Tag: Malay

Categories
Essay

Where Eagles Soar

Narratives and photographs by Ravi Shankar

Langkawi

Most passengers got down from the bus at Alor Setar, Kedah, north Malaysia. Binaya, my travel companion, shifted to the front seat of the double decker and later I followed him. It was after eight thirty in the evening and the road had become narrower. After driving on the six lane E1 expressway for most of the day, the narrower road looked confining. Traffic had also reduced. We got an excellent driver’s eye view of the road. One of the benefits of a double decker is the opportunity that you can pretend to be the driver. Malaysia’s northern most state of Perlis seemed different from the larger ones to the South. It was around nine-thirty at night when we reached the Kuala Perlis bus terminal. It was a short walk to our hotel near the jetty.

The Deepavali holidays had just begun and the exodus from Kuala Lumpur to various hometowns was in full swing. The expressway was packed with cars and our drive north was a slow crawl. The InterCity bus service (a private bus operator) used a double decker for this trip though the lower deck had been stripped of seats and used only for luggage and cargo. The seats were comfortable and the drive smooth though extremely slow due to the traffic.

Next morning, we had a traditional Malay breakfast of nasi lemak (rice cooked in coconut milk), fried anchovies and kueh (traditional cakes) along with teh tarikh (boiled and frothed tea). Pouring tea from a great height from one mug to another is a traditional South Indian way of cooling the drink and generating a thick head of foam. Tea shops do this with an extravagant flourish. We walked around the jetty and waited for our midday ferry to Langkawi.

The process of boarding the ferry was smooth and organised. We were seated right at the front. Roro ferries that could carry cars were approaching Kuala Perlis from Langkawi. The sea was calm, and the islands of Langkawi appeared after half an hour. The ferry went round the island and eventually approached the town of Kuah. Kuah is the district headquarters of Langkawi. There is the iconic Langkwai eagle statue near the jetty. The jetty was modern, and we took a taxi to our hotel located near Cenang Beach (Pantai Cenang in Malay).

Cenang Beach

The main island of Langkawi is surprisingly large, and taxis are the main means of transport. Cenang beach is popular with travellers. We were staying at the Cenang Langkwai House near Cenang beach. The room was spacious and well-equipped. Considerable thought had gone into the arrangements, and we had a pleasant stay. The first day I had noodles with prawns for lunch, and I was pleasantly surprised by their freshness and taste. Sea food was plentiful and enjoyable. Binaya was not comfortable with sea fish and preferred freshwater delicacies. I could understand his perspective as I always preferred sea fish and found freshwater fishes not very much to my liking. We dined in a large restaurant that was a few minutes’ walk from our hotel. One evening I tried mussels (delicious) while on another occasion I had laksa (Laksa is a spicy noodle dish popular in Southeast Asia. Laksa consists of various types of noodles, most commonly thick rice noodles, with toppings such as chicken, prawn, or fish).

My good friends, Naveen and Sunil, had recommended that we take the island-hopping tour. We booked the tour for the next morning. Langkawi is also famous for duty-free shopping and Binaya wanted to purchase a suitcase. The prices, however, were not lower than those in KL. Eventually I ended up purchasing some excellent chocolates at the Cenang Mall. Our stay was made sweeter!

Early next morning we walked down to the main thoroughfare to have roti canai is a South Indian flatbread dish popular in Malaysia). We waited on the white sands of Cenang Beach for our transportation to the tour jetty. Each boat had about 24 passengers and was well organised. Everyone had to wear life jackets while on the boat. We had our photos taken and this was our introduction to this Langkawi custom. The tour lasts for around four hours and covers three main islands south of the main island. Our first stop was the Pulau Dayang Bunting, where we entered a geopark to hike up the hills to a lake. The trail was well maintained. Humidity was the main problem. After the mandatory photo, we continued to the lake. The tiles on the water, like elsewhere in Langkawi, were made of a floating material stays afloat on lakes and seas but depresses slightly under your weight. Both of us were quiet and we were missing the energy and dash of Sunil, our friend from Monash University, Malaysia.    

Island Hopping

We continued to Pulau Singa Besar to watch eagles feed from boats. Pulau means island in Malay though it brought images of the fragrant rice dish to our minds. We continued to Pulau Beras Basah and the sandy beaches and the turquoise waters took me back in time to one happy island, Aruba. There were colourful beach huts and paragliding was available for more adventurous souls. The ride back to the main island was short and we could see a docked cruise ship in the distance. Our photo had been converted into a souvenir (a small plate on which the photo was printed). We had lunch at our morning restaurant. Binaya had nasi goreng (fried rice) while I had the all-day breakfast. This was a good deal and consisted of two pieces of toast with butter, two fried eggs, a chicken sausage, and baked beans. Binaya tried out different geographical varieties of nasi goreng from Pattaya to Cina to USA.

After lunch we went to the Underwater World. The aquarium has themed sections like tropical rain forest, subantarctic climate, and marine life sections among others. The main attractions were the seal show and the penguins. The seal performed a variety of tasks and received a treat after completing each successful task. This is mentioned as the largest aquarium in Malaysia. The one at KL has a spectacular underwater tunnel and you can watch marine life swim by all around you.

Langkawi means reddish brown eagle in the Malay language and is believed to be the place of Garuda. The islands have been a part of the Kedah sultanate for over two millennia. The islands have a geological history going back to over 550 million years. Langkawi is thought to have been cursed for seven generations in the early 18th century by Mahsuri, a woman who was falsely accused of adultery and executed unjustly. Langkawi was occupied by the Kingdom of Siam and became a part of Malaysia after the Anglo-Siam treaty. The islands were a sleepy backwater and were developed into a major tourist destination by Dr Mahathir Mohamed.

