The Space in Between

Thank you
for being
the space in between
the relentless drive for perfection
and my not caring a damn
for being
that pause in between
the deafening din of dreariness
and the sensual allure of flattery
for being
that long deep breath
that inhales you into me
and feel you as I would my second skin
for being
that fine line between
What it means to live
and what it means to be alive
Thank you
for being

How I Came to Type Fast

This is not a boast. Most people are rather impressed with the speed at which I type. Not that I'm that fast lah, but I think I can bang it out at a decent rate in English that is. My speed slows considerably when I'm writing in Malay (or Bahasa Malaysia, to be more precise) or in truth, in any other language. They also tend to be impressed with the fact that I do not have to stare at the keyboard to look at the keys. I realized that typing fast and accurately is a very important skill in the computer age. It may not be so important in the next generation when they have perfected the capturing and transcribing of actual dialogue. And I am often asked how I came upon such a skill. Did I take typing classes? Was there some software that could help train them to type fast? Did I study from a book? Yes, those are all the ways in which you could learn typing but no I didn't learn it that way. I had a more circuitous but fun route. Two words.

Computer games. 

Or more precisely, early PC adventure computer games. Lots of it. When I was young, I used to go over to my cousins' house which was five doors down from mine every day to play their computer games. Their parents in their wisdom bought the Apple II which had a lot of excellent games going for it at the time. Games like karateka, loderunner, Saigon, Wyndam Hill, and many others were the rage at the time. I played all of them and finsihed most of them. So my poor other cousins usually just watched me I had no computer at home. For some reason my parents had more important things to do other than to look into this deficiency of mine. 

So whilst I played many games on the Apple, it did not develop my typing because most of the controls only required either a joystick (haven't heard that one in a while; and get that grin of your face you goddamned pervert) or a few of the keys on the keyboard to move about. The groundbreaking moment came as a result of my parents foresight and ignorance. They had the foresight to realize that I should be computer literate but ignorant about computers. I should also be thankful that I had no choice in the computer because I would have certainly bought the Apple II as well. As it turned out they bought me a PC. One of the very first around - an 8088 chipset. I don't know what exact microprocessor that was (the 80188 or 80186) but it was definitely one of those because I remembered upgrading to the 286 several years later and it being somewhat a momentous occasion!

Back to the PC. I still remember we went to this shop near my old house in Damansara Utama one afternoon when my parents talked to some guy about computers and pointed at me. I remember being deliriously happy about it even though I would later discover that it was not the computer I wanted. I did overhear that the cost of the computer was around four grand. This was sometime in the early 80's, so now that I look back on it, my parents must have suffered for me to have that computer because they were not earning much at the time. How puny those specifications would be for the current computers. I think even my current PDA/Phone has more processing power than my first computer. 

Anyway, the PC came about a week or two later. I jumped on to the computer the moment it arrived and grew quite disappointed when I realized I was not able to intuitively take to it and that it had far less games than the Apple II. I was so disappointed that I ignored the PC for a while and continued to go over to my cousin's house to play on their computer. I found a few games here and there like Digger (a variant of Pac Man) and Pong (which was ping pong) which were uninteresting and little better than those games on console boxes at the time like Atari, Commodore 64, and what nots. This went on until I discovered a computer game for the PC at the Pineapple shop in Jaya at Petaling Jaya. That shop for a long time became my PC game mecca until I graduated to the Pentium and the game I found there was to be the first of many for myself and for the series - King Quest: Quest for the Crown by Sierra Games. 

It was one of those rare adventure games that came out on the market which had an great storyline and challenging puzzles. I fell in love instantly. I played the game for weeks until I managed to solve and complete it. Finishing the game of myself gave me a huge sense of accomplishment because I solved all the puzzles myself. The King Quest was one of the several lines of adventure games that were produced by Sierra at the time whom I felt were the masters of their craft. I enjoyed and completed almost all their early adventure games in the other series as well such as the notable Space Quest, Police Quest and Leisure Suit Larry for the same reasons - excellent storylines and challenging (not impossible) puzzles. I suppose that is why even these days, my first choice of game is the adventure one and not the FPS (First Persons Shooters) which I have almost no interest in, except where it concerns the graphics because this is where most of the cutting edge technology goes to. 

So how did those games help me out? Although one still used some keys to direct the character in the game, the difference now was that you had to type in the commands for the character. Like 'Get Book', 'Give Book to Sarah' or even longer sentences. I still remember the breakthrough very vividly because it was at a very crucial and difficult part in the very first Police Quest. The quest I was tasked with was to question a particular suspect who was also a biker. What I had to do get his attention was to push down a row of bikes in front of a bar. This was get him out of the bar after which I had to subdue him when he attacked me with my tonfa which my character carried. The difficulty was that the moment my character pushed down the bikes, I had a very short span of time to type 'Use night stick on biker' and the game didn't let me pre-type the words. On top of that it would lock me out the moment I pushed the bikes for a very short while and I could only type what I had to do after that short while was over and there was no indication to show when I could commence typing. So alot of it was hit and miss. I did it so many, many, many times until I could get the timing and accuracy perfect because anything short of it would see my character being beaten to death. 

When I finally surmounted that particular problem, I realized that I now had a skill. Sure it was mostly to type that stupid line but it sparked the idea that I could type faster than I did, and all I needed was practise. And practise I did with the slew of not only visual adventure games but also text ones like Planetfall and Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy for example. I think it's a bit of a shame that we don't have any more text based games anymore and it's all just graphics and mouses these days, because I felt those games had more substance on average than games with graphics. 

Computer games were not the whole story but it certainly was my breakthrough. I refined my skills to a higher level in University when I would raid libraries with my friend, CS Lim and also transcribe lectures and tutorials from recordings I had my friends take. I spent many hours listening to poor recordings and transcribing faithfully every word spoken by the lecturer or tutor because I had a terrible time waking up for lectures in the morning (anything before 12pm was early). But were it not for those countless adventure games I played, I doubt if I should ever have acquired such a valuable and necessary skill in this day and age.

How I Became a Reader of Books

My friends have the impression that I am 'serious' or 'heavy' reader. They think this because my reading list these days tends towards mostly classic or serious literature, terribly boring current affairs books or Sahara dry philosophy or psychology books. What I found interesting about this impression is how they imagined that in all probability I was also an avid reader read those the entirety of Enid Blyton and Ladybird's catalogue of books in my youth. In short, they thought my reading development from young until now was respectable, diligent and therefore no doubt agreeable. Little did they know that my reading origins were quite sordid and my attitude towards books then was quite deplorable.

Until the age of about 12, the only books I really enjoyed were those with lots of pictures. And if they had Donald Duck, Goofy, Pluto and Mickey Mouse in them so much the better. It was still reading right? I mean, if a picture told a thousand words, I was reading lots of words and pretty damn quick too! So the more pictures there were, the better the book. The aesthetic quality of the pictures or cartoons were my primary concern. The present words were merely to assist in making sense of the picture and were entirely optional.

My parents bought me those Enid Blytons and Lady Birds. My dad would extol their virtues to me relishing his anecdotes about how the Famous Five had enthralled him and inspired his reading. I couldn't tell him then, but I felt none of that when I read those books without any pictures. I remember the Famous Five book he brought home for me one day and told me it was his favourite then. So with such high recommendation I set about reading it only to lose interest completely by page 5 before the adventure even started. The damn thing was just too wordy for me. This is probably why I am so impressed with any kid under 12 that doesn't read picture books.

You would think this more ironic if you knew that since my youth, I have always been surrounded by books. In my old house in Damansara Utama, there were a lot of books. My father was and is a book freak and read as much as he bought and he bought a lot. Just outside my room was a tall shelf jam packed with books (the entire Sherlock Holmes collection was stored there with most of the hardcovers) as was the family living room upstairs (that's where the Brittanica Encyclopedia was stored with the other serious fiction) and downstairs in the guest room rounded off the third part of our collection of books. The shelves in my room too had many books but as you would guess by now, they were mostly picture or cartoon books. There was one shelf reserved for those books that I was given but not interested at all. That's where my dad's Famous Five book to me eventually ended up.

My interest in books was awakened by sex. Not that I knew what it was at 12. Back then I still thought people had to get married first before they had a baby. And I must have laboured under the impression that the stork brought me over because I don't recall having any theory about how baby's came about until my literary explorations. All I knew from my sheltered existence then was that people only had babies after they were married. I never troubled my parents with how babies were born or sex. And they never troubled to tell me.

So I'm not quite sure how I came to have this overwhelming curiousity about sex, but possess it in abundance I did at 12. Instead of asking my parent's directly, I thought it best to find this out myself discreetly. I think I did this because even though it was not said outright, I sensed that there was something taboo or forbidden about the topic of sex so asking my parents was out of the question.

