The Perfect Religion

God wound the perfect religion into orbit,
Humans then made pirate copies of it,
Even calling it, The Perfect Religion;
Hundreds of copies of the One
Have been made, each claiming
Theirs is the true religion, implying
Others are all homologated!
They may differ in details and deities,
But all essentially saying the same things;
Unbeknownst to one another,
Each and everyone staying within
The shell - coconut shell -
Of their faiths and not bothering,
Or allowed to step out and find out
What's cooking under the other
Shells dotted about on the barren
moonscape of faiths as surrogates
For certainty of knowledge;
Each jealously guarding their individual
Bubble of belief and if you
So much as peek out from under
Your own shell to ask or comment
On the smell coming from the pot
Of another shell, you'll be warned
In no uncertain terms not to interfere
In other people's shell matters!

Over the centuries the copied religions
accrue added beliefs, stories, history, myths
And legends to thicken the plot and
Add bricks to the wall of beliefs,
To become what a religion essentially is today -
A currency made valid by force of advocacy -
Like a coma patient dependent on apparatus:
Remove the props and he will be a different status;
The throne might as well be replaced by a chair
If everyone can be made to declare
The chair is the new symbol, like those
Emperor's new clothes,
Are a pretense to hide hypocrisy,
Or Solomon's dinner to euphemize cow patsy;
Just by giving it a set of vests
To engage humans in their fetish hex;
Just by giving it a set of liturgy,
In a language in which the clergy
Holds an advantage over the laity;
To catch humans at their most impressionable:
The more you understand, the more refutable,
The less you understand, the more inflexible;
Just by giving it a set of rituals
To catch humans in an ineffective gear -
Psychosomatic repetitive behavior.

In any plan grandeur to start
And sustain a conspiracy of beliefs,
A captive crowd is a basic ingredient
Providing the critical mass and lever
From initial resistance to deliver -
One converts, the bandwagon effect takes over,
This was what happened to Parameswara
In the Melakan clover.

Soon, the boundary between brick and belief blurs,
The brick is now the target of the kisser
And the wall the direction of prayer
To be pawed and wept over,
Each ritual act an entreaty for an
Easier entry into the ethereal pantry,
Rather like a student squirming in
An examination hall beseeching his
Subject teacher, the invigilator,
"Sir, tolong Sir!" for a tip or,
Better still, an outright answer!

Over time, if not right at the start,
The perfect religion is forgotten;
In pursuit of the copied religion,
The vestments, the liturgy, the rituals,
The historical experience,
Become an ignored-at-your-own-peril
Imperative all their own, God
Now an accessory after the act,
A footnote to the form and show of religion;
The means making a meal of the end,
The journey obscuring the destination,
The mercedes shoehorned into a collection,
Pasting piety in the skull cappy,
Making a religion out of religiosity.

And what, you may well ask, is the true perfect religion?
The answer, my fellow salikins, pilgrims and, yes,
Naysayers also, is blindingly simple -
An answer which the blind have seen
All along without even making
A song and dance of it,
As in the Blind Watchmaker
As in the footfalls of Al-Maari
Simply because they don't see
The visible copies;
An answer which the sighted
Cannot see because they
Are so hooked on the visible externals.

But before I tell you the answer, here is another story ... blah, blah,
Here is a bottle of my lintah oil ... blah, blah,
And here, and here ...
Alright, the answer:

Radiate the inner light beatific,
Patiently wait the final fix.

Hail the Human Body, Hale the Temple

Hail to thee, temple of the human body -
Like the ugly duckling to the swan,
Like a departure lounge waitress
To the globetrotting stewardess,
Like Cinderella, the Queen-to-be,
The human body is a made-to-wait,
Maid-in-waiting, made-to-order,
Abode of the gods, the true vessel,
playground, machine-shop and temple
Of the stepped, tiered soul's evolution plan -
Instinct, Self and Cosmos;
But pretenders, impostors,
And Petaling Street fakes
Abound - a bmw with low IQ,
- a range rover with manicure-n-coiffer,
- a mercedes raised from felled trees,
- a high-rise apartment
built on ill-gotten gains,
- a walled compound gained
from its feudal past;
a pile of mortar built on
the ruins of a previous pile
marked by a hallowed
halo made hollow
by its hard-to-swallow
Hollered out name -
these are the cow dung
euphemized as Solomon's dinner,
these are the Emperor's
new clothes to cover up
the bonkered-on-belief starkers.

