Pelikat Tales
One day during a hot summer afternoon in Melbourne, I stood in the middle of the living room of my apartment and suddenly realized that I had been doing something rather unusual by Melbourne standard – wearing a pelikat, a type of sarong (Malay /ˈsarʊŋ/ or English /səˈrɒŋ/) typically worn by Malay men in Malaysia. I then became extremely aware of the fact that I was not living in one of the hot and humid tropical countries in Southeast Asia (it must bizarre to bump into someone walking with a pelikat in the middle of Melbourne streets during winter!). Despite the possibility that this poor pelikat had violated the modern concept of fashion and civilization, having it wrapped around the lower part of my body was surprisingly comfortable. It just felt so nice to have some other options besides my favourite shorts and boxers. As I was walking conveniently around my apartment feeling dignified with warm air freely circulating around and between my legs, I began to suspect that there was a bigger force behind this physical comfort. I began to think about the history of my life that had been so well ingrained with this seemingly timeless and powerful garment called Mr Pelikat.
PELIKAT BOY
I must be so young when my father first taught me how tie a pelikat. It must have slipped down before it began to hold securely around my tiny waist.
“Make sure it’s tight enough!” my father must have warned me.
“Yes, Ayoh. I don’t want people to see my little willie,” I must have replied innocently, running around the house thinking that it must have been a great achievement to be able to learn the fine art of tying a pelikat. The next thing I knew, this piece of fabric had been stuck with me for as long as I could remember, like Anuar Zain’s voice in Kain Pelikat that kept playing in my mind and teasing me into the nostalgic labyrinth.
Over the years, I had witnessed all men around my kampung (and the country) wearing a similar type of woven plaid designs and checkered patterns for religious and other (more casual and pleasurable) purposes that it was almost heretic even if I had a passing thought of putting on my modern trousers or jeans during a Friday prayer at a mosque. These people prayed and played and slept and woke up with their pelikat (still tucked or gone) that it was hard to pull pelikat and their lives apart. It was as if Mr Pelikat had turned into a giant monster and had been granted a super power to lead the weak mass and announce in the radio: “I am your All-Powerful Zahir. Just put me on or go to hell!”
As I was growing up, I saw an interplay of religion and culture in the pelikat department, which subtly implied that one was not religious or manly enough if one did not follow the strict rules laid down by the Pelikat Manager. The results of Piety and Manhood were endorsed through the authority given to the Management of Pelikat Affairs. Indeed, Mr Pelikat was an unquestionable being that had defined the lifestyle of many people and had made me who I was.
Many times, I had these sinful thoughts that pelikat carried a stigma of third-worldness or backwardness or primitiveness, so I tried very hard to switch to modern materials that could fit me into whatever modern lifestyles I was trying to deal with at that moment. It was, however, hard to resist Mr Pelikat’s great superpower that had deeply permeated into my blood and soul, and it was even harder to battle against the great force that had successfully established its long-standing tradition and reigned its sovereignty around the world for many centuries.
PELIKAT WORLD
It was an uncontroversial fact that this pelikat guy had been around for a long time, long before it threw its spells on my body. The word “pelikat” itself came from Pulicat which reflected a long history since the seventeenth century, when the Dutch exported the fabric from India to Southeast Asia. Most of the pelikats that I had worn were designed in Indonesia with famous brands like Gajah Duduk (literally means “seated elephant”) which is very popular in Malaysia. It was a great relief to learn that many boys and girls around the world had also become “victims” to pelikat’s malicious strength that had been silently hiding behind many fancy local names and various foreign faces around the globe: wizaar in Oman; dhoti in West Bengali; phanek in Manipur; mundu in Kerala; kanga in East Africa; lamba in Madagascar; chitenje in Malawi; sampot in Cambodia; longyi in Myanmar; malong in the Philippines; pa kao mah in Thailand; etcetera etcetera etcetera. All these names, in the end, spoke one simple and plain language shared by all human beings – Culture. It was hilarious to notice how we are all being conditioned by similar experiences and get connected through many eccentric ways. Just because we do things differently, it doesn’t mean we are different, does it? Come to think of it, we are not so different than we think we are.
Sitting comfortably in my apartment and still analysing the remnants of pelikat in Melbourne, I was thankful to know that I was not the only one who had fallen prey to this pelikat regime. Pelikat, or sarong or whatever you want to call it, had been part of people’s lifestyles regardless of races and religions in many parts of the world (in the western world, you can already see its secretly-fused modus operandi at a beach behind swimwear!). For all the comfort or misery that pelikat might have brought into my life through its many versatile functions, these pelikat experiences would always be part of the rich episodes of my childhood. And I wished summer this year was long enough so I could be close to Mr Pelikat and be supplied with physical and spiritual fuel I badly needed to keep on driving this challenging car of life.
The Iron Lady
There were so many people at the Cinema Nova that day. As I was walking toward an empty seat in Cinema 2, I was surprised to see that the cinema hall was packed with moviegoers. A few minutes later, I was even more surprised to realize that the people sitting around me were all elderly seniors and veterans.
“Are you a fan of Meryl Streep?” I asked an old man sitting next to me.
“You bet, I am!” he replied and gave me a strange expression I couldn’t quite understand.
I loved Meryl Streep too. She always stole my heart whenever I watched her sing my favourite ABBA songs in the musical Mamma Mia. And now that she had just won the Golden Globe Award for Best Actress in The Iron Lady, I couldn’t wait to watch her new acting masterpiece as former British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher. The critics said that the role was astonishing and flawless. Some claimed that her brilliance could overshadow the film itself. Yeah, maybe this film was all about Meryl Streep and her irresistible hairstyle. The people in this cinema hall might be having the same thoughts in their minds too.
As the film began to play on the cinema screen, my heart immediately sank when I watched an elderly Thatcher shopping alone at a convenience store. How sad. She went home talking to her (dead) husband and reminiscing the past. A series of flashbacks followed depicting historical events and defining moments in Mrs Thatcher’s life; her innocent years growing up in a working-class family, her love affairs and her blooming years in politics and power. But, in the end, it was her fragile days dealing with dementia and sleepless nights that truly caught my attention. It was her decision to finally come to terms with her husband’s death and let go of the past that poked my emotions.
