Faliq's Long Call

                             

                             The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers (Shakespeare, Henry VI)

I went to Faliq's Long Call last week and came away inspired. The event, held in a real and physical courtroom before a real and physical judge, was solemn, serious but stylish. It was my first time in a courtroom, so I dared not move or touch my wife for fear of being cited for contempt and assault. One can never be sure.  

How I wish every other profession in Malaysia, especially the critical ones like  teachers, doctors, auditors, and even money changers, had something similar for their respective fraternities. Ceremonies or rituals like this should remind them at every turn of their obligation to stay straight and true to the sanctity of their profession and fellowship, and never to run off the rails, if you know what I mean. But there's still no guarantee, of course, because nothing can come in the way of a mind bent on flouting for big bucks or sheer fun. The Bar Council is still grappling with hundreds of unresolved complaints of lawyer dishonesty and misconducts. Every profession has its share of black sheep.

I remember during my schooldays we had induction ceremonies for the Prefects and the Boy Scouts. While the Prefects oath-taking was a straight and soulless affair, the Boy Scouts  jamboree would be a dusk-to-dawn blowout complete with boisterous sing-alongs, tribal dances and bonfires. I'm sure some non-government organisations, like the Ku Klux Klan, Moscow Mafia and our very own Mamak Gang, have similar rites of passage, maybe slightly grisly, with bits of blood here and there, to drive home the tone and temper of their business. In times of trouble these rough guys often seek the help of lawyers to navigate the ever complex legal and justice system. Gangsters and lawyers coming together for a common cause? Why not.   

Back to Faliq and his so-called Long Call. What's a Long Call to begin with? This moniker was new to me until two weeks ago when Faliq's mom spoke about it with a pinch of pride. I suppose it's just another name for the famous "Call to the Bar". But why did the legal eagles change the name? Probably because of the endless lawyer jokes and jibes.

No other trades have been the subject of more jibes and jokes than the lawyers. Some of these jokes are, admittedly, unfair. The one about an attorney badgering a witness about an autopsy is downright unkind. If "lawyers" alone is fertile enough for the joke makers and midnight comics, imagine "lawyers" and "bar" in the same breath. Anyway, "Call to the Bar" harks back to the British imperial days, and now that our judges have dumped all wigs and kilts for good,  Long Call is the right call.

So there he was, Faliq, sitting fourth in a row of fifteen new lawyers, all looking sharp in a bright, colourful combination of .... black and white. These good-looking guys had just completed their nine-month mandatory training or tutelage called chambering (probably alluding to torture chamber ha ha), at various legal houses. This training is the equivalent of housemanship for the doctors or hard labour for political detainees. Chambering or housemanship or what, these interns all had to slog away 23 hours a day.

Looking at them now, I could almost feel their deep and sweet burst of pride, relief and freedom. One look and I know they're all looking forward to some sleep. But before that they've to gather here today to be "admitted as advocates and solicitors to the High Court of Malaya". I hope I got it right because I'm just parroting what was proclaimed by the master of ceremony.  But I can confirm it was "Malaya", not Malaysia. Does this mean Faliq is allowed to ply his trade in Kota Bharu, but not in, say, Lahad Datu? I've to check with him on this and will let you know.

The session started sharp as scheduled, at 9 am. The presiding judge was Dato' Nordin Hassan, a KL High Court judge, a youngish and pleasant-looking Yang Arif, completely the opposite of the mental image I'd formed on the way to the court this morning. My wife swore she'd seen him on Astro talking to Neelofa. Watching too much TV can be harmful.
 
Finally it was Faliq's turn. My heart skipped a beat when his name was called. He'd have to come forward and stand up for his parents, the judge and all in attendance to see. What a heart-soaring moment, something to savour and treasure for a long time. I could still picture him screaming and scampering with  Aida (my daughter, his cousin) 20 years ago. Man, how time flies.

The drill was elaborate, and even strange for a layperson like me. It started with a senior practising lawyer stepping forward to propose Faliq for admission to the High Court. For this purpose, Faliq was referred to as a "Petitioner", and the senior lawyer a "Mover".  The Mover would then officially greet Faliq's parents and proceed with a rundown on Faliq's credentials, background and achievements.

By tradition, the parents had to stand up for the introduction, which  I supposed wasn't a problem for this healthy and romantic couple who were used to hours of standing and watering their plants together back home. They were beaming and basking in the glory of witnessing their son on the cusp of a new journey. 

The Mover ended his part with a formal proposal for admission and the judge consented, without any objection from the AG office, the Bar Council and, I supposed, the audience. Finally a more senior lawyer (called a Master, for some reason) was invited by the Mover to hang a ceremonial robe or gown on Faliq. With that, Faliq was officially admitted to the High Court of Malaya as an advocate and solicitor. No cheering or whistling or high-fives, of course.

What does all this exactly mean? It means Faliq is now a full-blown lawyer and he may go to any court to argue before any judge in Malaya, wherever or whatever Malaya is. 

If you follow court cases you'd appreciate the indispensable role of lawyers on both sides of the bench. I love most the sight of lawyers coming out of the courtroom all pumped up like a sure winner when piles of evidence are stacked against their clients. Watching LA Law and Shark, my only conclusion is that lawyers are all clever, confident and highly paid. They lead a glamorous life, dress to kill, and work non-stop with plenty of shouting and swearing and scandals in between. Lawyers, of course, can be hilarious, slapstick and over the top (Jim Carrey in "Liar, Liar"). I think Faliq's parents are in for something much more exciting than weeding and watering plants.

My own personal experience with lawyers is limited to the purchase of my house thirty years ago. We spoke for exactly five minutes and I'd to pay RM 18,000. I'm not sure whether this is good or bad. Maybe it's good that I don't need lawyers because it can only mean that I've not been accused of money laundering. But it also means that I'm not rich and successful enough, because rich and successful people normally keep a long list of lawyers to speak for them.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not implying that rich and successful people commit crimes or anything like that. They're just too busy with whatever they're doing and they've so little time left. So they need lawyers to speak to tax people, Sarawak Report, Malaysiakini etc. Donald Trump, for example, retains hundreds of white lawyers to stave off his sex accusers. Dato Seri Najib retains a team of six or seven lawyers to handle all those criminal charges. His lead lawyer in turn hires another six or seven lawyers to handle his own money laundering case. This lawyer hiring another lawyer is unique to the legal industry. You won't find a plumber hiring another plumber to do plumbing for him.

