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.

From Malaysia Hall to Albert Hall?

When I read that Adik, Mak Andeh’s youngest wanted a piano, I immediately thought of my youngest. My Taufiq must have been about Adik’s age when he was introduced to the keyboard. He never showed any interest in music, only books, books and books. But at that time, we were always at Malaysia Hall – his siblings were either clearing tables or serving at the counter while he joined some students in the room at the back of the canteen of the old Malaysia Hall where they had an old keyboard.

I didn’t know that he had it in him – this interest in music. But Reza certainly knew how to teach him and within a few months, my little boy could produce this piece of beautiful music.

He made his debut in the hall when we had a jumble sale. In those days, there were a lot of activities going on. We persuaded Taufiq to play. He was quite nervous but as I watched his chubby little fingers dancing effortlessly across the keyboard, producing those lovely sounds, I must admit I cried a bit.

So, I got him a second hand keyboard. He never played it again seriously. And the keyboard is now somewhere behind the bed. But if I never get to see him play again, I am very thankful for this beautiful piece of music. Even if it is not perfect it is beautiful to the ears of his mama. Even if he didn’t make it to Albert Hall, he did it beautifully in Malaysia Hall.

So, MA, think about it.

Manchester Musings

For once, I was half an hour early and that afforded me some time to buy not one but two mushroom croissants and hot steaming tea for the more than 3-hr journey to Manchester Piccadilly. The 0731 was still not ready for boarding and the early morning passengers all stood around, craning their necks looking at the departure board, waiting for the platform number.

The fare to Manchester Piccadilly was £62.00 a hefty sum that burnt a hole in my pocket. Even while most of London was still stirring in their sleep, I had already parted company with £16 for a minicab ride to the station. London is expensive, I kept telling myself.

I found a comfortable seat with only a Nigerian woman and her newborn in her sling sitting at the next table. Hubby had suggested I brought along my new laptop anyway in case I needed to finish some work and I readily agreed. By the end of the journey, I had finished about 10 games of Spider Solitaire – won four and lost six! Damn!

It seems a little strange that I had been in UK all these years and yet my journeys to Manchester only started about last year.

After the loss of the first game, I remembered the first was a visit to a friend’s house. Her mother-in-law had passed away after just a few days’ visit. Then there was the trip with my sayang mama. We stayed at a posh hotel and we were treated to Manchester Utd Vs Inter Milan. It was a very educational trip, football-wise, making my third trip, a lot easier when I watched Manchester United vs Blackburn Rovers.

But most of the time, as the train snaked its way through the British Midlands, I found my mind meandering back to the late eighties, for that was the first time that I had actually come face to face with him. It was the summer of 87, but summer in Vienna was like spring in London. And my heart was racing at the thought of meeting him in the city that inspired The Third Man, the city which evokes thoughts of the Vienna Boys Choir, grand museums, concerts and long street names such as Mariahilferstrasse.

I remember the hurried walk with one child in a pushchair and the other walking two steps at a time trying to catch up with mama who wanted to work and be a mama at the same time. My husband had called to say the man was ready to meet me and hubby would take over the children while I went to the conference room to do the interview. It wasn’t a good first meeting. He was not well and his answers were monosyllables. Rumours had it that he was nursing a flu and the good doctor was prescribed roti canai.

I was so nervous that I forgot to check the level on my tape recorder and my fumbling with the machine that the BBC provided me for the assignment left him quite unimpressed. You usually know from his facial expressions that he wasn’t impressed and after years of following him around, I can safely say, that was one unimpressed look.

One week in Vienna and the Malaysian contingent were already wilting from missing rice. And Pak Non found a restaurant – Rasa Sayang that not only served rice but also sambal tumis and kicap. He very kindly made reservations for all of us on the last day of the two-week conference so that we could all eat to our hearts’ desire. For that we were grateful.

One winter, it was in Paris. According to schedule he was to have only a 20- minute meeting with Jacque Chiraq at Élysée Palace. While he was having a tet-e-tet with the president, the temperature outside had plummeted and we stood in sub zero temperatures, our legs frozen to the ground. He emerged 40 minutes later and was driven to his hotel room where he was to brief us about his meeting. But true to form, when we finally defrosted our tongue and asked him questions, he said: Why can’t you all wait for me in Norwich tomorrow? (for that was where we were to meet him the next day). And how do you answer that?

