tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55972095571772201182024-02-18T18:45:23.495-08:00Borhan, Good Old DaysShares fond memories of the good old nostalgic days, light and easy, before electricity lighted my nights, tv came into my house, paraffin lamps put aside to accumulate dust, computers came into view; internet, facebook, blog...
Wondering if my English friends from Secret Seven: Peter, Janet, Pam, George, Colin, Jack, Barbara and Scamper still climb down drainpipes in the middle of the night to investigate the course of a volcano in the nearby moor land, lots of other adventures...'Borhan Mohamed Dalihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11050933958791256522noreply@blogger.comBlogger26125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597209557177220118.post-14461269668587629642012-12-22T08:04:00.001-08:002012-12-22T08:04:19.078-08:00A New Clerk On The House<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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In my previous posting, I wrote about attending an interview as a clerk towards the end of 1976 and the following year I was appointed as a clerk at Sekolah Menengah Datuk Bentara Luar, Batu Pahat or in English, Datuk Bentara Luar Secondary School (SDBL).<br />
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January thirteenth saw me riding Dad's scooter Vespa JC2551 to SDBL at Lim Poon road, Batu Pahat. Prior to that, I had made a preliminary inquiry of the location of the school with Romli a few days before. It was around fifteen minutes after eight o'clock in the morning as I ascended the slope towards the office and politely knocked on the door. A pleasant lady looked up from her desk and beckoned to me to enter, smiling sweetly, cheering me up. This lady whom I met the other day, was the senior clerk, Miss Siti Rosmah bte Hj Tahir.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Datuk Bentara Luar Secondary School, Batu Pahat</td></tr>
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Cik Rosmah instructed me to start work. The first task that I needed to do was typing the pay-sheet where all the particulars about the salaries of the school staff had been drafted on the typewriter. There were no computers at all at that school and perhaps also in the whole of Malaysia at that time. I was at home with the typewriter but typing numbers was a great challenge that made unhappy because the keys on the typewriter were very high up and furthest from my tired fingers as I had to knock on every button fiercely to ensure that the number appeared clearly. Furthermore, I couldn't afford to make mistakes. I couldn't imagine what would happen if I missed one '0' when typing the salary of a teacher who was entitled to get $800.00 per month. However, I had no choice but to do it, since this was what I applied for, didn't I?<br />
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Madam Siti Rosmah always introduced me to every teacher who walked into the office. "Let me introduced Borhanudin, the new clerk..." And the male teachers would offer their hands as a gesture of welcome, which I quickly took happily, eager to be accepted as a member of the school community. <br />
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I could remember the exact number, but there were many teachers at SDBL. There were Malays, Chinese and Indians a majority of which were the Malays. I could still remember a few names such as Paiman Hussein, Mashudan Kamar, Kadir Bawok, Yusof Abdul Rahman, Rubaie Sulaiman, Mahadhir (an Indian Muslim) and Chan.<br />
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At a corner was the office boy named Rahim. He had a nasty look, just like the look of a rogue. His hair was a little bit long and curly that seemed to cling to his scalp nastily. He never smiled. One look at him made me resented him. I made up my mind not to go near him.<br />
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During lunch break, walked a Laboratory Attendant by the name of Senin into the office. He said he had been instructed to bring me to a 'Ustaz' religious teacher's house as I would be staying with him (the Ustaz) while I worked at SDBL and be paying part of the house rent to him. The house was not far from the school.<br />
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At four o'clock, I 'went back' to the house that I rented with the Ustaz. The word 'went back' didn't seem right because I still hadn't felt that I belonged to that house or it was my home. I had an easy chat with him. He told me that he lived there with another teacher who still hadn't come back from his kampung. When I moved in, the number of tenants increased to become three people.<br />
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"Actually, I didn't want to accept you in the house, but En Arif (the school Headmaster) asked me to take you." That was one sentences articulated by Ustaz that stunned me and made me unhappy. However, I did not voice my desolation, but kept deep within myself.<br />
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"You can use ... (the name of the other teacher that I had forgotten) bed," Ustaz said.<br />
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"Thanks," I replied, but I was adamant not to use his bed.</div>
Borhan Mohamed Dalihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11050933958791256522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597209557177220118.post-10521035505127911442012-12-21T18:39:00.001-08:002012-12-21T18:47:46.594-08:00Lost and Found<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
In my posting under the title 'Form Six (Part 2)', I wrote about that year's end-of-year school holidays was my last school holidays at the private school. I did not go back to that school the next year and I did not meet any of my friends in the Englismh class except one, after so many years. Coincidentally he was married to a female colleague of mine when we were at a high learning institution. <br />
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During the fasting month in 1976, I received a letter from the Civil Service Department requesting me to go for an interview as a clerk at Dato' Palembang Primary School, Bukit Baru, Malacca. The interview would be held on the second last day of the fasting month starting from 8.00 am. to 4.00 pm. I went for the interview on that date starting the journey at around 7.00 am with my cousin Romly on his father's scooter, Vespa BAA 1390.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVKmf2so61bioz2vnBar5xxCJA4rqGGdy9xrZYG8mI075-iA1iLzTkYQr3603PufJPyW6Oqjc6eOVovC93zoauaP9MVKKO3HjWCKjzomMyv7K4jqSLmzRp2FKtQYCRr2VV-j0zU5H8yL8/s1600/SKD+Palembanag.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVKmf2so61bioz2vnBar5xxCJA4rqGGdy9xrZYG8mI075-iA1iLzTkYQr3603PufJPyW6Oqjc6eOVovC93zoauaP9MVKKO3HjWCKjzomMyv7K4jqSLmzRp2FKtQYCRr2VV-j0zU5H8yL8/s400/SKD+Palembanag.jpg" width="362" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Datuk Palembang National School, then it wasn't this beaut...</td></tr>
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The next day, I ferried Kak Long on my father's scooter, Vespa to the same school as she had to undergo the same interivew. After the interview, we rode our scooter from the school towards the junction where we would turn towards Muar. Whether there was no signboard or I just couldn't see one that showed the way to Muar, I stopped at a junction and tried to think of the way to Muar. On my left was a hill on which there were a lot of chinese graveyards (I didn't realize that it was 'Bukit China'), on my left were rows of buildings and in front were the same. I decided to go straight and soon saw Banda Hilir in front of me. Surely, this was not the right path, so I turned right (I couldn't turn back as the road was a one-way street). After a few turns, we came to the same junction that we met after we left the school. I started to get worried. I dared not turn right, or else the road might bring me farther away from home. I tried to gamble my chance, so I went straight for the second time.<br />
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Once again I reached the same junction and one again I stopped. My sister who sensed my anxiety, asked me whether we had lost our way which I replied yes.<br />
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"That is Bukit China. Muar must be that way to the left," she said.<br />
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My God, how silly I was! Surely we had to go left. Why didn't I think about it before? Thanks to my sister. She's an angel.<br />
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Thus, that was how I found my way home. I had shown my stupidity by not asking her opinion but fortunately had accepted hers when she offered it. Moral of the story: do not underestimate a lady, she might be your saviour.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSmo1Qy1yY160egXeI-BmnBodT2l9Lv8TFax4wJaSmugcMn9esqYjtIcr0wO1vRsUaQeGp0lp9d_OyxIT4agpM7Gu7rCp9ZhR2rLsbgEdi9I2-Go_jhVvUOF-_nHO03Pp7I7YnwC5AZz8/s1600/Hj+Ali+%2526+Ruminah0003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="287" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSmo1Qy1yY160egXeI-BmnBodT2l9Lv8TFax4wJaSmugcMn9esqYjtIcr0wO1vRsUaQeGp0lp9d_OyxIT4agpM7Gu7rCp9ZhR2rLsbgEdi9I2-Go_jhVvUOF-_nHO03Pp7I7YnwC5AZz8/s400/Hj+Ali+%2526+Ruminah0003.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kak Long with her husband on her wedding day...</td></tr>
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At the beginning of January the following year, I got a letter offering me a job as a clerk at Datuk Bentara Luar Secondary School in Batu Pahat. When I accepted the offer, the problem that I faced at form six in Akademik Daya was solved. Thus my new life began.</div>
Borhan Mohamed Dalihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11050933958791256522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597209557177220118.post-53642007553335753692011-12-07T09:13:00.001-08:002011-12-07T09:13:28.166-08:00My School Days (Part Three)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><i> (This third and last part of "I Still Remember"that appeared on SMK Tengku Mahkota's school magazine saw me putting pen to paper about a small problem that soon developed into a big crisis. However, every cloud has a silver lining. What did I do to solve the problem. Just enjoy reading ...)</i><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">One night, my father asked me to get ready. “I’m going to send you to Mak Ngah Besah’s house. Her daughter, Ros will help you in Arithmetics.” I quickly got ready an exercise book and some writing materials. Out we went, in the dark cool night, to Mak Ngah Besah’s house not far from our home.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Kak Ros was a nice lady. She tried hard to make me understand the lessons but in vain. The strange new environment, my shyness and my inhibitance prevented me from gaining any new knowledge during the first part of my tuition periods. However, I did not make a lot of progress. I still couldn’t remember how to solve problem questions, although I had started to get interested in shapes. Although I read aloud repeatedly every day, it was still very hard to remember the multiplication tables.</span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg66XKuUX1P27rdW4cs3YBxjD2Q3WR9zOHSlfw7QxWD3dPHOjsV1vytWBvlzVEJ2tQMYUUOwSi_LX06_UmvPwyV04bFViK7Fwdi71MD6dQKv9f_A_d9n4MWjJeajaKfsfBN1xHMM0ZVF48/s1600/DSCF1077.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg66XKuUX1P27rdW4cs3YBxjD2Q3WR9zOHSlfw7QxWD3dPHOjsV1vytWBvlzVEJ2tQMYUUOwSi_LX06_UmvPwyV04bFViK7Fwdi71MD6dQKv9f_A_d9n4MWjJeajaKfsfBN1xHMM0ZVF48/s400/DSCF1077.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kak Ros (left) who gave me personal tuition on Arithmetics. This picture was taken this year (2011)</td></tr>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Those were the problems I faced in my attempt to learn Arithmetics and Mathematics while in primary school. When I enrolled in High School Muar for my secondary education, my problems did not seem to disappear. I still failed my monthly tests and exams. To make the matter worse, another subject accompanied Mathematics. Now, there were two very difficult subjects to learn; Mathematics and Science. The problem continued until I was in form three.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiex7g3QBGaBWT-7xa_M7DUiUonhy7ASXHB0bKVcs8DjlKZ02sGWssKnj5n7p8bP81PoA3z58hkgVrDtkvVyTBK4wgNWlF-KsjwHs1cbHe-mZl9pgMLd47PE4W1nS9iN5xY1ovZb2dz7AU/s1600/Chiam+Tah+Meng0001.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiex7g3QBGaBWT-7xa_M7DUiUonhy7ASXHB0bKVcs8DjlKZ02sGWssKnj5n7p8bP81PoA3z58hkgVrDtkvVyTBK4wgNWlF-KsjwHs1cbHe-mZl9pgMLd47PE4W1nS9iN5xY1ovZb2dz7AU/s400/Chiam+Tah+Meng0001.JPG" width="326" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mr Chiam Tah Meng, my Form Three Mathematics teacher at High School Muar</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Every day and night, my parents prayed to God so that I could be relieved of my problems. Probably their prayers were answered because suddenly I had a nice surprise. All of a sudden, I passed the February test in form three. This reward made me feel very happy. I valued the change so much that the answer sheet found its way into my wallet and stayed there for a few months until it became so soiled. The transformation boosted up my courage. I needed to be well versed in the subject that I had begun to like. Looking around for help, somebody told me that there was a tuition class held at Lorong Serkam once a week. My spirit rose, I registered for the class to get some guidance. The lessons seemed to be easy this time. The tutor’s explanation was crystal clear. I could understand almost every topic taught. Bursting with enthusiasm, I tried to do every exercise I could find based on the topics that I had learnt. At school, when Mr Chiam Tah Meng gave me some exercises, I did every one enthusiastically. I made a correction to every mistake. In addition, I did a lot of other sums that he did not give in the text book, then compared my answers with those in the answer key at the back page. I did the sums again and again whenever I got wrong answers, until I arrived at the correct answer. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">After that, mathematics seemed to become easier and easier until I was rewarded with credit five for it in the Lower Certificate of Education. (Lower Certificate of Education was the exam that students in form three had to pass so that they could continue their studies in form four. If not, they had to ‘retain’, that is they had to study in form three again and sit for the same examination at the end of that year. Worse came to worst, they had to enroll in a private school and study in form three again before sitting for LCE at the end of the year.)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> Looking back, now I realize that not all things that looked difficult initially, is indeed difficult. It may seem so at first, but as we grow more matured, our intelligence do help us a lot. As a friend says, “Things are difficult to you if you do not know them, but once you do, everything is easy.”</span></div></div>Borhan Mohamed Dalihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11050933958791256522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597209557177220118.post-65361010043642898612011-12-07T09:12:00.000-08:002011-12-07T09:12:13.519-08:00My School Days (Part Two)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><i> (The article below is the second excerpt of "I Still Remember"that appeared on SMK Tengku Mahkota's school magazine. I regret that Part Two appears first before Part One. Enjoy reading maa...)</i><br />
