A Weekend of sorts

Comfortable in our baju kelawar batik which clashed shamelessly with the chequered table cloth, we sat buttering our croissants at the breakfast table at lunch time. By the time we each had our third croissant, our conversation had taken us to who’s holidaying with who on the slopes of the Alps, who’s having a rest in Jo’burg away from the hustle bustle of the corporate world and why so and so fell from grace in the unpredictable world of politics. So, this is how the rich and famous live, huh, I thought, stuffing my mouth with more croissants to stop the jaw from clanking to the floor.

I chose to spend the weekend away from the hustle bustle of London, internetless, ymless and indeed blogless. Without much regret, I had packed my weekend bag for a work related trip that was to take me into a world so remote and so different from my own mundane tube to bus to tube routine where a rare treat would be a ride in a black taxi!

Anyway, hubby sent me off at the train station with a hug, a doa and with promises and promises to take the vitamins, the supplements that he religiously packs for me on every trip, I waved him off and immersed myself in the world of Dato Hamid and his delicious Confessions of an Old Boy. Indeed, his world in the prolific hands of Kam Raslan is not unlike that related to me at the breakfast table by my newfound friend.

I ooohed and aaahed as she regaled me with stories of themed parties with VIPs and VVIPs doing the rhumba and the samba, tripping into the pool while doing the hoola-hoola. I tsked-tsked as she intimated about goings on behind the scenes. All these chit chats and Kam Raslan’s book is taking me right back to the seventies and even beyond; Malaysia’s jet setting scene. Now I can’t help thinking that I am taking a fast drive back and back into time with the help of people who were there and had done it.

That was what took me to this remote village last weekend. It was a small quaint village in an idyllic setting, with small winding roads that only allow one vehicle to pass, a local grocery cum post office and a pub, surrounded by low-lying hills that go as far as the eyes could see.
I suppose at a place where time is almost at a standstill, you can afford to look back at leisure.
So, that was what we did the whole weekend. The only trip we made was to the kitchen and back.

We only stopped to switch on the TV to see the Queen’s birthday celebration, and even that took my friend, who had seen the independence of three countries during her lifetime, down memory lane. Watching the smartly dressed soldiers doing the Victory March, she joined in giving the orders. “I led the Victory march in Chittagong, you know,” she said, remembering it as if it was yesterday. And she marvelled at the sight of the Queen, who at 80, a few years younger than her, still looked energetic and strong enough to witness the whole ceremony.

“I was privileged enough to sit with Her Majesty on a settee for two when she visited Malaysia. Her Majesty was amused and highly entertained by the performances of the different ethnic groups in Malaysia the night before – but certainly it seemed to take forever,” she said.

Oh yes, she had been places, she had seen events that we read about in the media. And one weekend is certainly not enough. We talked and talked until she nodded off to sleep and I had to gently wake her up to help her to her room.


She is one of those ex-expat ladies who still remembers Malaya and Malaysia with fondness. Before coming to meet her, I had joined a group of other ex-expat ladies who didn’t want to miss out on celebrating Malaysia’s 50th independence celebration, by reciting pantuns on Malaysia. They had taken the trouble to research on pantuns, brushed up their Malay and went on their own poetic journey to remember Malaysia. I was touched.

On the return journey back I went back to the adventures of Dato Hamid, one I recommend everyone to read. From Swittzerland to Monte Carlo and seedy clubs of London – you will be highly entertained! I promise.

Like I said before, the hayfever and work schedule had meant that I had missed making entries on father’s day, someone’s birthday, the death of someone special and even someone’s wedding. I didn’t realise that when hubby met me at the station that Sunday, it was Father’s Day – but it certainly didn’t matter to him. He kindly took my bag, while I made a quick change into something nice in the ladies’ before I said goodbye to him again.

I was privileged that Sunday to personally wish Selamat Pengantin Baru to someone who had just recently tied the knot. And I can tell you, she is better looking than her pictures in the media! And very nice too!


Aaaaah...welcome back to busy, pollen infested London!

Sunday, Sunday, wherefore art thou, Sunday?

What can I say but a thousand apologies if I wasn't around when you came a knocking at Choc-a-blog's door. It has been a crazy sort of week with a promise of crazier weeks to come. I was supposed to write a birthday tribute to someone I truly admire, I wanted to write and produce a video clip to someone who is now gone but not forgotten, someone who entertained and kept me company in the kitchen, someone who will be sadly missed. I will certainly do so in the next few days.

With summer comes events, visitors and most annoying thing of all the dreaded hayfever. So, although I have been poorly, I have been atchoooing my way, covering assignments and witnessing events that have made this summer bearable.

Let me share certain moments with you in pictures.

Latest pix - cleverly done by my friend elva. What do you think?




Too far to get a nice shot - but this was the Malaysia Week Gala Night at The Ranaissance Hotel London on 5th June. Performance good - food? hmmm...



Got a shot of the dancers when they weaved their way nearer to where we were sitting.



Our DPM trying a hand at making satay.









DYMM Sultan Pahang at a stall, buying chilli sauce.








I first met and interviewed Tan Sri Jins in 1990 and on 5th June at the gala night, I couldnt believe my eyes when I saw him there! Met up with him again at Covent Garden and at the risk of being called a Jins Shamsuddin stalker - I asked him again for this pix - which he kindly obliged. He looked as dashing as ever. Will try to find old pix of the first interview.



17 years later, another interview.

Will find more pix.

The Poloing Sunday

“Horses are not horses in polo games. They are called ponies,” Helen said as her husband Michael expertly manouvered the car along the narrow lanes taking us right into the heartland of Surrey, the English stockbroker’s belt. Lis and I had just alighted from the 0930 from Waterloo to Woking and it was drizzling all the way, with not a promise of sunshine at all. But Surrey with its posh looking houses behind tall hedges and beautifully tended gardens in summer, is worth looking at in any weather. Busy, drab London was suddenly a million miles away.

