Murky Clarity

A Cultured Life: Reading at Kinokuniya

If we categorize ourselves by social status, then I would say that I was born into a middle-class (or working class) family. Mama worked her ass off to make sure we had everything we needed, but some of the things we wanted (who am I kidding? MOST of the things I wanted) were luxuries we could not afford.

Now that Kasha, Ayis and I pool our income, we've bumped our family to middle-upper. I may splurge like I don't plan to live beyond 40 (that's the plan, actually), but I don't kid myself. I don't belong in the upper class stratum.

One of the things Mama made sure my siblings and I learned is culture. How to carry ourselves in public. How to eat in sequence during buffet: salad & soup, then cold dishes, then main dishes, and finally dessert. How to appreciate and properly use the dry and wet toilet sections. How to say "excuse me". How to open doors for others and give up our seats to someone else without hesitation. The proper manners and bearings she taught us, they're not considered Malaysian culture. Our people, though undoubtedly congenial and somewhat demure, are less refined.

One thing we never dreamed of was art-culture. My siblings and I are naturally talented in the arts, and I guess my parents are too, in their own way. However, we were never prepared to be at home among artsy people and how to behave in an artsy manner.

Imagine my fear when I first did my public reading at Seksan. Luckily I had my whole family with me to be my strength, my safety net. But all those lovely artsy people I had interacted with online, they honestly intimidated me. I didn't feel like I belonged.

Then again, I've never belonged anywhere, have I?

Fast forward to this year. When I found out about the call for submission for "Readings from Readings 2", I threatened my muse to inspire me with an amazing story. I've been running dry, especially since the accident. Now, I'll be honest and admit that I'm a snob when it comes to story submissions. I know that my stories are good and publishable, so I no longer submit to non-paying markets. Getting books instead of monetary payment is not considered payment. Not to Duotrope, at any rate. My submission process is this: professional-paying markets (>USD 0.05 per word) first, then to semi-professional-paying markets (USD 0.01-0.49 per word), and lastly to token-paying markets (<USD 0.01 per word). I sometimes donate the payment back, but I like knowing my stories are good enough for paying markets.

"Readings from Readings 2", however, did not give monetary payment, but 3 copies of the book instead. I ended up buying one at Kinokuniya as I was too excited to read all the pieces to wait for my free copies, but hey. To me, the submission was truly a "for-the-love" process. The two people in the Malaysian-English scene who have been passionately encouraging my efforts are Sharon Bakar and Amir Muhammad. So of course I will always submit my best stories to them regardless the payment.

"Picking Up the Pieces", the second story in the book, started off as one of my Tender Moments. One thing I've learned from this is that expanding a story that has already existed is not a good idea. In the second draft, Sharon and Breanna helped me remove the whole Tender Moments piece and come up with something much stronger.

Why am I confident it's a good story? The piece is meant to be the title story of my (intended) anthology.

Anyway. Culture.

On December 4 we had a KL launch event for the book at Dopple Kafe, Central Market. It was a brilliant experience, but all the artsy people still scared me witless. Last Friday, however, was the one experience I will not trade for anything else: I read an excerpt at Kinokuniya KLCC.

I've haunted Kinokuniya since KLCC opened. It's the best bookshop in Malaysia, bar none. The collection is ginormous, and you're welcomed to sit and read the books and magazines they have to offer. I've always been a reader, but I secretly harbored a dream of joining the ranks of authors on the shelves.

Yeah, now I have two stories at the Malaysian Literature section ("Black and Whites and Other New Short Stories from Malaysia" and "Readings from Readings 2"), but my actual dream is having a book of my own. Baby steps.

When last Friday evening Sharon introduced me as one of the contributing writers, and I saw the recognition in some of the staff members, the euphoria was almost transcendent.

We set up shop in front of the elevator between the "Chick Lit" and the "Fantasy" aisles. At first the audience comprised of other writers and friends, but our presence attracted book-browsers and fellow bibliophiles. Needless to say, I was a nervous wreck. All those strangers stopping by to listen. I cannot begin to describe the deluge of feelings I had at that time.