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<i> Part One of 'My School Days' was my first experience attending school in Standard One. In the second part of the article, I related about the first problem that I encountered as a Standard One fearful school boy at Primary Ismail School Two. Muar in the sixties.</i><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> That was the first day of school. During that time, there were no nurseries or ‘Tadika’ or ‘Taski’ or Tadika Perpaduan’; therefore, we only started learning alphabets and numbers in Standard One. One interesting thing was, we learned everything in English except Bahasa Malaysia (at that time it was called ‘National Language’), totally contrast to what my brother and sister did at the Malay school. We learnt to say “Please teacher may I go out?” and so on.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> At school, everything went well until I started to get a wrong answer for my arithmetic sums. Disappointed to see a cross made by the teacher on the page, I slashed the wrong answer with my pencil, again and again, making a black patch on it. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">After that, things seemed to go wrong with mathematics. I found it difficult to understand the lessons taught. The teacher seemed to go very fast with their lessons but timidity got the better of me; I did not have the courage to ask any questions. I squirmed every time the Math teacher came. I hated every homework given by him, felt very relieved whenever he was absent, hoped he would be absent again the next day. And then, when I saw that he came the next day, I felt so disappointed I could have killed myself.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">There was one day when Mr Gurnam Singh, the Headmaster himself came to our class. He instructed all of us to stand up and recite the multiplication table. The whole class recited in chorus. Slowly he moved towards me and stopped in front of me. Being a small boy, my eye level was only at his huge stomach. I dared not look up as I was nervous. My palms started to be clammy, my limbs were numb, cool sweat trickled down my spine. Why he didn’t he walk off? Why did he stop in front of me? And stood right there? A string of questions raced in my mind. I had to relieve myself of my sufferings. I had to see why he stood in front of me for ages. Slowly I looked up at his face. Wah! Blood drained away from my face. My heart beat very fastHe was looking down at me! Frowning! He looked serious! He was looking at my lips, to see whether I was reciting the correct table. I stammered. I couldn’t remember whether I was reciting the correct table or not. My mind was blank. Then he walked away. I heaved a sigh of relief. My God! What an experience.</span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiebduW1JJryIWFcDbUHe-CENE5I5Q0UNhgCH-zhSFNjv8lveKsMSUSXpzwAiNBm-7ruuNbrhYsf2lO484rxjsxiDGxG_MYiXp52OBqu_KFb0nDTXnLEeaEJ3v7NtBeoXEKAcA5XUoZPC0/s1600/gurnam-singh.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiebduW1JJryIWFcDbUHe-CENE5I5Q0UNhgCH-zhSFNjv8lveKsMSUSXpzwAiNBm-7ruuNbrhYsf2lO484rxjsxiDGxG_MYiXp52OBqu_KFb0nDTXnLEeaEJ3v7NtBeoXEKAcA5XUoZPC0/s400/gurnam-singh.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Could this be the Mr Gurnam Singh that I was telling the readers? I'm not sure (he looks so young) as I found this picture on the internet. Besides, it seems to me that all singhs look alike. Sorry about that. To Mr Singh, if you happen to read this article, I have always respected you and still do.</td></tr>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The problem changed from bad to worse. As I could not pass mathematics in every every test, I began to hate the subject. I envied my friends who always got good grades in every test and exam. The marks in their report cards were always written in blue while those in mine were stained with red. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> I remember a friend of mine who faced the same problem. He was so eager to present to his parents a report card where the marks were written beautifully in blue. On one test, he happened to be absent for Math. He thought that he would pass all the test without the subject that he hated. Lo and behold! Suddenly he failed another subject. How frustrated he was! To make himself happy, he rubbed off the red mark and changed it with a blue one. His father didn't find out the fraud, but his class teacher did. The rest is history. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><br />
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</div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> How can I make myself pass my tests? </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I began to lose hope, did not know what to do. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I left it to destiny to decide.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></div>Borhan Mohamed Dalihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11050933958791256522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597209557177220118.post-66152702994371121662011-12-07T09:10:00.001-08:002011-12-07T09:10:48.654-08:00My School Days (Part One)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><i> (The article below is an excerpt of an article which I wrote that appeared on SPEKTRUM 24th Edition, 2010, a magazine produced by SMK Tengku Mahkota Muar. Immediately I made up my mind to post this piece of writing on this blog since it would save me some effort in updating it. The item, bearing the same title "I Still Remember" made up of almost 1800 words. Although it only filled one page of the magazine, I think it is too long to be posted on this site which, for that reason, I decided to break it up into a few parts. The one below is, of course, Part One. Enjoy reading.)</i><br />
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In the sixties, some schools used the Malay language as a medium of instruction while others used English.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>National schools such as ‘Sekolah Kebangsaan Bakri Batu 5’ used the Malay language; which means at that school, every subject was taught in Malay except the English language.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the other hand, at ‘Sekolah Ismail Dua’, every subject was taught in English apart from Bahasa Malaysia and ‘Agama Islam’.</span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcYb9EaHNqZJ9wXOpIg_EkJSu2Of9Q4Tzpa824EP-GwADnzFlFBk-52YGYRc7lBiaKvxHa0Ywen4zFbUfDtnMk5oEOU4Qh0kf6lUCaGBbf2s2Jug3MMPw1WtLGlP76sDGDD48Y9XzTMjg/s1600/Sekolah+Bukit+Serok.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcYb9EaHNqZJ9wXOpIg_EkJSu2Of9Q4Tzpa824EP-GwADnzFlFBk-52YGYRc7lBiaKvxHa0Ywen4zFbUfDtnMk5oEOU4Qh0kf6lUCaGBbf2s2Jug3MMPw1WtLGlP76sDGDD48Y9XzTMjg/s400/Sekolah+Bukit+Serok.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is not Sek. Keb. Bakri Batu 5 in the 60s, but there was a resemblance</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Being the third child in the family, I had an elder sister and an elder brother, both of them studied at a ‘Sekolah Kebangsaan’ (Dad referred to it as a ‘Malay school’) half a mile away from our home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They walked to and from school each day with a lot of their friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since they learnt everything except the English Language in Malay, I used to hear my elder brother reading loudly at home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought to myself, when the time came for me to go to school, I would also be like him, reciting printed words at the top of my voice.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I still remember that day when I was lying in my father’s lap (I was quite small at that time) one late afternoon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mother was at the kitchen preparing dinner for the family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though still very young, I was already able to talk and understand some dialogues around me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Do you want to go to a Malay school or an English school?” Dad asked me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I didn’t understand what he meant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since English school was mentioned last, straight away I answered “English!” without thinking.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Consequently, Dad registered me at an English school when I was seven.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He took me to Ismail School Two in town (now Sekolah Ismail Dua) on his Vespa scooter and left me at the mercy of the teachers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The class teacher (after that I learnt her name was Mrs. Chong) brought me to a classroom, “Standard One Suloh” where about forty boys were sitting behind oversized desks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mrs. Chong made me sit on a chair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I looked around the classroom and saw two of my cousins also sitting in the same room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We waved at each other, relieved to find someone whom we knew.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then there was a loud rang.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was recess time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mrs. Chong made us line up two by two.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Small boys in front, big boys behind”, she barked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When she was satisfied with the line, we marched towards the canteen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">On the way to the canteen, we passed two blocks of classroom buildings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When we got near the canteen, sweet aroma met my nostrils, making me hungry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Probably other boys in the group also felt the same.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I saw a lot of big boys; Malays, Chinese and Indians busy buying food and drinks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Looking around, I saw piles and piles of food on a long and high counter, as high as my chin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were fried bananas, curry puffs, “kuih bom”, fried noodles, rambutans and a lot of other foods which I could not remember.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apart from fried noodles, the kuihs cost five cents per piece.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In case some of the readers do not understand “kuih bom”, it was a kind of cake made from banana mixed with flour and shaped into a small ball, as big as a boy’s fist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nowadays, this type of ‘kuih’ is only as big as a child’s fist; more or less thirty sen per piece.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-vgsdsdrWVXtqJb0vBg9Dx3tPMtHu7PwzYzXmphrO7aDxKiR64c_AMoG2KP9Hqvg-P1GpHe1sJDIQa-CPKcdm0c0Kg_Oxnzo5q3QJTdKBrhKlbEU-YW4dmz7DnTunFXbRFFcnO6Fy54Q/s1600/Sekolah+Keb+Seri+Rahmat+Perak.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-vgsdsdrWVXtqJb0vBg9Dx3tPMtHu7PwzYzXmphrO7aDxKiR64c_AMoG2KP9Hqvg-P1GpHe1sJDIQa-CPKcdm0c0Kg_Oxnzo5q3QJTdKBrhKlbEU-YW4dmz7DnTunFXbRFFcnO6Fy54Q/s400/Sekolah+Keb+Seri+Rahmat+Perak.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A school premis in the 60s. </td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I approached a big pan on which a mountain of fried bananas were placed and took one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Actually, one piece of banana was sliced at one end.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then another sliced banana was attached to it, dipped in flour mixture and fried.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The price was five cents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dad gave me ten cents that morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After eating the warm, soft and sweet fried banana, I drank a plastic glass of cool sweet drink, also costing me five cents.</span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When it was time to go home, once more we were made to line up two by two.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Outside the school gate, I saw Dad waiting for me on his scooter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ahh, soon I would be home!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>Borhan Mohamed Dalihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11050933958791256522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597209557177220118.post-90962501100412067032011-12-07T09:08:00.000-08:002011-12-07T09:08:13.160-08:00Becoming A Form Six Student (Part Two)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">The Private School where I registered as a form six student offered two medium of form six; Malay and English classes. I decided to enroll in the English class as I had started with English since Standard One.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKvDfCxDwy97XFkzA0MeQBLlIoeKC8RUQGRsG28rxOrxcnOdMOn1k80atmxhBfSiPS-aKUv3-W_8Bi49vaYe0D7ZNgHP8u_63OW2T5ZOp1qZRz2wXETQtOzRq6LlanL9h-CCIHE8P5FIE/s1600/DSCF2943.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKvDfCxDwy97XFkzA0MeQBLlIoeKC8RUQGRsG28rxOrxcnOdMOn1k80atmxhBfSiPS-aKUv3-W_8Bi49vaYe0D7ZNgHP8u_63OW2T5ZOp1qZRz2wXETQtOzRq6LlanL9h-CCIHE8P5FIE/s400/DSCF2943.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This dilapidated building could be once the private school where I enrolled as a student.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Everything went well at first. I enjoyed the lessons given by young and energetic teachers. But it didn't shine until evening. One day, a teacher was absent. Then another one. Then, another. Later, we found out that these younger teachers were university students teaching part-time during their semester break. They quit from teaching as they had to go back to campus for a new semester, deserting us like stray chickens. We had to wait for another bunch of teachers to lead us the way to university.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKEk3r_j-jiCFSqTfkOsdpZwHEA4eLiy5oS3rFR-UBjrJmQFCRV-eB8j1-znHIMb8EXa_cE3V6Ihi7ZB1DOyzSKQub9rCE3n22ssXgvH_Qmh1JqqM68_XQXKIqZh7wQgWXEe-YFZNRnSA/s1600/DSCF2947.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKEk3r_j-jiCFSqTfkOsdpZwHEA4eLiy5oS3rFR-UBjrJmQFCRV-eB8j1-znHIMb8EXa_cE3V6Ihi7ZB1DOyzSKQub9rCE3n22ssXgvH_Qmh1JqqM68_XQXKIqZh7wQgWXEe-YFZNRnSA/s400/DSCF2947.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is another one.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
Time dragged slowly. We waited for weeks, then months, for new teachers to come, but in vain. We were left far behind in our lessons by the Malay class. Eventually, the Headmaster came to see us. We knew he had come to offer us a solution to our problem.<br />
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"Students, the school is not able to find teachers for the English class. It's already September. You are free to make a choice. If you join the Malay class, we won't charge you any fee until the end of the year. If you want to choose another school, we can't stop you." After that statement, the Headmaster left. We were stunned and quiet for a few seconds, sad and at the same time, angry.<br />
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Reluctantly, I entered the Malay class, worried as I, with a few other students from the English class was left far behind in our lessons, apart from having to familiarise ourselves with malay terms that we would find in our lessons. Life had to continue. As a student, I couldn't concentrate on the lessons. I didn't quite remember the results of my End-of-year examination. I wanted to get out of that place and my prayers were answered. Hence, the end-of-year school holidays was the last school holiday for me at the school as I did not come back the next year. How would my Sijil Tinggi Persekolahan examination be?</div>Borhan Mohamed Dalihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11050933958791256522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597209557177220118.post-42794598280381755172011-10-27T02:33:00.000-07:002011-10-27T02:33:40.617-07:00Kenang Daku Dalam Doamu (Forget Me Not)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"> (<i>I met this draft when I was browsing the dashboard. I feel it's a waste of effort if I did not post it. So, here it is. I did not edit it again. May be I will, some day)</i><br />
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<i> </i> When I was small, I could not listen to the radio as my Dad's only antique radio was out of order. However, that did not prevent me from listening to songs as most of my neighbours possessed a radio each. Since at that time most of them owned transistor radios which when the volume was raised to maximum was very loud. The sound reached my eager ears. Through their radios I learned to listen to songs. But I was brought up in the country where all of the villagers were malays, therefore the radio which was called 'Radio Malaysia' only broadcast malay songs. One of the songs that I used to hear was 'Kenang Daku Dalam Doamu' (Forget Me Not). In this song, the singer pleads to his beloved who has gone for good, not to forget him. I didn't pay much attention to this song when it was aired on radio, but one day, after hearing it being sung by a cousin, it brought back sweet memories to me. It reminded me of the good time when I was a kid.<br />