“What a perfect introduction to polo”, I thought, shivering in my flimsy tunic which I foolishly matched with a pair of white cotton trousers. As one foot sank gently into the wet ground, I said a silent prayer, grateful that I had the presence of mind to wear sensible flats.( It was just as well, I later learnt that spectators at polo matches are expected to do their bit by trampling on the grounds in between games.) The weather continued to be unkind but the VIP marquee was warm and welcoming with lovely waitresses carrying trays of delicious canapes and drinks.

VIP guests were already muah-muahing each other on both cheeks, helleow-helleowing their friends and fast refilling their tall champagne glasses to keep themselves warm. I had to settle for something with strawberry and mint inside.

Helen persisted to educate me on things polo and mentioned something about chukkas, which apparently means the duration of time a game is played before the bell rings for a break. So, there could be 4, 6 or 8 chukkas in a game. I couldn’t imagine how the ponies could last 8 chukkas in this dreadful weather – but they did.


The Kuoni World Class Polo Cup offered a sprinkling of NAMES , this time we had Jodie Kidd the tall lanky model. Earlier it was also rumoured that Stephanie Powers of the Hart to Hart fame was also going play during the second game. But she must have thought better than to turn up in such horrible weather. There was an assortments of celebrities and society high-fliers with double barrel names. And if I had moaned about missing Eastenders this Sunday, I was more than compensated, for under the same marquee almost the whole cast of Eastenders, who had either been killed off or moved away or gone walking into the sunset, turned up. There was the rogue Johnny Allen, the lovable Alfie Moon, sexy Sam Mitchell and the delectable Dr Truman. Alfie didn’t disappoint me when I asked him to pose for me, for he consented in true East end fashion, “Oh, owite sweethark!”

I pulled my shawl around my shoulders and braved the cold wind and drizzle to walk out of the marquee. I suddenly realised this was thousands of years away from my world of old sailors and their adventures at sea, and a million trillion decades away from the world of syairs and hikayats and old Malay manuscripts that had consumed me the week before when I attended the seminar on Britain and the Malay World at the Royal Asiatic Society in London. Last week, I was in the company of scholars and experts expounding theories on Malay manuscripts, etymology and Winstedt and Wilkinson and a week later, I was surrounded by people watching players on horsebacks, oops, ponybacks (sorry Helen), chasing after a ball with something that looked like golf sticks.














As the rain poured relentlessly, I had visions of hot teh tarek and crispy banana fritters instead of bits of salmon and soft cheese on crackers. I began to yearn for some Pak Cik Sailors to tell me tales of their adventures on the high seas in between ports instead of some small talks with some jetsetters who had just made a dash around the world.

“Hey, I have been reading your blog!” I heard someone say in my direction. The words resonnated across the polo field and back and there and then, right in the heart of the English countryside that was Surrey, I suddenly realised that the person was talking about Kak Teh’s Choc-a-Blog. If it was any other person, I would have said, "Oh, get a life!” But this was Dato Mark Yeoh of YTL, who was instrumental in bringing me to the world of polo that miserable day in summer, to cheer his Pangkor Laut team.
There in the drizzling rain was Dato Mark Yeoh, flashing his boyish smile. He talked about how my entries on Pak Cik sailors brought back memories of his own Pak Cik Ibrahim who regaled him with stories of his sea faring days. This is the same person who read Hikayat Abdullah and insisted that his staff did the same. This is the man who had successfully married off old age tradition and modern day living. And suddenly, the two worlds of English polo and Pak cik Sailors, syairs and hikayats, didn’t seem to be too far apart.

A Tribute

My dearest friends,
The entry below was the beginning and this video clip here is part of the end result. Thank you to friends who cajoled, pushed, threatened and blackmailed me to put together a project very close to my heart. Thank you too to my dearest friends Annabel who gave that final nudge and Elva for putting together this video clip. And most of all thank you to Pak Cik Sailors who shared so much. The project, which I must confess is still ongoing, would not have been possible without the cooperation of friends in Liverpool, Cardiff and London. The paper , Alhamdulillah, was well received. An article "Adventures of the Pak Cik Sailors" based on the paper appeared in The New Sunday Times HERE

In conversation with some interesting old friends

The conversation in my living room suddenly became very lively, what with Pak Man telling us about his various TV parts alongside Roger Moore in the popular TV series, with Peter Finch in A Town Like Alice and many more. Pak Ehsan regaled us with stories of Mat Kambing or better known as the King of Soho whose management of the club called The Saint in Great Windmill Street gave opportunities for others like Din to work in the cloakroom and thus not only afforded them the chance to see the budding Rolling Stones but also to meet their future wives. Pak Mid would chip in to tell us about his adventure at sea, having survived the German torpedo which hit his ship, throwing him out mercilessly into the raging sea for three days before being rescued by another merchant ship.

Laughter would break out as they recalled the more interesting adventures all young, hot blooded sailors experienced at each port of call. Pak Ehsan described how Rokiah, all dressed up, would do the inang when they celebrated Hari Raya away from home, and just as we thought we had enough laughter for the evening, Din recalled how he broke the story to his mother back home that he finally found a Mat Salleh wife.

All admitted to having that gush of curiosity and excitement to see England as potrayed in the movies and then to go on and conquer the world – to take Times Square by storm and brave the cold harsh winters of Russia. Malaya’s independence had unleashed in the hearts of these young men, the spirit of adventure that had taken them to the far flung corners of the world.

This conversation must have taken place nearly thirty years ago and Pak Aman Majid or better known as Pak Man Tokyo, left us nearly two decades ago just after the interview, but he had left me a wealth of information of his experience and adventures at sea. And he had introduced me to sailors who must have been such colourful characters plying the Atlantic and the Pacific in their various merchant navy ships as deckhands and carpenters.

It is funny, I reflected very much amused – thousands of miles away from home, these Malay adventurers in the tradition of all Malays, had endearing nicknames for each other; Pak Ehsan addressed Pak Man as Tokyo, for Pak Man worked in a Japanese dockyard as a young apprentise.

