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.”

rusted gates

With old, weary eyes she watches the rusted gates.

She is old. She will not live forever. She wonders if anyone of them will visit today.

They have left the nest, all of them. They have gone to start their own families, chase their own dreams. They have left her.

The rusted gates swing ever so softly; and her heart skips a beat, ever so slightly.

But it was a passing breeze, nothing else. The only one to visit today, the breeze gusts through her white hair, caresses her wrinkled skin, stings those weary old eyes.

“Diorang takkan datang harini…semua sibuk kerja”

Said the gruff voice of her husband from the nearby rocking chair, from behind a newspaper held by pained, arthritic fingers.

He puts up a brave face, but she knows he hurts as much as she does.

Slowly, but hopefully, she turns back to those old rusted gates.

Maybe, just maybe, one of them will visit; a kiss from a child now grown up, a carefree cry of a young grandchild to break the monotony of days spent alone. Maybe, just maybe, today will be different from days past and the diminishing days to come. Maybe, just maybe, today she will be happy.

So with old, weary eyes she watches the rusted gates.

pink school bag

Adik grabs the pink school bag of the table.

“Let’s go, Bang…I’m late!”

I couldn’t help but wonder how little that voice has changed over the years. To me it was still the annoying voice of the 13-year-old girl crying excitedly (and repeatedly):

“First day of school! First day of school…!!”

And yet how different it is now:

“Hellooo? Bang, why you termenung like that?? I’m late-lah…!”

Behind the anxiety there was a maturity in that familiar voice.

It was that of a woman; no longer a girl.

For 3 years Adik was my schoolmate.

Those 3 years I would watch Adik enter the school gates, her pink school bag bobbing up and down behind her.

It hasn’t been too long ago, actually…two years since I left those gates for the last time as a student. But how things have changed in that time.

How different Adik is now:

She has left her ponytail for a fringe.

Her tracksuits for short skirts.

And Barbie dolls for make-up sets.

How I would like to remind her as she steps out into this crazy world...

That guys are never as innocent as they seem.

That family comes first.

That beauty is more than skin-deep.

That her brother will always be there for her.

But those things are left unsaid. As I watch out of the window of my car Adik stepping into the building for her first day of work.

The pink school bag which she still wears bobs up and down behind her.

suap, sayang?

“Suap, sayang?”

Said the melodious voice. I turned to gaze lovingly at her. As I fed her a spoonful of my rice she looked at me with playful, twinkling eyes. I watched her chewing, her cheeks plump, her lips red and rosy; I wanted to kiss them a thousand times.

“The food here is good”, she said after the rice was finished, “not bad for a new restaurant”

I smiled. The food was good. But the best thing was eating with a lady I had pledged to love for life. We were content; a newly-married couple in a new restaurant.

As the years flew by, we would visit that restaurant regularly. We ate there to celebrate my new job. We ate there to celebrate my wife’s first pregnancy; and not too long after that, my son’s first birthday. We ate there to celebrate a new house, and even when we moved we always made it a point to eat there once every few months.

We ate there even as chefs came and gone, even as the restaurant changed hands and names. Our three children grew up loving the restaurant. We ate there to celebrate exam results and college applications. As they grew up and left home, we never forgot to meet at the restaurant, and share a meal.

And every one of those meals, my wife would ask me:

“Suap, sayang?”

And everytime I would smile, and feed her some of my rice.

But today will be our last meal here; the restaurant soon to be torn down to make way for newer shops.

The restaurant is now in disrepair; walls yellowing, floor sticky with years of dirt. Some of my grandchildren were visibly disgusted, and my heart fell.

Regret gripped me as I realized that this place will not mean to them what it did to me. But how can I to expect it to be? They did not enjoy the decades of memories which I enjoyed here…

Suddenly, a voice broke my reverie:

“Suap, sayang?”

The voice of a lady whom has seen better years. The voice now a croak, barely a melody left in it. I turned to gaze lovingly at her. Her eyes have lost its playful twinkle, but still they smiled lovingly at me. With my trembling, Parkinsons-ridden arm I fed her a spoonful of porridge – for after her second stroke she could no longer eat solid foods. And she could barely move her arms.

Her cheeks were wrinkly, her lips withered; but just as I have kissed them a thousand times before, I would still kiss them a thousand more.

“The food here is not bad”, she said after the porridge is finished. And with a wry smile she added, “not bad for an old restaurant”

The meal was good. But the best thing was sharing it with a lady I have loved for 55 years. We were content, an old couple in an old restaurant.

Work of semi-fiction.

Inspired by a couple who gives me hope that love burns eternal: my grandparents.

Happy belated anniversary, Nenek and Atuk! J

sunset

“Beach rocks are slippery and dangerous. Enter at own risk”, said the sign at the pier.

He smiled wryly at the word. ‘Risk’. A word he has heard all too often in the past decade or so. 

Risk; expressed in percentages of likelihood of success for a particular treatment or surgery, for the number of months he would live. 

Risk; a word he has heard too many times from doctors and loved ones alike. 

He knew a thing or two about risk, he thought as his stick-like legs swung over the low wall of the pier and onto those dangerous beach rocks, the movement unexpectedly graceful.

A deep breath of the salty sea air. Looking around he found a flat rock, and slowly, painfully, he lowered his skinny rump onto it. A sigh of satisfaction which stung his battered ribs. His gaze returned to the sunset on the horizon, the smile returning to his face, albeit tinged with a quiet pain.

Colours.

