Paris: 8 poems on the peace, love and joy of the City of Light.

Paris joie de vivre One summer, my husband took the kids to the wrong museum, Doped up with eye drops in bed, I told him the Orangerie, at the end of the Tuileries, where the water lilies were but he took them to the Musee D’Orsay where there discovered Isis, the Egyptian goddess, Instead of Parc Monceau, we headed to the Cite des Sciences et des I’Industrie Where I sat on a bench with my eyes closed, the drone of David Attenborough dubbed in French bored the children, the run on the park outside more invigorating, they chose McDonald’s because they felt that In Paris the macarons are quite expensive and the queues much longer, mostly of Chinese tourists who were not us. Champs Elysees is really not our favourite street the shops are crass, and it’s truly overrated. The coffees bad. The side streets always better. They climbed up the Eiffel Tower, strong legs like iron. The reward being Belgian mussels after, Vintage melodrama at puces de st ouen, ‘I want them all’ I scream. The man selling second-hand books along the Seine- such gems, the break dancers on the Ile St Louis more entertaining, the bowl of pho, steaming hot after the long metro ride across the city to the tiny Chinatown, comfort on a cold December, the quiet of the Marais streets after 9’ clock, holding hands outside our favourite cafe, the chime of quiet empty churches, a bare green bench on the Luxembourg Gardens, summer music wafting through our little garden, The ratatouille delighting the palates of young gourmands, Our Paris joie de vivre. Along the Seine On my birthday, one year, when trees were bare, in the absence of snow, the side-walks dry and neatly swept, I made my parents walk along the Seine with us. We started at the patch of bare green under the Eiffel tower, in Arr 7. took photos~ star-jumps, poses, selfies, ogled over carousels that make Paris pretty what a lovely walk that was: on the Left Bank, looking over the right, the majesty of monuments, the grand and petit palaces, across to Elysee Palace, observations of an immensely great city, benches, boats, love locks, little play patches for children. We walked until the roundabout where The Tuileries started, The line for the Orangerie was two miles long, so we took pictures, laughed and decided to go for Belgian mussels instead. Quite a long walk for children and their grandparents, but what I learned most, about getting older, was not the presents or the candles on your cake, nor your pictures of frozen memories, but the people in your life, that you keep with you. whom you love, because that’s the way it is, wrapped up in scarves and gloves, with boots and snug clothing, my parents seemed happier, worldier, less old, in the cold. if I could freeze-frame one shot of our walk along the Seine, it would be of my parents, holding hands, on my 42nd birthday, blessings, like balloons floating up into the clouds, as I say thank you, thank you, thank you, amen, like a neverending litany, and I have been gifted for life. 25 April 2015 Rodin: The Thinker (Inspired by fond memories of Rodin's Museum with dear ole dad-Jan 2014) When I brought my Malaysian Chinese funny dad to see The Thinker Instead of awe and admiration He asked me: Is the statue having constipation? I really had to laugh out laugh at that one. The Thinker did look like he was having some bowel issues. Dad could be right. For I do a lot of thinking myself On the loo. My father is an impatient traveller who loves his naps and daily fixes of habits set in years. Coffee and a good seat. And free toilets That he doesn't need to pay 8 euros for! So traipsing through cultural wonders for two weeks in France, Isn't exactly his macaroon or cup of tea! He had had it by the time we got to Rodin. Our last day in France. What I will fondly remember is seeing my parents in winter garb, Walking through the gardens of Versailles, Along the Seine. On cobbled streets of St Paul de Vence, Eating Chinese in Nice! Mum taking photos and politely sightseeing, inhaling in the beauty And fragrance of Grasse, Dad catching naps on benches Wherever he can. Even in Cannes. These memories will stay etched Whenever I return to France, Or fine art or high culture. I will be humbled By dad And the constipated thinker in Rodin's garden! Paris je t’aime there is a piece of me always left somewhere museum, square, metro, cafe, seine side, left bank, marais, but somewhere in the city of light there is a visceral something i cannot put my finger on it but it has not returned to me. since the first spring day when she greeted me with a smile wider than the wide waist of the arch de trioumph where cherry blossoms burst in riots of pink, dotting cheeks in the cobalt spring skies so i return, every so often to claim it back but to no avail. alas, it may have got lost, meandered off, on the cobbled-stone streets or in the labyrinthian galleries of wondrous art so pure to imitate it would be as futile as reclaiming something