People like falsehood

It appears that people like falsehood more than the truth. Observe the way people behave. They like those who flatter them even when they know that the flattery is sheer bullshit. Those who are frank are considered uncouth. People avoid them because they speak the truth and the truth hurts. People prefer to be hoodwinked because the truth is uncomfortable and distressful. Pretentious people are preferred by society at large because people do not have the courage to face up to the truth. People fear those who speak the truth. Observe how much truth children speak and how uncomfortably adults pretend to laugh at what kids say. As children grow older they begin to speak what they know others like to hear, a result of social conditioning. They begin to lose their innocence as they grow older.

Hypocrisy

People are hypocritical. When something I wrote was good for them they would praise and encourage me. When something I wrote was not good for them they would become cold. When they believed I was criticising them they would start to villify me. What do they have to hide? What are they afraid of? The fact that I work in a particular institution does not mean that I am writing about that institution or that I am criticising the people working there.
Can’t these closed-minded and shallow people see that I was only highlighting social issues? Examples that are quoted are supposed to show up the general situation or malaise. Are they trying to dictate what I should write and what I shouldn’t? It’s my constitutional right to express my thoughts and if they can’t accept this fact so be it. Do they think that only they have rights?
Virginia Woolf gave an analogy about Shakespeare’s sister (by the way, the old geezer had no sister) who went mad and committed suicide because she wasn’t allowed to write, to express her creativity. All our life-experiences and thoughts culled from years of reading and thinking must ultimately come out in writing.
No wonder a dictator always makes sure all the intellects, thinkers and philosophers, writers, poets, dramatists, film-makers, actors and actresses, artists, musicians and anybody else in the expressive arts are done away with. Lots of such people escape into self- exile in the west, especially in countries like the US, the UK and France. Such people are dangerous to a dictator because they make people think. Words are capable of causing the people to rise against the dictator. Language has the power to touch the heart and the soul, not just the mind and words are so powerful.
I shall continue to write anything I like and express my thoughts and feelings. It’s my God-given right and since I have that talent I shall not let it go to waste. I shall guard jealously this freedom to write. Let them sue me if they have good grounds. My writings have never compromised anybody or any institution before.

Is this what we call unconditional love?

I watched “The Road to Enlightenment” on National Geographic under the Secret China series on Sunday evening, 13 July 2003. A Chinese woman and her son made a perilous 2,000 km pilgrimage to Tibet. Her son had to kneel after every three steps he took as an act of penance. Finally they arrived at Lhasa’s famous temple. She had gone to Lhasa to look for her husband who came here 50 years earlier.
When they arrived home at their village after an absence of two years, their family members welcomed them back with happy tears and open arms. The whole village came to welcome them home and to renew ties. Many openly wept as they had thought the old woman would not survive the strenuous journey through rough terrain. She was overwhelmed by the touching welcome she received, not only from members of her own family but also from other villagers. This documentary demonstrates how much simple people love each other.
We should emulate their philosophy of life. We should value and love people for themselves rather than for their economic value or their achievements. Today, people are hardly valued for themselves, rather for what they are able to do and their usefulness to others. Society places a high premium on people who have acquired a high-level of education, on people who hold the so-called glamourous jobs, on people who earn fat salaries. It ignores those it deems unimportant, the so-called non-achievers.

Short stories series #6

From Obsession to Disillusionment

When the English Language teacher first entered this particular class she did not take notice of this particular student. For the first few weeks, the student had been absent due to a serious operation she had to undergo in Australia. After her return, Miss Phipps still wasn’t aware of her presence. It was much later, when the seemingly unassuming girl had been asked to read some pages of a novel the class was doing that she realized she had a “star” pupil on her hands. The 14 year-old girl could read very well, enunciating the words with such clarity and style, Miss Phipps was suitably impressed. From that moment on, she became completely aware of the student.

Every lesson it would appear like Miss Phipps was teaching only one student. Her attention was almost focused on that one girl, so much so the other girls started to feel themselves being marginalised. To make matters worse, the rest of the girls were already envious of this girl, of her excellent command of the English Language, of her good looks and of her financially well-off background. Like all girls, they began to gossip about her behind her back and their antagonism came to a head when a group of them complained to the principal about their imagined marginalization by their English Language teacher because they were weak students.
Miss Phipps, naturally, received a lot of flak from the principal for the so-called marginalization of the weaker students. After the unpleasantness of it all Miss Phipps became very careful with the class, pretending to ignore her ‘star” pupil. Meanwhile, she tried to give “equal’ attention to the 40-odd girls in the class.
The following year, she did not teach the girl but she had become “obsessed” with the girl in a strange sort of way. It was a kind of “Dionysian syndrome” she was afflicted with in that she was “smitten” with the girl’s good looks, especially her sweet smile. If Miss Phipps had been a man it wouldn’t be too far-fetched to say that he had become afflicted with the “Lolita syndrome” but this is not the case. The lady teacher never had lesbianistic tendencies so the attraction was purely platonic.

She would secretly admire this student from afar because now she did not enter the student’s class any longer. She would find opportunities to get close to the student or to speak to her. Girls, being descended from Eve, are natural temptresses. The student would always flash Miss Phipps the sweetest smile upon meeting her and would speak to her in the tenderest style possible. If Miss Phipps had been a man, he might have fallen head over heels in love with her. Miss Phipps couldn’t understand how she could become obsessed with the girl. If she was absent from school, Miss Phipps’s day would be an unhappy one. A smile from her, a greeting, or any kind of response would make the teacher’s day. Miss Phipps felt not unlike the protagonist in Thomas Mann’s novel, Death in Venice, who died admiring the perfect beauty of a boy-child.
This went on for more than a year until the true nature of the girl started showing up. She would make use of Miss Phipps for her convenience but she would be very inconsiderate in her attitude towards the teacher. Soon, Miss Phipps grew weary of her and her lack of consideration. Finally, after months of “abusive” treatment, the poor teacher decided that the girl had taken her friendship and care for nothing. That was when disillusionment set in and Miss Phipps began to distance herself from the girl.

Note : This story would be expanded in due time. It could even be expanded into a novel. No dialogue is written for the moment as this is only the skeleton of a larger story.

