A Barian I'll always be

It was the first day at school,
and the year was 1966 -
when i first stepped into TBSS
(Tengku Bariah Secondary School)
a new school - a school for the 'scums'
a school you won't want to be in -
if given the choice,
SSSS (Sultan Sulaiman Sec Sch) it'll be!

Sis was there - a year before me -
to guide freshie me around the school;
what i remember most was the first meal
at the school canteen -
Sis had handed the plate to me:
it was a plate of mee,
but what was so tasty
were the two sticks of keropok lekor
with lots of chilli!
i'll always remember that first 20sen meal
at the school canteen...

i remember someone else
on that first day in TBSS:
my assistant monitor, Seok Young -
a tall athelic with a small, sharp voice;
i stood there in the new class,
and when she saw that i had no chair -
she leaped up and bounded down the stairs,
and came back in a jiffy,
with a chair for me!
and i loved her from that moment on...

The other memory of an impressive figure
happened in the school canteen:
i was hurrying after my classmates
when a voice asked for my name
and which class i was in -
and before i knew it,
there he was, with a cough, and a drawl,
and a twirl of his forehead lock:
to tell us of his travels,
and faraway tales of adventure,
on his trusted motorbike -
dreamy-eyed and absorbed,
(we'ld go on such escapades,
and experience such a life of adventure,
one day..., we'd thought)
my Art teacher was he!
and later my Geog teacher,
my prefect master,
and Sri Barian adviser,
and later, a confidante
and family friend, too...

And of all the classes
my art lessons i truly loved -
for not only did we paint
the kampung chickens and goats
outside the school fence,
but also went on field trips
leaving the school gates far behind -
to paint the canals and paddy fields:
and my art block was his practice easel,
my hand held his paint brush -
while 'my B- paintings' went up on the wall -
together with all the A++ ones,
much to the envy of all...!
and whenever we had to be confined
in the class: it was i who was
the model, in my purple sweater,
with my model bag and my model umbrella -
for all who sat in a semi-circle to paint!
and it was i, pinned up on the wall -
with all the A++ grades to my fame...!
and he would throw a challenge:
"If Cheng Neo would tell a story,
gold pieces would fall fromthe skies!"
to which i completely lost my tongue!
but what i didn't like
was when he was my Geog teacher -
and compared me to my sis
(who was always top of her class)!

I remember my English lessons well -
loved The Black Arrow for the romance,
and The Kontiki Expedition
'coz Mrs Lim read it so well...
loved my first form teacher in Form 1:
Miss Loke Chee Ping was her name
she was the Home Science teacher in Form 1
and gave me a good rub and a hot drink
when i had 'stomach cramps' one day,
and she was also the conductor
every Sunday morn - to start the Nee...
for Negaraku!
she was also my English teacher
in Form 1,
who told all the other teachers
of my being top essayist
in each test, or exam,
and praised me to the sky -
and teachers stopped to ask for my score
as they walked by...

Mrs Jega(nathan) was my History teacher
in Form 3,
also in charge of the library was she;
a discipline mistress with muscled arms
she swung her cane and left many
with a sore bum!
Later in 1973, in SABS, in JB:
i was an attachment teacher, so green -
she brought me to the class and said'
"Here's your new teacher, Miss Chan -
and she was my ex-student in TBSS!"
then came our ancient History teacher,
Mr Royan - in Form 5 -
a hairy giant - with hair growing
from his nostrils and his ears!
for his subject i didn't do well,
(Sorry , Sir, is all that i can say)

Another favourite teacher
is Mr Wong Fook Seng
(there were three Wongs,
so we had to get his name right!)
my Maths teacher in Form 1 or 2 -
(in Form 3 we had a jovial "humpty dumpty"
who huffed and puffed up the stairs -
and took a moment to catch his breath ,
smiling happily all the while,
then came his breathless greeting,
and a fine morning 'twas, under him...)
who, i feel, taught me 'alone'
in a class of 33 or 40?
with one leg on the chair before me
and leaning forward, towards me (i feel)
to deliver his Maths lesson -
i sat through all my Maths class
with my head bowed, with a shy 'flush':
i couldn't lift up my head,
'coz he was so near, his nose so close!(ha-ha)

Another most beloved figure, Cikgu Zin,
was my young Form 4 & 5 form teacher
who became a principal
of the Muar Sri Amar DiRaja;
then the Johor state
Director of Education;
(and married the prettiest girl in class
with a lovely, captivating, dimpled smile,
and a pair of fluttering eyelashes,
and long, straight, jet black hair)
i was the only Chinese in his class,
besides a pair of Indians -
and i became an Aini to my classmates
sharing everything that we had together:
Azizah's rambutans and durians and manggis -
all from her dusun in Kuala Berang (or Manir?)
and Zainon's buah quini; and not forgetting
Wan Zainab's Seberang Tahir keropok lekor
was a great favourite, too -
even sampan rides in Kuala Berang (or Manir?)
and walking on the sand bar
in the middle of the Trengganu river
and lunch in after the river adventure
tasted like heaven, to hungry folks like us
with all the happy smiles, and
"Eat more...! Eat more...!"
we tucked ourselves into the spread,
much to the delight of Azizah's parents -
as they watched us gobble down our fill!

