Tuesday, May 29, 2007

Writing You Up


The unflappable air he exudes is one of the traits that draws her to him in the first place. She is after all borderline neurotic, with the tendency to yak away whenever she is either nervous or under scrutiny. Without a doubt, the Yin and Yang concepts are best exemplified in their relationship. Yet, undergirding these differences is something more fundamental - the similarity in their values, interests and aspirations.

She detests any forms of lying, be it lying by omission, lying through your teeth, white lies, or through the medium of tall tales. In spite of this brazen proclamation, she wonders whether borrowing her sister's clothes for a job interview without her prior knowledge will fall under one of such categories. Is she a pot calling the kettle black?

Does her constant use of the exclamation marks reflect a highstrung personality? Or is she being over-analytical as wont?


I am sure any avid reader would have noticed that works of fiction generally employ either first-person ('I') or third-person ('She' or 'He') as the pronoun for their protagonist. My mother was the one who reminded me of this distinction when she confided that she likes novels written with 'I' as the protagonist. She reasoned that the usage of first-person detracts from any confusion in who's who as the plot thickens.

This preference came to my mind when I recently read this New York Times article. Revolving on behavioral science, it explains how the chosen theme of a person's life story can decode his personality.

I was intrigued by the research's findings which contend, among others, that the way a person narrates his life story is highly correlated to what is going on in his lives. In other words, our linguistic approach, descriptions employed and nuances executed in telling these stories are indicative of the course of our behaviour in every single situation, and frame not only how we see the past but how we see ourselves in the future. Interviews with a cross-section of men and women over 30s provide evidence to the above conclusion.

Those with mood problems have many good memories, but these scenes are usually tainted by some dark detail....By contrast, so-called generative adults — those who score highly on tests measuring civic-mindedness, and who are likely to be energetic and involved — tend to see many of the events in their life in the reverse order, as linked by themes of redemption.


Similarly, those who view their life stories as redemptive or epiphanic are more likely to recover from their psychological problem, as echoed by a study conducted on 'talk therapy':

...those former patients who scored highest on measures of well-being — who had recovered, by standard measures — told very similar tales about their experiences....They described their problem, whether depression or an eating disorder, as coming on suddenly, as if out of nowhere. They characterized their difficulty as if it were an outside enemy, often giving it a name (the black dog, the walk of shame). And eventually they conquered it.


Their perception differs from those who scored lower on measures of psychological well-being, borne out of the belief that their problems are deeply rooted in their psyche, as opposed to it being embodied as an outside entity - an archenemy - to be subdued.

Here is where the findings get more interesting. Another study points to two distinctive outcomes when individuals narrate their life story - in this case, a painful memory - either in the first-person or third-person. The results show that those who chose to remember the past in the 'third person' are less likely to be hostile or upset in the process.

The emotional content of the memory is still felt...but its sting is blunted as the brain frames its meaning, as it builds the story.


As a result, those who keep a distance from their problematic past through 'third-party scenes' are more sociable, resting on the view that they have since changed their colours and moved on to 'a better place'.

...The third-person perspective allowed people to reflect on the meaning of their social miscues, the authors suggest, and thus to perceive more psychological growth.


I am sure all these are quite serious and humdrum to some folks but its ramifications on the writing front are enormous. When a person chooses to put pen to paper about his personal life, he must bear in mind that the tone and approach of his writing is the summation of his current station in as well as outlook on life, underpinned by a series of momentous events that continually shape his narrative.

The way people replay and recast memories, day by day, deepens and reshapes their larger life story. And as it evolves, that larger story in turn colors the interpretation of the scenes.


Unbeknownst to us, our personal writings such as the ones found in blogging are susceptible to being dissected and pigeonholed into certain personality-related categories. It also throws light on why the underlying theme of some blogs - triumphant, maternalism, ruminative, nationalism, affirmation, to name a few - are preferred by a certain segment of readers but not others.

Also, the dichotomy existed between first-person and third-person narrative is crucial for curing those wrestling with their own hang-ups, phobias, irrational fears and the like. Possibly, a distressed person could put the above therapy into good use and start blogging in the third-person? However, I find that this is at best far-fetched and at worst loopy. And yet after I wrote those three 'third-person' monologues at the start of this entry, an overwhelming sense of relief took over me. My mood turned contemplative.

"...this shift in perspective, having this distance from yourself, allows you to relive the experience and focus on why you’re feeling upset," instead of being immersed in it...


So as long as it works, why not give it a try, in blogging, no less?

This third-person business also reminds me of all the tailors (or should I say, couteriers?) with whom I had the pleasure to engage with as a client. Amusingly, all have the propensity to converse in the third-person!

"Rizal rasa lebih baik letak banyak manik dekat bodice," (Rizal thinks it's better to put more beads on the bodice);
"Amir suggest you buat pleating, SO VERY THE,"
(Amir suggests that you do the pleating. It's fabulous);
"Alice letak lining nanti tak jarang"
(Alice sewed a lining so it won't be transparent)

I gather this strange manner of speaking MUST be the secret to their long-term success, allowing them to take a step back and look at the design vis-à-vis the client objectively.

On a more serious and personal note, writing is both a cathartic and aesthetic process. Through it, I am able to voice my opinions, etch riveting scenes and purge all undue emotional baggages.

