Driving tension

Every bit of my muscle screams with pain. Every bone in my body is aching. I feel as if I had had three days and nights of stirring dodol over a hot stove. Truth of the matter is, I was nowhere near dodol, never mind stirring it. And truth of the matter is, I had been doing the raya rounds, being driven by my daughter who had just passed her driving test.

Thus the tension from the toes to the roots of my hair, which I believe must have turned grey all at once. Even in my sleep I keep applying the brakes. My knuckles go white as I grip the seat every time she approaches the traffic lights, but the last few days, I must admit that I was more relaxed and was able to drink coffee and at the same time give her directions. One positive outcome is that, my knowledge of left and right has improved. I cannot afford to get my left and right wrong. And I am also surprised at my ability to be patient.

As someone who failed not once but three times, I am really proud that she had actually passed after just one test. But what good is a license without a car? As a blogger friend was leaving for home, I decided to buy the car for her and that was when the worry and the tension started. It reminded me of the time Mak bought me my first mini bike. She’d sit on the swing daily waiting for my return from school. When Nona bought her first bike, her father followed her in the car till she got safely to school.

The new driver in the family is ever so willing to run errands; go to the shops, fetch us from the station and go anywhere to get herself familiar with the roads and the traffic.

I was working late one evening and after iftar, she offered to take me to my studio. That was fine because I was there to show her the way. But when I finished at 11pm, she and her sister were still circling Camden Town trying to get to me. It took them one hour.

The next day, she volunteered to fetch me again from the studio and this time guided by the over anxious father and over enthusiastic siblings in the car. The journey home, needless to say, took us all around north London, on a detour to west London.

It is very expensive to have a car in London. There’s the congestion fee to be paid - £8 – as soon as you enter a congestion fee area. Failure to pay that, the fine will double and multiply. Then there’s the petrol which the new driver still doesn’t pay for as she is still a student. Oh, did I mention the steep insurance for a young driver? All in all, what I have paid for over the past month since we got the car, is more than the cost of the car.

And yes, we had the most expensive raya this year when she lost the car keys just as we were about to leave for prayers. So, we left her at home to look for it. After prayers I left immediately to help her locate the keys but to no avail. We had to call the locksmith, who duly came and changed the lock, gave us another set of keys and I had to tearfully part with £170!!

Nowadays, I sit around waiting for the familiar sound of her car engine in the drive way. And most nights I wonder whether I did right by buying her the car. She had always been the most determined one. She washed dishes and cleared tables at the Malaysia Hall canteen to get her first scooter bike. She used her uni loan to pay for her driving lessons. And now that I had bought her the car, I sit and wait and pray for her safety.

ps

The eager new driver just drove us to have nachos and ice cream and cheesecake when we all felt our tummy rumbling at 11 pm. I could really get used to this.

Growing Up and Growing Old with Awang Goneng

SELAMAT HARI RAYA
MAAF ZAHIR & BATIN
DARIPADA KAK TEH SEKELUARGA

An update:
A special Hari Raya indeed! We have all received our presents. They came through the post from the publishers. Six copies of Growing Up in Trengganu!!!
All the sayang mamas got one each and are reading about their grandma, whom they had never met , about their grandfather they met very briefly and most important of course about the experiences and the environment that had helped shaped their father. What a wonderful present!


Congratulations my Awang Goneng from Mrs Awang Goneng.

I will never forget the morning I woke up as Mrs Awang Goneng. I was checking my emails when I read one that addressed me as Mrs Awang Goneng as opposed to the usual Mrs Wan, telling me to forward the email to Mr Awang Goneng as the sender had not been able to reach him.

The sender was indeed someone from the publisher of the book, Growing Up in Trengganu and since the AG in question was busy typing on his PC behind me, I just forwarded the email to him. Life during the last few months had been like that – we sat back to back, each facing our own PC, forwarding and replying each other’s mails.

When AG (as he is now known among blogger friends) said GUIT was very much a top secret project, I can assure you that he was telling the truth. I was literally in the dark until only quite recently. I’d wake up to find him sitting in semi darkness typing away. Writing comes to him quite effortlessly whereas for me, I’d toss and turn a few times before I could produce an intro.

GUIT has indeed given me a peek into the world that my husband lived in, a world I never knew existed before this. There is a good reason for this. Two weeks after getting hitched to this Awang from Trengganu, we left for this foreign shores. That was almost 28 years ago and by then I had only visited Trengganu twice; once as a cadet in Kesatria (those good old ITM days) and the second one as a young bride being introduced to hordes of relative-in-laws who spoke a strange kind of language to me, calling me names such as Mek Jarroh!

