chronic conversations

For the life of me, I cannot fathom why when somebody sitting next to you in a bus is reading a book while wearing her sunnies and earphones, you’d still try your very best to engage her in some small talk whenever possible. Instead of dozing off on a hot afternoon, she’s obviously lost in those pages and the music she’s listening to. I wonder which part of her body language tells you that she’s bored and she’d like to get to know you better. Perhaps you’re getting funny ideas from the Hitch movie that’s showing onboard or that you’re encouraged by her polite but short responses. Or maybe, of all things, you find yourself intrigued or attracted(uwekkk…) and proceeds to share with her the following:

• how surprised you are that PC.com magazine is so interesting(after browsing through it for ten minutes);
• a demonstration of how your portable GPS navigator works (which you had stuck onto the bus window screen complete with the voice prompter turned on i.e. annoying) and how you’re very much into gadgets;
• assuming that she’s a first year undergraduate, and with that she’d be more than half your age younger (you also declare proudly that you’re a graduate from a Singapore university)
• how you are unaware of other SIN-KL express coach services other than those hopeless ones operating from the Golden Mile Complex;
• that you are into cycling, both road and off-road and that you’re looking for some ways to mount your GPS gadget onto your bike (she then asks you is there really a need for GPS while cycling in Bukit Timah or also around Singapore generally; she thinks the idea of staring into a jiggling LCD screen while cycling is weird);
• the last fiction book you read was that very famous book about Christianity which you found so `deep’ and `heavy’ that you could barely read a few pages before surrendering (she asks you if you’re refering to The Da Vinci Code to which you exclaim in shock when she says it’s an easy read; upon seeing your reaction, she wished she guessed the Bible instead);
• how surprised you were that you are able to manually search for a local network on your mobile phone when on roaming (she wonders if she misheard that you were into gadgets and all that techie stuff).

the accidental peony

The peony flower or 牡丹花 mu dan hua, is a traditional Chinese symbol of love, feminine beauty, happiness, prosperity and affection. In full bloom with its vibrant colours, the beautiful fragrant flower is regarded as an omen of good fortune.

Girl meets boy. Boy moves into apartment block where girl lives. Boy borrows girl’s washing machine to do laundry. Girl helps boy to dry his clothes. Boy asks girl out to dinner. Girl is busy. Boy has lots of laundry. Boy buys girl lunch *ding!*. Girl and boy have more dinners together. *triple dings!*

Washing machine is happy.
Girl’s best friend is delighted silly.

It is believed that placing a painting of the Chinese peony in one’s marriage sector will ensure good Feng Shui in finding a faithful and loving partner. In lieu of the peony painting, one can also place a washing machine.

I love beautiful beginnings… *grin*

visages of fall

It’s the first day of fall today in New York, according to Ah Tan, who is currently nursing a jet lag on Long Island. The leaves are still pretty much green on the trees and she’s already missing the hustle and bustle of Singapore, familiar faces and places. She said all’s too quiet over there at the synchrotron.

Tonight’s a hot and humid one like most other nights on the island. Sugeo left for home two days ago and I’m missing the two chikoras terribly. There never seems to be enough time and enough days together, and the seasons change too fast. Melancholy hangs in the air of my room so thickly that it’d soon precipitate into rain. Hee… yeah, I’ll remember not to confuse the thyroids with the gonads lain kali alright? Something tells me that I’m never going to hear the end of that for the rest of my life from you two. Du du du…

They say the brightest colours of autumn are produced when dry, sunny days are followed by cool, dry nights- conditions favourable for the production of anthocyanins, the pigment that gives leaves their rich autumn riot of reds and purples.

Sitting atop a stack of plastic chairs in front of the house before Mama’s thanksgiving party, my eyes welled up as I told Atah how I’ve lost heart for what I am doing and that the three years may have been a waste. I will finish it, I said, although not as well as I started it. I suppose regrets were written all over my face as Atah replied that a mistake is only regretable when you don’t learn anything from it. It took everything I had to prevent myself from bursting into tears just as the evening rain fell around us.

