Senior Citizens Day

 

                                Senior Citizens Day

October 1st was International Senior Citizens Day, a fact brought to my attention by a member on my university alumni WA group.  A few members responded with mutual warm greetings and well wishes, bantering over a jest about who is having gold tooth or even teeth, or keeping them in the bank.

I’ve hardly watched tv or read the newspapers in recent months, preferring to overwhelm myself with my own chosen books and films – in a way getting away from the noise pollution in the media. But I can’t help overhearing discussions on tv in the past two days, on retirement homes and programs for senior citizens. Well and good that the government has an infrastructure for such projects and that there are caring individuals, whether employed in government service or on voluntary basis, who are involved in running them.

A friend on my school alumni WA group actually alerted members to such a program showing on TV3, setting a conversation on the difficulty of finding a suitable one when needed.  I playfully suggested setting up one exclusively for our alumnus…after all we do have doctors and nurses in our families to help out.  A quick rebut came in pointing out potential problems arising from habitually lazy members – that may lead to squabbles – and “peculiarities” generated by aging factors; and worse still if these are degenerating with age.  Seconders came in to that.  Laughable yes, but I still think it is a doable idea if we can, at least, start with sorting out the fine differences between “peculiarities” and “idiosyncrasies”, and come up with border lines between what are appreciable, tolerable and obnoxious.

Being a care giver to three family members myself, between the ages of 68 to 81 years, I sometimes forget that I am in that age bracket of “warga emas”(golden citizen) myself.  Maybe it is because I’m, at the same time, surrounded by two younger generations who are active, creative and loving – they keep me on the border line, or so I assume since that is how I feel on most days. 

As far as perks offered to warga emas in this country is concerned, I’ve enjoyed some - 50% off train tickets, theatre tickets, graduate study fees – for which I’m grateful.  Then there are conveniences like priority services given in queues at the Immigration Department, polling stations, airlines.  I believe there are many other similar perks that I am not aware of, and should certainly explore like the discounts given at some restaurants mentioned by friends recently.     

I cannot say these perks do not go a distance in making senior citizens feel like a privileged group, leaving them to acquire a sense of entitlement that may, in turn, make them become quite blasé towards such provision.  Sometimes it takes a momentous occasion to rekindle feelings of gratitude and the joy in it.  I had such an experience recently, courtesy of Malaysian Airlines System.   

It was my first flight out of the country on my own since 2014. Since then fear of flying has developed from covid paranoia, anxiety over any possible changes in airport administration system, sporadic back pain since 2020 and sciatic nerves working up after a long walk or sitting down for too long.  I wanted to arrive in Perth at least a day before my brother-in-law’s scheduled triple bypass open heart surgery.  I had promised my sister I would be there a few days earlier, but the date of operation was confirmed just three days before.  It was mid week; I could not find any one to accompany me on the earliest available flight.  Banking on MAS maintaining its reputed “golden service”, my daughter who had not flown overseas either in years, booked me on a MAS flight, leaving KL at 7.40 pm and arriving in Perth at 1.30 am.  She ticked off on ‘assisted flight”, citing as reason, “inability to walk long distances”, and hoped for the best, having been informed that wheelchairs are available and assistance will be provided upon departure in KL - from check-in point to the airplane door, and upon arrival in Perth - from the plane to check-out point.  I had initially protested, feeling indignant at the idea of appearing physically disabled.  I had envisaged having a staff walk with me all the way, and perhaps help to carry my hand luggage.  The last time I was pushed on a wheelchair was when I was admitted into hospital for dengue with a blood platelet count of 80 and fast dropping.  Seeing my apprehension, the MAS staff in attendance kindly advised me that using the wheelchair would make assistance much simpler and that after all, the wheelchairs are meant not for OKU (the handicapped) only, but anyone else needing them including senior citizens.  My mind instantly tweaked ‘hah, I’m entitled to that!” even if my difficulty – or in fact, fear – of walking to the plane did not qualify me for the service.  My embarrassment dissipated.

So I did well on my jolly ride on the wheelchair, assisted by a polite and cheerful young man from Sabah, getting priority service at the immigration check-point and upon boarding.  A very warm welcome from the flight crew put me at greater ease (I was feeling a bit nervous about being on my own) and during the flight, a stewardess stopped by three times to ask if I needed anything.  Upon arrival, wheelchair assisted passengers – three of us that night - were last to leave the plane.  I did not mind one bit, especially as we disembarked, seeing the Australian airport ground crew waiting to continue the assisted service.  A pleasant, portly middle-aged Australian gentleman assisted me through immigration, baggage collection and all the way to the exit door.  There was an elderly Korean lady (she had volunteered to walk after leaving the plane) who he assisted together with me.  She could not speak a word of English, understanding a few basic words only. He was very patient with her and in about 15 minutes, had her disembarkation form filled out, and was strutting up and down anxiously to retrieve her last bag.  He told her to wait while he saw me out…to my waiting sister and niece – our reunion after four years!

