One Little Number

At 11:52pm, my mother was braiding my hair.

"Are you going to check?" she asked.

"No," I replied flatly.

"But there's only 8 minutes," she said.

"But you're here," I countered. "I need you to be out of the house. I'll check when you go to work tomorrow."

She honestly doesn't get it, and it sort of amuses me, that she can't seem to comprehend the pressure she puts on me, explicitly and implicitly. But then I can feel her smile evilly, really, just the vibes shifting.

"Well, I don't think I'm going to work tomorrow," she says nonchalantly. "You know... I think I'll do some cleaning, and I have some shopping to do."

And I can't help but think how eeeevil she is, my mother. I sleep after midnight, but I absolutely cannot make myself check. Although I'm not usually a dream/nightmare person, I have vague recollections of a kind of dream or nightmare, numbers of a possibly ATAR or study score spinning around, not making any sense.

In the morning, my mother's in my room.

"Are you going to check?" she asks, her voice sing-songy.

I pretend I'm still asleep, moaning and pulling my sheet over my head. When she's gone, I take my phone off my charger, turn on the WiFi and hide under my quilt. My friends' group on Viber, AWESOME, is alive and kicking. Hundreds of messages pile up and keep going, and I try to go back, get updated, but it's impossible. The only thing I get is that everyone seems to be alive.

Of course they note that I'm online, and then they're asking me. Are you alive?

I can't check. Up until now, the waiting period was torture, like being on death row, waiting for the execution date. But right now, the waiting is a mild comfort, because as long as I don't know, there's this possibility that I may still do well. Whatever happens after, of course, cannot be changed, and that's even scarier than not knowing.

When they realise I can't contribute to the group, Star messages me personally. Pep talks me into it, mingling motivational and demanding. It's weird - I have never been this nervous in my life. My eyes literally tear up, my stomach feels like it's holding stones, my throat hurts, and my hands are sweaty. It's gross, but as my fingers tap against the screen of my phone, they leave little pixelated rainbows.

But she tells me that she's alive and kicking, which is what she said last year when we got our Literature/Methods results, and it's enough. I log in. I check. I die.

98.70

It's jizbillions more than I expected. Okay, not jizbillions. I was arrogant enough to think I'd do better than my sister, though not by much. But this is a lot. This is huge. I can't even speak.

I crawl out of bed and traipse to the kitchen and show my mother. Her eyes scan the screen, they widen, light up, and she screams a little. Envelopes me in a huge hug.

And it's too much for me, so I go back to bed and crawl under the sheets. Inform the rest of my friends that I'm alive. Start checking up on my comrades. Outside my room, the house is abuzz. My cousins shouting their congratulations, then hushing 'cause they think I'm asleep. My dad coming in to see my room. The calls start coming in, because that's what it's like, being a part of the Curry community. They start going out too - we have a whole family to inform. It's insane.

The best part is that 90% of my friends so far are alive. And well. And happy. And I'm so proud of us, I really am. My school in particular - we're usually considered a part of the ghetto, you know, with the leftovers, the rejects, the thugs. And I know 7 of us so far have 90+ results. Star got 99.35. We killed it.

An annoying side note: the Herald Sun newspaper published an article on the high achievers. They mention a whole bunch of schools, taking the time to mention Dandy High's highest result was 96.1. They did not mention our school, when, excuse me, we did a lot better. Let me repeat: STAR GOT 99.35.

The same day, Monash uni calls up and informs me that I've won a scholarship. That very day, they're having a ceremony for high achievers. That very day. I don't even know what to do anymore. It's all above me.

So there you have it. I'msohappylikeyouwouldn'tbelieve. I could cry. I could cry because my peers killed it, because we put in the effort and we got the rewards and no one can say that our school is crap. I could cry because I showed my mother that I don't need to go to a posh private or select entry school to get a good result, nor do I need to have a million tuitions, or do all the sciency mathsy subjects. I could cry because I haven't let anyone down - not my parents, not my teachers, not my friends, not me. I could cry because everyone's so happy. I could cry out of gratitude, thank God, literally. I could cry just out of relief.