So write to your heart's content and let your personality shine through!

Thursday, May 24, 2007

Peeling My Onion One Layer at a Time


Shrek: Ogres are like onions.
Donkey: They stink?
Shrek: Yes. No.
Donkey: Oh, they make you cry.
Shrek: No.
Donkey: Oh, you leave em out in the sun, they get all brown, start sproutin' little white hairs.
Shrek: NO. Layers. Onions have layers. Ogres have layers. Onions have layers. You get it? We both have layers.
[sighs]
Donkey: Oh, you both have layers. Oh. You know, not everybody like onions.


When the effervescent Ruby Ahmad asked if I would like to give this meme a shot, I was more than happy to oblige. This looks like fun, my childlike side declared.

Personally, this meme business harks back to my time in school - primary and secondary - when we got into the habit of exchanging our 'Autograph' books for others to scribble their well wishes and biodata. The latter was the fun part since you'd be able to concoct information which you deemed - at that young, naive age - worthy to be shared with the whole wide world, err, I mean school.

At times, on the premise that someone you liked might get hold of your profile, you'd try to jot down the coolest possible stuff for his consumption. Or, when you'd want to be considered as part of the 'in-crowd', the biodata therefore aids in plugging your credible persona onto paper. Whatever the agendas behind your own scribble (or dare I say, drivel), the autograph books were a nice touch to safekeep your fond, adolescent memories. It enables the average reader a glimpse into your soul.

Fast forward to the present, I find the revival of this 'old-school' camaraderie style in electronic form not only refreshing but also timely. It helps by forging friendships (or quasi-friendships) across the cyberspace and reinforcing our attachment to this incredible blog that we have started.

Like Shrek encapsulates it perfectly, "Ogres have layers". One has to strip away the manifold layers of another person, one at a time. One must not based one's judgment on the outer, deceiving appearance. An ogre may look fierce and typecasts as menacing, but once you get to know the real him, you will come to the deduction that he is like the rest of us - a human with feelings and wants and needs.

In a similar vein, my peeling process begins:

Layer One: On the Outside
Name: X X. Depending on the degree of closeness, people either call me T*ta#, X, or X. The last one is not advisable when you are in the same room with me and my siblings since all our names start with Mas. I chose Theta as an online pseudonym because I was affectionately referred to as the symbol 'θ' back in Muar's residential school. At that time, Cosine, Cotangent and all things Trigonometry ruled our world.
Birthdate: End-December. Hint: Year of the Tiger ;-)
Current status: Married with one ravishing toddler.
Eye color: Black to dark brown
Hair Color: Used to be light brown as a kid but now it's basically black with a tinge of brown. I'm more worried about the few strands of white hair sprouting out!!! I'm getting old!
Righty or Lefty: Mostly right.

Layer Two: On the Inside
My heritage: Mom's side - Javanese and Bugis; dad's side - Siamese and Malay.
My fears: Losing my loved ones; cicak (or geckos)!, anything reptilians, failing to stand by my convictions.
My Weaknesses: Coffee, Internet, Cafes
My perfect pizza: I like the Beefeater from the old Shakey's Pizza, way back in the '90s. Now I settle for Pizza Uno's Mexicana Pizza. Yum, yum.

Layer Three: Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow
My thoughts first thing when I wake up: Need to change Sadia's pampers.
My bedtime: Depends on my energy level. It can vary from 11 pm to 3 am! *it's not what you're thinking*
My most missed memory: My laidback lifestyle while studying in the States.

Layer Four: My picks
Pepsi or Coke: On most days, Coke but I have my Pepsi moods.
Mc Donald's or Burger King: Mac-Dee for Quarter Pounder and Bee-Kay for Whopper Cheese. I love them all!
Single or Group Dates: Single but of course!
Adidas or Nike: No preference since I'm not into sportswear. However, given the chance, I'd like to give Adidas a try...
Tea or Nestea: Nestea
Chocolate or Vanilla: Cacao!!! (Chocolate)
Cappucino or Coffee: Cap

Layer Five: Do I
Smoke: I can't say lest my parents and relatives read this...hahahaha....Okay, it's time to let the cat out of the bag. I tried it once out of a dare curiosity but it was a yucky experience, to say the least. What was I thinking?! Only one puff and I was gagging - serves me right!
Curse: The occasional S- and F-word regrettably escapes my mouth in the heat of the moment.
Take a shower: As many as I can! ;-)
Have a crush: Does a movie star count?
Think I've Been In love: Huh? Every single day....
Go to school: Finished at Bachelors.
Want to get married: Already hitched.
Believe in myself: Less so than I like to, but more so than I should...depends on what's for dessert!
Think I'm a health freak: I think not!

Layer Six: In the past month
Drank alcohol: Never applicable.
Gone to the mall: I'm a mall rat, 'nuff said.
Been on stage: Nope.
Eaten Sushi: Yeah, it's an acquired taste every time I ingest one.
Dyed your hair: Yep, the DIY kit.

Layer Seven: Have I ever
Played a stripping game: I strip, but not in the context of a game.
Changed who I am to fit in: On some levels, yes. But not up to point where I can't recognise who I am anymore.....

