.:Irony:.

"Always forgive your enemies, but never forget their names"

- Robert Kennedy.

But what if you never knew their names in the first place?

.:of hearts:.

What's this?
This.. is a tired heart
It
seems to miss you
more than ever before.

What's that?
That... was a life
which I called my own,
bent
but now unravelled
I owe you for that, you know?

What are those?
Those... were the ashes
of my faith
burnt to the ground
but I remained
unbowed.

What are these?
These... are my hands
that I offer to you
in return
for saving
me.

.:Mortality:.

My grandmother(Atok Mak, on my dad's side) passed away on Tuesday evening. I received the message that she was critically ill after I got back from Tanjung Bin on a company visit; about half an hour later, I got the message from my mom that she had passed away. Innalillahi wa innailaihiraji'un. To Allah we belong, and to Him we shall return.

I went to Mak Andak's house straight after, where her body was already being cleaned and prepared for burial. I kissed my grandmother one last time, remembering how she used to cook pots of rendang for us, while my late grandfather, Haji Ramli, would teach us kids how to properly cook ketupat in the backyard. I remember once when I was the only one who remained by his side to cook the ketupat, when the rest of the cousins trooped in to watch TV or something. He then taught me how to build a bonfire with a few matches and some kindling. I miss him so much, and now, I realise that I'll miss my grandma too. Time passes. Nothing ever stays the same. If I had it my way, I would've loved to spend the rest of my life stuck permanently in 1988, when I was an innocent wide-eyed kid, unexposed to the passions, the treachery, the complexity and the ultimate mortality of human life. My dad was then my hero (he still is, but from a different point of view), my Atok Bah my source of stories and adventure and Makwe was still strong enough to chase after us when we broke one of her flower pots while playing football.

Try as I might, though, I could never stop the irreversible onslaught of time.

I carried Atok Mak's body to the wash-basin, where she would receive the final cleansing before she is wrapped in the kain kapan or the funeral shroud. Where in life she was a formidable woman, having raised 14 children, in death she was as light as a feather. After the jenazah prayer, we took her to the cemetery, where I did what I could as her grandchild, helping the others pile earth into her grave. I left her after the talqin, under six feet of earth, with the prayers of her children and descendants to keep her company until the Day of Judgment.

Al Fatihah.

Every soul shall have a taste of death: And only on the Day of Judgment shall you be paid your full recompense. Only he who is saved far from the Fire and admitted to the Garden will have attained the object of Life: For the life of this world is but goods and chattels of deception. Ye shall certainly be tried and tested in your possessions and in your personal selves; and ye shall certainly Hear much that will grieve you, from those who received the Book before you and from those who worship many gods. But if ye persevere patiently, and guard against evil,-then that will be a determining factor in all affairs. (The Glorious Quran, Ali-Imran, 185-186)

.:Melaka:.

It's always good to be back in my hometown. I think the place where we had our first memorable skinned-knee, the first crush, the first jeer from your male friends subsequent to finding out about that crush, the first (and last) time one fell into the school toilet (don't ask me how that particular one happened, okay? All I can say is, I was particularly skinny when I was a kid). It's nice. Brings back the memories, the construct of your current persona, the building blocks of your psyche, the ruminations of an undigested (and probably as yet unfulfilled) dream. They are what eggs us on, what keeps us awake at night, what makes us cry, what spurs us forward, what sets us back. A memory is a double-edged sword. For instance, you swear that you'll never get hurt the way you did before, that you'll learn from your mistakes, that you'll never put yourself in such a position. But then you remember how good it felt to be loved, how at one point in time, you were happy. Then you sort of forget that the sword cuts both ways, and wham! you're back in the groove.

Esoteric? perhaps. Meaningless babble? More than likely.

Laters.

.:Of Dublin II:.

Back again. I've got fifteen minutes before lunchtime officially ends. So let me just continue with the slideshow of the Dublin trip.(I realise some of you may be bored to death already; feel free to jump out the window provided on your right: note, however, that you may feel some unavoidable discomfort upon landing) =P

Farah loves this picture. It's a bit too orangey for me, but it's still a nice picture nonetheless. From left, Shih Hi (betul ke my spelling ni??), Syikin, Farah, moi. Taken on the night of a thousand questions (as opposed to the infamous Night of the Thousand Knives, thank God), where I was quizzed and probed to no end by all and sundry. Questions ranged from "how did you get to know Farah?" to "What did you say you drove again? And this is your first job? And this is possible, how?" (to which I would respond by relating bits and pieces of THAT old story). Oh, and my all-time personal favourite: "Bila nak kawin?". Charming.

