Teh Tarik Kaw Wunne - A Malaysian Smorgasbord

Teh Tarik Kaw, Wunne! 163 Well, if the sale of such aphrodisiacs continue to boost, maybe it’s indicative of spouses (especially the males) seriously reviewing their marital commitments and other people taking stock of the situation. Of course, the institution of marriage is much more sacred than the tangible act of maintaining your SKPI, but one would be well-advised not to dismiss it altogether. Having said all that, married life is still all about commitment and sacrifice of a different kind; things which you might not have thought about when you first fell in love. It’s no longer about climbing mountains and swimming fiery oceans, but rather it’s about more mundane things like doing household chores. Hence mutual understanding and periodical adjustments are of paramount importance to preserve marital harmony, and that includes readjusting our hopes, promises and expectations in or of the marriage. Life is challenging as it is, and much more challenging as a couple, so do whatever it takes. But, whatever you do, don’t wake up thy neighbour! Especially on quiet and peaceful Sunday mornings …

CHAPTER 37 Of Gunnysacks & Sempoa, or, Geishas Who Speak English “It’s not easy being a parent these days”, you hear people sigh now and then. Once in a while, yours truly included. That, coupled with the ubiquitous work, traffic jams, babysitters, school vans that didn’t come, bills, fees, tolls and what- have-you haunting your days and nights like Pontianak Harum Sundal Malam. But then, since when has parenting been easy? Had it been any easier then? Or rather, should it be any easier now? Or then again, perhaps it should actually be the other way round; it’s now hard to be a child. This train of thoughts hit me squarely whilst watching my younger offspring regimentally packing their books into their schoolbags. It struck me as to how many subjects they actually have to take. When we were of that age, all we had was about five or six subjects, and for each subject we only had one textbook and one exercise book. And that was that. The even better part was that both books if combined would be less than a quarter of an inch thick. Now, our kids have more subjects, and for each subject they have one bulky textbook, one revision book, one workbook, one activity book and a few exercise books plus a couple of CDs thrown in for good measure. Instead of 165

166 Zaim Al-Amin exercise books just being either singular or square-lined, now they have different types of exercise books numbered from 1 to 12, supposedly to cater for different needs of the various subjects. On top of that they’d also have to bring an assortment of jotter, journal, buku tulis Jabatan Pendidikan Daerah, including books for optional subjects like Arabic or Mandarin or Mental Arithmetics. It’s no wonder their schoolbag plus all the sempoa and whatnots weighs just slightly less than a gunnysack of paddy. And if that is not enough, they are also subjected to a whole set of religious classes in the afternoon, and at night they have to attend tuition classes. Quite a few further send their kids to Kumon classes, some to enable their child to catch up with the rest, some in order to realise their ‘true potential’. In our eagerness to ensure that our child receives ‘what other children also get’, we register them in all these classes and more. Anything less and any self-respecting Kak Long or Kak Ngah would gravely predict that your child would be on a trajectory and fall headlong into prospective oblivion insofar as his future career is concerned. And on top of these, they are now expected to study Mathematics and Science in English. This, when in the first place their mastery of English is still at its infancy. A friend of mine (an ex-teacher) once commented: some of these kids are still struggling even with the subjects being taught in Malay; hence in English it’d be a sure disaster. It would have been better if the subjects were taught in Japanese, another friend quipped. Indeed, if nothing else, it would be a more level playing field for all. I myself narrowly missed having to learn Japanese as a compulsory subject in secondary school, for which I am forever grateful. Never mind the occasional missed opportunity of having casual

Teh Tarik Kaw, Wunne! 167 conversations with some Japanese tourists. After all, in Steven Spielberg’s Memoirs Of A Geisha, all the Geishas spoke English. Fluently. Now, more than 30 years later, my work requires me to learn the Russian language, but that’s a whole different story altogether. As they say, learning is a never-ending process. At one end of the spectrum, there are bright kids who can’t get enough education even at an early age. The whiz kids the likes of Adi Putra, or that 17-A1s Nur Amalina immediately comes to mind. But at the same time, we also have more ordinary kids with ordinary intelligence, for example, like yours truly from St. Anthony’s Primary School in Teluk Intan who had to follow the very same syllabus. It’s not unlike someone going to Low Yat Plaza to purchase a computer for use in his Legal firm. Whilst at the Plaza, he’d buy an assortment of programs (cetak rompak, of course); some of which he knows he’d never use. Yet he buys and installs them all the same, not because he thinks it would be of any use, but simply because he thinks that’s what the computer should have. Or maybe because his architect friend had them in his computer. The end result is that the computer becomes slow or worse, wham! The hard drive crashes. On the other hand, even if their ‘hard drive’ doesn’t crash, the way their teaching is conducted in modules puts the kids at risk of becoming ‘parrots’ with limited processing capabilities. Thus they find it hard to react to different situations, hence their inabilities to adapt into real working conditions once they have to leave the comfort and clinical environment of their schools or universities. Having said that, I’m not advocating for parenting to be reduced to an act of the parents watching Astro whilst the

168 Zaim Al-Amin kids play Playstation 2 (or vice versa). For both parties, it’s still a tough job that cannot be shirked. But, as in all things, the key is balance. And moderation. Life is not always about being the best or winning. Sometimes when you win, you actually lose. Or you could actually win whilst losing. Now, don’t ask me what this double talk really means. Ask any motivational speaker and they would invariably tell you that the real, albeit elusive, answer is to ‘think outside the box’. What box? Perhaps then, it’s a time to reflect. To stop looking at the kids as the ultimate reproduction of our own ego. It’s simply not fair to burden them in order to repeat whatever success we had, or to be a symbol of redemption to whatever failures or mistakes we made. Let them learn and live their lives according to their own capability and capacity, not according to our whims or what we think they should be or become. Don’t force them to, say, learn Mandarin, Russian, French or Japanese just because you think ‘it might come in handy’. At the end of the day, what do we hope to achieve? Trilingual or quad lingual professionals and scholars? Well, I do happen to have a cousin who could fluently speak at least seven major languages, but he is a special case; perhaps a cross between nature and nurture. He was lucky to have been ‘born’ into some of the languages, and had enough ‘pentiums’ in his brains to master a few more. And of course, one would certainly envy his classic tales of lucky brushes with some Spanish or Italian bambinos. Ultimately, it’s truly an advantage to be multilingual, but I for one won’t force it on my kids. Bilingual yes, but certainly not multilingual. Unless, of course, if they actually aspire to become tourist guides …

CHAPTER 38 Of Saturday Night Fever, or, My Transcendence into Obsolescence I just love watching the sun set. There’s something mystical in each and every single twilight, just before darkness falls. To a certain extent, it somehow manages to make me better understand the feeling of loneliness. And hope. And maybe, eternity. That’s soul-searching for me and you. At other times, I’d simply go and watch a movie. Last weekend I brought my family to the cinema. Nothing special about that per se. However, the selection of movie was something else. Instead of watching one of the string of English movies for kids available at TGV (it’s the holiday season, mind you), at the very last minute I opted for a Malay movie. It was a poorly advertised half-comedy depicting the rock era of the mid-eighties, but somehow it caught my attention. The kids stared at the tickets, hardly able to conceal their disappointment. They couldn’t for the life of them fathom why I chose to watch that particular movie instead of other ‘high quality’ Hollywood-churned movies such as The Chronicles of Narnia. Or at least, maybe the kids would have easily settled for other movies like The Exorcism of Emily Rose, or the 169