Sorry for digressing. It's hard to concentrate when you're over 50. I'm 66.

Now back to our new advocate and solicitor of the High Court of Malaya. But, before that,  let's not bother with Shakespeare. He's dull, and dead. Probably doped, too. Lawyers rock and rule. It's hard to find a more versatile, literate, diverse and determined group of professionals than the lawyers. Mahatma Gandhi, Barack Obama, Syed Saddiq, Azwan Ali, Siti Kasim, to name but a few. They're out there, breaking new grounds and making a difference. And now Faliq. 

I'm all bullish and upbeat because I can really feel Faliq's potential and promise. He can be what he wants to be. I'm not saying this because I'm related to his parents and all the good food that suddenly appeared whenever I dropped by. I've a prima facie evidence to support my proposition. Faliq was part of the UiTM Team that represented Malaysia in a world moot court competition in Washington last year. I'm not sure what this competition is all about, but I know it's not a singing competition.  The team didn't win, but he's accomplished what most aspiring lawyers can only dream of. 

Faliq has just started and I don't know what his long-term plans and goals are. Is he going to be a famous trial lawyer? Is he going to get married next year? Will his gorgeous parents continue to water their award-winning garden? It's early days, and he's not forthcoming. But I'm pitching him for AG when Tommy finally calls it quits in 2050. 

England At Random

I just came back from England yesterday, 17 April, my second trip in eight months. No, I don't have a house in London.

My last trip was in late September last year, to settle my daughter Aida at University of Bristol for her postgraduate study. This time it was Bristol again, just to see her and make sure she was alright although her mother had been video-calling her every evening and every morning to find out whether she was alright. She's alright.

This trip was different from my previous trips to England or anywhere in the world (meaning mostly Indonesia). We didn't really plan or prepare anything, although we brought along a sackful of Brahims for Aida's upcoming fasting month. No itinerary or maps or Travelodge bookings, nothing. We firmed up the travel date only about five days before. The idea was to see Aida in Bristol during Easter holidays. That's all.

For those who've never heard of Bristol, allow me educate you. Bristol is officially UK's Most Artistic City for 2018. It's also Europe's Trendiest City for 2017. I hope that helps, but I'm uneasy about these rankings simply because they're unscientific. They keep changing every year for no apparent reason. Condè Nest rated Paris the prettiest city in the world in 2017 but Tokyo in 2018. What could've happened to Paris in one single year? Bubonic plague? If you think that's dubious, Doha was placed second in 2017. Doha and the whole tyrannous state of Qatar is glorified sand and stones and thousands of helpless migrant workers risking their lives building ugly World Cup sites. If you can buy the World Cup, a high place in a travel magazine is half a pittance.

Back to Bristol, I'm not sure what's the agreed definition of Artistic and which part of the city is Trendy, because the city ranks in the top ten most expensive in UK to live and breathe in. Aida's in-campus rent sets her back RM 850 a week or RM 3400 a month. Hotels are steep and scarce here but we'd  found a way out. We'd decided that Aida's 300 sq ft room should have enough space, air and sunshine for me and Aida's mother to hole up and breathe normally in the trendy  city.
 
A random trip like this allows me to create, improvise and operate by instincts, just like MacGyver. Incidentally there was a job fair in the Royal Lancaster in London, about two hours from Bristol. After a short deliberation, we thought (or I decided) maybe Aida should attend this job fair and, who knew, one or two prospective employers might fall for her.

This so-called job fair turned out to be a tame, all-Malaysian affair. It was organized by the UK and Eire Student Council specifically for Malaysian companies. Mah Sing and Top Glove were there, probably looking for Mandarin-speaking UK graduates with good UEC. Some weren't companies in a stricter sense, I mean, people like Khazanah, EPF, KWAP. This dark and windowless quasi-cartel is famous for covert investments in Mongolia, Umno and other scams. They were half a world away in London recruiting unsuspecting Malaysian students in UK while 500,000 unemployed graduates back home were competing with Banglas. I wondered which PH minister had approved this outing.

After the job fair, we did a quick round of the British Museum, one of the world's largest and finest. I'd not been to any museum since that scandalous ghost exhibition at Muzium Negara in late 90's. But I thought we had so much time to burn, why not go to a museum and feel civilized.  We knew it would be impossible to see the complete collection of eight million works in this museum. So our plan was to cover the Egyptian mummies and the Islamic artifacts, possibly in under one hour.

Believe it or not, this famous museum charges no fee. You could, in theory, visit it everyday, the whole day, the whole year, for whatever reason. If you feel generous, you may donate. There's a big box with a bold "Please Donate" at the entrance to attack your senses, but it's donation, so it's optional.  I still can't rationalize this counter-commerce. Is it guilty conscience? I mean, all those mummies and King Tuts and Rameses were never British subjects or products. I suppose Marks and Spencer can charge top prices for their merchandise made in Cambodian sweat shops, but the British museum can't possibly charge anything for something that don't really belong to them. Just one of my sardonic theories. Just ignore if you don't agree.

We were in two minds about going back to Bristol and breathing in Aida's room. After all of five minutes of hard thinking, we decided to go somewhere. We were torn between Liverpool and Brighton. Virgin Trains ticket to Liverpool had suddenly shot up to £70. Branston and his virgins had really been tracking my smartphone with their cookies. Brighton was cheaper, and nearer.

So it's Brighton, an hour and £10 away from London. Brighton was decidedly a charming seaside town and we had no regrets coming here. We put up at a guest house run by two Peruvian brothers, Leo and Miguel. When I mentioned Lima and Maccu Picchu, they jumped in unison and said something in Spanish to each other. Later I found out that they'd been in Brighton for more than twenty years and nobody here knew where or what Peru actually was. For three days, they'd greet me zealously and call me Che Guevara. 

