Three Ramadan stories

Story 1

There was a hush in the courtroom as the man in black suit, songkok perched smartly on his head, a Quran in hand, approached the bench.

“My Lord,” he stammered looking straight at the presiding judge, “ tonight is the night when the doors of heaven are open wide. It is the night of the Lailatul Qadr. If you release me, I will pay for your tickets to Malaysia to see my birthplace.”

Watching him from the public gallery of the Old Bailey courtroom, my heart sank. From day one it was obvious that the case was not going his way. His further attempts at mitigation only hastened to persuade the judge that he needed treatment.

“I will be getting lots of money as Salman Rushdie is writing my life story. I can pay for your return ticket to Malaysia,” he said, believing every word that tumbled out of his mouth.

Suffice to say, it was in the dank and pitiful meeting room at HMP Brixton that I saw him again. It wasn’t the place for him, not for what he did. He was surrounded by hardcore criminals, tattoo on their arms, violence etched on their faces. He cried for most of the one hour that I was allowed to see him, begging me to get him a transfer back to serve his time in Malaysia, the country he left some forty years before. He started off on an adventure but it was interrupted by love.

He rambled and and I listened, trying to sieve facts from fantasies, trying to find justification in locking him up with robbers and murderers.

“Datin,” he pleaded, forcing me to bite my lips for fear of laughing. “I want to go back. I don’t like it here.”

Ten minutes later, I was a Puan Sri. Such was his mental state that all I could do was listen to his life story, his love story and stories of his very, very sad childhood; all jumbled up with tales of his friendship with Prince Charles and other world leaders and celebrities.

That was our first meeting in Ramadan several years ago. He asked if I could bring him an alarm clock during my next visit as the guards had taken away his alarm clock. It was disturbing other inmates when it went off when it was time for him to take his sahur. He also wanted a new copy of Surah Yasin. When he thought that the guards were not looking he gave me a letter from under the table. It was to be the first of several letters that I received when he was held at Her Majesty's pleasure.

The next visit saw him a happier person as he was then moved to another place – an open prison where he could tend to the gardens that was his lifelong passion. Nevertheless, his state of mind had not improved. Without friends, he took to talking to worms under the floorboards.

I saw him several time after his release and quite recently too. Ahamdulillah he is well. Salman Rushdie never wrote his book and the judge never got the return ticket to Malaysia. He didn’t even recognise me as the Datin/Puan Sri who visited him during Ramadan.

Story 2

A life wasted...

The crowd leaving the mosque after terawikh prayers made their separate ways home. The man in the beige kurta-like shirt crossed the motorway and turned into a side road. It was a warm summer’s night but not many people were around; most probably watching TV or at the pubs. He hastened his steps, perhaps at the thought of continuing the meal that he had after iftar, or perhaps at the thought of his wife who had not been too well during the first week of Ramadan.

The silence of the night was suddenly interrupted by the screeching of tyres; which initially looked as if joyriders were having fun racing along the deserted road. One car was chasing the other not far ahead, then just at the junction of the road, the one behind rammed the other on the side. Then all the man in the kurta shirt could see were flashes that looked like fireworks, momentarily lighting up the night. He stood transfixed as if watching a cops and robbers drama on TV but when the realisation of what was unfolding before him set in, he ran as fast as his legs could carry, passing the car with a body slumped at the wheel.

He arrived home shaken. It took him quite a long time before he felt comfortable enough to walk to the mosque for terawikh again.

Story 3

Why Kueh Gula Melaka will never be the same again....

Thoughts of kueh gula melaka that his wife made for iftar haunted him throughout his terawikh prayers. He couldn’t concentrate as his mind kept thinking of the burst of sweetness of palm sugar that melted in his mouth a few hours earlier. The imam had decided on long verses that night and as usual it was 21 rakaats, none of the 8 that the neighbourhood surau was doing.

The doa’s after the witir prayers seemed unusually long but soon enough, he scrambled out of the mosque and after locating his slippers, said goodbye to his mates and made his way home, the lights from the houses on each side of the road guiding him on his trusty old bicycle.

He made his way straight to the kitchen only to find scraped coconuts left overs of the delicious gula melaka that had been plaguing his mind the whole evening. His disappointment turned to anger.

“Don’t worry, Sayang, I will make some more for sahur,” cajoled his wife sweetly, leading him out of the kitchen to the bedroom.

Like a dutiful wife, she woke up early, washed her hair and prepared the kueh gula melaka, inserting generous pieces of palm sugar in balls of dough before plunging them in hot boiling water. Then she proceeded to roll them in desiccated coconut. She took the pot of boiling water out to the adjoined kitchen that also served as a toilet at night, as it was more convenient than going out to the bathroom, a distance away from the house. Gently, she woke her husband up, promising him the most delicious gula melaka ever made. He needed no more persuasion and woke up and hurried to the kitchen to relieve himself before sahur.

And then, from the dark unlit kitchen came a scream that pierced that silence of the Holy night.

“Oh, dear, I should have thrown out the hot water,” thought the wife guiltily, downing the kueh gula melaka to drown her sorrows.

A disclaimer:

Stories 1 & 2 are based on real events.

Story 3 is just something my mother told again and again when we asked for kueh gula melaka. Tak ada kena mengena dengan yang hidup atau yang mati atau yang tercedera!

Travails of a Cyber Backpacker

More pictures here: Nona in Rajasthan

The 1233 for Luton left from the spanking new St Pancras International where I took the Eurostar to Paris a few weeks ago. It is a sort of extension right at the end of the building and I had to dodge people with bags and trolleys as I was going against the flow to catch my train. I wasn’t fussy about where I sat as it wasn’t going to be a long journey and I reckoned that the half an hour journey would take me through a few more chapters of Preeta Samarasan’s “Evening Is the Whole Day”. I really wanted to know the goings on in the big house in Kingfisher Lane after Chellam’s unceremonious departure.

