Saturday, December 11, 2010
Monday, November 22, 2010
Food Review of Sunday brunch at Prego, Westin Kuala Lumpur
The Glutton’s Paradise
Why the Sunday Champagne Brunch at the Westin will always be a winning combination
Why the Sunday Champagne Brunch at the Westin will always be a winning combination
There is a Disney cartoon in existence, starring Donald, Goofy and Mickey in an adaptation of Jack and the Beanstalk dubbed “Mickey and the Beanstalk”. In it, there was a scene in which a very hungry Donald and Goofy await at home anticipating a veritable feast from Mickey after having sold their sole cow at the market. Excited with the thought of filling their empty bellies, Donald and Goofy sang a ditty and there was a line in the song, made even more impressionable by Goofy’s clumsy voice, which reads “I’ll eat and eat and eat and eat and eat until I die”. Of course, they almost certainly did die, but not from having stuffed their faces silly, but alas, Mickey came back with nothing but magic beans. No points for guessing who went ape crazy first. But had you ever wish to know what it’s like to eat to the point of coming close to a comatose state in real life, I urge you to give the Prego Sunday champagne brunch at the Westin Kuala Lumpur a try.
Where do I even begin to describe how lost for words I was at the sight of the spread which went across from table to table to counter to table? And this was my third time coming back here, yet it still managed to amaze me with the abundance of food there was to feed patrons who obviously had not had anything to eat since last night (I’m guessing at least) just to make room for what’s in store the today. I wonder if any of this will go to waste? What becomes of the roasted lamb right outside once the bell tolls? (is that what happens when brunch is up?) I peek from my seat, outside the window and made a mental note that for now, the lamb was still happily sizzling on the rotisserie. We’ll see what happens when I call it quits and finally have to be wheeled out of here from over-eating.
There is a reason though why friends of Westin and members of the media were gathered here this morning because who in their right mind would give away some 30 odd 268 Ringgit, all you can eat and drink buffet for free? That’s just crazy talk, what’ wrong with you?! This auspicious occasion was to mark the impending long and fruitful relationship G.H Mumm champagne will have at being the official tipple of the Prego Sunday brunch. “Don’t mind me saying, but just as long as it’s gold and fizzes, I’ll drink it” said the man next to me, clearly self-amused. Judging by the colour of his face, I suspect he had already had one too many of that “gold and fizzy” beverage. “Why don’t you try urine then?” I said to him. “Sorry?” he asked, to beg his pardon. “I said, I’m all for the tuna in brine” I answered with a wink.
Right then, on with this whole eating lark that I intend to conquer. A spread like this requires proper planning and I for one, aimed at tasting every single morsel placed before me, so help me God. I strolled beside the snaking counter by the open kitchen, pointing at any dish that caught my eye. “I’ll have you and you and you. Youuuu, maybe later” with a bobbing, flat palmed gesture in mid air. And that was when I stopped right in front of the cold seafood bowl. I say bowl because, my limited vocabulary fails to find a precise description for something that resembled a small boat. So maybe it was just a bigger bowl and I’m pretty sure it was much bigger than the kind you put fruit punch in. The contents of it looked like a mini ocean but instead of water, it was filled to the brim with crushed ice and its inhabitants of oysters and prawns conveniently floated at the top. I wasn’t sure where the crustaceans were from, lying limp there, all red and shiny. But the oysters, I heard are Irish, from the northwestern part of Ireland called Donegal. I don’t have any reservations about consuming shellfish of any kind, but shellfish that has travelled more than 13 hours on a plane, I may be a bit dubious about. Still, they looked fresh and there was nothing a couple of shakes of Tabasco and a squeeze of lemon won’t mask, I thought. Oysters at a buffet are my weakness, my Achilles heel and in an instant I could feel my Malaysian-ness surface itself by hoarding a couple of them on my plate. I was the official Westin oyster hoarder. Had I carried a handbag, it would’ve ended up in there too. And yes, they were fresh and slid down my throat like liquid silk, and no, I am not referring to the sex lube, though I imagine the two to be quite similar in consistency. Whilst that was happening, junior chefs or waiters-dressed-like-junior-chefs in their ridiculous soufflé shaped hat, made their rounds across the floor, cradling other delectable goodies that apparently was only to be served. Not that I was complaining because if I had it my way, I’d be lying on a chaise lounge right now while servants fan and feed me grapes. I was particularly fond of the four cheese pizza, though a short slip of the tongue from the young chef that served me made it sound like “for tits pija, sir?” Not for me thanks, though you may want to try that girl there. She looks like she needs some help. The mushroom risotto wasn’t bad either though I had to decline the third helping after the oyster debacle. I was halfway through my meal, accounting for the merits of beautiful Sri Lanka with an acquaintance, when I realized that I had totally overlooked the lamb. I made haste and stood in line in front of a girl who had trouble deciding which of the meats she would like. I suggested a bit of everything but her lack of response suggested that she either didn’t hear me or was deliberately ignoring me. Hey, as long as she doesn’t keep me from my date with the roast lamb, I’m cool with it. Funny that she should end up choosing, of all things, grilled crabs legs. I love the roast counter because it reminded me of a carvery my sister, brother-in-law and I stopped by in Stoke-on-Trent on the way back from Alton Towers. There was, a lot of meat, a vegetarian’s worst nightmare, I reckon. But more than just the meat, that was another occasion where I got to “eat and eat and eat and eat and eat until I” almost died. Though nowhere near as glorious as the carvery, the roast counter was adequate and I had more than my fair share of lamb, beef, chicken wings and hand cut potato wedges. Had there been Yorkshire puddings there, my Sunday would’ve been complete.
It was getting increasingly hard to breath and I contemplated releasing a button off my trousers. But I knew that my battle had one last obstacle to overcome and that was dessert. I love sweet things, they make me happy. But too often at these things, the offerings are always the same. Not that it’s not good, but you get tired after the same old cheesecake, fruit tarts and the obligatory cream puffs. Yawn! But herein lies something I have not had seen since God knows when and they weren’t even second rate attempts either, they were actually quite good! Cannoli filled with delightful cream substituted my yearn for Yorkshire puddings and that, no less, made my Sunday.
Things were starting to get rowdy as I licked my fingers from the last Cannoli. Middle-aged white ladies lifting their dresses, attempting the can-can was a sight I didn’t care too much for especially after consuming way too much food. Bubbly overload, methinks and that was my cue to bust the joint. I’ve always had good memories with the Sunday brunch at Prego and one even left me overly amused from watching my friends hauling their drunk a**es out of there by any means necessary. No doubt that the free flow of alcohol is the crowd puller for many secret or wannabe alcoholics but the food, is just as good. Surprised? Not really. This is Westin after all and if you can’t count on the Westin, who else can you count on?
Where do I even begin to describe how lost for words I was at the sight of the spread which went across from table to table to counter to table? And this was my third time coming back here, yet it still managed to amaze me with the abundance of food there was to feed patrons who obviously had not had anything to eat since last night (I’m guessing at least) just to make room for what’s in store the today. I wonder if any of this will go to waste? What becomes of the roasted lamb right outside once the bell tolls? (is that what happens when brunch is up?) I peek from my seat, outside the window and made a mental note that for now, the lamb was still happily sizzling on the rotisserie. We’ll see what happens when I call it quits and finally have to be wheeled out of here from over-eating.
There is a reason though why friends of Westin and members of the media were gathered here this morning because who in their right mind would give away some 30 odd 268 Ringgit, all you can eat and drink buffet for free? That’s just crazy talk, what’ wrong with you?! This auspicious occasion was to mark the impending long and fruitful relationship G.H Mumm champagne will have at being the official tipple of the Prego Sunday brunch. “Don’t mind me saying, but just as long as it’s gold and fizzes, I’ll drink it” said the man next to me, clearly self-amused. Judging by the colour of his face, I suspect he had already had one too many of that “gold and fizzy” beverage. “Why don’t you try urine then?” I said to him. “Sorry?” he asked, to beg his pardon. “I said, I’m all for the tuna in brine” I answered with a wink.
Right then, on with this whole eating lark that I intend to conquer. A spread like this requires proper planning and I for one, aimed at tasting every single morsel placed before me, so help me God. I strolled beside the snaking counter by the open kitchen, pointing at any dish that caught my eye. “I’ll have you and you and you. Youuuu, maybe later” with a bobbing, flat palmed gesture in mid air. And that was when I stopped right in front of the cold seafood bowl. I say bowl because, my limited vocabulary fails to find a precise description for something that resembled a small boat. So maybe it was just a bigger bowl and I’m pretty sure it was much bigger than the kind you put fruit punch in. The contents of it looked like a mini ocean but instead of water, it was filled to the brim with crushed ice and its inhabitants of oysters and prawns conveniently floated at the top. I wasn’t sure where the crustaceans were from, lying limp there, all red and shiny. But the oysters, I heard are Irish, from the northwestern part of Ireland called Donegal. I don’t have any reservations about consuming shellfish of any kind, but shellfish that has travelled more than 13 hours on a plane, I may be a bit dubious about. Still, they looked fresh and there was nothing a couple of shakes of Tabasco and a squeeze of lemon won’t mask, I thought. Oysters at a buffet are my weakness, my Achilles heel and in an instant I could feel my Malaysian-ness surface itself by hoarding a couple of them on my plate. I was the official Westin oyster hoarder. Had I carried a handbag, it would’ve ended up in there too. And yes, they were fresh and slid down my throat like liquid silk, and no, I am not referring to the sex lube, though I imagine the two to be quite similar in consistency. Whilst that was happening, junior chefs or waiters-dressed-like-junior-chefs in their ridiculous soufflé shaped hat, made their rounds across the floor, cradling other delectable goodies that apparently was only to be served. Not that I was complaining because if I had it my way, I’d be lying on a chaise lounge right now while servants fan and feed me grapes. I was particularly fond of the four cheese pizza, though a short slip of the tongue from the young chef that served me made it sound like “for tits pija, sir?” Not for me thanks, though you may want to try that girl there. She looks like she needs some help. The mushroom risotto wasn’t bad either though I had to decline the third helping after the oyster debacle. I was halfway through my meal, accounting for the merits of beautiful Sri Lanka with an acquaintance, when I realized that I had totally overlooked the lamb. I made haste and stood in line in front of a girl who had trouble deciding which of the meats she would like. I suggested a bit of everything but her lack of response suggested that she either didn’t hear me or was deliberately ignoring me. Hey, as long as she doesn’t keep me from my date with the roast lamb, I’m cool with it. Funny that she should end up choosing, of all things, grilled crabs legs. I love the roast counter because it reminded me of a carvery my sister, brother-in-law and I stopped by in Stoke-on-Trent on the way back from Alton Towers. There was, a lot of meat, a vegetarian’s worst nightmare, I reckon. But more than just the meat, that was another occasion where I got to “eat and eat and eat and eat and eat until I” almost died. Though nowhere near as glorious as the carvery, the roast counter was adequate and I had more than my fair share of lamb, beef, chicken wings and hand cut potato wedges. Had there been Yorkshire puddings there, my Sunday would’ve been complete.
