IN THE FOREST I

by Rebecca

18/4/13

   It was nearly dawn. The makeshift path through a forest was barely visible in the morning mist that wrapped the surrounding trees and anything within its vicinity. The canopy of leaves above allowed a peek at the dark sky beyond the towering trees, while morning dew plopped down onto the damp ground beneath it. Gnarled roots of ancient trees snaked across the path and met each other in a tangle of knots. A cicada gave one faint encore of its music before disappearing into the crack of a tree trunk. Save for the occasional fall of a withered leaf, it was mostly silent. A wild pheasant was foraging for food for its young ones, it's black and brown feathers camouflaging it from beasts of prey. Suddenly, it stopped and raised its head, alert and watchful. It heard the sound of a broken twig again and in the next second, an arrow whizzed over its head. It hastily disappeared into the abyss of shrubs.

   A profanity about somebody's mother rang out from behind the trunk of an old jhomonsugi.

   “That could hv been our breakfast, fool!” a raspy, male voice hissed.

   “Why don't you shoot next time then?!” a nasal one snapped back.

   They were leopard poachers. On a good day, they could bag and haul two or three leopards to the black market. On a bad day, they robbed and killed civilians for supplementary income. Today was going to be one of those days.

   Silence followed after that. Both the men crouched low as they squinted their eyes to see better through the cloud of mist. Somebody was approaching. At least they wouldn't return home empty handed.

   A lone figure could be seen softly treading down the walk path. Clad in a black tunic and dark brown leather vest, the figure seemed average height. The face was partly concealed by a hood. The two men could make out a thick belt with a scabbard on the right side. Other than that, they did not see how the person could pose a potential threat; alone and with only one weapon, it was easy meat for them. The raspy-voiced one chuckled. Loud enough to be heard by the approaching stranger. The stranger stopped.

   The two men practically sauntered towards the stranger. One held a drawn bow, the arrow already aimed at its target. He was tall and gaunt, with hard eyes. There was a scar on the right side of his face. He spoke with a raspy voice.

   “Bit early for a morning walk, eh, stranger?”

  “Yeah, would you like some company? We're kind of free..” the nasal one snickered. He was stout and had dark, matted hair. He used his dagger to scratch an itch on his neck.

   The stranger said nothing.

  “Oh, don't care for a friendly chat? No matter, just unload whatever you have for a start. Then we'll think about what to do with you. Would that be eyes first or tongue first, Bo?” The raspy one asked meaningfully to his companion.

   “Well, Heng, I'll leave that to you to decide. My hands are itching to cut something. It's been a dull morning,” Bo licked his lips and chortled again.
(To be continued...)

OF DEATH AND THE LIVING

by Zabariah

18/4/13

   Benjamin Franklin, in a letter to Jean-Baptiste Leroy in 1789 wrote “In this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes...” Of course this proverb sounds so fatalistic and derisive but death indeed is inevitable and taxes could not be evaded. I certainly would not focus my energy on talking about taxes, but death somehow seems to be a common premise this year, to people I know. First Dr. Muhammad Uthman El-Muhammady, a renowned scholar from the Institute of Islamic Thought and Civilisation, International Islamic University Malaysia. The late Dr. Muhammad Uthman was a regular contributor to our programs on multi-religious understanding. I admire him for his thoughts and intellect.

   Next was Zainon Ahmad, fondly referred to as Pak Non, a respected and well-known media practitioner in Malaysia and South-East Asia. I knew Pak Non for his candid and analytical observation of political circumstances in and outside the country whilst maintaining his professional ethics as a journalist that of giving a balanced perspective on current issues. Then there was my friend’s mom whom I knew as a kind-hearted woman, and loved to wear kebaya. She passed away at the age of 81.

   Death has a way of snitching into one’s consciousness, recreating similar memories and hence changing one’s outlook of life and living. I remember vividly when one of my closest friends, Jill, died more than 10 years ago at the age of 32 from LSE. It felt surreal when I saw her body lying stone-cold at her mom’s place. I could not even shed a tear. The numbness was deafening.

    And 6 years ago my father passed away. I was thinking then “This could not be happening to me, to my family. He was the only father that I had, that I knew and all these were a bad dream. Yes, other people’s father could die for all I care, but not mine. “ Anger, rejection and self-blame are some very raw, potent emotions to deal with when there is death in the family. At that time, days and nights seemed very muddled and inconsequential. Sadness and somberness later began to be replaced by an aching pain, a pain that could only be felt but not expressed. A poignant pain that could only be lived through, never revealed nor understood.

   But time does heal. And time also allows death to be viewed in a different manner. Death is no longer considered with despondency and morbid fear. One then accepts that death indeed is a part of living, a part of renewal and a part of one’s belief in the Higher Being, one’s Creator. By finally accepting that, it brings solace to the soul. And one learns to forgive and let go of the past, not easy but at least the awareness and the efforts are there.

