Welcoming 2020

Capturing snapshots of the memories written over the past new years ~~

2017 was the year of endings. The year I bid goodbye to the place I've grown to love so much. The year I leave the life that have been very forgiving of my often recklessly "unwise" mistakes. The year I unwillingly leave friends who have become family and my support system.

2018 was a year of uncertainties. The year I wandered around months of qualms, before stumbling upon a beautiful reason to get out of bed everyday. The year I have to rebuild my life after what felt like centuries of "accidental" comfort. The year I ventured into a new job, move to a new city and started learning the art of adulting.

2019 was the year of beginnings. The year I learn to be comfortable with my own skin. The year I saw my flaws with absolute clarity and learn to be okay with it. The year I attempt to unlearn bad habits, failed; but choose not to give up. The year I befriended my anxiety and stock up my less than a teaspoon of self-esteem.

and 2020, I hope will be the year of discoveries. The year I learn about mysteries of the world and of my own potentials. The year I discover kindness in myself and the people around me. The year I discover what it really means to be an "adult" in my own dictionary.

Cheers to the last few pages of the 2019 ❤

Best of both world

After months of changing my decision every 5 mins, I have finally come to a conclusion. The truth is, big life decisions scares the crap out of me. I always find myself being caught up between all the things I want to do in life. Too much ambitions and so little time (and money). So, I've decided to do both. Work and study. Commuting between Johor and Kuala Lumpur every week. So many people are doing it today to catch up with the fast changing world. I don't see why it is such a big deal if I bandwagon into the culture. Let's give it a few months. I really hope my body and mind can comprehend the bucket list of things I need to do to satisfy my inner being. If I fail, it's alright. At least I've given it a try. That's the beauty of being young and reckless. I have all the freedom in the world to experiment the many flavours of life. 

Cheers to exploring the best of both world! 

Poem #6

Perfect Broken Home 

A perfect home is a lie, 
for even a picture perfect family face miseries 
and has ugly mysteries; 
A perfect home is a lie, 
a lie that may be necessary, 
to hide the cracks behind broken histories, 
to freeze only the beautiful part of the story.

My broken home is perfect for me, 
I believe in this lie religiously,
though there are definitely moments of jealousy, 
when “ideal” families tell tales of wedding anniversaries 
and birthday parties,
together as a family; 
though there are times I try to create fake memories 
of us all going for a picnic or a movie, 
together as a family.

My broken family is perfect for me, 
I believe in this lie religiously, 
though I sometimes do try to imagine how my life would be,
if there’s no choosing between mummy and daddy, 
if for once I could say “I am going home” to a home that is ours, 
not to mum’s house or dad’s. 

My broken home is perfect for me, 
I believe in this lie religiously, 
for I know there’s also beauty in this story, 
although even I sometimes can’t see. 

In this story, 
I get to see 
dad finding love again after every heartbreak; 
In this story, 
I get to be there when things ends badly 
and mum is left lonely;
I get to hold them softly, 
tell them gently, 
“Don’t worry, you still have me”. 

My broken home is perfect for me,
I believe in this lie religiously,
As a kid, 
I was happy that I get to list down the “aunties” 
dad sees into likes and dislikes, 
the more chocolate they gave me 
the more I’ll tell daddy good stories.

As a kid, 
I was me happy that I get to mercilessly guilt mum 
into buying me gifts 
for the nights that she have missed 
my goodnight kiss, 
As a kid,
I believe that this is the picture of a happy family 
how mummies and daddies are supposed to be. 

My broken home is perfect for me, 
I believe in this lie religiously,
 It is nothing like you see in movies, 
we are as normal as can be, trust me. 
My broken home is perfect for me, 
a lie maybe,
but one that I will hold on firmly.

A Brief Family History

      Where do I begin? There is no beginning to this story and there will never be an end. It will and always will be an ongoing process of story writing with its characters changing over time.

