Friends for Life

by James Ooi

I could see them ending up fighting each other soon. Yeah. What a way to end twenty years of friendship from the time we were in kindergarten till now, a few years after university graduation.

I could hear them arguing. Siva was berating Roslan for having an affair with this married woman and well, telling him to stay away from trouble and not flirt with fire. But in the argument that followed, Roslan lost his temper.

Roslan shouted at Siva, "Babi punya keling! Jangan sibuk aku punya hal. Siapa kau nak nasihat aku? Kau dah lupa yang aku telah selamatkan kau dulu ya!!! Aku dan kau bukan kawan lagi mulai hari nie! Pegi mampos!!!"

[Loosely translated - "Pig of an Indian. Don't interfere into my matters. Who are you to advise me? You have forgotten that I once saved your life!!! You and I are no longer my friend from this day onwards! Go to hell!!!"]

Angered and deeply wounded at the racial slur, Siva walked off and didn't answer nor did he turn back. It was finally the last straw for him.

Ever since we had started going out again after a few years of absence because each had gone to their own separate universities, we had changed but for some of us even more. In particular Roslan had become kinda arrogant and racist in his outlook these past few years.

Sad to say that two decades of friendship finally had to end today. All because of an argument which led to an exchange of angry words and racial slurs. Ours was a friendship that was based on the fact that we lived in the same housing estate in Petaling Jaya and the fact that we had grown up as neighbors and friends who attended the same schools throughout our teenage years.

We were team mates in the local football team battling other teams not just on the field but standing by each other in some of the occasional fist fights which ensued after either teams lost. And there were many times when we came to each others aid when either one of us was in trouble. Together we became known as the three musketeers.

Funny actually it was. We were bosom friends coming from the three main races that made up Malaysia. A Chinese, Indian and a Malay. Kinda rare these days in Malaysia. But twenty years ago, this was not uncommon and we didn't have the racial segregation you see commonly occurring these days.

I guess when it comes to friendship, perhaps race does matter or does it not? Seems it does in this case. Sad to say. Seems that it does.


~ *** ~


I still remember my first day at the kindergarten. Mom had left me there alone. In the class of thirty other kids, some of whom were getting red eyed and a few were already bawling out in utmost misery, I felt miserable and didn't know what to do.

Suddenly this dark skinned tall boy looked at me and said, "You want some sweets?" Offering me a "Hacks", he smiled at me. I had never had a Hacks before and I popped it in my mouth with much thought. Within seconds the burning sensation hit my mouth and I spat the sweet out onto my right palm.

You know, for a kid aged five, spicy things normally consumed by adults are really unbearable for our delicate palate. Perhaps you may have forgotten this but I remembered it well because that was how we first met up.

I heard a laugh coming from my right side. I turned irritably to the right and there was this small sized Malay boy laughing at me. Pissed off, I handed him my barely eaten sweet saying, "Not funny, you try lah" With that the Malay boy popped the sweet into his mouth and his face suddenly contorted, "Yucks!!!"

Then we both turned onto the Indian boy and spent the next thirty minutes chasing him around the class screaming wildly. By the end of the day, we became friends and this was to be a friendship that would last the next twenty years.

Soon we found out later that we were neighbors and that we stayed nearby to each other. In the afternoons, we'd go to Siva's house for tea and his mom would fry curry puffs and fried bananas and sometimes we'd head off to Roslan's home for some pengat-pisang and later head off to watch the football game being played in the nearby field.

We hung out practically everyday. As we reached our teens, we looked at girls together and blew wolf whistles at the girls every afternoon as they walked past the football field after school. Friendship was just based on our liking for each other, common interests and the fact that we shared so much history over the years.

One evening at about the time when we were about fifteen years old, Roslan and I was walking back home from school and we saw that five Malay youths had surrounded Siva and it appeared that they were beating him. Quickly Roslan called out to some of his Malay kampong pals and we ran to the field with a crowd of ten other people behind us. Roslan shouted at them, "That's my pal. You better leave him alone or I'll get the whole kampong after you. This is our area."

Grudgingly, the five youths left and at that point in time, I really felt that ours was a friendship that transcended even racial barriers. Looking back, we were brothers in spirit even though we were of a different race.