I first heard about Brighton in early 70s when hundreds of Malaysian students (including a couple of classmates) flocked to its college or polytechnic to study engineering. Every other guy who went to Britain, went to Brighton. At the height of this Brighton binge, TNB even found it expedient to rent a hostel exclusively for its students, a much welcome relief to those who wanted speak Kelantanese full time.  I met one of them this morning at our neighbourhood mosque. He was all pumped up at the mere mention of Brighton and wasted no time with his personal ideas and virtues about Brighton beach and its famed nudist strip. What? Three days and two nights in Brighton, nobody told me about this place. Bloody, useless Peruvians!

We took a train to London Victoria Station before heading back to Bristol by bus. It was nice to be back "home". University of Bristol was still closed for Easter holidays, and the campus in spring was very quiet and joyful with pink and purple flowers blooming and bursting against the sedate sky and archaic architecture. The cost of living was high here, but there was so much quality of life. Tap water was perfectly potable and clearer than Spritzer.

There was plenty of time to reflect on Aida's journey, our journey, to Bristol. And to think that artistic and trendy Bristol wasn't actually our first choice. All along we'd been gunning for Glasgow, lured probably by its laid-back persona, unhurried charm and fishy tales of lakes with big snakes. Imagine taking a bus from London Heathrow to Glasgow then back to London then back to Glasgow then back to London Heathrow, eight hours each way. We could've died of either brain thrombosis or pure boredom. My late mother always reminded me that God knows what we don't know. She didn't know that I knew that.

After a week, my body system had finally and completely adjusted to UK daytime. We had only three more days, and I began to dread the thought of going back to Malaysia. Honestly I'd nothing against Lim Guan Eng. It's just that my body system is a very old, odd and slow body system and it would need at least two weeks to recover its circadian rhythm. In the meantime I'd have to suffer sleepless nights and have to watch endless Astro reruns of old Malay movies, with Hamid Gurkha, A R Badul and all. These guys are very talented and funny, but I really want to sleep.

The flight back was surprisingly punctual. I've read about extortionate parking fees at Heathrow for both cars and aircraft. That could be the motivation. Food on economy was technically Brahims in disguise. Our bags were half-full, so there was enough space for two packs of Sainsbury's multi-seed and Vogel's Linseed bread to bring back home for breakfast. This  was about the only thing I'd planned for.

 

   

             










   

           

Manchester City's Treble And Tribulation

Manchester City are English Premier League (EPL)'s Champions once again. Second time in two years. Back to back. Two in a row. Two on the trot.  Twice on the bounce.  Or any which way you want to call it. Supporters of Liverpool, Manchester United and seventeen other teams in EPL can deny and cry all they want.

If you think winning successive EPL titles is remarkable, wait. City also won the FA Cup and the League Cup. With a clean sweep of all three domestic trophies in a single season, City have achieved what the football industry calls a Treble, for lack of a more creative or cryptic term, like Eagle, Boogey, Buaya and Betting used in Golf. Had City won four trophies it would've been a Quadruple, one more would be Quintuple, and so on.

For the record City did actually win another trophy called the FA Community Shield early in the season, but this one is of so little consequence that nobody bothers. So to all intents and purposes, City have won three trophies. I'm fine with that.

British journalists may have differed on Brexit but they've all agreed that EPL is now the toughest and most competitive league in the world simply because all teams must play on Boxing Day. Some have to play three games in three days, in high winds and deep snow. On any day, any team could beat any team and any manager could lose his job (even Jose). The world-famous franchise and twenty-time champions Manchester United completed their campaign a dismal sixth after losing their last game at home to Cardiff, the third worst team in EPL.

EPL has been organized in such a way that it's unthinkable for any team to sustain peak performance throughout and win all three domestic trophies in one season. This is why City's treble triumph is extraordinary, unprecedented and so sensational. In a less competitive league, a Treble or Double Treble or Treble Double isn't uncommon. For some context and perspective, JDT aka TMJ did a Treble Treble, winning three trophies every year for three successive years. That's nothing to shout, of course, because  Liga Super is so lopsided with meek make-weights like Felda United and Melaka Melaka offering only token competition. I'm sorry if you're still confused by this Double and Treble thing. It's difficult, I know, so let's just move on.

For us City's staunch and steadfast followers, this latest success is a measure of how far we've come. It's a just reward for sticking with the team through thick and thin, an accomplishment in itself on the  back of City's legendary penchant for doing the simplest of things in the most complicated way. Exactly twenty years ago to the month City beat unfashionable Gillingham in a pulsating playoff at Wembley, bundling in two freak goals in the last four minutes of injury time. What we'd won wasn't a title or anything, but a promotion from the Third Division to the Second Division. I celebrated the momentous occasion by taking my two baffled sons to McDonald's for an all-you-can-eat outing.

What's behind City's growing supremacy and ascendancy? Pep Guardiola, the manager. No disputes here. This guy is clever. Give him a Nobel Prize for Physics, and an honorary knighthood for changing the boring face of English football and adding billions of pounds to the UK economy. He'd barnstormed EPL last season with  his brand of breathless football, and City romped home with an all-time record of 100 points, 32 wins, and  106 goals. This season City's football was even better because rival teams like Liverpool had all wised up to City's playbook and were all primed to stop the show.

As suspected all along, British media response to City's extraordinary feat has been (relatively) measured and hesitant. Instead of feting City's unprecedented treble, the biased and bent media chose to celebrate Liverpool's unprecedented runners-up tally of 97 points. An NGO was hurriedly founded by misguided fans to petition the FA for a trophy or something to be handed to Liverpool, or maybe share the title with Manchester City. Somebody said stupidity is free.

According to these lazy football writers, City's domestic treble is not a "proper" treble. A proper treble is defined as a treble won by Manchester United or Liverpool.  Even Arsenal Invincibles of 2004, with only one trophy, a paltry 90 points and a diving Robert Pires, were rated better than City's three titles or 100 points, defying all rules of reason. And, of course, those sneaky innuendos and allusion to "bought" titles and treble with 100 billion pounds shelled out on players with dirty money from the oppressive regime in Dubai. Dubai! Not only lazy, but also illiterate.

