Ice Cream

Many kids stared as I ate a cheap RM1 ice cream at a local shopping mall yesterday.

It reminded me of the time when I was that old and would do anything for the ability to have ice cream anytime I want. Of course, at that age I didn’t have the money nor the means to go to the ice cream shop as often as I wished.

Yesterday I realised how much I now take that freedom for granted - at this age I no longer appreciate the ability to buy ice cream so easily because I’m too busy chasing ‘more important’ things.

Such is human nature - as we grow older we are in a continuous chase for the ‘ice cream’ of that particular phase in life - good exam results, a job, a car, a house, a wife, a good retirement, a good place to die.

Perhaps, once in a while, we should just take the time to sit down and appreciate what we have instead of being constantly fixated on what we don’t just yet.

And hey, have some ice cream while you’re at it ✌🏻

[14:7]

Does the heart want 

happiness, or familiarity? 

I think it yearns for the former

but finds contentment in the latter.

Maybe that's why a cloudy day is strangely comforting.. 🤔

(Until it starts raining lah. Then not happy, or comfortable)

Papa is a Tree

Pa, I remember you arriving home from work,

hands on hips, imitating the branches of a tree:

"Papa is a tree. 

Try and climb papa!"

Gleefully adik and I obliged, 

having never climbed a real tree,

racing to climb you like the city kids we are

(and having little regard for the health of your back 😅).

It has been nearly 15 years now since we last did that.

Those years have seen us kids 

grow up, leave school, fly overseas.

While you, Pa; 

our football coach, 

our chauffeur,

our best friend, 

have stayed our steady tree. 

I guess it can be tricky playing that role..

Being that steady over the years, 

it's easy to blend into the background -

people forgetting how important you are.

As you put out roots into yesterday, 

giving us steady support;

as you put out shoots into tomorrow, 

sheltering us from Life's elements;

as you put out flowers and fruits, 

nurturing those around you;

as you put out leaves green, red and brown, 

coloring our lives.

Trees, like everything, grow old

but they do develop a certain beauty with old age:

barks scarred and wrinkled with wisdom, 

leaves no longer growing thick,

revealing the empty nests of those city kids

who once lived on you, but

now live halfway across the world.

They remember still what you once said,

hands on hips, imitating the branches of a tree:

"Papa is a tree. 

Try and climb papa!"

Happy birthday, pa..

We love you! ❤️❤️😬😬

Goodbye, Fikri

The airport took my housemate away today,

and so in this house I am now alone.

But I guess that's the nature of my course:

come 5th year you gotta start getting used to 

people entering and leaving Life at the hospital, and 

entering and leaving your life at the airport.

My discussion with Fikri yesterday was quite a deep one.

Over iftar we contemplated the temporality of this dunya,

and the basis of human relationships,

and indeed, how fleeting those relationships are 

if not fillah; for Allah.

On that basis, what we should aim for 

is to be with our loved ones forever

not in this dunya, but

in a good place in the hereafter.

Thanks for all the reminders, Fikri.

May we meet twice:

Once in this dunya, once in Jannah, biidznillah :')

Ameen..

(Now..back to the attic 😩)

P.s. ak balik tadi, hari cerah kot..siap gi jogging. Alhamdulillah doa ko termakbul haha. Make doa that the rest of my days will be sunny, til the day I go home to my family..ameen!

P.p.s. thx again bday present ak. Heart-warming..harap2 room-warming jgak winter nnt. 😝

P.p.p.s bajet macho gile muka ko dlm gamba2 ni

In a Masjid in Puchong

I distinctly remember my mind being blown,

as I opened that book 

picked off a shelf 

in a masjid in Puchong

over four years ago now -

a Chinese translation of the Quran.

Immediately I turned the page

to one of my favourite ayat,

and as I often did back then 

took a picture, put on a cheap filter, and posted it on Insta 😓

But why did the image of Chinese letters

side by side with the Quran's Arabic words

have to blow my mind so?

When we have been taught in school

that the message of Islam is universal,

for all peoples of the world?

Perhaps it's because we have forgotten 

this unifying message of the deen,

and replaced it with the sentiment of racism and nationalism;

a sentiment taught implicitly in our Muslim homes, 

and lived out in our everyday lives.

All under the guise of 

Us Muslims, versus Them kafirs.

Until eventually we come to believe 

that Islam is Arabic,

or Malay.

