Kak Teh's Choc-a-Bloc Blog

Musings of a Muruku Marauder

2011-12-23T12:23:00.004Z

Knightsbridge was bathed in Christmas lights, courtesy of Harrods – the corner shop for the rich and famous. I was momentarily blinded by the glitters and mesmerised by the window display.

They certainly have style – Harrods. Christmas shoppers were leaving in droves clutching their famous green carrier bags, while others rushed in in search of last minute Christmas bargains. I was not the least tempted. I have better things in mind - a mission almost impossible. I braved the cold and the crowd, all the while the sound of jingle bells and Christmas carol drifting from the solo steel band drummer at the top of Knightsbridge station.

The night was still young but I felt old. I was a young bride when I first walked on the streets of London, shivering under my paper thin kebaya.

Now, I am much older and wiser – I wore my new coat bought at a 50 percent discount from Debenhams.

My mission didn’t take too long and soon I was also clutching that green Harrods carrier bag, boarding the C1 homeward bound. I was happy to get a window seat and oblivious to everyone around me, I started to dip my hand into the bag and tore open one packet. I was consumed with guilt but with every munch and crunch I felt good. The Harrods carrier bag was full of the scrumptious muruku courtesy of my buddies and accomplice back home.

I didn’t know when it happened, but I remember Kay bringing me a packet when I was back home. A packet wasn’t enough…and like an addict I went round looking for more but nothing was as good.

Some friends who came to London brought me more…but the crunching and munching was no music to some other ears…and with the best of intentions, my muruku supplies began disappearing. I coaxed and cajoled but to no avail. But yesterday, without even looking I found them.

Kak Nasirah Aris and Kay through PS Fadzillah brought me more supplies – thus my trip to Knightsbridge. As I walked to the front door, I perspired in the cold winter air and wiping off crumbs from my mouth I walked in.

Dipping into the bag, I offered him the acar ikan masin. This is from Kak Nasirah to you, I said sweetly. And dipping further into the big bag, I said,” and Kak Nasirah bought me these books,” referring to Malaysian Tales etc.

“….and er…of course some muruku that I will share during the tazkeerah session!”

Phew! Suffice to say, I am still in one piece. After 32 years together, he knows how to deal with my obsession; Alleycats, Ferrero Rocher, Cocoa Dusted Almond Chocolates and Chocolate Truffle Cake.These obsessions soon disappeared.

This will soon go too – but in the meantime, thank you comrades!!!
Kak Teh's other harmless obsessions:http:

Obsessions
As I was Munching Muruku

A Learning Curve with two Odd Socks

2011-10-20T00:41:00.000+01:00

Work was about start in fifteen minutes. I was still in last night’s clothing. Managed to find a decent top, grabbed an Ariani tudung and my reading glasses and was right in front of the laptop within five minutes flat.

That’s the beauty of online teaching – this new technology which once frightened me has proven to be quite exciting. Within minutes of logging in, the student came online, hardly aware of the fact that I had a kain pelikat on with different coloured socks. What mattered was from shoulders upwards I was professional looking, ready to do the job at hand.

The first lesson went smoothly as if I had worked with the tools for years; different from the confines of a classroom. While student was doing exercises, I could let the cat out, start the drier and make endless cups of coffee! As long as the camera stays in place, who was to know that there’s a pile of laundry on the sofa, or another pile in the laundry basket near the garden door. All the student could see was an impressive stack of books behind me. Impression counts. And he still couldn’t see my odd socks!

But during the three hour session, I learnt a few things that one must not do during online sessions; teaching or coaching. Do not hover over the camera to reach out for something. Tudung or no tudung, your breasts would be suffocating the person at the other end. DO NOT look over the camera as the other person can see up your nostrils, and DO NOT munch muruku when you thought student is silently doing exercise. If you need to do so, remove the headset…the munching and crunching of muruku can be annoying.

And when you need coffee, remember to remove the microphone or push it aside, as you risk dunking microphone in mug of coffee!

It has indeed been a learning experience!!
(Now excuse me, I need to have a bath!)

The power of social networking - the Asyraf Haziq Experience

2011-08-11T05:48:00.001+01:00

THE video clip on YouTube showing Mohd Asyraf Haziq, 20, bleeding and in shock after an attack during one of London's worst riots, touched so many people.

There was an outpouring of sympathy which then turned into anger when his so-called saviours, apparently from the same gang who attacked him, ransacked his backpack and took away his PSP.

He cut a forlorn figure as he staggered home while the gang went off with their spoils of his STG60 (RM293) bicycle, a hand phone and his PSP.

They missed his wallet in his back pocket. The one who ransacked his backpack, disdainfully threw away an empty plastic container that Asyraf had brought to pack food for his sahur (pre-dawn meal).

Asyraf, a first-year Association of Chartered Certified Accountant (ACCA) student and a Mara scholar studying at Kaplan Financial College in nearby Tower Hill, was cycling with a friend to break fast at a friend's house when they were attacked.

His friend managed to cycle away, thinking Asyraf would do the same.

Unknown to him and his attackers, the incident was filmed by someone from a nearby building and it was posted on YouTube and repeated many times on the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) and Sky TV.

This one-minute-15-second video clip was ironically as powerful as the tweets and SMSes that the likes of his perpetrators had employed to plan their mindless attacks and carnage throughout London and cities across Britain.

So powerful was it that tweeters got together to collect money to replace the things that he had lost, and a search was launched for the person who recorded the dastardly act on a helpless student.

Asyraf Haziq in hospital after the attack

Someone on my Facebook had contacted me about his identity. And apparently, he, too, was making efforts to collect money to donate to the student, who is now nursing a broken jaw as he awaits surgery at the Royal London Hospital.

Asyraf, on his hospital bed, was still oblivious to the publicity and attention his misfortune had caused.

With his lower jaw wired and a swollen right cheek where he suffered another broken bone, Asyraf looked vulnerable but a far better picture than the one on YouTube.

Abdul Hamid, who filmed the attack, wrote a caption under his clip: "Footage I captured of some men using the riots as an excuse to just harm and humiliate an innocent person. I hope to get in touch with the victim and I am also trying to raise money for him."

In an interview with Hamid, he said he was very sorry he couldn't help Asyraf as he was too far away.

He only noticed Asyraf when he was lying on the pavement after the attack.

"When I saw him , I then realised I should get something for evidence," he said, adding that he would be collecting money to donate to Asyraf and hand over the recording to the police.

And that is not all. A group of facebookers-cum-tweeters are also busy generating interest among sympathisers and friends of Asyraf.

A friend, Zaila Idrus, a travel consultant with Iman Travel, started a GetwellsoonAsyrafHaziq campaign which has been gathering support among her Twitter friends.

Another tweeter, ShaunCFC1866, has started a campaign to buy back and replace everything that Asyraf had lost to the young criminals.

This article was first published in the NST here

Surrealistic Syria - Part 1 - Delightful Damascus

2011-05-27T14:39:00.008+01:00

Ever since I came back from Syria, this charming and beautiful country had been preying constantly on my mind. The short and brief visit had been like a dream and could have been a dream had I not been literally touched by the beauty, charm and hospitality of this Middle Eastern country which enjoys the characteristics of the Mediterranean to the west, hemmed in by Lebanon on its western frontiers, Turkey to the north, Iraq to the East , Jordan to the south and Israel to the Southwest - all these close proximity making it such an attractive package but at the same time also by virtue of the close proximity, a whole region that's volatile politically.

It is difficult not to push away the images that we see in the media recently as a result of the wave of protests sweeping the Middle East, but it is difficult too to forget images of Syria that will forever be friendly and full of history and culture. That is something no one can ever take away from anyone that has ever stepped foot on Syrian soil.

My journey to Syria started with a lot of apprehensions. I didn't know the country and my initial skimpy knowledge of the country was coloured by whatever political reports dished out by the western media. Suffice to say, a week was not enough to take in the country so rich in culture and steeped in history. You will want to go back, because that's what Syria does to you. It beckons you to go back.

The journey started early on Boxing Day. The lack of hospitality on Syrian Air was very much compensated by the overwhelming reception throughout the visit - be it from the friendly vendors in the souks of Damascus, the beautiful girls dancing on the top of Aleppo Citadel, the farmer's wife making bread in a small Syrian village or the bedouins in the deserts of Palmyra. Their smiles just broadened when they recognised you as a Malaysian!

With a friend, Zaila Idrus from Iman Travels, and Ali and Nagi tour guides and driver Hassan from Mowiashe travels, the trip was more than I could ever ask for.

Day one in Damascus was planned by Mr Ali - a walking encyclopaedia on things Syrian -

he briefed us before we said goodnight and retired in our comfortable room in Semiramis Hotel. The next morning after a typical Syrian breakfast, we headed for the old city of Damascus , the sights and sounds that has the capacity to transport you to a totally different world, in a different era.

The Hamadiyeh souk of Damascus

The first thing that crossed my mind as I entered one of the many alleys in the souk is that I could easily get lost in the souk that dates back to the Ottoman rule under Sultan Hamid. And what wonderful adventure it would have been dodging mules bearing goods, motorbikes and people doing their shopping. It would have been a welcome respite away from the hustle bustle of modern living - to be sipping tea in one of the caravanserais listening to travellers' tales from the deserts of North Africa.

Alleyways lead to alleyways with merchandise to entice you such as beaded tablecloths, table runners, prayer mats and many, many more. It was simply amazing that you can browse around, pick up a thing or two without any pressure from the vendors. Instead, they offered tea, with no expectations in return.

Ummayad Mosque

We exited the souk into another world that left me in awe of its majestic presence - the Ummayad mosque - one of the oldest and holiest mosques in the world. From a temple built by the Armenians in 1000 BC, it went through several periods under the Romans, the Christians and finally the Muslims - making it the interfaith place of worship - where a shrine said to contain the head of John the Baptist or Nabi Yahya to the Muslims. The building was once shared by both Muslims and Christians as a place of worship.

Standing on the vast courtyard, I took in the three minarets, the Minaret of the Bride, the first to be built, the Minaret of Prophet Isa, believed to be the place where the prophet will descend from on the Day of Judgment and the Minaret of Qaitbay. I did my prayers in the vast opulence of the Ummayad before leaving for the tomb of Saladin which stands in a small garden nearby. There was already an orderly queue of Muslims and non-Muslims entering the shrine to pay respects to one of the greatest Muslim warriors. Standing there before the tomb was one of the most emotional moments during the visit - a prelude to things and places connected to the great Saladin, such as the Saladin Castle and Krac de Chevalier. But that will come later.

Tomb of the Bilal

Damascus is not a city to do in a day but I suspect that a month wont be enough as well. But we did as best as we could, taking in the enchanting Hamam and the hospitality it has to offer. My only regret is that the day we visited the Hamam it was not a day for women. After that we went on a long search of shrines and ended up in Bāb Saghīr Cemetery which houses among others the shrines of Umm Kulthum, daughter of Ali and Fatimah, granddaughter of the Prophet pbuh and that of the Bilal. Again, tears welled up in my eyes as I offered prayers to the Bilal. I couldn't believe that I was there. Shrines are popular places for Shiah tourists who come from far and wide on a pilgrimage of a lifetime. Young and old were carried and piggybacked to enter shrines and women and men wailed out loudly.

As the sun was about to set, Hassan sped towards Mount Qassion where you can feast your eyes on the whole of Damascus as the sun goes down. There are stalls with middle eastern music from transistor radios and hot teas are endlessly poured as the temperature dipped, making me yearn for my bed. According to legend the Prophet Mohammad pbuh stood there and was asked why he didn't go to the city. His reply was, he didn't want to go to paradise twice. Wallahualam. But indeed watching the colour changing over the Middle eastern skies. I was mesmerised.

Surrealistic Syria - Part 2

To Palmyra, Hom, Hama and Aleppo

Hoping for a Kindle-lit dinner

2010-12-15T02:32:00.002Z

Picture fr Kindle International

AS our 31st anniversary loomed near, I found myself frequenting a website, amazon.co.uk, and looking longingly at the slim, sleek 3G plus Wi-Fi e-book that has, for sometime, been a contentious issue in this household.The intended recipient of the new toy had left me in no doubt about his dislike for this new gadget that is making waves and getting rave reviews.

I thought this wireless gizmo that weighs less than a paperback would easily replace the heavy hardbacks he carries around in his rucksack. Imagine all that you can fit in the palm of your hand — it can store more than 3,500 titles!

Think of the space we could save every time we go for a break, and we can share the reading experience. We have, after all, shared many things in our 31 years together.

Like two silly teenagers at the backseat of the number 7 we have shared the i-Pod listening to our favourite zikir, even sharing the earphone trailing from his pocket to our ears.

During my restless nights, he’d pick a favourite prayer and together we’d listen to it till we fell asleep. But the Kindle is not his kind of thing. The realisation sank in that we are not on the same page on this.

Ever since I knew him, I had learnt how precious the book is to him. It was a book that brought us together and if I remember it well, it was a book on Groucho Marx.

Our courting days were spent browsing around the bookshops of PJ and Kuala Lumpur. He bought me books on all sorts of subjects, from how to write features and scripts to how to deal with PMT and pregnancy and how to cope with menopause. (In 31 years we do have to go through all these together).

He’d rather hold a real book and feel the pages in his hands, smell the smell of a new book as he turns the pages and carefully wraps it back in the paper bag which he had bought it in. He’d stack them carefully on the bookshelves already groaning under the weight of hundreds of books fighting for space in our front room which is fast turning into a library. And there is no way he’d read an e-book with a Wi-Fi in bed seeing that he has already banned my Blackberry to a safe distance, for fear of radiation.

Rather then buy other trivial stuff as presents, he’d buy books for the children, for friends old and new. An e-book would deny him that pleasure.

So, the prospects of a Kindle-lit dinner is fast fading as I weighed the pros and cons. I might get it for myself pleading a bad back as an excuse. In my bag, there are already the netbook and charger, the phone and charger as well as the camera. So, of course there will be space for a slim 3G with Wi-Fi.

I could say the eyesight is fast going and the Kindle with its bigger fonts would be good for these tired old eyes, which could start me reading again without the cumbersome reading glasses.

During all the years we’ve been together, I’ve courted technology more passionately than him. He dismisses most things, including the microwave oven, as unnecessary and even harmful. He never owned a mobile phone until I bought him a simple, cheap one which is now held together by a red rubber band.

He never switches it on, except to send and check messages and boasts that his battery lasts for a month! He does not depend on the flat screen HD TV for news as he prefers The Guardian and The Independent or the free tabloids he finds scattered in the trains.

I guess the jury is still out on this and in the meantime, the anniversary present will have to be another simple woolen jumper that will prove useful for this cold winter. A Kindle-lit dinner will be out of the question for the time being.

Malaysia has Talents - Abroad

2010-11-05T01:19:00.002Z

BETHNAL Green in east London is not a place I would normally visit in the evening, especially alone. It was, after all, the neighbourhood in which Jack the Ripper operated and the playground of the infamous gangsters, the Kray brothers, in the 60s. But that was where I was headed one warm autumn evening.

The promise of meeting new friends and the prospect of renewing old acquaintances made me trudge the distance, well away from my comfort zone in the west.

The east end district, which received much aerial battering during the Second World War, has undergone a lot of changes and is now home to mostly Bangladeshis. The short walk from the station to Costa Cafe revealed the changing face of Bethnal Green: It is more Asian in character, dotted as it is with halal groceries and eateries.

Unku in Thoroughly Modern Milly with Maureen Lipman

At the cafe, I met Unku Majid and his friends. I had known Unku from the late 1980s when he was waiting on tables at Satay Ria in Bayswater. He was also then acting in the West End. An accomplished stage actor, Unku, from Johor, had acted in many plays including Miss Saigon and The King And I where he played Uncle Tom alongside Elaine Paige. He also appeared with Maureen Lipman in Thoroughly Modern Milly.

It was Unku’s suggestion that I meet some of his friends, and then proceed to see the play, The Death Of Tintagel, by playwright Peter Morris — a dark satire set in a Cornish castle, where a boy is summoned back by his grandmother, to his death. It is directed by Vik Sivalingam, a fellow Malaysian.

Among those waiting to meet me was Vik, Michelle Lee, another West End actor whom I had the pleasure to do some voice-over work with and newcomer to the group, Shanon Shah. I had quickly googled Shanon Shah and discovered that this young and talented writer/songwriter and singer had just released his second album! This chemical engineer by training is now in London to do his Masters. I made a mental note to get his album or at least to listen to it on youtube.

I had met Michelle before when she was acting in Miss Saigon. Plays like that and The King And I, of course, had opportunities for talents from Southeast Asia. Michelle, a ballet dancer, had also worked with Instant Cafe Theatre in Malaysia before venturing to England to study music, drama and dance at the University of Birmingham. She had just finished filming The Diana Clone, a fantasy thriller about a scientist who tries to clone Princess Diana. The lead actor was half Malaysian — Anna Leong Brophy.

Michelle herself had done many things, from soap ads to voice-over work. We did similar work for The Sleeping Dictionary and a few years ago, Krakatoa, a BBC production.

I must be the only one in this country who had not seen The Bridget Jones Diary, where Michelle played the immigration officer who found drugs in Jones’ bag!

Vik and Vera

Sitting in the small cafe with this group of talents, my thoughts went back to the days of the pak cik sailors in the 60s and 70s — Malay sailors who came to work for the merchant navy were very much in demand for roles that required Oriental faces in war films such as A Town Like Alice. I imagined them meeting in cold and dingy cafes not far from Bethnal Green, in between sailing assignments, to look for parts as Japanese soldiers. People like Pak Man Tokyo had worked in A Town Like Alice as a Japanese soldier. And then, years later, I myself was roped in to play Fatimah in a radio drama of the same title by the BBC.

The play we were about to see at The People Show Studios is Vik’s latest work. He has a string of directing credits which include Uncle Vanya, Daisy Pulls It Off, Human Rights and Day Trippers. He is currently resident assistant director at the Royal Shakespeare Company.

Vera Chok with Freddie Machin in The Death of Tintagel - pix by Lucy Pawlak

Vik’s current play has as its lead Vera Chok, who brilliantly plays Ygraine, Tintagel’s protective and caring sister. Vera, who read archaeology and anthropology at Oxford University and who trained as an actress at The Poor School in London, is also artistic director of Saltpeter Production.

The producer is Anna Sulan Masing from Sarawak, who is also working on her PhD, looking at identity through performance practices of indigenous women of Borneo.

Meeting them was like a breathe of fresh air. Since then, I have been in touch with Rani Moorthy, another Malaysian-born playwright and actress as well as artistic director of Rasa Productions based in Manchester. Her Handful Of Henna recently toured the country. She has done radio plays such as Who’s Sari Now? for the BBC.

And last night I found myself on the phone with Pik Sen Lim who made her name as Su-lee, the Chinese Communist student in the British sitcom Mind Your Language. She was in London doing some filming.

Shanon Shah, Michelle Lee, Unku, Vera and Vik

As we walked out of the studio to Bethnal Green tube station late that night, the temperature had dipped further but we were oblivious to that. We had that typical long lingering Malaysian goodbye all along the way. So many Malaysian talents abroad and so little time to cover them all, I muttered to myself as I walked home in the cold night air,

Memorable memories are made of these

2010-10-01T14:29:00.001+01:00

Dancers of Sri Bulan troupe

TOO many memorable images of events from this week are playing like a slide show in my mind — those that I had captured in my camera as well as moments I did not but which will forever be etched in my memory. A lot has happened in the past week that keeps tugging at my heartstrings and reminding me of home with a certain surge of patriotism and nostalgia.

On-going Hari Raya open houses, a belated Merdeka celebration and the climax of the Malaysian Kitchen campaign fervently promoting Malaysian food at a pasar malam that momentarily transformed Trafalgar Square: All served to make one yearn for home but at the same time be grateful that home can actually come to you.

Last Sunday, Malaysians in the UK had a very belated Merdeka Day celebration at the usual venue, the sprawling grounds of the Tun Abdul Razak Rubber Research Institute in Brickendonbury. It was made all the more special when the King and Queen of Malaysia graced the occasion with their presence.
The sun came out, after an awful day before that. At close quarters, I noticed how young and dashing the royal couple looked.

There was a time when our kings and queens were old, but that, I believe, was because I was much younger then. The Queen brought back memories of the time I had spent with her mother when we were in school. That must have been 40 years ago. Time certainly has wings. I watched the dancers on stage, as I emceed the show (I usually do when they perform in London, or elsewhere in Europe). These talented dancers, my daughter included, were mostly born and bred in London. I had witnessed their development as they took their first faltering zapin and inang steps under the watchful eye of their dedicated dance teacher Khalid Din. Their love for traditional Malay dances is amazing. They bravely danced on in the cold blustery winds at the pasar malam in Trafalgar Square the night before. But they persevered, with smiles on their faces, urged on by the appreciative crowd which didn’t seem to get enough.

I remember persuading my daughter to join the dance class as I myself had been denied such an opportunity.
At the convent school, we were only taught the Irish jig and the Scottish dance. So, I had placed my hopes on my daughter. Her first Ulit Mayang performance almost reduced me to tears. And now in true 1Malaysia spirit, she can even do the Indian dance, which she did when the Sri Bulan Dance Troupe was invited to perform in Croatia. They have really been a true cultural ambassador for Malaysia.

Enjoying the sun and the celebratory mood, children in bright baju Melayu and baju kurung ran around while waiting for their turn to perform the dikir barat. They waved little flags in their hands and some even attempted a sword fight with these. But once on stage, they behaved very well, swaying and waving the flags on cue.

One familiar figure who would turn up without fail at the carnival was there — a shadow of his old self. Every year I see him, a lone figure, walking around with a basket of fruit or a packet of sweets to distribute to the children.
Last year, he took to the stage and attempted a song. This year, he looked very lost. I have documented him in my mind and in my memory card for I have followed his development for a while now.

He was the brave young man who wanted to cycle around the world but love stopped him in his tracks in London.

The year the late Tunku Abdul Rahman came to negotiate Malaya’s independence, he was there with a group of friends to meet the first Prime Minister to be. He has a picture to prove it.

As the carnival came to a close, he cut a forlorn figure walking back to his awaiting transport.

Afdlin Shauki entertaining the crowd at the carnival

It was nice to see the stand-up comedian making a special appearance. I had met him when he came with Sheila Majid to Ronny Scotts some years ago. We enjoyed his comic act with his sidekick Johan but it was his last performance that did it for me. Waving the little flag, he invited us to be on our feet and to sing along the patriotic song Setia, and as I did so, stumbling and choking over the lyrics, the dam burst.

It’s funny how little things would trigger off memories. As I said, the night before was the hugely successful pasar malam at Trafalgar Square to promote Malaysian food.

Trafalgar square transformed - pix by Debbie Braggs

The rain in the morning threatened to dampen the spirit but even as the temperature dipped further, it failed to stop people from converging in the square. The 20 or so foodstall owners were out of food by 8am. One stall was selling peanuts left over from the nasi lemak. Everyone had expected a no-show as the weather was so horrible.

The queue for Puji-Puji’s satay was so long that by the time you got to the front there was not a stick of satay left! Needless to say, a lot of people were disappointed, but the cultural performances by Sri Bulan and Nusantara compensated for this. The gamelan and traditional Malay music filled the air.

The Coventary Dikir Barat Group

Girls and boys carrying baskets of red hibiscus distributed them to visitors who pinned them to their collars or pockets or tucked them behind the ears. What a beautiful sight. It triggered memories of what my friend, the late Datin Peggy Taylor, once told me. Tunku, a very close friend of hers, had confided about the choice of the red hibiscus as a national flower. Why the hibiscus? Peggy had asked. It wilted very quickly. To this came the retort that she mimicked very well: “What’s the probleeeemmm?” Indeed, what’s the problem? I wore mine proudly on my scarf when I went to the carnival as did thousands of others.

These are what memories are made of.

