My mum had brought my family along with my cousins up to Templar’s Park. The long exhausting drive to our destination was immediately washed away by the icy cold splashes from the breathtaking waterfall. I can still feel the warm sun rays painting our faces in stripy yellow hues as it penetrates itself between the hovering tree leaves above us.

Nature was something my mum thought us to love. And I love her for that.

Ironically, at the bottom of the waterfall was this Olympic size man made pool, about 8 feet in depth. Seeing that my brothers and I attended swimming classes as little as 3 years old, 8 feet was somewhat non-life threatening for us. My cousins however, all four of them, had no swimming experiences whatsoever, so they spent the day clinging to the sides of the pool.

After spending hours in the semi nature pool, with the sun shining at the tip of our heads, blatantly signaling that it was lunch time, my brothers and I crawled out of the pool. Soaking and dripping wet, our tummy growled even harder as we chewed hungrily into our sandwiches.

Everything was perfect. Until suddenly, there was this loud commotion coming from the direction of the pool. It all happened so fast, yet so slowly. It’s really hard to explain.

From where I was seated, I saw Azrin in the water first. He was steered a couple of feet away from the side of the pool. His safe area. Aware of his desperate cries for help, his elder brother Azmi instantaneously jumped in after him. It was amazing. He jumped in to save his little brother, which obviously turned out to be a foolish idea seeing that neither of them knew how to swim.

It didn’t stop there. Next, their sister Shima, loosened her grip from the side of the pool and unhesitatingly pushed herself into the middle of the water to save her two drowning younger brothers. Now, there were officially three people choking water and violently gasping for air. As a finale, their eldest sibling Lia, leaped from the side of the pool and splashed into the drowning trio making herself the final member of the drowning fools.

My mind was going into slow motion as I watched my cousins flapping their hands wildly above the water with their heads bobbing in and out like a cherry. They were ALL drowning!

Fortunately, several men, who made sure they knew how to swim first, jumped into the water and pulled all four of my cousins into safety. My mum was clearly worried out of her mind. I, on the other hand, was just baffled at what I had just witnessed. Why? Why would anyone do such a thing? They were still too shocked from their mass near death experience to explain.

As I sat there in Raja’s mom’s living room, my eyes finally relaxing and my ears allowing the laughter to race back into me, I realized that it was all about love. Foolish as it may seem, leaping into the arms of death one after another, it was all for the love of the family.

Here’s a shot of Raja and two of his cousins during our trip to Templar’s Park using my iPhone. I’m pleased to announce that no mass drowning incident occurred during this trip. I just hope that should an unwanted event ever happen, there will be others out there to leap for me too. For the love of the family.

That’s what my brother would remind me from time to time. Unfortunately, it’s true. Apart from my mum, the rest of us are useless when it comes to singing. Or playing any musical instruments. Or even dancing for that matter. We’re hopeless. Hopelessly hopeless. I blame my dad. And his genes.

We lack the rhythm, the beat, the harmony, basically the whole nine yards of music. It’s not like I’ve never tried to overcome those obstacles. Believe me, I did.

When I was 12, I joined the choir team. However, I was suspiciously placed in the back row. They said it was because I was taller than the other kids in the front row. But I knew better. The further away the listeners were, the harder it is for them to gag and die from the hysterical shrills, squealing out from my vocal chords. On an unrelated note, they made us wear these ridiculously awful pregnant-looking clothes that were made out from what could easily be mistaken by 1926’s curtain drapes. It was a nightmare.

By the time I was 13, I insisted on playing the organ. The first few weeks was a breeze. I received colorful stickers, star-shaped signatures, and generous compliments from my music teacher. I was a fast learner. Boy, was she impressed! She even called me a natural. But what she didn’t know was that I was actually more of a good memorizer. I memorized everything she ever thought me. EVERYTHING. I never knew what any of the musical notes meant. I just photographically memorized which keys to press as we moved from song to song. So when it came to the harder grades, my brain was about to explode. Eventually, I bailed out. Plus, the electronic organ I had at home was beaten to death. Literally. My brother treated it as a  substitute wall and practiced his tennis skills against it. It was fate.

The following year, I took up guitar lessons. It was dejavu all over again. I memorized the notes, the chords, the strumming, up to even the slightest coffee stain and molecule on the page I was playing. I was nowhere near at being a natural. Or even normal for that matter. The skin under my fingers were blistering and peeling from the pressure of grasping onto the guitar strings, desperately trying to make music. However, the noise that shrieked out from those guitar strings were horrific. Monstrous. Deadly. Once again, I bailed out. Also, my eldest brother gave my guitar away. It was fate.

Years passed by since any of my attempts to tango with music. That was until this year.

On the way back from celebrating Deepavali at my grandma’s house, I hitched a ride from my brother. As I pulled myself into the back seat, Tara was strapped securely beside me. With a single direct order from Tara, Mummy, give me music!, the radio was switched on. Music was pumping through the speakers and Tara was tapping her feet against the car seat to the music beat. Tapping to the song ‘Evacuate the Dance Floor’ by Cascada. I totally love that song. Very upbeat, very catchy.

