Friday, May 23, 2008

Celebrating Our Differences

Over the weekend Alan and I celebrated Vesak Day with our loved ones. All save Erica lovely daughter of Mabel's brother, were born in Singapore. It was a relaxing day – starting with a leisurely Indian vegetarian breakfast, lots of happy nonsensical conversation, pots of percolated coffee and hilarity as we laughed at each other and with each other - it went on until three in the afternoon. The tranquil musical sounds of the wind-chimes hanging in the front verandah and the splashing sounds of bubbling water from the water-feature in our garden blew gently indoors with the breeze, through clicking waves of the beaded curtain by our front door. I felt a deep sense of absolute peace and happiness as I kept the emerald coloured glass votives on either side of the little Buddha statue on my kitchen counter lit and the swirling scented patterns of smoke from nag champa incense in the air throughout the day. Vesak, the day of the full moon in May - when Lord Buddha was born, is believed to have attained enlightenment, and when he breathed his last on earth before his entry into Nirvana.


~ ~ ~


In Singapore from 1 December every year, Orchard Road and the entire shopping district would be lit up with literally millions of fairy lights; thick green garlands and wreathes would hang in twinkling white-light splendour along the main road and all the side-streets bringing into our lives kilometers of discerningly decorated brilliance. Curtains of lights encrusted the exteriors of shops, buildings and hotels, and everywhere you looked, Christmas displays tantalised our imaginations and tugged our memories back to stories we had read in books during our childhood. Each year the decorations persuaded us yet again - to want to believe that Santa really existed; Christmas was just one of the festivals that Singaporeans went over the top with in celebrating.

Going into the various cultural sectors that had been divided up during the time of Colonial rule - to mill around, have dinner and shop, or just stop for a jagong (sweet corn) ice-cream and experience the traditions of each festival being upheld every year was something that we felt a yearning for and were sentimental about especially in the early years of our arrival. Twenty one years ago, Perth was not the buzzing multi-cultural city it is today. It was a quiet little town when we began to embrace meat-pies, BYO's, and relaxing Australian weekends under blue skies at the beach or in a park. Although almost impossible to imagine today, Fremantle our beloved Port City, was a bit of a dive back then and going out for Asian food usually meant sweet and sour pork and bok-choi. Sushi, Tandoori, Pad Thai and Laksa – just to name a few of the Asian dishes currently enjoyed with abandon by Australians … were totally unheard of.

So during Chinese New Year, memories of the fire-crackers of our childhood, the red lanterns that hung just about everywhere, the lion dance performances to loud noisy tung-tung chang cymbal clashing and drumming, the even-numbered mandarins and ang-pows given for good luck - would come floating back for Alan and I. How we missed the colourful and so scrumptious Yu Sheng Salad where every ingredient signified life renewed; as we joyfully called out 'loh-hay loh hay' and inserted our chopsticks into the salad to lift and mix the ingredients at the start of the celebratory meal together.

Also, there would be recollections of the Muslim festival of Eid or Hari Raya celebrated with our Malay friends that followed their month long fasting of Ramadan – laughter over spicy halal chicken in coconut milk curries, beef rendang and fragrant rice or ketupat (rice cakes wrapped in coconut palm leaves) that we would devour with our hands … coughing because we were talking too much while eating the coconut serunding. Drinking cups upon cups of syrupy black tea with pineapple tarts and other sweets as we sat on the floor chatting into the evening.

Then during Diwali (Deepavali) Alan and I would reminisce the high pitched voice of singers like Lata Mangeshkar singing what was then called Hindustani hits that filled the air while Indian families in colourful sarees and kurtas bustled their way through the crowded streets of Little India buying statues or pictures of Gods and Goddesses in gaudily painted settings with flashing rays of lights. There was bargaining in loud Tamil over sarees and frilly dresses while garlands upon garlands of intoxicatedly perfumed flowers were being made right on the street. I missed the intense smell of cardamom and other freshly ground spices mixed with that of coconut oil and marigolds – how they assaulted our senses in the lead up to the Festival of Lights. In those early days of living in Perth, all we could do was dream of the mouth-watering masala thosais (stuffed pancakes) and idlis, the buttery flavour of ghee (instant heart attact ingredient) in the burfis and ladoos of our adolecent years.

I think most migrants feel this way; we want to bring into our new country all that is good of our food and culture to proudly pass onto our children and share with our new friends. The Italians, Greeks, Turks – the ‘Wogs’ who were mercilessly teased for their accents and culture before we Asians began to arrive in droves - they made their presence felt here in the glorious delights of their cuisine and beverages. And how we absolutely love their beautiful flavour-infused food; I have to wonder what people ordered at restaurants in the days before pasta, souvlaki, baklava and cappuccinos arrived.

These days, Asian food and culture is very much here to stay as well. What began as just little family gatherings to preserve and share our multi-cultural childhood memories in little versions of festivals seems to have caught on in the imaginations of Australians. Thai and Indian cuisines seem to be the hot favourites, and sushi bars have popped up in just about every shopping centre. Drinking teas from China, Japan and India is very fashionable at the cafes; my own son has turned into what I call a snobby tea connoisseur. He has introduced me to the aromatic delights of Japanese Quince Tea, White Tea and Ulong. We are both however terribly confused about one beverage that has appeared on the menu in recent years - Chai Latte.


Chai – the strong, sweetened, intensely spicy and perfumed, milky drug of divine magnitude! Made in tea pots bubbling over hot coals along the streets of India – the only line of connected reasoning that unites all Indians across the world no matter what religion or region or caste they belong to – has in the western world become a shadow of very weak flavourless tea topped with frothy milk. Chai Latte costing a ridiculous $3.80 in Perth seems to have attracted a following! I have to laugh.

I love that stone statues of Buddha are available at most garden centres, that Zen and meditation is in, that durian and longan is available at supermarkets together with rempah (curry paste) for Thai Green Curry, Biryani and Chicken Butter Masala to name just a few, that Australians throw Bollywood or Miss Saigon theme parties and that Alan’s boss has kechap manis, fish sauce and belachan in his pantry cupboard.