Another unforgetable character is Mr Ho,
who was the assistant library teacher:
on our library duty one day,
i caught a boy stealing -
he had brought the date stamp
from his father's shop
to stamp the due date,
and smuggle the book out...
i 'caught' him, and he returned the book
but begged me not to tell...
quoting friendship, racial-relationship, etc,
and i was at odds - 'to tell or not to tell'?
the next day, after a restless night, i went
to the library, to spill the beans -
for i was the chief librarian for the day,
entrusted with the all important task
of keeping thieves and vandals at bay,
so i couldn't, that trust i had to maintain -
or be a let-down, an accomplice, a traitor
to myself, and my teachers: a dismay!
so i told, and he was punished -
and that brought his fury and vengeance our way:
when i went over for Mandarin class,
(he was from the Commerce class, i the Arts)
all were told to boycott, to keep away...;
and when Mr Ho went into their class
for his Geog lesson, he and his gang
drummed the desk, and rapped away:
"Botak! Botak!" was what they say!

There was Miss Padmaja, too,
my Literature teacher, who lived with her siblings
and nine cats (?!), on the Batu Buruk beach,
facing the sunrise, the palm trees, and the sea...
though there were just five or six of us,
she taught us to love Shakespeare and poetry...

Those were the school days experienced -
happy yet sad; poignant yet
sometimes filled with pain,
and those were the young,
dedicated teachers assigned to teach -
that we, the 'rejects' of elite SSSS, did get...

"For we are seven"

God deemed it befitting for Mum dan Dad
to have seven little princesses -
to keep them company, and to give them joy
looking out for each other, lovingly,
we grew up with the chicks and the ducklings -
but no pigs, no, nor sucklings,
just a family dog named Kopi...
household chores were never a worry -
and we had them all done, in a jiffy!
i was the cook, two others the washerlady,
one the the playmate, another the guardian,
and always one to babysit, the little baby...

After two girls, number three was up for giving:
"No, no," said our granny,"not my sweet little girl!"
so she was taken to live with granny ...
Then came number four, and again came that old aunty -
but this time she left in a hurry:
little Shim (Pure Heart was her name)
had red birth marks: one on her chest -
and the tip of her nose was red!
Dad looked at her and remembered clearly -
they had shot at a sow
on a trip, while off hunting:
they got the sow but the poor little piglet,
with blood at the tip of its snout -
and some dripping from its chest,
ran off squealing loudly;
and that had dad, no doubt,
been moved by the pitiful squeals...
so that little red patch
had saved our little fourth sister!

After that she took up the task of guardian:
at three, and still a baby herself,
she stood her ground, arms out-stretched, at the gate -
and scratched, and bit the old aunty on her hand
and shooed and pushed her off
and told her she coud not enter -
when she came to take a look at
our pretty little fifth sister!
(Dad loved her, too, with her jet black hair
she was sucking her little finger)...
so when chubby bubbly number six came,
the first one to be born in Kuala Trengganu -
the old aunty gave up trying,
and adopted someone else's baby sister;
finally when our youngest little sis was born
there was no more talk of adoption -
she had the fairest of skin,
and the loveliest pair of liquid eyes,
and became the mightiest of us all -
as we all Tuan-ed her,
(yes, that's what she's called);
our spokeswoman, together with little fifth sister,
who used to stand by Dad's elbow at breakfast time:
to get her little spoonful of butter!
(a taste that none of the others acquired)
so we became Mum's and Dad's seven...

Even when Shim was taken away from us
at the tender age of nineteen,
(she had a heart problem)
we are no different:
"for we are seven in all"
and will always remain so...
and when we read her secret diary -
all of us wept over her pain and suffering,
and all the beautiful poetry that she wrote -
while in pain, while suffering in silence,
fifth sis, who was a live wire,
lost her tongue,and all her fire -
she became ever so quiet,
going about her daily chores, in silence,
that we all feared for her health...
till she found God, and Christianity,
and He must have eased
all the pain and suffering
of losing a sister, so suddenly...
and i told myself:
if Shim could write so beautifully,
it has to come from a streak in the family,
and there must be someone else -
it has to run in the family...
so here i am, writing -
to carry on the legacy,
that Shim had started, in secrecy,
pouring out all her pain and suffering;
suffering the pain all alone -
to save the family from suffering
the pain of watching a loved one suffer -
that's our selfless little fourth sister...