It was getting increasingly hard to breath and I contemplated releasing a button off my trousers. But I knew that my battle had one last obstacle to overcome and that was dessert. I love sweet things, they make me happy. But too often at these things, the offerings are always the same. Not that it’s not good, but you get tired after the same old cheesecake, fruit tarts and the obligatory cream puffs. Yawn! But herein lies something I have not had seen since God knows when and they weren’t even second rate attempts either, they were actually quite good! Cannoli filled with delightful cream substituted my yearn for Yorkshire puddings and that, no less, made my Sunday.
Things were starting to get rowdy as I licked my fingers from the last Cannoli. Middle-aged white ladies lifting their dresses, attempting the can-can was a sight I didn’t care too much for especially after consuming way too much food. Bubbly overload, methinks and that was my cue to bust the joint. I’ve always had good memories with the Sunday brunch at Prego and one even left me overly amused from watching my friends hauling their drunk a**es out of there by any means necessary. No doubt that the free flow of alcohol is the crowd puller for many secret or wannabe alcoholics but the food, is just as good. Surprised? Not really. This is Westin after all and if you can’t count on the Westin, who else can you count on?
Sunday, November 21, 2010
August Man, Feature Story (Apr 2009)
Featuring Elaine Daly, Atilia, Judimar Hernandez and Dina Zaman
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
August Man, Feature Spread (Feb 09)
Feature Spread with Henry Golding, Zizan Nin, Daniel Tan, Daniel Bego and Hansen Lee.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Wetting your feet
The thrill of riding your first wave by Ali Imran K.
(August Man, July 2010)
(August Man, July 2010)
It wasn’t till I got a first glimpse of Padang, a couple thousand feet above land that I felt a bit restless. I could have done this in Malaysia, but with the surf in our nation being seasonal (5 months in a year, during the eastern monsoon), this appeared to be the next best option. I could have also taken up lessons in Bali- the surfing mecca as regarded by many, but that was just my problem with it, it is regarded by too many. I planned this alone, this peeking start to self discovery, but coincidentally, I was joined by 2 acquaintances-Lynn, a girl I knew from primary school and Amran, a friend of a friend to whom I was introduced to a few years back. It’s funny to think how all 3 of us rarely crossed paths and here we were, 10 minutes away from landing in Minangkabau International Airport. It was also endearingly funny to think how none was more excited than our instructors- Leh and Simon, to which, the latter has set his foot in Padang countless amounts of time, yet feels no less disheartened.
It takes about an hour to get here from LCCT, though with the time difference, you actually arrive the same time you had left. We were met by Dewi, the wife and co-owner of the guest house we were making the next few nights home. Simon commented on how tanned she looked. “Surfing-3 times a week”, she answered with a smile and elaborately detailed to us how amazing the swell was the day before.
Padang looks sparse from inside the van and reminders of last year’s tragic earthquake can still be seen throughout. I had learnt much later that Dewi’s father’s house was completely ruined to a rubble, though thankfully nobody was hurt. But people here remain unbelievably optimistic and Bob (Dewi’s husband) commented that they can pretty much attest to how strong an earthquake is going to be and don’t immediately go ape crazy at any sort of tremor. There is a sign at the guesthouse which reads, “If an earthquake happens and you are on the first floor, run to the roof. If you’re on the ground floor, run out” and another one which said “In times of earthquake, RUN!”. We were on the first floor.
It was close to sundown when we made our first trip out to Pantai Air Manis, with boards secured atop Bob’s SUV. Lynn decided to opt this one out, saying that it was too late and she just wanted to chill for now. I was eager, though it was hard to read if Amran shared my enthusiasm. Air Manis is a good 30 minutes drive up a hill and back down, passing through a kampong. The beach is rightfully their land, so any outsiders getting there have to pay a “toll” of some sorts, more as a sign of respect and appreciation.
It was approaching half past 5 when we had our first introduction. There was hardly anyone out apart from some local surfers, so we felt like we owned the beach. Air Manis’s sand is black, and it isn’t exactly clinically clean, though the combination of idyllic weather and workable swells made for an awesome welcome. But it’ll still be a while till we were allowed even anywhere near a wave. For now, we had to learn how to pop-up and stay popped up. The sun was dipping behind a nearby island and literally coloured everything in its path a beautiful shade of golden. I saw Amran’s silhouette not far off from me as the waves breaking on him looked like a million shards of amber.
It takes about an hour to get here from LCCT, though with the time difference, you actually arrive the same time you had left. We were met by Dewi, the wife and co-owner of the guest house we were making the next few nights home. Simon commented on how tanned she looked. “Surfing-3 times a week”, she answered with a smile and elaborately detailed to us how amazing the swell was the day before.
Padang looks sparse from inside the van and reminders of last year’s tragic earthquake can still be seen throughout. I had learnt much later that Dewi’s father’s house was completely ruined to a rubble, though thankfully nobody was hurt. But people here remain unbelievably optimistic and Bob (Dewi’s husband) commented that they can pretty much attest to how strong an earthquake is going to be and don’t immediately go ape crazy at any sort of tremor. There is a sign at the guesthouse which reads, “If an earthquake happens and you are on the first floor, run to the roof. If you’re on the ground floor, run out” and another one which said “In times of earthquake, RUN!”. We were on the first floor.
It was close to sundown when we made our first trip out to Pantai Air Manis, with boards secured atop Bob’s SUV. Lynn decided to opt this one out, saying that it was too late and she just wanted to chill for now. I was eager, though it was hard to read if Amran shared my enthusiasm. Air Manis is a good 30 minutes drive up a hill and back down, passing through a kampong. The beach is rightfully their land, so any outsiders getting there have to pay a “toll” of some sorts, more as a sign of respect and appreciation.
It was approaching half past 5 when we had our first introduction. There was hardly anyone out apart from some local surfers, so we felt like we owned the beach. Air Manis’s sand is black, and it isn’t exactly clinically clean, though the combination of idyllic weather and workable swells made for an awesome welcome. But it’ll still be a while till we were allowed even anywhere near a wave. For now, we had to learn how to pop-up and stay popped up. The sun was dipping behind a nearby island and literally coloured everything in its path a beautiful shade of golden. I saw Amran’s silhouette not far off from me as the waves breaking on him looked like a million shards of amber.
When surfers and divers meet
Dinner time was particularly eventful as all 11 of us from the guesthouse would descend to a restaurant like the hoi polloi-13, if you include Bob and Dewi. Padang has exquisite diving sites and a group of 6 divers had arrived earlier than us. I relished the evenings as it was probably the only time we would all congregate in merriment and exchange stories. And it wasn’t just the stories that I enjoy, but the whole range of people I would never have met had I not joined this trip. It was quite a ruckus having us anywhere and Clive, one of the two Brits in the diving party, was such good fun to be around after he’s had a few whiskeys.
After dinner one night, Simon insisted that myself, Amran and Leh experience a “blue taxi”. He wasn’t going to divulge anything more, so we followed blindly. Bob parked his car a few yards away from his house and switched off his lights as he asked to simply stand by the side of road. Not more than 5 seconds of standing there, a blue taxi stopped by Leh. Leh then pointed to me as neither his nor Amran’s Bahasa Indonesia was up to par. I peeked in and enquired. Let’s just say, it was an offer of the seedy kind that none of us were inclined to accept. I’m sure the reactions on our faces must have been hilarious as I was asked to recount with minute details of what exactly happened several times over, which was then followed by a roar of laughter.
After dinner one night, Simon insisted that myself, Amran and Leh experience a “blue taxi”. He wasn’t going to divulge anything more, so we followed blindly. Bob parked his car a few yards away from his house and switched off his lights as he asked to simply stand by the side of road. Not more than 5 seconds of standing there, a blue taxi stopped by Leh. Leh then pointed to me as neither his nor Amran’s Bahasa Indonesia was up to par. I peeked in and enquired. Let’s just say, it was an offer of the seedy kind that none of us were inclined to accept. I’m sure the reactions on our faces must have been hilarious as I was asked to recount with minute details of what exactly happened several times over, which was then followed by a roar of laughter.
So you’re a regular, no wait, a goofy
One thing I have to hand it to the Indonesians is that they have a knack for making everything delicious. It may not necessarily be healthy what with the mountains of MSG they tip into most everything, but it will most certainly leave you wanting for more. If only half boiled eggs were topped off with chicken soup when I was growing up, I’d have knocked back tonnes of it.
We intended to start at Air Manis earlier, but as is with most things that rely on other people, we arrived about an hour later than planned. Our very large beginner boards looked slightly more garish in the light of day, standing at 8 ft and bright orange like a tangerine. It didn’t help either that Amran’s rash vest and mine were a complementary shade of red, easily spotted from any point out in the ocean almost screaming out “Beginner!”. Carrying it to the water was another issue, as it was too large to physically hold in one arm. So no, we weren’t exactly the epitome of “cool” surfer dude and dudettes, traipsing around the beach, especially not when Lynn resorted to carrying it above her head. There is a reason to its size though, because a larger and longer board provides more buoyancy which in turn will make it easier for you to stand and find your feet. “It’s not just a question of a beginner board, but more on your style of surfing” Leh explained to me. Some surfers stay on a longboard because they prefer the easy, fun ride of surfing, whilst others prefer the shortboard for speed and manoeuvrability. “Most beginners are so consumed with wanting to look “cool” that they forego the advantages of a longboard completely”, he added.
We tried popping up again on dry land and everything went swimmingly well until Amran noticed that I was popping up, facing the left- which would make me a goofy, as my right foot was leading. This was all fine and dandy except in all the times that I have ever engaged in surfing before, my left foot was ahead. We tried out in the water anyway, just to be sure, only to discover that when I finally stood up, my left foot was ahead, which would then make me a regular. I switched the leash to my right foot, but like my left, it was ahead when I stood up. Was I just uncomfortable with a bound ankle or truly an ambidextrous glider? “You could be destined for a longboard bro” Simon said with a smile because longboarders have to able to switch between the two.
