Ramadhan is one of the busiest seasons for us in the shop. My dad owns a business that deals with things people change during Raya – your household needs.
The shop is abuzz with action. Staff taking orders, chatting with customers, fulfilling these orders – running around for installations and measurements. We sometimes don’t even see certain boys or drivers for days. Everyone works on overdrive.
As it approaches Raya, the mood sets in. We hear the songs on the radio and I hum along to it – much to the annoyance of my mother. She often jokes that I was born in the wrong family whenever I blast the radio in the car with Suasana Hari Raya or yell out in off-pitch to Balik Kampong. I remind my parents of my need for Kuih Mor and we go in search for a Tupperware full of those white powdery goodness (I usually don’t find good ones unless highly recommended). I even order my favourite tapak kuda to be shared amongst the family and the staff.
The first day of Raya has got to be my favourite holiday ever. It is the one day of out 365 days in a year that my dad takes a full-day of leave. Handling his own business, my father is a workaholic and chilling out with my parents at home for one whole day is something I’ve looked forward to as a child.
On Raya morning, we wake up late. The room is warm from the heat of the sun coming in (it’s usually bright and sunny on the first day of Raya – always how I remember it anyway). We have breakfast, head out to our favourite restaurant to eat and then binge-watch movies on TV or DVD (good ol’ days). Pop by a house for Raya vising? Sure! I remember the days back in KB when I was a child that often we would have a customer knocking on our back door to ask if we could sell them a last-time readymade item or accessories.
I feel more connected to Raya than I do with Deepavali. I admit, after moving back to Brunei and putting in effort to reignite my love and traditions of my cultural heritage, Deepavali days have been filled with more light. Maybe it is due to this that Raya has lost some of its significance in my life.
However, Raya is still one of my favourite holidays. Its significance may have dwindled down and the fun-factor may have lost its finesses over the years, but I still look forward to welcoming this month of festivities every year.
In fact, I find the lines of Deepavali and Raya mashing together for me. Both, to me, are colourful celebrations in their own accord. Both are much-awaited for members of their own culture. Both are filled with joy, light, family reunions, and by golly, good food.
Over the years, my perceptions towards both Deepavali and Raya have changed. In terms of Raya, no longer do we get one-on-one invitations and sometimes either one of my parents isn’t even home. Our choice of movies has changed so we hardly sit in front of the TV together. 90% of our favourite restaurants are closed and the ones that are open we’re either not in the mood for or it’s just not cutting it.
There are consolations though. A friend returning from overseas, a fellow non-Muslim cousin who’s boss gives you one of the best tasting Kuih Mor that she willingly shares with you, watching families in matching attire drive across town in their cars, an increase in courtesy, smiles all over, that one house you drive past that still has the Raya spirit in them with all the cucul hung out their front doors, going for lunches and dinners with friends again after a month of “curfew”.
I love Raya. It doesn’t matter to me that it’s not even “my celebration” – I have so many friends who are open and willing to share their festivities with me that I never feel alone.
Until the next Raya, if you have extra Kuih Mors, you know who to call.
by Manisha Dhalani
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Remember how, as a child, you used to hold my hand and rub it all over your chin? How I used to laugh out so hard because I found it so ticklish when you moved my little palm over your stubble?
Fast forward 20-odd years later, and here I am. I stare at your unshaven face as you lay on the hospital bed, tired from all the vomiting. You’re weak after the nurses repeatedly extract blood from you for their tests. Your breathing is heavy. You’re no longer that active person who never gives up.
But you’re still strong.
And you’re still my father.
Papa,
You’ve always been someone I admire. While others look outside for success stories of people who’ve achieved great feats from nothing – I have an example who lives under the same roof as I do. I always look forward to your stories: how you grew up, moved to Brunei, and started to work on your dreams from scratch. I look at you today, a successful businessman and I cannot help but wonder how I don’t have the same drive as you.
I bet you wonder the same too.
But I try, Papa. I hope you see how much I try.
I have tried to become the son you don’t have.
I have tried and tried but I cannot help but feel like I constantly fail you.
I hate that, but I’ve come to understand that it is what it is and there may not be much left to say in that regard.
But there’s something else I’ve been meaning to tell you that I can never get across. To you or to anyone.
I’m going to say it today.
I don’t want you to die, Pa.
After all, how do I spend my days without the man who saw to my every need, who never made us feel any sort of financial discomfort?
