Money CAN buy me love, memories and everything in between!

Paul McCartney and first love 1960

Heard it through the grapevine that our man who co-wrote the song “Can’t buy me love” has found love again and is trying the matrimonial noose again! But why, I wonder at 69 to an old girlfriend? Hopefully this time he would be lucky or at least would not be the sentimental fool on the hill again but wiser in separating money and love. Earlier, believing that the element of love would be tainted by having a pre-nuptial agreement, he found out the hard way after being bruised, battered, ridiculed and losing a million pounds that love won’t do but all that she wants is your money. It is interesting to note our MBE has recovered and recouped from his just ended ugly smack down with his former beau who he was throwing dirt and washing dirty linen in public and is star-struck so soon. And decided to take the plunge again! Obladi, Oblada, life goes on…

Somebody told me recently that best things in life are indeed not free. Ask anybody about the best time they had in their life or about their best event that sticks on their minds. Invariably, it will be a trip to a far away hideaway, a joyous holiday, away from work, a family reunion of sorts- birthday, wedding etcetera, etcetera. Trying taking all your love ones to a paid holiday – they would worship you as a demi-god and put you up on a pedestal. All these cost money. Money can indeed buy you love and the money that buys the pleasant memories will make anyone contended for a long time…. 

For a full list Paul McCartney's relationships, click here.  

Love indeed must be an over rated virtue - uttered by everyone from parents to young lovers to pastors to women from the oldest profession to paedophiles!

To save Malaysia, admit you’re stupid

Erna Mahyuni blogs at ernamahyuni.com when not writing for a living or dabbling in the performing arts. Currently plays too much Dragon Age.

To save Malaysia, admit you’re stupid

May 04, 2011 (Malaysia Insider)

MAY 4 — People are stupid. There, I said it. We are all stupid in some way, to some degree. I am not saying we can’t be smart but left to their own devices, humans tend to drift into the default state of easy stupidity.
Some forms of stupidity are acceptable. For instance, most parents are stupid when it comes to their kids. In their minds, their newborns are the cutest babies the world will ever see. Never mind that newborns tend to look like miniature geriatrics.
The problem with Malaysia and Malaysians in general is the refusal to admit to our stupidity. Until and unless we admit to being stupid about certain things, we will be mired in our stupidity and unable to progress.
Admitting to being (occasionally) stupid is not demeaning. No. It is admitting that you do not have the answers and that you could be wrong about well, anything.
Our leaders, for instance, seem to be allergic to the basic apology. Screw-ups? No one in the government screws up! The ruling coalition is infallible, indestructible, indubitably capable.
And if you believe that, I’m sorry, you’re stupid.
We, the people, are just as much to blame because we let them lead. Whenever I hear someone gripe about politics or the government, I like to ask if said person votes. Cue stammers, half-hearted excuses and a quick change of subject.
To tell you the truth, I pity our police force. They get such a bum rap for being lazy, inept and corrupt. Well, you try risking your life and being paid peanuts for it. Our cops are so used to being bribed because we like bribing them. The cop gets money for cigarettes, we get away with our traffic offences. Malaysia boleh.
Now I know Talent Corp is trying its best to get Malaysians overseas to come back. All the incentives are not going to work until you fix our biggest problem: stupidity.
After more than 50 years of independence, it is stupid not to acknowledge the contributions of non-Malays to the country. But it is also stupid for champions of vernacular schools to ignore how much those schools contribute to racial polarisation.
I sneer at vernacular schools because its proponents basically think their right to choose to only speak and mix with people of their own race and who speak the same language is a good thing. And then you complain about racism and discrimination? Pot, there’s a kettle I’d like you to meet.
The biggest monument to stupid in this country isn’t the Petronas towers. No, it is Perkasa. A bunch of self-important, bigoted, self-serving and very stupid people are pandered to by our government. How can you call for a 1 Malaysia while at the same time you kow tow to a body that is against everything 1 Malaysia stands for? Explain it to me because no matter how much I try all I see is pure stupid.
What I think is the stupidest thing in this country is the denial that there are things wrong with the country. It is not being unpatriotic to point out our problems — it is our civic duty. Until we acknowledge what is wrong, we cannot possibly move forward to set them right.
There are days when I think I must be stupid to keep writing about the things I think matter, when I am not sure it makes any kind of difference. I feel stupid when I read writing that is far more elegant and nuanced than mine. Yet I take comfort in the knowledge that stupid people can, with application, become less stupid.
What then do we do with the people far too stupid to admit they don’t have the answers? We stop voting them into office.

