pensive

I appreciate these things :

• a roof to live under
• food on the table
• a mother, a brother, a distant father, a distant sibling
• a few good friends
• wages, a job even when it’s temporal

I am sad about these things:

• failing a writing test to a job i really wanted to learn from
• no motivation to do any art

the perennial family disputes

I was unaware of certain cracks in the new relationships my family and I have formed with my in-laws. This week, the cracks opened itself up and we’re tossed into temporary chaos.

My mother had a dispute with her daughter-in-law. The matter is very trivial. My mother’s message to my sister-in-law was misconstrued as threatening. Her rather callous message (in my opinion) was to tell my sister-in-law that she must not discriminate my brother who is now her husband. My mother’s point was to show that she does not take light if society casts an evil eye on her eldest son. In my opinion, she is being possessive and showing her insecurities to the young couple.

The icing on the bitter cake came when my sister-in-law responded to her message. That’s where the situation elevated into a new level. She accused her mother-in-law of being jealous as she is a divorcee and told her not to see her again. Ironically, when my mother spoke to her daughter-in-law’s mother,the conversation was quite explosive. There was no agreement that my sister-in-law’s words were harsh for a young woman to say to her mother-in-law. However, my mother was accused of turning a molehill into a mountain by being authoritative and show varying degrees of firmness to her daughter. She said that my mother was not speaking respectfully to her daughter.

My mother had temporarily cried over the matter but being who she is, the thoughts stayed with her for a long time. She is unable to shake off the words and replied to my sister-in-law by thanking her for showing her true colours.

In retrospective, the disputes started even before the two got married. My sister-in-law had a child out of wedlock and to circumvent the situation, the couple were married off. To make things worse, my father did not represent my brother as the wali (groom’s representative) to solemnize the marriage. In our community, this is a big sign of worry. Most will know that this means, the father is disapproving and that the son refused to listen to advice. Soon, the first child was born and months later, the second baby arrived. The speed at which my brother’s life changed was amazing. I didn’t know how he could cope with such a huge change while he is still a young man yet to spread his wings in life.

In a plural society like ours, these incidents make me laugh. I felt there is no escaping family disputes and all I can really do is to indefinitely laugh at the first signs of a potentially risky dispute building up or even blog about it.

a fair amount of judgment call

six months. not bad for a new job, new colleagues, new boss, new office.  in retrospective, the amount of time i spent on non-profit work could have been shorter. five years was too long. in plural capitalistic societies like singapore, it is imperative to move on from a job after a few years. for higher salaries, higher posts, higher expectations.

not exactly in a better position but i’m getting more pay and more time to myself as compared to five years of non-profit work. time spent on solving other people’s problems and leaving mine aside. diminishing the self in a crowd of others. i’m a contract staff now. i am not leading things, i exist with a team, i work with many departments with varying degrees of firmness. i am remaking myself into something the system required of citizens. nothing negative about it, just realistic.

my job? i’m asked to exercise a fair amount of judgment call. at the same time, i am required to keep the boundaries in view. which leaves me in between hesitation and resolution. it seems i am not to take everything at face value and double confirm everything to keep myself safe. and well, to keep the system safe and soundproof. which means i’ve had to run to my colleagues a few times to ask if it’s the right move. i don’t dislike the task though.

on days when we’re bored or feeling sleepy, conversations fill the room. chatty female colleagues talking about everything from movie stars, fellow male colleagues, lunch options, weekend badminton outings, former colleagues, future of our jobs and also family. regular things people talk about. en masse, as a group, we combine our heads to overcome moments of lethargy. the unpredictability of our future environment fuels our current conversations the most. then, as if to not leave conversations dampened with negative scenarious, we’ll come up with suggestions on possible company to apply jobs to. i’m so touched by their conscience, i’m really lucky to have these women to bounce ideas, jokes and worries with. this form of office sisterhood is very rare for me. and i don’t dislike it at all.

