Pantun Keseorangan

Angin dingin bertiup mencipta rima,
Dedaun pokok bergoyang mengikut lagu.
Dalam kesepian malam bertepuk dada,
Tanya minda apa isi hatiku.

Tupai bersantap di atas dahan,
Menikmati cuaca menjamu selera.
Bukanlah suatu kelaparan malah lebih mendalam,
Keinginan yang makin hari makin bergelora.

Kekasih berbaring di atas laman,
Berbisik-bisik berkongsi isi.
Berjalan sunyi tanpa teman,
Kekosongan memenuhi sanubari.

Monyet cuba memanjat tali,
Dihalang oleh suatu perangkap.
Imbas kembali sengsaranya hati,
Cuba lupamu tetapi kurasa tidak lengkap.

Kemarau melanda bagaikan gurun,
Bila datangnya hujan siapa tahu.
Tanpamu sesaat menjadi tahun,
Kedahagaan jiwa— inginku bersamamu.

"Solace" Taken at Queenstown, NZ, December 2011. Copyright of OKJ.
Click for larger image. 

Kami

She treads lightly with hands open,

Soft skin brushing soft grass.

Her touch banishing frosty dew;

Her warmth, a spell is cast.

Like a blossom past a winter,

Red rose on bed of snow;

Clad in scarlet and white colors,

She walks with the river flow.

The old azalea sun did rise,

A gentle light setting life free.

Yet one more sun that day was seen,

Amaterasu, blinding to see.

Its warmth too warm, its light too bright;

Outshone, the bloodied sun did flee. 

Surrounded in unnatural fire,

She closes her blinded eyes, hands unfurled.

Color fading from her cloth,

Lips and cheeks graying like a moth

“I am become death, destroyer of worlds.”

Grass in blazes, black from green,

Rivers dry, dew turned to steam,

Kimono burned off soft skin,

A wrath like never before seen.

Now, body charred, color gone, there she lies.

Once a beauty, now less than food for flies.

___________________________________________

Kami= Japanese for deity

Amaterasu= Japanese goddess of the sun

From http://gothicfaerytales.com

Author's note: 

The bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki has always disturbed me. I took some liberties with the season:: August 1945 was in fact in the midst of summer. I made such a choice to portray the power of life, its touch and beauty manifested in the magical walk of a kimono-clad woman. 

The poem may be a mix of fact and fiction, but I hope that the poem successfully conveys a sense of loss and grief. More than a rail against just nuclear weapons, I wrote it with the intent of reexamining the justifications humans often give at acts of aggression: be it in the name of ending a war, avenging a war, or defending a country. 

Such immense powers of destruction at the hands of reckless man may one day be the deaths of us all.

City of Cutlery

The canteen is a place of moderated chaos – students walking, moving, laughing, munching, chomping, grabbing, laughing, shouting.

The bell rings. The buzz dies down gradually, crowds, heading like sharks to blood to the end of the hall.

Students push, pull, squeeze, walk, shuffle. A bottleneck towards their destination. There is a presence, tension rising as it awaits in anticipation.

Plates are thrown, unfinished food is dumped, forks and spoons clang against yolk yellow plastic trays. There is a blur spot in the background.

Spaghetti sauce splatters, drops of curry ooze into bins, bones with bits of meat slide down from plate to tray,  an oily surface acting like a slime ski. The entity is now actively reaching in, turning the messy into the orderly.

Cities begin to form – metal foundations of clanging cutlery, towers of plates, built on the soil of meat and rice, interspersed with rivers of tom yam. The architect, the builder, and demolisher are at work.

A rogue plate is thrown instead of placed. The character shouts an undignified ‘Oi!’. The perpetrator walks away, hands stained with the curry of his crime, continues laughing, chatting, talking, sparing one thought for the presence: Bitch.

The city has crumbled. And the pieces have to be picked up.

I walk toward the ruins. And I pick up the plates. I look up, and hand them to her. She smiles for the first time that day.

‘Terima kasih, adik.’

Walking away, I half whisper, ‘No, thank you mak cik.’

LRT

Facets of A Malaysian’s Life. Episode 1

It’s been a long day. I try to sleep, back leaning against the metal pole, half-hugging it as the carriage vibrates, try to close my eyes as the drone of the train goes on.

“STESEN PUDU.”

I open my eyes, hoping for a newly vacant seat. I’m beaten to it by two men, Burmese by the looks of them, who run into the train just as the BEEP BEEP BEEP of doors close.