Read more: I’M EVERY WOMAN: Memories are made of these http://www.nst.com.my/nst/articles/I__8217_MEVERYWOMAN_Memoriesaremadeofthese/Article#ixzz1175tNF6x

Lingering memories of train journeys

2010-08-10T09:55:00.000+01:00

IN a few minutes, the 1235 from Paddington will leave for Paignton, and that is somewhere in the south west of England. I was supposed to be on the 10.35 but as fate would have it, I missed it, not because I was late in purchasing the ticket, but because I was too early.

I had bought the tickets a day earlier as I didn't want the hassle of queuing up. But Mr Murphy had to be right, as always. If things want to go wrong, it will go wrong, even the best laid plans.

The tickets I bought from the machine was apparently valid only for one day and I was turned back at the ticket barrier to join the long queue of backpackers and families with children escaping London to enjoy the last few days of summer.

I have always loved train journeys as they give me the luxury of being with myself and my thoughts.

I am now on the First Great Western train, one of Britain's national train networks. It is fascinating to watch the English countryside whiz past my window. This being a weekend, people are enjoying barbecues with their friends out in the back garden. The English, they do love their gardens: Neatly trimmed hedges with beautiful flower beds and hanging baskets in a riot of summer colours.

The suburbs soon make way for vast green fields - cows grazing and sheep looking like small cotton balls, dot the vast fields now turning brown after quite a harsh summer. I note that some of the cows are sitting down. It will rain, says my husband, if cows sit down. And true enough, rain starts pelting on the windows as we criss-cross along the British countryside.

Being a creature of habit, I never leave the station without two - not one - mushroom parcels and a cup of piping hot coffee from Delice de France. And after drowning my sorrows of losing the price of one train ticket, in what inevitably became cold coffee, I allow my thoughts to turn to Mak.

Mak too loved train journeys. When we were young, train journeys during school holidays were a treat. We'd talk about nothing else in school about the impending adventure from Yan to Johor Baru.

We used to take train journeys from Alor Setar to Johor where Kak and Abang were stationed. An announcement of a train journey was welcomed with sighs of relief as it meant not the usual trips to Penang or Pantai Merdeka.

From the first whisper of the holiday plans, we spent sleepless nights, too excited to do anything else. And Mak would start packing things she'd bring to her firstborn who had followed her husband to what could only be considered as the furthest point south from where we were in Kedah. There would be food and things she thought her eldest daughter was going without. Mothers are like that. Now I understand.

But most importantly, I remember how she'd wake up in the morning and prepare food for us that would last us through the long journey from north to the south of the peninsula. There'd be rice and chicken dishes carefully packed in tiffin carriers and drinks in flasks and towel-wrapped containers. Boiled eggs were almost mandatory - we never left on long journeys without boiled eggs.

I remember most the early morning drive from Yan to Alor Setar where we'd patiently wait for the train and then the short ride to Bukit Mertajam. Now, this is the bit which I could never forget. Whether this part of my memory had been exaggerated by time gone by, I don't know. But I remember the rush - bags, tiffin carriers and more bags up the overhead bridge to the waiting southward bound train. It seemed to me than that the train would only stop for five minutes and no more!

Then the search for seats. By then most coaches would be full of tired soldiers on home leave, other families also going on holidays, screaming babies in sarong hammocks suspended from the ceiling of the train... it was chaotic.

The highlight of the train journey must be the stop in Ipoh when we were stirred from our sleep by sales pitches of food vendors plying up and down the platform skillfully balancing their food stuff on their heads.

Never mind the food Mak had painfully prepared for us, buying from the vendors was more exciting.

As we pull into Pewsey, a small village in Wiltshire with its small quaint station, I remember the train journeys criss-crossing Europe to as far as Budapest, journeys along the beautiful Rhine with chateaux and castles dotting the mesmerising landscapes that usually brings me back again to those childhood days reading about princesses in captivities and charming princes coming to their rescue.

Oh well, the train has stopped and so has the rain. But beautiful memories of train journeys linger on.

Thos article first appeared in my column in NST here.

The Legacy of Dalilah Tamrin

2010-07-28T06:17:00.002+01:00

WE were totally lost in that place called 1 Utama. Shahieda from Cape Town was depending on me to find the place where the mak cik Bloggers were meeting but even after numerous phone calls for directions, we were still nowhere near.

Finally we were told to stay put as someone was sent to rescue us. Within minutes, we saw our saviour, her face breaking into the biggest, most cheerful smile and arms outstretched she embraced us, one after another. This saviour, who walked the distance from the eatery to find us, was Dalilah Tamrin or better known as Raden Galoh of the now hugely popular blog onebreastbouncing.blogspot.com.

Dalilah left us exactly a week today after succumbing to the dreaded C.

But she didn’t go without a fight. She fought to her last breath and left behind a legacy precious and educational. The walk that she took to “rescue” us was indicative of what Dalilah was — not one to sit back and wallow in self pity. No such thing as “I am the one suffering, so come to me”.

Indeed, as many had pointed out, looking at Dalilah and her glowing smile, her infectious positive attitude and, most of all, her fighting spirit, there was no sign at all that she was a cancer sufferer.

Different people deal with adversities in different ways.

When a friend Ruby Ahmad passed away from cancer, it took me a long time to reconcile the vivacious, active and forever positive Ruby with the person who had succumbed to cancer. She never talked about it and I only found out via a long email from her husband. She chose to deal with it quietly but, at the same time, she tirelessly gave talks, networked and gave her all before passing on.

Dalilah chose to share her experience, the highs and lows that had benefitted not only sufferers but also carers of sufferers and those close to them, for they too suffer.

This mother of two young boys would have been 43 last week. Paralysed by fear of the dreaded disease and the attendant problems as well as what is now the inevitable outcome, Dalilah started a blog that would act as a catharsis to the turmoil within, a journal that had taken its readers on a rollercoaster ride of emotions and a painful but meaningful diary of a dedicated and loving mother and wife. Onebreastbouncing was indicative of the humorous nature of someone who refused to be defeated. Breast or no breast, she soldiered on.

She had and still has a huge following.

She appeared on TV shows, gave talks and created awareness about the disease.
As if that wasn’t enough, she wrote a book: Kanser Payudara Ku: Perjuangan Dan Kesedaran (My Breast Cancer: The Fight And The Realisation).

According to Nasirah Aris, a close friend of Dalilah and advisor to the Pride Foundation, a charity supporting cancer sufferers, most cancer sufferers are positive in sharing their experiences to create awareness and participating in programmes such as walks and mountain climbing.

Dalilah seemed to have that boundless energy. During her last few months, she seemed preoccupied with her own project, a charity project for cancer sufferers. Gifted with words, she penned down what would seem her final message, in preparation for her last journey.

The cyberworld offered a helping hand in the form of a songwriter friend, Intan Nazrah, who lives in Dubai, who helped out with the lyrics and eventually sang the piece that is now resonating in blogs and Facebooks of her followers.

For Intan Nazrah, who writes for the likes of Anuar Zain, it was a painful journey too as her own mother had died of breast cancer.

The song was ready just before Dalilah left to fulfil her last wish. Whether she had listened to it was still uncertain.

Dalilah wanted to perform the umrah, the mini Haj. She was high in spirits before she left but it wasn’t the same Dalilah who returned. Her last status on her Facebook reflected the feelings of someone who was reconciled with her fate.

Despite her pain and discomfort, Dalilah, who was being looked after by her mother, worried more about interrupting the latter’s sleep with her tossing and turning. She knew that she was at the end of her journey, and all she asked for before her last breath, was for the taming of the raging pain within. Goodye Dalilah, you’ve been a source of inspiration and your legacy will live on.

The mak cik blogger world will be a less cheerful place without you.

AL FATEHAH

Picture of Dalilah Tamrin reproduced in NST and in this blog with kind permission of Datin Mamasita.

Coffee with Constance Haslam

2010-07-16T16:00:00.004+01:00

FOR most of us over a certain age, our growing up years would have been touched by the dulcet tones of Constance Haslam; cheerful and chirpy while delivering request programmes, professional and informative when delivering the news, and warm and friendly during chat shows.

Hers was the voice you’d like to wake up to or have as a soothing companion during the dai battle with the traffic to work. I remember Constance well from those Bakat TV years and enjoyed, and envied her tremendously as she was so versatile and talented.

Like thousands of her listeners, I felt I knew her as she was in my living room, morning and night. And so, when a few years ago I met her in Paris, it was without any hesitation that I walked up to her to continue a friendship which started with her Good Morning programme. She was my “Good Morning” girl!

Constance Haslam, or now Constance Behr, has made France her home for the past 10 years. Having left the world of broadcasting, Constance, better known as Connie, is enjoying life and doing things she never had the chance of doing when she was working.

“I’ve done a lot of things that I never had a chance of doing when I was in Malaysia. I’ve joined the Women’s International Club in Paris, learnt French and German, played tennis and bridge and do porcelain painting,” says Connie when we met again recently in Versailles where she and husband Erwin Behr have made their home.

Over coffee and croissant at a quaint French cafe, to her apartment and later over lunch at Chateau Versailles, Connie reflected on her broadcasting days in RTM, the move to Singapore with her husband and later to France.

“I opted out of government service in 1990 and then joined Redifussion for two years working in the PR division. I opted out at the age of 45 after 26 years of service,” she said of the career that started in programme operations. It was only when the English service was short of people that Connie was asked to get behind the microphone where she began reaching out to a lot of people in both Malay and English.

She was the voice among other well-known voices such as Patrick Teoh, Alan Zachariah and Yahya Long Chik, Razali Hussein and Connie Ee — the Forces’ favourite.

“Broadcasting in those days was interesting. I always found radio more challenging than TV because I could express myself in my voice. My love of debate, elocution contests and concerts helped although we did have people from the BBC who came to train us at RTM.

“When TV started, I became the first non-Malay compere, in fact the first female compere for Bakat TV. That was the time when I actually felt like a film star. There were cameras everywhere and, for the first time too, people put the name to the face and with a name like Haslam, I suppose I became interesting. It sounded like a Malay name but I didn’t speak like a Malay,” she said with a laugh.

Connie was a Jane of all trades, but admitted that her favourite was the morning show.

“I had to get up at 4.30am and never knew what breakfast was. But I psyched myself up, did exercises and had a cup of coffee before driving through the quiet roads of Damansara through Petaling Jaya to get to the office.”

Once in the cubicle, Connie spoke to the whole of Malaysia.

“Initially, we always had somebody opposite us, and we’d instruct that person what songs to play, but later we had to learn to play the records at exactly the point we want the music to start,” explained Connie who had interviewed Gloria Estafan, Dionne Warwick, Jose Feliciano, Bjorn Borg, the Bee Gees and even Omar Sharif.

The fact that Connie became a household name and a well-known face was not without its disadvantages. She had many fans but one took to stalking her at the office.

“I was contacted by the reception who told me that someone was there to see me. I went down and saw this guy whom I didn’t know. I asked him who he was and he was angry that I didn’t recognise him,” she recalled.

“He said, ‘You don’t recognise me? But whenever you read the news, you always wink at me!’. He was instantly removed.”

Connie can now remember those episodes with a smile. In the little town that Connie calls The Noisy King in Versailles, Connie and her husband take regular walks and travel a lot, attend cultural shows and exhibitions. She looks forward to a visit by her only granddaughter on whom she dotes, and visits her mother in Malaysia twice a year.

Connie is leading a full life in retirement, enjoying everything that she had missed during the years she had dedicated her time to work.

“Living in the countryside, yet not too far away from a city is something I now enjoy and the thought that I have made time for myself to do other things in life is a great fulfillment.

“I was very prepared for retirement and that is why I didn’t miss doing what I did. I learnt a lot of new things and learnt what I didn’t know I could do like porcelain painting.”

Although Connie has left her broadcasting days, she still remembers her theme tune — I Am What I Am by Gloria Gaynor.

“A friend Dr (now Datuk) Ridzwan Bakar brought back from England a 45rmp single. He said the song describes me. I then used it for my programme.”

World Cup Fever

2010-06-24T08:49:00.001+01:00

WHEN I saw a big package lying in the middle of the living room in a friend’s house, I suspected this was a bad case of World Cup fever.

I guessed it to be a widescreen TV. All this while, the family had been content with a second hand model, with grainy visuals. On certain days, it only served as a radio as there was only audio, no visual.

But World Cup 2010 changed all that — a new 46-inch HD TV dominated the living room.

Our family life, save for the the boys’ fascination with the clubs of their choice, had so far been untouched by the World Cup. The eldest, an Arsenal fan and on holiday in Portugal, had sms-ed to say he hadn’t bothered to watch England’s dismal game with USA. As Robert Green watched the ball literally slip from his grasp into the net, our youngest (a Barcelona fan) was working in the kitchen of a friend’s restaurant, earning money for his tuition fees.

This lack of interest was perhaps due to England’s continuous failure to bring the cup back.

All around us, St George flags waved from rooftops, car tops and tow trucks, and also adorned the faces of fanatic fans singing Engerland, on their way to pubs and restaurants to watch the game. An hour before kickoff time, as we made our way to our weekly religious class, the road was eerily quiet and empty.

We were non-committal about the whole thing — I couldn’t even name one player and was surprised to learn that England had a new captain, whose face crumpled as Green’s blunder allowed the equaliser with USA.

The husband, I must admit, had improved dramatically his knowledge about football and footballers but not enough to make me worry about becomign a World Cup widow. One year, when France was hosting the World Cup, he was in Paris and he must have been the only one trying to get out of the city when most people would have killed just to be there.

Another World Cup year, we took a visiting cousin on a tour of London, which seemed extraordinarily quiet. We even apologised for the lack of life in the city. But our cousin, on his first visit here, didn’t seem too keen on the tour, looking a tad restless as we showed him the historic sites. Finally, he found the courage to ask whether we could perhaps go home as he wanted to watch the World Cup final on TV.

“How could anyone travel all the way here and just want to watch TV?” was the quizzical look on my husband’s face.

Anyway, on the day England met USA last week, we were all assembled in the friend’s living room with the new widescreen TV properly installed.

Kick-off was 1930 hours. So was the scheduled weekly religious class. While waiting for the young ustaz and some other members of our small congregation, we played some trivia game as the TV showed ads and promos. So, the last time England won the World Cup was in 1966, denying Germany the cup by two goals! A friend wearing an England jacket, proudly pointed to the one star above the lions, which meant one World Cup cup so far. When USA met England in 1950, England was defeated 1-0. So what are the chances for England this year?

The late arrival of our ustaz meant that we saw the kick-off on the widescreen, beamed all the way from South Africa. The field looked so green, the roar of the crowd seemed to echo forever in your ears and suddenly, the game was interrupted by an advertisement. How strange, even for someone who had never followed football on screen. The husband, sitting right in front of the screen, was woken up from his slumber by chorus of protests.

When we were brought back to the match, England had already scored and we had missed the moment. In fact, everyone watching the game on TV missed it and no matter how many times it was repeated, in slow motion and from all angles, that brief interruption had spoilt it for us.

“But England always started well only to lose in the last minute”, quipped a friend, watching the door for the appearance of the ustaz. And true enough, when the ustaz finally made his appearance, we saw Green diving for the ball, grappling with it and the torturous moment when the ball slipped from his hands into the net.

There was a heart-rending groan from the apartment across the street as we switched off the new widescreen TV and turned our attention to ustaz.

The St George was still flying proudly from rooftops and car tops as we drove back that night along empty motorways. No celebrations on the streets, save for some drunkards, their faces depicting a crumpled St George, making their own merriment outside empty pubs.

We survived the England match that night. For us , it was an equaliser as well: One to World Cup, one to ustaz.

This column was based on England's first game against USA and was published in the NST on 22nd June 2010.

Name dropping in Milan

2010-05-31T20:49:00.001+01:00

ON our first day in Milan, our Italian guide kindly offered to take us to Montenapoleone. That’s the place, he said, where rich people, like rich Malaysians, shop.

My first instinct was to say no for obvious reasons, but my curiosity got the better of me. A picture of that famous street with those famous names would make a good Facebook update, I thought. And who knows, I may even bump into the who’s who of Malaysia’s A-list. After taking in the imposing Duomo Cathedral, we walked past the Ferrari shop into a relatively quiet road leading up to the bustling Montenapoleone. A Lamborghini parked at the top of the road was enough to tell me that we were in the right place.

Milan is that kind of a city — brand names scream at you from every nook and corner. Gucci tempts you from across the road, Versace dares you from around the corner, Prada lures with dignified silence. Crossing the road the Italian way, dodging Vespas and taxis, I remembered when I was about eight crossing busy Orchard Road in Singapore to look at Robinson’s. That was the place to shop if you were a somebody during the 1960s.

I recalled holding on to Pak Lang’s hand tightly, asking him for the umpteenth time: “Where are we going?” He said simply: “We’re going to see where the rich shop.” Forty-odd years on, I was to experience that same feeling — standing outside Armani, Ferragamo, LV and other names with funny jumbled-up letters, shocked at their price tags.

“Those without a price tagsa, usually you can’ta afforda!” our companion offered kindly, with a shrug of his broad Italian shoulders. Well, that was subtle enough. But it didn’t dent my ego at all as I hadn’t come to Milan to shop. Besides, my husband had advised: “Don’t buy until you can pronounce them!”

But what about those who gloated about their DIKNEY bags (DKNY) and OINX (Onyx) tables? It’s almost sinful, isn’t it? I still remember the time when I received a fax from a friend to check the price of a Ferragamo. I wondered why would someone sitting in her office in Kuala Lumpur want to know about the price of an Italian dish in London!

Well, I had since progressed, and there were many more famous Italian names that I had come to see. It started last month, when during a visit to Paris, in between appointments, I told a friend that I just needed to see Mona Lisa. Ten years ago, I had queued for half-hour under the French summer sun, only to come face to face with a stamp-sized portrait of the lady with the mysterious smile. In my mind, it was a picture larger than life, but the disappointment didn’t last long. I had returned to Paris to get reacquainted with the famous lady. Leaving The Louvre with several portraits of Mona Lisa, I promised to start a collection of famous paintings by famous names — on fridge magnets, of course!

A few days ago, I visited museums in Munich which housed Rubens, Van Goghs and Picassos, among other famous names, enough to last me a lifetime. Van Gogh’s Sunflower nearly had me in spasms of delight in that sedate, dignified gallery of the New Art Museum. The same could be said when I came eye to eye with Monet’s Water Lillies. Suffice to say, I left clutching a few Monets and Van Goghs to adorn my fridge.

On this maiden Milan visit, I was thrilled to visit more museums with more national treasures hanging on their walls. Yesterday, it was Da Vinci’s The Last Supper. The guide’s explanation of Da Vinci’s mathematical approach to his famous artwork left almost everyone speechless. Every little detail of expression: a frown on the forehead, a curl of a finger, all tell a story.

Next, we headed to Lake Como, Italy’s third-largest lake. A cruise across the lake to Bellagio, a paradise for lovers of silk and leather goods, gave us a sweeping view of the Italian landscape, with clusters of villas with intriguing frescos dotting the hillsides. Once in a while, the boat would slow down so we could feast our eyes on villas belonging to George Clooney, Versace and Sir Richard Branson. One villa, with a garden of palm trees and cascading greenery, had been a location for a James Bond movie, I was told. How’s that for name dropping?

This article first appeared here

Crazy Cravings

2010-04-13T14:59:00.002+01:00

CRAVINGS during pregnancy is something I have long forgotten and banished to the dusty archives of my mind.

But it came hurtling back recently when I met an elegantly pregnant woman who had travelled all the way from a far-flung corner of the British Isle, in search of cincaluk.

Yes, cincaluk. To have a craving is something, but to have a craving for something that is almost impossible to get, is another thing altogether.

Before venturing out to London where Oriental supermarkets store almost everything on their chaotic shelves, she had sent me a message to point her in the direction of the coveted item.

I, the least adventurous person where food is concerned, could only point her in the direction of Chinatown, to which she dutifully went with hopes of bringing cincaluk back to grace her dinner table. Alas, after going in and out of several shops there, she had to leave empty-handed and disappointed.

She had been disappointed once before when all the postman delivered to her front door was a letter from the Customs to say that they had confiscated the bottle of precious cincaluk that her mother attempted to post.

But she wasn’t about to give up, or rather her hormones dictated that the normally intelligent and reasonable person with a pretty sensible head properly screwed onto her shoulders, shouldn’t give up.

These hormones can make a Jekyll and Hyde out of the most placid person on earth. They can change tastebuds overnight, making a meat-loving person into a vegetarian and cause a normally diet-conscious person to throw caution to the wind and eat stuff that she would usually throw out the window. They can reduce a professional and tough decision-maker into a weeping wreck or a monster just because she can’t get what she craves for.

I could certainly identify with these people. During my first pregnancy, I cried buckets because I couldn’t get the correct mee goreng mamak — correct being the way it was cooked by the mamak pushing his cart at exactly 5pm along Light Street in Penang.

I sulked throughout the night just because my husband mentioned salt beef and chopped liver and there was no way he could pacify me because it was already midnight. He watched helplessly as I sat crying before a container full of prawn sambal that was flown in all the way from that a particular stall in Kampung Baru, KL, but had gone off during the 12-hour flight.

During another pregnancy, attempting to make the keropok that I was craving for, he gallantly rolled up his sleeves for the culinary feat, only for it to turn out to be keropok lekor, which I totally disliked. Why couldn’t I just crave for asam boi or some pickle that could be easily obtained from Chinatown?

Sure, there have been studies to suggest that the body craves what the body lacks but why does this render one to be almost obsessive especially in the quest for the forbidden?

A friend knew what coffee beans would do to her and the baby in the womb, but throughout two pregnancies, she chewed handfuls of coffee beans as she would peanuts.

One baby turned out to be hyperactive and the other had a skin allergy although this was not conclusively linked to the coffee beans.

My eldest sister pined for duck hanging on the rack in a non-halal restaurant. All she wanted was a bite of the meat dripping with fat. This is nothing compared to the woman who ate charcoal and another who chewed pencils.

Looking at some studies carried out in attempts to explain why women had different foods cravings, I came across one conducted in Sri Lanka and published in the Indian Journal Of Public Health. A total of 1,000 women took part in the study which noted that “pregnancy cravings were significantly higher in women who married after a love affair than in those who had an arranged marriage” as well as in “women who were superstitious (e.g. believed in devil dancing) than in those who were not.”

Considering how inconsiderate and ridiculous some of the demands made on the helpless husbands are, I am inclined to support the finding linking love marriages to pregnancy cravings.

What else can explain the long journey into London and the futile search for cincaluk?

This piece was first published here.

Kak Teh's other Obsessions:

Obsessions

Picture from Connie Martin's.

More notes from under the duvet

2010-04-05T21:01:00.009+01:00

The boiler seems to be on the blink again and as it is Bank Holiday here, no one can be persuaded to come and have a look at it. So the duvet seems to offer the warmest place as I oscillate from FB to Blog stopping to read news online somewhere in between; anything at all to stall my long overdue article from completion.

I must admit that I have been lured back to FB, a place I swore I'd never put a foot in again. A friend suggested that I reactivate my account to retrieve some photographs from her and once I pressed the button, there was no turning back. There I discovered the place where friends congregate: friends who had been slowly disappearing from my comment box and from my beloved rantauan.com: a virtual village which was once ringing with laughter over pantun wars, is now quiet. Initially, I had problems putting names to faces as in FB most except Mekyam, use their real names.

I found old classmates and I even found my mother!!! My nephews and nieces, siblings and relatives are there as well. Our family members used to meet up in www.myfamily.com but some bright spark decided that FB is a more convenient place to meet. She even ghosted my mother's account!

And guess who else I met there? Our wedding photographer!! Zubir, or Tok Bet as he is affectionately known, is an old family friend who is related to my brother-in-law and by marriage, related to Puteri Kama. FB is indeed a small world. Being in touch with him brought back memories of that fateful day - 9th December 1979. Tok Bet is almost a brother to us, bunking in with my brother most nights when we were living in Yan. After our simple bersanding, he ushered us to the bedroom for the standard 'sitting on the bed' pose. The room wasn't big enough for him to move around, and as he walked backwards to get a good picture, he tripped backwards into the bathroom!!

The virtual world, through all these social networking sites, is forever interested to know what we are doing, what we are thinking. I wonder why. So, in a haste, and still procrastinating over the article I am supposed to write, I wrote: ZO's dilema: should I write for blog or cari makan? This prompted quite a few suggestions.

Now, I had considered myself quite a veteran in this cyberworld, but it never ceased to amaze me how the online written word could be misconstrued and misinterpreted. What I had in my head and transfered onto the page, was not what was received. My dilema was whether I should write an entry for the blog or to write a piece for the newspaper. Nevertheless, its quite an interesting study of how a written word is read and perceived. I had failed to convey what was in my head at that point in time.

And as you can see, the blog wins hands down and I will now write to cari makan.

Over and out.

Kak Teh's also wrote from under the duvet here:

Notes from under the duvet

One Spring Morning in the life of a Mak Cik in London

2010-04-01T21:14:00.005+01:00

It wasn't the kind of spring morning that one would like to get up to. Given the choice, you know where I'd rather be. The promised sunshine never came but instead more forecast of gloom and even doom. I left the house well before eight, the spirit somewhat lifted only by the sight of pretty yellow daffodils by the front door. And with that and Wordsworth's ryhmes playing in my head in no particular order, I made my way to the station this spring morning sans any spring in my steps whatsoever! I was about to start the day without ryhme or spring.

(Cue violin)

Oh, daffodils, is it really spring when all I feel is perpetual autumn with the onset of permanent winter? (Ignore this)

The station seemed a long way away and as I passed the green, the empty green, I imagined poor Sofyen playing football with the local boys, my Taufiq included. At 15, his life was cruelly taken away by a group of schoolboys and girls who attacked him at Victoria Station last week.

I passed by Betsie's but no cheerful hello from her as she must be in bed still under her comfortable duvet. Eventually, after what must have been a thousand hours, I made it, swiped my Oyster and climbed up the steps. The tube was crowded and my plan to read was aborted as I didn't have a f ree hand to hold an open book. No one looked up from their free Metro newspaper or their Blackberries and Iphones, to offer this Mak Cik a seat. Self pity was fast setting in. If, by the time I reached Nottinghill Gate and still no seats, I thought, I 'd take the Circle Line, which of course is no longer a Circle Line as it doesn't go in a circle anymore. (Drat!) And of course, still no seats (more drat!) and I stumbled out with the rest on to the platform at Nottinghill Gate and climbed more steps with more self pity setting in at full speed by the time I reached Baker Street.

I was in a foul mood by the time I saw some ray of sunshine outside the station and dodging tourists and enthusiastic parents pulling their even more enthusiastic children to join the queue at Madame Tussaude, I finally reached my destination.

Regent's Park and the serenity at that time of the morning was a world away from the madness that was about to unfold just a few streets away. Regent's Park and its early morning joggers was a welcome sight to this tired, restless mind.

Regent's Park and its ducks swimming merrily in the canal and its empty benches evoked memories of a beautiful forbidden romance. Regent's Park and its Blue Bench were silent witnesses and accomplice of two lovers who met and sat on the blue bench and contemplated their futile future together. As I crossed the bridge and scanned the place for any blue benches around, I thought of Azhar and Sarah sharing more than just a flask of coffee together during one of their many illicit rendezvous.

As I reached the corner, turning into the big building where I was to spend most part of the day, I wondered whatever happened to the couple; their marriages to their respective spouses and even the originator of the deliciously woven plots.

Taking more steps up to the meeting room, I found myself wishing I could come up with something as intriguing from something as mundane as a blue bench.

The room was still empty when I got there and sitting down, I pulled out my documents which were about to be scrutinised and torn apart during the best part of the day.

Reading the first few lines, I knew I had better keep to my day job, as the saying goes.

The Mak Cik also rambles here:

One Autumn day in the life of a Mak Cik

Goodbye, Ruby Ahmad

2010-03-29T22:08:00.000+01:00

This tribute to Ruby Ahmad appeared in my column today (29th March 2010) here.

I’M EVERY WOMAN: Goodbye Ruby Ahmad

2010/03/29

ZAHARAH OTHMAN

Last week, the blogosphere was stunned by news of the sudden passing of one if its gems, Ruby Ahmad.

It took everyone by surprise as there, still staring from her eponymous blog rubyahmad.blogspot.com, is Ruby Ahmad, with her famous ravishing smile, the epitome of optimism and exuberance. Sms-es were coming from all corners of the world, from shocked and stunned friends in cyberspace. After a few phonecalls and messages, I cried myself to sleep and woke up hoping it had been just a bad dream. But more messages on my handphone confirmed the sad truth.

By morning here, entries dedicated to the late Ruby had sprouted in the many blogs of those whose lives Ruby had touched — those who had known her through her writing and “meetings” online and those who had actually met and enjoyed a friendship with her, no matter how brief. There were many.

But who was Ruby Ahmad? The brief description on her blog simply says: “I’m a ‘go for it!’ kind of person. I act on impulse and am a great believer in tackling any problem head-on. Being an eternal optimist, I believe the nitty-gritties will sort itself out at the end! “I place great faith in the positive aspects of human nature and that we should all work in this light so as to live in a humane and just society.”

Ruby was one of many bloggers who had no qualms revealing her identity. Her pictures of networking with her former Tunku Kurshiah college mates, socialising at charity events, promotions and concerts tell us she enjoyed life to the fullest. She gave as much as she could offer and in this she was almost tireless and selfless. In most of her writings as in her media interviews, she propounded and expounded her belief that we should strive to live in a humane society. She shared whatever she had to motivate the young, gave her input on cluster schools and many more.

Through her writing and pictures, her readers had the impression of a person who had acquired her wisdom through travels far and wide. She rubbed shoulders with people in the corridors of power, and those in the periphery. We know more of Ruby from her interactions online and in comment boxes. Her continuous banter with Uncle Lee in Toronto, her wise and considered advice to student Daphne Ling and words of sympathy and motivation to cancer sufferers. The nature of online interactions is such that it makes it possible for us to piece together the tracks one leaves behind in comment boxes and put together the person behind the writing. But we could be wrong.

Last week I realised that I did not know Ruby yet like others, I also felt I had somehow known her for a long time. This was the contradiction that was hard to take, and my heart ached as if I had lost someone very close. Ruby Ahmad, the blogger, qualified architect, wife, mother and grandmother, had managed to hide something from all of us right until the end. She had the dreaded breast cancer, which had spread to her liver. This was what took her away from us. On receiving the news, we scoured our mail boxes and comment boxes and even her entries to see whether she had left any clues. Nothing.

I met Ruby in early 2007 after countless interactions online and by phone. She was exactly as I had imagined: outgoing, exuberant, gracious and impeccably dressed. We met many times during my visits home and during these meetings, she revealed a bit more of herself to me. I had seen her work the Ruby Ahmad magic. We were at a dinner table after a concert and she chatted and listened to someone everyone else seemed to be ignoring. She gave this person her time, which I believe, was much appreciated. At a gala night, like two naughty schoolgirls, we approached a minister who had somewhat admonished women bloggers, and introduced ourselves: “Datuk Seri, we are women bloggers,” after which we ran off and had a good giggle. This and more is the Ruby I want to remember.

Last week, she was taken away from us. But in a special corner of my heart, she will always be there, urging me “Kak Teh, go for it!” Goodbye my friend.

The Big Rice Jar

2010-03-24T02:54:00.001Z

Often times, Mak would take us to Lorong Pintu Sepuluh and point to a dilapidated wooden house where, she said, I was born. I couldnt imagine living there, for when I saw it, it was almost leaning dangerously to one side. And much later, of course, it was bulldozed to the ground to make way for some big buildings. But I do remember the house with the iron gates next door. It was painted yellow with brown shutters. It had an iron swing and lots of guava trees. I remember this house well because this was where I used to play and be doted on by the kind couple who, I was told were childless. I remember the sweets, the kind words and most importantly the big gold medalion that they bought me and which I wore proudly around my neck to pose for a studio photograph. I remember too the big rice jar, by the window in the kitchen. On our visits there, Mak always said, "Look at the jar. It is always full. Their rezki is always full." Until today, I am always mindful never to leave the rice jar empty.

Pak Mat and Mak Teh were my foster parents. I was always their 'cek' and 'sayang' and in their eyes, I could do no wrong. Apparently, before I came into their lives and into their house, a brother a little older than me, had been their frequent visitor. He was their ray of sunshine. Pak Mat even promised to buy a car to take the three year old around the small town of Alor Star. But it was not meant to be for my brother, Izham, was taken away one night and Pak Mat and Mak Teh were inconsoleable. Pak Mat took delivery of his new car, ripped open the top and took the small coffin in his car for a final ride around the small town of Alor Star.

So, it was after his sudden death that I took his place in their hearts. And even after we moved to the house that Pak built the other side of town, we'd make frequent visits and I'd play on the swing.

Anyway, when Pak Mat died, Mak Teh was cared for by some of her relatives. We kept visiting her, and even after my move here, I never forgot the couple who gave me so much love and treated me like their own child. But during one visit, I was told that she no longer lived in that house with the iron gates. She had been taken away somewhere. Her rice jar, apparently was completely empty, so to speak. I was distraught and when we found her, she was in a house, very much similar to the house that I was born in. In fact it was worse. I found her lying very flat on the floor, unable to move because of old age. And she couldn't see me. But upon hearing my voice in between sobs, she asked, "Bila cek balik, sayang?" Suffice to say, I couldn't say much. I couldn't talk but held her frail hands until she fell asleep. We left and that was the last time I saw her.

On this important day in my life, apart from remembering my mother and late father, I also want to remember Pak Mat and Mak Teh, neighbours who became family and gave me so much love. When I see a full rice jar, I always remember Mak Teh. Sadly, towards the end, hers was left empty.

And I was there too! (2) - skyping all the way to the wedding!

2010-03-20T11:12:00.010Z

It was way past six am and I was already late for the wedding. Grabbed a tudung, (what is fashionably known as the emergency tudung), slid under the duvet again and turned on the Skpe.

So, there I was in my baju kelawar, under the duvet and yet at the wedding of my nephew Zhafri, in Bangi. Within minutes, I was in my sister's lounge. Saloma was singing the song 'Selamat Pengantin Baru", the children were running around, my siblings were making themselves busy and I was just a fly on the wall, watching it all happen.

And a feeling of sadness crept in as I watched the merriment and the banterings. It would have been too costly to go and we had just been back. But we sent a representative and her friends to the wedding. Rehana and two friends arrived a few days before the wedding and spent at least three days shopping for the right clothes for the wedding.

One by one, siblings and uncles and aunties came to the screen to talk to us in London. Such is the wonders of technology. Then, Mak slowly entered the frame, at which point, I choked back my tears. She called my name out loud several times but obviously couldnt hear my reply. Then she said she was at a wedding and was about to go home. She thought she was just visiting.

That is Mak. She is so forgetful now. Rehana said she asked her 'Mana Mak?' We have come to the conclusion that Mak in her old age is the most diplomatic person to walk this earth. She asks general questions and yet, people think she remembers. When my friends visited me when I was home, she'd say, "Laaaa, lama tak nampak!" which is of course true. But Pak Lang came online to me to say that she repeatedly asked Pak Lang (her brother) when he arrived. But that is Mak. And I am so happy to see her standing upright and enjoying yet another kenduri of another cucu.

As I had missed the bersanding, the newly weds oblidged by sitting on the simple dias again, just so I could take photographs.

Aaaah, I was there too, witnessed the bersanding, took pictures, heard the wedding songs and felt the excitement in the air. BUT I didnt get to eat the nasi kenduri!!

SELAMAT PENGANTIN BARU ZHAFRI DAN FIZAH!!!
Fizah, welcome to the family!

Pengantin, Mak, Rehana and the family wedding photographer Am)
Mak pengantin waving at us - dah hilang stress?

All pictures taken via Skype camera. Syokkan?

Kak Teh Skyped here too:

And I was there too (1)

Bohong Sunat Di Pagi Raya

When Shireen Meets Zalifah

2010-03-19T13:41:00.004Z

I was playing with my food when a very attractive lady approached me with a simple "Kak Teh!" She turned out to be Shireen, the one half of Fash - a dynamic duo that has made their name online recently, joining the increasing number of online business people such as Nek Rock, Handbaghooks , Royal Shopping Arcade and many more, selling everything and anything you want to buy but dont want the hassle of joining the crowd at the till.

It wasn't too long before we were joined by the other half, Zalifah; another vivacious lady who could possible sell ice to an Eskimo. Sitting at their table was also Shireen's sister, Laila, who is here on a visit and a sort of unpaid staff.

It was an unplanned meeting; but I had heard of them and their business venture and their planned bazaar on 21stMarch at Stowe Centre in Harrow Road.

It is almost a year since they set up their business online and business has been roaring, as they display online their spoils after a day at Biscester, at the sales, at Jimmy Choo Couture and also at the London Fashion Week; the highlight of which must surely be when Fash did a Birkin coup d' etat! Well done Fash! That's the way to go.

This duo is unstoppable - although they had just met on this British soil, it is remarkeable that they share so much in common; shopping being the most important factor. They drive cars of the same make and their husbands are in the same line of work. And most importantly, they share the same enthusiasm and zest that's almost infectious.

That brings me to their project this Sunday.

So, if you are anywhere near London, and would rather give repeats of American Idol and Eastenders a miss, do go along to Stowe Centre, where there will be a bazaar selling everything from clothes to crystal vases and sardine rolls.

My dearest Ruby Ahmad - Al Fatehah

2010-03-15T23:45:00.002Z

Al Fatehah - Ruby Ahmad - you had been such a dear friend. I am so lost for words. Thank you for the brief friendship that we had.

We met on the net - the go for it kind of person that never failed to bring a smile, and lift you out of your doldrums. She had time for everyone, she'd listen to anyone. I had seen her work the Ruby Ahmad magic on people around me. Ruby, a truly amazing gem. I will miss you, dearest friend.
Al Fatehah.

Kak Teh at the Old Trafford - Bewitched by Beckham

2010-03-11T12:19:00.001Z

Am still at the Old Trafford.
Will be back with more.

BEBERAPA JAM KEMUDIAN..masih di Old Trafford (media centre)

Ish , tie dengan tudung sama pulak colour!

Stories from the surau

2010-03-09T09:02:00.007Z

Of late, I have been regularly absent from the weekly tazkirah at the Malaysia Hall surau. I have been missing a lot of events organised by Ustaz Erfino, mainly because I had taken on work commitments that require me to work those evenings. But from friends who attended, I hear news from the surau.

Recently, while preparing a much delayed lunch, my BB signalled that there was a message. The number was not a familiar one; a number from Malaysia. The message was simple, asking for someone's name he said he had forgotten. The name of the sender was printed below. It was Haji Zainal, our bilal. My heart leapt with joy upon receiving his message. He had left for Malaysia to look after his ailing mother. Being an only child, the task falls on him; and what a noble task.

We had not said a proper goodbye before he left and so, replying his sms, I said a simple "I missed your takbir".

Haji Zainal's was the takbir that still rings in my ear; the takbir and call to prayers everytime we congregate at the Malaysia Hall surau for the weekly tazkirah, the nightly terawikhs and Hari Raya's and other religious occassions. His was the melodious and soulful call to prayers that accompanied Ustaz Anwar, Ustaz Abdul Rahim and now Ustaz Erfino. It was his call to prayer that I listened to when I started finding my way to the Malaysia Hall surau in old Bryanston Square and later in Queensborough Terrace. Haji Zainal was every Ustaz's right hand man. The one to witness the solemnisation of a marriage, to witness the conversion of a new brother or sister in Islam, or to replace Ustaz when he wasn't around. He was always around whenever we had a death in the community. A familiar figure, offering comfort and the hand of friendship.

He was also the one to come with extra food and drinks to the lady's room at the end of the tazkirah or moreh, to see if we needed anything more. But he is there no more.

I told him so and I think we both shed a tear or two from both sides of the ocean.

Our families had known each other for as long as we have been here in London. His wife Nariman, is a dear old friend I had befriended on a ship anchored on the Thames. We were invited for dinner on the ship one evening and there we were: two young lasses still with no children to call our own.

Later as fate would have it, we were booked at the same hospital, the same maternity ward for the delivery of our second child. But again as fate would have it, she had to return to Johore but we both gave birth on the same date. Our children remain very close friends.

After the meals following the tazkirah, we'd find Hj Zainal, usually in his faded batik shirt and Javanese cap, outside enjoying his cigarette. He'd say: where's my menantu? referring to my daughters. It has always been a standing joke. And then he and Nariman would drive off in their van bearing the words JOWO TURUNAN and proudly flying the Malaysian flag.

Nariman told me recently, that without fail, Hj Zainal would sms Ustaz during every tazkirah. He too misses the congregation, and by sms'ing Ustaz, it was as if he was there too.

Recently, I missed the Maulud Nabi which I heard went very well, with Ustaz Erfino reciting the Quran and the younger members of he surau reading a text about our beloved Prophet.

To make up for the missing Thursdays, I attend a weekly tazkirah on Saturdays at Tuk Din's, which is just as well as I gather the congregation at the Malaysia Hall is growing larger, Alhamdulillah, with the student community joining the congregation there.

But there are other familiar faces missing too. Haji Amin, my husband's close surau mate has been away and in hospital recovering from an operation. Last Sunday, I busied myself in the kitchen, making sardine rolls when I heard that he could start eating normal food now. Usually after every tazkirah, he'd sit talking to my husband and sensing my presence, he would jokingly say: Bila nak dapat makan sardine rolls pulak?

And so, with sardine rolls straight from the oven, I made my way to St Mary's hospital with Tuk Din and Midah last Sunday. Haji Amin, Alhamdulillah was in good spirit, especially when he heard that we brought chicken soup and sardine rolls.

I heard that also missing is Kak Puteri - an old member of the Malay community in London, whose banter

with Ustaz Erfino, will be much missed. She has gone back for a very long holiday. Still etched quite vivid in my mind is Kak Puteri taking Chef Mail to task over the issue of bolied eggs!

Pak Mat Abu and Kak Siah are also missing. Pak Mat, once popularly known as the only Malay tube driver in London ( for he drove the tube on the Jubilee Line), had phoned me to say he and Kak Siah were going back to Malaysia as he needed treatment after his stroke. Sadly, I couldnt make it to see him before he left and I hope he will be back shortly fully recovered.

Just writing about the congregation and the activities at the surau, makes me realise how fortunate we are to have such regular meetings. Our ustaz for the Saturday tazkirah is a young but wise one; imparting his knowledge to us much older members of the congregation. Alhamdulillah, we have not been short of learned ones willing to share their knowledge with us.

Kak Teh's other tale from the surau:

Tales from the Surau

Calling all children and Parents of children - a chance to be on TV!

2010-03-06T08:48:00.005Z

Here's your chance for your 15 sec fame on TV. Children between the age of 6 and 12 are invited to take part in a series of idents by KidsCo, the international children's channel, that brings you Boo and Me.

So, ibu-ibu dan bapa-bapa, if you think your children can look into the camera and talk about what they are passionate about (may be about family, friends, music and hobbies, environment), send an email to KidsCo-Idents@championcomms.com with their pictures and details about why they want to be in the KidsCo ident as well as a brief description of what they are most passionate about.

The idents are being produced in conjunction with Astro Productions and filming will take place in Kuala Lumpur at popular local attractions including Bukit Bintang Street and the Batu Caves between 13 and 16 March.

So, just get cracking, parents!

Potty about Pie Tee (and of course Amy!)

2010-02-25T16:57:00.002Z

One lazy aternoon, I was watching Australian MasterChef on TV, when from the corner of my eyes I saw the lights on the router stop blinking. That was about a month ago and that spelt a month's absence from blogosphere. I had withdrawal symptoms; cold sweat, palpitation and all but after some time I got used to it. The BB is great because I could check my emails, and with a top up mobile internet, we survived. The only snag is that it wouldnt allow me to log into my own blog. There was a content control.

Just now, ag, after recovering from his jetlag, spent an hour on the phone to someone perhaps in the Indian sub-continent, trying to sort out our internet problems. And now, at least one light is blinking.

Anyway, the time away from the internet afforded me the time to pursue other interests; apart from waiting for Search and finally after 30 years, listening to Amy singing Isabella live! As if that wasnt enough, over nasi lemak and teh tarik at Tuk Din's Restaurant, Amy told me the story of Search and Isabella!

A perfect breakfast at Tuk Din's: Amy, nasi lemak and nescafe tarik!

(Wanda - eat your heart out!)

And of course I had more time to indulge in other less exciting things such as making pie tee. It was just out of the blue that I thought I should try my skills making pie tee. AG came home with two moulds and I began experimenting. It wasn't that easy.

With Chef Fauzi at Tuk Din's, we put our heads together and finally produced some very fine Top Hats worth putting on the menu.

But it was such a tedious job which requires the precision of rocket science, patience and concentration.

There in the kitchen of Tuk Din, we experimented with Isabella blaring in the background, for it is still Isabella fever here eventhough Amy and company had long left the British soil.

Although Chef Fauzi couldnt make the perfect Top Hat just yet, he made the most beautiful fillings to complement the cases that I produced. It took a few hours to make but just a few minutes to finish them off.

Pie Tee: A Chef Fauzi-Kak Teh Productions

Normal blogging will now resume.

Salam Maulidurrasul to all and may Allah bless us.

Waiting for Search

2010-01-23T11:53:00.008Z

The songs coming from the sitting room were very familiar; songs of yesteryears by the late P Ramlee and R Azmi. The children were singing these songs, entertaining our guest – a captive audience who was much amused that with so many new songs from new artistes, the children were belting out these oldies.

"Don’t you get to hear new hits from home?" she asked. This was in the early nineties, you see, when youtubes and downloads were unheard of. We had old cassettes of Sharifah Aini, Uji Rashid and yes,
R Azmi. The children listened to these as well at the childminder's.

So, it was there and then that she decided to send us some new cassettes – and one of them was an album by SEARCH. The children were hooked on Isabella and I heard nothing else but "Diaaaaaaa Isabellaaaaaaa…..!"

That was my introduction to Search, the rock group which was making waves in Malaysia at that time. And whether by fate or design, on 18th November 1991, I found myself seated in front of the ‘voice’ of Search, Amy.

It was just as well I had heard his songs, so I could ask the right questions and made the right noises.

He was pleasant and I couldnt

keep my eyes off his complexion. And such beautiful curls too.

In my diary on 18th Nov 1991, I had written, “Went to interview Amy Search and Ali Bakar. Not bad.” Not bad indeed.

That interview was for the BBC. I had earlier interviewed Ahmad Daud, Sheila Majid and Jins Shamsuddin.

Next month, I will meet the ‘voice’ again, Insyaallah for SEARCH will be performing in London.

Fantasia Bulan Madu is now playing in my mind.

Another popular band performing at the same time is Hujan.

For those interested, here are the details:

Organiser: OrangKita - a wholly Malaysian-owned promotions and events company based in Dublin, Ireland. info@orangkita.eu

Dublin

Date:	Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Time:	7:30pm
Location:	Button Factory,
Street:	Curved Street, Temple Bar,
City/Town:	Dublin, Ireland

London:

Date: Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Time: 5 pm

Location: Delima Restaurant

36, Southwick Street, Sussex Gardens.