The next morning, we travelled to the cable car toward the north of the island. The Deepavali holidays brought many to the island. The tourist infrastructure’s good, and we did not experience crowds and long waiting times. The Langkawi sky cab provides an aerial link from the Oriental Village at Teluk Burau to the peak of Gunung Machinchang, which is the location of the Langkawi Sky Bridge. The total length is 2.2 km, with a journey time from the base to the top of around 15 minutes. It was officially opened in 2003. We were comparing this to the Manakamana cable car in Nepal. This one is longer and steeper. The elevation between the base and the middle station is said to be the steepest in the world. There were delightful views of the bay and the surrounding islands as we moved slowly toward the top. The Skybridge is a major attraction and is among the longest free span and curved bridge in the world. There are a few glass sections that allow you to look down into the valley. The views were majestic, and the bridge is around 660m above sea level. There is also a sky glide option with a comfortable cabin style vehicle that carries visitors from the top station to the sky bridge.

We took a taxi to the Langkawi Wildlife Park. Malaysia has some delightful animal parks and the one at Langkawi offers close encounters with animals. The animals are used to visitors and there are plenty of opportunities to touch, pet and feed them. Trained handlers were at hand. I was reminded of ‘Farm in the City’ at KL constructed around a similar theme. The covered walking path meanders through animal enclosures and the peafowls reminded me of the KL Bird Park. Feeding the small birds, the tortoises, deer, and the rabbits is a highlight of the visit. Like at other attractions there is a mandatory photo, and the exit is always through a duty-free shopping complex. That evening we had a spectacular thunderstorm. Being to the north the rains may be more seasonal at this tropical paradise.

The next morning, we had to depart back to routine life. We reached very early for our flight back to KL. We watched passengers boarding Air Asia, Malaysian Airlines and Scoot flights to Penang, KL and Singapore. Air Asia is a dominant player in the Southeast Asian market. The flights are cheap and usually fly on time. The aircrafts, however, may be older and the leg space is limited.

We had a pleasant break at one of Malaysia’s major tourist destinations. There are many attractions here that we are yet to experience. Time was limited and we did not want to rush ourselves from attraction to attraction during a leisurely break. We plan to return one day to the oldest land in Malaysia, 550 million years in the making as proudly proclaimed by the site Naturally Langkawi!

Dr. P Ravi Shankar is a faculty member at the IMU Centre for Education (ICE), International Medical University, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. He enjoys traveling and is a creative writer and photographer.

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Categories
Poetry

A Homage to Yuan Zhen’s Grief of Separation

Poetry and translation by Rex Tan

A Homage to Yuan Zhen’s Grief of Separation*

Shall I compare an ocean's vastness to 
the width of the greatest river? The 
evening sky pales to the azure of the summit. 

The time I wandered through a familiar flower field --
I can’t be bothered to look back, partly due 
to Fate’s weaving hands, partly due to you. 

Smoking under the 
bleak wintery overcast
memories of your 
bright summery laugh dissipates 
into a fleeting mist.

Forlorn, I’m a shadow by the hills 
of a spire-filled dream.
And with a gentle flick, I cast 
the hanging memories of your sojourn 
into the wind. 

*The first two paras are a liberal translation of Yuan Zhen's "Grief of Separation". 
Yuan Zhen was a Tang dynasty poet, lived from 779 to 831 in Luoyang, China

Rex Tan is a journalist by trade and a poet at heart. As a Malaysian, he is fluent in English, Mandarin, and Malay, yet he calls none his first language.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

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Categories
Interview Review

Festivities Celebrating Loneliness: The World of Isa Kamari

An introduction and a conversation with Isa Kamari, a celebrated Singaporean writer

Isa Kamari

Isa Kamari is a well-known face in the Singapore literary community. He has won numerous awards — the Anugerah Sastera Mastera, the SEA Write Award and the Singapore Cultural Medallion, the Anugerah Tun Seri Lanang. He has been part of university curriculums and has written for the television. With 11 novels, nine of which have been translated from Malay to English — and some into more languages like Arabic, Mandarin, Urdu and Turkish, French, Russian Spanish — three poetry books, plays and one novella written in English by him, one can well see him as a leading voice in literature on this island that seems to have grown into a gateway for all Asia.

Kamari’s writings dip into his own culture to integrate with the larger world. The most remarkable thing about his works, for me has been the way in which he has brought the history of Singapore from the Malay perspective into novels and made it available for all readers. The most memorable of these actually gives the history of the time around which the Treaty of Singapore was signed between the British and the indigenous ruler in 1819, handing over the port to Raffles, the treaty that was crucial to the founding of modern Singapore. The novel is named after the year of the treaty.

Other novels like Song of the Wind , Rawa and Tweet — all bring into perspective how the local Orang Seletar integrated into the skyscrapers of Singapore. We can see in his writings how the indigenous moved to be integrated into a larger whole of a multi-racial, multi-religious accepting modern city. One of his novels, One Earth (1999), is like an interim almost, set during the Japanese occupation in Singapore. The narrative dwells on the intermingling of races in the island historically. Kiswah and Intercession are novels that cry out for reforms on the religious front.

He also has novels that delve into individual journeys to glance into the maladies of the modern-day world. Whether it is faith, or career, he brings into focus the need to heal. Recently, Kamari has brought out a book of short stories, Maladies of the Soul, to focus on just this. His fifteen short stories centre around the issue mentioned in the title. In the first ten stories, he writes of old age, of mental stress, of compromises made to achieve success, of anxieties just as the title suggests. These are internal conflicts of people in a country where most have enough to eat, a house to live in and access to education for their offsprings. Then in the last five stories, he moves towards not just showcasing such maladies but also resolving, using narratives that are almost surrealistic, or poetic. They are not happy but reflective with the ability to make one think, look for a resolution. They are discomfiting narratives.

