The Aidilfitri Diaries
Definitions & Introductions
1. Hari Raya Aidilfitri -
celebration to mark the end of the Muslim fasting month of Ramadan. Celebrated by most people here by eating everything in sight for the next month or so (not prescribed by religion). Family members get together, insult, tear down each other’s self esteem (not prescribed by religion) but not before officially asking for eachother’s forgiveness for any wrongs they may have committed against the other in the past year (prescribed by religion). Traditional Malay outfits – the kebaya, the kurung, the Baju Melayu is the fashion statement of choice for celebrating Raya in Malaysia. Oh, and if you see a kid with three fingers walking past, he would have most likely lost the rest of his fingers during Raya from playing with illegal fireworks. Please don’t give this kid the thumbs up or the middle finger.
2. Balik Kampung – A phenomenon which occurs every festive season in which usually hustling, bustling KL empties out into a ghost town. Apparently, a large percentage of KL residents aren’t native to Malaysia’s capital city, they hail from places with names like Permatang Rambai, Kampung Kandang (Barn Village), Batang Berjuntai (Stuck-Out Stick) and Pedas (Hot/Spicy) where their ageing parents still live. Public holidays such as Hari Raya sees naturalized KL-ites return to their hometown to celebrate the occasion with the rest of their family, leaving the streets of KL empty for that one native KL-ian to finally drive naked down Jalan Tun Razak (Tun Razak road) at a speed above 30 kph.
3. Duit Raya – Like Christmas presents. Only in the form of money. And it’s not Christmas. And there’s an age limit to receiving duit raya. Usually given by working adults to random, visiting children. Something I no longer receive from anyone but my grandmother. Bless.
4. Ops Sikap – Nationwide police operation held every Raya on every other street corner to catch those driving above the speed limit and fine the duit raya out of them. Apparently the balik kampung phenomenon also leads to significantly higher road accident rates. Ops Sikap is a simplistic solution coined up by smarmy government officials to curb the problem. Except people are still dying from road accidents left and right. And I’m broke.
5. The Grinch – Who Stole Christmas. Character in a book written by Dr. Seuss. I am the Hari Raya version of The Grinch. I’m rotten, I know. It’s embarrassing to see that my non-Muslim friends are more excited about Raya than I am.
6. Festive – contraction of “festering relatives”, something you won’t be in short supply of during the festive season.
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The 10 Tales of Raya
One: This is J.D. Fortune Calling
Here’s a rule I should stick to: If the phone rings before 9 a.m., don’t fucking answer. It’s not a friend calling. It’s not the sex god rock star of your dreams. It’s not destiny. It’s your mother driven positively mad at the thought of spending the next five days of Raya with her mother and she’s taking it out on you. In the ideal world, I’d wake up to the sound of J.D. Fortune softly singing INXS’ ‘Need You Tonight’ in my ear. In the real world, I have my mother yelling at me on the phone to get up, pack and be ready to leave for my grandma’s house in 15 minutes. Don’t ask me why she’s telling me this over the phone. We live in the same house.
Two: Gods of Tourism, why did you forsake my mother’s hometown?
My maternal grandmother lives in a place no one below the age of 70 should have to live in. It’s the ultimate boondocks – Permatang Rambai, Seberang Perai -the place is rural without being idyllic which really, beats the point of it being rural in the first place – all the inconveniences and none of the fun – welcome to the half of Penang the Gods of Tourism forgot – paddy fields, patchy roads and shabby, carbon monoxide emitting industrial plants, no wonder my mother turned out the way she did. On a good day, it takes about 4-5 hours to get to her house from KL. During Raya, it could take up to 8 to 10 hours, depending on how many idiots haven’t been killed yet and are still driving around idiotically hogging the fast lane on the highway.
Three: Who the Man??!
Driving with my mom in the car is no easy task particularly if it’s an 8 hour drive. No wonder my dad made me drive to Seberang Perai while he snored away in the backseat.
My mother is the world’s worst passenger mainly because she thinks she’s the world’s best non-driving driver. My mother doesn’t have a license, has never driven in her life but you wouldn’t be able to guess that by hearing her talk. You would think she taught Michael Schumacher how to drive. “I may not be able to actually drive, Maryam, but I know exactly how to, in theory,” she says. Yes ma, in theory, I know how to split an atom but that doesn’t make me a nuclear scientist. Then, my mother goes, “I may not actually be able to drive, Maryam but I’m telling you, I’ve sat in a lot of cars, I’ve been driven around by many drivers so believe me when I say I know a lot about driving.” Yes ma, I’ve done that and I can actually drive so ….WHO THE MAN???!!! WHO THE MAN?!!!! WHO THE MAN?!!! I’M THE MAN!!