Layer Eight: Age
I am hoping to be married: Already am. Tied the knot at 29-going on-30. ;)

Layer Nine: What was I doing
1 min ago: YM-ing my hubby doing his thesis downstairs.
1 hour ago: Surfing the Net.
4.5 hours ago: Putting Sadia to bed.
1 month ago: In Groningen *uurgghh*
1 year ago: Preparing myself for our (cancelled) trip to the Netherlands.

Layer Ten: Finish The Sentence
I love: my family.
I feel: sleepy.
I hate: hypocrites.
I hide: under the pillow.
I need: long hours of sleep.

Layer Eleven: Tag 5 people
Newbie, Aidan's Mama, Rizby, Simah, AZ Haida and last but not least, Dr. Ina.

# According to old folks' lore, the nickname Tita came about due to my inability to properly pronounce (in Malay it's called pelat) Liza. Several failed attempts at articulation later, Liza slowly morphed into Tita.

note: Shrek's quote taken from here

Monday, May 21, 2007

Murtabak Satu....Kopi Dua!

Saturday saw us heading to Den Haag again but this time with one sole agenda in mind - Pasar Malam Besar (literally means Big Night Market)!

It started last Thursday 17th May in conjunction with the Netherlands' public holiday, Ascension Day and will end on 28th May, also conveniently a public holiday celebrating Whit Sunday. (For the Dutch's complete list of public holidays, please click here)

My father was the one who reminded me about this Night Market - touted as the largest Eurasian festival in the world - after reading one of my many Den-Haag related blogs. Apart from pulling the huge crowd coming off the peak tourist season, the success of this annual event hinges on the prevalence of Indonesian way of life - culture, arts, food, language and so forth - on Dutch societies today.

Netherlands' strong relationship with Indonesia, spanning more than 300 years, has resulted in the exchange of ideas and developments on several fronts such as linguistic, cultural, religion, art, philosophy and gastronomy. It comes as no surprise then when many Indonesians chose to settle in the Netherlands as either immigrants or matrimonial partners.

As the Indonesian-Dutch population grows over the years, so do the number of said people grappling with their identity and lineage, as echoed by Pans Schomper in his bestseller book "Maaf, Saya Anak Belanda-Betawi"(incidentally, it is also on sale at the Book Kiosk). Thus, Pasar Malam Besar aids by bridging the generational gap and reconnecting different generations of Indonesian-Dutch with their cultural and ethnic roots.

With a slew of information up our sleeves, we planned to hop over to the Big Night Market in the morning, as soon as we got breakfast out of the way. Activities start running at 11:30 in the morning and ends at 11 at night. Since Sadia is much more cooperative early in the day, we decided to use this particular quirk to our full advantage.


We arrived around 11:40 at Den Haag Centraal Station and quickly walked to the nearby Malieveld open field where big circus-like tents were pegged to the ground. This series of eye-catching pavilions as well as festive banners and pennants greeted us amidst the morning gust.

Upon reflection, the self-contained humongous tents serve as a control for erratic weather and a hindrance for freeloaders. At a steep entrance fee of Euro13.50 per person (for the weekend; weekday fee is Euro10.50), they must take stringent measures to avoid losing money from any conceivable loopholes, literally and figuratively.

We duly paid the ticket prices at one of the many toll-like booths and proceeded towards the main fairground. The lobby area takes care of coat-checking and nursery cum play area for small children, toilets, a 'Warong Kopi' (Coffee Stall) and an Information Centre.

Not knowing what to expect, we strolled towards the main pavilion - Grand Pasar - where stalls galore entice customers with their merchandise, food and services. There were mainly Asian-orientated, covering a gamut of products (Pakistani carpets, Thai gemstones, Chinese cheogsams) produce (like durian, rambutan and mango) and food (dodol, sweet desserts and keropok (crackers)). The dim-lit quality of the enormous tent contributes to an authentic feel of a typical Indonesian (or Asean region, for that matter) night market.

We also stumbled upon the Malaysian booth which caters mainly towards providing information and handing out touristy leaflets. We were disappointed by the lack of fanfare and decoration at this booth. It screams monotony and insipidity. What happened to plugging Visit Malaysia Year 2007, people! Or, they don't want to overshadow a predominantly Indonesian affair?

There's another pavilion chiefly for Indonesian artifacts, woodworks and carvings, other knickknacks, and traditonal clothes like kebaya! These strategically-placed colourful garments stirred a temptation to buy what feels like the umpteenth kebaya top. However, after looking at the price (vis-à-vis the Ringgit currency) and familiar style, I decided against it. That means a new mini-project for Raya wear! ;)

First on the agenda however is eating! We found a halal Sumatran stall selling Murtabak Daging and were more than excited to dig in. Downed with home-brewed coffee (kopi), this Murtabak was delectable, albeit a pinch salty. Funnily enough, in my eagerness to embrace 'Malay solidarity', I impusively practiced my Malay while ordering the food and beverage. In turn, the Sumatran waiter mimicked my Malaysian Malay when he repeated the order to the guy kneading the murtabak dough. My husband and I laughed it off since our keen eyes were more on the prized delicacy.

Thereafter, we trolled the rest of the food pavilion and discovered an even bigger halal stall in the next tent, serving nasi uduk, soto, martabak, martabak manis (or apam balik) and a slew of other common fares from the Malay archipelago.