Pak Mid was Pak Mid Carpenter, for that was what he did to earn a living on the Merchant Navy ship, there’s Salim Gurkha who jumped ship in the icy waters of Russia but no one could recall why Mat Kambing got his nickname. However, even with a name like that, he was touring the country with a theatre troupe, enchanting his audience with his tango.

It has been a while since I last listened to these animated conversations. I am now desperately putting together a paper on the lives and adventures of some of these sailors and for the last few days, I had been ransacking my archives of tapes and video tapes to help jog my memory. This conversation that I was listening to yesterday was recorded on the UHER, a very bulky and heavy German made recorder, which I had to lug around during assignments. And most of these interviews are still in reel to reel tapes!! For a second I panicked as I couldn’t think where to go to have these converted or copied on to CD or cassettes but suddenly I remembered the old and even bulkier Ferrograph that my husband bought off a friend to keep as a collector’s item.


So, much to the amusement of children and cats alike, I dusted the old Ferrograph, lined up the reels and hey, presto! That was how Pak Man and company came to be in my living room yesterday. So, do excuse me if I go quiet for a while as I have some very interesting company in my living room.

On the 1302 from King's Cross with Tunku Halim

Perhaps I was not meant to take the 1258 from King’s Cross. The mini cab driver had foolishly taken the wrong lane and the turning into the busy station at that time of the day was choc-a-bloc! But as fate would have it the 1302 was standing on Platform 8 ready to go. I huffed and puffed lugging two bags in search of a quiet seat by the window, far away from other passengers. The rush meant I didnt have time to get that much needed latte from Starbuck and when the train pulled away from the platform, I allowed my mind to wander off to
44 Cemetery Road.

Yes, Malaysia’s prince of darkness is back with a new book.

Cemeteries, if I may state the obvious, are fertile grounds for imaginative minds. I have not read 44 Cemetery Road as I have yet to get one sent to me from home but I do know what it feels like walking along cemetery roads.

The title of Tunku Halim’s new book brought to mind the early morning walks with Mak to the mosque for subuh prayers. The Jerai, protective and majestic in the daytime, posed a more sinister feature hovering over us in the dark before the break of dawn. From a distance, clusters of women in white telekungs seemed to be floating towards the mosque as the call for prayer broke the early morning silence. The smell of the cempaka flowers pervaded the cool morning air but the sweetness of the smell usually gave me the shivers. We used to call the flowers that fell scattered on the final resting place of the residents of the cemetery adjacent to the mosque, bunga kubur.

Entering the compound, Mak would remind us to give salam to the residents of the cemetery: “Assalamualaikum Ya ahli kubur”, I would hurriedly mutter without looking left or right and I’d clutch Mak’s arm even tighter. I’d imagine eyes looking at me from every corner, I’d hear all kinds of shrieks and screams and laughter coming from graves with their tilting headstones. I’d remember tales of restless souls wandering the nights and returning at dawn, stories about ghosts of women who died during childbirth said to be residing on big trees bordering the compound. These were stories we children would exchange with each other in hushed tones during the day, and these were stories that’d keep us awake during the nights.

Anyway, I am sure 44 Cemetery Road has plenty to offer to keep us awake during the night but to get a taste of Tunku Halim’s treatment of horror stories, I fished out his other book “The Woman Who Grew Horns & Other Works” from my bag. The stories kept me company on the 1302 from King’s Cross.

There are many stories to choose from but as someone who did a paper on “The Monstrous Feminine in South East Asian Cinemas” I opted for ‘Night of the Pontianak’ for I was certain the monstrous feminine is lurking in there somewhere.

As the First Capital Connect whizzed past the English countryside, I found myself engrossed in the story with rich Malaysian flavour. Tunku, although residing in Australia, proved to be a true Malaysian; detailing food and the art of eating food as only Malaysians know how, in most of his stories. The setting here is a Kampung Pandan stall, in another its the Coffee Bean, Jalan P Ramlee.

The harmless banter between three friends, one woman and two men, was light and easy – like starters and appetisers before the main meal. The beginning chugged along well to the speed of the First Capital Connect – no hurry, no fuss. And in fact by the time we reached Hornsey, everything was still hunkydory with the three old friends. By the time we reached Alexander Palace, the narrator was still nursing hopes of a romance with his former uni mate. But this being a horror story, things had to take a sinister turn and as if on cue the First Capital Connect began to gain speed in rythm with my heartbeat.

“My heart pounded like bleeding fist in my head. The car skidded and swerved as I raced down the hill and I nearly got killed as it almost ploughed into the jungle.............”

And at this point I jumped.

“Ticket please, madam” said the First Capital Connect conductor. Phew! Never do that again, I said as I handed him my ticket before returning to the book to find out what happened to the narrator and his friend. Believe me, it wasn't a pleasant sight – and yes, the monstrous feminine was there. Just as the train went into the tunnel between Gordon Hill and Crews Hill she made her appearance.

Come walk down Memory Lane with me

Yesterday, feeling a little bit better and not wanting to miss the summer sun, we went to Kensington Gardens to join a group of youngsters having a picnic. It was such a beautiful day and it seemed that London and her grandparents were out with their sunglasses, balls and rollerblades.

There were groups sharing their sishas under the trees, youngters playing football and many just enjoying the sun, cuddling their loved ones without a care in the world.

There was hardly space to sit down but we made our way, dodging frisbees and dogs running after sticks, following the sound of the strumming of the guitar with familiar voices singing Sweet Charity’s “Kamelia”.

Yes, we found the group of young Malaysian students, taking time off from their revision, to enjoy the sun. The reason we went there too was because Taufiq wanted to meet someone who could teach him the steps to seni silat. So, there we were in the Her Majesty the Queen’s park, watching Taufiq and his friend, practising the silat.