We intended to start at Air Manis earlier, but as is with most things that rely on other people, we arrived about an hour later than planned. Our very large beginner boards looked slightly more garish in the light of day, standing at 8 ft and bright orange like a tangerine. It didn’t help either that Amran’s rash vest and mine were a complementary shade of red, easily spotted from any point out in the ocean almost screaming out “Beginner!”. Carrying it to the water was another issue, as it was too large to physically hold in one arm. So no, we weren’t exactly the epitome of “cool” surfer dude and dudettes, traipsing around the beach, especially not when Lynn resorted to carrying it above her head. There is a reason to its size though, because a larger and longer board provides more buoyancy which in turn will make it easier for you to stand and find your feet. “It’s not just a question of a beginner board, but more on your style of surfing” Leh explained to me. Some surfers stay on a longboard because they prefer the easy, fun ride of surfing, whilst others prefer the shortboard for speed and manoeuvrability. “Most beginners are so consumed with wanting to look “cool” that they forego the advantages of a longboard completely”, he added.
We tried popping up again on dry land and everything went swimmingly well until Amran noticed that I was popping up, facing the left- which would make me a goofy, as my right foot was leading. This was all fine and dandy except in all the times that I have ever engaged in surfing before, my left foot was ahead. We tried out in the water anyway, just to be sure, only to discover that when I finally stood up, my left foot was ahead, which would then make me a regular. I switched the leash to my right foot, but like my left, it was ahead when I stood up. Was I just uncomfortable with a bound ankle or truly an ambidextrous glider? “You could be destined for a longboard bro” Simon said with a smile because longboarders have to able to switch between the two.
Catching my first wave
After having happily ridden white water and small waves, Simon and Leh thought we were prepared for the line-up to catch our first real wave. We paddled quite far in and I knew this because as we were tipped upside down in the water, as part of the exercise on how to immerge safely, I couldn’t touch the sea bed. We sat at the edge of our boards, patiently waiting for the opportunistic wave when Leh looked at me to indicate that the incoming one was mine. I turned my board around and lay flat on my belly as he screamed “Paddle!”. I paddled hard and felt the wave lift the tail of my board, but I stood too close to the nose that my board tipped straight into the water as I rolled underneath the break. I fondled for my leash underwater and came back up slowly for air as I saw Simon smiling at me and asking me if I was okay. That was my first wipe-out.
The line-up was getting full of people that I thought it best to paddle further in for a bit until it clears up. Surfing can get very territorial and it is essential that you always respect the locality. The surfers in Air Manis are quite friendly, but it’s wise that you acknowledge their turf, if for nothing, but to build good rapport whilst you’re out in the ocean. I caught one easy wave to shore and when I turned around, I saw what looked like a huge orange sanitary pad flying into the air. It was Lynn’s board and a relatively big wave caught her by surprise. I paddled out to find her laughing her face off, all the while trying to brush the mass of hair covering her face.
I was quite determined to get this by all means necessary and I have the inflamed left rib to prove it. I could see Lynn and Amran moving on the beach by virtue of Amran’s fluorescent vest. I was alone with Leh at the time and we waited until he thought there was a suitable one for me. We saw one forming in the horizon as Leh signalled me to turn around quick. “Paddle!” he screamed as my board lifted off right at the peak of the wave and I was smiling because I was riding it, all the way to the beach. After finishing my first marathon, that was single-handedly, the most amazing feeling in the world. Nobody saw me ride it though, as Leh was behind the break and the rest were too far in. When I finally caught glimpse of Leh, I gave him a thumbs up, and he knew what I meant.
The line-up was getting full of people that I thought it best to paddle further in for a bit until it clears up. Surfing can get very territorial and it is essential that you always respect the locality. The surfers in Air Manis are quite friendly, but it’s wise that you acknowledge their turf, if for nothing, but to build good rapport whilst you’re out in the ocean. I caught one easy wave to shore and when I turned around, I saw what looked like a huge orange sanitary pad flying into the air. It was Lynn’s board and a relatively big wave caught her by surprise. I paddled out to find her laughing her face off, all the while trying to brush the mass of hair covering her face.
I was quite determined to get this by all means necessary and I have the inflamed left rib to prove it. I could see Lynn and Amran moving on the beach by virtue of Amran’s fluorescent vest. I was alone with Leh at the time and we waited until he thought there was a suitable one for me. We saw one forming in the horizon as Leh signalled me to turn around quick. “Paddle!” he screamed as my board lifted off right at the peak of the wave and I was smiling because I was riding it, all the way to the beach. After finishing my first marathon, that was single-handedly, the most amazing feeling in the world. Nobody saw me ride it though, as Leh was behind the break and the rest were too far in. When I finally caught glimpse of Leh, I gave him a thumbs up, and he knew what I meant.
Waving goodbye
We surfed till sundown on the final day. I was going to make the most of it because God knows, when I’ll ever get the chance again. It’s at times like these, when it gets absolutely magical-just you, the waves and pure unadulterated surf, even if I was a rookie. The thing about riding a wave is that it gets totally addictive-you want to do it over and over again and in Padang, it hardly ever gets crowded. At certain times of the day you even feel like you own the beach! I recall starting at 4 pm that afternoon and I lasted till 7, with rashes on my palms and inner thighs from rubbing against the foam board. The sunset, as always was amazing that evening and as I was carrying my gargantuan surfboard to shore, I knew that I wanted this to be a big part of my life. Although surfing was invented purely for fun, it’s more than just a leisurely past time-it’s a way of life to many. It teaches you to be humble, it teaches you to be patient and for some reason, being a surfer instantly connects you with other surfers, like an invisible bond that eliminates all social awkwardness and boundaries. But it wasn’t just the surf that was phenomenal, it was the combination of good company, great food and unforgettable experiences that made it even harder to leave. Holidays always make it difficult for anyone to readjust to their normal routine, but this one proved the hardest as I’m always thinking of the waves and marking suitable dates on my calendar to return. People often ask me how my trip went and I always answer the same way with everyone- “It was too, too awesome”.
Ali, are you okay? (Nov 2009)
Subliminally annoying
Ali Imran K. says that there is nothing worse than a hidden insult
Ali Imran K. says that there is nothing worse than a hidden insult
The advent of Jil Sander’s collaboration with Japanese clothing manufacturer, Uniqlo was an eagerly anticipated event. It was a mystery to all but the brand on when the collection would be out, for no amount of beleaguering would provide you with an exact date. I only came to know of this, on my recent trip to Singapore as that’s where the closest Uniqlo store is, in relation to KL. I was indifferent to the idea and was much more surprised that there was not a single Krispy Kreme in town! but thought, since I’m in the city, IF I happen to chance by it, it wouldn’t hurt to add a solitary Jil Sander piece into my collection.
That night, at a press conference, I came across an old Singaporean compadre who I recall feigning fatigue the last time we met, just to escape his obnoxious, bitter rants. It was too late to jump behind a potted plant so I bit my tongue in preparation for the charade that was about to unfold. Surprisingly, the conversation was bearable, almost pleasant even, until I brought up the whole Jil Sander topic. “Oh, they’ve called me in advance so that I can reserve what I want even before it hits the shops” he said. I could have smiled and said nothing else but killing a conversation would be highly impolite and besides, I was waiting for the perfect opportunity to deliver a zinger of a riposte. My error, unfortunately, was to ask him “How did that happen?” to which the answer was short and sweet but stung like salt on a gaping wound. “Media” he said, followed by a smug smile and a raucous scene about how sorry he felt for me because there were no Uniqlos in KL. I am very well equipped to handle blatant insults but it’s the inconspicuous variety that gets my bloomers in a twist-condescending and falsely amiable. What a pretentious prick! I grinned and excused myself to get another drink.
Later that night, I wondered why I got so upset over “ant droppings”. I questioned his motive when he said “media” for was he not in conversation with a fellow “media”? It’s one thing to show off with a person who has little knowledge of your occupation, but rubbing it in with somebody of your own kind, makes you a little bit conceited. I knew he was fond of blowing smoke up his own behind so that really didn’t take me by surprise.
The longer I thought about it, the more I realized that he was evil incarnate, spawned from the pits of deceit and envy, whose sole purpose is to make my life miserable. In other words, he has somehow discovered a way of hurling abuse at me but, disguising it in fluff and Tinkerbell glitter, so that he may trot away, knowing that he had bruised a little bit of my ego. That, in my opinion, is the harshest form of insolence you could bequeath to a man. It’s like you want to react, but you can’t, you should, but then again, why should you? Like you want to do something about it, but you can’t, really. That kills me! It’s on repeat in my head and I keep on imagining the things I would have done or said differently.
Something a little bit more intelligent, perhaps, something that would have shut him up in his place. If all else fails, a kick in the shin, maybe? But I caught his game a little too late, clouded by my own raging emotions and I let him get away with it, scot free. If there is anything that my mother has taught me all these years in raising a hard headed bull of a son, is that sometimes it’s best to just plead ignorance. I don’t see how I had a choice in the matter, as unless I could reverse time, there was no way I was going to get another chance at engaging in a verbal duel with him. So forget I tried, but forget I did not.
Singapore isn’t that big of a country much less a city, but out of all the watering holes on the whole island, I had to bump into him again the following night. My modus operandi was that of nonchalance and whilst I was trying to not catch his eye by staring at my drink, apparently, he caught mine. I stared at his mouth trying to make sense of the diarrhea that was pouring out when a certain topic of conversation got my attention. It turns out that Uniqlo made a serious error in offering him their reservation services as it was intended for someone else. “Aww, shame” I said, but inside, I was positively beaming. It’s a terrible thing to be even the slightest bit elated by someone else’s misfortunes, but in this case, I couldn’t help but feel a teensy bit appeased. It’s not my style to disclose how vainglorious I felt at that moment, so in an effort to elude him to think that we were on the same team, I offered to buy him a drink- I’m not completely heartless but touche, my dear friend, tou-che.
Ali, are you okay? (April 2010)
Trivial Pursuit
Shaking old habits by Ali Imran K.
Shaking old habits by Ali Imran K.
It appears that there is not one, but two cocktail shakers sitting on the kitchen counter. Either somebody is a raging alcoholic or just has one too many friends to entertain. Since this household is wholesomely Muslim, I rule out the former (though you never know). Also, note that they are of the plastic variety and only part translucent, which is very “common” if you ask me, but perhaps somebody is rather clumsy when it comes to mixing drinks or just a rookie in the cocktail scene. Yes, it looked rather misplaced, like a jockstrap in the girl’s locker room, though if I could take a stab at it, I knew exactly who brought it in and I would love to hear the story on how it got here in the first place.
If there ever was a time when the shaker(s) would be put to use, it’d be during dinner. So I waited with eyes darting between both suspects, making silent speculations as to who would make the first mad dash towards them. “So you bought them?” I asked my mother. “Somebody was selling them at your dad’s hospital. Mine’s free though because it came as a gift with your aunt’s wild honey purchase. I bought the second box” she explained. “You do know that that’s going to end up collecting dust”. But she pretended she couldn’t hear me and proceeded to shake a drink out violently for my dad. “It really is good, Imran! You should try!” and I did, if only to satisfy my curiosity. It wasn’t offensive, in fact, it was quite tasty, but not something you would rush home to, like Froyo or bubble tea. A concoction of wild honey (surprise!) and dragon fruit, it came in sachets, not powdery but paste-y. You squeeze every slow liquid out of its bright green packaging into the shaker, filled with ice, I would imagine crushed or otherwise, topped off with water and shake just as you would with a real cocktail shaker.
