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?
Tuesday, 29 November 2005
Busy busy busy!!!
When I came back from my Hari Raya Hols, I was looking forward to writing a really long blog about all the stuff I did and places I went to with Nuaim. Unfortunately, due to my Lead Engineer's weird and self-torturing schedule, I found myself literally huffing and puffing through specifications, reports, design philosophies and a whirlwind site visit. LE's also complaining that he cannot get the manpower he was promised (we're supposed to have 5 but right now only 3 in our team) for the project. Itu la, dulu elok-elok ada sorang seed engineer, hang pi demob dia. Bila bos suruh ambik balik kata tak nak sebab budak tu kononnya tak pandai lagi nak buat kerja-kerja ni. Yang pandai-pandai semua dok sibuk dengan projek lain. La ni budak tu pun dah buat kerja lain dah, nak tarik balik pun dah susah.
My boss, in the mean time, is off in Manila, presumably headhunting for an engineer to replace the guy in Bintulu who's supposed to be the fifth element in our project team. Lucky him, timing his trip just in time for the Manila SEA games. I just hope there's some project trip to Germany or thereabouts in June 2006 that I can join. Maybe for the HIMA Safeguarding System?
Have to sign off now. Everyone's left the office already. Ciao!
My boss, in the mean time, is off in Manila, presumably headhunting for an engineer to replace the guy in Bintulu who's supposed to be the fifth element in our project team. Lucky him, timing his trip just in time for the Manila SEA games. I just hope there's some project trip to Germany or thereabouts in June 2006 that I can join. Maybe for the HIMA Safeguarding System?
Have to sign off now. Everyone's left the office already. Ciao!
Thursday, 17 November 2005
Mummy's Birthday Boi
Nuaim and I share the same birthday. Does this sound like us?
Courtesy of www.blogthings.com
Courtesy of www.blogthings.com
| Your Birthdate: May 31 |
 Your strength: Your dependability Your weakness: You hate being alone Your power color: Midnight blue Your power symbol: Shell Your power month: April |
Power symbol: Shell.
I knew it - I'm working with the wrong Oil & Gas company. But loyal me isn't leaving, or am I? Jeng jeng jeng...
Monday, 31 October 2005
Selamat Hari Raya
As this is my third post today, I'll keep it short.
Today is my last day at the office before I break off for the holidays, which also means I won't be able to get on the Internet again till 14th Nov (unless my sisters decide to take a break from hogging the PC at home). It also means the next time I come back to the office, I can have my sweets and cookies and Hot Milo (with a hint of Nescafe) to keep me awake!
So I would like to take this opportunity to wish everyone Selamat Hari Raya, Eid Mubarak. Let us all forgive each other and ourselves, and beg forgiveness from Him for all our trespassings and wrongdoings, and come back in better shape of body and mind.
Hari Raya is meant to be the day to celebrate our 'victories' during the fast against our base nature and lusts, although I have to admit to not being all that victorious this year. May we all have the opportunity to greet Ramadhan again next year, InsyaAllah.
Today is my last day at the office before I break off for the holidays, which also means I won't be able to get on the Internet again till 14th Nov (unless my sisters decide to take a break from hogging the PC at home). It also means the next time I come back to the office, I can have my sweets and cookies and Hot Milo (with a hint of Nescafe) to keep me awake!
So I would like to take this opportunity to wish everyone Selamat Hari Raya, Eid Mubarak. Let us all forgive each other and ourselves, and beg forgiveness from Him for all our trespassings and wrongdoings, and come back in better shape of body and mind.
Hari Raya is meant to be the day to celebrate our 'victories' during the fast against our base nature and lusts, although I have to admit to not being all that victorious this year. May we all have the opportunity to greet Ramadhan again next year, InsyaAllah.
Tok Bik
Tok Bik lived in a big house in Subang Jaya with her son and daughter. Every so often, she would get visits from her other children and their brood. Sometimes they would stay over the weekend, so the house would be filled with the sounds of laughter and conversation.
Tok Bik had eight children from two husbands. She was divorced from her first husband after having two children, and became another man’s second wife. Tok Bik took the boy to stay with her, while the daughter was cared for by the father’s family. Tok Bik never met her daughter until after the girl was married at the age of 21.
As they say, history repeats itself. Tok Bik’s eldest son also married twice. His first wife was pregnant with his firstborn, a boy, when he left her for another woman. His second wife bore him four daughters, the eldest nine months younger than her brother. The boy and his father would not meet until 30 years later.
Tok Bik was only recently united with her grandson, but she welcomed him with open arms. She had always known about him, and had been asking her son to seek him out, but the timing was never right. It was not until he was about to leave for Haj earlier this year that he drew up enough courage to set up a meeting.
Last Saturday on the 25th of Ramadhan, around the time for Asar prayers, Tok Bik complained of a headache. She went upstairs to shower and lie down. Before doing so, Tok Bik asked her maid to take out the long kain batik lepas from the cupboard and place it nearby her bed so that 'nanti senang orang nak cari (it’ll be easier for people to find later).'
