Karma, a Sanskrit word, means action, work or deed; it also refers to the spiritual principle of cause and effect where intent and actions of an individual (cause) influence the future of that individual (effect). Quote from Wikipedia.

Only the last decade, I heard the word used in a lot of conversations, loosely, frequently, casually. Almost become a cliche. Good karma, bad karma; simple and to the point. It is a short version of saying: you reap what you sow, or you get what you give, what goes round comes round, whatever you do comes back to haunt you, in a coarser form: you will bloody pay for it one day.

My mum’s version of karma was very dark and senseless. It was directed at me from the time I learned to speak till she breathed her last breath.

I must have done something bad my previous life to you and you come back this life to revenge. You worthless girl.

There is a superstitious belief that if you are barren, adopt a girl. She will bring a little brother for the family. I failed to do that.

I said to her on her death bed: sorry mama, next life, I guarantee we will meet again. you can take all the anger out on me.. … I am sorry because I have not brought you any happiness.

When I was young, such accusations did not make sense to me. She and I? We knew each other in our previous lives? What time frame? How long ago? Which period?

Was it like the Chinese operatic movie; me, the big landlord… hang on hang on, CUT! I prefer to be a learned scholar, handsomely dressed in a silk outfit, accompanied by my pageboy whose duties were to carry books, grind ink with a pestle, prepare scrolls for me. Me, with a fan in my hand, strolling leisurely down a busy lane in a market gathering day. Looking for maybe a good calligraphy, a collectable vase, …

A beggar in rags held out her filthy hands for food. A loud belch came out of me, too much of the deep fried rice stick. So without thinking, I gave the rest of the snack to the beggar, (that is my mum in the previous life). She knelt down, knocked her forehead non stop on the ground, and mumbled : I haven’t eaten for days. Thank you. Thank you. You kind hearted man. I will pay you back next life. I will be your horse, your cow! Your servant, your slave!

So it is not my fault at all! The beggar was too hungry with a murky head and logically uttered stupid promises, our karma!

I was adopted by my adoptive mum when I was 9 days old. My umbilical cord was not even dry. It was wrapped inside a red packet for my adoptive mum to keep. Some medicinal powder, a preservative, was sprinkled on to stop it from decaying. Sounds medically like a DNA sample today, or intentionally, a binding contractual agreement.

Believe it or not, the famous Vermeer painting, the ‘milkmaid’ is very close to my heart. It stirs a lot of emotion inside me. From the 10th day of my life, My diet was Dutch condensed milk. A milkmaid with an apron sewn with a red cross was on the tin label.

While other babies suckled their mothers’ milk, I was overdosed with sugar. When mum couldn’t afford the tin milk, she cooked very watery rice porridge. I drank the liquid part.

True. She didn’t have to adopt me. It was 1952. War had finished but jobs were as rare as chicken teeth. it was the so-called baby boomer time. Contraceptive pills were unheard of. Most families had 7 to 8 children. Some even more. Too many unwanted baby girls. One woman who couldn’t bear children vied for me. She was rejected by my birth mum for being a Malay woman. My birth mum was concerned I would grow up not able to converse with her.

So it was bad karma from my mum’s previous life that she adopted me. My payback time will be next life.

In my innermost soul, I wish I will be a pebble in a small pond in my next life. No one knows or cares about me. Surrounded by water plants shimmering under the sun. the ever changing pattern of the clouds. Fish swimming around me. Frogs croaking before mating. Dragonflies resting on me. I can see my mum feeding the fish daily.

But she hurts me deeply for not knowing the little pebble is there for her. That is my karma.

Murray floating in water

Murray, a brown straw coloured miniature toy poodle became our family member 3 months ago. He was only 3 months old then. So that makes him six months old now. When I first saw him, he was a itty bitty, teeny weenie furry ball, the length of my forearm. He couldn’t even hold a steady walk, staggered left and right like a drunk out of a pub into the high wind.

I will not use the phrase ” a bundle of joy”. Can’t deny he was indeed cute. Besides eating and sleeping like an amoeba, he peed and pooed and farted whenever, wherever, however he felt the need to. You think dogs don’t fart like human? Wrong, wrong, wrong! They do. Just as bad. Careful you sit next to a farting dog.

