Footsteps in Time

2009-05-11T12:43:00.004+08:00

Today is that kind of a day.......

My belief on most things around me is negative. I believe from Day One we are screwed. I believe in conspiracy theories. I believe Diana was murdered. I believe that we are chattels in the hands of the Rothschilds et el and their silent, hidden empires. I believe that the axis of power exists but not how Bush said it does. I believe that there is a Big Superior power and that It is having so much fun wielding that power.

From the moment of conception, we have been had - we have lost our choice. Our parents are decided for us. If you are born into destitution it isn’t your fault as much as it isn’t your fault if you were born into wealth. You battle all sorts of ‘forces’. You are nurtured and if early on you reveal your penchant for making your own choices, you know what becomes of you. Still you emerge, sometimes victorious, sometimes not. Eventually when you are ‘old’ enough to actually read the writing on the wall you know who you are or what you have become. Well.....most of the time at least.

So! .....with so few choices in one’s hands should one really think that he or she is on top of the food chain and therefore is a god in the making? The gods amongst us have already been decided.....

Deep breathing now..........

My outlook is a happy one. I love the high mountains and the pure serpentine rivers. I'd do anything to keep these the way they are. I love the creatures that bring colour and music into our lives. I love children and people and I believe in love. I believe that our time here can be the happiest in the way we want to make it and we can fill it with whatever we choose, within our means. And the means that each one has been granted by Him is more than enough.

I like Americans, but at times detest the business of america. I damn its unscrupulous nature when it screws anybody who stands in the way of huge profits; the america that tells lies to outsiders and bullies those not as screwed up as it is. I like Europeans even though they raped our lands but I hate their 'aloofness'. They may have lived amongst us and dictated our lives for a while but they cannot think for us and claim to know the nuances of our thought and behaviour!

If anything, they are a more confused lot and can’t decide if they are coming or going. They have always received parts of civilizations and have packaged it to suit their interests and marketted it expertly. The worst of that is what the americans seem to have picked up. Perhaps within the pilgrim fathers (and mothers too, trust me!).... within their DNAs began the first spurious mutation as they rode the high seas.

And the two 'institutions' they have given birth to and have fine-tuned to do the most damage to humanity and of which I am forever suspicious are banking and pharmaceutical.

But here is a consoling thought.....We are waltzing to some great cosmic formulae of which we have absolutely no idea. I am no cosmologist, but it does seem to me that the Universe is just to f* BIG for us to worry about any of the above. The Universe functions quite independently of what mere mortals like you and me do on a daily basis ....to ourselves, to fellow humans or to planet Earth. Whether it is our of choice or not, it doesn't matter!

Yes, my soul is saved for the day.

2009-04-23T12:08:00.001+08:00

Whenever I feel a little down, there is just one person in the whole world who can make me gush with love and wanting and desire, both as a human and a woman, ummm ..... more as a woman, really.

He makes me want to give away all my love, to that someone special ...... wherever he is....... in a world among the stars, out there somewhere .... with the sweetest of promises .....

....thank you Luther Vandross.....for the way you open the floodgates of my emotions .....everytime!

To this day when I hear him sing Endless Love solo I feel he is singing it for me and to me. I get dewy eyed and breathless as his beautiful velvety voice washes over my skin.