In fact, the week in Trengganu was almost like a crash course in Trengganuspeak that didn’t quite work. Before becoming his Mrs, I had never once heard him speak in his Trengganu dialect. In fact I had never heard him speak Malay! Our courtship was conducted in English entirely and it was such a cultural shock to the system when the morning of the night before, sitting at the breakfast table with my new in laws, I heard strange words coming out of this man who had become my husband.

I learned and remember a few such as bekeng, songo and se’eh. And now with the guide to Trengganu speak in GUIT, I hope to understand him more.

It was under the tree right in front of the big newspaper office in Jalan Riong that the question was asked.The question that was to change and map our life for this past 28 years. We were sitting in his old battered VW when he said, Do you want to go to London or stay here? I didn't think twice and for selfish reasons, I said London. I wanted to smell the fresh spring flowers and experience the first drop of snow and various things that he talked about in his lovely long letters to me when he was the London correspondent. I wanted him to take me by the hand, like the words he sang to me from the song by Ralph MacTell, and lead me through the streets of London that I had become familiar with from days spent playing Monopoly. Yes, I wanted to come to London.

And London did something to him and to me. He yearned and talked about his Trengganu a lot. It takes being away for so long for someone to remember clearly how things were in those days.

For me, the words he paints of Trengganu make me want to go back and see it again, the stories that he tells of his Cik (mother) make me wish I had known her and had tasted the delicious food she used to prepare for him when he was small. She could have taught me a thing or two. I had seen her photographs, but I never knew her. It makes me wonder whether she would be proud to have me as a daughter in law. I guess I would never know.

Anyway, before I get too sentimental, I believe the book will hit the bookshops in Malaysia and Singapore soon. I think the publisher has also taken it to the Frankfurt Book Fair. So, to quote
AG in his entry here, “ go out and buy a copy or three, and recommend it to your teh tarik man, workmates, mother-in-law and the man/woman you exchange glances with at the traffic light. It will, if anything, keep an impoverished author in work.”

And if I may add, that will indeed help to buy an extra can of cat food for his loyal friends who kept him company when he was doing the book.

Please look at the write up by blooker central here.

Researcher at work

Proofreader sleeping on the job

Snowbell giving a helping hand











Researcher at work











Pix 4: Photo editor













Spellchecker








Praying together for GUIT to be a bestseller

Still with Nurin on my mind

It is not going away – this feeling of helplessness. My fingers automatically click to Nurin’s blog everytime I am surfing. I scan the news online for developments, for any latest stories. My heart soared at any positive developments and sank again when I read they were leading to nowhere near a solution; an arrest or anything that would put a face to this mindless crime. Cases such as this has always affected me badly. James Bulger, Sarah Payne, ...and Maddie McCanne who is still missing.

The release of the four initial suspects means that the culprit is still out there. This is no ordinary criminal, no ordinary human being who takes pleasure from seeing someone in pain, who challenges authority by openly placing his victim in a public place. He/she needs to be found.

The police are doing all they can in the face of public glare and pressure.

But there’s something more that can be done to prevent this, this terrible crime being repeated. A lot has been said of Amber Alert, here, here and here. Once a child is missing, no time should be wasted in alerting the police, neighbourhood watch, any agencies at all who could help in the search. I believe Minister Sharizat has proposed something, though not to the effect of a Nurin Alert yet. Read about it here. Let us hope she does something.

I was appalled when I read that the police had advised that parents only report a missing child after 12 hours. 12 hours? Imagine what can happen in one hour, let alone 12 hours. One hour to a parent waiting at home or walking the streets scanning for that familiar face is one hell of a long time.

It must have been three Ramadhans ago when I had four hours of hell waiting for my son to come home. He wanted nasi tomato for iftar and I made his favourite lamb in kicap to go with it. Four thirty, when he was due home, came and went. And yet no sight of him. Within half an hour, I had called all his friends. No one had seen him walking home. We called the school. They could only confirm that he was in school that day. By then, it was already two hours when he should have been home. Neighbours suggested we called the hospital, the police. My husband had by then walked the area several times and had stood on the bridge over the motorway and called his name out loud. He came home and calmly asked me to pray and pray for the safe return of our son. By then a crowd of concerned neighbours had arrived. It was six and it was dark. A neighbour drove me to the school and still no luck. I was already in tears by seven o’clock. It was so uncharacteristic of him not to call and not to come home on time.

The words from the teacher rang clear to this day when I told her that my son would not do anything stupid such as not coming home without telling me. She said, Mrs Wan, if I get a pound everytime a parent tells me that, I’d be very rich today. I could have given her a &^^%$!!

