I actually wrote a really long post last week, reminiscing an old school friend who had passed away, but by mistake clicked the wrong button and lost the whole thing. Drat.
My friend was 30 years old. I remember her as someone very tall, lanky, sporty, gregarious and generally lots of fun with a sharp mind. We were in the same English debating team back then, and represented the school in 1991 and 1992. In the second year, when my friend was in Form Five, we won the coveted Prime Minister's Trophy (PPM), a debating competition among government boarding schools. I remember how, when the results were announced, she punched the air and gave me a big hug, then when we stood up to take our bow we all couldn't help but went for another group hug. We were almost jumping about while our supporters in the audience cheered and clapped and sang the school song at the top of their voices. I won again the next year without her, and my sister, who was also in the 1992 team, made it four in a row (five, if you count the team she coached after leaving school in 1996). But nothing beat the feeling of winning it the first time with Ida.
Even back in 1991, when we were knocked out (unjustly, we felt) in the early rounds, we had a lot of fun at the competition that year in SMS Machang. There were more than 30 schools taking part, each with a Malay debating team, English team and basketball team with matches going on every day. We would all spend about a week in the host school, and the atmosphere was festive (It wasn't called Pesta PPM) for nothing. There were six of us in the team, and we always walked about in a group, laughing and joking, or going for a quick meal at the gerai makan that were set up in the school grounds. Even the week preceding the competition, when we were supposedly holed up in school during the holidays to prepare for the competition, we spent our free time cooking mini-sausages on Jan's sandwich maker, and making prank calls to people we hardly knew. One of our victims, a guy called Rick, got so mad at us that he started swearing and cursing. He earned the nickname Rico Perverto, an adaptation of Rico Suave, a Spanglish one-hit-wonder from Gerardo.
When I left for the UK to do my A-Levels, I would sometimes bump into Ida there. She seemed less gregarious, but then so was I, and we didn't quite manage to spend long enough time together to do all the stuff we used to get up to back in school. The last time I saw Ida was at KLCC some years back, when we had both started working. She left for the Hague shortly after that chance meeting.
Ida was suffering from MCTD. I read about Ida's condition a few weeks ago through an e-mail that was forwarded from another senior in her year. By that time, she was in ICU, and her friends were planning to hold a doa selamat for her on Saturday 17th. On the same day I was to attend a wedding and the launching of Mercy Malaysia's coffeetable book on their tsunami relief efforts. I decided to give the doa selamat a miss.
Friday 16th, at about 9.30 pm Ida passed away. I received several SMS, and one friend offered a ride to the funeral the next day. When we arrived at her house, it was packed with friends and family. There were a lot of familiar faces that I hadn't seen for more than 10 years. Ida's body was laid down in the front section, covered in a long batik lepas. We sat down to recite the Yasin, and at some parts I had to stop and take deep breaths as tears threatened to unsettle me. An ustazah then arrived to lead the tahlil, afterwards the men and some ladies performed the funeral prayers. By that time the van had arrived to take her to her final resting place, and it had started to rain again. I stayed back, waiting for my husband to pick me up for our next appointment of the day.
People who had met her in this last year said she'd become very thin and gaunt. I can't say for sure as I was unable to get a last look at her face, and I will always remember her as the vivacious 16 year old back in school.
Rest in peace Ida, may Allah bless you.
Monday 26 December 2005
Tuesday 13 December 2005
The eye of the Storm
Hubby's on a business trip to Miri for two days, so that means I'm staying at Mak's house again. And Nuaim has gone to bed early, which means I get to use the Internet, or read any of the three books I have lying about - so here I am!
Finally, after several frantic weeks at the office, we've achieved some semblance of order. It's pretty ironic that at a time when our manpower requirements have taken a dip, we finally have all five engineers available for the job. I am now cracking my head thinking of tasks to keep my juniors occupied, instead of running around like a headless chicken (I've never actually seen one, a real headless chicken running around that is) looking for some masking tape to put it all back together. But enough of office gossip and politics, be it of the office or national variety.
