Bersangka baik sesama manusia memang payah. Asal nampak benda pelik sikit saja, yang negatif mesti laju-laju masuk dalam kepala, yang positif macam segan-segan saja nak masuk, setakat melintas saja. Nampak lelaki peluk-peluk bahu sakit, terus gay. Tengok bola dekat stadium terus jatuh hukum tak solat lettew. Pokok goyang pun nak salahkan angin memanjang. Entah yang peluk bahu itu sebenarnya kuat ukhuwahnya, tak pun bahasa modennya bromance. Entah yang tengok bola itu perjalanannya lebih dua marhalah maka sudah boleh jamak. Sudahnya kalau pakcik belakang rumah suruh monyet peliharaannya panjat pokok, takkan makhluk itu memanjat lalu memetik buah kelapa dengan lemah gemalai. Nampak tak logik dia kalau kita fikir secara positif?
Jadi bilamana kes pasangan di Sweden mendapat liputan meluas masyarakat kita, tidaklah saya begitu terkejut membaca dan mendengar komen mereka di sekeliling lebih-lebih lagi di alam maya. Yang dapat saya simpulkan di sini adalah orang kita bukan sahaja sukar bersangka baik malah orang kita memang cepat menghukum. Lebih cepat daripada monyet tadi yang memanjat pokok kelapa. Seriously, I understand the concern expressed by the public, I do. And I do understand that you have every right to say or write anything you wish on the ticket of free speech. But the end doesn't justify the mean. It just doesn't, folks.
Ketika kes itu masih lagi dalam perbicaraan, orang-orang marhaen seperti kita sudah berjaya menyelesaikan kes tersebut, tanpa perlu berjumpa face-to-face dengan pasangan tersebut mahupun anak-anak yang terlibat. Agaknya Benedict Cumberbatch pun mungkin tersipu malu apabila anda mampu menyelesaikan kes ini dalam masa beberapa saat saja. Sherlock is the coolest show ever, by the way. Kalau takde Astro, sila download. OK balik kepada cerita asal. Orang kita memang pantas menghukum, baik yang menyokong ibunya mahupun yang menyokong anaknya.
Pertama sekali, kita perlu mengkaji sumber berita yang didengari atau dibaca. I've studied the pattern embedded in media discourse as part of my dissertation for my masters. Believe me, media can and have been manipulating the public to make decisions based on what they want you to believe and then make you think as if you are making those decisions by your own will. That's the true essence of mind controlling. Mind control is most effective when you are not aware of the nature in which it happened. Dan berdasarkan laporan akhbar terkini, terdapat pelbagai variasi dan provokasi yang dibangkitkan, baca headline sahaja pun sudah cukup menjengkelkan. Cakap saja versi mana yang mahu. Versi anak menangis menyesal, versi ibu memukul menggunakan kayu, versi tak bagi anak makan lapan jam, versi anak memburukkan ibunya sendiri ketika soal siasat. Dan setiap versi ini pasti akan mempengaruhi anda untuk menyokong satu pihak dan menghukum pihak yang lainnnya. Sad, isn't it? I've always reminded my students to read, just read from whatever sources you can find, but don't swallow everything. You read, you evaluate and you think. Do not lay your entire dependence on a single source. Chances are, they are as clueless as you are and just want supporters to make them feel intelligent.
Secondly, you are not in any way the victim/accused nor are you the witness. And this is not about you. Kalau anda pernah didera sekalipun, ini bukan anda. Kalau anda pernah dituduh mendera sekalipun, ini juga bukan anda. Mereka yang terlibat ini bukan anda dan tak mungkin anda mampu untuk meletakkan diri andi di tempat mereka. Tak semestinya anda didera, maka mereka juga didera. Tak semestinya anda memukul kerana mendidik, maka mereka juga memukul kerana mendidik. Do not enforce your own corporal punishment on people you knew nothing about. Suspend your judgement. Ini tidak, bukan main ramai lagi yang mengherdik tanpa akal dengna lidah setajam pedang. Bermacam label dan gelaran dianugerahkan kepada mereka - ibubapa kejam ada, anak derhaka ada. I mean, for once, put youself in their shoes. Everyone can sympathize, but it takes real courage to empathize. Anak-anak yang terlibat masih remaja. Dan sebagai remaja, tak sukar untuk dia mendapat maklumat tentang pandangan orang ramai terhadap dirinya. Tak perlu google, facebook atau twitter, di sekolah saja mungkin dia sudah dihukum masuk neraka oleh rakan sebaya. Your teenage years is an important stage of your life, teens are extremely sensitive. Avoid judging both the parents or the kid. Try to understand them. If you can't understand them, try at least to accept the fact that you have no right to judge people when you don't understand them. There is a certain decorum in which you treat an accused. After all, they are still only suspects. Everyone can be an armchair critic. Heck, even my six year old niece can do that. Try practicing intellectualism instead.
Finally, yang paling menjengkelkan ialah mereka yang mendapat maklumat tidak lengkap tapi dengan yakin halalan toyyiban berkongsi info di facebook dan menghentam sesuka hati. I mean, really? Check your facts, people. Always check your sources. Kalau setakat dengar makcik kiah hujung kampung bercerita selama dua minit, terus post cerita palsu itew. Kalau setakat dengar berita jam lapan empatpuloh saat pasal kes dera, terus post status berapi. Yang lebih sakit dari itu apabila keyboard warriors berpusu-pusu share status tersebut ibarat jualan mega akhir tahun. Use your head as well, not merely your heart. Ibarat tangkap orang mencuri roti dua ringgit dari kedai runcit pak ali, terus belasah sampai mati. Hukum hudud menentang bukan main katanya kejam, sudahnya hukum bunuh berperikemanusiaankah? Doakan sahaja yang terbaik buat keluarga ini dan juga buat keluarga di luar sana yang mungkin hidupnya lebih perit tapi masih tidak terbela.
Bersangka baik memang payah. Menghukum itu mudah. Memetik kata-kata Faisal Tehrani, "...Kerana payahnyalah kehidupan ini, kau dan aku akan lebih bermakna sebagai manusia."
Friday, February 21, 2014
Saturday, February 15, 2014
The heart remembers.
Ever had one of those moments when you seem to know what's right but can't seem to take a step towards that direction? Like your body is telling you to move but your soul stubbornly refuses to budge? And you wish that you could slap your own sorry face for setting the roots in the wrong place?
Well, I have. And I think I've been in that situation for a long time now. I've been thinking about it quite a lot. Like why is my soul not synchronizing itself with my body and why am I not doing anything about it sooner? And the more I think about it, the more it makes sense. You see, my soul is more attached to my heart while my body is attached to my mind. The problem is; my heart and my mind are sworn enemies.
My heart is too emotional for my mind to comprehend and my mind is too rational for my heart to ever understand. My mind always goes for the simplistic solutions, like if you can't fix something then you let it go, you find something else and move on. But my heart goes for the sentimental values and spent years fixing broken things even when they are beyond repair, always finding reasons to hold on to things. So you see, my mind and heart are at constant war with each other. And apparently, the heart always wins, even when she knows she's wrong. Or rather, I always let the heart wins, even when I know she's wrong.