And then my mother hisses, “You think you’re better than me just because you know how to drive?!!” and I go, “No ma, of course I don’t think I’m better than you just because I know how to drive. I just think I’m a better driver than you.”
My dad wakes up and says, “Maryam, you’re a good driver!!!!!” And then he goes back to sleep.
Four: Don’t bring J.D. into this
I stuck a cd in the car’s cd player – a compilation of JD Fortune’s performances on Rock Star: INXS and having lost The Driving Argument, my mom must have decided to start a new one.
“I hate your JD,” my mom said.
“What does JD have to do with anything?” was my reply. I liked how she referred to J.D. Fortune as “ your JD”. Heh. My J.D.
“I hate him. HATE HIM, HATE HIM, HATE HIM!”
“What did he ever do to you?”
“I just hate him. Hate the way he looks. Hate the way he sings. Hate the way he acts. I hate everything about him,” my mom said. She looked like she was about to spit on the car stereo.
“Well, I love EVERYTHING about him.” I answered.
“What good does that do you? You don’t have a degree. You don’t have a job. Is JD going to marry you and take care of you for the rest of your life?! No!” said my mom, World’s No. 1 reality check specialist.
“You never know, Katie Holmes had posters of Tom Cruise up on her bedroom wall as a small-town teenager. And look at her now, having his freak Scientology spawn and all…” I said. I was joking.
“Maryam, if you marry that rock star, I’m going to have him shot. SHOT DEAD, YOU HEAR ME?!!” was my mom’s response. She didn’t sound like she was joking. We had this argument before. She didn’t sound like she was joking then, either.
“Who says I plan to marry him? Maybe we’ll just live in decadent, fornicating sin.”
“THEN I’LL HAVE YOU SHOT DEAD!” my mom, still not in joking form, said, or rather, her voice boomed ominously throughout the area. It started to rain.
Five : I see trees of green
I should probably describe the scenery along the North South Expressway, but I would rather not, not at great length anyway. All I can say is, the scenery alternates between long stretches of greenery and limestone hills, short stretches of limestone hills that have been blasted to death to provide marble for some gaudy nouveau riche’s living room floor, and further up North, the landscape gets flatter – paddy fields, more paddy fields, and factories. Compelling stuff if you don’t think too much about it. Otherwise, you might start to panic at being more than 20 minutes away from the nearest, decent shopping mall. Oh, and at one point along the highway, few kilometers from the Ipoh toll plaza, is a tunnel. Tunnels are always very interesting. Really, it is. Especially if you’ve watched Daylight – that Sylvester Stallone movie where he plays a truck driver that gets trapped with a bunch of people in a tunnel. Underwater. Compelling stuff. No, not really.
After the tunnel, there’s a sharp downhill, hairpin turn. My mother will be more than happy to offer you tips on how to maneuver this part of the highway.
She will also be happy to nag you the rest of the way for driving above the 110 km/h speed limit. Once you decide to slow down, you can have my dad complain about your slow driving. And then you can watch my mom launch a tirade against my dad about how he always undermines her authority in front of the children. Then you might understand why I turned out the way I did.
Six: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six
The night before Raya was dull. I was told that I was too old to be running around my grandmother’s kampong in my underwear playing with fireworks so I didn’t. I have 10 fingers. According to my aunts and grandma, such a display of festive joy is improper for a young lady. Fuck that, I feel like a 10 year old gay boy inside.
Half the family and random strangers think I’m at the cusp of feminine failure anyhow.
Spent the earlier half of the night crouched behind my grandmother’s house smoking with one of my cousins. An old guy passed by and gave me a dirty look. I suppose in his day, a woman who smokes danced at the local cabaret and was arguably the town slut or something. Under normal circumstances, I can’t really dance. The old guy smiled benevolently at my cousin though, in some kind of Secret Male Understanding of Cancer Causing Habits.
