Forthnights

Why am I not surprised? Why am I not kicking in anger and frustration? You know how some people read about the misfortune of others, and those things seemed far away, like it was the kind of stuff that happens to others, but not you? Well, I get the opposite feeling.





Last night, my fathers car was stolen. Last year, my bike was stolen. Instead of being all exasperating in disbelief, I find myself saying "Why am I not surprised? Stuff like this was made for my family man. We are the epitome of Murphy's Law. What can go wrong will go wrong, and it will happen to us!



He left the car parked in a carpark, along with his laptop, 40 minutes later, he returns to find the car missing. The best part of it all is, the car title is in the car. So the crooks not only got the car, but also the deed. Fantastic. Just our luck. Jatuh ditimpa tangga according to Malay proverbs. You fall from the ladder, then the ladder falls on you. Double whammy.



I feel sorry for my father. He has to the take the bus from now on, and it takes and hour and a half. Not that the car was serving well anyway. He had just spend hundreds of ringgit repairing the cursed car, which was constantly overheating and breaking down. What would you expect out of a car as old as me? I hope the car breaks snap and the thief knocks into a truckload of manure, and he gets trampled silly by big fat cows. I hope the cops catch him. Anyway, vengeful feelings aside, its really tragic that his car got stolen, along with everything in it. He was just trying to rebuild his life down south, and here comes all this setbacks. I guess even at 52, life isn't easy.



How come the thief couldn't go and steal someone elses car? Steal a more expensive one dumb ass! Get the Merc, not the beat-up Honda! Isn't that car-jacking 101? Or maybe he was a novice thief going on his first hunt, you know, slowly learning the ropes. In which case, I guess I could be slightly lenient. If we caught him, I guess plucking out his fingernails and clipping high voltage clippers to his nipples and smearing honey over his dick near a bee hive. a couple of years in prison and the safe return of our car would be acceptable. I am an forgiving man, and I don't enjoy seeing others suffer. Unless he stole my car.



So there you have it, precisely the kind of thing that happens all the time in my life. I better go check if my bike is still around.

What a teeth gritting week it has been for me.



No, no... everything is fine. Mom is stable, job is fine, girlfriend is fine, brother is fine... its just me.. I'm not fine... OK, maybe I am fine, but I still did a lot of teeth gritting this week, and its mainly caused by 2 wheels, and lots of water.



You see, I travel 30mins to work daily.  As you might know, I use my gud'ol trusty bike (which is beginning to feel like a regular feature on my blog) to travel back and forth. Its an OK bike really. It brings me from A to B, it seldom breaks down, and running cost is low. The only thing it lacks is perhaps 2 more wheels, a roof, air conditioning, radio, boot, steering wheel and gear box.. but maybe thats expecting too much out of it.



Furthermore, being new at my work place, and having no official title or position, I consider myself a really expensive office-boy/secretary/dispatch/clerk. The only person lower level than me is the cleaner lady, who comes in 2 days once to tidy and clean. But even she bosses me around, having full authority to ask me to leave when she is vacuuming (which I meekly submit to).



So, I basically travel on gud'ol faithful a lot, running on various (silly) errants for my (delinquent) superior who joined the company barely 2 months earlier but enjoys acting like he knows what he's doing and bossing me around. Navigating under the hot sun smack in the middle of busy KL on a Tuesday afternoon brought new meaning to the words "Eat dust sucker!" Every time I come back from one of those errants, I would take a tissue and wipe my face, and the resulting colour on the tissue would be what I like to call 'off black', which is a lot like charcoal black, only a little white from the talcum I put on in a futile bid to stay clean and dry.



My dental torment (teeth gritting) started when the rain started coming, incidentally almost every morning and evening, right when I travel to and from office. As a motorcyclist, there are only 3 choices when the rain comes, all three of which I did make over the week.



The first is to find shelter, under a bridge, petrol kiosk etc and wait it out. The problem is, you (or rather I) will get stuck there for at least half an hour. Then, the roads are still wet, and cars passing by will whiz pass you, spraying you wet with their tyres.



The second choice is to take the bull by the horn and race through the rain. I tried that. I wouldn't recommend it. You get soaked wet all the way through, down into where the sun don't shine (which I will testify to), you put yourself in danger, and worst of all, hitting raindrops at 100km per hour hurts.. a lot. Unless you intend to ride with thick medieval armour, be prepared to be assaulted by a rain of bullets.... or bullets of rain whichever. Even if you are thick skinned, nothing compares to being bombarded consecutively by bullet size raindrops right at the nipple. My nipples never took such a beating before in my life. If you're into SM and those sort of 'pleasurable pains', hey, no need for the whip and cane, just go ride a bike under the rain.