How do I part ways with a man who, although didn’t agree to what I wanted to do, would still make it a point to see my dreams come true? You guided me through my school days. You encouraged me to take up that degree when I was hesitant that I should work and make money instead.
Sometimes you even made my dreams come true without me even moving a muscle. I remember one instance where, when I was a teenager, I had a dream that our family owned a small minimart. Many years later, when I was in Singapore, you called me up and told me “I’m going to make your dream come true”. Our minimart lasted many years before you eventually realised it was not your forte and focused on our current business instead.
Through your actions, I learned and found the guts to take risky decisions in life – some worked, some failed. But you made me realise that it was okay to fail. All I had to do was to get up, brush the dirt off and move on.
But how do I move on if you leave?
I am selfish, Pa. We both know that, although I’m probably the only capable person to take over your business, I don’t want to do it. I fight with you and beg you to explain to me why you aren’t retiring. But it’s not your retirement that I’m looking forward to – it’s you stopping your business so I don’t have to take it over when you leave. You’ve moulded me to be capable enough to do it, but this is not my calling, Pa. I don’t want this.
It doesn’t help that I see your continuous drive to work on your passion day in day out that I don’t have the heart to tell you to stop everything with immediate effect.
I don’t want what you’re going to leave behind. I don’t want your inheritance – the business, your assets. Because I feel like I cannot live up to all the hard work you’ve put into it.
Sometimes I wish I could turn back time and have the father I had when I was a young girl. I want the carefree happy man with no emotional burdens. The one that, selfishly, made me feel carefree and detached from emotional and materialistic burdens.
But I may be asking for too much.
I have tried to become the son you never had, Pa, but I am failing you. This time, voluntarily.
Pa, you taught me how to walk, stand on my two feet. Today, as your daughter, I can only remind you pace your steps, watch your speed and I constantly hold your hand to ensure you don’t lose your balance.
And hope that you understand me one day.
The only difference between me and you is that you loosened your grip on me as time flew by, and I continue to tighten mine.
Because I cannot let you go. Not just yet.
by Manisha Dhalani
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A Hairy Affair: Coming to Terms With Being Hairy As A Woman
by Manisha Dhalani
I find myself in awe of actresses who choose to wear very little clothes on screen, revealing their flawless bodies – no scars, no stretch marks, and of course, no bodily hair.
Life, however, has supposedly never been that kind to me. As a child, I was always referred to as a gorilla by the boys in school for being the hairy Indian nerd that I have always been (and still am).
My hair was also quite the subject of concern for my immediate family members. It was not normal.
On my eighteenth birthday, having already moved to Singapore for a year, my sister decided to give me the best birthday present she could think of – a waxing appointment. Instead of joy and happiness at turning another year older, there I was, lying down in some room with soothing music (think spa treatment), a therapist applying wax on my skin, only to yank it away at my skin to get rid of all the hair on my arms and legs.
Some birthday.
From that day on, I have only been given repeated reminders of how I should get rid of all the hair on my arms and legs. People often ask me why I don’t wear dresses or skirts. As much as “I don’t like” was the answer this tomboy chose to give, the truth was clearly a hairier affair. I have always been lazy to groom myself, and I wasn’t going to jump head on to get my skin ripped off every time I had to dress up.
I rather simply not attend functions or social gatherings that required me to “be a girl”.
I look at how women are depicted in movies and despite being impressed, I get angry. Where are the hairy women? Why are the models in leg shaving cream ads hairless? Why can’t a woman have hair? What’s with the obsession to bare it all?
It didn’t help that I have sensitive skin to begin with. After every waxing appointment that I had to endure, because society says so, I would suffer for days. My skin would turn tomato-red and I often had the heart to get a straight-jacket to stop myself from scratching the already sensitive skin. I have, successfully, sourced for an alternative that doesn’t hurt so much – but it’s only found in Singapore.
And I don’t live in Singapore anymore, which means less waxing appointments, i.e. more hair.
Whenever I’m in Brunei I see people giving me disgusted looks. Years ago, I was always sceptical. I would have regular waxing appointments for my arms so nobody would know how hairy I could get at full-capacity. I was conscious that maybe a man would never find me attractive if I was hairier than him. I even brought this up to a guy I was set-up with by my family and he, without pause, replied, “Oh God, please shave your whole body. You shouldn’t have hair, you’re a woman.”
I dropped him like a sack of hot potatoes.
Clearly, I’ve survived the turmoil. I think I’ve gained enough confidence in me to not give two hoots about the stares and raised eyebrows at my extensively hairy arms and legs.
