Quicking Tax


Its funny that I have just bought the book “Beat the Taxman”, have a meeting with the accountants on Thursday to do guess what – yes, BEAT the taxman, and yet if a Gallup Poll is done on me right now on who has the best customer service in Canada within my experience, it will be…err..the taxman!

Ah well, Murphy’s Law at its best. The taxman’s officers have been the nicest, most helpful people on the other side of the line. They have been prompt, informative and very accomodating to all your stupid, appear stupid, appear intelligent or not-so-stupid-nor-intelligent questions you have since the fiscal year is ending. They often pronounced my name wrong – I had an ‘Okanita’ a few moments ago but hey, I don’t mind a wince because she was helpful and informative, as would any other front service officers should. Unlike….jeng jeng jeng….yes, a rant is coming. Those who are up for a feel-good Oprah style post – go ahead and change channels.

I had the most horrendous customer service experience with the not-so-quick people at Quickbooks. In North America, Quickbooks is supposed to be one of the top selling accounting software (yes, my love-hate relationship with accounting ensues!) and I was rather pleased with it on my first day of use. Then came the 2nd day. I tried to launch it, and a .dll file was missing. So kaput it goes, and there’s no reason to panic. My tech-geek,software engineer who lives, showers and sleep-talk-in-programming-codes husband is always the first to convince me to never rely on technology. And so I didn’t.

I called the customer service number and went literally, from Canada, to India, to US, to Canada and then back to India in 1 hour 45 minutes of talk time. I am not kidding.They had problems from not being able to trace my registry account with them, to not being able to understand how a Windows parallel desktop work on a Mac, to not knowing that a “XXX Crescent’ literally means that – and do not have a ‘street’ or ‘avenue’ comes with it (this unforgivable dumb and dumber faux pas was made by the call centre down south of where I am now ), to making me repeat everything I said 5 times over (in many different accents so they can understand me) and oh yes, the missing .dll file! I can go on and on, but you will be bored. At the end of the day, I cannot believe how much manhour were spent on me, and cost, and my own time over what I deem as, a very simple technical problem. And I thought the call centre standards CAME from North America. I think SingTel does it waaayy better. There.

Now with all this experience, the taxman appear like angels. But seriously, their service officers were a delight to deal with. Then again, who am I kidding. So does the VISA call centre girls, no?

I seem to forget that all who collects money are usually devils with a Rachael Ray grin.

Of cold cities

And so I am finally back in the quiet, serene world of Ruskin. The sounds of water flowing from the creek behind our yard never sounded so beautiful, and peace in the country seems so alluring.

10 days, 3 cities and almost many meetings later is no fun for anyone.It felt like the Duracell Bunny, on and on and on. I hardly had time to get out of the hotel in Washington DC, a whopping total of 5 hours was all I had,that is also because we had to get out of the hotel food cycle. There is only so much crabcakes I can take, delicious as they were.

We had great meetings in Washington, the summit was fruitful but the toll on our coordination skills were killing. There were times when a colleague who was with me addressed a NatGeo executive as a Discovery director, you get the idea. Shows we have done slipped like butter, and my HappyBerry did not help (that’s Blackberry for you non-geeks). I soon learn to hate that red flashing light indicating an incoming email or SMS, while you are thick in a meeting.

Montreal, I must say is gorgeous. The fashion is marvellous. It was a good thing I was focused not to shop, or I would have hurt my wallet. I did succumb and bought a silver belt but other than that, the snow falling on old ancient buildings facing wrought-iron statues, nestled in between oak benches were romantic enough. Sad that I was walking with ZB, we were both drowned in thoughts on how we wish our husbands were with us instead.

The big surprise was Toronto. My Singaporean instinct used logic to predict the weather, so I thought Montreal being way east would be welcoming me with a nasty winter . I was warned of frozen eyelashes when one visit Montreal in winter.

But I was wrong. Toronto, as energetic as it is – came blasting with -30 degrees. The windchill were biting, it felt like a bulldog who refused to let go of your leg. We dont walk in Toronto, we jog. TV news warned of frostbites, and the idea of having a finger chopped off while walking in the streets is not very funny.

Back in Vancouver, the 8 degrees is oh-so-warm. Like hot chocolate with marshmallows. Yes, THAT warm. Delishhh…

Someone from Singapore recently asked why Canadians like to talk about the weather. Oh well.