We rested our feet at the quiet Bengkel (Workshop) and Theatre pavilion, bearing in mind it was time for Sadia's nap. First, we had to change her diaper at the makeshift nursery and thereafter released her to the floor to roam about and tire herself out. When she didn't seem to let up, we watched a bit of keroncong performance at the main 'Pasar' pavilion. The music must have that lulling effect since she acquiesced to my nursing attempt and effortlessly fell asleep in my arms.





As accustomed, we took this opportunity to eat again! This time, the martabak manis, chicken satay and fresh coconut drink in sweet, red syrup. Mind you, everytime we indulge in these culinary exercises, we have to shell out a large sum of money. Indulging in hawker-style food at Euro-denominated prices is such a contradiction in terms!


It was already a quarter past two by the time we were done eating. By this time, the whole place was jampacked with people that in our way out of the 'Eet' Tent, one stall worker bumped Sadia's head in the babycarrier and roused her from her nap. Look where you're going Lady!

We tried in vain to put her back to sleep but it was to no avail. As such, we marched towards the exit ('Uitgang') and quickly snapped some photos at the entrance's planked pathways and archway.





Temperatures had risen in the late afternoon which nicely offset the cool breeze gently stroking any traces of bare skin. On the spur of the moment, we plonked down on the grass at the park adjacent to the Pasar Malam Besar and basked in the flora and fauna, which included rabbits, ducks, swans, seagulls and roe deers! Across a long stretch of picket fences and a winding brook, a herd of deers were feeding on verdant grass, oblivious at its string of admirers. How we gaped at these lithe creatures.....




Sadia still groogy from her kip, extended one arm out and gestured towards copious daisies growing underfoot. We happily complied and plucked some daisied for her to hold. Lazing around under the warm sun is a perfect end to our gastronomic adventures - hits and misses - under the Big Top.





Wednesday, May 16, 2007

The Sixth Degree


Whiling away the time at my parents', I casually leafed through an old slip-in photo album when I came back home for Raya last year. I had found it lying in one of the chest cabinet's drawers near to the dining area. On hindsight, serendipity might have played a hand in prodding me to take a look.

The bulk of the photos was from my parents' (plus Shol) trip to Europe. To London and the Netherlands. Circa 1991. Madurodam and Amsterdam had welcome them first prior to my own Dutch sojourn. Various snapshots from their travelling, most prominently of which were those of my dad's 'milestone' event in London. Nothing out of the ordinary as I had seen this film roll before.

About two weeks ago however, the significance of these photos came to light during an online conversation with a fellow blogger. The missing piece to my 'mental' jigsaw puzzle was finally put in place.

Kak Teh buzzed me via YM regarding a remark I left at another blogger's site to which I wrote something to the effect that my father used to work in RTM. Her interest was piqued because she had done some collaborations with RTM in the past and was wondering if she knew my dad.

I told her that my father was an engineer with RTM in the '70s and considering that Kak Teh was in the broadcasting section, the chances that they know each other were quite slim. The topic then shifted to daily routine, projects and travels.

Out of a sudden, in the middle of cyberspace chatting, something clicked in my head. I solved the puzzle and quickly typed away. My dad represented Malaysia in the first ever World Scrabble Championship in London. Do you remember that?

Kak Teh's answer was a resounding yes. Yes, Yes, Yes! The sheer coincidence blew both of us away. She was the reporter in those photos which I flipped through during Raya. It took some time putting my finger on the lovely figure hovering over my parents since Kak Teh had not donned the tudung then. But that familiar, winsome smile gave it away.

She was covering the World Championship event for a newspaper - I've forgotten which one - whereas her husband did a similar piece for TV3. She remembered meeting my parents where they ate lunch together before the interview commenced. My father and her husband somewhat hit it off being hailed from the same state and all. They could be seen yakking away in their mother tongue. :)

When I sms-ed my mother about this uncanny coincidence, she also replied that she remembers Kak Teh. Mama even spelled out her full (binti) name, sent her regards and remarked "Anak-anak dia mesti dah besar sekarang."(Her children must've all grown up now) Indeed!

Another instance of this Six Degrees of Separation also happened around the same time I found out that Kak Teh is 'two steps' away from me. Fellow blogger, Blabs viewed the floral-infused photos we had taken in Keukenhof and thereafter sent me an eye-opening email. Apparently, her husband took a peek at those photos and instantly recognised my husband! Turns out, they used to work with each another at one point in their career. This was quite an amusing discovery, to say the least.

It dawned on me that sooner or later, this small world phenomenon would catch up with me. Especially since I'm not at all incognito in this blogging realm. I am bound to meet (or rather, know) someone who knows someone who knows me. Or someone who knows any members of my family, my significant other or close relatives. The permutations are endless.

Conversely, this natural, effortless phenomenon clearly explains how I ended up treading on the cultured blog of my sister's ex-boyfriend's ex-wife (is that confusing?) and how I learned about the short-lived blog of my husband's senior in college. And today, I stepped into the blog territory of an ex-colleague who wreaked some (thankfully, impermanent) havoc in my former professional life. Thinking back, I was the one who let her/him get to me when I could have chosen not to bite the bait. Ahh, those were the greenhorn times....

Where was I? Oh yes, six degrees.