Damn la.

Anyway, those look rather dodgy. Heh, when the Star reports about illegal immigrants being criminals, for all you know, its these two. Best keep my distance anyway, no big deal.

Next to them, a young Chinese man in a shirt and tie is sweating away, a file used as a fan. Opposite him, a group of Indians are talking animatedly to each other. Diagonally across, a Malay lady is playing with her Iphone. Angry Birds from the looks of it.

“STESEN PLAZA RAKYAT.”

All look up as the door opens.

An elderly mak cik walks in, almost tripping over the tiny gap as she carries all her Mydin plastic bags, flimsily clutching her purse. She stands just by the door.

A few moments pass, they all look away.

Except the two Burmese men.

The two of them rise with alarming urgency- they begin to walk towards her, hands outstretched, fingers curved- ready in a grabbing motion. They reach for the bags.

——-

Mak Cik is sitting on the train bench with her goods parked next to her. The two Burmese men are standing where she was, smiling and talking to the mak cik.

All look down- at Iphones, at files, at shoes. Anywhere but at Mak Cik.

“STESEN MASJID JAMEK.”

The two men get off, mak cik waving to them as they leave.

Damn la.

Note: This is the first of an ongoing series of short stories on the facets of Malaysian life. Be sure to catch the next story, City of Cutlery next week.

A Million Murders

“London is such a great place. Malaysia has no great monuments. What a lousy place Malaysia is compared to all these great European countries.”

http://bit.ly/pej8qZ

 Enter:

A Million Murders

Smooth, soft, silk robes of royalty—

Sparkling, shining jewels of majesty—

Grand and great the riches uncoil—

Stones and steel rising from soil.

The coloured peoples gaping in envy

wishing they could be the whites in jealousy:

Oh, if only we had such beautiful buildings

Oh, if only our country was as inspiring.

Yet, in the ground, a buried irony—

For azalea red runs blood and ruby—

For beneath the stoic, impassioned gargoyles—

Behold! The tears of those who toiled.

Their monuments built with Asian antimony—

Their statues and artifacts, African ivory—

Their advanced machines by Eastern oil—

A thousand thefts, a people despoiled.

Smooth, soft, silk robes of royalty—

Sparkling, shining jewels of majesty—

Grand and great the riches uncoil—

Bones and steel rising from soil.

http://bit.ly/pkoU2M

 Is London really such a great place? Or shall we settle for our beloved thorny, but yet succulent Malaysia?

As published on LoyarBurok.

Merdeka

merdeka( merdéka) 

bebas (drpd penjajahan, kurungan, naungan, dll), lepas ( drpd tebusan, tuntutan), berdiri sendiri, tidak bergantung pd yg lain: 

Malaysia ialah sebuah negara yg ~ dan berdaulat.

William closes the dark green Kamus Dewan, taking care to wipe off the Milo stains on page 883, rubbing sweaty fingers on mercun, meriah, meriam and merdu.

He closes his eyes in mock reverence, a smile dawning upon his face as he lets the meaning of the word seep into his twelve year old mind. After a few moments, he understands.

His country- free from the evil British colonialists! After hundreds of years of being under their oppressive rule, Malaysia was free! He smiled, a spring in his step as he contemplated how lucky he was to be free. 

Grabbing his tiny Jalur Gemilang, he skips all the way to the living room, where his parents are watching TV, reading the Moon or the Sun or whatever astronomical object it was, drinking kopi O, and talking to each other. William never could understand how they could do so many things at a time, and then accuse him of not being focused enough. At least he did one thing at a time.

Today's headlines on the Star, Double the Joy! A happy family celebrating Raya and laughing along. William peeked over his father's shoulder: he was reading something boring about neglecting other ... what was that word again... communities. "Daddy, what does that mean?"

Daddy turns around, tortoise shell glasses barely resting on his nose. "Well it means that certain minorities, like the Chinese and Indians and Dayaks and Orang Asli are being ignored. How do I say this... Mmm.... Take for example you and your older brother. Imagine if I treated your brother better, like giving him more candy, being OK with him failing exams, giving him extra pocket money and time to play computer games."

"But that's not fair!"

" Aha, that's where you're wrong. I could say that it's perfectly fair because your brother came first! And if you complain, I'll tell you to go back to whichever family you came from, even if that 'family' isn't really your real family. And that, my dear, is more or less what is happening."

