A Woof is My Word for Love

Source: https://worncorners.com/2016/09/23/a-woof-is-my-word-for-love/

Calvin breathes gently. Despite the pain and exhaustion, despite the air of resignation that hangs around him, he seems peaceful. The morning sun is brutal, but Calvin continues to lie in the blinding brightness that escapes the curtains. Calvin. Our sunshine.

Father, Mother, and I have locked our gazes on the boy. If our thoughts could be heard, Calvin would hear us saying, “Our last day with you. Last day.” The words marshal years and years of memories. Memories that make us smile. Memories that make us feel thankful. Memories that make us cry.

And we face the inevitable question — Will the memories perish along with Calvin?

I lie beside him, with my arms around his weak body. He still tries to wag his tail. Dogs. I think of Father, who reluctantly left to work, for he’s weighed down with the knowledge that he will not see Calvin alive again. I think of Mother, who bottles up her emotions and poses questions like, “Will it be painful for him? Is that the only way?” I think of Sister, who is thousands of miles away from the boy, and who would trade all her wishes to spend one last minute with him.

For all of them, I whisper into his ears — We love you, Calvin — as my torrential tears wash his face.

Moments later, I measure his body to let a friend dig Calvin’s grave. As I measure, Calvin takes a deep breath. I run the tape on him when he is alive. Life shows how ruthless it can become. While the family suffers from the inability to face the separation, while Calvin still lies in my mother’s lap, I call the vet and inform that we are ready. A lie.

Calvin rests his head on my thigh during our last ride to the vet and his cataract-filled eyes become bigger, as the car moves faster. He grows curious, tries to look out the window and inhales deeply, as though he is taking along all the goodness in the world.

One year later…

Today, Mother peels a banana for Boo. “Calvin loved bananas, Boo. You knew that, didn’t you?” I hear Mother talk to Boo and remember all that Mother says about the boy who left us a year ago.

Calvin liked apples. Calvin loved strangers. Calvin ate birds’ droppings. Calvin was scared of firecrackers. Calvin was this. Calvin was that. Calvin was everything.

Boo runs her tongue around her lips and sprawls in the sunniest spot at home. As I wonder how the teeny-weeny, diffident dog whom we rescued a few years ago has become a spoilt girl, the answer to the ‘inevitable question’ appears.

Will the memories perish along with Calvin?

In that unassuming moment, it dawns on me that Calvin is ensconced in the memories. When he left this transient realm, Calvin became stronger and healthier in that safest of territories. Every tiny, beautiful memory of ours is a fort that protects him. Every time we talk about him, we give that fort a fresh coat of paint. Every time we utter his name, the fort’s doors open and the black boy comes running out, with his long tongue out. He wears an effervescent smile as he jumps on us, and he covers our faces with his sticky saliva.

Nothing can snatch Calvin from us. He is just here. He will always be here.

Memories don’t hurt anymore, for their purpose is different now. They keep him alive and fan the undying love we have for our first pet.

And now, we love him with no fear; he cannot be lost again.

The Perfect Stranger

Source: https://brownianemotionblog.wordpress.com/2016/06/17/the-perfect-stranger/

I did it again. I fell in love with a stranger. I first spotted him at around midday, outside the mosque. I was sitting on the steps surveying my surroundings, whilst my companions decided which attraction to visit next. There he was, standing about twenty yards to the left, alone against the high sun. He caught my eye immediately, a shadow in all black. Long, sun-kissed blonde hair tied back in a scruffy ponytail – I usually prefer brunettes – but aside from that, he fit me like a glove. A plain black t-shirt outlined his toned, youthful frame in just the right places, hinting at the muscles that lay modestly beneath. Taut, tanned skin over strong lean arms. He wore black jeans despite the 35 degree Malaysian heat, suggesting he was a seasoned traveller. He was a world explorer. Tattered Vans, the finishing touch to his devil may care trap. The skater boy, the surfer dude, the aloof and elusive, the trap I fall into, headfirst, every time. I sat and watched him take endless pictures with Chinese tourists, a constant smile on his face. He was good natured.

“We’re going to the museum!”

That was that, a beautiful boy passing in and out of my consciousness. A rare solar event, spectacular to witness but never to be glimpsed again in this lifetime.

*

Eight hours later, after dinner, the Moon passed over the Sun again . We were strolling down Jalan Alor, and there he was – a jewel amongst the chaotic amalgamation of sounds, lights, and smells that made the heart of Kuala Lumpur. He was sitting outside a restaurant, alone again, one metre away from me. He was close enough that I could make out his features properly. A young face, no facial hair, twenty-one maximum. Steel blue eyes, exuding the quiet confidence often owned by young men. He had masculine enough features to offset the ponytail, yet was not exactly rugged. He had a softness about him, maybe it was the smile. He heard my accent, or simply my English as I spoke to my companions and looked up at me. His steel met my obsidian for just a split second before we both pulled away. That instant was long enough. Suddenly we existed to each other. I was no longer the lone voyeur, observing through the glass. Our universes had collided, opening innumerable possibilities and decisions. As I walked on down the street I looked back several times, and caught those blue eyes, again and again. Each time the gap had widened between us. I watched him pay for his dinner, and saw the laughter light up his face in response to a joke – too far to away to hear either. My heart began to flutter, softly, expectantly. Would he come this way? I glanced again – still waiting for his change, almost out of my range. Then, I had walked too far and his sun bleached halo was out of view. I threw tentative glances back up the street, too distracted to understand the words of my friends.

