Haikus for the Holidays

Assalamualaikum

Shafiq's on 9GAG
his soul sucked into the web
it's not coming back...

Christmas is over
New Year is round the corner
Time, Y U NO WAIT?

Walking to KL
Working in the Zoo
Wondering 'bout life

The haikus above
Is written out of his love
for the holidays

Thank you for wasting
your time reading these wasted
words from a wasted man

P/S: Haiku is a form of poetry originated from Japan. It usually consisted of 3 lines with 5-7-5 syllables in each line. Try to find where among these haikus that I've broken this rule.

Wasallam.

2 DAYS AT THE ZOO

On the same topic by Anas

Gambar di atas adalah gambar hiasan. Taraf kefunctionannya adalah sama seperti taraf kefunctionan topic function Maths dalam kehidupan seorang guru Bahasa Inggeris.

9.00 a.m. My phone rang. It woke me up from deep slumber. The first thing I saw in the morning is Aiman’s large mountain of flesh lying next to me (nothing homosexual here), snoring like Snolax. Not a pleasant sight. And the number that calls me is not pleasant number either; no names, only numbers. Very impersonal. I answered it, in a voice similar to a man with a hangover.

“Wha?”

“Shafiq ke ni?”

My Islamic name. I answered yez.

It turns out to be Puan Maria from the Zoo Negara, the Head Ticketing Officer. She wanted me to come to the zoo, 10 miles away, ASAP, because she needs an extra hand.

“I’m on my way.”

I woke Aiman up, took my bath and get dressed. I forced him to do the same for I need a taxi driver to take me all the way to the zoo.

It was 9. The zoo opens daily at 830. Why hadn’t they called earlier? It was Sunday, and sure enough, by the time I came, the crowd is thicker than the crowd of underaged teenage girls in a Justin Bieber concert.

It was a blessing to have Aiman sleepover at my house. The night before he had some business to attend to in KL and he needed a place to crash in for the night. I offered mine. He took it. And that’s how he came to sleep beside me, like a bunch of dudes after a night fueled by alcohol and girls and drugs and anything that provides news materials (and rezeki) to the staffs of Harian Metro.

Aiman, Good Guy Aiman, drove me all the way to the zoo and dropped me at the entrance. I felt like some kind of paratrooper air-dropped into an intense warzone. A novice, for I never feel the heat of the battle. From far away, I can see the throngs of people lining at the ticket counter. It’s a bloody battle out there. They need reinforcements. Here I come.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Less than a week ago, Anas, Daus and I walked into the zoo expecting to be interviewed, or at least fill in a form.

Anas sez that the zoo’s offering part-time jobs where we could earn RM30 daily. Sounds good for Anas and Me. We’re so desperate for money that I felt, if somebody offers us a good sum, we would be contract killers. I’m not so sure about Daus, though, who lives on a bungalow on a hill in a neighborhood that seems to Beverly Hill’s Malaysian cousin. But somehow I conned him to join us anyway. He tagged along for the interview.

But there wasn’t any interview. Nor any forms. Pn Maria, the one in charge, just gave us 3 pieces of paper (‘the forms’) and told us to fill in several details. We’re full, she sez, and you’re lucky, we’ll call one of you.

We walked to Daus’ house. I wondered aloud that we came this far, wearing shoes and collared shirts, (and for my case, learning Zoo Negara’s history)  just to be told that we’re going to be picked by blood lottery? Daus patted me in the back. Grinning. Of course, if anything, he’s going to get it. The Zoo to Daus is like Fu Tong Tong to KMS. If Pn.Maria had any sense, she’ll call him first.

Anas hollered, all the way to Selayang, of how poor he is and how desperate he need the job. He began to get fatalistic on our chances of working with the Zoo. Actually I began to feel sorry for him, as his mother is suffering from a cancer. He didn’t want to depend on his family anymore for cash supply.

Yet, his cash reserve is depleting, causing him to stop lomoing for a while. Same with me amigo, same with me…

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Now it was packed. I lost my way finding the entrance. After being roughly briefed by Pn. Maria of what I am going to do, I lost my way finding the exit.

I finally reached ground zero. This is where all the action is. My job? Approach a customer, asks him/her of how many adults, children, senior citizens, anyone born in ’61, and Abang/Akak nak masuk Taman Rama-rama tak?  After taking the orders, I am to give him/her/undetermined the slip containing the numbers, and tell him/her/undetermined to present all of their MyKads at the ticketing counter. Simple job. Not rocket science. Not even English Literature.