And yes, my heart has always been a 'she'. At least, that's what I think. And my mind is a 'he'. This makes the war having much more sense now, doesn't it? My mind is telling me to think like him, act like him and spare myself from the pain of holding on to things too tight because they'll either break into pieces or break me apart. My heart, on the contrary, tells me to feel like her, to understand what memories mean to her, to intensely fight and fix what I love because the pain of losing would break both her and I. I sometimes listen to the mind, but mostly I just turned a deaf ear and let the heart rules.
Over the years, my mind probably felt offended by my obvious preference and bias that I realized it has somehow partially stop functioning. I mean, how else would you explain these absurd happenings I've had lately? Like I can't seem to remember the lunch I've had yesterday, or the name of my family's cat that died last year, or my dad's license number, or the reasons why I hate that girl who used to sit in the front row in my class all year long, or the spelling of some random words I've used so many times, or how I managed to order a pizza delivery when I don't even know the name of the pizza?
But I do remember the wisdom words painted on the wall of my first-grade classroom, the name of the teacher who scolded me for failing a history test, the smell of someone's perfume six years after last smelling it, the color of the loosed paint on the door of the school bus, the sound of the cardboard scraping on the floor during my first play performance in high school, the boy who stood in the rain waiting for me to look up, the longest silence that lingered when I looked at old photos of people who meant so much, the touch of my best friend's hug that we rarely had because it seems corny back then and the tears that followed after when she died.
I forgot a lot. And yet I remember it all. I guess, sometimes, the heart remembers what the mind wants to forget.
Well, I have. And I think I've been in that situation for a long time now. I've been thinking about it quite a lot. Like why is my soul not synchronizing itself with my body and why am I not doing anything about it sooner? And the more I think about it, the more it makes sense. You see, my soul is more attached to my heart while my body is attached to my mind. The problem is; my heart and my mind are sworn enemies.
My heart is too emotional for my mind to comprehend and my mind is too rational for my heart to ever understand. My mind always goes for the simplistic solutions, like if you can't fix something then you let it go, you find something else and move on. But my heart goes for the sentimental values and spent years fixing broken things even when they are beyond repair, always finding reasons to hold on to things. So you see, my mind and heart are at constant war with each other. And apparently, the heart always wins, even when she knows she's wrong. Or rather, I always let the heart wins, even when I know she's wrong.
And yes, my heart has always been a 'she'. At least, that's what I think. And my mind is a 'he'. This makes the war having much more sense now, doesn't it? My mind is telling me to think like him, act like him and spare myself from the pain of holding on to things too tight because they'll either break into pieces or break me apart. My heart, on the contrary, tells me to feel like her, to understand what memories mean to her, to intensely fight and fix what I love because the pain of losing would break both her and I. I sometimes listen to the mind, but mostly I just turned a deaf ear and let the heart rules.
Over the years, my mind probably felt offended by my obvious preference and bias that I realized it has somehow partially stop functioning. I mean, how else would you explain these absurd happenings I've had lately? Like I can't seem to remember the lunch I've had yesterday, or the name of my family's cat that died last year, or my dad's license number, or the reasons why I hate that girl who used to sit in the front row in my class all year long, or the spelling of some random words I've used so many times, or how I managed to order a pizza delivery when I don't even know the name of the pizza?
But I do remember the wisdom words painted on the wall of my first-grade classroom, the name of the teacher who scolded me for failing a history test, the smell of someone's perfume six years after last smelling it, the color of the loosed paint on the door of the school bus, the sound of the cardboard scraping on the floor during my first play performance in high school, the boy who stood in the rain waiting for me to look up, the longest silence that lingered when I looked at old photos of people who meant so much, the touch of my best friend's hug that we rarely had because it seems corny back then and the tears that followed after when she died.
I forgot a lot. And yet I remember it all. I guess, sometimes, the heart remembers what the mind wants to forget.
Tuesday, December 24, 2013
Hartini.
I tried to write a eulogy for you today. In fact, I've been trying to write it down for days now. But the words won't come, or maybe they did, but I sent them away so I won't have to face your death. Remembering only makes the death more real than it already is. Pushing the memory away makes me less vulnerable, less painful. Every time someone mentions about your death, I would picture you with all five of us. We would be hanging out together this school holidays just like you planned last month. You'd be complaining about your weight and I'd be telling you the downside of being slim - that if you crossed the roads, people would run you over with their cars, because from the sideways, it's like you weren't even there. You'd double over with laughter and tell me that I'm a psycho. I liked that story better, so I painted it over the real one, thinking that once I erased it, it'll be gone. And like any other grieving best friends, I believe that not thinking about it is the right thing to do. But I was wrong. If I erased your death, there would be no way for me to take a look back and remember you. All of you.
When I first learnt about your death, I tried to take in what they were saying about you, but most of it went over my head. The death itself was unreal, but what hit me most was the suddenness of it, the totality of you that was lost, the same person who took eight years marking her presence in my life, only to be wiped away in seconds. And as I scrolled down the many comments and statuses about your death, my mind was frantically searching the memories stashed inside, trying to remember the last impression you had of me. What was the last thing I told you? Have I ever saved you in every way that a person can be saved? Did I tell you I love you enough? And even if I didn't, did you know it anyway? You see, first impression is often altered in time. When you get to know someone, like really get to know them, there is always a chance of you changing your mind. But last impression is nothing like that. It's infinite, permanently engraved, like writings on a tombstone. The final moments you left in someone's life stay unchangeable, it's like forever, but longer.
I tried scrolling down all the private messages flooding my inbox, each asking about you. Was it true that Tini passed away? I'm sorry about Tini. Have you heard the news? Did Tini really pass away? I didn't reply to any of them because I didn't know how. How do people respond when asked about their best friend's death? What's the right way to answer it? Is there a right way to answer it? Should a brief 'yes' be fine? Or should I extend my condolences to them as well? I never had a best friend who died. So you see, I'm a noob. I sincerely apologize to any of you whose messages left unattended.
Within seconds, I was already dialing Sya's number. I had no idea what I wanted to tell her or ask her. My hands just went autopilot. She had me at hello. I broke down. Then she broke down. For the first five minutes, none of us said anything. We just stayed there, phones in our hands, crying and breaking each other's hearts, all at the same time. In case you were wondering what did two best friends say to one another after they had lost one of their own, well, they said nothing. Because that's what we did. There were so many things to say, and yet none was equivalent to that void space you left behind. Before the conversation ended, there were only few words being exchanged, made up of a string of mumbled apologies, regrets and farewells.
Today, I finally managed to write you my eulogy. Here it is, in a sentence - short like the life you lived, and true like the friendship you left behind:
"Hartini was a friend, whom if you gave her a handful of black marbles, she would still see them as colourful, and she would give every coloured marble to each one of us, until she was left with none, and still she gave."
When I first learnt about your death, I tried to take in what they were saying about you, but most of it went over my head. The death itself was unreal, but what hit me most was the suddenness of it, the totality of you that was lost, the same person who took eight years marking her presence in my life, only to be wiped away in seconds. And as I scrolled down the many comments and statuses about your death, my mind was frantically searching the memories stashed inside, trying to remember the last impression you had of me. What was the last thing I told you? Have I ever saved you in every way that a person can be saved? Did I tell you I love you enough? And even if I didn't, did you know it anyway? You see, first impression is often altered in time. When you get to know someone, like really get to know them, there is always a chance of you changing your mind. But last impression is nothing like that. It's infinite, permanently engraved, like writings on a tombstone. The final moments you left in someone's life stay unchangeable, it's like forever, but longer.
