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TASTIC
A Literary Magazine
ISSUE 01 | MAY 2020

FICTION UINNTKONTOHWEN FICTION

WITH YOU REAL
STORY
A Thousand Blessings
POETRY AUTHOR
AUTHOR SPOTLIGHT BOOK SPOTLIGHT
REVIEW
MEET HANNA ALKAF

The Author Behind 2019’s
Must-Read Malaysian Novels

8 AWARD-WINNING

Children’s Book Illustrators

POETRY

The Magic Of Music,
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EDITOR’S NOTE

May 2020 Issue 01

HNS Media Sdn Bhd
[email protected]
Tel/Fax: 0361895443

EDITOR nto the unknown
Husna Nassuna
In this fast-paced digital age, not many people
ART DIRECTOR are interested in literature. Instead of buying print
Vivian Lee copies of words, most people prefer reading
through their gadgets, whether it’s news, books or
DESIGNER articles. PENTASTIC is created for those who wants
Nur Imani Shah to take a short break from their digital gadgets and
enter a small world of literature. PENTASTIC, which
MARKETING rhymes with ‘fantastic’, means the spark of emotion
DIRECTOR or euphoria before leaping into the unknown. In
Mohd Aiman Halim this first issue, a diverse range of literary works are
included, such as fantasy fiction, emotional real
PRODUCTION life stories, poems and author interviews. So, read
MANAGER this copy and get LIT!
Dylan Tan
“ ”Live Lit,
PUBLISHER Love Lit
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13 MEET HANNA ALKAF FICTION 5 TAKE MY HAND
THE AUTHOR BEHIND by Gem Yen
2019’s MUST-READ
MALAYSIAN NOVELS 25 MAGIC OF MUSIC
by Navadharini Sunder
19 8 AWARD WINNING
MALAYSIAN CHILDREN”S HIDDEN HUMANS
BOOK ILLUSTRATOR by Shaza Farid Khan

42 MALAYSIAN AUTHOR 39 CATCH THE RAIN
TUNKU HALIM LOOKS by Azlan Shah Fadzil
BACK ON A COLOURFUL
WRITING CAREER STICKS AND SKY
by Terence Toh by Wendy Videlock

53 HOW DID NAZRI NOOR 40 GRASS
TOP AMAZON BEST by Ronald Maliao
SELLERS LISTS THROUGH
SELF-PUBLISHING?

AUTHOR SPOTLIGHT
POETRY
6 WITH YOU
(A THOUSAND BLESSINGS)
by Maula

32 THE INSISTENCE OF MEMORY
by Soramimi Hanarejima

29 EM
by Johanna Dong

38 THE PARABLE OF THE SKY
AND SOIL
by Evelyn Philip

44 FIEND
by Harith Hasmadi

CONTENT 37 THE HEARTSICK DIASPORA
AND OTHER STORIES: ASIAN
REAL STORY REPRESENTATION DONE
RIGHT
by Jessica Tay

46 JEANNE CUISINIER’S WHAT
I SAW IN MALAYA
by Chuah Guat Eng

12 AGAINST THE DARK SKIES PERLIS BOOK REVIEW
by Elly Van Dalen KELANTAN
TERENGGANU
24 THE ARTISTE PAHANG
by Shobha Janardanan
3
26 HAMSTER DREAMS
by Rebecca White

48 MY FATHER
by Lo Sin Yee
51 NO PAIN, NO GAIN
IN PHYSIOTHERAPY
by Jane Ng



POETRY

Take The key is with the privileged they open my world,
My But I have lost the key oh I am such a fool.
Hand Do you like what you see?
Would you want to come with me?
BY GEM YEN To live in my world to see what I see?
Would you take my hand and walk with me?
Come on over and take my hand,
There is something I’d like you to see. There’s only desolation you say,
Come on over and take my hand, A vast emptiness a vast destruction.
I can sense you are afraid but don’t be. How can I call this my home you say,
When there’s only a gray canvas of obstructions.
Take a deep breath and take a step,
The crevice you see is not that deep. Now you see what I see,
Take a deep breath and take that step, That I have lived amongst these.
By faith and belief you take that leap. But I have decided you see,
To recolour these dull canvas and be free.
Now that you are here would you come and see,
There is something I would really want to show. Would you take my hand would you help?
Look through that keyhole and see carefully, Help me colour help me be free.
Tell me, tell me what your eyes have behold. The key I’ve lost you’ve hide it in kelp,
Would you put into that keyhole with the key?

“Life is a blank canvas,

and you need to throw all
the paint on it you can.”

- Danny Kaye

Why are you shuddering why are you cold?
There are tears in your eyes oh my oh why?
What have you seen what have you behold?
What is this you ask oh why did you make me pry?
This is where I live my home my world,
Isn’t it beautiful isn’t it beautiful?

5

FICTION

AWThouistahnd BYlessoiungs
by MAULA
“Within a thousand blessings, soon
enough, a thousand tears are shed;
and we are left to either regret or be
grateful of what we had. This is a story
of a young man who saves a crane, and
what his kindness came to be.“

6

In cold winter, no life was around. No traces of voices to be heard, no traces of joy to be found.
n cold, cold winter, people struggled. Days were frigid enough to cause one’s muscles to tense as nights howled
with raging winds and heavy snow; loud enough to wake one from sleep.
n cold, cold winter, nothing is easy, the farmer thought to himself. His garment was thin, sewn out of cheap fabric that
he traded with money gained from two week’s worth of hard work, in sacrifice of three day’s worth of food.
Yet, he was grateful and never complained of the little he could earn. With the bamboo basket he carried on his back,
he walked along the snowy path that led him back home, legs freezing and fingers numb. Nothing could be heard aside
from the crunching of snow underneath his feet, until suddenly, he heard the rustling of snow and sounds of wings
flapping. The young farmer looked around, his legs following the sound of the wings.
Behind the bare trees was a crane, a magnificent creature, a deity of happiness. He had never seen one before, nor
did he think such a beautiful creature could exist. Wings large and whiter than snow, satin-like feathers that shone even
in the peak hours of dusk. The crane was still and aware of his presence. Had it not been the kind heart of the young
farmer, the bird would have become his dinner, breakfast, lunch and dinner for the following days.
He approached the crane and spotted rope around its legs, tied to a tree. Perhaps it was a trap for wild rabbits, he
bent down to untangle the rope. His knees hurt and his fingers were close to frostbite, but nothing could beat the
satisfaction he felt to witness the crane flapping its free wings and soaring back into the sky. The sound of its wings
beating resonated louder than the sound of his own heartbeat.
He usually woke up in the middle of the night, sometimes from the rattling of the roof or whistling wind passing through
the cracks of his shabby house but never before to the sound of someone knocking on his front door.
Shivering, he forced himself to walk to the door. He became alarmed when he realized there was a figure outside. He
grabbed a blunt knife, that he owned to brace himself when he opened the door. In case it was an attacker.
In front of his doorstep was a beautiful young woman, skin white as snow and fingertips
red from the cold. He did not let his guard down but stared at her suspiciously.
“Tell me your name, and what you want from me.”
When the girl finally met his gaze, he was enchanted; as if pulled into a world he
had never been to before. He swore he saw the stars twinkle in her eyes, as if they
contained the vast galaxy. Perhaps even more.
“Please allow me to stay here for the night.”

7

FICTION

Her voice reminded him of spring. Flowers, like plum blossoms or canola and other blooming buds of the season. He
was too charmed by her presence to send her away.
The next morning he prepared some rice and offered her the best leftovers that he reserved for the most needy of times
before leaving for work. When he returned, she was still there, waiting for him by the door.
“Young lady, please tell me your name. I must learn about you.” He implored.
“I do not have a name.” She answered in a sweet voice. She did not talk much and only spoke when
spoken to.
“Perhaps you could give me one. “
“Very well,” the young man decided. “I shall call you Miyuki.
It was snowing quite heavily when we first met.”
Miyuki, now with a name, blushed.
“Tell me your name.”
“Akio,” he answered.

His heart raced as the young woman repeated his name several times, familiarizing
herself with it. Soon enough, it flowed smoothly off her tongue, and it made Akio’s
heart pound faster than ever before.
Several days passed and the two had learnt more of each other. By then Akio had
fallen in love with her, as any man would have, but not for her beauty alone. She was also
kind and supportive despite his poor living condition.
One cold night, when the sky was clear and the moon illuminated their home, Akio proposed. He
confessed his love for her kind soul and honest heart. Miyuki, who had fallen for the hardworking man
accepted his hand in marriage, and the two began their lives together.
When spring arrived, blossom petals decorated her hair, plucked from the greenery which had been resurrected after
a long, deep slumber. Miyuki greeted the birds and the flowers around her every morning. Akio wished he could stay
at home and watch her more. A smile broke on his face whenever he thought of how beautiful she was. Now that the
weather turned warm, both Akio and Miyuki were able to work, which increased the earnings of the poor couple.
Sometimes, Miyuki received a gift from the villagers, some tea from her pickings that she could bring home. In the
evenings the couple would watch the sunset together, under the cherry blossom tree. When the sun illuminated her soft
skin, blossom petals fell onto her hair. Akio reached out to brush them away but catching the sight of her, decided to
leave them. Instead, he stroked her cheek lovingly. She looked beautiful this way.

8

FICTION

Seasons came and seasons left. The cherry blossoms had withered away, now replaced with the shocking sight of
Akio’s body spread out under the tree, blood trickling from his mouth. Miyuki rushed to his side and carefully brought
him inside their home. She tucked him into the thin mattress that they owned.

She could not sleep. The night passed and gave way to dawn. Akio had arose earlier and was preparing to head out.

“My dear husband, you are sick. You must rest.” Gently, she reached for his arm, persuading him not to go.

“If I don’t, we will not be able to earn enough.”

“Rest. I will ask medicine from the merchant. You must rest, Akio.”