How sad, how ironic

that we Muslims are the ones who hide the universal beauty of Islam

on a shelf in a masjid in Puchong:

"O mankind, 

indeed We have created you from male and female and 

made you peoples and tribes that 

you may know one another. 

Indeed, the most noble of you 

in the sight of Allah 

is the most righteous of you. 

Indeed, 

Allah is Knowing and Acquainted." 

- Surah Al-Hujurat:13

Homeception

They were familiar, but somehow different;
People I love, but haven't met for a little too long.

Those four people, as they sat among an enormous pile of luggage at Terminal 1 of Manchester Airport, represented a life I kept mostly out of my mind for the past three months.


In that amount of time, everything has changed.

I have become the typical medical student; my schedule packed.
Food is on-the-go (and not-so-healthy).
I have become accustomed to the cold; 10 Celcius qualifying as quite warm.
New weather, new food and new things to learn.
New country, new friends and new commitments.

Goodbye to home cooked meals, hello to Arab-sized portions of foreign food.
Goodbye to flip flops, hello to winter boots.
Goodbye to my old life.

Hello to a new one.

It has been pretty easy to bury my head into this life so far...so much so that it is only sometimes I look up and remember: "I'm in Manchester"



Until I called out to those four people in Terminal 1 of Manchester Airport, and suddenly my two lives are one again. Because those four people...they are my family.


Mama and Papa greeted me with the customary hug. It's been the longest time yet that I've been away from the only two people I've truly known my whole life.
Adik acted cool, but I knew she missed me as much as I missed her.
And Danny was the same ball of hyperactivity that he has always been.


Not too long after that we were heading to the centre of Manchester.

During the journey l inadvertently found myself in the position of tourguide.
It's weird...me, a foreigner in this country, suddenly showing my family around MY city.

My new home.

This is the parking lot I hurriedly pass through on blustery weekdays, late to class, with barely a glance around.
Mama exclaims at how beautiful it is, Adik takes pictures, and Danny runs around.

This is my room, the bastion of my new life. Neat as I can keep it, suddenly host to the (many) bags my family brought along with them.

This is the bus I take to the City Centre. A route I have travelled often enough. Today my hyperactive bro sits beside me.

This is the path I take on the way to the Curry Mile. Usually I go with an empty stomach, today I bring along 5: mine and my family's.


That was my life again for three weeks...

Three weeks of Papa's lame jokes, Mama's lovely cooking, Adik and Danny's voices.

In the past few weeks I lived in 3 separate hotels in 2 different cities, a lakeside cabin, and even a canal boat. I should be travel-sick by now. But somehow, I'm not.

Because here's the thing: I feel more at home than I've ever been in the past few months.


Here's the reason, then, why I buried my head into my "new life" in Manchester...
It was a self-defense mechanism. I wanted to keep myself from being homesick, from missing my old life too much.

But this is not my real life. I am my parent's son, my siblings' big bro. That's who I am. My family...they are my real home. My life.


I guess it took my family to travel halfway across the world to meet me here for the message to truly hit, well, home.


As I write this, I have already left my family at Terminal 1 of Manchester Airport. The time I welcomed them to my city just three weeks before seems like a lifetime away now.

Mama cries, just as she did at KLIA 3 months ago. But they have their lives to get back to.

And so do I.

But suddenly I can't imagine living that life again; hall to class, class to hall.
Nobody to greet me as I step as I return to a home which is not truly a home; life alone.



My family, my true home has left.

Goodbye guys...

The Chronicles of Dayah

WARNING: THIS STORY IS EPIC

The year is 1990. There hangs an awkward silence over the dinner table. A man breaks into cold sweat as his mother, without a trace of emotion, sizes up his girlfriend.

Will the relationship work out?

Or will true love be smashed irreparably against the unreasonable expectations of a mother?

Those questions bear heavily on every mind at the table save for one: a hyperactive 5-year-old girl named Dayah. She is the only cucu of the family, the apple of her grandparents’ eye, and allegedly as cute as a China doll (refer to pic above). Also, Dayah has taken a liking to this man’s girlfriend; constantly calling her cheerfully: “Aunty Esther, Aunty Esther!”

Suddenly, as if on cue, she jumps on the table and starts singing and dancing. The man breathes a sigh of relief as his mother and father laughs and claps along to the tune of their grandchild’s impromptu performance. All tension in the room seeps away; the ice is broken.

