My tiffin.

For the last time.

Timesheet submitted,
Aura replicated.

Lotus Notes crashed,
GTS cursed.

It appears that I am at the end of a road.

If I could shrink you, I would fit you into my tiffin and take you with me.
But unfortunately you have been eating to many chocolates/ popcorn/ doughnuts and can't be shrunk.

And so I must go home with my empty tiffin.

But wait! It is not empty.
Look inside, what do I have? 

Memories.

Of timesheets submitted, Aura replicated, Lotus Notes crashed, and GTS cursed.
Of files not reviewed, and financial statements not signed.
Of food shared, and snacks devoured.
Of clients loved, and client not.
Of birthdays celebrated, and children corrupted.
Of silly jokes, and real tears.
Of late nights, and early mornings.
Of late mornings, and early nights.

This, is the PwC experience :)

My tiffin is, happily full.

xx

For Nanaji, with Love.

~ as shared with the sanggat at Nanaji's Paath da Phog @ Ulu Yam Gurdwara, 14 Oct 2012 ~

You have heard many people speak of our grandfather today; people who celebrate his love of Sikhi, and the simplicity with which he performed his seva. I see in front of me a great, big canvas, onto which many have taken their brush and illustrated how he made a difference. And we, his grandchildren, ask only this: that we too are allowed to paint a tribute to him.

I may be speaking these words, but they are not just my own. They have been stitched together, piece by piece, from the memories and emotions of his grandchildren.

You may know him as Giani Ji, or a sevadar of Sikhi, or a carrier of the Guru’s message. These are great things, wonderful things. And yet to us, before any this, he is, most simply, our grandfather. Our Nanaji, our Babaji.

moment captured by Angad Singh - thank you again :)

If you ask us where we grew up, many of us will say, right here, in Ulu Yam. Every school holiday, every long weekend, this is where we congregated. We made pacts with our cousins to ensure the whole clan was going, we packed our tiny toothbrushes, we pulled out the little bit of pocket money we had hidden away.

Ulu Yam to us meant playing at the Gurdwara, sneaking out to the village on Nanaji’s bicycle to buy junk food, lighting fireworks at night, at least one waterfall visit where we came home with our pockets full of sand, Nanaji sitting at his desk reading, or writing, washing busses for pocket money, enjoying Naniji’s delectable cooking, an endless supply of fresh milk, homemade Kirtan Darbars and Akhand Paaths, and swinging on our swing, on which generations have rocked, back and forth, back and forth.

You may say, that perhaps as a child, Ulu Yam was just an escape from our parents and homework. But no. Our Nanaji had a magnetic presence – and his energy was so expansive that he encompassed this entire little village. Ulu Yam was, and still is, a mythical place to us. It is where we come, and the rest of the world does not exist, and we are healed.

It is our grandparents who have created this sanctuary for us – they built this space, verse by verse, Baani by Baani, and have sealed it with boundless love. This space is where we first understood sanggat, this is what we were to each other as children, and continue to be to this day. This home that our grandparents have built, is, right here, our training ground, our Samelan, where we come to recharge our batteries. To us, our sanggat IS our family.

Our grandfather was our godfather – he made it his mission that we should grow up to love Sikhi.

For just as he took us to the waterfall on hair wash day, his hands holding ours with a shampoo bottle tucked under his arm, every morning in his home began with a walk to the Gurdwara where we had darshan and did our Paath.

Just as he took us for rides in his school bus down the village road, where we stuck our heads out of the window and waved at our neighbours, every meal time in his home began with one of us leading the thanksgiving prayer, Dadda Dataa Eyk Hai, Sabh Ko Devanhaar.

Just as he allowed us to cause a ruckus in his living room during our Play Station league games, every evening, that same living room transformed into a Darbar where we sat together and read Rehraas.

Gentle eyes, deep laughter, and God’s name on his lips. Jap Man Satnaam, Sadaa Satnaam. That was our Nanaji.

As we learned to sing Kirtan, in him we found our biggest fan. Even when our short arms could barely hold the pakha, or the tabla dwarfed our little fingers, even when we forgot our lines or missed the beat, he sat there, listening to us, singing with us, making us feel as if we were God’s own gift to sangeet.

Only when we grew older did we understand that glow in his face as he watched us. It did not matter to him that we were off beat, or off key, or probably both. His heart was made light just knowing that there we were, sitting, and singing Gurbani.

And when we grew a little older still, and learned to read Paath, most of us spent time learning from him, bringing our seynchis with us during our holidays and sitting with him while we read, and he corrected.

Baani was his anchor, the centre of his being, and growing up in Ulu Yam means it has also become a part of ours.

They say this is the age of kal, of darkness. And it is the light of the Guru that will carry us across.

