Election, At Last

 

So I was wrong. There's going to be an election after all. And it's next month, not in 2019. From now until the election day, our caring PM is also a caretaker PM. He's about half-way into proclaiming the dissolution of the parliament when the mainstream media (meaning Utusan Malaysia) and the alternative media (also Utusan Malaysia) went into orgasmic overdrive, declaring that Selangor and Sabah will soon be part of Malaysia. Who can blame them. They've been waiting for this moment since 2008, the last election. You won't find a country more captivated and consumed in election fever. That Malaysia and Malaria rhyme so well is no coincidence. Nothing is done without a stench of electioneering. Kelantan will transform from poor to very poor now that politics has overtaken batik as the biggest cottage industry. Believe it or not, this is the 13th general election, and our election process has been massively transformed. With the use of the ink, we're now on par with Iraq and well ahead of the Ivory Coast.

If you watch only TV3, you'd be led to believe that it's going to be a cakewalk for BN because if BN candidates lose, BN-friendly candidates will win. But if you add up all the cash bonanza, it looks tighter than Barca vs Real. With sentiments so finely balanced, there's all to play for. Thanks to EC and EC bashers, election will be more fun. They're doing away with nomination protests. This will allow candidates who can't spell their names to still contest, campaign and run down their opponents. Of course, we need more tweaks if we're really serious about benchmarking against election dreamlands like New Zealand, Denmark etc.

A 94-year grandmother is contesting to protect polygamy. Problem is, there's no age limit in Malaysia, unlike North Korea, where there's restriction on age and everything else. Horny granny aside, the sight of an 80-something icon and firebrand being towed around on the campaign trail is hard to stomach. I know about some US judges and senators who retired after 90 and how they appointed George Bush, legalized Elton John's marriage and reinstated slavery. I always believe that a physically weak leader (political or spiritual) is intellectually suspect. No, I'm not calling for a candidate who runs Boston marathon. But a candidate who can at least walk without help, think clearly and talk in plain Malay language without the need for Malay subtitles.  


It's well-documented that opposition parties either don't get enough airtime or don't get airtime. I've no problem with this because all the TV and radio stations belong to either the government or businessmen scared of the government. Fair enough. People have to eat. But why not make it official, I mean legislate a law, or even amend the constitution, to disallow opposition parties from using TV and radio. With the law, anybody even remotely related to the opposition can't be seen within 10 km of any TV or radio station. Draconian, yes, but it's a rule or law that's understood by everybody, just like running red lights or the advantage rule in football. With this simple regulation, nobody will complain, certainly not the ruling party.

This election is already spinning into a melee of manifestos. This is, of course, a sign of political maturity. And mockery. One manifesto contains 120 vague pledges or promises, and each promise has another 120 vague sub-promises with even more vague-vague sub-sub-promises, with suspicious words like kroni, sisipan, mapan, iltizam thrown in to confuse and upset the average readers like you. When you're just about to get the hang of the whole thing, another 100 additional vague promises are added. This is Suarez-style daylight trickery. Why not limit any manifesto to just one page and ten promises max using basic numbers and clear language like tidur, nasi, ayam, hutang, sekolah, mydin, astro. This way it's easier to determine which party might bankrupt the country faster.


In every election, single mothers and artistes are singled out for goodies. This election they get even more. I'm a Petronas retiree and technically not an artiste, so I don't get anything even though Petronas and I have paid billions of ringgit in income tax. I'd propose that  all Petronas retirees be reclassified as artistes, or even single mothers for all I care. This way, I'll get to share the goodies. Grocery discounts, insurance, free medical, low-cost real estate, subsidized TV serials, low-quality TV serials, you name it. But how can a Petronas retiree be deemed an artiste or single mother? Easy. Look up the law. Pull up any contract or agreement and read: male gender is female gender, plural also means singular. A court in Canada even ruled that a horse is indeed a bird. So why can't a Petronas retiree be an artiste or a single mother?