My niece got her O level results yesterday. I was as anxious as her, even though 18,000 miles away. I fell sleep and was woken up by her call at midnight and her tears. No fun, this O levels !Couldn’t sleep, and kept thinking of her options. When I asked her what she wanted to do and liked, she said journalism.

Oh dear. What have I done. But I know my niece, she has a lot of spunk and I know that didn’t come from me. She had always been a hyper kid since young. She thinks she is not a writer, and I am adamant that she is. She is. Mark my words.

What an exciting time for her, I wish I am a teen again. At least, I dont have to travel through cold cities in winter and be warm to people all at the same time 🙂

Being Jakun in a Blizzard

I may be the only person in BC who is excited over a blizzard.
Its not funny to the average Canadian, and its definitely cumbersome to have to stock up on the road salt, candles and torchlights in case of power outage, food and other paraphernalia whose sole purpose is to keep you entertained in the dark.

BC does not get that much snowfall, so when a snow storm is hitting the entire news network – and I mean ALL of them, gets excited too. The oncoming ‘cold front is hitting the Western coasts’ news angle was repeated over and over, and everyone braced for the worst. Me? The Singaporean in me made me rushed to the grocery store to get torchlights and batteries, and the real person in me worried about food.

The snow storm was due to start at midnight last night, and high winds were aplenty hours before that. I noticed a pattern – whenever there is sunny break during winter, followed by high winds – snowfall is eminent.

I waited all night to see the first ‘hit’. It didnt happen, and I fell asleep at 3 am. When I opened my eyes around 8 plus this morning, the first thing I asked DH was ‘Snow storm dah start?’and the answer was a nonchalant, ‘Just a bit’.

I slipped into my pink flurry slippers, wobbled into the living room and was all too delighted to see a white lawn. An hour later the blizzard began, and instead sighing, I rushed outside, camera in hand and start posing for pictures with SIL. DH went outside too with his new swanky camera, took a few snaps and told us to go inside. But noooo….I wanted to pose some more!

When all was enveloped in snow and the blizzard washed its white way away, all I could think about is prata, mee goreng and hot, steaming mee soto. Sigh. A quiet whisper rang in my head – Welcome back to Canada it said.

And so I am back after 4 months in Singapore. JALAN 2 wrapped a week after I left, thanks to the pure dedication of the team. These guys are like workhorses, endless nights, few hours of sleep, lots of nicotine and ounces of coffee. Because of other responsibilities, I was not able to be as closely in production with them as I was last season, but I know the show is in good hands.

I left on Jan 1st, and arrived on Jan 1st here in Canada. The day before my departure was Mak’s 69th birtday, and we had a great celebration with 51 cupcakes engraved with all of Mak’s nieces, nephews, children, grandchildren, grandnephews and grandnieces listed. I love the cupcakes. Thanks Cupcake Momma!

My eldest sister and her family were great hosts during my stay. I had lots of fun with the kids, annoying and bullying them all at the same time. Bliss !

Its good to be back. DH and I are all too happy to be back together in CA again, and I am too happy to be back in a blizzard, no less.Obviously, as far away from home as I am right now, deep down, the jakun Singaporean in me stays the same 😉

Humbling The Musical (What Puteri Gunung Ledang reminded us)

A theatre production is a massive undertaking. A musical, I am sure, is a mammoth task.

Months before Puteri Gunung Ledang The Musical was staged last weekend, an equally excited cousin SMS-ed me in Canada to let me know of its staging in the Esplanade. Unfortunately, we couldn’t secure any seats by the time I got here. But I persevered, and at the last minute we managed to get 2 tickets out of sheer luck, and watched the production last night.

But this is not a post about my journey to watch PGL. Neither is it about Tiara Jacquelina, the producer and main actress of the musical – who befittingly wrote in the musical’s programme booklet that the journey to make the musical has been a dream come true for her, and that if one lesson can be drawn out of this – it is to be brave in chasing what you dream for. I second you Tiara.

This entry is about the journey of my own people, who sometimes I think, are a tad too quick to be awed and hummed by anything massive, in size and form. Tiara has never actually claimed that the production is world-class, although I am sure she would like it to be. It is the numerous comments and reviews by those who have seen it, mostly Malays, who claimed that it is fantastic! marvellous! world-class! superpowered! You get the idea.

