Source

 

Marina Abramovic and Ulay started an intense

love story in the 70s, performing art out of

the van they lived in. When they felt that their

relationship had run its course, they decided

to walk the Great Wall of China, each from 

one end, meeting for one last hug in the 

middle and never seeing each other again.

 

At her 2010 MoMA retrospective Marina

performed ‘The Artist is Present’ as part

of the exhibition, a minute of silence with

each stranger who sat in front of her.

 

Ulay arrived without her knowing it.

 

The heart does not forget those

it loves, even after they leave.

 

 

I can’t stop looking back at this gifset.

 

In this particular one I wait for the moment

when his pacifier drops from his mouth,

like, Whoa. What is that? Who is that?

 

And then it segues into this next gif,

where Mama goes, “Hi Johnathan. Can

you hear me? Can you hear Mama?”

 

You see that beautiful smile start to

form on his face, slow enough to catch

that expression of clear realisation; that

he is there, there, there, cradled in the

arms of his mother and finally being able

to listen to her voice for the first time.

 

A mother’s voice is the first sound that

introduces him to this new sensory world

that he will come to explore more of, and

I hope he never gets tired of listening;

taking it all in; understanding.

 

He will come to know that this is the voice

that will sing him to sleep at night through

out his young life, that will soothe him of

his nerves, that will tell him that he is loved 

everytime his heart breaks, that will gently

reprimand to keep him humble. He will come

to love many other voices in this lifetime, but

this voice, this voice, will always be his favourite.

 

 

He will never forget this voice.

 

 

We will first witness the beauty of humanity.

And then we will talk about work.

Priorities, right? Damn straight.

xx

 

 

A baby reacting to hearing his mother’s voice

for the first time with his cochlear implant.

 

I have never seen something quite as

beautiful as a child and his mother

and this exact moment. Have you?

 

Thank you science.

Thank you human imagination.

xx

 

I have had an inspiring half-week with

our World Bank comrades in Jakarta.

  

These people, the likes of Aditya Mattoo,

Sebastian Saez, Batshur Gootiiz and Martin

Molinuevo - they are the living epitome of

commitment to the cause for sustainable

 development. They make a difference.

They are that difference.

 

Purpose renewed.

Bismillah.

 

 

When a person’s actions make you feel so very

loved, you can only hope that you are able to

convey it with the same intensity in return.

 

 

Bumped into Fazril in the Hilton lobby

and then Yamud outside Chynna after

our massive family yee sang tonight.

 

YCM was going on upstairs and Fazril’s

dad was giving the talk so I shouldn’t

have been too surprised. Fazril recently

got engaged to Nina Jiwana some weeks

ago, so quick congratulations were in 

order – almost shouted across the lobby 

in my excitement. “Not seeing my dad?”

 

“No, sorry,” I waved apologetically. 

“Family dinner. You know how it is.”

 

“Come to the wedding!” (yelling)

 

“Mail me an invite!” (yelling right back)

 

Dad: “Can you both just talk to each

other in a corner like normal people?”

 

 

 

Cleared out loose things from G2 today with

the brothers and parental units. My God, 

we still have so much stuff in our house.

 

From the mountain of things I brought home

with me, these happen to be the most nostalgic.

 

This terrible-looking clay mug was made by

Mama back in her shopmaking days at TKC.

When Abang found it I looked at my mother

incredulously, thinking: Wow, so THAT is

where my lack of artistic talent comes from.

I now know who to blame for this missing

gene that renders me useless at drawing.

 

The brass jewellery case always sat on Mama’s

bedside table, for years. You could find everything

in it, despite its small size - except brooches and 

rings, funnily enough. The satin pouch always held

her tortoiseshell sunnies too, which she’s had since

the 80s. Both the satin pouch and the brass case 

serve as familiar anchors, reminding me of what 

I used to see in my parents’ room for so long.

 

Also, brass babushka Pyramids – they’re stackable and

have glowy hieroglyphs that stretch across each of its

three surfaces. Neither of my parents can remember

purchasing something this tacky, so off it went into

my waiting hands. Its crazy beautiful, really. 

 

Mum’s travelling makeup caboodle is awesome. I can’t

remember a single family holiday we went on without

the presence of this massive thing. I used to pretend

that it was a picnic basket and, if I was lucky enough

to find it unlocked, would eat the shit out of Mum’s

lipsticks. This thing is in amazing condition despite

the wear and tear over the years, including the 

neglect it suffered after Mum switched to soft bags.

 

EE joked about how this would make a great carry

on case for my work trips. I’m pretty sure I’d get a

lot of flack for this but that is such an outrageous

idea, I might just go ahead and do it. Channel a 

little bit of that 80s vibe to rejog my fellow flight

mates down memory lane, you know? Get them

going, like, ‘Oh will you look at that – a caboodle!

I haven’t seen one in years! I remember when

we used to have to lug them around back then..’

 

The little green leather-bound book is a tiny

Easy Japanese pocketbook. Given to Dad by

a man called Kimi (“In Nagoya,” he scribbled

on the first page) in 1968. I know for sure

Dad’s never used this because the pages

are still so crisp and pristine. It’s also got

that yummy old-bookpage smell, which

I absolutely love. Sneaked it out of the

‘TO DONATE’ pile and into my stash.

 

Happened upon these when cleaning out my old room.

These were all things I received post-Uni, circa end-08.

Cards and letters from my loved ones (Nain and Taid

still couldn’t get my name right after all these years, 

and Bubs sent me a stolen Raya card, that criminal),

the Traveling Stomp Drumsticks & Harvard Hatband,  

and an excellent mix of what was then the latest Latin

music on Colombia’s Top 40 charts. She enclosed it in

an envelope made out of a horrific blown-up picture

of the three of us (enter Nafsica) in Amsterdam. 

 

Looking at these makes me realise that I really have

forgotten the art of keeping in touch the old fashioned

way. The last time I sent anyone a Care Package was a

couple of years ago, which, when I think about it, sucks.

Time to make some friends happy again through the mail.

 

Also spirited away from the donation pile are these

two crocheted sweaters that Nain made me for 

Christmas one year. I used to hate them, so

much, especially if I was forced to put them on

in restaurants. In my little nine year-old head, 

crocheted sweaters were disgusting. Looking at

them now, and remembering how Nain used to

teach me how to knit stuff from a ball of yarn

in her living room on Menai Bridge (I made a 

flag once! ), I can’t fathom giving them away.

 

It’s the only physical memory I have of Nain and

Taid; and their cold, cold house on Menai Bridge

with the attic and the trapdoor; and pictures of

my Dad when he was just a sprightly teenage

cadet officer; and lovely breakfasts in Nain’s 

wooden kitchen; and of my poor, poor Taid.

 

I honestly don’t know what I’ll do with most of

these things that I have taken into my care. 

But somehow that doesn’t seem to matter.

The content feeling of knowing I’ve salvaged

these memories from our family’s 26 years

at G2 seems to more than make up for any

future sense of despair at having accumulated

so much junk in my own home. 

 

. . . I’m sorry, did I say junk?

 

I meant treasures, that’s what they are.

 

 

Simple gestures go a long way, truly.

 

They are lost on a few but you know 

that those who understand really do

appreciate your small acts of kindness.

 

At breakfast with a friend this morning,

a young scruffy-looking boy made his

rounds around Deen, asking for change.

He was gently reprimanded by the man

behind the till and then asked to leave.

 

As the boy exited through the side of

the restaurant, face burning with shame,

he passed us where we were seated to eat.

 

This friend of mine, God bless his heart,

followed him out to the street where he

handed the young boy some money -

hopefully enough to last him the day.

He spoke a few words before the boy

(I’ve never seen this before) stretched

his hands out to salaam cium tangan.

 

As I watched this exchange, still seated

comfortably at my table and finishing my

two plates of roti kosong with kari ikan,

I felt this kind of warmth wash over me.

 

I don’t know why that happened, but 

I’m pretty sure that was my brain 

and heart reacting to what I had

witnessed. They liked what I saw.

 

A simple gesture of offering a little kid

some cash for the day (or, for his mother

and two younger adiks at home) may not

affect the rest of us like it does both the

giver and receiver here, but you know that

to these two, a little bit of faith was restored.

 

“Kenapa dia cium tangan you?” I asked,

as he sat back down and resumed eating.

 

“That’s the way some people show thanks.”

He shrugged, nonplussed. I still saw a hint

of a smile there. I knew it moved him too.

 

“Terharu tak?” I teased.

 

He put his utensils down and looked up.

“Sangat. Terasa gila, especially kat sini.”

He pointed to the middle of his chest. 

 

Oh, yes. It goes a long way, doesn’t it.

 

 

“Kenapa beriya sangat nak

pakai tudung after marriage?”

 

“For myself, and for my husband.

So he will know that he is the only 

man privileged enough to see what

I will no longer allow anyone else.”

 

Romance is also shown through a

woman’s sense of duty to her God.

 

 

Yamud and Opu at it again; singing on Tuesday.

Their choice of songs is surprising, but I love

it. Let’s see how it turns out for them soon.

xx

 

Management approved our meeting with the

World Bank, so it’s off to Jakarta next week. 

By some rad coincidence both Kakna & Opu

spoke to me about the Java Jazz Festival - 

it must have been a sign of some sort 

Flying earlier over the weekend to go with

Opu and meet the household of No. 37.

xx

 

We had a Department Restructuring Project

discussion this evening, about realigning 

the focus of JA. During one of the sessions

with Marc and Zoe I realised that there

exists a wide gap between the Analysts -

those who see the need for technical

competency to be a necessity, and 

who think otherwise. Largely because

of the structure of the department,

which I guess is what they want to fix.

 

This bothered me, for many reasons, but

mainly because it shows a lack for wanting

to be authoritative over what we are meant

to represent in international engagements. 

How does one efficiently convey and defend

the Bank’s positions on pressing issues to our

counterparts if they don’t feel it’s necessary

to be technically sound at some basic level?

 

In that sense I guess the Bank’s sense of

perception of JA as a postbox is warranted.

 

I honestly hope they seriously look at this

chasm of (what is glaringly) a precondition 

to representing the Bank outside our shores.

 

Didn’t miss my chance at hinting to Nuna of

my intention to move into her section either.

She pretended not to notice. Classy woman.

xx

 

Dad hasn’t been well for the longest time

since returning from Umrah. It’s worrying.

 

Made him hummous yesterday evening

to cheer him up a little. Didn’t work:

 

“It looks strange.”

“It tastes just fiiiiiine. Try it!”

“You try it first.”

Oh, for – “Paaa. Cuba lahhh.

It’s good, I promise you!”

 

He gingerly swiped a little bit with his pinkie and

made a dramatic show of tasting it with caution.

 

After a pause: “Am I turning green?”

 

 

 

People can be very, very ruthless.

Keep him safe, please.