Teh Tarik Kaw Wunne - A Malaysian Smorgasbord

Teh Tarik Kaw, Wunne! 49 forgiven to momentarily think that these lunar performances were planned in conjunction with that. Or is all that carried out for the sake of (literally) bringing the country to greater heights? Or perhaps we are seriously planning for the ultimate RMK (Rancangan Malaysia Ke-Bulan)? Pardon my ignorance, but insofar as my limited scientific knowledge justifies my ramblings, space as a final frontier does not promise much hope for the future of mankind. It’s far too vast, too hostile, and too expensive. Call me a pessimist, or a conservative; but for us to dream of one day conquering space the way Star Trekkers do is exactly just that: a dream. As for my own kids, I hate to disappoint you all; but I’m afraid we will still have to continue spinning the top at our own backyard, here on good old planet Earth. I will of course wear that Star Wars mask again, dab my chest like a big, bad alien and growl: “Spin your top now, Earthling!” And when finally we get tired of all that, let’s just go out and have teh tarik at Ampang Waterfront Rooftop. Just remind me to take the mask off, okay …?

CHAPTER 11 Of Toothache & Smog, or, Me and My Dust Mask Like a nagging toothache, prolonged smog does strange things to you. I have thus far managed to remain calm and balanced, but the prospect of having to wear one of those masks yet again is already making quite an impact on my equilibrium. I’ve always refrained from purchasing those protective masks, or dust masks or whatever you choose to call it. Not trying to seem macho (my thick glasses already made that virtually quite impossible), but somehow it makes me feel so un-cool. But today the smog is real thick, so I’ve already resigned myself to the fact that maybe tomorrow I’d have to reluctantly wear one. Hence it was no surprise that I could hardly conceal my delight when my wife told me the masks had all been sold out. Most of us would look either bad or stupid (or both) wearing those masks, hence the reluctance to wear them. But this morning I saw a guy in designer clothes wearing a makeshift mask (I think it was actually his hanky) which matched his designer tie. He managed to look cool and elegant (perhaps more so than that whole bunch of guys 51

52 Zaim Al-Amin vying to woo the same lady in that reality show on Malaysian TV). This despite him wearing the mask (perhaps it’s about time to have an official name for it). So, it would seem that, depending on how much longer the haze lasts, maybe dust masks will come out in all shapes, sizes and colours. Maybe there will be pink dust masks. Orange dust masks. Luminous dust masks. Or maybe they will come complete with cool mottos and slogans as well. And of course, Barbie dust masks. And Batman dust masks. Somebody would perhaps later come up with The Rubber Tapper Look, The Grass Cutter Look or The Neurosurgeon Look. Then masks would emerge as the new fashion statement. And it won’t be long before it becomes part of the global (read glocal) haute coutre. Models will be walking up and down the runway parading designer masks. Louis Vuitton. Yves Saint Laurent. And what-have-you. However, the Malaysian government departments, of course, will order their civil servants to only wear batik masks every 15th and 31st of the month. Perhaps our teenagers, instead of giving each other Hello Kitty dolls, will then exchange masks. And it would eventually find its way into love songs, and I might someday dedicate this song to my beloved wife Nina, which of course would be made popular by Rawi, Sawi, or Jawi, or whoever would be the future winner of Akademi Fantasia 9:

Teh Tarik Kaw, Wunne! 53 Missing You and Your Dust Mask Here I lie in waiting Lonely and dusty Wishing upon a star Waiting for an answer Can’t live like this Missing you, Baby You, and your Dust Mask Come to me, Baby Or I’ll rip open my Dust Mask And you rip off your Dusk Mask Together we inhale The love pollens And smell eternity, Baby Ahh … as I said earlier, prolonged exposure to smog does strange things to people. Different things to different people. Maybe the haze will lift by the time you read this. Maybe it’s just the different outlook you get when you close your eyes. Or the freedom you feel when you open your heart. Or then again maybe I just read too much into it. Sometimes when your eyes can’t see a thing, it’s time your other senses tell you more …

CHAPTER 12 Of The Holy Grail & Knights Templar, or, Templer’s Park & The Last Biskut Lutut Recently I met a long-lost friend of mine. Soon, we found ourselves sipping expensive mocha and occasionally munching RM1 per piece cookies in one of the more trendy boutique cafes in downtown KL. The last time we met was some twenty-five years ago, and life seems to have been kind to him since. He now owns a multinational oil and gas company, is married with four kids, stays in a posh residential area in Ampang and drives a custom-made Ferrari. To many, he seems to be living the Ultimate Malaysian Dream, if ever there is one. And that too considering the fact that the last time we met, we were sharing some humble biskut lutut (‘knee biscuits’, because of its shape) dipped in home- brewed coffee in a sleepy hollow called Teluk Anson. He must be one very happy guy now. I casually threw that remark at him, and he quickly shook his head. “There are things which you still cannot attain, no matter how successful you are”, he said, his face a picture of calmness which belied the gravity behind his statement. “You are not looking for the Holy Grail, are you?” I quipped. His earlier remark sounded a tad too philosophical 55

56 Zaim Al-Amin to me and, fresh from watching the Da Vinci Code, I could not refrain from putting a ‘Robert Langdon’ tag on him. Not that I couldn’t relate to his statement per se. Maybe his dilemma is the inevitable by-product in some of Malaysia’s new breed of so-called yuppies (young urban professionals). There were things which we were not quite ready for, or even, afraid of. Things which could confuse any young man about to enter the doors to the vicious grey walls of the corporate world. Before long, you’d gain success and the stuff that comes with it. And before long too, you’d realise that you are in danger of losing a part of yourself. It’s a paradox of sorts. You get your financial freedom, but you lose your freedom to do other things that you’d really like. You used to have the time but not the money. Now you have the money but simply don’t have the time. Unless, of course, if you are into insurance. Or direct selling. There could be times when you feel that you have lost your sense of belonging. You begin to feel that you are just a part of a huge mechanical society that runs like clockwork: precise but predictable. You are nothing but a very dispensable part, moving faithfully, just waiting to break and be hastily replaced to keep the clock running. You do the same thing, day in, day out. After a while, your whole world seems to be nothing but a calendar. Or diary, if you like. If money or financial freedom were an end to itself, then a lot of supposedly rich people would be happy just as they are. But then again, as this friend of mine struggles to explain, he’s looking for something else. Something which he himself is not sure of. Call it a sense of belonging or purpose of life. Or your raison d’etre. Or whatever. It’s as elusive (and abstract) as the Holy Grail.