The funny thing is how little all this will mean in a couple of months. We'll all start university, and we'll realise how insignificant the ATAR - this number - is. We may even forget what we got, like my sister did. I used to think it was unfathomable. Now I'm not so sure.

But until then I'm going to enjoy it :)

Peace in,
Laila

#WeArePretenders

So, in light of Lisi Harrison's new series 'Pretenders', she sort of started a little trend (it reminds me of a little virtual revolution) where you confess your sins the way you pretend in the real world... I don't really know how to explain it, so I'll give you a few examples:

And my favourite:

I'm not entirely sure you guys read Lisi Harrison, but I do love her, maybe just as a person if not a writer (I feel like I can't say as a writer considering I haven't read all that many of her books). I started reading her Clique series when I was pretty young, it's all about rich girls in a fancy school, and although it sounds really superficial with all the extensive clothes descriptions and whatnot, I don't know, there was always something in it that clicked with me. As cliche as it sounds, maybe it's just that despite all that glamour, they really are just like 'normal' girls. And although I haven't actually finished reading the series, nor have I read any others by her, because I don't have access to them, I've been following her blog for ayyyyges and I think she's just amazing and I love her ♥

And I like this idea. 

I know the ones I've shown you guys are pretty exaggerated, but there are more 'realistic' ones, and you know, I thought I'd give it a go. Just for fun. So yeah. Here it is.

1: I'm a pretender in the sense that I act like I'm a dedicated tomboy because I don't want to give my older sister the satisfaction of knowing that I've 'grown up' in some ways, but I'm really excited now that she's on holiday, because I have full access to her wardrobe :)

2: I'm a pretender in that I tell my mother the sole reason for my choosing to become a midwife/paramedic is because it's a kind of selfless, helpful job, so my mother can't argue with me, but my choice also relates to a certain kind of adrenaline rush. I'm halfway into it for the thrills.

3: I'm a pretender because some people seem to think that I'm super confident and comfy wearing my headscarf everywhere, but sometimes I really do feel...well, you know.

4: I'm a pretender because sometimes, when my mother tells me to do things, I say I'll do it, and she'll keep repeating it, and I'll keep saying I will, and it will end with this whole: I'LL DO EEEET, OK? ... And then I don't.

5: I'm a pretender because I often check my phone like I actually expect something new or important to pop up, when I know, and you know, and probably everyone knows that that's not going to happen.

6: I'm a pretender because I act like I play music while I vacuum just to make the chore fun, but in reality, it's so I can sing along really loudly and not have to acknowledge my cat-being-strangled voice. And... I like vacuuming.

7: I'm a pretender because I roll my eyes and make sarcastic comments when I watch soppy love stories and cheesiness with my friends, but really I'm a sucker for happy endings. I also love Full House.

8: I'm a pretender because I shuffle my feet and bob awkwardly when I'm forced onto the dance floor at parties, insisting that I don't dance, but I'm liable to going all out and everywhere when I'm at home.

This is seriously me at home

9: I'm a pretender because I give the impression I'm an English nerd at school, but in reality, I have no idea what I'm doing when I write an essay, and I still don't understand what I'm doing right sometimes. (But hey, I'm not complaining.) 

10: I'm a pretender because I like to think I blog for me and no one else, but I can't help screaming a little inside, when one of you comment, or I get a new follower :P

So there. #WeArePretenders.

Are you?

Peace in,
Laila

Money, money, money.

On the 14th of November, a father was admitted into hospital. The doctors performed tests and gave him a report, and they were ready to release him. His family - wife, two daughters, two sons - were about to come visiting, but he calls his oldest son to tell him not to worry. He tells his son to just come by himself to pick him up, there's nothing wrong, why cause the hassle of hiring a van to get everyone to town?

So off this boy goes, catches a bus to town to pick his father up. The story gets a bit awry here, but from what I've heard, on the way out, his father had his first stroke. The boy is there to see it. He's around for the second stroke, he's around to see his father die. I heard he fed his dad, too. When he set out that day, with the intention of bringing home his father, he didn't realise it was going to be a dead body.