If I want to vote, I'll have travel to Kg Pandan to vote. I lived in the area in the early 80s, and I haven't changed my polling address. One candidate there is an ex-Petronas. We've never met but I heard he's a rising star, a Senior Manager at the age of 27, a chartered accountant of England and Wales, an engineer, an MCKK old boy. Breathtaking. Can you be more educated than that? At this rate, he should become a GM at 30, VP at 35, and burn out at 39. Somehow he decided to quit and write a clever farewell missive, and went on to become a political mastermind or something and, once again, a rising star. Since his widely celebrated revelation of financial/comical scandals and skullduggery in high places, political attack dogs have made valiant attempts to frame his "actual" reasons for leaving Petronas. I think there's nothing sinister. He just didn't want to be a Petronas VP, that's all.

Hong Kong Hangover

 

When I was holing up at the 29th floor of Petronas Twin Towers way back in 2004, I came to know an English expert named Mike Hessien. No, he didn't teach English, he was an expert on lubricants and he was born somewhere in England, which makes him English. He wasn't a vice-president but he seemed to know a lot about lubes. My knowledge on lubes was just enough to trigger the regular oil change for my car, but we hit off immediately when we discovered that we indeed had something in common: he loves Manchester United, I hate Manchester United. He'd been moving around a good bit and he recounted his first time in Hong Kong: "I've never seen so many Chinese in my life". Not exactly a heart-lifting sentiment, but it's nothing more than what you could expect out of a fiercely technical guy. There's no context to what he said. He meant just that.  

I was in Hong Kong for four days (in 14 March, out 18 March). When I stepped out of the Airport Express at the Hong Kong central station, Mike's words rang out. I'd never seen so many Chinese in my entire life. (I turned 60 just last month). It's one and half Chinese person per square foot, give and take. But what do you expect? This is Hong Kong, part of China. China, Chinese. Fair enough, but coming from Malaysia, you'd expect something more cosmopolitan and less monochromic. You'd expect everywhere to be just like KL or KLCC, with Indonesians, Nepalese, Nigerians adding colour to the standard fare of Melayu, Chinese and Kelantanese.

Unless you're an inhabitant of faraway Norway, Hong Kong shouldn't evoke any touristic mystique. Last year my neighbour went to Hong Kong just to eat. I happen to live in USJ. We have a bustling commercial hotbed called Taipan, which is actually Kowloon in all but name. So why bother? Honestly, my first choice was Rome or Rio, but Tony's airbuses don't fly to these far-flung places, not while Tony's busy watching his QPR investment melting into a misadventure. Air Asia is cheap, but choice is thin. They fly only to Hong Kong and Nanning. No contest there. Nanning sounds like a gerund and probably is. So Nanning is out.

I'm hardly half-way through and you already think that Hong Kong is humdrum. And crowded, colourless with ugly red taxis, it didn't fire my imagination, and so on. You're only right about crowded and taxis. Hong Kong is a worthwhile experience. Believe me.

For a start, I went to Hong Kong with my wife, two girls, son, daughter-in-law, and, this is the exciting part, my granddaughter. Diana was 5 months old, and people at this age are less than subtle in expressing their feelings and ideas. (I could see fellow fliers holding their breath at the sight of our little screamer). But I can tell you now that flying with granddaughter beats flying with bosses any day.

Just a bit of an introduction to Hong Kong for my brothers/sisters-in-law who still think Ottawa is in Japan. Hong Kong is made up mainly of Hong Kong island and Kowloon, geographically just like Penang and Seberang Prai. Hong Kong and Penang are, of course, politically different: Hong Kong government is headed by a Chief Executive (a Chinese), Penang government is led by a Chief Minister (a Chinese).    

One of the main draws and lures of tourist hotspots like Paris, New York, London, Ottawa  is a charming Chinatown. Some, like Melbourne, have Chinatowns, Chinese mayors, Chinese laundries and Chinese launderers. This is where Hong Kong loses out. There's no Chinatown in Hong Kong. The whole town is Chinatown.