Later that night, when the party has died down a bit.



On the way back to Dublin from bray, we (or rather, I) decided that it was far too cold to be waiting for a bus. So we (or rather, I) paid for four tickets and boarded the DART (Dublin Automated Rail Transit - I think) bound for the City centre. So i guess you can safely say that i've lost all my ability to resist the cold. Or maybe I'm just too thin. Farah, you know what you need to do, dear...

... lend me your gloves! Note that by this time, all self-conjured macho delusions had evaporated. That tends to happen when one wears furry gloves. Especially when your girlfriend lends it to you.

Time's up! Will continue later dudes & dudettes!

.:Of Dublin:.

I know I promised to tell you more about my CDG experience, but I think I'll dedicate the next entry to my dear Farah. She's been my inspiration for the past six months since I've known her. A wonderful woman indeed, she's the kind of person that could make even the dullest of days a cheery one with her smile and her laughter. I truly enjoyed my short stay in Dublin, getting to know the city, the people and in particular, Ms Farah herself. Here are some pics for your viewing pleasure:


That's me in front of Dublin Castle. Well, it's not much in terms of size (I've seen bigger manors in England), but it certainly beats the competition when it comes to history and culture. Did you know that the word Dublin is actually a bastardised version of the Gaelic word meaning "black water", which is the name of the river feeding the moat surrounding Dublin Castle? Well, now you know.

The interior of Dublin Castle. This is the Drawing Room.



One of the main corridors within the castle. Note the golden gilds surrounding the ceiling.

This is the main chandelier in the Throne Room. Interestingly, the bronze detail (unclear in the photo) contain references to all four British Isles members of the United Kingdom: the English rose, the Scottish thistle, the Irish shamrock and the Welsh ermm.. leek. Sheesh.

That's Farah on my left. I had just arrived in Dublin that day. She adores the colour pink, by the way. An incredibly useless fact to you readers, I know, but I just thought I'd share it anyway. =)

I arrived on St patrick's Day weekend, so there were plenty of street carnivals, shows and funfairs. After visiting Dublin Castle, we took a leisurely stroll to an area near Trinity College, where a funfair with rollercoaster rides and various other instruments of gravity-induced pleasure (or pain in my case)was being held. You should've seen her eyes gleam with excitement (and I suspect, a certain amount of naughtiness). I somehow found myself dragged onto a ride five minutes later; the next thirty seconds of stomach-churning circular motion were quite uncomfortable for yours truly, I assure you.

On our way to Bray; from far left: Anep (I stayed with him for a couple of days. Thanks for letting me bunk at your place dude!), Eileen, Ja, myself. We were looking forward to a nice picnic by the beach, but the weather, being British in nature, wasn't exactly being cooperative. In fact, I nearly froze my boll**ks off. It was the coldest picnic I've ever had, but the food was excellent, the company was superb.. I couldn't have had any complaints, really.

Farah on the way to Bray. Words fail me. *sigh*

At the seaside town of Bray. The town seemed rather surreal. They were taking down the rides (St Pat's Day weekend was already over) and people were shutting themselves indoors as it was waay too cold to be venturing out. So there we were, a couple of Malaysians, walking on the promenade, with nothing but a few mad joggers and their equally crazed dogs for company. It seemed rather sad, like an old town falling sleepily into decay. Having said that, the constant litany of jokes and laughter by my companions cheered me up immensely whenever such morose thoughts began dominating my mind.

"Honey, why are you keeping your hands in your pockets? Are your hands cold?"
"No dear, I'm just using my hands to keep my nuts warm.."
"Oh..."

Oopss.. my lunch hour's over. Need to get back to work. I'll continue later, people. Take care!



Latest reads: "Do Not Pass Go" by Tim Moore.
Latest tunes: Vivaldi, The Four Seasons.