One of the last stories is given from the perspective of a silkworm — a powerful comment on the need for freedom to survive. Another has the iconic Singapore Merlion emote to an extent. The writing escapes the flaw of being didactic by its sheer inventiveness. One is reminded that this is a book by an author from a city-state which has resolved problems like poverty to a large extent. That the journey was arduous and full of struggle can be seen in Kamari’s earlier novels. But now, that people have enough to eat and live by, he takes the next step that is necessary. His stories demand not just being familiar with the issues they faced in the past, but also suggest a movement towards resolving the social problems that in a developed country can warp individuals to make them non-functional and make the society lose its suppleness to adapt and progress.

One of the stories like his earlier novel, The Tower, reflects the climb of a careerist, an architect, up a tower he has built, while recalling the compromises made. The interesting thing is the conclusions have a similar impact. And then, there is yet another story that is almost Kafkaesque in its execution, where a man turns into a bull — a comment on stock trading or people’s obsession with money and to compete?

The book needs to be read sequentially to get the full impact of his message. For, he is a writer with a message, a message that hopes to heal the world by integrating the spiritual with modernisation. In this conversation, he discusses his new book and his journey as a writer.

What makes you write? What moves you to write? Why do you write?

I need to be disturbed by events, issues and thoughts before thinking of writing anything. I would then ponder and research on the topics at hand. Only when I have my own tentative resolution of the conflicting elements, I would begin to write. Most often, my views and positions will change as I write further. In that sense writing is a form of discovery and therapy for me.

Tweet in Spanish

Do you see yourself as a bi-lingual writer or a Malay writer experimenting in English? You had written your novella, Tweet, in English. Later it was translated to more languages. How many languages have you been translated into? Do you feel the translations convey your text well into the other language?

Culturally, I think in Malay. English is a language of instruction for me. When I attempt to translate my Malay works into English, the writing sounds and feels Malay. Tweet is a result of a challenge I imposed upon myself to write creatively in English. The result is not bad. Tweet has been translated into Malay, Arabic, Russian, French, Spanish, Azerbaijan and Korean. I wouldn’t know how well the novella has been translated because I do not know those languages. I trust the translators whom I choose carefully.

Throne and Tweet in Russian
Tweet in French

The stories of Maladies of the Soul first appeared in Malay. Now in English. Did you translate them yourself, being a bi-lingual writer? Tell us your experience as a translator of the stories. Did you come across any hurdles while switching the language? What would you say is the difference in the Malay and English renditions?

Yes, I translated all the stories in the book. I had to overcome my own fear that the stories might end up too Malay in expression and feel. But I told myself to be true to my own voice and not be inhibited by language structure and convention. I would not know exactly the difference between the two renditions. I was just interested to tell the stories.

Is this your first venture into a full-length short story book? Tell us how novels and short stories vary as a genres in your work. How do you use the different genre to convey? Is there a difference in your premise while doing either?

I have produced just one collection of short stories. In each of the short stories, I had to be focussed on expressing concepts and philosophies on a single problem of the human condition. In my novels the concepts and philosophies are varied, expanded, more complex and layered but yet interrelated and weaved around dynamic human experiences facing common predicaments or challenges of an era.

One of the things I noticed about the book was that the stories would convey your premise better if read in order. Is that intentionally done or is it a random occurrence?

The short stories can be weaved into a novel. There is a central spine, which is my observation and philosophy of life which bind them all. The intrinsic sequence or order is not intentional, but perhaps it is the psychological thread and latent articulation of the storyteller.

Some of the stories seem to have echoes in your novels, like Kiswah and Intercession, both of which deal with crises in faith. Did your earlier novels have a direct bearing on your short stories?

I used to transform my poems into short stories, and from those write novels. The genres are just tools for me to express my thoughts and feelings. I use whatever works. I have even experimented on weaving short stories and poems in a novel. I wanted to create prose that are poetic, and poems that are capable of conveying a narrative. My latest novel, The Throne, is a result of this experiment.

Some of your stories touch on the metaphorical, especially the last five. Some of the earlier ones describe unusual or even the absurd situations we face in life. As a conglomerate, they explore darker areas of the human psyche, unlike your novels which were in certain senses more hopeful, especially Tweet. What has changed to bring the darker shades into your writing? Please elaborate.

The stories in Maladies of the Soul have a common theme of alienation in various facets and dimensions of life. As such the expected feeling after reading them is that of gloom and hopelessness. That is intentional as a revelation of the deeper and hidden fallacy of modern life that appears organised and bright on the surface. I wanted my readers to be shaken or at least moved to ponder and reflect on our current, shallow and fractured human condition. There is a better life if we were to look the other way and be more mindful and caring of each other and our environment.

I still recall a phrase from your novel, The Tower, “Festivities celebrating loneliness”. Would you say your short stories have moved towards that?

Exactly.

Why did you choose short stories over giving us a longer narrative like a novel?

It is like giving my readers bite sizes of my exploration and philosophy of life. I leave it to the readers to weave the stories into a whole, and reflect upon their own experiences, thoughts and feelings, perhaps in a more integrated and holistic manner.

What are the influences on your writing?

Life itself. Like I mentioned earlier I do not write in a vacuum. I engage life in my writing as a way of validating my ever-changing existence. I want my life and writing to be authentic and significant. Hopefully, meaningful to others too.

What can your readers look forward from you next?

I have just completed a draft of a novel in Malay, Firasat. As in all my novels, I offer a window towards healing by embracing a rejuvenated Malay philosophy called firasat which is an intuitive, integrated, balanced, lucid, harmonious and holistic way of life.

Thank you for sharing your time and your writings with us.

(The online interview has been conducted by emails by Mitali Chakravarty)

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL. 

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Categories
Stories

Belacan

Migrant stories of yore from Malaysia by Farouk Gulsara

“There she goes again,” thought Saraswati as she cut vegetables she had never seen in her native country. “Here goes Ah Soh cooking her stinky dish again.”