I pretend to feel the thrilling heat of the arms that hold me in a lingering, sensual embrace as we dance slowly and as lips touch here and there..and savour. As his soulful timbre caresses my heart I am so ready to be loved all over again! *SIGH*

~~~````~~~``~`
My love
There's only you in my life
The only thing that's right
Oh yeah

My first love (yeah)
You're every breath that I take
You're every step I make

And I
I want to share
All my love with you, hey yeah
No-one else will do (mh)
And your eyes (your eyes, your eyes)
They tell me how much you care
Oh, yes
You will always be
My endless love
Oh yeah

Two hearts
Two hearts that beat as one
Our lives have just begun
And forever (forever)
I'll hold you close in my arms
I can't resist your charms
No no no no (no no no)

And I
(And I)
I'd be a fool
For you, I'm sure
You know I don't mind (no, you know I don't mind)
'Cause baby you (baby, baby, baby, baby)
You mean the world to me, yeah
I know I've found in you
My endless love

Yeah (yeah)
Do do, do dooo, do do do

Whooooa
And I
I'd play the fool
For you, (for you baby) I'm sure
You know I don't mind (you know I don't mind)
Oh, yes
You'd be the only one
'Cause no-one can't deny
This love I have inside
And I'll give it all to you
My love (my love, my love)
My my my
My endless love

Mmh
My love

2009-03-22T10:08:00.002+08:00

'The mind is willing but the body is not?'

No, I am not talking about sex. In fact everything else but sex. No, sex too...sometimes....errrmmmmm...it isn't coming out the way I want it to....

Let me start all over.

The last couple of days has been really horrible in terms of getting work done. In my mind I have cleared the study table, the kids' wardrobes and kitchen cupboards ....I have unpacked from my last trip ........and I have even put back the 'antique' curtains which I had pulled out from suitcases that hadn't been opened since 1880!!

BUT ALL THESE WORK REMAINS UNDONE!!! This lethargy is killing me. When technically lethargy should not.

The only thing I do is cooking and that’s only because of a misplaced sense of guilt. I did tell the family that my coming back to the kitchen will not be a daily affair and they were actually thrilled, especially hubby.I had to at least pretend to use my lovely magazine-featurable kitchen!

I lie in bed in the morning running the 'to do' list in my head and feel so on top of things. But once up and standing before the mirror, seriously contemplating the ills of the world, plucking the stray hairs around the brow I heave and sigh and get winded out. I shower, then sit with my morning coffee and the morning papers. I toss and turn and burrow deeper into my soft velvety sofa with all that I read.

Arrogance is as despicable as lack of integrity but when combined it is degrading to all humans. Crooks always seem to escape and there are just too many fall-guys to take the blame. The 'id' is in glorious manifestation amongst the rich and powerful. So now is a good time for people to consider if there even is a middle path to save us all from the evils that men do.....as the Bard had asked many a time.

I guess if you don't have the killer instinct to destroy people on your way up you aren’t going places. On a clear thinking day when I feel tres noble I am so proud of all the good people who have been warriors fighting the good battles......but at times like this I am thinking 'more fool you!'........

So I should get more sane or insane? After all in the general scheme of things you are but a tiny, minuscule particle... maybe even a non-particle as future discoveries might reveal.....remember everything is 'm a y a'..?

2009-03-20T07:28:00.003+08:00

Mom plays her role ......

After having lost Dad I understand only too clearly how fragile and precious life is. I make sure that we each (the children) really play our parts in a responsible manner in taking care of Mom. She definitely is the luckier parent but she isn’t the easiest of persons to please. In fact sometimes she can be a real pain. I am saying this without any malice.

Where Dad had been magnanimous and accommodating, Mom can be exacting and sparing with her compliments. Personally I made a decision that she is important to me ( something I learnt from hubby, from the way he devotes himself to his mother) and so I take care of her with a mixture of love, duty and compassion. Depending on her ‘behaviour’ one of the three factors will vary. Of course when she has her best behaviour on, I don’t stop to think whether I am serving her out of a sense of duty, or love or compassion. I just enjoy doing it!

She lives with my brother and he is a wonderful son. When she went to live with him after Dad died, she would quite regularly give him a hard time. My sisters and I would go to his rescue. Little things ..... petty and absolutely silly matters would eat into her. “If your daughters do it they are being thrifty but if the very same thing is done by the d-i-l then she is stingy and miserly. C’mon mother be fair."

Slowly but surely she has changed and now is a much happier person. And I am learning my lessons from her too, in a convoluted sort of way, and I am sure these will come in handy when I need them.

There is one important thing I must give Mom credit for. She definitely is the one who spins the yarns that hold the fabric of our relationships in place, keeping it very much alive and kicking.

For example in early December she insisted that right after the grahapravesam of my brother's house all his three boys should have their ears pierced in typical Hindu ritual. Of course that meant all of us had to make time and participate in the ceremony, right from bringing the atha varusai to staying till all the guests left. We did as she said and then some more!

Everyone had a great time. It was wonderful to see the children; the cousins displaying a wonderful spirit of camaraderie. These are times when cousins hardly recognize one another when they bump into each other at street corners or meet at functions. So seeing them all ( from age 29 to 3) so happy together was a bonus and we have Mom to thank for. Later that night she had arranged a bhajan with her Gang of 40 and we were duly imbibed with religiosity.

I think the bottom line is, relationships are going to bring as much joy as heartaches and to exist peaceably we must WANT to learn to live with each other’s deficiencies or imperfections more than with each other’s ‘perfections’. At any rate perfection is over rated, and nine times out of ten it is the source of problems, so to hell with perfection!

2009-03-14T07:24:00.003+08:00

Thinking of Dad......

Whenever I send some one off to the airport I think of my Dad......of how he isn’t here to take trips overseas. I knew he wanted to see more of the world, travel to places that appealed to him. For example he wanted to visit Brazil and see for himself the rubber trees in Amazonia that had become a huge part of his life! Many a times he had told us how the British had smuggled rubber seeds out of Brazil and after developing 'healthier' versions of them in the London Botanical Gardens, had planted the south east Asian colonies with these trees to reap huge monetary benefits for many, many decades. But alas! he never got to go anywhere near Brazil...

I can say without any sort of censure that he was my favourite parent. He passed away in the fall of 1996 and it took me a long while to come to terms with his death.

Dad had an immense capacity to make me feel that I was special (despite my consistent bedwetting which somehow irritated the hell out of mom). He was proud of my little achievements and took any of my sad moments personally. We were so much in synch and I could feel him brimming with pride when I won even a tiny trophy for my studies or a medal for some sporting event.

Because I lived in a rubber estate, when I wanted things for my school he had to take me to town on his scooter. The scooter rides became occasions I would treasure because it’s during these trips dad would talk about his dreams – dreams he had for himself and the dreams he was building for us. With the wind on our faces I would careen my neck from behind him to get at his words and then yell out my replies over the noise of his Vespa. When I close my eyes I can sense him even now.

I never knew why he chose to speak of such adult things to me. I must have been about nine or ten ( I remember because after that we had a car and the scooter rides ceased). Perhaps he had had an inkling that if I wasn’t weighted down early in life I’d fly off and be constantly airborne. Yes, that must be it because even now I often feel a very strong urge to ‘take off.’ If it weren’t for the kids who have me well anchored I’d probably be somewhere in the stratosphere helping with the
ozone holes!

The day Dad died was the day I felt most helpless in my entire life. I couldn't help feeling hollow and desperate like I just let slip something invaluable to me; something so precious and so very much a part of me that I felt totally destroyed. The feeling that he won't ever be there for me was devastating and something in me died that day.

Time heals. It’s about thirteen years now but when I revisit that moment in time the impact of his loss is no less. I grief that my kids are not touched by his presence. He was gentle and kind, loving and upright. He taught me to love by knowing people not by judging them.

Mom was different and that was quite understandable. She was 15 when she had me and literally grew up while her kids were growing up! In retrospect I must have been hard on her and thought she wasn’t capable of loving us the way dad did. I know now that it really is an unfair judgment. Each one of us love differently, and we are loved differently. We, in turn, love ours differently.

I understand that perfectly now because that’s how it is with mine own. We have favourite kids not because of the quantum of love bestowed on them but because of how easy their behaviour is on us. I try to make my kids understand this but often they are too smart for their own good.

In the darkest moments of my life my Dad has been the beacon of light and has guided me along. It’s funny how we draw on the wisdom they have imparted to us without even realizing it, that they have actually handed down so much to us while we had shared the same space with them. I think our fault has been that we took most of it for granted only to mourn their loss now…even after years and years ….in ways that surprise even us. When I go to funerals, I must admit shamelessly that any tears I shed are real, except that it is rarely for the deceased but it really is me going back to my moment of greatest loss – the death of my dear dad.

After Dad's death I withdrew into myself. I would quite dutifully perform the daily chores and routines were observed to make sure everything was running smoothly. But I knew internally I had turned cold. I was merely auto-piloting my life. In the confines of my mind I was in turmoil. My heart was bleeding and I just couldn’t find solace anywhere. I went through the events that led to his final moments when the life-support system was disconnected and I blamed myself for not taking better care of him. I blamed myself for believing that my Dad was infallible because he made me believe that too…. till late into his condition. Too late actually and I was such a fool not to have followed what my heart was telling me.

For almost a year I lived a very stoic life depriving myself of things that made me happy. I had a nagging pain between my shoulders that started on the day he died and refused to go away. I suffered the pain in silence refusing to see a doc about it. I felt I deserved that and it corresponded with the misery I was going through. I would have been the perfect candidate for therapy. I let myself suffer, feeling a sense of justification for not having rendered the attention when Dad needed it most. Of course, outwardly I was almost same old me. Hubby had an inkling and like most husbands didn’t know how to deal with it.

Then I agreed on a short break, mostly for the sake of the kids – a trip to the beautiful island of Langkawi. It was my first trip there and I went grudgingly. Our chalet was on stilts on the water itself and when you stood on the balcony and watched the waves lap so silently and soothingly, as if the quiet solemness of the atmosphere was too sacred to be violated, you have no choice. No choice but to feel the peace and start thawing the cold that you had let encompass your heart.

Early the next morning before anyone woke I walked to the end of a long, almost 200 meter stilt that they had built for walkers to enjoy the early morning tranquility of the beach. It literally went out to sea and stopped stark in the middle of nowhere. I found myself there and as I looked around it was pure magic. There was the shimmer of delicate waves all around me and the streaks of gold that glittered so sparsely was to let you know that dawn was breaking in ever so gently.

When I sat down and took in this blissful solitude and serenity, tears started flowing down both my cheeks. I was panting gently and the tears were unstoppable. Then I started sobbing and my body was shaking, at first hardly noticeable. Soon, like the crescendo I was crying out so loud that I am sure the gods must have heard me. I screamed, I poured my heart out, I asked back for my Dad. I pleaded and begged. I cried my eyes out. I saw flashes of him suffering and then I saw him stilled by death. I broke down once more. I wept like child and just couldn’t stop. I tell you, I let it all go. It seemed as if I cried for all humanity. I cried for love that was lost and gone forever. Forever. Oh God how I cried…….

Then suddenly an overpowering silence came over me. I looked up with bleary eyes at the horizon and there was the crackling of dawn, only it came without the crackling, in complete silence, sacredly tiptoeing, respecting my sad and somber feelings. At that moment I had my answer. An answer to my deep sorrow that came from my bleeding heart.

I asked God, “Please let me be the daughter to my father in one more life and give me the chance to serve him in the way I really want to. It is my sacred duty and it is the only way I can ever love anyone again.” He granted me that wish. I know.

As I walked back my hubby came out looking for me a little worried, well maybe a lot worried. It was first real smile I gave him since my Dad died.

2009-02-10T00:55:00.003+08:00

a tangled web we weave!

I have never worried my pretty head over money matters. It’s a pseudo cultural thing and I kind of stayed out of it for fear of being de-feminised. I know. Not in this modern age and times, right? I mean, I have classmates who work as financial consultants and are authors of books on finance and money management. I even have one classmate from high school who actually is in the top echelons of the Reserve Bank of India.

So it is quite opprobrious that I should have kept myself out of any sort of financial mismanagement...errrr...I meant financial management. (The times have become so confusing that one stumbles over these two words - management / mismanagement. Well, they may not even be antonyms in the world of big finances anymore!)

I do have a bank account, a current account if you will, which basically facilitates the use of cheque to pay the bigger bills like the kids’ college fee and mortgage payments on the house and the car. But all other household bills like utilities and grocery are paid with hard cash.