Yet, I’m slow during my first hour of working, earning the wrath of my Sarawakian colleague named Rachel aka Y. I kept forgetting asking several questions. But I never made any mistake on my figures. So, all in all, not a single customer under me complained that he/she/unknown got the wrong number of tickets. Yeah, I maybe slow, but I never did any major screw up.

Just after one hour I finally captured the rhythm of the job. I moved fast. Pushed by adrenaline, I began attacking more visitors than my veteran colleagues (who are all school-children, been working in the zoo for years, and have their Mums behind the counter…). I began to love my job because it’s so simple. And people are responsive to you. They won’t ignore you like you’re some damned Broadband sales promoter, or some retarded child asking money for their Foundation of Mental Retards. They’re going to the zoo. They know that they’ve got to respond to me if they want to get in. They’ve got to give their figures right or else there’ll be trouble if they want to enter. I felt like I’m holding some kind of power over them. Pass me, I seemed to say, or else!

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

In general, there are several types of customers.

The Malay families are generally fat, well-to-do, comes from faraway and always come in large numbers (The Malays is a fertile race…). But they’re the easiest to handle. There’s no language barriers. It’s easy to strike up conversation with them. They’re friendly, and responsive as hell. Difficulty level: Recruit.

The Chinese, meanwhile, seems to me the kind that speaks broken Malay (and cannot speak English at all), not the type of urban and urbane Chinese that normally find in Bangsar or the Curve. More like the ones from Kepong, Selayang, or a forsaken place like Sekinchan. But they’re okay. You just have to explain longer on why the ticket with Taman Rama-Rama has higher prices  than those with no Taman Rama-Rama. That’s all. Difficulty level: Regular.

The Indians are divided into two. Those who looked educated and those who don’t. For the former, talk English with them and everything will be fine. For the latter, it’ll be harder for they looked at you like you’re some kind of Malay bigot who’s somehow, in some subtle manner, trying to discriminate them. They talked rough, as if that if we’re asking them to show their MyKads indicates that we’re still not convinced that they’re Malaysians. Can’t blame them 100% though, for who knows how many kelings they’ve got to hear before they come here.

Difficulty level? Veteran.

The Arabs. They’re either very polite or suffered from disease that makes them allergic to good manners. For those who are kurang ajar, they talked rough:

“I don’t understand.” one of them sez with a murderous look towards you. "Why?"

Me: ‘Blablablablabla…bla..bla..farasha….haiwana…blabla!”

“I don’t understand.Why?"

“Blabla..foreigner RM30…local RM20…blablabla..farasha RM35…blabla..no Farasha, Haiwana only RM30.”

“I don’t understand. Why?"

They seemed to be mad at you for not speaking their language. As if they expected, upon arrival in Malaysia, to come to an Arab satellite state where everyone speaks Arab like they speak English. They also seemed to be angry that they’re charged higher than locals, sometime demanding explanation when they can’t even understand our explanation in English.

In the end, for most of them, I just counted the number of adults/children/old people they have in one group, and gave them the slip. No need to speak anything to them. But how I wished I hadn’t skip my Arab lessons in my sekolah agama time sekolah rendah (for the ustazah was one hell of a bore, and Arab periods during Sekolah Agama always means Pendidikan Jasmani period sebab selalu main Sofball kat belakang sekolah).

Difficulty level: Hardcore..No..Asians…No…Arabs.

(But they are very nice Arabs though. Even if they don’t speak well, they keep saying thank you for every word you say. Makes your feel that there’s hope yet for humanity..)

The Negroes, for me, is not that hard. They’re U students mostly, and they’re fluent in English. Speak English, and not be intimidated by their size…and (I’m going to hell for this) color, everything will be smooth sailing.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

When it’s time to close, memang best halau orang. We’ll approach them, then ask them if they really.. REALLY…want to go inside, since it’s 4 o’clock, and you won’t have much time left, not worth the money, blablabla…Most of the time, they’ll turn away, their kids screaming (Diam, abang ni kata zoo nak tutup!!/Shhh…Nanti abang ni marah!! -_-“).

But there’s one sad part, when there’s an old Granny coming to the zoo at 430. I told her that the zoo’s closing but she still insisted on coming in, saying that she already promised her ‘Susan’ to go to the zoo. She kept searching her handbag for Susan’s voucher, not giving up. She finally relented when she saw that the counters are closed.

“I’ll never know when I can bring Susan here again.” said the Granny with a heavy voice.

She walked away slowly. Hearing her saying that gave me the image of a dying Granny, (or a dying grandchild with cancer, or both) has promised each other to spend their last day on earth to visit the zoo. Thoughts like this can make you choke up and break the hearts even those with hearts made of granite.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

By now, you faithful readers, (or the unfaithful readers, if you skip to the last part) will feel that this blog entry is tl;dr.

