Two incidents remind me of a lesson I was reminded time and again during my diploma days: we should all learn to be all-rounders who are able to dine with the king and share a meal with the poor.
Anna came back from lunch a few days ago grumbling about some senior officers who, according to her, were behaving most inappropriately.
They were having Japanese bentos for lunch in a five star hotel, and Anna found it disturbing that a few senior officers were behaving like some… ‘jakun’.
“They would touch everything and ask, “What’s this? What’s that? Is this halal? Can we eat that? Can we eat that?” Goodness, I would have expected them to know better than to act like that in front of international guests. Of course we made sure everything is halal. Even if they have no idea what everything was, why couldn’t they ask about those things discreetly? Why do they have to ask loudly and let the whole world know how jakun they were?”
Being a Japanese food lover (despite my inability to master the art of handling the hashis/chopsticks well), I could imagine how confusing it could be to some old-school civil servants to be presented with a bento set for the very first time. To the trained eyes, bento might be a colourful and interesting arrangements of gohan (rice), nimono (boiled stuff), yakimono (broiled or deep fried stuff), sashimi, tempura, koonomono (pickles) accompanied by a bowl of miso soup. To the poor stangers-to-bento though, that lunch set must had seen like a compilation of colourful strange and weird tidbits.
Still, that gave the senior officers no valid excuse to behave like noisy three-years-old, loudly asking for explanation from younger officers. Anna felt like it was a disgrace to the service, especially since they were in the company of some international guests. Not knowing is tolerable as people learn new things all the time, but surely one must learn that it is only polite not to flaunt one’s ignorance in the public? Especially when one’s ignorance can be deemed as a shared trait among his or her peers (even though that is far from being true)?
#####
Yesterday, I went to PWTC to send some important documents to a colleague there. After completing the task, I asked Abang Man, the driver, to stop by any suitable place to get some food. Abang Man had assisted me in running a few errands and I felt obliged to give him a treat. By then, it was a little past four in the evening, thus not many stalls were still opened in our office area. Deciding to play safe, Abang Man took me to a row of stalls near Perkim instead.
“Tapi Cik boleh ke makan kat tempat macam ni?”
(Do you mind eating at such places?)
I assured him that it would be no problem to me. As long as the place is clean, I don’t mind eating in a small warung (food stall). So we had our tea there – I did not had lunch yet so I ordered a plate of Nasi Ayam and iced lime tea while Abang Man settled on having a plate of Maggi goreng and a mug of teh tarik.
I knew some of my friends wouldn’t be caught dead in such warung. Not me though. Three years ago, my mak angkat in Lubuk Kulit in Kuala Lipis once told me that she was thankful to have me as her anak angkat. When I asked her why, she explained that of all anak angkats she had, I was the only one who never complained even once about the kampung food we had over the two weeks I spent there. (Actually, I was a bit turned off by tempoyak for a month after I left the kampung. My foster mother made a dish from tempoyak daily – there was sambal tempoyak, masak lemak tempoyak, rendang tempoyak, serunding tempoyak, etc. I was amazed to know that people from Pahang could come up with so many tempoyak dishes…)
Mak taught me one lesson from a very young age – it doesn’t matter what you eat, at the end of the day, everything will turn into s**t. So I’ve learn not to make a big deal of what or where I eat, so long as it’s halal. Yes, I like tempura, teppanyaki and sushi, but I don’t mind eating pekasam, ikan masin, telur masin and ulam-ulaman. After all, we eat in order to live, not the other way around.
Sure, it would be nice to dine with close pals in Saisaki, Kiku Zakura or Hatsu Hana every once in a while. However, that does not mean I could not equally enjoy a plate of Nasi Ayam in a warung near Perkim building in the company of my office’s driver. Sometimes, listening to a driver’s rants could be very entertaining and enlightening.
I can certainly testify that I've enjoyed such experience.
Saturday, July 31, 2004
Friday, July 30, 2004
"Are you happy?"
Some people are lucky enough to love their job.
Some are lucky enough to be able to do what they love while carrying on with their job
Some are lucky enough to quit their job and do the things they really love.
Here's a story I received via e-mail that might be of interest to some:
" I was sitting at a restaurant with a young guy who had been with our agency for about five years. He had a large home, a parking place close to the front door, and a brass nameplate on his door. Over lunch we started talking about the definition of success. I mentioned a Personal Mission Statement. He said he hadn't heard about the concept. To demonstrate to him how to go about creating one, I asked him what was important to him. He started naming all the things he wanted to do. Not one had anything to do with his job.
I was intrigued. "Well, are you happy?" I asked him when he finished.
He said, "Well, no."
I said, "But you're successful, right?" and laughed a little. He just sat there thinking.
I didn't see him again for a couple of months because we were travelling to different parts of the country. One day, I spotted him in the hallway. Wanting to catch up on his life, I thought I'd walk him to where he was going. "Hey, wait up. Where're you going? I'll walk with you."
"I'm not going anywhere. This is my last day," he said with a grin.
I was shocked. "What?"
"Yeah, I was just in to see the boss. He asked me why I was leaving. I told him it was your fault."
"Oh no. You're kidding me. Why'd you tell him that?"
"Well, I told him about our conversation. About how you made me look at my life to see whether I was doing what I wanted to do with my life. And I wasn't. So I'm quitting this job to start doing the things I really love. Thanks buddy."
I haven't seen him for about two years now. When he quit his job, he and his wife started their own little roofing company. He likes working with wood. He used to be in the telecommunications field; now he's hammering shingles on roofs and building porches. And guess what?
He's happy."
Some are lucky enough to be able to do what they love while carrying on with their job
Some are lucky enough to quit their job and do the things they really love.
Here's a story I received via e-mail that might be of interest to some:
" I was sitting at a restaurant with a young guy who had been with our agency for about five years. He had a large home, a parking place close to the front door, and a brass nameplate on his door. Over lunch we started talking about the definition of success. I mentioned a Personal Mission Statement. He said he hadn't heard about the concept. To demonstrate to him how to go about creating one, I asked him what was important to him. He started naming all the things he wanted to do. Not one had anything to do with his job.
I was intrigued. "Well, are you happy?" I asked him when he finished.
He said, "Well, no."
I said, "But you're successful, right?" and laughed a little. He just sat there thinking.
I didn't see him again for a couple of months because we were travelling to different parts of the country. One day, I spotted him in the hallway. Wanting to catch up on his life, I thought I'd walk him to where he was going. "Hey, wait up. Where're you going? I'll walk with you."
"I'm not going anywhere. This is my last day," he said with a grin.
I was shocked. "What?"
"Yeah, I was just in to see the boss. He asked me why I was leaving. I told him it was your fault."
"Oh no. You're kidding me. Why'd you tell him that?"
"Well, I told him about our conversation. About how you made me look at my life to see whether I was doing what I wanted to do with my life. And I wasn't. So I'm quitting this job to start doing the things I really love. Thanks buddy."
I haven't seen him for about two years now. When he quit his job, he and his wife started their own little roofing company. He likes working with wood. He used to be in the telecommunications field; now he's hammering shingles on roofs and building porches. And guess what?
He's happy."
Thursday, July 29, 2004
Upward, forward, toward the sun...
“What was the most important lesson you learned from your Kinabalu experience?”
Tuan Haji Ismail queried as we both looked at a small picture of Low’s Peak – the highest peak on Mount Kinabalu – on a map of Sabah in another officer’s room.
I have always been pleased to share bits of my memory of conquering the highest peak in South East Asia – a feat I achieved together with 39 other office mates last year. An unforgettable experience which have taught me a lot of lessons in life
“I felt so tiny. Meek. There was this breathless feeling of floating above the clouds, the sun seeming so near, peeking out slowly behind half-grey cottony soft clouds, ejecting a stream of yellow pink light, the sky painted with an ever changing palette of purple, yellow, red, gold. And there I was – on top of it all yet I felt so small, basked in such beauty.”
Tuan Haji smiled. Other colleagues would have described similar feelings too.
“Other than that?” Tuan Haji further probed.
“Nevertheless at the same time, I felt as if I had achieved something great. Something unusual. Something a bit unordinary…”
(Okay – I know thousands flocked to climb up Kinabalu annually – but not every other person I’ve met have done it – so, it is still, to me anyway, something unusual. Sort of.)
“It wasn’t that easy. But only because we have been tested along the way up, we could really appreciated how magnificent it was to stand on the summit – and we knew we managed it only with Allah’s grace and will.”
Tuan Haji nodded quietly, encouraging me to continue.
“It wasn’t the highest mountain in the world. But right then, it sure felt like it was. And Tuan Haji, I believe that for those who felt as though they have conquered the highest mountain, the memory of that could help them in overtaking any obstacles, achieving any goals – because if they could conquer the highest mountain, they could succeed at everything else too – with Allah’s will, of course”
Tuan Haji smiled. “My dear, if everybody else learned what you did, then what you guys did last year would definitely be considered ibadah and not something in vain”
I returned his smile, suddenly remembering a quote I’ve read somewhere about how often our way is not made of soft grass, but a mountain path with lots of rocks. But it goes upward, forward, toward the sun.
I sure hope that Kinabalu Challenge last year brought most of the team members not only upward, forward, toward the sun, but more importantly - towards recognising the greatness of the Creator of the sun.
Tuan Haji Ismail queried as we both looked at a small picture of Low’s Peak – the highest peak on Mount Kinabalu – on a map of Sabah in another officer’s room.
I have always been pleased to share bits of my memory of conquering the highest peak in South East Asia – a feat I achieved together with 39 other office mates last year. An unforgettable experience which have taught me a lot of lessons in life
“I felt so tiny. Meek. There was this breathless feeling of floating above the clouds, the sun seeming so near, peeking out slowly behind half-grey cottony soft clouds, ejecting a stream of yellow pink light, the sky painted with an ever changing palette of purple, yellow, red, gold. And there I was – on top of it all yet I felt so small, basked in such beauty.”
Tuan Haji smiled. Other colleagues would have described similar feelings too.
“Other than that?” Tuan Haji further probed.
“Nevertheless at the same time, I felt as if I had achieved something great. Something unusual. Something a bit unordinary…”
(Okay – I know thousands flocked to climb up Kinabalu annually – but not every other person I’ve met have done it – so, it is still, to me anyway, something unusual. Sort of.)
“It wasn’t that easy. But only because we have been tested along the way up, we could really appreciated how magnificent it was to stand on the summit – and we knew we managed it only with Allah’s grace and will.”
Tuan Haji nodded quietly, encouraging me to continue.
“It wasn’t the highest mountain in the world. But right then, it sure felt like it was. And Tuan Haji, I believe that for those who felt as though they have conquered the highest mountain, the memory of that could help them in overtaking any obstacles, achieving any goals – because if they could conquer the highest mountain, they could succeed at everything else too – with Allah’s will, of course”
Tuan Haji smiled. “My dear, if everybody else learned what you did, then what you guys did last year would definitely be considered ibadah and not something in vain”
I returned his smile, suddenly remembering a quote I’ve read somewhere about how often our way is not made of soft grass, but a mountain path with lots of rocks. But it goes upward, forward, toward the sun.
I sure hope that Kinabalu Challenge last year brought most of the team members not only upward, forward, toward the sun, but more importantly - towards recognising the greatness of the Creator of the sun.
Wednesday, July 28, 2004
He should have let her go...
In the midst of the media buzz on two separate murder cases of one middle-aged prominent lady and an innocent schoolgirl, another murder case made the headlines in Malay mainstream papers today. A brainy and pretty 27-year old research assistant who was scheduled to receive her Master’s degree in genetic biotechnology was stabbed to death, allegedly by a jealous 23-year old ex-boyfriend.
Despite being good in Silat Gayung, Allahyarham Norzi Ayu was reported to be too weak from fever to defend herself well against the unforeseen attack. The guy was, after all, a force to be reckoned with - the two met during their Silat Gayung classes. Poor Norzi managed to scribble her Tok Guru’s phone number and some note for help on a piece of paper and threw it down the corridor. A woman found the note, quickly called the Tok Guru who straight away hurried to Norzi Ayu’s flat – but was unable to talk some sense into the raging ex-boyfriend’s head. The highly-strung guy locked himself & Norzi in her flat, stabbed on her abdomen and ran away. By the time the Tok Guru managed to open up the door, Norzi was found lying on the floor, bleeding profusely. She was quickly rushed to the hospital, but had lost too much blood and passed away approximately five hours after she was stabbed.
A tragic death indeed.
To think that bakayaro guy had at one time imagined himself to be in love with her... Then he found out that she was going to marry someone else, who, unlike him, met her parents’ approval. What was his next step? Did he respect her wish to be with the other guy and back off civilly? Or wish her all the best and hope they could remain friends no matter what? No – he went and kill her instead. So much for his so-called love.
I remember a quotation I read in some book (the title of which I could not recall) when I was in Form Three - “if you love something, let it go. If it comes back to you, it’s yours. If it doesn’t, it never was.”
How true.
He should have let her go. Of course it is painful to let go. Of course it’s difficult to believe that it’s over when he strongly felt that he could not live without her. But love must be given and taken willingly – not given through forced coercion or pressure.
Unfortunately the obsessive ex-boy friend just didn’t get that part of love – of letting go gracefully and wishing her happiness once she realise that they were not suitable for each other, that they were not meant to be together. The unnecessary death and the following heartbreaks of so many people – her family, his family (following his arrest), the new beau, their many friends - could have been avoided had he agreed to let her go.
A successful relationship needs two people willing to work at it – having one persistent partner paired with a reluctant one spells disaster. The guy should have known that it’s better to cut free of ties with her once she has shown her unwillingness, and move on to build healthy relationship with another. After all – there are still so many girls out there. He's just 23 - so many years lie ahead. There are so many fish in the sea – or ponds/lakes/rivers out there. He just need to let go, move on and find another. And trust that time will always heal his pain. And believe that when a door of happiness closes, another opens.
Instead, he let the possessive and obsessive streaks in him got the better of him. Stabbing her, killing her would mean that she would not be with the other guy. Since he could not be with her, he might as well made sure that nobody else gets to be with her too, huh?
In the end, by refusing to let her go – he succeeded in ensuring that it’s a lose-lose situation for all.
How sad.
Despite being good in Silat Gayung, Allahyarham Norzi Ayu was reported to be too weak from fever to defend herself well against the unforeseen attack. The guy was, after all, a force to be reckoned with - the two met during their Silat Gayung classes. Poor Norzi managed to scribble her Tok Guru’s phone number and some note for help on a piece of paper and threw it down the corridor. A woman found the note, quickly called the Tok Guru who straight away hurried to Norzi Ayu’s flat – but was unable to talk some sense into the raging ex-boyfriend’s head. The highly-strung guy locked himself & Norzi in her flat, stabbed on her abdomen and ran away. By the time the Tok Guru managed to open up the door, Norzi was found lying on the floor, bleeding profusely. She was quickly rushed to the hospital, but had lost too much blood and passed away approximately five hours after she was stabbed.