Aussie, Aussie, Aussie! Oi! Oi! Oi!

Thursday, May 15, 2008

"Mummy can we afford jelly beans this week?"

I was 26 when it dawned on me that I would physically never be able to have any more children – Donovan would be an only child.

We had been in Australia for a year and were struggling to manage with the never ending deluge of ‘window envelopes’ the postman would leave for us in the galvanized dust-bin with the cut-out slot in the lid, that we had shamelessly used as a mail box. Those invoices seemed to be the only official mail that ever arrived with any regularity. We had lined the bin with bricks so it was heavy and would stay put on the sand and limestone of our Nallabor Plain. I smile as I type this, for that is indeed what we used to call the massive sandpit that surrounded our first home in Australia. 68 Elderberry Drive - where little Donny would learn to read and in turn begin to teach me.


They were difficult times, but I have the fondest memories of our early days. I can still see Alan sitting - with his shins resting on the carpet, his exposed feet crossed under his bottom, going through the junk mail brochures - another regular sighting in our galvanised 'post-box' - cutting out the weekly specials at Farmer Jacks and Coles. Then we’d discuss what we could afford for the week, make a list and because we only had our much loved orange coloured rusty VW Beetle for transport – we would always do the shopping together. Alan was a bus driver then and worked 6 even 7 days a week and always tried to do the ‘spread shift’ - so he could come home during the 3 hour break and take me to the shops or to the library. I was always astounded and thankful for the energy that kept him going.

Our first friends – the kind strangers who were involved in picking us up at the airport when we arrived that cold winter night in August 1997, were also finding it hard to make ends meet. The Meyers had two children at the time and because we had similar circumstances, we soon became very close – we were like family and I was very happy that Donny had found ‘siblings’ to play and even fight with.

This did not however, stop me initially from feeling emotional every time I saw a pregnant mum or for indulging in the creative powers of my imagination when I was out at the Good Samaritan Op Shops where I used to buy our clothes. I often stopped by the $1.00 discounted racks with baby-wear and on two occasions actually bought little dresses for the phantom daughter I carried in my heart – only to end up feeling very silly and more than slightly forlorn when I got back home.

But time heals and I soon learned to smile through the comments of some relatives and friends, when they questioned my selfishness of not having another child to keep Donny company. I do not think they ever meant to be unkind but I remember once, at a church function being told by a lady I hardly knew “Why are you so vain about your figure? Don’t be so selfish, you should have another child to keep your son company.”

I did not see why I had to defend myself by telling them the real reason I could not have another child. I was indeed fortunate to be blessed with a good figure but it completely threw me that these people thought so little of me because of it. I comforted myself with the secret awareness I had always felt about Donovan Michael - my beautiful little boy, whom I had conceived quite by accident in our seventh month of marriage. I was conscious of it from the time he was just 2 weeks old – my child was going to make a difference in this world.

Every mother believes her child is special, but Donovan was doing things which separated him from all the other children around him in ways that astounded us and the people closest to us who saw him on an almost daily basis. In his second week Donny was already creeping up the cradle we had inherited from Mabel, our sister-in-law. Our beloved godson Dustin had slept in it when he was an infant and so I was terribly sentimental about the cot, as I truly adored Dustin.

Alan and I would put Donny down towards the bottom end of the cradle and when we would come back to check on him - in just half an hour he would be at the top end. Before we knew it he was trying to turn, and as a result, Donny was only able to sleep in that cot for just 3 short weeks, as it became too dangerous for us to leave him in it. I was unable to breast-feed and so we had him on the bottle. When he was still under a month, one day while sitting on my parents sofa singing to him as I fed him, I realised he was trying to hold the bottle, with his left hand. He was staring at me as he did so, but not in a way that I have seen other babies before or even after him do at that young age. I saw a wise mature soul and knew this left handed determined little baby would be ahead of his time in everything he undertook to learn and do – I was startled. God had given me a very unusual son.

Donovan will be 22 on Monday. Being his mother and his friend has been an honour and a pleasure. Having just one of him made our small family totally complete. Donny is hyper-active but instead of ever needing to be on any medication for it, he has always channeled his never ending supply of energy into projects and activities - all of which he keeps bubbling at the same time. He is everything I dared dreamed he would be; honourable, kind, exceedingly hardworking, very honest, witty, a great debater and weaver of stories, distinct in his stylishness and personality, decidedly eccentric and funny, a talented and sensitive songwriter and singer, one hell of a kitchen-god with the food he so beautifully creates, a writer, a dreamer and to quote (in an American accent) - a lecturer at his university … ‘Donovan’s a born film-maker.’ All these gifts and more he brings into his slight stature of just 5 feet 7 or 8 inches – my unusual son with the Number 2 haircut, beautiful hands and often dead-pan expression - never ceases to amaze me.

When he was in primary school, at the start of each year he would be accused of engaging someone else to do his homework as he was producing work of a standard too high and too deep for his age. I remember laughing when his Year 3 teacher went to the extent of accusing me of being the culprit. I never once went in to settle issues with the school, I always told him, all he had to do was keep producing good work because I strongly felt it was important that he was aware and in control of his own powerful abilities and that he dared to work hard and be special.

Suddenly, in Year 4 the teachers finally come to realise they were dealing with a very different child. The feedback I received from a distant cousin who was then teaching at his school, was that he was often the topic of conversation among the teachers in the staff room because he had such an amazing mind. Donny graduated Year 7 taking out the Academic Achievement Award and winning a scholarship to high-school. He excelled through high school and in Year 12 as my brother-in-law, Keiron said after Donny’s graduation - “Donovan sapu all the awards.” (meaning: swept away with) Donny had his finger is just about every pie.