He loves to sink his baby teeth into any thing near in sight, big or small. Be it a rubber Duckie, a wooden rabbit or a live elephant. But he especially prefers human flesh! I confess I am not a dog person. And I only have 10 fingers, but I don’t grow them for him to feast on.

My old man has a Qantas pyjamas, grey with flying kangaroo logo on the front. It was a prized memorabilia from business class to him. Rarely worn. If he ever wears it, he wears it with pride and a bit of snobbishness!

Hey, everyone of you, attention, attention, (clapping of hands), look at my business class free Qantas pyjamas. Quality cotton. Machine washable. Uh mm, not available anywhere except for a Qantas business class passenger. Business class, you know.

Well, It was the first trip of his life time in business class. So forgive his nose being so uppity in the cloud. Murray seemed to take a strong dislike of that pyjamas or maybe he wanted to bring to our attention his growing canines. Or the logo probably reminded him of a lizard. He aimed his teeth at the proud flying kangaroo logo.. held it tightly between his milk teeth, and would not let go. Wrestling his head like a head of a Chinese lion dance. Old man almost wanted to throw Murray onto the wall and turned him into a minced hot dog minus the tomato sauce. I ran to the rescue, with a handful of poodle treats which resembled tiny shreds of old smelly leather boots.

Ok, back to Murray’s heritage. His parents are from Murray Bridge, a small country town near Murray river in South Australia. It is mainly horticulture where citrus, stone fruit, grapes that farmers make their living on. On top of that agricultural output, it is a livestock slaughter town for pork.

So Murray is a dinky di country dog, born free to gallop, bounce and roll in a vast paddock, chase the chooks and frighten the ducks , dig holes to bury bones, wrestle with his siblings to see who can jump over the paddock fence. To downgrade to a city apartment is animal cruelty.

He is my eldest boy’s pup. Boy lives on his own in a tiny apartment that he can’t swing a cat. Of course, it is never a problem. First, he does not own a cat. Second he does not swing cats.

Boy never discusses any unimportant issues with family. He simply broke the news. I WANT TO GET A DOG! It sounded more disastrous than : mum, my girlfriend is pregnant. You are going to be a grandma, soon!

Did you say DOG? What kind of dog? Why dog? Dogs are made of high octane! Can you handle a dog?

He said every pedigree is under consideration! What kind of answer was that? You meant you hade done your homework? You really are not curious to know my reaction. If you have watched The Wizard of Oz, I tapped tapped, and turned into the wicked witch of the west who cackled at the frightened Dorothy: hehehehe…I am going to get you, pretty and your dog Toto too! Only I didn’t carry a broom and I couldn’t do the cackle.

I ran my fingers with long hook nails round my magic crystal ball. To match his alpha-male image, his choice of dog would be an alpha-dog. Ah ha, there it was. Inside the crystal ball was a Greyhound with a long snout and muscular legs, weighed as much as a baby elephant. That means all his furniture should go.

He said, it would be a toy poodle.

Thank you, thank you to all my gods whom I believe and disbelieve!

Boy cycles to work every day. A short distance only. He puts Murray in the rear basket, a half way stop at a canine playground for Murray’s social life. Of course pee/poopoo too. Walk him round the office block during the day for exercise. Of course pee/poopoo too. In the evening Murray comes to my house because Boy likes my cooking. Murray runs around my vegetable garden triumphantly scaring my four “girls”. The chooks mistook him for a fox, squawking and hurdling together in one corner.

“If the chooks stop laying tomorrow, Murray, you will be dead meat!”

He leapfrogs three flights of stairs and runs away faster than my old man.

Boy talked about vaccinations and showed us some commercials for dog behaviour training. Sit, down, good boy, leave it, stay… he should always walk on your left side. Why left? Why not right? that must be American who drive on the left side. Murray can be in front or behind me. I am very liberal.

Never say negative things like NO! Don’t! You bad dog! No food for you!

Punishments: hehehe, put him in isolation in his pen. Whoa whoa whoa, that is no way to treat a puppy. In the end, he says what he has to say. I do what I have to do. He doesn’t have to know. I will never tell. Murray is good at keeping secrets!

I grew up in a small farm. Blue sky, drifting clouds, sweet breeze, dirt road; the coconut palm leaves orchestrating with the wind, swish, swish swish….Two dogs and one cat. My poh poh (grandma) never stopped complaining when she fed them: you good for nothing, worthless dogs! wasting rice, eat and sleep, eat and sleep! If you ever dare chase my chickens one more time, I have a good recipe for stew: ginger, garlic, five spice, anise seed and cinnamon! And you will end up on my dinner plate! Delicious stew!

