Log---Day One

The LCCT surau smelled of socks and repressed feet. And damp sejadah. My flight was postponed or in a more consumer-friendly term, re-timed. 6 hours and 35 minutes. Outside the surau is a mess. A cramped group of angry campers seeking their 'space'. Personal space. Whatever that means. I spent my 6 hours reading half of The Known World. I heard it's Oprah's favourite book. Well, airasia kan.. In any bargain, there're quality, service and price. Choose any two.
Flight was swell. A german passenger beside me wore only his boxers and whenever his girlfriend kissed or fondled him, out came his member, shrugging for release.
Hotel was swell. Everything's swell. New smell. New wind. New accents. New definition of new.
And Bali people are really friendly. 7 hours into their threshold and I'd already sharing jokes with three people. They find me funny.
Lucu sekali kamu ya mas.
One shopgirl told me Berani sungguh mas jalan seorang, hebat. She'd no idea I'd practice the Indonesian accent infront of the television. Televisions are education here. I fit right in.
Mas dari Jakarta ya?
Jauh ya dari Riau sini.
Ohayoo gozaimasta.
The Kuta strip of beach is breathtaking. A morphing piece of nature. In the morning time, part of it was shrouded with mist and the water is lemon-freeze cold. A sweet moment of silence. Dewing pearls on stranded coconut leafs. Clear. Blue. Sky. No one in sight. Garhhhh~ I found it funny too but I was in dire need to roar. As if procalaiming this heavenly shore is (temporarily) mine.
In the afternoon, the beach roared back, smashing patterns of green and grey into chaotic swirls. I rented a surfing board and the guy who rented it taught me how to 'be one with the sea'. The first time I tried, I was already in my groove. Suave. He wasn't too surprised to see that I could already surf even though it was my first time. Some people are born with the sea mate'. He said in his Balinese-Australian accent. Crikey. It was exhilarating. It's like a wave is no taller than the other, and I want the best of em all. I fell down a couple of times, having the surfing board tied to my left foot, it carried me with the waves like a dog ushering its blind owner.
In the evening, when the day neared its destined ending, the beach was packed with people. Ants of people. Most of them Indonesians. British people gathered under shades of coconut trees, drinking Bintang Beer (those stuff is soooo pahit) and selecting grinning young prostitutes for their leisure activities at night. As one man's right hand explored the girls' thick lovehandles, his left hand was pulling an invisible lever. He shouted Tally-Ho. Astaga. His wife distracted herself with lean young australian surfers. All is well eh?


Kemenyan to welcome guests and visitors.
Cendana to relinquish sad memories and chilli to induce passion.
A pinch of BlackPepper, the king of spice for truth and basil to remember.

When I heard the news of several european countries banning witchcraft activities and highlighted how witches are still being murdered in several countries (Malaysia included) I thought "There goes the roots of humanity."

Witchcraft is also practiced in Malaysia by Bomohs and Ustazs. Oh yes, Ustazs. You 'modern' people would think witchcraft is a pile superstitious mankydot but by all means, it'd worked wonders. Why you ask? Well, nature is the sustenance of life and has been used in medicine to cure all physical illnesses. Nature could also be harvested for herbs and spices that could render one's state of mind, manipulating emotions and distracting pain.
Bomohs are descendants of people who had worked with nature and its virtues to harvest and discover the enigma of nature's product. Throughout decades, Bomohs had passed on their knowledge to younger generations to help the hardy and poor. As Bomohs dwells in a realm of jinns and trees, they are more intuitive and sensitive to human emotions, honing their treatment methods. But why is it that Bomohs has a destructive image in the Malaysian society?

For starters, most of them had engulfed themselves with eternal greed. Instead of using their knowledge to cure illnesses, they'd often caused them when rivalry seeks a bitter end. Money, money and lust. Bomohs nowadays are also prone of using jinns' help instead of natural remedies like herbs and spices. Yelah, shortcut. It's easier when using jinns but the downside of it is that lives are to be sacrificed to make certain spells work. Like mixing chicken blood or boiling a pregnant cat or cremate a dead dog.
Interestingly though, Bomoh's spells won't work if the person whom the spell was casted upon never miss his/her prayers or simply refuse to believe in superstitions. That is because the human brain is much more powerful to resist or be manipulated by spiritual or physical extortions.
Well let's just say that when we get older, we will garner friends and enemies. And if you're unfortunate, your enemies (especially when they're malay) will send you a couple of Ah Long Jinns to make your life miserable. You can resist these attacks but the jinns will remain in your conscience until you seek spiritual medication. I suggest Harun Din's Clinic lah. If you're in politics, ward off these balistic attacks by strengthening your Iman and hiring some good Bomohs.