Well I can’t help it. I’m a fast writer but a bad editor. There’s tons of stuff left in my memories that I want to write about that didn’t make it into my keypad.

Writing is like running. You write fast and brilliantly at first because you still possessed the energy, but nearing the end, you tend to get lazy and began to take short cuts or slow down to allow your lungs to catch your breath.

In fact, aku rasa macam dah pancit sekarang. So baik berenti.

Sekian.

P/S: Sebenarnya semua orang dapat kerja. Cuma hari kita nanti berlainan. Tak akan dapat buat clique KMS. Tapi, syukur Alhamdulillah semua dapat rezeki.

ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE IN KOLEJ MARA SEREMBAN PART 2

Photo Source: Deviant Art
Warning: Contains profanity and words that we wouldn't utter in front of your parents and in-laws. Language can sanitized violence but not curse words. 

“Wha?” sez Zaman, “What happened next?”

“What happen what?” sez Shafiq, disheveled and demoralized from a day of negotiating with murderous students who complaint about the magazine.

“The zombie story. Citer tergantung.”

“In the end, they all got eaten by the zombies. Sekian terima kasih.”

Shafiq went out from his room, checking each corner in case the IB students sent assassins to take him out. Their class photos were printed in black and white. This caused some of them to feel that there was a conspiracy against them; an Illuminati-like force behind the editorial board out to wipe out their course from the face of the (KMS) earth. They were paranoid. And because they were paranoid this caused Shafiq to become paranoid too. His nerves jumped every moment he saw the black and orange shirt the IB students were wearing. Maybe I ought to wear a Kevlar body suit, thought him, or hire bodyguards.

Then Shafiq met Liwauddin Lujaini, the lone psychopath who loved to smirk instead of smile when he greeted others. Wau was Shafiq’s third classmate, the other being Abu Dzar, whose looks could attract the longing gaze of the students of the Aisyah block but apparently never had a girlfriend. Shafiq suspected that Wau’s gay. A homo and a psychopath; a sperm-and-ovum-like combination that could produce the embryo of a serial killer.

“Hello.” smirked Wau, “Heard you’ve a rough day.”

“Yeah, got a lot of PR duty to do. Got lots of apologies to do. Got to douse some burning letters – ”

“Yeah. The way you handle the magazine, millions will die if they put you in charge of a nuclear reactor.”

“Great, asshole. You’re a fine pal. I like you”

“I speak the truth.”

“Only when it hurts.”

“But the way you handle the damage, you could work as a PR in nuclear energy companies. You know, in case millions do die in a disaster, you could apologize, take the flak and pay compensation. Or maybe be like the Japanese; commit seppuku.”

“That a compliment?”

“I’m an interpretivist, baby. Interpret it the way you like. There’s room for your own interpretation.”

“Bajet ah, gay jambu.”

“Finished socio?”

“Running out of point to talk? Not yet. Will do it tonight. At somewhere safe. Somewhere no one will know who am I.”

“You don’t have to worry bout that.” sez Wau, “You’re not famous enough. You know what they say about the fucked up magazine. They kept asking the name of the editor. And when I said your name, they said ‘Shafiq who?’.”

“I’m a male TESLian. Ain’t that enough to make me famous?”

“Oh no. With me and Abu Dzar, we’re like two stars that eclipse you, the mere moon. We’re hot, you’re not.”

“Fakof.”

“Peace be bless upon you too.”

And they parted ways. Shafiq to Aminuddin where he’ll be having a heart-to-heart session with his close friends, and Wau, who never had any close friends, to the library so that he can indulge himself in a delirium of book reading.

As Wau walked across the futsal court, he could sense that thousands of eyes were gazing at him longingly from the Aisyah block. The girls were eyeing him with the intensity of snipers. He wondered of how many enemies he can make from the members of the opposite sex if he showed them the finger in the general direction of their block.

He was whistling the choral part of Beethoven’s Ode to Joy, praising the beauty of the day when he smelt something’s burning. What kind of fogging are they doing now? he thought. It was at the porch of the koop that he realized that the burning originates from behind the Aisyah block. He peeked behind and saw that a group of AUSMAT students were burning the magazines en masse, like Hitler and his Nazi party did on banned books before the Second World War.

“Yo,” he called out, “Don’t you know that it’s wrong to burn books.”

“We’re not burning books. We’re burning crap, that’s what.” one of them replied, tending the fire with a stick.

“The IB is in black and white. And we, AUSMAT students, have no pictures at all.”

“Don’t you know,” sez Wau with a philosophical air, “that you guys ought to be proud.”

“Why?”