Short stories series #5

The Beast is laid to rest

"But at my back I always hear,
Time’s winged chariot hurrying near;"
(Andrew Marvell {1621-1678} To His Coy Mistress)


Miss Cruella Richardson was the principal of an all-girls mission school for 22 proud years before she retired at age 55, on 7 July 2001. During that period, she was mistress of all she surveyed. She was the queen as she had always thought of the school as her own, a kingdom she had built singlehandedly. She held sway over the lives of her worthless subjects. All of a sudden, her world had been reduced to nothingness, due to her retirement from public service. How could life suck up all the sweetness of your youth and then spit out the bitter remnants in your old age?
These days, Miss Richardson feels unappreciated, “lecturing” the English language at a little unknown private college, for a pittance, as compared to the lucrative income and allowances she used to receive. She is a “nobody” now and is expected to follow all orders, no matter how ridiculous. She now knows how her teachers used to feel, being treated inhumanely, stripped of their dignity and pride. She used to enjoy trampling on their sense of self-worth!
In her heyday, Miss Richardson could make young and not-so-young teachers, both non-graduates and graduates cringe and cry and could drive some to the brink of madness. Some had felt like they were working under seige, dreading to hear their names being called over the public-address system. In 1999, the teachers and students had worked so hard raising funds, purportedly for a computer laboratory. However, she spent about RM7, 000 of their hard-earned money on a lousy public-address system, which she had used to intimidate students and teachers alike. If your name were announced the whole school would know that you would be getting a shelling from her. Seldom was it otherwise.
She had enjoyed tremendously the power she wielded – she had the power to “brutalise” a teacher as she saw fit. Isn’t that a lot of power? “Nobody should be allowed so much power,” she used to think gleefully. “It makes me feel like one of those Greek gods. They created humans for their amusement, laughing at their misfortunes and rendering them helpless against fate. I am not unlike them.”
Being a six-footer and with her arms swinging about, the “ranting and raving” Miss Richardson was indeed a fearful sight to behold. She would yell at and scold teachers in the presence of students and parents and would find it gratifying when the teachers broke down in their presence. Even when she broke an ankle she would be hobbering around on a crutch, screaming her head off at everybody and everything and nobody dared to let her know what a spectacle she made of herself.
. She clearly exercised the caste system in her administration. She had a private toilet built for herself next to her office so she did not have to use the teachers’ toilets. School workers were never allowed to eat with the teachers. Since her office had a door to the teachers’ room, the moment it opened a defeaning silence would fall and you could hear teachers scampering to their seats. It’s sad to know that people had to stoop to this to earn an honest living.
Since she would normally skip work on Saturdays and would come late two or three mornings a week, her strategy was to be “soft” with students while pretending to sound strict. This was because she was afraid of the parents so she was wise not to offend them. She was afraid they would go to the department of education to expose her “indiscretions”. The girls could get away with any misdemeanour, even cheating during school examinations. She would always blame the teachers. Children learn fast that which is bad, so many of them became very unruly, both in speech and in deeds. She would take much pride that the girls at her school could all speak English but she didn’t know how badly they spoke. Their written English was much worse. Besides, their behaviour was not something a normal person would be proud of.
She employed the Machiavellian approach in handling the teachers to ensure her absolute power. She would make it a point to check out the backgrounds of all teachers joining the school and then grill them if she were to hear some “negative” story about a teacher. She would “threaten” such teachers and would even go to the extent of lying to them that she would “embarrass” them with the students. Her interrogative style would put any teacher into a panic attack. She would attack them from all directions in her office and few would be able to leave her office “whole”. She had reduced some to nervous wrecks. Only the emotionally strong could withstand her unethical approach.
She had devoted her best years to the school, marrying in her late forties to an old, retired widower. As a result of her late marriage, there are no children in the “happy” union. It wasn’t a very smart move on her part as she is now burdened with her husband’s retarded child, one of several children he had with his first wife. This could be her retribution for 22 years of treating her staff harshly. However, she had always believed herself to be a good Christian, going faithfully to church every Sunday. Till today, she still attends the same church at Jalan Raja, Kuala Lumpur. She honestly thinks of herself as a “holy” Christian. In fact, she would pray each morning for her students and staff before leaving for school. It’s as if one is “holy” simply by attending church and praying for others.
At the college where she’s now teaching she hardly has friends and most of her titled and high-society “friends” have abandoned her after her loss of social position. She used to walk among the elite. She’s now a lonely and bitter old woman, stuck with a dependent step-child and an aging husband. Luckily she has her pension. Why didn’t she wise-up to the realities of old age earlier? It’s too late to turn back the clock now! She just can’t believe how time flies. Tempest Fugid! If only she had been brave enough to show a little of her human side, things might have been a little better for her today. She might be receiving warm phone calls, caring e-mails, greeting cards with lovely messages and invitations for high tea or lunch. Ah well, few look beyond the ecstasy of the moment.
It’s indeed surprising that none of the teachers who had served under her went “cuckoo” despite being subjected to such cruelty day in and day out. It’s also a wonder how some of them could simply carry on for years and would simply forgive her all her trespasses against them. Why did they not get a transfer out? It’s not unlike the case of the abused wife. In the case of the abused wife at least it was understandable as there might be children to consider. The days of the abusive head of department are over with the timely retirement of Miss Cruella Richardson. If given a chance to turn back the clock, would she have acted differently? We are left to wonder. And wonder, indeed, we would.

Short stories series #4

War-weary and battle-scarred.