This we know; that in our family, Guru gave His light to our grandfather, who held it, and planted a wick in each of our hearts, that Guru’s jyot may always shine our path.

Just as we are blessed to be born in the house of Nanak, we are doubly blessed to be born into our gentle Nanaji’s home. It is not possible to not love him, which we did, and do, very much. And at the same time we were afraid, not of him, but of disappointing him. When he would ask: did you read your Paath today, we knew that it was not us he was judging, but himself – he wanted to know if he had been able to pass on that love for Gurbani to us.

Each Shabad, each Ang, each Baani that he has invested in us, we hope to nurture and let bloom, that the seeds of our flowers will go on to bloom in our children’s gardens, that they too may know him as we do.

To end, we offer a humble prayer. Dearest Guru, please hold near, our darling dear. We know he has journeyed to You, but still, his absence leaves a shadow in our hearts, one that we hope to illuminate with the very light that he planted in us – the light of Your Naam. On days that we forget, help us remember all that we have learnt from him: kindness, humility, grace, and above all, love, love, love, and only love, for You.

Thank you for listening.

~~~~~

P/s: Hargobind and Manpreet, thank you for doing this together. Happy tears now :) xx

In memoriam.

It should have been a Sunday like any other.

Rising that morning, the joyful chaos in their homes as they prepared for Gurdwara. They would have stretched out their turbans, ironed their dupattas, braided their daughters' hair, tied colourful patkas on their sons' heads.

Got into their cars, checked their rear view mirrors, pulled out of their driveways.

Arrived at their Gurdwara, slipped off their shoes. Maybe there was a cup of cha before they walked in. Maybe they went straight into Guru's Darbar.

Source: http://nation.time.com/2012/08/10/thousands-to-honor-sikh-temple-victims-in-wis/

And suddenly, this was not a Sunday like any other.

Suddenly there was a man with a gun; and neither the man, nor the gun, discriminated one life from the next, taking lives at random. Blinded by hatred and discontent, this man could not see that here was a sanggat, a congregation, gathered in peace, to worship the One that holds all of us, including this man with a gun.

I am a believer of will; my own, and that of God's. But there are times, like these, when the ways of the world and its maker are beyond my understanding.

I think of Satwant Singh Kaleka, and how he reminds me of the many Uncle Jis surrounding my life. Uncle Jis that I see on motorbikes around Kuala Lumpur, that pop by the Gurdwara before heading to work in the mornings, that sit in coffee shops sipping teh tarik, that pool together to make the langgar for the weekly hospital visit. To think that one of these Uncle Jis confronted this man with a gun to protect his wider family. That it was instinctive.

Is it possible to thank such a man? And Lt Brian Murphy? We try. We write articles, we 'like' a Facebook page, we hold candle vigils. There is a simple beauty in these small ways, to show them and their loved ones that we have carved a place in our hearts for them.

  Source: http://www.niot.org/blog/sikh-coalition-hosts-interfaith-vigils-nationwide

And what now? What links do we draw from this?

Gun control? Random act of violence? The right to pray in peace?

Many have written about this incident (incident? Help me with a better word here, please). I have cried over the words of Valerie Kaur and other journalists, writers, bloggers, Tweeters, Facebookers, saying that today, we are all American Sikhs. Those bullets did not just pierce the bodies of an innocent Six, they pierced all of us who believe that first, before culture, race, religion, or nationality, first, we are human.

Every Sikh prayer ends with these words: "Sarbat da Bhala". Poorly translated, they mean well wishes and goodness for all.

These words has been very difficult for me since Oak Creek. I come to these words at the end of my prayer, and I struggle.

For it is difficult to include this man with a gun in my prayers. It is difficult to pray for the peace of his soul, and for the peace of the souls of others who share his cold intentions. It is difficult to place them on the same plane as bringers of peace and hope.

And yet our prayer asks it of us. It is a full circle; for it reminds us at the end, what it says in the beginning.

Ek.

God and me, me and God, are one. You and me, me and you, are one.

It is always the simplest message that is the hardest to live by.

For now, I know that we are together in praying for the peace of the innocent Six, and those who hold them dear. That those traumatised by injury or experience heal from their ordeal.

As for the 7th, our prayers will take some time. Forgive us, for our wounds are still raw from your bullets, and our eyes sore from tears.

We've got our Gold, thank you very much.

It’s Olympic season, and it just seems to be the time to talk about national pride.

Malaysia is my home; indeed it is where my family tree took root almost a hundred years ago, and where we continue to live and grow to this day. That is enough reason for us to love it as our own, and to come home to it over and over again.