My picks of pleasant surprises and hidden gems: 

1. JJ Hotel.

When I said JJ Hotel, the taxi driver joked:  JW? Gay driver! Hong Kong has plenty of horror hotels, but not JJ. This Tripadvisor-rated hotel is clean and friendly with enough space to breathe and talk. And free and fast wifi to boot. If you can't afford JW, try JJ. Located in Wan Chai area, it's ten minutes to a subway (MTR) station and you can walk to Causeway Bay, Hong Kong's boomtown. On our trip to Stanley Market, we'd to take the MTR at Wan Chai and, after seven stations, get off at Chai Wan. Wan Chai, Chai Wan, priceless. I can think of Tokyo, Kyoto for a parallel. Or goreng pisang, pisang goreng. Hahaha 

2. Dim Sum at Wan Chai Mosque

I'd read about the dim sum on travel blogs, but we discovered the mosque only on the third day. It's just 100 metres from JJ. The canteen served halal food, and the dim sum was the standout. Sublime stuff. It's Sunday, and the place was buzzing with off-duty Indonesian maids in bright tudung, who came here to meet, eat and pray. There's a plaque from Astro, whose crew had visited this canteen three times for their food program. Why three times? Because Astro likes to repeat its programs. The mosque is six-floor, clean, well-kept, with notices in perfect English (unlike our public university websites). Next day, I came here again with wife at 3 pm for zohor and asar. And dim sum. The canteen was closed.

3. Macau (or Macao)

This gambling den and Portuguese relic isn't part of Hong Kong, but close enough. The one-hour ferry ride was pleasant, even with the hassle of immigration (four times) on both sides. There's an unmistakable old European feel, the buildings, road signs, windows, hanging flower pots, and the Portuguese egg tarts. It should make you wonder why the Portuguese hadn't built something like this when they had their chance in Melaka in 1500s. Were they busy fighting off hare-brained Hang Tuah and friends? All they've left us is Jonker Street and its pineapple tarts. But a walk through the famous and grandiose Venetian (a mixed hotel, mall, casino, canal, gondola) should nudge you right back to the modern-day Chinese mercantile grandstanding, show-off and, ahem, knock-offs.

4. Avenue of Stars

For those yearning for Bruce Lee, look no further. This is the place to savour the fists of fury -  in bronze. Avenue of Stars is Hong Kong's snappy answer to Hollywood's Walk Of Fame, complete with star-tributes to its very own movie pantheon. A whiff of nostalgia swept in when I stepped on stars of my schooldays favourites: Ti Lung, David Chiang, Wang Yu. Sadly nothing on Lo Lieh, another hero, who played the perennial villain. His final showdown with Wang Yu in "The Chinese Boxer" is more intense and artistic than Bruce slapstick. Anyway there's a star for Li Tit, not sure who but pretty name all the same. From the Avenue of Stars you can feast on the famous Hong Kong skyline, featured in serious spy movies (James Bond) and semi-serious spy spoofs (Johnny English).


5. Look, No Cats and Dogs

A sure pleaser, this one. Hong Kong's air maybe clogged, but ground level is spick and span. Roads and sidewalks are narrow without even a trace of phlegm. All toilets are free and cleaner than the tolled ones in London or Paris. KL? Don't ask. And no stray cats and dogs, not even one during my four days. Wonder what kept them off the streets. I'd stopped running on Subang Jaya roads for more than ten years now just to avoid crashing into pit bulls and pit-bull poos. I guess Hong Kong is corrupt-free which makes it phlegm-free.   

6. Ocean Park

I didn't go to Ocean Park. Ask Diana if you want to know.

          

Macau: We want egg tarts! We want egg tarts!

Time Square Hong Kong: When I Grow Up I want To Be Time Square New York

 Big Boss Bruce In Bronze Behind

 
  

We Can Smell Dim Sum From Here

A Healthy Hong Kong Man Showing Off His Daughter.

Wan Chai To Chai Wan to Stanley Park To Chai Wan To Wan Chai Makes Me Sleep

 

Nenek Geram Cucu.

I've Waited Here For Two Hours, And All I Get Is This Junk.

Nothing Wrong With Me. Something Wrong With My Glasses.

Ocean Park: I Didn't Go Because My Cholesterol Is Higher Than This Cable car

 Diana Makes Her Feelings Known: These Cheap Chinese Glasses Really Suck !

When I'm 64

Will you still need me,
Will you still feed me,
When I'm sixty-four. 
  
I turned 60 this morning. 60, not 64, but what the hell, I just have to quote those epic Beatles lines.

A milestone of sorts, but no fanfare or fireworks, only android-driven congratulatory messages from Telekom Malaysia, Digi, Senheng, and, you've to believe this, Umno Selangor. If anything, I know now whom to vote in the coming general election, if ever there's going to be one.