Look no further than the Guardian's David Squires' caricature for a feel of the on-going anti-city campaign and Liverpool bias:

This is supposed to be a cut-out and keep portrait of departing City's legend Vincent Company (City's captain). Vincent Company is the one standing and looking on in the background. The mop hairdo is Mohammad Salah, Liverpool's striker and diver.

If you think that City's three-trophy euphoria ended with a boisterous victory parade in Manchester streets, and Liverpool promising yet again that next year will be their year, and football writers migrating to Champions League Final in Madrid for the chance to praise and elevate Liverpool, think again. The impact of City's triumph over Liverpool is actually far reaching, even beyond the fringe of football.

Remember Theresa May's raving and rolling in the parliament after Liverpool's back-from-the-dead performance against Barcelona, likening it to her brave Brexit package? All's well and bullish in the Conservative government. The Liverpool-loving Conservative deal-makers and Labour rabble-rousers were in the heat of hammering out a Brexit breakthrough all night when City beat Brighton. All hell just broke loose. Nobody could think straight and agree on anything anymore. Seeing no more future now that Liverpool had failed to win the EPL for the 27th time, Theresa May took the only way out and resigned.

I'll be watching the Champions League Final between Liverpool and Spurs tomorrow morning. You'd not disagree with me that it should've been City v Somebody. Liverpool look good and lucky again but I'm praying for an upset.  Come on you Spurs.


           

An Affair To Remember

My affair with India began in the mid 60's, deep in my dormitory days. Life without smartphones and Facebook was tough. Physics and Chemistry classes were stressful, what with teachers talking mostly to themselves. What did we do for rest and respite? For some of us, watching Hindi movies and listening to Hindi songs.

It's strange for a country of one billion creative and enterprising people, the music industry was dominated by only three  names: Mohammed Rafi, Kishore Kumar and Lata Mangeshkar. We could match songs and singers as early as the first note. The movie industry was more vibrant, but everybody in my school wanted to marry either Sharmila Tagore or Saira Banu. I remember a  friend who memorized 20 Hindi songs, quite a feat without YouTube. Ask him on the periodic table and he'd stumble every time.

I'm not ashamed to admit that I keep a playlist of twenty-five old Hindi songs in my Samsung, with my favourite, Main Gaoon Tum So Jao (from hit film Brahmachari), right at the top. Just a tap away if ever need a nudge of nostalgia.

I went to India early this month and didn't come back.

Well, we did come back. But for two weeks after, we were suffering from flights of flashbacks. We just couldn't stop replaying and reliving the terrific times in Delhi, Agra and Jaipur, Indias's famed Golden Triangle.

With me on this trip were the usual suspects: wife, a fine-looking brother-in-law, his loving wife, and three active sisters-in-law. Seven of us. Another active sister-in-law pulled out a day before we booked our flights, citing work commitment. I've lived long enough, so it was easy to see that she'd actually succumbed to second thoughts.

Since we didn't use travel agent, we'd to apply Indian visa on line on our own. It was expensive (RM 350 apiece) and complicated. We'd to provide our mothers' names for no reason and we'd to repeat all over whenever it crashed. All seven of us were digitally blind, so I'd to get my busy son to do all seven visas in between his day job. It was so tiresome that he kept asking why I didn't go to Korea instead. We booked hotels and transport and drew our own itinerary. Fun and flexible, this is our normal way of travelling. Except that India isn't normal.

I'd my own qualms and questions about India. The rampant India jokes and horror stories spread by friends and bloggers were scary and deeply depressing: water, toilet, food, air, people, traffic, scams,  snakes, you name it. Going by these rumours alone, the only conclusion I could draw was: if I go to India, I'd die. I didn't want to die in India.

But the lure and  temptation was great and hard to resist. Those Hindi movies and Hindi songs and Kajol, India can't be all bad. So I'd to rely on my instincts. My sisters-in-law, like all sisters-in-law of this world, had no instincts of their own. They wanted to share my instincts.

I thought it was one of my best decisions to go ahead. If Bossku could pull it off, we could pull it off. India is incredible beyond my wildest imagination. The colour and texture are gorgeous to the last pixel. Its sights and sounds (and smell, don't forget) are dazzling.  The people are diverse, friendly and fun. We came back and kept casting back.

The names Delhi, Agra, Jaipur and Rajasthan would conjure up the unmistakable images of mad Maharajahs, British viceroys and Moghul emperors. They're no longer with us, but their vestiges are still standing for us to savour and wonder. Magnificent forts, palaces, mausoleums and monuments are strewn all over the place, a testament to human endeavours and excesses.

Unlike my previous travel tales, I'm not going to write a lot. I'm going to post pictures instead, with captions and commentaries that might persuade you to include India in your bucket list, if it's not already there.

Now let's roll:

New Delhi's Indira Gandhi International Airport was surprisingly tidy, orderly and quiet (this is already India, remember). The only hitch was the passport clearance where we 'd to stand up facing the  immigration guys, all of them were Indians (this is India, hey). We'd to get all our ten fingers scanned and stored in Indian cloud. The machine was so slow that it took 15 minutes to read all ten fingers. Where were all those Bangalore IT champions when we needed them? 

Nuts drive me nuts. I've lost lots of teeth due to nut-chomping. Do you know the best place in the world for nuts? Kim Yong market in Hatyai. My pulse raced at the sight of this hawker peddling bright, colourful nuts outside the Gandhi Memorial. It's a kind of Indian snack called Bhelpuri, a concoction or rojak of nuts, dhal, tomato, lime juice and water. Water!  I circled the cart four or five times trying to decide whether to buy or not to buy. This was my first morning in India, and I saw the word DIARRHEA hanging high. No. 
         

Haha this is highly hilarious. This cute auntie was attempting the old, boring "touch-the-tip trick" on the Qutb Minar, and the result was a total disaster. Looks more like a clumsy classical Indian dance move frozen in time. Who's to blame for this flop? The husband, if you asked me.