Well, I feel that it was an accomplishment made possible by the assistance of the MAS crew and their associates at Perth airport.  My anxieties were kept at bay and I could even enjoy the flight.  Besides getting up to stretch a few times, I was also able to turn left and right easily while sitting down as the seat next to mine was vacant.  As a result, my back and legs felt less than moderate pain at the end of the five and a half-hour flight. 

I guess this could be an occasion to feel prized as a senior citizen.  On the flight home  I was accompanied by my daughter and two grandsons who had arrived in Perth two weeks later.  We subsequently spent a week in Melbourne with my son who works in the city.  She had booked me on ‘”assisted flight” again and the whole gang benefited from the priority services accorded to me as I was wheeled about by kindly staff – first to board and disembark, breezing through the immigration check-point, baggage collection and away to passenger pick-up area.  It was not MAS, so I am able to make a comparison  between two airlines – and name MAS the winner with flying colors (pun intended).  Its reputed “golden service” has perhaps unwittingly befitted what a “warga emas” can unself-consciously ride on (pun intended again) - without feeling guilt or embarrassment – though I did wish nobody recognized me during the rides as I would have explanations to make and it would have spoilt the zen.                          

Matriach

 

                                                        Matriarch

1960

Before leaving the classroom, Salmah glanced furtively at her schoolbag on the floor beside her empty seat – she was forbidden from taking it with her- and headed straight for the school gates.  Her pinafore was still hardly creased, her rubber shoes chalk white as she had not had time to play before school started.  It was the first class period of the afternoon school session; the class teacher had started collecting school fees, which was less than 2 ringgit then.  Sal,her nickname, did not have the money and was told to go home right away and come back with it as soon as possible. 

Dashing past the school gates, eyes downcast, she walked as fast as her feet in the tight, sole-beaten shoes, could carry her – from Jalan Yahya Awal, up the hilly road to Jalan Abdul Rahman Andak (past SIGS secondary school), left and down to Jalan Ngee Heng and up a cut-through back road to  Jalan Tebrau that opens out to the heart of Johore Bahru town. 

Raising her head to look left or right only when crossing a road, her mind was, all the way, foggy and her heart skipped a beat now and then.   After what seemed like hours, her house came into view at the sloping end of Jalan Tebrau, and  only then did she feel the scorching heat of the sun stinging her head and searing her eyes  as the tears welled - her steps quickening on the path to the short staircase and breaking into a run as she saw her mother on the verandah.  Mother hugged her and let her sobs gush and subside, stroking her head silently as she thought of what to do…she knew why Sal was back from school too soon, this was not the first time.       

Telling Sal to keep an eye on the little ones playing on the floor, mother went down to the workshop adjacent to the house where her father worked as a carpenter.  Sal usually played along with her sisters and brothers at whatever game they cooked up with the scant toys and scraps they could gather, but today her mind was clouded with the image of handing the dreaded 2 ringgit to Cik Saleha…will it be possible now, how long will she have to wait?  School had just started and her bag was still there.  Oblivious to their shrieks of delight, she kept her gaze on the corner where her mother disappeared.

About 20 minutes later, mother appeared with Pakcik Man, who worked with her father in the workshop.  Mother handed her the 2 ringgit, told her to keep the change carefully in her pocket later and thanked Pakcik Man as he took Sal’s hand and hurried her down to the shed at the side of the house, where his bicycle was parked.  At the bottom of the stairs, Sal turned her head sideways and met her mother’s eyes…a look that has graced her memories of her till today.

Pakcik Man helped her up to perch sideways on the bicycle “palang” between his seat and the handle bars and told her to hold tight on the centre part of the bars.  She held on convincingly, feeling  only the warm calm breeze caressing her face and gently blowing back her hair as Pakcik peddled stealthily uphill and downhill – closely retracking  her 6 km homebound route; now she could look coolly at cars and buses passing by, longingly at the fruit-laden rambutan and mango trees at the houses along the road, at other cyclists and finally the sundry shop in front of the school.   

As Pakcik stopped in front of the school gates, Sal hopped down, thanked him several times and ran into class.  It was now nearing the end of the second class period; Sal took out the money from her pocket and without a word, handed it to Cik Saleha who took it silently with just as much as a perfunctory nod, and opened her record book while Sal waited for the change.

Everyone was too eager to leave the class for the 30-minute recess; no one asked her anything – perhaps they knew and understood.  Together they walked noisily to the school canteen.

1973

Sal met me at the foyer of University Malaya’s 1^st College where she had been a resident since her first year at the university.  I was studying in UiTM in Shah Alam.  We were both in our final year of study.  I was on the verge of breaking up with the first love of my life- by then in the fourth year of courtship.  It was inevitable; the distance between us was growing wider as our adolescence faded into our adult years, giving us new perspectives of life.  In the comfort of Sal’s neatly kept room, we talked for hours well into the night.  Sal had met her beau by then and was glowing.  She introduced me to him before I left.  His smile matched hers; I knew they were meant for each other.

2011

I was right.  They looked perfect together when I met them briefly at my daughter’s wedding, by then pursuing their own careers, holding senior positions in government service, and raising 5  boys. 