William shook his head in horror. How could such a terrible thing happen? With all the solemnity that a twelve year old could muster, he heaved a great sigh. Daddy just laughed, and ruffled William's hair. 

But the sadness of a twelve year old is an impermanent thing. Pretty soon, the boy was zooming off in his bike, Jalur Gemilang in tow. He was on a quest of great importance: to bungkus roti canai from the nearby mamak stall.

On his way, he admired the sea of flags on display. Everyone is so patriotic, why doesn't Uncle Bernard love Malaysia too Why doesn't he want to come back? - whispered his little heart. He wondered about all the cousins who had gone overseas and never come back. Julian, who was a chemical engineer; Mary, a physics professor in Brown University; Hannah, his favourite cousin who used to play on the PS2 with him, a doctor working in Brisbane. All nice, loving, caring people, who somehow, said that they would not come back because there was no freedom in Malaysia. But William's little heart whispered again- How could this be? Aren't the evil British gone?

Absent mindedness never serves a bicycle rider well. Sure enough, William's bike hit a curb, and fell over- landing at the feet of the mamak stall waiter. Burly hands grabbed him, put him upright. " Boy, you jaga sikit la. Danger tau. Aiyoooo.... mana ibu bapa you?" William recovered himself, shook his head, and took out a five ringgit note.

"Empat roti canai, abang. Dan satu Mentos."

The abang looked at his hand expectantly. 

" Tak cukup la boy. Sekarang ni barang apa-apa pun mahal. Lagi satu ringgit."

Wow, things were getting pretty expensive. One twenty for roti canai. Even in the extremely short life experience of William, he could still remember a time when roti canai cost eighty cents. Ah well. 

After completing his transaction, and chewing on his mentos, William started the trip back home. He was taking a shortcut, through his "secret route". It was favourite path because he could pretend he was going through a scary trek through a land of evil things. A number of sights along the way helped this fantasy of his.

First, there were the trees. Long, over-arching great old behemoths of nature that would shade the road. But today, as he travelled through, the trees were gone. Chopped down by DBKL most probably. The image of the sliced off tree stumps reminded him of an image of the Bakun dam he had seen. The photo was a collage of a destroyed rainforest; a crying Orang Asli woman; and a government officer cutting a red ribbon officiating the whole event. The image stuck in his mind because the Orang Asli's expression, a cold, teary stare of indignation, invoked in him a sort of comradeship- he had that look on whenever his brother forcefully took away his toys from him, and refused to give them back, even though they were rightfully his.

Then there was the church. The church wasn't a really a scary building by itself. But the black marks along the wall, and the burnt out rubble around it was pretty spooky. The church had been the target of an arson attempt a while ago, a Molotov cocktail had been thrown in. All that for a single word. William shook his head, wondering how on earth could mature, big grown up, God fearing people get so worked up to the point of fiery crime over a single word. 

The church brought up questions in William's head. His parents had been talking about some sort of church raid lately, something about Muslims in a church. William had interrupted them, asking: Mommy, why can't Malays go into churches? Why is it bad for a Christian to donate and help Muslims? Can't we help each other? Can't they choose what's best for them?"

The reply: " Go back to your room William. You don't understand, this is an adult issue. Go to sleep, it's getting late."

Finally, he passed the scariest part of the route: an abandoned warehouse. Apparently the owners were arrested for being communist. William had no idea what a communist was, except that they were supposed to be really bad and they blew up train tracks for breakfast. There were bits of torn yellow cloth around, remnants from the T-shirts they once were a part of. A while back, Uncle Ravi had been picked up by the police for questioning. Daddy said it was because Uncle Ravi had worn the same yellow Bersih T-shirt, and gone to participate in the rally. "Is Uncle Ravi a bad man, Daddy? Did he commit a crime Is that why the police caught him?"

Daddy put on this zoned out look on his face, same as when he talked about grandfather who had passed away years ago, and solemnly said: "No, William. We are the ones who are criminals for watching and doing nothing while our country went down the drain."

"Huh?"

"Never mind, Will. You'll understand one day."

William finished his journey, and parked his bicycle. "I'm home!" His parents greeted him with a smile, and into the dining room they went, laughing, eating, drinking- and William's tiny heart whispered again: Wow, it sure is good to be free. Merdeka! Merdeka! Merdeka!

Happy Merdeka Malaysia. Enjoy your freedom this Independence Day.