I had had a good year, travelling a lot in and out of the country. I realised now that it was at this time that I met the maths genius and her family, travelled to Cardiff and Liverpool to meet the Malay community there and then off to Holland for the same purpose. Looking back, I had truly enjoyed these visits and meeting such interesting people with interesting stories to tell. They were old Malay Sailors in Liverpool and Cardiff who shared with me their stories of adventures at sea.

I see that I also went back to Malaysia for what was to be the first hari raya back home in 17 years!! The children truly enjoyed themselves and experienced real hari raya for the first time; playing crackers and fireworks and most of all helping with the preparation. I jotted down in the entry on 9^th February 1997 “They really look good in their baju Melayu!”

Aaaah, at the National Archives open house, I met the incredible Ahmad Daud! By then, he had forgotten that I had interviewed him way back in 1992, but I remember his conversation, as he was walking to the car, to be most interesting. But I didn’t have my video recorder with me.

It was a wonderful holiday with the entire family as I noted at the end of our trip. Since then, we have not had a family holiday together, what with commitments and what nots.

I came back to London with an urgent assignment waiting for me. “ A very uplifting experience” – I wrote in the entry on 8^th March. Took the train from Paddington to Theale where I was taken on board a helicopter to do a voice over job. I had done lots of voice overs in studios of varying nature, but never in a helicopter, a few hundred feet above the green fields of Berkshire.

This was also the year I covered the All England Badminton in Birmingham. Rashid Sidek lost to a Chinese player and suffice to say, nothing much after that to report back.

Friday 28^th March was an eventful day. We drove aimlessly and found ourselves in Brighton. All along the way, we could see a strange something in the sky – it turned out to be the Haley Bopp!! It will make another appearance approximately in the year 4377. So put that in your diary!

Oh, on April 11^th, after a consultation with a Dr Li, I was told I had low platelets in my blood So, that explains all the bruises at the slightest nudge. Does that also explain the severe headaches that I complained on almost every page?

We made a convoy to Great Yarmouth on May 3^th. Started off at about 11pm because the other half was still working. It was fun because we got to celebrate his birthday – another surprise one at Kak Long’s house and then we went off to the great Bally outlet in Norwich. This place used to be crawling with Malaysians buying – what else, Bally shoes, Bally handbags, Bally belts at a fraction of the price at the stores.

As I got to June 1997, things became more exciting. I got to visit Book Villages in Europe – the one in Redu, Belgium and Hay on Wye in Wales. I remember train rides, flights, car rides deep into the Belgium and Welsh countryside and having lots of fun while working. I must have had such a lot of energy then. Where has it gone now?

Before we could unpack the bags from the trip to Wales, we were off to Hungary, by train!!! That was a busy year too for the then PM, so we had no rest at all, traipsing around England and Europe in the name of work. But getting to Budapest by train was quite an experience and it is certainly a very beautiful city.

And of course, this was the year Princess Diana met with her tragic death. I even remember the dress that I wore on that day – a bright red kebaya, as I was assigned to cover the Merdeka celebration. I was somewhere on the A40 when I heard the news on the radio.

How time flies.

A Walk Down Petticoat Lane

It was a very cold morning one winter, more than 20 years ago, that I was introduced to Petticoat Lane. The very mention of the word conjured an image straight out of a western movie, with raunchy ladies and their raucous laughters doing the can can, teasing their audience with their lacy petticoats. Perhaps it was for this very reason that the name Petticoat Lane, the world famous Sunday market in East London, was changed to something more sedate – Middlesex Street.

When a friend suggested a visit to this street market last Sunday, I eagerly agreed, forsaking a Sunday lie in for a walk down memory lane. Petticoat Lane Market, Portobello Market, Wembley Market are the haunts of Malaysians; visitors and locals alike – these are places you can find good bargains, almost original fakes and good leather products. And I am in need of a new leather jacket.

The market has been in existence since 1750’s, according to its history and was named after the petticoats and lace once sold there by the Huguenots who came to London from France. With more than one thousand stalls, you can find household goods, clothes, shoes, accessories and many more.

During the 40-minute tube ride on the central line to Liverpool Street, I tried to recapture the Petticoat Lane of yesteryears. The Petticoat Lane in the deep recesses of my mind was totally an alien place with a totally alien language to my uninitiated ears. Cockney was the language, so I heard, and everyone called you sweet’art or luv.

I was introduced to one Cockney word – Dicky Dirt – a shop in Bayswater where I went to look for some jumpers. Dicky Dirt is a Cockney slang for shirts, just like Her Indoors – meaning someone’s wife, similar to the Malay Orang rumah.