Ah Soh with Nand Lal, Sarawswati’s son.(Photo taken circa the early 2000s).Courtesy: Farouk Gulsara

Saraswati, Ah Soh and the rest of the pack are people commonly called fresh off the boat. They hail from various parts of China and India. 

The loud beating of a metal ladle against a frying pan, accompanied by the shrilling Chinese opera over the radio and her shrieking at her children, need no guessing whose kitchen ‘aroma’ is coming from. Everyone knows Ah Soh is frying belacan, a fermented Malay shrimp paste. 

A house in the New Village (Photo taken circa the early 2000s). Courtesy: Farouk Gulsara

Ah Soh is Saraswati’s immediate neighbour in a New Village in Ipoh. Ah Soh, by default, is the self-appointed leader of the pack. Since she is one of the oldest occupants of New Village, she leads the group of housewives, all living along the same row of single-story wooden houses. These houses were the brainchild of the British when they wanted to keep the communist at bay in the 1950s. More than ten years into its inception, the houses are still strong and are a catch for many newcomers to Malaya.

Ah Soh and her husband, Ah Leong, hail from Canton, China. Escaping poverty and famine, Ah Leong scrapped the bottom of the barrel to buy himself a one-way ticket to Singapore in the early 1950s, then an up-and-coming international port, to try his luck. 

After trying a few odd jobs here and there, Ah Leong heard of an opening in newly opened tin mines in Ipoh. He made a dash for it and found Ipoh and the work he liked. Soon, he saved enough cash and paid an agent to bring over the newly married wife that he left behind in China. Ah Leong, Ah Soh and later, their two young daughters develop roots in the New Village. 

Life was no bed of roses for Saraswati either. Losing most of her family members to famine, a 13-year-old Saraswati was bundled off to a distant relative’s house in Bihar. Saraswati is pretty sure she was sold off to work as a maid, as she scrubbed and cleaned from dawn to dusk.

Lady Luck manifested most peculiarly. Saraswati was labelled bad luck when many mishaps hit her new family soon after joining them. One of the kids died of diarrhoea, and a big branch of a peepal tree growing in the compound fell on the house, destroying the roof. So, when the family heard of an elderly widower looking for a suitable bride, Saraswati was bundled off yet again. 

Hence, Saraswati’s next phase of life started with her boarding a ship, S Rajula, from Calcutta to Penang, Malaya. She spent an entire month suffering from motion sickness, not only from the ship’s motion but by the various smells of people and their cooking. Starting life as a complete vegetarian, by the time she arrived in Malaya, after overexposure to a plethora of aromas and sights, she had garnered enough courage to taste various types of meat. 

So, Ah Soh’s pungent belacan was tolerable to Saraswati’s smell buds, even though she hails from the Hindi heartland where, by design, everybody in her community was vegetarian.

Saraswati’s husband, Lal, had his own tale of melancholy. After losing his family to famine, he became an orphan and a guardian to his 12-year-old sister. With much difficulty, he somehow, doing odd jobs, managed to sustain his little family to adulthood. He was in the marriage market after getting his little sister happily married off. Unfortunately, three months into his marriage, the young bride succumbed to tuberculosis, then a deadly death sentence to anyone. Even the President of Pakistan had died of TB.

Nursing a heartbreak, he heard the news that some people he knew were going to try their luck in Malaya. The talk around town was that Malaya, the land of milk and honey, was the darling was the Empire and had great job opportunities. So that is how he landed in Malaya. 

Again, after doing whatever work that came by, he landed in a more secure job washing the British Army’s dirty laundry in a camp in Ipoh. Cleaning, starching and ironing kept him busy, but he was happy for the first time. With money in his pocket and regular meals to look for, he ventured out for humble accommodation. That is how this New Village house came about.

He returned to his hometown in Bihar, India and got a bride for himself. So, here he is, with his second wife, Saraswati, and two young boys. 

The New Village is a melting potpourri of people escaping from famine and depravity. If in the 1950s, this place protected the country from communist threat, in the 1960s, it was a pillar of hope for displaced people to start life anew.

Ah Soh had her kind, who hailed from China, and Saraswati had hers hail from various parts of India. It is incredible that despite the skirmishes between the two countries, they were bosom buddies here. These economic immigrants soldiered on, straddled in unfamiliar circumstances, struggling towards an uncertain future with zest in their chests and youth in their limbs. They go on to build their camaraderie, work, mingle, and live in harmony. Graduating from convenient sign language, they have now mastered the art of communication. Like how a cat would communicate with a dog in an adverse situation, such as absconding from the animal catcher, they cling to each other desperately as they go on with life. 

Saraswati’s new home gave them, the newcomers, a simple language that contained many Chinese and Indian words to use. Language or no language, they were still able to communicate and fulfil each other’s needs. If one person from one part of China or India could not connect with a fellow compatriot, here they had a motley crew of economic migrants from these countries speaking, eating and looking out for each other. 

Lal’s contract workers took him to various towns and kept him away from the family for months. An illiterate Saraswati with only street smartness skills would go on to manage the children and household on her own. With the convoy of housewives from New Village, Saraswati would do her marketing and grocery. Pointing and making gesticulating would constitute making an order, and hawkers were honest enough to return correct change. Slowly, she began to develop a liking for Chinese food. 

Monthly grocery was by credit, and things were obtained from Ah Meng’s sundry shop, packed to the brim with everything under the sun. Lal would pay the bills at the end of the month as he returned from numerous contract jobs. 

Besides her Chinese neighbours, Saraswati had neighbours from Punjab, Tamil Nadu and Andhra Pradesh. Ajit Singh had a few dairy cows at the back compound of his house. From Ajit, Saraswati and her children had an uninterrupted supply of fresh milk. 

R-L: Shobha(Saraswati‘s daughter) , Ah Soh(by then in her early 70s), Meela (Sarawati’s daughter), Saraswati and Kamala. (Photo taken circa the early 2000s). Courtesy: Farouk Gulsara

Two doors away from Saraswati’s house was Kamala’s. It was always a hive of activities from day to night. Kamala had so many children that Saraswati had lost count. People came and went as if it were the marketplace, and their main door was always open. There were always people singing, dancing or simply yakking there. 

