I still remember the first time I met her.

It happened right here at Norsiah’s Kitchen, Melbourne’s most popular Malaysian restaurant located close to my university. On that autumn night in 2010, at this restaurant, I was supposed to meet a girl who came to Melbourne with her workmates for a short visit. As I lived only a couple of blocks away and it would only take a few minutes for me to get here, there was no way I could say No Thank You and be further condemned as an anti-social PhD smartass.

While I was walking towards this restaurant, I was nervous just thinking of the prospect of having a “blind-date” that night (not that I had been looking for one in the recent years). I mean, meeting someone that I only knew through the random friendship in Facebook could yet be another classic case of flirting with danger. She could be an imposter pretending to be a girl! Haha… But wait, I remembered that that she had mentioned earlier through a private message in the Facebook that she had been reading my blog and, so, what could possibly be the harm? After all, it had always been my policy to welcome anyone to be my friends in Facebook. If I get lucky, I could meet a multimillionaire heiress of a huge empire! Haha (not that I had been looking for one, either)

My calculation and imagination were cut short by the loud noises coming from the restaurant. As I was approaching the happy crowd sitting casually outside of the restaurant, I could slightly hear their conversations, talking and laughing as if they knew what I had been thinking. The cold air did not prevent these people from having fun as if life was a grand party. It was, however, still early in the evening and the restaurant, well known for its dirt cheap prices, was packed with students and locals alike who simply loved the contagious curry that Makcik Norsiah specially made everyday.

As I entered the restaurant, I could see her sitting down behind a joined table among what seemed to be a serious bunch of people. It was indeed difficult to recognize someone that you had corresponded only virtually. Apparently, she was not a much-dreaded 100-pound girl as many blind-date non-believers would have predicted, but she definitely looked different in a real world. Tucked in a long, oversized brown jacket, she looked like Inspector Gadget’s sister who was ready to unleash her next fancy gadget and save the world. Although she did not fit in every imagination that I had secretly developed, she definitely looked sweeter than I had thought.

After a round of handshakes with other smiling gentlemen around the table, I looked at her and said, “Hi, Ciked.” At that time, I only knew her as Ciked, the name only years later that I managed to know the real meaning and pronunciation (it came from “Cikedis Udang”, a type of junk food, and pronounced as Chi Curt, not Chi Cat). But even without knowing the right semantics and phonetics, I knew right away that Ciked was a perfect name; it somehow rhymed with Cekmi.

For a moment, the whole room at Norsiah’s Kitchen fell silent as we exchanged our first greeting. She looked at me in the eye and said, “Hi, Cekmi.” The words sent a chill up my spine, as if it was a calling from Heaven. I could sense the glares from other people around me who might think that I had just fallen in love with the girl whom I had just met, kinda love at first sight. But they were so wrong – our love grew later at many sights. It was only years later that I could finally see how lucky I was that night to have met such an amazing girl dressed in an Inspector Gadget suit, sitting among wonderful people, eating great food at the gorgeous Norsiah’s Kitchen, enjoying a glorious autumn night, savoring the beautiful city of Melbourne.

That’s how I first met Nurul.

Her name is Nurul. Petite and tiny like a button, people can hardly tell whether she is a child pretending to be a strong lady or vice versa. She is in fact a thirty-four-year-old woman, married and expecting her first child. She is a counselor who has spent many years treating problematic university students. She is a confident, independent superhero who reads the psyche of human beings around her, like that smart mind-gamer in The Mentalist. Her background is also worthy of a good research – born in Pahang, raised in Terengganu, grown up in Kelantan, studied psychology in Kuala Lumpur, worked in Kedah – she is a true dialectician who can easily switch into many Malay dialects, local or standard.

But most of the time, she prefers to be known as a simple girl from Terengganu. Surrounded by lovely beaches and great seafood, it is an irony that she is allergic to seafood. She is, nevertheless, a big fan of Keropok Lekor, a tasty “fish sausage” specially made in Terengganu. Just ask her about the best Keropok Lekor in town and she is ready for detailed reports. Being an avid animal lover, she is also super-sensitive to sights and sounds of cute animals around her – cats, birds, ducks, and even goats. Her favorites are Salem and Shamito, two spoilt cats who always crave for her sweet angelic voice calling their cute names “Lemmmm… Mitooooo…”

Anyway, her friends were told that she first met her husband overseas, although no one knew how they actually knew each other. Nurul has always said that she had followed her husband’s blog some time prior to their fateful meeting. Later, through the wonders of Facebook, they were finally united. But again, she has never explained how they actually started liking each other. Love is a many splendored thing, isn’t it?