It was not long after the credit was shown on the cinema screen that it began to hit me; this film was not about The Iron Lady going against all odds in the male-dominated world, and NO, it was also not about Meryl Streep trying out her impeccable British accent in order to win another Academy Award trophy. This film, ladies and gentlemen, was about one’s struggle to cope with loss, loneliness and nostalgia. It was about leading the right life and spending the remaining days of our retirement with life’s many marvels, not many regrets. I also began to understand why there were so many elderly men and women in the cinema hall that day. This film was also about their sad, lonely lives full of fond memories and heart-wrenching nostalgia.
The Case of /kabo/ & /kkabo/
“Right there. That’s how we know that the meaning of /kkabo/ is a beetle, not some sort of blurry eyes!” said John casually during a meeting in early December 2011, pointing to the shorter vowel duration of /a/ in /kkabo/ as opposed to the longer vowel duration of the same vowel in /kabo/.
We had been working so passionately on this mysterious side of word-initial geminates for the past few months, uncovering another aspect of acoustic properties that could possibly contribute to the singleton-geminate contrast in Kelantan Malay. We had successfully condensed our recent findings into a four-page conference paper and submitted it to the 6th International Conference of Speech Prosody to be held in Shanghai the following year. But, even after putting all these results into a nice and publishable paper, I was still unsure whether I should fully embrace John’s hypothesis on vowel duration as a potential cue to gemination, joining other important ingredients of geminates like pitch or intensity. I had always assumed that the difference between /kabo/ (blurry) and /kkabo/ (a beetle) was simply because of the initial consonant duration, or in a simpler term, of the single and double consonants at the beginning of each word (as many lay Kelantanese men and women out there might have agreed). But it was not easy dealing with such a complex pair as /kabo/ and /kkabo/ because of its tricky character of voicelessness. It took one nerve-cracking afternoon for me to realize that this was not all about doubling a consonant. My view on this whole goddamn business of gemination was about to change.
THE /kkabo/ MOMENT
It happened in a conference room right after I presented a paper on geminates in Hong Kong a few months before. I was still standing nervously after the maiden presentation when a group of eager phoneticians, assuming that I was a proficient speaker of Kelantan Malay, conspired and forced me to say a pair of /kabo/ and /kkabo/ aloud. After listening to my production of the word-initial voiceless geminate stop, they said that it was highly aspirated, which I seriously doubted since it was not necessarily the case for most original speakers of Kelantan Malay (the aspiration of voiceless stops is very highly unlikely in Kelantan Malay, unless one tries to sound like an English man speaking in Kelantan Malay). So, I admitted rather honestly that my (distorted) aspiration could be due to the influence of English language (if this were really true, I could be a total embarrassment to the older generation of Malay men in Kelantan!).
“Excuse me,” said another curious conference participant, “I could detect some differences in the duration of vowels following that pair. Would you mind saying it again?”
“No, I don’t mind,” I said, repeating the mind-boggling pair of /kabo/ and /kkabo/ with greater clarity and greater effort so it would sound as phonetically authentic and semantically accurate as the original words used by millions of speakers in Kelantan since, perhaps, ten thousand years ago.
“Yes, I could hear it! Don’t you all hear it?” he asked other excited participants in the room, to which they all responded in a similar fashion, nodding excitedly as if they had found the long-lost puzzle of their century-long research. I didn’t hear it, sorry, but I sincerely thanked them for their invaluable input and promised that I would do my best to unlock the secrets behind this puzzling sound of human speech.
John was there too, thinking very hard and trying to make sense of what was going on in that unsettling room, deeply analysing how on earth this crazy bunch of non-native listeners of Kelantan Malay could possibly own such sensitive bionic ears, coming up with such an extraordinary idea, perceiving the word-initial singleton-geminate contrast in a way that had not been well thought of before. He took this informal feedback very seriously and, when we returned to Melbourne, he insisted that we should grab this opportunity very professionally and turn the anecdotal discovery into empirical data. So in we swam into the huge spoken data of Kelantan Malay and, lo and behold, we found something that surprised us even more.
THE /kabo/ RESULTS
It turned out no one in the phonetic world had ever examined vowel duration after geminates. Unlike our investigation, most of previous studies focused on vowel duration before geminates, especially those dealing with word-medial geminates. So, our experiment was the first of its kind! What’s more, we found that most speakers in our data employed vowel duration more significantly in tokens embedded in a sentence, not in an isolated word, which was further baffling since we had anticipated that the speakers would have used vowel duration more effectively in isolated words, given the difficulty in determining the consonant duration of voiceless geminate stops in utterance-initial position. In addition, the differences in vowel duration were more apparent for low central vowels (/a/) compared to other vowel contexts, but that’s another story altogether.
What’s obvious then was that the case of /kabo/ and /kkabo/ had indeed gone beyond a particular segment or a consonant or a vowel. It was part of something, of another story, of a bundle of the larger prosodic world out there that could be better understood if only we could look at it from a larger, out-of-the-box perspective. Vowel duration, or any other associated properties, was part of the grain of sand in the desert of human speech. But as usual, I was always confused and hungry for more marvels in the phonetic desert.
“Hey Hilmi, don’t worry about not getting the whole picture of /kkabo/,” said John at the end of the meeting.
“You are right, John. I’m just too preoccupied with this stuff. But isn’t it amazing to see what’s coming out of people’s mouth, things they say and mean?” I asked quite rhetorically.
“Indeed! You know what, these results tell us one good thing about our research.”
“What is it?”
“It is always /kabo/.”
“Like our eyes.”
“Like our blurry eyes.”
The Luxury of Choices
It was still early in the morning of a warm summer day in Park Street when I felt like a nerdy jerk talking aloud to his intellectual self about PhD’s many marvels. There I was, sitting restlessly behind a romantic table, looking mindlessly at other people’s bedroom, sorting out my novel ideas and kicking my ass to write up another sentence of insanity for my dream thesis. It had been absurd these last few days. I had spent many hours trying to organize the impossible amount of data, trying to make sense of the insensible, trying to put them in the most intelligent perspective, trying to tell the world that there was once upon a time a little man from Kelantan who was dumb enough that he went all over the place trying to understand this one tiny detail of God’s creation called a geminate. Alas, there was too much data too analyse, too much information to digest, too many directions, too many ways to go about discovering the mysterious treasure. It’s like going to an ice-cream section in a super-giant supermarket. Too many choices, the customer would say. What do I really want?
