I've finally finished my essay.so if you want to read it and drop a comment, feel free to do so =]Sans Sambal
“Adik, nak apa?” Mak Minah asks with a worried look. Eventhough her eyes look tired and the bags under her eyes seem to get puffier and darker everyday, I can just feel her aura. I’m pretty sure it’s green. She reminds me of my mother—minus the dark circles and tired eyes thanks to twice-a-month facials—who is always worried about other people—verging on nosy—and sees herself as the walking shrink “Adik?” Mak Minah’s face is now so close to my face that if I murmur she could hear it. “Sorry. Totally spaced out,” Her worried look instantly changed to confusion. I can’t blame her; my lingo is practically alien language to her. “Satu nasi lemak tanpa sambal,” a middle-aged Chinese lady who was burying her face in a newspaper has now looked up and gives me a look. A look that pretty much says, What the?
She must have overheard me going sans sambal. I guess it is very “un-Malaysian” of me to say that or even eat nasi lemak like that since sambal and nasi lemak is like glove to a hand. Or in other words, a match made in heaven. Growing up in a family where sambal is a staple in all our meals—including dessert. Seriously—it’s not that hard to boycott it.
I quickly take the nicely wrapped nasi lemak from Mak Minah’s hand to avoid anymore looks and skedaddle.
I can’t help but wonder if there was an eclipse lately. No, really. My mother who only listens to Malaysian music at Malay weddings is listening to them non-stop. We actually have to share custody of my mp3. Well, they are catchy.
That’s why; I’m not surprised to find myself mouthing the words to Itu Kamu while catching up on the latest Hollywood gossip and lifting my head up every three seconds to check on the traffic lights.
Ah, multitasking.
I abruptly jump at the sound of my ring tone and before I could respond, Roxanne is all but shouts “Liv, where are you? Class is starting in a few minutes! Cepatlah!”
“Relax Roxanne. I’m five minutes from the college,” I say coolly. “Oh, thank God,” I could feel her sarcastic vibes through the phone and without even seeing her, I knew she was giving me a glare—which could turn metal into molten if she’s not careful—because she knows I’m at least 15 minutes from the college.
Eventhough we’ve only known each other for the past four months, we’re already familiar with each other’s good and bad traits. We both know what coffees we love—for me its caramel macchiato and Roxanne its mocha latte—and mornings are unimaginable without them. And above all, I know Roxanne’s clothes are a major, major boundary for she’s one hell of a hygienic freak. Of course, we occasionally get into our girl fights but one thing’s for sure; we’ve always got each others’ back. “Just hurry up. I’ll wait for you,”
I’m fifteen minutes late—shocker. I try to find Roxanne but she’s nowhere to be found. All I see are students sitting sluggishly in the college café struggling to look cool while people like me—who embraces the local food with much joy—sit at the cafeteria trying to finish their curry mee laksa—the college’s self-proclaimed “spaghetti of the East”—in order to make it to their next class. Mak Cik Gina or as we call her, Mak Cik G—the most passionate cafeteria lady I know to date—is making sure every chili is in it’s right place. She’s the reason for the word perfection.
I walk into the class trying not to grab anyone’s attention. But of course, I fail. Of all times, my phone starts ringing. Damn.
“Good morning, Olivia. You’re rather early,” Mr. Rizal looks at me with the same glare I often get from Roxanne. He’s wearing his usual T-shirt and tie combination—with a flamboyant touch to it—paired with his tighter-than-usual jeans which just screams queer. “It’s one thing to be fashionably late but this is pushing it. I expect this to be the last time,”
I attempt to show my sad puppy eyes but I fall short “It’s not working,” Damn. “Go to your seat,”
Mr. Rizal then continues where he left off. “So, your outfits have to be done by 30th of August, when they will be presented infront of a panel of judges. Get to it people!” I stare blankly at Mr. Rizal then at Roxanne who is at the other end of the classroom. She seems to be busily sketching her ideas that even when I throw a paper ball at her, she does not retort—like what she normally does. Instead of throwing another ball and suffer the consequences, I go over to Faez.