A year later the man and his girlfriend is married, the next year she gives birth to an adorable little boy named Mikhail.

On that basis it can be argued that Kakak Dayah, as I would call my eldest cousin, had a crucial role to play in my birth; that she broke down the walls to my grandma’s heart, so that my Mum could move in and win it with her charms. Without which I would not be here.

Mindblowing stuff right there, dude…

Kak Dayah: mastermind who made marriage possible.

Yet, I never really saw Kak Dayah as a puppet-master of my conception.

Instead I have always seen her as the natural Head of the Council of Grandchildren (CoG). After all, for 5 years Kak Dayah was the only member of the CoG – before Kak Nadhirah came along (henceforth to be called Kak Ngah)

Then I arrived, becoming the third-in-command of this esteemed organisation.

The membership of CoG did not stay at three for very long though; soon after came Taufiq, my BFF <3 <3 <3 (agak gedik di situ...)

Then my sister came along as the 5^th CoG member.

Next, Ajmal a.k.a. “The Weirdo”.

Later still, Akhyar at no. 7.

Inayah a.k.a. “Penan” next.

Aqashah a.k.a. “The Sumo” at no. 9.

Danny boy my bro at 10^th.

His partner-in-crime Haikal at 11^th.

Along with Aishah at 12^th.

Then Baby Chu my sis at 13^th.

And last but not least, Raziq at 14^th.

But the story, of course, is not as simple as an addition of cucus.

There has been no shortage of drama, intrigue and Korean drama-like twists.

A few dramas which come to mind include (but are not limited to):

1. Kakak Dayah’s epic struggle for the family’s attention as Kak Ngah’s birth stole the spotlight away from her.
2. Taufiq and I were arch-nemeses as toddlers, beating each other constantly (with fists). And stealing each other’s pacifiers. And pushing each other off baby chairs. But then we became buddies, and today only a petty MU-Arsenal rivalry (which MU totally dominates) is a thorn in our BFF-hood <3
3. Dan lain2 lagi.

But sweet memories totally outweigh them:

1. Acting out of P. Ramlee scenes for nenek/atuk’s birthdays.
2. Random Cucu Day incidents (Mak Long tripping over a log comes to mind) :D
3. Being forced to say “Mak Chu is pretty” everytime we visit rumah nenek (I’m totally not kidding) -.-
4. Ajmal’s consistently odd facial expressions.
5. Pak Yep’s stories (starring elephants and snakes. And the trademark line “Ko jangan salah paham…!”)
6. Taufiq and I curi2 main snooker on Raya eve quietly so that Pak Yep won’t wake up and catch us.
7. Playing badminton with pizza boxes as rackets.
8. Playing football with balloons.
9. Trips to the 7/11 near rumah nenek in Mak Chu’s car.
10. Main mercun on Raya eve until kena marah by neighbour T.T
11. Watching Jeepers Creepers 2 on Raya eve.
12. Being called a “Kendil” (a species of monkey) -.- by Inayah.
13. Calling Inayah “Penan” in return 8-)
14. Beating Aqashah at Fifa 12 (despite him using the Classic 11 team :DD
15. Dan lain-lain lagi.

Between the first cucu and the 14^th lies 25 years, and how much has changed in those two and a half decades.

Kak Ngah is a teacher now. Seriously.

Taufiq in five years will be Dr. Taufiq, or Ustad Taufiq. Or both. :O

I’m not too far behind, also studying to be a doc.

Adik is studying to be a lawyer. Seriously.

Ajmal is taking his SPM soon, Akhyar and the Penan not too far behind.

Aqashah is a Standard 5 boy who is also a Pengawas Perpustakaan (macho kot).

And who knows what the Danny, Haikal, Aishah, Baby Chu, Raziq rabble will turn out to be one day?

But perhaps I am going a little off topic here…after all, this post is titled “The Chronicles of Dayah”. Hehe. So let’s get back to Kak Dayah.

And what has our protagonist been doing these past 25 years? She has gone to school and graduated, opened her own business, moved into her own house, gave countless Head of CoG speeches (primarily during atuk/nenek birthdays)…and fallen in love.

As of last week…THIS HAPPENED *jeng jeng jeng*

The engagement

But wait…there’s more!

During the engagement ceremony, my Mum was Kak Dayah’s make-up artist. The former “Aunty Esther” now puts on make-up for the girl who once upon a time sang and danced on the dinner table.  22 years on it is the 5-year-old who will soon be married.