Well, they got married the following year in a modest yet meaningful ceremony. Various conspiracy theories were put forward regarding their “hasty” marriage but none of which were beyond the bounds of possibilities given that, during their solemnization, there were no signs of aggression or bloodshed. As the story goes, Nurul took a one-year leave from her employer to follow her husband overseas. For many months to come, the world was their oyster. Through good and bad times, they lived happily together before circumstances changed that forced them to be away from each other.

In the weeks before their gloomy farewell, the couple had celebrated their first wedding anniversary in a romantic lake house, travelled to many wonderful places, and did so many crazy things as many other crazy couples would normally have done. Nurul had been an amazing companion who would do her everything to protect the love of her life. Alas, she is now alone in Malaysia without her significant half. But, of course, she will definitely thrive on this challenge.

Because she is Nurul, thirty-four years old, the proud holder of Master of Science in Counseling and the honored winner of Excellent Service Award, and married.

My wife.

It started with mild pain, as if a tiny ant bit my left ankle. Soon it became excruciatingly painful, as though a tiny shark bit my whole left foot. When I had to crawl my way to the toilet, I became more confused. What’s happening? I didn’t remember having a tragic accident or a clumsy fall out of bed. It made no sense at all. Well, my left foot was once fractured 16 years ago, but I didn’t think it just came back again out of blue. Dismissing all the X-files theories in my mind, I thought it was probably because I had been “lazy” these days, sitting down in front of my MacBook the whole day and writing up a painstaking thesis that my body couldn’t take it anymore.

When I called Ummi, she said it could be a symptom of “nnyetok”, a Kelantanse term for body pain due to inactivity which causes nerve injuries and blockage of blood flow. As much as I was fascinated with Ummi’s diagnosis, I would love to hear it from a scientific point of view. So, after much struggle (and forcing a kind friend to carry me like a little baby), I saw a medical doctor, did a blood test and ran an X-ray. When the results came out, the doctor said that everything was okay and there was no sign of broken bones. The only thing that looked “suspicious” was the level of uric acid – it was slightly elevated. When asked what the hell that was, she said that I might be experiencing a classic case of one of the oldest disorders known to human race – Gout.

I digested the information as if getting gout was the most natural thing to happen to me at my current age. I informed the doctor that my big brother was also having a similar experience a few years before, to which she replied that gout does appear to be hereditary. When she said that it is more common in men especially between the ages of 30 and 60, I felt someone had just hit my face and shouted out loud: “You’re getting older, Hilmi!!!”

Feeling ever more confused, I got out of the clinic later, bought some prescribed medicine and rented some over-used crutches. Within a couple of hours, the drugs did its wonders and the pain was gone – I could stand up and walk again like nothing ever happened. It’s hard to believe that the drama started and ended so quickly. It was like a “midnight sneak preview” of what it was like losing control of something I always take for granted, of greater tragedies and sufferings out there that I couldn’t possibly imagine.

There is of course a possibility for the return of gout attack, but until then, I would not forget this “touch-and-go” experience. After all, I have just joined the list of some well-known gout victims like Alexander the Great, Michelangelo, Martin Luther, Isaac Newton and Benjamin Franklin. So high five, guys! haha

As for the crutches, I was only forced to use them for one day, but the impact they had on me would definitely last for a lifetime. I actually “enjoyed” using these crutches because they made me feel so “alive” (not that I was looking forward to using them again.)

No, people. I’m not sharing this story because I look cute with crutches. I’m sharing this story because it’s a reminder of how fragile life could be. So love your life ‘coz I love mine!

I think I have found the key to heaven. Culinary heaven.

When Nurul was down with morning sickness and couldn’t even stand the slightest smell of garlic, I took over the kitchen and started cooking (again!). It was so awkward being back in the department that I had long abandoned since Nurul “invaded” this space a few months before. Now that I was listening hard to her step-by-step instructions on how to slice those shallots and hold that wok and stir-fry that Char Kuey Teow, I felt like I was being transported to the old boarding school where I always hated those son-of-a-bitch seniors who made me walk like a duck every night after prep. But then, as soon as I put the cooked dish on a plate and saw something more familiar to my eyes, all the depressed feelings were gone and replaced with renewed joy, like I was looking at an old photograph and longing to go back to a time when everything was so perfect … so joyful … so yummy.