Saying that, my sense of national pride is fluid – its comes and goes (oh alright, let's be honest; it 'goes' more than it 'comes'!), swayed this way or the other, depending on either the latest national policy (it seems our soil is fertile enough for new policies to be born at breakneck speed), contact with socially unacceptable behaviour (hold the door open already, use your indicator already, throw it in the bin already, join the queue already, it’s a long list, yes), the English-Malay debate (someone just seems to be flipping a coin with that one), and the media’s (mis)representation of the rallies for clean elections (no parentheses should be required here – we are all too familiar with this one).

But there are some days, some days.

Badminton days, mostly.

Photo from:  http://4btanahliat.blogspot.com/  

I would like to say that the children of Malaysia are given badminton racquets along with their pacifiers, or that their cribs are laced with badminton nets – but that would be a bit of an exaggeration. A more honest comparison would be to say it is what rugby is to the Kiwis, baseball to the Americans, cricket to the Indians, and football to… well… a lot of the world these days! 

My brother and I, like most other children in our neighbourhood, spent almost every childhood evening smashing shuttles over the gate (our net equivalent) at our Mamma. As a family we huddle in front of the TV during the Thomas Cup, at the edge of our seats, in nail-biting tension. We exchange insults with our loving Indonesian helpers whenever our nations meet on the court. We continue to stay glued, as we battle our greatest others – Denmark, Indonesia, and of late, China. 

Through all the medals (or lack thereof), the annoying commentators, the pumping fists of victory, the awful shuttling,  the Anak-anak Sidek comics – we remain glued. SMASH! is just another word in our local tongue.

If you ask me about who plays, who wins, and the final scores, I will scrunch up my face and say: I have no idea. The passion is born and lives in the few minutes of a game, the exhilaration (or disappointment, as it may) may stick around for longer. 

You see, for me it is not about who, or when, or by how much. It is the flame of the moment; a moment of heartfelt Malaysianness. In that moment, we are no longer the Alis, Balas and Chongs of our primary school textbooks; we are Malaysians. And in that moment, it matters not whose fingers grip the racket; for our eyes are fixed on the flag that is printed on the player's shirt.

So it would be pretty accurate to say that my sense of national pride is heavily concentrated in a court measuring 20’ x 44’.

I am irrational in these moments. It is not about who the better player is, don’t be silly. Only one team deserves to win when we play: well, ours, of course. We may be brilliant, or utterly rubbish. This game is ours, you blasted (insert name of opposing team here).

 Beautiful.

Enter Lee Chong Wei. A hero in every Malaysian heart, but plagued with his own demons of late. The most painful (for him, anyway) being the final Olympic singles match just Sunday gone. 

Due to unavoidable circumstances (or poor planning, have your pick), I was travelling during the time of the match (how will I ever forgive myself), AND was additionally crippled with remaining battery power of 8% on my phone. My wonderful girlfriends kept me updated and the phone survived through the first set, which we won, and died shortly after. The agony I went through for the rest of the journey, I will not attempt to describe. I arrived home just in time to watch the other guy receive the gold medal.

Now I too had joined many other Malaysians and joked about a public holiday (which we would have expected had we won our first ever gold in the Olympics), and free ice-cream (which Baskin Robbins pledged to us). But that was all pre-match fun. The rules change once the first shuttle is delivered – the jokes end and the irrationality takes over. 

He had tears in his eyes when he lost the match, and this Malaysian nation of mine cried with him. I cannot speak for my entire country – I do not know what their tears represented. But this is true of my tears, and of the tears of my loved ones.

We didn't cry with him, over a lost medal. Rather we cried for him, as a Malaysian who felt that he had his nation's hopes on his shoulders; a nation he thought had let down.

It was this great dream of his, to have Negaraku echo through the walls of Wembley. It was this great dream of his, to bring a gold medal home to us. And when he didn't, he felt that he owed us an apology.

Well let me tell you this, mister. Take your apology back, we don’t want it. And this medal you speak of, well we don’t want that either. We will take the one you have brought home any day, because it comes with the one thing that seems to have unified this country much, much more than any form of 1Malaysia propaganda – you.

All we see is gold.

Watch this video, especially from 3.42 onwards.

Bursting pride – that is what we feel towards you, Lee Chong Wei. Chest-expanding, rib-popping, heart-soaring, pride. This ignition of spirit is a philosopher’s stone of sorts - it takes the silver you hold, and turns it into gold.