PGL The Musical is good, but it is not great. It has a long way to go before it can even be in the realm of an international musical standard. Tiara, I am sure, is a brilliant businesswoman. She would have the acumen to revisit the production’s viability to proceed internationally, before jumping the gun. But I worry effect of the many accolades that have been showered onto this production. It may blind the producers and the team. More importantly, my worry is what we have not learn from our own history.

For those of you who have not watched, here are the reasons why I think the musical has not crossed the mark:

1. Casting – Stephen-Rahman Hughes is a great singer for a musical, but not being a Malay-speaking person incapacitated his ability to emote well. None of his lines stayed with me, except that he ‘performed’ the lines and that’s it.

Tiara J is a beautiful lady, and I love how Javanese she looks. But her singing ability needs to be improved, because this is after all, a musical. Unforgettable heroines in musicals are all singing nightingales. With much prowess, I must add.

2. Lighting – Sadly, the lighting design is too flat, and not very creative. The best scene in the musical is a night scene where Hang Tuah and Puteri rendezvous-ed on a hill, and 3 backlights flashed from the back to give them a nice shadow. But err, that would be a 101 on theatre, no?


3. Story
– Call me a sucker for history, but I so love the story. The writers did well with the flow too, as it was very apt that the 2 chapters in the musical were cleverly divided geographically – Majapahit and Melaka. But I wanted more from Hang Tuah, who is the main man. He is after all, the epitome of a Malay warrior – all heart and soul, all brains and brawn. I was hungry to explore his dilemma between his loyalty to the King and his love for the Puteri, but I was left vacuummed. I was hungry for my real Hang Tuah, very famished in fact.


4. Music
– Ah, Dick Lee. With all due respect to his talents, I do think he is the wrong choice. Listen to the music score intensively, and you will notice the rhythm and melody is way too modern for a musical, set on an ancient manuscript. There were moments when I was looking into the musician’s box (I was sitting in the Circle seats) and watched the musicians instead. A theatre friend aptly commented there should have been live gamelan to supplement. The music score lacked the ethnic elements – the resouding thuds and throbbing gongs of our ethnic musical instruments. And Roslan (Aziz), you cannot replace them with electronic PSRs. They sound too hollow.


5. Set
– The ‘hill’ reminded me of Lion King but more importantly, it is too simple. There were good use of the white satin drape and the majestic Malaccan palace door, but only sparingly. Scrutinise the top part of the ‘palace’ facade and you will feel like you are looking at a cross between a Guangzhou temple and a Minangkabau house.

6. Off-tangent scenes – Top of the list is a scene where Sultan Mahmud of Melaka and his entourage danced the night away. Let me correct that – he samba-ed his way on stage, complete with the flipping of his long hair, and shaking his booty in front of the easily-excited audience. That must have been the scene that plummeted the musical from a good effort, to a high-school one. It was so campy and unbecoming of the character, that the audience were either shaking their heads or screaming for more. You know immediately who appreciate fact and fiction from the reactions alone. Someone needs to remind the producers that Sultan Mahmud IS a royal character, and dancing pop-jazz style, regardless in a yellow tanjak and expensive songket, should be reserved for a Britney Spears video.

But all these did not matter as much to me, when compared to the many compliments showered on the production. Just Google or Technorati your way online on the reviews, and you will read nothing but praises and compliments for the show. Yes, I do want Tiara and her team to bring this to the world. And yes, I will support it in any way I can. My way of doing it is to be honest with what I think.

How did my community get to this point where everything big, grand and colourful is great? It disturbs me that there was something unlearnt from our days of being awed by those massive British ships sailing into Singapore, the long tailcoat that Raffles wore to convince the Temenggung, the very easy way we can be fooled on what is the best and what is not. The PGL musical is a good effort, but we would be doing a disservice to the producers if we say it is great. How can they improve when we are comparing it only with what we have, and what we don’t have?

It is very easy to say the first is the best. This is not the first time that Singapore or Malaysia watch a musical – but this is a first publicly marketed event with a glossy poster that has Malay characters. That to me is form, and not substance.

