Growing Old Is A Gift - Jasmina Awards 2019 by KLDVCT

Growing Old is a Gift -‐ Perspectives and heartfelt sharing from our elders -‐ 1

Dedication When it was time for our cat to die, she was already so frail and hadn’t eaten for a few days. He wrapped her gently in his old shirt and held her in his arms in the car ride to the vet, so that she would feel cocooned in his smell and warmth. She slipped away so quickly; gently and peacefully. Then he carried her back and we buried her in the garden, tears of sadness mingled with smiles for the memories and that she was no longer suffering. When it came to his patients, he would always ask the young doctors "what if this was your father or mother or sister or brother? What would you want for her?“ for he wished to treat every one as though they were a loved one. Exactly 4 weeks ago, this gentle man woke in the middle of the night and within a few minutes, had passed away. The Jasmina Awards and this book is the result of the innumerable thoughts and acts of gentleness and kindness by my husband which have reached deep into my heart. Sunita Rajakumar Monday 16 September 2019 2

Contents

Preface First Prize Winner in the My Malaysia Story Category Chandrika K.V. Nair Second Prize Winner in the My Malaysia Story Category M A Badrie Third Prize Winner in the My Malaysia Story Category Husna Binti Kassim *** First Prize Winner in the Love Story Category Sheela Kanagasabai Second Prize Winner in the Love Story Category Tripat Narayanan Third Prize Winner in the Love Story Category Kuang Ching Hei ***

First Prize Winner in the Journey Story Category Ananda Kumar

Second Prize Winner in the Journey Story Category Kalsom Taib Third Prize Winner in the Journey Story Category Dato’ Shaari bin Mohd Noor *** Short story entry by the oldest participant for Jasmina Awards 2019 Dawn Usharani Biswas

First Prize Winner in the My Malaysian Poem Category Alice Aruthan

Second Prize Winner in the My Malaysian Poem Category Lucille Dass Third Prize Winner in the My Malaysian Poem Category Sarah Abedi

*** First Prize Winner in the Love Poem Category M A Badrie

Second Prize Winner in the Love Poem Category Keats Markandu (Tan Keat Eng)

Third Prize Winner in the Love Poem Category Cheah Sin Chye

*** First Prize Winner in the Journey Poem Category Alice L.T. Ong Second Prize Winner in the Journey Poem Category S H Lim Third Prize Winner in the Journey Poem Category Azizul Kallahan

*** 4

Preface Everyone has eyes that see, hearts that feel and stories to tell. In life, people will go through many meaningful lessons and experiences. Some people may want to share these experiences for the future generations to come or some may just want their voices to be heard for everyone to remember. Through writing and submitting their stories and poems elderly are giving meaningful contribution to our society -‐ their wisdom, experiences, emotions and life lessons that we can all benefit from. The Jasmina Award is the first award in Malaysia that aims to promote and encourage active aging of elderly. It is a great wish of founders of the Award, Datin Seri Sunita Rajakumar, Festival Director of the Kuala Lumpur International Arts Festival (or DiverseCity) and Dr. Jasmina Kuka, that this initiative reaches out to as many elderly in Malaysia as possible and inspires them to continue with storytelling. Supported by DiverseCity, Berjaya’s Better Malaysia Foundation and a team of volunteers, including our hard-‐working jury, the Award aspires to motivate people who are above 60 years old to live active lives, to stay socially engaged and to share their stories and poems about Malaysia, Love and Journeys. These awards are a way to honour and cherish those in their golden years and to keep them as an integral part of our society by immortalising their experiences in words. Jasmina Awards’ journey in Malaysia will continue to promote active ageing knowing that there is much talent and wealth of wisdom that can be shared through stories and poems of our elderly. We hope you will enjoy reading and continue writing.

First Prize Winner in the My Malaysian Story Category Chandrika K.V. Nair 66 years A Sixty Something Malaysian’s Journey through Life’s Corridors I never knew how deep my loyalty was to multi-‐ethnic Malaysia nor appreciated how beautiful she was in all her diversity until I matured and grew to a ripe old age. It was only then that I knew what she meant to me. If not for her I would never have been able to enrich myself with knowledge of other cultures, foods and traditions, I wondered. I would beam with pride when I trod on foreign soil and spotted the Malaysian flag in some far-‐off land or even hear Malaysia being praised by foreigners whom we casually met during our travels overseas. Such were my feelings of patriotism for my homeland that I was raised in. Indeed, I was lucky to have had a childhood that was enriched by memories of living in a multi-‐racial neighbourhood in the small town of Muar. I am proud to have been born in Muar … beautiful Bandar Maharani as it is so aptly called. A name the coastal town of Muar (a jewel in the crown of Johor) truly deserves. As I grew up in the late fifties, all festive occasions irrespective of which culture or religion they belonged to, all were truly welcomed. It meant an occasion to celebrate, congregate and look forward to in the otherwise sleepy hamlet. Events like National Day saw me clutching my grandfather’s hand and heading to the main “padang” in the town centre where I saw soldiers dressed smartly standing in salute to the national flag. I was so excited for it meant watching fireworks later in the day, a gun salute and a concert. In those days when the television was unheard of, such celebrations were highlights in a child’s life. Festive occasions like Deepavali saw me and my little brother in the early 60’s, on my mother’s insistence, carrying heavy trays laden with muruku, omo podi, and other Indian delicacies to the homes of my neighbours and playmates like Ah Kiang, Philip, Heng Wee and Azizah that were some kilometres apart, and not forgetting the Eapens next door. We would grumble having to carry such weighty trays but that effort seemed worth it when during Chinese New Year our home in turn would be laden with Chinese delicacies from the numerous neighbours coupled with dinner invites during Christmas and Hari Raya. That was when I felt those torturous trips that involved carrying those overflowing trays were indeed worth the effort! In the sixties very few homes owned televisions let along telephones. And as my neighbours, the Eapens and the Tans, had TV sets, my brother and I would have no qualms going over to their houses at 7.30pm to watch the Lucy show every week on Fridays and 6

“Man from UNCLE“ on Saturdays. Both neighbours made us feel so welcome when we went over to watch. No one grumbled. My brother and I took it for granted that it didn’t matter -‐ to just walk over to the neigbours to watch TV; something that I would have frowned upon today. That was what living in a small town in Malaysia was like. There was so much of love, tolerance, appreciation and hospitality. Till today we have maintained ties with the Eapens and Tans despite the death of the elders in both the families. We children, though dispersed, still maintain the friendship that existed decades ago. Weddings were another event to look forward to. When my uncles got married, weeks prior to the main event, neighbours would come over in droves to my grandma’s to decorate the house with colourful paper buntings and flowers. There was so much of fun and excitement. Wedding planners were unheard of in our little domains. In the evenings prior to the wedding, there would be huge kwalis placed on small stoves to fry “boondis” made from gram flour that sizzled in hot ghee which would eventually form round balls of laddus, a popular North Indian sweet that a gracious neighbour Mrs Gill, was an expert in making. She would lead a whole contingent of ladies who would chip in to shape hundreds of little rounds of that wonderful mouth-‐watering delicacy. The evenings prior to the wedding would be full of the chatter of these ladies from the neighbourhood who would be squatting in the verandah near the kitchen, rolling batter for diamond chips, another Indian delicacy. I am amazed now with the turn of events as the years pass on -‐ gone is the camaraderie that existed in neighbourhoods. Laddus and diamond chips are no longer made with tender loving care and pride. They are now ordered commercially. Wedding planners take over weddings citing exorbitant prices. Conspicuously absent are the ties that bound neighbours with so much of affection and care. In the roaring sixties, life in small towns was pretty safe too. In fact my children gasp when I now tell them that I used to cycle so fearlessly at 10pm from my grandmother’s house in Jalan Ibrahim a few kilometres away from my home, for rapists and thefts were hardly heard of. Girls could safely walk or cycle or better still take a rickshaw to their destination at late hours. Muar was relatively a safe haven. And I am sure other towns in Malaysia were too then. We Muarians cycled wherever we went as students. We would run errands, visit each other, go to and from school for the numerous activities. Being chauffeured in a car was ununheard of. Besides, for many of our parents, owning a car was a luxury. We were often tanned to the core as we spent long hours cycling in the hot afternoons. We were totally ignorant about sun screens or the like.

My school environment both in primary right up till secondary mirrored my cosmopolitan neighbourhood. I grew up studying in two great schools in Muar … dear SABGS (the Sultan Abu Bakar Girls School) till Form Five, and Muar High School where I did Form Six ... how dear they are still to me … oh for that matter to all of us who trod their corridors. Both schools were prestigious schools of the 60‘s (and I am sure they still are). When I was in secondary school, I somehow could predict that my school days with my dear friends would be some of the best years of my life. I knew that I needed to cherish them dearly. I wasn’t wrong. My life after school became such a rollercoaster : varsity life, working years as a teacher trainer, marriage, raising my children, my spiritual role in the Sathya Sai organisation etc., they all filled my life to the brim. There was no breathing space and absolutely no time to catch up let alone think of schoolmates of yesteryears. Yet there were fleeting moments in all that hustle and bustle when I longed for that wonderful period of innocence and joy that I shared with my childhood friends. I wondered where they all were and whether we would ever meet. And then came retirement. And I finally had some time to pursue my passions ... the first being to trace my former batchmates in SABGS and High School. And the first person I contacted was my former neighbour and schoolmate Prof Normah Dali whom I knew shared my sentiments about locating “old” friends. We went on a “treasure” hunt and succeed we did. We located some of those precious gems who meant a lot to us in yesteryears. And hey presto, we saw Yayasan SABGS being formed, a subsidiary being of course a chat group comprising the “old” girls (ladies … what else do u expect?). We continued making enquiries and managed to find some more of our friends through Facebook, common friends, and some through relatives who still lived in Muar. That was how I finally got in touch with my “best friend“ Kah Long. Kah Long was ecstatic when I called her in Melbourne. I felt as if one of my missions on earth was complete with that discovery. Dear friends like Aie Bee and Milan with whom I competed for first to third placings in primary school were located through Facebook. We also discovered that our dear Norainee had become a Puan Sri. She was now the wife of Tan Sri Muhyiddin Yassin our Home Minister. It was Puan Sri and Datin Rohani who offered to host some of our initial gatherings. They took pains to prepare specially for some of us who had turned vegetarians. Then came 20th August 2016 -‐ the day we were all waiting for. Yes! A dinner in SABGS after more than four decades! We scurried around the school like little schoolgirls trying to locate our classrooms, the playground where we played rounders and the science lab where we gossiped while dissecting frogs. We reminisced about the good old times we had debating and play acting … I remember being a sheikh in one such pantomime, “The Persian Market” and forgetting to erase my drawn moustache until I reached home!

21st August 2016 saw the headmistress of SABGS treating us to a sumptuous lunch. She introduced us to the whole school and sang praises of our patriotism for our alma mater. We were treated like VIPs while the students ogled at us in disbelief that we were once school girls more than 45 years ago. We became instant celebrities. The schoolgirls wanted to pose for photographs with us. We basked in the glory of our new found fame. In the evening, we decided to take a cruise along the Muar river. As we sailed down memory lane, we took a multitude of snaps, relishing every moment. We visited a classmate of ours in Muar who was regrettably put in an old folks’ home. We even passed the hat around to get her a new phone, an offer which was declined. As we said our goodbyes to Muar, we vowed to meet more often. Heart wrenching moments followed immediately after. My dear friend Ai Lian after the lunch in SABGS was all geared up for the next reunion. A few days later, we learned she had died of a heart attack. Nali was next; the bubbly treasurer of Yayasan. She always had a zest for life, being bold and unconventional. She succumbed to cancer. Just a few weeks ago I lost yet another friend Normah who had kidey failure. It was sad to see one by one go. We took pride in coming together on such occasions to mourn and console. We also chipped in when we found that some of our friends were in dire straits financially. A few months back, Jane Chong once the livewire in school was diagnosed with breast cancer. She had no qualms about telling me that her funds were depleted and that she could not afford the expensive chemo sessions. I announced her plight to Yayasan. The response was spontaneous. We joined hands to help fund her treatment as best as we could. It was comforting to know that we had friends who really cared. My Form Six friends in Muar High School I located by chance and I decided to have a get together at my home in Seremban. I was amused that one of the naughtiest boys in school had become vegan and a devout Buddhist. He would not even consume onions and garlic! I had a tough time trying to make appetizing food for him. Some of my Form Six friends had not been spared from the jaws of premature death... most of the time it was due to cancer. Five years ago when we had the reunion, I was surprised to see that some were using walking sticks and looking really aged. They admitted though that they had not been taking good care of themselves for some had taken to heavy smoking. I am looking forward to yet another get together with my Form Six batchmates next month. We Muarians are a strange bunch whose patriotism can never be matched. It reigns in our blood. There’s this mutual joy or interconnection when we meet a fellow Muarian. We are proud of almost everything in Muar from its bridge to the food, and of course the beautiful Tanjong … that idyllic place by the sea that Muarians cycle to. That feeling of 9

patriotism for one’s home town or school is once again missing today. People have become so devoid of nostalgia that prevailed among us and still continues to haunt us. Today I feel a new bond in these inexplicable new found fraternities, whose foundation was built half a century ago. That we belonged to different religions and races was of little concern. All we know is we are fellow Muarians who once belonged to SABGS and Muar High School and to a common neighourhood. That bond is sufficient to keep us together. We are so proud that we have connected after all these years and have made time for each other as we plod through our respective journeys in life knowing that our sojourn on earth is short. But hey look at the bright side … we have finally found each other. 10