And to the cat: There are plenty of rats at night in the chicken coop. You will be eaten by rats one night! You lazy meow. Poh poh could have easily taken the role of the witch from the west, not much make-up needed except for a layer of green avocado mask.

One school holiday, I went with poh poh to an upriver town called Marudi to visit my Aunty. The village was next to the Baram river, the second longest river in Borneo island. I remember all the kids took their daily baths in the river. They dived from high tree branches. SPLASH! the family dogs joined in. My cousins splattered water at each other.

A few logs formed a jetty out to the river. I never swam before. The log looked dangerously like a piece of a tight rope. I was a trapeze taking my first lesson without a teacher. ….steady, steady steady…moving inch by inch, inch by inch out to the other end of the log. Carefully down on four limbs, sat down and finally put my feet into the water. I splashed some water on my body and face. Enough! I don’t have to tell you one more word of my trauma of getting my way back to the land.

So you can’t argue with me. All dogs can swim and they enjoy a splash! Boy said otherwise. His vet said something about over bathing a dog will damage their skin. But Murray loves to play with water while I water my garden. He runs back and forth under the spray. When he is thirsty, he will drink from the fish pond. Fell three times into it. The last time was his fault. I fed the fish, he jumped in for the fish food.

Life cannot always be fun fun fun. Murray should get some proper education. Every evening I sit him down on the lawn, and give him some knowledge about the universe we share. It is summer now. The sky is still bright even though the moon hangs out a pale colour in the bright blue sky at around 8pm. I pointed to the moon and told him that there was a Russian dog, the first living creature, which orbited our earth in 1957. His name was Laika . He was a stray dog! Look, you can achieve a lot too if you put your mind to it! Murray responded by giving licks on my cheeks!

By the way, I speak to Murray in Chinese whereas Boy speaks English to him. You see, Murray is no simple dog.. he is bilingual. We enjoy listening Beethoven together. Don’t laugh! He can hear more musical notes than us!

I don’t remember when I did this painting. Maybe 2 years ago. I was told no one with the right mind would hang it on the wall. A dying child, undernourished. Not auspicious! Not good for the vibes of the home.

Especially superstitious Chinese. If the paintings are not about mountains, water, peonies, carps, horses, pairs of mandarin ducks, the fengshui master would disapprove. He will wag his pointer finger vigorously in front of your nose and issue you a ticket to hell. He would give you a friendly sympathetic slap on your shoulder and kindly advise you go to the beach to appreciate your last sunset.

Are you out of mind? What ? This, this, this piece of catastrophic junk you even paid good money for it? It does not worth one cent. The fengshui master slapped his own forehead hard ! omitaba, omitaba, omitaba!

See what now? Your new mistress has the key to your Lamborghini and you idiot registered it under her name! Soon your wife will run away with a younger man; and the business empire which took you sweat and blood to build……..forget about your friendly bank manager!

Let me press the reset button: your lunar date of birth, you are born in the year of dragon, you are associated with wood. This is the year of fire. Low key, low key. Don’t get burnt into a pile of ashes; the south is your sky; the north is your earth; the western star is right in your orbit and the eastern star has just crossed your path ; your dragon tail is concealed under the clouds! Lucky for you, lucky for you! Namo, namo, your life is hanging on a thread! You are not going to fall head down first.

Screaming: Where is your bin? The bin! where you put your rubbish?

Let me get rid of this bad luck now!!!

whew!

My grandma and my mum left communist China to brave the vast South China Sea to find their new lives in an unknown tropical small fishing village named Miri, then part of North Borneo. My grandma was told this new land was summer all year round. She rather believed Chang-er, a Chinese goddess living on the moon with a rabbit. Yet, it was a deliberate unkind joke to her that there would exist a place with one season only throughout the year.

So my grandma’s biggest wooden trunk was jam packed with cotton padded winter jackets, trousers, quilts, cutlery, spoons and chopsticks. They left China with a few of their church friends.

Miri town had rich reserves of oil. The refinery was and still is situated in Lutong. you get there by crossing a bridge. There was an airfield too.