Osama: Has he left the building?**

For the whole week, all of the Western media have been going at full throttle on Osama's capture and subsequent killing. Obama had the honour of announcing to the world this welcoming news of his near namesake to his voters, much to the joy and satisfaction of the average American who are average minded anyway! Donald Rumsfeld's private secretary apparently had twittered about this hours before the Presidential announcement.
What they to fail to realize is that Osama is just a figment of the symbol of American hegemony on the matters of the world. Like a T4 bacteriophage, the demise of the parent Osama will breed many little Osamas waiting to pounce of other bacilli when the time is ripe.
There is definitely no reason to rejoice as many wise men before have told us that 'An eye for an eye will only leave the whole blind' and we have enough misery in the world to exemplify that.
Are the aggressors going to cow into submission saying, "Oh, I am so scared! The infidels have killed our leader. Let us all repent and lay down our weapons." Sorry, Jose. Dream on....
Already conspiracy theories are flying all over the place on Osama's demise in martyrdom. Why is it that Osama was living cosily just 90km from Islamabad under the very noses of the Pakistani 'intelligences'? Why was the unarmed Osama killed? Would he not be a treasure cove for all information of terrorist activities of the world, from Al-Queda to Al Sayaf to Jemaah Islamiyah? Why was the footage of his capture or body not shown and his body was disposed off so fast into the Arabian Sea? And the newspapers announced just the following day that his DNA matched to Osama. Just like the FISH (Filtration In-Situ Hybridization) technique used to match  the DNA, this whole conundrum smells fishy till high heaven.

Remington Steele

That is, of course, if an entity called Osama actually exists in the first place. This reminds me of the TV series 'Remington Steele' (a lady PI with no cases creates a non existent employer to sex up her firm, acted by Pierce Brosnan and pretty Stephanie Zimbalist) and 'Wag the Dog' where they created a non existent war to divert the attention of the masses.

**The phrase 'Elvis has left the building' was first used in the mid 50s to pacify the ecstatic rabid teenagers (from jumping all around and searching for up and coming Elvis after his performance), so that the rest of the show could proceed. Ironically in the 70s, the same phrase was used to tell his audience that his show was over and it was time to go back home!

Mis-stepped his father's footstep!

It is difficult for a son to live in the shadows of his father. Invariably, they do not live up to their fathers' achievements. Living examples of these are too numerous to be enumerated - Gandhi's son, Harilal, a disappointed young man who died as a vagabond in a corridor bed of a general hospital; Michael Douglas and his drug-plagued son; Charlie Sheen (son of Martin Sheen) and his troubles with booze and women; Eric Clapton's son and suicide from a skyscraper after a drug overdose; John Lennon's offspring  Julian stayed at best as a one-hit wonder.

This fact was reinforced from this small book written in Malay by Malaysia's legendary actor, musician, director extraordinaire P. Ramlee's only biological son, Nasir. It was published in 2007, a year before he succumbed to heart ailment and complications of diabetes at 54 years of age. This book was different from other P. Ramlee featured books as it most talked about happenings within the Ramlee household and Nasir in particular, though not into much of depth.

Nasir must have grown confused as in his early childhood, there was a constant tussle between Ramlee and his biological mother, Junaidah. Ramlee and Junaidah divorced after 4 years of marriage due to her suspicious nature and his association with many young starlets of the old Malay movie silver screen golden era! The custodial scramble became so bad that Nasir was once kidnapped to his grandparents' place in Penang!

