Fishing my way to his heart

Street corner florists were selling their red roses like hot cakes. Business relating to the heart was extra brisk, especially as the day drew to a close. People were extra loving holding hands extra tight. Those saying goodbye by the roadside, by the station, anywhere, took extra lingering moments before the final farewell. Those walking back alone too were clutching tight their red or yellow roses. And I, well, I held on tight to my new book Sylvia, Queen of the Headhunters that I just bought at Borders, as I made my way to Selfridges to meet my date.

It was as if the street was painted red – red hearts on balloons, red hearts on lingeries, on bedsheets displayed on beds in shop windows everywhere. And Selfridges is certainly the place you’d want to be if you were searching something for that special someone.

But I wasn’t searching for anything of that kind. I was searching for my date and while waiting by the escalator, I just watched people to see how love that was in the air was affecting them.

The young ones did it everywhere; gazing into each other’s eyes as they sipped their latte, holding hands across the table, over their half eaten muffins. Old couples, with matching silver hair walked contentedly, arms linking, fingers touching. Then my eyes were drawn to one elderly Malay gentleman; a well known face with that unmistakeable mop of grey hair that is somewhat thinning. Two steps ahead of him was a young leggy beauty with long chestnut hair. No, it couldn’t be, I dismissed the thought.

When my date arrived, we sat at the table for two and ordered our lattes and Earl Grey. It was the second day in a row that I sat there in the same café by the escalator at Selfridges sipping Earl Grey, but with a different date. The waiter gave me a smile of recognition as he offered me the menu. And as I had my last sip, the elderly Malay gentleman walked past our café again, but this time with the leggy beauty striding by his side, clutching something in that well known Selfridges’ carrier bag. Just let us say, she must be a niece or a distant relative.

My head was full of these encounters as I made my way past the chocolate bars packed with people buying presents for their sweet tooth lovers. I have lost count the number of times that I spotted familiar faces walking hand in hand with another who is not the one that I am more familiar with. How many times have I had to duck into a corner or cross the road to avoid embarrassing situations and awkward, hesitant introductions.

So why London when London is crawling with people who are bound to know you? And why not some other cities like Milan, New York or even Timbuktoo where no one would know you from Adam. Oh well, I was by then debating with myself and was already attracting curious glances from other shoppers.

It was choc-a-bloc at the florist in Selfridges. People were just grabbing what’s left rather than leave empty handed. The last bunch of red roses that I received was some months ago in Paris, and it is safe for you to assume that it wasn’t from my other half who believes you can’t eat roses. But, yes, Paris is the place to be now – the city where love is forever in the air.

It was there that I was swept off my feet by a Frenchman, in full glare of other tourists and witnessed by the towering Eiffel Tower. And before you let your mind roam, let me explain. I was doing my piece to camera, when my camerawoman said something to my soundman in French. He then came over on the pretext of adjusting my microphone and then, voila, swept me off my feet and the moment was forever captured on tape as evidence of my ‘tryst’ in Paris!

Oh well, I remedied that situation a year later by spending 14th February, with my other half, up the Eiffel Tower, shivering in the cold air. It wasn’t a romantic moment, just a trip up the tower for the sake of taking photographs and telling people yes, we were up there.

So, with such thoughts in my mind, I picked my way to the other side of Selfridges where business was less brisk at that hour. I suddenly knew what I wanted for my other half that would permanently embed me in his heart; two fat mackerels, one fated to be grilled and to be accompanied by air asam, made to his liking.

As if on cue, the song " I know him so well" by Elaine Paige played in my mind.

Kak Teh's other Roseless Moments:

Reminiscence Of An Incurable Old Romantic
Love in the Autumn Years I

Love In The Autumn Years II

What day is today, again?

Well, its off to Stratford Upon Avon day for me today - to Shakespeare county - you know, the guy who wrote "Romeo, Romeo where art thou...?"

Well, my Romeo wont be there cos I am going there with someone else. Will come back and tell you all about it.

By the way, have a happy Valentine's Day to all who celebrate this day.

PS..sorry we didnt get to Stratford because there's some engineering works - so we made our way to the British Library where we could still see many things re: Shakespeare.

But please read this anyway if you have a few minutes.

Love in the Autumn Years II

It was 14^th February 2007 and I was in the grand surroundings of a stately home somewhere in the outskirts of London tucked away among clusters of quaint English villages along the M25. It is a grand imposing building built in 1883 and had survived the war. It's beautifully decorated walls have been witnesses to so many interesting happenings but that day I left with one story that made my day.

