Kak Teh at the Old Trafford - Bewitched by Beckham

Am still at the Old Trafford.
Will be back with more.

BEBERAPA JAM KEMUDIAN..masih di Old Trafford (media centre)

Ish , tie dengan tudung sama pulak colour!

Stories from the surau

Of late, I have been regularly absent from the weekly tazkirah at the Malaysia Hall surau.  I have been missing a lot of events organised by Ustaz Erfino, mainly because I had taken on work commitments that require me to work those evenings.  But from friends who attended, I hear news from the surau.

Recently, while preparing a much delayed lunch, my BB signalled that there was a message.  The number was not a familiar one; a number from Malaysia.  The message was simple, asking for someone's name he said he had forgotten.  The name of the sender was printed below.  It was Haji Zainal, our bilal.  My heart leapt with joy upon receiving his message.  He had left for Malaysia to look after his ailing mother.  Being an only child, the task falls on him; and what a noble task. 

We had not said a proper goodbye before he left and so, replying his sms, I said a simple "I missed your takbir".

Haji Zainal's was the takbir that still rings in my ear; the takbir and call to prayers everytime we congregate at the Malaysia Hall surau for the weekly tazkirah, the nightly terawikhs and Hari Raya's and other religious occassions.  His was the melodious and soulful call to prayers that accompanied Ustaz Anwar, Ustaz Abdul Rahim and now Ustaz Erfino. It was his call to prayer that I listened to when I started finding my way to the Malaysia Hall surau in old Bryanston Square and later in Queensborough Terrace. Haji Zainal was every Ustaz's right hand man. The one to witness the solemnisation of a marriage, to witness the conversion of a new brother or sister in Islam, or to replace Ustaz when he wasn't around.  He was always around whenever we had a death in the community.  A familiar figure, offering comfort and the hand of friendship.

He was also the one to come with extra food and drinks to the lady's room at the end of the tazkirah or moreh, to see if we needed anything more.  But he is there no more.

I told him so and I think we both shed a tear or two from both sides of the ocean.

Our families had known each other for as long as we have been here in London.  His wife Nariman, is a dear old friend I had befriended on a ship anchored on the Thames.  We were invited for dinner on the ship one evening and there we were: two young lasses still with no children to call our own. 

Later as fate would have it, we were booked at the same hospital, the same maternity ward for the delivery of our second child.  But again as fate would have it, she had to return to Johore but we both gave birth on the same date.  Our children remain very close friends. 

After the meals following the tazkirah, we'd find Hj Zainal, usually in his faded batik shirt and Javanese cap, outside enjoying his cigarette.  He'd say: where's my menantu? referring to my daughters.  It has always been a standing joke. And then he and Nariman would drive off in their van bearing the words JOWO TURUNAN and proudly flying the Malaysian flag.

Nariman told me recently, that without fail, Hj Zainal would sms Ustaz during every tazkirah.  He too misses the congregation, and by sms'ing Ustaz, it was as if he was there too.

Recently, I missed the Maulud Nabi which I heard went very well, with Ustaz Erfino reciting the Quran and the younger members of he surau reading a text about our beloved Prophet.

To make up for the missing Thursdays, I attend a weekly tazkirah on Saturdays at Tuk Din's, which is just as well as I gather the congregation at the Malaysia Hall is growing larger, Alhamdulillah, with the student community joining the congregation there. 

But there are other familiar faces missing too.  Haji Amin, my husband's close surau mate has been away and in hospital recovering from an operation.  Last Sunday, I busied myself in the kitchen, making sardine rolls when I heard that he could start eating normal food now.  Usually after every tazkirah, he'd sit talking to my husband and sensing my presence, he would jokingly say: Bila nak dapat makan sardine rolls pulak?

And so, with sardine rolls straight from the oven, I made my way to St Mary's hospital with Tuk Din and Midah last Sunday.  Haji Amin, Alhamdulillah was in good spirit, especially when he heard that we brought chicken soup and sardine rolls.

I heard that also missing is Kak Puteri - an old member of the Malay community in London, whose banter

with Ustaz Erfino, will be much missed.  She has gone back for a very long holiday. Still etched quite vivid in my mind is Kak Puteri taking Chef Mail to task over the issue of bolied eggs!

Pak Mat Abu and Kak Siah are also missing.  Pak Mat, once popularly known as the only Malay tube driver in London ( for he drove the tube on the Jubilee Line), had phoned me to say he and Kak Siah were going back to Malaysia as he needed treatment after his stroke.  Sadly, I couldnt make it to see him before he left and I hope he will be back shortly fully recovered.                                                       

Just writing about the congregation and the activities at the surau, makes me realise how fortunate we are to have such regular meetings.  Our ustaz for the Saturday tazkirah is a young but wise one; imparting his knowledge to us much older members of the congregation.  Alhamdulillah, we have not been short of learned ones willing to share their knowledge with us.

Kak Teh's other tale from the surau:

Tales from the Surau

Calling all children and Parents of children - a chance to be on TV!

Here's your chance for your 15 sec fame on TV. Children between the age of 6 and 12 are invited to take part in a series of idents by KidsCo, the international children's channel, that brings you Boo and Me.

So, ibu-ibu dan bapa-bapa, if you think your children can look into the camera and talk about what they are passionate about (may be about family, friends, music and hobbies, environment), send an email to KidsCo-Idents@championcomms.com with their pictures and details about why they want to be in the KidsCo ident as well as a brief description of what they are most passionate about.