2016

I cried for Sal as I read news, in her Facebook, of the sudden demise of her youngest son in Canada – just after completing his studies.  I wrote in my condolences, sharing her grief silently.  Even when I saw, just months later, her normal cheerful exchanges of news with family and friends on Facebook, and marvelled at her inner strength, I could not disengage myself from the inherent sadness – I think I never will whenever I think of her.  My youngest son is about the same age as hers.  I am not habitually active on Facebook; I only open it when my heart wills me to.

July 2023

Greeting each other on the newly formed Whatsapp group of our primary and secondary school fraternity, Sal and I felt the urge to meet and catch up on all the years we had been apart.

I carefully choose my outfit to meet her, eager for her approval.  I wait patiently with another friend for her to arrive on the train.  Soon she is by my side, still about 3 inches taller than me in her slightly high- heeled pumps ( I am in flat sandals).  We embrace, dissipating the years that set us apart.

We have both been home-makers (though unlike me, she took early retirement)), holding the fort to nurture our loved ones and enable them to pursue their dreams and vocation.  Her husband, a renowned surgeon, continues to offer his expertise to the medical world while her four sons are professionals in their own fields.  She is in good health, has travelled widely and performed Haj.  With the multiple hats she is wearing in assuming responsibilities for the welfare of younger members of her extended and combined families ( hers and her husband’s), it seems like she is destined to be the matriarch of the clan.

This reminds me of a line from Murakami’s “Birthday Girl”: 

“No matter what they wish for, no matter how far they go, people can never be anything but themselves.”

From a young age Sal had always helped care for her younger siblings, including sewing clothes for them and assisting them in school work; later on, she assumed the big sister role for her husband’s  siblings as well. 

Being good with her hands, she had led art and craft projects for school exhibitions, always ready with her creative suggestions when we needed to produce some artistic displays or other.  For an English project, she drew a ballerina, and painted a sunset for my poems.  Not only did she do these with a quiet presence and cheerful demeanour, she also socialized very well with the girls in school in a most unobtrusive manner – a fact that I was oblivious to at the time, but which I now conclude on, after seeing how far she surpassed all of us in the SIGS Whatsapp group in remembering our school mates (not only their names and the classes they were in, but also where they lived, how they came to school, and other related matters).

No, far from depicting the archtype of the busybody – because I knew her to be the humble, polite and obliging girl who laughed easily – she has always been a free spirit who truly enjoys the company of others.  I remember her at campfires although she was not a member of the Girl Guides, picnics at Lido Beach with girls from other classes, at butterfly catching romps at Happy Valley with the  boys who did not interest her in the way they did the other girls…though she would giggle in gossips about our crushes and tease our blushes, would even convey my timorous greetings to the boy next door (her door). 

She had such a cheerful disposition that I did not suspect ,when I had caught her, a few times in class, crying silently with her head in her hands on the desk – thinking she was feeling unwell or had a fight with her siblings – that it was due to hunger, a truth she never admitted at the time but revealed to me recently while we were reminiscing times in school.  There was simply not enough food at home or it could not be prepared in time before school.  There were several times when I too cried while walking to school because I could not bring the money for a book or school fees when it was due, but I had never cried because of food.  My house was just a 15-minute walk from school, so I had more time to wait for breakfast or lunch and could  dash home after school when the hunger pangs hit me. 

Sal had 6 km to tread in the sweltering heat or rain to and from school (though her strides did grow steadily since the days of Cik Saleha the school fees superintendant).  Like “The Loneliest Runner” whose daily ordeals were prescient sprints into the Olympics, Sal’s daily walk (and run) were precedented drills for the star player that she became on the school hockey team.  Her family stayed in the house at the end of Jalan Tebrau throughout her school years.  Except for the lone walk at odd hours when she was forced to return home to get the school fees, she did have a companion or two for part of the daily journey on most days, usually arriving home well after sundown, unless she was offered a car ride by a school mate living in the adjacent residential area- with whom she still keeps in contact today.         

So there – like the incandescent North Star that lit her journey to school at daybreak, and back home at dawn, Salmah continues, in our twilight time, to shine and light up the sea of our memories – of our glorious days in SIGS. 

You left lasting strokes and permanent colours in our metamorphosis, Sal, and they are securely framed in our hearts and in our minds.  May Allah bless you always and may you live to be a hundred!

 

 

           

 

     

 

            

 

 

 

Fortress

 

FORTRESS

Musings on growing up, losing childhood innocence, and on embracing life through all its frailties and uncertainties.  A lyrical essay inspired by stories from my friends who have found peace and happiness in their senior years despite failed relationships.

On a weekend trip to Johore Bahru, Annie and I walked along the paths of our remembered footprints, looking for the private spaces and virgin colours of our playful youth.  They have vanished, but the images were lucid, warm – the orange field we crossed to school (now underlying garish hostel blocks), where we played hopscotch till the laterite matched the hues of sundown; our bushy sanctuary (swallowed by brick houses standing back to back), where we picked yellow and purple “berries”, stepping on forget-me-nots and blue morning glories.