I tried scrolling down all the private messages flooding my inbox, each asking about you. Was it true that Tini passed away? I'm sorry about Tini. Have you heard the news? Did Tini really pass away? I didn't reply to any of them because I didn't know how. How do people respond when asked about their best friend's death? What's the right way to answer it? Is there a right way to answer it? Should a brief 'yes' be fine? Or should I extend my condolences to them as well? I never had a best friend who died. So you see, I'm a noob. I sincerely apologize to any of you whose messages left unattended.
Within seconds, I was already dialing Sya's number. I had no idea what I wanted to tell her or ask her. My hands just went autopilot. She had me at hello. I broke down. Then she broke down. For the first five minutes, none of us said anything. We just stayed there, phones in our hands, crying and breaking each other's hearts, all at the same time. In case you were wondering what did two best friends say to one another after they had lost one of their own, well, they said nothing. Because that's what we did. There were so many things to say, and yet none was equivalent to that void space you left behind. Before the conversation ended, there were only few words being exchanged, made up of a string of mumbled apologies, regrets and farewells.
So you see, today I read the eulogies posted on your wall. It's weird reading people wrote about you in past tense. You should have read them, they were pretty nice. Everyone wanted to mark their presence in your life, reminiscing their brief encounter with you, their small talks with you despite never seeing you in person, trying to show the world that they too, had once been a part of your life, and shared moments with you. You see, I could write down all the small things I know about you. The songs you listen to when you woke up, the way you tied your hair depending on your mood, the routinized clothes you wore when you woke up late to class, the way you went up the stairs two steps at a time in the morning and one step at a time in the evening. I could write on and on about the little things that make you you. But that would be an insult to me. Because I know you. And I don't need the world to understand that. I just need you to know that. Know that I noticed. Know that I knew. Know that I remember. Know that I care. Know that they meant to me, even if I never said them. Know that if there is any way I could tell them to you right now, I would.
Today, I finally managed to write you my eulogy. Here it is, in a sentence - short like the life you lived, and true like the friendship you left behind:
"Hartini was a friend, whom if you gave her a handful of black marbles, she would still see them as colourful, and she would give every coloured marble to each one of us, until she was left with none, and still she gave."
Hartini Ibrahim.
28 Oct 1987 - 21 Dec 2013.
Al-Fatihah. May you finally rest in peace.
28 Oct 1987 - 21 Dec 2013.
Al-Fatihah. May you finally rest in peace.
Last words.
Sunday, June 2, 2013
learn the hard way.
I don't think you will ever truly learn something until you make a mistake out of it. And I'm not saying that you should run out there on the street and make mistake immediately and intentionally. That would be plain stupid. I'm saying that if you can see through those mistakes, you are less likely to repeat them. It's a lot like love and romance. Love and romance cannot co-exist. At least not in the way you want it to be.
Romance is candy-like. It is all sweet and sugary. The moment it touches even the tip of your tongue, you will feel the unspeakable joy. The true sensation of happiness.
But it melts just as quickly.
Now what remains after that is love. Love is the remainder of romance. When you're young and free and naive, all you wanted was romance. You can put the blame on anything. I personally blame those Asian drama series that infiltrated our media in the late 1900s. Whatever triggers this obsession with romance, one thing that was clear is that the effect was outrageous.
But once you get older and had your heart broken, smashed, crushed, slammed into walls after walls, or even had a temporary heart failure, you will eventually learn one significant lesson.
That love beats romance any time. You can't live with romance forever. You have to realize that with romance comes expectation. Expectation was the one that broke your heart. Love won't do that to you. Because with love comes acceptance. It comes with the knowledge that the candy will melt and the sweetness will fade. And yet, it doesn't bother you as much as you thought it would.
Because sometimes once you build a life with someone, you will learn to forget romance in order to learn to live together with love. Love is not what's in it for you. It's how much you can give as you grow old together. Be realistic. You can't forever be Edward and Bella.
If you really want to love, learn to love like Snape loves Lily.
Friday, November 30, 2012
the passing of warmth.
It's difficult. Giving something I love for someone else. It has always been a difficult thing for me to do. I found it agonizing to give up something that I've protected. It has always been that way.
When I was a kid, I've already figured out what I wanted to do with my life. I want to write. I don't know exactly what my life would be about, but I knew that it has something to do with writing. Somehow it has to be. And I knew that, because I woke up every morning, and in those first few seconds, I would try to remember my dreams and I wrote them on a piece of paper. And on days I couldn't remember, I made them up.
And because of my love for words, I began to love reading. I was addicted to them. I build a sanctuary out of them. Living the lives of those fictional characters. Sometimes I was a detective, other times I became the dragon slayer. I could be anyone. But one thing I could not tolerate was for someone to read my books. Often I would hide my books under my pillows or in my blanket. I was scared.
I have always been scared. Scared that what I love would be destroyed in the hands of someone else, particularly my sister. I always believed that I could protect what I love more than anyone else. I was always scared that the pages would be torn, I was scared that the sides of the book would be folded, I was scared that they would spill water all over the book. I was always scared. If only the books could talk, I believe that they too, would prefer to be under my care. I believe that more than anything.
But as I grew up, I left home. I got into university and rented a house. I left the books at home. One day when I got back, they were gone. My mum donated them to charity because she thought that they were of no use to me anymore. They were dusty and yellowed. And at that moment it hit me. If I had given them to my sister, she could protect them as she was staying at home during the time. That was the day I realized that there would be times when I couldn't protect the things I love anymore. And instead of not knowing what their fate would be, I could give them to someone else that could possibly protect them better. To protect them when I wasn't there. To be there for them when I couldn't.
I am an adult now. I have learnt that besides book, there are more things I love that I have to give up. And sometimes, to give them up for someone else. I've tried to live my life ordinarily, but somehow I kept seeing things that filled all these places, but I can't reach them. No matter how much those things mean to me, I couldn't protect them enough.
I guess, sometimes if you let go of the things you love, there might be someone else who can protect them better than you do. And so for all the things I love that I've let go of, I hope you are in better hands, wrapped around the arms of someone who can protect you better than me. I hope the warmth lasts.
When I was a kid, I've already figured out what I wanted to do with my life. I want to write. I don't know exactly what my life would be about, but I knew that it has something to do with writing. Somehow it has to be. And I knew that, because I woke up every morning, and in those first few seconds, I would try to remember my dreams and I wrote them on a piece of paper. And on days I couldn't remember, I made them up.
And because of my love for words, I began to love reading. I was addicted to them. I build a sanctuary out of them. Living the lives of those fictional characters. Sometimes I was a detective, other times I became the dragon slayer. I could be anyone. But one thing I could not tolerate was for someone to read my books. Often I would hide my books under my pillows or in my blanket. I was scared.
I have always been scared. Scared that what I love would be destroyed in the hands of someone else, particularly my sister. I always believed that I could protect what I love more than anyone else. I was always scared that the pages would be torn, I was scared that the sides of the book would be folded, I was scared that they would spill water all over the book. I was always scared. If only the books could talk, I believe that they too, would prefer to be under my care. I believe that more than anything.