"Be a teacher"

Yes, i love to be a teacher -
and to "touch a life" or two...
for, after a lifetime of being a teacher,
i've touched many lives, as they have touched mine...

Though some times i just listened -
not knowing what to say...
but many a time i've reasoned,
and consoled a weeping heart, or two...

For i feel: no little angel that comes my way
should be left to go hungry, or be angry,
feel sad or sorry; or be made to worry -
if i can help it; if not, 'over my dead body'!

Today i learned that a little angel
had to help his mother
in her effort to put rice on the table:
twenty-five kilos of beans and chilli
is a lot to pack, with his brother,
and to wash up the place and containers -
after a tiring day at school,
homework and housework to do, packaging, too...
and on a Sunday, the house to mop,
and the cargo car to wash - he and his brother!
my heart goes out to him (and his little partner)
at such a tender age, such responsibilities to shoulder...

The second little angel talked of his sick grandmother:
warded, bedridden, but still as cheerful as ever!
her only complaint: hospital food tasted 'like paper' -
and my little angel is worried for his poor grandmother...
his little heart is sad, for a second reason:
kicked out of the librarian's post that he loved -
all because they have one too many,
and don't need another...!
i watched him as he put the books lovingly back
on their shelves - he knows and loves his task,
and loves to read, and loves all the books,
and is so eager to work - so why rob him of his pleasure?
his third grievance: he hates Fridays!
the Art lesson causes fear and embarassment:
he couldn't draw and neither could he colour!
so i told him of my equal fear and embarassment,
and of my Art teacher, who held my hand,
and showed me how to 'feel' the strokes,
and to love to experiment with each colour...
and told him to smile more: he's too serious at 14 -
he'll soon look like 41 - with so much to worry!

They remind me of 'Si Tompel', who had always commented:
(on tiring day-ends, when the class is noisy and lazy)
Teacher, why do you look so sad? Smile... smile...
Well, which teacher wouldn't? So i smiled...;
that reminds me of another, a 'fallen' angel
who had such sad eyes, and seldom smiled...:
he had had a bad motorbike accident -
lost his leg, and 'killed' his single mother
so he and his siblings are now orphans -
and i was his speechless form teacher...
didn't know how to console, or to counsel
till he said,"I wish to talk about the accident..."
and i was grading him for his oral test -
while he lifted the burden off his chest...
all i did was to listen, and nod in encouragement,
while he purged his young heart of all the guilty feelings...

I may not have touched their life deep enough -
but they certainly have touched mine...

"You raised me up"

You taught me the principles in life -
so i can be a better person,
you taught me never to let go -
so long as i can see the hair line,
you taught me never to give u -
so long as there is a ray of hope...

You taught me to respect -
all creatures, big and small,
for they, too have a place on earth;
you taught me to love -
all who love and care for me,
regardless of birth, religion, or breed...

You taught me to forgive -
my friends, and my enemies
not to hate;
you taught me to be just -
to champion the course,
and to defend the weak...

You raised me up,knowing it's not wrong to dream -
and to know when to let go
and when to hold on to the dream;
you raise me up, to help the needy
earn their keep, and bake their own bread -
to save what is necessary, but never to hoard...

You raised me up to know what is white, or black -
what is whiter than white, or darker than black,
and what is never, and will never be white; always black!
you raised me up, to know all there is to know -
about what's good, can be better, or what's the best,
you raised me up, to always look ahead, not back...

"You raised me up, so i can stand on mountains,
you raised me up, so i can walk on stormy seas -
you raised me up, to be more than what i am..."

"You are the wind beneath my wings"

You gave me that lift -
a whiff, to help me over the stile...
you gave me a little nudge -
a little push, when i stalled along the path..
you gave me hope -
when i was flickering, waiting to be snuffed, and blown out...
you gave my confidence a big boost -
when i was all dented and deflated...

You did all these , when i needed a friend -
when i needed someone to believe in me,
and all i could do, greater things achieve...
you made me believe in myself -
the things i can do,
the things i can achieve...

You did all these for me -
especially for me, i would like to think...

Mum, Dad, i'm home

The excitement grows each time i see the familiar signs:
when angsanas give way to casuarinas...
when golden beaches replace the green meadows
and grazing cattle are found along the roads -
not in paddocks,on sprawling hillocks and meadows,
and the deep blue sea beckons...

