Where are all my 'sayang mama'?

I was reading interesting accounts by mak andeh of adventures with her brood and how I envy her.

When my own children were small, that was what we used to do. We’d bundle them into the car and drive anywhere and everywhere hubby took us. We never had a destination in mind cos hubby is famous for his wrong turnings and we’d end up miles away from where we intended to go. There’d be endless questions of “Where are we going, where are we now, are we there yet, and finally, when are we going home?”

I must admit, I am not very patient but God is great, cos my quota of patience was doubled and given to him. A car journey was almost an education trip.

While I battled with the games on Gameboy, he’d entertain them with stories and history of the places that we passed by. “See this road? Why do you think its just straight? During the days of the Romans…,” alternating with, “sit down or the police will arrest you, put your seat belts on….”

Drat and I’d lose my game.

Anyway, the children never used to complain. It was never the destinations that they were interested in but the Welcome Breaks and Little Chefs dotting the British highways. They used to love the pricey food and the games while I took the opportunity to rest my tired fingers. And they loved staying at hotels.

And then they grew up. Nothing interest them anymore. After all they had seen the yellow rapeseed fields in summer, the British seasides in spring soon became a bore, and staying in a cabin during the weekends was never their idea of fun. And English castles?? Duhhh! So, before a drive out of London, we had had to resort to sweettalk, emotional blackmail and if nothing worked, threats.

So, you can imagine the long faces mopping the floor in the backseats of the car. “Hey, look at the horses, aren’t those thatched roofs beautiful…”

Silence. Everyone had their ears plugged to their MP3 players or bergayut on the phone to friends. Only T, the youngest and curious one, always standing behind hubby, alternating his whispers between daddy’s right and left ears with questions.

So we thought, it must be the estate that’s becoming too small for the growing family. Afterall, the eldest always had cramps as he has long legs.

So, we decided to buy an MPV. What a luxury!! But soon the novelty wore out as well and we found a seven seater MPV a big and lonely place for the two of us. Even our voices echoed when we spoke to each other.

No threats would work now. They have disowned us.

I am wrecking my brain searching for answers to where we went wrong? But, silly me...of course! They are embarrased now at the thought of going places with their parents. So, tak cool!

So, let's see signs that perhaps I had missed, clues that they gave and I didn't see.

Well, I remember we drove to see H playing football, and as it was raining, we thought we'd stop and give him a ride back. Instead of appreciation, the look on his face registered anger!!

Then there was the time I saw H for the first time with a group of friends and a few girls. So happy I was, I shouted,"H, sayang mama..." but he shot daggers at me. What did I do to deserve that?

And when R was performing her beautiful Malay dance, this proud mama was jumping up and down, videoing her. We watched the video again, and there was my voice telling anyone who cared to listen: That's my daughter, the one dancing, that's my daughter. Clever or not?" Now, what was wrong with that? You see lots of proud parents like that at school concerts waving to their children on stage, much to the chagrin of the teachers!!

And you know, N's friend died in an accident. I was devastated and as we prepared to visit the parents, N hissed into my ears as she squeezed my hand hard until it hurt. It wasn't a squeeze of affection, more of a warning: Don't say anthing embarassing, mama!" Laaaaa, when did I ever do anything embarrassing to you? At the house, everytime I wanted to open my mouth, there was this icy stare from her. There was another parent, Bina, and as we left, Bina confided in me that her daughter Shahidah also warned her not to say anything embarassing. Laaaa....!

Anyway, am still wrecking my brains in search of anything remotely embarassing that I had done. Hmm, there's the joget lambak with the cultural troupe at Whiteleys and the one by the River Thames, mmm perhaps the karaoke at Malaysia Hall or during the Family Day in Brickendonbury? I thought my performance was quite impressive...

Anyway, even T now, all grown up does not want to be seen being hugged by me anymore. You know this is the boy, my baby, who never left for school without as many as 10 times, "I sayang you mama, *kiss, kiss*." and at the door, " I sayang you mama," and before disappearing around the corner: "I sayang you mama!"

Now he'd make sure he gives a quick peck on the cheek before dashing out of the door, in case his friend waiting outside could see. Well, maybe I overdid it a bit with the sayang mama thing. I'd tickle them and hug them breathless until they say, I sayang you, mama. But I should have seen the warning signs from T. Sitting on the stairs, he asked for a glass of water. I said: Say, 'I sayang you, mama' first. And you know what he retorted? "Oh, mama, for heavens sake, its only a glass of water!"

Makandeh, enjoy the adventures with your brood while you can!

Zai and Sri Mersing on a cold winter's night...

Last week, there was a group of us chatters with Pok Ku holding court yet again. Six am in London, and maybe 2 pm in Malaysia and there's Karina in Melbourne, don't know what time it was there...but Pok Ku treated us to music and songs from his Pok Ku Radio Pencen. And we listened and he spoilt me with repeats of my request : Just Once as well as Olivier Newton John's Hopelessly Devoted to You. For that, thank you Pok Ku.

That experience spurred me on to experiment with this new venture that I am about to do and subject you to a bit more than reading what I write.

Well, I have always loved radio. It paints a better picture. I did twelve years of radio and yearn to do more. Last year,I did an interview with a dear old friend, Zainol Cik Salleh, whose enthusiasm for lagu asli Melayu knew no bounds. A designer and an artist, he lived in London for 25 years before deciding that he wanted to go home. In his own words: it was lagu asli Melayu which led him by the hand back to learn more about it. Do listen to the interview and if you dont like it...just switch it off. But I learned a lot from him about the beauty of lagu-lagu Melayu asli. It takes thousands of miles away from home, for me to appreciate what we have.

I remember those days, in the cold winter nights, we'd gather at a friend's place and Zainol would treat us to some asli gems, like Sri Mersing. And I'd duet with him, Patah Hati and always give up when I hit the high note. There were nights when he'd call me and say,"Hey, do you remember this line?" and he'd sing for me.. and together in the middle of the cold winter's night, we'd try to remember lost lines of a nearly forgotten song. If not for Zai, I will never know. So, if you can bear this, please click the link below:
Zainol-Pulangnya seorang perantau

This was first broadcast on www.rantauan.tv
Thank you to Bro Ming for putting this together and thanks iJun for putting it on Realplayer.
And lastly, thank you Zai.

Fashion (non)sense

It was a really bad start. I didn’t want to go. I didn’t even apply but the invitation came anyway. I am one sartorially challenged person and I suspect my presence at these functions was needed to challenge any designer who claims he/she can change and transform a person’s sense or style of dressing. Good luck to them.
So, off I went in a mismatched tudung and attire much to the horror of my children.

First stop, at my shoemaker friend’s shop. He was busy entertaining clients from Hong Kong. The clock was a-ticking and I was a-tapping my badly wornout shoes, (not unlike iJun’s.)

After what seemed like a life time of muah-muah, kiss kiss, bye darling, bye sweetheart, we flagged down a taxi to go to the Roof Garden, where Eric Way, Cherie Blair’s dresser was holding his show. The time was 12.15 and the show would have started and I’d miss the pictures badly needed for my piece. Shoemaker was hungry and seemed oblivious to the miles and miles of traffic along Bayswater Road. I pacified him with the last two bars of Galaxy I had in my bag.

Once there, it was already 1240 and I was sure Eric was already taking his bow while we searched for the entrance. The handphone rang, the shoemaker did a sprint. “Hurry! They are holding up the show for me!” We ran helter skelter, shoemaker, mrs shoemaker, ms shoemaker and me in my badly wornout shoes. Shoemaker knocked on someone’s door – thinking it was the venue, but was rescued by someone who came out searching for the lost party.

Phew! I have had enough of fashion shows. I must be getting on a bit when events like these don’t thrill me anymore.

I remember my first London Fashion Week. It was sheer foolhardy to apply as a photographer. You are put in this dock where it’s a dog eat dog situation. Fashion photographers are one of a kind. You go there and see Xs in masking tape all over the place, reserved areas for the best shots. And if you should be foolish enough to go in front, and they see a strand of your hair straying into their lenses, you’d better wish the ground opens up beneath you. There’d be a chorus of "Hoi!! Get out of the way!"

I was there, clutching my small Canon Ixus, surrounded by mothers of all cameras with grandmothers of all lenses, being elbowed left, right and centre. I remember getting just Naomi Cambell’s heels, Jodie Kidd’s knees and the rest all blurred or blank.

Fashion shows never start on time. It’s the prerogative of designers. The higher they are on the who’s who list, the longer you wait for the show to begin. So, in the meantime you look around to see who comes in what to these events.

The most fascinating creatures to watch are the so called fashion writers. They hardly practice what they preach in their columns. Coordinates do not come any where near in their vocabularies. And my children worry about my dress sense! Watch Hilary Alexander.

Then there’s the model wannabes. Tall lanky teenagers who swan around the place in the hope of getting noticed.

Then finally, the models. In those days, in my days, anyway, models are those with the vital statistics of 36-25-36, right? With bulge and curves in the right place. Nowadays, they advertise at anorexic anonymous for models. Its almost like watching death on a catwalk. There’s no need for hairstyling or proper make-up. The more outrageous you look, the better. Once I went to one show and decided that my teenage daughter could just jump out of bed and would still look good on the catwalk.

I am very proud of our Malaysian models. I was fortunate enough to meet Camelia, our Camelia, at one of these shows. Even as a guest, after a 13 hour flight, she stood out as a real beauty. And there's of course Nasha...what a gem! I've watched her outdoing models on the catwalk here. She can be truly dazzling! (BTW, that's Kak Teh with Nasha.No prize for guessing which one is Nasha.)

And yes, the clothes. You tend to forget the very reason you come to these places when there's so much distractions. They don’t make clothes anymore. They make statements. Wasn’t there once a design which transforms into a table? I went to see one up and coming designer. She used stick-ons to create a pattern on the bodies of the models. And I will never forget Hilary Alexander’s witty remark:Wow! That’s a lovely dress you’re not wearing!

Back to the show at the Roof Garden. Now, this was one classy show at a classy place. Eric used Malaysian batik on some of his very sleek evening numbers, complete with batik shoes and handbags by Lewre.

I went home lamenting my long gone waist. What a waist!
Badly taken pix and bad layout by Kak Teh. Sleek evening numbers by Eric Way & Beautiful shoes by Lewre.

Dear Diary....

I HAVE always been an avid diary keeper. Towards the beginning of the New Year I look forward to a new diary and can't wait to fill it, first with birthdays, anniversaries and then important contact numbers. Then only do I worry about filling it with items relating to work - major appointments, any big projects, deadlines.

But as weeks turn into months, my diary assumes a new image of familiar and organised chaos that only I alone can decipher. Phone numbers written in eyebrow pencils, sometimes in lip liners, find their way among things to do and what to buy, buried in between "terrible headaches" and "late again!"

There's the occasional "$*(*&!!! and a smattering of ????, weighed heavy with implications and emotions. But try reading the jottings a few years later and even the heavily underlined phrases tend to lose some of their intensity with which they were penned.

There are cryptic phrases that read and sound like a dialogue in a Spy vs Spy episode, as well as circles around dates and phone numbers with no names.

I once succumbed to a temporary whim of wanting to be a yuppie even at an age when I was more downwardly pulled than upwardly mobile. I thought I had to be seen carrying this yuppie bible called the filofax.

Soon it was bulging with pages and I was soon presented with an electronic organiser from sympathisers who thought it could help organise my life. That didn't work either, as I am a technically challenged person. I want my diary, one that I can flip through and tear when I want to.

But looking through my now impressive collection of old battered diaries, I wonder if I can make money out of them. People seemed to be making money out of diaries, so why shouldn't I?

I could do well by taking a leaf out of Edwina Currie's published diary of her liaison with former British Prime Minister John Major. Well, I could if I have any liaison worth publishing.

But how does one know when to start jotting the juicy bits and sound bites that will be worth all the risk and bother? Do you start with just the sketches and then expand it later according to how the relationship develops?

But isn't a diary supposed to be so private, so personal that it is only meant for your eyes only? I just wonder that for someone to meticulously jot down every little detail of the former leader's now infamous blue underpants, she must have such vision that the wearer would become a world figure one day. Well, if you have any kind of brush at all with anyone along the corridors of power, it must be worth keeping a diary - just in case.

And, of course, if you think the disgraced British peer and author, Lord Jeffrey Archer, was going to spend his time peeling potatoes in the prison kitchen, think again. Yes, he did do that, only to be able to write first hand what it was like to do things that we mortals do every day in our own kitchen. With every peel that fell to the floor, he knew that the public is hungry to read about what goes on behind the prison walls.

The British public has been treated to serialised extracts of the diaries of many public figures. There's Currie and Archer and of course Princess Diana's Butler. And I don't believe we have seen the last.

It is the age of kiss-and-tell and voyeurism. People want to see what goes on in your private life and nothing is private or sacred anymore. Have you seen the number of hits at the datindiaries blog? I keep going back too, but she is keeping us salivating before she unleashes another sizzling one. Hmm, and there's sarungparty girl's as well, makes my journal jottings as fun as a nun's in a convent.

Anyway, most of us who keep personal letters and diaries and do not want prying eyes do have a problem. What do we do with them if we don't want people pouring over every little detail of our love letters or diaries when we die?

Do we destroy them; burn them so that our children and great grandchildren will never know the deepest secrets that we and our beloved shared in the throes of young love? Or worst still, what if they sell and publish them?

Oftentimes, I read and reread old letters and diaries and store them back carefully under the bed. I still don't have the heart to destroy them. I wonder what other people do with their diaries and old letters? Most probably I'll burn them and store the ashes. Or better still, mix the ashes in water and drink it. But to let other people read them? Never!

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!"

Aaaah...the joy of sharing!

There are many reasons why I am reproducing the story below. One, as you must have suspected, I am experiencing what most over enthusiastic bloggers experience after a while, i.e. – blogger’s block. How pathetic it is to run out of ideas and to rehash old jokes forwarded to your mail. But this one, seeing its Valentine’s Day – is for those old romantic couples…of course I have given it a local treatment too. This is dedicated to Charles and Camilla as they share their old age together.

A couple in their seventies, walked in hand in hand to the warung and ordered a plate of nasi ayam and a glass of teh tarik. They also asked for an extra plate and an extra empty glass. All eyes were on them as people hardly see old couples holding hands and still very much besotted by each other.

When their order arrived, the woman carefully divided the food – two pieces of the chicken for the husband and two for her. Two scoops of rice for husband and two scoops of rice for her. The same with the teh tarek. Then she lovingly watched her husband eat, oblivious to the stares.

One concerned youngster approached them, and thinking they lacked money, offered to buy another plate of chicken rice. They politely refused.

When the husband finished eating, he went to the sink to wash his hands. The concerned youngster approached the old lady again and offered to buy her food. And again, she refused. The husband came back, sat down and lovingly handed to her something in a tissue.

Its his dentures, which his wife carefully fitted in her mouth, before proceeding to enjoy her nasi ayam.

“You see," the husband told the dumbstruck youngster, "we share everything!”

What it would be like to be six again...

I usually delete most mails forwarded to me. But seeing Valentine's Day is near, I suggest that wives and girlfriends read this properly and husbands and boyfriends, take note! I have sort of adapted the story a bit and given it a local flavour.

The husband asked his wife what she'd like for Valentine’s Day.

"I'd love to be six again," she replied.

On the morning of 14th February, he woke up early, got up, made her a nice big bowl of Cornflakes with prunes and nuts and then took her off to Sunway Lagoon. What a day!

They went on every ride in the park. They frolicked in the pool. They went into the tunnel and squeel with delight as they splash into the water again. He chased her around the garden and even tried to carry her piggy back, before going to the skating rink. And five hours later she staggered out. Her head was reeling and her stomach felt upside down. Her limbs were aching.

They drove to a McDonald's where her loving husband ordered her a Happy Meal with extra fries and a refreshing chocolate shake. Then it was off to a movie to see the latest blockbuster, a hot-dog, popcorn, a soda pop, and her favorite candy, M&M's.

What a fabulous adventure!

Finally she wobbled home with her husband and collapsed into bed, exhausted. He leaned over his precious wife with a big smile and lovingly asked, "Well, dear, what was it like being six again?"

Her eyes slowly opened and her expression suddenly changed.

"Is that what this crazy day was all about? You idiot, I meant my dress size!"

The moral of the story: Even when a man is listening, he's still gonna get it wrong!!!

So, ladies, spell it loud and clear what you want for tomorrow!!

A Tribute to my friend Diana...

So, he IS getting married again, after all this time, eh? The news splashed across the screen, a friend from Singapore called for confirmation after receiving a text message and by noon everyone was already talking about it. How could he? I am so upset.

Well, I was there when he married the first one. Such a lovely girl, English rose and all. I remember tripping all over the campers camping all along Fleet Street leading to St Pauls, to catch a glimpse of what was hailed a Fairy tale wedding. The world and her grandmother came, and those who couldn't, stayed home and watched TV.

This time, even if I am in town, I will not go. I will even unplug the TV on April 8th.

My memories and loyalty to the first one is still very strong. Reminds me of my Tok Su. When he took on a second one, I couldn't forgive him. I am always loyal to the first one.

Apparently, their marriage (not my Tok Su's) was doomed from the beginning. Well, I read somewhere that while the first one was still blissfully ignorant of the threat of the other woman, he was constantly on the phone to her...and at one point even admitting that he wished he was the tampon in her er...small things! Yearggghhh!

How can a woman take so much from her husband and at the same time try to put on a public face? I really admired her. Still blooming in the face of all these terrible things happening to her and publicly too!

When their first baby was born, mine was only a year old. But in my mind, I imagine us sharing bringing-up baby tips together. You know, she was the kind of person who can be anyone's friend. It's difficult not to imagine otherwise when she was in your front room day and night, staring at you from the glossy covers of magazine in bookshops, and smiling coyly from everything from postcards to mugs at souveiner shops.

I imagine telling her how to change nappies and deal with nappy rash on the royal bottom. I imagine we'd meet at the Mothers and Tots for coffee, before her chauffeur whizzes her off to another ribbon cutting ceremony. And I imagine she'd confide in me about the other woman that we were all reading about in the tabloids. And I'd hear her giggle over my dress sense!

The closest I got to her was of course via the man whose hands touched her royal feet to make her shoes. He used to make me laugh with his impersonation of her - looking coyly from underneath those lashes, with that tilt of her head at a certain angle.

Their separation was announced on my wedding annivesary and I remember feeling so sad. We who have nothing yet have everything (that matters).

Anyway, I lied when I said the closest I got to her was through her shoe maker. I actually saw her at close distance at the annual garden party in Buckingham Palace. Oh, no, I lied again...I only saw her nose - such a big nose too. At these garden parties, for shorties like us from Malaysia, its difficult to get a good view of the royals doing their rounds because people tend to wear big, funny hats. So, in between those feathers and wide hats - I caught a glimpse of her nose, before I was flapped sideways by a giant hat, pushing her way to the front.

Back to he who made her shoes. He was of course devastated when she was killed in the crash. He had just received a fax for another order of her favourite design. I had to counsel him on what black shirt to wear.

I remember that day very well. I was on the way to a Merdeka celebration, in my bright red kebaya!! And when I got there, the women were all crying having heard the morning news. Rushed to Buckingham Palace and got some verbal abuse from the mourners there. What with me in glaring red on a day of mourning and pointing my camera everywhere! Such audacity, and from a Malaysian paparazzi pulak tu!

Anyway, I spent the next few days joining the mourners and looking at the sea of flowers, reading those heartfelt messages, outside her residence in Kensington Gardens. I really felt the loss. Every woman, who is a wife felt for her and felt her loss.