Well, I can. It was awesomesauce. It was airwolf.

And I felt cultured.

The one thing I had not seen coming was the guy who came up to me after my reading stint, shook my hand, introduced himself, and said, "I love your story. It's amazing. The images it brings in my head...it's amazing."

I was humbled. I am humbled. No monetary payment in the world can ever top that.

Well, maybe it can, especially if said payment can help me buy an apartment in cash. But since at the moment it can't, let's not talk about it.

 

Cynthia Reed reads "Crimson Starlet", a beautiful story about how family can build you up and break you down. She's also a classy lady with plenty of knowledge and writing experience to share. I love how she acts out some parts when she reads.

 

(Uncle) Dato' Shanmughalingam reads "Rani Taxis Away". He's the most expressive and engaging reader I've come across (both live and online). I hope to one day be able to publicly read as beautifully as he does.

 

Lee Eeleen reads "Artificial Rock Aquarium". I love her swagger, her easy confidence, both when she reads and when she interacts face-to-face. Oh yeah. I love her accent, too.

 

Saras Manickam (author of "Will You Let Him Drink the Wind?"--and turns out to be one of my colleague's aunt) reads Thato Ntshabele's "Asphyxia". Her own story is a beautiful little piece about a man who can never be more than a toddler and how it affects everyone around him. A definite must-read.

 

Megat Ishak reads "I Can Only See You at Night". He specializes in Horror, but the piece, despite having a ghost, is really a hauntingly beautiful love story (forgive the pun).

 

Ted Mahsun reads "Pak Sudin's Bicycle". We were kinda excited to have finally met each other during the book launch after years of online interaction. He's more of a geek than I am (I say it in the best of ways, Ted), but you can tell he's at home among artsy people. He's one cool guy I want to chill with & trade gaming stories.

 

Eileen Lian reads "Staying Alive". The ending is not my cup of tea, but I love how she reads with confidence and character immersion.

 

Chee Siew Hoong reads "Red Dates". She's one soft-spoken, humble lady, and I love how she gets into character, using "Aunty" voices for the dialogs. This story makes you think, in a good way. I don't fancy stories that end with a question, but if you want to know how to do it right, this piece is a good example.

 

 

And this is me, reading "Picking Up the Pieces". You can definitely tell how nervous I was. Hah!

 

So. I got to hang out with some of the writers, and finally met another published author, Rumaizah Abu Bakar. Her anthology, "The Female Cell", is sold at Kinokuniya. All of them (myself included) are working on a novel or two. And I do hope that our Malaysian-English scene will flourish, will prosper, and that our books are not only contained within the "Malaysian Literature" segment, but among other books of the same genre.

My life as a doctor is vastly different from the one I live as a writer. Alhamdulillah, Allah has blessed me with both lives, and that my family and I can experience culture, be part of the wonderful artsy community.

If you want to meet up with some of the authors, there will be another reading session at Borders The Curve on January 5. Not sure about the time, though. They are all wonderful people. I'm a snob. Then again, I'm a well-adjusted introvert, but an introvert nonetheless. So forgive my apparent inapproachability.

Please support Malaysian-English. "Readings from Readings (1 and 2)" are sold at Kinokuniya, MPH, and Popular has ordered several hundred copies.

Storytelling: the promise

When I met up with Sharon Bakar last Sunday for our "Readings from Readings 2" promotional slot at Art for Grabs, we chatted a little. She said that I have paid my dues in terms of publishing short stories in magazines and anthologies. Now I have to concentrate on having a book published, be it an anthology of short stories or a novel. A whole book to myself.

Well, I do have several projects running. I've even received the green light for a proposal on an anthology of novellas. I have at least 2 novels in the process of getting written. Somehow, however, I have a difficult time finishing those stories. I am an impulsive writer, you see. I write in spurts, and then stop for long periods. I pour my soul into writing, and the process drains me. I'm not being a writerly snob. Ask Breanna. She knows this is true. That's why I excel at short stories. It only takes that single sprint to come up with 5,000 words.