So he did. Miyuki went on her own into town in search of medicine. The merchant, who knew her
for her kindness, sold it to her at a lowered price. It was a favor that could only be spared once.
On her way home, she calculated the amount of money left in their savings.

When she arrived, she fed Akio all the medicine.

“We do not have any money to afford more medicine, my love. Please, let me go to
work tomorrow.” Akio reached to take her cold hands, but his were colder.

Miyuki grasped her husband tightly. “You must not. I will weave for us, my love.
Give me some time.”

She walked to the furthest corner of the room and slid the door open. Before
entering the room, she turned to Akio.

“Whatever you do, you must not open this door, nor
must you enter this room.”

Several hours passed by. When Miyuki emerged, Akio was fast asleep. She
clutched the newly woven cloth in her hands, which were sore and swollen
from continuous weaving. She slipped into the mattress and closed her eyelids,
waiting for dawn to arrive.

In the morning, she left to the town. The roll of fabric for the merchant in her
hands. Embroidered in detail and woven with shiny thread, She was able to sell it to the
merchant for a high price. She used her gains to purchase medicine for her husband. But
nothing can last forever, especially wealth. Akio’s condition worsened and did not change
even with herbs that the doctor prescribed.

“My love, we cannot afford my medicine without any money. Please, let me work.” Akio weakly
pleaded with a sad look in his eyes. But nothing was more melancholic than the eyes of his own wife; eyes
which stared down at him, pleading at him not to go.

“I love you with all my heart. I cannot bear to see you like this”, Miyuki said as tears formed in her eyes. It was the very
first time Akio was seeing her cry, and his broken heart fell deeper in love with her, as he did in the first time.

“My love, you have done so much for me. When you weave, your fingers are hurt, those beautiful fingers of yours. Will
you not let me work, then?”

“I would offer any part of my body to God, sacrifice my limbs and bones if it meant that you are able to stay alive.”W

9

FICTION

able to stay alive and heal.”

Miyuki embraced her husband. He felt his left
shoulder dampen with her tears, and stroked the
small of her back gently. Her love for him was true, and
he could not feel happier or more sorry in a single moment,
all at once.

“I will weave, and you must not come into this room no matter
what happens.”

She gave him the same cryptic advice as before.

Akio’s curiosity had arisen this time but he trusted the words of his
beloved wife and patiently waited for her. The next morning, with
the same swollen fingers she held a beautiful roll of cloth, woven
with fine details of gold. Akio wanted to ask how she had woven the
cloth out of nothing but she left quickly to buy his medicine.

Days passed by, and winter arrived again at their doorstep. They
were yet without savings and no more food to eat. Work in winter was
restricted, the only choice was for Miyuki to weave.

Miyuki and Akio stayed in the weaving room that night; the only room with a
fireplace.

“My love, tonight I will weave for us two. You must not look behind you until dawn
arrives and I wake up in your arms.” Miyuki placed her hand on Akio’s cheek, her
husband leaned into her touch. I trust you, my love.

But Akio could not sleep. How could he with the sound of fabric being woven bothering
him. How did she produce it? He had always wondered so. He wondered why she never
allowed him to see her weaving. The curiosity overtook him and without thinking he peeked over
his shoulders at his wife, twice.

The sight he caught was not that of his familiar wife. It was a crane, plucking at her own feathers with
tears streaming from its eyes. The very last feather was used to complete the final row of fabric in the
weave. Miyuki then realised Akio was staring at her with an expected look on his face.

“My dear husband, I told you not to look!”

“My love, tell me; who are you?”

Miyuki inhaled deeply.

“I am the crane you saved in the winter that we first met. Because you were kind to me, I transformed into a beautiful
woman, in hopes that I could repay you with happiness. Miyuki lifted an arm to show Akio. I have plucked my very last
feather for you, my love; for I love you with all my heart.”

“What will become of you now, Miyuki?” Akio asked in trembling voice.

10

FICTION

“You have seen my true form. I must
not return to your arms ever again.”

Akio’s heart shatters with her words.

Miyuki remained in the form of a crane and made to exit the couple’s home. She took off without a
single look back.

Akio has not seen her ever since.

He lives life in resentment now. He loved Miyuki dearly; but can only grapple with regret that he had
disobeyed her simple request.

“If only I had not turned around, if only I trusted her, if only I…”

In the last draws of his breath, Akio is reunited with his beloved. Flower petals stuck in her hair, he
hears her melodious voice serenading the birds. With tears of joy, he reaches out to hold on to her.

“My love, I have returned for you.”

“This story is a retelling from a Japanese legend, The Crane Wife. It was a tale that caught my eye
from the start.but I put my own twist to it. It was a story I enjoyed writing very much.” - MAULA

11

REAL STORY

AGAINST THE
DARK SKIES

BY ELLY VAN DALEN

“I recently rescued a paralyzed kitten and Against the dark skies, I sat on the floor at the lobby, waiting for my
thought it would be best to write from owner to fetch me.
her point of view. It’s sad to see plenty
of abandoned cases due to various It had been hours since I sat here. I purred, and dragged myself to a pool
factors. Among which are financial of water.
issues especially when it comes to
caring special needs animals. I hope I was dusty and dirty.
Mia’s Story will raise awareness on the
plights faced by other animals,” says Everyone seemed oblivious to my existence. They ignored me!
Elly Van Dalen, a full time journalist and
independent animal rescuer for the past I was starting to get hungry. What if my owner forgot about me? What if
six years. they left me to… No. That can’t be right. They love me. They said that I am
always their number one.
12
My stomach rumbled. Someone’s coming at last!

But… but… who IS she? Why is she crying?

Wait! Wait! Where am I going?

“You’re coming home with me,” was all this stranger said.

She made sure I was carefully wrapped in a towel and checked for something
called fleas. They were supposed to suck my blood. Eww!

My left leg seemed to bother this lady a lot.

“I’m going to get you a vet. Your left leg looks broken,” she whispered.

Broken? Naaah lady! You’ve got it wrong. See? I can still whiz around like
a skateboard.

I was drenched in warm water and soap. My new owner also introduced me
to her other cats. They were bigger than me.

I slept in a cage for awhile and was not neglected. I meowed loudly and
loved the way my chin was rubbed.

Each day, my owner left the flat and kissed me. “Take care of the place
while I’m gone. Be good,” she said.

She often returned home late and seemed exhausted. The other cats and
I always greeted her at the front door. We could hear her footsteps four
doors away.

One day, she placed me on a blue pillow and we talked.

“Mia? Would you like that?” she asked.

It’s been three weeks now. And I’ll never leave her side.

Photo by Filepic

Hanna Alkaf

We spoke to the author about ‘The Weight of Our
Sky’ about her book and here’s what she had to say.

13

AUTHOR SPOTLIGHT

MEET THE AUTHOR BEHIND
ONE OF 2019’S MUST-READ

MALAYSIAN NOVELS

It’s Hanna’s first novel, but it sure packs a punch. From the first chapter you’re sucked into the story and struggles of
the main character, Melati, who suffers from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) in a time where there wasn’t much
information on the disease.

By the time you hit the beginning of the May 13 riots and it’s almost immediate impact on Melati’s life in chapter three, it’s
too late to put the book down and get some sleep. Don’t say we didn’t warn you.

Two very heavy topics - mental health issue and May 13 - are combined in the book that was determined to put you
through an emotional whirlwind.

Photo from penangmonthly.com

How does it feel to have I was a wreck...I’m still a wreck. There is a sense of accomplishment but it’s really
your first novel on the tempered by a fair bit of concern.  There were a lot of layers of identity within the story:
shelves? between being Malay and being Muslim, being Malaysian and having mental illness and
all these things.
 
There were a lot of concerns in that I don’t misrepresent anyone’s experience. That’s not
to say one book can be everything for everyone, but I did want to make sure that I wasn’t
downright harmful in my portrayal.
 
I didn’t want to play into any stereotypes and make things worse for those in that identity.
So, there was, and still is, a fair amount of concern around that. Luckily, so far response
has been positive…which is great.

14

AUTHOR SPOTLIGHT

You covered two very heavy topics in one
young adult book. Why is that?

First of all, I really like YA and that is why I wanted to write it. I’m
an adult who is a YA reader. It’s a sphere where writers does
really innovative things, where writers are on the forefront of the
diversity movement in lit.

It’s been quicker to adapt but obviously there’s still a long way
to go. It’s still very much white-focused and west-focused, but
in terms of the greater publishing
industry it’s definitely in the forefront.

It’s sort of an overlap of different things. I was just finished
writing and promoting my book, ‘Gila’, which was on mental
health issues in Malaysia. So, the topic of mental illness was
very much in the forefront in my mind.

I still grappled with the things that I had learned through writing
that book. It forced me to think more deeply about a lot of things,
including what it means to be a person of faith and have mental
illness, and how those two things overlaps.

‘Cos while its not distinct to Malaysia but I think it’s something I always wondered what we’re not being told. If
that most Malaysians have to deal with. So, I was already what we’re being told is just this small amount,
thinking about that. then what’s not being told. All this kind of came
  together in one story.
The May 13th incident...I like the way they call it an incident like
it was just a blip on the radar. The May 13 riot is something that “ But it is a very heavy story. I do
I have always been fascinated with and it’s because we weren’t try to caution people before
told very much about it. reading it that they have to sort of
  be in the right mental head space to
I think people who end up being in journalism in particular; you take all of that on because it’s a lot.”
end up with a real interest in the voices that are missing and the
stories that are not being told.
 
Your interest is in the things that are obscure rather than things
that are obvious. And that’s what it was.
 

May 13 is a very sensitive and very much politicised I just tried to remember that behind the riots,
incident in Malaysia. Was there any concern of censorship actually behind everything that happened,
and did you try to self-censor to avoid any negative were people. Try and tell their story in a
repercussions? respectful and dignified way as possible.
 
