Form submitted successfully, thank you.

Error submitting form, please try again.

WRITINGS: LIKE NECTAR TO BEES

"Will you walk into my parlour?" said the Spider to the Fly,

"Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever did you spy;

The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,

And I've a many curious things to shew when you are there."

"Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "to ask me is in vain,

For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again."

~ Mary Witt

I Fell In Love

Wednesday, August 3, 2011 at 3:58pm Posted in Holidays, Memoirs, Thoughts

I travelled far from home this summer. For one of the very few times in my life, I would be completely alone. In a foreign land, with nothing to my name and no accountability to anyone save to myself. Some called me “brave”, others thought me “adventurous”. A woman travelling on her own in Europe. Some thought the idea of travelling alone was a challenging one, because of the loneliness. You have naught but your own company. Who would you talk to?- they asked me. And I shrugged. Anyone, I replied. Anyone who’d want to listen to what I have to say. Isn’t that dangerous? Maybe. I don’t really care. I’m a grown woman, and I can take care of myself. Oh- my dear- but you don’t know bad people and what they can do to you! Oh, I’m sure I do. I’m just not so sure I really care. Anyway, what’s meant to be is meant to be, I say.

I repeat my little mantra to myself, “I am a strong woman. I am a smart woman. I believe in me.” There were times, before this trip, that I doubted my self-worth, the person I was. Could I really be strong enough to face the sorrows of the days that would only come at me with renewed vigour? Coming out of the darkness of a divorce, raising a young child single-handedly, and leaving the only man that I truly loved to the ends of the earth, the only man who had ever romantically owned my heart- all this following quickly on the heels of my father’s death- threatened to destroy the very core that made me, me. And I don’t believe in that “Eat, Pray, Love” stuff- Elizabeth Gilbert is funny and witty, and I’m glad she discovered herself- but I am not Elizabeth Gilbert. And I don’t have the luxury of running away from my troubles, my past, the ugliness that made life so unbearably painful. I don’t have the kind of money that would allow me to live in Italy for months. I am a million kilos of excess baggage that included (gasp!) a life I would be responsible for- my daughter. And it was to be that my daughter was the only living thing that would keep me sane.

So- away from home, away from my beloved daughter. My friend, Ann, told me, “I hope you find Love.” At that time, I didn’t really understand what she meant. She hoped I would find Love. She said, “a summer romance”. I took her words at literal value, not certain if I could allow myself to fall in love again with another man, to release my emotions and allow my heart to be ruined all over again. But I nodded, and we laughed. Yeah baby. So what’s wrong with a little casual sex while on holiday?

I embraced Oxford. Walking the local market, milkshake in one hand, cookies in the other. And all the while, I greedily drank in culture, sights, sounds, history. I blended in and shopped at M&S and Primark. I walked everywhere for miles, until my ragged feet cried for mercy and my calves contracted when I went to bed the first night. I bought a bologna sandwich and sat under a tree in a park, bottle of beer within reach, pen and notebook hard at work. I wrote nonsensical prose. Made up stories about the people who walked around me. Human traffic oblivious to this person under the tree. They had no idea I was writing about them. I wrote angst-ridden, angry poetry, shouting out words like “cunt face” and “dick head” to nobody in particular. I bought goth jewelry on sale at Accessorize and inked my eyes like Evanescence’s Amy Lee. I dug into English Ale and fabulously-grilled steaks and mash. A dashing Englishman made love to me in Summertown. Bought a Toy Watch. Took a tour of the beautiful Bodleian library and imagined myself on the set of Harry Potter.

I rekindled a friendship in Dublin. Indulged in architecture, home-cooked Malaysian food and museums. Drank and relished Guinness every day. Made new friends. Dined and wined at Temple Bar and kissed an Italian man named Marco. Captivated by the Long Room in the Old Trinity College Library. Ate Irish Stew in Galway. Got lost on Forster Street and Eyre Square.  Bought a Claddagh ring. Watched little men dressed as leprechauns dancing on the streets of the Latin Quarter. Threw coins into a guitar box and listened to street musicians play traditional Irish music. Met a Dubliner named Greg, who called me an Asian goddess with eyes like the moon. Partook in an Irish jig in an old pub with said Greg. Got semi-seasick on the ferry from Rossaveal to Inishmore. Cycled for hours on Inishmore. Explored the ruins of the magnificent Dun Aengus. Got sunburnt. Made friends with the islanders on Inishmore. Rode in Joe McHealy’s beat-up van up and down Kilronan Village and listened to him rant on about fixing me up with an Irish lad. Had black coffee and cigarettes with Brenda Faherty’s handsome 24-year old son, Michael Joe, on the verandah of our B&B, overlooking the Galway Coast, talking about the law. Took long walks on the island, mostly alone, sometimes getting a lift from Joe McHealy or Diane Dan. Got drunk one night and walked half an hour uphill in the dark back to the B&B. Almost died from exhaustion.