I have those stories to write, but what am I inspired to do today? Write about writing. I have not garnered accolades, nor have I made a significant mark in the publishing world. I have science fiction, horror and fantasy stories published professionally, but the good people of Malaysia and the SEA region do not even acknowledge my existence as a speculative fiction writer. However, fame and fortune from writing are not the things I seek. If I can reach out to even one person, and make a difference at the time my stories are read, I feel accomplished. Honest.

So. It doesn't matter if you don't really care about what I have to say about fiction writing, but I know there is at least one reader for whom my advice will be useful. So for that one reader, I give my all.

Here it goes.

 

The Promise

Storytelling has played an important role since the time of cavemen, as evidenced by the paintings on walls they have left behind. More often than not, those paintings tell stories of the Hunt, of how a group of warriors felled a great beast, of how some of them had fallen during the hunt. Storytelling is a way to help us remember, to help us learn, to help us make sense of the world around us.

Can anyone be a writer? Surely in school we have written essays and stories. Even a kindergarten child learns how to make proper sentences. Do we have stories to tell? The longer we live, the more experiences we gather, and the more stories we have within us.

The question is, are you a storyteller?

Let's take a newspaper article. I know stories about children being abused and killed are rampant right now, but let's not be insensitive jerks, now shall we? We'll use an article about a foiled robbery attempt instead (the article is taken from The Star Online). In the article, a young man, believed to be a policeman's son, was gunned down by police officers when he and his accomplice tried to rob a convenience store.

Juicy, isn't it? A policeman's son, a robber, shot down by police officer. I am sorry to hear the news, especially how devastating it is for the family members, and I do feel guilty using the article as an example. Still, no identities were released, so I hope it's okay. Is this a story?

It's an article, it's news, but no way in hell does it a story make.

Other writers may disagree with me, but I have traditional values when it comes to storytelling. I have not received a formal education in creative writing--wait. I did attend a semester-worth of creative writing course during my university years. But I am an avid reader, for as long as I can remember. Sharon Bakar also says that I can see the patterns in stories, that I can tell which part works, and which part doesn't. I also bought and read plenty of books on writing when I re-launched my writing career in earnest.

So. Traditional values. A story must have a beginning, a middle, and an end. In the newspaper article, we learn that the robber was 19, that he robbed a convenience store using a machete (God, people, when will you learn to use 'machete' instead of 'parang' in an ENGLISH context?!), and that he and his accomplice panicked when they saw a patrol car outside the store. We learn that he brandied his machete and got gunned down in the process. We also learn an important detail: he was the son of a policeman. We have all this information, but at best we have a scene. We do not have a beginning, a middle, or an end.

So what can we do to make this article a story? Well, it depends on how long you intend the story to be. For a short story, you have one scene, three at most, to create an impact, to have a beginning, a middle, and an end. Publishers and editors like it when a story starts in media res--in the middle of an action/scene.

Here's my take on a possible story:

The beginning

Khairul (we have to give the character a name) runs his finger along the edge of the worn machete. He's listening to his friend Samad coaxing him to rob just one more convenience store. They've done it three times, and they've made almost RM1,000 from those robberies. A small amount, but it was easy money. And they haven't been caught. It's not the money he's after, but robbing is a way he rebels against his stand-up but abusive father. His father is a law enforcer; how ironic it is that his son robs convenience stores. Khairul agrees to rob just one more store.

