Merit dalam meritokrasi neoliberalisme

Neoliberalisme menyerlahkan kejahatan dalam diri kita

Sistem ekonomi yang memberi pulangan kepada ciri personaliti psikotik telah mengubah sistem etika dan personaliti kita

o    Paul Verhaeghe

o    Paul Verhaeghe, PhD, adalah seorang Profesor Kanan di Universiti Ghent dan pemegang Kursi Jabatan Psikoanalisis dan Psikologi Kaunseling di universiti tersebut. Beliau telah menerbitkan lapan buku, lima daripadanya telah diterjemahkan ke dalam Bahasa Inggeris.

o    theguardian.com, Isnin 29 September 2014 09.00 BST

Nota: Saya menterjemah rencana ini kerana saya merasakan yang ia merumuskan dengan ringkas intipati masalah kemasyarakatan yang dihadapi oleh masyarakat Barat pada masa ini. Penulis asal adalah seorang warga Belgium dan Bahasa Inggeris bukanlah bahasa pertama beliau. Beliau juga menulis daripada sudut pandangan seorang warga Eropah Barat dan mungkin menggunakan rujukan yang asing dengan isu masyarakat Malaysia. Saya minta maaf jika ada kesilapan dalam penafsiran mesej dalam terjemahan saya.

Pautan rencana asal di sini.

Kita biasa menganggap bahawa identiti kita adalah stabil dan tidak diusik oleh pengaruh luar. Tapi kajian beberapa dekad dan pengalaman dalam rawatan psikologi telah meyakinkan saya bahawa perubahan ekonomi mempunyai kesan yang mendalam bukan sahaja atas prinsip yang kita pegang, malah juga atas keperibadian kita. Amalan neoliberalisme, tekanan pasaran bebas dan penswastaan selama tiga puluh tahun telah mengubah masyarakat kita; tekanan tanpa henti untuk mencapai kejayaan telah menjadi sesuatu yang lazim. Jika anda membaca rencana ini dengan rasa skeptikal, saya ingin mengunjurkan kenyataan ringkas ini kepada anda: meritokrasi neoliberalisme memberi kelebihan kepada mereka yang mempunyai beberapa ciri personaliti dan menyisihkan yang lain.

Ada beberapa ciri-ciri ideal yang diperlukan untuk membina kerjaya yang cemerlang pada hari ini. Yang pertama ialah kepetahan dan kepandaian bercakap untuk memenangi hati seramai mana orang yang boleh. Perhubungan seperti ini mungkin dangkal pada dasarnya, tapi memandangkan kebanyakan interaksi manusia masa kini memang sedemikian, ianya tidak akan diambil peduli.

Kebolehan untuk menjaja keupayaan diri sendiri setinggi yang boleh adalah penting - anda kenal ramai orang berpengaruh, anda mempunyai banyak pengalaman dan telah baru-baru ini menamatkan satu projek yang besar. Selepas itu, mungkin orang akan mendapati bahawa ini semua adalah rekaan atau kisah yang diperbesar-besarkan sahaja, tapi hakikat yang mereka telah tertipu dengan cerita anda telah menunjukkan kebolehan anda untuk berbohong dengan baik tanpa rasa bersalah. Itulah sebabnya anda tidak merasa bertanggungjawab atas sikap anda yang sebegini.

Bukan itu sahaja, anda juga seorang yang bersikap lentur (flexible) dan mengikut gerak hati dengan terburu-buru (impulsive), tidak henti-henti mencari rangsangan dan cabaran yang baru. Sikap ini sering mendorong kepada perangai yang suka mengambil risiko, tapi tak kisahlah kerana bukan anda yang akan menguraikan akibatnya. Sumberi inspirasi untuk senarai ini? Senarai semakan ciri-ciri psikopati oleh Robert Hare, seorang pakar dalam kajian psikopati yang tersohor dewasa ini.

Penerangan ini adalah suatu karikatur yang dimomok-momokkan secara melampau. Namun begitu, krisis kewangan yang melanda Eropah telah memaparkan kesan meritokrasi neoliberalisme atas masyarakat pada peringkat sosial-makro (contohnya pertelingkahan antara negara-negara Eurozone). Penyatupaduan telah menjadi suatu kemewahan dan dipinggirkan untuk perikatan sementara, tumpuan sebenar diberikan ke arah memeras keuntungan yang sebanyak mungkin daripada situasi sedia ada daripada pesaing anda. Ikatan sosial dengan rakan sekerja menjadi semakin lemah, begitu juga iltizam emosi (emotional commitment) kepada syarikat mahupun organisasi.

Membuli dahulunya terhad di sekolah-sekolah; kini ia menjadi satu kelaziman di tempat kerja. Ini adalah simptom lumrah apabila yang tidak berkuasa (impotent) melepaskan rasa geram dan kekecewaan ke atas yang lemah - dalam psikologi ianya dikenali sebagai langsangan teranjak (displaced aggression). Ianya adalah manifestasi ketakutan yang terbenam, meliputi kegemuruhan prestasi (performance anxiety) kepada ketakutan meluas kepada “pihak asing yang mengancam” (the threatening other).
 

Penilaian di tempat kerja yang tidak habis-habis membuahkan kemerosotan autonomi pekerja dan meningkatkan kebergantungan kepada norma luar yang sering berubah-ubah. Ini mengakibatkan apa yang digelar oleh pakar sosiologi Richard Sennett sebagai “menjadikan pekerja semakin keanak-anakan”. Ia membuatkan orang dewasa menonjolkan sikap kebudakan; misalnya meradang seperti kanak-kanak dan mencemburui perkara remeh (“Dia dapat kerusi pejabat yang baru tapi saya tidak.”), berbohong, menipu untuk mendapatkan kemahuan, suka menjatuhkan orang lain dan membalas dendam. Ini adalah kesan daripada sistem yang gagal melayan pekerja sebagai orang dewasa dan menghalang orang daripada berfikir secara bebas.

Perkara yang lebih merisaukan ialah bencana meritokrasi neoliberalisme ke atas rasa hormat pada diri sendiri bagi ahli masyarakat. Rasa hormat pada diri sendiri bersandar kepada penghargaan yang kita terima daripada orang lain, seperti yang telah ditunjukkan oleh ahli pemikir seperti Hegel  dan Lacan . Sennett  merumuskan perkara yang sama apabila beliau membincangkan persoalan tunjang bagi pekerja masa kini sebagai “Siapa yang memerlukan saya?”. Bagi sejumlah ahli masyarakat yang semakin bertambah, jawapannya ialah: Tiada siapa.

Masyarakat kita sering melaung-laungkan bahawa sesiapa sahaja boleh berjaya sekiranya mereka berusaha cukup keras, tapi pada masa yang sama mengagungkan keistimewaan kelas atasan dan terus-menerus menekan dan menguji kesabaran warga yang sudah keletihan. Semakin ramai orang dicap sebagai gagal, membuatkan mereka berasa hina, malu dan bersalah. Acapkali kita disuap dengan pegangan bahawa kita lebih bebas memilih jalan hidup kita sekarang berbanding sebelum ini, tapi kebebasan untuk memilih aliran di luar naratif kejayaan yang lazim diterima sebenarnya adalah terhad. Tambahan pula, mereka yang "gagal" dianggap sebagai pengecek dan bejat yang mengambil kesempatan atas sistem kebajikan masyarakat.

Meritokrasi neoliberal menyuap kita bahawa kejayaan bergantung sepenuhnya kepada usaha dan bakat seseorang; bermakna tanggungjawab terletak sepenuhnya atas setiap insan dan pihak berkuasa harus memberikan kebebasan mutlak agar masyarakat dapat mencapai tujuan ini. Bagi mereka yang mempercayai dongeng pilihan tanpa sekatan, pengurusan kendiri (self government) dan swaurus (self management) adalah mesej politik yang sering ditonjolkan sebagai menjanjikan kebebasan. Seiring dengan idea bahawa seseorang insan boleh mencapai kesempurnaan mutlak, kebebasan yang kita fikir kita nikmati di Barat ini adalah pembohongan terbesar zaman ini.

Pakar sosiologi  Zygmunt Bauman telah merumuskan dengan ringkas paradoks era kita: “Kita tidak pernah merasa kebebasan seperti masa ini. Kita tidak pernah rasa paling tidak berdaya seperti masa ini.” Memang kita lebih bebas sekarang dari segi kebebasan untuk mengkritik agama, mengambil kesempatan atas sikap sambil lewa terhadap seks dan menyokong mana-mana pergerakan politik yang kita sukai. Kita boleh berbuat semua ini kerana ianya semua sudah tidak bermakna - kebebasan ini sebenarnya tercetus daripada sikap tidak ambil peduli. Namun begitu, kehidupan seharian kita telah menjadi satu pertarungan yang tidak berkesudahan menghadapi sistem birokrasi yang boleh melemahkan lutut Kafka. Semuanya diatur dan dikawal, daripada jumlah garam dalam roti hinggalah kepada membela ayam di kawasan bandar.

Kebebasan yang kita tanggap ini terikat kepada satu perkara asas: kita mesti berjaya - yakni, mencapai objektif yang ditakrifkan oleh masyarakat sekeliling kita. Seorang individu berkemahiran tinggi yang memilih untuk mementingkan keluarga mengatasi kerjaya mereka akan berhadapan dengan kritikan. Seseorang yang menolak kenaikan pangkat demi melaburkan masa dalam urusan lain dilabel sebagai gila - kecualilah urusan tersebut menjamin kejayaan. Seorang wanita muda yang mahu  menjadi guru sekolah rendah didesak ibu bapanya untuk mendapatkan ijazah sarjana dalam ekonomi - buat apa hendak menjadi guru sekolah?

Ada banyak keluhan tentang kemerosotan norma dan nilai dalam budaya kita. Namun begitu, norma dan nilai adalah teras yang malar dalam identiti kita. Maka ianya tidak boleh hilang, cuma berubah. Dan itulah sebenarnya apa yang telah terjadi: perubahan ekonomi mencerminkan perubahan etika dan menjurus kepada perubahan identiti. Sistem ekonomi masa kini telah menyerlahkan kejahatan dalam diri kita.

Surprise can be a good thing.

Note: This is a first draft that is a part of a longer story. Drafts posted may (is definitely) not be in sequence. It is very rough and unedited; typos and grammatical errors are a given.

They said goodbyes outside the restaurant to the others. He hugged his Mom and watched her get into the car with his sister and waved at them till the rear lights of his sister's Preve disappeared around the corner. He retraced his steps back to his car when he saw her crossing the street. She sat by herself at the taxi stand. His brow furrowed and he jogged over to her.

"Where's your car?"