But as I grew up, I left home. I got into university and rented a house. I left the books at home. One day when I got back, they were gone. My mum donated them to charity because she thought that they were of no use to me anymore. They were dusty and yellowed. And at that moment it hit me. If I had given them to my sister, she could protect them as she was staying at home during the time. That was the day I realized that there would be times when I couldn't protect the things I love anymore. And instead of not knowing what their fate would be, I could give them to someone else that could possibly protect them better. To protect them when I wasn't there. To be there for them when I couldn't.
I am an adult now. I have learnt that besides book, there are more things I love that I have to give up. And sometimes, to give them up for someone else. I've tried to live my life ordinarily, but somehow I kept seeing things that filled all these places, but I can't reach them. No matter how much those things mean to me, I couldn't protect them enough.
I guess, sometimes if you let go of the things you love, there might be someone else who can protect them better than you do. And so for all the things I love that I've let go of, I hope you are in better hands, wrapped around the arms of someone who can protect you better than me. I hope the warmth lasts.
Saturday, September 29, 2012
indie talks.
there's something about indie movies -
something about the realness of it,
the ordinariness,
the small things in life that they portrayed,
the moments that felt surreal and familiar all at the same time,
that random lines thrown by the characters that embodied who you used to be or about to be,
the simplicity of defining love;
and ultimately defining lost,
that feeling of knowing the characters;
of knowing that no matter how much they cared for one another,
no matter how many promises they made infinitely,
how close they are to happy end,
they will never be together.
it shows precisely what life is not about, grounding you back to reality -
that everything is beautiful,
but nothing is forever.
"We accept the love we think we deserve" - Stephen Chbosky
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
trapeze.
There are only so many of us born at a time and we are thrown into the world to find each other, to find the other ones who don't think you're strange, who understand your jokes, your smile, the way you talk.
There are only so many of us born at a time and we only have so long to find each other before we die.
But we have to try. - taken from IWroteThisForYou
Monday, August 13, 2012
Thursday, August 9, 2012
when we become strangers.
I am particularly good at hoarding. And no, not because those things are of use to me, but rather the memories they hold, the moments embedded in them. And this habit, more often than not, pains me more than pleasures me. I guess the reason I attached myself to memories are because they are the only things that remain constant, unchanged, whereas people do change. So I treat them as time capsule, buried them deep. When I felt that the world is more cruel than it already is, I retreat to those moments, build a sanctuary out of them, so that the world and everything in it won't hurt me. I slowly became prisoner of my own past, not because I couldn't find the keys, but rather I am scared that the world beyond the prison is much worse than being behind the bars.
But perhaps I was wrong.
The world has so much to offer. And yes, I admit that my life is currently not going the way I've always planned it to be. I do envy them sometimes - other people whose life plan collides with what God plans for them. That somehow, as if by a slip of fate, the way they plan their life correlates with what God has written for them. Amazing, isn't it? But because I am not one of those people who have the privilege of having a plan that magically matches with what God has planned for them, so it's difficult really, to see that His plan is greater than mine, because I am so full of myself sometimes. Well most of the times. Who would want to admit that they are wrong? But I do believe that God is right. That whatever He decides for me is right. And trust me, belief is a powerful thing.
Today I am less of a hoarder that I used to be. I packed up few things, burnt another few more, and save some of them. Not to hold me back, but more to remind myself of who I am, and was. So that the next time the world comes charging towards me with all the pain in its hand, I wouldn't simply lock myself in that sick prison. Because one thing I learned - happiness won't be found in a locked cell, hidden from the world.
If you are reading this one day, know that I have stopped borrowing the equivalent of you from other people around me. I find that there is no need to protect myself against you anymore and the gravity of pain that your memories could inflict. I want you to be happy with the life you have chosen. Because I am finally happy with mine now. I really am. We just grew up, and later grew apart, that's all. So one final thing I want you to do for me is to remember me. You don't have to miss me, that would be too much. Just remember me as someone who has been in your life once. And maybe, just maybe, if we passed by each other in the future, we could be strangers with shared memories.
Thursday, May 17, 2012
lost, but unforgotten.
'Lost love is still love. It takes a different form, that's all. You can't see their smile or bring them food or tousle their hair or move them around a dance floor. But when those senses weaken another heightens. Memory. Memory becomes your partner. You nurture it. You hold it. You dance with it.'
anak yang menyenangkan.
Saya ini anak emak. Emak kata dia paling risau pada adik saya yang bongsu. Tukar kolej macam tukar baju seluar. Entah lepas ni tukar kolej lain pulak. Sebab itu kata emak, tiap kali lepas solat, emak akan doa sebut nama adik dahulu, kemudian baru yang lain. Kiranya ikut yang mana lebih terdesak. Begitulah lebih kurangnya.
Baru-baru ini kakak sulung saya bertanya pada emak, kalau adik bongsu yang pertama sekali disebut namanya, siapa pula yang terakhir? Nah, anak-anak emak ada enam orang semuanya. Agaknya yang terakhir itulah yang paling tak penting, seloroh kakak.
Emak saya jawab sambil tersenyum, yang terakhir sekali itulah anak kelima. Mengikut pengetahuan am saya, anak kelima itu tak lain tak bukan sayalah orangnya. Melainkan ada anak kelima lain yang dirahsiakan. Saya tarik muka masam. Paling tak penting rupanya.
Tapi kata emak kemudian, anak emak yang kelima itu anak yang menyenangkan, hatinya hati yang selalu rindu, hati yang lembut, mudah dibentuk. Hati yang selalu usaha kuat, dekat dengan emak ayah.
Saya tersenyum. Tapi esoknya setelah saya fikir-fikir, senyum itu makin hilang pula. Hati yang rindu? Rindukah hati saya? Walaupun kata orang tua-tua, naluri emak itu jarang benar salahnya, tapi saya rasa kali ini memang agak salah mungkin.
Hati saya hati yang keliru, hati yang kerap gusar. Hati saya hati yang pernah pilu, dahulunya pecah dek kerasnya untuk dibentuk. Hati saya juga hati yang ragu, acapkali tidak yakin pada kebijaksanaan Tuhan mengatur takdir. Dan saya fikir, yang paling utamanya, hati saya hati yang rapuh, walau cangkerangnya nampak teguh, isinya mudah dicarik-carik.
Lalu, wajarkah saya yang terakhir namanya disebut-sebut dalam doa emak? Bentak saya sendiri. Dengan ketidakpuasan hati itulah, saya bertanya sendiri pada emak. Antara anak pertama sampailah terakhir, siapa yang paling penting bagi emak? Dan jawapan emak itulah yang mematikan hujah saya, membuat saya sepi sepanjang hari.
Jawab emak, "Antara sayap kanan dan sayap kiri, yang mana satu lebih penting bagi seekor burung?"
Bermula hari itu juga saya belajar tentang sayang seorang emak.
Baru-baru ini kakak sulung saya bertanya pada emak, kalau adik bongsu yang pertama sekali disebut namanya, siapa pula yang terakhir? Nah, anak-anak emak ada enam orang semuanya. Agaknya yang terakhir itulah yang paling tak penting, seloroh kakak.
Emak saya jawab sambil tersenyum, yang terakhir sekali itulah anak kelima. Mengikut pengetahuan am saya, anak kelima itu tak lain tak bukan sayalah orangnya. Melainkan ada anak kelima lain yang dirahsiakan. Saya tarik muka masam. Paling tak penting rupanya.
