Taffy's Personal Touch on Life

          Young little ladies and some little boys rushed past us along the corridor, running happily, shouting like monkeys and robustly laughing. Some stopped to stare at Christabel but was pulled away by their compatriots. I shook my head.

          “I hear children, aunty. Maybe they were from his class,” she only said. Then, the last of his pupil came out of the door.The young girl of about 8 smiled at me politely and held Christabel’s hands before running away as well. Christabel looked startled but did not speak at all.       

I rapt at the door, three knocks it was and felt foolish doing so. We were greeted with music as we stood there, rooted, upon entry.

          “Kissing You by Desiree,” Christabel’s faint whisper caught my ears. “My favourite.” I led her to the young man seated by his mahogany grand piano, his back against us. I furtively watched those fingers actively play, struck by awe. At the end of the piece, I tapped his shoulders. Jolted, he turned to face me, a smile on his lips.

          “Good morning Madam Jong. Miss Christabel,” he politely addressed us both once properly introduced, his voice clear and calm. I nodded while Christabel stammered a ‘Hi’, apparently unyielding yet.

          “Ms Christabel, are you ready for your first lesson?” he intended to catch her response, foremostly as he rose to face her, his gaze on her intent. I had forgotten how tall he was.

          “Now?” It took her by surprise, her face vexed. She was already fidgeting nervously. I too thought it was extremely fast to begin immediately but did not voice out. Unless he was teasing her….

          “No, no… whenever you wish. Except public holidays of course,” he replied in good humour.

          “We all deserve to rest as well, don’t you agree?” he continued before walking to the other end and opening the muslin curtains to let the sun in. Christabel sensed the light but did not back away.

          “Beautiful morning, is it not?” he said.

          “Yes it is,” Christabel replied. “I’ll think about when to start class, Mr Philip.”

          “Take your time, really and please, do call me Philip.”

          She mentioned that she rather call him sir instead. He had a comical expression on his face but did not argue further. I saw then the limit of his patience.

          “Wow.” I expressed on the drive home after dinner. Christabel shared the same sentiments.

          “So what do you think?” I wanted to know her verdict, curious.

          “He seems arrogant, yet he is not,” she honestly claimed, her expression thoughtful.

          “Child! Completely the opposite,” I defended and did not hide my aghastment.

          “How would you know, Aunty? My intuitions are normally accurate,” she pointed out.

          “So, your answer is no?” I reignited.

          “ No, I didn’t say that,” she was quick to reply.

          “Or shy to be coached by a man?” I laid out some possibilities, which she denied.

          “Shy? Please aunty, this is not the middle ages,” she defended herself while I laughed heartily.

          “Splendid! So next Monday it is,” I declared.

          “Hrmm…” came her answer. Were there any signs of reluctance, I decided to ignore.

          A hand held her to be seated. She tried to behave as nonchalantly as possible. A man’s touch was not one she was accustomed to. Her blood rose as she felt tremors in her heart. Her fingers were brought to the keys, his fingers on hers, felt long and slender. Stupid romantic books, I shall never read them again! She cursed inside.

          Clearing her throat, she tried to converse.

          “You’re awfully quiet.”

          It was stuffy with someone leaning so close, you were practically overpowered by their scent. His was a heavy, musky, almost sexy allure. She held her breath painstakingly.

          “Am I? I don’t wish to be bossy around a pupil almost my age. You have to pardon me, I teach very young kids usually,” he said and it tinged within her. By now she had wished somehow she was able to see him, alas….she hastily got rid of her careless thoughts.

          “Play something, Christabel,” she heard his instruction only to find her mouth hitting something soft.

          “Sorry!” she felt bashful. Damn, damn, damn was all that ran through her mind that instant. He made no remark and stood a little further to permit her some space. He made no move to wipe his left cheek either, bemused.

          “No need for apologies. If you want to play well, we have to be comfortable with one another. You have to trust me, Christabel.”

          She was caught up in a frenzy, and the spell of his voice.

          “All right,” she assented.

          “Good, now play from your heart,” he asked of her only to have her reaching out for his arm.

          “I can’t,” she slowly confessed.

          “Why ever not?” he could only stare at her, incredulous.

          “I’ll play horribly.You’re going to think me silly,” agitated, she reasoned.

