Title: Ramblings from the Jetty – On Dogs, Gods, and Ghosts of Friends Past
How is it that the only comment I’ve received lately on my blog ramblings comes from some online vendor in the Bay Area (wherever that is) trying to sell me dating services? How do they know? How do they always know? Is it just data mining, or is it that they’ve somehow sniffed out the fact that I might need a new companion now that my wife is in a nursing home somewhere in Illinois—and the chances of ever seeing her again are as slim as hope itself?
Where are all those friends I once shared deep conversations with? The ones I bared my soul to in letters, emails, postcards, and passing conversations? It's as if they’ve dropped off the face of the earth—or maybe it’s me who has vanished into some unseen pocket of time and memory. Perhaps this is the real meaning of enlightenment: a slow but steady unburdening of everything we once held dear. Even friends. Even family.
The past few weeks haven’t seen much improvement in daily life. I’m still haggling over ferry ticket prices at the Jerejak Island Resort with every guest that arrives. And recently, the management decided to shoot the dog that I’d grown to love. Just because it was a dog.
The Malays, in general, have a strange fear and dislike for dogs, and they blame it on Islam. But I suspect it’s deeper than that—fear instilled from childhood, warnings from elders: "Dog bites. Stay away." So they grow up afraid, not understanding. Meanwhile, the Chinese have figured this out and keep dogs around just to keep the Malays at bay.
The dog was harmless. He wasn’t hurting anyone. With a simple phone call, he could’ve been picked up by the SPCA, but no—they chose the bullet. I hope, wherever they end up—heaven or hell—they’re greeted by a massive dog with a shotgun. A dog’s hell, perhaps.
This morning, I went to the Penang State Art Gallery at Dewan Sri Pinang to ask about holding a solo exhibition. Of course, as expected, I need to write a formal application to the Director with a portfolio and letter of intent. I was also gently warned: it’s a long shot. The place mostly features Chinese artists. Today’s ongoing exhibition had maybe 99% Chinese participants. Just a handful of Malay names scattered in between. No surprises there. Penang, like Singapore, is Chinese-owned, and the rest of us—Malays, Indians—we’re cast as side characters in a story we no longer write.
A cousin once told me, “One day, the Malays will be nothing more than caretakers and gardeners to Chinese bosses on this island.”
It’s hard not to get bitter, but I remind myself: patience. Patience is a virtue most sorely needed in this city. Even as I write this, I’m telling myself not to chew off the heads of the kids shouting at each other while playing internet games in this cybercafé. It feels like an insane asylum sometimes—Indian Muslim kids yelling in Malay and Tamil across the rows. No one bats an eye. No sense of boundaries or respect. I just want some quiet. A little peace. Is that too much to ask?
Too bad for the kid sitting next to me—I just told him he had bad breath and if he keeps shouting in my face, I’ll fart into his. He got the message, for now. But I also got mine: this is their world, not mine. I belong in a different space and time.
I belong with Alan Watts and G.I. Gurdjieff. With the Dalai Lama and Hulusi. Not because I’m as brilliant as they are—but because I breathe easier in their presence. Their words are air to me.
Even in all this grumbling and grief, there’s a lesson. I’m learning patience. Tolerance. Acceptance of what is. Learning to dance to life’s rhythm, however off-beat it sounds.
And no, I won’t just walk away defeated, head bowed and tail tucked. I’ll walk away having thrown these ramblings into the wind like a prayer, like a curse, like a blessing. I’ll walk away lighter.
I’ll walk away… enlightened
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