The phone rang and Meg was jolted into the presence. “Boss wants to see you at once.” That was the crisp voice of the boss’ secretary. Meg knew what was coming. She had known for some time that things were not what they appeared to be. There had been ripples here and there. There were tale-tale signs that not everything was right. People around you could be devious and scheming. She thanked the secretary and hurried to the boss’ office even though she was dreaming up her next feature article after having done the required legwork. Bosses couldn’t be kept waiting as they held the hilt while employees held the blade of the double-edged sword of employment.
She knocked on the heavy door of the boss’ office. She could almost hear the ominous sounds of her painful heartbeat. The old geezer greeted her with a smile. Bosses almost always did. The crocodile would lie in shallow water, smiling and welcoming fish into its jaws as described in How Does the Little Crocodile in Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll. And the usual pleasantries were exchanged. Bosses were all the same the world over. First of all, before they started firing the shells, they would massage your ego with sweet words of praise. Meg knew this was just the calm before the storm. “You have been turning out very good work and for that I thank you.” Meg just nodded because those words didn’t mean anything to her. She was waiting for the real, biting words. Then the storm broke. The attack was relentless.
“I’m not too happy with one of your articles. It was critical and it angered some people.” Many more harsh words were uttered after that. After the sweet words were forgotten, the harsh ones remained forever in Meg’s memory. She had tried to explain but her boss had not allowed her to. They were all the same. If they had to think of their staff as individuals it would make their job very complicating. It would be easier to lump people up as writers, animators, graphic designers, engineers or whatever. They forgot that these people could not think and feel alike. Meg’ boss wasn’t interested to understand how her mind worked. She was, therefore, defenceless.
Meg did not argue. That’s the way it always had been with the employer-employee relationship. If the feature article had been critical why did the editor have it published? He should be held responsible. Meg knew that people could not accept the truth and that was why they could never achieve excellence. She was a writer and she had always taken pains to turn out the best pieces. Why couldn’t the rest? Some writers could send in mediocre feature articles and these were still published. She was just trying to maintain standards and save the magazine. Discerning readers would stop buying it if many of the articles carried so many language and factual errors. The editor had not been doing his job and had very cleverly put the heat on Meg’s article. He must have approved of it so that he could use it as his first line of defence.
“I want you to promise never to even allude to anything people might not like and never to criticise anybody ever again. You can’t do as you like. We have rules in this country. You’re paid a damn good salary so you had bloody better work hard.” Such words gave the boss the psychological advantage.
Meg just nodded. Anybody listening to the tirade would think that she had not been working while in the employ of the company. If that was the case why didn’t the boss give her the boot? There were veiled threats of termination of employment. She swallowed her pride and just listened to all the crap dished out to her while wishing that the floor would just open up and swallow her in. After her boss was satisfied that the message had sunk in she was dismissed. She left the office in a daze, mutilated and her self-esteem laid to waste.
Meg staggered back to her office, licking her wounds. She felt violated. Her intentions had been misunderstood and taken out of context. All she cared about was improving standards and maintaining professionalism and now she stood accused of harming others. She was now sure that this so-called freedom of speech in the country was a farce. Everything written and published was under surveillance. She had the experience and the know-how to run a great magazine which would sell. The only problem was financial backing. If she could she would start her own magazine, be her own boss and give the old geezer a run for her money. She would have to seriously think about that after having been so thoroughly mauled that day. She had now been asked to prostitute her art in order to please some people. No artist true to her or his art would do that.
That night Meg cried herself to sleep. She could not sleep for hours as her mind was actively recalling the events of the day. She tried to blank it all out but she could not. She fell into a fitful sleep, resolving to find the money so that she could start a magazine of her own and she would make it the best ever. A high quality would certainly be her first priority. People must get their money’s worth or the venture would have to fold up. So many magazines had failed and the bosses ended up in debts and bankruptcy. Dared she take the plunge? She had felt war-weary and battle-scarred working for people who did not understand her all this while and it was time to break free. Now she understood what a paradigm shift meant. There should never have been a paradigm in the first place because it limited people’s thoughts and caused their minds to reject things that were unfamiliar to them. She entered the shadowy world of sleep in the wee hours of the morning, psyching herself up that she was free as long as she did not allow others to control her thoughts.
It was a public holiday the next day. Meg woke up late but the dawn of a new day gave her hope of better things to come if she put her mind to it. She could get the financial backing if people had confidence in her but again they might want to have a say in what her magazine published. Lots of people had their own agenda so nobody would do anything on purely altruistic grounds. It would be better to come up with a viable working paper and to try applying for a loan from the bank. That move would also be fraught with danger for if the magazine failed she would end up indebted but that was a chance she would have to take. The saying “faint hearts don’t win fair ladies” would apply here. Well, as “hope springs eternal in the human breasts” and as people must have dreams Meg would take that chance to achieving personal integrity.

Short stories series #3

A Friday in the Kampung

"Do not go gentle into that good night:
Old age should burn and rave at close of day,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light."
Dylan Thomas (1914-1953)


As the old man plods along the bunds in between the plots of padi-fields, the sun is already riding high in the azure Malaysian sky. He is hurrying home to take his bath so that he can attend Friday prayers at the local mosque. The way he walks does not seem hurried but he’s in a hurry all the same. In one hand Pak Hitam carries a sickle and in another, a bunch of ripe bananas. He does not have on a shirt and his shrivelled body appears ruddy under the bright sunshine. As he walks, he wipes the dripping sweat from his forehead with his bare arms.
Home is a little kampung house in Permatang Pauh. It is built on stilts as are most Malay village homes. The roof is made of attap or fronds. Pak Hitam built the house years ago when he was a much younger man and his four children were still very young.
The village is very quiet at this hour for the schoolchildren have not returned home and the afternoon session only starts after Friday prayers. Pak Hitam stands the bunch of bananas carefully against the bottom of the low ladder that leads up to the house. He then washes his mud-caked feet with water that is kept in a large earthen jar at the foot of the ladder
As Pak Hitam showers he is able to hear the azan or call to prayers coming from the mosque. Pak Hitam draws water from a well with a small, tin pail. At 75 and being a little bent, he doesn’t have the strength to use a bigger pail. His son had piped-water fixed for him but he prefers to bathe with well-water.
Pak Hitam lives alone after the death of his wife. His son and three daughters are doing well in Kuala Lumpur but he chooses to carry on living in the kampung. He likes to walk under the coconut trees and to watch the neighbourhood chickens forage for food.
He cooks his own meals and generally takes care of himself and his house. His relatives keep an eye on the old man in case he falls ill.
Sometimes he does feel lonely because his children are too busy to come back and visit often. He always looks forward to the Hari Raya Puasa or Eid celebration when school would be off and his children and grandchildren would spend a whole week with him. He likes the fasting month of Ramadhan as his children would take turns to spend the weekends with him. They are able to do so as they have the North-South Expressway now. He would have one child and his or her brood home for each of the four weekends of the fasting month. He always looks forward to the long school holidays at the end of the year.
As he is completely illiterate, Pak Hitam’s only source of entertainment is the television. His son had wanted to have cable TV fixed for him but he had refused, saying that his eyesight wasn’t very good anymore due to cataracts in both eyes. He is afraid to go for an operation for he has always been afraid of doctors and hospitals.
The village children provide Pak Hitam some companionship in their free time. They enjoy listening to his stories about old Malaya while their youthful antics amuse him.
Dressed in a comfortable baju melayu and a handsome sampin over his pair of black trousers, Pak Hitam places his white skull-cap carefully on his head and heads for the mosque.

Note : This story was inspired by my growing-up years in the kampung in the state of Province Wellesley, Penang. It will be expanded in some future time, probably into a novel. At the moment I think the main weakness is that I did not "show" in telling this story. To show is more interesting than to tell.

Short stories series #2

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Prologue
This story was inspired by the Italian composer Gioacchino Antonio Rossini’s (1792-1868) Semiramide overture written in 1823 for his opera, Semiramide. I was lured to do some research on her. The mystique and sheer power I discovered prompted me to write this story. Powerful women are very attractive to the romantic imagination. This is a work of pure imagination about Queen Semiramis (Sammu-ramat) of Assyria and Babylonia who lived thousands of years ago. In the historical facts there was no poet-lover so I created one for her. I have left the story hanging because I’d rather the reader make the decision as it is a moral choice. I was tempted to make the choice for Gaul but my decision might not be fair to him.