170 Zaim Al-Amin equally mystical Pontianak Harum Sundal Malam II. The latter, of course, is partly because of the title which when loosely translated means The Flying Banshee of the Nice-Smelling Bitch. But actually it’s less exotic than that since sundal malam is a type of flower instead of literally a nocturnal bitch of any sort. But at least it featured Maya Karin, something that the kids would look forward to. I said the kids. Not me. No, this particular movie we were about to watch doesn’t feature any prominent cast. No Maya Karin. No Erra or Yusry. So how do I on my part explain such rationale to them? I myself was pretty much aware that deep inside, it’s actually that part of me wanting to revisit that particular era. Not unlike some people who couldn’t get enough of Saturday Night Fever or Grease. Yup – for me, it was Urgh! A music war. And of course, closer to home was the all- time high Malaysian Rock Summit known as the Battle of the Bands. It was synonymous with my growing up years. Naturally the chance to watch a movie revolving around the bygone and sadly missed rock era intrigued me. The movie itself was better than expected, and even the kids loved it. My wife and I enjoyed each and every scene. I left the cinema, deeply thinking in retrospect. It brought back fond memories of leather jackets and torn jeans, rock music and all the shouting and shrieking which somehow managed to pass as vocals. Memories of district level rock summits at Chinese Assembly Halls, with HAs (hospital attendants) and Land Office clerks roped in as the professional juries (for want of better ones). Looking back further, we were lucky to be able to see the evolution of a wide genre of music; psychedelics, mods, rock, punk, new wave, heavy metal, reggae, jazz etc. Of

Teh Tarik Kaw, Wunne! 171 course now it’s pretty much the same, but the passion is just not there anymore. When we were in school, we even formed cliques according to what genre of music we listened to. What’s the rave now? Siti Norhaliza? Mawi? Fuh! Little wonder why some adults go for Inul Darastita’s Goyang Gerudi instead. “Were you dressed like that then?” Without warning one of my kids popped this question, and I instantly regained my sense of time. That was then. This is the here and now. “No,” I replied curtly, trying to make it sound not too lame, or too harsh, and at the same time, not too judgemental. Deep inside I wished to tell them that, to a certain extent, I actually did. At the same time I did not want them to get the idea that it’s the way to go. I’d hate to see them wear metal studs or whatever it is that’s the ‘in’ thing now. At the same time too, I don’t want them to be overly prejudiced; falling into the trap of prematurely judging other people by the way they dress up. “Okay,” came the reply, sounding somewhat relieved. “Thought it looked obsolete.” I wanted to laugh at this. Perhaps it’s the same impression I had when I watched John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever or Yusof Haslam in Menanti Hari Esok. To the kids, it’s as obsolete as that old Nokia 3210. Or the BMW 2002 ti. Or the early BMW 328. All of a sudden I felt like an old timer (or otai as the kids refer to), more than ever. Understandably, I chose to let that innocent remark pass innocuously. After all, there’s no point arguing about another person’s opinion. It’s about personal sense and sensibilities. About our very own unique experiences. Hence perhaps it’s better to reserve all the reminiscence among equals. After all, how do you explain that you don’t actually look forward

172 Zaim Al-Amin to seeing Fear Factor? Or worse, Akademi Fantasia? How do you tell them that to you, the all-time favourite is still Peyton Place, Dynasty or Dallas? Or that you actually endured those hundreds of episodes in black and white? I was still in the reminiscing mode. Hence when we finally got home, I dug out some old photo albums, and the kids eagerly poured their attention on each and every photo. Not a page went by without excited remarks. I answered all their questions, which were a lot. They asked about us. About our fathers and mothers. And about our grandfathers and grandmothers. Which before this, they never really bothered to know. Maybe all was not lost. Maybe watching that movie really was the right choice after all. It actually managed to bridge the generation gap between our kids and us. At least now they were able to see us in a new light and, to a certain extent, I sensed a greater understanding and tolerance. No longer do they see us simply as parents, but as individuals with a past. And as I looked at them now, I couldn’t help thinking about myself. Inevitably, I see in them my own self as a kid, some 30 odd years ago. And I begin to really understand them better. As the pages turn, all the distant memories came rushing back. I found myself gazing at old photos of my late mother, who passed away recently. She looked so young and vibrant then. Like all of us were, once upon a time. I was overwhelmed beyond words. Suddenly it struck me hard; that everything runs in circles. In fact, that’s true of life itself. We have had our time, and now it’s the kids’ turn. And before long, they’d find that they too, would become parents to their own children. Maybe it would take some time before they can begin to

Teh Tarik Kaw, Wunne! 173 really understand that in its gravity. Or maybe it would take yet another movie to make them realise. All the memories and emotions came gushing like torrential rain, and without realising it, I was starting to tear. My kids were still too preoccupied with the photos to notice. Perhaps my wife realised it, or then again maybe her feminine sensitivities simply sensed my pent-up emotions. I felt her hand gently squeeze mine, and almost at the same time the tears flowed down my cheek like tiny diamonds. I looked at her, and we stared deep into each other’s eyes in utter silence, as if searching for our souls somewhere deep within. And what we saw pleased us both. We both knew that we were thinking about the same thing. About the future of our kids. And the interlocked hands signified a resilient, albeit silent vow. A vow to do our part as parents; and to give our best, no matter what …

CHAPTER 39 Of Diaries, Weblogs & New Year Resolutions, or, Mat Gadget 2010 Another year bid its farewell, and yet another new year beckons. And with it, the flurry of events that have always been associated with year-end; holidays, Christmas, New Year countdown, back-to-school and, of course a thousand and one other matters that need attention. Finally (usually on January 3rd), you’d find yourself slumped in the comfort of your office chair again, with a week’s workload staring at you in the face. And you’re still struggling to reorganise your thoughts; trying to forget that waterfall or that sand dune or that cool mountain breeze or whatever remnants of that holiday. New Year’s day of yesteryears were, to me, more colourful. Maybe it’s simply because I was a young kid then. But then again, there were no large scale celebrations. Not even a fireworks display; at least there wasn’t any in my little hometown of Teluk Anson. With no handphone to SMS, no Internet to send e-mails, no 24-hour satellite television and no Playstation 2, there wasn’t much for a kid to do. Yet memories of those New Year days still have a lingering impact, at least on me. What we had in abundance was diaries. Yes, diaries. And calendars as well. It seemed that whenever you went 175

176 Zaim Al-Amin shopping, every shop would give you either a diary or a calendar with your purchases. Real ones; in all sizes, shapes and colours. Not like the ones you’d find in handphones, PDAs, laptops and PCs nowadays. And not like the weblogs (blogs) that we now keep in some remote homepage or website. And the calendars bore colourful scenery, or even scantily clad ladies promoting electric fans or rice cookers (which somehow didn’t quite make sense to me even then). Then there’s the kind that you have to tear off every day (in P. Ramlee movies it used to denote the passing of months), which nowadays are only found in genuine self-respecting kopitiams. My father gave me my first diary when I was in Standard Two at St. Anthony’s Primary School. It was a pocket diary, pale green in colour, probably given to him by some sundry shop, with the last few pages having some photos of semi- nude women (which he did not realise and which I later hastily tore off but quietly kept). It wasn’t exactly the kind of present I was hoping for, but when I set to write the first few lines, I gradually realised that it gave a whole new meaning to my New Year. I was beginning to be remotely aware of the passing of each day, and its significance vis-à- vis my own life. My dad is a prolific writer, and until now he faithfully writes and keeps his diaries along with his other unpublished literary works (at this point of time he’s busy writing about his reminiscences and coping with life after my mum’s tragic and untimely death). Looking back, I realise that to him it was more than a pastime; it was, and still is, his passion. And beyond that, maybe he’s keeping the log for us, for his future generation to appreciate and cherish.