Later, our young hero had to adjust to living with the palace trained regimental styled ex-consort of the Perak Sultanate, Noorizan who lived by rules and regulations around the house. Nasir was already a tween when Saloma came to the picture. Again, after much reluctance, he relented to accept another stepmother.
Some of P Ramlee's movie stories were based on their everyday lives. Living under the second wife was like in 'Tiga Abdul' with the culture of elegant dining and behaviour. Lyrics of the song 'Hujan di Tengah Hari' seem to mirror Ramlee's attempt to save his first marriage.

Nasir described his father as a kind man who had no qualms talking and sharing his food with the little men.

Nasir did not grow up as an abandoned and lonely son. P. Ramlee readily accepted many adopted children under his care. Some of them did not even have proper adoption papers. A few of them were also of Chinese parentage. Sazali was adopted soon after 'Anak Ku Sazali'. He was also P. Ramlee's favourite. Sabaruddin came in after 'Sabaruddin Tukang Kasut' (a movie). There were others named Zazaloma, Normah and Betty. Dian was a Saloma's adopted Chinese girl, and Armali was her son from her previous marriage to another Malay movie legend, A. R. Tompel. [Trivia: P Ramlee, Saloma and Tompel acted together in 'Keluarga 69']

The whole family were in good spirits in the good old days when the main Malay movie studio was Jalan Ampas, Singapore. Ramlee employed personalised tuition teachers for his kids.
One of his passions (besides making movies) was cooking, not a good one though, according to Nasir's description. P. Ramlee also had some healing powers. He used to prescribe holy water (Quranic verses recited) to his children and acquaintances with favourable results. After the studio wind down due to workers' demands and strike, their migration to Kuala Lumpur marked their downfall. Ramlee's movies were not selling as well as it used to. It affected his family on the whole, money wise.

Nasir's education began to decline. He started playing truant and was expelled from school. He started working in his father's studio, working with the props and doing minor roles in movies. He played music at a small scale in bands around KL - never reaching his father's stature.
We can see from the book that P Ramlee was indeed a sad man in the 70s. He was in dire straits. Saloma had to sing in nightclubs to make ends meet.

Two of P Ramlee's adopted daughters (Normah and Betty) eloped with their boyfriends, and their whereabouts were not known to Nasir at the time of writing. Nasir, like his father, had 3 marriages. P Ramlee and his son, like most Singaporeans at that time, used to converse in English admixed with Malay. A touching worth mentioning conversation allegedly took place between father and son...

' "Nasir: Kenapa Lu suka buat lagu bertemekan cinta, nama perempuan, nama-nama bunga? Gua tak minatlah!
Tiba-tiba dia naik radang dan meninggikan suaranya.
Ramlee: Kalau Lu nak tahu, ada 3 sebab. Pertama, Gua punya suka. Kedua, Lulah anak
yang tak guna, yang tak menghargai ciptaan bapa sendiri. Yang ketiga, kalau Gua
mati nanti, barulah Lu tahu betapa klasiknya ciptaan P Ramlee. Apa punya anak,
berjuta suka lagu saya, anak sendiri mencerca kita' "

Nasir's daytime job was selling nasi lemak and fruits for which he was persecuted regularly by the local council (DBKL) for failing to own a legitimate trading license until he mentioned his predicament to the Prime Minister (Dr M) when Nasir represented his father to receive a posthumous award. Nasir succumbed to heart ailments and complications of diabetes at the age of 54 in 2008.

The take-home message from the book is that we should spend quality time with our loved one as it is evident that Nasir has regrets not spending enough time and appreciating the greatness of his father.