LIFE’S MANY OPTIONS
But seriously, how many options do people really have in their life? Some might be stuck in their one-way-street life, doing the same routine things, getting on the same train in the morning, sitting on the same desk at work, clocking out at the same minute, walking the same walk, sleeping on the same bed, dreaming the same dream, thinking the same wise thought and asking so little of life. They, of course, know the many possible roads to follow, but they always follow the same road they are familiar with. Why risking their life for some stupid fantasies? Life should be a Sunday afternoon watching kids playing games at the playground. Not too grand, they would say. Not too little, they would insist. That’s life.
While these people dream their little dreams, some others might have dared to dream some bigger dreams. They might have dared to ask so much of life that would have made them feel scared they might be defeated to death. They might have dared to convince themselves that the world is indeed a marvelous treasure waiting for them to be fought and found. They might have dared to seek for freedom and independence of life that would have made them feel like happy hippies thinking that the world is indeed one happy festival. Too grand to miss, they would have said. Too beautiful to let go, they would have insisted. That’s life.
But again, my time was running out to think of other people’s choices. I had my own choices before me and I had to make the right decision now. I was still looking at my unfinished sentence on the computer screen and thinking of the next academic-sounding word when, all of a sudden, I saw the reason why I had been so anxious lately; I simply had too many complicated options. To my right, I could follow the convention and pass with flying colours, but to my left, I could also go against the literature, challenge the established order and be awarded with Nonsense Award. See, I could opt for anything I wanted to. I might receive some bad comments from my supervisors. The chapter might have to be rewritten. The whole thesis might have to be reshuffled. The next draft might be too exhausting. But I should be smiling. I had been living my dream. I had been living a luxurious life full of wonderful choices.
New Year’s Resolutions in Cape Schanck
I began 2012 with a nice record – driving 500 kilometres within 14 hours. The moment I hit the highway towards Mornington Peninsula, I started to realize that I had always enjoyed driving slowly while listening to good music and enjoying good views. And, guess what, Melbourne roads are such a perfect environment to experience the true Joy of Slowness (come on, these people are driving like they are not going anywhere!).
So, I discovered many colourful things within a single day; gorgeous beaches in Portsea, mind-boggling sunbathers in Sorrento, great summer parties in Rosebud, sweeping views of coastlines along Balcombe Bay, and amazing road therapies you can only find out in the open. But, above of all these, the best accidental discovery was Cape Schanck – this is the place where I found my new year’s resolutions.
ACCIDENTAL INSPIRATION
It was eleven in the morning when I reached the gate to the Mornington Peninsula National Park. I got out of the car and felt the fresh air at 22 degrees celsius. The GPS worked so wonderfully well this time around. I managed to find the park just within one hour from the city of Melbourne. I checked the manual map and, to my surprise, I realized that I was at the southernmost tip of Mornington Peninsula! I was so lost in words and totally unprepared. But I could no longer care where I was because what came next was more than I could handle.
In the middle of confusion, I took a walk and found this stunning sight of the Cape Schanck Lighthouse. I quickly learnt that the lighthouse was the second of its kind in Victoria when it was built in 1859. I stood here for a few minutes and thought of so many sailors in the history who might have lost in the sea and found their way back after spotting the lighthouse. Then, I had an epiphany – I wanted to be that lighthouse! I mean, this year, in the year 2012, I wanted to complete my studies and be the source of light to other researchers in my field, just like the lighthouse. I wanted to emit the guiding light, to be an aid to navigation, to be a beacon of hope, to be an icon, to be recognised and to stand clear and proud like that. I’m a lighthouse. How unreal is that? Haha.
After a few minutes of self-assessment, I left the lighthouse and found this breathtaking view of a rugged coastline. When I noticed that there was a boardwalk, I was so excited I ran fast to the rock platform like a monkey. As I was walking giddily through the wooden staircase, my heart was filled with gratitude. Just when I thought I was lost, God was generous enough to show me a sign to another world of marvel. The road to getting what I wanted had always been rocky like these rock platforms, but there was absolutely a way or two if I could set my mind to it and stay cool for the unexpected. So, this year, in the year 2012, I wanted to keep walking through this seemingly endless and tough road to success. Period.
But hey look, the Pulpit Rock! Who in the Ice Age would have thought that the geological formation could be so majestically crafted after millions of years? It might look like an ugly erect penis, but I would prefer to think of it as a proud winner who stood alone among its many friends who must have fallen down due to continuous climate changes. Beyond that ugliness and loneliness, its persistence was admirable. Yes, this year, in the year 2012, I wanted to be like a Pulpit Rock, standing strong even after going through many unthinkable challenges. It might fall down one day, but it would die as a happy rock who had lived long enough to see its dream finally come true.
Wait, there was more than a giant genitalia around here. I was sometimes scared of the sudden large waves that could easily wash over me. But my fear was swept away when I saw this magnificent pond filled with beautiful corals just under my feet. In fact, there were many other natural ponds around these rocky beaches. My imagination was again filled with many frightening things that could possibly wait for me in these little holes, like a giant octopus or a baby godzilla. I saw a lady who was brave enough to dive into the pond and looked so happy with her discovery. I asked her what she had found and she said: “I’ve found life!” That got me thinking, this year, in the year 2012, I wanted to get rid of my baseless fear and discover more life than I could ever imagine.
Well, my resolutions might sound unreal and dreamy, but in time, I knew that these dreams would definitely bring more specific goals with more specific results. Before I left, I looked again at the wild ocean waters of Bass Strait and was mesmerized by the spectacular sky and the blurry horizon. Wait, blurry? There was no clear dividing line between that horizon, was there? It’s like the line between dream and reality; we can hardly tell which is which. Then I thought to myself: “This year, in the year 2012, I want to turn my dream into reality, or vice versa. Nothing is beyond my reach. Even the sky is not the limit.”
10 Great Superheroes in 2011
2011 has been a super-great year for me. If I were a superhero, I think I would have gained 10 different superpowers this year.
1. Superman
First of all, I have worked super-hard for my PhD and I think I have acquired Superman’s extraordinary powers, especially after I attended the 17th International Congress of Phonetic Sciences in Hong Kong. Becoming a member of the world’s greatest phonetic family made me feel like I had been awarded with the Kryptonian heritage, giving me the super-ability to fight through other challenges in a phonetic battlefield, blessing me with a super-vision power that enables me to see what I truly want in my professional life. I’m Superman.