A Love to Die For

The Royal Court of Babylon was full of the noble-hearted and not so noble-hearted. The nobles and the notary public waited anxiously for the Queen. The Royal Poet, Gaul, was to be tried for high treason and if found guilty he could be beheaded. He was in chains and guarded by brawny soldiers. However, he stood tall and proud. Some of the not so noble-hearted were secretly hoping to see his head roll as they had always been envious of the special place he occupied in the Queen’s heart. Many speculated that his latest poem was an expression of his jealousy of the young, handsome soldiers on whom the Queen had bestowed her special favours.
Outside, drums rolled and the sounds of the royal standard could be heard. The herald announced the arrival of Queen Semiramis, Queen of Assyria and Babylonia and all dominions in Mesopotamia. Music depicting the grandeur of the empire was played. The nobles at court were used to the pomp and pageantry accompanying the Queen wherever she went within the empire.
The Queen serenely entered with queenly grace. She looked elegant in her royal robe of gold and blood red. All present bowed their heads in order to preserve them on their shoulders. She looked straight ahead, with nary a glance at the accused. Today, she was without her veil. It was said that if Queen Semiramis was to look upon anybody with her naked face he or she would instantly be her slave forever more.
It had also been said that all Assyrian women were beautiful but the Great Queen would pale every woman into oblivion. She would cause the fairest of them all to show like pearls against diamond. Neither man nor woman could withstand the lustre of her brilliant eyes which shone like the noonday sun. She proceeded in all her splendour to the burnished throne. It was only after she was seated did all present dare to look up but never directly into her naked face.
The notary public began the trial by hailing the Queen, mentioning all her glorious titles. He then read out the charge against Gaul. Gaul had been the Queen’s favourite but now he had fallen from grace because it was thought his latest poem disapproved of the Queen’s indiscretions.
“Do you admit, Gaul, that you had set out to dishonour us and our empire?”
“No, my Queen, but I stand accused,” answered Gaul, not daring to look into those deep eyes; that soft, perfectly chiselled face; that glorious mouth with those even, sparkling teeth. He had known that face, that mouth, those eyes; intimately. That loving glance was not there today. Today, there was no softness in her face or her mouth or her eyes.
“The choice is yours, Gaul. Admit it and retract that poem or you shall be flogged and then exiled into hard labour, or worse, lose your head. Choose, Gaul,” continued the Queen, her full, rosy mouth, prominently clean-cut jaw and delicately-moulded chin, hardening further.
“I choose to suffer for my art, my Queen.”
“It does not pay to be so obstinately proud, Gaul. I gave you a chance but you spurn me. I will decide your fate later but suffer you shall. You shall never look upon my face again, even if your life is spared. Take him away!” ordered the Queen, livid with a devastating anger that the man she loved had chosen to go against her royal command. It was obvious she could not decide. If she hadn’t had a soft spot for Gaul, she would have made her decision there and then. Gaul flinched at the harshness in her voice.
“That would be a fate more terrible than death, my Queen.”
“But you still choose your art over your loyalty to me!” thundered the Queen.
The Queen could not falter now. He had refused to back down publicly so she had no other choice. She knew he would not denounce his art. Love made fools of both men and women and her resolve was being tested now as never before when it came to matters of the heart. He had humiliated her tameless pride in public and that must be punished. The Queen had never been known to have truly loved anybody but Gaul was different. He would woo her with his sensuous and sensual poetry. He knew how to massage her overblown ego. He reminded her of King Gilgamesh of Uruk who lived about 2,000 years before her. Like the King, Gaul was similarly handsome, of great stature and magnetic in character. She had fallen in love with Gaul’s gentle approach to life. He was a philosopher-poet while she was a warrior queen. While she was the raging Tigris he was the placid Euphrates. He calmed the tempestuous fire in her. Theirs was an intense relationship – the passionate Queen and her ice-cool poet.
Gaul was taken back to the inhuman condition of the dungeon where he would await his fate. The soldiers were however ordered not to hurt him physically. The Queen still loved him but she must show her subjects she was the Queen though the final decision might truly hurt her heart this time, if she had a heart. Gaul was not surprised at her resolve. She had had her husband, King Ninus of Babylon, sacrificed, exactly the way they would the sheep every New Year’s Day – every limb torn out while the animal was still alive. She had tricked the King into making her Regent for a day on New Year’s Day. Because he had been blinded by his violent love for her he had acceded to her sweet persuasions.
Of late, she had been slaughtering many of the handsome, young soldiers after just one night of passion with them in order that they should not live to brag about their passionate encounters with the Queen. Gaul’s latest poem alluded to her heartlessness and pitiless cruelty.
Fitfully he dozed off to sleep. In the misty world of dreams, he was with his Queen again. She was resplendent on the saddle, leading her army into battle against Bactria. Looking dignified and powerful in her steel breast-plate, her gestures were both womanly and graceful. He could feel her alluring power and strength. He had loved the genius that could lead an army and the force of will that could found an empire. Those thick eye-lashes and loving glance hid the unbending resolve once she had made her decision. She turned to look full into his face.
“Gaul, you shall stay behind.” He was not a fighting man and the Queen had never allowed him to ride into battle. He was a man of love and loving words. Today, those very same words were to cause him everything that had meant anything to him in life. He would not submit to her will this time. He had lived before George Orwell who wrote Animal Farm and before Lewis Carroll who wrote How Does the Little Crocodile in Alice in Wonderland. He could not have read Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s

“Tho’ veiled in spires of myrtle-wreath,
Love is a sword that cuts its sheath,
And thro the clefts, itself has made,
We spy the flashes of the blade!”

He would have been wiser if he had read them. He should have realized that love could be treacherous. He should have known the story of King Dumuzi of Uruk who had to die because of the treachery of his wife, the Goddess Inanna. He wouldn’t have trusted the Queen if he had been wiser. He would never have written that fateful poem if he hadn’t trusted the Queen.
He was roughly awakened from the shadow of sleep. He knew not if it was day or night. The Queen had given him 24 hours to withdraw his poem and if he was adamant he would be transported to the far reaches of her empire to live out the rest of his days, never ever to set eyes on her majestic face again. The Queen had given him a second chance. Gaul should realize that the Queen’s love for him still existed and that he had to swallow his pride or lose his life. He was a virile young man of 30. Should he choose his art or his life? No human being should be forced to make such a choice in life. It was cruel but make it he must. What should it be? Oh, sweet dilemma!

Short stories series #1

Prologue : This story was inspired by a real-life event which had left a deep impression on the psyche of the author.

Lost and Found

Though the morning was bright and cheery, Troy felt brokenhearted. Some two months back her steps had lost the usual spring and lightness. Today she walked with heavy steps and downcast eyes. No smile lighted up her face. She would always walk the short distance from the train station to her office, across a lovely park. Some mornings, if she was early, she would stop by the lake to watch the swans, flamingoes and storks as they played their mating games and foraged for food. She would look at the flowers and maybe sit down on one of the park’s benches to listen to the chirping birds and buzzing bees. Nature’s glory inspired her creative mind. Today, she could neither see nor hear nor feel. There was numbness within her heart. Why must it hurt so much? We always take things for granted till we lose it and then we hanker after it. When we are in possession of it we do not appreciate nor value it. Now, she felt an acute sense of loss.