I set about educating myself about sex was therefore to turn to our library. I mean if we had so many damn books, there must be something about sex in there. So what I did was to seek out those books in our collection that had a beautiful or sexy lady on the cover with a provocative pose. That image smelled of sex and so I assumed that the book would have something about sex in it. Now as luck would have it, books possessing those covers were authored by Sydney Sheldon, Harold Robbins, Eric van Lustbader, Jackie Collins, and other such writers known for their intensely arousing and completely impossible sex scenes. I still remember one scene from Collin's book 'Lucky' where after the guy brought her to an explosive multi orgasm and ejaculated his spunk into her and then went on to pleasure her some more with a fantastic demonstration of cunnilingus and climaxed with him sucking out his cum from her vagina. Now being a virgin then, I had no comprehension whatsoever about the act but thought it quite impressive all the same because he did not need a straw to get it out. Ah, the ignorance of youth!

Now though I had discovered those books, I did not actually read them in their entirety. I started just flipping pages randomly at first to look for sex. I think it was because I was successful in my first few attempts at finding a scene that I intensified my efforts and slowly became more methodical in my explorations. I would now flip each page of the book and scan each page quickly for words like 'cock', 'breasts', 'fuck' and other such words that would indicate the presence of a sex scene. Once I found it I would dive in like a happy dolphin and swim about for a few paragraphs (or pages if you read Jackie Collins). But the cover method of identifying sex scenes in books though generally successful had its failings as well. Sometimes the damn cover or the title of the book was thoroughly misleading and I would find myself flipping through 300+ pages without even so much as a show of skin. Eventually, I began to realize that sex scenes had to happen by 2/3rds of the book and if there wasn't one by then, there wasn't going to be one nice long multi paged sex scene waiting for me at the end. I refined my methodology with not just my collection but with every book shop I hit and other's people's collections when the opportunity presented itself. I also came to realize that at the bookshops my life was actually made easier because there were other filthy minded bastards like me around who sought out such books and homed in on the sex scene. I don't know whether it happens these days, but if you look at the spine of authors like Jackie Collins, you will notice creases at certain areas. It was those creases that indicated that those particular areas were accessed more and held open longer than others. And voila! that's where the sex scenes generally were.

By this time of course I knew what sex was all about but found myself taking immense pleasure in reading the sex scenes. I even fancied myself a connoisseur and could anticipate the quality of sex scene of the various writers.

My methodology came under severe review one day when I was browsing one of those type of 'perused' books that we also had at home. I forget which it was now, but what I noticed was that the spine crease on the book at the shop indicated 4 sex scenes whereas to my recollection of the book I had at home, I only found 3 sex scenes. Despite my page by page scan I still missed out a sex scene! How could this be? I quickly opened the book to the 4th visible crease and there it was - the 4th sex scene that eluded me. Though it was not terribly memorable or outstanding in quality, this seriously casted doubt on the thoroughness and accuracy of my methodology and left me feeling insecure; insecure because there may be many more sex scenes that I may have left out in my previous explorations.

It was about that time that a cousin of mine who was staying with me lent me Virginia Andrew's 'Flowers in the Attic'. If you don't know what the story was about, it was about 2 brothers and 2 sisters who were kept in the attic by a mean relative and how they coped. Incest was therefore definitely on the agenda. And incest = sex scene. So it was game on.

When I was passed the book, I contemplated trying out my methodology again but with greater focus and concentration. But I think that episode made me cast serious doubt on my abilities that I thought that the best way to make sure I don't miss out on any of the sex scenes was to read the whole damn thing. And that's what I ended up doing and that I think is the first work of fiction that I read in its entirety. And though I wouldn't read any more of her stuff, I thoroughly enjoyed the book then. I went on to devour all of her books after that though I can't remember any of them now. And after I was done with her, my reading development exploded and I just couldn't read enough. However, my genre however was still questionable and limited to the heavily sex scened books. A few years later, I graduated to the classics mostly from the French side with classics by Dumas, Maupassant, Laclos, Rostandt and Flaubert. Dumas' 3 Musketeers was the first book that I finished in double time. I holed myself in my room over a weekend and remember finishing that book at about 3am in the morning. I could not sleep until I had finished the book and after doing so wished I could start it all over again.

Soon after, I moved into contemporary fiction and stayed there for a long time, occasionally dipping into the classics so I could gauge the general quality of the former. I could not read non-fiction then even when I hit University. I could take the boring legal crap but textbooks, current affairs, essays, etc. were all out of the question. Funnily enough, it as only after I came back and worked for a year that I began to take an interest in non-fiction. I think it started with Scott Peck's 'The Road Less Travelled' and carried it on from there.

Nowadays, whilst I usually prefer non-fiction, whether it is a current opinion/affair book, or one about science, or the original texts of the groundbreaking books, to fiction. And the supreme irony now being that I abhor sex scenes in my literature and think them almost embarassing these days (unless it was there for a meaningful purpose and not merely as a masturbatory stop). One of those exceptions to the rule is Cleland's 'Fanny Hill' which I get a huge kick out of reading because of the antiquated language used to describe nasty sex scenes. Careful though, it might give you a boner or wet your panties (or both!).

Having reflected on this, I have concluded that there are many ways to discover the joys of reading and that sordid beginnings need not necessarily continue forever that way. I realize now that for me, if it were not for that curiousity about sex, it is likely that I may have developed an interest much much later or perhaps not even at all, which I think to be the greater tragedy. Jackie Collins was necessary for me to get in touch with Francis Bacon. So for that I thank all those writers of sex scenes both famous and obscure for facilitating my reading development and saucily and sensually ferrying me over to my current stage. And know that books should not be judge by its cover or its introduction or sex scene.

Sudir

8.3.1980. I had finished my MCE and was waiting for my result. Sudirman came to town.

He was my idol of sorts. I remember trying to sing like him, dance like him, dress like him and be like him. When he got back from a tour in Japan, he transformed himself from being just another Malay singer to a Malaysian superstar. I remember his curly hair, baggy pants, linen vest worn over linen shirts complete with a long scarf over his neck.

As a kid, I was overwhelmed by Sudir. And so, on 8.3.1980, he had a concert somewhere near my town. I borrowed my friend's bike and rode it to the concert even though I had no licence!

He was a real superstar. He had none of the attitude which would turn you off. Friendly. Chatty. Earnest. Watching him live, I could almost felt his honest desire to entertain the folks. Singing, to him was not merely a profession. It was a mission. A mission to entertain the audience. Communication came as second nature to him. He made you laugh effortlessly, the young and old. He would make you shed a tear or two when he sang a sad song. He would coax an old man to dance with one of his dancers on stage. He would sing English, Malay, Tamil and Chinese songs to make his show as multi-racial as possible. I think he was the first Malaysian artist to command a truly multi racial audience in his concerts. He was just, a superstar of no equal.

During a break, I sneaked backstage. I was stopped by a guard but fortunately, Sudir saw me trying to gain entry and he signaled the guard to let me in. And there I was. Alone backstage with Sudir. He was smaller than I thought. A lot smaller than the singer I saw on stage. He smiled and extended his hand. I shook it. And I told him my name.

He asked me how old I was and I told him I was 17 and I had just finished my MCE. He smiled. "How was the exam", he asked. "Erm...okay", I said. He looked into my eyes and asked, "what do you intend to do after MCE?" I hesitated. "What would you want to be?", he followed up his earlier question. " I don't know, I just want to pass my exam..." I answered nervously. "Probably I want to be like you...a lawyer and a singer", I continued. He smiled. "You will be okay", he said. "I know you will...", he said as if my future was foretold.

I had to have a memoir from that meeting. It meant so much to me. Here, in front of me, is my idol. A person who encapsulates success to me. A law student and a great entertainer. If only digital cameras were already around those days.

I put my hand inside my pocket. Pulled out a one ringgit note. "No, please don't give money to me", he said with a smile. I looked at him and I said "no, I just want you to autograph it for me". He smiled. "How very original", he said. He took a marker, wrote my name on the note, with a message "Hormat dari" and signed "Sudir" on the note. I later added the date with a ball point pen.

That moment lasted a lifetime to me. 28 years later, I still have that note. As crisp as new.

Sudir, thank you for all the memories. Thank you for all the good times. You are missed.

May God bless your soul. I am sure you are smiling at me now. And if you hadn't known, I am okay.