NB. Gandhi, my father: Not your typical Bollywood flick. It is a bilingual effort (English and Hindi) period movie depicting Gandhi as a not-so-perfect father. In the opening scene of the film, an unkempt drunken vagabond is dumped in a general hospital. The attending attendant asks him rudely, (in Hindi), for his name. He replies, "Harilal". "What's your father's name?" the attendant asked repeatedly. In a stupor, the patient replies, "Karamchand Mohandas Gandhi!' - A good watch!

Malaysian Indian Dilemma

Today is May Day and scores of peaceful marchers demanding better living conditions and the minimum wage were picked up by police. This is exactly what happened in Klang in 1940 when Indian plantation workers, for the first time, demystifying the myth (by the British) that Tamil workers were subservient working dogs who can readily be contended by poor living conditions and cheap toddy showed their discontent to the Britishers!

This is one piece of information I learnt from this book which is somehow lost in the annals of Malayan history. Just like how the HINDRAF movement was instrumental in the eventual 2008 political tsunami, this event (1940 event, protest by Malayan workers against their colonial masters, before WW2) was the milestone in the worker's movement in the later years. As a result of high-handedness in dealing with this debacle, 9 lives were lost amongst the workers. By 1930, 20% of Indians who were in Malaya were Indian born here, and 30% of the Chinese were born here.

40 years after the publication of once-banned 'Malay Dilemma' and 10 years after the 'Chinese Dilemma', it is only logical that this publication should ensue. Being a town boy whose only exposure to the soil of the estates came when I followed a distant relative to spend a night in his house in Batang Berjuntai estate, this book was an eye-opener of sorts to the psyche of Indians in the plantation sector.

The book, at one look, seems to give the impression of being another gripe of the working class of the bygone era against the government of the day for doing just not enough. I always wondered why is it that migrant Indian population in any part of the world, except Malaysia, seem to play a keen economic and political role - be it South Africa, Uganda, Trinidad-Tobago, Surinam, USA, England or Australia. In Malaysia, for generations, Indian from estates has blown the horn of hopelessness unable to escape the clutches of poverty.

I do not know why my brother-in-law, suddenly after buying the book, passed to me to read, still crisp in its plastic wrapper! Maybe he wanted a summary before indulging in this 17-year thesis product by Janakey Raman Manickam with lots of statistics in the second half of the book. And it did not look comforting!

The first part of the book gives a very enlightening overview of the history of the migration of trading Indians to the Swarnabumi (Land of Gold, Malayan peninsula, Malai meaning hills in Tamil) with their civilization and culture from the 6th century and slowly unfolding all the events like peeling the onion skin to the birth of country called Malay(si)a to the present day. The bulk of the Indians were brought at the turn of the 19th century as indentured labourers and under the kangani system as the locals were not too keen to do the work available to develop the country then. (Hey! Sounds familiar). The living conditions of these immigrant workers became so bad that in the 30s, the ruling party in India stopped sending indentured labourers to Malaya.

The author dissects nicely, year by year, the misery of depilatory living conditions of the influx of indentured labourers. Many succumbed to communicable diseases (malaria and poor sanitation) as well as malnutrition trying to prosper their colonial master like a lapdog, more like a mongrel.

The British were masters in the policy of 'divide and rule' - not only did they succeed to segregate the races by profession; they skilfully divided the division of labour in the estates by their state of origin in India. The Telugus made good clerks, the Malayalees made good foremen and the Tamil obedient workers. The Ceylonese, who came a generation earlier seem mostly contented with staying away from the workers as they were mostly English educated, comfortable with their Government posts, moving amongst the elites. Some estates workers were indeed from Ceylon and ethnically Tamils, but they considered themselves of higher caste, another reason for further segregation. The Ceylonese community organised many community programmes to uplift their members’ well-being, religious duties and had a stadium (TPCA) to develop sports activities. Their political party were aloof on happenings of the day rather than taking stands on important issues like the Malayan Union and Independence.