Watching the group of young friends, strumming their guitars, singing songs I never knew existed and just larking about playing catch with empty apple juice cartons, their laughter carried by the wind, I felt a tinge of envy. How wonderful it is to be young and without a back ache.

This reminded me too of the challenge I found on JT’s blog – a challenge that was to take me down memory lane, even at the risk of revealing my age. This challenge, if you are up to it, will take you to popculturemadness.com where you will find all sorts of things – like lists of songs during the year you turned 18. And from the list of songs, write about the memories they bring flooding back. And horrors of horror – the year I turned 18 was 1972!!!!!

This was the year, sorry Mak, no more birthday parties with musical chairs and passing the parcel. This was the year, after five years in the strict Convent school environment, we were leashed out into a co-ed school that was the SAHC to join the world of seniors, carrying files instead of school bags, eating at snack bars in semi darkness instead of canteens in the full glare of teachers and prefects. This was the year a pimple spelt disaster, especially if it appeared the day before the sixth form party.

Kitted out in our flares that could easily break any fall from a high building, we strutted out in groups of psychedelic riots of colours, with conversations punctuated with ‘Groovy, man!” and fingers perpetually showing the peace sign.

It was, I suppose, a year when we foolishly assumed to be our honeymoon year, with exams a year away. Like the students in the park, come concert time, we’d sit on tables and benches and strum the guitar singing our all time favourites. We were grown-ups who could handle and juggle social life and studies, or so we thought, forgetting that hormones tend to make things very difficult even for the sanest amongst us.

It was the year I fell in love with a dream, a vision that was to last for a very long time. This was the year I danced to “Walk Away” by Matt Monroe but the vision and dream lingered for a very long time. Thus important events that hit the headlines during the year, such as the Munich Massacre at the Olympics when Malaysia first competed, passed without as much as a glance to the newspaper coverage. Our own state was celebrating our Sultan becoming the Agong, a young dashing Agong that we were so proud of and yet, it made little impact on me. But hard to ignore was the 1972 spelling reform which took away apostrophes and hyphens from words like tabi’at and di-buat. No more makan2 or rumah2, and the year that brought about the standardisation of spelling – with the ch giving way to c and sh becoming sy and so on and so forth. A word – skuasy till this day baffles me.

And so, what were the songs that used to echo in the small cubicle that was our bathroom, that would make me stop in my tracks and stare dreamily into the horizon, that played endlessly into the nights, almost wearing out the 45 rpm vinyls, which were either on loan or bought with scholarship money meant for purchase of reference books? In 1972, I was not quite over Carole King and The Osmond Brothers, but a few still bring a smile to my face.


Roberta Flack’s The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face
This has got to be the most eagerly awaited song as the lights dimmed and you hoped and prayed that the one who asked you to do the slow dance didn’t have clammy, trembling hands. This is also a song, you think you can sing at karaoke sessions, a song others prayed and hoped you’d never sing!

For Roberta Flack, romance was so far away from her mind when she sang this song.
"A lot of people ask me what I was thinking about while I was recording that song. Actually I was thinking about a little black cat that someone had given me, named Sancho Panza. I had just gotten back from being on the road for the first time, and I discovered that he had been killed. I only had one pet, and when I went into the studio, two days later, he was still on my mind. “

That brings me to my next song

Ben by Michael Jackson
Ignorance is bliss. Little did I know that Ben was a rat – cousin to the one that caused my back pain. But Ben evoked such sentiments and feelings that you can only share with a close friend. I had and still have some very close friends from this era and Ben, the song, is still one song we sing during our gettogethers, reunions and when we are racing down the motorway to nowhere in particular.

Baby, Don't Get Hooked On Me - Mac Davis
Being young and only had eyes on the opposite sex ten years older then me , I used to think this song and others like Young Girl by Gary Puckett and the Union Gap were written for me and me alone. Why was it no one ever took notice of me???

Without getting as much as a glance from those ten years older, I sought solace in women’s liberation and Helen Reddy’s I am Woman became a favourite. “I can face anything" and "I can do anything" almost became a mantra. I persuaded myself to believe that I am strong, I am invincible cos I am Womannnnnnnn!!!!!

The Gift

There’s not much one can do when one has a bad back. You lie down and contemplate the spider web at the corner of the ceiling, the curtains with several hooks missing, the dandelions fighting for survival with the grass growing longer by the minute, and the window badly in need of a good wash! And there’s not much you can do about it.

Since coming back from Malaysia, I’ve had fever, flu and now that dull aching pain in my lower back. I have a history of slipped disc and I can tell you it is the most painful thing after childbirth. It happened some ten years ago and a few days ago – the pain came back and I am too embarrassed to say how it happened.

Okay, I might as well tell all as I have not much to blog about.

I was lying down watching TV and drifting in and out of sleep, when Snowbell came in with ‘a gift’. One look at ‘the gift’ Nona who was at the computer jumped on to the stool, Taufiq made a dash to the bathroom, Rehana locked herself in her room, hubby continued with his wirid and moi? Well, I tried to dodge ‘the gift’ still alive and running around in a daze in the front room, and in doing so brought back the mother of all pains.

Snowbell

It is hard to be angry with Snowbell for too long. She meant well and I am sure she wanted me to enjoy ‘the gift ‘ as well, the way she did tossing it about before it made an escape. But, she shouldn’t have presented it so close to me as I was dozing off watching a very boring documentary on TV. She practically placed it near my face – I don't know whether I was more scared of the little mouse, or the little mouse was more scared of this screaming mama doing the jig in the front room.

Cats, and I now have five with Jasper gone, have a habit of bringing in gifts like this. Many didn't survive the journey in their mouth from the garden, though the cat flap and into the house. But those that did, try to escape. Once, Tabby brought in a dead squirrel and presented it at our feet. then Kissinger brought in a big lifeless pigeon and proudly displayed his prize in front of the TV.

So, that’s it. This time you are spared of my usual long rants as I cannot sit for too long and write long rambling pieces.