This is it. This is my time to shine. I observed her for a while before quickly jumping in at the chorus. With my body moving to the tempo, my hands flying above my shoulders, my legs kicking exuberantly, and my mouth lip-syncing to Cascada’s angelic voice. Oh oh oh…Oh oh oh…evacuate the dance floor…Oh oh oh…Oh oh oh…I’m infected by the sound…Oh oh oh…Oh oh oh…Stop, this beat is killing me…Oh oh oh…Oh oh oh… Hey Mister DJ let the music take me underground . I kept changing my moves, mixing and matching what little dance steps I can recollect from music videos, and molding them into a spontaneous indoor choreography. From disco, to the robot dance, and back to the John Travolta pointing-to-the-stars move. I continued this horrendous shenanigan until the music ended. It was my best performance ever.

When I turned to Tara, she had a blank expression plastered on her face. In fact, she had that look the entire time I was mimicking Cascada wholeheartedly. Her eyes were staring intensely into mine in a confused manner, with her mouth fully opened, revealing her chipped tooth. Thoughts of Oh oh oh…Oh oh oh…Stop, you’re killing me — almost like the lyrics to the chorus– must have crowded her mind. I was patiently waiting for blood and brain fluid to ooze out of her eyes and ears simultaneously as she maintained her blur, unimpressed, straight face.

Then out of nowhere, she started clapping her hands frantically with her eyes sparkling wide opened and her smile stretching from ear to ear, screaming My turn! My turn! With my eyes sparkling even wider and my smile stretching two circles around my ears, I scooted even closer to my first groupie. We continued taking turns lip-syncing and creating mind-blowing dance moves all the way home.

Finally, a person who appreciates my art. My talent. My musical ability.

So what if she’s only 5. My fate is changing.

I was only 8. At that age, it’s perfectly natural for your imagination to kick into overdrive. There were so many things I’d imagine surprising her with. So many things I wanted to make for her. So many things I wanted to buy for her. Unfortunately, at that age, you also have limited financial resources. So all imaginations and wants came to a halt.

But I still wanted to do something special for her.

So I chose breakfast in bed. Yes, cooking. At that age. That was like volunteering myself as a human sacrifice in an ancient ritual killing AND giving my barbie doll collection to the founder and co-founder of that cult. So yes. BEST MOTHER’S DAY GIFT EVERRRR.

I was going to surprise her with home-cooked eggs, sausages, baked beans, with toasted bread. All from the pantry. All of which she paid for. Ah, the simplicity of being 8.

It was as early as 7am. I slaved myself into the kitchen with one eye open. Being 8 also meant that you were vertically challenged, so I had to pull a chair from the dining table to the kitchen stove. I also remembered burning the first few eggs. I guess some things really never change.

Eventually, my sunny side up came out acceptable. The sausages looked slightly shrunk but still visible and 60% edible. And the toast, as usual, was a bit burnt. Just a BIT. The only thing that looked like it was supposed to, were the baked beans. Yes yes, because it came out of the can. But I microwaved it perfectly.

Once everything was settled, I decided to present my scrumptious surprise with a side order of cereal and milk.  That turned out to be the main meal –if not the only edible meal– after all. That, and a tall glass of orange juice. Apparently, adding splashes of soy sauce, table spoons full of salt, and dashes of pepper into every dish was a bit too overwhelming. My ultra-imaginative senses told me that more ingredient meant tastier food. It lied.

One thing I’ll never forget was her expression. She smiled wider than a sunny side up. Her face glowed brighter than a glow stick in a rock concert and her eyes almost teary like a diamond. It was priceless.

I was her BEST CHILD EVERRRR (To my siblings, sorry you had to find out this way).

Today, I woke up to an equally fantastic surprise. Raja made me breakfast in bed. Not because of any occasion. Not because of a fight. Not because he was held at gun point. But just because he felt like it.

I smiled wider than a sunny side up. My face glowed brighter than a glow stick in a rock concert. And my eyes almost teary like a diamond. It was and still is priceless.

For a single moment, he made me feel the same way I think and hope my mum felt in 1991. And I love him for it. BEST HUSBAND EVERRRR. I love you baby.

Just some random pic I dug up.

One in particular was the ‘loot’ at the end of a rainbow. Supposedly, if you manage to reach the end of a rainbow, any rainbow, there will be a pot of gold just sitting there for you. Sooooooo, naturally, I went scouting for it. I mean, it was just sitting there and I wanted it. How hard could it be, right? Ok, I gave up after the third attempt. Which I think truly deserved a standing ovation.  Do you realize how crazy it is to look for a rainbow? Especially at that age where you only own your two crummy feet. If I had a car back then, chances are, I would’ve found it. Really.

Anyway, I stopped waiting for miracles to happen. No more chasing rainbows. No more wishful thinking. Until…Raja surprised me with a Nikkor 35mm f/2 AFD lens of my own. He noticed me muttering things like “If only I had a full frame body” (which means an FX camera, incase u were thinking that I wanted a voluptuous body) and noticing my pitiful effort to backup every  time I needed to take a photo and ending up against the wall. Ok, perhaps he did not get me an FX camera (that would probably take 8 wishful thinking effort), but the 35mm lens is perfect.

I may have stopped hunting for gold but I guess I still do believe in tales. Maybe just one. The part where I’ve found my prince. Literally, Raja.

It’s the bomb. Thank you!