Unhappy New Year

"人總需要勇敢生存

我還是重新許願

例如學會承受失戀

明年今日別要再失眠

床褥都改變

如果有幸會面

或在同伴新婚的盛宴

徨徨地等待你出現

明年今日未見你一年

誰舍得改變

離開你六十年

但願能認得出你的子女

臨別亦聽得到你講

再見"

明年今日 (2002) by 陈奕迅

This song got me. It got me good.

If we haven't broken up, I would be on my bed right now, eyes closed, talking on the phone with her because that was how I spent every crossing of one year to the next. It's almost tradition. The dull distress of my recalibrated life - now with a hundred percent less girlfriend - is propelled by the inertia of undead habits. I notice that my subconsciousness haven't yet found out I was dumped because in my dreams, we are still together.

My days remained unbleached; you wouldn't suspect that anything is wrong unless you know what songs I have on constant loop on my MP3 player. It's in the nights that I wander the graveyard of my past relationships. Here lies The One which Lasted One Year, Three Years and the Recently-Departed Four. Their headstones stand side by side, testaments to my continuing failure at love. The third time had not proved to be as much of a charm as it was advertised. You can't tell but I err far too frequently on the side of optimism. Bully for me for believing in happy endings. No endings are happy, silly.

I'm no stranger to being alone, of table-for-ones, and one-ticket-pleases. Four years of romance via electronic proxies had seen to that. I've always skated on the low floor of easy contentment, glad that there's someone out there somewhere who loves me and thinks of me often. Now that floor had fallen away, depositing me in a state of solitude I've forgotten is even possible. Suddenly, it's a world of lovers out there, their very existence mocking mine.

I wished we had that conversation where we talk about the destination we have arrived at and how we needn't to - but maybe, she just woke up one day and realised that we are already there. I agonised long and hard over the road behind us, trying to figure out the last detour we could have taken out of this one-way-street and saw none we would have considered. I did not find it, but I did discover a sign I've missed. In anticipation of her visit last month, I wrote about the uncertainty of our destinies and said:

"Next week, for a few days at least, I want to dwell on none of these bothersome things. Instead, I just want to lose myself in the nearness of the one girl I love most out of the seven billion other human beings on this planet. Oh, if only the rest of our lives should be so simple: she and I, and that elusive Here and Now."

She only gave a knowing smile in reply. I comfort myself in believing that she gave me that one last week of Here and Now unfettered to the weight of reality as a Christmas present - y'know, for old times' sake. This, and many other beautiful things she had done for me, is precisely why I was in love with her. In a way, I still am.

I feel guilt-ridden because even when she's all out of love for me, she still granted me my final wish. In return, she asked if we could still be friends and I could not even give her that at a time she needed one most. Maybe I'm just selfish that way. Maybe I don't want her to hear my voice cracked under the pressure of pretending that everything is okay when I am anything but. Perhaps next year. Perhaps on this day next year, I can be the friend she wants.

I'm going back to bed, and let the new year drift silently past. In my dreams, my heart is whole.

Still asleep and dreaming,

k0k s3n w4i

That Elusive Here and Now

"The minute you think you know you got it

Is the minute you know it's gone for good"

The Tiger Inside Will Eat The Child (2011)
by Fatty Gets a Stylist

This started out as a love letter, a distillation of my thoughts and emotions - my hopes and dreams - for a relationship that just reached four years old. It was half-written, but I already knew how the rest would go. Or rather, I thought I knew. What I didn't expect was having to erase every little word I had handpicked to give shape to the rest of our lives, and start all over with a blank new page.

It was titled "We Are Four" and in it, there was a recapitulation of Boxing Day of 2011 in the recent history of a fortnight past. Phoebe flew over to Kuching to spend the Christmas holiday with me and it was the first time we saw each other in more than seven months. 26th of December is our anniversary and even though I've said over and over again how I don't see the point in celebrating the passage of time, I took her out to someplace nice and posh enough to justify the occasion. It was a rainy Monday evening and we just sat, ate and talked away the hours as if we'd been friends for ever. Then, we went home and watched The Shining, because it was one of the only two movies I have that neither of us have seen. The other was Blue Valentine, a stark portrait of the sweet beginnings of a couple and the eventual decay of their marriage. I didn't want to see Blue Valentine because I was told that it's not a film you should watch with your girlfriend.

Phoebs and I at the Hilton, 26th December 2011.

Today, I received a phone call while I was still at the hospital trying to finish my jobs at the end of a particularly frustrating 12-hour work day. I was delivering some urgent blood samples to the lab when Phoebe called.

"Hello," she began. It may have been my imagination after the fact, but I thought she sounded uncharacteristically meek.

"Hey" I said. "What's up?"

"Where are you now?"

"At work. Why? Do you need to talk?"

"I'm sorry," she said. "I want a break up."

"Oh. Okay. Why?"

"I just felt that we've been drifting apart. Don't you feel the same way?"

"No," I answered with a calmness that surprised me. "Nothing's changed for me."

That was the truth. I did not see it coming at all. If there were frays on the edges, I've failed to notice them unravel. The last months were not punctuated by petty fights or passive aggression. There was no stench of apathetic decay. I was just telling a friend right before Phoebe's visit that I'm dating the perfect girl, and said to him that some day, he'd find someone perfect for him too. Oh, it's almost funny how oblivious I was to the sucker punch I would receive today. Ha ha hilarious.