Teh Tarik Kaw, Wunne! 57 Maybe it’s just about how far one would go to establish his place in this world. Sometimes in his desperation, he falls into the wonderful abyss of fantasy. As in the case of the (at best) proverbial Holy Grail, which people have throughout the centuries conveniently confused from being a cup to a plate to a kinship’s skull to Mary Magdalene’s royal blood (Sang Real). Notwithstanding that, the most probable answer is that it represents a distant, unobtainable goal for a person (or a group of people) to achieve. It’s about basking in the realm of probabilities and celebrating in the world of might-have-been or could-be fantasies. In a way, it’s some people’s religious answer to science’s anti-gravity and time travel. Trying to be special or different (or both) can be an obsession. Hence the fashionable craze to trace one’s genealogy up to a few generations, in the hope of finding an ancestor worthy of mention during some corporate dinner functions. Of course, it would be interesting to stumble upon glorious great grandfathers in your family tree. I recently heard somebody say that Leonardo DiCaprio (of Titanic fame) is somehow related to Leonardo Da Vinci. As to how, I fail to comprehend since according to trite knowledge his then pregnant mother gave him that name because he kicked in her womb whilst she was staring at one of Da Vinci’s painting. Whatever, I believe it’s not a statement that the younger Leonardo would want to sue after. I myself have tried this family tree thing, but apart from the amusement of finding ancestors with interesting names, there was nothing else to shout about. Perhaps one or two earned the distinction of opening villages here and there, pioneering this or that or were highly respected religious personas, but none of them appeared in any history books.

58 Zaim Al-Amin And I think that about sums up the case for the rest of us. And perhaps most of us, too, wouldn’t mind also blending in that way. People come and go, and are not always remembered. Having said that, there are times when we yearn for the familiar comfort of family ties. Like most people, our parents represented a strong symbol, an undeniable sense of belonging; dad as a supposedly omnipresent protector, and mum providing comfort with her warm hugs. I too sought solace likewise, until the untimely passing of my beloved mother. Her unexpected death violently shook the very foundation of my very own well-being. It seemed like an eternity before I could come to terms with the reality of losing her. It’s strange how your mind works sometimes, but my mind saved the day (and probably, my sanity as well) by conjuring vivid images from the past. Of childhood and adolescence spent with my late mother. Of trips from Teluk Anson (now Teluk Intan) to Kuala Lumpur in my father’s shiny blue vinyl-roofed Opel Kadett (with no radio and no air-conditioning). Of when we would without fail stop to rest at Templer’s Park. And of the ubiquitous biskut lutut which never failed to accompany us during such trips. Perhaps it’s just my mind playing tricks on me. Or then again perhaps that biskut lutut has risen in significance to be the symbol of my love for my mum. Which, to that, I have no qualms. If ever there is any lesson from all these, it’s that in this short, passing life, there’s nothing more important than what you already have. Whatever it is, that’s your Holy Grail. Treasure it, and be thankful for it. Even if it’s just distant memories of biskut lutut …

Teh Tarik Kaw, Wunne! 59 P/S 1 : For the uninitiated, biskut lutut is a type of homemade mushroom-shaped (the top of which looks like a knee, hence its name) cookie which looks like compressed dried bread crumbs. Best taken when dipped in hot tea or Milo. And no; it has no magical healing powers, so my references to it as the Holy Grail forever remains a metaphor. P/S 2 : All references to the Holy Grail are in its metaphoric capacity and is not meant to undermine any belief by any person or group, religious or otherwise. P/S 3 : Biskut lutut still enjoys mass production and can be found in all self-respecting sundry shops nationwide at around RM1.50 per packet of ten.

CHAPTER 13 Of Laksa, Spaghetti, Pasta & Tiramisu, or, Jom Makan Laksa Kuala … An ex-classmate cum relative of mine, who hails from Tapah Road, Perak, recently sent me an SMS in the middle of the night asking me where he could find authentic laksa. Being a laksa connoisseur myself, I instantly guided him to a foodcourt simply known as The PPS located somewhere in Bandar Baru Ampang. And, in the true blue spirit of a laksa fanatic, he immediately went there and I followed suit. Alas, the stall was closed that particular night. Our disappointed taste buds had to make do with chicken tom yam, porridge and satay instead. Despite satisfying our hunger, the craving for laksa never left us. We spent the better part of the next hour discussing about laksa, and came to realise that the intensity of our craving for laksa (up to the point of mengidam (or cravings), though not exactly of the pregnant woman’s type) ranks high compared to other food. I’m hopelessly addicted to laksa and during one of our trips back to my hometown in Teluk Intan a few years back, my mum confirmed this by telling my other half about my childhood laksa feats. My sister also grew up to 61

62 Zaim Al-Amin be an authority of sorts as far as laksa is concerned. My offsprings, well what can I say ... they take after their dad. Cook up a large pot of delicious laksa, and we won’t want to eat anything else for the next couple of days. Well, there’s a downside to being a laksa connoisseur. There’s a wide variety of laksa, ranging from tasty to acceptable to downright plain or lousy (though ultimately it all boils down to your own individual preference), thus making it rather impossible to form a National Laksa Lovers Society. I’m yet to meet an individual who claims to like laksa in all its variations. In the riverside town of Kuala Kangsar in the state of Perak, laksa is deemed so popular that the local municipal council even built a whole complex by the Perak River, known as Medan Cendol & Laksa (Cendol & Laksa Centre), selling nothing else but that. And it has become quite popular to locals and tourists alike. Being an Ampangite, I once stumbled upon a pakcik selling Laksa Perak at a night market along Jalan Ampang, past Ampang Point and just before Taman Datuk Ahmad Razali. It had a real authentic taste, but I pointed out to him that there’s no such thing as Laksa Perak. Instead his sign should have read Laksa Kuale or, simply, Laksa KK (as people would fondly refer to Kuala Kangsar town). He followed my non-legal advice and has since proudly reported brisk business. Now, those names alone would have confused the average layman. You see, the taste of laksa is so localised, that often it’s named after a town, place or even a man (such as Laksa Pak Mail), rather than after larger things such as the state. So, next time you want to ask a friend where to find laksa, be more specific, lest you’d find yourself in an embarrassing

Teh Tarik Kaw, Wunne! 63 situation, never mind the time, money and the laksa (of whatever variation) wasted. To start with, the word laksa itself may have been derived from the Sanskrit word lakhsa meaning ‘hundred thousand’; possibly referring to the many condiments often used to make the dish complete. Despite the Sanskrit origin, laksa never originated from India. Alternatively, it might have been taken from daun laksa, after the name of the plant used as a main ingredient in its gravy. Problem is, we’d never know whether the dish got its name from the plant, or the plant got its name from the dish. It might be dangerously akin to saying that Muar or Bandar Sri Maharani got its name from its shuttle bus service, the Sri Maharani Express. In general, laksa is noodles (made of rice or wheat) served with a fish-based gravy. Different localities present a different variety; whether in terms of its gravy, its condiments, as well as how and when it is eaten. I have attempted to describe the more popular variations. These are, however, mere brief descriptions and are by no means a comprehensive guide to all things laksa, and I have wilfully refrained to comment good or bad on their respective tastes. You are welcome to add your own experience/preference. Here goes ... Laksa Kuala Perlis There’s actually little separating Laksa Kuala Perlis, Laksa Kuala Kedah and Laksa Penang. It always takes a Jauhari to know a Maknikam (though Manikam does not necessarily always know this Johari). Generally Laksa Kuala Perlis and Kuala Kedah have thicker gravy than that of Laksa Penang.