Since the age of 12, our son’s dream had been to pursue a career in law – but he soon realised the finer arts … that had once beckoned me … had been gently calling him since primary school. Just before his 21st birthday, as I was going through the box Nadia had given me many years ago, in which I have kept all his important records and stories – I discovered in hindsight how gifted an artist he had been all along.

His medium is electronic art and so it is not uncommon to see him ringing around trying to convince his group of eccentric and artistically inclined friends to be a part of all the strange and wonderfully imaginative projects he comes up with for his films and music. He has completed a demo album of clever original songs, save one which is a cover. His latest film is so excitingly filmed and edited, it’s surprised even Alan and I. Our Donovan who 5 years ago made his first film was he was just 17; a 55-minute tribute to Ed Wood’s world of bad sci-fi flicks – is on his way to fulfilling his dreams.

At this point, I think I need to explain the title of this entry. It's very random, but you see, I was thinking about that question just today. As a child, Donny never demanded for anything while we were out shopping, he would instead look at me with his big quiet eyes, if we ever over-heard a child having a tantrum over coco-pops or a plastic toy. One day while buying his asthma medication at the chemist, he suddenly asked "Mummy ... can we afford jelly beans this week?" He was 3 years old. I looked down at him and I saw he was looking longingly at a little packet of jelly-beans. It was under a $1.00 but I did not have even 50 cents to spare that week. I looked up at the lady at the counter and she immediately read the look on my face. She turned to Donny and told him "What a good boy you are! I am going to give you this packet of jelly beans because I have never heard a little child ever ask for anything so sweetly in all the time I've worked here." I will never forget how very grateful I was to the lady for her kindness, or how proud I was of the happy little boy with the unopened packet of jelly beans in his hands, skipping out of the chemist as we made our way to find Alan who was paying for the groceries.

It is your birthday Donny … your father and I could not be more proud. I love you.

Monday, May 12, 2008

Bowling Ball Sigh

Yesterday brought the beginning, tomorrow brings the end, and somewhere in the middle we became the best of friends.

I love my friends and I do not have very many as I believe less is more when it comes to true friendships. Along life’s way I have had a startling variety; some friends have become sisters or brothers of my heart, some I have loved deeply but only for a few short years, some were instant, a couple were made out of necessity, and some I simply had too much in common with to keep avoiding and actually felt familiar with them from our first meeting. Both my life best friends are of the last variety.

My First Story

I had known him from babyhood but I never really saw him. During puberty, I was really gawky and unattractive; big head, fly-away hair, big crooked teeth, big eyes in bad need of make-up, flat cheeks, on a body with boobs too developed for my small frame, terribly scrawny arms, a high waist, skinny hairy legs and awfully large feet. Add to that, I was not tall, wore glasses and would slump my shoulders forward instead of standing straight. But I was funny and lively and never shy.

All the popular girls at school had boyfriends … I, of course firstly not being in the popular set and secondly having grown up with boys – did not for the life of me understand the need to get all gushy and excited about the boys at St Patrick’s – a Catholic boys school down the road from where I attended high school. The Convent by the Sea - the one near Karikal Lane, where as a child I had often peered through the fence with my cousins, on our way to swim in the warm tropical waves and or to play in the old gun turret. The Convent with the nuns, who always kept the back gate by the old turret - locked.

It was at a wedding held in the school hall of St Patrick’s that I ‘first’ saw him. My mother and father knew his parents and so they decided to share a table. He was the same age as me and our parents began to tell stories of how as little children our mothers would bump into each other and stop for a chat while they were out on their evening strolls, hoping to catch a light breeze. I was not paying their stories much attention at all, for I was actively trying to appear nonchalant. My heart was beating in a strange manner and my eyes wanted to look at him, without being obvious, of course. Man, he is so cute – I love what he’s wearing.

And so we danced and laughed and had so much fun. Even though I did not think I was pretty, he made me feel beautiful about myself; I really liked him. That night in my sleep, I dreamt a strange dream. He was the one. I shared all of my firsts with him - they came in flashes and I even saw myself married to him. It frightened me to an extent; I was after all, only 14 - I did not want to marry the first guy I thought was cute.

Today, as I believe in karma and rebirth; I realise it was not a dream at all - I was only remembering my relationships with him from before. Jannu, I am so grateful we found each other again so quickly in this lifetime.

Through high school, our friendship developed into a rather childish complicated one with me trying to hide from him as much as possible. Believing I was grown-up compared to him, I had begun to find his behaviour thoroughly lacking in decorum and maturity. I was so 'mature', I would squat down on my hunches in the bus, to hide from him whenever I saw him at the bus-stop.

Providence thankfully played childlike pranks and united us, face to face in totally unforeseen and unforgettable moments over and over again through the years until I realised how blind I had been in avoiding him for so long thinking he was ‘such a child’. Especially when today everyone knows … we are the The Travelling Story of Two Small Children.

I am so lucky for I married Alan, my best friend ... we were 22.
A bowling-ball sigh.
My Second Story

She was 17. I was being taken on a tour to meet the staff at Notre Dame University. It was my first day there and I was feeling the usual nerves one experiences when meeting so many new people. I smiled or shook hands, all the while lurking at the back of my head, the knowledge that I was going to forget their names almost immediately. And to be honest, I did not really care for as my son, Donny would say, as long as you appear friendly and chatty ... people never realise you have not remembered their name.

Then I saw her peering at me from behind her computer monitor. With her immensely curly long dark hair and excited eyes, she gave me a huge smile and a wave. I waved back. For some reason, I was not taken up to her desk to meet her, I thought it strange and I kept looking at her … and she kept smiling.

I sigh a bowling-ball sigh now, looking back to the moment - with perhaps an almost poetic description of our age distance - how I met from a-far the young girl who would become the greatest woman friend I would ever have the privilege of knowing.

A bowling-ball sigh or bbsigh. How would I begin to explain the term she and I use on each other all the time? Suffice to say, if you have ever seen Minnie Driver and David Duchovny in Return to Me, where she sighs in happy contentment as she leans her cheek onto the bowling ball, in the bowling alley – you’ll understand. It is the sigh of joy, gratitude and fulfillment.