The idents are being produced in conjunction with Astro Productions and filming will take place in Kuala Lumpur at popular local attractions including Bukit Bintang Street and the Batu Caves between 13 and 16 March.

So, just get cracking, parents!

Potty about Pie Tee (and of course Amy!)

One lazy aternoon, I was watching Australian MasterChef on TV, when from the corner of my eyes I saw the lights on the router stop blinking. That was about a month ago and that spelt a month's absence from blogosphere. I had withdrawal symptoms; cold sweat, palpitation and all but after some time I got used to it. The BB is great because I could check my emails, and with a top up mobile internet, we survived. The only snag is that it wouldnt allow me to log into my own blog. There was a content control.

Just now, ag, after recovering from his jetlag, spent an hour on the phone to someone perhaps in the Indian sub-continent, trying to sort out our internet problems. And now, at least one light is blinking.

Anyway, the time away from the internet afforded me the time to pursue other interests; apart from waiting for Search and finally after 30 years, listening to Amy singing Isabella live! As if that wasnt enough, over nasi lemak and teh tarik at Tuk Din's Restaurant, Amy told me the story of Search and Isabella!

A perfect breakfast at Tuk Din's: Amy, nasi lemak and nescafe tarik!

(Wanda - eat your heart out!)

And of course I had more time to indulge in other less exciting things such as making pie tee. It was just out of the blue that I thought I should try my skills making pie tee. AG came home with two moulds and I began experimenting. It wasn't that easy.

With Chef Fauzi at Tuk Din's, we put our heads together and finally produced some very fine Top Hats worth putting on the menu.

But it was such a tedious job which requires the precision of rocket science, patience and concentration.

There in the kitchen of Tuk Din, we experimented with Isabella blaring in the background, for it is still Isabella fever here eventhough Amy and company had long left the British soil.

Although Chef Fauzi couldnt make the perfect Top Hat just yet, he made the most beautiful fillings to complement the cases that I produced. It took a few hours to make but just a few minutes to finish them off.

 Pie Tee: A Chef Fauzi-Kak Teh Productions

Normal blogging will now resume.

Salam Maulidurrasul to all and may Allah bless us.

Waiting for Search

The songs coming from the sitting room were very familiar; songs of yesteryears by the late P Ramlee and R Azmi.  The children were singing these songs, entertaining our guest – a captive audience who was much amused that with so many new songs from new artistes, the children were belting out these oldies.

"Don’t you get to hear new hits from home?"  she asked.  This was in the early nineties, you see, when youtubes and downloads were unheard of.  We had old cassettes of Sharifah Aini, Uji Rashid and yes,
R Azmi.  The children listened to these as well at the childminder's.

So, it was there and then that she decided to send us some new cassettes – and one of them was an album by SEARCH.  The children were hooked on Isabella and I heard nothing else but "Diaaaaaaa Isabellaaaaaaa…..!"

That was my introduction to Search, the rock group which was making waves in Malaysia at that time.  And whether by fate or design, on 18th November 1991, I found myself seated in front of the ‘voice’ of Search, Amy.

It was just as well I had heard his songs, so I could ask the right questions and made the right noises.

He was pleasant and I couldnt

keep my eyes off his complexion. And such beautiful curls too.

In my diary on 18th Nov 1991, I had written, “Went to interview Amy Search and Ali Bakar. Not bad.” Not bad indeed.

That interview was for the BBC. I had earlier interviewed Ahmad Daud, Sheila Majid and Jins Shamsuddin.

Next month, I will meet the ‘voice’ again, Insyaallah for SEARCH will be performing in London.

Fantasia Bulan Madu is now playing in my mind.

Another popular band performing at the same time is Hujan.

For those interested, here are the details:

Organiser: OrangKita  - a wholly Malaysian-owned promotions and events company based in Dublin, Ireland. info@orangkita.eu

Dublin

Date:	Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Time:	7:30pm
Location:	Button Factory,
Street:	Curved Street, Temple Bar,
City/Town:	Dublin, Ireland

London:

Date:                        Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Time:                         5 pm

Location:                  Delima Restaurant

                                 36, Southwick Street, Sussex Gardens.

Price of ticket : £40 (buffet & performance as well as ticket to concert at Scala London on 18th Feb)

Venue:                        Scala London

Date:	Thursday, February 18, 2010
Time:	7:30pm
Location:	Scala,
Street:	275-277 Pentonville Rd,
City/Town:	London, United Kingdom

Liverpool

Date:	Sunday, February 21, 2010
Time:	7:30pm
Location:	The Cavern Club,
Street:	10 Mathew Street,
City/Town:	Liverpool, United Kingdom

Price: £25.00

To get tickets for shows in London, contact: Nik Imran - 07846240651

Or visit this link : http://www.scala-london.co.uk/scala/event.php?id=1253

According to Orangkita: “There will also be a special Up Close & Personal dinner held at 5 p.m. on Wednesday, 17 of February at Delima Restaurant London. Tickets for the event are priced at £40 and will include a full buffet dinner as well as a ticket to the concert at Scala. Lucky fans will have the rare opportunity to meet band members from both Search and Hujan, as well as enjoy an intimate unplugged performance by Search on the evening. 

We are currently holding a lucky draw for all tickets purchased from now until the end of January. Twenty lucky fans will win a special pass to see the bands conduct their sound check before the concert in Scala London. Winners will also get to meet the bands in person backstage after the concert.  Additionally, 10 of these lucky winners will also receive an official tour t-shirt”

The deep freeze and the sauna in my mind

What's left of the so called deep freeze in 30 years, was washed down the drain by heavy rain in the last few days. Even the headless and limbless snowman down the road succumbed to the ray of sunshine peeking behind grey clouds. But record the deep freeze in thirty years is something I must do. And just as well that I didn't quite escape it.

