Peace with a price...

Rambutan Kisses - Poems (2022)

Author: Malachi Edwin Vethamani

If the illustration of the cover is not provocative enough, the poems will definitely do. 

This is a sampling of the many thought-provoking poems, old and contemporary, found in this collection. Enjoy.

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.

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Nobody's child, growing wild!

THE ROOST

There was once, many years ago, there was a spate when many of my relatives had given up on their motherland, turned their back on Malaysia and started looking around for greener pastures. I wondered how Mother Malaysia would feel to see one by one, her children, after years of nurturing them, after growing so big and strong, feel compelled to fly away from their roost. Like a proud mother seeing her kids having a mind of their own, she must be immersed in a bitter-sweet feeling.

Like a flight of swallows,

you came stocks and barrels,

from Swatow, Coimbatore, Minangkabau,

Looking for peace of mind,piece of pie,

for that,

you scaled the high seas and brine.

You were hungry; I fed your soul,

you had shivers; I showed you warmth.

you were homeless; I gave you home.

you were stateless; I was your hope.

Under the yellow umbrella,

and a piece of cloth,

you had dignity, camaraderie,

a history, a legacy,

an emblem, an anthem.

The colours to spill your crimson.

Now that you have wings,

you can expand your span,

once an ugly duckling,

majestically now a swan,

I remain your dodo,

Flightless, lifeless, brainless, valueless,

And cared less.

I am not up to your mark

not up to your spark,

you want to fly,

to reach high up in the sky.

you peacocked to new horizons,

no future, you cite as reasons,

you curse me,you betray me

still, I don't call it treason.

A summer love, a puppy love,

the morning after, the hangover,

a one-night stand,

a nightmare to be got over?

I have my desires too,

to progress like the red dot,

to shine like the rising sun too.

a tiger, not a chicken to the rot.

I stay regal, guarding,

patient, majestic,

hawking over the nest

providing a haven for the swallow for the summer.

What do Ke Huy Quan and Michelle Yeoh have in common? Besides standing tall and hoisting their Oscars in the recent Academy Award ceremony, both spent a brief time in Malaysia. For the ignoramus, a little Ke Huy Quan appeared as 'Short Round', Indiana Jones' fast-talking sidekick in the 1984 'Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom'. 

Now Ke is all big and strong and appeared in the supporting role in 'Everywhere everything all at once!'.

Michelle Yeoh, as we already know, hails from Ipoh. She wanted to be a ballerina, but an injury prevented her progress. Like most Malaysians of that era (and now, too), many qualified Malaysians who lost out on the New Economic Policy are left with Hobson's choice but to pursue their ambitions outside the country. Malaysia is no place for a ballerina to prosper too. A place in a beauty pageant, sure, as it is forbidden to the majority. So, Hong Kong and Holywood were where Ms Yeah had to be to shine. Now, this country wants to bask in glory for the accolade as if it had everything  to do. Maybe it was the main push factor for millions to explore green pastures and hence, attributed to a massive brain drain.

Ke Huy Quan probably had multiple brushes with death before fame and fortune finally made their much-anticipated appearance. Once, at his birthplace in Vietnam when the family had to split up. The father left with half of the family, and the mother with the other half towards Malaysia, possibly aboard Hai Hong. Defying death again from rough seas and the risk of being shot at by the then Prime Minister, the family reunited in the USA a year later. 

It is not that citizens do not want to contribute to the nation. It is not that they do not want to be part of the nation. Paradoxically, it is the nation that does want intelligent citizens. They do not fit into their social engineering programme. They want obedient subjects who would dance to their drum beats and the fiddle of the ruling party. There is no place for slaves to question their masters! Michelle Yeoh and Quan should thank Malaysia for being inhospitable and help them to push to the limit and explore what they truly are made of.

A clip from 'Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.'

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The better man?