I remember the day in August when she turned 18, it was about 4pm when she came dashing down the stairs of the main foyer with strings of colourful helium filled balloons bouncing above her head of curls. She was leaving early to have a celebration that night with her family and friends. I smiled and thought – how young and beautiful she was, I had just turned 36 the month before … which made me exactly double her age. If anyone had told me then that we would become best friends, I would have scoffed at them - she was as Alan had been before, ‘such a child’ - compared to me. Can you believe I was actually using the same ridiculous narrow thinking process – again?

And so in the beginning, it was she who kept making the first move – to having a conversation, to having lunch, to being her confidant where she would come so willingly and with so much trust for advice. I began to really appreciate our times together and soon our relationship became a two-way artery that connected our hearts in ways I had never thought possible with a girlfriend. I had to tell her everything - nothing was fully existent, until she knew about it. We became an anomaly to our family and friends who rightly, could not understand what had passed between us to bring us together with such a fierce loyalty.

When we took separate paths after leaving Notre Dame I think everyone thought we would begin to drift apart. But how do you separate 2 souls who belong together? Before I even believed in rebirth, she had said to me … she believed we had been best friends in a previous lifetime. In her mind, we had been beautiful courtesans - of the highest ranking. I loved it!

Ten years have passed since that ‘first meeting at a distance’ happened. Distance is such an antonym in our relationship, for with my best friend - distance does not exist. We hardly physically see each other or talk on the phone, but we are always together. On email or on sms – our lives and our stories, our laughter and our tears are exactly the same, as if we have spoken to each other face to face.

I carry Nadia in my heart all the time.

Saturday, May 10, 2008

Lines

Be aware of the smallest ant, the quietest moth, the stillest caterpillar… to be mindful of these focuses all of your attention in the now.

Have you ever watched ants? I have watched them for hours as a child. Ants are a classic example of sure-footed creatures that are amazingly industrious and cooperative and they always seem to have the time to stop and say a quick hello to each other. I love how they carry food above their heads and have the precision of a tightly unified military force – well, at least until we interfere with their mission - at which time they employ their helter skelter tactics. Semut gila … is the Malay term we used to use in Singapore to describe that running amok thing they do when they sense danger.

I used to marvel at the co-ordination needed to maneuver six legs. I have always been clumsy – if anyone is going to fall in public, it would be me. Alan says it’s something nice girls who turn into Miss Universe contestants are able to do rather well. I think it’s one of the reasons he likes Miss Australia/Universe Jennifer Hawkins so much. Jennifer is a beautiful woman, but she’s also clumsy which makes her real and like any one of us. And yes, while I was in the Pagent in Peru, I did manage to fall over while visiting Cuzco, the Andean capital of the Inca Empire. Unlike the sure-footed ants, I have achieved falling in every type of shoe imaginable. From high-school canvas badminton masters to those 1970’s wedges with criss-cross up-the-ankle ties; from my favourite Japanese slippers (rubber thongs) that I would drag my teenage feet around in, to the sexy 5 inch stilettos I used to wear to work with my cheongsams - that gave me a great strut through Collyer Quay... when I wasn't falling down that is.

My cousins Bryan and Royston used to be my constant companions when I was little. I loved them very much and used to wish I was a boy too. We would play with and collect anything that nature abundantly provided … grasshoppers, praying mantis, dragonflies, and tadpoles - the colourful tropical butterflies that used to visit the flowers that grew in Karikal Lane where our grandparents lived, and even the worms we dug out of the garden bed.

Back then, I don’t remember ever putting on shoes each time we wandered outdoors, our skins tanned and sweaty in the constant tropical heat and our bellies happily satisfied with the wonderful meals my grandma used to dish out. We often spent lazy afternoons after school on the side of the big drain that ran along the sandy lane next to the Grand Hotel which stood in white colonial splendour next to my grandparent’s home.

While the boys did their thing like catch tadpoles or tiny fish that lived in the drain, I used to watch the never ending black lines of ants – sometimes salvaging what they could from a dead dragonfly. The rainbow colours still ablaze in the transparent wings that would never fly again. Or I would try to feed a nearby grasshopper with a leaf from a different plant as it clung onto a branch of another.

And of course, if any one of us would slip and land bottom first into the filthy water, it would be me - only to be fished out by Bryan who was 3 years older and always my gallant protector. Once when I had stepped on a large rusty nail while roaming a construction site with the boys, Bryan had carried me all the way home as I clung to him, crying . For all the trouble I gave him, Bryan never once lost his temper with me.

Royston and I loved sneaking into the gardens of the Grand Hotel, and even though I am sure Bryan would come with us on occasion, my memories are mainly of Roy lifting the rusty cyclone wire fence on the side of the hotel where the staff servant quarters were, so I could crawl through. That fence was spider territory and my long hair which I never brushed, always swept clean the spiders and their webs from the fence together with the insects that were caught in them. I would then of course jump around, trying hard to maintain silence, my hands waving frantically while Roy would dust the arachnids and insects from my hair, whispering at me not to scream.

We’d then run hiding in bushes along the way, as the birds in the trees whistled and sang to each other, until we reached the large circular fountain in the middle of the garden. It was the most beautiful thing in the world to me. I loved the tessellated tiles, the cool white marble and the gentle sound of the water that fell like raindrops onto the lotus flowers and leaves in the middle pond; the bridal creeper that grew up the columns and the fragrant white flowers that bloomed. I used to have this fantasy that when I grew up, I would be married on the steps of that fountain.

Royston and I would indelibly be noticed by the Sikh Jagah (Security Guard) with the sky-blue starched turban, who would shout Ooi!!” and come running towards us. We never understood why he always gave himself away by shouting out to us, Royston and I would eye each other, laugh out loud and say something like "Stupid!" and then like my friends the ants, employ the semut gila tactic of escape – as the Jagah tried in vain to apprehend us.

