UnValentine's Day

It all could have, should have, been resolved in a civilised way – through dialogue, it wasn’t.

The ending of the marriage, though deeply regrettable, should have been an opportunity to wrap up the differences and cast them aside, make amends and move on.

The writer arrived at the kampong house he had paid to build, only to find it padlocked. There were new, steel, padlocks on the front entry gate and all around his home. He was a writer, but he was barred entry to his studio (containing his reference books). Dismayed, he sought a locksmith, failing that - anyone who could cut, at least one, of the padlocks of off his property.

That one task completed - the Chinese boy helping him was set upon by a secondary school teacher. The boy rode off in fright. The writer was approached by a villager (a misogynist) one former prisoner and one adulterer. They were all demanding to know what he was doing. He replied that he was trying to gain access to his home and the books he need for his work. There was abusive behaviour and racial name calling from the three villagers, the writer shrank back in fear.

Later the misogynist returned, with back up. He blocked the car the writer was driving. The writer continued to try to collect his books, but it was soon evident that he would not be allowed to take them to his car.

There was a storm. The mining pool area grew dark. The electricity went off. The writer’s hand phone battery died. He was unable summon help.

The crowd (mob) outside got larger. His ex-wife -a university lecturer came hurling insults. She punched the writer, threatened him with a broken tree branch. The mob cheered her on. The university lecturer threatened to smash the glass in the writer’s car. More racial insults followed from the university lecturer, the misogynist, the adulterer, and the former prisoner.

It began to get dark. The writer, still afeared, requested to collect his books - then leave. He was not allowed. Another car came to block him in further. The mob urged the estranged wife on.

More viscous insults ensued. The estranged wife, the university lecturer of our tale, admitted stealing the house the writer had paid for, She laughed a maniacal laugh, telling him that all he did, everyday, was to ‘sit on his fat arse, pretending to write’ - which itself was eerie. The estranged wife said that she had got the better of the writer – had stolen his money and his car. She and her kampong gang shouted that it was her house and he had no proof it was his.

There were further insults. Eventually, after enduring many taunts, the writer broke. He hurled insults back - reminding his estranged wife, and those present, of some of the things she had done. He was not proud to tell that his estranged wife had sleeping around with married Australian men in sordid hotel rooms - having internet sex with all varieties of men. It broke his heart to recall the day he discovered those things – just weeks after they had been married - her lies to cover it up, his walking out, and her begging him to stay.

Eventually the writer made a run for his car. In the dark he turned it around, squeezed it through a space not covered by two blocking cars. The mob and his estranged wife hit the car - threatening to smash the glass and grab him. He moved off, slowly so as not to injure those attacking him. He was panicking - too much adrenalin.  He drove down the road, stopped the car, and shook.

That night he couldn't sleep. He had reoccurring visions of the mob thumping his car. There were disturbing flash-backs of the incident. It was a frightening experience. He had sought to communicate, to talk with the woman he had known for seven years, but it was all to no avail.  Humanity was stripped bare, animal instinct remained, confrontation steered its damaging course through a love gone sour. Violence - physical and mental abuse set the writer and his former paramour on opposite sides of an unbreachable chasm, that surely was no way to end a marriage.

Eventually a new day dawned, perhaps a little brighter than before. The writer, sadder but certainly a little wiser, collected his past memories, gathered them into a heap and tucked them away. It was, after all, a new day and the upset of nightmares become washed away with the new sunrise. What is lost is lost. The soul needs no weight of encumbrance to sore. The writer smiled a slightly sad little smile, and began to write.

I've become Partial

I’ve become partial to red dates

                                    Ginger

                                    Soy sauce

I crave for the scent of five-spice

                                    Red wine vinegar

I long for the essence of chrysanthemum

                                    Joss sticks

                                    And the soft candles

                                    At your altar

But

Most of all

I desire the scent of you

Fresh from the shower

Your long black hair cascading

As you turn

With love in your eyes

And smile

A Costly Cuppa Cappu

This was intended to be a very different piece of writing, in fact – an article to be published in a glossy tourist magazine, all razzmatazz, glitz, and positive energy. However, there was a turning point, just at the end of a promising interview, at which I felt that I could no longer continue with that glowing touristy article, and you will see why....

   I question the wisdom in making a journalist pay the over-priced sum of RM 11 + for one mediocre cup of cappuccino, sans almond biscuit. Especially as said cappuccino was delivered during an interview with the cafe manager, and during a prospective write-up of said venue. That inconsiderate management technique sets up a bad vibe for the forthcoming article.

   In a Kuala Lumpur simply teeming with cafes and Art galleries, surely it is a poor idea not to take full advantage of a walk-in journalist who openly volunteers to speak with his editor regarding a promotional article of the cafe. It would have sealed the deal and enabled said journalist (ok, it was Moi), to walk away with a warm cosy feeling to offer him a freebie - a comely cappuccino fee as the air which makes the froth and also free to him. But, sadly, Day Radley - the current manager of The Warehouse on Jalan Tun H S Lee, Kuala Lumpur, made the decision to charge for said pseudo-Italian coffee, leaving me with a very bitter taste. That singular action turned that prospective positive article into a uncomely negative blog.

