I woke up that night feeling overwhelmed with a lot of sweet sounds around me. Looking at Park Street through my bedroom window, things seemed to be locked in an eerie, unfounded, once-upon-a-time fairyland. From a far distance, Melbourne’s city skyline was showing off its neon lights and Aussie charms. Then, I began to listen to everything around me: cockatoos singing on the swaying trees, leaves falling on the accepting earth, neighbours snoring on the comforting pillows. It was an exercise of the enthusiastic ears, learned easily by children and forgotten naturally by adults. I had previously communicated and received mysterious responses from these things, but something was telling me that tonight would be extra special.

The air suddenly felt chilly. I could clearly hear the wind hissing through the slight opening of my bedroom window, sending some cold winter air into my tiny apartment. Nights were getting longer and icier. But at least, I didn’t wake up feeling lonelier now. The panic button appeared to be missing somewhere that it was hard to recall how it used to look like. Mr Loneliness must be lonely out there.

Close to me now, the melodic sound of Nurul’s sleep warmed my heart. She was breathing peacefully in her faraway dream. She must be talking to Alice in the Wonderland, sharing the breaking news of her nasi lemak business in Melbourne. I hope Alice would send some miracles to our mortal world, but who would have thought that this could have actually happened? While I was still trying to comprehend this latest joke in my life, a few packs of nasi lemak were sold that day. And I could hear the voice of Mother Victory saying confidently to me: “Listen to your heart, my dear. Remember, fans who lack the faith can make a team lose a game it is already winning.”

I was not sure whether Mother Victory was talking about nasi lemak or about the Olympic Games in London. Before I could ask anything, she vanished into the air like fairy Godmother. I heard another tender voice coming from a corner of my bedroom. “Welcome to our happy world,” she said. Aha, it was Ms Joy from the Happy Universe. I looked at her and wondered how on earth she had arrived in my life. She must have beaten up Mr Loneliness with her sexy legs and wicked smiles.

I was still thinking of Ms Joy when my apartment was suddenly filled with a lot of strange figures. I couldn’t clearly see their faces since it was a bit dark, but it was getting noisier, as if there was some sort of a birthday party going on. They were all talking simultaneously to each other in what seemed to be an ancient language. I thought I was dreaming, but they sounded so real. The next thing I knew, I went into a kind of trance that frightened me, but I wanted to continue the game until I was tired of it.

“We are all gathered here tonight to wish you the best of lucks for your presentation soon in Shanghai,” said one of them with the loveliest voice I had ever heard. I thanked them for their cordial words and asked them where they came from. But they kept talking so excitedly like they had never talked before.

“Hey, Hilmi. Congratulations for submitting another paper to an international conference in Sydney!” said a middle-aged woman who sounded almost like my supervisor. I told her, while I appreciated her kind gestures, she seriously needed to leave since it was getting so late at night. The office hours had certainly ended and I was sure it was already past midnight. What would my neighbours think of me tomorrow?

Few minutes later, the party of sweet voices grew even louder and louder. I felt dizzy with imagination and fantasies. I tried to segregate the sounds, layer and by layer, and struggled to comprehend what they were really saying.

“I’m having a baby soon!” said a bubbly woman who sounded just like Pilah. I smiled and tried to imagine how Pilah must have looked like now – a six-month pregnant lady!

“Ayoh must be the happiest of all. He would be expecting three grandkids this year – what a productive year!” said a man in what looked like a white kopiah. Just when I wanted to ask who he was, I heard a girl said, “Congratulations on your graduation, Hisham Hamzah!” Oh, I remembered that my cute little brother had just graduated and joined the Wall of Graduation in our living room in Binjal. Way to go, Hamzah clans!

Suddenly, everyone was quiet. A slim-looking man with funny spiky hairstyle entered the room with elegance and style. He might be one of the famous members of One Direction. Beaming proudly, he said: “Hey, look at me. Ain’t I gorgeous? I’m 53 kilograms now!” Haha, that must be my own body talking. What a joke.

“You look happier now, Cekmi,” said a nice lady in tudung next to me. She came with her two naughty boys who had been running wildly around the apartment. She could be one of my dear blogsahabats. How I missed their good company and warmth.

“Thank you all for coming tonight,” I said. “I know I have been too occupied with my down-under world in Melbourne, but you guys are always within my circle of happiness and joy. My day has been good, so let night fall.”

