Sometimes you just have to resort to the old ways.- 28/6/2016 -Revised.

Sometimes you have to resort to the old ways – 28/6/2016

I had a mini Satori again last night when I dropped by to visit my buddies at the fisherman’s jetty off the Jelutong Freeway. I arrived feeling the worst bout of gastritis I'd had in a long time—likely due to fasting and irregular food intake, or perhaps one of those countless causes I can no longer fathom or care to explore. These days, I just accept the pain and carry on.

They offered me a local brew—air ketum—a bitter herbal drink made from the leaves of the pokok ketum plant. In the past, villagers across rural Malaysia used it as a remedy for ailments and to boost stamina in the rice fields or while braving the sun and sea. Today, it’s a controversial plant—praised by some, demonized by others, and outlawed by the government due to its misuse by the youth.

Pokok Ketum, also known as Pokok Biak or Kratom (botanical name: Mitragyna speciosa korth), is native to parts of Africa, Northern and Central Malaysia, and Southern Thailand. In Thailand, it goes by names like Kakuam, Ithang, or Thom; in the United States, it’s simply known as Kratom.

Boiled into a dark, bitter tea, air ketum is often chased with something sweet—Coke, bottled drinks, or coffee—to mask the taste. It can make you high if overconsumed, but half a glass was enough for me. I let out a deep, satisfying burp and felt the pressure in my chest subside. I’ve used it before, while working in the hot sun weeding at the organic farm. It gave me an inner strength I hadn’t realized I had. It helps me sleep too, though I only take it when it’s offered, and rarely, largely because I still can’t stand the taste.

Like all natural substances, there’s a line between use and abuse. Sadly, many young people today cross that line and become consumed by it.

Anyway, back to my Satori.

Someone passed around a joint, and I took a few tokes. Almost instantly, my body began to unravel. The pains emerged—deep, buried aches, not just physical but mental too. I hadn’t realized how tightly wound I’d become, how much tension had built up over the past few weeks. So I did what I always do when I’m high: I sat. I breathed deeply. Slowly. I went inward.

As I sank into the breath, my body began its natural yogic routine—stretching, twisting, flexing, aligning bones and muscles. It happens effortlessly, as if the body remembers something the mind has forgotten. I worked through each knot, watched each pain drop away like sour fruit.

The others barely noticed, half-watching a religious talk show on TV, already used to my odd movements. But I emerged from the process light—relieved, renewed. The aches were gone. The pressure lifted.

And I realized something: I’ve spent years studying consciousness, self-discovery, the art of letting go—but I’d failed to live it. I got hijacked by the noise, tangled in domestic worries, and the pressure of Ramadan. I nearly buckled under the weight of things that, in truth, don’t matter.

I had forgotten to breathe. To let go.

I told all this to a close friend there. He just nodded and said, “It’s the test of Ramadan.”