I'm not encouraging the hiring of Bomoh but what to do lah. There are plenty of Jinns sent in by invisible PosLaju to our doorstep to distrupt our lives. Supply-Demand. Orang Melayu kan tak senang tengok orang lain senang. Tengok orang puteh senang ok. Minda dijajah lagi nak buat macam mana.

Whatever it is, it to be reminded that God is beyond all repertoire of delusion.

God is Great.


Everyday oso Altantuya. Everyday oso Altantuya.
Why are the Malaysian Media feeding us so much of Altantuya in one go? It's like the second Norita Murder case; every single day until we tak tahan and decided that 'Ala, sorang je mati...' You know what I mean? It's the century old formula: Feed the pig until it dies turnturtle. Or something like that.
We humans have a very hard time attaching our hearts to facts and are more intuited when we see obvious display of emotions. That is exactly what the media is doing: you will see Witnesses, Dates, Venues, Details on the front page of almost all newspapers everyday, which is successful of pulling our heats together to grief(for a few weeks).
And on the second or third page, there will be pictures of Baginda and his family having tearful seperations, supporting each other, waving from afar, praying for God's mercy. Hah tengok, kita pun dah kesian.
And sooner or later we will lose interest on the murder trial and will be more interested to see Baginda's teary release and be reunited with his friends and family. (Remember the ending of Norita's case?) Everybody loves a happy ending. And the conspiracy lurking beneath the corinthian carpet dissipates and dissapears, leaving the absent smell of smoked flesh. Justice indeed.
I'm in favour for Altantuya, not because I'm keen to see Baginda behind bars but I think there's a whole new level of corruption and misuse of power in the government and Baginda is the only living person who holds the key to this greesy golden vault.
So please, people. Filter your reading or read the newspapers with a clear mind. Or else we will be wheeled into the psychological deception reel.

My Beachy Weekend

Bay Beacon
The Impressionist
Vacant Chairs (except mine lah)
and his Abang
Selipar Bata


I read The Line of Beauty by Alan Hollinghurst last semester, one of the many books I bought from the Booker and Orange selection. It was excellently reviewed after its debut so what the heck lah. Why not give it a flick?

It was written tastefully and there's a whole lot of gay jargon I couldn't have mustered. But interestingly enough, even when I couldn't really understand most of the sexually charged chapters, the word Glory Hole was somewhat intriguing. It sounded straight. Fun. Must google. Laterlah.

Today is Laterlah. The word Glory Holes has a lot of meanings. It is the method of curing petroleum, a unique feature in some dams to control the flow of water in rivers and the hole-shape of molten glass.

Glory Hole is also a special feature in public facilities. Holes in public toilet's cubicles/partition.

Flashback alert.

Dang. Those are called glory holes? Of all things, glory? Im sure that all men who'd used public toilets are familiar with these holes, along with the impromptu (not to mention raw) political forums on all three sides of the partition. Enlightening stuff, those forums.

As a person who has the habit of going to the toilet immediately after any meals taken outside home, I too have my share of experience.

My earliest recollection was a scary/horny one. I think I was about 14 when I had the courage to use public toilets. There were small holes on the partition and a 50 cent size hole that was bolted and plastered over. I sumbat all the holes with tissue paper and went along with nature of things. Until a man who was in the partition beside me blew away the tissue balls from his side of the partition. I was flabbergasted or in simpler words, terkejut nak mampos. A beady eye peeped in one of the holes. The man poured water all over the tile floor, prompting me to look down. Nah, a shadow of a pot bellied man. He noticed this too and arched his back, revealing a shadow of an alien mallet. It scared the shit out of me and left the toilet in a hurry. Run. Run. Big fat man coming to get you.
Since then, I'd never had the guts to use any cubicles with glory holes. That is, until I entered matriculation. Let's just say I had put the holes into use. Enchanging voyueristic pleasures. The animosity was so mysteriously arousing,then. Then was then.

