Like Mosaic Tiles

Shards of glass,
Scratchy and unsmooth
Fragmented into asymmetrical shapes
Smashed without an obvious purpose
Lying still on the ground
A huge array of varying materials
Diverse hues in all possible colours
Small, large, long, thin,
Like broken marble and uncut diamonds
They stay silently, unaware
What a mess it seems, no direction
No reason, meaningless
Individually insignificant like a pile of broken parts
Yet one of the most
Beautiful types of art
Found in the museums, palaces and sky ceilings
Are precisely made with these
Fractions of a whole
Taken from everywhere
Incomplete and fractured
Randomly chosen and found in the same situation
Somehow placed side by side
In the large canvas
Unsure of how they fit in
Yet they all do somehow
Because there is no single spotlight
But a common theme spun with a single thread
Of unity and delicate homogeneity of differences
Curious angles different sizes
Wavering degrees of positioning
Placed adjacent, one next to the other
Whole in their incompleteness
Fitting in where otherwise they did not
Like broken bits of a jigsaw
Overlapping where the other lacks
Up close it makes hard work
To understand their meaning
Their purpose uncertain in the myopia
Of short-lived vision
Yet tilted back
Pushed a little further away
Viewed like the earth from the moon
The sum of the parts
Make an equation fall into place
The sea of fabricated materials
Follow a pattern
Of their own
Their beauty lies in their imperfections
Breathtakingly captivating
The ultimate result is theirs to own

No reservations

Watching her cry, I feel the weight of her family on her shoulders. A daughter’s anguish from watching her mother’s pain, manifested in a body connected to countless tubes in the Intensive Care Unit.

“Love one another,” she says, because you never know when they will not be there anymore. It is true, so true, and in a flashback of what happened two years ago, I remember so vividly the fear of not being able to say the things we have always felt but kept in our hearts, the traumatic thoughts of not having the chance to see those you love before they fall into unconsciousness, the fact the they do not have the knowledge that you love them so. Suddenly, the importance of work crumbles in the face of such adversity, worries about other people’s impressions and a façade to upkeep seem ridiculously silly, and all you hope for is to be able to hold their hands and tell them you love them.

Each week passes by, an oblivious rollercoaster ride of deadlines that fade into nothingness. Some days you look back at the past few months and wonder what happened during that period of time; the days seemed to have started and ended without any meaningful memories created in between. We spend hours hunched at our desk in the office, worrying about the wording of an email, which may not even be looked at for more than 10 seconds, and we stress over the promotion that might skip us by. Home becomes just a place for bed and breakfast and we don’t even realize how much has changed in the life of our loved ones. We count the pennies but miss the big bucks; we fight many wars and win them, but we lose the battle. Myopia seems to have overtaken many of us, literally and metaphorically, and short-sightedness has led to many forgetting the most important bigger picture of life, the things that matter more than those that don’t.

A conversation at the Cheesecake café with a great friend of mine kept me thinking, a thread of thoughts started not only recently. Decisions we make on a daily basis, based out of fear? Or boldness to try something new, just because we desire to? A year off work seems like a huge decision to make, just to pursue a dream, or longing, when that is the same amount of time since the start of my working life. Yet experience for me enlarges the spectrum of my understanding, makes me rooted but gives me the power to believe, and shorter-term gains diminish in light of these. Encouragement from friends who have always chased their dreams, persistent in their beliefs as well as mine, that makes me feel so much lighter.

It’s like that with so many things. Planning is great, it helps you have an idea of where you want to go; but the magic is in the boldness, of creation of doing, and of trying even if you don’t know if you might succeed. Baby steps make the journey, and building a foundation in our relationships doesn’t take place overnight on occasional birthday parties; the pretty card in the mail once every half a year doesn’t suffice if you want to be a part of their lives as much as they are a part of yours. I realize that making the effort consistently, not only when you feel like it, nor only when things crop up, is what builds the unshakable base which holds us even as we shake.

Tell them you love them, say it as often as you feel the need and want to, do it unabashedly, boldly, without reservation. Get up and do things you want to do, now, not tomorrow, not next year. Don’t hesitate anymore. In Nike’s famous household slogan – Just do it.

To never forget

“To love. To be loved. To never forget your own insignificance. To never get used to the unspeakable violence and the vulgar disparity of life around you. To seek joy in the saddest places. To pursue beauty to its lair. To never simplify what is complicated or complicate what is simple. To respect strength, never power. Above all, to watch. To try and understand. To never look away. And never, never, to forget.”
-Arundhati Roy

One of the signature quotes at the end of email messages, one of the quotes that always stun me in an absolutely refreshing way.