I share my birthday with Cristiano Ronaldo and Carlos Tevez, and the similarity, rather sadly, ends there. They're talented, young, good-looking, rich, famous, heavy-haired, Latin. I'm Kelantanese. The contrast almost makes me sick. My only revenge is that these guys do have some serious problems: drinking, drugs, women, contracts, taxes, violent managers, and team-mates waiting for the half-chance to break their legs. I only have high cholesterol. I know you'd still choose Cristiano. 

Unless you're a palaeontologist, sixty years is a long time. To give you a fair idea, it's longer than a mid-season Wigan vs West Ham. I spent half of that time in Petronas. If I could turn back the clock and restart, I'd probably end up working............ 30 years in Petronas ! Yes, I'm that boring. Thing is, I just can't warm to the idea of working at Felcra, Hong Leong, Puspakom. Just examples, nothing against these companies. It's alright if you're already caught in any of them. Petronas has always been the gold standard,  so there's no motivation to switch even in another (hypothetical) life. Whether Petronas would still take me in if it could go back isn't the subject of this discussion.

I've never celebrated my birthday. No, I'm not superstitious or phobic or sick. On the contrary, I think birthday is one of the biggest concepts in the brief history of human thinking, up there with Natural Selection and Baltic Dry Index. I'm just indifferent to birthdays, exactly the way some of you are indifferent to tomatoes, dragon fruits, Indons, vice-presidents, and so on. I did get occasional birthday gifts, though, from my two girls: a hand-drawn card with a funny dad caption, a Hallmark card with a funny dad caption, a mug with a funny dad caption, a plain Timberland tee.

With my bad birthday attitude, you can only expect that each and every one of my birthdays to be a non-event.  You're right. Each and every one except my 55th. I'd to retire on my 55th birthday, so I'd to wait and watch for it because if I work beyond my 55th birthday I won't get paid even though Petronas is the richest company in the country. My co-workers reminded me by throwing a birthday bash (just cake and Coke actually). It's my last birthday in office, so it's the least they could do. It's all very well and they're seeing the back of me but a few days later I was back on contract. The next birthday, I was still in office but nobody said anything. It slipped right past me the way it had always been for 54 years: a non-event.

Now that I'm 60, what will change? Can't think of anything right now. Maybe I'm now more qualified or entitled as a senior citizen. It's downright comical how senior citizens are being pushed around in this caring and cash-rich country. When you hit 55 you're officially a senior citizen and you can enter Penang Bridge marathon as a veteran and you can legally beat the long queue to renew your passports. But the bloody LRT will only allow you discounts when you're 60 and they will also allow you to compete with Nigerian students for your priority seats. Hospitals? You're only priority if you're 65, and not dead.   





 

       

     

The Day I Saw Obama

It's a cloudless Friday afternoon, 16 June 2006, when I saw Obama, in Evanston, outside Chicago. He didn't notice me, of course, but there he was, in the flesh, walking a mere 20 metres out on his way up the stage at Ryan Field to address graduates and parents at Northwestern University's 148th commencement. My eldest was in the graduating Class of 2006. As fate would have it, my camera ran out of batteries, so I couldn't snap anything to prove this to you.

Obama needs no batteries because he's a born orator. He speaks from the heart. And he must've picked up some skills during his early schooldays in Jakarta, where almost everyone speaks and double-speaks. His speech was short and straight, but it's hard not to be inspired:

"Challenge yourself. Take some risks in your life. Focusing your life solely on making a buck shows a poverty of ambition. It asks too little of yourself. And it will leave you unfullfilled" 

A pretty aphorism and a handsome excuse for driving a preve and not a porsche. Man, this guy is smooth. I'd barely heard of Barack Obama then, but I was already impressed.  He'd just been elected a US senator with some 65% vote. What struck me wasn't so much the "challenge yourself" mantra. I'd heard it repeated to death in all my thirty years at Petronas. It's the "poverty of ambition" and "asks too little of yourself" bit that I fell for. Not its substance, but the elegance. Pure Chicago and massively original. A lot fresher than the dreaded and Balotelli-ugly "deliverables" and "stretch targets".

True to his every word, Obama went on to become US President, not once, but twice, earning a miserly $400K a year. This is, let's face it, the ultimate "walk the talk". He'd have earned more than that had he joined Petronas and become a vice president. But that would leave him unfulfilled.