I am old fashioned in the way that I like to feel the money between my fingers. I think the feel of currency bills between your fingers is the basic unit of empowerment. ( Oh! By the way I do recall the good old days when the bulge of dollar bills in a man’s pocket was the best aphrodisiac there was! ) What about credit cards, you ask?

That’s the one good thing about me. I am so sure of mismanaging the little funds at my disposal that I am passionately opposed to the use of credit cards. That, and the fact that a long long time ago I had major subliminal exposure to my grandfather’s wise ways. I can still hear his words: ‘cut your suit according to your cloth.’ Of course you know what he meant , considering the fact he did not have a penchant for Savile Row suits - never spend more than what you can afford.

But today people seem happy spending money that they don’t actually have. My grandfather, bless his soul, would really be turning in his grave if he were to witness the rut we have dug ourselves into. Not just the family and friends we know of, but the banks and financial institutions that once formed the bedrock of world finance and national prosperity.

And because, on almost every network on television, there is all manner of news or debate or forum on the sorry state of global financial markets I thought it was time to get acquainted with the rudiments of money management. I might as well, because I could be confronted with some kind of major decision on where I want to put my extra cash in the next few weeks. Some high-flying financial consultant might just take a gun to my head and demand that I make a quick decision. Do I want my money in this bank or that, in fixed deposit or invest in shares or ...well, any number of things.

But you know what? I think I will just put it under my pillow. Grandfather may not be too pleased with that decision, but if he only knew the current state of affairs I’d surely get a pat in the back for my wise ways too. Simply because the more I read the more I am sure some people, especially those in bespoke suits, are out there to get their hands on my (OK, my hubby’s) hard-earned money!

And the more I read, the more I tend to agree with what Thomas Friedman and Paul Krugman and even Maureen Dowd have to say. No one out there has the magic formula to get us out of this mess. And there are too many wolves in sheep’s clothing who are leering at your money. Which is why I am happy that I had always believed in what my grandfather had said to me on a daily basis while I was growing up.

“Work hard and be thrifty.”

By hard work he meant for me to use diligently the resources at my disposal: my time, my effort and my smarts to create wealth that I will need in order to have a decent life. And maybe just a little more to put aside for my children. And by thrift he meant that I may never burden myself with material goods that could actually be a drain on me and the wealth that I had worked hard to create. He had often said that if we burden ourselves with material possessions we would end up spending much time taking care of these that we will never find the time to take care of our family, children or friends and we will definitely neglect our spiritual needs; all of which is far superior to material possessions.

Perhaps, somewhere along the way, we lost the simple common sense of the wise words of not just my grandfather but many people of his generation. In all fairness, I think most of us did have an inkling that we were spinning a little out of control, that something was amiss in our pursuit of life and our rather ill-conceived goals. But the greed and the momentum this greed provided, kept us from seeing the truth of our ways. We were in the chase for better, bigger and faster possessions with nary a thought of how we were going about getting these fantastic things.

And that, simply put, is how we have landed ourselves in this colossal bungle.©

2009-01-30T13:40:00.003+08:00

Life’s a shabby subterfuge....

I have pet topics on which my thoughts converge every now and then. Funerals are one of them - probably because I attend one every couple of months or so. I went to one yesterday. She was a doctor - this caring successful wife, mother, sister, friend and yoga teacher. Her husband is a doctor and her three daughters are all doctors. A family of five doctors and yet.....

I think of what I want to say to my kids when I am no more. I think of what I want hubby to agonise over when I am no more. But this first.....

It came to me the other day:
Were I to die, no one would say,
“Oh, what a shame! So young, so full
Of promise — depths unplumbable!”

Instead, a shrug and tearless eyes
Will greet my overdue demise;
The wide response will be, I know,
“I thought he died a while ago.”

For life’s a shabby subterfuge,
And death is real, and dark, and huge.
The shock of it will register
Nowhere but where it will occur.

— JOHN UPDIKE

2009-01-24T17:04:00.002+08:00

A Peek Into The Past...

For the first time in my life I drove all the way to Penang with my youngest. It was 29 August 2008. He is 15 and was a little reluctant to follow me especially when I said I was going back to the estate and wanted to show him my humble beginnings.

My only token of enticement was, “You’ll get to see how people perform Fire-Walking for real, you know - REAL and live, not merely as the recorded and edited version that you see on the Discovery Channel.” He succumbed and agreed to be my GPS for at least part of the journey.

This trip was very significant to me. On Merdeka Day I was going back to temple festivities in the estate I grew up in. And this, after a lapse of almost four decades. As is the case with most of us, the passage of time and the break provided by distance heaps fond memories of those long gone years into a special place in our hearts. Somehow they tend to take the sting out of unpleasant episodes and heighten the fondness of the pleasant ones. I have carried within me many fond memories of this estate and its people. They are an integral part of me and will always be. I hope that I will be considered a part of them!

For many years I had accompanied my husband to sit on the podium and witness the National Day Parade. I had decided at some point that someday I wanted to do something more significant on National Day; something that will bear witness to the patriotism I feel searing in my blood. I want to give back something to this wonderful land that has been generous and kind to its people and also to my family.

As we journey through life, we leave bits of our soul in the places we have been and in return gather lessons that serve as badges or as evidence to the many places (not only geographical but in a metaphysical sense as well) we have been! But I am sure you will agree that none is as sweet as those initial years where we floundered with joy and rejoiced with despair at experiences which baffled us. We brushed these aside (no thanks to motivation gurus!) and forged ahead selling and buying dreams, weaving relationships and making our mark in the big as well as the small world.

My first stop after a night’s rest in Penang (at my sister Rani’s place) was to Sungai Toh Pawang Estate Division I. This estate is about 6 miles from the town of Bedong on the road to Gurun. Turning off the main road at a steep slant is the road that heads into this estate. At the entrance is a Hindu temple which my grandfather had helped build way back in 1952. It also happens to be the temple on whose floor I was made to lie and gasp in wonder (small wonder surely, because I was barely 30 days old!) before a deity that would extend her immense benevolence to protect me, guide me and resurrect me from life’s defeats.

Almost two generations later, here I was before this very deity. With tears streaming down my cheeks (and a trifle embarrassed at my own emotionality) I thanked her for my life. “I have returned, in every sense of the word, and I am proud of who I am. I owe you everything. Thank you.” I choked on my thoughts.

My mother, sensing my discomposure, distracted the others by starting a conversation with the small group of people who were seated by a pillar about 10 metres from us. My face was turned away from them and I quickly dabbed my eyes with tissue.

“My father, Suppiah, was the headmaster of the Tamil school here. I am the eldest daughter,” she said to nobody in particular. But the response was absolutely gratifying!

As I turned to face the group I was surprised at the respect my grandfather’s name had evoked in the group of five middle-aged men, two middle-aged ladies and another slightly younger man. They stood up immediately on hearing his name and were excited that they were meeting his daughter. Mum did further introductions and needless to say they were proud that one of their’s had become .......errrm.....’me’.

And so they turned their attention towards me. “Why had you not accompanied your husband when he came here?” Why indeed? Of course with my years as his wife I am experienced at warding questions that have no ‘proper’ answers? I was busy being a mother and a dutiful wife.(“ Isn’t everybody? “ I have often asked that of me.)

They wanted help to refurbish/renovate the temple, and I asked, “Why don’t we find the means through patronage? That’s the best way for places of worship so that they will not cater to an ‘elite’ group but will be used by bigger groups of people.” They agreed. Then being the self-acclaimed tech savvy person, I suggested that they should create a website for the temple with the help of students who are from the SMK Bedong and doing computer studies.

“It is a good way to involve them. And you could also use the opportunity to include them in religious and cultural activities of the temple. It can initiate an involvement with the community. I am sure this will bring good benefits both ways.” They seemed pleasantly surprised with my ‘progressive’ idea.

I do come up with ‘revolutionary’ ideas now and then, which is why I tend to be in the background and not open my mouth too often. I had learnt early in life (from a diplomat’s wife, actually) that it is best to be diplomatic which means to smile a lot and be as decorative as possible!

After discussing some more on what needs to be done both to the temple and its devotees and exchanging contact details we left the temple to drive through the estate. As we started the car and headed down the road I remembered of the time when this same road was lined on both sides with school children and other eager youngsters who stood under the harsh mid-morning sun completely oblivious to the heat and sweat.

They were dutifully waving the Malaysian flag (and which has since been monikered as the Jalur Gemilang), greeting the special visitor to my grandfather’s school on that auspicious day. He was none other than En Mohd Khir Johari, the then Education Minister who has since passed away. (Tan Sri Mohd Khir Johari passed away in November 2006). His visit created such an uproar that the entire estate got into their finery and even prepared feasts just so they could feel they were part of some historical happening. Such was the honour and respect with which the minister was greeted. My grandfather was so proud of his school and his students and I too beamed with pride!

I made a mental note to search for the rare photographs which were proof of that grand day. I must have been 8 or 9 but the festive air and the general cheer among the estate folks were so exuberantly expressed that it has remained with me.

So when the car moved down the road in the direction of the school my heart went cold when I saw what had become of the place. Where were the rows of smart houses with multi-coloured Cannas that framed every doorway? What I was seeing were hopelessly dilapidated structures amidst unkempt lallang and overgrown foliage in most places, except maybe one fairly decent house. That must have been Mr Kandiah's house. He was the estate 'dresser' who kept our shins polished and our noses from running. Oh! ...I sighed .....saddened beyond words....

2009-01-24T16:58:00.002+08:00

Thank You...

Now that I am back to blogging I want to start by saying my thanks to people who have encouraged me, directly or indirectly, for my debut into this sometimes innocuous, sometimes damaging, sometimes spurious and sometimes disarming world of words. Through the process of sharing and exchanging my ideas and thoughts I have grown to understand the mysteries of life. Yes, I have. I have also grown into a more confident person. This clamour for confidence is on-going and I am sure that when I finally arrive you will notice. Heh!

Thank you Susan...... for being the very first person to infect me with the blogging germ. Although the disease seems to have gone into remission, ever so often a ‘wanton desire’ appears only to be smothered by the mundane demands of everyday living!

Thank you ....... my favourite couple, Zaharah and Hulaimi, for inspiring me and giving me the much needed sustenance for a pursuit that eventually I could not pursue without neglecting some aspects of my daily living!

Thank you ........my accidental readers who had given me the impetus to keep going although I eventually ran out of any premeditated intent to keep you close to me! But then you gave me something more, much more!

Thank you ALL .......for crossing from the virtual domain into my real world. Thank you for the perfume-laced bear hugs and crisp yet warm handshakes. I have cherished every little bit of it; the first time meets wearing my heart on my sleeve, wondering if I should have indeed allowed this cross-over; the second time meets where I was sure the attraction was mutual! No, I am not joking!

And so on to many, many more meetings over the years which continue to reaffirm my belief that if you open your heart to friendship and goodwill, then those very tokens of a happy life will dare to enter your heart and life! Unbeckoned.

The foray into this medium of communication has given me the confidence to voice, what I would have thought, some very juvenile concepts of mine. I was able to hang these out to air with full view of those who passed by. As for those who wanted to say a thing or two, I had made a decision to accept their comments with the spirit they deserve. I found that it helps if you tell yourself that these comments are to be taken at face value and not analysed. (You do see the word ‘anal’ in analyse, eh? Hehehe)

And now I am back..... older, wiser and definitely busier. Hasta la vista! Baybeeee~

The Swagger Back Into The Blogworld?

2009-01-17T19:57:00.003+08:00

Yesterday an old friend sent me a twitter request. I should thank him.

His request set in motion many small but important stuff that I had procrastinated! For starters, my blog has been rekindled. I spent almost half a day battling with both the Google team and the Blogger team to retrieve my username and the password that goes with it.

Obviously I had opened several accounts and had allowed bits of me to scatter all over the Internet which took some serious sleuthing to bring it all together. *Phew*

So I guess that means back to business, eh? No more excuses for not posting at least once a week and more importantly no more excuses for not adding my comments to taint others' blogs!

I do hope therefore that 2009 means I can swagger back into the blog world and try and rub shoulders with some of the elites! Those prolific wordsmiths who I note have become precocious as well as sophisticated, moving on and moving up, byte-ing their thoughts with gusto.