It was a busy market place where the likes of Del Boy (Only Fools and Horses) charmed you with their sales talks to buy yesteryears’ rejects or things that had fallen off the back of lorries. The sweet smell of roasting chestnut from corner street stalls intermingled with the aroma of hotdogs on grills. That was the Petticoat Lane Market in my mind.

And of course, as I made my way out of the station, (turn left and then right again, said the guard at the station), a familiar jingle played in my mind..”That big red building in Petticoat Lane…” It was an advertisement for a big leather shop at the top of the road, much hummed and repeated by the husband of mine. Is it still there? I doubt it.

I didn’t have any difficulties finding the street market. In the cold morning air, there were droves of people making their way there and I just went with the flow. From a distance, I could already hear the stallholders calling out to shoppers. The music coming from the stalls selling so called ori(s) prepared me for the Petticoat Lane of the here and now. There were more Bollywood songs wafting in the atmosphere of this East London marketplace. Places in East London, such as Brick Lane are more familiarly known as Bangla Town. There is a huge Asian community and so it was altogether not unexpected that I found many stallholders to be Asians, selling clothes made in made by aunts and grannies and cousins in their own warehouses nearby. Many are copied from designer labels and sold at a fraction of the price.

And of course an Asian Del Boy is bound to be found among them. As I was admiring a blouse, I could hear one chatting up my friend, telling her, he could tell from her aura that she was an intelligent girl. “And this one,” he said,” is the peaceful one. She is a very calm person.” And believe it or not, he was referring to me.

“Calm? Moi?” I asked sceptically.

“Yes,” said the Pakistani Del Boy, “ and if only you are younger!”

Suffice to say, I floated away with that blouse in my hand and spring in my step.

It was LV, Chanel and Prada galore. They even got the spelling and the colour tone almost right.

I went searching for my leather jacket – alas, I couldn’t find any that fitted me. In fact nothing suits me nowadays. They are either too small or too young. And the leather jacket that I was wearing that cold morning seemed okay still. I also scanned the area for the famous Pearly Kings of East London. Sadly, they were no longer around, only making their appearances on certain occasions.


As we walked away towards Aldgate East station, the smell of hamburger greeted us.
Halal hamburgers it says, being grilled by someone donning a ketayap. A nearby Chinese stall was selling fried noodles and we were greeted with a cheerful “Selamat Pagi!”


Petticoat Lane has changed somewhat, but that change is inevitable. But before we left, I found Fred, hunched over his stove of sweet roasted chestnuts. I ordered two packets; he burnt his already charred hands picking them up from the burning grills.

“I’ve been doin’ this for 51 years, I 'ave. This same spot ‘ere. Ne'er had to use thongs or nuthing’, he volunteered. “Mind how you go, sweer’art”, he said, waving us goodbye.

So, that was Petticoat Lane last Sunday, and I still have the jingle of the red big building in Petticoat Lane, playing in my head.

Picture of Pearly Kings and Queen taken from Strangebritain.co.uk

Petticoat Lane market is open every Sunday from 9-2pm.
Take the Central Line to Liverpool Street station. Turn left and then right - you will not miss it.
Or take District or Hammersmith Line to Aldgate East station.

Mama Mia and Hairspray Moments

It was one of those unplanned gatherings; a phone call here, an sms there and a holler everywhere but about twenty of us turned up. The condition was simple; no husbands allowed. It was an all girls affair with sons under ten only to be allowed in attendance.

The occasion was simple; a friend wanted a haircut, another wanted a trim and many wanted the extra blow dry, but there were several reasons for the reluctance to visit the hairstylist. One, the credit crunch had dictated that we do not spend more than necessary for anything as trivial, two, a student at a local hairdressing school wanted models to practice her skills on and earn a little pocket money. Three, a mass hairdressing session with like-minded friends was not an occasion to be missed. It was to be an evening being pampered, grooming ourselves while enjoying Laksa Kedah and roti canai, quite unheard of in any hairdressing salon in this British capital.

So, there we were in the lounge-cum-hairdressing salon at a friend’s house somewhere in North London. The haircuts produced oohs and aahs with a lot of silly jokes and banters flying about. It was a casual and a relaxing few hours when we let our hair down, so to speak, but as the evening drew to a close, it transcended into a stocktaking session, with reminiscence and nostalgia taking over the banters.

Most of us in that lounge had known each other for more than two decades since we made this city our home. Away from the extended family, these are our sisters and aunts with whom we have shared our joys and sorrows as we met each other and made this journey together in this foreign land.

It wasn’t by design that we remain here this long. Work had dictated that we extended our initial three-year stint here and before we realised it, almost three decades had passed. Looking at my ‘sisters’ in that room, I knew they had their reasons to be here and they have marked their presence here and contributed to the society that we live in. They have their own niche.