I scrolled down my Facebook newsfeed with a huge smile. Every post and comment (bar those from a few gits who have been shortlisted for ‘unfriending’ – I warned you of my irrationality) congratulated you and showered you with support. They say it was as if you played to a home crowd; and what greater salute is there when the Games take place so, so far away from home?

Welcome home, fellow Malaysian. I hope you have your ears open, for there is this cheer so loud, it drowns the voices of the 1 billion from further east, and it is for you.

You are our gold, LCW, and we need no other medal.

HERO.

The Morning After

It is the morning after the end of the Malaysian Samelan 2011.

...

Here I sit, perfectly clean, with my sun-dried hair, heels scrubbed to baby pinkness, bits of grass stuck between my toes, clothes sorted into neat laundry piles, a mountain of fruit consumed, and without much to do, except wonder at where the last week went.

...

A Samelan (Sikh Camp) is made up of so many things, over such a long period, that it is difficult to comprehend how quickly it is over. First we review the past Samelans, and then we start to plan. And we plan, plan, and plan. And if that isn't enough, then we have meetings, and plan again, and meet and revisit and plan some more. We *cough* respectfully disagree several times during this phase. Then we put together all the things we need logistically, from materials to food to utensils to stationery to bedding. Hopefully by this time we have a location, if not that gets added on too. Then come the people – participants, visitors, more Sevadars (thankfully!). Add, add, add, mix ‘em all up, and voila! A Samelan is created.

...

7 days later, just like that, it ends. Too fast, much to fast.

...

How does one fully honour the past week?

...

I choose to honour Moments.

...

The ingredients of a Samelan are fairly standard. What really makes a Samelan a Samelan are the unexpected and random Moments that appear and disappear without warning. In a state of sleep-deprivation it is easy to miss them, and no doubt I have missed many, but here are the ones I noticed, and remember.

...

Day 0 minus 1

...

The Moment of Panic. I walk into the grounds on Saturday, see that too little has been done in the Darbar. Head-scratch with Amrit and Ajeet S on how to speed things up. Leave it in their capable hands to witness a 360-degree transformation the next day. Team, you are amazing.

...

The Moment of Innocent Joy. Amrit announces that we have a new seva: watering plants! The gentleman from the nursery tells us that we need to water the flowers in front of Guru Ji twice a day to keep them fresh and alive :)

...

Day 0

...

The Moment of But, I’m a Girl. Ajeet S tries to educate me on the electricals in the Darbar. I learn about distribution boxes, plugs, switches and lights. Start to pray furiously that nothing will come up while he is not around!

...

The Moment of Tickled Insides. Overhear some girls in the dorm: “This Samelan is amazing! It’s the first Samelan I’ve been to where the bathrooms have doors!”

...

The Moment of Fullness. After all the madness of many weeks, I watch as Guru Ji arrives in the Darbar. Tears fill up in the water tank of my heart. This room was empty and soulless before. Now He is here, and we are complete. All systems go!

...

Day 1

...

The Moment of Beauty. Amrit leads Japji on Day 1. How I wish I had recorded it so that she could accompany me every day.

...

The Moment of Amusement. During our station game, the punishment is a fictional prison sentence. Team X remains unfazed by their ever-increasing prison sentence and refuses to confess. I plead with the girls and remind them that the bathrooms in prison would be pretty awful. The reply comes, “Phenji, prison is like Samelan. We’ve been to Samelan, we’ll be fine! Imagine going to Samelan for 30 years – AWESOME!!” The whole Team cheers :p

...

The Moment of Invisibility. I watch as the team of Burmese helpers heads to the dorms. They are helping us keep the washrooms clean this week. They work in the background, quietly moving in and out, without recognition or acknowledgement, while we are busy in our sessions. The bathrooms are squeaky clean. There is no dust on the floor of my dorm. I have never been this comfortable in a Samelan.

...

The Moment of Relief. Ajeet S and Baljit spotted in the Darbar after a day's absence due to work commitments. Oh how thankful Amrit, Premdeep and I are. Not having them around is a near-death experience :p

...

The Moment of Exhaustion. Arrive at the dorms at night, remember that I STILL have not picked up my mattress. Too tired to worry about it now, the sleeping bag will just have to do. Not like there is enough sleep time for my back to get sore, anyway :)

...

The Moment of Celebration, O Yea! The opening of SoulNation, to be experienced 3 times over the week. Each one soul-stirring! I love how we are evolving our choice of instruments and still living, and loving our Sikhi. As Hargobind said on Day 2, it's not where the instrument comes from, it's where it takes you. Start quoting! :)

...

Day 2

...

The Moment of Fragrance. Premdeep walks into the Darbar with the Parshaad. Inhale, sigh.

...

The Moment of Annoyance. Forced to skip lunch, only to realise later in the day that tauhu sambal had been on the menu. Naturally, there is none left over. Geram!!!

...

