Two days ago, I was driving around KL. Seeing as how it was 9.30am on a weekday morning, I had a relatively quiet drive, and as usual when things are quiet, my mind starts to wander. This time, it wandered to the Rayas of my childhood.
I remember how as a child, Raya was a holiday to look forward to. Well, we looked forward to every excuse to not go to school, but Rayas were something else, something extraordinarily special.
Raya meant that we would be going back to my grandparents' in Muar! It meant that I'd get to see my cousins for extended play sessions! It meant lots and lots of yummy grub, all day long. It meant pretty new clothes and the chance to wear them nice, shiny necklaces and bracelets we were so rarely allowed to touch. Most of all - and best of all - was DUIT RAYA!! *G*
Raya holidays were always the same. The morning before Raya, Mum would pack us four kids into her Volvo station wagon. She'd lay the seats flat and spread a mattress in the back. Then, she'd heap us all onto the mattress along with a jillion pillows, blankets and cushions and pack the bags right at the rear door so that in the event the door spontaneously pops open the bags would go first before her precious children. And as soon as she had the bags wedged against the rear door to her satisfaction, she'd order us to lie down, close our eyes, shut up and go to sleep, she didn't want to hear a peep from us, not a single peeeeeep the entire drive to Tok's house. The amazing thing is, we would actually DO it; shut up, close our eyes and almost burst from not uttering a single peep. We didn't dare. That woman terrified us. *smile*
But thanks to the sleep we got (albeit forced), we would jump out of the car the moment we arrived at my grandparents' house and be ready to join in whatever game that was in progress. Kejar-kejar, police-and-thief, galah panjang, ketingting, you name it. Thing is, as small children my siblings and I spoke barely a word of Malay whereas our cousins spoke almost nothing but. I have no idea how we managed to communicate, but I suppose we did - and communicated well at that - as small children are wont to do, regardless of languages spoken. I don't remember it ever being much of a problem.
There were about twenty of us grandchildren when I was that age. More came later, but when I was a kid, there were only two sets: the teenagers, and us. There were about ten of us younger kids and we stuck together.
My grandparents had a few fruit trees on their modest plot of land. I remember one Raya when we were all playing, and a male cousin my age came up with the brilliant idea of climbing up one of the trees. Nobody else thought it was a good idea, but he talked soft-hearted me into climbing it with him. His pleas were heart-wrenching. So he and I climbed up this lovely-looking tree .. and what surprises awaited us! A few branches up, we spied a beautiful bunch of ruby-red rambutans! Bare seconds later, we made a second, more interesting but by far less pleasant discovery: kerenggaaaaaaaaaa!! We fell out of that tree hard like a couple of nangka busuks, and were subsequently chewed out by our parents, laughed at by our cousins, and grounded to the kitchen for the next few hours. *laugh*
Then there was the time the maids found me and my sisters squatting inside the chicken coop because we wanted to look for chicken eggs...*laughs*
One thing lingers: the smell of Tabard that our parents religiously (not to mention very vigorously!) rubbed onto our skin before allowing us outside to play. And to this day whenever I smell smoke off sparklers and pop-pops, I close my eyes and see in my mind us as children, writing our names bright in the black night. I remember how much pleasure we derived from such a simple game, what endless fun we had from the two short minutes the simple sparklers afforded us, and how it seemed anything but simple.
At night, it was us kids' chore to set out the mattresses for sleep, under our parents' supervision. My grandparents have a decent-sized house, and the living room would be packed wall-to-wall with mattresses as bedtime rolled around. Raya was also the only time we were not forced to sleep early, although anyone who stayed up playing congkak when everyone else was trying to sleep would be told the hantu congkak goes around at night looking for children to play congkak with. *lol* They told us that every night, every year, and it never failed to get us to shut up, and curl up under the blankets, sometimes shaking with fear. :o)
Raya morning would start with us being wakened at 8am. There would be a rush for the bathrooms (there were only three!), which resulted in sometimes five of us bathing together at the same time. Then we would dress in our new Raya best and have breakfast as soon as my grandparents came back from sembahyang Raya and visiting the kubur. Invariably, breakfast would be the ketupat, lodeh and sambal kacang sotong my aunt had cooked in the wee hours of the morning. Anything else and it would not have been a Raya breakfast. :o)
This would be followed by a whole morning of photography, followed by the distribution of .. DUIT RAYA!!!! Heheeeee!