I am not from the theatre circle, I am merely a member of the audience. If I put PGL The Musical against other musicals like Les Miserable, Cats, Phantom of the Opera and Lord of The Rings – PGL is not even close. And deep down I know Tiara and her team know this.

It is the audience easily-awed praises that disturb me. Surely we have learnt from our history not to be fooled by size and grandeur, or maybe not?

Don’t compare yourself with the rest, compare yourself only with the best. I wish PGL The Musical a good journey ahead to better itself, and I WILL watch it again and again for the sheer courage the producers have in forwarding a Malay story.

After all, that was what my standing ovation yesterday was for.

Of Hijab and Times


I met a friend’s friend last night briefly, a French man, who said something during a short 2 min walk between Gelare and the car parked in East Coast:

“You should go to London right now, you will change your mind.”

That line, was in response to my gushing about how of all the major cities in the world, I feel most free walking around in my hijab, as a professional,in London, Toronto and Vancouver. The last 2 being Canadian cities were of no issues, but he was adamant that I will change my mind about London. He asked when was I there last, and I must say it has been 3 years. A lot has changed, the hijab-ed lady has morphed to an unwanted fashion icon.

I am not one swayed easily by mass media dynamics. I take every single news report with a huge dose of salt, often backtracking in my mind whose agenda it is fulfilling. I don’t get ga-gaed on celebrity-dom, needless to say the faceless masks worn by politicians to shed their own value-system to blend in with the party’s worldview. The recent rhetorics thrown by political figures on how wearing the hijab means you are not integrating with the larger society, were to me, just another mass media propaganda. It is a psychological campaign and that was it.

But that statement last night made me think hard and fast about this whole hijab wearing issue. Where did all this fear come from? Are we really alien-looking that it makes them wonder if we can even say hello back to them should they want to be friendly with us? Are they all that naive and ignorant to think that Muslims, and those who visibly are, are bomb-strapped underneath the Prada bags? Come on, surely those who shamelessly claim they are shouting anti-hijab for the good of their society is totally high on somekind of Ice conconction? I cannnot fathom the stupidity, nor the ignorance. This coming from those elected to lead societies. Unimaginable.

At the heart of this is fear. It is justified to feel fear when you know so little of what you fear about, but an educated mind, would at least lead you to a position where you will find out what you don’t know. As a leader, then that position is no longer a choice, but a duty.

I laugh when I read about how certain quarters describe Islam and Muslims as barbaric, and medieval. I don’t get affected much by them, because I am not defined by what others think. Anyway, standing in a position where you are thought of stupid is always better – since no one will stand on guard to resist you. But to make judgements about what I wear, just to decide what kind of mind I have, is ridiculous.

Didn’t civilisation teach them, anything? I think they should revisit the definition of medieval, and maybe they will find some answers.And those answers are for us too.

————————

UPDATE (13 Nov 2006)

A fellow blogger Nazrah kindly sent me this article by Yvonne Ridley, after reading the above posting. Food for thought.

How I Came To Love The Veil

Yvonne Ridley, LONDON
First Published in Washington Post (www.washingtonpost.com)

Monday, October 23, 2006

I used to look at veiled women as quiet, oppressed creatures — until I was captured by the Taliban. In September 2001, just 15 days after the terrorist attacks on the United States , I snuck into Afghanistan , clad in a head-to-toe blue burqa, intending to write a newspaper account of life under the repressive regime. Instead, I was discovered, arrested and detained for 10 days. I spat and swore at my captors; they called me a “bad” woman but let me go after I promised to read the Koran and study Islam. (Frankly, I’m not sure who was happier when I was freed — they or I.)

Back home in London , I kept my word about studying Islam — and was amazed by what I discovered. I’d been expecting Koran chapters on how to beat your wife and oppress your daughters; instead, I found passages promoting the liberation of women. Two-and-a-half years after my capture, I converted to Islam, provoking a mixture of astonishment, disappointment and encouragement among friends and relatives.

Now, it is with disgust and dismay that I watch here in Britain as former foreign secretary Jack Straw describes the Muslim nikab — a face veil that reveals only the eyes — as an unwelcome barrier to integration, with Prime Minister Tony Blair, writer Salman Rushdie and even Italian Prime Minister Romano Prodi leaping to his defense.

