If you are one of those enjoyed an almost perfect childhood - surrounded by the hills of Kuala Kubu Bharu - and made friends that you’ll keep for life, you’ll know what this ‘cocoon of camaraderie’ is all about, in Time for a little nostalgia.
And for the others who miss their friends and would like to meet again, here’s your chance. I’ve done the first part to publicise this reunion of our class-and-school-mates. Now, it’s your turn to spread the word and leave your details here, so that we can plan for the reunion sometime in December this year.
Enough time to organise it, I’m sure, and yes, volunteers too do check in.
Oh, it was not my choice of a title, though! Mine was 'The boys from school, and the way they make me feel.' Better no?
13 April 2008
6 April 2008
Standing by their unfaithful men
Writers must welcome feedback. So, I always do.
In my last Culture Cul-de-Sac column, Starmag Sunday Star, in Standing by their unfaithful men I questioned why some women still stand by their men. After they are publicly humiliated by their husbands, who were unfaithful to them. This is after the husbands admit their guilt and publicly claim to dearly love their wives. Then, they make it a point to ask their wives for forgiveness - all on the pages of tabloids.
These two responses were part of the feedback I received.
Hi there im so tension wt ur article… such nice. Keep on it.
The other one was…
I wasted 15 min reading your 'standing b t u men'. Full of craps.
Aaah…the life of a writer.
In my last Culture Cul-de-Sac column, Starmag Sunday Star, in Standing by their unfaithful men I questioned why some women still stand by their men. After they are publicly humiliated by their husbands, who were unfaithful to them. This is after the husbands admit their guilt and publicly claim to dearly love their wives. Then, they make it a point to ask their wives for forgiveness - all on the pages of tabloids.
These two responses were part of the feedback I received.
Hi there im so tension wt ur article… such nice. Keep on it.
The other one was…
I wasted 15 min reading your 'standing b t u men'. Full of craps.
Aaah…the life of a writer.
23 March 2008
Stall Culture
Very early one morning I drove to Sungai Besi. Few places I avoid in Kuala Lumpur, Sungai Besi is one. I did not have a choice, as I urgently needed to pick up a package from the General Post Office’s parcel warehouse.
I was driving around in circles. Earlier, when I had called for directions, I was told that the warehouse was across from the stalls. I was assured, repeatedly, that I couldn’t miss the stalls. Everyone knew where they were.
It was a higgledy-piggledy set up of ragged tables and chairs. Clusters of people sat around in groups tucking into hot breakfasts, blissfully unaware of the criss-crossing concrete highways above, uncaring of the rubbish strewn around them, and unconcerned about the wobbly tables where they sat.
An excerpt:
Served right off the precariously perched, scorching wok, just metres away from our rickety table and motley wobbly stools. The man frying the noodles always wore a thin, white, cotton T-shirt and shorts. His wife, in mismatched top and bottom, took orders, served meals and collected the cash. From the lowest branch of an old, gnarled tree hung an old-fashioned buai, fashioned out of rope and a clean sarong. In it lay a tiny baby, watching the azure blue sky peeking through the small leaves of the mellow and mature tree.
Zeroº magazine, May 2008
I was driving around in circles. Earlier, when I had called for directions, I was told that the warehouse was across from the stalls. I was assured, repeatedly, that I couldn’t miss the stalls. Everyone knew where they were.
It was a higgledy-piggledy set up of ragged tables and chairs. Clusters of people sat around in groups tucking into hot breakfasts, blissfully unaware of the criss-crossing concrete highways above, uncaring of the rubbish strewn around them, and unconcerned about the wobbly tables where they sat.
An excerpt:
Served right off the precariously perched, scorching wok, just metres away from our rickety table and motley wobbly stools. The man frying the noodles always wore a thin, white, cotton T-shirt and shorts. His wife, in mismatched top and bottom, took orders, served meals and collected the cash. From the lowest branch of an old, gnarled tree hung an old-fashioned buai, fashioned out of rope and a clean sarong. In it lay a tiny baby, watching the azure blue sky peeking through the small leaves of the mellow and mature tree.
Zeroº magazine, May 2008
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