Have a nice weekend!

The Thinking Blogger Award

This must be the first award given to me in cyberworld. In fact the first award given to me ever! Thank you to Sharon Bakar who thought my blogging activities to be worth any award at all.

Well, if my entries can make one person think, or if even one person thinks the entries are worth thinking about, then I am truly happy.

I am happy that this comes from Sharon as she must be one of the most influential bloggers around who makes me think about books, good books, good style of writing.

So now I must set about tagging five more bloggers.

As I kept saying to anyone who cared to listen when I was in Malaysia recently, when there were so many negative news and vibes about blogs and bloggers, “There are blogs and there are blogs!” And believe me, this I have said to Ministers, people up there who are eyeing my blog, and especially to the one who said to me “Hey , you are a blogger, and you are on the other side!” (Whatever that means!)

Now this award goes to:

1. Pi BAni

Pi Bani is a volunteer with an NGO providing moral and emotional support to HIV infected people. Her entries are heart rending. She brings to light the plight of women like Zana, a single parent who was was infected by her husband who also died of AIDS. She writes about children who need basic things like milk, Nestum, anything...please read, please think, listen and please help.

2. Ruby Ahmad

Ruby is a newfound friend. You go to her blog and instantly you think, this must certainly be the Tatler of Cyberworld. There’s a function and she is there and believe me, she is there not just to take pictures so that she can blog about it. Ruby is one great networker, a deep thinker and an even greater listener. During my last visit to Malaysia, I met Ruby four times and each time, I couldn't help noticing her skills at networking. She listens to people some people wouldn’t give time of day. Hey, those great shoulder pads are there for a reason!

3. NJ

NJ makes me think.Those wonderful pieces about the value of time, about her relationship with her mother- in-law and many more. This lady has style!

4. Jane Sunshine

Jane, my darling Jane. We met through blogging, some emails and then coffee at the canteen of the Institute of Education. A wonderfully intelligent and warm person with thought provoking entries, beautifully written. My friendship and love, always.

5. Tunku Halim

Tunku Halim is a newbie in this blogosphere but no stranger to writing. Thus whatever he writes about in his blog, be it about book covers, about writing competitions, they are worth reading! His current entry is about his first story, typed on the old trusty type writer, when he was about 14! And years later he is author of so many books! So, dont go throwing your masterpieces thinking it would lead to nothing.

So there!

This award was started here:

And now my dear recipients, your award comes with a price. You have to award five others whose blog you think deserve this award.

Should you choose to participate, please make sure you pass this list of rules to the blogs you are tagging. The participation rules are simple:

1. If, and only if, you get tagged, write a post with links to 5 blogs that make you think,
2. Link to this post so that people can easily find the exact origin of the meme,
3. Optional: Proudly display the 'Thinking Blogger Award' with a link to the post that you wrote.

Please, remember to tag blogs with real merits, i.e. relative content, and above all - blogs that really get you thinking!

Shamelessly Plugging Peggy

When Peggy came into my life, she not only led me by the hand and introduced me to leaders and prominent people of my own country, whose stories I only read in history books and autobiographies, she also filled in the vast number of gaps in my knowledge of the country I left behind some 27 years ago, and one she adopted for nearly 40 years.

Datin Peggy Taylor is now 82 and in recollecting her memories of pre merdeka Malaya days and Malaysia in the throes of independence in preparation for a book that she is writing, she has given me the privilege of walking down memory lane with her.

I had blogged about her here but I can now reveal that the one with the history in the suitcase is Datin Peggy Taylor whose short snippets I have edited for RTM’s Galeri Perdana – a three part series which will be shown starting tonight at 8.30 pm.

Before leaving for Malaysia, my husband and I regularly visited Peggy who lives in a small quaint village in South east England. For days, we looked through her suitcase containing letters from Bapa Malaysia, Tunku Abdul Rahman, a note from Lim Kit Siang who had then just completed his law degree in prison, a letter from Singapore’s Rajaratnam who promised that the separation from Malaysia would just be temporary and many, many more. And I’d sit at her feet, as the fire crackled in the fireplace, while she narrated her life story – an episode of her life in Malaya when she and her husband went there in 1953.

Part of my mission when I went back to Malaysia was to bring to attention to certain interested parties that Peggy is writing her book. And I am certain, Peggy’s book will be of interest not only to students of history but also to the general reading public. Peggy has a lot to tell.

Peggy’s friendship with many of our former leaders like Tunku, Tun Razak, Tun Dr Ismail and her voluntary efforts in Pemadam, the Monfort Boys’ Home, inadvertently led her to the Malaysian political arena. She was by then a Malayan.

“Tunku asked us, why not be citizens of Malaya. After all Malaya will never leave the commonwealth,” and after discussing with her husband Eric, who was by then an architect with the Kuala Lumpur Municipal Council, they became citizens of Malaya.

Eric went on to receive his Dato Seri Paduka di raja from the Agong who was then from Terengganu, and later became the Chief Architect of Kuala Lumpur. Peggy was then invited to join ADMO – Alliance Direct Membership Organisation – an offshoot of the alliance – mainly for those non Malays, non Chinese and non Indian...in short – people like Peggy who wanted to join a political party. And Peggy was very active, helping Tun Razak in campaigns, organising events and many more.

During his time, Tunku commissioned Peggy to decorate mansions for VIPs and organise functions for visiting dignitories. And Peggy never forgot Tunku’s birthdays – 63 roses for his 63rd birthday, for example.

Peggy had many memorable dealings with Tunku. One occassion was when Tunku was deciding on the flower to choose for Malaysia’s national flower.

She asked, “Why the hibiscus?”
Tunku said in true Tunku style,”What’s the probleeeemmmmm?”
She answered,”The problem is, the hibiscus wilts as soon as you pluck it!”

Anyway, all these and many more you can watch on RTM1 tonight and tomorrow night and the night after.


It was rather by coincidence that I was invited for the launch of The Reluctant Politician - Tun Dr Ismail and his Time – a book by Dr Ooi Kee Beng based on private papers of the late Tun. While in Kuala Lumpur, I realised that few people, especially the younger generation have heard of Datin Peggy Taylor, never mind ADMO. So I thought in Johore where the launch was held, some,especially the writer himself can throw some light. NO, Dr Ooi never heard of Peggy nor ADMO. I ventured over to Tun Musa’s table. Of course – Datin Peggy Taylor! I know of her. I then went over to Tawfik Tun Ismail.... "Aaaaah, yes, Aunty Peggy!!! How is she??? " He asked delighted that I am bringing the book on his father back to Datin Peggy Taylor – the lady his late father had invited to join and revive ADMO. Peggy became Chairman of Selangor ADMO.

This morning, I spoke to Peggy again. After reading her copy of The Reluctant Politician, Peggy is certain that it must have been Tun who established ADMO. There's many more that she wants to say about the book, but this will have to come later.

Anyway, I shouldn't really be writing more about this. Do watch RTM1 – Galeri Perdana at 8.30 tonight (9th April)– tomorrow night (10th April) and the night after that (11th April). So there – shamelessly I am plugging Peggy.

PS Thank you all for the feedback. and guess what? I managed to watch the second part on the internet. The wonders of technology. Went to www.rtm.net.my and then did the streaming and what not - and actually watched it in realtime.

The home coming

The last three days, either before leaving London for KL or leaving KL for London, are definitely the hardest for me. It gets to me when I am packing. That is when I feel the rush of emotions – sad to leave my loved ones behind, yet happy at the thought of meeting the loved ones I have not seen for a while. Such is life when you choose to stay away.

The 15 minute Heathrow-Paddington Express which I took after arrival, offered me a chance to reflect. Wasn’t it only yesterday that I looked out of the window and saw greeneries so green and the sky so bright and blue that they could only be painted on a canvas? And now I saw grey skies and trees with hardly any leaves and fields still white with frost. Wasn’t it only yesterday I waved goodbye to my loved ones at KLIA – the usual scene – hug, hug at the departure lounge, followed by the usual cry of –“Dont come back so soon!” as I went down the escalator. Such is the love my siblings and in-laws have for me. I didn’t shed a tear during this goodbye. I laughed and I joked, telling Mak I’d be back sooner then she could turn around in her wheelchair. But as the lights dimmed and the music played softly ready for landing, I felt hot tears streaming down my cheeks. The words on the screen, “Thank you for flying Malaysia Airlines” began to look blur as I let out the tears in the dark as there was no one to see me cry.

Three days before my planned departure, I started packing. There were books, books and books, mostly autographed by the writers and some bought at the spur of the moment. By the look of it, the books alone would exceed my baggage allowance. Then there’s the clothes, the gifts from friends old and new and the food stuff. And I only had two bags.

“Mai Mak tolong lipat,” said Mak, offering to help with the clutter that was beginning to cause Milah the maid, serious concern. Mak is already an expert in packing and unpacking. After all, she has been living the life of a nomad, moving from one child’s home to another. Her protestations and appeals to go back to the house that Pak built for her are mostly met with silence or excuses.

There was a jovial beat to Mak’s banter while she helped me.

“Bila Zaharah balik, Mak pun boleh balik Alor Star. Dah lama tinggal rumah kosong,” So, that was it. My departure was going to be used for another appeal to go home. Earlier, we had asked her to stay on because a grandchild was leaving for India. Then she stayed the duration of my stay. We now have two more excuses up our sleeves. Another grandchild is leaving for Geneva. And Abang is leaving for Libya.

“Mak mesti tunggu sebab Azril nak ke Geneva. Lepas tu Abang pulak nak balik Libya,” I offered, remembering Lilah’s reminder about what to say when Mak broached the subject again. These days, most of our conversations with Mak are scripted, carefully composed to cajole her to stay, to coax her to eat or even to persuade her to come out with us.

“Mak tunggu laa, lepaih tu Mak kena balik,” she insisted and I left it at that, especially when her attention turned to my DVDs and books. Her eyesight is still good.

“Anak sapa ni?” she asked pointing to a boyish looking Sudirman on the cover of the CD collection that Kak Chah Hassan had given me.

“Penyanyi! “ I mouthed the word to her and she nodded. She picked up the new magazine Tell and started flicking through. “Laaa, sapa letak gambar Zaharah di sini?” she asked when she saw my picture in the magazine. She continued until she came to the picture of Toh Puan Rahah and said, “Macam nak kenai orang ni!” I told her it is Toh Puan Rahah and she remembered perhaps meeting her and Tun Razak when they went to campaign in Yan. She certainly remembered shaking Tun’s hands.

I looked at her intently and marvelled at her memory. At 90, she remembers certain events very well. But sadly, she cannot remember what she had asked a few minutes before.

“Anak sapa ni?” she asked again, picking up Sudirman’s CD, the curiousity so plain and so genuine in her voice.

Thankfully, Mak was in good health throughout my stay. She coughed a little during the nights that I slept with her. And I remember reaching out to stroke her back to ease her cough. She’s all bones. My Mak is all bones, but as I sit in this dark lounge of mine typing this, I see her as someone fit and strong and yes, beautiful. This is the only way I can cope.

Mak notices every crease in your clothes, “Baju tak seterika, ka?” or the fact that your ring or bracelet had not had a good polish. I remember us just lying down on the bed, Mak in her telekung waiting for asar. I slept beside her. Then her 30 year old grandson joined us, sleeping on the other side. Mak stroked his head, knowing that this grandson will leave her soon. Kak Cik then plonked herself beside me. Mak then reached out to both of us, "Ish, anak-anak Mak sehat-sehat!” She said proudly as she wrapped her arms around our ample bodies. And we allowed her to baby us in this manner, reminiscence of the times when we’d fight to sleep on her lap to listen to her renditions of some hikayats or syaer.