She was deep in thought when one of the young animators at the office, Bryan, caught up with her. “Good morning, Troy, may I walk with you?”
“Good morning, Bryan. I hope you don’t mind if I don’t talk. I’m not in the mood for talking. There’s a lot on my mind lately.” She forced a smile.
“No problem. Creative people are almost always weird. I’m the same. I’ll discuss the stuff you want me to do for your documentary later at the office,” Bryan said, slowing down to keep in step with her.
“I’ll call you. Sorry for not being very good company, Bryan. I’m not in the mood for an intellectual discussion or an argument but I must correct your misconception about talented people.” She was feeling a little cross with Bryan for using the word “weird”.
“And what’s that?’
“For your information, we aren’t weird. Just because we think and see things differently from the rest of the crowd, people feel uncomfortable with us.”
“I’ll take back the word “weird” We all have our off-days.”
“It’s okay, Bryan. Just don’t use that word to describe those in our fraternity. People are just uncomfortable with the unfamiliar.”
“I’ll remember.”

Bryan was very new at the office and very young but he was the most talented animator. She gave him a reassuring smile and patted his shoulder. She knew smiles soften the face and endear us to people. They walked on in silence after that until they came in full view of the office. Due to its proximity to the park, Troy would normally spend her lunch hour out in the park, alone, in order to dream up stories. At the park, all sounds of traffic were blocked off by the huge trees. She could easily lose herself in her own world. This morning she felt like turning away from the office and spending the whole morning at the park where she could get some peace of mind.

She dreaded going to the office. Her room used to be her sanctuary but now it felt like a prison. If there was anything Troy feared most in life, it was the loss of freedom and the love she had come to expect from certain people in her life. Some people needn’t love us unconditionally and we have to earn that love. She had to learn this the hard way. Bryan held the door to the building for her and she thanked him. They parted ways.

“Good morning Troy. The editor has called for a meeting. Make sure you attend. It’s at ten,” said Helen, Troy’s secretary, as she handed Troy the note calling for the meeting. She only wanted to see the creative staff. Why did she call for a meeting at such short notice?
“Thanks, Helen. Please give me a tinkle five minutes before ten. I’ve lots of “rubbish” swirling about in my head. I tend to be very forgetful. If I don’t attend, I’ll surely be shot.” Troy put two fingers to her left temple for emphasis. “Any messages?”
“One. And it’s sealed. Must be confidential.”
“Most probably,” answered Troy, pretending to sound indifferent.

Troy went into the privacy of her room. At the door she looked at the sign in gold letters. It read “Troy Hardy, Senior Writer”. Feeling a sense of disquiet, she opened the sealed note with nervous fingers. There was a terse message from the editor. It said, “I am returning the manuscript for the Discovery documentary you wrote. I want you to rewrite it.” The editor had never written her messages before. It would always be a face-to-face discussion. Moreover, there was no explanation. How the hell was she to know what to rewrite? Hopefully, when the manuscript came back, there would be instructions on what and how to rewrite. If there were none, would she dare ask?

For the life of her, Troy couldn’t understand what the coldness was all about. Yes, it was true that there was a little fracas at the office over an intellectual slur the other day and she was at the centre of it. Damn her bloody temper! In the heat of the moment she had said things that should have just been thoughts. She had to learn that she couldn’t get her way all the time. She had been so egocentric she had forgotten that others had feelings too. However, she was aware that a talented but undisciplined mind would be a great disservice to the owner. Like all dreamy souls the world over, she was similarly cranky, eccentric and idiosyncratic. Most of the time she lived in a world of her own and seldom bothered about the pettiness of others. Writers were particularly afflicted with this constant feeling of angst.

How the devil was she going to find out the real reason for this sudden change of heart as the editor had distanced herself? That sudden change was frightening. How could somebody so warm and loving turn so hard and cold? Writers were intense people and they could sense even a slight change very quickly. How was Troy going to approach the editor when she had turned away?

For the past two months the sadness had weighed heavily on her heart. She had avoided the editor and her work had suffered. It was worse as she couldn’t talk to people she thought superficial or pretentious or treacherous and there were many such people about her. The relationship between a writer and her editor must be a very close one because they must always discuss the details. The writer must know what exactly the editor wanted. If there was no close rapport the final piece could never be excellent. There was no denying the writer was the talent but the editor was the driver. If there was no meeting of the minds the finished product would have no sense of direction.

Troy now waited anxiously for ten o’clock. If she could she would avoid the meeting for it grieved her to look upon the angry face of her usually smiling editor. She was so used to seeing that smiling face everyday; it now hurt her terribly to as much as glance at so much anger. She never knew so much anger could be mirrored on such a gentle face. She must be the cause of the pain but tried as she might, Troy couldn’t put her finger on it. Her editor must be hurting dreadfully. Troy was wondering why this pettiness after she had humbled herself, apologized and even went to the extent of asking for forgiveness over the fracas. She had always thought of people in power as being petty but her editor was different. Now she wasn’t so sure anymore. If there were two things she despised in life they were pettiness and dishonesty.

Being a writer at heart, Troy was petty about only two things – language and integrity. Life must be lived in accordance with certain precepts in order to live it well. She would always try to play fair as far as possible. Being a writer she was particular about her language and expression.
The phone rang and Troy started in her chair. She was lost in her own world.
“Troy, you said to remind you about the meeting. It’s five minutes to the hour.”
“Thanks Helen. I’ve got to go.”

She had no choice but to go for the meeting or worse was to come. She headed for the meeting room with a heavy heart. Was the editor going to make drastic changes that might affect her well-being? Was she going to be sent to Timbuctoo? She knew her editor could never be a vindictive person but she was anxious all the same. If she was a ruthless person she would have made Troy’s life miserable in the past two months as an editor had much power. These people didn’t get to where they were by a fluke of luck. They had the experience and the resolve.

A writer could never write well unless she had peace of mind. These past couple of months she had had to push the agony to the very recesses of her mind every time she sat down to write or it would intrude. How was she going to put a stop to this “cold war” unless the editor wanted to talk? Being the subordinate she could initiate a discussion if she had really wanted to press the editor but she was too fearful of what she might discover.

Troy was hardly conscious of what went on at the meeting. A lot of technicalities were discussed. She did not dare look at her editor’s face because she was afraid of the pain she saw on that tender face and in those kind eyes. Troy heard the firm voice in the distance and tried to switch her ears off. Was she glad when the long-drawn out meeting mercifully finally ended! She staggered back to her room in a daze, thinking of spending a blissful hour at the park, just daydreaming.

Then, she saw that documentary she had written for Discovery on her desk and was dismayed when she found no annotations or notes as to the changes that were required. It could only mean one thing – her editor wanted to see her. Maybe she too wanted an end to this debilitating pain. If Troy delayed this important piece of work the Big Boss was going to jump on her. That would be even more painful. The memory of that one fateful encounter was still fresh in her mind, as if it was only yesterday. It was strange that after all the sweet words had been forgotten, the cruel ones remained forever etched in blood into the psyche. Troy had felt violated, psychologically raped. Her self-esteem had been brutalized and torn to shreds that day.