Of Smoking (Part 2)

Second time. I think I was in second year uni by then. It was sometime during the start of term because I remember it being cold. We were at this club. One of those parties organized by the Malaysian Singaporean Student Association. A few of us went out for some air. We, comprising of myself and this Singaporean chap named Terence, a fellow student in my faculty, were sitting in a doorway of a shop probably next to the entrance of the club. I remember the biting wind, those frosty blasts of wind that seem to hiss by you venomously as it swept through. The loud thumping beats were faintly audible from where we sat. Michael, my other Singaporean friend, who was the acknowledged Party Man was standing around in front of us looking about and doing little jog on the spots.
When I turned to look at Terence he had a cigarette out and in his mouth. That was fast, I thought. He was about to light up when I asked him for one. The usual 'I didn't know you smoked' routine played itself out. One minute later I have a stick in my mouth and his telling me to inhale it. The strange thing about it this time for me was that it went down nice and smooth. I don't remember why it was different but I still remember the surprise with which I took that first drag. Inhaling it was not a problem and so was blowing it out. I didn't feel like a rack of hot coals had been raked across my throat and tongue. That fragile bit of warmth that it gave me was uselessly delightful. I enjoyed the moment and indulged in the feeling of knowing how to smoke. The cigarette still did not quite feel so comfortable in my big clumsy hands just yet, it felt strangely foreign, like an intruder almost.
Ever since then, it came rather naturally. I'm not quite sure how it happened either. Maybe the cool air made it easier. that night. But even though I had the satisfaction of smoking one properly that night, I didn't immediately go out and get a pack of cigarettes. I just didn't feel particularly compelled to do so. I had two or three at the time. Because anything more than that would make me sick and want to throw up. Hilarious. That too cleared up after a few more tries, and now I don't have a problem with it unless I smoke cloved cigarettes. That stuff just makes me sick.
All this time, I understood of course that smoking was and is bad for my health, yet continued to do so every now and again. Funnily enough, I read a piece of trivia in Malcolm Gladwell's book 'The Tipping Point'. It said something like if a person smoked something like nine sticks a day for 2 weeks consecutively then that statistic would be like the tipping point to that person becoming a regular smoker. Keeping that in mind, I have always kept under that limit and take a break from it every once in a while.
So the good thing about it now is that I get to enjoy it but don't have the powerful need for it.
And there's one thing about having a smoke. It's a very social thing. It's easy to strike up a conversation with someone who smokes because there'll always be someone standing outside having one. Even with at least two people, there's potential for common ground simply because they smoke. They are immediately and irrevocably categorized into a group: 'Smokers'. These people also tend to be sociable and generous. They are always happy to share their stash with you and only too helpful with the lighter to boot and ready for conversation. That's the nice thing about lighting up too. The moment you do, you light up a whole new social world. Like an underworld beneath the non-smoking world that is slowly and surely conquering the world.
Getting a gift for a smoker is also very easy. One carton or a pack. Viola. I mean what else can you give as casually, as simply and as affordable as that. Non-smokers have to contend with flowers, or some cute but useless gifts that you will probably never use for the rest of your life or chocolate (Box of Ferre Roche).
Naturally there's a price to be paid to join this exclusive though widespread group. A shortening of one's life, the damaging of one's health and the usually strong smoky breath that tends to be a major turn off (unless perhaps both are smokers). I fool myself by telling myself that I keep my intake below the tipping point but that doesn't change that fact that I'm still smoking no matter how few. That however is a choice I make and that I am willing to live with. Though truth be told, I have no choice in the matter anyway.

Frying the Rice

A story oft repeated for family, friends and acquaintances that may or may not have heard it.

When I was set free in England, aside from mastering the fine art of boiling water, knowing how to cook the Maggie Mee precisely how I liked it (noodles al dente and the gravy thick) and being somewhat competent at cutting and peeling the garlic and onions, I did not have a shred of cooking sense. So there I found myself one inevitable evening. Alone. Hungry. The canteen closed a while ago. I think it was one of the days when the Hall kitchen closed early.
It was still early in the term and I had yet to be comfortable with any of my hall mates. I also hadn't started to hang or meet with anybody nearby either. My buddy from the 'old days' (he was with me since secondary school and he came over to stay a few times), Daniel, was too damned far away. The lucky bastard had gotten a nice room smack in the centre of the academic heart of our University. It was an old, creaky wooden building which was extensively renovated to accommodate more than it was originally envisaged. It was such a maze that in my early visits there I would wander around lost in there for up to a few minutes, at times even wondering whether it was possible to die of hunger and thirst in the building for being, unable to get out. Luckily, there were other students walking in and out that would very helpfully (and no doubt amused) show me out. Crazy Asian! So anyway, he was out of the question. I just wanted to have something nice and warm. Then eat it in with my legs snugly tucked in under the covers of my bed.
I no doubt sighed and rummaged through the box my mom had packed for me. That was gastronomic umbilical chord to home. Familiar food. Fond memories. Of home. There it was. A five pack of Chicken and Curry Maggie Mee and Indomie Goreng. Easiest to eat, both were done with just boiling the noodles to soften and then open the packets for seasoning. So damn easy, even I could do it. Digging further, there was my favourite kicap sauce, almost the entire Brahims range of tasty ready-to-eat chicken and beef. They had flavours like rendang and what not. Bloody good when you are starved of home food and stuck in a foreign land where it is not easily obtainable. But it sucks when you eat it back home. And there just tucked right at the bottom, almost going unnoticed, were a whole bunch of slim almost flat package. It was the Brahims mixture for frying rice.
I recalled that before mom and dad had gone back, they had done a little shopping for me. The bought me a bit of food to store in the fridge. Like I think a small pack of long grain rice. And I had thrown in a pack of prawns into the shopping basket too. I thought then and there that I wanted to eat fried rice. My mouth immediately responded as I could feel the side of my cheeks tighten just a little and my tongue snake out to lick my lips. That's it, I thought. I'm having fried rice. Easy like peasy.
My mom also had the foresight to buy me a little tefal stainless steeled non-stick pot which was pretty damn versatile, I found out later. So I went to the common kitchen down the hall and got out the prawns which were frozen then went back to my room to pick up a pack of the fried rice flavouring, a big wooden spatula and the rice. I put the block of prawns under the sink and poured warm water over it a little to warm it up. Doubled back to the room because I forgot the oil and saw that the block had broken into half. I cut up the pack and put one half in the fridge.
The prawns still hadn't fully frozen.
So I waited and read a bit.
I think it was about twenty minutes.
Luckily I had a book.
After I found it soft enough, I fired up the stove. The blue flames snuck out of their holes and hissed away. Still small. Warmed up the pot with oil. After it was nice and warm, I threw in some of the prawns. Pushed it around a bit and then threw in the rice. After stirring it around, I bumped up the flame and squeezed the entire sachet contents into the pot until it was satisfactorily cackling away. I stirred it around and took particular pleasure in smelling the fumes arising from the pot. Ah! Not quite, but close enough. The smell of home cooking. After pushing it around some more to ensure an even cooking, I dumped it all on a plate and left the pot to cool down.
Pleased, I padded down the entire length of the hall again because my room was on one end and the kitchenette in the other, plate in hand. Mmm mmm. Cooking one's food does give some measure of satisfaction, I thought to myself. I sat down at the table with my plate of fried rice the moment I got in. And dug in.
It was hard digging though. The prawns were alright and tasted okay. The problem was the rice was so bloody hard. It was tough to chew and refused to yield beneath my chewing. I managed to get half spoonful down my throat and thought that something was seriously wrong. Checked the time. It would be around noon or thereabouts back home. So I went down the hall past the kitchenette to the public phone in the stairwell. I made a reverse charge call to, who else, but mom. She was always pleased to hear from me and ran through her usual course of questions about how I was taking care of myself, keeping warm, staying safe, etc. before I could finally get to what I wanted to ask her.
I told her about my problem.. There was a brief silence before my mom asked me, 'Did you cook the rice before you fried it?'And I think I said something like, 'What do you mean cook the rice?' Her disbelief quickly warped into laughter. After she had recovered somewhat she told me that I had to boil the rice first before I fried it.
Ah.
So that's what it was.
Why didn't I think of that?
Been much better since then.
It's best to use rice cooked and kept overnight to fry. See. See.
Super damn best favouritest: Corn beef fried rice with fried egg and Habhal kicap manis.

Smoking (Part One)

Smoking
By Summer Pierre

Smoking.

Sometimes I wonder about each of our paths towards that destiny. How did we stumble, grope, choke or perhaps elegantly picked it up, as naturally as one would take a pee, to opening our mouth just wide enough to snugly fit the butt of the cigarette between our lips?
I cough, choked, teared (as in 'tear drops') and just about vomited the way to mine.
First time ever. Tried it just to see what it was like. I wanted to know what made it so compulsive even when it stank so bad. It was college. As usual, after the lame ass music, environment and atmosphere of the 'Prom Night' organized by some of the students in the A-levels program, we bounced to what used to be one of the hottest night clubs in Kuala Lumpur at the time. If you don't know where I'm talking about then goddamn I'm old. Fires. Behind Shangri-la. We're talking early nineties here. So it's about an hour in. I was bored and feeling a little adventurous after a few vodka limes, my usual then. Spotted some of my friends sitting in a cluster of high chairs arranged around a small high table which had a few half drunk and empty glasses. In the middle was as usual, the ashtray. Full. Of cigarette butts jammed down into various strangely artistic poses which could even merit its own installation at the Tate. So there they are smoking. I tell them. (Note, the dialogue that follows and what happened captures more of the feel of what happened rather than what was actually and accurately said. I remember there were actually three of them at the time but for narration have reduced them to one)
'I want a cigarette.'
'Hah? Since when you smoke one?'
'I don't. I want to try it now.'
'Why now?'
'Hiya. Why you ask so many questions? Give me onelah!'
He fishes his cigarette pack out of his tight trousers with his thumb and forefinger, as if yanking out a flopping fish.
'Waitlah. Waitlah. This one not my fault ah. Just remember that. You ask for it one ah,' he says as he holds the cigarette perfectly vertically in front of me. 'I also just want to say for the record: It's bad for you.'
'Yalah, yalah,' I say as I grab the stick from him.
I put the stick in my mouth. He holds up the lighter for me. Click. An unsteady wavering flame occasionally quivers. Buffeted by the little unseen eddies of wind. Even as he protected the hesitant flame. It did not dare stretch itself. I lean down and aim the tip of the cigarette to the flame.
'Okay, now suck on it a bit. Bit by bit. Oooh yeah.'
'Shut up!'
'But seriously, take short pulls on it to get the ciggie burning.'
I smell smoke. I took short pulls on it. Not quite know what to do with it. One thing for sure. The smoke was getting to my eyes. Like a thousand tiny stabs in my eyes.