And I owe the life-changing turn of events to my best friend. We were in the car one day, and the topic of insecurities about dressing up came up. I told her that as much as I do want to look good sometimes, I am extremely lazy. I would like to wax or shave if I had a legit date to go to or an event truly called for wearing a dress that had to show my legs, but I could not be bothered. I proceeded to explain how I felt slightly incompetent to be someone's wife due to my lack of external attributes. I don’t know how to apply make-up, I hate shopping, and again, I am a hairy woman.
Being my best friend, she laughed at me first. And then she said told me something that I never thought would come from the baby of our group of friends. Having been married and delivered a beautiful baby girl in the last few years, she lifted her skirt and pointed at her legs.
“Man, I’ve been married for so long. I have a child. I work. I take care of my household. You think my husband cares about my leg hair after I do all that for our family?”
I smiled. It was the reassurance I needed. I felt blessed for my best friend who had found someone who loved her regardless of all superficial issues. She is and will forever continue to be a beautiful person because of who she is, not what she looks like.
“Ditto,” she said.
Today, I think I’m out of that fear of what someone else would think about the hair on my body. Sure, it’s not normal; women aren’t usually seen with full growth of hair on their bodies.
What I do feel abnormal about nowadays is the fact that, at 30-years-old, my worth is determined by the hair on my arms and legs. My being a woman should not depend on how much hair I have on my body, should it? I will wax my legs or arms, or whatever, when I feel like it. I will look a certain way when I see the need to.
I no longer think that having hair on my body makes me any less of a woman than I already am.
And it has been four months since I went for my last waxing appointment.
Hair is not disgusting. It is an insulation. I’m also beginning to think it keeps me protected from potential douchebags who can only view a woman as whatever is depicted on screen and in beauty products.
You go wax your arms, bruh. Let me see you handle the pain.
by Manisha Dhalani
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“I miss my grandmother most, though, when I have questions that the current generation cannot answer. When I want to learn about some cultural thing that we conduct, but nobody is around to show me how to carry these things on now.”
by Manisha Dhalani
“But why do we celebrate it?” I asked, frustrated that my parents couldn’t answer a simple question I had about Thadri, a cultural/religious celebration practiced in our family.
My parents tried really hard, but they couldn’t come down to the bare bones of the rationale behind the celebration. They kept telling me what was done during the festivities – in this case we aren’t supposed to “light fire” in the house (no cooking) and eat cold food for a day – but not why it came about in the first place at all.*
Finally, my father, in dejection, answered, “Ask your grandmother”.
That was the end of that conversation.
My grandmother is no longer with us. She was the only biological grandparent I had seen in my life – my maternal grandfather passed away when I was one, and both my maternal grandmother and paternal grandfather left when my parents were in their teens.
When she was around, my paternal grandmother was my string to so many things that surrounded my culture. She was the reason I picked up our dialect, Sindhi, making me one of the few remaining cousins who can converse it in pretty decently.
She also thought me how to play gin rummy which is a very Sindhi trait that I take pride in. We used to play this for fun every time she visited us for her routine month-long trip in Brunei (she would otherwise stay with my uncle in London). I would quickly chow down my lunch down after school and do my homework, so I could spend an hour with my grandmother playing cards. I remember how I would always giggle at how her old hands could not neatly hold the mandatory 13-cards – a trait that, I now realise, my father inherited. She would often tease me for being such an “amma”, which was what I use to call her, who had such “old people” habits – a trait that I still carry on till today.
Unfortunately, my grandmother passed away over a decade ago, when I was still too young to understand the importance of a grandparent. That’s often the case isn’t it – we don’t know the value of what we have until it’s gone.
I miss my grandmother sometimes when I see or hear other people share the stories their grandparents tell them, or the knowledge that is passed down from generations. I miss my grandmother most, though, when I have questions that the current generation cannot answer. When I want to learn about some cultural thing that we conduct, but nobody is around to show me how to carry these things on now.
I remember her and am filled with regret that I didn’t have the sense to ask her all these questions before she passed away.
I didn’t understand how much I would look for her when questions about our tradition would pop up. It often feels like there are so many cultural and traditional gaps that I need to fill and there is nobody in the family for me to turn to.
But I try to pick up the pieces. I listen to my father’s stories of his childhood and the things that his mother used to do. I hear my grandmother’s voice when my aunty speaks of some old traditions. I learn about the things she used to do from my mother, who still sometimes carries out the same routine that she used to do.