We were in the opulent surrounding of a room specially built for Queen Victoria. The ceiling, I was told, was painted with real gold paint. It has an Oriental feel because Queen Victoria liked it but sadly never visited it. But that day in that room I met a couple with a precious story to share with me.

For all of his seventy odd years or so, he was still the perfect officer and a gentleman. She was slightly built, dressed in a suit befitting an officer's wife. Her Oriental genes saw to it that she didn't look her age although she admitted she is a few years older than him.

They met while he was serving out there in Malaya and the nineteen year old lad from Berkshire fell hopelessly in love with the Chinese lass serving him from behind the counter. A whirlwind romance in turbulent times but they decided to get married in England. She packed her belongings, said farewell to her only aunt and boarded the ship bound for the London Docks.

There must have been many anxious moments as the ship sailed in sometimes turbulent waters matching her anxiety; the prospect of a new life in a foreign land, the thoughts of meeting her in-laws-to-be for the first time and all sorts of other 'what ifs' that intruded her thoughts during the long lonely nights in her cabin. During the day, it wasn't too bad as there were many other Chinese passengers she had befriended during the voyage.

He, in the meantime, had flown back to await the arrival of his bride-to- be from the East.

As she stepped out on to the gangway after the ship had docked, an officer in a bluish uniform rushed forward and swept her off her feet and began kissing her, ignoring her protests. Her Chinese companions too had protested, hitting him and telling him that that wasn't the 'done' thing! When he finally put her down, she breathlessly asked him who he was, as she didn't recognise him at all in this new surroundings.

The plans to get married didn't go as smoothly as the voyage; there was still much resistance from in-laws who didn't think marriage to a foreigner from out there would last.

"Today, on Valentine's Day," he said as he toasted his drink to his smiling wife, "we have proved them wrong. We are still married after more than 50 years and we have grand children. And she is still as lovely as ever," at which point I shamelessly let out a loud sob!

Last night, we were back at our weekly tazkirah and I was feeling a tad melancholic. Most of the surau mates are oldies like us; familiar faces at terawikhs, tahlils and religious discussions. There were many new comers and many young faces; students who wouldn’t miss the weekly gathering to hear the wise words of our young ustaz.

Last night, I felt almost like an invisible observer watching the goings on in that small room. I watched a friend chatting with my husband. And suddenly his head tilted a little to the direction of a familiar cheerful voice. His wife had entered the room, having arrived early from her work place to join us. During the previous weeks, this being winter, she could only make it to the gathering when we were done with our Isya prayers, and she was only in time to gently guide her husband up the stairs and across the road to their car. She has been his trusted pair of eyes during these last few years since his eyesight began to deteriorate. She edits his writings for he is a fervent and prolific writer. And that made me think, how much more we depend on each other during these autumn years. How much more we feel the need to be each other’s eyes and ears, to share more than just the odd pair of reading glasses .

So, we can only offer our syukur to Allah for blessing us with our companions. Some, like one other surau mateI have known all my life here, managed only a few years together before her husband was taken away after a sudden illness. Her picture of her young self in kebaya and kain ketat remains on her shelf next to one of her and her beloved. She accompanied him here as he needed to finish his studies. But his illness took him away. To this day, she could not face the reality of leaving the land where he is buried. Going home for good, would be like abandoning him. So, to this day she devotedly tends to his grave, pulling out the weeds and making sure it is clean. She once spoke to me about returning home for good, but I doubt it. Her love for the one who left her some twenty odd years ago, is still intact and strong. She will stay on to be with him.

Two weeks ago, she told me, she didn't even have the chance to reply him, when he uttered his final 'I love you' .

Love in the Autumn Years

It was a cool autumn morning and the sun was shining through the almost bare trees lining the winding street leading to the hospital. The couple walked silently, arms linked, both entertaining thoughts about the season, with its golden yellow leaves and almost bare branches- a season so rich in colour, yet so near the end of the year.

They reached the hospital and found their way to the breast scan unit. The woman was a bit hesitant, but he gave her a gentle push and the same reassuring look as he had been giving all these years. She registered while he sat with his Guardian among other middle aged women waiting their turn for the breast scan. He was the thorn among the withering roses and yet felt quite comfortable being there, as he had been numerous times before at pre-natal classes, baby scans, baby births – everywhere, holding her hand and giving moral support, and just being there.