My grandma obtained a few acres of free land for farming, reared a few chooks and ducks plus managed a little orchard. There was no more starvation to endure. If you wonder why I didn’t mention my grandfather at all, that story will come later. Too long a story. Let me focus on this first.

Then on the dawn of 16/12/1941, the Japanese bombed the bridge, burned Miri town centre and took over the oil field. In my grandma and mum’s case, it’s jumping from ” hot fire into deep waters”, or in western parlance, “jumping from a hot pan into the fire”. They were back to starving again.

I was born after the war. At the age of “know the head, guess the body, question marks on the tail”; when everything was as clear as mud, as tangled as a ball of wool and ever changing like floating clouds. However, The adults’ revulsion against the Japanese devils was perfectly understood by me.

I remember my primary school principal. He never wore any emotion on his face which actually made him unpredictable and therefore fearsome. The day he told our class about the atomic bomb that dropped on Hiroshima, he changed to an approachable being. He was not fearsome any more. His voice trembled, choked and broke. Tears finally ran down his face.

In my teens, the hatred lessened. The town was rebuilt. Japanese goods started invading into our house. And that was the time I learned the word FAKE.

Mum said: Ajinomoto was fake taste enhancer. It could kill you. Japanese invented the Quick three minute (now it is as fast as one minute) noodle. Mum said don’t eat too much. It can kill you. Japanese sewing machine would not last. Buy Singer. Don’t buy Japanese bicycle, buy Raleigh! The anti Japanese sentiment was still running high.

In my twenties, I unthinkingly owned a Hitachi air conditioner in my bedroom. I drove a re-conditioned Mazda sedan. I owned a Sony Walkman. And a second hand Mitsubishi refrigerator!

Now fake is the new norm. Fake building cladding that is not fireproof. Fake food, e.g. Eggs. Fake wine. Fake vaccine. Fake news. Things you buy online are counterfeit, shoes, clothing, Rolex watches…..

Now we can’t tell the real from the fake and the fake from the real! Do I have the Japanese to blame?

I was involved in a hit and run car accident. No, no, no. I was not running away from an illegal act. I didn’t kill or injure anyone. My crime was i scratched a parked car, and failed to report.

i am not here to beg for forgiveness or make excuses to diminish my guilt. Only to state my side of facts.

I was to attend a 1pm dental appointment. Being poked by a sharp object on my tender gum amidst the roaring of a drill as mighty as a jet engine is a ‘ rather die than live” ordeal. So I kept ignoring my dentist’s reminders after reminders. On the other hand, I didn’t want my dentist to think I had already said hello to God at the gate of heaven . So an appointment was made: 1pm 01/02.

Never ask a woman how old she is. You can only make a guess. I was on anti anxiety pill and anti inflammatory tablets for my crooked leg. As I was running late for the one o’clock appointment, my hands uncontrollably started shaking. Nothing seemed to be able to stay still in my trembling hands. They just found their way onto the floor; my sunnies, car key, door key, sun cream lotion. So I swallowed the anxiety pill. And the pill for my crooked leg, to be taken after a meal.

Drowsiness? I felt fine until I had to find a car park. I had inexplicable difficulty doing the reverse park. I blamed my driving instructor ex Miri. I got anxious and tried to drive away for an easier space. As I drove out onto the road, I felt a tight squeeze against the parked car. I knew what had happened but I could not be late for my dental appointment. On top of that I never carry a pen nor pencil nor paper in my handbag. Leaving no contact for the owner was a big misstep.

I gave excuses for myself . Mine was an old bomb, only good for the scrapyard. The other car was a piece of rust. Maybe the scratch didn’t matter so much to the owner. Like adding snowflakes on ice, it would never be discovered.

I never consider myself a bad person. I am just not sure if I am perfect. But I know I am not quite far from it. I do think evil thoughts. I am not an angel. If you slap my right cheek, I will not turn my left cheek. If I am offended, I immediately wish you steps on a banana peel, falls flat and starts looking for your lost teeth scattered over the floor. If a young female infuriates me, I wish she is a spinster the rest of her life. As long as I don’t put my thought into words or act on it, I am a good person. Now, I have on my forehead a branding: You bad girl!

The police called and wanted a report from me. My old man asked me to pack my suitcase in case I had to serve time in jail that night. After all the details were taken in the police station, the officer said: that is it. Thank you!

Do I have to go to jail? He said the jail is fully booked.