The greatest goodbyes are usually the ones given in airports, bus depots or train stations but I guess the saddest ones are those said in the silence of the heart.

When you spend your days running away, there will come a time when all you want is to collapse into a big pile of fallen leaves, lay there breathless and then find yourself in the arms and warmth of someone who loves you, someone who is your sanctuary as much as you are his. Someone with the reasons for you wanting to stay.

So here I am, autumn in my heart… awaiting winter’s chill. Autumn is but a second spring, some might say… oh just let me say my goodbyes and make my peace, however incoherent, and then it’s full steam ahead, I promise, for I’ve got some serious catching up to do with growing up!

Fall, leaves, fall!

all that is left behind

The late Lewis B. Smedes once said that “Forgiving does not erase the bitter past. A healed memory is not a deleted memory. Instead, forgiving what we cannot forget creates a new way to remember. We change the memory of our past into a hope for our future.” A new way to remember… hmm…

All I could remember of last September was crying myself to sleep on most nights and waking up with such puffy eyes that no amount of makeup could conceal. It was as if I had committed myself to the greatest fashion faux pas ever in my entire history of being alive- wearing pink eyeshadow. When this September ends, a year would have passed and all that would be left are just memories. Memories imbued in writings, drawings, photographs and perhaps a soft toy or two. I suppose toys can be given away or become just toys and photos deleted but poems and postcards are harder to deal with.

On one humid night not too long ago when we both couldn’t sleep, I asked Ah Tan when would it be alright to remove the relics of the past. We laughed about the idea of burning everything in a ceremonial bonfire. “When they no longer mean anything anymore, the way they used to mean to you,” she answered solemnly. I gazed at the two boxes and nodded in understanding.

When something gets broken and you glue the pieces back together however craftily, it could never be the same again. Mended lines and chipped edges now remain and infuse it with a new mien; albeit somewhat confused and fragile, belying a stronger character that is waiting to be whole once more. Like a lifetime of wrinkles, scars and lines etched onto the faces of old people, it renders them interesting, a testament of having really lived.

I closed the cover on the pale pink box and placed it back in the cupboard.
“All good things in good time,” my heart whispers…

mopper beatified

I like mopping the floors. I love how my arms ache as I squeeze the mop dry on the final round while I’m completely drenched wet in sweat. I usually mop in three rounds: twice with soapy water and a final one with just normal water. Whenever it’s my turn to do the house chores, I like to mop in the late afternoon on a weekend when no one else is at home, or at night when everyone has gone to sleep.

When I’m alone at home, I’d mop while listening to music on my iPod mini. There’s something about stopping in front of the mirror with the mop stick in hand and miming a duet with David Tao or Gary Lightbody that cracks me up. In a case of syok sendiri, it’s so self-gratifying that floor areas in front of mirrors in the apartment are usually spotless. On hot humid days, I’d sing out loud and bring the rain for a pleasant night.

Sometimes I find mopping cathartic. I reckon it is the best cure for anger and malicious thoughts, other than cleaning the toilet and swimming laps. Working all the anger into cleaning the floor usually leaves me totally spent. Best of all, after a long shower and finally collapsing into bed, I’d go to sleep with a grin and a peaceful mind.

Late-night mopping is usually done in silence as my mind distills the daily tumult of thoughts. Like some act of self-renewal, every floor tile mopped clean is one more space for a lovely thought or feeling. Aahh… mopping, my yoga for the soul.

a faithful promise

Daughter, woman, child dearest…
saltwater washed the bones ashore
saltwater flooded a weary heart
saltwater tainted your oasis of truth
and anger clouded your eyes to forgiveness, grace and love.

I sat by myself at a pew in the middle, right next to the centre aisle. Back home, I’d have chosen a cosy corner at the side or even at the far back. Sometimes, I’d welcome sitting in the direct glare of the morning or evening sun so I won’t fall asleep during the sermon later. But mostly, where I end up sitting at is not up to me because I rarely went alone. Here, I usually sit somewhere in the middle but close to the front. Here, I do at times, come on my own.