I stayed awake for a long time and tried to entertain the unexpected guests that night. The dawn must be nearly breaking when the party was over. I went back to my bed, feeling thrilled with what I had just experienced. Mystical or not, I certainly had had one of the best nights in my life.

While I pressed my head on the pillow, I felt the slight puff in my ears. Someone was whispering and I could practically smell the familiar perfume of the distant past. She said: “Get some sleep, my dear. You have accomplished a lot of things tonight. Be good, okay?” It was my late mother.

I finally said my prayers and thanked all the sweet sounds for their surprise visit. They were the Sounds of the Moment, accumulated from my past and my future, reminding me of how wonderful life had been, and would always be.

I was working as usual in the phonetics lab when I received that strange email. Reading the first line of the email, I felt a bit disoriented while my lab mates were making noises over some unfathomable subjects which further deteriorated my sanity I felt like screaming and slicing their tongues into tiny pieces. It was not easy working in this crowded lab when all I needed was a private world to concentrate on my own mind-slicing worries. My work space here had a huge window overlooking the Zoology Building’s glasshouse complex full of plant research facilities. From here, I could also see the beautiful Melbourne sky which at least made me feel at peace and forget all the unnecessary hassles in the lab right now. I tried to ignore the human conversations around me and pretended that I was busy when all I needed was run back to my cosy apartment and study at my own pace without worrying that someone would suddenly make an annoying remark about how tired he was. Goddamit.

I looked back into the computer screen in front of me which had been idle for the past few minutes. My right hand was stiff and still holding the big mouse. I read the email content and tried to make sense out of it. It sounded like my paper had been accepted for poster presentation at the sixth International Conference on Speech Prosody in Shanghai and also for publications in the conference proceedings. But why wasn’t I excited about it? I can still remember the blinking stars running across my vision; they nauseated me but my good judgement told me that there couldn’t possibly be a star in the middle of daylight in this confined space.

Several hours later, Janet came to the lab. She was accompanied by her wide smile which made me wonder whether she also earned a PhD in Smiles & Hospitality.
“You don’t look so good, Hilmi,” she told me.
“No, no,” I said. “I feel wonderful. In fact, I’m going to Shanghai soon!”
Janet was genuinely surprised. She congratulated me for having accomplished such a tremendous job and insisted that I quickly revise the paper according to review comments. Afterward, she asked me whether I could get some funding assistance from my employer.
“Too bad, they only sponsor an oral presentation,” I answered.
“What a shame! There shouldn’t be a discrimination between oral and poster presentation these days. It is just a mode of presentation,” she said, with an air of having found out the funny politics in Malaysia.

I was not really concerned about the conference funding from my own home country and all that complicated administration. They had been generous enough to provide me more than half-a-million worth of a scholarship for a three-year study in Melbourne. Besides, I knew that there had to be some monetary opportunities from the University of Melbourne as well. But why Shanghai? I kept asking myself. After a successful maiden presentation in Hong Kong, I always pictured myself to be talking elegantly in a state-of-the-art conference room somewhere in America or Europe. It turned out that, for now, I had to make do with my academic fates which were always intertwined with China and Asian cities. Heck, that’s not too bad.

Several weeks later, I was sitting again in the phonetics lab, still making sense of what had been happening to my less-than-normal life. The room was eerily quiet that day. It seemed like my colleagues had finally listened to my private plea and happily honored my secret wish by getting lost into the rotting hell. It also seemed like everything had perfectly fallen into place: an official invitation had been received from the conference committee; registration fees had been kindly and personally paid by Janet; a fund from Melbourne University had been secured; flights and accommodation had been booked; and I was ready to embark on a new battlefield.

Looking outside the window, I thought of the possible enemies waiting for me in Shanghai. Just like any other vicious enemies that I had fought before, they always represented my weaker side. As much as they had inflicted so much pain to my physical and spiritual well-beings which made feel like running away from any possible risks, they eventually turned out to be a premature sense of victory. Yes, I knew these enemies so well. I clearly remembered their faces now. They had asked me to join the battles because they knew how they could hurt me. They were there with a purpose – to test my will and strength. So, to escape from the next battle would be the worst thing that could happen. It would be worse than losing the fight, because I could always learn something from defeat. If I ran away now, all I did was declare that my enemy had already won.