'Hiya, you're not inhaling! Take a deep pull and instead of holding it in your mouth, pull it in with your chest. You should feel it go down your throat. Which should burn since you're a first timer.'

So I did as he said. And it was as he said. Though he left out the fire in the chest feeling bit and what may come after. Perhaps it was easier for him. For me though. It began with this very mild sort of burning sensation in the chest. My chest then felt like it was going to leap out of me. To get away from the smoke. Which then rose to the throat which was still raw after that blast of hot dirty air down that went past it just recently. And finally, lodged itself in my throat and provoked me to tear, to feel breathless and to near cough my guts out. My friend was kind enough to draw the attention of my other friends to my situation so as to partake in the amusement of my predicament. They thought the redness in my face, which arose because I was coughing so much I could not breathe, was a nice touch.
That was my first puff. And my last! I thought to myself.
It tasted awful. Smelled awful. And was supposed to be bad for you to boot.
How could anybody like this awful thing?

A Meeting of Minds

Rarely in our lives do we meet people who, despite meeting them for the first time, we feel a strong sense of familiarity and comfort found only with our old and close friends. And after meeting them, you wonder how on earth the both of you did not know of each other much earlier. There is happiness and contenment at the promise of such a friendship and a little sadness at what could have been. There, we will find a similitude in perspectives, an empathy in thoughts, a similar intensity of passions and causes and best of all, a meeting of minds that are then able to proceed in lockstep with each other or in opposing directions in complete confidence of understanding.

I had the good fortune to savour this experience when I met a friend of mine, Andrew. The first time I met him was at a get together for those of us going to the same university for a pre-unversity meet up. The little do was organized by one of our soon to be immediate seniors at his house near Jalan Travers. I was a little hesitant about going to the meet initially since I knew no one else going there apart from one of my old schoolmates, Daniel. Even with him around, I was not keen on turning up in a room full of strangers and strike up small talk after small talk with each new acquaintance. And back then I was not a terribly good conversationalist either (which is another amusing topic altogether which I hope I shall remember to write at some point). So the thought of the entire affair filled me with dread.

I must have convinced myself that it was a good thing because I found myself that evening in Ruben's large well attended living room and not quite sure which group I could intrude. Several groups had already clustered in various parts of the room. I did recall scouring the room for eye candy and made a few mental notes of those notable looking ones but on the whole felt at a loss as to which cluster I could join. There just did not seem to be much a similitude with everybody else in the room - everybody seemed pretty straight laced and goody-goody. Not that I was any different then, but I fancied myself a little darker, a little subversive and dangerous to know (hey man, I did Byron for A-Levels, hokayyy!) and wanted to at least be seen in that kind of company in the lame ass hope that women may dig it. For the purposes of record, they did not and I doubt if I could even muster that impression with huge thick glasses which instantly reduced me to a geek even if I had tatoos of dragons and naked women all over my body.

After a few attempts at conversation here and there and not feelin particularly at ease, I noticed a thin distinguished thin spectacled chinese chap who seemed underdressed with his simple white t-shirt and well worn blue jeans standing apart in his own space taking in the room. What was significant for me was that the back of his hair was a little longer than your normal Malaysian male haircut which terminated just before the nape. This indicated a slight rebellion, a slight subversiveness, a challenge to the establishment that I was looking for which perhaps may flourish fullly in the cold severe though refreshing air of England. If I recall correctly, I went over to him and introduced myself. He said his name was Andrew and we commenced our polite banter to while away the time. I forget the details of our conversation but I felt an immediate kinship. He loved music, played the guitar and enjoyed movies but most important for me was that some of the views his expressed found not just agreement but resonance with me. We did not talk long because we all dispersed soon after but he made the best impression on me at the party (male-wise at least!). So I left the part safe that I shall get along with at least one other person other than Daniel when I got to university.

It was in England though that our friendship blossomed and during the many hours we spent in each other's company walking to class in first year, or studying in the library, or doing committee work together, or bloody lion dances that near killed us, we did what I enjoyed doing most with him - talking which would necessarily include a bit of table thumping, violent agreements, understanding, compassion and a whole lot of laughter. Conversation did not become merely an exchange of words - it became a haven, a harbour for all manner of interesting knowledge, experiences and carefully considered issues to ship to. And I like an eager dockyard worker would only be to eager to stand at the very edge of the pier, always scanning the edge of the horizon for that dot of arrival. The only thing we needed aside from ourselves would be a comfortable place to sit and bottles of wine (optionally necessary).

And there is a meeting of minds because we share so many similar interests, run on similar tracks of thought and more importantly feel the same way. What drives him crazy and makes him mad (his yahoo email account begins with 'angryyoungman') does the same to me too. What makes him a little different from most of my other friends is hard to describe but let me attempt to do so: sometimes as he is saying certain things, it is as if he is setting out my thoughts or feelings on it exactly. It is a wonderful and beautiful feeling when this happens because it's like some kind of strange surreal force at work or something: like seeing your thoughts typed out onto the screen without using any kind of input device. I'm not saying it happens all the time with him, but it does tend to happen more often with him than with others.

I wished all of us could meet somone like that for each of us everyday.

The Inspired

We are influenced by the people we meet or keep in company with. Though many of them will influence us in some small way - it is usually difficult to pinpoint their precise contribution to your personality or life - a small few however will leave such a lasting and powerful impression so as to change your attitude towards living. Yesterday I mentioned that CS Lim was one of the most influential people in my life but did not explain this influence. Before I can do so however, it is necessary to begin with how I saw myself before I became acquainted with him.

An average student that never made the top ten in class throughout primary and secondary class. Dangerously diligent during play and unrepentantly lazy and completely indisciplined where studies were concerned. Sometimes I'd even just pretend I fell asleep after an hour of sitting in front of my textbook at home just to get out of studying. Even the one time I really made an effort with my studies for the SRP exams (Sijil Rendah Pelajaran; an exam taken in Form 3 in Secondary School), I didn't come out top either (and nowhere near the top ten either). The thinking therefore was that if that was my best and it still was not good enough to beat some of my friends (braniac bastards most of them), then perhaps I was not clever, or to be brutal about it, stupid. These factors along with the fact that I was a late (started regularly only at twelve) and a slow reader, could not hold more than two sentences (with a maximum of ten words each) in my head for more than five seconds, and had never been told I was clever, except by my parents, who unsurprisingly made no mention of this when I showed them my crimson stained report cards. I gave no opinions thinking mine worthless. Never volunteered an answer even if I knew the answer. And all this left me rather unambitious. I believe the technical phrase for this is 'Could Not Be Arsed'. College came. Though it gave me a glimpse of what intellectual freedom felt it was too cursory to be of significance and though I made firm friends there, I was not altered by the experience. At that point, I knew I wanted to be in the practise of law but never thought to ponder about just what kind of lawyer I would be. Actually, at that point of time, I would have happy as long as I made it there.

And now to speak a little more of CS Lim's own attributes. Yes, he was persistently boastful (I ceased to even notice this once our friendship was ensconced) but unlike many blowhards, CS Lim could back it up. He did not make a claim that he could not meet. And the reason I think for this was because of his singleminded ability to focus so intensely and exclusively on his goal that it became inevitable. The most significant example of this was our own law degrees. At the beginning of our second year, we had agreed that we would work towards a first class degree. We studied diligently together throughout the year either and at the end of the second year, horror of horrors. Though I came out poised for an attempt on a first class with something like an average of 64 (this was a second upper; first class was 70 marks and above) CS Lim was handed a measly 55 (this was a second lower which by his standards was unthinkable). Needless to say, we were completely nonplussed. We studied together, used the same notes, discussed our studies and shared the same opinions. Worse, he was the one that helped me through the more difficult topics and issues. How on earth did it turn out like this? He was pretty depressed about his results and I felt bad about mine. We hung out a bit over the summer vacation. When we met again in university at the start of third year, he seemed rejuvenated. He had his dorky smile on his face and announced to me that he was going to get that first class and was 'prepared to do anything to get it.' He asked if I was still keen for it. Though I said yes, I don't think it was because I really thought I was going to be able to make it but rather because hearing it pronounced seemed to have a rather inspiring effect. So I gave his query a thumbs up. The goal was set. First class for both of us. It was on. Little did I know what I was in for.