i’ve got a bloodline looking for the root

mummy must have said something in the past that made me think my parents met at a prata stall. in fact it is not true. they met while mummy was briefly working as a parking attendant and dad was serving his national service. mummy did not fail to add it was a brief job stint which i suspect is because she’s not proud of these past jobs she’s had – i think she had dreams of achieving but was unable to reach her potential due to various reasons. one was how strict her dad was on letting her have her freedom to be socially mobile. in fact it was my grandfather who told mummy to bring dad home so that he could formally meet him and arrange their marriage. i grew more and more sad thinking about this. my parents had to marry not because they wanted to but because they wanted to please mummy’s dad! it is no wonder that their marriage was so tumultuous and at the same time, implicating me and my brother’s development. I can’t help but feel she should not have told me or at least tell me earlier on in my life to cut short the emotional highs and lows I’ve had to go through just to feel a little less sad about my upbringing. Sigh.

Two post-colonial bodies…

met at a carpark…

going about their business…

led by dreams of shooting the moon…

an accidental meeting and a legacy of disaster afterwards…

 

 

 

this week, in short

I was looking through websites and figuring out how to start writing a book proposal for me to enroll into a Creative Writing course in a university. The direction is to write a summary of the book idea. I thought this pretty much sums up my family history though there’s more to discover.

————————–

I have had a wish to write the story of my grandmother who passed away in 2001 to stroke. She was born in Singapore as a British subject and lived through the Japanese Occupation. Her father was an immigrant from Bangladesh (before it was known as Bangladesh) as a colonial soldier. My grandmother was born in the year 1922 and she did not have her birth date recorded in her identity card. She has a sister with a brother who was still born. Her mother was a washerwoman.

The book that I wish to write looks at more than one character. My grandmother being a central character, the book wants to look into the character of my grandfather, an immigrant from Himachal Pradesh, India who came to Singapore as a British colonial soldier to escape a life back home which was pre-planned for him. My grandfather was a 21 year old Indian of Brahmin descent who rejected his middle-classed life in search of adventures beyond India. He came to Singapore and met my grandmother who was working in a carpet factory. During the time they met, my grandmother was a divorcee with four miscarriages. She was in her 30s and caring for two of her younger sister’s daughters. My grandmother was much older than him when they met. They both never tied the knot but created a family life where my grandmother’s family shunned her due to the restrictions in Islam that forbids a woman from marrying a non-Muslim man. They had a peaceful family life but not rife with struggles such as financials, domestic violence and confusion over identity.

The story would span India, Bangladesh, Singapore and Pakistan. My mother’s grandfather was born in Perak, Malaysia from a Pakistani descended family of sheep herders. His family came from Mansehra, Pakistan where they sold their land and uprooted via the Silk route to Malaysia before moving down to Singapore. My grandfather lost four of his siblings in Malaysia during the Japanese Occupation where his siblings died from drinking water from a poisoned well. My grandfather worked in several government postings – peon, dispatch rider – before retiring. He married an Indonesian woman while in retirement that led to animosities with his children.

The book would end off with an account of my family in present times and how their past implicated their future.

——————————————

Other pertinent happenings in my life this week includes :

• mummy told me about how her father debated over the issue of having to move out of their Bedok kampung into estates and how their family were the last ‘Malay/Muslim’ family to move. I don’t know why she told me this but I suspect she’s proud of this fact?
• a cousin got married this week at Lagun Sari and Mummy’s cousin whom she’s not been in touch for some years came. Uncle Laale was my grandfather’s nephew and he was implicated when my grandad asked him to be the witness to his marriage to an Indonesian woman in her late 30s. My mother said the family did not want to help grandad because they do not think he should marry at his age (that time 68) but he insisted so they did not want to support him and refused to be witness to his wedding. So mummy’s cousin who did not know anything came to meet grandad in the knowledge of catching up however was obligated to sign the documents as witness. He regretted doing it and shied away from our family for 15 years. Only recently, he got in touch with mummy because he heard of grandad’s death.
• my 2nd brother did not attend the wedding and Mummy scolded him because she thought he should come as my aunt worked tirelessly to help him with his wedding (cooking, cleaning etc). Mummy disapproved of his behaviour and thought he must have some sensitivities towards others who helped him.