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Dad's house where I was staying was situated along Jalan Bakri, the road leading to Johor Bahru, the capital of Johore State in Malaysia. On its left was Mak Andak's (my auntie) house, on the left Mak Usu's (also my auntie; my mother's younger sister) house. Behind Dad's house was Mak Itam's (another auntie; my mother's elder sister) house. Since Mak Itam's house was about 150 metres behind Dad's, there was ample space for us small boys and girls to do our activities. Another place that sometimes we gathered to do our activities was on the left of Mak Itam's house.<br />
</div>Borhan Mohamed Dalihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11050933958791256522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597209557177220118.post-43315513418081002552011-10-27T02:28:00.000-07:002011-10-27T02:28:42.877-07:00Becoming a Form Six Student (Part One)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">The Pre University students had just ended their 'Academic Village for 2011'. They commended the initiative by saying that the activities strengthened their skills towards facing their STPM examination which is only more or less a month away. Before this, Form Six students had their gathering outside the school premise but due to tight budget, the venue had changed. Whatever happened, the objectives of immersing them with activities to keep the momentum seemed to achieve its target.<br />
However, I did not intend to write about what the students had undergone in the 'village'. I only want to share with the readers my experience being a pre university students after the MCE (Malaysia Certificate of Education) results came out.<br />
In the seventies, form three students who failed in their LCE (Lower Certificate of Education) was not permitted to continue their studies in form four. Similarly, form five students who failed MCE had to take the examination again if they wanted to go to form six. Those who got grade three couldn't register for form six in a government school, but they can study in a private school if they wanted to sit for HSC (High School Certificate).<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCoMnJG4yTZNInV_SDfM4CdYrmCOwAL-B7G382b9c2Q56XBIelhMN6K_Ab-6v22zS763b2l_YwoQaoa01sh9bg3Ab81xxFfu1HbPTFm5pELonh4lUHuv9L2Z26aKqs36uJPllP7kFzEAY/s1600/Copy+of+Borhan+Certificate0002.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCoMnJG4yTZNInV_SDfM4CdYrmCOwAL-B7G382b9c2Q56XBIelhMN6K_Ab-6v22zS763b2l_YwoQaoa01sh9bg3Ab81xxFfu1HbPTFm5pELonh4lUHuv9L2Z26aKqs36uJPllP7kFzEAY/s400/Copy+of+Borhan+Certificate0002.JPG" width="302" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is a copy of my Certificate. The results are not bad, it was not good to secure me a place in the government school.</td></tr>
</tbody></table> Due to these criteria, I couldn't get a place in the government school to enroll in a form six class but I did not have to sit for MCE again and I didn't want to. So, the best choice for me was to register in one of the only two private schools in Muar that offered form six courses.<br />
Physically, the school of my choice was quite a small one. Offering forms three and five Malay and English classes in not so big two wooden buildings that were connected with a wooden a bridge caused the premis to be packed. All classes could not fit into the two buildings at one time. Therefore, we the form students had to have our classes in the afternoon.<br />
Studying in the afternoon was not a big problem for me as I had experienced doing so when I was at primary school and in forms one and two. Furthermore, I accepted that as a blessing as I could start earning my own income since my father had allowed me to start tapping rubber at his one-acre rubber plantation.<br />
One more interesting thing was, my father allowed me to ride his scooter to school, something that was very rare that occurred in our village. This was so because at that time, out of fifty families, only four villagers owned scooters (my father was one of them), none owned any car and the rest only owned bicycles. A large number of primary school pupils walked to the primary school nearest their <i>kampungs</i> 'Sekolah Kebangsaan Bakri Batu 5 Muar'. A lot of them started riding their bicycles to school only when they enrolled in secondary schools in the town five miles away. Due to this reason, I felt a sense of satisfaction when I saw my friends wave to me when we met on the road; I on my way to school and they cycling home from school.<br />
But something happened while I was at form that made me decide to drop out of school.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJjuw0pqMUzKnxKZJ-WWSPvDIJB246PhD6FvcHQqbSK2ysoXdgUhQL-r0bJTfDWm7x9xs4t-5yO6j8kJKlYptN6CWSRvvUucJKkcqm2T77C_duBVzoP-_1bRLtlIGNWU1XA3T9dFb0hRc/s1600/Copy+of+Copy+of+Akademik+Daya0001.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJjuw0pqMUzKnxKZJ-WWSPvDIJB246PhD6FvcHQqbSK2ysoXdgUhQL-r0bJTfDWm7x9xs4t-5yO6j8kJKlYptN6CWSRvvUucJKkcqm2T77C_duBVzoP-_1bRLtlIGNWU1XA3T9dFb0hRc/s400/Copy+of+Copy+of+Akademik+Daya0001.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This picture is my view of the once private school where I studied. Now, the school was there no more. The place had been turned into a futsal court</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div>Borhan Mohamed Dalihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11050933958791256522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597209557177220118.post-2947467032869383922011-07-15T00:30:00.000-07:002011-07-15T00:30:51.237-07:00Prayer Room<h2 class="date-header"><span></span></h2><a href="" name="1306501341237999306"></a> <h3 class="post-title entry-title"> <span style="font-size: large;">As a muslim, one of our duties is to say our prayers five times a day regardless of the situation we are in, as long as we are still conscious. May be we feel unhealthy, we still have to say our prayers. We are unable to get up from bed, we still have to say our prayers. If you cannot stand while performing them, sit up, or sit down. If you cannot sit, lie down.</span></h3><br />
In the Malay version of my posting dated Monday, June 13, 2011, I wrote about my surprise at finding that the prayer room that I had used a few minutes before was not the type of prayer rooms found in my home country. In Malaysia, we call these prayer rooms 'surau' (the malay word which means a place where muslims perform their prayers five times a day.) When I, or any other muslim traveller wants to perform our prayer at a RnR (an accronym for '<i>Rehat Dan Rawat'</i> or stop to rest) on our journey along the PLUS highway, there is always a surau for us. Non-muslim travellers do not go there or, if they happen to go, they do not perform their prayers in this place. After seeing the prayer room in Changi Airport, I have opened my eyes wider. Now, a prayer room in Malaysia may not serve the same function as a prayer room in Singapore, or probably many other countries around the globe.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5KYH-IpzNnfEaGWayJZJuwrfys1GxuVRVdv34YxitHIJLY02SC4gaQCcoS-3Z_Zk_5eUom49mZL5Ye9CHRTxzjVOIfhMg4ysQbuJTcXAo4OafmR1OWySZjzfgiak3VgnNeyv6JaP4Vxw/s1600/RNR+Musolla.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5KYH-IpzNnfEaGWayJZJuwrfys1GxuVRVdv34YxitHIJLY02SC4gaQCcoS-3Z_Zk_5eUom49mZL5Ye9CHRTxzjVOIfhMg4ysQbuJTcXAo4OafmR1OWySZjzfgiak3VgnNeyv6JaP4Vxw/s400/RNR+Musolla.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Part of a praying room situated at the north-south highway </td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Before writing about my experience at Changi Airport, let me explain about the 'prayers' I used to see Chinese people performing when I was small. In the good old days, I used to see Chinese people waving a handful of burning sticks (now I know they joss sticks) in front of their shophouses while citing or mumbling something that I couldn't hear. Soon they finished their prayers and put those still lit sticks (they produced a kind of typical smell, mind you) into a piece of container. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmmC2Guk8SIxr9IO6xnrEWPjIW6mISG5SRH26_EPw5rkCJ2F4ziz1ZQqnYiJbru1-CkHRkP8MUUZgXFKjMr1tXkssxoxb8HS85nqyqjCUEKOmmNee2IXlITMifg6LsCmKNRrC0S_TF_Hw/s1600/joss+sticks.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmmC2Guk8SIxr9IO6xnrEWPjIW6mISG5SRH26_EPw5rkCJ2F4ziz1ZQqnYiJbru1-CkHRkP8MUUZgXFKjMr1tXkssxoxb8HS85nqyqjCUEKOmmNee2IXlITMifg6LsCmKNRrC0S_TF_Hw/s400/joss+sticks.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Joss sticks</td></tr>
</tbody></table> Now let us go back to my experience at Changi Airport. After performing my Maghrib and Isya' prayers in the praying room at the airport, I waited for my son who was still doing his duties. While waiting, I looked around and soon my eyes fell on the noticeboard by the door of the room. On it was written "<i>Multi-Religion Prayer Room 1. Passenger of any religion may use this room to pray or meditate...</i>" What I read surprised me because I realised that a prayer room in Singapore means a room where travellers of all faiths can use it either to perform their prayers or meditate. I don't mind sharing the room with other travellers if they, who happen to be non-muslims meditate while I was performing my prayers. However, I don't know whether I would feel comfortable when my Chinese co travellers acted out their prayers like what I have described above since the incense coming out from the stick would make my nostrils suffer and as a result, I would not be able to concentrate on what I was doing.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9JB45Cxm3udWP7mawqlHibRWrbPacOWNuoM0OBNTR1WiFG9fkPupNd9EFz8RhxTJUlqcTVbDy3x3jArdzq4oR4QS1s9N3FPJ8wGGD42yCP9o4Dy2bTHw4BKJ1bISjyXU4_gwhyQeEsgU/s1600/DSCF0365.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9JB45Cxm3udWP7mawqlHibRWrbPacOWNuoM0OBNTR1WiFG9fkPupNd9EFz8RhxTJUlqcTVbDy3x3jArdzq4oR4QS1s9N3FPJ8wGGD42yCP9o4Dy2bTHw4BKJ1bISjyXU4_gwhyQeEsgU/s400/DSCF0365.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The notice board</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <br />
In addition, a place where muslims pray must not only be clean, it also should be cleaned according to the procedures required in Islam. This requirement is too abstract to be described, therefore I choose not to illustrate it in this limited space. What I would like to suggest to fellow muslims is, probably we can bring along our praying mat where ever we go, and pray on that mat when the need arises. Is that okay, dear brothers and sister? Tarra for now. Salam alaik!Borhan Mohamed Dalihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11050933958791256522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597209557177220118.post-68557855974478906812011-07-15T00:20:00.000-07:002011-07-15T00:20:12.055-07:00A Mother's Love<h2 class="date-header"><span></span></h2><a href="" name="3461143601099908851"></a> <h3 class="post-title entry-title"> <a href="http://borhandali.blogspot.com/2011/06/mothers-love.html"></a> </h3><div class="post-header"> </div> (Before writing this article, I would like to thank Tn. Hj Hassny for commenting on my posting. I didn't realize that when I posted the malay version, it was already 'Mother's Day'. Therefore, Hj Hassny's pledge is very relevant. While our parents are still by our side, always face them, look at them (God Al Mighty has promised us, and He said is always true). Talk to them nicely. Treat them nicely, shower them with tender care and love, just like we treat our children.<br />
<br />
Just like looking at the quran and Ka'aba, we Insya Allah get 'pahala' just for looking at our parents. What if we 'look after' our parents with gentle care and love? Insya Allah we get a lot more if we are sincere. Some people say, 'if we look at our parents' picture, we still get 'pahala'. Wallahu a'lam bissawaab.<br />
<br />
Recently I was listening to radio Malaysia 'Klasik Nasional' while driving back to Muar from Segamat. the Disk Jockey at that time was Hamami Yusof. A few listeners called the radio and recited some poems praising their mothers. (It was 'Mother's Day', remember?). Some of the callers were emotional; in fact, a few were sobbing when talking about their mothers. But what attracted my attention most was a call from a mother. <br />
<br />
This unfortunate mother was very sad as her daughter (whose name she claimed as Norafikah bte Omar but called her by her nickname 'Adik') had left home without any news. She only said<br />
<br />
"I'm going away, don't look for me. I won't come back, although if you d*e!"<br />
<br />
The caller promised that if her 'Adik' came back,<br />
<br />
"I would embrace her tight, passionately. I miss her and long to look at her face before I closed my eyes for good"<br />
<br />
Dear 'Adik', return to you momma before it's too late. Forgive and forget. Bury the spade. Don't regret.!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9H-sQkHYFlTbNuRYtbrQu1ODTs6yEELkFoStkqFueuBSFEf3fUITDBagdRBMhMgdpSEch4Kprs2_CMMoTWzExZX8CpfDQRBfdUus7-Xd0u8nNHwO81BJVYSP-snqObKCxSNSVBgz17Bo/s1600/Mother%252C+American+Indian.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9H-sQkHYFlTbNuRYtbrQu1ODTs6yEELkFoStkqFueuBSFEf3fUITDBagdRBMhMgdpSEch4Kprs2_CMMoTWzExZX8CpfDQRBfdUus7-Xd0u8nNHwO81BJVYSP-snqObKCxSNSVBgz17Bo/s400/Mother%252C+American+Indian.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Borhan Mohamed Dalihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11050933958791256522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597209557177220118.post-83435222730219547372011-04-18T02:38:00.001-07:002011-04-23T10:04:00.864-07:00Nasi Ambeng<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="post-header"> 'Nasi Ambeng' and chicken rice, two delicacies which are quite popular among Malaysians, were brought into the lives of Malaysians by the Javanese and chinese respectively. Nasi ambeng [^m beng] consists of white rice prepared with chicken currv or chicken cooked in soy sauce, vegetables, fried noodles, some salted fish, fried coconut flesh, and so on. Everything is put on a round tray which has been laid with fresh banana leaves, and served to guests, four people to a tray. Although only four people are assigned to one tray of nasi ambeng, it can be eaten by more than that number. Therefore, guests are given plastic bags in which they can put the '<i>berkat' (</i>food from the pan that they have secured in plastic bags) to bring home for their wives and children. During the good old days, plastic bags were not issued as they were not produced yet. Instead, hosts prepared old newspaper and banana leaves so that guests could use them to wrap and pack the food. After that, they used strings made from banana bark to tie the pack since plastic string were not invented.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhliHKf1efnngrn-dur0yO-plm8oN4tumeQwU-ghVRrxNbDTwdNDSThrwqB4h7RrAZH7c8z86AOqHcQ2Bvyh4w9fVraGAn-bEkwBG8rmQqjpUluOAlydW6ioe5xxpeh-bbYmHilQdIDpig/s1600/Nasi+ambeng+2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhliHKf1efnngrn-dur0yO-plm8oN4tumeQwU-ghVRrxNbDTwdNDSThrwqB4h7RrAZH7c8z86AOqHcQ2Bvyh4w9fVraGAn-bEkwBG8rmQqjpUluOAlydW6ioe5xxpeh-bbYmHilQdIDpig/s320/Nasi+ambeng+2.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nasi ambeng or Ambeng Rice. Notice the banana leaf?</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
Usually guests are invited to feast at dinner time. In those difficult olden days, most of the villagers in my area only had a bicycle each with which they used as a form of transportation. Therefore, they put the packed 'nasi ambeng' on the handlebars of their bicycles, or sometimes tied it on the carriers of their bicycles using a bicycle tube. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQUj9FUN69H6fz2HJ4L8r8F943z6e86jmJedUScK06eqO6904BZYc9zxNXkMKg-XXewB-4KHM8h9pe9Y4ytVHyxy4hMI_emAJ3u1_eyFzriErgUIMRlkIbSZEtRYjr8pKAEH_tkNYwZS0/s1600/Hj+Ali+%2526+Ruminah0026.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQUj9FUN69H6fz2HJ4L8r8F943z6e86jmJedUScK06eqO6904BZYc9zxNXkMKg-XXewB-4KHM8h9pe9Y4ytVHyxy4hMI_emAJ3u1_eyFzriErgUIMRlkIbSZEtRYjr8pKAEH_tkNYwZS0/s320/Hj+Ali+%2526+Ruminah0026.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">'Berkat' or food that guests brought home on the handlebar</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div>Their houses were quite far apart from each other, their roads were bicycle paths under rubber trees. Going back to their homes, they cycled their bicycles on the gloomy paths under the rubber trees, sometimes using their bicycle lamps to show the way, but most of the time, using their instincts. Sometimes they ran over rubber tree roots that protruded on the ground, causing them to fall and the 'berkat' scattered on the ground. Pity to their children and wives!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr1NUM7nJr5-CsX0vWzzbLuCwo_cQMVqLF53rkMUUYyOA1Z2k-kJvM3EY-7XmLFA6LyrQzz9i1M1dxrkvVWjrNobvKeqdMXtW7kqgdS6wdVD0gJraxb2z5ZVrZY5FuEII2zTdDMhldhzg/s1600/Dato+Onn+naik+beskal.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr1NUM7nJr5-CsX0vWzzbLuCwo_cQMVqLF53rkMUUYyOA1Z2k-kJvM3EY-7XmLFA6LyrQzz9i1M1dxrkvVWjrNobvKeqdMXtW7kqgdS6wdVD0gJraxb2z5ZVrZY5FuEII2zTdDMhldhzg/s320/Dato+Onn+naik+beskal.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Riding a bicycle under rubber trees. This picture was taken in the day. How would the situation be if it was taken at night?</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div>Borhan Mohamed Dalihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11050933958791256522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597209557177220118.post-40387459026771151792011-01-31T23:41:00.001-08:002011-01-31T23:41:40.207-08:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><h2 class="date-header"><span>Thursday, October 14, 2010</span></h2><a href="" name="6272944482214354096"></a> <h3 class="post-title entry-title"> <a href="http://borhandali.blogspot.com/2010/10/condolences.html">Condolences</a> </h3><div class="post-header"> </div><div class="post-body entry-content"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg61WbPxQCPkyT6wO7HA5OtGe52G1aT9Kxu_ffEkXYfv1c0x_AP_YylDezOpeu7ZWhC2aTIu-iqsPxp-v0EklK82Yi__xZIRSBK2sjGmMVDsDMlZrGUWPfTQKF_D0mLJJNkWR0heTMOHCE/s1600/Bas+Delima+Ekspres.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg61WbPxQCPkyT6wO7HA5OtGe52G1aT9Kxu_ffEkXYfv1c0x_AP_YylDezOpeu7ZWhC2aTIu-iqsPxp-v0EklK82Yi__xZIRSBK2sjGmMVDsDMlZrGUWPfTQKF_D0mLJJNkWR0heTMOHCE/s200/Bas+Delima+Ekspres.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> I am saddened to read about the accident that happened on the PLUS highway near the Simpang Ampat Tol Plaza. Long ago, vehicle accidents did not take so many lives. Victims were 'slightly injured', 'badly injured', some 'died on the spot' (I did not make any inquiries, only based on my childhood experiences as a 'kampung boy'). Now it seems more people died in road accidents. </div><br />