The Moment of Pure Happiness. Hargobind arrives at the Samelan, having answered my pleas to please, pretty please, bring along a fruit basket as I was wilting without fruit. My hero went to the grocery store and picked out a bag full of goodies. Legend!

...

The Moment of Love. Pa Tony relates a story about a girl, around 12 years of age, carrying her little brother up the mountain to Hemkunt. When asked how it is that she can carry so much weight being so young herself, she replies, “Eh paar nahi, eh pyaar hai (It is not Weight that I carry, it is Love).” I’m not sure if Hargobind looked at the fruit basket in the same way :p

...

The Moment of Annoyance (part II). Forced to skip dinner, only to realise later that some other tauhu dish had been on the menu. Miss tauhu twice in the same day. Geram (part II)!!!

...

The Moment of Family. Sing Sagal Dwaar with my ANHAD brothers at SoulNation. Feel the presence of my beautiful Manji with us. The family is spread around the world, but at this moment, we share group tears, group hug.

...

Day 3

...

The Moment of (un)Pinkness. On Tropic Thunder morning, I try to convince participant after participant that my suit was peach, NOT pink (a clue for one of the Checkpoints). Those ‘ankhon key ishaarey’ are not going to get you anywhere. Shoo! Go look for a real Gatekeeper to the Song of the Soul Checkpoint!

...

The Moment of Betrayal. I have to taste 6 cups of tea in one morning during Tropic Thunder (tea-making is one of the challenges at our Checkpoint). Tea is usually a huge no-no for me, but how can I say no when a group of boys comes and says, ‘Phenji, this is the best cha you will ever have!” They carry the one cup all the way from the Langgar Hall to present to us for tasting. By the way, boys, our fictional Giani Ji did not survive all the sugar you added in the cha!

...

The Moment of Buckling Knees. Lack of sleep and food, starts to catch up with me now.

...

The Moment of Thankfulness. Keeping hydrated is a challenge when you are always on your feet. I am so thankful to the Sevadars manning the Water Stations all around the grounds. And to my sister Manmeet for filling up our water bottle every night! One gulp and I am back to life.

...

The Moment of Banana-lovin'. I make 3 people extremely happy with the simple act of banana distribution from my fruit basket. That little girl from the Mighties has such a precious smile. Pearljeet elevates me to Goddess-hood. Ashvin looks blissfully through me, for she is in banana-la-la-land and will not be disturbed :p

...

The Moment of Shared Laughs. A friend relates an exchange with a Mighty Khalsa Singh. Mr Singh: Phenji, married already ah? Phenji: No, not yet. Mr Singh: Find boy already or not? Phenji: *what the h*** this kid is like 10 years old!!!* So cute :)

...

The Moment of Anger. Come out of the Darbar, to realise that someone has nicked my flip-flops. By this point I am so tired anything will bring on a meltdown. Why me? Why my flip-flops? Don’t they see how much I am doing here? What more do they want from me argh!!!

...

The Moment of Pointless and Misdirected Revenge. Oh look. Someone’s flip-flops hidden here under the bushes. Everyone is in bed. Can’t belong to anyone. Just take ‘em.

...

Day 4

...

The Moment of Poetic Justice. The flip-flops I stole were stolen from me! The Samelan is a cruel, cruel, place.

...

The Moment of The-World-Makes-Sense-Again. Oh, but look here! Original flip-flops found. YES.

...

The Moment of Squealing. My sister Trishvin arrives from Auckland! Scream squeal jump jump! Why not in a public place so that any suspicions of my sanity are quelled.

...

The Moment of Pain. Being at the receiving end of a wonderful shoulder massage. Painful, but effective. Identity of the masseuse is kept a secret to spare him the queue of people that may line up in future Samelans :) I am seriously considering recommending this as an actual seva next year!

...

The Moment of Almost-Weakness. I just about crawl to the Langgar Hall and sit down with my cup of Milo, when the Team on duty starts to usher everyone out. As a participant approaches to get us to move again, I am oh-so tempted to flash my pink Sevadar name tag and say, “Do you know who I am?” Thankfully the moment passes and remains as a joke between friends. And yes, we dutifully leave the Langgar Hall, as instructed. The same rules apply to all :)

...

The Moment of Disbelief. It is the end of the 5th day and I have yet to see a single cockroach. Miracle of miracles.

...

Day 5

...

The Moment of Being Somewhere Else. Uncle Dya Singh leads Asa Ki Vaar. I am no longer at the Samelan. Instead, I sit in Box 28 at my beloved Golden Temple, wrapped in my shawl, listening to the Raagis sing, as I gaze at GT through the December smog. I am home.

...

The Moment of Falling down the Rabbit Hole. We run out of envelopes and I need to dash to the store. I leave the Samelan grounds and walk into Jaya Jusco. It is unnerving to be a part of this strange, outside, consumer world. All I want to do is hang on to my name tag and guard my flip-flops (the two most important things at a Samelan). As I am about to pay, I realise I’ve left my bag in the car and have no money on me. You see, in the world I just came from, money is of no use. You get much, much further with just a pink name tag (Sevadar) and an extra pair of flip-flops (then everyone will be your friend). Take me back to the Samelan grounds, where things make sense!