And so the story comes full circle.

In the end, I guess this post is not just the story of Kak Dayah growing up; it is a story of how the family has.

This Raya I realized how much the family has changed. No longer are we spirited little kids dying for mercun on Raya eve. No longer do Taufiq and I stay up to play snooker as quietly as we can, so that Pak Yep wouldn’t wake up and catch us. Now the older cousins stay up to take advantage of rumah nenek’s Wifi, and are put in charge of making sure the younger cousins are asleep.

Before I get too sentimental, lemme just show some pics, aite? T____T

The Chronicles of Dayah in Pictures

Kak Dayah spotted at Mama & Papa's akad nikah. I can't help pointing out Ayah Ngah's 'Mat Rock' look :pp

Pic featuring an early Cikgu Kak Ngah

By the look of things, the founding of CoGG (Council of Great-Grandchildren) is not too far off :D

Kak Dayah: still at rightful place as Head of CoG

This is the chronicles of Dayah.

But it is not just her story, it is ours too…

Birthday Prank

KMB harbours a friendly, intelligent population of students – the “best of the best” of the country, or so I’ve been told.

Still, reflecting KMB’s isolated location in the middle of nowhere, these students – like the lost tribes of Congo – exhibit some peculiar customs. One of these is the ‘Birthday Prank’, a savage tradition which involves in most cases flour and eggs being dumped with force on the unlucky birthday boy/girl.

For decades this behaviour has been one of the greatest mysteries of anthropology. What, after all, can compel such pleasant students, the crème de la crème, to carry out such ferocious attacks on each other?

No one really knows.

But there no shortage of theories: behavioural scientists point out that the constant stress on IB students could be a chief factor – eventually the said students have to find an outlet for such pressure, and birthday boys/girls become easy targets.

Psychoanalysts propose that perhaps bright students are not as innocent as they seem:  that the outwardly nerdy façade hides the ferocious conduct of gangsters.

Economists, meanwhile, highlight the surplus (and thus, low prices) of flour and eggs in the local kooperasi as the main reason for the birthday attacks.

However, this post will not be a macro analysis (che-wahh..!) of this social phenomenon. Instead, I will tell you the story from the point of view of a victim of such a horrendous assault...me.

*dramatic music*

*                                             *                                             *

23^rd of June 2011. 11.30pm.

It was my second year in KMB, the dreaded third semester. By now I have intimate knowledge of the ferocity of birthday pranks. My roommate has been soaked with soapy water during his birthday. A senior of mine was tied to a chair and tortured on his birthday, and pictures of the event posted on the bulletin board the day after. Even the usually mild-mannered girls of KMB happily fling flour (with deadly force) at birthday girls.

Half an hour to my birthday. I was not looking forward.

Yet I knew I could not escape. By now my friends know my mannerisms well enough to know where I would be at this time. My room, or (more commonly) the TV room. Thus, unless I was willing to hide among the oil palm trees, there isn’t much room to hide in KMB. Resigned, I sat alone in my room, turned my laptop on, and tried to get some work done before the terror begins. I sat facing the door – if I was to be dragged out I would at least like to see it coming.

11.45pm. A flicker of movement by the window beside my door catches my eye, but by the time I look up it was gone. Still, I knew who it was: my neighbour Salman. I knew what he was: the one-man recon party. I could imagine him reporting my position to the others… it won’t be too long before things start now…

24^th June 2011. 12.15a.m.

Nothing has happened yet. Hesitantly, I went to bed with the realisation that I could very well be dragged out of it, screaming and kicking, in the middle of the night. I closed my weary eyes…23 hours and 45 minutes to survive.

A few hours later I woke up. The night had passed without incident…it seemed to be a miracle! But a frantic search around my bed revealed that something was wrong – my phone was missing. My heart fell as it dawned on me that the mind games have begun. And there was still most of the day to go through.

Walking to class, I remembered the times when I myself have taken a sadistic joy in pranking others. Take Jet (bukan nama sebenar) for example. During his birthday back in Sem 1, I collaborated with a bunch of friends to prank him during JPAM practice. It was a totally public prank, witnessed by half the batch. Good times :’)

That prank made Jet and I friends – “brothers” even, in his words – but whenever that particular incident is brought up, I always notice a vengeful glint in his eye. “Nanti ko, Mike”, Jet would say with a crafty smile…he would make sure I will be pranked publicly too one day.