But hey, don’t worry. The sky is certainly not falling when a foolish amateur like me works his ass off in the kitchen. After a few painful attempts to produce simple dishes like maggi goreng (fried maggi) or sayur air (water-based vegetable soup) or singgang daging Kelantan (Kelantanese sour soup beef), I began to see the big picture and, oh boy, I think I finally got it.

“Whoa, this is marvelous!” I said while licking my proud, self-made food as though I had just won the inventive challenge in MasterChef Australia.
“It’s not that difficult, is it?” said Nurul.
“Not at all.”
“You know what?”
“What?”
“All you need is practice.”

Nurul was right. I think I have found a way to cook – simply hit the kitchen and produce a disaster! I mean, all I need to know about cooking is visualizing and seeing it by myself, not being told by some fat stranger in a dry cookbook. I’m sorry, I just hate it when I have to follow certain recipes in a book or a website. For me, the instruction is way too technical, too trivial, too difficult. But, of course, the root of my poor culinary state is not written in any cookbook. It’s already written in my childhood.

Yes, when it comes to foods, I have always been a spoilt brat who is only interested in the results, not the process. Being brought up in a family with a girls-cook-and-boys-eat environment, I have almost come to believe that I can always get anything I want to eat without having to cook at all. So, asking someone like me to follow a recipe from a cookbook is like asking a tough bodybuilder to ballet dance. See what I mean?

FREE FOODS FOR THOUGHTS

Now that I have seen the big picture (or thought that I had seen one), I can finally sit down in a “classroom” and reflect on what I have done (or damaged). Here I am in Melbourne, learning stuff all over again at 35, like a kid who never grows up. As I recall the drama that I have been through in the kitchen, I begin to appreciate another exciting world that has long existed but has been kept hidden from me (sounds like the Chronicles of Narnia, huh?). And as I write down the learnt recipe in my personally-tailored cookbook (Cekmi’s Gourmet! haha), I think of the ambitious chefs who have found their passion in culinary arts and fine cuisines, of the book publishers who have made a fortune out of top food writers, of the TV producers who have earned a million out of food programs, of all the dedicated mothers around the world who have shed tears and cooked their hearts out for their beloved husbands and children. But most of all, I think of my own late mother who fed me so well and made me who I am.

When I think of all these, I thank God for teaching me another great lesson. I just need my own space and have someone there to assist me. This inductive, instead of deductive, strategy seems to work just fine for me. It’s more or less like doing a PhD with my supervisor as a loyal guide. But, seriously, I don’t need a PhD to learn how to cook. What I need to do is always there before me to be discovered. All I need to do is learning by doing it, not thinking about doing it. And I think could do almost anything that I want to do if I dare enough to go ahead and do it.

Now that I am holding the secret key, I’m ready for the next challenge. I don’t know yet what’s going to happen, but the door is already open. It does look exciting from here. I could smell the good food.

This year would be the last chance for me to experience the full cycle of seasons in Melbourne. So the moment autumn poked her bright face, I grabbed every single opportunity to be connected with this glorious Mother Nature showing up at every corner in the city. Being able to watch the transformation of colours and shapes of this natural heaven always gave me that aaah feeling I badly needed. I thought then that I had had enough of autumn in Melbourne, until that day when I secretly entered into the deep wood on Mount Dandenong.

It was so foggy and wet on Mount Dandenong that morning. This 633-metre tall mountain looked like a fairy-tale labyrinth filled with all sorts of cute characters. Located only 35 km east of Melbourne city, I took the earliest train from Flinders Station, got off at Belgrave station and hopped on a bus to Sherbrooke Road. From this point on, I was left alone with nature and was transported to a different world filled with magic. I could hardly name these mesmerizing creatures since I was not a trained botanist, but I was certain they all shared the same name – Angelina Jolie.

Each time I saw these sexy and beautiful autumn leaves falling and seducing me like showers of gold, I felt like I was being reborn again. So abundant under my feet, I suddenly felt a pang of guilt for admiring their beautiful death. How pitiful. There was no one cheering and acknowledging their graceful falls. Aren’t they supposed to be treated with dignity like human souls? Angelina Jolie might agree with me, right?