Got into a tube for the first time in London. South Kensington to Covent Garden, Friday evening 6.00pm rush hour. Pressed between 2 men, one eating chips and dropping crumbs onto my shoulder, the other in a suit facing me, his hot breath on my ear. Had drinks and dinner with Hannah & Malcolm in Leicester Square. Walked the breadth and depth of Chinatown and SoHo. Bought The Rabbit from Ann Summers. Spent hours in the Common Room in Beit Hall Residence, watching TV and surfing the net. Went to the Museum of Natural History. Spread myself out like the Vitruvian Man in Hyde Park. Shopped in Knightsbridge and battled a pimple in Boots Chemist.

And when I came home, from this wonderful adventure…. there was happiness. And then there was sadness. And then there was realization that my friend, Ann, had made complete sense when she spoke to me. If I could but write better words. If I could but capture all my memories in a nutshell and keep them there forever. If I could but whisk away to another land, with my daughter, and start anew. And I realized that I did indeed find Love. And I did fall in Love.

I fell in Love with Me. I fell in Love with all that I could Be.

by PL

no comments

add a comment link to this post email a friend

Summer Romance

Thursday, March 31, 2011 at 6:13pm Posted in Memoirs, Personal, Thoughts

When I was a little girl, I dreamed of Romance. It wasn’t until I was much older did I realize that Romance came in many, many forms. Last year, I faced the end of Romance. The kind of Romance that I had dreamt about as a child. But with the end of that Romance, I discovered something new.

This summer. I think I will have a Summer Romance. And I don’t mean the kind of romance between a man and woman. I mean- the kind of Romance that one discovers by embracing solitude, nature and herself.

This summer. I will fall in love at Inis Mor.

The spectacular aerial view of Dun Aengus (sometimes referred to as the Dun Aonghasa fort) in Inis Mor. Now THIS- this is what I’ve dreamed of for a long time

Scenes from quiet village life in Inis Mor

Lazy cattle enjoying an early morning stroll in Kilronan Village, Inis Mor

The Cliffs of Moher in County Clare. Not Inis Mor- but certainly on my travel route this summer.

And then, perhaps Romance may also be found in the little lanes of Dublin town, that eclectic mix of modernity and history, this youthful repast captured in stone, all holding a story waiting to be told. Romance in old books, Dante’s Divine Comedy, a pint of Guinness at an ancient old pub.

The Old Library at Dublin’s historic Trinity College. If only I could even glimpse that first edition of Dante’s Divine Comedy kept here!

Nothing like a pint of ol’ Guinness to warm the belly and cockles of the heart

Vibrant pubs in Dublin

The Brazen Head Pub in Dublin, dubbed to be the oldest pub in Ireland (estd. 1198)

Already, I am in love and Summer is months away.

*All photos from National Geographic. No copyright infringement is intended.

by PL

1 comment

add a comment link to this post email a friend

Goodbye, My Love

Monday, March 21, 2011 at 11:48am Posted in Love, Memoirs, Relationships

You were my love. My everything. So- I often ask myself: what happened to us? Young, carefree, in the bloom of health, with love to guide our way. Or so we thought. Last night, I thought of you. I lay beside our daughter, beautiful thing that she is, with your eyes, your chin, your mouth. As I kissed her smooth chubby cheek, I remembered the feel of your cheek against mine- slightly rough with stubble, but how it comforted me.

I loved you with a passion no words could describe. I loved everything that you made me. I loved who I was because of you.

There is a deep kind of sadness that wells up inside me every time I think of what went wrong, and how that love we had for each other simply disintegrated, slowly finding its way out of our hearts, slipping quietly into the night sky and beyond. And in its place, contempt, dislike and unhappiness bred rampantly in my heart. So- what happened, my love?