The strong evidence for the Six Degrees concept must be a contributing factor as to why some bloggers choose the anonymous (or semi-anonymous) route in their entries, profiles, and/or subject matters. For professional, personal or some other arcane reasons, they do not want to be discovered by anyone who might have an indication to their real-life identity. On the other hand, some bloggers thrive at the prospect of a public disclosure, for a host of different reasons. They revel in making new friends, bumping into old friends, vindicating their stances or flourishing their opinions. Whatever their fancies, each to his or her own, so goes the saying.

Without a doubt, the world IS small and thanks to advanced technology, shrinking by the second. It would be futile to ignore this very fact, particularly when you enter a public domain such as blogging (Unless of course, you opt to open your blog to only a selected crop of readers). It's something one must really consider and weigh the pros and cons.

Taking after the addictive Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon game, I do wonder whether, perchance, there's a blogger out there who actually knows me firsthand? Maybe a kakak from Chicago, a treasured acquaintance from work, or a long-lost childhood friend. On the flip side of it, a disgruntled co-worker, a mean-spirited distant cousin or a former friend? ;-)

Tuesday, May 15, 2007

Fire, Fire, Pan on Fire!


Monday 14th May; 9:20pm as the sun about to set

Sadia, hubby and I were twirling to The Blue Danube as wont tonight, a successful method we've been using to tire Sadia out for her slumber, when the fire alarm went off. At first, we had thought it solely affected our apartment. But as I checked out the hallway, the sound was even louder. In fact, the deafening sound of the alarm was too much to bear that I quickly gathered Sadia's and my jackets and Spring tote bag and hurtled down the spiralling staircase. My husband caught up with us later for he had to change from his kain pelekat, check our stove and take our most valuable possession - the passports.

Most of the tenants of this old University-run apartment complex came out the front door and congregated there. Others chose to stay inside and braved the earsplitting noise. Else, they took shelter at the backyard where a small garden and bicycle shed are located. My family were one of the majority who opted for the front entrance. We inquired as to whom made the call to the University emergency unit and speculated the reason for raising the alarm. One Australian visiting lecturer already made the call but apart from that, noone knew what caused the trigger.

Due to the alarming sound and Sadia's growing apprehension, we elected to remove ourselves from the ruckus by buying desserts. Amusingly enough, before we waltzed to Johann Strauss' masterpiece, my husband had entertained the idea of getting Walls' (or Ola as it is called in The Netherlands) latest Magnum creation - Ecuador Dark at one of the few sundry shops that close late, Turkish-owned 'Deniz'. How psychic of him!

We walked briskly to Deniz - about 5 minutes away - since a few droplets began caressing our faces and heads. Poor Sadia! She was, in a manner of speaking, shell-shocked by the high decibel intrusion and gripped tightly to one of my shoulders. At first, she refused to let go off me as we left for Deniz but hubby managed to coax her to submission. At the shop, she was feeling better after we planted kisses on her forehead. :)

Prompted by the strong prospect of heavier precipitation, we made a quick purchase and scuttled home. By the time we reached the apartment's entrance however, the group of people was still camping outside amid the cacophonic shrill. And the elements were not cooperating with us either. Heavy rain continued apace.

Thankfully, three girls from the sorority house across the canal approached us as we neared the apartment building and offered shelter inside their homely compound. This was after the others rejected their generous proposition. Since we have a toddler in tow, we were more than happy to accept. Away from the wailing alarm and cold, wet outdoors.

The decor of the communal den was quirky and vibrant at best. As expected, paraphernalia of the collegiate kind (read: popstar and psychedelic posters and arts) adorned the living room. Even the fridge's exterior is reminiscent of college mentality - a tacked-on A4 paper with all the occupants' name and the number of 'Bier and Fris' (Beer and Carbonated Drinks) each had taken.

Some other girls already occupied places on one of two sofas and at the dining table. We settled to the other empty sofa which faces the tv and fireplace. They asked us if we would like anything to drink and I inquired if they have water. After exchanging the usual civilities, they strangely enough left us to our own devices. Restless and uncomfortable by the unfamiliar environment, we stood close to the window vigilantly on the lookout for any new development across the canal.

From where we stood, one university personnel rushed to the apartment from his parked van and hastily entered the ground floor storage room to disarm the alarm. We thanked the nubile ladies profusely, borrowed an umbrella from a blonde lass named Marita, and headed home.

Inside the lobby, our nextdoor neighbour informed us the cause which triggered the alarm. Apparently, the old chap tenanting one of two apartments on the ground floor cooked something on the stove and set off the high-pitched racket. The neighbour quoted him as saying 'Only little smoke' and automatically raised an eyebrow in disbelief that only wisps of smoke were involved! We reckon it must be his first attempt at cooking! No wonder he was furiously talking on the phone inside the comforts of his apartment which we took a gander at. I must thank those gauzy curtains and ample lighting reflected back on us outside the building.

It would have been nicer if the tenant fessed up to his 'crime' earlier than isolating himself from our deadly stare. Such an ungentlemanly conduct. I mean, at least take accountability and then offer your hapless neighbours to sit it out in your spacious apartment where the alarm is less of a shriek. Well, at least, we got to see our neighbours whose faces previously remain a mystery. If it were not for the nametags attached to the side of respective apartment doors, we wouldn't have any inkling as to their nationality and how many they number.