Thesis. Thesis. Thesis. Lish’s bridal shower retreat. Backpack Taiwan. Chatuchak. Sugeoooooo. Purpose of my existence. Imperial. Mama. Thesis. Thesis. Thesis.

I sat and stared at the full-length glass windows beside the stained glass panels framing the crucifix. Trees grew outside and they sashayed gracefully in the wind. If you sit considerably in front, you can see the stream of vehicles exiting the AYE up into Clementi Road. At peak hours like those during a sunset mass, the chain of cars is rarely broken. No sound, just lush details, like a diorama from somewhere in my childhood. I especially love certain times of the year when the tree leaves turn auburn and then swirl in chaotic but always beautiful descents to the ground each time a gust of wind or two come spiraling through.

Would he, whom I would one day love, love me as much as Atah loves Mama?

I sat and leaf through the Sunday Missal, wondering which Sunday it is. Then, I remembered today’s a Tuesday. Aahh… oh well. Shortly, an announcement came up. Page 268. Yeay.

Assumption is a feast of reaffirmation. Body and soul. Continue to do good and do it locally- in your home, your family, your friends, at your work place, in your community. There is always a need for goodness and one person can really change the world. What is the world but the lives, things and situations around you? One life, we give it our best shot. Make it a beautiful one, a beautiful existence.

I sat and looked up at the ceilings. It had been raining all day, perhaps the roof had sprang a leak. I wiped the drop of water off my head and moved a little to my right. A little while later, another drop of water fell and I wiped it off my shoulder. It had better not be pigeon pee.

In India, we have a famine of the body but here, you have a famine of the spirits. Be where you are needed, child, and do what you’re best at, with all your love…. always. Questions and answers. Rewards and sacrifices. Promises and faith.

I kneeled and prayed…

of soil and seeds

I am a graduate of UPM.

Cheh, macam support group meeting introduction! Hee…

Yes, I graduated from Universiti Putra Malaysia. The university and the course I graduated from were my first choices in my IPTA application. Call it going against type, but I was determined not to select UM simply because everybody else wanted to go there and felt that they would die if they did not succeed in their admission application. I remembered Pn. Zainita, my Year 6 class teacher and Mrs. Kua, my 6th Form class teacher saying no matter where you go or end up at, if you’re a good seed, you will grow, blossom and bear fruits of blessings for others. Logically I argued with them that it would also have to depend on the soil and environmental conditions. They both had the same reply, “If you have good soil and a bad seed, that would be such a waste, no?”. For days after, I would be thinking of coconuts floating in the ocean, finding land.

The first few weeks of university were harrowing. Firstly, I got traumatised when the VC earnestly said in his welcome speech, “Bila berada di menara gading, anda berada di ambang perkahwinan…” I swear I cringed and sunk deep into my seat. The students around me smiled sheepishly or laughed like it was the best thing they’ve heard in ages. Evidently, I failed to appreciate the humour because I felt that I didn’t go through 6th Form and STPM to end up in a bridal market.

The initial weeks also introduced me to polarization and the simple observation that boy, do our universities unravel any effort made at the primary level for racial integration. Chinese-educated peers shunned me and scoffed at my insistence in speaking English or Malay. It was never an attempt to be superior, I simply could not speak Mandarin or the other dialects, at least not without causing mass diarrhea. Chinese seniors came to my residential college and spoke of how we as Chinese must help each other in order to survive and promptly established a support network. This occurred for the other new students as well and even within the same course, seniors mostly helped juniors of the same race. Obstracized because I couldn’t speak the language and did not sympathize with the need to flock together, I spent the first month hanging out almost exclusively with Malay and Indian coursemates. A clash of mentalities perhap, but the irony of being an outcast because I was a product of the sekolah kebangsaan system in a public university was biting.