The temperature inside the IMAX Melbourne theater might not be icy enough to kill anyone who forgot to put on their jacket, but I could already imagine what it was like for the 1514 passengers who died that night in the middle of freezing waters in the North Atlantic Ocean. When Rose said “I’ll never let go, Jack… I promise” and kissed Jack’s hand and watched him sink, I said “I’ll never let go, God… I promise to finish my PhD this year” and thanked James Cameron who theatrically re-released Titanic in three-dimensional stereoscopic format and narrated that tragedy again after 100 years it took place.

It felt funny, though, sitting down in this packed cinema, watching one of the most famous shipwrecks in the history, sharing the old Rose Dawson Calvert’s melancholy over the Heart of the Ocean, listening to the same musical scores that had been playing in my mind for many years. When the movie was first released 15 years ago, I was one of the millions around the world who went nuts with the sinking of the unsinkable ship and, not to forget, with that most-photographed kiss at the bow of the ship. I remembered one of my university mates who watched this movie in the cinema for 21 times. When asked why he decided to stop, he said, “Oh, the last time I watched it, I fell asleep.” The other friend of mine even went the extra length by organizing his own Titanic-themed birthday party. It turned out to be one of the most memorable party events in my life, just like Titanic.

But how could anyone resist the Titanic’s therapeutic power? Right now, I could feel the spirit in me rising up beyond that massive seven-storey screen. I might not be one of the passengers who boarded that British passenger liner on 10 April 1912 from Southampton, England, but I could feel the taste of fear and survival, like I had been thrown off the ship and struggled among the chaos and pandemonium. I tried to recall the many Ships of Life that I had sailed through; the companies that I had worked for, the adventures that I had been involved with, and all the challenges that I had navigated throughout my seafaring life. While many of them had sailed successfully and reached the destination, many others had sunk and lost at the bottom of the sea. But how did get back to the surface and live on?

When I looked back, I realized that I was not a mere passenger with a third-class ticket – I was the Captain of the Ship! Yes, I had always been the Captain in my life who owned the steering power and authorized when or how to steer when an iceberg was getting in the way. The ship might hit the iceberg and I might sink together with it, but I could stay afloat like Rose and continue to dream. Life would go on and on, until there was no more ship to navigate, or the seawater had been sucked dry by a giant Godzilla. Or maybe I was just an over-imaginative moviegoer who got so emotionally and titanically involved watching the world’s most epic romantic disaster film at the world’s third largest screen that he refused to take off his 3D glasses at the end of the movie.

The autumnal leaves are showing off their early glory in Melbourne and saying bye-bye to summer lovers. Maple trees have already started to turn yellowish and fiery, reflecting my ever burning passion in my maddening studies. As many leaves are scattering through the streets and making life more miserable for winter’s anti-fans, my scary thoughts seem to be fluttering all over the sky. I see my dream is coming closer, but will I still make it?

Right now, Mr Time is looking at me with his mischievous eyes, as he always is. I have seen him for almost three years since I set my foot on this soil, and I can hear him say it again now: “Hey, Mr Perfect, still wanna play Catch Me If You Can?” Just so you know, Mr Time runs faster than DiCaprio in that funny movie and even faster than the comic superhero The Flash. Just when you think today is Monday, it’s already Friday. April 2012 already? How the hell did he do that?

But hey, not to worry. I can thank God for creating a great document called The Application for An Extension of Study Leave and Scholarship. You see, my kind sponsor in Malaysia has even anticipated the potential chaos created by Mr Time and so they are willing to conspire with me and cheat this naughty monster. Can we do that? They way I see it now, Mr Time is getting stronger and muscular these days, thanks to our tight schedules and busy lifestyles and hectic planning in making more money or following those silly dreams.

Again, what has happened to me? Not that I’m too lazy or haven’t made any progress in my research program, but things are just complicated and beyond my control. Some of my friends even claimed that it would be too weird or abnormal if I graduate in time. Are they kidding? They even told me not to freak out, that some people didn’t even complete their studies and could still smile and bring back some nice cars to their home country. Thank you, dear friends, but which model of the car did you mean?

Anyway, to quote what Janet said in her support letter: “Mr Hamzah is completing a highly complex and technical research thesis and requires a lot of technical support from the School. It is vital that he obtain an extension to his candidature which is the normal procedure in Australian PhD studies. His PhD will be groundbreaking and will establish him as a world expert on the Phonetics and Phonology of Kelantan Malay.”