Here is wishing my 4.5 readers a grand 2009 and may the Almighty shower his blessings on you and yours.

Goodbye Jaya

2006-06-06T03:49:00.001+08:00

With all the frankness I am capable of, I can say that I am glad that her end has come. I have often in my lonely moments thought about her life and asked many questions (even to this day) to which I hardly ever find the answers that I seek...the justification to what she is/was going through.. and yet we have no choice but to accept what life throws at us.

I wondered if she asked the same questions. Can you imagine what must have gone through her tired mind for days and weeks and months and years.... do you think she prayed for a miracle like we did? This prayer for a miracle is within each one of us and I used up one when I prayed for my dad and lost him almost a decade ago. I prayed for one when I visited Jaya...I think this prayer for a miracle happens because of a certain desperation and love and I felt both of these for Jaya.....

She gave us a chance to re-unite and she must have rejoiced in our happiness when we re-discovered our friendship. I know this for certain because I know things always happen for a reason.. and she gave us a good reason...a starting point to rekindle the beautiful feelings of friendship and love and loyalty we hold for each other.

We all face death....when our loved ones depart...father, mother, aunt, grandma, grandpa, uncle....and while something in us dies when we say our final goodbyes we also know time is a great healer and the pain becomes distant and life goes on...

When our contemporaries die, we know that it can't be too long before it's our turn. I am not saying this to evoke a sense of morbidity, but really so that we cherish whatever we have left...of people, places and events. In the big picture, unless you are a Einstein or a Gandhi, we are not going to alter history or discover something that leaves a mark on mankind, but I know for a fact that we are important to those who are important to us. There is much truth and beauty in this.

We live our lives for these important people as much as we live for ourselves....our own pursuits (of which I have almost none!), our own interests (which remains an interest only if it coincides with our loved ones) and our own desires (which often we can't define!) and at the end of the day, if we don't get a nobel prize what the hell difference does it make...ya? because we have surrounded ourselves with people we love...

And friends.... life wouldn't be worth much if we didnt have them ... they multiply and magnify the joys in our lives. They are our mirrors and our shock absorbers, our spongebeags or truthmonsters .....

Dearest Jaya, may your eternal journey start with offerings of our love, our sincere wishes for everlasting happiness and with a promise that we meet somewhere sometime..thank you for touching our lives...

My Grandpa and Goodbye

2006-03-29T13:27:00.000+08:00

Goodbye is such a temporary word. The soul doesn't adhere to it and the mind plays games with it. When you're young you think you can leave places and people, but later, much later, you know you never can and never did. All you did was played with time and space.

How often have you said goodbye to some one who had died several years ago only to find him or her come upon you at breakfast one fine morning? How often have you said goodbye to a friend when your paths had diverged and you had parted company, only to find that you have never really left him or her behind? For that matter, how often have you kissed a situation goodbye but it keeps playing over and over again in your head? In fact it would seem that the more determined you are to walk away from it all the more obsessive these thoughts and remembrances become. We carry the baggage ever so carefully, keeping it out of sight and pretend that it is gone. Forgotten. But is it ever deleted like the pixels on your screen, leaving no trace behind? I have discovered that nothing is ever deleted with any finality in life. Perhaps that IS the true essence of life….

Yesterday I went shopping to pick fittings for my new spa-bath for my newly renovated home and suddenly my late grandfather’s words kept ringing in my head - “Always purchase things that you need and never go for opulence.”

“Please Grandpa, how about a tad of luxury? I work damn hard and I want a dozen jets needling me at various shiatsu points, stimulating my rather protoplasmic body mass and if possible set my chi spots vibrating like a Harley Davidson’s twelve stroke engine in the midst of a thick Burmese jungle track.” You think he heard me?

My grandfather (bless his soul) had a tremendous impact on me. Although a lot of my behavioural patterns were in defiance of his authority I think the area where he had the greatest impact was my thinking. He sits there, right between my two visible eyes, smack on where my Third Eye would be if I had been spiritual enough to have ‘opened’ it through consistent yogic meditation or regular tantric sex. But as it is, for lack of both of these, Grandpa is my Third Eye and sees all. He still dictates the way I dress (with cleavage revealed or not), the way I style my hair, (highlighters and all), or the way I sit cross-legged on a highchair (especially with side-slits going all the way up to my thighs). But all of these are the smaller remnant memories which were basically the outpourings of our love-hate relationship.

The most profound of all Grandpa’s intrusion in my present day life is when I have to make decisions, both momentous and trivial ones. While he was alive and kicking we were often on collision courses and I would habitually wallow in misery and anguish for days on end when I felt that my freedom and spontaneity were curtailed for no good reason. In retrospect it was the healthiest thing he ever thought me – to trample the mind’s terrain turning it inside out, exposing the entrails of purpose, agenda, self-interest, common good and objective, before arriving at a decision. He cut my impulses in half, nay, into a million pieces and made me ponder and ruminate grudgingly before I would act on them. He definitely added another dimension to my angst and I would fume that much more and fret that much worse. Expletives too, often borrowed from the white man, would decorate my angry thinking. I felt glad he never understood these words because he was a Tamil scholar and had little use for English. But hindsight does what it is meant to do and I know Grandpa gave me many an important lesson.

Now that he is no more, I sometimes feel like a ship without a steady rudder - for a good while when decisions have to be made. Then I come home with not only a steely rudder but anchor steadfastly, feet resting decisively on solid ground. Thank you, Grandpa.

For example, yesterday when I eyed the Villeroy Boch bath suite with the slimmest of gold trimmings, I closed my eyes and imagined myself luxuriating in warm lavender scented water strewn with soft petals…then I woke up rudely to Grandpa’s peering gaze reflected in the gold trimmed wall-sized beveled Italian smoke-finished mirror. My Third Eye is a sore point, I tell you!

Grandpa was very down to earth and always reminded us that opulence was for the ‘select few’. He never ridiculed or showed disdain but said it like as if he was stating Newton’s First Law of Motion. “For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction”. His messages were loud and clear and very relevant no matter how you looked at it. For example – “Your hard earned money could and should be put to better use.” Ah! Of course.

And so whether it is syphonic, or wash down or a healthy mixture of both ‘movements’ ( the salesgirl said ‘movement’ like as if she was talking about the revered workings of a Rolex timepiece) I decided that I wasn’t going to put hubby’s hard-earned bucks on a toilet device, the water closet, where the family’s bowel deposits were to be made, even if sh*t-gazing is considered an avant garde art form in some crazy, idiosyncratic circles. No matter how well-formed, it is still going down the tube, right?

I so miss Grandpa and it is definitely a good time to remember him. Do you know that a three-in-one could cost anything between eighty to a hundred and fifty grand? I ain’t talking about an exotic orgy experience replete with a Jamaican stud and a Thai beauty but about a whirlpool-cum-steambath-cum shower. (Excuse me for the ‘cum’ used in such close proximity with orgy and whirlpool but I don’t know of any substitute word).

Recording devices weren’t really omnipresent in those good old rubber-estate days and I can’t recall Grandpa’s voice anymore after some twenty years or so. But I can say confidently that the distant memory evokes images from an image bank you think you have long misplaced or forgotten. I so miss Grandpa. My eyes mist when I recall how he would stand by my desk and make me recite by rote the simple holy verses every morning without fail. I used to feel rebellious and would insist with so much controlled anger that I will learn all of it in my own time. I would even sneer at him saying that memorizing them wasn’t going to make me a better person. Of course, I NEVER uttered any of these angry retorts to his face although I learnt the verses and how to chant them with a certain intonation. I was too timid and woefully shy of not only my grandfather but also most people. The words meant for him would run livid with angry emotions in some corner of my brain, like weeds in an untended corner of a wild, verdant garden. Yes, this corner of my brain was untended for a very long time and poor Grandpa must never know all the things that ‘grew’ like wild lallang there.

In actual fact Grandpa was none the wiser for the turbulent thoughts I had harboured. It is poor me because today I squirm and agonize at what horrid a person I was with Grandpa. How absolutely unappreciative and so wrong. Why was I such blustering fool? And you know what aches most? That I never made my peace with him. So now I suffer my past juvenile behaviour and ill manners, often stoically, wishing that I had made my peace with Grandpa before he had passed away when his kidneys had failed him.

Well, I did go to see him when he was very ill but I just couldn’t get myself to say anything. How could I when his glazed eyes looked at me beseechingly trying to explain why he had been with me the way he had been. I could see he wanted to make peace because he knew that years later I would be the one to suffer. He knew too well that I would be the one who would be tormented by memories and of a goodbye that wasn’t said properly. Oh Grandpa! Why wasn’t I wiser? Silly stupid me!

But you know what, my Grandpa has never really left me. That has been one of the most healing discoveries I have made over the last couple of years. He has become a living presence, a presence I used to think that the dead can’t be! My Grandpa is definitely more alive in me and my life today than he ever was. Funny, how we think we can measure the nature of our hearts and shape our life according to what we want, but in actual fact we are a mystery unto ourselves. And I am thankful for this mystery for it brings my Grandpa closer to me now than he ever was.

Although I was a full fledged adult by the time Grandpa died, I was never strong enough to accept him fully then. I chose and picked what I wanted to see and feel and dismissed other aspects of him, editing my experiences of our life together. But today I feel a generosity of spirit towards him that never seemed to have been there when we shared the same home during his last years. Sometimes I used to find his presence downright irritating and I had often wished he would go away and live with my other aunts or uncle. I am so ashamed by this.

Among so many other things he did for me, Grandpa tried hard to cultivate in me a love for Tamil literature and language which I had foolishly resisted. I still remember how he would make me sit cross-legged on the cement floor in the living room of the big white-washed estate house, staring moodily at shelves lined with Tamil books, and take dictation. It was a daily ritual and as he corrected my mistakes he would explain the rudiments of Tamil grammar and literature. Today they ring so clearly in my ears and I want very much for him to sit by me and read with me the wonderful epic Silappathikaram. I want so badly for him to help me understand the nuances of the verses that tell the story of Kovalan and Kannagi, told by Elango Adigal almost a millennium ago (between 100 – 500AD). I can still remember how that magnificent book stood proudly on the top shelf of Grandpa’s bookshelf. It is now on my nightstand and every now and then when a strange sentimentality knocks at my heart, I turn its pages and think of Grandpa.

I have lost the best teacher in the whole wide world and it pains me deeply that I had not appreciated what Grandpa was trying to give me. Still, I had grudgingly boasted to my friends at school that my Grandpa was the best storyteller in all land and had felt mighty smug about it.

The fact his, when I was beginning to feel the stirrings of passion in my heart and corresponding warmth in my body, Grandpa seemed like a dictator telling me what I should and should not feel. He disapproved of every guy who showed some sort of interest in me (although I never was interested in any of them). I allowed a certain kind of anger to simmer and boil over. I never understood why he felt so cloyingly protective over me. I should have because one of his daughters, my aunt S, messed up her life when she married a useless man whom my Grandpa had seen right through and had disapproved. But I had rebelled with much hatred, often with my body producing greenish-yellow bile that brought so much distaste, both organically and otherwise!

I flew away from the nest, off to college in another city, another country, far far away from Grandpa and thought how wonderful life had become. To be away from his watchful eyes and live my own life the way I wanted to, brought a certain kind of euphoria. But the irony is he followed me there too, in ways I had challenged and lost. The letters would arrive with regular reminders on what was important in life and how I should let both time and space add perspective to my impulsive wants and desires. Decisions, he said must always be well thought out. Yes Grandpa, I never forgot those even when I tried to forget you!

When I came back after my studies, met a wonderful man and promptly married I assumed Grandpa would disapprove anyway. So I stayed out of his life and made sure he was out of mine too. In retrospect, that was a disturbing period for me, a period mixed with happiness but laced generously with a wistful sadness I refuse to analyze and understand. I would cringe inwardly every time I had a family member visit me and give me some sad news about Grandpa. And for that terrible shortcoming, I carried the grief of Grandpa’s death secretly with me for a long, long time. Ever so often it would reach me in the stillness of a twilight day and spread over me, blanketing my sleep for that night. I cried soft sad tears into my pillow and begged for forgiveness. Forgiveness from all of my uncaring deeds. In the morning I felt better until the next time it happened……

“People come alive within us after they die with all their selves, all their open and hidden aspects, rather than just the selves we tried carefully to select as they lived.”