Each of us that is.


~ *** ~


A few weeks had passed since that incident.

It seemed to me that Siva and Roslan had finally ended our two decades of friendship. I said 'we' because in a way the friendship that we had was a tri-party friendship. We did a lot of things together. Clubbing, football, eating and hanging out together.

So when the other two ended it, it seemed to me that I had lost both my friends.

That fateful evening, I met up with Roslan at the football field to talk with him and try to patch things up. It was late. About eight in the evening. Kinda dark and most people had left the field for dinner and prayers I guess.

Without telling both of them, I told Siva to come and meet me at the same place at about eight thirty later. I thought that I would try and reconcile the both of them. But I guess I could only try.

Roslan and I, we talked about the earlier incident and the clash between Siva and him. Roslan sighed, "I feel sad too. I just was too pissed when he interfered with my relationship with Mas. It's my personal matter and I know the risks of having an affair with a married woman. But it's my choice and he should leave it at that."

It was a dark night that day. No moonlight at all.

Suddenly we became aware that a group of six men had surrounded us. It was dark but through their lighted cigarettes and their voices, we knew them to be Malay youths. They were not from around the area and they were holding bottles and a few had sharpened parangs. Seeing the glinting blades in their hands, we sensed that we were in danger.

One of them spoke, "Bastard! You shouldn't sleep with another man's wife!!!" With that they started beating us. I tried to ward off the blows by putting my arm in front of me but to no avail. I felt myself losing consciousness with every blow that fell onto my head.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Roslan was lying and writhing on the ground in pain. I saw the ringleader lift up the parang to slash Roslan. I tried to reach Roslan in time but in my battered state, I could only look on helplessly.

As the razor-sharp blade swung rapidly downwards, I saw a dark silhouette of a man dive over Roslan's body. The man took the brunt and full force of the blow meant for Roslan. I could hear him groan and the gruesome sound of his neck being slashed by the parang. Despite being slashed over and over again, he refused to leave Roslan and continued to cover him with his own body.

Sirens blared.

Apparently someone had alerted the police. The youths ran for their lives. Under the headlights of the police cars parked around us, I saw Siva bleeding profusely from the many slashes on his neck and his back. Roslan held Siva in his arms as he bled continuously.

Murmuring with great effort, Siva said, "Remember the time you saved me from a beating all those years ago? Tonight I repay my debt to you, my friend."

Silent tears flowed down Roslan's cheeks as his friend died in his arms that night.

A chat with an abandoned toothbrush and friends

by Yanti

I woke up this morning, as usual went into the toilet to wash my face, brush my teeth and to take a shower. I couldn't help but to notice that today, unlike on other days, the Toothbrush was staring at me. Blank. Not blinking!

"Morning", I said, and continued washing my face at the same time.

"Morning", the Toothbrush replied in a very low spirited tone. It was too obvious, very difficult to ignore or to pretend that I had not noticed. It was fishing for attention.

So typical as was of me, I instinctively felt the need to ask Toothbrush what was bugging it, probably because I cared, as Toothbrush has been in my toilet for quite sometime - although we were not exactly buddies, we were very familiar with each other. Or probably because, despite all self-denials in the world, I sort of knew what was bugging it and that I was the only person who could relate to the problem. Putting down all defences and denials, I changed my mind about asking.

"You're going to be alright", I said in a very motherly tone, hoping it would help to ease the pain.

"It has been 46 days since he last used me", Toothbrush said in that same crestfallen tone. So pathetic! I did not reply.

"Why did he not take me with him? He used me everyday before that! Am I that easily forgotten? I was very sincere, servicing him all these while!", it suddenly got so emotional. I had to say something. It may hurt but hey, reality bites! I learned that the hard way too.

"He's got that other toothbrush, remember? The one he took with him whenever he went to the islands. He must be using that other toothbrush now". I knew what I said hurt Toothbrush's heart. I felt so cruel. I didn't like myself that way.

"Yeah…. the Island Toothbrush", Toothbrush let out a deep, long sigh. I felt even worse. But I pretended like it was nothing. This is a big bad world we live in - one needs to learn to be strong and accept ugly fate as much as one welcomes good fortune.

