Life is but a dream ……

The other day I was tagged by a blogging buddy of mine wanshana with a proposition to scribble something on the meanings of my kids’ names. Well, here goes.

I have four kids. Four lovely and wonderful kids. They came to this world in some orderly manner (selang bunga). The eldest an 11 year old boy, followed by 10 year old girl. A lapse (breather) of 4 years. Another boy, a six year old and finally a five year old girl. Thanks to some rigorous planning and quality engineering extremes. Proven high tech control with advanced mathematical modeling and rocket science simulation. Just kidding. Ini semua rezeki dari Tuhan.

Ameerul Ahwaz, the Determined Leader. He’s fair and handsome, and tall (I thot, handsome goes only with dark …). A school prefect since standard 3. That nice name as well as the rest of the kids, we (my dear wife and I) got it from the net. His name at home is Yeop, being the eldest, as well as coming from a true Perakian ancestry.

Ahlam Awateef, sweet girl. Dreams and Imagination, that’s what the name means. Ateef (in short) is full of those. She’s my first princess. I still called her Kakak Princess at home. Always asked me when can we spend time together. ‘But Kakak, I thot we always spend time together with you.’ ‘You’re right Daddy, but I want a father-daughter only, without Mama, without the boys and Ayra, especially without Ayra.’

Then the big Mr Taciturn Guy, Waseem Akram, the most Handsome and Generous. True to his name, he is good-looking. The name is taken from a former Pakistani cricket great. My mom said that little Waseem is my carbon copy. ‘Does that means that I’m good-looking too?’ I asked my wife. ‘Hah, jangan nak perasan.’

Finally, the fair and lovely Ayra Umayrah (the Respectable Pinkish). My heart melts profusely only by looking at her hair. When I hear she speaks, everything will be evaporated. Sometimes when she’s not in favour of something she did this special grimace-looking face. That also will make me flat.

All the names are very individual and not following any pattern, only chosen by my dear wife and me. As we have already tutup our kedai, we have only our Ahwaz, Ateef, Waseem & Ayra.

The other day I was working like mad, with tons of emails, endless phone calls, 2 customer visits and these things really drained me out. Later that night after fetching Ahwaz from his tuition class, I lay down in front of the idiot box and started to watch Supernatural at AXN.

Know what, nowadays the ghostbusters are in the form of two fine-looking guys and they even get to drive a 1967 Chevy Impala (those days we had only Bill Murray and Dan Aykroyd with a horrible looking Cadillac Ectomobile … sad isn’t it). Then this Dean Winchester character (the elder brother) started to sing the song Can’t Fight This Feeling from REO Speedwagon.

Suddenly, out of fatigueness my mind drifted. This song, where was I when this song was the chart toppers. Where were you? I grew up in the 80’s. Those days songs were not like now. There were killer songs. Once, Ahwaz asked me about the group Wham!  are they still alive? Well son, I honestly don’t know.

What I knew is that I used to paste Wham! posters in my bedroom (you know, the one with them clad in white underwares, and those days I honestly don’t know that George Michael is gay … s#%@!).

Anyway, for those of you who have this song still in your head, enjoy.

And I can’t fight this feeling anymore
I’ve forgotten what I started fighting for
It’s time to bring this ship into the shore
And throw away the oars, forever

And even as I wander I’m keeping you in sight
You’re a candle in the window on a cold, dark winter’s night
And I’m getting closer than I ever thought I might

http://free-music-downloads.ws/en/search/reo+speedwagon/cant+fight+this+feeling/download2/12730654/

During the weekend my dear wife and I took our two princesses to the National Cheerleading Competition at Stadium Putra. You know, my girls, they still have this unending hang-over about the High School Musical (we’re all in this together) thingy.

I asked my nine year old, Kakak why these girls keen to use words like, ‘whatever’ and ‘totally’ when talking. I honestly, totally don’t know Ayah. Came the reply.

The competition was impressive. Teams from various schools tried to perform their level best. All of them came with great outfits complete with glistening adornments. The crowds went wild. The judges mostly from the States, were former cheerleading champions. There were a few all-boys teams too. Imagine Waseem to be one of the boys. Nay. I particularly thrilled by the Seafield team with placards ‘Guys don’t use poms’.