...

The Moment of Weightlessness. When challenges crop up, we talk to Ajeet K. And then we stop worrying about them, because they are in good, capable hands.

...

The Moment of Unexpected Melody. It’s evening shower time, and from another stall I hear a voice slowly picking up volume, singing Thakur, Gaiey, Gaiey, Gaiey, Atam Rangg. She sings alone for a few lines, and is then joined by another voice. I can’t help myself, and join in too. Before long, anyone walking in and out of the bathroom is singing with us. In the end there are two voices left, mine and the original singer’s. We bump into each other on the way out, and share a sheepish smile. Maybe this is what He meant by Angg Sangg.

...

The Moment of Stillness. WOW Night. Standing before my Guru, pledge in hand, making my commitment for 2012. Guru Ram Das, protect and keep me.

...

The Moment of Confusion. Seconds before the Panj Pyarey arrive at the Darbar, escorting the new Amritdharis, a girl is thrust towards me, and there she is to stay, sobbing uncontrollably, into my hip bone, wailing, “I don’t want to go home!” I look up, the Panj are coming closer. I look down, the sobbing is getting louder. Oh dear. “Phenji, I don’t want to go home today! I haven’t said goodbye to my friends.” Sigh. There seem to be enough people taking care of the Panj and their needs. Let me look after this little broken heart instead.

...

The Moment of Abuse. While explaining to the Team on duty the clean-up required in the Darbar, a broom slips from my hand, falls forward, and knocks a young participant squarely on the head. I am accused of all sorts of horrible things :p

...

Day 6

...

The Moment of Vah. It’s the last morning of Samelan, and I see this young participant, arrived early in the Darbar, sitting quietly, making notes from a Gutka. At the end of the divaan, he approaches Guru Ji, stands slightly to the left, and reads from his book. Later I ask him how he is, if there is anything we can help him with. No, he says, all is well. We talk some more. This is his 9th Samelan. Why do you keep coming back? Because sometimes in the year, I don’t get a chance to do my paath and pray to God. But this one week in the Samelan, I can make the most of it and spend as much time with Guru Ji as I like. That is why I come to Samelan.

...

The Moment of Gratitude. I think of the amazing seva performed by the Logistics, Utilities, Langgar, Security, Secretariat and Medical Bay teams. They work behind the scenes, but round the clock. I could not do what they do. Thank you.

...

The Moment of Emptiness. The Samelan comes to a close. Guru Ji leaves, taking many tears with him. This last week, my existence has been defined by serving this one space, the throne room of my Guru. Now the magic is gone. The Darbar is nothing but a room with walls and windows. It is hollow in here; it is hollow in our hearts.

...

Until Samelan 2012, that is.

...

Only 360 days to go. Sigh.

He loves me, he loves me not

Zafar is sulking.

...

In all the years that he has been a part of our lives, I have seen him:

...

- happy (when people, any people, are in sight);

- dazed (in the early morning or after durians);

- bored (when the cats/ squirrels/ other dogs/ any neighbourhood creatures come by to eat his food);

- stubborn (when you say don’t run out of the gate, and he runs faster);

- in panic (when there is a thunderstorm, or fireworks during the festive season)

- apprehensive (when he sees bags lying around and boots being opened, because he knows someone is going away); and

- skinny as a bean (when someone does go away and the poor fella stops eating because he misses them).

...

I am ignored.

...

But he has never sulked. In fact the word I would really like to use is merajuk. Sulking doesn’t seem to translate well enough.

...

Yet here he is, at the ripe old age of 11-going-on-12, and he is merajuk-ing. Even more worryingly, he seems to be only behaving that way towards me. With everyone else, it is business as usual. But he won’t even raise an eyebrow in my direction. My comings and goings are unmonitored. When I call his name, I am ignored.

...

Me, of all people! Me, who has spoilt him rotten and still talks to him in baby sounds to this day (he is 80 years old in human years). Me, who sneaks bits of food off the dining table for him to snack on while we’re having dinner (papaya is a favourite). Me, who threatened to go on a hunger strike when initially Pitaji wouldn’t allow him to come sit with us on the deck (but he eventually relented). Yes, that me.

...

He came close enough to sniff my trousers one day, and then turned away, disinterested. That was a happy day indeed. Other than that, complete blank. Mega merajuk.

...

The good days of lazing on the grass.

...

I look back to more joyful memories. There was a time when he absolutely adored me. Like absolutely. All I had to do was walk past, and he would run forward in search of a cuddle. I was Numero Uno for feeding him fruit. The sound of my car up the hill and he would be waiting at the gate. Tail-wagging at record-breaking velocities should I call his name.

...

It has taken me a few days to realise that something is off.

...