I arrived on 10th January after an uneventful flight, wedged between a bright young student and a tourist on his way back from Bali. Waiting for my daughter to pick me up at Terminal Four, I felt the sting of cold air on my face, while the rest of my body just sort of froze only to be thawed once in the warmth of the car.

London was still sleeping when I arrived and looking out of the window, as the snowflakes drifted by, I was transported back to the country I left less than 20 hours before, where I had enjoyed the warmth of family and friends and yes, that of the sauna and spa.

I was back in that small tent, feeling the rivers of sweat flowing down my back and I was back in that warm milk bath, enjoying the soak.

But now I am back in cold, wet and grey London and I took refuge under the duvet almost immediately. But work dictated that I left the comforts of the room soon after.

Leaving the house for the first time, I felt how inadequately prepared I was for the winter. I inched my way dodging icy patches in my newly acquired shoes bought at a small shop in Bangi the evening before I left. I had to buy them because the only pair I had at home was peed upon by Kissinger.

The new pair felt like a thin cardboard on my feet.

Snow came back with a vengeance while I was sleeping off my jetlag. I woke up to a blanket of snow and half hoping that the scheduled trip to Oxford would be cancelled. But it wasn't and just as well because I got to see the English countryside in winter wonderland.

There's something magical about snow and snowflakes. It brings out the child in you and the group of Malaysian journalists standing by the roadside were soon throwing snowballs at each other.

I remember a trip to Wolverhampton searching for what's left of Brinsford Lodge, the teacher's training college in the fifties. Somewhere along a very narrow road, we stopped an English man on his bike and asked him about Brinsford Lodge and he said:

“Oh, I do remember Brinsford Lodge and the Malay boys who went there. They'd be the only ones to play football in the snow!”

 

Other winter and home coming stories:

Winter nostalgia

Journey of a Friendship

I SEE her now, the bespectacled girl who was in my year when I started primary school.

I remember thinking what thick lenses she had. She must be clever, I thought, and I wasn’t wrong. She was one of those studious and serious type. And quiet too, too quiet for the rest of us in the group, who could safely be termed rowdy.

I remember thinking what thick lenses she had. She must be clever, I thought, and I wasn’t wrong. She was one of those studious and serious type. And quiet too, too quiet for the rest of us in the group, who could safely be termed rowdy.

I never knew Muni in Primary One but that was because I was in Sultanah Asma Primary school in Alor Star for only a few months before my father was transferred to Yen.

However, friendship tends to take its own journey. Muni and I met up again when I went back to Alor Star.

But this time I had chosen St Nicholas Convent, a decision which put us firmly in rival territories.

We at St Nicks had special names for our SAS friends; names I’d rather not mention here. And I am pretty sure they had names for us too.

St Nicks girls and SAS girls met regularly — the Merdeka Stadium where we regularly went for the Independence Day practice and celebration.

We had common interests too — the boys from Sultan Abdul Hamid College (SAHC). and that was where the seeds of friendship between Muni, Jijah, Lia and I began.

We went to the same parties, enjoyed mee rebus Abu and ais kacang Busu and mugged for our exams together.

When other friends took different paths after school, Muni and I continued our education in what used to be Institut Teknologi Mara, although we took different courses. We seldom met but the seeds of friendship were still there.

I never knew that she got married and had left for London — until I myself married and left for London. They rented a flat somewhere in West London.

When they returned to Malaysia after their studies, my husband and I stayed on. The distance rekindled the friendship and strengthened the bond between Muni and I. We even had a website where we’d keep in touch.

Reunions always marked my visits home where girls of SAS and St Nicks mingled with classmates from SAHC.

Jijah, Muni, Lia and I would relive our childhood days while driving along the highways belting out songs from The Carpenters, continuing conversations in the carpark of shopping complexes and even in fitting rooms. We’d stop for prayers and continue enjoying our time together like schoolgirls out on a day trip.

I remember one occasion when we parked in the underground car park of the Bangsar Shopping Centre and listened to songs from a Korean drama series.

Muni was then really into Korean dramas and even bought the whole series for me.

We’d drive around in search of good food and places to meet and the husbands would join us later for dinner and we’d talk and eat again right into the nights and early hours of the mornings.

I remember also the time when I was embarking on my journey to do the umrah.

Muni, Jijah and Lia took me shopping and bought me a pair of slippers which I promised I would use in the Holy city. We created quite a sight as we held hands and did the walk together. When we were together, we always did these silly things.

And then it had to happen. One day three years ago, I received an SMS from Jijah. Muni was diagnosed with the big C.

The last three years had been challenging. I’d get news of her chemos, of the spread and of the ups and downs.

During one of my visits back, we met at the Dome. Muni was just about coping with the drastic treatment that she had to go through.

Last year in July, we went to see her again. I could barely recognise my bespectacled friend. She could hardly walk unaided. But she remembered our times together, our friendship. And she wanted to go out again with us.

We were apprehensive about taking her out as she was very fragile and would get violent bouts of headaches.

But she insisted and so, after maghrib prayers together, we went.

Jijah and I took her hands and slowly we walked together to a café nearby. It was to be our last time eating out together.