   That particular cafe in which we had met – the downstairs portion of The Warehouse, sits at the rear of the more infamous Petaling Street, which is known for its tourist trapping, obviously fake watches and a peculiar smell - which may be either the drains, or durian. Unfortunately Jalan Tun H S Lee is not Petaling Street, neither is it Central Market - it is barely China Town. The Warehouse restaurant and cafe sit anonymously along from the more interesting Hindu and Chinese temples, especially at this time of year with Chinese New Year drawing to a close and Thaipusam knocking on the door, and enjoys, seemingly, very little passing trade. While I was there one (white) parent came in with his child and, like me some minutes beforehand, struggled to find where to purchase refreshment – strangely the cafe counter is to the rear of that space, in a separate room.

   The coffee incident was unfortunate, for the venue was all pregnant with possibility, virtually spilling its waters over Kuala Lumpur’s floor in readiness for birthing, but I fear that The Warehouse concept maybe yet still-born. One would have thought that management would have gone out of their way to encourage promotion of their fresh enterprise, perhaps even come up with an almond biscuit or two - to foster good relations, but certainly not charge for the beverage consumed within the parameters of a promotional interview.

   The truth be told, I doubt very much if such a venue will take off - certainly not during the day. Maybe The Warehouse will be an exclusive bar, catering to the KL arty farty elite and perhaps whites only - al a Bangsar, but certainly at their current prices, and being down somewhat of a backwater, it will not appeal to the hoi polloi. I wish them luck - as I do the next media individual dropping in for a promotional chat.

Ali Rahamad - Senses of Malaysia January 2012

Wednesday

There was a strange feeling of déjà vu watching her spill from that crumpled bed, stretch like a young cat, knock strands of long dark brown hair from her tan shoulder, and smile.

    I watched her stand, naked, her back to me - slim, curvaceous, her mane brushing that indent in her back, kissing her rounded cheeks. I glanced as she brushed, feeling each brushstroke, transfixed with her beauty and my luck, understanding that fortune can, and did, smile that Wednesday.

    In the mirror I caught her lustrous almond eyes, warmed by after-sex glow, radiant. The nakedness of her and the nakedness of me were in stark contrast. She was svelte, hardly a cherry tree in the breeze and I mountainous, a whole landscape for her to explore. I loved the ease with which we fitted, the naturalness in the way we fell together - little spiderhunter kisses, then mouthfuls of hornbill passion flesh, drawing us closer until we were a rainforest.

    My joss was good. She had done that – turned my life around, gathered me to her with passion and love, pulled me to her slight breasts and saved me. Over morning beef noodle soup, dark brown coffee in that old tin city she blew rising steam, her cleavage rising, falling, catching my heart with her honesty, and holding it in her forever.

    It hadn’t been that long. Sparks had flown between us in that country kitchen, igniting something deep inside, a karmic something bound up with the yin-yang, ebb-flow of the universe, swept us up together on waves of passion, bonding our hearts, souls. I knew from the moment I met her that I would not end my days as a dying dog, front legs paralysed, howling for a merciful release, hot sun beating on my fur and my misdemeanours video looped until I passed.

Scents of India

There is radiant splendour and vibrant beauty to India which Rafiee Ghani captures well in his latest exhibition – Perfumed Gardens, at Galeri Chandan, Bukit Damansara, Kuala Lumpur.          
   Amidst russet forts, towering minarets, eggshell blue skies and the vermillion of northern saris, there is the vivid perfumed romance of all that is rich and stunning about Rafiee’s India.

   Though the title ‘Perfumed Gardens’ is perhaps best known from Sir Richard Francis Burton’s translation of the Arabic erotic manual, it suits the vibrancy of Rafiee’s exhibition well. The wandering visitor to Galeri Chandan becomes ‘perfumed’ with colour exuding from canvases and watercolour papers throughout Rafiee’s stunning display. Those rich, lively, visual, aromas permeate consciousness in an almost subliminal way, leaving the visitor heady, intoxicated by their sheer beauty.

   As you might expect - vermillion, cardinal, crimson, cerise – the colours of India, dance and swirl from Rafiee’s paintings, often counterbalanced by walls of blue, or simple Indian skies. Red in all its facets presents as the bonding colour, uniting works throughout the well-spaced gallery. Galeri Chandan’s unique architecture only enhances the exhibition. The visitor is allowed a certain voyeurism when peeking through arches, around corners, down staircases – like the small children we all secretly are, excited at the next find in the treasure trail of that Perfumed Garden.

   And it is an excitement. The journey that Galerie Chandan and Rafiee Ghani take us on is a journey of spills and trills, a secret journey bound in symbolism, closeness and distance, a voyage of re-discovery, root finding and whole-making. India has that effect. Once sampled it is never forgotten. Be it the bounce and brashness of Bollywood, or the dank misery of Mira Nair’s Salaam Bombay, India gets into the blood like an incurable virus, forges love/hate but it is never forgotten. Like Rafiee’s paintings, India always calls, sometimes we heed that call, sometimes we simply listen and reflect, surround ourselves with its hues and scents and recall the heat, the passion, and the perfumes which linger in oh so many gardens.

Perfumed Gardens - an exhibition by Rafiee Ghani; at Galeri Chandan, Bukit Damansara, 9^th January – 3^rd February 2012.

It's A Jungle in There - Esquire Magazine December 2011