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.