His younger brother too, still in school, did not realise that when he left for school that day, that was the last time he was going to say bye to his dad. The girls, too, went about helping their mother wash the clothes and make lunch, they didn't know that some of those clothes and some of that food were not going to be worn or eaten.

You probably want to know what was on the father's report, right? Well, it said 95% of his kidneys were gone. 

The thing about kidneys is that they don't just go. They don't just fall apart like that, one day. It's a gradual thing, and there are signs, signs that the father must have noticed up until the moment he was finally admitted into hospital. So why, you wonder, wouldn't he go to the doctors earlier, when these signs first cropped up? Why didn't he tell anyone earlier?

Money. He didn't have the money. Doctors appointments in Sri Lanka are pretty darn expensive, and his family just didn't have enough. He could have asked someone, right? Mentioned it... our side alone, my mother has three brothers and three sisters. Surely someone could have dished up.

About two years ago, we went on a holiday to Sri Lanka, and that proved to be the period where our family was conned, and we lost all our money. Not just that, but this 'business' involved the wealthier members of our family, so they too, went down with us. It was on that holiday that my dad told my uncle, who had reluctantly admitted that he needed some financial help, that he would aid him in any way possible. But my dad never got to, because, as I said, the money was all gone by the end of that holiday.

It makes me sick. Don't get me wrong, I'm not calling for a revolution, to burn all the money in the world and live in this happy chappy, airy fairy utopia, where love makes the world go round, and everyone just gives, gives, gives. I know the communist dream is only that - a dream, because in practise it never works. But that doesn't make me feel any better about the inequities of this world. All he needed was a bit of money, and maybe this never would have happened. But then, huh, what's meant to be is meant to be, right?

And still money is the problem. None of his kids are working, nor does my aunt. The oldest daughter, besides being a bit fussy, can't get married because they don't have the means to meet the requested dowries from the umpteen suitors that have come along (completely unIslamic, btw -_-' ). The son has just finished some major exams - O-levels, A-levels? all the same to me - and we're trying to get him to come here, but again, you have to have a certain income to sponsor someone to come over, which is also true of his sister. We're working on it, but it feels like no one has enough. The youngest is still in school, and I guess everyone's going to try and contribute to the tuition and school fees.

On Thursday (the 28th), my sister went overseas. She had this money saved up for a party we were going to host for our friends at the end of the year, but we decided it was better used going overseas. I haven't spoken to my cousins, yet. They're grieving, and understandably, talking on the phone is not the first thing on their minds. And besides, what can we possibly say from over here to make it okay? When someone's mourning, the best thing is just to be there, you know? And however you need to help should manifest itself without you having to offer pre-written, conventional condolences.

I admit I was a bit jealous. Not in the sense of, God, I hate her, why does she get to go? I want to go, it's not fair, my life sucks, I hate the world. It's more like, gee, I wish I could go, but I ain't hatin' on nobody because I can't. It's strictly a moral support trip, and everyone has been saying that if we had the money (again! >.< ), they'd have sent me too, so I'm not holding it against anyone. 

And then this nasty voice starts up in my head, going something like this: Well, will you look at that? When Number One finished school, not only did you guys go on holiday to Sri Lanka, but within that you also went on Umrah. And yet, when you finish school, not only is there no overseas holiday, not only do you just mostly wallow about at home, but there is the added list of  demands - get a job, get your license, tutor your sisters, clean this, do that. And they're even talking about marriage. They just can't wait to get rid of you, huh?

Really hate that voice. 

Anyhow, I don't really know why I blogged this. I told Linchy I would blog something, and I've been meaning to, but I couldn't figure out where to start. So here is Something. My life as of recent. 

I'm not as depressed as this sounds, awnestly. My uncle, he will be missed, but we watched a part of his funeral on Skype, and I actually saw him, and I expected something ghastly and emaciated, but in fact, he looked almost beautiful. Glowing. Nur, they say, right? Isn't it supposed to be a good sign? I put my trust in God. And I know my sister will be helping my cousins, even if I can't. I actually have another cousin coming in two weeks or so. And I've also been given this new resolve - I actually am really attempting to get a job, for me, now, because I want to save up and go to Sri Lanka at the end of next year. New Year's goal, I guess.