It is so easy to become immune to the violence and distress that once so thoroughly disturbed us during our daily news reading. It is so easy to frown and wrinkle our noses in disgust at the dirt-filled rat-infested conditions which the beggars live in, and then to walk on buy into the comfort of the five-star hotel, and out of sight, the poverty temporarily goes out of mind. It is so difficult to imagine and witness the pure joy on the faces of the little ones who spend their whole days playing with a simple ball, a game we take for granted, a game we are bored with, and it strikes us so hard to see these young children with more joy than us with all our expensive ostentatious goods. It is increasingly hard to appreciate beauty in what we do and have, when we have become shaped to complain without batting an eyelid, and to shout at what is not going well. We have became what we eat, and in this world of fast food, fast service, we have lost our patience for even the simplest things, we do not see anymore than we do not get nourished. It shocks us to see a woman with cancer encouraging her loved ones not to be upset, when really it should have been the other way round. We have become so accustomed to the grind of life which tells us money and status rule the world, that people high up on their pedestals should be treated like gods while poor people and those junior staff should be disregarded, ill-respected and not worthy of our time. We forget that sometimes certain things are just as they seem, and we spend precious amounts of time complicating two-dimensional matters when we should be spending more time solving and analyzing the world we live in. We become masks of insecurity mingling at events for the sake of networking, when actually we just want to spend some solitary time to gather our thoughts. What are we rushing to, where are we colliding headlong into? Why do we look away from that which is not pretty, nice or even just normal? Why do we forget so soon the things which have taken place? Why are we shocked when things which have been building up ages suddenly happen? What do we need before we can remember?

India’s tragic love story

India is full of beautiful palaces, monuments and buildings that spring up unexpectedly in an old town, next to a a dirty river, in the valleys.

In a history of the rise and fall of empires spanning across centuries, where the mughal rule expanded into India from central asia, the birth of one of the wonders of the world brought India into the limelight, putting it on the same stage as China, Peru, Brazil, Egypt, Jordan, Rome and Mexico. In a sad but romantic history of the dynasty of the six mughal emperors, a tale of love and the struggle for power produced a grand, beautiful tomb acclaimed by the whole world, a majestic construction built on the foundation of promise and loyalty.

The fifth mughal emperor, Shah Jahan, had many wives, but the third wife possessed most, if not all, of his affection. In a short marriage life of just 19 years, Mumtaz Mahal (whose title signified chosen one of the palace) bore him 14 children, the last of whom caused her to die in childbirth. Of these 14 children, 8 died, and of the remaining 6, there were 2 girls and 4 boys. Out of the 4 males, the last and youngest of them all eventually caused his father the greatest harm and injustice, and he became the sixth ruler of the mughal dynasty, ending the reign which lasted almost two hundred years.

Beyond the line of six descendants which she left behind, Mumtaz’s death brought down her husband, Shah Jahan who retreated into a year of mourning and shed all royal clothing to be dressed in mourning clothes. A year after her demise, he embarked on a massively planned project to build her a monument, as he had promised on her deathbed, and in the next 22 years, oversaw and specified the details of the white marbled tomb renouned among all the world. With marble inlay decorating the white pure marble, and phrases from the Koran inscribed as borders on the magnificent structure in Agra, the outcome of the project was awe-inspiring and breathtaking. Even till today, the Taj Mahal’s mist shrouded outline leaves you amazed, and from a distance, it looks like a dream turning into reality.

A very faithful Muslim, Shah Jahan’s devotion to Islam has been blended and crafted seamlessly into the monument, and the dome-topped wonder silences everyone who lays their eyes on it, even if they are not Muslims. The entrace of the Taj opens to a perfectly symmetrical garden, which is partitioned into four equal squares by water streams and fountains, like the garden of Eden as described in the Koran. The peace and serenity emanating from the surroundings of the Taj settles upon you as you walk closer to the structure, each step showing you yet another beautiful angle, whose symmetry and glazed perfection stops you in your tracks, and you unconsciously reach for your camera in an unsuccessful effort to capture the aura and presence of the Taj. One of the most photographed objects in the world, nothing can beat seeing the Taj in person. The story behind and around which the Taj has been wrapped is beyond the physical presence, it is the spirit of the emperor and his wife which spills forth romance and inspires its viewers.

Out of greed and desire to rule over his own family, Shah Jahan’s youngest son with Mumtaz killed his three elder brothers, then imprisoned his father under house arrest in the Agra fort, where he gazed at the Taj for the eight years during his arrest. So much tragedy, so much pain, yet so much love.