Now you see how the true and tried professional aces it. You could feel the flair and artistry. If not for the slight underexposure, National Geographic would've scored this shot 5 star. I'm not sure whose camera was used, but I suspect my brother-in-law's antique Galaxy S2.

Humayun's  Tomb, New Delhi. I'd no slightest idea what this 16th century world heritage site was all about until I was right inside. Apparently it's a mausoleum or memorial or monument or whatever for the Mughal Emperor Humayun,  the great-great grandfather of Shah Jahan, and this elaborate structure was a forerunner to the ultimate structure, Taj Mahal. It was built by his grieving first wife named Bega Begum (real name).  You can Google if you're interested in the other wives and why they weren't grieving.

Our hotel in New Delhi. It was a Bed and Breakfast run by two Kashmiri Muslim brothers in an upscale locality called Green Park in south Delhi. Don't be motivated by that "Upscale" bit. It's all comparative. This was still very much part of Delhi and India, same air and water. But the place was comfortable enough with good water filtration system so that we can wash and brush our teeth with confidence. Breakfast? What breakfast?

Masjid Jame' New Delhi was a sad state of affairs. Located in Old Delhi, this massive Mughal mosque can accommodate up to 30,000 people at one time, and only one time in a year (Idil Fitr). It looked rundown, like nothing had been done since 1650.

A bird's eye view of Old Delhi and old couple from Masjid Jame'. I don't know what bird, must be quite dead by now. Joke aside, Old Delhi is chaotic, crowded and noisy and we'd to navigate our way  around on death-defying rickshaws. I'd never seen so many Indians in my entire life (This is India, stupid). In hindsight we should've spent at least one night in this Old Delhi area for an authentic India experience. 

Amber Fort, Jaipur, was a riot of red clay and sandstone. The morning crowd was thick, half of them were traders and touts hawking local bric-a-brac to the other half, tourists like us. Price typically started at 3,000 rupees before settling at 300 after brutal haggling. This Hrithik Roshan dead ringer was supposed to scam and rip this auntie off with his beads and bags and bangles. But this clever auntie, a  seriously low-cost traveller,  turned the table, and I quickly shot this lovefest. From his telltale smile, you'd guess he wasn't all that excited. She'll turn 60 next year.

This is the Taj Mahal in Agra. You know it. One of the most photographed and painted building in the world. The sight literally stopped me on my tracks. I'd seen the picture countless times, but nothing compares to the real thing. So pure, so perfect, such a joy. No words are enough. It's unbelievable that men could achieve this.   

There's no better place to renew your vows and commitment, and reboot that long-lost fire, passion and drive. This senior couple were doing just that. How long will it last, you ask? I guess it would be business as usual as soon as they're back home. But at least they tried.
               

Let's do a Di. This young auntie did her best to reprise the Lady Di at Taj Mahal iconic pose. She'd prepared well for this, shelling out all of RM 35 for that red jacket at a bundle in Balakong. She certainly needs to perk her poise and composure to close in on the late Lady. Try harder.   

We bumped into this group of seven free-spirited Malay girls in Jaipur. Nothing peculiar about them except that they'd never met each other before this trip. They were Facebok friends who met for the first time at KLIA boarding gate. Apparently this is a growing trend among young, shoe-string travellers who'd travel in groups to minimize cost. Being cost conscious myself and tired of travelling with sisters-in-law, I wouldn't really mind joining this group on their next trip. But when one of them asked me "Pakcik dah berapa hari kat sini?" I just dropped the idea and decided that I'd better off travelling with sisters-in-law.

The long hours of riding the four-wheel drive up the Amber Fort, haggling with hawkers, avoiding the touts and converting tens of thousands of rupees was taking its toll on our physical and mental shape and state. My knees were creaking.  One of us mentioned vertigo, another complained about ringing in her ears, and, of course, headaches and migraines running through this family for the past ten generations and next ten generations. But the moment our transport dropped us all at this shop, lo and behold, all the illnesses disappeared like magic, gone for good.

Prices were ridiculously cheap. But we'd bought only 75 kg of luggage for our return trip on extortionate Air Asia. So I'd to keep reminding them not to buy the whole shop.   

Hawa Mahal, Palace of Winds, the famous pink-painted landmark in the heart of Jaipur, the Pink City. Splendid architecture, cool air and beautiful people, Jaipur was a real delight. You must visit.

One of the little pleasures of travelling for me was reading street signs. Well, not exactly street signs, but all the notices, warnings, wordings and signs at airports, hotels, monuments, shops, toilets, just about anywhere. China is notorious for mangling the English language. Its quirky and hilarious English notices and signs are now a tourist attraction and part of its GDP.

Travelling through Delhi, Agra and Jaipur, it's hard to find even one English blunder. The explanatory notes on the Moon Gate at Amber Fort above are straight and simple, with no spelling errors. The Gandhi Memorial on the right showcased the life stories of the late champion of humanity in poignant black and white images. Reading the accompanying texts and footnotes was an exhilarating exercise. Articulate, expressive and eloquent, it's English in its full glory. Kudos, India.

I'm not sure whether security or employment was the major issue at Indian airports, but I was stopped seven times by seven different people at seven different points at Jaipur Airport,  from the terminal door all the way to the aircraft door. My boarding pass was checked and chopped seven times, and I could barely figure out my seat number. So I was glad and relieved to finally reach my seat, although I still kept my boarding pass handy and ready just in case. This is India, you'll never now.

And then there's this street music to refresh and remind us of the amazing India experience. I was overcome by the music the very first time I saw and heard it from our tuk-tuk on the way to  Johari Market in Jaipur. One of my sisters-in-law somehow had the instinct to record  the procession. I'm used to lush studio orchestra music by the likes of Shankar Jaikishan or R D Burman in Hindi movies. This live music by Ashok brass band maybe rough at the edges, but it's sweet and pleasing. And it's free. Listen and enjoy.


 


       

Kelas Dewasa

I'm quietly celebrating the first anniversary of my Kelas Dewasa.