I remember when I was small, an uncle of mine commented about a car which appeared to be moving very fast. "At least he is doing 60 (60 miles per hour)," he said. It dawned on me that cars were not moving as fast then as they are nowadays. Of course at that time there were no highways in Malaysia. We only saw highways on TV; CHiPs (California Highway Patrol) starred by Larry Wilcox and Erik Estrada in the 70s. Our winding roads and the heavy traffic prevented drivers from speeding. On lonely roads, I did not know. At least I thought so. The speed limit was 30mph (30 miles per hour) in urban areas.<br />
<br />
Nowadays, the speed on the PLUS highway is 110 kph. Based on my experience, if I were to heed the speed limit while travelling along the highway, I would only be able to overtake heavy lorries, small motor cycles and cars moving slower than 110. However, a lot of cars would be overtaking my vehicle, sometimes a string of them. It shows that breaking the speed limit is nothing to be worried about to most drivers, regardless of their ages and gender. In fact, driving a Honda Civic at the speed of 140 kph along the highway doesn't make me feel worried about the circumstances that I would have to face if anything bad happens. I feel so safe behind the wheel, I don't hear the sound of the wind. The car is so stable. No wonder if an accident happens, the impact is so great.<br />
<br />
Therefore, I think drivers should abide by the traffic rules. Do not overspeed. Care about other people's lives if you don't give a damn about yours.<br />
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(Err... what do you say Laili? Thank you for monitoring my blog. May Allah protect you and give you a leeway in performing your Haj. Ameen) </div><div class="post-footer-line post-footer-line-1"><span class="post-author vcard"> Posted by <span class="fn">Borhan Mohamed Dali</span> </span> <span class="post-timestamp"> at <a class="timestamp-link" href="http://borhandali.blogspot.com/2010/10/condolences.html" rel="bookmark" title="permanent link"><abbr class="published" title="2010-10-14T18:50:00+08:00">6:50 PM</abbr></a> </span> <span class="post-comment-link"> <a class="comment-link" href="http://borhandali.blogspot.com/2010/10/condolences.html#comments">0 comments</a> </span> <span class="post-icons"> <span class="item-action"> <a href="http://www.blogger.com/email-post.g?blogID=5667952864509343415&postID=6272944482214354096" title="Email Post"> <img alt="" class="icon-action" height="13" src="http://img1.blogblog.com/img/icon18_email.gif" width="18" /> </a> </span> <span class="item-control blog-admin pid-1663962695"> <a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=5667952864509343415&postID=6272944482214354096" title="Edit Post"> <img alt="" class="icon-action" height="18" src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/icon18_edit_allbkg.gif" width="18" /> </a> </span> </span> <div class="post-share-buttons"> <a class="share-button sb-email" href="http://www.blogger.com/share-post.g?blogID=5667952864509343415&postID=6272944482214354096&target=email" target="_blank" title="Email This"> <span class="share-button-link-text">Email This</span></a> <a class="share-button sb-blog" href="http://www.blogger.com/share-post.g?blogID=5667952864509343415&postID=6272944482214354096&target=blog" target="_blank" title="BlogThis!"> <span class="share-button-link-text">BlogThis!</span></a> <a class="share-button sb-twitter" href="http://www.blogger.com/share-post.g?blogID=5667952864509343415&postID=6272944482214354096&target=twitter" target="_blank" title="Share to Twitter"> <span class="share-button-link-text">Share to Twitter</span></a> <a class="share-button sb-facebook" href="http://www.blogger.com/share-post.g?blogID=5667952864509343415&postID=6272944482214354096&target=facebook" target="_blank" title="Share to Facebook"> <span class="share-button-link-text">Share to Facebook</span></a> <a class="share-button sb-buzz" href="http://www.blogger.com/share-post.g?blogID=5667952864509343415&postID=6272944482214354096&target=buzz" target="_blank" title="Share to Google Buzz"> <span class="share-button-link-text">Share to Google Buzz</span></a> </div><span class="post-backlinks post-comment-link"> <a class="comment-link" href="http://borhandali.blogspot.com/2010/10/condolences.html#links">Links to this post</a> </span> </div><div class="post-footer-line post-footer-line-2"><span class="post-labels"> Labels: <a href="http://borhandali.blogspot.com/search/label/accident" rel="tag">accident</a>, <a href="http://borhandali.blogspot.com/search/label/highway" rel="tag">highway</a>, <a href="http://borhandali.blogspot.com/search/label/Honda%20Civic" rel="tag">Honda Civic</a>, <a href="http://borhandali.blogspot.com/search/label/overspeed" rel="tag">overspeed</a>, <a href="http://borhandali.blogspot.com/search/label/stable" rel="tag">stable</a>, <a href="http://borhandali.blogspot.com/search/label/traffic%20speed%20limit" rel="tag">traffic speed limit</a> </span> </div></div>Borhan Mohamed Dalihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11050933958791256522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597209557177220118.post-53747665676904910762011-01-31T23:40:00.001-08:002011-01-31T23:40:39.535-08:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span class="reaction-buttons"><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody>
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<div class="post-outer"><div class="post hentry"><h3 class="post-title entry-title"><a href="http://borhandali.blogspot.com/2010/10/water-closet.html">Water Closet ,, Toilet, Outhouse</a> </h3><div class="post-header"> </div><div class="post-body entry-content"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAMn5tXx8wAk57rNldO0p_dAohYqbrvnWLaNg1zZSPibfzt17Fxl_zOic811p_rKno4OiJ4flLLDiJ5hATCRXMkwstHzmYGzPoSeixuphwZIMdaz9GMZ4aHmpoSWqN9Rq48atjUQmXPHQ/s1600/Getting+into+toilet+3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAMn5tXx8wAk57rNldO0p_dAohYqbrvnWLaNg1zZSPibfzt17Fxl_zOic811p_rKno4OiJ4flLLDiJ5hATCRXMkwstHzmYGzPoSeixuphwZIMdaz9GMZ4aHmpoSWqN9Rq48atjUQmXPHQ/s400/Getting+into+toilet+3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzXQLUsdWMM9AS5DMCLCEGscHiGE2FyQujTbvng3rByXqobwBPo09KJ9V2UQBFzbYLQW6uYs2m6B-_CkktaaolCBPzhvCvfbvD6zbXq0mZ9MKUDby_sC4fimj7AQWTOBSeUjbk7pWBHIk/s1600/Getting+into+toilet.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></div> See the picture above? The caption underneath reads: <br />
"<i>Can you guess what are they doing?</i><br />
<i>If not I can explain, though the thing is really shocking. The story is that this Russian girl has dropped her cell phone into… into this hole that they use in villages as a toilet (it has no drain or sewer system - just a hole and all the people drop there), probably you have seen such system at least once in your life. So she dropped her cell phone occasionally and it got right inside this thing. She got a choice - to forget it or to try to get it from there. She has chosen the latter and…."</i><br />
<br />
I was browsing the net to find a picture of an old village toilet in Malaysia because I wanted to relate one with my experience as a small boy, when I underwent my practicum, and when I started my service as a government servant. However, the few pictures that I found (one of them is what you see above) caught my eyes.<br />
<br />
<br />
That reminds me of the 'toilet' I used when I started my service as a government servant in a remote area in Pahang, Malaysia. There was no electricity and pipe water. So what I saw and used was acceptable. To make a toilet, or an outhouse, a hole around three or four feet deep was dug at the back of a house. A stone slab with a hole in the middle was then put on top. After that, a wooden cubicle was built. He presto! The 'toilet' was ready. While staying at one of the houses for three years before being transferred to another place, that was the kind of toilet that I used. Usually, I used that thing before going to the river. (I bathed in the river, mind you). I covered my head with a towel, leaving only my eyes to see where I was going. Entered, 'dropped', quickly walked out, straight to the river. Fortunately, I did not share the outhouse with anybody else, so, although it was not so 'fragrant', it was only mine.<br />
<br />
Another 'toilet' that I used when doing my practicum was a little bit different. The toilet was situated at the corner of the house compound. More or less the same as the one that I had described in my August posting 'Sakit Perut Waktu Tarawih (1)'. The only difference was a pail or bucket was placed under the hole so that that thing could drop there. Every morning, a old man would take the bucket, scrapped the content into his big bucket, and put it back under toilet. I would wait until I could not stand the urge anymore. Then, covering my nose with a towel and taking a deep breath, I quickly rushed in, dropped the 'bomb', and rushed out to wash. Hah... (relieved)<br />
<br />
Nowadays, I doubt it if the same scenario can still be seen in Malaysia. In remote areas, perhaps? </div><div class="post-footer"> <div class="post-footer-line post-footer-line-1"><span class="post-author vcard"> Posted by <span class="fn">Borhan Mohamed Dali</span> </span> <span class="post-timestamp"> at <a class="timestamp-link" href="http://borhandali.blogspot.com/2010/10/water-closet.html" rel="bookmark" title="permanent link"><abbr class="published" title="2010-10-16T11:27:00+08:00">11:27 AM</abbr></a> </span> <span class="post-comment-link"> <a class="comment-link" href="http://borhandali.blogspot.com/2010/10/water-closet.html#comments">0 comments</a> </span> <span class="post-icons"> <span class="item-action"> <a href="http://www.blogger.com/email-post.g?blogID=5667952864509343415&postID=464192258743519380" title="Email Post"> <img alt="" class="icon-action" height="13" src="http://img1.blogblog.com/img/icon18_email.gif" width="18" /> </a> </span> <span class="item-control blog-admin pid-1663962695"> <a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=5667952864509343415&postID=464192258743519380" title="Edit Post"> <img alt="" class="icon-action" height="18" src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/icon18_edit_allbkg.gif" width="18" /> </a> </span> </span> <div class="post-share-buttons"> <a class="share-button sb-email" href="http://www.blogger.com/share-post.g?blogID=5667952864509343415&postID=464192258743519380&target=email" target="_blank" title="Email This"> <span class="share-button-link-text">Email This</span></a> <a class="share-button sb-blog" href="http://www.blogger.com/share-post.g?blogID=5667952864509343415&postID=464192258743519380&target=blog" target="_blank" title="BlogThis!"> <span class="share-button-link-text">BlogThis!</span></a> <a class="share-button sb-twitter" href="http://www.blogger.com/share-post.g?blogID=5667952864509343415&postID=464192258743519380&target=twitter" target="_blank" title="Share to Twitter"> <span class="share-button-link-text">Share to Twitter</span></a> <a class="share-button sb-facebook" href="http://www.blogger.com/share-post.g?blogID=5667952864509343415&postID=464192258743519380&target=facebook" target="_blank" title="Share to Facebook"> <span class="share-button-link-text">Share to Facebook</span></a> <a class="share-button sb-buzz" href="http://www.blogger.com/share-post.g?blogID=5667952864509343415&postID=464192258743519380&target=buzz" target="_blank" title="Share to Google Buzz"> <span class="share-button-link-text">Share to Google Buzz</span></a> </div><span class="post-backlinks post-comment-link"> <a class="comment-link" href="http://borhandali.blogspot.com/2010/10/water-closet.html#links">Links to this post</a> </span> </div><div class="post-footer-line post-footer-line-2"><span class="post-labels"> Labels: <a href="http://borhandali.blogspot.com/search/label/drain" rel="tag">drain</a>, <a href="http://borhandali.blogspot.com/search/label/hole" rel="tag">hole</a>, <a href="http://borhandali.blogspot.com/search/label/sewer%20system" rel="tag">sewer system</a>, <a href="http://borhandali.blogspot.com/search/label/toilet" rel="tag">toilet</a> </span> </div></div></div></div></div>Borhan Mohamed Dalihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11050933958791256522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597209557177220118.post-54730949846984116632011-01-31T07:57:00.000-08:002011-01-31T08:24:39.476-08:00When It Rains<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: medium;"></span> That Friday it rained at all places. On Saturday it still rained. Today (Sunday January 30, 2011) it still drizzled. The village headman was worried. If rain continued, surely he would have to send the flood victims to a refugee camp. He was away but had directed his secretary to make his rounds at intervals and update him with the latest development. It was reported that the water level at <i>Parit Mohamad</i> had risen, but was still below the danger zone. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0sBtpScXieaH-PiZjDsr_qSoXbVDoGVFxAXWZPjPlep5oHYbpUtG-H5Y6cl12KfgEwr08DDcetOG-pgBHSYdY4xHtlsrDvoMeu2-XBSaHIHZiGy4Dd_zDUUztjIN4NVtpczHp_242UFw/s1600/Langait+mendung2.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0sBtpScXieaH-PiZjDsr_qSoXbVDoGVFxAXWZPjPlep5oHYbpUtG-H5Y6cl12KfgEwr08DDcetOG-pgBHSYdY4xHtlsrDvoMeu2-XBSaHIHZiGy4Dd_zDUUztjIN4NVtpczHp_242UFw/s400/Langait+mendung2.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Black sky. Sometimes it rains, at other times, it doesn't.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrq9Uq44yhUJ3gddGhEghX9h35glB64tEzbFqSAO5A8w-3fS_64GxZMb2Gs1MKhyphenhyphenYzKBWJB0-P6cGgTdiIhHIpKqJ_2xO_j7syCYNig3AcRBENJNyGExMs1y9lm2dzeyQ_KedOnDQAt2I/s1600/Hujan.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrq9Uq44yhUJ3gddGhEghX9h35glB64tEzbFqSAO5A8w-3fS_64GxZMb2Gs1MKhyphenhyphenYzKBWJB0-P6cGgTdiIhHIpKqJ_2xO_j7syCYNig3AcRBENJNyGExMs1y9lm2dzeyQ_KedOnDQAt2I/s400/Hujan.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Rain, rain, go away...</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"> My daughter, Husna, prepared lunch which consisted of lobster cooked in coconut milk, fried cabbage and fried fish. The tummy is always hungry when it rains. Therefore, having lunch when it rains is always interesting and enjoyable.<span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp_FPP6gpoDYN7aOVSVaeBmOJY56I8L5-ML0tGj1XzSTvpjiFftQPAGbCQ5vI3WhWkCzZ6febsJ5Z8f8TWak6peYOsnUF_xiUFp9L3Tr8ndN-PPxkOfcrOjkQ9jpMqoi2pX6QKggfk5K8/s1600/Ketam+masak+lemak.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp_FPP6gpoDYN7aOVSVaeBmOJY56I8L5-ML0tGj1XzSTvpjiFftQPAGbCQ5vI3WhWkCzZ6febsJ5Z8f8TWak6peYOsnUF_xiUFp9L3Tr8ndN-PPxkOfcrOjkQ9jpMqoi2pX6QKggfk5K8/s400/Ketam+masak+lemak.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Lobster cooked with coconut milk...</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwbztyfcsMRa91s7gzY808nPgRW4NxuO_awcZx-jw67XpdwtNEVAjuPRf6CSyf3B6CvHHkPwYSkbRPUJqMDTz-V9-res_3y8ZkYo6Avusg47wV9QHIg3tRnDvrfxreeGdYfJS1R30cZ5E/s1600/Sayur+kobis+goreng.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwbztyfcsMRa91s7gzY808nPgRW4NxuO_awcZx-jw67XpdwtNEVAjuPRf6CSyf3B6CvHHkPwYSkbRPUJqMDTz-V9-res_3y8ZkYo6Avusg47wV9QHIg3tRnDvrfxreeGdYfJS1R30cZ5E/s400/Sayur+kobis+goreng.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Fried cabbage...