Wong Yoke Kwan, an unfinished story

life of ridicule n mental anguish
uncalled for remarks n cold stares
WYK knew odd one out
put up a barave front
her heart cried out in pain
from callous tretment
of tronoh, in ipoh 70
people making fun n could offer no explanation
kept feelings pentup and did not ask parents
91 - got the answer when she attended
a gsthering and people commented
she looked remarkable to a friend in Jelapang
may 12, monday, mother's day
drove bike to jelapang
first stop
chinese lady sweeping
showed pic of anama who look
exactly like her mother
dna
of her pain n suffering

A Wasteland Of The Mind

Below the high and mighty clouds
Of education reports and master plans,
That have been swirling above
Our heads since Merdeka,
Here I am down on all fours
On the living room floor
In an honest-to-goodness
Staredown with a year six mind
Who cannot write "with," "the,"
Or even "a" during an
English dictation class.

This after millions of ringgit
Have been expended,
Tons of textbooks -
Wooed in January, jilted in December -
Have been churned out,
Scores of teacher-training colleges -
A beehive to no-option jobseekers -
Have been expanded,
And six years of SRK classes -
Which parents who could afford the move
Turn their backs on in preference
To the system across the causeway -
Have been dumped,
All to no apparent valor or avail.

So where is the hitch?
Is it the fault of the lecturers
Of the trainee-teachers who write
Notes for them to copy?

Or is it the doing of the
Trained teacher who sits
At her desk after writing
Notes on the blackboard
For the pupils to copy?

Or maybe it is the pupils -
Who copy the notes from the blackboard
Or the exercise books of other pupils
In order to complete their school
And home work -
Themselves who are at fault?

Or maybe it is the parents who
Went through the same treadmill
Thirty score years ago and are
Now the proud parents of pupils
Whose school exercise books are
Full of copied notes?

Or maybe there is an unseen hand,
Who concertedly and persistently
Frustrate the efforts to get the pupils
To read, 'rite and regurgitate -
Because they are convinced
Mainstream education, for
The same reasons or reversed,
Is a self-serving ploy to secularize
The masses or beat them up
Into submissive footsoldiers
Of the prevailing ethos?

What if this unseen hand
Is right in our midst, nay,
Right in our own hearts?
A succubus, a worm,
A Trojan horse, the enemy
Sharing our mosquito net?
What then?

Does anyone care or dare
To point out that note-taking
And rote-learning, however convenient
A cover-up, a conspiracy,
Is no substitute for real learning,
Nay, it may even be a slayer
Of curiosity and enthusiasm,
The true call of learning?
Do you dare do the unthinkable -
Wrench out your diseased heart -
And replace it with a brand new
Bionic one?

Will the story of Hang Nadim
Be reprised here,
Or does the story of the Emperor's
New Dress ring too close for comfort?
Or is this vain verse of mine
Be the tree that fell in the forest
Which no one uptown could hear?

Saddam's Story: From Hell And Back

The sight of Saddam's statue
Falling over was a grim herald
Of his own, and the form that it took -
Falling through the nooseman's trapdoor -
Might not have been on everyone's sighthole
But probably sighted in the minds
Of the thousands of his victims, at least
Those who survive, never mind a leg or two missing,
While in those who had passed on, the sight of Saddam
Falling through the trapdoor
Could still be watched on tv sets
From the divine departure lounge,
With the added bonus, presumably,
Of being able to watch the seamless sequence
Of the sight of Saddam - his soul, that is -
Passing on to the next sequel to his fate -
Entering the portal of hades,
In a souk drama that could easily be
Titled, Saddam's Story: From Hell And Back.

From ProtoMalay to Bumiputraism

wnfc

To raise chicken in a coop
Is for the single purpose
Of putting it in the soup;
To raise children in a box
Is for the single purpose
Of putting then into a convenience socks;
To remove the chicken from its free range
Is to deprive it of experiencing chicken hierarchy;
To forbid children from having a free run
Is to deprive them of learning social skills;
To tame chicken from its original jungle domain
Is to take it away from being nature's model;
To prevent children from being active in sports and games
Is to take away the development of form as nature designed;

Bloggers, Don't Unite!

tbc



When two bloggers got sued for defaming
a rash of bloggers parachuted
from the rafters of false anonimity
calling for unity and starting a fund
in defence of the doggone bloggers.