“No, I’ve never tried mochi.”

Glance. Nothing.

“Yeah, sure.”

Glance. Nothing.

How much time had passed? Two minutes? Five minutes? If he’d walked this way he’d be here by now. My entire body stood to attention, on high alert. My vision attuned to search for a single target. My skin prickled and I could feel the blood surging through their vessels. Desperate, I used my last option: stage a reason to return. Although my reason was genuine, I had wanted hand made ice cream from the stall which was conveniently near his last known location. But when I arrived, he was no where. He had disappeared like an apparition. Gone. And with him went the flutter in my heart and the acuteness of my senses. The hunt was over. The game was up. We moved on, and I forgot again. Within a matter of minutes he had been propelled from a forgotten blip, to the star of the show, only to fade back into obscurity again. Later in bed I smiled at the beauty that coincidence can bring and the absurdity of it all.

*

The next morning was laborious. I woke with the whispers of a hangover echoing through my skull. After a slow start we were finally sat on a busy MRT carriage, on the way to visit the Batu Caves. Whilst talking to my friend my mind suddenly drifted again to the stranger in black. As if in direct response to my musings –  there he sat! He was at the end of the next carriage, drawing in a sketch book. He was an artist. I drew in a sharp breath of surprise and turned away. How could he be here again? What were the chances? I wasn’t a believer in fate or destiny. I knew that the odds existed, though they seemed small. I knew about apophenia and the gambler’s fallacy. Yet, I couldn’t help but get sucked into the meaning  of it all. He became, once again, a figure of importance in my life.

I stalked him through the slow moving throng of tourists as we queued to exit the station. He had stopped for a drink outside and I passed him woefully unnoticed. As we made our way up the 300 steps in the stifling heat and sweat started to dew on my forehead, I knew that the exertion was only partly responsible for my elevated heart rate. I tried to focus on the view, but it was futile. My attention was always drawn to scanning the figures below me, searching; searching for the one coruscating bullseye amongst the hundreds of little ants. Eventually I had no choice but to descend into the cave, and endure the angst of not knowing if I’d see him again.

My patience was rewarded when we stepped out into the sun again. Once liberated from the darkness, my eagle eyes finally fell on their prey. He sat in the next platform, exactly where we had planned to go. He was calmly observing the baby monkeys, unflinchingly allowing them to come nearer to him than anyone else dared. He was brave. My path took me straight to those monkeys – straight to him. I felt the imperceptible shift in his manner as I approached, subconscious acknowledgement that he felt me too. My mind raced with a million possibilities, a million hellos, a million strategies. We watched each other without ever looking directly at the other, yet scrutinising every minute detail. I drew closer and closer until, at last, we were close enough to reach out and touch each other. The air between us was a morass of expectation. This was it. Finally, I could bear it no more and yielded, gazing directly into those eyes. He stared back into mine with a look of understanding, but we both fell short of the courage to speak. I return his humble coy smile before continuing up to the next step and out of reach once more. Up and away I moved with the acrid taste of regret lingering upon me. When I finally dared to look back, he was walking down the steps, soon to be consumed by the gaping mouth of the cave. Our paths had diverged for the last time.

*

In an alternate reality we spoke. In an alternate reality we spoke and fell madly in love. In an alternate reality we spoke and detested each other. In an alternate reality we spoke and became acquaintances, best friends, colleagues, muses, heroes, villains, a passionate fling, a casual conversation, a story to tell. But in this reality, we passed with nothing but that smile. In this reality the story was over. In a way, it was better like this. We were nothing but ideas to each other, idealised, never showing blemishes or wrinkles, never causing pain. A love story that can never be tarnished. We would remain, forevermore, perfect strangers.

Somewhat Philosophical Quotes

The only good is knowledge and the only evil is ignorance – Socrates

A people that value its privileges above its principles soon loses both – Dwight D. Eisenhower

In theory, there is no difference between theory and practice. But in practice, there is – Yogi Berra

A little inaccuracy can sometimes save a ton of explanation – H.H Munro

Any intelligent fool can make things bigger, more complex and more violent. It takes a touch of genius – and a lot of courage – to move in the opposite direction – Albert Einstein

A consensus means that everyone agrees to say collectively what no one believes individually – Abba Eban

Non-cooperation with evil is as much a duty as is cooperation with good – Mohandas Gandhi

Whatever government is not a government of laws, is a despotism, let it be called what it may – Daniel Webster

Good people do not need laws to tell them to act responsibly, while bad people will find a way around the laws – Plato

Far and away the best prize that life offers is the chance to work hard at work worth doing – Theodore Roosevelt

It is dangerous to be right, when the government is wrong – Voltaire

The will of the people is the only legitimate foundation of any government, and to protect its free expression should be our first object – Thomas Jefferson