While for some it was a matter of a natural progression; after studies and straight on to getting work offers kind of thing, for others it wasn’t as smooth sailing. There was one who took matters in her own hands when all around her collapsed, her marriage included. She came here in the seventies and saved enough money working in nursing homes, to send for her children to join her here. Being away from probing eyes and getting the breathing space she needed, she gathered enough strength to rebuild her own life and start her own roaring business.

Another sister lost her husband when both came to study here. She was a young bride left on her own in a city that could be cold and lonely. But she found solace in this small community of ours. Being left on her own gave her that energy that she didn’t know she had.

Others had their own stories to tell about how they made their journey here; some with blessings of the families back home while some were somewhat alienated because of their choice in marriage partners. We looked back on our respective journeys, sharing the trials and tribulations, joys and celebrations as the hair on our head began to dry and the curls began to take effect. Most of us had indeed come a long way.

Our children have grown up together and are now etching their own niche in this community, straddling across two cultures. We now look on as they embark on their own journey, having held their hands this far.

(PS This is a recycled/rehashed piece. Brain on strike.)

The Streets of London

During the giddy days of courtship not much thought was given to what life had in store for me as a newly wed in a new country. All that mattered then was I was going to be with him and we could be surviving on fresh air and love for that matter and it would be fine. If there were ever any moments of doubts, his favourite song “Streets of London” by Ralph McTell would drift back to reassure me:

“So how can you tell me you're lonely,
And say for you that the sun don't shine?
Let me take you by the hand and lead you through the streets of London
I'll show you something to make you change your mind …”

But, oh, moments of loneliness were aplenty and even Ralph McTell and his delicious rendition couldn’t do anything about it. When he went off to work in the mornings, I’d be left alone to explore London – the London which I only knew from his letters, from the news items that I read in the local papers and from cousins and uncles and aunts who had been here. Indeed, I did have two uncles and their families here and a cousin way out in Kent. But London can be a lonely place.

Where we were, there were indeed a lot of Malaysians and a lot more Arabs, rich Arabs. We arrived at a time when Arabs carried wads of notes in one hand and the tasbih in the other. You held the door open for them as they arrived back to the apartments with maids in tow carrying in their shoppings from Harrods and Selfridges and you’re tipped £10! Such was the flow of money from the oil fields.

My mother need not have worried about me not meeting other Malaysians in London. Before Margaret Thatcher’s increase in foreign students’ fees and Malaysia’s retaliation to buy British last, Malaysians were everywhere; certainly in Oxford Street, Portobello Market and Knightsbridge. On Sundays, among those hecklers at Speaker’s Corner, you were bound to find a few Malaysians.

Those you don't see, made their presence known in other creative ways. Once, while waiting for the District Line train I read some very entertaining graffiti on the wall. I nearly jumped out of my shoes when I saw some familiar angry words in Malay, referring to parts, which will not be mentioned here, belonging to our mothers. I sometimes wonder about this Freudian tendency to link mothers to certain parts of the body. In any language, in any culture, anger and swear words find their way to the mother’s anatomy.

Anyway, keeping true to his promise to take me by the hand and show me the streets of London, I then found myself in the seedy area of Soho, an area where no respectable person would want to be seen when the sun goes down for the skirts and other things were bound to go up. But we were there in the name of getting to know London. Looking at the skimpily clad belles outside certain doors, I wondered when they’d succumb to pneumonia. Tired of Soho we then decided to go for the much talked about movie at the time – Ai No Corrida – Nagisa Oshima’s brilliant piece of work that would have put him in Freud’s good books. It was a love story, but not without sacrifice, one that is X rated, but with a message and one which had every male in the hall crossing their legs and cringing in sympathy with the male antagonist.

Suffice to say, I looked coyly away as any new bride would, and we decided to leave the cinema while it was still dark as the credits rolled, so no one would see us and cast aspersions on our reputation. Being found in Soho was bad enough, but being discovered watching Ai No Corrrida?? Oh no! Anyway, our attempt for a quick exit was hastened by a voice, so loud and clear behind us: “Celaka betui, dia potong binatang tu pulak!”

Like teenagers about to be pounced upon at a blue movie, we giggled and scrambled out of the cinema into the cold night air.

For someone whose overseas trips consisted only of Penang and Singapore, London was indeed an eye opener. There were many things that puzzled and at the same time amazed me. I was in awe of the patience with which people queue. They queue everywhere and God help those who attempt to jump queues. The same goes to buying fruits or vegetables. You just point and indicate how much you want. After learning from my mistakes never to pick and prod a fruit, as my mother would to a mackeral at a market, I then indicated with my two fingers that I wanted two pounds of oranges. The face of the initially friendly stallholder suddenly froze and he icily barked: “Same to you!” Apparently, I had unwittingly given him the two-finger salute.

