Sunday, May 29, 2011

Let There Be Love

Do you ever wonder about dreams? They are so tangible, those images in your head. They materialize in your head, seemingly indelible, hauntingly elegiac. I just had the most awful dream- and I woke up from my sleep sobbing like my heart had been physically wrenched out of my chest. I had dreamt of my Ahma sitting at the dining table, lonely, neglected and small. I dreamt that my family and I sat around the table, talking and laughing while she watched, humble and unpretentious. I dreamt that we were out shopping and she trailed behind us, burdened with many plastic bags, while my family traipsed in the front. Her face in my dream, so broken, shattered me completely.

When I awoke my heart heaved with relief because it was only a dream- yet the empty hollowness of her absence in my life was so tangible I couldn't stop crying. I gave my sister a terrible scare. Death is such a curious thing, its very nature is so oddly bewildering. I reckon I was dreaming of my grandmama because we went to visit my uncle's urn right before I took my nap. My dad's face when he gently brushed his brother's photo was so heart-rending, and his silent tears nearly broke my heart.

It was almost 4 years ago when my uncle passed away- and still, my father prays for him every single night. Every. Single. Night. Perhaps the only cruel thing about death is who it leaves behind.

I miss my grandmama, and her homecooked recipes, her ability to boss my gonggong around, her weak hugs, her tired and warm smile, her hands.  She used to to send me for ballet lessons, sitting outside the room talking to the other mothers and maids. She used to make the most heavenly pineapple tarts, the aroma of freshly baked tarts smelt exactly like home. Her insistence that porridge was the best meal has stuck with me up till this day- I owe my strange inexplicable partiality for slightly tasteless (she was against our  practice of adding copious amount of light sauce), steaming hot, porridge, sprinkled with tiny ikan bilis to her. I miss the black chair she used to sit on, which smelt of her and the comforting scent of vix.

She was the kindest woman I knew, and had an all-encompassing love for everything. She helped out in church, she swam, she gardened, she struggled with English (she never went to school), she offered unbelievable amounts of money to her sibling who needed them, she doted on us with abandon.

I miss her- even if I have no right over her time on earth. God wanted her, and so she went, happily and peacefully.

But that doesn't make me miss her less.

I love you, mama.


School has been very busy, and we've only just finished all our work. I haven't had much time to think about things, write, or reflect. My spare hours were spent reading to destress. The satisfaction, though of watching heated papers appear from my printer and then finally stapling the stack of papers together, knowing that it is final and last draft, is wonderful.

To reward myself, I decided to watch Lion King on Thursday. The props were mind-blowing. The intricacies of the carvings on the lion masks, the whole African-tribal atmosphere, and the entire wooden-totem quality of the giant Mufasa was tremendously skillful. The stage was awash with vibrant colours and sounds, and the entire night was an rather pleasant visual assault. J was convinced that the "guy who designed the props deserved an award".

There were a few rather amusing Singaporean references in the play as well, ranging from "Merlion" to "Obiang", which were so utterly shocking in their discrepancy among a largely African cast that they were funny.

Today is the start of June break, but it wouldn't really be a break- and I well know that. I will be a month of getting down to work and preparing of Mids. I know we'll make it through together. Today, however, I am rewarding myself with another show- "James and the Giant Peach". I'm taking my younger cousins and brother to see it, and as it goes, I seem more excited than them about it.

Excuse me, too busy,
You're writing your tragedy,
These mishaps, you bubble wrap 
When you've no idea what you're like
- Let Go. Frou Frou.

No comments: