Saturday with Paulo

Kids were away on their own brand of adventure courtesy of my brother in-law. And just when I had the craziest idea of spending the day being a ‘mermaid’- my very own term for cuddling in bed until the sun rises straight up my head and being a slimy squid in front of the TV for the second half of the daylight- and very excited about it, my Roze suggested that I should drive her to her facial at Ampang Point.

“You know the place would be jam-packed with people and if I were driving, I would be late for my appointment because I would have to drive around to look for parking. If you drive, you can just drop me off.”

It made perfect sense to me but I was a bit apprehensive at first nonetheless, knowing that I had to spend 2 hours of loafing around. And with kids not with me, I knew it wouldn’t be easy to spend all those times waiting. But I said yes anyway, not out of duty to Roze but to myself as I came to a realization that I need all those times to be alone by myself and be free.

After making a number of circles around the block in pursuits to secure a parking spot, I finally managed to complete my mission. It was a short victory and I wasted no time in celebration when I realized I had a far bigger mission: I have 2 hours to waste. “But then, where do I go?” I said to myself. And, there I was, in the middle of a crowded place and nowhere to go.

I was running around with no sense of purpose until I looked up to 3rd Floor and saw the bookstore. At that very moment, I saw clear images of Paulo Coelho in my head and I was in an almost revelation-like experience when I stepped my feet inside the bookstore. I knew what I wanted and my mission was clear: a Paulo Coelho’s book. I finally knew why I was there. It happened very fast and in 5 minutes flat, I was holding “The Zahir” in my hand.

A few minutes later, I was sitting down at Frisco Coffee on the Ground Floor with a large X (Extreme Mocha) on the table and my eyes and fingers glued on to “The Zahir”. Running through pages of “The Zahir” in between sips of the heavenly X was a journey in itself. And, Paulo Coelho, as in his other books I have read, has nothing short of magical power to suck me deep in the storyline, making me feel as if I were the main character. The delivery was brilliant and the plot was full of unexpected twists and turns, curves here and there, and ups and downs everywhere.

The spontaneity and the fluidness of the storyline were so phenomenal although I could feel the story was moving slower than what I would like it to be. The frequent change of stage setting offered a different yet refreshing experience for me. As the setting moved from Paris to Spain (Santiago and others), Croatia and ended in Kazakhstan steppes, I was also carrying my luggage from one place to another.

I loved Coelho’s analogies used throughout the book and I think they were so relevant and meaningful. And, he used the encounters with the beggars and nomads to demonstrate their different brands of philosophy of life, which perfectly made sense to me.

Needless to say, I was so deep in the storyline that I managed to ignore what happened around me except for a few minutes of having to listen to a group of screaming Arabs sitting at the next table. Otherwise, I was in the world of my own enjoying the time to myself. And, 2 hours later, after emptying 1 large X and another regular X and puffing away 5 sticks of Sempoerna, I completed almost half of the book.

(Just for the record, I completed the whole book that day. A must-read for those of you who’s still searching for the meaning of life.)


Chazz

Pemusnah Impian??

“Assalamualaikum”,

Terpacul ungkapan keramat yang di dalamnya merangkumi ucap selamat dan doa tulus dan kudus. Aku membuka mataku perlahan-lahan. Mataku masih perit lantaran menerima pancaran cahaya secara mendadak. Terasa seakan mataku menyedut masuk segala cahaya dari dalam bilik dingin itu. Pedih dan perit sekali.

“Dari mana suara itu?”, bisikku pada diriku sambil bola mataku mengimbas ke sekeliling mencari-cari arah datangnya suara itu. Terasa suara itu terlalu dekat.

“Wa alaikumussalam”. Dalam kebingungan salamnya bersambut jua.

Mata saling berpandangan. Seakan ada sekelumit rasa kemesraan walau dalam keterasingan. Seakan ada secebis rasa persaudaraan yang mendekatkan jarak dan menghilangkan sempadan di antara kami.

“Seperti pernah kulihat orang ni”, desis hatiku.

Bola mataku berpusing-pusing dan naik turun, merenung orang tua yang kurus melidi dengan pakaian compang-camping. Bau hapak dan hamisnya menusuk lubang deria bau ku. Dan, janggut dan kumisnya dibiar tumbuh meliar, tak terurus.

“Tapi…”, terpacul satu perkataan dari mulutku, berbaur dengan rasa kehairanan. Keningku bagai diangkat-angkat oleh rasa keghairahan ingin tahu yang berbuak-buak.

“Aku tahu. Kau tak mengenali aku kan?”Senyum sumbing. Dalam ertinya. Matanya merenung mataku. Tajam dan penuh pengertian.

“Aku adalah sebahagian dari kau.”
“Malah aku adalah kau.”