          “No I won’t and you won’t. Making a mistake is not something you should be ashamed of especially if you are a beginner,” he tried to urge her on. Sighing, she agreed.

          He perused carefully as she struck several notes. He computed the sounds in his head. Since recent treatments he could hear sounds vaguely. Very faraway but at least it was a blessing in disguise. He corrected several of her attempts.

          “Your hands are so cold,” he remarked. She did not feel it necessary to reply and played onwards though her heart was beating quickly.

          It gets harder every level so I need you to brace yourself,” he warned her. She nodded. 2 hours passed like leaves of trees fallen to the ground.

          “Will your aunt come and fetch you?” he asked after he shut the piano’s lid. He was saddened at her sight and was secretly thanking God for his sight despite his hearing impairment.

          “I think I better wait outside,” she said and began to walk until she felt an arm supporting her.

          “Let me take you there,” he offered.

          “No.. I need to familiarize myself with these hallways, if you don’t mind. I wouldn’t want to bother you all the time when I can manage,” she refused. He thought she was a stubborn soul but let go of her automatically.

          “Thank you,” she added politely. He was a step behind her, nevertheless.

          “Ah there you are, darling! Hello Philip,” I met them on my way, bursting into the scene.

          Philip smiled on my arrival and greeted me.

          “Goodbye, sir,” Christabel’s lips seemed to form, turning to him. He halted to reply her with a welcome. At that, we left.

 He was still watching them from the windowpane as they crossed the street before drawing down the curtains.

          I shook the water out of my umbrella and left it to dry outside the car porch. The house was a realm of silence except for the chirpings of birds in the garden behind. Placing my walking cane at the study room, the furthest corner on the left, I climbed up another flight of stairs, creaking sounds along the way.

          After a few knocks, I opened the door ajar. Christabel was leaning against the windowpane, her eyes shut. She was a picture of resplendence with the evening sunlight upon her bright face and slightly brownish hair. There was a solemnity in the air which I could not describe. I chose to remain silent.

          “Aunty?” the voice was warm, cutting off my thoughts. I rushed to her side, rubbing her shoulders.

          “Resting my dear?” I enquired out of concern. She looked  a great deal paler than before. She sighed.

          “Don’t exert yourself too much, dear,” I consoled her. In return, she gripped my hand firmly as I wrapped my arms around her. My wonderful, vulnerable niece.

          “I found you a piano teacher,” I broke out the news to her.

          “ Really? Poor you, aunty. Searching high and low for weeks,” she laid her heavy-laden head upon my shoulders gratefully. I could not bear watching her drown in the despair of her cruel fate.

          “Whom shall be teaching me?” she inquired, her tone noted with enthusiasm.

          “From Roselind’s academy,” I did not reveal the actual depiction.

          “The famous Roselind Lim? Oh, my, how kind of her to accept me as a pupil!” She could no longer contain her exuberance.

          “Christy darling, would you mind if it wasn’t her who is teaching you?” I arranged my words cautiously. Her face clouded over with ‘ I should have known it’ look. I did not know what to make of her pause.

          “Honey, I’m so sorry. But her son will accommodate to you,” I began my explanation.

          “Her son?” her voice hardly audible, registering some bewilderment.

          “Would it be uncomfortable for you? If it is so, I shall contact him tomorrow and tell him you are not interested?” I suggested without much ado.

          “Why would he want to teach me if his mother refuses? Does he know of my condition?” her voice, skeptical.

          “Yes dear. He has his own reasons,” I hoped to allude her skepticism.

          “Is he rather old?” Christabel was by then intrigued and open to acceptance. I had to smile. ‘Old’ was not doing any justice to her to-be tutor.

          “Far from it,” I protested. Her face creased again in disbelief.

          “Well darling, I will leave you to decide in all considerations. Let me know soon during dinner?” I uttered and was relieved when she nodded in agreement. She stopped me from leaving, catching my arm.

          “Is he nice?” There was a slight colour on her cheeks.

          “ I should think so.” The subject was left at that.

          We sat in the living room after dinner. Christabel was absorbed in reading at her desk while I stared gloomily into the night from my windowpane. Rain had commence again and the air was cold.

          “Aunty, can we go see him tomorrow?” she requested decisively.

