in the One

who moves the rain,

"trust"

as he streaks, hesitantly,

across the window of the train,

swallowing and being swallowed by,

the other drops of rain

along his track

the same track travelled 

many times by many who 

look just like him, 

across the windows of countless trains:

the sons of countless rains

enough times to doubt;

for maybe on the out

                                   side it is only one who 

looks just like him:

stick-like physique,

glasses too thick,

nose too often picked;

on the backdrop of drops of rain

looks back a face full of error

on the window mirror

                                   ring his inner pain

he recalls this train track

from - has it been that long back? 

he is surprised - as surprised 

as he is at his 

own insecurities

so near yet so far

has 

so little yet so much

happened in that time?

a year 

for this globe to travel its track 

back to the same station;

as into a station familiar

this train brings him home

to a pain familiar;

a house not a home

for how can it be home

being a distance not few

to his loved ones old and new?

engaged

in trying to gauge

what next to do

and whether she is true..

of course she is;

of course..right?

in the One

who moves the train,

"trust"

as he streaks, hesitantly,

across half the globe:

high-flyer, 

over-achiever, 

burden on his shoulder 

carrying the family's hope;

undeserving

medic student;

coping with the 

intermittent abdominal pain 

of pent up wind on a ride 16 hour;

contemplating the 

intermittent emotional pain 

of pent up feelings on a ride 1 year.

in the One 

who removes the pain,

"trust"

____________________________________________________________________________________

Work of non-fiction.

dear family,

Perhaps 

'home' is not a place.

And  

when we miss home 

it's not the house we miss, nor 

the hometown.

For what is to miss

of bricks and buildings?

No..

it must be that we miss not the physical place,

but rather it is 

her people, the memories, the emotions

that we long to return to.

Dear family,

'Home';

I would say it is not a place,

rather it is a feeling:

the feeling of 

being with loved ones,

of going down routes oft-travelled,

of the familiarity of old times.

Perhaps 

that's what we mean

when we say

"I am home"

It's that time of year again.

Missing home, 

Abang

from the train back to Preston

yet we keep going back

to that we know

will hurt.

Why?

[82:6]

"when you were born I planted a tree..."

In this story,

I am that tree 

who today presents to the world 

a hard bark

which is so very thin,

barely hiding beneath it 

the sapling still there:

soft, vulnerable, naive;

sprouted from a seed planted

so few years ago.

A tree who, on occasion, thinks

he is done growing up;

thinks he is ready to face anything 

thrown at him by the world

though he is still untested by 

her storms, her droughts, her winters.

"...now it's twice as big as me."

In this story

I grew up, but

along the way hurt you. 

Today when I look back at

those years in which I 'rebelled',

I could almost laugh at the idiocy of my own actions. 

But should I laugh,

with the knowledge that

those stupid actions made you cry?

So here we are, ma.

In this story

I now walk up the stairs 

leading to the paediatric ward,

past a window which reads:

"When you were born I planted a tree;

now it's twice as big as me."

to meet ill children and worried parents.

Parents who understand that I am not yet a doctor 

but regard me with trust reserved to one.

I don't know if I deserve that trust. 

How can I feel ready to be a doctor when

I barely feel ready to even be called a man just yet?

When I see that painted window

I remember you:

The lady who will always be 

my first best friend, 

my number one fan,

my hero,

my mother.

Happy birthday, ma

(and happy anniversary to you and papa) 😬

I hope you will be at peace seeing me continue growing up,

with the knowledge that I will always be your little boy 🙃

Love you, moosh2, assalamualaikum.. :)

work of non-fiction

he still sleeps on the couch,

the middle-aged man with ocean green eyes.

Why? I wondered aloud.

He hesitates, before saying - unconvincingly:
"Because the bedroom is messy...the couch is comfy..."

*                    *                    *

The bedroom is darkened, though the sun shines brightly outside.
The summer curtains are drawn closed, but they let some sunlight in - for they are after all summer curtains.

I imagine those summer curtains being of a bright colour of some sort - for they are after all summer curtains.
Bright colours clashing harshly against a gray ambiance.


Through this gray ambiance the middle-aged man approaches the person under the covers.
The key, he knows very well by now, is to wake her up at the right time...and on her own terms.
If so it would be a good start to the day, and the mood in the bedroom could be "just magical".

But I imagine that he pauses a while before doing so.
Maybe to take a deep breath, and take in the atmosphere of the room.
The tinge of fear in the air. For "fear was always there".

She wakes up to the ocean green eyes of her husband, though they are masked by the dimness.
A lady always on the verge of a migraine, she has been waking up every morning to a dun room because sunlight - even sunlight - makes her headaches worse.

But at least she wakes up to another day.

*                    *                    *

They went to Blackpool a few years ago, to go on the rides.

His fragile wife goes on her favourite ride three times in a row, surprising everyone.
"She surprised herself", says he, with a fleeting smile.

She was buzzing afterwards, but took days to recover physically from that escapade.
It was the last trip out they would take together, not counting the trips to the hospital.

"She was a strong character", "she pushed boundaries",
and if she decided to do something and it is within her power to do so, "it will be done",
the man gushes assertively about his fragile lady.


I imagine that lady now; a frail figure, in bed.
She is disoriented, weakened by both disease and treatment.
But though I cannot imagine her face I presume that she would have eyes betraying immense inner strength.
That despite everything, she was still in charge; if not of her physical strength, at least of her willpower.


"She handled it with the highest degree of class",
her proud husband assures me,
ocean green eyes almost glowering.

*                    *                    *

She was the youngest of six children, and was left by all those siblings to take care of her mother.
A mother with a host of illnesses so extensive,
"I don't know half of them", says the middle-aged man.

The man met the lady who would someday be his wife,
at a point in time where she was "finding herself".
And they found out that they were
born in the same year,
had similar backgrounds,
had parents with the same jobs...
After only a few meetings they realised that they fit like a glove; naturally.

I imagine that the shock would have been like a nuclear bomb had gone off;
when only months after they've met, she was diagnosed with cancer.

*                    *                    *

Why did you stay?

"She would have done the same if the roles were reversed."

*                    *                    *

In the darkened bedroom, husband and wife watch hours of sitcoms on the telly.
If I played my cards right, he said, "I could keep her laughing for hours".

Yet, by 2013 she was having episodes of uncontrollable crying, though she had rarely cried before.
She knew. They knew.
The end was near.

Hours of Coronation Street and Everybody Loves Raymond couldn't hide the elephant in the room.
Bright colours clashing harshly against a gray ambiance.

*                    *                    *

Why did you stay?

"She needed me there."

*                   *                    *

I had to put the next question across carefully; for at this point, it is so easy to misinterpret.

Was the whole experience - hesitation - a blessing in disguise?

A pause.

Before he answers
that some couples can't stand the sight of each other after just a few hours,
some couples just see each other for a few hours each day,
some couples are nothing but a couple of clones - repeating the same routine everyday.

That a relationship needs 100% commitment, 100% of the time.

But for him and his ailing wife, probably because of that very ailment...
it all came effortlessly.

It was a blessing in disguise.

*                    *                    *

Today, it is ten years and five days since they first met.
If not for the cancer, "we could have been hang gliding by now," he observes.

But, I note silently
that if not for the cancer, the last two years in that bedroom would not have happened.
Two years in the bedroom which were, in his words, "the best time of my life, and the worst time of my life".
The culmination of the nearly decade-long period before in which they were "each other's world".

*                    *                    *

I bring myself abruptly out of that world
and into the CSLC of the Stopford Building,
where I am in conversation with the middle-aged man with ocean green eyes,
who still sleeps on the couch.


Why do you keep coming back, to speak to us medical students?

Pause.

"This is her legacy".

________________________________________________________________

Work of non-fiction.

an old car, driven by an old man

into the twilight of their years.
is how I'll remember him.