The seats on the First Capital Connect were quite comfortable, and minutes after it pulled out of the platform, we buried our heads in our reading materials. The young teenager opposite me was devouring the pictures in Heat magazine while the gentleman on my right concentrated on The Reluctant Fundamentalist.

It took awhile for me to realise that I was staring for a good five minutes on page 44 with not a word sinking in. My mind was making its own journey and so I looked out of the window to see how the suburbs of London was being treated in the last few days of summer. Hedges were already neatly trimmed and shrubs cut in preparation for autumn, but there were a few optimists with their BBQ sets still outside their conservatories, hoping for one more sunny day to return.

According to the BBC weather forecast, we were in for a long wet and windy spell and true enough rain began pelting on the windows and I was thankful when we disappeared under a tunnel.

As we emerged from the tunnel, I blinked a few times. Right before me were clusters of huts with zinc roofs dotting fields that looked barren and dry with nothing to offer skinny cows and even skinnier goats roaming aimlessly in search of food and water. Pot bellied children clung on to their mothers’ faded sarees, as they walked gracefully balancing pots of water precariously on their heads. A few turned to wave at us without spilling a drop of water.

I turned to look at my travelling companions to see whether they were witnessing what I was witnessing. The girl with the Heat magazine was no longer there but in her seat was a fat woman trying to calm her baby by suffocating him with her ample breast. The gentleman with The Reluctant Fundamentalist too had disappeared and next to me was a skinny old man in his dhoti snoring loudly and plainly oblivious to both screaming child and ample breast. In fact the whole carriage was a scene of pandemonium. There were fans whirring from the ceiling of the carriage and there were people, sitting on the floor, being trampled on by a couple of cross dressers in their bright coloured sarees, making their way to the next coach. They ignored hurls of insults and lewd jokes, pulling their tongues out from chilli bright lips, which served to excite their teasers even more.

Looking out of the window again, slums with dilapidated houses in various stages of neglect and repair whizzed past and billboards displaying the latest that Bollywood can offer had the handsome Shahrukh Khan staring unsmiling at me. And as if on cue, a melodious and haunting sound of the sittar pierced the midday air, followed by the beat of the tabla, prompting the passengers on the floor, the cross dressers with their tongue sticking out, and the fat lady with baby at her breast to jump on their feet and break into one of the most syncronised Bollywood dance I ever saw.

Even the snore of skinny man next to me sounded melodious and he suddenly opened his eyes and broke into a Mohamad Rafii number.

I would have joined in the fun if not for the announcement that the train was approaching Luton and a reminder for us to take all our belongings. Like a dream rudely interrupted, coach C of the First Capital Connect returned to its normal albeit boring calmness as it pulled into Luton station.

I stepped onto the platform into wet and soggy Luton, annoyed that my dream of India was interrupted. I put it down to the puasa as well as the many sms’es and reports that I received from Nona about her train journeys since arriving in Mumbai. After a subtitleless Bollywood movie in Mumbai, she and her cousin took a train to Ahmadabad, before going to Udaipur where, hot on her heels was a very enthusiastic young man with chat up lines, that will make you roll on the floor laughing.

Example of chat up lines :

Did it hurt you when you fell from heaven?

Which country is suffering now that you are not there?

(And I thought the best dialogues come from India!!)

Anyway, Nona and my niece and friend are having a wonderful time in India. Right now they are in the picturesque mountain resort of Manali, after a 15 hour car ride from Delhi. A punctured tyre, stops for mutter paneer to break their fast, they arrived in pitch dark Manali at about midnight.

“Its like Geneva, mama,” she gushed on the phone to me from the balcony of her hostel when morning unveiled Manali’s beauty with the snowcapped Himalayas in the background.

That is indeed a stark contrast to the experience camping in the heat of the Thar Desert of Jaisalmer, where they started their first day of Ramadan. If I could expel the nagging feeling, I think waking up for sahur, in the early morning before the sun rose in the Thar Desert, being served with boiled eggs by two male guides, has a romantic touch befitting any Bollywood movie.

Well, her journey had taken me on my own journey of India via google and blogs published on travels in India. I made the same train rides from Mumbai to Ahmadabab to Udaipur, where among the ruins of a palace she was surrounded by locals who touched and stared at her. Sleeping in the trains during the nights seemed to be the norm, a cheap way of travelling without having to stay in hostels. From Jaipur they left for Jaisalmer in the soaring heat that I could almost feel from cold and wet London. I prayed for their safe journey to Agra where they feasted their eyes on the Taj Mahal before moving yet again to Delhi.

I caught up with them in time at a travel agent where they booked a car and a driver that had taken them to Manali, then to Shimla and back to Delhi.

The next few days will see them making the tracks to Sikkim in the west and then a two day train ride to Bangalore. After that, I think, I should be able to rest (my fingers) after crisscrossing the Indian continent, thanks to Google.

Other train journeys:
Manchester Musings
Tales From The Tracks
On the 1302 from Kings Cross with Tunku Halim
Training My Thoughts
As I Was Munching Muruku
A Malay Experience in Roman Exeter
Train of Thoughts
A Story Untold

How Do I Wake You Up, Let Me Count The Ways……

...or The Art of Waking People Up For Sahur.

In my recurring dreams, especially during this time of the year, I sit salivating before the biggest bowl of the most yumilicious bubur lambuk any mosque can offer. There are generous helpings of lamb pieces with prawns and a sprinkling of celery and crisp fried shallots floating on melting ghee. As soon as the sound of the canons fired from the state mosque is heard, and ignoring any etiquette for berbuka puasa, I’d plunge my spoon into the bowl which had been sitting there tantalising me for the past half an hour. As soon as the rich, creamy taste of the gastronomic delight hit my tastebuds, the dream turns into a nightmare. It leaves a salty, very salty taste in the mouth. At other times, it is a taste not unlike that of raw badly produced belacan, that goes drip, drip, drip right to the back of my throat. And that is when I wake up.