One warm summer it was Budapest. And Budapest in summer is beautiful, with its enchanting architecture that tells stories of its rich culture and its embittered history, and gypsies playing their violins as you walk along the riverbanks running parallel to the Danube. It would have been more beautiful had it not been for work, at the end of which, he looked at the troop of hacks, looking more like fallen soldiers and asked the obvious: Aren’t you all tired of following the PM around?

Only one of us dared answer. Someone from the back of the room said: Kalau PM tak penat kami tak boleh penat, he lied.

But most of the time it would be London and once or twice in Cambridge or Oxford. Once it was during the rumoured fatal fall from riding in Argentina, and then when he was interviewed by Al-Jazeera in London, which was quite funny, actually, watching him being made up and powdered.

But yesterday, we met up again in Manchester; clued up as ever, very much focussed and very much missed. And very much Tun M.

The Somali minicab driver who had taken me to the station earlier, took me home and was very impressed that I met the man. “Ooh, you are very lucky. Everyone in my country knows him and would love to meet him”

Tales from the tracks

The 1510 from Euston to Coventry was already packed by the time I heaved myself up the coach next to the buffet bar. As the Virgin train eased out of the station, I found a seat with a table to continue work which was interrupted when I got the news. It was not by the window. But it didn’t matter as my mind was too preoccupied with a thousand and one things for me to enjoy the English countryside zooming past. Cluttered in my mind were looming deadlines, piling up laundry, hungry cats, interviews to be transcribed which alternated with splashes of green fields, quaint English villages and landscapes still undecided whether it was winter or spring.

But even as we were passing through the backyards of Milton Keynes, I still couldn’t concentrate on the work staring back at me from the screen. My mind strayed to what awaited me at the end of the journey. I’ve made many a train journey through the lengths and breadths of Britain and beyond, not knowing what was in store at the end of the line. Sometimes what would start off as exciting and promising would fall flat, with nothing to show for at the end of the day.

Take the trip to Dover for example; Dover with its promise of fresh sea air and the imposing White Cliffs, the friendly greetings from the doves circling above hooting ships. And most of all the promise of that swim, the marathon swim that was supposed to put Malaysia on the map of channel swimmers and prove to the world that Malaysia certainly Boleh. It wasn’t one or two trips but several thanks to choppy sea, bad weather and no ‘window’ for our channel swimmer Malik Mydin, now a Datuk, of course. Suffice to say, by the time he finally and literally took the plunge, I was very familiar with the route from Charing Cross to Dover Priory.

Sometimes we’d get an sms saying , yes the swim was definitely on and that got our adrinalin pumping and we’d jump on the train only to be told halfway there that the swim was aborted as the wind was too strong, the waves too high etcetera, etcetera.

So, we’d roam the small seaside town of Dover. The residents had never seen so many flag waving Malaysians. Shouts of Malaysia Boleh echoed across the channel.

When it did happen, it was at about 2am on the 2nd of August I think and I remember the walk at about 1 am from the hotel to the beach. What a sight! It was like Pied Piper leading the trail to a waiting boat, which then took him to a certain point where he was to do his swim. We had to take another route by car and walked down a very steep slope to the beach to await Malik’s boat. We were greeted by millions of sandflies everytime we lit up the camera. It was dark and eerie and the group of perhaps 10 of us stood shivering trying to fend off the sandflies. Suddenly from afar we saw lights appearing in the darkness that was the English Channel. Three boats appeared, one of them carrying our swimmer. We or I certainly, shivered again, this time not so much because of the cold but because of the excitement. Malik climbed down into the water and with a hoot, hoot, hoot, he was off, the cheer of Malaysia Boleh ringing in his ears. We stood there watching his head bobbing in and out of the water until we could see no more. What a moment.

And yes, the next day I was back again, waiting by the beach to await his return. He did it in 17 hours something. I was supposed to be in the boat accompanying him and I even had my sea sickness pills, but somehow I was needed on land rather than being sick all over in the boat.
I can still picture Malik as he appeared from the boat that took him back to Dover. He looked like a battered boxer, but a champion nevertheless.

Now how did I get this far when I wanted to talk about my train rides?