Troy was now caught in a Catch-22 situation. She could either spend an hour at the park, pretending that the Sword of Damocles wasn’t hanging over her head by a single horsehair, or she could immediately arrange for a discussion. A little unpleasantness in life couldn’t be avoided and was better than having the Sword of Damocles come plunging down into her chest. With panic rising in her throat, she found herself at the door of the editor’s office.

“It’s good of you to come. You can’t expect me to come to you.” Troy nodded sheepishly.
“I had wanted to come much earlier but there was no opportunity and to be frank, I was petrified.”
“Why do you have to fear me? You know I’ve never abused my power.”
“It’s not that. I was afraid of having to look at the pain in your face and your eyes. It hurts me to see that.”
“Oh, that’s so silly of you. Just remember to crawl into the mind of the other person next time you want to say something. And be more aware of what’s happening around you. You can’t do what you did to me. And anyway, I’m your editor so you’ve no right to be rude or harsh to me.”
“Yes, I always know that and I’m sorry. I wasn’t aware of what I was doing then.” Troy felt totally humbled by her editor’s gentle words. That’s the humbling power of gentle words.

The truth was revealed to her and all the rough edges ironed out. She was shocked at the truth for she was not in the least aware that she had caused her editor so much unnecessary pain. The shock was too much and unashamedly she broke down. It was a relief to finally be free of this gnawing uncertainty and to be forgiven and loved again.
“Now, don’t cry. It’s good to resolve any misgivings. Anyway, I wasn’t planning on doing anything to harm you. I was simply hurt by your treatment,” said the editor, kindly handing Troy some tissues.

“I wasn’t afraid of that but it hurts me to know I caused you so much pain.”
“Let’s look ahead to better times.” And then the all-important smile returned, the smile Troy would always treasure for she had missed that smile for two months. Angry faces of people she loved always upset her. The editor explained what she wanted changed for the Discovery documentary and then sent her packing.

This time she was going to cherish this relationship in which she had taken so much for granted until she thought she had lost it. She forgot about lunch or the park that day and started reworking her Discovery piece. Despite the pressure of work, that night Troy slept soundly, after nearly two months of restless, unhappy sleep.

Having moral courage.

Very few people have the moral courage to do what is right. People are afraid what others will think of them. I believe it’s not a matter of what others think of you but what you think of yourself that is important……..your self-respect. People might have integrity but might still lack moral courage to do what is right. Because they are afraid of the backlash they would rather close an eye and let injustice be committed.
People who have this character flaw of having little integrity are a result of poor upbringing where character-building was not emphasized. They are definitely worse than those who lack moral courage. Between people who have moral courage but lack integrity it’s better to deal with people who have integrity but lack moral courage. Of course, having moral courage can be considered foolish because you would be sticking out your neck. Lots of such people get into a lot of scrapes. I don’t regret my foolishness all this while because in sticking out my neck I preserve my self-respect.
Colourless people who lack the fighting spirit and who look for an uneventful, boring lifestyle would avoid such trouble at all costs. These people pass through life like a ship passing through the night. They never make an impact on the people around them. Their existence is of no significance to anybody so that whether they live or die nobody cares. Our existence must touch some people in some way to make our short time on earth worth it. Life as it is, is already existentialistic in nature
For the benefit of the uninitiated, let me briefly explain the very complicating philosophy of existentialism but to put it in a nutshell the existentialists subscribe to the idea that the world cares not what happens to an individual, what his achievements are, if he dies or lives. Death is the greatest obscenity as it steals from us all our achievements.
Basically it’s about individual freedom and choice. This idea was put forth by well-known German philosophers like Friedrich Nietzsche and Martin Heidegger; well-known French philosopher and Mathematician Blaise Pascal, French novelists like Albert Camus and Jean-Paul Satre; the Danish thinker Soren Kierkegaard; the Russian novelist Fyodor Dostoyevsky; the American playwright Arthur Miller and novelist Ernest Hemingway; the Czechoslovakian novelist Franz Kafka (sometime he is identified as an Austrian because when he was born Prague was under Austrian-Hungarian rule) and a host of other novelists, playwrights and poets. The writings of such novelists describe the angst and turbulent emotions of their characters so very vividly. The ideas propounded by the philosophers mentioned above should be read in order to fully grasp this very complicating idea.
I am attracted to this idea of existentialism because individual freedom is very important and choice is at the disposal of most of us. How we choose would depend on our psychological makeup and the choices we make in life would certainly dictate the kind of life we live. Lots of people would choose the road they feel is the safest. Foolish people would go for “the road less taken” (this phrase is taken from the American poet, Robert Frost’s famous poem The Road Less Taken). Wouldn’t the road less taken be more exciting?
The human condition is essentially sad. Could life even be accidental or could our birth have been a planned phenomenon of some mighty power? Whatever the answer is, since we have already been put on this earth let us live out our time to the fullest and do what we have to do to the best of our ability.

Thoughts on the human condition.

Life is essentially lonely. We come into this world alone, unless we have a twin but we still leave alone. Nobody accompanies us to the grave. No matter how elaborate the funeral, you lie in the coffin by yourself, a frightening prospect. Someone can be in a room full of people yet feel lonely. That’s the reason why people must be able to face their own devil or they’ll fear their own company and must always seek others out. Some people must always surround themselves with friends. They fear quiet times when they will be forced to contemplate on the meaning of existence. Such times should be savoured when we are able to reflect on our life thus far.
Man is a pitiful creature. From the moment he is born he lives on borrowed time. Old age and death are our lot in life. Because life moves in a straight line we progress towards death. If it goes in a circle we would return to infancy and then the human being would have achieved immortality. When the gods first made the human they had never meant to bestow upon him the power of immortality. Immortality belongs to the realm of the gods. I even have a feeling that the gods made us for their own entertainment. They look down upon us from the heavens and laugh at our helplessness and insignificance.
According to Aristophanes, the ancient Greek philosopher, the human was originally one whole, with four legs and arms. It was in a roly-poly kind of shape and would just roll along when moving (really?). The male and female were one whole. One day the “Creator” was so incensed with the human’s arrogance he had wanted to destroy the human race but one of the gods suggested that the male be separated from the female in order to teach them a lesson. That’s why we must search for our other half. He or she who has found his exact half is indeed lucky. You must be like “the stars in equilibrium” with your other half to qualify for this state of having found your exact other half. D.H.Lawrence, the English novelist and poet, came out with this phrase of the stars being in equilibrium because we must click in all 4 components of the human whole – the physical, the mental, the emotional and the spiritual. However, wouldn’t our life with our partner be so dull if there are no differences, no disagreements etc? Some people scour the earth to find their other half because the heart is a lonely hunter till it finds what is missing. Few can be said to have truly found their missing half but in life we need to compromise for peace and harmony. Even at work, we have to meet halfway to make things work.
We can’t escape this world and we have no choice but to complete our term on this planet. There is nowhere else you can go to. When the time comes you have no choice but to leave, no matter what you have left uncompleted. Man’s fate is beyond his control though his destiny in life is in his hands.
If the ultimate is DEATH, why then do we have to struggle, learn and achieve? What happens to all your achievements after you are dead? Would anybody care about what you have achieved? We have to constantly make meaning out of chaos for life is chaotic. We have to constantly put our life in perspective and try to create order in the face of chaos. Life is a struggle from the day of conception. People have to struggle to survive. If there is a God and if this God created man and loved him why let him wander the earth and suffer? Is this due to the Original Sin? Isn’t this God unfair to punish us for the sin of Adam and Eve? To contemplate on the human condition is to face the truth. What then, is the truth? The truth lies deep in our souls.