Last week, Jijah, Lia and I went out for lunch. Seated at a table for four, we stared at the empty chair meant for Muni. She would usually be there, all prim and proper and admonishing us for our misbehaviour.

But she wasn’t there because she had been rushed to the hospital. We visited her and she was surprised to see me. She could hardly talk. Her condition worsened overnight and we were there by her bedside. We knew she was leaving us.

Last Monday, the girls of SAS, St Nicks and the boys of SAHC gathered silently as Muni was laid in her final resting place.

Goodbye, my dearest friend. But as the saying goes, death ends a life, but not a relationship; certainly not a friendship like ours.

ps. My tribute to Muni and and our friendship was first published here.

Other journeys with Muni:
This autumn of our lives

Moments to treasure

Yesterday Once More

Welcome to the family, Kamelia!

Pengantin baru - Azril dan Kamelia

The newly-weds, Azril and Kamelia.  Pix by Izham Khalid of Noorizeyes.blogspot.com
More pix here
The article below appeared in the NST here

Letter to Kamelia

Dear Kamelia,


LAST week, we welcomed you into our family when you married my nephew Azril. And in a few weeks time, you newly-weds will fly off to Geneva.



For Azril, Geneva is already home after living and working there these last few years.

But for you, it will be a totally new experience; starting a new chapter in your life as a married woman, thousands of kilometres away in a totally different environment and culture, away from the extended family. (Actually, on reflection, not unlike my own experience exactly 30 years ago).

So, Kamelia, if there are butterflies in the tummy at the very thought of flying the coop and sharing life with someone who is now your husband, let me tell you that it is all quite natural.

Being married is a huge hurdle but being married and then within a space of two weeks leave everything and everyone that is familiar to you is a different ball game altogether.

It was around this time in December 30 years ago that I started life as a newly-wed away from home, seriously lacking in skills especially those in the kitchen department.

London was practically home to my husband while I had to start from scratch, learning the ropes while suppressing the urge to call home and cry at the slightest hitch.

Looking back, and with some wisdom of hindsight, I think starting married life away from home is the best thing to do.

London was gloomy and dark when the plane landed at Heathrow that winter morning and that cold morning sort of defined my expectations of what my life in London would be like in the coming years.

But Geneva has that added attractions of beautiful snowcapped mountains, enough to keep you mesmerised for some time.

But the beautiful snowcapped mountains will soon lose its attractions once the husband goes to work and leaves you with what will feel like more than 24 hours in a day.

When mine went to work, I looked out of my window into a very busy concrete jungle that was and is London. It was busy and crowded and yet I felt alone and lonely.

In those days, phone calls cost a fortune, phone cards were unheard of, and Skype and video calls were still blueprints in some geniuses’ minds. And, of course, no Facebook.

In this respect, you are luckier and can easily email home to ask for that sambal tumis recipe.

I remember now the preparation for my first dinner guests. After quite a lengthy phone call to my mother, every ingredient for chicken curry was minced, pounded, chopped and blended ready in small bowls on the kitchen table by eight in the morning for dinner at eight at night.

Rice was usually cooked by the husband. Kitchen disasters included very soggy fried noodles, exploding keropoks in the pan because I had washed them prior to frying and a first near marital disaster when I threw away tempeh which I thought had gone bad.

Thinking I needed time on my hands, he ordered “Learn to Sew and Knit” which I duly gave up after knitting two sleeves on one side.

But Kamelia, we live and learn. And the exciting bit is living and learning together. Because there’s just the two of you, learn to accept each other’s idiosyncracies, warts and all. Sharing credit cards is a bonus.

It is just too easy to keep within our own comfort zone and forgetting that there are so many exciting new things to learn outside our own Malaysian community.

I have met many wonderful ladies in the expat world, who learnt the art of Chinese painting while in China, porcelain making while in Europe; and quilting while in Washington.

Youth is on your side and while you enjoy life together, enjoy too acquiring these knowledge and skills that the outside world can offer.

So, while I look forward to my next 30 years and beyond together, I wish the both of you every happiness and success starting your new life together abroad.

With lots of love, Mak Teh

Pengantin lama

Thirty years today - Alhamdulillah!

Thank you all for your best wishes and prayers.  Kak Teh & AG

Kak Teh looks back:

Twenty nine years together
An annivesary of sorts
Thank you for another year
Growing up and Growing old with Awang Goneng

Listless in London: Dec 1 - a countdown of sorts

It was probably a blistering hot morning, that December 1 thirty years ago, followed by heavy rain in the afternoon, the kind of rain that makes you want to sleep and wake up smelling the fresh smell of grass after such a downpour.  I am just guessing about the rain because it usually rains heavily in December, the month when tents go up and buffalos get slaughtered for wedding feasts up and down the country.

Perhaps I was anxious about the rain then as the countdown began for the start of a new chapter in my life. Perhaps I was just anxious. I reckon, a bride-to-be about to start a new life in a totally different country the other side of the world has the right to feel anxious, if not downright hysterical.

Today as the rain pelted mercilessly on the window and the grey clouds stubbornly obscured the winter sun, I tried hard to remember that December 1 of thirty years ago.

It was 8 days before the big day.  The blue lace kebaya was probably ready and waiting to be picked up from the tailor’s.  There were still no shoes, nor accessories or jewelleries except for that glittering new solitaire on my finger; a constant reminder that my status was about to change.

 I remember now the excitement of being someone’s tunang, even though it was for a brief period before the change of status to wife.  I remember being told of the glow that radiated from the happiness that was bursting from within.  But I also remember the feeling of sadness as we chose our luggage, as we packed our bags – a reminder that we were going to leave our loved ones behind.