Ah Soh’s house was next to Devi’s house. Her household was loud, too, at the end of the month, but for a different reason. Devi has five children to show for her seven years of marriage. Her husband, a postman, also had something to offer, a mistress. Somewhere along the way, he picked up drinking, and his frequenting at the local liquor shop introduced him to a dancer. It was a routine that at the end of the month, as everyone received their pay, the neighbourhood would be filled with much noise; the clanging of kitchen utensils from Devi’s, music from Kamala’a and shuffling of mahjong tiles from Ah Soh’s front porch. Devi’s family quarrel noise over money got buried over the rest.

Saraswati has been feeling easily lethargic these days. She realises that her monthlies have been delayed. Her husband’s monthly visit has been productive. She now has to get used to the idea that there will be an addition to the family. 

Maybe it is the pregnancy; she is getting a little pensive these days. She sometimes reminisces about the life that she had. Uprooted from her family by the forces of nature, she started a life as a child labour. Because of superstition, she was packed off again into marriage. Driven by economic hardship, she and her husband crossed the dreaded Black Waters to try their luck in a new land. 

From an illiterate teenager, now she has morphed into a woman who could command leadership in her circle of friends and care for her family. From a meek non-adventurous vegetarian, she has savoured all meats and dishes, some of which her ancestors would have never dreamt of tasting. 

She wonders what the future holds for her, her husband and the three kids she will raise to adulthood in this independent young country called Malaya as it crawls into the mid-1960s.

The foreground: Rohan, Saraswati’s grandson. In the background, Kamala’s son, Raja, in deep conversation with Nanda Lal and Shobha (Saraswati’ kids). The same house they all grew up in, albeit the extensions and refurbishments. (Picture taken circa the early 2000s) Courtesy: Farouk Gulsara

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Farouk Gulsara is a daytime healer and a writer by night. After developing his left side of his brain almost half his lifetime, this johnny-come-lately decided to stimulate the non-dominant part of his remaining half. An author of two non-fiction books, ‘Inside the twisted mind of Rifle Range Boy’ and ‘Real Lessons from Reel Life’, he writes regularly in his blog ‘Rifle Range Boy’.

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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

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Categories
Essay

‘Wormholes to other Worlds’

Ravi Shankar writes about museums in Kuala Lumpur

Perdana Botanical Gardens. Courtesy: Creative Commons

I had a feeling of quiet satisfaction. I was finally able to locate the passage. I had spent a few weeks trying to do so without success. At ten in the morning, the iron gates of the passage/tunnel under the busy road were open as mentioned in the video on YouTube.  I could see the lakes of the Perdana Gardens ahead. The Perdana Botanical Gardens is one of the major attractions of Kuala Lumpur.

There are also several attractions located around the garden. Among these are the KL Bird Park, the Butterfly Park, the National Planetarium, the Islamic art museum, the Royal Police Museum, and the Tun Razak Memorial. I visited these museums over several weekends. Walking to and from and within these museums keeps me active. Many are located around the Perdana Botanical Garden. Two are around the Dataran Merdeka, the Merdeka Square. The Royal Museum is separate but not very far from these two locations. KL has several other museums that we will examine in a later article.

The pandemic had created a sense of fear within me. In late 2000, COVID was still under control in Malaysia and the national museum was open with pandemic protocols. I was apprehensive but my entry to the museum was smooth. The National Museum of Malaysia (Muzium Negara in Malay) is an impressive structure inaugurated in 1963. The museum was designed in the style of a Malay palace and UNESCO had provided consultants from different countries. The museum is impressive and modern.

The ground floor details the history of Malaysia from ancient times to the Sultanate of Melaka. Kedah in the north was a major historical centre. Excavations have revealed old civilisations. Melaka was a major trading post. Various European colonial powers had fought over the state.  The second-floor deals with the colonial and modern history of the country. I was fascinated by images of the Japanese occupation and the civil war. There are various exhibits located outside on the museum grounds. As the pandemic has slowly declined, the museum has come to life again attracting crowds, especially on weekends. There are local crafts and food items on display and sale.

There is a museum café on the premises that serves good Malay food. I often have lunched there while visiting the botanical garden and surrounding attractions. The textile museum or Muzium Tekstil is in a beautiful old heritage building near Merdeka Square, the country’s historical heart. The building started as the headquarter of the Federated Malay states railways and served later as the main office for different government entities.

Inside the textile museum. Photo Courtesy: Ravi Shankar

The textile museum was opened in 2010. There are four galleries over two floors. The Pohon Budi Gallery deals with the tools, materials, and techniques of textile making over the ages. The Pelangi Gallery deals with batik. I visited the museum with a friend who hailed from Gujarat, and he was fascinated by how batik had been adopted here . The Teluk Berantai gallery concentrates on the teluk berantai (interlocking bays), a harmonious motif made up of individual flower designs stitched together into geometric patterns. The Ratna Sari gallery is also located upstairs. The British had brought in artists and artisans mainly from India to construct several colonial-era buildings in the Mughal style. The museum is within walking distance from the Masjid Jamek station on the Sri Petaling line.

The KL City Gallery tells the story of the city from its founding as a tin mining town to eventually becoming the capital of British Malaya and modern Malaysia. Kuala Lumpur comes from two Malay words meaning the muddy confluence of two rivers. The town at the confluence of the Gombak and the Klang rivers grew rapidly into a modern metropolis. The gallery is operated by ARCH, a Malaysian brand making hand-assembled collectibles and gifts. The story of the city is told through old prints, miniatures, and photos. The centrepiece is the hand-assembled KL City model with over 5000 miniature buildings. The gallery has a café, and the city’s love of food is well showcased. At the entrance there is an I love KL sign popular with tourists and locals as a backdrop for photos.