I am married to my old man for 38 years. Borne him three sons. And have never felt accepted as part of his family.

It all has a lot to do with my naivety. I am a single adopted child. Growing up mostly in my own world filled with fictional imaginations. Never really understand siblings jealousy.

At the start of primary school, I couldn’t think of any logic why I was always being picked at by some thuggish bitches. Yes, they were taller. A bit. Lots of taunting, jeering, be it my hair cut, my school bag, my uniform. I kept very quiet because I could not speak a word of mandarin. So I hid my weak point, playing dumb. Every now and then their elder sister or brother would come and join this sadistic circus fun. They stood surrounding my seat, forming a human wall and babbled together in a sing song way. I was besieged, trapped, locked in. My only defence, tears, which I had a river of. If i cried, would they flee? No, people. It was entertaining to see someone crying. I remember my study desk was always wet.

Time flew. I was in primary three then. Every kid in the school brought their lunch. That day, I had a hard boiled salted duck egg and rice. A rubber band stretched over the handle to hold down the lid. The lunch kit was brought to the teachers quarter, to be warmed up in a huge wok at around 11am.

One morning, one regular bully, a short stupid boy, not even worth my descriptions, became creative! What if I give her lunch container a kick! By the way, I found bullies generally lack gray matters in their brains.

Hell broke! the container with rice rolled klang Klang Klang to a crescendo all the way to one corner. After it rolled out of steam, it then stopped by a reverberate gradual diminuendo klang k l a n g …..shhh..Then you could hear a hairpin drop. The lid whisked away the other way, and sat quietly. The ceramic spoon broke into tiny mosaics. Rice grains splattered every where on the cement floor . Some in lumps, some in crumbs, could be one by one, two by two; the hard boiled salted duck egg was a toughie. Not a crack!

The whole class was in total silence. It was in fact so comical and hilarious. if some one dared start the first laugh, the whole class would go hysterical. No one dared to hold the belly and laugh. The mischief was carried too far.

I was mad, exclamation mark! I WAS MAD! EXCLAMATION MARKS!!!!

i had a do or die thinking. I wanted to break his neck! Yes!

At my dinner table, I was not allowed to leave one, ONE, even the last grain of rice in my bowl. And here on floor was rice every where, the like of an abstract painting! My brain was frothing. Once it cooled down, I made up my mind. I had nothing to do this mess. Whoever started the set button, faced the consequence! I would not lift even one finger! Not over my dead body! I did not do it. whoever did it cleaned it up! AHH, i could not wait for the afternoon class bell to ring and the class teacher to walk in at that instance to witness this battle field catastrophe!

To show that I was ABOVE the little bastard, I stood up and narrowed my eyes, looked into the frighten eyes of the little mouse. Calmly Sat down again and pretended to read my book. I imagined millions of flies buzzing in, shoving the rice down their throats, then, started reproductions, laying millions of maggots wriggling over each other, and me slumped on my desk, near death!

Then someone in the class started sweeping the rice, the egg into the container. Others followed. Could not find the rubber band. The container was quietly put down next to my seat. A girl shared her lunch with me. It was rice with a duck wing tip plus my tough salted duck egg. I didn’t report the incident to the teacher. Reporting is bad for the bastard. I wanted worst! Let this crime scene be fully blown in front of our teacher! Kill me I dared you! You bastard! Let me die and my spirit would haunt you every day.

I did not even tell my mum. I knew her too well. she would charge into the classroom, grab him by his collar, in her highest decibels: Why did you bully my daughter? Why why why? Your parents never teach you any manners? If my daughter ever ever loses one hair because of you, I will break your dog legs and you crawl on your limbs forever.

How embarrassing! I could look after myself.

How did I look after myself? I didn’t have big brother nor sisters in the school. BUT, If i worked hard, be the top student, be the teachers’ pet? If I could not answer a question, no one in the class dared challenge. I did carry out my promise.

The bullies turned into little mice. Hickory Dickory Dock! The mice went hiding behind the clock!

I made the opening speech for every Saturday’s assembly. I represented my school for inter- school singing contest. My calligraphy was displayed on walls. If there was an important visitor/donator coming, I would be put in the music room to draw more pictures for decoration. Life changed. I had good friends or allies. I was on top of the world !