I say, whatever game you choose to play,
Be it a game of hockey or poker,
there are always basic rules to respect and obey
If one does not want to incur problems.

Having transgressed a rule and aggrieved
Someone who then decides to go by the law book,
You are set. Just count your lucky stars he didn't
Resort to taking the law into his own hands.

As a blogger, I don't like to hear that
Another blogger is asking for help from other bloggers
For a transgression in the name of freedom of expression
for all bloggers.

As a blogger I look askance at another blogger who ask
bloggers to unite in defence of all bloggers.
I begin to question whether he has an axe to grind,
wants to gain mileage, glory, be a hero,
advancing a hidden agenda, riding piggyback,
And other whathaveyous.




one would think blogging is the last bastion
where one may let one's hair down
for independent and free expression,
subject of course to the laws of the land
and the usual norms of decency.

For bloggers to feel the need to unite
and form a union of whatever sort,
that would be the ultimate betrayal.

The Eighth Wonder

The eighth wonder of the world
Has gotta to be the seat of a toilet bowl;
Rodin's Thinker, I tell ya,
Is rightly dressed for the stool session,
But wrongly stooled;
He should have been seated
Yes, you guessed it, on the ample rind
Of the toilet bowl seat;
Then again, I may have my history
Wrong - maybe they hadn't invented
The good news to a man's gluteus yet
During Rodin's time set.

Ah, the tortures man had to sit through
While waiting for the inside sewers
To clear off its load, before
Someone invented the ultimate solution:
A toilet bowl with soul -
A seat on the bowl
To deposit your haunches on
While your internals work out its deposits.

It is perfect as a bicycle is perfect -
You can refine it in any number of ways,
From an automatic sensor to temperature
control to an interactive robotic bowl
Costing a cool million - not yen but sterling -
But the basic design of seat and bowl stays,
Just as a bicycle can be modified in more ways
Than one, the frame-seat rig is always
As was done.

And to think man had to bear
A thousand years of severe posture,
An affront to his posterior;
Why, until only recently,
I'd rather the squat toilet -
Aka Chinese torture - prefer;
Or did it behind the ferns,
Enjoying being close to nature,
When the situation warrants.

And the first man to make a toilet bowl seat?
You tell me!
Just like its inventor was never credited,
Many a gem of an idea, a seminal thought,
A breakthrough to an impasse,
Could have been cracked while its Source
Was seated on the ring of a toilet bowl,
Without even getting a mention, until
This verse - haha - even if
Only generic, not specific.

Who knows if the world would have been
Any different today had Chief Crazy Horse,
Shi Huang Ti, Napoleon, Lenin,
Benefitted from it in their day;
Who knows the extent an easy passage,
Down in the internal sewerage,
Eased by a toilet bowl seat,
Could have influenced it -
Bush's tilt towards the Middle East.

And what if the Sultan of Brunei were
To reinvest the proceeds from the sale
Of his solid gold bowl to revive
The dysfunctional sugar groves
Of Mozambique? Would the Africana
Milling in the streets of Lisboa
Return home in droves?

What if, while encamped on a seat,
Yours truly came up with the germ
Of an idea of writing this poem?
Would you begrudge it?
And to think I discovered
Its use only the other day.

The Unsponsored Malaysian

tbc

If you happen to be lounging on a deck chair
at a tourist facility on Falkland Island or
any scientific station further south, nearer
to the South Pole, and suddenly a bedraggled-looking visitor
hoved into view, bedecked with the Jalur Gemilang
and paraphernalia appropriate to the undertaking -
be it by sea, on land, or dropped from the sky -
it did happen, you know, all three -
rest assured, the Malaysian is fully sponsored.

Safe bet you are too, if a Malaysian,
Otherwise what business you have there?

In all probability, any Malaysian
you run into in the streets
of New York, Berlin or Mecca,
is well-stuffed with a sizeable sponsorship -
a trade mission member, a forum attendee,
an athlete, a footballer, a student,
a Petronas Adventure Team
member, a Matrade or Porim official,
a Lucky Draw winner, an umrah pilgrim -
they are out there all over the globe
cushioned by well-padded payouts,
some, no doubt, more deserving than others
who, in all probability, are just on a junket, while
a few are just plain lucky.