“Ah! Masa kan engkau adalah aku? Mana mungkin. Maafkan aku, orang tua. Memang rupa kau seiras ku tapi kau tak mungkin aku. Tidak kah kau lihat perbezaan kita?”

“Dan, kalau benar sekalipun, perlu apa kau datang kemari? Apa yang kau mahu dari ku?”

Ketawanya mengekek bagai mengejek dan memperlekehkan aku. Matanya menelanjangkan tubuhku.

“Aku datang untuk menuntut hak aku.”

“Hak kau? Tapi, aku tidak berhutang apa-apa dengan sesiapa. Apa hak yang kau ada ke atas diriku?”

Ketawa lagi. Bingit telingaku. Ku rasa semacam mahu saja aku jeritkan ke telinganya, biar dia dapat rasakan apa yang ku rasa.

“Aku adalah janji-janjimu.”
“Aku adalah impian mu.”
“Aku adalah tanggungjawabmu.”
“Aku adalah kesetiaanmu.”

Dia berhenti seketika dan menarik nafas dalam-dalam. Aku semacam menunggu dia menyambung. Payah untuk ku menangkap dan memahami butir-butir cakapnya. Pelik.

“Kau telah terlalu jauh menyimpang dari hakikat kejiwaanmu. Hakikat yang menjadikan kau itu kau. Kau telah lupakan aku dan kau telah lupakan dirimu.”

“Masih kau ingat janji-janjimu? Kau berjanji ingin menjaga Ayah dan Ibu. Adik-adikmu.”

“Kau masih ingat ketika kau berlutut di pusara Ayah yang ketika itu tanahnya masih merah. Kau berjanji ingin meneruskan tanggungjawab Ayah menjaga Ibu dan membantu adik-adikmu.”
“Tapi…” suaraku seakan tersekat.

“Tapi apa? Apa alasan mu?” bentaknya keras.

“Kau mahu menyalahkan masa kau yang sempit lantaran kesibukan kau bekerja? Lantaran melayan karenah anak-anak mu? Lantaran mengulit isterimu yang gebu?”

“Lantas kau tiada kelapangan untuk menjenguk ibu tua mu atau menelefonnya bertanya khabar. Lantas kau terlalai untuk menziarahi dan membasahi pusara ayahmu dengan air mawar. Lantas kau tidak sempat untuk mengotorkan tanganmu mencabut anak-anak lalang dan rumput yang tumbuh meliar.”

“Terlalu sibukkah kau sehingga engkau tidak sempat untuk menghadiahkan Al fatihah dan selawat untuk ayahmu?”

“Ada kau hubungi adik-adikmu? Pernah kau tanyakan keadaan mereka? Berduitkan mereka? Atau, adakah mereka hidup dengan berlaukkan kicap? Atau mee segera sebagai satapan makan malam mereka yang paling istimewa?”

Aku terdiam. Terpaku. Seakan hilang suaraku untuk berkata-kata. Peluh dingin merembes keluar dari liang romaku. Takut dan malu bagai menjadi satu rasa yang kini menghuni dadaku. Kesalku berada di puncak. Aku rasa seperti aku telah ditelanjangkan.

“Kau yang menyebabkan aku begini. Dulu kau manusia yang keras dan tegas. Tekadmu bagai satu tunjang yang kukuh. Kau bagai pokok yang rimbun, melindungi dan menguatkan orang-orang di sekelilingmu.”

“Zon keselesaanmu yang terlalu melalaikan kau. Terlalu enak dan terlalu selamat. Tiada cabaran. Lantas auramu terlalu lemah lagi melemahkan. Orang di sekelilingmu tidak mendapat apa-apa dari mu melainkan kelemahan mu.”

“Masih ingatkah engkau akan cita-citamu. Engkau mahu menjadi seorang yang terkenal. Kau mahu jadi penulis. Mana tekadmu? Mana cita-citamu? Mana impianmu? Mana bukumu?”

‘Kau mahu uruskan rumah kebajikan untuk anak yatim. Seperti Ustazah Salimah yang menguruskan rumah anak yatim yang kau selalu kunjungi saban minggu. Masih kau ingat hilai ketawa anak-anak malang itu setiap kali ketika kau tiba? Dan tangis sedih mereka ketika kau mahu pulang?”

“Kau tak lagi mengunjungi rumah anak yatim itu. Anak-anak kecil itu tidak lagi kau hiraukan. Berlaukkah makan mereka? Berselimutkah tidur mereka? Sempurnakah pembelajaran mereka? Berbukukah mereka? Apakah mereka masih makan 3 kali sehari dan minum petang bersama pisang dan keledek goreng? Apa kau peduli? Itu nasib mereka.”