A tragic death indeed.
To think that bakayaro guy had at one time imagined himself to be in love with her... Then he found out that she was going to marry someone else, who, unlike him, met her parents’ approval. What was his next step? Did he respect her wish to be with the other guy and back off civilly? Or wish her all the best and hope they could remain friends no matter what? No – he went and kill her instead. So much for his so-called love.
I remember a quotation I read in some book (the title of which I could not recall) when I was in Form Three - “if you love something, let it go. If it comes back to you, it’s yours. If it doesn’t, it never was.”
How true.
He should have let her go. Of course it is painful to let go. Of course it’s difficult to believe that it’s over when he strongly felt that he could not live without her. But love must be given and taken willingly – not given through forced coercion or pressure.
Unfortunately the obsessive ex-boy friend just didn’t get that part of love – of letting go gracefully and wishing her happiness once she realise that they were not suitable for each other, that they were not meant to be together. The unnecessary death and the following heartbreaks of so many people – her family, his family (following his arrest), the new beau, their many friends - could have been avoided had he agreed to let her go.
A successful relationship needs two people willing to work at it – having one persistent partner paired with a reluctant one spells disaster. The guy should have known that it’s better to cut free of ties with her once she has shown her unwillingness, and move on to build healthy relationship with another. After all – there are still so many girls out there. He's just 23 - so many years lie ahead. There are so many fish in the sea – or ponds/lakes/rivers out there. He just need to let go, move on and find another. And trust that time will always heal his pain. And believe that when a door of happiness closes, another opens.
Instead, he let the possessive and obsessive streaks in him got the better of him. Stabbing her, killing her would mean that she would not be with the other guy. Since he could not be with her, he might as well made sure that nobody else gets to be with her too, huh?
In the end, by refusing to let her go – he succeeded in ensuring that it’s a lose-lose situation for all.
How sad.
Tuesday, July 27, 2004
On being friends with married guys and their wives
Duan called me today, wanting to find out about some procedures common in the government office. During his call, he managed to insert some joke relating to my dreadful first ice skating experience. We have known each other for almost a decade now and the Duan I knew back in our University days, did not quite approved of my friendship with a few of his protégé anak usrahs. Nowadays though, Duan is a good friend who dutifully calls every now and then, asking how things are with me and letting me know how things are with him and his family. I haven’t seen him and his family for a long time now – back during the days I was driving a Kancil and Jan, Duan’s wife, was working at the Perodua service centre in PJ, I met them and their kids more often.
It’s not uncommon to find that some girls (like Norzu) don’t feel comfortable going out with married male friends and their family. I, however, have no qualms about having breakfast, lunch or dinner with my married male friends and their families. Chances are, if I could get along well with the hubbies, I stand a good chance of hitting it well with the wives too, just like I do with Jan and a few others.
My buddy Khairil first introduced me to his then-wife-to-be when she was still a student in Salford, so Linda and I began our friendship via Yahoo Messenger. When they got married in 2000, I was the only female friend to be honoured by Khairil’s invitation to be part of his family procession during the kenduri in Sungkai, Linda’s hometown. Now, I usually tried to drop by their apartment in Bandar Sri Putra if I happened to pass through that area of PLUS highway. And if Khairil, Linda and their two adorable kids happened to be in KL, I normally wouldn’t mind meeting them up somewhere for lunch or tea.
When I went to Japan in 2002, Khairil’s mom passed on a whole load of Malaysian food to Ena, Khairil’s sister who was studying in Tokyo via me. In fact, it was Khairil’s mom who taught and gave me some tips on making a good rendang one day in Ramadhan a long time ago. Not only I bond well with Khairil’s wife and kids, I also know his family members personally - his mom, dad, siblings. Just like I know my close girlfriends’ - Masni’s, Nita’s, Juz’s, Aidil’s, Yam’s - family members personally.
Just like I had misunderstandings with my girlfriends – I had my shares of rows with male friends too. Some misunderstandings/rows/disagreements/arguments could lead to months of not speaking to each other. In fact, if not for one terrible fight with Khairil, I might not have learnt how to make mee bandung. I remember travelling to Salford, making mee bandung for the first time at Nita’s place and sending a few bowls over to Khairil’s dorm as a sign of truce, knowing how he was missing mee bandung then. Sure enough, my first attempt was not that great – that mee bandung could have gone by other names like mee acheh or mee medan, as unique as it was *winks*. What mattered more was that Khairil and I were talking again.
Even when I get to know a good male friend after he was already married, I wouldn’t mind going out with him and his family. Sidan, a close friend since our post-grad diploma training days in 2001, introduced me to his wife Linda and their beloved daughter, over breakfast in Putrajaya. Turned out that as much as I have heard about Linda, she too have heard a lot about her husband’s close pal A.Z. prior to our meeting. Needless to say, we hit it off well – clicking right after the instant we first met.
(Now, come to think of it, my close buddies from three different eras - Pak Mus from school, Khairil from university and Sidan from post-grad diploma - all got married to women named Linda and I hit it off well with all three Lindas. What a coincidence, huh?)
I appreciate some guys’ friendships as much as I do my girlfriends. Sometimes, in order to continue my friendship with a guy, I have to win the wife’s trust and approval too. What better way to do so than meeting her and make friends with her? In fact, looking at my parents’ friendships with all the 'uncles' and 'aunties' I have known since I was a kid, I wouldn't be surprised to learn that the key of a long lasting friendship lies in befriending both husband and wife…
It’s not uncommon to find that some girls (like Norzu) don’t feel comfortable going out with married male friends and their family. I, however, have no qualms about having breakfast, lunch or dinner with my married male friends and their families. Chances are, if I could get along well with the hubbies, I stand a good chance of hitting it well with the wives too, just like I do with Jan and a few others.
My buddy Khairil first introduced me to his then-wife-to-be when she was still a student in Salford, so Linda and I began our friendship via Yahoo Messenger. When they got married in 2000, I was the only female friend to be honoured by Khairil’s invitation to be part of his family procession during the kenduri in Sungkai, Linda’s hometown. Now, I usually tried to drop by their apartment in Bandar Sri Putra if I happened to pass through that area of PLUS highway. And if Khairil, Linda and their two adorable kids happened to be in KL, I normally wouldn’t mind meeting them up somewhere for lunch or tea.
When I went to Japan in 2002, Khairil’s mom passed on a whole load of Malaysian food to Ena, Khairil’s sister who was studying in Tokyo via me. In fact, it was Khairil’s mom who taught and gave me some tips on making a good rendang one day in Ramadhan a long time ago. Not only I bond well with Khairil’s wife and kids, I also know his family members personally - his mom, dad, siblings. Just like I know my close girlfriends’ - Masni’s, Nita’s, Juz’s, Aidil’s, Yam’s - family members personally.
Just like I had misunderstandings with my girlfriends – I had my shares of rows with male friends too. Some misunderstandings/rows/disagreements/arguments could lead to months of not speaking to each other. In fact, if not for one terrible fight with Khairil, I might not have learnt how to make mee bandung. I remember travelling to Salford, making mee bandung for the first time at Nita’s place and sending a few bowls over to Khairil’s dorm as a sign of truce, knowing how he was missing mee bandung then. Sure enough, my first attempt was not that great – that mee bandung could have gone by other names like mee acheh or mee medan, as unique as it was *winks*. What mattered more was that Khairil and I were talking again.
Even when I get to know a good male friend after he was already married, I wouldn’t mind going out with him and his family. Sidan, a close friend since our post-grad diploma training days in 2001, introduced me to his wife Linda and their beloved daughter, over breakfast in Putrajaya. Turned out that as much as I have heard about Linda, she too have heard a lot about her husband’s close pal A.Z. prior to our meeting. Needless to say, we hit it off well – clicking right after the instant we first met.
(Now, come to think of it, my close buddies from three different eras - Pak Mus from school, Khairil from university and Sidan from post-grad diploma - all got married to women named Linda and I hit it off well with all three Lindas. What a coincidence, huh?)
I appreciate some guys’ friendships as much as I do my girlfriends. Sometimes, in order to continue my friendship with a guy, I have to win the wife’s trust and approval too. What better way to do so than meeting her and make friends with her? In fact, looking at my parents’ friendships with all the 'uncles' and 'aunties' I have known since I was a kid, I wouldn't be surprised to learn that the key of a long lasting friendship lies in befriending both husband and wife…
Monday, July 26, 2004
Sekai Ni Hitotsu Dake No Hana
I fumbled badly during my Mambusho a.k.a Manbukagakusho scholarship interview today. I prepared for it, practised answering some expected questions with Mak, made some mental notes on this and that - and when the time came for me to give my best shot - I fumbled. Weng sungguh lah!
The 'weng' effect lasted all day long and I found myself grappling for words to fill this blog this evening. So, I'm reverting to the old trick an English teacher taught me once a long time ago - "when nothing else works, you can even write down your favorite song's lyric in your journal..."
Here goes:
Sekai Ni Hitotsu Dake No Hana - translation
- performed by SMAP (the Japanese group with Kimutaku, not the school in Labu), 2003)
You don't have to be number one
You're the only one who's just like you
I was looking at a lot of flowers
Lined up in front of a flower shop
Everybody has a favorite flower
But all of them are pretty, aren't they?
In the bucket they're proudly standing
Tall and straight, with confidence
In spite of that, why do we people
Want to compare ourselves this way?
Eventhough each of us is different,
Does everybody want to be number one?
That's right, each of us is
The only flower of our kind in all the world
Each of us has a different seed
Just do your best to make your own flower bloom
There's a person who's having trouble deciding
Laughing while looking upset
But all the flowers that worked so hard to bloom are beautiful
So it can't be helped
After a while, that person came out of the store,
Holding a bouquet of colorful flowers
With a happy-looking profile
I didn't know that person's name
But that day, they smiled at me
It was like finding a flower blooming
in a place no one else had noticed
That's right, each of us is
The only flower of our kind in all the world
Each of us has a different seed
Just do your best to make your own flower bloom
Small flowers and big flowers
They're not all the same
You don't have to be number one
You're the only one who's just like you
(note: found this on the net some time last year but can't exactly remember who did the translation)
The 'weng' effect lasted all day long and I found myself grappling for words to fill this blog this evening. So, I'm reverting to the old trick an English teacher taught me once a long time ago - "when nothing else works, you can even write down your favorite song's lyric in your journal..."
Here goes:
Sekai Ni Hitotsu Dake No Hana - translation
- performed by SMAP (the Japanese group with Kimutaku, not the school in Labu), 2003)
You don't have to be number one
You're the only one who's just like you
I was looking at a lot of flowers
Lined up in front of a flower shop
Everybody has a favorite flower
But all of them are pretty, aren't they?
In the bucket they're proudly standing
Tall and straight, with confidence
In spite of that, why do we people
Want to compare ourselves this way?
Eventhough each of us is different,
Does everybody want to be number one?
That's right, each of us is
The only flower of our kind in all the world
Each of us has a different seed
Just do your best to make your own flower bloom
There's a person who's having trouble deciding
Laughing while looking upset
But all the flowers that worked so hard to bloom are beautiful
So it can't be helped
After a while, that person came out of the store,
Holding a bouquet of colorful flowers
With a happy-looking profile
I didn't know that person's name
But that day, they smiled at me
It was like finding a flower blooming
in a place no one else had noticed
That's right, each of us is
The only flower of our kind in all the world
Each of us has a different seed
Just do your best to make your own flower bloom
Small flowers and big flowers
They're not all the same
You don't have to be number one
You're the only one who's just like you
(note: found this on the net some time last year but can't exactly remember who did the translation)
Saturday, July 24, 2004
To all my fellow PTDs
To all those under-appreciated hardworking, all-for-nothing administrators, the stewards of the executives, committed to their jobs, with the burdens of the world upon their shoulders,preparing policies, cabinet papers, research papers, all for the betterment of the nation;
To all those enforcers, the bestions of justice, who work late until the wee hours, facing and dealing with all kinds of "demons" of the night, willing to sacrifice their flesh and blood to ensure the security of the nation;
To all those diplomats, voices of the nation, who persevere against all the challenges and the intricacies of international relations in ensuring that this beloved nation's voice is heard and its presence substantially felt ;
To all those trainers, the noble teachers, who lend a guiding hand to ensure that others will be able to walk without falter;
To all those officers, humble servants of the people, who give so much and receive so little, sacrificing much of their time going from point to point, from place to place, that they could even call the airport/R&R areas/port as their second home;
Fear not for no matter how the world sees us,
No matter how others look down upon us,
No matter how we are never been appreciated enough,
In the end all these does not truly matter,
In the end, it is God who gives the ultimate reward
for He is Most Just, Most Benevolent
To all those enforcers, the bestions of justice, who work late until the wee hours, facing and dealing with all kinds of "demons" of the night, willing to sacrifice their flesh and blood to ensure the security of the nation;
To all those diplomats, voices of the nation, who persevere against all the challenges and the intricacies of international relations in ensuring that this beloved nation's voice is heard and its presence substantially felt ;
To all those trainers, the noble teachers, who lend a guiding hand to ensure that others will be able to walk without falter;
To all those officers, humble servants of the people, who give so much and receive so little, sacrificing much of their time going from point to point, from place to place, that they could even call the airport/R&R areas/port as their second home;
Fear not for no matter how the world sees us,
No matter how others look down upon us,
No matter how we are never been appreciated enough,
In the end all these does not truly matter,
In the end, it is God who gives the ultimate reward
for He is Most Just, Most Benevolent
Friday, July 23, 2004
My First Ice Skating Experience
When I was in Leeds, my ex once invited me to join a group of friends trying out skiing and ice skating in Aviemore, Scotland. I liked the idea – but had to give it a miss due to having other commitments. After that, I’d never gotten such opportunity again – so, throughout my two years in UK, I had never tried out skiing or ice skating.
Two years ago I had to attend a meeting in Surabaya. Since our hotel was located just next to a huge shopping mall, one night, my friends and I decided to give an ikan bakar restaurant a try. Right after my first taste of grilled barracuda, I had another 'first' – becoming a spectator of one Surabaya Regional Ice Hockey Tournament game from the 8th floor of Tunjungan Plaza III.
Although I have watched ice hockey (read: The Mighty Ducks) and figure skating (read: Olympic) on TV before, nothing beats watching a live game to actually get my interest piqued. It was simply fascinating – the clean sweeps, the seemingly light yet deadly strikes, the players combining gracefulness and swiftness in their movements. I was awestruck - and found myself wishing to be able to ice skate.