Over here in Malaysia when I hear somebody telling me that they would do anything to get something, I inevitably think that they are going to just bribe, beat or blackmail somebody to get what they want. I was to learn the length to which CS Lim would go through to get that first class. In that first week of term of our third year, we had drawn up our plan and divided up our chores. I was responsible for taking full verbatim lecture notes, collating the tutorial material and starting work on them. He was to do pretty much everything else which included going for intensive one on one private tutorial sessions with the tutors (which let me tell you is way more scarier than your normal tutorial with a bunch of people in the room. These one on one sessions were brutal because you had to make sure that you completely and thoroughly understood some of the issues before you could hold your own against these tutors who were bloody brilliant. And he recorded these and I transcribed them), photocopying, purchasing or bartering for other relevant material that was not on the reading list and he was to summarize the heavier reading stuff like those bloody boring law books. After we had run through all the material in our library, I thought we were done. Not at all. We took a drive out one day to the neighbouring university nearby and raided their library. We did not only check their books and journals but we even ran through Masters dissertations and PhD papers written by the students that were stored there. And that was still not enough. So, CS Lim about a week after came up with the idea to drive down to Oxford and then raid the Bodleian library. We left the day after his suggestion just before dawn so we could maximize the day pass he got for both of us. We didn't eat lunch that day. All I remember were books, racks of books, more books and our laptops which were clattering away whenever we were not ransacking the journals and other textbooks. What we did was set up our laptops at a big table and just brought down books we felt relevant, skimmed through it and typed out the relevant portions we wanted verbatim and summarized the rest. We left only when the library closed and made it back with enough energy to get to our respective rooms and crash out. As all this was going on, there was the daily routine that we had going which was just to study, analyze and come up with better arguments or points from our additional material, discuss it, memorize stuff, write essays and go for our tutorials. That was just about as hard as I've ever studied in my life. And not being used to it, after about 5 months of that intensity I just got tired of it and told CS Lim that I was taking it slower because I could not take the pace anymore and truth be told felt that I should be enjoying my last year in university too. I think also that that first class suddenly didn't mean so much to me anymore. I started 'slacking' if you could call it that in the last 3 months. CS Lim however kept at it and aside from a few meals and what not, I saw little of him. He would call every once in a while to see how I was doing and berating me for giving up. Anyway, when the results came up, I maintained my second upper but CS Lim scored his first class and was I think the first ever in the university to pull a first class out of a hat with a second lower in the second year. He did so outstandingly for his final five papers that it did not just pull his average up but blew it up into the stratosphere. He basically gave up 8 months of his life to get it and he did. And that's pretty much him - if he wants it bad enough, he was going to get it. It could be a girl (that's another story too), a game of tennis, tennis captainship, someone he wants to meet, whatever really and once his heart was set, he was going to achieve or get it.

Now that you have a fair idea of what kind of people we were and some of the stuff we got up to, I can better explain how he influenced me. And I think the pivotal point was one night that started rather casually that I do not remember the circumstances that occured before our conversation. I think when we had this conversation, we were already firm friends for a few months already. I knew by then off his many and diverse accomplishments and was impressed. I had great respect for him and often wondered what he hung about me for - I mean there were much cleverer fellows, better tennis players (his sports obsession in university), etc and I think I pretty much paled in comparison to some his other friends or hall mates.

That's how I thought and that was my attitude about myself at the time. Then we had that conversation in my room which I think marked the beginning of my internal change. It was very early in the morning, perhaps one or two in the morning. We were quite tired out and I think we may have returned from a function of some sort. There was only my desk light which I turned to face one of the walls. It was cold. Sometimes you could hear the wind whisper or howl past the window. I was sitting on my bed and I recall him slumped on the guest chair which was set perpendicular to my bed. So what was this conversation?

It began with him saying something to the effect that he had done some thinking about my lack of ambition. I replied by saying that this was readily apparent and asked him why he thought I was like that. And he began telling me about his thoughts about me, why he thought I behaved the way I did and some of the actions or things I say that support his conclusion. It was rather frightening to be deconstructed in such a manner and how accurate he was in doing so considering at that point of time he did not know a great deal about my past (he often did most of the talking). I remember feeling rather embarassed and ashamed I suppose at being found out like that. But then he started to tell me how wrong I was about myself, about how I had alot of potential to be a whole lot better than I was if I bothered, that I was much cleverer than I thought myself, that I really should think about my life and not let myself drift, and then explaining why he thought this. He then said that he had a lot of respect for me and my abilities. And he said all this a calm and quiet fashion in his chair instead of his usual bustling and loud manner.

I know he was just saying a bunch of nice things about me. But until then nobody aside from my parents told me that they thought so well of me or thought me clever and worthwhile in so serious a manner or just after I had done something that politeness encourages praise. Before, I was synonymous with just funniness (and all related thereto like silliness, etc.) and laughter. And it was meaningful for me because he had nothing to gain from me when he said it. Not a thing (and by that time, I had borrowed a few of his jackets already). We were firm friends already by then. And there was really no need to say anything. There was no need for him to lift me up to make me his equal. Here was someone whom I had loathed with a passion at first, so much more accomplished than me in every respect saying these completely unnecessary things. I don't know whether this is pure sincerity but my count it comes pretty damn close. And it is wonderful to hear good things being said about you with such sincerity. And it is damn well inspiring.

I don't know how the night ended. But from that day I felt a change in myself. I had lost that fear of trying. I now felt confident about challenging myself and perhaps even others. I wanted the challenge. I felt that I had the right to an opinion and was not afraid to voice it. But all this did not manifest itself fully enough until the second year. And I am now rolling on that momentum - always challenging myself, challenging others, exposing my mind to the unfamiliar, learning new things or knowledge, sometimes leaping out of my comfort zone because I am confident in my abilities and certain of its limits. I know more of who I am and have discovered more ways to draw myself out to analyze, consider and perhaps improve or prune.

I am no longer afraid.

I am inspired.

First Impressions Are Not Everything

CS Lim is one of my outstanding good friends. Though we seldom talk or meet up these days, he's a high-flying fund manager doing what he does best - making more money, he will always be counted as one of my good friends. The best friendships are not necessarily the oldest but the most meaningful. Our friendship certainly met that criteria. He would prove to be one of the most influential people in my life. But that was not why he was outstanding for me. I have accorded him this quality because of the manner in which met.

Before meeting him, I would usually get along right from the start with all the people that would eventually become my good friends. He proved to be the exception to the rule because when I first met him I had taken an instant and potent dislike to him. We stayed in halls in our first year of university in England. I stayed in the block furthest away from the entrance, though near the tennis courts (which would prove pivotal to our friendship later), and he stayed about halfway towards the entrance. In our first week there, the tutors of the halls arranged for a get to know each other session for just the international students who were staying there. It was held in the evening and when I arrived most of the crowd was there already. There was not many of us in that hall and I think all in there were about twenty of us - Singaporeans, Malaysians, Dutchfolk, Africans, Greek and some other European countries - in the room.

When I arrived the room was buzzing with light and polite chatter, with perhaps bursts of muted laughs erupting here and there in the room. Everybody was just standing rather casually about except for this short (about five feet four), stocky, bespectacled Chinese guy with a badly cut coconut hairstyle who was diligently going about the room introducing himself to everybody, spending about two or three minutes with them before moving on in a business like fashion. His voice rose above the usual chatter and could be heard distinctly. The moment I saw him, like I said earlier I took an instant dislike to him. My impressions came thick and fast and were all but confirmed when he finally came my way, gave me his usual introduction, perfunctory chit chat and he was off to god knows where. He came, he met and he left. I hated him. Bloody, kiasu, Singaporean arsehole pretty much accurate describes my first impression of him.

After that, I took special care to avoid him as much and as far as possible. That, however, proved to be very difficult since sometimes I did sit with the other Malaysians and Singaporean (there was him and another chap called Bernard, who was much nicer) and whatever he said or did just served to make me loathe him even more. He always found room in any conversation to boast about his many and varied accomplishments, about the things he bought, the money he spent, and the places he had been to. If you played the piano, you would be certain of being informed that he had taken three diplomas in music after completing his Grade 8, played for performances once in a while and gave music lessons. If you were into martial arts, he had a black belt in Taekwondo. If you were doing a law degree, well, he was doing there on top of studying for his ACCA exams too and messing about with trading commodities on the side. If you were rich, he was richer. Everything was like competition to him. Where we finally came into contact was when he talked about his obsession with tennis. And I played tennis. When he found out that I played tennis, a game was immediately arranged the next day.

It was a cold, overcast and dull day (are there any others in England?) when we met on the tennis court that morning. I was wearing a shirt, sweater and a jacket because it was that cold and windy. He was wearing just wearing a t-shirt and shorts (which I would come to later realize was his standard outfit whether it was summer or the dead of winter). The surface of the tennis court was slippery though strangely rough when you fell down on it. It was not a comfortable surface for me since the ball tended to slide and I played mostly on hardcourts with very heavy top spin. If he played flat shots, he would have killed me. Thankfully once we got warming up it was clear that we had a similar game - big topspins and loads of power. I thought that I would have the advantage with my height, reach and serve. What's more, I had been playing a fair bit of tennis before arriving there to be fairly confident about my ability. The uppermost thought in my mind before we even stepped on court was that I was not going to lose to this bastard and run for every shot.

I was to serve first and won the first game rather easily. Back then I had a huge serve that could pretty much hold an entire game - it was fast and hard (these days forget it!). Unless you could take the speed, even if you could hit the ball, you would not have been able to control it. So he was completely bowled over by my serve first. His serve was much better than I expected considering his height. His serves came fast and quick but without much power so I could take them. But what I realized quickly was that this guy was a baseline guy who could hit from the back all day. He was also one determined son of a bitch because he would chase down every ball no matter how hopeless. And when I saw how he gave everything for each ball, I knew that he did not want to lose to me too.

