Stephen King tried writing an online novel which failed. How I can succeed if the master himself failed? Well, here are the first 1k words of “My Malaysia”.
My Malaysia
Malaysia used to be very different, not so long ago. I shouldn't be the one to say this as I wasn't born here, but really in Australia, 47 years ago. Near the then newly cleared outback where they were constructing Canberra -Oz's planned capital city.
But that hot and dry day, we were standing on the rim of Borneo's Bakun dam, where I had proposed a modification to the turbine feeds. Just a simple laminar module that when inserted into the shaft, sped up the outflow of water more towards the edges of the turbine blades for a 300% increase in power.
There hadn't up to now, been a Malaysian innovation so exportable. Our government-linked firm had easily won the contract to modify China's Three Gorges Dam and collected their extremely generous reward. Nothing like beating reliance on US controlled oil and gas to the hungry Chinese economy.
Earlier that year, I had influenced, by petition, a 'yes' to the joint Malaysian-Thai construction of the shipping canal that would effectively split our peninsular into an island. Talks went on late into the humid night, about a new regional capital in the Malay heartland, by the mouth of the new canal. "Kota Madani", was the mooted name for the soon to be bustling port city. And with the East Coast High Speed Rail Link, it meant that east of the Bintang range would at last develop. Exactly how, and how much was up to the Sultans as it involved a huge projection of power between Johor and Singapore in the south. Power to change lives for the better -Malay and Chinese, together.
This was not to mention the transformation that solar latices were making Down Under. Previously thought to be impossible due to strong gusts, the looping latices and expanding-contracting wind catcher-buds had made renewable energy a viable option to coal in Australia for the first time. I had not been to my birth country in 43 years and due to the Covid pandemic, had been avoiding long haul flights abroad. I longed to see these technologies deployed firsthand, to touch the metal, and to visit with my family, now settled in Melbourne.
One afternoon, as I was walking through Mutiara Damansara, I visited the manager's office. All the innovations I had made had given me a green pass to people such as I was about to ask, does anyone play the piano in the foyer anymore? No, she said. Not since the pandemic. He was this bald Korean guy with fingers faster than his memory, I said. Yes, the manager giggled. Should I play here instead? I asked. There's no budget for that, I was told. Then may I loan your baby grand? She nodded, if you pay to have it moved.
The house me and my folks had in Paramount Gardens was practically a shoebox. Wind rushed straight through from the front door to the back, which opened up directly to the rear of an art gallery that used to be a Chinese coffee shop wet kitchen. There is a picturesque lane of houses crawling up a slope nearby where owners had stood flowerpots and painted their walls in coordinated sunny hues, kind of like a Malaysian Spanish Steps, or something you'd see in a San Fran neighborhood. I liked the idea of having our back door open, with the breeze coming in. So one day I made a petition for it as well.
Nora was a tall and weedy Malay 20-something who wandered into our house one late afternoon after prayers on Friday. She said she could hear a piano as she leaned in on my room door which was ajar. Are you playing Mozart, she asked? No, but I'm trying to do it -something similar, I replied. She laughed good naturedly, in a gentle way, if Mozart were drunk, she said. I am very avantgarde, I defended myself. As am I, she said. She sat down by me on the bench and began to unspool her own music. "I had a feeling it would end this way, no more to say, just the breaking of the waves..." Nora sang the sad lullaby -a tale of jealousy among her people, as I accompanied on bamboo flute. At the end, we both had a good laugh -at how well we coordinated.
She turned to leave, so I called, can I see you again tomorrow? For it was just before the weekend. Maybe, she thought. And her eyes were dark like ripe kurma (dates), her lashes like the drizzles of sweet date nectar. And her unvarnished lips said, -not. Not? My heart fell. Her hands went to the pin of her tudung (hijab) and hesitated there. My place is better, she smiled conspiratorially.
The Korean pianist did eventually turn up, albeit at a more posh location -the TRX Exchange. As Mutiara gently degraded into a Thai-Singaporean-held economy oriented strip of malls. I knew the baby K. Kawai was mine to keep!
Caitlin was only 15 when she came for piano lessons with me. There were no other teachers nearby so her Mom dropped her off at my place from just a kilometer away. I know who you are, she said, rocking and squeezing her full breasts as she made a downturned 'v' with her tensed arms. You're the Mehedi! No, of course not, I corrected, I'm Christian -and it's a job called the Madani evangelist. But you're a prophet, she continued undiscouraged. No, not at all. I just have a ticket to heaven from Jesus and can read people through their expressed thoughts and behaviors. I'm just another bucket in the bucket line to save the world, and you've passed me your bucket.
Haha- Caitlin laughed openly. Prophecy is like launching a rocket. Ever heard of the rocket launch train wreck? Or how an arrow bends like crazy just after you fire it? No, she pouted. Well, prophecy has to be moved and then it moves. A very heavy thing moved from far behind generates a lot of commotion, sometimes suffering -if you weren't spiritually prepared.
She had then wandered into our kitchen and began pouring herself some Robert Timms black coffee. Do you think I'm fat? She asked. Actually, yes, a little -but don't be offended. Fat people deserve love too, she cooed. I think we should get engaged. My Mom can get us the rings. I didn't know what to say and must have looked like a gutted roasted chicken so Caitlin smiled at her good fortune. And we carried on the lesson.
-END OF PART 1-
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