Gunga Din (1939)

Director: George Steven

This Hollywood movie is based on a poem written by Rudyard Kipling. Kipling, as we know, is quite proud of his European heritage. He and the colonial masters of his era vehemently believed that it was the burden of the white race to civilise the natives. They, the native with their odd-looking physiques, their equally funny-looking attires (or lack of), peculiar living habits and bizarre mode of worship by European standards and Judeo-Christian point of reference, are their subject of mockery.

It is a light comedy detailing three disciplinarily-challenged army sergeants sent off to the late 19th century Northwest Frontier of Northern Punjab to check out some disturbances. They find a band of Kaali-worshipping ruthless 'terrorists' @ thugees taking over their post. The story is about how they defeat the thugs with the help of a naive local man named Gunga Din.

Before jumping onto the bandwagon of the woke to blame all our current pathetic state of affairs on the colonial masters, we should remember that Kipling and this movie were off at a time when only the victors could dictate how history should be written. The colonists, because of their native languages, are considered irrelevant, persona-non-grata.

We see the British slave-drilling their subjects on their high horses and looking down on Indians. The Indian collies seem to be bending behind backwards to kill their fellow Indians to earn extra brownie points. Their life ambition was to serve as a soldier to the Queen and the Empire.

The story is based on Kipling's poem about a 'useful' idiot named Gunga Din, a run-around water boy at the beck and call to squeeze some water from his goatskin bag. Despite all the heckling and shoving, Gunga Din's life ambition is to serve his Master and earn his validation. He hopes to be, one day, to be drafted into the British Army. Din does that in style by gunning down his own people and even taking a bullet for his Boss. He is enlisted posthumously and is conferred the rank of corporal. At the film's end, his bosses reminisce about the character running around with a water bag. They look into the horizon calling Din 'a better man' than anyone in the British Army can be.

"... though I've belted you and flayed you,

        by the livin' Gawd that made you,

you're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!"

At the outset, from the time of opening credit, the filmmakers made a declaration. They specified that their depiction of Kali worship was based on historical facts. Their idea of facts is what eventually turned out as an 'eyeball delicacy' scene that was seen in 1984's 'Indiana Jones'. They took mugshots at Kali and her worshippers, making them look like buffoons. In actuality, they were merely defending their land. Gunga Din was no 'better man' but a traitor to his own people. It was the people like him who facilitated the 250,000-strong British East India Company soldiers to have control domination over 170 million Indians in 1857.

Much like the Spanish conquistadors swept the Aztec and Mayan temples clean of gold, the British in India also thought it was the birthright to usurp all the gold displayed in the Hindu temples without respect to local ownership. This was daylight robbery. I reckon this must have been no different from what the Muslim invaders did to India before them.

Gunga Din

BY RUDYARD KIPLING

You may talk o’ gin and beer   

When you’re quartered safe out ’ere,   

An’ you’re sent to penny-fights an’ Aldershot it;

But when it comes to slaughter   

You will do your work on water,

An’ you’ll lick the bloomin’ boots of ’im that’s got it.   

Now in Injia’s sunny clime,   

Where I used to spend my time   

A-servin’ of ’Er Majesty the Queen,   

Of all them blackfaced crew   

The finest man I knew

Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din,   

      He was ‘Din! Din! Din!

   ‘You limpin’ lump o’ brick-dust, Gunga Din!

      ‘Hi! Slippy hitherao

      ‘Water, get it! Panee lao,

   ‘You squidgy-nosed old idols, Gunga Din.’

The uniform ’e wore

Was nothin’ much before,

An’ rather less than ’arf o’ that be’ind,

For a piece o’ twisty rag   

An’ a goatskin water-bag

Was all the field-equipment ’e could find.

When the sweatin’ troop-train lay

In a sidin’ through the day,

Where the ’eat would make your bloomin’ eyebrows crawl,

We shouted ‘Harry By!’

Till our throats were bricky-dry,

Then we wopped ’im ’cause ’e couldn’t serve us all.

      It was ‘Din! Din! Din!

   ‘You ’eathen, where the mischief ’ave you been?   

      ‘You put some juldee in it

      ‘Or I’ll marrow you this minute

   ‘If you don’t fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!’