My grandparents had ten children: five boys and five girls .. which summed up to helluva LOT of duit raya! Eeeheehee. Right after all photographs had been taken, there would be a yell of "Pak Ndak bagi duit raya woi!!" and a rush to queue in front of Pak Ndak: youngest first, the oldest right at the back. Salam, "Selamat Hari Raya Pak Ndak", take angpow, kiss cheek, biiiiig hug .. and two steps later gleefully open the packet. And right after the last person in line had received their packet would come the cry "Mak Bang woi! Mak Baaaaaaaaang!!" and another rush to be first in line. We always knew the order in which we had to line up, but the mock-mad rush was always, always part of the fun.
The only time spontaneous order would occur was when it came to collecting duit raya from my grandparents. They would sit side by side and we would shuffle past them decorously, all rowdiness put aside, but not smiles nor spirit. They always got the biggest kisses and biggest hugs even if they didn't give the biggest angpows because they were our Tok Ayea and Tok Mat. And after the last of the cousins had received their angpows, it was our parents' turns to give our grandparents their Raya wishes. And it was always a quiet moment, even for us kids, full of emotion as we watched our parents kiss their parents hands, then their feet and ask for their forgiveness and blessings.
Then there would be a lunch of beryani gam, ayam masak merah and rendang daging, a whole day of just hanging out at home as a family, eating rojak at the Tanjung whilst out on an evening stroll, followed by a dinner of mee SinSin or KFC by the barrels.
We no longer have Rayas like those. Nobody really has the time anymore, nobody could be arsed, and family politics have gotten in the way of our being a family. It's amazing how things have changed, or were things so simple then only because I was a child, unable to comprehend unpleasant nuances, or perhaps just able to shrug it off as unimportant.
I've said it once, and I'll say it again. Maybe children should be left to rule the world.
Wednesday, January 26, 2005
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
An Educational Week
This last week has certainly been .. exhausting. Eventful. Eye-opening. Extremely educational, not to mention exciting.
.. Okay, enough with the alliterations already, although I must admit I was doing in on purpose towards the end. Hee hee ....
Seriously though, in the last eight days, I've learned that the ones you love are the ones you take for granted and that the ones you love the deepest are the ones you hurt the worst.
That you don't realise the worth of something until you lose it, that you don't know how infinitely precious something is until it's gone. And if there is need for regret, then it is often too late.
I've learned that allowing yourself to be vulnerable sometimes doesn't make you weak but instead makes you all the stronger for it and strengthens your relationships.
That relationships don't survive without forgiveness, and when you are on the receiving end, few experiences are more humbling.
And I've finally learned that to be able to love and be loved with no 'if only's and 'but's is a liberating experience indeed.
.. Okay, enough with the alliterations already, although I must admit I was doing in on purpose towards the end. Hee hee ....
Seriously though, in the last eight days, I've learned that the ones you love are the ones you take for granted and that the ones you love the deepest are the ones you hurt the worst.
That you don't realise the worth of something until you lose it, that you don't know how infinitely precious something is until it's gone. And if there is need for regret, then it is often too late.
I've learned that allowing yourself to be vulnerable sometimes doesn't make you weak but instead makes you all the stronger for it and strengthens your relationships.
That relationships don't survive without forgiveness, and when you are on the receiving end, few experiences are more humbling.
And I've finally learned that to be able to love and be loved with no 'if only's and 'but's is a liberating experience indeed.
Thursday, January 06, 2005
Happy Birthday Fong!
It was our lovely Fongite's birthday .. yesterday.
' . ' * . ' " *
Happy Belated Birthday, my angel!
* . ' * ' . " . '
May all your wished come true. *HUUUUGZ*
' . ' * . ' " *
Happy Belated Birthday, my angel!
* . ' * ' . " . '
May all your wished come true. *HUUUUGZ*
Monday, January 03, 2005
A Sunday In KL
I thought to stay in today but found sitting around doing nothing unbearable, so I got in my car and drove around, windows down.
How beautiful and quiet my KL is at 8am on Sunday. It is almost a different city - the lack of traffic, the cool mist still clinging to the air, blanketing KL; a city subdued, a city only just waking. The breeze fresh, cool on my face, I drove down streets so frequently travelled, past buildings filled with memories, past landmarks changed, past sites of buildings which no longer exist. How I love this city, so attached am I to it that I don't believe I shall ever leave. No matter how far I travel, this is the place I will return to.