“Because the magazine, as you say, is crap. And because your photos are not in it, so the good name of the AUSMAT course has not been stained by that crap. You guys are lucky.”

Before they could say anything, Wau went on with his journey to the library, picking up a copy of the magazine that the AUSMAT students have accidentally dropped in their frenzy of mag burning.

He opened the magazine, which has a beautiful cover design with sheety contents. He tsked-tsked as he went on through the pages until he came upon a story entitled ‘A Zombie Apocalypse in KMS.’ written by none other than his best fiend Mohammad Shafiq Razak.

(By this time, YOU, the reader, will finally say “HAH, BARU NAK CITER PASAL ZOMBIE. APSAL PANJANG SANGAT INTRO!?” Sabar jelah kawan. Nak starting kena panaskan enjin dulu. Kalau tak pancit. Kering takde idea nanti kang.)

It wasn’t a literary masterpiece, but strangely Liwauddin Lujaini found himself liking the story and wished it hadn’t ended like that. Probably the anger that stem out from the college community was mainly because of the photos. But, Wau thought, can they appreciate the beauty of the written words instead of focusing on the visual and the concrete. The art of the written words is a dying business, like wayang kulit…. and every shop that MARA opened.

It wasn’t to say that the story is one hell of work that can salvage the condemned magazine (it was the graphics that sprayed perfume onto the dung), but people are so obsessed with visuals that they couldn’t take a bloody minute to read one simple story. Nobody ever complaint about the works featured because no one read them, or give a damn. Wau sighed about this malady that afflicts the humanity.

(READER: WOI, CEPATLAH SIKIT. MANA ZOMBIENYA?)

(PENULIS: SABOLAH WEI!)

As he read on the story his mind began composing the continuation story of the zombies. Much as they disliked each other, Wau and Shafiq shared one common love: the love of literature. They scoured books for literary inspiration and debated with each other on who’s the better writer; Hemingway or Faulkner? Usmang Awang or A. Samad Said? Stephen King or Dan Brown? Sophie Kinsella or Meg Cabot? Anasxganas or Alimkusing? Despite their mutual hatred, they shared a sort of everlasting literary bond, like Siamese twins that have been separated. Automatically, as Wau finished reading the story, he silently wrote in his heart: When the dusk dawned on Kolej Mara Seremban six hours later…

When the dusk dawned on Kolej Mara Seremban six hours later, Aizat was clutching the bloodied laptop that he used when he brained one of the zombies that attacked him. The zombie belonged to the former body of Shafiq, that fat TESL boy, who attacked him when he was playing Left4Dead. The zombie’s dead, for sure. But he wasn’t sure of how long can he survive.

He heard many screams and cries in the night while he hid under his bed. The death cries of those who were being eaten, or being transformed into zombies, he wasn’t sure. He hoped that it was just a nightmare or at least a hallucination induced by countless hours of playing video games. It wasn’t. Reality bites back, literally, until you got torn to pieces.

Aizat knew he couldn’t hide under the bed forever. He must seek for help and find other survivors, so they could band up together to fight their way through the hordes of the living dead.

Then he heard the ground vibrating. Someone’s coming; possibly a large-sized zombie which weighed like him, only if he can be multiplied three times. Aizat imagined with horror if it was the zombiefied version of Aswad, Ise or God-help-him, Bob, coming to get him. His skinny frame stood no chance It will be like San Marino vs Argentina.  Even with Shafiq he had a hard time, although the zombiefied Shafiq was too damn slow and stupid and retard-like to do any tangible harm. (Remember, it’s Wau writing this) But if Ise or Aswad, man they are fast! And large!

Aizat then saw two feet standing beside his bed. From their size, indeed the zombie was larger than him (of course, who isn’t?). Time for kamikaze, Aizat thought, either I died fighting and then being eaten, or I died crapping myself and then being eaten. Or maybe I should crap myself, then the zombie, if it is picky, won’t eat me. Or..”

The ‘zombie’ lifted up the bed. Aizat nearly crapped himself, but adrenaline dictated him to fight back. He used his bloodied laptop by hitting it on the stomach, but with no effect, for the zombie was fat and has an extra flesh on its abdomen. Aizat, unperturbed and hoping for a glorious and holy death, gave a loud screaming that sounded like a takbir when the ‘zombie’ called out in a familiar voice:

“Sial! Ni akulah mangkuk!” (Translated literally: Bad luck! It’s me, bowl!)

It was Bob. For the first time in his life, Aizat felt like hugging him with all the love one can have for a man minus the homoeroticism. He never imagined that this would happen, but it happened. From afar, the sight of those two scared souls hugging each other looked like a little boy hugging his humongous, mutant teddy bear. And, oh, you can imagine there’s some kind of instrumental music playing in the background. Gives the right atmosphere, ya know?