Nuaim's right eye, however, keeps throwing up new surprises. Just as the teariness seems to have disappeared, a ketumbit (stye?) came out on his right upper eyelid. Old folk's tales would say styes are the result of playing peeping Tom, just like getting a boil on the bum from sitting on a pillow. Anyway, it appeared when I was in Bintulu, and after some antibiotics and eyedrops it popped on its own within a week. But it's made a reappearance a week later, and Nuaim is always so difficult to deal with when it comes to eyedrops and eye creams. He usually ends up screaming at the top of his lungs, which of course worries Mak no end. Everyone suggests that I do it while he's asleep, but it's even more difficult then because he'll always turn his head the other way. So between Hubby and me we don't really have much choice but for one of us (usually me) to hold him in a vice-like grip while the other applies the treatment.
He's also prone to some very violent behaviour whenever he gets upset, embarassed or really excited. Whenever I come back home from work, I'm greeted with a report on how he's bitten Mak's arm or leg, leaving her black and blue all over. He bites me too, but fortunately doesn't leave any marks behind. He does, however, slap me on the head, then complains that his hand hurts, whenever he's told off. And sometimes it's not even me doing the telling off, but I'm almost always at the receiving end of his anger. Once, at a restaurant, we saw another boy his age playing about and kind of suggested they play together. Unfortunately, the boy decided to greet Nuaim by scratching his face and barking some unintelligible monosyllable. Nuaim didn't like it, but did he retaliate? No, instead he just stood there silently, looking very unhappy while pinching my arm with his sharp little nails. Adoiiii!
Finally, after several frantic weeks at the office, we've achieved some semblance of order. It's pretty ironic that at a time when our manpower requirements have taken a dip, we finally have all five engineers available for the job. I am now cracking my head thinking of tasks to keep my juniors occupied, instead of running around like a headless chicken (I've never actually seen one, a real headless chicken running around that is) looking for some masking tape to put it all back together. But enough of office gossip and politics, be it of the office or national variety.
Nuaim's right eye, however, keeps throwing up new surprises. Just as the teariness seems to have disappeared, a ketumbit (stye?) came out on his right upper eyelid. Old folk's tales would say styes are the result of playing peeping Tom, just like getting a boil on the bum from sitting on a pillow. Anyway, it appeared when I was in Bintulu, and after some antibiotics and eyedrops it popped on its own within a week. But it's made a reappearance a week later, and Nuaim is always so difficult to deal with when it comes to eyedrops and eye creams. He usually ends up screaming at the top of his lungs, which of course worries Mak no end. Everyone suggests that I do it while he's asleep, but it's even more difficult then because he'll always turn his head the other way. So between Hubby and me we don't really have much choice but for one of us (usually me) to hold him in a vice-like grip while the other applies the treatment.
He's also prone to some very violent behaviour whenever he gets upset, embarassed or really excited. Whenever I come back home from work, I'm greeted with a report on how he's bitten Mak's arm or leg, leaving her black and blue all over. He bites me too, but fortunately doesn't leave any marks behind. He does, however, slap me on the head, then complains that his hand hurts, whenever he's told off. And sometimes it's not even me doing the telling off, but I'm almost always at the receiving end of his anger. Once, at a restaurant, we saw another boy his age playing about and kind of suggested they play together. Unfortunately, the boy decided to greet Nuaim by scratching his face and barking some unintelligible monosyllable. Nuaim didn't like it, but did he retaliate? No, instead he just stood there silently, looking very unhappy while pinching my arm with his sharp little nails. Adoiiii!
Sunday 4 December 2005
Sorted!
Your in-depth results are:
Hufflepuff - 14
Gryffindor - 12
Ravenclaw - 11
Slytherin - 7
Which Hogwarts house will you be sorted into?
I know at my age I shouldn't be so into Harry Potter, but once in a while it's good to let your inner child shine through, innit? Can't remember any character from Hufflepuff, though. Which house is Cho Chang from again?