In the midst of all the excitements and Mexican waves, my four year old Ayra asked me, Daddy my turn? What turn? I chided my wife (normally, facing difficult situation like this, wife’s the one to turn to). Her turn to perform. Oh, OK.

The other day, while waiting for Ahwaz to finish his cricket training at PJ Club, I asked the coach, Dr Vasu, could I try few balls from the machine? Emm, Ameer’s father, right go on. As many balls as you like.

Ok Yeop, quickly bring me the bat, helmet and batting gloves. Let me show you boys how to slog properly. Er, Ayah do you need the ball guard (the thing that protects precious things) and batting pads. Nope, I’m perfectly ok. Then I saw the coach adjusting the machine ball.

Er, Doc. Whatcya doing? I thot maybe you need extra speed. Oh swell! I’m inadequately protected.

Luckily, the balls from the machine did not quite caused any problem to this hard-hitting (though otai) batsman. I whacked the balls with proper cover drive and forward drive shots.

I overheard the coach saying, look at Ameer’s father proper forward drives. Hearing this, I got more confident. Ok boys, why don’t you bowl at me. Those who get my wicket (get me out), I will give one ringgit. They suddenly queued up and bowled to me one by one. And some of them bowled quite well. Mus (MAS & SOCC star batsman, ex-Seratas) if you’re reading this, these U-12 boys bowled twice as fast, and 5 times more accurate than your bowling. These boys were also the semi-finalist at the recent national U-12 Elite championship.

Later that night, I asked my medical aide (a.k.a. my wife) to put some minyak afiat to both of my hands. Eh, did I ask you to bat? At least do some warm up la. Awak tu dah tua.

My hands, they were like tergeliat.

Yesterday, my dear wife and I were invited for a tahlil cum kenduri arwah at my auntie’s house in the lush suburb of Damansara Heights. Being a government servant (a senior PTD), and married to another government servant (a Prof cum Dean in one IPTA’s dental faculty), we quickly recognised their simple semi-D house without much renovations in the midst of the who’s who abodes.

The maghrib solat was lead by another uncle of mine. He’s the close aide (classmates?) of our former number two, and read the surahs beautifully. My big brother (Yang) was there as well, together with my SIL and my cute niece (by now you could easily would have guess who’s her ‘dazzling’ uncle?).

During the tahlil session, names of our deceased family members of which the occasion is attributed were mentioned. At some point during the recitation of Surah Yasin, I felt the peace and tranquility and as if all those names were mentioned, their graves and resting places suddenly illuminated.

Then kenduri times. Nasi briyani (delicious, but my wife’s better, really) and all. Udang galah kunyit special. Kebab wrapped. Cool tangy syrup. Dalcha (no weight gains here). Sumptuous fruits platters and bubur jagung.

And then one familiar looking (decent, but glamourous looking) lady spoke to me as if she knew me all her life. I spoke to her in return, how come I don’t know this lady. Do I have another auntie whom I didn’t know. God bless. The conversation was on and on. Then, I managed to whisper to my aide (a.k.a. my wife). Eh tu siapa ya? My dear hubby, that’s your aunt, Mak W.

Really, how come she’s so … so different (gorgeously beautiful, would be more appropriate, but I’m being cautious here).

Then, when I try to visualise my aunt without her tudung and jubah … yeap, she’s my Mak W, the chief editor of Glam magazine who has the following views on styles:

“It’s all about how you express yourself through what you wear and how you carry yourself. Body language is important and you need to know how to put an outfit together. Your clothes may be fashionable and expensive, but if your demeanour does not match what you’re wearing, it can be a disaster. Sometimes, it can be something as simple as picking the right attire for the right function. I mean, if you’re Malay and you attend a traditional Malay wedding in a skirt, is that being stylish?”

Rightly said dear auntie. I’m really hopeless when comes to this fashion thingy. I’m still stuck with my 501s and Staroba tees, Doc Martens, 15-year-old Swiss watch (still reliable what, and looks like 11 years, said my aide), kurung teluk belanga tulang belut and kain pelikat. But last night you do look different (I meant, gorgeous).

All of you know it, right. Every third Sunday in the month of June is dedicated to those who are called father. Though, in my humble opinion, every day should be father’s day (so that we fathers could relax and be pampered). Anyway, let me write something about my dear father Tuan Hj Zainal Abidin bin Hj Abu Bakar.