I shuddered, remembering that today is that day.

None of my classmates mentioned my birthday that morning. I was fine with that. Eyeing the horizon worriedly for a Jet-initiated birthday prank aimed specifically at me, I didn’t want to worry about one from my classmates too.

Soon it was 12am. Class was almost over! With any luck, I could run off to my room after classes and lock myself in…maybe I would even give the hide-among-the-oil-palm-trees plan a try. Who knows – I could survive my birthday unpranked!

Then WHAM! This happened:

It was well played by my classmates. They recruited the help of my roommate to lure me into a garden where flour spilled would not be noticed. Truthfully, guys, I noticed that something fishy was going on as my roommate persuaded me quite energetically to go to the garden (he doesn’t invite me to gardens energetically often). But equally truthfully, I didn’t expect the flouring which I received – and who planned the whole thing if not Kirin, the unassuming ‘good girl’ of the class. (She is evil, I tell you!) :p

And so, covered in flour (which mixed with my sweat was becoming a crust on my skin) I headed off for lunch in the canteen. I should mention that Jet looked quite happy, with me looking like a yet-to-be-fried KFC drumstick. But the glint in his eyes was still there – and I knew my ordeal was not over…

The day went on normally…many wished me happy birthday; without, thankfully, flour. Eventually it was 11pm, and I thought that was that. The flouring at the hands of my class was all that I would go through – considering all the things I’ve done to others on my friends’ birthdays, I thought I survived quite well thank you very much. So I went to sleep in the TV room.

And a few minutes after midnight, it happened.

I was awoken from my sleep by rough shaking. After that, I walked out groggily into the block courtyard. Then I was led to a chair. Or maybe I was dragged. I don’t remember, to be honest. My memory at this point is a bit fuzzy – as expected from someone who has been through a traumatic experience.

Eventually I found myself crudely tied to a plastic chair by raffia strings. I don’t have any pictures of it but if you really want to see it imagine me strapped in one of these:

Haha…ok, fine, it wasn’t as bad as an electric chair. But tied down I felt doomed anyhow. And by the way, I was blindfolded as well.

A voice addressed me, saying something along the lines of:

“Buahahaha…now it’s your turn, Mike!”

Hmm…on second thought maybe the evil laugh wasn’t there…but whatever, it wouldn’t have been out of place anyway. There was, after all, no mistaking the morbid triumph dripping in that voice. And there was no doubt of his identity – Jet.

I remind you that it was the day after my birthday, and still I was being pranked! It was totally unfair! But try telling that to Jet.

Gleefully, he told me to finish a drink that he had concocted. If I did not finish it within a minute, I would be soaked with a bucketful of soapy water mixed with only-God-knows-what. Not exactly being in a position to negotiate, I did as I was told. And I have to say, the drink wasn’t quite that bad. Later I would learn that it was a mixture of drinks bought at the koop (we KMB-ians really like mixing things, if you haven’t noticed by now) :D

I nearly finished the drink, but unfortunately not under 60 seconds. So, as promised, the bucket of soapy solution was tipped over me. What joy =.=

The block courtyard being something of a public square (there is even a ping pong viewing area nearby), the whole thing was quite a public event. Jet had definitely wanted it to be so…biding his time for this opportunity to avenge his own public humiliation in Sem 1. I have to say…well done, Jet. *grudging handshake*

The night ended with me hugging Jet – while I was still soaking wet. At the very least I could console myself with the fact that Jet, too, had to take another shower that night. Buahaha!

And oh yea, I got my phone back from Salman too.

Happy ending for everyone. ^.^v

*                                             *                                             *

That all happened exactly one year, one week and three days ago – but, clichéd as it sounds, I still remember it like it was yesterday.

In the end the Birthday Prank, savage as it seems, is the way we show the love which had developed through the time in KMB. In that sense I am honoured to have been at the receiving end of two Birthday Pranks. 

Thank you guys for taking the trouble.

And I love you too :’)

Listening for Faith in A202

“Salman’s Room”

For us A202 will always be that, although you no longer stay there. Somehow part of your immense personality still lingers in a room now half-empty.

The night after I learnt of your departure, I sat on your empty bed. I don’t know what I was trying to achieve. An answer to why you left, perhaps? Perspective? Maybe a way to get over my guilt?