Second Prize Winner in the My Malaysian Story Category M A Badrie 71 years Ba'ayah’s Endurance A Malaysian Story of Courage, Sacrifice and Determination The children, all the five of them, walked dutifully along the narrow man-‐made path, surrounded by a thick growth of buffalo grasses and nipah palms. The thick bushes were overgrown, the land unkempt -‐ even birds dare not make nest. Weary and thirsty but they walked on, silently. From the back, Rabiah would whisper aloud to her younger siblings not to look back, but to walk on and not to stop. At fifteen she was the eldest sister. Leading them was their mother, Ba'ayah, carrying the year old baby Mia, dangling in a batik cloth at her chest, a wedding present from her mother. Twenty years had passed when she was married off to someone supposedly of similar social standing. Under the simmering heat of the merciless sun, in the midst of a horrible war, social status meant nothing. With her was a family, small children; her husband dead, in her hands a heavy responsibility. Her muddled thoughts were interrupted by five year old Normah's broken voice, "Ma, I am tired, can we stop a while?". "We stop at that big tree beyond," replied the lady. "It's too hot here, dear. Let's walk on. It's not too far." Silence followed. They walked on. Normah walked on, a few times almost falling off, to be held back by her elder sister, Rafeah. As a young lass growing up in Alor Setar, Ba'ayah was of admirable beauty. She was barely fifteen when brought down to Trong, North Perak to be the second wife to Mohamad Noor, all arranged by the elders. She had no say. Nevertheless, she was obedient and was a good wife. Life was good, she was contented. She brought forth six healthy children. It was fated that her husband would die six months after Mia was born. Much later they found out it was haemophilia, a hereditary malady. Then the war came and Ba'ayah found herself alone, entrusted with six growing children, a blurred future, forced to leave the house, and forced to take refuge. By barely thirty-‐six, the stress of widowhood had become obvious. The big family decided to divide whatever properties that were left behind by the husband, which during the war time was of little value. They then departed. Along the hardened earth path interspersed by spots of stubborn grass, her mind was too occupied with getting the children out of the long, tiring walk to reach her brother's house. Whatever good times she’d had, had passed. The children were then fatherless. In her hands was their fate. She didn't care much about the rightful properties left behind. She herself had come from a big family with many siblings and her father too was polygamous. In those days the younger ones never questioned why or argue out the merits of dividends or whatever rights. The elders would decide what's best, and the young ones would just obey. And when she 11

suddenly found herself alone to raise the small children, in the midst of a horrible war, with little money and uncertain future, her mind turned to the Almighty. To her it was a test of faith in God, with a belief that divine help would surface one day. Her mother had often installed this sense of tawakkal -‐ to leave things in the hands of God. Looking at the bushes to the left and right, she was conscious of any possible danger. She walked on tirelessly, assuring hope to the children that a better life would await, and they would, somehow survive the ordeal. The buffalo grass had grown tall, much loved by buffaloes, but the buffaloes were nowhere to be seen, having become food to hungry people. Rice had not been grown. Without buffaloes it was too difficult to toil the hardened rice fields. Many young men had disappeared, lost or had run away, leaving the old ones too weak to work the ground. But she had faith. It would still be another hour's walk to reach her brother's house. There she might be safe. She had high hopes. Her mother had taught her some prayers to recite during times of difficulties. She would mumble them out to forget her tired feet, her thirst, her hunger, her anxiety and extreme worries. Under the big, bushy Ficus tree they rested. Baby Mia was thirsty, and the lady gave him her milk-‐less breasts, interfed with whatever water they could collect from the last well they encountered. Rabiah, her eldest daughter looked around for any edible weed she could find. She wanted to dig out the rhizome of the keladi plants she saw but her mother said, no. "It belongs to someone here. They need to eat it. It is not ours". Rabiah stopped her search. She too was hungry and thirsty, but she saw her two other younger siblings, Radziah and Rafeah on the verge of collapse from the long walk and thirst. She gave them some sips of the well water she had carried along, and saved some for baby Mia. They never had gone through this hardship. It was a life of moderate luxury they’d had: a horse driven cart, a two storey wooden house, much food to eat, fruit trees, chicken and ducks. Their grandfather, Sheikh Abdul Rahman, was a harbour master, entrusted by the state to collect taxes. Life was well, a big family in a big village style mansion. He was fair to all, and much loved, but he did not live to old age. That was when their good lives began to dissipate. When Ba'ayah's husband died soon after, it coincided with a war they never had anticipated, the World War. Life became severe overnight, almost every one was fearful of the invading forces. Foreign soldiers came and took away their big house and the occupants chased were out. Sheikh Rahman's family members had to flee with whatever little possessions they could carry along. It was chaotic. From a peaceful ambience the place turned into a brutal battle ground. Human corpses lay unclaimed on the roads, carcases of cattle, buffaloes and goats scattered about. Villagers were forced to give away their rice and whatever food they kept at home. The fair skin ones had to be hidden, lest they be mistaken for Chinese. Within months life became more unbearable. Stealing became common, and rampant. Good neighbours no longer existed. The lady prayed and asked all the children to 12

pray hard. If they had to die, they would die in God's name, she said. Unexpectedly providence would emerge. Divine intervention landed the lady's eldest son, Nasir, with the job of a policeman up North in Kulim, Kedah. The Japanese wanted to keep the peace in that rich agricultural southern Kedah area. Many years earlier the Hakka and the Teow Chew, who had been mining the tin had a serious clash in Kulim, and it went down in local history as the Kulim War, leading to the intervention of Kedah by the colonial British. Unfortunately the animosity between the warring groups had not ceased well, and high security became necessary. The lady, with her five small children walked on, hoping to be in Kulim eventually. They had walked for two hours under the scorching sun, and had about an hour more to go. She would rest at her brother's house at Bandar Baru and then continue up North to Kulim to join her policeman son. At eighteen Nasir had no formal education, apart from the basic madrasah schooling, but he could read and write in Rumi and Jawi. And he was also tall, tough and well built, just like his grandfather at Trong. But they carried the family's strong sense of discipline, hard work, perseverance and a familial sense of responsibility. A half hour of rest and nap under the big tree did them good. Mahathir, Ba'ayah's brother had waited half way at someone's hut along the route to his house, to be sure his sister and the children would get there safely. It was well after mid-‐day when they met with much tears of relief. After a fairly good meal of tapioca and some ulam and home grown vegetables, the children were fast asleep. Mahathir even had a few cups of boiled rice, which he had kept hidden from the Japanese soldiers. It gave the children some energy; for many months they were without rice, but lived only on tapioca. Way deep in the Perak village the Japanese soldiers were rarely seen, but the bigger threat were the village local spies planted by the soldiers. The kampong people considered them as opportunists. During times of lawlessness, such people could be from highly unexpected neighbours. Whatever food saved must be well hidden. In that old traditional kampong they had grown papaya, keladi, sweet potatoes, but thieves were abound during times of difficulties. Not just vegetables, even clothes hanged below the house were also stolen. During times of war rules were broken, and respect hardly survived. Even the white cloths of the dead were dug up from the grave and stolen too. The hungry, just like most humans facing war, were left with their survival instincts. Stealing amounted to survival. But Ba'ayah warned her children, "As long as we can live, do not take anything that's not ours". Faced with days of uncertainty, Ba'ayah had set her mind to find ways to feed her family. Her children should not die for lack of food, and she taught them to withstand hunger. To help each other, and not to be selfish. We are together, she reminded them. We stay together. Come what may, the family will stay together, she constantly emphasised. The 13

children listened well. Diligently they planted whatever that could give them food, and worked the earth. However, fear was abound. On certain nights the Japanese soldiers could be heard marching past by the house. Baby Mia was always thirsty, wanting milk and would cry. It was a fearful moment as his cries could invite soldiers to come and inspect. And they would see a fair skin baby and he could be taken away. His sisters would forcefully cover his mouth to stop him from crying, and he could at times turn blue. Ba'ayah stayed on at her brother's house for over two months. On certain days they would enter the nearby jungle to find whatever was edible. As children they had no games to play, but only to work and toil the earth. Their prayers were answered when one day a police truck came to take them to Kulim, to a new home, made possible by a kind Japanese commandant helping Nasir move up his family. At Kulim, Ba'ayah rented a small house from a sympathetic lady who had no children of her own. It was June, 1944 when sixteen year old Rabiah was married off to a local man. However, one day he was forced into a truck, sent to the infamous Burmese railway construction site. He never returned. And soon after, Rabiah's baby daughter died in infancy after there was nothing more to eat. Rabiah had not eaten for many days and her milk was all dried up. The baby died slowly, becoming skeletal, crying without making a sound, and after a few days she succumbed to starvation. The family was devastated. Ba'ayah cried. She was told not to cry when death occurred, but tears were beyond her control. In August, 1945 the war ended. The Japanese surrended. It was a relief to many, with no more soldiers to be afraid of. However, life in Kulim was still tough. Food was still scarce. The new government gave out seeds of rice so the people could grow rice again. The simple kampong people, however, were hopeful they would survive, that they could grow rice and vegetables again and have livestock without being taken away by soldiers and the opportunists. They knew not about the Malayan Union quarrels between Datok Onn Jaafar and the Malay rulers and the British, or about Malays wanting their country back, or even the meaning of Merdeka. They believed it was for the good of the country; however, their immediate concern was to survive, live in peace, feed their children and to stop having to see people die from hunger and diseas. Their other concern was to bring back the teachings of religion so that people would stop stealing, but to help one another again, and end the poverty in their midst. This, Ba'ayah would later tell her grandchildren, and much more. The war was cruel. It was only about mad men, people with extreme greed, obsessed with power and domination. That Ba'ayah knew very well, she would later tell her grandchildren. She went through it. The kampong people at Trong, at Bandar Baru and Kulim had never known war. Life was neither perfect nor great, and necessities were few, but there was peace, and never a day without food. All these basics of life Ba'ayah passed down to her children, and then to hergrandchildren, so that they would remember and be 14

reminded of the meaning and purpose of life on earth. To them she showed a perfect example. In 1957 there were so much talk about Merdeka. Ba'ayah did not understand what Merdeka meant. One day Tunku Abdul Rahman came to the mosque in Kulim and explained why the country needed to be free from foreign rulers so that the people could be free -‐ free to earn a living, to get education, to get property and free to live a life to its true meaning. She understood Tunku's words well. Ba'ayah went on to support Tunku's trip to London to negotiate for independence. She and many others gave away their jewellery, to be sold to fund Tunku's trip. In August 1957 the Tunku proclaimed the Independence of the Federation of Malaya, Persekutuan Tanah Melayu, from the British. Ba'ayah knew her future was in good hands. By then Ba'ayah had saved some money from selling kueh at the local school. Her son Nasir was earning a salary, and her daughters had grown up and were married, and her burden became less heavy. Many years later, her prayers for a better life materialised. Her youngest son Mia passed his secondary education and found a government job, stationed in Singapore. He too started to support the family. There was no more scarcity of food, or suffering or tears of weariness. However, the test of God was far from over. Her daughter Radziah was married off to a policeman, and they were blessed with a sweet and charming baby girl, Abizah. A day came when some policemen arrived to inform that Radziah's husband had been killed by the Communist guerrillas fighting in the Kedah jungle. The family was devastated again. Years later when Abizah was six she too died so suddenly from a sudden sickness. The family was tormented. Again, Ba'ayah asked all her children to have faith in God. There are certain things beyond our control, she said, but only determined by God. We need courage, she would say, and must remain strong. Her inner strength was obvious, her faith undeterred. She had overcome the grief and sadness of having lost her husband who had died at a young age, the death of her first son, then the son-‐in-‐law, her granddaughters. She was determined, that under whatever circumstances the family must stay together. She made sure of the firm, tight knot of family togetherness. Her grandmother had told stories of the foreign refugees she met in her life, from many parts of the world coming to this country. They survived the hardship they encountered. They stayed together and helped one another. After Merdeka, Ba'ayah could see the fine, albeit slow, changes in the lives of her children and grandchildren. Nevertheless, what she had preached all along was right. She saw schools being built, roads and bridges. Electricity and piped water supply came to her house. Her grandchildren, all brought up to appreciate their parents' sacrifice and suffering 15

during the days of the war and the pre-‐Merdeka days, had become successful people in their chosen field, many with a university education from abroad. They were taught to love their country, be kind to the earth and bless the good life the nation had brought forth. The new nation had become better by the day, with more opportunities for her grandchildren to live lives unlike hers. Many years back she had no vision of what her country would be like. It was bleak and blurry. She never thought of being able to save enough to perform her Hajj in Mecca. Later in life she was blessed with a very loving and a happy, united family. That was her only wishes. Her sacrifice for the family was reminded again and again to all her grandchildren. In spite of dreadful weariness, Ba'ayah had aged well. Her feature smile never faded. She survived the torment of war, the suffering and submission, distress and deprivation, to give faith and strength of mind to her grandchildren, all implanted with a solid moral ground. She emphasised the need to respect and help others of less fortunate, to strive and do their best, but above all to believe in the will of the Almighty. When Ba'ayah passed away at age 83 in 1985, tears poured from friends, people she had helped, relatives and those who carried her genes. She left behind more than a beautiful name, but a lovely legacy. She did not die a poor person, nor a weak one, but a human with strong will, selfless sacrifice and determination, a truly courageous woman. A family elder sat next to Ba'ayah's motionless body,and said what was true, "Look at her face, she is as sweet as she had been all her life. Her name will be fragrance to all of you, the generations she leaves behind. This beautiful person is truly someone with an extremely respectable endurance, may God bless her soul". I then kissed my grandmother farewell. 16

Third Prize Winner in the My Malaysian Story Category Husna Binti Kassim 68 years A Kind of Paradise If there is one place I would rather be, it has to be Kampong Mangkok. Kampong Mangkok sits on a promontory flanked by turquoise blue waters of the South China Sea on one side and the mangrove river called Sungai Setiu on the other. On a clear day, you could see the outcrops of Pulau Perhentian, Lang Tengah and Pulau Redang from a beach called Pantai Penarik. The shimmering blue waters reminded me of Hemingway’s fascination with the sea, “The sea is the last free place on earth”. There is something soothing about the sound of ocean waves, the repetitive slow whooshing sound as the warm sand gets pulled back into the sea with every retreating wave. Kampong Mangkok is a mix of old and new -‐ kampong houses, with unvarnished timber aged by sea breeze, laden with salts; old traditional Malay houses transported from all over Terengganu, re-‐constructed; and new Malay and concrete beach houses. It is populated by hundreds of swaying coconut trees, casuarina trees, grazing cows and goats. Occasionally a kampong boy cycled past. The breeze blew softly from the sea on most days. The fine white sandy beach stretched from as far as the eyes could see, sometimes tainted by discarded plastic bottles and all kind of debris brought in by the waves, left half buried in the fine sand. Straddled between two bodies of water, the village lends two very different kinds of charm. On one side, I saw two brothers fishing as a boat passed by on the Setiu river. This part of the river exuded a kampong charm that a film producer fell in love with and decided to shoot some scenes here for the 2018 production of the film “Pulang”. Parallel to the Setiu river is the asphalt coastal road, lined with coconut trees on one side and the sea on the other. As I cycled along this road, I chanced upon a Malay gentleman standing, with one hand holding on to a line dangling from the top of a coconut tree. As I looked up, I saw a boy perched on top of the tree. The boy, who I later learned was called Amin, aged 14 years old, selected specific bunches of coconuts, tied them with the string, and the man would hoist the bunches safely down to the ground. This the boy would do for several times until he was satisfied there were no more nice pickings. He worked his way down while clasping the trunk with ease without the use of any gadget or safety harness. Then they would pick another three or four more coconut trees to select more bunches. It was hard work getting the coconuts off the trees, some reaching to more than 60 or 70 feet high. In coconut farms in Thailand, Sri Lanka, Indonesia, Malaysia, India, coconut farmers use macaque monkeys to pick coconuts. Thailand took coconut plucking to the next 17