Tapi kata emak kemudian, anak emak yang kelima itu anak yang menyenangkan, hatinya hati yang selalu rindu, hati yang lembut, mudah dibentuk. Hati yang selalu usaha kuat, dekat dengan emak ayah.
Saya tersenyum. Tapi esoknya setelah saya fikir-fikir, senyum itu makin hilang pula. Hati yang rindu? Rindukah hati saya? Walaupun kata orang tua-tua, naluri emak itu jarang benar salahnya, tapi saya rasa kali ini memang agak salah mungkin.
Hati saya hati yang keliru, hati yang kerap gusar. Hati saya hati yang pernah pilu, dahulunya pecah dek kerasnya untuk dibentuk. Hati saya juga hati yang ragu, acapkali tidak yakin pada kebijaksanaan Tuhan mengatur takdir. Dan saya fikir, yang paling utamanya, hati saya hati yang rapuh, walau cangkerangnya nampak teguh, isinya mudah dicarik-carik.
Lalu, wajarkah saya yang terakhir namanya disebut-sebut dalam doa emak? Bentak saya sendiri. Dengan ketidakpuasan hati itulah, saya bertanya sendiri pada emak. Antara anak pertama sampailah terakhir, siapa yang paling penting bagi emak? Dan jawapan emak itulah yang mematikan hujah saya, membuat saya sepi sepanjang hari.
Jawab emak, "Antara sayap kanan dan sayap kiri, yang mana satu lebih penting bagi seekor burung?"
Bermula hari itu juga saya belajar tentang sayang seorang emak.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
the girl death left behind - a short story.
Death has taken away everything she loved and left her behind. She was the girl death left behind. Emily would often wondered, what would it be like to be someone else. What if she were born in someone else's place, live the life designed for them. Would she have done better in life? Would she have made all the right choices necessary? Would she be happier? Live more?
There was an old man by the cobbler shop, who always seem to be waiting for something. Or someone. She'd rather not know. Knowing is burden. Instead she found herself thinking, what would it be like to be that old man. Surely waiting freezes time, like the rivers are during winter - all solid and quiet. The act of waiting alone is poignant, almost beautiful in her mind. It wouldn't hurt to wait, Emily thought. It wouldn't hurt to be him.
And then there was the silly stuck-up princess, whose grandfather owns half of the town's land. Always with her petty friends, red heeled shoes and white-flowered dress. Whenever she walks among the crowds, there seem to be a sweet, almost rosy scent that she left behind; the epitome of wealth - for no kids her age would wear a perfume as expensive that would linger for hours. Emily wondered what kind of mother she would have, who harbors great love for her daughter, that would not allow even a speck of dust to touch her daughter. She could live like that. She probably could love the mother more than the snobbish princess ever could. It was a life she could get used to, if given the chance.
And finally there was the stray cat down the alley. Kids adore this dirty old rag. In spite of his haggard appearance, the cat really knows how to purr, Emily noticed. And those big blue eyes were a big help too. The town's people would rush down to the cat and give whatever food they have in hands. Emily had to admit, even when the cat was one of the homeless, he definitely was welcomed almost everywhere. Funny though, no one was genuine enough to adopt him as the family's pet. She figured by now that it was a human thing - to make themselves feel good without overdoing it. Still, if being a cat, particularly that cat, means free meal, then that wouldn't be so bad after all, thought Emily. Better than having to clean the black back of pots for a mere quarter, or sometimes for a pence.
But today Emily found someone new. Someone who probably has been around for most of her life, but for some unknown reason, has never crossed her path. She had a basket of daisies in her hand - Emily's favourite. There seems to be a sun surrounding her being, radiating her light to others as she greet them. She was what you could only find in fairytale, a character walked out of a page in a slow motion. A painting, no - a portrait of a mother. Emily watcher her delicate hands, imagining them knitting a peach-coloured scarf for her beloved daughter. She would take her daughter for a walk in the park during autumn and put daisies in her hair. My hair, Emily thought.
Flashes of her own mother in reality suddenly came to mind - drunken, slurred and all messed up in her kitchen. No husband, only a daughter to put all the blame on. A daughter to be appointed as the breadwinner. Emily quickly retraced her mind. Don't go there, she silently begged herself. It was the life she loathed, the reality she questioned everyday. As she was about to turn around and head back to the lowly shelter she called home, something caught her eyes. The motherly figure with the basket of daisies bent down and put one of her daisies on a girl's hair. She hugged the girl and no doubt in Emily's mind that it was her daughter. The girl flashed a smug smile so familiar it crushed Emily's heart. The girl was now walking next to the mother, hand in hand, with her red heeled shoes echoing and white-flowered dress blowing, leaving behind a scent of rose.
At that time, Emily wished she was that girl, more than ever. Emily wished she was anyone else but herself.
There was an old man by the cobbler shop, who always seem to be waiting for something. Or someone. She'd rather not know. Knowing is burden. Instead she found herself thinking, what would it be like to be that old man. Surely waiting freezes time, like the rivers are during winter - all solid and quiet. The act of waiting alone is poignant, almost beautiful in her mind. It wouldn't hurt to wait, Emily thought. It wouldn't hurt to be him.
And then there was the silly stuck-up princess, whose grandfather owns half of the town's land. Always with her petty friends, red heeled shoes and white-flowered dress. Whenever she walks among the crowds, there seem to be a sweet, almost rosy scent that she left behind; the epitome of wealth - for no kids her age would wear a perfume as expensive that would linger for hours. Emily wondered what kind of mother she would have, who harbors great love for her daughter, that would not allow even a speck of dust to touch her daughter. She could live like that. She probably could love the mother more than the snobbish princess ever could. It was a life she could get used to, if given the chance.
And finally there was the stray cat down the alley. Kids adore this dirty old rag. In spite of his haggard appearance, the cat really knows how to purr, Emily noticed. And those big blue eyes were a big help too. The town's people would rush down to the cat and give whatever food they have in hands. Emily had to admit, even when the cat was one of the homeless, he definitely was welcomed almost everywhere. Funny though, no one was genuine enough to adopt him as the family's pet. She figured by now that it was a human thing - to make themselves feel good without overdoing it. Still, if being a cat, particularly that cat, means free meal, then that wouldn't be so bad after all, thought Emily. Better than having to clean the black back of pots for a mere quarter, or sometimes for a pence.
But today Emily found someone new. Someone who probably has been around for most of her life, but for some unknown reason, has never crossed her path. She had a basket of daisies in her hand - Emily's favourite. There seems to be a sun surrounding her being, radiating her light to others as she greet them. She was what you could only find in fairytale, a character walked out of a page in a slow motion. A painting, no - a portrait of a mother. Emily watcher her delicate hands, imagining them knitting a peach-coloured scarf for her beloved daughter. She would take her daughter for a walk in the park during autumn and put daisies in her hair. My hair, Emily thought.
Flashes of her own mother in reality suddenly came to mind - drunken, slurred and all messed up in her kitchen. No husband, only a daughter to put all the blame on. A daughter to be appointed as the breadwinner. Emily quickly retraced her mind. Don't go there, she silently begged herself. It was the life she loathed, the reality she questioned everyday. As she was about to turn around and head back to the lowly shelter she called home, something caught her eyes. The motherly figure with the basket of daisies bent down and put one of her daisies on a girl's hair. She hugged the girl and no doubt in Emily's mind that it was her daughter. The girl flashed a smug smile so familiar it crushed Emily's heart. The girl was now walking next to the mother, hand in hand, with her red heeled shoes echoing and white-flowered dress blowing, leaving behind a scent of rose.