That light that used to shine so brightly that it lit our paths in our journey  together- it is dark now. And cold. And still, I wonder. And day by day, I try to find my path again without you. With this small person who is our child, her hand clutched tightly in mine. Sometimes I am overshadowed with a loneliness so intense I have to block out the pain with medication. I lie in my bed and realize that you will not wake up beside me anymore, and that the sheets will always stay clean and smooth on your side of the bed.

Do I regret the choices I made? Sometimes, but they had to be made. Do I feel liberated at last? Maybe, to a certain extent. Will I ever stop loving you? I don’t think so.

Goodbye, my love.

by PL

1 comment

add a comment link to this post email a friend

The Lovely Bones

Monday, March 21, 2011 at 11:20am Posted in Uncategorized

Eight years ago, I read a novel, a book by a little-known author then (because she had only one other published work prior). Although the publishers had hoped for it to be successful, the reach of that novel surpassed all their wildest dreams. Selling over a million copies, becoming an instant bestseller, and remaining on the New York Times bestseller list for over a year. I picked up that book because I felt it call to me. I remembered wandering in the bookstore, and my eyes settled on it. Not simply because of its title, (which, I have to admit, initially drew me over), but because, after reading the synopsis on the back cover, and skimming through the first few pages, my heart cried for a little while. And I knew that I had to get it.

It was, for me, one of the most magical books I had ever read. It emboldened the imagination, touched the core of poignancy. Every page I turned taught me something new. The central theme was murder. Love. Redemption. Acceptance. Not the kind of book that would evoke magic, the kind of magic I cried through it. Imagined what Heaven looked like. Ate humble pie.

by PL

no comments

add a comment link to this post email a friend

From the Outside Looking In

Thursday, December 2, 2010 at 7:29pm Posted in Memoirs, Personal, Thoughts

Isn’t that simply the way of the world- when one is weary, alone, (or so it seems) in this great big world? A few months ago, I had everything. Albeit nothing was perfect, save for my daughter. But then again, I am now the one listening to Clair de Lune all by myself, in this sterile hospital room, stricken with the disease that killed my father a year ago.

And being here, all alone, I realize that I absolutely have NO ONE. It is pathetic of me. That I should muster up the energy to get onto that stupid social networking website, just to get a glimpse into the world I thought I belonged in. Me- that I should hack out clumps of bloody phlegm into the sink, and then hurry to my laptop beside my hospital bed because I heard a “ping” and that could mean somebody from the outside world wants to chat with me. I am sad and pathetic. And I am alone. My mother is in India, my brother laughs and hopes for my death so that he can inherit my “wealth”, my daughter is kept away from me for fear of the contagion of disease. I am miserable, and yet I pretend to be happy. Stuffing myself with Domino’s pizza (horrible). Wrapping myself up in my hoodie, and mask and gloves, I walked downstairs to buy a 100+ and no one stopped me. A walking disease. And no one stopped me. They let me, and I think to myself, is this what our world has become?

And strangely, the man who ceased to be my husband 3 days ago, is the only man I wish was here with me now. Silent, still, sitting in the corner, he needn’t say a word. And now he isn’t here. And I feel the emptiness acutely. So, so, so acutely, it stabs me in my liver.

by PL

no comments

add a comment link to this post email a friend

I love you

Tuesday, November 16, 2010 at 7:06pm Posted in Memoirs, Motherhood, Personal

You’re mine. I love you. I love you. I love you. How many different ways can I say this?

I can’t even begin to describe how you’ve made me feel so complete. As a woman. As a person. As the kind of being God would be proud of.

I love you. You came from within me and I shall protect you from life’s hideousness and pain, just as I had protected you when you were within me.

by PL

no comments

add a comment link to this post email a friend

Once Upon A Time

Sunday, January 24, 2010 at 5:07pm Posted in Memoirs, My Daddy, Thoughts

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who lived in a big, beautiful mansion. She had fat, rosy cheeks, sleek black hair falling to her waist and chubby little hands and legs. Well-beloved by all who knew her, she had a young loving mother and the most wonderful doting father. She had 3 hand-maidens to call her own: one to play with her, one to feed her and one to bathe her. She had everything a little girl could possibly dream of.

One day, in that big beautiful mansion, she sat broodingly on the splendid marble staircase which commanded a bountiful presence the moment one entered that enormous home, layer upon layer of cool white marble laid to foundation, climbing up 15 steps to a large landing, and there it branched into 2 wings, one on each side, equally resplendent to lead to the different wings of the home. The staircase was just polished, and sparkled in the sunlight.