And now on my trips to Paris, I never failed to visit the place where she met her tragic fate. Its like paying respects to an old friend who went before her time, before she could share tips with me on how to dress well.

So, okay Charles - go on then and marry Camilla. At your age, you can do with the companionship. A blogger buddy and I were bitching just now and we came up with several advise for them. It was suggested that Charles go for some traditional urut and Camilla for mandi bunga.

Personally, I think, Diana could have done a Bobbit!

Customs and exercising it...

I didn’t plan to blog today, because my cats are starving and children are about to stage a coup. But I read in today’s paper about one of the most unimaginable acts listed under the do’s and don’ts when dealing with royalties, being violated. One that surely merits no less than a pancung or sula as punishment.

The champion of the Le Tour de Langkawi, Graeme Brown, in his moment of jubilation, lifted his sweat-soaked cap and put it on the royal head!!! – in front of thousands at the stadium as well as via live tv!!!

I can almost see it in slo mo effect that moment as cheers of congratulations turned into one of shock, horror, registering on the faces of Malaysians. Have you heard, Graeme, of “Biar mati anak jangan mati adat?” (Let the children die, but not the customs.) Didn’t your PR person brief you on this?

Of course Graeme knew the person who shook his hands at the podium, but he forgot!! In his excitement he forgot!!! BUT in the Malay book of adat, dear Graeme, the head is a no no! ESPECIALLY a Royal head!! Be thankful you are not living during the reign of Sultan Mahmud, or there’d be no more place for that cap of yours to rest on.

Now, let me check my notes on Sejarah Melayu.

Well, our loyalty to King and country, according to the Sejarah Melayu, goes back to the social contract as agreed between Demang Lebar Daun and Sri Tri Buana – a pledge of undivided loyalty from the subjects in return for protection by the ruler. And much, much, later of course, Sultan Muhammad, came up with a lengthy do’s and don’ts that put the ruler at their place and the subjects, where they belong. This includes the wearing of yellow, as yellow is the royal colour, speak only when spoken to, colour coded umbrellas, etcetra, etcetra - many too tedious to elaborate.

Sure, many of these adats applied and still do apply to the subjects, and a Malay who does not know an adat is as good as kurang ajar, tak tahu bahasa – lack of education. But, even then, during the height of prosperity of the Malay kingdom, when foreign traders flocked the port and dealt with the rulers personally, non conformance or outright disregard of an adat by them was also frowned upon. When Adipati Kampar bearing gifts went straight in to see Sultan Alaudin Ria’yat Shah, he was reprimanded for seeking audience without being accompanied by the Seri Nara Di Raja. According to the Sultan, that tantamount to destroying any ceremonial rites.

Bendaharas too had their own adats. They, in turn, reprimanded those who showed disrespects to the king. One of them told off Raja Mendaliar (a Muslim Indian) when he greeted the bendahara without waiting for the Sultan first.

“… maka Raja Mendaliar pun datang hendak menyembah Bendahara Seri Maharaja, lalu ditepiskan oleh Bendahara tangan Raja Mendaliar, seraya katanya, "Ceh, Keling ini, tiada tahu bahasa; patutkah tuan hamba menyembah hamba di balai raja ini? “ Sejarah Melayu:239:23

Translated: Oik, foreigner, wait for the king, first lah! Then we can talk at Starbucks!”

Suffice to say, he kept his head.

But seriously, as one of the tudungs that I don by way of earning a living in this country, I do briefings for expats before they go for their stints in our country. There is a place called Centre for International Briefing at Farnham Castle, where would-be expats and their families stay for about a week to learn, not only the language, but also the do’s and don’ts.

Yes, they want to know about our customs – about not touching the heads, not pointing the sole of your feet, about using the thumb to point, about leaving shoes outside the door..and so on and so forth.

Actually, I quite like the HSBC ads that you see along the travelator at Heathrow. Red in China is good luck, while in Western countries, a sign of danger, cheese in a mousetrap in Europe but ikang kering in Malaysia. As you travel out to the country of your destination, it is good to understand the culture there – and yeah, respect, man! Didn’t you see that one, Graeme?

ps
Well, apparently not. I read further and it seems that dear Graeme is from Australia, whose PM patted Queen Elizabeth on the shoulder during her visit there some time ago! Ish ish ish, Aussies ni!!!

Of Jamaluddin Alias and that gush of patriotism...

...musings of a Malaysian in a foreign land.

I was reading about national anthems and patriotic songs in another blog when I remember having written something about it:

WHEN I left my country for these foreign shores, the tuneful notes of patriotism that clung to my mind were mostly in the gusto baritone of Jamaludin Alias, belting away lines that would have raised the spirits of even the most cynical of Malaysians abroad.

These were songs that would have pulled you up to your feet, and walk proudly with your head held high. Songs like "Malaysia kita sudah berjaya..." and Perajurit Tanah Air were practised in earnest in schools and colleges throughout the land days before Merdeka Day, sending a rush of patriotic feeling in all.

These same songs I heard years later filling the chilly, foreign air of the Birmingham National Indoor Arena when flag-waving Malaysians from near and far sang as they cheered on Rashid Sidek and other Malaysian players at the annual All England Badminton Championship. Never mind that they rarely got to bring the cup home. The spirit was there.

I remember one year when Malaysia was playing against Indonesia in the finals. Malaysian supporters, drapped in Malaysian flags filled half the NIA, while the Indonesian supporters, not even a quarter. Gosh, I could feel the rush of emotions as we all sang the lyrics, "Sebelum kita berjaya...jangan harap kami pulang..." The Indonesians had more faith in their players and were quiet. And we lost, and somewhere from the corner of the arena, as we were leaving, we heard a group singing sadly, "Pulang, marilah kita pulangggggg..."

Anyway, I never realised that there were so many new patriotic songs until I was given the task of training a choir group for one occassion here. There's the beautiful and melodious Sejahtera Malaysia sung by Siti Nurhaliza, the equally heartwrenching Setia and of course the future-to-behold Wawasan songs.

The response of the choir group was a heavy emotional overload. Perhaps I underestimated what it was like to be a Malaysian abroad, but the response from Malaysians here was totally unexpected. Everyone wanted to be involved.

I blinked back tears as I watched five to six-year-olds mime lines like "rela berkorban apa saja... and I wondered whether they understood the meaning of the lyrics penned with such strong emotions. Did they harbour the same strong feelings and awareness that we, as kids at school, once had when told that these songs were for Malaysia? Perhaps not. There was here something a bit more, that special ingredient that made all of us, being abroad, feel so close to home.

Amongst the youngsters were children of my own who were blissfully unaware of Malaysian patriotic songs until they turned up for that first practice session in Malaysia Hall. We had played our old songs for them just to give them an inkling of what music was like in the old home but indifference was the order of the day. Our quaint lilting keroncong was no contest for The Corrs or the Boyzones of the day.

Undoubtedly, parents of children born and brought up in a foreign land have this extra task of educating their offspring in their culture, language and values. What more patriotism. It's no easy task. I once taught them the National Anthem. The first line was as easy as pie. It was the second that proved tricky, in fact downright difficult. How do you translate tanah tumpahnya darahku to someone untutored in the hyperbolic inclinations of the Malay language? Don't get me wrong. This wasn't a rejection of their motherland. I still treasure the memory of my eldest son, now in his twenties, who was so proud of being Malaysian that he would rush upstairs to put on his batik shirt whenever we had visitors from the home country.

Sure, being Malaysian is more than being kitted out in a batik shirt. We are still working hard on it. As for the values, there's no problem there. We defend vigorously our traditional and eastern values in the face of strong peer influence, especially when dealing with our two older ones who were educated in a Saudi school. They may have strong Arabic accents and mannerisms but they are Malaysians by far.

H is speaking more Malay, thanks partly to his early infatuation with Siti Nurhaliza and her songs which he heard during one visit home. We say this proudly even if he thinks berbicara di satu ketika (in a Nurhaliza song) means holding an amorous conversation on a mat, having mistaken tika for tikar!

And while Malaysians are flocking to the Soccer Mania shop in London to buy Manchester United shirts, my sons are proud to wear the Malaysian football stripes. But, as they grow older, because of the acceptance of the Malaysian community, especially the expat community in London, they are becoming more involved in activities organised for Malaysians in London, even seeking them out in Hyde Park on Wednesday afternoons for a bout of rambunctious football.

I remember how proud our youngest was to be able to carry the bunga manggar at a Malaysian wedding. The third was pleased as punch when she was asked to distribute the bunga telor. Our second child, whose only other traditional dance she knew was the belly dance, is now actively involved in traditional Malay dances since her first performance at a shopping centre in north London. She did Ulit Mayang beautifully - a legend from Terengganu, her father's birthplace and which he proudly claims is the only country in the world. He he!

Coming back to patriotic songs, there have been questions raised as to whether we still need them as we have acquired our independence and achieved what was once pronounced unachievable by the west. We no longer have the threats of enemies, internal or external, but the answer must remain yes because they have been testing times. And it was during this times that we need that stir of emotions again.

Being 12,800km away, it is always a treat to sometimes watch and even participate in Malaysian cultural events. It reminds us of who we are and where our hearts lie.

No-lah, we're not thaaaat British!

HOW often have I had to bite my tongue to remarks such as "Oh, if you've been here for 25 years and have bought a house, you must be British!"

Such simplistic assumptions! But I always managed to assert my Malaysianness in that truly Malaysian style: "No-lah!" If buying a house and being on British soil for yonks can qualify you as a citizen, then Mohamaed Al-Fayed with his magnificent world-famous street corner shop at Knightsbridge wouldn't have a problem, would he?

These days, it is almost impossible to switch on the telly or read the newspapers without listening to or reading someone's opinions about who is British and who is not. Yet the question is not as simple as it sounds. Even if you're white and speak with the best BBC pronunciation, it still wouldn't guarantee you the status.