64 Zaim Al-Amin Laksa Kuala Perlis was famous more (to the horror of some) because they used eel instead of fish. I’m not sure, however, if they still use eel. Laksa Kuala Kedah Its noodles are made from rice. The gravy is usually thick and tasty. Quite spicy for those who are not used to it. This laksa is often confused with that of Laksa Kuale, so be very specific in your pronunciation. Laksam This variation is more popular in Kelantan, Terengganu, Kedah and some parts of northern Perak. Instead of ordinary noodles, they use noodles that look like kueh teow. Coconut milk is added, hence the whitish gravy. Tastes more sour (the ‘m’ in ‘laksam’ sounds like masam). But it is not to be confused with laksa assam or assam laksa. Laksa Penang Arguably the most famous of all the laksa. Similar to Laksa Kuala Kedah, but with lighter fish gravy. This dish is made more famous because it is featured in tourist brochures along with Nasi Kandar, Bukit Bendera and the Snake Temple. Assam Laksa Also popular in Penang. Clear noodles. Tastes more sour but with lighter gravy.

Teh Tarik Kaw, Wunne! 65 Laksa Kelantan Same noodles but, like all Kelantanese dishes, a little sugar is added. Less sour and less fishy. May even be a misnomer because of its difference in taste. Laksa Kuala Kangsar White noodles made of wheat (as opposed to the nearly transparent ones in other laksa types). Lighter gravy. Not so sour and not so spicy. A good start if you are a beginner, before you actually graduate to the more thicker and spicier ones. The beauty is actually in its simplicity, as opposed to elaborateness in other types of laksa. Laksa Nyonya Laksa in a rich and strongly-spiced coconut gravy. Sometimes even referred to as laksa kari. More like a distant cousin to the curry mee. You could even be forgiven to equate it with curry mee. The real difference is the kind of noodles used. Topped with chicken, beef and/or prawns. Laksa Johor To me this particular laksa is a real misnomer. Instead of noodles, it is more like spaghetti steeped (not actually mixed) in very thick fish gravy. Has strong curry flavour. Sometimes even mixed with peanut gravy. A large variety of condiments to choose from. Self-respecting Johoreans usually eat their laksa using their fingers, instead of a fork and spoon. Some suspect it has Italian connection, a fusion of original laksa and Spaghetti Bolognaise.

66 Zaim Al-Amin That, of course, is an understatement. To me, the authentic laksa connoisseur, it’s nothing more than adulterated spaghetti (to the dismay of my Johorean wife). Katong Laksa (also called Laksa Singapore) Laksa in coconut-based broth. Not much different from Laksa Nyonya. Actually refers to the way it is eaten, with just a spoon only (no fork, no chopsticks). The noodles are cut up into small pieces, hence making it easy to scoop with a spoon. Most laksa are taken with boiled eggs, onions and an assortment of other condiments. There’s actually no hard and fast rule about it, though I have yet to find somebody adventurous enough to add budu or tempoyak to it. Perhaps other laksa connoisseurs could further comment and add to this or, more desirably, share some information on where to find the various types of laksa, together with its rating out of ten. Which is not to mean that I don’t enjoy other delicacies. It’s just that everybody else can rant and rave about mee kari, mee bandung, nasi dagang, nasi kerabu, tempoyak, cincalok or budu. Or spaghetti and pizza. Or even tiramisu, chocolate or cheese cakes, but chances are I wouldn’t crave for them. So go ahead and try to SMS me at midnight. And although they say it’s Hard to Say I’m Sorry, or Sorry Seems to be the Hardest Word, I’m still going to have to say sorry, guys. Because no food EXCEPT laksa can drag me out of bed in the middle of the night …

CHAPTER 14 Of Birthdays & Tribute to a Friend, or, A Celebration of Life Ah, the month of September will always have a special place in my heart. It is, for me, a month full of birthdays and anniversaries. Milestones, special events and celebrations. But somehow, deep inside, there’s also a lingering tinge of sadness. A feeling of loss. Of regret even. This month would see me celebrating (though the word celebrate now sounds out of place) my 42nd birthday. So, what should one expect on his or her birthday? Kisses, flowers, cards, or gifts (in no particular order)? Or all of them? To some, such expectations have become second nature that they have taken it for granted each time that special day of the year comes. But the thing is, should those things make or break your special day? Imagine being out cold and lonely on your birthday. Nobody around to even wish you ‘Happy Birthday’. Would you then still have the heart to go to San Francisco’s Coffee, lift up that expensive caffe latte, and sincerely declare that life is good? After a while you’d realise it all rings hollow. They say that life’s greatest misery is when one gets used to luxuries. So much so that he would declare life is unfair if 67

68 Zaim Al-Amin he wakes up one fine day to find that what he used to have is no longer there. He would lament endlessly, oblivious to the fact that there are others who might have lived their whole lives under such ‘unfair’ situation. Not unlike complaining that you have no shoes when others have no feet! Taking things for granted is a tragedy in itself, but let’s not wait for tragedy to happen before you duly realise that happiness is, after all, not hinged on things carrying designer labels. Rather, it probably rests in things you already have. Or people you see everyday, and have therefore taken for granted. Just a little someone. Someone like your wife. “Siapa tak sayang bini, oii …”, says P. Ramlee, in one of his ever so popular movies. And you’d kind of agree; who would love his spouse not? Makes one wonder then, what is all this fuss of whether a husband could be found guilty of raping his own wife. Looks like our legislators are intent on defining when to call it having sex, making love, and when it’s husbandly duties, conjugal relations, and when it’s sheer rape. Bear this in mind the next time you want to lie in the sack. Whatever, perhaps you should forget that Patek Phillippe timepiece that would cost you six months your salary, or that latest model of the BMW 745iL complete with satellite navigation, or that Ampang bungalow that comes with a matured Balinese (or Japanese, if you so prefer) garden, or that prestigious corporate address at KLCC. But instead, take a long, second look at your wife. Offsprings. Siblings. Parents (if you still have them). And, yes, friends. Back during my college days, I had four friends who shared the same birthday month. One friend actually had the same birth date; the other three in successive dates. We used to faithfully wish each other on our respective dates,

Teh Tarik Kaw, Wunne! 69 even if simply because we cannot help but remember each others’ birthdays. But it never went any further than that. No cards, no gifts; and being boys; of course no flowers. And being that time before the advent of handphones, no SMSes or MMSes with nice graphics. The greetings still continued even after we left college, and though later it became more and more sporadic as we drifted apart due to work and personal commitments; we never failed to convey that annual wish. Until the year when one friend died. The first thing that came to my mind when I heard the sad news was all the past birthday wishes we had for each other. And although I did feel a semblance of pride, being faithful to our little trivia of a tradition; it struck me that we could have done better. And it struck me real hard. We never went more than those casual wishes because, at that time, we took for granted that we could go on doing it forever. We should have chosen to celebrate in more meaningful ways, rather than just a casual wish which, over the years, began to outlive its significance. It’s only when you have no chance to do it anymore that you start to feel the loss. Think about it. How much have you done for your loved ones. Have you faithfully remembered and wished them on important dates? Birthdays? Anniversaries? If, God forbid, they were to die tomorrow; wouldn’t you have this feeling of deep regret; of utter helplessness; of not being able to do things you should have done? At some point of our lives we have become self-centred. Selfish, to the point of being demanding. We expect presents, gifts, flowers and whatnots; which are given, more often than not, obligatorily rather than affectionately. When we