Colours of the sky so beautiful almost to seem unnatural. Bands of blue, white and grey…kissed by the fiery orange of the setting sun. Ahead of him an emerald ocean of waves, jagged in its uniformity. On the rocks he felt like being in a fortress. Those brave waves doing nothing but sending white spray which tickle his feet. The irony was not lost to him as once again he smiled wryly: he felt safer on these dangerous rocks than he ever did in the hands of the finest specialists.

His mind gradually emptied, and he looked around at the scenery spread before him. Across the emerald waves three green islands. Virgin beaches twinkled at him from afar. How he would love to feel the fine sand under his skinny toes just one last time, before he leaves…

To his left, the dock. A quaint symbol of Man’s attempts to control his environment.  Masts of anchored yachts stab into the pregnant sky like so many toothpicks. It pained him to look at them, so he averted his gaze upwards.

The salty sea breeze was blowing grey rainclouds to the shore. Lazily they moved along, showering the sea below. Soon the light drizzle kissed the man on the flat beach rock as he closed his tired eyes.

Opening them he viewed directly at the centerpiece of this entire scene – the setting sun itself at the horizon. Partly hidden by clouds, it has made its leisurely way behind the gentle curvature of the ocean afar. The once orange orb now threw an angry red light. Now the clouds were highlighted red on a rapidly dimming blue background. The waves caught this light, and they too glowed a sinister red as they moved closer to the man on the rock.

Suddenly dread gripped his frail heart. He suddenly knew; his final hour has come and gone. Years of expectation, of waiting, have finally come to a close. Doctors have warned of this moment, his loved ones speaking of it in tearful hushed tones. It did strike him as strange that they would not be with him in this much-awaited second. He would be alone.

He reassured his frantic heart. The light drizzle washed away years of misery. Dying rays still peeked over the horizon, seeming to shed some final hope on the dreary scene. He found it a fitting place to breathe his last. 

Later they would find him on that flat rock, the spray still tickling his sickly legs. Despite his tortured physique his face was a picture of calm. Loved ones would say that his smile was different; for the first time in a long time it was finally free from pain.  

His sun has set. But it was beautiful.

Work of semi-fiction.

Inspired by a breathtaking sunset off the coast of Kota Kinabalu.

existence at the edge of a roof

He is on the roof once again. Stars twinkling ever so subtly above, a breeze of air fresh enough to awaken the dead…it was the first time that day that he has felt so alive.

He takes a breath, drawing that crisp air deep into his lungs. It unlocked the cage which has imprisoned his mind all day. Like a newly-freed dove, it takes flight and starts to wander.

Questions.

The relief from being on the roof was all too brief. He could never escape those questions. He never would. He never really tried, frankly.

It was past midnight by now. Soon he will have to climb back through the window he used to get on the roof, sneak downstairs and back to the dorm…before the guard begins his rounds in about an hours’ time. He would have to slink back into the dark, into his miserable life again.

He sighed, and pondered the other way he could get off the roof. The drop in front of him was so tempting…he could almost picture himself falling into the damp embrace of the dewed grass below…

The abyss ahead was as tantalizing as it was terrifying. It invited him forward to his death. It would feel so good to let everything go and just take a leap of faith. Wouldn’t it? 

Unsteadily he stood up. He moved forward. Ironically attempting to keep his balance as he edged toward his demise. His mind was set in cold certainty. He was going to do it.

He was at the very edge now. The same breeze which had felt so fresh a little while ago now blew cynically on the back of his neck, egging him on. It was so enticing… One foot lifted off the frigid tin roof. Eyes shut, he leaned forward…

Then, abruptly, instinctively, he fell backwards onto the roof with an almighty clang. Still his position was precarious, and like a caged rat scorched with boiling water he scrambled frantically for a footing. Eventually he calmed down. He was safe, only his feet over the edge.

Slowly, trembling, he backed away towards the top. Hot tears sprang from his eyes. Was he so weak to even take his own life?

On the rooftop he was left alone with his tears. The twinkling stars and cold breeze going on as if nothing had happened. Eventually he raised his head.

And through his tears he stopped merely looking. And he started to observe. The outlines of gnarly trees looked graceful from this distance, the light from a distant town like the glow of a dream.

Through the silence of the night he stopped merely hearing. And he started listening.  The lonely drone of a motorcycle on a bleak country road. The sound or crickets, comforting in its predictable repetition.

He realized that this is why he loved the roof so much – not because of the indifferent stars or breeze. It was the sense that everything around him fit just perfectly. That everything was within sight, within reach.

He knew then that while the roof had been teaching him all this time to observe and not just look, and to listen and not just hear, he had ignored the biggest lesson it offered:

That he had to live, and not merely exist.

How? The answer to that question depended on him. But live he must.

Later he clambered through the window into the obscurity of the building with tears still trailing down his cheeks. But this time they weren’t a sign of weakness, but a sign that he had been strong for too long. And he is stronger than he would ever know.

Work of semi-fiction.

Dedicated to a guy I have the honor of calling a friend. A guy who has faced much troubles – alone – lately. I hope this, in whatever small way, can atone for my lack of support for him through all his problems.

I don’t expect this post to give you answers, bro. Only He can provide that. This is just my attempt at understanding your life these past six months. Ultimately, I will never know. It’s between you and Him.

Perhaps all of us, in some way, is that guy on the roof. Searching for meaning, for answers, for ourselves. What we learn, ultimately, depends on us. But in that very search we forget the people around us who are in the same position, and need help as much as we do. Perhaps it’s time for all of us to look around and tell them (to quote my friend):

“Thank you for existing…”

And then help them live.