Thanks, dear Janet. That’s very persuasive and flattering.

With that, I’m ready for the six-month interlude of Extended Happiness (read: Extended Madness).

“Wow, you’re a celebrity now!” I said excitedly when I saw them on the front cover of a magazine. There was something about the picture that was worth frowning upon. Maybe it’s the way they smiled or posed that made them look so divine and angelic. Such a perfect family portrait! Together, they looked like professional models who could easily pass for some family product advertisements on TV. But, hey, that’s not what it looked like when I first met Julian and Zahrah the year before. But, more importantly, that’s not what it was all about when Julian first met Zahrah on that Malayan soil. Things had indeed changed so drastically after they signed that holy matrimonial contract. Their story of determination had indeed captured the world. Their life’s miracles had developed into an even more interesting shape. To begin with, Julian looked bulky these days, thanks to his part-time profession as a truck driver. Zahrah looked even bulkier, thanks to her second pregnancy. Kayla, their only daughter, looked bulkiest with love and care, thanks to their famous parents.

“Yes, Hilmi. We are the poorest celebrity in the whole word!” Zahrah said jokingly. “Tell you what, I still can’t believe that we have made this far. We started with nothing, but see that furniture? It’s donated by our kind friend who thought we were homeless. See this table? It was given by someone who took pity of our “poor” life. Oh, yes, sorry that we have to make you wait before you came to our house this afternoon. I’m busy teaching some Islamic courses these days to kids and adults. It turns out that the muslim community in St Albans are really desperate for a great ustazah like me! Haha. Anyway, did you know that Julian was also an actor? Haha. Yes! Yes! He was part of the cast members for Dingin Lavenda. What? You don’t know that story? Aiyo, it’s on TV3 lah! Wait wait, we will also be featured in a documentary on Astro soon! I don’t know lah, Hilmi. These people have started coming into our life now that it’s impossible to resist. Not that we are enjoying it, but things are definitely getting better now. It’s amazing how things could turn when you truly believe in something. Right, Hilmi?”

Yes, you are right, Zahrah.

You see, when Adam met Eve, the world was merrier with kids. But when Julian met Zahrah, the world was merrier with stories (and kids, too, of course).

Oh, hi. I’m glad you’re still here. Er, can I ask you something? Honestly, why did you keep coming back? I don’t even have much time to visit my own blog. You see, I’m always stuck here at the phonetics lab, working my ass off all day on goddamit acoustic details and thesis writing. But, hey, I’m talking to you again now. Yes, that’s right. You! My beloved silent readers. How are you doing today, sweetheart? You’re looking more gorgeous these days. What’s the secret? Gee, don’t tell me it’s love.

Anyway, sorry for the crappy start. I’m just sneaking out of the lab and desperate to say something really stupid to break the monotony of my PhD work. Hold on, don’t get me wrong. I don’t hate this lab. I like it. No, no, no. I don’t like it. I idolize it! You know, I’m still a kid who is still kidding around doing so-called phonetics. So, it’s an honour to be part of this cool place. And right now, I’m feeling less and less intelligent as the due date of thesis submission is approaching. Grrgh.

But let’s not talk about my research today. Let’s talk about this lab. It’s part of the Babel Building at the University of Melbourne. If you visit its site here, you’ll see that it is the focus of phonetics teaching, speech science and laboratory phonology research. If you keep scrolling down, you’ll find my name listed among student research projects. I don’t know about you, but I feel like someone else is pretending to be me in this lab. Hey, I am Hilmi Hamzah, from the Phonetics Laboratory. Do I know you?

Anyway, there are around eight brainiacs working in this lab (me excluded of course). They work mostly on Australian languages, so I always wonder why the hell I am doing here. I’m a rare out-of-nowhere international student doing a research on a language that is hardly known by the world. I have a conspiracy theory for this. The university management might have a secret pact with my supervisor. The mission is to investigate the failure rate of an idiotic dreamer trying to get a PhD. I hope they don’t find any significant correlation.

But, fail or not, I’m still honoured to be part of the genius team here. Thanks to them, I’m always being reminded that I’m still a dirty, smelly kid. Most of my colleagues here are also tutors, so I could hear them talking so intelligently about cool stuff in the classroom. Whenever I try to interrupt, I feel like I’m talking rubbish in some ancient language. I’ll become more aware of my heavily accented English and, for some funny reasons, I’m afraid of making grammatical mistakes. So, I normally sit there in my comfortable chair, feeling stupid than ever, like I never exist, powerless and helpless.