He won his game on the back of some good rallies and we were even again. When the time came for my serve again, he could take it this time. He adapted very fast. Each time I served the ball came back better and better until we were trading blows on my serves as well. Each point was fought for and not one quarter was given. As the game wore on, we each held serve and it was clear from the way we played the game, there was more at stake then just a simple game of tennis. There was no more false friendly banter at the net or praising of each other's good shots any longer. This was war. This was our machismo on the line. When the score was 5-5, it began to drizzle but it occured to neither of us to stop. We kept on playing. We slipped on the ground, crashed into the fence or slid into the surrounding walls but we were not going to retire. I would sooner freeze to death then ask to stop and he was the same. Nothing else mattered except that we were not going to lose. Even as the drizzle grew heavier, we still were on court slugging it out. The battle of wills went on up to 6-6 when we headed for a tie-break. The only communication between us was when we screamed some profanity at our rackets or the sky for our lost point.

Finally, finally, I lost. I forgot the score of the tie break but I think it was something like 10-8 or 9-7. I felt miserable at the loss, more so because I really didn't like him either. It was a double blow. We thanked each other purfunctorily for the game and hurried back to our own rooms because by then it was hailing. He did not call me back for another game of tennis and I did not ask him for a replay. I figured, too bad I lost but thank god I didn't have to deal with him anymore.

After that, I had my several weeks of peace. Then one day, I went for a trip arranged by the Malaysian Singaporean Student Association to go for some sports meet somewhere. I went for it and did my part. When they sent us back in the evening, the bus insisted on stopping only at one of the halls. This meant that those not staying at that hall would have to get down and walk back to our respective halls. I got off the bus and started my walk back to my hall when I heard someone call my name and asked me to wait. I dreaded the sound of the voice and when I turned around I saw CS Lim waddling in his peculiar way to me (he walks with the points of his feet facing out). Shit, I thought, gotta small talk with him, which I eventually did.

The walk was mercifully short and after stopping outside his block to see him off I headed back to mine. After reaching my room, putting on some music and enjoying a hot cup of cocoa that I had just made, there was a knock on my door. It was a surprise because hardly anybody ever knocked on my door. The last guy that did so was one of the guys down the hall that decided that 4am and being pissed out of his mind was the best time to meet my acquaintance. I opened the door and lo, and behold, CS Lim was there standing just as I had left him. I naturally inquired what he wanted and he told me that he had left his key in his room and locked the door. Now he could not get in. What a genius, I thought annoyingly.

He immediately put me in a tight spot by asking me if he could crash the night at my place because his tutor was not around or asleep and he couldn't get his key. Now let me tell you that that was the last thing I wanted at that moment. I was tired, annoyed and now HE wanted to crash with me! But I couldn't bring myself to refuse him, so I said he could. I also suggested that I could try and help him get into his room in some other way. I am ashamed to confess that I did this not out of good will but because I wanted him out of my room. So with that, we went over to his block again and tried to first pry open his window, then contemplated climbing to the open window on the second floor and then taking the stairs down to his room on the first floor, then discussed briefly that smashing his window was not a good idea because then the room would be cold and unlivable even though it was accessible. We stood out there for probably a good 15 or 20 minutes until finally by a stroke of luck the tutor for his block happened to come back just as late and had the master key with him to boot. CS Lim and I then gratefully happily returned to our respective rooms.

I thought that was it with him and was rather pleased with myself since I had managed to behave in a civilized fashion and was helpful to someone I loathed. Little I know that that was to be the beginning of my friendship with him. The next day, he came over in the morning and thanked me very profusely and very sincerely for my offer the night before that I began to feel quite bad and guilty for thinking so badly of him.

We went for breakfast together that morning and though I didn't immediately get over my early dislike for him, his sincerity, thoughtfullness, sensitivity and generosity that he lavished on me over the course of the next few weeks eventually wore my wariness and dislike for him down until we became thick as thieves, one never for from the other. He still possessed all those disagreeable traits like boastfulness, kiasuness, etc. but the difference this time was that he was only too ready to share it with me and used it for our advantage. He was immensely generous with me - sharing his huge wardrobe of designer jackets, sweaters and shirts (we had the same top build), all the good food, books and study material he bought. It was like a saw a completely different side to him. His sensitivity was surprsing as it was endearing. He was never one for sentimentality or gentleness but one day I was particularly down after a nasty fight with the girlfriend. I was moping in my room and he came over. It was not in his usual boisterous and noisy way. He knocked politely at the door, came in meekly and patiently cajoled and persuaded me to go out for some fresh air or perhaps a movie (usually he would literally crash into my room by slamming open my door, making a run and jump for my bed and then, play with whatever was not nailed down while talking to me). He got me into the car, bribed me into the movies with promises of my favourite popcorn (instead of filling the top with salty ones and the bottom with the sweet ones that I like which he usually does and annoys me to no end) and then after that we hit the arcades and bowling alley like a bunch of schoolkids on a day out with loads of money and a car. It was one of the nicest days out and by the end of the day I was happy as an idiot on cocaine. There were many more great memories to come after that fateful night.

I often wonder why things happened the way they did. I used to think that it was because I had shown him a bit of sincere kindness that he was not accustomed too receiving and was therefore very grateful for it. But that's a little too arrogant on my part and no longer think that. I think it's beyond me to explain why things happened the way they do. What I do know is that it is because of him I have tried to curb as much as possible this reliance on first impressions and to try evaluate each individual with as much care and attention each time I meet them. A person is more than the surface they show. There is a huge universe beneath them that is waiting to be explored in which there are many facets of the person - sometimes complementing, sometimes contradicting. And sometimes the person beneath can be very different from the person displayed above. And people are always in the process of evolving and changing their internal structures or personalities. When we rely so much on just impressions and thinking statically without wanting to explore the individual, we lose out much. And when we do not give someone the benefit of some doubt in respect of our own judgments, we may have just carelessly turned away from one of the greatest experiences of our lives.

The Days Of Innocence

I arrived at the school as a scrawny 15 year old carrying a huge bag with my right hand and a pair of football boots with my left. It was my choice to leave home and be on my own, away from the various constraints imposed by my grandparents. At last, I could play football to my heart’s content. And pursue my interest in music to the fullest of my ability. No more hiding my borrowed kapok guitar under the bed and playing it ever so softly in the middle of the night.

It was a paradox. My grandma, who had the vision to send me to an English school, 16 miles away from my village, was against me being seen with a guitar in the village. And she loathed the fact that I loved playing football so much. Wait till she knew that I had already begun smoking at 14! In retrospect, perhaps she was just trying to protect me from the conservatism of the village folks. I was English speaking and was behaving more like a town boy in my small village. At 14, I would even carry my pretty second cousin on my bicycle to school in the afternoon on the way to my football practice and her co-curricular activity. She was older by a good 3 years but that would not stop the staring eyes of the village folks. My grandma would go berserk every time someone told her that I was doing so. It was an innocent act but she did not like it nevertheless.

So I made up my mind. After Form 3 and my LCE (Lower School Certificate, which is similar to the current Peperiksaan Menengah Rendah – Lower Secondary Examinations) examinations, I was going to leave that silly village! That was my resolution. My grandparents and family reluctantly let me go at the instant of my complete stubbornness.

The week which followed my arrival at the hostel was filled with one of the hardest period in my entire life. I was subjected to various initiation processes, which in other words, means that I was subjected to ragging. There were times during that week when I regretted my decision to enrol myself in a boarding school. I would be asked to do my seniors’ laundry. To carry a knapsack and crawl under the double decked beds which lined the whole length of the dormitory while carrying a broom with my hands ala a commando. “Do the helicopter”, shouted one of the seniors and that would mean I have to bend down and put my index finger on the floor and spin myself like a helicopter blade until I almost puked! “Royal flush” would mean my face in the toilet bowl while being flushed by the senior. “Weightlifting” would mean you would be stripped naked and fed with some porns to make your penis erect and a pair of football boots would be hanged by their laces on your penis to see whether your erection would be able to withstand the weight of the boots!

Being a footballer had its advantages however. Firstly, I was able to escape many of the ridiculous ragging activities due to football practices. The school had an almost fanatical support for its football team and footballers were treated like some sons of God! Football practices were in the late afternoon, at about 5pm. And that was when the ragging took place. Secondly, some of the seniors in the hostel were also footballers. I would make a mental “marking” on those nasty seniors who were also in the football team. During football practices, I would try my best to leave some nice aluminium studs mark on their legs as a form of retribution. Thirdly, seniors were generally nicer towards a school footballer.

Apart from football, my being a guitarist and singer also helped during that week. Because some of the seniors would just ask me to sing and play guitar instead of indulging in “weightlifting” or “helicopter”. Despite the pains of the ragging week, I never cried, because boys didn’t ever cry those days. Boys didn’t report those things to the teachers too those days. Boys were made to last. Boys were not meant to chicken out and sing like a bird to the school authorities about such things. Boys just accepted things as they were. And life has to go on, as it always has been in the past, and as it will, in the future. It was my decision to leave home, and I would have to stick with it.