I read this somewhere and those deep and timely words liberated me. From that time onwards I started to remember Grandpa, not as a tyrant who tried to spoil my childhood and teenage years with a regimentation I baulked at, but as a man with qualities I admire in a good man. Because he was a very good man - by any stringent standard that anyone would define goodness.

While he had been alive, I had shut out aspects of our own lives, facets of his personality, times when he manifested his good side; but dead now, he seems to have given me chance to see him better, the complete Grandpa. He even helps me enter parts of me that I have never known about and I feel a benevolence that makes me smile more than shed sorry tears. In fact some of the worst memories are now passageways into parts of me that I hadn't been able to enter.

Now I know that my Grandpa was a man of considerable charm and intelligence and humor and grace. What I experienced with him and the qualities I mentioned seemed utterly apart then, but I know now that it is possible to have all these qualities and yet not reflect them in your behaviour with certain people for any number of reasons.

These days I smile a lot and remember kindly whatever Grandpa had wanted to teach me. Finally I have become a good student I should think and I know he will be proud of me. Logically you can think there is no afterlife and that once your loved one is dead they are gone from your life forever, but I insist on the contrary. Like my Grandpa, they are never out of your life. In fact, far from it, they are just a heartbeat away. I bet my Grandpa can hear me for he speaks to me even when I don’t want his comments.

“Just go with the rainshower, Maya.”

“Yes Grandpa, I thought of that too,” I tell him. Once when I would vehemently disagree with almost anything he had to say, today ‘we’ speak with one voice……

I love you Grandpa. You live with me and mine with a vividness that encompasses all the paradoxes of our lives both past and future. The present is beautiful because you are here now and I thank you with all my heart. I will always know that there will be no goodbye between us, ever.

2006-02-21T09:59:00.001+08:00

Just to let you know…..

(part 1)

When the sounds of morning rustle my gentle sleep
And I smell the whiff of fresh brewed coffee
I wake with a smile on my lips
And wonder if I should let me be so happy
Thinking of you, because
My lonely heart yearns for you

The soft music playing in the background
Makes my heart quiver with renewed ardour
And time must stand still so this potent bliss can last forever
To greet serenely this warmth which glows from within
And while making me smile, it also makes me weep……
I love you my darling

When the chirp of the birds steal into my thoughts
And the sunlight washes over hills and rooftops
The splendid beauty of this early morning walk
Cannot compete with the love I feel for you
And from the pit of my soul I cry, because
My lonely heart yearns for you

We surely met on an auspicious day in a vulnerable space
Talked with love and longing about nothing that mattered
And yet the distance was bridged like a lover's embrace
I saw two eager hands that came together
To feel the warmth and passion which the hearts sang ……..
I love you my darling

Last night the footsteps behind me made me turn
Only to find it wasn’t what I imagined
It was so real I felt your breath and my skin blushed
As you placed a warm kiss on my nape
Oh! if only I could be in your arms, because
My lonely heart yearns for you

When you said that we love because nothing matters
How right that sounded and how honest and true
The magic that weaves a spell in me for you
Caress my thoughts and there is a sweet murmur in my heart
I want to live and die for you, this is no simple threat ……
I love you my darling

You can write a letter to proclaim to the whole world
Or you can write a story to tell everyone
But the only words you can truly hide behind
Are the moving verses I write with all my love
Like a prayer whispered within a scream, because
My lonely heart yearns for you

I remember the times when we linked our hands
Looking for a word to say the right thing
And I smiled when it was all wrong
Because it wasn’t about words but the feelings you stirred deep within
And the way your eyes always said the words in my heart .......
I love you my darling

When the TV is on but the sound is gone
And the man takes his woman in his arms and kisses her
I wish your lips could taste mine in much the same way
Promise me that the heat of the moment will feed my eternal passion
Smouldering like red hot coal but without embers for any day
My lonely heart yearns for you………….

....(more)

The Innocent Children

2005-12-21T00:14:00.001+08:00

Over the last couple of weeks whenever I surf the Internet I kept going back to topics on children to read on things that have been at the back of my mind, often troubling me. The disturbing thoughts surface at unexpected moments. I guess those photos that were sent to me earlier in the month didn't stop haunting me and so every time I wanted to pick a topic to read it had to be about 'misused' and abused children. And from all that reading …..

I cannot believe that we have mega-billion dollar budgets for all kinds of expenditure, from space exploration to meteorology, but children and the issues that threaten them are ignored with shameful zeal. At other times we do seem to show some kind of concern but the commitment seem to be lacking and both the intent and purpose in carrying out any of programmes promised to them during some lofty conference or governmental blue print end up being a sham.

One particular topic that shocked me was how children became involved in armed conflicts throughout the world. I felt incensed that the BIG countries that were supposed to be guardians of the world citizens and responsible to correct the ills of society were the very countries that regularly worsened the plight of children and didn’t seem to give a damn about them. It pains me to realize that even after a good decade later; after meticulous studies have been conducted and reports filed, we haven’t gotten any better in addressing the outrageous treatment of children and shoved aside whatever resolutions had been charted out by specialists or specilaist organisations.

And guess who is pussy-footing around the issues? Yes, it is the BIG countries that have all the bucks in the world but seem more focused than ever in impoverishing others and not ever minding about the children. They are the big spenders, spending billions of dollars on arms and weapons and for all the rhetoric, never a moment’s thought is given to children in the very countries they are messing with. Oh yea, they do seem to formulate several well-meaning programmes to get the children off the streets and all that but what happens to PREVENTING the situation? As in saying NO to war and armed conflict? Doesn’t that make more sense? Why screw up a good thing? Why put innocent children through so much deprivation, waste and disease? The reason as some of us are aware is rather obvious. Big money. The weapons industry is a multi-billion dollar industry feeding the greedy amongst us.

Yes I am incensed.

Millions of children are caught up in conflicts in which they are targets. They suffer all kinds of violence or are exposed to hunger and disease. In the past ten years an estimated two million children have been killed in armed conflict. Three times as many have been seriously injured or permanently disabled. They have been mercilessly slaughtered, raped, maimed, abused and exploited.

While the customs and rules of warfare among people in the past generations made it a taboo to attack woman and children, the picture is different now. In those days soldiers fought amongst soldiers in battlefields, but now armed conflicts are in the open streets and targeting civilians.

According to a study, the proportions of war victims who are civilians has leaped from a mere 5 % to over 90% over the last decade. And children have become targets as well as perpetrators of horrific violence and atrocities. In 1995, 30 major armed conflicts raged in different parts of the world and most of these wars have not stopped completely. Persistent economic, social and political crises have brought about the lack of public order.

The collapse of governments, the power struggles between opposing groups and fights among factions split along ethnic, cultural and religious lines are causing widespread civil unrest. The armed conflicts drag on for years with no beginning or end and they subject successive generations to endless struggles for survival. Children are definite victims.

Child soldiers are recruited in many different ways. Some are conscripted while others are kidnapped and still others are forced to join armed groups to defend their families. Governments in a few countries legally conscript children under 18. (In accordance with the Convention on the Rights of the Child, the term ‘child’ is to include everyone under the age of 18.) However, even where the legal minimum age is 18, the law is not necessarily a safeguard because birth registration is not accurate or non-existent.

In addition to being forcibly recruited, youth also present themselves for service. They may be driven by any of several factors including cultural, social, economic or political pressures. One of the most basic reasons that children join armed groups is economic. Children believe that this could be the only way to guarantee regular meals, clothing or medical attention. Also, hunger and poverty drive parents to offer their children for service where armies pay a minor soldier’s wages directly to the family.

In regions where war of conflicts have been going on for a long time, educational opportunities become more limited or even non-existent. The recruits tend to get younger and younger. Armies begin to exhaust the supplies of adult manpower and children may have little option but to join.

Some children become soldiers for their own protection. Faced with violence and chaos all around, they decide they are safer with guns in their own hands. Guns also mean power and the ability to get what they want. Another reason is the lure of ideology. This is particularly strong in early adolescence when young people are developing personal identities and searching for a sense of social meaning. They may also identify with the fight for social causes, religious expression, self-determination or national liberation.

The use of children as soldiers has been made easy by the abundance of weapons that are both light and cheap. Guns nowadays are so light that children can easily carry them about and are so simple that they can be stripped and reassembled by a child of ten. Even the poorest communities now have access to deadly weapons. For example, in Uganda an AK-47 automatic machine gun can be purchased for the cost of a chicken and in northern Kenya it can be bought for the price of a goat.

When not directly involved with handling weapons and killing, children serve in armies as cooks, porters, messengers and spies. Some commanders prefer children because they are more obedient do not question orders and are easier to manipulate than adult soldiers. Children are also used for household and other routine duties. In many regions children have done guard duty, worked in gardens, hunted for wild fruits and vegetables and looted food from granaries. Girls are often used to prepare food, attend to the wounded and wash clothes. They are also used to provide sexual services.

The fearlessness of the children is further exploited by sending them on suicide missions, sometimes by plying them with alcohol or drugs. In many countries children have been forced to commit atrocities against their own families and communities. This is done to deliberately expose them to violence and desensitize them so that acts of violence become natural to them.

Often the uncalled for attacks on civilians in certain regions have caused mass exodus and displacement of huge numbers of people. They flee conflict areas in search of sanctuaries. At the beginning of the 1980s there were 5.7 million refugees worldwide but today the number has increased to 27.4 million. The number of internally displaced people (those who have not crossed borders) has increased tremendously and stand at 30 million.

At least half of all refugees and displaced people are children. At a crucial time in their lives these children are uprooted and exposed to danger and insecurity. Their temporary homes or camps are places that further subject them to violence, uncertainty and fear. There is high mortality and children die of diseases like cholera, malaria, tuberculosis and even malnutrition.

Sexual exploitation continues and sexually transmitted diseases and HIV/AIDS continue to affect the health of children. It is estimated that 60 to 70 % of the child victims of prostitution are HIV positive. Many adolescents who have gone through the effects of armed conflict are pessimistic, depressed and even think of suicide.

When the war and armed conflict is over are these children (those who miraculously survive the horrible events) able to go back to a normal life? If, after all that they have been through, they do escape the threats of danger and devastation, do they not need to regain their health, self-respect and dignity. Can they? The children have to reintegrate socially, reunite with their families (if they are lucky), get an education and start life afresh. And most important of all, they must forget or learn to deal with the nightmares of the conflict days that will continue to haunt them.

And now knowing all these are we ever going to force the Uncaring and Abusers out of business?

*SIGH*

A Sad Story

2005-12-18T16:19:00.002+08:00

Today we went for a short Christmas gathering at a nursing home in Titiwangsa, Kuala Lumpur. It was a very poignant moment for my friends amd me but we maintained the Christmas cheer. Let me tell you a story.

My alma mater is Father Barre’s Convent, Sungai Petani. It is a wonderful school that brought a group of wonderful girls in the 1960s together. And the girls, having passed through its fields, corridors, and classrooms, have never forgotten the time they spent there.

If ever a school served as a backdrop to start relationships that have come to stand the test of time, it is this special school. And the school is only as special as the people who had passed through it - my batch of girls!

Amazingly after a lapse of almost three decades, where each one of us tried to grab at our individual destinies, we are now back to reconnecting and enjoying each other’s company and relishing every minute of it.

While we were trying to analyse which one of us contributed the most to this reunion, not in any competitive fashion, but in the great spirit of camaraderie that we were all into now, Sheila very generously said it was me, or rather what I had written to all the girls in our group after a very special visit to one of our classmates.

This classmate is none other than Dr Jayaswari or Jaya to us, who today lies in a shocking vegetative state in a nursing home in Kuala Lumpur. On the 27 April 2005, a couple of us classmates decided to visit Jaya. I had heard that she was bedridden but I wasn’t prepared for what was in store. When I came back home I needed therapy and mine had become writing. So I wrote an email to whoever was in the group at that time. (There were not many, maybe just about five of us at that point.) Perhaps this letter highlighted the spirit of Jaya and that’s holding us all together in a bond that defies definition. We are all so separate with our own lives and yet we are so united and close with each other. Maybe that email did bring us together. Our group is now almost twenty wonderful ladies!

