The Ultimate Hero

                                             

              Years ago it was Titanic, now it's Twilight. Long before that it was Shakespeare's  Romeo and Juliet and the Chinese Butterfly Lovers.

 All the fans, especially girls, love the stories and wouldn't mind watching the shows or reading the books over and over again. 

                                            Why?  

We all love romance in our lives, especially females because we all want to be loved. Guys, of course may find it too soppy to admit but don't they too desire to find the one? 

We want to hear the ultimate love story, we want to find the ultimate lover.

We want to to seek out the true Hero who loves us and put us and our well-being upon a pedestal above his own; who is unafraid of all dangers, all pain, all humiliation and  sufferings for our sake and who will even sacrifice his own life and die for us.

In other words, we are all seeking for the man called Jesus Christ.

Alice

Alice was my hairdresser for more than 10 years. We'd see each other about 3 or 4 times a year, sometimes just twice. Somehow,we seem to connect well and as she patiently snipped off of bits of my hair away, gently reassuring me that the outcome will be very feminine and won't make my husband flip, we will chat endlessly about all sorts of things. No agenda, just two very different people from different backgrounds but we will just talk.

She's single whereas I'm married; she's from a Chinese-speaking background, I'm English-speaking, barely able to read Chinese; she's a staunch Buddhist, I'm Catholic: she comes from a small town, I grew up in a big city. Our superficial differences makes conversation interesting and our similarities in underlying outlook in life makes us click. Popular hairdressers like her are also very good listeners. They know how to empathise with people. They are patient and genuinely interested in others. They remember what you told them months or even years ago. They often fill in the void that busy husbands and grownup children had left behind. Because of this, they are a wealth of information. They know about the economic situation before most of us. They can tell you where to eat, which country to avoid on holidays,  what are the latest scams in town, and so on.

Alice treated cutting hair as an art. Each year she would forego weeks of earnings to attend international hair-shows followed by a vacation. In the recent years, she would even take all of the 15 days of Chinese New Year off, something most business people would never do, to celebrate the New Year with her mother in her home town, Sitiawan, followed by some meditation camp in some quiet location.

When she was not working, Alice took up yoga, went for meditation and Buddhist classes. During weekends, she went to old folks home and gave them free haircuts and listened to their stories. In the recent years, Alice had turned totally vegetarian. We discussed at great length about health foods, too. She introduced me to a couple of good vegetarian restaurants and places to buy organic foods. She even taught me how to make enzymes. She was also going to pass me some more recipes but alas, it was not to be. In August, my daughter who refuses to go to any other hairdresser but Aunty Alice, was able, at long last, to take time off her studies to have her haircut. I called the saloon, only to be told that she was not well but would be back later part of the year. I found out later that a few days after that, on the 14th day of the Chinese seventh month, Alice passed away of breast cancer.

 I remember my second trip to her saloon and the story she shared with me. it goes like this:

Once upon a time there were two monks who were very close friends. They did everything together and were inseparable. As they grew old, they promised each other that when they died, they will try their very, very best to find each other in the next life no matter what form they were incarnated as.

Eventually they both passed away. The first monk was reincarnated and travelled all over the world looking for his friend for many years. However, he had no success. Very exhausted, he cannot understand why there was no sign of his good friend who must surely be searching for him too. Still, he held on to this promise and continued his journey dreaming about the great things they would do together once they found each other. 

Then one fine day, his persistence was eventually rewarded. He found his long lost friend. But sadly, he had been incarnated into a worm in a pile of dung. He wanted to help his friend to get of the shit in the literal sense, to give him a new clean home, to take him along to travel the lengths and breadths of the world, to continue their previous discourses about the meaning of life, to enjoy poetry, art music and all the fine things they used to share together. But try as he would, his friend would not  bulge. Finally, sick of his pestering, his friend turned around and said to him:

' Look, I'm happy here. I've got lots to eat and no need to work. I love this pile of shit. I don't want to go any where or be anything else. I don't remember what promises we'd made in the previous life. Please go away and leave alone me to enjoy the life I like in peace.'

 Thoroughly disappointed, the first monk had to accept his friend's choice and continue his journey sadly without him.

We laughed heartily at the end of the story and Alice said that she didn't want to be just like the worm, only eating shit and existing. That was why she took time off to travel, to learn new things, to meet new people, to help others, to improve herself.

Each time I look in the mirror at my increasingly messy hair, I think of my friend and find it hard to believe that I can't just dial the familiar number to make an appointment to see her. Then I remember this little tale and am sure she's really gone travelling to the beyond.

Alice, wherever you are, may the Almighty bless you.

I live in a construction site

My house had been surrounded by constant construction for the past few years. Initially it was renovations, then it became redevelopment. Because ours is an old area, many of the single storey houses are being transformed into brand new doubled storey houses Our neighbour even wanted to put in a hundred piles just a few feet away from us. Fortunately, the one across the road advised against it and all I have to put up with is the constant demolition, hacking, cement grinding, shovelling, drilling as well as the Indonesian colonies that spring up in the compound. Little make shift shacks for the builders of these grand mansions but once almost ready, a guard is employed, these people are quickly locked out of the place they help build, shipped off to another shack in another site.

Each house wants to be the grandest and the tallest. I truly welcome this, the former so that the burglars will not target us, the latter so that lightning also will not strike us. It is really interesting to watch the progress of the whole thing. Initially, all the lights, chandeliers, garden lights etc will be on every night. There'll be laughter, excitement and streams of visitors. Then the smell of satay and roast lamb, with cars blocking the tiny road as open houses takes place at the slightest excuse. Then the lights will slowly dim leaving only a few major ones or even none (like my next door Datuk's). There usually will be some yelling at the maid or maids for something or other for not doing things correctly or worse still for wrecking their brand-new expensive stuff. 