2. Spider-Man
Second, I think I have been bitten by many radioactive spiders at different locations in Australian cities, causing a variety of changes in my body and giving me superpowers like Spider-Man. I could cling easily to many walls of adventures after visiting Tasmania, alert quickly to many dangers through my “spider-sense” after exploring Canberra, attack confidently on unexpected enemies after seeing Brisbane, and take the moral code “with great power comes great responsibility” more seriously after experiencing Adelaide. I’m Spider-Man.
3. The Flash
Third, I have flown up in the air for so many times through various domestic and international flights which have made me believe that I somehow possess a super-speed power like The Flash. Being able to fly from Melbourne and reach Pasir Mas for more than once this year was enough to convince myself that I can always move extremely fast in this high-speed and crazy world. I want to keep flying and move fast so that I can avoid the danger of complacency in my own comfort zone. I’m The Flash.
4. Batman
Fourth, I have become “The World’s Greatest Detective” like Batman. Why? Because, this year alone, I have lived at three different places – Micasa, Mi Mundo and Park Street – and gathered so many “detective” skills and athletic prowess needed to combat against many unforeseen challenges in Melbourne. Like Batman, I don’t need a superhuman power to walk through a dark night. I just need to know how to switch between a dream and a reality and be a master of my own disguise. I’m Batman.
5. Wolverine
Fifth, I have enjoyed the parks and lands and greeneries of Melbourne as much as Wolverine would have enjoyed. I mean, whenever I am around Mother Nature, I can feel the mutant healing factor quietly treating my hurt and my pain. My super-sensitivity towards the invisible world matches Wolverine’s senses of sight, smell and hearing that are superhumanly acute. The best part is, all these healing abilities are slowing down my aging process. Would you believe that I’m turning 36 next year? I’m Wolverine.
6. Ultraman
Sixth, I have fought like Ultraman against the ugly Monster of Weight and the hideous Dragon of Smoking. Using Ultra Slash, I created a spacium-energy ring and put away nine kilograms from by body within a few months, making me look better and feel bolder. Using Ultra Current by touching my hands together and creating a high-pressure stream of water from my fingertips, I beat the urge of smoking that had been gripping my conscience for 17 years. Thank goodness, I won. I’m Ultraman.
7. Iron Man
Seventh, I have owned a powered armor like Iron Man after going through a series of emotional turmoil of homesickness. Now that I’m more than 4000 miles away from my family, I have never felt so close to their presence. Plus, I have never felt such an extraordinary awareness of nostalgia and loneliness. This experience provides superhuman durability which further strengthens my ability to move on and fight the good fight. My overseas costume might look a bit too flashy and artificial, but who cares? I’m an accomplished fighter. I’m Iron Man.
8. Mr Fantastic
Eighth, I think I have been exposed to cosmic radiation in Melbourne which has granted me the power of elasticity like Mr Fantastic. Come to think about it, how many times have I stretched and reformed my personality into any shape I desire in many contexts and circumstances? For this, I want to thank my many circles of friends and colleagues who have always allowed me to become what I am supposed to become. I’m blessed with this highly malleable power that makes me who I am. I’m Mr Fantastic.
9. Power Rangers
Ninth, I have read many books and listened to a lot of wonderful music that have turned me into one of those Power Rangers wearing a colourful skin-tight battle suit and a helmet with an opaque visor. I want to team up with these talented authors and musicians and become a larger Megazord to fight against the forces of evils that threaten humanity. Reading Paulo Celho‘s books and listening to Amr Diab‘s songs are like a morphine that gives me superhuman power. I’m Power Rangers.
10. Hellboy
Finally, I have wrestled against so many dark forces this year that have made me one hell of a boy – Hellboy. With all these survival tests, I have gained a high degree of resilience to mental and emotional injury. Come what may, I can withstand any powerful blow that would possibly tarnish my self-esteem. Don’t worry, I have with me the Right Hand of Doom made from a red stone that will doom whoever or whatever that is coming my way. I have done it in 2011 and I will do it again in 2012. Because I’m Hellboy! Haha.
Now, who’s ready to fight?
A Christmas Tale in Melbourne
It was late in the afternoon of a Christmas day in Melbourne. I walked out of the Flinders Street Station feeling so exhausted after spending almost the entire day on the train, going from one suburb to another suburb, roaming from north to south, exploring from east to west, seeing new places and learning new mouthful names like Murrumbeena or Mordialloc or Kananook. Thanks to the free public transport offered only on a Christmas day, I managed to do all this in just one day. It was crazy, but by doing this, I knew that I could also be part of the grandest holiday celebration in Australia. Yes, it was just my (eccentric) way of celebrating the diversity of life.
I decided not to let the festive mood end early today. So, I walked through Swanston Street and saw what’s left of Christmas. The weather had been a bit gloomy, but that didn’t the stop the Christmas spirit that had always been floating merrily on the Melbourne air for the past few weeks. As I was walking down this busy street, I couldn’t help feeling like dancing with Santa Claus and expecting another miracle to happen. I remembered feeling this way when I was a kid who, while being fully aware that it was utterly silly, secretly wished for a Christmas present from Mr Santa (I would be whipped to death if Ayoh ever knew about this). It was wrong, but how could you blame an innocent child who was continuously exposed to so much publicity about Christmas through so many programs and feel-good movies on TV?
Now that I was witnessing raw and authentic Christmas celebrations on the streets of Melbourne, I had never been so grateful with these first-hand experiences. When I first listened to beautiful carols singing eerily at a midnight mass in a church last year (you wouldn’t get this opportunity in Malaysia), I felt so blessed with this cultural myriad. You see, I used to listen to a lot of Christmas songs from my favourite singers – Celine Dion, Josh Groban, Il Divo, Mariah Carey, Michael Bublé (they sound more like sweet lullabies to me). But hey, how about listening to them in their true version and original context? Could I still tell whether they were sweet lullabies or, er, a delusional profanity?