At that time, Emily wished she was that girl, more than ever. Emily wished she was anyone else but herself.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
the crashing waves.
Dear meself.
It's okay. Run away now, I don't blame you. I understand your fear. So take your time and rest your heart. I'll be here.
Just come back when you think it's time.
It's okay. Run away now, I don't blame you. I understand your fear. So take your time and rest your heart. I'll be here.
Just come back when you think it's time.
Monday, April 2, 2012
the rising lullaby.
Uhibbuki fillah. Saya sayang kamu kerana Allah.
Kerana kita tahu perancangan Allah yang terbaik. Dan walau kita begitu sayang, kita mesti lepaskan. Agar keterpisahan ini membawa kita dekat pada Allah. Perlu kita fahami, tak semua pertemuan itu Allah jadikan untuk tujuan penyatuan.
Saya selalu terfikir mungkinkah kita ini seakan sebuah sfera. Walau betapa besar sudut terhasil, sejauh mana kita bergerak, kita akan tetap bertemu semula, tetap kembali menyatu. Saban tahun, sudut yang terlukis kian besar, jarak kian bertambah, dan akhirnya saya tahu.
Kita rupa-rupanya cumalah garisan tangen, yang bertemu pada satu titik dan kemudiannya berpisah buat selama-lamanya. Saya adalah paksi-x dan kamu hanyalah paksi-y. Kita bertemu hanya sekali tapi cukup membahagiakan. Alhamdulillah.
Kita merancang, tapi Allah juga merancang. Ternyata telah Allah aturkan yang lebih baik untuk kita. Tahniah. Semoga bercinta sampai syurga dan bahagia dunia akhirat. Barakallahu lakuma.
Biar tiap putik kenangan gugur indah, kerana bahagia kita hanya Allah yang tahu. Jodoh itu rahsia Allah, dan antara tragisnya cinta dan indahnya keredhaan, itu juga rahsia Allah, bukan?
Amatlah rugi bukan bila mana Allah pisahkan kita dari sesuatu yang kita kasihi, namun kita masih sombong untuk kembali kepada Allah. Bagaimana andai keterpisahan itu hanyalah jalan Allah untuk memanggil kita pulang kepadaNya? Pulanglah. Kelak Allah akan sembuhkan luka kita, jika tidak di dunia, di akhirat sana.
Dan semoga luka yang sementara ini akan menguatkan larian kita meraih syurgaNya, melebihi larian kita mengejar dunia. InsyaAllah.
Kerana kita tahu perancangan Allah yang terbaik. Dan walau kita begitu sayang, kita mesti lepaskan. Agar keterpisahan ini membawa kita dekat pada Allah. Perlu kita fahami, tak semua pertemuan itu Allah jadikan untuk tujuan penyatuan.
Saya selalu terfikir mungkinkah kita ini seakan sebuah sfera. Walau betapa besar sudut terhasil, sejauh mana kita bergerak, kita akan tetap bertemu semula, tetap kembali menyatu. Saban tahun, sudut yang terlukis kian besar, jarak kian bertambah, dan akhirnya saya tahu.
Kita rupa-rupanya cumalah garisan tangen, yang bertemu pada satu titik dan kemudiannya berpisah buat selama-lamanya. Saya adalah paksi-x dan kamu hanyalah paksi-y. Kita bertemu hanya sekali tapi cukup membahagiakan. Alhamdulillah.
Kita merancang, tapi Allah juga merancang. Ternyata telah Allah aturkan yang lebih baik untuk kita. Tahniah. Semoga bercinta sampai syurga dan bahagia dunia akhirat. Barakallahu lakuma.
Biar tiap putik kenangan gugur indah, kerana bahagia kita hanya Allah yang tahu. Jodoh itu rahsia Allah, dan antara tragisnya cinta dan indahnya keredhaan, itu juga rahsia Allah, bukan?
Amatlah rugi bukan bila mana Allah pisahkan kita dari sesuatu yang kita kasihi, namun kita masih sombong untuk kembali kepada Allah. Bagaimana andai keterpisahan itu hanyalah jalan Allah untuk memanggil kita pulang kepadaNya? Pulanglah. Kelak Allah akan sembuhkan luka kita, jika tidak di dunia, di akhirat sana.
Dan semoga luka yang sementara ini akan menguatkan larian kita meraih syurgaNya, melebihi larian kita mengejar dunia. InsyaAllah.
Friday, March 30, 2012
A bloodbath.
Sometimes when you're strong, people think it's okay to hurt you.
Like if there were two people standing in front of them, and they could only save one of them and hurt the other, then they would point the gun at you and shoot, thinking you'll make it through. Why not? You're stronger, you can take the bullet anytime and heal yourself, right?
Wrong. Dead wrong.
Strong people are strong because they work hard on being strong. It's not by fate, they're not born with it. Do not simply pull the trigger and shoot. Because healing takes time, even for strong people. Healing is psychological, more so than physical. If you keep shooting them, they won't get enough time to recover from each wound, as another bullet is coming up, and another, and another. Makes sense, no?
I wonder, if strong people raised their hands and tell others not to shoot, would they still be shot?
Like if there were two people standing in front of them, and they could only save one of them and hurt the other, then they would point the gun at you and shoot, thinking you'll make it through. Why not? You're stronger, you can take the bullet anytime and heal yourself, right?
Wrong. Dead wrong.
Strong people are strong because they work hard on being strong. It's not by fate, they're not born with it. Do not simply pull the trigger and shoot. Because healing takes time, even for strong people. Healing is psychological, more so than physical. If you keep shooting them, they won't get enough time to recover from each wound, as another bullet is coming up, and another, and another. Makes sense, no?
I wonder, if strong people raised their hands and tell others not to shoot, would they still be shot?
Friday, February 3, 2012
you're the sorrow behind my door.
Behind every closed magnificent door, you might find a child who eats his dinner alone. A kettle left unattended. An ant lost from its colony. A girl with diamonds around her neck and yet she's crying. They are all the same. They are all broken.
I remembered a little girl with a sweet smile. She let me sleep in her bed. A book was under her pillow. Few seconds after reading it, I realized what it was. A diary. This girl whose dad owns a sumptuous amount of money, who has piano and horseback riding lessons every week, who receives presents from abroad relatives. This girl actually wrote a diary.
l never looked at her the same anymore. All I see is a broken child. A sister waiting for her runaway brother to come home. A girl who reheats her food because that's what the note on the fridge read. A daughter who hasn't seen her father for months. And I thought her life was heaven.
I have lost things too. And with everything I've lost, I've also found something else. Most of the times, they are intangible. Strength, wisdom, and also - faith. But these intangible things are confusing because they cannot be seen, only felt. Therefore, often I thought I haven't gained anything when really I've gained more. Allah knows better, really He does.
I guess to those who much is given, much is lost too. Probably when you met someone who seems to have it all - beauty, wealth, success, love etc - know that they too, could have lost just as much before. People rarely admit it, but all of us carry our own emotional baggage with us everywhere. Failed marriages, death of loved ones, incurable drug addiction. It could be anything. Everything.
