5-Hour Existence

Raja died aged 5 hours old.

Raja had a fatal birth defect called anencephaly – which means he was born with much of his skull missing, and most of his brain exposed. His optical nerves failed to form normally, so he was totally blind. Anencephaly strikes 1 in 10000 babies. Raja happened to be that baby. He was not expected to live long –babies with anencephaly, after all, often die almost immediately after birth.

Raja’s mother knew about her baby’s condition 5 months into her pregnancy. Needless to say, it was devastating news. A typical expecting the birth of a child would spend the pregnancy preparing for the arrival of a brand new individual – their own flesh and blood. Raja’s family spent the pregnancy preparing for the death of the child. There would be no baby shower, only a funeral. Instead of preparing a crib, they prepared a coffin.

Raja’s 5-hour life was longer than anybody expected it to be. Some expected him to, quite literally, drop dead instantly after birth.  Yet he stayed around long enough to spend time with his extended family, who was all there. He spent his brief life close to his mother, a cap covering his vulnerable head.

The most touching part of the documentary was after Raja had died, and his diminutive body was being passed around the room, to be held by his family members. Watching the love in their eyes, love for a family member they would never watch grow up. Then he was lowered into his coffin, like any baby being put to sleep for his afternoon nap.

Watching this documentary on TV made hit me hard. I compared myself to Raja’s parents, his family. To Raja himself.

Am I as strong as Raja’s mother, who chose to carry her baby to term despite knowing about her child’s fatal birth defect?

Am I as supportive as Raja’s family, who dropped everything to travel from afar and comfort a loved one in need?

How many lives have I touched in my life…the way Raja has touched so many lives in 5 hours?

Do I value the gift of existence…a gift denied to Raja?

We always complain that 24 hours a day is not enough to do anything. Raja teaches us that you can do so much in just 5.

I admire Raja. He was blind, but he inspired others to see. He died young, but he inspired others to live. He did not leave any last words, but his message is priceless:

Thank God every day for the simple gift of existence.

Raja’s full story below:

http://www.aljazeera.com/programmes/witness/2011/12/201112148390546755.html

Pedas Giler? Challenge Accepted

The sign said ‘Nasi Goreng Kampung – Pedas Giler!!!’

A cheap, cheesy sales gimmick, admitedly– but I fell for it. The sign felt like a challenge to the very integrity of my tastebuds, and if I could answer the sign in two words or less, it would be this:

“Challenge accepted”

Order up; I called for “Nasi Goreng Kampung” with a voice which conveyed authority and confidence. My tongue never felt so ready to face the barrage of spiciness I was sure it would face (or rather, taste).

But I was careful not to let my confidence blind me to the trial I would face. In preparation for my showdown with NGK, I ordered a cup of laici susu (which turned out to contain more ice than laici susu) due to milk’s properties as an antidote to spiciness.

The chef played a good psychological game. For one thing, he took a really long time to prepare the meal. In the meantime I was subjected to air laden thick with cili padi particles from the kitchen. Sneezing uncontrollably, I soon realized that it was a cunning, sinister move by the chef to undermine my tastebuds through my nasal cavity. Well played, chef. I have to admit that I was slightly shaken. A sip of laici susu to calm my nerves.

My resolve stood strong – I was not to be defeated before the fried rice even arrives. For 30 minutes I waited; once again, a sneaky move by the chef to build the suspense. Several more sips of laici susu to calm my nerves.

Finally the much-awaited plate of nasi goreng kampong appeared before me. My laici susu reserves were already at half its full capacity. The plate of NGK looked innocent enough. It was not deeply-coloured, as I expected. For a while I mistook it for nasi goreng cina, until I looked closely and spotted the flecks of cili padi hiding malevolently among the rice. A tentative taste confirmed it – it was definitely nasi goreng kampong. And as promised, it was ‘pedas giler’.

How do I describe the taste? It wasn’t the type of spiciness which attacks the tongue alone. Rather, it carried out a carpet-bombing tactic; the spiciness travels slowly, inevitably down your throat. The only way to overcome this was to eat continuously. Occasionally I would slow down to savour its “oomph” (and because it was quite hot), but I was doing it at my own risk.