Because I am guilty. We were best friends in Sem 2, but drifted apart in Sem 3. We climbed roofs together, sat together in a corridor eating ice cream (and subsequently got told off together by the counselor who was passing by), got into all kinds of s***. Good times :D

So I should have known better. I recognized the signs, but I didn’t put them together. I knew things were going wrong, but I should also have known that they were falling apart.

On that night I sat on your folded mattress, on an empty bed, in a room right next to mine. I stare at the wall beside your corral, once covered with memos you wrote to yourself. Stuff like “There is no right or wrong, just right now”. But right now that wall is bare.  

I should have done something – anything – to ease your burden. Because behind that now-bare wall of A202 is my room. Where I stood by doing nothing, while you were silently (and not silently) crying for help. Behind that wall I stood by idly as you sank deeper into a personal hell. Of that I am guilty.

Sitting on what was once your bed I see the things you must have seen in your darkest hours. The ancient ceiling fan, the modest locker, the ordinary yellow door. Things you must have seen differently then than I do now. And again I question: where was I?

I couldn’t have advised you – mainly because I didn’t know what to say, or how to. I still don’t. But looking back I realize I could have provided something more precious than any piece of advice: a listening ear, and a shoulder to cry on. But where was I?

Now I sit in a room half-empty, trying to listen to someone no longer present. I am too late. I am sorry; I did not help you reach for the faith you needed so much.

After that night, we finally met you in the corridors of our college. Your decision was final, we did not attempt to shake it. We know how stubborn (read: principled) you are. We are just glad you have not given up. By yourself you seem to have rediscovered faith in yourself. And although you are now “living outside the lines, [where] its nerve-wracking and disturbing, no road in front of you”, somehow you inspire in us a belief that you will make it somehow. I don’t know how; but God willing, you just will.

On that night I did not yet know all of this. And on an empty bed, and just a little too late, I sat a while longer; listening for faith in room A202...

Quiet Strength

I guess some would call my nenek unlucky for having not one, but two strokes; I argue that she's lucky for surviving both without permanent damage. Regardless, she epitomizes this year's Raya Eve.

This year's Raya's Eve was markedly quieter than previous years. Frankly, it wasn't that fun either, due to the following reasons:

1. No takbir (going house to house on Raya Eve) at my nenek's neighbourhood in Klang this year, the first time no takbir in many years.
   
2. Only a few cousins stayed over at nenek's house this year.
   
3. The only fireworks we played were Pop Pop, hardly an adrenaline-pumping edge-of-the-seat experience. Even then we were stopped by an "Oi, nak tido la!" from the neighbor.
   
4. I lost a badminton match with my 9-year-old cousin. Whatever. I am more of a ping pong person :-/
   

Still, I have to give due credit to the few cousins who came (yes, even the 9-year-old Lin Dan wannabe) for the amount of noise and Raya mood they generated in brave defiance to the "Oi!" neighbor. Also, our lust for fire was eventually satisfied with an improvised bonfire fuelled mostly by cardboard Pop Pop boxes. Special mention has to go to Adik and Inayah (Penan) for doing ZILCH while Taufiq and I had to be the MATURE ones and sweep up the resulting smoking mess (terkejut ke…?) :p

Sorry Pak Yep :p

Anyway, there is a reason for this year's lack of atmosphere. My nenek, after all, was recovering from her second stroke. Being the tough lady that she is, she happily received her grandkids despite her obvious frailty. We couldn't be too noisy though because nenek still needed her sleep.

I wasn't too depressed, though. Recent events have taught me the true meaning of Eid. It is more than ketupat and lemang, or duit raya and mercun. It is about quiet strength. And my nenek is the perfect embodiment of that.

Her legs have been weakened, but still nenek insists on walking herself. Admittedly, she complains of her condition (my aunt bears the brunt of that), but they are complaints usual for a lady her age, and does not stop her from living life. If anything, I now respect her as a fighter. An unlikely one, but a fighter nonetheless.

I was right beside her the night nenek had her second stroke. My leg was supporting her head, actually. Seeing someone I've known my whole life face such physical distress right in front of me had a deep effect on me. I was scared, unsure if any moment could be the last one I would share with nenek. But despite falling into semi-consciousness, nenek steadily whispered the kalimah syahadah until the ambulance arrived.

Quiet strength.