However, upon my return to KL, I did not immediately act on that interest – so the wish somehow sizzled. The interest however fizzled back to life when I started watching “Pride”, a hit Japanese drama in which my favourite actor (Kimura Takuya lah, who else?) starred as an ice hockey player earlier this year. (pst, pst Jordan, in that drama, Halu, the main character, opted to further his career by joining the Vancouver Canucks – which pleased many true ice hockey fans. How about that, eh?)
Later, I loaned “Pride” to Kak Ham, who after finished watching it, also agreed with me that it might be a good idea to actually give ice skating a try. Hey, after all, in life it’s never too late to learn something new, right?
So, we finally did it last week.
I tried out ice skating for the very first time in my life.
Kak Ham, who used to study in Miami, at least knows how to rollerblade.
I, however, had no experience whatsoever with ice skating, rollerblading, skateboarding or plain old skating.
Nil. Nada.
At the end of our first session though – Kak Ham spent more time as a spectator than a skater. Upon entering the rink, she asked an Arab guy next to her to give her a hand. He did, but she lost control, slipped down, stood up again, slipped once more and ended up accidentally giving him a hug at the board.
It was funny. Honestly.
But not as funny as me being rooted in one place.
I was so scared that I was not moving at all. A teenage girl noticed my distress and came by to teach me some basic move. She hold my left hand, while my right was put on the board window.
“Keep your legs close together… Bend your knees a bit… Balance your shoulders with your feet movement… Yes, like that… Now move forward… Nooo, not like that… Stop!!!… Keep your legs close together... It’s different from walking, you know. You can only move forward, if you move backward, you will fall… Yes, like that… Stop!!!… Move forward… Just move forward... Don’t be afraid to fall… Nobody is going to laugh if you fall… Everybody falls..”
Jennifer patiently showed me some basic movement. I however, was making more attempts at moving than actually moving. Thus, we only covered about an eighth of the ice rink area when I thanked her and started to move slowly along the ice rink board alone. Slowly is the keyword here – dozens of other beginners passed me by as some of them walked and some skated slowly. I told myself that I must at least finished one complete round of the rink – or else it wouldn’t worth the RM15.00 entry fee.
I did contemplating taking a lesson from an expert instructor. However, I thought RM50 per session is too expensive for someone who has no intention whatsoever to be a serious skater. Besides, a colleague at work claimed that ice skating is the easiest to learn compared to other forms of skating. The “easiest-to-learn”, I found out that day, was not that easy after all.
I was fortunate enough to get another free lesson as I reached the far end of the rink. There was this uncle - a kind looking medium height middle aged man - who I suspected might be a qualified coach who was helpful enough to teach me some basic moves.
“Keep your legs close. Now march. Move your right leg. Move your left leg. Right. Left. Right. Left. Right. Left. Don’t stop!… If you stop you will fall. Now, right. Left. Right. Left. Keep moving… I said, don’t stop. If you stop moving you will fall… You see, actually you skate on one leg while the other push you forward. That’s how you glide forward…”
I fell, of course. A couple of times. Who didn’t on their first lesson?
‘Uncle’ taught me how to fall down completely, get back up, get my feet close together again and marched on ice once more. He helped me through all the way until we reached the entrance.
“Take a break. Then start marching again, until you get your balance, ” ‘uncle’ advised.
Kak Ham grinned widely when she saw me.
“I made a complete round.” I knew it was lame, but it was an achievement of some sort.
“I know. I saw you did it. It looked painful to me. ”
It was – my right knee was hurting. So was my left thigh. But I wasn’t about to waste that RM15.00 for just one round of the rink.
“ Would you mind waiting? I want to give it another go.”
“That’s fine with me. I’ll buy myself some drinks at that café over there and wait for you there, okay? Ganbatte!" Kak Ham waved as I entered the rink for the second time.
So while Kak Ham went and read some women magazine at a café located at the end of the rink, I tried another attempt of ‘skating’ around the rink. Hey – but there was some improvement – I moved faster this time around. If not for some slow girl who moved slower-than-a-snail blocking the way, I believed I could had finished the second round faster. The right-left, right-left marching trick worked, but I was too afraid to completely let go of the window, so I had to patiently wait for the girl in front of me to make her move, assisted by her patient boyfriend, until once she made a long stop and I braved myself to let go of the window for one step and overtook her.
Right-left. Right-left. Feet close together... Yeayyy… I did it. I completed two rounds of the ice rink! I told myself that it wasn’t too bad for a self-taught-first-timer. Just to, you know, cheer myself up a bit despite feeling insanely envious of those kids who could skate forward, backward, did a flip or two and all. Urayamashii!!! (Jelesnya!!!)
So, okay, Daeng was right. Ice skating is one area I need to improve on. Maybe I’ll ask a friend who knows how to skate and can assist/teach me on my next trip. I’ll pay the entry fee, of course. That’ll be my lesson fee. After all, RM15 is still a lot cheaper than RM50 per session.
I may not want to be a serious skater – but I’ll keep on learning until I’m able to fulfil a dream of feeling liberated as I glide alongside the rest, somewhat steadily if not gracefully, across the ice rink.
Thursday, July 22, 2004
Not all people turn out to be the persons we thought they were
I once knew a guy full of contradiction.
On one hand, I had been warned that this guy was no good. He changed girlfriends often, could be found hanging out at seedy places with the ‘wrong’ crowd, didn’t care much for solat, fasting and stuff, and some hinted that he might had been drinking and made out with some girls before.
On the other hand, the senior officers liked him very much because he was a well-mannered chap who could get along well with anybody and everybody. He was the eldest guy in the family and was very protective of his sisters. His kid sister could sweet-talked him into anything – including asking him to buy and send a new pair of slippers to her campus in the middle of the night. And of course, he also took up lots of responsibility around his home – grocery shopping at the wet market, fixing things, changing light bulbs, the works.
We were working in different divisions, but once we had to attend an out-of-office meeting together. By the time the meeting was over, it was already past lunch hour. However, I told him that I would like to perform solat Zohor first before lunch. He agreed and off we went to the surau.
I found him already ready and waiting outside the surau after I finished my solat. As I walked beside him in our search for a suitable place to have lunch, he appeared nonchalant as he confessed “You know, dah lama I tak sembahyang Zohor. Dah lama lah...”
I have heard from others that he did not care much for solat but hearing it from his own mouth was totally shocking! Still, I must had mumbled something that encouraged him to further confessed;
“I ni memang susah sikit. Sembahyang subuh pun cuma kalau I terjaga bila my auntie kejutkan”
My mind went something like – “Hah? Who did he think I was – Sister Confessor? Please don’t tell me all these, I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know…” I can’t remember what my response in real life though. But whatever it was, I believe I must had done something right, because since then, we grew closer. Realising that he knew he was doing something wrong and learning that somewhere deep inside he wanted to change to become a better Muslim, I gave him the encouragement and support that he craved in taking the necessary steps towards the right path.
Along the way, he became sort of an elder brother to me – someone I can tease unmercifully yet also a patient listener to my own rants and grumbles about this and that. While I reminded him to take extra care of his solat, fasting and stuff, he in turn, taught me to be more open-minded and to look at things differently from the way I normally did.
His change was apparent. From someone who wouldn’t mind having his lunch in public at some shopping malls during Jumaah prayer, he began to ensure that a pair of slippers would be ready at all time in his car boot for Jumaah prayer. While his change was not overnight, our office colleagues took notice when he began frequenting the surau more often.
That year, he quietly admitted, was the first year he fasted for the whole of Ramadhan since his mother passed away, and she had been gone for six years then. He confessed that during weekdays when he wakes up for sahur, goes to the office and breaks his fast with the family, fasting would be no big deal. Weekends however, would be altogether different since he normally spent his weekends with his non-fasting friends and could not resist temptations of having a quick smoke and tasting yummy looking food. That year though, he kept away from these friends during weekends. I even heard him telling his friends over the phone that he could only meet them after 10 p.m. on Ramadhan nights – as he would only be back from terawih after that time.
From others, I learned that despite his un-alim-ness, he has always been rather courteous, thoughtful and reliable. Once, prior to my employment in the office, there was a girl who had been impregnated by her boyfriend who had no intention to marry her. The girl was in dilemma whether to abort or keep the baby. She finally decided to keep the baby after all, wanting to be responsible for her own doing. However, upon learning of her pregnancy, most people in the office began to shun her away - except for a few true friends who stick by her, who could accept that she had committed a big sin, yet keep on encouraging her to repent and build a new life with her innocent baby. Among her biggest supporters and a major contributor towards the child’s well being was none other than my not-so-alim friend.
When another colleague passed away at 28, leaving behind a three-months-pregnant wife and a kid, it was my not-so-alim friend who took the initiatives in claiming insurances on behalf of the somewhat distraught wife of his deceased friend.
Seeing my not-so-alim friend changing into a practising Muslim while retaining his former strentghs was a pleasure in itself. I knew it was not my doing – he did it himself with Allah’s will and grace, yet that knowledge did not lessen the pleasure of seeing a beloved friend morphing into a beautiful soul.
Alas, our friendship did not last the test of time and distance well. After I changed my job, we drifted further and further with each passing day until one day I realised that I had no contact whatsoever with him.
Still, remembering the pleasure of seeing him submitting once again to Allah, working hard to be a practising Muslim, remind me that how true it is that not all people turn out to be the persons we thought they were when we first met them. Sometimes, they turn out to be so much better...
On one hand, I had been warned that this guy was no good. He changed girlfriends often, could be found hanging out at seedy places with the ‘wrong’ crowd, didn’t care much for solat, fasting and stuff, and some hinted that he might had been drinking and made out with some girls before.
On the other hand, the senior officers liked him very much because he was a well-mannered chap who could get along well with anybody and everybody. He was the eldest guy in the family and was very protective of his sisters. His kid sister could sweet-talked him into anything – including asking him to buy and send a new pair of slippers to her campus in the middle of the night. And of course, he also took up lots of responsibility around his home – grocery shopping at the wet market, fixing things, changing light bulbs, the works.
We were working in different divisions, but once we had to attend an out-of-office meeting together. By the time the meeting was over, it was already past lunch hour. However, I told him that I would like to perform solat Zohor first before lunch. He agreed and off we went to the surau.
I found him already ready and waiting outside the surau after I finished my solat. As I walked beside him in our search for a suitable place to have lunch, he appeared nonchalant as he confessed “You know, dah lama I tak sembahyang Zohor. Dah lama lah...”
I have heard from others that he did not care much for solat but hearing it from his own mouth was totally shocking! Still, I must had mumbled something that encouraged him to further confessed;
“I ni memang susah sikit. Sembahyang subuh pun cuma kalau I terjaga bila my auntie kejutkan”
My mind went something like – “Hah? Who did he think I was – Sister Confessor? Please don’t tell me all these, I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know…” I can’t remember what my response in real life though. But whatever it was, I believe I must had done something right, because since then, we grew closer. Realising that he knew he was doing something wrong and learning that somewhere deep inside he wanted to change to become a better Muslim, I gave him the encouragement and support that he craved in taking the necessary steps towards the right path.
Along the way, he became sort of an elder brother to me – someone I can tease unmercifully yet also a patient listener to my own rants and grumbles about this and that. While I reminded him to take extra care of his solat, fasting and stuff, he in turn, taught me to be more open-minded and to look at things differently from the way I normally did.
His change was apparent. From someone who wouldn’t mind having his lunch in public at some shopping malls during Jumaah prayer, he began to ensure that a pair of slippers would be ready at all time in his car boot for Jumaah prayer. While his change was not overnight, our office colleagues took notice when he began frequenting the surau more often.
That year, he quietly admitted, was the first year he fasted for the whole of Ramadhan since his mother passed away, and she had been gone for six years then. He confessed that during weekdays when he wakes up for sahur, goes to the office and breaks his fast with the family, fasting would be no big deal. Weekends however, would be altogether different since he normally spent his weekends with his non-fasting friends and could not resist temptations of having a quick smoke and tasting yummy looking food. That year though, he kept away from these friends during weekends. I even heard him telling his friends over the phone that he could only meet them after 10 p.m. on Ramadhan nights – as he would only be back from terawih after that time.
From others, I learned that despite his un-alim-ness, he has always been rather courteous, thoughtful and reliable. Once, prior to my employment in the office, there was a girl who had been impregnated by her boyfriend who had no intention to marry her. The girl was in dilemma whether to abort or keep the baby. She finally decided to keep the baby after all, wanting to be responsible for her own doing. However, upon learning of her pregnancy, most people in the office began to shun her away - except for a few true friends who stick by her, who could accept that she had committed a big sin, yet keep on encouraging her to repent and build a new life with her innocent baby. Among her biggest supporters and a major contributor towards the child’s well being was none other than my not-so-alim friend.
When another colleague passed away at 28, leaving behind a three-months-pregnant wife and a kid, it was my not-so-alim friend who took the initiatives in claiming insurances on behalf of the somewhat distraught wife of his deceased friend.
Seeing my not-so-alim friend changing into a practising Muslim while retaining his former strentghs was a pleasure in itself. I knew it was not my doing – he did it himself with Allah’s will and grace, yet that knowledge did not lessen the pleasure of seeing a beloved friend morphing into a beautiful soul.
Alas, our friendship did not last the test of time and distance well. After I changed my job, we drifted further and further with each passing day until one day I realised that I had no contact whatsoever with him.
Still, remembering the pleasure of seeing him submitting once again to Allah, working hard to be a practising Muslim, remind me that how true it is that not all people turn out to be the persons we thought they were when we first met them. Sometimes, they turn out to be so much better...
Wednesday, July 21, 2004
Lughatul Arabiyah vs Nihon-go
I used to learn the Arabic language for five years.
Got C3 for SRP. Not too bad, but I highly suspected I only managed getting such mark for memorising some compositions for the essay test.
Got P8 for SPM. I was actually hoping for a credit – maybe C6. Tough luck – I did not understand the essay question at all, and hence P8.
It had been a little more than a decade since I last opened any lughatul Arabiyah book. I have a feeling that while I might be able to read Arabic, I won’t be able to understand a lot. Chances are, what little I still remember now of lughatul Arabiyah could probably be learned by a stranger to the language in five hours. Or maybe five minutes.
I went to Tokyo in 2002 for a two-weeks course (where I met and made a few great friends – Khamla from Laos, Odgerel from Mongolia, Mahmood from Iran, Bruce from Fiji). Prior to my visit, I had been advised to learn and memorise a few important phrases – greetings, asking for locations, buying things, etc. Yes, I actually had some experience haggling with Japanese sellers at one flea market in Sendagaya. A typical conversation would go like this:
Me: Kore wa ikura desu ka? (How much is this?)
Seller: Sanzen yen (3000 yen)
Me: Takaii des! (That’s expensive!)