What amazed me most about the people here was that, they all seemed to be attached to each other at the lips. What we only watched on TV or on the movie screens back home, here they do it freely everywhere; in the tube, by the roadside, at cafes, standing in queues, smooching and exploring each others’ throats. I thought it must surely be a good way to share body heat. At first, I must admit I didn’t know where to look and took to reading adverts on the walls or menus in the cafes.

As time went by, I too became quite an expert in telling the political affiliation of a person, by the newspapers that he or she read in the tube. People hardly talked to each other. Instead, they delved into their reading material with such seriousness if only to avoid eye contact or conversation with the person seated next to them. Only once a while, you’d hear a person breaking the ice with what else, the weather! “Awful weather, isn’t it?” To which you just reply, “Yes, isn’t it” and go back to your Times or The Guardian.

It took a lot of adjusting; not just to the weather, the people and the food, but also to the person who had just become my husband. The novelty of becoming a lady of leisure soon wore out, and I was itching to work again. Getting a job, when unemployment was hitting 2 million, was certainly not an easy task. And to my despair, getting pregnant wasn't that easy as well.

Notes from Under The Duvet

Like a defeated and wounded soul, I crawled under my duvet, willing the doom and gloom to go away. It had been a few days hibernating but common sense eventually prevailed as I realised not much would change had I gone out marching and screaming in the streets. Nor would I achieve anything by lying comatose under the duvet contemplating the cracks in the ceiling.

Yes, I have been quite affected by recent events in Gaza, not helped by stories of job cuts and recession nearer home. But life has to go on and today – I will brave the freezing temperatures and start work in the cold wide world again.

These last few days, taking refuge in the bedroom, I found solace in several books that took me to pre-war, pre independence Malaya, and one about life in the docks of Liverpool in the early nineteenth century. I read and digested the written words like I had never done before and finished four books, including The Hindi Bindi Club!! That I consider an achievement, especially when I only picked up the books since the beginning of the year. And I do intend to cultivate this newfound hobby.

But sometimes, as the words got blurry, the mind began to wander and I began to reflect on life. These last few days, the two youngest came crawling into bed and under the duvet with me. It has been some time since the last time they did that. Once we’re done with fighting over the duvet and kicking off cold feet, all of us settled down to our favourite books. No more reading to them Thomas the Tank Engine or My Little Pony. Nona devoured “The Crusades Through Arab Eyes” while Taufiq continued his revision in preparation for his coming exams. The hubby? Well, he is probably tucked under a warm duvet in a bed all to himself in Geneva after a long day at work.

The day he left for Geneva, we decided that we should go with him to Gatwick, just to see him off, just to take that train journey and enjoy a bit of almond croissant and piping hot tea. It was snowing ever so slightly the morning he left, and the south London that whizzed past , looked like it had been sprayed with silver dust overnight.
It was Sunday morning when we took the 0847 from Victoria and had a whole coach to ourselves. And by the time he arrived Geneva, we were already back in the house, enjoying prawn noodles.

I had taken to doing some work in the comforts of the bedroom as well – long cables and wires trailing from downstairs to my laptop just above the duvet. This had caused not a little worry among the children and hubby – who before departure had made me promise to do some exercise, take vitamins and avoid fried stuff, to which I duly nodded like any obedient wife would.

So two days ago, to lure me out of my den, son number one brought back a surprise – a Wii Fit Balance Board, which I must admit I took to, like a duck to water. After several step exercises ,a jogging session with my friendly female instructor, I am now suffering from cramps. It is quite rewarding to be told that “Kak Teh, you are doing well today!” It is certainly better than jogging on the frozen ground through the park.

Melancholy is fast seeping in again as I watched the two older ones packing for their trip to Malaysia today. Gone were the days when they tagged along with us. Now they want to explore the country themselves, get to meet and know relatives without us, protective and anxious parents hissing “Salam!” and “Cium tangan!” or “Tunduk!” when they meet older relatives.

The house is suddenly quiet after Hafiz closed the door behind him, pulling his luggage and disappeared in the fog. Rehana leaves much later today and I now await the return of my husband before I made treks to work.

Kak Teh's other duvet moments:

Snowflakes and P Ramlee on Easter

On This Shortest Day of the Year

NINETEEN SEVENTY-NINE was coming to a close and the media was busy reviewing the year’s events. There was the exile of the Shah of Iran, the Russian invasion of Afghanistan, the gruesome discovery of Pol Pot’s atrocities, the revelation by Voyager 1 and many more. Personally, the end of 1979 opened a new chapter in my life in a new country, in a new role. I arrived at the crack of dawn on 20 December in Britain, which was not only in the grip of winter but also that of Margaret Thatcher.