</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"> When it rained, Dad stayed home as he could not go to tap rubber. Mum and sister prepared lunch early. Once, they prepared white rice with '<i>meranti leaves' </i>(a kind of vegetable that was abundant in the countryside) cooked with coconut milk topped up with fried soy cakes dipped in hot ketchup. They set the food near the doorway facing the neighbour's house. Then the whole family sat down to a delicious lunch in the cold rainy afternoon. That was the good old days. <br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtwlwaUC0xpK9Ggy39uAzl-7vxcHi-rtOnPtgdzaDhVqdniLVQJOY-peyJWW0IcUSIkdHrsfnA7v6YcrMyZifgjkF6toYFuAzJoCQudAx_bmPCTs3hbIy5NcKdsRg14OdtID895r5Cmn4/s1600/tauhu+goreng+sambal.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtwlwaUC0xpK9Ggy39uAzl-7vxcHi-rtOnPtgdzaDhVqdniLVQJOY-peyJWW0IcUSIkdHrsfnA7v6YcrMyZifgjkF6toYFuAzJoCQudAx_bmPCTs3hbIy5NcKdsRg14OdtID895r5Cmn4/s400/tauhu+goreng+sambal.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Tauhu goreng sambal kicap</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Sometimes it rained suddenly while we, the children were enjoying our games in our village, we scampered back to the safety of our own homes. Sometimes, the rain got too heavy which soon resulted in the whole village soaked in flood which was not too deep. Only around the ankles. When that happened, we would go out and waded in the water, enjoying the feeling of the current around our toes and heels.</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXrz-TQlmr-cnrXNo2rsDPf23UZ7ebq8wTApy387amugVFLQaiFzCVUi_XdvLEqyU7y7a2XlZ0qj8LuUtKGNGJhULf6lc5JTQsEIWzHIORCwiEUjevMkO_ua9R_n9ccrGjBuY6hck7yRM/s1600/banjir2.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6FV_LRjCXmbxQI2dUucLhbwSx9QN_AQUsvO7084bss5tYDX_nrjdkcVFd9NcxHleQ2AIkj7s8v1t1TcA1YP4ah6xoHKUIYIaWTVo9gz9_fAH2X-3mgm9k5xHRWHUb4iLwp6rMRg4axXg/s400/banjir.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Enjoying ourselves in the flood</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXrz-TQlmr-cnrXNo2rsDPf23UZ7ebq8wTApy387amugVFLQaiFzCVUi_XdvLEqyU7y7a2XlZ0qj8LuUtKGNGJhULf6lc5JTQsEIWzHIORCwiEUjevMkO_ua9R_n9ccrGjBuY6hck7yRM/s1600/banjir2.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXrz-TQlmr-cnrXNo2rsDPf23UZ7ebq8wTApy387amugVFLQaiFzCVUi_XdvLEqyU7y7a2XlZ0qj8LuUtKGNGJhULf6lc5JTQsEIWzHIORCwiEUjevMkO_ua9R_n9ccrGjBuY6hck7yRM/s400/banjir2.jpeg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">You also want to enjoy the flood?</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></div> Sometimes we couldn't manage to reach home before the rain, therefore we sheltered under somebody's house (wooden houses were built on stilts; quite high which enabled us to stand under them for shelter against the rain. To kill the boredom, we would look for lizards in between the wooden stilts. Sometimes we found them and killed them. Sometimes we would find centipedes which these we too, would kill.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhwBmOpXA8B_eIMPSpHdbANN6r1CSsq0kzm2GFClhmL5vjwaWucC8Kor0nmic2GAnWs1Z0RDqwFdBkQtV8i17sFFCNn2KlcVeusrzvnqE-lcjLVhad5pe8X63ajMSXEffwSFUCI9wCjn0/s1600/duit+syiling.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div> Sometimes, we found a lot of interesting things under the houses. We found hairpins, combs, belts, coins. <br />
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<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhwBmOpXA8B_eIMPSpHdbANN6r1CSsq0kzm2GFClhmL5vjwaWucC8Kor0nmic2GAnWs1Z0RDqwFdBkQtV8i17sFFCNn2KlcVeusrzvnqE-lcjLVhad5pe8X63ajMSXEffwSFUCI9wCjn0/s1600/duit+syiling.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="371" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhwBmOpXA8B_eIMPSpHdbANN6r1CSsq0kzm2GFClhmL5vjwaWucC8Kor0nmic2GAnWs1Z0RDqwFdBkQtV8i17sFFCNn2KlcVeusrzvnqE-lcjLVhad5pe8X63ajMSXEffwSFUCI9wCjn0/s400/duit+syiling.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Coin</td></tr>
</tbody></table> Those were the good old days. Now, it has been a long time since we were caught in flood.</div>Borhan Mohamed Dalihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11050933958791256522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597209557177220118.post-59476691388693162932011-01-27T09:01:00.000-08:002011-01-27T09:01:50.482-08:00Wrong Entry (Part Two)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><i>In "Wrong Entry (Part One)" I wrote about my carelessness in entering a girl's toilet. Was I found out? By whom? Was it by a lecturer? Was I excused for my mistake? The following paragraphs will tell all.</i><br />
<br />
<i> </i>Just then I heard the sound of the stole of shoes on the tiled floors in a steady rhythm that seemed to me that the owner knew of my presence and was determined to find me out bring and bring me to the authority for violating human rights; a man in a ladies' toilet! I felt my heart beat fast. If a lady lecturer fond me in side a girl's toilet, that would be the end of me. I pricked my ears to listen. The sound of the footsteps moved towards the far end of the toilet, paused for a moment, then retreated back towards the door, passing the cubicle I was in. I could see a pair of shoes for a moment, as it passed. A pair of black leather high-heeled shoes. Madam Sarimah? No, she didn't wear that kind. I thought I had seen them recently. Whose were they? Aah... it just escaped my confused memory. They say if you want to remember something, it just slipped out.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv2A17d17nhUYwu1ezqsV_ITmMNSHMxigaJklvfNtGwl_U0fOQAOEV7zpes1eVBUPNL6m1bUJ4_2b3XeD8gpJbmGpSw27X9E09FZb44RYyqAaJKvG47SaFyjJ5R-DpVqnRDN5K_yVBHCw/s1600/shoes+3.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv2A17d17nhUYwu1ezqsV_ITmMNSHMxigaJklvfNtGwl_U0fOQAOEV7zpes1eVBUPNL6m1bUJ4_2b3XeD8gpJbmGpSw27X9E09FZb44RYyqAaJKvG47SaFyjJ5R-DpVqnRDN5K_yVBHCw/s400/shoes+3.jpeg" width="385" /></a></div><br />
I held my breath as my heart beat furiously. It seemed a whole day when I heard the sound of the footsteps moving out of the restroom and diead away. I heaved a sigh of relief. Quickly I washed myself and stepped out of the cubicle.<br />
<br />
"Hah...!" a stiffled cry behind me made me jump out of my skin. I turned to face the source of the sound. There was Quratul Aini, my coursemate who had come out from behind the door she was hiding, grinning while her right fist was clenced, the index finger pointing at me.<br />
<br />
"What were you doing in a gir's toilet?" she asked, still wearing the mischievous grin. So, it was not the lecturer.<br />
<br />
"I didn't realize it. It was emergency," I answered, begging for sympathy.<br />
<br />
"I saw you entering as I was coming out from the lecture room just now,. Lucky for you nobody else saw you," she added laughingly as she re entered the restroom.<br />
<br />
* * * * * *<br />
<br />
At another time, while at a girls' school in the town of Batu Pahat, I felt the need to ease myself. I asked my friends around about the toilet but they were not sure.<br />
<br />
"May be over that side, near the office," one of them suggested, pointing to a block of building.<br />
<br />
Hurriedly, I went and sure, it was a toilet but I couldn't see any sign to show that it was a male toilet. I couldn't wait. Hastily I stepped in, a pungent smell sprang into my nostrils. I looked into the first compartment. There was neither a small water container nor a rubber hose. The second compartment. Disgusting. Dirty, eee... Black substance in the toilet bowl. (How could anybody put his head in the toilet bowl? But that was another story). The third boot. Ah, quite clean, there was a rubber hose attached to the tap. I entered quickly and closed the door. The latch had broken. Didn't matter. I would not take long. Besides, I could easily hold it if somebody tried the door. I had no time to find another one.<br />
<br />
While hard at it, I heard the sound of somebody entering the lavatory. The person mumbled something in a husky voice, but I knew that it was a female's. I tried to picture the person; burly, quite dark, having an oblong face, wearing short hair like a boy's, rough... Now only I recalled. It was a girls' school. This toilet was a girl's toilet!<br />
<br />
I could hear the lass moving to the first toilet, the sound of the door being thrust open. Then, the second toilet, the door pushed open hard.<br />
<br />
"Eee... disgusting..." she scolded with a loud voice.<br />
<br />
Surely the next would be the one I was in. I held the door shut with all my might using one hand while squatting above the toilet bowl so that the girl would not be able to open it from outside, all the time praying secretly.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgay_yvMieDxEu6F2UaT3QiIWX_KNQD6Uce9lTSkfAXmd_e6BcIVf51H6lNh1pP58ynE3Sm5GKt1i1LYJkYLa7JjHcp5NyDf9BrkqD5btT2NcuRkQApfr7h59VWyam38twglzvQihSOu5c/s1600/Girl+open+toilet.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgay_yvMieDxEu6F2UaT3QiIWX_KNQD6Uce9lTSkfAXmd_e6BcIVf51H6lNh1pP58ynE3Sm5GKt1i1LYJkYLa7JjHcp5NyDf9BrkqD5btT2NcuRkQApfr7h59VWyam38twglzvQihSOu5c/s400/Girl+open+toilet.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Luck was on my side. That teenager gave a hard push on the door. It opened a little but closed again quickly under the weight of my strong arm. She didn't give a second try, but proceeded to the next boot, then went out. After that, everything was silent again.<br />
<br />
Quickly I cleaned myself and sneaked out carefully so that nobody would nobody could see me coming out of that horrorful room, yet had made me comfortable again.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikAKYnf8J8TYXXLsyn7T2Twesrx3eAWtEeqbDDcnCKyXC9cDJuP8a4dJdEPHPZzMqbaigKHpwrsl6LcVV82HjQ9g6iEzD-4_G50OIIr-Efo1kSRMe3gfPPpn3Z7lkRejnLQWC8as-Iwb0/s1600/funny_toilets.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikAKYnf8J8TYXXLsyn7T2Twesrx3eAWtEeqbDDcnCKyXC9cDJuP8a4dJdEPHPZzMqbaigKHpwrsl6LcVV82HjQ9g6iEzD-4_G50OIIr-Efo1kSRMe3gfPPpn3Z7lkRejnLQWC8as-Iwb0/s400/funny_toilets.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
</div>Borhan Mohamed Dalihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11050933958791256522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597209557177220118.post-87912174616771252892011-01-24T01:18:00.001-08:002011-01-24T01:18:43.081-08:00Wrong Entry (Part One)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><h2 class="date-header"><span>Monday, January 24, 2011</span></h2><a href="" name="4580036945872937071"></a> <h3 class="post-title entry-title"> Wrong Entry (Part One) </h3><div class="post-header"> </div><div class="post-body entry-content"> <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;"> <span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"> <span style="font-size: medium;">Sometimes we happened to do things that we were not supposed to do without realizing it until it was too late to back off . Consequently, we had to face the circumstances, sometimes they favoured us, at other times we had to face the music. Then, we would smile whenever we reminisced it. This was what I faced when I was pursuing my first degree.</span></span><br />
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
At the university where I studied, the faculty block was a four-storey building with two restrooms built in at every level, one for the ladies and the other for the gentlemen. These rooms were situated at the far north and the far south of the building. The restrooms for the gentlemen and ladies at every level were situated alternately. If the ladies' was placed at the north on level one, the gents' would be at the south. Then, at level 2, the gents' would be at the north, and the ladies' would be at the south. And so on. We, the students, used to wander from one room to another for our lectures, which made the situation a more complicated. Therefore, the nearest restroom to our lecture room would be the ladies' at one time and the gents' at another. For that reason, a man who wanted to use the restroom needed to make sure he did not enter the girl's toilet and vice versa.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij-sGE1JeDCLUW0YWUe0hQ1omMhC0v9tClHi8c1nVLtyn80Cp9GshdPYk3MTJrwp9qxpHOhX0fhoKxsmhNuizlwKyktSPcPcciD5y-XdC1iWCSmmMrOY_8FV1sR8olE_cH1e7doEIChaQ/s1600/Toilet+unisex.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij-sGE1JeDCLUW0YWUe0hQ1omMhC0v9tClHi8c1nVLtyn80Cp9GshdPYk3MTJrwp9qxpHOhX0fhoKxsmhNuizlwKyktSPcPcciD5y-XdC1iWCSmmMrOY_8FV1sR8olE_cH1e7doEIChaQ/s1600/Toilet+unisex.jpeg" /></a></span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> There was once when, while in the middle of a lecture, I suddenly felt the urge to ease myself. I thought I could hold it until lecture was over, so I stayed put, but the inclination to pee became greater and greater. I puffed and grunted, cold sweat trickled down my spine, my palms became clammy. In the end, I could stand it no more. Eventually I got up and walked briskly to the lavatory nearby, meeting no one along the way.</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> I entered the clean lavatory. In front of me were two rows of toilets, obviously had recently been cleaned. I got into the first one and started to ease myself. While hard at it, my eyes devoured the graffiti that filled the door. It was clear that the students not only satisfied their physical needs in the toilet, but also their sexual emotions on the toilet doors and walls with obscene graphics and scribblings. I read the dialogues one after another enjoying the message that came out of it. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2ySibS89Xo2cnA3cB5RPQf9qwIdOQuggdVMyluL7qyCXV_udIcZKDvY3sAHqTs08MirNq0oMNmkTez5zY2Oib3YQtK-biQTgnWtCB2zOeSE19Vb1SVh21W-fOLh0T2ppMR249Atp-Cdk/s1600/graffiti.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2ySibS89Xo2cnA3cB5RPQf9qwIdOQuggdVMyluL7qyCXV_udIcZKDvY3sAHqTs08MirNq0oMNmkTez5zY2Oib3YQtK-biQTgnWtCB2zOeSE19Vb1SVh21W-fOLh0T2ppMR249Atp-Cdk/s1600/graffiti.jpeg" /></a></span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> Suddenly, I sensed that something was wrong. The dialogues were written by females, I was very sure. I began to wonder whether I had entered the wrong lavatory. If I had, there would be a big row if I was found out. Every body would poke their fingers at me. My lecturers; Madam Sarimah Yusof, Madam Rosila Manap, Dr. (cute) Azizah our course moderator, Dr. Najib. Tch, tch, tch...</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8IsdW7m9y4ER0-glMiqFaReYTkKJ1asorHnfdGll8pmsRGCutwdYGUYSftAuyducHl076SRTCG0AkWeYuvF_nvUYrlhZNjdJtmR5CR2n1rPhXBkhRLFJj7CbgFMa1DRjDO7LcHYfFruw/s1600/Toilet.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8IsdW7m9y4ER0-glMiqFaReYTkKJ1asorHnfdGll8pmsRGCutwdYGUYSftAuyducHl076SRTCG0AkWeYuvF_nvUYrlhZNjdJtmR5CR2n1rPhXBkhRLFJj7CbgFMa1DRjDO7LcHYfFruw/s400/Toilet.jpeg" width="400" /></a></span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></div><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: medium;"> Just then I heard the sound of the sole of shoes on the tiled floors in a steady rhythm that seemed to me that the owner knew of my presence and was determined to find me out bring me to the authority for violating human rights; a man in a ladies' toilet! I felt my heart beat fast. Oh God, what should I do?</span></div></div><span class="post-author vcard"> Posted by <span class="fn">Borhan Mohamed Dali</span> </span> <span class="post-timestamp"> at <a class="timestamp-link" href="http://borhandali.blogspot.com/2011/01/wrong-entry.html" rel="bookmark" title="permanent link"><abbr class="published" title="2011-01-24T01:01:00+08:00">1:01 AM</abbr></a> </span> </div>Borhan Mohamed Dalihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11050933958791256522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597209557177220118.post-89286277628850863702011-01-24T01:17:00.001-08:002011-01-24T01:17:42.161-08:00Beano And Dandy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><h2 class="date-header"><span>Saturday, January 15, 2011</span></h2><a href="" name="8388013304014013873"></a> <h3 class="post-title entry-title"> Beano & Dandy </h3><div class="post-header"> </div><div class="post-body entry-content"> <div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: medium;"> Hi! One of the reading materials that interest teenagers like me is comic books. However, as a kampung boy, I got to know about it quite late, that was in Form One, when I studied at High School Muar. It was because I started to see them at bookshops when I rode my bicycle through the town center on my way to school. </span></span><br />