level by having a Buddhist-‐inspired school in Surat Thani to train monkeys. The school it seemed was funded to teach monkeys how to pick coconuts without use of force or violence. The practice of using pig-‐tailed macaques to pick coconuts started around 400 years ago. Malaysia too has a school in Padang Halban, Kelantan, run by a 63 year old grandfather, Wan Ibrahim Wan Mat (news.com.au, April 2018) to train macaques to pick coconuts. For Amin, unschooled and living at poverty level, climbing coconut trees was the only means of earning a few ringgit a day. But plucking coconuts is certainly not for the faint-‐ hearted ... If you keep driving further down the coastal road towards Kuala Terengganu, you would reach another village called Kampong Telaga Papan. Kampong Telaga Papan was where I found a Malay artisan working on a boat. You would see many boats moored along the Sungai Chalok near Pulau Besar and along one side of the river is an open-‐air boat-‐ building facility, located among the mangroves. When I first saw him, Pak Peng was busy smoothing and sanding some wood planks. He had been in the boat-‐building industry since he was 14 years old and his family had been at it for as long as he remembered. But the art of Malay boat-‐building is dying, Pak Peng lamented and it was sad that the young have no interest in the art, because according to one German Malay-‐boat owner, Christoph Swaboda, Malay boats built in Pulau Duyong is of high quality. In Kampong Telaga Papan itself, you will find a small tributary flowing from Sungai Chalok into other parts of the mangroves. This tributary, flowing among the mangroves, is ideal for a late morning of kayak when the ocean tide rises and the tributary is filled with water. We have kayaked in Krabi , in clear blue waters, ending up paddling into caves and in between the small islets. But kayaking on the tributary off Sungai Chalok in Telaga Papan was a totally different experience altogether because here, the water is murky. We kayak down this tributary a few times but after finding out from one fisherman that there was a sizeable crocodile swimming in the murky waters, we decided to give up kayaking here. If you drive further south from Telaga Papan, you will arrive at Merang Jetty where you can take a boat all the way to Pulau Redang. I don’t snorkel but my friends love snorkeling and would spend hours swimming among the corals and the fishes. While the boat was bobbing up and down with the waves, I watched little fishes wriggling and tugging at the bread crumbs I scattered into the crystal-‐clear water. Eight hundred meters before reaching Pak Peng’s place, you would have passed a small open-‐air kampong restaurant next to a mosque in Telaga Papan, right off the main road called Restoran Kak Zah. It is run by a family and friends and the restaurant is a popular breakfast place for truck drivers, tourists and locals passing by on their way to work. Fishermen spent hours exchanging stories in endless conversations, recalling their many fishing trips in the waters off Terengganu, while seated at a rustic wooden table in one 18

corner, over a glass of teh-‐tarek. The girls serving breakfast there are friendly and you could get almost anything for breakfast here including Malay kueh. My own favourite breakfast is nasi dagang with fried chicken on the side. My friends used to laugh at me, saying the authenticity of nasi dagang is lost without gulai ikan tongkol ( tuna curry). But then I am not one who follow rules anyway and neither am I a “foodie”. Terengganu culinary fare is heavily influenced by the taste of Thailand, apart from cuisines from the three main ethnic groups. This is to be expected as Thai influence has been present since time immemorial based on the geography and the history with neighbouring Thailand. Here the food is mainly rice-‐based. Some of the popular dishes are nasi kerabu, nasi ulam, nasi dagang, nasi lemak, ikan bakar tawar, sata, otak otak and keropok lekor. Somewhere in Kampong Mangkok, there is this beautiful kampong house where I would spend days on end on the verandah, observing the changing colors of the skyline and the reflections upon the sea. The tranquility in combination with the surrounding nature inspired an atmosphere of utmost creative concentration. I would be tapping away at my keyboard for many hours, writing and rewriting perfect-‐sounding thoughts. However, on one particular evening, it was the beautiful sunset over Kampong Mangkok that captured my imagination. The silhouette of endless rows of coconut trees, standing tall looking like black soldiers against the brilliant red sky was breath-‐taking. It was not long after when my thoughts were interrupted by the azan call for maghrib prayers. By night time, life around the beach house would be completely different. It would be dark outside with no street lights and so quiet around the house, you could only hear the sound of an old, noisy fan with rusted blades. Occasionally you could hear the waves. With no television, no phones, and no internet we were off the grid, so to speak. But it certainly was a much welcome respite. On these dark nights, little flickers of light, fluttering around the room would entertain you. These are the fireflies. And if you listened properly, you could hear the raucous chorus of the cicadas, and once a while, the sound of a motorcycle negotiating a corner on the asphalt in the distance, piercing the still of the night. A few hours of sleep afterwards and the alarm went off again. It was time for the usual “meeting ” between creature and Creator. Out on the veranda, rubbing sleep from my eyes, while seated cross-‐legged on the prayer mat, the ritual for early morning prayers and zikr, in the cold morning breeze commenced. Hours later, as I turned to take a peep at the sea, I was greeted by a delightful shimmering carpet of calm in the first blush of the sun. The birds were chirping excitedly, exchanging calls while perched at the top of the casuarina trees. Another day of endless tranquility filled with the sounds of life -‐ the chirping birds, the chattering monkeys, the croaking frogs, the rhythm of the waves and the deep sound of the well-‐mannered four-‐stroke fishing boat engine. It was the beginning of a new day. 19

Heading back towards Kuala Lumpur after such an exhilarating time spent in Setiu, was to me a kind of a punishment. Driving the 32 year-‐old Toyota Land Cruiser, the Spicy Mustard, was torturous. The engine would crank up so much noise, it was impossible to carry on any conversation throughout the entire five hundred kilometer-‐journey. But we enjoyed the trips anyway: the stops for prayers, the snacking, the dozing-‐off on seats that had its fair share of wear and tear and the endless possibility of exciting unplanned stops. But driving the Spicy Mustard required skills because it tended to veer to one side, and the brakes sometimes failed. When parking the vehicle on a slope, little stops had to be placed underneath the tires to ensure the car did not roll off. Once, while parked on a gentle slope, the car did roll off. Spicy Mustard took on a life of its own and finally ended crashing the gate of a neighbour, missing a brand new Ferrari parked just inches away. If not for the love of writing and blogging, it is impossible for me to stay completely alone. The box, the mobile phone, the keyboard, the 14-‐year old car, family and forward-‐ looking friends, are enablers for the AAs (those aging alone). A lunch or tea and a good laugh at the nearest coffee-‐shop with girlfriends every once a while, is a good break. We would talk about anything from politics, travel, anti-‐ageing creams, arthritis, frozen shoulders, grand children to good food. This spurt of intermission is necessary for me to stay focused on my writing. Two hours of “girlfriends-‐therapy” and I am once again refreshed for another session of creative concentration in complete seclusion. But creative concentration is not always achievable even in sedate Shah Alam. Life in Shah Alam is generally quiet, however, during weekends, I would hear the squeals of children’s laughter coming from the swimming pool below. Sometimes, hysterical screams broke the silence with excited children racing down corridors to see who reached the door first. But late at night, it would be so quiet I could hear the sound of a drop of a coin on the floor above me. Then there is that constant dragging and shifting of a chair across the floor above late at night, and my creative concentration disintegrates. But going by what the fiction writer, Stephen King advises on having a writing target of two thousand words a day in his “On Writing-‐ A Memoir of the Craft”, I would be happy if I could manage five hundred. Perhaps it’s different for Stephen King, who thinks that writers should have the ability to remember the story of a scar. Wherever I traveled, wherever I stayed, my mind would wonder back to the promise of beautiful Kampong Mangkok. Sitting on the verandah, observing the changing colors of the skyline, basking in the realm of serenity and peace that a beach-‐front kampong life provides), while tapping away at the keyboards, is paradise to me. How could it not be, when you could capture the vibrant sunrise from the beach in Kampong Telaga Papan and the stupendous sunset from the mangroves in Kampong Mangkok. 20

Kampong Mangkok has everything nature could offer -‐ shimmering blue waters, fine white sandy beaches, sunshine on most days, swaying coconut trees, friendly kampong folk, unique habitats of Setiu Wetlands and the chorus of the cicadas. The uninterrupted tranquility provided by nature surrounding the kampong, oozed an atmosphere of spiritual charm, a closeness to the Creator and a heightened creative concentration I desperately need to further explore my passion for writing and blogging. Another month, and I might be heading back this way again.

First Prize Winner in the Love Story Category Sheela Kanagasabai 60 years Resilience and Friendship in Times of Grief Many bereavement management sites supporting the interpretations of death of a loved one or intense loss describe GRIEF as “A natural response to loss. It is the emotional suffering you feel when something or someone you love is taken away. The more significant the loss, the more intense the grief will be”. My neighbor was married to a lovely man for fifty-‐five years and faced the sudden demise of her husband most recently. Her husband was the kind of man everyone would have loved to acquire as their husband, father, uncle, grandfather or godfather. That was how I felt when I came to know this couple in the short yet unforgettable five years of our friendship. Even though there was more than a vast age gap between the both of us, I embraced both of them as family. A dependable and vicarious personality, aunty was full of strength and determination. However, uncle took the icing on the cake as being quite the gentleman with very quaint English manners. He was the perfect husband, always attentive, and extremely warm with his generosity. After the cremation ceremony, aunty came back to an empty house void of presence and familiarity. The only remainders were old pictures of them both together, happy memories of a time shared in sickness and in health. No amount of tears and well wishes to keep her faith were enough to draw the sadness and loneliness away. Her grief was so internalized and she was in a state of disbelief. She was not prepared and was struggling to find the emotional tools to live with. The empty stillness brings one to a point of realization that your existence has become redundant by virtue of death of your life partner. For aunty who does not have any children, it was a nightmare of sudden loss and the struggle to go on under the weight of crushing grief. Without her companion, she was devastated and disoriented. She craved for his touch and smile and could not imagine a future without him by her side. Over the next few weeks and months, when all else was stripped away, her belief that living a simple and faithful life did not matter now. Aunty suffered severe depression and there was no amount of reasoning nor bargaining that was able to lift her spirits. Friends, family and the neighboring community rallied around, acknowledging her loss while offering courage, fortitude and sympathy. They came to comfort and share their thoughts about her husband. Yet again, some of her close friends did not show at the wake, as they were not able to handle deep emotions nor demonstrate compassion. In our culture, 22

it is tempting to turn away from the hurt and pain of others, and to distance ourselves from the scary fact that death happens every day. However, the many that had come to pay their respects, and knew and understood the power of just showing up. What should be realized is that grieving people often long to feel connected and not ignored. A close friend was concerned that it would be too painful for aunty to see so many reminders of her loss. She instructed her to remove all of her husband’s personal belonging and keep them in storage. Similarly, she also kept advising aunty to get over her grief and face reality. Grief is profoundly lonely, and each small unselfish gesture by friends and strangers should make somebody who is sad feel more connected to humanity than ever before especially when death has robbed them of the person they so deeply loved and lost. No one should take our pain away abruptly, I assured aunty. She should not be asked to rush through her grief and silently keep her thoughts of the man she loved in a secret corner of her heart. Her loneliness was profound and people who are grieving are dealing with how their lives will have to change irrevocably. Having lost my own father and with no one to turn to, I endured the same pain of an abrupt exit. In the past, I would convince myself that I did not know a friend or relative well enough to reach out to. I was afraid that I would cause more pain by not saying anything and behaving awkwardly. Now I know that although bereavement may be common, showing up to give emotional support by the smallest gestures gives consideration, comfort and assurance for others in need. As time went on, I began taking aunty out for drives and walks to ease her pain. She needed to breath, and fill her thoughts with the goodness of life with or without her life partner. We spoke at length about her overwhelming sense of regret and her appreciation of their combined journeys and milestones. They had gone through so much together – falling in love, marriage, careers, loss of friends and family members. Uncle’s generous love for her alone remained endearing. He was the embodiment of everything she thought a man should be. I also gave her space and time to cry and laugh over the memories that would begin to sustain her quiet moments. It was her way of grieving and she had every right to express it in the manner she chooses. At home in their cozy surroundings, she would break down at the sight of his reclining chair, coffee mug and shoes all neatly placed in their strategic positions as before. It felt like her loved one was still nearby. Our conversations helped her feel closer to God and the fact that her husband had sustained a good long life because of her diligent nursing, warm care and love. She also acknowledged that with age, their life together was lived with less fear, more wisdom and had its many challenges. Uncle who was now already in his early 90s knew it was his time to bow out gracefully. He rightly chose a public holiday to exit from the sufferings he was enduring. When he was hospitalized, the doctors had discovered that his 23

heart had become weaker because of the ageing process. He was still cheerful that morning, and even had a bowl of porridge before asking aunty to go back and refresh herself with a bath before returning to the hospital. Somehow, he could not bring himself to say goodbye to his loving wife. I had hoped that aunty would be able to accept the fact that no matter how much she will be missing him, he would not be missing out on life here. His time had come and she had to let go. Living without her husband’s physical presence is still painful for aunty. She is still afraid of the early changes, unable to relearn the process of having to reorganize her habits and routine. Her life seems desolate and bare, and she feels like she is standing alone, stripped of all that made living a joy and blessing when uncle was alive. His advice, reasoning and warm respect was the sum of her approval and survival system. When uncle passed away, a part of aunty died as well. We can never feel for others until we have felt ourselves. Many amongst us will also never know how to extend sympathy until it has been meted out to us. Eventually, I believe aunty will feel confident enough to offer her shoulder to someone else facing unbearable grief. There are no hard and fast rules over how anyone of us can overcome a death or loss. Whether you have a life companion or not, the greatest gift to someone who is facing loss is still friendship. Friendship is not about how long you have known each other. It is about how much you lift each other up in times of overwhelming distress, disappointment, sorrow and sufferings. Life is fleeting, thus giving and receiving comfort from those near and dear can be an unexpected, thoughtful and sacred part of managing unimaginable pain. In being vulnerable and open enough to receive comfort in big and small ways, I believe that she will find healing and inner peace. As for me, I learnt that there are few things that test our resilience more than the death of a loved one. Grief can be isolating, gruelling and feel insurmountable. But it is also true that there is nothing that can teach us more about life than death. And when we allow ourselves to receive the lessons that death can teach us, we will be more resilient when facing whatever challenges life brings us.

Second Prize Winner in the Love Story Category Tripat Narayanan 70 years The Shadow of Her Smile Every school holiday Chani and her brothers were sent to an aunt’s house down South to Singapore or up North to an uncle’s house in Perak. There was no questioning a decision made. And so it happened that Chani and her brothers spent many December holidays at their uncle’s house in Kampar. Here they passed their days with a riot of cousins, playing house and hopscotch on cool sand under the wooden floors of the house on sturdy stilts, where admittance by height ensured no one beyond age twelve would enter this world so private, so precious. Sometimes they played catching on fenceless slopes of green, picking fallen frangipanis and clean stones to make up new games of fun, staying out for as long as possible till diminishing light, mosquitoes and calling mothers forced them indoors to bathe, eat and make beds on the wooden floor of the large living room upstairs. There they lay cousin to cousin on bare sheets sharing pillows, teasing and telling tales till sleep captured all. Then one December when Chani was suddenly seventeen, she and her younger brother were sent to their uncle’s house soon after her HSC exams. This time the girls were told they would be in the first bedroom, separate from the boys in the hall. There they dressed up to go nowhere, put on make-‐up, teased their hair tall, put dupattas on their heads and sang Hindi songs. They talked about boys. Boys who were non-‐existent; dreams of boys, tall, handsome, fair, clever, boys not like their fathers or uncles, rather boys like Hindi film heroes who would charm them off their feet someday. One week-‐end that trip, the girls were packed off to Ipoh to visit an ailing grandmother. Chani had never before been to the home of her cousins maternal grandparents. It turned out, that grandma Maa-‐ji was less ailing and more endearing. There were also some uncles. There was one in particular who laughed, teased, joked like a cousin. He was no Hindi film hero though -‐ thin, dark and not even tall. But, he quoted poetry and said clever things. He told Chani that he would foretell her future if she showed him her palm. Chani held out her hand and ever so gently Prem barely brushed her hand as he told her tall tales of a happy tomorrow. Maa-‐ji watched a blooming Chani and an enchanted Prem with a vague sense of foreboding. Chani chatted on quite unaware that her chiffon dupatta had slipped a little and her sleeveless churidar kameez enticed the on-‐looker further. 25

Later when her cousins teased her in the bed-‐room Chani was all aflush. “Prem-‐ mama likes you,” they said to her. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror across the room -‐ looming brown eyes in a fine featured serene face. “I am pretty”, she thought, pushing tendrils of stray hair behind her ears. Prem accompanied the girls back to Kampar. He was due to leave for Kuala Lumpur enroute to England for further studies. At Kampar, he was commissioned to escort Chani and her little brother back to Kuala Lumpur. Never had a train ride been so wondrous before. Chani was wooed with funny stories and lovely words, courted with intense looks and glances of grace, and treated to new visions of herself. Back home in KL, no one quite noticed the new flush in Chani’s face. Prem came to her house the next day. It was mid-‐morning. He walked right to the back of the house to greet and embrace Chani’s mother who was busy at chores. “You must have lunch”, said Chani’s mother. And so Chani spent yet another day glowing as Prem watched her every move. Her fingers smouldered as she washed the rice as Prem stood next to her by the kitchen sink. The back of her neck tingled as she stirred dhal on the stove as she sensed Prem’s gaze upon it. Lunch was soon over. Prem said sat-‐shri-‐akal, Chani’s mother embraced him and wished him well. He said a little “bye” to Chani and left. That evening the phone rang. Chani raced for it. She knew it was for her. “I have fallen in love with you. I leave for London tomorrow morning -‐ I will write to you”, he said. Chani’s head was a blur as her heart raced. She said nothing save a little “bye”. For days Chani peeled her eyes to the post. Then one day it arrived -‐ a blue aerogram stamp-‐marked United Kingdom. She folded it up match-‐box size and slipped it into her brassiere. She was on her way upstairs when her mother called her to pick up the laundry from the clothes line. She could amost hear her heart beating against the folded-‐up aerogram nestled against her being, as she squinted against the afternoon sun in the backyard. She dumped the clothes on the table and ran upstairs, locked her door and read and re-‐read her first love-‐letter. She wrote back requesting Prem to write to a girlfriend’s address in the future. Thence, ensued a poetic correspondence between Chani and Prem and she lived from letter to letter, reading and re-‐reading each one as if her life depended on it -‐ sometimes in the bathroom seated in a dry corner, when she could not get her little brother to leave the room. Some weeks went by. In April the HSC results were out. As was expected Chani did well, and a couple of weeks later came the news of an offer from the Faculty of Arts , University of Malaya, and also from the Faculty of Law, University of Singapore. Singapore 26

was too far away, it was decided. So University of Malaya it was to be. Chani, as was custom, did not raise any issues. She was content with the decision. An uncle and aunt decided to take her with them on a holiday to the Kampar uncle’s house, as a treat for her excellent results. Chani was excited to be with her cousins again -‐ they sat up nights listening to the poetic contents of Prem-‐mama’s letters. One evening the elder girls were taking a long walk with the young, modern aunt from Kuala Lumpur. She talked to them about being girls. “This is the time when you will start to be interested in boys, but you should be careful. You can talk to me, I will understand“, she said. Egged on by her cousins, Chani ventured to tell her modern, young aunt about Prem. She went to bed that night feeling light of heart and happy. She was totally unprepared for the sequence of events that ensued from having confided in her in her modern young aunt. It started with an outburst from her senior uncle at breakfast the next morning as he hurled insult after insult against her. “So you want to marry your uncle is it? Your cousins can call you Aunty”, he said. It had not occurred to Chani that Prem was an uncle -‐ well, certainly not by blood. That very afternoon Chani was taken back to Kuala Lumpur by two uncles and the modern, young aunt. She sat cold and cut-‐off through the whole car ride while the uncles and aunt chatted over her head about family politics. Once back home, she was summoned to the living room as soon as all the elders had been informed of what transpired. Chani stood her ground and said that she loved Prem. When her family told her that this liason could not happen Chani cried as though her heart would break. The modern young aunt took her upstairs to her bedroom, got her to bathe and gave her a little pill. “This will make you feel better”, she said. Chani continued to cry quietly but eventually fell asleep. Later Chani learnt that very evening her elders had gone to Prem’s brother’s house, laid their turbans at his feet and asked forgiveness for their daughter’s doing and requested firmly but politely that Prem should have no dealings with Chani. A week later Chani was told that she will not be allowed to go out on her own anywhere, and that she would not got to University that year. Chani did not react to the edict. She continued to live in her dream world of Prem, Hindi songs and story books for some weeks. Then May 13th struck and no one could go out anyway. The whole country was under curfew. For Chani the reality of May 13th was remote. There were some killings between Malays and Chinese, she gathered and there was nothing but news on television. There was loads of canned food at home and she learned to like 27

cheese sandwiches. As the pile of letters from England accumulated at her girlfriend’s house, Prem became a little faraway but not forgotten. When May turned into June, while the country was setting to recognize the racial socio-‐economic status quo, Chani, oblivious of the grave national matters at hand, set about to reorganize her own status quo. There was a letter in the mail informing about orientation week. Chani was starting to miss her school friends. They must all be in University now, she thought. She felt vacant. Thoughts of Prem and Hindi songs seemed insufficient. So one June day she wrote a letter to her elders imploring them to allow her to go to University. “It is not fair that I should not be allowed to continue with my education“, she wrote. A few days later the most educated and senior of her uncles, the patriarch of the family, returned home at midday, contra to routine. He summoned Chani to the living room and said, “So you want to study?” “Yes,” she answered. “Okay, you can go to University, but you will first sign a promissory note that says you will not be in any kind of contact with that fellow in England, or have anything to do with any other fellow for that matter”, the uncle declared. Chani actually did sign a typed-‐out contract agreement, then her father took her to the administration building of University Malaya to register, while pater uncle telephoned professor buddies to ensure that Chani’s late entry did not encounter any obstacles. Chani had missed orientation week, and even two weeks of lectures, but her friends from school filled in the blanks. She collected her pile of letters from her girlfriend’s house and finally wrote to Prem, telling him about all the tumultuous events of the past weeks. Prem continued to write. Once he even sent Chani a record in the post – ‘The Shadow of Your Smile’ along with a simple ring. Chani wrote … sometimes. She enjoyed campus life, dressing up daily, no more uniforms, being with her gang of girls, and boys. She started to have friends who were boys – studious boys who copied her lecture notes, serious boys who secretly admired her, boisterous boys who teased and some nice chaps she talked to about life. Her days were full with lectures, assignments and readings. She could not remember when or why she stopped writing to Prem.

Third Prize Winner in the Love Story Category Kuang Ching Hei 62 years

A Conversation with Luther Gunther Ok, my darling, which park -‐ big park or small park? Big park I like big park, Got poles I can swing on the poles That’s right, you can swing on the poles My friends wait for me You have friends at three years old? Ya I have many many many friends Really? Really! What are their names? Jie-‐Jie, Teacher Chelvi, Mama, Ee Joelle Oh, Teacher Chelvi, koko’s teacher? Ya Koko’s teacher is your friend? Ya Do you have a teacher? Ya Who is your teacher? Nainai my teacher Hahaha Why you laugh? No, not laughing just happy Why you happy? Because my grandson loves me Ya I love my Nainai I love you too, Luther Gunther. Where is your school? Nainai house my school Hahaha, my house is your school? Ya So what does Nainai teach you? 29

Straight lines, circle, alot lot lot Oh, you clever boy! Nainai, where Aunty Lily? I don’t know honey, she may be at home Why? She has to cook, clean the house, sweep the floor Ya I help you sweep the floor, Nainai Yes, you did, you clever boy Ya I water the plants I say, Hey Jacky, sit down! Yes, you did darling. Nainai, can you carry me? No, my darling, Nainai’s back hurts If I carry you, I might fall, then I need to see the doctor. Ya Then you see the doctor, right? Then the doctor give medicine, right? Give you injection, right? I also not feeling well, Nainai Can you piggyback me? Well, I can try. Why you got water on your neck, Nainai? I don’t like it Oh, honey, that’s my sweat We ran so much just now So I sweated Okay, let me wipe my sweat Here, can you help me? Ya I can help you, Nainai You think you can come down and walk now, honey? No! My leg tired Just for a while, honey Okay Why you don’t piggy back me? Nainai’s back hurts If I piggy back you, I might fall I catch you, Nainai 30

I catch you I strong now I eat alot alot alot Yes baby, you will grow big one day Then you can help Nainai, okay? Got car, Nainai, white car So clever, Luther Gunther You can recognise colours now Ya Clever, right? Blue flower, Nainai I want blue flower Can I take blue flower, Nainai? No, the flower will cry, sayang My grandma like blue flower Okay, if your grandma likes blue flower, We pick two for her, okay? Ya Two, like this, Nainai Okay, two But you must say, ‘Thank You’ flower Thank you, flower. Nainai, carry me, car Oh yes, too many cars on the road I can’t carry you honey, sorry How about you hold Nainai’s hands? Tight, can? No! Flower in my hand That’s alright, I keep the flowers in my pocket Then you can hold my hand, alright? Okay Tight, okay? If you let go, someone may take you from me Ya Got the bad uncle Now hold my hands tight Okay, Nainai. Look, Nainai, miaow miaow Nainai, miaow miaow under the car Not miaow miaow darling 31

That is the sound the cat makes We call it kitty cat, okay? Ya Why that kitty cat go inside? That’s its house Why the kitty cat not eating? I don’t know, maybe it is not hungry Why kitty cat not hungry? Maybe it has eaten already Why that aunty put the kitty cat in the house? It’s her cat, the aunty wants to protect the kitty cat. I protect you Nainai You protect me? Ya Hahaha, Luther Gunther Ya I can save you Hahaha, save me from the bad uncle? Ya I kick him, I punch him Thank you, Luther Gunther Now I have someone to protect me Ya I protect you, Nainai I ninja I got big motorbike I go on my motorbike I protect you, Nainai That’s nice, darling Ya Nice, right? Look Nainai, police Not police, dearie, security guards. Why they walk here? They are going to work Why they work? Well, they need to earn money To buy rice, grapes, gummy bears, ice cream Ya I like gummy bears After my rice, I take one gummy bear 32

You like gummy bears? Ya I share with daddy, mama, koko What about meimei? Meimei too small Cannot eat gummy bear Meimei drink milk What about you? Do you drink milk? No I drink chocolate milk You like chocolate milk? Ya Make me strong Do you like ice cream Ya What ice cream you like? Alot, alot, alot Okay, can you go on the slide yourself, honey? Ya I go up there, one step, two step Green, orange, green, orange So clever, that’s right, green and orange No! No! Cannot go there, Nainai You go there! You go there! Okay, I go there Nainai, you wait for me down there You say, On your mark, Get set, okay? Okay, off you go, are you ready? On your mark, get set Nainai, you drum, you drum Oh, you want me to beat like a drum before you come down? Ya (Drumming……) See, Nainai, I can control Yes, you are a brave boy, Luther Gunther Nainai is so proud of you Ya So proud, right? 33

Nainai, you go there, there, Nainai Okay, I go there Nainai, are you ready? Yes, honey, I am ready (Drumming) I am so clever, right, Nainai? Yes, you are, Luther Gunther, very clever Why my friend not here, Nainai? Where they go? Your friends, Luther Gunther? Ya My friends play with me Where that Jie-‐Jie? Oh, you mean the little girl, Umairah? Ya She catch me I don’t know honey I guess she will be coming with her grandmother later I go up, Nainai See, Nainai You cannot, Nainai, You cannot go up Only for little children You stay there, Nainai You stay there! Nainai, Nainai Yes, sayang? Birds Yes, birds What are they doing? They are eating, baby What are they eating? Rice, seeds, grass Can we go home now, Luther Gunther? Not yet How long more? One long more Nainai, can you hold me up? Where? That one, that one, I want to hold Oh, you want to hold like that little girl and swing? Ya 34

I want to swing Can we go now, Luther Gunther? Wait a minute Okay, wait one more minute, then we go, okay? Ya Can we go now, its getting hot, baby I haven’t finish, Nainai I know, we go home when you are finished. Let’s go home, Nainai I don’t like the park Why? I don’t like the park! Okay, let’s go home. (Italics and Meanings: Jie-‐Jie = elder sister, Koko = elder brother, Meimei = younger sister, Mama = mommy, Nainai = paternal grandmother) Caring for Luther, my three year old grandson, was against my retirement plan because I had envisioned absolute freedom from KPIs, Head of Department orders, research, publications, teaching loads and assessments. I was contemplating visiting friends, taking part in all sorts of activities, travel and be lazy. Minding children has to be a thing of the past -‐ those days were over more than twenty years ago, but when the son and his wife approached me for help, I said I would only do it from month to month. If I could not handle it, they must find a substitute. “No life of your own”, some friends said, “Let them take care of their own children!” said another, and more friends urged, “Don’t be taken for a ride, one month, two months and soon, it will be forever!”. I was aware too. But for the last eight months, I have not been less happy or more stressed. Same old, same old. In fact, there is more to talk about as my above conversation with Luther Gunther showed. I had also acquired a new schedule -‐ be up by seven, have his rest place ready in the sitting room, prepare his drinks and snacks, and dressed for the park. I quite enjoy this new discipline for a number of reasons. Luther Gunther has been of great company, opening my eyes to seeing things from a new perspective, allowing me to do my five thousand steps at the park without difficulty, chatting with my neighbours whom I seldom found time to say ‘Hello’ to before this, and Luther gives me the opportunity to get to know strangers, and see the behaviour of other small children. This sets a new goal in life too, even though I could have used the time to gallivant, travel, and participate in more adult activities. I laugh more now I think because what Luther says can be amusing and yet so natural. I also picked up one new good deed. We have been picking up garbage at the park because he cannot understand, “Why people throw rubbish on the floor?”. I think that’s a new found love which I had not discovered until recently. Thank you, Luther Gunther! 35