Yes, Mak helped me to pack. But once she left to go to the toilet, I had to unpack again for there was everything in that bag that was not mine. There were undies that I bought for her, Nisa’s and Kak Cik’s scarves, the children’s books and even the karipap that I bought for tea.

We have to indulge her these days. Take the money that she offers to buy groceries as her contribution, allow her to hang the clothes outside, even let her do the same prayers again and again because she insisted she had not done them.

We had some crab sambal left overs for dinner just before leaving for the airport. She remembers that crabs are my favourite. We had only crab claws. So, instead of eating, Mak took out the flesh from every claw and put them on my plate. She used to do this when we were small and she is still doing this some fifty years later. It is not because she had forgotten I have grown old, but she still remembers I am still her baby.

MH2 landed early. My husband was still in bed and I told him we’d meet at Paddington Station and have breakfast there. Seeing him wondering around the station looking for me, Malaysia now seemed a thousand miles away. For once, he was early. In fact he was a day early yesterday when he waited at Heathrow at the crack of dawn. The three weeks of book talks and launches and lit fest and meeting friends and relatives were then duly covered over breakfast of tea and chocolate croissants.

A KLILF Experience

These days, my usual companions in bed are Adibah Amin and Tunku Halim but last night we were joined by Camilla Gibb. It is no wonder that in my dreams Camilla’s experience in Ethiopia with the Muslim community has a strong Malaysian flavour and some strange characters with horns. At the breakfast table Lydia Teh keeps me company, and on the commuter or in the car to Bangsar Village from Bangi, I am accompanied by The Reluctant Politician but yesterday on the way back, I had to alternate my attention between The Reluctant Politician and the young lady who wants to know whether her head looks big in a hijab.

A Nyonya in Texas and Tan Kwan Eng will certainly keep me occupied during the flight home and I am counting on Xeus to keep me company when I am suffering from jetlagged in the wee hours if the morning in London.

So, you see, I am not lacking in company these days. It is just dividing time to be with them and do justice to what they have to offer. In fact, I think I have to concentrate on one at a time to fully appreciate them. These are books that I have bought from MPH and book talks during the Malaysian Literary Festival. And I have not even ventured into Kinokuniya yet!

The KL International Literary Festival 2007 ended yesterday. I had extended my trip home so that I could attend the book talks, the launches and the workshops. The only regret I have is that I couldn’t attend all.

Well, KLILF for me started with Tash Aw. I was fashionably late as I couldn’t find the place, and by the time I got there, the first floor of Alexis Bistro was already full of people. I had missed the readings and Tash was already into the workshop – The Beginnings. I had to scan through Hemmingway’s first four pages of ‘A Farewell to Arms’ and Nabokov’s ‘Lolita’ before attempting the task for the day; i.e. to write the first para of a novel. Tash was asking for ideas – a name, a Malaysian name – a CEO of a big company, shouted one. Razak, shouted another. He is unhappy doing what he is doing and on top of that he has a beautiful but rather ambitious wife, offered Tash. *&^%#! shouted someone behind me offering a name followed by some nervous laughs and we wisely opted for Amy. They both plotted and murdered a partner in the firm by the name of Tony. Judging by the show of hands and suggestions, there was no lacking of ways to creatively murder someone. We have indeed become very creative in a rather morbid way.

I managed a few lines; nothing that met Tash’s brief of a good opening of a novel. You have to capture the attention of the readers, with enough hints of what’s in store. Have enough to take them by the hand to the last page of your novel. I was more interested in the crowd. I bet 90 percent of those present have a novel in them; a sentence, a para, a paragraph or maybe some are already ready for that final full stop. There were many around my age, perhaps crafting their words on their laptops on the kitchen table, in the garden, summoning life’s experience to incorporate into their stories. Many young ones too, still in college with that burning desire to get one published! I saw Lydia penning her first para but she didn’t put her hand up when asked to volunteer to read. There were indeed some very good ones, enough to make me want to listen to some more.

The morning with Tash ended with some photo sessions and we promised to meet up in London over a cup of coffee some where. So I skipped lunch with the author and joined Sharon, Sharanya and Lakshmi Pamunjak and many others at Delicious. Lydia had to rush home to fetch her kids from school. This Desperate Housewife and dedicated mother fits in her literary activities around her children’s school schedules.

Salleh ben Joned cancelled his session and I was quite disappointed because I was looking forward to meeting him again. But never mind, the afternoon was more than compensated when Shidah phoned up to say she was coming to meet me with Pak Samad Said. More books from the Sastrawan Negara. As he signed a copy, I said to the one who keeps asking when my book will be out, “One day I hope to sign my book for you,”

“You hope to…?” he asked peering from his glasses.

“Insyaallah” was all I could afford to say. For now.

With that we went to KLCC where I thought I could get a decent dress for the opening of the MLIF by the DPM. From there we went on to Ampang where I bought not one but two! Anedra collected me and we headed for The Seafood Garden. The launch of MLIF 2007 was indeed a grand affair. I was greeted by a familiar face – and this I must mention as it is most important at this stage in my life. While I am being greeted and recognized as Kak Teh, I realized that those who do recognize me as Kak Teh are mostly the young ones. But those who still remember me as the writer from the NST days, are those from my age group. They remember my columns, my features, my rantings. But at that evening, this lady came and said; “We met a few times, I read your column and now I read your blog!” Hooray, I am now reaching both worlds. Thank you.

That put me in a rather cheeky mood. Ruby Ahmad can testify to that. While we were talking to Minister Shahrizat Jalil, guess who walked in? I went up to introduce myself and said, “I am a woman blogger.”

It was a lovely evening. I was at table 18 with Ruby, Anedra, Ood the anak ikan, Eric and Zul from MPH. The speeches were too long, and by the time the food came, it was time to go home. I managed to hear only two songs by Dayang NurFaezah.