Any Freudian pyschoanalists who happened to chance upon this piece of navel gazing, might be forgiven for concluding that the nightmare has its roots in my childhood. And he/she couldn’t be far wrong.

Growing up in a household with siblings who refuse to grow old, we are forever at the mercy of those more creative and innovative in ways that manage to make others look foolish. Take the month of Ramadan for instance. In other normal households, there are etiquettes as to how one should wake another for the sahur. You wake a person up gently, call out his or her name repeatedly until that person wakes up. But no, not in my household; that tactic is deemed too civilised.

Nursing a stomach full of delicacies Mak had prepared for berbuka, we go to sleep hoping to dream of nice things because we are told that devils and ghosts are locked away for the whole of the holy month. But of course, there are other people that should be locked up as well – people like Abang.

While Mak prepares the sahur downstairs, Pak would wake us up. Gently he would repeat our names in a sing song manner that served to lull us more into deep slumber.

Having failed his mission, Abang is then deployed to use any merciless tactic and device that he could think of in his waking hours. One way is to do a concoction of belacan juice, which he then carefully drips into our gaping mouth. The experience is not unlike eating otak udang, neat. On other days, it would be salt water and that leaves you with a very dry throat that you do have to wake up for a drink. Having succeeded with the mission, he’d go back to the dining table and we’d all be given applauses as we descend down the stairs, hair in disarray, eyes still half closed.

On days when the buka puasa feast proved to be more fatal and caused us deep, deep sleep, Abang would come up with another plan. Armed with a charcoal pencil, he would proceed to work on our faces. Many a times, I have woken up with a Groucho Marx like moustache or a Fu Man Chu one, which ever took his fancy.

I have yet to try these tactics in my own household now. My husband, like my father, would start with a gentle call of the name. He had tried sprinkling water, but the most effective is still to pull off the duvet. Responses range from, “in a minute,” “I know, I will wake up” to “I am not hungry”.

During my more svelte and lighter form, which must be some twenty years ago, hubby used to carry me downstairs, prop me against the sink before proceeding to wash my face with very cold water. Now, a feat like that will break his back.

Selamat berpuasa and bersahur everyone!

More Ramadan Ramblings:

Of Mak and Ramadan
Memories of Pak This Ramadan
Fussing over Fasting
Cerita Ceriti Bulan Puasa
What's For Sahur?

Listless in London

The shadow across the unruly lawn long neglected enticed my gaze up the evergreen which is now towering above all at the foot of the garden. It stands testament to how long we have been in this present place, a cornerstone of my memory set in a faraway land that is England.

This is our fourth place that we call home. I remember the surge of excitement when I saw the size of the garden. What do we do with an 80 ft garden? We know nought about gardening so, it certainly helped that the house came with a garden savvy neighbour, who instantly took charge. An apple tree was immediately put in place and several border perennials became our pride and joy, with tomatoes, potatoes and even sweetcorn. The perennials in my hands, eventually died. Even the apple tree wilted and went, now replaced with a Japanese acer that gives a lovely colour in summer. But it is the evergreen standing stoic and proud that still holds a special place in my heart.

Hardly a foot tall, we brought it back from a friend’s place in Weybridge and Mick dutifully plonked it in. That was twenty three years ago, when child number two must have been about one and she sat on the swing among the tall trees in Rachel’s backyard that summer afternoon as we selected our plants to bring home. Today as I looked up that tree, she is somewhere in Hampshire attending an office meeting. Child number three was still a baby in my kangaroo pouch when we visited Weybridge to bring this tree home and as I write this, she is on her way to India.

It didn’t seem too long ago that they were out there riding their three wheelers, playing catch and jumping on bouncy castle in the garden, neatly trimmed by Mick. And when they were brave enough, joined by friends from the neighbourhood, they camped out in the night but we found them sprawled in the lounge the next morning. The foxes must have paid them a visit during the night!

A basketball net used to be the centre of activities for family and friends and saw one of the most hilarious matches between sons and mothers. Now it is replaced by a punchbag, cutting quite a lonely and useless figure from where I am sitting now.

The garden in summer had witnessed many a barbeque party with the wind bringing the sweet smell of grilled satay over to the other side of the A40. Farewells and reunions or just plain get-together were held in the garden and we would stay out enjoying the summer nights and what’s left of the barbeque.

Today, as son of Mick laid out a plastic sheet across the front lawn to control the weeds and try to save some so called perennials wilting in the borders, I wonder where did all those years go.

And today, I ventured out and looked up the evergreen and felt a kind of melancholic feeling sweeping over me. It has grown so tall, lording over the neighbour’s pear tree. And more importantly, it now provides a permanent shade for Jasper in his final resting place. The garden was Jasper's playground - his and his alone, chasing other cats away across the fence.

And today, with Jasper out of the way resting at the foot of the evergreen, Tabby, Snowbell and Kissinger were free to laze about in the summer sun.

A Parents' Guide to Backpacking

.........Or how to survive duration of child away backpacking with ventolin

When your child announces that he/she is going backpacking, take a deep breath and a puff or two of ventolin . When your breathing is more regular and your hands stop trembling, google “backpacking” and that will take you to several sites, as this is indeed a very popular mode of seeing the world amongst youngsters, especially those who refuse to tag along with their parents and want to avoid the well trodden path of visiting relatives and museums and familiar places that Tourism Malaysia has on offer.