Anyway, I came home to find a very sympathetic policewoman sitting in my front room. How do you describe what he was wearing? What jacket was he wearing over his school uniform? How was his haircut? Was he wearing his favourite cap? And his rucksack?What brand was it? I couldnt remember. I couldn’t remember anything. Well, just as well because at that moment, a sheepish looking lad walked in. If not for the presence of the policewoman, I could have strangled him. His teacher was proven right after all. He had gone with his friends to break his fast as it was the last day of school and couldn’t call me because his battery was flat.

The policewoman, doing her duty, had to interview him of course for his reasons for staying out so late. And gave him a piece of advise, pointing to my wretched tear stained face, she said, Look at your mum. Look at how worried she was.

Yes, Alhamdulillah, everything turned out well. But it was a nightmare. A nightmare because I have read too many cases of missing children who never returned, not because they didn't want to return but because some sicko had taken them away.

A few days ago, I met up with our Prime Minister who dropped by for a function, after his address at the UN. I asked, or rather, I blurted out to him about whether we should compile a register of sex offenders, of paedophiles. At least, with a register, we would know who these people are, where they live. So, when a child is missing, the first reference would be the register of offenders in your area. When Sarah Payne was brutally murdered, there was a campaign for Sarah’s Law to name and shame sex offenders. You’d want to know if a child sex offender is living near you, wouldn't you? You’d want to know that the person employed at a nursery of your child’s school isn’t a pervert. Whatever it is, as a parent, you’d want to know.

Yes, said the Prime Minister, a register would be useful. But I agree with him when he said, it has got to be dealt with carefully. In the UK when the name and shame campaign took off, some people decided to take the law into their own hands. At least one sex offender committed suicide, fearing even to go out of his front door.

Judging from the comments I read at the Nurinjazlin’s website, especially after the arrest of the four suspects and now the detention of a female foreigner who swallowed her SIM card, I think we still have a long way to go. Commenters are already spelling out what they’d do to these four even though they have yet to be charged. And some of the suggestions are quite horrific. When the matter is already in the hands of the police, it is best that the public allows the police to do their job. We can help by keeping vigilant. When a child is struggling and crying while being dragged away, as was the case of James Bulger, we can show our concern. Had that someone who assumed the two boys who dragged the two year old away were his brothers bothered to stop them and ask, Jamie wouldn't have been left to die at the railway tracks. When a child is screaming, tak nak , tak nak while being dragged into a van, surely there was something wrong.

These are some of the things that kept playing over and over again in my mind. When do we stop to ask and help? When does concern become over reacting and a nuisance?

Let us continue and pray for Nurin, her parents and for the safety of all our children. God bless.

Read the story here and I am pleased that the Star has done a follow up here on Support for Paedophile list.
The NST has also done a follow-up on the registering of sex offenders here.

Beware The Faceless Monster

Calls For Nurin alert.

Please read Princess Journals, Ena Samad, and Tembam.

Nurin's tragic case had affected me in ways I had never imagined anything could. In my years as a journalist I have covered enough gruesome cases and many had left me reeling with anger and pain. I had spent sleepless nights thinking how the little girl must have suffered before death mercifully took her away, I thought about the anguish of her parents, the what if's and the why's that they must be asking themselves now. And how they must be missing their sweet little girl. It was as if, by feeling just a bit of the pain, I could relieve them of their pain, their sadness and sorrows.

Now, the whole nation, in the wake of the tragedy, is asking for answers and solutions. How do we keep our children safe from these faceless monsters.

I wrote this piece some years ago when Sarah Payne went missing one summer. Needless to say, she was found dead after being sexually abused. Sarah's case caused such a public outrage, not unlike what we are witnessing now.

BEWARE THE FACELESS MONSTER

"SUMMER'S finally here and so is the long awaited summer break. Our little Figos, Zidanes and Beckhams are itching to go to the green and try the feat they had watched their idols perform during the Euro 2000 championship.

Yet nine times out of 10, my own Figo in his dark blue and maroon strip is only allowed to play football on telly with his Play Station even though the sun is finally out and his friends are clamouring at the door.
It is safer that way.

And for the umpteenth time, I've said a firm no to my daughter who wanted to do the newspaper rounds to earn some money. It is safer to collect trays and wash dishes at a restaurant, I said.

The reason for my paranoia is simple. In my 20 years here, I have yet to enjoy a summer without reading stories of little children being snatched just outside their front door or the playground near the house.

Though some are found safe and sound, others were not that fortunate. When news broke out that an eight-year-old schoolgirl had gone missing after playing with her brothers in a cornfield near their grandparents' house, most of us feared the worse. We've read this story before.

Like others, a picture of sweetness and innocence smiles at us from recent school photographs distributed to the media.

In contrast, distraught and tear stained parents struggle before TV cameras to appeal to abductors to release their loved ones. A few days or weeks later, a naked body is found in a ditch or in an undergrowth somewhere, turning a missing person's investigation into a murder hunt. Same storyline. Only the names of the victims and the setting are different.