I’m starting to think that my mother has a penchant for shakers because mind you, this isn’t the first time anything of the sort has entered our house. The last piece of equipment I saw her bring back was a white topped flask which she used to shake her supplements in, much like the ones I use for my protein shakes, only hers contains some bone strengthening formula. Suffice to say, that that thing is now out of sight and forgotten, which I am sure is at the back of the cupboard, rotting somewhere. She has also, in her attempt to lose weight, bought a huge can of oats and cereal, which to me, looked more like hamster pellets than anything suitable for human consumption. That too was barely touched, though luckily for her I quite enjoy bird food.
There wasn’t at least one glass on the table without that drink at mealtimes, and although she has offered to shake one for me on numerous occasions, I politely declined. It has turned into an obsession of some sort- my mother and her amazing discovery of shaken dragon fruit-honey beverages that she whips one up at every chance she gets. There was one for my sister who was back in town for a holiday as a welcoming drink, one for our plumber who popped by to settle his bill and there was even once where she shook two at one go-no easy feat, I assure you. With a little bit of practise, I’d expect her to flip the shaker behind her back, let it do a few somersaults and then catch it with her other hand. I think she even called some of her friends over to sample this delectable drink claiming she knows “just the thing!” to quench parched throats.
I never thought of my mother as one to succumb to trivia, but looking back, our lives have been filled with inanimate objects which have hardly ever been touched. She bought a vacuum cleaner-like apparatus once, which instead of inhaling anything, it sprouts steam. I recall a faded edged picture of a woman in the pamphlet with blonde Farah Fawcett like curls, head tilted, smiling widely, apparently enjoying the steamer like sauna in her shower. Convinced by this, my mom bought the gargantuan machine which was then only used halfway to clean a shower screen before she got tired prepping it up. So like our treadmill, the ‘easy-peasy’ salad maker and the wondrous non-stick sandwich toaster, it has been reserved a first class spot underneath the closet, never to be seen again until space was needed.
But I quite enjoy these little outbursts of rabid consumerism from my mother. It’s humorously endearing and I indulge her sometimes, which in some strange way connects us even deeper. After all, people often say that you grow up to be just like your parents and if karma is a living b****h, I think I had better start playing nice.
Ali, are you okay? (May 2010)
Park at your own will
A dodgy autopay that almost brought out the thug in Ali Imran K.
A dodgy autopay that almost brought out the thug in Ali Imran K.
Next month will mark my second anniversary here at August Man and I would like to make it known that I still do not have a parking pass. I have no idea why I haven’t gotten round to getting one but for the past 24 months, I have been paying my parking dues with a ticket at an autopay machine. I know it seem rather silly, expensive as well and not to mention inconvenient, but as I mentioned earlier, I don’t know why, so don’t ask.
If you’ve ever been to this side of the world, you will know that Dataran Prima is a sizeable piece of land filled with three office blocks, two of which have their own autopay basement parking. For convenience sake, you would think that there would be multiple machines to serve the numerous exit points from the car park, but there are only two in reality, one for each long block. To make matters worse, the bright yellow machine in our block, has a mind of its own (much like my cousin Lina’s ripe bosoms) and it once told me I owed RM54, 065 for four hours.
But I’ve gotten used to its temperament which usually requires a gentle thump should it misbehave and if you’re lucky enough it may actually spit out an extra 50 cent coin. Speaking of coins, just as an added info, I get the impression that this lovely piece of contraption was probably fished out from centuries long gone as it doesn’t dispense notes but 50 cent coins as change. So don’t try to put in RM10 for a RM2 parking charge unless you compensate a bulging trouser pocket with coins.
As it happened, one evening as I was leaving the office, it started to rain. The wind blew it in all kinds of directions as well, which made dodging it an arduous dance of sorts. The yellow box said I owed RM4, after having slipped my ticket in, so I dropped in whatever loose change I had on me at the time. I finished paying feeling rather convinced that I really don’t need a parking pass because despite the odds, this was all too easy. The hems of my trousers may have been a little damp from the spittle of rain, but hey, this is the tropics, if you hate getting wet, go live in the Sahara.
When my ticket didn’t appear as per usual, I looked up at the screen and it said that I still owed 50 cents, when I could’ve sworn I paid everything. “No matter” I thought. I’ll just toss in another coin and I’ll be well on my way. I hear the coin making its way down to the pits of its mechanical bowels and when there was a clinking sound that indicated that it has reached its destination, still nothing happened. That, no less just lit the fuse leading to the bomb that is my infuriating rage and if I didn’t know better, this looks to me like the perfect setting for an explosion of nuclear proportions.
I thumped the machine-nothing happened, I kicked it- no reaction, I held it by its sides and rattled the bejesus out of it- nada. But at least my ticket came back out but not without hurting my eye first as it came flying out like guided missile. At times when the autopay acts up, occupants of our block have the option of either notifying a security guard, who would then buzz the parking barrier up themselves or paying the fee at the management’s office, which was just further along from the machine. Funnily enough, no guard was seen on site and I took this as a general sign of negligence. What if someone was robbed? Or raped? Or just needed to get out of the parking pronto? My blood rose as I imagine them huddling underneath the stairs in our building because the rain made it an apt opportunity to catch a snooze.
Besides, I don’t think they take their jobs that seriously as I once saw one of them with an iphone, so I’m guessing, they’re guards just for the heck of it. The management office was no better either, as it was already closed when I got there. I stared at my reflection in the office’s window in disbelief all the while thinking to myself “This is not happening”. My only other and final option was to brave the torrential downpour, so that I can get to the other block where the last remaining working machine sits. If that one’s broken as well, then I’m screwed. I got out eventually, in case you’re wondering but positively fuming from drenched clothes and lazy, good for nothing workers who seem to have a talent for disappearing at crucial times.
All I can say is, they certainly picked the wrong guy to mess with as although I would stand for people overtaking me at Kripsy Kreme, this appears to be something that wars are made of. I worded my comeback speech carefully-concise, to the point yet authoritative. I knew I was right and there was no way that this principled man was going to back down, at least not in theory.
I harrumphed my way into their office the following morning, exerting a sense of utmost urgency and said “Your machine swallowed my RM5 yesterday. I want it back, please”. The attendant rose and asked “How much?”, giving me the impression that he was ready to engage in a verbal duel, not knowing that I had a slew of comebacks up my sleeve ready for him.
“RM5 ”, I repeated assertively. He appeared to be rummaging for something underneath the counter-an emergency button! I knew it! “Crazy man running amok for RM5” or worse, a long heavy object to clobber me on the head with from across the counter-oh, you’ve done it now Ali! Could’ve just let it slide, but No! You had to make a big deal out it. Perfect, just perfect.
“Here you go” as he slapped a note in front of me.
“Urmm....Thanks”, I said as I picked it up and left.
“Here you go” as he slapped a note in front of me.
“Urmm....Thanks”, I said as I picked it up and left.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Ali, are you okay? (Aug, 2010)
The Sound of Music
Walking down “Penny” lane with Ali Imran K.
When I was two (I’m pretty sure I was two because my younger sister Didah had not been born yet), I managed to temporarily drown myself in the kid’s pool of Feringghi Beach Hotel. I say temporary, because my father saved me in the nick of time and I even have the photograph to prove it. It’s funny how I can remember all these things, because apart from drowning in Penang and my father’s old record collection, my memory before five looked a lot like white noise.
He had quite the record collection, my dad. Strange to think how a man of such minimal words and emotions was once swept away by what he now describes as “a fool’s pleasure”. He never talks about it. My mom would occasionally indulge us, by virtue of her overwhelming feelings every time she hears The Carpenters’ “Close To You”. My father never did much by way of anything that is even remotely related to fun when he was a student. Coming from a very poor background, he had no choice but to make it, so he sacrificed a lot of youthful frivolity in exchange for solitary hard work. When all the other kids (my mother included) were dancing the night away in Dewan Tunku Chancellor of Universiti Malaya, he was elbow deep in books, formulas and sloughing away for his next exams which was still probably a good couple of months away. His only form of indulgence was his music and he had a habit of collecting them, like an arab sheikh would collect wives.
He had a DENON stereo, with a cassette and record player. Though we never exactly worked out the mechanics of the record player to ever play one successfully, my sisters and I spent many afternoons splayed in front of the player listening to whatever we could get our hands on. For a couple of months it was Cindy Lauper because it was the only pop-ish sounding music we had in the house at the time and to this day, I still have no idea how it ever got there in the first place. So by the time I started primary school, I knew the lyrics of “She Bop”, “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” and “Time after Time” by heart. It was my only party trick until I was 9. Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” was a big hit amongst my siblings as well and many hours were spent in front of the TV laboriously trying to mimic Jacko’s fancy footwork. This was pre-You Tube, pre-Internet, pre-MTV (in Malaysia at least), so we literally had to wait in front of the TV for whenever they would play the music video and try to get the moves as best as we can in the short few minutes it went on air.
By the mid 80s, my father’s interest in music was waning, favouring religious sermons more than pop. His “old friends”- The Beatles, Bee Gees, ABBA, Boney M, Elvis, Sharifah Aini, all sat idle on the bottom rack of his record player, collecting dust. I remember flipping through them one day and came across an Anita Sarawak record wearing what would probably be deemed as raunchy by today’s Malaysian standards. One record which we did manage to victoriously play was the soundtrack to the movie “Melody”. The record sleeve was a picture of a girl handing over an apple to a boy. You don’t see their heads though, because it was cropped just at the hands and the apple was right in the middle. It’s quite funny, now that I think about it, how a kid, midway through kindergarten was able to sing “In The Morning” and “Melody Fair”. If I had met myself then, I would’ve said to me “Your parents have good taste”, and for what it’s worth, they do, or at least they did. It was such a different world then, looking at the records and relating it to the discoloured photos of my parents in the late 70s, whilst they were in Glasgow. I can almost hear the tunes playing in the background like a soundtrack as images of my dad with his long hair and my mother in her ridiculously chunky clogs dances quietly in front of me.
The records were discarded off one day and we were none too bothered. This was at a time when New Kids OnThe Block or NKOTB as they were more famously known, were on the verge of pop success, so anyone with a bouffant, polyester shirt and bell bottoms were quickly snubbed. Had I known what sort of value those records carry today- the sentimentality of it all, I would’ve been the first to stop them from being considered as trash. I wonder what sort of sense NKOTB made to us in the early 90s because how could anyone in their right mind get excited over lyrics like “Step by Step, Gonna get to you girl”, or “Hangin’ Tough” when they were anything but, and “Please Don’t Go Girl”, crooned by the pre-pubescent Joe Mcintyre. He must have been about 12 at the time-what would he know about love?
