There is a saying that goes something like, 'Change is the only constant'. I hate change. I sobbed hysterically on my last day of year 6. 'I know everyone, everyone knows me, how can I leave this place where I grew up?' I weeped as I walked the corridors on the last day of my time as a high-schooler. I wasn't leaving the school, only moving up a year. But without half of my year group; my friends, my confidants, my safety net. Tears trickled down my face as I turned back to look at the institute which had raised me on my last day of year 13. 'I'm grown-up now', I thought. Things will never be the same again. 3 years later, I had that same sickly feeling when leaving university. And then again 3 years after that, on my last day in the office where I actually 'grew up'.
Monday, 17 September 2012
History Books
There is a saying that goes something like, 'Change is the only constant'. I hate change. I sobbed hysterically on my last day of year 6. 'I know everyone, everyone knows me, how can I leave this place where I grew up?' I weeped as I walked the corridors on the last day of my time as a high-schooler. I wasn't leaving the school, only moving up a year. But without half of my year group; my friends, my confidants, my safety net. Tears trickled down my face as I turned back to look at the institute which had raised me on my last day of year 13. 'I'm grown-up now', I thought. Things will never be the same again. 3 years later, I had that same sickly feeling when leaving university. And then again 3 years after that, on my last day in the office where I actually 'grew up'.
Tuesday, 28 August 2012
The 'God' Conversation
Tuesday, 17 July 2012
Home-grown
That was the last time I ever saw her. When I was 12, my mum invited some of her friends over for a garden dinner party. There, she casually let slip that one of the girls from ‘the help’ had died a month ago. And that it was sad because she was the youngest, and such a sweet girl. My heart came up into my mouth. I could not breathe. Dead? How is that possible? She must be, what, 20? It can’t be. Only old people die. I ran inside and sat very still, waiting for the wave of pain to pass over me. And then it came – crashing out in tears and yelps I didn’t even know existed in such a little person.
Friday, 6 July 2012
One of Us
In the shadows of this great despair, you can but only hope that peace comes in the form of realisation - that life is fragile, and people don't live forever. That love and kindness are the foundations of living well. And that without one another, we are merely empty vessels, floating aimlessly.
Tuesday, 3 July 2012
Countdowns
On the odd occasion, however, even words fail me…
I think the hardest thing I’ve learnt (and admittedly, am still learning), is that at some point you have to relinquish control. Sometimes, there just isn’t a justification. Sometimes, there isn’t a comprehensive explanation to alleviate your unsettled heart. Sometimes, it is what it is. And there lies the irony – despite its simplicity, that is perhaps the most difficult lesson to grasp.
As my countdown continues, I realise with every year that I am more willing to acknowledge and accept my flaws. I never realised how difficult that was before. Was I ever foolish and self-absorbed enough to think that I was perfect? Or is it just that experience taps relentlessly at that hard exterior shell, until you are forced to confront those uncomfortable realities you’ve been trying so hard to conceal all this time?
Sunday, 1 July 2012
'The One'
It’s difficult, of course. One table, four girls and four boys – five minutes to introduce yourselves to one another, and then the boys rotate to another table. The idea is that you get a fair idea of the person, and note down their ‘badge number’ should you want to talk to them further. Once that’s over, lunch is served and you are free to proceed to ‘The Wall of Profiles’ to find out more about your badge-crush. Should you be satisfied by what you read, mount your steed in search for the fair maiden, and ask to speak with her further. The idea isn’t abominable. The potentials, however, are.
Badge Number X: I’m X, 27, I live in Ilford, I’m a businessman; I own three chicken shops – you know – us Asians – gotta’ have the chicken *pervy and unnecessary wink and nudge, followed by snorting laughter*….You know Ilford Station, yeah?
Me: yes…
Badge Number X: Turn right, yeah – an’ you see those ‘free shops on the right, yeah? They’re ALL mine.
Me: …
If anything has saved, and simultaneously destroyed the idea of marriage, it is those infuriating Hollywood rom-coms, with the dazzlingly unobtainable Ryan Gosling, gushing with love for the woman of his dreams – who, by the way, is always much less attractive and ‘obtainable’, but realistically, will never be one of us.
But here we are, at Shannon’s Nightclub, obviously with a view of getting married, and me having accepted that you will never be Ryan Gosling, just like I will never be J Lo. But perhaps we can be the starring couple in our own love story? Let’s give it a go. What would you like to ask me?
“Would you live with your in-laws?”