In a state of Tabula Rasa

At Lasalle, where I studied Art Therapy, I took an instant liking to the Freudian style of a Blank Slate. I used this method when interacting with clients as an intern at the Singapore Association for Mental Health and HOME, where I worked with migrant workers. Ironically, I used the blank slate most with my patients in SAMH. It was a way of retreating to understand a population I have never worked with before as compared to migrant workers where I was used to communicating with prior to Lasalle.

In using this style, I learned more about my patients. I worked with a PTSD patient who was much better at non-verbal movements than verbal. He made artworks of animals with clear precision, lines, thick lines with colour filled into the characters. He would hesitate when using art materials and look up to me for a sign of approval and I’ll let him have the materials. His artworks made me feel as if they were very child-like, an unmet desire he’s had before the car accident. In one instance, his father told him to show me his former artworks and I felt touched by how the father is extending information about the son. When I meet this young man of my age the transference I encounter is of missed opportunities, missed future.

Since moving into my new job, I’ve yet to adapt fully to the new working environment. Thankfully I have made new friends with my colleagues and they listened to my honest sharing about adjusting. I like my colleagues and I like listening to the jokes they share, the boybands they love, the Korean movie stars, weddings (3 of whom are preparing for marriage) and one of them sharing stories of her children in school and the little mistakes they make at home. Their wallpapers are filled with family photos, spouses, fiancees and tables filled with cartoon-like flower pots and other miniature cartoon characters like the Tasmanian Devil, Prince Charming, Koala Bears and red sports cars. For the past four months that I have spent with these women and men, we have celebrated 1 birthday, a farewell gathering, a staff conference, a national day gathering and social gathering which involves activities outside of work. In between we talked about all sorts of things, family, match-making a colleague to a friend, clothes, sales etc. A recent farewell gathering for a colleague led to tears for some who adored her, with a relatively close colleague rallying us all to contribute to a set of 12 cupcakes with her name inscribed on it. These pink cupcakes were bought online through a home business owner. I’ve heard from Mum about these Facebook business owners, fascinating trends online…

 

a realist father, a purist mother, a long-term denial

met with dad on Sunday. I was supposed to meet him the week before on Hari Raya Haji which also happened to be my birthday. But he had to cancel because of plans with his wife. Increasingly, dad is not paying attention to my birthdays, new developments, career path, future. The time he has now is focused on his new family, a young wife and a young daughter. I am just a memory from his first marriage, which he wants to forget, as best as he can.

New identities, new purpose, new storyline. In this second marriage, he is boss, he is the ultimate decision-maker, he forms the status quo, he tells you what to do.  And what he wants, is to fully satisfy his insatiable need to control, create and play god. He is misanthropic. He is verbally and mentally abusive. He is a communist. He is a surrealist. Still, some find him good.

I came home, to Toa Payoh, where my secondary school life began. Where my grandmother had her fair share of fights with her son, where the silence was deafening in our family. Where we lived, 22nd floor, overlooked a mosque. Where I went to madrasah, where I left at 14 for umrah, where I developed the fear of heights, where I saw mum and dad bleeding from each other.

I rummaged through my things. Picked up some clothes, a long black kaftan that belonged to mum, a few casual clothes, books. Beneath my cupboards, lay my father’s secret. He never talked much about his dad. He wanted to tell my younger brother. My brother won’t listen. He has been poisoned, taught by mum to hate dad for his wrongdoings. For his misogynist, sadism and immoral behaviour towards her. Mummy lived with rage, rage that spilled onto her children.