The National art gallery (Balai Seni Negara) is within walking distance from the KL Hospital station on the newly opened Putrajaya line. The gallery is designed as spaces flanking the circular ramp to serve as exhibition areas for more intimate and contemplative viewing. The spiral ramp in the middle provides a dynamic visual experience to visitors showcasing the building from different angles at every level.  There are galleries located on three levels. There is a mixture of different media like paintings, a few miniature paintings, sculptures, installations, and projected images among others. I love the space and feel of the building. There is a good collection of paintings and other works by Malaysian artists. British colonial artists and their impressions of life in colonial Malaysia are also featured. The gallery makes for an interesting and contemplative outing. 

 

Dataran Merdeka Model
A model at Minniature Gallery
Photo Courtesy: Ravi Shanka

Minnature Gallery advertises itself not as a museum as the pieces on display were all created specifically and are not of historical value. There are thousands of miniature pieces, and the buildings were 3D printed. The location is within the Sungai Wang Plaza, near the Merdeka Square. The recreation of the Dataran Merdeka or the Independence Square and the light show at this historic location (in miniature) is impressive. are miniature models of several locations in the country. While the pandemic protocols lasted, these served as a good introduction for me to the attractions of other states in the country. They have a small store selling merchandise. Most museums in Malaysia have a gift shop and a dining area. The models of different foods from Malaysia in the Minnature gallery are impressive though I am not sure if there is a restaurant on the premises. The amount of detail is huge and the proportions of the structure correspond to the real world.

An artifact from the Islamic Museum. Photo Courtesy: Ravi Shankar

The Islamic Arts Museum (Muzium Kesenian Islam Malaysia) is located around the perimeter of the Perdana Garden. The museum claims to be the largest one on Islamic art in Southeast Asia. The Nusantara region including Malaysia and Indonesia claims to have the largest Muslim population in the world. There are more than 7000 artefacts. The building is spacious with large glass frames letting in plenty of light. The museum is spread over two levels. Level one contains galleries devoted to architecture, the Quran, and other manuscripts, and a gallery each for the art of India, China, and the Malay Peninsula. The second level is dedicated to Arms and Armours, Textiles, Jewelry, and Coins, and three galleries consisting of artworks categorised by their materials – Metal, Wood, and Ceramics. The craftsmanship of some of the pieces is sublime. The dedication of the craftsmen and the time they devoted to their tasks has to be admired. The highlight of the gallery to me was the delightful and elaborate roofs. Each is a masterpiece of design! There is also a fine dining restaurant on the premises.

The original Royal Malaysia police museum (Muzium Polis di Raja Malaysia) was built in 1958. The new building located on the outskirts of Perdana Garden was inaugurated in 1998. There are three galleries: one deals with policing during the early days of the Malay sultanate, the other, with the Colonial Era and the last with the period called Emergency, the Anti–British National Liberation War (1948-1980) which involved guerrilla warfare. There are a variety of materials used by the police force over the ages in the collection. There is a good collection of motorcycles and other vehicles. The police persons on duty at the museum are very friendly. There is a large collection of armoured vehicles and cars and a plane model on the grounds of the museum.

The Royal Museum (Muzium di Raja) was inaugurated in 2013 and was the residence of the King of Malaysia till the royal family moved to a new residence. The huge two-story property was built in 1928 by a Chinese mining tycoon for his huge family and was one of the biggest residences in Kuala Lumpur (KL). The museum provides a glimpse into the life of the royal family though most rooms can only be seen from the walkway. There is a good view of the KL skyline, including the iconic Petronas Tower.

All these museums are visitor friendly and provide a unique glimpse into the history of the city, the state of Selangor, and Malaysia. Tourists might need around three or four days to do justice to the richness on offer. Museums take you to other worlds and times. The American art critic, Jerry Saltz says, “Don’t go to a museum with a destination. Museums are wormholes to other worlds. They are ecstasy machines. Follow your eyes to wherever they lead you…and the world should begin to change for you.”  

A restored museum room in the Islamic Arts Museum. Photo Courtesy: Ravi Shankar

Dr. P Ravi Shankar is a faculty member at the IMU Centre for Education (ICE), International Medical University, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. He enjoys traveling and is a creative writer and photographer.

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Categories
Stories

Busun

By A Jessie Michael

Temiar people. Courtesy: Creative Commons

I am Busun, born in one world and living in two.

Excitement crawls like insects in my veins and explodes. My friends and I are distracted and hyperactive, packing meagre clothes into haversacks and scheming haphazardly about what we will do during the holidays.

The smells of the forest hit my senses as soon as our convoy of three 4WD SUVs leaves the highway and veers into a small tarred road which quickly morphs into a muddy track. These are odours we grew up with and missed so much – of earth, trees, vegetation, water, dankness, raw animal smells. My lungs expel the city smog and I breathe easier. The canopy rising from either side of the track and meeting over it cocoons us in its green coolness.

Once a year we change worlds and this other world draws us magnetically away from where we spend ten months a year — in a Christian hostel on the outskirts of the city, from where we are ferried to a government school to learn English, Malay, Geography, History, science and Maths. The towns near our Orang Asli community have no residential facilities, so when our elders heard the pastor offering to house and school the children for free, they thought it was a good opportunity for us to learn of the outside world. We get school every weekday, three meals daily, a structured life of learning and a regular input of Bible study. For two months a year we return to our Orang Asli community in the jungle. We call ourselves Temiar, foreigners call us aborigines, the government calls us Orang Asli and rude people call us sakai[1].