At other times we would run down the lane where outside the Catholic Convent by the sea, was an old brick gun turret from World War 2. We used to climb into it’s belly that often smelled of dead fish and crustaceans; and play war games while the waves lapped along its mossy outsides. Royston, Commanding Officer of the tiny plastic soldiers he kept safely in a box in my grandmother’s bedroom - provided a running commentary with all the sound effects. We truly lived in the moment; our lives so uncomplicated, so happy, so free.

Then in the mid-1970’s our playground began to undergo a major renovation. Teams of surveyors began to arrive – I remember watching them experiencing a sense of foreboding that something very significant was about to happen. Armies of ants and toy soldiers were soon replaced by migrant workers from neighbouring countries. We heard the adults talking - over whiskey waters and lemon squash, about reclamation and progress, about housing on a scale never seen before, about how Katong would no longer be a sleepy hollow by the sea. Damn right they were … for the sea completely disappeared in a matter of just a year with all the memories of generations before gone with the tide of progress.

Suddenly the sounds of the lapping waves and the smell of salt and seaweed were replaced by the loud pounding of steel pylons painfully rammed into the seabed and the choking, unnatural dusty smell of concrete. The beautiful white beach sand we built our sandcastles with, the garishly painted sampans (boats) and fishing nets owned by the cheeky Muslim boys with the leather brown skin that my mother always warned me about, and the coconut trees that leaned like gentle long necked giraffes over the salty blue that I would jump from … all decimated.

Large, loud machines emitting clouds of carbon monoxide broke down the old barnacled steps and sea-wall along which my grandpa used to take us for mid-morning strolls on the weekends. The multi-coloured speckled pavement - on which we would sit on 3 legged wooden stools to eat clandestinely, the salty and tangy mee-siam (rice noodles in spicy gravy) in frosted glass plates from the make-shift stalls, dished out by the smiling Malay women - was broken and taken away in trucks. I remember how I used to giggle as he would warn me each time not to tell my grandma that we had eaten the ‘outside’ food she maintained was full of fly larvae that would make us sick. Contrary to my grandma’s fears I never got sick this way ever – but the knowledge that those moments with my grandpa were gone forever left me sick with heartache as a child.

This evolving world of progress and concrete also took away the birds and insects. The butterflies and dragonflies no longer visited my grandma’s garden in their old customary fashion. The rusty wire fence was torn away together with those territorial spiders. The Grand Hotel was sliced in two, ripped through the middle of its beautifully tended gardens, to accommodate a future major roadway where bitumen would be poured over the remains of that wonderful fountain, where the lotus flowers and my romantic girl-hood fantasies would never bloom again. Sadly, my beloved playground was buried before I was ready to understand progress’s cruel treatment of childhood dreams.

I still continue to notice the smallest ants, the amazing amounts of caterpillars and butterflies, dragonflies and birds that visit or live in our garden at Oporto Rise today. The ants seem to have a rather large colony on the far left-hand side of our front yard, along our timber fence and under our paving. I see lines of them, busy getting about their daily work, stopping for their usual hellos - a society of living beings not all that different to us humans. We have not interfered with their comings and goings; they have been there for years and the brick paving in their area is an ‘antscape’ of uneven mounds of soil; excavated ant hills of undulating sand.

Over the past few months however, their underground city seems to have progressed with large developments growing in all directions. Progress comes to all creatures, big and small. They now have several subway exits all over our actual driveway and the bricks there have begun to shift slightly. Each time I swept the garden recently, I pondered on what I should do. Our philosophy is that they are outdoors where they belong; it is their home and their playground. But they were advancing rapidly suddenly and claiming areas that we utilise. As much as I love that we have co-existed together all this while – they have encroached too close into our personal space now.

In order to sustain our home and garden, we had to draw the human-line somewhere. A difficult decision was made, but I know it was not made out of any malice. For as we put on our Japanese slippers and began the reclamation process of our paving by sprinklings ‘ant dust’ onto their homes and playgrounds, on all the things familiar and dear to them, we felt tremendous compassion for them. Alan and I were doing as the Singapore government had done to a certain extent – for sustainability reasons. I felt like I was making very bad karma, but Donovan being the wise soul that he is reminded me that even His Holiness the Dalai Lama has said, that in the end, we have to be practical. As much as we do not wish to harm other living creatures, sometimes inevitably our actions will affect their lives.

I am very sorry.

Tuesday, May 6, 2008

A Lesson in Attachment aka Mothers & Sons

The peacock feather that normally stands in the little vase next to the steering wheel of my VW was missing yesterday morning. I was quite distracted driving into work, for it was the first time since Alan gave me this beautiful car for my birthday 2 years ago, that I was driving without my feather.

Isn't attachment a terrible habit of our human nature? The Buddha had said that attachment is one of the major causes of suffering and yet there I was, distracted and a little upset - over a peacock feather. I kept looking down at every stop-light to see if perhaps it had gone into hiding in the dark crevices between the seats or under the mats. But it was no where to be found. Finally, I took hold of my senses and like any good disciple of Ajahn Brahm, I recalled a story he had told one cold Friday night last winter at the Dhammaloka Centre. I comforted myself ...

… could be good, could be bad.

All new Beetles arrive with an artificial gerbera these days. A little token that brings to mind the flower power days of the 1970’s when VW Beetles and Kombis were hippie status symbols. Alan and I are perhaps to an extent, old hippies – we dress unconventionally in our personal time, reject a lot of what is socially and politically accepted, we are into eastern religions, universal peace and love, the scented smoke of nag champa incense, eating dhal and rice and we get the picture when it comes to Mother India. (As in the Motherland, not the movie.)

The regal and beautiful peacock is the national bird of India. Peacocks are considered sacred and their feathers which they shed so frequently are thought to be auspicious and protective. In both Hindu and Buddhist traditions, the peacock is often associated with deities and royalty. My friend Agnes, had given me a peacock feather shortly after she was married to my cousin Richard and through the years I have used it in different displays.

