Thursday

A Gift, So Precious.

The cold toes woke her up.
She rubbed her eyes and felt around for the comforter, smiling inadvertently when she saw him hogging it, yet again. Every single night. Every night she covered both of them together, tucked them both in and snuggled up. And every night he turned over onto his stomach and took the comforter with him.
And every morning she woke up with cold toes.
She looked at his sleeping form, overwhelmed at the feelings that suddenly welled up within her; he looked so sweet, so at peace. Just like when she first saw him.
In some time, he’d wake up. And all hell would break lose. Till then, the house, their tiny, cozy home, was silent. Serene, even.
She pulled on some socklets for the cold feet and went to the kitchen. The thin Stanford t-shirt didn’t do much to protect her warm body which broke into goose bumps as soon as the cold air hit.
Hot chocolate for two, she thought as she put the kettle on.


The misted glass on the windows always beckoned her; even as a child, she’d irresistibly be drawn to doodling on them..etching out a daisy, a cat… her name… Lindy.
… She squiggled. And her train of thought wandered to the tiny bed-n-breakfast she’d been in exactly five years back. It had been a cold December, coldest so far. Honeymoon weather? If you say so.
The glasses were misted then too. She’d doodled on them, then too.


What fun they’d had. They had never been sure of what had caused the windows to mist up; was it the cold or maybe their constant, insatiable need for each other. They made love for hours and talked non-stop the rest of the time.
It had been like a moment stolen from time, one that they’d never gotten back. It was like they crammed a whole life time into those few days.


A small sigh arose from deep inside her.
A single tear escaped. It found its way over her pink, cold cheeks and dropped off her chin into oblivion, while her thoughts resounded from the memories of the past.
The kettle whistled and she came to. As she turned the knob, she heard him wake up and wiped her eyes hastily. She poured the rich, creamy concoction into his favorite blue mug and added a generous dollop of whisked cream and the fluffy bits of marshmallow. It never failed to make him smile.


She heard him sneak up from behind. She smiled and set the mugs down lest she spill it. Almost instantly his tiny hands came around her knees; that was only as far as he could reach now.
She turned around and swept him up into her arms and kissed him sloppily on his chubby, red cheeks; his deep gurgles of joy always made her happy. One of the few things that made her happy these days.
Murad. Her pride.Her joy.The light of her life.
And the last gift Zohaib had given her.
Zohaib, her lover and husband of ten years.


Wednesday

Things That Are Not Love



Your salary is not love and your word is not love. Your clothes are not love and holding hands is not love. Sex is not love and a kiss is not love. Long letters are not love and a text is not love. Flowers are not love and a box of chocolates is not love. Sunsets are not love and photographs are not love. The stars are not love and a beach under the moonlight is not love. The smell of someone else on your pillow is not love and the feeling of their skin touching your skin is not love. Heart-shaped candy is not love and an overseas holiday is not love. The truth is not love and winning an argument is not love. Warm coffee isn't love and cheap cards bought from stores are not love.  Tears are not love and laughter is not love. A head on a shoulder is not love and messages written at the front of books given as gifts are not love. Apathy is not love and numbness is not love. A pain in your chest is not love and clenching your fist is not love. Rain is not love.

Only you. Only you, are love.

Saturday

Her Raging Youth




The familiar scent of The red Dunhill cigarettes lingers in the air as she stood there, breathing it in passively-wifts of episodic memories refreshing itself, triggerring her amygdala to excrete a myriad of emotions as she was transported back to her youth-Her raging youth.

****
7 years ago:

She likes her balcony. A place where she gravitates to when she's at the extremes of her emotions. It was her place of personal escapism and this time round, she needed an escape from a baggage that has been weighing her down for far too long. In a swift movement, she lighted her ciggarette and rolled her eyes as she inhaled the first puff. In the 20 years she has lived, that always seemed to have triumphed any other feelings she has ever felt-the semi sweet burning sensation that wraps around her throat for a few seconds, leaving her somewhat satisfied. Calm perhaps, but happily contend in her own little bubble.

A can of redbull accompanied her otherwise solo company. She allowed herself to savour the silence of the night, gazing at the fine few stars that still miraculously appear despite having to compete with the city lights. Since it was her last stick, she took her time with the cigarette, making a mental note to get a fresh packet later on. As she put out the burning amber end, she hurried into her room to get a couple of polaroid pictures that were stuck on her wall and her journal.