One day during that week, the head prefect called me to his room. His name was Yusuf and he was in Upper Six. As the hostel head prefect, he was entitled to a room all by himself as opposed to us, who stayed in dormitories. He looked soft to me. Slightly built with fair skin. What struck me from the first time I met him was his eyes. They kept on shifting as if he was not willing to look into my eyes for fear of me reading his mind by looking through his iris. He was gentle in demeanour but was arrogant to a point where I thought he was some kind of a mini megalomaniac! He would go into an external monologue on how tough Form Six was, how clever he was and how very popular he was with the girls! I knew right away that this guy was trouble personified. And it left me wondering how he became a head prefect. He would later forced me to copy study notes for him. Pages and pages of them, which he borrowed from his classmates. That day, I must have spent more than 4 hours in his rooms copying the notes. I hated it. Deep down in me I was telling myself that one of these days I would get back at him. I would probably pee on his face while he was sleeping. Something like that.

Throughout the next month or so, I learned that Yusuf personified the proverbial “ball carrier”. Yes. He was loved by all the teachers in school. He was the blue-eyed boy of the hostel master. In front of them, he could do no wrong. He was the ideal student. He deceived and schemed his way to the top. As a result, he became the hostel head prefect. His rise to the top somewhat typifies the prevailing Malay culture, the “Melayu Baru” culture. Although Yusuf’s time was in the late 70’s, he was somewhat ahead of his time. Soon in the 80’s, the Malaysian political and economical landscape was a copycat of what Yusuf was. It was as if Yusuf was some kind of a test boy, sent from the future as a seedling to all the greed for power and material gains epitomised by the Malays political Gods in the 80’s and 90’s. It was a pity that he wasn’t a footballer. In fact he did not play a single game, that twerp! Had he played football, I was sure he would have ended up with some nice presents from me, or my friends.

Friends. Yes. I wasted no time in making new friends after the ragging week. Some of them remain good friend until now. I gradually began enjoying my new life away from home. At last, I was free. It was me and my friends. Me and my football. Me and my guitar. Me and myself!

I was already smoking ciggies by that time. In fact my ciggy day started when I was only 14. In retrospect, I wasn’t addicted to it. It was mere peer pressure which caused me to smoke. I needed to be within the inner circle. There was this need to be accepted. To be, in current lingo, cool. Obviously, the possibility of us being caught was always there. And that would cause an adrenalin rush through my veins which would leave my face red with excitement. Yes. I was an adrenalin junkie right from then!

We would smoke in the school toilet during recess time. In the late afternoon, before football practices or some extra curricular activities, we would smoke I some corners of the school hall, or under some staircases. We would even smoke under some trees across the football pitch. If we were caught - well, we were caught on a couple of occasions – we would be instantly hauled up to the hostel master’s office. There he would open his cupboard and we would be asked to choose our preferred rotan. Yes, this guy was sadistic! He had a collection of rotans of various length and thickness. He would cane us all with a smirk on his fat ugly face while uttering some nonsensical mantra as if he was achieving some orgasmic pleasure from it all. He would call us stupid, not because we smoked but because we were caught, as if to issue us a challenge. Despite all that, the whole hostel citizenry, including myself, loved him. His was a kind heart. He would have dinner with us sometimes and he would sit and talked with us about all the nonsense which we were facing as teenagers. He was a good teacher. But if ever he caught any of us for any kind of offence, My God, did he change into a sadistic bastard! He just retired recently. And we actually kept in touch until now!

We had a special smoking place in the hostel. That place was only known to me and about 5 of my closest friends. It was on the ceiling in one of the washrooms. We had removed, or rather made removable, one piece of the ceiling board inside the washroom. At night, after the usual prep, we would climb up and remove the ceiling board. We would then be on the ceiling together. It would be dark up there and sometime a friend of mine would bring a candle. There, in the candle light, we would have our candle light smoking session until about 11pm, when we were supposed to be in bed. We would smoke and chit chat about the usual mundane stuffs. About football. About teachers. About guitar chords. It was more than a hideout for our smoking session. It was our sanctuary of sort. A place sacred to us and for us to share our daily lives. It was a place where boys would create an indescribable bond with each other.

Yusuf’s room was at the end of the block in which my dormitory was located. From the washroom where our secret place was located, his room would just be about 20 feet away. One night, one of my friend suggested that we should all crawl towards Yusuf’s room and eavesdrop. It was a good idea. Perhaps we would find something about Yusuf. Something funny. Something strange. Something we could use against him. That idea was unanimously accepted.

We crawled the 20 feet on the ceiling. When we saw the fans hook fastened to the ceiling bar, we knew we were right on top of Yusuf’s room. We stayed quiet while my friend put his ear on the ceiling board trying to catch any kind of sound emanating from Yusuf’s room. After sometime, he stopped and he looked bewildered. When asked, he said he heard some really strange stuffs. He could not describe what it was. All of us then put our ears to the ceiling board. I could hear something which resembled a soft cry coming from the room. We were all dumbfounded. And we were all wondering what Yusuf was up to.

We crawled a bit further away from the room to discuss our next move. We then decided that we should poke a small hole in the ceiling board to see what was happening down there. And so, we crawled back to be on top of the room. Using his finger, my friend slowly and carefully poked a hole in the ceiling board. He then took a look. Within seconds, he withdrew from the hole. He had this horrified and disbelief look on his face. As if he had seen Yusuf sucking blood from the neck of another hostellite! One by one we took a look. And when it was my turn, I could not believe my eyes! There he was, this head prefect of ours, all naked, crouched like a donkey, inserting his small dick into the ass of an effeminate Form 1 boy! Oh My Gawd! Yusuf the sodomiser! Our head prefect. Our model student. Our head boy who was so popular with the girls, or so he claimed. He was sodomising a Form 1 boy!

After a while, someone started laughing. I think Yusuf could hear that. We all crawled as fast as possible to the washroom and came down. Just as we had closed the ceiling board, Yusuf came into the toilet. With a stern face and voice, he asked what all 5 of us were doing after bed time. One of my friend said we were using the toilet. I was struggling to contain my laugh. He accused us of smoking and said he would report us to the hostel master the next day. At that point, I thought this was the time to get back at him. I told him we were not smoking. “We are fucking each other’s ass”, I said. My friends were rolling on the floor laughing their heads off! “Go ahead and report”, I challenged him. Yusuf’s face was whiter than white! He could not find a single word to utter. After a moment which seemed to last forever, he managed to find enough strength to turn around and walked away. “Oooh….nice ass, boy!”, said one of my friend. He just walked away.

The whole hostel, and school, came to know about that incident within days. But true to form, the school covered up the incident. Yusuf the head boy was above the normal jungle law. No rotan for him. The Form 1 student was left alone. No talk. No counselling. No nothing! Back at the hostel, anarchy was beginning to take place. No one respected Yusuf or any of the prefect anymore. I would spit on Yusuf’s footprint. Finally, he left the hostel.

The last thing I heard of him was about 10 years ago. A friend told me that he was a schoolteacher!

Welcome to the twilight zone!

The Way We Were #3 - the nights of my life

Every morning, at about 5.40, I would hop on my grandpa’s old Raleigh bicycle holding my school bag and a torch light. Grandpa would then cycle me the half mile of the dirt road to the main road to catch the only bus which would bring me to school 16 miles away. Come rain or shine, for 6 years of my primary school days, grandpa never missed this routine. When it rained, the dirt road would be soiled with mud and it would be impossible or difficult to cycle. He would then pushed the bicycle with me on it, trying to hold my school bag, a torch light and also an umbrella. He would be drenched sometime but he would just push the bicycle anyway. My grandma, in all her earnest intention of not wanting me to dirty my white school shoes, would even cover my shoes with plastic bags. She would tie the plastic bags around my ankle with rubber bands. I was brought up surrounded by that kind of unselfish, undivided, and pure love. Which made me wonder now, why is this world so full of hatred. Which made me ill-equipped, to cope with and understand all the hatred, envy and malice surrounding us these days. It was not until I left home for a boarding school that I learned, to a certain degree, to deal with hatred and malice. To say that I was shocked would be an understatement.

I remember those mornings vividly, like I remember those beautiful nights in the kampung. But nothing can beat the feeling I, and I think every other kampung folk, felt during “musim timur” (the eastern season). “Musim Timur” is the harvesting season. It is so called because the eastern wind would blow strongly during that time. This eastern wind would bring a fresh air of happiness and an aura of merriment throughout the kampung. After all, it is the harvesting season. For at least 4 months after this season, there would be no sufficient rain, or at all, for the kampung folks to plant padi. This state of affairs would continue until the Kedah government came up with a life changing irrigation plan in the early 70s. Upon implementation, padi could be planted twice a year, and now 5 times in 2 years. This undoubtedly economically improved the lives of thousands of padi planters in Kedah. It is proof that the government don’t need to embark on multi billion ringgit mega projects to improve the lives of its citizen.

The eastern wind is a cold wind blowing from the east marking the start of some kind of a drought season. The days would begin, and end, that much earlier than usual during this season. In the morning, when I was on that old Raleigh bicycle, the wind would just be a soft breeze, which would envelope my body with a degree of coldness, the like of which I would not be able to describe in words. It was cold, but not in a skin biting way a winter wind would inflict. It is soft in its coldness, softly caressing my body with coldness rather than biting its way into my skin and underneath.