Standing at the exit of the plane in my batik kebaya and an excuse of a cardigan, I felt the brutal force of the British weather smack on my trembling knees and as I gasped for air, out came a cloud of smoke not unlike the experience when you open the freezer. I nearly let go of my precious vanity case as my hands felt numb.

Home then was a warm, cosy room in what was then Coburg Hotel in Queensway on the top floor with a view of Kensington Gardens. The trees were bare and straggly and the sky was grey. Five days before Christmas, people were out doing their last minute shopping and we joined the crowd in Queensway moving towards Whiteleys, then the biggest and one of the oldest departmental stores in London, to get jumpers and gloves. I remember stopping at shops along the way, enjoying the blast of warm air at the entrance and feeling reluctant to go out into the cold again. Whiteleys provided a brief respite from the cold when we needed to go to Asiatic Store, our local halal butcher, or to Khans Restaurant, our favourite haunt until today.

It is a different Whiteleys today filled with shops from the high streets as well as cafes. Yesterday, we sat having tea at Costa Café, and I looked out to see what else is left of Queensway today. Gone is the cinema that we used to frequent at the top of the road. In its place is TGIF. Whiteleys has eight cinemas and the price is astronomical! Boots the chemist has replaced Underwoods at the corner of the road leading to the present day Malaysia Hall. Woolworth, a favourite store and a poor cousin of Marks and Sparks had long been replaced by one supermarket after another. By the first week of next month, all remaining chains will close down for good. Many shops came and went, but one is still standing proud. London’s oldest coin operated laundrette is still as busy as the day I took my laundry there twenty-nine years ago.

And suddenly what passed before our eyes brought us back to the here and now. Three lads walked past where we were sitting in Costa Café, temporarily obscuring our view of the laundrette. One of the lads was our son, out with his friends. He was born a year after our arrival, so Queensway is very much a familiar territory to him as we took him everywhere in his pushchair or perched high on his father’s shoulders.

Queensway couldn’t be a better place for someone so homesick even after a few months away. The Mara hostel was just a few streets away from where we were. Most days we'd bump into Malaysian students making their way to universities. The warden and wife were friends of my husband. In fact, my first temporary coat was a borrowed one from the wife. When they left, they gave us something which I have until today – batu tumbuk sambal.

Not far from us was Bunga Raya restaurant, another place we frequented in search of crab sambal. I remember the first time we had lunch there, I choked on my rice as I heard Sharifah Aini singing some of my favourites from a cassette player in the kitchen.

I remember my first leather jacket and knee high boots with heels that made walking such a painful experience, especially on icy roads. The husband has a knack of saying wherever we were going was only 5 minutes away. And I’d be ouching in my boots for half an hour before reaching any destination.

Sitting where I am today, feeling all nostalgic, I just couldn’t imagine that I could survive this long here. I can still smell the repulsive smell of smoked mackerels served in the breakfast room of Coburg Hotel, the equally nauseating smell of boiled cabbages that filled the corridors of the block of apartments where we lived temporarily along Queensway and also the sweet and inviting aroma of chestnuts roasting on open fires at street corners and carol singers singing jingle bells in front of Selfridges. I remember the disasters in the kitchen, the pangs of missing families back home and the expensive phone calls that temporarily cured the pain. I remember Mak's first visit, the search for jobs and the changing seasons.

There have been three Prime Ministers since Thatcher, the economy has gone up and down and down, Britain has been involved in several wars; some on her own home grounds. There were as many joys too to make this 29 years memorable; the children came in quick succession, we've sighted the Haley Bop and made many good friends.

I am thankful that I arrived in a Britain that was already familiar with the taste of curry, its music and songs influenced by the upbeat sound of reggae and its restaurants served halal kebabs and satay.

Today on 21^st December, I remember exactly 29 years ago, my husband of hardly two weeks, tried to cheer me up by promising that the day would get longer by two minutes each day. And it did.

Kak Teh's walk down memory lane:

Did you know....?
Down Memory Lane

The Journey Begins

Eighteenth December '79 was the departure date from Changi Airport to London and a few days before that saw a whirl of activities, which now comes back to me as a montage of events in no particular order. There were visits to get to know newly acquired relatives in Terengganu, where I was instantly bestowed the title of Mek Jarroh, introduced to keropok lekor which I had an instant dislike for and brought back bales of batiks in all forms and sizes as proof of acceptance into the Wan family.

