I. Gods and children
Sunday morning. You could hear a not-quite silence filling the air. Most folks are still sleeping, it’s the weekend after all. Some of us are stirring though. Some of us had woken for hours already. The world is constantly alive at any hour, we know this but we aren’t always aware of it. The air is quiet, yes, but not quite silent.
The scrapping song of the pigeons is a call to prayer, to rising.
I remember when I was a kid and had to wake up at 5:30am each day, to get ready for school. Extra early to wait for the ministry-approved marmalade orange schoo lbus. I would make my bed before brushing my teeth so my mom wouldn’t have to (a point of consternation fro my cousins for my aunts would point to me and my always-neat, always-tidy bedroom in absence and asked, “Why can’t you be more like Kenny Gor Gor?”; it made me truly unpopular and strangely I always took pride in that more than my youthful obsessive-compulsive house-cleaning inclinations).
I would tie my tie in the dark in front of the mirror for my eyes hadn’t opened yet, not quite, but my fingers could see the knots for me out of habit. Breakfast would be simple, nothing fancy like what my nephew and nieces gets these days — bread and butter, later with a boiled frankfurter sliced lengthwise and spread side-by-side like twins, and later still, commercial cereal from boxes with watered condensed milk (not the fresh sort). There is something humbling about being from a modest family who always strive to provide.
Yet that wasn’t what I was dreaming about on the marmalade school bus, my head against the windowpane and the bus driver’s audio cassette filling my dawn-dreams with The Scorpions’ Winds of Change long before I even knew what change really meant. We were little gods, us children, cared for and sheltered by our families.
One day, we wake up and we’re just us. Adults at last. (Once, usually when we were ugly, spotted teenagers, we wanted this so badly — to grow up, fast.) We are responsible for our lives. We can’t dream anymore, can we? No more time for that surely.
The pigeons fly away as the grain are scattered on the ground. A small boy pauses, squats and stares at the birds. He has time. I want so badly to tell him, Dream. Dream while you still can.
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II. Climbing up the wall
The numbers. You count them as you climb up. It’s meant to be encouraging but for some, it gets disheartening when it gets to triple digits and there’s no end to it.
Batu Caves — it isn’t very high above the ground, but the journey upwards is steep, tiring for sweet young things, unaccustomed to waking early and exercising regularly. The uncles and aunties in their sixties and seventies shame us. They barely sweat, and they are on their fourth, seventh lap already. They smile at us and we smile back, praying we won’t collapse before we reach the peak.
Strangely, I’m fine. I love this. I used to climb the Batu Caves every Sunday morning back when I first came to Kuala Lumpur, with new friends that I made. I had returned not very long ago from Munich and missed how the Germans would spend most of the good hours, the ones with sunlight, outdoors enjoying the fresh air and the feisty heat. Malaysians don’t really like the sun and the humidity; there’s always an excuse to drive instead and air-conditioning seems to be the best thing since mamak-style toast bread.
Me, I miss simply walking from point A to point B. Why do we drive so much in this country? It’s a wonder our bodies remember how to move at all. The X-Men were often taunted by this other-world media tyrant named Mojo who was an upright invertebrate with cybernetic sticks for legs. A dictator as a greasy blob. There are days when I fear Malaysia might not be one of the channels on MojoTV!, a nation of folks glued to their idiot boxes, their live feed more alive than their feet.
But I’m not really thinking about this as we climb up the wall. I’m letting the golden warmth envelop me, letting my lungs fill with clean air and the scent of jasmine, and asking myself, Where are all the monkeys?
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III. Children and gods
The devotees would climb the steps on their knees, bowing head down at each number. One, bow. Two, bow. And on and on till all 272 steps are breached. It’s not about speed but faith and piety. You humble yourself in front of God and amongst your fellow men. (And the monkeys and the pigeons and the limestone.)
There is usually a blessing, for fortune or dispel bad luck, but more often than not, I stumble upon a new baby whose family has brought him or her to the temple for a good start in life. The smoke fills the air. Frankincense? Jasmine. Something else. The essence of belief and the love that this infant will begin life with and hopefully, throughout.
Here, I feel more Malaysian than anywhere else, for the hill throngs with all of us. We are going about our own business — religious ceremonies, exercise, tourism, an excuse to eat the best roti pisang in the Klang Valley — and I’m reminded of what Malaysia is promised to be. What we can be. We are all children, blessed by different gods perhaps, but good children playing together all the same.
Perhaps it’s another dream, another fantasy but the year is early and you can forgive my optimism. Thousands of miles away, wars are being raged and men, women and children are dying, I know this, you might be surprised given all my usual cheer and saccharine-sweet salutes, but I do know this.
There is enough death and pain and wrath without us adding to it, surely.
I can’t do much, I think. I don’t want to, really. But I can smile like a child to everyone I meet as I climb this flight of steps, all 272 of them. And everyone whom smiles back at me, we connect for a second or two and the goodwill is shared.
I love coming to Batu Caves cos it reminds me I’m Malaysian and that means being part of something that believes in hope and harmony. And that is a very good thing to be part of.
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IV. No monkeys allowed
We reached the top of the hill. The caves proper. It is dark here until you delve deeper and a natural skylight lets the sun in a little. There is stone and guano everywhere. Someone is displaying her pet snake — a python, I think — and it’s delighting the children and freaking their parents out. Some of the climbers are just resting before heading down again for another round, their multi-coloured towels hung around their shoulders and heads like praying shawls. There is something sacred in the air up here.
There are even roosters, not hens, roosters scratching the earth inside. These are the expensive sort, I’m told. Who brought them all the way up here, I wonder. Surely it cannot be easy with all those sharp claws or whatever you call them devillish thorns and spikes on their spindly legs. Chalk is drawn in a spider-web on the ground, a bright purple orchid blossom in its centre. The profane and the pious dance together here, I suppose.
And the absurd, as my friend Edward imitates a monkey, one of the macaques that seem to have gone missing.
A couple of years ago, I brought my friend Manuel and Gosia who were here on their honeymoon to Batu Caves. It’s nice seeing an old memory through the eyes of strangers who are friends, it teaches you things you have forgotten. Italians love taking time to savour the good things in life, and the Polish are in awe of faith, even when it is not their own. My friends, they always teach me something new. And there were plenty of monkeys.
This morning, unfortunately, the monkeys are missing and Edward is a poor substitute although he amuses the tourists greatly.
Still, as we start our journey down the steps, I figured there’s always the roti pisang. There’s always that. They say praying is better on an empty stomach but I guess they hadn’t done the Batu Caves recently.
Plus the roti pisang? It’s very, very yummy.