Tok Bik would usually come down to prepare for iftar at 6.00 p.m. When she didn’t make an appearance, her maid went to her room to wake her up. She saw Tok Bik sleeping in bed, but something looked amiss. Upon closer inspection she started screaming, which drew the attention of Tok Bik’s daughter.
When the doctor arrived, he confirmed what they had all suspected. Tok Bik had passed away in her sleep.
I heard the news just before breaking fast. It was a shock because Tok Bik seemed very healthy when I last met her just over a week ago. As my brother-in-law was having iftar with us that evening, we decided to go visit after Maghrib prayers. We reached Subang Jaya at about 8.30 p.m.
When I entered the room, there were several relatives sitting around reciting the Yasin. Some of them had tears in their eyes. Tok Bik was laid out on the bed, her face covered with gauze. When the gauze was lifted for me to look at her face, I could see she had passed away peacefully.
Tok Bik looked so serene, almost like she was sleeping. Her skin seemed so clear like a teenager’s. The apple of her cheeks even had a healthy shine to it. I was amazed that death could look so beautiful.
I settled down in a corner of the room to read the Yasin. Suddenly I heard someone crying loudly at the door. One of Tok Bik’s daughters had just arrived, clearly distraught. She was at KLIA, about to board a flight to Sarawak with her family when she found out what had happened. Her brothers and sisters quickly crowded around her and tried to put her back on her feet. I felt a bit confused, not knowing how to react to the situation, so I just dumbly sat back down and tried to read. Although I was feeling somewhat emotionally detached from it all earlier, I tend to get really affected when I see other people crying. I tried really hard not to let the tears flow. I succeeded, but got a headache due to the terrible effort.
Just as I was wrapping up my recitation, the men decided to move Tok Bik’s body downstairs. She was covered up in the kain batik lepas, her son holding up her head while her grandsons took the weight of her body. Her newly acquainted grandson was one of them, just as he was one of those to help lower her body into the grave the next morning.
It rained at the cemetery. It always does when good people pass away.
Rest in peace, Tok Bik. May Allah count your soul among the blessed.
Tok Bik had eight children from two husbands. She was divorced from her first husband after having two children, and became another man’s second wife. Tok Bik took the boy to stay with her, while the daughter was cared for by the father’s family. Tok Bik never met her daughter until after the girl was married at the age of 21.
As they say, history repeats itself. Tok Bik’s eldest son also married twice. His first wife was pregnant with his firstborn, a boy, when he left her for another woman. His second wife bore him four daughters, the eldest nine months younger than her brother. The boy and his father would not meet until 30 years later.
Tok Bik was only recently united with her grandson, but she welcomed him with open arms. She had always known about him, and had been asking her son to seek him out, but the timing was never right. It was not until he was about to leave for Haj earlier this year that he drew up enough courage to set up a meeting.
Last Saturday on the 25th of Ramadhan, around the time for Asar prayers, Tok Bik complained of a headache. She went upstairs to shower and lie down. Before doing so, Tok Bik asked her maid to take out the long kain batik lepas from the cupboard and place it nearby her bed so that 'nanti senang orang nak cari (it’ll be easier for people to find later).'
Tok Bik would usually come down to prepare for iftar at 6.00 p.m. When she didn’t make an appearance, her maid went to her room to wake her up. She saw Tok Bik sleeping in bed, but something looked amiss. Upon closer inspection she started screaming, which drew the attention of Tok Bik’s daughter.
When the doctor arrived, he confirmed what they had all suspected. Tok Bik had passed away in her sleep.
I heard the news just before breaking fast. It was a shock because Tok Bik seemed very healthy when I last met her just over a week ago. As my brother-in-law was having iftar with us that evening, we decided to go visit after Maghrib prayers. We reached Subang Jaya at about 8.30 p.m.
When I entered the room, there were several relatives sitting around reciting the Yasin. Some of them had tears in their eyes. Tok Bik was laid out on the bed, her face covered with gauze. When the gauze was lifted for me to look at her face, I could see she had passed away peacefully.
Tok Bik looked so serene, almost like she was sleeping. Her skin seemed so clear like a teenager’s. The apple of her cheeks even had a healthy shine to it. I was amazed that death could look so beautiful.
I settled down in a corner of the room to read the Yasin. Suddenly I heard someone crying loudly at the door. One of Tok Bik’s daughters had just arrived, clearly distraught. She was at KLIA, about to board a flight to Sarawak with her family when she found out what had happened. Her brothers and sisters quickly crowded around her and tried to put her back on her feet. I felt a bit confused, not knowing how to react to the situation, so I just dumbly sat back down and tried to read. Although I was feeling somewhat emotionally detached from it all earlier, I tend to get really affected when I see other people crying. I tried really hard not to let the tears flow. I succeeded, but got a headache due to the terrible effort.
Just as I was wrapping up my recitation, the men decided to move Tok Bik’s body downstairs. She was covered up in the kain batik lepas, her son holding up her head while her grandsons took the weight of her body. Her newly acquainted grandson was one of them, just as he was one of those to help lower her body into the grave the next morning.
It rained at the cemetery. It always does when good people pass away.
Rest in peace, Tok Bik. May Allah count your soul among the blessed.