Seller: Ikura? (How much (do you want)?)
Me: Sen yen? (1000 yen?)
Seller: Nani? Sen yen??? Sayonara! (What? 1000 yen? Good bye)
That last part was made up, of course. *grins*
Those two weeks left a lasting impression. I was fascinated with lots of things I saw, ate and experienced while I was there. When I returned to Malaysia, a part of my heart was left in the land of the rising sun.
Then, last year I became hooked on Japanese drama – thanks to “Hero”, a series on some public prosecutors’ lives and tribulations starring Kimura Takuya (a.k.a Kimutaku) and Matsu Takako. That was the first drama I took serious attention to– previously I have watched a few Japanese drama but none really caught my attention like “Hero” did. When I learned that Ira - my ex-classmate who remains in touch with me long after we left school - has a quite admirable collection of Japanese doramas – I borrowed all Kimutaku’s previous dramas. After that, I began to watch dramas by other actors. Then, the next thing I know - I had started purchasing and building my own collection of Japanese drama series.
My interest in Japanese dramas, coupled with the fact that Japanese are known for being an advanced country in communications industry and I believe it might benefit my organisation if I could talk and read in Nihon-go (Japanese), I decided to start learning the language.
I enrolled into a communicative Nihon-go class late last year in Universiti Malaya. 4 hours a week, for 10 weeks, which cost RM600. A worthy investment – considering since then, I’ve learned how to write and read Kana characters (Japanese characters based on sound. Kanji – loaned from Chinese characters – is harder to learn) and able to make small talks with Japanese visitors my office received every now and then. Demo watashi no benkyou wa kaiwa dake, takara, sukoshi hanashimasu. (However, I only had basic communicating lesson, therefore I’m only able to speak a little Japanese)
Still, I must admit that, unlike my lughatul Arabiyah books which were left aside right after SPM was over, I still brush up on my Nihon-go long after my class ended. I borrowed books from Japan Foundation library, I practised conversing with Sekiguchi-san, a JICA (Japan International Cooperation Agency) officer seconded in my office and sometimes with Dr Roy, a senior officer who did his Masters in Japan. (In fact, it was Dr Roy who encouraged me to apply for Monbukagakusho scholarship.)
I learned the Arabic language for five years.
I learned the Japanese language for less than three months.
If you ask me now, I would admit that I know a little Japanese.
My Arabic, however, is so poor that I’m actually a bit embarrassed to admit that I studied it for five years. Like I’ve said before – what I know now could be equivalent to what one can learn in five minutes.
Now, after paying RM600 for 40 hours of one language’s class and able to make small talks in that language, I realise that it was such a waste that I did not take my lughatul Arabiyah class seriously more than a decade ago.
Mak, who now is into learning harfiah (Quranic Arabic) always chided me for not studying lughatul Arabiyah seriously when I was still young and had more times to memorise stuff. Back when I was a student, Mak had warned me beforehand that one day I would regret not studying the beautiful language whole-heartedly.
Now - her warning has come true.
Got C3 for SRP. Not too bad, but I highly suspected I only managed getting such mark for memorising some compositions for the essay test.
Got P8 for SPM. I was actually hoping for a credit – maybe C6. Tough luck – I did not understand the essay question at all, and hence P8.
It had been a little more than a decade since I last opened any lughatul Arabiyah book. I have a feeling that while I might be able to read Arabic, I won’t be able to understand a lot. Chances are, what little I still remember now of lughatul Arabiyah could probably be learned by a stranger to the language in five hours. Or maybe five minutes.
I went to Tokyo in 2002 for a two-weeks course (where I met and made a few great friends – Khamla from Laos, Odgerel from Mongolia, Mahmood from Iran, Bruce from Fiji). Prior to my visit, I had been advised to learn and memorise a few important phrases – greetings, asking for locations, buying things, etc. Yes, I actually had some experience haggling with Japanese sellers at one flea market in Sendagaya. A typical conversation would go like this:
Me: Kore wa ikura desu ka? (How much is this?)
Seller: Sanzen yen (3000 yen)
Me: Takaii des! (That’s expensive!)
Seller: Ikura? (How much (do you want)?)
Me: Sen yen? (1000 yen?)
Seller: Nani? Sen yen??? Sayonara! (What? 1000 yen? Good bye)
That last part was made up, of course. *grins*
Those two weeks left a lasting impression. I was fascinated with lots of things I saw, ate and experienced while I was there. When I returned to Malaysia, a part of my heart was left in the land of the rising sun.
Then, last year I became hooked on Japanese drama – thanks to “Hero”, a series on some public prosecutors’ lives and tribulations starring Kimura Takuya (a.k.a Kimutaku) and Matsu Takako. That was the first drama I took serious attention to– previously I have watched a few Japanese drama but none really caught my attention like “Hero” did. When I learned that Ira - my ex-classmate who remains in touch with me long after we left school - has a quite admirable collection of Japanese doramas – I borrowed all Kimutaku’s previous dramas. After that, I began to watch dramas by other actors. Then, the next thing I know - I had started purchasing and building my own collection of Japanese drama series.
My interest in Japanese dramas, coupled with the fact that Japanese are known for being an advanced country in communications industry and I believe it might benefit my organisation if I could talk and read in Nihon-go (Japanese), I decided to start learning the language.
I enrolled into a communicative Nihon-go class late last year in Universiti Malaya. 4 hours a week, for 10 weeks, which cost RM600. A worthy investment – considering since then, I’ve learned how to write and read Kana characters (Japanese characters based on sound. Kanji – loaned from Chinese characters – is harder to learn) and able to make small talks with Japanese visitors my office received every now and then. Demo watashi no benkyou wa kaiwa dake, takara, sukoshi hanashimasu. (However, I only had basic communicating lesson, therefore I’m only able to speak a little Japanese)
Still, I must admit that, unlike my lughatul Arabiyah books which were left aside right after SPM was over, I still brush up on my Nihon-go long after my class ended. I borrowed books from Japan Foundation library, I practised conversing with Sekiguchi-san, a JICA (Japan International Cooperation Agency) officer seconded in my office and sometimes with Dr Roy, a senior officer who did his Masters in Japan. (In fact, it was Dr Roy who encouraged me to apply for Monbukagakusho scholarship.)
I learned the Arabic language for five years.
I learned the Japanese language for less than three months.
If you ask me now, I would admit that I know a little Japanese.
My Arabic, however, is so poor that I’m actually a bit embarrassed to admit that I studied it for five years. Like I’ve said before – what I know now could be equivalent to what one can learn in five minutes.
Now, after paying RM600 for 40 hours of one language’s class and able to make small talks in that language, I realise that it was such a waste that I did not take my lughatul Arabiyah class seriously more than a decade ago.
Mak, who now is into learning harfiah (Quranic Arabic) always chided me for not studying lughatul Arabiyah seriously when I was still young and had more times to memorise stuff. Back when I was a student, Mak had warned me beforehand that one day I would regret not studying the beautiful language whole-heartedly.
Now - her warning has come true.
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
Of Mak's Bekal and Bentos
“Here Kak, your breakfast on the go…”
I was on my way out when Mak handed my breakfast to me – it’s nasi goreng (fried rice). On rainy mornings – like today - when she has to give her Taiji Quan session a miss, Mak would usually personally prepare breakfast for our family and pack mine.
“Mana ada mak lain yang tolong bekalkan macam ni”
(Do you think it’s easy to find mothers who still pack their working kid’s breakfast?)
I gave her a big smile.
I know it’s rare to find a retiree mother who would pack her grown up daughter’s breakfast and I’m so glad that Mak still does. My normal morning routine would be - wake up, pray Subuh, attend to Tok’s (my paternal grandma) medical needs, get ready, a round of salam with the elders (often just Ayah & Tok since Mak normally wouldn’t be back from her Taiji session yet), then go to work. I normally have my breakfast at work.
However, since my buddy Tan moved to another Ministry, I have yet to find another consistent breakfast partner (and Tan has yet to find a good nasi lemak in Kota Kinabalu). When Tan was around, we always had breakfast together – either we first bought something at one pakcik’s stall by the road selling some kuih and nasi lemak or just grabbed something at the canteen and sat down, sharing stories and news over breakfast.
Now, most days, my breakfast consists of two pieces of Jacob’s Sunlife breakfast biscuit and a mug of hot chocolate/Milo. However, on days when Mak packed up breakfast for me, I would bring it down to the canteen, buy a glass of teh tarik and sit down with a group of senior officers. Either Ms. Chan, Puan Bad or Cik Kiah would then checked out what my Mak or Bibik cooked up for me that day. And I would proudly showed them what I would be having – be it nasi goreng, mee goreng, peanut-butter-and-jelly-sandwich or whatever else Mak (or sometimes, Bibik) prepared.
And always, one of them would note almost enviously - “You’re so lucky to have a Mak who would still bother to pack breakfast for you”
I would gave them a big smile.
I’d like to think of my packed breakfast as a bento of some sort. Ask any Japanese and most would agree that bentos – Japanese lunch boxes – represent lots of maternity love.
School kids compare their lunches to find out who has the most attractive, creative, colourful arrangement. Anybody with a sandwich, a fruit, a packed drink and cookies in brown bag would look sad about not having a bento to open. Some lucky kids who open their bentos to find Hello Kitty/ Pikachu/Mickey Mouse/Pooh moulded rice ball with features cut out of seaweed, spring veggies, fried egg yolks, fish cakes and fried chicken – would be the envy of the class. Mother-child confrontations over a run of bad bento days are not unusual – the child would point out that girl’s bento was so much colourful, that boy’s bento was so much creative, his name written out in ketchup over an omelette with lots and lots of ingredients.
The joy of opening and savouring scrumptious bentos are also experienced by Japanese men who prefer homemade lunches and lucky enough to be married to gracious and accommodating wives. And I heard that recently a growing numbers of Japanese single working women are also proud of carrying and consuming self-prepared meals called my o-bento. So serious the Japanese are about their bentos – they even have different bentos for different time of the year. There’s the hanami-bento after the sakura viewing season in April, then the undokai bento for sports day in May, followed by the summertime bento for summer school and the akino kouraku bento during autumn excursion in October.
As for me – while Mak have never moulded any of the fried rice or noodle to resemble any famous cartoon characters or assemble colourful garnishing around them – my breakfast bekal remains an unspoken message of Mak’s love.
Monday, July 19, 2004
Scholarship Recommendation Form
I applied for a scholarship to further my studies in Japan earlier this year. Called for a written exam early last month. Sat for the exam with about 400 other hopefuls a week later. And about two weeks ago, received a notification informing me that I had been shortlisted to attend an interview which will be held next week.
Among other things, I am required to submit numerous forms and copies of relevant documents during the registration on the day of interview. These include two recommendation forms - one from the present employer, and another from an academic advisor. I seeked my ministry's KSU (basically the "CEO" of my office) help and he agreed to be my recommender upon learning that, if I get to make it, I would only be going to Japan after April next year. (Since he will be retiring in March next year - my guess is that he takes comfort in knowing that it will no longer be a 'problem' to him should any post in the office be vacant from March 2005 onwards...)
The form was returned to me two days after I submitted it to the KSU's office. I was pleased - until I noticed that he did not answer any of the questions asked. All the main details - his name, position, address, contact numbers - were neatly typed - but none of the main questions were answered.
Before I re-sent the form back to the KSU's office, my friend Daeng took a quick glance at the form and offered some alternative answers as below:
1. What was the nature of your relationship?
Master and slave
2. In what areas does the applicant need improvement or growth?
Ice skating
3. Please comment on the applicant's interpersonal skills. How well does she work within a team?
What interpersonal skills?
4. How would you describe the applicant's leadership skills.
Nil - Nada - Nope
5. Please comment on the applicant's degree of self-confidence.
Too confident for my liking.
6. Please comment on the applicant's personal character?
Again, why all these inane questions?
Sheeshhh...
Am I glad that Daeng still has a loooooong way to go before becoming a KSU...
Among other things, I am required to submit numerous forms and copies of relevant documents during the registration on the day of interview. These include two recommendation forms - one from the present employer, and another from an academic advisor. I seeked my ministry's KSU (basically the "CEO" of my office) help and he agreed to be my recommender upon learning that, if I get to make it, I would only be going to Japan after April next year. (Since he will be retiring in March next year - my guess is that he takes comfort in knowing that it will no longer be a 'problem' to him should any post in the office be vacant from March 2005 onwards...)
The form was returned to me two days after I submitted it to the KSU's office. I was pleased - until I noticed that he did not answer any of the questions asked. All the main details - his name, position, address, contact numbers - were neatly typed - but none of the main questions were answered.
Before I re-sent the form back to the KSU's office, my friend Daeng took a quick glance at the form and offered some alternative answers as below:
1. What was the nature of your relationship?
Master and slave
2. In what areas does the applicant need improvement or growth?
Ice skating
3. Please comment on the applicant's interpersonal skills. How well does she work within a team?
What interpersonal skills?
4. How would you describe the applicant's leadership skills.
Nil - Nada - Nope
5. Please comment on the applicant's degree of self-confidence.
Too confident for my liking.
6. Please comment on the applicant's personal character?
Again, why all these inane questions?
Sheeshhh...
Am I glad that Daeng still has a loooooong way to go before becoming a KSU...
Friday, July 16, 2004
The Story of Two Fishermen
Once upon a time there were two religious fishermen who lived in the same village and both used to fish a lot.
The first guy was a fortunate fisherman. Every time he went fishing at the lake, he wouldn’t have to wait long to have his bucket filled to the brim with all kind of fishes. He enjoyed a good trip whenever he went fishing, even though he kept changing fishing spots.
Then there was the second guy. Every time he dipped the fishing rod in the lake, he had to wait for ages before any fish took his bait. He often fished near the first guy’s fishing point, but surprisingly, he hardly got any good catch.
The angels were perplexed. Believing that both men were equally honourable, honest, and kind, the angels then asked God, “Why are these two men treated differently? They are equally virtuous and surely they deserve equal rewards? Why are You letting one getting so much yet the other hardly gets anything?”
God replied, “As for the first guy, he got his rewards here on this earth. He worked hard and justifiably, he’s blessed with good fortune.
The other guy though, will get his rewards in the hereafter because I like listening to all the du’as and zikrs he uttered quietly while he fished. With little catches to distract him, he just kept uttering the du’as and zikrs beautifully and peacefully, which he wouldn’t do should I let the fishes took his baits.”
Anonymous
Mak re-told this story after she returned from one of her many 'mengaji' classes.
I have my thoughts on this story. But I wonder how others perceive and relate to it...
The first guy was a fortunate fisherman. Every time he went fishing at the lake, he wouldn’t have to wait long to have his bucket filled to the brim with all kind of fishes. He enjoyed a good trip whenever he went fishing, even though he kept changing fishing spots.