70 Zaim Al-Amin receive less than we expect, we complain. And when we receive not, we fret. In life, at times we expect too much. At the same time, we give away too little. Perhaps this time around, I won’t expect anything from anyone. I should be thankful just for being alive. And at this time of the year, as always had been since that friend’s death, I again feel that little, but deep sense of regret; of not doing things I should have done. Or doing things I shouldn’t have done. I can’t wish him ‘Happy Birthday’ anymore. Not by phone, not by e-mail, not even by SMS. Or MMS. All I can offer now is a silent prayer for him on his birthday – from a friend who remembers. And to the remaining three who are still around (you know who you are), here’s a hearty Happy 42nd Birthday from me. I really wish this year we could do something more meaningful, though I doubt we could do it together. Or perhaps the simple pleasure of knowing each other is alive and well should suffice. And for the rest of us, let’s treat each and every day as a special day, and never forget to take care and wish our loved ones. If, for some reason you can’t say it face to face, just send that SMS or MMS. E-mail. Fax. Or telex even. Whatever the form you say it with, whatever language you say it in – whether in Malay, English, Russian, French, Japanese, Spanish, Morse Code or Braille, a simple ‘I love you’ still means the same. So do it, and each time do it whole-heartedly as if it’s going to be your last. Because, who knows ... it could just turn out to be that!

CHAPTER 15 Of Parking Lots & Years Gone By It’s a familiar but nonetheless funny feeling, this thing called ‘nostalgia’. Being no accomplished linguist and with no degree of language authority whatsoever, I’m not even sure whether it is a verb, a noun, or an adjective. I’ll leave that to the linguistic experts, and just be contented calling it a ‘feeling’. So this feeling of nostalgia swept over me recently. It was a cool, typical afternoon in the hilly suburbs of Ampang. There I was on the balcony of my high-rise condo, gazing faraway into the horizon, appreciating for the umpteenth time the grandeur of KLCC’s Twin Towers coupled with the equally majestic KL Tower. Just like three close cousins standing guard over the Kuala Lumpur skyline, dwarfing the other skyscrapers into insignificance. Ah, the paradox of it all, I told myself. The sun was gradually setting, and it was then that my ears suddenly caught an old song on the ghetto blaster. The lyrics caught my attention: “... one too many wasted sunsets, one too many for the road ...” It was a ‘slow rock’ (another paradox) number by Deep Purple, dating way back to my carefree teenage days. It was not even my favourite song then, but somehow, that 71

72 Zaim Al-Amin afternoon, watching the sun set and listening to the wind whispering that tune to my ears, it hit me with that strange albeit familiar nostalgic feeling. It struck me how the years have rushed by. Born in ’67, went to an Indian-run kindergarten in ’73, entered a Christian missionary school in ’74, left the Malay college in ’84, entered the International Islamic university in ’85, graduated with a Law degree in ’90. It all seems like mere figures now. Dead numbers, not unlike numbers on those parking lots. Huh? What parking lots, I hear you ask. Yeah, I did say parking lots. Now, I stay on the 12th floor, and if I look to the right, I have a view of lush greenery and virgin hills (though the developer seems intent to rape it and sooner or later turn it into a concrete jungle). Glance to the left and it is the magnificent KL skyline. But look directly down and you would be greeted with a long row of parking lots. I have always subconsciously noticed that the parking lots directly opposite my unit starts with lot No. 41 and ends with lot No.120. My particular lot is number 84 (which is, as always, my favourite number). But it was only on that afternoon, when I was following that nostalgic train of thoughts, that it suddenly struck me that if I take that first lot (lot No. 41) to mean the year 1941, then the last lot (lot No. 120) would mean the year 2020. The significance of all that was 1941 was the year my father was born, and 2020 is, well, you know ... everyone’s vision of a perfect Malaysia (and perhaps a New World Order at that). That particular thought intrigued me. I looked at each lot and tried to visualise the years. The events that happened then. The year when my father was born, and the year when my mother was born. That year

Teh Tarik Kaw, Wunne! 73 when they got married. When I was born, and my sister was born. And all those yardsticks and milestones in life. Personal and professional. Past and present. Relationships. Successes and of course, failures too. Marriages and divorces, births and deaths. Hence I found out that I could remember a lot. And the feeling was so strong; it was as if I could see the people, hear their voices, even taste and smell the memories. And it’s hard not to be overwhelmed by the deep embedded emotions. After all, it’s all about walking down memory lane. Of realising (and admitting) our mistakes. Of things we should or should not have said or done. Of people whom we took for granted and have since lost before we even realised their importance in our lives. And the endless list of ‘What ifs’ which is enough to taunt us. It’s strange how the years flew by once we left school. I can still remember how it seemed like eternity having to wait four months for the SPM results. Has time speeded up, or have we slowed down? Or is it because now we have nothing to wait for, or nothing to look forward to? Or the fear of dying makes us feel the years pass by much too soon? Or does it have something to do with Einstein’s Theory of Relativity? I don’t have the answers. Most of us don’t even understand that theory (though during my last visit to the dentist, I kind of thought I finally understood it). What we all do understand is that, unless we appreciate each passing moment; each New Year, each Hari Raya, Christmas, Thaipusam, Deepavali, each birthday etc., would just mean more wasted sunsets, more wasted years. And more people would be calling us ‘uncle’, and more duit raya or ang pow will have to be handed out to those new nieces and nephews. And at the same time we would be

74 Zaim Al-Amin grieving the loss of more loved ones. It’s just that we have to resign to the fact, and accept each passing sunset with the same open-mindedness as welcoming a fresh sunrise. And to accept each death as open-mindedly as accepting a newborn baby. Because that’s what life is all about. And as long as there’s sunrise and sunset, birth and death, life and love, then there’s hope. And hope is all that we need to keep our faith. And to serve our purpose. Whatever it is, the sun will still set. And the parking lot shall once again be enveloped in darkness and, like all things, oblivious to those devoid of light. But as for me, that particular sunset has left a permanent tinge of sadness deep in my heart. And I solemnly promised to myself that when I wake up the next morning, I would again look at the parking lot, fix my gaze at lot No. 110, which signifies the year 2020, and utter a silent prayer. For our past, for our future, for our beloved Malaysia ...