It really is funny how I can remember all this because my sisters evidently don’t. They remember the record collection but their memory stops short beyond the double glass doors that encased the player. But I know, even as I look at my parents huddled together on the living room sofa after their morning prayer, reading the papers or some sort of religious paraphernalia, that their past was like a musical and I’d like to think that even when he’s not around anymore, my dad would allow me to remember him that way- a fan of good music.
He had quite the record collection, my dad. Strange to think how a man of such minimal words and emotions was once swept away by what he now describes as “a fool’s pleasure”. He never talks about it. My mom would occasionally indulge us, by virtue of her overwhelming feelings every time she hears The Carpenters’ “Close To You”. My father never did much by way of anything that is even remotely related to fun when he was a student. Coming from a very poor background, he had no choice but to make it, so he sacrificed a lot of youthful frivolity in exchange for solitary hard work. When all the other kids (my mother included) were dancing the night away in Dewan Tunku Chancellor of Universiti Malaya, he was elbow deep in books, formulas and sloughing away for his next exams which was still probably a good couple of months away. His only form of indulgence was his music and he had a habit of collecting them, like an arab sheikh would collect wives.
He had a DENON stereo, with a cassette and record player. Though we never exactly worked out the mechanics of the record player to ever play one successfully, my sisters and I spent many afternoons splayed in front of the player listening to whatever we could get our hands on. For a couple of months it was Cindy Lauper because it was the only pop-ish sounding music we had in the house at the time and to this day, I still have no idea how it ever got there in the first place. So by the time I started primary school, I knew the lyrics of “She Bop”, “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” and “Time after Time” by heart. It was my only party trick until I was 9. Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” was a big hit amongst my siblings as well and many hours were spent in front of the TV laboriously trying to mimic Jacko’s fancy footwork. This was pre-You Tube, pre-Internet, pre-MTV (in Malaysia at least), so we literally had to wait in front of the TV for whenever they would play the music video and try to get the moves as best as we can in the short few minutes it went on air.
By the mid 80s, my father’s interest in music was waning, favouring religious sermons more than pop. His “old friends”- The Beatles, Bee Gees, ABBA, Boney M, Elvis, Sharifah Aini, all sat idle on the bottom rack of his record player, collecting dust. I remember flipping through them one day and came across an Anita Sarawak record wearing what would probably be deemed as raunchy by today’s Malaysian standards. One record which we did manage to victoriously play was the soundtrack to the movie “Melody”. The record sleeve was a picture of a girl handing over an apple to a boy. You don’t see their heads though, because it was cropped just at the hands and the apple was right in the middle. It’s quite funny, now that I think about it, how a kid, midway through kindergarten was able to sing “In The Morning” and “Melody Fair”. If I had met myself then, I would’ve said to me “Your parents have good taste”, and for what it’s worth, they do, or at least they did. It was such a different world then, looking at the records and relating it to the discoloured photos of my parents in the late 70s, whilst they were in Glasgow. I can almost hear the tunes playing in the background like a soundtrack as images of my dad with his long hair and my mother in her ridiculously chunky clogs dances quietly in front of me.
The records were discarded off one day and we were none too bothered. This was at a time when New Kids OnThe Block or NKOTB as they were more famously known, were on the verge of pop success, so anyone with a bouffant, polyester shirt and bell bottoms were quickly snubbed. Had I known what sort of value those records carry today- the sentimentality of it all, I would’ve been the first to stop them from being considered as trash. I wonder what sort of sense NKOTB made to us in the early 90s because how could anyone in their right mind get excited over lyrics like “Step by Step, Gonna get to you girl”, or “Hangin’ Tough” when they were anything but, and “Please Don’t Go Girl”, crooned by the pre-pubescent Joe Mcintyre. He must have been about 12 at the time-what would he know about love?
It really is funny how I can remember all this because my sisters evidently don’t. They remember the record collection but their memory stops short beyond the double glass doors that encased the player. But I know, even as I look at my parents huddled together on the living room sofa after their morning prayer, reading the papers or some sort of religious paraphernalia, that their past was like a musical and I’d like to think that even when he’s not around anymore, my dad would allow me to remember him that way- a fan of good music.
Interview with British fashion designer, Matthew Williamson at the opening of Debenhams, Kuala LumpurDebenhams
The British are coming!
Ali Imran K. chats to famous British designer-Matthew Williamson
Ali Imran K. chats to famous British designer-Matthew Williamson
People are drawn to the glamour which fashion promises- endless parties with masses of leggy Amazonian women and the cutthroat argument of whether that shade of blue in the Dries show was in fact azure or cerulean. Yes, the larger than life Miss Wintour even quoted in the movie documentary “The September Issue”, “there is something about fashion that can be intimidating”. And although, she may be right on various levels, Matthew proves that being the darling center of fashion is still like any other job. He is not proud nor pompous; no “diva” air about him even if his pieces has graced the backs of big name celebrities like Jade Jagger and Sienna Miller, to whom he accounts as being a close personal friend. He sits across me, this internationally renowned designer for the opening of KL’s latest 3 storey Debenhams store in Lot 10, in which he has a womenswear line called “Butterfly”. “It came from a piece I designed in the past which had butterflies on them” he said. “It just caught on” he added further.
Matthew Williamson, a Central St. Martins graduate, has been at the forefront of great British designers for years. Eversince his debut collection in September of 1997 during London Fashion Week, he quickly established what is now known as the Matthew Williamson signature aesthetic of bright, intricately detailed pieces. “I love colours! Which is a complete contrast from where I come from, where it’s drab and gray”, he said. “Butterfly”, with its explosion of colours, prints and beading almost mimics that, though he was quick to clarify it as having “a similar DNA”- almost like a younger sister to his runway pieces but completely different entities. The clothes were on hangers in the store but even on display, you can almost imagine the sort of girl who would wear his clothes-flirtatious but not overt, feminine but knows how to have fun. “I imagine a woman who is more “full”-somebody who is creative, artistic, who has a set of rules to dressing but looks like she hasn’t. Effortless” he said. It was with that I decided I’d like for him to give up designing to play God instead and make all women like that.
In February of this year, Matthew, (who regards having good shoes the one things a man must possess) launched a capsule menswear collection consisting of a few pieces which still bears his signature style. "I wanted to start a menswear line of slim fitting, luxury cashmere jumpers in a range of great colours. I know these jumpers will become season-less staples in my own wardrobe”, he explained. But this isn’t his first foray into designing menswear, his collaboration with high street clothing giant H&M saw what he coined as “a styling juxtaposition where global inspiration is fused with quintessential English style”. When asked why he decided to create a line of men’s clothing under his own brand, he said “I created a small line of menswear for H&M and a buyer from Harrods convinced me to expand it. I love doing it! At least now, I have something to wear”.
Matthew is resolute and I’ve lost track of the number of accolades he has picked up along his journey towards fashion superstar-dom. “It has been an unbelievable journey and I have been very fortunate” he commented about his success and rates it to be “a strong 7 out of 10”. But we can’t wait for the growth of his menswear line, anxious and eagerly anticipating of what his creativity is capable to offer us. I remain highly optimistic and boldly state that whatever his collections are, we won’t be disappointed. It’s mainly in his vision, his past and how he projects it in the future. “I’ve always dreamed of opening my own shop. I remember drawing it as a child with a pink sign and now I have it. That could possibly be one of my proudest achievements” he said with conviction.
Matthew Williamson, a Central St. Martins graduate, has been at the forefront of great British designers for years. Eversince his debut collection in September of 1997 during London Fashion Week, he quickly established what is now known as the Matthew Williamson signature aesthetic of bright, intricately detailed pieces. “I love colours! Which is a complete contrast from where I come from, where it’s drab and gray”, he said. “Butterfly”, with its explosion of colours, prints and beading almost mimics that, though he was quick to clarify it as having “a similar DNA”- almost like a younger sister to his runway pieces but completely different entities. The clothes were on hangers in the store but even on display, you can almost imagine the sort of girl who would wear his clothes-flirtatious but not overt, feminine but knows how to have fun. “I imagine a woman who is more “full”-somebody who is creative, artistic, who has a set of rules to dressing but looks like she hasn’t. Effortless” he said. It was with that I decided I’d like for him to give up designing to play God instead and make all women like that.
In February of this year, Matthew, (who regards having good shoes the one things a man must possess) launched a capsule menswear collection consisting of a few pieces which still bears his signature style. "I wanted to start a menswear line of slim fitting, luxury cashmere jumpers in a range of great colours. I know these jumpers will become season-less staples in my own wardrobe”, he explained. But this isn’t his first foray into designing menswear, his collaboration with high street clothing giant H&M saw what he coined as “a styling juxtaposition where global inspiration is fused with quintessential English style”. When asked why he decided to create a line of men’s clothing under his own brand, he said “I created a small line of menswear for H&M and a buyer from Harrods convinced me to expand it. I love doing it! At least now, I have something to wear”.
Matthew is resolute and I’ve lost track of the number of accolades he has picked up along his journey towards fashion superstar-dom. “It has been an unbelievable journey and I have been very fortunate” he commented about his success and rates it to be “a strong 7 out of 10”. But we can’t wait for the growth of his menswear line, anxious and eagerly anticipating of what his creativity is capable to offer us. I remain highly optimistic and boldly state that whatever his collections are, we won’t be disappointed. It’s mainly in his vision, his past and how he projects it in the future. “I’ve always dreamed of opening my own shop. I remember drawing it as a child with a pink sign and now I have it. That could possibly be one of my proudest achievements” he said with conviction.
Interview with metal sculptor; Amin Gulgee (August Man, Mar 09)
Drawing the line
Making sense of the life
He was casual and I was rushing although I wasn’t late. I caught a glimpse of him against the backdrop of his works and then I wondered how he would react to my genuine wide-eyed curiosity. His glasses made his eyes seem larger than they really are and they blink almost excessively. At certain angles, it was like staring at someone through a fishbowl. I almost thought of him as eccentric, but as the man puts it himself “I think everyone is eccentric to a certain extent. We are all artists, in actual fact.” With a father who was also a famous artist in his native Pakistan, one would expect his approach as an artist to be merely a follow up to that. However, as he explained, his career as an artist was purely accidental. “My life has been a series of accidents”, said sculptor Amin Gulgee. “Although I grew up in a house with paints and brushes, I had no hands-on guidance from my father. Studio art was the last thing I wanted to do”, he claims. But after writing a thesis on the Mughal Gardens, he decided to give the artist life a go and this is where he has been since.