From Day One of Sarah Payne's disappearance, we shared the agonies and anxieties with her parents we only got to know from watching and listening to their desperate tearful pleas on the telly.

Everytime something like this happens, our own little children are deprived of their freedom because of our fear for their safety. For we know that children like little Sarah went missing not because she wanted space or wanted to join a cult somewhere.

She went missing because there are always some sick monsters looking out for innocent little children enjoying little pleasures in life, like playing in the field.

She went missing because she trusted a kind little stranger who had perhaps offered her a lift home or had asked her for directions.

The sad fact that little Sarah's body was found naked confirmed and in a way narrowed down the search for a culprit whose insatiable lust could only be temporarily satisfied by small defenceless children.

And Britain has a register of 12,000 names of such creatures but many others are still free to reoffend or sometimes unwittingly allowed to work with children.

In the wake of this latest development, a British tabloid recently published a rogues gallery of known perverts with the question, "Does a monster live near you?"

I have never read this tabloid, which is popular for its scantily- attired babes, but the day it published the names and pictures, I couldn't resist scanning through the repulsive faces of those responsible for robbing children of their innocence, not to mention ruining their lives forever.

Like other parents, I wanted to know whether my children are safe playing football in the green or skateboarding down to the shop on their own.

The publication has led to several vigilantes taking the law in their own hands. A man was attacked in his home because he was suspected to be in the list.

Although it was a case of mistaken identity, I suspect other paedophiles must be living in fear. And quite rightly so too.

Because of their very existence, we teach our children fear, suspicion and distrust of everybody. A paedophile does not have his sickening hobbies etched on his forehead. So, how are we to know?

In the meantime, my little Figo implores that he is training to play football organised by the Metropolitan Police. I take comfort that in schools, police are making an effort to gain the trust of children.

Their regular visits to schools are most encouraging. So too are the warning letters from teachers of any unsavoury characters seen loitering at school gates.

Little Sarah's tragedy had affected everyone's lives. Strangers drove from far and wide to leave flowers and toys at the area where she was found.

A sea of flowers 8m deep now lined the narrow lane, the likes of which was only seen outside the gates of Princess Diana's Kensington Palace after her death.

Meanwhile, the hunt for Sarah's killer goes on. Unfortunately, even if he is caught and thrown into jail, we can be sure that there are many others like him out there as we can be sure of another summer, another innocent child and another nightmare for parents. "

Sarah in Britain, Nurin in Malaysia and many more have been victims of these faceless monsters. Something must be done to protect our children. And yes, we must not forget little Madeleine MacCanne, who is still missing. Please keep her away from these monsters and return her to her parents.

FIND THE BASTARD BEAST!!!!!!

Please extend your condolence and salam takziah here.


Its' Nurin. The girl in the bag is Nurin!! I looked at the pictures in The Star which puts both pictures of Nurin and the girl in the bag and I thought how that lifeless one had lost her smile. She was tortured, she was sexually abused by the bastard who is still walking the streets. Find the beast! Please find the beast!

It was not surprising that the parents couldn't identify their beautiful baby. She had lost her original looks, her long hair while in captive. Nurin had been alive until two days ago, while people were searching for her.

Please find this beast before he/she does this beastly inhuman act again.

Please, please find the beast.

Sleep peacefully now, my angel. Al fatehah.

This is the story from The Star:

DNA tests: Body found in bag is Nurin (update 1)

PETALING JAYA: The police have said that DNA tests on the body found stuffed in a sports bag on Monday in Petaling Jaya indicate that it is that of missing girl Nurin Jazlin Jazimin.

Petaling Jaya OCPD ACP Arjunaidi Mohamed on Thursday said that DNA tests have so far indicated that the body found in a shophouse at Jalan PJS1, Petaling Jaya Utama is that of Nurin, 8, who had been missing since Aug 20.

Police are waiting for confirmation of the DNA tests.

At Hospital Kuala Lumpur, Nurin's father Jazimin Abdul Jalil, 33, a taxi driver still denied the body was that of his daughter, reports BERNAMA.

"I am Nurin's father ... I know my daughter better than anyone else. In my heart I know that that is not my daughter.

"If the police ask me to take the body (of that child) home, I will accept it, I will conduct the burial ceremony and I will bury her. But I want the police to continue their efforts to search for Nurin because I know that Nurin is still out there somewhere," he said, speaking to reporters outside the HKL mortuary.

Jazimin added that he was sure the body was not Nurin because of the teeth and the scar that Nurin had.

According to Jazimin, Nurin's teeth did not have gaps between them and she also had a scar on her thigh.

Of Mak and Ramadhan

For the third time yesterday I was stirring bubur lambuk on the stove. The aromatic smell of lemon grass and santan coming from the pot was unbearable and we still had two hours to go. The handphone rang and the voice at the other end asked,”What are you cooking, mama?”

