a day in a life

Susan sang The Beatle’s Yellow Submarine went we inside to the trade fair. I tell her I’ve always knew about the song, but never heard of it. She is sad and hopes the three hours end quickly. She cooked lunch for us the other day, capsicums and onions stir fried with olive oil. The way she says olive is cute. A PhD student came to my poster and asked a few things. Told me I should continue for research. I told him I wasn’t interested, and suddenly he looked at me for one second, said no more, and turned away. I feel like one of those bad pupils who deny the teachings of old wise men in those Sufi tales. I disappoint people. I try to entertain myself by trying to pronounce French names with Susan. She is a nice person.

R came to me and we talked about life after graduation. He mentions that honours are not important if you’re not pursuing research, and told me he is going to do masters in engineering management. I tell him, you can learn that by working as well, unless you’re just looking for a way to stay overseas. He then says that it gives you edge over the others, and mentions his brother. I ask which. He looks at me with that what’s-it-to-you look and I said I know a friend who knows him. He mentions F’s name. I am caught, but whatever. He believes he can get any job he wants, academics aside, because he has ‘the art of convincing people‘. I tell him it’s true. If everything else fails, he can always fall back into doing research in Tronoh. I imagine himself doing work in the morning and giving usrahs at nights. To each his own. He thinks he tells me too much. It’s always interesting to talk to him.

I went to A’s house again for the night. The sun was setting in my direction as I walked to her apartment in Broadway. I  bought sushi along from one of the stores along the way, and said arigato to the obaa-san at the counter. She smiled.  A told me she’s moving out next week. We had mangoes and maggi for dinner. I bought things from the supermarket to make chocolate mousse, and we talked about body fat until I fell asleep. At one in the morning, I woke up, read a bit of Camus and stared at the wilted rose by the TV. I called out A’s name and climbed up the stairs to fall beside her. Kak Wani was sleeping. She told again one of her (many) love episodes and I just laughed and tell her to help me out downstairs. We just talked while I melted the chocolate on the electric stove, beated eggs with sugar, made whipped cream. The last one didn’t work out because I forgot to put the cream inside the fridge and I just looked at the sad blob of chocolate and telling A I am a terrible cook. We talked about the big bang, quarks, love, what it means to ‘dakwah’, and Hamza Tzortzis  until it was morning.

I walked my way back to Central, and met up with H. In the train, we talked about books and usrahs and I told her about Fathi Aris Omar’s essays and told her to read them. I am not being a good sport. She then tells me about some ABU guy coming to give a talk on politics in Sydney and wondered if we could go later. I said okay. When we arrived at the gathering a guy talked about Baitul Muslim and the girls just chuckled and winked at me. These people. Solehah gave me an album and a sort of sijil signed by everyone. It was a farewell of sorts. I feel at home with these people. At the kitchen she brought out notes on MBTI (because she had to do an assignment on it) and guessed which one I was). “I….. N…. T… and then what?”. “It’s P”. “Does not like small talk. Has very specific interests“. 10 minutes ago I was telling her what sort of music I liked.

Back in hazy Sydney, we just managed to listen to the Q and A session. Haris Ibrahim was talking about “the need of civil society leaders” (He mentions Pak Samad and Ambiga). “Pakatan is just a smaller thief than BN”. “The Semenanjung is no longer the focus for the election”. The way he says civil society leaders is convoluted. He gives his reason for his Asalkan Bukan Umno movement but all I can think of is a movement that is based on negation (or opposition) of another force will never work. The momentum stops as soon as the opponent is defeated, and you will become clueless as to what to do next. I scan through the audience and most of them look like Malaysians who have migrated and living here for the past 10-20 years, yet concerned about the country. One mentions about going back to vote to see change. Change. The word seems to weigh heavily upon us.

Not five minutes outside the building, wondering what to do next, two woman came up to us, all distraught, and asked for help. “Boleh cakap Bahasa Melayu, kan?” They wanted to find a hotel. His son showed up and told me they were swindled by an agent back home. The hotel didn’t have their names.They have been stranded since 12, having eaten nothing. It was almost 5.  So H and I, with the three of them tagging along, went around the streets of Sydney, going from one backpackers to another to ask for an accommodation. 20 minutes later, strolling bags along the pavement and listening to their story, we managed to find a hotel that wasn’t too expensive for them. They say we were god-sent and promised to keep in touch when we get back home. The mother asked for my mother’s number. I said okay and scribbled it down. The son says he never expected to be helped (or help anyone) in this sort of situation. I said it was nothing but a matter of pointing them to a hotel. I bought coffee before I boarded the train home, reading Camus’ A Happy Death. Mersault is in Prague this time. There is no sun to oppress him. This time, the forest was not burning.