Poems from the heart series #4

Yours is the face that launched a thousand deeds,
Yours is the bearing that kept us on our feet,
Though you be no Helen of Troy,
You build young lives while she destroyed,
Though you be for ever taken from our sight,
In our minds, hearts, and souls, you leave your light,
Though the rudder be taken from our ship,
We shall soon another find but none as hip,
For you taught us that our tomorrow and today,
Shall for ever triumph over our yesterday,
Your gungho spirit in our psyche lives,
We must for ever troy and troy and never give.


This poem was written on 17/4/2004 as a tribute to Miss Moey Yoke Lai, with cherished affection.

Poems from the heart series #3

The Winter of My Disaffection

In the winter of my growing disaffection
You came, as if by divine intervention
Unobtrusively turning winter into spring
Gloom and darkness into hopeful beginning.

Savour the splendour and hues of the new season
Warm love pervades my entire environ
Your sweet smiles are always warmly overflowing
Filling my senses; enthralled is my thinking.

The rage within my desire
Arouses not my anger
Sweetness lingers and stays instead
Grief-stricken memories fade.

Summertime will surely arrive
Sure as the rhythms of life
Autumn shall remain pulsating
Winter’s no longer brooding.


This poem was written on 23/11/2003 in dedication to Mrs.Aw Tee Wan, with deep affection (this is a revised version of the original. Work was done to strengthen the metre). Mrs.Aw, you raised me up to more than I could ever be! Thank you.

Poems from the heart series #2

In praise of a tender heart

Like the Menam Chao Phraya’s constant flow
Your beauty shall eternally glow
For it comes from a heart of gold
She who loves so tenderly never grows old.

I was wallowing in a quagmire of despair
Enveloping Darkness everywhere
When all at once stabbed my sight
The dazzling brightness of summer light.

Softly you grasped my flailing hand
And led me away from the treacherous quicksand
Like the noonday sun your brilliant smiles
Smoulder away the brutality of human wiles.

You cause laughter and inspire aces
The angels sing heaven’s praises
It’s good to be alive and live
When human hearts nurture and forgive.

Note : This poem was written on 2/11/2003 and is dedicated to Mrs.Aw Tee Wan,with love and gratitude. It was published in Section 2 of The Star newspapers on 18/11/2003.

Poems from the heart series #1

In my heart of hearts

In furious rage
Fury I could not assuage
I flung down the gauntlet
It hit me but caused another hurt.

In my callous ire
Oh no, not in my desire
I never wanted to hurt you
Indeed you knew.

You forgave me and in shame I shudder
I could not forgive me my blunder
Curse my repeated rashness
My heart still feels the wretchedness.

Let me ease your sense of dejection
Let me bear the angst of the desolation
My grief still cuts
In my heart of hearts.

Note : This heart-wrenching poem was written on 24/12/2003. Though it's cliched, all I wanted to do was to put across my angst and grief at that moment in time. The metre isn't very good but when I wrote this poem my main concern was not the metre but just to get my feelings on paper, hoping that the very act of putting my feelings on paper would help make me feel better.

Contemplation – written before the US-British onslaught of Iraq.

As the world stands on the brink of a holocaust, I have been pondering the reasons for its state today. If we had indeed progressed so much, why do we live in greater “fear and trembling”? (Kierkegaard)
In today’s rush-rush world, people do not find time to reflect or contemplate. The world is hurtling forth at such a frightening speed towards self-destruction and damnation. If a goat keeps grazing and doesn’t stop once in a while to take stock of its position it might just fall off the cliff. It’s the same with mankind today. We are in such a hurry but we do not know where we are going and do not bother to stop and think for a moment.
People today do not read very much. They do not have time to patiently read through what the great philosophers and thinkers of the past have to say about human nature, about the human condition, about the universe, and about a lot of other basic tenets of existence. We are so used to getting everything instantly, at the touch of a button, that we are loathe to use a little time to read. We have often heard of people moaning that life is so boring. If we only patronise shopping complexes, this dilemma isn’t surprising.
I have been reading The Great Conversation: A Reader’s Guide to Great Books of the Western World, 1952. These great books on western intellectual history were published by Encyclopaedia Britannica Inc. The committee of consultants comprises such learned personalities as Isaac Asimov, the science writer and author of science fiction; Octavio Paz, Mexican poet,writer and diplomat; William F.Buckley Jr., editor and author; Hajime Nakamura, Emeritus Professor of Indian and Buddhist Philosophy at the University of Tokyo; Dame Leonie Judith Kramer, Emeritus Professor of Australian Literature at the University of Sydney; and 6 other professors, including several emeritus professors as well as 5 other very outstanding and high-achieving individuals.
The collection of 60 volumes starts with Homer in Volume 1. The early period covers works of great Greek thinkers, philosophers, poets, writers, historians and scientists such as Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, Aristophanes, Herodotus, Thucydides, Plato, Aristotle, Hippocrates, and Archimedes as well as a host of German, Italian, French, Spanish, Russian, American and English ones.
The subjects of discussion range from philosophy to politics, economics, history, psychology, mathematics and science to literature, astronomy, sociology and anthropology. The collection covers works of more than 25 centuries, 517 original works of 130 writers in all. Despite covering such a wide spectrum of western thinking, the collection is not exhaustive.
Reading these original works is no piece of cake and it’s not surprising that only an enlightened few would take the trouble to read the secrets of the ancients. This brings us to the question of the human condition today and why true knowledge as encapsulated in these books could be our saviour. I would recommend these great books to President George Bush as it had been predicted as early as 1952 by the editor of The Great Conversation that the United States might blunder into war. This possibility seems so real today.
The United States has become the most powerful nation in the world today but it does not have a long history. Therefore, it lacks centuries of learning how to discharge the responsibilities of its position. A country that is militarily powerful but is inexperienced and uneducated can be a great danger to world peace. The U.S. is not likely to endanger world peace through malevolence. However, they may make military moves in the mistaken conviction that such moves are necessary for the defense of the U.S. Perhaps President Bush should read The Charge of the Light Brigade, a poem by Tennyson, about a military blunder that cost the lives of many English soldiers.
This set of great books is organized on the principle of achieving clarification or understanding of the most important issues, as stated by the great western writers, through continuous discussion. The principle of democracy should be EDUCATION – REAL LEARNING which is, going back to the basics. The strength of a people comes not only from masses of men and machines but from trained intelligence and an understanding of its ideals that they become a part of the thought and life of every citizen.
These great works in the 60 volumes are the “products of the most elegant literary style”. Like literary books, they have beginnings, middles and ends that move from familiar situations through complications to reveal familiar mysteries. As the “minds of men are full of shadows and reflections of things they cannot grasp”, these books are necessary to this present generation which Herman Hesse uncomplimentarily referred to as “the Age of Digest”. The computer enhances this digest syndrome as it provides instant gratification.
The Great Discussion, the tradition of the west, encourages the spirit of enquiry. Great books are central in a liberal education but a liberal education used to be confined only to an elite. Only those with exceptional intelligence and leisure could understand these books and only those who had political power needed to understand them. But today people have political power and leisure. If they had not used them wisely, it may be because they have not had the kind of education that would enable them to do so. It is indeed sad that the great writings of the ancients had been largely ignored because reading those takes a lot of time and effort. People would rather go to the internet for a quick fix or sit through some shallow entertainment on TV than to pore painstakingly over some heavy literature.
Finally, it is hoped that with the English Language’s return to grace in this country, the next generation or the one to follow will be able to delve into the mysteries of these great books, hopefully before some “uneducated” president triggers off the onset of the end of mankind. It is to be recommended that American voters vote in a well-educated president who is steeped in the classics because it is in them that we find truth and wisdom. Two such examples are the Bible and the Quran. These are books of real knowledge. If people would go back to study the basic tenets of life and existence, we wouldn’t be standing on the threshold of fearful uncertainties.

