† Roshan Gurmeet Singh
When I was little, I will read some books concurrently, and after that, I would numerize the alphabets to keep myself distracted.
The story somehow changes, perhaps individually, when it is read, after being acquaintances with the protagonist and the antagonist of the writer's thoughts.
Cikgu Mazda is my Malay teacher from my early years.
She is a pretty, graceful, doe eyed woman who gifts other with her, soft and kind, excalaburic vision.
She asked my papa to get my first, Kamus Dewan, that I vividly remember, cause of the quality of the paper and the blue suedelike hardcover.
My father, will be home late after work and he will ask me, what I would like to makan sometimes, in those days.
With my childish stubbornness, I will insist on getting the food cooked by these, three ladies who lived in a music conductor's home opposite the flat. The creamy, luscious symphony of the enigmatic, coconut nasi lemak at that time, would bring me and my dad to their kitchen, numerous times, to see if they have already cooked it.
I was and am very naughty and stubborn. That will never change.
I am thankful, for the efforts they took to take care of me in their own ways, when they didn't have to, in the Telok Blangah Rise neighbourhood.
I remember, Mrs Alex who taught me tuition and her son, brother Mark.
The neighbour uncle and aunty, who have moved to the Bahamas that resided in the same building and check on me when they were not obligated to especially when, my papa was working in the late 80s.
She is also my mom.
I miss my Aasmah or Fatimah aunty, who use to take care of me when I was a little naughty tyke. I have trouble remembering.
I remember the awesome, majestic desserts she made and, how she used to feed me by hand. The scent and sound of the mortar and pestle still grinds here, with the aroma of spice and gentleness.
When an apple carousels on Mars, the Earth rotates.
All the physical, mental and notary sterilisation, are causing manufactured anxiety that profiles individuality with severe imbalance, which unwarrantedly and unveneratively, profits the members of the pharmaceutical tourism board.
Do not even mention my mom's name in vain, you fucks.
Apne ithiaas mein likha tha, kay ek auraat ki izzat aur uski anmol surat ek sloka main hai.
There are entities and awarenesses that are attempting to constrict my throat, abdomen and thoughts, to make me uncomfortable, at almost, most hours.
When. I am asleep, there are severe attacks on my feet and body in the late of the night and early morning.
I wake up, forcefully.
The voices are a reflections of the torment that my father's second wife use to say, along with caste based insults, and cruel, nasty, hypocritical forms of embellishments.
They want to foster oncological unhealthiness, as how my biological mom suffered.
These are curated forms of illnesses, mental or physical.