She sat there that morning, because she knew her father was going away somewhere for work. Her mother told her it was over the sea. Which sea? she wondered. How would her daddy go over the sea? Drive? An aeroplane? If so, what kind? Would he discover a new land? Why did he have to go? Her mother told her it was a place called London, in England, far away from where they lived. How far was far? At the tender age of 2, she had no sense of time and days. She asked her mother, “How far, Mummy?” And her mother said, “Far enough that when Daddy comes home, you would’ve grown an inch.”

And so she thought, if I grow an inch, then I’d need new slippers because my feet would’ve grown an inch too.

So as her father descended the staircase in his suit and customary briefcase, and her mother quickly planted a kiss on his nose, she got up and clung to his legs.

“Daddy, where will you go?” she asked. (Despite being the age of 2, she spoke exceedingly well).

“I’m going to London for work, my princess,” he said and smiled at her, picking her up and kissing her soundly on both cheeks.

“Then when you come back, will you buy me some new slippers?” she asked, her eyes wide and big. She hugged her father’s neck tightly, her chubby arms smelling of sweet Johnson’s baby lotion.

“Of course! Anything for you, my precious.”

“I want Minnie Mouse slippers,” she proclaimed. “Red ones. With bells. They go tinkle-tinkle.” She struggled to get down, and he put her down in the hall. “And with the funny mouse sounds.” She meant, slippers that squeaked.

For some reason, her father understood what she meant. He nodded gravely. “Of course, darling. Squeaky slippers, you mean.”

She nodded furiously.

Her dear father went off to London the next day, and came back 3 weeks later. In those 3 weeks, she had, indeed, grown an inch.

Father looked so handsome, and maybe a little older, she had missed him so much! He had come home in the night when she was asleep. And in the morning, when she was playing with her toy piano on the patio outside the house, he surprised her with a little gift.

Her eyes widened and shone with love. “Daddy!” she squealed, and there was no end to the hugs and kisses that followed, until he said, “Look what I bought you.”

Her mouth widened into an ‘O’ and she eagerly tore the gaily-wrapped gift. Inside a little silver shoe box, she found them. Exactly as she had pictured. Red Minnie Mouse slippers with tiny silver bells. And when she put them on and walked around, they squeaked.

Only fathers would search the ends of the earth for the perfect gift. To make the dreams of their little ones come true.

31 years on, that little girl (now grown up) thinks of those red Minnie Mouse slippers with fondness, a depth of indescribable emotions, and love in abundance.

by PL

no comments

add a comment link to this post email a friend

The 35th Anniversary

Sunday, January 24, 2010 at 5:06pm Posted in Memoirs, My Daddy, Thoughts

I took a quiet moment tonight in my mum’s prayer room- away from the hustle of cars on the main road in front of my house. Away from my sleeping daughter who slumbered in the room next door. Away from my husband who was out celebrating a friend’s birthday.

I lit candles and the room filled with a pleasing scent of caramel roses. I lit incense sticks- they smelled of lovely lavender, and in a few minutes, the entire room was enveloped with the smell of all things wonderful and sweet. I turned down the volume of the portable Buddhist chant player on the altar (it has never been turned off from the day my mother brought it back from Thailand, and sometimes, in the still of the night, I can hear the faint Namo Tassa Bhagavato Arahato chants creeping softly under my door, filling me with a sense of peace and harmony).

I took his beautifully framed picture, touched my fingers to the cool glass softly, pressed a kiss onto his cheek. I talked to him as if things had never changed. I cried a little, of course I did- I’m such a softie, really. I wished him Happy Anniversary. I spoke to him about life without him. About how well I was coping, and how everyone was getting along.

For long minutes, I felt truly and completely happy because I knew he could hear me. I felt a faint caress across my cheek, so light that I thought I must’ve imagined it. Perhaps I did. Or perhaps he came to me. To tell me he was alright too. I fervently wished it was him. Sometimes when I step out into the cool night to look at the stars after my daughter has gone to bed, I always find a brilliant one, standing out in the darkened sky, twinkling like it had no other cares in the world. And that is when I know he is watching from above. I am a lucky girl. Who else has a star watching over her?