      As for now, I will go all the way back to the early 1930’ in a beautiful little village in Punjab when a little baby boy was held into the reassuring safe hands of a young farmer, Mal Singh. Baby Jaginder Singh is now the new member of the Sindhu-Brar clan which descended from the Bhatti clan through Jesul Bhatii. Despite the simple, wonderful life in Punjab, Malaya seems to offer more for the ambitious Jaginder Singh. Thus, he sailed to Johore, a foreign land which will later become the home to him and generations after him. His brother, Sardara Singh soon followed and they became the first generation of Mal Singh’s decedent in Malaya. Jaginder started off by selling clothes from India and later venture into some money lending business which was apparently a common job description for early Punjabis in Malaya. As arranged by family, he marries the beautiful sixteen-year-old Gurnam Kaur who is the daughter of Gobind Singh, a police officer from India who was sent to Malaya by the British. She was born in Malaya but had to move back to Punjab after her mother’s death as her father was arranged to remarry. Jaginder Singh and Gurnam Kaur are the proud parents of six children and the youngest, Mhinder Singh happens to be my father.

      Growing up, my father was a typical Punjabi boy, with his patka and his kara and his undying love for his chai and dhall. After finishing college, he was posted in Keningau, Sabah as a Medical Laboratory Assistant where he met my mother, Collen Sigar, a young Lun bawang women from Sugiang Baru, a little village in Tenom. They met in the hospital where my mother had to translate for her aunt who does not speak Malay. My mother is the child of Sigar Minagung, a strong Lun bawang man who migrated from North Kalimantan at the age of seven. Lead by his father, Minagung Tabed, they walked through the thick jungles of Borneo for eight days with the hope of a better life. They had nothing more than their heart and soul when they arrive at Sapung, Tenom. They built a house in the interior of Tenom and settled there for generations to come. It was in this little village that he met the love of his life, Sifai Udan, a young Lun bawang women who also migrated from North Kalimantan for the promise of a better life. She came to Sabah at the age of twenty with her cousin brother and started a new life here. They got married and had seven children with my mother being the third.

     I was born in Keningau, Sabah in 1995 but I lived in Pontian, Johor since I was barely 4 months old. Our small family of four started off by settling in our late paternal grandparent’s house and continue to relocate around Pontian throughout the years. My parents decided to live a separate life when I three and since then I have two places I call home and now three, with Sarawak being on top of my list.

Poem #5

Humble Gift
by Venesa Devi

Words are all I could give,
so dearest please,
accept my humble gift.
Memories are all I could let you keep,
in case I am ever to be miss.
Love is all there is,
may it be enough to fill your heart with bliss.
Happiness is not a promise,
life will still be the way it is,
where sorrow and hardship sometimes visit;
but dearest remember this,
I will still be by your side always,
and that I can promise.

Restoring Faith on Humanity

I grew up believing that we live in this world alone. Regardless of how many people you have around you or how protected you are by the people you love, in the end, only you will be there for yourself. No one else and nothing else matters. No matter how many good deeds you have done, how much sacrifices you have made, in the end, it will not matter. A rather realistic and perhaps cold way to look at life but I have always believed that that is how life goes and I was not planning to change that belief.

Until the day I lost my beloved sister in June this year. A tragic and unexpected loss. A nightmare.

My lovely sister, Susan Mahinder.

My beautiful, 28-year-old sister who has been one of the most influential person in my life and my idea of how a strong and independent women would be like was suddenly gone. I was not ready to lose her and never will I ever be. It was a devastating blow to me and my small family.

It was at that moment of complete darkness that I restored my faith in humanity.

My sister had been diagnosed with Nephrotic syndrome since early January and have been in and out of the hospital ever since. Although we are naturally worried for her, we are also well aware of the fact that it is not a deadly disease and there is a high possibility of a full recovery. Above all, we know she is strong enough to face the challenge. Unfortunately, we were wrong as she got an infection in her last stay in the hospital and was immediately in a very critical stage. Within less than a week, we lost her.

