Warmth of pink and spice

Our home used to have pink walls.

My mother would be cooking something in the kitchen behind the big pink wall that divided the hall and the kitchen. Usually an oily smell of chili and garlic and maybe some onions, sometimes curry which I did no prefer.

Our home had rattan chairs. A three-seater, a two-seater and one on its own. I would always opt for the two-seater, so I could nestle by someone. It was best when it was my mum or my sister. Or cramp myself into it all on my own. I did that till before we got rid of it. I was about over one and a half times its length. On it there was a rattan joint kicked out of place and still kicked out of place even after being put back – to my mother’s irritation.

The dining table is made out of wood too, we still have it now. Some of my most memorable meals there growing up were the porridge and fried fish or bread-crumbed (fake) fish fillet or fish figo sandwiched in a fold of white Gardenia bread with a mound of cold sweet coleslaw – just carrot and cabbage and mayonaise.

The place I remember most as a child was the nook under the staircase along the long cupboard that housed the HiFi set. One cupboard on the most right held all our toys. Batman, his mobile, Barbie with her hair all cut off and her accompaniments. I did not like the Kelly baby doll. It was beside where the little table sat, the one where I guess would be the reception of guests if we ever had any. It was also where we would put up the Christmas tree, on a handful of occasions if my little sister hadn’t gotten an eye-allergy or if I was around for Christmas or if my mum had the mood for “all the mess” from the few years we did get passed down a tree from our relatives. It was also the table that had a florally faded tablecloth that reached to the floor, which I often used as my invisible cloak as I hid under there till it got hot.

My favourite CD from the rack beside the HiFi was of Richard Clayderman’s. He played the piano and my dad often put him on while he went about the house.

The lazy chair that sat at the prime spot facing the TV was where my mother used to sit when we had reading sessions. She would read Peter and Jane, which I would have to follow suit and be absolutely terrified. Somehow I wouldn’t be able to do it and got scolded for it. Even worse, when my dad took over with a cane at his disposal.

That cane, and many others; threw behind the cupboard, split in half from its use and reused by me as “cockroach antennas”, was used to chase us (most of the time, myself) around the house with. I got caned alot on the stairs, I got caned alot, generally.

I remember when I was very young, my mum left somewhere without me. She probably went to the market, but I was so angry she left me. My dad was at home but it didn’t compare, it didn’t quite compare at all. I shook the gate, and cried angrily. Why did you leave me? Why didn’t you tell me you were going out?

I cried on my favourite sofa too. Hid my head under the pillow one time a thought was triggered that my parents might die one day and might not end up both in the same place – and I might not see them in heaven. I might not see my family together again in heaven. (Ofcourse hell was not an option.)

We always fought. Parents. Siblings. But we always ended up at the tv together. Maybe silently, maybe laughing after awhile. Still, always watching something together. That’s what I’ve grown to like, doing things together.

I couldn’t tell what it was about my little sister suddenly leaving to start her Foundations in Sibu, what it did to me. All these time, we slowly have moved apart because of time and growing up. But now the littlest is gone. It never occurred to us, atleast to me, that it would happen so soon.

I wish we could go back to all those days together, and relive them for a moment longer.

 

I don’t wish to get rid of those pink walls anymore.

 

lei

Little children’s books

When I was a child, my mother took me to the local public library. My elder siblings and I would nestle ourselves in little plastic chairs after arming ourselves with our favourite books from the old metal shelves. Running bare footed on the discoloured worn out carpets, we searched for familiar drawings that depicted the stories we knew best. I always got the one with a family of rabbits that had endless amount of things to busy themselves with in their endlessly big fluffy family. There were bunny rabbits drawn all over the book in different parts of their underground home, carrots and toys and items drawn in compactly within each turn of page. I loved how it made my eyes move all over the place, consistently and amusingly amazed every time I went through the little book. It was a little book and yet it was warm and endearing all at once.

Who’d knew then that 15 years down the road, those moments would mean so much to me. Memories which try as I may, are among the precious few that surface when I recall my childhood.

I love my mother for bringing us to the little library whenever she could.

It’s a blur what time does when it transcends your mind from its existence way back to now. What seems so big now meant so little to pint-sized me, then.

I sat by the pool at my friend’s new place of stay, one of these past few days. I looked up between the tall apartment buildings, concrete structure rising high above me with the back drop of bright blue skies. The breeze that whistled its way between the towering blocks was cool while I felt the sun behind me gently beating down the back of my neck. The gurgling waters of la piscine made for light white noise as I sat on the pebbled bench and closed my eyes, taking it all in.

It’s amazing what a little wind and white noise can do for the soul. It’s a miracle I feel whole just sitting there, being there with my God.

I’ve had that final chat with a guy who took me one semester to know and to know I didn’t need.
I’ve also had a honest talk with someone, finally, to clear up some past misunderstandings.

That one person I thought was my ideal, we’re great friends and I’ve wished him well –with his pursuit.

These are days I walk on with a smile on my face, because I know I’ve been through and got through all these things. While, yes ofcourse there’s still many things to happen. But I’m not going to give in, I’m going to keep choosing God and trusting him –the true author and perfector of my faith. The one who went with my mum and I to the library, the one who made me remember my love for books when I was a teenager and the one who is with me now as I pursue a degree in Anthropology and Sociology so I can be a writer with content.

Someday I’ll be a writer.
Someday I’ll meet a man after God’s heart, whom I’d share my life with.

And someday I’ll take our kids to the library too.
We’d read many, many books. Many times of the same books, whatever it is I am looking forward to it.

lei