lost forever. Marais: Place des Vosges On the green square by the grand archways Where Victor Hugo used to reside Lies the squarest green in all of Paris Under the verdant leafy spring trees I watch white shirted Parisian children play while their grand mamans watch The world cloistered Inside this square , life is unhurried and untouched My daughter catches red ladybirds With her bare hands While her father reads a book and chugs down his beer. The little children giggle and laugh under the pale summer sun When the winter brings bare trees The air is crisp and the bench is cold While I relish in the wonder Of this special quiet spot My favourite place in all of Paris Why do we travel the world To find ourselves In unexpected places? Where there is no need for pretension. Your soul hangs loose. Unbidden. November 2014 The Romance of Provence They say there is always romance in Provence with the southern sun casting her seductive light over hills and vales where ancient perched villages conceal their tales of yore from the world at large whilst you dance in the summer sun on fragrant lavender hills bursting in bloom in their fullness- bewitching you as you stumble in Arles over some artists’ memory and form in the languorous stupor of the fine wine you had at lunch, at the medieval square. These stunning once grand chateaux, still with their billowy white curtains, beckoning at you, continue to promise you that this seduction is as tangible as the French accent you try to attempt but fail hopelessly, miserably at- You cannot be French unless your birth-right and tongue command it. You remain a visitor. With the floppy straw hat, white dress, leather strappy sandals and sunscreen, high cheekbones and camera and striped tote, still figuring out Proust and the romance of Provence. Beyond the window: Grasse The mists roll up across the hills, where a perched village-medieval, ancient and sometimes forgotten, except for tourists looking for old ramparts and cobblestones, to walk on and to instagram about, stay. What lies beyond those doors, Of stories too old and unbearable, Of cold, windy nights, and joyous celebrations Beyond unique, old, shut doors. The winter rain rhythmically pelts down Over the rolling lavender hills. Fragonard could have painted these hills if they were his style, Instead he lends his name To the oldest perfumerie in the world Near streets and hills where the scentless Grenouille roamed. The window pane frames the romance of the hinterland Of the Côte d'Azur Where old money has stood the test of time. But where you must find your own way. Here is where stillness commands, Being rules, And calm washes over you like A Fragonard scent. December 2013 On Blindness: An Ode to Milton I wonder when Milton wrote about his blindness If he ever worried about not Being able to do powerpoint presentations anymore Or those whizzy Prezi slides Or read the fine-print of his students’ essays In sometimes their unintelligible handwriting. Of the words of yet another brand new author or endless lecture notes and lit crit. Or whether he knew that retinal detachments Can be 50-50 though more likely 85% these days I so thank the good Swiss doctor in the 1920s For inventing the surgery that has saved many eyes But I’ll bet you Milton didn’t walk out of Chanel On Avenue Montaigne weeping, salty hot tears of uncontrollable sobs, in thankfulness, of his eye-sight saved But I wonder too if he ever felt paranoid about spots on his windscreen, or a buzzy mosquito near his eye Thinking NEW FLOATERS have appeared Or any little black dots can set off new alarm bells Sending him on a mini-panic of something being wrong with his eyes(again), Nor wake up in jolts sometimes, testing if he could see in the dark, But I know for sure I am just Thankful, grateful and humbled that I can see my salty tears; I can see the redness on my pupil, That I can SEE! And even when that little boy in the paediatric ophthalmological suite next to mine who was bawling with his unseeing eyes, which made me sad, But I feel doubly humbled and crushed in my humility and smallness That other problems- glaucoma, cataract, ptosis Seem pale in comparison, For I’ll NEVER ever take for granted again, The beauty of a simmering sunset, or the radiance of my mother’s smile, Or the majesty of the sky slowly opening at dawn And the intricate motifs and patterns on a lovely sheer softness of a silky scarf, Or that I can still thread a needle, or buckle my son’s sandals, And see, watch, witness, capture, behold, In the beauty of my children’s innocent love or watch them slowly grow Or never forsake the simple pleasure of reading them a bed-time story And mostly freeze and frame, with my own eyes, the generous and vivid love, Glowing in my man’s kind and earnest face, How can you take such beauty for granted? So, I thank Science and a God who loves me For saving me from blindness. September 2012 ( 2 months after my retinal detachment surgery at the American Hospital of Paris) ~RL poems