The ride becomes bumpy and suddenly it is bright and the green is gone. The heat hits us hard and the air is smoggy brown. Tree stumps stick out on a vast field of red on either side. Last year there was thick jungle here. Now the trees are gone. Our drivers try avoiding the deep wet ruts left by weighty lorries and trucks. Four times our vehicles sink in turn into the muddy tracks. We spend an hour each time maneuvering the vehicles out of the churning mud. There are streams to cross in the upper reaches where the tracks will virtually disappear. Then hopefully it will be jungle again.

Seven hours after setting out, we roll into an opening in deep jungle with a cluster of bamboo shacks. We ecstatically leap out whooping and racing like puppies let loose. Our parents and elders stand around grinning; they are not a demonstrative tribe. A look of gratitude and a laden table is plenty enough.

Our volunteer drivers and chaperons are ushered to the rickety bamboo table piled with food especially prepared for them and for us — yam and rice rolled in leaves and roasted in bamboo, a variety of boiled herbs and greens, roasted wild boar meat and venison — a rare feast for an auspicious day. Everyone digs in with fingers. We eat greedily, having missed this basic diet for months. The food reorients me. The empty vehicles leave soon after in order to exit the jungle before dark.

As we mingle with friends, I notice my father observing me closely. I am surprised to see that I have grown a head taller than him. He approaches me that evening before the night ceremonies begin.

“Busun,” he calls. “How is school?”

He spoke in our Temiar dialect and I quickly swing back into this mode of abrupt, brief speech.

“I don’t understand school….”

“Meaning….?

“The things we learn…. we can’t use.”

“What do you learn?”

“About past events in places we don’t know…. about cities and countries we never see…. they even tell us about the jungle….but they don’t know the jungle….I know the jungle. They can’t climb trees….no trees to climb, can’t kill animals or use a blowpipe….”

“The house?”

“Nice, clean. There is electricity but we can’t use much. It is expensive. A lot of food but not our food……I don’t like it much.”

“You don’t like the city? …. not happy?”

“No. They change us…”

“How?”

“We cannot speak Temiar in school…. must speak English and Malay. The other children laugh at us…. they call us ‘sakai” …. They don’t know us. In school they talk of Islam…. At hostel …. they teach about Jesus Christ….no meaning. How are the fruit orchards?”

“The rains have been unseasonal,” my father complains. “The fruit blossoms have been blown down in the storms. The fruit season will be poor this year.”

Juicy pulasan, langsat, medicinal petai and jering and wild long thorned durians are our specialty. Our people foray out in season to sell these to locals for a pittance, who in turn make a hefty profit in market towns further away.

My father speaks to me differently than before. Perhaps he sees I have grown up and that I see things as my elders do. How will the children survive in the jungle? The other children and I have lost muscle and gained more flab. Bigger, fatter is a disadvantage in the jungle which needs agile skills. We have to relearn our forest skills every time we return from school.  We forget much or rather our bodies forget.

At sundown the traditional cleansing ceremony begins. We shed our city clothes and don our minimal traditional woven bark garbs and headgear of bamboo leaves and feathers. Wooden and bamboo musical instruments are taken off the walls. The Halaa or medium arrives to lead the community in removing any malevolent spirit and influences that may have followed us children from the city to upset the balance of our lives with the jungle spirits. Accompanied by crude drum, zephyrs, flutes, rattles and poles keeping beat against each other. The community in chorus echoes the chants of the Halaa as he sings and dances himself into a trance as he performs to our polyphonically sung music — melodies that live under our skin, and that we subconsciously draw out. The cleansing over, the musicians, especially the young ones continue long into the night reproducing magical sounds of birdsong, crickets chirping and animal calls, water flowing, wind whistling.

I fall asleep under the stars feeling strange – sans walls, windows, doors and pillows. The symphony of the sounds of the night sing loud in my ears – insects whirring, frogs in a croaking chorus, animal howls and grunts — so different from the roar of vehicles on the city highway. I strain to identify separately these almost foreign sounds. Still, I awake refreshed, the unfamiliarity gone. I am one with the elements again, dew on my face, dappled light overhead casting shadows that dance on my skin.

I make my way to the river ten minutes away. My unpracticed bare feet stumbling over huge tree roots, vines, thicket and bamboo and slipping on slopes and ledges where once I romped like a deer. The younger children are already there, cutting through the water like little otters. They have not swum for ten months. However, my anticipated pleasure is short lived. The once pristine waters of the river now runs red — bleeding.

I return from the river a little while later to find all the village men gathered at the open area, with machetes and poles.

“We are going to Doso’s village,” my father announces to me.

I ask one of the other young men, “What’s happening?”

“Loggers. Trying to go through Doso’s village. They are cutting the jungle upriver. Already begun. And the loose earth is already clogging the river. The water is dirty. Doso’s village is short of food. The animals are moving out or dying. The loggers want the village to move. There is nowhere to go anymore. We help them and some people from outside are helping us to stop the loggers. From upriver the loggers will move down to our village. We too have nowhere to go…”

I listen in silence. Inside confusion stirs. As we walk to Doso’s village, I recall the vast red field with tree stumps on the way home yesterday. I had not even thought of the dangers it posed. Where will animals and birds go if there is no jungle? Where would I go? Whenever I am home I become one with the jungle. There are no timetables, deadlines, learning of unpragmatic knowledge, no competitions, exams or pride from dubious achievements. Here we all flow with the pulse of nature, living off its bosom and never yearning for more.

Emerging from the trees with the men and some women, we come upon a broad track denuded of trees. The blazing sun and the breeze raise a haze of red dust. Our people have constructed a crude barricade of logs to stop the trailers and tractors from driving further in.

We have hardly ever had confrontations. Violence is alien to us; passive resistance is our way. Even the assumed weapons we carry is to rebuild the stockade which has been bulldozed several times by the loggers. Yet here we are walking straight into a conflict. I hear a rare anger in my father’s voice. He speaks more than I have ever heard him speak before.