I glanced at one of the Pil Chi-Kit-Teck-Auns which looked like it was about to say something but immediately changed its mind. The rest of the audience, Listerine, Colgate, Darlie, Glasses, Shaver and Atomic Enemas also did not say anything.

It was the Small Plastic Container which decided to butt in.

"I remember our trips to the islands, they were awesome!", Small Plastic Container said, smiling and looking dreamy - as if it was recalling its numerous trips with him before. Great, rub it in! Poor Toothbrush must be crushed by that statement.

"I've been meaning to ask you, did he actually use any of the medications I put inside you?", I tried to divert from the subject a little. I have actually wondered about it all these while. I didn't know why I never asked.

"Once or twice. He took the Paracetamol this one time when his ears were ringing non-stop after the afternoon dive during last his trip to Perhentian before the season ended last year. He slept very soundly after that", Small Plastic Container said, sounding so pleased.

"Yeah, I remember that, he did complain about the ringing ears after he came back - said he consulted an online Dive Doctor about it and it was due to the underwater pressure or some kind of imbalance or something like that", I said, trying not to recall so much. I'm getting better at it nowadays.

"And this other time he gave Panadol Soluble, or was it Medicated Plaster, to his diver friend, so proud that among all divers he was the only one who had the supply. 'My wife packed it for me and put it into my bag each time, without fail', I remember he boasted with that smirk on his face", Small Plastic Container narrated with much enthusiasm. I swallowed the story, quietly.

"I wonder if he's got his supply nowadays. You know him, he's got a very weak stomach, always gets the constipation followed by diarrhoea and after that constipation again, and the diarrhoea again, it was never ending!", the Pil Chi-Kit-Teck-Aun finally spoke up.

"Yeah, that was how we became best friends, right Atomic Enema?", the other Pil Chi-Kit-Teck-Aun added. One of the Atomic Enemas nodded, tittering meekly. I knew Atomic Enema's job specification was not something you wanted to discuss out loud. It was much too embarrassing. I giggled together with them.

"I don't know. But he can find the supply himself. It's easy to buy you guys, all sundry shops and pharmacies sell your kind, you know that", I answered honestly.

"Like when he bought the Island Toothbrush?", Toothbrush who has been quiet for sometime suddenly snapped. Wow, so bitchy, I thought to myself, half-amused, half blistered.


Silence.


"Do you miss him too?", Toothbrush broke the silence, looking directly into my eyes. I could not answer the question, so I awkwardly looked down to my feet. I should have known this was coming.

"I see you sigh in here, in front of the mirror, every morning since he left. You must miss him a lot too huh? How long have you been with him anyway? 8 years isn't it?", Toothbrush insisted.

I was tongue-tied. I sighed, still looking at my feet; my whole body trembled so hard I had to lean against the wall.

And yet again, I slowly bled inside.


I took a deep breath. I forced out a smile for them.

"It'll be alright, Toothbrush. It'll be alright", I said, petting Toothbrush's head, bid them all goodbye and quickly left the toilet.

I got a life that I had to keep on living.

When There is a Will ...

The man is running on the beach in his red swim trunk.

I see his calf and thigh muscles bulging and contracting in the rhythm of his steps, his biceps and triceps screaming for attention in every swing of his arms, his naked torso glistening under the evening sun like the polished sculpture of a Greek god. His stomach was flat and taut, with not even an inch of flab. The heaving chest was boasting a pair of perfectly-formed pectoral muscles, and I could not pull my eyes away from it.

"Oh God, I'm staring at man-boobs!" I feel disgusted as I pressed the button on the remote control.

With a blink the television screen turned blank, wiping off the fantasy lifeguard. Only if reality could be turn off with such ease, I wished.

I was slumped on the sofa of my living room, with a cup of instant noodle in my hand. As I slurped away the last strand of the noodle, I sneaked a peek down my legs. The pair of pudgy limbs reminded me of snooker table's legs. Instead of a flat steely washboard, my tummy was a bouncing, rotund ball of flesh. I pinched the flesh around it, and held those two inches of flab between my fingers. And if there was such a thing as a male-bra, I probably needed a B-cup for the sagging twins.