          I rejoiced to myself. Her assent was the first step to ‘yes’.

          She was already at the door when I came out of the study room. It was a nice surprise that she had taken pains to dress up. I was convinced she was already accepting the stranger unconsciously who would bring music into her life.

          “It is not nice for you to stay home all day with an old lady like me. You should go out, have fun, learn something new!” I whispered to her, another indication to convince her. She only squeezed me affectionately. I wished  I could read her mind at that precise moment.

          The drive to the academy was a brief affair without the hassle of traffic. It would be unfortunate if the premise was closed on a Sunday. However, I decided to risk it anyway. Christabel looked youthful than her actual age in her white t shirt and jeans. We listened to Hitz.fm, each in deep thoughts.

          “We’re in luck!” I told my niece and we both made our entrance. This time, an elderly lady stood by the desk. She eyed us both critically.

          “Hi. I was here last Friday. Philip…” I started when she cut me off, businesslike.

          “Yes, so he has told me. Your daughter?” her eyes fell on Christabel, her stare longer.

          “My niece. Can you tell us where we can find Mr Philip?” I asked cordially, though I was not at ease with her behaviour. Christabel remained quiet but I knew she was attentively listening.

          “2^nd floor, the last room on the left. The morning class just adjourned,” she showed us the corridor.

          “How long has she been  like that?” the lady probed. I turned to her, halfway along the lane.

          “I beg your pardon?” I demanded of her to repeat.

          How long was she blind?” The lady was plainly blunt, annoyance filled me inside out.

          “A little over 6 months now,” I did not elaborate, mainly for the lady to take a hint. She pointed to the last room before walking off to resume her previous position.

          The silver-like stairs glistening in the reflection of the afternoon rain, spiraled up, giving way to a large hall draped with golden muslin curtains with an cute sense of nostalgia. Even the sounds of footsteps mirrored echoes, like voices from the past. The exquisite choice of furniture before me seemed to tempt me into another world, a path I once desired. I would not be stirred. Without any tarry, I steered towards the reception only to find no one in attendance.

          He was sitting by the right corner of the antique desk so big it almost drowned him, the desk itself an object of subtle inquisition as though imported from the days of the Imperial Dynasty. He did not look up as I sauntered close by. I caught the rapt expression on his face as he concentrated on the material placed at his lap. I cleared my throat, intentionally, with some guilt of intrusion. Still, he did not move.

          In an instant, he stood up in attention and addressed me in composure, reassessing the situation. I reached only near the end of his arm and looked up to his overtowering built. My eyes trailed nosily to the bold imprinted word on the cover of his book. “The Pianist”. I quickly turned to meet his eye to avoid him catching me in the act.

          “Pardon me, Miss. Can I be of assistance?” his voice floated like symphony. I wanted to look at him mockingly but smiled prudishly, instead.

          “Young man, you know how to flatter an old lady like me.”  It came out of my mouth abruptly. He gave me a wispy smile, but nevertheless a charm.

          “Do you play the piano?” another automatic question aroused by my normally inquisitive nature. There was a flicker of amusement from the corner of his eye.

          “Yes I do but it is my mother who gives lessons. Are you wishing to learn?” he answered nevertheless.

          I was beginning to feel at ease with this young gentleman.

          “No, it is for my niece, I am asking for,” I clarified but kept my real thoughts to myself.

          He withdrew from the desk and came back with a sheet of paper. I stared hard at the registration form, battling if I should include another piece of information. He must had sensed my hesitation.

          “It is just for formality’s sake. You decide yourself if you will or will not enroll. If you have some time to spare, please have a seat while I go through the structure of the fees and schedule suitable to your niece’s needs.”

          He misread me completely. I tried to bring my eye to his level as we sat across each other.

“It’s not that, Mr….”

“Won. But you can call me Philip.”        

He was patiently waiting without a sound, as if urging me to go on.

“Mr Won,” I refused to use first name on a first encounter. It was not my habit, and never would be, even after being half a century old.

“Would it be a problem if one of the students in this academy have some sort of handicap?”

His gaze was even, rather unflinching.

“And what sort? You need to be clear, erm..Madam…” he persisted in his pleasant voice.

          “Jong.” I briefly told him. My feet began to buckle under the pain of scouring the whole town. I could not bear to be told the same reply for the umpteenth time.