Price of ticket : £40 (buffet & performance as well as ticket to concert at Scala London on 18th Feb)

Venue: Scala London

Date:	Thursday, February 18, 2010
Time:	7:30pm
Location:	Scala,
Street:	275-277 Pentonville Rd,
City/Town:	London, United Kingdom

Liverpool

Date:	Sunday, February 21, 2010
Time:	7:30pm
Location:	The Cavern Club,
Street:	10 Mathew Street,
City/Town:	Liverpool, United Kingdom

Price: £25.00

To get tickets for shows in London, contact: Nik Imran - 07846240651

Or visit this link : http://www.scala-london.co.uk/scala/event.php?id=1253

According to Orangkita: “There will also be a special Up Close & Personal dinner held at 5 p.m. on Wednesday, 17 of February at Delima Restaurant London. Tickets for the event are priced at £40 and will include a full buffet dinner as well as a ticket to the concert at Scala. Lucky fans will have the rare opportunity to meet band members from both Search and Hujan, as well as enjoy an intimate unplugged performance by Search on the evening.

We are currently holding a lucky draw for all tickets purchased from now until the end of January. Twenty lucky fans will win a special pass to see the bands conduct their sound check before the concert in Scala London. Winners will also get to meet the bands in person backstage after the concert. Additionally, 10 of these lucky winners will also receive an official tour t-shirt”

The deep freeze and the sauna in my mind

2010-01-17T12:15:00.003Z

What's left of the so called deep freeze in 30 years, was washed down the drain by heavy rain in the last few days. Even the headless and limbless snowman down the road succumbed to the ray of sunshine peeking behind grey clouds. But record the deep freeze in thirty years is something I must do. And just as well that I didn't quite escape it.

I arrived on 10th January after an uneventful flight, wedged between a bright young student and a tourist on his way back from Bali. Waiting for my daughter to pick me up at Terminal Four, I felt the sting of cold air on my face, while the rest of my body just sort of froze only to be thawed once in the warmth of the car.

London was still sleeping when I arrived and looking out of the window, as the snowflakes drifted by, I was transported back to the country I left less than 20 hours before, where I had enjoyed the warmth of family and friends and yes, that of the sauna and spa.

I was back in that small tent, feeling the rivers of sweat flowing down my back and I was back in that warm milk bath, enjoying the soak.

But now I am back in cold, wet and grey London and I took refuge under the duvet almost immediately. But work dictated that I left the comforts of the room soon after.

Leaving the house for the first time, I felt how inadequately prepared I was for the winter. I inched my way dodging icy patches in my newly acquired shoes bought at a small shop in Bangi the evening before I left. I had to buy them because the only pair I had at home was peed upon by Kissinger.

The new pair felt like a thin cardboard on my feet.

Snow came back with a vengeance while I was sleeping off my jetlag. I woke up to a blanket of snow and half hoping that the scheduled trip to Oxford would be cancelled. But it wasn't and just as well because I got to see the English countryside in winter wonderland.

There's something magical about snow and snowflakes. It brings out the child in you and the group of Malaysian journalists standing by the roadside were soon throwing snowballs at each other.

I remember a trip to Wolverhampton searching for what's left of Brinsford Lodge, the teacher's training college in the fifties. Somewhere along a very narrow road, we stopped an English man on his bike and asked him about Brinsford Lodge and he said:

“Oh, I do remember Brinsford Lodge and the Malay boys who went there. They'd be the only ones to play football in the snow!”

Journey of a Friendship

2010-01-07T01:47:00.005Z

I SEE her now, the bespectacled girl who was in my year when I started primary school.

I remember thinking what thick lenses she had. She must be clever, I thought, and I wasn’t wrong. She was one of those studious and serious type. And quiet too, too quiet for the rest of us in the group, who could safely be termed rowdy.

I never knew Muni in Primary One but that was because I was in Sultanah Asma Primary school in Alor Star for only a few months before my father was transferred to Yen.

However, friendship tends to take its own journey. Muni and I met up again when I went back to Alor Star.

But this time I had chosen St Nicholas Convent, a decision which put us firmly in rival territories.

We at St Nicks had special names for our SAS friends; names I’d rather not mention here. And I am pretty sure they had names for us too.

St Nicks girls and SAS girls met regularly — the Merdeka Stadium where we regularly went for the Independence Day practice and celebration.

We had common interests too — the boys from Sultan Abdul Hamid College (SAHC). and that was where the seeds of friendship between Muni, Jijah, Lia and I began.

We went to the same parties, enjoyed mee rebus Abu and ais kacang Busu and mugged for our exams together.

When other friends took different paths after school, Muni and I continued our education in what used to be Institut Teknologi Mara, although we took different courses. We seldom met but the seeds of friendship were still there.

I never knew that she got married and had left for London — until I myself married and left for London. They rented a flat somewhere in West London.

When they returned to Malaysia after their studies, my husband and I stayed on. The distance rekindled the friendship and strengthened the bond between Muni and I. We even had a website where we’d keep in touch.

Reunions always marked my visits home where girls of SAS and St Nicks mingled with classmates from SAHC.

Jijah, Muni, Lia and I would relive our childhood days while driving along the highways belting out songs from The Carpenters, continuing conversations in the carpark of shopping complexes and even in fitting rooms. We’d stop for prayers and continue enjoying our time together like schoolgirls out on a day trip.

I remember one occasion when we parked in the underground car park of the Bangsar Shopping Centre and listened to songs from a Korean drama series.

Muni was then really into Korean dramas and even bought the whole series for me.

We’d drive around in search of good food and places to meet and the husbands would join us later for dinner and we’d talk and eat again right into the nights and early hours of the mornings.

I remember also the time when I was embarking on my journey to do the umrah.

Muni, Jijah and Lia took me shopping and bought me a pair of slippers which I promised I would use in the Holy city. We created quite a sight as we held hands and did the walk together. When we were together, we always did these silly things.

And then it had to happen. One day three years ago, I received an SMS from Jijah. Muni was diagnosed with the big C.

The last three years had been challenging. I’d get news of her chemos, of the spread and of the ups and downs.

During one of my visits back, we met at the Dome. Muni was just about coping with the drastic treatment that she had to go through.

Last year in July, we went to see her again. I could barely recognise my bespectacled friend. She could hardly walk unaided. But she remembered our times together, our friendship. And she wanted to go out again with us.

We were apprehensive about taking her out as she was very fragile and would get violent bouts of headaches.

But she insisted and so, after maghrib prayers together, we went.

Jijah and I took her hands and slowly we walked together to a café nearby. It was to be our last time eating out together.

Last week, Jijah, Lia and I went out for lunch. Seated at a table for four, we stared at the empty chair meant for Muni. She would usually be there, all prim and proper and admonishing us for our misbehaviour.

But she wasn’t there because she had been rushed to the hospital. We visited her and she was surprised to see me. She could hardly talk. Her condition worsened overnight and we were there by her bedside. We knew she was leaving us.

Last Monday, the girls of SAS, St Nicks and the boys of SAHC gathered silently as Muni was laid in her final resting place.

Goodbye, my dearest friend. But as the saying goes, death ends a life, but not a relationship; certainly not a friendship like ours.

ps. My tribute to Muni and and our friendship was first published here.

Other journeys with Muni:
This autumn of our lives

Moments to treasure

Yesterday Once More

Welcome to the family, Kamelia!

2009-12-24T09:14:00.006Z

Pengantin baru - Azril dan Kamelia

The newly-weds, Azril and Kamelia. Pix by Izham Khalid of Noorizeyes.blogspot.com
More pix here
The article below appeared in the NST here

Letter to Kamelia

Dear Kamelia,

LAST week, we welcomed you into our family when you married my nephew Azril. And in a few weeks time, you newly-weds will fly off to Geneva.

For Azril, Geneva is already home after living and working there these last few years.

But for you, it will be a totally new experience; starting a new chapter in your life as a married woman, thousands of kilometres away in a totally different environment and culture, away from the extended family. (Actually, on reflection, not unlike my own experience exactly 30 years ago).

So, Kamelia, if there are butterflies in the tummy at the very thought of flying the coop and sharing life with someone who is now your husband, let me tell you that it is all quite natural.

Being married is a huge hurdle but being married and then within a space of two weeks leave everything and everyone that is familiar to you is a different ball game altogether.

It was around this time in December 30 years ago that I started life as a newly-wed away from home, seriously lacking in skills especially those in the kitchen department.

London was practically home to my husband while I had to start from scratch, learning the ropes while suppressing the urge to call home and cry at the slightest hitch.

Looking back, and with some wisdom of hindsight, I think starting married life away from home is the best thing to do.

London was gloomy and dark when the plane landed at Heathrow that winter morning and that cold morning sort of defined my expectations of what my life in London would be like in the coming years.

But Geneva has that added attractions of beautiful snowcapped mountains, enough to keep you mesmerised for some time.

But the beautiful snowcapped mountains will soon lose its attractions once the husband goes to work and leaves you with what will feel like more than 24 hours in a day.

When mine went to work, I looked out of my window into a very busy concrete jungle that was and is London. It was busy and crowded and yet I felt alone and lonely.

In those days, phone calls cost a fortune, phone cards were unheard of, and Skype and video calls were still blueprints in some geniuses’ minds. And, of course, no Facebook.

In this respect, you are luckier and can easily email home to ask for that sambal tumis recipe.

I remember now the preparation for my first dinner guests. After quite a lengthy phone call to my mother, every ingredient for chicken curry was minced, pounded, chopped and blended ready in small bowls on the kitchen table by eight in the morning for dinner at eight at night.

Rice was usually cooked by the husband. Kitchen disasters included very soggy fried noodles, exploding keropoks in the pan because I had washed them prior to frying and a first near marital disaster when I threw away tempeh which I thought had gone bad.

Thinking I needed time on my hands, he ordered “Learn to Sew and Knit” which I duly gave up after knitting two sleeves on one side.

But Kamelia, we live and learn. And the exciting bit is living and learning together. Because there’s just the two of you, learn to accept each other’s idiosyncracies, warts and all. Sharing credit cards is a bonus.

It is just too easy to keep within our own comfort zone and forgetting that there are so many exciting new things to learn outside our own Malaysian community.

I have met many wonderful ladies in the expat world, who learnt the art of Chinese painting while in China, porcelain making while in Europe; and quilting while in Washington.

Youth is on your side and while you enjoy life together, enjoy too acquiring these knowledge and skills that the outside world can offer.

So, while I look forward to my next 30 years and beyond together, I wish the both of you every happiness and success starting your new life together abroad.

With lots of love, Mak Teh

Pengantin lama

Thirty years today - Alhamdulillah!

2009-12-09T00:32:00.002Z

Thank you all for your best wishes and prayers. Kak Teh & AG

Kak Teh looks back:

Twenty nine years together
An annivesary of sorts
Thank you for another year
Growing up and Growing old with Awang Goneng

Listless in London: Dec 1 - a countdown of sorts

2009-12-01T23:57:00.014Z

It was probably a blistering hot morning, that December 1 thirty years ago, followed by heavy rain in the afternoon, the kind of rain that makes you want to sleep and wake up smelling the fresh smell of grass after such a downpour. I am just guessing about the rain because it usually rains heavily in December, the month when tents go up and buffalos get slaughtered for wedding feasts up and down the country.

Perhaps I was anxious about the rain then as the countdown began for the start of a new chapter in my life. Perhaps I was just anxious. I reckon, a bride-to-be about to start a new life in a totally different country the other side of the world has the right to feel anxious, if not downright hysterical.

Today as the rain pelted mercilessly on the window and the grey clouds stubbornly obscured the winter sun, I tried hard to remember that December 1 of thirty years ago.

It was 8 days before the big day. The blue lace kebaya was probably ready and waiting to be picked up from the tailor’s. There were still no shoes, nor accessories or jewelleries except for that glittering new solitaire on my finger; a constant reminder that my status was about to change.

I remember now the excitement of being someone’s tunang, even though it was for a brief period before the change of status to wife. I remember being told of the glow that radiated from the happiness that was bursting from within. But I also remember the feeling of sadness as we chose our luggage, as we packed our bags – a reminder that we were going to leave our loved ones behind.

December 1 of 1979 was fifteen days before we took the flight that was to take us where we are today. I remember the ride to the airport, the tight grip of Mak’s hand in mine and the hot tears streaming down my cheeks. I remember rushing back to hug her at the gates as the final call was made. Yes, I remember it all now as I type this on this December 1 2009; legs entwined under the duvet, a soft snore that reminds me he is still here and mine.

Kak Teh remembers

The Journey Continues - The tale of the blue kebaya
The Journey Begins
Heating up Memories on a Cold Morning

An Uplifting Experience

2009-11-26T05:56:00.007Z

This article below can also be found here.

YOU can only expect this from the best of friends; one big hug and a breathless whisper in the ear: You’re wearing the wrong bra size, dear!

With that one statement, I was officially declared to be among the 80 per cent or so women who strut around wearing the wrong bra size; and we are not even talking about cups, bands or straps yet.

So, okay, it is time I pull up the straps that keep falling off my shoulders and put my hands up and admit to never having had myself measured; not since Mak bought that trainer bra from one of the shops in our small town of Alor Setar. It was then either S for small, M for medium or L for large. No 32B, 34DD, 36FF or other complicated combinations that were more appropriate for opening a safe. Any adjustments needed were made by stuffing socks or tissues. There was nothing that a small safety pin couldn’t do; it could hold the straps in place or serve as an extension of a back band a few centimetres too short.

And there were not many to choose from either, unlike today’s array of fashion which promises to lift not only what threatens to defy gravity but also your spirit. The correct measurement, cups and straps could do wonders for your posture, while giving back that waistline you thought you’d lost forever. Or at least, it gives you the illusion that you have a waist you don’t actually have.

So, it was after this short lecture directed firmly at my fast-deflating bosom and self-confidence that I found myself at one of those expensive stores in Oxford Street, in the lingerie department.

“What’s your size, madam?” asked the salesgirl politely. I mumbled some digits and an alphabet. And like a stern Maths teacher, she whipped out her tape measure and immediately dismissed my answer as wrong. So, I got a few D’s mixed up and for that wrong answer, I was marched off to the changing room.

I remember needlessly mentioning something about having four children, all breastfed, by way of preparing her for what she was about to see.

“I have seen it all, Madam. And so there is no need to be embarrassed,” she said, quite professionally. It was then that I surrendered myself to her expert hands. I even made her choose the pattern and style she thought were appropriate for me for I couldn’t bear the thought of being lost in the sea of La Senzas and La Perlas in their various colours and cups.

She came back with a selection; several pairs of deep plunge, half cups, underwired, sexy and naughty and even sober, schoolmarmish ones. Then I was made to stand with my back facing the mirror. I was then asked to bend down with both hands held out by my side. When the new undergarment was put in place, she started adjusting the bands and the straps. And slowly, quite slowly I felt a truly uplifting experience, right there in that small changing room. It is wonderful what an extra D could do to lift your spirit and more, and I wondered why all this while, like all the other 80 per cent who go around in blissful ignorance about their correct size, why I never bothered to go for a proper fitting.

“Will that be all, Madam?” asked my fairy godmother with her magic tape measure. “And what about these to go with the brassieres?” she added, flashing what looked like hairbands or things they now called thongs.

Er, no thank you, I said politely. Let’s not even go there

Letting the hair down with Hairspray

2009-11-19T19:19:00.006Z

In two black cabs, we raced through the streets of London to theatre land, just in time to grab our tickets and find our way to our seats. It was a last minute decision - but last minute decisions are sometimes the best; forget about looming deadlines and commitments. Four ladies were about to let their hair down with the attendance of one young male escort.

I had always wanted to see Hairspray but when tickets were available, I was not. But two days ago when I got news that there were some tickets available for the popular musical at Shaftesbury Theatre, I wasted no time in contacting friends. We were game for a night out to enjoy ourselves.

Hairspray is the kind of musical that, apart from getting you tapping your feet and swaying in your seats, has this good feel factor. It guarantees fun and laughter throughout; an experience not unlike Grease and Mamma Mia, which I had seen numerous times.

So, there we were tapping our feet and clapping to the rhythm of the sounds of the sixties in Baltimore.

Hairspray brings about a certain nostalgia and reminds me of the cans and cans of hairspray that I used to tease my unteasable curls before going out in the evening. I had wavy hair but longed for those straight and obedient tress that would just automatically curl upwards at a flick of a brush, held up with lots of hairspray, of course. I remember spending hours in front of the mirror doing the backcomb for the beehive, Anneke Gronloh effect. Then to complete the look, a big bow of ribbon!

Sigh!

My penchant for stage productions goes back to those days when I had to accompany the young thespian in our midst - Fatimah Abu Bakar, when she was rehearsing for Tun Kudu. She has great talents, that one, and when I moved to London, it was wonderful to see her on stage here, in Jentayu! I was so proud of her!

Anyway, after reading several blogs about musicals in Malaysia, I yearn to be able to see one. I have heard so much about the P Ramlee musical and Puteri Gunung Ledang but my visits home never coincided with the dates on the shows.

Well, one day, perhaps.

Kak Teh's other Hairspray piece and for those who want another glimpse of Stephen Rahman Hughes:
Mamma Mia and Hairspray moments
When Hang Tuah came to dinner

Has it really been thirty years?

2009-11-12T06:54:00.007Z

Salam all, this piece below appeared in my column here.

ON the greyest of a grey autumn morning, I found myself in what could only be described as a sardine can of a coach, in the underground train making its way to East London.

The tea that I bought earlier in the hope of having a leisurely breakfast during the journey was fast seeping out of its styrofoam container onto the almond croissant, as it was being crushed and squashed by early morning commuters entering and leaving the train.

It was only 7.30am and work was not due to finish until about six in the evening.

Early morning commuters tend to be quite aggressive compared to bedraggled homeward bound ones.

So, after being elbowed and pushed and squashed and left with a soggy almond croissant, you can imagine the speed with which self-pity was rushing in.

I suddenly noticed how young these early morning commuters were — in their twenties and thirties; all fresh and eager to start their day. At 7.30am, I was already about to give up.

I put this feeling of melancholy down to the unusually hectic week. I had been to several cities in the far flung corners of the British Isle, trudging to get to my transport when most people were still in bed and arriving home when most people were already asleep.

I had been covering stories with journalists young enough to be my children; whose energy and enthusiasm knew no bounds. I recognised those enthusiasm and zest for I once had them. And those were the days when the ministers I interviewed were much older than me.

Anyway, when I finally found a seat, and with about 10 more stops to go, and munching on tea-soaked almond croissant, I went on a journey down memory lane.

Just the week before, I was contacted by a youngish journalist who wanted to interview me because, according to her calculation, I could easily be the longest-serving Malaysian female journalist abroad.

Note that I did not use the word “oldest”, although that too could be true.

The reality of that proclamation hit me like a tonne of bricks. I don’t know whether this is true, but yes, suddenly I felt it had been quite a long time.

Suddenly, all of my almost 30-year career in this industry came rushing in like the early morning commuters.

There was a time when it was I who chased after old Malaysian veterans and old Malay sailors. My husband once joked that a young hack would one day turn up at our doorsteps wanting to interview the makcik who came to London in the late 1970’s. It is a joke no more.

These days, when I casually mention that we came to London in 1979, most of these young hacks would retort; “... but I was only a year old then!”

Next month, it will indeed be 30 years away; and for most part of the three decades, I had been a hack; in radio, in print, TV and even dabbling in online media.

I had started off carrying the German-made Uher reel-to-reel tape recorder on assignments and it weighed a tonne! Now I carry a small digital voice recorder that could easily fit in the palm of my hand.

And remember the days when we had to rush back after assignments to bang on the old Remington? Well, today, fitting snugly into my sling bag is a cool notebook with Internet connection.

I remember the day that the three of us — Ena, Fati and I — walked into the newsroom in Jalan Riong; conscious of the stares and wolf whistles from male reporters from the sports desk. Many contemporaries have moved up, moved away and moved on.

Last week, looking through my collection of paper cuttings and pictures from assignments throughout the years brought back the excitement and joy of being a journalist. I just love meeting interesting people with interesting stories to tell.

I just love how interesting human interest stories found their way to me.

Experiences of people like Datin Peggy Taylor, the Pak Cik Sailors, the British veterans and many more had served to enrich my own life’s experience.

Has it really been 30 years?

The announcement on the train signalled my stop. And joining in the crowd of commuters spilling onto the platform into the cold autumn air, I suddenly felt rejuvenated again.

Then......
Starting out...

Reporting from all over Europe and with conjoined twins just before the operation

These last few weeks.............................

See the fresh faces?

Indian Summer Blues...

2009-10-20T11:27:00.003+01:00

My first autumn......OOOOooooooops!

My fashion (non)sense 2

2009-10-07T06:24:00.015+01:00

Dear all, alas this is another article that appeared in my column last week.. It is my take on fashion. I am still bogged down with this and that, more this than that! *sigh!*

For someone so sartorially challenged, an assignment to cover fashion shows can be quite an ordeal. For a start you've got to understand clothes, if not fashion and not understanding both can be a disaster. I wear what is comfortable although that could mean a style, if you can call it such, that belongs to yesteryears' wardrobes and should just remain there. Colourwise, I am an autumn kind of person regardless of season.

So you can imagine the kind of challenges that London Fashion Week brings. An invite used to send me into a panic mode of what to wear befitting such a celebrated and much publicised event. But looking back, I shouldn't have been so worried as apart from the eyes and cameras being trained on to the catwalks, there are many interesting and headline grabbing distractions that no one actually cares what you wear or don't wear. If the designer is an A list designer such as Zandra Rhodes or Viviene Westwood, then you can be sure that the front row will be filled with the likes of Anna Wintour, Victoria Beckham and of course our very own Datuk Jimmy Choo. And of course, fashion writers and editors such as Hilary Alexander who can make or break a designer with just her intro.

It was indeed the shoe Guru himself who introduced me to the London Fashion Week where supermodels such as Naomi Campbell and Jodie Kidd would wear his stilletos as they sashayed up and down the catwalk. And tailing him from show to show afforded me a glimpse of life backstage and if I was lucky, I got to be up close and personal with models and even designers.

As LFW celebrated its 25th year and as it drew to a close last weekend, I began reflecting on the first ever fashion show I attended some ten years ago.

It was quite an eye opener to see fashion and how fashion is translated into statements on the catwalks of one of the world's fashion capitals. There are fashion concepts that remain concepts and certainly not for wearing to your local down the road or even to an evening function. There are fashion statements that are only good for debates in the newspapers and fashion magazines and still not very wearable even to a fancy dress party. And wearing these statements and concepts are usually models so gaunt and thin you can see their ribs sticking out. Instead of gliding up and down the catwalks, they stomp unsmiling and not unlike Russian soldiers marching.

Indeed there was quite a furore some years back when models starved themselves to fit into size 00 and tragically died as a result!

And just when you thought you could see some decent curves and flesh back on the catwalks, a row erupted because some people were very much against size 14 models, the argument given was that size 14 models couldn't walk properly!

I remember one year when I was allowed backstage and saw stick-ons being creatively stuck on models to cover strategic places so as not to totally offend. And that got away as a fashion show.

Anyway, over the years, I began to look forward to attending fashion shows not so much because of the clothes on show but because of the side shows provided by fashionistas who either want to be noticed by the press or model wannabes trying to get the attention of agents. Outrageous and creative in their attires, they go from show to show and whet up the audience's appetite before the real show starts.

Who's that girl?
This season, I wasn't disappointed. An apparition in a spiky see through shimmering number sashayed to the front row, only stopping to pose for photographers. The question on everybody's lips was who was the headturner with bright red lipstick and chestnut shoulder length bob that contrasted sharply with the dark healthy beard framing his face. He took a seat near Michelle Collins of Destiny's Child and basked in the limelight before the show began. I gathered enough courage and asked him about his curious sense of fashion.
With Andre J at Bernard Chandran's show

"I love to make people happy. Its about joy and spreading happiness," says Andre J, a New York based party promoter, who had been on the cover of French Vogue and according to one report had worked with Sex and the City stylist, Patricia Field.

This year's event also saw the presence of another celebrity of The Big Brother fame in a shocking pink attire which made her look like a chicken. I knew I shouldn't have worried about my fashion non-sense.