<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> Some of us readers in Malaysia who were educated in schools using Malay as their medium of instruction may not get any idea what Beano & Dandy is. However, those who were from English schools may knnow that they are comic newspapers. Those were some of the comic newspapers that I cam a across when I started to cycle my way to and from school every day since from one at High School Muar.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwjUw2ALLu7Z9jl04WkO-nfaYSifmGLFQuH8QeZypNZpEOb3Ior5uUyIkWR653utrNztoVPp_R8NA-ccP8UyuLz6LMAckkIP2Ioo9PDWQj4zNjLlD0A7O-3tZELN7yeWWP_6EsNvCDt3g/s1600/Comic+Beano.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwjUw2ALLu7Z9jl04WkO-nfaYSifmGLFQuH8QeZypNZpEOb3Ior5uUyIkWR653utrNztoVPp_R8NA-ccP8UyuLz6LMAckkIP2Ioo9PDWQj4zNjLlD0A7O-3tZELN7yeWWP_6EsNvCDt3g/s400/Comic+Beano.jpeg" width="280" /></a></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> Flashback - I, with some of my friends used to cycle n the mornings to a religion school in Muar, "Sekolah Agama Dumpar Rendah Pagi". After school at 11.00 a.m., we changed into our secondary school uniforms and shared our food which we had brought from home at lunch. While waiting for the afternoon session at High School Muar to start, I would go to an Indian book store in town to look at the comincs that were hung at the shop. They were 'Beano', 'Dandy', 'Beezer', Biffo', 'Topper', 'Mad' and a lot of other comics that I cannot remember. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6ohEHVwd-OuwZXuPwKM1i8MZQNgQWueYfXNgwnb-qyTZRXDX2m48RTSAR-PXGTBUJXh6vuf1Py_8S61kKJzh_wOjL2gJK6Pe1qjpdOdivFPtjEFTMhmNm_ANqf4XJm9sTJt-FFG8VAj8/s1600/Comic+Dandy.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6ohEHVwd-OuwZXuPwKM1i8MZQNgQWueYfXNgwnb-qyTZRXDX2m48RTSAR-PXGTBUJXh6vuf1Py_8S61kKJzh_wOjL2gJK6Pe1qjpdOdivFPtjEFTMhmNm_ANqf4XJm9sTJt-FFG8VAj8/s400/Comic+Dandy.jpeg" width="300" /></a></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> I thought I could flip through the pages of those comic newspapers dangling on a string in the shop, but the shopkeeper wouldn't let me read them there, so I had to buy them for thirty-five cents (35 cents) which was quite expensive at that time, as I only got twenty cents for pocket money every day. Came to think of it, I would only buy them once or twice a week. So, I saved up some of my pocket money to buy them twice a week and read them alone. I couldn't share the cost with my siblings, because they were not interested in reading an english comic, as they were educated in a malay school.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis50xRInOqBMAFjQpWlEDVxD2POSn7TQB7fY7t1ibNb7HcGOgutQAa259H_ABZpbugqpMuG12qSE2hJDJhs2GLeEWg2mEVBmtE4toTwHyGnRYDBqgHOLzMU5UiOTizKOe9DYQD9jvN7z4/s1600/Comic+Beezer.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis50xRInOqBMAFjQpWlEDVxD2POSn7TQB7fY7t1ibNb7HcGOgutQAa259H_ABZpbugqpMuG12qSE2hJDJhs2GLeEWg2mEVBmtE4toTwHyGnRYDBqgHOLzMU5UiOTizKOe9DYQD9jvN7z4/s400/Comic+Beezer.jpeg" width="276" /></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtc_wkI2Aih-sAUvWeij1Bm13Hcz6lwc3KX8scSMCc80shibdc-oags_QRchGcjzemK12vhQsAzdJMzDn2gvSwuXbH1EmeYMKs73G9k-4J2jQ-WAYuzfBeAUuRqWJ9qVxLQ9yze4gILWw/s1600/Comic+Topper.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> How I got attracted to these comics, I was, and still am not sure. But attracted to them, I was. </span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> I found the comics humorous. The humour in both comics was basic – the fun stemmed from the idiosyncratic and often larger than</span><span class="grame" style="font-size: medium;"> the life</span><span style="font-size: medium;"> characters allowed readers to relate to and sympathise with them</span><span class="grame" style="font-size: medium;">, and</span><span style="font-size: medium;"> also laugh at the ridiculous scrapes they got into. All characters were interesting: Desperate Dan, Korky the cat, Dennis the Menace, Minnie the Minx, Bash Street Kids, Roger the Dodger, I enjoyed reading them all, I stored the comic papers away carefully as if they were something very precious, with the intention of salvaging them some day and read them again. But after so many years, I can't find them any more. I have lost my precious treasure, so cheap but so valuable. What can I do?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrLz8qL_wjWQQZBjD-fd8GIZ0lObtdwrLP0g0mbcn6WBzQIMBdSX9J0WAK2P0RzG_YmHZRTCpDkEAZthXpmByCpX4R4HELdvnQyVvbr5XnoBYwqR_uqYQ0JjpX7eEetH_8QbodSlR5eY0/s1600/Comic+Topper.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="152" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrLz8qL_wjWQQZBjD-fd8GIZ0lObtdwrLP0g0mbcn6WBzQIMBdSX9J0WAK2P0RzG_YmHZRTCpDkEAZthXpmByCpX4R4HELdvnQyVvbr5XnoBYwqR_uqYQ0JjpX7eEetH_8QbodSlR5eY0/s200/Comic+Topper.jpeg" width="200" /></a></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div></div><span class="post-author vcard"> Posted by <span class="fn">Borhan Mohamed Dali</span> </span> <span class="post-timestamp"> at <a class="timestamp-link" href="http://borhandali.blogspot.com/2011/01/beano-dandy_15.html" rel="bookmark" title="permanent link"><abbr class="published" title="2011-01-15T21:05:00+08:00">9:05 PM</abbr></a> </span> </div>Borhan Mohamed Dalihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11050933958791256522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597209557177220118.post-49159641397419317902011-01-24T01:16:00.001-08:002011-01-24T01:16:51.361-08:00Served Me Right!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><h2 class="date-header"><span>Thursday, January 13, 2011</span></h2><a href="" name="3222161837815540061"></a> <h3 class="post-title entry-title"> Serves Me Right! </h3><div class="post-header"> </div><div class="post-body entry-content"> Mom passed away peacefully in December 2007 while Dad followed nine months later; 12th September 2008. Since then the ten of us (our late parents' children, of course) only met a few times per month at Dad's house in Bakri. <br />
<br />
When we met, usually starting from Friday night, we filled up the time recalling our fine memories with Mom and Dad, working together cleaning the house, the compound, pruning the wild thickets, cooking and having our meals together, so on and so forth. The air was always cheerful, in fact, noisy, but always interesting. In fact, all of us cherished the time we spent together and it never failed to tighten the bond between us.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijNvo_vkAL0eeepJ9Xxv0Fk0URpf7Ml5whp9rdFciDxAMP-QDRLVdQ_cGhMo1uy0QeBwFmCDFLFwkWJiSouumQEGwPYlS-qlmFpLSUZLtnYbDaR137GzZIwXpXYSrRLU2b_knzdN8Zaaw/s1600/Kumpul+lepas+nikah.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijNvo_vkAL0eeepJ9Xxv0Fk0URpf7Ml5whp9rdFciDxAMP-QDRLVdQ_cGhMo1uy0QeBwFmCDFLFwkWJiSouumQEGwPYlS-qlmFpLSUZLtnYbDaR137GzZIwXpXYSrRLU2b_knzdN8Zaaw/s400/Kumpul+lepas+nikah.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We spent the time together eating... (one day after wedding)</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
When it was time to go, usually on Sunday evenings, one family after another pulled their cars out from the house compound. Then the house was quiet again, deserted.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDJ4F2G48h1OdWeLJGBRbOMeBkPY4R60JMHGsrkKlUuaK_HcV6MsOj6o8v8sAiJK99mNgkMl_nVzyMcyifJ4NXpWyqtw799rTOIUOjOhiXz_hq-0PScblyy41uyl1csS95XidNhm1iJs8/s1600/Rumah+Tepi.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDJ4F2G48h1OdWeLJGBRbOMeBkPY4R60JMHGsrkKlUuaK_HcV6MsOj6o8v8sAiJK99mNgkMl_nVzyMcyifJ4NXpWyqtw799rTOIUOjOhiXz_hq-0PScblyy41uyl1csS95XidNhm1iJs8/s400/Rumah+Tepi.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The house was quiet again, deserted</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
But time is not always on our side. Sometimes we had other commitments which we needed to do that took away our precious time which was supposed to be spent with our dear siblings. That was what happened to me recently.<br />
<br />
During the weekend, I had to go somewhere else while my siblings gathered at Dad's house as usual.<br />
<br />
"Never mind," I thought, "I can go there tomorrow," I pacified myself.<br />
<br />
The next morning, I had to go to Air Hitam to attend a function. Then in the afternoon I went 'rewang' at Cikgu Romli's house where I saw Apar, Kak Long, Bang Ngah and Kak Ngah. I decided to go to Dad's house after rewang and meet them.<br />
<br />
After rewang, I came home to have a rest.for a while before going. Lay down a while. Tiredness took the better of me. Zzz...<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
When I woke up, it was already 6.15 p.m. My God! I quickly rushed to Dad's house. Unfortunately, I was late. There was nobody at the house. They had left!<br />
<br />
<br />
sombre<span id="goog_1933509"></span><span id="goog_1933510"></span><br />
<br />
I walked slowly around the house. Everything was still. The light at the side of the house was bright in the cool evening. The door of the store at the back of the house was open. There were signs that it was being tidied and the task had not been completed yet. I closed the door and went back home.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ1jg3EPrRAdx_RGKNFAJ9ycye9Yc1WYoD0n-RZpcGYPGKEriR-UpbIUBsVCEt3UYwvSDN_7yAjHGdtBVE02h9TMsf2YMz_Zvg8TJVSVh6WKwjo7A5Tyd7HY9sIW3N1BrGTzQv2x0zMJE/s1600/Kulon+rumah.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ1jg3EPrRAdx_RGKNFAJ9ycye9Yc1WYoD0n-RZpcGYPGKEriR-UpbIUBsVCEt3UYwvSDN_7yAjHGdtBVE02h9TMsf2YMz_Zvg8TJVSVh6WKwjo7A5Tyd7HY9sIW3N1BrGTzQv2x0zMJE/s320/Kulon+rumah.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji95Tc5aWhxWU7OS6At9FAGBNcOX9U8rveqU_UUoX-z06qB4ptRn-AW8O_DKNYd2izI4KENyPFrJyqG0wbmAEpjbm3mbqwduEDhUjziyIJPTCAFevXOgfx7b9YUVkT2nNUv9GjKntutyo/s1600/Kulon+rumah+6.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji95Tc5aWhxWU7OS6At9FAGBNcOX9U8rveqU_UUoX-z06qB4ptRn-AW8O_DKNYd2izI4KENyPFrJyqG0wbmAEpjbm3mbqwduEDhUjziyIJPTCAFevXOgfx7b9YUVkT2nNUv9GjKntutyo/s320/Kulon+rumah+6.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzQYayLsRFLC7g2BkPKhO_7GRlkgOc7lgT1ab4Oy-_b6gQhZX1olF1gigkdGoQygAEkOglN730q8-rz9ojRWna-6ZdlDcNzOcDcvqVVrx6HQ-cPnWS8zaQapyqDmV1-ovOxvQ4ve-PHTU/s1600/Kulon+rumah+2.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzQYayLsRFLC7g2BkPKhO_7GRlkgOc7lgT1ab4Oy-_b6gQhZX1olF1gigkdGoQygAEkOglN730q8-rz9ojRWna-6ZdlDcNzOcDcvqVVrx6HQ-cPnWS8zaQapyqDmV1-ovOxvQ4ve-PHTU/s400/Kulon+rumah+2.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Sombre...</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
"So early? You said you wanted to meet your siblings?" my wife asked.<br />
<br />
"They're gone. I was late."<br />
<br />
That was the same feeling that I felt when I was at Bukit Serok way back from 1979 to 1981. I was teaching at Sekolah Kebangsaan Bukit Serok, a national primary school where most of the pupils were aborigines while the rest were children of estate workers who were Javanese and malays. It was runned by JHEOA, a department that concerned the welfare of the aborigines in Malaysia. What is the relationship of my sorrows with the JHEOA?<br />
<br />
Well, From time to time they would come to the village to deal with certain matters. When they did, they would put up the night at my house, making it cheerful, noisy and entertaining. We would chat away at night until the wee hours, cracking jokes and enjoying the company of each other. Sometimes we would reminisce out own experiences so that others could share the enjoyment, and so on. There was once when Rahman, the driver was still lying down asleep in my house while it was already light and others were already up and calling him and making such a noise in their attempt to wake him up which he didn't budge. Then finally, he woke up, looking very relieved. It was an odd thing to see, and we were surprised.<br />
<br />
"Why so early? It's only nine," Mustapha quipped.<br />
<br />
"I heard you. I heard everything you said. And I tried to get up. But something big, black and hurry was sitting on my chest, pinning me down. I tried to call you, but my voice couldn't come out." Rahman answered.<br />
<br />
"Then, what'd you do?"<br />
<br />
"I read a few verses, then that thing disappeared."<br />
<br />
"My God. Luckily I didn't experience the same thing all this while," I answered him.<br />
<br />
Well, that's that.<br />
<br />
Then, after a few days, they would go back to headquarters, leaving me alone and lonely, longing for them to come back.<br />
<br />
<br />
Another sad feeling was when I had to leave the entertaining environment at Dad's house on Sundays to go back to my quarters at Bukit Serok. When I reached the quarters, I would sit on a bench on the verandah and look towards the school field, at the end of which was the school building with the mountain at the background. On the right was the Keratong River.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPJSvvry3tEIsxDlodJ8eneGSQrZRZgy-EG5zC-JwJOXskueL0yx57YzM8Vk5gnJi5y47Qkm4tIc-qGqsXlh7gICag2cNsr0P3M_gPhFeDJ22WE_TrgpftuKtBJy5xkXs7iB-x2cYm0SI/s1600/Sekolah+Bukit+Serok.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPJSvvry3tEIsxDlodJ8eneGSQrZRZgy-EG5zC-JwJOXskueL0yx57YzM8Vk5gnJi5y47Qkm4tIc-qGqsXlh7gICag2cNsr0P3M_gPhFeDJ22WE_TrgpftuKtBJy5xkXs7iB-x2cYm0SI/s400/Sekolah+Bukit+Serok.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This school is like the school that I used to teach in when I first started my service.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
The place was empty. The only companion at that time was the transistor radio. The disc jockey, Azmi Rais Noor was hosting the programme 'Nostalgia'. Although I had just got back from my 'kampung', I felt a pang of loss. I yearn to go back home to mama... </div><div class="post-footer-line post-footer-line-1"><span class="post-author vcard"> Posted by <span class="fn">Borhan Mohamed Dali</span> </span> <span class="post-timestamp"> at <a class="timestamp-link" href="http://borhandali.blogspot.com/2011/01/serves-me-right.html" rel="bookmark" title="permanent link"><abbr class="published" title="2011-01-13T18:07:00+08:00">6:07 PM</abbr></a> </span> <span class="post-comment-link"> </span> <span class="post-icons"> <span class="item-action"> <a href="http://www.blogger.com/email-post.g?blogID=5667952864509343415&postID=3222161837815540061" title="Email Post"> <img alt="" class="icon-action" height="13" src="http://img1.blogblog.com/img/icon18_email.gif" width="18" /> </a> </span> <span class="item-control blog-admin pid-1663962695"> <a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=5667952864509343415&postID=3222161837815540061" title="Edit Post"> <img alt="" class="icon-action" height="18" src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/icon18_edit_allbkg.gif" width="18" /> </a> </span> </span> <div class="post-share-buttons"> <a class="share-button sb-email" href="http://www.blogger.com/share-post.g?blogID=5667952864509343415&postID=3222161837815540061&target=email" target="_blank" title="Email This"> <span class="share-button-link-text">Email This</span></a> <a class="share-button sb-blog" href="http://www.blogger.com/share-post.g?blogID=5667952864509343415&postID=3222161837815540061&target=blog" target="_blank" title="BlogThis!"> <span class="share-button-link-text">BlogThis!</span></a> <a class="share-button sb-twitter" href="http://www.blogger.com/share-post.g?blogID=5667952864509343415&postID=3222161837815540061&target=twitter" target="_blank" title="Share to Twitter"> <span class="share-button-link-text">Share to Twitter</span></a> <a class="share-button sb-facebook" href="http://www.blogger.com/share-post.g?blogID=5667952864509343415&postID=3222161837815540061&target=facebook" target="_blank" title="Share to Facebook"> <span class="share-button-link-text">Share to Facebook</span></a> <a class="share-button sb-buzz" href="http://www.blogger.com/share-post.g?blogID=5667952864509343415&postID=3222161837815540061&target=buzz" target="_blank" title="Share to Google Buzz"> <span class="share-button-link-text">Share to Google Buzz</span></a> </div><span class="post-backlinks post-comment-link"> </span> </div><div class="post-footer-line post-footer-line-2"><span class="post-labels"> Labels: <a href="http://borhandali.blogspot.com/search/label/Bukit%20Serok" rel="tag">Bukit Serok</a>, <a href="http://borhandali.blogspot.com/search/label/Jabatan%20Hal%20Ehwal%20Orang%20Asli" rel="tag">Jabatan Hal Ehwal Orang Asli</a>, <a href="http://borhandali.blogspot.com/search/label/javanese" rel="tag">javanese</a>, <a href="http://borhandali.blogspot.com/search/label/JHEOA" rel="tag">JHEOA</a>, <a href="http://borhandali.blogspot.com/search/label/malay" rel="tag">malay</a>, <a href="http://borhandali.blogspot.com/search/label/sekolah%20kebangsaan" rel="tag">sekolah kebangsaan</a> </span> </div></div>Borhan Mohamed Dalihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11050933958791256522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597209557177220118.post-17834729652814469632011-01-24T01:15:00.001-08:002011-01-24T01:15:30.373-08:00Who Is She?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><h2 class="date-header"><span>Wednesday, December 1, 2010</span></h2><a href="" name="3711772164640501497"></a> <h3 class="post-title entry-title"> Who Is She? </h3><div class="post-header"> </div><div class="post-body entry-content"> The first time I met her, she was twelve years old. Wearing a scouts uniform, she was walking alone along the gravel path under the cool canopy of rubber trees, obviously homeward from school. She stepped aside to let us pass, little did she know that we were heading towards her house under a hill which was by that time, already not far away.<br />