Teh Tarik Kaw, Wunne! 177 Or perhaps it’s his way of keeping up with the present, whilst never losing touch with the past. Of course, now I (and perhaps everybody else, too) maintain a blog to jot down memoirs and paste photos on. But it’s not half as fun as having a real diary. A diary is something you keep close to your heart, which you can feel, open and flip through. And sometimes, hug. A blog is surreal; only there in artificial cyberspace, at best awaiting for you to go online, and is not there at times when you’d most probably need it. And nothing beats holding a pen and watching the words flow as you write. It’s like an extension of your heart. Try simulating that using a keyboard and a mouse. Come to think of it, writing an online blog feels just like playing online chess. I’m not against modern technology; in fact I consider myself sufficiently IT literate and have been fairly quick to embrace the new technologies. I have been using computers ever since the time of the Sinclair ZX 81, Sinclair Spectrum and the Commodore; models and brands which have long since become obsolete. And of course I know what’s the difference between http and https, and what URL and HTML is all about. And today I basically know that when people talk about Bluetooth and Blackberry, they are not referring to some kind of tooth disorder or fruit tartlet. But sometimes new technologies can be irritating. I was at Ampang Point the other day, buying a RM10 ‘gender changer’ meant to change the USB port interface to enable my archaic palmtop to synchronise with my wife’s laptop. When I wanted to pay for it, the cashier tried to scan the barcode, but nothing happened. The cashier had to call his supervisor, who again tried to scan the barcode. After several frustrating attempts, it appeared that they had not

178 Zaim Al-Amin yet listed the item. The supervisor then set about trying to list the item, and he announced to the cashier that he needed the product number. The cashier produced a thick file and they both squinted over some lengthy finely printed list, trying to find the particular item’s product serial number. By this time it appeared that both of them had forgotten that they had a customer in front, so I had to re-announce my presence and politely request them to expedite, lest I’d have to choose a different shop. That prompted them to do a manual process, after which I gladly left. It seems now, in any store, each and every little item has a serial number. Buy one item without a proper barcode and you end up waiting five minutes longer than usual. Which sometimes makes me wish that we could all go back to the time when we could simply pick up things we’d like to purchase, pay for it and leave. But of course, technology is here to stay since its virtues far outweigh its occasional glitches. Which I would tend to agree, with no real qualms. Hence on New Year’s Eve, I watched Astro, surfed the Internet and returned greetings via SMSes and e-mails like all 21st century modern dads. I would feel at a lost without my computer, and my handphone faithfully reminds me of the daily prayer times. I maintain three blogs, moderate an e-group, am a member of about a dozen others. And I have more than two thousand friends on Facebook and Twitter, just waiting for me to come online. And so I was quite content spending my New Year’s Eve alternating between all that. Then suddenly one of my kids asked me about my New Year resolution, and that somehow set my mood for some reminiscing. Like everybody else, I used to have my own set of New Year resolutions, carefully written down on the

Teh Tarik Kaw, Wunne! 179 first page of my diary. After a while, it lost its significance, as did the diary itself. Nowadays when I mention resolutions, most probably it would refer to the Company Resolutions (pursuant to the Companies’ Act, 1965 and/or its Memorandum and Articles of Association) or perhaps something to do with my digital camera’s megapixels. That was when I decided to continue with this little tradition, insignificant as it might seem. I decided to give my kids a diary. Comparatively, it’s a little late for the two of them, and a little early for the other two, but nonetheless I gave all of them a diary each. It was a cheap RM6.50 3 X 6 inch diary, and understandably each of them initially thought it was just another book to sketch in. Then I related the history of my little pocket diary to them (minus the details about the semi-naked ladies, of course), and was glad to sense their thrill in commencing such a simple routine. I don’t know until now if my dad actually read any of my diaries, but after a few days, I for one couldn’t help but wonder what had become of the diaries that I gave to my kids. So I picked up one and eagerly flipped through the pages. What I saw there made me smile. I called my wife and showed her the contents, and she smiled approvingly as well. Of course the entries were sometimes funny, sometimes absurd and sometimes sad in varying degrees, but the fact that all of them faithfully and meticulously wrote all the things that each of them rightfully deemed private and important in their own way was, at the very least, inspiring. And I solemnly declared that I would thereafter respect their privacy and not touch any of their diaries again. Now, as I sat here in front of my laptop, trying to update my blog, I sensed that something was missing. I missed

180 Zaim Al-Amin the passion flowing down from my heart through the pen. I missed the freedom and privacy of writing down my innermost heartfelt emotions. A blog is exactly the opposite of the diary; the former you write to let other people read, the latter you write just for yourself. Call it narcissism, call it selfishness; but perhaps the correct word is self-respect. Everybody has his own way of appreciating his own life. Of not taking things for granted. Who knows, the next time you go to San Franscisco’s Coffee, Starbucks, Coffee Bean or whatever bistro that’s offering WAP or GPRS connectivity, amidst the usual crowd of Mat Gadgets fiddling with their latest handphones, laptops or whatever latest gadget they have acquired, you might just spot someone writing an entry in his conventional diary. The Year 2010 is still blooming fresh. Today is only January the 10th. Still not too late to wish everybody well. Still not too late to formulate steely resolutions. And of course, still not too late to go and get myself a diary … Happy New Year 2010.

CHAPTER 40 Of Traffic Situations, Strange Thoughts, or, What Makes the World Go Round The traffic situation can do strange things to you especially if you’re stranded in chock-a-block traffic with faulty air- conditioning. And no wonder! Some intelligent beings have chosen a decidedly peak rush hour to amend some decidedly dangerous cracks in some decidedly busy flyovers and here you are trying to get to your office in Putrajaya when you actually stay at the other end of the world that is Ampang. So with a lot of time to kill, your mind begins to wander. And when you let your mind wander, you invite some, at best, misconceived thoughts. So, there I was, staring blankly ahead, frowning yet again at rows upon rows of cars having the same fate as mine. At about the same time, the radio deejay gives the traffic updates:“The traffic from Sungai Besi to Putrajaya is at a crawl.” The first thought that came to mind was in the form of a wish: “… if only I had boarded the LRT instead…”, quite forgetting that yesterday I had to let three LRTs pass before I could get into one, simply because the doors shut too fast. Believe me, if you try to board the LRT at Ampang Park station, after duly letting people alight, you’d barely have 181

182 Zaim Al-Amin time to get in before the doors shut. Well, you can still opt to jump in at your own peril. Each time this happens, you’d utter a silent curse and swear that tomorrow you would take the car to work. And each time you do take the car to work, some people of authority would decide that a particular stretch of road needs repair or refurbishing, and they would gladly choose the most peculiar time to carry out such work. Such as, when everybody else is rushing to work. Perhaps it’s their own unique way of telling people that, hey – I’m actually doing this for you, man. And then they’d half-expectedly assume that we actually blare our horns in support. Otherwise, why do they continue their work so nonchalantly, even sporting a grin sometimes, when we finally get pass them and honk madly? Makes us really feel that sometimes hand signals are more appropriate, thus barely managing to refrain from flashing some deliciously obscene hand gestures. End of first thought, eyes back on the road. Traffic still not moving. In such a situation, it’s hard to even imagine the truth when those scientists say that, at the Equator, the earth rotates at a constant speed of 1,670 kilometres per hour (which is equivalent to 1,070 miles per hour). In meek comparison, The London-Paris Eurostar bullet train travels at a ‘mere’ 300 kilometres per hour, and a long haul Boeing 777 jet travels at a cruising speed of ‘just’ 500 kilometres per hour. Whatever, but as far as I’m concerned, there I was, stuck in a stationary car, with miles and miles of cars stranded in traffic in front of me. Perhaps this is another apt explanation for Einstein’s Theory of Relativity. So, what makes the world go round, I asked myself. If you think about it, you’d begin to realise that everything in this