I now recalled one afternoon as I was sitting down at a mosque listening to a Friday sermon delivered by a khatib who looked like Ben Laden. He said: “No! Do not ever be part of this Aussie culture – it’s forbidden!” For a moment, I thought I would be forced to join a terrorist group and declare a war against the Australian nation. For another moment, I thought I could just stand up and say: “Excuse me, dear khatib. Look around you. You’re not in Afghanistan. How could you be so unkind towards other people? Aren’t we supposed to be more loving and more compassionate?” But I just sat down there quietly and be content while other people around me were so deep in their sleep. It was probably best to just leave these people alone. Thinking about it now, PM Najib must have been shocked to death if he were there with me at the mosque. His concept of 1Malaysia and National Open Houses for all major celebrations in Malaysia must have sounded like a total joke.
But the best part of Christmas in Melbourne was yet to happen. I was still walking aimlessly on this street, feeling so hungry and craving for food when, suddenly, a stranger offered me a plate. Did he know that I was starving? This kind gentleman led me to a table full of free food and wonderful stuff. It was unbelievable (trust me, you don’t get free food everyday in Melbourne). So, with joy and delight, I went to a vegetarian section and grabbed as much food as I could. A few minutes later, I was still full and thankful for this unexpected blessing until I noticed something weird about the crowd here. They just looked … different. Their code of attire was … outstanding. Their body language was … pathetic. Oh My God … I felt like running away now. The free food was meant for the homeless. Dang!
The Ode of Amr Diab
There’s so much energy and elegy in his voice. That beautiful harmony speaks a sorrowful language that gets me fascinated. That Western-Egyptian musical arrangement conveys a tearful poetry that catches me off guard. It’s like listening to a crying child who has just lost his mother in the middle of a busy market, or a wailing soldier who has just seen the death of his best friend at a hostile battlefield, or a weeping housewife who has just watched Kabhi Kushi Kabhi Gham on TV. I may not fully understand what he actually says (my Arabic has become a little rusty these days), but listening to his complex rhythms always remind me of complex emotions I usually encounter in various circumstances.
Here is what I’m talking about: listening to Qusad Aini, I can feel the frightening sadness I normally (or maybe abnormally) experience while I am doing a freestyle in a swimming pool; listening to Allah Ala Hobak Inta, I can feel the terrible suffocation I always endure in the middle of a dark and silent night; listening to Wayah, I can feel the overwhelming isolation I constantly have to put up with whenever I walk through crowded streets in Melbourne. Such a strong connection that goes beyond language and border, huh? Who the hell is this guy who seems to understand me so well and dares enough to sing his heart out for my life’s little misery?
A SINGING REBEL
Amr Diab is definitely not a new face in the Arab World. At 50, he is still a top household King, the Father of Mediterranean Music, The Iron Man who has filled up the musical air with his haunting voice ever since his debut appearance in 1983. He is a living legend who has sold millions of records and who has won many international awards. In Malaysia, he was famous for his song Nour El Ain introduced in 1996, which was further popularized by Dato’ Sharifah Aini and Mawi (does this ring a bell?). I first heard of him in the year 2000 through a song called Tamally Maak (which still sounds pretty sad and suicidal to me until now).
Unlike Maher Zain, Amr Diab’s presence was a bit lukewarm, which was not a surprise. You see, in the Malaysian context, a talented guy like Amr Diab, who has such a pitch-perfect voice with a superior enunciation in Arabic, was by standard and convention expected to be a nasyid singer who sings for God, not for a sexy lover who belly-dances in a sexy dress. To be more specific, in the Malay Muslim context, an eloquent voice like Amr Diab is an excellent candidate for a qari in an annual musabaqah, or a muezzin calling for prayers, or an imam leading makmums at a mosque, or a religious motivator who sometimes sings in the middle of a morning talk show on TV.
Seriously, most of (conservative) muslims in Malaysia must have found it bizarre listening to Amr Diab singing contemporary house music in what seems to be a sacred language. Nonetheless, I can’t blame their limited perspectives of the world since they are probably exposed to Arabic through religious means only (like me, to begin with). Personally, when I listen to, for example, Aslaha Betefre’, I can’t help thinking of a qari reciting the holy verses in the middle of ecstatic dancers in a blinding discotheque. What a blasphemous thought!
Which is why Amr Diab’s ode is so irresistible. Just listen to his recently-released album called Banadeek Taala and feel the rebellion and revolution through his superb skills in putting together traditional Arabic sounds and Western instruments. This is, I suspect, what has made Amr Diab an ongoing international sensation among those who embrace modern-yet-rooted values. And this is exactly what has glued me to his music (am I such a koya rebel?). Look, his non-compliant approach in blending the opposite genres is just brilliant (which, I’m sure, is endorsed by millions of fans out there).
Now, if you please excuse me, I would like to fly into the poignant yet gorgeous world of Amr Diab, going retro with Aghla Min Omry, feeling lucky to be alive with Aref Habiby, swaying my body with Heya Hayati, jumping in excitement with Maak Bartaah, losing my mind with Tagroba Wa Addet, sailing through a romantic night with Youm Matbelna, entering into the state of fantasy, of ecstasy, of nostalgia, of melancholia …
Our Zahir
“We must play music quietly, talk quietly, weep in private, because I am the all-powerful Zahir, who lays down the rules and determines the distance between railway tracks,” writes Paulo Coelho in his novel of obsession, The Zahir. Such a creepy line, huh? I am still feeling like an ignorant man (bless me) each time I stumble into a poetic line in this book. For instance, I’m a bit hot and bothered by Coelho’s revolutionary perspective on marriage, comparing it to railway tracks, always moving towards the same direction but keeping the same distance, never coming any closer. Such a mind-blowing idea.
But what the heck is the Zahir?
Quoting Faubourg Saint-Pères (1953), the idea of Zahir “comes from Islamic tradition and is thought to have arisen at some point in the eighteenth century. Zahir, in Arabic, means visible, present, incapable of going unnoticed. It is someone or something which, once we have come into contact with them or it, gradually occupies our every thought, until we can think of nothing else. This can be considered either state of holiness or of madness …”
Got it?