Many times, I wish I could go back in times when I felt more powerful in the classroom, speaking English like I was born in England, punishing students who came late to class, or reducing some grades for some naughty reasons. Many times, I remember the times when I had the authority in the administration, changing examination schedules and controlling invigilators at my disposal. What has happened to me? I used to be the man of confidence and power. But right now, I’m just a mediocre student sitting silently in the lab while watching others conquer the world. You see, my intelligence and confidence are seriously challenged and hurt.

Still, I’m happy to be stupid and powerless. It reminds me of how wonderful it was to be so confident and powerful back then. It also reminds me of what’s coming next. Yes, before I know it, I’ll be back in my country and I’ll be doing exactly the same things that I did in the past, getting back the confidence and power that I lost in Melbourne. So, don’t you worry about my tarnished dignity. I’ll be fine.

Okay, guys. Enough ramblings for now. Thanks for listening. I’m going back to my work now. For now, let me just enjoy these blessed stupidity and cherished powerlessness while they still last. Chow!

Some people say God’s miracles are to be found in the smallest details of the Creation. Not that I am a 21st century prophet or anything like that, but I think I found one of them.

It happened during my thesis writing. As I began to take this task more seriously and religiously, I became more preoccupied with so many colourful acoustic details that, at certain points, I felt like I was living in the Alice’s Wonderland. The box plot above, for example, is one of the many things that keeps puzzling me. It shows the contrast between singletons and geminates in Kelantan Malay in terms of the duration of consonant closures measured in milliseconds. As you can observe, there is a clear contrast between the two, with geminates produced three times longer than singletons. So, what’s the big deal?

Well, I remembered when I first found geminates in Kelantan Malay a few years earlier, I used to call them Double Consonants (as many native speakers of Kelantan Malay would have called them, too). These “doubling” events are evident in their gibberish written forms, like “kkabo” or “kkatok” (note the double consonants written at the beginning of these words). For many centuries (or perhaps throughout the course of human history), people go about doing their business and think that they simply double the word-initial consonants in their conversations to differentiate between “katok” (to hit) and “kkatok” (a frog). But, hey, let’s check the reality.

If we want to take the phonetic reality really seriously in its strictest sense, Double Consonants are no longer appropriate in this context. Note again that, in the box plot above, Double Consonants are not doubled. For God’s sake, they are tripled! (Should we start calling them Triple Consonants?). Come to think of it, there has been a clash between reality and perception here. Apparently, a lot of people have been cheated by the perception of their own speech. Sounds creepy, huh?

But, hold on, there is always something funny going on between the reality of the invisible world and human perception. There are millions of pixels in a digital picture, but do we really pay attention to each of them? A century-old painting in an art gallery has countless of brush strokes, but do we have to count each one of them to appreciate the beauty? Just like speech, we only take what really matters to us and what’s perceptually relevant so that we can go on with out lives talking about real stuff, not about some laboratory speech that might be fake after all. So, what the hell am I doing?

I don’t know yet. The phonologists might thank me later. But for now, bless those souls who are ignorant of the pain-in-the-ass truths, and may God save the PhD wannabes who go nuts digging into the mind-boggling details of the world (like me!). Still, it’s indeed amazing to discover God’s little secrets hiding and smiling knowingly behind those milliseconds of our everyday speech.

My employer is playing God with me. They have already chosen the day when I am finally going to retire. Guess what, that would be the 3rd of September, 2036. My 60th birthday.

When I was forced to sign this agreement a few months earlier, I felt like my life was all set and programmed, like an entertaining puppet being controlled by some mysterious hands.

Knowing that my days have already been numbered, I couldn’t help imagining what it would be like on that day when I finally retire. What would I be doing?

I would probably be sitting down in a comfortable chair in my big glassy office room, surrounded by shiny trophies on the table and huge photos framed nicely on the wall.

I would gaze proudly at the awards, thinking of the many accomplishments in phonetics research, of the many publications in international conference proceedings and high-impact journals.

I would stare at the photos, smiling nostalgically at the faces of beloved students, colleagues, friends and family members, cherishing the moments of pride and glory.