It's Arabic class. This time it's different, I can promise you. No, it's still Arabic language, not Arabic dancing. But unlike the normal, garden-variety Arabic classes where you've to memorize each Arabic word and its sex (male or female, not that sex), this one only teaches you how to translate and understand the holy Quran in a literal way. That's all. No note taking, nothing to memorize, sans textbook, zero homework. Repeat after me: no homework. I just have to show up twice a week in my beat-up Crocs.

This is my third attempt at Arabic. Each of my previous attempts imploded in self-proclaimed martyrdom after two weeks of brain fog and manic depression. I've been holding on to this class, braving it out, and as soon as I realized it, it's already one full year. I've somehow managed to navigate, adapt and finally learned to live with it.

Previously I just read the Quran. Now I can read and (faintly) feel it. I'm serious. I can now declare that I know Arabic. I  can tell you the meaning of Hum, Kum and Thum. Three words out of 70,000 words in the Quran. Some way to go admittedly,  but you've to start somewhere.

But why Kelas Dewasa? Because we, the students, are technically and figuratively dewasa.  We're late bloomers, where late here means really late. I'm one of only two "boys" in the class. The rest are mothers or grandmothers or both mothers and grandmothers. Just like the proverbial roses, we were conveniently conspicuous, and easy pickings for the teacher every time he was high on a sadistic streak. 

It's either me or Rashid (the other boy), but mostly me (you guessed it). The teacher would scream "FAIL, FAIL" before we could scramble up some semblance of an answer. But the ladies,  man, they're always so clever, I mean, they asked lots of clever questions and the way they vocalized and translated the verses, so smooth and dynamic, with all the right tone and pitch. I'd never felt so uneducated.  

Religious classes everywhere are dominated by the fairer sex. My wife attends classes three days a week, and three days a week I've to buy and manage my own lunch. I've no major issues with this creative disruption. She deserves a rest after thirty-five years of sustaining my food chain. But it begs the obvious question of why ladies are partial to religious classes.

Is my wife intellectually more curious than me? Is she turning to religious classes to fill some social and cognitive void that even a good-looking husband can't meet? Or maybe, just maybe, I'm already promised bidadaris in later life, so I can ease off a bit and let my wife fend for herself? Too philosophical. I hope somebody is doing a PhD on this.

For me this Kelas Dewasa moniker comes with a whiff of nostalgia. It brings back fond memories of my childhood days in the old Tanah Melayu in the late fifties. Yes, that long ago. The great wisdom of our founding fathers had found it urgent and expedient to educate the people, and mooted the novel idea of Kelas Dewasa (compare that with their progeny who are now busy enriching their wives).  It took the fledgling country by storm, and in no time Kelas Dewasa simply popped up almost everywhere, even in rural Kelantan.

I was still running around unshod and unbuttoned, and Kelas Dewasa had to be my favourite past-time. Watching the proceedings from the windows, Kelas Dewasa would make my day everyday. Fully-grown adults struggling with the alphabets, ribbing one another and clutching for fresh air, it was a riot every time.

Now back to my very own Kelas Dewasa. I don't have the age statistics, but I'm very sure everyone else in the class, the teacher included, are younger than me. But thanks to Tun, "old" is back in fashion and, like him, I can walk and talk in class with a swagger. He he.   

I know your idea of a Kelas Dewasa teacher is young and sweet Roseyatimah in Pendekar Bujang Lapok (pic above, blurred for effect). Our teacher is not like that. His name is Johari, Ustaz Johari. He's a teacher like no other. To the adoring ladies he's Ustaz Jo, or is it Joe? To him, we're all his students and we're all old. So, he teaches us on a no-fear, no-favour basis.

For some reason, he's not very forthcoming about himself, probably to preserve that Ustaz aura and mystique, leaving the ladies in the dark about his age, education, wife or two. The only clue he's ever volunteered is that where he comes from, people speak English. Yes, he has a huge sense of humour. No surprise he'd call our class Kelas Dewasa every time he'd to repeat something. "Every time" here means many times and "something" is many things. I can imagine his exasperation, so who can blame him. We took this jibe in our stride, seeing it as nothing more than his flippant way of motivating us.

       

Ustaz Jo, or Joe, speaks his mind, and takes no prisoners, if you know what I mean. Everybody is fair game. He'd get any of us to repeat twenty times or more if he'd to. Against this force of nature, my 35 years of corporate culture and soft power count for nothing. The trick here is to forgo your ego and gung-ho, and things will just fall into place.

His hard-driving and military method is a radical departure from the modern-day psychological and soft-sell approach built around overrated Malay sensibilities. His teaching style is founded on the simple premise of "Ingat, Lupa, Ingat, Lupa, Lama-lama Ingat". So he drills and grills us to death. You'd go back home all drained but you'd come back the next day asking for more. Our hardworking Minister of Education should have a look at this teaching technique. Forget Finland. Come to USJ and watch Ustaz Jo in action. 

I hate to admit it but the teacher is one reason why I'm staying on. Please don't let him know this. Let's not allow him to swell and spread with the pleasure of knowing that his abstract art of teaching is working, at least for me. Arabic is no cakewalk. But in his hands, it's fun and surprisingly joyful.

The class is lively and littered with his wisecracks, dark humour and his life stories. I can now count three favourite stories he'd relate to press home his points: his early Arabic class, his first date (aka RM 50 note), and his late friend with a Lamborghini. Nothing wrong with these heroic tales, except that our great Ustaz would replay and reproduce them every other week. By now any of us in the class can repeat the stories with little or no effort. Well, everybody has a weakness or two, even a teacher with so much expertise and experience. I'm not sure whether it's deliberate or late-life lapses. Either way, I guess age has just caught up to him, too. Kelas Dewasa sounds so right.    

           

sCambridge

I'm not a fashion follower. My exposure to sartorial performance is limited to flashes of Neelofa on Astro and Nurul Izzah on her rounds. Regardless, I still think that YB Yeo Bee Yin, picture above,  is ramping up her style to a new level. What would the fashion industry call the garb or gear she's just got herself into? I'd call it hideous. On a bad enough day it might even qualify for cross dressing. What's her statement here? I'm cool? I'm hot? I'm going to Puchong?

