R.I.P Kuldeep S. Jessy

Kuldeep Jessy, my good friend, died early today. Born on May 4 1967, he was 41 years old and had been married for five weeks.

I was on vacation in Thailand about to boat across the Mekong River to Laos, when I received news of his fatal heart attack.

As I sat in the boat, no longer caring about the Mekong, the Golden Triangle or Thailand, my thoughts went again and again to his widow, Manjit. Only last month, she was a blushing bride and he a nervous groom. And now he's gone and she's a widow.

It doesn't make sense or seem fair. He was too young and too good to go. I never in my life met a person who didn't like Kuldeep. He was the kind of guy who could make anybody smile with his lawak bodoh, his nasal voice and his puppy dog eyes. He was kind and gentle, and a wonderful friend to have.

He loved Alleycats and teh tarik. He really enjoyed his beer and cigarettes. He used to call his mother Mr. Magoo behind her back and used to tease Manjit incessantly, calling her a praying mantis, among others.

I'm now frantically trying to book a flight back to make it for his funeral on Wednesday. I owe it to him to be there. But part of me does not want to. It's too painful to go back to the same house where we so recently celebrated the happiest day of his life.

It was supposed to have heralded the start of a new life, but instead, he and Manjit have been cheated out of their happily ever after.

He's gone now, forever. We will never have another beer together, we'll never bitch about work together, or cook up any more pranks together.

I love you my friend, and I'll never forget you or stop missing you.

Heaven was made for people like you. Rest in peace.

Simply unbelievable. Simply un-fucking-believable.

Keling pariah

Negro

Black monkeys

Indians come from dogs

Indians are children of prostitutes

Indians are stupid

Indian youths don't have testicles, always menstruate and indulge in thuggery and theft

No matter where it comes from, these insults are shocking, dismaying and downright painful to read. But knowing it was made by a teacher, the person we depend on to form the minds and characters of our nation's young, is like taking a sucker-punch right in the gut. The pain is dull and throbbing, the effects long lasting.

Yet, what do our authorities do about it? They transfer her to a better school, and one that is closer to her home. In essence, they are saying "good job, keep it up."

Where's our firm stand on racial and religious sensitivity at a time like this? Where's the dire "ISA detention" threat reserved for those who stir up racial hatred?

Or are do all these punishments only apply one way? Is only one race and one religion protected by our government and our leaders?

What if I were to take the word Indian out of those insults and replace it with the name of another, more privileged, race? How long would it take for them to track me down and throw me into a windowless cell? How long before they would denounce me for inciting the masses?

This woman called every Indian in this country a bastard and a dog. She called us a bunch of mindless gangsters and scoundrels. She called us eunuchs. She called us untouchable.

And she got away with it.

The Goat-inator

WHen you've been friends with a person for close to two decades, you really know each other's sense of humour inside out.

Tareq and I have been childhood friends, being in the same school and after that neighbours too. Needless to say, we've taken shooting the bull and talking cock to a higher art form.

Our latest noteworthy episode was The Goat-inator.

It started because we were both bitching about how bad our salaries were and how much we needed to get out and make some decent money so we can enjoy the finer things in life.

As usual, Tareq came up with one of his brilliant suggestions (and I mean that in all honesty. His ideas are usually brilliant. It's just that we're too bloody lazy to follow up on them..).

This time it was to go into goat farming. As he told me (and as I confirmed later), Malaysia's goat supply only accounts for 25% of our need, which means it is a gold mine waiting to be tapped.

And so, we began to fantasise.

We will open a goat farm somewhere in Nilai or Seremban or something like that. And slowly, through sheer hard work, we would turn our business into a raging success.

We'd then broaden our scope and start taking over other goat farms. We'd first conquer Negeri Sembilan. Then The whole south and from there the rest of the country. Once every goat farm in the country belongs to us, we'd go international. (Don't ask for specifics on how we'd do it. it's just a fantasy, okay!)

So, eventually, we'd own every single goat farm in the world. And we'd own every single goat in the world. We'll be sitting pretty on a pile of money and all that jazz lah.

Meanwhile, (ooohhh... I've always wanted to use "meanwhile" in a story. It's so comic book-ish!) in another planet (or it could be an alternate future, take your pick), in which goats are the dominant species, we have been branded as the anti-Goat and the great satan for ou role in holding all the goats of the world in bondage.

Thus, a lone goat warrior is chosen to be sent back to our time (or is that to our planet?) to exterminate us and free all the goats of the world from bondage. This chosen one has the ability to shape shift and thus infiltrate our lives without us noticing.

He can not only alternate between all breeds of goat and sheep, but also assume the form of the various pak haji, Fred Durst, Lenin and various other goateed folk around in his bid to finish us off once and for all.

So the story went something like that la. I wonder why it seemed much funnier when Tareq and I were giggling about it. Now it just seems lame and pointless.....

Oh, and the Goat-inator's catchphrase would be "I'll be baaa-ck"

Midnight Musings

It’s always the worst at night. During the daylight hours, I can go through the motions and pretend that everything is fine. I can laugh, smile and make merry.
But at night - when the sun is down and I’m all alone with my thoughts….that’s when the walls start closing in.
Everywhere I look, every place I go, I see ghosts of us. I remember a song we loved, a meal we cooked or a movie we watched. The present fades into the dark and the past runs into the spotlight of my mind’s eye.
I think about the years, days and minutes we spent together. I think of every laugh we shared, the little games we played and the dreams we dreamed together. I remember the days when the sun seemed brighter and the world was filled with colour. And every time these memories intrude, it takes everything I have to stop myself from breaking down.
I think of all the harsh words we threw at each other. I think of all the bad things we did to each other, all the lies and all the deceptions. I try to hate you for what you did to me, for what you did to us. But I only end up hating myself more for all that I did to you and all that I allowed to happen to you. And I wonder if I gave up too soon, if I didn’t fight enough to keep us alive, if I wasn’t strong enough to make us last.
I tell myself that I am only in love with the memory of you, with the memory of us. And most of the time, I can fool myself into believing it.
But all it takes is one phone call from you to send my careful constructs crashing down. Just one of those “hello-how-are-you” kind of calls that we make day after day to all and sundry is enough to bring me hurtling to the realization that I am still very much in love with You. Not any sepia memory, but the sound of your voice and the thought of your face.
I’ve tried to lose myself in so many ways. Chemical relief does only so much before reality creeps in. Celluloid escapism vanishes when I exit darkened cinema halls. Willing arms and warm embraces of fair ladies do little to thaw the cold I feel inside. Nothing works. I wonder if anything ever will.
I sometimes wonder why I can’t get over you. I remind myself that you’re no looker, that you aren’t the brightest bulb in the box and that you aren’t the most fascinating of conversationalists. I try to remember how my eyes glaze over when you begin to drone on about your pet peeves. But yet for all that, I can’t stop feeling that while you are not perfect, you were still perfect for me.
It’s been a year and a half and I still miss you. I still remember the exact timbre of your voice, every contour of your body and that special scent of your skin. I remember how you used to feel when you would sleep snuggled in my arms and how you used to hate waking up in the mornings.
Friends keep telling me it gets better as time goes by, that the pain will eventually recede and disappear. At first, they said it would take a few months. Then they said it would take about a year. Then, it became a year and some months.
It’s been more than that now and they tell me it will probably take another year or so.
I wonder if it will ever go away.