This is the email.

Dear Friends,

I am compelled to write on Jaya. What I remember of her is that she was a fairly tall, lanky girl of about 5'6", dusky-complexioned and meticulous in her school work. I don't know if she knew me well enough to remember me after these years, like the way I remember her. But that is surely academic now.

Can she even remember the minute that just left her? Can she remember the day she gained admission into medical school? Surely that must have pleased her enormously. Everyone I knew then wanted to be a doctor if the parents could manage it and I am quite sure she must have been delighted to have been able to start her dream. And five years later when she became a qualified doctor I am certain she must have started in earnest to practice what she had learnt. I have no doubt Jaya must have cured many and took pleasure in doing her job well and thoroughly. Unfortunately I don't know the details because like most of us, I lost touch but I am assuming she did well in her career. She must have for God must have known her cruel fate and allowed her that pleasure at least.

When Jaya married and begot her first darling son, her life must have seemed complete. Isn't that the way with us mothers? From that point most other things become secondary. The children anchor us, make our spirits soar and our hearts happy. We fight their battles subtly and often become proxies, standing up for them when they want to absent from life's difficult patches. We give them the sanctuary they need and embrace them, not so much to pleasure them as much as to please ourselves. And I bet it was that way with Jaya and her son. I hear he is seventeen now - a young man whom she must be proud of.

While Jaya must be suffering in silence for the things she can't say to him or perform for him, he must too in his young heart yearn for the love of his mother. I wonder if there is anything we can do for him.

Jaya looks well-cared for in the nursing home but her cheeks were sunken and her sight lost, or maybe searching. But the size of her body shocked me most. She must be a mere 50 lbs or so and I imagine this wasting must have been slow -five years and still going on.

Yes, the ‘whys’ are not going to find any easy answers, in fact, no answers at all. I wonder if she thinks in circles asking the same questions that are on the lips of all her visitors or if she has accepted her condition and thinks of a far away world where she is doing happy things with her family, particularly her son.

Does a mother’s dream die when she can't attend to her son? When she is not by his side nagging him to finish his breakfast cereal or besieging him to ride his bicycle slower? No, I don't think so. A mother's dreams for her children have no melody or lyrics save the exceptionally sweet flavour of her spiritual chant which hum in her heart and stray into her prayers every time she gets a recess to think of a future - a future where her child is happy, cared for and loved. I am certain that is the case with Jaya. I am so terribly sad for the words she can't say to the world, to her family and especially to her only child, her son.

I am so sad that because she can't say these words, she may have been dismissed from the life of the people who mean most to her. I am so terribly sad that the mother in her must be beating itself so hard that it bleeds, to get out, get up and embrace her son and pour her heart out and wet his cheeks with her tears....

Do you think she feels hopeful now that we are back in her life? Do you think she is willing us to think for her? My eyes mist thinking about all of this. It is very cruel. This helplessness, at what little we can do for her while she may be waging a tremendous battle within her, makes me weep. I know in the vastness of the universe and in the general scheme of things we are nothing. And perhaps that’s the kinder of thoughts because the impotency seems justified, for in all honesty what can we do? Hope. Such a big word and then I feel a certain anger. Hope - it seems the biggest hoax-word of all.

Five years is a long time for Jaya to be stilled in life, and I think physiologically a lot of what has happened may be irreversible. And so with thoughts of what we, I, can actually do for her, I go to bed, with a question or two in my mind for Him. I hope Jaya at least has a good night's rest for tomorrow will tire her again because her day works on her and the endlessness of it all must surely weigh on her mind. Yes, her mind - wherever that is. It is so very sad. – K

After this, many of us re-connected and Jaya seemed to be the common topic of our conversations. Now, after several months, we don’t talk as much about her but we feel her spirit and almost always are making plans to visit her. We can’t seem to do much outwardly for her and we always feel helpless and sad when we leave but we hope that our renewed friendship will crack her silence and by some miracle she recovers. Yes, we are definitely hoping for a miracle. When Loke Yen visited her for the first time with a lovely bouquet she responded by turing her head around and when Poh Aun came to see her all the way from Australia she moved her head and grunted aggressively as if she was trying to say something.

The classmates from Father Barre’s Convent are a rare find and if nothing else comes out of our meetings, where we discover truly amazing things about each other, we at least know that in this vast world there is plenty of room and opportunity for people to renew the love, respect and friendship that was once within our hearts. We just need to make an effort and we are enriched beyond words for that effort.

Dear God, please do bring back our Jaya. We need her to complete the circle which she was hugely responsible to start.

My Cousin and the Engineer

2005-12-08T09:49:00.000+08:00

Recently my cousin B was engaged to be married and she called me to express a certain doubt.

“An engineer? What kind of a husband would an engineer make? Remember that first guy I had a MAJOR crush on; he went off to become an engineer. I still remember how ruthlessly he broke my heart, dumped me and married that b*. He was brilliant and sofuckinghandsome then. Rumour has it that he is now going places and still is sofuckinghandsome. Why hasn’t he gone bald and beer-bellied? (My cousin B doesn’t normally use four letter words but I guess she must have been more hurt than she had us believe then - almost eight years ago.) I remember how he took my heart apart, meticulously, like a highly reputed cardio-surgeon; the left auricle, then the right, then the right ventricle followed by the left and finally bled me via the aorta until I was left inches off my dear life….*shudder* (My cousin is also prone to exaggeration). Yes, I hate engineers with a passion and now to marry one? (Her parents have more or less formalized an 'arranged marriage' for her). IS the whole world ganging up on me!”

Of course not. I said, “ No! The whole world has bigger problems than you or proving one way or other your unproven passionate dislike of engineers.”

In fact I told her that engineers make the most faithful husbands. I read this somewhere, in a survey, perhaps even in the definitive journal, Scientific America.

"That’s quite an authority, " I tried to convinced her.

“Look, even I followed their advice. Decades ago it was the very same journal which convinced me that if I wanted to laugh at myself all my life (I was big on laughter then) I should marry a politician. Which, as you know, I eventually did!”

She appeared calm and very collected, like a lull before the storm. I cautiously pushed a little further. “ You are an accountant and bah! look at yourself. Only figures entice you…five, six or seven digits all in a row. If you were a man you would be a disgusting slut, thinking about figures all day. Figures or numbers! You do know that people say accountants don’t read novels because the only numbers in them are the page numbers. Get real B. Accountants are boring people, so if an engineer is interested in making an honest woman of you, be grateful,” I said sweetly.

She was quiet for longer than I had hoped for, like she was contemplating a take-over strategy or a much wanted merger and I was eagerly awaiting a response so that I could continue with the two hundred reasons why she should marry now, and marry an engineer at that too.

“It is not going to work,” she told me shakily. "If I am boring how can I marry an engineer? What kind of life will that be? What will we…er…I mean I be doing for excitement? They aren’t exactly exciting people. Look at Uncle P, for example. He thinks walking into the house with a big bouquet on his wife’s 50th birthday is a manouver worthy of applause. He even hugs her with a technical presision. There is always a method to be followed, a process to be taken step by step as stated in the manual. Can engineers even do IT without referring to a book!” Ah!! the IT word I thought and I took the challenge.

“Well, engineers could possibly do IT better than most other professionals. Consider this - they would worry about angles and thrust, pressure techniques and launching pads, friction and lubrication and after a couple of times would have perfected the best approach. Most other professionals, err generally most men even, think they are born with more than enough skills and wouldn’t even bother to acquire any degree of finesse. Not even after a lifetime!” I replied with as much of a straight face as I could muster.

It was no use. Here I was talking about how great the sex could be and there she was seething, like I am ridiculing her prospective husband already. I should try another approach I had thought.

“Look B, engineers are good people. They are straight thinkers and don’t do the hanky panky stuff that doctors and lawyers are planning even while they are playing heavenly charmers. The bottom line, B - they are faithful. Their brains are wired so very differently that soon it becomes part of their genetic makeup and they start producing little engineers who will grow up to be dependable adults. Don’t you want that?” I asked, becoming confidently authoritative.

I reminded her of a joke I had heard recently.

An engineering student is walking along when a fellow student arrives on a new bicycle. Impressed, he asks, "Where did you get this beautiful bicycle?"

"Well," the second engineering student says, "A couple of days ago I was just walking along when this gorgeous blonde pulls up, hops off the bike, rips off all her clothes, and says 'take what you want'."

The other engineering student nods and says "Good choice. The clothes probably wouldn't have fit."

Imagine the hottie wasn’t even an option. Now tell me how many guys you know would have gone for the bicycle AND have similar-thinking engineer friends who would agree that the bike was a better option than the hottie’s clothes and nary a thought to the hottie herself?!

“B, if that doesn’t convince you, frankly I don’t know what else will,” I added.

B said she was grateful for my convincing but she wasn’t one hundred percent sure. Before we ended the conversation I just thought it was only fair if I cited at least one con factor as against all the pros I had stated. I said there is a mild possibility that being who they are, engineers in general have a fascination for imperfections. Their philosophy in life is very simple – that all matter in the universe can be placed into one of two categories: (1) things that need to be fixed, and (2) things that will need to be fixed after you've had a few minutes to play with them.

"So he has probably agreed to marry you because he saw the imperfections and thought how much fun he was going to have fixing them," I added, again with a very straight face.

Of course B was aghast. An accountant, imperfect? B had imperfections which needed another person to fix? An engineer at that? She was appalled.

“Look B, at least he didn’t turn away and already feels committed enough to stand by you and make it work. I rest my case."

Personally I have a thing for engineers, a good thing that is. Not the bad kind that could translate into a romp in the hay. No never that. I have the politician husband for that and you do know, that going by rumours alone, what a romp that can be!

Afterall normal people always walk away from most things in life thinking that if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it BUT it is only the dear engineers who believe that if it ain't broke, it doesn't have enough features yet. :)

Disclaimer: Any engineer (probably only Dena, if she found out abt this entry), who reads this entry kindly note that I am not an authority on engineers. Opinions expressed here are my own parochial views and, sure by all means you can and shall disagree with anything at all that I have said.

My Teary Vision

2005-12-01T19:09:00.000+08:00

Early this morning I was doing my usual mailcheck and I received two sets of pictures from someone I don’t know. It touched me so deeply that I sat crying before my computer. It wasn’t the big cry that we give ourselves when things we want didn’t happen or happened in a completely different way, or when the one we love desperately walks away from us or when we face the death of our friends and family.

No, I cried silently, very silently. Drops of tears escaped reluctantly and streamed down my cheeks. Before I knew it was torrents and I was sniffing quietly. I started to type anyway, through the hazy vision of my teary eyes. Tell me, won’t you after you see these…?

We have so much to be thankful for and yet we find so many faults, we mourn and bitch and grumble and say acrimonious things to people who are humble and kind. We celebrate the wrong things and shun the good stuff. We are so busy perfecting ourselves in an image which becomes more irrelevant with each passing day. As Longfellow said - in our march towards death, for thats where we are all headed. Yet why don't we find the time to engage in doing something for a single soul who really and truly needs a single stroke of effort from us...... *sigh*.

Perhaps its the morning hour that makes me all preachy. I am, afterall for all purposes of right and wrong, a part of this world gone blase' ....... insensitive and spoilt.

It is true, I sit in the comfort of my warm study and wish that I could look every inch like Cindy Crawford... that I can spend my time reading the great literary works of all times and become a great writer... that my children will become successful with good careers and better homes and happy families. These are not wrong and wishing and wanting them makes me the average good person. I am sure of it, like I am sure of the mountain ridge which I can see every morning when I go for my walk. That magnificent chipped edge of the mountain which forms the bulwark of the Klang Gates dam.

But I want to champion causes too. Causes that I can be proud of in the quietness of my room, not in the adulation of others. And I want my friends in on it too. It is also true that I don’t have to worry where my next bowl of rice is coming from but if I look at these pictures and something inside me doesn’t resonate than I am more dead than the dead. I am sure of that too.

My Kid Messes With My Space

2005-08-28T22:33:00.000+08:00