Like autumn, their life together has been rich enough to make a beautiful picture. They had gone through spring and its head spinning, heart fluttering moments. Summer came as the children made their appearances and now it is autumn. But unlike autumn the season, the autumn of their life together will not repeat itself after winter. But it can be framed and treasured.

The gold plated pendant that she received on Valentine’s Day 1978 was perhaps the first and the last Valentine’s Day gift she had ever received. And she had long forgotten how to sulk as the day came and went without a register of recognition of the day’s significance in his eyes. To him, it is not important. And now to her it is not important too.

What is important is the companionship, the togetherness even if unspoken.

What matters are those times; when he woke up two or three times during the night to read and check on her attempts at feature writing, when he travelled miles to bring their first born to wherever she was for the baby to be breastfed, when he bought her not flowers but books to read and enrich her mind, when he made her leg of lamb and roast potatos at the end of her long day at work.

What is important is that wait; at the platform, at the book shop, at the cafe. Fifteen minutes, half an hour, one hour – with the knowledge that the other will turn up.

What is unforgettable is the picture of him reading books on pregnancy, on PMT, on migrane and poring over recipes to make keropok when she craved for keropok while heavy with child, and tying her shoe laces as she was too big to bend down and do it herself.

What is also precious is that reminder to take vitamins early in the morning, the gentle tug at midnight with a glass of water and vitamins that he feeds her. What is more precious is the ‘Bismillahirahmanirrahim’ that he utters as she swallows the vitamins and goes back to sleep. Similarly precious is the “Tawakkal tuAllah’ from him that accompanies her daily as she sets out for work.

Last night, at the usual place by the fountain, she waited for half an hour. After all these years, she knew he’d turn up. After all these years, she was aware that he was lost among the bookshelves of Waterstones. But she waited. And yes, did he turn up. No more tantrums and sulks of those spring years or fiery anger of summer. This autumn stage of our life has become so predictable; as predictable as the leaves falling, as predictable as winter being around the corner. With that realisation, I think love in the autumn of our life is not too bad at all – even without the flowers and the chocolates.

So, without much fuss, today she says thank you and let us make the most of this autumn years in our life.

Not a Valentine piece, konon

Different situations and different things tend to trigger off different lyrics in my head. Being able to vocalise them is another question of course. Thus, I need my own space, like the kitchen or preferably the bathroom. The bathroom is certainly the best place, with the perfect ambience and acoustics, shower head in hand, I am always transformed into Tony Braxton with Unbreak My Heart. And such lovely lyrics too.

Lyrics for love songs are not supposed to be logical. How do you unbreak a heart, or uncry the tears? But aaaah, so so beautiful. Can you imagine if someone uncry the tears for you? I'd die and undie several times over!

I do marvel at people who come up with such beautiful words and string them together to make songs that play on our lips and remain in the deep recesses of our minds until something; a smell, a gesture, a word, triggers it off into a full blown song...in tune or out of tune, it doesn’t really matter.

Anyway, there are times in our life, during our vulnerable moments that we think certain songs, certain lyrics must have been penned just for us only, or for us and our loved ones, be it sad or soppy.

The song Devoted to You by Olivia Newton John never fails to transport me back to Cafe De Paris or commonly known as Ho Peng cafe in Light Street. See here. Sitting there. reading my love letters for the umpteenth ttime under the big tree while sipping my coffee. Danny, the office boy would stand by for the next command to put another penny in the juke box – Play It again, Danny. Ah, isnt love a many splendoured thing? hmmm, I feel another song coming up.

Malay songs have beautiful and unforgettable lyrics too. R Azmi is certainly long gone but his songs, ahhh the lyrics!!! Can you imagine someone singing to you...”Lemah terasa seluruh tubuhku, Mleihat tanda di jari manis mu....” (This translation is for Beautiful Stranger) My whole body feels weak, Looking at the symbol on your finger.)
I can almost feel the hurt in that voice, feel the crush of his heart as it went into pieces on the flloor, just at the sight of an engagement ring on his lover’s finger?

P Ramlee, needless to say, was a genius at provoking all kinds of emotions. His Istana Cinta which he wrote with S Sudarmaji is just mindblowing.