Most sites will have keywords, such as “unlimited level of flexibility with travel itinerary”, “cheap accommodations” and “cheaper means of travelling”. That alone should be enough to tell you that you DO NOT call up friends and relatives in places where your offspring plans to be. If you had unwittingly called friends, or friends of friends and relatives or relatives of friends or friends of relatives, then apologise profusely to child in question and say that you only wanted her/him to call them once he/she is there to convey your salam. Then, take more puffs of the ventolin.

And when child in question announces that he/she is backpacking in Thailand, attach inhaler permanently to your nostrils and at the same time, trembling hands permitting, go through 25 ways to calm your nerves here.

Several other tried and tested tactics are also recommended. (Success rate not guaranteed)

Bribery: Go to Bangkok BUT only on transit and offer to pay for the rest of the holiday in Malaysia.

Blackmail: You go to Thailand and I promise you I will NOT sleep and eat, until you come back. (add "breathe " if you are really desperate.)

Eleventh Hour Emotional Blackmail at departure lounge: Compose your face suitably as you hug him/her at the departure lounge. Quivering lips accompanied by endless flow of tears and loud blowing of the nose is recommended.

If all of the above fail – doa. Lots of doa.

PERSONAL NOTE: Called up travel agent friend and scolded her for issuing the ticket and not lying and say that tickets not available or too expensive.

Preparation: Ask not just once or twice about travel arrangements, travel companions, parents and background of travel companions. Get phone numbers of travel companions, and that of their parents and grandparents.

Backpack and contents: Go through contents of clothes and essentials to make sure the child does not carry anything you or customs on both sides of the immigration table don’t want he/she to carry.

PERSONAL NOTE: Got at least five padlocks for each pocket available on backpack. Not satisfied with padlocks, get backpack to be cling-wrapped twenty times over at the airport. With backpack looking more like nangka bungkus, child relented for backpack to be checked in, rather than carried on back.

MANTRA PRE DEPARTURE: Don’t talk to any strangers. (But seeing that everyone will inevitably be strangers…) don’t talk to suspicious looking strangers. (Googled images of suspicious looking strangers…couldn’t find any). Don’t accept anything from anyone, keep drinks close to you. Go in groups, do not wander off by yourself.

SMS every move you make.

PERSONAL TRACKER: In the absence of trackers such as GPS, have page permanently displaying TIME NOW IN BANGKOK as screen saver. Google every place mentioned by child, such as “backpackers hostel”, koh samui, th khao san, ferry to Koh samui. Click on images of the above and then more puffs of ventolin.

Place handphone, cheap international call cards nearby. Template added in handphone messages: Where are you? Where exactly are you?

On receiving reply via sms, call.

On hearing loud music and atmosphere of fun and laughter, take more puffs of the ventolin.

Courting stories

These last few days, sitting outside the courtroom waiting for the jury to deliver the verdict, chatting to police officers and interpreters transported me back to that café under the tree in Penang, just outside the courthouse. The temperature outside soared to a scorching 30, not unlike the temperature all year round on the island. Camera crews and photographers waiting outside the court building for the Jill Dando murder case, were wilting in the heat, but they couldn’t move until they got their pix of the day.

Watching the hustle bustle of men and women bewigged and in black robes carrying huge files and huger books for reference, I remembered similar activities along corridors of the impressive Penang courthouse. They were the likes of Karpal Singh, the late P Annamalai and their entourage, or Rajasingam and many more whose names escaped me now. I was young and naïve, wondering around the courthouse, looking for stories that would give me an impressive headline in the next day’s paper. I used to be in awe of hardcore journalists who wouldn’t be contented with just a life sentence.

“What? Only life, ah?” A death sentence would ensure a front page story and certainly a byline that’s a few katis in weight!

While waiting for verdicts, sentencing, or just whiling away our time for a more ‘interesting’ case, we’d sit and have chats with prosecutors, lawyers and police officers about all sorts of things. There was such a bond, and that was how we’d get tips about new cases; murder, drug traffickings, or small non headline grabbing cases like being caught redhanded watching blue films or stealing a bicycle. Once in a long while, we’d get sensational stories of illegal topless and scantily clad dancers who hid things where things shouldn’t be hidden. That would create quite a sensation, and would even solicit a smile and a chuckle from the usually stern magistrate.

The Penang courtrooms had witnessed a lot of stories of drugs in false bottom suitcases, or ridiculously high platform shoes hiding contraband goods. Even more ridiculous were the mitigation.

Lunch can be a long drawn out affair of nasi kandar at one of the restaurants dotting the streets of Penang, or at a more fanciful place with air condition depending on what time of the month it was. Or sometimes, none at all as we chased after lawyers, court clerks and police officers for documents to copy, especially after a verdict or a sentencing. Then a dash back to the office to bang on the old Remington which would then be typed out again by the teleprinter to the HQ in KL, while you stood in a queue; all depending on the urgency of the stories. How time has changed. Now, a quick call on the mobile, or sitting by the roadside with a laptop and a mobile internet connection, the story goes within a few minutes.

Court reporting was a training ground for all cub journalists. That was where we learned to listen attentively and take notes accurately. It used to be easy because in most cases, questions and answers were translated back, and very slowly too for the judge to note down everything.

But what I found difficult was to remove myself emotionally from the case. One that got me real bad was a case where both husband and wife were in the dock for drug trafficking and we all know that a guilty verdict would mean death. The wife was about to deliver – so there was a plea bargain. The husband would plead guilty and get life and the wife, was either given a lesser sentence or acquitted to look after the baby.

Another one was the Jelutong murder where the father massacred all his children as he thought life was not worth living when his wife flaunted her infidelities before his very eyes. Even the prosecution officer cried when he read out the son’s plea for the father not to kill him.

The last time I was at the Old Bailey, I heard an old Malay gentleman pleading his case. He stood there, a Quran in his hand and looked up at me at the public gallery and smiled in recognition at a familiar face. He spent 7 years inside and I visited him only twice. He wrote to me from Brixton and sent me visiting orders.