Teh Tarik Kaw, Wunne! 183 world goes around. Like they say: what comes around goes around (though that actually has another meaning). Just take a look around; it looks like everything spins around on itself, or goes around another. The moon spins and goes around the earth in continuous orbit. The earth rotates and orbits the sun. And most probably the whole Milky Way rotates and orbits some God-knows-what! That’s probably (I say probably because I’d rather leave the physics out) true of the protons and neutrons too. Perhaps it’s just an inborn habit. Perhaps there’s an unwritten rule. Or perhaps it’s a law of sorts. Not unlike the compulsory rounds of tawaf we do when on pilgrimage. Whatever the answer might be, today I got to be wiser than to take the same likely-to-be-congested road. I took the Ampang elevated highway instead, and was delighted at the relatively smooth flow of traffic, and the prospect of arriving early. So that’s the end of it, I hear you say. Errrrr … well … not quite. If you take this highway during rush hour, upon coming out at the Jalan Tun Razak exit, you’d notice a character wearing a full-face crash helmet, wearing a luminous vest and standing amidst the flowing traffic, waving hands in much the same way, and with much the same air of authority, as a traffic policeman would have. The only thing is, he’s not a traffic policeman. At least he does not appear to be one. And he does not wear any uniform, or any sign or emblem indicating where he is attached to. But there he is, standing there reliably every morning without fail, tirelessly directing traffic, generally unnoticed and unappreciated by the drivers. So much so that on the few occasions he was absent, the road would be heavily jammed, and then people would notice his absence and start to curse the traffic police, the DBKL and whomsoever

184 Zaim Al-Amin they could think of. So, who could he be? To most drivers, whoever he might be, as far as they are concerned, he just made the world go round for them. Well, perhaps he’s employed by Projek Lintasan Kota Sdn. Bhd. Perhaps by DBKL. Perhaps he’s a cop in civilian clothes. Perhaps he’s just a good and equally rich Samaritan with nothing better to do. Or perhaps I dramatised about him too much. Perhaps I simply read and watched too much of Judge Dredd (remember 2000 A.D.?) and Robocop. Or perhaps I have just let my mind wander way too much this time. Ah … like I said, the traffic situation can do strange things to you …

CHAPTER 41 Of ESPs, Sixth Sense & Premonitions, or, Your SPM Results Everybody would have experienced it at some time or the other, this ESP thing. For example, you wake up one fine morning feeling sad and down for no reason. Then suddenly you get some bad news over the phone. Someone close to you had a misfortune. Maybe the bad news was for you: “You’re fired” (in Donald Trump’s trademark grave tone). ESP, or extra sensory perception, is a phenomenon neither wholly proven nor denied scientifically. To most of us, it’s just ‘one of those things’. Like ghosts and bomohs. I have these experiences on quite a regular basis. I’d remember an old schoolmate whom I haven’t heard from for nearly thirty years, and he’d call me up before the day ends. I’d search futilely for a friend’s business card, only to bump into him during lunchtime at Ampang Point. Could be pure coincidence, save for the fact that they occur one too many times. Maybe it’s a normal thing after all. Certainly nothing to shout about. And nothing to commercialise about. And, unlike high blood pressure or chronic diabetes, nothing to lose sleep over. ESP may include sixth sense (ask Hollywood’s M. Night Shymalan), telepathy, dreams, déjà vu, premonitions etc., 185

186 Zaim Al-Amin but it certainly has nothing to do with, for example, your premonition that your child would not be getting 17 As in his SPM this year. Or even a ‘more mortal’ 9 As. There’s something more tangible and down-to-earth to that, and it’s called ‘forecast results’. Not unlike what those weathermen would be reading tonight on national TV. And also to be differentiated with those bunch of determined sportsmen consulting shamans (or bomohs) to get four-digit (4D) numbers to play Sports Toto. And, invariably, getting conned in the process. There was a recent article about a group of scientists at Princeton University trying to gather data out of a machine which, supposedly, could detect psychological vibrations emitted by all human beings on the globe. It works on the principle that a lot of humans simultaneously emit waves or vibrations when a major world event is imminent. This relatively crude machine, by way of producing graphical patterns (not unlike a cardiograph or seismograph) is said to have been able to detect events of world significance. For example, the machine managed to detect the death of Princess Diana, the 911 Twin Towers attack and the December 26th earthquake and its resultant tsunami, hours before it happened. How? It’s anybody’s guess. A friend of mine swears that his wife definitely has ESP. “And why not”, he said, “I may have genuine marathon meetings right past midnight and come home in the wee hours of the morning, and she’d never bat an eyelid or question anything. But if I just so much as squeeze a quick half-an-hour date with my girlfriend and come home before Berita Jam Sepuluh, she’d be waiting at the front door pretty much edgy and completely worked up and bombard me

Teh Tarik Kaw, Wunne! 187 with questions that would put to shame the US bombings of Baghdad.” Ah – it’s that guilt on his face, I hear you say. Or that trace of lipstick somewhere, probably midway between his collar and his tie. Or that perfume, faint but positively feminine. I know, and I told him that. But he was too terrified to believe that it was anything less than full-fledged ESP on her part. And he has since stopped those ‘quickie’ dates. The wife must be smiling now, ESP or no ESP. So what exactly is ESP? It could be a natural phenomenon, a psychic ability, or just some of the untapped power of the brain. They say that we are just using a small percentage of what this grey computer in our head is capable of doing. Comparatively, it’s something like having an Intel Pentium computer but only running a simple Words program. Which means that there would be an awesome number of unused ‘software applications’ with an equally awesome number of unused memory space. Could some of these unknown ‘application programs’ in our brain contain ‘autoexec’ files and thus be capable sometimes to start and run on their own, hence these random wonders? Whatever it is, the problem with ESP as we know it (if it even exists in us) is that it can’t be controlled. Just imagine if you could will your spouse to come back home for dinner. Or to be able to communicate with your kids via telepathy. Or simply to get somebody whose contact number you lost to call you back. Of course, those would be but some of ESP’s plus points. I won’t even dare to touch on the negative things it could bring. Thus, I’d rather not read too much into it, and the next time I remember someone and he calls me up soon

188 Zaim Al-Amin after, I’d refrain from asking him what exactly prompted him to call me. I’d just shrug it off as ‘one of those things’. Like ghosts and bomohs. Or, as things that are best not remembered. Like my SPM results …

CHAPTER 42 Of KL Tower, Petronas & Faber Twin Towers, or, the New ‘Malay Tower’ Early yesterday morning my handphone vibrated tantalisingly in my pocket, signifying an incoming SMS. It was from a lawyer friend who said he was going to have breakfast at Petronas Twin Towers and invited me to join him and his girlfriend. I replied that I already had mine at the Faber (also twin) Towers, and that I was already well on my way to KL Tower. And since I stay at Jade Tower and him at University Tower, I simply couldn’t resist the temptation to add that we seem to make shining examples of this new catchphrase, that is, the ‘Towering Malays’. So, what is this Towering Malay phenomenon all about? Malays are hardly tall enough to be described as ‘towering’, a fact which I can readily vouch for. Sometime ago, I had the unfortunate experience to board a Eurostar bullet train from Amsterdam to London. In a routine stopover in Brussels the coach started filling up with big, burly and rough football supporters presumably going to watch some local but important match. For someone who used to literally ‘walk tall’ in Malaysia, I felt strangely dwarfed and positively intimidated by those noisy half drunk six-footers. Who wouldn’t, when your head is just up to their broad 189