In the passenger seat I stare in silent bewilderment
at the amount of corrosion the floor under my feet have gone through
(as I see glimpses of the road below!)

It wasn't scary though; because we were moving so slow.
Sluggish enough to hog the SLOW lane of the road.

The old car

with non-functioning air-conditioning
and windows which have lost the ability to roll down
trap within the mellow whiff of old age.

The old man
was, for his seniority, still going strong;
alert and active.

The same can't be said for his ride.

For the old car was clearly now
showing its mileage.
Nothing but scrap metal, still moving.


But the old man,
just could not, would not
bring himself to let go of that white Mazda.

For, in many ways
man and car had become much the same:
Slow, but steady enough.
Falling apart, but somehow reliable.

An old car, driven by an old man
into the twilight of their years.

*                    *                    *

I come back home now,
to find a red Kancil
standing vigil outside my house.

The old man had eventually given in,
trading in the beat-up Mazda,
for a less beat-up Kancil.

But the sight of the Kancil
to me, somehow, feels like an affront.
An offense, almost.

I guess,
for too long I had identified
the old man with that Mazda


Now he is gone.

The old man had eventually given in
to death.


All that's left for me to wonder, is
where is the old car?
if it even exists still?

For most probably
it, too, is now gone.

Befitting, perhaps.
After all,

an old car, driven by the old man
into the twilight of their years,
is how I will remember him.




______________________________________________________

Work of non-fiction.

A tribute to a man who is by right my step-grandfather, but might as well be my real one. I had known him my whole life, but he left me while I was studying in a land far away. 

A man who in his life, had given me many lessons, leaves me with this profound final reminder:

"[God] created death and life to test you [as to] which of you is best in deed 

- and He is the Exalted in Might, the Forgiving" [67:2]

I do miss you, Kung Kung...

not that heavy

When I was a six-year-old boy, I met a 5-year-old girl on the swings by my house. I called her over for a game of Catch, for she was lonely.

When I did her face lit up with a smile which melted my heart. I was in love there and then as she rushed towards me, arms flailing wildly. The next hour was the best of my 6-year-old life as we chased each other round the playground, amused parents looking on.

Eventually a small rock interrupted our glee; she tripped and scraped her knee. I was confused, what was I to do?

She looked up at me, eyes a-twinkle with baby tears. With grimy fingers I wiped them away, and with all the chivalry a pre-schooler could muster I took her in my arms.

I whispered, so as not to let the trembling of my arms make my voice shake:

“You’re not that heavy.”

*                             *                             *

Two decades later and it is the night of our wedding. I had lost my baby fat long ago, to be replaced by muscles at the military. She never lost her chubbiness, but to me she never lost her beauty either.

We were finally alone after a day of noise and celebration, and finally I could tell her the many things I had yearned to over the years.

But there was apprehension in her eyes. She had grown up the butt of jokes, from a society which saw thin as beautiful.

I wanted so much to say what he 6-year-old kid of yesteryear wanted to: that she had stolen my heart, and I did not want it back.

Instead I did what that 6-year-old kid did all those years ago. I picked her up in my arms, though effortlessly now.

She beamed, eyes a-twinkle with joyful tears as I whispered slowly into her ear:

“You’re not that heavy.”

*                             *                             *

Now even that is past, and time has not been kind on me. Today I am paralyzed, emaciated, a skeleton of my old robust self. My eyes were fixed on the old TV set – not because the show was good, but because I just couldn’t turn my head anymore.

A ghostly figure stepped into view. Her smile now tired, desperate even. Eyes no longer a-twinkle. Her figure is tragically gaunt; she has lost all of her chubbiness. Tears well up in my eyes – my wife did not deserve this. If I could still talk I would tell her to just forget me, leave me in a nursery, live what’s left of her life.

Still smiling she stooped over to pick me up. I cursed at myself for burdening her.

But as if reading my mind she whispered slowly as she walked up the stairs:

“You’re not that heavy.”