The entire meal was a strange chase between these two sensations – the “oomph” and the spiciness.

But I am proud to say that I won the overall battle while hardly breaking a sweat. Sure, my tongue was slightly numb in the end from the heat of the meal (temperature-wise and spiciness-wise), but I can safely that the plate has been safely neutralized. If there were any parting words I would say to NGK it would be to compliment it for a battle well fought. But it has met its match in me.

Credit to the cup of laici susu which helped me through this battle. Although the cup was more ice than laici susu, I couldn’t have done it without you.

Overall, NGK lived up to its tagline.

Still, ‘pedas giler’? Challenge accepted. Challenge overcome.

I am Me

“Are you proud to be Malay?”

Was the question posed to me during a recent course I attended. It was a straightforward question, for most of the course participants at least. But it was a bit tricky for me.

First of all, how Malay am I? My entire life, my Malay name and Chinese looks means that the two questions asked by a person I’ve just met are usually:

“Nama apa?”

And, at the mention of my Malay name, the next question asked with eyebrows raised in slight astonishment:

“Melayu ye?”

As a kid, I would duly nod my head to the second question. After all, my birth certificate, and later my IC, stated that I am “Melayu”. I didn’t really care, frankly. Rarely did I give my mixed heritage a second thought. I was indifferent to the fact that Mama is Chinese and Papa is Malay. I knew I was unique somehow, but so what? I rarely gave very much thought to it.

Later in life my answer to the second question would be “Melayu + Cina”, and a brief description of my parent’s ethnicity. I always saw myself as that. I was never asked to choose between the two. And I didn’t see any reason too.

Until my first real encounter with racism, which (perhaps ironically) happened during National Service. I remember taking my wudhuk outside the camp surau, and another camp participant telling me (jokingly for him): “Eh, ni bukan tokong la”.

Fortunately, I did not find myself the butt of racist jokes during the camp. Besides several references of “apek”, I found myself mostly accepted by all ethnicities at the camp. I count my blessings for that. But NS was the first time I noticed how bad racism really is. The ‘wiras’ and ‘wirawatis’ (as they called the participants) of the camp would, almost automatically, gravitate to those of the same racial background.

Melayu dengan Melayu. Cina dengan Cina. India dengan India. Yang lain-lain tu (which perhaps included me)…pandai-pandailah.

Unfortunately, I learned later that it was not a problem limited to the boundaries of the NS camp. Going to a college which was >90% Malay, I found that racism, though not extreme (yet), was well and alive even among students deemed the crème de la crème of the country.

It is at this point that I have to say this loud and clear: I am not ashamed of my Cina blood. In the same line, I am not ashamed of my Malay blood either. I just question why people have to be so damn proud of their own race to the point that it leads to hate towards others who look and/or act differently.

I used to be offended by jokes on my Cina-ness. The fact that my left eye is a lazy eye and is thus smaller than my right one (“Sebab separuh Cina la tu”) did not help matters. But I have grown past that. I now play along when Chinese jokes are thrown in my direction – why be ashamed? Besides, the eye infection currently going around my college means that I am no longer the only one with one eye smaller than the other (thank you to my roommate, Boiler, for starting off the infection) :p

I am no longer offended by jokes about my Cina-ness. I am, however, offended at jokes or statements aimed at harping on the flaws of the Chinese – to demonise them. I will always try to speak out against that. For that matter, I will also speak out against things said against the Malays if I get a chance to study overseas.

After all is said and done, my search for identity was, in the end, resolved in this college – and for that I will forever be grateful. I did not find my identity in my Melayu-ness, or my Cina-ness, as I always thought I would.

I found it in Islam. A religion I was born in, but perhaps never really lived before entering this college. I have found acceptance – brotherhood – among Muslims. Alhamdulillah.

Perhaps the question at the start of this post merely caught me off guard when I was asked. In retrospect, the question was good for me. It pushed me to decide between being Malay or not. And it made me realize that I have made that decision long ago.

Am I Melayu or Cina? I am neither and I am both. I am Malaysian. I am Muslim.

