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A Bit of Amma, A Bit of Appa

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Every time a writer writes, she reveals a bit of herself... just a bit. The rest is purely imagination.   I still see her — clear as day, though it's been years. Amma at the wooden table, her back slightly hunched, hair pulled into a tired bun. The house would be quiet by then — dishes washed, clothes folded, lights dimmed. The smell of coconut oil and cumin lingered in the corners. Midnight. Maybe later. She’d sit with a chipped cup of coffee, the steam curling into the silence like a quiet ritual.  And she would write.  Not for fame. Not for money. Just... because something in her had to be put into words. It looked like breathing, almost — the way she would pause, stare into the distance, then bend her head and begin again. Her stories were filled with emotion — layered, subtle, steeped in the textures of everyday life. Women with untold stories–who never got to speak. Moments of quiet rebellion. Love that waited, sometimes too long. Dialogues borrowed from overheard...
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A poem for my Malaysia

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This poem is written in Malay Language, my homeland's national language. It is written in the spirit of the celebration of Malaysia's 62nd Independence Day. It is not meant to condemn or based on any specific ethnicity, or person. It is purely from the heart and mind of mine for the love of my birth country, a moment simply for my homeland. Sejenak untukmu Aku bukan bukan Melayu kerana aku cukup Melayu, cukup Cina, cukup India, dan cukup lain-lain kaum. Aku anak Malaysia. Aku bukan bukan Melayu kerana aku atuh pada rukun. Rukun aku rukun negara. Usah disindir kepercayaanku kerana aku bukan calang-calang orang. Aku anak Malaysia. Aku bukan bukan Melayu. Aku tahu Melayu, aku hormati Melayu, dan aku cintai Melayu kerana aku anak Malaysia. Aku bukan anak India. Bahasa ibuku Tamil,  kampungku pekan Melayu, sekolah rendahku sekolah Cina. Kerjaku merantau dunia. Kini sudah dekad lamanya aku dikota Lon...
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My Spice Dabba

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  My Spice Dabba In the serene village of New Village, Beruas , where the rain tapped zinc rooftops and chickens wandered like old gossip across dirt lanes, my kitchen whispered stories—stories that began with a round, dented brass box: the spice dabba . The gilded casket sat like an heirloom moon on the corner shelf, above a gas stove that hissed with the tired breath of age. The dabba had crossed oceans from India, tucked in the arms of my great-grandmother, who arrived in Malaya with a suitcase of silence and a soul full of spice. Among rubber and palm oil trees and dusky roads, she found a home—and in the heart of her home, she placed her flavours. The brass dabba was nothing grand—just seven little tin cups tucked into a timeworn circle, glowing softly with the patina of years. There was manjal (golden turmeric), kaanja milagai (fierce and red), natchiragam (cumin’s soft sigh), kadugu (tiny mustard seeds that orchastrate in hot oil), venthaiyam (bitter fenugreek), malli ...
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