But then again, our corner shop newsagent, a Mr Patel (for almost always a newsagent in Britain is a Patel), is proud to admit that he is British. He calls me Mrs Van, for even after all these years, his Indian tongue still twists the letter W.

In my own household, the question of being British was raised, I think only once.

"Am I British, Mama?", questioned our youngest, who was then 10. He asked because his British-born best friend who was of Indian origin told him that he was entitled to a British passport as he was born in London.

We put his confused mind to rest by telling him that because his parents are Malaysians, he and the rest of his siblings are Malaysians even if his sister spoke and behaved like an Arab.

Making Britain our adopted home was never part of our initial plan but back in the Eighties, getting a job was easy and becoming a permanent resident wasn't so difficult.

The thought of changing our citizenship never entered our minds even at a time when it meant that we had to queue up behind the signs that for a time said "Aliens" or "Others" at the immigration.

To borrow a phrase from George Mikes (pronounced Me-cash), the author of How to be a Brit, I came of age in Britain four years ago. But how much of my Malaysianness have I retained and how much of Britishness have I adopted during all these years?

I remember a remark made by someone I had not met for a long time. He said: "After all these years away, you still have a thick Kedah accent"

To be frank, had I stepped off the plane all kitted with gloves and hat like the Queen Mother and spoke like her daughter, I would still get the critical treatment - I would have been termed as angin or putting on airs. So one can never win, can one?

And how British can one get when I still can't understand why lunches are called dinners and dinners, suppers. Why is it that children go to public schools which are actually private? Why is it that anything that is served is "luvly" even when it tastes like the dog's dinner which is actually lunch?

Why is it so important that milk is poured in a cup before the tea, and plates are heated up before being served? Such riddles, I believe, are meant to confuse foreigners enough and make them leave British shores. Diehards, however, stay on to try and solve the mystery of Britishness.

It's impossible, however, to stay this long and not get some Britishness rubbing off on you. Some you really have to learn the hard way. For example, I've stopped using the two-finger sign when ordering, say, two pounds of grapes. The first time I did that, the fruitseller said: "Same to you, luv!" and
proceeded to serve the next customer.

I've learnt to queue patiently for a bus, a taxi, a sales counter and even toilets even if I was bursting to go! It is a no-no to pick and choose your own fruits as you would at Pekan Rabu or at a pasar malam, and the same goes to speaking to a sales assistant who is serving someone else.

I've learnt to stand on the right of escalators to allow others to walk up or down. I'm also becoming used to a "potluck" meal that actually means you going empty handed to finish off whatever's in the pot of the host and not, as in Malaysia, to expect it to be an occasion to bring your own.

And when a man says, "Shall I play mother", I know that he's dead serious about his role to pour the tea and serve the cakes and nothing more than that!

As immigrants, legal and illegal, still come teeming to this land of opportunity where the streets are supposedly paved with gold, the British too have improved their knowledge of geography and about the population of the world that are arriving at their doorsteps.

In earlier days, I have been called an Iranian in Scarborough, a Filipino in Brighton and a Thai at a garden party in Buckingham Palace. Now, not only do they know where Malaysia is, they have even learnt to go native and share dishes at Malaysian or Indian restaurants. The amusing way Britishers used to tackle their ethnic meal was quite individualistic - they just plonked whatever was theirs wholesale onto their rice heap.

And YESSSSS!!!! Recently, we went home and took possession of our brand new smart card IC! Our son now carries it proudly in his wallet!!

Of nicks and cyberworld buddies...

Reading about the Nasi Dagang Party held in honour of Pok Ku, reminded me of the get together of our own cyberworld friends. I belong to a network of Malays around the world and we have met several times in many places in Malaysia, Singapore and around Europe, to put faces to nicks, so to speak.

And reading the comments, I wonder, if like us, the bloggers who met for the first time at that party, recognised each other instantly from the jottings that reveal quite a lot about the jotters.

Do the nicks fit the image that you have of the person? What’s the story behind the nicks?

We had our first gathering three years ago, when I was back in Malaysia and as there were other members who flew back from Bangladesh, America, Germany, Australia, we met up with members who travelled down from Singapore for a meeting with friends we have only been meeting online. Needless to say, the food was untouched as we chatted like old friends.

Before this, we shared our joys and sorrows as perantaus. We created our own community and cyber families that remained steadfast to this day. We rejoice in each other’s success as a member makes it in a foreign land, and offer advise and words of consolation each time a perantau receives news of death or illness from home. We create our own cerpen bersambung and berbalas pantun and recently tried online television culminating in a Ramadan and hari raya programme, with lagu hari raya bersambung by members from all around the world. It was hilarious and such fun! We’ve learnt so much from each other. From someone who could only paste and cut, I can now do online tv!! Hooray! Thanks to Bro Ming in Melbourne.

Anyway, coming back to that first meeting, I knew instantly who was Senyumanis from Germany, whose style of speaking is just like her jottings, so warm and wonderful. Sweethuneyz the bubbly lass from Australia, Kazoo, warm and demure from America, Maknenek funny and talented from Germany and many more. And the funny thing is, even when we found out each other’s real name, we’d still call each other by the nicks that we are used to.

We were featured in the local newspaper which of course meant that the number of hits for the site increased immediately. The next meeting was in Singapore, the turn out big enough to merit a two page feature in the Singapore Berita Harian.

These cyber friends had visited me in London too – Malays seeking Malays in a foreign land. Jintanmama, whose friendship I treasure dearly, came all the way from Sweden, so did memento from Holland and KasaRubia from Australia. And of course, how can I forget my dear, dear cyberfriend who had become my sidekick and partner in crime, klmuk from Aberdeen. Her words of advise and encouragement saw me through my darkest hours as I contemplated whether to plunge into the world of academia.

All these wonderful networkings started by someone who felt very lonely when she moved to LA. With enough knowledge of IT and the internet, she started the site with two friends. I joined them not too long after that and now I have buddies in Oklahoma, San Francisco, Costa Rica and Saudi.

Coming back to the nicks, I have never been imaginative with mine. Kak Teh is what my younger siblings call me to my face but I daren’t imagine what they call me behind my back! Now, as I have a small circle of blogger friends here, I wonder what atenah, atiza, kak ngah, blaberella, doreen and honeytar look like or how they came about their nicks. But from their jottings you can sort of put a rough picture together.

I see atenah, this intellectual who talks to anyone in the bus and holds deep intellectual conversations with her hippy friends and only once in a while looks up only to make that difficult decision of what coffee to order. She has vision, this lady, and I wish her luck!

There’s nadia all motherly and homely, and sticks to her routine religiously as she homeschooled her children. I envy her commitment and dedication. And I stand to attention as I type this.

There’s chek ngah, mutterings in Javanese, missing her daughter back home. She has lots of stories to tell.

There’s maknenek ( but I have met her! And she is not a nenek!) still transitting in Germany, with Egyptian husband. When she is not sobbing away watching Bollywood films, she is playing with the love of her life – little Salma. She is a damn good editor too!

And of course Blaberella , who conjures a picture of a barbie doll but is infact a cigar smoking professional that once caught the notorious eyes of Mike Tyson and live to tell the story. She is still besotted by her hubadubs of fifteen years and busy making it on her own in this cruel wide world.

There’s riza in his own world of mysticism, wearing crumpled unironed clothes but damn good, witty observer of what goes on around him.

Woman in the well just came into my blogging life. I had her as Woman at the well and that is how I want to imagine her. I bloghopped to her site via atenah’s and delighted is not enough to describe my feelings. I imagine this seventy something lady sitting at her well, hunched over her laptop, churning all those beautiful stories effortlessly, stories that come only in my dreams. She is such an inspiration. I imagine her with hat perched on her well–coiffered bun to shelter her tanned beautiful face from the scorching Brazilian sun. She is kind and thoughtful and her eyes that have witnessed so much in her rich life, sometimes twinkle with mischief as she recalls an incident that brings a smile to her face. She with those sensible shoes and colourful attires as she dashes here and there, feeling young and more alive than any of us combined. I imagine her still in her youth, enjoying life to the fullest and through her blog, aspires me to do the same.

There’s many more – and how can I forget Pok Ku,Pak Adib, Atok and Awang Goneng who are responsible for me blogging first thing in the morning and last thing at night. But we all know about Pok Ku and as for Awang Goneng well… Suffice to say, thanks to these two, even my dreams are now in Terengganu Malay!

Well, if you happen to be in London and you see this elderly lady, chasing after some old men, preferably sailors or ageing film stars, muttering words you couldn't understand, turning right when she should be turning left, then that's Kak Teh!


ps, blogger buddies, tell me if I am wrong about you!

There goes my Sunday...

Its so quiet! Where is everybody? I think they are all having a nasi dagang hangover and too tired to blog! Anyway, it is Sunday. Still very early in the morning and my duvet beckons me. Alas, I have to go out and brave the cold. Work on a Sunday? Yes, the whole of Sunday!!!

Gone were the days when early Sunday mornings, we'd troop out to Whiteleys - have breakfast of hot croissants and Earl Grey tea. Sometimes, we'd just sit at the cafe poring over the Sunday papers, while the children go the cinema.

Then, to the park before proceeding to Nahar or the old Malaysia Hall for that delicious nasi lemak. Alas, no more of these. Perhaps its age. Perhaps its getting a bit too expensive now for breakfast at the cafes in Queensway. And perhaps, also, its the sad realisation that now, the children, all grown up, don't want to be seen with mama and daddy having breakfast at Whiteleys. Thus, Sunday is now precious in other ways.

This is what I will miss if I go out on a Sunday...

1) ironing. I love ironing - its therapeutic. Many a problems are ironed out while ironing.

2) omnibus version of Eastenders. This and ironing is usually the right combination. The problems they have at Albert Square is unbelievable. Almost every one running around the square is having an affair with someone elses' husbands or wives. And almost everyone is Dirty Den's bastard child. Gosh, the very thought of anyone sleeping with him at all..yearghhh. But then, when you look at Dennis...awwwwww!