She looked through the pictures-over and over again.
She scoffed inwardly at the happy smiles that was reflected upon the photographs and began scribbling in her journal with a furious rage:

17/4/2005

You know my heart sinks deeper into it's cavity when your lips meet my neck and your breath hits my skin. I become weakened and overwhelmed with it's effect to the point I find myself struggling to find air, but at the same time, not wanting it to end.
Your lips-my neck,
Your breath-my skin.

I miss you.
It's moments like this I miss you. Moments when solitude engulfs me from within and I begin to enjoy the serenity. Until of course the memories of you, pensieve, yet solid manifest itself in visions of my thoughts. Part of me craving for you non-existensial existence to enjoy the solitude with me.

My brain used to be fuzzy. It felt like every information that penetreated in seemed to be clouded by the mess accumulated in my brain. One big effing tangled mess. But somehow, those knots untangled themselves with time and I find myself somewhat liberated-not entirely free from your memories, but somewhat lighter. I need your memories, they have become integrated with me as an individual but they're no longer haunting me like before.

She paused and realised she had nothing more to fill in. She sighed deeply.

Deeply.

Wednesday

Giving Away The Memories



On the 17th floor of my building, lives an old man.

He does not live alone. He stays with his two grown up sons. Their wives. Their kids. It is a big family. There should not be any reason to be lonely. Or feel empty. But I think he does. Every evening when he goes for a walk, I can see it in his eyes. He is lonely and sad. And this feeling has nothing to do with his large family.
He may have a lot of people in his life but the person who matters the most, his wife, died a few months ago. And ever since, he has not been the same.

We all have different ways of coping with grief. Some cry. Some deal with it with dry eyes. Our ways may be different but we all feel this profound sadness. We all feel a deep emptiness that descends on us when we lose a loved one. This old man I know, does not keep his grief bottled up. He talks about her to people he meets in the elevator, in the park, in the grocery store. He tells us about the wonderful years he had with his wife. His helplessness towards the end of her illness. His relief when he realized she has passed away and was incapable of feeling any more pain. He talks a lot. And sympathetic neighbours, some strangers, some not, listen to this old man's ramble.

Few days back, he called me while I was walking in the park.
"Do you tie your hair?" When I said that I do, he handed me a shiny object.
"Keep this then, it will look good on you." I loosened my palm to find a rather tacky looking hair clip. And I knew. I knew instantly that he has begun the painful process of going through her stuff. Bits of items that were once precious to her. Hair clips, bags. CDs. Stuff that he will never use in his life, stuff that perhaps his daughters in law do not want. He has started handing them over to utter strangers. These things are no longer useful to him. But he cannot bear to throw them away.. So he gives them away, hoping some stranger will honor these silly items and somewhere, somehow, his wife's belongings and with them her memories, will live on.

I turned and walked back to my car. Wondering what should I do with this clip? To keep or to not? I glanced at the clip once again. I know I will never use this clip. It is neither pretty nor serviceable. Moreover, it does not even hold any sentimental value for me. What will I do with this? Perhaps I will give it away to my domestic help. Or I will give it to a street kid in need of a hair pin. I stopped for a second, and looked back once to see the old man. The very next moment, I felt tears crawling down my cheeks as I see the old man sitting on the bench outside his house, staring at the picture of his wife. That very moment I decided what I would do with the tacky hair clip.

I went home that evening, after dinner, locked myself in my room, turned my lights dim, pulled out my diary, and “told” my diary what has happened. Again, I felt tears trickling down my cheeks. As I get done with it, I decided to stick the hair clip with it. Just so that I’ll never lose it. So that I’ll remember this day in life for the time to come, I know, no matter what I do, I know the lady will live in her husband's mind. Forever.

As I got my eye lashes to meet that night, I caught a glance of the diary, lying on my study desk. Just then I thought to myself, just because you get rid of something does not mean you lose the memories.

Saturday

Better-Bitter Days She Lives



As she watches the ribbons of smokes coming out,
she wonders to her self as to what her life's come to.
And that if she'll get what she wants,
more like what she deserves the best.
Maybe life has different plans for her.
And that it'll give what she thought she'd never have,
more like something she deserves the best.
All she has to do is,
forget all the time she was left astray.
As there are;
So many hearts that beat,
So many mouths to feed,
So many moments to live,
So much laughter to give.
Till then;
She'll preserve what she has to outlive,
Reserve whats her to give,
Before the loving heart misgives.
The better-bitter days she lives.