190 Zaim Al-Amin shoulders. If someone dared to try and instil the idea of a Towering Malay at that particular time, I’d drag him into that coach and stand him next to those ruffians. So, surely it must have got something to do with personality then, I hear you say. Or about achievements. Or probably even about some relentless, and preferably pioneering, pursuit of something worthy of, well, being pursued. Something like being the first to climb somewhere high, or to go somewhere cold, or simply to do anything that nobody has been daring (or be intrepid or stupid or both) enough, to do. So you get all types; The Everest Climber, The Round- the-World Solo Sailor, The Arctic/Antarctic Adventurer, all in the hope of being recognised as a prototype of this elusive special breed of Malay, with a fairly good chance of being incidentally knighted with a Datukship in the process. In a way, all this might not be totally without virtue. It helps to create a mentality distinct from that era when greatness was merely associated with position and wealth. An era when you are seen as a great Malay only if you are a successful property developer, or own an oil and gas conglomerate, and drive (or preferably, being driven) around in a BMW, play polo or golf and ideally was bred in a good boarding school. And though there’s nothing really objectionable in all that, it puts others at great stress. Of being nobodies. Mediocres. Unsung and uncelebrated. Of being so ordinary, ungrateful, forgetful, complacent and ‘malas-ly’ Malays. So now you are told that you don’t actually have to be rich to be considered a Towering Malay. You just do, and excel, in whatever it is that you are doing. The latest certified example of a Towering Malay is said to be that girl from that suburban school somewhere in Ulu Tiram who scored

Teh Tarik Kaw, Wunne! 191 a record 17 A1s in her Sijil Pelajaran Malaysia. She was praised and hailed, by no less than the Education Minister, and even the Prime Minister himself proudly proclaimed her a perfect prototype for this new breed. Problem is, will this prodigy spur the growth of a whole new generation of Towering Malays, or was her achievement a one- off achievement peculiar to her? What hope is there for hundreds of thousands of our normal Malay kids to emulate or better such phenomenal success, just to prove that they, too, are worthy Towering Malays. Or then again, perhaps things are not that complicated after all. Perhaps this Towering Malay criterion that we so much desire actually comes from simple virtues that could be easily instilled in each and every one of us. In simple things like queuing up before getting into an elevator, not overtaking on the emergency lanes, clearing your own food trays after your KFC meals or simply refraining from spitting into that sink in that stall at Ampang Point when other people are trying to get a decent bite of nasi lemak kukus. We can go on calling ourselves anything from Melayu Moden to Melayu Baru, but if we can’t even observe basic manners, then let’s forget all about wanting to create a new breed of Towering Malays. A tower, by any other name, is high. So, before scaling such heights, let’s be mentally and emotionally prepared for it first. Lest we might all suffer from chronic acrophobia …

CHAPTER 43 Of Being Forty and Being Forlorn, or, Four Days in Bed Having to spend four days in bed can do strange things to you. Perhaps it’s the illness that bugs you. Or the medication. Or your high blood pressure or equally high sugar content. Or then again maybe because in just a matter of days, you would be turning forty. Ah – what’s so bad about turning forty? After all, it’s just another candle on the cake. And come to think of it, you would get lesser candles this year; four tall candles instead of yesteryear’s three tall candles and nine short ones. You could even be forgiven if for a fleeting moment you feel like a four-year-old again. And so what if you suddenly realise that one tall candle means ten years. At forty, you would be a good ten years younger than Malaysia, and just twenty years older than Proton. And Proton still has a long way to go, right? No? And if you were a Government servant, you have fifteen solid working years ahead of you. Add about five or more if you were in the private sector. Anyway most successful people get their first big break way past forty. And if you happen to be conferred a Datukship at this age, you’d definitely be among the youngest of them. No, not bad at all. 193

194 Zaim Al-Amin Life begins at 40, they say. Maybe that depends on how you look at it. It could be a real beginning, or it might even look like the beginning of the end. But then again it’s true in quite an abstract sense. You spend the earlier part of your life pursuing education, then career, then marriage and whatnots. So little time to really ‘live’. By the age of 40, you’d envisage a scenario of fulfilment. We all dream to become a millionaire at 40; have a nice bungalow tucked away amidst the lush greenery of Ampang, two cars (preferably one Italian and one German), a trophy wife (most probably Malaysian) and one or two or three bright kids. Or four. Or five even. The Ultimate Malaysian Dream. So we dream to achieve all these by the age of 40. And that’s when life would really begin. Or so we gleefully think. And what could possibly stop us? At the ripe age of 21, we were brimming with confidence, ideas and energy. After blowing off the candles on our cake, we quickly grabbed the proverbial ‘key’ to freedom and opened up the doors that we thought would lead us to our dreams. Sought employment in a multinational company. Set up a professional practice. Joined a multilevel marketing firm. Sold insurance. Unit trust. Cars. In short, became a go-getter. Get this, get that. At least, get busy. Then the years flew by and one fine day you wake up and your Communicator or Dopod or iPhone or BlackBerry tells you that it’s your 40th Birthday and suddenly you realise that things did not turn out quite as planned. No Taman TAR sprawling bungalow. No BMW, no Maserati Quattroporte lying in the porch. ‘No’ soon turned to ‘not yet’ and quickly turned to ‘never’. And instead of the joy of watching the KLSE Composite Index rise, now you also have to worry about watching your own Glycemic Index which threatens

Teh Tarik Kaw, Wunne! 195 to become volatile each time you gulp down yet another teh tarik or durian. Never mind that tiramisu birthday cake (next time just gimme presents, okay). So what is this all about? Reflections on a 40th birthday? Or a potential midlife crisis? Whatever, I don’t think it’s the latter. A teacher friend, when pressed for the meaning of midlife crisis, attempted to illustrate it thus: Imagine you are travelling from Kuala Lumpur to Johor Bahru and somewhere between Seremban and Machap you become unsure of where you really want to go. Well, for all intent and purposes, I am pretty sure that if I had gone as far as Machap, I’d still want to go to Johor Bahru. I would think so, especially since my in-laws happen to be in Johor Bahru. And maybe a quick trip to Singapore after that. But then some detours would be nice too. Use a different route maybe? Try another highway? Or enjoy the coastal road? Ah – there you go again, I tell myself. Classic derailment of my train of thoughts. Must be the medication. Perhaps it’s your concern for the past. Or fear of the future. Or of inevitable changes. And all the challenges that accompanies each change. Of being afraid to be thought joking when you are actually serious. Or of being afraid to be taken seriously when you are actually joking. It’s something that every man would have to undergo, and in the process not to be daunted by repeated mistakes and failures. To fall and to get up again. And yet again. Or perhaps 40 is not a new beginning for me after all. It’s just another ‘rest area’. Another Seremban or Machap or anywhere in between. And the four days in bed was the much needed break before I continue with my journey. Another mile, another town. Another day, another year. Another candle on the cake.