"You too can have a dream body. Don't give up!"

I turned my head to the direction of the voice.

It came from the treadmill standing proudly at the corner of the room. I was totally freaked out when it spoke to me for the first time, but now I was used to it. The treadmill was no ordinary exercise machine. It was the top-of-the-range PTX3000 model with a grey plastic console that housed an 8'' LCD monitor and assortment of buttons. From a touch-sensitive heartbeat sensor to muscle-density measurement, it had more than enough tools to tell me how in or out of shape I was. It even had a DVD drive and built-in TV receiver to ensure endless hours of entertainment while I was sweating it out. The console was held between two white metallic arms, which looked like the twin neck of the machine that linked the console to the running mill below. The running belt was made of durable plastic with a layer of black soft rubber to provide cushion to the user. There was a handle at both side of the machine, clad in matching black rubber grip, and the handles were adjustable to the height of the user.

No doubt that the machine was engineered to provide maximum comfort and safety while pushing the user to the limits of physical perfection. Else I would not have bought it two months ago.

During the first few days I woke up an hour early than usual to jog on the treadmill. Then in the evening I spent another hour sweating it out before dinner. I felt so alert and alive for that few days, until day number five. That morning I woke up with chains of lethargy coiled around my body. Every movement of my limbs was accompanied by throbs of pain. Apparently on my way to the fitness nirvana, I got sidetracked into the hall of physical suffering. But that was not unexpected, considering I had not exercised regularly for five years. It would take time for my thirty year old body to adapt to this new rigorous regime. Not so easy to be back 'in the zone', so to speak. Thus I told myself to take it easy; not to overdo it and think of long-term.

"Don't learn to fly before you learn to walk!" I quoted the Chinese proverb to myself, and grinned. Not everyone could turn words of wisdom into weapon of procrastination.

So that day I lowered my expectation and revised the work out schedule. I rewarded myself with a one-day break between three consecutive workout days. The three to one ratio sounded good. Or at least for a week it did. One cold and rainy morning a week later, I pulled the blanket over my head, and revised my schedule to a more reasonable and humane ratio of one-one.

Once my will power wavered, the ratio became alive; fluctuating and changing on its own. As of this morning, two months after I first stepped on the treadmill, the ratio was at one-seven. Yes, it had been seven days since I last touched the machine.

"Mr. Chua, it has been seven days, four hours and thirty seconds since the last time you used PTX3000. Please do not give up. It's never easy in the beginning, but it's always worth it in the end," said the syrupy female voice from the console, coaxing me back onto the painful path to physical perfection.

Its advertising blurb was not lying when it claimed 'Having a PTX3000 is like having a personal trainer at home!' I just did not expect it to nag at me! It started two days ago, and the frequency of the advices had been increasing gradually. Worst of all, there was no way of shutting it up. I already pulled its plug from the socket, but apparently the treadmill came with an internal battery in its console. More than a few times I had considered using an axe to hack the machine into pieces, but its three-thousand ringgit price-tag killed that notion.

I was about to call them to complain when my hand phone rang.

"Good evening, Mr Chua," a familiar voice cheerfully greeted me.

"My name's Agnes, and I'm calling from Perfect Solution. We've been receiving feedback from Ir PTX3000 treadmill, and we understand that you're not actively using it."

"Are you serious?" I asked incredulously.

"Yes sir! We're very serious about our customer's fitness. Here at Perfect Solution we …"

"I meant the treadmill actually sent feedback to you guys?" I cut her off.

"Yes sir! Our treadmills are programmed to inform us if the customer is not benefiting from their investment."

Wow. Not only the machine knows how to nag me to exercise, it also can seek help from outside. I could not help but being impressed.

"We ran a thorough scan on your machine, and found no mechanical or software defect. So pardon us for being so direct, but we feel the problem is you, Mr Chua."

Guilty as charged, I said nothing.

"If it's convenient, we would like to invite you to our office tomorrow. We would like to work with you on an alternative plan, or at least refund your purchase."

Wow! While many companies out there promised refund, this is the first time a company actually offered me a refund on its own accord and initiative. No complain letter was needed. Without a single word of threat uttered. And it was not even their product's defect or anything like that.