“Hi, girlfriend, you seem like the only person I can talk to without receiving any sort of glare. So, what is the assignment about? I kind of lost, you know, since I’m late,”
“Like oh my God. We have to like design our own modern-contemporary twist to the traditional outfits. Since I’m like totally Melayu, I’m so like doing Baju Melayu. Like duh,” Being the only good tailor—and gay—in his family, Faez is always in a 5 feet radius from his family—especially his mother—to sew curtains, pillow cases and cat costumes. Basically, the simple stuff but come Hari Raya, he’s most sought after. All the neneks and mak ciks rush to be the first to pre-order his one-of-a-kind Baju Kurungs and Baju Kebayas. He’s like the Malaysian John Galliano except with more flare.
“Thanks Faez. You’re a life-saver,” I throw my arms out to give him a warm, friendly hug but instead I get a cold stare. “Sorry darling. I prefer air hugs. They’re like so the in thing right now,”
I’ve never really liked assignments. The deadline is always too short, the stress is unbelievable and the pressure to create something original is crazy. My sketch book which is usually full of ideas is as dry of ideas as my mind. The hundreds of my mother’s design books—several already deteriorating—are not helping and listening to Kanye West isn’t helping either.
Unexpectedly my phone rings. The caller I.D. reads Mummy. “Wow. This is a first. Usually I have to call you three times to get an answer,”
Annoying is just one word to describe her. Like clockwork, I’ll receive a call from her everyday. So being the normal rebellious teenage girl that I am, I ignore her calls.
“I can’t help it that I inherited Dad’s hearing,” I say wittily.
“Very funny,” she sighs. “Anyway, how was college?”
“College-ish. I have an assignment to work on and I’m flat out of ideas,” I say flipping my pencil like a baton without breaking a sweat. Strenuous hours of practice in Mrs. Faye’s class has skilled my “gift”. Now all I have to surpass is sleeping with my eyes open.
“Have you looked at—,”
I say, “Yes,” knowing she was referring to her design books.
“So, what is this assignment about? Maybe I can get this brain of mine to work,”
“We’re supposed to design our own contemporary twist to the traditional outfits,” I say as if it’s the hundredth time I’ve said it.
Mummy starts lecturing about how we teenagers have it easy and how twenty years ago; sewing by hand wasn’t an option. I stare at my sketchbook musing when suddenly—with Mummy still going on in the background—the light bulb above my head flickers on. “Mummy,” I say “I better get to this,” I would ask her about work, but rather not to listen to her never-ending complaints about how the coffee is equivalent to dirt. “Alright, Liv, Bye,”
“Okay,” Mr. Rizal says loudly to the models “The show is starting in five. Get to your places!”
Everyone is everywhere. People are running around, students are making last minute checks but I on the other hand am finished. My outfit is perfect—no buttons coming loose and definitely no tears. I look around and to my surprise Faez has ended up doing a Cheongsam. How very ironic.
The music which starts with its repetitive beat gets everyone up and ready. The lights are softened and one by one the models walk out onto the runway that’s cleverly decorated in Jalur Gemilang colours—considering it’s the eve of Independence Day. The judges—whose expressions hardly change not even a bit when Roxanne’s eye-blinding outfit went down the runway — are jotting down only-God-knows into their notepads.
Backstage, everyone is timorously watching their outfits go onto the runway. The tension is so terribly crazy; nobody notices Mr. Rizal doing his rendition of the robot. Unfortunately, I did.
But before I could take out my camera to capture this faux pas, my model is cat walking my outfit. And as I watch it go down the runway—shimmy and all—I had a Thriller moment: the Malaysian part of me took over.
Malaysians are Malaysians for countless reasons; because some wear the traditional outfits, some support piracy, some eat nasi lemak—with sambal. But to me, all of that doesn’t matter when being a Malaysian is to be infinitely proud of Malaysia …and flaunt it.
i saw this in the blog called blender. although i would prefer a blacko one.
this is called the boyfriend shirt. i love it. i neeed it.
As crazy as i sound, i want these sunglasses. they are really cute to say the least.