I went to Lake Gardens where I sat and read my book in the cool morning with the sun shining down on me, caressing my skin.
I went to the National Art Gallery, where I wandered and lost myself in the quiet of its halls, for a few hours severed from the tiresome world outside.
I watched "Phantom of the Opera".
I went to eat assam laksa at one of my favourite shops.
I went ice skating. I love the sense of freedom, the almost-weightlessness of frictionless gliding across the indifferent ice.
I went to the small park I used to frequent as a student, read a bit more and chucked McDonald's fries at the squirrel that was there, in all probability the very same one who used to tease me and keep me company when I did the exact same things as a student. It once swindled me out of almost half a box of fries. The critter cutely scampered back and forth, grabbing the fries I chucked its way and stuffing it in its cheeks before sitting on its haunches and giving me a curious look until before I knew it, I sat with a much diminished box of chips. I often brought a packet of Ngan Yin for it if I knew I was going to the park. It once showed me where it lived.
I spent two hours sitting on the floors of Kinokuniya, browsing through book after beautiful book at random.
Then I went to Chocz and people-watched while I sipped on an Aztec.
And when I finally came home, I baked a lovely cheesecake for my neighbour's birthday tomorrow and my grandmother's pineapple tarts enough to feed a horde.
Then I sat under the stars in the garden, lit a few citronella candles and played my guitar.
It was nice, doing the things I love most, the things that make me forget my troubles for the moment, the things that bring me a measure of peace, even if only for a short while.
I spent the day in my own company. Like I said, it was a nice day, I enjoyed it, but I wish I had someone to share today with. Nobody I know would have enjoyed the day so with me, and I wish there was.
How beautiful and quiet my KL is at 8am on Sunday. It is almost a different city - the lack of traffic, the cool mist still clinging to the air, blanketing KL; a city subdued, a city only just waking. The breeze fresh, cool on my face, I drove down streets so frequently travelled, past buildings filled with memories, past landmarks changed, past sites of buildings which no longer exist. How I love this city, so attached am I to it that I don't believe I shall ever leave. No matter how far I travel, this is the place I will return to.
I went to Lake Gardens where I sat and read my book in the cool morning with the sun shining down on me, caressing my skin.
I went to the National Art Gallery, where I wandered and lost myself in the quiet of its halls, for a few hours severed from the tiresome world outside.
I watched "Phantom of the Opera".
I went to eat assam laksa at one of my favourite shops.
I went ice skating. I love the sense of freedom, the almost-weightlessness of frictionless gliding across the indifferent ice.
I went to the small park I used to frequent as a student, read a bit more and chucked McDonald's fries at the squirrel that was there, in all probability the very same one who used to tease me and keep me company when I did the exact same things as a student. It once swindled me out of almost half a box of fries. The critter cutely scampered back and forth, grabbing the fries I chucked its way and stuffing it in its cheeks before sitting on its haunches and giving me a curious look until before I knew it, I sat with a much diminished box of chips. I often brought a packet of Ngan Yin for it if I knew I was going to the park. It once showed me where it lived.
I spent two hours sitting on the floors of Kinokuniya, browsing through book after beautiful book at random.
Then I went to Chocz and people-watched while I sipped on an Aztec.
And when I finally came home, I baked a lovely cheesecake for my neighbour's birthday tomorrow and my grandmother's pineapple tarts enough to feed a horde.
Then I sat under the stars in the garden, lit a few citronella candles and played my guitar.
It was nice, doing the things I love most, the things that make me forget my troubles for the moment, the things that bring me a measure of peace, even if only for a short while.
I spent the day in my own company. Like I said, it was a nice day, I enjoyed it, but I wish I had someone to share today with. Nobody I know would have enjoyed the day so with me, and I wish there was.
Sunday, January 02, 2005
Me, Stripped Bare
I'm currently reading "The Bride Stripped Bare" by Nikki Gemmell, formerly known as Anonymous.
I'm only somewhere near halfway through, but if I have one thing to say about this book, it is that it is depressing. Poignantly so. Well, so far. Yet, it was a best-seller. Chic lit. It is undeniably chic lit, but heavy stuff it is. IMHO.
Reading it, I felt it strike a chord. It was about a woman who is dissatisfied with her marriage, or rather the state her life is in. More accurately, I think, she is unable to find satisfaction in something, in anything at all about her life in the aftermath of her disillusionment of marriage. Eventually, she takes a lover, which satisfies her for a while, but only really offers a brief respite. After the novelty has worn off, she begins to tire of him. I've just started reading that part, and the story continues in its poignant sadness.