Something was definitely not right.

***

The next afternoon I was at the showroom of Perfect Solution in MegaValley shopping mall.

"Good afternoon, sir. Welcome to Perfect Solution," a young lad cheerfully greeted me as soon as I stepped into the showroom.

"Hi, good afternoon. I'm here to see Ms. Agnes Lim," I told him.

"Oh, you must be Mr Chua. Please follow me this way, sir!" The sales personnel escorted me into one of the consultation rooms at the back. It was a small rectangular room with a low wooden table in the middle, and a three-seat leather sofa at one side. An aquarium filled with myriad species of small colourful fishes was perched on a wooden cabinet on the opposite side of the room.

"Would I like some coffee or tea, Mr Chua?" he asked with a smile.

"Coffee will be great, thanks!" I answered. He nodded and left the room.

Barely two minutes later, there was a knock on the door, and a young lady stepped into the room. She was wearing a buttoned-down white shirt with black mini-shirt, which accentuated her curvy figures. Her hair was short, and tinted light brown to compliment the colour of her twinkling set of eyes. She found the perfect balance; looking very appealing without compromising her aura of professionalism.
"Hi, Mr Chua! I'm Agnes," she flashed a winning smile and held out her hand.

As soon as both of us were seated on the sofa, an elderly lady arrived with a tray of beverages and cookies. Everything seemed to operate with a clockwork precision here.

"Mr Chua, as I mentioned on the phone last night, we're very concerned about the drop of activity level in your fitness programme," her voice was soft, but firm. "And based on our latest anabolic and vital rates analysis, we do not believe that you have any physical difficulty to continue enjoying the PTX3000. Therefore, sorry if we're too direct, the problem is your mind. To be specific, you lack of the necessary will power to stay on the difficult path towards your physical well-being. "

That was a nice way to tell me that I was a lazy bum with no discipline to exercise. She flashed her million-dollar smile again, and I wondered who could ever get angry to that face?
"Well, I guess it's my fault. Sometimes I just feel too lazy to work out," I admitted.

"Don't worry, Mr Chua. That's why we're here today. I believe everyone can have a dream body. We'll help you with to achieve it. Just don't give up!" her voice syrupy sweet.

Suddenly I recognize the voice. It was the same voice from my treadmill console, but with a subtle yet important difference. Each word coming from that girl had the warmth of emotions, compared to the cold, robotic intonation by the machine. Perhaps that was something technology still cannot duplicate. Not yet, anyway.

"How are you going to help me? And how much do I have to pay?" I cheekily asked. There was no such thing as a free lunch.

She took out a piece of paper from her leather briefcase and handed it over to me.

"This is a cheque for three thousand one hundred ringgit. It's the refund for your treadmill, plus addition goodwill payment for all your troubles."

I paused for a moment, and then looked straight into her eyes, "So what's the catch?"

Her eyes suddenly twinkled with excitement, and the sweetness of her smile was raised to another level. It was so saccharine that I could have drunk the coffee on the table without a single pinch of sugar, and not noticed the difference. It would not be easy to say 'no' to her, whatever she was going to sell to me.

"The condition of the refund is simply; you have to try these on for at least 2 hours."

Agnes reached inside her briefcase again, and pulled out a silver envelope. The packaging reminded me of the facial masks that my ex-girlfriend religiously wore at night. She tore open the envelope, and pulled out a round silver patch the size of a fifty cent coin. It looked like those nicotine patch used by smokers to quit their habit.

"This is one of those medicine patches, right?" I asked.

She nodded, and explained, "Not quite, but it's something like that."

"You guys want me to try some drugs in order for me to get a refund?" The tide of anger suddenly rose inside my chest. I knew there must be a catch somewhere; most probably customized training programmes or other schemes that cost me money. But never in a thousand years would I have imagined their audacity to push drugs.

"We're not going to put any drug into your body, Mr Chua. Instead, the patch will imbue you with something that has been lacking in your system lately," Agnes replied calmly. The smile never left her face.
"And what may that be?"

She stared into my eyes, and gave me an enigmatic look.

"Trust me, Mr Chua. You're not going to believe if I tell you."

***

My feet felt as if I was running barefooted on shards of glasses. My lung was breathing in pebbles of fire, which were burning my spine. The world was spinning around me, urging me to end this torture; to collapse.

"Hang on there, Mr Chua! You're very close to your target, but not quite there yet," the robotized voice of Agnes gave me the encouragement.

"Yes, I can do it! I must do it!" my voice shouted inside my head.

About a minute later, I could feel the roller began to slow down, letting me warm down as I trotted towards my targeted distance.

"Congratulations, Mr Chua! You've completed a 2.5 km run today!" the voice came from the console three minutes and seven seconds later.

I wobbled off the treadmill and sunk down onto my sofa; indifferent to the disgusting fact that my perspiration had drenched the fabric cushion. With a practiced gesture, I flicked open a can of 100 Plus and downed its content with a long, slow but uninterrupted gulp. My body was sore and battered, but not my mind. I was happy, and frankly, insatiable. I felt like running another kilometer, but I knew the roller would not move another inch. That was another one of its high-tech features; it would push its user to the physical limits, but by using its complicated bio-metric sensors it ensure that he would not step over the line. I threw a glance at the workout chart on the wall, next to the treadmill. I had not missed a single day of the new fitness programme prepared by Agnes during our meeting eight days ago.


When she first told me about the patch, I laughed in her face.

"Oh, come on! I think this is one hell of an original idea. But, come on, you expect anyone to believe that?" I scoffed at her explanation. To her credit, her smile was as enchanting and sweet as ever.

"Honestly, this is the first time I heard of anything as absurd like this. Your marketing people get high marks not only for originality, but also bravery for even trying to pull this off. You're really insulting the intelligence of your customers! " I ranted on and on, hoping for a reaction from her. But there was none. In fact, the look from her eyes suggested that this was not the first time such accusations were thrown onto her face.

"Mr Chua, I know the concept is very radical. Your reaction is totally to be expected, and understandable," she explained calmly. She was good, very good indeed.

"This patch is the end product of many years of scientific researches by some of the top scientists in the world. It's touted as one of the biggest technology break-through in the past fifty years."

I threw a cold, skeptical stare into her eyes and she returned it with the conviction of an acolyte.

"You're serious?"

She nodded her head.

"Oh, hell! No use for me to argue this with you. If I put this on for two hours, I will get my refund back, right?"

"Yes. That is, if you still want to return the treadmill to us. Which I really doubt so," she was beaming with confident.

"No drugs or other illegal substances, right?" I needed more assurance.

"Yes, we guarantee that. It's stated in black and white in our Refund Form. Our patch has no drugs or illegal chemical." She pushed the piece of paper across the table towards me.

"It contains only pure will power," she proudly claimed.

There. She said it again. I did not hear it wrongly earlier. The patch was designed to imbue the user with doses of will power. It would increase our enthusiasm and fortify our mental strength to overcome laziness and reluctance. Just like the way those colorful pills at pharmacy counter help our body to produce vitamins.

"We always maintain the high quality of our products, so the will power in our patch is sourced only from proven athletes," she elaborated.

"Athletes?"

"Yes. From our research, we know that athletes have the strongest will power to perform daunting physical exercises. In search of excellence, most of them have to go through endless hours of training, and even overcome the pain-barrier to reach another level of physical perfection," she elaborated.

"I just hope you guys didn't source it from our local footballers!" I jested.

"No, sir, God-forbid! We always maintain the highest level of quality in our products!"

I smiled. It was an interesting concept, but I was still skeptical.

But that was eight days ago.

Today, after using a few packs of the patches, I am a believer. I had never felt so much enthusiasm and willingness, pardon the pun, to exercise as I did in the past eight days. Not even in the days of my youth. The Will Power patch was really a miracle product.

After taking a long shower, I picked up my hand phone and called Agnes.

"Mr Chua! It's so nice to hear from you again," she exuded enthusiasm, as usual.

"Yeah, same here. I just want to tell you that I'm really impressed with your Will Power patch," I told her. Of course I realized she must have already known it, since my PTX3000 was feeding them with my progress reports

"I'm glad that you're happy with our products. I believe you're getting the appropriate returns from your investment now. The samples we gave you were the extract from local athletes. When you're ready, we'll recommend upgrades to International Athletes, and finally to our Olympian Winners patch."