CHAPTER 16 Sindrom Takut Bini, or, How Not To Tell Her About It So, how do you distinguish this fine line between being gentle and being downright soft? I am actually referring to the oh-so-delicate husband and wife relationship, which becomes more complicated as you add more days to your marriage. If you remember, the early days were fun; you were too busy discovering each other, and had no time to notice anything else. Or perhaps you were more forgiving then, and overlooked seemingly unimportant issues which would in time gradually turn into unwritten rules. And before you knew it; she already has the upper hand. If at this point you start to snort, well, consider this; a client of mine came to my office the other day and lamented that he has four sons who all grew up to be captains of the industry but alas, all of them are terrified of their wives. And if you really sit down and look around you, you would notice this increasingly rampant syndrome which I would simply term as Sindrom Takut Bini (STB). They say that a man is incomplete until he gets married. Once he gets married, then he is finished. 75

76 Zaim Al-Amin So where did we go wrong then? Perhaps it’s not any one thing we do, or any one wrong juncture we took. Perhaps it’s a cumulative art performed on us. It’s called A Little Bit Of This And A Little Bit Of That. Simple, small things that go unnoticed, you know, things as trivial as where you keep your shirts. In the beginning both of you share a cupboard; your shirts occupying half, and hers the other half. Then as her collection of baju kurungs and kebayas increases (this will happen, believe me), you would notice that her clothes would encroach more and more into your half of the cupboard, and there would come a time when your shirts would just occupy an insignificant corner. Which would remain that way, of course, until the time you surrender and buy yourself a separate zipper plastic wardrobe (not unlike the one you had when you were a bachelor), thus giving her the whole aforementioned cupboard to herself. A woman would repeat these small triumphs in every department she can think of, and before you know it, she conquers every nook and corner of the house. When you go home today, make it a point to note both yours and her possessions; look into the cupboard, on the dressing table, in the living room; everywhere. I can safely bet that your only prominent belonging would be that golf set, and even that lies somewhere under the stairs. The rest would have been overshadowed by her things. And when she has comfortably conquered the house, it’s time for her to conquer the most important thing – YOU. And she can do this as subtle, as intricate and as discreet as she has done to the house. And before long, she would turn the tables. If before this it used to be you who shoots her with questions, suddenly you would find that it’s you who

Teh Tarik Kaw, Wunne! 77 have to provide the answers now. When was the last time you heard a friend of yours say that he had to meticulously explain why he was late coming home that day, or why and where and with whom he was going to have a meeting that night? Or a friend who complained that his wife goes on a shopping spree, on expensive holidays etc., and there’s nothing he can do about it. It sounds all too familiar because you keep hearing all the time. This friend of mine quoted from some movie (I think it was from a P. Ramlee movie) that “... it’s not that I’m afraid of my wife; it’s just that my wife is not afraid of me ...” If you would take the trouble to honestly compare, this scenario did not present itself in the previous generation. I still vividly remember my dad would simply tell my mum that he’s going out; and she would just smile her sweetest smile, unquestioningly, and faithfully wait for his return just to flash another of her sweetest smile. My mum would never even dream of raising her voice to my dad. Compare that to the wives of today, who have no qualms shouting at their husbands, like those police training instructors at Pulapol. Believe me, you won’t have to look far. To have some idea and to gauge how you are faring as a husband, try this simple test. This evening tell your wife you need to go out for a meeting. Give yourself ten points simply for daring to say that, but minus one point for every question she insists on asking you about this little meeting. Remember, you can actually stop her from asking questions, if you have the guts to say it. Chances are you won’t have much of the ten points left; even a high possibility of a minus point. Five points and above would rate you as a real man, and below five means you have turned into a mouse.

78 Zaim Al-Amin Whatever the reason might be, it boils down to the age- old debate of rights and equality between the sexes. Does a wife have the right to question, let alone point her finger to instruct or warn her husband to do or not to do things? And should a husband always be the gentleman to the point of being told what to do; just for the sake of preserving marital harmony? How far should you refrain before finally taking charge like a real man? Like it or not, it’s the age of equality between the sexes; the Women’s Liberation; that funny thing which somehow means we have to give them equal standing in the world, but at the same time we are still expected to gallantly open doors for them and pay for their lunches and dinners. And not to mention they can simply give us a missed call on our handphone and expect us to call them back; especially if they are using ‘prepaid lines’ (as if fixed or post-paid line subscribers don’t have to pay). Try doing the same thing to them and they would brand us as hopeless farts. So what do the poor husbands do? If you try to take charge and impose your authority as a husband, you would be accused of being a Male Chauvinist Pig. If you follow every word she says, you would soon be branded a classic case of Queen Control. Most husbands are actually trying to balance between this MCP vs QC factor; sometimes hanging precariously close to the latter. Now that someone mentioned P. Ramlee, that man really seemed to have all the right answers. From Madu Tiga to Keluarga 69, all the movies had happy endings where husbands prevail and wives submit. Perhaps the secret lies in religion, understanding, compromise, tolerance, submission, obedience et al. Even to the point of willingly allowing your husband to be polygamous.

Teh Tarik Kaw, Wunne! 79 Perhaps again, it’s just a case of having to start your marriage on the right footing. Like they say, don’t simply marry someone whom you can live with. But instead marry someone whom you can’t live without ...

CHAPTER 17 Sex And The City, or, Melayu Mudah Lupa … As a kampung boy like any other, the topic of sex was considered taboo and never discussed within the family. So who is to blame if an innocent kampung boy would someday ask his mother to rigorously eat more so that she could get another baby, thinking pregnancy is, after all, a result of over-eating, albeit bringing with it the relief and delight of a newborn baby. Ah, the bliss of ignorance. Parenting at that time was a strict, regimental exercise that would put Hitler to shame. Televisions were locked most of the time (yes, they did have built-in locks). Even telephone sets had padlocks, with Dad (or, more realistically, Ayah, Abah or Bapa) having the only key. So kids were, in every way, protected against the ‘evil outside world’. But I was not to be deceived for long, and some self-discoveries later, I was all the more wiser. Which, with the benefit of hindsight, was a feat in itself, considering the absence of the Internet and Astro back then. And, yes, the court cases. Kids nowadays are luckier (or unfortunate, depending on how you look at it) when it comes to sex education. 81

82 Zaim Al-Amin Education, in itself, carries a positive connotation (even when coupled with the word sex), but somehow or other there’s always the possibility of abuse of knowledge. Not unlike knowledge in atoms; you could produce limitless energy out of it, or you could choose to produce bombs. The Internet made a forceful presence here sometime in the late eighties, primarily offering limitless information at your fingertips. Of course, after typing a few boring URLs, one would soon be tempted to be a little bit more adventurous. It won’t take long before pornographic sites are found and downloaded. Hence the birth of another sex- seeker-Internet-geek type who, in normal life, would not even know where to get a copy of Playboy or Penthouse magazine. Before long, the satisfaction of feasting one’s eyes on photos and short films would wane. Some action was needed, and soon somebody introduced a more exciting way to while away time over the Internet. Enter the chatrooms. Originally known as IRC (Internet Relay Chat), these chatrooms sprouted, bearing different names and websites, each suggesting what they have in store. It could be Teen, Veteran, Mischievous or Married But Still Cheeky. They are basically websites where one can assume a nickname, find another partner by nickname, then type in messages via his computer which will be relayed and displayed in real time on the other person’s computer. It became quite a craze. Soon lots of people were chatting; irrespective of age, race, sex and location. In a way it was good; it opened up venues for friendship between people whom may not even have lifted an eyebrow should they have met casually on the street. But on the Internet, they become best friends, buddies, soul mates etc. And more often than