The middle

It's late at night, and only one sleepy-looking guy barely out of his teens (the same age as Khairul and Samad) mans the counter. There are a few people walking about, but the convenience store is empty save for the cashier. Khairul keeps his machete safe under his jacket. He's done this before; the rush has taken over any signs of nervousness. Samad walks to the end of the store to make sure no one else is around. Then Samad comes back and asks for a pack of cigarette. The guy behind the counter doesn't even ask for an ID, but reaches up toward the top shelf to get the pack of 20s. When he turns back, Khairul already has his machete poised near the cashier's neck. The cashier fumbles and stammers, and Khairul loses his patience. He nicks the shaking guy's neck, drawing blood. Samad demands for all the money in the cash register. What they don't know is that the cashier activates a silent alarm.

They've hit it big this time. A thick wad of RM50 bills gets shoved into a plastic bag. There are several RM100 notes too, along with smaller change. Samad grabs the full bag from the cashier and Khairul uses the back of the machete to club the guy's temple. He crumples, unconscious. Khairul and Samad elbow each other as they exit the store; they can't wait to count the loot.

A patrol car waits for them outside the store (in the article, it might have been a coincidence that the police car was outside. In fiction, there are no such things as coincidences, hence the alarm trigger). Two policemen are behind opened doors, guns pointed at the boys. Samad panics and runs away, but Khairul brandishes his machete at the policemen.

Ending

One shot. Two shots. Three shots are released, puncturing Khairul's lung and abdomen. The distraction he's created has enabled Samad to escape. That's not Khairul's intention, but maybe it's better this way. He gurgles out blood. Suddenly it's difficult to breathe. It's painful. His vision is blurring. He doesn't recognize the policemen, only the familiar dark-blue uniform. The same uniform that he hates the most. He hears his name called. One of the policemen knows him. Knows his father.

As he suffocates on his own blood, Khairul can't help but smile. His father's reputation will be tarnished forever. His revenge is complete.

Note: well, one of the police officers can be his father, but it's predictable and I have to say, overly used.

 

In the beginning of the story, we promised a young man's rebellion against his abusive father. That becomes his motivation to rob convenience stores. That is the promise we give readers, that by the end of the story, Khairul will either get his revenge or he doesn't. Either way, we get a complete character arc. Boy seeks revenge, boy acts on it the way he knows how, and boy finds his revenge in an unexpected way. If your story is plot-driven, you concentrate more on the actions and less on the character arc. It still exists, but not prioritized. If your story is character-driven, you concentrate on Khairul, of his fears and motivations, of his need to rebel against his father.

What's important here is fulfilling the promise. You've promised the reader at the beginning of the story that Khairul wants to rob a convenience store to get back at his father. If your story ends at them exiting the store with the loot, you don't show readers how the robbery affects his father. It's also unexciting. If your story ends at the police officers pointing the gun at them, you'll leave readers hanging, and NO ONE likes to be left hanging. You'll only create anger and people don't want to read your stories anymore.

Somehow, this is a trend with a lot of Malaysian short stories. Letting people think and figure out what happens next. The writer thinks himself as brilliant for doing this, but believe me, he's delusional. NO ONE LIKES TO BE LEFT HANGING.

If you end the story with them successfully robbing the shop, but suddenly Khairul gets hit by lightning (divine intervention) or gets run down a drunken driver, WHAT THE HELL?! This is called deus ex machina--god of the machines, which is a fancy term for shitting on your readers. Trick endings that come unexpectedly and out of nowhere is one of the greatest sins a storyteller can commit.

Somehow, this is also a trend among Malaysian (and Singaporean) writers. Again, WHAT THE HELL?!

So.

First rule as a storyteller: always fulfil your promise to your readers. ALWAYS.

I don't know if this will be a regular thing. I don't dare make any promises. Heh.

Tell me what you think.

When the service is no longer personal, it gets personal

People who know me know that I'm a masochist. No, I don't derive sexual pleasure from pain--I wouldn't know, but eh. I'm open to new experiences--nor do I take pleasure from getting humiliated. But I am willing to subject myself to unpleasant and trying situations. I wouldn't be where I am today if I wasn't one.