There’s also the trip to my home town in Alor Setar to introduce my husband to relatives who couldn’t make it to the do in KL. If I was confused by the names of relatives and friends I met in Kuala Terengganu, my husband was just as puzzled – there’s Pak Teh Man, Pak Teh Ei, Tok Su Pa, Pak Long Ei, Mak Teh Tah, Tok Cik Mat, Tok Cik Mei, Ngah Nab, Mak Njang..and not to mention the hundreds of cousins with names that defy logic.

I remember the look on his face when the whole clan came to say goodbye at the MARA bus terminal. He didn’t realise until then that he’d married into half the population of Kedah.

At that bus station, it wasn’t just goodbye to my aunt, uncles and cousins. It was also a sad farewell to Mee Sup Omar Bom, the smell of which still haunts my nostril, especially on this cold winter evening. Apart from Mee Rebus Abu, which had by then moved to Jalan Teluk Wan Jah, Mee Sup Omar (or Omark) Bom was high on the list of things that would make me plan a quick escape from cold dreary London.

The then new bus terminal was the home of Mee Sup Omark Bom, nestled amongst new shop lots not far from the droning sound of revving buses going to Kubang Pasu, Langgar, and Pumpong. It was at this bus terminal too we’d meet Ngah Chan who was a bus conductor. I was always very impressed with Ngah and his pouch of coins which he jingled as he walked up and down the aisle, collecting his fares. He’d give us a miss, with a wink of his left eye. As children, we looked forward to trips to Ngah’s house in Suka Menanti. It was like an adventure. Where the bus left us at Pantai Johor, we’d have to walk a short distance to wait for a perahu, which would take us on the swollen river with its teh susu like water, across to the other side where Ngah Nab would be waiting for us. Sometimes, we’d have the privilege to go on Tok Jam’s rakit, shrieking with excitement as Tok expertly pushed the raft with a long pole along the river bank. Sometimes, she’d do so with one hand trying to secure her sarong around her bony chest.

During the last few days in Alor Setar, I tried to take in the old St Nicholas Convent where I had spent a lot of my formative years being disciplined by nuns from Ireland and the majestic looking Sultan Abdul Hamid College where I had my first formal introduction to boys after a strict regime at SNC. Needless to say, it still holds a lot of happy memories. I remember the cycle on minibikes with ‘the gang’, our pony tails in matching ribbons, flying in the air as we zoomed past SAHC boys cycling in the opposite direction.

A trip to Pekan Rabu was mandatory, of course. Tok Su used to be the chairman of Pekan Rabu, a much respected figure in those days. Near Pekan Rabu was Cathay cinema where Pak would take us in two trishaws for a treat every month when he received his pay packet. Along the sidewalks were Gurkhas selling their wares; lots of trinkets and precious stones.

Anyway, leaving the house that Pak built for the last time, I took with me a piece of his old blanket, which had an aroma unmistakeably Pak – a blend of sweet Curve Cut tobacco and Tokohoon plasters that he used on his aching back.

I was not prepared for London as London was quite unprepared for me. My husband said there was no point buying thick winter clothes from the likes of Globe Silk Store or Kamdar, as usually they were two seasons behind. As my only knowledge of London was only from visuals on TV and from his letters when he was here earlier, who was I to argue. But I insisted on bringing one thing, which I thought was compulsory for all long distance travellers. I had seen many times on TV, British maams carrying them when they boarded planes or go on voyages. I had seen Chah leaving for Australia, carrying one. So, I had to get one – a vanity case that I was to carry on my maiden flight to London. Apart from that, I only had a whole suitcase of kebayas, photo albums and of course all our letters ito each other in blue air mail envelopes, that document the beginning of our journey together to this place that we now called home.

Kak Teh's other journeys

Down Memory Lane

Listless in London 2

The weather is not one you’d want to write home about. It is gloomy and wet and last night we missed the chance to see the full moon everyone the other side of the world is talking about. I woke up to the sound of rain pelting on the windowpane, the straggly outline of the naked acer looking menacingly still against the dark brooding sky, setting the mood for the day, the whole of Saturday.

It was a sort of anti climax to a wonderful week which started with the raya, which was cold but nice. It had the extra X factor because my siblings decided that it was a good day as any to celebrate Mak’s birthday. Mak’s birth date had been one long guesswork, mental arithmetic and at its best, logical deductions. Finally, it was decided that Hari Raya Haji would be her birthday, when she’d be surrounded by her anak cucu cicit. And for us who couldn’t be there, we sat before the pc, chaos reigning as per normal on raya mornings, and skyped, singing happy birthday to Mak, and watching her cucu cicits competing to blow the candles for her.