And most importantly, I am me.

Deal with it.

Fact: Mixed kids are cute :ppp

51

I guess Papa at the ping pong table epitomizes the way he has lived his life: playful, constantly on the move and irritatingly cheerful (Mama would totally agree with me on that last one).

Let me paint you a typical situation at the ping pong table:

Sweat glistening on my brow (and other parts of my body not appropriate to be mentioned on a U-rated blog), I deftly stroke the ping pong ball across the table. It is beautifully hit, spinning through the air I am convinced that my 51-year-old Dad would be unable to reach it. I am wrong. Somehow he stretches forward and replies with a brilliant cross-court ball. Caught off guard, I cannot touch it even if my life depended on it. It is my Dad's 21^st point of the game. Victory for him. Another spirit-crushing defeat for me.

The insidious smile on his lips grows, and a primordially evil sound arose from them:

"YEEEEEESSSSS!!!!"

I have so far won a not-so-grand grand total of ONE game against my Dad. My Dad, on the other hand, has won…let's just say more than one. I've lost count, to be honest.

And it is killing me! This is a man 3 decades older whose me beating me constantly…how can this be happening, you ask?

No, it's not skill. I'm just as good as Papa in that respect (seriously!). Fitness? Come on. Practice? My Dad has barely played ping pong in the last few decades. So how then?

This is how: Papa plays with a composure befitting his years. He plays with a smile on his face. And irritating as it is, I respect him for that. The smile gets wider (and more evil) the bigger his lead, and eventually erupts in evil celebratory laughter after 21 points. Never have I seen him without that evil smile. When my Dad plays, he does with the belief that he will win. A confidence that has come with age. Evil confidence…

But there is one area though where Papa's confidence is, I think, misplaced: his health. Mama constantly lectures Papa to not drink cold drinks, or oily food, but Papa goes on with it anyway. There's little anyone can do to stop him. Hell yeah, "Stubborn" is a prominent feature on Papa's CV.

Papa, when it comes to matters of health, you should LISTEN TO MAMA! And I'm sure you will eventually. Like a player who initiates a last minute comeback to win the set, I am sure you will make the right decision in the end. There are a few things that comes with age. Sometime in the last half-century (yeah, you're that old Pa), Papa has added "Wise" to his CV after "Playful", "Cheerful" and "Lame" :p

Pa, this is not an insult to you. When we call you an old man (and I speak on behalf of Mama and Adik too), it is in a lovably respectful way; as one would describe wine made flavorsome by age. (Not that I would know how wine tastes like).

In the end, this post is not (just) the rant of a son who has lost to his dad (unfailingly). It is a tribute to a Dad who is a credit to his 51 years.

A friend of mine (his name won't be mentioned to protect his identity) at the futsal court told me: "for his age, your Dad is a very fit guy". Of course, as most sons would do, I answered with a shrug and a "nyehh…!", but honestly, I agreed with him. I can only wish to have Papa's futsal skills when I'm 51.

As a son, I just hope he will keep it up. It would be a shame for all that skill to go to waste just because you can't run anymore. So, once again, LISTEN TO MAMA when it comes to eating habits! *high-five from my Mum* :p

I am a sore loser (I got it from Mama). But Papa, if there is anyone I am to constantly lose to, I am happy it is you. It is an honour, sir.

Stay healthy, Pa. We all want you around for another 51 years. I may need that amount of time to finally beat you at ping pong :D

Happy Birthday, Pa.

I just give chance for your birthday la...

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

Megatron: Maaf Zahir dan Batin

From the Decepticon ship, Astrotrain, somewhere in the dark reaches of space; a special broadcast from the Leader of the Decepticons:

-Start of Transmission-

Greetings.

My name is Megatron.

I am a strong character. I don't care if I have to step on some toes (robot or human) to get what I want. If that makes me a villain, then so be it.

You say I am evil. And you may be right. Thus it may surprise you that I am saying this:

Now that Ramadhan is over and Raya comes along, I would like to apologise to all the Transformers I have offended in my life. Yes, this is as a sudden transformation, but I guess I'm just doing what I do best.