“Bubur lambuk”, I answered to be greeted by a triumphant “YES!” and what must have been a punch in the air too.

I successfully negotiated Krispy Kreme Doughnuts from Harrods. My sugar level is dangerously low, I pleaded. It was an easy deal – bubur lambuk and Krispy Kreme Doughnuts!

Mak never failed to deliver what we, her children, craved for during Ramadhan. Or come to think of it – even outside the month of Ramadhan. On days she couldn’t cook bubur lambuk, or what we in Kedah called Kanji, she’d ask us to bring some food over to the mosque and queue up for the kanji prepared by the tok bilal there. And as far as I can remember there’d always be kanji on the table.

There’d be crab sambal for me, sambal belacan and ulam for Lilah and kari kepala ikan for the others. We all had our own cravings and favourites. One thing about Mak, when one child was away, that favourite food would also be missing from the table. She couldn’t bear to cook them and eat them without thinking that her child had been deprived of that food.

As I prepared the crab sambal that my youngest requested, my thoughts turned to Mak. This year, she might not even realise that Ramadhan is here again. She might have been told, she might have attempted to fast, but at the end of the day, she would have forgotten that she was fasting. During the last Ramadhan, she even offered to make drinks for everyone. Her memory is fast going but I am pleased to hear that she has not forgotten people around her. She repeatedly asks the same questions but she doesn’t forget names and people. And I hope and pray that when I return, I will be greeted with the same “Anak Mak dah balik!”.

Last night Nona, who is spending time in Malaysia, said her Tok was coughing in the middle of the night. She thought of bringing her a glass of water but didn’t want to wake her up. If she did, she’d be greeted with the umpteenth, “Bila balik?”

Nona would have been spoilt rotten had Mak been well and steady on her feet. Even with the language barrier, she would have communicated her love to her grandchild through her cooking. She came to London when Nona was born and looked after her for six months. For six months, my kitchen was spotless, my front room was in order and my tattered cushions were mended. My garden was in full bloom. One day, I came home to what looked like a new sofa. She had taken some old curtains and hand sewn them and fitted the sofa nicely and made them more presentable.

My friends moaned when she left for Malaysia for during her stay, the house was always full as she loved to cook for my friends. I cried when I came into the kitchen. She had rearranged everything in the cabinet and I couldnt find a thing!

I admit I had conspired with Kak Cik not to let her know that Ramadhan is here. She has her medications and vitamins to take but she’d be worried sick about missing her fast. She’d worry about when she’d be able to pay back the fast. But the positive take about her forgetfulness is that, yes, she forgets what she was worried about.

I missed Mak’s cooking. And somehow this Ramadhan, I missed her waking me up for sahur.

Selamat Berpuasa dan Al Fatehah

Salam to all. Kak Teh ingin mengucapkan selamat berpuasa kepada pembaca-pembaca Choc-a-Blog pada masa kita menyambut bulan yang mulia ini. Kak Teh juga ingin meminta ampun dan maaf sekiranya ada tersilap kata dan terkasar bahasa. Semoga Allah terima segala ibadat kita pada bulan ini. Amin.


Kak Teh baru mendapat berita daripada seorang kawan lama mengenai pemergian ibu kepada seorang blogger yang Kak Teh sungguh sayang.

Ood telah kehilangan ibunya dua hari lalu. Sudah lama ibu Ood menderita sakit kencing manis tetapi sudah sembuh. Dua hari lalu, Ibu Ood meninggalkan kita dalam lenanya. Marilah kita semua sedekah Al Fatehah kepada ibu Ood, semoga Allah cucuri rahmat ke atas rohnya.

Al-Fatehah.

PS Terima kasih Ummi kerana memberitahu Kak Teh. Kak Teh tak akan lupa Ummi.

Magical merdeka moments...

As I walked up the sweeping staircase of this magnificent mansion, I allowed my mind to run riot for a bit. Now, did our prince who was to become the father of the nation, skip two steps at a time in excitement anticipating the moment when he was to sign the treaty that proclaimed our independence or did he, as befitting his status and title, walk slowly but surely as he had done throughout the months leading up to the negotiation fifty one years ago? I believe, our beloved Tunku, being the fun guy that he was, judging from the interviews that I had with his friends and those who worked with him, would have skipped a bit, if no one was looking. He would be singing the dondang sayang silently, or do a jig of the ronggeng – his heart bursting with joy.

Last night, I retraced his footsteps as I entered Lancaster House as this early nineteenth century building, in the leafy and secluded corner of St. James’ almost next door to the Queen’s, once again hosted a historic occassion for our country. Lancaster House was the venue for the 50^th Merdeka reception, hosted by the Malaysian High Commission in London. I was in awe of the surroundings, the ornate decorations, the opulence and the grandeur – everything that had been witness to the birth of so many new nations.