During this season, I would be on the bicycle, looking at the clear sky. Thousands of stars scattered across the horizon. And sometimes, some shooting stars would move across like fireworks in the sky, leaving a trail of beautiful sparks in its path until the head vanished to destruction. How could something be so beautiful when it is leading to its death? And in the middle of the month, sitting among the thousands of stars, majestically, would be the moon, like a mother watching over all her children, sometimes smiling, sometimes grinning, but all the time with love and unbridle affection. Yes, from the time I was a small child, I had always been enthralled by the moon.

When the kampung folks were busy harvesting, kids like me would be enjoying the longer days by swimming in the river and flying kites. My brother was quite an accomplished kite maker. He would cut some bamboo, take some old newspaper, concocted glue out of tapioca flour, buy some coloured papers for the kites’ tail, buy some strong string and make a huge wau bulan or wau merak (“wau” is “kite” in the Malay language while “bulan” is “moon” and “merak” is a type of bird the name of which, in English, I do not know).

While my brother was making the kite, I would take a piece of bamboo and bent it like a bow. I would than take some coconut leaves and dried them under the sun. When the leave was dried, the two end of the bow would be strung by the dried coconut leave. This was known as a “dengung” (loosely translated, “dengung” is “vibration”). This contraption would be placed on the kite, at the upper body. When the kite was flown, the strong upper atmosphere wind would cause the dried coconut leave to vibrate and this would generate a humming sound which could be heard form afar, especially at night.

When the kites were ready, we would start our attempt to fly them in the late afternoon. They wouldn’t fly just like that. A lot of adjustments had to be made to make the kites fully balanced. It would just be trials and error. But time was with us. Time was in fact not a factor for kids like me in the kampung. We always have the time for everything. Where have all the time gone to now? I really don’t know.

By the evening, the kites would be flown in the padi field. We would normally fly at least 2 kites. When the kites were stably flying up above, we would stick a big piece of wood to the ground and tie the kites there. We would stay there for a while to look at them and then we would leave for home for a bath and dinner. Then we would be in bed by about 9.30pm.

If the next day were not a school day, my brother and I would wake up at about 2 am. After washing our face, we would go to the veranda and sat there, watching the beautiful nights in all its glory. Thousand of stars among the clear sky. And from afar, I would hear the distinctive hum of the “dengung” attached to the kites. We would then make our way to the dirt road in front of my house and walked towards the padi filed.

There I would stand up, looking into the nights with awe. I just loved nights like this. The clear sky. The stars. The shooting stars. The kites dancing back and forth, up and down, left and right to the tune of the eastern wind. The wind blowing on my cheek, caressing my whole body with coldness and messing up my hair. The hum of the dried coconut leaves attached to the kites. And right behind the kites, amidst the stars, would sit the…moon! A clear, bright, gleaming, pristine white moon. The biggest moon I had ever seen. The most beautiful moon in my whole life! I mean, I had seen the moon near the Eiffel Tower, on the banks of the Thames, at the lake district, from a hill at Aberystwyth, but the kampung moon that I had come to know, and love, is by far, the most amazing moon I had ever seen in my whole life.

And those were the nights I would cherish till now…the nights of the kites, the stars and the moon in my kampung.

Arsenal

The truth is for the most part of my short life, I generally didn't like football. I was one of those men that other men looked upon strangely and thought of as homosexual because I did not seem to profess rabid allegiance to any club in particular or knew anything about the topic. For example, if somebody were to ask me before the 2003/2004 Premiership League season whether I was an Arsenal fan, I would have very likely told him that I abhor violence and have no interest in weapons. If I were particularly grumpy that day, I might even mount my moral high horse and take round a few turns whoever it was that asked me that singular question that betrayed my complete and utter ignorance and give him a chunk of my mind about the evils of warfare. Before that fateful season, the name Henry would still be some generic English name and not one said with a silent 'H' in a French like manner in rapture, awe and frustration and clasped hands with eyes averted to the heavens.

Now I used the word 'generally' because though I paid no heed, if not wilfully ignored, the matches played by the clubs in England, Italy and Spain, a strange passion gripped me during the World Cup. Suddenly, I knew most of the players in the national teams, their worth to the team in general and amazingly had a fairly workable knowledge of their abilities. Don't ask me how, I just knew. Now why my passion to watch grown men in shorts kick a ball around should only be aroused to a intensely fevered pitch every once four years escaped me. Maybe group dynamics and sociology may have the answer, or perhaps I really did like to see grown men in shorts kick a ball around. Perhaps it was the whole idea of a contest between the finest players from each country competing mano a mano, or more accurately, pies a los pies. One must understand of course, these were the feelings and thoughts of one yet to be introduced to the genius of Arsene Wenger, the manager of Arsenal.

Now with these state of affairs and the natural inclination for most Malaysian males towards football, one can certainly appreciate that after the topics of sex, movies, sex, women, sex and sex have been thoroughly exhausted after a long, hard and a titillatingly penetrating discussion, the topic naturally drifts to football. It is inevitable. It is useless to fight against it. It is like trying to fight with gravity or argue with your own mother. You will never win. Resistance is futile. And if you knew nothing about football, you might as well have transformed into a dark maroon wallpaper with hideous purple polkadots, because that would be the end of your participation. The conversation would be thick and fast with a host of English and foreign names being thrown about, the table would be banged on occasion spilling some drinks, voices raised, fake smiles broaden to accomodate the bullshit, highly unfair comparisons before any disagreements are finally uneasily settled with a bet when their respective teams met next time. And I didn't understand any of it. For almost a quarter of a century of my life.

It was sometime I think during the early part of 2003/2004 Premiership League season that I recalled the words of one of my parents' family friends. What he told me was in the context of food. He was this incredibly fit Scottish eighty year old man who would visit us on occasion in Malaysia and could eat just about anything you threw at him. He was not fazed by the spiciness of the local fare. He did not care about the filthy stalls we sneaked him too when his wife wasn't looking. He loved to roam around with my uncles to look for interesting and novel fare wherever he went. He didn't need to know what it was called or care at how unsavoury a dish looked. It was in this context that I asked him how he was able to eat food so foreign and alien to him. He told me that if someone was of the opinion that a particular dish was good then it meant that there was something tasty about it in there and it was for him to understand and discover what it was. Each new dish he discovered was like an adventure for him.

It was in this spirit therefore I approached football. If there were so many people mad about the game, surely there was something in there that made them be so. It was for me to discover it. Feeling somewhat though not even remotely close like Dr. Livingstone, I set forth on my football education. My father was a football fan but he never really discussed the matter with me. Perhaps due to my lack of interest. And so it was to him I asked what team he supported and requested advice on what team I should watch. Being an Arsenal fan since his University days, he naturally recommended the same team and told me when I could catch them next.

One must also understand that the 2003/2004 season for Arsenal was particularly noteworthy because it was the season that they went through an entire season undefeated in their league games breaking a 115 year old record, played some of the most spectacular brand of attacking football on the planet and possessed some of the best players in the business. Of course I didn't know all this at the time. As far as I was concerned, I was going to turn on the television, watch grown men kick a ball around and then try and keep myself receptive and open to the experience.

So there I found myself one evening sitting in front of the television waiting for the match to begin. Feeling like a virgin again, not quite sure whether I was doing was right since the experience was all so new to me. I felt I should have had a beer in one hand and a pack of crisps in the other but I thought best to skip lest it distract me from the game. Then it began.

And from the moment the game began, I was mesmerized. The sofa, my ignorance, the darkness of the living room, the reality outside that screen discreetly fell away as gracefully as a space shuttle parting company from the Mir Space Station. My eyes were charmed, hypnotized and compelled like the Wedding Guest that was singled out by the Ancient Mariner to hear his tale. I could not help but hear, but in this case see. My eyes were transfixed to the television screen not daring to look away less I miss some mind-blowing pass by Patrick Viera, some quick though fancy footwork of Robert Pires, the solid defence marshalled by a soulful yet tanklike Campbell and the safe though occasional mad hands of Jens Lehmann.

Above all, I was in complete and total awe of a 27 year old french forward named Thierry Henry who stole the show as he gunned the goals. Whenever he was close to the ball, I felt excitement. Whenever the ball fell to his feet, I felt something like an electric shock. But it was those unbelievable runs, those supernatural turns, those death defying dummies and his sheer genius with the ball that made his solo goals approaching the equivalent of what I feel best described in sexual terms as having the dinner, foreplay, wild sexual act, dirty talk, bed breaking orgasms with the post coital cuddle all in that two minute physical soliloquy of scintillating sublimity. The intensity and command of his performance sealed it for me. If his team made me fall from ignorance into the usual senseless rabid loyal fan, then Henry was the huge boulder that crushed me completely and sealed my new role.

They have been playing badly since then. Sometimes they are too painful to watch on occasions these days. But I pledge my allegiance to Arsenal not because of their heritage but because I think if it were not for watching Arsenal during that halcyon season, I would not have fallen in love with football so deeply and readily as I did then.