December 1 of 1979 was fifteen days before we took the flight that was to take us where we are today.  I remember the ride to the airport, the tight grip of Mak’s hand in mine and the hot tears streaming down my cheeks.  I remember rushing back to hug her at the gates as the final call was made.  Yes, I remember it all now as I type this on this December 1 2009; legs entwined under the duvet, a soft snore that reminds me he is still here and mine.

Kak Teh remembers

The Journey Continues - The tale of the blue kebaya
The Journey Begins
Heating up Memories on a Cold Morning

An Uplifting Experience

This article below can also be found here.

YOU can only expect this from the best of friends; one big hug and a breathless whisper in the ear: You’re wearing the wrong bra size, dear!

With that one statement, I was officially declared to be among the 80 per cent or so women who strut around wearing the wrong bra size; and we are not even talking about cups, bands or straps yet.

So, okay, it is time I pull up the straps that keep falling off my shoulders and put my hands up and admit to never having had myself measured; not since Mak bought that trainer bra from one of the shops in our small town of Alor Setar. It was then either S for small, M for medium or L for large. No 32B, 34DD, 36FF or other complicated combinations that were more appropriate for opening a safe. Any adjustments needed were made by stuffing socks or tissues. There was nothing that a small safety pin couldn’t do; it could hold the straps in place or serve as an extension of a back band a few centimetres too short.

And there were not many to choose from either, unlike today’s array of fashion which promises to lift not only what threatens to defy gravity but also your spirit. The correct measurement, cups and straps could do wonders for your posture, while giving back that waistline you thought you’d lost forever. Or at least, it gives you the illusion that you have a waist you don’t actually have.

So, it was after this short lecture directed firmly at my fast-deflating bosom and self-confidence that I found myself at one of those expensive stores in Oxford Street, in the lingerie department.

“What’s your size, madam?” asked the salesgirl politely. I mumbled some digits and an alphabet. And like a stern Maths teacher, she whipped out her tape measure and immediately dismissed my answer as wrong. So, I got a few D’s mixed up and for that wrong answer, I was marched off to the changing room.

I remember needlessly mentioning something about having four children, all breastfed, by way of preparing her for what she was about to see.

“I have seen it all, Madam. And so there is no need to be embarrassed,” she said, quite professionally. It was then that I surrendered myself to her expert hands. I even made her choose the pattern and style she thought were appropriate for me for I couldn’t bear the thought of being lost in the sea of La Senzas and La Perlas in their various colours and cups.

She came back with a selection; several pairs of deep plunge, half cups, underwired, sexy and naughty and even sober, schoolmarmish ones. Then I was made to stand with my back facing the mirror. I was then asked to bend down with both hands held out by my side. When the new undergarment was put in place, she started adjusting the bands and the straps. And slowly, quite slowly I felt a truly uplifting experience, right there in that small changing room. It is wonderful what an extra D could do to lift your spirit and more, and I wondered why all this while, like all the other 80 per cent who go around in blissful ignorance about their correct size, why I never bothered to go for a proper fitting.

“Will that be all, Madam?” asked my fairy godmother with her magic tape measure. “And what about these to go with the brassieres?” she added, flashing what looked like hairbands or things they now called thongs.

Er, no thank you, I said politely. Let’s not even go there

Letting the hair down with Hairspray

 

In two black cabs, we raced through the streets of London to theatre land, just in time to grab our tickets and find our way to our seats. It was a last minute decision - but last minute decisions are sometimes the best; forget about looming deadlines and commitments. Four ladies were about to let their hair down with the attendance of one young male escort.

I had always wanted to see Hairspray but when tickets were available, I was not. But two days ago when I got news that there were some tickets available for the popular musical at Shaftesbury Theatre, I wasted no time in contacting friends. We were game for a night out to enjoy ourselves.

Hairspray is the kind of musical that, apart from getting you tapping your feet and swaying in your seats, has this good feel factor. It guarantees fun and laughter throughout; an experience not unlike Grease and Mamma Mia, which I had seen numerous times.

So, there we were tapping our feet and clapping to the rhythm of the sounds of the sixties in Baltimore.

Hairspray brings about a certain nostalgia and reminds me of the cans and cans of hairspray that I used to tease my unteasable curls before going out in the evening. I had wavy hair but longed for those straight and obedient tress that would just automatically curl upwards at a flick of a brush, held up with lots of hairspray, of course. I remember spending hours in front of the mirror doing the backcomb for the beehive, Anneke Gronloh effect. Then to complete the look, a big bow of ribbon!

Sigh!

My penchant for stage productions goes back to those days when I had to accompany the young thespian in our midst - Fatimah Abu Bakar, when she was rehearsing for Tun Kudu. She has great talents, that one, and when I moved to London, it was wonderful to see her on stage here, in Jentayu! I was so proud of her!

Anyway, after reading several blogs about musicals in Malaysia, I yearn to be able to see one. I have heard so much about the P Ramlee musical and Puteri Gunung Ledang but my visits home never coincided with the dates on the shows.

Well, one day, perhaps.

Kak Teh's other Hairspray piece and for those who want another glimpse of Stephen Rahman Hughes:
Mamma Mia and Hairspray moments
When Hang Tuah came to dinner

Has it really been thirty years?

Salam all, this piece below appeared in my column here.

ON the greyest of a grey autumn morning, I found myself in what could only be described as a sardine can of a coach, in the underground train making its way to East London.