It takes time to put the jigsaw puzzle that she left behind together, and sometimes I am left disappointed because the remaining pieces cannot give me the answers that I am searching for when it comes to traditions and practices that we carry out today. It feels like there was so much information to pick up about my heritage that is now lost.
Fortunately, I still get glimpses of my grandmother from these remaining pieces. I often look at the faces of her children and see the resemblance. She may not be around anymore, but she’s left her little legacy behind her that will forever keep her close to us.
*After a lot of Google research, I found out that the reason for celebrating Thadri is to revere Sitala Devi, a Goddess who cures diseases such as poxes, sores, etc. This Goddess’ name translates to “the one who cools”. Therefore, no fire is to be lighted, no cooking is to be done on this day, thus eating cold food like lolo
by Manisha Dhalani
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Image source: India Food Network
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I see you. I look at you with eyes akin to those that haven’t been presented with a feast before. I inch closer to your body, looking at those layers with lust. I peel them off, one by one, savouring every moment, every nuance of your dark body from tip to toe. That’s how you are meant to be undone.
Gluttony
Nothing tastes better to my lips than you do. While everyone else is quick to gobble you down, I take my time. We don’t exchange words of love or care, all we want to satiate each other’s desire and longing for greatness that only fine delicacies that you and I can offer each other. Like a good cup of tea, we take a while to brew, and then every sip is a glutton’s wish come true. Every bite sends my tastebuds to heaven and back.
Greed
I can never have enough of you. One look, one touch, one time is never enough. The more I see you, the more I have you, the more I want you. It’s a bottomless pit when it comes to relishing in every moment we spend time together. I want more. They say too much of something isn’t good for you, but I know anyway that you’re bad. Still, there is no stopping me.
Envy
Could it be that something could exude so much beauty? You are the epitome of tall, dark and handsome. Your every trait, every feature exudes excellence. The way your eyes glitter, the curve of your lips, the sharpness of your edges. How is something so beautiful yet so seemingly uncouth? It’s as though I crave you but at the same time I abhor you for being so perfect.
Pride
You fill me up. The sense of authority you allow me to have over you. The ability to be myself in your presence, arrogant, lavish, witty – all things that make me feel good and confident about myself. You bring that out in me especially in moments when I doubt that you could let someone else revel in their glory. I speak of you highly to everyone around me, boasting you around like a victor’s trophy.
Wrath
And yet, you make me so angry. I want all of the things you have and more. I want you. But I cannot have you. You look at me with shame, as though my being is so insignificant and unimportant to you, even if you know how I put you on a pedestal that I myself might not be able to reach. You are all that I want in someone, and yet all that I stay away from.
Sloth
And so I don’t want to work for you. I want you to come to me as though it’s nature’s responsibility to bring two beings who would never make a good match together. For I believe in signs. For I believe in things to fall on my lap and so I should just wait it out. Not saying anything until the call comes to bring us closer together. Unless and until someone says I can have you. Unless and until you appear in my arms without me putting in the slightest efforts.
…
For you are chocolate cake, my guilty pleasure, my deadly sin.
by Manisha Dhalani
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Born in Singapore, raised in Brunei, Malaysian citizen, and Indian by race – it’s really a lot for any new person I meet to take in all that information.
Experience has taught me to keep the “where are you from?” answer short and dependable on who I’m talking to. Say it’s someone in Singapore, I just tell them, “I was born here!” Whereas if it’s a Malaysian friend, I’ll wave my Malaysian passport in their face (if I’m carrying it – which is rare).
Somehow though, over the years, my automatic answer to the above-said question has become “I’m from Brunei”.
The question here, though, is, am I really?
When I think of home, I’ve always thought of the alleyways I grew up in KB town. I think of the school I spent all my kid-life in. I think of the sandy beaches and the Jubilee park. I think of Kolomee from Simpur and roti kosong in Seria. I think of the rows of oil refineries along Anduki and the excitement of the long distance drive to Bandar, just staring at lush greenery along the highway.
I think of Brunei.
And yet, I still get people tilting their head and asking me to justify my answer. I’m Indian, I jolly well fit in the stereotypical Indian look, so I guess it couldn’t be possible for someone to take my “I’m from Brunei” answer at face-value the first time they hear it.
“Banar kan?”
“Berapa lama sudah di sini?”
“Pandai kau cakap Melayu, dang?”
Yes. I’ve been here a long time. And yes, I can speak Malay – no, Brunei Malay – pretty proficiently. Fasih, nyamo.