After awhile, my cousin and I got tired of slowly killing ourselves. We got tired of throwing insults at eachother. We came to the peaceful conclusion that he’s the thin one and I’m the smart one. We got tired of having the old guy frequently pass by. We went out and drove around in circles, trying to convince our KL-ite selves that Permatang Rambai is not as wasteland-ish as it appeared to be. The mission was a failure. We headed for Penang Island, about 40 minutes drive away. Bought a pirated DVD of The Exorcism of Emily Rose. We returned to my grandma’s house, waited for everyone to go to bed, sat in the dark and watched the DVD on my laptop. There’s a scene in the film in which the priest asked the “demon” within Emily Rose for it’s name and the demon answered in a raspy voice, “One Two Three Four Five Six…..”
After the movie, my cousin and I thought it would be funny to sneak up on eachother, put on a raspy voice and go, “One, two, three, four, five, six!!!” It was funny the first few times. Then it just spooked me out of sleep.
All the bedrooms were taken so I had to sleep alone in the living room. On the couch. I kept hearing, “One, two, three, four, five, six……” even though my cousin had gone off to sleep upstairs. Permatang Rambai is spooky at night. And across the street from my grandmother’s house is a cemetery. Lovely.
Seven: Selamat Hari Raya
I managed to fall asleep at around 6 in the morning and was rudely awakened half an hour later by someone ruffling my hair and poking my shoulders. I thought it was my cousin and duly told him to fuck off only to open my eyes and realize that it was my uncle, wearing an unnecessarily generous amount of eyeliner and funky Afghan headgear – such a rock star-ish look is ill suited to a 53 year old English teacher. His recent divorce must have had some strange effects on his psyche. I went back to sleep thinking that my uncle’s experiment with the Jimi Hendrix look was all a bad dream.
An hour later, my grandma comes along and starts yelling at me, something about how unbecoming it was for a young lady to be seen sprawled out on the living room couch so late in the day (it was 7 o’clock in the morning for god’s sake!!!!!). It’s tradition to wake up at the crack of dawn on Raya but the kooks that came up with this probably never watched The Exorcism of Emily Rose. She starts chastising me for missing out on my morning prayers especially on a holy day like Raya and then adds that girls should be in the kitchen at this time, helping out with the cooking and the cleaning and what nots (my grandma’s old skool). I gave her a smile, thumbs up and went on sleeping.
I woke up around noon and stumbled to the kitchen, expecting to find traditional, rich, fattening Raya fare – ketupat pulut, rendang, cookies and cakes but instead, I discovered a limited choice of bland, “healthy” dishes courtesy of my sister and my mother – the Two Headed Health Freak Serpents. Think noodles made from unprocessed, organic flour in clear vegetable broth. I complained but ate the whole pot anyway. After all, it wasn’t like I was going to do any cooking.
My relatives were all dressed up in their brand new festive outfits. I was still in my pajamas and stayed in it for another good hour, soliciting disapproving stares from everyone (funny how my male cousin, the one I watched Exorcism with wasn’t picked on as much). My mom made a loud, public comment about my hair looking like a lion and that I even smelled like a wild animal. That was when I decided to shower and change. I re-emerged in a traditional kebaya top which I paired with jeans and had to field questions for the rest of the day from the fashion-backward about where the other half of my kebaya outfit, the kain (long, mermaid tail-like skirt thing) was. One distant relative asked me if I had gotten dressed in the dark. One of my little cousins kept telling me that the top of my underwear was showing. My grandma then said something about how if possible, I would probably choose to walk around naked. I tell her I would except I was worried that it would bring great shame upon this family and that she would be shunned by her fellow village folk.
Seriously, if anyone’s going to say anything about bad fashion statements, they should look towards my Jimi Hendrix uncle.
In accordance with tradition, I went around asking various older members of the family for forgiveness for any wrongs I might have committed against them during the past year. My uncle (the non-Jimi Hendrix one), wore a giant silver and jade ring on his hand and as I was wishing him a Happy Hari Raya he told me to “Kiss the Ring!” At first he was joking but I think, by the end of the week, he truly expected it from his nieces and nephews. I gave apologizing to my older sister, (the oldest, shortest one) a miss. I hadn’t talked to her for 2 months (due to several incidents that I couldn’t be bothered to elaborate upon) and no age old tradition or festivities will make me do otherwise. Yeah, yeah, I’m a bitch I know.