In this book, there is a rundown on various Indian communities in Malay(si)a. The Chitty community who were present during the Malacca Sultanate had successfully blended with the local Malays and had taken local cultures but preserving their religion and practices at the same time. The Chettiars, the shrewd businessmen, who came independently to Malaya did a disservice to the Indian community by not investing their hard earned cash back in Malaya but rather sending it back to India. This is a stark contrast to the Chinese, who reinvested in Malaya and now have a firm grip on the country’s economy. Only in this book do we understand why the Sikhs are called Bengalis when they are not from the Bay of Bengal. Unlike most Indians who came to Malaya from their last port of embarkment of Visalipatnam, the Sikhs boarded from Calcutta in the state of Bengal.

As the years evolved, we also come to understand the various changes in the atmosphere and mood of the country from its start as a backwater country. Slowly, we can see the people demanding things from their bosses. The indentured labour system was banned by the administration in India, and the workers import stopped (Familiar again!) and it took its toll on the rubber industry. Does it not sound like the problem with the domestic maids and resistance from Indonesia?

Political awareness in Malaya (amongst Indians) mirrored the happenings in India and the fight for self-rule. In this book, we have the opportunity to see old pictures of Jawaharlal Nehru, Chandra Bose and Periyar (E.V. Ramaswamy Naicker) visiting Malaya. We also see many social movements trying to uplift the society in the same way as Periyar was doing in Tamil Nadu, resisting the caste system.

During the Japanese invasion of Malaya, many Indians in tandem with the political awareness in India and zest for Swadesh via Indian National Army under the auspices of Netaji Chandra Bose cooperated with the army from the Land of the Rising Sun. A small proportion of them also showed their allegiance to MPAJA (Malayan People’s Anti-Japanese Army) and MCP (Malayan Communist Party). With the return of British after the war, many frustrated firebrand Indian workers’ union leaders joined the MCP as they were unhappy with the workers' living conditions. Their wages had hardly changed from the turn of the century even though the price of rubber had increased many folds. (Same issue, different times!) The Indian unionists were considered 'troublemakers' and the British were keen to liaise with the Sultans, English educated Malay elitists and Chinese businessmen to get them to do their dirty job of fighting communist ideology from infiltrating Malaya. The Indians were in tune with the multi-ethnic coalition of Putera-AMCJA, with MCP one of its ally. After its inception, the MIC (Malayan Indian Congress) had firebrand demanding leaders in John Thivy and Budh Singh who fought for Independence. It is only after K. Ramanathan Chetty, and K.L. Devaser's presidentship did MIC become allies with UMNO and MCA.

After 1955, MIC became a predominantly Tamil-centric party (3 of the first 4 Presidents were North Indians) emphasising on mainly estate workers issues with V.T. Sambantham holding the helm. The author had blamed V.T, Sambantham as a weak leader who gave away many privileges without actually giving a fight in the coalition when the New Economic Policy was set in place.

The book later illustrates the innumerable futile failed ventures by MIC again and again and again... The failure of NUPW (National Union of Plantation Workers), NLFCS (National Land and Finance Cooperative Society) - to buy estates, Maika Holdings - to improve Indians' grip on the economy, etcetera. It also highlights the never-ending saga of red identity cards given to Malaysian born 'citizens', minimum wage issue, poverty and displacement of unskilled estate worker after the land was developed.

When the Europeans sold off their plantation, the Malaysian owners were not different than their predecessors and were happy with the status quo as long as their profits were not hampered. Many were stranded ill-equipped to face the world when Malaysian owners (read speculators) sold their properties when the price was right in the name of development. These displaced poor Indians mainly congregated in squatters areas and became statistics in police files.

The rest of the book dwells on more statistics and numbers just to drive home the pathetic state of the estate community who had once contributed immensely to the development of the country. I think the best part of the book is the Samy Vello bashing part where all his failures are highlighted piece by piece!

Same issues: 1st May 2011

If one take-home message is there in the book, it is that the central Indian dilemma is within the community itself. In spite of being the minority in the country, they find great joy in subdividing themselves to subgroup based on their origin in India and soliciting sympathy from others rather than doing anything to change their fate.