’E would dot an’ carry one

Till the longest day was done;

An’ ’e didn’t seem to know the use o’ fear.

If we charged or broke or cut,

You could bet your bloomin’ nut,

’E’d be waitin’ fifty paces right flank rear.   

With ’is mussick on ’is back,

’E would skip with our attack,

An’ watch us till the bugles made 'Retire,’   

An’ for all ’is dirty ’ide

’E was white, clear white, inside

When ’e went to tend the wounded under fire!   

      It was ‘Din! Din! Din!’

   With the bullets kickin’ dust-spots on the green.   

      When the cartridges ran out,

      You could hear the front-ranks shout,   

   ‘Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!’

I shan’t forgit the night

When I dropped be’ind the fight

With a bullet where my belt-plate should ’a’ been.   

I was chokin’ mad with thirst,

An’ the man that spied me first

Was our good old grinnin’, gruntin’ Gunga Din.   

’E lifted up my ’ead,

An’ he plugged me where I bled,

An’ ’e guv me ’arf-a-pint o’ water green.

It was crawlin’ and it stunk,

But of all the drinks I’ve drunk,

I’m gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.

      It was 'Din! Din! Din!

   ‘’Ere’s a beggar with a bullet through ’is spleen;   

   ‘’E's chawin’ up the ground,

      ‘An’ ’e’s kickin’ all around:

   ‘For Gawd’s sake git the water, Gunga Din!’

’E carried me away

To where a dooli lay,

An’ a bullet come an’ drilled the beggar clean.   

’E put me safe inside,

An’ just before ’e died,

'I ’ope you liked your drink,’ sez Gunga Din.   

So I’ll meet ’im later on

At the place where ’e is gone—

Where it’s always double drill and no canteen.   

’E’ll be squattin’ on the coals

Givin’ drink to poor damned souls,

An’ I’ll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!   

      Yes, Din! Din! Din!

   You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!   

   Though I’ve belted you and flayed you,   

      By the livin’ Gawd that made you,

   You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din!

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A many-splendoured thing?

Love and Loss

Author: Malachi Edwin Vethamani

Maybe life has an innate plan to trap individuals. In the spring of youth, when hormones are raging high, we make hormonal-linked decisions that decide our futures. Somehow, hormones control rational thinking. The prefrontal cortex that controls analytical thinking is hijacked by impulses. We take the plunge dazed like a drunk monkey, like a prancing horse with blinkers, head on like sacrificial lambs, only to realise that we are in trouble deep when the dirt (or blood) hits the ceiling.

The path into this journey called love stirs all the primal suppressed emotions. It lights up so many intoxicating feel-good emotions within us that we never knew existed. We are swept off our feet, the world is a utopia, and we only see goodness in everything.

Maybe nature wants us to sow our seeds far and wide; perhaps it is just its way to improve the selection of traits. We lose interest. We get bored with the same routine and want freedom. We yearn to break taboos. We itch to push the boundaries of what is allowed than what is not.

What is this thing called love? Is it the constant high one gets at the sight of loved ones? Is it a societal duty that one performs to complete one's existence? This fulfilment of obligation is gifted with particular added delights, which are the carrot-dangling enticements to lure mankind.

Is it trapping to entice providers for generation next? A contractual obligation in return for an experience of a lifetime? Is successful love one which stands the test of time even though the committed players cannot stand the sight of each other after long but stay for the sake of wanting to uphold the holy institution of matrimony?

Sometimes the nectar of love turns sour. Or perhaps, it meets an unplanned end. The spiralling falling out of love or losing love can be as devastating as the act of falling in. If a loss is already filled with avalanches of emotions, it must be made more difficult with the complexities of 21st-century love.

Prof Malachi Edwin Vethamani's latest collection of poems describes these emotions in simple yet meaningful words that leave a zing that lasts. Many of us will relate to some of the joy, frustrations, cynicism, the wisdoms of hindsight that all the experiences bring us. With the expert craft of a wordsmith, with economical use of vocabulary, he opens the door to a world of literary bliss. A good read.

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.