On my desk right now is a picture of how I like to remember Phoebe best: her, a book in hand, reading. I took it when we were in Kodaikanal, one of those quaint mountain stations in Tamil Nadu we found ourselves lost in those years ago. It sits in a beautiful hand carved photo frame I bought when we were there - when we spent afternoons and evenings visiting every dusty old knickknack shop in town like children.

We were children. Now she's all grown up.

I have not quite decided on how I am feeling at the moment, but perhaps I would find out when the blunt suddenness settles into a clearer understanding of when and where my life is moving to now that I've left the Here and Now. My head aches. My heart feels weak. It's as if it there's too much, far too much inside me.

And I need to get rid of that photograph. I know this sounds crazy, but I think it's killing me bit by bit. I really need it gone.

Hopes he will be okay,

k0k s3n w4i

An Anticipation of Boxing Day

"If a plane crashed into my room

I wouldn't even flinch

I couldn't try to move

My mind is on you

My mind is on you"

Little Dreams (2010) by Ellie Goulding

On the morning of what I imagined to be a bright and cheery Christmas Eve, I expect to leave my house, drive to the airport and wait for the Long-Suffering Girlfriend™ to be a tangible part of my life again. The day after this Christmas would be the second time we are physically together on the 26th of December. The last time that happened was four years ago when we crossed a line we didn't know were there and kept on walking ever since. I can scarcely believe that it's been four whole years since I christened a girl Phoebe and weaved her so seamlessly into the fabric of my life that I've forgotten how to survive nights without that constant comforting thought that out there in the world somewhere, someone loves me.

There are two contradictory English proverbs pertaining to lovers far apart and they are "absence makes the heart grow fonder" and "out of sight, out of mind". One of the worst thing that can happen in a relationship is having your heart grow fonder for a mind you are slowly slipping out of. I have that insecurity, and I surprised myself when I discovered it in the undercurrent of my daily medley of emotions. I have always suspected that the Long-Suffering Girlfriend™ is too good for me and I hope the day doesn't come when she arrives at that same realisation herself.

The Long-Suffering Girlfriend™ after a light, Midori-laced cocktail back in May.

The future of our relationship looms ever nearer but no less uncertain, and it's unrealistic for me to hope that this blissful limbo we are in can be protracted indefinitely. I guess it's part of my blundersome coming of age that the bond between a boyfriend and his girlfriend appears more and more flimsy to me over time, like a game children play, a chaos of three-legged racers who breaks off from their partners at random and reattach themselves to new people all the time. Is that bottomless void of insecurity the reason why men and women get themselves sucked into the spiral of ritualised promises - the illusion of engagement followed by the charade of marriage - all in fact equally flimsy?

Next week, for a few days at least, I want to dwell on none of these bothersome things. Instead, I just want to lose myself in the nearness of the one girl I love most out of the seven billion other human beings on this planet. Oh, if only the rest of our lives should be so simple: she and I, and that elusive Here and Now.



Long-distance three-legged racer,
k0k s3n w4i

Friggatriskaidekaphilia

"I wrote this for my prettiest friend

But while trying not to prove that I care

I was trying not to make all my moves in one motion and scare her away

She can't see she's making me crazy now

I don't believe she knows she's amazing how

She has me holding my breath

So I'd never guess that I'm a nonesuch unsuitable suitor for her"

Prettiest Friend (2005) by Jason Mraz

"I got a present for you," I told her in the car right after I retrieved her from the bus station. From my faithful satchel, I produced a pair of handmade earrings of knotted-silver which I purchased on a whim from the Tibetan marketplace in McLeod Ganj. I fell in love with them the moment I saw them, and I was certain Phoebe would too.

They were suppose to be a belated birthday present - about eight months belated to be precise - but such is the nature of geographically-challenged relationships, and over time, we have started to play fast and loose with the sovereignty of lovers' holidays like birthdays, anniversaries and St. Valentine's Day. Phoebe is impossibly nice for not minding my epic tardiness in gifting, while any other girlfriend would have had me hanged, drawn and quartered for reckless endangerment of Martian-Venusian relations. Every single day, just by being the easy-going, good-natured person she is, she reminds me of how truly lucky I am to have her love - which if not unconditional, is the closest any love ever gotten to it.

Phoebe gasped appreciatively, snatched the earrings up, and immediately put them on. After admiring how she looked with her shiny new baubles dangling from her ears, she turned and looked at me imploringly through her honey-coloured contacts. Regressing effortlessly into a six-year old girl, she asked: "Where is my other present?"

"What other present?" I asked in turn, knitting my eyebrows together into a semblance of puzzlement.

A puppy dog pout appeared on her face. Had Herr Hitler seen that pout as a young man, Europe would have told a very different story of the 1930's. "You said you are going to give me presents for two years! You know - in case, we don't see each other again during my birthday this year!"

"Didn't I just do that?" I grinned, and pointed at each of her earlobes in turn. "Presents for two ears."