Now back to my eldest. As a graduating student, he's seated close to the stage and had a plum view of Obama, but I wasn't sure whether he's listening to him at all. He's probably too busy pinching himself just to be doubly sure that this graduation gig wasn't a dream or another Nigerian hoax. The ghost of the past four years was still looming large. Northwestern, decidedly, isn't Universiti Malaysia Kelantan.

Obama didn't join Petronas, you know that. But my eldest did,  if you want to know.

My Makkah Miracles

It's two years ago this month that we were in Makkah to perform the haj. It's a journey like no other. A time for conscience and contemplation. And a late, late honeymoon. The memory lingers as the idle mind succumbs to flashbacks. Two years on, the heady scenes and sounds are still stirring the senses. Everyone came back with tales of miracle moments. I'll tell you my six:

1. Poetry Meets Poetry.

Ya Allah, jadikanlah cahaya pada hatiku,
cahaya pada lidahku,
cahaya pada telingaku,
cahaya pada mataku,
cahaya dari belakangku,
cahaya dari hadapanku,
cahaya dari atasku,
cahaya dari bawahku.
Ya Allah, kurniakanlah kepadaku cahaya.

No, it's not a puisi mistik from Latiff Mohidin. It's a beautiful doa recited (in Arabic) as we approached Masjidil Haram. My first sight of the grand mosque froze me on my tracks. How could you not be consumed by this iconic celebration of Islam. The symmetrical grey lines, monochromic mosaic walls and rhyming motifs collided and colluded to render an aura of understated majesty and grandeur. The mosque is the ultimate poetry.

2. The Lady and the Lullaby

Sai'e seems second fiddle to the depth and intensity of tawaf. It was supposed to be a short, straight walk-trot of about 400 m, back and forth, six times, in a covered and climate-controlled pathway. Routine enough until things took a poignant turn as the mind conjured up visions of the lady and her infant, stricken with untold panic and fear, flailing back and forth, wailing for water in the scorching sands. Divine trials break the realm of reason. One of the doas for the Sai'e circuits brought pangs of nostalgia. The first time I heard these obscure lines was about 50 years ago. Mother used to serenade it to lull little brother to sleep. I could almost catch her flawless pitch chorusing as I recited the doa. So overcome, I broke down.

3. Rapping at Arafah

Wukuf was truly climactic, and the midday khutbah was its cusp. The sweeping scene of millions in white ihram flecking the barren Arafah landscape took my breath away. Nothing was more humbling as chiefs and chauffeurs mustered on equal terms. No paychecks and perks here, only faith, penance and surrender. The second half of the khutbah sent me into raptures as the adzan came on. The khutbah and the adzan overlapped in an Eminemesque rap as the mind slipped into half-trance, losing myself deep in the moment.


angin panas di luar khemah
menolak kita ke pinggir ingatan
lalu membakar dosa kita
maka kita pun terpegun
dan menatap dengan diam
( From award-winning "Wukuf" by Wan A Rafar, 1983)

4. Mudzalifah and  Million Lights.

It was lepak time. And why not. From Arafah to Mina after Wukuf, it's a mandatory break (Mabit) at the plains of Mudzalifah after sundown at least for one heart-beat long. Off season, Mudzalifah was a flat wasteland with no visible vegetation, no sheds, no rain, not a thing. Imagine the epic transformation from zero to three million souls converging enmasse in half-darkness for the pause. Lights flickered for miles and miles out, as far as the eyes could take. Sheer pleasure and spectacle. Thanks to Arab efficiency, one heart-beat was actually four hours.

5. The Long March: Mina to Makkah

We chose to walk back from Mina to Makkah after we're done with the devil. It's cool, temperate climate as we joined other like-minded devil-bashers and quickly melted into a motley, cosmopolitan crowd marching toward Makkah. The long flowing line of pilgrims literally linked Mina with Makkah, reprising  the physical and emotional "ordeal" of the early haj travellers without the combustion engines to ferry them around. Inspired and emboldened, we hit Makkah in no time and valiantly pressed on with tawaf and saie to complete our haj. We logged almost 20 km that day. No pain, all gain, we rewarded ourselves with a hefty briyani.