I spent the rest of the first day of Raya catching up on sleep. At night, my cousin and I went out to drive around in circles again. The family labeled us “Kembar Nakal” (rough English translation: The Naughty Twins) – we’re the same age, we’re both considered by our family to be under-achievers and apparently, we both have a knack for trouble. Except I’m smarter. And he’s greasy. My mom breastfed both of us when we were babies (my cousin stole my share of the milk!) and there’s this ongoing joke within the family about how my mom must have fed us expired breast milk.
We were back at my grandmother’s house by midnight. Everyone else in the house had gone to sleep. We sat on the patio and traded ghost stories over a pack of cigarettes. When we had ran out of stories to tell, we went inside and for lack of anything better to do, watched The Exorcism of Emily Rose again. “One, two, three, four, five, sixxxxxxx…” and spooked ourselves out of the possibility of sleep once more.
Plus, one of my aunts was also sleeping in the living room and as a kid I witnessed her behaving like she was possessed on a number of occasions. I doubt she was actually possessed; she was probably suffering from some kind of mental affliction but it was scary nonetheless. That night, she was talking and screaming in her sleep.
Besides, the living room couch didn’t make for a comfortable bed. And if thoughts of the unknown and my aunt’s sleep-talking didn’t keep me awake, the buzzing, biting mosquitoes would.
Eight: ‘Normal’ is Mob Stupidity (Second Day of Raya)
I woke up to find a strange, old lady that I was supposed to know sitting in the living room with my aunts. I plastered on my fake smile and went to greet her. She was saying something about how my sisters are much better looking than I am. Right in front of my ugly face. She said something about what a pity it is that I take after my dad instead. My aunt (the formerly possessed one) told bitch of an old lady that I actually scrub up really well. Bitch of an old lady replied that it must take a whole lot of scrubbing to get rid of my “unsightly freckles”.
Yes. Thank you. Come again. Asshole.
I love my freckles, moron. It’s an asset not a flaw. Happy Hari Raya to you too, wrinkly old hag.
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Later in the day……….
My aunt (wife of Kiss the Ring Uncle): Maryam, do you have a boyfriend yet?
Me : No.
My aunt : Why not? Is it because you can’t get one?
Me : Just don’t want one.
My aunt : What?!!
Me : It’s not a priority for me right now.
My aunt : Well, that’s not normal ……
Shut up and go watch Desperate Housewives already.
My cousin : Maryam doesn’t need a man, she is a man!
Shut up and go grease your hair or something.
Nine: We need a Revolution (Third day of Raya)
I was sitting in front of the TV in my grandma’s living room with my mom, two of my aunts and my “Kiss-the-Ring” uncle. An advertisement for a hair product came on. It showed a girl walking in with slightly unkempt hair. She looks at the “hot guy” expectantly but the “hot guy” doesn’t give her the time of day. She then goes to the bathroom, puts on some funny hair product, comes out with unnaturally smooth hair and suddenly, the “hot guy” is slobbering at her feet.
I launched a lengthy, fiery tirade about how ads like that are demeaning to a woman’s worth as an individual, as a human being. As if a woman is nothing more than how smooth her hair is. What message is this sending to impressionable, young girls out there? What message is this sending out to people in general, in regard to how they evaluate themselves or other women? I understand that the people behind these ads just want to sell their product, but do they have to do it at the cost of our value as a whole, complicated person?
My mom rolled her eyes and said that the only reason why I was against such ads was because I couldn’t be arsed to comb my own hair half the time. Then she added, “That’s just the way society works, Maryam. They want their women beautiful. You have to learn to accept it and work with it instead of sitting there looking like Mowgli (from Jungle Book) and complaining.”
My aunt, wife of Uncle Kiss The Ring gave me a look of pity, a look that read like Oh, poor ugly child. You don’t have a man in your life. You must be bitter and jealous.
My other aunt, the sleep-talking one had little to say in her waking hours.
Uncle “Kiss the Ring” was the only one on my side. Surprisingly. He said, “You know, that’s what I like about you, Maryam. People like you and I, we’re not followers. The world needs people like us in order for it to socially evolve. We don’t conform to current societal norm, we set it for the future. We’re revolutionaries, leaders, not followers!”
My mom shot my uncle (her younger brother) a deadly glare and hissed, “Sometimes, it’s good for our children to follow.”
My uncle smiled sheepishly at my mom, turned to me and said, “Anyhow, you should always listen to your mom.”