So, can you ever hope to run into
an unsponsored Malaysian on a jaunt abroad?
Or is this species so rare it is yet to be discovered
and brought to public attention?
Surprisingly there are quite a few of them around -
unlike their fat brethren who tend to cruise
in the comfort lane of life,
this leaner variety of Malaysians abroad
can be found in any nook or cranny life can throw at them -
at immigration checkpoints getting their visas renewed,
living in the shadow of a Buddhist temple
after having failed to return home after
the japanese have gone, washing dishes to begin with
and now a member of a rock band or owner of
a Malaysian restaurant,

Farisa Zaffa Razak

Farisa Zaffa Razak is my niece -

She is the one in the black-n-white

Pullover spotting a headcover -

Grew up in Kuantan, Pahang,

Now studying geology,

In Ottawa, Canada;

One of the assignments

In her first semester -

An analysis of The Tempest,

by William Shakespeare;

Hey, what about the effects

Of the weather on surface cover,

Or the drilling for fossil fuel,

On the permafrost,

In the Far North?

And God Is Alone

Even if you are a survivor
Of a separated Siamese twin,
You are essentially alone,
A single person with your own identity;
Even as a member
Of a crowd or fraternity,
Falling in step with them
With words issuing in unity;
In the clutches of pleasure,
Or the grip of pain,
In trial after tribulation,
Flushed with anticipation,
Or cold with fear,
In the groove of life,
Or the nick of death,
You are essentially alone;
The longing of the lonely,
Is only the cry of the illusory;
Aloneness is the essence
Of true Reality;
You are as alone in the universe,
As God is alone,
Reflecting his Quality.

The Pilot Metaphor

The pilot metaphor
For managing one's life -
You know how it is,
An airplane pilot faces a bank
Of instruments telling him
Of current conditions -
The weather outside,
The engine and electrics inside,
Whether another aeroplane
Is anywhere near out there;
The fascia of electronics
Provides the interface
Between the pilot, the aircraft
And the world outside
While he sits in his cockpit,
Encased in a surreal sphere,
In a pool of controlled climate,
No matter the deadly
Temperature outside,
Cocooned in comfort and stability,
Against the rushing speed outside,
Buoyed up in the sky against
The pull of gravity;
A pilot could be forgiven
For dreaming of pleasures
And concerns forbidden;
He can put his mind on auto pilot,
As much as he can put the plane
On the same routine control;
But, as every salty pilot knows,
This surreal security is not guaranteed forever -
Occasionally, an air pocket
And other weather turbulences
Can rock his stately aircraft
And put his state of mind on orange alert -
And, as a pilot is trained
To anticipate and handle,
But dreads all the same,
The possibillity of a red alert,
Is always at the back of his mind;
An impending collision or crash, engine failure,
Poor landing visibility, forced landing,
Being hijacked, miscommunication,
All may burst the bubble of security
With disastrous and fatal results.

As piloting a plane,
So it is with managing life.
Just as you don't blame
And hit out at the array
Of instruments for any
adverse info,
What more at the weather outside,
Every time an air pocket or turbulence
Knock you out your comfort kilter,
So you don't react at the person
Or circumstance which is giving you the jitter.
You don't kill the messenger
However bad the news;
But rather you make choices and decisions
To not make things worse
And keep things on an even keel,
Just as a pilot would make adjustments
To keep his aircraft on a safe course.

ASA - Amanah Saham Akhirat

Each time you handle an adversity
With dignity,
Not blaming anyone,
Least seeking revenge,
Not going off your handle;
Each time you distance yourself,
From a negative feeling or impulse,
Which wells up unbidden from the depths,
Each time you control it from boiling over,
You are crediting your ASA;
The reverse is equally true -
React negatively, and
You're debiting your account;

A positive ASA
Is the very stuff you need
To reclaim the Perfect Form;
An ASA in the red
Means the Perfect Form
Is still in shreds.