Just like many parts of India, and its endlessly fascinating aspects, the Taj is symbolic of India, of its history and its beauty. And unexpectedly, I seem to have fallen in love with some parts of the vast and rich heritage of this nation.

Life’s little surprises

I often remember Mannheim days with extreme fondness, with plenty of love and happy thoughts. One day I remember especially well is the day Faye brought back a cake and I saw her walking home with it, with me sitting on the number 60 bus. Somehow I knew the cake was for me. I remember being so happy when she really did surprise me in the room with it!! And to my greater surprise, she told me that Shawn my wonderful cousin had actually contacted her via facebook to coordinate the surprise for me!

I remember skyping with Shawn as I ate the bday cake, very very happy that he had actually bothered to do all that. I can still remember the exact cake, it was chocolate coated and there was a banana on the top. I loved it.

I also remember how on the eve of my birthday I was skyping with Shawn before the dinner Faye had booked me for, and she was telling me that it was just the two of us but that I should dress up cos it was my birthday. Then when I arrived at the restaurant, I got a huge shock when I saw 20+ guests gathered at the Istanbul restaurant all beaming at me! And then later at night where half the party adjourned at my hostel to celebrate and party even more.

I think it doesn’t take a lot to make me happy, just some simple gesture and kind words and I treasure the friendship/ thought for life. Faye did the same for me last year when she brought a bouquet of flowers for me for my bday, taking me completely by surprise.

I think life is beautiful, when you are surrounded by friends and family who care and share so much.

I still remember the first day in Mannheim, our first lunch as we walked through the Turkish quarters, eating at DBO doner, as we bought a sim card for communication in Mannheim. I remember drinking in the sights and sounds of the city, smelling the freshness of summer’s end ushering in autumn’s majestic entrance, the sunshine spilling though Crystal and Jengyin’s sky windows in Hafenstrasse, and their kind offers of biscuits and chocolate.

I have a sudden longing to return and see Mannheim again, to walk next to the Schloss and its large white-framed Baroque windows. To tread down the cobbled streets along the Hauptbahnhoft, and dance in Zapattos. I want to sit down behind Hafenstrasse on the grass, in the heat of summer, lying on nothing but a mat and eating butter pretzels, drinking beer and listening to music blasting from Aaron’s laptop. Watching him cook the weisswurst in the hot water and giving us an introductory course on slicing the German sausages.

I want to return to Mannheim, and replay all the memories, so many made, and especially those with you.

Life’s little surprises, are so beautiful.

Mannheim was one of them.

My sky and yours together

Have you ever felt that you missed some people so much, you felt your heart wasn’t with you, but with them, in some far off corner of the world?

I want to be somewhere else, living a different life, knowing I am with the person that I love, away from separation. Maybe I have never felt happy living a boring but secured life, stable yet lacking in passion, doing what is expected all the time. The longing to live out a dream, soaking in brilliant bubbles of happiness and joy, has constantly been my companion for as long as I can remember.

I want to be where the people laugh and live with every molecule of their beings. I yearn for a life, where like a drawing board I can start from scratch, creating the design of my life the exact way i like it. To be able to make a dashboard of all the elements that I want to keep, and throw away those that I abhore.

I imagine building a life with beauty, a deep sense of belonging, a knowledge of belief, faith and trust. Where people burst into song and dance, where love enshrouds everything. Where practicality doesnt even register in the first few priorities; and worries of the future are but just dots in the sky.

Growing up through the years, I’ve seen birthdays and anniversaries, weddings and friendships blossoming. And among all of these, I wonder how many are but just customary, and how many else are blooming out of true radiant joy.

I want to live in a world, where my sky combines with yours, where the sun never sets, the rays of delirious sunlight stay like crystals protecting us, where my day is yours as well. I want to build a life with you, a paint the picture both of us are in, walking hand in hand. I want to hear the birds chirping instead of cars zooming by; I want to see rivers and lakes and swimming fish, instead of neatly printed roads and factory buidings. I want to be finally at home…and home is where the heart is.