Wednesday

Interracial Marriage



I suddenly see a lot of tweets about interracial marriages for this past few hours. I first felt slight anger because I see no necessary for Malaysians to make this an issue, then I realized, aren't we Malaysians always making something,anything and everything an issue? Sigh. 

Interracial marriages to me is such a divine relationship. They're beautiful and strong, and I've seen it very closely in life. I'm a child of interracial marriage. Dad comes from an Indian Muslim (Malbari) family whos origins are from Kerala,India. Whereas Mum comes from a Sikh (Punjabi) family, from Kampung Pandan. Fate took its twist, and they met. It has been 18 years long, and looking at them now, I secretly wish to have such a beautiful relationship in future. Trust me when I say, mum keeps on telling us, that she feels as thou she just got married. Yes, that is because nothing has changed ever since then. Except that now they have five extra "luggages".  Their love, respect, care and thoughts, remains the same.

Speaking about the count of interracial marriages, I think we are one of those countries with highest number of count. We come from a background of various race, religions, culture and style of living, and I see no necessary reason of being against it. How would we have our gorgeous Chindian girls, super hot Chinese Punjabi guys and cute little Indian Muslim kids without interracial marriages? 

Hello, this has been going on for years, and now you people are coming up with lame excuses to go against it? 

To those who are saying that interracial marriages is against Islamism, I apologize for saying this, but there are tons of people doing wrong out there, and even committing worse sins, (according to the Islamic way of life) but finding fault in marriages is just plain stupid. Go out to a night club in KL, and see the number of Muslim teenagers there, be it Malays, Indian Muslims, Pakistani Muslims or even those Arabs down here. From clothes to drinking liquor, up to free mixing, everything is the total opposite of Islamism. You can't stop people from committing sins, but then don't bring up silly issues. If they're mature enough to decide their marriage, then they are surely able to decide their way of life. 

Looking at it in a practical way, I surely support interracial marriage. Than to have sex, get pregnant and to find the child in bins and toilets, I find that building a family with love and care,then raising the kids with manners and good etiquettes way more respectful. On the other hand, his and her families. When culture and caste comes in between. One word, ridiculous. We're in 2012. United States has approved gay marriage and here we are argueing about caste and culture. *slaps head*                                                                          
Culture clashes happens in interracial marriages, but it all depends on how the couple is going to cope and how will the kids be raised. Fortunately,these days, I don't see culture clashes happening. The couple and their families are able to respect, accept and approve the culture of another. I see Chinese families are being able to accept an Indian daughter-in-law and a Malay family accepting a  Punjabi son-in-law. For instance, my father, while attending my maternal cousin's wedding in the gurdwara, had his head covered. That's what I'm saying about. Give respect to the other family and problem solved! 

Now, the unfortunate part is the one involving us. Yes, us brown people. You know who. Caste. Caste. Caste. "No son, I don't care if she is a doctor, earns more than you, and is the prettiest girl in the universe, you can't marry her. She's from a lower cast. Our relatives will look low upon us. Its an prestige issue.", that's what typical brown parents will tell you. *shrugs* So what?? So what if the other is from another caste? Lower or higher? You can't blame him/her for being born into those specific caste. Not that they choose to. And even worse, when someone from a lower caste is living a better earning, is more educated, and carries herself/himself better in public than the one in the higher caste? I personally feel that their family should be thankful the couple are truly in love with each other, instead of fooling around, has decided to build a family, witnessed by God Almighty, and is legally approved. Why put your kids in dilemma? Excuse me, prestige issue? Your prestige would go down the trash if they eloped. Duh.  

Interracial marriages in Islam is way too complicating for my understanding. It may seem like a simple concept for Muslims that's been raised in the western society. Our parents, in the other hand see this as the end of the world,unfortunately. They grew up in different circumstances, in a different kind of society and in different cultures. I’m not saying that only because you live in the west it means you should forget about your culture, but it’s that culture has no Islamic basis. Is the culture you preached about during your lifetime going to save you in your grave? I wish our parents could understand this.
This is all about culture, it has zero to do with Islam. The same thing goes to the fact that it’s more ok for men to marry a non-Arab than females. This is all based on culture and what people is going to say. This also has a lot to do with what kind of person you are. I know a lot of families who’d never consider getting their son or daughter married to someone outside their tribe because they think they’ll face a lot of “culture clashes”.  And here we go! Back to the world of cultures again.