These people need to do some ironing - but they all send their dirty laundry to Pauline. No ironing. They need to do ironing. And Pauline and Dot need to iron out their wrinkles as well.
And I will miss that call from Aberdeen...always at that crucial point in Eastenders!

3) repeat of American Idol. I am hooked! These Americans are just as suicidal as the Japanese in Takeshi's Castle! Imagine offering yourself to be eaten alive by none other than Simon Cowell on national TV!! But, some really deserve this!! Aaaah, what a laugh!

Yes, I hear you say, get a life!
So, I am out of here - nak cari sesuap nasi sampai ke malam!

Malay as she is spoken by Mat Sallehs....

(.....and our children abroad)

REMEMBER the well-worn joke about the fat Mat Salleh who, while boarding a bus, overheard this comment about the beruk gemuk, a reference to himself? Later, he got his own back, of course, by saying, "Tumpang lalu, beruk gemuk nak turun".

There are, of course, many other versions. And this is mine, culled from real life. It was in the illustrious university city of Oxford, no less. We were touring the city with my brother who was then visiting, when the children needed to use the john and spend a penny. None was in sight so we decided to go to a pub, and then have tea and sandwiches as well. While waiting at the counter to make our orders, in strode a scruffy-looking man, spectacles perched precariously on the tip of his nose and banging on the counter persistently and rather annoyingly, to gain the attention of the waitress.

Before I could bite my tongue, out came: "Nampak macam profesor yang tak siuman", at which point my husband gave me a shut-your-mouth type of glare, which of course was too late. Meekly, I offered, "He wouldn't understand lah!" and barely had I finished the sentence when the bespectacled scruffy one sat down with my children who were enjoying their scones and asked them, "Sedap tak?"

Well, I died a thousand deaths and was just about ready for another one.

But why should we be surprised or even amazed that so many Europeans, especially the Brits, speak our language? They were, after all, traders in the Malay-speaking world long before they were our colonisers. And long after our independence, many stayed on and worked in plantations, schools and newspapers. Our gentleman in the pub, for instance, was a planter in Johor and had learnt Malay while happily working there.

Now, long before Marsden compiled the first Malay dictionary, Francis Light was already shooting off epistles in handwritten Jawi script, either to butter up the Sultan of Kedah in his ploy to take over Penang or to ask the dear Sultan of Perak to trade with the British. While to the Sultan of Kedah, he'd sign off as "hamba sehina-hina hamba" (your most humble servant), from the Sultan of Terengganu came the expression of a warm and close relationship, in a letter in which the Sultan addressed him as "kekaseh beta" (My beloved). So there, the way to a royal heart!

Undoubtedly, there is something to be gained from learning the language and culture of the people you are dealing with. To manipulate and conquer them, physically or mentally, you must know how their minds work. And this is where knowledge of language and culture ensures that half the battle is won! And of course, don't our hearts melt so easily at the sound of a foreign tongue dealing with our complicated prefixes and classifiers with perfection?

In the British Library, there is a piece of paper with scribblings in Jawi, apparently from Raffles' exercise book. And indeed it was Raffles who contributed a great deal to Marsden's first Malay dictionary. After that there had been Winstedt, Wilkinson and the likes of Edward S. King and many more offering fast track Malay courses as the demand for the Malay language began to grow. Most are outdated, offering lines like, "Ali, siapkan kereta. Mem mahu keluar"!

Centres of higher learning throughout the world are offering Malay as a modern language nowadays, while language schools offer expats and diplomats intensive courses before their stint in Malaysia, learning everything from "Apa khabar" to the culturally correct art of pointing at an object with one's thumb. And there are of course various informal fast track learn-a-sentence-a-day routes. Halal butchers and shops selling wares popular among Malaysians, such as those infuriatingly ubiquitous Queen Anne items in the Malaysian shopping list, and the dreaded porcelain flowers, all advertise their merchandise proudly in Malay. "Daging halal ada dijual di sini", says a signboard in Queensway.

Which takes me - and you, dear reader - to Berlin on a day trip and a quick visit to Check Point Charlie. There I was pleasantly surprised to be hailed, "Ibu, mari Bu, T-shirt murah-murah!" And this coming from what, I suspect, were Turkish immigrants who had discovered a surefire way of getting to the purse strings of gullible tourists like me. Readying myself to leave with five Berlin Wall T-shirts clutched under my arm, I heard again this voice of commerce drooling away, once again, but this time in unmistakable Chinese ...

From the crumbling walls of Berlin to the dizzying heights of Eiffel Tower - different place, similiar techniques. "Mari cuba-cuba, tidak suka, tak usah bayar!" came the invitation, this time from an Arab standing behind a digital camera.

And of course we fell for that one too, and we have an A4-sized photo to prove it. Malay abroad is an expensive language.

*************************************

The first time I met Arthur, I thought he was one of the janitors at the school. He is 82, with hardly any teeth to call his own and the kind of hair you'd find on Guy Fawks efigies on 5th Nov. Anyway, Arthur was one of my students. Was - because last week, he came to say goodbye. At his age, he said, its very unlikely that he'd ever visit Malaysia or use the language. He is instead brushing up on his Latin.

Its a pity really 'cos Arthur, half blind, and almost deaf, was a very good student. In a class with others half his age, he'd sit almost comatose, not writing, not reading but listening with his eyes closed.

He's got wonderful memory and often asked funny, interesting and mind-boggling questions. Once, someone asked about the translation for scream or shout: I said, menjerit or pekik. At which point, Arthur perked up and said, "Tolong pekik, saya pekak!"

On his last day, Arthur handed over not less than 10 books on Malay and several dictionaries, and before he left he said, "Oh, this is for you".

It was a piece of paper - with picture of Jesus. And the prayer - in MALAY!!!!!!
Ya - there's quite a lot like him at the corner of Sussex Gardens and Edgeware Road, with Bibles in Malay.

*************************

In a car driving to Alor Setar.
Nona: Mama, where's the racoon medicine?
Mama: What racoon medicine?
Nona: you know, the one for the mosquito bites. It says :R-a-c-u-n.
Daddy:(stiffling a laugh) Oh, in Malay C is Ch - therefore it is Racun - meaning poison. Remember, c is Ch.

Back in KL - driving along Jalan Tuanku Abdul Rahman.
Taufiq: Daddy, daddy - look! Pa - la- che Hotel!!!
(All heads to the right)
Daddy: Oh, that is Palace Hotel.

Back at home:
Mama: Taufiq, dah mandi?
Taufiq: Yes, I have already mandied.

Overheard at Malaysia Hall surau:
Father to five year old son: Okay Papa nak solat sunat dulu.
Son: Papa, is solat sunat only for people yang dah sunat?

Three year old girl to her cousin: Errrr, you've got taik mu'ter (tahi mata cockney style)

Okaylah kak teh nak tidork! Dah pukoi 05:17 ni!

Of Arabs and spawn…

(...or The Joy of Text in KakTehSpeak)

A friend went to Oriental City in north London and texted me a message asking me what I wanted from there. I texted back and immediately my handphone vibrated. He called back and in between gasps of air tried to explain. Apparently I had asked him to buy “some arabs and spawn”.

Now, how did that happen? I remember correctly spelling out “buy some crabs and prawns”. A kind soul had even taught me how to use the phone dictionary as she saw me struggling with long words. Now, what she did not tell was that, the dictionary has a mind of its own - a not too clever one. Apparently, I was supposed to press another button to get the word that I want. Of course, I had assumed that I had typed 'crabs and prawn', when what apparently appeared was 'arabs and spawn'. What do I do with Arabs when all I wanted to make was crab sambal! And spawn is no good for sweet and sour dish!

Apparently, this happens with most two and four letter words. The longer the words, the less likely you are going to make such embarrassing mistakes. Try typing 'go home' for example and you will get 'in good' and that is no good. And the list is endless.

Texting is relatively new to me. Didn't know about this mode of communication until one day we were sitting in a cafe at KLCC and the children were busy communicating with their friends in London. Delighted and excited, both husband and I did the same - only, we needed help (lots of help) to locate the keys, of course.

Initially, I'd spell out the words properly, even long words, refusing to succumb to the simplified version of the texting lingo. Of course, that would take ages! I'd be squinting away at the minute keypad, making a call would be less of a hassle!

But you see, any kind of abbreviation has always been a mystery to me. Initially I thought SMS was a dirty word, DVD - a disease you'd get from practicing SMS, DVT - a new form of entertainment. So, it was no surprise that Maknenek pointed out that in my comments below, I confused VCR with VCD. Well, what do you expect from someone who used the MP3 as a form of transportation and the MPV to record interviews?...Aaaah, I give up. But, I digress.

Anyway, back to the text or SMS lingo, which I finally succumbed to. I think it is okay to use when you know when and how to use them and when not to use them. But what annoys me is when it makes its way into essays and formal emails. This, I find a bit disconcerting.

I now understand btw, fyi, and abbreviating 'tomorrow' to '2moro', 'tonight' to '2nite' is fine, I think. At least there's some semblence of the original words, compared to the Malay texting lingo, which in my opinion is a totally different language altogether.

It took me quite a while to understand "pastu, camner?"

My first few attempts at texting were done in capital letters. This way, I could see the words properly before pressing the send button, and the receiver too could read everything loud and clear. But,no,someone adviced. CAPITAL LETTERS tantamount to screaming aloud!!!! It spells anger!

Oh no!! But having remedied that (and I now use small letters, even for names)the kind soul proceeded to show me where punctuation marks are. My messages, it seems, used to be one long breathless sentence!

Well, I have come a long way in this new world of technology. Now, excuse me, I've got to check how my arabs are doing in the pot!
ttfn fr kt (and that is NOT Kuala Terengganu!)