196 Zaim Al-Amin Wherever you go, whatever you do, just go easy on the tiramisu ...

CHAPTER 44 Of Hek-Eleh & Poyo Giler Dowh!, or, Bukan Cintan Ori If you had trouble appreciating the title, then just blame it on the generation gap. Or then again, perhaps it’s actually a sign of serious aging in progress (though I’d rather conveniently subscribe to the former). I was listening to my four kids conversing during dinner the other day, and trust me it was a revelation of sorts. I was equally amused and horrified at the same time; bearing witness to blatant abuses to the Malay language. Sometimes I too struggled to grasp the meaning of some supposedly ‘new’ words and phrases that I once thought I’ve duly mastered. For example: “Hek-eleh ... poyo giler dowh ...” For the uninitiated, the word poyo here could mean anything from uncool, not phat, square, boring, nerdy, ugly to being a downright jerk. Gross, I hear you say? Well, come to think of it, perhaps it could mean that too, and more. Hence its brazen use by the Rakan Muda Generation. What is immediately evident is the reaction it brings; it seems that one would prefer to be called lembab or even bodoh rather than poyo. Maybe to them being a poyo makes one The Ultimate Social Pariah. 197

198 Zaim Al-Amin I can still recall how my father used to strictly monitor the types of magazines that I read, for fear of getting infected by the dreaded symptom (then) referred to as pencemaran bahasa (language pollution). So, understandably it is particularly frustrating now for me, as a father, to actually have to listen to my own kids proudly brandishing their ‘Bahasa Melayu XP Version 5.2 (Updated 2010)’. Of course, who are you to complain. To them, you are just an otai, which is actually an adulterated version of ‘old timer’. If you think having to hear the kids resort to using such language is awful enough, then maybe you haven’t heard enough after all. As if to add salt to the wound, Dewan Bahasa & Pustaka has actually declared that the words ori (from the English word ‘original’) and cintan (used to be a colloquial word to mean ‘amorous’) are now officially accepted as full-fledged authentic Bahasa Melayu words. Makes you wonder what is the prevailing criterion for a word to be accepted as such. Granted, Bahasa Melayu as a language does face the dilemma most minor languages do; it suffers from inadequate vocabulary. Thus began the almost feverish borrowing from other languages since more than two decades ago. Hence words like imunisasi (immunisation) and polarisasi (polarisation). Globalisasi and Melayu global (later glokal, for ‘global and local’). The possibilities were endless, and people were gleefully adding to their new found vocabulary. But when words like ori gets recogniton, any self-respecting linguist can’t help but frown. I don’t have anything against borrowing, or more precisely, adopting words from other languages, except for the obvious fact that we already have words such as asli to sufficiently mean ‘original’. And come to think of it, I’ve

Teh Tarik Kaw, Wunne! 199 never once used the word ori to denote that meaning. So why the haste to announce it as a new Malay word? I’m sure my 80-year-old grandma, for one, would fume like a locomotive if she knows this. After all, she’s been using words such as senalar (frequent), kebelai (hungry), peghosah (disturb) etc., for as long as she can remember ... so why on earth aren’t those words accepted yet? I was still watching my kids and listening to what sounded like Double Dutch to me. One of them caught my gaze. “Hek-eleh …”, he said, without really meaning anything at all. I smiled at him and, absent-mindedly blurted “… poyo?” Almost simultaneously, they all laughed approvingly. “Tau takpe”, another one said and lovingly put her arms around me. There you are, I told myself. Tau takpe … which means: As long as you know it, then it’s okay lah …!!

CHAPTER 45 Of Strawberries and Blackberries, or, Don’t Worry, Be Happy ...! I was comfortably slumped on a clinic sofa waiting for my turn when an old friend walked in. After exchanging the usual pleasantries, he went on to ask me a series of ultra personal things. Now, I haven’t met this buddy for years and, under normal circumstances, his knowledge about such intimate details would have been somewhat unnerving, yet I answered his questions nonchalantly. Then it was my turn to shoot back equally private questions. All without batting an eyelid. Welcome to the wonders of Facebook. Or Twitter. Or Friendster or MySpace, if you so prefer. These are social websites where you can find friends, old or new. And of all types. And you can choose to share just about everything; from pictures to feelings to what you are currently doing or planning to do. A friend of mine recently lamented that when his family went for a vacation, half of the population knew everything about it, courtesy of his son who wrote about it in his MySpace. In short, you always know what your friends are doing in the real world. In real time, too. Don’t ask me whether it’s a good thing or otherwise. It’s just something you’d stumble upon; not unlike a good song 201

202 Zaim Al-Amin or movie or something like that.After a while, it sort of grows on you. You feel ‘connected’ with all your friends, albeit not with the same warmth (or chill) you’d feel when you go out for teh tarik sessions (or clubbing). Now I can still enjoy my private moments, but at the same time be smugly aware that in my Facebook, I have (Datin Seri) Tiara Jacqueline and Stephen Rahman Hughes as my friends. Oh – and (Dato’ Seri) Anwar Ibrahim as well. Perhaps later (Tuan Guru) Nik Abdul Aziz and Lim Guan Eng will be roped in for good measure. And whilst I’m at it, I will certainly try to add (Dato’ Seri) Najib Tun Razak as a friend; assuming that he’s also into it, that is. Mawi, you say? Now gimme a break! So now you all know I was at the clinic. Needless to say, my Facebook friends knew much, much earlier. The state of well-being happens to feature amongst the few things that we regularly share. After all, it’s difficult even to simply remain healthy nowadays. The whole idea of remaining healthy can be elusive, and at times, expensive. From having to join fitness clubs to purchasing fitness gear, fitness supplements and fitness chairs. But wait a minute, I hear you say, whatever happened to the good old walk in the park? But of course. You could still jog and sweat it out the more ‘natural’ way. Park your car far from the office. Or better still, take the LRT and enjoy the long walks and the healthy flight of stairs. Avoid lifts and escalators like the plague. Which is all so fine and dandy, albeit the fact that, in my case, the walk from the LRT station to my office involves walking under some extremely dangerous looking high- voltage TNB wires and, of course, filling my lungs with poisonous fumes from the LDP traffic. Ah, but you can’t be too careful either. Even staying at home watching Akademi

Teh Tarik Kaw, Wunne! 203 Fantasia 8 can subject you to a dozen hazardous rays and possible radiation from the ubiquitous TV. Not forgetting those can’t-live-without-them gadgets like Dopod, iPhone, BlackBerry, Vaio, Wifi transmitters and other electronic devices emitting infrared, Bluetooth, 3GS and other signals. If all these signals and rays were visible, I bet they will blur our vision so much so we will have trouble making out each other. But then again, perhaps it’s not just harmful rays and radiation. There could be supplementary emotional or biological reasons as well. Perhaps it’s because we also tend to worry too much. At a personal level, we worry whether Ribena actually contains alcohol. At domestic level, we worry if our kids can get into boarding school. And when they finally get into one, we worry whether they would be able to score 10 As at PMR and 21 As at SPM. At national level, we worry about who will be the Principal for Akademi Fantasia 8 this year. And whether the winner will be yet another female. At cosmic level, we worry if the rendang ayam brought by our dear angkasawan would taste good for the Russian cosmonauts on board the International Space Station. All are extremely valid reasons to worry, at least to some of us at some particular point of time. And we are not even talking about BP or glycerine levels yet. Or the world food crisis. And as if those were not enough to stress us out, we were also worried sick when the Mathematical wizard we once applauded as the pride of the nation ended up in some sleazy creation of her own. And when she refused to accept help from some very concerned Malaysians, we worried even more. In our minds, people involved in the sex industry have always been the victims, hence the notion that

204 Zaim Al-Amin this British-born Malaysian darling actually prefers to stay in that profession is unfathomable. And by the way what kind of people are those high-profile clients of hers who get their kick out of her reciting calculus or whatever complex mathematical formula and equations? We can just imagine massage parlour operators gleefully advertising their new masseuses: “New Girl – Miss Algebra Extraordinaire.” Sorry, but to me Mathematics is a definite turn off. What’s next? Legal citations? I’ve always stated the fact that I only write when I am sick, have a toothache or during my random bouts of insomnia. So what is it this time, you ask. I guess it’s just something in the air. The heat wave, torrential rain and unpredictable weather. When Mother Earth is unwell, you tend to feel its effect. And of course, it adds to my list of worries. Plus the fact that this month my wife and I would be celebrating our wedding anniversary. And also the fact that our baby boy will turn two years old in a few months. So naturally there’s this concern about well-being. About being able to live long enough to see all the kids get through their respective lives. Maybe it’s time to go back to basics then. Take that walk in the park. Stop and smell the roses. Feed the monkeys. Run. Or jog. Do whatever, but then again let’s do ourselves a favour. Let’s eat strawberry and be merry. But for once, let’s leave our BlackBerrys and our assorted worries ... –This message was NOT sent via BlackBerry –

