The hand that whacks, embraces too?

@AryamanBodh

One of the regular feature during my childhood days was the visits by lonely housewives to engage in a prolonged banter with my mother.

In RRF, my childhood home, a new neighbour had just moved to our oft-emptied next door flat. In came a seemingly perfect family, the head of the family, a tall, lean man donning dark glasses in the midst of the dimly lit corridors of the neighbourhood. He would walk as if he had a severe case of cervical spondylosis, straight-backed, walking straight ahead without tilting his heads even for a moment as if he had a mission in life like a racing horse prancing on with blinkers. The wife, a slim lady with long wavy hair and polyester floral sari with a faced stained in turmeric powder, an Indian natural skin whitener and scar-blemisher, would follow suit, well aware of the roving eyes around her. To complement this seemingly perfect couple was a pair of children of every dream of a middle-class family of the 70s - a daughter and a son. Then some distant back trotted in a middle-aged lady, all dressed in white widow's saree and a matching short white blouse, and a chubby man in his thirties with eyes protruding out like a frog's and appearing not quite right in the head!

They went on their lives just as we did ours. There was not much communication between both families. Most of the time, they were left to their own devices.

Three months or so into their move into their flat, we would occasionally hear shouts, yelling, sounds of punches on raw skin and crying, sometimes interspersed with groans. Like what kind neighbours would do, my family would just mind our businesses and carried on life as if nothing happened.

One morning, after a night of yelling and screaming, the lady of the house made an appearance at the corner of our kitchen window. Like a drug peddler looking for clients, she whispered her problems to Amma. Occasionally, she would turn around and look sideways just to make easily volatile husband would suddenly reappear to make minced meat out of her. It would be a regular feature for the rest of stay in RRF.

Through inadvertent eaves-dropping, I managed to gather the going-on. She had a victim of abuse by her husband and her mother-in-law. Periodically, she would show her wounds and her racoon-eyed face like her badge of honour. Amma, in her own feministic stance, would suggest ways to set her life in order - how to go about making a police report, to get a medical report on her wounds.

Credit: Andy Capp

Like a broken record in the typical fashion of a battered wife, her actions are always predictable. She would be so gung-ho about 'letting it all behind', in 'starting it all over' and putting 'a full stop to all these' on the day after the whacking. And a few days later, it would be status quo. 'He is actually kind-hearted when he is sober', 'it is my fault, actually', 'I irritate him', 'I have to take it for children' were the usual replies.

In my naive mind, I could not understand why was it is so difficult for my stupid neighbour to make up her mind. When somebody is hostile to you, you retaliate!

Nothing much really happened. She continued her mid-morning rendezvous at the corner of the kitchen window, telling her inner feelings and inner ramblings whilst Amma would go on with her stirring of her meals on the stove. It would all come to an abrupt when either Amma finishes her cooking, or the neighbour's husband comes marching back during his lunch break.

The sad tale of the over the top first wife!

This year's Penang Bridge International Marathon was a quieter affair than its usual pomp and lustre. Missing most conspicuously was the loud music and unnecessary announcement on the PA system which kept occupants of nearby hotels fuming mad. Maybe because this Bridge run is the last one on the soon to be the old bridge.

This bridge which I had the honour of seeing its conception, development and expansion (to 6 lanes) has slowly attained its limit of capacity. In a way, this bridge, which was the brainchild of the first Prime Minister of Malaysia, has reached senescence gracefully and is now like in the case of a first wife who is soon going to lose her glamour and attraction to the soon to appear wife No. 2. The new wife, in this case, being the Batu Maung to Batu Kawan New Penang Bridge.
Even though the Malay term for being left to marry another is 'madu'. Honey is also referred to as 'madu.' But believe you me, any first wife will vouch that it is no sweet feeling playing second fiddle in spite of what the societal and religious pressures may dictate.
Today, even nature was moaning the loss of prominence of this second link to the mainland. The night (early morning) was gloomy with not a single whiff of breeze. Temperature was at uncomfortable level of 28-30 degrees Celsius and humidity stickily high for the early part of the morning.

With that background, the whole running gang (of five) drove up to Penang for a weekend bonding time. Not being at the top of their physical condition, everyone was whining about their physical disability, ranging from swollen ankle to sore feet!

Only when the race was flagged off, did we realize about the adverse running conditions that we had put our sorry self into. Gone are are cold early morning sea breeze and the drizzle that the rest of the country had. The route was long and straight surrounded by pitch blackness of the night, at 3am, with not much view to see. The slow incline which took almost 2 kms to peak was no child's play and the humidity made it twice as hard. 

Gruelling the adversities just like the calamities that they had jostled in their lives, the gang laboured through J-2'02''; S-2'10''; FG-2'19''; Rv-2'35''; Rj-2'37''.

Scorn of first wife

Madu Tiga