Then there was the second guy. Every time he dipped the fishing rod in the lake, he had to wait for ages before any fish took his bait. He often fished near the first guy’s fishing point, but surprisingly, he hardly got any good catch.
The angels were perplexed. Believing that both men were equally honourable, honest, and kind, the angels then asked God, “Why are these two men treated differently? They are equally virtuous and surely they deserve equal rewards? Why are You letting one getting so much yet the other hardly gets anything?”
God replied, “As for the first guy, he got his rewards here on this earth. He worked hard and justifiably, he’s blessed with good fortune.
The other guy though, will get his rewards in the hereafter because I like listening to all the du’as and zikrs he uttered quietly while he fished. With little catches to distract him, he just kept uttering the du’as and zikrs beautifully and peacefully, which he wouldn’t do should I let the fishes took his baits.”
Anonymous
Mak re-told this story after she returned from one of her many 'mengaji' classes.
I have my thoughts on this story. But I wonder how others perceive and relate to it...
Thursday, July 15, 2004
Of A Diary & Mean Boys
A 14-year old boy had been jotting down all his miseries, grievances and his hatred towards a trio of seniors in his diary. The little black book was found and read by one of the trio. Later, he was requested by two other seniors to go back to the dorm while he was eating with some other friends at the canteen. The unsuspecting boy followed these two seniors only to be met by the mean trio in one room and got the worst thrashing he had ever known. He was bruised badly, experiencing soreness on his tummy, pain on his shoulder and his knee hurting.
The trio had already been suspended and the case is under police investigation, as accorded by Section 149, Penal Code.
And it’s all because of some people who just don’t know how to respect another person’s privacy. Worse, these same people came from a sekolah agama, had been taught Islamic values and norms for four years.
My boss claimed that some parents purposely send their 'naughty' children to sekolah agama hoping that the environment would be able to help changing and motivating their kids to become better, nicer, kinder persons.
(Then again, when a sekolah agama no longer preserves the values and norms of a sekolah agama, what could one really expect from that school's products?)
For goodness sake - the poor boy was only letting off some steam in the most harmless way - writing to himself in a diary. It's not like he had been reporting to the Principal or poisoning the trio's food or putting a scorpion in the trio's lockers or making any other such attempt. He was in need of some medium to let go of his anger, his frustration and the diary was his solution. That's the most private channel to let off steam - the trios should have known better when they found the poor boy's little black book. Let it go, leave him alone.
They gave him an undeserving thrashing instead - and what good does it bring? None. Instead this incident might put the fourth formers at a risk of not getting a good testimonials once they leave the school after SPM. In a dog eat dog world, getting just good grades without the much needed strong recommendations and testimonials could affect their chances of getting a place in any good university/college. All the hard works, efforts, achievements in the previous years gone down the drain. Just because they could not help themselves from being mean to a weak junior.
But then again, I guess some mean boys remain mean no matter where they go, study or live.
Wednesday, July 14, 2004
PTD = Pegawai Tanggung Dosa?
After almost three years of being one, I thought I have heard all possible connotations for PTD. Of course, in actuality the acronym stands for Pegawai Tadbir dan Diplomatik (Administrative and Diplomatic Officer).
However, PTD could also be Pegawai Takdak Duit (No-Money Officers) or Pegawai Tidur Duduk (Sleeping-While-Sitting Officers) – which at times, could be true too. PTDs are not paid well compared to our peers working in the private sector – hence Pegawai Takdak Duit.
And honestly – many of us had, at one time or another (or even often, like yours truly was infamous for) doze off during lectures/classes we had to attend in the six-month course of Public Administration Diploma. So, PTD = Pegawai Tidur Duduk? Possibly true too. * grins *
It wasn’t until recently that I heard of another possible term for PTD – “Pegawai Tanggung Dosa”
And that had me thinking hard.
If we were to paste the organization chart of a ministry/government agency against the private sector’s normal chart, the Minister would probably be described as the Chairman. The Secretary General would be the CEO/President, and the PTDs would often be the senior officers – General Managers, Assistant General Managers, Senior Managers, Managers and Senior Executives. The rakyat would be our clients. The current members of the Cabinet would be the stakeholders/board members.
Just as the Chairman or CEO in a private company could drive the officers crazy, so could the Minister and Secretary-General (often held by a PTD. In fact, the highest position available in the civil service – the Chief Secretary to the Government a.k.a. Ketua Setiausaha Negara - is a position that has traditionally been held by a PTD) in the civil service.
And just like the Senior Executives having to deal with complaints, grumbles and all sort of unpleasant stuff coming from the clients, so does the lower ranking PTDs with the rakyat.
PTDs are in between the politicians and the rakyats. If the PTDs do a great job, make the rakyat happy, then the politicians will claim it’s all thanks to them. However, if the politicians fail to carry out their duties efficiently, the rakyat complains, then the PTDs will get the blame.
If the politicians want anything, even against the advice of officers who are concerned about unnecessary spending of the rakyat’s money, their wish must still be carried out and if the rakyat finds out about this, it’s the PTDs who would be treated to the hostile glares first. If the rakyat demand something but these tasks could not been carried out as effectively or efficiently by the government, again the PTDs will get the blame.
Hence, Pegawai Tanggung Dosa, eh?
However, PTD could also be Pegawai Takdak Duit (No-Money Officers) or Pegawai Tidur Duduk (Sleeping-While-Sitting Officers) – which at times, could be true too. PTDs are not paid well compared to our peers working in the private sector – hence Pegawai Takdak Duit.
And honestly – many of us had, at one time or another (or even often, like yours truly was infamous for) doze off during lectures/classes we had to attend in the six-month course of Public Administration Diploma. So, PTD = Pegawai Tidur Duduk? Possibly true too. * grins *
It wasn’t until recently that I heard of another possible term for PTD – “Pegawai Tanggung Dosa”
And that had me thinking hard.
If we were to paste the organization chart of a ministry/government agency against the private sector’s normal chart, the Minister would probably be described as the Chairman. The Secretary General would be the CEO/President, and the PTDs would often be the senior officers – General Managers, Assistant General Managers, Senior Managers, Managers and Senior Executives. The rakyat would be our clients. The current members of the Cabinet would be the stakeholders/board members.
Just as the Chairman or CEO in a private company could drive the officers crazy, so could the Minister and Secretary-General (often held by a PTD. In fact, the highest position available in the civil service – the Chief Secretary to the Government a.k.a. Ketua Setiausaha Negara - is a position that has traditionally been held by a PTD) in the civil service.
And just like the Senior Executives having to deal with complaints, grumbles and all sort of unpleasant stuff coming from the clients, so does the lower ranking PTDs with the rakyat.
PTDs are in between the politicians and the rakyats. If the PTDs do a great job, make the rakyat happy, then the politicians will claim it’s all thanks to them. However, if the politicians fail to carry out their duties efficiently, the rakyat complains, then the PTDs will get the blame.
If the politicians want anything, even against the advice of officers who are concerned about unnecessary spending of the rakyat’s money, their wish must still be carried out and if the rakyat finds out about this, it’s the PTDs who would be treated to the hostile glares first. If the rakyat demand something but these tasks could not been carried out as effectively or efficiently by the government, again the PTDs will get the blame.
Hence, Pegawai Tanggung Dosa, eh?
Tuesday, July 13, 2004
Laksa
Although Mak is from Johor and my aunt, Mak Ram, makes excellent Laksa Johor, I have never really been a big fan of that variety of Laksa. I spent most of my childhood in Kedah and thus was earlier introduced to and became hooked on assam laksa. Place an array of the assam versions in front of me – Penang Laksa, Kedah Laksa, Teluk Kechai Laksa, Kuala Perlis Laksa, etc – and I wouldn’t mind fueling up on just Laksa for breakfast, lunch, dinner, supper, whatever…
Once, prior to my visit to Salford, my friend Nita asked me if there was anything I would like her to cook up for me. I was a bit undecided; “Hmm… laksa ke nasi lemak, hah?” Nita, being the angelic friend she’d always been, ended up making both – laksa for dinner the night I arrived in Salford, and nasi lemak for breakfast the next day. It did not matter that she substituted the laksa noodle with spaghetti – the kuah (the actual stuff that makes or breaks the whole dish) was simply divine…
Then, there was that long-distance call from Masni who was in Cardiff –
“Weh, tolong ajar aku macam mana nak buat laksa”
“Hah? Orang Penang pun tak tau buat laksa kaa?”
“Mak aku tak pernah ajar. Kalau nak makan laksa, kami beli je” (Hey, mind teaching me how to prepare laksa?)
(Are you telling me that you, a Penangite, didn’t know how to prepare laksa? Note: Penang is world famous for laksa)
(My mom never taught me how to prepare laksa. We just buy it if we want to have some.)
After finding out that her then husband-to-be was a big fan of laksa, Masni felt that she needed to equip herself with some skills of laksa making. Remembering that I’d always been fond of laksa, she called me to get the recipe and the instructions accordingly. That must have been one of the longest phone calls she had ever made to Leeds.
Being quite proud to be a self-confessed huge fan of a Malaysian dish, I was rather shocked by a bit of news from Tokyo I received via e-mail, the excerpt of which, read:
“For a year, they have served [chicken rice], laksa and other Singaporean signature dishes to Japanese and foreigners.
'We make everything ourselves, the sauces for the chicken rice and even the rempah for the laksa using fresh laksa leaves,' said Mr Koshiba”
Whoaa… what was that again? Laksa - a Singaporean dish??
And to think that all these years I’ve always felt a bit patriotic being able to honestly proclaim that I like a Malaysian dish first before anything else. I mean, I don’t mind the writer referring to chicken rice as Singaporean delights. Or rojak, or kaya toasts, or bee hoon fried in certain style. But laksa – the most legendary of all being the Penang Laksa – is definitely Malaysian in origin.
Isn’t it?
Once, prior to my visit to Salford, my friend Nita asked me if there was anything I would like her to cook up for me. I was a bit undecided; “Hmm… laksa ke nasi lemak, hah?” Nita, being the angelic friend she’d always been, ended up making both – laksa for dinner the night I arrived in Salford, and nasi lemak for breakfast the next day. It did not matter that she substituted the laksa noodle with spaghetti – the kuah (the actual stuff that makes or breaks the whole dish) was simply divine…
Then, there was that long-distance call from Masni who was in Cardiff –
“Weh, tolong ajar aku macam mana nak buat laksa”
“Hah? Orang Penang pun tak tau buat laksa kaa?”
“Mak aku tak pernah ajar. Kalau nak makan laksa, kami beli je” (Hey, mind teaching me how to prepare laksa?)
(Are you telling me that you, a Penangite, didn’t know how to prepare laksa? Note: Penang is world famous for laksa)
(My mom never taught me how to prepare laksa. We just buy it if we want to have some.)
After finding out that her then husband-to-be was a big fan of laksa, Masni felt that she needed to equip herself with some skills of laksa making. Remembering that I’d always been fond of laksa, she called me to get the recipe and the instructions accordingly. That must have been one of the longest phone calls she had ever made to Leeds.
Being quite proud to be a self-confessed huge fan of a Malaysian dish, I was rather shocked by a bit of news from Tokyo I received via e-mail, the excerpt of which, read:
“For a year, they have served [chicken rice], laksa and other Singaporean signature dishes to Japanese and foreigners.
'We make everything ourselves, the sauces for the chicken rice and even the rempah for the laksa using fresh laksa leaves,' said Mr Koshiba”
Whoaa… what was that again? Laksa - a Singaporean dish??
And to think that all these years I’ve always felt a bit patriotic being able to honestly proclaim that I like a Malaysian dish first before anything else. I mean, I don’t mind the writer referring to chicken rice as Singaporean delights. Or rojak, or kaya toasts, or bee hoon fried in certain style. But laksa – the most legendary of all being the Penang Laksa – is definitely Malaysian in origin.
Isn’t it?
Monday, July 12, 2004
Sometimes, it's the smallest things that make one's day
Funny how sometimes it’s the smallest things that make one’s day.
There’s something peculiar about Monday mornings – Garfield could testify to that and most of my office mates would second him anytime. This morning was no exception.
I had a weird feeling as I woke up to pray Subuh – like things would go wrong, wrong, wrong. I tried casting the depressing thoughts aside, thinking that it might be partly caused by the restless night I had in my own warm room after spending two cosy nights in a luxurious hotel, lulled to sleep by the sound of waves hitting the Teluk Kemang shore.
My weird feelings were not unfounded.
First thing in the morning, my big boss asked me to see him in his room. Uh oh, not a good sign. A lot of things needed to be changed and since my immediate superior had gone to a three-weeks-course, everything was left to me. Memos to be amended, documents to be re-numbered, more documents to be re-worded, reports on this and that to be prepared, some information to be updated.
It was a bit frustrating when I realised that some of the issues that only now this big boss wanted to tackle could be addressed a long time ago had he gone through all the previous letters/memos carefully and thoroughly. I'd like to believe that it’s people like him – who likes to sit on stuff and make unnecessary reviews - that slows down the government delivery systems; consequently making our clients unhappy with our performance. While my immediate superior and I tried to clear our desks the soonest possible – things almost always got stalled as soon as they reached some smartypants who have the annoying habit of sitting on stuff.
Urghhhh….
Then, there was that emcee job I had to undertake. For the second time in less than a month, I’d been asked to emcee another function - the soft launch of the Malaysia ICT Week 2004. Which involved many eminent figures – the deputy minister graced the event, witnessed by the ministry’s senior officials, presidents and vice presidents of this and that agencies, other distinguished figures and members of the media.
I had prepared a draft emcee script last week – and found out that over the weekend, there had been a lot of changes to the program and thus I had to address the changes in my emcee script accordingly. That demanded some form of creativity and spontaneity - which I usually have in abundance - but this morning I felt so drained, resulting in producing an emcee script that just plain sucked. It’s not like it was the first time I had to emcee such function – but this morning, I fumbled a few times. I knew I could have done better. I knew I’d always done better in the past. Yet I messed up badly this morning – even made a mistake in addressing the deputy minister himself. Silly A.Z.
Urghhhh…
Then, a colleague from another agency dropped by my office.
“Hi, I’m just back from Vientiane. I just want to say hello, and Khamla gave you this”. She passed a red bag containing a nicely-wrapped-with-white-ribbon package, the size of an Atlas-kain-pelikat-PVC-container to me.
“Ohhh, that’s nice... Thank you”
I unwrapped the package slowly and carefully. What could Khamla be thinking? My Laosian friend had been sending me several gifts through mutual colleagues almost every other time he met another Malaysian for the tiniest reason. However, I could guess that this time, it was most probably meant as a thank-you gift since I’d proof-read (via e-mail) many of his correspondence with his sponsor, prior to a one-month training on ICT-related-subjects in USA.