He was running a fever and to amuse him I showed him my blog and told him specifically, "Do not attempt to meddle with it." Yea, I should have known better because Nana reacts to Do Nots the way most kids his age do. Like all 12 year-olds he is precocious and defying instructions is what works for him. But you know what, I let him get away with it, and on occasions when he is sick he gets away with murder too .......

I Went To A Funeral

2005-05-12T20:53:00.000+08:00

So I went to a funeral. Attending this one was of no significance to me. I have never known or met the deceased and wouldn’t know her from Jane. Then why did I go? Well, because hubby insisted and he said because all the other wives were going. Oh God, how I hate this ‘because all the other wives….’ reason!

I grumbled and almost threw a tantrum but eventually obeyed and went under protest. I had very good reasons for not wanting to go. First and foremost, the husband of the deceased was someone I disliked. I had sensed he was the insincere and malicious type. Sometime later I came to know that he had done and said things to undermine hubby while pretending to be supportive of him in his presence. It only proved once again that I was and am always right!

I am contemptuous of people like him but hubby seemed to have forgiven him and I couldn’t. No, I am not generally a vengeful person but perhaps this is due to the fact I meet more genuine people than hubby does and after a while his ‘tolerance levels’ must have upped to limits I couldn’t understand or fathom, while my remained the mean accepted standard for normal people.

My second reason was, my knee. I had stopped playing badminton with regularity since my knee had started to trouble me. How the hell was I going to sit cross-legged for about an hour or two on the marble floor, even if it was carpeted? I wasn't family to slip into some area where I could find a chair or stool. I didn’t want to sit or stand with the men outside the hall and I certainly didn't want to make an announcement and ask for some sort of special treatment. Third, I had some very pressing deadlines to meet. And fourth, I might not meet anyone I know and would have to do with my own silent company. Not that this is a big problem because I am quite adept at amusing myself and am very comfortable with my own company even in big crowds. The agreeable level of comfort amidst alien crowds is something I have perfected over the years, first out of a need to overcome my shyness and then later to pleasure my mind during meaningless episodes in public life.

I sat there amidst the many, many ladies of various sizes and ages and there were enormous bouquets of white, yellow and even red flowers lining the walls of the entrance hall and living room. A big photograph of the deceased was on my right, with an oil lamp that was burning, and a teenage girl was keeping vigil that it didn’t run out of oil. Since I had no idea how the deceased looked I studied the portrait for a few moments. She had a huge bun that haloed her head. Her complexion was dusky and her features made her pretty in an unconventional way. The ruby necklace she wore with matching earstuds gave the impression she was wealthy. The red and gold sari complemented the look and I thought she must have been a woman who must have lived well.

“Why don’t I see you in a bun like that,” B asked quietly. I looked again at the picture. Perhaps that was the hairstyle in vogue when she took her picture, which I was sure, was taken several years ago. I wondered how I would look in something like that.

“No, not for me. I would look like a Tami School Inspectress. Don’t ask me why I think that, but that’s what I would look like,” I replied B.

My perception of me was that I was someone who would look good in anything sporty and trendy, not a matronly bun! Ya, I know I haven’t caught up with my age yet, especially in my perception of me.

“B, do remind me to have my picture taken at a good studio for such a purpose, you know, for display at my funeral. A photograph that could stand up to my own critical assessment before other people’s. Now would be a good time and age. What do you think?” I asked B.

B seemed a trifle perturbed, I thought. Perhaps next week I shall visit the studio and so made a mental note not wanting to depend on B’s reminder.

“Do you have to be morbid now?”

“What do you mean?” I challenged B. “After all this is a funeral and it isn’t as if I am thinking this up while at a wedding!”

More and more people were coming in as it neared the time for the burial.

One of my deepest delights in holidaying is sitting in a park, or bistro by the roadside, and watching people. Of course a funeral is not the same, but then I was not overcome with emotion nor feeling terribly sad and in all honesty watching the people kind of entertained me and kept my mind off the slow throbbing pain in my knee. I wondered why some of them dressed so colourfully. I know some of you might think that if you forced yourself to dress in black when you don't feel bleak that makes you a hypocrite, but surely there is something known as decorum. At least something sober? Like grays or browns?

If the attire was not important then why does one wear that Look of Loss? I could tell from where I sat that it was all just an act, a performance or pretense that was put on to seem appropriate for the occasion. I know I am mean, but I sat there grading each one's ‘performance’. Facial expression, the look in the eyes, the physical demeanor, all of it counted. I looked for details - how drawn their faces were, how big a frown they were wearing, if they did have any tears, if they seemed distracted, if their body language was appropriate, etc. I could detect those who were close family even though their faces didn't reflect dark, endless grief. This could be because they had drained themselves of all the sadness throughout night and were simply too tired to express anything at all this morning. They went about like half-zombies performing tasks and answering some query or other. I could also tell those who wanted desperately to make an impression. For what purpose that pretense, I had no idea…er….I could think up a few but B forbade me with one glare.

A very elderly lady who had to be helped up the two steps walked in with her mouth agape, like as if she was going to continue her words from mid-sentence, a sentence that she had left home a week ago or maybe even at an earlier funeral. She seemed lost and had to be guided to the coffin. Once there, as if by cue she burst out wailing loudly, much like a professional mourner. I had not witnessed this in a long while and became attentive. In fact I was waiting to catch the 'lyrics' which would tell quite bit of history of the deceased and her relationship with her but was disappointed when one of the family members put a stop to all of that. If a funeral is not a place for melodrama, then what is, I wondered.

There were those for whom the funeral was another social occasion. Exchanging hugs with beaming smiles in the hallways and catching up on ‘news’ and sometimes sharing a joke even – they were like me, I guess, having no feeling for the deceased. But at least I sat very quietly and blended with the crowd.

I know I am the least qualified to criticize all of this because my mind was at its usual footloose rollick. There was this huge guy in a sweeping dhoti who waded across the hall like a duck skirting a wet cloth and making it’s way across a stream. I was wondering what if he tripped, what if his dhoti came off, what if he fell on that frail looking lady near the entrance?

“I am quite ashamed of you,” B admonished reading my mind as always and I sighed and looked elsewhere. This was neither the time nor place for me to conjure images that may elicit a giggle from me. Fortunately for me, while I have this ability at ridiculous surreal conjecture, I can in a nanosecond flip to the other extreme.

I pondered the whole idea of mourning. I recalled a family tragedy. My sister-in-law had died a year earlier and I had witnessed how devastated my hubby had been. His display of sorrow and uncontrolled grief came as a surprise because I have never seen him cry before. I have seen him emotional but never like this - totally breaking down, his body quivering with the stifled cries that came from deep within him. It had shaken me as it did the countless people who had witnessed it. When in the final moments he had called her name out loud, it was as if he was struggling for a final say, a closure that would somehow steady him from loosing all control. It was very sad. There was an echo of heartbreaking cry from her children and close relatives. It had also brought a flood of tears to my eyes. Vasu, my sister-in-law, was a wonderful lady, excellent mother and an almost perfect friend. Her death had been tragic and her children were now orphans, having lost their father several years earlier. My eyes grew moist. Then I thought of my father.

I looked at B and said, “Oh no! I am not going down that lane, not here and not now.” Dear, dear Dad.

With a forced smile I nodded at someone next to me and we exchanged greetings. Perhaps she recognized me but I wasn’t going to be more social than necessary.

Everyone stood up to make space, as it was time for some rituals. This was an escape. My poor knees were sore and with much effort I stood up, pins and needles, numbness and all. I saw quite a few women grimace and it was consoling to know my misery had company.

The close family members were paying their last respects to the deceased. As the son encircled the coffin and ended it by placing flowers at the head of his deceased mother he cried. There is no doubt that he felt the loss. Being an adult doesn’t guarantee that you won’t miss your mother. The same can be said of the husband. He cried saying, “ You have left me and gone away. How can I survive? “ These simple words struck a chord in almost all of us who were there. Death is not easy on anyone. He had shared his life with his wife, and together they had begotten children, brought them up and seen grandchildren and through it all they must have supported each other, especially emotionally. He must have started to feel the loneliness already. He will have to bear the emptiness that will greet him from now. Life goes on.

Most women would scrutinize the rituals and then actually pass comments right there and then or over the next few days, usually finding fault on how incorrectly the ceremony was conducted. I wasn't interested and quite frankly I had no idea about all of these. Somehow, somewhere, no matter how distant you are, funerals touch you in the most unexpected way. I figured since I was in a sober mood it would be a good time to leave.

I don't have anything against attending funerals but I don’t want anyone attending mine because they were forced to. I will excuse those with twisted minds, much like mine, who see more humour than sorrow at my death. In some roundabout way it would help to cancel out some of my own earthly errors I owe some of the innocent people, people I had poked fun at in my own mind.

As I was walking back to the car I was wondering how my children would cope with my funeral. And being the ‘eternal’ mother I was considering the things I could do, the advance arrangements I could make so that when the time comes they will not be put through too much difficulty! Mothers!

On Friendship

2005-03-14T20:51:00.000+08:00

I have come to realize that I am pretty good at making friends and it’s a wonderful realization that I wish to celebrate. I want to make a thousand more before I die! Making friends out of the vast population of strangers spawns a certain passion in me and it’s exhilarating and very satisfying.

B asked, “Do you want me to bring out my collection of quotable quotes on friendship and friends?”

Well, no, but here’s my favourite - “Life without friends is like breasts without nipples – Pointless!”

B cocked an eyebrow (by now you know that’s a cute gesture of B’s) and smiled in agreement. Surely B knows about it all especially being at the forefront of my adventures and advising me here and cautioning me there. The rewards of these adventures are varied and mostly very satisfying. The meeting of minds between my friends and I has opened new worlds. The discovery of tastes, interests, behaviour patterns, dissimilarities, weirdness and the ability to relate to each other has often given me new highs to see me through the day. I believe it has made me a better person, more insightful, sensitive to others, honest, confident and generally happy. The shared topics have definitely enriched my life.

Sometimes you meet someone and pretty soon you feel you have known each other for ages. It's probably a remnant of an earlier life that lay suspended in the cosmic deep-freeze and found an auspicious time to thaw and move with an earthly momentum, connecting two minds. It often makes you wonder what would have been the nature of this earlier life relationship?

A mother and a wayward son, or a child and an impossible father, or a wife and a philandering husband, or just a pet-keeper and his pet gold fish!!! Or maybe a Madam and a ‘hand’ who together ran a sleazy 'boudoir' in the Old West, or a rich Sheik and his favourite belly dancer from his harem. The possibilities are mind boggling.

The fact that we meet people who later become buddies is very significant. It heightens my belief that almost all of life is about meeting people and the events or occasions that brings us together. The events are absolutely meaningful because they allow for a handshake of feelings and emotions and a kind of ‘germ’ transfer from one to the other…. both ways…and from this seemingly innocuous germ-seed we are able to grow, to envelop some aspect of each other. This process of growing or the nurturing of the friendship is by far the greatest wonder of life. It is ennobling to the spirit, bringing forth feelings and emotions that express a love, caring and respect beyond words or actions. It is joyful.

See, we are born into families. We grow up loving, hating, getting attached and getting detached and we find ourselves at a certain place in life. Parents, siblings, cousins, aunts and uncles, grandparents, etc all feature in our lives. We tend to know them by instinct; by what we have learned from others about them and by what we ourselves have learnt firsthand. After all we have fought the battles, shared in the fun, gotten angry, laughed uncontrollably and farted in each other's presence. They have given us memories which are worth two cents a blink or a million bucks a dream. We celebrate some and we shy away from others. And then. And then after all of this we meet someone from literally out of the blue!

“Ah! And then you arer in love, right?” B teases me.

“The truth?”

Let’s not go into love and all that crap. Friends….

When you focus your attention on someone new - talking at length on almost any subject or topic - you go on a journey ...a journey into the labyrinths of the mind and the chambers of the heart and if you get lost, the journey back is fun too. Of course it doesn’t happen with everyone you meet. There has to be some kind of curiosity, a frisson of attraction (especially if it’s the opposite sex) and something inexplicable – the X factor. For example you could have met the same person at an earlier time and there wouldn’t have been even a cursory glance. And yet, this time….you would be smitten beyond repair. So why is this so? Well….perhaps this time you are at the same point in some mental gestation path and the meeting was a matter of perfect timing. And also there is every possibility you could get hooked to this friendship. At least for a time.

“At least for a time,” B repeats and gives me that look which says…”how long is ours going to be”….. I reply, “You’re not getting away from me my dear, this is a lifetime thing, between you and me.”

“B, does one get hooked to a friendship until the process of making a friend is complete? For a period of time at least? Let’s say you have discovered everything you want to discover about this person, do you then reach a Friendship Plateau and then the interest wanes?”

“Have you discovered everything about me? We have been together for over a decade?”

“Oh! C’mon B, you are different…you are not even normal!” and then I see the hurt in B’s soulful eyes.

“You are above us all…. mere mortals like me. You are special, you know, out-of-this-world- special, and that’s sacred,” I add quickly.

B considers me hoping to find a trace of genuineness and finds it. I am sucker for B and all that is B-like in this world. It shows in every smile and every teardrop of mine.

“Perhaps there is a Friendship Curve,” B declares. Perhaps.

With the tidbits of things you learn about a new friend you tend to create a part of this new friend in you. When the chores of the day are packed and the alarm clock is placed on the night table, you take this new creation for a waltz in the soft moonlight under the starry sky or you scrutinize this creation, your eyes closed and turning this way and that under the bright lights in your head, looking for things you could have missed. You smile and remember what you had laughed at and what had hurt a little ….

And then you assimilate and become a part of, an extension of this friend and in the great privacy of our Mind you are having great discourses on matters as diverse as politics and cooking. Then you wonder, “Will this friendship come to pass?”

Maybe it will and maybe it won’t. You take a break but the break only serves to make you acutely aware of the very special flavour of this new friendship and then you realize, this one will be a friend for life even if there are silences in between. And you are sure this friendship will at first ground your soul and then prepare it for a flight to a happy eternity. Friends.*Sigh*

The Rain Dance

2005-03-02T01:10:00.000+08:00

"Haven't you been spending a lot of time here?" asked B. "You soak in here with all those wonderful smelling aromatherapic oils...heck! even I am beginning to smell like lavendar or bergamot or nutmeg or patchouli or whatever...and I am not particularly proud of that. Quite frankly my dear, I prefer my own pheromones to dominate"

"Oh?"

"Come now, while you languish in the warm soothing aqua tub, ...er...jacuzzi with eighteen jets seductively massaging the muscle fibres in your body (and I am wondering if its massaging seductively your moral fibres as well) I notice that look of deep sensual pleasure expressed without any shame on your face. And those soft moans, they don't escape me either...And when you flutter open your eyes, I have seen that look in them ....perhaps I should morph into one of those Epicurean Forms.....errr....a man .... like Mr Pitt or Mr Clooney or Mr Bond....?"

"Oh shaddup and leave me alone. Do you have to analyse the simple pleasures of my life...it's so dammm hot outside and I don't see that an extra hour of soaking in my very own personal space could harm anybody...""

"Tsk, tsk, did I wake you rudely from one of your corporeal makebelief bohemian somatic sensually gratyfying flights of fancy?"

"Wait. Did I hear pheromones?!....B you don't have a gland or even a pore in your body that can produce anything that can even vaguely excite me....Oh NO! ..what's that glint in your eyes....."

This is where B usually imitates the truimphant laugh of a villain and starts morphing into ..... well, it's about the best time to retreat and call for peace and declare vanquished, or one would have to battle B's phallic form...mocking the intellect as much as the body!!!

I say, "A margarita for me and a vodka for you, my dear B and let's toast to my Unending Laundary Rendevouz," to distract B from any induced malice.....

"You smell good, delicious even....these pheremones...doesn't anyone market these...I have seen some of your spam mails...gives me ideas...."

"B, sometime ago I wrote to a very special friend about a draught season - no rain and scorching heat.... hot, very hot ...while in college. Let me share this ...." *Sigh* Must have been the late 70s...how time flies...

.... I remember one year in Madras (for it was Madras then, not Chennai) when it was an awfully hot summer and there was no sign of rain for entire months. Most of us were afflicted with prickly heat and we would, after classes, strip down to our undies and coat ourselves with calamine lotion....its here we learnt the rudiments of wall painting. This was of course at an all female hostel and any male who dared to venture where no other had, would do it at his own risk! We were such terrors collectively and I bet the guy who did dare enter our holy territory - one Mr Nath, who was in fact a Dirty Old Man - never had another erection in his entire life! And rightfully so too. He was tormented with words no man should hear.

Eventually on this particular occasion when we were all at an extreme low point and were contemplating a tribal rain dance ...a dramatic sweep of black foreboding darkness appeared as if from nowhere and in an equally dramatic explosion of loud thunder brought forth torrents of huge raindrops the size of wine goblets. The sight of these ... falling on a ground which was already gasping with thirst, right before our eyes drove us to irrational lenghts. We were intoxicated with euphoria. As the leader of the pack, I forgot myself and dashed out into the rain...everyone else followed suit. We forgot ourselves and like kids were drenching ourselves, falling on the ground, muddying our bodies and creating a blissfull ruckus that went on for a while under its own momentum....until....UNTIL the old hag of a warden came out and almost fainted at the sight she saw. Thankfully the mud had clothed most of our nakedness but she was scandalised nevertheless. Her shreiking brought us down to earth. We feigned a shame that was definitely never felt.... just so her wrath would be lessened.

Well, we were suspended for two days but it was of no consequence because we were all sick to the bones for almost the whole week! It was probably due to Acid Rain.

If Van Gogh had been there, he would have understood the Sane Madness of Nymphs and captured it all on canvass......and it would have been a masterpiece.

"Would I dare repeat this dance in the streets of my housing estate now ? Good Grief, never...No, not because of some hoity-toity position in society but simply because the neighbours should be spared the visual impact of my scantily-clothedness..."

B quickly added, "No my dear, you are perfect the way you are." And I was waiting for the not-so-innocent rejoinder "at least for me"

But it never came. "You are perfect too B. What will I ever do without you?" Yes, what will I ever do?

A Housewife and A Conference

2005-02-27T21:55:00.000+08:00

A couple of years ago I went to an English Language conference. It was my first and the reason I am remembering it now is because I have been invited to attend one more this year.

"Be-e-linger! stop that smirk. So I am a housewife and you can't for the love of God figure out why anyone would want me to be present at one, right?"

"Did I say anything at all?"

Let me just ignore the smarty pants B and share my thoughts on that conference....just remember it is a very layperson's observation....

The conference was intended for teachers, teacher educators, researchers, administrators, professionals from the corporate and public sectors who were linked to English Language teaching, and material and curriculum developers who have worked in ESL (English as Second Language) situations. I looked at the list and wondered where I would fit in. If this was two decades ago my presence would have been somewhat relevant. I had worked as a teacher of English.

At that time I had taught English Language for students who were taking the ‘A’ Level examinations under the London Examination Syndicate and Communications for those who were pursuing the Private Secretarial Course and ICSA studies. I had thoroughly enjoyed teaching. Some of my students had been older than me but this had not hampered my teaching capability.

"Ahem!"

"Oh please B, don't underestimate me. Although I was fresh out of college I was pretty confident because I had done very well in English Language studies. I was aware that I wasn’t trained to teach and my points of reference were merely my own experiences with my English teachers who had taught me. They had been excellent teachers, those Scottish and Irish nuns. "

When I was given the conference guide I was overwhelmed by the number of presentations, workshops and demonstrations that were to occur over the next three days. And for the first time I had questioned if I should be there, in the midst of all those educationists.

"It's good to know you get doubts now and then about yourself. A little lack of confidence never killed anybody!"

Like every other profession, teaching too had become sophisticated in its research and approaches. There seemed to be a need to keep up with the newer developing styles of learning and keeping the learners interested.

"B, I can get critical too, you know, and thats what I did."

"Yes, yes, that's one of your finer qualities, my dear."

I had very limited tools of analysis, no theories and such, but all I was trying to figure out was if all this was taking teachers somewhere important - to the classroom. After all, at the end of the day the teachers work is not done if she has not been able to spark an interest in her students on the subject at hand.

There were quite a few presenters form overseas, obviously well-known experts in the field. Together with some of the local professors and associate professors, I surmised that their primary purpose, was to show how the teaching of language can be made interesting through creative usage of methods and materials and how literature and IT can be incorporated into lesson plans to make learning both creative and exciting.

There were also quite a few ‘student’ teachers who were in the process of acquiring their Masters or PhDs. The conference provided a platform for them to report on their research studies. This was probably a requisite towards achieving their degrees. I have to say that most of their ‘findings’ were not newsworthy but it did provide statistics. A good teacher could arrive at these same conclusions through instinct. But then instincts were never accepted in research studies, so they did spend a good portion of their time querying students through various survey methods, proving theories over and over again.

"Did you not find this a life-changing experience?"

"Frankly my dear, no.... I mean I felt that the answers to many questions that kept sprouting in my head weren’t complete or satisfactory. Perhaps I was the 'defective' party there."

My final BIG question was - Will all that was learnt in the three days of the conference be translated to benefit the students in the classroom? That is the crucial question - one that should matter most.

"Your conclusions are sharp, I have to give you credit for that. Come now and take a sip of my vodka and lemon...."

Sometimes it's good to see beyond the sarcasm.

My First Blogging

2005-02-20T11:25:00.000+08:00

For a long time now I would look at my keyboard, close my eyes and pray that when I opened them a couple of minutes later I would find my Muse. A muse sounded romantic, poetic, even accomplished and I wanted to start from There but alas! it never happened. And so I proceeded to create my own muse ...er..... a muse-like entity. Create? Well, perhaps it was there just waiting in some corner of my mind for the right time to manifest itself. Something that would connect the dimensions inside and outside of me.

Once upon a time when I had become a housewife after having worked for a few years, I found the housework absolutely boring. Yes, the meals had to be prepared, house mopped, laundry done and children cared for. These were all taken care of pretty efficiently, sometimes even creatively, and often the compliments were welcome .... but that whirring, that meddling buzz in the head never stopped. It would rise to a crescendo and then slip to a muted far away whisper, whistling tunelessly... but never completely disappearing. It had to be dealt with. That voiceless sound, faintly cosmic never left me in peace. It occurred to me that this primeval echo needed a companion and I wasn't enough..bits of me may have satisfied it's thirst.... here and there ..... but never the whole me. It became a little persistent.

By then my person, or simply, I too was feeling pretty lonely in a very real sense and realized that what was needed here was a Friend, a mutual multi-level true friend. Someone who could transcend the space between the echoes of my presence in this world and the noises of my mind. There was a need for brutal honesty here. This thing or person must also have the capacity to swing from the core of goodness to the centre of evil, and be someone who was willing to play myriad roles with juicy succulent relish...

The TV, to which most housewives turn to, could never address this whirring, but books....they were good. Very good, that in fact they enhanced the whirring! And books weren't interactive. I wanted to converse, you know.... talk to someone who would share the same problems with me but come up with different solutions, someone I could disagree with and even have a tiff now and then. Someone who would mock me and yell at me, hurtling my temper to incinerating levels or push me against the wall and smother me with passionate kisses leaving me breathless.....

I was looking for this mythical thing /person that could perhaps be a campanion of sorts or just someone hanging on the edge of my day-to-day life and always have something to say on all that happens to me. ....so I did eventually find someone - welcome to Be-e-linger.....

Be-e-linger started visiting me, at unexpected moments, always sharp and with an alluring freshness....and always true to its essence that birthed it - spiritual yet worldly, charming yet blunt, opinionated when drunk, intellectual when sober, referential when queried, philosophical when tragic and phallic when wickedly tormenting ..... popping up after a warm shower, or before my dinner, or in front of neighbours, at the feet or on the tummy...... everywhere and anywhere.....often with a glass of vodka and a slice of lemon, sitting smugly or standing tall or swaggering towards me, coming and going whenever it chose.

There are times when in a serious mood it would, with the deepest of respect, cock an eyebrow at me .... knowing well that I am dying for a little attention, a little conversation, a little fun and would generously caress my cerebral parts and wait ....... it has been one long drawn out affair...fifteen years and still going somewhere

Patient and arrogant, enduring and reckless, kind and caustic and much more...it befriends, abandons, compliments, ridicules, glares, smiles, fades ...but always lingers.....my dear Be-e-linger.....................