My fashion photography sucks (above) ! But this (below) is not too bad.

But I love this close-up of a model back stage. What do you think Steven?

Kak Teh's other fashion (non) sense at Eric Way's show some years back

Raya with a difference di perantauan

2009-09-29T09:47:00.007+01:00

These articles below appeared in the September issue of Her World. I was asked to write a Hari Raya special from abroad and it was with much tears and difficulties that I managed to produce these. I would like to thank Mak Ndak and her children for sharing her story with me, D of Pause to Reflect and also my dearest Nina. Thank you for sharing and apologies for the tears that flowed and for the painful journey down memory lane.

Khadijah Tifla - Dearest D of Pause to Reflect

Khadijah Tifla tries to make Ramadhan and Hari Raya as normal as possible for her four young children. She busies herself in the kitchen, wakes them up for early morning baths before sending them off for the Eid prayers at the mosque and has visitors over to enjoy the day together.

But normal was when her husband was around to fuss in the kitchen and see to it that the children got ready in time for the prayers. Nomalcy ended when his health suddenly deteriorated two Ramadhans ago.

The Ramadhan of 2007 saw her life turned upside down when her husband of 11 years was diagnosed with cancer of the esophagus. The month was spent with endless visits to the hospital, consultations with specialists and news that were not very encouraging for the PHD student and their four children. That was the month that saw her once healthy husband literally shrink before her very eyes.

The Hari Raya of the same year was to be their last together, partly spent at the hospital bed in Coventary. Hazlishah Abdul Hamid succumbed to the killer disease eleven days later on his 38th birthday, about a month after it was diagnosed.

Their twin boys, Izz Zhareef and Izz Hanees were then 10, their only daughter Ulfa Mysara was 7 and their youngest son, Muhammad Aaryf Dean, was only 5.

Khadijah herself was only 35 when she was widowed, but her faith in God Almighty never wavered as she faces the tests and challenges put in her path.

"Everyday, the only thing that keeps me going is the believe that He knows what's best for me. Hanging on to this, with every echoing emptiness, perplexing trial and excruciating downfall, I need to only remind myself:
'For truly with hardship comes ease.
Truly with hardship comes ease.'"

Hazlishah had put his career on hold to look after their children while Khadijah pursued her studies. It was a partnership that had seemed ideal and worked well until his health began to deteriorate suddenly. And although the signs were all there, Khadijah didn't allow herself to think that it was going to be their last Hari Raya together.

"I remember that it was a weekend and the doctor said that we could take him out. He wanted to go to a friend's place. And it was just wonderful to see him finish three plates of meehoon goreng," she says. That night they went back to the hospital where his condition started going downhill, prompting Khadijah to call his and her parents over. The Malaysian community was quick to render support. Readers of her blog www.pausetoreflect.blogspot.com sent their prayers and wishes in everyway possible. She wasn't alone.

Khadijah now remembers with fondness the division of labour in their household during the Ramadhans and Hari Rayas that they had together. He'd make sure that the house was tip top while she did the cooking. He loved nasi minyak while she wanted nasi himpit. So they had both.

"Basically he enjoyed food and nasi beriani and kurma was his signature dish," she adds nostalgically, sadly noting that everything about her beloved husband had to be in the past tense now.

Hazlishah's passing meant that Khadijah had to soldier on in a foreign country where friends became her extended family offering support when needed. But she knew she had to learn to go it all alone.

The first Hari Raya without Hazlishah, Khadijah found that she had to take on the role of paying the zakat for herself and her children, and came Hari Raya morning she took the children for prayers. For the boys, it was their first without their father praying by their side.

"As for the hari raya itself, sure, I could easily give in to my emotions. But I have to think of the children and not be selfish. I tried to make it as cheerful for them," she says.

Although they visit the grave every week, that first Eid was a special visit to offer their special prayers.

According to Khadijah in one blog entry, visits to the grave was a time when apart from the prayers, the children reported something to their father.

Most of the time, it was a heart wrenching session with little Dean saying endless goodbyes to his father.

*********************************************

Che Yah Nyak Ahmad (Mak Ndak) - a mother to everyone, a woman with a big heart and with lots of love to share. I go and see Mak Ndak for my dosage of motherly hugs.

When Che Yah Nyak Ahmad came to look after her new-born grandson in London eighteen years ago, little did she realise that she would also be taking on literally the entire Malaysian community in London. The single mum who brought up her three girls single-handedly after the break-up of her marriage found London to be her sanctuary; a place to mend her broken heart and devote her life to her children and grand children.

Having been made dependant of her youngest daughter, Zuraiha Zainol Rashid, 45, who is a permanent resident here, Che Yah set her mind to make London her home, much to the delight of Malaysians starved of good home cooked food and motherly love.

"Mak has always loved to cook. She loves to see people eat and she remembers who likes to eat what," says Zuraida, 51, her eldest daughter who is also working in London. Indeed, there's standing room only on Hari Raya open house at their place. From morning till late at night, friends and friends of friends will troop in for Che Yah's meehoon soup, freshly grilled satay, soto and rice with a variety of accompanying dishes. There'd be enough to take home too.

Indeed, it is no secret that even strangers who hunger for the company of Malaysians and crave for the Hari Raya atmosphere where Malays, Chinese and Indians celebrate together, were directed to their place in north London where it is literally an open house where no one is turned away.

Che Yah, or fondly known as Mak Ndak to many of us in London, is now 81, a mother figure to many of us and a substitute grandmother to most of our children. It is to Mak Ndak that we go to get our regular dose of motherly hug even if it is proving very difficult for her to hear out our woes as she is hard of hearing. It is to Mak Ndak that we readily let ourselves be spoilt with her delicious home cooked food.

"Mak used to sell nasi lemak in Jitra where we grew up. I remember searching for banana leaves to wrap the nasi lemak for Mak. She also made school uniforms to earn extra money. Life was indeed hard for her as a single parent. But she persevered," remembers Zuraiha whose father left when she was still in her mother's womb.

Mak Ndak used to be a regular at our weekly tahlil or tazkirah meeting at the surau in Malaysia Hall. Certainly, she was there almost every night for terawikh; praying while sitting on a stool as her legs began to pose a problem. But as the pain got worse, her presence became rare and now almost nil, but she still takes delight in preparing food for the congregation.

"She would insist on contributing the food and there's no way we could persuade her not to," adds Zuraiha.

If life had been harsh to Mak Ndak when she was younger, it is now compensating her with the love and affection of those around her and more. Daughters Zuraida, Zuriyati and Zuraiha and their families have kindly shared this wonderful lady with us here.

*********************************************

Nina Yusof - the memory lives on

Nina Yusof remembers with fondness last Raya when everything went according to plan. Well, almost!

"I am always the one so excited; planning for everybody and hoping that we'd get ready in time to pray together before the Raya breakfast and then go to Malaysia Hall for prayers with the rest of the Malay Muslim community in London. And then come home to receive guests. Well, it was a bit hectic in the morning but we made it for prayers at Malaysia Hall together and then we had so many people who came to the house from morning and left quite late at night. It was wonderful," remembers Nina of the last Hari Raya. That was also to be the last Raya that she spent with her late husband, Faizal Abdul Aziz. More importantly, she remembers that before taking the usual Hari Raya photographs, they salam and asked for each other's forgiveness.

Faizal was taken away suddenly on 2nd April this year. He collapsed while taking his professional accountancy exams and died in hospital. He was 43. His death stunned the close-knit Malaysian community in London as he had no known illness; no warning of any health problems, no tell-tale signs that he would leave us so suddenly. The weekly congregation at the Malaysia Hall surau, of which he was a regular member, gathered to offer their prayers at the mortuary of the London Hospital in East London.

The very same crowd and more turned up almost every night at Nina's house for prayers and to give her support and mostly to let her know that she and her young children are not alone.

Nina knows this. Her children; Norman, 12 and Farah, 5, too realise they have 'uncles' and 'aunties' around when they need them. But none of us can fill the void that they feel, the emptiness that Nina vividly describes when she misses him so.

She has cried till there's no more tears to cry, she is picking up the pieces and she is moving on. But there are still those unexplained moments.

"Last week, I missed him so much. There's an emptiness I couldn't explain. I just wanted to be with him. So, I reached out for an old album. I looked at a photograph and the date is 3rd April 1999. He passed away on 2nd April 2009. It is exactly ten years. That was a picture of our day out picnicking at Virginia Waters with some friends. If I were to know then that in 10 years time he'd be gone, I would have been so, so sad," says Nina of her husband of just 13 years.

Nina knows that there will always be that empty seat at the dinner table, the one person not there at gatherings and functions and conversations that will refer to arwah in the past tense. She also knows that there will no longer be any requests for soup tulang for the breaking of iftar, and rendang daging served on Hari Raya will always remind her of him for he loved rendang daging.

"In fact, " she corrects herself as memories came rushing back, "he'd eat anything I put on the table, although initially he'd make a fuss because he said I cooked too much."

This raya, Nina says positively, instead of going straight home after the prayers at Malaysia Hall, she will drive the family straight to the Garden of Peace in Hainnault, for that is where Faizal is buried. She and her children had been visiting his grave regularly, but this Raya will be a special visit with some special prayers.

"This is something I must do with the children".

*********************************************

Hari Raya round up

2009-09-23T01:28:00.019+01:00

It was such a beautiful day. The sun was out and we were out in our best baju rayas bought from home. It couldnt have been better planned. Eid fell on a Sunday. Everyone, except Taufiq, had a day off - Taufiq had to go to work until 6.30!

It was a perfect day for us too because nephew Azril flew in from Geneva to spend Hari Raya with us. So, its a hari raya with a difference for the Wans this year. The night he arrived, we planned all sorts of things - not least an extra car that we need to hire if we were to go from one place to another together. Thank God for online bookings, we got a cute little car from Eurocars in Marble Arch.
That night, I didnt sleep a wink; ironing telekungs and baju rayas. As I ironed Azril's baju Melayu, it suddenly dawned on me that this will be the last time he spends raya with us as a bachelor boy. He will be a married man soon, Insyaallah!

It was just as well that I had made extra efforts to make some kuehs this year. That night, after the ironing, I still couldnt sleep. So, I went downstairs and accompanied by Tabby and Kissinger, I made roti jala and chicken curry for breakfast. Usually I;d have nasi himpit and curry.

After prayers we went home to change and headed for the High Commissioner's residence in Hampstead. Droves of Malaysians in colourful clothes were heading that way too, following the aroma of satay on the grill.

AG and Hafiz -- macam dua beradik tak?

With daughters Rehana and Nona while waiting for Eid prayer. This year, eid prayer was held at the High Commission in Belgrave Square and it was estimated that 600-700 people turned up! The prayer was led by Ustaz Erfino and what a wonderful and interesting khutbah.

Taufiq couldnt join us for Eid prayers as he was working..and thus this pix wth him (in his pyjama bottom!) before we all trooped off to the High Commission.

Rehana and Hafiz in their new baju rayas. There's a story behind that sampin that Hafiz is wearing. I have never seen Hafiz so enthusiastic - he bought two pairs of baju melayus during his last trip back to Malaysia, and a few kain sampins. The week before, he tried on the clothes several times, trying the sampins and decided to send a red piece to a tailor to have it sewn. That night, he tried on the sampin and to his surprise, the tailor had sewn it into something not unlike a pillow case! We had a good laugh. So, he wore that one instead.

For NanaDJ - as requested: THE SAYANG MAMAS!!!!!!

Rehana Wan and Nona Wan

Hafiz Wan and Taufiq Wan

This week and next...

2009-09-16T07:29:00.009+01:00

Let's see what I can pack into one entry.

It has been a hectic week - a kind of pay back time for the week that I spent hibernating.

Last week saw me dragging myself to the city - not a place I would normally go but fellow blogger, author of legal thrillers, podaster, Yang-May Ooi was launching her new book that she co-wrote with Sylvia Cambiè. It is called International Communications Strategy. In a nutshell, it is about the emergence of the internet and everything that comes with it; blogging, Facebooking, Twittering, skyping, teleconferencing and many more online activities. And more importantly, it is about you and I - about how this new tool has empowered us as writers and readers, interacting with one another, crossing all kinds of boundaries - age, race, culture.

People turned writers overnight, writing about their life and along the way, they touched the lives of like minded people from all over the world. Who would think that my woes about my missing Tabby would get sympathy from people like mekyam in the US and Shahieda in Cape Town? And my rants about my culinary skills and the lack of it would get the attention of so many? People are interacting like never before and the interesting part is that, we don't care who they are, what their religious beliefs are, what age group they are in. We just share the same thing, And the internet afforded us this luxury.

What Yang-May and Cambiè also noted amongst other things was the effect on mainstream media. Journalists and journalism as we knew it changed dramatically. Then there's the emergence of citizen journalists. Ordinary people without any training in journalism or broadcasting suddenly found themselves reporting on events that touched their lives. Reporting on landslides, tragedies, the tsunami and many more have become more personalised and that made more interesting reading.

I often go to Lilian Chan's blog otherwise known as Obnoxious 5xmum - a blogger I met during my trip to Penang some time ago. This mother of five has become a citizen journalist, going out with her camera, interviewing politicians and giving us another side of stories that we read in the mainstream media.

It is such an exciting time, I think and Yang-May reckons it is going to be more exciting.
You can read it here.

Well, closer to the home front, I would like to report that I am now the proud owner of a brand new oven and hob and as a result the small kitchen of mine has never been a busier place.
Again, the internet plays an important role in this. I surfed the net for recipes and after a visit to several blogs, I attempted some biscuits for raya. Well, I need more practise. That's all I can say for now.

Sabira Sheik as Lady Swettenham
Last night, it was raining cats and dogs but nothing could stop me from going to Asia House to watch the very talented Sabira Shaik's portrayal of Lady Swettenham. For 55 minutes Sabira had us glued to our seats, taking us through a gamut of emotions; giggly light headed 19 year old bride to be exited about life in the east, frightened and dutiful wife of the colonial officer husband who frequently left her on her own, bitter and senile 80 year old spending her last few days in an asylum, where her dark secrets kept her company, haunting her to her death.

In between, the versatile Sabira cleverly transformed from brother Cecil to overbearing father to faithful 'boy' Kassim and society ladies at their soirees. All in all it was a very powerful performance - and a history lesson we never had. That 55 minutes from Sabira Shaik gave us a glimpse of the other side of Sir Frank Swettenham, the Resident General and later Governor of Singapore.

You can read about my take on this in the NST.

I walked back in the heavy rain to the station thinking how horrible it must be to have such bitter memories haunting you to the grave.

Well, nineteen years ago today, as I was sharing a bar of chocolate - Galaxy to be exact - with my husband, I suddenly felt the most excrutiating pain. I knew I was going to give birth but I told my husband that perhaps we could cancel everything and go home. But that was the gas talking - because I went ahead and had the most gorgeous sayang mama ever! Taufiq was brought into this world 19 years ago today and since then he has given me such joy in life as a son, a confidante and a friend. Luckly I didn't cancel this order!

Happy Birthday sayang mama! And enjoy your university days!

And next week? - well apart from Raya, there's the London Fashion Week! Aaaarghhhhh!

SELAMAT HARI RAYA - MAAF ZAHIR DAN BATIN!

Meme: Save Yvonne's Sight

2009-09-12T09:53:00.010+01:00

Sharon Bakar has tagged me for the Save Yvonne's Sight Meme.

Yvonne Foong, 22, has neurofibromatosis type II, which has severely affected her sight and hearing due to tumours in the brain and spine. She is scheduled for an operation between 1 and 4 December 2009. The cost of surgery is USD44,000 or RM154,770, and the cost of staying in hospital for two weeks is USD915 or RM3219.

She has raised about RM10,000 of this and is hoping to raise the rest by republishing her book I'm Not Sick; I'm Just a Bit Unwell in English and Chinese. The books are now available in Malaysian bookshops and from her web site store. She is also selling T-shirts at bazaars and via her web site store. You can read about her surgery and donate to her fund here.

You can also help by sending on this meme. If you do, please follow these meme rules:

1. Create a blog entry titled "Meme: Save Yvonne's Sight"
2. List three things you love to see. Add in the picture of Yvonne's book cover. The URL is http://www.yvonnefoong.com/images/banner/my-story.jpg
3. End with the line, "Yvonne Foong is in danger of losing her eyesight thanks to neurofibromatosis (NF). Please find out how you can help her by visiting her blog at http://www.yvonnefoong.com.
4. Tag 5 blog friends. Be sure to copy the rules, OK?
5. If you have a Facebook account, please check out Ellen's new invention, a "feme" pronounced FEEM, a meme designed for Facebook here. And if you want to blog about NF, that would be great too!

Three things I love to see :

1. My mother's smile of recognition
2. Falling autumn leaves
3. The first bloom in spring

Bloggers I'm tagging are:
Masterwordsmith
Andrea Whatever
Zendra
Mamasita
Kenny Mah

In fact if anyone else out there would like to meme or feme this - please feel free.
LET'S DO WHATEVER WE CAN TO HELP YVONNE.

A 999 story on 090909

2009-09-09T14:30:00.007+01:00

Before 090909 draws to a close, at least in my part of the world, I must tell my 999 story for posterity.

When the children were very small and like most small children, they took quite a fascination to the phone, making pretend calls and receiving pretend calls -things like that. I used to call them numerous times a day from the office, even before they could speak, just so they could listen to my voice. So, suffice to say, they got very attached to the phone quite early.

Anyway, back to their fascination with the phone, one of them started stabbing her chubby fingers on the buttons and unwittingly, a call went through to the emergency service several times. The efficient officer at the end of the line of course couldn't dismiss the call as just a prank call and had to investigate, especially when she heard a child's voice. Thus, that was when I got a call asking me all sorts of details. She very sternly warned me to make sure that the phone was out of reach of the children as they could very well be blocking other emergency calls coming in. Well, that is understandable.

There was another incident, when another child, which shall remain nameless here, called the police because the father had not come home at the expected time., as promised to him. Again, we got reprimanded by the police. Oh well, these are children, but according to one report today, the police had to warn people - adults- not to waste their time dialling 999 for some very trivial complains. And here are some of them. and more here:

-One man rang 999 to say two squirrels were fighting in his back garden,

-a couple who had handcuffed themselves together "for a joke" rang to inform police they had lost the key.

-a woman who was having a problem with her knitting dialled 999,

- a woman driving on the M1, who wanted to know the time.

- a man rang South Yorkshire Police to request they deal with the birds singing on his roof because he could not get any sleep.

- the Thames Valley force said it had been contacted about ghost stories, Elvis sightings and requests for taxis.

- a man with smelly feet called for an ambulance as the odour was making him feel nauseous.

_ a man at a restaurant who had found a hair in his food .

-in Dubai, recent queries have included whether a certain brand of bottled water is healthy or not, how to check the credit on a mobile phone and advice on where to find a lost dog.

Happy 090909

And here's my 7777 story on 070707:
Did you know that today is 0 70707?

Desperation - The mother-in-law of improvisation

2009-09-08T11:31:00.007+01:00

It all started with the mention of the word murtabak in someone's blog and for days the image of the bread, swimming in rich ghee, haunted my waking hours. So off I went to Mat Gebu to see if there's something there to remedy these pangs that weren't about to go unless I do something about it. And I wasn't disappointed. But time wasn't on my side (as I am prone to decide iftar menus two hours before iftar!) and preparation of the dough would take time. So, my brain had to work fast to think of ways to remedy this gnawing or more apt, annoying pang, making itself heard in the tummy. The word improvise came to mind.

AG was despatched to buy minced meat and the rest, I thought, were in the cupboard somewhere. Rummaging through the freezer I found frozen roti canai and started defrosting them, while running back and forth to Mat Gebu, and at the same time being entertained by raya songs from his site.

So, that was it, with the fillings all done, I set about to create my own version of murtabak with the frozen roti canai. The verdict from all around the iftar table was most encouraging.

While making my version of murtabak, Mak's words came to haunt me. She has a positive view of looking at things. She says, "Kita buat dia, mestilah jadi!" Thus, jadilah murtabak Kak Teh berkulitkan roti canai.

The next day, it was Rehana's turn to be in the kitchen and she wanted to make something to bring for iftar at a friend's. Again, off we went to Mat Gebu and again he didn't fail us. There was this recipe for prawn toast which Rehana thought would make wonderful snacks for iftar. So, she set about buying the ingredients, investing in a big bag of king prawns which she duly minced. Somehow, somewhere along the way, the prawn toast didn't quite make it to the friend's table as most were burnt. However, what little that were fried and burnt ended on our table and again, the verdict was encouraging. But I was left with a big bowl of minced prawn. What do I do with it?

I decided to rely on my instincts this time without scurrying back to Mat Gebu. I remembered eating prawn balls, not unlike bergedil, in a restaurant somewhere. And it had a somewhat Thai taste. So, I proceeded to make prawn bergedil, adding lime leaves and coriander leaves - all chopped up. That should make it very Thai, I thought.

There were some toasts in the oven which Rehana abandoned after her failed project, and I put them in the blender to make breadcrumbs. All the while, Mak's words kept coming back to me and I felt quite proud of myself, making use of all these things and improvising as I went along.

While frying the bergedil, AG was busy making brocolli juice for iftar. He has taken to drinking brocolli juice and we were at our wits ends as to what to do with the husks. We had tried frying them with eggs and oyster sauce, anything at all as long as we don't throw away the husks. Then, the bulb lit up! Why not, add them to the bergedil? Hmmm, that worked like a dream. So, as you can see we had two versions of the prawn bergedil here.

Well, Mak did say, it is just a matter of wanting to do it or not. "Kalau nak buat apa pun jadi, kalau tak mau buat - pi dok goyang kaki di depan!) Make and effort and everything will be fine, as long as Mr Murphy isn't lurking anywhere near the kitchen.

This brings to mind those days when AG experimented with all sorts or things from bread to croissant, tempe and even keropok.

It was during my early days of pregnancy and I was craving for keropok. As it was summer and mackerels were aplenty, AG, (you can take the boy out of Trengganu, but you can never take Trengganu out of the boy) decided to make his own keropok.
Well, if I remember it correctly, the consistency wasn't quite right. We couldnt throw away the mixture, so, we had keropok lekor instead!

Thus, if necessity is the mother of invention, desperation is indeed the mother-in-law of improvisation.

Other experiments in the kitchen:
AG's Tempe Tantrums

One night in Ramadhan

2009-09-05T14:18:00.006+01:00

It was nearly 2 am by the time we left Tuk Din's . Outside the air was cool and refreshing and if not for the distance, it would have been nice to walk home. We went to have late night coffee at Tuk Din's which dragged on to Terawikh and if not for work, we'd have stayed for sahur.

Since the opening of Tuk Din's at 41 Craven Road, Paddington, we had been there twice to break our fast and then proceeded to Terawikh at Malaysia Hall, but most of the time, we'd prefer to break fast at home and then have a short rest, watching the very knowledgeable Dr Zakir Naik on Islam Channel.

But that night after iftar, while waiting for the mee bandung to settle, I suddenly missed the company of Tuk Din and his wife Midah. Since the opening of their new restaurant, they have been sorely missed in the surau and it hasn't been the same. We are happy that their restaurant is doing very well, especially during iftar. People come from near and far and the clients are not just Malaysians but locals too. Our children needed no persuasion or blackmail to go to Tuk Din's and we piled into Nona's new old Honda Civic and off we went.

Tuk Din's reputation for his culinary skills; his koayteow goreng, mee goreng mamak, nasi lemak, just to mention a few, is legendary. People just keep coming back for more.

Those of you who frequented Malaysia Hall canteen before the move to the present site now, would remember Tuk Din's famous dishes and hospitality. And now, he has his own restaurant. The food is just as good if not better, the only difference now is that it is no longer government subsidised!