My ears still throbbed two hours after the extra-auditory torture was over. So were my husband's. I hope Sadia fared better than us. She gulped four grapes before bedtime and is now sleeping soundly, within my (temporarily impaired) earshot. I also wonder if that guy's ears are burning (pun intended) from all the hissing he is getting from the rest of the boarders.

(written close to midnight, Monday 14th May)

Saturday, May 12, 2007

Mamma Mia...Mother of Mine


A lot of things have been on my mind of late. From the mundane to the philosophical, my thoughts have zipped through a whole gamut of information that causes a breakdown in my writing zeal. The malaise resulting from this mental block saw me oftentimes staring at the computer screen – or the Internet – in the hope of getting my groove back, so to speak.

Tonight, a glimmer of idea slowly took shape thanks in part to a loved one’s encouragement and to the imminent celebration of Mother’s Day.

If there were one thing I could say about my mother, I would say that Mama is the most influential figure in my life. Influential in the sense she has always been there to offer a lending ear, to goad me on when the odds are unfavourable, to hug me tightly as I weep convulsively and to keep me in check whenever I’m out of bounds. She is indeed a best friend in need.

As a daughter, she had sacrificed a chance of pursuing her studies and worked instead to help my grandmother run a large household soon after the untimely demise of my grandfather. This tireless dedication to her family is the hallmark of Mama’s dignified demeanor. People look up to her and listen intently to what she has to say.

When she tied the knot with my father, Mama turned motherhood into a full-time, self-consuming career. Right after they were blessed with Kak Long, us twins propitiously entered the scene less than a year later! Her hands full with the three little ones, Mama learnt to make do with the bare essentials that she could get hold of back then in Kota Bharu.

To me, Mama’s sheer commitment to her children’s wellbeing and education is exemplary. She worked us through some mathematical and verbal exercises, some of which were her own ‘handiwork’ involving some numerical and spelling devices she had randomly generated. Despite her interest in our academic standing, she didn’t pressure us to get good grades. Sure she reminded us to study but I didn’t remember being reprimanded unnecessarily for falling short of excellence in secondary (high) school. The only thing I could recall at this age is a look of disappointment on her face. Perhaps that was enough to leave a meaningful mark on my adolescent mind.

During our primary school years, she would wake up early to prepare our breakfast and iron our school uniforms (at one time, there were four of us in school!), sending and picking us up from school, cooking our lunch and dinner and occasionally whipping up kuehs and pastries for teatime. This was on top of cleaning the household, rigorously hand-washing my dad’s white working shirts, hanging clothes to dry, marketing and grocery-shopping and helping us with our school work. She was like an Energizer Bunny, regimentally toiling away and running a tight ship to which we were her lucky, beloved passengers. Unbeknownst to all of us at the time, under all the undue strain, my mom’s overzealous dedication towards her hearth and home has begun to take its toll on her aching body. Even Wonder Woman longs for a break…..

Mama is a pillar of strength. Many unfortunate situations have come into and gone from our lives. We can either be embittered by the ordeals that come our way or reflect upon the underlying message behind the seeming obstacles. Is God trying to say something to us? Have we become complacent?

The discovery of a kidney disease when I was in Form One is one such heartbreaking development. My mom fell terribly ill, accompanied with high fever, vomit and fainting spells. She had to spend a night at the hospital. I remember it being the first time that all of us siblings sleeping en masse in our parents’ room. My dad bunked with my baby brother on his queen-size bed and the girls on mattresses splayed on the floor. I remember crying for Mama that very night. Little did I know, hospital would soon become a permanent fixture in our tiny universe.

The prognosis of her condition meant that she couldn’t be as active as before. Sometimes, I could feel she was torn between fulfilling her wifely/maternal duties and looking after her own health. More often than not, the former won.

More than a decade had passed when her kidneys were classified as irreversibly damaged. Even with the slew of medications prescribed by her specialist, the kidneys, as dictated by the disease, would gradually deteriorate. Sooner or later, she has to turn to the dialysis machine to replicate her renal functions. After her first dialysis session, which vividly took place on the second day of Raya in 1999, Mama came back home a different person. She was full of vim and vigour, and her wan complexion turned sanguine.

Naturally, with dialysis comes a host of other complications and side effects. As one would expect, Mama’s spirit wavers in correspond to the physical setbacks that she faces on a daily basis. In one instance, she was in 2003 diagnosed with hyperthyroidism which called for an urgent operation in order to expunge the debilitating symptoms and restore Mama’s diminishing level of energy. My mother is a fighter.

Notwithstanding her ailments, she remains approachable to those who seek her help and steadfast against all the odds thrown her way. Nevertheless, there were times when she sank into a period of desolateness that left us feeling equally hopeless. As the years advance on, however, she has snapped out of her blue funk and exclaimed, “I must look after myself first”. Those words echoed in my ears, as would other aphorisms uttered by her.

Yesterday, she received news that a dear friend of hers, also on dialysis, had passed away. She was downtrodden for the rest of the day. I wish I know the right words to say. But clinging as she is to her aforesaid ‘Numero Uno’ motto, I’m confident she would choose not to dwell on her misery. These days, health is not something she would trifle with.

This Mother’s Day, I would like to express my gratitude and affection to Mama, as epitomized in the many hats that she wears – the selfless Matriarch, the great Cook, the devoted Wife, the obedient Daughter, the loving Grandma. I love you Mama and so do your other children whom in emulating you (save for Shol), have elected to call ourselves ‘Mama’ as well!