I was having my examination in University Malaysia Sarawak in her final days and was unable to be there for her. The moment my exam was over, I flew all the way to Sabah only to know that it was too late. When I got to the hospital, the entry of the HDU (High Dependency Unit) was filled with people I hardly know. They were my sister’s friends that I have never even known existed. People around me, including strangers, melancholically hugged me. Still shaken and feeling as sad as sadness was possible, we have to immediately decide on how the funeral would go about as it is in our culture to have the funeral the very next day. Something that have always been a taboo to talk about.

We had no choice but to have two separate journeys back home. My brother and mother driving from Kota Kinabalu to our village in Kiulu. While I followed the hearse to the mortuary where they will prep my sister for the funeral and where I have to choose a coffin for her before we go back to the village.

How do you choose the best place where the person you love so much lay in eternally?
How should you decide what they should wear for the last time everyone they know will ever see them?
It was the most difficult decision I’ve ever made in my life.

When I finally got to the village, everything was ready. The house was filled with friends and families. Our kitchen was occupied by neighbors from the village who prepared food for us and our guests. They even brought with them the ingredients needed to cook the dishes. I was overwhelmed by the sincerity as this was not something I am used to. My sister and I grow up in completely different surroundings since we are from different mothers. My sister and her mother live in the nurturing and caring society in the beautiful village in Kiulu while my brother and I grew up with our mother in the more individualistic town in Johor. People coming together to help us go through our difficult times was something I don’t expect in this day and age. They did anything they are capable of doing, be it cooking for us or comforting us or praying for us or arranging for the service in church and even helping us bury my sister in the lot prepared for her. These people were not paid or even requested to do so. They do it simply because they choose to do it. They do it for the sake of goodness. Not expecting anything in return.

People helping us during the funeral

Their altruism does not end with the funeral. I was living the village for the next two month before I have to go back to my university for the next semester. My experience with them in the preceding two months was incredibly beautiful. There are so many times I almost felt to tears as I witness how they treated us with so much love and care. They made sure someone will come to our house every day so that it won’t be too lonely and sad in there. They occasionally bring fruits they have got from their orchard to us. In fact, a kind old man build a little garage with his own hands for my sister’s car as it needed shelter. It was their kindness and warmth that assist us throughout those difficult days. These are small things that made a huge difference in my life. Changing my whole philosophy of life.

So, I was wrong. We are never alone in this world and kindness is everywhere. Even in the darkest and most unexpected time, there will be a brilliant light of a kind heart.

My sister has always given me inspiring stories about life. Perhaps this is her last inspiration for me.

Thank you, dear sister.    

   

Freezing Time

I can't believe it's been almost 4 months since I've left matriculation. Seems like it's only yesterday I've waltz away from my high school years and into matriculation. The ongoing flow of time make those little moments in life a lot precious. One moment we're deciding on which college to enter, the next we're already on stage receiving the degree. Time has been the most powerful instrument of ageing, the unstoppable act of nature we sometimes think will never happen to us. Weather we like it or not, it will happen. We will live life like an ongoing journey with no stop until the end of the road, death. Despite that, there's always way to freeze time. Be it taking memorable pictures or writing poems, making movies or recording a song, or simply living in the moments. We all have our own way of keeping the version of ourselves as we know it now safe in the memory box for the future version of ourselves to reminisce and smile upon. These are some memorable photos of my matriculation days, one of the best time in my life. This is how I freeze time.

Matriculation 
27th May 2013 - 29th April 2014

Buka puasa with classmates and mentor.
One of the first highlighted moments of the first semester. 
When strangers becomes family.

MEMBERS OF ROOM F.2.24
Caring for the care. Funny for the fun. They are the perfect roomates. Waking up to each other's alarm, coming back after class exchanging funny moments, making fun of each other almost all the time, giving the worst birthdays prank ever. I would't want it other way. 
( Shida, Atirah, Syafiqah, Venesa)

MT 9

Class of 2013/2014

The friends who laugh with me in times of joy and held my hand in times of despair. We were introduced as strangers and leave at the end as family. Perhaps the best thing about matriculation is being a part of this wonderful family. 

The Dark Art of Ignorance

The Dark Art of Ignorance

“….and finally I twist my heart round again, so that the bad is on the outside and the good is in the inside and keep on trying to find a way of becoming what I would so like be, and what I could be, if….. there weren’t any other people living in the world.”

I close the book. I was fifteen then and throughout my fifteen years of living, I’ve never felt this way before. It was the end of childhood for me. The end of fairy tale fantasies and the beginning of reality.  I find myself afflicted with emotions, stunned, overwhelmed with goosebumps.

It was Anne Frank’s diary.

Perhaps you wonder, why is this such a big deal for me?

Well, the truth is, I was blind to the ugly truth of life. I’ve never seen reality before. My little world of childish fantasies has sheltered me from the true colors of the world. I don’t know a thing about the world. I’ve never heard of the holocaust. I don’t know who the Jews were. I can’t even point out Germany on the world map. I was clueless. Trapped in a dark, dungeon of a thoughtless life. Writing this makes me feel embarrass of my ignorant past. Nevertheless, I feel it is important for me to remember how it feels. Perhaps I will be more aware of ignorance in the future.

Yes, I remember those feeling well. I remember being shockingly impressed by Anne’s knowledge of the world. The fact that reading and writing excites her. Who live like that? I can’t even read without falling asleep, let alone writing. I was envious. Why do I know so little when she knows so much? Why does she even bother to think so deeply into things that do not even matter to me? We are of the same age, yet why do we have such a significant gap of knowledge.

That was when I realize I have lots to catch up with. The moment I realize people out there are not as clueless as I am. People my own age are out there fighting for human rights and writing essays about global warming and there I was, crawling in my baby steps to understand the whole structure of the world. Of course, it wasn’t like a magical moment or anything, it takes years of reading and documentaries and question marks every now and then but yes, it was my starting point. As for now, I still have lots to learn, I still have tons of question marks, and I know there will be no end to understanding this funny world yet again I am freed from my dark forest of ignorance. Definitely, a better place to be.

I have to make it clear here, I don’t think it is just about the process of growing up, it goes deeper than that. It is about choice and chances. I was given the opportunity of getting access to books and informational media, I know for the fact that not everyone in the world is as lucky as I am. So, is it really their fault if they don’t know how the world map looks like if they are not even lucky enough to own pens and papers? Yet again, I also understand that that is not always the case. There are those who fail to make a better choice despite the great luxury they have, access to education and information. We all know there are adults out there who still have no clue about the Middle East conflicts and we have young adults who are passionately involve in stopping human rights abuses. So, is it really the matter of growing up? Do we really need to be in the right age to start understanding life? I don’t think so.

I have been on both sides of the story. I have been the clueless girl being laugh at for lack of understanding of the world and I’m have been one of those people who can’t help from banging my head from the silliest logic people have about the world when they clearly have no idea. Well, I guess it’s the same with everyone else. If you were to dig deep into your own life history, you would somehow know how it feels to be the clueless one and have a ‘know it all person’ telling you stuff you are not really interested to know. I mean how annoying would it be when you just want to have a good cup of coffee with an old friend while gossiping about unimportant rumors when he/she critically ask your opinion about complicated world issues you never ever heard about. At the same time, you know how annoying it is when people care more about the ups and downs of a celebrity dramatic ‘make believe’ life rather than the blast that killed millions. Somehow another person’s personal life seems more interesting than the typhoon that wipe away millions of life. It’s just another life cycle. Sadly, most people around the world are not in this cycle. They grow old and eventually die not knowing the real story behind the world while living their life passionately believe in a lie.

So what? So what if people chose to be happy with their sheltered life and live a wonderful life anyway? So what is people don’t want to know about the world? Why does it bother me when people don’t want to take effort into understanding the world? Does it really matter?

Yes, it does.

It does matter when people live their whole life hating another group of human being without understanding the real situation. It matters when politicians take advantage of our ignorance for political agenda that tears the world apart. It matters when pseudo facts make people kill others they believe are purely evil. It matters when people only know one side of a complicated story and draws a dangerous conclusion based on that. It matters when millions of people die in the genocide that is spark by the lack of understanding. It matters when there are issues out there that can actually be solved if there are more participants. It matters when we choose to not understand. It matters when we choose to embrace the dark art of ignorance. 