Teh Tarik Kaw, Wunne! 83 not, they happen to also be somebody else’s husband. Or wife. And more often than not, what began as a harmless, platonic relationship soon turns out to be otherwise. Then came Astro, a subscriber television network that offered round-the-clock entertainment via satellite, providing programmes that made a mockery of the National Censorship Board. One can still remember how, just a few years before, some artistes were blacklisted just because they sported long hair which was, at that time, regarded as having a bad influence on kids. How far have we gone since?! As if all that were not enough, we were later bombarded with lucid details of sexual misconducts via court reporting by the newspapers. Details that made even seasoned husbands blush. Oral sex, anal sex, fetish sex, bondage and what-have-you. One of my friends once mentioned to me that he was beginning to wonder whether it’s those details that were outrageous, or it’s the sex in his marriage that was lacking. He later proudly confided in me that he has since deviated from his otherwise ‘normal positions’. I begged him to spare me the details. Suddenly Malaysians have become so modern. We are now the people who work hard, fly up the corporate ladder, get paid high salaries and have a fair share of after-office unwinds like spas, pubs, nightclubs. And women. And so accommodating are our attitude against those things that we allow positive connotations to refer to them in place of what used to be ‘dirty words’. Something like Pusat Istirehat or Pusat Kesihatan instead of massage parlours. And nowadays nobody goes to discos or cabarets anymore. They just go clubbing. And we no longer have a-go-go dancers to entertain us anymore. Now we just have some boring

84 Zaim Al-Amin sounding officers like Guest Relations Officers (GRO). Or for the expatriates, Sarung Party Girls (SPG). So what does an open-minded modern Malaysian parent do in the midst of all this? I’ve got five kids to look after; three boys and two girls, and already they are way beyond me when I was their age in terms of general knowledge. How do I shield them from the notorious outside world that now and again rears its ugly head; either through the Internet, media or from seemingly innocent but equally corrupted peers? The next time the kids pop up questions that we think they shouldn’t have asked, should we look at them in disbelief, in total resignation, and painstakingly answer them (even though we feel it’s not the time yet for them to know), or hush them up with the false hope that they would eventually get it out of their minds? I would dread that frown on my eldest daughter’s face which I know would be accompanied by a sparkle in her eyes, meaning that she’s about to ask another ‘brilliant’ question. Now, as I look up from the dark rows of parking lots underneath my condo unit and gaze at the brightly lit Kuala Lumpur city skyline in the distance, it suddenly dawns on me that the phrase Sex and the City brings a whole new meaning …

CHAPTER 18 Transcendence, or, Auld Lang Syne, My Old Friend … Perhaps my mind was a little bit more pre-occupied than usual on that fateful 911 day. How not to, when CNN kept repeating the ‘now-you-see-it, now-you-don’t’ images of the Twin Towers. But nothing could have prepared me for a different kind of shock, and I am not talking about that horrifying kamikaze-styled attack. I was waiting to get my usual dose of thick coffee at Ampang Point’s Coffee Bean when I heard somebody call out my name. I turned and saw an old friend with another guy sitting at the far end, and I smiled and signalled for him to wait. It had been ages since I last saw him; but even after such hiatus and from such a distance, I noticed that something was not quite right with him, although I couldn’t quite fathom what. Got my cup of coffee, and as usual I swore to myself that the cashier stole my money (at RM10.00 per cup, it’s daylight robbery) while at the same time trying my best to balance the tray as I excitedly walked towards my friend. 85

86 Zaim Al-Amin “Kau tak perasan ke aku kenyit kat kau dari tadi?” came a warm enough pleasantry but which was accompanied with a cold, dead-fish handshake. I was surprised; where was that hearty handshake he always had for people? Suddenly it dawned on me. All the tell-tale signs were there; tight pinkish turtle-neck tee-shirt, designer jeans, Ray-Ban pulled up half way, heavy make-up, floral perfume. And that voice! My friend has become a gay, and as if to remove all doubts, he hastily confirmed it. Suddenly I felt like running away – my knees were starting to buckle under. But I tried to appear nonchalant; since he had another friend with him. So after the usual exchange of updates (where-are-you-attached-to-now kind of small talk), I quickly excused myself. It spoilt my afternoon cuppa. Okay, I am not your average idealist; I am as open-minded as can be, whatever that means. It’s alright to see, and even try to accept those cross- dressers, transvestites, bapuk, pondan, nyah or whatever you wish to call them; as long as they are ‘other people’. But how do you welcome, let alone accept, an old friend with whom you have shared much of your growing-up years with who suddenly turns gay and proclaims his new sexual orientation with the same pride and in much the same way as when a politician declares that he is now a Dato’. So what happens to the friendship? Do you ignore the new physical developments and go on to reminisce the times when the two of you went fishing, climbed rambutan trees, played guli, etc.? Or do you start to treat him the way you are expected to treat a self-proclaimed transvestite? Like being sensitive to what (s)he feels, and endure all those sexist jokes and butt slapping that comes with it?

Teh Tarik Kaw, Wunne! 87 Whatever it is, it would take me some time to come to terms with this cross-over. I hope you are reading this, Bakhtiar. And I hope you understand my awkwardness, because I can’t imagine you in any other way, other than my good old Bakhtiar. What do your friends call you now? Betty? They say that love and friendship is transcendental, but this one is way beyond me. Either you have to change, or me. And it’s surely not gonna be me. At least not for now. In the meantime, good luck in your new, errrrr .., errrr ... venture. Auld Lang Syne, Bakhtiar aka Betty ...

CHAPTER 19 Transcendental Values, or, Can I Wear Jade ...? Have you noticed how some people are fatally obsessed with some things which, to them at least, matters a lot? A friend of mine once made fun of his father-in-law who would, to the point of neurosis, ensure that his ablution was perfect. He would wash and wash, say, his hands, until he was totally satisfied that they were really clean; which often meant washing it nearly 30 times instead of the (mandatory) one or the (optional) three times. And perhaps you have seen, and have been annoyed by that person standing beside you in jemaah (congregational) prayers who seems eternally dissatisfied with his takbiratul- ihram that he has to actually do it for the umpteenth time, and after multiple unsuccessful tries you start to wonder if he is in fact performing a sembahyang sunat Hari Raya (Eid prayers which requires this to be done seven times). I know that there is a medical term which supposedly relates to this, which is Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD). Which, to a certain extent, everybody suffers from as well. You are giving way to OCD if, for example, you constantly have to check whether your car is really locked. 89

90 Zaim Al-Amin Your degree of OCD can be measured simply by counting how many times you have to check the lock, or whatever it is that you need to do. They say that a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do, but this is certainly not the case. In my own layman’s view, I think to a certain extent these people suffer from something which I would conveniently call the ‘Selective Relativity Syndrome’. Why selective relativity? Because they put deadly emphasis on selective things whilst totally ignoring other equally, if not more, important things. Some people do it in their quest for self-satisfaction; a euphoric sensation of having done a ‘perfect job’. To others, they do it out of the need to have some semblance of values in their otherwise morally lacking lives. For example, don’t we have friends who do not give a hoot about daily prayers, but come the fasting month of Ramadan, they are the very people who would observe fasting like it’s THE ONLY ticket to heaven? I have another friend who has no qualms about drinking, and thinks nothing about sleeping around or patronising sleazy joints; but surprise, surprise, bring him to a Chinese restaurant and he shifts uneasily and asks nervously: “Eh, ayam ni sembelih ke?” Or this Guest Relations Officer (GRO) who worries sick about whether it’s sinful to wear jade. A few years back I had a client who signed a Sales & Purchase Agreement in my office, whom I later found out to be a high-class call girl. Her long time live-in boyfriend encouraged her to ‘work’ as such; but if she so much as goes out for a drink with a ‘customer’, all hell would break loose. Makes one wonder; if you can have the audacity to ask your girlfriend to sell her body and have no qualms with that, then what’s the big deal if she goes out for a relatively innocuous teh tarik? Don’t