Don’t worry if you don’t. I’m still trying to figure it out myself. Who and what is our Zahir? Does it exist? Okay, let’s breathe deeply together and put ourselves into a holy and mad state. Through this practice, I hope we will begin to perceive the things surrounding us through new eyes, and we will begin to look at our life in front of us and create a story about it; how it has developed, how many people we have met, how many places we have been, the delight and sorrow of growing up through the childhood, the joy and pain of struggling through adulthood. At one point of our happy and snappy life, we will begin to sense that there is a strong, all-knowing presence, watching us and guiding us from high above or down under. We will begin to realize that there have been many events that have consciously and subconsciously shaped our life, our beliefs, our reasons of living. We will begin to notice that this life is no longer just a place to work during daytime and sleep at night; it is a historic and developing being, the results of beautiful work of many people who are still alive and making histories and of many people who have died and left behind their legacies. This powerful part of the world is always there around us and steering our life with its mighty values, and we seldom pay attention to it.
Like the shape of alphabets we are asked to write.
Like the concept of time we are forced to follow.
Like the greetings we are conditioned to say.
Like the ideal weight we advised to achieve.
Like the celebrities we are programmed to worship.
Like the networking sites we are addicted to log in.
Like the love we are told to seek.
Like the distance between railway tracks.
Now, have we found our Zahir?
Azrai in Melbourne
Azrai was in Melbourne for a couple of days. It was absolutely different when he was around. It felt so good to have him here, experiencing Aussie cultures and witnessing the ongoing adventures of my life down under. For a few wonderful days, he launched so many chaotic attacks into my new apartment in Park Street, spilling water all over the bathroom floor, conquering silent nights with his orchestrated snores, filling yummy foods into my empty fridge, injecting fond memories into my life on a foreign land. Together, we explored into the myriads of Melbourne, riding the free city circle tram I always love to ride, passing through Royal Parade I always love to pass, admiring the Melbourne University campus I always love to admire, enjoying Sydney Road I always love to enjoy, searching for adventures I always love to search, sharing the secret life of Melbourne I always love to share.
But, hey, that’s not the real reason why Azrai spent thousands of ringgit flying to Melbourne. As far as I was concerned, he was unlikely the type of person who cared so much about tourism industry that Melbourne could possibly offer. So, I suspect, Melbourne was just an excuse for him to see how the living chapter of our friendship would unfold, to see how the classic violin would be played again. And there we were, creating new stories we could repeatedly talk about for many years to come.
AN ANGEL IN DISGUISE
As we strolled among sexy teenagers sunbathing under the glaring heat of summer in St Kilda Beach, I recalled again, for more than the hundredth time, how it all started nineteen years ago. I cherished again, for more than the thousandth time, the special connection that we had been sharing that went beyond blood and flesh, the times when I always turned to him for support and understanding, the moments when I was confused and couldn’t explain what I had been through, the moments when he made things easy by putting them in a right order and offering me his valuable insights about life and whatnot.
“Who are you?” I asked him on the phone several days after he left Melbourne. “Why are you doing this to me? Why do you keep following me? Are you an angel?”
He laughed heartily and, with a serious tone, said: “Yes, I’m your big fat guardian angel. It’s always my honour to witness the transformation you always make in your life. From someone so innocent who struggles through darkness in Klang to someone so koya who knows what he is doing in Melbourne, you are now living your dream.”
“I’m not really sure about that, but thank you, Azrai. You have always been there for me, supporting me from behind during highs and lows of my life.”
“You are welcome. Anyway, I love the walks in Melbourne. I lost 2 kilos!”
“Wow… really? Congratulations!”
“Thanks to you, I’m now a slimmer angel.”
Haha. Azrai might have lost some weight in Melbourne, but he is always overweight with warmth and kindness you always need from someone you call a friend.
10 Reasons Why I Shouldn’t Hate My Sister’s Wedding
To be brutally honest, I hated it that my little sister got married. It felt like I had lost my best friend. Staring at these pictures now, I’m beginning to see the reasons why I shouldn’t hate my own sister’s wedding.
1. Her over-the-top pose demonstrates the confidence that will surely follow her into her new chapter of life. It says, “I’m now a married woman. Who are you to judge me? Are you a devil’s advocate? Guess what, I’m not scared. Just you wait and see!”
2. Her red lips cast away all the fears that could have crashed the entire wedding. They say, “I’m not Angelina Jolie, but I can be bold too. Can you let me explore into the ambiguous zone of my life? Didn’t you say we all should venture into the unknown?”
3. Her daring eyes send a solid message that looks forward to a positive future. They say, “Who cares about great wedding pictures? I’m a confident woman whose picture perfect is already set in my eyes, not in the eyes of professional photographers. But snap me, please.”
4. Her sexy laughter kicks away all the criticisms about her fancy make-up and coloured contact lenses. It says, “Why should I take your mean and honest comments about the way I look so seriously? I’m a diva. I’m a queen. I don’t need your approval, my pretty brother!”
5. Her fearless hands control the possible hazards that could have turned the wedding canopies upside down. They say, “Well, it’s raining season now, huh? So, let it rain. I’m going to sail against these torrents and currents. Throw away that umbrella!”
6. Her daring henna breaks away the tradition that does not welcome creativity and imagination. It says, “Do I look sinfully beautiful? I belong to a cosmopolitan girl who happens to be a promising lawyer and a rebellious Kelantanese. I’m so proud of myself.”
7. Her koya facial expression resonates the gratitude she secretly feels for me. It says, “Forget about that stupid guest book you specially made for me. I don’t need thousands of guests who say nice things about me but don’t mean it. Your presence matters. Thank you for being here, my dear brother.”
8. Her glamorous styles echo the sweet melody for the wedding. It says, “I appreciate the songs you prepare for my wedding. But I can already hear the music from Ayoh’s silent grunts and Ummi’s loud voice and Husnaa’s ear-piercing squeals. They are the best music in my life.”
9. Her cool composure captures the stoicism she desperately needs so that the wedding can smoothly proceed. It says, “I need to be dazzling like Rani Mukherjee. That makes me feel better even if my own family turns behind my back. I have faith in this marriage and, please, I need your support.”
10. Her every joy and happiness reaffirm the perpetuating power of matrimony. They say, “It’s not a perfect wedding, but these are the moments to remember. One day, while you struggle through life, you’ll bump again into this wedding picture and you’ll say, “What a perfect wedding it was!””
Yes, I shouldn’t hate my sister’s wedding.
The Incredible Brother & Sister
“Was it yesterday?”
“No, it was 13 years ago.”