My new car arrived with a red gerbera. Can any of you actually see me with a plastic gerbera? It sat there rigid and clueless having no meaning whatsoever. I thought, if flower-power was meant to be a representation of the values in opposition to that of our established culture, this poor red imitation did not stand a chance! Plus it was not esthetically pleasing in any way to my artistic senses. The peacock feather on the other hand, with all its regal associations and protective properties, seemed to be up to the challenge - and it suited Jaadoo. Yes, Alan and I named my 'little boy' Beetle, Jaadoo. It means Magic in Hindi. I am not superstitious but must admit, as it has been with Jaadoo and me from the start, it has become a sort of a talisman for ... both of us.

And now it was missing ... I am being ridiculous about my attachment to the damn thing, I actually want to write a blog entry about it.


For a change, it was a quiet day at work and during my lunch break, I typed in ‘peacock feather’ in Google. I was quite amazed to discover several things more about peacocks and that Buddha’s mother, Maya Devi or Queen Maya as she is known in English, is depicted as having a peacock as her vehicle.

The name Maya appears in Greco-Roman Mythology as Maia, the Earth Goddess. Maia was seen as the source of the spring season – when flowers return to life. May, the month of spring in the Northern Hemisphere is named after her. Interestingly, in the Christian Calender, the month of May is known to Catholics as the Month of Mary.

These bits of information about Maia I knew because Donny, my breathing encyclopedia on religion and mythology had talked to me about it some time ago. But what I discovered today is that Maia is also referred to as the Great Mother of Magic, the Virgin Mother who gave birth to Hermes - The Enlightened One of which the planet Mercury is named for. Hermes which in Sanskrit means … wait for this ... Buddha.


I found this interconnection very fascinating - all these blooming (pardon the pun) mothers and sons and the powerful mysteries surrounding their magical stories. Maya was the Mother of the Buddha - who was born, became enlightened and died on the days of the full moon in the month of May. Maia the Queen of May, Great Mother of Magic was the Virgin Mother of Hermes. And Blessed Mary, was Virgin Mother of Jesus and also the Queen of May. Could this all be just coincidence? Or are they all one and the same? Is it, as Gnostics would see it, just another example of the cyclical nature of existence as part of life within this system?


When I received the sacrament of baptism as a baby I was given the name Mary. When I took the 5 Precepts to live a Buddhist lifestyle last year - I felt it was only fitting for me to also choose the name of a mother, Buddha's mother, as my new Buddhist name. Now I discover that my choice of a peacock feather and the name that Alan and I have given to Little Jaadoo - have meaning as well. It made me smile at the incredible links - my new name, the peacock feather, Little Magic - and the flowers associated with VWs - I felt thankful to be a part of such a network.

In the afternoon, before driving off and heading home, I made another search in Jaadoo for my peacock feather. I found it partially under the driver’s seat. Amazing that I did not see it before! Perhaps, it went into hiding to give me a chance to make the discoveries I made today. Perhaps, it is worth a blog entry after all. I laughed to myself as I started the engine and I remembered ...

could be good, could be bad.

Monday, May 5, 2008

Challenging the Laws of the Day

I have recently completed another module for Accreditation and was asked to write a paper on my insights - I was very nervous. Those of you who have read my blog entries know me well; you know I will challenge authority and ideas, especially if I find them unjust and that I have to dissect the thoughts that come to my mind.

This time however my challenges were going to be marked and it could have resulted in me being called in by the Director, to discuss my dissent. But instead I was pleasantly surprised by the comments of the lecturer who told me he felt that my piece was - brilliantly insightful for perceiving the Word as a sword that cuts keenly, that speaks the truth and confronts injustice. He reassured me that my - witness was that of a person of gratitude - and wait for this - a prophet of hope to nurture others to turn around behaviours that damage the earth and each other. I was both relieved and thrilled.

Here is a condensed version of my paper.

Jesus: Person & Mission

The more I reflect on Jesus as a person and his Mission, the more I wish to seek even if my seeking leads to thoughts that somewhat disturb me. I think it stems from this basic desire to know myself, and to know for myself. I believe it is very important that we - not bend the truth to fit the faith, but bend the faith to fit the truth. Even if the revelations on the journey of discovery should prove to be disturbing; I believe to find truth, real concrete truth will be a marvel that would make it all worthwhile.

It is widely accepted that the spirit of Jesus’ Mission was in direct conflict with the predominance of the conservative adherence to Mosaic Law popular at the time. And if that is so, then it is entirely possible that should Jesus be here in this present moment, that he may be equally critical of what he may construe as conservative adherence to doctrines that may be in conflict with the aims and spirit of his own original mission. He might again be challenging the laws of the day.

Ever since I was a child, I would get into strife for questioning out loud “But how do you know that is what Jesus meant – he also said, ‘seek and you shall find’. Did that not mean he wanted us to investigate further?” Dumbfounded at my brashness, my teachers mostly tried to distract me into believing I was being unnecessarily sinful and controversial.

If he was here today, I think he would want us to interpret the present time – he would want us to decide for ourselves what is right. He would want us to be less preoccupied with too many rituals and novenas offered up in hope of intercession and instead achieve a particular purpose ourselves. I think he would be saddened that we are still concerned with the guilt of our actions instead of doing something to change the things that are wrong with the world ourselves. I believe he would say something like “Why do you not see for yourselves that I suffered and died to free you from sin? The world is dying out there – go forth, see the divine spark within you and use your special vocations to be the change you want to see in the world.” He would remind us that the Kingdom is now, here on our very sick planet and right now we need to save ourselves from ourselves.

Jesus of Nazareth, my Jesus of Today might be outraged to discover what he might see as a widespread, unknowing apostasy undertaking false actions in his name. I think he might sit down in meditation (perhaps for 40 days) and then go into his Father’s house yet again, this time without losing his temper. The Son of God would lead peaceful protests to sell the vast investments of Christendom. He would challenge us to be involved at the grass-root level; feeding the hungry, helping those in disaster zones and making real environmental changes.

Then I think the poor man would be persecuted all over again by those in power. He might be imprisoned, sent to an asylum and subjected to insurmountable amounts of tests to disprove any claim of Divinity. Seriously, how many would have the courage to believe a Mission in direct conflict with the laws, ideas and tenets of today? How many would believe that he could possibly be the Son of God?

Ask yourself ... would you recognise him today?

Friday, May 2, 2008

I am Indian (Part 3)

All the apprehensions for my former life began to slowly seep out of the protective cocoon I had quite skillfully spun around myself over the years. The insulation - within which I had deeply concealed the ugly fibres of my despair - had begun to loosen its tautness.

Alan and I were on the last 3 days of our 3 week adventure that had taken us to the heights of Dharamsala where we witnessed stories of incredible courage from the generations of Tibetans who had seen the destruction of their homeland to the young children who had never known a free Tibet. We had wandered into the stench of the slums and eaten at the makeshift table of abject poverty in a tidy little room drenched with sunshine and generosity. This eye-opening journey into the very bowels of despair plunged and infused my inner senses with feelings to which I could not give a name.

Each and every one of the Tibetans had a tragic personal story; many had lost a family member or had been beaten, wounded or tortured. They were all united in the memory of their long icy and arduous journey across the Himalayas from Tibet to India. But importantly, I realised that they were one breathing being in their way of life … the Middle Way of Buddhism. I did not know their secret then, but I was already converted to wanting to think their way – these displaced peaceful people had revealed to me in just 5 short days that I could smile with the glee of a child, again.

And so to Mumbai where we would end our 2004 holiday, in the city that I would soon begin to sentimentally and obsessively want to call my second home. Amchi Mumbai. My Alan – suddenly so patient and in no rush to get anywhere quickly, I hardly recognised him. He too had begun to morph. I dearly hope he will one day find the time to write his owns journals to share with you his personal story. I can joyfully tell you that the man who left Perth with a wannabe Indian woman who had developed in recent years prior, into a depressive recluse - was heading for Mumbai with a very liberated partner. Two and a half weeks spent with the people we met, spoke with, ate and shared umpteen cups of chai with, laughed and cried with … had begun to work its magic. Out of my cocoon my Indian soul was being delivered. I am breathing.

My mother had speculated that India would change my life. How much it did would completely surprise her, for upon my return I would spend a full year immersing my life in discovering through literally every single book available at the library - the Middle Way and Christian Zen. It would become my breath. And I would slowly discover what lay behind the happy smiles of the Tibetans and Indians.

And then I would struggle over a decision that I knew I had to make. But Agnes would come along and in her quiet way would thoughtfully place a book of her own into my hands. Her acceptance and encouragement. This gift would lead me to the hills in Serpentine where at a peaceful monastery I would take the Five Buddhist Precepts.

It would be another year before this happened for I needed to wait. I was mindful daily ... looking for Jesus to give me his permission. You see, I wanted my friendship with him to continue forever, and I needed him to tell me it was okay to move on.

And then, one day at work he gives it to me. Clearly in writing.

My Buddhist name is Maya.

Revelation

Several years ago - I think it would have been shortly after the death of Princess Diana in 1997 - I slowly slid into some kind of depression. I did not know what was wrong, only that an eerie emptiness would wash over me and then like a tide would pull me out to almost drown in it. I found life would at times entirely loose its colour. To protect myself, I began to weave with so much skill a golden cocoon to wrap around myself, so people still only saw my smiling face and the elaborate parties the de Souza’s were so known back then for throwing.

Towards the end of 2001 it became a regular occurrence for my Alan to find me sitting on the floor of our beautiful bedroom, staring blankly at all my elegantly tailored clothes and bottles of exquisite perfumes, my Annette Himstedt dolls – drowning in that condemning irrepressible tide, everything around me blurring into tears of oblivion. I felt like I was going mad with some kind of disease. I became addicted to a drug which gave me an instant high only to leave me crashing as soon as the deadening effects of the analgesic wore off. That bitter pill I took so frequently was called … shopping. I knew it did not work but I had gotten used to the high. Why? Why did I need the high? I did not need any of the things I bought.

I have always prayed, so I tried asking for relief … no, I begged for relief, over and over again. Then I tried faith … Lord, you know what I need even before I ask … so I won’t ask anymore and instead I thank you for knowing. I tried reading the Bible. I tried sitting in the Notre Dame Chapel desperately whispering the prayers of the rosary at lunch-time reflecting on my work and my day. But I realised that everyday I was witnessing powerful unspeakable and uncharitable undertakings around me. Why were rewards continually being given to those who went against Jesus’ message of love? I was angry with the hierarchy and maybe even the church for not looking after the sick and the ‘little people’ at the University. So I tried not going to church. And then I tried going back to church again.

Meanwhile, I tried distancing myself from others because I no longer had the energy to listen to them talk or complain or tell me that I wasn’t looking up to my usual standard of dress, make-up or hair.

Nadia was the only person – other than Alan and Donny, with whom I could let my guard down. They were the only 3 people in the world that I wanted to be with and loved by and that I could still give good counsel to. I believed they were the only ones who would never judge me or expect me to be anything other than what I was at the time. I believed this. I had to, it was what kept me going. They kept me going. I was seeking something bigger and they knew I just needed the space and time to do it.

And so I became a recluse in the times that we were not throwing those elaborate parties, just so I could build up my supply of happiness to keep up appearances.

To appear normal.

Thursday, May 1, 2008

I am Indian (Part 2)

We have lived in Australia for nearly 21 years and people very often ask “Where are you from?” In years past, when I wore western style clothes and before I embraced my Indian identity they used to try and speculate, but nobody ever guessed - Eurasian. In those early days they often thought I was Spanish or South American. Most people reacted with surprise when I would laugh and say that I was from Singapore, and then explain my Portuguese/Asian heritage. They often saw my Asian-ness only after that, which I bemusedly found a little perplexing. While my Portuguese forefathers gave me my surname and baptized me with soul cleansing waters at the font, it was my Asian foremothers who gave me the beginnings of my appreciation for Asian culture, food, art and the quiet soul cleansing properties of burning incense. Thank you mama.

My beautiful grandmother, Winifred Pereira only had a limited primary school education. Yet she taught me more than many of the highly educated women that have come and gone from my life, since she sadly stared deeply into my eyes and quietly breathed her last that heartrending day in September, the year I turned 12. I admired her with every ounce of my being even though I know she was no saint and many would probably remember the imprudent things she did and said. But, are there any among us who are without our faults and failings?

Mama’s energy and ability to make the most of what little she had was astounding. Nothing was ever too difficult for her to achieve once she set her mind to it. And most of all, I loved that she knew no boundaries or class restrictions when it came to race, religion or the kinds of work people engaged in – she held close to her heart a quirky anthology of friends which perhaps one of these days I will dedicate an entire blog entry to. While many Eurasians preferred to embrace their European heritage, even though mama spoke mainly Portuguese and English with all her family and Eurasian friends, she was very much an Asian woman who spoke Malay and what must have been a smattering of fluent Indian and Chinese dialects to everyone else. I always felt when I was with her that she had an Indian soul and that she was unconsciously very proud of it. Remember from Part 1 … I wanted to be Indian.

Well, these days everyone believes I am Indian. Anyone who meets me for the first time automatically assumes that and after exchanging a few pleasantries and looking me over with smiles of amusement – I am guessing this comes from the ‘ethnic’ clothing and sarees that I always wear now, they will indefinitely ask, much to my enjoyment “Where in India are you from?”

This re-phrasing of the question actually began in 2004 – in India, would you believe? Not immediately, of course. In the first week or so, my now Indian brethren just stared, smiled and saw instantly that I was a mere tourist. After seeing His Holiness the Dalai Lama, I found quite suddenly a strange peaceful yet confusing awakening within my heart and mind as we made the long journey from Dharamsala back to Delhi. The locals from about the time we arrived in Delhi and then on our way to Rajasthan must have noticed it too, for they began to wag their heads with a new kind of acknowledged acceptance when they looked into my eyes and smiled. It happened almost overnight and without warning, suddenly they stared and recognised me as one of their own. “Madam you are Indian?” “Sir – madam is from India, nah? Punjab? Goa?” Alan and I would then tell them I was not Indian and that we were born in Singapore. I cannot begin to describe the looks of sheer disappointment, disbelief and almost distrust that would wash over their faces slowing their smiling wagging heads to a grinding disillusioned stop. They would then begin wagging their heads again while they discussed among themselves the incongruity of our answers.

Meanwhile, I would continue to stare out of the windows of our air conditioned 4 wheel drive as we drove through Rajasthan in pampered comfort. Massive billboards of Veer-Zaara, a Diwali movie release appeared at regular intersections. Starring in it was a beautiful Punjabi woman with a nose ring to die for, and that man with the eyes and the 3 part name that I had seen on Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham. My very dear friend in Perth, Agnes had lent me a copy of the movie on VCD and it had been my introduction to modern Bollywood – nearly 4 hours of escapism - singing, dancing, crying and unadulterated candy floss. Thank you Agnes - it was the beginning of a whole new world for me.

I began to wonder what Veer-Zaara was like. The movie posters appeared to have saturated the entire country and it seemed to us that the movie had the viewing masses in a terribly excited frenzy. And that man with the three part name – why was he on so many of the advertisement billboards? Pepsi, Tag Heuer, Airtel, Hyundai, Compac, ICICI Bank, some dandruff shampoo and nava-something hair oil – could they not acquire the talents of anyone else to advertise? What did I hear them call him … Baadshah. ‘Means King madam, he is King of Bollywood.’

Okay, he seemed pretty ordinary to me – but such expressive eyes, I'd give him that. Well damn, before I knew what hit me, he had me totally sucked in, didn't he? I was actively seeking those eyes out above all the dust and smells of the destitution we encountered and were trying so desperately to comprehend. He is their King. They have elevated him onto those tall billboards, to rule over all of India. Shah Rukh Khan.

And so the eyes followed me as I bought Indian clothing and began my physical makeover. They pleaded with me to look at the hawkers and vendors in the street and to try and understand how difficult and tiring it was for them to earn their 50 rupees. ($1.50) These people were like Alan and I … trying to feed their children, trying to give them an education. But unlike us, they lived in slums or along the railways in make-shift tin shacks with no running water, the railway tracks for toilets and the busy crowded road a metre from their front door - the dusty and dangerous play area of their numerous smiling children. These men and women would never go on a holiday overseas. They had already grown old before their time. They would feel like they had won the lottery, if they ever even managed that once in a life-time long crowded bus-trip to Agra to see the Taj Mahal.

The eyes watched from the sides of buildings as I grew instantly comfortable wearing beautiful shawls to cover my head before I went into a temple or a mosque. As I removed my shoes and walked bare-soled into my emotional conversion, they smiled at me from the side of drink-carts or the odd rubbish bin. A whole new way of thinking, of feeling, of devotion, of believing began for me. I was asking difficult questions and finding the answers uncomplicated and reassuring.

And so I typed my almost daily emails to Donny and Nadia, to the girls at the office. And the eyes, cheeky on the Airtel ad plastered on the glass pane next to me dared me to tell everyone - I was falling in love with India. That I had become what I always wanted to be. I was already wearing my now trademark miniature Buddha painting on a silver chain around my neck, dressing in Indian clothes with a Tibetan mala blessed by His Holiness the Dalai Lama, wrapped around my wrist. All I had to do was start drinking Mr Khan's Pepsi and saying with confidence and a wag of my head, to the hotel staff at our next destination, when asked the question ...

Haa, mei Hindustani hu. (Yes, I am Indian)

Next stop, Mumbai.