First Prize Winner in the Journey Story Category Ananda Kumar 60 years

Journey to the Himalayas

I just love nature. The sound of birds chirping, musical breeze blowing through swaying branches, running of streams, rich forests, beautiful mountains, calm lakes ... It all captivates me. During my early working years in Penang, I would wake up early on Sundays and venture out with my camera to enjoy nature and capture some good scenery with my camera. I love to trek up Penang Hill which I did occasionally. Once while I was reading a National Geographic magazine, I came across a picture of a trekker enjoying the beautiful scenery of mountains and valleys in a unknown place. There was a caption below the picture which mentioned that to enjoy such scenery, you have to venture on foot beyond the reach of vehicles. It sort of lighted up a desire within me to venture outdoors and do trekking. While in my late thirties, I went to Taman Negara Endau Rompin together with some friends and the help of an orang asli guide. It was such a mesmerizing place. The rain forest there is one of the oldest in the world, several millions of years old. And will never forget taking a dip in a place called Tasik Biru (which means blue lake) which is actually not a lake but a deep part of the river, Sungai Marong, which is one of the main tributaries there. As you step into the river, you notice plenty of fishes there which swim around you as take your bath. The Upih Guling waterfalls is a lovely place. A unique feature there is the cauldron-‐like structures carved out naturally on the rock surface. There are many of such features on the slopes of the waterfall. After a couple of years, I planned another trip to Taman Negara Endau Rompin. This time it was a three day two night trip. I had the opportunity to have lunch at an orang asli home. We had fried fish , fried paku pakis and rice. Although it was simple, the food was delicious. We stayed in tents at Kuala Marong. This time I managed to go to Buaya Sangkut waterfalls after a three hour trek. Buaya Sangkut is a cascading waterfall with many levels. We had lunch at the top most level and it was a wonderful experience. When I was 40 years old, a friend of mine organized a trip to hike Mount Kinabalu, the highest mountain in Malaysia. We were a group of five with a similar passion for nature. All went well and with the exception of one person all of us achieved the summit successfully. During our hike, we met a group of elderly Japanese who were also hiking up Mount Kinabalu. They were all in the seventies and were in excellent form, energetic and fully motivated. They left an impression on me that age is not an obstacle at all if we keep ourselves in good health and lead an active life. I retired when I was 50 years old. Soon after retirement, I planned several solo trips to places I always wanted to go to but couldn’t do so 36

then due to job commitments. The first trip was to the Niah and Mulu caves in Sarawak. The cave experiences were unforgetable. Great natural wonders just at at our doorstep. Next was a trip to Angkor Wat, Cambodia. There, I came to know that besides the huge Angkor Wat temple, there were many other temples in the vicinity. I greatly enjoyed the great architecture and intricate sculptures, all surrounded by a lush green environment. I also visited Kbal Spean or ‘the River of Thousand Linggas’ after a short hike up a mountain trail. It was a spiritual experience. I was very interested in doing some mountain trekking. After spending much time surfing the net, I finally decided to go to Nepal. Most of the highest mountains in the world are located in Nepal. There were so many treks there and after much contemplation, I decided to do the Annapurna circuit trek which is a teahouse trek normally done over seventeen days. The highest point in the trek is the Thorong La pass which is 5,416m high. To physically prepare myself for the trip, I trekked several mountains in Johor – Gunung Panti, Gunung Pulai and Gunung Arong. In the year 2013 at the age of fifty four, I finally took a flight from Kuala Lumpur and landed in Katmandu, Nepal. I planned a total of twenty five days for the trip with sufficient time for the permit application, preparation, the actual trekking, shopping and sightseeing in Katmandu and nearby places. I then engaged a porter-‐ guide for the Annapurna circuit trek to lessen my carrying load and also help make all the accommodation and meal arrangements along the trail. I spent the first day shopping for some essential items needed for the trek. On the next day, my permit was ready and we took a tourist bus to Dumre. From there we took another bus to Besisahar which is the starting point of the Annapurna Circuit Trek. By the time we reached Besisahar, it was already late evening so we decided put up for the night there and to start trekking the following morning. There was actually a road for motor vehicles from Besisahar to a place called Chame which is along the Annapurna circuit. Many four wheel jeeps were plying the road carrying goods and passengers. During the trek, we mostly avoided the dusty road and chose trails on the opposite side of the valley. Our trekking trail meandered along besides the Marsyandi River. After five hours of trekking, we reached Bahundanda. It was a very steep trek up to Bahundanda . We had reached there earlier but I decided to spend the rest and the day there. I was very satisfied with my physical condition after the first day trekking. I had a dhal bhat meal for the first ime. Dhal bhat comprises of rice, dhall soup, a spinach dish and a potato fry item. We started trekking the next day after a early breakfast. The second night we put up at a place called Taal. At Taal the river flows calmly and is very wide. There is also a waterfall there. The following day we trekked to Dharapani where we had lunch -‐ dhall bhat. During trekking and the lunch breaks I met many trekkers from all over the world. We had good conversations and shared our experiences. We then continued to Bagarchap and stayed there for the night. 37

For dinner, I had an egg dish called Shakshuka and some chapaties. The next day we trekked to Chame. The motorized road ends here. Chame was a comparatively big town with several shops, hospital, post office etc. Here I bought a post card and posted it to my home. The following day, we trekked to a place called Upper Pisang. The next day, we trekked from Upper Pisang to Manang. From Chame to Manang, we had to share the trail with mule trains. All goods bound for Manang and villages higher up are all carried by porters or mules. It was astonishing to see the massive amount of weight being carried by the porters. I also came across some women carrying very heavy loads. Manang is a large town. It is the capital of the Manang district. We scheduled an acclimatization rest day here. We need such a rest day so that our body can adapt to the high altitude. As we go higher in altitude, the air gets thinner so the amount of Oxygen in the air we breath in is also less. Giving our body sufficient time to adapt to the high altitude is very important to avoid AMS (Acute Mountain Sickness). AMS can be fatal. Manang is 3500m high so has a cool climate. Once the sun sets, it gets quite chilly. The next day being a rest day, I went exploring a nearby place called Khangsar. It is a very beautiful, scenic place situated at 4000m high. The snow clad mountains appeared very close. The air is so pure and crisp. The next day we continued our trek to a place called Yak Kharga. I had to put on thicker woolen clothes as the temperature dipped further. That evening, for the first time, I experienced slight snow fall. At the dining hall, most trekkers sat closer to the stove place which was warmer and pleasant. For dinner, I had garlic soup, Tibetan bread and Momos. Garlic soup is recommended for acclimatization. Tibetan bread is wheat flour dough with yeast which is fried in oil. Momos are basically dumplings which are steamed. From Yak Kharga, we trekked higher up to Throng Phedi. Along the way, we saw the vegetation covered with snow and was a wonderful sight. Now we see more Yaks and no more mules. Yaks which are covered with thick long furs survive well in this cold climate. Stoves are fueled by Yak dung. Thorong Phedi is the last halt before we trek up to Thorong La pass which is the highest point. It is very cold up here. In the afternoon, we walked up a neighbouring mountain to help our body acclimatize. We are advised to always trek higher and sleep lower. The next day required a ten hour trek from Throng Phedi up to High Camp and then to the Throng La pass and then descend down the other side to Muktinath. The next day was a long day, so I got up at 3 am and after breakfast, started to trek at 3.30am. It was dark so had to carry a headlamp to light up the way. We reached the High Camp after three hours hike. Beyond that it was all walking in the snow. It was a very new experience and was not easy. With the help of trekking poles, I managed to feel my way in the snow. The trodden paths were covered with hard ice and were very slippery, so we had to be very careful. There were also yaks wadding their way through the snow. The scenery was superb and was out of 38

this world. The mountains covered with snow was where I had dreamed to go to. I couldn’t believe I was actually there. The air was thinner so the pace was very slow. It seemed very tiring. I finally reached Thorong La pass with great relief. There was a feeling of great achievement and satisfaction. Took several pictures with my camera for memory. Also had some chocolates and biscuits for energy. Since it was long way down to Muktinath, we started trekking soon afterwards. The way down was very steep and slippery due to loose gravel on the path. We managed to reach a tea house at about 4pm where we had a proper meal. We proceeded to Mukthinath. Passing the temple, we arrived at the main town. There were many hotels here since Mukthinath is a pilgrimage center. We checked in into a hotel. The last decent bath I took was in Manang. I was looking forward to having another one. Yes, had a nice warm bath and then had a nice meal of fried rice. My body was just longing to hit the bed. Got up next morning , and after freshening up, went to the Mukthinath temple. It was a very cold morning. At Mukthinath temple, there were 108 water sprouts along a walking pavement where we were supposed to take shower as we walk and pass through them. I just sprinkled some water on my head from all the 108 showers and completed the ritual. Just too cold to take shower at that time in the morning. We also visited another Buddhist temple nearby where the five elements of nature were supposed to coexist in on place. The five elements being: Earth, Water, Fire, Air and Space. The caretaker showed us the spot where water was flowing and a tiny blue flame was burning over the water. It was an amazing phenomenon. After completing the temple visit, we proceed with the trekking. After Mukthinath we walked all the way to Jomson. Jomson is a big town with an airport. Most pilgrims going to Mukthinath will fly in from Kathmandu to Jomson and then take a jeep to Mukthinath. Spent the night at Jomson where I bought some Saligram stones. Saligram stones are found at the Kali Gandaki river bed. They contain fossils of prehistoric creatures which existed millions of years ago. From Jomson we had to trek to Marpha, but there was no walking trail. I did not want to walk along the road which is busy with buses and cars so decided to take a bus. After getting down at Marpha, the trekking continued. We put up for the night at Kalopani. After which the following night was at Tatopani where there was a natural hot spring. Had a nice warm bath there in the natural spring baths. Body was rejuvenated. The next day, we trekked all the way up to Ghorepani. It was a 3000m ascend. The next morning, we got up early to see the sun rise from Poonhill. From Ghorepani it was about a one hour hike to top of Poon Hill. There was a large group of tourist at the spot, all waiting for the sun rise. Unfortunately the it was a cloudy day and we could not see the ‘golden ‘ mountain tops. During good weather condition, the sun beam would bathe the snow clad mountain tops and they shine like gold would have been a sight to behold. From Ghorepani we decended all the way down to Nayapul. Our trek on foot ended here. From Nayapul took a car to Pokhara.

The total trekking from Besisahar to Nayapul was completed a day earlier then plan. I decided to spend the extra day in Pokhara. Pokhara is situated besides a large lake called Phewa Lake. It is a scenic place with the snow clad mountains forming a backdrop. Many tourists and honeymoon couples come here to spend some relaxing days here. There are many shops selling souvenir items for tourist. Can also see many pubs and taverns filled with westerners having a great time drinking. I visited a temple in the middle of the Phewa Lake. Took a boat ride to reach the temple. I had a relaxing and pleasant stay in Pokhara, just as what I needed after the 15 days of trekking. After spending two nights in Pokhara, took a bus back to Kathmandu. Spent another four days in Kathmandu basically sightseeing and shopping before flying back to Malaysia. Overall the trip was a very memorable one. I had realized one of my dreams. After that first trip to the Himalayas, I wanted to go back again and trek other places. In 2017 at the age of fifty eight, I went again to Nepal on a thirteen day trek to Manaslu Circuit Trek, this time together with another friend of mine. It was another great experience and memorable one too. This year I am 60 years old and I am planning to go to Everest Base Camp in September and October 2019. I am keeping fit by practicing Yoga and also regularly go walking and hiking when I am free. I am also involved in social organizations doing charity work. Age is just a figure. Mental and physical health need to be taken care of if we wish to enjoy life as we grow older. 40

Second Prize Winner in the Journey Story Category Kalsom Taib 77 years My Mother’s 100 Year Journey “My mother did not tell me how to live: she lived and let me watch her do it.” My mother, or Mummy as her children fondly call her, Zainab bt Ahmad, turned 100 on 7 May 2019. She was born in 1919 in Muar, Johor, during the colonial era, just after the First Wold War, to Ahmad bin Tahir and Khatijah bt Mohd Shah. She was their first daughter after having had three sons in a row. She has led a long and fruitful life and I thank Allah SWT for showering His countless blessings on her. During her lifetime she has outlived two sons, husband and parents, and all her siblings – eight brothers and three sisters. Certainly she has weathered many a storm in her life. With As Sakinah, -‐ peace, serenity and tranquillity in her heart, she has continued to be the matriarch of the family. She has been our family’s uniting force, our “heart” and the source of our love and strength, reminding us of what our priorities should be and how blessed we are to have one another, through our own challenges and adversity. At 100, Mummy is still able to enjoy life – she is mentally alert, has a hearty appetite, sleeps well, has no major illnesses (no diabetes nor high cholesterol or hypertension -‐ the usual old age nemesis) and enjoys the company of her family. She still remembers her childhood, especially her schooldays at the French Convent Malacca, her marriage to my father, Taib Andak , sometimes lamenting on her naivety in her early days of marriage and of course, her friends and family – all whom she remembers and treasures memories, always having an anecdote to share and reflect on. My mother remembers she had a happy childhood. There were no televisions, no computers, no handheld games and no toys at that time, as compared to what she sees her great grandchildren playing today. They however learnt to be creative and made their own toys and played seremban, ting ting, belon or galah. My mother first went to school at the Convent Holy Infant Jesus in Muar in 1933 and was the first Malay girl to be admitted. She stayed in this school until 1938 after completing her Lower Middle School, equivalent to Std. VII. Her father then decided to send her to the French Convent in Malacca, so that she could continue to the Higher Middle School to prepare for the Junior Cambridge and Senior Cambridge Examinations. My mother recalls that she had a “culture shock” on her first day as a boarder in the Convent Malacca – the nuns all dressed in black and the statue of the Virgin Mary outside the chapel. On looking back she said that she adjusted quickly to living life as a boarder, especially after her younger sister and cousin joined her. She was determined to do well and complete her School Certificate, as she already had aspirations to be a doctor. She sat for the Junior Cambridge 41

