Cooking. One of the great mysteries of life. At least for me. A realm full of enigmas and wonder. A real where many can enter, but only a few will persevere and emerge victorious. Where raw ingredients become culinary magic that can fill up the hearts of many and sooth the troubled soul. I am always captivated by this realm, and the ability of a select few to do seemingly impossible things with so little things.

To master it (or at least become proficient in it) became one of my lifelong dreams, and last month, I attempted to enter this realm. After a few false starts, and lots of trial and error, I scored a few achievements.

Of course, I won’t stop here. There are still too many things to try and taste and experience. The journey is far from over.

I will persevere.

P.S: Sorry for the dramatic tone of this post. I’m on a high after seeing how my Chicken Kapitan turned out. By the way, Ayam is chicken in Malay.

I usually try to avoid the Central Plaza when I’m in campus. It’s usually packed with so many people that it’s just impossible to move, especially if you’re pressed for time, as is the case with me. The space is just too bloody small to set up booths for exhibitions and such.

Today was no exception. There are some times when outside companies would come and set up booths to promote their products, have competitions and things like that. Must be part of their marketing strategy. Today, it was L’Oréal setting up shop, promoting something called the L’Oréal Skinzone (I’m not sure what it was exactly, didn’t bother to read the information in the banner). Of course, there were attractive girls handing out pamphlets and talking about whatever the hell it was, to whoever stopped in front of their booth for more than 3 seconds.

I decided to go by Central Plaza, because I was done with classes and I saw a friend of mine manning a booth for a club that he was in. I was passing this one girl, handing out pamphlets and talking cheerily with passers-by. As I was approaching her, she saw me and the smile instantly went off from her face. She gave me a stare… and gave a pamphlet to someone who was directly behind me.

Right, what the hell was that? I thought. So I went quite a distance before I stopped and turned around to observe her. Everyone who passed by her got that pamphlet, and a smile to go along with it. Right…

It might be nothing, and I could just be a wee bit paranoid. But was I just discriminated? On what basis? I know I’m not that good-looking, and my physique isn’t anything to shout about either. I’m what you call the epitome of average-ness. But man, that was just weird. It may be subtle, but it speaks volumes.

*sighs* Oh, well.

This is an article that I wrote for my university newspaper/newsletter. It started with a random sentence, and become a 700-word-plus article 45 minutes later. I decided to post it here because I thought it would be a tribute of sorts, considering that the 31st of this month is Independence Day, and all that. It also seemed like an article that needed feedback from people, namely my dear readers that visit this blog.

AN IDENTITY CRISIS? REALLY?

by Ganaesh A/L Devaraj

I am not an Indian. A pretty bold statement, don’t you think? Imagine the problems I would face if I ever decided to say it out loud, to a crowd of Indians, no less. Imagine the stigma, the insults. Sometimes, the temptation to just get up on stage and shout it out is so great that I have to silently pinch myself to snap back to reality. I could be branded as someone who thinks he’s too good for his own race. My mother once told me to stop acting like a “black-assed white man”. Rest assured, I’m not here to offend anybody, merely to point out an element which is already prevalent in our society. So, back to the statement. Is it racist? Am I denying my cultural identity by saying such a statement?

When I was growing up, my best friend was a Malay boy. My neighbours were Chinese, and my babysitter was Indian. Her son married a Malay woman. I usually spent my weekends playing at my friend’s house. He was Chinese. I had friends from all walks of life, and from all different races. Back then, it wasn’t really a big deal. Of course, you could put it down as childish ignorance, but let me ask you something. If it wasn’t a big deal then, why is it a matter of life and death now?

Continued here.

I woke up at 6 today.

It was cold, and slightly windy. The fan was not necessary; all I had to do was leave the window slightly open, and the cold wind would slowly come in and wrap the room in its coldness. It’s nice, studying at such an early hour and feeling the cold wind on your skin, and the goosebumps that appear as a result of it. The whole house is quiet except for the soft drone of the computer. I want to go swimming, but I know that such a foolish decision would cause me to have a cold later. No use being an idiot and getting myself sick before my mid-term paper tonight.

It has been crazy so far. Not so much in what I’ve done, but what I’m getting myself involved in. Besides having a hand in trying to keep a dying club from… well, dying, the world of politics has had a chance to enter my seemingly mundane life. It’s a dirty, dirty word. I hate it to the bone. All these years, I’ve tried my best to stay away from it, to back out of this issue whenever I felt that I was getting too deep. Well, I guess that all those years of being in the sidelines will get to you. A cruel form of karma, it seems. Name-calling, bickering, talking behind people’s backs… who knew that a dying club would have so many problems?

Silly me. The club is dying… because of problems!

My writing is worrying me. Or rather, my LACK of writing. I find it so much more harder to write these days. About anything. It’s not that my life nowadays is uneventful; the truth is far from that. But it’s just that… the words aren’t coming out. I comfort myself by saying that it’s writer’s block… but can I just call it writer’s block, and leave it at that? And what exactly is writer’s block? Does it have a definition? Maybe I’m worrying myself for nothing. But visiting Fazri’s blog makes those worries and those fears come back. He seems to make writing effortless, even funny. And me? I’m struggling just to write a 500-word article for the damn campus paper!

I need to start writing again. Even if it’s by force.

And I don’t think I’ll be running out of things to write about anytime soon, the way things are going. I can’t divulge much now, because most of it’s secret. Classified information, even. But I’ll write about it when the time comes. Write and write and write.

At the very least, it’s a way of making me write again.