I try not to think about that in the process of writing. You don’t So, if you just remember that behind the
want to write fearfully. You don’t want to write already thinking of stories and behind the statistics are people,
the consequences that might come. then I think that it’s very hard for you to go
  wrong. The problem is when you forget. Then
What I tried to be mindful of was in the way that it was portrayed... it becomes caricature la. I tried very hard not
to be very respectful, to be very sensitive to the nuances of that to write caricatures.
time rather than painting a very broad picture of black and white,
Chinese versus Malays, which is the sort of thing we’re usually 15
told of.

AUTHOR SPOTLIGHT

There’s a lot of talk about the Of course, there are languages where that might be necessary; where the language
story being ‘unapologetically may be too close to certain English words that could create confusion. I know some
Malaysian’. There were even Tagalog words are spelt quite similarly to English so you can’t really use a blanket
Malay and Chinese words that rule like that.
were used in the book without   
direct translation and the ‘foreign’ I just felt very strongly about it. Readers are not incapable. You don’t have to spoon
words were not even italicised. Is feed them everything. I think readers who are outside of Malaysia are capable of
there a reason for that? looking it up if they really find the message didn’t come through in the text. Although
I also think that they are capable of gleaning meaning from context.
First of all, I’d like to think that I have  
enough skills as a writer to provide the Frankly, it’s something that non-western readers are expected to do all the time.
context where people are not blindsided We didn’t grow up with foreign words being italicied. Then all the English books will
by what I mean. be in italics.
   
Not to italicise was a conscious decision But we didn’t grow up like that. If we can be expected to understand English
that I spoke to my editor and felt very words, I don’t know… elfish or made up language appears in books, I think western
strongly about. The reason is those readers can be expected to just accept that there are words that they might just
words are not foreign to my characters need to look up.
and it wouldn’t make sense for me to set
them off.
 

How has the reception for the
book been outside of Malaysia?

It has been extremely kind. I didn’t know Photo by: Azalia Suhaimi
what to expect. It’s a very Malaysian
book. It was a book written with primarily  
Malaysian young people in mind, so I The reception has been very kind. Starred review from trade
didn’t really know how it was going to publications…in general, people have been very nice.
go.
  They send me pictures from their libraries or bookstores and it’s
Will it be unfamiliar? Will it resonate? been really nice. Thank you so much.
But I think a book about race relations
in 1963 Malaysia, unfortunately, is still
relevant in 2019 in most parts of the
world.
 
So, it’s not an alien a narrative as you
might expect, and that’s incredibly sad
to think about but it’s true.
 
So the trappings of it… it’s dressed in
different clothes, but the core narrative
of racism and race relations are tihngs
that are still relevant to most countries.

16

AUTHOR SPOTLIGHT

OCD is not a common topic nor are the way it manifests same for every habits and actions. They just talk about
patient. How did you decide how exactly you wanted to portray your it the way it comes out.
main character, Melati?
 I’ve read reviews about the book where
Really, I wanted to shy away from the way OCD is presented in a way that’s cutesie people said reading about the OCD
quirks: lining everything up straight, cleaning your hands and things like that. was both stressful and tedious, and
Yes, those things exist in OCD spectrum as symptoms but I wanted to show just that’s exactly what OCD is.
a different point of the range. ‘Cos it is such a range. Everything in mental illness is  
a spectrum and OCD is a huge spectrum. Nobody wants to be stuck in this loop
People talk about these quirks a lot… like having to clean things, switch lights on of having to do these things over and
and off…things like that. But the other part that I really wanted to talk about is the over again and thinking of these things
thoughts. over and over again.
When people talk about those quirks, they don’t talk about what drives those  
But that’s what it is and that’s what
Some books people live with.
are totally  
People don’t understand that. OCD is
worth losing a term that gets misused a lot. Your
sleep for. cutsie little quirks are not OCD. It
doesn’t make you OCD.
 
I really did want that tedium, frustration
and stress to come through. That’s what
it is, that’s what you live with everyday.
 
The way it manifested itself in this case
was in tapping and counting, which are
actually fairly common OCD mannerisms
as well but yah, I just wanted to make
sure people knew the obsessions that’s
driving the compulsions..

Your thoughts are in constant loop
and it’s hard to break that loop, which
is something people don’t talk enough
about.

What are you working on right
now? Can we expect more books
from you in the near future?

I started writing the moment I submitted
the previous book. I’m the type of
person where when I wait too long,
the doubts start coming in. My style is,
finish a project, turn it in, try not to think
about it and work on next.
 
I can’t say anything more because I’ve
signed a contract saying I can’t and it’s
really difficult not to talk about it. But I
can’t yet.

‘The Weight of our Sky’ is the latest book by a Malaysian author “There were no characters that had names like
to be released internationally and has received amazing reviews. mine or life like mine.That’s when I decided to
Hanna, during the interview, mentioned that as an 11-year-old, she become a journalist. Fiction wasn’t really realistic
saw that there were no characters like her in the books she read.  at that point,” she said.

17

ACROSS 32 CITIES IN 2020

AUTHOR SPOTLIGHT

BMAWOAOALRKADYISLWILAUINNSNTCRIHNAIGLTDORRESN’Salaysia has so many talented individuals who are not only skillful writers

Mbut illustrators as well.

8Many of these creative souls are individuals you’ve probably
never heard of but they’ve made Malaysia proud by winning awards
locally and even internationally. Some have been illustrating and
writing for a long time.

We’ve compiled a list of award winning Malaysian children’s book author and
illustrators for you to check out.

ILLUSTRATOR AUTHOR / ILLUSTRATOR 01.
LIM LAY
Atuk’s Amazing Sarong Pip’s Peculiar Problem KOON
by Lim Lay Har Menagerie – Fun with Animal
Master & Apprentice Groups
by Lim Lay Har
Pigeon Post and Other Stories AWARDS
by Gwen Smith
The Nanobots and Other Stories Winner, The Calistro Prize,
by Golda Mowe Malaysia, 2012.
The Mystery of the Missing DBP Picture Book Award,
National Anthem Malaysia, 2012.
by Heidi Shamsuddin Samsung Kids Time Author’s
The Case of The Talented Trio Award, Singapore, 2015.
by Heidi Shamsuddin
The Case of The Football Champion
by Heidi Shamsuddin
The Case of the House at No. 74
by Heidi Shamsuddin

AUTHOR SPOTLIGHT AWARDS 02.
JAINAL
AUTHOR / LLUSTRATOR 1st Winner DBP- KotaBuku AMAMBING
Picture Book Illustration Award,
The Proud Butterfly (2010) 2013.
Rugading (2010) Green Island Award, Nami
The Magic Buffalo (2011) Island Illustration Concours,
The Wonderful Sparrow (2011) Korea, 2013.
Longhouse Days (2011) 2nd Winner, ACCU Noma
Concours, Tokyo, Japan, 2006.
2nd Winner, ACCU Noma
Concours, Tokyo, Japan, 2000.
Runner-up, ACCU Noma
Concours, Tokyo, Japan, 2004.
Runner-up, ACCU Noma
Concours, Tokyo, Japan, 2002.
Encouragement Prize, ACCU
Noma Concours, Tokyo, Japan,
2008.
Encouragement Prize, ACCU
Noma Concours, Tokyo,
Japan,1998.

03. AUTHOR / LLUSTRATOR ILLUSTRATOR
MOHD KHAIRUL
AZMAN ISMAIL Where Is Owly? (2015) Tolong, Saya Tak Pandai
My Owly Family Tree (2015) Berenang! by Razisatul Asyifah
Malam Seribu Bulan (2015) Ismail (2015)
Night of Thousand Moon(2015) Burung Pipit dan Api by
Razisatul Asyifah Ismail (2015)
Rekrut (2015) by misc authors
Di Mana Sebelah Lagi? by
Razisatul Asyifah Ismail (2014)
The Traveller by Razisatul
Asyifah Ismail (2015)
Pengembara by Razisatul
Asyifah Ismail (2015)

AWARDS

Hadiah Sastera Perdana
Malaysia 2014 – Kategori Buku
Bergambar, Malaysia
Best Illustrations for 100 Picture
Books Project, Karangkraf, 2015
2nd Prize Oyez! Illustration
Book Award, Malaysia 2015
2nd Prize Samsung KidsTime
Authors’ Award, Singapore
2015
Distinction List, Nami Concours
Picture Book Illustration Award,
South Korea 2016
ASEAN Book Illustrator Award of
Excellence 2018

20

AUTHOR SPOTLIGHT

AUTHOR / LLUSTRATOR YUSOF04.
GAJAH
Si Meot AWARDS
ILLUSTRATOR Gajah Sejati 2nd Winner, Annual Painting
Tiga Ekor Gajah Competition, Sabah Art Gallery,
Chemophant by Niamh Walsh Tidak Lama Dahulu Kota Kinabalu, 1985.
How To Teach An Elephant To Hendak Ke Mana, Cantik? Encouragement Awards, ACCU
Jump by Xiao Mao Sebuah Taman Permainan Noma Concours, Tokyo, 1986.
Ke Mana Perginya Anak Cendawan Pelangi Best Picture Book, DBP, 1990.
Biawak? by Rejab (2012) The Real Elephant (2010) Runner-up, ACCU Noma
Where Is My Red Ball, Korean Mother & Child (2010) Concours, Tokyo, 1992.
Version (2014) Elephabet {2010) Best Children’s Picture Book,
Elephant Teapot, Korean Garbage Monster (2010) National Book Council, 1992.
Version (2014) Where Is My Ball (2011) Best Children’s Picture Book
Transport, Korean Version Let’s Build A House (2011) Illustrator, National Book Council,
(2014) Elephant Teapot (2011) KL, 1992.
Let’s Build A House, Korean Elephabet Amazing Activity Grand Winner, ACCU Noma
Version (2014) Book (2011) Concour, Tokyo, 1997.
Home, Korean Version (2014) Yusof Gajah Creative Learning
Series (2011)
Dill,The Little Elephant (2013)
ELEPHABET: Alphabet with
Elephant (2014)
My Red Pencil (2016)
My Haircut (2016)
Yusof Gajah’s ABC (2015)
Transport (2011)
At The Foot of The Hill (2011)
Sang Montel (2013)
My Home (2011)
Elehangul (2016)
Wer hat den roten Ball? (2014)

ILLUSTRATOR KHAIRUL AZMIR05.
Tulip, The Dog That Ate SHOIB (MEME)
Nightmare by Quek Sue Yian 21
Kailash by Quek Sue Yian

AUTHOR / LLUSTRATOR
We Saved the Moon

AWARDS
2005 Best Malaysia’s Picture
Book, Malaysian Book Council
2012 for Kailash.
IBBY Honour List 2014,
Switzerand for Kailash.