I call my father Ayah. And right, my kids called me Ayah as well. Well, except for Ayra. Somehow she called me Daddy.

My Ayah was born in 1932. Those days under the British rule, life was tough. Somehow, though he stayed in a remote kampung, he managed to enter the Sultan Indris Training College (now UPSI). Ayah somehow lost his dear mother due to some sort of epidemic (small pox?) where the grandma that I never knew had to be quarantined, until she passed away.

Ayah used to relate me stories how during the Emergency in Tanjung Malim, the bravest were the Ashkar Melayu. And those written in most of the history books about the heroic acts of the British Army were not entirely true.

Ayah has taught me a lot of things about life. He loves to read. His collection of books is voluminous. He loves to write. Especially letters to his children, and now grandchildren. I too had the pleasure of getting such letters, written in the neat hand-writing (have you seen my scribes … which you’ll fall in love with instantly, his is much better). Remember the letter about how he and my mom met my future wife? The ‘bahasa’ was as to how the proper letter should be written. Full of ‘ayahanda’, ‘bonda’, ‘nenda’, ‘kekanda’ nomenclatures etc. The last letter addressed to me when I was in the UK, ‘…di sini ayahanda ingin menyampaikan jemputan ke perkahwinan bekas kekasih anakanda …’

Ayah taught me the fardu ain. Everyday, I spend like half an hour or so receiving religious knowledge from him. He used that green book, which I forgot the name. Ayah was gentle to me. I was never being rotan-ned by him. Maybe I was a good boy, and smart too (this I’m sure, my wife would say, it’s because you’re not so healthy then).

Ayah never comment anything about my friends, especially the female ones. But I always remember his word of wisdom with regard to them, ‘Son, even the tunggul (tree stumps) if you look at them everyday, they will look good.’ Yes Ayah, what’s more if they were beautiful girls. Ok, noted. I will cast down my eyes, promise you that.

He is an honourable gentleman and stays steadfast in his ibadah.

When I look at his photos when he was younger, I knew that he was a smart looking guy (yours truly, inherited some, and my wife is going to puke now). Imagine this, in black and white. Three gentlemen (one whom is my dad) in their black ties and cool sun shades posing in front of the Tugu Negara. As with many other young guys those days, Ayah also had a Vespa. He used to take my mother (in her tight kebaya, I supposed) scootering around the town, akin to Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holidays.

Now in his 70’s, he still in good health (except those little ailments). You know what, his eyes (unlike mine, if without my glasses, I’ll be either sleeping or engaged in … my wife, why are you pinching me?) do not need any aid, no reading glasses, no nothing. God bless.

Dearest Ayah, thank you for being a good father to me. Thank you for teaching me a lot of things about life. May the Almighty bless you and mom with his Kindness and shower you both with His infinite Mercy.

Something (no matter how sweet) that started will eventually come to an end. Remember the Asia’s first floating platform bidding that I’m working on. Well, the proposal will be out this Monday. All the efforts, all the toil and hard work, will be demonstrated in our final submission. That’s the end of that. However, the end will also mean the beginning of something. We hope that our professionalism, accuracy, technical competency, as well as proven experience, will get us the job.

Come to think of it, everything in this life has starting and ending points. After the end of any event, it shall supersede with a new event, thus a new beginning. That new beginning sometimes could be even more thrilling than the previous.

Anyway, yesterday I was on my way back from the office. The traffic was low, but at the Sunway toll booths, there was a queue. There were five cars in front. Suddenly, there’s this song by M Nasir ‘Srikandi Cintaku’, used to be sung by Bloodshed, on the radio.

Dingin malam tirai kenanganku

Menyerlahkan sekurun ingatan

Terciptalah rimba kehidupan

Percintaan dalam perjuangan

Kesetiaan sebagai bekalan

Bisikan penuh pengharapan

Tiada garis dapat memisahkan

Segalanya kudratMu Tuhan

Alam bagai mengerti

Segala yang terjadi

Embun menitis panas simpati

Pertemuan tiada awal akhir

Then, there’s somebody honking at me. I said, ‘What?’

‘Oh, OK.’ Without realising, I was mesmerized by that song until there were no more cars in front of me at the toll booth.