My heart stopped when I finally arrived at the Alfred Nicholas Memorial Gardens. For a moment, I thought I had just seen a copy of paradise. Honestly, this was the most gorgeous foliage of season I had ever seen in my life. The dream-like kaleidoscope of silhouettes and contours made me feel as though I were part of an artist’s impression in a delicate painting. Things seemed to be eternal here. I was mesmerized beyond songs and poetry. Even Angelina Jolie couldn’t compete with this beauty. Sorry, babe.

So it’s true, the existence of this world is simply a guarantee that there exists a world that is perfect. I’m drowning.

As I saw the 297-meter-high Eureka Tower emerging right out of the clouds of my senses, I began to unpack the different layers of Shanghai and recall the order of events and collect my thoughts scattered in many places. Besides being robbed by a gang of local Chinese men, there were also some other things in Shanghai that I wouldn’t forget.

THE HOLLYWOOD OF PROSODY

The moment I arrived in Shanghai, I didn’t feel excited at all. I mean, I had been to Hong Kong the previous year, so why would I expect things to be different in Shanghai? I was, however, very curious about the 6th International Conference on Speech Prosody 2012 because this was my first time attending a conference with such a broader theme than phonetics per se. Here is the number – 372 researchers from more than 30 countries participated in this conference. But again, after listening to a keynote speech and a few oral sessions on the first day, I started to wonder why I decided to join this event in the first place. When I was becoming more interested in the delicate patterns of grand chandeliers hung majestically in the grand ballroom of the Grand Central Hotel Shanghai, I knew that I could be at a wrong place. Maybe Speech Prosody was not my thing.

Outside the ballroom, many posters on Speech Prosody were being presented by excited participants, mostly PhD students like me. I walked past their carefully-crafted posters and, after nodding once and twice and pretending to listen, I walked away immediately. Many times, I couldn’t help eavesdropping interesting small talks among younger participants who seemed to be desperate in building up a network, like a naive star waiting to grab for the next chance available to reach the ladder into the Hollywood of Prosody. The standard flow of conversations normally went like these: Hey, are you presenting as well? What is your research all about? Wait a minute… were you in Hong Kong last year? Which hotel are you staying now? Do you like the food here? Are you joining the tour this Saturday? Gee, that was a boring talk, wasn’t it? Stuff like that.

Sometimes, I wondered whether these participants would hook up with each other after the conference. The way the intellectual discourse flowed and the way they licked their coffee cups somehow led me into thinking that somebody would be dragged into someone else’s hotel room that night. In any case, all of them seemed to be genuinely passionate about their research and about building a mega empire of scholarship and friendship. Thanks to these seductive people, my first day of the conference was not all that dreary.

MY POSTER MOMENT

The second day was nonetheless getting a little better. I woke up as early as 5 o’clock in the morning, feeling fresher and more energized and more optimistic about the world. There was an aura of bliss and peace in my hotel room that I began to wonder whether I was floating in the Seventh Heaven. Heaven or Hell, I would have to come back to earth to present my poster that day at 11 o’clock, which was a bit nerve-cracking since I had never done a poster presentation in my whole life.

A poster tube on my shoulder, I walked out of the Seventh Heaven Hotel with slight nervousness for new experiences waiting for me in just a couple of hours. The conference venue was only a few minutes’ walk from my hotel, so I took my own sweet time walking along the Nanjing Road Pedestrian Street, China’s premier shopping street. A wide pedestrian space was laying before me, which was in complete contrast to the suffocating downtown in Hong Kong. There were many traditional stores, specialty shops and upscale stores lining up both sides of the street: Tiffany, Mont Blanc, Dunhill. You name it.

From afar, I heard some traditional Chinese music lingering vaguely on the air, as though the emperor of the Xin Dynasty from the 9th century was sending a secret message to me: “Fighting!” Saying thank you to the kind Majesty, I then walked past some street musicians who were showing off their lively art at this world’s longest shopping street. Some old men and women were practising what looked like tai chi moves. They were so absorbed in their meditations that I began to envy their spiritual convictions. The sky was gloomy but I felt the clear rhythm and perfect harmony. I said my silent prayers.

I arrived at the conference venue later with some bright-eyed girls waiting so eagerly to serve me. For one thing, I truly admired the spirit and helpfulness of these volunteers who were all students from Tongji University, the main organizer of the event. For another thing, these people were also freaking organized and ready to demonstrate their newly polished communication skills at any given moment of crisis.