Now if a little beady eye popped into view in one of those glory holes, I'll pretend to be shocked and slammed the hole with my elbow. Those sort of things don't interest me anymore, with the reluctance of libido as proof. Yesterday when I was at Centre Point (mall), I used a cubicle with glory holes and when I saw the flickering of light in one of the holes, I did what I'd usually do (Shock&Smack) but this time I waited in front of the sinks, waiting for the peepingtom. Then out came a greying man, spotting a set of expensive office attire. He smiled and greeted "Assalamualaikum."


Two Decades Later

Turning twenty is surprisingly twenty-ish. I woke up twenty, did 15 laps, followed Umi to the site, read The Impressionist while waiting to be officially twenty.
My twentieth birthday was pretty normal. Nope, very normal. There were no expectations, no surprises, no drama and notably no teenage angst.
When I was 19, I rode my bike when it was raining heavily and had gotten myself 'tribal' with the raingod. Hah.
When I was 18 I woke up early in the morning and read a cheap novel by a komodo dragon infested lake.
When I was 17, I bought 5 kinds of ABC at the Pasar Malam and finished all of them while watching porn.
When I was 16, I sulked during my birthday, contemplated suicide because I felt like I'd achieved nothing on the much-commercialized sweet 16.
To celebrate, we had dinner at Atmosphere, a revolving restaurant at Yayasan Sabah. It revolved! Coolness. I took dozens of photos of the Restaurant, being the usual photo Jakun. No one seems to care. So click-click away lah. Pedulik.
I ordered something weird. Something kononnya exquisite.
This dish's name is err... matured lamb something something something with lamb juice and something cheese. The New Zealand imported lamb was chilled during its journey, making the lamb a bit more seasoned in taste and smell. Served with blue cheese, baby tomatos, foei gras, poached dalca, honey and the usual mint sauce. When every bite I'd taken cost 10 ringgit each, the meal is sure to be delicious (even when it's not)
My 15 year old Hadi is undergoing the famous Deen brothers tantrum, throwing sarcastic remarks and tossing inconceivable slurs. He was particularly annoying that night so I'd warned him beforehand: "Anymore ruckus from you and I'll make sure this twenty year old foot grace your 15 year old face."
And cheesecake. Once again, cheese reigns supreme! As I finished my second helping of cheesecake, I scribbled something on my DayPlanner: Tomorrow, swim 20 laps.


"As Muslims, we should not sacrifice our religion for the sake of wanting to be popular," Harussani, Mufti Perak.
"I have no regrets. My hair will grow back." Sharifah Armani, Actress.
"But if a woman going bald is behaving like a man, what then is a man who grows his hair long? The same people who think that women should put their hair underneath a tudung seem so offended by a woman with no hair. If hair is so alluring, then surely no-hair is a real turn off? Is it offensive to find a young woman so confident of herself that she has no qualms about cutting all her hair off? Perhaps, this is what really rattles these ulamas; she contradicts their idea of what a woman should look and be like. Besides, as Amani puts it very well, it will all grow again. (Can someone please supply me with the exact ayat in the Quran which prohibits baldness in women?)" Marina Mahathir, Dr. M's first daughter.
"Maka Islam mengharamkan perempuan menyambung rambutnya atau memakai rambut palsu.Pengharaman tersebut kerana merubah anugerah Ilahi.Maka, betapa pula dicukur dan dibotakkan kepala?" Nasruddin Hassan, Timbalan Ketua Pemuda Pas.
"There are MakNyah brothels at Chow Kit street, tomboy meth dealers at Bukit Bintang, homeless flood victims in Johor, Khairi and his abominable quest to be the PM before turning 40, a corrupted chief minister in Sabah and a Mongolian translator who was strapped with TNT (and exploded) by two policemen before being accused by the Malaysian media of being a first-class slut. And we're fussing over a two-minute air time of Sharifah Armani with her head bald. Chi Chi Chi." Afiq Deen, 173cm, 62kg, single.

Mak Nyah

"Tengok u uollss~~~ anak ikan!"
"Mana U?"
"Tu hah~"
"Tak taste lah I."
So please, be my guest, how am I supposed to treat these people with undivided understanding of personality diversity.
The term I used: "These People" is cruel. It undermines their choice of lifestyle. It disrespects their freedom of expression. But it seems right.
If you're about to accuse me of being homophobic (which is downright merepek) I'll point out why I can't stand Mak Nyahs:
It is to be understood that most MakNyah came from poor families, mostly from Kampungs and Pekan and their level of civility is in dire need of education. A My Fair Lady makeover perhaps? If for whatever reason they are imposed to acts of civility, they will do very little to echo it.
They are extremely judgemental. There's no sign of hush whenever they are around, commenting on guys they fancy, judging their sense of becoming and guessing their endowment. There's nothing more irritating than that. Imagine when such a thing happens to you, when a group of MakNyah berbisik-bisik behind your back, loud enough for you to notice, low enough to keep you guessing. But surprisingly, they hate to be judged. "Uolsss tengok luaran je tapi hati I ni, hati I baik, hati I penyayang." Hmph.
Most of them are promiscuous. Most of them are prostitutes. Some of them are A-listers, getting comfy invites to back seats of VIP's Benz. Some of them are Cikai-listers, falling into the arms of old Chinaman and Broke Rempits. Most of them are promiscuous. I look down on voluntary prostitutes but I've never have the heart to show it. So why would MakNyahs be any different in this sense?
They are superficial. One of their passion is to personify Divas by dressing up and perform like them. But unlike real Divas, they lack the reality of Diva-electricity. Diva is a term used when a seemingly weak symbol prevails in a show of confidence and endurance. They are merely fashion victims, falling into the hands of Dolce and Gabbana and Prada. Victims of their self-victimized soul, victimized again by currency-affected fashion products.
They are human beings. With Attention Deficit Disoder. Enough said.
But they ARE humans. They are a sector of society. They deserve equal treatment. They are not too hard to understand, really. They may think they were put into the wrong bodies by God, but trust me, their way of thinking isn't any different from the rest of us men. The only difference being, they are too egoistic to confront their personality disoder and decided to be adamant with their confused psychological state.
We all have problems. Problems that needs confronting. Before it devours our sanity, leaving bits and pieces of BigLifeMistakesStories.

Inheritance of Loss?

We human are creatures of habit. I'd only realized the truth of this after my morning shower. I'd muffed my face with the towel for a full minute before drying my legs, followed by an effective back scrubbing. And the finale: the towel knot-tying. This procedure has been going on for a decade or so.

We'd also inherited some of our parents' habit. I apparently inherited my Umi's never-dying principle, my Bapak's sense of self-doubt and my Ayah's onion-like planning. It's scary sometimes; knowing that these bits of habits that had made them suffer from time to time will be passed on to me. Will I have to go through difficulties brewed my their personalities? Will I have to get divorced a couple of times, self-doubt myself to a point where I question my religion and plan my own downfall under the assumption that Life is plannable?

I studied my habits and traits and planned out a regime that will untilize all these habits effectively so these traits will co-exist with one another and under best circumstances, turn them into gold, only to realized that I'm already using all three of these prominent habits. I'm self-doubting my incoming downfall, I'm planning to gradually improvise my habits, under the core principle of my future assurance of Personal Satisfaction. A vacuum in another vacuum.

The only solution that could help me overcome this dilemma is a provision by the unknown. By a higher power. Through meditation.

By simply praying.


If you grew up watching FlashMan, this Japanese parody will probably make you gelak sampai mati.
Genius stuff, this.

Let's Talk About Love

"At this stage of my, I'd realized than Men are Men." Umi withdrew her cigarette from the car window.

We had a little debate over Men this afternoon. Men. She insisted that men nowadays are oblivious of their responsibilities and women are becoming more materialistic.

"So that's why kita mesti cari girlfriend waktu muda-muda. So they won't measure our wealth. And will be more attracted with our personalities and vision."

"Vision?" She laughed. Fakey fakey laugh. "Dah takde dah macam tu dah." She started to ramble about her view on men. And how girls have no intention to stick to their men unless they are rich. "There will come a point in your life when your wife question your wealth, when others got their hands on Mercedes. You will see it in her face."

I looked away, knowing for a fact that I'm on the loosing end of the debate. Yup, let her say whatever she wants about love for I, Afiq of KingFisher Park, still believes in true love.

"What's true love to you?" She suddenly asked.

Caught unaware but mentally prepared, I answered calmly, "True love is when a couple balances each other and perform their roles to build a foundation of trust." I glanced at her. She was more pre-occupied with the traffic. No. The traffic's fine. She was just pre-occupied.

I am being idealistic. I'm being Mr. McDreamy over McLovey. Because I know that we human are fully capable of shaping our actions and thoughts by setting an intention, whether it's idealistic or not.

I've seen Malays who are convinced that Malays are a naturally lazy race. And I've seen how these people drag their feet, lazily. I've also known people who had claimed that life is bullshit lead a pretty bull-shitty life.