“Wow, it feels like yesterday when we sat together watching Shah Rukh Khan dancing with Kajol in Kuch Kuch Hota Hai.”
“Time flies.”
“I’m going to miss you, my little sister.”
“What are you talking about? Don’t be silly. You will always be my brother. I’m just getting married.”
“Don’t you think it’s too soon?”
“I think this is my jodoh. I’m not getting any younger too.”
“I know. I hate it that we are no longer kids who can move carelessly in the kitchen biting every single bone like they are candies from Heaven, who can hide at a corner of the house making fun of every mean makcik in the kampung, who can sit lazily in front of TV bitching over stupid advertisements or cheap dramas, who can travel in a car for so many hours talking excitedly about everything as if we are attending an important international conference, who can be invisible in the middle of a noisy crowd so we can become who we are and decide which part of the world is exciting or which part of the universe is boring without being obliged to follow certain rules or conventions.”
“I know what has happened to us; we have been living in our own imaginary world.”
“That’s true. Our world has been beautiful and lovely. But, there will come a point when we must surrender ourselves to a real world that might seem scary and ugly. There will also come a time when we must live in a real adult life that might not fit in our imagination. Like everyone else, we must always do jobs that we detest because we are part of an organized society. If everyone is given the luxury to do things that they want to do, the world will come to a standstill.”
“That’s frightening.”
“Indeed, my dear sister. If we behave differently, we’ll be expelled from our own tribe because we could infect others and destroy something that was extremely difficult to organize in the first place.”
“Even if it means giving up what we really want to do?”
“Yes, we have to. We must dress according to the dictates of the fashion, change our hairstyle, complain about the cost of living, criticize anyone who is different, blame the Seksualiti Merdeka group for losing the track, go to a family day with our kids and puff ourselves with pride because we have followed the grand design of the universe and pity all those hopeless singles around the world for missing the excitement of the world. We must follow the rules passed from generation to generation, the rules that determine the meaning of success, the best way to love, the importance of rewards.”
“Are you scared?”
“All the time. But, the good news is, Love is there on earth to make us happy, to bring us closer to God and to our neighbours.”
“We will still be together, right?”
“Of course, we will. We will always be in the same circle of happiness and joy. The circle that always wraps around those who are in contact with love.”
“I’m so glad we are always on the same page. We think alike and read each others’ minds like they are a mirror.”
“We are The Incredible Brother and Sister, right? Oh, I also remember someone told me that we must always begin with the end in mind. It is important to know when something has reached its end, so that we can leave in the past those moments that are over and welcome a new chapter in our life.”
“We are both going to be fine in our new chapter of life.”
“Yes, my dear sister. If there is suffering soon, it’s best to accept it because it won’t go away although we pretend it is not there. If there is joy soon, it’s best to accept it too, even though we are afraid it might end one day.”
“Are you coming home?”
“Yes, I’m coming home.”
“I love you, my dear brother.”
“I love you, my dear sister.”
“Have you watched Shah Rukh Khan’s latest movie?”
“No. We are so gonna watch it together soon.”
A Pilgrim in Sydney Road
I could’ve hopped on a tram, sitting conveniently on a soft seat and watching the whole drama unfolding before me through a moving glass window. But, I wanted to create a history; I wanted to walk, not glimpse, into the Melbourne’s longest continuous shopping strip. And so I did! Beginning south from my apartment in Park Street (where else?) until the northern end in Bell Street and heading south back to my place, I continuously walked for ten kilometres within six hours, feeling so proud like a happy nomad walking through a hot desert. In fact, this whole on-foot experience was like going on a pilgrimage (culturally speaking, of course). As much as I enjoyed the extreme stillness of Princes Park talking to an imaginary Prince, I savored the slow experience of enjoying extreme delirium spreading endlessly along Sydney Road. Packed with an intricate fusion of coffee shops, restaurants, clothing stores, shopping outlets and community services, Sydney Road was all that I needed for a cultural blessing. It was indeed refreshing and mind-blowing.
So, for six hours, I was teased with a great deal of sampled sights from all over the world: Lebanese, Afghan, Thai, Chinese, Vietnamese, Japanese, African, Balinese, Indian, Pakistani, Sri Lankan and Nepalese. For six hours, I was also unleashed into such a daring planet full of brave men and women. I could feel the presence of famous pilgrims making their ways into their unfamiliar zones: Malcolm X’s journey towards the Free Land, Dalai Lama’s trip into the Independent World, Marco Polo’s exploration into the Adventurous Region, Ibn Battuta’s voyage into the Mysterious Soil. At the end of the day, I felt so good for having accomplished another crazy mission; venturing into the obscure. If you think I was crazy, Ibn Battuta must have been crazier. He once lamented in his famous Book of Adventure:
“Swayed by an overmastering impulse within me, and a long-cherished desire to visit those glorious sanctuaries, I resolved to quit all my friends and tear myself away from home. As my parents were still alive, it weighed grievously upon me to part from them, and both they and I were afflicted with sorrow.”
Ibn Batutta travelled 121,000 kilometres for 24 years. Me? Ten kilometres for six hours. Ceh.
Prince Tales from Princes Park
It appears that winter has made its way for spring in Melbourne. As I’m sitting here by a charming pond in Princes Park, the air feels neither too cold nor too hot. The enchantment of it, the gentleness of it, the harmony of it – all are marvelously assembled at this beautiful parkland. Located only a few hundred metres from my apartment, this vista is a convenient route to heaven, a free getaway to green leisure, a grand sales for Solace and Serenity.
I am still perplexed by the name of this park. The first time I realized about it, I thought it was a spelling error. Should it be Princess? Where’s the missing letter “s”? I did some quick research through the world wide web and, unfortunately, couldn’t find the history behind its name. It might refer to a park that belongs to a Prince, but where’s the apostrophe? I suppose whoever founded this park could have a better reason besides breaking the rules of English language (or was it a person’s name?).
You can see that I love being around here, enjoying the companion of silence and thinking of so many thoughts. How many stories have been coded and decoded at this park? How many promises have been sealed and broken? Like all my previous appointments with Mother Nature, I get easily and instantly connected to a place like this, a place that symbolizes hidden tales and untold emotions. I have listened to many of them, being whispered and delivered to me in their mystical voices and strange languages. Today, I’m listening to one of them – Prince Tales.