'Home is where the heart is...'
i believe it surely is -
for, after all these years of roaming
i still say,"Home is where the sea is,
and the rolling waves, and the horizon,
and the mile upon mile of fine golden sand...
well, that is where the heart is,
so, that must be where home is..."

And when i walk through the familiar gates
and step on the familiar threshold:
there you both are, smiling a warm greeting -
two pairs of loving eyes on the wall,
and my happy heart swells with nostalgia:
"Mum, Dad, i'm home ..."
i would say to the loving eyes on the wall,
and they would smile lovingly back at me...

Thus, year after year,
i would make that 'pilgrimage'
of love and rememberance -
for as long as i could drive, walk, or crawl,
i'll be there, on the threshold, to say:
"Mum, Dad, i'm home..."

'The Old Lady Who Lives in a Shoe'

Yes, that was how she felt at one time,
more than two decades ago ...
that must be how she felt -
that old lady who lived in a shoe:
for she had seven children and a dog
(and a weekend lifemate)
all living in her shoe-house,
the eldest was twenty-three,
the youngest, her own, four-plus-three ...

Cook, chauffeur, cleaner,
caretaker, bedmaker, homemaker,
nursemaid, laundry maid, pick-up maid -
all rolled into one: the shoe lady!
full of drive, full of energy,
but filled with remorse,and silent anger,
high in expectations, but low in spirits -
that was how the shoe lady lived, indeed ...!

Day after day, and after-day and after-day
she found it hard to slog alone,
while others sit and wait to be waited upon,
chatting happily, reading the news or watching tv,
not lifting any sweet little painted nail:
the youngers, too young to know,
the elders, too old to scold
so the smiles got less, and less -

then the shoe lady thought of a way -
to teach some manners in a subtle way:
placing little love notes everywhere -
for all to read and understand,
that life is more than 'I, Me, Myself and My Own'
but also we, ours, ourselves and things that we all own
have to be taken care of - not just used, and thrown-
displaced, discarded, or disowned ...

SOME HOME RULES, it says, and
(if you can't be of help,
at least don't be a burden to others) ...
i wonder if any of them remember those lines still -
or if they remember the old lady who lives in the shoe,
who had that written out and hanging in the kitchen, still ...

"If you sleep on it, make it up,
if you wear it, hang it up,
if you drop it, pick it up,
if you empty it, fill it up,
if you eat out of it, wash it,
if you step on it, wipe it off,
if you open it, close it,
if it rings, answer it,
if it howls, feed it,
if it cries, love it;"

If it is yours, take it,
if it isn't, ask to use it,
if it is dirty, clean it,
if you can't clean it, then don't use it,
if you've taken something, put it back,
if you've borrowed anything, return it,
if you've lost it, replace it,
if you've hurt someone, apologise for it,
if you're set some task,do it,
if you don't learn to give, don't expect to receive,
if you are angry, think of nice things to do for others,
if something is dear to you, all the more you should share it,
if you have nothingelse to give, why not a SMILE?

and the longest love note that she sent
was in reply to a complaint for a lack of privacy and space:
WHAT ABOUT ME? WHAT ABOUT ME? she had asked
in a love note that stretched for a whole week ...
and at the end of the week, at the start of the weekend
one of the brood mumbled to her toes, for the first time:
"I'll be in KL for the weekend - back on Sunday evening ..."
and the old lady nodded to her mop and pail,
without looking up at the puffed lids, and the swollen eyes ...
and remembered the long laments she had poured out
on the complainant's pillow that week:
which had finally brought about an insight to her hurt feelings:
being treated like a chambermaid, a housekeeper,
a chauffeur and a cook, nothing more -
never as a thinking, feeling aunt,
or ever as a loving god mother, to all...

"The Handwriting on the Wall"

It has been there for over a decade -
in an obscure corner of the school...
how many noticed it, i wonder?
only but a few, i should say;
for those in the open -
along the corridors of many,
along the walks of fame,
have been many times painted over,
save for this one:
'A painting can paint a thousand words'...

Clearly it had escaped the eyes of many -
lying unobstrusively high up on the back wall;
it is for this reason i feel,
that it has remained, untouched,
by the brushes and rushes of progress;
while 'A friend is a gift i give myself' is still there,
'A journey of a thousand miles begins with one step'
the little garden of gay tulips,
dancing behind a picket fence
or the sign that says:
'Your complaints tell us,
your compliments tell others'
and the graph of a walkathon collection,
framed by creepers and smiling roses...,
that i love so well,
are all gone -
have all long been wiped off,
with one sweep of the brush,
and painted over,
by the hands of progress...!

So, what is still left standing,
is this handwriting, on one insignificant wall:
'A painting can paint a thousand words ...'-
so, why can't i paint you...?