CHAPTER 46 Of Bossy Bosses & Angguk-Angguk, Geleng- Geleng, or, Ada-Ada Saja … Someone recently remarked that I tend to reminisce a lot lately, which according to him is a sure-fire manifestation of getting old. Whilst some people would vehemently contest this kind of sweeping statement, I just answered with a wry smile. After all, why should we see the age of 40 in much the same way a finance company would reject financing a car which is over 10 years old? If it’s of any consolation, I know there’s a lot of other people who are fond of reminiscing those ‘good old days’. I recently received an SMS from an old acquaintance informing me that a mutual friend was organising a huge reunion party for old friends who frequented a certain entertainment spot circa late eighties. Goodness – that’s about 25 years ago … if you were 17 then, you’d be 42 by now; man … what are you all trying to do? Organise the Malaysian version of Oktoberfest? Of course I take all these punches in relative goodwill. These are the kind of friends you should appreciate; they see things and they tell you exactly as they see it. That’s the least a friend should do for a friend. Some things are better left unsaid, people used to say, but in an umberrimae fide 205

206 Zaim Al-Amin relationship there are things which mere omission might tantamount to blatant disrespect. Even betrayal. If your boss had a white flake on his teeth, would you point it out to him, or would you just try to keep a straight face and hope that somebody else would eventually be bold enough to tell him? Well, most of us would probably settle for the latter, never mind the fact that the poor guy is later scheduled to meet some international oil and gas corporate bigwigs. And the lingering question of whether the flake was actually eggshell or Quaker oats would purely remain academic. When I used to run my own organisation, I used to muse about this a fair bit. Remember the story The Emperor With No Clothes? Simply replace ‘Emperor’ with ‘Employer’, and you get what I mean. Hence my choice of employees have always been those who could actually troubleshoot, or at least be able to foresee potential disaster and have the guts to say it out aloud. Though I never went as far as putting eggshell flakes or bits of pepper on my teeth, my interview sessions were more towards filtering out the potential ‘yes- men’ whose idea of being loyal is their total commitment to the daily ritual of the angguk-angguk, geleng-geleng culture. Admittedly it’s never easy to be honest and blunt with a superior; the fiduciary nature of such relationship in itself forbids you to do so, lest you incur his wrath and he shows you the door before you can actually say “Menara Berkembar KLCC”. You just never know if that morning he got up on the wrong side of the bed. Or if that day he left home without his American Express card. Or his wife left him that day. Or all of the above and more. Hence you choose the safest option i.e. to say nothing. Or angguk (nod

Teh Tarik Kaw, Wunne! 207 your head). Or geleng (shake your head). Never mind if some people secretly suspect that you are brain dead; that would still be much better than being brainy but unemployed. You know that sometimes it’s necessary to allow yourself to look stupid in order to make your Boss look clever. Sorry to have digressed. It’s something most of us have experienced at some time or the other. The intricacies of the Master and Servant relationship. Of having to vigorously nod or shake your head. Of having to say ‘yes’ when deep inside it’s a big no-no. Some call it kowtow, some call it ampu or bodek or what-have-you. The bottom line is the same. Of having to conform, albeit reluctantly. As a learned friend of mine succinctly put it: same thing, different level. Perhaps then, what ultimately differentiates us would be the way in which we react to things. For example, if there was news of an imminent hike in oil prices, some people would, at 11.47 p.m., jump into their car in a way that would put Michael Schumacher to shame and race to the nearest ‘pit stop’ (read petrol pump), join the long queue, manage to refill a full tank just before the clock strikes 12 and drive home grinning, content with the fact that he has just saved about RM5 in a vital last minute oil and gas transaction. Others would just groan and start blaming the torrential rain, the landslides or the tsunami or whatever it is they can think of. After all that was what we were all taught about as kids, right? You tripped upon a stone, you fell down, and Grandma blamed that stone, not you. And of course there would also be others who would organise large rallies in front of the Petronas Twin Towers, the nation’s largest oil and gas building. As for me, I’m the type who normally fills up RM20 per day. That’s enough petrol to power the Malaysian-made car

208 Zaim Al-Amin (not a BMW 745Li, so don’t you dare tell me to change my car) on my daily route from Bukit Indah in Ampang to Putrajaya and then back to Ampang again. So, like all ideal loyal citizens, I took the latest price hike in good faith. Since I don’t smoke cigarettes, maybe it just means that I have to downgrade my breakfast from the wee bit luxurious roti telur to a more humble roti canai kosong taruh bawang. And of course, no more telur tiga suku masak. Which would actually be good for the heart. So, everything is fine. Life is good. The only thing is that, this morning I filled up RM20 worth of petrol. Just as I had always been faithfully doing. Therefore it was with genuine surprise that I listened helplessly as my car’s engine spluttered and died, right in the middle of the road. A Naza Ria full of teenagers waved and other cars blared their horns approvingly, thinking that it was some kind of an Anti-Oil Price Hike demonstration. Good Lord, I was simply on my way to the mosque for Friday prayers. With the midday sun at its scorching best, all I could manage was a weak wave. And, like all ideal loyal citizens; a silly good-natured grin as well …

CHAPTER 47 Of Taekwondo Classes & Silat Pulut, or, Kenduri Kahwin Now & Then I was accompanying my eldest daughter to her weekly taekwondo class that particular Saturday. She’s a very athletic girl, having constantly won gold medals in the 100m, 200m, 4x100m and 4x200m relay during her school’s sports. As I watched her doing those punches and kicks, it dawned on me how different girls are nowadays. During my time, girls were restricted to activities like Bulan Sabit Merah and Pandu Puteri, and even that would have already raised some parents’ eyebrows. Of course boys would be allowed to join the various silat classes, ranging from silat gayung, silat cekak, silat batin, silat zahir, silat this and silat that. Which ultimately brought to mind the long forgotten silat pulut. Silat pulut is not an art of self-defence per se. As far as I can remember, unlike the other forms of silat, there was no actual classes conducted for this particular kind of silat. Thus, it intrigues me that whenever the situation arises, every Mat, Yeop and Along seem to be able to perform it. And about the only time you’d get to see it performed was, of all times, during weddings. 209

210 Zaim Al-Amin For those born in the 60s or earlier, you’d fondly remember those were the times when weddings were an event in itself. A wedding would involve everybody, from the datuks (grandparents) to the cucus and cicits. Everybody would assume their respective responsibilities. No meetings, nothing. No caterers, no hotel staff to organise the event. Not even fancy wedding invitations. A recipe for disaster? Not really. When the big day dawns, it’s as if everything suddenly falls into place. It has all the trappings of a grand garden party. Guests arrive amidst wedding songs like the evergreen Selamat Pengantin Baru blasting from cheap, rusty, blue loudspeakers hung high on tree branches. Some play recorded songs, some would even have a kugiran (short for kumpulan gitar rancak, or simply ‘live band’ as it’s called today) performing to entertain the guests. Weddings of yesteryears would invariably be a whole day event. From the night before, all the families would have burnt the midnight oil preparing the food and all. Some of them would have not slept for a whole couple of days. Then in the morning there would normally be a Khatam Quran ceremony, signifying the completion of learning to recite the Quran by perhaps, the bride or bridegroom’s younger brother or sister. After that the akad nikah ceremony would follow, duly solemnising the marriage. This is normally attended by close relatives only. Then, as the day wears on, the more distant relatives and the other guests would trickle in. By noon, the house and its compound would already be filled to the brim with guests. They would arrive, be greeted by the father of the bride (or bridegroom, as the case may be) and then ushered to their seats to enjoy a sumptuous lunch. They would be pampered