She was all smiles as she was smothered with kisses. I felt I was there and yet not there. When I left nearly 29 years ago, Mak was still the strong pillar of her small society, whose shoulder everyone cried on. Her memory was fantastic. You didn't need google or the who’s who directory to know who was related to whom and from which branch of the family. Today, she couldn’t even figure out the newcomer to the family – Sharifah Nasya – her great granddaughter who was born last month. Amidst the merriment, she did her asar three times.

That put us in a very cheerful mood indeed as we left for Malaysia Hall and was pleasantly surprised to have the former Mufti of Perlis, Dr. Asri Zainal Abidin, to lead the prayer and deliver the Eid Khutbah. A very inspiring khutbah indeed; a reminder to all of us, the meaning of sacrifice.

The cold and the slight drizzle outside didn’t stop us taking pictures for the album and while we were all posing and clicking away, we were alerted to the fact that someone with a huge wad of crisp £10 notes, was giving £20 raya money to young and old who had gone for prayers. The Wan family walked away with springs in their steps and had tea and cheese cakes before going home. Semoga Allah murahkan lagi rezki orang yang murah hati ini!

This raya was a repeat of last raya aidil fitri as both of us had to meet deadlines and delayed visiting friends. So, it was only at 8pm that we managed to get away from the pc and joined Nina and Faisal at Ani and Art’s Makan restaurant in Portobello.

It was almost midnight when we got back, and spent the last few minutes of our 28th year together sharing the earphone listening to a beautiful zikir on the I-Pod. How habits and priorities change with age, eh?

December 9th 2008 was coming to a close and we were still in front of our PC’s. But at the last minute, we decided to catch the late night movie at the Odeon in Queensway. There must have been only about ten people watching Changeling in cinema 3 at Whiteleys and it wasn’t quite the kind of movie you’d want to watch on your anniversary.But we sat right through some gory scenes, sharing Minstrels just like we used to whenever we were at the movies.

The temperature had dipped further when we emerged from the warmth of the cinema and by then we were famished. The Lebanese restaurant was the only one opened after the movie so we decided to share mixed grill before heading home to cats and children.

Queenway and Whiteleys with the pub around the corner in front of Boots that used to be Underwoods, the news agents and the tube stations are all familiar landmarks of this place that became home when we arrived almost three decades ago. It is still the place we haunt, the place we meet for tea or even breakfast. For a long while, Queensway to me was London. Anywhere outside Notting Hill Gate was foreign territory.

Last Thursday, the surau at Malaysia Hall held a Hari Raya kenduri with all the meat from the Korban. I met a new friend who had just arrived in London, as a bride to start her married life here. Like me she arrived on a cold and wet December morning and looking at her shivering in her paper thin kebaya, brought memories flooding back.

More listless moments:

Listless in London 1
And I was there too

Yesterday Once More

We drove into the underground car park, with Karen Carpenter still belting out “Yesterday Once More”. There were many parking spaces but we went round and round buying time as none of us wanted to go home. We wanted this time to be together, but the guard making his rounds on the scooter was already getting suspicious of our intentions. So we found a space by the lift. With the headlights switched off, we stayed on in the car and accompanied Karen Carpenter as she finished off the song with…Every shalalalaa, every wo wo wo…still shinessss, every shing-a-ling-a ling as they started to sing, so fineeee…

“What would it be like if we had yesterday once more?” said a voice breaking the silence. As it was getting to be a bit eerie in the underground car park at that time of the night we decided to continue our conversation at the Korean restaurant above. It was above the sizzling of the prawns on the tapanyake and over the din of the hungry midnight crowd that we continued the conversation.

“Yes, what would it be like if we had yesterday once more?” came the nagging question again.

This line of conversation started when we met earlier in the day for lunch at one hotel in PJ, and continued amidst giggles and stifled laughters in the changing rooms of Subang Parade and now in the car park and a Korean restaurant, the one facing RTM.

We’ve known each other since primary one and my trips back home are never complete without outings with my dearest childhood friends. We tried to catch up with developments in our lives; work, family, menantus and cucus – everything. Every get-together was treated as if it was our last one. We all wanted to talk at the same time as if there’s no tomorrow; in the car park, by the side of the road, crammed in changing rooms - all natural progressions of what we used to do when we were growing up.

When that question was posed, we had all been married well over twenty years. Two in the group are already mothers in-law, one with grandchildren. There are still two of us in denial and refused to be dragged into that category.

So what is it? A quarterly review? How would you have lived your life if you are given yesterday once more? Would you have written your life’s sonata differently and plan a totally different storyboard? If only we are in charge of destiny, but we are not. We just plan and dream.