A Mother’s Heart

She yearns and she pines for her daughter’s return
Her safety and her love
A mother gives her all to her little daughter
Dresses her up and cuddles her
When her daughter is a baby,
All she wishes is for her to grow up
So they can talk about life and love and girly stuff
And as the little girl grows up and finds
Her friends among them and boys as well
A mother there she in the back seat dwell
Girlfriends and movie nights and sleepovers too
A daughter is caught up with all in school
The mail in the post she waited for
A shadow of the car trailing away as she goes for a date
Her mother watches from the window pane
‘My little girl has grown’, then says her name
Little whispers of shy words now said but
No longer to her mother
The girl is grown and delights in another
The baby daughter who used to twirl in front
Of the mirror showing mother and daughter
Now stands tall and upright in her gown
As she walks down the isle to her other
The crowd is watching as the father guides her down the path
Happy yet sad to release his daughter
Into the hands of another man
Yet while the father eventually lets go
Her mother is the one whose tears fall silently
A smile breaking into crystal beads
Of love, of memories and of silent joy
She sits in the pew as her daughter glances
Into the eyes of her new found partner
Into the life she will now own, no longer attached to her mother
And as the church bells chime their blessed union,
The bride gathers her train and turns around
She blows her mother a butterfly kiss
Dear mummy you I will dearly miss
But a mother-daughter bond will not fall apart
Nor break because of an added son
But their unity becomes stronger because very soon,
Her daughter becomes a mother too.

Happy Mother’s Day! to all mothers & mothers-to-be : )

Strokes of Impressionism

It is the intensely clear turquoise of a little girl’s eyes that stops me in my busy tracks, holding my world still for that fraction of a second. It is the myriad of aromatic smells wafting from a bakery amidst the bustling morning crowd, which intoxicates me to lift my neck; head tilted back as my eyes close in one satisfied moment, and just take it all in. The blind busker in that little corner of the jam-packed street, swaying with his livelihood, the accordion, and his slightly off-tune songs, he makes me slow down, relax and enjoy the random snippets of a morning which otherwise would have dissolved into nothing but a blur of city rush.

As a search begins to make some sense of an existence which at times projects itself to be mundane, un-meaningful and lacking impact, a realization comes quickly that like a beautiful Monet masterpiece, our lives are greater than the sum of individual events which we experience, but the beauty which emanates from within is captured from a wider, bigger, overall perspective.

Monet’s impressionism form of art dictates that they are best viewed further rather than nearer. According to Wikipedia, impressionists used “short, ‘broken’ strokes of pure and unmixed color, not smoothly blended, as was customary, in order to achieve the effect of intense color vibration… Characteristics of Impressionist paintings include visible brush strokes, open composition, emphasis on light in its changing qualities, ordinary subject matter; the inclusion of movement as a crucial human perception and experience, and unusual visual angles.”

At close view, the un-harmonized strokes and stark colors feel garish, too intense and vivid for the audience to appreciate. Too harsh compared to the finer strokes employed in other competing forms of art; somewhat queerly disjointed.

I’d like to imagine that the impressionist brush strokes are the individual events in our lives; that they should always be bold, strong and passionate, vividly alive with the richness of life and love; not blended into someone else’s achievements, watered down and faded. That even as individual strokes, they tell a story, albeit just a small part, but whose character is shown strong, daring, and unwavering. Like confidence deliberately marked on an originally plain white canvas, showcasing each stroke of color in a light of its own. As life runs its course, and wisdom increases in each one of us, the changing illumination on these strokes of events display a different side to them, one which has never been cast before. And these strokes tell our story, each one of the vivid, pure tones.

Purchase delivered: Experience

There are conversations that linger in your mind for a while after the speakers have returned to their daily lives, and recently these conversations have been resonating with the same frequency and heartbeat of my questions to life.

In the last month or so, I have been either the initiator or participator of engaging discussions whose individual impacts on me have transformed into compounding and increasingly urgent needs for me to know why I am where and what I am. I used to think when reminiscing on old times and looking at time-stained photographs, that we tend to believe that each instance in our lives are the best that our lives are, up till then. But frequent and subsequent contemplations of this theory convinced me that is not true. Many encounters with peers and elders alike have showed me that many are not happy where they are; perhaps they had made a wrong choice some point in time and unwittingly suffered the consequences of their actions. Or perhaps they simply chose not to reach for what they wanted, and as a result paid for it with an unsatisfactory existence.

Jonny Jr mentioned the fact that humans are intrinsically beings who need freedom of choice (amongst others in the Maslow’s hierarchy of needs); and it is often the limitations that are already in place that constrain our spectrum of choices, frustrating those whose lot in life determines they be the unfortunate few with restricted choice.

