Long Day Ahead

It was yet early. It was cool, the air was fresh, the sun's rays warm. Balancing folder, book and materials on my arm, I stepped out. The corridor was bright and bare. The walls, though not much past a decade old, looked wan and worn. There were scattered pools of water on the floor below where the ceiling leaked. At the part of a pillar where ran a constant trickle of water from one of the many leaks, green moss grew. Occasionally, the drip of droplets broke the morning stillness.

The journey down two flights of stairs was without encounters. The steps, perhaps not quite wide enough, perhaps sometimes slippery, proved a precarious path for someone like me. Spots of discolouration and permanent stains visible here and there on them. The pale beige railing, scratched and chipped in places, showed patches of the darker shade of the layer of paint beneath. Out of the corner of my eyes, I caught a glimpse of a friendly face at a distance. He saw me too. I was thankful for the sweet, dazzling smile he gave, for it somewhat lifted a little off the impending gloom of that day.

Stepping into the corridor of the other wing, I felt intensely the stark difference in temperature. In that early hour, there were few about; the fully-blasting air-conditioner combined with low lighting made a very bleak picture, tinged in a bluish hue. Apart from the low hum of cold air blowing out of the vents, it was hushed; my heels made distinct clacks with each step I took. The first room I passed, I saw just one person - the one who would be teaching. There, in the semi-darkness, he sat - how forlorn and pitiful, I thought. How deplorable times have become, that he who made it on time sat alone in an empty room, accompanied only by the unoccupied chairs, waiting for those upon whom he would impart knowledge.

I passed two more rooms to mine - it's just as empty. I stepped in, and hoped the wait would not drain too much of my patience, for the longest day of my week had just started.

Need You Now

By Lady Antebellum, in Simlish!

Pisha plurba mimmlers
Scabbled ooba rowza flobe
Reek-a furba flozark
Yaka feenip oonamobe

Immawumba eefle eeba kloosha mibe
Fromeena kappa laza tibe

Yassa quirler appa wub
Ya mala nobe
Emma neeba zow
Sibby ooba kaw
Bidda loxaw kidrow
Emma neeba zow
Yema da nooha yakadooba wow
washa neeba zow

Amooda shaba wixie
Kasta lukimazy doe
washa vooka swimpling
nimba wavoo dinza foe

Immawumba eefle eeba kloosha mibe
Fromeena kappa laza tibe

yassa quirler appa wub
Ya malippa drelk
emma neeba zow
Sibby ooba kaw
Bidda loxaw kidrow
Emma neeba zow
Yema da nooha yakadooba wow
washa neeba zow

issa drabba hulkin fleena timbadal

yassa quirler appa wub
Ya mala nobe
emma neeba zow
Sibby ooba kaw
baya malippa drelk
Emma neeba zow
Yema da nooha yakadooba wow
washa neeba zow

washa neeba zow

Oh nooboo wa neeba zow!

Reader, do you know that I've always said "bye bye" to my roomees in Simlish ever since we got addicted to The Sims ages ago?

We should so learn to sing this one!

My Name is Aram

The first story I'd read of this brilliant collection of stories was The Circus. I loved (and still love) it - it tells of how the young boy Aram and his friend ran off to the circus whenever it came to town, despite being punished for it afterwards, every time. The writing style is all at once casual, bluntly comical, and very affecting. I read it out of an anthology, and had, ever since, wanted to get my hands on the book itself.

For years I scoured - the bookstores in the days sans Internet shopping; the online bookstores in later times - I never saw it physically on any shelves, and it was out of stock for the longest time on Amazon and Barnes and Noble. I managed to get a William Saroyan anthology at Kinokuniya, but not his (arguably) most famous work.

After a while, I stopped looking - but I never forgot this book, or how much I wanted it. Some months ago, I did a search for it out of the blue, and to my delight, it was in stock at Amazon! Finally - I found the book I'd wanted for more than a decade. It took its time making its way to me, but there it was, at last, in my hands.

Did I devour its pages immediately? Did I not wait a single minute to read and reread my favourite story until I could memorize the very phrases that made me chuckle? No, reader, I did not. For reasons I do not expect anyone to understand or accept, I saved it - like some treasure to be savoured slowly, word by word, page by page. Yes, I took my time with the book.

It was by the time I reached the tenth story, that I noticed, to my utter horror, that almost the entire story was missing. It was then too late to have the book returned.


A total of eight pages were simply not there. Need I describe how I felt? Aghast, infuriated, bewildered, stupefied... and regretful - why did I not check the book when first I got it?! But then again, who actually checks newly-purchased books for completeness of pages? It was devastating!

Well, alright - "devastating" was exaggerating it a little. To be fair, I was rather upset for a day or two. Just a day or two. I could always order another copy of the book, I figured. Surely it wouldn't take as much effort as it did so many years ago, and surely the cost is justified by the sheer passion I have for it, I reasoned. There is no need to be miserable. I could buy another copy.

I could. I haven't, as yet, but I could...

For Reasons Unfathomable

It was past 2am and I was still awake. I was looking for my black ink pen. It wasn't amongst my organized pile of mess on my coffee table. It wasn't amongst the unorganized stash of stationery in the drawer. It wasn't amongst any of the messes on any horizontal surfaces I could think of. Where could it be?

It'd been a long day, I was tired, and I was about to go to sleep. I just wanted to pen a few words before I did, and I noticed my black ink pen wasn't next to the blue one where they should be. So where was it? I remember I used it to write dates and stuff in the new books I got last week. Or was it the week before? Or was it two weeks before? It wasn't where the books were. I can't recall if I put it back. So, where was it?