Yes, your situation may require that question to be asked first. But here’s some advice: deliver the question with a little more enthusiasm instead of your current, grim reaper expression. How am I to envision you as being someone I could love, when you currently look like my executioner? With that face, I am AFRAID to live with my potential in-laws – are they part of a cult? Do they gut daughters in law like fish? “I’m a doctor.” I’m going to assume that’s your attempt at remedying the current situation. Okay, I’ll happily meet you half way. “Oh, that’s interesting. Have you specialised in anything?”
“I’m a General Practitioner.” … Please, tell me more… Or not. Yes, that’s a better idea – just sit there with your arms folded, and that foul expression on your face. I will consequently think of and sympathise with London’s diseased and decapitated who will have to face a doctor with no bedside manner – or any manners at all, for that matter.
Saturday, 24 December 2011
The Opportunity for Happiness

My only clear memory of Christmas was when I was eight. I desperately wanted the Christmas tree experience. My parents had celebrated Christmas with my sisters before I was born. Naturally, they grew out of it, as did my siblings.
One late afternoon, I ventured into the garage and found the abandoned, rustic tree from almost a decade ago, with a small cardboard box of tattered decorations. I peered down at history: a paper fairy angel, with a halo made from a yellow pipe cleaner, wrapped delicately in electric gold tinsel; a mesh of dark green wires with some of the tiny bulbs missing; and the real treasure – glass baubles, and lots of them.
I blew off the dust from the loot, and excitedly carried it into the house. I found the perfect spot: just in the corner, by our small, bulky television, and the settee.
It felt like forever till I was done. I stood back and marveled at the Christmas tree. Thinking back, it couldn’t have been much bigger than I was but at that moment, I was overcome by a warm, tingling sensation that seemed so much greater than I was. It wasn’t, of course, the thought of the tree that filled me with such joy. It was the presents I had secretly bought for my parents and sisters, which I would now have the great joy of wrapping and placing under the tree. The excitement was intoxicating – I could not wait to see their reactions, to feel loved, thought of. To me, the gift itself meant very little. A “FRIENDS” ring binder would not scream ‘glamour’ to my 16-year-old sister. Neither would the mug bearing the words “World’s Best Mum” express my love and affection for my mother. But I did, indeed, love them – however broken we were – ‘they are my family,’ I thought, buying the little meaningless tokens with my pocket money. I just wanted to make them smile.
That Christmas, there were only four presents under the tree. I remember my parents looking quite embarrassed, and perhaps even a little sad that they hadn’t placed anything under the tree for me. But it didn’t matter. However silly, however unnecessary, the gesture had made them smile, and for a short while, everyone was happy.
Fast-forward fifteen years, and not much has changed. I get the same feeling when gifting someone something. Gift shopping is my favourite kind, and I think it’s because at the root of it, I still feel like I’m eight – attempting to find ways of making everyone, including myself, happy.
Things are indeed immaterial in this world. No one takes their worldly possessions with them. But my grandmother always pondered, “How can you be happy if the people you love aren’t?” And so giving became the opportunity to make someone happy. So, what’s wrong with that?
Well, I have learnt recently that the world isn’t that black and white – and neither is the perception of one’s intentions.
As the world got larger, and more complicated – with money taking an all-consuming, toxic form - words like ‘gluttony’, ‘excess’ and ‘grandeur’ quickly became associated to giving. It was no longer about the opportunity to create happiness, but instead, a display of over-indulgence.
There is great nobility in thinking of those who are less fortunate – those who suffer on a daily basis with the necessities, which we often take for granted. I fail to see why the concept of giving is blamed for this, however.
Holidays, like Christmas, they say, have become spectacles of consumerism. But why? For me, there is nothing wrong with a holiday which reminds us to be thoughtful, to be giving, to love and to create opportunities for happiness. Yes, that should be our objective as human beings on a daily basis. But we are not perfect. And days can be terrible – horrific, even. What’s wrong with an annual, global reminder to put those you love first?
Sadly, money has become imperative to life. So undoubtedly, it is sensible for one not to treat it with complete disregard. Yet my grandmother’s words have never proven wrong – ‘If you give the last five pounds in your pocket to someone else, I guarantee God will find a way of giving you more in return.’ And she was right. I have never thought twice about spending on someone else, because somehow, incredibly – when the intention is there, the money is too. So it becomes secondary – and in fact – irrelevant. For me, there is no concept of money when you choose to give.
An advert by John Lewis warmed my heart this year, and for me, illustrates not only the spirit of Christmas, but the spirit of giving altogether - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pSLOnR1s74o
People choose to live their lives in different ways. Though I feel I should have to provide no justifications for how I choose to live mine, it hurts when people denounce giving to just money – what a horribly empty perspective on something so wonderful – the opportunity to create happiness.