The train of 2009 is chugging inexorably into station. It has been a relatively uneventful ride, with no major hiccups - no derailed hopes, no stalled ambitions nothing nada nought.
Hopefully 2010 will continue in this vein.
Merry X'mas, all.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Friday, October 30, 2009
My own cell
Two weeks have passed since I moved into my 67 sqm or so HDB cell. One of many cells organised and structured in the honeycomb that is called the HDB high-rise. Every morning, from my ninth-storey vantage point, I could make out lights flickering into life in the honeycomb facing mine. Doors will open and disgorge drones with bleary eyes and fuzzy minds, all taking the tentative steps to another day of labour - all for the sake of paying off that $200 over thousand dollars cell that's our home, our cove, our prison.
So from the prison of matrimony to the prison of habitation, my life takes another turn.
I am so *not* excited awaiting my first CPF deduction to pay off this 20-year prison debt.
So from the prison of matrimony to the prison of habitation, my life takes another turn.
I am so *not* excited awaiting my first CPF deduction to pay off this 20-year prison debt.
Friday, September 11, 2009
My boss, my leader, my conscience.
The days, they are slipping away fast like sunlight streaming out of the eaves.
as night plays musical chairs with dawn, i am fading away like the dying cries of the cicadas.
i lament the chaos, the disorder, the anomie of the organisation.
what is organisation but alphabets jumbled up in an incoherent mish-mash.
who is a leader that does not align his deeds to words,
but an empty vessel trawling a route of misdirection.
so much unhappiness seething in the ground,
and yet he sits unmoved in his ivory tower.
as another torrent of meaningless dither comes forth,
sad we are, the misguided crew.
as night plays musical chairs with dawn, i am fading away like the dying cries of the cicadas.
i lament the chaos, the disorder, the anomie of the organisation.
what is organisation but alphabets jumbled up in an incoherent mish-mash.
who is a leader that does not align his deeds to words,
but an empty vessel trawling a route of misdirection.
so much unhappiness seething in the ground,
and yet he sits unmoved in his ivory tower.
as another torrent of meaningless dither comes forth,
sad we are, the misguided crew.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Moving house
Oh I will miss
The pitter-patter of
My niece's little feet,
When I pack up
And move house.
Oh I will miss
The fragrant and delicious
Cooking of my mom,
Commingled with her admonitions,
When I pack up
And move house.
Oh I will miss
All the familiarity and comfort
That I grew up with
The last 30 years.
When I pack up
And move house,
A chapter will come to an end
And I'll begin another.
The pitter-patter of
My niece's little feet,
When I pack up
And move house.
Oh I will miss
The fragrant and delicious
Cooking of my mom,
Commingled with her admonitions,
When I pack up
And move house.
Oh I will miss
All the familiarity and comfort
That I grew up with
The last 30 years.
When I pack up
And move house,
A chapter will come to an end
And I'll begin another.
Monday, August 24, 2009
The Saturday Night Gang
It is yet another Saturday night
At the corner coffeeshop,
A few streets from my house.
All eyes glued to the stylo-mylo LCD TV
Broadcasting images of stick men
Chasing a round thing
On a field of green;
We are the Saturday Night Gang.
Over bottles of Tiger Beer and Carlsberg,
Mugs of Kopi-0 Kosong and Teh Peng,
Lazy twirls of cigarette smoke curl
With hopes, rising a-stir.
We are all punters on a flutter,
Clutching our betting slips nervously
And swigging our alcohol or caffeine
With wild abandon,
Eyeballs entranced by the shiny LCD TV.
Cheers and jeers go hand-in-hand,
Compliments and invective fly about;
The action in the LCD TV holds us allured.
90 minutes come and go,
Clinking bottles toasting triumph...
Or torn betting slips.
Big beaming smiles...
Or shredded hopes.
Which describes you,
The Saturday Night Gang?
The footy match ends,
And so, with many of our coffeeshop pipedreams.
Amidst abandoned bottles and littered butts,
Lie the carcasses of our valiant bets.
It is yet another Saturday night,
Where we nursed a small flickering hope
Of making a killing...
Except we ended up being killed by
The vagary of a leather ball.
At the corner coffeeshop,
A few streets from my house.
All eyes glued to the stylo-mylo LCD TV
Broadcasting images of stick men
Chasing a round thing
On a field of green;
We are the Saturday Night Gang.
Over bottles of Tiger Beer and Carlsberg,
Mugs of Kopi-0 Kosong and Teh Peng,
Lazy twirls of cigarette smoke curl
With hopes, rising a-stir.
We are all punters on a flutter,
Clutching our betting slips nervously
And swigging our alcohol or caffeine
With wild abandon,
Eyeballs entranced by the shiny LCD TV.
Cheers and jeers go hand-in-hand,
Compliments and invective fly about;
The action in the LCD TV holds us allured.
90 minutes come and go,
Clinking bottles toasting triumph...
Or torn betting slips.
Big beaming smiles...
Or shredded hopes.
Which describes you,
The Saturday Night Gang?
The footy match ends,
And so, with many of our coffeeshop pipedreams.
Amidst abandoned bottles and littered butts,
Lie the carcasses of our valiant bets.
It is yet another Saturday night,
Where we nursed a small flickering hope
Of making a killing...
Except we ended up being killed by
The vagary of a leather ball.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Friday afternoon
The sky frothy with rain clouds
Has finally broken with a deluge.
Time's heavy head takes
A surreptitious nod
In the drowse of this Friday afternoon.
Clammy fingers of cold
Worm through the walls
Of an office thick in slumber.
Nestling in the cradle
Of Friday afternoon,
Such wondrous delight
To be oh so languid.
Has finally broken with a deluge.
Time's heavy head takes
A surreptitious nod
In the drowse of this Friday afternoon.
Clammy fingers of cold
Worm through the walls
Of an office thick in slumber.
Nestling in the cradle
Of Friday afternoon,
Such wondrous delight
To be oh so languid.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
You
I see faces everywhere
In this melting pot
That I call my home,
My Singapore.
Also your Singapore.
I have nothing against you
After all, we are all migrants
In some way or other.
Pastures greener we flock to
So I understand.
Such's globalisation.
My forbears were migrants too
I am the children of the children
Of the children of migrants.
So many tiers removed, so many permutations.
So I have nothing against you
As a new migrant, ephemeral or permanent.
Yet, I do have something against you
When you start telling me
A citizen borne of the soil
What to do.
You are just my guest
You don't supersede the host
And tell him how to man his backyard.
So if you are here
To partake of your host's tea and provender
Spare a thought and
Be sensitive.
Don't attempt to overthrow your host
From his own abode.
You wouldn't want to be
Known as foreign trash
Do you?
In this melting pot
That I call my home,
My Singapore.
Also your Singapore.
I have nothing against you
After all, we are all migrants
In some way or other.
Pastures greener we flock to
So I understand.
Such's globalisation.
My forbears were migrants too
I am the children of the children
Of the children of migrants.
So many tiers removed, so many permutations.
So I have nothing against you
As a new migrant, ephemeral or permanent.
Yet, I do have something against you
When you start telling me
A citizen borne of the soil
What to do.
You are just my guest
You don't supersede the host
And tell him how to man his backyard.
So if you are here
To partake of your host's tea and provender
Spare a thought and
Be sensitive.
Don't attempt to overthrow your host
From his own abode.
You wouldn't want to be
Known as foreign trash
Do you?
The tissue-selling aunty
She stands alone
In her plain white top and baggy black pants
That have seen better days.
Clutching a bag spilleth with tissue packets,
Plaintive eyes yearning for a helping hand.
Three packets of tissue for one dollar please,
Pittance for us, gold to her.
The blur of human motions obscures
The old lady standing sadly and helplessly.
A mote in the morass
A speck in the sea
Just one among many
Of our fellow citizens fallen on hard times.
A fleeting glance we throw her
As we hasten to our abodes for a warm meal
And snug bed.
Old lady with her bag of tissue packs
Standing among the peak hour's commuters.
When I think back, try to recall her face,
Alas!
She is just another footnote
In yesterday's page of memories.
In her plain white top and baggy black pants
That have seen better days.
Clutching a bag spilleth with tissue packets,
Plaintive eyes yearning for a helping hand.
Three packets of tissue for one dollar please,
Pittance for us, gold to her.
The blur of human motions obscures
The old lady standing sadly and helplessly.
A mote in the morass
A speck in the sea
Just one among many
Of our fellow citizens fallen on hard times.
A fleeting glance we throw her
As we hasten to our abodes for a warm meal
And snug bed.
Old lady with her bag of tissue packs
Standing among the peak hour's commuters.
When I think back, try to recall her face,
Alas!
She is just another footnote
In yesterday's page of memories.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Bus ride
Sweeps me along, through congested lanes and narrow alleys,
My bus ride takes me everywhere.
Air-conditioned comfort, TV mobile, plush seats,
What more can I ask for?
Vistas of verdure,
Hives of high-rise,
Concentrations of construction activity,
The hubbub and buzz of a strange world resides
Outside my bus windows.
44 years of metamorphosis,
And yet rootedness has taken flight from my soul.
What do I see out of the bus windows,
But the unfeeling mortar and mechanisation
Of a nation spreading its wings far and wide.
Leaving me and countless others in the slipstream,
Ours, a bus ride destined to lag behind
The va-va-vroom of purblind progress.
My bus ride takes me everywhere.
Air-conditioned comfort, TV mobile, plush seats,
What more can I ask for?
Vistas of verdure,
Hives of high-rise,
Concentrations of construction activity,
The hubbub and buzz of a strange world resides
Outside my bus windows.
44 years of metamorphosis,
And yet rootedness has taken flight from my soul.
What do I see out of the bus windows,
But the unfeeling mortar and mechanisation
Of a nation spreading its wings far and wide.
Leaving me and countless others in the slipstream,
Ours, a bus ride destined to lag behind
The va-va-vroom of purblind progress.
Spin
You pick up the morning broadsheet,
That cornucopia of information
You rely on to get a hang of this world,
This dot called Singapore too.
The parade of words
Cramped close in column inches.
Words with insidious meanings
Words designed to obfuscate
Words that hypnotise you into complacency
Such pliant reader are you
That beside the smudges of ink on your lil fingers,
That Nebula of your mind too
Is smudged and clouded by Spin.
Planting falsehoods
Feeding misinformation
Perpetuating evasions
Evading truths
It is just Spin.
All in a morning's work
for our revered broadsheet.
That cornucopia of information
You rely on to get a hang of this world,
This dot called Singapore too.
The parade of words
Cramped close in column inches.
Words with insidious meanings
Words designed to obfuscate
Words that hypnotise you into complacency
Such pliant reader are you
That beside the smudges of ink on your lil fingers,
That Nebula of your mind too
Is smudged and clouded by Spin.
Planting falsehoods
Feeding misinformation
Perpetuating evasions
Evading truths
It is just Spin.
All in a morning's work
for our revered broadsheet.
They are coming
You see them everywhere.
They could be your computer programmer colleague from Bangalore, India. They could be the electrical engineer contact from Dalian, China whom you liaised with in your job. They could be the Malaysian cook at the economy rice stall you always patronise for lunch. They could be the Bangladeshi worker who sweeps the corridor outside your HDB cell. They could be one of the hordes of Indian workers on bus service 960 heading towards Kranji on a Sunday night. They could be the pretty Vietnamese girl sitting six seats away from you in your Electrical Engineering class in NUS. They could be your Canadian boss in the public relations agency where you slog 8am to 8pm, five days a week. They could be the German researcher who fancies an Oktoberfest swig away from his day job at A-STAR. The list can go on and it is not exhaustive since globalisation and an increasingly ‘open doors’ policy adopted by our government have resulted in people of various nationalities streaming onto our shores.
Decades ago, our forbears arrived forth on our small undeveloped island, disgorging from barges, catamarans and sampans and what-have-you from places like China and India. Today, we are witnessing an influx of another sort –from all corners of this planet, all hoping to get a slice of the rich pie called Singapore.
Our forbears came, laid down their roots and built up the Singapore of today with their blood, tears and sweat. In the process, they became citizens, natives of the very soil they slogged on – they became Singaporeans. It is as if by some form of osmosis, their blood, sweat and tears had seeped into the ochre soil and naturalised them.
Today’s foreigner is either one who is here to take up a lowly-skilled job no self-respecting Singaporeans want to do, or one with a reasonable level of talent which the government ‘welcomes’ – all of them a means to an end in helping to drive Singapore’s economic growth and driving us true-blue Singaporeans mad and heading for the exit’s door.
A Permanent Residency or citizenship used to be the Holy Grail for most new immigrants, but in this new world order (uniquely Singapore’s own, I would say), getting a PR or citizenship now is as easy as reciting the 26 letters of the Alphabet in world-record time.
As we welcome this foreign pantheon to be our 'brethren' - and share the crowded SMRT trains, join the queue for HDB cells, jostle one another at the I-Phone 3G launch and compete for priority for our children’s education in primary school – what is the meaning of being a Singaporean? A Singaporean born and bred in and, if war comes, may need to bleed for his country?
They could be your computer programmer colleague from Bangalore, India. They could be the electrical engineer contact from Dalian, China whom you liaised with in your job. They could be the Malaysian cook at the economy rice stall you always patronise for lunch. They could be the Bangladeshi worker who sweeps the corridor outside your HDB cell. They could be one of the hordes of Indian workers on bus service 960 heading towards Kranji on a Sunday night. They could be the pretty Vietnamese girl sitting six seats away from you in your Electrical Engineering class in NUS. They could be your Canadian boss in the public relations agency where you slog 8am to 8pm, five days a week. They could be the German researcher who fancies an Oktoberfest swig away from his day job at A-STAR. The list can go on and it is not exhaustive since globalisation and an increasingly ‘open doors’ policy adopted by our government have resulted in people of various nationalities streaming onto our shores.
Decades ago, our forbears arrived forth on our small undeveloped island, disgorging from barges, catamarans and sampans and what-have-you from places like China and India. Today, we are witnessing an influx of another sort –from all corners of this planet, all hoping to get a slice of the rich pie called Singapore.
Our forbears came, laid down their roots and built up the Singapore of today with their blood, tears and sweat. In the process, they became citizens, natives of the very soil they slogged on – they became Singaporeans. It is as if by some form of osmosis, their blood, sweat and tears had seeped into the ochre soil and naturalised them.
Today’s foreigner is either one who is here to take up a lowly-skilled job no self-respecting Singaporeans want to do, or one with a reasonable level of talent which the government ‘welcomes’ – all of them a means to an end in helping to drive Singapore’s economic growth and driving us true-blue Singaporeans mad and heading for the exit’s door.
A Permanent Residency or citizenship used to be the Holy Grail for most new immigrants, but in this new world order (uniquely Singapore’s own, I would say), getting a PR or citizenship now is as easy as reciting the 26 letters of the Alphabet in world-record time.
As we welcome this foreign pantheon to be our 'brethren' - and share the crowded SMRT trains, join the queue for HDB cells, jostle one another at the I-Phone 3G launch and compete for priority for our children’s education in primary school – what is the meaning of being a Singaporean? A Singaporean born and bred in and, if war comes, may need to bleed for his country?
Friday, August 14, 2009
Misery in the park
If you were at Hong Lim Park on Saturday, did you hear the piping of the birds?
If you were at Hong Lim Park on Saturday, did you see the beautiful blue skies?
You were sinking, trying desperately to thread water in this relentless financial whirlpool, and clutching at straws.
You saw a hero in Mr Tan Kin Lian. This is a time when you need a symbol. You need a tourniquet to seal the life and optimism bleeding away.
Is he the hero who can save you, from this ineluctable fate of watching your hard-earned hundreds of thousands spinning through the epicentre of arguably the greatest financial meltdown of the century?
If you were at Hong Lim Park on Saturday, what was the colour of your heart?
If you were at Hong Lim Park on Saturday, did you see an oasis in the desert of your hopelessness?
If you were at Hong Lim Park on Saturday, did you see yourself as part of a fellowship, like abandoned animals on a Noah's Ark of misery?
And finally, if you were at Hong Lim Park on Saturday, did you think Tan Kin Lian was the knight in shining armour who would cleave a path through this thick shrubbery of despair and bring you light?
If you have abandoned one faith, do not abandon all faith. There is always an alternative to the faith we lose. Or is it the same faith under another mask?
Graham Greene
If you were at Hong Lim Park on Saturday, did you see the beautiful blue skies?
You were sinking, trying desperately to thread water in this relentless financial whirlpool, and clutching at straws.
You saw a hero in Mr Tan Kin Lian. This is a time when you need a symbol. You need a tourniquet to seal the life and optimism bleeding away.
Is he the hero who can save you, from this ineluctable fate of watching your hard-earned hundreds of thousands spinning through the epicentre of arguably the greatest financial meltdown of the century?
If you were at Hong Lim Park on Saturday, what was the colour of your heart?
If you were at Hong Lim Park on Saturday, did you see an oasis in the desert of your hopelessness?
If you were at Hong Lim Park on Saturday, did you see yourself as part of a fellowship, like abandoned animals on a Noah's Ark of misery?
And finally, if you were at Hong Lim Park on Saturday, did you think Tan Kin Lian was the knight in shining armour who would cleave a path through this thick shrubbery of despair and bring you light?
If you have abandoned one faith, do not abandon all faith. There is always an alternative to the faith we lose. Or is it the same faith under another mask?
Graham Greene
A letter to dear PM
Your Majesty,
I am taking this opportunity to write and profess my admiration for Your Highness.
The recent F1 Singapore Grand Prix took my breath away with its grandeur...and I was asphyxiated (Mr Tharman will be proud that I can use a word like 'asphyxiated' and I am a neighbourhood school kid :) ). While grasping for oxgen, I crawled my way to the nearest restructured hospital and was amazed that I could pay for my oxygen tank with the copious moolah (sorry for the slang, but moolah has a nice ring over 'cash', does it not?) in my Medisave. I felt so rich...and I went oohing and aahing into cloud nine.
While my euphoria took me to atmospheric, and some might say, stratospheric heights (I saw Mr Lim Swee Say while he was ascending/levitating in the richness of his life, by the way), I realised that I could breathe so much easier despite the heavy atmospheric pressure, and the fact that my oxygen tank (which was apportioned a certain quantity based on my means-testing result) was depleting fast. An epiphany (I hope you are Christian, Your Majesty) struck me. The good air I could breathe (!) was due to the new creation of the ERP gantries which had led to lesser vehicles on the road and more people using public transport.
Your Majesty, please ignore those people griping about overcrowded MRT trains and buses that do not arrive on time. They are just a complaining bunch who do not realise that crowded and anomalous (another cheem word which Mr Tharman will love!) public transport is a harbinger of cleaner air. This means we have better cardio health and that we are more pre-disposed to dying from doing chin-ups and 5BX than breathing in bad, polluted air!
Your Majesty, you are a ruler with great soul, heart and unwonted intelligence. I can't get enough fix of your wisdom. I am emulating you these days in cultivating an acquired palate of mee siam with cockles. It takes a bit of getting used to, but then again, we mortals also take a while to get used to the PAP government, and now we love you all!
Your Majesty, you strike me as a sensitive soul who tears easily when people disparage you. I can't stand people like that Cheek Soon Juan who keeps getting your goat. He and his bunch of agricultural peasants understand nuts about government, and I can't believe that they are implying our highly-esteemed judges are eaters of cute marsupials! We, a nation of civilised and humane people, eating kangaroo meat! What a joke, Mr Cheek! Shame on you, Mr Cheek!
Your Majesty, you are right in giving Cheek Soon Juan a smack on his white buttocks. The current financial turmoil is spinning the world into a tizzy and Singapore is not spared. How can you, a mere mortal, inspite of your divine birth right and heavenly air, devote attention to fixing the economy when people like Cheek Soon Juan keeps pulling your ear? And yet, you are humane. You gave him a chance to repent, by not throwing him in jail. You were MASsively kind not to extend a Selamat Datang tribute to Cheek notwithstanding his persistent nonsense. For that, you win my admiration.
Your Majesty, you can count on me. I am a true-blue Singaporean who is all talk and no action, like your highly-paid Ministers. Your pantheon does not need to exert any undue perspiration because we serfs are there to 'action' for you.
For your great leadership, you win my admiration and my taxpayer's dollars which go to fund your salary.
I hope it's not too maudlin here, but I love you, Your Majesty.
Can I call you dear Hsien Loong?
Besottedly yours,
Your loyal subject
I am taking this opportunity to write and profess my admiration for Your Highness.
The recent F1 Singapore Grand Prix took my breath away with its grandeur...and I was asphyxiated (Mr Tharman will be proud that I can use a word like 'asphyxiated' and I am a neighbourhood school kid :) ). While grasping for oxgen, I crawled my way to the nearest restructured hospital and was amazed that I could pay for my oxygen tank with the copious moolah (sorry for the slang, but moolah has a nice ring over 'cash', does it not?) in my Medisave. I felt so rich...and I went oohing and aahing into cloud nine.
While my euphoria took me to atmospheric, and some might say, stratospheric heights (I saw Mr Lim Swee Say while he was ascending/levitating in the richness of his life, by the way), I realised that I could breathe so much easier despite the heavy atmospheric pressure, and the fact that my oxygen tank (which was apportioned a certain quantity based on my means-testing result) was depleting fast. An epiphany (I hope you are Christian, Your Majesty) struck me. The good air I could breathe (!) was due to the new creation of the ERP gantries which had led to lesser vehicles on the road and more people using public transport.
Your Majesty, please ignore those people griping about overcrowded MRT trains and buses that do not arrive on time. They are just a complaining bunch who do not realise that crowded and anomalous (another cheem word which Mr Tharman will love!) public transport is a harbinger of cleaner air. This means we have better cardio health and that we are more pre-disposed to dying from doing chin-ups and 5BX than breathing in bad, polluted air!
Your Majesty, you are a ruler with great soul, heart and unwonted intelligence. I can't get enough fix of your wisdom. I am emulating you these days in cultivating an acquired palate of mee siam with cockles. It takes a bit of getting used to, but then again, we mortals also take a while to get used to the PAP government, and now we love you all!
Your Majesty, you strike me as a sensitive soul who tears easily when people disparage you. I can't stand people like that Cheek Soon Juan who keeps getting your goat. He and his bunch of agricultural peasants understand nuts about government, and I can't believe that they are implying our highly-esteemed judges are eaters of cute marsupials! We, a nation of civilised and humane people, eating kangaroo meat! What a joke, Mr Cheek! Shame on you, Mr Cheek!
Your Majesty, you are right in giving Cheek Soon Juan a smack on his white buttocks. The current financial turmoil is spinning the world into a tizzy and Singapore is not spared. How can you, a mere mortal, inspite of your divine birth right and heavenly air, devote attention to fixing the economy when people like Cheek Soon Juan keeps pulling your ear? And yet, you are humane. You gave him a chance to repent, by not throwing him in jail. You were MASsively kind not to extend a Selamat Datang tribute to Cheek notwithstanding his persistent nonsense. For that, you win my admiration.
Your Majesty, you can count on me. I am a true-blue Singaporean who is all talk and no action, like your highly-paid Ministers. Your pantheon does not need to exert any undue perspiration because we serfs are there to 'action' for you.
For your great leadership, you win my admiration and my taxpayer's dollars which go to fund your salary.
I hope it's not too maudlin here, but I love you, Your Majesty.
Can I call you dear Hsien Loong?
Besottedly yours,
Your loyal subject
Call to arms
Life's thread is pretty attenuate, isn't it?
Despite being pulverised by more law suits than what you can find in a dry cleaner's, Mr Joshua Benjamin Jeyaretnam, the closest man we have to a Mandela, had finally succumbed to a physical ailment.
You could have thought his spirit must have been broken by the vicissitudes that life (and a certain political party) had thrown at him.
You could have thought he would have dug a hole and hid himself from the menacing gleam of a sharpened metaphorical hatchet.
You could have thought he would be suffocated and buried under an avalanche of neverending debts.
But that man refused to bow. Refused to go down on bended knees. Refused to be intimidated.
I saw him before selling his books. I was touched with the gravitas and dignity he possessed then. I marvelled at his unflinching conviction to make it right, for the country that he loved.
Sadly, his was a clarion cry that was not heeded or taken note of in a hypnotic propagandistic cadence spun by the white shirts.
Our lives are getting harder. Every single dollar is painstakingly eked out amidst the wobbling foundations of our jobs. You think twice before you spend. Bills are criss-crossed in red, and your billfold is emptying faster than Mas Selamat on steroids.
The only thing of value we have these days is our dignity. And that vote, we have in our hands.
I can't make things right on my own, and I am helpless - a mangy (under)dog with a whimper of a bark.
But many people can make it right - if only we stop for a while and think.
Many men have died for their country before, and Mr JBJ too passed away fighting for a Singapore he loved.
Life's thread is attenuate and all tyrannies will fall - there has to be a chink. That chink is possible; medical care may be advanced but it cannot fend away the hatchet of The Grim Reaper.
When the card falls, the house of cards will collapse - and for that to happen, you, with the valuable vote, will have to play a part.
Despite being pulverised by more law suits than what you can find in a dry cleaner's, Mr Joshua Benjamin Jeyaretnam, the closest man we have to a Mandela, had finally succumbed to a physical ailment.
You could have thought his spirit must have been broken by the vicissitudes that life (and a certain political party) had thrown at him.
You could have thought he would have dug a hole and hid himself from the menacing gleam of a sharpened metaphorical hatchet.
You could have thought he would be suffocated and buried under an avalanche of neverending debts.
But that man refused to bow. Refused to go down on bended knees. Refused to be intimidated.
I saw him before selling his books. I was touched with the gravitas and dignity he possessed then. I marvelled at his unflinching conviction to make it right, for the country that he loved.
Sadly, his was a clarion cry that was not heeded or taken note of in a hypnotic propagandistic cadence spun by the white shirts.
Our lives are getting harder. Every single dollar is painstakingly eked out amidst the wobbling foundations of our jobs. You think twice before you spend. Bills are criss-crossed in red, and your billfold is emptying faster than Mas Selamat on steroids.
The only thing of value we have these days is our dignity. And that vote, we have in our hands.
I can't make things right on my own, and I am helpless - a mangy (under)dog with a whimper of a bark.
But many people can make it right - if only we stop for a while and think.
Many men have died for their country before, and Mr JBJ too passed away fighting for a Singapore he loved.
Life's thread is attenuate and all tyrannies will fall - there has to be a chink. That chink is possible; medical care may be advanced but it cannot fend away the hatchet of The Grim Reaper.
When the card falls, the house of cards will collapse - and for that to happen, you, with the valuable vote, will have to play a part.
A saunter in the Southern Ridges, not!
On the day the country celebrated its 44th year of independence, we decided to haul our fat butts off our cosy beds and attempted our second Southern Ridges hike at the height of the noon sun and amidst a smoky shroud of haze.
We started off at Marang Trail – a daunting flights of steps cutting through the jungle and leading to the cable car station at Jewel Box. With the sun baking our backs, we heaved and puffed our way through some 800 m of steps which cover an elevation of 70 m or the equivalent of a 24-storey building. I could feel my cholesterol-clogged arteries about to burst, as each agonising step led us nearer to the Jewel Box, the recreational enclave atop Mount Faber.
Outside Jewel Box, we snapped some photos of the breathtaking view of the sea and the Southern Islands. Too bad, the haze had obscured much of the brilliant scenery and it was with a tinge of regret that we packed our cameras away and continued on our hike. Trudging onto Faber Trail, we saw trees, foliage and more foliage – it was like NS all over again for us, sans helmet, SBO and rifle.
Henderson Waves, the bridge with its rib-like curves was next. The highest pedestrian bridge in Singapore, Henderson Waves towers 36 m above Henderson Road and connects Mount Faber and Telok Blangah hills. We rested under one of its curved ‘ribs’ cum shelters to have a quick lunch of potato crisps and bread. Artist-wannabes (or vandals) had scrawled graffiti on the balau wood used to construct the shelter. Perhaps it was the spirit of National Day resulting in a surge of patriotism through my veins, but I felt indignant that a civil engineering wonder like Henderson Waves should become the canvas of vandals.
Stomachs sated, we moved on to the Forest Walk where more marvels of civil engineering awaited us. The steel bridge we were on hanged over the forest canopy providing us a bird’s eye view of the thick jungle. We were looking out for macaques and other creatures of the wild, but were disappointed not to see any.
Crossing from Forest Walk, we reached Alexandra Arch, the bridge with its unique curved deck and tilted arch. Below us, the rumble of traffic along Alexandra Road continued unabated as we took photos galore. Alexandra Arch links to HortPark, a 23-hectare flora hub. Science students would surely have a field day traipsing through the Park, and learning about the names of flowers and plants of all shapes, sizes and colours.
The HortPark is connected via Canopy Walk to Kent Ridge Park, our final destination. Walking through groves of Tembusu trees, we ended up at the ‘Reflections at Bukit Chandu’ Museum. It seemed odd to bash through thickets of green and had a quaint-looking building materialise in front of you. With the afternoon sun hanging at its highest point, some air-conditioning was what we needed, so we fled into the museum. As it was National Day, the museum offered free entry.
Bukit Chandu or Opium Hill was the scene of one of the greatest battles ever waged in the prelude to the Japanese invasion of Singapore. On 14 Feb 1942, the Malay Regiment fought valiantly albeit fruitlessly to safeguard the hill from falling to the Japanese. The valour of the Malay soldiers was commemorated through a short theatrette screening, glass-plated encomiums, and artefacts. ‘Reflections at Bukit Chandu’ was an educational pitstop in our Southern Ridges hike and all of us came away feeling a renewed sense of patriotism.
After more than 9 km and four and a half hours later, we finally reached Kent Ridge Park, our final destination. Hot, sweaty and feeling like a dried raisin, all that was on my mind then was Coke on the rocks and a scrumptious dinner.
Sidebar: Some pointers before attempting the full 9 km of the Southern Ridges
• Wear a good pair of sneakers or hiking boots. Slippers and Crocs flip-flops are more suitable for the beach, as the writer found out.
• Slather on plenty of sun block if you are foolhardy enough to try the hike at 12pm.
• Bring water bottles. A couple of water coolers are available on the trail for refill.
• Bring insect repellent if you must, although the writer and friends were not bitten. Mozzies on National Day hols?
• Get along some light snacks to nibble on during the hike.
We started off at Marang Trail – a daunting flights of steps cutting through the jungle and leading to the cable car station at Jewel Box. With the sun baking our backs, we heaved and puffed our way through some 800 m of steps which cover an elevation of 70 m or the equivalent of a 24-storey building. I could feel my cholesterol-clogged arteries about to burst, as each agonising step led us nearer to the Jewel Box, the recreational enclave atop Mount Faber.
Outside Jewel Box, we snapped some photos of the breathtaking view of the sea and the Southern Islands. Too bad, the haze had obscured much of the brilliant scenery and it was with a tinge of regret that we packed our cameras away and continued on our hike. Trudging onto Faber Trail, we saw trees, foliage and more foliage – it was like NS all over again for us, sans helmet, SBO and rifle.
Henderson Waves, the bridge with its rib-like curves was next. The highest pedestrian bridge in Singapore, Henderson Waves towers 36 m above Henderson Road and connects Mount Faber and Telok Blangah hills. We rested under one of its curved ‘ribs’ cum shelters to have a quick lunch of potato crisps and bread. Artist-wannabes (or vandals) had scrawled graffiti on the balau wood used to construct the shelter. Perhaps it was the spirit of National Day resulting in a surge of patriotism through my veins, but I felt indignant that a civil engineering wonder like Henderson Waves should become the canvas of vandals.
Stomachs sated, we moved on to the Forest Walk where more marvels of civil engineering awaited us. The steel bridge we were on hanged over the forest canopy providing us a bird’s eye view of the thick jungle. We were looking out for macaques and other creatures of the wild, but were disappointed not to see any.
Crossing from Forest Walk, we reached Alexandra Arch, the bridge with its unique curved deck and tilted arch. Below us, the rumble of traffic along Alexandra Road continued unabated as we took photos galore. Alexandra Arch links to HortPark, a 23-hectare flora hub. Science students would surely have a field day traipsing through the Park, and learning about the names of flowers and plants of all shapes, sizes and colours.
The HortPark is connected via Canopy Walk to Kent Ridge Park, our final destination. Walking through groves of Tembusu trees, we ended up at the ‘Reflections at Bukit Chandu’ Museum. It seemed odd to bash through thickets of green and had a quaint-looking building materialise in front of you. With the afternoon sun hanging at its highest point, some air-conditioning was what we needed, so we fled into the museum. As it was National Day, the museum offered free entry.
Bukit Chandu or Opium Hill was the scene of one of the greatest battles ever waged in the prelude to the Japanese invasion of Singapore. On 14 Feb 1942, the Malay Regiment fought valiantly albeit fruitlessly to safeguard the hill from falling to the Japanese. The valour of the Malay soldiers was commemorated through a short theatrette screening, glass-plated encomiums, and artefacts. ‘Reflections at Bukit Chandu’ was an educational pitstop in our Southern Ridges hike and all of us came away feeling a renewed sense of patriotism.
After more than 9 km and four and a half hours later, we finally reached Kent Ridge Park, our final destination. Hot, sweaty and feeling like a dried raisin, all that was on my mind then was Coke on the rocks and a scrumptious dinner.
Sidebar: Some pointers before attempting the full 9 km of the Southern Ridges
• Wear a good pair of sneakers or hiking boots. Slippers and Crocs flip-flops are more suitable for the beach, as the writer found out.
• Slather on plenty of sun block if you are foolhardy enough to try the hike at 12pm.
• Bring water bottles. A couple of water coolers are available on the trail for refill.
• Bring insect repellent if you must, although the writer and friends were not bitten. Mozzies on National Day hols?
• Get along some light snacks to nibble on during the hike.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
8.22pm that night
8.22pm that night was a charade that was never seen before.
You look at the idiot box and you see those people clad in pristine and unbesmirched white pressing their clenched left fists against their hearts.
Their mouths move, as the innumerable pixels and dots of the idiot box congregate into an image. An image of unbridled hypocrisy.
Mouths moving and jaws manoeuvring, and somewhere an Eton-educated tongue rolling to pronounce 'pr' as in 'pr..osperity'...What would you give to smash the idiot box to smithereens and condemn that execrable image of men and women in white reciting falsehoods?
Long ago, we were told to recite the Pledge.
We were kids in shorts and mugging for PSLE. We were adolescents in secondary school experiencing the nascent pricking of a first crush. We were just a couple of years shy of 21, either in polytechnic, ITE or a junior college, wondering what 21 would bring us. We all recited the Pledge then. With gusto, with boredom, with fervour, with languidity.
Today, I've all but forgotten the words of the pledge. There is no capitalisation for the pledge because somewhere the essence of it has diminished. The words, if you do remember, ring hollow or leave you with a bitter taste. You would sooner tell a white lie to assuage your miffed love, than to recite a falsehood, a phalanx of oxymorons, an exercise in sophistry.
8.22 has come and passed. Under the whirring air-conditioning of the public bus that I am on, nobody has moved the slightest finger much less clenched his or her fist to regurgitate the words to the pledge.
There was no idiot box aka TV Mobile on the bus for me to witness hypocrisy in motion.
And for that, I thank God.
You look at the idiot box and you see those people clad in pristine and unbesmirched white pressing their clenched left fists against their hearts.
Their mouths move, as the innumerable pixels and dots of the idiot box congregate into an image. An image of unbridled hypocrisy.
Mouths moving and jaws manoeuvring, and somewhere an Eton-educated tongue rolling to pronounce 'pr' as in 'pr..osperity'...What would you give to smash the idiot box to smithereens and condemn that execrable image of men and women in white reciting falsehoods?
Long ago, we were told to recite the Pledge.
We were kids in shorts and mugging for PSLE. We were adolescents in secondary school experiencing the nascent pricking of a first crush. We were just a couple of years shy of 21, either in polytechnic, ITE or a junior college, wondering what 21 would bring us. We all recited the Pledge then. With gusto, with boredom, with fervour, with languidity.
Today, I've all but forgotten the words of the pledge. There is no capitalisation for the pledge because somewhere the essence of it has diminished. The words, if you do remember, ring hollow or leave you with a bitter taste. You would sooner tell a white lie to assuage your miffed love, than to recite a falsehood, a phalanx of oxymorons, an exercise in sophistry.
8.22 has come and passed. Under the whirring air-conditioning of the public bus that I am on, nobody has moved the slightest finger much less clenched his or her fist to regurgitate the words to the pledge.
There was no idiot box aka TV Mobile on the bus for me to witness hypocrisy in motion.
And for that, I thank God.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Weekend rhapsody
Minutes are all that separate me from falling into the embrace of the welcoming weekend.
Weekend - the light at the end of the tunnel after a week of groping around, feeling around, and wandering about aimlessly in the labyrinth of this unconstructive employment.
The weekend provides me an exit from my increasingly perpetual spells of despondency; a despondency brought about by the gradual realisation that all semblance of my self-worth is slipping away with each agonising day I remain stuck in the still waters of occupational stasis; losing my way in the labyrinthine drudgery of this vile serpent called malaise, and confronted by mediocre homo sapiens and having my wings clipped - creativity is not encouraged. No, it's not.
The weekend is my comfort zone from the uncomfortable zone of my unhappy comfort zone of an aimless and unsatisfying employment. Oxymorons abound in the preceding sentence but darn logic, rationale and syntax!
Like I seek solace in my writing, weekends provide a conduit for me to disappear into the mindlessness of unpressured living, not having to justify lugging home a hefty pay check for doing nada, zilch and nought.
Groundhog days, weeks, months and soon it will be a year.
Weekend - the light at the end of the tunnel after a week of groping around, feeling around, and wandering about aimlessly in the labyrinth of this unconstructive employment.
The weekend provides me an exit from my increasingly perpetual spells of despondency; a despondency brought about by the gradual realisation that all semblance of my self-worth is slipping away with each agonising day I remain stuck in the still waters of occupational stasis; losing my way in the labyrinthine drudgery of this vile serpent called malaise, and confronted by mediocre homo sapiens and having my wings clipped - creativity is not encouraged. No, it's not.
The weekend is my comfort zone from the uncomfortable zone of my unhappy comfort zone of an aimless and unsatisfying employment. Oxymorons abound in the preceding sentence but darn logic, rationale and syntax!
Like I seek solace in my writing, weekends provide a conduit for me to disappear into the mindlessness of unpressured living, not having to justify lugging home a hefty pay check for doing nada, zilch and nought.
Groundhog days, weeks, months and soon it will be a year.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Gluten Morgen!
Last I checked, I am a man still.
My royal jewels hang where they should be hanging. I feel my chest and it's flat, thank god! (Although a part of my head is screaming "what the heck have you been doing in the gym benchpressing all these years and your chest is flatter than yesterday's champagne?")
I arrow my eyes down to my two hunks that are called "legs" and they are hirsute - full of bristling angry black hair curling left, right and centre. Oh who's that on the 8 Days' cover? Fiona Xie, and immediately my schlong undertakes its customary priaptic reaction.
So yes I am a man. A macho man at that, and yet why do I have cravings? And cravings for the most unglamorous of food - gluten, somemore! My wife said only women have cravings and they crave for the unlikeliest kind of food when parturition is near. But I am a man, and I've cravings for gluten, so does this make me a lesser of a man?
As I ponder this unexpected conundrum that has beset me and engendered not a few more white fronds sprouting up on my rapidly-deforested pate, a rumble of volcanic proportions commences in the nethermost regions of my stomach. Go south some more and my manhood has relaxed - deflated and surrendered to more pressing survival needs - that of food, and gluten!
The clock strikes 12.30 and it's gluten time. I gotta get some gluten into my system.
Auf wiedersehen!
My royal jewels hang where they should be hanging. I feel my chest and it's flat, thank god! (Although a part of my head is screaming "what the heck have you been doing in the gym benchpressing all these years and your chest is flatter than yesterday's champagne?")
I arrow my eyes down to my two hunks that are called "legs" and they are hirsute - full of bristling angry black hair curling left, right and centre. Oh who's that on the 8 Days' cover? Fiona Xie, and immediately my schlong undertakes its customary priaptic reaction.
So yes I am a man. A macho man at that, and yet why do I have cravings? And cravings for the most unglamorous of food - gluten, somemore! My wife said only women have cravings and they crave for the unlikeliest kind of food when parturition is near. But I am a man, and I've cravings for gluten, so does this make me a lesser of a man?
As I ponder this unexpected conundrum that has beset me and engendered not a few more white fronds sprouting up on my rapidly-deforested pate, a rumble of volcanic proportions commences in the nethermost regions of my stomach. Go south some more and my manhood has relaxed - deflated and surrendered to more pressing survival needs - that of food, and gluten!
The clock strikes 12.30 and it's gluten time. I gotta get some gluten into my system.
Auf wiedersehen!
What is Meritocracy?
Meritocracy.
No, it's not a new character from the new X-men movie. It is a word that is commonly bruit in our unique country. Our government swears by "Meritocracy" as if it's the gospel truth.
To put it simply, "meritocracy" is premised on the fact that you get to where you are because of what you've achieved, and that in that process of getting to where you are, there is no discrimination, no bias and no prejudice or whatsoever. You reap what you sow; that's meritocracy.
Using this analogy: a man slogs on his farm, tilling the land, and when harvest time comes, reaps a bountiful harvest which he parlays for a profit. You can't deny that this man deserves his profit. That's meritocracy because he invested his time and sweat to reap the sweet fruit of his literally physical labours. No one begrudges him his moolah.
Singapore is a country that believes firmly in meritocracy. Our Prime Minister is where he is, because he is the most talented for that position, and not because he's the son of his illustrious father. Similarly, our PM's wife is where she is, because of her achievements and track record, and not because she's the wife of the PM nor the daughter-in-law of PM's illustrious father.
Repeat this after me continuously, and you will be hypnotised to believe the truth of what you've been reciting.
So meritocracy is alive in Singapore, and kicking until someone else kicks the bucket.
God save us all.
No, it's not a new character from the new X-men movie. It is a word that is commonly bruit in our unique country. Our government swears by "Meritocracy" as if it's the gospel truth.
To put it simply, "meritocracy" is premised on the fact that you get to where you are because of what you've achieved, and that in that process of getting to where you are, there is no discrimination, no bias and no prejudice or whatsoever. You reap what you sow; that's meritocracy.
Using this analogy: a man slogs on his farm, tilling the land, and when harvest time comes, reaps a bountiful harvest which he parlays for a profit. You can't deny that this man deserves his profit. That's meritocracy because he invested his time and sweat to reap the sweet fruit of his literally physical labours. No one begrudges him his moolah.
Singapore is a country that believes firmly in meritocracy. Our Prime Minister is where he is, because he is the most talented for that position, and not because he's the son of his illustrious father. Similarly, our PM's wife is where she is, because of her achievements and track record, and not because she's the wife of the PM nor the daughter-in-law of PM's illustrious father.
Repeat this after me continuously, and you will be hypnotised to believe the truth of what you've been reciting.
So meritocracy is alive in Singapore, and kicking until someone else kicks the bucket.
God save us all.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Revenge is a dish best served cold
X is shuttered inside the toilet cubicle, his head in his hands. Although the mercury is nudging somewhere in the realm of 32 to 34 degree celsius, X can feel the chills running down his spine. He imagines himself being drowned in an icy lake of cold sweat. He shivers convulsively with raw anger. Raw anger at the humiliation of an hour ago.
Somewhere, an inhabitant of a cubicle flushes and lets forth a torrent of bilious coughing. That could be Mr Zane, the Physics Teacher, with his habitual whooping cough. Someone's phone rings a risible Euro-trash melody before it is quickly silenced. Perhaps by the anxious finger of an owner who does not want to be discovered carrying a mobile phone in the sacred confines of the all-boys school X goes to.
X unzips his satchel and takes out the fruit knife he has pilfered from home. The cold glint of the blade reflects his scared facial features - his eyes rimmed with tears, snot dribbling from his nose and a mouth that is set in a determined fashion. He imagines cornering B and plunging the fruit knife into that bastard's stomach. That very deed would vindicate all the pain and suffering X has suffered in B's hands the last two years.
X remembers B pulling his seat and the simultaneous avalanche of laughter that rolled down on him like an indictment of shame as he flounced onto the floor. He could even see Mrs Raj attempting to stifle a smile at his fumble, probably attributing it to the antics of mischievous school boys. B got off with a rebuke, and the class laughter reverberated in his head as X tried to concentrate on the lesson, his face beet-red with mortification.
And thus the fruit knife and the revenge it would wreak - burrowing deep into the heart of B, and watching the blood spill. B's cries of agony would be music to his ears, and to see his pained or shocked face; all that would make up for the humiliation X has suffered all these years. He has to set his plan in action; his decision is made.
Just as he is about to return the knife into his bag, X's fingers slip and the fruit knife drops onto the tiled floor with a loud clatter. Hurriedly, X retrieves the knife and places it into the bag. As he opens the cubicle door, something hits him in the face.
The plastic bag of water breaks upon contact and splashes water all over him. As he frantically tries to squint through the droplets, he sees B running out of the toilet. Apoplectic with rage, X pulls out the knife from his bag and runs after B....
Somewhere, an inhabitant of a cubicle flushes and lets forth a torrent of bilious coughing. That could be Mr Zane, the Physics Teacher, with his habitual whooping cough. Someone's phone rings a risible Euro-trash melody before it is quickly silenced. Perhaps by the anxious finger of an owner who does not want to be discovered carrying a mobile phone in the sacred confines of the all-boys school X goes to.
X unzips his satchel and takes out the fruit knife he has pilfered from home. The cold glint of the blade reflects his scared facial features - his eyes rimmed with tears, snot dribbling from his nose and a mouth that is set in a determined fashion. He imagines cornering B and plunging the fruit knife into that bastard's stomach. That very deed would vindicate all the pain and suffering X has suffered in B's hands the last two years.
X remembers B pulling his seat and the simultaneous avalanche of laughter that rolled down on him like an indictment of shame as he flounced onto the floor. He could even see Mrs Raj attempting to stifle a smile at his fumble, probably attributing it to the antics of mischievous school boys. B got off with a rebuke, and the class laughter reverberated in his head as X tried to concentrate on the lesson, his face beet-red with mortification.
And thus the fruit knife and the revenge it would wreak - burrowing deep into the heart of B, and watching the blood spill. B's cries of agony would be music to his ears, and to see his pained or shocked face; all that would make up for the humiliation X has suffered all these years. He has to set his plan in action; his decision is made.
Just as he is about to return the knife into his bag, X's fingers slip and the fruit knife drops onto the tiled floor with a loud clatter. Hurriedly, X retrieves the knife and places it into the bag. As he opens the cubicle door, something hits him in the face.
The plastic bag of water breaks upon contact and splashes water all over him. As he frantically tries to squint through the droplets, he sees B running out of the toilet. Apoplectic with rage, X pulls out the knife from his bag and runs after B....
Thus spake the kiasu Singaporean
The train slithers into the station with a hiss of engine. Like moths attracted to a globe of light, the commuters rush pell-mell to await the opening of the train doors. I am no exception.
I push aside an old lady with a hideous coiffure that partly obscures my delectable vision of an SYT (sweet young thing). I imperceptibly nudge a man in executive wear who has somehow unfairly pushed his way to my front. Hey pesky kid, get away from me, I mentally yell at a boy in school uniform. There is a hive of activity as my fellow commuters and I congregate expectantly in the demarcation zone where we are NOT supposed to step into - as it is an out-of-bounds zone designated to allow alighting passengers get out first.
But we do not care. Our primordial instinct is to beat, push, jostle, shove, body-check our way into the cabin - all to secure an empty seat which could be like an oasis in the desert especially if you are trying to board a train during morning peak hours.
A fight ensues as those egressing the train face the immoveable wall of those who are struggling to enter the train. No holds barred. Sweat, tear and grime rubberstamp the inevitable and invariable morning ritual - the simultaneous stampede to board and exit the train.
If you manage to survive unscathed from the confrontation between exiting passengers and your brethren who were fighting to enter the train, you have to quickly scan your eyes to search for that oasis of a seat.
If Fortune smiles on you and you manage to get an empty seat, the next natural thing to do is to pretend to close your eyes and fall into a pseudo-sleep. This secures you peace of mind for the rest of your journey for under the pretext of sleep, you would not be able to know that there is a pregnant woman/visually-handicapped man/elderly lady standing in front of you who need a seat imperatively.
Social grace be cast out of the window and let me rest in peace during my train journey! Tom, Dick or Harry beside me, can do his gracious Singaporean incarnate act, for all I care.
It is the survival of the fittest - when it comes to boarding the MRT train.
I push aside an old lady with a hideous coiffure that partly obscures my delectable vision of an SYT (sweet young thing). I imperceptibly nudge a man in executive wear who has somehow unfairly pushed his way to my front. Hey pesky kid, get away from me, I mentally yell at a boy in school uniform. There is a hive of activity as my fellow commuters and I congregate expectantly in the demarcation zone where we are NOT supposed to step into - as it is an out-of-bounds zone designated to allow alighting passengers get out first.
But we do not care. Our primordial instinct is to beat, push, jostle, shove, body-check our way into the cabin - all to secure an empty seat which could be like an oasis in the desert especially if you are trying to board a train during morning peak hours.
A fight ensues as those egressing the train face the immoveable wall of those who are struggling to enter the train. No holds barred. Sweat, tear and grime rubberstamp the inevitable and invariable morning ritual - the simultaneous stampede to board and exit the train.
If you manage to survive unscathed from the confrontation between exiting passengers and your brethren who were fighting to enter the train, you have to quickly scan your eyes to search for that oasis of a seat.
If Fortune smiles on you and you manage to get an empty seat, the next natural thing to do is to pretend to close your eyes and fall into a pseudo-sleep. This secures you peace of mind for the rest of your journey for under the pretext of sleep, you would not be able to know that there is a pregnant woman/visually-handicapped man/elderly lady standing in front of you who need a seat imperatively.
Social grace be cast out of the window and let me rest in peace during my train journey! Tom, Dick or Harry beside me, can do his gracious Singaporean incarnate act, for all I care.
It is the survival of the fittest - when it comes to boarding the MRT train.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Not ready to ride off into the sunset yet
C T and R P, both 63 and technicians from XXX company could have dusted and put away their work uniforms, setting off into the sunset of a comfortable retirement when they hit 62 last year.
However, with companies like XXX company heeding the government’s call to re-employ older staff before the re-employment legislation kicks in in 2012, older workers like C T and R P are still hanging around, burnishing the adage ‘old is gold’ by imparting their invaluable experience and knowledge to younger colleagues.
Since 2005, XXX company has re-employed 102 staff. For older employees to be eligible for re-employment, they must be medically fit and have attained at least two ‘Good’ and one ‘Satisfactory’ performance ratings in the last three years. Re-employment offers are also dependent on operational needs and availability of vacancies.
C T and R P are loyal servants of XXX company, having started their careers in 1962. The re-employment offers to them were recognition of their loyalty and good performance over the years. Most importantly, for both men who are the sole breadwinners, having their jobs secured for the next two years has helped to lighten their financial burden.
C T whose wife is a homemaker has to continue paying the housing loan on his four-room HDB flat for the next four years. He said that as long as he is in good health, he would not contemplate retirement.
Echoing C T is R P. He said: “My wife is not working and my son is still schooling. Both depend on my income. I’ve another daughter who’s married and has her own family commitments.
“By being employed, I can also keep physically and mentally active.”
Their supervisor, C K, recommended both men for re-employment because of their excellent work performances. The accolades and awards R P has picked up include the role model worker award in 2001, Service Excellence Award in 2006 and the Customer Good Service Award 2007. As for C T, he was a nominee for the role model worker in 2008.
“They are both outstanding and experienced workers. With their many years of experience, they can guide and mentor younger colleagues at work,” C K said.
Sixty six-year-old S H P, a technician, is currently serving the fourth year of his re-employment. He was re-employed for two years in 2005, which was subsequently extended by another year in 2007 and finally one more year in 2008. S H P aims to apply for another extension.
He said: “Since re-employment, I’ve not taken a single day of medical leave. If I retire, I will feel very bored staying at home. Although I’ve four children and one granddaughter, I can always spend time with them on weekends.
“I am fit and healthy, and I think I can contribute until 68.”
C T, R P and S H P are exemplary employees who epitomise the government’s call for the ‘silver hair generation’ to continue working longer so as to lead healthy and productive lives, as well as having enough savings for retirement.
Despite having a brood of children and grandchildren to spend their retirement with, the three men are not hanging up the towel for now. As long as their limbs and minds are healthy, they see themselves as being able to make a difference to the organisation.
If you are nudging 62 and retiring blissfully is not your cup of tea just yet, you might want to take a leaf from their examples and stay around for one last hurrah.
*This story did not get to see the light of the day.
However, with companies like XXX company heeding the government’s call to re-employ older staff before the re-employment legislation kicks in in 2012, older workers like C T and R P are still hanging around, burnishing the adage ‘old is gold’ by imparting their invaluable experience and knowledge to younger colleagues.
Since 2005, XXX company has re-employed 102 staff. For older employees to be eligible for re-employment, they must be medically fit and have attained at least two ‘Good’ and one ‘Satisfactory’ performance ratings in the last three years. Re-employment offers are also dependent on operational needs and availability of vacancies.
C T and R P are loyal servants of XXX company, having started their careers in 1962. The re-employment offers to them were recognition of their loyalty and good performance over the years. Most importantly, for both men who are the sole breadwinners, having their jobs secured for the next two years has helped to lighten their financial burden.
C T whose wife is a homemaker has to continue paying the housing loan on his four-room HDB flat for the next four years. He said that as long as he is in good health, he would not contemplate retirement.
Echoing C T is R P. He said: “My wife is not working and my son is still schooling. Both depend on my income. I’ve another daughter who’s married and has her own family commitments.
“By being employed, I can also keep physically and mentally active.”
Their supervisor, C K, recommended both men for re-employment because of their excellent work performances. The accolades and awards R P has picked up include the role model worker award in 2001, Service Excellence Award in 2006 and the Customer Good Service Award 2007. As for C T, he was a nominee for the role model worker in 2008.
“They are both outstanding and experienced workers. With their many years of experience, they can guide and mentor younger colleagues at work,” C K said.
Sixty six-year-old S H P, a technician, is currently serving the fourth year of his re-employment. He was re-employed for two years in 2005, which was subsequently extended by another year in 2007 and finally one more year in 2008. S H P aims to apply for another extension.
He said: “Since re-employment, I’ve not taken a single day of medical leave. If I retire, I will feel very bored staying at home. Although I’ve four children and one granddaughter, I can always spend time with them on weekends.
“I am fit and healthy, and I think I can contribute until 68.”
C T, R P and S H P are exemplary employees who epitomise the government’s call for the ‘silver hair generation’ to continue working longer so as to lead healthy and productive lives, as well as having enough savings for retirement.
Despite having a brood of children and grandchildren to spend their retirement with, the three men are not hanging up the towel for now. As long as their limbs and minds are healthy, they see themselves as being able to make a difference to the organisation.
If you are nudging 62 and retiring blissfully is not your cup of tea just yet, you might want to take a leaf from their examples and stay around for one last hurrah.
*This story did not get to see the light of the day.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Langkawi lullaby - unedited
Pulau Langkawi is the sort of idyllic beach getaway for travellers on a shoe-string.
Pristine beaches to rival that of more expensive locales like the Maldives; rustic country living that doesn’t cost you a bomb and marvellous sights galore – Langkawi is an island that is not yet tainted by rapid urbanisation and offers the jaded salaryman an opportunity to relax and recharge in the arms of nature.
During the bumpy taxi ride to Pantai Cenang’s Sunset Beach Resort where we were lodging, the sight of cattle grazing on lush padi fields, children playing along the roadside and corrugated-roofed shops selling tourist souvenirs unrolled like a scroll of calligraphy. The idyll of country living is something which we will never experience in the brick-and-mortar bustle of Singapore, and we sucked in the sights like gasps of fresh air.
What’s a beach holiday without getting a nice shiny bronze on your skin? Sadly, my female travelling partners were “sunlight-phobic”, and my best friend was just content to lounge about on the sun chair. That left me and a few other Caucasian tourists lying around haphazardly like beached whales on the soft, cushion-y sand, taking in the caress of March’s sunlight.
The sunset at Pantai Cenang beach was breathtaking and the entire Andaman Sea seemed to be bathed in a film of gold, as day slowly surrendered to night. It was a great occasion for friends to sit around a picnic mat, sip drinks and chat about life. Conversely, it would make a nice backdrop for a beer commercial with a bikini-clad model. Tiger Beer, anyone?
The highlight of our short trip was the cable car ride to the summit of Mat Cincang Mountain, Langkawi’s second highest peak. We boarded the cable car at the Oriental Village, a theme park, located in the northwestern part of Langkawi. As the cable car steadily climbed higher and higher, we had an unobstructed view of a palette of green rainforest below us.
On reaching the peak, we ascended via a tiring series of stairs that cut through a thin forest, to the observatory deck. This offered us a stunning view of Langkawi with its many surrounding islands and beautiful skyline. Photography enthusiasts would have a field day snapping shots of the wonderful backdrop of azure, looming mountains and sparkling blue sea specked with vessels and islets.
Life’s clock-like precision can numb most souls, and if you have the opportunity for that one holiday and cost’s a consideration; why not give Langkawi a shot?
Be dazed and amazed.
Pristine beaches to rival that of more expensive locales like the Maldives; rustic country living that doesn’t cost you a bomb and marvellous sights galore – Langkawi is an island that is not yet tainted by rapid urbanisation and offers the jaded salaryman an opportunity to relax and recharge in the arms of nature.
During the bumpy taxi ride to Pantai Cenang’s Sunset Beach Resort where we were lodging, the sight of cattle grazing on lush padi fields, children playing along the roadside and corrugated-roofed shops selling tourist souvenirs unrolled like a scroll of calligraphy. The idyll of country living is something which we will never experience in the brick-and-mortar bustle of Singapore, and we sucked in the sights like gasps of fresh air.
What’s a beach holiday without getting a nice shiny bronze on your skin? Sadly, my female travelling partners were “sunlight-phobic”, and my best friend was just content to lounge about on the sun chair. That left me and a few other Caucasian tourists lying around haphazardly like beached whales on the soft, cushion-y sand, taking in the caress of March’s sunlight.
The sunset at Pantai Cenang beach was breathtaking and the entire Andaman Sea seemed to be bathed in a film of gold, as day slowly surrendered to night. It was a great occasion for friends to sit around a picnic mat, sip drinks and chat about life. Conversely, it would make a nice backdrop for a beer commercial with a bikini-clad model. Tiger Beer, anyone?
The highlight of our short trip was the cable car ride to the summit of Mat Cincang Mountain, Langkawi’s second highest peak. We boarded the cable car at the Oriental Village, a theme park, located in the northwestern part of Langkawi. As the cable car steadily climbed higher and higher, we had an unobstructed view of a palette of green rainforest below us.
On reaching the peak, we ascended via a tiring series of stairs that cut through a thin forest, to the observatory deck. This offered us a stunning view of Langkawi with its many surrounding islands and beautiful skyline. Photography enthusiasts would have a field day snapping shots of the wonderful backdrop of azure, looming mountains and sparkling blue sea specked with vessels and islets.
Life’s clock-like precision can numb most souls, and if you have the opportunity for that one holiday and cost’s a consideration; why not give Langkawi a shot?
Be dazed and amazed.
Friday, July 17, 2009
5 minutes to the finishing line
A cool breeze tickles his perspiring skin as he mentally forces his legs to pump on to the end-point of this excruciating 25km run. Has it been two hours ago since he embarked on the run? Or was it three hours? He can't remember. The pain in his feet has dulled his mental processes and through the wash of sweat and tears in his eyes, he sees the never-ending road ahead, snaking, coiling, slithering.
He starts breathing faster and psyches his head and legs to go on. Just five more minutes maximum before he can collapse into a well-earned rest at the end-point.
And he collapses, topples over on the litter-strewn pavement. His breaths come out truncated and intermittent. His eyes are two glossy orbs starring up at the black blanket of the sky. Midnight inches a minute closer, and he's still five minutes from the end of his run.
Life ebbs away and his breathing ceases.
Finally.
He starts breathing faster and psyches his head and legs to go on. Just five more minutes maximum before he can collapse into a well-earned rest at the end-point.
And he collapses, topples over on the litter-strewn pavement. His breaths come out truncated and intermittent. His eyes are two glossy orbs starring up at the black blanket of the sky. Midnight inches a minute closer, and he's still five minutes from the end of his run.
Life ebbs away and his breathing ceases.
Finally.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Mother and son
The mother scrubs furiously at the pieces of her clothing while seated on a small stool inside the toilet. She scrubs with increasing ferocity like a locomotive picking up pace on a relentless rail line. Her mind is a train of thoughts, one cabin after another being pulled along by the locomotive of her furious scrubbing.
Being a traditional housewife, she prefers the method of washing her clothes on a wooden washboard, eschewing the spanking new washing machine her son had bought for her. The son and his wife wash their clothes using the washing machine, but not the old woman who prefers the traditional method - more energy sapping, but cleaner.
Looking at the soap suds, a vision opens through the transparent suds to a happier time of a bygone era. As her train of thoughts rumbles on, she sees her son, a child of twelve, consoling her after one of her husband's drunken rampages. Son telling her that he will earn a lot of money and take care of her in her old age. Son promising to make her proud by graduating from university. Son swearing he will get a good job when he graduates and make her proud....
A smile breaks out on her face as the train of thoughts takes her deeper and deeper into old familiar surroundings - reminiscences take on the shape of their sparsely-furnished house, crystallise into faces of herself, her son, and her husband those terrible years ago, metamorphose into visions of different happy moments she shared with her only son...and those happy moments invariably wring out a smile from the current bitterness of her heart and life.
Like the ink of an octopus poisoning her sweet recollections, staining them dark; her train of thoughts is derailed and she falls into a ravine of conflicting emotions. She thinks of then and now, now and then. Thinks of how her son has become another man ever since he got married. Thinks of how he is no longer the innocent child of twelve, but a calculating, cold and callous man of thirty who does not bat an eyelid at sending his aged mother to an old folks' home. Sending his mother who had slogged so hard to bring him up ever since his father left the family, to an old folks' home in the twilight of her life. A son who only listens to his wife now, and not his mother. The blood has turned cold in him, stained black by the ink of the octopus. He's the death of me, and a son like him, he's better off dead, she thinks angrily to herself, her memories now darkening.
She lands with a thud in the ravine, as a shrill phone call shatters her reverie, returning her to reality. Putting aside her washing, she drags her tired limbs off the stool and shuffles into the living room, picks up the telephone.
What the caller says turns her blood cold. Her angry thoughts translated to life! Her son in a traffic accident and dying. To hurry to hospital, the nurse is saying.
She lets the receiver drop to her side and eyes glistening, falls back onto the sofa.
Being a traditional housewife, she prefers the method of washing her clothes on a wooden washboard, eschewing the spanking new washing machine her son had bought for her. The son and his wife wash their clothes using the washing machine, but not the old woman who prefers the traditional method - more energy sapping, but cleaner.
Looking at the soap suds, a vision opens through the transparent suds to a happier time of a bygone era. As her train of thoughts rumbles on, she sees her son, a child of twelve, consoling her after one of her husband's drunken rampages. Son telling her that he will earn a lot of money and take care of her in her old age. Son promising to make her proud by graduating from university. Son swearing he will get a good job when he graduates and make her proud....
A smile breaks out on her face as the train of thoughts takes her deeper and deeper into old familiar surroundings - reminiscences take on the shape of their sparsely-furnished house, crystallise into faces of herself, her son, and her husband those terrible years ago, metamorphose into visions of different happy moments she shared with her only son...and those happy moments invariably wring out a smile from the current bitterness of her heart and life.
Like the ink of an octopus poisoning her sweet recollections, staining them dark; her train of thoughts is derailed and she falls into a ravine of conflicting emotions. She thinks of then and now, now and then. Thinks of how her son has become another man ever since he got married. Thinks of how he is no longer the innocent child of twelve, but a calculating, cold and callous man of thirty who does not bat an eyelid at sending his aged mother to an old folks' home. Sending his mother who had slogged so hard to bring him up ever since his father left the family, to an old folks' home in the twilight of her life. A son who only listens to his wife now, and not his mother. The blood has turned cold in him, stained black by the ink of the octopus. He's the death of me, and a son like him, he's better off dead, she thinks angrily to herself, her memories now darkening.
She lands with a thud in the ravine, as a shrill phone call shatters her reverie, returning her to reality. Putting aside her washing, she drags her tired limbs off the stool and shuffles into the living room, picks up the telephone.
What the caller says turns her blood cold. Her angry thoughts translated to life! Her son in a traffic accident and dying. To hurry to hospital, the nurse is saying.
She lets the receiver drop to her side and eyes glistening, falls back onto the sofa.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Finding myself
I have known since young that there is something not quite right about me.
As a kid, I did not enjoy playing with toy guns, vehicles or robots like what other boys typically do. Instead, I liked to play with my sister’s dolls, and I enjoyed stripping the dolls and changing their costumes. When I went to primary school, boys’ games like kickabouts in the park or dribbling a basketball were anathema to me. You could probably find me with some girls playing hopscotch in a secluded part of the school. I remember that I particularly enjoyed stroking Mei Lin’s ponytail, and then removing the elastic band keeping her ponytail in place, and restyling a new hair style for her. When I grew older and discovered the palette of wonderful colours, the array of feminine bric-a-brac that is used to prettify a girl and understood the differences between shades of foundation, I started experimenting with my mother’s make-up kit. Of course, I did that when she was not at home. I think my sister caught me once rubbing some gooey stuff on my face, and her eyes goggled in wonderment. But being six years younger than me, and probably still undeveloped in terms of her cognitive processes, she went back to doing what she was doing and did not broach the topic to me or anyone else.
In secondary school and junior college, I did not have any close guy friends. In fact guys ostracised me because they perceived me as effeminate. Did I feel alienated? No, I didn’t because girls loved my company. It was not that I was particularly handsome or anything, but perhaps the fact that I spoke softer and was more gentle than the typical boy at that age, endeared me to them. We shared so much tears, so many secrets and so many wonderful moments together that there were many occasions when I regretted not being born a female.
The last day of junior college, I cried together with the girls because I knew I would miss them as I had to serve two and a half years of national service. National service was crap to me. I hated every day. Each day weighed down, pressed down on me with unbearable agony. I hated my bunk mates, hated their disgusting habits and disgusting topics. Every night, I hid myself under my bedsheet, cowering in fear of what they would do to me. They called me names, they jeered me, and they played pranks on me. But I kept my cool. I knew that once I completed national service, I would pay them their comeuppance and regain my salvation.
Two and a half years passed like that. I did not exit the gates of my camp less adulterated in my feminine tendencies. On the contrary, my conviction had grown stronger that I needed to change. Break free from my shackles. Find myself.
And now, I find myself lying on a gurney being wheeled into a room with piercing strobe lights. The olive-skinned nurse muttered something in poor English about the doctor coming in a while. I saw the glint of a scalpel somewhere from the corner of my eye. I saw the taunts of my army mates. I saw myself weaving Mei Lin’s hair into a braid. I saw myself crying in the arms of my junior college classmate whose name I have forgotten. I saw my manhood being ripped off, blood spurting everywhere like a fount. Last, but not least, I saw and finally found the peace I had longed for. In a few hours, I will have re-found myself. My eyelids grow heavy and the radiant ceiling light gradually faded from my vision….
As a kid, I did not enjoy playing with toy guns, vehicles or robots like what other boys typically do. Instead, I liked to play with my sister’s dolls, and I enjoyed stripping the dolls and changing their costumes. When I went to primary school, boys’ games like kickabouts in the park or dribbling a basketball were anathema to me. You could probably find me with some girls playing hopscotch in a secluded part of the school. I remember that I particularly enjoyed stroking Mei Lin’s ponytail, and then removing the elastic band keeping her ponytail in place, and restyling a new hair style for her. When I grew older and discovered the palette of wonderful colours, the array of feminine bric-a-brac that is used to prettify a girl and understood the differences between shades of foundation, I started experimenting with my mother’s make-up kit. Of course, I did that when she was not at home. I think my sister caught me once rubbing some gooey stuff on my face, and her eyes goggled in wonderment. But being six years younger than me, and probably still undeveloped in terms of her cognitive processes, she went back to doing what she was doing and did not broach the topic to me or anyone else.
In secondary school and junior college, I did not have any close guy friends. In fact guys ostracised me because they perceived me as effeminate. Did I feel alienated? No, I didn’t because girls loved my company. It was not that I was particularly handsome or anything, but perhaps the fact that I spoke softer and was more gentle than the typical boy at that age, endeared me to them. We shared so much tears, so many secrets and so many wonderful moments together that there were many occasions when I regretted not being born a female.
The last day of junior college, I cried together with the girls because I knew I would miss them as I had to serve two and a half years of national service. National service was crap to me. I hated every day. Each day weighed down, pressed down on me with unbearable agony. I hated my bunk mates, hated their disgusting habits and disgusting topics. Every night, I hid myself under my bedsheet, cowering in fear of what they would do to me. They called me names, they jeered me, and they played pranks on me. But I kept my cool. I knew that once I completed national service, I would pay them their comeuppance and regain my salvation.
Two and a half years passed like that. I did not exit the gates of my camp less adulterated in my feminine tendencies. On the contrary, my conviction had grown stronger that I needed to change. Break free from my shackles. Find myself.
And now, I find myself lying on a gurney being wheeled into a room with piercing strobe lights. The olive-skinned nurse muttered something in poor English about the doctor coming in a while. I saw the glint of a scalpel somewhere from the corner of my eye. I saw the taunts of my army mates. I saw myself weaving Mei Lin’s hair into a braid. I saw myself crying in the arms of my junior college classmate whose name I have forgotten. I saw my manhood being ripped off, blood spurting everywhere like a fount. Last, but not least, I saw and finally found the peace I had longed for. In a few hours, I will have re-found myself. My eyelids grow heavy and the radiant ceiling light gradually faded from my vision….
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Agent X
Come on! I urge my tired legs to keep pumping. Pump like pistons, get me away from Agent X.
The clacks of our running boots on the linoleum resound loudly in the deserted hallway of the hospital. I am running as fast as I can, but X is keeping up his relentless pursuit.
Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack. My running boots and his running boots answer each other, duelling in the unnerving silence - the only sounds except the palpitation of my heart which is gaining in decibels in my head.
My legs are becoming heavier, like somebody just shot a syringe of lead into them. My mind tells me to stop fighting and give up, or was that X telling me? He plays mind games and he is omnipotent.
Finally, my legs turn to stone, and I fall down. Crumbles into a heap like yesterday's laundry being toppled from its pail.
I look up from the floor - myself a monumental wreck - staring into X's masked face. A white mask with slits for eyes. X pulls me up and holds me in a bear hug.
Summoning my fast fading strength, I flail my arms, kick out with my legs and struggle but I could not free myself from X's vice-like grip.
X's breath is very foul - and if I had something to fumigate that gap where the sickening odour is coming from, I would gladly do it. But I can't. His right hand has gone up to my neck; oh no, he's throttling me!
I can subconsciously feel my desperate movements losing their intensity, my brain has gone into a lull probably induced by the noxious vapours of X's foul breath and my perspiration, and I am falling...into a deep sleep.
My parents were grieving when they watched me at death's door. Lying on my bed in the hospital, my last moments were a struggle for me and for them. With a paroxysm, I expired and I heard their cries no more.
The clacks of our running boots on the linoleum resound loudly in the deserted hallway of the hospital. I am running as fast as I can, but X is keeping up his relentless pursuit.
Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack. My running boots and his running boots answer each other, duelling in the unnerving silence - the only sounds except the palpitation of my heart which is gaining in decibels in my head.
My legs are becoming heavier, like somebody just shot a syringe of lead into them. My mind tells me to stop fighting and give up, or was that X telling me? He plays mind games and he is omnipotent.
Finally, my legs turn to stone, and I fall down. Crumbles into a heap like yesterday's laundry being toppled from its pail.
I look up from the floor - myself a monumental wreck - staring into X's masked face. A white mask with slits for eyes. X pulls me up and holds me in a bear hug.
Summoning my fast fading strength, I flail my arms, kick out with my legs and struggle but I could not free myself from X's vice-like grip.
X's breath is very foul - and if I had something to fumigate that gap where the sickening odour is coming from, I would gladly do it. But I can't. His right hand has gone up to my neck; oh no, he's throttling me!
I can subconsciously feel my desperate movements losing their intensity, my brain has gone into a lull probably induced by the noxious vapours of X's foul breath and my perspiration, and I am falling...into a deep sleep.
My parents were grieving when they watched me at death's door. Lying on my bed in the hospital, my last moments were a struggle for me and for them. With a paroxysm, I expired and I heard their cries no more.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
A twist of fate
For the last two years that she was at the columbarium paying her respects to her dead husband, George, Erna had noticed the tall, gangling man who walked with a droop - who looked as if the world had defeated him and placed a great burden on his back as punishment for his defeat. She was not too taken with his looks because she did not really like guys who were hirsute - he had a face that was half covered in beard, stubble whachamacallit. She found it gross.
But the third anniversary of George's death, something happened to make her speak to that unkempt man. Perhaps out of concern for his droop which was becoming more pronounced or the fact that he looked much more emaciated than the past two years she had seen him; something stirred in her heart, pushed her to speak to him. Erna waited for an opportune moment, made eye contact with the man, and smiled.
The man nodded, and from the wild black foliage on his face, a smile like the glimmer of a sunlight peeked through. He said hello how do you do to Erna and they shook hands; both feeling awkward. At that moment, the solemn unquiet of the columbarium seemed to have grown recriminatory eyes on Erna, for she shivered imperceptibly. I am 35 and I am not looking for love, not in a columbarium with this hairy man, a voice in her head uttered.
The hairy man (he introduced himself as Teck) said he had noticed Erna in the previous two years he was at the columbarium paying respects to his deceased wife. He told Erna his wife had passed away in a traffic accident. While speaking, his voice took on a heavier edge as if weighed with sadness; however that was momentary, for almost immediately, his strong confident voice had returned.
"She died while on her way to meet her lover. She was knocked down by a cab while crossing the street for a tryst with her lover," Teck said matter-of-factly. Teck's placidity in enunciating the words was in stark contrast to Erna's reaction on hearing them; her face involuntarily registered a look of shock and sympathy, and before she could curb herself, she cried out, "I am so sorry. That must have been a blow to you."
Teck smiled at Erna and said no worries. He suggested coffee, and they retreated to a canteen. Over cups of watery coffee, Teck continued to tell Erna details of how he had discovered his wife's adultery.
It seemed that three years ago, Teck had found his wife, Janet, becoming more and more distant. They had talked less frequently, and she got agitated easily. She was impatient with him, and turned down his suggestion of a vacation to revitalise their marriage (they had been married six years and Teck thought that it had gone stale, and needed a spark). Something at the back of Teck's mind told him that he was being cuckolded.
"I am at most times a most logical person, not easily susceptible to suspicion. However, a gut feel told me I would do no wrong in watching out for Janet's activities," Teck told Erna in that strong manly voice of his. Erna listened and nodded her head in concord.
So one day, he hired a private eye who started tailing Janet. After a couple of weeks, the private eye visited Teck and showed him photographic proof of Janet's sexual misdemeanours. Teck was bitterly disappointed and he felt as if the whole world had collapsed.
"I confronted her with the photos and she did not deny. That bitch could even say that if I was not happy, I could get a divorce. Six years of marriage and she could say something like this," a sharp edge returned to Teck's voice before he calmly continued, "But I loved her too much to lose her, and instead I told her I would not consent to a divorce. She snickered at me and called me a coward. That was the moment when I lost all of my male dignity."
Erna listened to Teck's retelling with deep feeling. She felt great sympathy for this man who had suffered so much and yet could still forgive and love his wife so passionately as to continue commemorating her death anniversary. A faintest stirring of feeling for Teck (could it be induced by sympathy) throbbed in Erna, which she quickly suppressed by refocusing her mind to the solemn subject of their conversation. Something made her ask him that question.
"So what happened to her lover?"
"He was on the spot when he saw the cab plough into Janet and throwing her to the ground like a rag doll. I think the shock killed him for he had a cardiac arrest then, or so I read from the papers. He died in hospital. I never bothered to go for his funeral."
Suddenly Teck saw Erna's face turn ghostly white and she started shaking at her shoulders. He thought she was convulsing or suffering a fit, and immediately lurched forward to succour her. Erna jerked back and screamed 'NO!" Repulsed, Teck retreated to his seat and looked embarrassed. Fortunately, they were only the patrons in the canteen.
Erna found herself spiralling into a vortex of unpleasant memories. Teck's concerned face disintegrated into pieces and superimposing over the current reality was a slow-mo playback of that fateful day three years ago.
Erna lets the phone receiver fall to her side - as the import of the phone call sinks in. George is in hospital battling for his life after a sudden cardiac arrest at __ road. She throws on some fresh clothing and takes a cab to the hospital. At George's bedside, he manages to utter "Sorry for being unfaithful to you..." before his last breath ebbs away. She is shocked at what she has just heard.
For three years, until now, finally light had penetrated the darkness of George's mystifying words. Rivulets of light had pierced through that seemingly impenetrable gloom, and lit up some old insignificant detail which had fallen unseen into the cracks of her memory, unseen in the darkness. She remembered reading about a traffic accident which had taken place prior to George's sudden cardiac arrest at _ road. A woman had been killed while crossing the street, and she had not taken much notice of that fact. Today, an ironic twist of fate had revealed everything to her.
Teck watched spell-bound as Erna's eyes goggled and the corners of her mouth contorted into a laugh, a banshee's shrill laugh. She laughed and laughed and laughed drowning out Teck's urgent solicitous cries.
Somewhere, a wayward mynah flew into the canteen and parked itself on one of the empty tables, pecking away at some grains of uncleared food, oblivious to the hysterical laughter resonating in the desolate canteen.
But the third anniversary of George's death, something happened to make her speak to that unkempt man. Perhaps out of concern for his droop which was becoming more pronounced or the fact that he looked much more emaciated than the past two years she had seen him; something stirred in her heart, pushed her to speak to him. Erna waited for an opportune moment, made eye contact with the man, and smiled.
The man nodded, and from the wild black foliage on his face, a smile like the glimmer of a sunlight peeked through. He said hello how do you do to Erna and they shook hands; both feeling awkward. At that moment, the solemn unquiet of the columbarium seemed to have grown recriminatory eyes on Erna, for she shivered imperceptibly. I am 35 and I am not looking for love, not in a columbarium with this hairy man, a voice in her head uttered.
The hairy man (he introduced himself as Teck) said he had noticed Erna in the previous two years he was at the columbarium paying respects to his deceased wife. He told Erna his wife had passed away in a traffic accident. While speaking, his voice took on a heavier edge as if weighed with sadness; however that was momentary, for almost immediately, his strong confident voice had returned.
"She died while on her way to meet her lover. She was knocked down by a cab while crossing the street for a tryst with her lover," Teck said matter-of-factly. Teck's placidity in enunciating the words was in stark contrast to Erna's reaction on hearing them; her face involuntarily registered a look of shock and sympathy, and before she could curb herself, she cried out, "I am so sorry. That must have been a blow to you."
Teck smiled at Erna and said no worries. He suggested coffee, and they retreated to a canteen. Over cups of watery coffee, Teck continued to tell Erna details of how he had discovered his wife's adultery.
It seemed that three years ago, Teck had found his wife, Janet, becoming more and more distant. They had talked less frequently, and she got agitated easily. She was impatient with him, and turned down his suggestion of a vacation to revitalise their marriage (they had been married six years and Teck thought that it had gone stale, and needed a spark). Something at the back of Teck's mind told him that he was being cuckolded.
"I am at most times a most logical person, not easily susceptible to suspicion. However, a gut feel told me I would do no wrong in watching out for Janet's activities," Teck told Erna in that strong manly voice of his. Erna listened and nodded her head in concord.
So one day, he hired a private eye who started tailing Janet. After a couple of weeks, the private eye visited Teck and showed him photographic proof of Janet's sexual misdemeanours. Teck was bitterly disappointed and he felt as if the whole world had collapsed.
"I confronted her with the photos and she did not deny. That bitch could even say that if I was not happy, I could get a divorce. Six years of marriage and she could say something like this," a sharp edge returned to Teck's voice before he calmly continued, "But I loved her too much to lose her, and instead I told her I would not consent to a divorce. She snickered at me and called me a coward. That was the moment when I lost all of my male dignity."
Erna listened to Teck's retelling with deep feeling. She felt great sympathy for this man who had suffered so much and yet could still forgive and love his wife so passionately as to continue commemorating her death anniversary. A faintest stirring of feeling for Teck (could it be induced by sympathy) throbbed in Erna, which she quickly suppressed by refocusing her mind to the solemn subject of their conversation. Something made her ask him that question.
"So what happened to her lover?"
"He was on the spot when he saw the cab plough into Janet and throwing her to the ground like a rag doll. I think the shock killed him for he had a cardiac arrest then, or so I read from the papers. He died in hospital. I never bothered to go for his funeral."
Suddenly Teck saw Erna's face turn ghostly white and she started shaking at her shoulders. He thought she was convulsing or suffering a fit, and immediately lurched forward to succour her. Erna jerked back and screamed 'NO!" Repulsed, Teck retreated to his seat and looked embarrassed. Fortunately, they were only the patrons in the canteen.
Erna found herself spiralling into a vortex of unpleasant memories. Teck's concerned face disintegrated into pieces and superimposing over the current reality was a slow-mo playback of that fateful day three years ago.
Erna lets the phone receiver fall to her side - as the import of the phone call sinks in. George is in hospital battling for his life after a sudden cardiac arrest at __ road. She throws on some fresh clothing and takes a cab to the hospital. At George's bedside, he manages to utter "Sorry for being unfaithful to you..." before his last breath ebbs away. She is shocked at what she has just heard.
For three years, until now, finally light had penetrated the darkness of George's mystifying words. Rivulets of light had pierced through that seemingly impenetrable gloom, and lit up some old insignificant detail which had fallen unseen into the cracks of her memory, unseen in the darkness. She remembered reading about a traffic accident which had taken place prior to George's sudden cardiac arrest at _ road. A woman had been killed while crossing the street, and she had not taken much notice of that fact. Today, an ironic twist of fate had revealed everything to her.
Teck watched spell-bound as Erna's eyes goggled and the corners of her mouth contorted into a laugh, a banshee's shrill laugh. She laughed and laughed and laughed drowning out Teck's urgent solicitous cries.
Somewhere, a wayward mynah flew into the canteen and parked itself on one of the empty tables, pecking away at some grains of uncleared food, oblivious to the hysterical laughter resonating in the desolate canteen.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Waiting for love
At sixty, she knows love has slipped her by. Bundled up in her thick winterwear, she cuts a sad and forgotten figure sitting at the park bench; each passing minute seemingly to shrink her smaller and smaller in the face of the cold and unforgiving wintry gust.
The few stragglers walking past her would notice at most an old lady of small build wrapped up in interminable layers of winter clothing, her head crowned by a mane of shocking white hair and two small rosy patches flushing on her leathered and nondescript face - the face of a woman who has lost her fight against Father Time.
The old lady likes to sit at the park bench whenever winter's first footsteps pad into the small village she lives. She likes to watch the tykes throwing snowballs at each other, or making a snowman. She likes the bitter cold wind whipping her every senses. Winter, with its relentless daggers of falling snow; winter like a mad artist lustily painting the whole village a uniform shade of white; and most of all, winter with its reminder of that long-ago memory when she lost her love.
Winter forty years ago was when her beloved D had bidden her goodbye. Told her he was going to that faraway place to make his fortune and promising to return to marry her in five years' time. They had sat at the bench, holding hands and not saying much. Their shoulders nudged each other's and both of them had their eyes averted, preferring to focus on the white slush coating the ground, tree trunks and roofs. They had sat that way for long, dragging minutes, all the while the snow flakes falling down with unbridled abandon. Finally, he had stood up, and with nary a word, picked up his small knapsack, slung it over his thin shoulders and trudged off in the snow. He walked unsteadily, sinking his boots into the gradually thickening slush, while she watched him. As D became a speck in the horizon, the wind howled louder and the snow started falling in clumps. She left for home to soak in the warmth of the fireplace and wallow in her sadness.
Five years went by without D returning. Ten years elapsed. No news and no sight of D. Every day, the tiny flicker of hope she nursed became weaker. Until it burnt out totally, and forty years have marked itself on her wrinkled and wretched face.
Every year, she had sat at the park bench during wintertime for at least a few hours a day hoping for D's return. With the passage of forty years and even though her last glimmer of hope had long disappeared, she nevertheless still goes to the park bench out of habit.
It is getting colder and her health can no longer hold up against the invincible wind for long periods. Another ten days or so, winter will pack up and the warmer fingers of spring will sweep away the snow bedecking the land, rejuvenating life.
Disappointment written in her hunched shoulders and gnarled back, she shuffles painfully away,
Another day of waiting for her love to come back has been in fruition.
The few stragglers walking past her would notice at most an old lady of small build wrapped up in interminable layers of winter clothing, her head crowned by a mane of shocking white hair and two small rosy patches flushing on her leathered and nondescript face - the face of a woman who has lost her fight against Father Time.
The old lady likes to sit at the park bench whenever winter's first footsteps pad into the small village she lives. She likes to watch the tykes throwing snowballs at each other, or making a snowman. She likes the bitter cold wind whipping her every senses. Winter, with its relentless daggers of falling snow; winter like a mad artist lustily painting the whole village a uniform shade of white; and most of all, winter with its reminder of that long-ago memory when she lost her love.
Winter forty years ago was when her beloved D had bidden her goodbye. Told her he was going to that faraway place to make his fortune and promising to return to marry her in five years' time. They had sat at the bench, holding hands and not saying much. Their shoulders nudged each other's and both of them had their eyes averted, preferring to focus on the white slush coating the ground, tree trunks and roofs. They had sat that way for long, dragging minutes, all the while the snow flakes falling down with unbridled abandon. Finally, he had stood up, and with nary a word, picked up his small knapsack, slung it over his thin shoulders and trudged off in the snow. He walked unsteadily, sinking his boots into the gradually thickening slush, while she watched him. As D became a speck in the horizon, the wind howled louder and the snow started falling in clumps. She left for home to soak in the warmth of the fireplace and wallow in her sadness.
Five years went by without D returning. Ten years elapsed. No news and no sight of D. Every day, the tiny flicker of hope she nursed became weaker. Until it burnt out totally, and forty years have marked itself on her wrinkled and wretched face.
Every year, she had sat at the park bench during wintertime for at least a few hours a day hoping for D's return. With the passage of forty years and even though her last glimmer of hope had long disappeared, she nevertheless still goes to the park bench out of habit.
It is getting colder and her health can no longer hold up against the invincible wind for long periods. Another ten days or so, winter will pack up and the warmer fingers of spring will sweep away the snow bedecking the land, rejuvenating life.
Disappointment written in her hunched shoulders and gnarled back, she shuffles painfully away,
Another day of waiting for her love to come back has been in fruition.
Monday, June 29, 2009
30 candles for her
With painstaking care, he flicks the lighter and a tiny sliver of flame spits out kissing the wick of the candle placed on the birthday cake. There are altogether 30 candles embedded in the creamy firmament top of the Black Forest cake he had purchased with his last twenty dollars from a neighbourhood confectionery.
There is no longer a cent left in the well-worn wallet in his hip pocket, and Tomorrow is on the threshold, with its gaping mouth staring at him. Tomorrow, with its uncertainty and uncertainness; hangs at the back of his mind, but Today is only what matters.
Today marks her thirtieth. The big 3-0, the curly 'three' juxtaposed next to the loop, a noose that is waiting to hang him when Tomorrow comes. But that does not matter Today.
He finishes lighting the 30 candles, his finger singed by the wavery flame of the lighter. But he feels no physical pain because Today is celebratory; Today is valedictory; Today is victorious.
30 candles in a mish-mash of different hues burning abright.
30 candles stand stoic saluting her birthday.
30 candles cutting a fiery cleave through the dimly-lit room.
His heart sings out a song of love to his Valentine, and harken!
The candle light does not shine forever. When the candles finally complete burning, darkness has totally annexed the room. Today has ended. Shrouded in complete darkness, he presses his lips to the photo of his Valentine and kisses her goodbye until the next autumn.
There is no longer a cent left in the well-worn wallet in his hip pocket, and Tomorrow is on the threshold, with its gaping mouth staring at him. Tomorrow, with its uncertainty and uncertainness; hangs at the back of his mind, but Today is only what matters.
Today marks her thirtieth. The big 3-0, the curly 'three' juxtaposed next to the loop, a noose that is waiting to hang him when Tomorrow comes. But that does not matter Today.
He finishes lighting the 30 candles, his finger singed by the wavery flame of the lighter. But he feels no physical pain because Today is celebratory; Today is valedictory; Today is victorious.
30 candles in a mish-mash of different hues burning abright.
30 candles stand stoic saluting her birthday.
30 candles cutting a fiery cleave through the dimly-lit room.
His heart sings out a song of love to his Valentine, and harken!
The candle light does not shine forever. When the candles finally complete burning, darkness has totally annexed the room. Today has ended. Shrouded in complete darkness, he presses his lips to the photo of his Valentine and kisses her goodbye until the next autumn.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
A victim of the times
Sniffles, coughs, someone else sneezes, and a rasping tubercular cough erupts from somewhere. Madame Hypochondriac starts feeling all jittery and shivery as she hurries down the thoroughfare, rays of sunlight streaming iridescently on her, and glancing off the shiny metal and glass facades of Orchard Road.
Her beady eyes furtively scanning the sticks of human beings around her, scouring faces for signs of sickness or disease; her every step quickening as she strides purposefully towards her destination - the Great Singapore Sales going on in one of those towering flashy shopping malls.
Madame fastens her N95 facemask and takes a deep breath behind the protective carapace of plastic. Her spectacles mist up, and through the mist, she sees the path in front of her metamorphosise into an Edenic boulevard of bright blossoms and fresh-smelling flora. The sticks of humans have vanished and the burning orange ball in the sky flashes crimson and anoints Eden with a healthy aura.
Madame dances a jig and hums an euphonious tune. This Eden is so far removed from pandemic-stricken Singapore where her peace is constantly shattered by intermittent sniffles, wheezes, coughing or throat-clearing. She feels reinvigorated as the sunlight flows into her bloodstream. Her feet become lighter as she treads on the plush green carpet of Eden. A reddish hue suffuses her physiognomy, restoring the traces of her long-lost beauty.
Life is so beautiful, she thinks to herself, submerging deeper into this misty Xanadu.
Until the quietude of her Eden is shattered by the clangour of blaring horns and anxious shouts. The last vapour of her breathy condensation clears from her spectacles and to her horror, she finds herself standing smack in the middle of a busy road with vehicles horning crazily, vehicles juddering to a halt, vehicles whizzing past and bystanders screaming her to get the hell out of the road.
Her head dulled by too much vitamins, and perhaps still clearing from her reverie of a few moments ago, Madame Hypochondriac reacts too belatedly. A taxi rams into her and like a crash test dummy, she flies into the air, taking an awfully long moment, before she hits the bitumen, painting it a bright dazzling red.
As if on cue, the germs-ridden air of pandemic-stricken Singapore is washed by thick furious sheets of rain, and a mist arises from the hot bitumen as life continues unabated.
Her beady eyes furtively scanning the sticks of human beings around her, scouring faces for signs of sickness or disease; her every step quickening as she strides purposefully towards her destination - the Great Singapore Sales going on in one of those towering flashy shopping malls.
Madame fastens her N95 facemask and takes a deep breath behind the protective carapace of plastic. Her spectacles mist up, and through the mist, she sees the path in front of her metamorphosise into an Edenic boulevard of bright blossoms and fresh-smelling flora. The sticks of humans have vanished and the burning orange ball in the sky flashes crimson and anoints Eden with a healthy aura.
Madame dances a jig and hums an euphonious tune. This Eden is so far removed from pandemic-stricken Singapore where her peace is constantly shattered by intermittent sniffles, wheezes, coughing or throat-clearing. She feels reinvigorated as the sunlight flows into her bloodstream. Her feet become lighter as she treads on the plush green carpet of Eden. A reddish hue suffuses her physiognomy, restoring the traces of her long-lost beauty.
Life is so beautiful, she thinks to herself, submerging deeper into this misty Xanadu.
Until the quietude of her Eden is shattered by the clangour of blaring horns and anxious shouts. The last vapour of her breathy condensation clears from her spectacles and to her horror, she finds herself standing smack in the middle of a busy road with vehicles horning crazily, vehicles juddering to a halt, vehicles whizzing past and bystanders screaming her to get the hell out of the road.
Her head dulled by too much vitamins, and perhaps still clearing from her reverie of a few moments ago, Madame Hypochondriac reacts too belatedly. A taxi rams into her and like a crash test dummy, she flies into the air, taking an awfully long moment, before she hits the bitumen, painting it a bright dazzling red.
As if on cue, the germs-ridden air of pandemic-stricken Singapore is washed by thick furious sheets of rain, and a mist arises from the hot bitumen as life continues unabated.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
The old man and the sea
He is there - a speck, a dot in the endless expanse of blue.
That blue sea plumbing unfathomable depths.
He sits on the ark of his own solitude, drifting and drifting.
Awaiting the set of old age's sun.
Loneliness plumbing unfathomable depths.
He fishes patiently for the company.
Of someone's friendly glance, caring words or a gentle wave.
No one cares.
The troughs and crests he has experienced and lived through -
that was his life.
And today he has grown old and worn, drifting and drifting,
a speck, a dot on this sea of loneliness.
And this is his life.
As the sun sets on his old age.
That blue sea plumbing unfathomable depths.
He sits on the ark of his own solitude, drifting and drifting.
Awaiting the set of old age's sun.
Loneliness plumbing unfathomable depths.
He fishes patiently for the company.
Of someone's friendly glance, caring words or a gentle wave.
No one cares.
The troughs and crests he has experienced and lived through -
that was his life.
And today he has grown old and worn, drifting and drifting,
a speck, a dot on this sea of loneliness.
And this is his life.
As the sun sets on his old age.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
The mama shop uncle
The last lights have gone out in the surrounding HDB flats. The thick blanket of night contains within it a miasma of soporific allure, and one could have expected most people to have stolen off into a well-deserved few hours of rest before the inevitable cock's crow of the next day.
But not the old Indian man, sitting forlornly on a stool that has seen better days, in his cubbyhole of a mamashop. He sits on his stool, waiting for the business that will not come - not when night is at its darkest and most of the denizens in the estate are bewitched by Morpheus' seduction - and hopes his nightly hope that there will be one or two stragglers or late-comers who will pop by his store for a pack of cigarettes or some other provender.
The old man needs provender of a different kind. The paper kind called currency. He is behind payment for the goods ordered from several wholesalers. The refrigerator housing his forlorn few cartons of milk and desolate cans of soft drinks is wheezing its last breath. His family in India is looking forward to his long-missed remittances. There are so many responsibilities, so many bills, and so many burdens he is carrying on his hunched and arthritic shoulders, he thinks to himself.
The old man summons his rheumy legs and gets up from the stool. With pain etched across his face, he limps outside the sundry shop. He stares at the streetlights, the towering HDB blocks and listens to the shrill cries of crickets. Somewhere a stray cat mews. He thinks to himself as to whether he should pack up and throw in the towel. What is the purpose in opening the shop until 3am every night awaiting slack business? What is the point in soldiering on when he cannot offer himself and his wares against the metronomic precision of neighbourhood convenience stores and the giant supermarkets with their multifarious goods, shiny cash registers and immaculately-attired service crew? David versus Goliath.
He strikes up a hand-rolled cigarette and settling himself on his stool, puffs thoughtfully away; all the while his eyes glued to the shopfront and ears pricked for the sound of human voices or movement.
As someone on his cosy bed tosses over and dreams a sweet dream of tomorrow to come; the old Indian man ensconced on his ramshackle stool muses on his own hard life that is surely reaching its nadir as the night gets darker and darker.
Nursing a plangent hope for an elusive sale, loneliness in the form of his malfunctioning refrigerator, the haphazardly arranged stacks of sweets and chocolates on the counter, the shelves replete with cans of sardines, baked beans and other sundry goods, accompanies him through this most bewitching of nights.
But not the old Indian man, sitting forlornly on a stool that has seen better days, in his cubbyhole of a mamashop. He sits on his stool, waiting for the business that will not come - not when night is at its darkest and most of the denizens in the estate are bewitched by Morpheus' seduction - and hopes his nightly hope that there will be one or two stragglers or late-comers who will pop by his store for a pack of cigarettes or some other provender.
The old man needs provender of a different kind. The paper kind called currency. He is behind payment for the goods ordered from several wholesalers. The refrigerator housing his forlorn few cartons of milk and desolate cans of soft drinks is wheezing its last breath. His family in India is looking forward to his long-missed remittances. There are so many responsibilities, so many bills, and so many burdens he is carrying on his hunched and arthritic shoulders, he thinks to himself.
The old man summons his rheumy legs and gets up from the stool. With pain etched across his face, he limps outside the sundry shop. He stares at the streetlights, the towering HDB blocks and listens to the shrill cries of crickets. Somewhere a stray cat mews. He thinks to himself as to whether he should pack up and throw in the towel. What is the purpose in opening the shop until 3am every night awaiting slack business? What is the point in soldiering on when he cannot offer himself and his wares against the metronomic precision of neighbourhood convenience stores and the giant supermarkets with their multifarious goods, shiny cash registers and immaculately-attired service crew? David versus Goliath.
He strikes up a hand-rolled cigarette and settling himself on his stool, puffs thoughtfully away; all the while his eyes glued to the shopfront and ears pricked for the sound of human voices or movement.
As someone on his cosy bed tosses over and dreams a sweet dream of tomorrow to come; the old Indian man ensconced on his ramshackle stool muses on his own hard life that is surely reaching its nadir as the night gets darker and darker.
Nursing a plangent hope for an elusive sale, loneliness in the form of his malfunctioning refrigerator, the haphazardly arranged stacks of sweets and chocolates on the counter, the shelves replete with cans of sardines, baked beans and other sundry goods, accompanies him through this most bewitching of nights.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Sex under the moonlight
Night's sweaty palm chafes his bare back but to him, caught in the throes of his emotions, everything in his orbit does not seem to register. Except her. He works his tongue over her neck - damp with perspiration - and worms his fingers clumsily into her Mango top. His fingers touch the two mounds. Her plump breasts have never failed to turn him on, and tonight, he is burning with excitement at his impending conquest. Months of relentless pursuit have finally dissolved this icy and aloof girl. Like a barge entering the narrow estuary of a harbour, he is touching shore.
He caresses her breasts and she lets forth a soft moan. The scant moonlight in the ripening dark provides just sufficient illumination for him to catch a peripheral sight of her closed eyes and the tiny beads of perspiration formed on her pert nose.
Their argument of a few minutes ago had faded into oblivion. Self-restraint had surrendered to burgeoning youthful passion. Ah, the impetuosity of doing it in a public park! - Surrounded by the attenuate stalks of trees standing around like silenced witnesses. The chirping of crickets and the occasional distant flare of motor on the expressway a few kilometres away are the only sounds providing accompaniment in this darkest and most passionate of nights.
His fingers migrate downwards, unzip her shorts, and feel the wetness of her female genitalia. He pushes a finger into the treacly darkness of her clitoris and at that point, he is totally consumed by his inflamed passion. He takes her in the quiet park and experiences bliss which he has never felt before.
****
With the water from the showerhead cascading over him, he casts his mind back to that magical one hour with her. They had parted three hours ago, and on the bus-ride to her home, he had told her he loved her madly. Life could not have been sweeter for him. His application to the local university has been accepted. He has finally won her heart after so much uncertainty and efforts. He feels like he now has a purpose for looking forward to tomorrow. Such is the feeling of being in love - in love with that wonderful girl whose every move elicits glances of admiration from men and women alike.
Towelling his hair, he turns on the computer and logs on to the Internet to check his e-mail. There is a new message from an unfamiliar e-mail address. He clicks on the attachment - a video file - and almost freezes in his seat.
As the images of his lovemaking in the park play out grainily, the horror that is slowly forming in his throat threatens to asphyxiate him. He can see his face quite clearly despite the bleariness of the video which was clearly taken by a mobile phone. He angrily closes the video file and looks at the e-mail address again. It still doesn't ring a bell in his mind, but somewhere in that phantasmal and unreal cocoon of his horror, his mobile phone starts ringing....
He picks up his mobile phone and seized by a moment of irrational madness, hurls it at the computer monitor. The screen cracks into spiderwebs, and in his mind's eye, he sees his future finished - like a fly that has unwittingly strayed into a spiderweb and is fruitlessly trying to free itself.
****
One week later, his sex video is paraded and flogged online.
He caresses her breasts and she lets forth a soft moan. The scant moonlight in the ripening dark provides just sufficient illumination for him to catch a peripheral sight of her closed eyes and the tiny beads of perspiration formed on her pert nose.
Their argument of a few minutes ago had faded into oblivion. Self-restraint had surrendered to burgeoning youthful passion. Ah, the impetuosity of doing it in a public park! - Surrounded by the attenuate stalks of trees standing around like silenced witnesses. The chirping of crickets and the occasional distant flare of motor on the expressway a few kilometres away are the only sounds providing accompaniment in this darkest and most passionate of nights.
His fingers migrate downwards, unzip her shorts, and feel the wetness of her female genitalia. He pushes a finger into the treacly darkness of her clitoris and at that point, he is totally consumed by his inflamed passion. He takes her in the quiet park and experiences bliss which he has never felt before.
****
With the water from the showerhead cascading over him, he casts his mind back to that magical one hour with her. They had parted three hours ago, and on the bus-ride to her home, he had told her he loved her madly. Life could not have been sweeter for him. His application to the local university has been accepted. He has finally won her heart after so much uncertainty and efforts. He feels like he now has a purpose for looking forward to tomorrow. Such is the feeling of being in love - in love with that wonderful girl whose every move elicits glances of admiration from men and women alike.
Towelling his hair, he turns on the computer and logs on to the Internet to check his e-mail. There is a new message from an unfamiliar e-mail address. He clicks on the attachment - a video file - and almost freezes in his seat.
As the images of his lovemaking in the park play out grainily, the horror that is slowly forming in his throat threatens to asphyxiate him. He can see his face quite clearly despite the bleariness of the video which was clearly taken by a mobile phone. He angrily closes the video file and looks at the e-mail address again. It still doesn't ring a bell in his mind, but somewhere in that phantasmal and unreal cocoon of his horror, his mobile phone starts ringing....
He picks up his mobile phone and seized by a moment of irrational madness, hurls it at the computer monitor. The screen cracks into spiderwebs, and in his mind's eye, he sees his future finished - like a fly that has unwittingly strayed into a spiderweb and is fruitlessly trying to free itself.
****
One week later, his sex video is paraded and flogged online.
The joy of pain
When the castors of the gurney squeaked into the operating theatre with my wife lying on it, moaning and groaning helplessly; I could feel the stanchions of my faith shaking.
My life had revolved around her, and now like a house in the prairie buffeted by the heaviest storm, I was on the verge of collapsing, all my wavering hopes disintegrating into smithereens.
We had hankered for a child to make our family complete for the last five years we were married. And when news emerged that she was pregnant, our euphoria was indescribable. It seemed so long ago - those joyous scenes when we were hugging and crying each other in front of her gynaecologist who had told us the good news - and now, I stood on the precipice looking into a gradually darkening abyss of gloom.
She had been bleeding the last two nights, and we had decided that although the baby was not due for another two weeks, it was much better to send her to the hospital for observation and professional clinical care. To me, the signs of bleeding were ominous, but I had cast those negative thoughts off my mind, and preferred to concentrate on the positive. Besides, our belief in God would see us through, and God would grant us a healthy baby boy after all the travails He had put us through these last five years, when we were trying so futilely to conceive.
The operating theatre's light flashed ominously red and every minute that ticked by only added to my heightening anxiety and agony. I must have paced the aisle a zillion times, buying some reprieve from being cast into the abyss of gloom and ended hopes.
The doctor came out of the operating theatre with two nurses in tow. He stripped off his face mask, and looked at me apologetically through his misted spectacles. He told me the news and gave me a consolatory pat on the back.
I had been yanked off the periphery of one abyss and thrown into yet another. I had never felt such pain in my life before, and I collapsed into a heap on the floor, wailing crazily. The nurses and doctor crouched down humming gentle soothing words to me. However, in the desolation of my pain, nothing registered. Except I was the newly-minted father of a healthy baby boy and a widower at the same time. What cruel hand of Fate! And what tricks God do play!
From the operating theatre, the bawl of my baby boy sounded like a dirge....
My life had revolved around her, and now like a house in the prairie buffeted by the heaviest storm, I was on the verge of collapsing, all my wavering hopes disintegrating into smithereens.
We had hankered for a child to make our family complete for the last five years we were married. And when news emerged that she was pregnant, our euphoria was indescribable. It seemed so long ago - those joyous scenes when we were hugging and crying each other in front of her gynaecologist who had told us the good news - and now, I stood on the precipice looking into a gradually darkening abyss of gloom.
She had been bleeding the last two nights, and we had decided that although the baby was not due for another two weeks, it was much better to send her to the hospital for observation and professional clinical care. To me, the signs of bleeding were ominous, but I had cast those negative thoughts off my mind, and preferred to concentrate on the positive. Besides, our belief in God would see us through, and God would grant us a healthy baby boy after all the travails He had put us through these last five years, when we were trying so futilely to conceive.
The operating theatre's light flashed ominously red and every minute that ticked by only added to my heightening anxiety and agony. I must have paced the aisle a zillion times, buying some reprieve from being cast into the abyss of gloom and ended hopes.
The doctor came out of the operating theatre with two nurses in tow. He stripped off his face mask, and looked at me apologetically through his misted spectacles. He told me the news and gave me a consolatory pat on the back.
I had been yanked off the periphery of one abyss and thrown into yet another. I had never felt such pain in my life before, and I collapsed into a heap on the floor, wailing crazily. The nurses and doctor crouched down humming gentle soothing words to me. However, in the desolation of my pain, nothing registered. Except I was the newly-minted father of a healthy baby boy and a widower at the same time. What cruel hand of Fate! And what tricks God do play!
From the operating theatre, the bawl of my baby boy sounded like a dirge....
Through the window grilles
A slash of cerulean cuts across the gradually lightening sky. Shadows slowly form on the walls of his spartan room. He glances at the window grilles and panes, mottled with a coat of dust. He blows some specks of dust dangling on the grilles, and they dissolve away into nothingness.
As dawn pushes the last remnants of night away, the first sun rays of the day reflect off the window pane, showing his reflection: haggard and drawn, a day-old stubble bedecking his chin.
He looks idiotically at the brightening sky. He looks at the clouds, clouds like candy floss. Tendrils of cloud, curls and swirls of cloud, interspersed with blue, black and pink. He craves some candy floss now. When he was a child, he would always implore his mother to buy candy floss whenever they chanced upon a mobile stall selling that. Alas, that was so many years ago, and his memories are now not so reliable and lucid.
Time holds no meaning for him in his prison cell of a bedroom. He could lie there or sit up painfully and look out of his window grilles at a world that is full of zest and life, but which holds no meaning for him. Life, for him, has no meaning. Meaning has filtered out of his life when she killed herself. Plunged down ten storeys, and him a sobbing wreck, standing by her side and screaming his lungs out. It was then that his hair had turned white. It was then when meaning and purpose had drifted away, oozed out of his life - like an artery that has its blood all drawn dry.
He sees some black birds flying in a formation across the sky, their shrill cries, jabbing his loneliness. The squares of the high-rise opposite slowly bustle with activity. He sees a man brushing his teeth. He sees a maid carrying out a bamboo pole full of wet clothing. He sees a light flicker on in one of the units, and then flicker off. He sees the colour of blue steadily suffusing the candy floss. He craves some candy floss now, and is it time for breakfast?
He hears a knock, and the nurse enters, bearing him his day's medication and a paltry breakfast of porridge. She looks at him bound in his strait-jacket, and caws, "You wet yourself again."
As dawn pushes the last remnants of night away, the first sun rays of the day reflect off the window pane, showing his reflection: haggard and drawn, a day-old stubble bedecking his chin.
He looks idiotically at the brightening sky. He looks at the clouds, clouds like candy floss. Tendrils of cloud, curls and swirls of cloud, interspersed with blue, black and pink. He craves some candy floss now. When he was a child, he would always implore his mother to buy candy floss whenever they chanced upon a mobile stall selling that. Alas, that was so many years ago, and his memories are now not so reliable and lucid.
Time holds no meaning for him in his prison cell of a bedroom. He could lie there or sit up painfully and look out of his window grilles at a world that is full of zest and life, but which holds no meaning for him. Life, for him, has no meaning. Meaning has filtered out of his life when she killed herself. Plunged down ten storeys, and him a sobbing wreck, standing by her side and screaming his lungs out. It was then that his hair had turned white. It was then when meaning and purpose had drifted away, oozed out of his life - like an artery that has its blood all drawn dry.
He sees some black birds flying in a formation across the sky, their shrill cries, jabbing his loneliness. The squares of the high-rise opposite slowly bustle with activity. He sees a man brushing his teeth. He sees a maid carrying out a bamboo pole full of wet clothing. He sees a light flicker on in one of the units, and then flicker off. He sees the colour of blue steadily suffusing the candy floss. He craves some candy floss now, and is it time for breakfast?
He hears a knock, and the nurse enters, bearing him his day's medication and a paltry breakfast of porridge. She looks at him bound in his strait-jacket, and caws, "You wet yourself again."
Thursday, June 18, 2009
A visitor during lunch
James thought that he could steal 40 winks while no one was watching. It was after all, lunch time. And always on the dot, gaggles of hungry office workers would mechanically drop what they were doing and systematically waddle out of the office door.
His eyelids slowly grew heavy and the screensaver on his monitor became blurry; his head was tilting to one side, and the sleep that had eluded him last night had finally caught up. A good hour of rest was just another droop of the eyelids away when suddenly, the bell rang.
The peal of the bell jolted him awake; and the adhesive of sleep binding his bleary eyes loosened; revealing a woman of about thirty standing in front of his desk. She had long, raggy hair. The thing he noticed most about her was her physiognomy. Her eyes were bloodshot red, like eyes afflicted by a bad case of conjunctivitis. A slash of blood red lipstick anointed her upper lip. Angry red pimples dotted her facial landscape. She looked terrible, and for a moment, he was repulsed sufficiently to subconsciously recoil in his seat.
"Er, how can I help you?" James said with a lump in his throat. Mentally, he regretted not following his colleagues out for lunch. If it came to choosing a sleep that was going to be interrupted by a most physically-repellent customer and gorging himself on food and sharing rowdy jokes or catty office gossip with colleagues, he would have chosen the latter. But it was too late - he had made the choice to stay in and sleep, and now he had to entertain this ugly lady.
The woman did not reply to him. Instead her eyes goggled wide and her stare at James was unnerving him. After a few seconds had passed, the first words coming out of her mouth were the cryptical: "Don't you remember me?"
"I don't remember serving you before, Miss. Er, I think you must be looking for another colleague of mine. All of us office workers do look alike, you know," James joked. If he had expected a laugh or a smile from the ugly woman, what he got was instead stony silence and the unnerving eyeballing she was giving him.
Another few more seconds elapsed with no other words passing between them. All this while, James' bewilderment was heightening. He wriggled his toes in his Clarks. The gentle humming of the airconditioning and the snatches of music from someone else's radio in the office were the only sounds.
The woman continued to stare at him, and the twitching of her mouth added to James' uneasiness. The last vestiges of sleep had been brushed away from his eyes like cobwebs swept away by a wayward hand.
"Hey miss, could you say something? How can I help you? Are you alright?" The sentences popped out from his mouth like strings of firecrackers let loose. Stultifying silence doused his firecrackers.
He could not stand it anymore. Pushing himself up from his seat, he stood up and glared at the woman. The woman eyeballed him back evenly. Then her right hand flashed up and made contact with his left cheek. James was shocked and before his indignation could be expressed, the woman spoke.
"Remember that night. Remember what you did," she said, then pointed to her stomach, continued, "I am pregnant now, you bastard!"
With that, her stony face crumbled into a maelstrom of tears. Sobbing, she turned around and ran out of the room, leaving a shell-shocked James with the light of comprehension blinding him.
Four months ago. A nightspot in town. A wild night of revelry. Bottles of heavy liquor going around like they were out of fashion. Eye contact. The darkness obscuring her face. Too inebriated to bother or notice what would normally revolt him. They dance. They depart. His gang of friends laughingly telling him to enjoy. Some hotel room. A wild night of sex. Awakening and finding himself alone on a bed, naked. No recollection of what has happened. Brushes it off as a one-night stand. Typically him. Pays the hotel bill, leaves. Relegates that night to the back of his mind. Life goes on.
The light had suffused his memory, shining upon the crevices where his jumbled recollections of that night had hidden. Epiphany, realisation, light - and an excruciating pain on his left cheek.
The bell rang again....
His eyelids slowly grew heavy and the screensaver on his monitor became blurry; his head was tilting to one side, and the sleep that had eluded him last night had finally caught up. A good hour of rest was just another droop of the eyelids away when suddenly, the bell rang.
The peal of the bell jolted him awake; and the adhesive of sleep binding his bleary eyes loosened; revealing a woman of about thirty standing in front of his desk. She had long, raggy hair. The thing he noticed most about her was her physiognomy. Her eyes were bloodshot red, like eyes afflicted by a bad case of conjunctivitis. A slash of blood red lipstick anointed her upper lip. Angry red pimples dotted her facial landscape. She looked terrible, and for a moment, he was repulsed sufficiently to subconsciously recoil in his seat.
"Er, how can I help you?" James said with a lump in his throat. Mentally, he regretted not following his colleagues out for lunch. If it came to choosing a sleep that was going to be interrupted by a most physically-repellent customer and gorging himself on food and sharing rowdy jokes or catty office gossip with colleagues, he would have chosen the latter. But it was too late - he had made the choice to stay in and sleep, and now he had to entertain this ugly lady.
The woman did not reply to him. Instead her eyes goggled wide and her stare at James was unnerving him. After a few seconds had passed, the first words coming out of her mouth were the cryptical: "Don't you remember me?"
"I don't remember serving you before, Miss. Er, I think you must be looking for another colleague of mine. All of us office workers do look alike, you know," James joked. If he had expected a laugh or a smile from the ugly woman, what he got was instead stony silence and the unnerving eyeballing she was giving him.
Another few more seconds elapsed with no other words passing between them. All this while, James' bewilderment was heightening. He wriggled his toes in his Clarks. The gentle humming of the airconditioning and the snatches of music from someone else's radio in the office were the only sounds.
The woman continued to stare at him, and the twitching of her mouth added to James' uneasiness. The last vestiges of sleep had been brushed away from his eyes like cobwebs swept away by a wayward hand.
"Hey miss, could you say something? How can I help you? Are you alright?" The sentences popped out from his mouth like strings of firecrackers let loose. Stultifying silence doused his firecrackers.
He could not stand it anymore. Pushing himself up from his seat, he stood up and glared at the woman. The woman eyeballed him back evenly. Then her right hand flashed up and made contact with his left cheek. James was shocked and before his indignation could be expressed, the woman spoke.
"Remember that night. Remember what you did," she said, then pointed to her stomach, continued, "I am pregnant now, you bastard!"
With that, her stony face crumbled into a maelstrom of tears. Sobbing, she turned around and ran out of the room, leaving a shell-shocked James with the light of comprehension blinding him.
Four months ago. A nightspot in town. A wild night of revelry. Bottles of heavy liquor going around like they were out of fashion. Eye contact. The darkness obscuring her face. Too inebriated to bother or notice what would normally revolt him. They dance. They depart. His gang of friends laughingly telling him to enjoy. Some hotel room. A wild night of sex. Awakening and finding himself alone on a bed, naked. No recollection of what has happened. Brushes it off as a one-night stand. Typically him. Pays the hotel bill, leaves. Relegates that night to the back of his mind. Life goes on.
The light had suffused his memory, shining upon the crevices where his jumbled recollections of that night had hidden. Epiphany, realisation, light - and an excruciating pain on his left cheek.
The bell rang again....
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Windfall
The child has been crying for the last hour and his patience is wearing thin. He had tried all ways and means to pacify that little devil, but to no avail. Milk didn't work. Toys didn't work. Even carrying and patting him - a deed he detests very much - was futile.
There are so many things in his mind, and like a garbage bin filled to the brim - not with rubbish but troubles, in his case - he feels like he is going to explode. He is high-strung and the incessant cries of the child are not giving him any relief either. Something has to give soon.
He had opened the letterbox earlier in the day and thought he had opened Pandora's box when he saw the stacks of envelopes. White, with officious-looking logos emblazoned on them; the envelopes spelled authority. Unforgiving authority. Authority with ultimatums hanging over his head if he does not pay the outstanding bills by when and when.
He had taken the lift up with the pile of envelopes crushed into a ball in his fists. Rage simmering all the while as his bloodshot eyes took in the slowly blinking numbers on the lift panel display. The stench of someone's yesterday's urine stuck to the firmament of the lift. Some vandal had scrawled a fresh set of expletives on the lift walls, commingling with earlier gems like "Free Fuck, call XXXXXXXXX", "GOVT IS SHIT" and a whole host of unprintables.
When he entered the living room, the child started crying from its cot. He shouted for her to attend to the child, but there was no response. Goddamit, she is out again, he thought. How many times have I told her not to leave the child alone?
He looked at the ashtrays and visually counted eight butts, one of them slowly dying in its embers. She has been smoking a lot lately. It must have been the list of neverending troubles plaguing them. He threw the ball of envelopes into the child's cot and picked him up.
Made him a milk. Threw toys into the cot. Carried and patted him. And yet the child still keeps bawling. Every little cry seems like another shovel of blame being cast into the grave of his uselessness and worthlessness. A useless and worthless father who could never hold down a job for long. Who impregnated his girlfriend (now wife) when he could barely support himself. Who is months behind payment for the housing bills, utilties bills and whatnot.
He lights up a cigarette and puffs away, all the while looking at the child. His cries seem to rise a notch, and the tether of his tolerance loosens slightly over the cauldron of his immeasurable rage which he is always capable of. A cauldron of rage fed by the troubles that never seem to end, a life that has been nothing but a dead end, and now this crying child - another mouth to feed, another burden for him to bear.
The tether holding him back surrenders its hold and he plunges into the cauldron of his burning rage, rage devouring his senses and sanity.
He puts down his cigarette. He picks up the child and starts shaking him violently. He slaps the child across the face. The cries worsen. Another slap, and the cries continue. Fed up, he throws the child back into the cot. He takes the cigarette and jabs it into the child's soft, fleshy leg....
The phone starts ringing in the background of the child's wails. The child is wailing like a banshee. He leaves the child alone, and ventures to the coffee table to pick up the phone. Amidst the static of the phone, and the child's cries; someone is telling him about some prize he had won.
There is an intermission in the child's caterwauling as his young eyes spy something. He sends his little fingers on an expedition to retrieve that something he sees. His fingers grasp the lit cigarette and the heat scorches them, causing the child to instinctively fling the cigarette onto the crushed ball of envelopes residing in his cot.
The tendrils of orange, blue and crimson embrace paper...whilst the child's father, with his back turned, can hardly believe the good news of his windfall over the phone. His luck is about to change, exciting thoughts race through his mind about how the money is going to engender a new beginning for him and his family.
When he plops down the phone and turns his back to the cot, wondering why the child has stopped crying; horror seems to have garrotted his neck....
There are so many things in his mind, and like a garbage bin filled to the brim - not with rubbish but troubles, in his case - he feels like he is going to explode. He is high-strung and the incessant cries of the child are not giving him any relief either. Something has to give soon.
He had opened the letterbox earlier in the day and thought he had opened Pandora's box when he saw the stacks of envelopes. White, with officious-looking logos emblazoned on them; the envelopes spelled authority. Unforgiving authority. Authority with ultimatums hanging over his head if he does not pay the outstanding bills by when and when.
He had taken the lift up with the pile of envelopes crushed into a ball in his fists. Rage simmering all the while as his bloodshot eyes took in the slowly blinking numbers on the lift panel display. The stench of someone's yesterday's urine stuck to the firmament of the lift. Some vandal had scrawled a fresh set of expletives on the lift walls, commingling with earlier gems like "Free Fuck, call XXXXXXXXX", "GOVT IS SHIT" and a whole host of unprintables.
When he entered the living room, the child started crying from its cot. He shouted for her to attend to the child, but there was no response. Goddamit, she is out again, he thought. How many times have I told her not to leave the child alone?
He looked at the ashtrays and visually counted eight butts, one of them slowly dying in its embers. She has been smoking a lot lately. It must have been the list of neverending troubles plaguing them. He threw the ball of envelopes into the child's cot and picked him up.
Made him a milk. Threw toys into the cot. Carried and patted him. And yet the child still keeps bawling. Every little cry seems like another shovel of blame being cast into the grave of his uselessness and worthlessness. A useless and worthless father who could never hold down a job for long. Who impregnated his girlfriend (now wife) when he could barely support himself. Who is months behind payment for the housing bills, utilties bills and whatnot.
He lights up a cigarette and puffs away, all the while looking at the child. His cries seem to rise a notch, and the tether of his tolerance loosens slightly over the cauldron of his immeasurable rage which he is always capable of. A cauldron of rage fed by the troubles that never seem to end, a life that has been nothing but a dead end, and now this crying child - another mouth to feed, another burden for him to bear.
The tether holding him back surrenders its hold and he plunges into the cauldron of his burning rage, rage devouring his senses and sanity.
He puts down his cigarette. He picks up the child and starts shaking him violently. He slaps the child across the face. The cries worsen. Another slap, and the cries continue. Fed up, he throws the child back into the cot. He takes the cigarette and jabs it into the child's soft, fleshy leg....
The phone starts ringing in the background of the child's wails. The child is wailing like a banshee. He leaves the child alone, and ventures to the coffee table to pick up the phone. Amidst the static of the phone, and the child's cries; someone is telling him about some prize he had won.
There is an intermission in the child's caterwauling as his young eyes spy something. He sends his little fingers on an expedition to retrieve that something he sees. His fingers grasp the lit cigarette and the heat scorches them, causing the child to instinctively fling the cigarette onto the crushed ball of envelopes residing in his cot.
The tendrils of orange, blue and crimson embrace paper...whilst the child's father, with his back turned, can hardly believe the good news of his windfall over the phone. His luck is about to change, exciting thoughts race through his mind about how the money is going to engender a new beginning for him and his family.
When he plops down the phone and turns his back to the cot, wondering why the child has stopped crying; horror seems to have garrotted his neck....
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Monday
tedium, weekend hangover and malaise bookmark monday.
monday: (noun) the fly in the ointment, the obstacle as the key struggles to find a groove in the lock to open up a new beginning to the week; seconds, minutes and hours chug along like tendrils of bloated smoke sputtering from the carburettor, threatening to overwhelm with boredom ad nauseam.
i count time, cups of watery ersatz caffeine while the gentle, rhythmic throb of a headache kneads the cranium.
the photocopier spits out printed sheets; disembodied voices, phlegmy coughs and the occasional sneeze perforate the consciousness, fingers caressing the erogenous buttons of keyboards futilely as screens register non-productivity in bold capital letters summarise the gentle humming of an office in motion on a morose monday.
the minutiae of monday moods is captured in physiognomies that ache and hang heavy with helplessness, voices that sputter rather than spill, and movements that are akin to dragging along corroded chains and balls.
monday has to be written off, interred as an early victim of the week. it has to.
may tuesday throw us a respite.
first written circa Jul 09
monday: (noun) the fly in the ointment, the obstacle as the key struggles to find a groove in the lock to open up a new beginning to the week; seconds, minutes and hours chug along like tendrils of bloated smoke sputtering from the carburettor, threatening to overwhelm with boredom ad nauseam.
i count time, cups of watery ersatz caffeine while the gentle, rhythmic throb of a headache kneads the cranium.
the photocopier spits out printed sheets; disembodied voices, phlegmy coughs and the occasional sneeze perforate the consciousness, fingers caressing the erogenous buttons of keyboards futilely as screens register non-productivity in bold capital letters summarise the gentle humming of an office in motion on a morose monday.
the minutiae of monday moods is captured in physiognomies that ache and hang heavy with helplessness, voices that sputter rather than spill, and movements that are akin to dragging along corroded chains and balls.
monday has to be written off, interred as an early victim of the week. it has to.
may tuesday throw us a respite.
first written circa Jul 09
Monday, June 15, 2009
A dog's life
Oh, how I hate her!
That mouth with those thin maroon lips and that tongue swishing out, wetting the lips, like some kind of morbid attempt at seduction.
Those owlish spectacles reflecting my harrowed image in the lens – I could see my cowardice playing out like a short film on the celluloid of her lens.
And her voice, that voice! Words joined together in a mish-mash that is called language, worming and forcing its way down my throat. They come as injunctions, commands, orders, reprimands, nags. She spits bile, growls threats and ululates like a rabid bitch.
Through the years, I thought I had loved her. How mistaken I was!
As I stand there, head bowed; I could feel her voice drowning out everything in the background. I try to block myself from that weaselly voice, the pitch gradually escalating to high, by imagining myself in a kind of vacuum. No way, Jose. My plan is not working, my imagination is futile, and that voice continues to pierce through the armour of my self-created vacuum.
She is screaming something at me. I don’t know what she is saying, I can’t be bothered. How I regretted loving her!
In my peripheral vision, she is wagging a stubby finger at me. I see a tail spouting from her behind. Her sartorial accoutrements transform into a mat of thick fur. And her head with that Pomeranian-like coiffure becomes that of a Pomeranian! No, it’s a mongrel that she is transmogrifying into.
A bitch of a mongrel.
A mongrel bitch.
Interchangeable the phrases and the nouns.
I stand watching mouth agape, amazement pulling the flesh of my face. She is turning into a dog! What is this, a Twilight Zone moment, I wonder to myself, eyes horrified, mouth quivering.
And her screams have become barks. Her saliva has turned into canine spittle. She has turned into a dog.
Franz Kafka’s Metamorphosis recalls itself into my head and before I know it, I have taken the fruit knife from the table top and plunged it into the bitch’s matted body.
A spurt of red washes across my vision, splattering my tear-streaked face.
And the horror of it dawns on me then.
I had stabbed my mother!
She had picked me up like an abandoned stray those years ago, and had slogged to provide me an education and a roof over my head. I had loved her like the biological mother that I never got to know and love.
And I had killed my adoptive mother.
That mouth with those thin maroon lips and that tongue swishing out, wetting the lips, like some kind of morbid attempt at seduction.
Those owlish spectacles reflecting my harrowed image in the lens – I could see my cowardice playing out like a short film on the celluloid of her lens.
And her voice, that voice! Words joined together in a mish-mash that is called language, worming and forcing its way down my throat. They come as injunctions, commands, orders, reprimands, nags. She spits bile, growls threats and ululates like a rabid bitch.
Through the years, I thought I had loved her. How mistaken I was!
As I stand there, head bowed; I could feel her voice drowning out everything in the background. I try to block myself from that weaselly voice, the pitch gradually escalating to high, by imagining myself in a kind of vacuum. No way, Jose. My plan is not working, my imagination is futile, and that voice continues to pierce through the armour of my self-created vacuum.
She is screaming something at me. I don’t know what she is saying, I can’t be bothered. How I regretted loving her!
In my peripheral vision, she is wagging a stubby finger at me. I see a tail spouting from her behind. Her sartorial accoutrements transform into a mat of thick fur. And her head with that Pomeranian-like coiffure becomes that of a Pomeranian! No, it’s a mongrel that she is transmogrifying into.
A bitch of a mongrel.
A mongrel bitch.
Interchangeable the phrases and the nouns.
I stand watching mouth agape, amazement pulling the flesh of my face. She is turning into a dog! What is this, a Twilight Zone moment, I wonder to myself, eyes horrified, mouth quivering.
And her screams have become barks. Her saliva has turned into canine spittle. She has turned into a dog.
Franz Kafka’s Metamorphosis recalls itself into my head and before I know it, I have taken the fruit knife from the table top and plunged it into the bitch’s matted body.
A spurt of red washes across my vision, splattering my tear-streaked face.
And the horror of it dawns on me then.
I had stabbed my mother!
She had picked me up like an abandoned stray those years ago, and had slogged to provide me an education and a roof over my head. I had loved her like the biological mother that I never got to know and love.
And I had killed my adoptive mother.
The death of a clerk
The clacking of the keyboard is rising in crescendo.
His typing is gaining in fever pitch.
The pounding of fingers on the individual squares of the keyboard gets louder and louder.