There will be quite a bit of activity in the garden, owners, maids, gardeners etc doing gardening, planting, watering beautiful flowers or making new additions. There will also in the mornings or evenings be people exercising in the compound, children playing and laughing. Gradually however, the novelty will die down and soon, all that one sees are cars coming in or out of driveways and maids doing something or other. After a while, even the maids seldom appear, only when their garbage collectors friends or the postman comes. More junk pile up in the previously pristine compound: stacks of newspapers, shoes lying around, bicycles that had seen better days....

Of course not all houses suffer the same fate. But ours did!

Old Friends in Singapore

                                                     Cova at Paragon, Orchard Road

It is a real honour for me that my old friends who are so busy to always try make time for dinner or lunch with me whenever I go back to Singapore. Sometimes, regretfully, we can only have long chats over the phones but even then, these may not be so easy for them. Most are living very busy lives, some have children to supervise, dinner to cook, elderly parents to look after, sick family members to attend to, important meetings to attend, lectures to prepare, assignments and examination scripts to make, pets to take care of, companies to run, planes to catch and many, many more. What more, most of the food they stuff me with are delicious food, be it at fanciful restaurants or simple food courts.

                                               More Happy Faces   ..........

                        When desserts are unlimited, we tend to take more that we can chew...

                                              Yummy Dim-sum at Shaw Centre

  This photo was taken with a great deal of self-control. It was Sunday brunch and we were all starving and dying to stab our chopsticks into the food; yet here we are, all looking laid back and polite, but only for short second to snap the photo.

         

 A closer look at the food, of course this was not all, as is the case with dim-sum, we always ordered more as we went along, again with more than we can finish, the genetically inherited Chinese fear of starving always in our blood.

Going back to visit Singapore has always been an emotional affair with me, all the more so since Daddy passed away two years ago. The dizzy changes making it harder to find my way around, the increase in migrants with their many languages, the so many ever-changing latest craze, fads, fashion, trends, whatever ...  makes me feel like an foreign tourist in my birthplace. Yet an isolated reminder of the old days - a school uniform unchanged, a past favourite haunt which had escaped the bulldozer, a dusty book in a second-hand bookshop .. all these transport me back to times past making me feel uncomfortably nostalgic and old as I join the human waves in the tube.

My mind continues to churn out the thoughts, often wordlessly. Am I trying to hang on to what is no longer? Will these butterflies fluttering in my stomach ever cease? Am I clinging to shadows that exist only in my mind?

On such occasions, I wonder if I should just forget about this place called Singapore, sell my flat and never come back? After all, the place as I remember it, is no more and there are many other places I long to visit.

 Then something makes me feel still rooted to the ground in all that gentle turmoil - family and friends and food. To all of you, I say thank you! 

And I know that my memories continue to be created, not just mine but my daughter's too - lovely colourful young memories  flowing alongside in unity with the black and white ones .

white day dreams 白日梦

When I was young, I hated eating rice and mealtimes. I love candies, ice-cream, noodles but come mealtimes, I became all but fossilised, staring onto the blank wall outside the window. Mum will say," Stop making white day dreams, stop staring at the wall and eat up. What is there to stare at? Is there a movie playing? All I can see is the white blank wall. Come-on, chew your food and swallow." A chorus of 'chew your food and swallow' will ensue from the maid. Often times she will entertain me with stories and false promises to buy me balloons and take me to the  "New World" amusement park. None of these promises were ever fulfilled, they were beyond the means of a 14 year old servant girl and I sort of knew it but nevertheless, I enjoyed the tirade and co-operated reluctantly by chewing my food and swallowing it a little faster and opening my mouth bigger for the next spoonful and drinking less water in between.

Ever since then, I had now and then engage in this kind of daydreaming. Sometimes the daydreams crystallise into thoughts less fleeting. Sometimes I'll tell others what I'm thinking about to entertain or to influence or to frighten, to exhort and boss over - whatever the mood and occasion calls for. Friends or family then asked why not put it down in writing but my best friend, procrastination is not in favour so it took all this while to out-rule him.

Nowadays, I am enjoying my rice more and eating marginally faster so there is less time to create 'white day dreams'. Nevertheless, old habits die hard and now that time seems to be moving faster and faster, I thought I'd better share some of these with you.

when the tables have turned

This blog started because of all the nagging. It's nag and nag and nag.......

Ever since I got married and more so when the children came along, I had made a career of nagging. It 's 'hurry up', 'remember to be back in time for the children's....',  'have you finished your homework?', 'practice your organ!','when are you going to bathe?';  'when are you going to change the light bulb'; ' go to bed', ' you mustn't eat so much heaty/cooling/sweet/spicy/salty/high cholesterol foods...' and so on and so forth.....

It's tiresome, sometimes I wish I can engage some professional to do it  instead. But then who would want such tedious work and how much can one fork out, plus how to check the suitable candidate's training background and credentials? And how many are as good a nag as me? Maybe my brother who takes after Grandpa? Even my Dad and my elder sis, those strong-willed ones will not just give way to him but will also act in accordance to his anticipated  wishes in order to avoid a bout of nagging. Why is it then that no one is making a big deal out of it? Why no seminars or tv programs, top-sellers' self-help' how to' nagging books ( well, Oz's Wendy Harmer has little illustrated funny book on it) or even a simple ode to this art?

Anyway, I digress. All parents, teachers, housewives do, that is digress ( and of course nag) . And I'm all of these. But poets do digress too, at least Lord Byron does, so that's not too bad. One day I received a post card from London. Among other things, it says, ' Thank you for all your nagging, please continue to nag!' It was from my ex-students.

This time however, the tables have turned. It's my daughter who has been nagging me to start a blog. And as testimony to the effectiveness of her success in this art, here it is ...