Happy Mother’s Day (or Moederdag in Dutch) to all the mothers – fledgling, full-fledged and veteran – out there!

Tuesday, May 08, 2007

It Makes Senseo


Mocking the ubiquitous presence of Starbucks in the US - if only it's the case here!

My face turned ashen when Tita uttered the words that reverberated like a death knell in my ears. “No Starbucks in the Netherlands?” I repeated after her, as if vocalizing the words would aid in digesting the painful reality.

My Starbucks! Boohoohoo! Well, that was not exactly how I – the ever matured adult – responded to her but in my mind, I whinged and whinged.

Histrionics aside, I have now gotten used to live without Starbucks for a record 223 odd days (that is, after deducting the 19 days I was back in Malaysia for Raya last year). It is fairly safe to say that I am somewhat contented with the various Nederlander coffee chains available in different parts of the country.

Imbibing the diverse concoctions on offering at these proverbial cafes has given me the chance to experience the Dutch’s twist to many old favourites. However, I would be remiss if I didn’t admit that at times the taste proved wanting.

Despite all that, I am thoroughly satisfied as far as caffeine quotient is concerned. Truth be told, my surprisingly smug attitude stems from the discovery of a life-saving machine. An invention that has me looked forward to waking up every morning.

Image taken from Senseo's US Site

It is none other than the Senseo coffee machine!

When we moved to our apartment last September, the furnished pad comes with, among others, this funny looking black contraption. After my husband fiddling with it for the first few trials, we finally had lift off! It is such a breeze to use.

First, you fill up a plastic encasement with tap water and insert it back to its place at the rear of the coffee-maker. This detachable water reservoir moulds perfectly to the machine, a feature that makes the Senseo machine so easy to handle. You then press a button which will heat up the water in a matter of seconds. By the way, the water measurement depends on whether you are making one cup or two cups. After the water boils, you put in one (or two) coffee pod (or ‘Koffie Pad’ as it is called in the Netherlands) into the podholder, and firmly close the lid, making sure it is properly locked. Lastly, you put one (or two) mugs of suitable size underneath the spout and press the Start button (choose the Indicator Button from either One Cup Icon or Two Cups Icon).

For a demo, click on this.

Needless to say, a brewed cuppa from this Machine leaves me fully sated and rejuvenates this old body. We love this latest innovation from Philips (Dutch-based) so much that we plan to buy one for our Ampang place before we are due back in Malaysia. Our only qualm is the accessibility to the Coffee Pods in Malaysia once our humongous stock runs out. Probably, some upscale supermarkets in KL (Isetan) or Bangsar (Village Grocer) might carry them. I am not ashamed to admit that I’d go to any lengths for great tasting coffee. If all else fail, we must appeal to the kind help of some Dutch acquaintances to mail us this ‘black-gold’, with some commission of course! Any takers?

Sunday, May 06, 2007

Sista, Sista


Dikya and I during my Akad Nikah night

My baby sister, Dikya celebrates her XXth birthday on Sunday, a week before Mother's Day. To me, the proximity of Mother’s Day to her date of birth is by no means a coincidence. In her, I find a paragon of motherly love. She has this innate maternal streak from an age so young that children swarm her like bees are to honey. It’s completely natural for them to be fond of her as she bestows on them the kind of loving care and affection short of their respective real mother.

It’s quite an enviable trait that I so eagerly want to emulate. While hers is fairly consistent, my experience with kids has been mixed. Some are drawn to me whereas other shy away from any plausible contact. Probably I was trying too hard that they recoiled from my over-exuberance. ;-)

Unlike the previous three lasses in the family, Dikya was born in KL. And unlike her older sisters, Dikya is blessed with straight hair. The intuitive woman in all of us theorizes that by the time our mother conceived her fourth daughter Dikya, the gene responsible for springy, curly locks, which is synonymous with Mama, was either disabled or waned from her system. Which was all the better since some mean-spirited persons did entertain a wild imagining or joke around that she was adopted! Either way, it is maliciously cruel!

I remember my mom telling us that Dikya came into the world with a mop of thick, jet-black hair. In contrast to the boisterous, terrible twins, she’s a quiet and cooperative baby. Oh yeah, a bit of trivia (or in some fandom circles it can be construed as name-dropping but I seriously beg to differ) with respect to my mom’s maternity ward. On the bed next to her was Edry KRU’s mom who gave birth to him on the same day (give or take one-day lag). Trust my mom to remember people’s faces and names so well!

Being the youngest sister, Dikya by nature looked up to her elder sisters for guidance and amusement. She’d be cahoots with us for many of our outrageous childhood forays that saw us periodically getting into trouble with parents and relatives alike. Of course, my twin and I (or was it solely her machination?) were the masterminds behind these terrific capers.

By the time we reached adolescence, all of us were preoccupied with our own version of growing pains – fitting in at school, making friends, teenage crushes, meaning of life, religious awakening and the like. Also, a brewing family crisis unwittingly shook our world and transmuted our general outlook on life.