Poem #4

Whisperer
by Venesa Devi

Dear whisperer, know my story. I am not needy, nor am I seeking for shelter from all miseries, I am just me, as strong as I can be, I hold on to me, for I know who I want to be, I love life for its mysteries, and I know there's more to discover in me, but maybe, just maybe, I'll need you to whisper to me, when life is hard and happiness is unseen, when faith and hope are all gone, would you please whisper to me softly, "Life must go on." when I start to tear, whisper, "Let me wipe away your tears." when I am in fear, whisper, "I am here for you, my dear." I am not needy, I just need you to remind me, of that lady inside of me, the one I sometimes can't see.

The Storyteller by Jodi Picoult

         It is more than just a book for me. It resembles life.At first,I thought the characters fits me perfectly, as if it was written just for me. Sage who rather be alone and immerse deep into her own thoughts and Leo who finds it difficult to comprehend the ignorant ideas society held. However, as I dive deeper into the story, I realise, it’s not just about me, it’s about everyone. Not the story but the characters. The good and the bad in every heart, the demons and the angels of every soul. Thanks to Minka's character, the storyteller who don’t just tell story but paint the words in extreme clarity, the grandmother who was once a little girl with big dreams, who writes her story of 'upior' and blood, who see the beast and the beauty of those who love and hurt her. 

      Josef’s character on the other hand is something really new to me. It’s not like I’ve never thought of any SS soldier, I have but in that way. The writer turns into a very different angle of the whole horrific hell of the Holocaust or any other genocide alike. Perhaps anger and sorrow of the cruelty of these people have made me blind to the bits of goodness they might still have hidden behind the thick clouds of cruelty. I forgot that these monsters were once human before the war and maybe even after the war. I forgot to look deep into their old eyes and see the regrets they held as they tell their part of history,the same way they might have ignored the tears of toddles and mothers begging for their life. The hell of memories that still hunt them every single second of their life. Those sleepless night. Those pointless regrets. The shame they carry to their dead beds. The fear to continue living in the judgmental eyes of the world and the fear of facing death and God.

       I started asking questions to myself. Would I have done the same if I am in his shoes? Will I be influence to believe in the lies that were told by the ones I thought of as God? Will I reject those nonsense, stand up for the truth and die in honour? Will I say yes like everyone, ignoring my moral compass? Am I really as pure or as good as I want be, given the same situation? Will I kill a mother just so that my mother could sleep in peace? Will I kill a child just to make way for my own child? Would anyone? Sometimes questions are best left unanswered. Besides, who would want to think of themselves as monsters?

       Perhaps those are just excuses. Self defense maybe. A way for people like Josef to stay sane. A lie perhaps to constantly remind them that they are as normal as any other human being. So that they can pretend to hold their love ones with clean hands. Just so that the guilt might corrode as time pass by. No matter what they tell themselves, the truth or just another lie, the damage had been done. The blood and bodies of about 6 millions people has vanished into the air. Worthless. Stories are all there is left now. Of torture and of pain. Of death and of blood. Of regrets and of tears. Nothing more. Just stories and vanishing memories of people and places.

By,                

Venesa Devi

Poem #3

Storyteller

by Venesa Devi

Those eyes,

they tell stories,

of torture and of pain,

of death and of blood.

That broken smile,

they bring memories,

of family and of friends,

of love and of life.

I don't know your name,

I  don't know your life,

I don't know you.

Were you a dreamer like me?

Were you a lover of seas?

You see,

you're a mystery.

Yet I know you well

in my fantasies,

as if I am part of your memory,

as if we are in the same century.

but you see,

You were long gone before me.

You're just a forgotten history.

One of the many faces I see,

in the remains of a torture chamber of the Khmer Rouge,

just another untold story.

Now you see,

I will tell your story,

your misery,

will never again be a mystery.

Let the people hear and see,

the truth about you written by me,

of every tears and every cries,

of every wound and every bruise,

of the blood and the body.