But that's not what I want to talk about. Focus. What I do want to talk about is waiting in line for HOURS just to get something. I did that to buy "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows" at Kinokuniya the day the book was released. 3 hours. I did that to buy Faiz the iPad 2 on its release day. 4 hours. Those are the ones I can vividly recall. I must have waited in line for lots of things.

But you know what, those experiences gave me amusing, pleasant memories. People look at me like I'm crazier than usual whenever I tell them the stories of the wait, but honestly, it was fun to witness the quirks and excitement of people ahead of and behind me. Wish I could say the same for my experience getting the iPhone 5.

I'll be honest. I don't really need a newer iPhone. My iPhone 4 works just fine. Except for the battery drain when using the internet (and WhatsApp), the phone still functions well as a phone, a (convenient) camera, and an internet browser. I play games on the phone sometimes, but not the fancy ones. I have my Alienware for it.

But I do like my toys. As a boy, with Mama as the sole bread-winner, I couldn't get most of the toys I wanted, toys my neighbors and friends had lying around in their houses, collecting dust. Mama did buy me toys like Condor from Mask, Lego, and Tamiya build-it-yourself race cars. Nothing fancy and expensive, though. I drained her enough money buying story books every once in a while. Now that I can afford shelves of books and gadgets worth thousands of ringgit, the boy in me simply takes control.

So. Don't ask me why I need a new iPhone. I just do. Let's leave it at that, shall we?

When Maxis finally released the email to register my interest to buy the iPhone 5 about a week ago, I did not hesitate to give my reply. 2 days later, a follow-up email came to confirm the model and pick-up time. I chose the white 64GB, and the pick-up time was between 00:00 and 04:00 yesterday. I figured, since I was on-call, I could just hop over to Pikom ICT Mall, which is a road away from the hospital, and get my phone from the counter instead of having to wait in line for hours. Faizul had agreed to cover my call while I was gone, which was totally awesome of him.

When I got there 10 minutes before midnight, a winding line of somewhere between 300 and 500 people had already formed. When I asked one of the crew members, she said that all those people had also pre-booked and that I had to wait in line. I pulled the "I'm a doctor on standby and I may have a case coming" card, but the girl shrugged and said she couldn't help me. When I tried my luck again with a middle-aged staff who looked like a person in charge, he only smirked at me and said, "then you'd better go do your surgery."

Valid point, but he didn't have to be so curt, now, did he?

Maxis: -1

I called up Faizul and he said that all was quiet so far. I said, "I'll wait in line, but to call me the moment an emergency case is posted." I was already there in the middle of the night like all those crazy people, wasn't I? So I waited. I should have brought the storybook I left in the car, or at least my iPad--another grief as I bought it 3 weeks before the surprise release of iPad 4. Good thing my phone was fully charged, and that my Bose QC15 active noise-cancellation headphones had arrived earlier in the day.

I did come clean about loving expensive gadgets, didn't I?

Armed with good music and access to Facebook and Twitter, I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

Maxis: -2

I kept checking the battery life on my phone. I was draining it fast, and I needed the phone to be alive. I couldn't exactly enjoy people-watching and the wait with the thought of abandoning everything should an emergency surgery get posted. Maxis crew came at regular intervals to offer us donuts, water and apples. Oh God. I just realized the significance of handing out apples. I was wondering why that night. Duh.

I didn't take anything. My stomach was already in knots with agitation and guilt. My body was just a placeholder waiting in line while my mind kept returning to the hospital and praying the night would remain quiet. The line lurched, trickled, halted. When some of the crew came asking whether we had all pre-booked (as the event was for pre-bookers only), the line didn't dwindle. AT ALL. I was one kiasu KLite among HUNDREDS of kiasu KLites.

3 hours in, and I finally reached the "ENTRANCE" tent (middle left edge on the photo). I had printed out the confirmation and invitation forms, and I had photocopied my identification card. They didn't have to do much for me, so my time at the registration booth was less than a minute. They pointed me to another queue. Yes. Another queue. A chirpy staff armed with an iPad approached me and offered to help register my confirmation and purchase, so I provided her with all the necessary information. That was when things went downhill.