Days were long, the future unfathomable.  We promised to be friends forever, knowing each other only by our nicknames. 

I can still taste the bitter sweet “berries”

Hear our voices singing love songs on the cherry tree

Feigning broken hearts in glee

We talked about our childhood sweethearts, our families; they say your first love is the purest, the real one – to last forever.  Can we ever know what is real?

The radio was playing our old song “A Blossom Fell” by Nat King Cole:

            A blossom fell from a tree

It settled softly on the lips you turned to me

The gypsies say and I know why

A falling blossom only touches lips that lie

We listened in silence, adrift in our own new realities, hovering over childhood memories.

I still hear the gypsy, King’s sweltering tone, lyrics throbbing in my brain…

We switched off the radio, sang “The Greatest Love of All” all the way home…

Maybe lies are part of reality in adulthood, but they don’t shatter the fortress of love

 I have built around my new private space.     

 

Revisiting my hometown reminds me to relish each moment of my life as I did in my childhood, so as to continue loving myself, loving life.  Annie is a sentient link to my childhood reality, much of which has been blotted out by modernity that is contrasted with the beautiful colours of nature in my “private spaces.”

The old song on the radio strikes a new chord with me, perhaps Annie too, as people we trusted had hurt us by their lies. We did not talk about it as we now have our own realities in our adult life.

Whatever breeds the lies – innocence, naivety, ignorance -  is inconsequential as what define our lives are not the lies we have let in, but the happy memories we have made, the souls that have touched us, people we cherish and protect, and above all, the love and thankfulness in our hearts; they transcend all fears and sorrows.    

Nevertheless, as I share stories with the unsung heroes in my childhood fraternity, I’m reminded by the quote (author uncited) I chanced upon on my mobile phone: “Not all wounds are so obvious. Enter gently into the lives of others.”    

     

 

 

  

 

 

Awal Muharram

 

19.07.2023/30 ZHJ

Today is the first day of the new year on the Muslim calendar – 1 Muharram 1445 H.  Friends and relatives had exchanged new year greetings and well wishes on Whatsapp yesterday.  At 7.05 this morning, the hue in my dimly lighted room still blended with the darkness outside.  Usually at this time, as I fold up my prayer robe, the first rays of daylight would already be peeking through the slit between the windowsill and the lowered blinds.  I went in to the bathroom to get a better view from the window and realised that it was actually still quite dark, and drizzling.

It is a public holiday.  I allowed myself the occasional five minutes curl-in-bed throwback before assuming the morning chores.  Alman and Ishmael were still sleeping soundly, having spent a late night, as they are allowed to do on nights preceding school-free days, playing chess and cards with Tok and Opah.  Ishmael, now 8, has recently acquired a passion for magicians and their magic acts; I’ve incessantly been prodded to watch and rate his fast increasing magic tricks – rather impressive actually; I usually give him 6 to 8 out of 10 points.  Alman is 11 and is steadily pursuing his passion on the guitar, started since he was 6.  He has had a few simple compositions to his name, participated in school ensembles and has earned a second electric guitar.

I have to state here that I am writing on this blog for Ishmael as well (not only Alman and others in my dedication note at the beginning) – to remember me by and recollect his childhood days with me.  Why, Alman now cannot imagine that Opah had ever stepped out of the house daily to go to work; even when the mobile phone was already on hand to record history, I was always too busy and in too much of a rush to think about preserving images of me in suits and holding a briefcase, to show off to future offsprings.  So I hope this blog will create not only graphic images of Opah, but an insight into her thoughts and feelings, their place in her heart and her moments with them – when they are old enough to want to read it.

Alman and Ishmael both love the early hours of the morning on off-school  days, when mum and dad, and usually Tok too, are still sleeping in. Coming down the stairs, they would expectantly call me, knowing how delighted I would be to give them the first hug or peck of the day and ready to take their breakfast requests – each such morning never losing its novelty.  They would seek me out in the backyard hanging out the laundry, or pulling out weeds in the garden, and would even knock on the bathroom door - if I am not within sight.  Lingering separation anxiety, sense of entitlement or plain demanding – I embrace them all and they know I thrive on it.  Mum and Dad are alert on check and balance to avoid over pampering (slightly to my chagrin sometimes) and maintain discipline.  Well, suffice it that in their small world (after all) that “Opah is the strongest woman…the best cook in the world…should be our English teacher in school.” Little do they know that my fantasy is to run the school canteen so they and their friends will get better nourishment from school.

So this first day of Muharram – a holy day celebrated by Muslims and an auspicious day for introspection and contemplation – is passing by like any other ordinary day, a public holiday to be enjoyed.  Sometimes Alman and me would start off the day with a short walk - around the block and past the little bridge over the rooky stream, to the mosque, and back again.  But since it is raining continuously this morning, he and Ishmael hastened to their laptops in their own corners across from each other in the living room, waving a perfunctory request for toast with butter and jam (Alman) and mini pancakes (Ishmael).  They usually relish their time deciding on their breakfast menu on weekends, but on this blessed middle-of-the-week off-school day, they want to optimise every given minute on games– roblox, especially, does this to them.  Alman is not allowed milo before a breakfast meal – because he tends to drink too much of it throughout the day – so he cuts short his own choices.