Put effort into your life, don't envy what others have. Probably their lives are sadder than yours. They just don't show it the way you won't show yours. We are born actors. We built our own stage and live someone else's life. Most people get sad very young, don't you think?
Be thankful. Be very thankful.
I remembered a little girl with a sweet smile. She let me sleep in her bed. A book was under her pillow. Few seconds after reading it, I realized what it was. A diary. This girl whose dad owns a sumptuous amount of money, who has piano and horseback riding lessons every week, who receives presents from abroad relatives. This girl actually wrote a diary.
l never looked at her the same anymore. All I see is a broken child. A sister waiting for her runaway brother to come home. A girl who reheats her food because that's what the note on the fridge read. A daughter who hasn't seen her father for months. And I thought her life was heaven.
I have lost things too. And with everything I've lost, I've also found something else. Most of the times, they are intangible. Strength, wisdom, and also - faith. But these intangible things are confusing because they cannot be seen, only felt. Therefore, often I thought I haven't gained anything when really I've gained more. Allah knows better, really He does.
I guess to those who much is given, much is lost too. Probably when you met someone who seems to have it all - beauty, wealth, success, love etc - know that they too, could have lost just as much before. People rarely admit it, but all of us carry our own emotional baggage with us everywhere. Failed marriages, death of loved ones, incurable drug addiction. It could be anything. Everything.
Put effort into your life, don't envy what others have. Probably their lives are sadder than yours. They just don't show it the way you won't show yours. We are born actors. We built our own stage and live someone else's life. Most people get sad very young, don't you think?
Be thankful. Be very thankful.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
why do people forget?
Sometimes I wish I don't have to learn the hard way. Which is absurd because everyone knows that the best lessons in life are the ones you learnt from your worst mistakes. Just that sometimes, in those brief moments before I sleep, where my eyes are halfway close, I would hit the rewind button. And the images would only stop at the same time frame, where I once made my worst mistake. Every single bloody time.
That's probably why people chose to forget. Forgetfulness is an asset. It erases the dark days of your past like they'd never happened. You'll be able to start again. Create new memories. Invent a story that was never there. Be someone else.
But by choosing to forget, you really haven't learned anything. Which means you are bound to repeat that same bloody mistake.
So yeah, that's why I'm still awake at two in the morning. Remembering, tasting the pain of my mistake. It reminds me that I'm human. And being human, we simply make mistakes because we attach ourselves to what the world has to offer - money, status, love, relationship etc. As of now, I'm detaching myself from these things so that they won't hurt me.
But probably the best lesson I've learnt is not to follow my heart. It once led me to you.
That's probably why people chose to forget. Forgetfulness is an asset. It erases the dark days of your past like they'd never happened. You'll be able to start again. Create new memories. Invent a story that was never there. Be someone else.
But by choosing to forget, you really haven't learned anything. Which means you are bound to repeat that same bloody mistake.
So yeah, that's why I'm still awake at two in the morning. Remembering, tasting the pain of my mistake. It reminds me that I'm human. And being human, we simply make mistakes because we attach ourselves to what the world has to offer - money, status, love, relationship etc. As of now, I'm detaching myself from these things so that they won't hurt me.
But probably the best lesson I've learnt is not to follow my heart. It once led me to you.
Thursday, December 22, 2011
this is how i love you.
When I first posted my pictures onto the website, I didn't know how many lives would be changed. I really didn't. I guess for me, it was simply to suit the weekend amusement mode. There were only two pictures. My athletic lopsided smile when I was in college, and the other one with the bowling-sized belly - taken only last week, fours years after marrying Emma.
The comments were mostly hinted at how round my body proportion in the second picture, as compared from the one in my college days. From my bulging belly all the way to my puffy cheeks. As I was skimming those comments, I stopped myself. And no, not because my television screen just showed Messi made yet another legendary winning goal, though that would have stopped me before. I stopped because I simply understand that none of them gets it. And it's not even their fault.
It's not their fault that they think my sudden body expansion was due to my happiness of having a wife. It's not their fault that they think I gained weight because I am a married man. That a man with a wife is entitled to being happy, hence the bulging belly. Before going further, let me first tell you about Emma.
I met Emma in high school, back when my heart kept urging me that she was the one. And being Emma, she typically kept running away from me. But also being me, I never stopped chasing her. And boy, what a sprinter she was. Somewhere towards the crossing line, I managed to somehow run with her side by side. And to my amazement, she slowed down and let me take over. A woman can't run too fast without getting tired, that's what she said. I took that as a yes. Five years later, she did say yes to my marriage proposal.
Now Emma the sprinter, and Emma the wife are two different people, I tell you. There must be some misprinted manual of Emma somewhere, with several chapters missing when I married her. She wasn't the best cook. But she certainly is the worst. She couldn't fathom why salt cannot and will never be able to replace sugar. That's the only thing I can think of while eating salty dinner. And lunch. And sometimes even tea. Emma would spend hours in the kitchen preparing them. And afterwards, she'll come up to me and said, "Let's eat outside today." And that either means she burnt her food or burnt her fingers.
Emma can't, for the life of god - drive a car. She gets freaked out and started talking about evil driving instructor who failed her thrice. She has irrational fears over animals and insects, except for ants, mosquitoes and flies. She loves literature but studied linguistics instead. She would purposely change sides in an argument just so she could start a bantering session with me. Emma even though she never admits it, suffers from an obsessive compulsive disorder, I must say. I tried to prove my point by purposely facing a photo frame slightly to the left. In the evening, she reminded me that the frame must be positioned in a way that it directly faces the stairs approximately 270 degrees to the left. I don't think a normal husband would want to carry a protractor in his own house.
Despite all these, I've never seen Emma cry. Except the one time when I was outside the labour room, when her cry was a mashed-up of hers and our baby. Other than that, never. When I came home carrying the office problems into the house, she never force me to open up. Not because she was oblivious, but because she knows me well enough to know that I need the time to allow myself to discard my ego before breaking down in front of her. And she won't try to pretend that she gets it, because she doesn't. Banking isn't really her strongest point, you see. She won't try to solve problems that she knew she couldn't, but instead she makes me laugh. She always had this eccentric way that can conjure up my sanity, up to the point that I don't even mind the problems anymore, as long as I have her. And that is enough to remind me that problems would eventually leave, but she will stay with me, by me, for me. Forever and eternal.
And that's why those pictures I posted would never be understood. Even if you sent them all over the world, and they came right back to you, still the whole world doesn't get it. I did gain (some) weight. And I am happy with my life. But it's not because I am a married man. Not because I have a wife.
It's because I am married to Emma. Because my wife is Emma. You see, if it's not Emma, it cannot be. It has to be Emma. Marriage alone does not have the key to make me happy. Any other wives would not get me the way Emma does. It has to come with a package of Emma - with her misprinted missing chapters manual and all. Anybody can learn to cook, drive a car or be insanely filial. But nobody can learn to be Emma.
This is how I love you.
0213 hours.
22.12.2011.
University of Malaya.
The comments were mostly hinted at how round my body proportion in the second picture, as compared from the one in my college days. From my bulging belly all the way to my puffy cheeks. As I was skimming those comments, I stopped myself. And no, not because my television screen just showed Messi made yet another legendary winning goal, though that would have stopped me before. I stopped because I simply understand that none of them gets it. And it's not even their fault.