First reaction: Errr what am I missing? Where is Zafar and why have I not seen him in 4 days?

...

Second reaction: Come here little puppy! Here little puppy… hello? ZAFAR, WHERE ARE YOU!

...

Third reaction: Aww man… why does he not love me anymore?

...

Fourth reaction: Gawd what an ungrateful little thing! All I’ve done is love him and be good to him and now he is completely blanking me out.

...

Fifth reaction: Zafar, this is not funny anymore. You come over here and I’m going to sort you out!

...

Sixth reaction: Depressed. Even our own dog won’t look at me. AND I don’t have enough shoes to make me happy. Hit rock bottom.

...

And now, there is light. Maybe he is not the problem, but I am?

...

It dawns on me that everything about Zafar is constant. His love for us (and ALL other living things) is pure and unsuspecting. He really does love wholly and without judgement.

...

But just like every other relationship, even this one needs two to hold the balance. And I have neglected him for days – rushing off in the mornings, returning home late, disappearing to do other things in my free time. My Zafar-time has been reduced to nothingness. But I didn’t dwell on it because you know… he’s Zafar! He has always been there; surely he would always continue to be there regardless of whether I spent any time with him or not.

...

But Zafar had decided to take a stand. When you were moving between London and KL, fine, you were forgiven. So much to do, so little time at home. But now that you’re fully here? What is your excuse now? You can’t just take me for granted and expect me to follow you around like a lost puppy (pun intended :p).

...

Our home works around Zafar's preferences. Carpets are moved to make way for nap time.

...

And there it is. My lesson in taking things for granted. The things that fall into that list are obviously many, but this time I’m really just focussing on the amazing people (and dog!) in my life.

...

Funnily enough I thought I was getting better at this. At one time I even made a list of people without which my life would turn grey, and made a point of letting them know that my rainbow exists because of the wonder they bring to it. Of course the words used/ approach varied depending on the relationship (e.g. my lovely grandparents vs. the big tree in Phuaji’s neighbour’s garden) but essentially I grew conscious of the fact that we all need some form of recognition in our lives, and it is simply wonderful to know, really know, because someone has told you, how valuable you are to them. Not even a handful of words, but said rightly, and they are enough to plaster a big silly droopy smile on someone’s face.

...

But words don’t always work. Believe me, I tried them with Zafar. When I first realised that we had a problem, I tried the shortcuts to cheat him into loving me again.

...

Sweet talk:

Ooo Zafar, how is my little bubbloo this morning?? Little schweetums you’re cho beautful!

Failed.

...

Bribery:

Look Zafar, I have some papaya here! You want some? Come here then!

Failed.

...

Force:

Ajaa (come here)! Bayth (sit)! Chall (let’s go)!

Failed.

...

Guilt:

Ziffy… all these years I've fed you and lookd after you and this is what I get in return?

Failed.

...

Which goes to show that sometimes, in some relationships, it’s not enough to just say it. There is no end to heart-warming expressions we have access to these days (as demonstrated above). The ultimate clinch, however, comes from backing them up with the act of making time. Maybe with some relationships there is this unwritten and undeclared expectation that words need to be backed up by being accessible to each other, both when we plan to make time, and more so we don’t. When I know that you will put aside your drama to make time for mine, then we’re home.

...

No doubt, in this respect, I have failed miserably. As highlighted to me by our perfect-in-every-way Zafar.

...

Bliss after a ball game.

...

So. In conclusion. I have some damage control to think about with regards to my relationship with Zafar. I could have just about survived knowing that I was Number Four on his list, but right now I think I’ve been bumped off completely.

...

How do I fix this? He gives me so much love, and I think the two pats on the head he is getting from me these days just aren’t cutting it.

...

I need to find a way to take him for walks on some mornings. When I have dinner at home, we will sit together again, as we used to (I still have faith in his love for papayas!). And I think it’s time to bring back the ball games and Jacob’s crackers.

...

Thank you, Zafar, for being my chum, my great love, and my teacher. Big kiss and I looooovve you!!! xx

...

Ok gtg. The weather is just right for a ball game. Zafar, aaja!

Just cardboard?

My boxes have arrived from London.

Zafar has to share his territory for a few days

...

I thought that this moment would bring me Sadness; now that the last pieces of my life in London have left and come to join me here. Everything of mine would be at this end of the world, and London would become a stranger’s land (although the weekly ‘Planned Engineering Works’ emails from TfL do keep me updated on disruptions to the Central Line – no service between Newbury Park and Grange Hill this weekend!).