The last option I came to was just to give up in defeat, resign to your fate, and accept the wet underwear and battered swollen nipples. So it was, that the next time those torrential downpours came my way, i resign to a steady slow pace, trying my best to protect my nipples and keeping my insides as try as possible while grudging the rain, gritting my teeth.



There is a saying that says that when it rains, it pours. In this case, it is both literal and metaphorical.



Just as I thought I hit rock bottom going under the rain, my rear tyre blows, and I go into violent swerves. I quickly slow down, thankful that no car decided to make me road kill, and pushed it under the bridge. I thought my luck had returned when a fellow motorcyclist said that he had the tools to repair my tyre. The catch was, his hand was injured, so I would have to change it, under his supervision. I had no experience changing a motor tyre, and I was in office attire, soaking wet. But since I had no choice, I rolled up my sleeves and went to work. An hour later, with grease all over my hands and sleeves, a couple of bruises and lots of sweat, we tried inflating the tyre. But our good friend's pump was damaged, and unless I could blow it like a balloon, my tyre wasn't anywhere near inflating.



So an entire hour worth of getting my hands dirty, dismantling part of my bike under a dark and wet bridge (it was already 9pm) amounted to nothing. I got on my bike, sat as front as I could, and took the next 15 minutes or so traveling at 10km/hour to the nearest workshop (which I knew would be closed anyway). I left the bike there and I called for help, and my brother picked me up and brought me home.



Perhaps this is just a over dramatic account of a simple case of regular setbacks in riding a bike. But emotions run high when you are hungry, wet and tired, and miles away from home. All you want to do is go home and take a shower, but even that seemed too far a reach for me at the time. It felt as if God was telling me that I had to work for it, even if it is as simple as a shower and warm meal, it never comes easy. It was the curse put on Adam at the beginning of time







That was just Tuesday. Though that was the only time I suffered a punctured tyre, I have gotten wet everyday for the past 3 days. My sympathetic brother said "Maybe you should get an old car when you graduate." My father tried getting me to be reflective "Some day, you will look back and remember the hard times you went through," My mother and girlfriend offered their sympathies "So kesian, come let me make a drink for you,"



Hence, for the pass few days, I have thought of nothing but how nice it would be if I had a car. Coming home in the rain today, I imagined (fantasized really) about driving to and from work, listening to CDs, feeling the cool breeze of air conditioning and the engine roaring, and mostly, the wipers wiping the rain water off the windscreen outside the car.



But just as another car speeds by and splashes a generous amount of water on me, I snap back into reality, and I finally remember something I forgot.





Perhaps its time to buy a freaking raincoat!!

I think I just did the silliest thing all week.



I went to the petrol kiosk to fill up my bike. I walked into the store, grabbed the morning paper, paid for it, along with the petrol.. walking out of the store while reading the paper. Then,amazingly (or stupidly actually), I got on my bike and rode straight off, without pumping gas first.



A hundred meters away, I realised my folly, but I was too embarrassed to turn back. So I just carried on, acting as if nothing was wrong, and everything was deliberate, and hoping the tank had enough gas to get me to the next nearest station.



Not sure if I fooled anyone (other than myself of course), but its going to be a long while before I visit that particular station again!

Can you imagine yourself getting married to someone you have never even met? To meet your spouse only on your wedding day?



To put myself in those shoes for a moment, I cannot imagine how it must feel. The feeling of anticipation and excitement, but also fear and dread? Will she be pretty? Will she be sweet? Worse, will she be fat and ugly? Will she be rough and manly? Of course, we all naturally hope for the best. But closer to reality, not every bride looks like Katie Holmes. Rosie O'Donnell is a far more realistic expectation, which really crushes your heart!



Anyway, the point is, either way, you cant choose. That being said, I cannot understand just how come some people are willing to be wedded to a complete stranger.



My colleague is from India. And he did not know his wife until the day they were married. I'm not even going to ask him if they 'got it on' right on the first night. The interesting thing is, the entire arrangement was done by the family of the bride and groom. Dowry issues, compatibility according to the constellations and even their characters were discussed. The persons closest to both bride and groom will disclose to the other family about his/her, strange peeves, preferences known to them even down to how often they change their underwear... OK, maybe not the last one... The point is, the process of a couple getting married is very much a family affair. While in the traditional western culture, marriage is something of a personal decision, 80% (as quoted by colleague) of marriages in India are arranged. You dont get to pick and choose. Just tell mom what kind of girl you like, what kind of food you like most for dinner, and gud'ol mom will take care of everything.