Mitsubishi Triton: A Thirty Year Dalliance

More than thirty years ago,
I saw my first pickup truck,
The Toyota Hilux Single Cab,
Powering past on a road sans tar,
Against a padi landscape far,
On the east coast of the Peninsula;
That's it, enthused I,
This would be my dream car;
Till today I still haven't got da,
Since that first sighting,
My heart flitted on the Isuzu,
The Pajero, the Ford Ranger,
The Mitsubishi Storm,
The Toyota Hilux Double Cab,
The Land Rover Defender,
In the thirty year span;
But still I baulked,
At getting a pickup truck,
Single or Double Cab;
Oh, I bought one car after
Another in that three score years,
But not a pickup truck;
Last week, mid-December 2006,
At the Eon Mitsubishi showroom
In Tanjung Aru, Kota Kinabalu,
I took the new Mitsubishi Triton
For a spin,
That's it, resolved I,
Come the new year,
I'll get myself a pickup truck,
After a thirty year dalliance.

King Solomon's Saffron Rice As Adult Metaphor

Serendipitously, a news item today
Says you can make a million out of dung
Processing it into organic fertilizer;
This news coincides with my intention
To write this prose verse
About King Solomon's Saffron Rice
Which, as every pupil knows,
Is cow dung in the Sang Kancil
Tiger Escapade serial stories;
But in case you missed out,
The tricky mousedeer told the
Chasing tiger he was not to be eaten
As he was in the midst
Of performing a sacred duty:
Standing guard over King Solomon's saffron rice.

The credulous tiger was so impressed
And jealous of the mousedeer being chosen
By the Lord of All Animals,
That he forgot he was chasing and going to eat the mousedeer,
Instead he begged his quarry
To let him at least try out the role,
If not let him eat the King's dinner as well.

Playing his pretense to perfection,
The mousedeer put on an air of reluctance
Before conceding to the tiger's entreatment,
Invoking the King's wrath,
If he did not abide by the rule -
No eating until the day was done,
Giving him ample time
To make his getaway run.

Well, you write the finish to the episode,
While I deconstruct the children's story
As a metaphor for adults:

The tiger is a metaphor for the unthinking masses
Or individual
Who follow or easily fall for propaganda
Which invokes authority such as religion
And uses threats of dire consequences
Such as excommunication.

The mousedeer is any clever propagandist
Who is out to advance or protect
His own interests - position, power, status,
Beliefs, security and profits.

King Solomom is a symbol of any feared authority, ruler, father figure, -
Often a myth or a post created by tradition or statute,
With an all too human incumbent behind it,
Like a boy king or god.

The saffron rice is a metaphor
For any nice, respectable sounding name
Which is invoked to camouflage, hide
Something which is mundane, substandard,
Or downright bad, a scam,
And make it appear good or worthy.

See also emperor's new dress, euphemism.

Now that you've got this far,
Following the analytical drift,
Why not have a go at dissecting
The cow dung?
Ugh!

Letchumi

This is a story of a Malaysian academician,
Whose name is Letchumi,
She lives in Petaling Jaya,
And teaches at a local university,
She was born in Sentul,
Grew up in Brickfields,
In full view, cool,
Of Keretapi Tanah Melayu,
Her father was a station master,
When Malaya was classed in the colonial cluster.

She lives in a single storey bungalow,
With a large compound in Section 5, PJ,
Bought in a year when the ringgit was $2.50
to the US dollar for RM25K,
Now she won't sell it for a million.

She has many friends and reliatives,
Her three children are all grown up,
Living in Australia and Canada,
Her parents have passed away,
Her husband is a professor at Singapore U,
An old BMW sits idle in the garage,


She prefering to drive her new Suzuki Swift,
The Swift is easier to park and easier to drive, she says,
Her bungalow is full of keepsakes,
Mementoes of a full life,
Half opened gift packages,
Unused electrical gadgets,
Six wardrobes of dresses, shoes and oddments
She doesn't know what to do with them
She is still attached to them to be given or thrown away.

With a degree in anthropology and communication theory,
She understands herself and others
She has a collection of mobile phones and computers,
Bluetoothed and wiredup to the Internet,
But towards the end of her tenureship,
She is turning into a recluse
All wired up but no one she particularly wants to call,
All dressed up and nowhere to go.

The Truth

If an individual cell in a living body
Is conscious, aware of its separate identity,
Aware of being a part of the whole,
Of its position, form, function and design,
Can see itself, its adjoining neighbour cells,
Clustered to form separate organs,
Hung together to form the closed body,

If the cell can see the whole individual,
Now going about independently in open space,
As well as other individual creatures,
Some alike, some not alike,
And yet sharing many similarities,
Forming and reforming
Dynamic patterns and static clusters,

If the cell can see the whole universe,
Tiered from the tiniest to the infinitesimal,
Much like its own awareness curve,

If the cell can see the oneness,
The connectedness,
The unity in the diversity,
The small in the big,
The big in the small,
The universe
In a grain of sand,
In a drop of water,
In the molecule,
In itself,

Then, perhaps,
We all
Can Know
The Truth.