She gasped in mock injury and indignation. A great gasper is Phoebe. She has one for almost every possible scenario, each distinct from the others by permutations of timbre, intensity and speed. "That is so lame," she pronounced but started laughing anyway. She laughs so freely and openly these days. I remember when the self-controlled Phoebe three-and-a-half years ago confided in me that she had never really heard the sound of her own laughter, I promised in my terminal lovesickness to one day make it happen, to make her truly laugh. I had since kept that promise almost everyday. I love doing it; it's the most straightforward way I know of giving someone happiness.

Last Friday coincided with the thirteenth day of the month, and May thirteenth is the anniversary of the bloodiest race riot in the spotty history of Malaysia. Furthermore, my previous girlfriend and I hooked up together on a Friday the thirteenth as well, and I count myself lucky to have escaped that unnatural disaster mostly alive and passably sane. It was on this Voltronically inauspicious date that Phoebe decided to pay me a weekend visit in Malacca, instantly turning it into one of the best days of the year on my calendar. She said she came for the Malaccan cendol (which is quite probably her favourite food in the whole wide world) but I knew she came for me. She came because I wanted, needed to see her.

The Long-Suffering Girlfriend™ surrounded by artificial stars by the riverside.

It did not escape my notice that she's flowering into captivating young woman of uncommon quality. Every time I see her, she became more and more beautiful - and it's not just because I am falling deeper and deeper in love with her. I watched as she slowly unfolded from her cocoon starved of self-esteem, and transformed into the imago she is no longer too timid to embody (and I daresay I aided in her transformation by pointing out to her that her old wardrobe should be considered a violation of human rights). I have always confessed my insecurities and my unshakable conviction that this girl is simply too good for me and now, to my horror and delight, she's discovering new ways to remind me of that fact.

In spite of it all, she is still every bit the darling girl I had fallen in love once upon a time, and all the times after. She did not turn into a malcontented harpy of bitter pettiness intent on locking the both of us into a spiral of mutually-assured destruction. She is still sweet, understanding and preposterously cute after being in a relationship with me for more than three years - and I consider that a Nobel Peace Prize-winning accomplishment. For the thousandth, no, millionth time, I will say that she is the best girlfriend any guy could ask for. This is not soppy nothings I whisper to her in secret when we are alone in dark rooms. This is something I shout from the rooftops of the world.

When we were about to arrive at my place, I told her that her second birthday present was hidden under her seat.

"You are lying," she probed while also searching my face for a tell. "You just want to see me reach for nothing and laugh at me again!"

I said nothing but when we did finally reach home, I said: "Your second present is really under your seat."

"Really?!" she squealed excitedly like she just discovered a roomful of puppies which sneeze rainbows and sprinkle stardust every time they scratch their ears. She was beginning to dive for her prize when I told her that I did in fact fibbed about it, and that there is no present under her seat after all.

"OH MY GOD, YOU ARE SO EVI-"

"It's actually in the glove compartment."

With a subito gasp of sudden realisation, she eagerly popped the case open and found a small white and pastel-pink box which had been sitting there the whole time, barely a few inches from her knees. It was bottled Chance bearing the name of a rare lady I admire, and I had no doubt that Phoebe would find use for it.

"It's very you," I said to her. "So, I've decided that the two of you belong together."

Sorry for being eight months late with your birthday present for last year, Phoebe. This year, I'm making up for it by being extra early. Yes love, it can be September the second whenever we damn well please.

Trying to deserve you,

k0k s3n w4i

Between Lives, Between Worlds

"Hold on
One more time with feeling
Try it again
Breathing's just a rhythm
Say it in your mind
Until you know that the words are right
This is... why we... fight"

One More Time With Feeling (2007)
by Regina Spektor

This entry was written on the 16th of April, 2011.

It'll be another four hours before a bus would pass through this neck of the woods to take me to the antiquated ciy of Chamba - I am, how you say, "in between places". I had voraciously consumed all the books I've hauled with me to the Hindu subcontinent, including an old, dogeared copy of Aravind Adiga's White Tiger I found lying about in a guesthouse in which I boarded. It was digested between lunch and dinner of the same day. I had also exhausted all the entertainment my MP3 player had to offer. So here I sit, on a grassy knoll in a clearing in the middle of a pine forest called Khajjiar with a stray pooch lying by my side (this sleeping dog I let lie) with nothing to do. Or rather, there's nothing here I find appealing enough to do. Should I desire it, I can ride horses, chase sheeps, paraglide, zorb, or genuflect at the feet of one of the 16th century carved wooden Pandavas in the 12th century Khajji Naag temple - but I elected instead to retreat into the confessional booth of my mind with a pen in one hand and a well-travelled copybook in the other.

Khajjiar is dubbed the Mini Switzerland of India and it amuses me the same way as when a 5-year-old put on a blanket cape and call himself Superman. My other home, Malacca, calls itself the Venice of the East unironically. It may even be true, historically speaking, but the Venetians are just going to think it's cute.

My other home.

Somehow, I've come to think of India as someplace I belong to, regardless of whether she wants me or not. It's not because I have a strong affinity towards her cultures. It's not because I am particularly fond of her many, many people. I can't speak her frenzied languages and have no plans to pick them up. I know, however, that she is a country I'll return to again and again for the rest of my life. In a sense, India is my second birthplace - to whatever a degree a person can be meaningfully reborn. I came here to study in 2006, a boy in love with a girl he's certain was the love of his life. The boy returned a man in 2009, in love with a woman he hopes will be the love of his life.

It's cold here in Himachal Pradesh, being blanketed permanently in the wintry shadow of the Himalayas. I brought along my favourite sweater; a heavy grey hoodie the Ex-Grrrfriend™ gifted me for my birthday in 2005, and I'm wearing it right now. I was travelling in Sarawak at the time when she called and asked cryptically in I prefer grey or maroon. I have worn it regularly for the past six years and counting; to India, across India and then back again. Do I treasure it for nostalgic reasons? I like to think I don't - it's just a very durable, warm piece of garment I happen to own.

The dog lying beside me is kicking about in its doggy nap. It must be dreaming of running.

Phoebe doesn't mind the hoodie - or at least, she showed not the slightest sign of minding. She is the best girlfriend any guy can ask for and I mean every word I said. There are times when I catch myself slipping into a state of surprise at how lucky I am to have found her. Like right this moment, for instance. She is understanding, patient, rarely jealous, funny, smart, well-read, a great confidant, a lover of animals and a damn cute sight for sore eyes. She also scaled my teeth for free in the living room of her apartment while I shine a pen torch into my gob. I found her in India.

I was a Buddhist when I left for India, the place where Buddhism erupted around a man I used to (and still do) refer to as "Sid". Here, I lost all my childish notions of karma, the afterlife, supernatural beings and reincarnation. It's ironic that in a land of a thousand gods, I returned godless. And in the stead of religion, I picked up an unquenchable thirst for travel, started a weblog, and began what I think will be a lifelong love affair with films. I think that's a steal of a barter.

That boy I once was lived until the ripe, old age of 19 before he died. He and I - should we meet in say, some hypothetical metaphysical paradox, we would find almost nothing in common between us. I daresay we would hate each other on first sight.

My bus would arrive in an hour and I suppose I better get in position to flag it down. I don't want to miss it. I honestly don't fancy a 25-kilometre hike to Chamba after dark in these mountains. I heard there are black bears about.



P.S. I arrived in Chamba safely without running into any ursine incidents. That night, I asked around for a bookstore to restock on essential travelling supplies and was told firmly by a local chemist: "There are no bookshops in Chamba." The horror.



Self-declared honorary Indian,
k0k s3n w4i

I'm Still Here

I have so much to write about and yet so little time. Forgive my last post - it was just a touch of seasonal affective disorder and that's the story I'm sticking with. On a lighter note, I just received a text from the Long-Suffering Girlfriend™ not a minute ago which made me laugh out loud. It goes,

"Grapefruit tastes so bad it makes u not12 eat anythn afta Tht. Or mayb throw up >_> i can't bliv i hv2 eat it4 10days T_T"

She read something about grapefruits and immediately went out to buy a tonne of the stuff yesterday. I have half a mind to set up a secret Twitter account without her knowledge and just document all the things she says to me on a daily basis.

Phoebe, Lover of Animals

"Molly Molly Makeout
Any time, any guy oh oh
Just watch your back
You won't know what to do
Molly might make out with you"

Molly Makeout (2009) by The Friday Night Boys

Once upon a time, there's a girl called Phoebe,
And she loooves all creatures, big or bitty.
One day, she decided to go on a looong nature saunter,
To touch every animal she would perchance encounter.

She played with a pussy cat,
And gave its dainty little head a pat.

I know that "petting the kitty" is a euphemistic phrase for something, but I can't seem to remember what it is now.

Next, she diddled a doggy, posh and poised,
"Oh, what a beautiful bitch," she voiced.

Or possibly feeling for the carotid pulse, I don't know.

Then, she preyed upon a pillbug just for kicks,
With glee, she buggered bugged it with a prick stick.

"NO, NO, STOPPIT!!! PLEASE!!! *gasp* I'M COOOMMMINNNGGG!!!"

After that, she came across an untended kid,
And merrily molested the minor, she did.

She did technically grope a kid's backside. So, it's bestiality AND paedophilia, at the same time.

She tried to despoil a simian child but she was resisted,
"Stay away from ouah baybeh!" the monkey parents insisted.

"Snuggle close, honey. Mommy and Daddy will protect you from the big human pervert."

"A puppy!" cried Phoebe, who finally found her favourite item,
"You, tenderest of morsels, shall be my latest victim!"

That look on Phoebe's face says it all.

But the brave little pup would stand for none of it,
And right into her digits it righteously bit.

*om nom nom* "AAAHHH!!! LEGGO LEGGO!!!"

And Phoebe cried wee wee wee,
All the way back to Ooty.

The end.

Tune in next time for my version of the Three Billy Goats Gruff.

The Gruffs! They like it ruff!

Minstrel in a pinch,
k0k s3n w4i

The Topography of Tea

"If man has no tea in him, he is incapable of understanding truth and beauty."

Japanese Proverb

I'm incredibly unavailable at present and have not the time to inundate you with my customary volume of words, so I'll just throw out a bunch of pictures your way. But if that old chestnut rings true, then these eight pictures are worth a grand total of eight-thousand words.

An eternity of tea and sky. That's the Coimbatore Plains waaay down there, by the way.

Anyhow, I think I'll still need to fill you in on the context of these photographs - so that's what I'll do.

During our super-relaxing week at Ooty, I decided to yank the Long-Suffering Girlfriend™ out of her blissful vacationer's stupor by convincing her to go on a day trip to the neighboring hamlet of Coonoor. There, we rode a tiny bus 12 kilometres out into the semi-wilderness of the Nilgiri mountains where we got off our ride - just like that - in the middle of nowhere with not even a bus-stop in sight. At this point, she had no choice but to trek uphill all the way back to Coonoor with me. If you thought that that sounds incredibly similar to what I put her through at Maxwell Hill - well, I'm just consistently psychotic that way.

On the upside, these are some of the mind-blowing landscapes we got out of it,

Dig the contours.

It was fortuitous that on our grueling awesome walk, we remained mostly in the midst of mist and under the gargantuan shadows of some seriously low-flying clouds - the combination of which really produced some excellent, otherworldly shots.

This one is my favourite,

It's almost like we're on a floating island. Or a really small planet.

I'll stop writing for now. Enjoy the rest.

Sunshine looks best in little patches.

The Cameron Highlands got nothing on this place, I tell you.

Anyway, the real reason I dragged Phoebe all the way out here was actually to visit a popular view point called the Dolphin's Nose,

Which is a fancy name for this bit of rock which hangs over a precipice.

And here's Phoebe being on the "nose", so to speak.

Look into the photograph below and check out the spectacular Catherine Falls on the far side of the mountain,

The bluish mist is apparently what gave the mountain range its name: Nilgiri. It literally means "Blue Mountain".

So, how do you like them apples?



Chief photographic officer,
k0k s3n w4i

Jesus Christ! On a Stick!

"Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of any thing that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth."

Exodus 20:4

One of the many doodads I keep on my desk (alongside my Rottweiler bobblehead and a framed photograph of the Long-Suffering Girlfriend™ being bitten by a dog) is my graven idol of everyone's favourite Nazerene, Jesus H. Christ,

So, that's how he walked on water! He's made of wood!

I spotted the 13-centimetre-high likeness of the King of Kings a couple of years ago in a souvenir shop in Ooty and something immediately went click in my head. "I MUST HAVE EET," I told the girlfriend in no uncertain terms. There was no deliberation - I was so consumed by pure, undiluted want that I made the purchase on the spot. There were larger versions of the same effigy for sale but regrettably, I couldn't possibly tote a foot-long Jesus wherever I go for the remainder of my backpacking trip. That would be daft, but a pocket-sized figurine of the Saviour? How could I possibly resist?!

For the rest of our sojourn through the Tamil highlands, I installed the Effijesus Holychristick™ in the most prominent spot of every guesthouse or hotel room we checked in so I could properly worship it with the most shamanistic pomp and ceremony imaginable, much to Phoebe's chagrin. Perhaps it had something to do with my insisting that she was beset by demons and made it my career to exorcise her by waving the Lord in her face every chance I got. I have to admit that that can annoy a girl some.

You can see why I call her the Long-Suffering Girlfriend™.

After a while, I started using the phrase "Jesus Christ on a stick!" as an oath - and it stuck.

I have no idea why I like the statuette so much. Maybe it's because of how much Jesus resembles Poseidon. Or maybe it's the halo and crown of thorns combo which looked like a Native American feathered headdress more than anything else. It's terribly cute, for damn sure, especially when you take stock of its endearingly huge and deformed head, barrel torso and stumpy limbs.

All together, it collided into a perfect, serendipitous union of kitsch and abomination. What's not to love? Plus, I'm already an atheist and an inveterate blasphemer. I figure the next logical step for me to take is to be an idolator as well.



P.S. Take your grievances, if you have any, to the artisan who carved this. This is a fan-based parody. Yes, I'm a fan of the Bible (I wouldn't read it so often otherwise). However, I'm not a fan of the religion which thinks it's all real.



An iconolatric infidel,
k0k s3n w4i

Scooting About Snooty Ooty

"L is for the way you look at me
O is for the only one I see
V is very, very extraordinary
E is even more than anyone that you can adore"

L-O-V-E (1965) by Nat King Cole

I hate to inflict my travel stories onto you so I'll try to keep this short and sweet.

Welcome to Ooty.

Picture this: a colonial hill station established during the time of the British Raj tucked away in the Blue Mountains of the Deccan Plateau at about 7500-feet above sea level where backwater Hindustan collided colourfully with English quaint. The temperature barely kisses 20 ºC at its most summery times but drops frequently below 10 ºC at its chilliest. Tea, pony rides and homemade chocolates seem to make up the preponderance of Ooty's industries. Purveyors of knickknacks, teahouses and cafés line the town's narrow streets and alleys, hostile to any vehicle bigger than a bicycle. It's a pedestrians' world, Ooty is. The clock is set about 50 years back in time hereabouts and the people are still ruled by the dictates of bus and train schedules. We planned to spend 4 days there. We liked it so much we stayed for a week.

A week in Ooty with my favourite backpacking partner in the whole wide world - imagine that. Sigh. Anyway, Snooty Ooty is a sort of endearing nickname the locals have for this highland province. It's short for Ootacamund but on paper, it has the official ultra-Indian name of Udhagamandalam.

Now, I'll just go right into the pictures. This is the guesthouse we lodged in. It's a homestay with a beautiful garden run by an elderly lady. I remember the huge, comfy beds and warm, hand-sewn quilts,

See if you can spot Phoeb's butt in 5 seconds or less.

And this is the lake the guesthouse overlooks,

Pretty kick-ass view, huh?

This is the chic little café where we had most of our meals and nursed many hot beverages.

Beware of mice, roaches and babies.

There was no shortage of diversity when it comes to eatables. You can easily find Western, Indian and even Chinese cuisines in Ooty,

Check out how freakishly long the grains of Basmati rice are!

This is the road to St. Stephen's Church. That is a pony's ass.

Phoebe, waiting for a bus at the outskirts of town.

One of the things I like most about Ooty is how beautiful flowers seem to grow just about everywhere,

Did you know that flowers are essentially plant gonads? Still think they are romantic?

Looking at them just makes me happy.


Are you bored yet?

Closeup!

With my final exam looming ominously in the very visible future like the sword of Damocles, I feel slightly embattled. I have this feeling that I am not living the way I'm meant to. There's nothing I'd like to do more than to just go away to someplace like Ooty to rest, relax and recuperate for a month or two, you know what I mean? But alas, life isn't so obliging at the moment.

There's a very Wonderland feel about it, don't you think?

Needs a vacation, stat,
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Surprisingly, I Didn't Burst into Flames

"I like the silence of a church, before the service begins better than any preaching."

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Yes, that's me on the pulpit, preaching about that time Jesus lost his temper at a fig tree. No, seriously. It's in Matthew 21:18-19 and it's hilarious.

And this is the Long-Suffering Girlfriend™ halfway up the belfry,

I suppose some backstory is necessary here: these were photographs taken two years ago when Phoebs and I were gallivanting across the highlands of Tamil Nadu in my last weeks in India - and we sightsaw the 180-year-old gothic St. Stephen's during our week in Ooty because I have a thing for old places of worship, ironically enough. Phoebs (worst Presbyterian in the world) practically made it her life's mission to wriggle out of going to church whenever she can. I believe it's years since she set foot in one.

This was probably the only instance in recorded history that an atheist had to drag a Christian into a house of God.

Most churches, temples and mosques are designed to evoke an atmosphere of magnificence and immensity which reduces their visitors to insignificance; to force the presence of a nebulous something far greater than the mortal mind can contain. It's testified by the superhuman passion in the craft and built into the solemn high-flying ceilings. I am not immune. My sense of the numinous is very much alive and beating.

However, no matter how swept away I am by the sheer experience of being immured in the trappings of religious grandeur, I recognise that it's the architecture - not the purported in-house holy spooks - which moved me. That sensation is not specific to any one faith. In fact, it's not even an exclusive commodity of worship houses. Consider Dubai's Burj Al Arab, the Guggenheim in Bilbao Spain and pretty much anything designed by Rem Koolhaas. They are modern, secular monuments, but no less transcendental.

In between services, antique, ornate churches are also excellent places to read or think. Each is an era lost, frozen within its cloisters. They are sort of like little train-stops in time which makes you feel it's okay step off and allow the rest of the world to whoosh by while you watch.

By the way, here's some stained glass windows. Everybody loves stained glass windows, right? Enjoy.

P.S. Remember, the pictures' captions are in the hovertext.



A churchgoer of sorts,
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Greek to Me

Yesterday, when talking over the phone with the girlfriend,

Phoebs: One of my classmates just got himself an S-Class!

Me: What's an ass class?

And Phoebe had to spend the next 5 minutes explaining to me the different classes of Mercedes-Benzes there are - which I must say sounded a lot less exciting compared to what I initially had in mind.

To me, cars are a little like those Korean popstars and actors which Phoebe want to have half-Korean babies with; I'm aware that there are differences between them (which I have great difficulty discerning) and I certainly don't remember their names. I am probably one of the few guys in existence who would honestly be unimpressed by whatever car you care to drive due to the sheer gaping void in my knowledge of automobile brands and prestiges. Unless your car can transform into an giant alien robot and defend the right of all sentient beings. In which case it's awesome.

Stephen Tobolowsky and His Fantastic Files

"There are two requirements that make it workable. One is that all the stories have to be true. And two, that all the stories have to have happened to the teller, to me."

Stephen Tobolowsky

I am a self-admitted entertainment junkie and in my lifelong quest to elude boredom, I have turned into a glutton for amusement and my appetite runs the gamut of media forms. In between sleeping, meals and my obligatory rites of personal hygiene, I am always watching, reading or listening to something. And one of the ever-present hazards of being my girlfriend is that she would be pestered almost daily to check out this movie or TV series or that book or song - whichever thing it is that got my passion ripping its shirt apart at the moment. It's no fun being excited about something on your lonesome, let me tell you.

Last year, I discovered the joy of podcasts. They are basically digital media files (usually audio) released on an episodic basis which you can download and listen at your leisure on your computer or MP3 player. This is why I think radio and television with their scheduled programming will be made obsolete soon (haven't watched telly in half a decade now, on my part). We are a generation of instant gratification. The world revolves around us, us, us, got it? Another thing you should know about podcasts is that they are almost always available for free. Anyhow, it didn't take me long to discover The Tobolowsky Files, described in its website as "a series of short stories about life, love, and the entertainment industry as told by legendary character actor, Stephen Tobolowsky." It quickly became one of my favourite things.

So, who is Stephen Tobolowsky? Movie fans will know him mainly as Ned Ryerson in Groundhog Day and Sammy Jankis ("Remember Sammy Jankis") in Memento. To TV enthusiasts, he's Bob Bishop (the guy with the Midas touch) in Heroes and Sandy Ryerson (paedophilic former director of the Glee club) in Glee. He's that C-list actor you can probably recognise on sight but couldn't place a name on.

The man has a hypnotic voice, a magical way with words and fantastic life stories. He can talk about anything and I would lap it up. I even enjoyed the episodes in which he spoke on matters of faith - like that time he made a bet with some guy in a bar that he could prove that God exists or his interpretation of Joseph's story from his Huge White Family Bible™. This is high praise indeed coming from an angry atheist like me. However, it's his time as a theatre major in the SMU, the difficult start he had in pursuit of his acting career, the behind-the-scenes anecdotes on the set of Memento, Groundhog Day and Mississippi Burning, and his love life with Pulitzer-winning dramatist, Beth Henley and his wife, actress Ann Hearn that I enjoy listening about most. And it's not just me. The podcast received so much attention that it was soon syndicated by several radio stations and scored the man a book deal.

Now, everyone would have interesting stories to tell once they have lived long enough, but it takes a gift to turn them into something which means more than the sum of its parts. Stephen Tobolowsky had made me laugh and cry - often in public on my own, I am unashamed to admit - and most importantly, he is an inspiration to me. To borrow the word he used to describe his mother in a heartbreaking episode he recorded to commemorate her birthday; he is an alchemist.

I can go on, but instead of continuing this as a review, I would like to give a testimonial instead. If there's anything I learnt from Mr Tobolowsky, it's that the best way to convince anyone of anything is through a tale well-told.

Now, I had been trying to get the girlfriend to listen to the Tobolowsky Files for months, but it is nigh impossible to get her to do anything once she has made up her mind not to. But I am no defeatist myself. Our relationship dynamic is one modelled between an immovable object and an unstoppable force - but dating long-distance managed to keep us out of collision course most of the time, thankfully. One afternoon in the recent month of September, while I was on vacation and staying in her apartment in Butterworth, I managed to jam the buds of my MP3 player's headphones into her ears just as she was sinking into her siesta, too enervated to resist. Playing on it was one of my favourite episodes of the Tobolowsky Files. It's titled It's Not My Dog.

When I checked up on her about an hour later, I found her with her face buried in her pillow. "Asleep," I thought and felt kind of thwarted. She still had the headphones on though - was probably too lazy to pull them out. Then I heard a sob. And another. I turned her over and found that her eyes were red and puffy. She was crying! I knew that this particular episode can really stir up some emotions, but wow.

"So, um, how's the podcast?" I asked sheepishly.

"I hate it," she said between sniffles. "I hate Stephen Tobolowsky."



P.S. Here's the first episode. You're welcome.



Bringing the joy of Tobo to everyone,
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To Quest Maxwell Hill

"You are the risk I'll always take"

I'll Hold My Breath (2010) by Ellie Goulding

How do you know if your girlfriend loves you?

Easy. Make her accompany you on a 18-kilometre hike up and down a hill in the wilderness and if she's still sticking around after that, she does. Oh boy, does she ever. I could have been imagining it but at times when I was walking ahead of her in our climb, I could feel her murderous intent (of love!) burning a spot on the nape of my neck.

The cold shoulders (of love!) from the girlfriend.

It was September, when the rainy Southwest monsoon was still blowing. For some reason, I thought that it was the perfect time to go on a nature walk to visit a hill station in Taiping - and Taiping, if you don't know, is widely considered to be the wettest town in the whole of Peninsular Malaysia. Pay attention to the information I just divulged to you. This, my friend, is called foreshadowing.

Maxwell Hill or Bukit Larut is probably the least known hill station in the entire country and it was locked out of development for decades. I have difficulty in deciding whether that was through design or neglect but the result is that the place retains a locus-lost-in-time charm and an atmosphere of rustic alienation, slightly overgrown. At the foothills, there's a government run office making hourly jeep runs to the peak which would have cost us a measly RM 6.00 a pop, return. Privately owned vehicles are not authorised from making the ascent - which is probably for the best considering the steep incline, the narrow road and the several hundreds of hair-raising, hairpin turns. Aside from the jeeps, the only other way to get up there is to hoof it.

Phoebe looked me in the eyes beseechingly, turned to look at the jeeps longingly and then turned back at me again. I grinned and gave her a thumbs up enthusiastically in reply, saying "We can do it! The exercise is good for us!"

She stared at the immensity of the hillside wearing a sort of strangled expression for a minute. Taking a deep breath, she asked: "Can we take the jeep down then afterwards?"

"Of course!" I lied.

Water falling down a waterfall into a crystal-clear rock pool. This is also a foreshadowing.