Mee soup and Bollywood Fantasy on a Cold Winter's Day

The temperature dipped a few degrees further and wild horses couldn’t drag me out of the house. I’d rather be watching winter from the warmth of the house then be out there and later suffer the consequences. And of course, there’s the unfinished essay – a great excuse to anyone who try to entice me out. One thousand nine hundred and twenty words already with about two thousand more to go!

A switch of the button on the i-mac and I was well on my way.

The chicken defrosted and boiled, I proceeded to make the most out of very little that I had in the fridge. Mak used to be able to conjure a feast, even without chicken. And I was sure I could do that. There’s the packets of sup tulang and plenty of dried noodles – enough for mee soup.

I knew it was going to be that kind of a day, when you just want to eat and eat and watch whatever rubbish on offer on TV. And today, I decided it was going to be Kabhi Kabhi, yet again. And I heard the children groan and sought refuge in their rooms.

But it was just the right combination – mee soup and Kabhi Kabhi and I was going to give myself this treat before the madness of Monday starts.

I must have watched Amitabh Bachchan in Kabhi Kabhi a million times. Don’t know when I became a Bollywood fan, but I remember my mother dragging me to a neighbour's house - the only one with TV - on nights when Hindi movies were screened. Of course, now you do notice that even Bollywood directors, or especially Bollywood directors can be so ‘tak logik’.

Tak logik or not, I sat with my bowl of mee soup – yet again glued to the TV. I am not quite into Amitabh Bachchan ‘cos I think his thick mop of hair looked kind of plastered to his head and his eyes and thick lips somehow made him look better in a Thunderbird set. Well, not until I had a good look at him, personally!

That was a few years ago, when Selfridges had a two week long Indian summer, with a few Bollywood stars thrown in. On the day AB was signing autographs, I joined the mile long queue of Sweeties and Preeties from Southall and Alperton just to get a glimpse of this Bollywood heartthrob.

After an hour long of waiting, we were told that Bachchan was no longer signing autographs and we had better disperse. No one moved. The woman in front of me protested that she had come all the way from Fiji and was not about to move until she met her idol.

Security finally gave in when they saw the army of forty-something women, armed with their Kabhi Kushi Kabhi Gham albums, about to cause a riot and they opened the door, but only for photographs.

It was sheer luck and only a plot in a Bollywood movie could have directed me to the front of the queue right in front of the star.

Camera in hand, Kabhi Kabhi in my ears, hair flowing in the wind in true slow motion Bollywood style, I pushed my way forward and in between hefty security guards and frantic fans I saw those smouldering good looks as he lifted his heavy-lidded eyes and stared straight into my camera.

Suffice to say, it had the same devastating effect that Sean Connery had on me; namely, I could not operate my camera. Thus this very badly taken one!

Worse still was the effect on my knees. I mentioned this to a friend who cruelly suggested it was merely the onset of osteoporosis and a bad case of midlife crisis.

Well, one can always dream and you can rely on Bollywood movies to do just that on a dull, cold and wet winter afternoon.


And, oh, the essay? Well, at the last count it was past two thousand words – but that was only because one of the cats had tiptoed on the keyboard.

A Brush with Fame! (Well, .....almost!)

‘Kakak’ – Atok’s little princess, had just completed a two week-rehearsal for a stage play which will be touring UK next week. She is to play the youngest princess in The King and I. She is excited and even more so are her parents, well done! And break a leg, Kakak!

Kakak, with her sweet oval shaped face and a hint of Oriental look, is just what the organisers of the play was searching for. Last year, three Malay children were chosen for the play. Indeed, the West End production of ‘The King and I’ a few years ago had no less than five Malaysians – all playing Thais or Burmese. There was Ungku who played various roles from court official to jester, (I think), and there’s Sean Ghazi who played the Burmese prince in the same production. If I am not mistaken, they were also in Miss Saigon.

Our Oriental faces are much in demand for these kind of productions. And also, our voices. And this from experience.

My meeting with Kakak last week brought to mind Pak Man Tokyo’s (See, Goodbye Pak Cik and Thanks for the Memories) brush with stars and stardom and indeed many of his friends too were in the books of Madam Sen, a Burmese lady, who was their agent.

Pak Man and his friends were extras in the Australian film ‘A Town Like Alice’, from the novel of the same name by Neville Shute. This, of course is a wartime romance between Aussie soldier and English woman in Malaya. And Pak Man and co. were of course those horrible, cruel and heartless Japanese soldiers. You don’t need much training 'cos all they needed was Oriental faces that could pass off as Japanese and lots of grunts and fierce looks!

So, it was quite by coincident that yonks later, I found myself at the BBC studio doing the voice of Fatima (the Malay friend of the heroine) for the cassette and radio version of the story. I had to sound all coy and naive. Easy!

Pak Man was also fortunate to have starred with the delectable and suave Roger Moore in the TV series, The Saint. He had also worked with Peter Finch. There’s Pak Mahmood from Singapore, who told me that once when he missed his ship, he became an extra in one movie and earned a lot more then his friends who left him!

Indeed, Pak Man and his sailor friends have had close brushes with fame or names who later became famous. Take Pak Cik Mat Noor in Liverpool. He claimed to have danced with Cilla Black and also served young Lennon who came to his friend’s café.

Din worked in a London west end club, hanging coats belonging to a little known singer called Mick Jagger and his friends. Little did he know then how famous they were going to be!

Now – about moi’s near brush with fame. Apart from the voice that I lent to Fatima of ‘A Town Like Alice’, I have sort of ‘appeared’ in a few more, not counting recordings in lifts and aeroplanes and phone messaging serviceslah!

A few years ago, I received a call from an agent working for Pinewood Studios. And I thought, this must be it! But, luckily I didn’t chuck in my day job. I was to round up ten Malay voices! And with a promise of £600 each for the whole day, I got more than I could manage and we trooped off to the studio. The film we were doing, I told them, was ‘The Entrapment’ at which point the boys in the group shrieked with excitement at the very-very remote possibility of meeting Catherine Zeta Jones, while the Mak Ciks in the group, silently prayed, (oh God, we prayed!) that we could at least feast our eyes on the sexy beast Sean Connery!

Well, not a hint or a whiff of CZJ – and we were briefed on what to do – mainly, we were doing the pasar scene – all kinds of bargaining, shouting, laughing! Then, there’s the scene when the police rushed in the building – only male voices saying "serbu! Serbu!" The party scene was hilarious! We could laugh and scream! Then, my claim to fame – the chatter in the lift!
But you’ve got to put your ears very close to the TV to hear it!

Anyway, even without CZJ – or Connery, we were quite happy – imagine £600 each just for laughing and shouting! We all sounded quite hoarse by the end of the day – but deliriously so.

Before the long journey back to London, we waited for some friends who wanted to go to the loo first and, without Connery himself we felt we had to take pictures with his big poster in the foyer. I was posing while my friend fiddled with her camera when, my jaw dropped to the floor at the sight of the apparition entering the door. I finally found my tongue and squeeked “Sean Connery, behind you!" “Ye, ye,” she said, quite used to my pranks. At which point the Sean Connery, strode in, passed my friend with the camera, (by which time her jaw was already mopping the floor,) and proceeded to say “Hallo! Hallo!” in that sexy voice of his and shook our hands. My friend with the camera was still going gaga – and didn’t even take any pictures. Our friendship ended there and then! If not I would have pictures to paste here as proof that Sean Connery shook my hand!

Then a few years after our very close brush to fame, I was called again – this time at another studio, another movie. Our chatter and laughter must have been so good that we were very much sought after. This time – to contribute to “The Sleeping Dictionary” – set in Sarawak. So called because the British expats were then taught Malay by their sleeping companions – except that they were not sleeping, if you catch my drift (wink, wink). I wonder what the vocabs consisted of? Imagine, "Ini *&^%!. Itu "£%$%$!"

Anyway, again – we were required to do a lot of laughter – and after sometime, it became quite tiring – and it became no laughing matter anymore. But one scene that a colleague had to do, had us all rolling on the floor with tears streaming down our cheeks. One friend, a Malaysian Indian, was to be the head gardener and another gardener – also an Indian was required for that short conversation. The problem was, he was the only Indian. So, this other colleague, a Malay came to the rescue – but his Indian vocab only consists of swear words, which I don’t think would pass the censorship board. Thus the conversation consisted of a lot of Amma,amma! in various tones and intonation, complete with shaking of the head to make it sound authentic!

Oh dear! Such hard work! I had better sign off now and go and do some real work!

ps I have just come back from teaching Malay to some British expats..and that, I promise you, is no sleeping or laughing matter. Quite serious one!

Dear Bralabella

I think I owe you an explanation and I have decided to pen this open letter by way of making you understand me better. And to other readers, I have devoted this letter to one of five of my regular readers mainly because I have never once spelt her name right. And for this I owe her an apology and an explanation.

Blarabella, please do not feel offended for in KakTehSpeak, you are not alone – in fact you are among some great names that my tongue always manage to do a sommersault – these are Harrifon Sord, East Clintwood, the writer Rahman Shurdi and lately my dear friend Dato Chimmy Joo. I once introduced a friend saying he works for Shong Kong Hai Hai Bank.

Brablalela, please read on. I have tried to understand why I am the way I am inspite of being a broadcaster and the occassional MC. During these occassions I never did slip – may be I was on auto mode.

I found an enlightening article in Readers’ Digest which partly explains the occasional embarrassing slip. It was Reverend William Archibald Spooner who gave numerous “tinglish Errors and English terrors” during his time and thus the term “Spoonerism”.

He was the one who told off a student that he had “tasted two worms for hissing his mystery lecture”.

Reading about this genial old gentlemen, I am comforted by the fact that people like him are said to have such nimble brains that their tongues just have problems catching up with. The Greeks, explained the article, have a term for this, and it is called METHATHESIS - the act of changing words around and English of course offer fertile grounds for the likes of Spooner as it has three times more words than any other language.