That night, when the last customer had paid his bills and the 'closed' sign was put in place, we sat around talking about old times; about the good old times at the old Malaysia Hall canteen in Bryanston Square. That was where the children spent time working to earn some pocket money and more importantly to mix around with other Malaysian children. They helped to clear tables and served behind the counter. I too helped out while waiting for the children to finish their work. It was fun. The children met a lot of Malaysian friends and got involved with activities organised by the MSD. I too met a lot of interesting people with interesting stories to tell.

We made friends from near and far. Many friends became more like family. Among them are blogger Melayu di London and husband who left us briefly to go back to Singapore. And now they are back! That night, they too walked in with their children to join us for late night coffee. And we had an impromtu birthday celebration for their youngest. It was just like the good old days.

So that was where we had our terawikh that night, at Tuk Din's led by my husband. It was like having one big family in the congregation and it was nice. The little boys who used to run around in the canteen, are now grown ups praying with us that night in Ramadhan.

So at almost 2 am, we drove back from Paddington on the A40, the full moon shining down on us as we listened to Mesut Kurtis' Qasidah Burdah. It is one of my favourites. Listening and singing along its beautiful words and melody with the children, reminded me of those days driving along listening to Raihan's beautiful nasyeeds. We couldn't get enough of Raihan's nasyeed. They are so beautiful.

So, if you've not been to Tuk Din's, do go and you wont regret the experience, and if you've not heard Mesut Kurtis' Qasidah Burdah, here it is:

Thanks to blogger atok who reminded me that my other half, has had this song in his head for some time now and here is the link in his kecek-kecek. You can also find the lyrics there.

What's cooking?

2009-09-03T14:28:00.004+01:00

"What do you want to eat for iftar, mama?" was the question I got at the end of my Blackberry (ehem!). Such a simple question and yet it was like music to my ears, especially when it came at the end of a long tiring day fiddling with my new gadget.

I suppressed the urge to say "apa-apalah" because that has been copyrighted and so I said its equivalent of "whatever!"

And I wasn't to regret with that decision because wafting from the kitchen was the most drool inducing aroma that momentarily swayed my iman (a bit of exaggeration here is needed to motivate more activities in the kitchen). It was a creation befitting any Masterchef contestant, if I may say so myself; one that inevitably provoked the father into saying: Hmmmm, the flavour burst in the mouth and the salmon delicately crumbled ...bla, bla, blaaa..."

After more than ten days of fasting and rehashing tired old recipes, I took to looking and drooling at recipes on the internet but I am still at a loss as to what else to cook. I've done the usual, lamb/chicken curry, bubur lambuk and stuff and to tell you the truth I need some other stuff to excite the taste buds. I've even tried cooking mussels! So, when Sayang mama number two whipped up salmon in cream sauce with generous helpings of sliced mushrooms and roast potatoes, I wasn't about to complain.

When I was at her age, I was only entrusted with peeling onions and top and tailing beansprouts. I remember once attempting scones and they turned out rock hard, enough to knock you out and see stars if someone pelted you with one. But arwah Pak ate them all.

With a husband whose "apa-apalah" attitude towards food and cooking, I have not had much incentive to learn. But learn I did and I have improved if I may say so myself. At least no more washing keropoks before frying them .

I am delightfully surprised that Rehana has displayed some talents in an area where I am sadly lacking. She had made beautiful grilled chicken as well. The brother does brilliant couscous, but since the start of Ramadhan he had been busy at work. And dear hubby, if you are reading this, I am still waiting for your chicken kiev.

Last night, I went into foreign and new territory. Feeling quite adventurous and with a lot of time to spare, I surfed the internet for kacang phool recipe. This was of course inspired by Oldstock as well. The recipe I had was Malaysianised, prompting Rehana to remark not once: this is so Malaysian! But she liked it. I had in it chilli powder, curry powder and asam keping, plus minced meat. That went very well with freshly baked French bread. And for the meal after maghrib, it was mee bandung. Aaah, tasted so good too when we had it for sahur.

So, what's cooking in your kitchen?

Selamat Menyambut Hari Ulangtahun Kemerdekaan ke 52

2009-08-31T05:00:00.001+01:00

Merdeka post on the way - ~Insyaallah!

Return of the Prodigal Son

2009-08-30T00:49:00.016+01:00

He burst through the cat flap and ended 25 days of agony. Tabby came back yesterday, hungry and demanding constant attention.It was as if he never wanted to leave AG's side. Alhamdulillah he is back!!

Syaer untuk Tabby

Sukanya hati tidak terkira,
Tabbyku pulang membawa berita,
Mengubat hati yang duka lara,
Tiada lagi hati sengsara.

Tabby ku pergi tanpa kata,
Merajuk agaknya tidak terkata,
Membawa diri merata-rata,
Ke sana sini tak tentu hala.

Kami di rumah gundah gulana
Menggigit jari, hati merana,
Mencari-cari ke sini sana,
Tak tahu lagi hendak ke mana.

Semalam dia pulang membawa cerita,
Lapar dahaga tidak terkira,
Dahagakan kasih daripada tuannya
Yang lama sudah rindukannya.

Dipeluk dicium, malam dan siang,
Terubatnya rindu bukan kepalang,
Tidur sebantal, makan tak kenyang
Selamat pulang Tabbyku sayang!

Something to share

2009-08-28T13:37:00.004+01:00

My new toy came in the post two days ago and I was itching to share the good news. I tore the package open, and there it was all gleaming and nice and inviting.

"Hi, I am calling from my new Blackberry Curve," I said, barely able to contain my glee.

"Mama, you mean you called me just to tell me that you've got a Blackberry?" asked the second sayang mama at the other end of the BC.

"Yes," I said smugly.

"Oh, there goes your hassanah. You're not supposed to boast during Ramadhan," she added.

Oh dear, have you ever felt like a deflated balloon? I felt like that. I know The Curve is getting out of fashion and I am just getting it because I was due for an upgrade and while in Malaysia I stepped (yes, stepped) on my old faithful Nokia and the screen cracked and it went all black. (So those who had sent me sms'es while I was there, will know that there was no way I could read any of my messages.)

And now I am the proud owner of the Blackberry Curve. I still don't know what else I could do with it other than making and answering calls and sending messages, but I've been looking at it in case it vanishes before my eyes.

I made several calls to all other sayang mamas and they were all quite amused by their mama's excitement over her new toy.

Doesn't take a lot to make me all excited, does it?

A call finally came through that new toy of mine with a ringtone so sweet to the ear. I had to refrain myself from answering ala Mrs Bouquet, "Hello, yes, this is me answering my new slimline Blackberry Curve with its wide screen and oh so very small typepad!"

It was just as well I didn't for the call came from a very significant member of the surau. It must be quite an important phonecall - a serious one, I gathered.

It was a request and once again, I couldn't contain my excitement. Someone actually remembered something that I cooked and during this Ramadhan, the craving for my special dish was getting to her. I felt quite elated actually and promised to make and bring the dish for that evening's morey, after Terawikh. I despatched the other half to get the necessary things and after the preparation for iftar, I proceeded to make this special dish. And for those of you who are interested, read carefully as this can really change your culinary experience.

Carefully open the can of chickpeas and drain them in a sieve.
Slice onions and some dried chillies.
Heat the oil and throw in the sliced onions, dried chillies, curry leaves and mustard seeds. Then pour in the chickpeas. Just add a little salt.

There - all of 10 minutes flat!

I just love it. People at the surau bring other interesting dishes which require more culinary feat than opening cans. They kneed and roll doughs for karipap pusing, slave over steamers and ovens to produce tepung pelita or seri muka and I whipped out something from a can.

Well, as I am sharing the dish with others and I am not boasting, do I get my hassanah back, my precious sayang mama?

Health warning - this dish is best eaten after terawikh. Chickpeas is known to affect the digestive system in a way that it can affect your wuduk and others around you.

Antara Menjala dan Mengaip/Menyekaip

2009-08-25T11:39:00.008+01:00

The problem with having a lot of time before iftar is that I tend to contemplate menus and recipes in my head; things that are undoables. My culinary skills, if you can call it that, are limited to lamb/chicken curry, ayam masak merah (with peas), lamb masak kicap. Anything other than that, my children's eyes will light up and they'd be asking whether there are special guests for dinner.

And t doesnt help that I have a husband whose idea of a menu is: ikutlah and apa-apalah. Apa-apalah is not easy and even Google cant help me.

So, yesterday, I was entertaining thoughts of stretching that skill with the help of the internet, of course. I promptly googled "How to make Roti Jala" and in my head I could almost hear Mak say "Tu laa, masa orang masak, depa dok kat depan, hayun kaki ataih nduai (swing)!"

Bless Google for not nagging at me but it came up with several suggestions and I picked one. Scribbled the recipe into a notebook and was about to senteng lengan tangan to start with the task when I heard the familiar tone of the SMS. It was Lilah, asking for a family conference via skype. Looking at the time, I knew they've had their Iftar and must have just returned from terawikh from the nearby mosque.

"Jom skype. Semua ada," she said.

"Nanti sat, nak buat roti jala," I replied hoping to impress her.

So, it was with that that I started to make the adunan for roti jala. This recipe required me to whisk egg, santan and water together before sifting in the flour - even then, I managed to get them all lumpy and had to sieve it to make it look right. So I left it to stand for a while as it was still early to menjala and went on to Skype.

As expected the whole family was there, munching before the screen! That was the idea, to tease and show off to me from thousands of miles away! Well, that's what we used to do growing up. We have not changed. We teased and bantered around the table, and sometimes reduced each other to tears.

Yesterday, little Yaya fasted until 12 o'clock. She is only 5. But her 12 year old sister, Iman, couldn't fast as she was ill. So her mum made Iman hot milo and started feeding her in front of Yaya. Yaya turned away and said, "Jangan tunjuk kat Yaya, nanti Yaya tak tahan". At which point she put on her famous muka sedih drama minggu ini.

That provoked Wani to tease her and she cried. Well, I missed all that fun or else I'd tease her even more! I saw them milling around eating and eating. I wish I could have stayed for Ramadhan, but I couldn't.

Back to my Roti Jala as it was nearly six pm London time. There was a temporary snag as I couldn't locate the plastic container for Roti Jala that my friend had posted all the way from Salt Lake City, Utah. After hunting for it, I finally found it among numerous plastic take away containers evidents of numerous take aways, of course.

I remember Mak doing the cone-like thingy from banana leaves, for Roti Jala and that worked like magic. The plastic container is the best alternative that I have in the absence of banana leaves and after a few attempts, the Roti jala came out, errr, okay. They were not brilliant, with some coming out like lempeng, but they complement the lamb curry that I made earlier. Aaah, it was a good day. I can now join in the conversation with the ladies after terawikh and regale them with the story of my roti jala making feat!

Kak Teh's other culinary attempts:
Fishing my way to his heart
Of buah ulu or baulu and such likes
Ayam Golek
Sardine Rolls

While waiting.....

2009-08-22T18:54:00.006+01:00

It is less then two hours to go and I have already done the chicken curry the way the sayang mamas like it and I have prepared the mackerels and the sambal, but it is too early to fry them. The house is so quiet, which is quite unusual as it is a Saturday.

Earlier, sayang mama number three phoned from work and he sounded very happy. Apparently, his workplace (a big departmental store) has provided a prayer room for Muslim staff, which is quite a development, I think. Before this he used to pray in the store room.

It is quite encouraging to know that these days, in spite of what we hear about the growing intolerance in some quarters, there are still people who are willing to make a difference.

It seems not too long ago that I was having a conversation with Taufiq, then only 7 and sitting on the worktop while I prepared food for Iftar. There were trying times for him especially when he could smell the food and the half an hour to go seemed like hours. He’d cry and burst out in anger at his siblings making fun of him. It was there in the kitchen that I told him what fasting is all about. It is not just about not eating but also about taming the temper. Surprisingly, at that tender age, he understood.

It became easier after that. He’d come home and regale us stories about what went on among those who fast in school. The headteacher had kindly provided a room for them to pray and there was almost always confusion during prayer times as everyone wanted to lead the prayer. There were arguments too about the number of rakaats. The headteacher then decided to take matters into his own hands and invited a parent a day to lead them, which I think was a very good move.

During his secondary years, Taufiq would stop at the local mosque to pray before coming home. His non Muslim friends would wait outside the mosque while he prayed and just before Ramadhan, three of them converted. And when the school decided that Muslim students could not longer go for Friday prayers because some inevitably go awol, Taufiq pleaded with the teacher to provide a room for prayers. We saw how Taufiq grew up and mature before our eyes. Come Friday, he’d prepare the khutbah for his small congregation. My sayang mama has really grown up.

While I am waiting to fry the mackerels, another thing about other sayang mamas comes to mind.

Since coming back from Malaysia, we have been trying to put on a brave face, when in actual fact, we are hurting inside. When we left for Malaysia, our two other sayang mamas, Tabby and Kissinger, merajuk and left home. We kept receiving sms’es that they were not back. I had sleepless nights wondering what had happened to them. I remember saying goodbye to Tabby; he was sitting upright on the bed and I cried, prompting the children to say that I was sadder leaving the cats then leaving them.

Tabby looked confused and he didn’t even follow us to the car. To this day, it would be about a month since we last saw him. My husband had gone out searching, calling out for him, but to no avail. I have included him in my prayers; to please keep him save and send him back to us. Some years ago when AG was back in Malaysia during Ramadhan, it was Tabby who woke up up, for sahur pulling at our duvet.

Yesterday, as we were preparing for maghrib, I saw Kissinger! He was lurking outside, unsure whether he would come in through the flap. When I shouted out his name, he knew we are back and dashed through the catflap. After we did our prayers, he just jumped on to our laps and started kissing us.

If only Kissinger could talk and tell us where Tabby is, and whether Tabby is alright. If only Kissinger would go and tell him that we are back and missing him. Please come back Tabby, everything is forgiven!

Selamat berpuasa

2009-08-21T14:54:00.006+01:00

Throughout the day yesterday, I kept getting calls and sms asking me when Ramadan is going to start. I wasn't sure, was my reply. Well, not until yesterday evening when I got another sms confirming that it's Saturday.

Just as well because both AG and I had just done our shopping at ASDA. I know the men at Goodies, our local halal butcher, are not going to like it but ASDA now has a wonderful halal meat centre and I can get most things in one shopping trip. So, for now its two lamb shoulders, three chickens; small pieces in three bags, some mince meat and two whole chickens for roasting. And yes, lots of mackerals in three separate bags, plus a lot more to replenish everything that has been used up during our three week trip back to Malaysia.

I know I should have brought back some ikan bilis and ikan kering but I was so worried that they'd be confiscated by the customs. They are very strict these days and I 've heard friends being fined and made to sign agreements not to bring in fish, meat, honey or cheese. But I truly love ikan bilis from Malaysia, so fine and so clean. Sambal tumis ikan bilis with nasi lemak would be so heavenly!

Anyway, yes, I was getting into the mood of Ramadhan yesterday; stocking food and already mentally planning about what to cook for iftar and sahur.

This morning, I blended garlic, ginger and onions and put them in bottles and stacked them in the fridge. Senang nak masak, kan?

I remember Mak used to make telur masin weeks before Ramadhan. That seemed to be a must on the table when we broke our fast. I have never acquired the taste for telur asin. And so I don't really miss it that much. I do love ikan kering - the ones that's moist and when fried with sliced onions and chillies, you can just eat it with rice. You dont need any other dishes.

And Mak used to boil sugar for air sirap. We'd have bottles and bottles of those red syrup lined up on the shelves. They'd look at us tantalisingly as the time ticked very slowly before iftar time.

AG bought a packet of buah kurma. That will last for about two weeks and then we'll get somemore. I love those very succulent ones - but that cost a bomb.

I know that tonight, the main compulsory dish will be bubur lambuk or kanji as we used to call it in Kedah. The children just love bubur lambuk and if that is the only thing that they eat, I am sure they wouldn't mind. I wouldnt mind either, it is quite filling.

Sahur for us will be around 3am. For the past week, we had been waking up at 3 am as were were still jetlagged. Waking up the children is going to be another feat. Most of them will not want to eat and would prefer just a glass of water and then wake up for subuh.

Tomorrow, our first day of Ramadhan, we will break our fast at 2014 and from then onwards the day will get shorter by 2 minutes. Quite a long stretch, eh? Insyaallah, we can do it. There was one year when we fasted until 9 pm. That was a very long summer.

So, let me wish my readers "Selamat berpuasa dan semoga mendapat keberkataan di dalam bulan yang mulia ini"

I am also taking this opportunity to tell my readers that my youngest sayang mama has got his A level results and will be starting University next month, reading History. Alhamdulillah!

My other Ramadhan stories:
The Journey
Three Ramadhan Stories
How do I wake you up, let me count the ways
Of Mak and Ramadhan
Memories of Pak this Ramadhan
One Iftar, One Ramadhan
Cerita Ceriti Bulan Puasa

Letting off Lat

2009-08-18T18:01:00.028+01:00

The letter was written on 4th March 1980 and twenty-nine years later it found its way to page 94 of "Lat the Early Series" published by the NST. It was a letter written by my other half to Lat reminding him in a light hearted way the £13.89 that was long overdue for the cleaning of the apartment in which he stayed during his visit to London.

Judging from the letters published in his latest book sold during the launch of the IMalaysia Exhibition at the Bangsar Shopping Centre, the much loved cartoonist never threw away anything – letters from old classmates to fans from far and near were all carefully kept. He knew they would make good reading one day.

Datuk Lat with AG and Zainul Ariffin, NST GME

So there was a lot of ribbing and banter when we met up a few minutes before Tun M, the man who Lat religiously caricatured, arrived. Tun M , who was given the honour to launch the exhibition said Lat had made his nose a few mm bigger and jokingly demanded 10 sens for every caricature that is published.

When the time came for book signing, Lat was in top form. He spent a lot of time with each and everyone who came up to him for his famous signature, inspite of the discomfort he was feeling after an eye operation. We stood in line patiently for him to sign near the published letter. True to form, he wrote the word “Beres!” and a cartoon of his gleeful self, seemingly relieved of the burden of hutang!

It was interesting to note that many VIPs and celebrities who had been caricatured by Lat, turned up at the event. I managed to catch a few.

Errr....who is this??

More ramblings on Datuk Lat here:

Congratulations Datuk Lat
Lat 41 years LATer

A (long and winding) Culinary Journey

2009-08-16T09:02:00.010+01:00

Hunger does things to your mind. We've been airborne for almost 7 hours and the last meal of chicken briyani served by the Air Asia stewardess, is a memory fast fading as my brain is now sending urgent messages to my stomach which has been somewhat spoilt by the unusual eating habits of the past three weeks. I had not only devoured the surprisingly delicious briyani but also the lasagne that my husband pre ordered. And now I am hungry again.

While waiting for Pak Nasser's nasi lemak as promised in the menu tucked in the seat pocket in front on me, my mind does its cruel trick dredging up memories of culinary delights that we had been spoilt with during the last trip. Going back to my own home cooked food does not seem a very attractive prospect.

Now let's see what the stomach had been subjected to lately.
(I am continuing this piece after a sorry excuse of a meal, which I ransacked in the kitchen. Sharing the milk with Snowbell, I had my very early morning tea with milk and cereals. Now I long for those dangai and pulut sambal from that stall at the junction of Bukit Pinang)

Just soon after landing at LCCT, we were taken to a corner lot restaurant somewhere near Bangi that boasts all kinds of soup - and one that is making me drool all over the keyboard now is soup keting. I should have taken pictures of the soup, but common courtesy demanded that I exchange niceties with my siblings and siblings in law who had taken the trouble to fetch us at the airport. I chose not to ask what keting is but proceeded to eat it with the enthusiasm of one deprived of food for a whole month. Be warned, soup keting in all its delight has hidden explosives in the form of finely cut chilli padi. That not withstanding, I finished a whole bowl before proceeding to wipe clean the platter of mixed satay before me. Simply yummy. The hubby, jetlag setting in at quite a speed, chose mee hailam but regretted it almost immediately. He was not very impressed.

There was certainly something in the air during this trip, and it was unmistakably durian. It seemed to be durian galore everywhere - five or six for 10 ringgit and I went crazy. We made a visit to the pasar tani where I bought lemang and on the way back bought several durians. Suffice to say that was not the first durian binge in three weeks.

Looming large in my mind right now are butter crabs at the seafood heaven near Vistana Hotel. I think the place is called Hokaido. Jijah and Isa, knowing my penchant with things crustacean, took us there for supper. There were also lala and crab sambal. The proverbial “Mak Mentua lalu di belakang pun tak sedar” was quite apt here.

You can trust Jijah to find the best food in town. She has the nose for it. One fine afternoon, she and husband Isa took us to Aunty Aini’s, a kampong food haven tucked away in Kampung Chelet, Nilai. The kampung style setting puts you in the mood for good old kampung food. There were ulams and masak lemak and soup tulang – the most delicious I had ever tasted. I have never been one for ulams and masak lemak and left it to hubby to finish them. And I must add that proprieters of De Chenge as reported by Puteri Kama in her entry here, could learn a thing or two about customer relations. Both Aunty Aini and husband were so friendly and even had time to sit down and chit chat with us.

With Jijah, I took a sentimental journey back to Alor Setar, starting out at about 5 am to catch the 07.15 Air Asia flight. We both grew up in Alor Setar but after the first few months of Primary One together at the SAS, we were separated, only to meet up again after Pak was transferred back from Yan to Alor Setar. We continued our friendship that took us to most of the fine eateries Alor Setar could offer, and to some of the most wonderful gerais our trusty old bike could take us.

The main aim of the journey was to visit Kak who had just been discharged from hospital after a knee op, but of course dear siblings of mine exiled in Bangi would not hear of a visit back to Alor Setar without a pilgrimage to their dearly beloved adopted uncles, namely Abu of the famed mee Abu and Zakaria of Laksa Teluk Kecai.

I had to draw a line or else the list would extend to Shariff of Mee Shariff and Pak Musa famous for his Mee Soup. With Abang at the wheels, and Kak with her walking aid, we proceeded with our culinary adventure in Alor Setar, starting with the famous Pumpong restaurant. I was glad to note that they have done well enough to take another unit to accommodate their ever increasing customers.

I should have been given a mask to wear before I chose the food. It has nothing to do with swine flue but I fear I was going to dribble right into the big pots of wonderful food. I settled for sup pucuk and kari perut, while Kak, abang and Jijah, (the braver ones) enjoyed their ulams and sambal very much. By now you would have guessed that I try to avoid things sambal and spicy.

The next stop was Teluk Kecai. The drive there was indeed a drive down memory lane. I remember those long cycle rides in the heat for a bowl of Laksa Teluk Kecai. When we arrived, there were already stacks of ready packed kuah laksa. The owner knows that people come from near and far to take them back. We took two kilos back and while waiting, succumbed to the lure of ice kacang much talked about amongst my siblings.

Sms’es were coming thick and fast from a certain location in Bangi. It goes something like this:

Pipi kak Teh memang gebu,
Jangan lupa Mee rebus Abu.

To which I replied:
Makan kari dengan roti nan,
Kami sedang dalam perjalanan.

And with several kilos of laksa teluk kecai safely tucked in the boot of Abang’s car, we made the journey to Jalan Day or now known as Jalan Sultanah. Mee Abu is indeed compulsory stop. Long tiring journeys from Bangi are often spurred on by visions of mee rebus Abu at the end of the drive. While waiting for my mee goreng (simply, simply awesome and Naz, stop drooling!) I saw the rojak man! With husband a few hundred miles away, I knew there’s no one to stop me. There and then, I gave in to the evil temptation of sengkuang calit with generous sprinkle of kacang goreng. I couldn’t take pix of the sengkuang calit as that's such a damning evidence of my giving in to temptation.

To say both Jijah and I were nervous during the flight back was an understatement. Two trolleys of kuah laksa teluk kecai and kuah mee rebus were rollicking in the overhead compartments of the plane during that one-hour flight. Any moment at all, the passengers below could have a mixed shower of kuah mee rebus and laksa teluk kecai raining on them. But thank God, not a drop spilled!

Another compulsory visit is to Rebung. During the first visit, Chef Mail kindly made his famous lempeng – I had eight in all. We returned the next day with two friends from Brazil. They simply loved the asam pedas, masak lemak and goreng pisang and popia. (Excuse me, while I wipe the drool!) I had several helpings of mee kari. My last visit to Rebung was just before we left for home. NanaDJ was there with some of my closest friends, Ani, Lia and Jijah. Chef Mail later joined us.

Having chefs as friends are not good for the waistline. A very short trip to Jakarta introduced me to all kinds of culinary delights. With Chef Wan as traveling companion, you end up not just eating a lot but also learning about the food. On arrival, we had snacks at a café-cum bookshop adjoining the Kempinski apartments where we stayed. The name just escapes me but the fusion food served was just out of this world. After that we had tea at the Hyatt, before going for coffee tasting at the Dharmawangsa Hotel. I had pandan coffee and couldn’t sleep the whole night. The next day, after a riot of a morning battling the macet and panic buying of tudungs and telekungs at Tanah Abang, we braved our way to Ampero for Padang food. Wan ate until he was going to burst, wiping almost everything on the plates before us. I enjoyed the fried chicken with some sort of rendang sprinkled on them. And the sambal kerang was simply awesome too. I know I am repeating myself but everything was simply awesome.

More Indonesian food were in store for us when Pok Ku and Cik Gu Razak treated us to similar dishes at the Nogori restaurant in Amcorp Mall. And then more when Pak Samad Said and wife Shidah took us for lunch at the Sundanese restaurant KLCC.

Suffice to say it wasn’t just the luggage that was access in weight.

It would be unfair not to mention mee bandung at Yusof Haslam’s (spare the white pepper please), laksa johor at Bangi Kopi Tiam (too watery) and prawn noodle at Little Penang. The last night, we had Char Koay Teow at Penang Village, Alamanda. You guessed it, its just awesome.

Reading through this, (if you had not given up already), you’d probably think that I had not spend time eating with Mak at all. But you’re wrong. Some of the most memorable culinary experience was eating rice with kicap and ikan goreng, crisply fried by Bibik. I ate with Mak early in the mornings as she had her lunch her early. I’d sort out the fish for her, taking out the bones and put them in her plate. She loves eating fish with sambal belacan and also asam pedas. Just as soon as I washed my hands, Mak would insist I eat again, as she had forgotten that I had just eaten with her. There were days when her appetite was good, but most of the time, I’d have to cajole her to eat.

And last but not least, the promised Nasi Lemak Pak Nasser on the London bound Air Asia flight – simply awesome!

Moments to treasure

2009-08-08T00:45:00.003+01:00

That I lead a nomadic life every time I come home is not much of a surprise to anyone. To date, there are two suitcases and several plastic bags with snacks at Lilah's in Bangi, more carrier bags with books and gifts, a few change of clothes and a husband in Gombak and a bag at Ajie's with contents spilling on to the floor. I have a toothbrush and several small (err perhaps not so) things in a bag that I carry around with me. My mind vacillates from being here with Mak and three children and five cats in London, a daughter in Cairo and the hubby in Gombak. It is quite tiring actually: this mental and physical journey.

Two weeks have flown past and many a dish craved for in the cooler climes of London have been consumed, many moments spent with family members, friends old and new have been captured and stored in the hard drive of the memory to be savoured later. There are so many wonderful moments that I am struggling to write this entry as words failed me.

There are unforgettable moments with Mak. After the end of a long three-day seminar, I plonked myself on the sofa. She came several times to ask me where I was going to sleep. I signalled that I'd make my way upstairs soon. When I woke up, she had covered me with a blanket, and had taken the other sofa near me, sleeping peacefully, with me on one side and her youngest son, my brother, occupying the other sofa.

Alhamdulillah Mak is fine; except for her coughs that wake her up at nights and render her breathless at times. She is happiest on days that I spent lounging lazily in my kaftan in the front room. She repeatedly asks questions about the children, asks me to eat again and again even when she had seen me eating at the dinning table.

During one weekend when Lilah took her back to her house, I slept on the floor while she slept on the single bed. She got my beddings ready and we talked until I could hear her soft snores and light breathing. I rubbed her back and she said; "Now there's only skin and bones".

When she sees me packing my bags, or putting on my tudung, Mak would ask questions that a child would: where are you going?

One morning, I woke up late after a whole night of writing a long overdue piece for a magazine. I found her upset and almost in tears as she couldn't find me anywhere in the front room. She thought I had gone back to London without saying goodbye.

But all in all, I am happy that Mak is okay. She still has her wit about her and never loses any opportunity to tease or joke. Yesterday, as I was leaving to get my MYCard done, I told her that I was going to do my passport (It is easier to say passport than Mycard, I thought). She retorted, "Masa balik dulu tak dak paspot ka?"

The three day motivation seminar which I managed to squeeze in during this short trip inevitably managed to unearth a few deep-seated insecurities and touched raw nerves. There were moments of reflections, moments of self doubts and moments of realisations. But there was also a moment that I will always treasure. I caught sight of someone familiar in the crowd in the huge hall of PICC, approached her and didn't regret the bold move. There, on the second day of the seminar, I met up face to face with the lovely Ida Hariati. We sang the Chahaya Salawat in the darkened hall, holding hands and tears flowing freely down our cheeks and we prayed together in the surau .

Throughout the three day seminar, three wonderful young girls kept me company and offered me their friendship. I am most grateful to all of you, Mas, Lina and Sue. Let's keep in touch!

My homecomings are usually not complete without a reunion with my childhood friends but this time, something is definitely different and something is definitely missing. As fate would have it, the big C is taking its toll on my dear friend M. L is holidaying in Europe so there's only A and I making our rounds. No more meeting up at cafes and restaurants, or giggling and singing in carparks or the changing room. Our meetings are more sober in nature. M was too weak to leave the house. She was at times in pain and all we could do was hold her hand. There was a moment when I had to take refuge in the kitchen where I let out a huge sob so she couldn't hear me or see my tears. I remember those childhood years together - yes, we've had some wonderful moments. That evening we visited her, it was Nisfu Syaaban and we did the prayer together, led by my husband. After that, she expressed her wish to come out with us, just like the good old days.

It was all I could do to control my tears as both A and I helped her to the car and to Bangi Kopitiam. That she was in pain was quite obvious but she wanted this moment with us. The Café's catchword defined that moment for us: A Cup of Coffee with Friendship and Memories.

Another evening that is bound to remain forever with me is that evening at Lake Club. Thank you Puteri Kamaliah and Pak Abu for bringing together so many wonderful people. It was great meeting up with ex colleagues and newfound friends on the net. When we got home that night, courtesy of taxi driver MA with fellow passengers Iain and Anak SiHamid, we stayed up past our bedtime, still looking at the photos we had taken that evening. Thank you everyone.

Remember the entry on cringe moments? Well, I had one such moment that evening. Arriving at the venue, after the hug hug and kiss kiss with those already present, I sat myself down at the table, looked squarely at my companion's face and asked her, "Where's Puteri?"

That's the moment when I really wanted the floor to open up under me.

A note at one something...

2009-07-25T18:39:00.000+01:00

It is nearly a week since I left my sayang mamas at home. It is past one am and I am all alone in the lounge in Bangi, listening to Mak coughing softly and stirring in bed. Just chatted with Nona in London who has stomach pains, phoned Ena after reading about Yasmin Ahmad’s death in her blog (Al Fatehah) and sms’ed my husband who is also sleepless in Gombak.

My sleeping pattern is a bit haywire at the moment. Since arrival, I have been sleeping at odd hours; during conversations with siblings, during drives to shops and everywhere. My nights were spent finishing off some urgent work. When AG was here during the first few days, we raided the kitchen at night and YM’ed and skyped with the children.

It is strange, this feeling. I am home and yet not home. I enjoy the time I spend with my siblings and sibling in laws. We always have so much fun (and food) when we are together but there’s an emptiness somewhere. I am missing the sayang mamas – yes, those with the whiskers as well.

I have called home several times to see that everything is alright. Sayang mama number two is in Cairo and has called several times too.

We’ve not seen many friends since arrival but we have been to so many restaurants and gerais. To date, I’ve had soup perut, mee bandung, nasi kerabu, lontong, mee goreng, durians and more durians!

Alhamdulillah, Mak is alright. She is full of beans today as she had all her loved ones around her when everyone gathered for Azril’s farewell before he left for Geneva. She remembered everything and everyone.

Regular blogging with resume once my jetlag is gone and once I’m done with durian.

Another Goodbye

2009-07-08T14:19:00.005+01:00

"Kita jumpa lagi, ya," he said. "Yes", I said, sadly.

It seemed like a repeated scenario, only the main players are different.

Every time I see Encik Usop, he was handing out an envelope. There's our small community of friends, Niman and husband Zainal, officers from the High Commission, Malaysian Students Department, and a sprinkling of others; familiar faces. Alas these days we meet on more sombre occasions, but all giving support and sympathy in anyway we can.

Yesterday, braving the heavy rain, we arrived at No 4 Pinchin Street in east London, and I joined Ustazah, Niman, Zailah and the mother of arwah in the small room where they were giving arwah her last bath and preparing her body before she was laid to rest in the coffin.

It was my first time. But moments and experience like this are humbling moments that make you think that whoever you are, wherever you are, and whatever you do in this life, you still return to The Creator when your time is up. It is a reminder.

The sisters from Hj Taslim Funeral Services who helped with the bath expertly did their job, treating arwah with respect and utmost dignity. There were many other rooms, with similar tasks being performed, but most didn't have the support that young arwah had. I had mistakenly gone into one room where there was only a lone worker giving someone the final bath.

It is moments like this that reminds me of the closeknit community that we have here in London. It takes an sms, a phone call about a sickness or death, and everyone will make sure they are there to give support.

I heard about arwah's sudden illness three weeks ago. By then she was already in a coma; induced coma. She was here with her parents on holiday and they were about to go home when she was taken ill. She was rushed to the hospital and stayed there in ICU till the end. She was only 12.

It was Zainal, our bilal and his wife Niman, who told me about them. They kindly took charge, looking after the family, bringing food, lending a shoulder to cry on. When the word spread, many friends visited and gave support. We held tahlils and doa selamat sessions for her recovery but she lost the fight on 6th July at about 5 o'clock.

When news spread, we were there again on 7th floor of St Mary's hospital. Only three weeks ago, I believe, we were there when news arrived that Ustaz's mother in law had passed away suddenly, after a sightseeing tour in London. I remember on the train journey to White Chapel mosque, my husband reminding me again of the doas for solat jenazah. This time, as we made the journey to East London, I needed no reminder. In the small room next to where we had given arwah her bath, we did prayers for her.

It was just last April, the same familiar faces were at another hospital, another mortuary, another cemetery, burying a friend. Al Fatehah to all.

As the jenazah was driven away to the airport for the flight back to Malaysia, I reflected on what had happened in the past few months.

Over the past few months I have learnt quite a few things. Living abroad, especially, you need the support of people around you. It helps to be a member of the Kesatuan Khairat, with people like Encik Usop, ever ready to hand out a contribution in times when you most need help. You need people who knows the ropes, who to contact, what to do. Haji Taslim of East London Mosque Funeral Service is the most important contact point. After the necessary is carried out at the hospital, doctor's certificate, coroner's report, Haji Taslim takes over preparing the jenazah. The High Commission and the Students Department are here to offer help too, especially when it involves Malaysians who are here for a visit. Ustaz Erfino and his wife, who had recently suffered a personal loss, are always around to offer their help and services.

Over the years too, I have realised this help and cooperation is extended not only to members of the community. People who were at first strangers became firm friends as we share grief and sympathy.

As I write this, the jenazah is being flown back for the burial. To the family, please accept our deepest condolence and sympathy. Semoga Allah mencucuri rahmat ke atas arwahnya dan ditempatkan bersama mereka yang beriman. Al Fatehah.

This is a blog entry by Ustaz Erfino: Al Fatihah to Adik Hanis Suraya

Note to self ....Not yet!

2009-07-05T17:32:00.008+01:00

The surrounding, the ambience at the Radisson Hotel where the award ceremony was held was a far cry from the sea front where sea gulls squawked as they circled gracefully over the famed white cliffs of Dover. Just over twenty hours before, we were running along boats berthing at the Dover Marina. The air had turned chilly and I only had a thin cotton blouse that I had won on both days there. I was cold and looked quite a sight. But for the gala dinner at Radisson Hotel, I had to make an effort. Even then, it was an effort keeping awake and trying not to fall flat on to the plate of grilled cutlets before me.

Had I fallen flat on to the plate, I would have been news. But I didn’t. But I was so tired that I didn’t mind resting my head on the table, surrounded by bankers and financiers talking about sukuk and shariat compliant thingies. My head was still full of seagulls, sea breeze, waves lapping the sea front, and most vivid of all, the sorry sight of Zahra, my namesake, limping out of her boat after a futile, albeit brave effort to swim the Channel.

She had braved twelve hours in the cold waters, fighting the currents; she had crossed the French territory but not before strong waves forced her towards Holland; a long way away from her destination.

I was in the kitchen of the caravan in Varne Ridge, preparing fried noodles, when Lis got the sms from the pilot boat that Zahra had been persuaded to give up. I wasn’t totally surprised that she had to be persuaded because Zahra is one plucky lass. She wanted to do the whole length, she wanted to feel the sandy beach of Calais on her feet and reach the destination reached by so many before her. But she didn’t and she couldn’t…not yet.

The caravan site at Varne Ridge

The noodles I prepared were for the group that accompanied her on the pilot boat. They must be famished after more than twelve hours on the boat. Then they were also her siblings and many more who had come to give support. I felt, I needed to do so – after all the caravan with the small kitchen had been ours for the day. We nipped into Asda to get the necessary things. Before that we had a tough time searching for internet cafes to send our stories. We found one in Folkstone but then again my ftp was interrupted a few times and I almost gave up.

Doa selamat for Zahra

The night before, we arrived Dover at almost midnight. Encik Arof, Zahra’s coach fetched us and took us to our caravan. Zahra had gone to sleep in her caravan. She needed the strength and the energy to see her through. I couldn’t sleep and had to catch up with some other work. At about 3am, there was a knock on my door – a party from London had arrived. The guests were from the Malaysian High Commission and the Malaysian Students Department. I played host and made them tea, while we waited for Zahra and her family to get ready. After subuh, we gathered outside the caravan and after a brief doa selamat, we left for Dover Marina.

Zahra was initially and understandably nervous. When we reached the Marina, her mother took her aside and mother and daughter had a few quiet moment together. That seemed to work and we saw a more confident and cheerful Zahra.

I hugged her a few times before she boarded the small boat. With her was her father, her coach, the pilot and observer from The Channel Swimmers and Piloting Federation, a cameraman and Qabbin from Kelab Ekspedisi Ekstrim 7 Benua. We gave her a quiet send off. It was too early in the morning to be shouting Malaysia Boleh.

The view at Samphire Hoe

We then rushed to Samphire Hoe “one of the few places that you can truly appreciate the drama of the White Cliffs”. That is also the place where we hoped to catch a glimpse of the boat and Zahra making her swim. Well, just about.

After more than half an hour, I realised I was looking at the wrong boat!

Zahra, we were told started the swim at 0607 on 1st July 2009 from Shakespeare Beach.

Our work had just begun. And without any sleep and without internet connection, it proved to be a long day.

A drive to Folkstone and I found myself at Starbuck café and after three top ups, managed to send my stories. By then I was beginning to feel that I am much too old to be doing this. I felt really exhausted and tired. I have done my time, I've had my fair share of innings. But for now, I know I had just enough energy to cook. I wanted to cook for Zahra for when she returned. Then perhaps I will hang up my laptop and let it go to sleep.

We were told that she stopped the swim at 6.20 in the evening. When I saw the boat turning to berth, I caught sight of Zahra underneath piles of blankets. She looked sunburnt and tired. My heart went out to her.

Zahra on arrival

She had to be helped out of the boat and arms linked, I walked her back to the car.

She repeated many times that she could have made it. Tears ran down her cheeks, and mine. More tears ran down my cheeks when I saw the video recordings of Taib Suhut, who captured the moment she was persuaded to give up. As Paul the pilot cajoled her, Zahra waved frantically, signalling that she wanted to go on.

Paul said, “ You have done very well. The channel will always be here for you.”

Zahra tried to climb up. Then her legs gave in and she fell back into the water. The waves were quite high. Once on board, she was inconsolable. She felt she had let her supporters and sponsors down.

Zahra had done 12 hours in the water; with strong currents and high waves. The day before, three swimmers had given up in lesser time. I know I will see Zahra again. I will wait for her return to conquer the Channel, Insyaallah.

I spoke to her the next morning. She was chirpy and back to her old self. She had also eaten the mee goreng, before going back to have a swim at the harbour. Zahra is not about to give up.

Posing while waiting...

Maybe this Zaharah too shouldnt give up... not yet.

All the best Zahra and Godspeed!

2009-06-30T17:44:00.008+01:00

She stood on top of the famous white cliff of Dover, her eyes looking across the vast volume of water, trying to make out her destination. The lighthouse of Calais was not visible due to the haze at that time of the evening, but she knew that when it appears in the horizon as she makes the solo marathon swim tomorrow, it will be a welcome sight. And when her feet touches the sand, she will know that she has made it.

Zahra Masoumah is a young lass, barely eighteen but her determination to conquer the Channel following the strides of Malik and Lennard Lee, is almost single minded, almost unshakeable.

The water, she admits, is cold and there were nights when she stayed up worrying whether she could make it. The distance she can handle. From Shakespeare Beach, where Malik and Lennard began their swim, to Calais is roughly about 35 km. She had done 45 kilometers before, but in warmer waters, and in more familiar surroundings. But the currents can be cruel. I had personally seen Malik struggling, with success, against strong currents, when he was swimming in Lake Zurich. I was accompanying him in a boat (not a swimmer myself) and for almost three hours, I swear, he was in the same spot. The currents kept pushing him back to the same place.

My visit to see the family in Dover last week was almost a deja vous. I remember the trips in 2003, everytime it was announced that Malik was going to make the swim. And then, several times the swim was aborted due to bad weather.

We received news yesterday that Zahra is to swim at 5am on 1 July. And Insyaallah, she will make it.

Home for Zahra and her family for the past one month is a three bedroom caravan at a beautiful caravan site, Varne Ridge, overlooking the Channel. It had also been home to hundreds of cross channel swimmers from all over the world, among them, Lennard.

When I arrived, Zahra and her sister, also Zahra, were helping their mother make jemput-jemput for afternoon tea. The boys, being boys, were running up and down, enjoying the unusual sunshine. The smell of jemput-jemput in the frying pan, the squeels of laughter from the boys and the heat – its almost like Malaysia. But it is not. Just several meters away, is the vast volume of water where Zahra will spend a good part of the day tomorrow, swimming with all her might.

Unlike Malik, her swim will start at 5 am. If we can make it to Shakespeare Beach, we can witness the start as she jumps off the boat, swim to the 400 meters away from the shore and start her feat when she hears or sees the signal.

I was at Shakespeare Beach in 2003, at one am to be exact. The area leading down to the beach is private property but somehow, we got permission and thus made our way down to the beach, in pitch darkness. The white cliff of Dover stood hovering menacingly. The doves and seagulls were nowhere to be seen. It was eerily quiet, except of course, when the early morning was broken by shouts of Malaysia Boleh by the Malik’s handful supporters.

But what I remember too well is also the sandflies. As soon as my cameraman switched on the lights and the camera, they came in thousands, if not millions.

But another sight that remained with me until now is the appearance of three small boats in the dark. Then Malik jumped. Three hoots and away he went; soon he was just a dot bobbing up and down in the waters.

Insyaallah, I will wait at Dover Harbour for news of her success, and I will wait there too for her return. For now, let us wish Zahra all the best in her endeavour. May Allah keep her safe all the way and back.

Remembering Pak

2009-06-21T15:55:00.005+01:00

The aroma of the curve cut tobacco, war time stories, tokohoon plasters and fighting over newspapers to do crossword puzzles always remind me of Pak. A kind, generous man until he died. Today I remember Pak and I remember the song Sri Mersing that he wanted us to buy from the record shop down the road, but we never did.
Here, Kak Teh remembers Pak.

A wife’s gotta do what a wife’s gotta do

2009-06-21T03:38:00.005+01:00

It has been a long time since I wrote anything GUiT. But the time has come for me to do my wifely duties and write things GUiT again.

I vividly remember the day we received the news that GUiT was finally going to be published. To say that I was more overjoyed and over the moon compared to the writer is not far from the truth. I was ecstatic. Deliriously so. He, being the man he is, was more composed, allowing only a smile and later broke into a brief jig around the room with the children. But that is him.

The day the books arrived, hot from the printers in Singapore, we were again overjoyed; my smile never left my face and for months it ached because I was/is that proud of my Awang Goneng.

We had the books delivered for the soft launch at the Royal Asiatic Society in London and I took to bringing five to ten books with me in my huge bag, the writer himself not suspecting anything. People I met at functions, press conferences and even from across the road, were targeted as possible buyers and readers of GUiT.

Take this for example: an interview with the then Foreign Minister. When I finished the interview, I boldly said: Can I interest you in a book written by my husband?

Of course he was interested, for he himself writes books and later congratulated AG personally.

Then there was the time we went to the bank and I saw a familiar face at the till. He was from the former cabinet, in charge of Finance. Once it was confirmed it was him, I said my salam and had small chats. AG began retreating in the background suspecting that any minute then, Iwas going to whip out GUiT to the unsuspecting former minister. And of course I did.

By then I was resigned to the fact that my husband only wanted to write the book and keep them all locked up in his cupboard. He'd shy away from any GUiT talk so much so I had to be the spokesperson, the salesperson and the pr all in one.

He worries that people might not find it interesting; a book he wrote only for his children, about his growing up years in a small town in Trengganu. About the Trengganu still alive in his memories. But I knew better.

I was on assignment in Paris two years ago. And then I decided to return the generosity of our Culture Minster who had kindly given me his book. So, I signed a book on AG's behalf and sent it through his officer. Within a week, I received orders for 500 books, and much later 500 more.

And there were many more. I took some books to a seminar in Liverpool and I believe I sold more books than the book stall outside the conference room.

So, imagine my shock when I read that in Malaysia the books were not selling and people couldn't find it anywhere. So, I went back, initially to attend the launch of the book alone in Singapore as the writer himself felt that he couldn't/wouldn't make the journey. (But later, I somehow twisted anything twistable, and he relented and came along).

My first few days in KL, I went around the bookshops and I couldn't find GUiT anywhere - not in MPH, Kino or anywhere. I was devastated. Those I found were sandwiched between Dina Zaman's I am Muslim and Lydia Teh's Life's Like That. Or hidden behind mountains of Samy Velloos!

So, it was then that I decided that I had to do something. There's no limit to a wifely duty. I approached a manager at a bookshop, explained my predicament, my frustrations. My husband, had he been there would have fainted with embarrassment. But, the manager, bless him, saw the book, believed in its potential and made just one phonecall that within one week saw GUiT in the best sellers list.

It was less hard work after that, though I still carry a copy or two in my bag these days.

The reason I am doing this promotion again is simple; GUiT has been shortlisted for the Popular-Star Readers Choice Awards 2009 for non fiction. Here's the list:

Yvonne Lee - Vanity Drive: The Vagaries of Women's Vanity
Sheik Mustapha Shukor Al-Masrie - Reach for the Stars
Adeline Loh - Peeing in the Bush
Adibah Amin - Glimpses : Cameos of Malaysian Lives
Paddy Bowie - Datuk Teh Hong Pow : Banking Thoroughbred
Kee Thuan Chye : March 8: The Day Malaysia Woke Up
Tun Mahathir & Tan Sri Abdullah Ahmad - Dr. Mahathir's Letters to World Leaders
Rustam A. Sani - Failed Nation? Concerns of a Malaysian Nationalist
Amir Muhammad - New Malaysian Essays 1
Awang Goneng - Growing Up in Terengganu

According to Sharon Bakar: Voting will be once again via the Star's Reads Monthly Supplement. The bookstore is organising promotions of the books and from June onwards, customers that visit POPULAR outlets will get 20% discount when they buy any of the nominated books. The winner will be announced at Bookfest @ Malaysia 2009.