Having been on both sides of the veil, I can tell you that most Western male politicians and journalists who lament the oppression of women in the Islamic world have no idea what they are talking about. They go on about veils, child brides, female circumcision, honor killings and forced marriages, and they wrongly blame Islam for all this — their arrogance surpassed only by their ignorance.

These cultural issues and customs have nothing to do with Islam. A careful reading of the Koran shows that just about everything that Western feminists fought for in the 1970s was available to Muslim women 1,400 years ago. Women in Islam are considered equal to men in spirituality, education and worth, and a woman’s gift for childbirth and child-rearing is regarded as a positive attribute.
When Islam offers women so much, why are Western men so obsessed with Muslim women’s attire? Even British government ministers Gordon Brown and John Reid have made disparaging remarks about the nikab — and they hail from across the Scottish border, where men wear skirts.
When I converted to Islam and began wearing a headscarf, the repercussions were enormous. All I did was cover my head and hair — but I instantly became a second-class citizen. I knew I’d hear from the odd Islamophobe, but I didn’t expect so much open hostility from strangers. Cabs passed me by at night, their “for hire” lights glowing. One cabbie, after dropping off a white passenger right in front of me, glared at me when I rapped on his window, then drove off. Another said, “Don’t leave a bomb in the back seat” and asked, “Where’s bin Laden hiding?”

Yes, it is a religious obligation for Muslim women to dress modestly, but the majority of Muslim women I know like wearing the hijab, which leaves the face uncovered, though a few prefer the nikab. It is a personal statement: My dress tells you that I am a Muslim and that I expect to be treated respectfully, much as a Wall Street banker would say that a business suit defines him as an executive to be taken seriously. And, especially among converts to the faith like me, the attention of men who confront women with inappropriate, leering behavior is not tolerable.

I was a Western feminist for many years, but I’ve discovered that Muslim feminists are more radical than their secular counterparts. We hate those ghastly beauty pageants, and tried to stop laughing in 2003 when judges of the Miss Earth competition hailed the emergence of a bikini-clad Miss Afghanistan , Vida Samadzai, as a giant leap for women’s liberation. They even gave Samadzai a special award for “representing the victory of women’s rights.”

Some young Muslim feminists consider the hijab and the nikab political symbols, too, a way of rejecting Western excesses such as binge drinking, casual sex and drug use. What is more liberating: being judged on the length of your skirt and the size of your surgically enhanced breasts, or being judged on your character and intelligence? In Islam, superiority is achieved through piety — not beauty, wealth, power, position or sex .

I didn’t know whether to scream or laugh when Italy’s Prodi joined the debate last week by declaring that it is “common sense” not to wear the nikab because it makes social relations “more difficult.” Nonsense. If this is the case, then why are cellphones, landlines, e-mail, text messaging and fax machines in daily use? And no one switches off the radio because they can’t see the presenter’s face.

Under Islam, I am respected. It tells me that I have a right to an education and that it is my duty to seek out knowledge, regardless of whether I am single or married. Nowhere in the framework of Islam are we told that women must wash, clean or cook for men . As for how Muslim men are allowed to beat their wives — it’s simply not true. Critics of Islam will quote random Koranic verses or hadith, but usually out of context. If a man does raise a finger against his wife, he is not allowed to leave a mark on her body, which is the Koran’s way of saying, “Don’t beat your wife, stupid.”

It is not just Muslim men who must reevaluate the place and treatment of women. According to a recent National Domestic Violence Hotline survey, 4 million American women experience a serious assault by a partner during an average 12-month period. More than three women are killed by their husbands and boyfriends every day — that is nearly 5,500 since 9/11.

Violent men don’t come from any particular religious or cultural category; one in three women around the world has been beaten, coerced into sex or otherwise abused in her lifetime, according to the hotline survey. This is a global problem that transcends religion, wealth, class, race and culture.

But it is also true that in the West, men still believe that they are superior to women, despite protests to the contrary. They still receive better pay for equal work — whether in the mailroom or the boardroom — and women are still treated as sexualized commodities whose power and influence flow directly from their appearance.

And for those who are still trying to claim that Islam oppresses women, recall this 1992 statement from the Rev. Pat Robertson, offering his views on empowered women: Feminism is a “socialist, anti-family political movement that encourages women to leave their husbands, kill their children, practice witchcraft, destroy capitalism and become lesbians.”
Now you tell me who is civilized and who is not.