<br />
The second time I met her was as soon as I became her brother-in-law, nine months after the first meeting. After that I didn't count how many times I encountered with her, because it was not important. Currently she is married to a teacher with three darling angels, the second who two weeks before this article was written got 5A's in an important exam. Now, the encounter is still not important but I recall just because I wanted to write something about her. You may wonder why and who. Why? Because I want to express my appreciation to her for monitoring my blog. Who? Guess...<br />
<br />
Recently, she got the chance to read my postings, and appreciated it. Me too. I would like to thank her for reading my blog. I hope she will not stop here. As what I wrote in my posting on November 27, she, like other readers, boost my spirit to write and share my fond memories with the world when I got to know that my stories are read. Who is she? </div><span class="post-author vcard"> Posted by <span class="fn">Borhan Mohamed Dali</span> </span> <span class="post-timestamp"> at <a class="timestamp-link" href="http://borhandali.blogspot.com/2010/12/who-is-she.html" rel="bookmark" title="permanent link"><abbr class="published" title="2010-12-01T10:01:00+08:00">10:01 AM</abbr></a> </span> </div>Borhan Mohamed Dalihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11050933958791256522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597209557177220118.post-68635486333155877102011-01-24T01:14:00.001-08:002011-01-24T01:14:07.096-08:00First Day In School (Part Two)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><h2 class="date-header"><span>Saturday, October 30, 2010</span></h2><a href="" name="216638013738662028"></a> <h3 class="post-title entry-title"> First Day In School (Part Two) </h3><div class="post-header"> </div><div class="post-body entry-content"> Then the Chinese teacher asked us to walk. Where did she want to take us?<br />
<br />
We walked along the concrete floor with a roof at the top, passing by a few blocks of classrooms. Not long after that, I smelled the sweet aroma of foods.I looked at the source of the sweet smell. A lot of boys were were gathered inside a building where the walls were only half-covered. We were led into this building. There were rows of marbled tables and benches, each occupied by a few boys noisily enjoying their foods. Suddenly I felt very hungry. Seeing the line of Standard One students marching in led by a teacher, the bigger boys stepped aside to make way for us. We stopped at a long table which was a high as my shoulder, also made of marble. On top of this long table were piles of foods stacked on trays. There were curry puffs, fried bananas, 'jempt-jemput pisang' (a kind of cake made of stashed bananas and fried), a lot more food that I have escaped my memory.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGHqLlCxUfnxrXoDuImKnUiMZN7WtfG3fSYIynEOGAWDt1T9kTOfZIR-TnmAJKWd9oksnkHZM5H8PiJRS84QnT8F2xGuwKfYE9BO0Xih3ecsVy2BOXBt4ENac-k4IOMEgcUDtXB5GbxEo/s1600/fried+noodles.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGHqLlCxUfnxrXoDuImKnUiMZN7WtfG3fSYIynEOGAWDt1T9kTOfZIR-TnmAJKWd9oksnkHZM5H8PiJRS84QnT8F2xGuwKfYE9BO0Xih3ecsVy2BOXBt4ENac-k4IOMEgcUDtXB5GbxEo/s200/fried+noodles.jpeg" width="149" /></a> At this end of the counter was a big transparent water container with many plastic glasses of various colours around it. A chinese man was busy filling the small cups with orange from the container and putting them on the counter. Soon small hands snatched the cups and shillings worth five sen were put on a plate. The same happened to the cakes. Pupils tried to outrun each other in buying their preferred cakes.</div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"> At the far end of the bench were piles of fried noodles on small plates, the golden yellow noodle plus some green vegetables and red chillies on it looked very welcoming. School children took a plate each, ten sen shillings changed hands. The scenario at that end triggered my appetite. I seldom got the chance to eat noodles. I almost forgot how it tasted. Maybe it's delicious...</div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"> I fumbled the ten sen in my trouser pocket that I got from dad that morning. If I bought a plate of fried noodles, what could I drink? The noodle's hot, I was sure. I would need a cup. Therefore, I had to forget the noodles. At least for now. If I couldn't get fried noodles, fried bananas was also delicious.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-SiWRhYDnShiF4kl6UwZgcjgyJjNCFvIfOK8-p6M3apd16n0Z8Km_ewiOWvY9UXDWhvEBG9ws3kMUojxaicYeVn374dKTCByKVLnTXDhvHWqYhuLp6gsKw7AjIVUfUuyF2yuXaQDwP7s/s1600/fried+bananas2.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-SiWRhYDnShiF4kl6UwZgcjgyJjNCFvIfOK8-p6M3apd16n0Z8Km_ewiOWvY9UXDWhvEBG9ws3kMUojxaicYeVn374dKTCByKVLnTXDhvHWqYhuLp6gsKw7AjIVUfUuyF2yuXaQDwP7s/s200/fried+bananas2.jpeg" width="139" /></a></div> Little by little, I inched my way towards the tray of fried bananas on the counter, my right hand in front of me. Eventually I managed to grab a big piece. I showed my ten sen shilling to the attendant, he took it and returned to me a five sen shilling, together with a small piece of old chinese newspaper to wrap my fried banana with. Smiling triumphantly, I made my way towards the drink section.<br />
<br />
I devoured my treasure at the marbled table. That was the most satisfying meal which I had. Probably that was the first time I experienced buying my own food. The fried banana was superb! Not too sweet, just nice. The glass of orange juice was also nice.<br />
<br />
It seemed like I had been in school for ages. Err... when could I go back? </div><span class="post-author vcard"> Posted by <span class="fn">Borhan Mohamed Dali</span> </span> <span class="post-timestamp"> at <a class="timestamp-link" href="http://borhandali.blogspot.com/2010/10/first-day-in-school-part-two.html" rel="bookmark" title="permanent link"><abbr class="published" title="2010-10-30T20:19:00+08:00">8:19 PM</abbr></a> </span></div>Borhan Mohamed Dalihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11050933958791256522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597209557177220118.post-83116467265767679642011-01-24T01:12:00.001-08:002011-01-24T01:12:58.583-08:00First Day In School (Part One)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><h2 class="date-header"><span>Sunday, October 24, 2010</span></h2><a href="" name="511113481550093095"></a> <h3 class="post-title entry-title"> First Day In School (Part One) </h3><div class="post-header"> </div><div class="post-body entry-content"> In the 60s. I was so small, only past my 'toddler' period. As I was lying in dad's lap watching mom seated on the wooden floor near the steps going down into the kitchen, feeding little sister with mashed rice mixed with a little sugar. From time to time she would let the baby suck her wet fingers which she had dipped into a bowl of plain water. <br />
<br />
Moving his lap up and down, dad asked, "Which school would you like to go, malay or english?"<br />
<br />
Without thinking, I answered, "English!"<br />
<br />
That was it. After I was six years old, dad brought me on his Vespa scooter to a school in town, about six miles away from our dear house. The school was 'Ismail School Two'. The school was very big, the buildings very tall, the top part seemed as if staring down at me, ready to devour me. I became a little frightened and uncomfortable. That made me keep as close to dad as possible while we made our way among the crowd. I looked around. All were new faces, there was not even one face that looked familiar to me.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEBKzAjRh6-x6Jt_S-1VdmoQHzI8xqQfrhJSdt-iwfZw6LUSG_6fYQl388g4nPn0sG8-T1Bc7FsVcmJioe2ub4S0ku7uKKXd1BXuazvibMQN1mDd65AavFD3ANFpg-rHJJ5N8Tzqi7HOw/s1600/Mr+Singh.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="141" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEBKzAjRh6-x6Jt_S-1VdmoQHzI8xqQfrhJSdt-iwfZw6LUSG_6fYQl388g4nPn0sG8-T1Bc7FsVcmJioe2ub4S0ku7uKKXd1BXuazvibMQN1mDd65AavFD3ANFpg-rHJJ5N8Tzqi7HOw/s200/Mr+Singh.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> When the registration was over, I was placed in a big room 'Standard One Suloh' with some boys. I scanned their faces one by one. There were some malay boys just like me, some fair chinese boys who had small eyes, a few Indians, a European (later I learned that his name was Michael George) and a tall, fair boy with long hair kept in a piece of white cloth shaped into an 'apple' on top of his head which later I got to know that this was a sikh or 'Mister Singh'. A Chinese lady teacher wearing chinese clothes (cheongsam) was seated at a table bigger than ours, busy writing something. We looked at each other silently and waited. So long...</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNUARdIgDW4nzEDPWOqFzdR0i3srb6v-5oWlGiMsALJa676KCEFD5oABEwoQaXeJlblbEJT0b0LGmTHM0eIuYEeLhuHHtOr9UewV6laeTDgcDvxB6TBVo6KIdgmrUH0oPUv8tqJ-7GVbE/s1600/line+up.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNUARdIgDW4nzEDPWOqFzdR0i3srb6v-5oWlGiMsALJa676KCEFD5oABEwoQaXeJlblbEJT0b0LGmTHM0eIuYEeLhuHHtOr9UewV6laeTDgcDvxB6TBVo6KIdgmrUH0oPUv8tqJ-7GVbE/s200/line+up.jpeg" width="131" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> Soon, a bell started to ring; a long ringing sound coming from outside the classroom, deafening me. The lady teacher asked all of us to stand. "Small boys in front, big boys at the back, two by two", she said. I could not comprehend what she said, likewise the rest of the boys. Therefore she had to arrange all of us to line two by two, by dragging the small boys towards the front of the line and the big ones to the back. </div><br />
"Hold your partners' hands", she barked her orders. I looked around me, but could not find dad. Where was he?<br />
<br />
Then the chinese teacher instructed us to walk. Where would he bring us to? </div><span class="post-author vcard"> Posted by <span class="fn">Borhan Mohamed Dali</span> </span> <span class="post-timestamp"> at <a class="timestamp-link" href="http://borhandali.blogspot.com/2010/10/first-day-in-school-part-one.html" rel="bookmark" title="permanent link"><abbr class="published" title="2010-10-24T07:58:00+08:00">7:58 AM</abbr></a> </span> <span class="post-comment-link"> </span> <span class="post-icons"> <span class="item-action"> <a href="http://www.blogger.com/email-post.g?blogID=5667952864509343415&postID=511113481550093095" title="Email Post"> </a></span></span></div>Borhan Mohamed Dalihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11050933958791256522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597209557177220118.post-56946292423195790182011-01-24T01:11:00.001-08:002011-01-24T01:11:33.834-08:00Looking After Dear Little Sister<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><h2 class="date-header"><span>Thursday, October 21, 2010</span></h2><div class="post-outer"> <div class="post hentry"> <a href="" name="5748514085143061338"></a> <h3 class="post-title entry-title"> Looking After Dear Little Sister </h3><div class="post-header"> </div><div class="post-body entry-content"> I still remember during my childhood days, when my parents wanted to go to school (to teach, not to learn), they would bring me and my little sister to granny's house so that she could look after us while they were away. On the way to granny's house, dad walked fast holding sis in his strong arms as well as holding a basketful of napkins and other things. I had to also walk fast and sometimes almost ran so that I could catch up with him.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1ui38zicx2SCfCQAYsLPBpchyphenhyphen1kb3gtt_atpaqRIQ-UAI-sD1sJMXwpi-6rK53yalKkkddZqwd3zJ1Dj0E4MQEXqJ3clUGnTaDSmLuaiAl_X6VyMeK43Xm4TPqd-KD3mOVhc-vEPxhHg/s1600/pomelo.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1ui38zicx2SCfCQAYsLPBpchyphenhyphen1kb3gtt_atpaqRIQ-UAI-sD1sJMXwpi-6rK53yalKkkddZqwd3zJ1Dj0E4MQEXqJ3clUGnTaDSmLuaiAl_X6VyMeK43Xm4TPqd-KD3mOVhc-vEPxhHg/s200/pomelo.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> Several of my cousins stayed together with their family at granny's house, two of them being twins named Kaka and Nana (the children of Pak Usu Ali and Mak Usu Ruminah). With these two little boys, I played all afternoon. Sometimes an old woman (Wak Ngadinah her name; if I am not mistaken) came selling some 'kuih' (traditional malay cakes). She had no basket to load her 'kuih' into, instead she bundled them in a piece of batik sarung which she hung one end around her neck and the other loosely by her side. Usually, granny would call her and she would sit on the top most part of granny's wooden steps and open her bundle. We would see assorted 'kuihs' like, curry puffs, fried bananas, 'kuih bom' (made of banana mixed with flour), 'kasturi' and many which have escaped my memory. Granny Jameela would buy some, and we would get some to satisfy our crave. They were delicious, sweet, still warm and fragrant.</div><br />
At other times, Granny Jameela would peel some pomelos (see picture above) which she plucked from a tree just beside the house and give us. They were sweet, but a little bitter.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx60Clif7AcqlBxslLDOGZUhHG792bnDOxhK1jMpYnhctxXo-ao2NlvZQfwQ-dt2KpQnnok1S7UqW8pf0dHcTMXy0GyKfvK_0KlKpZY3iIhAXCFQL-UYf_xXnjPMm10w5HbV3gG-y0ous/s1600/Lambretta+3.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx60Clif7AcqlBxslLDOGZUhHG792bnDOxhK1jMpYnhctxXo-ao2NlvZQfwQ-dt2KpQnnok1S7UqW8pf0dHcTMXy0GyKfvK_0KlKpZY3iIhAXCFQL-UYf_xXnjPMm10w5HbV3gG-y0ous/s200/Lambretta+3.jpeg" width="168" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> At that time, Granny Jameela's house was surrounded by her children's houses, Wak Aim's, Mak Itam's, Mak Ngah's, Bang Long Katup's and a little bit further, Wak Ong's. In the evening, Pak Usu Ali would come back from school, riding a scooter known as Lambretta. He would stop after he passed a small bridge which linked his house to the road. Tthen, he would wobble slowly home while some of his nephews and nieces cling onto his motorcycle merrily and noisily. His motorcycle was a bit weird, I reckon, because its headlight was not built on the handle so as to enable it to shine right if the rider swerved towards that direction. Instead, it was built in on the front part of the body (see picture), so it still shone straight although the rider turned right or left, just like a car's.</div><br />
Then, Wak Aim dismantled his house and rebuilt it on another piece of land not far from there (presently the place where his youngest daughter, Rafeah's house is now standing). A few years after that, granny's house was taken down and rebuilt next to dad's house. Then Mak Itam followed suit, leaving Mak Ngah, Bang Long Katup alone, apart from Wak Ong who lived a little bit further. After Bang Long joined the felda scheme in Kota Tinggi, Mak Ngah went to stay with Bang Nal in Kuala Lumpur and her house was sold to Wak Lajim. The place became barren of any houses and deserted.<br />
<br />
A few years back, Zamzam built a house at more or less the old area and stayed there, then Bang Hamid built his at the end of last year. Now there are two houses at that place, and it looks cheerful again. </div><div class="post-footer"> <div class="post-footer-line post-footer-line-1"><span class="post-author vcard"> Posted by <span class="fn">Borhan Mohamed Dali</span> </span> <span class="post-timestamp"> at <a class="timestamp-link" href="http://borhandali.blogspot.com/2010/10/looking-after-dear-little-sister.html" rel="bookmark" title="permanent link"><abbr class="published" title="2010-10-21T22:21:00+08:00">10:21 PM</abbr></a> </span> <span class="post-comment-link"> </span> <span class="post-icons"> <span class="item-action"> <a href="http://www.blogger.com/email-post.g?blogID=5667952864509343415&postID=5748514085143061338" title="Email Post"> <img alt="" class="icon-action" height="13" src="http://img1.blogblog.com/img/icon18_email.gif" width="18" /> </a> </span> <span class="item-control blog-admin pid-1663962695"> <a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=5667952864509343415&postID=5748514085143061338" title="Edit Post"> <img alt="" class="icon-action" height="18" src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/icon18_edit_allbkg.gif" width="18" /> </a> </span> </span> <div class="post-share-buttons"> <a class="share-button sb-email" href="http://www.blogger.com/share-post.g?blogID=5667952864509343415&postID=5748514085143061338&target=email" target="_blank" title="Email This"> <span class="share-button-link-text">Email This</span></a> <a class="share-button sb-blog" href="http://www.blogger.com/share-post.g?blogID=5667952864509343415&postID=5748514085143061338&target=blog" target="_blank" title="BlogThis!"> <span class="share-button-link-text">BlogThis!</span></a> <a class="share-button sb-twitter" href="http://www.blogger.com/share-post.g?blogID=5667952864509343415&postID=5748514085143061338&target=twitter" target="_blank" title="Share to Twitter"> <span class="share-button-link-text">Share to Twitter</span></a> <a class="share-button sb-facebook" href="http://www.blogger.com/share-post.g?blogID=5667952864509343415&postID=5748514085143061338&target=facebook" target="_blank" title="Share to Facebook"> <span class="share-button-link-text">Share to Facebook</span></a> <a class="share-button sb-buzz" href="http://www.blogger.com/share-post.g?blogID=5667952864509343415&postID=5748514085143061338&target=buzz" target="_blank" title="Share to Google Buzz"> <span class="share-button-link-text">Share to Google Buzz</span></a> </div><span class="post-backlinks post-comment-link"> </span> </div><div class="post-footer-line post-footer-line-2"><span class="post-labels"> </span> </div><div class="post-footer-line post-footer-line-3"><span class="reaction-buttons"> <table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody>