No nation is fit to sit in judgment upon any other nation – Woodrow Wilson (28th U.S President)

The artist is nothing without the gift, but the gift is nothing without work – Emile Zola

The world is full of educated derelicts – Calvin Coolidge

A lie gets halfway around the world before the truth has a change to get its pants on – Winston Churchill

It’s not the size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the dog – Mark Twain

Life contains but two tragedies. One is not to get your heart’s desire, the other is to get it – Socrates

If women didn’t exist, all the money in the world would have no meaning – Aristotle Onasis

Men are not disturbed by things, but the view they take of things – Epictetus

As a rule, men worry more about what they can’t see than about what they can – Julius Caesar

My Best Friend

Source: Manu Menon

Close friendships are hard to come by these days. In an ever-changing world with people striving to achieve their interpretation of preordained success, it is hard to know who your true friends are. Fortunately, I found my best pal early at the tender age of seven. We were both enrolled at the same school and were at wits’ ends as we searched tirelessly for our designated classes.

Samantha and I got acquainted as both of us were in the same class and sat next to each other. Samantha was a happy-go-lucky girl who always managed to breathe fresh air into the sometimes arid classroom. She always knew what to say and would voice them at the best possible moments. Both pupils and teachers alike enjoyed her company and liveliness. There was hardly ever a dull moment when she was around with her funny quips and expressions.

Samantha was born with a silver spoon. Her father was a businessman and her mother owned and ran a boutique. Both her parents were very caring towards her as she, just like I, was the only child of the family. Samantha came to school each day with a perpetual smile. She was a very nice person to be around with. She and I used to go everywhere together and both of us were rarely seen apart. We used to talk about so many things as we walked, thoroughly enjoying our time together.

One day, I went to school and forgot to ask my parents for lunch money. At first, I was not hungry and thought I could bear going without a meal but soon, my stomach began to growl. Without asking, Samantha generously paid for my meal and drinks during recess. The incident revealed to me how lucky I was to have such a caring and compassionate friend.

As time went on, people started teasing us as we were spending more and more time together. We seemed to know what each other thought and we cared for each other deeply. Was I in love with her? I did not know then and we both knew we were too young for all that emotional roller coaster.

Currently, Samantha and I are studying at different schools. It was hard to be apart at first, but technology in the form of instant messaging and e-mails have helped to bridge the gap in our friendship. I sincerely wish our friendship will never end as it would be equivalent to waking up from a beautiful dream.

Nury Vittachi – Enter The Age of Overreaction

Source: http://www.mrjam.org/2015/03/enter-the-age-of-overreaction.html

A COLLEAGUE ACCUSED ME of having a tendency to over-react, so I have no choice but to burn down his house and curse his family for seven generations. Fair’s fair, right?

I learned to respond strongly to things from a former boss who used to say the following sentence at least once a day: “Some IDIOT has moved my [random object] and when I find out who did it, God help me, I am going to tear him limb from limb with my bare…oh, there it is.”

***

Some people think overreacting is a bad thing, but look at the evidence.

The richest country in the world is the United States, from which a reader just sent me a video of a man riding a moped pursued by 12 police cars.

A moped, for those who don’t know, is a motorbike powered by an engine with the strength of a mosquito suffering from chronic fatigue syndrome.

***

I had a moped once, but gave it up after it went from being considerably slower than walking, which I didn’t mind, to being considerably slower than standing still, which I did mind.

***

But just days later, the US record on maximum overreaction was beaten by a news report sent to me by a reader in Canada. Twelve police squad cars and a tactical attack squad were sent to a block of flats in Winnipeg, after an unknown person slammed a door in the building.

Canadians are so mild-mannered that the sudden dramatic noise caused residents to dial the emergency services.

***

This makes me want to live in Canada.

I’ve lived in places where the police don’t even react to murders unless they happen at the actual police station, and even then, the only reaction is an irritated desk sergeant looking up from Candy Crush and raising an eyebrow.

***

I asked regular contributors for similar examples from Asia, but drew a blank.

The only response was from a European reader, who said police raced to a house in Norway after neighbors heard screaming. It turned out to be a chess-player expressing fury at his chess computer.

In Asia, we wouldn’t get that excited about wars or earthquakes.

***

A colleague says Westerners are more like dogs, enjoying getting excited, while Easterners are more like fish, watching life go by without saying a lot.

***

It must be wonderful to be a fish. At the end of a tough day they think: “Geez, I really need a drink.” And there’s always a drink right there.

***

Your narrator eventually stumbled on an example of overreaction from Asia – in my son Jered’s anime cartoons.

When something negative happens, waterfalls flow from the characters’ eyes and when the hero sees a pretty girl, his only physical reaction is to have a nose bleed.

This must be a Japanese-only genetic mutation which explains that country’s drastic population slump.

***

Meanwhile, here’s a message to my colleagues in the sub-editing department. “You may be thinking of changing a word or two in my column. In which case I may have to cut you into cubed, diced pieces to scatter over a wide area of remote scrubland, laughing maniacally.”

I mean, fair’s fair, right?