So there's certainly a good chance of me believing that true love exists, to embody and personify it.

I smiled. (in the car) She wondered why.

Stephie and Me

Say what you want, you critical bloggers you. But Pak Lah's marriage came across to me as sweet. Well, he needs companionship like I need sexual outlets.

Aah... I remembered my first chinese girlfriend. *glances into glitzy photoshop moment* Stephanie was a year older than me, a school prefect and an excellent public-speaker. I was young, unblemished, slightly adrogynous and extremely curious. She was an annoying do-gooder. I was a dark broody piece of insecure bologna. Shakened by the recent tahfiz escape, I was shy to even bask myself onto the light of small-talks. I coiled, shrunk and dissapeared into my seat until greeted by a sepet-than-life girl with a slit the class refers as a smile.

"Hi! I'm Stephanie! What's your name?"

"Afiq, what's yours?"

"I'd just told you, silly!"

From there on, we became inseperable. Imagine that. A malay boy and a chinese girl. No biggie right?

Wrong! She came from a strict Chinese Roman Catholic family and I hailed from a very typical urban malay family. We were both schooled in a Roman Catholic private school. As years proceeds, our relationship became more obvious; both of us participated in public-speaking and poem-recitation competitions, we both became prefects and would do anything in school together. We were positively negative. It was understandable to me then because all the malay boys in the school were trouble-makers who would never converse in english or mingle with the majority chinese kids. (maybe they were afraid of betraying their own kin?? maybe.)

We got so many attentions from teachers and students alike, so much so that the headmistress personally called my mom to relinquish her tight-ass queeziness about this matter.

"Do you know that your son is befriending a chinese girl in school."

"You mean Stephanie. Oh yes, my son told me about her."

"And you're alright with their relationship."

"Yes, she's a good girl."

I appreciated our differences and had no difficulty coping with everything that came our way. The class and our class teacher accepted and approved our relationship. But some teachers, the headmistress, PTA members and parents made a ruckus out of us. I was labelled as a parasite, sucking Stephanie's academic excellence (she was never excellent academically to begin with) and polluting her conservative Roman Catholic upbringing.
I was the corrupter and she was the corruptee.

I aced my PMR. She didn't.

That was enough to rectify irrelevant speculations about my role in the relationship we were in. They (the group of Jesus loving preachers) took action and did everything in their powers to convince Stephanie that her failure was due to me. It was MY fault that she got only a few As.

All non-chinese staff members congratulated me. Stephanie began withdrawing herself from me. I was then known as "The Boy Who Got All As Because He Was Stephanie's Boyfriend."

Fucktards. Do they think for a second that I was offended by their Holy judgement?

After the long holidays, she was officially baptized and added a new middle name. And returned to school with a stone of a face. She smiled sourly at me, 360 degrees from her usual \(^___^)/ during recess and gave me a Hallmark bookmark with a small attempted cursive "Friends Forever" written on the bottom before her quirky signature. And that was it. Our friendship frozed, cracked and disintergrated.

Life Links

You know how deep pitch-dark secrects of explicit value haunts you in every curbs of conversations; when you almost spill the beans. It happens sometimes and often shoots a dose of skin-creeping panic. And leave you thinking "Will this secret ever last? Does anyone I know knows about it yet?"
Secrets never lasts. Secrets never dwells in solitude.
And secret is one of the main reason why I blog. Because I am comforted by my own confessions, knowing that it will not bite me in the back in darkness. It will bite me in the back in broad daylight.
I'd blogged about my drinking adventure and my 'smoking is cool' attempt. I'd also blogged about how my parents would punish me over a report card when I was 10. I blogged about all my secrets, from my brokeback mounting to paperback reporting. My hellish architorture days in the studio and even abnormal insecurity. My Petaling Street Porno Hunting to my experiences with molesters. A night in my room and my fatherless teenage years. My love life and sometimes my bicycle's love life.
Life lessons of a normal 19 year old with a bipolar disoder and seasonal asthma.


A few days ago, Umi gave her usual car-ride lecture about Iman. Alamak. Another incoming spiritual intervention.
1. The first Iman is Iman Pak Turut. It is the state of Iman where one blindly justifies oneself through religion by enforcing traditional practice. Blind Faith. This type of Iman will appear to be autocratic and repetitive. People who embody this type of Iman will not question anything taught or imposed by higher religious authorities.
2. The second type of Iman is the Iman Cerdik. People with this type of Iman are very knowledgable about Islam and acknowledged the beauty and mystery beneath it. The only thing troubling about people with this type of Iman is they don't fully practice Islam. They think of Islam as a faith of the mind. "As long as I know it, I'm embodying it."
3. The third type is the Iman is Iman. It is faith and action concocted in a periuk of asam and ikan. It is also the passage to a higher enlightenment, Taqwa.
Well then, which one is your Iman?