And all these questions are fine, really. I get that I don’t look MIB enough, and sometimes I know people are genuinely curious and interested to know how I ended up here. They like hearing stories of what my father does for a living and they seem very impressed that an Indian girl seems to converse so well in the local dialect.
It’s all cool.
It’s all cool until they drop the one question that annoys me so much that I, to date, wonder if it even matters.
“IC mu warna apa?”
See, I get it if you’re working at the hospital and you’re asking me this question because you need to figure out how much I need to pay. I get it if you’re asking me this question when I’m subscribing to a certain something or handling paperwork at a government body.
What I don’t get is how the colour of my IC matters if I’m telling you I consider Brunei my home. I was raised here, I live here now, my father is an established businessman, I speak the language, and again, I feel like Brunei is my home.
Is it not enough that I live here, and should be recognised as a resident and a fellow human being? I have been taunted enough as a child with the K-word and it doesn’t help that I have to feel less of a Bruneian because I don’t look the part. One must assume that I want nothing to do long-term with Brunei, or for the good of Brunei, because I am not of a certain IC colour.
Still, I’m not angry that I get asked that question. I do feel hurt, though. I remember being asked if I’m “from here” because I reminded a local woman of her unnecessary bad manners during her fasting period – because “the nerve of an outsider to say that”. And this is just one of the down days that I’ve faced. I choose to not let them resurface too much because I know majority of the people here are more accepting than that.
I cannot speak for everyone else, but I do care about Brunei just as much as the next citizen does. It matters to me when certain rulings are passed that aren’t well thought of. I, too, stand up and talk highly of Brunei when someone from another country tries to point fingers at Brunei for what’s been reported in papers. I, too, get excited during Raya and when I see a royal family drive pass me. I, too, enjoy my Nasi Lemak.
Maybe you can say I’m not Bruneian enough for not trying Ambuyat yet (I know, I know) – but I’m not in favour for being taunted due to the colour of my IC. I am just as patriotic and concerned about Brunei than the average Joe (Johan?) here.
They say home is where your heart is.
And my heart is here.
Even if I move miles away, Brunei will always have a piece of my heart.
by Manisha Dhalani
Read more Bruneian Me here.
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Sometimes I wonder if I would be treated differently if I was a born a boy.
Of course I would, what am I saying?
Oddly enough, I’ve always been rather boy-ish, I suppose in my plight to prove them wrong. People even call me Man, as in Man-isha, and I still prefer jeans and t-shirt over anything that has ribbons, lace, or flows. No dresses and skirts here.
I’ve had numerous moments in my life where I’ve been told I cannot do this or that because I’m not a man. I try to run a business and I’m not seen as the rightful heir, which makes me wonder who is, because I’m the closest thing to a boy my parents will ever get. I try to live alone, and travel alone, and I hear gasps and get lectures about how I shouldn’t even try. I can really go on with examples here, but something tells me you’re seeing where I’m coming from (I’m sorry if you don’t).
I’ve always reinstated the point that I’m not a feminist. I don’t see the need to dress up or wax my arms for that matter – not because I’m trying to prove a point about womanhood and freedom and all, but it’s really because I cannot be bothered. I really cannot take the extra effort to doll myself up. I even remember telling my ex-boss who suggested I should take some time to wear make-up when I meet clients that if he really wanted me to do that, then he would see my productivity just sink. It’s either I do the work or I dress up. I can’t do both.
Lately though, I’ve noticed something about myself: I try to be very boy-ish to get into my father’s good books.
See, my father is a man with no son, so as we Indians like to say, no heir to the business. He doesn’t see me as incompetent but just thinks that I don’t fit the bill since I’ll eventually marry off and settle down elsewhere.
It’s been almost six months since I’ve moved to Brunei to be with my parents – as of this writing. But I still don’t get any leeway or authority for running things and I am still viewed as a child, although I really think that it’s the boy/girl issue here. Don’t get me wrong, my dad isn’t one of those who thinks that boys are better than girls but he is rather traditional in thinking that as a girl, the business is not my responsibility, even if I have the ability to do it.
Right now I’m struggling with my outlook. I want to dress up more confidently without necessarily wearing things I don’t like. I want to look like the daughter of a boss of a chain of shops, and the self-proclaimed next-in-line to take the “throne”.
But I still have this nudging feeling in my mind that it’s not going to cut it.
It’s moments like this, where, just to make my parents a little bit more proud of me, and see me as a little bit more useful than I like to think I already am, that I wish I were a boy.