Happy Workers' Day!

Royal farce!

Being the spoil sport and wet blanket that I am, my daughter must have hated watching the Royal Wedding on TV with me breathing down her neck with some witty uncalled remarks (I think) on the side. I was not there by choice. I was quietly running on the treadmill when she barged in and conquered the remote control. I just could not understand why a girl who is preparing for her exams could not resist the temptation to waste 3 hours of  her precious time watching something which makes little sense. At least 5 channels on the cable were dedicated to bring live coverage of the event (BBC,CNN, E!,Granada TV(iTV) and NTV7.)
Hey, you cannot blame her, can you? Exactly 30 years ago, the world (especially young, single and teenage girls) went agape over the Lady D-Prince Charles wedding which was shown in full regatta. To them it is Mills and Boons in real life - Prince Charming sweeping you off your feet and taking you to Never Never Land far far away. Looking at the eventual outcome, they should have never never done it in the first place. He just swept her under the carpet.
Every girl in 1981 wanted to have a Lady D haircut and some even went suicide blonde!
What is all this farce, anyway? People of all cultures seem to enjoy other peoples' public declaration of private intent (i.e. wedding). Anyway, in this age and time, it is an accepted norm for young couple to do all the things that married couples do before the matrimonial knot. Is marriage just a certificate to enable the father's name to be legally printed on the birth certificate? (Is only maternity real and paternity fiction that only DNA can determine?) Co-habitation in love nests which bores offspring in norm in modern times, so why marry? Same gender marriage is acceptable too.
The sanctity and the undisputed loyalty (till death do us apart) of the institution of marriage have been tarnished by these subset of species of beings who brought about the legal jargon 'prenuptial agreement', which Paul McCartney found the hard way that money indeed can buy love. Yeah! Yeah Yeah!
Coming to the live coverage per se, if Amma were to view it, she would have commented that there is just not enough merry making to qualify for a wedding. There is just not enough panoramic kaleidoscopic colour and noise to hallmark that a wedding was actually going on. Everybody seem to be dressed in monotonous hues and all guys were in black, as if there were at a funeral. That's Amma's outlook!
The coverage was a boring affair (wrong choice of word) for me, at least. There was nothing exciting happening, so the compere had to kill time by talking about clothes' designers, who is wearing whose design (the same designer design both the grim faced Mr & Mrs Beckham's hat! David's hat look like 1930 Fred Astaire's one- nothing earth shattering), the wedding gowns of yesteryear bla, bla... And these also involved   full grown alpha male anchormen, for heaven sake!
Just to kill time, they were interviewing people in the crowd over sweet nothings. UK's who's who were shown trickling in one by one ... Beckhams, Elton John and partner, Mr & Mrs David Cameron...dressed to kill fashionably literally to their heels, posing gleefully to the roving cameras. Most of the ladies were donning funny giant mollusk-like contraption, sometimes with tentacles called hats - seem in vogue- well, that's haute couture for you and me.
Don't ask me what happened after that!
I finished my exercise and got ready for work, like what mere mortal like us would do. Mortals would also have to work hard to finance our own weddings, unlike some whose are state sanctioned public events sponsored by the national coffers.
Of course, many people benefit from this mammoth merrymaking. The British monarchy exerts their presence to the world, telling them that they still sell and are still relevant at this time and age, (Whatever it means!), that they are very much adored by the masses. Then, there are the media moguls who are laughing incessantly to the bank after creating a mountain out of a mole hill (which is their specialty). The hairdressers and fashion designers or whatever name they go with, can make a grand killing. And not to forget the little people, vendors, florists, mom-n-pop convenience stores and others who would prosper at least for the season.
By tomorrow, it is back to life, back to reality. Today's merry making will slowly slide to the horizon and something else will manifest from the other side!
Tomorrow may rain, so I will follow the sun...