It’s about how open minded you are. You can’t for one second think that you can marry someone from another tribe if you are close minded. Because your brain has been filtered with so many veils that prevents you from thinking pure thoughts. Pure as in raw. But even then, this is not enough. In Islam you have to respect and obey your parents until they tell you to do something that goes against Islam. If your parents are unhappy with you, then Allah (swt) is also unhappy with you. And this is why I say, interracial marriage in Islamism is way to complicated for my understanding. Maybe our understanding.
 Besides that, based on what I've seen, interracial marriages last longer these days. I want to see couples grow old together than to see them getting up and down the court, filing divorce papers together. (Not wishing to say in precise which race.) The world needs true, long lasting love. 

I wrote this post because I'm a biracial child and I felt the necessity to put my points out. I know not everyone might be approving what I have wrote. Just a reminder, its my blog. If my parents ever read this post, they'll be assuming that I have a boyfriend from another race. Well, I am yet to find someone, but then I just know that my parents would never disapprove a interracial marriage. (Terms and Conditions apply).

To those couples who is suffering from effected family affairs after your interracial marriage, trust me, it won't be long. Your love for each other will grow fonder. Build your family, and prove your love. The hurdles, the pain, the tears will all be worth someday. Someday, your family will have you back. Someday, everything will be fine. Someday, it will all be alright. I know.
Folks, ones rewards and sins is between him and God Almighty. Don't let culture and cast come in between. Respect their feelings and their relationship. Let them couples live their life. Give them a chance to have their dream wedding. Let them wear that once a life time smile while exchanging their rings. 

If anyone has thought of making this an issue, please feel welcomed. Mail me your comments or critics, I'd love to discuss this. After all, this is what I said and why it matters to you? 


Friday

Sometimes we can’t see what’s right in front of us, because it’s behind us, and we’re looking in a mirror.



I wish you could look into the mirror and see beyond your face, way past the surface to see more. More than what the world sees, more than what your friends see, more than I or even you can see. That is what you are. You are more than any label or stereotype, bigger than any first glance or expectation. You are more.
You are more than the makeup and the way you style your hair, more than the clothes and magazines, more than all that frustration spent on trying to live up to some ridiculous, unobtainable idea. You are not your age, not your weight, not your eye color, hair color, skin color. You are much, much more.
You are more than your schedules and routines, habits and compulsions, more than a bubbly social butterfly, more than the hidden shyness. You are more than the movies, video games, music and trends you love. More than the chores and homework, more than the job and the role you play. You are everything beyond the impossible projects and all the conflicts you hate.
You are more than all of your exceptional high points, more than all of the things that you never want anyone to know about. Anything that you feel ashamed about – you are more than that, more than those secrets that you keep bottled up because you think you’d bother others with them. You are more than any shortcomings you think you see on the outside, more than any kind of judgment you hastily cast on yourself attempting to be “enough.”
You are more than a trusting friend, much more than comic relief. Witty remarks and banter don’t even scratch the surface! You are more than your place in your family, more than the position in your social circle you happen to fill.
You are more than your sex and the clothes that emphasize or hide it. There is so much more to you than straight lines or sloping curves, more than strong come-ons and coy glances. Yes you are all of the things that all girls and women are, but you are not reduced down to being just those things. You are much, much more.
You are more than angry outbursts, more than confusion about the future regarding yourself and the world. You are so much more than all of your nighttime unvoiced fears, more than the sudden tears, the sweeping highs, and rocky lows. More than all the roads you have to walk in between.
You are more than fire, than water, than blood. You are more than dancing, more than music, more than paint or clay or film. More than cloth or technology, old or new stories – that is what you are.
You are who you are, and you will always discover new layers, new mores. You are possibility, hope, and ability. You are destiny before it happens, bird’s first flight before it plummets from the nest for the very first time. You are potential and you can truly be anything you really want. You can do anything you truly want. You can accomplish things greater than you know. But you have to want to be more.
Because you are also more than selling yourself short, more than worrying how you’ll go about doing any one thing. You are more than pettiness, more than self-degradation. By being who you are, you are already beautiful and special. You are more than beautiful and special.
Have faith. Forget the mirror. Forget what everything around you tells you to be. Be who you are.

In My Sorrows

Here I lie in my sorrow, Where I dwell in an empty tomorrow, The journey for truth seems so steep, I feel I've lost the chance of relief...