In Malaysia, arranged marriages are something of rarity these days. No longer do our parents arrange spouses for us once we start hitting puberty. Of course there are exceptions. Most of those who do go for arranged marriages are either too old, or are extremely ineligible to put it nicely. Perhaps 2 generations ago, they were still arrange, but today, at least in the Chinese community, marriage is a personal choice. You marry the girl you love, and by that, we assume that since it is our personal choice, it will turn out ok.



But listening to this colleague of mine, I realised that there are a few good points, and marriage out of choice isn't always the best thing for all of us.



"In a normal marriage, during courtship, both sides will strive to show their best sides and hide all other 'less appealing' sides. So the courtship is sweet and wonderful. WHen you get married, you think you are marrying an angel. But after a few years, and all disguises are worn down, the reality of marriage becomes to much. Your partner is not what you expected and you wonder "What happened to the man I married." when in fact, this is his true face."



In arranged marriages, expectations are clear because families talk to each other frankly about potential issues. So when you put that ring around her hand (or thali over the neck for Indians), you know what kind of doom awaits you. So, even if she looks like a female version of Arnold Schwarzenegger (man thats hard to spell), at least you know she makes a good pot roast, is good at knitting and has a liking for potted Bonsais.



To say that you will not love your spouse because it was arrange is not entirely true either. Anyone who has been in a serious relationship will tell you that true love comes only after all the fights, after the sacrifices, after seeing the worst sides of your partner. All else before were just fuzzy feelings of infatuation.



I guess in an arranged marriage, the couple is expected to learn to love one another. And since you are married, the option of breaking up is not so easily available, and as such, both sides will put their best efforts in making it work in the long run. The concept of learning to love your partner is perhaps still new to many of us. To many of my friends of my age, love is a feeling you get. And when you find yourself having no more feelings for them, you leave and tell them 'i dont love you anymore.' They never realise that they never loved each other truly in the first place. To have feelings for someone is not the same as loving someone. Personally, I had feelings for this one particular girl a while ago, but despite my infatuation, despite liking her so much, I knew that I did not love her. The fact remained that I didnt know much about her, and you cant truly love what you dont know.



That being said, I would still rather jump off a (small) cliff than to marry a stranger. But I do think that these arranged marriages, done with the right mindset and maturity by the future bride and groom, arent bad either. Sure, its not romantic, sure its no fun (in fact its down right scary), but at least you go into it knowing what to expect. After all, it was your family who arranged it for you, how evil could they be right? Your mom wouldnt marry you to the next spinster she sees on the road just to get rid of you would she?



So all of you still into arranged marriages, a word of advice, be nice to your mother if you dont want a wife who looks like Shrek.

After 12 hours since we began packing, lifting, carrying, loading unloading, carrying and finally unpacking, I am now officially moved, now staying with my brother and mother in his rented apartment.



Around me are still a dozen unopened, unsorted boxed, full of items I insisted we never bring in the first place. But being a sentimental junky, my brother insisted on bringing every single thing over. Better to keep than to throw and regret later he says. He asked me to tone down on my 'throwing frenzy' that I had been on lately. My motto was 'If you havent seen or touched in in a year, and still dont miss it, then its junk.'



Ironically, its 130a.m., I'm working tomorrow, and it is I who am going through the junk sorting and clearing, and of course, throwing. On the other hand, my brother is sound asleep in his master room, full of boxes, enjoying his new queen size bed from our old place, which he was rather quick at claiming ownership. Meanwhile, his old single bed has been relegated to me in my tiny room, while my mother sleeps on the floor. I actually asked her to take the bed, but she insisted on the floor. She said she liked the coolness of the floor, and the bed made her feel hot. I'm not sure if its her maternal instincts, or she really is cool as a penguin. Whenever the rest of us are cold, she would say its just nice. When we say its just nice, she says its hot. When we say its hot, she behaves like she's sitting in an oven.



My guess is, its going to take the entire week to unpack the things and get really settled in. The problem is thisl; we have more things than we have places to put them, all courtesy of my brothers 'throw nothing, use everything' policy. He's been trying to convince me to agree to him buying some horrid steel cabinet from Ikea, which he fell in love with last Saturday. Firstly, I dont even know why he even feels the need to have my consent since he is the (self appointed) boss around the house, and he is paying for it. Secondly, I dont particularly like wire meshed cabinet, especially ones with a name like 'Omar'. (I never get why Ikea likes to give funny names to each and every one of their items.) It makes talking about furniture feel weird.



