I am usually not one for bombastic titles (I usually leave that for those pesky ‘click-me!’ websites with easily misinterpreted pictures and a very compelling question). However, recently I have come across something interesting so please bear with me. I was in this internet forum discussing borders and boundaries, and someone posted an image of the intertwined towns of Baarle-Nassau (Dutch) and Baarle-Hertog (Belgium). What’s remarkable is that in Netherlands, there’s a town which has a Belgian town in it. And this Belgian town has pieces of the Dutch town in it too. The map looks quite intriguing, although many would probably assume it to be a clusterfuck.
Somewhere along the border of India and Bangladesh you get pockets of Indian land in Bangladesh, and Bangladeshi land in India. These aren’t merely land in one country owned by the other—these are actual territories of one, completely landlocked in the other. How did this happen? Well, history can be very complicated, especially when it comes to borders. But this isn’t uncommon. It happens many other places too. The concept is called an enclave—a piece of land completely surrounded by territory of another country. What is unique however, is a third degree Indian enclave in Bangladesh called Dahala Khagrabari: a microscopic bit of India in a tiny bit of Bangladesh in a small piece of India in Bangladesh proper. That’s some scary Banglaception shit right there. Or maybe it’s Indiaception? I don’t know. I don’t even know if it was all a dream in the end. And why did that totem thing jig a little?
BANGLACEPTION.
Anyway, yes that’s it. Read on if you like, but it will mostly be about enclaves: town names and logic and wordsy words like contiguous.
In Bangladesh proper, you have a pretty large Indian enclave (about the size of a small district). In this enclave you have a small Bangladeshi village which perhaps the Bangladeshis wanted to keep some particular reason. In the middle of this village, however, is a football field-sized plot of land that is somehow India. Stepping into one plot of land into another, you are actually moving from one country to another. But of course this is a poor rural area, and the various my country, not my country debates often lead to neglect. So there are no fancy/cutesy signs on the borders, just a concrete stone marker. No immigration, nothing. However, there are people who say they have been shot for crossing into some of these enclaves. And of course bribing your way through these nondescript borders are a norm.
The Belgian town Baarle-Hertog is a Belgian enclave to/in the Netherlands—it is a piece of Belgium completely surrounded by Netherlands. Conversely (of course we’ll need a 'you' to match the 'I'), Baarle-Hertog is a Dutch exclave to Belgium. However, an enclave isn't necessarily an exclave. Argentina has a few islands completely in Paraguayan waters. Lesotho, for example, is an enclave in South Africa—it is completely landlocked. But it isn't a tiny piece of a bigger country—it is its own country—so therefore it cannot be an exclave as it doesn't have something else to be an exclave to. The Vatican City and Rome is a similar example. KL is a subnational enclave to Selangor, despite not being an exclave to anything else.
Russia has an exclave hundreds of miles west of mainland Motherland bordered by Poland, Lithuania and the Baltic Sea, called Kaliningrad Oblast. While it is an exclave of Russia, it isn’t an enclave of anything as it isn’t completely surrounded by any one country. So an exclave-enclave therefore must be completely surrounded by another one country.
And then there are people who stretch the definition. These are called pene-enclaves or pene-exclaves. They are contiguous, but just not connected by land or road or rail or whatever. An example is the northeast corner of Connecticut, USA. Interstate 684 cuts it off, so that American Lane (and with it, Blue Sky Studios, the guys who made the Ice Age animation films) is only accessible through New York state.
Closer to home, Limbang in Sarawak finds itself snug in between Bruneian waters to the north, mainland Brunei to the west and Brunei’s Temburong district to the east. It still is contiguous to the south with the rest of Sarawak, although there is the small matter of Gunung Mulu in the way. Thus the only roads leading to this district is through either side of Brunei. It is sort of exclaved since it’s inaccessible. Temburong too has a case of semi-exclavedness. It is surrounded by Sarawak, but also by Bruneian waters to the north. So a yes and a no. In Petaling Jaya's Section 16 you have streets that are party Selangor and partly Kuala Lumpur; I know someone whose post code is 46350, yet her neighbour's in 59100.
So you see, enclaves are fun! Or exclaves. Or whatever. It’s nice to have a piece of your country in another country (given the right circumstances, of course). It’s like an embassy that’s not so...embassy-ish. There's also negative enclaves. The United Kingdom once ceded a hospital to another country so its exiled ruler can have his son born 'in his country's soil'. Canada once ceded the maternity ward of a hospital (to no one at all) so a Dutch princess could be born 'not on Canadian soil' (because dual nationality would hinder her claim to her throne).
Now, here’s where we digress a little, as most of my writings tend to do. Russia has a hold of Kaliningrad for a good reason—it is the only port that is ice-free all year round. Some may have been irked at its annexation, but you can see why the Soviets wanted it. Why do we need Limbang? We always say we should be neighbourly and all that, friendly and whatnot. So why can’t we just give the Bruneians Limbang? Isn’t it quite annoying having a separate piece of land which requires you to pass through immigration and whatnot? (I’m not sure if there are checkpoints, but still). Does Limbang have something the rest of Sarawak doesn’t? Do we insist on controlling the rivers that flow to the Brunei Bay? Why? Someone enlighten me, please. Or is this one of those things where, if we give them one thing, they’ll ask for another and therefore we shouldn’t? The India-Bangladesh case too. Why have a village in your neighbour’s country, if that village cannot enjoy what the rest of you do? They have no schools, no hospitals. They are born without documentation, and they need visas to get to their country proper, so you have a vicious cycle. Is it that hard giving up your sovereign territory for something in exchange?
Friday, November 16, 2012
Monday, May 7, 2012
Facing Childhood Fears
As a kid I had always been afraid of dentists. The pain of loose milk teeth. The smell of those latex gloves; the taste of them. That bitter 'strawberry'-flavoured numbing gel (what is the point?). The poking and prodding in your mouth and on your gums. The shrill of scaling. The sudden wetness with bits of plaque in your mouth. The aggressiveness of the nurse's suction shadowing the dentist's hand. And then there's the self-inflicted scaremongering through reading/hearing about the worstest dental cases ever: going blind due to nerve-related complications during extraction, the pain of root canals and dry sockets, god knows what else.
This wasn't a pain thing. We've all been through that time when pediatricians (those bastard liars) telling us "it won't hurt a bit" and then inject you with a very large needle that indeed did hurt a bit. And the second time wasn't so scary any more. At least they gave us a lollipop for our troubles--dentists let us out telling us to brush twice a day and lay off the sweets (those bastards). Experience is the best teacher--I believe that now, but not back then. The first few visits were abject failures and an embarrassment to my parents. I wouldn't open my mouth, would push her hands away. I'd ask a million questions and ask for other means. I even went as far as to ask for a way in which I could be "put to sleep" or just have her do it "with my jaw outside my skull". But take teeth out she did. And hurt it did not. Yet still I was never going to easily let them sit me on that ridiculous chair, staring into the light, mouth wide open.
One day in school we had a visit from the government dentists. I was six or seven, Standard One. First I hid underneath my desk, then behind a door, and then in the AHU room where they kept the emergency fire hose. The genius I was back then, I actually moved closer towards the 'treatment room' which was just near the AHU room. So this nurse grabbed me, checked my records, sat me down, asked me why I was crying and why wasn't I ashamed since there were girls in the room. Since I was being difficult, one held my head, and the other did the scaling thing. I remember being weak the rest of the day from being so rigid throughout the whole ordeal. They came again in Standard Three, and although I was less teary at first, the drilling to add a filling took care of that.
Then I went to boarding school, so dental issued had to be done at a clinic, and a fancy one opened just down the street. I had my first x-ray there and although the clinic was a shit load less scary than SKBD's bengkel-KH-turned-treatment-room, the image took care of that. Apparently at the age of 16, I still had three milk teeth. And since their roots were still there, extraction would be "more invasive". I asked to wait. And then I never saw a dentist for the next five years (that's ten missed visits).
After graduating, I realised that however aggressive or frequent you brush your teeth, some things still require scaling to get rid of. More pertinently, I noticed my wisdom tooth growing forward instead of upward. This scared the shit out of me. Of course, you google your problems first. And I found out that I had something called mesial impaction (forward at an acute angle) or even horizontal impaction (90°). These websites say the former isn't that big of a deal and 43% of the time, will not require removal. Needless to say I was hoping it was that, and that I was the 43%. And as time went by, it grew and effectively 'bit' on food with it's neighbour, leaving pieces of food stuck at the end of my jaw, and rendering my tongue lenguh and tired if I tried to remove it. Every night I had to use dental equipment to clean my teeth. That mirror-on-a-stick thing, and that metal toothpick-at-the-end-of-stick thing. And then the not very wise tooth started to hurt. So for the first time, I drove to the dentist--on my own accord.
This was a panel clinic I chose at random. The clinic was walk-in only after lunch, the dentist was rough as fuck, and I left with blood pouring out from around every tooth. And she also said "yes, all four need to be extracted" and told me to come again for an x-ray and whatnot. I instead chose a fancy clinic in Bangsar that would charge an arm and a leg. I figured it was worth it. This clinic was one of those pristine, take-your-shoes-off, have-some-grape-juice-before-we-cut-your-jaw, places. I had to take a crap beforehand, though. For obvious reasons. The dentist then talked me through what would be done. He will drill the tooth and break it into three or four pieces and take it out piece by piece. I thought whoop-dee-freaking-doo, I'm here anyway. So I said OK. What happened next, for those of you who aren't aware of wisdom tooth extraction surgery, was:
And I guess if I can drive myself to a dentist, for surgery, twice, then I can safely say this fear isn't valid anymore. It may not seem like much to many people, but it's not every day that you overcome a childhood phobia. Say what you will, piss on my parade for all I care, but this was a huge achievement and I am proud nonetheless. Good riddance to the fear, to the offending teeth, and to the scaremongering--I'd say everyone my age has been through a lot worse than this surgery. The recovery, however, is a bitch.
You wake up the next day with a huge bengkak on your jaw. Opening your mouth too fast may hurt the wound. And also, for me at least, movement of the tongue affected the wound too. Make sure you get a good regiment of painkillers and soft foods (milkshakes!).
This wasn't a pain thing. We've all been through that time when pediatricians (those bastard liars) telling us "it won't hurt a bit" and then inject you with a very large needle that indeed did hurt a bit. And the second time wasn't so scary any more. At least they gave us a lollipop for our troubles--dentists let us out telling us to brush twice a day and lay off the sweets (those bastards). Experience is the best teacher--I believe that now, but not back then. The first few visits were abject failures and an embarrassment to my parents. I wouldn't open my mouth, would push her hands away. I'd ask a million questions and ask for other means. I even went as far as to ask for a way in which I could be "put to sleep" or just have her do it "with my jaw outside my skull". But take teeth out she did. And hurt it did not. Yet still I was never going to easily let them sit me on that ridiculous chair, staring into the light, mouth wide open.
One day in school we had a visit from the government dentists. I was six or seven, Standard One. First I hid underneath my desk, then behind a door, and then in the AHU room where they kept the emergency fire hose. The genius I was back then, I actually moved closer towards the 'treatment room' which was just near the AHU room. So this nurse grabbed me, checked my records, sat me down, asked me why I was crying and why wasn't I ashamed since there were girls in the room. Since I was being difficult, one held my head, and the other did the scaling thing. I remember being weak the rest of the day from being so rigid throughout the whole ordeal. They came again in Standard Three, and although I was less teary at first, the drilling to add a filling took care of that.
Then I went to boarding school, so dental issued had to be done at a clinic, and a fancy one opened just down the street. I had my first x-ray there and although the clinic was a shit load less scary than SKBD's bengkel-KH-turned-treatment-room, the image took care of that. Apparently at the age of 16, I still had three milk teeth. And since their roots were still there, extraction would be "more invasive". I asked to wait. And then I never saw a dentist for the next five years (that's ten missed visits).
After graduating, I realised that however aggressive or frequent you brush your teeth, some things still require scaling to get rid of. More pertinently, I noticed my wisdom tooth growing forward instead of upward. This scared the shit out of me. Of course, you google your problems first. And I found out that I had something called mesial impaction (forward at an acute angle) or even horizontal impaction (90°). These websites say the former isn't that big of a deal and 43% of the time, will not require removal. Needless to say I was hoping it was that, and that I was the 43%. And as time went by, it grew and effectively 'bit' on food with it's neighbour, leaving pieces of food stuck at the end of my jaw, and rendering my tongue lenguh and tired if I tried to remove it. Every night I had to use dental equipment to clean my teeth. That mirror-on-a-stick thing, and that metal toothpick-at-the-end-of-stick thing. And then the not very wise tooth started to hurt. So for the first time, I drove to the dentist--on my own accord.
This was a panel clinic I chose at random. The clinic was walk-in only after lunch, the dentist was rough as fuck, and I left with blood pouring out from around every tooth. And she also said "yes, all four need to be extracted" and told me to come again for an x-ray and whatnot. I instead chose a fancy clinic in Bangsar that would charge an arm and a leg. I figured it was worth it. This clinic was one of those pristine, take-your-shoes-off, have-some-grape-juice-before-we-cut-your-jaw, places. I had to take a crap beforehand, though. For obvious reasons. The dentist then talked me through what would be done. He will drill the tooth and break it into three or four pieces and take it out piece by piece. I thought whoop-dee-freaking-doo, I'm here anyway. So I said OK. What happened next, for those of you who aren't aware of wisdom tooth extraction surgery, was:
- Steroids. It will shrink the muscles and nerves and reduce inflammatory something something whathaveyou, I'm not entirely sure. But your jaw won't go Quasimodo. Well, not as bad.
- Anesthesia injections across the jaw, both in front and behind the tooth. Six times maybe? I lost count. This part hurt the most, you won't feel a thing after this.
- I'm not sure what it was but he used a thin blunt instrument and outlined the tooth. Perhaps pushing the gums away to reveal the tooth? But that doesn't make sense because after that he...
- Cuts the gums open. I had a bit of a fright seeing a knife stroking around in my mouth, but I didn't feel a thing, not even contact.
- Drilling. He will drill the jaw around the tooth to expose it a little. He will then drill the tooth to break it up. It feels like a drill on your tooth or jaw, but without the pain. As the assistant had awesome suction skill, I did not feel bits of tooth or bone floating around in my mouth.
- Snap. "I'm going to break the tooth off, you will feel a bit of a snap--that's biasa la tu". He'll take pliers of some sort and snap it off. His assistant will hold your jaw as support. Snapping feels and sounds like breaking a chicken wing bone. Except that it's attached to your jaw. This was the most unpleasant part.
- Steps (5) and (6) are repeated until everything's gone. Usually the tooth is broken into three or four. Mine was "complicated a little" so he had to cut it into seven.
- Cleaning the wound. The wound is splashed with water and suctioned off a few times to rid it off debris. You could now feel the empty spot where the tooth was.
- Stitching. Using a self-dissolving thread, the dentist stitched it up in a jiffy. Was pretty slick at it too.
- Bite on gauze. After 15 minutes, the bleeding generally stops. Your drooling, however, won't stop until the anesthesia dies off in a few hours.
And I guess if I can drive myself to a dentist, for surgery, twice, then I can safely say this fear isn't valid anymore. It may not seem like much to many people, but it's not every day that you overcome a childhood phobia. Say what you will, piss on my parade for all I care, but this was a huge achievement and I am proud nonetheless. Good riddance to the fear, to the offending teeth, and to the scaremongering--I'd say everyone my age has been through a lot worse than this surgery. The recovery, however, is a bitch.
You wake up the next day with a huge bengkak on your jaw. Opening your mouth too fast may hurt the wound. And also, for me at least, movement of the tongue affected the wound too. Make sure you get a good regiment of painkillers and soft foods (milkshakes!).
Thursday, January 12, 2012
What's Become of You?
You know when you were little, and you always wondered how you'd be when you grew up? You'd touch your chin (or other parts of your anatomy) and think when will the beard (pubes) grow? And how weird will it be when it does? And then you'd see how the grown ups were pretty strong, and they could run for hours or lift a huge-ass TV (the CRTs we had back in the day, not the LCDs of today). And you see them kick a ball half way across the field, or hit the ball over 200m with a driver, and you'd think 'when will I ever get to do that?'
And before you know it, you're already doing that. All of that.
Yet it doesn't feel the same.
You don't feel as great a twentysomething as you once thought twentysomethings were. When you were a kid, people your age now seemed more responsible, more matured, more... grown up (for lack of a better word).
But that's probably just because what you thought back then wasn't realistic (you were a kid after all).
But what if the child you--the you from when you were six or nine or 15--could see you now today? What if he or she could come over to this point in time and look at you and see you and talk to you. Would they be impressed? Would they be ashamed? Would they be shocked? What would they have to say? What would they ask?
I'm writing this on the back of realizing I had just snubbed my parents twice in the space of three days to read a book. I can paint it any which way I want--I needed some quiet, I needed 'me' time, the book was important (it wasn't), and so on and so forth--but the bottom line is I chose a book over family.
What would 12-year-old me say to this? I think he'd say--no, I think he'd scream--"What the fuck were you thinking? A book?! Kalau konsert ke apa ke takpe gak!" But he is a wuss. So it would most probably be a very nervous "But why would you do that..? And for a book..? I can understand if it was something more important, but..." He immediately hates me because at this age, he thinks it isn't cool reading books (hates school) and working in a bank-that's-not-quite-a-bank (dreams of being an architect). I tell him I also recently started a regime of oatmeal for breakfast every day, and that I have grown used to 'kurang manis' tea and coffee, and sometimes even have them without sugar at all. And I almost never take Coke, unless, that is, if I'm in a cinema because Coke washes down the sticky-sweetness of the popcorn. And I know this comes as a shock to him because he loves Coke, and thinks old people are a bit weird with their tasteless drinks and kencing manis worries ("How does tea with too much sugar lead to amputating your foot?"). I can see him begin to question his own being. As if he couldn't believe he'll fall to the Dark Side. I tell him I can now tee off further than Papa, but he is unmoved. He wouldn't believe I am him, or that he will turn into me, although deep down inside his heart of hearts, he knows. He knows.
The 19-year-old me is excessively happy. He is optimistic about everything and for some reason I don't like him. I want to burst his bubble by letting him know what will transpire, but refrain, knowing that that's the most carefree, jumping around meadows throwing flowers in his head, cheesy happiness he would experience for quite a while (and I'm being modest here). To my surprise (or should I have expected this?) he doesn't ask. No questions about the future. Is he too cocky, or is he taking things for granted? Or does he really believe in the whole 'forever and ever' thing? So I tell him everything except how his love life pans out. He will love eighties music--the cheesy, sappy, low self esteem power ballads and glam rock especially. He will start to like sayur more than ever, especially terung for some reason. He will like oatmeal (without sugar) and have his coffee or tea black only and of course kurang manis. He will have simple wants, but in this world dominated by sophistication and poyo, his requests for minimalism would ironically make him look like the demanding diva he oh-so-wants to avoid being likened to. He will almost never find a watch he likes because they all have stupid fancy bezels and useless stopwatches and dual time and three small clockfaces on the clockface proper, and he also will--in due time--develop a hatred for watches whose second hand does not 'tick-tock' (those annoying ones that go round continuously). He will swallow his words and do many things he thought he wouldn't--like trying weed or cigarettes or gambling or going to a club or keeping his hair long. He tells me "If that's how it pans out--and you seem pretty fine--then I guess okay la kan?" I want to say he will eventually hate everyone around him who is as in-your-face happy and smug as he is right now but the words don't come out. This one he should discover himself. I know I did; and I wouldn't want it any other way.
Seven-year-old me would just keep quiet and nod. He knows where he stands in the world--a timid Darjah Satu student who's way out of his depth in school, who's afraid of the hundreds of faces around him chatting and laughing and crying and playing, and who is very socially awkward. He's learned that shutting the hell up and listening to others is the best course of action for every situation, every time. All his enthusiasm of being able to interact, to learn and whatnot--it's all gone. So he'd nod, and he'll answer 90% of your questions with a nod or a shake of the head, but all the while stare at you with his big round eyes, barely blinking. Which is why he would just nod away as I tell him I am him, and I have done certain things his teachers told him not to, and that I read a book instead of going out with the parents. Ah, there it is, he furrowed his eyebrow at me! He disapproves, yet stays quiet. I do not know if this says more about him or about me or about how he turned into me.
The me in Form Five is much more confident, if only because of a very illuminating experience (and relations) he had throughout the year. At the sight of me, he would probably say "Bahah!" in a way that you couldn't tell if it was a laugh, a smirk or a scoff. He has done much growing up and is very similar to me. Most people wouldn't know if he was being sarcastic or serious. His face will always be stern yet it could probably be a freaking musical in his head. I want to ask him why he never took up poker, but then I realize of course I know the answer. I spare him certain details, for fear of him cheating--I don't want him to know he didn't end up an architect. I only tell him I studied in America ("WHAT? How the hell do you practice here kalau macam tu?") and I have a pretty decent job with a pretty decent pay ("Well, baru start kan... Can't expect to be doing much, can you?") and that we moved to PJ ("Ya ke? PJ? Okay") and that I spent a shit load of time and money in my four years abroad buying shoes--lots of them--and books--lots of that too ("What's with the shoes, weh? And... are they the classics--did I get into that somehow? Or Tom Clancy kinda thing or just any books or flavour of the month novels? Because I read as slow as shit and you know that"). And I say I can't help but buy all the award winning books because I feel they are important enough to warrant a read. And then I'd also tell him I still read as slow as shit but I buy more books a year then I can read anyway so my backlog only ever gets longer. ("Wouldn't that be such a waste, though?"). And I'd do the "Bahah!" thing, and he'd smile knowingly. I tell him I never bother with contact lenses because I'd rather sleep for five more minutes, and he raises an eyebrow ("Some things don't change, eh?"). I see that he's been fidgeting and uneasy the whole time, and I know he's dying to ask the more pertinent questions (he is sixteen, after all), and I answer them one by one. I can tell I have his attention, and his interest because now he is smiling (which he rarely does) and his smile shows teeth too. But I also tell him he'll fuck things up pretty bad too, so don't get his hopes too high, and he bites his lip and shrugs it off ("Win some, lose some."). I like him. He's very idealistic. It's sad to know that so much of this has disappeared due to burn out or due to conforming with everyone else. He doesn't know what I'm talking about, though. Because he only thinks of at most four things--only four, and nothing comes after them or could replace them. He only sees what's in front of him--never beyond that. So he's not that grown up yet.
A nine-year-old me would obviously freak out if I told him what's become of me. But this is only because he was caught peeping under a girl's skirt (she was standing on the desk beside him, yelling out at the class), and was warned by his teacher that any other funny business from him would result in severe punishment which he could never bear (perhaps being sent to the head mistress' office to be asked "Apa nak jadi dengan kamu ni?") and that he was being blackmailed 'duit Milo' on a daily basis by his 'friends' who would threaten to tell the teacher about the time he taught them about the birds and the bees and how men can actually do it with other men and what the words 'lancap' and 'fuck' meant. He lived in fear for much of that year. He was subdued. But he read his first book! It was The Raja Bahrin Story and he absolutely loved it. He then read two more proper novels by the end of the year--the best he'd do for a few years--so he obviously has the highest regard for my mini library. At least this one was impressed, even if only a little. I won't let him ask me any questions because I know the only thing that bothered me in 1997 was why people cared so much about the death of a divorced former princess, who wasn't even that pretty and had short hair.
As usual, I save the best for last. Now is the me from two years ago. This is the hardest because the difference isn't so drastic that we're two different people, yet it's far enough for him to want to know how his current decisions will pan out. In his present state he is numb and depressed and has lost all his joy. He cares not so much for logic or reality so he immediately believes I am who I am and asks me "Does it get any better?" and I stay quiet for a bit, wet my lip, breathe in through clenched teeth and say "Only slightly, to be honest". His forehead immediately shows at least five folds. My god, and he's barely 21. I want to pat him on the back, or ruffle his hair and say it's not that bad, but I feel that self-bromance is a little too weird for me to handle so I keep my distance. We still wear the same pair of glasses, although mine has some of its paint peeling off. He's probably secretly very happy that they'd last a few more years, and that despite the peeling paint, it doesn't rust. At least I think so. I wonder if he judges me for that. I decide he doesn't. He may have been an asshole to many, but he's not a complete and comprehensive one. He knows the longer he wears them the cheaper their cost per year will be. And then he'll stick it to the contact lens snobs. Which is ironic because that's pretty assholic too. But this is him, in a nutshell. His motives are never clear, and almost never 'correct'. I ask him if he has any questions, but he shakes his head and lets out a meek "No". He doesn't care for knowing what will be. I titillate him by asking if he wants to know what my job is like, or how the new house is, but he is too pragmatic and he only says in return "I'm sure it's all fine" because he knows what the parents will and will not accept and what I will and will not accept. So out of frustration, I tell him I got Mama's car ("It's even under my name now, ha!") and he shoots a stare at me and says "Really? That thing can still work?" so I tell him it's a little rough around the edges, gear changes aren't the smoothest ever, but it's alright, and he says "Ah, well, take good care of it. Jaga baik-baik. It could last you quite some time, that car". I want to tell him he'll be fine. Hell, I'm here, surely he should be optimistic about something? He is unhappy but I don't want to talk about it because I know when I bring it up he'll roll his eyes and say under his breath "Macam la kau tak tau, en?" But I ask anyway. I ask him if he was so depressed why doesn't he talk about it? He says it's pointless and a waste of time, especially since no one could help, and he had a degree to complete, and that every time he complained, someone else would have a worse/more dramatic story to tell, effectively 'stealing his thunder', so why even bother. So I ask him then, of all the bridges in Pittsburgh he crosses every day, how come he never jumped off any, if he was so depressed, if he was so sad, so heartbroken, so lonely? He smiles weakly and says "Because that would be too easy".
And this is where the twist happens--because twists only happen at the end. I am always the one with knowledge of the what will be--they were always privileged to hear what I had to say. But suddenly the tables have been turned and Future Me appears. Now I'm the one with the lump in my throat, thinking 'Oh, shit, what am I gonna be?' as I suppress a shiver and take his hand. Would he give a fist for me to 'bones it' like I do to some friends? No, he offers his hand so--dammit, let's not read into this too much. He smiles and tells me despite all the conclusions I made about the other Mes, I'm just as "not grown up" as them. Because this was supposed to be about what they would think or say but I have somehow made it all about me.
And before you know it, you're already doing that. All of that.
Yet it doesn't feel the same.
You don't feel as great a twentysomething as you once thought twentysomethings were. When you were a kid, people your age now seemed more responsible, more matured, more... grown up (for lack of a better word).
But that's probably just because what you thought back then wasn't realistic (you were a kid after all).
But what if the child you--the you from when you were six or nine or 15--could see you now today? What if he or she could come over to this point in time and look at you and see you and talk to you. Would they be impressed? Would they be ashamed? Would they be shocked? What would they have to say? What would they ask?
I'm writing this on the back of realizing I had just snubbed my parents twice in the space of three days to read a book. I can paint it any which way I want--I needed some quiet, I needed 'me' time, the book was important (it wasn't), and so on and so forth--but the bottom line is I chose a book over family.
What would 12-year-old me say to this? I think he'd say--no, I think he'd scream--"What the fuck were you thinking? A book?! Kalau konsert ke apa ke takpe gak!" But he is a wuss. So it would most probably be a very nervous "But why would you do that..? And for a book..? I can understand if it was something more important, but..." He immediately hates me because at this age, he thinks it isn't cool reading books (hates school) and working in a bank-that's-not-quite-a-bank (dreams of being an architect). I tell him I also recently started a regime of oatmeal for breakfast every day, and that I have grown used to 'kurang manis' tea and coffee, and sometimes even have them without sugar at all. And I almost never take Coke, unless, that is, if I'm in a cinema because Coke washes down the sticky-sweetness of the popcorn. And I know this comes as a shock to him because he loves Coke, and thinks old people are a bit weird with their tasteless drinks and kencing manis worries ("How does tea with too much sugar lead to amputating your foot?"). I can see him begin to question his own being. As if he couldn't believe he'll fall to the Dark Side. I tell him I can now tee off further than Papa, but he is unmoved. He wouldn't believe I am him, or that he will turn into me, although deep down inside his heart of hearts, he knows. He knows.
The 19-year-old me is excessively happy. He is optimistic about everything and for some reason I don't like him. I want to burst his bubble by letting him know what will transpire, but refrain, knowing that that's the most carefree, jumping around meadows throwing flowers in his head, cheesy happiness he would experience for quite a while (and I'm being modest here). To my surprise (or should I have expected this?) he doesn't ask. No questions about the future. Is he too cocky, or is he taking things for granted? Or does he really believe in the whole 'forever and ever' thing? So I tell him everything except how his love life pans out. He will love eighties music--the cheesy, sappy, low self esteem power ballads and glam rock especially. He will start to like sayur more than ever, especially terung for some reason. He will like oatmeal (without sugar) and have his coffee or tea black only and of course kurang manis. He will have simple wants, but in this world dominated by sophistication and poyo, his requests for minimalism would ironically make him look like the demanding diva he oh-so-wants to avoid being likened to. He will almost never find a watch he likes because they all have stupid fancy bezels and useless stopwatches and dual time and three small clockfaces on the clockface proper, and he also will--in due time--develop a hatred for watches whose second hand does not 'tick-tock' (those annoying ones that go round continuously). He will swallow his words and do many things he thought he wouldn't--like trying weed or cigarettes or gambling or going to a club or keeping his hair long. He tells me "If that's how it pans out--and you seem pretty fine--then I guess okay la kan?" I want to say he will eventually hate everyone around him who is as in-your-face happy and smug as he is right now but the words don't come out. This one he should discover himself. I know I did; and I wouldn't want it any other way.
Seven-year-old me would just keep quiet and nod. He knows where he stands in the world--a timid Darjah Satu student who's way out of his depth in school, who's afraid of the hundreds of faces around him chatting and laughing and crying and playing, and who is very socially awkward. He's learned that shutting the hell up and listening to others is the best course of action for every situation, every time. All his enthusiasm of being able to interact, to learn and whatnot--it's all gone. So he'd nod, and he'll answer 90% of your questions with a nod or a shake of the head, but all the while stare at you with his big round eyes, barely blinking. Which is why he would just nod away as I tell him I am him, and I have done certain things his teachers told him not to, and that I read a book instead of going out with the parents. Ah, there it is, he furrowed his eyebrow at me! He disapproves, yet stays quiet. I do not know if this says more about him or about me or about how he turned into me.
The me in Form Five is much more confident, if only because of a very illuminating experience (and relations) he had throughout the year. At the sight of me, he would probably say "Bahah!" in a way that you couldn't tell if it was a laugh, a smirk or a scoff. He has done much growing up and is very similar to me. Most people wouldn't know if he was being sarcastic or serious. His face will always be stern yet it could probably be a freaking musical in his head. I want to ask him why he never took up poker, but then I realize of course I know the answer. I spare him certain details, for fear of him cheating--I don't want him to know he didn't end up an architect. I only tell him I studied in America ("WHAT? How the hell do you practice here kalau macam tu?") and I have a pretty decent job with a pretty decent pay ("Well, baru start kan... Can't expect to be doing much, can you?") and that we moved to PJ ("Ya ke? PJ? Okay") and that I spent a shit load of time and money in my four years abroad buying shoes--lots of them--and books--lots of that too ("What's with the shoes, weh? And... are they the classics--did I get into that somehow? Or Tom Clancy kinda thing or just any books or flavour of the month novels? Because I read as slow as shit and you know that"). And I say I can't help but buy all the award winning books because I feel they are important enough to warrant a read. And then I'd also tell him I still read as slow as shit but I buy more books a year then I can read anyway so my backlog only ever gets longer. ("Wouldn't that be such a waste, though?"). And I'd do the "Bahah!" thing, and he'd smile knowingly. I tell him I never bother with contact lenses because I'd rather sleep for five more minutes, and he raises an eyebrow ("Some things don't change, eh?"). I see that he's been fidgeting and uneasy the whole time, and I know he's dying to ask the more pertinent questions (he is sixteen, after all), and I answer them one by one. I can tell I have his attention, and his interest because now he is smiling (which he rarely does) and his smile shows teeth too. But I also tell him he'll fuck things up pretty bad too, so don't get his hopes too high, and he bites his lip and shrugs it off ("Win some, lose some."). I like him. He's very idealistic. It's sad to know that so much of this has disappeared due to burn out or due to conforming with everyone else. He doesn't know what I'm talking about, though. Because he only thinks of at most four things--only four, and nothing comes after them or could replace them. He only sees what's in front of him--never beyond that. So he's not that grown up yet.
A nine-year-old me would obviously freak out if I told him what's become of me. But this is only because he was caught peeping under a girl's skirt (she was standing on the desk beside him, yelling out at the class), and was warned by his teacher that any other funny business from him would result in severe punishment which he could never bear (perhaps being sent to the head mistress' office to be asked "Apa nak jadi dengan kamu ni?") and that he was being blackmailed 'duit Milo' on a daily basis by his 'friends' who would threaten to tell the teacher about the time he taught them about the birds and the bees and how men can actually do it with other men and what the words 'lancap' and 'fuck' meant. He lived in fear for much of that year. He was subdued. But he read his first book! It was The Raja Bahrin Story and he absolutely loved it. He then read two more proper novels by the end of the year--the best he'd do for a few years--so he obviously has the highest regard for my mini library. At least this one was impressed, even if only a little. I won't let him ask me any questions because I know the only thing that bothered me in 1997 was why people cared so much about the death of a divorced former princess, who wasn't even that pretty and had short hair.
As usual, I save the best for last. Now is the me from two years ago. This is the hardest because the difference isn't so drastic that we're two different people, yet it's far enough for him to want to know how his current decisions will pan out. In his present state he is numb and depressed and has lost all his joy. He cares not so much for logic or reality so he immediately believes I am who I am and asks me "Does it get any better?" and I stay quiet for a bit, wet my lip, breathe in through clenched teeth and say "Only slightly, to be honest". His forehead immediately shows at least five folds. My god, and he's barely 21. I want to pat him on the back, or ruffle his hair and say it's not that bad, but I feel that self-bromance is a little too weird for me to handle so I keep my distance. We still wear the same pair of glasses, although mine has some of its paint peeling off. He's probably secretly very happy that they'd last a few more years, and that despite the peeling paint, it doesn't rust. At least I think so. I wonder if he judges me for that. I decide he doesn't. He may have been an asshole to many, but he's not a complete and comprehensive one. He knows the longer he wears them the cheaper their cost per year will be. And then he'll stick it to the contact lens snobs. Which is ironic because that's pretty assholic too. But this is him, in a nutshell. His motives are never clear, and almost never 'correct'. I ask him if he has any questions, but he shakes his head and lets out a meek "No". He doesn't care for knowing what will be. I titillate him by asking if he wants to know what my job is like, or how the new house is, but he is too pragmatic and he only says in return "I'm sure it's all fine" because he knows what the parents will and will not accept and what I will and will not accept. So out of frustration, I tell him I got Mama's car ("It's even under my name now, ha!") and he shoots a stare at me and says "Really? That thing can still work?" so I tell him it's a little rough around the edges, gear changes aren't the smoothest ever, but it's alright, and he says "Ah, well, take good care of it. Jaga baik-baik. It could last you quite some time, that car". I want to tell him he'll be fine. Hell, I'm here, surely he should be optimistic about something? He is unhappy but I don't want to talk about it because I know when I bring it up he'll roll his eyes and say under his breath "Macam la kau tak tau, en?" But I ask anyway. I ask him if he was so depressed why doesn't he talk about it? He says it's pointless and a waste of time, especially since no one could help, and he had a degree to complete, and that every time he complained, someone else would have a worse/more dramatic story to tell, effectively 'stealing his thunder', so why even bother. So I ask him then, of all the bridges in Pittsburgh he crosses every day, how come he never jumped off any, if he was so depressed, if he was so sad, so heartbroken, so lonely? He smiles weakly and says "Because that would be too easy".
And this is where the twist happens--because twists only happen at the end. I am always the one with knowledge of the what will be--they were always privileged to hear what I had to say. But suddenly the tables have been turned and Future Me appears. Now I'm the one with the lump in my throat, thinking 'Oh, shit, what am I gonna be?' as I suppress a shiver and take his hand. Would he give a fist for me to 'bones it' like I do to some friends? No, he offers his hand so--dammit, let's not read into this too much. He smiles and tells me despite all the conclusions I made about the other Mes, I'm just as "not grown up" as them. Because this was supposed to be about what they would think or say but I have somehow made it all about me.
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