But marrying into a big family with one brother-in-law, and six sister-in-laws and a traditional mother-in-law did not prepare me for such! Soiled rice is a Cinderella story with a happy ending. Remember the saying : relatives are good in doses, like pickle during a meal, icing on cakes.

A family of eight siblings has a profound problem. Each felt he/she was short changed with love. Constant tug of war! Ever present fault line of tensions. A sister-in-law by marriage is a thorn in their eyes. More monks, less porridge .

I was so naive. From a single lonely child to become a member of a family of brother and sisters, I thanked my lucky star.. I must have done something good my previous life to deserve this. But why did I always sense the unfriendly under current. Not until the day my fifth SIL told me: Shut up! You are not part of our family! That affirmed my sixth sense.

I felt a double edged dagger went straight to my heart. Being adopted away as a mere nine days old baby had an inferior effect that caused my whole mental imbalance. I always felt I was not wanted. Yet to survive, I have an in-built survival mechanism, a pacemaker. It thrusted me back into my normal self in seconds.

Who are you ? Even god spoke to me politely. What makes you think I like to be part of your family? Did I marry into Buckingham palace? Go and fly your kite in the South Pole with penguins.. I will enjoy cuddling my polar bears in my North Pole. Just get out of my sight!

In fact, I only reminded her my three sons carry on the family surname, like it or not. I kept a SAFE distance from her ever since.

Then the soap opera continued. my fourth SIL before a lunch gathering began, told me to move to another seat. She had some thing to talk among sisters. Something that I was not supposed to know. Fine. Not difficult indeed. I would move. But she had to say something so assaulting: As you are second grade in our family, can you move to the other end of the table?

I dodged the first bullet. now I was fired again! SECOND GRADE! Is this some kind of India caste system?

i should stand up and kick the chair! Nay, I should kick her chair! I would demand the waitress to change my silver cutlery into Cellophane cup for my red wine, paper plate, plastic fork and knife for my medium rare wagyu. Err, change the wagyu to chuck steak. Don’t even bother about the plastic knife and fork. I would use my fingers! Of course I didn’t do any of these. I did think the thoughts only. And I thought this whole thing was a joke.

In fact, she could politely tell me to move. An open bow does not return the arrow. The horse has bolted!

Another one to leave me alone!

I cannot remember who said this. Learning to speak is a skill. To speak well is an art.

I even reminded my old man. After we pass away, and happen to bump into each other in the other world, please don’t make any eye contact. Best to pretend we do not know each other in the previous life.

From the movie, The Good, The Bad and The Ugly, I came across Clint Eastwood first before I knew where America was in the world map. I only knew there was a land called Wild West, of cowboys and Indians, barren area of arid sand dunes and dust; of cacti and agaves. And the cowboys and Indians played hide-and-seek and killed each other.

As a kid, I was thrilled at the cowboy Indian killing each other. We were never tired of playing the cowboy and Indian game. Hero and anti hero. It was actions, actions and more actions; squealing, squealing and more squealing! We used tree branches as our horses. We kids took turns to be a character. Sometimes I was the cowboy. Other times, I was the Indian. We had simple plot and the plot changed daily. If it was a good plot, it will be re-enacted the next day.

We made the EEEEE horse neigh. Galloping around the village block. Spoke the Wild West language: Hands up you! Let’s go! Shut up you! I say you! Son of a bitch!

We had some good stunts too . For example:

BANG! The horse reared and the rider dropped dead from the horse.

BANG! One of the horse’s front leg went up, the rider was wounded. The wounded horse sped off to the distance kicking up a ball of imaginary dust.

BANG! The horse was down on it’s four hooves, and the rider died instantly. It was simply fun, fun, fun!

But there was a big question mark hanging over my head. The American Indians were diffferent to our Indians. Our Indian spoke Indian, peppered with some English. They monopolised the curry powder trade in our market place. They smelt turmeric. Their palms were permanently turmeric colour. They supplied fresh cow’s milk. They had a habitual action of talking with their heads constantly swinging left to right, right to left like a pendulum. Never seen feathers on their heads and abstract arts painted across faces. Indian on horse back? Are you kidding? They reared a lot of cows and they never whipped their animals. Their long sticks were gestural to herd the cows.

At school, I was formally taught that a boy called Washington who chopped down a tree with a hatchet and became the president of America . Chopping trees down for firewood was almost our daily chores. Most parents’ biggest dream was the eldest son becoming a pig farmer; the second son, a butcher; then the whole family would get plenty of protein: pig lungs, head, spleens, intestines, etc Better choice than being a farmer.