"If we had Omar around, the place would be so much neater, and we could stack the boxes."



"Even if you do have Omar, there is a limit to what you can put on it. Its steel mesh!"





The part I hate most is; my father left to go work down south, and it is up to us to take care of his stuff and 'preserve his legacy', faithfully taking care of his books from before we were born. My brother is somewhat like him; despite my insistence, he has refused to throw away his university notes. Thats 4 years worth of notes (or junk as I call it). To lead by example, I threw all but my final year notes. But he insisted that it was knowledge, and "You dont throw knowledge away like that' I countered and said "Knowledge not put to use is useless."



I'm not sure just what kind of blood runs through my families veins, but I just keep on having this picture of beavers storing and collecting everything to build their little dam. Picking every wood chip, every branch, every twig, because "They might just be useful some day."

The weekend approaches, as much as I want to just sit back and relax, it is not to be.



This weekend is the week we are completely moving out of our old place (the one I was staying at up until last month). We will be moving all the things to my brothers place, and I will be officially moved out of that place, and settling into my new life, post college days.



Moving is a real pain,everyone knows that, on the muscles, as well as the mind. All the packing, lifting and unpacking only serves to remind you that you are going far far away to a place other than where you used to call home.



Worst part of it all is, being the principle tenant in our current place, he has taken the master room, along with the bathroom, and my mother is now relegated to my room, which incidentally is the smallest one there. So my mom is also my roomie from now one. Furthermore, since I am working now, my brother insist on charging me rental for the room!



Cant say it isnt fair since I am living there to. But considering that for now I am only working on a temporary day to day basis, you cant really expect me to be earning good money right? So much for saving cash to buy a camera.



The last issue that is really a pain in the butt for me is this: I am of the opinion that only the essential things be brought along. The rest of these 'sentimental

which we claim to be valuable but leave to collect dust over the years, are really just junk with a high emotional price tag. I said anything you havent seen for 6 months and still not notice it is junk. But my brother cant get himself to throw these things away, and just got defensive.



In the end, its the will of the person paying for it all that prevails. So this weekend, I will expect myself to be carrying a lot of (his) junk, since my own junk have been thrown away mercilessly a few weeks back. And trust me, the sheer amount of junk my brother has is just ridiculous.



So that all until next week! Take care.

they run like Daffy Duck

Who says Sarawak isn't interesting eh?

*I'm dead meat if my friend reads this. :-p

A piece of good news.. I passed all my papers!



That means its all systems go for me to fly to the UK this coming June, provided RM 30k drops on my lap in time. I have done my calculations, even at 30k, its just enough to get me through living over there for 3 months. With an exchange rate of RM6.90 to 1 pound,its going to be a real test of 'how-stingy-can-you-get'.



At September, I'll be flying home,and in October, I'll be starting work in my current company, and almost immediately, start my repayments to my boss for the loan he has given.



It many sense, I should feel grateful. After all, its an interest free loan from him. The problem is, I have to repay it in 3 years. On top of that, I have 2 other loans to pay. My government education loan, RM10k, and the personal loan from MGAIUK (my-girlfriends-aunt-in-UK) Suddenly, being an adult earning your own money doesnt seem that great after all.



Truth be told, I am envious. Jealous really. Jealous of all those around me who seem to have a better deal in life than me. They don't have an ill mother, they dont have a broke father, they dont have to fend for themselves early on. Even till now, they just reach out their hand, and money comes their way. Question on who's paying for their study in the UK doesn't even come up. During Chinese New year, I found out that one of my cousins, at age 25 was buying a brand new Toyota Vios worth 70k. He had argued with his father about it, insisting that they help him with the down payment of his new car. In the end, the family gave him RM30k and the remainder, he took a bank loan. Its unbecoming of a 25 year old man to ask money from his dad, but the soft hearted double standard hypocrite dad gave in. The same uncle who would even stand guarantor for me. On the contrary, my dad called me last week, basically telling me that he will not be giving me any money this month because he has run dry on funds. He said since I am working, I should be able to cover my own expenses. I argued that I only worked for 2 weeks the previous month, so even a little cash on his side would be much appreciated. Its almost the middle of the month, but there's no sign of any cash till now. I even had to pay for his stupid road summons



I guess its nothing new here; money is the root of my jealousy. I know it cant buy happiness. I know it cant buy health, dignity or respect. But despite what I know, deep in my heart, I wished that I was someone else's son. It doesnt even have to be a rich family, just a normal, stable, providing family. I looked at my cousin with such sickness and disdain. Here he was arguing with his father about giving him more money, boasting about his two hundred dollar cloths, his 2 PDA phones and eating dinner with a bluetooth headset on his ear (which really showed what a materialistic jerk he is). Hey, unless you are waiting for a million dollar business call, you don't need that piece on during dinner. My generation is truly is the entitlement generation.



