The Thing on the Tree

I do not believe in ghosts. At least, I do not believe that ghosts, even if they do exist (which I doubt), will deliberately harm or frighten a human being.

When I moved into the house I am currently staying in some 3 years ago, my landlady told me not to take the rambutans from the particular rambutan tree behind the house. We could take the rambutans from the other trees in the house but not from That Particular Tree.

But of course Mr. I-don’t-believe-in-such-nonsense refused to listen and one day, took rambutans from That Particular Tree. Nothing happened. Until night fall.

Suddenly in the still of the night my 2 brown girls started crying, and then howled the night away. My girls do not howl. In fact, that was the first time I heard them howling. Needless to say I freaked out. I said a prayer and hid under the blanket for the rest of the night.

Since that incident, I sometimes get the feeling that there is a presence, a sense of being, a Something in That Particular Tree. It is not always there. But when it is, I feel that I am being watched.

I have to pass That Particular Tree to change the water for the girls. Once in a strange burst of courage, I actually looked up into That Particular Tree. Nothing. Just nerves. Psychology. Over-active imagination. There are no such things as ghosts.

My girls do not howl anymore. But somehow I don’t think it’s because there is nothing to howl about, I think it’s because they have gotten used to The Thing on That Particular Tree. The best part is, That Particular Tree is right at the back of my room, not 10 steps away!

But yes, there are no such things as ghosts. 

Here's to 2011

It’s the last day of 2010!

It was an interesting year for me. I did good at work, I went to India, I went to London, I attended Slash’s concert (he is the best guitarist ever, I don’t care what anyone else says), I ate escargot for the first time (not bad actually), I ran (and most importantly, finished!) a quarter marathon, I started a blog, I took up yoga.

I think I didn’t do too bad. Except that I also broke up with my boyfriend of 6 years. And that is enough to swathe all the good things that has happened this year. No matter what I do, a certain sense of woe follows me like a shadow that will not leave me.

Even as I hope for the best for 2011, I do not know if I will ever really be truly happy again.

The beautiful game

It has been such a long time since they played for the love of the game. No politics. No promise of fame or riches. No back stabbing. No bickering. No racism.

Just the younger generation giving their best for the love of their country, national pride, honour and the game itself. This is us at our best. If only we were like that all the time. We would truly be a force to be reckoned with.

There is hope yet! Well done Malaysia!

Judging beauty

I don’t understand all this obsession about beauty. Society sets the standards, and people being the fools that they are adhere to these standards so that they are considered beautiful. Notwithstanding that the definition and concept of beauty differs from one society to another, that beauty is subjective, that beauty is only skin deep.

I don’t understand why people cannot just accept each other (and themselves) for who they are, regardless of whether society considers them beautiful or not. I don’t understand why people, especially women, must always comment about the looks of other people.

To me, looks have always been immaterial. But of course, I am only human. So when I hear, for example, that ‘certain people’ have made disparaging remarks about me, I was of course offended and hurt. It is only natural. But I did not do anything about it, although I could. And the reason is very simple. I am a rebel. Always have been and always will be. I refuse to be a slave to society’s (and ‘certain people’s’) standards of beauty.

And who are all these ‘certain people’ to judge another person’s looks anyway? Really, have they taken a good look at themselves in the mirror lately? Because in my eyes, these ‘certain people’ fall far short of society’s standards of beauty. And the worse part is, they have little or no character or intelligence to back them up! They should be the last people to comment about another person’s beauty.

Now look at what they’ve made me do! I am judging the judges!

My mother always told me, “If you have nothing nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” I try. I really do. But then ‘certain people’ piss me off and then I get all flustered and there’s no one to vent to so I blog about it.

And so, what is my recipe for beauty? (In this order:) Two cups of (good) character – kind, emphatic, polite, good manners, warm hearted etc, one cup of intelligence, a tablespoon of physical attraction (but please, one man’s meat is another man’s poison), and a pinch of endearing personal habits or traits to taste.

A recipe for disaster? Maybe. But it’s my recipe. And that is why ‘certain people’ will never be beautiful in my eyes. They lack ALL the ingredients that make up my recipe for beauty.

Still sad

It has been approximately 7 months, but I am still reeling from the effects of coming out of a long term relationship.

Most of the time I am ok. I can function like a normal human being. But then there are times when it just hits you. The memories. The good times. The shared life. The pain. The misery. The loneliness. The heartache. The uncertainty. The panic. But most of all, the grief.

And then there is no one to talk to. My parents are of the view that I made the right decision and I should move on. And that is that! Somehow I am supposed to miraculously forget the past, just like that.

Some of my friends are of the view that since I have moved on (because I am dating again), therefore I am ok. Some of my other friends are more engrossed with their own lives to listen to yet another sad story.

Of course I can’t talk to my present boyfriend for obvious reasons.

Ironically, the only person who I think will understand my predicament is my ex-boyfriend. He must be going through the same grief as me. He will know what it’s like. He will be emphatic. He will understand.

But I cannot talk to him either. For obvious reasons. Although he is probably the only one in this world who will know what I am going through.

And so I will continue to grieve alone. For as long as it takes.  

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

It’s that time of year again – the time for celebration, to be with family and friends, to eat and drink and be merry, and to usher in the New Year with renewed vows, hopes and resolutions for the coming year.

And of course, bonus!

This year, about 2/5ths of my bonus went to the lovely Income Tax Department. 2/5ths! It really takes away the joy of getting a bonus.

It’s not as if any of my money is being put to good use. Our roads are full of potholes, our public transport is uninspiring, our buildings are leaking and tumbling down, our public amenities are deplorable. Petroleum prices keep going up, poverty is still an issue, crimes are rampant, corruption is prevailing, civil and political rights are curtailed.

So where is my hard earned money going to, and what is it being used for??

I might as well ask where did all those planes and ships disappear to in the Bermuda triangle. I will never get a straight forward or honest answer.

Or maybe I will - in the form of yet another sky scraper in the heart of Kuala Lumpur. Oh joy.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year everyone!

No big deal, it's only murder

I read in the newspapers today that a man was murdered – slashed to death – not 10 streets away from my house!

Being an ardent follower of crime and detective stories (and once harbouring the ambition of becoming the first woman to head the CID division of the Royal Malaysian Police at Bukit Aman), I just had to check out the crime scene.

And I did. It was a normal house. If not for the yellow line reading “Garisan Polis” I would never have guessed that a murder had taken place at that house just yesterday.

There was no one around. No neighbours hanging around to offer some stories about the victim or the perpetrators, no forensic personnel gathering evidence, no policemen interviewing witnesses, no clues!

And then there was also no eerie cold breeze blowing to somehow signify that the murdered man’s soul was still wandering restlessly around seeking revenge or justice or peace. No birds singing. No trees rustling in the wind. No rain. No drama.

Just another normal day in a sleepy town somewhere in the East Coast. Except that a man was murdered. And then life returned to normal.

I don’t know which is more tragic – a man being murdered in a small town, or the sense of normalcy of it all.