          “Mr Won..”

          There was a long pause between us.

          “Please, no need for such formalities. Call me Philip,” he insisted and again waited for my next response.

          “My niece, kind sir, is blind,” I uttered it out at last and in that moment I tried savouring the shock on his face. There was none.

          “Come again?” he seemed to ask me to repeat though. So I said it the second time, knowing the outcome of the conversation.

          “No problem at all Madam Jong. When can she come?” his answer rendered me speechless.

          “Are you sure, Mr Won? Have you not asked your mother?” I pressed for acknowledgement.

          “My mother? No, she will not teach. Not that she doesn’t want to but she wouldn’t know how. It would be difficult on her part. But madam, I  assure you I would teach your niece,” he exclaimed with a kind smile.

          “But why? How can you?” I was still doubtful after all the rejections.

          The young man stood up again.

          “Madam, I am deaf. I don’t think your niece and I have any differences. I am sure she will not mind if you tell her of my present condition. How old is your niece by the way?”

          I was still reeling with shock and astonishment.

          “24. It is her desire to learn since young but never gotten to. Would it be too late?” I forgotten all my restraint. My cane wobbled a bit in excitement.

          “Nothing is ever too late,” was his definite answer.

          “Philip, if you don’t find my words offensive, you look so ordinary and talk so ordinarily. How can you be deaf?” I was half ashamed I had spoken out loud my thoughts that I felt it appropriate to address his first name then.

          “No, not at all. I read lips, madam. Have grown accustomed to it.”

          I understood now the intensity of his gaze on faces.

          “And the music? How can you play when you can’t hear?”

          He gave his quiet smile again.

          “You’ll have to look at your niece’s progress to know.”

          With that, we shook hands and parted. I promised to be back after I discussed the whole matter with Christable. I gave the young man my formidable smile, walking out of that hall.

ready to hit him again with the slightest excuse. They hit him again. The air swished in a flash and at the same instant he felt a burning pain in his ribs. The scream that burst from his lips was beyond his power to hold back.

     So it was an act of revenge over the story he wrote three months ago about loan sharks. He had been critical about loan sharks. They were a threat to society and the money they wrested through the sufferings of others was blood money. He mentioned the names of some infamous loan sharks with the intention of warning the public to avoid such people. He urged the authority to take punitive measures against loans sharks before they cause more suffering to people. He had labelled them as scum and disease and society would be better off if they were wiped out from the face of the earth.

     “Disease eh, that word still stings me up to now. Who do you think you’re? God? You like to play with words and destroy with a stroke of your pen a business that takes years to build. You’re that powerful aren’t you?” he spoke slowly, deliberately.

     “No you’re wrong,” Ernest began painfully. “I don’t play God and I don’t destroy people. It’s you who destroy people! You’re a threat, a diseased right arm that should be chopped off before it poisons the whole body….” he coughed and spluttered blood into his hand.

     “Look what we’ve got here, a fighter, a defender of the weak and a healer of society! You’re a real hero! Now try this for size paperboy!” he shouted as he hit Ernest repeatedly. When he stopped Ernest was writhing on the floor. He changed his tactic.   

     “Okay, I may be wrong. I shouldn’t have written…”

     “Too late, paperboy! You drew the first blood and now it’s our turn. There’s no stopping the flow now! You ruined our reputation. You caused us to be dragged into court. Some of my men are still stewing in jail because of you. All this because you think we’re crooks. Let me tell you this, paperboy, we do society a good turn. We lend them money when banks and finance companies turn them down. It’s not our fault when they run up huge debts or commit suicide. We must get back our principal with interests, or else we’re ruined. And just to put the record straight paperboy, we are professional money-lenders, not loan sharks.” As he finished talking, he looked at Ernest. Ernest did not like the look in his face. He was like one possessed. He thought he saw a glint in the man’s eye. How could he get out of this danger alive? What was it Peter said only a few days ago? Eat to fight another day!

     “I…..I’m sorry about the article I wrote. Look, I could retract it….” Ernest began but was cut short.

     “Yes, you do that! Try restoring our loss our reputation and make the judge revoke the sentence. Then get the jury to say that they’ve made a mistake so that our friends could walk out of prison. I’d like to see you do that, paperboy!”