Dr. Javeetha

I was put into the Bilik Kecemasan Asma yesterday. After a period of breathing into the.... the..... ntah ape la they called it, I was finally able to BREATHE properly (and without pain) again.
Afiq: Good... (cough-cough) morning doctor.
Dr. Javeetha: Ah, you're the Asthma case. Ingat orang tua tadi.
A: *Coughs again to hide offended expression* I'm Afiq, Dr. George asked me to come here.... room 17... betul kan?
D: Are you sure you're only asthmatic? Nothing wrong with your senses?
A: Huh?
D: It's afternoon dear.
A doctor with a sense of humour? That's news!
After reading my pulse and blood-pressure:
D: You've been eating to much prawn these few weeks. Cut sikit ah. And you haven't been exercising too. You may be young but I'd seen people younger than you suffering cardiac cases.
A: *nods*
D: Don't over-exert yourself ah Afiq. You must understand that eventhough the rest of your family doesn't have asthma, you do. So pantang-pantang sikit ah.
A: Are you sure you're a doctor? Not a psychic.
She looked at me intently with her tired eyes and re-examined my chart.
D: Are you, Architecture Boy?
A: No
D: Uh-huh.
Moral of the story: Do not attempt to be funny in front of doctors. They joke to break the tension but when we joke, we're just sick annoying buggers.

Demam + Asma

I'm feeling terribly lethargic today. Demam. And a bad case of asthma.
And my bipolarity is kicking in. I'm a tad saintly suicidal; the kind I figured Joan of Arch must have gone through. Sleeping is impossible because of my irritating and painful wheezing. Walking around is impossible because my head is like an old dam, ready to burst anytime soon. Watching television is impossible, my eyes are squinting like a mad eccentric's. Eating is impossible, my trakea is so clogged, a small piece of M&M will decide to stay for supper. But I found no problem gobbling down Ice Cream. Aaaaah. Ice Cream = Happy Food. And finely sliced cream cheese.
Cream cheese is Holland's most-prized botox treatment. A few fine slice a day will make our cheeks puffy and red.
My trip to Bali is confirmed. Can't wait to experience one of the most exquisite and exotic arts and architecture there. And the Nude Beaches. I'm not planning to strip down to my birthday suit though. Can I do that? Taking a stroll in one of those beaches and not be naked?

May Captions

Life Caption

A Story Worth Remembering

A Makcik Cleaner was cleaning the windows when I was in the studio this afternoon. Aside from moths and other metaphysical inhabitants, we were alone. And being a typical cleaner, she murmured how dirty we were and how she would teach us to be hygenic and for the 5 minute of her constant blabbering, I nodded fakely and re-emphasized her knock-out statements. And after that 5 minutes (I keep my time when it comes to this sort of things. 5 minutes layan. 10 minutes too much!)
I was getting more interested with whatever that comes out from her mouth. I guessed she noticed this and prolonged her duty in the studio. She told me that she's from Boyan. Boyan? "Itu pulau di Timor Jakarta itu." Oh Boyan.. and she told be she had been in Malaysia for 25 years and had worked various domestic jobs.
Stories of marriages popped out from nowhere and subsequently stories of her children. I was in awe with her flow of words; depicting her misery in a casual manner, as if it was something all of us had gone through in life. 3 marriages, 1 dead child, a cheating husband, long journeys and affairs in one scoop of cold cucumber soup. "Hidup makcik ni senang ja dek.." she would say in between stories. "Makcik mau kerja halal!" My heart skipped a beat.
It was courageous of her to travel without assurance but she had made it a point that Patience is the key to almost everything and that doesn't include her first husband. And somewhere along her confessions, I 'clicked' with her, both of us have negative notions towards Kelantanese. "Orang Kelantan tu mana mana pun pelat, dia ingat kita faham cakap dia. Gedebe kunun.. Dia tak sedar.. Ini KL!"
By the end of the day, we met in front of the elevator, I grinned out of empathy but mostly courtesy. She was no longer a Makcik Cleaner but Makcik Hazura and I, Apik.