Role Call

Everyone is assigned a role,
Saint, sinner;
Perpetrator, victim;
Rescuer, rescued;
Therefore, beyond fate,
Lift not a finger to save your soul,
Let alone mundane matters.

99 Ways To Tell, or Tear, a Malay Apart

I might as well title this
Caricature of a Malay as
A Short Walk into
the Malay Kush,
Or Bush;
Here gush:

In the Malaysian cultural pastiche,
What traits a Malay to distinguish?

If you see a tour bus at the KL Twin Tower,
Festooned with white and pink tuala,
Sure it is carrying a Malay group from upriver.

If you see the crepe-thin China-made towel,
Used as prayer mat, head cover, mouth cover,
Modesty blind, sunshade for the car window,
Anything, but to dry your body down with,
Safe bet the user is a Melayu le.

If on Friday a little past noon,
You see a traffic police
Turns the other way round,
As cars and vans double park
On both sides of a road,
Or is nowhere to be seen,
You know Malays are en-mosque,
Praying to Allah.

In Kampung Pasir Putih, Putatan,
Saw a patrol car with a full phalanx
Of two constables by it standing
With engine and aircon running
No doubt in a state of readiness
For the return of the duty officer -
Or it could have been just a sargeant -
Who was in the mosque about to berjemaah:
Don't ask if the mata-mata are Muslim -
Bad form! I did. They are mukmin!
Two sheepish mukmin eyes,
One petty-piety officer,
And one nosy parker.

Every time a newly comfortable Malay,
Hardly a generation removed
From the hardship of the kampung,
Now installed in an urban housing estate,
Starts to drive away in his new Kancil,
Expect him to blow his car horn
By way of saying "Jumpa lagi!"
Its timed regularity, morn, noon, evening,
Is only outregulated by the even more
Jolting call of the muezzin.

With another nouveau riche Malay newbie
Starting up his diesel-engined gray-yellow
Mitsubishi Storm a full fifteen minutes
Before driving off - he must have got that
Advice from a sixties manual -
For a neighbor -
Then your living in the Malay-malaise-matrix
Is just about complete, but no, there's more ...

If on being shown a map of KL city,
And asked for directions,
A passerby ignores it and starts
Jabbing with his hand,
Directing with his foot, and
Pointing with his mouth,
Transforming himself into
Instant street puppetry,
Confirmed, he is Abdulla.

If, while slowing down to a halt at the
Sabah-Sarawak Sidumin border post,
You find the booth unmanned,
And you remember moments earlier
The PA system mic was knocked tok-tok,
Followed by a piercing call ...
Settle back for a long wait - the Pegawai,
Being Muslim and Malay,
Has taken a "short" break to pray.

Upon seeing a newly bought anything,
The first thing a Malay wants to hear is
What is its price;
To a Malay knowing the cost
Is a consolation in liew of not having
Or being able to afford the thing;
It also gives him a chance
To up the ante by saying,
"I got the same thing
For a dollar a dozen."

If a Malay acquaintance smiles a friendly smile
And begs you to belanja/treat him/her,
Don't be put off, he's no scrounger,
It was only a friendly icebreaker;
Or maybe he was - a scrounger.

In Sabah, the tactical maneuver is "Pinjam!"
Just say "Yes." That will stop him in his jump.

Other overt curiosity-tripping-on-propriety overtures:
"Where are you from?"
"What is your original village?"
"Where are you going?"
"How much does the fish cost?"
What is that in your bag?"
While the eye darts sharply
To the object in your hand
Like a come-too-close tree frog
Suddenly leaping across your face;
He or she is not being rude or a busybody,
But his need for a positional fix,
A check on his social status,
And sense of group affiliation,
In liew of a social GPS gadgetry,
Got the better of his sense of propriety.

If you chance upon an open community well
And see a woman pouring water over her head,
While being encased in a sarong of modesty,
The water cascading from the top of the head
Down the outside of the sarong sheath,
Hung-draped under the armpits,
Tightened above the breasts,
Don't wonder if the whole body
Ever got the benefit of a wash.