“I’m one of the poster presenters this afternoon,” I said to one of them, pointing to my poster tube.
“Oh, yes, yes, yes… Come this way!” said a cute girl with fancy glasses, grinning and giggling as if she had just met a Hong Kong celebrity. Before I knew it, they were clamoring over my poster as though it was the best candy in the world. Within a few minutes, I was all ready and set with my colourful, eye-catching, bling-bling poster.

Ta-da!

For the next two hours, I spoke non-stop to many brainy strangers with big names who seemed to be all thrilled with my research project. Not that I was the most articulate person on earth nor I was the most interesting person in the conference, but things beautifully fell into place like magic. For many, it was an excellent presentation with an exceptional delivery. For me, it was a task that I had to conduct so as not to make the organizer wonder where the hell the presenter was missing. It was a nice experience and I did what I was supposed to do. Nothing less and nothing more.

LOST IN TIANZIFANG

Before long, I was “kidnapped” by Chia-Hsin, one of the conference participants, to an exotic part of Shanghai called Tianzifang. He insisted that I should celebrate the success of my poster presentation by exploring an art street and by getting charmed into a real Shanghainese atmosphere, not by getting brainwashed with the cold presentation of a hard-to-please professor in the Grand Central Hotel Shanghai ballroom. I couldn’t agree more.

“I felt like a criminal now!” I said while we walked to the nearest subway station in People’s Square.
“Why?” he asked.
“I should be at the conference now, not sneaking around with you!”
“Do you really want to go back now?”
“NOOOOOO!!!” I said with laughter I couldn’t even understand.

Chia-Hsin walked with such childishness and radiance that I had never seen before in a human being. At 32, this Taiwanese guy looked so much younger than his real age with his stylish round-framed glasses, a complex flowery shirt, rolled-up jeans, and a sling bag with a designer label. Although this was his first time in Shanghai, he looked too confident as if he had been in this part of the city before. I met him the other day after his excellent oral presentation on Hakka. Currently completing his PhD at the University of Michigan, he was at the beginning of a promising career in his life.

“Don’t you love this place, Hilmi?” he said in the middle of our exploration in Tianzifang.
“Yeah, I so do,” I said, feeling the vibrancies of romantic cafes, creative craft shops, lively studios and luxurious boutiques all around me.

This place was simply mesmerizing. Located in the French Concession area of Shanghai, it is indeed a popular tourist destination. The whole neighbourhood was filled with labyrinths of narrow alleyways consisting of endless stream of shops and stores and treasures. Fully captivated, I just wanted to keep walking and be drowned with the maze-like structure of the buildings standing so close to each other. I could clearly observe the old Shanghai lifestyle through all kinds of Shinkumen architecture. Everything here was in fact built with no organization at all, which perhaps made it look so mysterious and inviting. After a few minutes, I would bump into the same tricky lanes leading to another confusing lane that, after some time, I couldn’t be bothered about getting lost anymore. I was completely lost by the loss itself. Thanks to Chia-Hsin, the carefree afternoon spent in Tianzifang turned out to be one of the finest getaways in my life.

VENICE OF THE EAST

The final day of the conference ended with an elaborate banquet dinner and a wonderful cruise along Pujiang River. While I appreciated all of these standard, overrated Shanghai experiences, they were all too touristy and too expected. The next day, however, having nothing better to do, I joined a tour group to Suzhou, a city dubbed as the Venice of the East.

As I sat quietly on a bus for nearly two hours, I saw the locals riding cute motorbikes and bicycles on dedicated bike lanes. There was hardly anyone bold enough to put on their helmets, as if wearing one was a thing of the past, some ancient behavior that existed only in a history book. Most of the streets I saw were lining up with maple trees, which were unimpressively and boringly green. I wondered why the conference wasn’t scheduled during autumn, the season when I could witness the glorious colours of these maple trees.

The tour in Suzhou started in Panmen Gate, the oldest city gate of Suzhou and the only existing water and land gate in China. My eyes were fixed on many scenic spots, like the old Ruiguang Pagoda. While admiring this 2500-year-old gate town, I was kept busy by my loyal companions that day: Nassima, an Algerian girl studying at the Universite Aix-Marseille, France; and Timo, a German guy studying at the University of Cologne. While Nassima was all excited over everything she saw at the splendid Wumen Gate Bridge and the beautiful Grand Canal, Timo was all cheeky and crazy and loved making fun of other people.

“Too many people!” Timo would say with a mocking Mandarin English accent he acquired during the conference, saying people with pee-paw.
“Welcome to our big hall!” I would play along with a similar local accent, making hall sound like whore.