There is no place in the world I would rather have been then. Just sitting in that room, knowing and feeling, at the same time, all the beautiful and ugly things of the universe coming at me, assailing my senses and teaching me how to live each day.

by PL

no comments

add a comment link to this post email a friend

A moment of weakness

Thursday, December 3, 2009 at 4:11pm Posted in Children, Motherhood, My Daddy, Personal

I’ve been in the hospital with my daughter for the last 2 days. A little surgery. Poor girl.

She came out of the operating theatre yesterday evening, placed in the recovery room, her small little body wrapped in some kind of foil-like thing, which I later found out was some kind of hyperthermia blanket system that infuses warm air into the blanket to warm the body after surgery. An oxygen mask was pulled over her face, her eyes were semi-open and she was breathing noisily as she slept. They told me she would come out of anesthesia pretty soon.

I sat by her, in the scrubs they gave me. Ugliest, but at the same time, coolest things I’d ever worn, because they made me feel like a doctor in Seattle Grace. Except, of course, we weren’t at Seattle Grace. And there were no McDreamy or McSteamy doctors, too.

While I waited, I took a little walk around the recovery room, curious of my surroundings, being given a tiny glimpse into an actual operation theatre (which, by the way, they allowed me into for a short time while she was brought in and sedated).

Then I saw some contraptions, equipment, machines, which looked familiar. I recognized an infusion pump. A suction machine. Oxygen, of course. I noticed names of drugs printed neatly and taped onto a refrigerator. There were others, but I’m no medical expert, so I don’t know what they’re called. I only remember what they look like.

Inadvertently, the memories came. Flooded my vision with tears. The tears wouldn’t stop, they kept falling and I kept wiping them off with the back of my hand. Pictures in my head. Assailing. Assaulting my senses. I felt like I was spinning.

My daughter had just come out of surgery, and I was crying about my dead father.

Whoever it was who said time heals all wounds was lying. This wound would never heal. I will always remember, and because I do, the wound can never go away. It will remain open. But it doesn’t ever mean I can’t go on. It doesn’t ever mean that I will live in the past always. It doesn’t mean I will never have moments of weaknesses.

My daughter murmured softly and stirred in her sleep. I heard her whisper, “Mummy….”

I reached for her, wiped away my tears, and said a quick and quiet thanks to God and my father.

by PL

no comments

add a comment link to this post email a friend

Brylcreem

Wednesday, December 2, 2009 at 10:34am Posted in Family, My Daddy, Personal, Rantings

You got any hair gel I can borrow? he asks me.

Wtf? I don’t use hair gel, I retort. You know that.

My hair looks like shit, he says.

OK fine, I’ll see what I can do.

I shuffle to my Dad’s bathroom and find a still-full tub of Brylcreem hair gel, dandruff control. I stand there for a while, holding the tub in my hands. He will never dip his fingers into this tub ever again. Spread them over his head and start combing his hair sideways. Like they do in old Chinese movies. He had the same hair style, for all of 63 years. (I know, because I saw his photos when he was an adorable babe of 3. Same hair style y’all).

Well, I can’t grieve over a tub of Brylcreem.

Fast forward: a week later.

You got any hair gel? he asks me.

Wtf? I say. I gave you my Dad’s Brylcreem last week.

I don’t know where I put it, he says lamely.

I want to scream, fuck you. Where the fuck did you put it? I ask him, my eyes watery. I am angry. I don’t know why. It was my Dad’s Brylcreem, where the fuck did you put it after you used it? Did you take it home? Why couldn’t you have just used it, and leave it in the bathroom? It was my Dad’s! Where is it?!

This rage comes from nowhere. Or maybe a place deep inside my heart, where the pain, the anguish, still festers like an old wound, never to be healed.

He is confused. But he knows better than to say anything other than, OK, I’ll check in all the bathrooms.

I look at his retreating figure, momentarily sorry for my outburst.

It was my Dad’s Brylcreem. You’d better damn well find it. Who knows if Daddy needs it again someday?

I will keep everything the way it was when he left. His toothbrush is still in his little free-gift Darlie cup. His Protex soaps are still in the toiletries drawer- I used one of them a few days ago, even though I hate using soap- but I do it, because it makes me feel closer to him. His paper handkerchiefs and packets of tissue papers- he always did have a thing for tissue paper. I will never want for any tissue paper anymore.

And his Brylcreem. It’s right where it belongs now.

by PL

no comments

add a comment link to this post email a friend