We can all learn from nenek. Whether its Adik, who will be having her SPM trials after the hols, or me with the tonne of assignments I've been worrying about (but barely touched), we could all use some quiet strength now. To quote a good friend of mine (and I am quoting from an SMS here): "u know what, take this as a phase in life. Lifes surely wont get any easier, buts its us to choose to be stronger, wiser or not. Er am I getting this rite?"

Yea, you got it right, Sya. A little discreet determination is all we need :)

I am inspired by what I've seen today on the first day of Raya. My entire family was here, at least before 11a.m., and for the morning I was a kid again. Underneath all the troubles of the recent past, family bonds are as strong as ever. Stronger, in fact because of what has happened to nenek. Quiet strength.

It is also worth mentioning that I've finally beat my 9-year-old cousin (by unofficial count) today. Quiet strength, Aqashah :D

Coming to the end of this post, I have to get something out of the way: in the past year I have hurt many people, not least my mum (I made her cry). To all; family, friends and foes, I apologise. My pahala this Ramadhan would be insipid without your forgiveness, zahir and batin.

The last year has been fun and challenging in equal measures (or is the challenge the fun?) but personally, at least, I think I've come out a stronger man. Dang…still weird referring to myself as a man :-/

Salam Eid everyone.

Stay quietly strong J

The tough old lady drinking Milo after being discharged from ward

*the song "Fikirkan Boleh" playing in the background* :DD

An Empty Nest

In my old classroom, you will find a bird's nest tucked in a corner. It's not much to look at, being composed largely of mud and tattered feathers. Inside, you will find 3 or 4 chicks; and by God, they are ugly little things. They were noisy too, especially when they were hungry. When not hungry, they would be busy adding to a pile of bird faeces on the floor below the nest.The chicks' mother would enter and leave the classroom through a broken window, and once shat on my friend's table (beside the window) while flying out.

Despite all that, though, I find the nest to be a thing of beauty. I admired the way the mother bird would return ever so often to feed its ravenous chicks, despite the troubling presence of 20 students and an irritated teacher in the classroom on weekdays. I loved the way the mother bird sat in the nest, flighty but all the same firm. I had no doubt that she would defend her chicks with her life if the need arose. Something I am sure my parents would do for me too…

I am sorry, Mama and Papa…I didn't mean to hurt you.

I totally forgot to tell you about my change of plans on Sunday. I don't know why I forgot – maybe I was too busy. But one thing is for sure, I didn't purposely hide my plans from you just to hurt you. And despite your claims, it is untrue that I do not prioritise my family.

Adik sent me an sms yesterday. She told me how Mama cried, and how it seemed that I only I see you guys as my ATM or my chauffeur. I don't. I see you as my parents. I love you guys, and I am really sorry that I don't show it most of the time.

I was as down as you guys were that day. I hate letting you guys down. I am your first-born, and I shouldn't be doing things like that. But maybe the whole problem is because I am the first-born. Maybe it is difficult for you to let me go.

I do admit that we have grown apart. I don't know when and I don't know how. But we have. Once upon a time, I would to come back after school and excitedly tell Mama about my day. I used to climb all over Papa as a kid, when Papa was still as tall as a tree to me. I used to "manja" with Mama up to the age of 15. I don't know how things between us grew awkward. Maybe it's a phase of my growing up.

But it's not because I want to. I still love my family very much. In Adik's sms, I was told that I don't have emotions attached to my actions. It doesn't mean that I don't have emotions at all. It's just difficult for me to show it.

You guys have no idea how much I think of you. Ask my friends here. I once told my friend why my Mama is my hero, and I gave plenty of justification for it too. Just last week, I told my mentor group the story of how my Mama and Papa met and fell in love while working in Public Bank.

I won't forget you guys. I was not raised to do that.

Yet I am in the course of spreading my wings; I am leaving the nest. The process won't be easy, and as this incident shows, it will hurt. I still live half-an-hour away from you guys, but it already feels like another country. What will happen when I further my studies overseas, which, InsyaAllah, I plan to do next year?

It's hard for me to say all this to you through an sms or a phone call. Or even face to face. Like I said, I just find it too hard to do. That is why I am telling you this the best way I know how to convey a message; through my writing.

I have started leaving the nest quite a while ago now. It won't be long before I finally take off. Don't worry, though, Ma and Pa. The nest won't be empty – there are still 3 ravenous chicks left to feed after me. And Adik has grown up to be a very mature lady indeed. It was obvious in the sms she sent me.