So much for being revolutionaries
Ten: Homecoming
I’m back in KL. I’m home! I’m home! Ah, sweet civilization …………………
1. Hari Raya Aidilfitri -
celebration to mark the end of the Muslim fasting month of Ramadan. Celebrated by most people here by eating everything in sight for the next month or so (not prescribed by religion). Family members get together, insult, tear down each other’s self esteem (not prescribed by religion) but not before officially asking for eachother’s forgiveness for any wrongs they may have committed against the other in the past year (prescribed by religion). Traditional Malay outfits – the kebaya, the kurung, the Baju Melayu is the fashion statement of choice for celebrating Raya in Malaysia. Oh, and if you see a kid with three fingers walking past, he would have most likely lost the rest of his fingers during Raya from playing with illegal fireworks. Please don’t give this kid the thumbs up or the middle finger.
2. Balik Kampung – A phenomenon which occurs every festive season in which usually hustling, bustling KL empties out into a ghost town. Apparently, a large percentage of KL residents aren’t native to Malaysia’s capital city, they hail from places with names like Permatang Rambai, Kampung Kandang (Barn Village), Batang Berjuntai (Stuck-Out Stick) and Pedas (Hot/Spicy) where their ageing parents still live. Public holidays such as Hari Raya sees naturalized KL-ites return to their hometown to celebrate the occasion with the rest of their family, leaving the streets of KL empty for that one native KL-ian to finally drive naked down Jalan Tun Razak (Tun Razak road) at a speed above 30 kph.
3. Duit Raya – Like Christmas presents. Only in the form of money. And it’s not Christmas. And there’s an age limit to receiving duit raya. Usually given by working adults to random, visiting children. Something I no longer receive from anyone but my grandmother. Bless.
4. Ops Sikap – Nationwide police operation held every Raya on every other street corner to catch those driving above the speed limit and fine the duit raya out of them. Apparently the balik kampung phenomenon also leads to significantly higher road accident rates. Ops Sikap is a simplistic solution coined up by smarmy government officials to curb the problem. Except people are still dying from road accidents left and right. And I’m broke.
5. The Grinch – Who Stole Christmas. Character in a book written by Dr. Seuss. I am the Hari Raya version of The Grinch. I’m rotten, I know. It’s embarrassing to see that my non-Muslim friends are more excited about Raya than I am.
6. Festive – contraction of “festering relatives”, something you won’t be in short supply of during the festive season.
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The 10 Tales of Raya
One: This is J.D. Fortune Calling
Here’s a rule I should stick to: If the phone rings before 9 a.m., don’t fucking answer. It’s not a friend calling. It’s not the sex god rock star of your dreams. It’s not destiny. It’s your mother driven positively mad at the thought of spending the next five days of Raya with her mother and she’s taking it out on you. In the ideal world, I’d wake up to the sound of J.D. Fortune softly singing INXS’ ‘Need You Tonight’ in my ear. In the real world, I have my mother yelling at me on the phone to get up, pack and be ready to leave for my grandma’s house in 15 minutes. Don’t ask me why she’s telling me this over the phone. We live in the same house.
Two: Gods of Tourism, why did you forsake my mother’s hometown?
My maternal grandmother lives in a place no one below the age of 70 should have to live in. It’s the ultimate boondocks – Permatang Rambai, Seberang Perai -the place is rural without being idyllic which really, beats the point of it being rural in the first place – all the inconveniences and none of the fun – welcome to the half of Penang the Gods of Tourism forgot – paddy fields, patchy roads and shabby, carbon monoxide emitting industrial plants, no wonder my mother turned out the way she did. On a good day, it takes about 4-5 hours to get to her house from KL. During Raya, it could take up to 8 to 10 hours, depending on how many idiots haven’t been killed yet and are still driving around idiotically hogging the fast lane on the highway.
Three: Who the Man??!
Driving with my mom in the car is no easy task particularly if it’s an 8 hour drive. No wonder my dad made me drive to Seberang Perai while he snored away in the backseat.
My mother is the world’s worst passenger mainly because she thinks she’s the world’s best non-driving driver. My mother doesn’t have a license, has never driven in her life but you wouldn’t be able to guess that by hearing her talk. You would think she taught Michael Schumacher how to drive. “I may not be able to actually drive, Maryam, but I know exactly how to, in theory,” she says. Yes ma, in theory, I know how to split an atom but that doesn’t make me a nuclear scientist. Then, my mother goes, “I may not actually be able to drive, Maryam but I’m telling you, I’ve sat in a lot of cars, I’ve been driven around by many drivers so believe me when I say I know a lot about driving.” Yes ma, I’ve done that and I can actually drive so ….WHO THE MAN???!!! WHO THE MAN?!!!! WHO THE MAN?!!! I’M THE MAN!!