Another friend commented, on a totally separate occasion, that given limited resources, particularly resources called time and money; we should use them to attain things with the most lasting utility. Material possessions have the ability to make us incredibly happy and proud; for just one moment, before shoving us into the spiral of unending covetousness. I understood this the moment I started working and earning my own keep; suddenly every bag looks like it needs to be adopted by you; each watch seems to tick and coax you hypnotically to pick it up, and once you do so, you find something else that calls out to you. There’s an unending stream of utility in buying material goods; with the fine print that you also need an unending stream of finances. It seems that given the limited time and health that we have, a generally agreed purchase which would provide energizer-battery-style long-lasting utility is, and always will be, experience.

If at any point in life, you are the sum of all your past experiences, then shouldn’t we make a conscious effort to increase the experiences that we have all the time? The lasting impact every scenario life places us with usually makes up a piece of the puzzle we are trying to fix. But at the same time, we do not buy our paths in life off the shelves as we would a jigsaw puzzle in Toys ‘R Us. Our puzzle in life is akin to a painting yet unfinished; and each decision we make results in the coloring of that little piece of the ultimate picture that is unraveled to us in tantalizing candy bits and pieces. And the more we choose to value experience over the mere attaining of a goal while dreading the journey, the more texture, vibrancy and hues our paintings will exude.

And so, let me finish my sales pitch. Buy experience; but never, never at a discount.

One of the boys with the shaven heads

The start of a brand new week, halfway into the month, the fresh slate of another phase in life.

Monday marks the day when the civilian title no longer belongs to him; when the government is now the major stakeholder in his life; when the green grassy fields and isolated island will become his home for the next few months. It will be a day where family is gathered to witness the ceremony of his becoming a national serviceman, the entry into a journey where many have tread and many are still finishing. The route which many hope to be over even before it has started. Conscription for a nation whose tiny physical size is overcompensated by the pyschological force of a army; for a people who hardly consider it their duty to protect the country which forced them into a state of stagnation for two full years.

The army and I never had much of an affinity; table conversations about my male university-mates’ forays into the jungle with their tanks and rifles hardly held my attention for long. Cameo painted faces and sweat stained uniformed soldiers were never much my idea of fun nor enticement. My mind often drifted off to other topics of greater holding power when the boys gathered around to brag or bitch about their days and ways of slacking in the army. I remember tuning out intentionally for the lack of interest and zealousness about the two years which many of my male friends claim were forcefully snatched from their lives. It contradicted with the fact that they were always so excited to discuss which batch and officer they had; which platoon they were in; the types of equipment they dealt with; and the ranks they managed to climb in the army of little green soldiers. I brought this dissonance up once; and the very logical reply to this contradictive nature of post-army boys was that although they hated army, the only thing they had for those couple of years and a few more months was, honestly and unfortunately, the army.

In short, it was never my intention to know very much about the army, except for the fact that I could gladly say I didn’t have the misfortune of being stuck in that situation. Now however, it seems to be moving closer to my heart. Ronald, my one and only brother, and really valued family member, will be moving to Pulau Tekong for his basic military training (BMT) this coming Monday. Enlistment is almost as important as passing out; because of the huge significant of the content between both events. I took a day off to watch this rite of passage, which for all boys growing up in Singapore, is a big deal, whether they like it or not. In a mere 2 days, Ronald will not be at home all the time, as he is now, so it feels weird to imagine what home will be like without his usual presence, even if he was cooped up playing the computer or surfing the net. No one to brag to me about his blog anymore; whose obsession with writing and drawing had the special power to irritate and inspire all at the very same time. Since the beginning of this year, I had started preparing for my brother’s entrance into army; and even now, I still find it hard to believe that the little brother of mine is now not so little any more.

I feel emotional just thinking about it; how time slides by without our knowing; a couple of minutes here, a couple of years there. My little brother has grown up. There is a photograph of me hugging my brother as we sat on the huge black armchair in our old house, he looked so chubby and small all at once; I look ridiculously happy hugging him; and he was grinning the house upside down. I suppose that was at least 17 years ago; but that picture captured a nostalgia of a bond which was formed so long ago, yet in the most recent years actually strengthened.

In the last couple of years, my brother became a good friend; family by chance, friend by choice. He was my writing muse, my fellow narcissist, equally proficient at being irritating as myself, and confidante. It was reassuring knowing he was there at home, even if we only talked to each other to bug the other to read our latest blog post. He became more recently, my jogging mate; my pacer, and one of my inspirations. Every family member I have has a special place in my heart; for their unique characteristics, and my brother has been a comforter, a fellow writer, a giver of advice.

I know the army is only temporary; but still it marks his turning into an adult; no longer the little chubby cheeky boy in the picture. I’m happy for my brother yet at the same time know I will be missing his previous almost always-there presence at home. But i know he’ll turn out into a fine young man; finer than he already is.