AUTHOR SPOTLIGHT 06.

CHOOI LING
KEIONG

AUTHOR / LLUSTRATOR AWARDS

The Last Dream of The Old Oak Runner-up, The Calistro Prize,
Tree (2016) Malaysia, 2012.
Health, Wealth & Happiness Second Winner, Malaysia
(2016) Children’s Literature Festival
Award, Malaysia, 2015.
ILLUSTRATOR Grand Winner, Samsung Kid’s
Time Award, Singapore, 2016.
The Sweet Potatoes That
Remained by Lu Kam Yin
Rainforest Hike and Other
Stories by Dr. Cecilia Leong

AUTHOR / LLUSTRATOR 07.
Lili (2015)

ILLUSTRATOR WEN DEE
The Great Dragon Warrior by TAN
Ng Swee San
Grey Bear Days by Sabrinah
Morad

AWARDS

3rd Winner, Macmillan Prize
2013, UK
2nd Winner, Voices of Future
Generations competition 2015,
UK
1st Winner, Illustrator’s Award
2015, Sharjah UAE

22

AUTHOR SPOTLIGHT

AUTHOR / LLUSTRATOR

My Mother’s Garden (2010)
My Mother’s Kitchen (2014)
My Father’s Farm (2015)
Siri Buku Kraf Bersama Kak
Emila(2010)
The Lil’ Guardian Flashcards (2011)
The Lil’ Guardian Alphabet (2013)
Alphabets For Boys (2014)
Alphabets For Girls (2014)
Taman Bunga Emak Saya (2014)
Dapur Emak Saya (2014)
Diya dan Biji Durian (2010)
Colourart (2015)
Coloring Book Dream World, Indonesia Version
(2016)
Princesses of Malaysia Colouring Book (2016)
Emila’s Travelogue (2016)
Fleeting Moments: An Illustrated Haiku (2016)
Colours of Malaysia (2016)

08. AWARDS
EMILIA
YUSOF Best Illustrator, Children’s Literature Award,
Malaysia. 2015.
1st winner, Best Early Childhood Reading Category,
Children’s Literature Award, Malaysia, 2015.
1st Winner, Best Picture Book Category, Children’s
Literature Award, Malaysia, 2015.
3rd Winner, Best Early Childhood Reading Category,
Children’s Literature Award, Malaysia, 2015.
Winner, Parent’s Choice, Children’s Literature
Award, Malaysia, 2015.
3x 2nd Winner, Samsung Kids Time Author’s Award,
AFCC, Singapore, 2016.
Winner, MSC IPCC 2017, Animation Series Category
(Grin) – Collab with Papermoon.
Merit Award, Little Hakka, Beijing 2017.
Shortlisted for Scholastic Picture Book Awards, (Top
6), Singapore 2017.
Winner P2P Media Asean: Ideas to Book, KLTCC 2018.
Winner, International Book Awards 2019, Children’s
Picture Book: Softcover Fiction (Author: Lorraine Yoong).

So there you go! Much of their 23
books can be purchased at local
bookstores or even on Amazon!

REAL STORY

The Artiste ***The veena is a string
instrument measuring about
BY SHOBHA JANARDANAN 1.5 meters. It is considered the
most ancient instrument in India
She walked with gentle, dainty strides in a flowing white crepe saree, studded
with red beads, into the hall of her home in Brickfields. Her face glowed with and in the righthands, is
artistry and her eyes danced with anticipation of performing, as she sat cross- known for sound that
legged on the floor and placed the veena* on her lap. penetrates the soul.

It was 5.30pm and the guests invited for a private recital were seated. They were
all known faces; aunts and uncles, cousins and friends. Silence prevailed as the
instrument was plucked and tuned by her nimble fingers. She twisted knobs on
the stem of the veena, to get just the right pitch, before starting to play.

When her left hand began pulling the veena strings, the sound was pure, as
though emanating from her heart rather than her fingers. The crowd was lost in
musical bliss. I was awestruck by her musicality, grace and presence. The way in
which her hands tugged at every string in my heart, drew me to her soul.

The woman mentioned, is one I’ve adored since I was a child of eight.

She is my aunt Asha. She had her beginnings in music at Kalakshetra, a school of
music and dance situated in South India. Though her musical education was cut
short by the then-tradition of marrying off women early in life, she never forsook
playing the veena and singing.

At every family function or community gathering, no matter how small, a medium
framed woman clad in only the most tasteful saree, walked in with a four foot
wooden instrument in hand. She was always ready to play, to share, to bestow
her art. Music for her, though cut short, was never to be sidelined.

Despite the bane of arthritis, my aunt Asha continued to sing for the next 40 years,
alongside her Kalakshetra comrades who had the good fortune of completing
their 5-year course in India and returning to musical careers. She sang into her
late 60s, often using her left hand to rest on a walking stick, and her right to hold
a microphone.

At 78 today, aunt Asha has left me her legacy of musical notations from a time
when she wished to spread her wings as an artiste. With a tearful smile, she
hands me the string bound pile of handwritten treasure and blesses me with
a gentle kiss. It feels like she is sharing something much heavier than a small
bundle. It is a legacy, a wish and the hope for posterity.

The way she inspires the singer in me is something I will never be able to
articulate. I only know that our hearts are one, in the love for music. She will
forever be the inspiration for every belted note. The only gift I can give her now
is to visit her intermittently and sing any number of her favourite songs, as is
(rightfully!) demanded of me. They are each to serenade her like lullabies, gently
rolling her from a dull afternoon wakefulness, into delightful dreams of crepe
sarees, a 4-foot veena and an enchanted audience.

24

HIDDEN HUMANS POETRY

BY SHAZA FARID KHAN THE MAGIC OF MUSIC

To the hidden humans BY NAVADHARINI SUNDER
who love in silence,
Here’s a toast to you, Tunes to observe that are uniquely diverse,
For your patience, From ringing bells to soprano singing bellas,
For smiling to put a smile on another, Even the chirping birds form charming chorals awakening
dawn hours,
For wanting more but you know, Beat boxing boys strike a chord as rhythmic young fellas,
More is not possible, Vibrating vocals repeating verse after verse,
So you cherish despite imminent departure, Pulsating voices from baritone to tenor welcoming dusk
As if this was going to last forever. happy hours.
  Sounds and being align as an ensemble,
Thank you for being grateful, Melodic melisma that moves us to tremble,
For accepting that some things, Swaying trees and hustling leaves vibe in symphony,
Are too epic not to experience, Rushing waves wooing in homophony,
Even if in the end it’ll be painful to let go, Strutting horses holding tempo in cacophony,
But most of all thank you for just loving Dancing dolphins dazzling in polyphony,
without expecting, Emoting elephants trumpeting its glory in harmony,
Any of that loving to be returned to you. Amalgam of worldly music all in a journey.
Notations and emotions smoothly blend together,
Major and minor octaves that string moments forever,
Human and animals, flowers and nature,
In perfect unison,a concert composition for sure.
Ecstasy expressed in sharp notes,
Melancholy mediated by flat notes,
Classical melody classic in its embrace,
Rhythm and blues sing amazing grace,
Rock strengthens rocky days,
Jazz romances with its ways,
Styles vary yet versatile and dynamic,
Sounds that origin from Big Bang in the divine cosmic,
Vibrates and reverberates in the air as magic of music.

25

REAL STORY

HAMSTER
DREAMS
By Rebecca White
and now he’s a flattened worm, bloody,
We always rented, so we could with the head of a cobra. And then he
never have cats or dogs. The is gone.
landlord said that the coarse
animals would scratch up the floors and It’s crazy how something in your life can
chew up the rugs. become a metaphor for something so
much larger. The year Szhu-Szhu died,
So we had hamsters. It was as simple everything went wrong. I got two teeth
as that, like ice cream after dinner and pulled and the rest were strapped with
muting the commercials. Hamsters braces. My grandmother died.
were our only pet option.

I got my first hamster in middle school. I had two more hamsters during high
I named him Szhu-Szhu, and in an school: Pepper and April Peach.
odd turn of events, there are now toy
hamsters called Zhu Zhu Hamsters. Several years after they died, I met Mr.
I don’t know what that says about the Man, the first hamster I owned as an
universe, but it says something. adult. I was a college sophomore trying
to rekindle an old flame. Pet love is real
Szhu-Szhu was personable. Fluffy. He and reminiscent.
had the kindest soul and the gentlest
heart. He was a golden-brown, long- Also a fluffy brown ball of love, Mr.
haired, teddy-bear hamster. When he Man was the smallest person I’d ever
walked, his hind legs swiveled back and met. His eyes knew more than yours
forth in a way that reminded you of a did. He chewed on the lid of his cage
grown woman on the hunt for a man. as if there were an intricately designed
escape map hidden in a safe below his
But this was not his intention. shavings. He was smarter than you, and
he was also a hedonist. I had a three-
Szhu-Szhu died a sad and emphatic foot-long tube that I let him run through.
death, one you’d think I’d have Mr. Man would exhaust himself in
remembered. exhilarating glee by skittering back and
forth as fast as possible. He never tried
I don’t, though, because I’ve dreamt a to run past either of its ledgesl. He knew
hundred hamster deaths since then. I that this was not real life—no field, no
am plagued by hamster dreams. sandy desert. It was a cardboard tube
on a sofa, and that was just fine with
In one of them, I am about to put food him.
in my hamster’s bowl, but my hamster
is missing. I find him under his wood When Mr. Man died, it was December.
shavings, but there’s something wrong. An unwieldy tumor on his backside
His face is contorted—eyes too small, took him out of this life. He’s probably a
mouth twisted like it’s been drawn on quiet ten-year-old boy right now with a
by crayon. I must feed him; I’ve clearly mop of fine, unruly hair and a name like
neglected him, and it’s almost too late. Christopher or Jacob.

I’m frantic, and suddenly I’m forcing him To commemorate his character, I felt I
to eat, but he has now shrunk to the size needed to bury Mr. Man ceremoniously.
of a cashew. I can barely find his mouth I put his body in the freezer at first.

26

REAL STORY

Pushing aside the ice tray to store
your dead pet is surreally unappetizing.
Afterward, I tried to piece together
burial tools. I went fishing through my
silverware and found a grapefruit spoon
with sharp, ridged edges. That’ll work. I
grabbed a few knives and a large serving
spoon. I’d wrapped Mr. Man in some
sort of cloth, an old towel perhaps.

Wanting to put him into the holiest
ground I could think of, I brought his
little body to the National Museum of
Art. I went in its backyard, to a patch of
grass. A large tree provided shade from
a sun that wasn’t nearly warm enough.
I knelt below the tree and tried to make
room in the earth for my old friend.

But the ground would not part ways. I
almost broke my grapefruit spoon.

I suppose I could have Googled “how
to bury your hamster” or “pet cemetery,”
but the idea never crossed my mind.

When someone that you love dies, you
simply do not Google.

Flummoxed, I turned my head toward
the tree. A cavernous hole in the center
of its trunk seemed not to have a
bottom. It was Alice’s rabbit hole.
It was the spot.

I looked left. I looked right. I looked
behind me, into the large glass panes of
the west side of the museum.

When I felt that it was only me, Mr. Man
and the tree, I lowered my arm into the
hole up to my elbow. Holding his taut
cold body in my hand, I let him go.

Almost ten years later, the hamster
dreams persist. So does this tree, I
assume. I do not know for sure, though.
I never returned.

27



FICTION

PART I.
Sister

EEEMMM Forhertwenty-firstbirthday,Kieu’s
younger siblings set fire to her bed.
By Johanna Dong

29

FICTION

“I thought it’d be funny ‘cause we
didn’t have candles or a cake.”

It was intentional, of course, and Ky Lân, the second-oldest at fifteen,
when she came home from work to opened his mouth first to confess—
find thick black smoke billowing out which meant the culprit was quiet
from under her shared bedroom door, Minh, easily swayed and forever
as she stood before the remains of tucked under his older brother’s
her pitted mattress crackling merrily protection. “Minh,” she said. “Come
in shades of red and gold, she here and put this out. Now.”
wondered if it was time to leave at
last. He shuffled forward, not meeting
her eyes. The smoke parted around
This was a futile contemplation—they him, twined about his skinny legs but
would have to murder her and roll her never touched, and when he raised
stone-cold body to a crematorium his palms, still chubby with baby
before she’d abandon them—but in fat, the fire shrank as if it were a foal
the moment, her pulse leaped in time being coaxed, and finally sputtered
with the flames, her blood heated till out. “Sorry,” he mumbled in Kieu’s
she thought it might combust and general direction. “I thought it’d be
melt her into fuel. funny ‘cause we didn’t have candles
or a cake.”
“Mai!” she screamed. The culprit
could very well have been one of Kieu hadn’t the slightest inkling of how
the boys, but no one was capable of setting fire to her bed might come off
stirring up trouble on the level of her as funny, but she was always softest
little sister. on Minh—he so often had peculiar
notions like these, and it never helped
The pattering of plastic flip-flops that Mai was there to play them to her
reached her before Mai did. “Wow, advantage—and she’d just come off
Chi Kieu,” said Mai, tipping up her face to frown in mock a ten-hour shift, and her weariness drove bone-deep. The
concern. “You don’t look so good.” smoke dissipated, inconsequential to their nonexistent
alarms.
Indeed Kieu’s eyes were blistering and tinged crimson
from the smoke, and her teeth were bared in a twisting “Did you eat?” she said at last, addressing all three. The
snarl. She stabbed a finger at the fire, which, while burning question was habit; it was comfort, a crutch; it signified
strong, was unnaturally contained to her half of the room. home.
“Put it out.”
They all nodded.
Mai pouted, though her almond eyes were gleaming in
satisfaction. “I can’t put out something I didn’t start.” “Homework?” It was a Saturday night, but a necessary
follow-up. They nodded again. “Then go to bed.”
Minh and Ky Lân materialized at the end of the hall,
looking considerably more cowed at the sight of both Ky Lân asked, “Where will you sleep?”
sisters, one towering and furious, the other four feet tall
and grinning. “Who?” Kieu snapped. “Which one of you She glanced at Mai, at the anticipation and guilt warring
little shits did this?” across her little sister’s face. She knew Mai had hoped to

30

get a night—tonight, of all nights—of had never been able to raise or FICTION
sleeping alone. Minh’s pyromaniac quell a flame, conjure sparks at
idea had simply been a convenient her fingertips, drench a room with 31
tactic. sudden rain. She blamed herself—
no. She blamed Kieu. Especially
Kieu also knew she could repair her on two particular days of the year:
own bed with a wave of her hand and today, March 29, their father’s sixth
a bit of concentration. But she was death anniversary, and April 30, their
exhausted, and her sister needed mother’s third.
the space. “I’ll crash on the couch
tonight. Go to bed now—we’re up Kieu wasn’t around often enough to
early tomorrow.” feel that blame directed at her. She
blamed herself for that, too.
In the cold quiet of the living room
later, unable to fall asleep, Kieu The photos taped on the wall above
played with stars. A twitch of her the couch crinkled and wailed as
fingers, wiggling them above her they sensed her sorrow. Only the
face the way an infant discovers its two photos propped up on the altar
hands, and bursts of light perforated in the far corner, one portrait for each
the darkness. Not exactly stars, in parent, was framed. Pictures left
the astronomical sense; these were to hang without barriers of glass or
a multitude of colors, the shapes plastic made more noise, and none
that swam across her eyelids when of them could yet bring themselves to
she rubbed her eyes too hard. Kieu un-mute their parents.
watched them zing across the ceiling.
“Shut up,” she muttered to the photos,
Tiny shreds of magic in a land and snuffed out the revolving stars,
otherwise devoid of it, a land intent on and forced the sleep to draw to her
breaking down people like them. You like a rushing tide.
had to seize such joys when you could.
She liked to imagine the little powers
they possessed had originated in
the depths of an untamed jungle
across the Pacific, where tigers ran
rampant and spirits ruled the rivers
and mountains, and a many-greats
ancestor had been blessed or cursed
with the ability to conjure fire and
stars, and it had tracked their lineage
across generations, across an ocean,
to provide comfort in this lonely land.
Immigrants who might lack in power
of the institution, but whose veins
ignited with an innate power.

Down the hallway in their split
room, Mai might have been doing
the same—if she shared the same
strange blood that ran in the others’
veins. Mai was their youngest sibling,
of that there was no doubt, but she

FICTION

The Insistence clock’s glowing numbers, then consider not setting the
alarm anymore. So far, it has been an unnecessary measure
to ensure that I’m up before she is, but I’ve continued to
set the alarm because I imagine (often) that if I were in her
situation, I would want someone available to explain why I
can’t remember anything, to offer some reassurance—even
if the note beside the lamp on the nightstand has eased
the inevitable disorientation. Getting out of bed, I decide to
decide at the end of the day, setting or not setting the alarm
based on when I go to bed and how exhausted I am then.

of Memory I plod into the kitchen and start the coffeemaker, then
combine familiar ingredients in a metal bowl: flour, eggs,
by SORAMIMI HANAREJIMA milk, baking powder. I’ve held off on making pancakes for the
past week, but at this point, I’ve had all the other breakfast
When I open my eyes, my gaze meets a washi foods the two of us enjoy—omelettes, oatmeal topped with
window shade. Aglow with sunlight, it tells me I’m berries, bagels and buttered toast with jam. This morning,
not at home. Even with this reminder, I need a I want soft, fluffy pancakes drizzled with maple syrup, and
moment to place myself. It’s been just over a week now, as expected, I’m now confronted by the exact reason I’ve
but I’m still not used to starting the day in Meora’s guest been avoiding them: memories of breakfasts with Lumina,
bedroom, under this thick orange comforter. vivid in my mind’s eye as I mix the ingredients in the bowl
with a wooden spoon. I made her so many pancakes, her
Once situated, I remember to turn off the alarm clock on the favorite comfort food, and the last time I made them for her
nightstand. Like all my mornings here, I’m awake before it’s was the last time I saw her, a time when I had a role like this
gone off, and I have to make sure the alarm doesn’t start one: caregiver to a convalescent.
blaring while I’m in the kitchen. Meora needs her sleep more
than ever. I reach over and press the button atop the alarm When I did all the errands she wouldn’t. When I made sure
she had hearty meals every day so she wouldn’t binge on
chips or cookies. When that wasn’t enough and her psyche
lost its grip on this world and slipped into another—when I
saw her gazing quizzically at me from her sofa and knew it
was no longer her there on those mossy corduroy cushions.
When I felt betrayed and abandoned, despite knowing

32

FICTION

that no matter how close, a friendship cannot prevent cupboard, I notice how much lighter this little plastic
heartbreak—can at best only forestall it. container has become since last week. I jostle it and hear
the light rattle of only a few more days’ worth of medication.
Those final days with Lumina seem so recent, their visceral An audible reminder that soon the responsibilities I must
imprint on my being fresh as ever while I stir the contents perform here will end. But while the exogenous memories
of the bowl, the mixture turning thick and sticky, the spoon continue integrating with her own, I’ll keep looking after
straining against the growing viscosity. I look out the window Meora, getting treated like a stranger, which I sometimes
above the counter, casting my gaze up into the pale winter prefer. She’s more considerate and attentive, on her best
sky and wondering where in the vastness of the universe behavior—though never anxious, maybe because she feels
Lumina is now. something familiar (soothing?) about me. Or because my
demeanor inspires trust. Perhaps because trusting her
Once the batter has a smooth consistency, I ladle some always came easy; it seems unnecessarily more work to
into a small bowl for myself then get Meora’s memory doubt her ; why go through the trouble of being skeptical or
suppressant from the cupboard. I shake a single blue suspicious—what would be gained?
capsule from the orange pharmacy bottle into my palm,
then smile at the fanciful thought that I could take another I put away the remaining medication and pour some coffee
for myself, for a respite from thoughts of Lumina and the into the white ceramic cup I’ve been using here. Sitting down
entirety of the past. Of course, it remains just a thought, and at the kitchen table with the steaming coffee, I start in on the
I place the bottle on the counter. Holding the capsule over crossword puzzle at the back of yesterday’s newspaper.
the metal bowl, I twist apart the two halves, and its powdery
contents spill on to the beige, glistening batter. With the When she finds me there, Meora does not startle at my
spoon, I swirl the batter until the medication has vanished, presence. She takes the chair beside mine and once more,
like it did in the jam and cream cheese. simply accepts the explanation I give for her amnesia.

Picking up the pharmacy bottle to put it back in the “Only about half a week left now,” I add this
time. “Then you can remember everything,
and this discombobulation will be over.”

“Great. Thanks for helping me through this transition,” she
says.

It sounds so formal, like something I’d hear at work.

“Maybe it’s good that you won’t remember any of this,” I
muse. “Otherwise, you might feel awkward about these
days later on.”

“Why? Is there something about us that makes this… ironic
or peculiar?”

She folds her arms on the table.

“No, it’s just that we’re not normally like this when we’re
together,” I answer. “I’m not usually micromanaging your
daily life, making your meals, reminding you to brush your
teeth or telling you that you already did.”

“That sounds rather parental, and obviously we don’t have
that kind of relationship.”

“Right. I thought I’d be more of a lifeguard here, in the
background watching you, but this has been more akin to
childcare, and I don’t know how fondly you’ll look back on
that.”

“What about you? You’ll remember all of this.”

“I will, but me remembering this is different. I won’t have the
kind of perspective shift you would. It’s like when you’re a
kid, too young to know better than to, oh let’s say run

33

FICTION

around without clothes on. Then later, when you’re older “And soon you’ll see the opposite. Maybe your curiosity will

and wiser about social norms, you feel embarrassed about be piqued by who I am when I’m tethered to a modified

that, embarrassed for your naked younger self.” past.”

“OK, I can see how the lack of embarrassing memories has She leans towards me, the table creaking as her forearms
advantages. Thanks to your interesting choice of example. press upon it.
Is it purely hypothetical? Have you seen me naked?”
“That’s supposed to be a better person, I assume,” she
“No, not recently. I mean, you still remember how to practice adds.
good hygiene. You just don’t remember whether you’ve
showered or not, so sometimes in the evening I have to tell “Well, sort of. The graft is supposed to improve… your
you to take a shower.” emotional state.”

“So you have seen me naked.” “Tell me more. You can give me the full explanation, right?
Because I won’t remember any of this. In like ten, twenty
“Well, we have spent many hours sweating in saunas minutes, I’ll have no idea what we’ve been talking about.”
together.”
She must feel my reluctance because she quickly adds,
“That sounds nice. I can imagine us in a sauna after all this, “Have I asked you before? You know how I’ll react?”
you telling me about these days in some sanitized way that
doesn’t risk too much embarrassment.” “Yes.”

“I can picture that too, but it will never happen. I can’t tell “Maybe I’ll react differently this time. You said I keep
you about this time in any way. Even a vague explanation surprising you.”
could compromise the procedure. If you’re aware that you
underwent a memory graft, you might become distrustful of “Good point,” I answer, quieting the insistent thoughts that
your memories. Even if that happens only at an unconscious tell me her reaction has always been the same: dismay at
level, it could have serious consequences.” what she finds out about her childhood.

“That makes sense. You must have told me that before.”34 She looks at me expectantly. I lift my cup and gulp the last 2
of the coffee.
“I have,” I admit.
A moment later, the cup is back on the table, along with my
“So maybe it is [for the] best that I won’t [be able to] hands which rest to either side of it, and I tell her, “The graft
remember these days. They must be repetitive, full of me is a constellation of memories that inserts a childhood friend
asking for the same explanations. Has that taken a lot of into your past.” The summary in its most succinct form yet.
patience?”
“Sounds nice, though hardly necessary. Why would I need
“No, not really. Who you are without your episodic memories that? It seems cosmetic, like a beautification of my past.”
still piques my curiosity. I’ve never seen you or anyone in
this… state, and it keeps surprising me.” “Beauty can be a necessity. Everyone needs a beautiful
friendship. It can be lonely going otherwise.”
“Like how?”
“I can’t be that lonely. I have you, a sauna buddy willing—
“Oh, like how you’re never sure if you’ve ever eaten a
particular food before—like nagaimo, okra, lychee or 3 7committed to see me through over a week of mandatory
smoked salmon. Then once you’ve tasted that food or
even just caught a whiff of it, you know. I’m guessing that’s amnesia. Or is that just some fabrication? Are you just paid
because the experience of a food’s flavor and texture is pose as someone I’ll trust so it’s easier to take care of me
pleasurable, and feels like it’s always been that way.” as I recuperate?”

“I can see how that would be interesting.”

8“It is really eye-opening to see who you are when you’re not

6fully you—not as tethered to the past.”

FICTION

“No, I’m definitely a fixture in your life now, but there’s little I towards me, and she grips each of my hands in each of
can do about the unshakable loneliness of your childhood. hers.
You were a petulant kid, and that kept others at a distance.
You’ve always held that against yourself.” Is it because I’m closer to her this time—my proximity
prompting her to take my hands—or are the memories taking
“So the idea is that this fictitious friend changes my idea of hold, asserting themselves? The pressure on my palms and
who I was as a child.” fingers seems like it could be coming from a fourth-grade
Lumina, but I can’t remember if she ever squeezed my hands
“Yes. And spontaneously remembering her should remind like this. What remains in my mind of Lumina as a child is
you of early experiences with acceptance and validation.” mostly a schematic idea: the precocious kid from a stable
family who all the teachers liked—a way of remembering her
“Then ultimately… this new childhood friend makes me that’s estranged from who she later became.
what, less insecure or rueful?”
“I’ll take care of your memories of her,” she assures me.
“Her name is Lumina, and she imparts to your younger self
a measure of patience and kindness, especially towards Good, I think, nodding. I couldn’t anymore.
yourself. You play together after school in city parks and at
her house. Sometimes on weekends, you sleep over there, My heart twinges with the envy that in Meora’s mind, Lumina
and she shares with you her secrets.” will never grow up, never become disillusioned.

This is the story I now have for the intersection of my “Well, let’s have some breakfast,” I say. “Help me make
childhood with Lumina’s—a narrative synopsis of what had some pancakes.”
before seemed like an eternity together—and that story is
timeless, always in the midst of happening. And some new memories, my thoughts add.

Then, turning from the past to the future, I add, “She will “Of course,” she says, then looking at my empty cup adds,
“You must be hungry.”
give you greater faith in people.”

Gazing earnestly into mine, Meora’s eyes encourage me to Fascinated by the ways in which the literary arts can serve
say more. At their urging, I tell her what I’ve revealed only as a mode of metacognition, Soramimi Hanarejima writes
once before. innovative fiction that explores the nature of thought and is
the author of Visits to the Confabulatorium, a fanciful story
“I know she will. Because she’s the real deal. Lumina was collection that Jack Cheng said, “captures moonlight in Ziploc
my actual childhood friend. But now you need her more bags.” Soramimi’s recent work can be found in The Best Asian
than I do. And really, I got lucky meeting someone like her. Speculative Fiction 2018, Book XI and The Esthetic Apostle.
She would have liked you too.”

I wait for her to cry; to become sad that my childhood is 1
now emptier; to feel undeserving of this portion of my life; to
feel the way she never would if it weren’t for the medication. 35

2 549But her eyes don’t fill with tears. Instead, her arms unfold

BOOK REVIEW

The Heartsick Diaspora and Other Stories:
Asian Representation Done Right

by Jessica Tay

The Heartsick Diaspora is a collection of short stories that feature mostly The Heartsick Diaspora and
Singaporeans and Malaysians as the main characters. The stories’ settings other stories (ARC)
range from ancient Asian myths to the 1960s right until the present day. This Author: Elaine Chiew
book discusses about Asians’ cultures, faiths, beliefs and many more. Publisher: Penguin Random
House SEA
When I first started reading this book, the first few short stories caught my Released: January 23rd 2020
attention. The writing style was beautiful and the stories were very different from Genre: Fiction, Short stories
what I expected and I found that pleasing. Many aspects in these stories could Pages: 256
resonate well with its readers, especially the Singaporeans and Malaysians. Format: Paperback
The way the author inserted different languages, dialects and slangs, including
fillers into the stories is one of my favourite thing about this book.

The themes of The Heartsick Diaspora range from Asian myths, to life as
immigrants, parents and children relationships and of course identity of oneself
as Asian. I found many of these stories are interesting and very well written,
even thought provoking.

However, since most of the endings felt rather loose to me, I felt lost whenever
I reached certain short stories’ endings. I didn’t get what certain endings try
to convey, it’s like an open ending that I could hardly decipher. Anyways,
this point is very subjective, what I couldn’t understand perhaps understood
easily by others (so don’t take what I say as it is, try flip a page or two first and
see how you like it). Other than that, I appreciate that all of the stories carry
meaning, history and personality.

Overall, though some stories’ ending didn’t sit well for me, I liked the book as
a whole and I feel like everyone should give this book a try and experience the
Malaysian’s and Singaporean’s life, stories and history.

Some of my favourite stories are:
- The Coffin Maker
- Run of the Molars
- A Thoroughly Modern Ghost of

Other Origin
- Chinese Almanac
- Mapping Three Lives Through a

Red Rooster Chamber Pot

36

TAKE A BREAK! Challenge yourself by solving these small puzzles or “mind stretchers”.
The answers will be revealed in the next issue.
Spot The Difference: Find 11 differences in the two images below

ACROSS

1. Comparing two unlike things using ‘like’ or ‘as’.

5. Words that imitate sound.

8. Phrase so overused it lost its original meaning.

12. Reassurance of similar sounds especially consonants. Ex: Crossword: Literary Devices
pitter, patter.

13. Reference to a well known character or event from history, 12
literature, etc. 34

15. Extreme exaggeration.

16. Mental picture created by the way the author writes. 5

19. Story poem or picture that can be interpreted to reveal a 7 8 6
hidden meaning, typically moral or political. Ex: Animal Farm. 12 9 10

20. Repetition of the sound of a vowel or diphthong. Ex: belt. felt. 11

21. Poetry that is free from limitations of regular meter or rhythm
and does not rhyme with fixed forms.

DOWN 13
2. A long narrative poem about someone who does heroic 14

deeds. Ex: The Odyssey. 15

3. Language that uses words or expressions with a meaning 16 17
19 18
that is different from the literal interpretation.
20
4. A positive statement expressed by negating its opposite
expressions. 21

6. Giving human qualities to inanimate objects.

7. Repetition of a beginning sound for effect.

9. The person telling the story. (Not to be confused with author)

10. Repeats same word or phrase to make idea more clear.

11. Phrase or word stating one unlike thing is another.

14. A group of lines forming the basic reassuring metrical unit in a
poem; a verse

17. Correspondence of sound betweem the words or the endings
of words especially when these are at the ends of lines of poetry.

18. The use of humor, irony or exaggeration or ridicule to expose
and criticize people’s stupidity or vices. Ex: Animal Farm

37

FICTION

A PARABLE OF THE
SKY AND SOIL

BY EVELYN PHILIP

In the land of Serotolia, the soil was crusted, brittle and
fragile. The drought had done it.
Disappointed and dejected, the soil hardened. Whenever
anyone walked over it, it grumbled bitterly and lamented
its fate.
As the weeks passed, the grumblings turned into
cynicism. The soil began to vent out frustration at its
surroundings.
There was only one thing the soil yearned for; the
rain. The hardened the soil became bitter at the sky.
Bitterness soon turned to rage.
It began cursing at the sky.
Hearing the terrible words, the sky began to feel gloomy.
Instead of shining with sun light, the sky started turning
into a darker shade of blue.
Seeing dark clouds forming above, the soil became
afraid but before it could begin to apologize, the sky had
started to cry.
Its tears poured heavily for several days and nights.
When the rain finally stopped, and the sun started to
peek, only then the flowers started to bloom and grass
began to grow. The bees and butterflies and worms
returned to work in the cycle of nature.
The soil felt a difference in itself. It was soft and moist
now, no longer brittle and dry. Overjoyed, the soil
whispered gratitude to the light blue face of the sky.

38

POETRY

Catch The Rain

BY AZLAN SHAH FADZIL

Catch the rain, let your hand wet,
Listen to the sound of thunder.
Hold the pain, don’t let go yet,
Return it to the sender.

Clench your fist, fight to the end,
Don’t let your foe go faster.
Punch the beast,
With only one hand,
Let it perceive disaster.

Sticks And Sky

BY WENDY VIDELOCK

I am steeped in the sticks and stuck on the sky.
The sky is wider than a Twitter feed.

Unplug for a spell, and you’ll understand why
to over feed is to sleep with a capital lie.

The sparrow prefers a world that is wide, and treed.
I am steeped in the sticks and stuck on the sky,
and drawn to the root where the river runs dry.
The sound of the rain is a scattering seed.
Unplug for a spell and you’ll understand why
what you feed is the same as what you buy.
We’ve been given the lobe, and the mighty bleed.
I am steeped in the sticks and stuck on the sky—

a crescent moon and the stars are my fourth of July.
The sparrow prefers an action to a creed.

Unplug for a spell and you’ll understand why
it’s good to be kind outside the public eye.
To learn the difference between word, and deed.
I am steeped in the sticks, and stuck on the sky;
unplug for a spell, and you’ll understand why.

39

POETRYGrass What is it with lowly grass?
Embrace the earth’s womb, covered with dust
40 Trampled with hooves, savaged with wind
Yet it still stands after the storm
Trees stand haughtily with the passing gale
Timber cracked like grinded bones
Conceit cringed with the passing despair
Does it matter to stand and fall?
After the tempest the horizon bemoans
Gorged with raped trees, pride subdued
While crickets sang the night lullaby
Dreams fade away, hopes benumbed
But the meek grass during the storm
Cede its pride to survive
Bend with the wind, cried with the rain
Stand tall after the passing storm.

BY RONALD MALIAO



AUTHOR SPOTLIGHT

MALAYSIAN AUTHOR TUNK
BACK ON A COLOURFUL
WRITING CAREER
HBY TERENCE TOH
e’s one of the most prolific Choice Awards from 2015 to 2017. “I also had stories based on problems
authors in Malaysia. Not And he’s been described as Asia’s of the mind, with insanity and people
just in terms of the number Stephen King – in person, however, going chaotic, and I called that
of titles he’s written (about Tunku Halim is nowhere as dark as his ‘Fragmented Minds’. There were also
20 and counting!) but also in the stories. more general stories, and I put those
range of areas he writes in. Tunku He cracks jokes as he speaks about his together under ‘Occult World’, just
Halim is one of the few authors who latest book, Scream To The Shadows, to show there’s another part of the
commonly writes both fiction and published by Penguin RandomHouse. world that we don’t see.”
nonfiction. “Penguin approached me, and they It doesn’t surprise us to learn that the
You might recognise his name said they want to do a retrospective versatile Tunku Halim actually started
from his bestselling anthologies collective. And I said, go away, please, out writing in a different area entirely:
Horror Stories  (2014) and Horror don’t disturb me. OK, no I didn’t. poetry. When he was in school, he
Stories 2  (2016), or his dark novels I said of course! I was so excited!” would craft poetry, recording the
such as  Dark Demon Rising  (1997, Tunku Halim laughs. dates when he wrote them at the top
reprinted 2017) or Last Breath (2014). Scream To The Shadows  contains – almost like keeping a poetic diary.
Younger readers may know him as 20 stories written over the course of However, he stopped writing while
the writer of A Children’s History Of the author’s almost three-decade- at university in Britain, and when he
Malaysia  (2003). More recently, you long writing career. It contains older came home, he ended up working in a
may have seen his name on  So Fat- gems such as “Biggest Baddest property development company.
Lah: 30 Perfect Ways To A Slimmer Bomoh” (from his first ever short “I realised a lot of people didn’t know
You (2016), a uniquely Malaysian story anthology, 1997’s  The Rape how to buy condos. They were asking
guide to losing weight, or on A Prince Of Martha Teoh And Other Stories), all the wrong questions! So I thought,
Called Charlie  (2018), a biography “Mr Petronas” (1999’s BloodHaze: 15 why don’t I write a book?” Tunku
of his late father, Tunku Tan Sri Chilling Tales) and “Malay Magick” Halim recalls.
Abdullah ibni Almarhum Tuanku (2001’s The Woman Who Grew Horns And that was how he came to write
Abdul Rahman. & Other Chilling Stories). his first book, the thrilling Everything
Now that’s a diverse range of books The book also contains some of A Condominium Developer Should
– hard to believe they’re all from Tunku Halim’s newer works, such as Have Told You But Didn’t, back in
one single mind! For Tunku Halim’s “The Black Bridge”, first published 1991. That experience infected him
writing, however, it all comes down in  The Best Asian Speculative with the writing bug, and he began
to a single letter. And that letter is Fiction (2018) anthology. writing his first short story collection.
“H”. According to Tunku Halim, he wanted The rest, as they say, is history.
“It’s in my name, after all. Looking this collection to stand out, and to At the time, Tunku Halim was a big fan
back at my writing career, I call it the do that, he arranged the stories not of Stephen King and the horror genre,
four ‘Hs’. I started out with Horror. chronologically but thematically. hence his foray into dark fiction.
Then I went on to History. And then “I had four stories set in a graveyard, Ironically, he no longer enjoys horror
to Health, with the So Fat-Lah books. so I call them ‘Graveyard Voices’. I today, for two reasons: One, he’s a
And what’s the next ‘H’? I want to had some stories with Malay myths, self-confessed scaredy-cat, and, two,
write about Happiness!” said the man such as orang bunian and orang he’s been put off the whole genre by
with a laugh when we met in Kuala minyak, and that’s ‘Malay Shadows’. badly made horror films.
Lumpur recently. Then I watched Netflix’s  Black “They tend to be low budget. Lousy
Dark Demon Rising  was nominated Mirror, and that’s what inspired the acting, and the plots tend to be
for the International IMPAC Dublin ‘Dark Technology’ section, ” Tunku rubbish. Usually some problem with
Literary Award. The Tunku is also Halim explains. a house. And the female lead always
the three-time consecutive winner goes down to the basement in the
of the Popular-The Star  Readers’

42

AUTHOR SPOTLIGHT

KU HALIM LOOKS

dark. Who does that?”
The author’s next work will be on
minimalism (a little ironic for a man
who does so much) and he’s also
working on a novel for children aged
eight to 12.
It’s like  Goosebumps, he says,
referring to American author RL
Stine’s famous series, but with spooky
stories for Asian kids, perhaps with
elements of local myth.
An unusual combination of books. But
not unexpected, after all.
“They ask me, what areas do you like
to write in? And my answer is always,
whatever strikes my fancy, ” Tunku
Halim says with a laugh.

‘Scream to the
Shadows’, by
Tunku Halim

43

FICTION F

44 I

E

N He stood up straight, stepped back
D and admired the whole bloody
scene. He tried to control his
breathing when he caught himself
bellowing like an ox. His heart was
beating fast, his ears ringing from
the excitement and frenzy. Slowly
as the adrenaline rush ebbed, he
felt fatigue creeping into his body,
like he had just run a marathon.
He was tired, but he felt good.

By Harith Hasmadi

FICTION

Slowly, he walked towards the bathroom and went and as baffled as anyone would about her disappearance.
straight to the sink. He held on tightly to the sink and After burning all of the evidence, he fished for her dove
slowly looked up into the mirror. What he saw shocked necklace in his pocket. He toyed with the dainty pendant
him at first. It was like staring into the eyes of a deranged and thought of what he could do with it. He placed it
stranger. back in his pocket and headed out for something to eat.
He was always famished after a killing.
All this while he had had no problem cutting open
Samantha; not a single feeling of guilt sawing through The next morning, David knew what he had to do, say,
Rachael’s limbs; nor any remorse when Hayley stared and how to act in order to win sympathy points from
back at him with her cold dead eyes. So why is it that people. He drove to the nearest police station and lodged
he actually felt badly looking at Susan’s mangled body? a report that his wife was been missing from their home.
Could this be the turning point for David? In the silence It was very peculiar that she would run away, but David
he heard the ticking of the clock, and he knew he had showed the police a few things that indicated Susan
no time to spare. He could wash away his sins later, may have ran away with another man. The police jotted
he had more important things to take care of at the down everything that David said, checked the house, and
moment. the evidence he claimed showed that Susan had been
planning to run away for a long time.
While dragging Susan’s bloody body, David couldn’t
help but remember the small moments he had shared In the end, the police came to the conclusion that Susan
with her. He remembered one time when she woke him had run away. David was off the hook. He later sold
up and told him she wanted ice cream. He had groaned, the house and moved to another town. People said that
turned to his side and hid his face under the pillow. She David did so, as he didn’t have the heart to live in a
had pried the pillow away and whispered in her raspy house that would remind him of his runaway wife. The
voice, begging him to drive her to McDonalds. He sat whole town sympathized for David’s loss. Little did they
up and looked at the time on his iPhone. It was 3:37 know of the shocking truth. Every now and then, David
a.m. He was a bit irritated, but he liked how free spirited would fiddle the round pendant on his neck. The pendant
and random she could be at times. So, they had ended that was made from melting Susan’s dove necklace.
up eating McFlurries by the beach. The sound of the
cascading waves occasionally broken by whispers and
laughter of the young lovebirds.

After carefully stripping Susan, David tossed her clothes
into the basement furnace. He also removed all of her
accessories; her dove necklace and heirloom bracelet.
He would keep them for later. Without any hesitation, he
took his favourite cleaver and with a practiced precision,
he mutilated Susan’s body to small pieces. The rhythmic
chopping brought comfort to David, almost giving him
some sort of orgasm. He found solace as his cleaver
cut through her meat and bones. When Susan was no
longer distinguishable from a pile of meat at the market,
David threw her body’s pieces into the basement furnace.
He also splashed some petroleum inside the furnace to
make sure that the fire wouldn’t leave anything behind.

As the fire engulfed Susan’s remains, David set to work
on cleaning the house of any evidence. He wiped every
nook and cranny clean, not leaving one spot unbleached.
He was sure to make it look like Susan had simply
vanished into thin air, so that he would look innocent

45

BOOK REVIEW

French author's view of
Malayan history is a vital
read for Malaysians

By Chuah Guat Eng A few weeks before the launch of
Jeanne Cuisinier’s What I Saw In
PERLIS Malaya in November in Penang, I had
been reading a book by an Englishman
KELANTAN about his visit to Malaya in 1935
TERENGGANU after an absence of some 25 years.
Published in 1936, his account of a
sentimental journey from Singapore
to Negri Sembilan is interspersed with
frequent, surprisingly candid, criticisms
of colonial policies and administration
then in place.

When I learned that Cuisinier’s book
was about her experiences in Malaya in
the 1930s, I became curious – would
she be as critical?

PAHANG

As I soon found out, Cuisinier’s book
gave me little basis for comparison.
Instead, I was struck by the contrasts
between the Malaya the Frenchwoman
saw and the one the Englishman
saw. She wrote primarily about her
experiences in Perlis, Kelantan, Pahang
and Terengganu, mostly on the East
Coast of the peninsula, while he wrote
about the West Coast states. They
might as well have been writing about
two different countries.

46

BOOK REVIEW

Jeanne Cuisinier (1890-1964) was a French ethnologist. Her indirection – an art all too often lost on, or misunderstood by,
early interests were in literature and music but after her travels non-Malays.
in Madagascar and South-East Asia in the 1920s, she began
to study ethnology and Asian languages. In 1932, doubtless The second section, “Behind The Scenes”, is a selection
because of her knowledge of Malay, the French Ministry of of short excerpts from Cuisinier’s less formal lectures and
National Education sent her to Malaya on an ethnological and unpublished reports, giving us a better understanding of the
linguistics research project. practical aspects of her work. Some excerpts are about the
physical hardships of doing field research in remote parts –
She spent 18 months in Kelantan, where she studied not falling sick, the lack of reliable transport, and trekking for miles
only the Malays but also the Orang Asli and the Thais. She through forests.
subsequently published two books on traditional Malay
performing arts, The Magic Dances Of Kelantan (1936) and Others relate to specific research methods and tactics, which
The Shadow Theatre Of Kelantan (1957). She also gave students engaged in similar kinds of research may find useful:
lectures – on radio to the general public and in person to “Overcoming Suspicion”, “Studying the Malay Theatre”,
interest groups and at universities. “Research Routine with the Indigenous People”, and “Studying
the Siamese Communities”.
What I Saw In Malaya is a selection of these radio talks and
lectures, as well as excerpts from her unpublished reports. The The third section, “Eighteen Months in North-East Malaya”, is
advantage of this is that the style is conversational and non- a lecture delivered to the Royal Asiatic Society in London, in
academic, and the knowledge she offers is easily accessible 1934. In this general overview of her life and work in Malaya
to the general reader. are many nuggets of historical and sociocultural information
we are unlikely to find in history books.
In addition, the editors have done an admirable job of guiding
the reader. The essays are organised into three sections with I found particularly interesting what she has to say about the
each section introduced by an explanatory note. The section social permeability and mutual sharing of culture and language
and essay headings clearly signal the origin, context, and among the Malays, Thais, and Orang Asli in Kelantan; the
focus of the contents to follow. And a generous number of organisation of hierarchy and authority among the Semang;
original, well-captioned photographs (about 25) give the and the secretive transmission of bomoh (shaman) “magic”
reader a visual grasp of the people, objects and landscapes of and knowledge.
the world Cuisinier describes.
The value of What I Saw In Malaya to Malaysians today
The first section, “The Radio Paris Lectures”, features Cuisinier’s cannot be overstated. Many may read it simply as the story
experiences and observations of social life in Kelantan: Malay of a Frenchwoman’s quest for the hidden, little-known and
rules of courtesy, marriage, and cuisine; wayang kulit (shadow forgotten aspects of Malaysian life. Some may recognise it as
play theatre) and the manora dance; and an interesting an a prime source of our history. To me, it is above all a reminder
essay on how she gained the friendship and trust of the Orang of what makes us who we once were and could be again. I
Asli. What comes across very strongly is how much she think it should be translated into our national language and be
enjoyed and loved her work and the people she studied. given a place in every home, school, and public library.

Despite the book's title, Cuisinier describes not only what she
saw, but also what she heard. I particularly like her reproduction
of conversations among Malays, exemplifying their traditional,
courteous way of expressing themselves obliquely and by

SUMMARY

A fascinating perspective
on Malayan history from
an outsider.

47

REAL STORY

MY FATHER

By Lo Sin Yee

Photo by Vlad Chetan from Pexels

Papa used to be a moody, churlish person. He could not get over
the pain of his bankruptcy in the late ’70s. Many of our friends and
relatives treated him with scorn and contempt. To support our family,
he learned how to make steamed Chinese buns and sold them at the
night market. Whenever he returned home with a beaming face, I
knew that his buns had sold well. If he returned home sombre-faced,
my mother would warn my siblings and me not to make him angry. We
would watch in silence as he morosely threw all the unsold buns.
Throughout my childhood and early adulthood, there was a strong
antagonism between Papa and me. I always provoked him, either
carelessly or deliberately, with my stubbornness, lack of masculinity,
and pickiness about food.

One day, he became a changed person. He no longer scolded me with
harsh words or smacked me with his pain-inflicting palm. He started
guiding me with the word of God, but the pride in me refused to make
amends with him.
During the first few months of this year, Papa was bothered by gallstone pain,
and he was reduced to skin and bones. One afternoon in mid-April, we took him
to the hospital, and on Aunt Becky’s insistence, the doctor put him on a drip.
‘Without that,’ exclaimed Aunt Becky, ‘he may die of malnutrition!’
Despite Papa’s obvious suffering, we were told that his condition was stable and
that there should be no haste in getting his gallstones removed. Only painkillers
were prescribed. Over the next two days, Papa’s gallstone pain was reduced,
and his appetite recovered a little.

48