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A Bit of Amma, A Bit of Appa

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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When Sons Play Golf: A Mum’s Walk Through Fairways, Thoughts, and Quiet Joy

  The duck was there first. Standing at the edge of the pond, calm and completely unbothered, it faced the water as if nothing else in the world existed. The surface reflected the sky so clearly it blurred the boundary between above and below. It was quiet—one of those still moments that feels almost sacred. Yesterday, during my sons’ practice round at Belton Woods, I found myself pausing there longer than I expected. Not because of the game, but because of everything around it. A little further along, I noticed a tiny beetle resting on a blooming leaf. So small, so still, and yet perfectly placed within the vastness of the course. I took a photo, quietly, while the rhythm of golf carried on in the background—the soft strike of a ball, the murmur of voices, footsteps on grass. I’m not a golfer. Not really. I don’t carry a handicap. I don’t own a polished set of clubs, and I still hesitate when someone asks me the difference between a draw and a fade. And yet, over the years, standi...
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A poem for my Malaysia

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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