    And what about the living? Yes, death has a way of bringing the living closer. One tends to cherish every moment with one’s family and friends. One knows with a certainty that whatever little time one has, it would not last forever. “Life as John Moeleart said, “is the epitome of brevity. Death is the quintessence of eternity”.

MAKESHIFT BEDDINGS TO TRIPLE STOREY

 by Jenifer

18/4/13

   “Meeeee! Mimeeee!” shouted the ten year old girl and added, “Bobby! Bobbeee!

   She was holding a pot of boiled fish and stewed meat pieces in a concoction of white rice. As the animals came scampering at her feet, she scooped out the food portions generously into two round plastic containers and an old tin dinner plate. Right on cue, the two dogs, Bobby and Lassie knew exactly which to devour and polish off gleefully. Meanwhile the mother cat, Chimmy and her three kittens were sharing the dinner plate.

   What a sight! The girl swept her ponytail backwards as she jumped to whipped lightly one of the kittens that landed its paws upon its sibling’s head, not wanting to share the food. Boiled fish and rice. Leftovers from lunch or dinner, mixed with rice. These were food for my pets in the 70s.

Yes, indeed. I have had pets in my life ever since I was three. I could not for the life of me, remember for any one time, if my family was ever deprived of a pet. The pets ranged from cats to dogs, pigeons to squirrels, a rabbit and a tortoise-just to mention some of the animals that joined my family circle.

   Anyway, why I am reminiscing? Pets back then, and pets these days.

Back then, my pets were simple animals. They ate whatever leftovers, and food we prepared. Moreover, back in the 70s, we could not afford dog food and cat food. In fact, they were unheard of. Let alone, dog food; I cannot even remember if the word “Vet” or “veterinarian” existed. If anybody wanted to spay or castrate their pet dogs or cats, they would refer them to the Agriculture Department officers.

   Incidentally, my parents’ good friend work there. Refer to Uncle if you want to “potong” Lassie, our dog! “Potong” was a crude reference to “castrate”! Because it was done by a family friend, there was no charge; just give some food gifts as a friendly gesture.

My cats and dogs slept together in the shade at the backyard. Just a simple makeshift beddings from cut out of cardboard boxes, and old cloth rugs, were sufficient for them.

   Present day pets-a higher standard of living indeed. From the makeshift cardboard boxes beddings, Aster and Casper now live in a triple storey wired cat cage, residing behind my house cover with mosquito nettings and PVC table covering, to shelter them from the rain. As for food, they only feed on dry pellets of the “Smart Heart” brand. Even that too, the flavour has to be salmon or chicken only. They showered every two weeks in warm water and cat shampoo. Yes, like human babies, they were given three vaccinations as kittens in the first three months. My father actually commented that, the cats’ veterinarian bills and food bills were almost equivalent to his or more!

   The progress in human life-style has indeed covered every aspect and facet of our life. Our pets are no exceptions. We love our pets like family members and lavish them with similar material needs.

AN ORDINARY GIRL

(impromptu)

by Rebecca

11/4/13

   There was once a little girl. A girl so ordinary you'll pass by her. She was 8 years old, big bright eyes and her hair in pigtails. She loved to wear pink and she loved ice-cream. Just.. an .. ordinary.. little.. girl. Her name was simply May.

   But upon closer look, May was really no ordinary girl. Nobody could really put a finger on it. Yet, there was something unusual about her as she sat on her primary school desk, day to day, writing her composition. She was extremely, quietly calm.

   It so happened one day that as she was writing, a boy came up behind her. The boy had just been transferred from the other class. Something about the teacher not being able to handle him. Somebody got hurt because of him. But nobody knew what to do with him so they simply changed him to her class. The boy looked at her hair. He reached his hand out slowly, deliberately. Without any warning, he then forcefully pulled her hair back. He laughed hysterically. Oh did you hear her scream? He said to his new mates, she sounded like a piglet.

   May remained seated. She had stopped writing. Her scalp stung. She looked back at her tormentor. He was skipping from foot to foot, making faces at her. There were no teachers in the classroom. How convenient. May placed a piece of blank paper before her, she gripped her pencil, closed her eyes and .. started drawing.

   The boy was shouting, “Piglet! Piglet! Piglet! Pig----”

All of a sudden he stopped, his hand clutched his throat. His lips turned blue. His eyes widened and his mouth opened but nothing came out. Falling to the floor, his legs started lashing the floor. He was writhing like a cockroach on fire.

   The other boys thought he was fooling around so they laughed louder. Until they saw red, trickles of blood dripping from his nose and eyes. They stopped, petrified. One ran to call the teacher. The teacher rushed to his side. By then, he had stopped thrashing. He was still. His eyes rolled to the back of his head.

   In the chaos that followed; the principal demanding to know what happened, the sirens of the ambulance, children crying.. only one person seemed untroubled.

When it was time, May packed her bag to go home. In the car, her mother asked her, “How was school?”

   “Fine.”

   “What did you do today?”