So, if this is the climax of my hectic schedule running up and down the country during the last few months, then I am happy. Deliriously so. I had just got off the Eurostar from Paris in time for the toastmaster to clear his throat and call out the names of dignitaries attending the reception. I was so exhausted after days of trainhopping from Manchester to Liverpool to Edinburgh to Paris, London and back to Paris. I am so tired of going back to an empty hotel room and living out of a suitcase and I am so tired of going to sleep in a big empty bed with only the TV set speaking to me as I doze off to lalaland. But Lancaster House and all its magnificience and all its history made it worth every single sleep that I had missed.

Earlier I had plans to blog about the the meeting with the Scottish ex-servicemen in Edinburgh who talked of Malaya as if it was their own country. I wanted to write about their passion for the country that they had so much respect and love for, about the people they said were so warm and friendly. I also wanted to write about the eve of the 50^th anniversary that I spent with Datin Peggy Taylor, Frederick Lees and his wife Marie, and Jean and Barry Floyd in the beautiful picturesque town of Rye. Frederick and Marie and of course Datin Taylor were there on 31^st August 1957 and they could talk about the times they were in Malaya till the Sussex cows come home. jean and Barry, having worked in Malaysia for a long time, know more about our country then we do. Peggy was in her batik baju kurung and Barry in his batik shirt.

Peggy was a close friend of Tunku and had been his confidante on a lot of things, not least his choice of the bunga raya as the national flower. Fred lees, was of course the Englishman who shouted Merdeka from the control room at the Merdeka Stadium. One can sit for hours and listen to Fred. He has a way of telling stories and and make you laugh. Fred, as a young MCS officer worked with the Tunku, Tun Razak and many others. But one very important task that he carried out was organising the programme for the big day. From the copy of his programme, you can see every minute detail was planned with military precision. But, according to Fred, no one anticipated the school bus that went into the monsoon drain nearby!

Fred talked about how Tunku would come up with ideas at the last minute. Walking with the Duke of Gloucester to their seats in the stadium, Tunku popped his head into the control room where Fred was sitting with Syed Jaafar Albar and said:

“Albar, when we are walking back after the ceremony, shout Merdeka into the microphone,” which of course Syed Jaafar Albar did until he lost his voice and the responsibility fell on to the young MCS officer that was Fred. In that joyous and happy atmosphere, no one knew any better whose voice it was that shouted Merdeka into the microphone 50 years ago. Fred will go down in history as the Englishman who shouted Merdeka!

Yes, I wanted to write all that – and now I have. We had a kind of mini celebration eating salmon and salad with fried rice that Marie made. I had brought with me nasi lemak and sambal ikan bilis that Peggy instantly demolished with vigour. We even had a mini Malaysian flag flying on the table. It was a beautiful day – one that I’d like to write about properly, some day.

Rushing back from Rye, both my husband and I fell silent – each with our own thoughts. We had our own agenda. And we scribbled them down. That evening, straight from Fred’s house in Rye, we went to the special doa selamat do at the surau in Malaysia Hall. For the first time, we enjoyed some sajaks that our bilal read, the one that my husband scribbled on the train and the syair that I hastily composed on the 1550 from Rye. Our young talented Ustaz did a nasyid – all of us remembering our beloved nation in our own way.

Then we prayed for the continued safety, peace and prosperity of our country.

The food after the event was like no other!

And of course I wanted also to blog about the celebration in Paris, chatting till late at night with Chef Wan, but I think it is best that I leave that with the celebration that I am about to enjoy in Oslo tomorrow.

Yes, it sounds a little hectic but there were moments when I let my hair down when I enjoyed an evening with Mawi, shared a song with Sharizan Borhan and enjoyed the beautiful Melayu asli songs with the Asika band who made Ala Canggung like I have never heard before!

Will be back after Oslo!

Read the story as appeared in Sunday Times here.

A reason to celebrate

He was too casual about it. Too casual and too calm for my tattered nerves. He pulled the hood over his head, gave me a peck on the cheek and promised to be back within an hour. The tight knot deep in my stomach grew tighter by the minute and when the promised hour came and went and still no sight of him, I decided to do some retail therapy. I went to the mall to do some shopping.

Mak would have handled it differently. She’d sit patiently on the old trusty iron swing, handbag on her lap. Only the intensity of the swings hinted on what she must be feeling inside, waiting for my return.