Ahhh… it was a traditional Lao black cotton wall-hanging-letter-holder, with turquoise-and silver elephant motifs delicately made from sequins. Totally kawaii…(‘cute’ in Japanese)
I finally smiled a genuine smile on this otherwise depressing Monday – thanks to an unexpected, heartfelt present from a long-distance buddy. That kawaii letter holder – small as it was - really made my day.
Khamla-san – khab khun ka.
There’s something peculiar about Monday mornings – Garfield could testify to that and most of my office mates would second him anytime. This morning was no exception.
I had a weird feeling as I woke up to pray Subuh – like things would go wrong, wrong, wrong. I tried casting the depressing thoughts aside, thinking that it might be partly caused by the restless night I had in my own warm room after spending two cosy nights in a luxurious hotel, lulled to sleep by the sound of waves hitting the Teluk Kemang shore.
My weird feelings were not unfounded.
First thing in the morning, my big boss asked me to see him in his room. Uh oh, not a good sign. A lot of things needed to be changed and since my immediate superior had gone to a three-weeks-course, everything was left to me. Memos to be amended, documents to be re-numbered, more documents to be re-worded, reports on this and that to be prepared, some information to be updated.
It was a bit frustrating when I realised that some of the issues that only now this big boss wanted to tackle could be addressed a long time ago had he gone through all the previous letters/memos carefully and thoroughly. I'd like to believe that it’s people like him – who likes to sit on stuff and make unnecessary reviews - that slows down the government delivery systems; consequently making our clients unhappy with our performance. While my immediate superior and I tried to clear our desks the soonest possible – things almost always got stalled as soon as they reached some smartypants who have the annoying habit of sitting on stuff.
Urghhhh….
Then, there was that emcee job I had to undertake. For the second time in less than a month, I’d been asked to emcee another function - the soft launch of the Malaysia ICT Week 2004. Which involved many eminent figures – the deputy minister graced the event, witnessed by the ministry’s senior officials, presidents and vice presidents of this and that agencies, other distinguished figures and members of the media.
I had prepared a draft emcee script last week – and found out that over the weekend, there had been a lot of changes to the program and thus I had to address the changes in my emcee script accordingly. That demanded some form of creativity and spontaneity - which I usually have in abundance - but this morning I felt so drained, resulting in producing an emcee script that just plain sucked. It’s not like it was the first time I had to emcee such function – but this morning, I fumbled a few times. I knew I could have done better. I knew I’d always done better in the past. Yet I messed up badly this morning – even made a mistake in addressing the deputy minister himself. Silly A.Z.
Urghhhh…
Then, a colleague from another agency dropped by my office.
“Hi, I’m just back from Vientiane. I just want to say hello, and Khamla gave you this”. She passed a red bag containing a nicely-wrapped-with-white-ribbon package, the size of an Atlas-kain-pelikat-PVC-container to me.
“Ohhh, that’s nice... Thank you”
I unwrapped the package slowly and carefully. What could Khamla be thinking? My Laosian friend had been sending me several gifts through mutual colleagues almost every other time he met another Malaysian for the tiniest reason. However, I could guess that this time, it was most probably meant as a thank-you gift since I’d proof-read (via e-mail) many of his correspondence with his sponsor, prior to a one-month training on ICT-related-subjects in USA.
Ahhh… it was a traditional Lao black cotton wall-hanging-letter-holder, with turquoise-and silver elephant motifs delicately made from sequins. Totally kawaii…(‘cute’ in Japanese)
I finally smiled a genuine smile on this otherwise depressing Monday – thanks to an unexpected, heartfelt present from a long-distance buddy. That kawaii letter holder – small as it was - really made my day.
Khamla-san – khab khun ka.
Friday, July 09, 2004
Growing Good Corn
There was a farmer who grew award-winning corn. Each year he entered his corn in the state fair where it won a blue ribbon. One year a newspaper reporter interviewed him and learned something interesting about how he grew it.
The reporter discovered that the farmer shared his seed corn with his neighbours. “How can you afford to share your best seed corn with your neighbours when they are entering corn in competition with yours each year?” the reporter asked.
“Why sir,” said the farmer, “didn’t you know? The wind picks up pollen from the ripening corn and swirls it from field to field. If my neighbours grow inferior corn, cross-pollination will steadily degrade the quality of my corn. If I am to grow good corn, I must help my neighbours grow good corn.”
He is very much aware of the connectedness of life. His corn cannot improve unless his neighbour’s corn also improves.
So it is in other dimensions. Those who choose to be at peace must help their neighbours to be at peace. Those who choose to live well must help others to live well, for the value of a life is measured by the lives it touches. And those who choose to be happy must help others to find happiness, for the welfare of each is bound up with the welfare of all.
The lesson for each of us is this: if we are to grow good corn, we must help our neighbours grow good corn.
Anonymous
Am too busy to write properly today - so hope you guys will enjoy this story
(thanks Siti, for the e-mail!)
Have a great weekend everybody - I'm going to spend mine at Port Dickson beach... heheheh...
The reporter discovered that the farmer shared his seed corn with his neighbours. “How can you afford to share your best seed corn with your neighbours when they are entering corn in competition with yours each year?” the reporter asked.
“Why sir,” said the farmer, “didn’t you know? The wind picks up pollen from the ripening corn and swirls it from field to field. If my neighbours grow inferior corn, cross-pollination will steadily degrade the quality of my corn. If I am to grow good corn, I must help my neighbours grow good corn.”
He is very much aware of the connectedness of life. His corn cannot improve unless his neighbour’s corn also improves.
So it is in other dimensions. Those who choose to be at peace must help their neighbours to be at peace. Those who choose to live well must help others to live well, for the value of a life is measured by the lives it touches. And those who choose to be happy must help others to find happiness, for the welfare of each is bound up with the welfare of all.
The lesson for each of us is this: if we are to grow good corn, we must help our neighbours grow good corn.
Anonymous
Am too busy to write properly today - so hope you guys will enjoy this story
(thanks Siti, for the e-mail!)
Have a great weekend everybody - I'm going to spend mine at Port Dickson beach... heheheh...
Thursday, July 08, 2004
There's something really heartening about...
An excerpt of a friend’s e-mail I received today read:
“A cuddle and a hot drink are better than medicine for treating a child's cough, a new study has found…. Cough syrups had no impact whatsoever on the duration or severity of coughing, US scientists concluded after studying 100 children with upper respiratory infections. Prof Colin Robertson, respiratory specialist at Melbourne's Royal Children's Hospital, said the finding came as no surprise. "We know that over-the-counter cough preparations make no difference to coughs," he is reported by the Australian Associated Press as saying.
He said Australians were spending several million dollars a year on cough preparations "because when a child has a cough you feel obliged to do something and there's marketing out there that tells you all these wonderful claims about their therapy.” The best way to treat a cough is to comfort the child and offer them a hot soothing drink.”
Hmm… I don’t know if the same treatment can be used on adult who has a cough. Nevertheless, I must agree that there’s something very heartening to be comforted by and offered a soothing drink from an innocent child.
The other day when I went to Yam’s place, I was first greeted and entertained by elder daughter, Khadijah Najwa. She had just celebrated her fifth birthday. As a belated birthday present, I bought Khadijah a small dollhouse, complete with accessories such as miniscule TV set, bed, sofa, kitchen counter, fridge and all. While waiting for Yam and Lat, I helped out Khadijah with opening the gift-wrapper, taking it out from the box, opening up all the latches and deciding the suitable positions for all the accessories in the two-storey dollhouse.
I answered numerous questions and explained the functions of each tiny accessory. Khadijah has been raised up in a bilingual household and enrolled in a Montessori kindergarten, so we ended up conversing mostly in English.
“Should I put this here?” Khadijah seemed a bit hesitant in placing a mini bathtub next to the kitchen counter on the first floor. Together, we had already determined that the bedroom would be upstairs; while the kitchen, the dining and the living room would be on the ground floor. No decision as yet on the bathroom.
“Are you sure you want the girls to have their bath next to the living room?” I tested her.
“Hmmm… no. Let’s put this upstairs then…” She proceeded to put it next to the night lamp with a book/a magazine on it.
Nice choice, I thought to myself, the ‘girls’ (two mini persons, supposedly to be the owners of the house) could always enjoy a bath while reading a good book then.
“Auntie, please wait here, ok,” Right after she finished placing the bath tub, Khadijah asked me to sit tight as she ran to the kitchen.
I didn’t have to wait long.
Yam’s bibik came out with a tray, carrying a few glasses and a jug of Sunquick cordial. As soon as she put it on the table, Khadijah carefully filled up two glasses with the cold drinks. Then she took one glass and brought it to me, “Here Auntie, please have a drink”
I was simultaneously impressed and proud of my goddaughter. Khadijah is the eldest child of my close friend Yam, who married Lat, my friend-cum-editor back when I was writing for a bulletin-with-limited-circulation in UK. I asked for the honour of being their eldest child’s godmother before Khadijah was born – and both Yam and Lat agreed.
Thus, despite my occasional visits, despite Khadijah knowing Auntie Masni (a close friend of Yam’s & me) better than Auntie A.Z., Khadijah has always have a special place in my heart. When she was a baby, I spent more on buying her new clothes than my own. When she was a toddler, I also shared some of Yam’s pride watching her performing with her nursery mates during a mini-concert (although I only caught it on video). Then , the following year, there was that entertaining sports day video. I tried never to miss sending Khadijah her birthday gifts, and I checked on her progress with Yam from time to time.
Yam and Lat arrived when I’d already finished my first glass of drinks, and Khadijah was proudly showing me her prowess in beyblading. I half-jokingly told Yam her daughter could make a far better hostess than the mother... "Yeah, I know. Khadijah had been calling me numerous times even before you arrived," Yam admitted. I grinned.
Honestly, there’s something really heartening to be waited by and served a soothing drink by a five-year-old.
“A cuddle and a hot drink are better than medicine for treating a child's cough, a new study has found…. Cough syrups had no impact whatsoever on the duration or severity of coughing, US scientists concluded after studying 100 children with upper respiratory infections. Prof Colin Robertson, respiratory specialist at Melbourne's Royal Children's Hospital, said the finding came as no surprise. "We know that over-the-counter cough preparations make no difference to coughs," he is reported by the Australian Associated Press as saying.
He said Australians were spending several million dollars a year on cough preparations "because when a child has a cough you feel obliged to do something and there's marketing out there that tells you all these wonderful claims about their therapy.” The best way to treat a cough is to comfort the child and offer them a hot soothing drink.”
Hmm… I don’t know if the same treatment can be used on adult who has a cough. Nevertheless, I must agree that there’s something very heartening to be comforted by and offered a soothing drink from an innocent child.
The other day when I went to Yam’s place, I was first greeted and entertained by elder daughter, Khadijah Najwa. She had just celebrated her fifth birthday. As a belated birthday present, I bought Khadijah a small dollhouse, complete with accessories such as miniscule TV set, bed, sofa, kitchen counter, fridge and all. While waiting for Yam and Lat, I helped out Khadijah with opening the gift-wrapper, taking it out from the box, opening up all the latches and deciding the suitable positions for all the accessories in the two-storey dollhouse.
I answered numerous questions and explained the functions of each tiny accessory. Khadijah has been raised up in a bilingual household and enrolled in a Montessori kindergarten, so we ended up conversing mostly in English.
“Should I put this here?” Khadijah seemed a bit hesitant in placing a mini bathtub next to the kitchen counter on the first floor. Together, we had already determined that the bedroom would be upstairs; while the kitchen, the dining and the living room would be on the ground floor. No decision as yet on the bathroom.
“Are you sure you want the girls to have their bath next to the living room?” I tested her.
“Hmmm… no. Let’s put this upstairs then…” She proceeded to put it next to the night lamp with a book/a magazine on it.
Nice choice, I thought to myself, the ‘girls’ (two mini persons, supposedly to be the owners of the house) could always enjoy a bath while reading a good book then.
“Auntie, please wait here, ok,” Right after she finished placing the bath tub, Khadijah asked me to sit tight as she ran to the kitchen.
I didn’t have to wait long.
Yam’s bibik came out with a tray, carrying a few glasses and a jug of Sunquick cordial. As soon as she put it on the table, Khadijah carefully filled up two glasses with the cold drinks. Then she took one glass and brought it to me, “Here Auntie, please have a drink”
I was simultaneously impressed and proud of my goddaughter. Khadijah is the eldest child of my close friend Yam, who married Lat, my friend-cum-editor back when I was writing for a bulletin-with-limited-circulation in UK. I asked for the honour of being their eldest child’s godmother before Khadijah was born – and both Yam and Lat agreed.
Thus, despite my occasional visits, despite Khadijah knowing Auntie Masni (a close friend of Yam’s & me) better than Auntie A.Z., Khadijah has always have a special place in my heart. When she was a baby, I spent more on buying her new clothes than my own. When she was a toddler, I also shared some of Yam’s pride watching her performing with her nursery mates during a mini-concert (although I only caught it on video). Then , the following year, there was that entertaining sports day video. I tried never to miss sending Khadijah her birthday gifts, and I checked on her progress with Yam from time to time.
Yam and Lat arrived when I’d already finished my first glass of drinks, and Khadijah was proudly showing me her prowess in beyblading. I half-jokingly told Yam her daughter could make a far better hostess than the mother... "Yeah, I know. Khadijah had been calling me numerous times even before you arrived," Yam admitted. I grinned.
Honestly, there’s something really heartening to be waited by and served a soothing drink by a five-year-old.
Wednesday, July 07, 2004
A Kind Stranger in the Rain
If I were given a chance to meet that stranger in the rain again, I would thank him properly for his help that fateful night. I could not exactly remember how he looked like – all I remembered was a guy in full cycling kit - but I will never forget his kindness.
Two years ago I met and befriended Khamla, a Laosian, when we both attended a two-weeks training course in Japan. The friendship blossomed long after the course ended. Khamla promised to introduce me to his wife, and he fulfilled that promise when he brought her along when he had to attend a seminar in Kuala Lumpur. Even before they arrived, I had made all sort of plans to take them around KL, Putrajaya, Cyberjaya and even to Melaka. Ketmany, Khamla’s wife, loved the sea and history sites, so I insisted on taking them to Melaka despite their initial protest.
That evening the seminar ended, Roza, an office mate, accompanied me to fetch Khamla & Ketmany at the Renaissance Hotel. We planned to take the Laosians to Petaling Street and the Central market, then had dinner together somewhere. Due to some technical problem, (he didn't hang the phone in the toilet properly) I could not contact him for a long time and left Roza in my car with the engine idle for more than half an hour. When I finally met him and Ketmany and returned to the car, I immediately realised that something was wrong - because the light was dim and the wiper was moving very, very slowly.