July has started off a season for reuniting with friends from primary and secondary school, a Whatsapp group formed.  Exchanging old photos and jolting each other’s memory with peculiar cues like a bobbly walk, bug teeth or a swishing cane to conjure faces or recall a teacher’s name, brought back anecdotes and chronicles of yesterdays in SIGS (Sultan Ibrahim Girls’ School – primary and secondary) in Johore Bahru – in the late 50s, and 60s. Memories of the way we were – the formative years, beginnings, friendships, life-defining moments, adventures – will take endless online chats and gatherings, to share.  Many have touched me to tears – of joy, sadness, gratitude.

We are now in our early 70s.  Each time a coffee or brunch session comes up, the excitement we feel is similar to what we felt on our daily journey to school during those years– for most of us looked forward to school to meet our friends more than anything else.          

We may have forgotten many things too, some people forgetting more than others.  At the moment there is information overload, stories of old and new intertwining and going back and forth.  I feel compelled to process some of the poignant and the succinct bits and layers as we retract the trajectories of our shared childhood and teenage years - I do not want to forget them.  Some have asked me to write our stories too.  So I will try to fill them in this blog, reminding myself  to always use my chair support, keep a good posture while writing, and to take regular breaks, as my back is not quite as supple as it once was, and has started to ache.  In any case, I am definitely driven to the task.

  

           

Pomegranate

 

Pomegranate.  It is not a fruit I grew up eating seasonally like the red hairy rambutan or sporadically like the red juicy jambu, but I do feel a sentimental attachment to it.  I thought it was rare or expensive – mother brought one home once and shared it with me and my sister, myself getting half a handful.  A recurring image of Tok Haji (my husband’s grandmother), is one of her sitting down at the dining table with a pomegranate on a small platter, gingerly scraping out the beads with a little fruit knife and spilling them out on a handkerchief, wearing an expression of silent pride and contentment in her gentle pout inescapable from a slightly slanted jaw.   Is it a fruit to be revered?  Its place in the classic Malay poetry, the pantun, is hardly forgotten – “merah merah sibuah delima, di bawa pergi ke Pulau Pandan...” (As red as the pomegranate that is brought to Pulau Pandan…).

I had always thought it to be an exclusively local fruit until my adult years when I started seeking it out, as well as its bottled juice, as a super food; it is actually cultivated and produced in many countries and the best seem to be imported from Spain.

While “pomegranate” doesn’t sound to me like something soft or delicate, its name in the Malay language – “delima” - does, and more in the way of being exotic.  It brings up images of a girl I befriended in my kampong, not the typical village in the outskirts, but a residential area with government –owned houses (commonly referred to as “government quarters”) laid  out in clusters according to some kind of stratification.  This government housing landscape stretches about seven kilometres into Johore Bahru town, interspersed by privately owned houses of various sizes and designs, shops, schools, the Menteri Besar’s ( State Minister) residence, a mosque, a church.  Where she and I lived, our houses were separated by seven neat rows of identical single-storey houses, each row having its own numbered lane (Lorong 1-8). 

The houses or quarters which were double unit blocks - semi-detached as they are more commonly termed  – stood closely back to back along a slope bordered by two  parallel roads called Jalan Panglima.  Our house, on Lorong 8, was at the top of the slope. It is the only block - facing out to a main road that separated it from an old Chinese cemetery - with three–bedroom units, while the others were two-bedroom units.  This is due to the fact that it is owned by a federal government department, my father being a senior technician in the Geological Survey Department, and the other dwellers worked for various Johore state government departments.  Though some people alluded to this difference as an indication of economic significance, I never did.  In fact, I always peered with delight and envy at the richly decorated living rooms and dining areas in some of the other homes, as I walked home along the lanes, thinking that the head of the family must be a high-ranking government officer.  I felt airily distanced.  Our home was cosy, but furnished with basic furniture.  Our big compound  was an outstanding feature, a luxury that filled memories of planting and harvesting – with an aunt from Ipoh who used to stay with us for a year from time to time - tapioca, pumpkin, pineapple, long beans, ladies fingers and spring onions; playing “catching”, monkey ball and police and thieves; swinging on the swing that hung crudely on the tapioca tree (pokok ubi kayu gajah); and of boys passing through using it as a short cut to the primary school nearby (Sekolah Temenggong Abdul Rahman). 

I learnt decades later that these were houses for those holding mostly clerical or technical positions of various levels in the Johore State Government departments.