After they disengaged themselves after several minutes of interlocking with each other, they discovered that they were in the epicenter of a group of zombies. Apparently, the moment of sweetness have been too cute that they actually paused themselves from eating them. One of them puked.

“Aw shucks.” sez Aizat.

“Fat chance of us escaping.” Bob sez.

Fat chance of you escaping. “Well, I guess I run faster than you. Remember the Wordlord? Of how I managed to win our team’s turn by being the fastest runner ever?”

“We were in different teams. And the only thing that I remembered is that my team won.”

“Whatever, here’s the deal. I run and become the bait -be a hero and save the day while you can take your time strolling down the corridor call for help, if you feel that’s important. If you’re not in a hurry, stop for a coffee break.”

“We’re about to die and you still try to be funny.”

“Okay, get set-“ he leapt and gave one of those monsters a roundhouse kick to the face. Patches of its skin stuck to his feet, like algae. Despite the grossness of it all, he ran like a madman. One who watched him running from afar, barefoot and barechested, would’ve thought that a toyol was rampaging the college, and not zombies. And to respect the late great Sudirman and as an attempt at comedy, we will play this classic:

Toyol, dia datang padaku berlari-lari

Tolong, kemanaku kan pergi

Toyol, kenapa pula aku yang kau cari

Tolong, rupanya hodoh wow.. wow.. wow.. wow

Indeed, he did look like a toyol.

Along the way he encountered many half-eaten corpses who were the victims of the zombie outbreak. Those who were bitten but not eaten joined the ranks of the living dead. Aizat ran and ran and ran until he was at the Gate B. He outran the zombies. And so did Bob, who was standing at the gate, not panting at all.

“How the hell you can run faster than me?”

“If Allah permits me to, then I can.” Bob sez with an air of religious authority.

“Now we got to know the extent of this epidemic. Let’s see whether it affects only our college or the whole damned world.”

The strolled downhill along Jalan Aminuddin Baki. They noticed that the Fu Tong Tong’s gate was left opened. They don’t like it.

“Hopefully Allah will permit us to run faster this time.”

“Allah knows best.”

And an Alsatian dog sprinted out from the house; Zombiefied. Again, they ran. (The author wishes to apologize for overusing the word run/zombiefied due to his limited vocabulary.)

And then…

Liwauddin Lujaini encountered the writer’s block. Damn, he thought, I don’t know what’s going to happen next. It’s like stumbling into a wall and you don’t know how to move around it.

Wau felt a nudge in his ribs. He realized that it was the Pak Guard who looked like Lee Marvin who poked him with his baton.

“You okay?” but he spoke those words in an accent that seems to be in a mixture of Negeri Sembilan with a touch of Javanese spoken from the mouth of a stroke patient.

“Wha?”

The guard spoke again. He might as well talk to him in Eskimo, for it was 10 hours later in the night when Wau finally understands what the hell the guard was saying. He had been wandering from Gate A to Gate B many times like a madman all the time while he was in the state of trance making up the story. He was never conscious of the world. He never even noticed the rain that soaked him, which gave him the appearance of a wet mongrel dog. He had abandoned reality in favor of fantasy.

Damn, he thought, passion turns everyone into a zombie.

Hujan Salju

Selama lima bulan blog ini dalam keadaan inertia, macam-macam berlaku. AS results, IELTS results, pergaduhan, kematian, krisis Kaleidoskop yang skop kemarahannya merintasi batch, cinta aku dengan dunia lomo yang makin pudar, ibarat suami isteri yang dah terlalu lama berkahwin sehingga mereka bosan antara satu sama lain (atau suami isteri yang kantoi khalwat, dipaksa nikah, lepas tu sedar yang mereka tidak menyintai satu sama lain.). Pendek kata seluruh spektrum kehidupan telah aku merasai sepanjang 5 bulan ini. Nak aku tulis pasal tu sumua?

Maleh den.

Sebaliknya Si Penulis nak tulis pasal cintaku dengan dunia sastera Melayu, di mana titik permulaannya berasal daripada pelangganannya kepada majalah-majalah Dewan Sastera zaman sekolah menengah rendah. Masa Form One, aku bajet intektual. Orang baca Kreko, aku baca Muhammad Haji Salleh. Orang baca sinopsis Sehijau Warna Daun, aku bantai baca Bukit Kepong. Kanang anak Langkau beserta Di Hadapan Pulau semua aku dah khatam sebelum habis Form One. Majalah Dewan Sastera, tiap bulan aku beli. Tengok balik koleksi Dewan Sastera aku, dah setebal dua tiga buku telefon dah.