I had never been very ambitious but I did want to further my studies. Friends were applying to Ohio and Syracuse – places I imagined I would be had Eros not struck his arrows so soon. But brooding over lost opportunities only serves to close our eyes and hearts to others. So, I became a married woman at a time when I couldn’t even cook to save my life. Perhaps that was one area I could have prepared myself more. But then again, he didn’t even flinch when I washed the keropoks before frying them, nor did he bat an eyelid when I threw out the tempehs which I thought had gone bad. It was either a take away or eating out or a meal prepared from 8 am for dinner at 8pm. And that was usually after a long consultation with Mak over the phone.

Now, I am glad to say, I still cook very little. But those that I do, I do them well, mainly because those are the only dishes gracing my dinner table all the time, making repeated appearances until children discreetly order kebabs or pizzas for a bit of change. He? No, he never complained. For that I am grateful.

The opportunity to further my studies came a knocking again quite late in my life and I was thankful that I got the support from the whole family. The already chaotic lifestyle became even more chaotic as I began to spend more time at the university and the library than at home. And the day I received the scroll, and was greeted with a bouquet of flowers from my sayang mamas, I thought it was well worth it.

Would I have changed anything about being in a foreign land so soon after marriage? No. If anything, I treasure the time together, to get to know each other as husband and wife and try to live in each other’s bubbles as well as tolerate each other idiosyncrasies. He had had to put up with a lot of Alleycats or other craze and obsessions of mine. Understanding my spoonerism and malapropism was perhaps the biggest challenge but hey, he understands me when I say right and mean left.

We compromised over children – I wanted ten, he wanted lots of cats. Now we have four children and five cats. I gave away ten to the RSPCA while he was away.

There is no such thing as marriage being a bed of roses. But then perhaps I live in another garden. You just have to work things out and because you don’t have anyone else but each other, that’s what you do.

You have to try to sort out problems before the sun goes down, without having to resort to calling up your mother or siblings. I’ve learnt to wash away problems and anger by scrubbing the kitchen table or the bathroom floor.

Looking back, I remember wise words by Kak Adibah Amin when she heard that we were tying the knot. She said she always knew that something was going on and that we looked alike. And that was supposed to be good. I had not given much thought about it until I saw a recent photograph of us together. You don’t live together for more than twenty years without acquiring some mannerisms, some habits of the other. You learn to anticipate jokes, finish each other’s sentences and recognise the sound of the key in the lock. Though he no longer chased me up the steps to the station or hide behind a pillar to make me jump, I still laugh at his jokes. If we used to share malteasers while watching a movie, now he offers me supplements and vitamins.

I guess my yesterday once more would have just minor adjustments here and there but nothing major. My friends at the Korean restaurant too wouldn’t want it any other way. But it was a good session that we had apart from the tapanyake.

So, how would you live your life if you have Yesterday Once More?

Kak Teh's other yesteryears once more:
This Autumn of our Lives

Heating up memories on a cold morning

The central heating gave a gurgling sound, waking up Snowbell who’s curled up in a ball on the sofa. She stretched and yawned and went back to sleep. Gizmo, like the queen she is, is sprawled on the carpet, enjoying the rare quiet and peace at home. I hope this won’t be a repeat of the great chill of 2000, when the central heating just gave up on us. It was to cost us £2000 to get a new one installed or else we’d freeze to death over the long cold weekend. The very thought of parting with that much money, in times of this credit crunch, gives me the shivers.

Twenty-nine years ago, at about this time, things like central heating and the plummeting temperature (and the value of the pound) were the least worrying things preying on my mind. There were more urgent matters; the passport needed to be done, the no pay leave application had to be processed, the goodbyes, and mak and kak had to be persuaded that no big buffaloes had to be slaughtered on account of our marriage. And oh, we had to do the necessary like getting engaged. Thank God, air tickets and accommodations were all arranged by the office. We just needed to get married and pack our bags.

It was just as well that both of us had just received our bonus from the company and off we went to the jewellers to pick a small yet beautiful solitaire that is to stay on my finger to this day. I will always remember the day I walked into the office with that ring on my finger. I kept looking at it when the phone rang. “Hello, tunang,” said a familiar voice at the other end of the line. My heart missed a beat and I looked out of my cubicle and saw my tunang, and suddenly felt all shy and embarrassed.

It must be the cold getting to my head and the empty house, filled with cats, lazy cats sleeping on the sofa, in front of the heater – everywhere. But memories of that brief period of being someone’s tunang before being upgraded to being a wife, just filled me with such a warm feeling that I too feel like curling up into a ball and go to sleep with dreams that will perhaps take me to those giddy days of courtship 29 years ago.

Other cold servings and other related side dishes:
Mee soup and Bollywood fantasy on a cold winter's day
Zai and Sri Mersing on a cold winter's night

Thank you for another year

Popping the Question