My friend’s house was at the bottom of the hill, on the other side of Jalan Panglima that branched out into Lorong 1.  It was a single storey bungalow, one of three standing apart on that side of the hill.  They were also government quarters.  They seemed  to be double the size of my own house and certainly of a different class.  My mother used to attend WI (Women’s Institute) activities which were usually cooking classes,  hosted by the lady of the house, in the second house in this superior category.  I had once followed my eldest sister to visit her friend Jenny, in the first one closest to our house.  They had a big lawn and garden, regularly kept well-trimmed and tidy.  Just like my friend’s at the bottom of the hill, but that was all I could see of her home, as she never invited me in.  In fact, I always noticed how quick she was to say goodbye as we neared her house gate, after our walks in the late afternoons.     

She would always be the one to call me out to buy some snacks at the mamak shop near our school, about twenty minutes walk away.  A few times I did drop by at her house gate and called her, but either there was no answer or she just stuck her head out from the front door to say she was not free.  I was always happy to go out with her, excusing myself from whatever I was doing – even homework or reading my new story book – which annoyed my father sometimes.  There is nothing really memorable about the things we talked about, unlike those with other friends that often spring up vividly till today with animated exchanges about the latest pop songs, gossip about pop stars, teachers, boys, other girls, novels, examination blues, even our future careers.  Most of the time she and I walked in silence, comfortable in each other’s company and in the hive of the evening scape – cars moving in to fetch children from school, some already parked with music cruising from their radios, parents chatting on the roadside,  ice cream vendor and ‘kacang putih man” brightly waiting for the school children to come out.  We laughed easily now and then about some television shows we had watched recently; exchanged nervous glances and stifled awkward giggles when sometimes, we passed a group of boys who stared at us or threw greetings cheekily.  Once a handsome looking boy I was barely acquainted with passed us on his racing bike smiling into space; my friend looked down sideways shyly, smiling and said, “ he is strange.” I did not ask what she meant; we never talked about boys.  At the time, I just thought he was one of her admirers, might even have sent her a letter or something (boys and girls used to do that those days when house phone was scant and the cost of using the public phone was beyond our daily allowances). 

I assumed many boys in the neighbourhood knew about her, because Delima was a beauty – tall and slim with long legs (with a slight hunch that I thought was more mentally rather than physically induced), peachy golden complexion, long-lashed soft eyes, sharp nose, pretty rosy lips that broke easily into a smile, light brown wavy hair that was always pulled back into a small pony tail.  She always wore nice colourful clothes with some fine gold jewellery, reflecting a life of ease and opulence.  Was rather soft-spoken too.  I used to feel somewhat awkward beside her, being shorter in my short bob haircut, plain shift dress or culotte pants, and Japanese slippers. Her fair feet were always clad in dainty slippers.

I admired her beauty, thought she was of mixed parentage with middle-eastern ancestry, but I never asked.  I have heard people say her father was fair and distinguished-looking.  I never saw him.  Her mother who I saw once, did not  look like her. She always smelled like she had freshly showered and held a scent which I liked very much.  That too I never asked; to this day I wonder if it was talcum powder and have tried to trace it; the closest I get to it is Yardley’s sandalwood talc, still different. Or was it a perfume from Mecca, though certainly not one of the common varieties of “minyak atta.”

Why did I not ask her all those matters that I wonder about later especially after I was told that  she had passed on ( may  she rest in peace) at a relatively early age due to illness? Even in those times, I suspected she refrained from talking about her family.  Nor was she curious about mine.  In retrospect, it was her cheerful disposition, warmth and unspoken sincerity that made me drop anything I was doing each time she came over.  It was that certain quietness about her that made me content to walk with her even in silence.  I was active and competitive in school, both in studies and extracurricular activities, led teams, represented school in debates and sports.  Great friendships and camaraderie were forged through these activities, but the element of rivalry inherent  in such relationships, either momentarily or more deep-rooted,  sometimes diffuse solidarity and affection.  Delima did not share this part of my life; in fact, I never saw her in school – in the mornings we would part when I entered my class which was closer to the school gate.  Outside the tumult of hormonal changes during this period of our youth, was stress from peer pressure, studies and not least of all, economic pressures and parental expectations.  Being with Delima, my friend after school, life seemed simple and carefree.  It seemed as though all serious life concerns were suspended when we were together on those brief walks.  Our village was perfect, the air sweet, the familiar sounds  and faces comforting.  There were two mamak shops.  We didn’t even mind the mamak’s teasing us while we deliberated over what to buy – dried plums (asam boi), peanuts, pickled ginger or chocolate wafer.  Delima always had her coins in a pretty little purse while mine were usually in my pocket.

Yet underneath her simple demeanour, I detected an extraordinariness about her.  I wondered about the restrictions imposed on her – she always had to rush back and I had never seen her with any other girl though there were a few other girls from our school in the neighbourhood, who I went out with occasionally.  In later years,  after she had left this world, her name was frequently mentioned among the men who grew up in the neighbourhood.  Some of them used to play badminton at a badminton court behind her house.  Some of the comments were : “she was endowed with beauty…she was mysterious…lonely, shy, demure…looking for something…something mystical about her.” But none dared approach her, it seems, except, as far as I’ve been told, the one who crossed her path on three consecutive days at the same spot and time; despite being encouraged by her smile which he thought was “most sincere”, he only managed a brief exchange of greetings while hardly stopping in his tracks.  He admitted to being astounded by her looks and after the three encounters, being intimidated by her aura of a “matured lady.” If ever she was invited to a house party, which was the trend then –an avenue  for boys and girls to socialize - nobody told me about it.   