Ah, I would laugh again when I look at my silly poses at the Eiffel Tower in Paris, at the Statue of Liberty in America, snow-capped mountains in Switzerland… gosh, I have been everywhere.

Knock! Knock! I would jump out of my seat. My secretary would enter the room, smile and say, “I’m sorry. Everyone is waiting for you in the meeting room.”

Oh, as usual, I would forget again. Actually, there would be a farewell party for me that day to celebrate my retirement day. Would that be really necessary?

I would walk out of my room very slowly and head to the meeting room, thinking of how fast time has gone by. Have I followed my dreams? I would ask again for the umpteenth time.

I would step into the room and hear the mumbling noise. “Oh, here he is,” says one of my colleagues. “Everyone… we give you now – Professor Datuk Dr. Hilmi Hamzah!”

I would grin cheekily and say, “Thank you, my dear friends. I am very honoured to be standing here as an old grumpy man who is finally going to retire and have the time of his life.”

Some of them would laugh nervously. I would look around, inhale the air deeply and continue, “This might sound spooky, but honestly, I have lived this very moment a long long long time ago.

You see, human being are the only ones who are aware that their days are numbered, that the things in this life don’t last very long, that nothing in this life endures.

For that, we always regard our lives as a battlefield that is worthy of an immortal being. We have children, we leave behind great works and legacy so we wouldn’t be forgotten, right?

That, for me, is the highest expression of human dignity. That, for me, goes beyond our retirement days. That, for me, will motivate us to do the best things in our lives.

No, I’m not sure whether I have done enough. But, I do know that I have been daring enough, that I have gone much further in my conquests, because I have nothing to lose. For today is inevitable.”

I would hear some cheering, but I wouldn’t care much. I would just walk out of the room soon, feeling content and looking forward to a luxurious retirement. A personal limo would be nice.

The air felt a bit different that morning. It was quiet and still, like nothing really mattered but a moment’s peace. I was having my usual fruity muesli for breakfast when the jazzy voice of Harry Connick, Jr. suddenly filled up the air with blues, singing my favourite More and invoking all the spirits that had been touched by this sweet rendition since the 1960s. Fully weeping, he lamented: “My life will be in your keeping… waking … sleeping … laughing … weeping …” What a depressing voice.

I finished the sweet muesli and sipped my bitter coffee, thinking of what I was going to do that day when I heard another mournful ballad, The Very Thought of You, floating eerily in the air, talking to me in its strange language, like “Hey, Mr Jazz lover. I was beautifully composed in 1934, but I keep living on inside the weary hearts of millions of people for 78 years. How about that?” The dead song was mocking me like I was some kind of a jazzy ignorant.

I was walking to the kitchen when I realized that I was dancing crazily to the funky tunes of For Once in My Life, bringing together all the smooth voices of Tony Bennett and Stevie Wonder who had sung this song in their unique, suave versions. For once in my life, I felt like I had just learnt the art of making another beautiful, soulful day – just listen to an old song and feel its beautiful, soulful beat. How stimulating.

With renewed energy, I grabbed my bag and was about to leave my apartment when the melancholic rhythm of Only You took hold of my conscience. The somber voice from 1955 was singing all around me, showing its vague face, smiling its charming smile and splashing its magic dust on me. “Only you can make this world seem right… only you can make darkness bright…” sang the talented Mr Connick who earned more number-one albums than any other artists in the US jazz history. What a dude.

I walked to the door and pulled the doorknob when I faintly sensed the familiar rhapsody, Save the Last Dance for Me, coming out of nowhere. Someone was whispering into my ears, telling me to keep dancing with PhD’s many challenges while saving the last dance for my graduation day. I stood there for a minute and thanked whatever it was that kept me inspired at that very moment. Some strange figure looked at me and said: “Yeah baby, save the last dance for me.”

Just when I thought things were back to normal, I was laughing when I caught You Don’t Know Me being played again. “You think you know me well, but you don’t know me,” chanted the dreamy voice. I didn’t know any magic, but I blamed Harry Connick, Jr’s voice for singing the ballads so magically that they had been stuck in my head like magic. I finally got out of my apartment that morning, feeling thankful for all the world’s greatest music that had taught me a lot about life and timelessness.