And then my mother hisses, “You think you’re better than me just because you know how to drive?!!” and I go, “No ma, of course I don’t think I’m better than you just because I know how to drive. I just think I’m a better driver than you.”
My dad wakes up and says, “Maryam, you’re a good driver!!!!!” And then he goes back to sleep.
Four: Don’t bring J.D. into this
I stuck a cd in the car’s cd player – a compilation of JD Fortune’s performances on Rock Star: INXS and having lost The Driving Argument, my mom must have decided to start a new one.
“I hate your JD,” my mom said.
“What does JD have to do with anything?” was my reply. I liked how she referred to J.D. Fortune as “ your JD”. Heh. My J.D.
“I hate him. HATE HIM, HATE HIM, HATE HIM!”
“What did he ever do to you?”
“I just hate him. Hate the way he looks. Hate the way he sings. Hate the way he acts. I hate everything about him,” my mom said. She looked like she was about to spit on the car stereo.
“Well, I love EVERYTHING about him.” I answered.
“What good does that do you? You don’t have a degree. You don’t have a job. Is JD going to marry you and take care of you for the rest of your life?! No!” said my mom, World’s No. 1 reality check specialist.
“You never know, Katie Holmes had posters of Tom Cruise up on her bedroom wall as a small-town teenager. And look at her now, having his freak Scientology spawn and all…” I said. I was joking.
“Maryam, if you marry that rock star, I’m going to have him shot. SHOT DEAD, YOU HEAR ME?!!” was my mom’s response. She didn’t sound like she was joking. We had this argument before. She didn’t sound like she was joking then, either.
“Who says I plan to marry him? Maybe we’ll just live in decadent, fornicating sin.”
“THEN I’LL HAVE YOU SHOT DEAD!” my mom, still not in joking form, said, or rather, her voice boomed ominously throughout the area. It started to rain.
Five : I see trees of green
I should probably describe the scenery along the North South Expressway, but I would rather not, not at great length anyway. All I can say is, the scenery alternates between long stretches of greenery and limestone hills, short stretches of limestone hills that have been blasted to death to provide marble for some gaudy nouveau riche’s living room floor, and further up North, the landscape gets flatter – paddy fields, more paddy fields, and factories. Compelling stuff if you don’t think too much about it. Otherwise, you might start to panic at being more than 20 minutes away from the nearest, decent shopping mall. Oh, and at one point along the highway, few kilometers from the Ipoh toll plaza, is a tunnel. Tunnels are always very interesting. Really, it is. Especially if you’ve watched Daylight – that Sylvester Stallone movie where he plays a truck driver that gets trapped with a bunch of people in a tunnel. Underwater. Compelling stuff. No, not really.
After the tunnel, there’s a sharp downhill, hairpin turn. My mother will be more than happy to offer you tips on how to maneuver this part of the highway.
She will also be happy to nag you the rest of the way for driving above the 110 km/h speed limit. Once you decide to slow down, you can have my dad complain about your slow driving. And then you can watch my mom launch a tirade against my dad about how he always undermines her authority in front of the children. Then you might understand why I turned out the way I did.
Six: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six
The night before Raya was dull. I was told that I was too old to be running around my grandmother’s kampong in my underwear playing with fireworks so I didn’t. I have 10 fingers. According to my aunts and grandma, such a display of festive joy is improper for a young lady. Fuck that, I feel like a 10 year old gay boy inside.
Half the family and random strangers think I’m at the cusp of feminine failure anyhow.
Spent the earlier half of the night crouched behind my grandmother’s house smoking with one of my cousins. An old guy passed by and gave me a dirty look. I suppose in his day, a woman who smokes danced at the local cabaret and was arguably the town slut or something. Under normal circumstances, I can’t really dance. The old guy smiled benevolently at my cousin though, in some kind of Secret Male Understanding of Cancer Causing Habits.