We would laugh over our linguistic jokes, while Nassima said something in English which sounded very much like French. She, too, had problems switching between English and French. For her, as long as French words were “anglicised” and produced like English words, things should be fine. Timo, on the other hand, spoke with a very strong American accent. His ‘r’ colouring was annoying that I had to stop him in the middle of a conversation whenever he said because with becouRse or visa with visaR. In any case, these linguistic phonemena should warrant further research in language transfer and prosody. Who knows?

During the tour, I also got to know Kalu, a conference participant from Nigeria. Being the only black in the group (and perhaps in the entire Shanghai!), he had been thrown in the spotlight at every nook and corner of the city. People on the street would just stare directly at him with no slightest pretension at all as if he were the prettiest creature on earth. I couldn’t help laughing when a local girl stood next to him all of a sudden and took pictures without even asking for his permission, like he was some kind of an inanimate statue. Fortunately, he was such a sport who would smile at the locals’ deep curiosity over a different type of human skin. I was lucky since no one would take me seriously to be one of the aliens. Hey, just like in Hong Kong, I passed easily again as one of the locals. Shieh shieh.

The second destination of the tour was the Humble Administrator’s Garden, the best representation of Chinese classical gardens of the Ming Dynasty. This UNESCO World Heritage Site was breathtakingly beautiful. Holding tight my Sony camera among the endless stream of visitors, I would snap at whatever images and objects that came before me: quaint pavilions, nostalgic bridges, enchanting ponds, tiny islands, old trees, great lawns, dreamlike scenes of a fairy land. It had been a pleasant and humbling afternoon, until the whole touring experience became unbearable with tourists pouring in from every direction. A nice stroll by the lake now turned into a nasty wrestling competition when one tour group bumped into one another. The classical garden, which was supposed to be admired for its serenity and stillness, had become a place filled with grumpy visitors who kept pushing their way through a narrow exit.

TEA CEREMONY

After the pleasure-turned-pressure tour, I was back into the hustle and bustle of Shanghai city. I returned to my hotel and freshened up. It was still early in the evening and so I decided to get out and see what’s left of the day. Walking along the Nanjing Road Pedestrian Street, I realized that I was alone on the street without any friends from the conference. But, hey, this is good, I thought. I could finally experience and define Shanghai in my own terms. But again, I had no idea what sort of danger waiting for me here. Because it was on this particular evening that I was robbed.

Like many other typical nights in this street, I had already seen people approaching me with all sorts of offers, from tea ceremonies to massage services and many other interesting invitations. I had already heard that one of my friends was recently scammed and was forced to pay a certain amount of money. But, I wanted to see more than those “hearsays”. I convinced myself that I would not be convinced enough until I experienced it myself. So curious, I accepted a tea-ceremony invitation from a stranger on the street.

“Come this way,” he said, leading me to a place that looked like a karaoke bar.
“I will just look around and leave, right?” I asked.
“Yes, no need to pay anything. Just see,” said the friendly man with a smile that reminded me of the crook in Dennis The Menace.

I was taken to a cozy place filled with sweet aroma and soothing music. Sitting comfortably in a sofa, I was served with an assortment of tea and fruits. I had a sip of tea with hard-to-name flavour and waited calmly for a drama to unfold. A middle-aged lady sitting next to me was talking in an over-friendly manner, asking about my original Swatch watch, about my student life in Melbourne, and about which hotel that I was currently staying. But I kept all the details to myself and trying to play safe while giving the hints that I was not really interested in their so-called tea ceremony. Half an hour passed and I said that I wanted to leave. Just when I wanted to get up and thought the game was over, the music suddenly stopped and the friendly ambience suddenly turned into a kind of a crime scene in CSI. Three muscular men entered the room and looked super ready to cut me into pieces.

“This is the bill,” one of them said, showing a ridiculous bill amounting to RMB9988 (equivalent to RM4972.90 or AUD1623.40).
“No, I’m not interested in your service,” I said.
“Then who’s going to pay for all of these?” he said, pointing to the tea cups and fruits on the table. I stayed composed for a few seconds and tried to be reasonable. I saw no point of being panicked or arguing since I could be physically harmed by these strong men at any time or, worst still, sold into the black market in different body parts.
“Okay, okay,” I said calmly. “Take all my money. This is all I’ve got.” I showed them RMB300 in my wallet.
“No, we don’t want your cash, give me your credit cards,” he said.