And while you are at it, you
Might also catch sight of
Another kembang gantung
Squashed onto her haunches
Scrubbing clothes on the slippery,
slimy concrete floor underfoot.

If later you see one of these womenfolk,
Now in the kitchen, preparing to gut fish
Directly in the, yes, again, slimy, sink,
Without the benefit of an intervening
Bowl or board, yes, I don't blame you
If your tiered guts start to sink
Into its ground floor.

If you see a person implode into a squat,
Like a being-demolished building,
Or a closing, telescopic umbrella,
He is probably not into sumo or yoga,
But is only a Malay transforming his body into a collapsible sitter,
The way a tortoise uses his shell to form an instant shelter.

If a local insists that you enter his house
And offers you tea and biskut tawar
Or even a plate of rice
Be graceful enough and eat,
Even if you don't feel like it.

At gatherings, if
You see men mix with men,
Women with women,
No, they are not sitting on
Opposite sides of the gay-lesbian divide,
No, they have nothing to hide,
Only their fear of being ostracized.

If you see a driver or motorcyclist
Giving out an apologetic hand signal
Upon overtaking you and then
You notice the same guy
Nonchalantly jumping the queue
At the Rantau Panjang immigration checkpoint,
That's okay too since everybody does it.

If a traffic police asks you
Where you are heading to
Or where you're from,
Instead of just asking for your IC
Or driving license,
Which he will eventually,
Grant him your patience,
He is only stalling,
The better to check your sizing
In his mental CPI -
Criminal Potential Index.

If you see a Malay eating with his hand
Off his own plate and using his grubby fingers
To pick up the shared dish spoon,
That's okay too bcoz everyone does it,
And you are the oddball if you raise Cain.

Don't show your ill-breeding by
Pinching off a spot of food
Which a fly had alighted on,
For Malays and flies have accommodated
Each other in the kitchen and toilet,
Public or private, probably
Even earlier than the day
Munshi Abdullah visited the Terengganu
Kedai Payang wet market in the 1880s.

If you see an extra flick to the hand wave,
More repetitions than due,
Like a car wiper switched on fast,
Or waved at an undue moment,
A bit of added-on lift to the leg raise
In a keen sepak takraw match,
A bit of twang to the English,
A bit more throat to the Arabic,
On a talk show or news presentation,
A little more action in the act,
More acting in the action,
More shriek than lilt,
In the drama minggu depan,
A haughty smirk at a strawman in absentia,
Especially if he sits on a Majlis Fatwa,
Ah, he is a Malay trying to make light
Of a post-colonial sense of being under siege,
Or under a populist and religious vigilance,
A counter stroke to preempt
The generic strike from an honorary enemy,
Or a peace offering to appease
The impending wrath of a traditional authority,
Putting up a veil of virtue,
Or a blind of braggadocio -
Whichever is due.

If you see a Malay working himself up
Into a hairball of denials,
Obfuscations and contradictions,
Especially when it comes to his last stand -
Agama, Bangsa and Negara,
Forgive him,
He is only playing to the gallery -
Which could be himself -
Or just grandstanding
In memory of his late grandfather,
With you as sounding board,
Stepping stone, foil or whatever.

A Malay grandstanding
Is a sight to behold -
Catch a sighting of this crescent moon
At the Umno perhimpunan agong,
Pas muktamar, the kedai kopi kampung,
Serambi surau and now blogpungs -
Mouths frothing,
Neck veins swelling,
Mustache or goatee twitching,
Tone of voice all bangsawan,
Pahlawan or usahawan;
Slogans and cogans,
Words smsing and smashing,
Spewing like bubbles
From the bubur lambuk pot;
Incessant like the tuk-tuk
Of Burung Tukang, the night jar;
Cemerlang, Gemilang, Terbilang,
Glittering this, Towering that,
All to a captive audience listening out flat;
But to Umnouts, Pasouts and other Pak Sauts,
It is just more hollering,
With the same hollow ring,
As in last year's soundings.

If you see a gathering more steeped
In style, ritual and custom
Than spontaneity or substance,
Forgive the Malay adat,
It is only the rolling out of the mat.

If you see a Malay a kris unsheath,
No need to head for the heath,
He is not about to run amok
But only using it to do the talk
His leaking confidence to caulk.