The protagonist is an unending paradox. She is naive, but deeply cynical. A woman of innocence, but possesses great sexuality. She is a woman who has given up hope, yet keeps her eye riveted on the horizon, waiting for a knight in shining armour, the cresting of the faintest glimmer of happiness, something, anything to change her life for the better. She is a woman who no longer believes, yet clings stubbornly to faith. I don't think we ever know her name.
Nikki Gemmell initially did not publish this under her own name, but anonymously as, well, Anonymous. Apparently, she did not want it to be known as her work as she feared it would hurt her own relationship with her husband, family and friends as something so raw and plainitive could only hit too close to home. And apparently, it did. The people closest to her were hit hard by it, apparently, when it was revealed she wrote the book. Yet, she felt it needed to be written.
The book is raw. It is plainitive. There is a certain desperation to the way it is written, and it is disturbingly haunting, because for me, it did hit close to home.
I sometimes wish I could write here anonymously. Not for the first time. Then I could write what I really wanted to, without fear of hurting the people I know, people I care about, because sometimes what I have to say, what I need to let out I know WILL hurt some people. I have tried to write anonymously, but was found out. Apparently, my writing style is too recognizable. :oP It is frustrating having to censor myself for the sake of diplomacy, yet it is necessary. I have no desire to hurt my nearest and dearest, yet it is sometimes at war with my need for self-expression. But today, the need for self-expression wins.
I think that sometimes I could easily be her. The Bride. Having to hide what I really am, what I'm really feeling behind a mask of who I'm supposed to be, behind an act of who I ought to be, because I don't want to hurt the people I love, the people who love me.
You know how some people say that if you keep thinking you're happy and act like you're happy, you'll eventually achieve true happiness? What a load of bollocks. Believe me, I've tried it, and all it did was make me almost hysterical with the whole pretence of it. Pretending is well and good, but it is only pretend.
I'm only just realising some things. I feel like I give too much of myself without taking enough back in return. Generosity works both ways. It is not better to give than to receive, another load of pure bollocks. Rather, it is finding the balance between giving and receiving - and right now, I do not take back enough.
Having said that though, I don't blame anyone for it. It is part of my character to not ask for things. I hate asking for things and absolutely refuse to accept things not freely given, of the person's own accord, hence the refusal to ask. And when people don't, I get disappointed. I know, I can't realistically expect people to be psychic, but.. *shrug* I hate imposing myself on people.
So I tried asking, it's about time I learn to anyway, but that doesn't seem to be working too well either. Is there a Plan C? Or maybe I should persevere with Plan B still?
Oh God. Blue is on the telly, singing horribly horribly off-key. Some Concert in Hyde Park shite. Someone shoot me through the head now.
I feel suppressed, people demanding I'm not allowed to do things, forbidding me things I like and enjoy, denying me my desires. People telling me I can't do certain other things, that I am incapable of accomplishing some dreams. I know I shouldn't let it discourage me, but when there's nobody there to root for you in your camp, it's hard to keep your chin up and you don't really know how to cope. And to hope your loved ones will be there for you, I've long since learned that not even loved ones can be depended upon to be there for you when you really need them to be. And that makes the loneliness ever more lonely.
The Bride. The desolation, the feeling of being invisible and insignificant in every sense, the feeling of utter hopelessness and being infinitely weary. So weary. I feel so tired.
I'm rambling. It's late, that may have something to do with it. But I've always been less inhibited when I write, late at night, all alone. I no longer feel like I have to jaga hati anyone, be someone else for everybody else's sake. No, that's not entirely right. I'm not someone else for other people, I'm just the chirpier me, burying all the unhappiness for sake of better social interaction. Pteh. But when the quiet velvet of night falls and I am entirely alone with my thoughts, the need for pretence slips away. And the need to write compels.
Why I want people to read this, I know not. But write I have. I'm going to watch TV now. Potatoes and Dragon is on. I love that cartoon. Have a good night, everyone. Better than mine, at least. Be well.
I'm only somewhere near halfway through, but if I have one thing to say about this book, it is that it is depressing. Poignantly so. Well, so far. Yet, it was a best-seller. Chic lit. It is undeniably chic lit, but heavy stuff it is. IMHO.