It is all very well to have hefty bylines but it is certainly a very draining experience - emotionally. Everyone is a victim of circumstances. Until today, I have forgotten, how emotionally draining it can be.

My half full glass...

Sometimes when I look at my glass I think that it is half empty. It is only human, I guess. I read about jetsetting people and their lifestyle, their entourage of helpers and aides and thought hard (with self pity fast setting in) and then I look into my mug of Aik Chong teh tarik, yes, my mug is indeed half empty.

But as the teh tarik settled, and with its sweetness still lingering at the back of my throat, I thought – no, I DO have my fair share of life’s blessings.

I’ve read about celebrities and their personal trainers, those hunks with rippling muscles who make sure that the celebs are in good shape and I realise, hey, I too have a personal trainer.

“Mama, I’ve prepared the treadmill (read: cleared the coats and jackets hanging on it) and you should start at 3 and slowly move up to five for about half an hour. I have also downloaded some songs on the I-Pod (read: Alleycats with some of their fast numbers) so that you can enjoy while you are exercising.”

There you go – a personal trainer sans rippling muscles. The same one who makes sure that I don’t slide into a Cleopatra reclining position after a meal, especially dinner.

People have personal financial advisors. I have a few around me who have an interest in my financial affairs. They take a keen personal interest in the state of my bank account almost on a daily basis and especially so at the end of the month.

Mama, says one poking her head into the room, do you have any money?

Mama, says another looking deep into my bag, do you have any change?

And I shouldn’t really be complaining because I have always had a resident dietitian/nutritionist and a physician all rolled into one.

Eat the vegetables, he says. He’s the same one who reminds me ten times a day to take my vitamins and garlic pills for all kinds of ailments, and carefully wraps them in foils for me to take on long journeys away from home. No Maggie mee, nor tuna chunks or farmed salmon. And no anything with colourings and suspicious looking E numbers. He scrutinises all food labels at supermarkets before putting them in the trolley.

My in-house fashion gurus need only to raise one perfectly plucked eyebrow or a tsk-tsk and a click of the tongue to send me scurrying off to change from my usually drab black/brown attire to something less black/brown.

And that is not all – I have my very own GPS trackers: Mama, where are you? Where exactly are you? If you are anywhere near Boots, can I have shampoo, contact lens cleanser, etc, etc…

So, you see, I am truly blessed!

But what about you? Is your glass half full or half empty?

A time to be silly

****I am having so much fun reading all your contributions! Thank you! Still too busy to update but not too busy to read your comments and contributions to list of names parents give their children.*****

So, we now know why Nicole Kidman named her baby Sunday Rose - her father was inspired by artist Sidney Nolan's muse Sunday Reed. So, no more speculations or jokes about it, OK? Well, not until she goes to school and starts having to fill in forms and what nots. Can you imagine telling people, Hi, I am Sunday Rose.

Anyway, this name reminds me of a friend who is no longer with us. We were in the office one afternoon when I heard him arguing with someone on the phone.
He received a call from someone who said he was Rabu. I then heard him say "I am Khamis" as he was indeed Khamis Ahmad, a Berita Harian journalist based in Penang. Rabu apparently thought that Khamis was pulling his leg and was slighted. So, that is just one problem Sunday might encounter.

Do parents really think when they name their children? A neighbour decided to name her son Sirhan after the assasinator and a cousin named his child Hospi because that's his only child born in the hospital.

Well, another one before I go back to my work.

Was telling someone about how in Terengganuspeak, words ending with n, are always pronounced with ng - as in makang, ikang, etc. Apparently the sultans of both Terenggangu and Kedah (this is a long time ago) had a bet and the one who loses will lose the G. Kedah lost and thus we have kucin, anjin, kunin, etc.

But this friend narrated another hilarious story about how the Portuguese changed their mind about conquering Kedah. After they had taken over Malacca, they set their sights on Kedah and sent several spies to do some intelligence work. The report they received wasn't very good.

"It was easy to take over Malacca. They had only Hang Tuah, Hang Jebat, Hang Lekir Hang Lekiu and Hang Kasturi. In Kedah, they have thousands of Hangs!!
Hang Loklak, Hang Bodoh, Hang Samseng, Hang Tak Senonoh...etc!

OK, OK! I promise to come back with a more serious story soon!

A Tragic End...for DS

I give up. I was hoping that Dang Sarat and her dalliance with a leader of a state and her hocus pocus would lure more readers to my blog. But I was wrong – I simply can’t compete with other blogs with more explosive issues and more revealing ends (pun certainly intended).

So it is DS as I refer to Dang Sarat in my work versus SD. And I can’t win, Even as I am typing this, another sms came in about another explosive and damning revelation. DS, about more than a century old can’t afford to compete with real time stories.

But on reflection, and I am not saying that whatever is flying around in the blogs and media; accusations and counter accusations, are true, but there are certain things which I realise, never changed.

In most scandals, there’s always the femme fatale, the monstrous feminine lurking somewhere to make an appearance. And in the case of Syair DS it is the eponymous character herself.

DS was actually an ex-employee of a Singapore ruler. ( Am not drawing any parallels here!) She was in fact recommended to work for the Sultan because of her obvious skills and abilities in certain areas, but she took it upon herself to do more than that. She wanted to get closer to the Sultan. And this, as I had mentioned before, was through the use of hocus pocus.

The dalliance between employer and employee went on for quite sometime under the very eyes of the officials and of course the wife. Now, tell me, which wife could tahan the frolickings right under her nose? The wife here, who happened to be the Queen of Patani, had been so patient and even allowed the establishment of another residence for the other woman. While her own maids smirked and laughed openly at DS’s antics, the Queen, or sometimes known as the Peracau, merely turned away when she saw the other woman with the ugly oversized chastity belt, who at times, demanded her husband to piggyback her. What an ugly sight! But one day, she couldn’t stand it no more and gave these orders:

Menengar sembah segala menteri - wajah bertambah manis berseri
lalu bertitah raja pis[t]ari - ‘Memanda bendahara pergilah sendiri
Dengan segera suruh dikerjakan - Dang Sarat itu PACAK SULAKAN. (OUCH!!!!).