I know we aren't exactly poor. We are just extremely cashless.



For once i wished it was my vain, materialistic and selfish cousins, and not me who was eating humble pie. Its tiresome. It feels unfair, it feels like more than my share of lemons.

It seems while I was away having a holiday over in East Malaysia, things at home weren't going as well as I hoped it to.



Just a few days before I left, Mom was already showing signs of restlessness and uneasiness. She had returned right on the eve of CNY, and when she did, she seemed rather stable and contented. I learned from my brother that roughly a few weeks earlier she had taken a jab up north in the hospital, at her own. Seeing how it was CNY, I didnt force the issue.



A day before leaving to Sarawak, mom showed signs of a pending relapse. She was easily agitated again, jumpy and generally uneasy.



A few days after leaving, I learn from my brother that things went from bad to worse. She had become unbearable. By his own admission, my brother told me that he had slapped her. On top of that, they had fight in the house, right in front of my brothers friend, and the scene was rather ugly.



Though I was not there, I only knew too well what it was like. I had been dealing with it for the past 2 years of college life. I felt guilty not being there. It felt almost irresponsible to be here in East Malaysia, enjoying a week long holiday watching sunsets, pigging out and taking long walks along the seaside while my brother was home fighting fires. But there was nothing much I could do until I returned a few days later.





My brother had taken emergency leave and went with my mother to see the psychiatrist. Amazingly, the doctor did not see the need to give her an injection; perhaps out of sympathy, perhaps out of his own assessment. Instead he decided to put her on a heavy dose (havent we heard that before?) to be administered daily. I asked my brother how he has been coping and administering. He said that he has had to forcible give her the medication. Now I have no idea what 'forcibly' might imply, but its never a good thing when you have to administer medicine against a persons will.



As I came home tired from my flight (I was initially going to post an account for my first experience flying, but I guess that will have to wait), I was apprehensive as to what lay ahead. As usual, it seem like the life story for all sorts of enjoyment to be prematurely ended by never ending episodes of drama coming from my family. I came home to a sour faced mother that night, one that was not quite herself, who managed to do start amazingly start an argument with me within 10 minutes. My brother just called me out, and told me not to bother dealing with her. According to him, she is much better compared to the week before when it seemed that all hell had broke loose.



She is now on 4 different types of medications. 2 anti-psychosis, 1 for side effects and 1 for her high blood pressure. I have their names engraved in my mind and at my finger tips, not ny choice, but merely because I have been dealing with these issues for so long.



After all her running around, she finally decided to come back to us on her own will. Before, she had said that she wanted her freedom, even if it meant that she was away from her children. She left, and lived like a nomad for a month, moving from place to place, staying in a shelter home, sometimes on the street, then finally at a church. But even there, she said she couldn't get along with some of the people there, and she finally came home. I think she returned not because she wanted to but because she had no where else to go.



I no longer begrudge having to take care of my mother, though I still find it hard to dodge questions about my family; whilst in Sarawak, the mother of my friend kept asking me about my like in West Malaysia, especially about my family Does your mother cook? What kind of food does she cook for you? Doesnt your mother make these kinds of cakes for you? I found it hard trying to answer honestly without going into my family details. Not that I was against sharing, but I just didnt think she would understand, plus I didnt want the flurry of questions that usually accompany such revelations.



Sometimes, when I watch my mother, I feel sad. For anyone with a keep eye, you would see that she isn't normal. She twitches her eyes alot, she stiffens her fingers for no apparent reasons, she rolls her eyes, and she doesnt always talk in full sentences; its all due to the side effects of the medication. I understand why she isnt fond of going out a lot. At home, it is only us that see it. But outside in the big world, the eyes of society arent that kind; adults would whisper among each other, children will point their index finger to their head and make small circle, a sign that someone is crazy. That is the kind of stigma she has to face daily, and as her son, it is heart breaking.

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