School Certificate Examinations in 1939 and passed all the six subjects that she sat for – Religious Knowledge, Geography, French, Elementary Mathematics, Art and Hygiene and Physiology. She would be able to sit for the Senior Cambridge School Certificate Examinations the following year. My mother paved the way for other Malay girls to enter the French Convent, particularly after the war. My mother said she felt exhilarated after she passed the Junior Certificate Examinations. However when she came home during the holidays, her parents informed her that she was already engaged to be married to Taib Andak in a year’s time. Taib was her elder brother’s friend. She had seen him a few times at her father’s house but had never spoken a word to him. Being an obedient daughter and as she did not want to hurt her parents’ feelings, my mother accepted their decision. That put an end to her studies, and became the start of her marital journey, the next stage of her life. My mother remembers all the details of the wedding that happened on 7 November 1940 -‐ the berinai, nikah, the bersanding ceremony, what she wore and the food that was served. However nowadays she sometimes forgets current events and names of relatives whom she has not seen for some time. There are six of us in the family. Aziz, the eldest, passed away when he was eight months old, before I was born. She went to have four more children after me – Don, Noni, Mod and Kam. She now has 13 grandchildren and 19 great grandchildren. Inshallah if she is still with us early next year, she will be a great-‐great grandmother. When my father was in London studying for a law degree, she stayed with her parents in Muar looking after all four of us. She did not just stay at home, but became a member of Kaum Ibu UMNO in Muar and was appointed Treasurer. She also enrolled me as a brownie so that I can develop my leadership qualities. She made sure I studied first the muqaddam, and then the Quran under the watchful eyes of Ummi, my great grandmother. She sewed all of our dresses, even the panties. She even sent regularly photographs of her and the children to my father in London so that he can see how we had grown. On 25 February 1949 with a heavy heart, she left us behind with her parents and travelled by ship, the SS Carthage from Singapore to London on her own. My youngest brother, Mod was only two years old. He was born when my father was in London on 29 April 1947. The voyage almost took a month, but she was not afraid. My mother recalls the sights and sounds of the ship’s ports-‐of-‐call –Colombo, Aden, Naples, Gibraltar and Marseilles. It was her first trip overseas. Although she missed the children, she was looking forward to see my father as they had been separated for two years and five months. He had left London by air on 5 October 1946 when my sister, Noni, was 10 months old and Mod was not even born. At the end of her three weeks voyage, she arrived in London and was met by my father. She was in London for almost six months. She was able to adjust to life in London and even went sightseeing on her own when my father was busy. She made full use of her time there – learnt new skills, like cooking English cuisine and baking English cakes and the art of making good waffles – crispy on the outside and fluffy in the inside. She even brought back a waffle baker. My parents returned to Malaya in September 1949. 42

Having been schooled in a convent, Mummy was determined to ensure her children were also provided with broad unconventional exposure. Unlike my peers, I was sent to French Convent as a boarder, in 1952 when I was only 10. She knew it would be good for me as she wanted me to be independent and have a diverse set of friends and teachers. Realising that my sister was musically inclined, she persuaded my father to buy a second-‐ hand piano when we moved to Kuala Lumpur in 1957, and although Noni was already 13 when she started formal musical training, she already completed the final eighth grade in Music by the time she completed Form V. She obtained a Government scholarship to pursue a music course at the Trinity College of Music in London in 1965. Mummy was ever present in the lives of her children. As my father was consistently away for work, she looked out for each one of us in a different way, and although, of course, we were berated for not completing tasks or at times not doing so well in school, she recognized us as individuals, and we were very different from one another, never comparing one with the other or taking sides when some conflict happens. When my father was transferred to Kuala Lipis as District Officer, for the first time in her life she worked – not at home but in an office, in the Menteri Besar’s office, as his special assistant. She enjoyed the work – drafting and typing letters and filing. She was also involved in the Women’s Institute and my father allowed their garage to be used for the various activities. She even entertained Lady Peggy Templer, the wife of General Sir Gerald Templer, the British Adviser, in her house. Her short stint in London had exposed her to the art of entertaining and so she was able to carry it off. She certainly had no problems in holding an animated conversation with Lady Templer. When my father was appointed the District Officer, Kuala Lumpur from 1957-‐1958, my mother was involved with the Malayan Red Cross (now the Malaysian Red Crescent). She chaired some of the meetings and headed some of the Committees. She remembers Ruby Lee who had joined the society in 1953 and served as Secretary -‐ General from 1965-‐1996. When my father was appointed Chairman of FELDA, my mother kept the fires burning, continuing to play her role as the perfect hostess, as my father preferred to entertain at home. This could be one of the factors that led the World Bank to extend loans to FELDA. Perhaps the negotiations had taken place over dinner. It would have been very difficult to say “No” after savouring my mum’s briyani rice, ayam masak merah, dhalcha and acar rampai followed by her delicate cream caramel with sweet corn. Friday is a special day for my mother, as it is a day when the whole family – children together with their spouses, grandchildren and great grand children will make it a point to go to my mother’s house for lunch before the men folk go to the mosque for Friday prayers. She always looks forward to Friday and will ensure that special dishes are served cooked by her able assistants. She has now delegated the role to me. She lives three houses away from mine so I can practically visit her daily. I bring her breakfast regularly – could be lontong, soto, nasi lemak, roti canai or tosei – as she has a good appetite and enjoys the variety of 43

food I bring her. She loves durian, especially musang king, and enjoys eating it with my husband, Shafee. When she was much younger (at 99 years old) I would bring her out for lunch – at Pavilion, KLCC, One Utama and Bungsar Shopping Centre. She enjoyed these outings. However after turning 100 she prefers to stay at home. I often asked myself what is the secret of her being well at her age? She was not a career woman like her two younger sisters but she was a supportive wife and devoted mother. I remember when we were staying in Johor Bahru in the early 1950s we had several relatives staying with us. She looked after them like her own children – making sure there was enough food on the table. I never heard her complaining. We were always receiving visitors and she would make sure that they would always have something to eat. My father was fond of bringing guests home without any notice – he knew that my mother would not mind and would always welcome the guests with a smile and prepare a dish or two for them. She was very creative and would always think of something to serve them. My mother would not dream of serving just a cup of coffee or tea. She will also make sure that workers and contractors who do work in the house would also be served food. My father preferred to entertain at home – not at the hotel. My mother’s organization skills were excellent. She did not use a caterer. She planned the menu, went marketing, set the table, arrange the flowers, helped the maid with the cooking and by the time the guests arrived, she was ready to receive them. She could hold a conversation with anyone of them as she kept up to date with current events by reading the daily newspapers. Nowadays she does not read the newspapers but watch the news on TV. During the last election she insisted that I bring her to the polling centre so she could cast her vote. At 99 she was the eldest voter at the polling centre where she voted. I overheard her telling the polling clerk to mark a cross on the candidate of her choice. When she was younger, she also dabbled in the stock market, getting tips from her wide circle of friends. My mother was very fastidious about her appearance. She dressed well and would often go to the hairdresser to have her hair done. I have continued this tradition for her by ensuring that her silvery grey hair is always well groomed and that she is well dressed in matching blouse and pants (and shoes too). My hairdresser, Michelle, makes regular visits to her house, to cut and blow her hair followed by a manicure and a pedicure. We now have a nurse, Mimi, to look not only after her but also to read and talk to her. You can see the glow in her eyes when she looks in the mirror. When her maids compliment her that she looks young for her age, she would give them a wide smile. My mother is a very broad-‐minded person. She gave her blessings when I wanted to get married to Shafee after a four-‐year courtship in 1966. Shafee ‘s father was a rubber tapper but she was very fond of him as she found him to be very respectful of elders, humble and simple, with no airs. Every time Shafee comes for makan at our house she will 44

ask the cook to prepare a special curry dish as Shafee hails from Penang. Being Johoreans we prefer asam pedas and, singgang asam. History was created when my parents informed the juru nikah that there would only be the mas kahwin of RM22.50, following the Johor regulations and not the Selangor which was set at RM80 and no wang hantaran (dowry). The dowry amongst the Johorean Malays was then seribu serba satu (one thousand dollars and a set of jewellery). I remember that the guests were aghast and I heard comments and snide remarks –“ Yeb’s daughter, free!” “No dowry!” “And she is also a graduate.” I overheard my father explaining that Chom (my nickname) was priceless and not for sale. When my sister, Noni, wanted to marry a Frenchman in 1973, my mother also gave her blessings. My father was not too happy at first but was persuaded by my mother to accept him. My mother speaks a smattering of French having studied the language at the French Convent. She gets a big thrill when Noni communicates to her in French every time she returns home. When the marriage, unfortunately did not work out ten years later, Noni returned home from Paris to be with the family. Not long after, she met Roeland Fangman, a Dutch banker, in 1985 and again my mother gave her blessings. When Don wanted to marry Junita in London in April 1975, my mother flew to London to prepare the hantaran. My mother is one of the most sabar (patient) people that I have ever come across, probably due to her taqwa and iman I believe that because her iman was strong, she was able to move beyond these painful emotions quicker and easier than most people. Perhaps my mother also bore in mind this particular verse from the Quran, Surah Al Zumar 39:10, Only those who are patient shall receive the reward in full, without reckoning. My mother received the first ujian (trial) when her first-‐born son, Aziz, passed away when he was seven months on 10 April 1942. He was born on 6 September 1941. My mother remembers he was a beautiful baby and looked a lot like my second brother, Don. He had sharp features and was so good natured, recalls my mum. However Allah SWT loved him more. My mother was devastated and overcome with grief but accepted it as Allah SWT’s will. 63 years later, she lost her third son, Mod. Mod had a special place in Mummy’s heart. He was her youngest son for ten years, as Kam was born ten years after Mod, in 1957. In August 2005 Mod went to China for a kidney transplant. He returned in early December 2005 but due to complications, he passed away peacefully on 19 December 2005. It was her kesabaran (patience) and her iman that saw her through Mod’s death. She was guided by Surah Al Baqarah 2:153, Seek help in patience and As-‐Salat (the prayer). Truly Allah is with those who patiently persevere. My mother had her religious grounding from her grandmother, Fatimah bt Buang (fondly called Ummi). It was Ummi who taught her to recite the Quran until she khatam, a ceremony celebrating the completion of the recitation of the Quran. She still remembers to recite the short surahs, like Yasin, Al Mulk, and Al Waqiah and can also rattle all the 99 Names of Allah which really puts me to shame. She sometimes recites these verses to me -‐ I will then read out the tafsiran (translation) to her. 45

The second ujian (trial) my mother had to face was when she discovered that my father had taken a second wife. I remembered that she did not rave or rant but was calm and composed. I was not sure then whether she cried later when she was alone in the comforts of her room. All she told me was that she loved my father very much and despite everything, he was still her husband and father of her children. On looking back, this was my mother’s greatest ujian from Allah SWT. Her third ujian (trial) was when she had to care for my father when he was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease in mid 1993. As the disease progressed, my father did not know who he was and did not know my mother and the children. She continued to talk to him and read to him verses from the Quran. I was very sad and was only able to relieve my mother during the weekends. In 1996 the family decided to move our parents to be near me so that I could help my mother to look after my father, as I would be retiring in 1997. My mother refused to move in with me. She valued her space and independence and wanted to stay on her own. I think she did not want to impose on me, to kacau (disturb) me and my family. This is typically my mother -‐ tak mahu menyusahkan sesiapa walaupun anak sendiri (does not want to impose on anyone not even her children). I know her too well and gave in to her wishes. We found a suitable house, just three houses away from my house and they moved to the new house in January 1997. My mother looked after my father with tender loving care until he breathed his last breath just one day before my retirement on 19 August 1997. He died peacefully in her arms at the age of 81. My mother’s 100 year journey had indeed been fraught with winding roads, slopes and hills. But she survived and I feel truly blessed that Allah SWT has given me this woman to be my mother. On looking back it is uncanny how oft I experience déjà vu and pause to think to myself that I sound and behave like my mother – the way I mandor (delegate tasks) to my maid and my children, the way I audit the cutlery, the way I organize my house..... the list goes on and on. I guess I should be happy to be like my mother for she is indeed a remarkable woman (or so) I hope to be. Mummy, I may have never said this to you before, but know that I love you. Thank you for being my mother. Thank you for living the way that you did. May Allah SWT reward you and continue to shower His blessings on you.

Third Prize Winner in the Journey Story Category Dato’ Shaari bin Mohd Noor 80 years JOURNEY TO CITY OF PEACE It was a fairly long journey to Central Europe, all the more so as my wife and I had to transit at Abu Dhabi for a few hours in order to take another flight to Geneva, arriving there only the next morning. The trip was made in November 2013. However we were relieved that there was no hassle at all either at the Immigration Counter or the Customs Check-‐point at Geneva International Airport. Neither was any during the drive into the city; no traffic jams, no reckless motorists or motorcyclists, no roadworks. We easily made our way to the sub-‐urban district of Meyrin (pronounced 'meghan') where our son lived with his wife, a diplomat serving as Second Secretary to the Head of the Malaysian Permanent Mission at the United Nations, Geneva Office. Lying at the southern tip of Lake Geneva it is one of the 'greenest' cities in Europe, surrounded with sceneries pleasant to the eyes .It is embedded between Alpine peaks and Jura mountains which were snow-‐capped even if it was not yet winter time. The City is situated on the bay where River Rhone leaves Lake Geneva which is also known as Lake Lechman. This lake is shared both by Switzerland and France. Being in the land-‐locked country of Switzerland the City of Geneva is accessible from all sides: France, Austria, Italy and Germany. But the nearest neighbour is France as the city is situated on the southern tip of Switzerland and sandwiched in-‐between two borders with France. GENEVA To many people Geneva has been popularly known only after the Second World War when it became a seat of the United Nations. Actually it grew from an ancient town pre-‐ dated to Roman times. In the year 1536 it underwent a period of Reformation. By the year1863 Red Cross was established there. In 1920 it became the centre of the League of Nations formed to sort out the fall-‐out of the First World War that broke out in the year 1918. This organisation was later disbanded giving way to the formation of the United Nations in 1946 until the present time. Today Geneva is next to New York as the seat of United Nations, managing world conflicts through conferences to arrive at peace treaties, disarmaments and signing of agreements on non-‐proliferation of nuclear arsenal. Some of the highlights of UN's Geneva's role in the past were Conference on Indo-‐China in 1954, on Laos in 1962, Summit of the Big Four (Britain, US, USSR and France) and between President Ronald Reagan of the US and Mikhail Gorvaschev of the USSR in 1985 marking the end of the Cold War. This is in line with 47

the fact that Switzerland has all along been a neutral country in terms of world conflicts. Thus Geneva can aptly be dubbed as THE CITY OF PEACE. There are no less than a hundred and sixty six countries represented in Geneva including Malaysia's Permanent Mission. Also Geneva is the cradle for United Nations Commision on Human Rights (UNCHR). The others are International Labour Organisation (ILO), World Trade Organisation (WTO), UNCTAD and many other smaller organisations housed either within the United Nations' complex or situated nearby, totalling about a hundred and twenty one representatives from the NGOs. UN COMPLEX In order to get a first-‐hand knowledge of this global hub of diplomacy my wife and I embarked on a guided tour of the United Nations Complex, accompanied by my son. It is located on the original building of Palais des Nations by the lakeside, that was constructed for the League of Nations in 1929 and 1938 but was susequently expanded in 1950s and 1960s to accommodate the United Nations offices. One of the UN's Liaison Officers was tasked to guide us in exploring the complex and to give briefings on the workings of the UN. It was really quite a task to cover the whole of the sprawling buildings that houses a very big number of Departments and staff. It has different conference halls for different organisations and their 'business' seems to be unending in meetings after meetings. In addition all the usual facilities needed by the UN staff such as restaurants and food courtsvare to be found in this complex. Its supermarket sells various items including Swiss watches at diplomatic prices. AROUND LAKE GENEVA AND BEYOND During our three week stay in Geneva and with our son as companion, my wife and I made forays to many places in this region. A short drive found us in Nyon, a sub-‐urban sitting on the shore of Lake Geneva and about 25 kilometers from Geneva. It is a part of Metropolitan Geneva where one can take a boat ride to tour the lake. Nyon is the Headquarters of the Union of European Football Associations. Next was a drive to the Christmas Bazaar that was like a fair where various traditional items were displayed for sale. It was a breeze (albeit rather cold by then as Autumn was ending) driving around the lake stopping at one of the many quaint coffee shops to warm up with hot coffee. A favourite snack over there was crepe suzette, a toseh-‐like delicacy but stuffed with nuts, or accompanied either by syrup or honey. Or for those after a stronger taste could have it with brandy as the 'sauce'! In Malaysia too crepe suzette is served in certain hotels but not in great variety. 48