“Kau yang memusnahkan impian mu sendiri. Mimpimu hitam kelam bagai malam tiada berbintang. Impian mu terperosok jauh di bawah aras bumi sehingga terlalu jauh untuk kau sendiri merangkak keluar dari situ.”

“Sedarlah.”

Sayup-sayup kedengaran suara-suara manusia yang ku rasakan terlalu asing. Cahaya semakin terang. Ku rasakan tubuhku kejang dan lemah. Seakan tiada upaya aku untuk membuka mataku. Seluruh badanku sakit. Dan, peluh dingin tambah membekukan anggota badanku. Aku dapat merasakan mata dan pipiku bergenang air mata.

“Syukurlah, abang selamat. Anak-anak kita dalam perjalanan ke mari. Pembedahan abang tadi tu berjaya. Ini Dr. Kamil. Pakar bedah dalam pembedahan tadi.”

Chazz - ketika kemelayuanku datang menyapa

A Day To Remember

4th of July is always a day to remember. Not because I celebrate the Independence Day of the United States of America, although I flipped through enough pages of American History books to understand what it means to the Americans. Not that it matters to me nor do I care about it but everytime when somebody mentioned the date, I could feel the adrenalin came rushing through every single veins in my body. 4th of July 1989, that was the day to remember. That was the day why 4th of July means so much to me.

Like every 1st of July, that year, downtown St Louis, from Market Street through Olive Street and all the way to Riverfront and historic site of Laclede’s Landing and especially the areas surrounding Jefferson Memorial and the Gateway Arch were crowded with people.

The whole city was filled with spirit of celebrations as everybody anxiously waiting for 4th of July in party mood. For 4 days in a year starting from 1st through 4th of July, the city changes its character, color and sound. The ever tame and innocent downtown St. Louis began to show the other side of it. Perhaps, a little more adventurous and a twist of boldness were showing in every corners of downtown. The whole downtown glowed with colorful atmosphere with decorations everywhere and filled with music and sounds of joy and happiness.

It was like the whole city was just awakened from her long sleep. And, it was all because of Veiled Prophet Fair or V.P. Fair (from 1992 onwards, it is called Fair Saint Louis) where the city hosted a celebration with non-stop music, entertainment and fireworks. Some called it "America's largest birthday party" as the event showcased a variety of attractions including air shows, educational activities, a barbecue competition, stage performances featuring popular entertainers, and an enormous fireworks display held nightly enough to attract crowds from in and out of the state. The city was never so full of life except perhaps when the Cardinals won the World Series and the Rams (the Ram was still in LA when I left St. Louis) won the Superbowl and especially if the Blues could win Stanley Cup (which they have consistently failed to do from the dawn of time until present).

There I was, an outcast even to my fellow countrymen to add to my usual ‘stinking curry-smelled foreigner’ tag to the rest of the Americans. Just because I was a huge Jazz fan. Just because I was drawn more to Kenny G, Earl Klugh, George Benson, Grover Washington Jr., Stanley Jordan, Chick Corea, the Marsailis Brothers and David Sanborn (to name a few, names that I still have on top of my head) rather than to the moonwalker Michael you-know-who and the ‘hair’ generation of rockers, Guns & Roses, Metallica, Bon Jovi, Def Leppard and the teenage sensations at the time, the New Kids On The Block, which people in the main stream like them fancied. Put all of them aside, I was hungry and looking for some saucy yet soothing sounds of Jazz music so I dragged myself to the Fair because I knew there were gonna be open-air Jazz performances by Jazz bands, either quartets or fusion, playing classical or modern Jazz, the solo saxophonist and guitarist, and Jazz singers. Best of all, they would took turns to perform round the clock for 4 days. Yes, you read it right, the performances and concerts were non-stop for 4 days.

I booked one of those small tents that were erected along side of the streets and empty spaces around Riverfront areas to provide shelters for the visitors, especially people from out of town. For those 4 days, many people including the weird 21-year old me were at the same social class as the homeless except maybe our clothes and the fact that we were homeless by choice. It was still summer so I didn't really mind being outdoor and sleeping on the grass and pavement as long as I was close enough to the stage to see the performances.

The stage was erected on the bank of the Mississippi River and the exhibition booths were lined up all the way to the historic site of Laclede’s Landing. I am not sure whether I am right but I think Laclede’s Landing was the place where Louis Laclede landed when he took the historic trip on the small plane named Spirit of St Louis from Paris, hence called Laclede’s Landing. A popular attraction in St. Louis and located just north of the Eads Bridge on the Mississippi Riverfront, the Landing is a multi-block collection of cobblestone streets and vintage brick-and-cast-iron warehouses dating from 1850 through 1900, now converted into shops, restaurants, and bars. It was the centre of crowds especially during weekends where St. Louisans come to chill out and have a beer or two after a grueling and painful week of hard work.