For it could even happen to me or my family,

maybe we were lucky,

but tomorrow is still a mystery,

might be my time for the pain and the misery,

maybe then there'll be another 'me',

who will write another untold story.

You see,

you might be just a fantasy,

in the mind of a writter wannabe,

but you have to trust me,

I'll write your story,

beautifully.

Poem #2

Hope
by Venesa Devi

Perhaps there's still small pieces of hope in the sky,
hidden behind the thick cloud of despair.
Perhaps hope is just an illusion our lonely heart long to see.
Perhaps hope is the only goodness in the darkness of life's cold reality.
Perhaps hope is an easy escape from all misery.
Perhaps hope is just a lie that will never change the colours of the seas.
Perhaps hope was made by people like you and me,
desperate for shelter from the violent storm of failure we see.

Poem #1

Death
by Venesa Devi

Death,
the everlasting sleep,
the eternal pause,
the endless silent.

Death,
remains a mystery,
remains an unknown story,
remains as God's greatest secret.

Death,
perhaps the end,
perhaps a new beginning,
or perhaps is nothing.

Death,
the reason memories are precious,
the reason life is priceless,
the reason we are only human.

Books

BOOKS

           

            I remember vividly, how much I hated books. Actually, I hated all reading materials. Newspaper, magazine, journal, you name it. I simply hate it all. Well, except for comics of course. I’ve tried hard tracking back time to find out when and why I’ve fallen in love with books. No matter how hard I’ve tried, I just can’t seem to find the answers. You must have thought that it is silly for someone to find out why he or she love what they love. In my little own funny world of thoughts, it just seem rather important somehow. I guess it’s just another weird way for me to get connected with myself.

The Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank

"In spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart. I simply can't built up my hopes on a foundation consisting of confusions, misery and death."

- Anne Frank

This is probably the first serious book I’ve ever read. I was fifteen then. For about a week, I’ve immersed myself into the thoughts of a girl about my own age. I was amazed by her mature and wise ways of looking at the life that surrounds her. Despite all the hatred and injustice she faces for being a Jew, she still clings on to the idea that everyone is truly good in heart. It shows a different angle of perspective to the horrible nightmare of the holocaust.

For The Love of a Son by Jean Sasson          

“For every woman in Afghanistan who silently suffers unimaginable abuse at the hands of the men who should love and respect her. I’m sure these woman wonder if anyone in the world cares. I care”

- Jean Sasson

           

This one of those books that takes you deep into the emotions of the characters. Knowing that this is a non-fiction, it is even harder for me to flip from page to page without tearing. It is not the tears of sympathy but the challenge of accepting that horrible things are happening to woman everywhere in the world the moment I am reading this amazing book in the comfort of my house. I am astonished by the works of Jean Sasson. I hope that she will continue being the voice of the voiceless. May no one will ever have to suffer in silent. May the world listen hard to the loud cries of injustice in the world.

Growing up with Ghosts by Bernice Chauly

“She is Chinese, he is Punjabi. It is 1966. Loh Siew Yoke and Surinder Singh fall in love and marry but faces opposition from their families. Their first child brings peace, but tragedy soon strikes”

-A short description at the back cover of the book

The moments I read the description at the back cover of this book, I just went crazy. It’s definitely a ‘must read’ for me! You see, I come from a Punjabi father and a Sabahan mother (East Malaysia). So, it is only normal for me to be overjoyed when I knew such book exist. It’s like meeting someone from your own country in a foreign land.

I grew up differently from any of my cousins from either side, completely different. As a child, I go to both Gudwara and church, both Sunday School and Punjabi class. However, when my parents got divorced in 1998, everything slowly changes. By the time I’ve reached 7 years old, I’ve lost complete contact with any Punjabis or Sabahans. Now, I can’t speak a single Punjabi word or have the Sabahan excent. This book somehow brings me to a part of myself I’ve always wanted to see. Plus, I find a lot of similarities in the little stories the author brought to life. My father used to tell me the same stories about growing up as a Punjabi and the situation Malaya have to go through during the Japanese occupation. I’m also awe by the unique writing style of Bernice Chauly. The magic of her words brings the stories alive.