The mall wasn’t quite the place to be in. Not on a day like this. Everywhere I looked, there were teenagers screaming and laughing and clutching THAT white envelope that holds their future. They had just received their results and were celebrating in the mall, planning the next course of action. My calls to the house went unanswered. There was no point calling him as he said he wouldn’t bring his phone to the school. By then, my shopping trolley was almost full with things I didn’t need; condensed milk, ready cut pineapple, loads of detergents and chocolate biscuits for comfort eating. And still no news from him.

I had just finished a big baked potato with melted cheese and butter when the call came. His voice told it all. He made it and he made it with flying colours! And there and then at the shopping mall, I wanted to shout out to the world that my sayang mama had made this mama very happy and weepy and the tight knot in the stomach had miraculously disappeared. I wanted to tell the old lady pushing her shopping bag that my son had done me proud, I wanted to hug the old tramp feeding the pigeons with stale bread, I wanted to share the joy with the group of giggly girls celebrating at the next table. I wanted to phone up his father to share the good news but couldn’t locate him. I left a message at his workplace and sms’ed the good news to my siblings across the oceans. And I wanted to rush home and give him the biggest hug ever.

Alhamdulillah.

My concern, which has been proven unfounded, was that he had had too busy a year. During such an important year when he should be concentrating on his studies he was appointed imam of his small congregation at school; preparing the khutbah during Friday prayers, solving disputes amongst the congregation, he was then made deputy head boy and went off on a youth exchange programme. He embarked on silat so seriously that it started to worry me. He was attending silat classes twice a week right up to the time of his exams until the silat teacher told him not to return until his exams was over.

Last night, he was back at his silat class, but not before attending our weekly prayer session where we joined other happy parents for a special doa selamat and doa kesyukuran.

Alhamdulillah.

To Paris with a Mission

Autumn was already painting Paris with dashes of its golden brown colours when we arrived last weekend. The air was crisp and it was a few degrees hotter than the normal autumn temperatures. Just the right atmosphere for the mission we had in mind.

The location was strategic, the company was priceless; one who could read maps, knows her left from right and more importantly could say merci beaucoup and au revoir without flinching a muscle.

The mission: to muster all my culinary skills with what available ingredients we could get from the Parisian Chinatown and produce a meal that would put the spring back in the steps of a friend on the road to recovery after a sudden illness.

We waved goodbye to our husbands at Waterloo station last Friday and arrived Gare du Nord all excited at the prospects of an all girls weekend. The Citadines Apart’Hotel Place D’Italie provided just the right venue and after checking in, we embarked on a marathon metro ride that took us first to Notre Dame in search of food. Chefs must eat first before they can produce anything worth producing. We settled for chicken kebab oozing with fats and with that made our way to Pont de l’Alma – the place where the late Princess Diana met her death. There are still messages, lovingly written by her fans all over the world and somewhere amongst the scribbles, or perhaps washed away by the rain or faded under the glare of the sun, was a message by Kak Teh, hastily scribbled on 31^st August three years ago.

Dragging along five year old S, we made our way across the bridge to Eiffel Tower where people were queueing up to get their tickets for the ride up the famous tower. We settled for a bench to rest our tired feet while S had her ice cream. I watched amazed as tourists employed various technics trying to get a good shot of the tower. They squatted, they bent backwards, they rested on their sides training their cameras up what, at a close distance, looked just like a mass of cranes. Walking back across the bridge to take the metro back to Notre Dame, only could we appreciate one of the seven wonders of the world as it stood towering majestically over the Seine as the evening sun disappeared over the horizon.

Notre Dame at night is a totally different place. We found street performers commanding their audience with their impressive dance routine and roller blading. Across the street we found an empty bench in front of the Shakespeare and Company secondhand bookshop. We rested our feet again before venturing into the land of eateries, stepping over smashed plates in front of Greek restaurants. It was in one of such restaurant that I enjoyed a Greek dance with a Greek waiter some time ago. Tired and heavy lidded we made our way back to the hotel and immediately fell asleep.

The second day in Paris was the big day. Husband phoned to give directions to Chinatown, which turned out to be literally at our doorsteps. Chinatown is in fact Vietnamese Town; lots and lots of Vietnamese restaurants and delis – a sure reminder and legacy of the French presence in Vietnam. Avenue de Choisy is a beautiful tree lined street that reminded me of Penang.

The menu changed with every step that we took but after three supermarkets and a stop to quench our thirst with sugarcane juice, we settled for noodles, noodles and noodles with bubur pulut hitam as our dessert.

Mee hailam was the starter and our guest arrived on time and wiped her plate clean before demolishing the bubur pulut hitam. That seemd to be just what the doctor ordered, we noted.

While we chatted about this and that, I prepared the gravy for the mee bandung using prawns. We didn't relish going out searching for meat and decided to make do with prawns. And with some prawns left I made sambal tumis and used the remaining green leaves to cook with kicap. And we ate ourselves silly until it was time to walk our patient home to the bus stop. It was a wonderful seven hours that we had together and it was time well spent.