Another girl walked by and told the one attending me that they only had the black 16BG model left.

What?!

The first girl asked me again which model I opted for, and I firmly said, "White, 64GB. There'd better not be any problems."

The second girl looked at me and said, "I'm sorry sir, we're out of stock. You can buy the 16GB model or you can come back tomorrow."

"But I waited three hours. THREE HOURS IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT."

"I'm sorry. This line is first come, first served basis."

"You're telling me that I pre-booked my phone, was promised to get my phone, waited in line for 3 hours, and I won't even get the phone I want?"

"Yes, sir. You can come back--"

"That's bullshit. I don't care how you do it, but you'll procure the phone I was promised."

"That's not possible."

"Call your supervisor or your manager. Now."

"But sir--"

"NOW!"

Maxis: -3

Maxis: -4

Maxis: -5

Maxis: -6 

The girl, who was looking anywhere but at my eyes, bolted off. The first girl, who was now clutching her iPad tightly to her chest, and was now two shades paler, gave me a nervous smile. She didn't deserve it, but I directed my anger and indignation at her.

"You tell me. Is this right? You guys should have saved all the pre-booked phones and only let people buy additional phones from the extra stock."

Oh yeah. I forgot to mention that in addition to the pre-booked phones, one was allowed to purchase another phone at retail price. I saw plenty of customers leaving with at least 2 paper bags.

"I know. It's unfair."

"It's not just unfair. It's not right. If I had lined up without booking ahead, I'd have been okay with it. But I've been promised, in writing, and you guys are giving me lame excuses."

"I know. It's not right."

Fadz: -1 (for scaring her. I had every right to throw a hissy fit. I didn't go all-out bitch mode, but just used my laser eyes, amped my arrogance to palpable levels, and spoke in the most fluent, non-Malaysian English in a clear and loud voice. It's more of a contained rage, but I'll call it a hissy fit because I can. Bugger off.)

The second girl came back and said, "I'm sorry sir. I can't help you."

"Manager. Now. Before I take action." I forced myself not to shout. I was already shaking, the paper in my hand crumpled.

She scampered off, and the girl beside me edged away. The people around me were stealing nervous glances at me. I didn't care what anyone said.

She came back with a big guy who looked like a club bouncer, and promptly left us.

"Boleh saya tolong encik?" he said. To his credit, he was calm and collected, and polite.

"Nak saya cakap kuat ke cakap perlahan?"

"Cakap perlahan la encik," he said, glancing around. Other customers were getting restless. "Saya nak tolong encik ni."

I think he saw the anger in my eyes, in the way I stand, because before I could answer, he beckoned me to the side, and led me to the front of the line. He instructed the crew guarding the makeshift gate to let me through.

"Encik tunggu sini kejap," he said, pointing at a bench just outside the main tent. After a minute or so, he came back and led me in. He pulled a much younger staff aside and said, "assist customer ni. Make sure he gets the white 64GB."

"Ada lagi ke?" the worker ant asked.

"Last. Make sure dia dapat."

Maxis: -5 (I don't know if I should give the +1 to the guy or to Maxis, but we were getting somewhere).

"OK ye encik?" the guy said.

I smiled at him even though I was still shaking. "Terima kasih banyak-banyak."

 The worker ant filled up a form for me and got me my queue number (yes, another queue), but this time there were comfortable sofas. And I was number 84, and they were serving number 82. It was already 03:40, and I was still indignant. People at the counter were all buying at least 2 iPhones, and there were boxes on unopened boxes of phones. I waited for almost 5 minutes before I was called, and the girl behind the counter was polite, even though she was visibly tired. To my left and right, customers were treated with congeniality by additional staff on top of those serving them. When the girl stifled a yawn, I asked, "You're continuing work this morning or someone will take over the shift?"

"The VIP section is opened during this slot only."

Wait. VIP section?