In his recently exhibition at Galeri Petronas entitled Drawing the Line, Amin showcased 13 new pieces and 13 old pieces, all of which bear a striking resemblance to one another. I asked him if this was intentional “Copper and bronze are the only glorious metals that exist-they stay forever and I like that permanence-the fact that they will remain”.
It is clear to see that he holds his faith dearly to his heart. Most of his works are interpretations of Quranic verses, scriptures as well as calligraphy, presented in 3 dimensions. “God for me is everything-it is me-it is you-it is the wind outside-it is the light we see-it’s everything horrible and wonderful” he said. One of my personal favourites is ‘Chance’; a structure of a DNA molecule which has the word ‘Allah’ inscribed all over it. “To me, that is God” he said when asked to comment about it. “What’s beautiful about Islam and its relevance to my work is its submission to God and that there is a direct link between God and a person. You create your own balance between chance and you” he added.
There is a lot of confusion in regards to the matter these days as a lot of people mask their own selfish gains in the name of religion. Yet, amidst all the chaos that is going on out there, here stood a man who speaks of it so beautifully, so passionately and not in the least imposing. “Like oil and water, politics and religion should never mix. How could anyone talk of the divine in worldly terms”, he said.
Amin’s work is hard and raw, but references to something so simple as life and religion give it a more human approach. Some of them looked like they weren’t even finished! “They aren’t” he explained to me with a smile. “Some of them will never be finished. That is what I like about geometrical Islamic calligraphy-it goes on and on”.
Some of his other works make reference to the concept of movement, the idea of using one’s bare hands to achieve something. ‘Climbing’, a tall tower like structure with copper hands latching all the way to the top is one such and ‘Ripping the bird’s nest’ is another, of human hands tearing away at a bird’s lair.
He admits that his ideas come and go as they please. Sometimes he will start a certain sculpture and abandon it halfway for another idea that may be fresh in his mind. “A lot of the time, you just have a feeling and at other times, you really know. Mine is a very chaotic process-not very elegant” he said. Often when he finds himself uninspired, he creates jewellery, which has complemented Mary McFadden’s Spring/Summer collection in 1996.
Amin is trying to make sense of the world through his work. Some people overanalyse things, but he keeps it simple, possibly because he’s an artist. But maybe that’s what we all need-to keep it simple, and if his metallic sculptures resonates such thoughts within us, then why not?
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Interview with photographer; Jeffry Lim (August Man, Nov 2010)
Life through his lens
Looking at the world from photographer, Jeffry Lim’s eyes.
Looking at the world from photographer, Jeffry Lim’s eyes.
He was travelling through Tibet when he spotted the little girl. Hastily he asked his friend to turn around so that he could take a picture of her. Camera in hand, he asked his friend to offer some food to her so that he could take a good shot. Unfortunately, the young girl proved a little too camera shy and upon one click, she bolted. But such is the wonder of the camera that in one second, ten frames were produced. What resulted was a picture worth more than a million words. Who knew what went through her mind at the time she stared dead on to the camera lens. But Jeffry Lim does, though he would rather people make their own minds about it.
Lim, 31 has been taking pictures almost all his life. Hailing from Jerantut, Pahang, his father sold newspapers for a living and he had what some may term as a relatively normal upbringing, except for the fact that he had an insatiable sense of curiosity. “I have always wanted to know more- about the world, its people and how they lived” he said. A stint, working in Club Med Cherating, amidst the sea of other nationals opened his eyes to the possibility of it all and although this was but the preview, it will be a couple of years till it became more than anything he could ever have dreamed of. Coming back from England with a marketing degree in 2002, he worked in F&B for a while, because it was probably the right thing to do. Though Lim could never sit still and felt as if something was missing. The turning point came from the most clichéd example one could probably guess. Yet, it was what was said more than the situation that mattered; “Follow your heart, and your dream will come true”. So he did. And that was how I came to meet him one morning for an interview.
“He’s a little nervous” exclaimed his rep as he was getting coffee. I found that a little hard to believe for someone who obviously had a wealth of experiences, at least more than any I could ever throw on the table. Fact of the matter is, I was more nervous than he was. There was nothing extraordinary about the way he looked; dressed in khakis, striped shirt and a buzz cut that looked like he belonged to a platoon. Yet I could instantly sense that this was a man that was incredibly proud of his work but his bowed head constantly betrayed that. He was also beamingly happy, smiling as wide as his lips would take him and spoke with such enthusiasm, especially about things that he knows of and believes in. It’s very contagious and I constantly found myself inching closer to him, as I cupped my chin in my palm, like a child listening intently to a story-teller. “This is for you, sir” he said as he handed me a pictorial book of The Petronas South Asia Expedition that he was a part of in 2007. Flipping through it, I told him that he has been to everywhere I wanted to until we stopped at a double page picture of rolling, dry, harsh mountainous terrain. “I almost died here” he said. It was somewhere in the remote corners of very north India, where the winding highway that snakes through it is only accessible for four month in a year. “I had difficulty breathing from altitude sickness and it had hit me pretty bad” he continued. He survived, no less, through such unorthodox means, prescribed by one of the other members of the expedition. “Coca-Cola saved my life” he laughed. “It helps to release gas”.
I didn’t know if it was the caffeine finally kicking in or the fact that we were engaging in a conversation about normal bodily functions, but Lim was clearly a little less anxious now. “My relationship with Petronas began with me taking a picture of the twin towers and mass emailing relevant names working within. Out of the few that I sent out, one responded, requesting my help for a project. One thing led to another and here I am” he explained. Such was his resilience that he was then commissioned as the official photographer for the National Geographic Channel special on the Smart Tunnel and Discovery Channel’s insight into Restoring Stadium Merdeka. “I have learnt to be persistent, determined, disciplined and respectful in my journey as a photographer so far and I believe that that makes the difference between a good photograph and one which has no soul” he said. He mentions “soul” a lot in his speech, sometimes referring to it as essence or love. “I believe it is what matters most. I have been very blessed to be able to have the chance to see places that other people only dream of. And in that journey, I have met countless amounts of people who have helped shape and change my life. Anyone can take a picture, but the connection you build behind the picture, is priceless” he said.
At the time we spoke, Lim was due to open his photography exhibition in BSC in about a month’s time, called FEEL. FEEL is an apt acronym for ‘Freedom to Express Essence of Love’ which showcases some of his personal works, featuring a diversity of culture, people and places captured throughout 15 years of his photography journey. “It’s a tribute to all the people that I have met” he explained and I later discovered from his rep that none of his photos are for sale. He is showing because he wants people to walk away feeling inspired, moved, to appreciate and to not take things for granted. “Travelling is a very humbling experience and you only realize how truly lucky you are when you meet someone less fortunate” he said. He’s dabbling in a few personal projects at present and although he hopes all of them would take off one way or another, he’s rooting for one project to really materialize. “It’s a new media photography exhibition in New York which will involve all the senses instead of just one” he said. Nothing more was extracted from him regarding the matter as it is still very early days and he would prefer not to jinx it. His to-do list, as it were, is an assortment of ticks, strike-outs, circles and numbers. “I would love to see space one day, dance with polar bears or maybe swim with sharks” he said. “Oh and I would really love to photograph Obama” he added with a smile.
“He’s relieved that you wanted to listen to all his crazy ideas” said his rep as we ended our conversation. “I’m a photographer. We don’t usually do these kinds of things. I communicate better with my pictures” he interjected with a smile. We walked towards the elevator as I asked him what it would take for anyone thinking of following in his footsteps. “I only started with a dream- no money, no definite plans, only a solid idea of what I wanted to do. Follow your passion and have faith that the rest will fall into place” he said. “Although it helps, you don’t need an expensive camera to take good photos, because it’s not the equipment, but the person handling it that determines that. Just get whatever you can afford”, he added. We shook hands and he bowed his head once again.
The following day he sent me a thank you text message and I replied saying that it was really my pleasure. He ended our relay with, “Follow your heart and your dreams will come true”.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Ali are you okay? (Sept 2010)
Child’s Play
Some of the things that you can handle in small doses by Ali Imran K.
Some of the things that you can handle in small doses by Ali Imran K.
I have a lot of noise in my head. If I didn’t know any better, I would diagnose myself as a classic case of schizophrenia. But I’m too much of a square to have multiple personalities and way too selfish to share my innermost thoughts with myself, let alone with other versions of me. Usually all I need is just some quiet time, to deal with these “voices”, though it’s hard to concentrate of lately, when the voices manifests itself literally through unbroken wails and shrieks of children below the ages of five.
I live with twelve other people at home. 12, just in case you didn’t get that in word. These include my parents, my half sister and her three teenage children, my very pregnant second sister with her husband and two boys (five and one, respectively), two maids and my youngest sister’s one year old daughter, who spends so much time living with us, she should really just move in lock, stock and barrel. “You must live in a mansion!” exclaimed one very surprised friend, as I tried hard not to laugh at the sight of her crazy eye which had a tendency to move erratically whenever she got excited. I admit that we probably have a little bit extra space than your average detached house, but with 13 people living in it, I’m going to go as far as saying that even the White House may feel a teensy bit cramped. Because it’s not just populated by people, mind you, there is an ocean of unpacked cardboard boxes that have comfortably made itself part of the decor of not just two rooms but a hallway as well- remnants of my second sister’s not so recent move back from the UK. Not enough chairs? Just pull up box number 32 and make your behind comfy. Need a leg up? Why don’t you just drag carton number 580 there and prop it against the wall. My, I love what you’ve done with this room! It looks like a hobo just died in here. For most parts, I try to remain Zen, constantly telling myself that such is family life and “Hahaha”-ing it away. But it’s not the adults that I have niggling complaints about; it’s the children that I am most annoyed with.
People don’t realize that once you have children, they take over your lives. I mean I don’t have any and they’ve taken over mine. They’re like a rash that won’t go away or a whimpering shadow that follows you everywhere, tugging at your shirt while you’re asleep because they need to poo-poo or pee-pee. You can never watch TV because it’s always stuck on the Cartoon Network or if you’re anything like my five year old nephew, you would watch Ultraman in repeat, without subtitles. If I ask to stop the dvd, he’d look me straight in the eye, point his index finger at me and say a short yet forceful “No!”. Ignoring that “warning” would result in tears, and not just any tears, but tears that would be accompanied by a face so hideously upset and cries that only dead dogs could hear. In the odd chance that you do get hold of the remote, just about to settle nicely on the sofa , they cart around on their mini-mobiles, hurl inanimate objects on the very expensive wooden floors and also to each other, more crying, trying to dislodge part of the furniture, arguing over toys, falling on their faces, and you’re sitting there screaming “Stop that!” “Don’t hit your brother!”, “Stand there!” and before you know it, the credits are already rolling on Oprah.