It was past 2am and I ought to be in bed. I was aware that it was just a pen, and I have many others. I was aware that I misplace things all the time, and they usually turn up the moment I stopped looking for them. Yes, I was aware. So, where was it? Where was it?!

No, I'm not obsessed with a missing a pen. I'm not obsessed with proof-reading and editing a post countless times before and after publishing. I'm not obsessed with having every little thing my way and my way only. I'm not crazy. A little out of my mind, perhaps. Just a little.

Now, excuse me while I wrap those new books. Nobody - myself included - are allowed to read them before they are properly wrapped. Of course, nobody but me can wrap my books because nobody can do it the way I want it done...

Are You A Musician?

I wish I could say yes. I do. Alas, it wouldn't be the truth if I did. I can't create, write or arrange music. Heck, I can't even perform music decently on any instrument. Sure, they say the voice is also an instrument, and most of those who'd heard me sing would say I sing rather well; I think, though, the judges at the only singing competition I'd ever been in would disagree.

I guess I could say, like I always do, that I'd never been formally trained in music. Technically though, that's not completely true. When I was a little girl, I had several years' piano lessons.

My first teacher was a family friend. I was her very first student. I don't know how she did it, being so young and inexperienced that she was then, but she was amazingly patient and taught me very well. I lost her, however, when my family moved away from that town. The second teacher I had taught piano for a living, and made it so, extremely obviously. My third piano teacher was better than the second, though not much. She taught without passion, and frowned upon questions. I didn't like that at all. It was 5 or 6 years since my first lesson, when I stopped going for them (... and started writing my first "book"). I was somewhere between Grade 4 and 5, I think. Right now, I'd place myself at Grade -1.

I don't know how I fared as a music student - though I guess I must not have excelled, for I don't recall having garnered any praises from my teachers, nor admiration of family members and friends. The only thing I remember, is how my teachers always reprimanded me for banging too hard on their piano keys. I remember I learned The Blue Danube (an arranged-for-children version, of course) while with my second teacher, and once, when visiting, played it for my first teacher. She hid a smile while I was at it, and when I was done, told me that the beautiful waltz was meant for ladies in elegant ball gowns to dance to, not for stomping elephants. I was a little indignant; had I known then, how my final teacher would put it (= "STOP pounding on my NEW piano!!!"), I'd have appreciated the humour and sugar-coating a lot more.

I'd previously written a very brief note on getting my guitar (= here). Well, the Guitar Society was offering lessons at the time, and I thought - well, why not? I ended up going for 2 lessons in the span of a year, and only managed to learn ONE complete song (the easiest of them all, of course) before the poor thing was confined to its god-forsaken corner for years.

If it wasn't for my joining YKLS last year (and also being somewhat obsessed with Jason Mraz), and thus rekindling my yearning to play the instrument, it would still be in its solitary confinement.

So, yes, I can play a miserable couple of songs miserably on my miserable guitar; I can read a little music (though hardly enough to manage sight-singing); I believe I can play Twinkle Twinkle Little Star on the piano...

But no, I am not a musician. I love music and would love to do more musically, but unfortunately, I am unworthy to be termed a musician. As yet.

And no, I couldn't tell you where you could get a decent guitar. I couldn't tell you where you could get affordable lessons. I couldn't tell if there are teachers who teach with patience and passion. Still, I wish you all the best in your quest.

Now, I should stop writing and go practice some...

The Early Morn

It is yet so early one could hardly tell it will be dawn soon, looking at the sky. The darkness, the fog, the still and vacant roads - intimidating, yet alluring.

I'd forgotten how blissful it is to be awake at an hour where most in this part of the world are fast asleep.

Good morning!

The Fine Line

Well, I mean that one between the want to show genuine concern and sticking my long nose into someone else's business. I care, and therefore I want to do something about it; I want (though I am fully aware that I probably am unable) to protect one from being hurt. So, how do I know when I've crossed the line from being a caring friend to being intrusive?

I am not talking about relatively straightforward right-or-wrong choices: to continue or to quit smoking, for an example; to consume alcohol excessively or in moderation, for another. I mean matters in which no one could ever be sure what would turn out good, or otherwise. I want so much to say outright that I am extremely unsure of whether one has made the right decision; it would be easier if I knew for a fact that my opinion doesn't mean much. However, I know otherwise. My thoughts aren't, and will never be inconsequential to this person. For this, I must exercise a lot more care in what I say, and how I react.

For, how could I be sure that this isn't meant to be, just as how I have doubts on whether it is? True, history made me cynical, but still, how can I be sure? How can anyone be sure of anything? So, does that mean we are to live in fear of what we cannot predict? Are we to avoid and to forbid every single choice and course of actions that we believe might lead to the worst of our fears?

I cannot know for sure - but I know a truly happy friend when I see one. I can see the light and the life shining from the eyes, the smiles that come straight from the heart, the bliss and content that radiate from the being. Therefore, in spite of past heartbreaks, how can I confidently say the choice is a bad one when it gives one this much happiness? I cannot.

I am wary but I accept one's choice. I want badly to make certain one does not get hurt again, but definitely not at the expense of one's chance at happiness. I guess I could be like the mattress at the bouldering walls - no matter when or how many times a climber falls, it will be there to provide soft landing - constant and unwavering. Yes, that I can be.

Know that I will always be your friend, and be here for you, regardless of everything. Everything.