     “Well, I could….” He could not finish what he wanted to say.

     “Shut up! Game’s over!” said his captor. Then he said to his men,

     “Waste him!” This was followed by a bang and something tore the back of his neck. He slumped forward, lying in a pool of blood.

     Some staff from The Morning Bugle came to see him. The ICU was cold and silent except for the sound of the heart machine. Banquo and Peter spoke in whispers as they looked at the inert figure on the hospital bed, strapped with tubes and wires connected to a life support system. For ten days now the only sign of life was the pump moving up and down, performing the task of the heart, which seemed to have failed. But hope was kept alive mainly because there was nothing else one could do. Anxious eyes looked for the slightest twitch of the face or the flicker of an eyelid, but it never came.

     “A bloody shame,” Banquo whispered. “He could have been a fine reporter if only he had learnt how to compromise.”

     “You mean he should be less truthful,” replied Peter.

     “I mean he should have learnt to survive,” Banquo corrected him.

     “Well, he will learn yet,” Peter said hopefully. Banquo remained silent. In the exchange of words the two men failed to notice a very slight movement of the patient’s eyelids. Except for that slight sign of life, the room remained cold and still.  

lying in its own filth. Years of staying on the job had taught him that what he thought did not matter at all. As a reporter, he had to let people put the words in his mouth and write what people wanted to hear, not what actually happened. Unlike Ernest, he adapted quickly. He knew the rule of the game. He knew what his readers wanted and he always tried to satisfy them. They were, after all, his customers and his survival depended on them. It would not make any sense to sacrifice his customers to his ideals. So Banquo’s articles were always sensational, owing to his flair with words and his fertile imagination. He believed in ‘hitting the reader in the eye’ with words. News, like a photograph, has to be blown up in order to make an impact. He soon learned the art of news doctoring. He knew that it was unscrupulous but he felt that the end always justifies the means. Sensationalism and clever doctoring made his news appealing to many readers and raised his professional status. He had his own column in the paper where he made weekly editorials on pertinent issues in the country. He was so busy making news that he had to be at the office most of the time, so stopped chasing the news. Field assignments were for the rookies not for people of his calibre. He paid people for the news, processed them and claimed them as his own. Most of time the news was distorted but he always managed to cover up the discrepancy through sensational reporting.

     At 2.30 a.m. on Saturday morning, Banquo received an anonymous telephone call. His reporter instinct told him that this was good news so he jumped out of bed and hit the road, heading for the location given by the caller. But when he pulled up at the spot, he found himself staring at the barrel of a gun. Betrayed! The cold, snake-like glare of his captor told him not to do anything rash. Ernest looked around and saw four grim-faced men surrounding him. One of them grabbed his camera and smashed it on the ground. Then he crushed it with his foot slowly, deliberately, all the time never taking his eyes off Ernest’s face. From the grin in his face Ernest knew that the man was provoking him. Ernest stayed still, refusing to play the game. He thought, “I’d be safe as long as I remain calm and…” Thud! He bent double and clutched his stomach in agony as the butt of a rifle smashed into his abdomen. He reeled unsteadily and groaned in pain. He felt a hand pull him up sharply and someone prodded him with a gun. They forced him to walk into a building about fifteen metres away. Despite the darkness he knew that he was in an isolated area because when he was driving earlier, he noticed that there were no street lamps and both sides of the road were covered with bushes. He had to think quickly to save himself. He knew that shouting for help would be futile, as no one would hear him and making a run for it would be suicidal. They would gun him down before he could dash for safety. He remembered now that the anonymous caller had mentioned only a hut. “Drive thirty kilometres out of town, turn into a dirt road on your right about 200 metres from the Country Fresh Farm and drive on until you come to a hut…” the caller had directed him.

     They pushed him into a hut where the dim light of a hurricane lantern outlined the grim faces around him. The deep shadow that the light threw on the men made them look even more sinister. He had to think fast to free himself from his captors.