Luckily for me, a love-connection is not so easily lost, or broken. You do not love a place because your belongings are there; you love it because it holds people and experiences that are dear to you (and maybe because you miss the walking and the food – Malaysia is neither walker- nor vegetarian-friendly).

Thankfully, memories and moments I have plenty of. Of course there is also my other reality: that I am happy, grateful and oh-so blessed to be in my family’s home too (my favourite part of the day is when we all crowd around the breakfast table in the evening, Zafar included!) – therefore the emotion of sadness would be misplaced.

Maybe I should feel Relief? That my boxes survived their 2-month journey across seas, canals, oceans and straits, left the Suez unscathed, were ignored by pirates, and passed customs officers without hassle (or pilferage). I am of course highly envious of their expedition – I’ve only made the trip by air, but a voyage by sea, how thrilling (let’s add it to the list)! I have yet to check for damage, but the boxes were taped at every angle and I have a feeling that when I open them I will be greeted by the scent of my old flat.

Or Disappointment, that it took only 4 boxes to pack up a life and move it. How could everything I own have fit into them and why-oh-why did I not shop more before I left (thinking especially of the amber Portsmouth shoes, new edition of The Prophet, and ILoveLondon kitsch that was left to tease me from shop windows)? God knows when I will be reunited with Amazon or Daunt’s or Monsoon or Paperchase (although Accessorize has been spotted, all cheer!). This thought is short-lived, though – my room is already filled to the brim with KL-junk, and many an evening has been spent by Pitaji and me standing at the doorway to my room, thinking: where are we going to put the rest of it?!?! We are forced to embark on a mission of installing new shelves.

Restlessness. I have had 12 homes in my short life (now moving back to #9) and have come to love my nomadic existence. In my childhood the moves were further apart, but lately I seem to be living out of a suitcase, what with the trips to KL (3 in 2010 alone!), sleepovers at a friend’s in the Far East (Stratford), and a life in audit (there is no place like Burton-on-Trent, really). Moving can be frustrating (what, another box!), but in exchange it is detoxifying. Another opportunity to clear out things I don’t need (usually very few), get things I do (usually very many), reconsider my perspective on which items are important and where they should be placed (feng shui of the soul), rearrange my possessions just for the kick of it (yay!), and practice detachment (although admittedly this one is progressing rather slowly given that I now have more stuff than I ever did). Given all this, having everything back in one place is too (physically) grounding. (I think I have root-phobia).

(I have suddenly realised that my love for exclamation marks is surpassed only by my love for parentheses!). I make joke, I am tickled pink.

I love that phrase: tickled pink.

And there is no denying it: the feeling of Resignation looms as well. I have been home for a month now and have been living in sin (read: (1) my table is a frightful mess of files, cables, bags, and whatever-else-is-under-that-pink-scarf; (2) the lounge chair is covered in clothes to be mended/ sorted/ ironed; and (3) the suitcase is still on the floor, unemptied). This is shocking because (1) I like things in order and am an obsessive scrubaholic; (2) Mataji likes things in order and is an obsessive tidyupaholic; and (3) at one (tiny) point in time my brother’s room looked neater than mine. The excuse so far has been that let everything get here, it will be easier to sort it all in one go once I (1) have an estimate of how much in each category I have; (2) figure out what belongs where; and (3) catalogue all my books (Hargobind, it has been noted that Three Cups of Tea and the God Delusion are not on my shelves). And now that the boxes are here, the amnesty period is over.

But for now, let me rest with Wonder. I turn to the far reaches of my memory to look for what could be in the boxes, but because I packed everything away so quickly it’s all a blur. Bar a few well-used things, a large part of me cannot remember what is in there. I keep trying to picture my old room to recall what would have been packed away, but nothing stands out, except for my bright yellow Argentinean sun (that stayed with me through all my London years), The Lacuna (which apart from the customary open-the-book-and-give-it-a-sniff routine is yet to be read), the 3 beads from Portobello (why 3?), the red carnation worn at Manmeet’s wedding (ironically flown in from Malaysia), the Amalfi teardrop ring(purchased solely for reminding me of boats and the sea), and (how could I possibly forget!) my IFRS bible, complete with multi-coloured tabs for quick access to all my favourite standards (I am currently torn between IAS 16 and IAS 18).

These boxes may just be piles of cardboard to you. But to me, they are a reminder of a wonderful life lived in the past, an opportunity to ramble about them in the present, and exciting days of colour-coding and alphabetising (and maybe some root-growing?) in the future.

Right, better get unpacking then. Chop, chop, all hands on deck, look lively now, etc etc.