YB Bee Yin, you're already aware, is our Minister of Science, Climate Change, Plastic Bags and other fancy stuff. That perhaps accounts for the minimalist, carbon-free look. She did her postgraduate in engineering at University of Cambridge, the best university in the UK, if not the world. Impressive. But her fashion sense is so uninspiring that it's hard to imagine why anyone else  would want to be associated with Cambridge.

You can imagine my dismay and disbelief when the Deputy Minister of Foreign Affairs was recently exposed as a bogus Cambridge graduate. He and his political party were, understandably, vilified and berated nights and days on end. The clamour and commotion triggered by this scandalous discovery is piling ever more pressure on the drifting government already creaking under the weight of constant cluelessness and daily volte-faces.

The so-called Malaysia Baru or Baharu, whatever it means, isn't going to fall any time soon. It'll need more than a factory degree to bring it down. Why? Because we Malaysians are a forgiving lot. We've been brought up in a culture of chicanery and shamelessness. We're so used to frauds and ruses that a minister's misreporting of his degree and alma mater is but a blip. The issue has been blown beyond belief only because the opposition Umno and their corrupt types are short of useful ideas.

Strange as it seems, plenty of positives can be drawn from this episode,  and plenty more in due time. For starters, the fallout has upstaged and buried the Bossku burlesque, at least for a while. Nothing numbs your brain more than the sight of an ex-PM with forty-two (or is it forty-seven?) criminal charges rubbing a kapchai and feted by hordes of abhorred Mat Rempits and bought Umno gangsters. A Cambridge scam smells like fresh air.

The general Malaysians still value education. A pleasant surprise, really. Not just any education, but education from fit and proper universities with physical locations and country codes. A degree from Siberia is OK. A degree from Cyberia is not. I'm not sure what has actually happened in the unfortunate Deputy Minister's case. Did he intentionally plan to pass off his Cambridge degree as the Cambridge degree? Hard to tell, but I don't think so. Probably he didn't know what and where Cambridge really is to begin with. He thought Cambridge graduates had all studied at his Cambridge. The more I see it the more I think it's a misadventure, or an honest mistake on his part. It's a mistake, yes, but at least it's an honest one. Funny, but who really knew. But what we now know is that he didn't manage it very well when the question came, dithering, pussy-footing, and finally leaving it to PM, who was too busy with Samurai bonds.

From now on all politicians and aspiring ministers will think twice about puffing up their degrees and qualifications. Those who are already ministers have to come clean fast before they get found out. In fact, the lovable Minister of Defence has loudly proclaimed what everybody had  long suspected: he was an ITM dropout. Two ministers have, this is funny, declared that they are NOT graduates of any particular university or any university. When was the last time you heard a minister protesting his own academic achievement? The Finance Minister Lim Guan Eng's purported professional accountancy qualification has now been questioned to the very last date and  detail. Bossku ditched his kapcai and wrote to Nottingham for a copy of his scroll to prove that he is actually the genius, and not Jho Lo. 

All in all, we're in for honest-to-goodness politicians. No more quacks or charlatans from Belfords or Prestons. This can't be a bad thing. This doesn't mean that we're going to get only ministers with Cambridge (UK) degrees. Certainly not. We'd still get non-graduate ministers, but who cares as long as they are exactly what they claim to be. Better still if they can cook.

A minister is typically surrounded by a pageant of highly educated and informed advisors, inexplicably called secretaries since the imperial days. It was reported that the office of Minister of National Unity and Social Wellbeing, for example, has no less than five secretaries (all Indians) to advise the minister (an Indian). With so many advisors, who needs a degree from Cambridge in UK or anywhere?

A quick comparison among the current crop of ministers should reveal very little or no difference in performance, regardless of where they got their degrees (if any). For some fun, let's compare our Deputy Minister of International Trade, a graduate of Cambridge (UK) with our unfortunate Deputy Minister of Foreign Affairs, a graduate of Cambridge (somewhere else). Do you notice any difference in performance? Do you notice any performance? They, like the rest in PH cabinet, are really not doing all that much. So all this bother and brouhaha about fake Cambridge is a sheer waste of time.

I'm not saying that we shouldn't have a graduate from a prestigious and famous and old university as a minister. On the contrary, I'm all for literate and articulate ministers. Listen to Noh Omar and you'll realize the urgency. Singapore cabinet are all Oxford, Cambridge and Harvard for a reason. A minister with a good degree is a good headstart for any government. The concern here is the overly obsession with a degree as a measure of potential competency. The culture of high performance is so entrenched in Singapore that even a UMK graduate should make a good prime minister. UMK is Universiti Malaysia Kelantan, in case you asked.

So where's all this finally leading to? Apparently something closer to home and heart. My eldest, yes, my very flesh and blood, is doing his part-time post-graduate degree at Cambridge. I'm all for good education and strong legacy. Now all this fuss and furore over fake Cambridge, maybe it's time for, quite literally, some reality check. My son's not a deputy minister, not yet, at least. But I still think it's good money to call him over and start a frank conversation. I've already compiled a list of clever questions, like, Why is this not full-time? Is the vice chancellor a Nigerian prince ? Does this  alleged Cambridge have GPS coordinates? 

I'll let you know.     




 



      

     

         

    

               

The Empty Chair

It was one fine mid-morning in late August when the news broke: My English teacher had  died.  

Mr Tan Teong Leong was one of my school's leading lights and a true champion. That his passing touched off an immediate outpouring of grief and tributes from all corners of the country is a testament to a near-cult following among his ardent students.

He was a teacher like no other, delivering with passion and aggression, as if English was more than life and death. I've to admit that the things I now read and write owe in large measure to his  tenacious teaching and selfless single-mindedness. His brand of breathless old-school English will keep burning bright and shining us on like the proverbial eternal flame.

I was blessed to have him as my English teacher from Form Three through Form Five at my school in Tiger Lane, Ipoh. Mr Tan had been teaching here since January 1958. I'd never know exactly how many students he'd trained by the time he retired in 1993. My guess is three thousand, give and take, who'd since grown up and flourished in their chosen careers. Teachers, soldiers, lawyers, ministers, doctors, I could fill a page, easy. Some are famous, some are rich, and some, like me, are retired. But whoever or whatever we are, we share one common denominator: our English teacher.