On another train that took me to Southend on Sea, I felt the knots in my tummy that wouldn’t go away. It was an anxiety that started a day before when I met and instantly took into my heart two lovely boys – Muhammad and Ahmad. I had never seen conjoined twins before, never mind played toy cars with them . But that was what we did during our first meeting. They were adorable, so together yet so different in personalities.

It must have been from Liverpool street that we took the train to Southend-on-sea, the town that boasts the longest pleasure pier in the world. But pleasure was the last thing that we had in mind.

Muhammad and Ahmad who came to London for the operation were being taken to Riyadh after receiving a generous offer for an operation to separate them free of charge. The brothers had greeted us with their mischievous grin, racing up and down the lawn in a sort of wheeled walker. They were full of life, whizzing about, enjoying each other’s company, not realising that within a few days they were going to be separated. They had to learn to live apart as individuals. And I worried for them for it was no small task.

Well, from what I hear, they have done well. And I am happy for them and their parents.

I have written about one happy train journey here and many more. I’d love to write about the train ride from London to Budapest and the ones in Germany that took us along the beautiful and quaint villages along the River Rhine

But for now, suffice to say, the trip to Coventry came and went, leaving me with a certain feeling of restlessness.

Tempe tantrums

The birth of this new blog brought to mind something that has been fermenting in my archives for some time now. Tempe. I am not a big fan of tempe, which to some extent goes to explain the sad state of my complexion. In fact the first time I found some mouldy pieces in the fridge, I threw them away thinking that they had gone bad. But being newly-wed and all that I was forgiven by my husband who is really fanatical, if there is ever a word, about tempe. He loves them so much that he made it into a business!

Like everything else that he did, for example bread, croissant and chicken kiev, a lot of research went into it. Once when I was craving for keropok, he rolled up his sleeves and attacked the mackerels and other ingredients to make the keropok, only for it to turn out as keropok lekor. He had better success with tempe.

He got himself a how to do tempe book and ordered the yeast from somewhere. From then on, we invested in stainless steel pots and ladels, plastic bags and of course bags and bags of soya bean. The recipe in one hand, he stayed up all night to boil the soya beans and dry them the next morning. This is certainly a summer time job. Without the sun, it’d be impossible. He even used the hair dryer.

I didn’t have a hand in the tempe making at all as he was quite meticulous and strict about all sorts of things.

Anyway, once the yeast was mixed with the beans, he’d fill them up in small plastic bags and I was assigned the role of making small holes in the plastic bags.

Then, we’d leave them overnight in the boiler room. It was quite fascinating watching them turn into tempe. We’d check the soya bean in the plastic bags at intervals . White cotton like thingy would appear covering the beans and later when fully ripe, they would have some black patches around it. And they’d feel quite warm to the touch.

I never knew what to do with it. My husband would just cut them in small pieces, marinade them with salt and tumeric and then fry them and had them as snacks, munching in front of the tv. Later, I learnt that fried tempe tastes quite good in sambal tumis.

We then had the problem of having too much tempe in a household of only
one tempe lover. So we gave them to friends. The word spread around that there’s an awang from Terengganu making tempe in a corner of London. So we began receiving orders from the Malay and Indonesian community. Some orders came from the embassies! It was growing into quite a roaring business with the tempe fermenting quietly in our small boiler room until I had to go into hospital to deliver my second child.

Orders were coming in faster then he could deliver so, I had to cut short my hospital stay and help with HIS delivery. We had friends delivering the orders to houses and offices. We had BMW’s parked way down the street as people came to take the orders, and one quietly whispered in my ears, “ Please don’t write in the newspaper that a diplomat’s wife is distributing tempe!” Er, whaaaaat?????

“Shock, horror, drama!! Diplomats wife in sleazy tempe trade!!! “ Screamed the headlines that came to mind.

Anyway, the so called diplomat’s wife need not worry, our success also spelt our downfall. We couldn’t cope and we closed shop! But I’ll never forget those tempe making days in our small living room in a corner of London!

Let us pray for her

If the story here is true then let us pray that she is guided back to the right path. I have written about her before here. This appeared today.

A celebration of sorts

Birthdays tend not to become too important an event especially when the figures get too big and the candles too many on the cake, posing a fire hazard. I remember my first few birthday celebrations, and oh that was so long ago. I remember Mak and her agar-agar bunga batu which was always a hit with my friends. Then there’s the kek kukus and noodles galore. All these served in her latest collection of Pyrex and syrup in those Tupperware tumblers in various shapes and colours. My school friends would turn up in their best frocks, their mode of transport being mini bikes neatly parked outside our gates.