Teh Tarik Kaw, Wunne! 91 tell me ─ Work vs Leisure? Yeah, right! This particular woman even went on to defend her ‘colleagues’, saying that they are religious too. For example, she says, “... we observe the holiness of Ramadan, too; we only work during buka puasa hours!” And there was this signage which a friend of mine (who works with JAIS, the state religious department) says was displayed prominently in a massage parlour: ‘Lelaki Islam diharamkan mendapat khidmat urut dari yang bukan muhrimnya’. So, going by that logic; do they have a muhrim waiting for you, or do you have to bring your own muhrim to massage you? Let’s be totally honest with ourselves – we practise double standards. We dwell on the minor issues just to divert from the more important things we should be doing. Yesterday’s papers screamed ‘Topless Bar In KL’ and we make a great deal out of it; turning our backs behind more serious and rampant sins like outright prostitution which operates almost nonchalantly in an ‘open secret’ manner. Or you raid small time Jalan Kepong karaoke joints and conveniently ignore those big time prostitution rings at Jalan Bukit Bintang. Maybe it’s not just a matter of confused priorities. It could just be a way in which people try to preserve their self-esteem; justifying non-actions by an ‘at least we did something’ attitude. Or a means to get away from a sticky situation; by clouding their or others’ judgements and hence cleansing the conscience by a make-believe ‘everything is fine’ scenario. Just like another friend of mine who habitually recites Bismillah (in the name of God) each time before committing his sins ...

CHAPTER 20 Tidurlah Sayang, or, Reflections of a Father on His Daughter’s Birthday How do you describe that feeling when you go in to your child’s room late at night and your hand would without fail stroke his (in my case, her) hair, and your eyes would gaze lovingly upon his peaceful face, bathed in the soft, golden rays of moonlight? Last night, I did so for the umpteenth time and strangely felt, amongst others, a sharp tinge of sadness. Not unlike a knife stabbing into my heart. A feeling which, like all feelings, was impossible to explain. Or even pinpoint. Perhaps, for a start, it was because last night was the eve of my eldest daughter’s birthday. Her 9th birthday, to be exact. And as a father, even the simple realisation of it hits you real hard. She’s well on her way to maturity; a metamorphosis from just being ‘my girl’ into someone else. Someone whom I may not be as familiar with. For God knows how she would be like when she grows up, and for a girl, growing up starts at an earlier stage. From the moment she starts to have those friends whom she now no longer feels comfortable to talk with in my presence. 93

94 Zaim Al-Amin And those requests for privacy, personal space, etc. And yes, the handphone. It’s not me, I remember telling myself so many times, but it’s her. She’s growing up, and in the process she’s also outgrowing all the traditional values and expectations which I have so carefully instilled into her. To her, my values, my opinions, my whole thoughts and words all represent a bygone era, and therefore, obsolete. As obsolete as my old Nokia 3210 which I was initially thinking of giving her as a surprise birthday gift. All of which invariably makes a father reflect; with a sudden realisation that age has suddenly caught up with you, and notwithstanding all your past successes and failures, now it’s this little girl that matters most. To a certain extent, you tend to feel that she represents a re-embodiment of all your past and present, of all your pride and prejudices. And most importantly, of what the future would bring. An unnerving thought, to say the least. To finally realise that life, after all, is actually a full, vicious cycle, and that you are now halfway through your own private cycle. You begin to remember how, thirty or forty years ago (depending on your age now), your parents used to look into your eyes in much the same way as you are now looking into your daughter’s. And to realise that, in a few years, you would also assume the same role that your own parents are now assuming. And to finally become like them the same way as they have now become. As I slowly pulled the blanket over her, I stole another look at her peaceful face and felt fresh, hot tears well up and slowly roll down my cheeks. Makes one realise that life is so short, yet so sweet, and ultimately it’s the relationship that counts.

CHAPTER 21 Unwritten Rules of Karaoke Have you ever found yourself stuck in a karaoke room with a bunch of people who make you feel like banging your head on the wall? Having had my own share of what I’d call ‘kara-NOT-oke’ nightmares, I have decided to do some community work and list down the Dos and Don’ts of a Group Karaoke Session (please circulate this before your next outing). 1. Always sit at the selection console box as briefly as possible. It’s preferable that you already have a particular song in mind, rather than spend fifteen minutes browsing through the whole song list and make others wait impatiently for their turn at the console. For some karaoke rooms, substitute ‘selection console box’ with ‘song book and/or remote control’. 2. Never put in more than one song by the same singer. It gets awfully monotonous, especially when you intend to sing all of them yourself. You may sound exactly like Jamal Abdillah (or Eric Clapton, as the case may be), 95

96 Zaim Al-Amin but singing three songs by the same singer in succession will make any stomach churn. 3. Never sing more than one song in a row. You can put two or three songs of your choice, but make sure after that you juggle them so that other people can sing after you. If there are four people, make sure that all four of you sing one after another (even though you personally feel that the other three singers are next to El-Nino in the list of natural disasters). 4. Never jump queue or give priority to your own song so it becomes the next one to play, unless it is duly requested by popular demand. You are very much welcome to do it for other people, though, especially if he/she has yet to sing. 5. If someone sings a song badly, never try to help him/her with the tempo. Don’t even change the KTV mode to MTV (so that the voice of the original singer becomes audible). It’s an insult to the one singing, as if you are practically telling him that his singing is awful (even if that’s actually true). Some say that it’s better to tell the truth no matter how it hurts, but karaoke rooms are definitely an exception to that general rule. 6. If you have been to several karaoke sessions with the same group, try not to sing the same songs. You may feel that you sing songs by Broery to perfection, but however good your rendition might be, other people would soon get tired or sick (or both) if they hear the same version from you more than three times.