6. The Sheikh Sang


It was Subuh prayer on 20 November. The imam's rendition gave me goosebumps. What a way to vocalize God's verses: with power and pace. I'd heard the bluesy Al Sudais and Al Juhany, but this guy was different. He rocked! I wished he'd just go on and on as he sweetly muscled his way, shifting the tune and lifting the tone to drive the message home. He came on again for Subuh the next day with a moving recitation of the familiar Surah Al Munafiqun. And again for Maghrib on 27 November. Back home I googled him: Sheikh Khalid Al Ghamdi, one of the younger Makkah imams. Listen to his delivery of Surah Ale Imran on 24 July 2011 on YouTube. Add him to your listless playlists.

A Grandfather Like Me

I became a grandfather recently, joining an exalted circle of senior celebrities like D Maradona (football star), M Jagger (rock star) and M Yuzer (an old friend featured in a TV toothpaste commercial). My son and daughter-in-law were blessed with a baby girl on 6 October. A pretty and precious bundle of joy, and I can’t wait for her first smile. By convention, my son should be a proud father of a baby girl. I'm not sure whether I'm allowed to be a proud grandfather of a baby girl. But I'm happy enough about this paternal progression. The new arrival will ramp up the clatter and clutter level in an otherwise humless and humdrum household. She may cry and crank anytime she likes if she can promise me now that she won’t support Manchester United.

A retiree with a grandchild or two in tow is now industry standard. And why not, Indonesian maids are now rarer than rhodium, and even if they’re available, they’d work only five days a week, eight hours a day (which is actually two hours if you exclude telpon and sinetron). Take it or leave it, says the evil agent aka people trafficker. For young families caught in this cruelty, retiree-grandfathers are a godsend. They’re technically unemployed simply because growing old isn’t considered substantive work. They’re lazy and unskilled, yes, but they cost less than nothing and require no visa, so there’s plenty of value for no money. I read somewhere that a retiree can keep his mind sharp and chic by memorizing poems, solving cryptic crosswords and, better still, playing sudoku. Sudoku? Give me the baby, now.

I’m actually lagging behind most of my Tiger Lane classmates, who’re already walking and talking with their grandchildren. It's impossible to follow everyone's sexual habits, but I won't be surprised if there are altogether now 400 children and grandchildren from the two 1966 classes. Azlan has two or three grandchildren now. Ibrahim three or more. Cikgu Ya a dozen, as of last week. Zaki, somehow, has none but still stands a fair chance if he gets married today and work on it immediately. I can still recall our classrooms and dorms and debates and the sick bay and Mr Sarjit Singh but I can’t quite recall anybody even vaguely talking about children, let alone grandchildren. Why? One elegant but unscientific theory points to the daily (and nightly) proximity to same-sex classmates and dormmates causing a complete loss interest in reproduction. A simpler (still unscientific) theory is that we're just too exhausted to think about anything after navigating the mighty meals prepared by our award-winning masterchef in the dining hall. Whatever the reason, here we’re now: grandfather, and loving all of it.

I’m not sure what unique skills are required of a grandfather other than sleeping with a grandmother. A good friend congratulated me, adding a word of caution, bold upper-case: don’t use your diapers for the baby. Now I can understand why Brutus killed his friend Julius Caesar. As with my progeny, I always wonder which part, or how much, of my architecture will be passed down to my granddaughter. I guess not much, if any. She already has two parents to take after. Anyway it's neither urgent nor important for her to share any part of my human biology (let's not discuss the inhuman part here). I can’t solve a simple quadratic equation to begin with. I can't play the violin or even cricket. High cholesterol is not a talent. Neither is writing crap like this. So it's in everybody's best interest that the baby keeps only the minimum of my genetic footprint.

She's hardly a month old and I'm already nervous. Well, not nervous the way you're nervous about your sugar spike and memory mess. Actually I'm just pondering her way forward. Growing up in a country with the world's worst taxi drivers won't be a cakewalk. Not to mention snatch thieves, multi-level scammers, illegal students, Kelantan football supporters. I had job offers before completing my final-year (economics, not obstetrics). She'll have to compete with 200,000 or more unemployed graduates for job interviews. Job interviews, not jobs. It’s only fair to ask some serious questions here and now. Like, will she be able to buy a basic house at RM 5 million in 2040? Will she be clever enough to graduate from one of the 100 local international medical schools in 2036 but ending up telemarketing at Citibank? Will PM finally announce the next general election date by the time she goes to school in 2019? These are trick questions. Do not attempt.