Dengan cinta ku bina istana

Kau sentuh runtuh jadi pusara

Cahaya hidup ku jadi gerhana

Bisa jiwa menanggung derita

Ku semai benih kasih sejati

Ku pupuk dengan baja nan asli

Ngapa kau siram racun yang pedih

Ku tuai kini hanya rasa yang sedih

Ku impikan istana janji mu

Ku hias cantik dalam angan-angan
Sebab bencana datang mengganggu

Kini hancur musnah istana impian


But somehow, in some of his songs, P Ramlee could not be serious. Not a hundred percent. Just when you are up in cloud eight and berjiwang habis, he became his comical self again. Look at this :

Diingatan ku terbayang wajah
Abang ku yang gagah,
Baik budi serta ramah tamah,
Handsome macam gajah...


Ish ish ish...ada ke pulak macam gajah? Spoil saja!

And yes..before I forget. How do you reconcile the lyrics of this song? Benci Tapi Rindu? I guess it is possible to hate someone and yest miss him or her. But what a wicked song for a karaoke session! Never mind if you can’t hit the note!

Anyway, am writing this in a rush and many more songs and beautiful lyrics come to mind, such as Masquerade – how on earth did anyone come up with...

Thoughts of leaving disappear, each time I see your eyes
And no matter how hard, I try
To undertand the reason, why we carry on this way,
we’re lost in this masquarade.

Was rushing off to this fashion show and did not have enough time to check typos. Sorry! Will blog abt the Fashion Week later.

PS -

Reminiscence of an incurable old romantic

London
14th Feb 2005
There was the unmistakeable ringing tone signalling a message. The girl sitting opposite me on the no: 7 looked at her handphone, and a smile spread across her face as she recognised the sender. She turned bright pink matching the scarf around her neck as she read the message.

Penang
14th February 1979
The young girl sitting uncomfortably in the rickety trishaw, as it zig-zagged its way at suicidal speed across Light Street, ripped open the padded envelope with the registered London stamp, and pulled out a tape. She inserted it immediately in her small tape recorder, pressed the play button and put the recorder close to her ears. She smiled as she heard the message but turned bright red with anger as the trishaw puller increased the volume on his transistor, drowning her recorded Valentine's message with Mohamed Rafi's rendition of Junglee, filling the evening air.

Yes, how time has changed, thanks to technology! A press of a button and your loving message, complete with kisses and smooches emoticons, reaches your loved one. In those days, I had to wait days, if not weeks, before I received those much awaited bulky letters that brought much laughter, tears of joy and the sweet pangs of sorrow that comes with long distance relationship. In the absence of dirt cheap phone cards that are available now, international calls were resorted to only in times of emergencies.

Nowadays, there's the yahoo instant messaging service, the sms and cheap phone cards that bring people together.

However, looking back, nothing beats old traditional letter writing. They were worth the wait. And now, 25 years on, they are neatly catalogued and kept in a bag under the bed.

Working at the old office in Light Street, Penang had certain advantages that outweighed the disadvantages. One advantage was of course, the package as described above was flown from the London office, where the love of my life was then based, together with other official documents to the head office in Jalan Riong. A conspiracy with the then Personal Secretary to the Big Boss, meant that the package was slipped discreetly in an envelope and flown out by the old Fokker Friendship to the Penang Bureau. Danny, the office boy would sort out the documents and again discreetly put the package in my drawer. Mission accomplished.

The downside was of course, ordinary letters were not delivered directly to the office. I had to cultivate Danny's friendship to fetch the letters, which used to come in threes, from the Penang Post Office. I could guess when there were letters. The hint of a smile on his boyish face as he walked up the creaky stairs of the old building, and he'd pretend to do other work, while my heart was bursting with suspense and agony.

"Wah! Manyak lorr!" he'd beamed as he finally handed me the letters. If there were morning assignments, the letters would have to wait, though I'd disappear regularly to the ladies to satisfy my curiosity.

Most of the time, I'd wait for the tea break, took the letters with me and sat myself down under the big shady tree in front of Ho Peng Cafe. Danny, young, trusty and dependable Danny, just knew that I needed to be in the right mood to devour the contents of the letters. He'd choose some of my Abba favourites from the old juke-box. Or most of the time it'd be Hopelessly Devoted To You, over and over again as I read and reread his jottings, his jokes, his diary. Nothing mushy.

"Play it again, Danny," I'd murmur dreamily as I reread para 4 of page 20. Danny would faithfully drop a few more coins in the box, and as the ships passed by unnoticed and the mee goreng mamak that I ordered remain untouched, I'd continue reading, with Olivia Newton John tirelessly belting out Hopelessly Devoted To You.

Oh, did I say phonecalls were for emergencies only? Yeah, he did call one night to propose. And I breathlessly said, "Yes!"