It has not happened yet but don't be surprised,
If one day a self-respecting Malay were to apply for a patent,
The word Allah as an exclusively Malay or Muslim God,
Thus preventing the Christian Kadazandusun in Bundu Tuhan,
Christian Arabs in Beirut,
The Malay Christians in Cebu, and
The Jahiliah Arabs prior to AD 632,
From using it in their prayers too.

And then there's the common practice
of using western products
To denounce western conduct,
Of using a Nokia or Sennheiser
To stop Azhar Mansor
From reaching his sponsor,
Or Bruno Manser
From going back to Penansular.

If you are a Malay celup - as many are,
And mistaken for Chinese, Indian, et cetera,
You will recall many a slight,
To your sense of pride;
If you express a liberal opinion
Just slightly peeking out of the box,
Be prepared to be put on instant trial
By being asked to recite the shahadah
By a footsoldier of your
shared, common khutbah.

A Malay, consumed in his vanity, sees
Any divergence in view or behavior
As a threat or insult to his dignity,
Which by a sleight of solipsism
He calls an insult to Islam!
For the same reason cow dung
Is called King Solomon's dinner
Or the emperor's nakedness
Is called his new clothes!
If the difference is trivial or harmless,
You will be slapped with the label eccentric,
If you disagree a lot and become careless,
You will be tarred a murtad - heretic.

To Christians and Buddhists alike,
A Christian can become a Buddhist,
A Buddhist can become a Christian,
It is a non-issue and does not make news,
But to the highly risible Malay,
Who has put all his eggs in one identity basket,
Even getting an SMS rumor that a Malay
Is about to convert
Will send him and his sahabats
Jumping over the culverts.

There are Muslim Arabs,
There are Christian Arabs,
All dressed up as Arabs,
This could cause many a red face
Among the Malays who are all
Muslims - at least in the peninsula,
Not so in East Malaysia or Indonesia -
When they assume all Arabs, like them,
Share their faith.

Until today the Malays have yet to fill
Their quota of unit trusts allocation,
While the Chinese snap up theirs
In a matter of days if not hours.

Another Malay penchant is the media craze to make
The longest, biggest of a local take
Which the world has never heard of
Like the longest lemang,
And claim it is a world shebang.

If you lend money to a Malay,
Don't hope to get it back,
Near or distant,
Acquaintance or relative,
It is all the same,
It is not in the mindset
Of a Malay to return
A borrowed anything
For "Loan" is only a
Loan word actually meaning
A gift, once given, is gone for good,
Like an arrow released from its bow,
To ask for it back is to
Rot the elbow.

If you look up on the high achievers list,
You'll find occasionally a Malay,
But scroll down the neg stats,
Their representation is out of all
Proportion to the ratio of population;
For a Malay takes to buang anak, ponteng,
Lepak, mat rempit, syabu and conteng
Like flies to a suppurating sore;
Ask him to sail alone offshore,
Play the violin at Albert Hall,
Or gain English mastery,
He will report you to the state mufti
As a suspect for having converted to Christianity.

Whether in politics, marriage, or patronage,
A Malay is at best a fair-weather friend,
When in need, he is hovering near,
When want not,
He is nowhere to be got,
Indeed, a friend in deed
Is a Malay only when in need.
At worst, he will betray you
At the slightest sign of a change
In the climate, political or relational;
When he was down,
He wrapped himself around your ankles,
On the way up, all sweetness,
He used you as a stepping-stone;
Out of the piste,
He showed a clean pair of heels,
Loans, Mara or familial, to date, unpaid,
Passages or the whole script credited
To his PhDship, leaving you the crumbs
Of an unacknowledged manuscript;
Perchance he rose to be a minister or dean
And years later met you again,
You might just catch him saying:
"So you're still alive and kicking!"
As though only he had the extra something
To stay on, while others are done in,
Covering up the soiled spot
Like a tomcat his scat.

A simple matter of applying
For an OKU card can send you headlong
Into a free fall of ten people telling
you ten different things, entailing
Ten trips to ten different counters
At ten different pejabats:
All that right under the promising
Mission statement and work desiderata
Put up by the graphics boys
On the wall for decorum, who,
One suspects, do not care two hoots
About the message in the medium.

That, more or less, is my experience
Of being a detached Malay,
A part of and yet feeling apart
From the Melayu World.