Needless to say, I was having the time of my life by myself. For 2 full days (except for a few minutes a day at home for showers and such), I was alone in the ocean of people, enjoying the performances while lying down and sleeping under the moon and stars of St. Louis’ skies. I didn’t know a single soul although there were times when I was involved in unofficial interviews by curious tenants of the neighboring tents. I still think that until today, I was at the peak of my happiness that day. I didn’t feel any pressure from anyone. No one can tell me what to do and I felt that at that very moment, I didn’t need anyone, not my family, not my friends, not the government and not my country. I felt that I could live there forever, even under a tent. Even if I would be the loneliest guy alive, I wouldn’t mind. And, at that point in time, I pledged to myself that I would call St. Louis my home and spend the rest of my living life there. I was ready to pledge allegiance to the US of A, "the land of the free and the home of the braves". I decided that if I ever go back to Malaysia, it would be only to visit my family.

The third day came as a surprise and drastically changed the whole experience. Maybe God decided that I was not meant to be alone although He was kind enough to let me have the feel of it for 2 whole days. I was walking around the Landing when I met a college friend, Christobal or Chris as he was fondly known.

I first met Chris when he was in the same class with me in Fall’88 semester. He was a Graduate student but he had to take the undergraduate class to comply with the university’s elective requirement. Oh yeah, it was Latin American Economics, the class that brought us closer to Latin American countries and their economy. Being a Hispanic, Chris was often mistaken as an Asian as he looked like a typical Malay with tan skin and stood only 5 ft 5 inches tall.

We hang out a lot, especially after class either to discuss on our assignments or studied for other classes. And, often, our meeting place was at our unofficial HQ, a smoking room on 5th Floor of the University Library. The quorum wouldn’t be complete without 5 other foreign students : Ali Kareem, a 30-something Somalian graduate student who always introduced himself as "I am Ali Kareem: Ali as in Mohamad Ali, the boxer and Kareem as in Kareem Abdul Jabbars, the basketball player" who smoke the not-so-famous, yellow-box Merit; a Spanish guy named Carlos who was a part-time model and dated a Black girl; another Spanish guy who stayed across the hall from Carlos’s apartment whom I forgot his name; and 2 Japanese guys whom I totally forgot until today and ofcourse, I didn’t remember their names. And together, we were 7 wonders of the world, sharing the space in the smokey room on 5th Floor where not many others would dare to enter. From our small chats, I learned a little bit of their backgrounds, enough for me to know them personally to call them on first name basis.

For the next 2 days at the VP Fair, I spent enough quality time to get to know Chris even closer. We talked and talked while listening to the music from the stage. We shared about our countries and what was special about it, the people, the culture, and the life we had when we were growing up. I was cracking jokes on my parts but I realized that he talked in a different tone when he started talking about himself.

I almost jumped when he said, “I am actually a Cuban.”

“What do you mean? I thought you are an American, I mean I knew you are a Cuban-American but I thought you were born here?”

“Yes, I am, technically, American. On paper, I am an American citizen but I wasn’t born here.” he paused for 5 second breather before continued, “I came to America when I was 10 years old. I was put on a boat ride from Havana and after a few rough days, she landed in Miami (Florida). Practically, my whole family were there on the boat including my parents, my grandparents, my uncles and aunties and cousins. The whole enchiladas.”

“Even at that tender age, I knew and understood why my father brought our family here. I knew he was concerned about our lives and our future. You know, to live in Cuba under Fidel Castro’s Communist regime was terrible. Life was really tough. There were days when we had no food to eat. And all of us sat around the table and stared at each other and then my mom started crying and we all cried together.”, he told me with teary eyes before continued with his childhood stories when they started building back their lives in Miami, all from scratch and how he ended up travelling half way across the continent to St. Louis to follow his dreams.

“Hope brought us here and hope will bring us back there. All these years, I can’t help it but hope that the situation in my country would be better. I am still waiting for that day. The day that I will rewind my life journey and find myself in Cuba again. I am still hoping that one day I’ll go back to Cuba and help them rebuild the nation”, he continued.

“I love Cuba, with all my heart. I would remain a Cuban, wherever I am.”

On 4th of July that year, I learned about love and loyalty, and the words from Chris that day stuck to my mind until today like they were hard-coded into my brain. All those words came into play in November 1990 when I woke up one day and decided to come home, only after almost 1 year after my graduation.

I’ve never heard from Chris again after I left St Louis in April 1990. I ‘d never know if he’s still in the US or Cuba, but I know that his heart is big enough to have all of Cuba in it. And until today, I celebrated every 4th of July with pride and joy, that I’m home, now surrounded by my family and friends in my own country. Deep in my heart, I know that things are not perfect here but I’m happy because I know that my freedom is here, at home.

Chris, muchos gracias, amigo!


Chazz