I gave them my Malaysian credit cards, which were certainly going to be declined since those cards were already reaching their limits. When they came back with disappointment, I gave them my Australian debit master card and, to my surprise delight, it was successful. Standing close to me, they forced me to sign a transaction and write the word AGREE on another document. I waited for the next dramatic scene to appear, but they let me out a few minutes later. Walking back into my hotel, I felt like I had just walked into someone else’s dream. But I could still taste the sweet tea in my mouth, feel the hidden fear inside me, and curse myself for the stupid game. Still, I was relieved that I could recognize myself in one piece that night. It was not until the next morning that it finally dawned to me that I had just been electronically mugged.

SHANGHAI’S LAST PILGRIMAGE

I woke up feeling so exhausted, as if all the energy had been drained out of me completely. Still thinking about my utter ignorance and costly curiosity, I called the bank in Australia and cancelled the card. I also called my mum afterwards for familiar comfort, though I wouldn’t tell her what had happened to me. I felt a sudden pang of loneliness and a desperate urge to fly back to my home country at any cost. Then I remembered my promise to Timo – I was supposed to meet him that morning to accompany him for what he called the “Last Pilgrimage”. I didn’t feel like doing a bare-footed pilgrimage after getting robbed, of course, but, as they said, there was no use crying over spilt milk. I told myself that I had to move on. Maybe a pilgrimage would do a good thing for my soul repairing, so to speak.

Pulling all my strength together, I met Timo and tried to distract myself from what happened. Timo was surprisingly supportive, despite his “American” meanness and all that. He told me not to worry, since that was always the way with traveling. I felt like smacking his face on the street, but then I wanted to smack mine when I knew that he was damn right. He was only 25 years old, but I admired his easygoingness, straightforwardness and uncomplicatedness. Maybe that’s the way with the European upbringings – simply venture the possibilities of the world and make do with their sweet and bitter results. No wonder he won the best student paper award at the conference.

So off Timo and I went into the clean and naked streets of Shanghai with no local guides. Most of the time, I was just walking blindly while Timo navigated the exploration with his Lonely Planet travel guide. We walked past myriads of sights and smell and colours: beautiful urban gardens filled with old couples singing and dancing in merriment; backstreets filled with local women enjoying the cool early summer afternoon; old towns filled old architecture, temples, foods and souvenirs. It was a thrill to just have a quick preview, a “touch ‘n go” sort of experience over people’s everyday livings and immediately leave the scenes as they were. Being able to have a taste of everything in Shanghai backstreet alleys was simply amazing.

If there was one thing that I could nominate as Shanghainese national favorite pastime, it would be spitting. As far as my 7-day limited experience was concerned, I couldn’t help to notice that people were spitting casually on the street as if it was the most natural thing to do on earth. Timo and I tried to imitate this spitting activity, but we were too polite to even accumulate the ample amount of green mucus in our throats.

Occasionally, we stopped by at a local store, trying to buy something and using a sign language at our best to bargain for the right price. We ended up, however, not buying anything since that was not our primary target – we just wanted to have fun without getting too monetarily involved. But too late, we were also almost victimized by these greedy, sneaky, scamful people.

“Gosh, they were so brilliant!” said Timo after we were almost tricked into believing that there was indeed a genuine “tea festival”. Three fake tourists from China had just approached us and pretended to be interested in tea tasting. The moment I realized that they took us to a private store, I sensed the danger right away and pulled Timo out of the scene. It was another well-planned scam to rip off tourists’ money.
“Yes, they are a master of trickery!” I said. “Would you believe that this has just happened to me last night?”
“Sneaky people!” said Timo with his trademark humour of pee-paw.

TOP OF THE WORLD

We ended our “Last Pilgrimage” at one of the best places in the world – the Observatory Deck on the Shanghai World Financial Center, the world’s highest observatory. We came an hour early before the sunset, so we waited patiently for the night to fall. Standing tall at 474 meters above the ground, I saw a glittering world slowly appearing around me – The Bund sparkling horizontally before me, the Oriental Pearl Tower sprinkling its neon lights on my right, Jin Mao Tower standing proudly right in front of me.

I stood here for a long time, thinking of all the events that had dragged me up until that point. And I was thinking, I should no longer fear for the unknown if I was capable of achieving what I wanted. No matter what happened, at the end of the day, I was the one who would finally decide how high I wanted to stand up.

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.