I discovered this annoying impediment during my school days, and it usually happens when I am agitated or excited or tired. I remember trying to explain to my lecturer Rohana Ghani why I couldn’t hand in my assignment –and while trying to do so, managed to call her Rohani Ghana. Once, late for an assignment, I jumped into a taxi and asked the driver to take me to Jubang Saya.

Friends have hilarious times when I am around. Everynight, in our dorm, we would do the rounds of saying goodnight.

Fati: Goodnight, Mia.
Mia: Goodnight Riza.
Riza: Goodnight Tini.
Tini, Goodnight Kak Teh .
Kak Teh: Goodni tinight…..

A friend trying to be helpful recently asked me to read a book called “The Man Who Mistook His Wife For a Hat” and he said, sympethetically, that that book could perhaps help me understand what is increasingly becoming embarrassing. So, off I went to a bookshop in Oxford Street, all the while memorising the title – a long one which I knew would give my tongue some trips. Lining up behind the info queue I repeated “The Man Who Mistook His Wife For A Hat “ several times and when I reached the salesgirl to ask for the book I said: Excuse me, do you have a book called “ A Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Coat Hanger?” She gave me an odd look but almost immediately knew that I need help. This time, it wasn’t my tongue – it was my brain. It was up to mischief and doing word associations – which I don’t really need at this time, okay? Thank you!

Now, this Blabralela – is another of my problems and if after this posting you stop visiting my blog – I do understand. Perhaps I am dyslexic? This , I am told is a certain kind of dyslexia.

My nearest and dearest ones have come to understand me when I tell them that “the stow has snopped” or “please low the mown”. My long suffering husband also knows that when I give directions to turn right, it means left. Once we were walking to a friend’s place and when we came to a junction, he said “Oh, turn left here.” There, we parted company. This also somewhat explains why I never passed my driving test.

Brablarela, that is not all. My most embarrasing moment was when I had to call my childminder’s husband to ask if he would kindly drive to get the children from school. The conversation went like this:

KT: Abang, saya lambat baliklah. Boleh abang ambik budak-budak di sekolah.
Abang: Oh, Abang tak ada kereta.
(At this time, my eyes were scanning a guestlist posted on a notice board and among the guests was a French lady called Gigi)
KT: Oh, Abang tak ada (eyes to the list) gigi?

It is not as if I don’t realise my slip – At this point my face felt very hot ‘cos Abang really doesn’t have teeth!!

I do this too when I am typing and speaking on the phone at the same time. The phone conversation will consist of partly the original conversation and whatever I was typing on the screen.

You know, I suddenly thought of other contributory factors. As children, we used to have secret codes so that adults wouldn't understand us. My siblings and I still do this so that our children don’t understand our conversation. It goes like this: Kak Mak Teh Meh nak mak pi mi mama nama? (Kak Teh nak pi mana?) or perhaps when I was born, the bidan slapped my head (instead of my other cheeks) and dislodged a few cells…. Oh, whatever!

So, Blarabela, this is your Tak Keh signing off. Apart from the above, I am quite harmless!

Have a dood gay!

Kak Teh

Tribute to an Old Man and his Sea

A continuation of my fascination with the older men and the sea and as TV chefs would say, "Here's one I made earlier":

OVER the years, my collection of audiotapes, videotapes, VCDs has increased somewhat alarmingly. Some are work-related. Others are mere documented observation of everyday life, like the kittens being fed or the children's first day at school.

Others are tapes of events and meetings with people with interesting stories to tell.

These tapes are now competing for space with other collection of photographs and even reel-to-reel tapes, relics from my old BBC days. These are personal archives of events that document our life abroad.

Attempting to catalogue the tapes recently, I came across one that was labelled simply "Pak Cik Hamzah". It was only quite recently that I learnt of his death at the ripe old age of 85. Pak Cik Hamzah was one of the many Malay sailors who left "Malaya" in the 50s and never returned.

I met Pak Cik Hamzah, perhaps six years ago, when I was doing a Hari Raya special for a television company. I tracked down old Malay sailors and travellers and featured them in the programme.

As a result, the feature on Pak Cik Hamzah caught the attention of relatives back home, who recognised him as the "Pak Busu" whose adventures around the world they had only heard about from their elders. They contacted me and made arrangements for me to bring him back. Along with this message they also sent some dodol and other Malay kuih.

After our return to London, we visited him in Cardiff where he lived alone. His children, I was told, visited him regularly. Otherwise, he lived in a sparse one-bedroom flat in a council estate populated only by Somali immigrants.

My second meeting with Pak Cik Hamzah was duly recorded on video. I watched this video recently and saw him eagerly tearing open the package of goodies. He gave a toothless grin when told that some relatives still remembered him and wanted him to go home.

"I do want to go back before I die," he says, looking straight into the lens. He had already packed three big suitcases and asked me whether that was enough.

He was eager to go back and see the Malaya that he heard had prospered; that now boasts of the tallest building in the world. And I had failed him. Sadly, before any arrangements could be made for him to fly back, I was told that his children had persuaded him to abandon the idea.

After that I lost track of him, only to learn of his demise a few months later. But Pak Cik Hamzah, like other old sailors such as Hamid Carpenter, Pak Man Tokyo who died years before him, lives on in my archives.

It has become a joke among my friends that I go chasing after old men. I am not the slightest bit annoyed for I am a strong believer that once these old dears go, their rich experiences go with them and we are left a lot poorer for not being able to share them.

Pak Cik Hamzah had told me of his life as a young rascal back in Malacca. Although he came from a well-to-do family, he yearned for adventure. He once sailed across to Indonesia in darkness to sell rubber illegally.

For all his autumn years, there was still a mischievous look about him. His quest for adventure took him further when he decided to sail with the merchant navy. Without any money, he pawned his father's land title and set off on a voyage that took him around the world.

He had been to China, Russia and even to the North Pole. He recalled being woken up one morning and told to jump into the sea as his ship was under attack. It was a bitterly cold experience that he was not likely to forget. At the age of 80, his memory was still good.

Accompanying us on this visit was a young law student, also from Malacca. It was interesting watching the two in conversation, each from a different era in time.

He enquired about the padi field and an asam tree that remained fresh in his memory. I watched his face crumple in disappointment when told the place had been developed now, with lots of hotels. He asked about a local shop, which had long gone even before the birth of the would-be lawyer, and again he found it hard to believe that a shopping complex had replaced it.

Cardiff is not an unfamiliar ground for Malayans or Malaysians. Even before Pak Cik Hamzah's arrival, there were Malay sailors residing there.

One even owned hostels for the seamen. Now, Malaysian students are abundant in the seaside town, pursuing their studies at Welsh universities. Proudly, he told us how he'd gone to a nearby hotel upon hearing news that a new batch of Malaysian students had arrived.

"Eh, kau orang dari Malaya?" he would enquire before proceeding to tell them his adventures. Nothing would please him more than to be surrounded by these lads, young enough to be his grandsons. He'd tell them again and again how he survived the storms at sea.

I asked why he never returned. Pak Cik Hamzah had maintained contact with his sisters for a while until he got married to a German. He sent back a wedding photograph but he got word that the family had objected to the union to the extent of accusing him of not being a Muslim anymore, especially when they heard that he had assumed the name of Hamzah (his father's name)or Hemze as the locals called him.

He was very proud of Malaya. He had heard of the tallest building in the world being built and proudly told his neighbours so. The day we visited him, he called out to friends to tell them his niece and nephew had come to see him.

Pak Cik Hamzah never lost his fluency in Malay. In fact, I was almost knocked off my chair when he asked, "Anak kau berapa ekor?" And he reserved some of the most delicious expletives for his then estranged wife.

We took him to the seafront of Cardiff and his tired old eyes took in the vastness of the sea that had once brought him such pleasure and excitement. He was already quite frail. He struggled on with the aid of his walking stick as the cold sea breeze caressed his wrinkled face. This was his playing field, but for many of his friends, it was their burial ground.

Pak Cik Hamzah's life was indeed enriched in a way that no university education could. Personally, being able to share just a fragment of his adventure was a valuable education and a humbling experience for me. Like Pak Man Tokyo, Pak Mid Carpenter and many others, he has taken his memories with him but somewhere on the shelves of my disorganised life, they had kindly allowed me into their world, if only for a while.

And for this, I am thankful.

Goodbye Pak Cik and thanks for the memories

First I must thank Wan A (comment below) for informing me about the death of Pak Cik Bakar. Al Fatehah. Am truly sad to hear the news. The last time I visited Liverpool and the small community of old Malay sailors there, I heard about Pak Bakar and about how ill he was. I didn't have time to see him but I visited Pak Karim who was then very-very critical. Pak Karim died a week later. I also visited Pak Cik Arshad, dear, sweet Pak Cik Arshad who never failed to remember me as the person who put him on TV Malaya! Alhamdulillah, inspite of his shakes and trembles, he is fine and in good spirit.

The small number of Malay sailors, either from Singapore, Malaysia or Indonesia who left their homes and families in the forties and fifties and remained in Liverpool, London or Cardiff, has dwindled. Pak Cik Hamzah, another old dear who entertained me with his wonderful accounts at sea, died alone in his small flat in Cardiff, even before I could take him back to reunite him with his family. Last Merdeka Day, for the first time, the Liverpool City Council, together with the Malaysia Singapore Association, organised an event to remember those who perished at sea during the war. Only a handful of those who survived, now in their seventies and eighties, turned up. Others were too frail.

I feel sad because these are the people who have enriched my life with their stories of adventure at sea and foreign ports, enduring harsh weather and even harsher immigration officers. I feel sad because their going means I have lost not only friends but my source of inspiration. And my selfish self is saying: I still have not got enough from them and now they are going.

The article below was written some time ago and had been published. Blabbarella, its a tad too long - but here I'd like to share a glimpse of what they have kindly shared with me:

IN THEIR ELEMENTS AT SEA

"THE Malays, wherever they are, will survive". These were some of the final words uttered to me by the first president of Kelab Melayu London, the late Pak Aman Majid. A few months after his death, I kept hearingthose words in my head when I was editing my interview with Pak Man for my BBC radio documentary.