A few months before our  SPM exams, Delima stopped coming to my house.  Then I started seeing her walking along Jalan Panglima with a young Chinese man who lived in the end house on Lorong  5.  He must have been a teacher because she was taking tuition from him in preparation for the exams.  I think we did have a last walk home together on one of the exam days.  She did not tell me anything about him, but I learnt from my younger sister who was a friend of his sister, that Delima and he were courting.

We went separate ways after SPM exams.  My father retired from government service at about this time and my family moved to a private residential area on another side of town.  I never saw Delima again.  I had always thought she married her tuition teacher, but was informed by a reliable source that she married someone else, worked in an office and had a family.

In those days, most girls started dating after leaving secondary school.  Some went on to sixth form,   where they first experienced coeducational schooling; others went on to teacher training colleges, nursing colleges, technical colleges or commercial classes offering secretarial or accounting certificates and diplomas.  The more ambitious ones pursued further education after sixth form and many met their future husbands in the university.  Probably the majority immediately found jobs (typically clerical level positions), in the government or private sector, and got married earlier than others.    There were yet others who got married soon after finishing school and settled down quickly into motherhood and housewifery ; perhaps some of them were the more privileged ones who were not obliged to give their families financial support, some drifting damsels, or beauty queen hopefuls  sought out by wealthy suitors.  I did not bump into Delima in the sixth form fraternity nor heard about her to be in the college-bound lot ( a distinct group as most of the colleges were still in their infancy then) , so I assume she did not pursue tertiary education. 

 She is gone now but fantasizing meeting up with her, were she still alive, fills me with the warmest feelings.  I would ask her all those questions I held back, questions that did not seem important then.  Deep inside I cared about her, but I was not sure if she needed anything from me other than my brief company.  Was she looking out for anything or any one on those walks? I miss the peaceful moments beside her, her smile and easy laughter, her smell, her fair face.  What a lovely bride she must have been.  One of the men said she looked like Sarimah, the legendary Malay film actress, only more beautiful.       

Pomegranate is mentioned regularly in the Quran as an elixir with rich nutrients.  Eating the fruit without wasting any part of it may require some patience and necessarily passion for it too.  A quicker way to deriving its goodness is  drinking the juice in its pure form, a good thing to be addicted to, though in moderate doses. 

 

 

   

           

 

 

 

 

After MEST

 

If I don’t continue writing here, Alman will one day wonder if I had lost interest in leaving my memoir for him. Not at all.  Alman is 8 years now, reads well. We read his story books together at bedtime – currently it is the Kate Dicamillo series. He couldn’t get over The Tale of Despereaux and Flora and Ulysses - he finished both on his own after half-way through with me, but is finding the adventure in Because of Winn-Dixie rather slow-moving; past half the book and I’m still the story teller and he the actors. Ishmael turned 5 last November, is perpetually with his white board, writing his messages (asking everyone how to spell this and that) and can even send short messages via Whatsapp.  

A lot actually happened in the last 2 years since I last wrote here. By a twist of fate, I enrolled in the Master in English Studies (MEST) program instead of Counselling. I graduated last September. I did study hard and enjoyed the whole learning experience, got acquainted with some wonderful lecturers, made new friends. It has been a life enriching journey. A lot of thinking, research and writing went into doing the assignments. Perhaps I have not got over the exhaustion of completing those tasks - over 2 years and 3 months, with only 2-week semester breaks three times a year.  It has been almost 3 months now since I do not have to hurry with my morning chores to get down to my study materials, and do not have to carry my reading bricks to bed past midnight. I don’t feel much like writing anything yet, but I will presently get back into it. I have been catching up on my reading list which grew but was kept aside during the MEST period. MEST introduced me to many great authors and different genres of literature. I have been reading at random before, now I have some new pathways. My latest exciting discovery is Irving Yalom (psychiatrist, novelist, nonfiction writer) and now I am stuck on Alice Munro’s short stories.

Mak passed away peacefully on 14^th December last year. Not a day has passed since, without her image conjured before my very eyes – bent over the stove, smiling watching her grandchildren playing in the living room, leaning decidedly sideways in her wheelchair after her bath. I find some comfort in my own reminisces of her in this blog (“Grand Dame”).

The corona virus pandemic has raged and reigned upon us since March this year, sending us indoors into our own confined spaces  – with our own families or alone; and away from other confined or congested spaces. There are blessings to working and schooling from home and minimising physical contact with others, not least of which is family solidarity and more quiet time for contemplation, reading, new creative activities.

There had been a few unusual stormy episodes among my siblings in the few months following mum’s passing, perhaps symptomatic of our grief needing expression. At times the CMCO has made us reach out to each other more intensely than usual, having had to miss family Raya gathering this year, kenduris and birthday celebrations at each other’s homes. As for Cik Minah (her hospital sojourn related here in “Aura of Compassion”), the lockdown may have aggravated her general restlessness, making her miss her meal outings with Aya and consequently, lowering her tantrum threshold. Creative strategies needed all around to manage her moods.