I'd very much like to claim that I know everything there's to know about him. But I actually know very little, or maybe nothing. All I know is that he was our English teacher. He was physically unimposing to begin with. The standard was pretty high at the time when Kirk Douglas ruled the box office. But his coiffed hairdo and crisply pressed white shirts, matching dark pants and sharp shoes were all hallmarks of a teacher and a gentleman with a fine taste and an obsession with detail.  He wasn't an enigma in any way, it's just that his relentless English energy seemed to precede and obscure everything else. So we took him for granted. It's like we'd known him enough and all only from his English classes.

Learning a language is no walk in the park.  But in Mr Tan's hands English language was livelier than Liverpool Football Club. The tortuous subject came alive as he pulled us through the full glory, intricacy and insanity of the language. He'd dazzle us with puns, word-plays and double-speaks, and end his class with something for us to take home, you know, some wacky words, like "onomatopoeia". Go ahead and Google if you're too old to remember anything. You'd hear his purrs and hisses.

The mere mention of his name among us old boys would tease out a tale or two. We'd occasionally flounder and fall like an English patient, and as to why he didn't get that sweet and twisting pinch patented remains a burning question to this day. Despite his verbal riches and his vibrant way with words, he'd favour simple and straightforward English over complicated and contrived  stuff any time of the day. Once I tried to show off with the flashy "dilapidated" in a Form Five composition. He struck it out with screaming red ink and scrawled "old" in its place followed by five exclamations. I could imagine him up in arms and yelling and stabbing an imaginary me with all his mortal might.

Evidence and anecdotes of his love and mastery of the crazy language are plentiful. But for the most persuasive, look no further than an articulate textbook he'd authored, entitled  "English Reading And Comprehension". A dull, pedestrian title, if you asked me, but he was an English teacher, not a marketing guru. I'd urge the hardworking Education Minister to make this gem of a book a mandatory English reference for students, lecturers and all ministers. 

The gift he left us isn't so much in what he'd taught us, but the way he'd got us all turned on and sexed up by the language. I wasn't exactly a poster boy at school for the earthly reason that I didn't play Rugby or break the triple jump record. So most teachers only knew me by sight (not pretty, if I'm honest). But Mr Tan got my name right every time and I had the feeling that he quite fancied my work. In hindsight, I thought we also shared a quiet sense of indifference and disbelief towards the Rugby mythology perpetually gripping the school. Anyway,  I was greatly encouraged and thanks to him, I landed a C3 for my MCE English. Well, it wasn't a distinction, but it was good enough for a deep Kelantanese who came to this great school with a grand total of three English words: yes, no, sleep.

I went on to two years of Sixth Form where I'd to learn lots of crazy stuff. I'd to read Hikayat Hang Tuah (500 pages) and I'd to memorize all the archaic dialogues between Hang Tuah and everybody else. I was on the brink of going mad. There was no English to study. The closest was a subject called General Paper. As the name suggests, it was a corrupt and catch-all project, a mishmash of current affairs, statistics, English writing, and English football. The teacher was a fine-looking lady but, unlike my English teacher, she wasn't even half-inspiring. But since we were all boys and sexually dead, we still thought we had a good deal. Nobody missed her class. Little surprise that I didn't do that well in GP, and other subjects, if you want to know.

I left the great school in 1973 and didn't meet my English teacher again, not until early August this year -  a hiatus of almost half-century. It was all my fault.  I could've easily gatecrashed one of our annual Old Boys Weekends in Ipoh and caught up with him. We might even get to talk about (bloody) Rugby, who knew.

We came to know that Mr Tan's was unwell late July this year. Four of us, one-time classmates, including one ex-Headboy, quickly decided on a day trip to Ipoh to visit him.  This was long overdue, so I didn't hesitate. We took the ETS, paid 50% and talked non-stop from KL Sentral to Ipoh station. The country had just broken the world record for the oldest Prime Minister, so there's plenty to rave and reflect.

There he was, my English teacher, lying on a chair or recliner or something. Alert and jovial, he'd no problems talking and joking with us. Apparently he was down with some intestinal complications. Science wasn't my strong suit,  so the medical term didn't stay with me for long. I introduced myself with full name and the school years, but he couldn't recall, not even remotely. Half a century and three thousand students and I didn't play Rugby, how could he remember.

I handed him a copy of my recently published book "The Asrama Anthology", a collection of nineteen hostel-life stories. It wasn't technically my book because I only wrote two of the stories. He took it, flipped the pages and enquired "What book is this?"  I tried my best to impress "Sir, I wrote two stories in this book. It is a best-seller now. Please read and correct my English".  He just nodded and laughed. I was serious. I really wanted him to correct my English.

It was, in a way, a happy occasion and we took lots of pictures to take away. But we left feeling somewhat uneasy about his chair or what looked like a hastily organized recliner. Well, he looked comfortable enough with that. But we, his students, also knew all about his partiality for perfection and detail. Call it pangs of penitence or crash of conscience, or simply an outstanding debt hovering high above us. He wouldn't mind something better. He'd given away more than thirty years of his life to the school, cajoling and coaxing us all to speak and write good English.

On the ETS on the way back, we hunkered down again to discuss. This time it was something more serious and useful.  One of us floated the idea of crowd-funding among the old boys to buy a new chair or recliner or something comfortable for our English teacher. The good ex-Headboy kicked off the fundraising the very next morning, and in a short space of six days he managed to pool more than enough to buy a better chair.

The chair we'd chosen was a smart and state-of-the art recliner with easy controls and plenty of bells and whistles. I knew Mr Tan would love and approve of this.  The beautiful chair was on its way to Ipoh when he passed away. But it was delivered anyway as a gift from all of us old boys and his students to his family.

The news of his passing left me in abeyance before it completely sank in. The air was thick with a shrouding sense of loss. Slumping in my couch and staring blankly ahead, I cast my mind back to the book I'd given him. I could almost picture him, my English teacher, lounging comfortably in the chair, reading my book and correcting my English. It was not to be. The chair was empty.