The Swiss Railway is known to be the best rail system in Europe. We took a ride on Golden Pass to a station halfway up. From there we changed to a train meant only for trips to Interlaken. It is called Golden Pass Panoramic. This special train had classic coaches offering upscale travel that could climb the gradient andthat took us onto the Swiss Alps through verdant countryside. This scenic attraction of Interlaken is named after two lakes: Lake Thun and Lake Brienz that merge with each other. The town is situated at five hundred and sixty six meters above sea-‐level in the mountainous Bernese Oberland in central Switzerland and boasts of open grassy park with mountain and lake views. It sits in the valley of the two lakes surrounded by Alpine trees and forests on either side of Aere River. It was a pleasure to take leisurely strolls around this area in fair weather. In looking for an outlet for snacks we stumbled upon an Indian restaurant there. While enjoying the North Indian food we asked the restaurateur how come that an Asian shop could be operating in this part of the world. He told us that his shop was made popular by the presence of Bollywood stars! Yes, it seemed that Bollywood film people used to frequent this resort to shoot the beautiful sceneries around there as background to the film stars'singing and dancing in their film productions. After an overnight stay at Interlaken we took another train bound for Geneva via Bern the Swiss capital. After transitting at Bern and sightseeing there for a couple of hours we continued our train journey back to Geneva. Another resort that is sitting pretty by the Geneva Lakeside is Montreaux. Its promenade has been lined with flowers, trees and sculptures and Grand Belle Epoque buildings. The waterfront has been lined with posh hotels and Mediterranean-‐type buildings beautifully maintained with manicured lawns and flower beds.Montreaux organises Annual Jazz Festival. Though we missed the festival we nevertheless enjoyed visiting this place that attracts tourists all year round. Since we travelled there by car we had a chance to pass by a nearby town of Vevey just before reaching Monteaux. We learnt that this small town is the Headquarters of Nestle' products and gateway to UNESCO World Cultural Heritage. Towards the end of our stay in Geneva we ventured into neighbouring France. First a forty five minute drive to a place called Annecy. We were recommended to visit Annecy as it possesses unique features of a very old town lined with cobbled streets, winding canals and pastel-‐coloured houses. There too stands madieval Chateaux d' Annecy now turned museum.Annecy is also famous for its bridge that crosses a canal and it is known as Pont des Amours meaning 'Lovers Bridge'. Its clear-‐water lake and sprawling parks are ideal arreas for rest and recreation. It was interesting to observe SENIOR CITIZENS walking leisurely along the banks of the canals and around the park or chatting on benches privided there. The younger ones either swim or go for boating. Next was a full day visit to Chamonix, a one and half-‐hour drive from Geneva. Situated in an area not far from the highway junction of Switzerland to France and Italy 49

Chamonix is essentially a ski resort nestled at the base of Mont Blanc the highest summit of the Alps. It has long trails of both ski and snow-‐board. The town has a row of shops and hotels that cater for inlfux of tourists especially in winter. From one of the restaurants that we visited for lunch we could observe panoramic views of glaciers. For those visitors who were more adventurous they did not hesitate to jump on to the many cable cars ready to take them up the Alpine slopes. On our way back to our car to return to Geneva we were 'treated' to a shower of snow flurries drifting down on our heads -‐ a sign of the onset of winter. *** Our trip to this region was more meaningful than the previous ones. Unlike going on package tours in which we were whisked from place to place in a hassle this visit to Geneva and its surrounding areas gave us opportunities to plan our own programme in a more leisurely manner thus granting us opportunities to make certain closer observations as to the places and the people the we encountered. I specially marvelled at the nature of the road traffic especially in the City of Geneva. As mentioned earlier on there was no traffic congestion and the motorists adhered religiously to the road traffic regulation. Therefore there was a total absence of motor recklessness allowing all to travel smoothly. Next came the people: they were polite and readily greeting us as if we had known each other before. Though they mostly speak French and German their ability to converse in English was very commendable indeed. This shows that the learning of English in this European country was never neglected. Indeed English as a tool of communication in trade and diplomacy has been given special emphasis globally. Yet another observation especially in Geneva was that the senior citizens there seemed to be more independant judging by the way they moved about. For instance one or two of them were seen coming out of a supermarket riding what looked like motorised golf buggies loaded with their shopping items, perhaps heading back for their homes not far off. However I am of the opinion that this type of motorised buggies would only be possible if only the roads are safe from reckless drivers of motor vehicles and motorcyclists, a phenomenon not to be found in our country. In a developed country with a reputation of being a world financial centre, hence the absence of wealth gap, there was no visible signs of the presence of destitutes let alone beggars roaming the streets. It is different from London, for example, where one can still find somebody living in a card box tucked in a corner at a railway terminus or one can be accosted by a man asking for money to buy lunch while walking along Oxford Street. Lastly very much unlike our country Geneva and its surrounding areas are said to be free from foreign immigrant workers although there are many even from outside Europe have been accepted as permanent residents. 50

Short story entry by the oldest participant for Jasmina Awards 2019 Dawn Usharani Biswas 90 years Freedom is priceless Hari Merdeka (Malaysian for 'Independence Day'), also known as Hari Kebangsaan (National day), refers to the day when the Federation of Malaya's independence from the British Empire was officially declared. At exactly 09:30 on 31 August 1957, the declaration was read by the first Chief Minister of Malaya, Tunku Abdul Rahman at the Merdeka Stadium in the presence of thousands of people including Malay Rulers, members of the federal government, and foreign dignitaries. To commemorate the event, Hari Merdeka was declared a national holiday in Malaysia and observed annually on 31 August (as explained in Wikipedia). If there is anything I have learned from my parents and throughout my education, history is important in understanding the present. We celebrate it to reflect on how far we have come as a nation and realise that 1957 was a pivotal year in our nation’s history. Sometimes I feel that most people have lost the idea of Independence Day and simply celebrate it because it was considered a public holiday or a day of rest. However, this year, I have taken some time to reflect on what independence and the day that celebrates it mean to me. Independence Day is a day to remember those who have lived before you and what they endured, lived through and fought for so that you can be where you are today. Independence Day is important and should always be celebrated with its historical significance in mind. I was born in 1929 to an immigrant Bengali father and a Pernakan mother and they lived in Port Dickson, Negri Sembilan. My father was raised in Dhaka (India), qualified in the medical field in Burma, and moved to Singapore to work in the hospital as a general practitioner. Subsequently he moved to Port Dickson in Seremban where he had the opportunity to open his own clinic and dispensary and provided medical attention to the public at large. According to my father, it was also the beginning of the Great Depression for Malaya which observed severe downturn in economic activity throughout the international economy during the 1930s. The scale of human sufferings was immense, and had a dramatic effect on Malaya’s economic growth. Workers were laid off, and many, especially Indian plantation labourers, were repatriated. Reductions in wages led to declines in living standards. 51

In 1935, at the age of six, my father registered me to study at a Tamil school for 3 years. Thereafter, I was transferred to vocational primary school where I commence my first year of Primary one. Before WWII broke out, my parents sent me to a Christian mission school in Seremban until I completed Primary 4. I was required to study both French and later Japanese, as part of my educational curriculum. I completed my Secondary 2 and thereafter was brought home rather suddenly, when my biological mother passed away. The Japanese Invasion of Malaya began just after midnight on 8 December 1941. World War II, also known as the Second World War, was a global war that lasted ten years. By early February 1941 the Japanese occupied the Malay Peninsula and Singapore. As the war progressed, all three ethnic communities began to suffer deprivations from increasingly severe rationing and a lack of resources. Where once rice and other staple food, cooking oil and provisions were readily available for consumption and within reach, the Japanese administration prohibited the import and export of all forms of edible products and raw materials. However, our neighbours who were mostly Chinese and Indian immigrants, who previously worked in the British rubber estates as labourers (and now deprived of a living), shared all their knowledge on food preservation and vegetable cultivation. We may not have had much to eat as a family, but everything was shared with our neighbours and sometimes even strangers who were looking for work, living from hand to mouth. At a young age, I learned how to cook a variety of meals with our own handmade coconut oil, over wooden fires with large black woks. Tapioca was steamed or grated and eaten with hot chilli sambal, pumpkin was mashed up and mixed with tapioca to make cutlets, turnips were shredded and eaten raw or cooked with wild boar meat, sweet potatoes were boiled and eaten with a little salt or sugar. On rare occasions, my father who was sought after for his medical treatment was given some wild chicken, green corn and bananas from the jungle. My foster mother, who was a qualified Pharmacist from India, taught us how to pickle mangoes, onions and green lemons through the fermentation process. She also helped my father deliver babies and make herbal medicines to treat open wounds and blisters. Rice and flour gunny sacks were converted into cotton shorts and sarongs, sewn by hand. Without electricity, we used palm oil sparingly to light up our old home and slept under mosquito nets which were provided by the RED Cross to keep away sand flies. On festival occasions, my father would entertain us all by playing his gramophone, harmonium and accordian with his agile fingers. Life was very simple yet fulfilling even though we feared for our own lives every day. The Japanese remained in occupation until their surrender to the Allies in 1945. Then began renewed faith that a new world of opportunities would open its closed doors, everyone would have reliable option waiting to be explored and dreams to be actualized without fear or favour. 52

Independence to me was about making my own choices and decisions regarding my ambition to be a Nurse in 1945. I applied to be a Trainee Nurse at the General Hospital a year later. My selection was based on the fact that I could speak fluently in seven different languages & dialects – Cantonese, Hakka, Teochew, Hindi, Tamil, Japanese and Bahasa Melayu. With the freedom to practice my skill, came huge responsibilities that would earn the respect of my parents, peers and associates. For me, true freedom allowed me to shape the context of her life. I realised how lucky I was to have out lived a war that took the lives of so many in this country, Malaya. War teaches us to appreciate the simple things we take for granted and most importantly, the value of human spirit. My generation had the resilience and tenacity to overcome all odds for the sake of freedom. We have all looked forward to a world founded upon four essential human freedoms: freedom of speech and expression, freedom of every person to worship God in his own way, freedom from want, and finally freedom from fear. When you find yourself in a situation way beyond your control, all you can do is to follow the instinct to survive. Realising how precious life is, I have earnestly raised my own children to uphold their dignity with patience at all times, because freedom is priceless. Malaya attained independence in 1957. Although I will always know that Independence Day is the day of celebration of our independence, I will also know that our freedom is not free if those privileges are constantly abused by mankind. It is an honourable remembrance to remind all generations to come, about the relentless struggle of our forefathers who not only endured public humiliation, unjustifiable prison time, racial discrimination, brutality and killing by the oppressors. Let us not forget that our nation was also built upon a generation of people who endured a time we cannot imagine today. Each of us are given the choice and responsibility to improve our lives without infringing the rights and liberty of others. The results of our work belong to the children of the next generation, and not us. Independence is a celebration of hope!

P O E M S

First Prize Winner in the My Malaysian Poem Category Alice Aruthan 67 years Love Love O Love how I love thee Though I cannot touch you but can feel you through and through indeed. Many a heart you tap for me But there is one love that touches my heart so true And that is love from my parents hearts to love my country too. From birth till now I know for sure A parents love is ever so unconditional, true and pure. Teach me then they did when I was small That one must love our country all in all, irrespective of colour, creed or religion to make a better me! Born of an Indian father and Chinese mother so I am different as can be If our eyes do see colour let it be But our hearts must feel and care for each other for the sake of humanity. Together our hearts should beat as one for peace, love and unity. So strive we must to make our beloved country, Malaysia great! Let us then build each other up to readily help the unfortunate instead. Struggles and sacrifices we all have had and we should be thankful and grateful to past and present leaders that led our nation to independence and to a new Malaysia today. We have and had our shares of ups and downs, but better yet we must see our strengths in each other inorder to build a better Malaysia. Bless each other with smiles and laughter too, to enjoy and nurture our unique diversity bringing cheers and hope to chase away our daily blues. For Malaysia to stand tall we must treasure and love our heritage, uniqueness and achievements that did not come easy from the past. Let us then learn our different cultures and blend our hearts too melting away our differences as we celebrate “Happy Merdeka and Malaysia Day” bearing in mind our “Rukun Negara” as we happily sing our “Negara Ku.” 55

Second Prize Winner in the My Malaysian Poem Category Lucille Dass 72 years In Quest of Identity An artist friend once sketched a portrait of me. It adorns my wall at home. Most visitors and even friends see it as only a semblance of me. And I agree … though not fully. Rashid has captured and etched his take on my identity from within. His artistic eye searched me and uncovered my hidden essence and gave it fit form. In Rashid’s eyes, this is my identity … his truth. How am I then, to refute? My identity lies deep embodied within me To uncover it is to first discover it Tier by tier and then give it shape From within to bring it without For all to see and appreciate Much like layered poetry Where words lie a-‐waiting and a-‐wanting To be put together to give flesh Create harmony or peculiarity in meaning My identity? In this our country It’s my good, my bad My falsehood, my truth My ugliness, my beauty My love, my hate My intuitiveness, my denseness My intentness, my lightness Ingeniously crafted My Malaysian persona to make The power of my ability Is the passion to make things happen Passion – a much loved disposition “God’s Particle” that makes me and you whole In our vision, mission, and eventual transformation Passion – is an underlying sentiment A guiding philosophy of my spirited dedication To leave a legacy of inspiring memories Marking my share in the contribution 56

Of values, attitudes, and beliefs of my nation It’s taken Time and Effort to carve and cast my identity Mind, heart, spirit, and soul I needed to cultivate For identity primarily runs deep Whether I am looking or not, old age on me will creep In passing … what do I leave? That which fills the inner core of my being Memorable thoughts and deeds For those who come after my passing, to heed That which all to my life I brought and still bring The song of life … how well do I sing? It should not be simply a tune in passing Lyrics of which I make nothing So I ask: what will my life’s story be? Will I leave a legacy? I may be what you see, but not who you see Contained between my head and my feet I am multitudinous, not single I am real and transcendental Private and personal I am both intellect and heart I come with an identity guard For you it’s my identity card Drop my guard-‐card and …I am old and young Insular, narrow, modern and far-‐flung Sorrowful and joyful Perhaps more foolish than wise More spontaneous than premeditated Yet deliberate and passionate! Yes, I accept with grace The lines etched on my face That tell of my lived life – each phase Of life’s encounters embedded in its furrows Its yields buried in its burrows The many yesterdays that shaped today and renew hope for what’s left of my tomorrows… You may ask: Do you still have the get up ‘n go? 57