When The Good The Bad and The Ugly came to one of the only two cinemas in our town, a population of 10000 was mesmerised. I could hear the iconic theme song of Ennio Morricone with its spooky “wha wha wha” whistled all over town. Ennio Morricone once said it was his music that made The Good, The Bad and The Ugly eternally famous. I cannot disagree.

The reason I talked so much rubbish was I went to watch “The Mule” today. Clint still can stop my heart. I cried at the end when he was tending his flowers.

He was my childhood hero who taught me how to have fun by killing . Still is!

My old man’s niece just gave birth to a beautiful daughter. Three names were bestowed on her. A Chinese name to do with wisdom and beauty, popular Chinese choice; A Greek name as her father is Greek, after a Greek goddess who still is, I believe very powerful; And a cute pet name.

I thought to myself. Greeks were so much more civilised than the Chinese. In such an ancient time, probably before the dawn of Jesus, women were made goddesses. But what happened to old society china? Women from poor families had no names if they were uneducated. The family just called her “Ah Moy”, meaning a girl. It was like calling a desk a desk, a chair a chair.

When our whole family clan made a trip to china years ago to visit relatives, most importantly, we paid a visit to my father-in-law’s ancestral graveyard, to “sweep tomb”, meaning clearing overgrown weeds, scrubbing off dirt from the stone.

It is situated on a hillside, making our way up a winding rocky uphill road, with tangled shrubs undergrowths to fight along. Not a dwelling in sight. I was very sceptical, location-wise. As the sky above was foreign. There was a complete feeling of uneasiness.

Every one helped carry something, a hoe, an axe, basket of fruit and flowers, cooked chicken and pork, rice wine, wine cups, incense, joss sticks, etc. Despite my negative mentality, we were all told to stop suddenly. Among the tall dense weeds and the stalks of seeds swaying in the breeze were two lonely wooden markers or plaques? The entire site looked nothing like a cemetery. I expected to see tombstones scattered here and there, jutting out like chipped away crooked teeth. Maybe they were rotten by weathers. Maybe these were the only souls buried here.

it was a simple piece of weathered solid wood. The inscriptions of the name of my grand father-in- law, from what what village, passed away such such year were faintly visible.

Next to it was my grand mother-in-law. Only her Surname was curved, followed by the words “Wu min zhe”, meaning woman of no name! Like the symbols, XXX, That is it! End of!

I did not know her. But my three children are connected to this woman blood and roots. How surreal!. .

Today I read that Venezuela president Madura was a bus driver before. A bus driver ! To lead the world richest oil reserve country! Anyone can do that?

When my boys were two to three old, the eldest wanted to be a garbage man. He had his mind made up. Once he was still asleep, the garbage truck arrived. The garbage man working with such swift motions: jumping down from the high seat, running to pick up the bin, emptying the contents into the back of the truck, running back with the empty bin, racing back to front of truck and vroom, gone! All within one minute.

My son woke up by the clamour, missed by a second. He was only able to get a glimpse of the the tail of the truck disappearing with a puff of smoke. His little heart was totally shattered. He believed he would never ever see it again. He wailed and in between sobs he said, mummy, why didn’t you wake me up? I said the truck will be here next week!

Next week? What exactly does next week mean to a three year old? Next week might never come. I always made promises like next time, next minute, your next birthday, next year, when you grow up, soon. NEXT had as much credibility as a rubber cheque that bounced.

Then he told me in between sobs: when I grow up, I am going to be a garbage man! Of course, of course! I would be very doubtful if he wanted to be an astronaut. A garbage man needs to build bulging muscles. I would make sure you eat your spinach!

My younger twins were luckier. The postman came about 11am, a perfect time. They looked up to the postman, the uniform, the helmet, the shiny chrome exhaust pipe and above all, the jet engine roar! The postman turned up , rain or shine, except weekends. I could hear their competitive arguments: my motorbike will be bigger and faster and louder than yours. Mine is the best in the whole whole world. It was unnecessary to explain to them, hey, you had no idea you had decided on a career. First, learn to ride a motorbike. Second, able to change a tyre. Lastly, make sure you don’t blow the engine up! Have fun!

A fond memory of them resting their little chins on the window sill, dreaming of driving huge machines.