Mealtimes are another event unto itself as forcing them to eat what’s good for them almost always comes to a dead end- you’d be better off asking a tree to uproot itself and fly. My nephew has a really annoying habit when it comes to eating. He either just refuses to eat, buys time to not eat by creating all sorts of excuses one can think of under the sun (once it was “My hand is so itchy!”) or he would just eat really slowly so that we’d get fed up and toss everything in the bin. My niece, on the other side of the coin, chews everything that is bulldozed her way, only to spit out anything that she doesn’t like. Some of it occasionally lands on your clothes and if you’re lucky, it’d be an old shirt, but most of the times it has a knack of always getting your silk Hermes tie. There is really no escaping the wrath of a growing child’s poop, piss or spit.
Like it or not, you are a slave to your child, and watching my sisters chase their kids around with plastic cutlery and platter during lunch, is such a Charlie Chaplin-ish way to spend the afternoon. My method is simple, you don’t want to eat? Fine, starve. Can’t learn to share the Etch-a-Sketch? Fine, nobody’s getting it. The top of the fridge is where all confiscated items remain and it is now teeming with tea sets, Transformers , Barbie dolls and other kiddie bric-a-bracs. I’m the notorious meanie of the lot, so much so that my name is always uttered as a threat- “If you don’t finish your Cheerios, I will tell Pak Im” says my sister. I don’t mind being used as the Grinch for there are many facets of their behaviour that I’m not fond of, so fear me they shall.
Mealtimes are another event unto itself as forcing them to eat what’s good for them almost always comes to a dead end- you’d be better off asking a tree to uproot itself and fly. My nephew has a really annoying habit when it comes to eating. He either just refuses to eat, buys time to not eat by creating all sorts of excuses one can think of under the sun (once it was “My hand is so itchy!”) or he would just eat really slowly so that we’d get fed up and toss everything in the bin. My niece, on the other side of the coin, chews everything that is bulldozed her way, only to spit out anything that she doesn’t like. Some of it occasionally lands on your clothes and if you’re lucky, it’d be an old shirt, but most of the times it has a knack of always getting your silk Hermes tie. There is really no escaping the wrath of a growing child’s poop, piss or spit.
Like it or not, you are a slave to your child, and watching my sisters chase their kids around with plastic cutlery and platter during lunch, is such a Charlie Chaplin-ish way to spend the afternoon. My method is simple, you don’t want to eat? Fine, starve. Can’t learn to share the Etch-a-Sketch? Fine, nobody’s getting it. The top of the fridge is where all confiscated items remain and it is now teeming with tea sets, Transformers , Barbie dolls and other kiddie bric-a-bracs. I’m the notorious meanie of the lot, so much so that my name is always uttered as a threat- “If you don’t finish your Cheerios, I will tell Pak Im” says my sister. I don’t mind being used as the Grinch for there are many facets of their behaviour that I’m not fond of, so fear me they shall.
But one evening, as the kids was supposed to be asleep; I heard a rapping at the door. “Where’s mummy Pak Im?” my nephew asked, rubbing his eyes. “Mummy went out with Daddy for a while. She’ll be back soon. Why aren’t you asleep?” I asked in return. “Can I sleep with you until she gets back?” he asked, as I was hastily weighing the pros and cons in my head before reluctantly letting him in. He slept there as I was doing my work in bed. One moment later, he snored and then proceeded to hug my leg. Godammit, why can’t all of you be like this all the time?
Ali are you okay? (Sept 2010)
Child’s Play
Some of the things that you can handle in small doses by Ali Imran K.
Some of the things that you can handle in small doses by Ali Imran K.
I have a lot of noise in my head. If I didn’t know any better, I would diagnose myself as a classic case of schizophrenia. But I’m too much of a square to have multiple personalities and way too selfish to share my innermost thoughts with myself, let alone with other versions of me. Usually all I need is just some quiet time, to deal with these “voices”, though it’s hard to concentrate of lately, when the voices manifests itself literally through unbroken wails and shrieks of children below the ages of five.
I live with twelve other people at home. 12, just in case you didn’t get that in word. These include my parents, my half sister and her three teenage children, my very pregnant second sister with her husband and two boys (five and one, respectively), two maids and my youngest sister’s one year old daughter, who spends so much time living with us, she should really just move in lock, stock and barrel. “You must live in a mansion!” exclaimed one very surprised friend, as I tried hard not to laugh at the sight of her crazy eye which had a tendency to move erratically whenever she got excited. I admit that we probably have a little bit extra space than your average detached house, but with 13 people living in it, I’m going to go as far as saying that even the White House may feel a teensy bit cramped. Because it’s not just populated by people, mind you, there is an ocean of unpacked cardboard boxes that have comfortably made itself part of the decor of not just two rooms but a hallway as well- remnants of my second sister’s not so recent move back from the UK. Not enough chairs? Just pull up box number 32 and make your behind comfy. Need a leg up? Why don’t you just drag carton number 580 there and prop it against the wall. My, I love what you’ve done with this room! It looks like a hobo just died in here. For most parts, I try to remain Zen, constantly telling myself that such is family life and “Hahaha”-ing it away. But it’s not the adults that I have niggling complaints about; it’s the children that I am most annoyed with.
People don’t realize that once you have children, they take over your lives. I mean I don’t have any and they’ve taken over mine. They’re like a rash that won’t go away or a whimpering shadow that follows you everywhere, tugging at your shirt while you’re asleep because they need to poo-poo or pee-pee. You can never watch TV because it’s always stuck on the Cartoon Network or if you’re anything like my five year old nephew, you would watch Ultraman in repeat, without subtitles. If I ask to stop the dvd, he’d look me straight in the eye, point his index finger at me and say a short yet forceful “No!”. Ignoring that “warning” would result in tears, and not just any tears, but tears that would be accompanied by a face so hideously upset and cries that only dead dogs could hear. In the odd chance that you do get hold of the remote, just about to settle nicely on the sofa , they cart around on their mini-mobiles, hurl inanimate objects on the very expensive wooden floors and also to each other, more crying, trying to dislodge part of the furniture, arguing over toys, falling on their faces, and you’re sitting there screaming “Stop that!” “Don’t hit your brother!”, “Stand there!” and before you know it, the credits are already rolling on Oprah.
Mealtimes are another event unto itself as forcing them to eat what’s good for them almost always comes to a dead end- you’d be better off asking a tree to uproot itself and fly. My nephew has a really annoying habit when it comes to eating. He either just refuses to eat, buys time to not eat by creating all sorts of excuses one can think of under the sun (once it was “My hand is so itchy!”) or he would just eat really slowly so that we’d get fed up and toss everything in the bin. My niece, on the other side of the coin, chews everything that is bulldozed her way, only to spit out anything that she doesn’t like. Some of it occasionally lands on your clothes and if you’re lucky, it’d be an old shirt, but most of the times it has a knack of always getting your silk Hermes tie. There is really no escaping the wrath of a growing child’s poop, piss or spit.
Like it or not, you are a slave to your child, and watching my sisters chase their kids around with plastic cutlery and platter during lunch, is such a Charlie Chaplin-ish way to spend the afternoon. My method is simple, you don’t want to eat? Fine, starve. Can’t learn to share the Etch-a-Sketch? Fine, nobody’s getting it. The top of the fridge is where all confiscated items remain and it is now teeming with tea sets, Transformers , Barbie dolls and other kiddie bric-a-bracs. I’m the notorious meanie of the lot, so much so that my name is always uttered as a threat- “If you don’t finish your Cheerios, I will tell Pak Im” says my sister. I don’t mind being used as the Grinch for there are many facets of their behaviour that I’m not fond of, so fear me they shall.
Mealtimes are another event unto itself as forcing them to eat what’s good for them almost always comes to a dead end- you’d be better off asking a tree to uproot itself and fly. My nephew has a really annoying habit when it comes to eating. He either just refuses to eat, buys time to not eat by creating all sorts of excuses one can think of under the sun (once it was “My hand is so itchy!”) or he would just eat really slowly so that we’d get fed up and toss everything in the bin. My niece, on the other side of the coin, chews everything that is bulldozed her way, only to spit out anything that she doesn’t like. Some of it occasionally lands on your clothes and if you’re lucky, it’d be an old shirt, but most of the times it has a knack of always getting your silk Hermes tie. There is really no escaping the wrath of a growing child’s poop, piss or spit.
Like it or not, you are a slave to your child, and watching my sisters chase their kids around with plastic cutlery and platter during lunch, is such a Charlie Chaplin-ish way to spend the afternoon. My method is simple, you don’t want to eat? Fine, starve. Can’t learn to share the Etch-a-Sketch? Fine, nobody’s getting it. The top of the fridge is where all confiscated items remain and it is now teeming with tea sets, Transformers , Barbie dolls and other kiddie bric-a-bracs. I’m the notorious meanie of the lot, so much so that my name is always uttered as a threat- “If you don’t finish your Cheerios, I will tell Pak Im” says my sister. I don’t mind being used as the Grinch for there are many facets of their behaviour that I’m not fond of, so fear me they shall.
But one evening, as the kids was supposed to be asleep; I heard a rapping at the door. “Where’s mummy Pak Im?” my nephew asked, rubbing his eyes. “Mummy went out with Daddy for a while. She’ll be back soon. Why aren’t you asleep?” I asked in return. “Can I sleep with you until she gets back?” he asked, as I was hastily weighing the pros and cons in my head before reluctantly letting him in. He slept there as I was doing my work in bed. One moment later, he snored and then proceeded to hug my leg. Godammit, why can’t all of you be like this all the time?
Ali are you okay? (Nov 2010)
Friends with money
Ali Imran K. discovers why he’ll never completely fit in into anywhere
Ali Imran K. discovers why he’ll never completely fit in into anywhere
My dad’s side of the family in Kedah has a knack of breeding rapidly. I told my mom that I think they self multiply but she said that I shouldn’t be rude. It’s a norm for us to be introduced to a new cousin every time we pay a visit and with their names sounding almost close to each other, it can get quite confusing- Fakhri, Fikhri, Fakhrul. My dad, the first to have ever made it out of Kedah successfully amongst his siblings, has always been the one they look up to, garnering an almost idol-like status, though not without some resentment. At my uncle’s place in Sungai Petani, as my sister was helping with the women in the kitchen, I heard my aunt exclaimed loudly, almost on purpose, “Eh, pi la dok depan. Orang kaya tak biasa buat kerja dapuq”- Go sit in front. Rich people shouldn’t be here. I can always count on my sister to be apathetic to such situations, preferring to agree, if others insist. But I told her that I thought she should have stayed in the kitchen and lift a log on her shoulders, need it be, just to prove a point.