 “We have been here forever with the spirits of our ancestors….Now the government says we do not own the land because we have no ownership papers. How can we have ownership papers when we always move our village when someone dies or we need more space? If they take the jungle, we die. It is beyond our understanding… it is beyond their understanding. No one owns anything. We only live, one with the earth, sky, water, animals and plants. We get food, medicine and life here. It is enough.”

Suddenly I remember that yesterday after lunch I had climbed to the mountain top and seen large swathes of red, like blood, and small patches of green. I had not thought about it then but now realise that the skin of the earth was peeled off, showing flesh. The spirits of the trees and stones were homeless.

Today we all squat in the shade of the jungle fringe till we see a convoy of vehicle arriving — visitors from the authorities. That usually means officers from the department of Orang Asli and the Forest Department. Following the vehicles are young men on motorcycles. I recognise them as teenagers who have been lured out of the jungle into settlements prepared especially for them.

A few individuals standing away from the officials approach us and begin to speak in Malay. Those Orang Asli who can understand Malay translate for the others. I too join to translate what is said as I speak fluent Malay and Temiar.

“We support you; some of us are lawyers and we all fight for people’s rights. We will fight for you in court to stop the logging and allow you to stay here.”

Men with cameras move around taking photographs of the stockade and of the other Orang Asli who stand back passively.

The group of officials gather in front of the stockade and one man bellows out through a megaphone in Malay. His voice goes far and wide into the trees. After every few sentences one of the motorcycle riding boys in jeans and smart batik shirts translates the sentences into Temiar.

In essence I gather that we the Orang Asli are in the wrong place. The government has allocated certain areas in the forest reserves where we are allowed to live. The area where we live now is allocated for logging. The loggers have licenses. If we refuse to move, we can be arrested.

The friends of the Orang Asli shout through their own megaphone, “This is a forest reserve. NO logging allowed, NO chasing out Orang Asli.”

The other speaker ignores the protest and continues that these allocated areas are on the edge of the forest near the towns; we will have access to electricity, water, work and education for the children. There are hospitals nearby and mosques; even homes will be built for us. “Look at your friends,” he gestures to the bike boys. “They wear nice clothes and ride motorbikes.”

It is obvious that these people not only want the jungle but also want to change us to be like them — not to be as we really are. The changes have been subtle over time. In previous years, our nakedness had been a problem; our bare breasted women and loinclothed men have been yelled at, called sakai and hounded back into the jungle when they ventured out to sell rattan, seasonal fruits and wild honey or trade them for rice or tools. Now we wear donated clothes and frocks to appease the outsiders. It is the same as going to the far away school where for ten months I become someone else. What will I be after I completely change? A motorbike lay-about boy doing odd jobs for a meal? The motorbikes and their appearance for the day is part of the theater of change.

I hear the man’s voice rise. “Now let us know if you accept this offer.”

My people mutely shake their heads while our supporters shout, “NO! These people were not consulted. We go to court.”

“We are consulting them now. Move away from the barrier,” orders the official.

We do not move away. We close ranks and hope we look pretty menacing with our poles and machetes.

The official gives three more warnings and then there is chaos. Some plainclothes men rush forward. We hear the word police, and most of my people melt into the trees. However, a young man Anjam and I are handcuffed as we are speaking to our supporters. We do not resist and are dragged into a truck while our supporters argue loudly with the police. When this happens, the villagers reappear in alarm. Some outsiders are already breaking the stockade but the lawyers and our supporters pack as many of the Temiar villagers into their own vehicles and follow the truck right to the police station an hour away.

My head is in a whirl. What did we do wrong? A policeman herds Anjam and me into the police station while the others are barred entry. However, a lawyer among them insists on entering with us. We are questioned by a police officer and I answer him in Malay, giving him my name, age and school. I also answer on behalf of Anjam who only speaks Temiar. The officer seems taken aback and his aggressive tone diminishes. He orders that we be put in the only empty cell for the night until the District Police officer shows up the following day.

The next noon we hear an outburst of voices in the compound of the station. I gather from fragments of speech that the District Police Officer has arrived. The activists and the lawyer are protesting to him to release us at least on bail. He agrees and I soon see why. As we exit the station, we see half the village squatting all over the police compound together with our supporters, keeping vigil till our release. I am grateful they have stayed to give us strength. If he does not release us, my people will not budge. Even the ones rehomed into the new settlements behave similarly. When any of them is hospitalised, the whole village follows and sits around the wards or grounds, attempting to feed the patient jungle herbs. The police send all of us  prisoners and families back as far as the stockade in a jeep. The stockade has been rammed to the ground.

Two days later Anjam is very ill. Several Halaas perform all-day and all-night trance rituals searching for Anjam’s missing soul but on the third day Anjam is dead. The elders blame it on exposure to outside malevolence but I remember how when we are in the cell Anjam needs to pee. A policeman takes  him out but the boy comes back a while later bent double and speechless. In the morning he seems alright but fades into unconsciousness at home. When they bathe his body for burial, the blue bruises and swelling on his middle back are obvious.

The day of the funeral the sky weeps in torrents, drowning out the chants of the Halaa and the keening of the villagers. The grave is already dug on the other side of the river and as we mourners cross via the huge log that bridges the banks, the roiling river, tumbling and rolling wildly, threatens to drown us. We have no way of turning back when the omnipresent Thunder Spirit explodes in anger and releases the mountain to swallow us, making us one with the cosmos, with the earth and keeping us home.

What’s left is upended trees, boulders and mud — a movement of the mountain in apocalyptic proportions spreading at least a kilometer in radius. Giant roots reach for the sky and treetops lay buried — a new unmapped terrain of an unmappable people.

[1] Sakai: slang, offensive, ethnic slur, used for an Orang Asli or native people.

A. Jessie Michael is a retired Associate Professor of English from Malaysia. She has written short stories for online journals, local magazines and newspapers. She has published an anthology of short stories Snapshots, with two other writers and most recently her own anthology The Madman and Other Stories (2016).

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles