WHAT WE NEED TO KNOW ABOUT MEN

A lone bull swaggered towards a small pack of musk oxens. The fight of intimidation had begun. They glared. The younger one pacing back and forth, swinging it's head, testing his chances. The old bull feeling threatened pawed the ground. His position as the alpha male was at stake. But he would fight to the end.

Like men. Like alpha men. And it was only when I married, ate and slept with a man and had more sons than daughters did I begin to grasp a deeper understanding of the beast mentality. I found it wondrous in its primitiveness, its wildness, its beastliness and most of the time I would be flabbergasted. At times I would be stunned into a subservient silence.

My early introduction to men's minds was of course gleaned from my father. He loved cars that looked masculine. Like the Valiant. Or the Ford Cortina. Being overtaken was one of his pet peeves. He would turn dark and fume silently. And I knew exactly what would happen next. He would step on the accelerator, the car would speed up and finally he would be Overtaker. I could almost feel the vibrating strings of satisfaction drifting in the air. As a teenager I was mostly bewildered by such a display of childish competitiveness by my father. The working of men's minds were completely beyond me. They were alien.

Then I watched my sons fight opponents in the ring. Their karate keikogi snapping sharply with each kick or punch. Sweating, soaked, each intimidating the other, each psyching the other, each glaring, occasionally stamping their feet or pawing with their fists, each strategizing their next move. Like musk oxen bulls. But when the final score was on their side my heart swelled. "Them, my friends, are my alpha sons!" my mind would shout, my head would nod and my fist would punch an imaginary sand bag. Short of thumping a hairy chest I was for that very moment quite the man. My alpha husband would be close to the ring. Stamping and roaring like a triumphant bull.  But in the secret pocket of my woman heart I am thankful that theirs is a fighting sport that is controlled. Where full contact is not allowed. 


When they emerge from the ring with their keikogi unraveled, their black belts loose and pendulous, their hair disheveled, strands of it glued to their foreheads with sweat, skins glistening, eyes shining, bodies a little bruised and their breaths coming fast and heavy I would feel primitively and beastly proud. Like a man. Like a beast.

So it is only now I know that a tattered keikogi is macho in men's eyes. I've always wondered why Z treasured his and was taken aback when asked if he was going to throw it away. Quite the contrary he wants it framed, hung and displayed. It is only now I know why some young alpha men have their hair closely cropped. It makes them look intimidating to their peers. It is only now I know why some alpha men have their hair longer than usual. It makes them look rugged and rough. It is only now I know why alpha men sit at the head of a table facing the entrance. So they will be the first to sight an enemy when he enters. It is only now I know why alpha men make every littlest thing they do appear important. They regard everything as a contest. To get the upperhand. To prevent others from pushing them around. It is only now I know why my alpha men love Swiss knives. It makes them feel like a MacGyver. And it is only now I know why alpha men never ask for directions. It makes them feel incompetent. And literally lost. Sometimes, exasperatingly and alpha-ingly, lost. Like little boys. Forever. 

Now let me see....is there anything else I need to know about alpha men? 

Uh-uh I don't think so. That about covers it all, don't you think?

*SIGH* We women. Therefore we are............More complicated. 

Image taken from here.

SLEEPLESS AT FIFTY

When I fell fast asleep amidst the raucous roar of Godzilla with tiny screaming humans at its feet a few years ago I realised that I was heading towards serious trouble.

Fast forward. 

Tonight a few years later. It’s two in the morning, almost three, and I’m still up. I reflect and realise, at the ripe age of fifty three (or whatever), that life can be categorized into two main phases. The deep-sleep phase and the no-sleep phase. I have come to be aware, literally, that keeping awake at night is no longer a struggle or an option. It is a fact of life. Middle aged life. I cringe at the word middle age but use it I must. For in denial I live not.

Gone are the days of those deep, sonorous sleep sessions. When an earthquake would have failed to rattle me awake or the screeching wail of a baby would have whizzed past my ears and make me snuggle even deeper into my pillow. 

Today, I’m in the no-sleep phase of life and I can now empathize with older folks who fall seriously asleep in the middle of an animated conversation. Without warning. Or when their heads tilt back as they sit on a couch. Not with dignity but with sleep, their mouths gaping as if in awe. I feel for them. Sleep becomes elusive but at the same time creeps up on you without warning, usually in public and in embarrassing places, in a middle of a noisy conversation or even while clucking playfully at a grandchild. I’m no longer the giggling youngster entertained by an old man comically dodging sleep during the day and willing it to come in the middle of the night. I no longer find it amusing or worse laughable. I repent. For I might just get there.

Six hours, claim my middle aged friends, is the maximum stretch of time that they can sustain sleep. The clock inside of you sets for six hours of sleep but you’re up before it goes off and beat it at its own game. You win every time and yet you’re still a loser.

The click of a switch or the rustle of clothing as someone walks past, the faint padded footsteps and the sigh of your partner all become unwelcome companions as you struggle in your bid for sleep. You wonder if you should have separate beds or separate rooms or separate lives. So you can court sleep again without struggle and without pain. 

Now I know why my father was up at a ghostly five in the morning, every morning while I slumbered on to ten or eleven. Ten hours of sleep when I was young was a luxury that I took for granted then. Ten hours of uninterrupted sleep now would only mean one thing. A coma.

As my husband and I drive past mamak shops during sleepless nights I marvel at those young men and women who deliberately take the option of keeping awake to sip, nibble, drink and eat their sleep away into the small hours of the morning. Unaware that one very old day they would wish they could have it all back. The sleep I mean. I feel anxious for them.

Past fifty sleep becomes a word that smatters conversations with your friends during your eternal waking hours. It becomes foreign and distant and desirable like some knight in shining armour or a desirable damsel in distress for aging males. It becomes simply a word, a desire, a wish, a hope, a yearning, an obsession, that keeps you awake.

How I envy those who sleep like dolls, like dead men, like trunks of trees. How I resent those who find comfort in their pillows and in the crevices of their bed. But I tell myself that there is another phase yet to come when I would most probably wish that I could live on even if it means a lack of sleep. So I thank God that He keeps me awake. Still. After all there is more in life than there is in sleep. 

Image taken from here.

A-BACKPACKING

Backpacking is an activity that marks no prejudice. I say prejudice because I had thought the backpack fit only for the backs of men. I'm always amazed at the sight of female backpackers. Their backpacks so huge they appear almost mule-like carrying them. So when a female backpacker crosses my line of sight I would usually watch her a little longer. Totally in awe of her male-like virility and wishing that I had some of it. Just in case.

But I fathom the sense of adventure that these backpackers yearn for. Driven by the thirst of curiosity and the hunger to experience the authentic. Without a doubt it is exciting. An escapade for exhilaration if not weariness. If I were twenty five, twenty six - seven or simply young, unmarried, unattached and hyperactive I imagine backpacking would be something I would live for. So when our daughter N announced that she was going a-backpacking in India I didn't collapse. After ten days she returned home from her trip. Thank god. She looked tanned, toned, trimmer and tired. She slumped into her bed and awoke only for dinner. Listening to her saying how tired she was I, being mother, joked that she needed a holiday to get over her holiday. Then I giggled at my own clever joke. Only to hear Miss N announce adamantly that it wasn't a holiday that she had had... but backpacking, italicized and bold.

For curiosity...or was it for authencity... and guided by the Lonely Planet guide book her backpacker friends and she took the local bus in India, the local train at rush hour, ate at roadside stalls, suffered Delhi belly, visited the Taj, rented a van with driver to Jaipur, Goa, et cetera, scoured Mumbai's art galleries with a local who had kindly offered N the tour, interacted and exchanged emails with fellow backpackers from across the globe, stayed at rest houses and budget hotels but the climax of her journey, to me at least, was ...she had had her hand henna-ed.  Although not necessarily all in that order of course. But it was beautiful. The henna I mean. (I'm sure the Taj Mahal was too. But since I wasn't there.........). It was a Rajastan's bride's wedding henna. It started from the tip of her fingers to about three inches beyond her wrist. I admired it. The curlicues. Then my eyes moved further up and I noticed a darker design on her upper arm just below her shoulder line about four inches long and one half inches wide. I felt a small shudder of alarm breaking through my belly. 

Aloud I wondered if it was a tattoo while  silently I was praying that it wasn't. Of course, Miss N proclaimed that she wasn't that crazy. I looked at her. Of course not. Just a hard nut to crack. Resolute. Untameable. I looked at the creature I had created. In sync with H. (Hey, I'm not taking all the blame). But on the other hand she is also determined, hardworking, loyal and kind. Well... perhaps I will.

So what did this stay at home mother learn for the day? Rush hour in India is just that. RUSH. Spelt S.T.A.M.P.E.D.E. Instead of getting off the train when it stopped N and friend were warned by a lady passenger to stay on it, to stand back and to allow passengers to embark before attempting to get off. Of course I imagined the girls had their puzzled eyebrows busy at work as well because they did think it was silly to exit after new passengers embarked. In a minute they learnt why. A stampede swarmed into the carriages. Much like swarming bees into a hive I imagine. It was a good thing there are seperate carriages for men and women in India. When the stampede had settled down to a buzz and to relative stand still they then proceeded to squeeze themselves out of the carriage. Like toothpaste, I am imagining. I'm glad she survived that. But what if the train had left before they got off? What if they had gotten crushed? What if they had never found the exit amoung all those bodies? What if.....???? But these are what ifs potential-for-breakdown mothers should never dream of. Ever.

Invested with more foolhardy motherliness I then proceeded to ask N how had she gotten her clothes washed while she backpacked. I looked at her and waited for an answer expecting something along the lines of "Oh I sent it to the laundry." Nope. Silence. A mumble. Then I heard the word backpacking, italicized and bold.

Come April N the girl/woman will be going off again on a short trip. Come May N the boy/man will be trekking miles through the jungles of Pahang, crossing rivers, befriending leeches, slapping mosquitoes, sleeping in tents and climbing Gunung Tahan, the highest point in Peninsula Malaysia.

Come tomorrow I the mom/woman/wife/daughter/cook/human receptacle of woes and experience-r of second hand adventures would still be mulling over the fascinating fact that a backpack isn't a burden after all. It rests on your hips, N the man told me, not on your back. Hmmmm......is backpacking a feminal thing after all? We so have hips.

PS : For all her scruffy adventures in India Miss N did not come home with mere dirt and dust on her hands. She bought me this. Oh so girly! Me love. 

BREAKING IN THE ZORI

Z came down the stairs with a sweet grin stretched across his face. I looked up and I saw a mess of rope dangling from his hands. I was alarmed. Then I looked lower and I saw Z's left foot sheathed in a roped, hand-crafted flip flop and the other foot  bare. I was relieved.

After scrutinizing Z's zori in my hand I realized that it takes obsession to make a zori (out of rope) and even more of an obsession to wear one. Particularly if it were made of rope. For the past week or so Z had been studying the art of making zori. Zori, for those of you who know not yet, is Japanese footwear that has been around since the Haien period (794 - 1185) before western shoes became popular. They were originally made of rice straw or other plant fibres, sometimes cloth and apparently sometimes even of rope. It takes a sadist to invent one out of rope and a masochist to wear one of rope. It hurts. 

Me masochist. 

When I saw the finished pair proudly displayed by Z and his satisfied expression I was smitten. They were flat and thonged. They were handsome. They were rustic. They had character.  They were the work of a perfectionist. What more could a woman want. They looked better and cuter than the rubber, mass produced, boring flip flops that I wear now and I thought they would make great house slippers. I knew I needed a pair.... I wanted a pair. And I requested Z to make a pair. For me. Since he was obsessed he grinned even wider.

Z spent a good part of the afternoon and part of the evening making a pair for me. By the time I came home from an outing with H at about nine in the evening I had a zori.  For free. It looked so good and it was so painful. 

But that's the price one has to pay to look pretty. And it does look pretty. In a rustic kind of way. As of now my feet are still breaking them in. I am determined to wear them. I can smell my own tenacity. And I have announced many a time at the dinner table that once I'm done breaking them in I could climb Mount Kinabalu barefoot. Like a goat.

If I could wear killer 4 inch heels in my heyday (all day) with the prospect of deforming my toes with naught health benefits, and if upper and middle class Chinese ladies of old had had their feet painfully bound and deformed for life for their men, all in the name of beauty and sensuality, what are zoris I asked myself. Especially if they're going to give me the regal posture of a queen, stimulate vital energy and blood flow throughout my body, reduce stress, improve balance and enhance my physical and mental well being.

At the least zoris are not confined to women and are, therefore, historically, not markers of gender or class, and could, in my opinion, certainly be a panacea for the flat footed.

As I wear them around the house all I feel is a kind of discomfort at first. I've never had foot reflexology but I suspect  that it hurts in the way a foot reflexology would hurt.  It feels very much like walking the pebbled reflexology walking paths at the park. As I walk on it more often I feel less discomfort and more attuned to the pressure points. Z has broken in to his.  And I intend to break mine in because ....

" Once you become use to them and the hanao becomes loose, you will need to push and press down with your toes more firmly to hold them in place, this stimulation of your toes and the build up of the muscles in your feet from wearing Zori will not only make your feet healthier but will have a excellent effect on your body in general. As you may know Reflexologists believe that each organ and muscle are connected by a network of nerves to a point on the foot where the energy terminates. By walk in zori these points are massaged and in addition your spine will become straighter, making your posture more beautiful accordingly."

And ..


"Conceivably, Japan could blame many of its foot problems on the West. Before the start of the Meiji Era in 1868, almost all footwear was either geta (wooden sandals) or zori (thonglike sandals, often made of straw).


I am so breaking them in. Or are they supposed to break me in?

THE INTREPID GENE SKIPS A GENERATION

What do you do when your 82 year old mother decides to go on a 10 day tour of the middle east? A region wrecked in political turmoil. And freezing as well - at this time of year.

I spent a week before her departure bringing her to the mall in search for warm winter clothing......thermal underwear, a  woollen sweater, hat, scarf, woollen socks and a pair of Hush Puppies. I lent her my favourite winter coat. It draped over her quite nicely although she was much smaller than I am. I bought her a set of compression bags to get all the air out of thick clothing so she had more room for other things in her suitcase. As I rolled the bag and all the air hissed out I wondered aloud if she would be able to do it herself when she repacked her suitcases at the intermittent stops along her tour. She answered in the emphatic affirmative. I could smell her tenacity. I'm forever disturbed.

This trip had been quite unexpected and sudden. A friend had pulled her aside at the market one morning and excited her into going to Jordan, Syria and Palestine. My children were very amused when I told them. And they had asked why on earth and at this time? Little do they know. Never plant ideas into my mother's head.

She walks with slow, steady and resolute steps and often I 'll have to slow down so that I could walk abreast with her. I feel not quite normal because I'm an extremely fast walker and to slow down seems like an awful waste of time. But she seems to have settled herself at that speed. Perhaps as a result of age. Or height. Or character. Small. But sure. So sure that freezing point doesn't make her bat an eyelid. That the most unstable political conditions is brushed off with a wave of a hand. That she is eighty and without a travel or health insurance makes no difference in her choice of activities.

My brother had lent her a hard type suitcase and a hard type hand luggage. Both in bright flashy red. The big one had one quirky lock where you had to smack the corner of the case before the lock caught. I told her to sit on it if she had a problem instead of smacking it with her 82 year old hand. Though not in so many words.

Finally H disconnected the battery of her car and I locked the doors of her apartment and doubled checked them. But five minutes into the drive we had to go back for her jacket. She had left it on the kitchen stool. Should I worry? Then we drove the Hyundai the forty-five minutes to the airport, through jams, night lights, tolls and some supplications that I saw her making.

But finally she went off with Happy, Excited and Can't Wait printed right across her forehead. They were flashing like neon signs. I went around telling whomever I knew in the group to take good care of her, her bags and her. While she beamed ecstatically. Quite unperturbed.

As we walked through the bubble doors of KLIA I felt a wave of hot, humid air sweep in. And I remembered that my daughter will be going to India on a ten day trip a few days from today. She too will be going with a group of friends. Backpacking. I saw her counting a stack of rupee notes the other day. A few days before she resumed mugging for her  Finance paper for her MBA. I looked at the stack, fingered it and asked if she will be bringing anti-diarrhea pills as well. She answered with a big roll of dark, adamant eyes. I took that as a yes. I think. Hope. I could smell her tenacity.

Two distinct generations on either side of me going seperate ways, half way across the world, to almost extreme locations. I am forever throwing my hands up at these two women. I wonder if I should shake my head in disbelief or burn a hole in my heart with envy. Because here I am debating if I should get off the couch and get on with my nightmare journey: The Gym. 

The intrepid gene has skipped a generation. Me. Wimp.

FAITH, FEAR OR FEARLESSNESS?

I have listened to this story many times. My mother relating it with a certain zest and pride in her voice. It seems like it came out of an old manuscript and brings me back to a time when everything seemed to be seething with mist, mystery and maidens. And elephants, sultans and escapes. It all sounds too fairy tale like. A little cliched and a little too thespian. 

But I suppose when stories of old are told, by word of mouth, they have no other way to go but to become romanticized. They become exotic, alluring and idyllic. And then someone comes along with screen and keyboard in hand and types them down.


This is one more old story that has become no less. This is a perfect story, I think, of a damsel in distress.

Malaya ~ late 19th century

What could have raced through Yang Kundor's thoughts as she rode through the wild, virgin and untamed depths of the Malayan jungle? Faith? Fear? Or Fearlessness? Perhaps all three in turns. Or in confusion. 

Could there have been moments when she longed to call out, to turn back and to return to the comfort of home whenever virulent hisses and savage howls were discharged from the dark unknown? Or were her lucid thoughts of royal life as one of the Sultans wives just too demeaning that it made her resolute to move on?

She must have been given a talisman that she lay close to her breast to ward off evil , harm and the distant chants of black magic. Something that she could clutch at with both fear in one hand and faith in the other. She must too have felt disquieted of what might await her once, or if ever, she emerged from the depths of that journey. Yang Kundor's mind...whirling as hard as her heart was pounding. Surely.

But I suppose the certainty of life in royal restraint must have seemed far more distasteful than that of the uncertain unknown. I would have clung on with unyielding grip to the carriage atop the elephant as it trampled through the dense undergrowth. It must have been the longest journey of Yang Kundor's  life.

When reverberations from the thumping of the canang  were heard to proclaim Yang Kundor as the Sultan's future wife, on the evening before, I can only imagine the heart of Datuk Panglima of Mengkarak and Cemur being weighted down with dilemma and consternation. But resolute in his plans of escape for his daughter. He must have braced himself for the Sultan's wrath. To whom he had promised to defend and obey. The man whom he had thought worthy of his services and his life. Until ........ his daughter became the object of his master's desire.

What excuse could the Datuk Panglima have brought forth to the Sultan the next morning to explain the disappearance of his daughter? Was he spared and then forgiven or did he have to bear the Sultan's outrage and be banished from the realm forever? Or did it cost him his life? Or did Yang Kundor plan her own escape? No one knows. And no one could tell me.

But what we do know is that Yang Kundor and those who went with her successfully escaped and survived the journey. After three perilous days and nights through the jungle they arrived in Kajang and Yang Kundor spent the rest of her short life there. She was my mother's paternal grandmother. 'Twas a pity she did not live to see the grandchild who is said to resemble her. My mother.

Beraja dihati
Bersultan dimata


No. Not this time your majesty ~

*Beraja dihati, bersultan dimata ~ a Malay idiom literally translated ~ ' The heart of a king, the eyes of a sultan' which means ~ to attain whatever one desires.

BLACK AND WHITE ~ AND THEN SOME

When I was a child I looked at life in black and white. I wondered why people would choose to be nasty when they could be good. I wondered why adults could not understand children. I wondered why parents needed to fight and mess things up. I wondered and then some.

When I grew up....... I wondered no more. 


Because life threw me the same challenges. The challenges of making choices and of dealing with mistakes.  It was like life started all over again. But for different people.  Wouldn't it be good if we learnt from life's lessons? And then some?


hAPPY nEW yEAR!


Watch out for those curve balls! And then some...

                                           My grandparents with seven of their eight children and a grandson. My mother stands in the back row centre.

                                                                                          Dad

                                                                              Mom and I


Kitten moments ~ 

                                                                                    My illiterate years

                                           

 

             Secrets? Or just breathing into E's ear?

 

"Visiting our cousins at Monkey Garden. " said Dad

                                                                                           All set to party

 

                                                                         Grinning

Foodie moments ~

Mom grating coconut on a wooden stool grater. It looked like a little wooden animal with a sharp zig-zagged metal lip.... widely used before commercially scraped coconut meat were available. Fully ripened coconuts were bought whole and in bunches, cracked opened with a cleaver, its meat grated in its shell and then squeezed for its milk. It is a morning task in preparation for lunch ...obviously before our morning baths..

An antique coconut grater stool ~ what I would pay to have one.  Image taken from here.

The ultimate snack food ~ popping whole roasted peanuts with the shells on.

I helped make formula milk for my not-so-little-anymore sis in a glass jar with a metal plunger until it frothed and looked like a milk shake....poured it into a glass bottle and plopped it into her little starving mouth....my early motherly instincts at work. It looked yum.

School Days ~ 

My first year at school (I remember bawling quite enthusiastically). And my lovely first year teacher. I don't remember any names (I moved away a year later) but......if you see yourself....drop me an e-line :) I am seated first row, extreme left. This was taken at Penang Island Girl's School.

Where are you now Prema? ~ We had fun.

Happy New Year!