Mummy said she met Dad at a prata stall. They were introduced to each other via Mummy’s school friend. Dad and this friend from Macpherson Secondary School are into music, lived close to each other and played soccer together. Mum was fair-skinned, had long wavy hair and slim. Mummy always reminded me she was far more educated than dad.

Dad as a boy in the family photo of his family, with my grandparents and eldest aunt who was adopted. Dad looked wide-eyed, in shorts, a shirt and holding onto my eldest aunt’s hand. I’ve always known him to be close to my eldest aunt, guess this picture sort of gives me a visual of their relationship. Grandma was with her youngest kids, fraternal twins, the boy being my youngest uncle had a disability with his legs. She was protective of him till he was very old. So much to extrapolate from an old photo.

He sent me to the bus stop. He noticed the pimples on my face and asked me what’s wrong. I had to say something to progress the conversation so I said, it’s the fried food cooked by mum. He bought that and asked how was I going home and I said by taking bus number 8 from the bus interchange. He said there is a 59 right in front the bus stop nearest to our block which will lead me to Bedok Reservoir Road. He gave me specific instructions on where to stop as if I don’t know my way around. He walked off without waiting for me to board the bus. I waved at him when the bus came just as he was waiting to cross the traffic lights to our home on the next lane. He waved back. I remember Dad threw away a lot of his old photos but kept one copy of his family and one copy of his marriage with my mum. I guess, he’s where he wants to be with his new life now. I’ll just have to accept it and move on.

At home with mummy. She asked if he had started to work again, she asked of my little sister, she asked about dad’s 2nd wife. She won’t stop asking these things. You’ll hear the summary of whatever I told her from another source down the road, in another occasion, through a family relative. Mum won’t shut up.  At least not now. Mum went on about how hypocritical he is for practicing religion yet depending on his wife’s wages to support himself. She said it’s against the beliefs of Islam and it’s against the tenets of married life. I wanted to laugh. Religion will seep into discussions about family members very easily. That purist reference for us to run towards to should we find something wrong with reality. She can’t get over the shame of going through her first marriage. She felt cheated, conned into agreement, gave him a chance, he faltered, she grew dissapointed, she moved on first and he felt insulted, it was a competition between the two, me and my brother unwilling messengers, made servants to our parents’ denial over their affection towards each other despite the distance for many years.  The great big white elephant in the room, the pregnant silence, the truth, the healing between all four of us will be our life-long journey till our deaths.

 

 

 

 

the chilli sauce to go with your fried chicken wings.

raj and ren returned to singapore for a visit. both are visiting their parents for diwali and catching up with family. we met twice, once on my birthday and the other was a day after raj’s birthday. some of the conversations we had were interesting, some turning me into a timorous little mouse.

we had conversations about living in melbourne, the streets, the people, the job. it comes across as a struggle to me listening to my friend’s description of life down under. raj described how people use dark alleyways to cross over onto the other side when they know that it is dangerous to do so and that choosing the longer route around is safer. this made me think about safety and i wondered how many alleyway murders happened in melbourne since like 10 years ago and if there was a pattern to the victims who fell into the trap of alleyway murderers.

one of my other friends who live and work in Singapore just like me, talked about some changes in her workplace. she realised some changes in her routine, she said that she tries to keep to herself more often now in the office, even lunching out on her own more often these days. it struck me that this is a significant change in my friend whom i knew for the last six years. why i say this is because she is a very sociable person, a people’s person who becomes vibrant and chatty around people. Perhaps, becoming chatty has it’s due date and once the deadline is over, there is a whole new due date to meet. Maybe, the next due date is how to balance sociability without coming off as arrogant in order to keep the office dynamics at a comfortable level. I personally have issues balancing my chatty colleagues and focusing on meeting my work objectives. I recently thought more about it and I concluded that it is abnormal for me to find problems with my openly sociable colleagues as how one manages the office dynamics provides insight into one’s personality. The inability for me to adjust to my new work environment is a pedantic obsession over territory. And that makes me feel inept. Because that may mean, I have an ego. And I don’t want to have an ego, or a superego or and id just like how Freud made it out to be.