Yvonne Ridley is political editor of Islam Channel TV in London and coauthor
of “In the Hands of the Taliban: Her Extraordinary Story” (Robson Books).

Separation Sisters

Many months ago, Mak and Busu were involved in telling their personal story on how the separation between Singapore and Malaysia affected them. The footage is slated for an instalment in the new National Museum, due to be opened this December. The instalment, aptly called Separation Sisters, talks about how Mak and Busu grew up in 2 different countries, confronted by different opportunities and how they grow closer due to the distance. Of course, this being an NHB project, there is no question that issues on national identity was touched on too.

I conducted the interview. Right after the filming, I left for Canada. I never did see the footages, although I roughly remember what was being asked and how at some points, both Mak and Busu shed tears about their early orphan-hood in Melaka.

Two days ago, I had a meeting with the museum people to revisit that instalment and view it again. In between laughters and lame jokes thrown in on how the issue of national identity has been butchered by my migrating to Canada, and Mak now living in Malaysia as a result, I clicked on the clip on the director’s laptop and plugged in the earphones to hear what Mak actually said. What I saw, and heard was painful. It was not painful then during the interview, but it is now that Mak Ngah, Mak’s 2nd sister just passed on a month back.

I didnt realise that the tears she shed during the interview was on how she was separated from Mak Ngah when she was young, and how much she wanted to be reunited with that elder sister of hers. As a result of the 4 Melakan sisters losing their parents so early, they were all adopted by different foster parents. Mak Ngah, as mentioned in an earlier post, was adopted by rather strict parents. Mak recalled how she would pass by the house where Mak Ngah lived many times just so that she can get a glimpse of her elder sister. I couldn’t bear to hear more of the interview. I quickly shut it down.Suddenly, all those nights Mak was with Mak Ngah during her last days at the hospital, reading endlessly the Surah Yasin and talking to her in soft tones, bear a new meaning to me.Suddenly, I feel choked thinking how we sometimes take the availability of our family for granted.

Mak is in Mekah now, and so is Busu. Because Busu has already left for Mekah when Mak Ngah passed on, she was not able to be here for Mak Ngah’s funeral. Busu left for Mekah from Melaka, and thus staying at a different hotel from Mak.

We just heard that Mak and Busu finally met in Mekah. I imagine how much tears there would be between them, because it would be the first meeting for Busu with any of her sisters to share the grief of losing Mak Ngah.

I had initially planned to bring Busu over from Melaka for the museum’s opening in December, and make it a big family do for Mak and Busu to view their instalment. The idea of having their personal story immortalised, is a priviledge.

But now that I have just been reminded what the interview was about,I am not sure if it is going to be a happy occasion.

Ramadan Reflections

I usually feel most connected to myself in Ramadan. They say to know yourself is to know God, and Ramadan – being a month full of ibadah, is a time that facilitates just that and therefore the subsequent effect of being connected to yourself was consequential.

But I worry. There has not been that connection this year, so far. The terawih prayers that I get to do have been sparse. The qiyamulails have not started, as Singaporean mosques usually do it on last 10 days of Ramadan, but I have no subsconscious plans in my head to wake up at 2.30 am in the morning and make a 10 steps trip to the mosque for it. The Quran reading of at least 10 lines a day, if not a half chapter has not happened.

The opportunity cost for not being able to do all the things above is something I have identified long ago as not a good enough reason to be an excuse.They are all dunya reasons. I shudder thinking at how easy it is to slip into old comfortable shoes and just treat Ramadan as a month to fast and count the days to Raya, and nothing else is dfferent in terms of prayer, reflection and connecting to God and yourself. When I was young, I used to think spriritual upliftment is a progressive linear line. My 12 year old mind thought that once you get things right, you will automatically do it again and better even. I confirm to myself yet again, that every year is a jihad. Much much stronger than the life-sacrificing kinds that serves no purpose around the world except for bulldozing a misguided dogma of some self-serving mullah.

I have about 11 more days to go. At this stage in previous years, I am already strategising my wake-up calls for the 2.30 am alarm so that I can make the 3.30 am qiyam prayers. I would have SMSed some regular friends from Ghufran to ask if they wld be at the mosque too. I would have missed sorely the melodious recitation of Imam Irshad Mawar’s Quran recitation if I miss any terawih prayers. The 18-year old’s reading has a way of making you rush home and practice your own.

I once wrote a column on how Ramadan is a month where I have my own mirror of self-reflection and see how smooth is the spiritual form I see in front of me.
11 days is a very short time. I know its my rezk that I have this consciousness to reflect on my Ramadan journey. Its also a gift that I get to share this with a lot of you reading this. I am somewhat jaded reading about Raya preparations and Raya thoughts.

Measure your Ramadan journey. Are you jogging on-the-spot too?
Come run with me. We can still make a sprint for it.

Coming back to a funeral


I did not come back for a funeral. My luggage is my proof.

The euphoria of returning to Singapore for the production of JALAN 2, and meeting friends and family whom I have not met for at least 6 months since my move to Canada wore off by the 3rd day of my arrival.

I remember that night. Returning late from an evening of production meeting and late supper with cousins, I was surprised when my niece told me that my mum was staying overnight at the hospital to accompany her elder sister. “Nek Ngah sakit..” was she all she knew, and my frantic self called several people at that midnight hour to confirm.

Nek Ngah, or Mak Ngah to me, is my mum’s elder sister. They are part of 4 Malaccan sisters, whose life’s journey fascinates me.Theirs is a story of lost, separation, survival and hope – one which I hope has a happy ending in their terms. My mum and her sisters were orphaned at a very young age, and had spent most of their childhood from one relative’s home to another. Some were lucky, like my Busu, who ended up in a loving home. Mak Ngah and mum did not. They were fostered out to a home where they were made to work on paddy fields so that they can feed themselves. Their little hands were tortured to carry heavy pails of water, and the fear in their kiddish hearts, were gripping.They were separated and then reunited, and then separated again.

But from all that, I learn real lessons in forgiveness. There was not strand of bitterness in them, all I get from them is their gratitude of being able to make it good here, thanks to the help of an uncle who saved them and took them out of Malacca to live with him in Singapore.

My own childhood was beautiful. Most of it has to do with the fact that I was the youngest in the generation, and lived in a big kampung house with not only mine, but Mak Ngah’s and Mak Long’s family as well. Mak Ngah alone had 6 children. In that 4-bedroom home – there were 3 families living together , with a grand total of 10 children. It was fun, much more fun for me being the baby in the family. I had always told my young friends then that I have 3 mums and 3 dads.How proud I was.

Mak Ngah, in her healthier days looked so much like mum, that they are often mistaken for one another. But I know my Mak Ngah well, she has a slightly bent set of fingers, and I liked to touch it when I was a young kid. So adamant was I to ‘fix things’, I tried many times to straighten it.”Sakit Uja…” was her plea for me to stop. I did. And two minutes later I would try again.

It was Mak Ngah’s compassion, and forgiving heart, that made me learn to forgive myself when I had the accident in New Zealand in 1994, where I lost my cousin. That cousin is Mak Ngah’s prized daughter, one of the smartest in the family. Mak Ngah was the one who told me and my friend (who drove the car) to move on and not regret what happened, and reminded that my late cousin would want us to continue our studies (we were in uni then) and not let the accident affect us. This, from a mother who had lost a daughter just a day before.This, from a mother who knew that it was at my suggestion that me and my cousin take 2 weeks off to NZ just to have a driving holiday. Like her childhood, she did not carry a single ounce of bitterness in her. I learn, again.

She makes a mean set of Sanggul Mak Inang, everytime there is an engagement or a wedding. When I was young, I used to tell her to make me one for my own wedding, and she always answered yes, only if she is is still around and healthy. And she did. Mine was the last Sanggul Mak Inang she ever made.

Mak Ngah collapsed 2 years ago, a year after I got married, on the last day of Ramadan. She succumbed to a stroke, which affected the left side of her body. I had my farewell gathering with my family before I left for Canada at her place, because I wanted her to be there and to ask her, barely mobile to help herself, to make her way to my place was unthinkable.

One the 1st of Ramadan this year, she passed on. We were all there, all 10 nephews and nieces, hordes of grandchildren and grandnephews/nieces, 2 of her sisters and her surviving 5 children. When I sat by her side and whispered to her ear that we were
all there for her, and that we all love her very much, I felt a strong presence of Mak Ngah’s daughter who died in the NZ accident as well.I felt choked and braced myself.