I was early for Tash’s second session on 28^th March. Such a popular session – and this time Alexis Bistro was packed with many college students and some old timers with a novel or two up their sleeves. Again, after some readings, we were told to write an ending to our previous beginning. I tell you, there were some good ones but I was again somewhat distracted by a young boy in front of me trying to nibble his girlfriend’s ear. I should start my novel with that, I think.

On the way for Randa Abdel-Fattah’s session, I saw Dina Zaman coming up the escalator, clutching her stomach. She was famished and visibly tired after several talks and book signing. I am glad I didn’t miss this. Randa, a twenty six year old Palestinian Muslim living in Australia, talked about her first book – ‘Does My Head Look Big In This?’ It is a very funny, easy to read book about a Muslim teenager, Amal, who decided to wear the hijab. Get it! It is hilarious. She asked the same questions I asked myself when I started to become a ‘full timer’, donning the hijab – she went through the familiar stages of first covering up with a little fringe peeking from under the scraf to being fully covered up.

I could only manage half an hour of Conor O’Clery on writing biographies. By then I felt like one of those Dervish dancers at Dina’s launch of I am Muslim. I was spinning everywhere, from Bangsar to KLCC and Bangi and then back to Bangsar.

On the last day, had I missed Camilla Gibb as I had intended to, I would never have forgiven myself. The author of ‘Mouthing the Words’, ‘The Petty Details of So and So’s Life’ and now ‘Sweetness in The Belly’ spoke about her life with the Muslim community in Ethiopia. A student of Anthropology, Camilla felt that her thesis didn’t do justice to the people she lived with, the religion she became very close to, and the community which adopted her. So, she wrote this compelling novel. Somewhere in Camilla’s talk, she touched a nerve, a raw nerve. And the words she scribbled in her book to me have gone some way to help me heal. Thanks Camilla.

It was at this session that I met an old friend, poet/lawyer Cecil Rajendra who shared with me poems he had written for the session in the evening. It brought back memories of sharing his poetries under the big tree in front of Ho Peng Café in Light Street, Penang. How long ago was that? 30 years ago?

This is not quite the end of my book trip home. Today, 31^st March, I am supposed to fly home. But MPH is having a press launch of Adibah Amin’s ‘As I was Passing’ on 3^rd April. Somewhere in those fantabulous collections of the great writer, is a mention of Kak Teh, though my name was not there in print. As a cub reporter and a great admirer of Kak Adib, I remember feeling so thrilled when she interviewed Fatimah Abu Bakar and I for a column she was writing. When the column appeared in print, we were in cloud nine. That same feeling of excitement is now many times magnified as the day approaches when I will meet up with her again. And this time, I have been asked to say a few words. What a wonderful end to a wonderful book trip home.

It has been three weeks since I left my cats, husband and children for the warmer climes of home sweet home. Yet, why do I still feel so jetlagged and tired. The answer must lie in the fact that I must have clocked up more mileage than the Heathrow- KLIA flight and back! (And pssst! It could be age too! Don’t tell anyone but I am now a year older since I waved goodbye to my family at Heathrow airport. Hopefully they will not notice any difference, like an extra wrinkle, when I return.

On that note, first let me thank Lydia Teh for the wonderful cake she brought to the 2nd MPH Breakfast Club for Lit Bloggers. I attended the talk by Lydia (on her book, Honk if you are a Malaysian), and Xues who shared with us some tips on writing. They were introduced by Kenny Mah and Eric Forbes. Blogger Sharon Bakar was there too and I am truly honoured to be in such company. There’s really a lot to be learnt about the publishing scene here – who reads what, what sells and most importantly, how to sell it. I went back with a lot of books that Eric had kindly recommended.

Well, that night, it was a celebration of sorts. It is very rare that we are together for our birthdays. Kak Cik, my sis in law Nisa, my brother Ajie, my grand nephew Nasri and my brother in law Wan are all March babies. And as nephew Azril is leaving for Geneva soon, we thought we might as well say farewell to him too. So with all these, we had three cakes, a huge tent and some old friends and relatives from near and far and a sprinkling of distinguished guests at niece Anedra’s house.

Mak looked very happy as she was surrounded by everyone she loves. Only Kak couldn’t make it. Even the rain stayed away until we finished the outdoor celebration. And not a growl from Anedra’s neighbours in the gated community that is Zoo Negara!

It all became too much for me. The stress of combining work and networking was becoming apparent. I have not one but two ulcers in my mouth. I couldn’t eat much without grimacing with pain. On top of that I was losing my voice. Mind you, this has nothing to do with talking, but I suspect a lot to do with the night out with the boys and girls the previous night. My old school chums had kidnapped me to what was supposed to be only a Chinese meal at the Darul Ehsan Club but of course karaoke was on the agenda. That night, or was it morning, I crawled into a strange bed at my friend’s house. Too scared to go home and face Mak. I felt sixteen again. The following morning, my friend’s Mak came over. How we have not changed, she must have thought! She and my Mak know us too well.

The day before, I was in Johore with three other bloggers for the book launch of Dr Ooi Kee Beng’s ‘The Reluctant Politician’. This must have been my first visit back to Johore after 30 years. Former DPM Tun Musa launched the book and Insyaallah I will review the Reluctant Politician soon.

Just before the trip to Johore, it was the launch of Dina Zaman’s ‘I am Muslim’. I turned up quite early at the venue but was too scared to go in alone. I didn’t know anyone and felt very much a stranger in my own country. But soon, one blogger after another introduced themselves, and I felt so at home.
I must have bought seven copies of Dina’s book – and gave them as presents to my close childhood friends, some of whom are avid Dina followers.

I am looking forward to the KL International Literary Fair 2007 – more writers, more book talks and workshops! And yes, the icing on the cake must be ‘Celebrating the 70’s with Adibah Amin’ on 3rd April. MPH is celebrating the revival of Adibah Amin’s ‘As I was Passing’. I wouldn’t want to miss this event for anything.

And then, I must fly back for a rest.