For me, the second time the five of us met was the highlight of my week. We talked about really serious almost bordering upon the apocalyptic stories of corporatization, crime and the eventual future plans to work towards despite the grim realities we’re surrounded with. Amidst our conversations, sights of overweight women with beer mugs and cigarettes, white men and their families, Chinese uncles clearing our tables, Indian men serving chai, working girls in over the top outfits, lesbians or what looked like lesbians, men with orange coloured shirts, we talked about the nuanced realities of the branding world, consumerist tendencies and how these attachments to products were socially engineered by Machiavelli-like corporate men with a hyper-realist imagination or men who want to tempt fate, distorting the realities, surrealists in business suits cheating everyone who dared to believe their lies and pay good money for it too.  I am glad, I never grew up with any intentions of making lots of money, I know the path I chose will not earn me much, I just can’t imagine waking up each day and performing a morally bankrupt job that does not guarantee you long-term happiness. That said, who is to know what the stories of these men/women, Prophet Muhammad’s wife was a businesswoman herself and he was her employee before becoming her husband of which she proposed to.

Next, we talked about careers, plans the future. We moved smoothly into a conversation about existential desires, family life thrown into the picture for added drama. My girlfriends have desires they want to achieve, career-wise, and to do so takes time, but the constant reminder of one’s biological clock kid of disrupts the thought process. I did not agree on this and I felt like saying something, but my hesitation stopped me. Upon my reflection, I knew that my hesitation was derived from the fact that it is the truth. That the point of life comes into full circle upon the arrival of a child. The child becomes a peaceful resolution, a reward, a key to unlock the treasure box of fulfillment, the chilli sauce to go with your fried chicken wings.

 

An acquaintance

Received an email from a colleague in a former job. took me a while to recall how i met her, alas, she helped me to remember. her email goes like this : -

 

Hello Sha,

I think we first met when we were trying to be freelancers for Lime magazine way back when.

Then I got to know that you are good friends with Ravinder when I was working at the production company she was with. We probably met once or twice then. Hope that refreshes your memory.

Sure sounds like XXX will be a different ballgame for you but I’m sure you’ll do just great. :) I went to XXX for my Degree and I’m glad there’s greater interest to regulate private education here. 

I write for XXX, been here for a bout two years now. We do mainly employment and union related stories. Soft copies of the paper are available here: XXX

 

I first met my friend in my early 20s before I joined the migrant worker advocacy groups. I wanted to write for a living and I landed in several freelance posts with companies like Mediacorp and SPH publishing. I was never able to sustain a particular internship I had with a woman’s magazine. I was dissapointed to be told that I’m not fit for the job. Eventually I ended up writing for a small new start-up for two years. It was a better job and I had more space to be myself.  But the magazine was not making money and it closed down. Tough future ahead as I was certain to have clinched the role of editor but fate has different ideas. My friend and I met again when she worked for my other friend’s production company.  She’s not a very chatty person and I didn’t really get to know her that well. Nice to see that someone you didn’t really get to know deeply remember you and write to you.

Cuticura Talcum Powder

 

Cuticura Talcum Powder

Tall orange and white colored plastic bottle

with a white cap attached to its top that can be twisted to release medicated-scented powder through several punched in holes assembled in a circular format.

i go to school with you on my body

i smell you on me, you smell me on you

your scent is on my cheeks, forehead and nose. my grandmother rubbed you all over me, leaving me looking all white and my face feeling so smooth.

underneath my armpits, you reside safely with a purposeful future, to keep me dry, absorb my perspiration, help me to feel personal freshness throughout the day, comforting presence from home that I bring with me to school, we’re friends for life, you on me and I on you.

Cuticura Talcum Powder, mildly medicated which cools, soothes and calms. Who is this brand genius that gave birth to you? I want to congratulate him for making my school day experiences personally refreshed by you.