I reply: I look out from my heart’s window… Yeah, my body may now be a wee bit slow But my identity has not yet fallen apart Because hope whispers to my heart Intimations of a new tomorrow There’s surely more to life Than what meets the blinkered eye My sphere of thinking Allows me different ways of linking I know the echo of the real me Reverberates through my being Stirrings of verve, vigour, and ardour This fragile body still harbours Yet life has not come to naught, not yet! But to you and sometimes even to me An enigma I remain My external reality A mere abstraction Of my holistic Malaysian identity None can steal my inner reality My fading life’s last verse Will still be poetry in the making My inner and outer life together knitting Something that never stops BECOMING …

Third Prize Winner in the My Malaysian Poem Category Sarah Abedi 72 years

MOVING ON

Until the school bell rings, to summon our return to classes, Let us have a game of seven stones while savouring our soft, sweetened buns, Which bore traces of mother’s loving care for our recess snacks. Should the bell abruptly end our game, we’ll collect our stones for safe-‐keeping And sit through another frolic of throw and catch when time permits. After all, it matters little who wins; the shared carefree fun rightly fits our fancies. Until the last deafening ring of the blasting bell signals the end of our school day, Let us pack up our books and pencil cases and make a dash for the food stalls With their must-‐have offerings of sweet and savoury treats, eagerly devoured in company. We will suck noisily on tightly-‐packed, sweetened ice balls, and munch on fried crunchy nuts, While the home-‐cooked dishes are left untasted and untouched on the dining table, And we listen in adroit silence to mother ranting about wasted effort and resources. Until the last pen will not write another legible alphabet to round off our stories, Let us not fuss over what has truly been said or repeatedly said in vain. Enough does not have its limits for good lessons to be taught or experiences to be shared. Positive reinforcement does mould patterns of desired behaviour, but alas, The listening ear that is filtered by layered shades of resistance and dissension Will only seek to hear words of its own picking, which may often be unsaid but yet heard. Until the last ripple ends its synchronised display on the surface of the lake, Let us keep on trudging, despite our sore blisters, sweat-‐sodden t-‐shirts and aching joints. Covering the distance on symmetrically tiled tracks may deceive us into believing There is not much further to lumber on with our mud-‐smeared trainers, But the stream of competitors overtaking us, and dashing to meet the stated timeline, Builds that urgency to keep moving, to prevent the undesirables when one is left behind. Until the last devotee’s head has been shaven, and the freshly-‐cracked coconut has dripped dry, Let us believe but let not our faith be lulled, dulled and drowned by the dogma of our beliefs. The flickering candles and the curling fumes of incense exude that embalming calmness, Gently soothing and easing away our daily weights of anxiety, fear and worry. As such, are we given firm grounds to expect any much more from these rituals, As we seek to address our troubled thoughts, our world in turmoil and our deepening loneliness? Until the monks have chanted their last mantra to the silenced and stilled assembly 59

Let us remain with them as one, in that divinely hallowed hall. No harm will befall if you choose to leave early, when good reasons bid you to go. Sitting through a well-‐meant agenda of humble prayers and devotion, Is a test of the strength of our sincere tolerance, patience and acceptance, Like a woven tapestry of goodwill which elevates us above the fragility of our diversity. Until the last magpie robin has warbled its thrill across well-‐tended gardens Let us, weary gardeners, be uplifted by its transient melodic compliments. The drooping blooms which the busy ants have tapped dry, need time to regain their vitality. In the bushes unseen predators wait, while tree squirrels savour morsels of vegetation in the shade. All creatures earnestly seek a niche to survive in a seemingly regulated habitable space And nature has her magical equation to sustain all life and needs. Until the last sandy dune remains immobilised, long after the uplift by the trashing winds Let us linger a little longer to admire how life carries on in wondrous ways. The relieved bedouin ushers his loaded camels along invisible tracks to their next oasis, While the creatures of the dunes boldly emerge in pursuit of prey. Our ends will be met with new beginnings, our last breath may breathe unspoken hope to quell the fears of a faraway someone perched on the brink of despair. Until the last speaker has delivered his closing message with impact and conviction, Let us not belittle ourselves like desperados with the vain illusion of youth. Age deserves its measure of respect although certain commercial billboards may deny age its right. Accept with thanks when seats are offered by the kinder, younger ones around us. Treasure and perpetuate these practices before they become forgotten niceties It will be sad to be tagged as the delusional generation who reject our years as we move on. Until the last trickle of venom has been tapped from the fangs of the viper, Let us earnestly invest time and effort into building solid bridges across unfathomable ravines Where torrents of bitterness, accusations and shame erode our grace, honour and peace. Let us not drive good karma over the cliff by crafting twisted tales of self-‐pity and glorification. Such unwholesome stories which invite negativity, are best stored in muted spaces Before they destroy the treasured foundations of our well-‐being, happiness and goodwill. Until the last parched leaf flutters down cradled by the hushed, dying wind, Let us be mindful of the quirks that physically and mentally challenge our health and dignity. Weakened joints and flabby muscles, forgotten names and strangely misted places, How wonderful to have triggers implanted to jolt our recall and recognition abilities. Let past pleasant episodes surge and rise and remain accessible upon demand, Like beautifully played chords to embellish the chorus of a well-‐remembered song. 60

Until the last nightingale has shared its nocturnal serenade with the quiet, deserted park, Let us think that tomorrow promises fresh beginnings to drive our slackening passion. Each year that slips by, adds weight, depth and character to our wrinkled brows. Eye bags, crow’s feet, sagging jowls, skin tags and sun spots are all part of the aging deal Which will be imprinted as the rites of passage, on the faces of our young as they age. Stated as a finite number, age is often misread, misrepresented, misjudged and misunderstood. Let us look beyond, stop the counting and move on.

First Prize Winner in the Love Poem Category M A Badrie 71 years

To Love Forever Days go by and years disappear birds and butterflies they fly and fly and stay on to linger we been sitting here to murmur and whisper my limbs had weakened but not a lumber my mind had aged but fails not to remember. A bird flies and at once we realise many years had come they would simply pass odds arrived with hitches but just darkness too came but so did the dusk this soul mate is bonded strong to last dark days may come only to surpass. We have a thousand years to sit and infer mesmerised fauna will still fly and linger let's watch the birds and butterflies here together a sight behold, this world such a pleasure blissfully, my beloved, do look no further wrinkled yes we are, albeit not much older. Peaceful days will come and stay on To bear witness between us a golden bond In life and death, as promised, never disowned. Twilight years will pass and disappear I am not shaken, neither am I in fear this melodious journey we are in together to breath as one my beloved beautiful dear and be thankful to the most kind Creator to sit here, to breath on, murmur and whisper.

Second Prize Winner in the Love Poem Category Keats Markandu (Tan Keat Eng) 69 years

Quicksand

Cupped in her hands A small little treasure, A ruby red heart: A ‘U’ etched in centre, With a token of tassel Rubbed smooth, Twiddled by fingers. She swings it Gently, it moves like a pendulum. You think it’s a game? It’s not! Her heart remembers, Her eyes open, Her memory desperate to tell. Her voice agonises. Surprisingly the crescendo quietens And softens the tugs on her heart. Spirits broken By force. Door slammed in our face. She can still hear the rant: We can’t have black defile our house Black skin from head to toe And it’s tinged with blue. We birthed you. Be fair to us! Are crazed and dazed? Knock off your dreams. You’ve been snared To own his heart And to be blind. Brutes! he bellowed, tight blue in his face I’m somebody! 63

We are one. Leers widened on the mouths all round Stinking stares blanked us. What colour your baby gonna come out? Black guy, you… Vicious blackness screamed at us Backed by an army of resounding jeering cheers. How did this cacophony diminish us? Spit flew and evaporated Then something finally cracked and broke. Our love wall has crumbled Buried in the quicksand Our emotions crippled and stunted forever. Empty now. Where is he? My love black and bluish, head to toe. Am I still special? This ruby red heart. It’s black and bluish Two of us tangled, dangled and smashed.

Third Prize Winner in the Love Poem Category Cheah Sin Chye 85 years Six Sonnets on Love Sonnet # 1 It seemed somehow we were destined to meet; The time, date and place we did not foresee; It was by sheer coincidence so sweet; The start of life-‐long love for you and me. Your smile, your pretty face, your tender touch: Endearments fill my heart with joy and bliss; And only you I love so very much; Lips meet to seal true love in gentle kiss. We're two lovebirds billing and cooing Mere whispers of sweet nothings to the ear, In warm embrace while courting and wooing, Just two of us, alone, and no one near. Our love as deep as the deep ocean blue Will thrive as we are to each other true. Sonnet #2 When deep in love, music reaches the ear, We see more stars brightening up the sky, And hear love songs but no singers appear, When under Cupid's spell, we don't know why. We stroll along the shore, your hand in mine, And ever gentle waves caress our feet, While up above clouds float in bright sunshine, And I am beguiled by your smile so sweet. We sit beneath a spreading shady tree, And wonder just what our future will bring; We're two lovers alone, just you and me, With common schemes and sharing everything. For as long as our love remains steadfast, O, our happy life will forever last! 65

Sonnet #3 A day away from you is eternity, I yearn so much to be with you again; Alike a drought that dries without pity, While vainly we await wishing for rain. I claim to be a man who will not cry; But if by fate we would be torn apart, Despite our vow not to say goodbye, With broken heart, my tears will never dry. When Cupid's arrow pierces through my heart, It starts the flame of my true love for you; Our lifelong love affair has its fiery start, To climb mountains and cross the oceans blue. Two loving hearts as one, joyous life to share, A nest to build, a family to care ! Sonnet #4 You touched my heart when you brought me food, As I was down and out, without a cent; You were the only one who understood My plight and promptly helped like Heaven sent. Once I was frail and weak and out of breath, And you were there to promptly rendered aid, Indeed you saved me from the brink of death! Again you touched my heart, it can be said. One wintry night, it dipped below zero, You came to hold me tight to keep me warm; You softly touched my heart, my true hero; May God bless you for shielding me from harm! Alike a guardian angel from above, So ever ready with unstinted love! Sonnet #5 I love you far beyond the words I know, So I will prove my love in other ways. Many a thing that I can do to show My love better than a mere word portrays. I am your beck and call within your sight, Prepared to help with all the things you need. And always making sure you are all right; And when you speak to me I will take heed. 66

As you and I endure any weather, And we go through all ups and downs, Two hearts beating just as one together, We cry like babies, and we laugh like clowns. We feel the inner joys that true love brings When tender loving acts touch our heartstrings. Sonnet #6 When Cupid aims, he shoots as straight as darts, He flies around with his arrows and bow, And hovers above unsuspecting hearts, His magic arrows set the hearts aglow ! Is his only role to start love aflame ? And flies away in search of someone new. If love should fade, he does not bear the blame. Success in love depends on both of you. Endear both hearts by acts of devotion, Give tender loving care in time of need, Use words that show love and deep emotion, Shun words that hurt, of them you must take heed. "The course of true love never did run smooth"; Our love will thrive, with mutual trust and truth.

First Prize Winner in the Journey Poem Category Alice L.T. Ong 76 years Where I Belong Many countries I’ve been World wonders I’ve seen North, South, West and Asia too Breath-‐taking sights made me drool. America, Canada, Rocky mountain high China, Tibet, Mount Everest reaches the sky Thailand, Holland, Egypt and Middle East Africa, America, England, Europe and Crete. Places, faces were all too fantastic China’s Great Wall was just majestic ! Elsewhere was rosy, beckon me much By air, rail, road, I was a wander-‐lust ! But the land that touches me more Has all the things my heart adore Food like chapati, laksa and curry mee Delights that forever makes me hungry. Nasi lemak, and all nyonya delicacies Bananas, durians, jackfruits and coconuts Rambutans, pineapples and langsat Year-‐long fruits we grow, love and harvest. No earthquakes, tornadoes, nothing to complain Day long sunny skies, dark clouds or rain Keeps me happy, in double ecstasy Teh-‐tarik, taufah, coffee or tea. No money in the world can buy The food, the variety, the availability, Any time of day you may fancy. Eating whole day long Is like loving a song. And touching on hospitality Malaysians especially, a specialty To welcome visitors like a king Beautiful blessed country within. No one can deny, having visited once Will be forever entranced! 68

So as one can now see Why I love my beloved country. Wherever I may go Malaysia is still my home ! Malaysia remains supreme As Negara-‐ku we sing No where on this earth By far, better than my birth My land, my own Malaysia

Second Prize Winner in the Journey Poem Category S H Lim 66 years Transforming Words Bound books, like clinging children, lined the shelves Their pages yellowed and brittle with age And brown spots flecked, like freckles on my skin (Yes, though some call them age spots on the old) Each volume a chronicle of my years Listening to children, discussing with peers These books are remembrances of days past Before the worldwide networks of computers Before the world of friends you rarely face (But celebrate with Likes, Smiles, Wows and Frowns) And tablets were swallowed when we were sick Not things to swipe or scroll or sometimes click. In the margins of these books, sweat-‐written words The wrestles between dead writers and me Between me and my thirsting keen young students In the classroom, to free more windows open To see a world and future that bore hope To expand horizons, enlarge their scope. That was an honour and sweet pleasure too Tricking words to march them out one by one The stories that elbow and poke young minds As they consider how they stack their notions To build their world, to bend and tuck and fold Sometimes unfurl to tell what’s not been told. Those days before a classroom of bright eyes Are gone but thoughts of them still linger on Like the trail of a jet across the sky Silky gossamer in undusted corners The tingle of the first kiss on the lips Remembrances of the first o’erseas trips. Now past three score and more than a little more-‐-‐ 70

When policy-‐following officers With handshakes and thudding pats on the back With practiced smiles and these glazed-‐over eyes Bid me farewell and closed the classroom door Bottled my years, boxed my books and said Goodbye-‐-‐ I trade the classroom for another stage Breathing my new life to words on the page. Sometimes under a spotlight, sometimes none Sometimes on a bedecked stage, neatly done Sometimes on a bare one except for boxes In a trade that is full of paradoxes: A trade of pretence, yet truly believed When imagination’s freed to achieve But the patrons’ cherished heartfelt applause Are the kind acts that lead me to a pause. To think that my revived avocation Bears closely to my recent past profession: Telling stories-‐-‐in the classroom or stage-‐-‐ Are words of goodness, gentleness engaged Of breaking bread with fellow travellers Of relying on the kindness of strangers All on a journey that’s transitory Each navigating and writing his story. And mine too one day will come to an end Just like the books that on my shelves do stand Pages all dried up, cracked, brittle and broken But with hope remembered when words are spoken. 71

Third Prize Winner in the Journey Poem Category Azizul Kallahan 64 years Journey I signed off They didn't notice anyway But I have things to say That would rub the wrong way. I wondered if you knew That the road is crooked And up is down And down is up. Why did you come To meet someone important Can he give you the moon and the sun But that would not matter It is not his to give anyway Did you know. Alas