"Yeah, OK." I paused for a moment. "Listen, I'm really intrigued by this wonderful scientific breakthrough, so I'm wondering if there's anyway I can find out more about it."

"Sure, Mr Chua. There's a book titled Neuroscience Evolution by Prof. Alfred Milton. Outside retail price for the book is RM345, but for our customers we're offering a 20% discount."
"Huh? You guys are selling book on this subject?" my voice was layered with surprise.

"We've received so many similar enquiries from our clients. It's only natural for people to be very interested in such a marvelous technology, so our marketing department thought it would be sensible to include the book as our after-sales service," Agnes explained.

"Ok. I think I'll get the book. But it's written by this professor guy, right? I'm just a supervisor in a supermarket, with no degree or what-so-ever knowledge in this neutro-science stuff. Would I have trouble understanding the book?"

"Oh, you don't have to worry about that, Mr Chua," she assured me.

"We've wide range of Intelligence patches."

DON'T DEPEND ON ME

by Kow Shih Li

I have lived with my aunt for the past thirteen years. She is forty nine and on good days, she looks no more than forty. In forms with blank spaces next to 'Occupation', she writes 'Accountant' but I am much better at managing real money. Due to this simple skill, it is my duty to balance the expenses against her pay cheque and she depends on me to get the bills paid on time. For this, I extend myself a modest allowance every month.

Aunty is my mother's younger sister, born a year apart. My parents died, both in road accidents, five years apart. I was orphaned at seven and Aunty raised me as best she could, which was not too badly at all.

We live in a house which belonged to my parents. Upon their deaths, insurance was a blessing which helped avert financial insecurity during a time of sorrow. Since Mother had been savvy enough to leave a will, the house will be mine when I turn twenty one in two years. Until then, it is held in trust by Aunty. I guess you could say that I put a roof over Aunty's head.

The roof in question is a single storey house on the corner of a street with eight feet of garden on one side and a neighbour called Uncle Thomas on the other. The garden and Uncle Thomas have a love-hate relationship chaperoned by Aunty. The garden is now overgrown with stray vegetation, pandanus gone wild and rogue lemongrass. The beds of chillies and trellis for climbing beans have been overwhelmed by barb-headed weeds, light-sapping creepers and shrubs that turn overnight into trees with thorny green trunks.

I have tried for a long time to persuade Aunty to allow that man on a motorbike to bring in his machete, motorized grass cutter and towel around his face to clean it up. She refuses. The little jungle has its fingers now on the doorstep of our kitchen. It stays just outside the boundary of what is acceptable through Aunty's sheer force of will and the fact that she occasionally pours a jerry can of kerosene on the edge and throws a half finished cigarette on it.

There was a time not so long ago when we had fresh chillies to pound and pandan leaves to put in our desserts. Smiling neighbours up to ten houses away came to cut fragrant stalks of lemongrass from our garden. There were ladies fingers hanging from the trellis and watermelons pregnant on the vine under that. We even had two rows of spinach planted on raised beds.

That was the time when Uncle Thomas could be found in our garden every evening digging, trimming, watering and tending to the little plot while Aunty made tea and white bread toast with butter and sugar. They would sit looking at the chillies until the sky turned dark with crows flying home to roost.

Uncle Thomas never stayed for dinner. Maybe because Aunty never asked him to. She was not a very good cook. I tried hard to eavesdrop crouching low under the window near the kitchen but I never overheard a conversation. I think they hardly talked. Maybe that is how things are when you get older. The only sign I saw in my covert observations, like a view you get when a curtain lifts momentarily in a short breeze, was the one time I saw Uncle Thomas pluck a leaf from Aunty's hair. She put her heart in her eyes when she smiled at him.

After the visits stopped, Aunty tended our garden with a vengeance. "I don't have to depend on him,' she would say with anger breaking her voice. It was during this period of manic gardening that Uncle Thomas dyed his grey streaks black and brought his Vietnamese bride home. We saw his friends come for dinner and barbecue sessions. We were never invited.

The garden grew erratically under Aunty's rage. The chillies shrunk in fear and the ladies fingers dropped off before they were more than the size of a baby's thumb. The spinach, on the other hand, grew larger with coarse, defensive leaves that were inedible. The watermelons split open before they could ripen and soon, Aunty stopped trying.

Then, she started collecting men. Of all shapes and sizes. Men who rang our doorbell and opened their car doors for her. Men who called and stayed on the telephone line for hours. Men she never spoke about to me. Their names eluded me but I knew them by the cars they drove. There was the one in a baby blue Volvo 740, a gaunt man who always stood outside the gate finishing a cigarette while waiting for Aunty to step out in her high heels. One in a silver Ford Laser sedan with glasses and broad ties. Another in a green diesel Pajero who always said 'Hello, young man' if I answered the door. A balding dandy in a black two door Honda Civic hatchback, in jeans and white shirts. A chauffeured executive in a Mercedes Benz who never got out of the back seat, not even when Aunty was trying to lock the gate holding up her long dress in one hand and her purse in the other.

I sometimes see Uncle Thomas do things I am not meant to see. Like when he checked Aunty's tyre pressure when the car was parked outside. Or the time he picked up our morning papers and put them under our porch because it looked like rain. Or oiling the hinges of our gate. Small signs of care or remorse, I did not know which. Aunty never noticed or pretended not to see.

I often wanted to ask Aunty if she was happy but we never spoke of such things. Like the other day, when the words were just behind my teeth. I opened my mouth and instead, told her that I was doubling my allowance, just for this month. It was so that I could go to Pulau Tioman with my girlfriend after the exams.

"Don't depend on me to take care of you," she said as she was wont to say these days. She knew I knew I did. I relied on her income to put me through school. On her presence as the only living relative I have. I depend on her to feed and clothe me the same way the garden depended on Uncle Thomas. To be stopped from growing wild and unkempt from lack of care. I do not understand why she says what she does.

Without warning, last Friday, she fell unconscious walking to the sink with the dinner dishes. When I called, Uncle Thomas climbed over the dividing wall in our backyard and carried her into the car. He drove like a madman to the emergency ward of the nearest hospital.

A tiny clot had grown in the one of her many arteries. Like a miniature stopcock, it blocked the free passage of blood to a part of Aunty's brain. Deprived of oxygenated blood to feed and keep it alive, this part of her brain died and along with it the nerves and puppet strings it was attached to. Aunty lost the use of her left side and her speech.

I saw frustration in her eyes and shame in the set of her head. When I fed her, her lower lip could not close over the spoon. Her eyelid sagged with her cheek as though her face was carved of butter and left out to melt. Her tongue lolled in her mouth and I knew it could not mould the sound coming from her throat into words. She could have spoken and I would have learnt to understand her but she stayed totally silent for five months.

I suspected that she tried to speak when she was alone, away from prying ears. No one would hear then that her consonants sounded like vowels and imagine her tongue like a wooden spatula filling her mouth. I guessed at this because when she did speak, it was clearly audible and the words were perfectly formed.

She said,"You can't depend on me now." There were no tears.

"It's OK, Aunty. You can depend on me," I said.

I wanted to hold her hand then but I did not. I wanted to say that I was so afraid she would die when she was at the hospital and I would be a seven year old again in a funeral parlour. But I did not. I said, "Uncle Thomas and I are going to start fixing up the garden."

Uncle Thomas and I tore up the wilderness in our backyard. We planted a carpet of soft, springy grass, a border of tiny star-like purple flowers and a climbing plant with bold yellow trumpet blooms which hugged the perimeter fence. The structured fronds of big palms shaded a multitude of plants with variegated leaves. Begonias on the ground and hanging pots of flowering petunias looked like candy kisses on some mornings. Our garden became a profusion of pretty things.

On some evenings, Uncle Thomas and I sit on the porch looking at the morning blooms close into themselves and put their heads down. Occasionally, his wife would come over with 2 cans of 100-Plus and dainty snacks laid out on a plate. She would sit with us for a while with a smile on her smooth, young face. Sometimes, we would just sit in the gathering gloom of dusk and wonder about what goes on inside my house.