And how we enjoyed the games of musical chairs and passing the parcel. Such simple pleasures.

I remember too some birthday surprises, one in particular that nearly gave my husband a heart attack. It was the day we were supposed to go for an important parent teachers’ meeting and he suddenly refused to go. Clearly upset, I made a unilateral decision to go by myself when a close friend called me up for tea at Whiteleys. We had tea and a bit of a rant about the strange behaviour of my other half. My daughter then phoned to say that the meeting was cancelled. So we decided to go to this friend’s place instead and drown my sorrows in a game of scrabble. I was certainly in no mood to go home.

When the door to her apartment opened, there stood my husband slaving over several legs of lamb roasting in the oven. The children and some friends were also there for the birthday surprise which nearly turned into a disaster, and one friend even came with a birthday cake the shape of a pair of voluptuous boobs that still gives me nightmares and an inferiority complex.

One year it was a drive to the countryside for lunch at a friend’s country house hotel by the Thames. It was lunch in style with some close friends and after the afternoon walk in the vast 100 year old listed garden, we settled down for tea before the long drive back into London. It was then that the French Chef walked in with a birthday cake, my name correctly spelt on the icing. What a day it was.

Anyway, this year’s quiet celebration wasn’t too bad at all. The children decided that a tomyam steamboat at Holiday Villa would be a good idea as the day was cold and there were snow flurries too. They invited some friends and Hafiz called up Uncle Jimmy and family.

It was the night after Raihan performed at the Royal Albert Hall. I was there to see their performance for Islamic Relief and what a performance they gave. And because I couldn’t have enough of their acapella, I invited them over for a bit of Tom Yam too.

Dato J was in charge of the steamboat and that was only the starters. Then we had nasi goreng kampong and mee goreng mamak. You wouldn’t believe what was served for dessert! Raihan kindly performed Assolatuwassalam - a favourite of mine!
And the family presented me with this new laptop that I am typing on.

Thank you Raihan! And thank you my sayang mamas!

Snowflakes and P. Ramlee on Easter

It was snowing ever so slightly outside. The snowflakes drifted down gently and melted before touching the ground. Snowbell made a dash through the cat flap bringing in a gush of cold wind into the sitting room, momentarily taking our attention away from the idiot box.

This time it wasn’t American Idol or Master Chef that demanded our attention. It was just after dinner of chicken and cashew nut plus sambal tumis sea-bass and sayur su’un, that the children wanted to have dessert served by P. Ramlee.

They grew up over dosed with P Ramlee slapsticks in Aunty Samina’s front room, watching Pendekar Bujang Lapok, Doh-Ray-Me in between Sangam and Kabhi-Kabhi with Uncle. And lately, thanks to You Tube, they’ve been enjoying snippets from old P Ramlee movies and one that got them in stitches was Pendekar Bujang Lapok, the one where Aziz or was it Ajis corrected the Pak cik on his pronunciation of Bongo, “Bukan Bangau Pak Cik, Bonggo!!!” Taufiq has a knack of imitating that, sending Nona and Rehana (making the cashew nut chicken), in stitches. “Bongggo” he said drawing out the “ggo” deep from the throat and the kitchen was filled with laughter again. It had just started snowing outside.

After dinner, I found several P Ramlee classics but none with subtitles, but sharing a duvet, four of us huddled in front of the TV and watched Madu Tiga.

It has been a while since we last did this. When they were small, the king size duvet would swallow all of us, and there would be enough for everyone. There was a time when all of us were watching a film and at that time a triangle would appear warning us of an imminent ‘rude scene’ at which point my husband would say, “everyone under the duvet!!!” and we’d dive under the duvet giggling, and waited for the scene to be over. But once when all of us waited patiently under the duvet, we heard a voice saying “It’s over now!” Oh dear!

It was Hafiz. And how we miss him. He’d do a good imitation of Ajis and never failed to have us rolling on the floor with his jokes. But now he has his own pad, the other side of London. And even if he was around, there’d be no room anymore under the king size duvet. Still, I miss him. On a cold night like this, with the snow falling on the ground and the cats comfortably on the sofa, I want all my children around.