After awhile, my cousin and I got tired of slowly killing ourselves. We got tired of throwing insults at eachother. We came to the peaceful conclusion that he’s the thin one and I’m the smart one. We got tired of having the old guy frequently pass by. We went out and drove around in circles, trying to convince our KL-ite selves that Permatang Rambai is not as wasteland-ish as it appeared to be. The mission was a failure. We headed for Penang Island, about 40 minutes drive away. Bought a pirated DVD of The Exorcism of Emily Rose. We returned to my grandma’s house, waited for everyone to go to bed, sat in the dark and watched the DVD on my laptop. There’s a scene in the film in which the priest asked the “demon” within Emily Rose for it’s name and the demon answered in a raspy voice, “One Two Three Four Five Six…..”
After the movie, my cousin and I thought it would be funny to sneak up on eachother, put on a raspy voice and go, “One, two, three, four, five, six!!!” It was funny the first few times. Then it just spooked me out of sleep.
All the bedrooms were taken so I had to sleep alone in the living room. On the couch. I kept hearing, “One, two, three, four, five, six……” even though my cousin had gone off to sleep upstairs. Permatang Rambai is spooky at night. And across the street from my grandmother’s house is a cemetery. Lovely.
Seven: Selamat Hari Raya
I managed to fall asleep at around 6 in the morning and was rudely awakened half an hour later by someone ruffling my hair and poking my shoulders. I thought it was my cousin and duly told him to fuck off only to open my eyes and realize that it was my uncle, wearing an unnecessarily generous amount of eyeliner and funky Afghan headgear – such a rock star-ish look is ill suited to a 53 year old English teacher. His recent divorce must have had some strange effects on his psyche. I went back to sleep thinking that my uncle’s experiment with the Jimi Hendrix look was all a bad dream.
An hour later, my grandma comes along and starts yelling at me, something about how unbecoming it was for a young lady to be seen sprawled out on the living room couch so late in the day (it was 7 o’clock in the morning for god’s sake!!!!!). It’s tradition to wake up at the crack of dawn on Raya but the kooks that came up with this probably never watched The Exorcism of Emily Rose. She starts chastising me for missing out on my morning prayers especially on a holy day like Raya and then adds that girls should be in the kitchen at this time, helping out with the cooking and the cleaning and what nots (my grandma’s old skool). I gave her a smile, thumbs up and went on sleeping.
I woke up around noon and stumbled to the kitchen, expecting to find traditional, rich, fattening Raya fare – ketupat pulut, rendang, cookies and cakes but instead, I discovered a limited choice of bland, “healthy” dishes courtesy of my sister and my mother – the Two Headed Health Freak Serpents. Think noodles made from unprocessed, organic flour in clear vegetable broth. I complained but ate the whole pot anyway. After all, it wasn’t like I was going to do any cooking.
My relatives were all dressed up in their brand new festive outfits. I was still in my pajamas and stayed in it for another good hour, soliciting disapproving stares from everyone (funny how my male cousin, the one I watched Exorcism with wasn’t picked on as much). My mom made a loud, public comment about my hair looking like a lion and that I even smelled like a wild animal. That was when I decided to shower and change. I re-emerged in a traditional kebaya top which I paired with jeans and had to field questions for the rest of the day from the fashion-backward about where the other half of my kebaya outfit, the kain (long, mermaid tail-like skirt thing) was. One distant relative asked me if I had gotten dressed in the dark. One of my little cousins kept telling me that the top of my underwear was showing. My grandma then said something about how if possible, I would probably choose to walk around naked. I tell her I would except I was worried that it would bring great shame upon this family and that she would be shunned by her fellow village folk.
Seriously, if anyone’s going to say anything about bad fashion statements, they should look towards my Jimi Hendrix uncle.
In accordance with tradition, I went around asking various older members of the family for forgiveness for any wrongs I might have committed against them during the past year. My uncle (the non-Jimi Hendrix one), wore a giant silver and jade ring on his hand and as I was wishing him a Happy Hari Raya he told me to “Kiss the Ring!” At first he was joking but I think, by the end of the week, he truly expected it from his nieces and nephews. I gave apologizing to my older sister, (the oldest, shortest one) a miss. I hadn’t talked to her for 2 months (due to several incidents that I couldn’t be bothered to elaborate upon) and no age old tradition or festivities will make me do otherwise. Yeah, yeah, I’m a bitch I know.
