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.