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.

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!

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.

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....

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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….

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.

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.