I spent the rest of the first day of Raya catching up on sleep. At night, my cousin and I went out to drive around in circles again. The family labeled us “Kembar Nakal” (rough English translation: The Naughty Twins) – we’re the same age, we’re both considered by our family to be under-achievers and apparently, we both have a knack for trouble. Except I’m smarter. And he’s greasy. My mom breastfed both of us when we were babies (my cousin stole my share of the milk!) and there’s this ongoing joke within the family about how my mom must have fed us expired breast milk.
We were back at my grandmother’s house by midnight. Everyone else in the house had gone to sleep. We sat on the patio and traded ghost stories over a pack of cigarettes. When we had ran out of stories to tell, we went inside and for lack of anything better to do, watched The Exorcism of Emily Rose again. “One, two, three, four, five, sixxxxxxx…” and spooked ourselves out of the possibility of sleep once more.
Plus, one of my aunts was also sleeping in the living room and as a kid I witnessed her behaving like she was possessed on a number of occasions. I doubt she was actually possessed; she was probably suffering from some kind of mental affliction but it was scary nonetheless. That night, she was talking and screaming in her sleep.
Besides, the living room couch didn’t make for a comfortable bed. And if thoughts of the unknown and my aunt’s sleep-talking didn’t keep me awake, the buzzing, biting mosquitoes would.
Eight: ‘Normal’ is Mob Stupidity (Second Day of Raya)
I woke up to find a strange, old lady that I was supposed to know sitting in the living room with my aunts. I plastered on my fake smile and went to greet her. She was saying something about how my sisters are much better looking than I am. Right in front of my ugly face. She said something about what a pity it is that I take after my dad instead. My aunt (the formerly possessed one) told bitch of an old lady that I actually scrub up really well. Bitch of an old lady replied that it must take a whole lot of scrubbing to get rid of my “unsightly freckles”.
Yes. Thank you. Come again. Asshole.
I love my freckles, moron. It’s an asset not a flaw. Happy Hari Raya to you too, wrinkly old hag.
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Later in the day……….
My aunt (wife of Kiss the Ring Uncle): Maryam, do you have a boyfriend yet?
Me : No.
My aunt : Why not? Is it because you can’t get one?
Me : Just don’t want one.
My aunt : What?!!
Me : It’s not a priority for me right now.
My aunt : Well, that’s not normal ……
Shut up and go watch Desperate Housewives already.
My cousin : Maryam doesn’t need a man, she is a man!
Shut up and go grease your hair or something.
Nine: We need a Revolution (Third day of Raya)
I was sitting in front of the TV in my grandma’s living room with my mom, two of my aunts and my “Kiss-the-Ring” uncle. An advertisement for a hair product came on. It showed a girl walking in with slightly unkempt hair. She looks at the “hot guy” expectantly but the “hot guy” doesn’t give her the time of day. She then goes to the bathroom, puts on some funny hair product, comes out with unnaturally smooth hair and suddenly, the “hot guy” is slobbering at her feet.
I launched a lengthy, fiery tirade about how ads like that are demeaning to a woman’s worth as an individual, as a human being. As if a woman is nothing more than how smooth her hair is. What message is this sending to impressionable, young girls out there? What message is this sending out to people in general, in regard to how they evaluate themselves or other women? I understand that the people behind these ads just want to sell their product, but do they have to do it at the cost of our value as a whole, complicated person?
My mom rolled her eyes and said that the only reason why I was against such ads was because I couldn’t be arsed to comb my own hair half the time. Then she added, “That’s just the way society works, Maryam. They want their women beautiful. You have to learn to accept it and work with it instead of sitting there looking like Mowgli (from Jungle Book) and complaining.”
My aunt, wife of Uncle Kiss The Ring gave me a look of pity, a look that read like Oh, poor ugly child. You don’t have a man in your life. You must be bitter and jealous.
My other aunt, the sleep-talking one had little to say in her waking hours.
Uncle “Kiss the Ring” was the only one on my side. Surprisingly. He said, “You know, that’s what I like about you, Maryam. People like you and I, we’re not followers. The world needs people like us in order for it to socially evolve. We don’t conform to current societal norm, we set it for the future. We’re revolutionaries, leaders, not followers!”
My mom shot my uncle (her younger brother) a deadly glare and hissed, “Sometimes, it’s good for our children to follow.”
My uncle smiled sheepishly at my mom, turned to me and said, “Anyhow, you should always listen to your mom.”
So much for being revolutionaries
Ten: Homecoming
I’m back in KL. I’m home! I’m home! Ah, sweet civilization …………………