     “Pay day, you son of a bitch!” hissed a raspy voiced. He looked up and saw a man sitting in the shadow of the light. The man stood up slowly and strode towards Ernest. He could see the man quite clearly now. He was well dressed, clean-cut, almost handsome, with an air of gentlemanliness, except for the glint in his eyes. “Pay day!” he repeated, forcing the words out between his teeth. He lowered his face towards Ernest, almost touching his. Ernest thought his voice sounded like the hiss of a snake. Suddenly there was a sharp pain in his head and he felt the light exploding in his eyes as he lurched forward. He fought to keep control. His hand went to the back of his head instinctively. His hand touched a damp patch at the back of his head and he knew it was blood. Someone jerked him upward.

it. Stories of the mythical power of the crocodile, which were absurd, spread quickly. It brought in tourist money because many foreign tourists came to catch a glimpse of Bujang Senang, but many went home disappointed.

     “Ah, here we’re,” he said to himself as the jeep pulled to a halt in the parking bay of the agricultural centre. He mingled with the crowd who were more curious than showing any interest in the project. As he approached the podium, he caught snatches of the minister’s speech, “….and all this we do for the rakyat because we want to raise the standard of living especially in the rural area….” Ernest paid little attention to the speech, knowing that he could get a copy of the full text later. They are all the same – propaganda stuff and sweet-talking the people so that they would be voted into power again the next term. You hear one political speech you hear all. The gist is all the same.       

     The publicity boys did their job well. The arrival of the minister and other VIPs was well covered. They came in their shiny limousines, put on their best smile, shake hands all around and stayed on for a while before they were whisked home to the comfort and luxury of their homes in the city. Meanwhile, the impoverished farmer toiled on gallantly, but soon had to give up when the ‘miracle’ plant dwindled and died. Nor could they wait too long for the harvest because they certainly could not survive on thin air. Whose idea was it in the first place? It just so happened that someone prominent had a vision of temperate fruits thriving in abundance under the hot, tropical sun of Sarawak. It was just an idea, but if it succeeded, someone would make a name for himself, and if it failed no harm had been done. Furthermore it was part of a pledge long overdue and the villagers were beginning to get restless. Now they should be satisfied because they were given the project. But in the haste to implement it, no feasibility studies had been carried out and the result was disastrous. 

     “What a waste,” Ernest as his hand was scrawling incessantly in shorthand. He decided to look into the matter. He would do a little research of his own on the feasibility of grapes cultivation in Sarawak and would make a full report of his findings. He would also highlight   the plight of the farmers chosen to carry out the project and stress the importance of continued government support guidance and help if the project proved to be feasible.

     Ernest took a month to complete his research and the findings were published in the paper. The report had some powerful figures seething with anger for it had obviously undermined their secret agenda. The villagers on the other hand were oblivious of the whole controversy that was boiling up and still hung on to the promise of lucrative returns from the cultivation of the crop. The Morning Bugle was bombarded with barrages of angry calls, some threatening law suites. The paper was accused of undermining government policy and of harbouring anti-development sentiment especially to the rural people. The editor had to absorb these verbal assaults like a martyr, but not without contemplating snipping off the wings of the writer.

     “Write, by all means, without fear or favour, but do cover your butt!” he said afterwards. Ernest was hauled in by the boss and was given a good lecture on the importance of avoiding sensitive issues and stirring up public sentiments. He was released with a warning that the establishment would not condone his act in the future.

     As a boy Ernest had been taught to speak the truth. “Truth,” his father used to say, “may hurt but it makes you feel good inside.” Once he told a lie which nearly cost him his sister’s life. He told his mother that he was bringing his little sister out to play, but instead they slipped to the river and rowed out in a boat. His sister got excited and leaned too far out. The boat capsized and they were thrown into the water. She panicked and thrashed the water wildly as he tried to save her. Fortunately, a fisherman saw them and came to the rescue. Since then, Ernest had never lied again.

Monday. Hungry staff of the Morning Bugle filed into the canteen steadily. The murmurings grew louder and the room was so heavy with smoke that visibility was seriously impaired. The people in the room however, hardly noticed the smoke as they ordered their food or were engaged in some conversation.

     “Write what you see, not what you ought to write,” Ernest quipped

     “Ah, got you there!” Banquo jumped at him. “Shakespeare, right?”

     “Wrong! Ernest Lone!” Banquo was silent, apparently not impressed by the clever antic of his colleague. After a while Ernest began again. “It’s a question of morality. We owe it to our readers to tell the truth, nothing but the truth.” He cleaned his camera with deft fingers. Then he checked the shutters and the flash carefully, making sure they were in good order. A camera is indispensable for his line of work. An event captured on film is worth a thousand words. Many a time too, sales depend on the pictures that are put in the paper.