"Didn't feel like driving this morning so I took the cab. What do you care?" she glared at him. He thought it was unfair that she still looked glorious under the unflattering fluorescent lighting of the taxi stand, whatever makeup she put on this morning was probably long gone. How on earth can she be looking at him down her nose in that queen-of-all-she-surveys manner of hers when he towered over her seated self?

"Come on and I'll drive you home," he said.

"No, thanks. A cab will be passing soon. You go on ahead," she flipped her ponytail over her shoulder and deliberately turned her head towards the oncoming traffic.

"This place is not so safe for a woman at this hour. Your place is on my way. Come on and I'll drive you," he extended his hand.

"I'll be fine."

"Stop being a stubborn git and come on. Not two days ago a woman broke her wrist from a snatch thief just down the road. My car is just over there," he exasperatedly wondered why did he bother arguing with her. She's a city girl born and bred and she knew how to take care of herself.

"Okay. Whatever," she rose, reluctance in every line of her body.

He blipped the remote and his dusty ten year old Nissan chirped. She didn't wait for him to hold the door for her, letting herself in at the passenger side. He half thought that she'd make her way to the backseat and pretended that he was the taxi driver sending her home. When he slid into the driver's seat, she had buckled the seat belt and sat composedly, looking straight ahead with her tote bag tucked neatly against the door. He  sniffed surreptitiously for the smell of eau de McDonald that he had as a hurried lunch in his car yesterday. The lemon pine air freshener he stuck on the dashboard overpowered any possible old food and socks smell. Good. And he kicked himself for caring enough to think to make a good impression with her.

The radio blared cheerfully as he cranked the engine that he lovingly restored at his pal's auto shop. The car may not look like much but the engine purred like it rolled out of AMG's assembly line and was just as responsive. Without asking for permission she lowered the volume of his radio and randomly pressed the change button until she found a station playing classic rock. He thought of taking her to task for it but his favourite Def Leppard song was on and he cranked up the volume.

They did not talk at all during the ride to her apartment. Instead, they both sang along to the classic rock hits playing on the radio that night. He pulled to a stop at the kerb outside her apartment to the accompaniment of the Beatles' Yellow Submarine.

"I can't believe you know the lyrics to The Crystal Ship," he muttered. He wasn't looking but he was sure she curled her lips at him.

"Do you have anything going after this?" she unbuckled her seat belt and angled herself to look at him.

"Not really. Why?" he glanced at her.

"I need a favour with something. Come up with me for a minute?" The streetlight made her eyes sparkle like an anime character on speed. He had thought to catch some of the match playbacks on his new 72" tv but there's a strange hollow intensity in her eyes that he couldn't identify or ignore.

"Okay." He turned off the engine and followed her out of the car. The night doorman opened the door obsequiously for her. She waved at him absently with a greeting as they walked to the bank of elevators, their sneakers squeaking slightly on the marble floor. The lobby was luxuriously appointed with hard wood paneling and polished brass accents, not unlike a five star hotel. He deliberately pressed his palm on the shiny brass railing, smudging it. The elevator ride was quick and silent, his ears popped slightly at the speed of ascent.

They exited the elevator to a hallway carpeted in plush pile that muffled their footsteps. There were only three doors in the corridor she took. He estimated that each apartment was about 1,300 square feet. She must have some serious money. She keyed in her code on the number panel next to the door at the end of the corridor and opened the door by placing her palm on the reader.

"Come on in," she threw over her shoulder as she toed off her sneakers at the shoe rack just inside the door, leaving it wide open as she sauntered in. He had a bad feeling about this, and he knew that he should step back and walk away, but his feet moved into the doorway. The next thing he knew, the door was shut and his feet was also bare.

He followed her through a short hallway that ( ... description of apartment with post modern simple elegant design with ethnic accents ...). She tossed her tote bag on the breakfast counter separating the kitchen and the dining area.

"You want something to drink?"

"No, thanks. What was the favour that you wanted?"

She said nothing but just smiled as she walked past him. The sliding door to the balcony was open. The filmy curtains framing it was billowing gently from the night air, aided by the lazily rotating fan on the ceiling. He could feel the slight dampness and the heavy humidity, harbinger of a possible storm later in the night. She  leaned on the balcony railing, on tip toes like a young girl. The long muscles of her calves bunched and relaxed as she lowered herself on her heels and went tippy toes again. He dragged his eyes away from the enticing sight but his vision was stuck on the rounded mounds of her firm butt clad in yoga pants, the hem of her shirt had ridden up to expose a thin line of bare flesh.

Inhaling deeply, he closed his eyes, averted his head slightly before opening them again and saw a near life sized photograph of her on the wall. It was a black and white print from the waist up. She was wearing some white fuzzy sweater which hugged her body in a real good way. Her hair was pulled back starkly from her face, leaving those strong features unframed. Her cheeks held some of the roundness of youth, not yet developed into the current angular structure that lent her profile a regal aspect.She was unsmiling.

"You know what I miss about living in the city?" there was an uncharacteristic wistful tone in her voice.

"What?" he asked absently. There was something about that picture that niggled at the back of his head.

"The stars. I once went camping with some friends near Alice Spring in Australia, and I was blown away by the amazing clarity of the night sky there. It looked like midnight velvet with diamonds carelessly strewn over it. I actually pulled my bedroll out of the tent and just lay back staring at the sky for the three nights that we were there, falling asleep with the stars all shining on me."

"A star shines on you daily."

"Come again?" she came back inside to stand beside him, watching as he studied her portrait. She brought with her the scent of cool, rain-laced wind, mingled with the perfume she spritzed on in the morning and her own unique smell. He felt a little dizzy.

"The sun is a star. If you go out in the day, you have a star shining on you too," he said. Her lips quirked up in a slight smile at his reply. He felt like kicking himself. She knew he's a geek, he didn't need to confirm it for her. She aligned herself beside him, cocking her head to the side as she looked at the picture on the wall.

"What do you think?" she gestured at the picture.

"It's beautiful."

She leveled him a look from under her lashes. It was a devastating glance designed to slay men right where they stood. He had to lock his knees just to stay upright.

"That was my best memory from my modelling days. It was taken by Klaus Hinger, a really famous fashion photographer."

"Never heard of him," he could feel the sweat trickling down his back and beading on his upper lip.

"I'm not surprised. Besides, he's already dead. An argument with a jealous boy toy that went south." She moved away from him and fiddled with a remote on the table. Norah Jones' dulcet croon emanated from hidden speakers.

"Norah Jones? Really? Isn't it a little cliched?" he folded his arms. She widened her eyes innocently, laughter sparkling in her eyes and shrugged. No wonder she's got a whole battalion of former boyfriends; that faux innocence was really something.

"It usually works. Personally, I prefer Dave Gahan's growl to her saccharine mellowness, but ..."

"Don't go there. I like Depeche Mode too and I don't want you to spoil it for me," his growl could have matched the band front man's bass-y baritone.

She met his gaze levelly and leaned closer to him. Her soft hand trailed up his forearm. He didn't know the inner part of his elbow was so sensitive. Without breaking eye contact, she stepped right into his personal space and pressed that incredible body against him. She was tall for a woman, and her lips only reached his collarbone, against which she pressed her pillowy mouth in random scattering. She gripped his biceps with a surprising amount of force; she's a lot stronger than she appeared.

"I won't spoil it for you. In fact, the next time you listen to DM, you'll be enjoying some excellent memories, I promise," she purred. Her hot breath feathered his throat, raising goosebumps. Her scent reminded him of the sundal malam flowers that blossomed in the night outside his grandmother's window, spiced with her heat. Desire flowed from the top of his head, heating the back of his neck and the soldier between his legs stood up and saluted. Her firm and rounded breasts teased his pecs, a thigh sinuously rubbed against the vee of his braced legs.

For a while, there was only the sound of their rough cast breathing and Ms. Jones' mellow voice in the apartment. Her hand crept under his shirt to trace his back, tongues of flame following each stroke. He couldn't think, could only stood there with his feet apart like a soldier standing at attention while she explored with her lips and hot hands. His own hands were not exactly holding her away, and he discovered the lithe curves draped by her clothes. She tasted like heat and the zing of the coriander that flavoured her dinner.

"C'mon. My room is just over there," she murmured, linking her hand with his, tugging him. The slight space gave him the much needed reprieve from her drugging scent and his head cleared slightly. He hasn't panted this hard since the nature run his pal conned him into entering.

"Where's your DVD collection?" his voice was a hoarse rasp. He's so going to regret this later.

"What?" she found out that she couldn't tug him along when he planted his feet.

"You DVD collection. You're in advertising; with all the product placement Hollywood has going now, I bet you have a great selection to watch as homework." It felt like his dick was staging a sit-in protest in his pants but he vowed that this time, the larger head was going to take control.

"I don't believe this. You want to watch a movie? Now?" she was incensed, her cheeks flushed as she gritted those words through clenched teeth.

He disentangled himself from her limbs and blindly wandered over to where her television was mounted on the wall. There was a ______________ and he pawed open the door to a selection of DVDs and Blu-Ray disks that would make any illegal DVD seller jealous. He randomly picked a disk and pulled it out.

"It's been ages since I've watched ... Pride and Prejudice?" he squinted at the cover. "Hell no." And went back pawing through her disks. He could feel her fuming behind him but he searched determinedly until he unearthed Hot Fuzz.

She marched to the front door with an angry swish to her hips. Furious fingers stabbed the code on the panel and she jerked the door open.

"Get out," her voice was chillingly low.

"No. You offered me a drink earlier. I'll take whatever soft drink you've got. Or tap water," he fumbled the disk cover open and inserted it into her Blu-Ray player. It whirred softly and he turned on the television.

"I'm not giving you a drink or anything at all. I want you to get out of my house. Right. Now." Her fury was almost palpable.

"No. You asked me for a favour. Whether you like it or not, I'm up here and I'm gonna do exactly that." They glared at each other over the expanse of her living room.

"Well, I don't need you to do me any favours now, so just go," she crossed her arms under those fantastic breasts and his pecs mourned the loss of contact. He debated with himself for the right words and decided to just get on with it.

"You don't need a boink tonight," he said bluntly. "What you need is a friend. Did you think nobody noticed  how your eyes were fixed on Huda's engagement ring for the whole day? I know there's something else going on. You're going to tell me what it is, we'll hash it out and then have a good time watching Nick Frost and Simon Pegg shoot up the English countryside."

"There's nothing going on and there's nothing wrong with a girl admiring another girl's engagement ring. that damned thing was at least one and a half carat of Cartier's finest, and ..." her face crumpled at the last word. Oh God. The monsoon has arrived.

He walked swiftly towards her as the fat sobs escaped her. With one hand he shoved the door close and the other embraced her. Her knees gave way and he lifted her up like he did his niece when she tripped at the playground and he sat with her on his lap on the plush sofa. His erection took some time to get down; her splotchy face and hiccupy tears notwithstanding, that world class ass was *on his lap*. He ain't dead, for God's sake.

She cried like her world was ending. He rubbed her back in circles and made the crooning noise that never failed to calm his nieces and sisters when they were on a crying jag. His  t-shirt was soaked by her tears. He saw a box of tissue at the end table and reached over to snag it.

"You want some?" he waved the box in the vicinity of her head. She blindly reached out, grabbed a few and began blowing her nose noisily.

She'd reached the end of her crying jag and pushed herself off to sit next to him on the sofa, with her legs still draped over him. "Gimme a minute," she mumbled and went off to where presumably the bathroom was located. He heard water run for a minute and then silence. The night wind coming in from the open sliding door blew cool on his torso; he forgot that his t-shirt was wet.

She returned to the living room in an oversized sweat shirt that hid her curves completely and a tatty pair of shorts that showcased her fantastic legs. She gave him an uncharacteristically shy glance and walked past him to the kitchen.

"Turn on the dvd," she called to him. He could hear some clanging, the fridge opening and closing, a cabinet. Was she extracting a cleaver to use on him? he wondered irreverently. For a short while, he reconsidered his idiocy for turning her offer down, but he knew that he couldn't live with himself if he did say yes. He leaned back on the plush sofa and exhaled. Oh well.

She reappeared with two chilled bottles of Bundaberg root beer and  large packet of fried keropok ikan tamban and emping melinjau. This woman knows her snack. Without a word, she handed him a bottle slippery with condensation and plopped next to him on the couch, the crunchy titbits between them.

They spent the next two hours giggling madly at Simon Pegg and Nick Frost's antics on screen, decimating the large bags of snack between the two of them with a short break while he scrounged for cold water and glasses to quench their mutual thirst. As the credits rolled, they both leaned back on the sofa. He reached over for the remote and turned off the tv.

"So ... " he twirled the remote in a complicated move over and over. She couldn't stop staring at his long fingers nimbly manipulating the plastic piece. It was evident that he's a man who worked with his hands; there were nicks that had whitened with time all over the back of his hands and she recalled with great pleasure the roughened tips on her skin. She caught her absorbed reverie and busied herself picking up the remnants of their late night snacking. When she rose to her feet to bring all the garbage to the kitchen, he snagged her wrist.

How could a man have such long, curly lashes? she marveled. It's not fair that she needed the assistance of Ms. Revlon and an industrial strength eyelash curler to get a similar effect. She thought that his eyes are the common brown of most Malay men, but somehow the light above his head captured slivers of crystalline amber flecks in those dark depths.

"Sit," he invited softly, pulling all the garbage from her unresisting hands and dumping them on the floor beside the sofa. To her mortification, she flopped gracelessly beside him, her wrist still imprisoned by his implacable hand. They stared at each other for a long time, synchronising their breathing as the moment played out.

"You want to tell me what happened?" he asked quietly. She broke away from his gaze and stared down at her lap, her hair having escaped the claw she used to secure the topknot swung brushing her cheeks.

"I ... used to date Huda's fiance," she began reluctantly. But once she started, it all poured out. The euphoria of finding someone who hit all the sweet spots, the dreams and fantasies that she wove around him, the pain of the fall, everything. It was like lancing an old suppurating wound. She didn't realise that her tears began to fall again until she felt him gently blotting her cheeks with tissue paper.

"There you are, all the horrible and pathetic story like you wanted," she gave him a watery grin and blew her nose. She'll need a decongestant tomorrow with all the crying she did tonight.

"That son of a bitch."

She looked at him closer at the low growl he emitted, which had a similar texture to the cough of a tiger in the forest. His incredible eyes were flashing with anger, much to her surprise.

"He had no right to treat you like that," his hands knotted into formidable fists.

She shrugged, "Well, he wanted someone who can save him, apparently. You should have seen his face when he told me, as gently as he could, that he cannot picture introducing me to his mom. I mean, talk about a blow to the old ego."

"Wait, what? Save him?"

"You know the old chestnut. A good woman for a good man, and vice versa? That one should look for a spouse who will guide one to Paradise?"

He stared at her like she'd grown another head.

"No. You got that wrong. He got it wrong," he stared into her eyes, one hand gripping the back of the sofa behind her head. He closed his eyes and opened them again on an exhale.

"You don't need to be saved by anyone," he said quietly. "You will save yourself. You don't need him to get to Paradise. You'll get there on your own merit. The Quran says that we are all responsible for our own deeds, good and bad. No one will be punished for the transgression of others. God is kind. He is just. So the idea that your spouse is going to save you is an idiotic one. Forget it."

"But ... that's what all those ustaz and ustazah has been teaching us since way back when ..." she couldn't hide her bewilderment.

"No.They got it wrong. Read the Quran. All this nonsense stems from some fabricated hadith that said that women led men to go to hell. It's wrong. Don't believe it," his conviction resonated with her. He was so close in his urgency to convince her that his scent, male and delicious, permeated her senses.

"I am sorry that the bastard hurt you for no good reason. I am sorry that he will hurt Huda too with this nonsense idea. But really, heaven or hell is nobody's judgement but God. I know that there are people who say that paradise is under the husband's feet, but that's bullshit too."

"You're saying that all the things that the preachers taught us about marriage and relationship is wrong?" she was skeptical.

"I'm saying that we should go back to the Quran and stop listening to rubbish. God would never punish you for someone else's sins; that was promised in the Quran. And if you are evil, you will go to Hell for it, no escape if you didn't repent. That's also in the Quran. Anything else is rubbish. Men have used religion for their own purpose for years. It's convenient for them to make women feel bad."

"Golly. You're a feminist," her eyes were wide with wonder. He snorted and leaned back, taking away all that delightful scent much to her sorrow.

"I lived with seven women in the house. You think I can get away with things just cause I'm a guy?" he laughed. "My Mom taught me that women are just as good as men. I've seen so many families that are held together by the womenfolk because the men dropped the ball on responsibility. And I've read too much to believe nonsense ideas shoved down our gullet that made women somehow lesser just because of their gender. Is that being a feminist? I don't know."

His grin really transformed his face, she thought. If taken individually his features may seem harsh and older, but his smile changed it completely. She was still trying to wrap her mind around the idea (....) but his physique kinda distracted her brain. Here was a man who actually said no to her advances, and had the cheek to invite himself over for a movie and made her spill her guts out, telling him things that she'd never said to anyone before.

"Tell me more about this weird feministic ideas of yours," she said, and pulled her legs up to sit tailor-style on the sofa. To her surprise, she enjoyed listening to his philosophy and ideas about religion and people and a host of other things. He was articulate and thoughtful, and explained the things she didn't understand without making her feel stupid about it. The conversation meandered on over a variety of topic. She couldn't remember the last time she had such a fun time just talking to a man.

He yawned widely, cracking his jaws. His eyes widened when he looked at his watch. "Damn. It's almost 4 a.m. I better get a move on."

She stayed him with a touch on his forearms. "It's super late. Or rather, super early. And you're sleepy. Better not risk driving home right now. Just sleep now and go back later in the morning. I'll get you some pillows and stuff."

"You sure?" he yawned again. He has really excellent teeth, she couldn't see any dental filling on any of his molars, that was how wide he yawned.

"I'll get you an extra toothbrush. I got loads of 'em from the airlines," she rose and went to her room to get them. She had only just realised how sleepy she was too. She took a couple of spare pillows and a duvet from the closet and dug out a pack of disposable toothbrush and toothpaste from Etihad.

When she came out again, he was guzzling the last of the water on the table. She plumped up the pillows and placed them neatly at one end of the sofa. He eyed it with some skepticism.

"Do you mind if I just bunk on the floor? I don't think the sofa is long enough for me," he matched it with action by spreading the duvet on the carpet to the side of the couch and plopped the pillows on it haphazardly.

"I ... guess it's okay. Let me get you another blanket," she said.

"No need. I'm a warm guy, I don't usually sleep with covers anyway. It's all good. The bathroom's that way, right?" he pointed to the powder room door. She nodded distractedly as he picked up the toothbrush pack and walked towards it.

"Well. Good night. Or morning." Why on earth was she flustered?

He stopped in front of the open door of the powder room, half turned towards her with that impish smile. "Yeah. Night," and closed the door behind him.

She crawled under her fluffy duvet and thought about the man settling down to sleep outside. He wasn't the first man to sleep in her apartment platonically, but he was definitely the first to do so after being invited for more. She closed her eyes and fell asleep to visions of wicked smiles and amber flecked eyes speaking to her wordlessly.

Faithlessness

Note: This is a first draft that is a part of a longer story. Drafts posted may (is definitely) not be in sequence.

The cool air from the airconditioner wafted over her nudity, but the chill didn't bother her. The darkened room was quiet, punctuated by the hum of the climate control system and his faint but steady snore. She pulled her knees up and rested her chin on the knobby protrusion of her joint. There was a gap between her curtains, the lights of the city twinkling beyond the glass like stationary fireflies.

Next to her ______ slept on. He was what the Cosmo sex quiz called a flopper, often falling unconscious almost immediately after sex. There were a few times when she had to push him off, the muscled frame a hefty weight that can suffocate an unwary lover. He was sprawled on over half of the bed, the twisted sheets half drawn to his chest.

She shifted her position to study him. He was a long one, reaching 6 feet in his socks, wide of shoulder, strong of limb. He was fond of pitting himself against others physically; be it tennis, racquetball, football or volleyball, and it honed his muscles to an athletic toughness that was attractive underneath his clothes. Tanned from the outdoors, his inner thighs and buttocks were pale, indicating his northern Indian ancestry. His eyelids were closed, dense, long lashes sweeping the high bones of his cheeks. Puffs of air escaped his parted lips, exposing the edge of his straight, white teeth.

Such a pretty, pretty man.

Such a lousy, lousy man.

Unconsciously she rubbed the center of her chest. The pain had subsided long ago, but sometimes its echoes caught her unaware, making her eyes burn from the force of holding back her tears. She didn't quite know why he's back where he was on her bed, she knew that it's temporary, nothing with him ever lasted. It felt odd to be physically sated, her body languourous from the multiple orgasms he'd enthusiastically wrung out of her; but the wheels of her mind focussed with brutal clarity on the deep unspoken anger within.

She swung her legs off the bed and made her way to the bathroom. All jets on. The water was hot and steaming, almost stinging her tender skin. She squirted a generous amount of soap on the loofah and briskly scrubbed herself, paying scrupulous attention to remove every trace of his touch on her flesh. She shampooed her hair twice and used the leave in serum to condition the long locks. She brushed her teeth vigorously and gargled with the mouthwash.

She exited the bathroom clad in a robe and turned on all the lights in the bedroom. She ignored his sleepy protests, extracted underpants, a sweat pants and a t shirt. The design on the front of the shirt has faded, but it's soft and comforting and she needed all the comfort she can get right then.

"Wassup?" he mumbled, bracing himself on his elbows, squinting against the brightness. He blinked blearily at the sight of her dressed and yawned so wide, his jaws popped. His position threw all those lovely muscles into stark relief, presenting a pretty tableau. Italian masters would kill to sculpt him, she thought dispassionately.

"It's time for you to go. Thanks for dropping by," she said, standing beside the open door pointedly.

He licked his lips at how the soft cotton clung to her damp skin. He sat up and patted the place on the bed next to him invitingly with a smile. "What about a second round? Let me make you scream in ecstasy a few times more."

She didn't return his smile. "No, thanks. I need to sleep and I want you to go right now."

"C'mon," he started to cajole but her stiff posture told him that his efforts would be to no avail. He sighed and clambered off the bed.

"Fine," he said with a huff, raising a hand in her direction in surrender and made his way to the bathroom. Behind the closed door she could hear the toilet being flushed and the shower running. She picked up his clothes that were strewn all over the room and dumped them on the bed. The clothes that she wore earlier were collected with the rest of her laundry and she took them to the washer. The load wasn't full but once the bed linens were added later, she can start the wash cycle.

She turned on the television and flipped the channels randomly, finally settling in for HBO. Some action movie was on, there were explosions aplenty but oddly no gore. Leaving the characters to fight out their differences on screen, she returned to the kitchen and nuked a mug of water with an Earl Grey bag in it. Her grandmother would be appalled at the tea desecration, but she wanted something hot now and did not want to wait for the kettle to boil. She took her mug to the breakfast counter and pulled the sugar container closer to her seat.

"Kicking me out, eh?" his voice was low, the quiet inflection hiding a wealth of unsaid emotions. She stirred her tea desultorily, pulling out the tea bag and throwing it into the sink in an expert overhand toss. The soggy bag landed with a dull splat.

"Yup. Thanks for scratching my itch. Don't let the door hit you on the way out," she sipped the hot brew meditatively. He dressed back in the ____________ and ___________ that he wore earlier in the evening. Although crumpled, he still looked like he just stepped out of a fashion spread.

He said nothing and leaned on the counter facing her, studying her nonchalance. But when she raised her eyes, he dropped his gaze, his cheeks ruddy with embarrassment. Sounds of gunfire from the television set broke the silence.

"Are you going to tell Alena?" he asked, seemingly fascinated by the grain of the granite table top, hands stuffed in his pockets. His feet were bare, she suspect the bulge in his left pocket to be his socks.

"No," she said, taking another sip. "What happened here has nothing to do with her."

He exhaled audibly, shifting his weight slightly and nodded. "Thank you."

"No need to thank me. I like her and I don't want to hurt her. It's bad enough that she'll marry an asshole like you, I don't need to compound things," she rose, mug in hand to flop on the overstuffed couch in front of the television. Her eyes appeared to be watching the screen but she took in nothing, her inward gaze hiding her feelings.

He moved closer to her but kept his distance. The keys in his pocket jiggled, betraying his agitation. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"I hurt you. I ... didn't mean to. But we just ..." his shoulder jerked, his toes clenching the deep weave of her black and white rug.

"Yeah, I got it. I'm not gonna be the woman who'll guide you to Paradise," her voice was heavy with sarcasm.

"It's not you ... I ... need her. She  ..." he appeared to be casting around for words. "She makes me a better man. She makes me want to be better. It's easy with you, but it's not the same."

"Yeah, a good woman for a good man and vice versa. Does she know that you're not a good man?" her right brow arched disdainfully. Did you not know I once harboured hopes that you will be the one to lead me to Paradise? Did you not know I once hung my dreams of a life together into old age on you? Did you know and did not care anyway? Did you?

He reddened again and said nothing.

"So, what now?" he asked.

"You go home and do whatever you want. Me, I'm going to be hanging out with your fiancee tomorrow and making a mural."

He flinched.

"You don't have to worry. I'm not going to blab to anyone about your lapse tonight. We'll pretend it didn't happen, just a time out of time. Consider it a send off. Vaya con dios," she fluttered the hand not holding the mug.

He knew her well enough that there's nothing else to say. He was relieved in some ways, wretched in others. But he was grateful that she's giving him a way out of a potentially sticky situation and decided to leave before he shoved his foot deeper into his gullet. With a polite nod in her direction, he made his way to the entrance hall, slipping on his trainers. He closed the door quietly and left.

She rose from the sofa, abandoning her tea and opened the door to the balcony. The night air was chilly even during the hot season at the elevation of her apartment. She leaned against the cold ballustrade and looked down at the empty streets. A growly engine coughed and she could see his Cheyenne leaving the parking of her apartment. The brake lights lit once when he approached the intersection and the vehicle disappeared around the corner.

Her eyes were painfully dry as she raised her gaze to the moonless sky. She was like the Alison Moyet song, all cried out. Inside she felt hollow. Maybe she no longer have a heart, if everyone who left her took a piece along with them. He was just another man in a long series of men who left. Men always left. From her father, to Jake, and down to him, they all left. There will be another man, she knew. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but there will be another man who will come into her life, and leave again when it suits them.

The brightness of the city lights obscured the stars, just like how her smiles hid her fragmented heart. She made a moue at her sentimentality and went back inside, closing the door firmly on all her hopes and dreams of making a life with someone else.

Malam minggu yang bosan

Aku menghela nafas lega setelah habis memuat naik ke pelayan tugasan terakhirku. Tetikusku menari-nari sambil aku memeriksa kesemua pautan pada laman web pelangganku dan mungkin aku masuk lif picit sendiri (dan sememangnya pun!) tapi semua kulihat elok dan sempurna. Komputerku di"tidur"kan dengan beberapa klik tetikus; cukuplah kerja untuk malam ini.

Angin malam membawa kehangatan seminggu tanpa hujan di ibu kota. Kipas silingku berputar bak gasing tapi tidak melegakan. Malam ini saja sudah dua kali aku membasahkan tubuhku; sekali lagi dan kulitku akan menyamai tangan nyonya si penjual tofu di pasar Chow Kit; kembang tapi berkedut.

Aku ke dapur menjengah peti ais. Buat beberapa ketika aku menyamankan diriku dengan hawa dari kotak pembeku. Aiskrim yang aku beli kelmarin telah tamat riwayatnya. Mendengus, aku tutup kembali pintu peti ais dan melangkah ke sofa.

Aku kutip buku terbaru Lee Child yang telah aku habiskan dan cuba mencari mukasurat yang aku sukai, cuba untuk memendam keresahan yang merengsa di bawah permukaan kulitku ini. Di luar, sang bulan membentuk sfera yang hampir penuh. Aku tahu yang keresahan ini akan hilang sekiranya aku keluar berburu, tapi aku seakan malas untuk ke Bukit Gasing atau Klang Gate untuk melepaskan diriku yang sebenar.

Telingaku menangkap bait-bait sebuah lagu rock yang dilapiskan dengan unsur-unsur jazz. Aku memejamkan mata, mengatur nafasku seperti yang diajar di kelas yoga, membiarkan aku dilenakan oleh keindahan muzik itu. Tamat lagu itu, rentaknya berubah ke sebuah lagu bossa nova. Aku suka.

Bingkas, aku bangun dan ke bilik, menukar pakaian dan mencapai dompet serta iPhoneku yang usang. Kedua-duanya ku sorongkan ke kocek seluar kargoku. Aku melangkah keluar, koridor rumah sewa ku suram dan sunyi. Kunci rumahku masuk ke satu lagi kocek. Inilah sebabnya aku suka seluar kargo; semua poketnya berguna.

Aku mengatur langkah di bahu jalan, menyusuri pelbagai kenderaan dari motosikal kapchai hingga ke model Volkswagon yang terbaru. Tidak ramai yang menyedari lorong-lorong belakang di ibu kota ni boleh jadi sesunyi perumahan sub-bandar selepas jam 12. Kerancakan aktiviti malam kotaraya ini hanya kelihatan setelah aku memasuki jalan besar yang menaungi pelbagai kelab, disko, restoran dan bar.

Sinar neon melimpah menerangi pelbagai jenis manusia di jalan yang terkenal dengan pelbagai pusat hiburan. Aku menuju ke Jim's, sebuah pub tidak jauh dari rumah sewaku. Kelab itu bukan pusat tumpuan anak-anak muda yang ingin melihat dan dilihat. Jim adalah tempat kegemaran para pekerja asing (jenis expatriate kulit putih, bukan yang sawo matang dan gelap likat yang kerja pembinaan) syarikat minyak dan gas yang tidak jauh daripada situ.

Sebaik sahaja aku membuka pintu Jim's, hidungku yang sensitif diserang asap rokok dan bau pelbagai jenis alkohol yang dihidangkan di situ. Aku mengerut hidung dan menarik nafas cetek, dengan harapan agar hidungku segera terbiasa dengan pencemaran udara di bar itu. Dindingnya berpanel kayu dan disinari lampu sorot kemalapan kecuali di kawasan pentas, menyinari seorang lelaki kulit hitam yang tegap memetik tali double bassnya dengan penuh khusyuk dan nikmat, manik-manik di penghujung tocangnya yang berdozen berklik dengan pergerakan kepalanya. Jim's saling tak ubah persis bar-bar lama yang pernah ku lawati di Eropah.

Aku menuju ke kawasan bar dan mencari sebuah kerusi untuk melabuhkan punggungku. Pelayan bar malam ini adalah Jim sendiri, seorang lelaki British yang sudah melangkaui pertengahan abad. Dia datang ke Malaysia sebagai seorang juruukur untuk sebuah syarikat perladangan gergasi pada tahun 60'an, jatuh cinta dengan seorang wanita tempatan dan hanya pulang ke England dua kali setahun (sekali untuk harijadi ibunya dan sekali lagi untuk Hari Natal) sehinggalah kematian ibunya - selepas itu Jim tidak lagi menjejak kaki ke tanah kelahirannya.

Kepalanya yang licin merah berkilat di bawah sorotan lampu di belakang bar. Dia mengangguk ke arah ku dan menuang air soda yang diperah sepotong lemon sebelum menjatuhkan hirisan itu ke dalam gelas. Ais di dalamnya berbunyi riang apabila berlaga dengan dinding kaca gelas itu. Semangkuk kacang juga diletak di hadapanku.

"Lama tak nampak," sapa Jim sambil mengelap permukaan bar di sebelahku.

"Malas nak keluar," jawabku. Aku meneguk air soda yang dingin dan masam itu, habis dengan sekali hirup. Jim menambah air soda ku dan menambah satu lagi hirisan lemon. Kali ini aku menghirup minumanku dengan lebih perlahan-lahan.

"Nasib kau baik. Setengah jam lagi Freddy akan naik pentas," kata Jim. Freddy yang dimaksudkan ialah Freddy Ganesan. Dia merupakan penyanyi utama untuk sebuah cover band yang mengkhusus kepada muzik Queen. Nama asal Freddy ialah Prabakaran Ganesan; tapi setelah mengambil persona arwah Freddy Mercury, dia hanya menjawab apabila dipanggil Freddy.

Aku memang suka Queen dan Freddy dan rakan-rakannya mengalunkan lagu-lagu Queen dengan baik. Memang nasib aku baik malam ini.

"Donna tak ada malam ni?" Selalunya isteri Jim akan duduk di suatu ceruk dengan komputer ribanya, menyelesaikan buku kira-kira perniagaan Jim dan juga dirinya. Donna Liew-Coleridge adalah seorang akauntan bertauliah yang pernah berkhidmat dengan PWC; dia kini menjalankan pekhidmatan setiausaha syarikat dan pengauditan kewangan untuk syarikat-syarikat kecil dan sederhana.

"Tak. Maureen turun KL jadi dua beradik tu ada rancangan sendiri pada malam ini," kata Jim. Aku mengangguk dan kembali meneguk minuman ku. Sang pemain double bass sudah mengakhiri persembahannya dan tunduk menerima tepukan daripada pelanggan-pelanggan yang ada.

"Satu lagi wiski," minta pelanggan yang baru mendekati bar di sebelahku. Jim bergerak ke arah tempat botol alkohol keras tersusun untuk menjawab permintaan pelanggan yang mengambil tempat di sebelah tempat duduk aku. Aku tertangkap pandangannya dan terpaksa menjawab senyuman yang dilemparkannya. Bukankah rakyat Malaysia harus peramah orangnya?

"Hai," dia menyapa. Rambutnya yang perang kemerahan didandan gaya faux 'hawk yang popular di kalangan lelaki muda kini. Orangnya tinggi dan susuk tubuhnya yang dibaluti kemeja kotak-kotak yang dibuat daripada kain kapas nipis kekar berotot, kakinya yang panjang disarungi seluar jeans biru muda.

"Selalu datang ke sini?" dia mengalihkan tubuhnya untuk menghadap aku.

"Kalau lapang," aku mengusik gelas minumanku. Matanya hijau bak daun pisang muda, bundar dan dilapisi dengan bulu mata yang sangat lebat, membuatkan dia kelihatan seakan-akan memakai celak. Dia menghulurkan tangan kanannya untuk berjabat dan aku sambut. Orang Amerika memang suka genggam tangan orang dan goncang kuat-kuat bila berjabat tangan. Aku memendam keinginan untuk meramas tangannya dan membuatkan dia meraung. Aku harimau; aku lebih baik daripada itu. Telapak tangannya lebar dan hangat, dilapisi kematu. Ini orang yang kerjanya memerlukan kudrat.

"Awak orang tempatan ke?" aku tercium bau wiski dan bir pada nafasnya. Nampaknya wiski yang dipesannya bukanlah gelas pertama untuknya malam ini. Aku mengangguk, tanganku yang dijabatnya ke mangkuk kacang, mengutip beberapa butir untuk masuk ke mulutku.

"Pertama kali ke Kuala Lumpur?" tanyaku sambil mengunyah. Pertengahan minggu ini kacang yang dihidang masih lagi rangup. Aku mengalihkan tubuhku untuk menghadap dia, memudahkan aku untuk menjamu mata. Mat saleh bukanlah jenis yang aku gemari, tapi yang ini boleh tahan kacaknya.

Dia mengangguk dengan penuh semangat, wiskinya yang baru tiba terus hinggap ke bibir. Aku rasa dia ini jenis pemabuk yang ceria; kalau kau kena lepak dengan orang mabuk, jenis yang macam ini paling menyenangkan jiwa. Kalau macam Desmond, bukan hanya kau akan rasa nak bunuh dia, tapi juga nak bunuh diri kerana dia sungguh depressing bila mabuk. Tapi kalau macam Chula pun susah juga; dia mabuk lepas tu asyik nak cari gaduh.

"Bagaimana dengan cuaca di sini? Boleh tahan?" aku memberi isyarat kepada Jim untuk memesan sandwic. Perutku berbunyi lagi walaupun aku telah makan malam pukul 8 tadi.

"Takde masalah," jawabnya sambil tertawa. "Sesiapa yang pernah bekerja di Williston pada bulan Julai dah tak hairan lagi dengan kepanasan. Tapi, ambil masa juga untuk tahan kelembapan di sini."

Memang aku perasan ramai orang asing yang tak pernah duduk dekat dengan garisan Khatulistiwa sering akan merungut pasal kelembapan di sini. Tapi elok lagi lembap dan hangat di sini daripada hangat dan kering macam yang aku pernah rasa bulan Ogos di New Mexico. Sebulan setengah aku di sana, hari-hari aku nyaris dilemaskan oleh darah yang mengalir keluar dari lubang hidungku yang comel. Menderita!

"Williston tu di mana? Awak buat apa di sana?" rasa ingin tahuku tercuit. Walaupun dia bergaya seperti seseorang yang biasa dengan gaya dan fesyen di kota besar, tapi telapak tangannya memberikan cerita lain. Bahunya lebar dan berotot, lengannya di bawah lipatan lengan bajunya persis lengan seorang buruh kontraktor pembinaan.

Pelancong Amerika itu menyambut buka bicaraku, memperkenalkan dirinya sebagai Evan, seorang wildcatter yang berasal daripada New Jersey. Dia menganggur hampir dua tahun selepas mendapat ijazah Kesusasteraan Inggeris daripada New York University, angan-angannya untuk menjadi penulis ruangan pojok yang disindiket ke seluruh negara musnah bila berhadapan dengan realiti alam pekerjaan dan kemerunduman penerbitan akhbar di Amerika Syarikat. Nasibnya berubah setelah berjumpa dengan seorang saudara fraternitinya yang bekerja di salah satu telaga minyak di Dakota Utara. Mendengar cerita bagaimana dia boleh mendapat hampir seratus ribu dolar setahun bekerja di telaga minyak, Evan menjual permainan video dan komik yang dikumpulnya sejak berusia belasan tahun; duitnya digunakan untuk membeli peralatan berkhemah dan makanan kering. Kesemua miliknya itu disumbat di dalam sebuah trak pikap yang dulunya milik datuknya dan dia pun memulakan pengembaraannya di Dakota Utara.

"Sekarang ni awak jadi koboi minyak lah?"

Evan tertawa. Dalam dia asyik bercerita riwayat hidupnya padaku, sudah tiga lagi gelas wiski diteguknya. Melihat sandwic tuna lapan lapis aku, dia pun membuat pesanan yang sama. Pingganku sudah licin, tapi sandwicnya masih lagi ada separuh.

"Lebih kurang. Dah lama saya asyik bercerita pasal saya saja. Awak pula? Apa yang awak buat di kota yang hebat ni?" dia mengangkat sepotong sandwic yang digigitnya dengan giginya yang putih teratur.

"Saya pereka laman web," jawabku dengan ringkas. Aku memerhatikan rahangnya yang bersatah bergerak sambil dia mengunyah.

"Kenapa awak pilih untuk datang bercuti ke Malaysia?" tanyaku.

"Mula-mulanya saya ke Bangkok untuk bercuti dua minggu lepas. Awak pernah pergi ke Angkor Wat? Saya ingat tempat tu besar macam yang kita tengok dalam filem Lara Croft tu, tapi sebenarnya taklah besar sangat." dia tertawa.

"Rasanya bukan semua kompleks Angkor Wat tu dah dibaik pulih dan dibuka untuk pelawat," jawabku berdiplomasi. Dia ni sesat kah, dari Bangkok tapi melawat Siem Reap? Atau fail geografi?

"Dan saya sedih pasal tak ada pun patung dewata tu yang terbang," tertawanya lagi. Memang sah mamat ni dah mabuk betul.

Bunyi feedback daripada pembesar suara membingit, menarik perhatianku ke arah pentas kecil yang diduduki pemain double bass tadi. Rupa-rupanya sambil aku berbual dengan mat saleh Amerika ini, Freddy dan rakan-rakannya telah tiba dan menyusun peralatan mereka.

"Tuan-tuan dan puan-puan, inilah - Freddy and the Gang!" umum Jim. Pelanggan-pelanggan yang ada memberikan tepukan yang sambil lewa sambil Freddy mengambil tempat di pentas.

Malam ini Freddy mengenakan seluar sukan putih dengan kasut dan singlet sedondon yang pernah digayakan oleh arwah En. Mercury. Kumisnya disisir rapi, rambutnya yang hitam dan tebal diminyak dan disikat sebiji seperti idolanya itu. Dia memulakan set dengan I was Born to Love You. Lagu tu kegemaran aku sejak darjah dua lagi (ya, aku dah tua!).

"Awak nak menari?"

Keasyikan aku terganggu dengan soalan itu. Evan sudah menghabiskan makanannya dan berdiri tercegat di sebelah aku, sebelah tangannya dihulur, tapak ke atas, dalam isyarat mempelawa yang universal. Aku termangu sebentar; tak pernah aku menari di Jim's.

"Awak nampak suka betul dengan lagu ni. Marilah kita menari," ajaknya lagi. Aku menggelengkan kepala, melihat ketidakstabilan cara dia berdiri. Silap haribulan, dia pening menari lepas tu muntah atas aku. Oh, tidak.

"Tak apalah. Saya cuma suka dengar, saya tak menari," aku terpaksa meninggikan suaraku kerana lagu itu telah sampai ke bahagian gitar elektrik yang mendesing. Evan kembali melabuhkan punggungnya di sebelahku sambil menarik wajah pura-pura merajuk. Alahai, orang dah dewasa kalau merajuk buruk rupanya, bang. Dia memesan lagi wiski daripada Jim dan kembali menghirup minuman kerasnya.

Aku tidak menghiraukan pelancong Amerika itu dan terus menikmati persembahan Freddy dan kugirannya. Setelah habis set kedua, aku terperasan yang Evan telah lama diam. Aku pun menoleh ke tepi, tapi tidak ternampak dia lagi. Ada sesuatu di penjuru mataku membuatkan aku merendahkan pandangan. Rupa-rupanya Evan sudah tersepuk di kaki bar, matanya terpejam. Nasib baik pelanggan di Jim's tidak berapa ramai malam ini; tiada siapa yang terseradung dengan kakinya yang terjulur tak bertulang itu. Bila Freddy habis memainkan Tie Your Mother Down, telingaku dapat menangkap dengkuran halus dari mulutnya yang ternganga sedikit.

"Jim, ada orang dah pengsan," kataku kepada Jim yang sedang mengelap gelas.


"Biarlah. Aku akan kejutkan dia bila nak tutup kedai nanti," kata Jim, acuh tak acuh. Mungkin pemandangan sekujur tubuh berdengkur di lantai pubnya bukan sesuatu yang baru padanya.

Aku duduk mendengar lagi empat lagu yang dialunkan oleh Freddy sebelum rasa gelisahku kembali lagi. Aku menyeluk saku, mengeluarkan beberapa keping not merah yang aku tinggalkan di atas bar. Jim yang sedang berdiri di hujung bar berborak dengan seorang pelanggan lain mengangkat tangan kepadaku apabila aku membuka pintu untuk keluar.

Suasana di kaki lima masih lagi hingar bingar dengan khalayak yang masih lagi memburu hiburan pada malam minggu ini. Aku berdiri sebentar, menghirup udara dan memeriksa iPhoneku untuk sebarang pesanan. Hanya mesej minta nyawa Candy Crush daripada beberapa rakanku. Ah, kalau nak menang sangat, bayar saja lah, rungutku dalam hati dan menyimpan semula tali pusat elektronik itu.

Aku kembali ke jalan besar, memerhatikan kerencaman masyarakat yang masih lagi berpeleseran di tengah kotaraya mega ini. Di seberang jalan ada beberapa kumpulan "anak ikan" berlegar-legar di pintu hadapan kelab gay yang paling popular masa ini. Kesemuanya kelihatan seperti mereka lahir daripada makmal yang sama mengeluarkan bintang K-pop androgini yang digilai ramai mutakhir ini: kulit licin bak telur dikupas, mata yang bundar digaris dengan celak, bibir mungil bak delima merekah, rambut pelbagai warna yang dibentuk styling products seperti ekor merak dicabai.

Salah seorang daripada spesis itu melangkah keluar daripada kelab itu dengan seorang lelaki kulit putih separuh umur yang menggayakan fesyen seolah-olah dia baru melepasi usia remaja. Silaplah, kemeja mahal mana sekalipun tak dapat nak menyelindungi keboroian yang dipam oleh bergelen-gelen bir yang pernah diteguknya. Ada di kalangan anak ikan yang menanti di luar itu menjeling rakan seangkatan yang berpasangan dengan mat saleh berusia itu, seakan-akan cemburu. Pemuda itu berbuat-buat tertawa kepada sesuatu yang dibisikkan oleh mat saleh itu, seakan-akan baru mendengar jenaka yang lebih hebat daripada apa yang disajikan oleh Maharaja Lawak.

Sebuah kereta BMW model baru yang tidak aku cam (macam aku peduli sangat dengan kereta) menderam dengan machonya ke kaki lima. Seorang valet tempat letak kereta melompat keluar daripada tempat duduk pemandu dan membuka pintu kereta itu dengan hormat untuk pasangan itu. Dengan langkah mendada, pasangan mat saleh itu menyelinap di belakang stereng sementara valet itu menutup pintu tempat duduk penumpang untuk mat saleh itu. Buat seketika aku terfikir, siapakah sebenarnya anak ikan dalam hubungan itu? Setelah kedua-duanya masuk, BMW itu memecut ke arah Jalan Ampang dengan ngauman enjin rekaan Jerman.

Aku meninggalkan jalan besar yang dibarisi kladeiskop hiburan kotaraya itu menuju ke rumah sewaku.Tak sampai dua minit aku melangkah, suasana kembali sepi. Kawasan rumah sewaku itu banyak didiami penghuni yang telah menginjak usia emas dengan beberapa pasangan muda yang baru mendirikan rumah tangga dan dua tiga orang bujang seperti aku. Rata-rata mereka membeli flat di situ ketika ia masih murah pada tahun 60an dulu; anak-anak yang sudah berkahwin mencari kediaman lain yang lebih luas dan selesa.

Angin malam membawa bau mawar dan melati daripada pasu-pasu yang membarisi hadapan rumah En. Selvamoney. Isterinya yang mendandan pokok-pokok di blok itu, kebanyakannya bunga-bungaan harum yang diikat menjadi kalungan dan dijual di hadapan kuil Dewa Ganesha dua jalan dari sini. Aku teringat satu insiden sewaktu aku balik daripada sembahyang terawikh dengan rakan-rakan ku dulu. Kami melalui sisi sebuah tapak perkuburan apabila tiba-tiba terbit bau wangi entah daripada mana. Suatu susuk putih dapat dilihat seakan-akan melayang-layang daripada celah-celah nisan yang tersusun rapi.

Rakan-rakanku menjerit-jerit dan mengangkat tapak langkah empat puluh empat melarikan diri. Tinggal aku seorang saja tercegat di situ. Setelah kelibat rakan-rakanku hilang, bunyi hilaian ketawa yang menaikkan bulu roma terbit daripada kawasan perkuburan itu. Dua susuk tubuh yang samar-samar muncul dan melangkah ke arahku, Kak Yong dan sepupuku yang sebaya dengannya, Kak Ton yang berjalan seiringan sambil ketawa berdekah-dekah. Aku tercium bau bunga yang diramas daripada tangan Kak Ton, dan Kak Yong sedang menggulung kain telekungnya yang digunakan untuk menakut-nakutkan kawan-kawanku yang memang pengecut itu.

Tanganku yang gatal memetik sekuntum bunga melur isteri En. Selvamoney dan menghidu harumannya. Kejadian itu telah menaikkan sahamku di sekolah sebagai seorang yang tidak takut dengan jembalang sekalipun. Aku tersenyum sendiri, mengelamun sambil aku menapak naik ke rumah sewaku. Ah Kiong telah mengganti kalimantang di koridor itu, bayang-bayangku sepanjang hantu galah mengekori aku. Aku membuka pintu, menguncinya kembali dan menghempaskan tubuhku atas katil setelah menanggalkan pakaianku yang tepu dengan asap rokok di Jim's.

Malam esok aku akan ke Klang Gate dan menghapuskan kegelisahan yang merengsa di bawah kulitku. Aku memejamkan mata, terlelap dengan imej anak-anak ikan yang lari dikejar harimau dalam kotak fikiranku.

Kisah sebelum ini:

Ironi.
Katakan sayang dengan...
Tidurlah wahai permaisuri
Rezeki
Gig
Belasungkawa

Kisah Cinta Tanpa Nama: Bahagian Dua

( Disunting untuk ketepatan butiran.)

Bahagian 1

Kipas angin di siling bilik guru itu berputar malas, mengitar udara dalam bilik yang dihuni dua puluh orang guru di Sekolah Menengah Perempuan Queen Elizabeth. Jam bermuka putih di atas pintu masuk itu menunjukkan jam empat, hanya tinggal tiga orang guru yang masih lagi di meja masing-masing, asyik melunaskan kerja.

Edith Baumgardner menerima segulung ijazah daripada Mount Holyoake dengan semangat berkobar-kobar untuk mengubah dunia. Apabila terbaca tentang program sukarelawan Peace Corp, Edith dengan pantas mengisi borang dan menghantar permohonannya. Ayah dan ibunya kurang bersetuju dengan tindakan Edith. Ibunya risau yang dia akan dihinggapi malaria dan entah apa lagi penyakit eksotik di negara dunia ketiga; manakala En. Baumgardner mengomel tentang pembaziran wang yuran kolejnya di tempat masyarakat tempatannya masih duduk di atas pokok. Bibirnya mengukir senyuman kecil mengenangkan betapa nyamannya udara di negara tropika ini berbanding musim panas di rumah ibunya di Brooklyn.

Sudah tiga bulan Edith di Malaysia dan dia sedikit pun tidak menyesali pilihannya. Dia sukakan cabaran mengajar di daerah kecil di kaki Titiwangsa ini; bandar kecil ini terlalu sunyi tidak seperti kota New York yang ditinggalkannya. Mengajar empat kelas serentak adalah lebih berat daripada yang dijangkanya, tapi anak-anak gadis yang diajarnya rata-rata bersemangat untuk belajar dan mengambil sepenuhnya peluang untuk mengasah kemahiran bahasa Inggeris mereka. Pelajar begitu membuatkan Edith berasa puas untuk menggalas tanggungjawab sebagai guru di sini.

Pensel di tangannya mengilas kajang di hadapannya. Lakaran kasarnya kini lebih terbentuk, timbul gambaran sebuah poster majlis tari menari. Edith memblok bahagian untuk tajuk posternya dan berdebat jenis font yang terbaik untuk membuatkan posternya itu lebih menarik. Awal tengahari tadi dia telah berbincang dengan jawatankuasa Kelab Kebudayaan yang dikelolakannya. Cadangannya untuk menganjurkan sebuah majlis tari menari untuk mengumpul dana bagi aktiviti Kelab  telah disambut dengan riuh; kesemuanya sebulat suara bersetuju dan mula berbincang apa persediaan yang perlu dilakukan bagi menjayakan majlis tersebut. Setiausaha Kelab dengan lekas telah mengeluarkan kertas kajang untuk mendraf surat memohon kebenaran daripada pengetua sekolah.

Dalam kerancakan AJK Kelab itu membuat perancangan, Edith sedar yang tanpa lampu hijau daripada pengetua, ianya hanyalah angan-angan mereka sahaja. Dalam beberapa pertemuannya dengan Puan Sakunthala, dia mendapat gambaran seorang pentadbir yang tegas tapi boleh dibawa bertolak ansur. Edith mempertimbangkan pendekatan yang perlu diguna pakai olehnya untuk mendapatkan persetujuan Puan Sakunthala dan memutuskan yang dia memerlukan lebih banyak maklumat. Pensel di tangannya diletakkan dan dia berpaling menghadap guru muda yang duduk di penjuru sudut dengannya.

"Cik Lee, boleh saya tanya sesuatu?"

Lee Ai Lin mendongak daripada buku latihan yang sedang ditandanya. Pen dakwat merahnya ditutup kemas agar tidak mencomotkan jari jemarinya. Dia sebenarnya berasa lega dengan pertanyaan guru Peace Corp daripada Amerika Syarikat itu, terasa seperti otaknya sudah beku menanda jawapan kefahaman pelajar kelas tingkatan tiganya itu.

"Ada apa, Cik Baumgardner?" Ai Lin meregangkan jari jemarinya yang lenguh dan memalingkan wajahnya menghadap Edith.

"Tabung Kelab Kebudayaan tu terlalu cetek untuk membuat apa-apa program yang menarik. Jadi, kami bercadang untuk mengadakan satu majlis tari menari untuk mengutip duit untuk tabung kelab. Pada pendapat Cik Lee, agaknya Puan Sakunthala setuju tak nak beri kebenaran untuk kami anjurkan majlis tu?" Edith bangun dan merapati meja Ai Lin. Dia memerhatikan dengan sedikit rasa iri akan rambut Ai Lin yang lurus tersisir rapi di bawah skaf yang sepadan dengan dres hijau air tanpa lengan yang dipakainya. Corak buluh kain dres itu seperti menekankan kelangsingan tubuhnya Ai Lin, menambah kecemburuan Edith.

"Menarik cadangan tu, Cik Baumgardner. Saya rasa, ada kemungkinan yang agak baik untuk Puan Sakunthala memberi persetujuannya. Ini bukanlah majlis tari menari pertama yang diadakan di sini. Tahun lepas ada yang menganjurkan joget lambak di dewan sekolah ni," kata Ai Lin sambil tersenyum.

"Joget lambak tu apa, Cik Lee?"

Ai Lin pun menerangkan konsep majlis joget lambak kepada Edith. Dia siap bangun untuk menunjukkan beberapa langkah tarian joget untuk Edith, menerangkan yang joget adalah tarian yang sopan; pasangan yang menari langsung tidak bersentuhan. Edith menyuarakan kehairanannya tentang bagaimana seorang lelaki dan perempuan boleh menari tanpa memegang tangan sekalipun. Ai Lin tertawa dan berkongsi kisah joget lambak yang dulu sering dikunjunginya semasa dia masih tinggal di Melaka.

"Mungkin kita boleh gabungkan elemen joget lambak dalam majlis tari menari kelab Cik Baumgardner untuk memberi suatu kelainan kepada majlis tu," saran Ai Lin. "Boleh jadi ia akan menarik orang yang tak biasa dengan konsep tari menari Barat untuk turut serta."

"Bagus juga cadangan awak tu, Cik Lee. Kalau awak ada sikit masa, boleh tak kita bincangkan perkara ni dengan lebih lanjut? Saya rasa kami akan perlukan input daripada awak supaya benda ni boleh dijayakan dengan betul. Sekejap, saya nak ambil buku nota untuk tulis saranan dan idea awak," ujar Edith, sambil melangkah ke mejanya. Dia mencapai buku nota kecilnya di dalam laci atas dan sebuah pen yang baru diisi dakwatnya tadi dan kembali ke meja Ai Lin. Ai Lin dengan gembiranya mengenepikan sebentar timbunan buku latihan yang perlu disemaknya dan mereka berdua pun rancak berbincang dan mencatat butiran rancangan untuk menganjurkan majlis tari menari mengumpul dana yang pertama di Sekolah Menengah Perempuan Queen Elizabeth.

Bahagian 1

Kisah Cinta Tanpa Nama: Bahagian Satu

Mentari petang masih lagi terasa keterikannya. Dari jauh, nampak logamaya yang mengapung di atas jalan yang baru diturap itu. Tarnya masih hitam, berkilat, bau likat yang hangit menusuk hidung. Kuli-kuli India yang tadinya meratakan kerikil, menuang tar dan menggeleknya hingga sebati atas jalan itu berbaring-baring di bawah pokok tembusu di simpang itu. Rumput yang terpotong rapi itu tidaklah segebu tilam mahal, tapi cukuplah untuk melabuhkan tubuh yang kepenatan.

Kicauan unggas dan dengung serangga yang menghuni taman dan persekitaran Kelab Sultan Idris itu disulami suara-suara jantan yang rancak berbual dalam bahasa Tamil. Sesekali angin petang meniup mengeringkan keringat, membawa hawa petanda hujan akan tiba malam nanti. Tercium bau kelembapan walaupun mega belum muncul.

Kelab itu pada mulanya didirikan sebagai rumah kelab rekreasi untuk pegawai-pegawai Inggeris yang bertugas di daerah di kaki banjaran Titiwangsa itu. Kekayaan bijih yang dikaut dengan rakusnya oleh Inggeris memastikan yang prasarana kelab itu setanding dengan kelab lain di Georgetown dan Kuala Lumpur. Tiap petang gelanggang tenisnya riuh dengan tawa dan sorakan pemain dan penonton. Setiap pagi Jumaat menyaksikan pelajar-pelajar lelaki di sekolah mubaligh berdekatan belajar berenang dan terjun di papan anjal di kolam renang bersaiz Olimpik di sebelah gelanggang tenis berkembar itu; sekurang-kurangnya tiga orang perenang wakil negeri berasal daripada sekolah mubaligh itu.

Senibinanya mirip rumah kelab golf di Glasgow tempat kelahiran jurubinanya, ciri gothiknya diimbangkan dengan kemasan cat putih yang memberikan gambaran saiz yang lebih besar daripada yang sebenar. Lanskap mukabuminya telah mengubah sebuah kolam tinggal setelah habis bijihnya dilombong menjadi satu pemandangan indah yang boleh dinikmati daripada dewan tari menari dan dewan santapan rumah kelab itu.

Tapi keringnya bijih di kawasan itu selepas Perang Dunia Kedua telah membawa kesepian kehadiran Inggeris di situ. Orang Kaya Jajahan daerah itu mengambil alih pengurusan kelab itu dan dinamakan Kelab Sultan Idris. Langkah pertama yang dilakukan oleh bangsawan itu ialah mengarahkan papan tanda "Europeans Only" di pintu hadapan kelab itu dicabut dan papan itu dibakar. Kini pintunya terbuka kepada bangsawan dan orang ternama tempatan, saudagar-saudagar Cina yang kaya raya dan pegawai-pegawai kerajaan serta keluarga mereka.

Ada suatu binaan yang jauh sedikit daripada bangunan kolam renang bersebelahan dengan garaj kenderaan kelab. Ianya menjadi tumpuan setiap petang Sabtu bagi penggemar tinju; gelanggang tinju di gimnasium itu menjadi medan peninju amatur daerah belatih dan bertanding. Kesemua tingkap dan pintu gimnasium itu terbuka untuk membenarkan angin petang meredakan bahang yang terkuap dalam bangunan itu. Di penjuru tergantung sebuah beg pasir yang sedang terbuai-buai mengikut tumbukan padu yang dilepaskan oleh satu-satunya pengguna gim pada petang itu.

Peninju muda itu tinggi dan kekar, lebih tinggi daripada rakan-rakan sebayanya. Kemeja dalamnya lutsinar dibasahi keringat, melekap, melakar lanskap otot tubuhnya dan bahunya yang lebar. Lengannya berlingkar urat dek kuatnya genggaman penumbuknya. Nafasnya deras dengan setiap tumbukan yang hinggap kepada beg pasir itu. Muhammad Ali berdiri di dinding sebelahnya dengan kedua penumbuk di paras dada, seakan-akan mencabar peninju muda itu untuk beraksi dengannya.

Sepatu di kakinya berdesir dengan setiap tumbukan; jab, cross, hook dan uppercut, silih berganti. Setelah tamat masa yang ditetapkannya di beg pasir, peninju muda itu berhenti. Sederet lima botol Coca Cola tersusun di tepi telah diisi dengan air kosong. Disimbahnya wajahnya yang hangat dan dihirup barang tiga empat teguk untuk melincirkan kerongkongnya yang kering. Dia bersandar sebentar untuk memperlahankan nafasnya yang kencang. Satu jalur sinar matahari yang menembusi tingkap dari sudut ufuk barat menyinari wajah peninju muda itu. Kulitnya sawo matang dan licin; berdahi luas di atas sepasang mata yang dalam letaknya. Bulu matanya yang lebat membuatkan matanya kelihatan seakan-akan digarisi celak tebal; punca dia sering diejek sejak kecil dan menjadi satu pendorong kepadanya untuk menyarung sarung tinju. Hidungnya yang panjang jelas pernah menerima hentakan buku lima yang keras; batangnya sudah tidak lurus dan terbonjol sedikit. Bibirnya jarang mengukir senyuman; tegas peribadinya menyorokkan suatu sense of humour yang menghargai kesinisan dan lelucon mainan kata.

Reda alunan ombak dadanya, dia membuka gulungan pembalut yang melindungi buku limanya daripada kain guni yang meliputi beg pasir itu. Buku tangannya berbelulang, tindak balas pelindungan kulitnya akibat hentaman yang biasa dialami kerana ayunan penumbuknya. Dengan cermat dia menggulung pembalut itu untuk digunakan semasa latihan akan datang, disimpan kemas di sudut simpanan. Dia mencapai tali dan kembali ke kawasan lapang untuk cool down skip 100 kali seperti kebiasaannya.

Peninju muda itu asyik melompat mengikut irama kiraan dalam kepalanya tanpa menyedari dirinya diperhatikan oleh sesusuk tubuh di luar gimnasium itu. Yang empunya mata itu berhati-hati untuk berdiri hampir dengan pohon spruce yang ditanam di perimeter bangunan itu, menyorokkan tubuhnya di bayangan pokok malar hijau itu. Dia memerhatikan peninju muda itu beralih kepada push ups dan sit ups sebelum melakukan latihan kalistenik meregang, mengagumi kekuatan dan kelasakan sang peninju itu yang berlatih dengan penuh dedikasi. Mendengar namanya dipanggil, si pemerhati itu bingkas beralih, meninggalkan peninju muda yang mengelap peluhnya dengan tuala.

Kawanan gagak memanggil-manggil untuk pulang ke sarang mengiringi derap tapak peninju muda itu melangkah ke rumahnya. Angin petang meniup lembut, menyisir rambutnya yang mula kering. Beg sekolah dan peralatan latihannya digalas kemas, berayun dengan irama setiap langkahnya. Peninju muda itu bersiul-siul, meniru siulan serindit. Tenggelam mentari di ufuk barat memberinya bayang yang panjang bak hantu galah, mengekori geraknya pulang di kuarters kakitangan kerajaan yang tidak jauh dari Kelab Sultan Idris.

Dan sang pemerhati menatap lagi daripada tingkap belakang Daimler yang menyusuri jalan ke rumah-rumah banglo di kaki bukit.

Berita gembira!

Sewaktu aku sekolah di universiti dulu antara matapelajaran yang tidak aku sukai ialah parasitologi. Ianya menarik, tapi juga menjijikkan dan membuatkan aku fobia untuk pergi ke Sungai Nil, melupakan hasratku untuk menjelajah sawah di Kemboja dan lain-lain lagi kegiatan yang aku impikan sewaktu kanak-kanak.

Parasitologi mengajar kita yang manusia hanya perasan apabila menganggap mereka adalah yang teratas dalam siratan makanan. Manusia yang gagah dan cerdik mampu dipunahkan oleh makhluk halus (bukan jin atau iblis ya) yang tidak nampak oleh mata kasar: parasit.

Daripada cacing pita, cacing gelang, hama, ameba, protozoa, ke plasmodium, kesemua ciptaan Tuhan ini melihat manusia sebagai rumah + sumber makanan bergerak. Ada parasit yang membunuh hosnya (yakni kita) dengan penuh kedajalan sekali seperti Plasmodium falciparum yang menjadi punca malaria. Tapi banyak yang lebih cenderung kepada membuatkan mangsanya buta, cacat hingga tak boleh bergerak, kekurangan zat yang kronik hingga separa terencat akal dan pelbagai lagi cara-cara untuk menyusutkan nikmat hidup.

Ini tak termasuk lagi parasit yang boleh dilihat seperti kutu, lintah dan lain-lain yang sewaktu dengannya. Sesungguhnya, parasit itu adalah jenaka Tuhan kepada kita: korang jangan ingat korang tu bagus sangat. Benda kecik camni pun korang boleh tumbang, tau.

Penyakit berjangkit akibat parasit ini masih lagi mengganggu gugat berjuta manusia seantero dunia. Dengan sistem pembetungan yang baik dan sumber air yang bersih, kes-kesnya sudah banyak berkurangan. Suatu masa dahulu, kanak-kanak di Malaysia juga adalah antara statistik ini, tapi kini tinggal poket-poket di kawasan pedalaman yang masih lagi mengalami masalah dengan jangkitan parasit.

Tapi aku masih lagi tak nak main lecah di Sungai Nil.

Aku telah mencuba kuiz ini dan mendapati bahawa aku boleh menampung empat ekor cacing pita dengan bahagia sekali.


Created by Oatmeal

Baiklah, masa untuk mengambil Zentel (tm) telah tiba.

Tanah tumpahnya darahku

=)

Ugly Girl

I've been attending a short course for creative writing. This piece was prompted by the video below:



Usual disclaimer: Fictitious depiction of fictitious people, not related to anyone living or dead etc etc. And no, I've never been to New York City.

(crossposted)

*****************************************************************

Charlie was nibbling my toes, working his way up my right leg, paying attention to a most delicious spot on the back of my knees before repeating with my left leg. Then suddenly, he started lavishing attention on my chin. Come on, Charlie, that’s not an erogenous zone for me, you know that.

I woke up to Percy’s rough tongue cleaning the drool off my chin; I could barely breathe thanks to his 15 pounds bulk on my chest. Gently, I pushed him off of me and wiped my chin with the sheet. The watery light of early summer penetrated the gauzy curtains of my loft windows, illuminating the mess I made when I tossed out the remainder of Charlie’s things. I missed Charlie when I was horny; although he’s such a pontificating prick, he’s really one of the best lovers I’ve had. Generous to a fault; that’s Charlie. Must be his left wing tendencies.

I stretched until my shoulder joints popped before heading to the kitchen to get Percy his kibble. My kitchen was like Mother Hubbard’s cupboard, thanks to the long hours I had been putting in since last month to complete the new ad project for Givenchy. The art director was a pain in the ass, but he’s a mad genius at crafting images that make people open their wallets and demand that you take their money. He not only worked crazy hours, he worked at ALL hours. Thank God that bastard was no longer my problem. The client seemed happy with the results, so I can expect a fat bonus in my paycheque this month. I made a mental note to swing by Kate Spade to see if the purple patent leather stilettos that I eyed last month were still available in size 6.

Percy twined his sinuous body around my ankles, purring at the sound of the can opener. I bent to pour his food into his dish, ruffling his Angora-soft fur around the ruff of his neck, not covered by the jewelled collar I got from Bloomingdale’s. I sipped my first java of the day while idly scrolling through my diary app. Oh shit. I’m supposed to have Ellora, Jimmy, Devon and Trey over for dinner tonight. The only thing edible in my apartment (apart from Percy’s prime organic kibble) was a slice of Gruyere and a suspect-looking bagel in the fridge. I slid the bagel with the Gruyere on it into the toaster and sat at the counter to plan the dinner menu.

After completing my shopping list, I hit the shower and dressed to go to Piscary’s, my favourite whole-foods grocer on West 67^th. I had a look at my reflection in the hallway mirror before leaving, with a last pat to smooth my artless braid that made me look like a Teutonic model gone farm chic, I locked my door.

Piscary’s was still deserted at this relatively early hour. I snagged a shopping cart and begun grabbing the things I needed to make dinner. I know I don’t look it, but I am actually an excellent chef. The three months I spent in Paris after high school were not all about making goo goo eyes at cute French boys. I was considering the truffle oil from Tuscany when I heard a familiar voice.

For an instant I flashbacked to this morning’s dream, before I was rudely woken by Percy. Before I could enact a strategic retreat, his familiar lanky figure appeared around the end of the aisle, pushing a half full cart. There was a woman beside him, but I only had eyes for Charlie. His hair was the familiar, shiny mop that I secretly envied, the torso toned by rock climbing carelessly sheathed in an old college ball team tee. His cargo shorts exposed muscular calves lightly dusted with dark hair, his size twelve feet shod in the flip flops he bought when we were in Rio last summer. Jerking myself out of my paralysis, I pulled my cart to execute a neat three point turn in the other direction when I heard, “Ashlee?”

        
Busted. I pretended to just notice him and faked a start. “Charlie? Hi!” My lips curved in a wide, semi-sincere smile. He was close enough that I could smell his after shave, the Davidoff I bought for him last Christmas. He still smelled as good as ever, the rat bastard. 

His dark eyes crinkled at the corner as he grinned at me. It looked like he wasn’t as broken hearted as I had hoped when I kicked him out of my life. He even had a fresh tan, for God’s sake, clearly he had gone somewhere outdoorsy for a good time, not moping in his apartment crying his eyes out over me. He grabbed his companion’s hand to pull her closer to me, a long arm curved around her body for a cuddle.

“You look just as good as ever, doll. Hey, I want you to meet someone. Jay, this is Ashlee, my ex. Ashlee, this is Jay,” he beamed. Really, does this man not know the etiquette of introducing his more gorgeous ex to his current girlfriend? Where was the expected awkwardness? The longing glances to gorgeous ex (i.e. me), with undercurrents of “Take me back, Ashlee!” to enhance the moment?

            
“Hi, Ashlee. I’m Jay. Nice to meet you,” said Charlie’s companion, her voice a mellow alto with a slight smoker’s rasp. I took a good look at her, studying my replacement.

In a word, she was round. Big, round, brown eyes behind John Lennon-style glasses in a round face that topped a round body. Her boobs stretched a t-shirt that said, “No Child Left Behind” with a background of some white plane and little children running away. Probably some hipster political statement, but whatever. Her HUGE hips were accentuated by the pleated, ankle length gauzy skirt, the peach clashing with the grey of her t-shirt. The chartreuse paint on her toes was chipped; my God doesn’t this woman know to get a pedicure? Judging by her haphazard curly hair and dressing, she’d probably be appalled to pay for a decent mani pedi; it looked like a lousy home done paint job.

“Hi,” I replied without enthusiasm. This must be his rebound girlfriend, that’s why Charlie wasn’t so discriminating. A floozy with no style was the best that he could do? Hah.

“Jay and I were picking up a few things to take to Mom’s.”

To take to his Mom? That witch hated me with the intensity of a thousand suns and the feeling was mutual. I’ve only ever gone to her house ONCE for Thanksgiving and it was hell.

“Yeah, it’s Kennedy’s birthday and I promised that I’d make her lunch and cake,” the way that woman smiled up to Charlie was positively sickening. I could feel my hands curling around the shopping cart handle to stop me from clawing her eyes out. I couldn’t believe that Charlie’s bratty niece had taken a shine to her. I bought that kid the latest Bratz doll for Christmas and she sniffed at me with a barely audible thank you; but she liked this woman enough to ask her to cook her birthday treat?

“How nice,” I commented with syrupy sweet insincerity. God, I need to get away from these two. If I didn’t need the stuff in my cart for the dinner tonight, I would’ve dumped it and walked away right now. This must be Hell.

“I saw that you were looking at Perrini’s truffle oil? You should give Alligheri’s a try; they’re a little cheaper but the truffle scent is more intense,” Jay offered. Like I would take her advice for anything. I would ignore her cries for me to stop, drop and roll even if I were on fire.

“It’s okay, I’ve used Perrini’s before and it won me blue ribbon three years in a row at the gourmand festival in the Village,” I snarked back.

“Really? That’s fabulous. Charlie told me what a great cook you are. Me, I just stick to the staples,” she laughed self-deprecatingly.

“I think we better make a move, Jay. The party is supposed to start at two,” Charlie darted an uneasy glance at me. I guess he finally felt the undercurrents.

“Yeah, you’re right, hon. Have to let the beer batter breathe before we fry the chicken anyway. It’s been great meeting you, Ashlee,” she smiled and extended her hand.

I would rather pick up an angry cobra than her hand but my Mama had instilled lady-like qualities in her only daughter so I reached across to give it a half-hearted pump. Her palms were warm and slightly calloused; God, didn’t the woman ever moisturise?

“Likewise. See you around, Charlie, Jay …” I managed a smile. With a wave, they left the aisle, having added a bottle of extra virgin olive oil to their cart they headed to the checkout counter. I don’t think Charlie’s ever had his arms around my waist quite so protectively the way he did with that woman’s thick waist, back fat undulating gently above her skirt’s waistband.

I sniffed back the tears that unexpectedly welled. Charlie Westen wasn’t the richest or the best looking boyfriend I’ve had, but he was one of the sweetest and gentlest. Sometimes his gentleness made me grit my teeth, the way he’d let people over take him on the road, or letting an old man cut in front of him in the line. He was a genuinely kind person and was possibly one of the best men I’ve ever known (and I’ve known quite a lot, biblically and otherwise). But I don’t think I’m meant to end up with a boy scout, especially one who’s very vocal about his loss of faith in Obama.

But the rogue tears did not fall, and I refuse to mourn for Charlie any more. I have broken up with him, and I will move ON. Jimmy promised that he’d try to bring his squash partner that I’ve eyed a few times along to dinner tonight and even if he didn’t make my heart flutter, but at least he should have the stamina to make things interesting between the sheets.

I pushed my cart towards the frozen goods aisle. Time to pick up the ingredients for my to die-for crème brulee. I have guests to impress and no time to ponder over what ifs. I firmly pushed any and all thoughts of Charlie and his new girlfriend to the back of my mind and determinedly continued my food shopping.