We tend to look at our lives using only one set of rules; our own. What we say, what we do. Our relationships, romantic or otherwise, we observe and evaluate them in what is essentially a one-sided affair. It’s not wrong in any sense. After all, everyone has a different set of beliefs and principles. What we see and feel and experience is entirely up to us to interpret, and if someone enquires our opinion about something, we express it. It is their choice to accept or deny it. So when a situation presents itself, requiring us to look at it from another angle, or from someone else’s eyes, often times we are surprised by what we find. Often times, we are shocked or even humbled, that the things we perceive to be true and irrefutable, is in fact, refutable.
For the past couple of days, this friend of mine had been posting ‘heavy’ writings on his blog. Now, him, writing things like this, it isn’t a surprise at all. He’s open-minded and not afraid to let the world know what he thinks about certain things. But for him to have this sudden burst of creativity and write article after article of serious issues is new. Of course, his writing aren’t fluff, and they’re not some desperate attempt to rake in more hits. He’s not a ‘blog-whore’, as he so eloquently put it. His motto is writing to express, not to impress. Something that comes through in each of his posts. He has a very fresh, no-nonsense style with spatterings of dark humour thrown in, a style that I very much enjoy. When I started blogging way back when, I enjoyed writings of this nature, not just by him, but by many others. They seem to have this carefree sense in them, as if the words just flow out of them. My amateurish efforts are nothing compared to the sense of style that they have.
Deepavali is tomorrow. And personally, I’m too tired to care.
I’m tired of trying to finish everything on time, of the ever-mounting work, of those small details that seem to mysteriously crop up. I’m not tired of the painting and the washing and the mopping. I’m tired of the little instances. The small things that has to be done repeatedly. I’m tired of just gritting my teeth and pushing on, when all I want to do is slam everything down and shout and get everything out of my chest.
I’m tired of trying to understand his mentality, his way of thinking. I’m tired of trying to justify whatever mistakes he makes by saying “He’s my father. I respect him.” I’m tired of the shoutings and the warnings and the ultimatums. I’m tired of trying to find out what kind of Indian I am, why I am the way I am, why I reject the Indian norms, ignoring the jeers and the insults of being a black-assed foreigner, of being so-called “embarassed of our Indian cultures and values”.
I’m tired.
There was a time when I really looked forward to Deepavali. In the beginning, it would mean a long balik kampung trip a week before the big day. My dad would put in a week-long leave, and we would pack tons of clothes and take the journey to Taiping in his old Toyota. It was before the North-South Highway was opened in its entirety. We would be taking all the long, windy roads, passing through small villages, towns that seem to be in the middle of nowhere, old and seemingly abandoned palm oil estates. We would usually stop for lunch at Tapah, where I would usually pester my dad to buy me a toy car before we got in the car and continued our journey to Taiping.
I liked the house in Taiping. It was formerly a mining estate, and there was a really big dredging ship rotting away not far from where my grandfather lived. It was a wooden house, long and wide. The house was so long, in fact, that there was another family living at the back of the house. They were a Christian family, and they had two kids. I still remember their names, Jerome and Priscilla. I was always in their house, save for lunch, dinner and bath-times. I would just go up to the back side, knock on their door and spend the whole day there. We were one big family. We shared everything together. There were times where I would take naps at their house, and they would do the same in my grandfather’s house.