Malah, setiap minggu aku yang memang anti-UMN—eh, anti-establishment sejak dari azali lagi sanggup beli surat khabar Mingguan Malaysia atas dua sebab: 1) nak baca nukilan mantan mufti Perlis, Ustaz Asri dengan 2) nak baca puisi dan cerpen di bahagian sastera.  Sajak-sajak yang berjaya menombat hatiku aku potong dan buat scrapbook (sayang, buku tu dah hilang dah, menjadi crapbook).

Alkisahnya aku menjadi fanatik lunatik dalam segala hal kesasteraan. Shahnon Ahmad, A.Samad Said, Keris Mas, Muhammad Haji Salleh, Arena Wati, Usman Awang aka Tongkat Warrant, Fatimah Busu semua aku kenal. Kalau tak baca karya mereka pun aku ingat gak nama karya yang dikarang mereka. Tidak dilupakan juga penulis-penulis baru yang melanda dunia penulisan Melayu dalam satu ombak yang dipimpin oleh Faisal Tehrani dan Nisah Haji Haron. Blog-blog dorang aku layan kot.

Tapi, jikalau ada diantara kamu pembaca yang mengenali diriku sekarang, tak pernah kau nampak aku memegang buku berbahasa Melayu, apatah lagi hasil titik peluh sasterawan-sasterawan tempatan kita?

Entah, mungkin cintaku makin malap. Nak terangkan secara terperinci mungkin dapat menimbulkan kemarahan sesetengah pihak yang akan lantang bersuara  dan memanggilku ‘pembelot bahasa’ atau tidak patriot. Namun, pada pendapat akulah, skop subjek Kesusasteraan tempatan tak mendalam dan gaya ekspresinya tidak sebebas sastera luar. Temanya tidak bosan dengan pembelaan hak-hak Melayu, dan pada masa yang sama sering menyinonimkan Melayu=Islam. Gaya penulisan pun tidak eksperimental serta lebih terikat pada satu stail yang sama. 

Novel-novel romantik dan thriller(yang dilabel sebagai picisan oleh Pendekar-Pendekar Bahasa) lebih popular dalam kalangan belia. Jangan salahkan belia sahaja, kata mereka tidak suka membacalah atau lebih mementing hiburan. Dalam karya sastera pun, kenalah ada hiburan. Janganlah jadi hambar sahaja, dan bajet intelektual sepanjang masa. Memang orang tau kau pandai, tapi janganlah kau gebang panjang-panjang yang kau pandai tetapi tidak melayan para pembaca dengan santapan hiburan. Tengoklah karya-karya luar macam Catch-22 (Joseph Heller) atau P.G.Wodehouse, mesejnya mendalam tapi disampaikan secara satira yang mampu membuatkan pembaca bergolek di atas lantai sambil ketawa. Takkan tidak boleh ada sebarang perkahwinan antara kabilah popular @ picisan dengan kabilah sastera. Itulah yang aku nanti-nantikan.

DBP pula bertindak sebagai badan kerajaan, dan bukan sebagai badan bahasa yang merdeka dari sebarang institusi politik. Tidak hairanlah kebanyakan karya sekarang bersifat pro-establishment dan tidak melawan arus. Takut menggoncang bahtera. Apa gunanya penulis kalau setakat melayan kerenah mereka yang berkuasa? Apa fungsimu jikalau kau hanya memaniskan yang pahit dan mengphotoshop gambar yang buruk?

Sebenarnya blog yang separa berapi ini tidak menuju kepada orang-orang lama seperti A.Samad Said/Keris Mas/Shahnon Ahmad. Mereka sedar akan kerja mereka sebagai seorang penulis. Penulis adalah soldadu bersenjatakan pena. Perjuangannya tidak akan tamat selagi ada ketidakadilan. Mereka boleh bertindak dimana-mana sahaja. Kalau tidak di dijalanan, maka mereka boleh bertarung menerusi mesin taip (tapi kalo zaman sekarang, laptop…ato macbook…sigh…). A. Samad Said ditangkap time Bersih. Shahnon Ahmad menulis SH!T (yang mengkritis politikus yang secara senyap-senyap memakan hasil negara macam tikus.) Penulis macam inilah yang gua respek dan membuatkan gua masih menaruh harapan terhadap Kesusasteraan Melayu.

Sebenarnya ilmu ana (kata ganti diri nama asyik berubah sebab tak tau nak guna yang mana…) dalam seni penyusunan ayat ini masih dalam tahap infancy.  B.M. ana pun masih tunggang-langgang (terbukti melalui blog ini) dan gua pun masih tak kenal kebanyakan penulis Melayu.