     “Hmm….the truth, eh?” Banquo had recovered somewhat and was game to join the argument. “Even if it hurts and even if it jeopardizes national security?”

     “Even so,” Ernest took the bait. “The public is intelligent enough to make their own judgement without having us reporters thinking for them or worse still, suggesting how they should think. As for national security, you know the answer to that; security matters are classified and so we have no access to them. You have no case there.”

     “Oh yes, I do,” Banquo persisted. He was not ready to let go yet. ”You see, you do influence public opinion by conveniently avoid issues that hurt the public because nothing is inaccessible to a reporter. Come on, Ernest be more realistic. While I agree with you that truth is important, we cannot survive by truth alone. Sometimes truth does more harm than good. Have you thought of the damage it would do the paper and the reporter – the harassment, the suit and threats by those we have exposed. Tell me, what is truth?”

     “Truth is faithful reporting and no twisting of facts for cheap sensation. Truth means a code of work ethics that are being ruled by the conscience and not by sensationalism. We must tell the truth as a matter of principle and public obligation.

     “No, I beg to differ. Our obligation is to the press. Sensation is what the public want, Ernest, sensation! No sensation, no news, no news, no sales, no sales no job, comprendo?”

     “Hey, you two!” shouted Peter. “Your lunch is getting mouldy, eat to fight another day.”

     Ernest ate his lunch quickly. He had just remembered that that he had an assignment that day. He checked his watch and realized that he had barely an hour to make it to Sibu, about two hundred kilometres from the city. He had been assigned to cover the new agricultural scheme introduced by the government. A minister in the state department would grace the opening ceremony and the editor of The Morning Bugle an influential English daily, wanted a credible coverage of the event. “Boring stuff! They should have sent Banquo to make a sensation of it, maybe with a little drama or two thrown in for good measure!’ mused Ernest behind the wheel of his steel green 4 x 4 as it roared and flew over the tarmac.

     Ernest Lone had been with The Morning Bugle for six years. He was reputed for his blunt reporting. A dynamic man in his late twenties, he never let emotion interfere with his job. Ernest knew that he was good. His name had been synonymous with truth and he wanted nothing better. He also knew that he was hired because of his integrity and professionalism. He believed that truth is not necessarily less sensational than fiction or vice versa. It was a matter of looking for the right news and being there first. As a bachelor he had little trouble of getting to the news at a moment’s notice. In fact he had broken up with his girlfriend on account of his job. She wanted him to herself, but his job was everything to him. He realised that she would only come between him and his job. Matrimony would therefore be disastrous, so he thought that breaking up was the only sensible thing to do under such circumstances. Romance had no place in his heart. He had decided a long time ago to be a professional journalist and since then, he had learned to look at people with shutter-like indifference. He quickly established himself as a top class journalist whose name was connected with top quality reporting. Once he smelled news he would go for it with the tenacity of a terrier. No risk was too great for him. In fact danger had become part of his life. A man of his profession had to learn to live with and overcome fear.

     Once, he recalled, he was trapped in a cross fire between the police and a gang of bank robbers. The police shouted to him to stay away but he insisted on covering the shoot out to get some first hand snapshots and write an exclusive report of it. It was like a scene from the Western spaghetti High Noon, only that the bullets and the blood were real. Although he was down on his stomach, he missed little of the drama. He was clicking away with his camera while the air was riddled with flying bullets. And he walked away with front-page news.

There is a face I long to behold,
tender and true,
there is a hand I wish to grasp,
along the road so dark and lonely,
there is a heart I wish to have,
so pure and kind,
there is a mind I hope to learn from,
wisdom,humility.
Eyes as gentle as a dove,
compassionate,enduring,
Will our feet fit in His mould?
Our being even…
this greatness,
this love,
of a Next Door Saviour.

It is important to know how much we are loved. Being human, we reach out to one another for a deeper connection. We interact to know one another more. We build bridges to close a big gap. Traits that appeal to us may repulse another, considering the fact that we are all exclusively different. The greatness of true love is how unconditional it is.