   “I drew a picture. Wanna see?”

   “Ok.”

   May handed her mother the picture. Her mother glanced at it while driving, then a second glance. She pulled over and stopped the car.... her face was pale. Her fingers started trembling and sweat formed on her forehead. It was a picture of a boy, tongue lolled out, blood trickling from his eyes and nose. Lifeless.

   Her voice came out in a whisper...

   “May ........ what …. have...... you done?”

THAT SWEET MOMENT

(impromptu)

by Dunstan Chan

11/4/13

   My family was poor. Then again who wasn’t in the 50s? Though we were poor but I have many beautiful memories of my childhood. Many of them involved the regular trips to the cinema.

My parents were avid movie goers. When a new movie was in town my family would be among the first to watch it. I remember vividly those joyful evenings -- seven of us (2 adults and 5 young kids) would pile into Pak Mat’s taxi. Usually it was a P. Ramlee movie. The man was more than an icon of the Malay cinema. In fact, he was the Malay cinema. He sang, acted, directed, wrote and produced the many endearing movies of yesteryears -- the golden era of Malay film industry.

   His movies captured the whole range of emotions – grief and joy; tears and laughter; fear and hope. We would emerge from the cinema teary eyes but with laughter in our bellies and joy in our hearts. P. Ramlee believed in happy ending.

   Then it would be off to Abu’s place. Abu had a noodle stall where he would cook up a storm every evening. This was the pre-plastic days. The helcyon days when we still wrapped our takeaway food in banana leaves. Abu would “bungkus” a few packages. One the way home we could smell the sweet aroma of the fried noodle, egg and beansprouts fused together and conspired to test our patience.

REFLECTIONS THAT MOULDED 

(impromptu)

by Jenifer

11/4/13

   The childhood memories that hold dear to my heart were the ones spent in Sarikei, the town I was born. In the early 70s, it was indeed a sleepy, rustic and country-bumpkin kind of town that you could relate to a cowboy movie. What I like best was, we could walk anywhere and reach there in matter of 10-15 minutes; plus no traffic congestion-hardly many cars back then. People were mostly walking, cycling or on motor-cycles.

    Why I re-enact this, I was so unhappy when my father decided to move the family to Kuching. This happened when I was eleven years old. I could not imagine departing from my best friends, and the fact that I cycle to school everyday. In fact, I grew independent because of that bicycle which my father had given as a prize for achieving first position in my class when I was in Primary Three.

Moving to Kuching meaned no more cycling to school. No more bicycle gangs-yes, indeed, I had my bicycle gang-Maria, Adeline and Alice. I will lose the liberty to cycle to the town library with my little brother riding on the carrier behind my Mini-bike. Kuching is such a big town!

You can clearly imagine my distraught on the first day at school as a new girl in Kuching town. The atmosphere was so different from Sarikei. I missed all that freedom. I felt gagged in Kuching. There was no where I could go without my parents or an adult, because I was only eleven years old. Moreover, we could not walk to the town any longer. We had to take the bus, because Kuching was a bigger town than Sarikei, hence, all distances were longer!

    Looking back, I realised how much simplicity in life actually holds dear to me, than the complicated routines. I remember them more vividly than the chaotic mode I was in when I was in Kuching. I hold onto them with fondness on my dreary days. In fact, those simple bicycle days were what moulded me to being independent later in my college years. On top of that, moving away from the rustic mundane town, also was an eye-opener, which refreshed to adapt to various environment and cultures. If I had stayed put in the town where I was born, I would have grown up to be a hermit and possibly not graduated with a degree from overseas.

DANCE WITH MY FATHER

(impromptu)

by Zabariah

11/4/13

   Do you know the song “Dance with my father” by Luther Vandross? Whenever I listen to that song, it brings back memories of my father and the lessons, pertinent life lessons that he taught me.

    There are three things that I learned from him. First, to respect time. My father was never late for anything. He was the first to arrive at the office and the last to leave. Whenever there was any invitation for a kenduri (a village gathering), he would be the first to be present. He said this to all of us “Never be late for anything”. This respect for time is very much ingrained in all of us, his children that I become annoyed or perturbed every time if people are late for meetings, functions and the like.

    Second, taking the road less travelled. My father wanted all of us to be good in English, because he believed that that would get us somewhere in our lives. The only challenge then was the only English school in my kampong (village) was a Christian missionary school. The villagers were not happy when my father decided to enroll us in the school. “Your children would be proselytized” they said. But my father was indifferent to all these accusations. He took risk by having all his children enrolled in that school. I am glad he did stand his ground. If not for his principles, I would not find the beauty of the English language and the ability to understand other religions, Christianity in particular.

   Finally, saying thank you is a norm in my father’s daily vocabulary. Even for a small gesture of serving him a glass of water, he would say “thank you”. And I admire him for that, especially in a Malay family where the expression of gratitude to one’s children is a nonentity. The values that my father taught me I hold dear to this very day.