The park ranger told us that our feet should expect anywhere between 3 to 5 hours of punishment, depending on how fit we were. I'm a big fan of walking and I hit the stairs whenever I can. Phoebe is also a big fan of walking so long as it's performed entirely within the air-conditioned confines of a mall, and considers stairs to be relics of the past which should have been driven to obsolescence long ago by the advent of escalators and elevators. Maxwell Hill towered at more than 1000-metres into the clouds (which by the way is as high as the Cameron Highlands) and Phoebe clearly wasn't enjoying herself in our attempt to conquer it on our soles. After putting just the first two kilometres behind us, she started slowing down to a molluscan pace, wishing out loud for us to turn back and take a jeep. Every twenty minutes or so, she would stop completely, pronouncing dramatically "I'm DYING!" and "I'm... really dying... not kidding..."

That Phoebe. What a joker, eh?

Then there's the bugs, of course, and I don't think I need to explain just how much she adores the little motherfuckers,

I don't know. It's either a spider of the Gasteracantha genus or some unholy horror from the deepest bowels of hell.

There was even a point when she was attacked by three butterflies. This is not a joke. Three scaly-winged critters flew out of nowhere and decided that the airspace around Phoebe's head is the best possible place for them to flutter about in some sort of threesome mating dance ritual. I wish I caught her on video now. Her terrified shrieks and panicked flailing of umbrella at three harmless butterflies was one of the most absurd things I have ever seen her do.

As we slowly gained altitude, the air began to cool perceptibly. I checked if the crisp mountain air had improved the girlfriend's mood and she told me, "If I want cold air, I'd turn the air-conditioner in my bedroom on."

Still, we beat the odds somehow and managed to make it topside under 4 hours,

Some triple-storeyed gazebo that's falling apart - which meant that I have to climb it at all cost, of course.

Bees. Of course, there are bees.

Unidentified Floral Object #1.

Unidentified Floral Object #2.

Unidentified Floral Object #3

Weee are the chaaampions, my friends/And weee'll keep on fightiiin' till the end...

Check out the panorama.

At the jeep-stop, we met a jeep driver and made arrangements to hitch his ride back down at 4:00 pm, which is the final run of the day. The bloke and us parted ways after that - he was off to pick up some tourists littered all around the hilltop while Phoebs and I pottered around a bit.

At about 3:40 pm, the same jeep driver drove by us with a car-ful of sightseers. He slowed down a notch, rolled down his window and asked in Malay, "Nak turun?" That meant, "Wanna go down?" in English.

"YEAH!" I told him.

"Okay!" he cheerily replied and blew exhaust in our faces as he drove further and further away, leaving us holding a nice mix-bag of feelings. Bewilderment was one of them. Sudden paralytic apprehension was another.

"Um, maybe he wanted us to board at the jeep-stop?" I ventured uncertainly. Operating on that assumption, we started to walk briskly back to where we met the man in the first place. While we were on our way, it started raining in torrents down on our little unprotected mountainside, I shit you not, and Phoebs' tiny blue umbrella and makeshift butterfly cudgel offered scant shelter from meteorological vengeance of the unforgiving Southwest monsoon.

Eventually, we got to the stop in one, not-too-soggy piece but found no jeep there.

"Maybe, he's coming back after he dropped those other people off. It's not 4:00 pm yet after all," I said none too optimistically. So we waited there quietly as the rain grew in strength and ferocity all around us, drowning us in a sea of mist and silhouettes. The cold began lulling Phoebs into a fatigued sleep and she laid her head on my shoulder, her eyes closed and fast. Oh, the poor dear. "Long-suffering" does not even begin to describe her.

Spectral.

When it got to about a quarter past four, it became quite evident to us that absolutely no one was coming to rescue us from that isolated, people-less hilltop miles away from civilisation. The deluge showed no sign of letting up and dusk was on a rapid approach. Colour me a pessimist but I don't think being stranded overnight on Maxwell Hill without food or warm clothes is going to improve the girlfriend's disposition.

"We got to walk downhill," said I, bearer of bad news extraordinaire.

"I knew it! I knew it! We have to walk all the way down again?" The look of disappointment on her face would break your heart.

"Yes."

"In this rain?"

"Yes."

"And it's getting dark, am I right?"

I sighed deeply and answered in the affirmative.

"Then no one will see or hear me do THIS!" she snarled.

As quick as lightning, the girlfriend seized me by the throat and started choking the life out of me with her bare white-knuckled hands. I struggled to draw breath but her thumbs have collapsed my windpipe. The last thing I saw was her bloodshot eyes and her nostrils flaring like the Minotaur's, her breaths misting angrily in the chilly air. I kicked once, twice and then kicked no more. Wailing in anguish like a banshee after biting down on a chili pepper charting a million heat units on the Scoville scale, she lifted my limp, lifeless body over her head and threw it down the mountain, watching remorselessly as I tumbled like a ragdoll against rocks and trees, painting them black with my blood and white with my brains.

And that's the end of me and the end of the story.

My body is just out of sight, down the side in a ditch.

P.S. Anyway, one third of the way down, we met this lone barefooted and shirtless fat guy in his twenties heading to the summit. He had his waterlogged sneakers around his neck, his wet T-shirt in one hand and was carrying a huge backpack - probably filled with the essentials of a couple of days' stay. My guess is that he must have rented one of those cheap bungalows littering the top of Maxwell Hill. "Am I reaching there yet?" he asked, almost pleading. I told him that he's looking at another hour or more of climbing. He groaned.

P.P.S. Phoebe ended up walking funny for like a week.



Dead and rotting,
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