The tea that I bought earlier in the hope of having a leisurely breakfast during the journey was fast seeping out of its styrofoam container onto the almond croissant, as it was being crushed and squashed by early morning commuters entering and leaving the train.

It was only 7.30am and work was not due to finish until about six in the evening.

Early morning commuters tend to be quite aggressive compared to bedraggled homeward bound ones.

So, after being elbowed and pushed and squashed and left with a soggy almond croissant, you can imagine the speed with which self-pity was rushing in.

I suddenly noticed how young these early morning commuters were — in their twenties and thirties; all fresh and eager to start their day. At 7.30am, I was already about to give up.

I put this feeling of melancholy down to the unusually hectic week. I had been to several cities in the far flung corners of the British Isle, trudging to get to my transport when most people were still in bed and arriving home when most people were already asleep.

I had been covering stories with journalists young enough to be my children; whose energy and enthusiasm knew no bounds. I recognised those enthusiasm and zest for I once had them. And those were the days when the ministers I interviewed were much older than me.

Anyway, when I finally found a seat, and with about 10 more stops to go, and munching on tea-soaked almond croissant, I went on a journey down memory lane.

Just the week before, I was contacted by a youngish journalist who wanted to interview me because, according to her calculation, I could easily be the longest-serving Malaysian female journalist abroad.

Note that I did not use the word “oldest”, although that too could be true.

The reality of that proclamation hit me like a tonne of bricks. I don’t know whether this is true, but yes, suddenly I felt it had been quite a long time.

Suddenly, all of my almost 30-year career in this industry came rushing in like the early morning commuters.

There was a time when it was I who chased after old Malaysian veterans and old Malay sailors. My husband once joked that a young hack would one day turn up at our doorsteps wanting to interview the makcik who came to London in the late 1970’s. It is a joke no more.

These days, when I casually mention that we came to London in 1979, most of these young hacks would retort; “... but I was only a year old then!”

Next month, it will indeed be 30 years away; and for most part of the three decades, I had been a hack; in radio, in print, TV and even dabbling in online media.

I had started off carrying the German-made Uher reel-to-reel tape recorder on assignments and it weighed a tonne! Now I carry a small digital voice recorder that could easily fit in the palm of my hand.

And remember the days when we had to rush back after assignments to bang on the old Remington? Well, today, fitting snugly into my sling bag is a cool notebook with Internet connection.

I remember the day that the three of us — Ena, Fati and I — walked into the newsroom in Jalan Riong; conscious of the stares and wolf whistles from male reporters from the sports desk. Many contemporaries have moved up, moved away and moved on.

Last week, looking through my collection of paper cuttings and pictures from assignments throughout the years brought back the excitement and joy of being a journalist. I just love meeting interesting people with interesting stories to tell.

I just love how interesting human interest stories found their way to me.

Experiences of people like Datin Peggy Taylor, the Pak Cik Sailors, the British veterans and many more had served to enrich my own life’s experience.

Has it really been 30 years?

The announcement on the train signalled my stop. And joining in the crowd of commuters spilling onto the platform into the cold autumn air, I suddenly felt rejuvenated again.

Then......
Starting out...

 

 



















 Reporting from all over Europe and with conjoined twins just before the operation

These last few weeks.............................

See the fresh faces?

Indian Summer Blues...

My first autumn......OOOOooooooops!

My fashion (non)sense 2

Dear all, alas this is another article that appeared in my column last week..  It is my take on fashion.  I am still bogged down with this and that, more this than that! *sigh!*

For someone so sartorially challenged, an assignment to cover fashion shows can be quite an ordeal.  For a start you've got to understand clothes, if not fashion and not understanding both can be a disaster.  I wear what is comfortable although that could mean a style, if you can call it such, that belongs to yesteryears' wardrobes and should just remain there. Colourwise, I am an autumn kind of person regardless of season.

So you can imagine the kind of challenges that London Fashion Week brings. An invite used to send me into a panic mode of what to wear befitting such a celebrated and much publicised event.  But looking back, I shouldn't have been so worried as apart from the eyes and cameras being trained on to the catwalks, there are many interesting and headline grabbing distractions that no one actually cares what you wear or don't wear.  If the designer is an A list designer such as Zandra Rhodes or Viviene Westwood, then you can be sure that the front row will be filled with the likes of Anna Wintour, Victoria Beckham and of course our very own Datuk Jimmy Choo.  And of course, fashion writers and editors such as Hilary Alexander who can make or break a designer with just her intro.

It was indeed the shoe Guru himself who introduced me to the London Fashion Week where supermodels such as Naomi Campbell and Jodie Kidd would wear his stilletos as they sashayed up and down the catwalk. And tailing him from show to show afforded me a glimpse of life backstage and if I was lucky, I got to be up close and personal with models and even designers. 

As LFW celebrated its 25th year and as it drew to a close last weekend, I began reflecting on the first ever fashion show I attended some ten years ago.

It was quite an eye opener to see fashion and how fashion is translated into statements on the catwalks of one of the world's fashion capitals. There are fashion concepts that remain concepts and certainly not for wearing to your local down the road or even to an evening function.  There are fashion statements that are only good for debates in the newspapers and fashion magazines and still not very wearable even to a fancy dress party.  And wearing these statements and concepts are usually models so gaunt and thin you can see their ribs sticking out.  Instead of gliding up and down the catwalks, they stomp unsmiling and not unlike Russian soldiers marching.