I found out recently that, through the course of my life, I have a tendency to conduct things at their most extreme ends that have consumed my energy, time, money and soul. After much self-praise and self-criticism, I began to see an emerging pattern behind all the random idiosyncrasies in my life – that I simply love overdoing things! Okay, here are 10 examples why I call myself Mr. Overdoer.

1. When I was teaching at a private college and at the same time holding an administrative position while juggling between my studies for a master’s degree, I used to keep this holy, thick to-do-list book that contained all the complicated missions I must complete by the end of the day. I was an over-absorbing freak that had turned life into a giant TV set with a convenient remote control.

2. When I first learnt to appreciate the music and stuff from Korea, Bollywood or the Middle East, I became a singing monster that attacked the World Wide Web and “stole” hundreds of random songs without even knowing what they were really all about. I was an over-indulging maniac who listened to the universal rhythm of the world like I was listening to a lover’s speech.

3. When I look into my wardrobe, I think I should start sharing tips with other people about the art of Unnecessary Beauty. With many fancy shirts of different colours, winter jackets of different patterns, bags of different brands, shoes of different styles, I am an over-shopping bloke who doesn’t seem to get enough and who seriously needs some education on charity and donation.

4. When it comes to living in and moving out and packing and unpacking, I can be a living legend of unsettling accommodation. I live and leave places like it is some kind of a hobby. Be it in Kuala Lumpur or Melbourne, my lifestyle has been full of endless makeovers and decorations and packing festivals. I have been an over-energetic nomad whose life is forever on the road.

5. Whenever it hit me that I look like Mr. Couch Potato, I can start a weight-loss program like I am about to enter a Mr. Pageant competition. I will start swimming again as if I have just found a new religion. Weighing scale is my new best friend that will always keep its menacing eyes on my eating behaviour. I am an over-powering weight-watcher who keeps torturing that fat ass.

6. When I was in Kelantan doing my fieldwork, I collected the data more than I needed. When I started analysing the data, I ended up with heaps of results beyond my understanding. When Janet had to ask me to stop when she sensed that I was becoming more obsessed and creepier, I realised that I had become an over-working PhD slave who badly needed a life.

7. When I decided to celebrate the success of my fieldwork by driving around the country and meeting all my best friends, I came up with the grandest plan that sucked up my whole emotion and entire physical system. When I finally met them with enthusiasm and warmth, I was proud of being an overbearing friend who went to great lengths just to make things happen.

8. When I was traveling in Bangkok or Jakarta or Australian cities, I made sure that I had done enough research so I wouldn’t miss anything that I wanted to experience. I dug up for tips and information as if I were a column writer for a travel magazine or some major newspapers in the country. I was an over-zealous traveller who took up traveling like a full-time, handsomely-paid job.

9. When I started writing for Budu Tales in Melbourne, I had no idea that I would end up with hundreds of rambling posts. When I recently discovered that I could tag a post, I scrutinized and tagged each of the posts, amounting to 104 tags. When it comes to writing, I can go the extra mile. I am an over-analyzing writer who is always seeing his life’s marvels in a dramatic, writing form.

10. When I realized that I loved languages and teaching them, I began a journey of no return. The stories didn’t just end in a classroom with wonderful students. I took up TESL despite my impoverished background. Then I leapt further doing PhD in linguistics, scratching into every bit of geminates for many years. I’m an over-achieving dreamer who is unstoppable and un-fuckoff-able.

You see, I’m just an ordinary guy who likes to dream, just like you. But, the thing is, I dream too much. There are just so many things that I want to do and accomplish in my life, like I was given some sort of a prophecy mission or something. Some people might call it Complete Idiocy or Total Lunacy or Sheer Ecstasy. But beyond all this madness, I think I have discovered the power that makes me feel stronger than anyone in the world, that allows me to achieve my goals, that carries me toward my dream, and that justifies my crazy, overdoing attitude – the Power of Passion.

“Let’s go to Spanish Doughnuts!” I said excitedly while we were roaming like wild teenagers around the Federation Square after midnight. Halim, Daus and I had been walking for many hours but I had never felt more energetic in my life. In fact, it was always a pleasure to be a (dramatic) tourist guide for my dear friends who came to visit me in Melbourne. It made me feel alive again. Each time I shared my down-under experiences with them, I was forever thankful to be part of this great city. And right now, I wanted to share this heavenly delicacy with Halim and Daus so they would always remember tonight’s special moments for the rest of their lives. Tonight, I wanted to show them one of my most favourite snacks in the whole world – Spanish Doughnuts.