First off, I would like to apologise to the Decepticons. With you, I have been pushy, and I have been intimidating. I have led you into battle after vicious battle, with little to show for it. My Leadership is Tyranny, plain and simple. There is no place for compassion under my watch.

I just hope you understand that I have to be that way. You Decepticons are, to put it mildly, a bunch of strong-minded individuals with high ambitions and over-zealous personalities to go with it. How do you expect me to lead you effectively without the iron grip which I have maintained for all these years?

Yes, I have not been the best of leaders; but let me get this clear, Decepticons: among you, I am the best leader you can have.

But there is one Decepticon I have to single out here - my less-than-loyal sidekick, Starscream. We have had issues in the past. I have screamed at you, threatened you with destruction and you've even had the guts to take over my leadership!

Starscream, let me be clear: you are not the best sidekick. Often times, I've been driven to violent irritation by your idiocy, treachery, and plain incompetency!

But as Ramadhan comes to a close, let us clear the bad blood between us. If not for anything, let it be for the good of the Decepticons. And that is an order!

Moving on, this apology would be insipid without an acknowledgement of the Autobots. I have made your lives hell through my life – and you have happily returned the favour. I have treated your lives with little worth, but let me remind you that you show little concern for the well-being of my Decepticons either.

Nevertheless this is not the place to mull over that. Here I honorably ask for your forgiveness. And if you choose to not give it, you will live to regret it.

If there is one Transformer who deserves my apology the most, it is the leader of the Autobots himself. Optimus Prime, I have called you weak in the past. But secretly I admire your strength. How you naively choose not to kill, to side with human beings who barely deserve your acknowledgement.

In my private thoughts, I have often wondered: why do we even fight in the first place? We both want the best for our home, Cybertron. But you operate on a different set of principles than I do. That is regrettable, but it is so. My actions speak otherwise, but let me say this: I do not hate you. And I am sorry.

If you see this as a sign of weakness on my part, whether you are a Decepticon or an Autobot, you have committed a grave error. The feud between us will not end until the final victory is in my deserving hands. I call for a brief peace in commemoration of this holy period of Aidilfitri. But be warned: this peace is as temporary as your pathetic existence.

This Raya, let my arm-mounted fusion cannon be used to prepare lemang instead of blowing your brains out. Let the Ketupat be our shared passion, instead of the Allspark.

I wish you "Selamat Hari Raya" and "maaf zahir dan batin".

If you know what is good for you, you will do the same.

-End of Transmission-

Devil in Disguise

It is said that during the holy month of Ramadhan, all setans and iblises (devils) are tied to trees, allowing humans to live the month in total abdication to God. Unfortunately, one setan escaped it's bounds:


Yes, the ping pong table has caused much distraction to me in the last two weeks. Late nights have been spent in humble addiction to its unholy pull; its bewitching tempo…

There's nothing exceptional about the ping pong table at my dorm. If anything, it is an ugly wreck - its surface warped and twisted by rain and shine. Water damage has made the surface as pockmarked as my face after running out of face wash (yes, that bad)



Playing on the table once referred to as "the surface of the moon" by a friend of mine requires a whole lot of patience - and a whole lot of stamina too as the ball can easily fall into the drains located haphazardly beside the ping pong table.

But still I am smitten. And after playing 16 straight sets of ping pong with my roommate, Boboi (not his real name) - with Boboi winning 10 of those sets - it is absolutely necessary to question:

What do I love so much about ping pong?

I can't say for sure.

Is it the friends?

Or the mind-numbing pleasure of hitting an orange ball back and forth across a (non) flat surface?

The fact that your day's stress just drips away at the sound of the ball hitting the bat?

Or is it the trance-like feeling when the ball is heading towards you? When it seems like the whole world has stopped – and its just you, the bat and the ball?

Or is it the fact that I am FREAKING AWESOME at ping pong? ;D

I just don't know...

But whatever it is, if I don't do anything, I will be addicted to this sport until I resemble this:


eww
 

So, I shall now bring a stopwatch before I even step near the cursed table. And I shall be strong. Against the devil in disguise.