[When [she] heard what the ministers said, - her face became increasingly sweet and shining
then the illustrious Queen said: - 'Please Prime Minister go
and order that the following be done immediately: - Dang Sarat [must] be IMPALED.

And she said all these with a smile!
Many commenters wanted to know what happened to DS – and I can reveal now that her once pride and joy was cut, she was sula’ed – impaled with a rod pushed through her end – a tragic end one might say.
The Sultan then sailed back to his state, with the oversized chastity belt and DS’s hair hanging from the masthead of his boat.

There – I will put DS to rest – for now.

PS - femme fatales come in many different forms. And so do tragic ends.

The Debut of Dang Sarat in Liverpool

…on 21st June 2008, to be exact.

Some said she had a very good singing voice and that she was a fine perfomer. Some said she was just very good at what she was doing; delegating work, a mine of information and a shrewd leader of those under her wings. But most agree that she was not much to look at and in fact lived up to her name – the over laden maiden. And to make it worse, she suffered a kind of skin condition that made her look quite unsightly. Bidasari she certainly wasn’t.

However, the former employee of the Singapore ruler knew how to transform herself into a real beauty - if only in the eyes of those who mattered. And this she did by befriending those dark forces from the other world and summoning their help during the bleakest nights when she yearned for the warmth of his body next to hers. On nights like this the owlet would appear on his rooftop, as if calling out his name and to beckon him over and leave his unsuspecting wife in their comfortable boudoir.

Once the king fell victim to her black magic, he could see no wrong in anything she did. Not with her blotched skin, nor her demands for an oversized chastity belt.

That is Dang Sarat or Dayang Dang Sarat, although some had suggested she is Dang Sirat or Serat, depending on how you read the old Jawi text in the early 19th century manuscript. But it matters not as the lady in question, the femme fatale and monstrous feminine is the same one that not only destroyed the union of a loving couple but also that of two nations; Patani and Johor.

I was introduced to Dang Sarat, the eponymous character of this early 19th century syair in 2005. The manuscript, bought from John Crawfurd in 1824, has been in the safekeeping of the British Library and is still in pristine condition, in beautiful handwritten Jawi script by one or possibly more scribes from the days gone by. Trawling through the Syair was to say the least a most painstaking experience, especially for one who was not competent in the reading of Jawi scripts. But one had to learn the hard way, and throughout the journey on the number 7 to and from the uni, the character and the story of Dang Sarat unfolded before my eyes, but of course not without a lot of help from the likes of Wilkinson and Winstedt and my Sifu.

To say that I was consumed by Dang Sarat and the beauty that lies in between the finely composed verses, was an understatement. I ate, slept, talked and thought in syair . I was overwhelmed by what my professor described as Keindahan erti dan erti keindahan – the meaning of which came through vividly in many scenes; especially the one of the king wooing his new bride, the longing for the beauty he had never set his eyes on, the shy young princess battling with understandable insecurities and apprehension and more.

Last weekend, at a conference in Liverpool. I finally introduced Dang Sarat to my audience of mostly scholars from the world of Traditional Malay Literature who came from far and wide. The experience was not unlike delivering a baby long overdue and all this while had waited for this moment within the chapters of my dissertation. The post conference euphoria was akin to post natal bliss – what pain?

I leave you this little beauty:

“Setelah jauh malamlah hari - tirai pelaminan dilabuhkan beri
duduklah baginda raja pis[t]ari - teralu suka membujuk isteri
dipeluk dicium seraya berkata - ‘Tuanku nyawaku emas juwita
Tuanku jadi cahaya mahkota - sudah termeterai di dalam cita

Berbagailah bujuk raja bangsawan - dipeluk dicium di dalam pangkuan
Peracau pun tunduk malu-maluan - sedap manis barang kelakuan

ayam berkokok pungguk merindu - baginda kedua masuk beradu
di dalam tirai kelambu beledu - ditunggui kanda Dang Raya Dadu
Setelah selang sudahlah hari - bangunlah baginda dua laki isteri
keluar dari peraduan memimpin jari - keduanya manis tiada berperi.

Alas, it has a very ugly ending. More later.

Signs of Hard Times

I was on the 1518 from Liverpool to Euston when I got a call from my husband. He said he was walking back with 10kg of rice from our local grocer when he was stopped by the police. Oh no! I interjected. Then he proceeded to explain. Apparently there had been a fight down the road and police had sealed off the area. People were asked to turn back. A man was so angry with his girlfriend that he doused her with petrol and set her alight.

Thank God, I said, before I could bite my tongue. I thought the police had confiscated our rice!

I repeated the story to our son who met me at the station. He said: What a shame! What a waste of valuable petrol.

Yes, these are certainly signs that times are hard.

Will be back in a bit.....

Salam all,

I have not totally disappeared from blogosphere but suffice to say, there's not enough hours in a day. Will be back in a bit - am off to Geneva and hopefully will come back reenergised, refreshed and relaxed. Insyaallah. Meanwhile, take care.

Kak Teh

Don't be a mule or an ass

Some time ago, I received a phone call from a lady telling me about her predicament. She had been working in a comfortable job in Malaysia for some time but was lured by her boss’ client to come back and work for him here in the UK, with a more lucrative offer, a comfortable life and of course the constant company of the man who made the offer.

She packed her bags and left. She worked and worked but payment was nowhere to be seen. He took her around, of course but her passport was always with him. And, yes, he has a wife.

A few months after repeated albeit empty promises about her pay, she decided to call anyone who could help her out of her predicament.

I listened to her and was quite stunned that a well spoken, intelligent woman could fall for such a promise. She wasn’t young, not like most of the mules who were doped into carrying drugs across the world and are now languishing in prisons abroad. Nor was she like those 20 young and attractive girls who said they answered adverts luring them to good jobs in London but later found themselves to be part of the sex trade coming from our part of the world.

She had actually known the guy for some time. Someone she counted as a close friend.

But it is the same story, isn’t it? The promise of a good life in greener pastures, the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

Don’t these people have alarm bells ringing in their heads when approached with such too good to be true offers? And don’t they discuss with friends and relatives and ask for their opinions? I just wonder.

Recently I met up with our new Foreign Minister and I can see that he is clearly serious about having some kind of regulations for travelling – especially those young ones. But I can also see that getting letters of consent is a bit too much. But I can understand that at the end of the day, it is the officials of his ministry that will have to bear the burden of visiting prisons, answering questions and dealing with pleas from desperate parents at home. That is what they are doing now with those banged up in prisons in Malta, Peru, Spain and China.

I don’t know what happened to the lady I mentioned above, but I suspect she was given a temporary travel document by our embassy to go home. The same happened to the 20 gullible young ladies who were duly deported. They discovered that their life of comfort translated into living in crammed accommodation with 20 others and luxury and excitement meant servicing 50 clients a week.

If I were to receive any offer which I thought would change my life, I would certainly have discussed it with my family. I would have asked their opinion. I would ask the advise of my close friends. The fact that certain transactions were done in a hush, hush manner, means that there’s something not right.

While many are doped into working for a bigger syndicate, which is always looking out for gullible people, some actually knew what they are doing. They took their chances, forgetting that the authorities are always one step ahead. It is not worth it, sayang – no matter what the offer. Try watching Banged up Abroad – a programme about people in foreign prisons who were caught with drugs in their possession. In my younger days I have covered too many court cases similar to these and they sure come up with very lame excuses.

Anyway, one of the 20 girls who were rounded up in brothels in and around London two years ago actually escaped and ran to Malaysia Hall. That was where she got help and was sent back. It was her story that helped the arrest of the ringleaders. Apparently, she was told by her boyfriend to come and work in London to repay her debts to him. What kind of a boyfriend would send his girl to the devil?

These are only tip of the iceberg – we only get to know about them when they are reported. What about others?

So, don’t be a mule or an ass. Be wise.

Mother of an excuse

We are planning a sisters get together, just for a few days but a precious few days for us. Kak Cik has already made her way to Geneva and she has already listed the places that we should visit. Lilah is packing her bags to make her way to London before we all troop off to meet her there. The last time Lilah was in London was in 1981, the year it snowed so heavily that Kensington Garden was like a fairyland. I remember that so well because she ventured off to the park with Oli while I was still in bed and both of them were stuck in the lift and we had to call the firemen to the rescue.

We are all excited, of course and we have planned a thousand and one things. My Rehana will be joining us from Brussels where she will be attending a meeting and then when I leave them to come home because of some work commitments, Rehana will try to bring them to Paris for a whirlwind tour – a snapshot with Eiffel Tower in the background will do to show the folks back home.

It is a pity that Kak can’t make it and Nisa has to stay at home to look after Mak.

Yes, Mak. At the back of our minds, with all this planning, is Mak. We are all praying that she will continue to be in good health, no emergencies, no problems. All the while, although she is mostly with Nisa, my sister-in-law and Ajie, she spends the weekends and holidays with Lilah and also with Kak Cik. But everyone is nearby and would drop everything to be by her side, when necessary.

But how do you tell Mak where and when you are going? For the last few years, our conversations with Mak are well scripted. All our infos must tally. They are not lies but we have to be economical with the truth. Because if Mak knows the real truth, then she starts fretting and finds excuses to go back to the house that Pak built for her.

This reminds me of those days leaving the children behind for some non-work related sojourns. It was always with excuses of going to the hospital, the dentist, or work. The number of times I used the line going to the dentist, if they were true, would have left me toothless by now, but at that time it worked.

I bet Mak used to do that on us when she had to go out for a breather. I remember her saying, “Mak nak pi tengok orang sakit. Mak nak pi doctor,” and we’d all be gullible enough to believe even though Mak was dressed in her finest to go for a hospital visit. And now we are playing the same game with her.

Lilah is dreading that moment when she has to tell her why she would not be around for a few days, in fact for a few weeks. It will have to be a meeting, a course – Mak understands that a kursus would take a few days. And by now, she must be wondering why Kak Cik has not been making her morning appearances with her breakfast takeaways. Am sure Nisa and Ajie must have fobbed her off with some excuses, like ‘Kak Cik balik Pilah, ada kenduri,” repeated a number of times.

I imagine her taking it all in with all the innocence of a child, and then she’d repeat the same question again fifteen minutes later. For all her forgetfulness, she knows when her offsprings are not around.

When Mak was looking after arwah Tok, once in a while, she too needed a breather. Tok wasn’t an easy person to look after. But Mak endured her last few years patiently putting up with a Mother who used to be strong and independent and a perfectionist. So, when she needed a break, she’d make a visit to Pekan Rabu or Lorong Sempit to get some new materials for her baju kurung. That was her retail therapy. She needed this time away, even for a short while, to come back and be a better daughter to her mother. Sometimes, she needed a longer time away and would leave Tok in the care of Tok Som, but all the while in Kuala Lumpur where she visited her own children, she worried about Tok.

When the time comes and Lilah tearfully says goodbye to Mak, and we all meet up in Geneva, Insyaallah, we know that for all the beautiful places that we will be visiting, we will have Mak in mind. We will look at the beautiful flowers in early summer and think of her because she loves flowers and gardens. We will feast our eyes on the intricate and fine crockeries in the shop windows and remember how she lovingly kept her collection. We’d sit around eating and joking and all the while each of us will be missing her presence. Mak always sits quietly, watching us banter at the dinner table, and all the while happy that her children were around.

Mak may not know that there is a day dedicated to her and she doesn’t even care. But from thousands of miles away, as a daughter who has not done much to look after her Mak other than think of her in her daily prayers and write about her in her blog, I offer my undivided love and gratitude for making me what I am today, and for letting me be where I am today.....without any question, without any condition.

HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY TO ALL

More on Mak:

Mothering Mak

The lie must go on

The crying has stopped ...for now

Our Boys are in Town 2

For those interested, here are the dates and venue:

Buckingham Palace:

10th May
17th May
19th May
24th May
27th May
1st June
3rd june
5th June

Windsor Castle:
12th - 15th May
22nd May
28th May
30th May
6th - 12th June
All are morning events around 10'ish if you want a good view.


Being around our boys these last few days reminded me of Pak Tam. Pak Tam was the only one in our family who was in the Royal Malay Regiment. We used to look forward to his return, all dark and sunburnt and lots of stories to tell. One day, he came back with a photograph of a sweet young lady in kebaya and kain ketat who was later to become our Mak Tam.

Pak Tam was always in the jungles. He wore those green army uniforms that never failed to impress us. Having been to the jungles was enough to impress us little ones. Can you imagine if he had been to Buckingham Palace to guard the Queen’s palace?

But Pak Tam, needless to say never made it to Buckingham Palace - not even London. The last time I saw him, he was injured. He broke his leg climbing a rambutan tree. Never been injured in service, yet a climb up the rambutan tree saw to it that he'd never march the same again.

Anyway, last Friday, we were at Buckingham Palace. The sun was out and so was the crowd – mostly tourists and some Malaysians shouting Malaysia Boleh as our soldiers, resplendent in the beige baju Melayu, songkok and sampin marched the short distance through the gates of Buckingham palace.

We were privileged to stand at a vantage point in the grounds of Buckingham Palace, much to the envy of the crowd at the railings, to see them marching in, led by the brass band. But even, before we could see them, we could hear the unmistakeable tune that never failed to tug at my heartstrings.

Inilah Barisan Kita…yang ikhlas berjuang…. And, yes, you guessed it. Right there under the shadows of the majestic Buckingham Palace, I cried.

It was on the bus to Windsor Castle a few days earlier that I had requested that they sang the song in the bus. And bless them, they obliged.

At Buckingham Palace, during the Change of Guards, our soldiers relieved the duties of the Welsh Guards, standing by their posts like tin soldiers. They looked tall in their full-dress uniform of red tunics and bearskins.

Our soldiers marched them out of the palace in what must seemed like countless number of marching across the parade grounds, all the while the RMR band playing songs such as Dikir Puteri, Getaran Jiwa, Puteri Remaja and many more that reminds me so much of home. I was told later that a Malay lady stood at the railings and bawled her eyes out when she saw our boys in the baju Melayu and heard the songs that reminded her of home she had not seen in 25 years.

Well, it wasn’t a day for us to be sad, but to be proud and happy and join in the fun.

It seemed only like yesterday when I saw them arriving in such typical and terrible British weather. I dread to think how they would cope in the rain and the cold harsh wind. But believe me, our boys are made of sterner stuff.

During these last few days I have learnt so much, the stories behind the ceremonies, behind each gesture and items carried or used by them.

Anyway, when the Welsh Guards made their exit in a slow march, out of the palace gates, that marked the historic moment which meant that the soldiers of the first battalion of the Royal Malay Regiment were then in charge of guarding the palace.

During the ceremony, there was an added attraction, a bonus. Two horse drawn carriages carrying diplomats arrived to have an audience with the queen.

The rain stayed away for as long as it could, as a mark of respect. But when we left and boarded the coach, leaving the four young soldiers in their posts, it began to pour!

When I see Pak Tam I will show him these photographs, and I know he will flash his cheeky smile and feel so happy that our boys have made us proud.

By the way, Her Majesty's flag was flying high on top of the palace and I felt sure that she was having fun too watching the ceremony.

You can read the write up in the nst here. Not sure I like the headline though!

For you rinformation, there have been write ups and caption stories in NST . BH and The Star. Also in RTM and TV3. At the end of their 2 months here - there will be 6 ten minute features on RTM 1 Galeri Perdana and a one hr docu on TV3's Majalah 3. Insyaallah.

Our Boys are in Town....

Yes, the members of the 1st Battalion of the Royal Malay Regiment are here - 130 of them. And on 29th April 2008, they started their ceremonial duties at Windsor Castle, in the ceremony of the Changing of the Guards. It was so very grand. And it really warmed my heart on that cold spring morning to see our boys in their Baju Kebangsaan, sampin songket and songkok, marching through the streets of Windsor. The quiet royal town echoed with traditional Malay songs played by the Brass Band. During the ceremony, as our boys led out the members of the British Regiment, the band played Bahtera Merdeka....Bonda senyum riang, menerima bahtera merdeka....
And right there in the parade grounds of Windsor Castle, I cried.







Major Qadri became the first Malay officer in the ceremony of the changing of the guards at Windsor Castle. In this picture, he takes over the duties from Capt.Stuart Vernon of the British Regiment.



What a beautiful sight!


Pvt. Suhaimi Yahya takes over the post from the British soldier.

Tomorrow - 2nd May - anyone in London, do go to Buckingham Palace for the ceremony of the Changing of the Guards. It starts around 10.30 am, but you want to be there early to get close to the gates. They start marching from Wellington Barracks nearby.

Pictures courtesy of the RMR as my camera failed me.




This is my poor attempt to capture the story from RTM1 online.