A baby is a God's gift and will. My dear mother always reminds me that God knows what we don't know. My fears are unfounded and disturbing drivel contrived out of a flagging mind. There’s no excuse for this alarmist and Malthusian tone. In 2019 Malaysia will start as a fully developed and civilized country, free of cronies, junkies and tuition fees. My granddaughter will do just fine. She’ll shine and flourish and go to Princeton or Brown. With none of her grandfather's cognitive complexities, she might even play the violin.    

The Sad Bed

Death is sad. Even when it's of someone you hardly know. I was rudely reminded of this today, Thursday, 20 September 2012.

My old man had been recuperating in the geriatric ward at the University Malaya Medical Centre for the past ten days. Until today the medical staff, otherwise known as doctors and nurses, hadn't been very forthcoming or specific about what he's down with. Doctors are all Shakespeares with serious handwriting issues. All they could provide me was the old reliable "he's old and has lots of phlegm and needs complete rest". Hardly ground-breaking stuff. I could easily see that even without the benefit of six brutal years at medical schools. He's officially 88, but I guessed he's at least 90, or 92, who really knew. At this late age, it's his business to have plenty of phlegm.

Yesterday a young houseman came in and proudly announced that he (my father, not the doctor) would be discharged early next week. It's as explicit as I could get out of the medical profession. I thought economics was the only dismal science.

Don't get me wrong. There's every reason to admire these doctors for their high energy, deep passion and virtuous subculture. In these dark days of corrupt contracts and paranormal politics, they're the shining lights who'd go out of their way to sustain the fragile life of a 90 year-old, whatever it takes. You can never pay them enough.
 

Visiting my sick senior was high on my daily to-do list. It's easy for a retiree, all I'd to do was cut back on the English Premier League and do away with Arsene Wenger. You'll never know whether you've seen or done enough for your folks when they're healthy and you're sinking into the corporate mire. So visiting him now looked like a productive way of fighting back this attack of conscience. Problem was, he's so weak and wispy that it's hard to tell whether he knew it's me. Or whether he'd mistaken me for a male nurse. Well, he might not know me, but I still knew him, if that's any good.

A geriatric ward is exactly what Disneyland isn't. Thick, restrained, unhappy. But there's as much to experience, learn and take away. What's on offer isn't so much the trials of the sick but the quirks of those by the bedside. I made it a point to roam the ward like a busy school prefect, exchanging notes and sick stories with fellow caregivers. Technically I might not be a geriatric, not yet. But I didn't really feel out of place here. The common denominator here is stroke. Every other patient here is struck by a stroke. Not a pretty sight, but so inspiring that my way forward now is a strict monastic diet of alpine water and dragon fruits.

Next to my father's bed was an 81 year-old Chinese lady. She had daughters and sons, but a daughter-in-law was actually looking after her here. I wasn't really sure what's going on, but this heart-of-gold should be rich soon. There's one lady who's so driven and fired up that she took care of not just her stroke-stricken mom but also other patients around her. Must be a former oil and gas CEO with a leadership hangover.

Three beds away, a youngish 73-year old lady named Zaiton was recovering from, you guess, a stroke. I'd never seen any of her family members by her bedside, not while I was around, but there's a maid from Manila to keep her company. When my sister and I dropped by yesterday, the friendly Filipina told us that the patient was good enough to be discharged tomorrow (today). My compulsively curious sister fired away no less than 100 questions about the patient and the maid, and I'd to pull her away before she could move on to the next patient with another 100 questions. Anyway we're happy for Zaiton and the maid and wished them well.

My sister and I came in today and were about to settle down when the maid grabbed my sister. Zaiton had passed away half an hour ago! Stunned, we rushed to her bed. Her remains were still there, a hospital-issue light green cloth tightly wrapped around her, all alone. To think that she's supposed to be discharged today, man, what's sadder than this?

My sister took out her Surah Yaseen and her sweet pitch broke the silence. I tapped the iQuran app on my industrial-size Galaxy Note and read quietly (so glad I bought this android). Not really sure what else we could do, we just stood by until a sharp-dressed man, probably her son, came in about an hour later to claim her. He signed some papers and left, without a word and another look at her mother.

I was tossing and turning at 2 am. That bed ..........