The Singapore Writers Festival 2015

http://harpersbazaar.my/culture/write-now-the-singapore-writers-festival-2015/

#WeAreMalaysians

My Malaysia at 50. My piece for MY50 stories for posterity September 2, 2013 at 12:00pm Malaysia at 50: My journey as a Malaysian

>>Growing up, I used to watch Bintang RTM with my mum on RTM1, a sort of Malaysian Idol of the time, if you like. Rafeah Buang & Jamal Abdullah then Sudirman were some of the pop artistes we grew up with. Before Hari Raya or Merdeka, we would sing along to songs like Balik Kampung and Tanggal 31 Ogos. And the Merdeka parades shown live on tv. No one goofed off the leaders and parliamentarians like we do today. They portrayed more statesmanship and were somewhat more respected, or were we that deluded? Mum and I would watch out for what the wives of the leaders would wear during the national parade and sometimes diss their lack of fashion sense and have a good laugh or two. >>We would watch the parade and swell with pride when the national anthem came on. Till today "Tanah Tumpahnya Darahku" still resonates strongly with my bones. My soul. My core. We never fail to tear up when the flag is hoisted. Like when we watch a Yasmin Ahmad commercial together. (Still waiting for our anthem to be played at badminton finals championships or the Olympics. Someday!) For Hari Raya, my Nyonya grandmother would make kuih kapit for her Malay daughter in law, our dear Mak Su. Chinese New Year was always a riot of colours, laughter and fun harmless gambling. >>I have never lived abroad for long stints apart from months of summer school or MA research work though I travel extensively and never am I prouder to declare to a foreigner that I AM MALAYSIAN. >>A true product of Malaysian system, I saw through the STPM and saw four years at University of Malaya studying English. For that alone, I'm an Anak Malaysia inside out! >>As a child of educators, we spoke English first at home, Hokkien as our mother tongue but could converse fluently and strongly in Bahasa Malaysia. I read Sejarah Melayu from cover to cover before it got politically adulterated. For my MA dissertation, I focused on Asian women in Literature, inspired by many Malaysian female characters from across genres. >>My friends and extended come from all walks of life and from the multicultural microcosm that is truly Malaysian. My best friend up till the time she moved away was a girl with the most beautiful name- Ayu Hanani. Breakfast could consist of toast and kaya, nasi lemak, or tosai with dahl. In the 70s, cereal, milk, spaghetti and all kinds of pasta were considered very Western and exotic foods. Family potlucks would consist of a spread of laksa, kapitan curry, satay, KFC, egg sandwiches and carved watermelons! >>Deepavali would see us eating yitali and vadai made by our Indian helper and was more than just a helper to us. She was family and still is. At my grandmother's Buddhist funeral, she lit joss sticks as a sign of respect for the elderly dead. Till today, we visit her every Deepavali. >>Aunty Mimi, Muslim and childless was a favourite neighbour. She made the best ice cream in the world. Her Ceylonese Malaysian husband didn't eat ice cream so she would always make it for us. Delicious coconut, vanilla, strawberry and all kinds of lovely toppings. She introduced me to butterscotch and caramel even before I could spell! Like most housewives, she enjoyed a spot of 4D! Unce Khoo and Aunty Che Chik were another childless couple who took upon us three as their goddaughters and we spent plenty of time on each other's swings having chats and growing up with a second set of parents. We wept for Aunty Chik when Uncle Khoo passed from a sudden heart attack. >>In Penang, tea-time hawker fare was de rigueur! It wasn't about tea and scones but the yummiest Malaysian hawker snacks around. It was normal to cycle out to pack mee jawa, char koay teow, ice kacang, fresh popiah. The portions were moderate so we never got fat. Mee Jawa was 50 sen a plate on the early 1980s! Delicious and wholesome. >>Sabah to me was always a part of Malaysia as my favourite Uncle Larry was posted there by Malaysia Airlines, then deemed a stable company to work in, where he worked for 30 years and married a KK girl. They moved to the peninsular in the 1990s but I have fond memories of occasional postcards of orang utans and letters from him & always looked forward to his visits coupled with ice-kacang afternoons. >>I have lived in KL now for twenty one years and all my children were born in our nation's capital. Our life in KL is comfortable and blissful; we find pockets of green escapes like the stream up Bukit Kiara, or that jungle spa in Bukit Penchala, or seafood on Carey Island! You can find anything you need in KL and if you know when to avoid traffic jams, potholes or water distruptions, it's one of the most liveable cities we know! Seriously. >>We have a unique Malaysian way of life with friends from all groups and all over the world. >>Crime those days was perhaps a drug addict breaking into your compound to steal a bicycle or a pair of trainers. >>We rarely have shootings or such random heinous crimes reported today! We were not polarised like we are today. There was no reason for it. >>The last 9 years have seen a stark change in the political landscape and emerging disdain and disgust of the Malaysian people. Perhaps it's a necessary purge and detoxification that we have to undergo as we turn 50. After all, being middle-aged, you do amass a lot of toxins as you journey through the seven ages of your life. >>Hopefully, this 50 year old will hold out with a little bit more dignity than what she has been bestowed upon in recent times. >>Underneath it all, it's the people. The ordinary people of everyday life that makes Malaysia unique and home. I still hold on to that belief. >>What's your favourite 'Malaysia at 50' memory? >>(Malaysia at 50: Malaysia Day Sept 16, 2013) >>PS. 2 years down the road, it would seem that we have indeed fallen into deeper depths of despair in Malaysia. But we can't ditch a sinking Motherland, and I will continue to lift her up with love, light and a whole lot of prayers.