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</tbody></table></span> </div></div></div><div class="comments" id="comments"> <a href="" name="comments"></a> <h4> 0 comments: </h4><div id="Blog1_comments-block-wrapper"> </div><div class="comment-footer"> </div><div class="comment-form"> <a href="" name="comment-form"></a> <h4 id="comment-post-message">Post a Comment</h4><br />
</div><div id="backlinks-container"> <div id="Blog1_backlinks-container"><a href="" name="links"></a><h4>Links to this post</h4><div class="comment-footer"> <a class="comment-link" href="http://www.blogger.com/blog-this.g" id="Blog1_backlinks-create-link" target="_blank">Create a Link</a> </div></div></div></div></div></div>Borhan Mohamed Dalihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11050933958791256522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597209557177220118.post-14372154274339773232011-01-24T01:10:00.000-08:002011-01-24T01:10:13.369-08:00Gondoruwo (English Version)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><h3 class="post-title entry-title"> Gondoruwo (English Version) </h3><div class="post-header"> </div><div class="post-body entry-content"> In the earlier part of my postings in this blog, my father's house, like other houses in Kampung Batu 6 Bakri, was lighted by paraffin lamps, or sometimes gasoline lamps at night. Those were the days when I was still so small. I remember when I was in primary school, suddenly I found that there was a chinese man in the house, fitting electric wires all over the house. Later, our house, like almost all other houses in the village was lighted up with electric bulbs at night. We were very happy. Our house looked different once dusk fall.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhum5NZfumbpy4WiIoxeQacoszYleTJJTKFjghlwopRajNJ63BvSpPzoD4NJKgyLZtmf1RJswG3VSG8D38Ync5NEx7cnW7L1awILh0DelegmqV5x2otkbjX_qu5n3lXXu5ik0XT_bt6-ec/s1600/pelita+minyak.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhum5NZfumbpy4WiIoxeQacoszYleTJJTKFjghlwopRajNJ63BvSpPzoD4NJKgyLZtmf1RJswG3VSG8D38Ync5NEx7cnW7L1awILh0DelegmqV5x2otkbjX_qu5n3lXXu5ik0XT_bt6-ec/s200/pelita+minyak.jpeg" width="149" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> Then once in a while, there was no electricity. When this happened, our old paraffin lamp would come into view, giving its service once more. Then, mother would lie down beside the dear old lamp, followed by her children, me included. Some would sit on the wooden floor, eager to listen to any story that would come out of her mouth. Yes! Sometimes she would tell stories about her experiences when she was small, after she got married with father and stayed in Tanjong Pagar, Singapore, folk tales etc. One of the stories that I remember now was 'Gondoruwo'. Strangely, I remember hearing it from my father, not Mom.</div><br />
Gondoruwo is the name of a 'ghost' in the Malay (or rather Javanese; I am not sure) folk tales. Then I enjoyed listening to Dad, but I didn't care whether the story was true or not. Now I got to know that there was a horror film produced in Indonesia that used 'Gondoruwo' as its title, directed by Ratno Timoer with he himself as the leading actor with Farida Pasha as the heroine.<br />
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According to Dad, "Gondoruwo' liked to play with his eyes. If it happened that you met face to face with a gondoruwo, just follow whatever it said. If you resist, you are lucky if you could see the sun the next day.<br />
<br />
"Once upon a time, there was a hut at the edge of the forest. (Those days, there were so few houses and the forests were vast, of course, since there were not so many people as today). A couple stayed in the house, the wife's name was Halimah and the husband, Halim. One day, Halim told Halimah. "I am going away tomorrow, dear. Close and lock all doors and windows while I was away."<br />
<br />
"Don't worry, dear," Halimah answered.<br />
<br />
That night, Halimah heard a husky voice calling.<br />
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"Halimah! Halimah! Open the door."<br />
<br />
"Come ini, Master," she said as she opened the door. A ghost (gondoruwo) appeared and sat by the door.<br />
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"Halimah, Halimah, I want to eat sugar cane," gondoruwo said in a big, gruff voice.<br />
<br />
"Go ahead, Master," Halimah answered. (I am not sure where that monster got the sugarcane.)<br />
<br />
After he had finished eating, he said, "Halimah, Halimah, I want to play with my eyes."<br />
<br />
"Carry on, Master," Halimah answered. So he played with his eyes. He rolled his red eyes left and right, left and right.<br />
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Then he said again, "Halimah, Halimah, I want to go home."<br />
<br />
"You're welcome, Master," answered Halimah.<br />
<br />
After he disappeared into the night, Halimah closed and locked the door.<br />
<br />
The next day, Halimah related what had happened to her husband.<br />
<br />
"Nonsense! Gondoruwo is not that kind. It would have killed you if it were him.," Halim retorted.<br />
<br />
"Alright! If you're doubtful, you'll stay home tonight. I'll go to Mom's," Halimah started to get angry.<br />
<br />
"I'll prove you wrong!"<br />
<br />
At dusk, after locking all doors and windows, Halim sat waiting for the said 'gondoruwo'. He was confident that the creature wasn't what his wife had wanted him to believe and he would prove that she was wrong.<br />
<br />
Suddenly he heard a husky voice calling. "Halimah, Halimah. Open the door." Halim's face turned white as a sheet. He froze. The gruff voice called out again. "Halimah! Halimah! Open the door," this time it was louder. Halim became more frightened. With his heart beating very fast, he sprinted into the bedroom, locking the door behind him. He leaned on the door, shaking from head to foot. The monster's loud voice called again, very near Halim, as if it was just behind the wooden wall of the house. The urgent tone indicated that 'gondoruwo' had started get angry.<br />
<br />
"HALIMAH! HALIMAH! OPEN THE DOOR!" Halim began to feel weak in the knees. He crawled towards the mattress and wrapped himself with it, hoping 'gondoruwo' would not find him.<br />
<br />
Then, there was a loud bang. Halim almost wet himself. He couldn't do anything apart from keeping very still.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
* * *</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"> When Halimah came home the next day, she saw that the house door was broken. She called out to her husband but received no answer. Halimah climbed into her house and found that everything was haywire. Her 'kekabu' mattress was scratched to pieces. 'Kekabu' strewn all over the place. Her husband was amongst the 'kekabu', without the head, hands and legs.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"> "I told you so," she whispered softly.</div></div><span class="post-author vcard"> Posted by <span class="fn">Borhan Mohamed Dali</span> </span> <span class="post-timestamp"> at <a class="timestamp-link" href="http://borhandali.blogspot.com/2010/10/gondoruwo-english-version.html" rel="bookmark" title="permanent link"><abbr class="published" title="2010-10-13T18:11:00+08:00">6:11 PM</abbr></a> </span> <span class="post-comment-link"> </span> <span class="post-icons"> <span class="item-action"> <a href="http://www.blogger.com/email-post.g?blogID=5667952864509343415&postID=1736424596956764879" title="Email Post"> </a></span></span></div>Borhan Mohamed Dalihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11050933958791256522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597209557177220118.post-14735829482940590552011-01-24T01:07:00.000-08:002011-01-24T01:07:40.115-08:00Bathing In The Small Canal (Part Two)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><h3 class="post-title entry-title"> Bathing In The Small Canal (Part Two) </h3><div class="post-header"> </div><div class="post-body entry-content"> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> (This article was originally in the malay version of 'Borhan Dulu-Dulu') </span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><i>In</i></span><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">‘Bathing In The Small Canal Part 1, I wrote about a big drain at the edge of our village that, apart from fulfilling the villagers needs in cleaning themselves and their clothes, also helped making our childhood lives interesting.<span> </span>One may think that parents did not mind their children enjoying their time in the water.<span> </span></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Some of you might think that my parents allowed us (my brother and I) to enjoy<span> </span>ourselves in the canal.<span> </span>No, they didn’t.<span> </span>They warned us not to go and bathe, and would scold us whenever they learned that we had bathed in the river.<span> </span>Their trained eyes could detect what we had done when they looked at our ruffled hair and dusty skin.<span> </span>I knew I was wrong when I broke the rules.<span> </span>I tried to heed to their advice but sometimes the temptation to go and bathe was too great to resist when my friends invited us to join them. How could I avoid them? <span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span> </span>I remember one day, Dad gave us (my brother Bang Ngah and I) a tight scolding because we did not do as instructed but spent most of the evening bathing in the canal.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">At that time, most of the villagers used firewood to cook.<span> </span>Only one or two wealthy ones used kerosene.<span> </span>Our family, being one of the poorer ones that made up the majority of the caste in the village, used firewood.<span> </span>Due to that, whenever rubber trees were felled to make way for replanting, many of us would come with our parangs and saws to cut off branches and trunks and store them at our houses.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">One day, Dad instructed us to cut off as much firewood as possible and bring it home.<span> </span>He couldn’t do it together with us as he and Mom had to attend a wedding.<span> </span>Obediently, we started our work, but not for long.<span> </span>At the slightest provocation from our friends, we put away our parangs and sprinted towards the canal.<span> </span>We also put away Dad’s instructions and advice, we played and played until we were tired.<span> </span>Then, when the sun started to set, we quickly went back to the felled trees to resume our task.<span> </span>But Dad and Mom were already there.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">‘Where have you been?’ Dad asked quietly, his sparkling eyes piercing our timid hearts.<span> </span>I could sense thunderstorm brewing.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">There you are.<span> </span>We, miserable kids who turned naughty got what we deserved.<span> </span>Served us right!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><span> </span><span> </span></span></div></div><span class="post-author vcard"> Posted by <span class="fn">Borhan Mohamed Dali</span> </span> <span class="post-timestamp"> at <a class="timestamp-link" href="http://borhandali.blogspot.com/2010/09/bathing-in-small-canal-part-two.html" rel="bookmark" title="permanent link"><abbr class="published" title="2010-09-29T00:07:00+08:00">12:07 AM</abbr></a></span></div>Borhan Mohamed Dalihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11050933958791256522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597209557177220118.post-42724746830540252262011-01-24T01:05:00.000-08:002011-01-24T01:05:19.116-08:00Bathing In the Small Canal (Part One)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><h3 class="post-title entry-title"> </h3><div class="post-header"> </div><div class="post-body entry-content"> <i>This article was originally posted on the Malay version of 'Borhan Al Bakri'. (It is already 16th Syawal. I don't intend to write anything else about my hari raya experiences. I have prepared somethng that I recalled when performing my duty a few weeks back. I think the time is ripe for me to publish this experience. It comes in two parts.)</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Before I was born, pipe water was not a common sight among the villagers. Most of them drank rainwater which they collected using very big tubs (tempayan) that they placed under the rooftops, and washed their clothes using drain water. (The drain was not what we now see, carrying dirty liquids from houses and factories into big drains. The drain at that time, did not bring dirty black liquids form houses and so on. In fact, the water in the drain was crystal clear, the bed was sand, one could see fishes swimming in it). We used to call it “parit” but the word ‘drain’ doesn’t seem the right word to use. Therefore, I prefer to call it a canal.</span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwgGhXQsmAtWMbf212gDqB454nt4KdvTqKHzr7AiN6wbC9_lhFqyS4kdxiADgldOR0PyjoyIbc9Qx7xg8PLtK7RdqzRa0L7VhL_317b0F5E2_MgqB_qVnwZEKA8Vyvpn7M8llwMrgW0Y4/s200/small+canal.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="200" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A small canal, but this is not where I bathed</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">At the end of Kampung Batu 6 Bakri towards the west, there was a “parit”; a big drain or small canal. This canal served to release water collected in a tin mine further up during rainy season. The water bed was made up of sand, providing firm ground for those who wanted to stand in it. As the water looked clean and crystal clear, people who stayed nearby used this canal to bathe and do their washing. There were Wak Jom, Mak Ngah Esah, Tok Chik on this side, and Pak Aji on the other side. According to Bang Ngah my elder brother, sometimes Kak Long (my elder sister) went to the canal bringing some soiled clothes to wash. But I never saw her doing that, most probably I was too small to notice it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> There were a few platforms built along its bank, some on this side and the others on the other side. People such as Wak Jom and Tok Chik used this platform when they were doing their washing in the canal. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">At normal times, the water level was between waist and chest deep. Boys of my age used to play in the drain; swimming from this side to the other side, splashing water at each other and sometimes wrestled in the water. When the water was quite deep after heavy rain, or when the drain had been deepened, some of the bolder boys who could swim well performed somersault by diving from the branch of a tree into the water. This they did by climbing a rubber tree nearby the canal. They then crawled on a branch which grew in the direction of the canal. From there, they jumped and swam towards either this side or the other side. The boldest ones twirled twice in the air before making a great splash as they reached the water.</span></div></div><span class="post-author vcard"> Posted by <span class="fn">Borhan Mohamed Dali</span> </span> <span class="post-timestamp"> at <a class="timestamp-link" href="http://borhandali.blogspot.com/2010/09/bathing-in-small-canal-part-one.html" rel="bookmark" title="permanent link"><abbr class="published" title="2010-09-25T17:16:00+08:00">5:16 PM</abbr></a> </span> </div>Borhan Mohamed Dalihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11050933958791256522noreply@blogger.com0