I observed that during these times, Dikya turned inward to reading books and writing her thoughts on a diary. In short, she became secretive. To think of it, all of my sisters are quite reticent about sharing their innermost thoughts that it’s driving me crazy! Am I the only one who is adjudged an open book? Oh well, if you can’t beat them, join them. On hindsight, my partiality for candor must be the reason I bravely turn to blogging in the first place. ;-)

After a challenging two-year stint in a residential school, Dikya furthered her tertiary education in the UK where she met her husband who attended the same university but studying a different course. So when she decided to tie the knot before me, I was more than happy to receive the spoils arising from the ‘langkah bendul’ (a Malay tradition where the unmarried older sister will be ‘rewarded’ when the younger sister is to marry first) custom. The ‘sepersalinan’ (top-to-bottom) gifts consisted of, amongst others, a handbag, shoes and a four-meter of crimson silk chiffon. :-) Free fabric for the upcoming Raya!

In terms of demeanor, Dikya is the epitome of a lady with poise, unlike her tomboyish sister. Moi. Well, at least when we’re growing up. I’ve learnt to spruce up since then. Once I brought her along to meet up with a close friend of mine and this long-time cohort couldn’t help but to laugh at the vast differences in our deportment! I do have to admit that at times the comparison in our mannerism, physical beauty and what-have-you, especially among the 'older folks', grates on my nerves.

On the flip side, regardless of the ladylike charm she exudes, do not ever make the mistake of equating her femininity with meekness. Dikya has a tenacious spirit and a willful mind to boot. Nevertheless, within this bull-headed (she is after all a Taurean) quality lies her greatest assets yet – (1) loyalty to those she loves and (2) generosity with her wealth.

True to sibling tradition, we also had our share of petty squabbles and catfights, much to our mother’s dismay and not to mention, recurring headaches. Personally, I believe that sometimes we need to let some issues out of our chest but the manner in which the other person reacts to your point of view is the necessary risk we have to take. When a misunderstanding over your intention ensues, I've learnt that it’s better to lie low until the surface tension – or the cause of the tension, in some cases – disappears. At other times however, it’s better to let the chips fall where they may and subsequently pick up the pieces, whatever that’s left, and start all over again…..After all, indubitably, blood is thicker than water.

Like any other, my relationship with my sister is far from perfect. That I can safely vouch for. Still, I take comfort in knowing she will always be there as my sister and instinctively carrying out her filial duties. For this special occasion, I fervently wish you a lifetime of happiness with your loving family, buoyed by great health and a steady stream of income! Have a fabulous day, dear sis!

Sadia, Zahra (Dikya's baby) and Elisa (Kak Long's 4th kid); on the background me and Dikya holding on to our babies respectively

Friday, May 04, 2007

Tulips Ad Nauseum

A truly beautiful day to feast our eyes on a panoply of flowers in the most splendiferous of settings!

At long last, we made it to Keukenhof, the world's largest flower garden!

It took train and bus rides - a total of 40-45 minutes combined - to arrive at this 'Garden of Europe' and we spent about four and half hours walking and frolicking about amongst a plethora of flowers. There were gerberas, peonies, pansies, wisterias, and of course the superstar of the floral show, tulips in a spectrum of colours, including black! Apart from polychromatic displays, the tulips themselves came in many different forms such as feathered (or fringed), flamed, striped and variegated.

For this lovely excursion, we met up with hubby's colleague, Najo and her hubby, Pak Yai at the entrance of Keukenhof. Following bathroom breaks and map purchase, we proceeded to traverse the extensive grounds. However, my family and I lost sight of Najo and Pak Yai shortly after our first oohing and aahing of a vibrant cluster of tulips. As a matter of fact, we were spoilt for choice and engulfed by the never-ending bombardment of the floral kind.

Lunch of dinner rolls dipped in homemade chicken curry at the indoor Willem Alexander Pavillion was followed by a relaxing stroll, eating our desserts alongside the hedgerows, arch hedges and magnificent water fountains at Oranje Nassau Pavillion teeming with (what else!) flowers.

By the end of the wood trail, at the far corner of the park and near to the lake area, we were bushed (pun intended) and overstimulated by the flora and fauna (birdcages and petting zoo) present in Keukenhof. As Najo aptly put it, she was 'mabuk bunga'. Hehe.

The only drawback to this field trip is the lack of tulip field to run across and get lost in. The tulips beds were empty save for a fiery red strip over yonder. It is almost towards the tail end of the tulip season (20th May being the last day to visit the Park) that some of the tulips we saw already spread open their tepals compared to the pristine, stately quality of full-bloom tulips. As such, it is advisable to make a visit during early to mid-April when this canonical flower is at its zenith.

Our visual perception cloyed by floral images, we decided to call it a day and lined up for the Bus Number 54 which would bring us back to Leiden Centraal Station to go home to Delft. A long wait it was that Sadia fell asleep in the babycarrier and when the bus finally arrived we only managed to get 'standing room' in the packed bus.

At the station, while seating and waiting for our train on the designated platform, a funny thing occured. A group of three ladies - two looking like college students and the other, middle-aged - approached us and inquired if one of them could photograph us. The young women were on a photography class assignment and the elderly lady must be their tutor. Or one of the young ladies' mother. We were too tired to ask for details and just sat there 'sitting pretty' for the camera.

I guess Keukenhof's radiating effects lingered on us a few hours after we said our goodbyes. Now that's what I call the best Beauty Therapy our money can buy! ;-)

p.s. please don't sue me if you get 'flower-sick' at the end of this series of photos!