This trip back may not have started with pomp and laughter, but I am so glad in the pretext of coming back on business, Allah willed for me to spend Mak Ngah’s last moments with her.

Thank you Allah for arranging what is beyond me. To be able to say “Selamat Jalan, Mak Ngah” and plant that last kiss on her jenazah, was priceless to me.

Al Fateha.

Satay Saturday

What do you do when you have a bunch of friends coming over for dinner on a warm Summer evening, and they are a well-travelled bunch who has tasted almost everything there is to eat – from Chinese to Japanese to Indian, and not to mention, the Italian invasion of every food Western? Well, I say you suffocate them with a gastronomic galore of traditional Malay food,or so I thought. The idea remains brilliant, until you realise that you have never actually MAKE ANY of the traditional dishes you have in mind, and in faraway-land like Canada – you can’t actually run to the nearby hawker centre to buy the food and present them as your own (like I know a LOT of people do in Singapore..hahaha). Suffice to say that I dug myself deep into the holes of possible food disasters last weekend, but God saved me, I survived.

It all started with me wanting to treat a bunch of friends here to good ol’ Malay food last Saturday. DH and myself were gung-ho on planning the menu from day one. On one Wednesday night, DH whipped up his trusty clipboard, paper and pen during dinner – just to plan what we are going to serve to our friends so that I can quickly draw up my grocery shopping. I had a feeling he took it like how he has to design software with his ideas, and was quite perturbed by the clipboard. Alas, we didn’t quite succeed in our planning discussion, as we were too busy walloping dinner. And to round it all off, I confidently told him,”Don’t worry, I will think of something easy”.Not.

The next day, I was on a one-hour drive crossing over the US to visit a family friend in a hospital, with 2 lovely aunties. As luck would have it, we were stuck in overwhelming traffic for an hour at the border, so when you put a bunch of Singaporeans and ex-Singaporeans together – what do you talk about? No guesses,food.

They found out very quickly that I was yet to plan what to serve my guests on Saturday- and the suggestions on what to serve came fast and furious. There were many dishes thrown into the pot,many of which accompanied by oohs and aahs with the frequent slurping and harmonic renditions of “oooo sedapnyaaa…”.But none stuck to my head as much as ‘satay’ and ‘rendang’ did. Everything else was a blur. The fact that I have NEVER made satay (I made rendang once before, minus the kerisik though) was obviously also a blur to me.

It is a number ONE no-no to serve your guests something you have never made before.But the recalcitrant me just had to do it anyway (did I tell you my mum said I was born in a huge thunderstorm, and when I came out – the storm stopped? I blame the roaming electricity in the air for my stubborness. Serious). I did a quick search on the Net and found some recipes for rendang and satay. I was not sure which one to choose, so I used my gut feeling on which one would taste the best. I read the recipes diligently.Over and over again.

Boo-boos were aplenty. I read ’10 ulas bawang besar’ as 10 BIG red onions. It was supposed to be shallots. And thus my satay gravy was slightly bitter, and I had to make a long-distance call to my sister to ask her on how to repair my damaged gravy.

I bought 10 pounds of meat (chicken and beef) to make satay to feed 10 people, but that amount can easily feed an entire street of homeless folks for a day. I thought hey, with me and DH sticking the meat on the satay sticks together, we would finish the 10 pounds of meat pretty fast. Boy, were we wrong. We completed our satay-assembly task only at 3 am the night before the dinner.I had to YM Nazrah too to check if I have to put star anise in my satay gravy (or was it rendang?) and thank God that cooking queen was still awake.

Years of university did me no good. Suddenly, I don’t seem to be able to read. I thought I bought a packet of Tumeric Powder, dashed it into my chicken meat marinate – and realised later that the words on the packet said TAMARIND Powder. My chicken satay was a tad tamarind-ish, but it turned out to be a pretty good marinate!

By some grace, all the food turned out delicious. I worked up my guests’ appetite by making them pick some fresh sweet yellow plums from our backyard, and by the time they filled up their fruit bowl – they were famished 🙂 Good trick, yes?

You know the maths. When you are hungry, anything on the table will taste good.