However, in a world so deluded with pretense, love is quickly replaced with idealism and materialism. It is often subject to expectations. Love becomes a standard, gradually, in some cases, a very cruel one.

Gone are the feel-good fantasies of happily ever after.Times are revolving together with principles. Most love become hard shells, cocooned with conditions. The person who suffers the most will be the one upholding the meaning of true love.They protest and demand to be singled out rather than to be involved in a relationship that does not offer the real deal.Commitment. Even the word brings shudder to commitment phobics. If one is unprepared for the trials and tribulations of a relationship or settling down for whom their loved ones are, it is better to leave than persisting partially.

Love has to be trully respectful, passionate and understanding. If there is no willingness to compromise, how can any relationships prolong, for that matter?

Sometimes love comes in the strangest of places. Still, it needs to be the kind that lasts a lifetime.

My ears are sore from tales of broken relationships and marriages. So much that it is disheartening to want to believe in the truest of love. Yet, we know that the foundation of a relationship has to be rock solid before anything else to ensue. We all deserve so much more. All is not lost. True love does exist. We see it in our grandparents’ eyes. We see it in our parents’. And one day, ours.

No doubt looks will attract initially but personalities are the ones that shine out.

So ladies, why settle for a jerk, if you can have a prince charming?

Cheers!

The pale moonlight gleamed against the transluscent cool waters of Innisfree. The aura of romantism filled the surroundings as nonchalantly as possible, its silence,serenity.

The magical depictment hampered her intention to return to stark reality. Such was her transfixed attention. Vivid. There she sat by the waters, welcoming the night breeze, calming her own turbulent senses of long ago.

And that she could only be me. We live in a cynical,cynical world. Yes, Jerry McGuire, I hear you. Whenever chance permits me to, I tend to slip away from worldly clutches; the only way I can remain sane from life’s sheer brutality.

Leaving imagination aside,I reel back into the present only to realize how much age has closely fasten its hold upon me. Years turn into decades and that can stir some trepidation.

Can we sail along 2008 without a scatch? Are we prepared for the unexpected? Can we handle differences and mostly changes?

It takes a lot of experience and time to know who we really are deep inside. The discovery can be harrowing but fulfilling. It depends on our courage level how much we want to see ourselves in a different light. That involves getting hurt in the process.

One of the many mysteries in life is how quick people are to judge when they do not know what it is like being in our shoes. Now try this. Dare them and see how long they can last being us.

So celebrate being you. Forget the rest and live life at your best!

“Love looks not with eyes,but with the mind,and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.“-William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream,Act 1 Scene 1....

On 29th November 1998, I stumbled across a small pink outlined cream novel at Kinokuniya Book Shop at Sogo, Kuala Lumpur. Sogo was my favourite hang out with my college mates back then. What stopped me on my tracks was not the title “Beauty” but the strangely surreal landscape shown on the cover.
Then I read the review below it.

“Beauty…will leave tears in your eyes and hope in your heart.”- Women’s Own. I was a goner.

Susan Wilson is the creator of the intense characters potrayed within this particular novel.  According to her, what if the fairy tale came true?
“In this bittersweet love story, it isn’t Beauty who needs to discover the man inside the Beast, but the man himself.”

When Alexandra Miller takes off for a remote spot in New Hampshire to paint Leland Crompton’s portrait, nothing has prepared her for what’s in store. The house is almost a castle, with its massive chimney, mullioned windows, and iron work gate with wrought iron roses. The housekeeper is unnerving. And Lee himself is hideously disfigured by a rare genetic disease. But in their long hours of work together deep in the wintry woods, Alix discovers that beneath Lee’s disturbing exterior lies a true prince. Gradually, she realizes that she loves him. And he absolutely refuses to believe her.

Entertainment Weekly has dubbed this book lovable and Clare McHugh from People exclaims in conviction, “Wilson has recast the classic story with a modern setting….Beauty sails along.” And me, I am the proud owner of this book:)

In the midst of it all, it makes me wonder if a twist of another story is introduced instead. A prince, distinguished and handsome as he is, would fall for a commoner, plain and almost in definition a Beast. Is that even possible? Another fairy tale or near reality? I hope my pen would be kind to me… and my thoughts too…. to enable me to write this story straight from the heart.