I drove anyway despite realising that my battery was weak - probably due to my neglect to check the battery water for a long time.
Then the drizzle turned into a heavy downpour. The traffic started to move very slowly. And my battery got weaker and weaker. First, the clock on the dashboard stopped working. Next, the honk stopped working. Then, the car light dimmed to a very weak, soft beam.
I prayed that we could get to a road where the traffic flow is better and I could drive faster to recharge the battery - but to no avail. My Proton Wira was crawling along Jalan Sultan Ismail, one of KL's busiest streets, when all of a sudden it stopped moving. I tried to re-start the engine, but nothing happened. The car battery went flat.
Turning to Roza, I told her my worst fear had came true - the car's battery had went flat! Roza immediately called Dalalah, our officemate who's married to a car expert, for help. Khamla passed me an umbrella from the back and I quickly went out - raised up the car boot to warn drivers behind me that I was having a problem with my car.
Roza quickly moved over to the driver's seat, and turned my gear into N as I started to push the car to the side of the road. A difficult task indeed on that crammed-three-turned-four-lane-street, which was made harder since my car was on the second lane. Khamla exited the car and asked me to go inside and let him push the car instead. I refused, so we ended pushing the car together.
Then the stranger arrived. He was cycling on the road side, saw us in trouble and immediately stopped to help. He tossed his bike aside and straight away helped us pushing the car. He stayed with us, making gestures to seek permission from other drivers to give way for us, until the car could be parked safely on the road side, in front of the Shangri-la hotel. We could not move fast enough since poor Roza had to man the wheel without being able to see anything - it was dark, it was raining heavily, yet we had no light, the wiper was not working and the windscreen was hazy.
When we finally managed to park the car, the stranger gave a thumb-up sign and quietly went away. I almost called out after him, to thank him properly, but I did not, already feeling guilty for making him staying in the rain longer that necessary. I did not even managed to catch his name.
I didn’t know how many other person would stop and toss their bike like he did in order to help some strangers. A lot of motorcycles passed us by – but none of the cyclists stop to offer their assistance. Understandably so – it was raining cats and dogs and they would get soaking wet to stay longer in the rain than necessary. So, I felt really thankful for that kind stranger’s help. And I hope kindness will return to him many fold wherever he goes.
Needless to say – that night was unforgotten by all parties involved. Two months pregnant with their second-child, Ketmany wasn't feeling very well but managed to tease Khamla gently, “You and your friend are the same”. Khamla sheepishly admitted that he had also forgotten once to check on his battery water in Laos and their car refused to start just like it happened to us then, heh, heh, heh...
Roza and I had to be scrutinized by the Shangri-la’s security guard before we were reluctantly allowed to enter the hotel and used the surau to pray Maghrib. I don’t blame the pak guard - we were dripping wet. There was a trail of watermark left behind us as we entered the posh hotel.
So our plan to do some KL night sightseeing went down the drain... Assistance finally arrived two hours later; delayed because Dalalah and her husband had to cross some flooded area. She was already worried that they might not be able to save us since they were having trouble themselves - but they made it anyway. Her husband installed a new battery, and my car was back to normal in no time
By then, Ketmany was the only dry person in the car, while Roza, Khamla and I stayed out, being wet as we were. We ended having our dinner on a taxi stand, after Khamla accompanied me to buy hot Milo, some fishball satays and fried beehoon from the Caltex petrol station located just next to Shangri-La hotel.
I felt really guilty because Khamla and Ketmany missed the opportunity to visit nice places in KL just because I hadn't got my car serviced for a long. Still, I guess being cold and shivering for more than 3 hours was punishment enough. Roza and I were shivering like mad in the car as we made our way back. I remembered wishing that we had had heater and not just air-cond in the car at that time, as we both really needed some heat... Roza got a high temperature the following day as result of our adventure that night.
And I was left with some guilt for never thanking a kind stranger properly.
Two years ago I met and befriended Khamla, a Laosian, when we both attended a two-weeks training course in Japan. The friendship blossomed long after the course ended. Khamla promised to introduce me to his wife, and he fulfilled that promise when he brought her along when he had to attend a seminar in Kuala Lumpur. Even before they arrived, I had made all sort of plans to take them around KL, Putrajaya, Cyberjaya and even to Melaka. Ketmany, Khamla’s wife, loved the sea and history sites, so I insisted on taking them to Melaka despite their initial protest.
That evening the seminar ended, Roza, an office mate, accompanied me to fetch Khamla & Ketmany at the Renaissance Hotel. We planned to take the Laosians to Petaling Street and the Central market, then had dinner together somewhere. Due to some technical problem, (he didn't hang the phone in the toilet properly) I could not contact him for a long time and left Roza in my car with the engine idle for more than half an hour. When I finally met him and Ketmany and returned to the car, I immediately realised that something was wrong - because the light was dim and the wiper was moving very, very slowly.
I drove anyway despite realising that my battery was weak - probably due to my neglect to check the battery water for a long time.
Then the drizzle turned into a heavy downpour. The traffic started to move very slowly. And my battery got weaker and weaker. First, the clock on the dashboard stopped working. Next, the honk stopped working. Then, the car light dimmed to a very weak, soft beam.
I prayed that we could get to a road where the traffic flow is better and I could drive faster to recharge the battery - but to no avail. My Proton Wira was crawling along Jalan Sultan Ismail, one of KL's busiest streets, when all of a sudden it stopped moving. I tried to re-start the engine, but nothing happened. The car battery went flat.
Turning to Roza, I told her my worst fear had came true - the car's battery had went flat! Roza immediately called Dalalah, our officemate who's married to a car expert, for help. Khamla passed me an umbrella from the back and I quickly went out - raised up the car boot to warn drivers behind me that I was having a problem with my car.
Roza quickly moved over to the driver's seat, and turned my gear into N as I started to push the car to the side of the road. A difficult task indeed on that crammed-three-turned-four-lane-street, which was made harder since my car was on the second lane. Khamla exited the car and asked me to go inside and let him push the car instead. I refused, so we ended pushing the car together.
Then the stranger arrived. He was cycling on the road side, saw us in trouble and immediately stopped to help. He tossed his bike aside and straight away helped us pushing the car. He stayed with us, making gestures to seek permission from other drivers to give way for us, until the car could be parked safely on the road side, in front of the Shangri-la hotel. We could not move fast enough since poor Roza had to man the wheel without being able to see anything - it was dark, it was raining heavily, yet we had no light, the wiper was not working and the windscreen was hazy.
When we finally managed to park the car, the stranger gave a thumb-up sign and quietly went away. I almost called out after him, to thank him properly, but I did not, already feeling guilty for making him staying in the rain longer that necessary. I did not even managed to catch his name.
I didn’t know how many other person would stop and toss their bike like he did in order to help some strangers. A lot of motorcycles passed us by – but none of the cyclists stop to offer their assistance. Understandably so – it was raining cats and dogs and they would get soaking wet to stay longer in the rain than necessary. So, I felt really thankful for that kind stranger’s help. And I hope kindness will return to him many fold wherever he goes.
Needless to say – that night was unforgotten by all parties involved. Two months pregnant with their second-child, Ketmany wasn't feeling very well but managed to tease Khamla gently, “You and your friend are the same”. Khamla sheepishly admitted that he had also forgotten once to check on his battery water in Laos and their car refused to start just like it happened to us then, heh, heh, heh...
Roza and I had to be scrutinized by the Shangri-la’s security guard before we were reluctantly allowed to enter the hotel and used the surau to pray Maghrib. I don’t blame the pak guard - we were dripping wet. There was a trail of watermark left behind us as we entered the posh hotel.
So our plan to do some KL night sightseeing went down the drain... Assistance finally arrived two hours later; delayed because Dalalah and her husband had to cross some flooded area. She was already worried that they might not be able to save us since they were having trouble themselves - but they made it anyway. Her husband installed a new battery, and my car was back to normal in no time
By then, Ketmany was the only dry person in the car, while Roza, Khamla and I stayed out, being wet as we were. We ended having our dinner on a taxi stand, after Khamla accompanied me to buy hot Milo, some fishball satays and fried beehoon from the Caltex petrol station located just next to Shangri-La hotel.
I felt really guilty because Khamla and Ketmany missed the opportunity to visit nice places in KL just because I hadn't got my car serviced for a long. Still, I guess being cold and shivering for more than 3 hours was punishment enough. Roza and I were shivering like mad in the car as we made our way back. I remembered wishing that we had had heater and not just air-cond in the car at that time, as we both really needed some heat... Roza got a high temperature the following day as result of our adventure that night.
And I was left with some guilt for never thanking a kind stranger properly.
Tuesday, July 06, 2004
Remaining true to oneself
Mak had reminded me numerous times before I flew off to Leeds, “Jadilah macam ikan. Betapa masin pun laut, ikan tetap tak masin”
I had shared that advise with so many friends at college that one or two had (teasingly) wrote that piece of advise in my own autograph.
The gist of Mak’s advice was clear as crystal – stay true to yourself. Never let some unconstructive environments change you. I've tried my best living according to that principle – and I did, at least during the years I was a student in UK…
# # # # #
“I supposed if our old friends were to see how I behave at work now, chances are, many of them would be repeating lots of istighfar,” Yam remarked semi-seriously.
It was almost a year since we last met. I was on my almost-annual visit to her place, going there especially to present my god-daughter, Khadijah Najwa, her fifth birthday gift belatedly. After I spent some time playing with her two daughters, Yam and I began to converse and then started comparing notes on how we have changed since our graduation.
“Nay, they won’t shake their head in disbelief at you as much as they would at me,” I refuted
“No, I’m worse,” Yam insisted
“No, I’m worse. You have no idea how ashamed I am now of some things I had done during my training days,” I confessed.
“It couldn’t be that bad...I mean, what could be the worst thing you would have done… Surely it could not be all that bad…”
I shook my head, negating her statement, “You won’t believe what I did…”
I listed to Yam the 'wrong doings' I'd committed that had never sat well with me.
“You did all that?” Yam stared at me in disbelief.
Feeling rather wrenched but relieved to be able to share with someone I trust, I nodded.
Yam said quietly, “I guess we all have become different people from who we used to be and are not so proud of ourselves, then.”
How true.
# # # # #
Out of necessity, I started missing my usrah sessions a couple of years ago. Then, after some time, I changed the way I dressed; my tudung shrunked and a few pair of jeans appeared in my wardrobe.
Subsequently, the way I think, perceive and do things changed too. Which would be okay had it been an improvement of the old me. On the contrary, I was becoming someone my old self would not quite approve of.
For a while, the set of values and principles I believed in was set aside. When I joined a training course for six months, I committed most of my ‘wrong doings’. I probably wouldn’t have done all those foolish stuff had I been in a similar supportive group of friends I had as a student, but in the middle of a liberal-minded society, no one cared much if you commit something you might have thought 'wrong' if they don't see anything so wrong with it. In any case, one's man meat could be another's poison.
Still, I do not blame anyone else but me for not staying true to myself. After all, Mak had instilled in me years ago, it is I who should remain unchanged in spite of any disruptive environment – just like a fish remaining unsalty, no matter how salty the ocean is.
It is true that often we act in accordance to our faith, belief, values and principles. However, sometimes the Hyde in our Jekyll-self materializes in the most mysterious ways. In certain cases, the Hyde took over the body, repressing Jekyll inside for longer than we thought possible. And after a while, the true Jekyll find it more and more difficult to re-emerge, after being imprisoned inside for so long.
# # # # #
I told Yam of the tafseer class I’d joined late last year. How joining that class, beside increasing my knowledge, had helped in changing lots of my current perceptions and altering my priorities. How joining the class had helped me in finding my old self. While it’s true that I seldom could concentrate fully in class – in fact, I had been known as someone who falls to sleep easily in class since high school – Ustaz Kariman’s tafseer class has become the highlight of my Fridays.
“It’s like a refreshing usrah session – only more,” I professed.
Amidst the many pensioners and middle-aged students in the class, I once again found myself surrounded by many who – just like my closest friends back in UK – held similar sets of values, principles and sentiments.
And in the midst of that class, by bits and pieces, I began to find my old true self once again.
I had shared that advise with so many friends at college that one or two had (teasingly) wrote that piece of advise in my own autograph.
The gist of Mak’s advice was clear as crystal – stay true to yourself. Never let some unconstructive environments change you. I've tried my best living according to that principle – and I did, at least during the years I was a student in UK…
# # # # #
“I supposed if our old friends were to see how I behave at work now, chances are, many of them would be repeating lots of istighfar,” Yam remarked semi-seriously.
It was almost a year since we last met. I was on my almost-annual visit to her place, going there especially to present my god-daughter, Khadijah Najwa, her fifth birthday gift belatedly. After I spent some time playing with her two daughters, Yam and I began to converse and then started comparing notes on how we have changed since our graduation.
“Nay, they won’t shake their head in disbelief at you as much as they would at me,” I refuted
“No, I’m worse,” Yam insisted
“No, I’m worse. You have no idea how ashamed I am now of some things I had done during my training days,” I confessed.
“It couldn’t be that bad...I mean, what could be the worst thing you would have done… Surely it could not be all that bad…”
I shook my head, negating her statement, “You won’t believe what I did…”
I listed to Yam the 'wrong doings' I'd committed that had never sat well with me.
“You did all that?” Yam stared at me in disbelief.
Feeling rather wrenched but relieved to be able to share with someone I trust, I nodded.
Yam said quietly, “I guess we all have become different people from who we used to be and are not so proud of ourselves, then.”
How true.
# # # # #
Out of necessity, I started missing my usrah sessions a couple of years ago. Then, after some time, I changed the way I dressed; my tudung shrunked and a few pair of jeans appeared in my wardrobe.
Subsequently, the way I think, perceive and do things changed too. Which would be okay had it been an improvement of the old me. On the contrary, I was becoming someone my old self would not quite approve of.
For a while, the set of values and principles I believed in was set aside. When I joined a training course for six months, I committed most of my ‘wrong doings’. I probably wouldn’t have done all those foolish stuff had I been in a similar supportive group of friends I had as a student, but in the middle of a liberal-minded society, no one cared much if you commit something you might have thought 'wrong' if they don't see anything so wrong with it. In any case, one's man meat could be another's poison.
Still, I do not blame anyone else but me for not staying true to myself. After all, Mak had instilled in me years ago, it is I who should remain unchanged in spite of any disruptive environment – just like a fish remaining unsalty, no matter how salty the ocean is.
It is true that often we act in accordance to our faith, belief, values and principles. However, sometimes the Hyde in our Jekyll-self materializes in the most mysterious ways. In certain cases, the Hyde took over the body, repressing Jekyll inside for longer than we thought possible. And after a while, the true Jekyll find it more and more difficult to re-emerge, after being imprisoned inside for so long.