Antara cita-cita gua adalah untuk menjadi translator karya-karya Melayu ke dalam Bahasa Inggeris. Biar dunia tahu kebolehan kita dalam dunia sastera. Mana tahu sebab translation gua, dapat lak seorang penulis berbahasa Melayu yang memenangi hadiah Nobel prize. Ehek ehek (dahlah gampang, menggedik lak tu, tampor ko kang Sapik =_=)

Saya juga dah mula mengenali karya-karya Underground. Meskipun masih tidak mendalami lagi dan tak kenal siapa peneraju-peneraju gerakan tersebut, tetapi insya-Allah satu hari nanti saya akan mengenali mereka dengan lebih rapat lagi. And maybe I’ll join their ranks.

Tak puas hati. Tak setuju. Nak gaduh? Perenggan panjang sangat sampai buta baca? Kat balai (komen) cerita.

Wassalam.

P/S: Sebenarnya tajuk blogpost ni bukan tiada kaitan dengan novel A.Samad Said, iaitu Hujan Pagi atau novel zaman PMR, iaitu Panas Salju. Saja je kasi nama sedap untuk blogpost ini. Sebab luar hujan. Tak dapat jogging. Lepastu bosan dan tidak dapat tidur (insomnia). Oleh hal yang demikian, tercetuslah idea untuk mengupdate blog ini. 

MY BEST FIEND MIKE

ASSALAMUALAIKUM WBT.

Sometimes I think all the microphones in the world declared war against me.

I can’t remember when this began, but all I know that if I’m going to speak with a mike in front of me, something horrible will happen.

Most of the time, something horrible did happen.

Take this case, for instance. I was in Form 5 and my class was doing an English day presentation. 

When it was my turn to speak, a mike was handed to me. And then I said my lines.

But the amplifier remained silent.                                             

And so I repeated my lines. Again, the amplifier was still mute.

To make my point clear, and thinking that the mike was broken, I shouted my lines with the volume of a platoon commander. Everyone laughed, making me feel that I was in a sitcom with laughter tracks being played aloud.

I gave the mike to my other classmate. Miraculously, the mike works!

Finally, at the end of the show, I picked up the mike to give it back to the MC. Thinking that the mike was off, I cursed it with a whisper: “Sial punya mike!”

For some mysterious reason, the mike decided to be on when I cursed it.

The whole of Seremban heard me. Time literally stopped, because Time itself is shocked to hear me cursing in public.

I don’t want to talk about what happened next. It’s traumatic.

The score? Mike 1, Shafiq 0

Anyway, the second incident involving my feud with microphones occurred during PLKN.

I was supposed to be a narrator in a play. My part was simple: read my lines. I don’t even have to memorize my lines.

During rehearsals, I did well. In fact, I was able to recite my lines without reading my script. The actors and actresses all fumbled with their words; but I was able to do it smoothly. I was confident that, if all the other actors failed, my brilliant narration and my booming voice will save the day- and the play.

But we never use mikes during rehearsals.

And there were plenty of mikes on the night of our performance.

Surprisingly, the actors did their jobs well. The play was about ‘Si Tanggang’ and the guy who played Tanggang acted well enough to gain an Oscar.

In the middle of the drama, my turn to narrate came. I was supposed to read my lines. Pure and simple. But, filled with supreme confidence and ego, I left my script backstage.

It turned out to be a stupid decision. 

Face to face with a mike, I went blank. i forgot my lines.

 It was like in an awkward moment when the Imam forgot the Surah Al-Fatihah while leading the prayer.

 I could hear the crickets sing.

I could even imagine the mike telling me: “Remember me, ya (censored)? You cursed me sial, right? Now I’m going to sial your night.”

Panic attack. I became incoherent and stuttered my lines. The crowd laughed…again. My part turned out to be the worst part of our company’s drama. I was the spoiler.

Luckily, our company won the drama competition. It was mainly due to the performance of the actors, the props and the creativity of the scriptwriter.

Certainly we never won due to my ‘brilliant’ narration.

For the whole night, I wish someone would censor my face.

Now, the score’s 2-0.

There were many more embarrassing incidents of me and microphones. When I did announcements, 90% of the time I’d fumble my words. People hearing me speak will thought that a retard was speaking in an alien language while messing around with the mike.

That’s why I’ll never touch a mike. Even if you pointed a gun at me, I won’t speak through a mike. I’d rather have my body shot than my pride.

Mike and I became sworn enemies. But I know I cannot run from it forever. I must face it and conquer it. Where and when? I don’t know. But I will.