The writer as a social phenomenon

Anybody who writes is considered a writer, even if none of his writings is ever published. A writer’s life is essentially lonely because he has to write all by himself. His constant and faithful companion is his music so any writer should cultivate a taste for good music. Nobody would choose writing as his life-long work or hobby unless he is truly enamoured with the beauty of the written word!
Writing is a highly specialized skill as a writer must be able to put his thoughts clearly and precisely in writing. He must be able to integrate his thoughts into a coherent whole so that his readers are able to understand the topic under discussion. A writer must be able to help his readers “see the splendour in the grass and the glory in the flower” or “see the world in a grain of sand and hold eternity in the palm of his hand” as so aptly put by the English poet, William Wordsworth ( 1770-1850). Therefore, he is also an artist.
A writer has a responsibility towards his readers. It is his responsibility to establish that what he writes is the truth and that his writing does not corrupt the readers in thought and deed. A writer is irresponsible to advocate dishonesty, theft or murder. He has to have integrity because whatever he writes must be true. It is unethical for a writer to put somebody in a bad light because he has an axe to grind with the person. Vindictiveness is pettiness of character and true writers do not indulge in such unfair practices.
Sometimes a writer plays the role of a social critic. All societies have their shortcomings and irregularities. Such a writer would normally highlight the shortcomings in his society in the hope that the people involved do something about them. When a writer criticizes a situation he never does it out of vindictiveness but does it with the hope that something positive materializes from his writing. Society or an individual should never take such criticisms negatively and react childishly to them. Instead, they should resolve to turn a bad situation around. If they are unable to see constructive criticisms in a positive light how is there going to be progress and improvement? Some people equate criticism with disloyalty. It has nothing to do with loyalty but with the desire to see change.
Some writers are misunderstood and at times some people try to curtail a writer’s freedom of expression. They try to dictate as to what could or could not be written. No writer worth his salt would take kindly to such interference. As such, writers and others in the expressive arts would not thrive in a country where freedom of expression is controlled and where closed-mindedness is the norm. In fact, dictatorships would watch writers closely because anything in print affects society powerfully. Writers are found in abundance in the “cultured” cities of Paris, New York and London because western societies are mature and comfortable with almost anything. Any society needs people who would dare to criticize and to speak up for social justice and betterment.
A writer is therefore a social phenomenon and only a mature society would feel comfortable with the writer who highlights its weaknesses, showing up its rot and maggots. Such a society nurtures the writer, the poet, the playwright, or the artist. Is the Malaysian society ready and mature enough for the writer? If, as a society we like to sweep our rot and maggots under the carpet and pretend they aren’t there, we aren’t ready for the writer. If, however, we are brave enough to acknowledge that weaknesses exist in our society then we are ready for the writer to exist in our midst.

To tell or not to tell?

I wrote an article called Malaysian men are well-mannered which was published in “Your say” of Star Mag, The Sunday Star newspapers on 18 April 2004. I can’t believe the kind of responses it evokes. I accidentally discovered that it also started an 11-page provocative and lively discussion in the Forum portal of the Buysell website. The participants were skeptical that Malaysian men are well-mannered. They wondered if I was a gorgeous woman LOL. They questioned if our schools still teach manners. This discussion clearly shows that Malaysians themselves believe in the “Ugly Malaysian” maxim.
This brings me to the issue at hand. As a writer it’s always a dilemma deciding if we should write the whole truth, nothing but the truth. I’ve learnt that people, by nature that they possess feelings, cannot accept the truth but when the truth is embellished with some untruth they’ll willingly accept it as the truth. To a writer there’s nothing controversial because we are just stating the truth but society deems any truth as controversial because it hurts. I wrote that Malaysian men are well-mannered because in my experience it’s the truth. I was probably lucky to have met only the well-mannered ones.
When a writer writes what he deems to be the truth he’ll be persecuted because society finds it hard to swallow the truth. Rushdie was condemned when his book The Satanic Verses came out because society could not accept his views of a certain religion. To a writer there’s nothing controversial about anything written because if a writer honestly believes that what he is writing is the truth then he can’t be faulted. If a writer writes a falsehood on purpose to achieve fame, notoriety and profits I guess he is being irresponsible and untrue to his calling.
Sometimes, the most difficult question for a writer to answer is to tell or not to tell. To maintain his integrity I’m afraid the truth must be told, even if it hurts. Either that or not write at all, if the writer is worried that the truth might harm somebody or himself, like in the case of Rushdie. A writer must therefore possess courage in order to tell the truth and then to be able to withstand the attacks. Anything that touches on the human emotions can be turned into a controversy. So the question is to tell or not to tell! Any takers?

Unconditional love.

Does such a thing as unconditional love exist? It's possible to love perfectly but is it possible to love without conditions? Sacrificial love is possible because that comes from true love. I wonder if even God provides unconditional love, if indeed God exists.