So, if you've not read GuiT, give t a try. Below are just some of you who helped make GUiT a success!! Thank you!!!

.

And AG, Happy Father's Day!!!

Horrible Week

2009-06-17T05:12:00.008+01:00

Let me complete the trilogy; Lousy Week by Puteri Kamaliah, Crazy Week by Kay_Leeda and now Horrible Week by Kak Teh.

It has indeed been a horrible week for me; one that saw me almost holed up in my room, most of the time cutting myself off from the outside world. Summer has come back with a vengeance to London and perhaps to the whole of UK. And with summer comes the dreaded pollen. While people are out there enjoying the sunshine, I try to keep away in the shade and as far as possible from flowers and plants.

Even when I go out, these sweet smelling flowers peer out of hedges and bushes to sneer at me; they taunt me and tease me until I sneeze my lungs out. I try to avoid them, but at every turn, at every corner, they are there waiting to ambush my nostrils with thousands if not trillions of these invisible enemies of mine.

I have been such a wretched soul; going around bleary eyed and nose as red as Rudolf’s. I try to stifle a sneeze especially in crowded tubes and lifts in case I cause a panic rush, considering that swine flu is making the headlines these days. I am considering wearing a mask, with “hayfever not swine flu” written across it. My cheap fake sunglasses from the marketplace in Seamreap has been most useful.

A few days ago, just when I thought the air was clear, I made my way to the Royal Albert Hall to see Kakak and adik – talented and beautiful children of blogger Atok and his wife, Hezel, who are in the musical The King and I at The Royal Albert Hall. Throughout the show, I prayed hard not to sneeze right onto the head of the person sitting right in front of me. There were some very tense moments when all was quiet and my throat started tickling so badly and the more I tried not to cough, the worse t became till tears started rolling down my cheeks. It was that bad!

It was such a wonderful musical, especially as it was adik’s debut. Adik or Sofea had always been in the sideline waiting for kakak’s auditions and rehearsals. But her patience paid off when she too was offered a part to be one of the King’s youngest daughters. And she is such a natural!

Sarah and Sofea with Lost actor Daniel Dae Kim who plays the King of Siam at RAH

My hayfever became so bad that evening, so much so I had to give away my invite to the reception at the end of the show that evening. Thus I missed my chance to meet up with Lost actor Daniel Dae Kim, but kakak and adik took pictures with him.

Kakak and adik and another talented Malaysian actor Samantha Tan are following the footsteps of other Malaysian actors such as Sean Ghazi and Ungku Jalil who took part in The King and I when it was playing in the West End some years ago.

I did an interview with kakak, her mum and also Samantha for the community radio, nusoundradio. Click below if you want to listen to my oh so nasal voice.

The next day, we were invited to a friend’s house and while everyone was enjoying her beautiful garden, I kept myself indoors. Feeling self pity setting in, I stuffed my face with lots and lots of strawberries and double cream. So, while the sun is out, I will try to stay in. Yes, it has been such a horrible week, apart from that wonderful evening at the Royal Albert Hall and the strawberries at Annabel’s.

Of meetings with Pak Zawi, Tunku Halim and Anak Si Hamid

2009-06-11T11:46:00.012+01:00

The longer I procrastinate the harder it becomes to start writing again. I have not been far away from the blog world; I’d look in and read some of my favourite blogs and see what they are up to and then retreat to a safe distance where I can concentrate on some other work. Since the trip to Europe, I haven’t been too well either. It is summer and summer’s never kind to me.

Anyway, suffice to say, I am quite busy this time of the year and I am trying my level best to finish off some work so that I can then find a ticket to go home. I need to go home.

Wokay, let me sum up what I’ve been up to recently. I’ve been meeting a lot of blogger friends, actually. London is full of Malaysians; coachloads and coachloads of Malaysians in and around London, helping to prop up the British economy! And I am not complaining as the sterling is getting stronger.

With Pak Zawi and Wife
Last week, we had the pleasant company of P ak Zawi and his wife. They were among the coachloads of Malaysians who were touring Europe. We met up at Malaysia Hall and Pak Zawi is kind enough to give me some pictures that we took together. My camera and my phone gave up on me and I had to rely on Pak Zawi’s camera.
Read about his tour here.

Just before Pak Zawi and co, we met up with Tunku Halim who came all the way from Tasmania with his family. He brought with him his new book: History of Malaysia, A Children’s Encyclopedia. This is one book I had been looking for to give my children. It is beautifully done too and with this encyclopedia, Tunku is now a publisher! He very kindly paid for our dinner and after that I took the opportunity to interview him. And this is the result of the interview. I have been experimenting with podcasting and I had always wanted to bring a new dimension to this blog. This is Kak Teh in conversation with Tunku Halim – do excuse the very nasal sound – I am still all bunged up with hayfever.
I've got my podbean blog here: Kak Teh's Talk Show
or click here: Kak Teh in Conversation with Tunku Halim

Powered by Podbean.com
(L)Kak Teh in Conversation with Tunku Halim and (R)History of Malaysia,: A Children's Encyclopedia

By the way, Tunku Halim is on the way back to Malaysia this very minute and he will be talking about his new book and about self publishing on 14th June – 2-3 pm at MPH Midvalley and 4-5 pm at The Curve. Catch up with him there!

And oh, oh, oh, guess who else I met last week? I was so excited when I received an email from a blogger that she and her husband were coming to London. We agreed to meet up as we needed to exchange a few things. They turned up early and we were fashionably late!

But all was well in the end and when we fell into each other’s arms, it was as if we had known each other for a long time. Yes, Anak SiOthman finally met up with Anak SiHamid! And Awang Goneng got on famously with Iain Buchanan who wrote and beautifully illustrated Fatimah’s Kampung. My next radio programme will certainly be Kak Teh in Conversation with Iain Buchanan! I just love Iain's drawings, but more about that later!

(L)Anak SiHamid and Anak SiOthman and (R)When Awang Meets Iain Buchanan

It was just a short meeting but we managed rice with asam pedas and masak lemak ayam and teh tarik and cucur badak and Early Grey tea in two sittings, before they went off to catch the coach back to Leicester. We promise that the next meeting would be in Leceister and thanks Rocky Bru for bringing us together.

So, that’s it – and I hope it wont be too long before I write again. As I am writing this, my other half is making treks to meet up with blogger Mat Salo, who is also in town. This is the second day of the tube strike and I decided to stay at home and wait for my sayang mama to come back and tell me about his History paper.

So, there and phew!

ps. a few months earlier, met up with blogger Dr Bubbles and Kenny Mah and Sharon Bakar, and next month, there are more bloggers heading this way!

A Walkabout in Paris

2009-05-31T13:55:00.007+01:00

Paris is not a place to walk around in a pair of tattered old shoes with no brandname. But around Paris I did, acutely aware that the heels which started giving problems in Amsterdam were going to make a hasty departure in Paris. But the heels clung on to dear life throughout my trip. In fact, it survived the vineyards of Bouzy and made it with aplomb at poco-poco in Paris.

Inching along Champs-Élysées, a five minute walk from our cosy little hotel, in search of a decent bite, brandnames upon brandnames jumped up at me. It is not a place to be if you can’t pronounce, never mind afford the LVs, the Chanels or Christian Dior , Christian Lacroix, Yves Saint Laurent, and Van Cleef & Arpels, to name but a few.

It was an unusually warm afternoon in Paris and in fact the whole of Europe was bathed in sunshine, so out came my sunglasses; a five-dollar fake something from a marketplace in Siem Reap. Through the tinted glasses, I could see that almost everyone was carrying an LV, the way people carry the Primark carrier bags here. I was again acutely aware of the bag with no name, clinging faithfully on my shoulder.

The Parisians, I must say, have style. They are chic from top to bottom.

We made our way to Notre Dame near the Latin Quarter and the famous Shakespeare’s Bookshop. It has always been my favourite eating place but we dilly-dallied, taking in the promise of sales from the shop windows, mentally working out Euros in pound sterling until the sun disappeared from the horizon and rendered the Arc de Triomphe even more majestic at night.

Notre Dame is magically transformed at dusk; the lighting does wonders to the Parisian sky, reflected in the Seine as cruise boats ply the tourists to take in the sights of the French capital. Lovers at street corners, on benches and along the bridge swayed and cuddled to the beat of African drums from the sidewalk.

From the 388 eateries offering kebabs to sushis and seafood galore, we found a halal Moroccan with couscous and chicken tagine. The place was indeed a tourist attraction, and if there was anything to learn about tourist attractions, this is the place to see and learn. There is no use opening up big restaurants where there’s no character and no soul.

That night, almost midnight, we decided to walk back until our legs could no longer carry us. But before we gave in to hailing a taxi, we took in Paris by night, stopping to admire the bridges and the Baroque architecture. Cutting across the park, with its numerous statues, we were mesmerised by Eiffel Tower in the distance, which started shimmering against the summer sky. It was quite a sight that halted the treks of most walkers; whipping out their cameras to capture the moment. Alas, for amateur photographer like me, Eiffel Tower emerged a big white blob. Apparently the Eiffel Tower light show lasts for ten minutes every hour and we caught it just before midnight.

Here's one I got online:

The Eiffel Tower Light Show

Suffice to say, this trip took me to several places I had never been before such as the magnificient Chateau de Versailles or The Palace of Versailles to see its beautiful gardens. There were miles and miles of queues from every direction. And then there was Jardin du Luxembourg, a garden populated with statues and a large lake for sailing model boats. Apparently these model boats are not remotely controlled and are modelled on the original boats that sailed with the power of the wind.

Crouching Tiger Actress + Famous Shoe Designer = Malaysis's Got Talents

As if to put a perfect end to a very interesting trip, the bonus on the last day was a meeting with Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon actress, Michelle Yeoh. The jet setting actress had just returned from the Cannes Festival, before setting off again to Hong Kong, or was it China and then back to Malaysia for a documentary. And not a bag under those famous eyes.

A Charlie's Angels Remake? In front of Versaille
Note to self: Time I get meself a new pair of shoes and perhaps a more effective eye gel.

Kak Teh's other adventures in Paris:
To Paris with a Mission

She stops to smell the flowers

2009-05-28T08:14:00.006+01:00

Hi all, this is an article that appeared in my column today.

The quiet Sunday afternoon in the French town of Bouzy, with its undulating hills and miles and miles of vineyards, was suddenly broken by the upbeat sound of Malay joget. Behind the closed gates, guests; French and Malaysians alike, were up on their feet doing the steps. The hostess, a pleasant French woman with her newly acquired Malaysian batik scarf around her waist, was already learning the routine, never before seen in this part of the world.

That she was already doing the steps, just minutes after serving freshly made strawberry tart to her Malaysian guests, was testimonial to the fact that she had had a good teacher. Taking her by the hand was Malaysia’s very own Tourism Minister, Dato Sri Dr Ng Yen Yen who does not believe in wasting any time when she said she wanted to bring Malaysia to the people of France. In fact, she said she wanted to bring Malaysia to the small towns of France, Holland and Britain. Bouzy, famous for its champagne, was a good start.

Dr Ng was on her last leg of promoting Malaysia across cities in the continent and Britain; twelve gruelling programme packed days that saw her reaching out to the local tour operators, singing Rasa Sayang during a boat ride along the canal of Amsterdam, luring the British to retire in luxury in exotic Malaysia and extolling the beauty of eco tourism to the French.

I work hard and I play hard, she admits, working people around her to a frenzy and at the same time, rewarding them with her gracious smile and compliments at the end of a trying day.

Being on the road with her, not once seeing her succumb to lethargy that we lesser beings are subjected to, reminded me of trips with Tun M when he was Prime Minister. At the end of a long exhausting official trip to Hungary, he turned to face the press pack which was beginning to look like the war injured, and asked: Aren’t you all tired?

Only a small lone voice at the end of the room managed to give a meek answer: If the prime minister is not tired, we can’t afford to be tired.

On the last night of her official stay in Paris, Dr Ng hosted a dinner to thank those who made her visit a success. Looking chic in a shimmering short, white jacket that would make any French couture leap out and exclaim Oooh la la, and not a strand of hair out of place, the 63 year old minister had all of us gasp in amazement. Sporting bags under my eyes and wilting under the unusually hot French sun, I couldn’t help but envy her boundless energy and relentless enthusiasm – be it at work or play.

Like Tun M, Dr Ng is a medical doctor and they both know how to look after themselves and without fail look fresh whatever the circumstances. And whatever it is that they have in their supplement box, is certainly missing from the supply of supplements that my other half usually wrap carefully in foils for my journey.

“A breath of fresh air” was the murmur around the room when she finished her off the cuff presentation on Malaysia, “unpredictable and unconventional” were the whispers when she interrupted traditional dance performance to explain further the finer points of the Malaysian songket but all in all, almost everyone was smitten by Malaysia’s new Tourism Minister.

The crowd of tour operators in the opulent surrounding of Hyatt Regency Churchill conference room fell silent as she strode in cutting an impressive and fine figure in her modern yellow silk batik kebaya; the same one that she wore in Amsterdam. That she would appear in the same kebaya didn’t faze her one bit because that was simply not important; a trivial matter for someone who was more concerned about what she was going to deliver and not what she was going to deliver it in.

Throughout the trip, it was evident that Dr Ng was at her elements when surrounded by flowers and plants in the gardens of Kuekenhof, the Chelsea Flower Show and Kew Gardens. It is her vision to make the gardens of Malaysia a tourism product.

“My husband said that I am like a child in a toy shop,” she said as we walked out of the tulip gardens that brought in 800,000 visitors from all over the world. Dr Chin Chee Sue, the unassuming albeit significant other half of the minister was always by her side; helping to carry her bag, taking her pictures and smoothing the crease of her jacket when the need arose. The strides she took are long and fast as she walked among the beautiful geraniums and lilies and tulips. And just when we thought we couldn’t catch up with her, she stopped to smell the flowers.

Apologies with a thousand tulips...

2009-05-19T09:45:00.002+01:00

Can you spot the rare tulip?

Langkah Kanan Moments

2009-05-12T11:34:00.010+01:00

I am sure there’s a lot of wisdom and truth in the practise of doing everything with the right limbs. From pointing to eating and writing, we use our right hands. I remember the slap on the wrist, or a pinch on the thigh, albeit discreetly, each time as a child I handed over something using my left hand.

Walking out of the house and starting out on a journey, the same theory applies. We walk out with the right leg first and say some prayers to accompany us on our journey, even if it is to Mr Patel’s down the road.

Karim Raslan in conversation with Tash Aw

Last Thursday, we sauntered out into the warm summer night, after a fulfilling evening with Tash Aw at the launch of his book “Map of the Invisible World”. He was in conversation with the ever so charming Karim Raslan. Our appetite was much whetted up by the discussion and we were ready for a meal.

There was Sharon Bakar, back in London for a holiday and some work, her li'l sister Therese and another blogger friend Fiona. We chatted so much that we must have forgotten which leg got out of the Asia House building first.

Ruth Rollit, Sharon and Therese

But out we went anyway, walking along New Cavendish Street, off Oxford Street, long after office workers and late night shoppers had gone home. We wanted a bite and extra time to catch up. Sharon has become so Malaysian after more than 25 years there that food is also permanently on her mind, even after the scrumptious currypuffs and springrolls on offer during the book signing.

Anyway, like I said, off we went, left and right or was it right and left. The conversation then centred on where to eat. Therese said she saw a Malaysian restaurant along the street, down the road. I heard the mention of the name Selera and I was delighted as I knew of its impending opening. So, off we went, giggling like schoolgirls being allowed out in the evening.

When we got there, the lights in the restaurant were already dimmed. Sharon and Therese knocked and a gentleman, doing some work near the counter turned around and mouthed the message “Opening on Monday”. We were disheartened. But I decided to try my luck and knocked and waved like a crazy woman for Encik Hafiz, for that was the person near the counter, to notice me. And voila, he did and he broke into a smile and beckoned all of us in.

Selera, he said would be opened on Monday – (last Monday) but come in anyway. He ordered some fried noodles and fried chicken wings. Imagine, we were there for the soft launch! And talk about langkah kanan!

Fiona, Encik Hafiz and Sharon Bakar

We got talking about this and that, Sharon’s husband being Malaysian and Hafiz’s wife being British, meant that there was some common grounds to cover, apart from food . When the wings were all demolished and the remainder of the noodles packed to be taken away, Hafiz casually asked Sharon where she lives in Malaysia. She mentioned a place, Hafiz exclaimed a name and Sharon gave a scream and went red! Talk about six degrees of separation! Langkah kanan brought them to the one person both had known all their lives. Sharon’s husband was Hafiz’s friend since Primary Two and ex MCKK to boot!

So more giggles on the way out until we said goodbye to Sharon and Therese going back to Harrow. Fiona and I made treks to Bond Street station talking about this and that. She asked that one question, “Where do you live?” I mentioned a place and she said, “Well, I stayed there when I first arrived,” and went on to describe the place.

More screams and shouts of disbelief! Fiona actually stayed in a house whose garden is back to back with mine! Langkah kanan? Yes, I think we all sauntered out of Asia House that evening with our best right leg first.

Any langkah kanan moments to share with me?

UPDATE:

SELERA RESTAURANT is now open
Address: 19 New Cavendish Street.
Nearest Tube station is Oxford Circus/Bond Street.

Selamat Hari Ibu, Mak!

2009-05-10T00:29:00.005+01:00

Mak opened the cupboard to take her selendang and from where I stood, I was rendered breathless by the wonderful scent of jasmine flowers that Mak picked from Tok’s garden to scatter amongst her clothes. And from the layers of neatly folded kebayas and baju Kedah, she took a pinkish, round container which held all her precious possessions. She picked one item and put it in a handkerchief and wrapped it carefully and placed it in her handbag.

“Mak nak pi mana?” I asked, afraid to be left behind.

“Pi ginjat,” said Mak with a knowing smile.

Mak’s ginjat activities were quite well known amongst us siblings. She usually did it some time in the middle of the month, when Hari Raya was near or when there were kenduris to attend. It was not something to be embarrassed about anymore. It was almost a necessity.

Even in the high heels that she bought from Lorong Sempit on the way to Pekan Rabu, Mak was still pint sized. So, she still needed to ginjat to hand over her precious belongings; a diamond ring, the long gold necklace or perhaps the strands of bracelets, through the iron bars, in exchange for some cash much needed, perhaps to pay for our school fees or to buy our school uniforms.

In exchange, she was given a piece of paper with lots of Chinese characters, which told her to return at a certain date, with certain rates of interest that she had to pay. That slip of paper she folded neatly and put in her handbag again.

We never questioned why Mak had to do what she did. We always had food on the table and nice clothes to wear. But sometimes, just sometimes, we’d be short of money and Mak had to make that trip to town. Pak’s pay as a clerk at the land office wasn’t much, and later his pension saw to it that we had just about enough of everything. Pak was never one to save. He’d treat us to anything that we wanted, and then when there’s nothing left, we’d have to wait until his next pay. So, in the meanwhile, Mak had to ginjat.

Other then that Mak made kuehs. Early in the mornings, Mamak Ghani would knock on the door to collect the kuehs and placed them in his baskets before making his rounds in the neighbourhood. One morning, I remember, Mak was still in her telekung, giving her salam when Ghani came. She grabbed the trays of kuehs and made for the door, the kitchen lights shining behind her. She must have looked quite a sight in her telekung at that hour of the morning for Ghani left his baskets and ran off for dear life. We had a good laugh when Mak told us what happened and Ghani never heard the end of the story after that and I bet he repeated the story to his family when he finally left for India.

Where Mak got her strength from, no one knows. After making the kuehs, she’d turn her attention to the bales of cloths at the sewing machine. She was the local seamstress, just like Tok, and both mother and daughter were known for their fine stitchings and even finer tulang belud. The income from making baju kurung would increase during raya time and these were spent on new curtains and perhaps her new set of crockeries. She’d buy us raya clothes with money Pak gave but most of the time our clothes were never quite finished as she was always busy finishing other people’s clothes.

Mak did try a hand at selling clothes and kain batiks that she bought at Pekan Rabu, but business acumen was somewhat lacking in our family. Tok, who during her younger days did just that, didn’t quite like it when Mak went selling kain batik. Once I heard her say to Mak, “Amboih, pi dengan matahari balik dengan bulan,” and Mak didn’t like that but Mak wasn’t the sort of daughter to reply back. She just bit her tongue and kept quiet. Even when Tok was fussy and very frail and couldn’t move, suffering from bedsores, Mak was very patient with Tok. She was her only child. When Tok scratched off clumps of flesh from her back, Mak was forced to take desperate measures.

“Yun minta ampun minta maaf, Mak,” she’d say every night as she tied Tok’s hands before she went to sleep. Tok would look at her with pleading eyes, like a child. But Mak had to be cruel to be kind. To not tie Tok’s hands, there’d be clumps of flesh on the mattress in the morning, with fresh sores where Tok had scratched herself.

Mak was never tired of looking after Tok, her Mak. When Tok got too cranky, Mak went for walks to Pekan Rabu, or Lorong Sempit. Or if it got worse, she went to Kuala Lumpur to stay with Kak to release her tension. But she never spoke back in anger to Tok. When she came back, she came back a better daughter.

As a mother and as a daughter, Mak sacrificed a lot. This one day of Mother’s Day is not enough for all that she had done, for all that she had given. Nevertheless, Selamat Hari Ibu, Mak. Your children will make sure you will never have to ginjat ever again!!

Happy Mother's Day to all Mothers for their undivided love and sacrifices.

Happy Birthday, Sayang Mama!

2009-05-08T14:15:00.002+01:00

A Blast on a Birthday

2009-05-04T13:21:00.005+01:00

It was supposed to be a quiet birthday celebration together, just the two of us. A whole day enjoying the spring Monday Bank Holiday of 1980; the first time I celebrated the birthday of my husband of a few months. It was a beautiful day but we chose to remain indoors, perhaps a quiet dinner later at Khans of Bayswater or El Efez, our two favourite haunts.

In spite of the hustle bustle outside the window; the whole world walking in droves towards the park, we refused to budge and sat lazily on the sofa watching what must have been a John Wayne movie. And then, it happened. First the programme was interrupted to show developments on the events that had the world glued to the TV for the past few days. It was to be the latest on the siege of the Iranian embassy in Princes Gate, across the park from where we were.

On 30th April 1980, a six-man team of the Democratic Revolutionary Movement for the Liberation of Arabistan (DRMLA), took over the embassy, taking 26 hostages; staff and people who had gone there to get visas to travel. They killed a hostage and threw the body outside the building,

This was my first taste of terrorism, bomb blasts and security alerts; with more to come.

On the screen, several men (SAS) were seen on the balcony of the building and before too long, we heard what seemed like a distant thunder; both on screen and from outside the window. It was real drama unfolding almost at our doorsteps. It was scary. We looked outside the window and people stopped in their tracks and were looking at the black smoke billowing from across the park. Within a few minutes, five gunmen were killed and 19 hostages were saved.

Yes, I still remember the evening of 5th May 1980. London, or rather the UK has always been a playing field, fertile grounds for foreign terrorist groups or freedom fighters, depending on how you see it.
Tomorrow, 29 years on, we are hoping for a quiet celebration, with four children and five cats.

Happy Birthday AG and thank you.

I feel a syaer coming but that will have to wait.

The one I prepared earlier:
Syaer untuk Sang Suami