# # # # #
I told Yam of the tafseer class I’d joined late last year. How joining that class, beside increasing my knowledge, had helped in changing lots of my current perceptions and altering my priorities. How joining the class had helped me in finding my old self. While it’s true that I seldom could concentrate fully in class – in fact, I had been known as someone who falls to sleep easily in class since high school – Ustaz Kariman’s tafseer class has become the highlight of my Fridays.
“It’s like a refreshing usrah session – only more,” I professed.
Amidst the many pensioners and middle-aged students in the class, I once again found myself surrounded by many who – just like my closest friends back in UK – held similar sets of values, principles and sentiments.
And in the midst of that class, by bits and pieces, I began to find my old true self once again.
Monday, July 05, 2004
Should Have but Didn't...
Have you ever been advised to stick to your first choice once you've made up your mind over something because usually the first choice was the correct one?
Not too original huh?
I watched a japanese drama not too long ago when an episode started by making the audience ponder:
Remember how we sometimes changed our mind only to realise that we should have sticked to the first choice later on? Just like in the old days during exams... After we have answered everything, there's always some last minute changes after a quick revision. Although in the first place we were pretty sure of our answer, after a quick look again before passing up the paper, we became a bit hesitant and usually changed the answer. Only after we've gotten the result, we would realised that we should have sticked to the first answer because usually the first choice is the correct one...
The exam paper anology was used in the main character's observation on how sometimes we made some decisions, had a change of heart, only to realise later on that the right decision was the one made earlier, the first decision.
It hit me then that I might have made the same mistake myself...
Once upon a time, I used to have a huge crush on this guy, V. He was of the right age, the right physical composition, and the right personality. Well-mannered and brilliant in class; a bit alim but with a good sense of humor; a bit aloof but he got along well with everybody. In short - someone I could like, look up to, trust, cherish and obey. People - friends and strangers alike - often described me as a hard-headed, strong-minded person. Guess there must be some truth in that - but I also knew that I wouldn't mind giving in to V. Coming from the obstinate me - that's rare.
And then, two friends from another class started telling me about this fantastic guy in their class - who at first caught my mild interest, which grew as time passed. When V did not seem to be interested, after being insisted by some friends, I finally gathered up enough courage to approach Mr second choice after six months of knowing him.
Err, things didn't work out well that way. After some time, Mr second choice finally decided to be just friends and we remain friends until now.
Coming back to V, at one point of time, he seemed quite at ease to chat with me and shared his stories of this and that. However, slowly and discreetly, for some reasons known only to him, he began to distance himself away. Nevertheless, we remained civil to each other.
I remembered one peaceful morning when an 'unsangkarable' thing happened. Back then, normally there used to be a few guys praying Subuh at the surau. And I seldom missed praying Subuh and Maghrib at the surau. But that fateful morning, V was the only guy present and I was the only possible makmum there. We waited and waited but no one showed up. As the clock showed almost 6.30 a.m., I decided to cease waiting and invited him to lead the solat. He did just that. His recitation of the surah was good, the movements were timely (neither too slow nor too rushed) and I liked the do'a too. I remembered thinking to myself, how pleased I would be should he lead my solat every day for the rest of my life.
Looking back, I couldn't help wondering sometimes, how things could have been different should I remained firm with my first choice...
But I didn't.
And so be it.
Not too original huh?
I watched a japanese drama not too long ago when an episode started by making the audience ponder:
Remember how we sometimes changed our mind only to realise that we should have sticked to the first choice later on? Just like in the old days during exams... After we have answered everything, there's always some last minute changes after a quick revision. Although in the first place we were pretty sure of our answer, after a quick look again before passing up the paper, we became a bit hesitant and usually changed the answer. Only after we've gotten the result, we would realised that we should have sticked to the first answer because usually the first choice is the correct one...
The exam paper anology was used in the main character's observation on how sometimes we made some decisions, had a change of heart, only to realise later on that the right decision was the one made earlier, the first decision.
It hit me then that I might have made the same mistake myself...
Once upon a time, I used to have a huge crush on this guy, V. He was of the right age, the right physical composition, and the right personality. Well-mannered and brilliant in class; a bit alim but with a good sense of humor; a bit aloof but he got along well with everybody. In short - someone I could like, look up to, trust, cherish and obey. People - friends and strangers alike - often described me as a hard-headed, strong-minded person. Guess there must be some truth in that - but I also knew that I wouldn't mind giving in to V. Coming from the obstinate me - that's rare.
And then, two friends from another class started telling me about this fantastic guy in their class - who at first caught my mild interest, which grew as time passed. When V did not seem to be interested, after being insisted by some friends, I finally gathered up enough courage to approach Mr second choice after six months of knowing him.
Err, things didn't work out well that way. After some time, Mr second choice finally decided to be just friends and we remain friends until now.
Coming back to V, at one point of time, he seemed quite at ease to chat with me and shared his stories of this and that. However, slowly and discreetly, for some reasons known only to him, he began to distance himself away. Nevertheless, we remained civil to each other.
I remembered one peaceful morning when an 'unsangkarable' thing happened. Back then, normally there used to be a few guys praying Subuh at the surau. And I seldom missed praying Subuh and Maghrib at the surau. But that fateful morning, V was the only guy present and I was the only possible makmum there. We waited and waited but no one showed up. As the clock showed almost 6.30 a.m., I decided to cease waiting and invited him to lead the solat. He did just that. His recitation of the surah was good, the movements were timely (neither too slow nor too rushed) and I liked the do'a too. I remembered thinking to myself, how pleased I would be should he lead my solat every day for the rest of my life.
Looking back, I couldn't help wondering sometimes, how things could have been different should I remained firm with my first choice...
But I didn't.
And so be it.
Friday, July 02, 2004
Taking the 50 metre high leap
I was attending a meeting in Bali last year when Hiong, a friend who was with the Asean Secretariat asked me, “Aren’t you going to try out the bungy jumping? You can just walk to the Bali Bungy Jumping swimming pool, you know. It’s not that far.”
I was startled since behind the thick meeting file which was in view by others, I was actually reading the advertorial brochure by the very company. I looked up to him, “How did you know that I’m thinking about it?”
“I just knew it. You’re the kind who’s game for that kind of thing.”
No surprise there. Hiong knew all about my mountain climbing expeditions. Besides, during a tour after a meeting in Siemreap, Hiong accompanied me to climb the central tower of Angkor Wat up to the inner sanctuary found at the top when most guys stopped climbing as they reached the middle level. We chose to use the original handrails-free-and-ruined stairways to descend, instead of waiting in line to use the only stairways with handrails. Another colleague told me that she heard one Malay guy whispering ‘gila’ as he watched me descending but the pakcik-pakcik present there were more supportive, yelling words of encouragement.
So it came as no surprise to him to learn that I was indeed very interested in bungy jumping. Normally it would've costed USD 49, but the Bali Bungy co was having a promotion then and was offering the promotion pack at only IDR 350,000. Which was equivalent to about RM160 – quite cheap considering I was already there in Bali. No airfare to think about, no accommodation problem to worry about.
While most other colleagues were planning on shopping trips to Sanur and Sukawati or a sightseeing excursion to Tanah Lot or Ubud, there I was, seriously considering the pros and cons of taking a leap from a 45 metre high tower secured by a thick cord above a swimming pool.
Still, I had dreamed a different dream of bungy jumping – I’ve always visioned a bridge, at least 50 metres high, over a deep river surrounded by beautiful lush green forest . Or at least the jump is done from a tower close to a beach or a lagoon and surrounded by lush green. A swimming pool surrounded by fences in the middle of Kuta, Bali – hmm…somehow it wasn't quite what I had in mind all along. So, finally, after a long deliberation, I decided to give it a miss…
But the dream lives on.
Not all friends are in support of this dream though. One guy friend had had issues with me last year just because I love climbing mountains. He would have had a fit should I tell him about my dream of taking a bungy jump. Another close friend had this to say, “A.Z. tak payah la… Awak tu perempuan…”
Okay – so what’s wrong with a female bungy jumping anyway? It's not like I've never relied on a sturdy rope and harness. I’ve done rock climbing; I’ve done rappelling; I’ve done abseiling; I’ve even done the spider thingy – abseiling head down first from a high tower. And I've always wore proper clothing - long pants, long sleeved t-shirt, my tudung tucked in place. So, what is so wrong, so extreme, so dangerous about bungy-jumping? I’ve relied numerous times on some ropes and harnesses and alhamdulillah, survived.
"Bukannya bungy jumping tu accident free", my close friend continued. True. But then again, people die in car crashes daily, yet nobody warns "bukannya bawak kereta tu accident free" as you enter the car in the morning. Granted, there's been some accidents in bungy jumping, but they were the exceptions rather than the norm. It's not like I want to purposely hurt myself; it's not like I'm contemplating slashing my wrist or something like that. I've done a lot of thinking and I know I want to try a bungy jump at least once in my lifetime. Just once.
Now, I know that jumping from a high tower or bridge with rubber cords securedly tied to the ankles is not everyone’s idea of fun. But that’s exactly the point of bungy jumping. Not everyone will do it. Doing it means that one is able to do something different, something else. It takes a serious sense of adventure and lots of guts to risk experiencing a thrilling few-seconds moments that will scramble one’s mind and stay in one’s memory forever. Something that can change life; like how that spider-thingy abseilling experience helped in making me more confident to tackle things that I first thought I might not be able to handle.
I pray that someday, before I get too weak or too scared to give it a try, I’ll get to take a leap. Maybe that day'll arrive when I get to the point in my career when I’ll be asked to attend a meeting in Australia or New Zealand...
For now, I’ll content myself with trying out ice-skating first – and that’s another blog, another day.
I was startled since behind the thick meeting file which was in view by others, I was actually reading the advertorial brochure by the very company. I looked up to him, “How did you know that I’m thinking about it?”
“I just knew it. You’re the kind who’s game for that kind of thing.”
No surprise there. Hiong knew all about my mountain climbing expeditions. Besides, during a tour after a meeting in Siemreap, Hiong accompanied me to climb the central tower of Angkor Wat up to the inner sanctuary found at the top when most guys stopped climbing as they reached the middle level. We chose to use the original handrails-free-and-ruined stairways to descend, instead of waiting in line to use the only stairways with handrails. Another colleague told me that she heard one Malay guy whispering ‘gila’ as he watched me descending but the pakcik-pakcik present there were more supportive, yelling words of encouragement.
So it came as no surprise to him to learn that I was indeed very interested in bungy jumping. Normally it would've costed USD 49, but the Bali Bungy co was having a promotion then and was offering the promotion pack at only IDR 350,000. Which was equivalent to about RM160 – quite cheap considering I was already there in Bali. No airfare to think about, no accommodation problem to worry about.
While most other colleagues were planning on shopping trips to Sanur and Sukawati or a sightseeing excursion to Tanah Lot or Ubud, there I was, seriously considering the pros and cons of taking a leap from a 45 metre high tower secured by a thick cord above a swimming pool.
Still, I had dreamed a different dream of bungy jumping – I’ve always visioned a bridge, at least 50 metres high, over a deep river surrounded by beautiful lush green forest . Or at least the jump is done from a tower close to a beach or a lagoon and surrounded by lush green. A swimming pool surrounded by fences in the middle of Kuta, Bali – hmm…somehow it wasn't quite what I had in mind all along. So, finally, after a long deliberation, I decided to give it a miss…
But the dream lives on.
Not all friends are in support of this dream though. One guy friend had had issues with me last year just because I love climbing mountains. He would have had a fit should I tell him about my dream of taking a bungy jump. Another close friend had this to say, “A.Z. tak payah la… Awak tu perempuan…”
Okay – so what’s wrong with a female bungy jumping anyway? It's not like I've never relied on a sturdy rope and harness. I’ve done rock climbing; I’ve done rappelling; I’ve done abseiling; I’ve even done the spider thingy – abseiling head down first from a high tower. And I've always wore proper clothing - long pants, long sleeved t-shirt, my tudung tucked in place. So, what is so wrong, so extreme, so dangerous about bungy-jumping? I’ve relied numerous times on some ropes and harnesses and alhamdulillah, survived.
"Bukannya bungy jumping tu accident free", my close friend continued. True. But then again, people die in car crashes daily, yet nobody warns "bukannya bawak kereta tu accident free" as you enter the car in the morning. Granted, there's been some accidents in bungy jumping, but they were the exceptions rather than the norm. It's not like I want to purposely hurt myself; it's not like I'm contemplating slashing my wrist or something like that. I've done a lot of thinking and I know I want to try a bungy jump at least once in my lifetime. Just once.
Now, I know that jumping from a high tower or bridge with rubber cords securedly tied to the ankles is not everyone’s idea of fun. But that’s exactly the point of bungy jumping. Not everyone will do it. Doing it means that one is able to do something different, something else. It takes a serious sense of adventure and lots of guts to risk experiencing a thrilling few-seconds moments that will scramble one’s mind and stay in one’s memory forever. Something that can change life; like how that spider-thingy abseilling experience helped in making me more confident to tackle things that I first thought I might not be able to handle.
I pray that someday, before I get too weak or too scared to give it a try, I’ll get to take a leap. Maybe that day'll arrive when I get to the point in my career when I’ll be asked to attend a meeting in Australia or New Zealand...
For now, I’ll content myself with trying out ice-skating first – and that’s another blog, another day.
Thursday, July 01, 2004
Happy Birthday Abang!
Assalamualaikum wrt
Abang,
When you were 5, you broke a dinner plate on top of my head,
scarring me for life
When you were 9, you got hit by a car right in front of my eyes,
scaring me to death
Now that you have reached this age
I hope you won't force me to deal with any more
alarming matter of life-and-death (*winks*)
Here's wishing you lots of love,
lots of happiness,
lots of money,
and lots of blessings!
Your loving sis,
Kak
P/S: yeah, I knew that GQ shirt & matching tie would fit you nicely, otherwise I wouldn't have bought them during the recent mid-year Sale... heheheh...
Kak, Abang & Adik - some twenty years back...
Abang & Adik - as seen in more recent years...
Abang,
When you were 5, you broke a dinner plate on top of my head,
scarring me for life
When you were 9, you got hit by a car right in front of my eyes,
scaring me to death
Now that you have reached this age
I hope you won't force me to deal with any more
alarming matter of life-and-death (*winks*)
Here's wishing you lots of love,
lots of happiness,
lots of money,
and lots of blessings!
Your loving sis,
Kak
P/S: yeah, I knew that GQ shirt & matching tie would fit you nicely, otherwise I wouldn't have bought them during the recent mid-year Sale... heheheh...
Kak, Abang & Adik - some twenty years back...
Abang & Adik - as seen in more recent years...
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