The last time I checked, the nest in my classroom was silent. The mother nowhere to be seen. She had died. A friend told me that the mother bird had run into the ceiling fan one day and died. The chicks had starved to death by now.

I do agree with you, Ma, when you told me that our close-knit family is something to be valued; because we don't know how long it will last.

I'm sorry Ma and Pa, for not showing how I truly feel. I love you.

The Horizontal Meditator

Typing the first words of this blog after a half-year of deathly silence, I am quite sure this post will be the most morbid one yet. But then again, that may be a good thing. One of modern society's greatest problems, it was once said, is that we live away from death too much. And it makes perfect sense, if you think about it. If someone close to you personally dies – let's say a friend or a relative – of course you would feel the emotional impact of his/her demise. But would your neighbors or friends be impacted the same way you are? Not anymore, sadly.

Gone are the days when the village would kick into action when a person dies – to arrange the funeral, to bury the remains…and to comfort the bereaved family. Today, the process of Death is becoming more like an industry, where faceless undertakers and coffin-makers look at bodies as sources of dollars instead of former vessels of souls. The living, meanwhile, operate in a parallel world, separate from all this – working hard and partying hard. The only contact a "modern, civilized person" would have with Death is during the occasional funeral service, visit to the grave, and the time when he himself is six feet under.

Sigh. Told you this will be morbid…

Anyway, the reason for all this morbidity is that I have had quite a few brushes with death this week. No, not the "life-threatening-injury-caused by-horrific-accident" type of brush with death. Rather, one of those brushes with death was when I sat around a graveyard on Tuesday night with a group of friends. While sitting around the grave, the tombstone not more than a feet away from our faces and a dead body 6 feet (more or less) below us, we discussed about life in the grave...

At this point, I must make this clear: this was not a Satan worshipping ceremony or anything like that. It was actually a college activity, in which my college-mates and I visited a nearby graveyard. The visit was meant to raise our awareness of Death…but frankly, I had little need for such a reminder. Death was already on my mind all day.

This was because of my first brush with Death, which occurred the morning of that visit. I received news that a teacher of mine, a man whom I was quite well-acquainted to, has passed away. His name was Mr. G. Gunaseelan, but he was often referred to simply as Mr. G. He was an unusual character, in comparison with the other teachers of my college. For one thing, he was quite old…he would have retired this year. In all honesty, he was even quite frail due to a few accidents in the past.

Yet, his death, to me, came as a total shock. Yes, he was frail. But to have left us so suddenly…? It's still sinking in now.

Sadly, I wasn't very close to Mr. G. He was the "mentor" of half my class - in charge of us students' performance, academically and psychologically – in short, well, to mentor us. I still remember my group's first "mentor-mentee" session with Mr. G. It was quite memorable, as Mr. G struck us as an eccentric man. Lively despite his obvious frailty, he shared with us the rigors of life as a college student. In all honesty, we really wanted to end the session ASAP because, well, we were hungry (the meeting was before lunch). But if we had known he would pass away less than a year later, we would have paid more attention.

We rarely met him, although we were supposed to have a mentor-mentee session every week. Mr. G always seemed to be absent, sometimes off to a hospital. Other times, he would simply say that we should not meet because he "did not want to tell us things we already know" or something along those lines. Still, he always had a smile on him whenever I met him on the corridor, and would confide in me about a certain ache around his body or a recent accident he had faced.

Like I said, we didn't get to know him well enough.

The last time we met him was earlier this year, during the Teacher's Day celebrations of my college. He had just had his hand bitten by his pet dog, and it was bandaged. Knowing he would retire in a few months' time, we had prepared a yellow balloon for him to pop. The balloon represented his eventful career, and popping it was meant to show that he would go out with a bang. He was visibly touched, and generously shared with us tales of his teaching career. After the meal, I managed to give him a hug and a handshake.

We hadn't known him well enough…neither did we know that it would be the last time we would see him.

Mr. G, it saddens me that you did not get to enjoy your retirement before you left this world. But listening to your colorful stories, I find it fitting that you have died as a teacher (and a good one, too), as you had lived as one. We had known you all too briefly, but your passing has taught me to appreciate those still alive around me even more. Although you are now "horizontally meditating" in the hereafter, you will live on in our memory. Rest In Peace, sir.





P.s. Here is a blog post by someone who had known Mr. G better than I did: http://angchoonseong.blogspot.com/2011/06/i-have-many-good-teachers-in-my-life.html