It was our last time together. Pak Man died a month after that. He was in his late 80s. He left me a wealth of information and interesting stories about the travels and adventures of Malays like him that set me off on my own voyage of discovery to track down other surviving adventurers like him, if only to hear and document their fascinating accounts as stowaways, sailors and hitchhikers. It made our own 12-hour non-stop flight to London seem as exciting as a bus ride!

Alas, many have now died and buried with them are many undocumented experiences, stories of survival in the harsh realities of the high seas during the war when their ships were hit by torpedoes and typhoons. Many times I've heard of how they cheated death, immigration officers and ship captains in their quest for adventure on foreign shores that beckoned their restless young souls.

I had always yearned to know why they had left their home shores, and what made them stay away from it for so long.

Like many others, Pak Man - better known as Man Tokyo for his stint in the Japanese dockyards - had always wanted to see the land of the people who came to colonise them. They were also lured by wide-screen portrayals of distant lands, inspired to leave the comforts of home and family and venture into unknown and uncertain territories. Others had more personal reasons: Pak Mat Nor in Liverpool was once a worker in the Jalan Ampas studios. He left because his parents wanted to marry him off to his cousin. Another left because his father had found a new young bride, not for the fleeing son, but for himself!

Leaving was easy. Many British merchant ships docked in Singapore were just too happy to get Malay sailors into the merchant navy.

"We were hardworking and strong," said the late Pak Hamid who, in his time, was a carpenter on board. Language was no barrier wherever they were, for they lived as they had left, with their fellow Malay travellers. Even after more than 20 years, they seem to be still quite oblivious to what you or I would expect to be a problem area, but they converse still, as they had conversed the day they had boarded their ships to those countries "above the wind". If anything, they are now in their time-
ravaged selves, a curious linguistic fossil, speaking the quaint kind of Malay you only hear in old Malay movies, before P. Ramlee made that leap forward to Studio Merdeka. And as for their English, well, it's Cockney-ish with bravura, without a nod to either accepted pronunciation or grammar.

Hamid Carpenter, as he was better known, and as would have been apt for his calling, was found adrift at sea on a piece of plank off the Bay of Biscay. His ship had been torpedoed, and there was Malaya's volunteer hand in the colonial merchant navy, floating in the wash of what, in his bewildered mind, was the "Bay of Beski". As fate would have it, he was rescued by another Malay sailor aboard another merchant navy ship.

"Jumping ship" became an exciting game as the ships called at ports around the world. A whole new world opened up before their very eyes.

As put by Pak Ngah Musa, who now works at a bookshop in a mosque in Liverpool, "The world outside was heaven on earth! Maklumlah kita orang muda! (We were thenyoung!)," he said with a glint in his eyes and a strong Terengganu accent.

In fact, either by accident or design, there were few places on earth that they had not been to. They spouted place names like Times Square in New York, Moscow under the communists, the North Pole, China - welcome sights after months and months of isolation at sea.

Recounting events at sea became a favourite pastime as the ex-sailors gather at meeting places such as 100 Cricketfield Road in East London, or better known as Kelab Melayu, or for those in Liverpool, at Kesatuan Anak-anak Melayu Malaysia/Singapura in Jermyn Street, Toxteth.

In Cardiff, Wales, Pak Hamzah, now in his mid-80s, seeks out Malaysian students to introduce himself and get updated on developments in his home country.

Malaysian students in Liverpool who frequented the house in Jermyn Street listened in awe as Pak Mat Nor told them how he was once swept off deck by a strong wave, and by a stroke of luck, swept back in. I met him in 1996. The scene was quite touching as I watched them in their ripe old age, being surrounded by young students who looked up to them as grandfathers. Except for Pak Mat Nor, who has strong family ties, others neglected by their own flesh and blood yearn the company and respect that only the likes of us can offer.

It was here that I met Pak Arshad from Johor, then in his early 70s, who, in between bouts of attacks of Parkinson's disease entertained me with his song:

Setahun tiga pekan,
Tanah air kutinggalkan,
Menumpang di kapal dagang,
Menuju ke tanah England.

(A year and three weeks
I left my homeland
A passenger on a merchant ship
Sailing towards England.)


It was here too that I met Pak Bakar, who made me a cake complete with icing for my train journey back to London. Every night Pak Bakar left before eleven as he was then under very strict curfew for 'something' he had done.

Yes, alas, a few have been on the wrong side of the law. Pak Yahya Bahari, for example. Looking at him in the dock at the Old Bailey, Quran in hand and a songkok perched on his head, I cried silently. He could have been anyone's father. As he was led away to begin a seven-year jail term for indecent behaviour, he looked up at me in the Press gallery and instantly showed recognition of another Malay face in a sea of strangers.

I visited him in prison only twice but from his letters I learnt a lot about his adventures when he started cycling around the world in 1959. And his hundreds and hundreds of files of letters and pictures that he kept along the journey reveal his own journey within himself. In fact, what spurred him on his old bike was a description of the Malay race in an encyclopaedia - "a complacent and lazy race". He wanted to prove them wrong. Alas, now facts feature as much as fantasy in his ever-increasing files, which he still carries around with him.

But many made good, such as the late Datuk Mohamed Aris from Johor who became the Mayor of Winsford. Then there's Pak Mat Abu who worked as a Tube driver with the London Underground. Pak Man Tokyo made a name for himself as an extra working along Peter Finch in the movie A Town Like Alice and also with the famous Roger Moore, as a drunk in The Saint.

"We were in the books of casting agent Madam Sen from Myanmar who recruited extras. Because of my looks, I landed a part as a Japanese soldier in A Town Like Alice," explained Pak Man.

In their twilight years, many were tracked down by their relatives and invited home, if only for a holiday. But for some, such as Pak Hamzah and Pak Majid, they were presumed dead until RTM featured them in a Hari Raya special.

Once in a while, I watch old videos of my meetings with them and listen to their interviews. But what I remember most poignantly is standing in front of a war memorial built by the Mersey River in Liverpool.

Across the panels were inscribed names of Malay sailors who had died at sea during the war. Oblivious to the song Oh Ferry, Cross The Mersey drifting from a tourist boat, I wondered about the stories that went down with the sailors. But now as they lay buried in the sea they loved so much, we will never know.

Back to school.....

The last few days have been really hectic. Ask anyone who has started school again, and they will tell the same story. Not that I have to wash and ‘kapur’ my shoes or sharpen my pencils- but I had to gather my thoughts (again!) and psyche myself up for the term and the year ahead. I think last year, I did very well, considering that I had not been a student for the past what…30 years? I remember sitting on the steps of the uni, biting my fingernails, not unlike my first day at primary one. The only difference was that, I haven’t got with me the tupperware tumbler with ice tea, wrapped up with tea towel, held together with a rubber band. Mak used to remind me to bring this.

Anyway, a year had passed and what a challenging year that was. I had classmates who were as young as my children but were very, very nice – never once asked my age and always included me in their activities. One professor is even younger than me. And needless to say, I felt so young again – a new lease of life.

This second and final year is a bit of a drag but a challenge nevertheless. I have older classmates and thus wiser and much more experienced and very well read and well informed in their area of studies. And apart from that I am left very much on my own to prepare for my dissertation. The last few days, I have reacquainted myself with Syair Dang Sirat, an old unpublished syair that I found at the British Library. And believe me, I sleep, talk and dream in old Malay Syaer! Last year I did Hikayat Indraputra and Syaer Bidasari. Go to Hkt Indraputra for the finest art of flirting and get two boxes of tissue before Reading the plight of Bidasari!

And yes, I have had to learn the Jawi text all over again. Learning Jawi is one thing, but learning old Jawi scripts is quite different - for me at least. But I am plodding along.

I can’t explain my fascination with these old Malay texts. When I told friends that I am going back to uni, the reaction was a mixture of encouragement, envy and downright insults, such as : “Are you maaaaaad???” Well, there were times when I thought I was. But I have had the most enriching year as I had spent a lot of my waking hours in the library – looking up old manuscripts and hikayats. I’d be quite happy with a sleeping bag and a flask of coffee between shelves H-J, cos these are where some old Malay books are kept. My uni is one of the oldest centre for Malay studies outside the Malay region and indeed it has some of the most respected authorities on the subject – and they are not even Malay. The year has also been most fruitful as I had attended some conferences in Leiden and Paris where I met more great minds on the subject that I am working on.

I believe being away for so long has made me go reverse in motion, if that is possible. I look back and I realised that most of the things that I have dabbled in involved going back to my roots, to the Malayness of my being. I have tracked down old Malay sailors who ventured out to sea in the forties to document their expeience at sea, I have documented old Malay letters that our Sultans wrote to Raffles and Light and from them to our Sultans and now I am devouring old Malay manuscripts as if there’s no tomorrow.

I feel so priviledged to be able to see (and even handle) original manuscripts such as the one written by Sultan Ahmad of Terengganu to Baron Van der Capellan, written in 1824 and now kept in a museum in Berlin. This is considered one of the most beautiful Malay manuscripts, with its fine decorations and even finer language. There are other letters, funny and interesting ones in reply to Raffles’ requests for help to drive the Dutch out of Batavia.

These replies reflect how diplomatic our rulers were even then. Rather than give an outright rejection, some of the most original excuses were conjured. One request for food was met with something along the lines: Ayam, kambing dan lembu semuanya terkena penyakit”. So, there!

Francis Light once wrote to a Perak Sultan, asking Perak to be an ally of the British. But Perak was already then an ally of the Dutch, known to be quite possesive and ruthless when dealing with straying partners. Thus this reply from Perak: Kami bagaikan perempuan yang cantik, tapi sudah ada suami yang sangat cemburu!”

Oh, I can tell these stories until the cows come home – and it is now 06:28 and I need to get ready to go to school. More later.