***
Once upon a time, there was a boy who grew up in a close-knit family. He was constantly reminded about values and tradition he sometimes couldn’t decipher.
“Read!” his father would say. “You must read so you can understand the world.”
“Write!” his mother would say. “You must write so you can be noble like your father.”
“Study!” his brother would say. “You must study so you can be smart like me.”
“Sing!” his sister would say. “You must sing so you can be happy like everyone else.”
The boy spent his entire childhood in the same house within the same community, reading, writing, studying and singing the way his family always dictated for him. He saw the world from the eyes of his parents: black, white, vertical and horizontal. But, even as a boy, he knew that there were more colours and lines in a bigger world out there. He knew that there was something larger than the uniformed world fed by his parents since his birth. He wanted to know more. He was very curious.
He finally moved out of his house to seek for better education. He was reluctant to leave his parents behind, but he was also excited to begin a new adventure in his life. As he met different faces and went to new places, he gained eye-opening insights. He began to understand that life could offer more than what he had experienced in his small world. He started to learn different values: they were strange and foreign, but they were fun and exhilarating. “Could they also work for me?” he asked. “Am I going against my parents’ wishes? Will I be bullied by my brother? Will my sisters agree with me? Will I be condemned by God?” He was very confused and scared but, most of all, he was very curious.
One day, he decided that he wanted to become like a Prince. He wanted to live the life he always wanted it to be. He set his mind to it and wanted to make it happen. He sought more opportunities around him and grabbed them like a hungry lion. He created bigger wings for himself and flew to more foreign countries. He designed a lot of daring experiments and found a great deal of fascinating discoveries. He ran the world through his own ideas, created his own system, broke his own rules, and improvised his own methodologies. He wanted to free himself from his personal history. He wanted to emancipate himself from the old ideas. He wanted to live in a world that could fit for his imagination. At last, he became just what he wanted it to be – he was the man of his own destiny.
This self-sufficient man, nevertheless, never forgot his own root. He happily returned to his homecountry and made greater contributions to his community. He was personally and professionally fulfilled. He continued to become an explorer of the unambiguous, a gambler of the unknown, and a risk-taker of the uncertain. He was awarded with many life-time achievement prizes and honorable titles from the government and many prestigious organizations. He was the man of the hour. His parents, colleagues and friends were all so proud of him. In his long and painstaking journey towards his own perfect world, he finally found himself. He became a Prince.
***
The boy, now an old man, is sitting right next to me at the Princes Park. I suspect this park must have some meaning in his life, a meaning so deep that brought him back here today.
“I think I’m a loser,” he said, trying to control his emotion. “I think I have failed in many ways. The world seems to go against me. I’m such an idiot. I’m a lunatic narcissist.”
“What happened?” I asked naively.
“You see, son. There’s always a price for something that you do in life, even it is for a cause that you truly believe in with full passion and conviction.”
“What do you mean?”
“When you live according to your rules, you will be treated differently by your own species. They might put happy faces and tell you how special you are, but you’ll always be misunderstood by your family, your friends, your community. In a way, you’ll be a social outcast.”
“Isn’t that just part and parcel of being a great genius?”
“Yes, but, sometimes, the pressure is too much. You might get killed by your own ambition. It costs a great deal to follow and live your own dreams. Depression and loneliness are just some of the modus operandi that you have to put up with. I lose my self-confidence and self-esteem all the time. I become a weeping child.”
“It’s okay to be a child, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.”
“So, what are you going to do now?”
“I just don’t want to die while I’m still alive.”
“Come on, you’re still alive!”
“I know. I just don’t want to stop living. I don’t want to continue to work and eat and do my normal stuff automatically, taking for granted the magic moments that each day brings to me. I don’t want to stop thinking about the miracles of life. I don’t want to stop to understand that the next minute could be my last on the face of this planet.”
The old man and I sit by the pond in silence for a few minutes before I leave him alone with his deep thoughts. I’ll definitely bump into him again here, listening to more Prince Tales from Princes Park.
The Nostalgia of Royal Parade
Royal Parade is indeed special and royal, unlike any other typical streets in Melbourne. It runs for 3 kilometres between Grattan Street to Park Street, the street where I live now. It always feels so royally good to walk through this fine boulevard to my university and be immersed with its outstanding tree-lined beauty and cultural landscape. It has fully developed and dedicated multi-runaways for different traffic types: adventurous city-dwellers on tramways, law-abiding drivers along car routes, daring cyclists on bike lanes and wandering day-dreamers (like me) on footpaths. There are four extremely gorgeous plantations with 400 English elms (introduced since 1913!) that make me suffocated with natural spells and send me to the Wonderland. Yes, this is more than a street. It’s the Parade of Nostalgia.
NOSTALGIC POWER
Okay, Royal Parade does offer more than its pretty face. A deeper look into the past will explain why it is of historical and social significance to Melbourne. First, believe it or not, this street was traditionally known as “the road to Sydney” from the mid-19th century (I thought it was a joke, but it was true). For these nostalgic reasons, it is not a surprise that the state of Victoria has proudly awarded the Heritage Status to Royal Parade. This also must a great relief to many happy veterans out there who must have associated this boulevard with their happy childhood memories (just so you know, as of 2011, Australia is the second best place on earth to live, just behind Norway, and life expectancy is also second in place, behind Japan).
Speaking of childhood, Royal Parade also takes me back to my boy self, to my usual one-kilometer bike ride from Kampung Binjal to Sekolah Kebangsaan Kangkong, to my sweet biking buddies, to my carefree days struggling through dusty, red, unpaved road to education. There were of course no beautiful trees like these, no modern transportations, no civilized pedestrian paths, no Melbourne. There were only happy souls of my family members and friends as we made our ways to school riding our old rattling bicycles. The “Royal Parade” of Kampung Binjal has always been there inside me, specially marked with “Heritage Status”, protecting me from the blinding nature of adulthood, connecting me to more opportunities and freedom in a bigger world.
Alright alright. I might not be old enough to be too nostalgic, but I don’t want to wait until I retire to appreciate the weak spots of my own “Norwegian Wood”. Nostalgia is there for a better reason than melancholia or depression. It’s there to keep you moving forward. I want to be an idol of nostalgia, telling old stories and creating new ones. I want to be like many Aussie veterans who have created great histories and are happily living with their fond memories of Royal Parade.
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