Senior staff at the back were asking around if people were going to buy any more phones or they would start packing.

I asked the girl, "Do you still have the 32GB black model to buy at retail price?"

"Sure. We have lots more."

Backtrack. The staff outside was informing everyone that they only had the black 16GB left, and nothing else, despite customers having pre-booked different models.

So. What did I do? I bought the black 32GB at retail price.

Fadz: -2

I felt bad because I scolded the staff outside for selling extra iPhones to customers and in the process robbing others of their pre-booked models. So I was being a hypocrite by getting an extra phone for myself. The guys had all the models in stock and were packing them up. I was already pissed of for having to wait over 3 hours and almost didn't get the phone I wanted. I wouldn't have gotten what I came for if I hadn't thrown a hissy fit. Judge me all you want, but I felt that I deserved to buy that second phone.

During the purchasing process, I overheard the staff talking about closing shop at 04:00 sharp, as the schedule stated. Another staff said all those people waiting outside would not be able to purchase their phones despite having pre-booked for that slot. I knew for a fact that the last person to have queued up did so around 02:00.

It didn't matter. They were going to close shop anyway.

Maxis: -6

When I completed the transaction and walked off with a paper bag filled with 2 iPhones and several thousand ringgit poorer, I noticed that people were still in line within the tent area, and at the registration booths at the entrance, people were grouped up, hands raised. My best bet: they were just informed that only the black 16GB was available, and that Maxis was closing shop, so who were the last few customers willing to buy that model. Behind them, at least 40 to 50 people were still lined up outside in the cold, dark night, oblivious to the disappointment that awaited them.

People were willing to pay good money to be handed scraps. They were more than willing; they were desperate. Scraps. This is what our society has been reduced to.

Maxis: -7

When I got back to the hospital at 04:20, I was still shaking. Part of it was anger. A larger part was disbelief. If I hadn't created a scene, I would not have received the phone that was promised me in advance. If I hadn't created a scene, I would not have been bumped up the queue, straight into the VIP section. I have no illusions that I deserved to be in the VIP section; I did not belong there. It took bold indignation on my part, asserting my rights as a customer, to be treated like an actual person.

I activated my new phone to make sure I was contactable (my old sim was already deactivated), and went promptly to sleep. I was dead tired. Anger had drained everything from me, and I hate being angry. I didn't get the satisfaction of owning a new toy like I did before. I didn't even get the gratification of accomplishment. The procurement felt tainted.

Alhamdulillah, at least there were no emergency cases throughout the night. I still woke up tired, spent, though.

The story doesn't stop here. After Friday prayers, Shiraz and I stopped by the Maxis center in KLCC. Needless to say, it was full. We approached a promoter and I asked if there were any iPhones left.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said. "We're totally out of stock."

"Dang."

"You can register your name and come back early tomorrow morning."

Shiraz and I looked at each other. "Wait," I said. "You said you're totally out of stock."

"Yes, but just come back tomorrow morning. We open at 08:30."

"Do you have a daily sales quota that you've reached?"

"No. We're out of stock. Honest."

"So you should still be out of stock if we come back tomorrow morning, right?"

Silence.

Shiraz smirked and walked over to get a brochure. The promoters didn't even entertain him.

Maxis: -8

We left Maxis center and looked for the Celcom outlet, as they were also selling the iPhone 5. The promoter lady was very friendly. Good start. Unfortunately, the iPhone 5 plan package was sold out. Bummer.

But wait. "You can still purchase the iPhone 5 without the package."

"So you still have the phones?" Shiraz asked.

"Yes. But the package is sold out. We have the white 16GB and 64GB right now if you want. The 16GB is RM2499."

A bit more? "The 32GB retail price is RM2499," I said. "The 16GB is only RM2199."

The promoter nodded. "Apple only sent 1000 units to Malaysia. We had to get the phones from a different dealer, so it's a bit more expensive. So do you want to purchase one?"

Celcom: -10 for trying to con us.