“What’s good here?” Halim asked when we arrived at the store which was located just opposite the Federation square.
“Good question. Well, you can try the On-The-Run Combo which comes with three scrumptious loop doughnuts and a small drink of your choice for only $4.95. It’s really good!” I said as if I was a loyal employee of the Giant Spanish Doughnuts Enterprise. The first time I discovered these Australian-made churros a few years before, I felt like I had found a hidden treasure. Since then, I had never stopped trying the same churros each time I passed the store in the city. I didn’t know what the secret recipe actually was, but the taste of these churros always made me feel good. There was something surreal about it that took me back down the memory lanes of my childhood. Perhaps, my late mother might have made the same churro-like meals and stuffed them in my mouth while I was busy watching Inspector Gadget on TV. I might have tasted it before but I just couldn’t remember. It’s like the whole déjà vu experience to me.

“Okay, I’ll have the On-The Run Combo then!” said Halim.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Please try some other stuff. You might like the Bombon Churros over there. They are coated in a delicate shell of white, milk or dark chocolate. They look yummy too!” To be honest, I had tried this type of churros before and I didn’t like it. I would prefer the original churros. But I didn’t share this information because I didn’t want to influence my friends’ choices. They might have a different taste. I just gave them options.
“Okay, I’ll get the Bombon Churros. How about you, Daus?” asked Halim.
“Yes, I’ll get the same Bombon Churros.”

So, we left the store soon with our own churros – Bombon Churros for Halim and Daus, and of course, my favourite original churros for me. It took only a few seconds before they issued their verdicts. They hated their churros and loved mine. They said theirs were too cold, too hard, too bad, while mine were very tempting, very fluffy and very rich. I felt terrible. Had I just sabotaged my own beautiful plan?

THE CHURROS PHILOSOPHY

I blamed my crappy philosophy of life for tonight’s culinary pandemonium. You see, tonight’s event revealed a lot about me and my life’s choices. Here is the situation – I’m open to risks and I want to see people around me to experience the same risks. The results might turn out differently for them as it turned out differently for me. Just because I dislike a particular thing, it doesn’t mean it will work out the same thing for other people. I might be highly opinionated, but I don’t want to restrict people’s choices according to my (bold) preferences or my (dreamy) perspectives. Just because the movie critics say the movie sucks, it doesn’t mean you should not go to the movie theater and enjoy the suckingness of it. Just go and discover! We all should try something on our own and take the risks without being dictated by other people. If it ends up a bad choice, let’s just face it and enjoy the challenge. At least we have tried and learnt the lesson the hard way. How I wish people would stop asking other people to follow certain conventions. Instead, they should start respecting people’s more creative decisions and treating each other in the same way. After all, we all have a different taste in life, don’t we?

I hope Halim and Daus wouldn’t curse me and their bad churros all the way back to Malaysia.

Tiga senyuman terpancar kemesraan

Tiga penyelidik harapan bangsa

Tiga pengembara menerjah Melbourne

Tiga pencinta alam sekitar

Tiga peminat setia Nadal

Tiga pungguk merindukan bulan

Tiga peragawan jalanan indah

Tiga rakan pencerna ilmu

Tiga mimpi mencipta rasa

Tiga pemuda tunggak negara

Tiga kawan penuh ceria

Tiga dunia satu matlamat

Tiga gaya memikat semua

Tiga pendidik pencetus ilham

Tiga ilmuan dalam khayalan

Tiga perwira penjana minda

Tiga hero pandai dan santai

Tiga impian menggapai PhD

Melbourne General Cemetery
Where there is more than a mere story
When time doesn’t stop in the history
The souls are reciting their poignant poetry

“Listen to me,” whispers a founder of fantasy
“I fought so hard people thought it was a heresy
My days were too short but I was not too fussy
I chose my dream and left behind a legacy”

“Hear my tales,” says a discoverer of gold
“I wasn’t too wise nor too bold
But I couldn’t wait till I got too old
I chased my dream before it got too cold”

“Can you see my tomb?” asks a famous explorer
“The epitaph says that I was a winner
But I was only a deep dreamer
Winning was only a top creamer”

Melbourne General Cemetery is fizzing
The ghosts of dream are still gathering
The stories of marvels are still developing
The souls are resting but never stop telling

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.

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.