As an appendix, here’s a video of me…well, living up to my Dato’ Onn name. Memang takde kaitan, tapi saja-saja letak. Aku muncul kat minit....ah, pandai-pandai lah ko cari...

p/s- Video ihsan Amirul Ashraf dari kelas 5 theta/ 7th Batch

p p/s = Broadband ihsan drpd saudara Ahmad Syukran dari bilik F207

Wassalam.

A TESL Story (part one)

When I was small and when I still thought that babies are made by a single kiss rather than through sexual intercourse, I wanted to be a fighter pilot.

And so I tried to preserve my eyes like a lomographer treasures his camera.

But I never controlled my diet. I became fat unfit. My fighter pilot’s dream crashed and burned.

Then I decided that if I can’t join the military, then I will build weapons for the military to use. Since I was nuts about submarines, I decided that I should become a maritime engineer or some sort like that.

If people asked me what I want to be, I replied: ‘Engineer.’ That seems to be a satisfactory answer for everyone; such a normal, safe ambition.

Gradually, my dream of being an engineer corrodes like sand castle being swept away by the waves of time. The thought of becoming an engineer disgusts me, for no reason. (No offense to any future engineers reading this…)

Instead, since Form One, I discovered that I loved the mathematics of languages more than the language of mathematics.

I played with the idea of becoming a writer. I will write best-selling novels whose fame will outlast my life. If kids usually dreamt of becoming a celebrity, than I am like them. Though I’m not going to be an artiste (for my voice hates singing and my hands are not in good terms with musical instruments and I don’t have the ‘poster boy’ look which could whip girls into frenzy…). Rather, I’m going to be a literary artist, whose words will be immortalized by generations of scholars, writers, students and the public. Perhaps being the Malaysian equivalent of Shakespeare or the English version of A.Samad Said.

Such fantasy, I know.

Oftentimes, I considered myself as quite a writer when in fact I’m not. My words are riddled with grammatical mistakes. My sentences are quite amateurish, as if a retard was writing instead of those of a literary genius. I tend to hate my works, upon completion, easily. My works are like crippled children who I tried like hell to conceive them, but in the end born into this world crippled/retarded/whatever which makes me hated them more. My confidence in myself shattered easily like brittle glass.

I know that if indeed becoming a writer will be my life’s true vocation, I need a back-up plan for the work of an artist is unsafe. Without any Plan B, it’s like climbing a skyscraper without a safety net below. You succeed; you will taste all the glory. You failed; then may Allah help you.

Since I hate the sciences, a career as an engineer or in medicine is completely out of the question.  A diplomat, hmmm…,maybe. But will I have the spare time to write? Architect? I don’t know how to draw. Military? 3 months in PLKN is enough  to prevent me from joining the armed forces.

What about a teacher then, Shafiq? An English teacher.

In SASER, I remember a friend once suggested to me that I ought to take TESL. Then, I was ignorant about TESL. What the hell is it? My friend explained that I’ll be teaching English if I took TESL. And besides, I could write in my spare time.

That sounded like a wonderful suggestion then, and it still is now. Thank you Syamil Sani.

About a month later, our counselor entered our classroom to give us a briefing of all the scholarships available for us to apply. She handed each of us a brochure.

I got one, and discovered that only MARA is offering an overseas scholarship for TESL students. I highlighted it.

From then onwards, I studied as hard as I can. I did not only burn the midnight oil, but I’d burned all the daylight oil available. All for the sake of getting the TESL scholarship.

Alhamdulillah, I got 9As for SPM, which made me eligible to apply for the MARA TESL scholarship.

Of all the scholarships that I applied, MARA is the only one who interviewed me (a crazy episode which I will tell in some other time). I got rejected by the others (including PETRONAS). Hell, even UPU thought that I’m not good enough to be an ASASI student.

At that time, I thought that TESL is my only chance of getting closer to my dream of becoming a writer. My only chance out of my personal hell.

While waiting for the result of my TESL application, I went to Kolej Matrik Perak. I got swell friends there, but I just couldn’t imagine myself learning the sciences for another one year. Each night I prayed, and sometimes cried, to get that TESL scholarship. I constantly said to myself: “I don’t know what else to do…I don’t know what else to do…”

On my third Friday there, my mom called. She congratulated me, calling me “Cikgu”. I actually danced all the way to my room from the academic block after hearing that news. I was the happiest boy in Gopeng.

A month later, I returned to Seremban, again. I’ll be fighting another war that’ll last two years. But it is war that I’ll be willing to fight to the end.

Achieving 15 points for A-Levels is a city to be conquered, like Sultan Al-Fatteh and his Constantinople.                                           (to be continued).