It's no longer about serving customers and doing right by them. It's all about the money. Maxis didn't care if people were disappointed despite having to wait in line for 4 hours. Their product was selling, and that's the bottom line. They didn't care if they lost customers; there were always more consumers desperate to gather the scraps thrown at them.

I posted this question on Facebook, though for a different context: "I don't know which is worse: leading an impoverished life because that's all you've ever known and you may never experience anything better, or knowing life can be better because you've experienced it, but the system forces you to deal with an impoverished life, and you can't do anything about it."

As consumers, we are paying good money for a disappointment. We complain and bitch about it, but when the vendor provides the bare minimum of service, we still raise out hands the highest, we still push others out of the way, just to receive less than what we deserve. This doesn't apply just to Maxis. If you read between the lines, this post is applicable for a far greater picture.

As a nation, we haven't been exposed to anything better despite our rights. If we have been exposed to a better life, and demand it, we are told to either shut up or get out. Gratitude for past actions is forced on us, and we are made to remember the past, always remember.

But not dream for a better future.

Quoting a brilliant book made into a beautiful movie, "The Perks of Being a Wallflower" by Stephen Chbosky,

We accept the love we think we deserve.

We deserve more.

Think about it.

Tender Moments: Gravity

 

Dearest heart,

I have no idea if this letter will ever reach you. Even if it does, chance are, you will not even unseal the envelope. But I have to write this. I have to write this for us. I have to write this for you.

Most of all, I have to write this for me.

I have stopped counting the days since we stopped being 'us'. I have stopped fearing the nights with the inevitable dreams that jerk me awake in sweat and tears. I have stopped worrying about the days that feel incomplete without hearing you laugh. I have stopped counting the days and fearing the nights, but I will always remember the exact date, the exact time, the exact look in your eyes when the threads that bound us unraveled, the frayed edges burned, never to be rewoven.

We used to believe that our paths were connected for eternity, that we were each other's strength, that our weaknesses were negligible so long as we were together. It was you and me against the world, remember? You said those words to me the night I sat on your car, my legs dangling in aimless swings, and you were leaning against the side, staring at the few stars that were not hidden behind storm clouds. You and me against the world.

Now it's just me and the world.

Without you.

People around me assured me that time would heal my bleeding heart, that my memories would one day hurt less and less. I repeated those assurances in my head over and over and over, so that maybe if I repeated those words enough, the lies would eventually become the truth. For a while, I started believing, until the moment I saw someone who looked like you.

Every shadow that shadows your figure, every face that looks familiar, every laugh that sounds similar, it still sends my heart fluttering like a caged hummingbird. I berate myself later, every time this happens, but my heart refuses to listen. It still skips a beat at the mere hope of running into you again, seeing you well, seeing you happy.

Because I want you to be happy. God, we did not end in good terms, but it doesn't change the fact that I want the best for you. I used to think every chance of seeing you would mean a chance for us to patch things up, to start fresh. Now, however, I just want to see you living well.

Even this far apart, even though I am lost in the endless depth of space, I can still feel the pull of your gravity. When we were together, that very gravity kept me grounded, sheltered, protected.

It kept me grounded.

I forgot that I was always meant to fly.

I remember that I always hid in your shadow. I used to think that it was because you were bigger than life, that every light shone on you, so that your shadow was larger than everything else. That knowledge brought me comfort. Now that I can no longer seek that comfort, I have come to realize that you kept me in your shadow because if I stood alone, I would not have stolen your light, but I would have become a sun, and my light would have outshone you.

The more time I spend on my own, the more I realize that God had never meant for us to be together until the end of time. God brought us together so that I could learn the value of friendship, of companionship, of love, of trust, and of the strength I have without having to rely on others.

I write this letter not in the hopes of your reading this, but in the hopes that I will heal. That I will move on. That whenever I see someone that reminds me of you, my heart will still flutter, but in such a way that the flutter brings comfortable warmth.

And I will always love you.