As the night was still young, we couldn't resist coffee and crepe with nuttela. What is a visit to Paris if we can't enjoy sipping coffee by the roadside? Mission accomplished, we decided to reward ourselves with coffee and crepe.

Luckily Sunday is a no shopping day in Paris or for that matter in any part of France or the continent. So, we checked out and walked along Boulevard Auguste Blanqui where there was an open marketplace and I parted with Eu35 for a shawl from a Pakistani who raved about Malaysia and his Malaysian sister-in-law.

L'Institut du Monde Arabe was our next stop and bearing in mind husband’s words, we went straight to the 9^th floor to enjoy the view of Paris. Lunch was cous cous with chicken at the self service Moroccan restaurant, served by a Moroccan who raved about Malaysia and Malaysians. Just for being Malaysians we got to be served at a self service restaurant, and we were given some free baklava. Then its coffee at the Abou Nawas cafe. We were really packing it in.

The last stop in the rain was the Mosquée de Paris - a beautiful mosque built in 1922 to thank the North African countries for helping the French in the first World War. We prayed with others from other parts of the world and we prayed for our friend to have a speedy recovery.

Congratulations Dato Dr Lat!!!

Dato Dr. Lat - CONGRATULATIONS!!!

In the olden days, news that a certain dignitary or hero was passing through a village would bring people from all walks of life, in all shapes and sizes to line the streets and greet him. And this would prompt the local penglipur lara to weave lyricals like this:

yang buta datang berpimpin,

yang capek datang bertongkat

yang bulat datang bergolek,

yang tua datang berteman.

This is not unlike the scene that greeted our Kampong Boy celebrity Dato Lat, recently.

News that the famous cartoonist was coming to participate in an event to celebrate Malaysia’s 50^th independence brought a lot of people from nooks and corners of London. Someone, ehem, ehem, not a million miles from this blog, even took a day off and came all the way from Kent.

(Yang jauh datang berkereta api (membawa dua biji kek!))

And need I say, most came with their precious Kampong Boy comic books and editions from yesteryears, well thumbed and all yellowing at the edges but lovingly kept for occasions such as this – moments when they will meet their idol in person.

Like the gentleman who brought the first edition of Lat’s comic when he came here 30 years ago to remind him of life in Malaysia. He still kept it in pristine condition. It was all worth it – and the long queue to get to the cartoonist himself who patiently answered every question while sketching his famous signature in every book.

Or the lady who grabbed this opportunity to tell the cartoonist himself that he had actually drawn buildings in Ipoh, such as the Jubilee Park and the cinemas that were actually designed by her late father.

And many, many came with memories and reminiscence of how they could relate to Lat’s cartoons and depictions of life in Malaysia. Many talked about how they laughed and cried looking at how the cartoonist looked at life.

Dato Lat gave a talk about his life as a cartoonist at Asia House to a very appreciative audience, growing up bathing in the river, playing on tree tops right up to the move to a bigger town, which made him briefly a Town Boy.

We felt that one day, in fact two hours, with him was certainly not enough and hastily arranged another gathering at Malaysia Hall two days later. Word spread fast and wide and on that Saturday afternoon, the hall was filled with about 60 people, young and old. Considering the Selfridges' sales and the Gay Parade, we were not doing too badly. And I was given the honour to introduce him. What an honour.

And Kampong Boy, Lots of Lat and Town Boy were snapped up like hot pisang goreng.

So, Dato Dr Lat – congratulations once again – a truly deserved honour by UKM and thank you for making our life all the more richer and funnier seeing it through your eyes.

And thank you too for THE FAVOUR.

More on LAT here.

Syaer sibuk sakan!

Aduhai kawan dan rakan-rakan,
maafkan Kak Teh yang sibuk sakan,
banyak kerja di bandar dan pekan,
memang rasa sungguh tertekan.

Minggu lepas pergi Manchester,
naik kereta api dan juga kereta,
tidur dua malam tiga hari di sana,
itulah tugas tak kira di mana!

Balik Manchester penat tak sangga,
tidur tak sempat nak nangis pun ada,
kerja bertimbun sebaknya dada,
rumah bersepah semaknya minda!

Sekarang bersiap nak pergi lagi,
Ke Liverpool pula kerja esok pagi,
malam naik kereta api lagi,
tiga jam lamanya menggigit jari!

Di sini ku pohon undur diri,
nak siap-siap biar berseri,
melenggang lengguk kanan dan kiri,
mengejar kereta api takut kena berdiri!

Kak Teh pergi bukannya lama,
akan kembali ke London semula,
kita berjumpa esok atau lusa,
Insyaallah bila dah habis kerja semua!