Indeed there was quite a furore some years back when models starved themselves to fit into size 00 and tragically died as a result!

And just when you thought you could see some decent curves and flesh back on the catwalks, a row erupted because some people were very much against size 14 models, the argument given was that size 14 models couldn't walk properly!  

I remember one year when I was allowed backstage and saw stick-ons being creatively stuck on models to cover strategic places so as not to totally offend.  And that got away as a fashion show.

Anyway, over the years, I began to look forward to attending fashion shows not so much because of the clothes on show but because of the side shows provided by fashionistas who either want to be noticed by the press or model wannabes trying to get the attention of agents. Outrageous and creative in their attires, they go from show to show and whet up the audience's appetite before the real show starts. 

Who's that girl?
This season, I wasn't disappointed.  An apparition in a spiky see through shimmering number sashayed to the front row, only stopping to pose for photographers.  The question on everybody's lips was who was the headturner with bright red lipstick and chestnut shoulder length bob that contrasted sharply with the dark healthy beard framing his face.  He took a seat near Michelle Collins of Destiny's Child and basked in the limelight before the show began.  I gathered enough courage and asked him about his curious sense of fashion.
With Andre J at Bernard Chandran's show


"I love to make people happy.  Its about joy and spreading happiness," says Andre J, a New York based party promoter, who had been on the cover of French Vogue and according to one report had worked with Sex and the City stylist, Patricia Field.

This year's event also saw the presence of another celebrity of The Big Brother fame in a shocking pink attire which made her look like a chicken. I knew I shouldn't have worried about my fashion non-sense.

My fashion photography sucks (above) ! But this  (below) is not too bad.  

                                                                                                                                                                                              

But I love this close-up of a model back stage. What do you think Steven?                

                                                                                                                      

                                         Kak Teh's other fashion (non) sense at Eric Way's show some years back

Raya with a difference di perantauan

These articles below appeared in the September issue of Her World.  I was asked to write a Hari Raya special from abroad and it was with much tears and difficulties that I managed to produce these.  I would like to thank Mak Ndak and her children for sharing her story with me, D of Pause to Reflect and also my dearest Nina.  Thank you for sharing and apologies for the tears that flowed and for the painful journey down memory lane.


Khadijah Tifla  - Dearest D of Pause to Reflect

Khadijah Tifla tries to make Ramadhan and Hari Raya as normal as possible for her four young children.  She busies herself in the kitchen, wakes them up for early morning baths before sending them off for the Eid prayers at the mosque and has visitors over to enjoy the day together.

But normal was when her husband was around to fuss in the kitchen and see to it that the children got ready in time for the prayers.  Nomalcy ended when his health suddenly deteriorated two Ramadhans ago.

The Ramadhan of 2007 saw her life turned upside down when her husband of 11 years was diagnosed with cancer of the esophagus. The month was spent with endless visits to the hospital, consultations with specialists and news that were not very encouraging for the PHD student and their four children.  That was the month that saw her once healthy husband literally shrink before her very eyes.

The Hari Raya of the same year was to be their last together, partly spent at the hospital bed in Coventary.  Hazlishah Abdul Hamid succumbed to the killer disease eleven days later on his 38th birthday, about a month after it was diagnosed.  

Their twin boys, Izz Zhareef and Izz Hanees were then 10, their only daughter Ulfa Mysara was 7 and their youngest son, Muhammad Aaryf Dean, was only 5.

Khadijah herself was only 35 when she was widowed, but her faith in God Almighty never wavered as she faces the tests and challenges put in her path.

"Everyday, the only thing that keeps me going is the believe that He knows what's best for me. Hanging on to this, with every echoing emptiness, perplexing trial and excruciating downfall, I need to only remind myself:
'For truly with hardship comes ease.
Truly with hardship comes ease.'"

Hazlishah had put his career on hold to look after their children while Khadijah pursued her studies.  It was a partnership that had seemed ideal and worked well until his health began to deteriorate suddenly. And although the signs were all there, Khadijah didn't allow herself to think that it was going to be their last Hari Raya together.

"I remember that it was a weekend and the doctor said that we could take him out.  He wanted to go to a friend's place. And it was just wonderful to see him finish three plates of meehoon goreng," she says. That night they went back to the hospital where his condition started going downhill, prompting Khadijah to call his and her parents over. The Malaysian community was quick to render support.  Readers of her blog www.pausetoreflect.blogspot.com sent their prayers and wishes in everyway possible. She wasn't alone.

Khadijah now remembers with fondness the division of labour in their household during the Ramadhans and Hari Rayas that they had together.  He'd make sure that the house was tip top while she did the cooking. He loved nasi minyak while she wanted nasi himpit. So they had both.

"Basically he enjoyed food and nasi beriani and kurma was his signature dish," she adds nostalgically, sadly noting that everything about her beloved husband had to be in the past tense now.

Hazlishah's passing meant that Khadijah had to soldier on in a foreign country where friends became her extended family offering support when needed.  But she knew she had to learn to go it all alone.

The first Hari Raya without Hazlishah, Khadijah found that she had to take on the role of paying the zakat for herself and her children, and came Hari Raya morning she took the children for prayers.  For the boys, it was their first without their father praying by their side.

"As for the hari raya itself, sure, I could easily give in to my emotions.  But I have to think of the children and not be selfish.  I tried to make it as cheerful for them," she says.

Although they visit the grave every week, that first Eid was a special visit to offer their special prayers.

According to Khadijah in one blog entry, visits to the grave was a time when apart from the prayers, the children reported something to their father.