Teh Tarik Kaw, Wunne! 211 with prompt and courteous service that would rival even The Ritz. When they finish lunch, they’d mingle around with relatives and friends or make new contacts. Packs of free cigarettes, normally Rough Rider (or more fondly known as rokok tembak), would be passed around for the men to puff away while killing time. They would be waiting for the newlyweds to arrive for the upacara bersanding. Then the bride and bridegroom, looking resplendent in their wedding fineries would be ushered to a well-decorated dais (pelamin) amidst the beats of the kompang, a traditional Malay (or Javanese) handheld percussion complete with the gong. They would then sit on the ‘open air’ pelamin in full view of the guests. If a camera is available, then they might strike some poses, in the absence of which they’d just freeze a smile and try to look pretty while pretending not to hear the not-so-inaudible comments and gossip by the new in-laws. That’s when the silat pulut is performed. For the uninitiated, silat pulut is a ceremonial art performed in front of the newlyweds. Normally close relatives and friends would have to perform this silat. The steps would grossly differ from one person to the other, which breeds my suspicion that the same was either 100 percent self-taught or at best, imitated from others. Upon completing the steps and often, after adding some hilarious antics (just to show that it was all for fun), the person would take a ‘royal bow’ and shake hands with the newlyweds. Then he would take some pulut and feed them. Hence the name silat pulut. This would go on well after five in the afternoon. After that the crowd would start to disperse, only to come back in the evening for the upacara potong pek (or cake-cutting ceremony). This, like the upacara akad nikah, is only

212 Zaim Al-Amin attended by close relatives and friends. There would be more kompang, and this time the newlyweds would appear clad in western attire. There would be another grand dinner for all, another bersanding ceremony (this time in the house) and then the newlyweds would cut the wedding cake and distribute to all (not unlike what you’d do during a birthday party). After that, it’s time to open all the presents, much to the ‘oooooohhhhhs’ and ‘aaaaaaaahhhhhhs’ of everyone present. The night will not stop there. In weddings where there is a kugiran (live band, remember?), the band would be there again to play songs that would reflect the mood of the occasion. The bride and bridegroom will sportingly go onstage, and they’d normally sing, usually a duet number. After that the band might play a few catchy dance tunes, and usually it would end up with the close relatives dancing the Joget Lambak, – and this is strictly a close family affair. For some, the night ends there. For others, there’s still the dishes to do. Duh! So much for the kenduri kahwin of the past. Nowadays, a typical ‘grand’ wedding would be held in the comfort of cosy, air-conditioned ballrooms of five-star hotels. Instead of being served by polite relatives, you are now being served by school leavers masquerading as ‘professional’ waiters, who would badly conceal a pained expression each and every time you ask for a glass of iced water. Of course, there’s still the wedding cake and the good old pelamin, but chances are that unless you are really close to the newlyweds, or carry a title like Datuk , you are not going to be called upon to shake hands with them. Most people come, eat at a table with people they don’t know (and who don’t know them), and go back. All within a period of two

Teh Tarik Kaw, Wunne! 213 hours. So painfully smooth. And equally impersonal. No real fun. No real rejoice. And of course, no silat pulut …

CHAPTER 48 Of Astronauts and Cosmonauts, or, An Open House in Outer Space When he was in space, our angkasawan (cosmonaut) held his Hari Raya open house whilst in orbit. Malaysians watched gleefully as Dr. Sheikh Muszaphar Shukor shared rendang tok and satay ayam with his Russian and American counterparts on board the International Space Station. Words like ‘Hello’ and ‘Privet’ interspersed, signifying a real cosmic co-operation. I mentioned ‘counterparts’ instead of ‘fellow astronauts’ because it seems that the Americans have this cosmic problem to recognise him as anything other than a ‘space flight participant’. They’re like, “oops sorry, we can’t call him an astronaut.” After some brouhaha over this, the sporting Russians hastily announced that he is nothing short of a full-fledged cosmonaut. The Americans largely stuck with their earlier definition, but who cares anyway. Whatever anybody chooses to call him, to us proud Malaysians, he is our very own angkasawan. And that is equal to astronaut or cosmonaut or taikonaut or whatever ‘nauts’ you could possibly come up with. In the first place, why the need for such distinction? After all, ‘astronaut’ literally means star sailor, or, cosmic or space 215

216 Zaim Al-Amin traveller. So, being called an astronaut does not necessarily mean that you have to be the one who pilots the spacecraft; speaking of which that, too, is mostly done by Mission Control. So, unless you really want to make a distinction between a commander and the crew, then an astronaut is an astronaut. If you board an aeroplane, you are called an air traveller; not an air flight participant. So there. True, Capt. Dr. Sheikh Muszaphar is a product of a Who Wants To Be An Astronaut type of reality programme; not unlike the Akademi Fantasia kind (save for the absence of SMS votes). Even when it came down to the last two ‘contestants’; many thought that, all other things being equal; it all boiled down to who looked better wearing the space suit and holding up the Malaysian flag. And what with all those advertisement opportunities, this full-time orthopaedic surgeon and part-time model should win hands down (or even upside down, since we are talking about zero gravity). The important thing is that ultimately, we have identified a Malaysian face, a Malaysian persona who stands as tall, as dark and as handsome as any other astronaut. Instant astronaut notwithstanding, our angkasawan has passed the most stringent tests and undergone all the rigorous training required by the Russian Space Agency. Plus he managed to perform all the unglamorous microgravity twists and turns whilst still looking like a telenovela heartthrob. No doubt he already has a wide fan base and after a pompous earthly homecoming, will become more popular than all the Akademi Fantasia stars grouped together. Just imagine if it turns out that he can also sing. His name will be etched in the Malaysian Book of Records as the man who holds the greatest number of records (first Malaysian astronaut, first Malaysian in space, first Malaysian eating in space,

Teh Tarik Kaw, Wunne! 217 first Malaysian reciting the Rukunegara in space etc.) With everybody from the Prime Minister down to the ordinary man on the street waxing lyrical about him, it’s probably just a matter of time before we will have him in wax in our very own equivalent of Madame Tussaud’s. And to think that whilst he was performing all these cosmic wonders; from spinning a top to eating rendang and satay to reciting the Rukunegara to experimenting on crystallisation of protein and cancerous cells; us ordinary Malaysians were stuck here on Mother Earth doing other more mundane Malaysia Boleh things. If it is of any consolation, we were also actually carrying on and keeping alive the very tradition that he was trying to promote to the world and the universe at large. The oh-so-very-Malaysian Hari Raya open house. Beautiful concept, this open house thing. You prepare food and delicacies, and you invite relatives, friends and colleagues to your house. Everybody comes and has a good time. Tomorrow or next week will be somebody else’s turn. And so you solemnly swear that open house is the way to go. It’s the perfect recipe for joy, racial harmony and camaraderie. Yes? Well, the answer is yes and no. To a certain extent the open house tradition does promote harmony and provide the much needed stitch for our society’s fabric. But in a way, the modern open house concept (as opposed to the more traditional one still practised in our kampungs) poses a serious threat which, ultimately, might defeat the original spirit and purpose of social co-operation and openness. In the traditional open house concept, houses are ‘open’ at any (albeit reasonable) time of the day. Everyone is welcomed, so practically anyone can drop by without any feeling of guilt for not being invited etc. And this continues