He stares at the monitor, goggle-eyed as words crawl across the screen. He feels a sense of achievement as each word is born, and grows to become a sentence, and finally arrives as a paragraph. Paragraphs, paragraphs and paragraphs multiply on the monitor.
His deadline is just around the corner. He has to get the document ready. To be sent to the supervisor for counter-signing. Time is of the essence. The clock winds down quickly to 12.30pm - lunch. Lunch to others, Deadline to him. He could feel the sand emptying quickly through the puny slot in the hourglass; as each minute ticks away, and more paragraphs are born.
Yet something feels wrong. He is missing something. Something is missing.
His eyes sweep over the monitor, breaking up the paragraphs into sentences, and the sentences fragment into individual words. It is like a reverse process of creativity. He created what he wrote and now he is destroying what he wrote.
He scans quickly but thoroughly. Trying to find the black sheep in the flock of words - some word missing, a meaning gone awry through the use of a wrong or inappropriate word. God forbid, an inaccurate use of punctuation! How can that be! The syntax seems creaky - should he reconfigure that sentence?
Febrilely running his eyes through the words massed together like some morbid humanity packed tightly in an MRT cabin, he searches for an aberration. He tilts his head up to the wall clock - the long hand is touching 'Five' - could it be 12.25pm already? Five more minutes to his deadline.
Through the smorgasbord of letters, he sees something. He has found it!
Just then, the screen flickers and before he knows it, darkness stares at him. The long hand of the clock, like a creditor nudges 'Six' and his deadline has expired.
At that moment, his heart stops beating and finally his frenzied and tightly-wrought sinews relax.
He slumps in his seat - the life seeping out of the lowly clerk that he is.
"He was a clerk and he did his job well. But he took his work too seriously at times." - So read his epitaph.
His typing is gaining in fever pitch.
The pounding of fingers on the individual squares of the keyboard gets louder and louder.
He stares at the monitor, goggle-eyed as words crawl across the screen. He feels a sense of achievement as each word is born, and grows to become a sentence, and finally arrives as a paragraph. Paragraphs, paragraphs and paragraphs multiply on the monitor.
His deadline is just around the corner. He has to get the document ready. To be sent to the supervisor for counter-signing. Time is of the essence. The clock winds down quickly to 12.30pm - lunch. Lunch to others, Deadline to him. He could feel the sand emptying quickly through the puny slot in the hourglass; as each minute ticks away, and more paragraphs are born.
Yet something feels wrong. He is missing something. Something is missing.
His eyes sweep over the monitor, breaking up the paragraphs into sentences, and the sentences fragment into individual words. It is like a reverse process of creativity. He created what he wrote and now he is destroying what he wrote.
He scans quickly but thoroughly. Trying to find the black sheep in the flock of words - some word missing, a meaning gone awry through the use of a wrong or inappropriate word. God forbid, an inaccurate use of punctuation! How can that be! The syntax seems creaky - should he reconfigure that sentence?
Febrilely running his eyes through the words massed together like some morbid humanity packed tightly in an MRT cabin, he searches for an aberration. He tilts his head up to the wall clock - the long hand is touching 'Five' - could it be 12.25pm already? Five more minutes to his deadline.
Through the smorgasbord of letters, he sees something. He has found it!
Just then, the screen flickers and before he knows it, darkness stares at him. The long hand of the clock, like a creditor nudges 'Six' and his deadline has expired.
At that moment, his heart stops beating and finally his frenzied and tightly-wrought sinews relax.
He slumps in his seat - the life seeping out of the lowly clerk that he is.
"He was a clerk and he did his job well. But he took his work too seriously at times." - So read his epitaph.
Escape
The whirring of the fan in the background weaves a hynoptic cast on him as he lies supine on the bed. The ceiling light seems a tad too bright tonight, he thinks to himself. His eyes hurt in the glare, and he can feel the gentle kneading of Migraine's fingers. He has tossed, turned and turmoiled in his sleep the last few nights. Lying on his bed, trying to force sleep to absorb him into its maw; he had thought of himself like a seasick sailor on the uncertain and rocking vessel that is his thousand over dollars King Koil bed. Like a sailor from one of Conrad's tomes, he had wondered whether he should heave-to and escape from this sinking boat. Cast wide adrift in the turbulent seas of this marriage heading nowhere, the vessel of his faith is rocking and wavering bit by bit. Very soon, it will be torn asunder.
She had been so nice the last few days, whispering sweet nothings in his ears, and gently nuzzling his neck whenever their heads met whilst turning on the bed. Ah, the bed - it is like a metaphor for their unravelling marriage, like a turbulent-wracked vessel on uncertain seas. So it was kind of ironic that those gentle and more pacifist moments should come while he was contemplating the toughest decision of his life.
To end this marriage once and for all. To abruptly tear off the page of this opus that they are writing with no end in sight, and getting all out of point. To jump ship. And yet, he can't find the courage to come to that decision. How could he when she had threatened suicide, when she had poured forth those threats - he, a weakling, a hostage to emotional blackmail....
As the thoughts swish and swirl around in his reverie, the bedroom door opens gently. She enters - a sylph in her diaphanous negligee - whitish and eerily ghostly. Two crimson balls seem to have sprouted on her cheeks as she crawls up onto the bed.
She whispers Honey to him, and her tongue makes its incipient foray down his stubbly chin, onto his neck. He can feel a bulge in his shorts and a frisson runs through him. It has been a while since he feels this way, and it makes him think of the halcyon days when they had just got married, and found sex to be a pivotal part in their gradual fortification of the institution that is marriage. However, since then, the walls have been crumbling, and sex has become as infrequent, in a counterpoint to the increasing bouts of insomnia assailing him. For a moment, he thinks of taking her....
Then, she drops the bombshell. She is proposing divorce. She has fallen in love with her colleague.
She has carved an escape chute for him.
His tumescent penis gradually deflates, and in the storm of his earlier emotional introspections, an abeyance signals. Like Conrad's sailor, the seas have quietened down and he lies down content on the bed.
He says yes. Let's get it done.
And they kiss - content in knowing that each has found his/her escape.
She had been so nice the last few days, whispering sweet nothings in his ears, and gently nuzzling his neck whenever their heads met whilst turning on the bed. Ah, the bed - it is like a metaphor for their unravelling marriage, like a turbulent-wracked vessel on uncertain seas. So it was kind of ironic that those gentle and more pacifist moments should come while he was contemplating the toughest decision of his life.
To end this marriage once and for all. To abruptly tear off the page of this opus that they are writing with no end in sight, and getting all out of point. To jump ship. And yet, he can't find the courage to come to that decision. How could he when she had threatened suicide, when she had poured forth those threats - he, a weakling, a hostage to emotional blackmail....
As the thoughts swish and swirl around in his reverie, the bedroom door opens gently. She enters - a sylph in her diaphanous negligee - whitish and eerily ghostly. Two crimson balls seem to have sprouted on her cheeks as she crawls up onto the bed.
She whispers Honey to him, and her tongue makes its incipient foray down his stubbly chin, onto his neck. He can feel a bulge in his shorts and a frisson runs through him. It has been a while since he feels this way, and it makes him think of the halcyon days when they had just got married, and found sex to be a pivotal part in their gradual fortification of the institution that is marriage. However, since then, the walls have been crumbling, and sex has become as infrequent, in a counterpoint to the increasing bouts of insomnia assailing him. For a moment, he thinks of taking her....
Then, she drops the bombshell. She is proposing divorce. She has fallen in love with her colleague.
She has carved an escape chute for him.
His tumescent penis gradually deflates, and in the storm of his earlier emotional introspections, an abeyance signals. Like Conrad's sailor, the seas have quietened down and he lies down content on the bed.
He says yes. Let's get it done.
And they kiss - content in knowing that each has found his/her escape.
The light out there
Raj can feel a surge of blood to his head. He can barely open his eyes and his legs wobble. Knocking back three bottles of Tiger Beer and half a dozen cans of assorted beer two hours ago had seemed like partaking in heavenly manna. Now that does not seem like a wise idea. He feels terrible and the beer swishing around in his intestines is like a vice, gripping him tight. In hindsight, he regrets the binge. But what could he do? He had been trying and trying, but he just could not free himself from the thrall of alcohol.
He totters along the corridor towards the unit that he shares with his elderly parents. Visages of the crazy drinking moments ago crisscross his mind - Amrit encouraging him to down another, Sanjay already stoned and toppling over the chair, the cackle of the coffeeshop skimming his alcoholic reverie. Drink has caused him to lose his last two jobs, has caused Kareena to leave him, has caused him to lose the strength to carry the kavadi for Thaipusam; drink has wrecked him.
With great difficulty, he manages to find the right key and insert into the lock. The ethanol ether has blinded his vision and crippled his movements. He envisages the wooden door opening and swallowing him into a black hole. Suddenly, a sharp glint of light slashes across his bleary eyes. Shaking his head to rid the pounding ache, he espies his parents seated at the sofa.
His father looks stern - his face set in a stony, inscrutable look. But the slow twitching around his mouth betrays the elderly man's mounting anger. Raj sees rivulets of waterfall dribbling across his mother's leathered face. Why are ma and pa so old all of a sudden, he thinks to himself.
Suddenly, Raj can feel himself flying forward; no, no he is toppling forward onto the sofa. Strong arms grip him and steady his fall. He feels himself plonking into the seat in between his parents. A sourish feeling churns in his gullet, and before he knows it, an emetic projectile erupts from his mouth, splaying the coffee table with dregs of his dinner earlier and the sweetish-sourish pang of beer.
"Look, what you've done!" His father cries out. The elderly man's shoulders are trembling and then, he slaps Raj once on his right cheek. "Thwack" - the blow jolts Raj out of his alcoholic drowse. Images of his earlier boozing and those olden happier days when he and his parents would sit down and chat at the sofa flash across his mind's eye.
"You are a disgrace! Why are you drinking so heavily? Why???" His father screams amidst the amplifying sobs of his mother. Raj blinks his muggy eyes and tries to utter something, but no word comes from his mouth. He looks out at the open door and sees his father holding out his hand to him. His father seems to be saying something to him and exhorting the toddler Raj to come over.
Summoning all his energy, Raj pushes himself off the seat, overturns the vomit-strewn coffee table and runs out of the house. I am coming, dad. Raj pushes himself over the parapet and as the alcoholic mist slowly dissipates from his eyes like cotton wool being gingerly picked apart; he could see his father pushing him on his toddler's toy car; his father and him sharing a joke while fishing; he could see his father giving him a lift on his first day in school...the images keep coming fast like light streaming through the parted cotton wool of his intoxication, and then the light is no more.
He totters along the corridor towards the unit that he shares with his elderly parents. Visages of the crazy drinking moments ago crisscross his mind - Amrit encouraging him to down another, Sanjay already stoned and toppling over the chair, the cackle of the coffeeshop skimming his alcoholic reverie. Drink has caused him to lose his last two jobs, has caused Kareena to leave him, has caused him to lose the strength to carry the kavadi for Thaipusam; drink has wrecked him.
With great difficulty, he manages to find the right key and insert into the lock. The ethanol ether has blinded his vision and crippled his movements. He envisages the wooden door opening and swallowing him into a black hole. Suddenly, a sharp glint of light slashes across his bleary eyes. Shaking his head to rid the pounding ache, he espies his parents seated at the sofa.
His father looks stern - his face set in a stony, inscrutable look. But the slow twitching around his mouth betrays the elderly man's mounting anger. Raj sees rivulets of waterfall dribbling across his mother's leathered face. Why are ma and pa so old all of a sudden, he thinks to himself.
Suddenly, Raj can feel himself flying forward; no, no he is toppling forward onto the sofa. Strong arms grip him and steady his fall. He feels himself plonking into the seat in between his parents. A sourish feeling churns in his gullet, and before he knows it, an emetic projectile erupts from his mouth, splaying the coffee table with dregs of his dinner earlier and the sweetish-sourish pang of beer.
"Look, what you've done!" His father cries out. The elderly man's shoulders are trembling and then, he slaps Raj once on his right cheek. "Thwack" - the blow jolts Raj out of his alcoholic drowse. Images of his earlier boozing and those olden happier days when he and his parents would sit down and chat at the sofa flash across his mind's eye.
"You are a disgrace! Why are you drinking so heavily? Why???" His father screams amidst the amplifying sobs of his mother. Raj blinks his muggy eyes and tries to utter something, but no word comes from his mouth. He looks out at the open door and sees his father holding out his hand to him. His father seems to be saying something to him and exhorting the toddler Raj to come over.
Summoning all his energy, Raj pushes himself off the seat, overturns the vomit-strewn coffee table and runs out of the house. I am coming, dad. Raj pushes himself over the parapet and as the alcoholic mist slowly dissipates from his eyes like cotton wool being gingerly picked apart; he could see his father pushing him on his toddler's toy car; his father and him sharing a joke while fishing; he could see his father giving him a lift on his first day in school...the images keep coming fast like light streaming through the parted cotton wool of his intoxication, and then the light is no more.
Love resurrected
There can be no doubt in his mind that it is now or never. Standing outside the door with a bouquet of freshly-watered roses in a chiaroscuro of colours, Victor allows the fingers of his free left hand to wander to an errant part of his nose where an itch is developing. His legs are like jelly, and even though it is a cool breezy evening, he can already feel the beads of perspiration forming in a ring around the back of his neck.
He has been carrying a torch for Jeannie ever since they were classmates in junior college. The gawky teenagers of yesterday have grown with the advent of Time's interminable hands to be the freshly-laundered adults of today, standing crisp on the threshold of nascent careers and emerging responsibilities.
Standing outside Jeannie's door, a myriad of thoughts crawl through Victor's mind. He could still remember the time when their fingers had touched each other while sharing a glass of iced lemon tea. A frisson of excitement had coursed through his back then. He was particularly chuffed when Jeannie withdrew her hands in an overly exaggerated gesture of embarrassment. "She must have liked me", he had thought then.
Five years ago. That was how long ago. Gauche JC kids struggling with studies, the palpitating sensations of puppy love...Looking through the glass panel as her flight wheeled down the runway, before developing wings and ascending into the thick blue azure, trailing a plume of smoke, like the last tinges of regret he had felt then. Regret that he had not told her he loved her, while both of them were standing together, a "goodbye with a five-year expiry date" hanging at the tips of their tongues. And it was all over, as she turned around and headed into the boarding area; did he detect a trifle of her shoulders hunching in disappointment as she walked away with her customary big gait?
While, the flames of passion he nursed for Jeannie were doused five years ago; today they are burning bright and evanescent. Ever since that chance meeting three weeks ago, when they had bumped into each other at the atrium of a commercial block downtown - she, there for a job interview, having just returned from Down Under; he, on a trip to meet a client - the flames were simultaneously reignited. He realised that his love for her had never flickered or burned out - rather he had stashed love away like an old photo of a bygone memory lovingly cloistered in the treasured confines of one's old wallet.
Victor stirs himself from his dip in the pool of reminiscences, and left index finger trembling, depresses the doorbell. The shrill ring punctures the early evening's quiet, and the seconds seem to tick away ever-so-slowly, before the door is yanked open.
"Victor! You are early!" Jeannie chirps. "Such beautiful flowers!" She receives the bouquet from him and grabs his left hand, pulling him into the cool living room. And then he sees him.
He gets up slowly from the sofa, his right hand holding on to the television's remote control. There is a langourous air about him as he shuffles slowly forward to shake Victor's hand.
"Victor, meet Pete. He's my fiance. Pete, this is Victor, my JC classmate and a wonderful friend of mine. We met three weeks ago after losing touch for five years. Is that right, Victor, five years?" Jeannie gushes - a deluge of sentences dousing Victor's fiery heart.
The treacle doesn't taste sweet on his tongue, and he chews through the limp tendrils of pasta abstractedly, all the while, an unhappy and unwilling witness as Jeannie's happiness writes itself on the scroll of her alabaster face, as jibes and jokes trade readily between her and Pete.
He never keeps in touch with Jeannie after dinner, and he never thinks of the past again.
He has been carrying a torch for Jeannie ever since they were classmates in junior college. The gawky teenagers of yesterday have grown with the advent of Time's interminable hands to be the freshly-laundered adults of today, standing crisp on the threshold of nascent careers and emerging responsibilities.
Standing outside Jeannie's door, a myriad of thoughts crawl through Victor's mind. He could still remember the time when their fingers had touched each other while sharing a glass of iced lemon tea. A frisson of excitement had coursed through his back then. He was particularly chuffed when Jeannie withdrew her hands in an overly exaggerated gesture of embarrassment. "She must have liked me", he had thought then.
Five years ago. That was how long ago. Gauche JC kids struggling with studies, the palpitating sensations of puppy love...Looking through the glass panel as her flight wheeled down the runway, before developing wings and ascending into the thick blue azure, trailing a plume of smoke, like the last tinges of regret he had felt then. Regret that he had not told her he loved her, while both of them were standing together, a "goodbye with a five-year expiry date" hanging at the tips of their tongues. And it was all over, as she turned around and headed into the boarding area; did he detect a trifle of her shoulders hunching in disappointment as she walked away with her customary big gait?
While, the flames of passion he nursed for Jeannie were doused five years ago; today they are burning bright and evanescent. Ever since that chance meeting three weeks ago, when they had bumped into each other at the atrium of a commercial block downtown - she, there for a job interview, having just returned from Down Under; he, on a trip to meet a client - the flames were simultaneously reignited. He realised that his love for her had never flickered or burned out - rather he had stashed love away like an old photo of a bygone memory lovingly cloistered in the treasured confines of one's old wallet.
Victor stirs himself from his dip in the pool of reminiscences, and left index finger trembling, depresses the doorbell. The shrill ring punctures the early evening's quiet, and the seconds seem to tick away ever-so-slowly, before the door is yanked open.
"Victor! You are early!" Jeannie chirps. "Such beautiful flowers!" She receives the bouquet from him and grabs his left hand, pulling him into the cool living room. And then he sees him.
He gets up slowly from the sofa, his right hand holding on to the television's remote control. There is a langourous air about him as he shuffles slowly forward to shake Victor's hand.
"Victor, meet Pete. He's my fiance. Pete, this is Victor, my JC classmate and a wonderful friend of mine. We met three weeks ago after losing touch for five years. Is that right, Victor, five years?" Jeannie gushes - a deluge of sentences dousing Victor's fiery heart.
The treacle doesn't taste sweet on his tongue, and he chews through the limp tendrils of pasta abstractedly, all the while, an unhappy and unwilling witness as Jeannie's happiness writes itself on the scroll of her alabaster face, as jibes and jokes trade readily between her and Pete.
He never keeps in touch with Jeannie after dinner, and he never thinks of the past again.
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