Most of the time, it was a heart wrenching session with little Dean saying endless goodbyes to his father.

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Che Yah Nyak Ahmad  (Mak Ndak) - a mother to everyone, a woman with a big heart and with lots of love to share.  I go and see Mak Ndak for my dosage of motherly hugs.



When Che Yah Nyak Ahmad came to look after her new-born grandson in London eighteen years ago, little did she realise that she would also be taking on literally the entire Malaysian community in London. The single mum who brought up her three girls single-handedly after the break-up of her marriage found London to be her sanctuary; a place to mend her broken heart and devote her life to her children and grand children.

Having been made dependant of her youngest daughter, Zuraiha Zainol Rashid, 45, who is a permanent resident here, Che Yah set her mind to make London her home, much to the delight of Malaysians starved of good home cooked food and motherly love.

"Mak has always loved to cook. She loves to see people eat and she remembers who likes to eat what," says Zuraida, 51, her eldest daughter who is also working in London.  Indeed, there's standing room only on Hari Raya open house at their place.  From morning till late at night, friends and friends of friends will troop in for Che Yah's meehoon soup, freshly grilled satay, soto and rice with a variety of accompanying dishes. There'd be enough to take home too.

Indeed, it is no secret that even strangers who hunger for the company of Malaysians and crave for the Hari Raya atmosphere where Malays, Chinese and Indians celebrate together, were directed to their place in north London where it is literally an open house where no one is turned away.

Che Yah, or fondly known as Mak Ndak to many of us in London, is now 81, a mother figure to many of us and a substitute grandmother to most of our children.  It is to Mak Ndak that we go to get our regular dose of motherly hug even if it is proving very difficult for her to hear out our woes as she is hard of hearing.  It is to Mak Ndak that we readily let ourselves be spoilt with her delicious home cooked food.

"Mak used to sell nasi lemak in Jitra where we grew up.  I remember searching for banana leaves to wrap the nasi lemak for Mak.  She also made school uniforms to earn extra money.  Life was indeed hard for her as a single parent.  But she persevered," remembers Zuraiha whose father left when she was still in her mother's womb.

Mak Ndak used to be a regular at our weekly tahlil or tazkirah meeting at the surau in Malaysia Hall.  Certainly, she was there almost every night for terawikh; praying while sitting on a stool as her legs began to pose a problem.  But as the pain got worse, her presence became rare and now almost nil, but she still takes delight in preparing food for the congregation.

"She would insist on contributing the food and there's no way we could persuade her not to," adds Zuraiha.

If life had been harsh to Mak Ndak when she was younger, it is now compensating her with the love and affection of those around her and more.  Daughters Zuraida, Zuriyati and Zuraiha and their families have kindly shared this wonderful lady with us here. 

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Nina Yusof - the memory lives on

Nina Yusof remembers with fondness last Raya when everything went according to plan. Well, almost! 

"I am always the one so excited; planning for everybody and hoping that we'd get ready in time to pray together before the Raya breakfast and then go to Malaysia Hall for prayers with the rest of the Malay Muslim community in London. And then come home to receive guests.  Well, it was a bit hectic in the morning but we made it for prayers at Malaysia Hall together and then we had so many people who came to the house from morning and left quite late at night. It was wonderful," remembers Nina of the last Hari Raya. That was also to be the last Raya that she spent with her late husband, Faizal Abdul Aziz.  More importantly, she remembers that before taking the usual Hari Raya photographs, they salam and asked for each other's forgiveness.

Faizal was taken away suddenly on 2nd April this year.  He collapsed while taking his professional accountancy exams and died in hospital.  He was 43.  His death stunned the close-knit Malaysian community in London as he had no known illness; no warning of any health problems, no tell-tale signs that he would leave us so suddenly.  The weekly congregation at the Malaysia Hall surau, of which he was a regular member, gathered to offer their prayers at the mortuary of the London Hospital in East London.

The very same crowd and more turned up almost every night at Nina's house for prayers and to give her support and mostly to let her know that she and her young children are not alone.

Nina knows this.  Her children; Norman, 12 and Farah, 5, too realise they have 'uncles' and 'aunties' around when they need them. But none of us can fill the void that they feel, the emptiness that Nina vividly describes when she misses him so.

She has cried till there's no more tears to cry, she is picking up the pieces and she is moving on.  But there are still those unexplained moments.

"Last week, I missed him so much. There's an emptiness I couldn't explain. I just wanted to be with him.  So, I reached out for an old album.  I looked at a photograph and the date is 3rd April 1999.  He passed away on 2nd April 2009.  It is exactly ten years.  That was a picture of our day out picnicking at Virginia Waters with some friends. If I were to know then that in 10 years time he'd be gone, I would have been so, so sad," says Nina of her husband of just 13 years. 

Nina knows that there will always be that empty seat at the dinner table, the one person not there at gatherings and functions and conversations that will refer to arwah in the past tense.  She also knows that there will no longer be any requests for soup tulang for the breaking of iftar, and rendang daging served on Hari Raya will always remind her of him for he loved rendang daging. 

"In fact, " she corrects herself as memories came rushing back, "he'd eat anything I put on the table, although initially he'd make a fuss because he said I cooked too much."

This raya, Nina says positively, instead of going straight home after the prayers at Malaysia Hall, she will drive the family straight to the Garden of Peace in Hainnault, for that is where Faizal is buried.  She and her children had been visiting his grave regularly, but this Raya will be a special visit with some special prayers.

"This is something I must do with the children".

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