Truth is, no. I was not born into money and no, I most certainly cannot have anything I want, whenever I wanted it. Not even if I wished hard for it. It’ll only give me a headache from too much frowning. It’s weird, I know, but I do frown when I wish for the unthinkable and when I sit on the toilet. My dad’s a doctor who earned a full scholarship to do his specialist degree in Scotland and my mother was a nurse, who progressed to a tutor before eventually taking optional retirement at 44. My parents came back from Scotland not having much money, so we were forced to live at my grandparents in Negeri Sembilan whilst they ventured out into KL for work. The separation proved very trying for my mother especially, because she cried every morning before she left us for work. Bearing in mind that this was before the highway was constructed, so it took double time for them to ever get back to us at a decent hour. Not long after that, my dad got a lecturing job at the very university he took his degree in and moved us all to live on campus. I wasn’t at all deprived as a child, in fact, my childhood was quite colourful. But it wasn’t always easy. Our first holiday abroad was to Medan. I had a tiny Transformer which only folded in half instead of the massive, multi-functioning Optimus Prime. My sisters had matching maxi dresses from fabric bought in Globe Silk Store, machine sewn by my aunt. God bless them for having the courage to be seen in public like members of a ladies’ choir (or had that been my mother’s intention all along?) The opportunities my sisters and I were given grew in relation to my dad’s increasing disposable income, somewhere in the mid 90s. But my mother, ever the frugal accountant, made sure we knew the value of a dollar and insisted that I only be given a 50 Ringgit a week allowance in college. So lest you think of me as an ungrateful turd, yes, we are comfortable. But not in a Scrooge McDuck, bank vault kind of way.
Around about the same time last year, I had met up with a group of friends over dinner. We talked, we laughed, exchanged points of information which subsequently led to me asking my friend Aaron on what he was up to soon? “We’re going to Val d’isere!” he said as his face lit up like a child’s on Christmas eve. “Valdi-who?” I asked. “Val d’isere silly. It’s a ski resort in France. Hey, you should come with! It’ll be fun!” he suggested. By this point, I was making the math in my head and it took me less than 3 seconds to decide that, unless God gave me the ability to lay gold eggs soon, there was no chance in hell I was ever going to “Val d’i-oh-I’m-going-to-have-so-much-fun-skiing”. I politely declined saying that I couldn’t take off work at such short notice and that I don’t ski anyway. Eons after that episode, a girlfriend of mine had grouped some of us together for coffee so that she could pass us her wedding invites. Halfway through my kopi-o, my friend Razlan asked if he thought it was worth it to buy a loft at Damansara Perdana. “It’s this new development coming up right next to Milan and I just bought it. Just wanted to know what you guys think of it” he said, in passing. “Didn’t you just buy an apartment in Subang?” I asked as a genuine enquiry. “Yeah, but this looked like a good investment opportunity, so I bought it as well lah” he answered, matter-of-factly. I obviously had no opinion on the matter, or none that would warrant elongated virtues of real estate, so I just said, “Of course it’s good! Property value only increases you know” and winked at him. After that, he entailed minute details of his plans to rendezvous in Holland and Morocco over the Raya holidays, as I listened intently, sipping my by now, very tepid coffee.
People often say that you are defined by the company you keep, but if that was true, then I must be either a fluke or a freakish chance of nature. Sometimes I wonder how in the world I managed to have the friends that I do and to what extent do we really have that much in common? What even drew us to each other in the first place? I love my friends to pieces, but rarely will you ever find one person, let alone a whole group of people who share the exact same ideals as you. And as you grow older, you start to realize your own personal capabilities and limitations, ones that are truly unique to you. So instead of being jealous or envious of other people’s hard earned money, the exotic holidays they take and the vast amounts of properties in their possession, the only major relationship you should be concerned about is with yourself, because at the end of the day, we are born into this world alone and we will leave it the same way too.
Ali are you okay? (Dec 2010)
Outward and beyond
Satisfying a curiousity by Ali Imran K.
Satisfying a curiousity by Ali Imran K.
He looked at me and said “You look Japanese”. It wasn’t the first time somebody had ever said that to me. The security guard at Padang airport, upon inspection of my passport, loudly exclaimed “Saya piker orang Jepang!” (I thought you were Japanese!), while pointing at my picture to his colleague who was manning the baggage x-rays, looking at my face and then back at my picture, both clearly amused. “You should milk it. Go learn Japanese or something” Chad further said. He and I were sat on the beach, overlooking the ocean as I was trying my hardest to concentrate on Kesey’s “One flew over the cuckoo’s nest”. It was late afternoon.
I had met Chad a couple of months ago when I was at crossroads within my life. It was almost as if he appeared out of nowhere and although our friendship didn’t start until much later, (a lot due to my own hesitation), he turned out to be quite the companion. He didn’t seem to me, at first, as somebody I would have that much in common with, particularly on how unplanned his whole life is. Yet for some unexplained reason, he was very happy, despite having so little. It showed on his face- that calm, serene expression you occasionally see on holy men and I thought it was so crazy that somebody was able to feel that way almost all the time. I thought it was a fallacy, an urban legend a myth like the unicorn! Well evidently, it exists. “Maybe you should go to Japan and see if they can spot you out!” he said, like it was an epiphany, eyes beaming and a grin as big as his face. I looked at him, smiled and shrugged my shoulders and said “I don’t know, we’ll see”. He stood up as his long, dark, curly hair fell on his tanned back. “The problem with you man, is you’re just too scared” he retorted. I resented that. I am, by default, a little defensive when it comes to criticism. I am even defensive about being defensive. “I’m not like you okay. I can’t just up and leave. I have a lot of things to think about” I answered back. We fell silent for a while. I heard myself in that instant and felt really stupid. The sun was still hot. “You’re a lot like me buddy, you just don’t know it” he finally said.
That was Chad. He constantly made me question myself-almost like I was responsible for his well-being, like I had wronged him in some way for not giving myself enough credit.
It was just the two of us on the beach that day. The crescent shaped sand bank pointed to a tiny island on its north-side, which you can walk to when the tide was low. The rocky hill on that island was where some of the local boys perch themselves in season, waiting and praying for swell. You could see as far out into any direction from up there. Chad said that when the wind was just right, somewhere near sunset, you can hear the hill sing. “I think the choir’s about to begin” he said, ushering me to the island. The sun was low now.
“Do you have any childhood dreams Ali? Hopes? Aspirations?” he asked me as we waddled through the glassy water.
“I have a few” I squinted at him, shielding my eyes from the sunlight, “But I’m not sure why I haven’t done it yet” shaking my head and the question off.
We started climbing up a path the locals had cleared up. I thought about how long ago was it that they discovered this place and how very little has changed since then. What did they go up there for? Most of the time, I only saw Chad’s very cracked heel ahead of me-he was moving fast. So eager to get up there like it was his first time and not mine. The sun wasn’t hot anymore and when we got to the top, it burnt the sky a magnificent orange, a smudge of red right above us, like God had rubbed it with His thumb against a canvas and you can faintly make out the moon and the stars. We stood at the edge of the hill, facing the ocean, feeling the breeze in our faces.
“Maybe it’s time” Chad said, both our gazes still out into the ocean. I saw my past in placards in that instant, shuffling fast like records in a jukebox. I wanted it to stop at a point where I thought my life made sense, but it kept on going and going and going.
“Maybe, you’re right” I said, half surrendering, half realizing.
And then it sang. The hill sang. Chad smiled from ear to ear and hooted into the wind. So happy was this man to be alive. “It’s a lucky omen amigo!” he said to me as he raised both hands in a kind of victory dance. I laughed and felt his infectious joy. “You crazy nutter”
This will be my last and final column for August Man. Thank you to anyone who has ever paid attention to what I had to say. If God willing, we shall meet again in the future.
I had met Chad a couple of months ago when I was at crossroads within my life. It was almost as if he appeared out of nowhere and although our friendship didn’t start until much later, (a lot due to my own hesitation), he turned out to be quite the companion. He didn’t seem to me, at first, as somebody I would have that much in common with, particularly on how unplanned his whole life is. Yet for some unexplained reason, he was very happy, despite having so little. It showed on his face- that calm, serene expression you occasionally see on holy men and I thought it was so crazy that somebody was able to feel that way almost all the time. I thought it was a fallacy, an urban legend a myth like the unicorn! Well evidently, it exists. “Maybe you should go to Japan and see if they can spot you out!” he said, like it was an epiphany, eyes beaming and a grin as big as his face. I looked at him, smiled and shrugged my shoulders and said “I don’t know, we’ll see”. He stood up as his long, dark, curly hair fell on his tanned back. “The problem with you man, is you’re just too scared” he retorted. I resented that. I am, by default, a little defensive when it comes to criticism. I am even defensive about being defensive. “I’m not like you okay. I can’t just up and leave. I have a lot of things to think about” I answered back. We fell silent for a while. I heard myself in that instant and felt really stupid. The sun was still hot. “You’re a lot like me buddy, you just don’t know it” he finally said.
That was Chad. He constantly made me question myself-almost like I was responsible for his well-being, like I had wronged him in some way for not giving myself enough credit.
It was just the two of us on the beach that day. The crescent shaped sand bank pointed to a tiny island on its north-side, which you can walk to when the tide was low. The rocky hill on that island was where some of the local boys perch themselves in season, waiting and praying for swell. You could see as far out into any direction from up there. Chad said that when the wind was just right, somewhere near sunset, you can hear the hill sing. “I think the choir’s about to begin” he said, ushering me to the island. The sun was low now.
“Do you have any childhood dreams Ali? Hopes? Aspirations?” he asked me as we waddled through the glassy water.
“I have a few” I squinted at him, shielding my eyes from the sunlight, “But I’m not sure why I haven’t done it yet” shaking my head and the question off.
We started climbing up a path the locals had cleared up. I thought about how long ago was it that they discovered this place and how very little has changed since then. What did they go up there for? Most of the time, I only saw Chad’s very cracked heel ahead of me-he was moving fast. So eager to get up there like it was his first time and not mine. The sun wasn’t hot anymore and when we got to the top, it burnt the sky a magnificent orange, a smudge of red right above us, like God had rubbed it with His thumb against a canvas and you can faintly make out the moon and the stars. We stood at the edge of the hill, facing the ocean, feeling the breeze in our faces.
“Maybe it’s time” Chad said, both our gazes still out into the ocean. I saw my past in placards in that instant, shuffling fast like records in a jukebox. I wanted it to stop at a point where I thought my life made sense, but it kept on going and going and going.
“Maybe, you’re right” I said, half surrendering, half realizing.
And then it sang. The hill sang. Chad smiled from ear to ear and hooted into the wind. So happy was this man to be alive. “It’s a lucky omen amigo!” he said to me as he raised both hands in a kind of victory dance. I laughed and felt his infectious joy. “You crazy nutter”
This will be my last and final column for August Man. Thank you to anyone who has ever paid attention to what I had to say. If God willing, we shall meet again in the future.
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