“What’s ‘Apa daaaa?’, why does he keep saying that?” would be the occasional interruption. “What’s ‘Tak sangka?’ In general they understood the language, except for the occasional P Ramlee lingo.

It is a long Easter weekend and we had spent the afternoon sorting out 20 years of old clothes to take to the recycling bin. There were many old kebayas, the ones that reminded me that I once had a waist, children’s clothes that they now cringe with realisation that they once wore those, sometimes under duress and one or two old jumpers and jeans that brought back memories of the Wan family, trooping up and down the streets of London, in what was then a big Renault estate meant for six. But they had to grow up and the MPV that we bought for seven eventually became too big and too lonely for just the two of us.

I felt quite sad leaving several big black plastic bags containing lots of memories by the bin outside Sainsbury. We have to move on. Children grew out of their clothes and inevitably grow out of the room they share with My Little Pony or Thomas the Tank Engine. They would want to move out. They want their own car and even the king size duvet is no longer big enough for all six of us.

Snowflakes and P Ramlee movies tend to make me feel like this.

Goodbye my dear Peggy

I have lost a very dear friend, Datin Peggy Taylor. During the precious few months of our friendship, she had taught me a lot. She was 83. Like a history teacher, she narrated events leading up to Merdeka and beyond; the chitchats with the late Tunku, the contents of letters and communications with prominent politicians from both sides of the political arena, the social scene of the sixties and the seventies and many, many more that are now safely recorded in my tapes and notebooks.

And as I sat there by her feet, with the fire crackling in the background, I couldn't help but felt a sense of awe and admiration for this feisty lady who had witnessed the independence of three countries, hobnobbed with prominent leaders and celebrities and even made a mark in our country's political scene. Peggy, who was at the Padang to witness the raising of the Malayan flag on Independence Day fifty years ago and who later became a member of ADMO (Alliance Direct membership Organisation) for citizens who were not from the Malay, Indian or Chinese community, would be most amused by what is happening in post election Malaysia today. I can almost here her say her famous phrase: It is so kelam kabut! Like bangsawan!!

I remember the days spent with her, typing away as she dictated her memoir on her life in Malaysia. I remember her suitcase full of letters, pictures, documents: That's my history. That's my book, she had said to me.

Peggy left for South Africa last month to concentrate on writing this memoir. She phoned to say goodbye before leaving for the airport. But on 12th March, I received the sad news of her death.

And now I remember Morrie's beautiful quote from Tuesdays with Morrie: Death ends a life, not a relationship.

Rest in peace, my dearest Peggy. Your words, your laughter will live on with me forever.

Datin Peggy Taylor
1924 - 2008

An article in the NST about Peggy.
Over the past few months, I have written a lot about Peggy and how she had touched my life:

Shamelessly Plugging Peggy
History in a suitcase
Weekend of sorts
A Painting incomplete
Magical Merdeka Moments


An Update and Message from David Kirkness in Johannesburg

Dearest Kak Teh, and to all of Peggy's many friends, I've just returned home from her funeral service, St Charles' Church, Victory Park, Johannesburg, at which I was privileged to speak in her honour. Marilyn had some beautiful words to say, and sung one of her own compositions "We Never Say Goodbye". What a true Taylor she is. A moving moment in time for me. On her behalf, thanks to all for so many wonderful wishes in this past week.

Syaer Pilihanraya

Assalamualaikum Kak Teh ucapkan,

kepada semua kawan dan rakan,

di kampong, bandar dan juga pekan,

esok undi mu penting jangan lupakan.

Mari seketika kita berseloka,

hilangkan penat, letih dan duka,

imbas kembali janji manis bercuka,

para pemimpin kita sejak merdeka.

Demam pilihanraya semakin rancak,

panas habanya semakin memuncak,

kami yang jauh pun rasanya jugak,

dari seberang laut pun kami berhak.

Esok harinya yang menentukan,

kalah dan menang akan diumumkan,

segala janji mesti ditunaikan,

bukan sekadar nak dijadikan umpan.

Seronok dengar cerita berkempen,

bertikam lidah semua pemimpin,

menunjukkan hebat zahir dan batin,

memancing undi semasa bertanding.

Kisah dakwat menjadi berita,

mahalnya harga tidak terkata,

sudah dibeli dari India sana,

sekarang katanya tak boleh diguna.

Kak Teh terfikir seorang diri,

termenung sejenak menggigit jari,

berjuta habis dalam beberapa hari,

duit yang hilang macam mana nak ganti?

Terbaca pula kisah Pn Maimun,

usianya lanjut semangatnya bertimbun,

dah masuk Facebook peminatnya berkerumun,

berbasikal berkempen serata kampung.

Pilihlah pemimpin yang dianggap wajar,

yang tidak sombong yang masih boleh diajar,

yang berpengalaman, berjwa rakyat dan sedar

tidak lupa janji kerana kemewahan dikejar.

Sekian dulu Kak Teh bermadah,

berpantun berseloka bukannya mudah,

ingat, pangkah yang salah membawa padah,

nanti bertahun menyesal tak sudah..

Kepada bakal pemimpin Kak Teh ingatkan,

negara kita yang kita sayangkan,

berbaktilah kepada negara dengan keikhlasan.

amanat rakyat jangan dialpakan.

Some change , please.

So change is not a buzzword in Alor Setar. That’s what I read in the papers today. And sitting here 8,000 miles away, I am a tad worried. And we are just five days before the big day.

In the next few days, Mak is flying back to her beloved Alor Setar, the name forever on her lips during her waking hours and in her dreams during her restless nights. I can imagine her excitement as she boards the plane in her wheelchair, pushed by the ever so friendly MAS stewards. She is going home to the house that Pak built for her.

Yes, she is not likely to see much change around the area where Pak built the house for her. May be the traffic from Kepala Batas will get a bit busy by the time the car gets to Pekan Cina. She’d cast a glance over the bridge of Seberang Perak and scan for MAHA clinic, the clinic she used to frequent where a young doctor once held court before becoming the Prime Minister.

She’d smile at the sight of Ali nasi lemak for that is where her offsprings would rush to as soon as they drop off their luggage in the front room of the house that Pak built.

As the car swings into the small lane past the kilang ais, her tired eyes would take in the clogged drains, a sight that repeats itself right up to the front gate of our house and beyond. For as far as I can remember, as a child I used to squat by the side of the drain, usually swollen after a heavy rain, to try and catch those little catfish just for fun. The water, all muddy and filthy had no where to go with over grown grass and lalang from the neighbour’s neglected piece of land spilling into the already clogged up drain upstream. Just the right breeding place for mosquitos.

The house that Pak built would be just as she had left it. Nothing would have changed except there’s no more laughter and screams of children running up and down the house. It has been left empty for so long. The old iron swing would be just where it has been left some forty years ago.

The wooden stairs leading up to the upper front door, has been the setting for so many family photographs and as I looked at it again, I notice d that so many uncles and aunts have left us.

As Mak steps into the house, she’d be reminded of the newly raised floor that she had done from the monthly pension that she receives. Once the floor was raised and leveled, she could sleep soundly at night. Before that, she’d be woken up in the middle of the night by the heavy rain and with Tok and Tok Som and with some energy left in them, they would roll up the carpets and beddings before the front room got flooded with water from the clogged up drains seeping in through the door.

Mak never slept soundly during the rainy season. She wanted to display her beautiful carpet that she bought with her kutu money, yet, she knew that if she and Tok Som couldn't move fast enough the carpet would be ruined.

With the rapid housing developments in the surrounding area, where we are became like a valley with rainwater rushing in and no where to go. Every time we went back, we see new housing developments but we don't see any improvements to the drainage system. Mak can’t afford to keep raising her floor anymore.

And I do hope that the stench coming from the fish factory is no longer there. Mak used to remind us to open the doors and windows early in the morning for rezki to come in. But of late, it was the stench that kept our windows firmly shut. And another reason why those windows and doors remained shut, with grills firmly locked is the rise of crime rate in the area. Young thugs roam the place during the nights and once during our return we saw evidence that our backyard where abang used to grill ikan kembong and cut the ulams, had become a meeting place for drug addicts.

I have read several atrocious crime committed in that area but I was quite unprepared when I read about the Indian Muslim shopkeeper who was slashed to death in his little shop up the road – the shop where we as children used to go and play tikam, buy kacang tumbuk and gula-gula Hacks, the little shop that our children started going whenever we went back on holiday. Mamak Zakaria, fell victim to the increasing criminal activities in the area. Most probably he fell victim to the very customers who frequented his shop and befriended him.

No, I do want to see some change, please Datuk Chor.