I get to chat with Idzfan more often during the lockdown. Melbourne is almost back to normal now, but it is still painful thinking of him so far away, not knowing when he can come home for a break…or who knows, a new job that will bring him home, or nearer to home. Visualizing it is one of my favourite pastimes. Meantime, life goes on, we look forward to the new year and covid subsiding. 

This day will never come again

It must have been about 15 years, in my early 50s, since I read Anatomy of the spirit, Sacred Contracts and Invisible Acts of power by Caroline Myss. I didn’t take them out from the box when we shifted house last April, thinking I would not be interested to revisit them. Unpredictable as life is, 2 months ago I chanced upon her lectures and workshops on Youtube, and have been listening to her almost daily.

   

Written by a scholar on theology and spirituality, the books were exciting.  One of the few medical intuitives around too. It was the first time that I learned about the human energy centres, how they are related to our health and their connection to crystals. I discovered crystals. Like the other books by philosophers and new age gurus that I tended to read during low periods in my life or when I was going through some kind of crisis, their perspectives on life are written in a manner that I found entertaining and inspiring. From Deepak Chopra to Eckhart Tolle, Osho to Don Miguel Ruiz, they basically spoke about the same things, only articulated differently against different cultural and religious or secular background.  I found solace and inspiration in their thoughts, humanity and celebration of life. Maybe it was also escapism. I’ve forgotten most of what I’ve read and looking at some of them today, like those by Krishnamurthy, I find it hard to believe that I actually lost myself in them during those days. Their principle ideas and teachings are not at all far from those of my own religion, hence I connected easily. Manners of worship and prayer may differ but the themes and contents are similar.

I find Caroline’s offerings more substantial. She has evolved as a medical intuitive to become a spiritual director who teaches about spirituality and mysticism, intuition, health and healing. She incorporates prayers in her work. She opens and closes each of her lectures and workshops with a prayer from a saint, the psalms or other mystics. Beautiful verses in the English language. I pray and speak to God in my own language, as I have been trained to do since childhood. I know God understands all languages, but I feel somewhat awkward to speak to Him in English though it is the language that I express myself best in speaking or writing. Perhaps that is why I find vicarious pleasure in listening to Caroline’s prayers, brief and simple but read with love and grace. They do not waver from what my religion stands for. She refers to the Buddha often with reverence and speaks with conviction and fearlessness against religious dogmas that she finds to be obsolete and degenerating. I have not found her anywhere referring to Islam, except in acknowledging the sanctity of the fundamental religions and saying that mosques are among the houses of worship that are always full.

 

Caroline can be brutally honest in rationalizing on the solutions she offers to members of the audience who seek advice for their personal problems. She is a tough cookie, so to speak. I do not always agree with her. Nevertheless, I enjoy listening to her opinions and I admire her guts.

Underneath it all, Caroline emphasizes on our sense of personal honour to attain health in our mind and bodies, forgiveness for the sake of healing  and faith in order to ‘row with our life’  and love it with all its bad days and times. I notice that members of her audience are mostly women in matured years. Perhaps, like me, they have all played their multiple roles, rowed and arrived with pieces yet to pick up and hurts to heal. I am not sure if our journeys would have been easier if we had known her before we started, but it is a blessing that she has come into our lives now to help us pick up the pieces and heal the hurts. It is not as though our own faiths and wisdom have not guided us thus far, but for me she is there to alert me should I falter and she reminds me to be sensitive to the grace of God which I sometimes take for granted. Listening to her succinct reminders on our intuitive power to connect with the universe, is almost therapeutic. She expounds on the theory of archetypes in reinventing ourselves with academic content and mystical fervour.

Caroline urges us to be contemplative, to reserve time for a daily reflection of our lives, to do “holy listening” for that “pebble (falling) in the well”. I will borrow her mantra, “This day will never come again”.

I look forward to listening to her each time and I like looking at the crystals on her wrists, neck and over her pullover. They are usually red and orange hues. One of them must be carnelian, which I don’t have in my collection. Time to have fun again with my crystals. 

 

Writing is therapeutic for me and this time, Myss has sent me back to my blog. Tied up with daily routines, I need to be inspired enough to do that.  Perhaps this is also a timely  return to Caroline Myss as I am about to go back to school to study Counseling in a masters program.

Caroline says she is able to be the person she is now because of the way she lives. It appears to be more solitary than normal, her office is full of books and she has been studying and teaching for decades. This probably has given her the ability to look at life from afar, unlike those of us who have been rowing through the rivers of our lives often with excess baggage on our backs, unable to pause, let alone contemplate, long enough  to consider with clarity the important choices we have to make. There comes a time when we need someone to help us get that clarity through sharing their knowledge and experience. A friend and a wise companion on our soul searching journey which never ends. At least for me, it doesn’t.