It's not their fault that they think my sudden body expansion was due to my happiness of having a wife. It's not their fault that they think I gained weight because I am a married man. That a man with a wife is entitled to being happy, hence the bulging belly. Before going further, let me first tell you about Emma.
I met Emma in high school, back when my heart kept urging me that she was the one. And being Emma, she typically kept running away from me. But also being me, I never stopped chasing her. And boy, what a sprinter she was. Somewhere towards the crossing line, I managed to somehow run with her side by side. And to my amazement, she slowed down and let me take over. A woman can't run too fast without getting tired, that's what she said. I took that as a yes. Five years later, she did say yes to my marriage proposal.
Now Emma the sprinter, and Emma the wife are two different people, I tell you. There must be some misprinted manual of Emma somewhere, with several chapters missing when I married her. She wasn't the best cook. But she certainly is the worst. She couldn't fathom why salt cannot and will never be able to replace sugar. That's the only thing I can think of while eating salty dinner. And lunch. And sometimes even tea. Emma would spend hours in the kitchen preparing them. And afterwards, she'll come up to me and said, "Let's eat outside today." And that either means she burnt her food or burnt her fingers.
Emma can't, for the life of god - drive a car. She gets freaked out and started talking about evil driving instructor who failed her thrice. She has irrational fears over animals and insects, except for ants, mosquitoes and flies. She loves literature but studied linguistics instead. She would purposely change sides in an argument just so she could start a bantering session with me. Emma even though she never admits it, suffers from an obsessive compulsive disorder, I must say. I tried to prove my point by purposely facing a photo frame slightly to the left. In the evening, she reminded me that the frame must be positioned in a way that it directly faces the stairs approximately 270 degrees to the left. I don't think a normal husband would want to carry a protractor in his own house.
Despite all these, I've never seen Emma cry. Except the one time when I was outside the labour room, when her cry was a mashed-up of hers and our baby. Other than that, never. When I came home carrying the office problems into the house, she never force me to open up. Not because she was oblivious, but because she knows me well enough to know that I need the time to allow myself to discard my ego before breaking down in front of her. And she won't try to pretend that she gets it, because she doesn't. Banking isn't really her strongest point, you see. She won't try to solve problems that she knew she couldn't, but instead she makes me laugh. She always had this eccentric way that can conjure up my sanity, up to the point that I don't even mind the problems anymore, as long as I have her. And that is enough to remind me that problems would eventually leave, but she will stay with me, by me, for me. Forever and eternal.
And that's why those pictures I posted would never be understood. Even if you sent them all over the world, and they came right back to you, still the whole world doesn't get it. I did gain (some) weight. And I am happy with my life. But it's not because I am a married man. Not because I have a wife.
It's because I am married to Emma. Because my wife is Emma. You see, if it's not Emma, it cannot be. It has to be Emma. Marriage alone does not have the key to make me happy. Any other wives would not get me the way Emma does. It has to come with a package of Emma - with her misprinted missing chapters manual and all. Anybody can learn to cook, drive a car or be insanely filial. But nobody can learn to be Emma.
This is how I love you.
0213 hours.
22.12.2011.
University of Malaya.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
how long will you.
Can you reach that one point where you can love someone forever?
I think it is difficult to love someone forever. It always is. Because being in love and love are two very different feelings. Anybody can be in love but to love someone needs much commitment, without conditions, and much loyalty, with only a bit of love itself.
The first phase is always being in love. And this phase usually lasts about a year or two years at the most. During this time, everything is beautiful. He is beautiful, she is beautiful. Whatever you shared is beautiful. This is when love is blind, you only see what you wanted to see. There's this connection that only the two of you can feel that makes you want to start a new life together as soon as you can because it is such a beautiful feeling and you afraid that it'll pass you by and you'll lose it.
After a year passes, the being in love phase is over. And then comes love. Love is what is left when being in love is over. When the rainbows and candies and the missing part is over, you have to come face to face with the reality of love, how it bites. You have done all those sweet messages, late night phone calls, weekend dates. Now that the beautiful part is over, the selfish part will take over. And this is the ugliest part. You'll begin to want more, and end up losing the ability to love unconditionally. You will compare your partner with others' partners and see only the weakness that you didn't see before. Guys would wish their partner is prettier, and girls want their partner to have a promising career ahead. Next, all the compliments would slowly change to complaints, and this is done in the most subtle way possible so as to protect our image as the good partner. As subtle as it is, it hurts. Though most of us didn't admit the pain. And when the pain starts to spread, you'll begin to lose hope of ever saving the remainders of the love. You want to end it as soon as possible, afraid that it'll turn uglier, afraid to wait any longer in case your partner will realize that you are not as special as they thought you were, and that you disappoint them by not meeting their expectation. You'll get farther apart from one another and finally decide to let go.
So when we keep asking our partners of whether they love us or not, I think we should stop, just stop asking. Because most of the times when your partners tell you they love you, they really do. All those crazy things they did to get you, they mean every single one of them. They do love you, at that time. But the thing is, love can fade, so both of you have to learn to push away that selfishness, that insecurity. And accept, to accept each other unconditionally, the same way you accepted each other while you were in love the year before. So the question is not so much as 'Does he/she love you?' but more of 'How long will he/she love you?'
I think it is difficult to love someone forever. It always is. Because being in love and love are two very different feelings. Anybody can be in love but to love someone needs much commitment, without conditions, and much loyalty, with only a bit of love itself.
The first phase is always being in love. And this phase usually lasts about a year or two years at the most. During this time, everything is beautiful. He is beautiful, she is beautiful. Whatever you shared is beautiful. This is when love is blind, you only see what you wanted to see. There's this connection that only the two of you can feel that makes you want to start a new life together as soon as you can because it is such a beautiful feeling and you afraid that it'll pass you by and you'll lose it.
After a year passes, the being in love phase is over. And then comes love. Love is what is left when being in love is over. When the rainbows and candies and the missing part is over, you have to come face to face with the reality of love, how it bites. You have done all those sweet messages, late night phone calls, weekend dates. Now that the beautiful part is over, the selfish part will take over. And this is the ugliest part. You'll begin to want more, and end up losing the ability to love unconditionally. You will compare your partner with others' partners and see only the weakness that you didn't see before. Guys would wish their partner is prettier, and girls want their partner to have a promising career ahead. Next, all the compliments would slowly change to complaints, and this is done in the most subtle way possible so as to protect our image as the good partner. As subtle as it is, it hurts. Though most of us didn't admit the pain. And when the pain starts to spread, you'll begin to lose hope of ever saving the remainders of the love. You want to end it as soon as possible, afraid that it'll turn uglier, afraid to wait any longer in case your partner will realize that you are not as special as they thought you were, and that you disappoint them by not meeting their expectation. You'll get farther apart from one another and finally decide to let go.
So when we keep asking our partners of whether they love us or not, I think we should stop, just stop asking. Because most of the times when your partners tell you they love you, they really do. All those crazy things they did to get you, they mean every single one of them. They do love you, at that time. But the thing is, love can fade, so both of you have to learn to push away that selfishness, that insecurity. And accept, to accept each other unconditionally, the same way you accepted each other while you were in love the year before. So the question is not so much as 'Does he/she love you?' but more of 'How long will he/she love you?'
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