Teh Tarik Kaw, Wunne! 97 7. Don’t select songs for other people to sing. It’s an unnecessary gamble. Sometimes you see some people who look like Awie and instinctively you put in Taman Rashidah Utama for him to sing, not knowing he actually has a shrilled, high-pitched voice. Let everyone choose their own, unless you know for sure someone could sing a particular song. 8. If you have selected a song and suddenly feel that you will not do justice to it, don’t try. And don’t eject/ delete it straightaway, because someone may be dying to sing that particular song. Instead, politely offer the microphone around and if no one accepts, then only you delete that song. And just in case if you should find yourself at the other end of the stick (i.e. being offered to continue a song), don’t ever accept the same unless you can sing it really well. 9. When somebody is singing, please resist the temptation to grab the other mike and sing along. It’s a great nuisance to hear another voice in the background when all you wanted to do was to sing a song properly. Of course this does not apply if the song is a duet. 10. It’s polite to keep quiet when someone is belting out songs. It’s rude to go out from the room within ten seconds of someone starting to sing (lest it will come across as if you were allergic to his voice, or simply rushing to the toilet to puke). At least wait until he has sung the chorus, then only you may go out to the restroom or do whatever it is that you needed to do

98 Zaim Al-Amin outside. And when you leave, do it very slowly and discreetly. 11. If you can’t switch off your handphone, and really have to make or take a call, for goodness sake please do it outside the room. 12. If somebody sings My Way awfully, please resist the strong temptation to correct him, or worse, to re-enter that song for you to sing it again. That’s a non subtle (and distasteful) way of telling him that: “I can do better”. If you really have to, find a similar song to show your vocal prowess. 13. If you are a woman, don’t select a song by a male artiste (even though you have the pipes to sing a Lefthanded song). It’s a big turn off for the men to hear Debunga Wangi in some female high-pitched voice! 14. Don’t order heavy meals. Cordials and sodas, and an assortment of fruits are acceptable, but not pizzas, lasagnas or chicken wings. If it’s food that you want, then go to the nearest McDonald’s or KFC. 15. As the saying goes: if you can’t dance, don’t put the blame on the floor for being slippery and/or uneven. Similarly, if you can’t sing well, don’t blame it on the mike or the sound system. Instead laugh it off and mumble something like: “If I could sing, I wouldn’t be here, would I?” Trust me, this would be more well received ...

Teh Tarik Kaw, Wunne! 99 Best regards and happy karaoke-ing. IMPORTANT NOTICE: If you happen to be the one who would be footing the bill, kindly disregard ALL the above rules!

CHAPTER 22 Ordinary People, Ordinary Life, or, Love Revisited The sweet month of February is here again. To my wife and I, an anniversary of sorts. A time for reflections. For what is the more appropriate thing to do on anniversaries than to reflect. On those long journeys we travelled together. And on remembering all those quality moments. Moments which, over time, have gained enough significance to become part of our life history. An acquaintance long enough for both to completely know each other. To understand. And to love. A blossoming relationship that has evolved into a treasured lifelong passion and commitment. So what does a man do on his wedding anniversary? Oh ... that wasn’t politically correct, was it? I’d rather not risk the wrath of the entire Women’s Liberation Movement, or the relatively new but nonetheless sprouting gay communities; so, at the minimal risk of being ridiculed by the MCPs (P for Population, I’d rather say), perhaps I should rephrase that question to the non-gender sensitive ‘So what does one do on one’s wedding anniversary?’. Women, gays and male chauvinist pigs (oops!) issues aside, we should consider ourselves fortunate if we have 101

102 Zaim Al-Amin a wedding anniversary to celebrate. But quite unlike birthdays which are basically a personal celebration of life and whatever achievement that comes with it, a wedding anniversary entails a joint celebration. The thing is, you’d invite friends to come over and celebrate a birthday, but not on anniversaries. Anniversaries are more often celebrated in the form of a private candlelit dinner for two, preferably in a restaurant as high and as dark, if not as expensive, as possible. Or perhaps it’s not so much about the romantic candlelit dinner after all. It’s actually the reminiscing part. Though exactly what made us click so well in the first place, and has survived the endurance test over those long, challenging years might never ever be accurately pinpointed. Forget about looks. Or riches even. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to realise that though most of us are undeniably sweet, adorable, generally good-looking and, decidedly, above average in everything; we are no Shah Rukh Khan (or Hrithik Roshan, if you prefer) and Aishwarya Rai (or Preity Zinta, again, if you prefer). Neither do we possess the magical charm of Puteri Gunung Ledang. And of course I am a far cry from being that handsome young guy who also happens to be the heir to the Brunei throne. Just one of the more simple, down-to-earth (nearly to the extent of being pathetic) creature to ever walk on this blue planet. We could just barely rest our self-esteem on the proud self-declaration that we are unique individuals. Unique, but then so is everyone else! Unique, yes. But desirable? Look at the mirror, and you know you’d shudder at the prospect of an honest answer to that, even from your own self. Over the years, what used to be six packs of muscles are there no more. In its place there is a large flab not unlike, and invariably reminds you of that

Teh Tarik Kaw, Wunne! 103 spare tyre at the back of your brand new Mitsubishi Pajero V6. You used to be quite an athlete, now you have trouble even looking at your toes. And your waistline seems forever intent on catching up and surpassing your age. But don’t contemplate jumping out of your condo unit just yet. You might survive such fall, and people just won’t buy your story if you sheepishly claim to have felt like Spiderman. Or Catwoman (see, this gender thing keeps cropping up). Vanity mirrors aside, let’s not fret. Desirability and attraction is highly subjective, even though sometimes we attempt to compartmentalise them into objectives; and hence the deciding criterion almost invariably hinges upon the size of one’s wallet (or purse, as the case may be). Whilst a car can be conveniently described as desirable according to its drivability plus other add-on values like comfort, luxury, sunroof, cubic capacity, horse power, traction control, multi-valve injection, turbo or compressor, power window, power steering, satellite navigation and maybe the blue and white roundel or the three-star emblem; trying to describe desirability in human being requires one to be more abstract and tends to solicit a somewhat philosophical approach. The more time we spent together, the more things we did together, and even the more times being away from each other, the more evident it would seem that it’s not just one single thing that makes our relationship so special. Rather, it’s a combination of a lot of things; some small, some big. Some expressed, some implied. Some intrinsic, some are not. Perhaps it’s the way we talk and hold hands. Or open doors. Or the way we sometimes feed each other. And knowing exactly when to treat each other like a kid, and when to treat

104 Zaim Al-Amin each other like an adult. When to be funny, and when to be serious. When to be loud, and when to be silent. When to just smile, and when to just do nothing. And little things like the way you gaze lovingly at me when I am driving. Or those phone calls and SMSes. The way we sometimes argue, sometimes quarrel, and the way we always make up for it. And the fact that we are willing to share, and do things with each other. For each other. Or just letting each other do whatever each feels like doing. Things like going fishing. Shopping. Or whatever it is that we know the other likes. Or enduring his horrible rendition of the song Syair Si Pari-Pari. Or simply going back again and again to have ikan pari bakar on a hot, sticky day at that warung ikan bakar somewhere along Jalan Bellamy. Miniscule issues, but with gargantuan effect. Enough to differentiate. To appreciate the difference between passion and mere feeling. Between commitment and mere tolerance. Between making love and mere sex. Or worse, between mere sex and rape. Between being a passionate lover and a normal spouse. Things which generally go unnoticed. Things which we tend to take for granted. Only upon realisation that not everyone enjoys, or has the privilege, opportunity and liberty to have such things, that we start to appreciate them. Tragic still, some people come to realise only once it’s gone. The more we think about it, the more we would realise and believe that we were made for each other. Moulded for each other. So much so that we always seem to complement each other. And fit each other like a glove. So together we would be better able to face and overcome life’s many chances, changes and challenges. So let us treat each wedding anniversary as a milestone. As an important landmark in the

Teh Tarik Kaw, Wunne! 105 history of our lives. Even though we may never be Romeo & Juliet. Uda & Dara. Rama & Sita. Or Hang Tuah & Puteri Gunung Ledang. Let’s just stand by each other, let’s just be there for each other. Let’s just be You & Me…