Reading it, I felt it strike a chord. It was about a woman who is dissatisfied with her marriage, or rather the state her life is in. More accurately, I think, she is unable to find satisfaction in something, in anything at all about her life in the aftermath of her disillusionment of marriage. Eventually, she takes a lover, which satisfies her for a while, but only really offers a brief respite. After the novelty has worn off, she begins to tire of him. I've just started reading that part, and the story continues in its poignant sadness.
The protagonist is an unending paradox. She is naive, but deeply cynical. A woman of innocence, but possesses great sexuality. She is a woman who has given up hope, yet keeps her eye riveted on the horizon, waiting for a knight in shining armour, the cresting of the faintest glimmer of happiness, something, anything to change her life for the better. She is a woman who no longer believes, yet clings stubbornly to faith. I don't think we ever know her name.
Nikki Gemmell initially did not publish this under her own name, but anonymously as, well, Anonymous. Apparently, she did not want it to be known as her work as she feared it would hurt her own relationship with her husband, family and friends as something so raw and plainitive could only hit too close to home. And apparently, it did. The people closest to her were hit hard by it, apparently, when it was revealed she wrote the book. Yet, she felt it needed to be written.
The book is raw. It is plainitive. There is a certain desperation to the way it is written, and it is disturbingly haunting, because for me, it did hit close to home.
I sometimes wish I could write here anonymously. Not for the first time. Then I could write what I really wanted to, without fear of hurting the people I know, people I care about, because sometimes what I have to say, what I need to let out I know WILL hurt some people. I have tried to write anonymously, but was found out. Apparently, my writing style is too recognizable. :oP It is frustrating having to censor myself for the sake of diplomacy, yet it is necessary. I have no desire to hurt my nearest and dearest, yet it is sometimes at war with my need for self-expression. But today, the need for self-expression wins.
I think that sometimes I could easily be her. The Bride. Having to hide what I really am, what I'm really feeling behind a mask of who I'm supposed to be, behind an act of who I ought to be, because I don't want to hurt the people I love, the people who love me.
You know how some people say that if you keep thinking you're happy and act like you're happy, you'll eventually achieve true happiness? What a load of bollocks. Believe me, I've tried it, and all it did was make me almost hysterical with the whole pretence of it. Pretending is well and good, but it is only pretend.
I'm only just realising some things. I feel like I give too much of myself without taking enough back in return. Generosity works both ways. It is not better to give than to receive, another load of pure bollocks. Rather, it is finding the balance between giving and receiving - and right now, I do not take back enough.
Having said that though, I don't blame anyone for it. It is part of my character to not ask for things. I hate asking for things and absolutely refuse to accept things not freely given, of the person's own accord, hence the refusal to ask. And when people don't, I get disappointed. I know, I can't realistically expect people to be psychic, but.. *shrug* I hate imposing myself on people.
So I tried asking, it's about time I learn to anyway, but that doesn't seem to be working too well either. Is there a Plan C? Or maybe I should persevere with Plan B still?
Oh God. Blue is on the telly, singing horribly horribly off-key. Some Concert in Hyde Park shite. Someone shoot me through the head now.
I feel suppressed, people demanding I'm not allowed to do things, forbidding me things I like and enjoy, denying me my desires. People telling me I can't do certain other things, that I am incapable of accomplishing some dreams. I know I shouldn't let it discourage me, but when there's nobody there to root for you in your camp, it's hard to keep your chin up and you don't really know how to cope. And to hope your loved ones will be there for you, I've long since learned that not even loved ones can be depended upon to be there for you when you really need them to be. And that makes the loneliness ever more lonely.
The Bride. The desolation, the feeling of being invisible and insignificant in every sense, the feeling of utter hopelessness and being infinitely weary. So weary. I feel so tired.
I'm rambling. It's late, that may have something to do with it. But I've always been less inhibited when I write, late at night, all alone. I no longer feel like I have to jaga hati anyone, be someone else for everybody else's sake. No, that's not entirely right. I'm not someone else for other people, I'm just the chirpier me, burying all the unhappiness for sake of better social interaction. Pteh. But when the quiet velvet of night falls and I am entirely alone with my thoughts, the need for pretence slips away. And the need to write compels.
Why I want people to read this, I know not. But write I have. I'm going to watch TV now. Potatoes and Dragon is on. I love that cartoon. Have a good night, everyone. Better than mine, at least. Be well.
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