And, one more thing: this is so cheesy, but make sure the last thing you say to someone before you leave them, whether it be before you go to school or work, to sleepover at a friend's place or go on a grand trip overseas, make sure it's nice, okay? My mother, she kind of had this experience, in this post. One day, she said her salaams and went to school, and when she came back, it was to her father's funeral. Just like that. You never really know when you're going to speak to someone for the last time, so try, always try, to end it on a good note.

Be happy :)

Peace in,
Laila

Adieu, High School

So that's it. Today marks the day that high school is officially over for me. I mean, it 'formally' closed on the 21st of October, but I still associate exams with school, and so I've still felt as if I was in school during this period.

And today, I had my last exam.

That's it.

It's done.

...

A part of me is just so THRILLED. Liberated.  No more SACs, no more exams with the same kind of weight of expectation, no more bad teachers (this is specific to those bad teachers, because I have had great ones too). No more 5 days of school, 8:30am to 3pm. No more waiting for it to just be over.

And thinking of all that makes me want to do a little happy dance, it does.

Then the other annoying, self-righteous, angsty, officious part of me pipes up, with a 'is that it? That's all?'

And all that's left is this huge blank space of all the things to come and all the things that will never happen again. It's just so... surreal.




Anyhow, I'm now going to embark on the task of trying to catch up on all your posts (I've been terrified of looking at my dashboard until now), and it's going to take me ages because I'm actually without a laptop right now.... my charger broke :/ Sort of convenient for the exam period, but now it's just going to slow things down. So be patient with me ^_^

And I do, in fact, have many things to blog about, as many things have happened from eons ago that I just haven't had the time to jot down. So many, many things, good, bad and ugly, and you know, because there are so many, I probably won't blog about any of it.

Cheers.

Peace in,
Laila

"It's okay," she said.

 

"Don't worry. Go study. I won't distract you by my cuteness."

"I'll let my babies do it instead."

There are five.

 

 Hahahaha, Laila. Look at you. Exam in four days, and you're blogging about cats. Amazing.

Yeah, I know. Shut up.

Peace in, 

Laila

Where Babies Come From

I remember the day I learnt that babies are not bought from special shops called Hospitals, that day when all the notions of angelic storks flew out the window.

I remember that our dad had just dropped us off from school, and my mother was still in the kitchen. My sister sort of caught me in that moment where we lingered in the hallway. She had this really evil glint in her eye, and she leaned in close and said: "Do you want to know where babies come from?"

Obviously, that by itself does not say much. But it was the tone, the kind of tone that suggests a nasty joke is going to follow, at your expense. And the expression, mischievous, devious. Without her having to say anything further, I knew it was something 'bad', and I remember covering my ears and running for it, down two hallways and out the back door, screaming 'NANANANANANA I CAN'T HEAR YOUUU!' all the way. I must have been 8 or 9 years old.

She never did give me the details, and I don't actually know when I learned those details, but I count that moment as the one that stole that part of my innocence. Clearly I had been anticipating such a terrible deed when it came out, so that's why I wasn't so shocked as to have the actual memory for the day.

But while I know my own experiences of learning where babies came from, I kind of took my sister's for granted, you know? I never did ask her how she learnt, because I was so devastated that she took that away from me. Well, yesterday, my older sister, Creepy Z, and I were taking a walk down memory lane, and I got the full story.

Let's rewind, way before I ran out screaming and my sister first turned to me with that evil look in her eye.

She's at school, and she happens to look over the shoulders of some guys in her class, on the computer, and lo and behold, what does she see? Some very intimate photos. Lots of people, lack of clothes. You know what I mean. Don't make me say it.

And her little self-righteous self is aghast. 

"What are you looking at? Why are you doing that?" she snaps. The boys kind of roll their eyes.

"Don't you know where babies come from?" one bonehead asks her. And she's still aghast, but now a little disbelieving too, and slightly shocked and disgusted. And a bit curious.

So after we fast forward passed our moment in the hallway of my house, you find her spending the entire day trying to make 'appointments' with my mother. My mother would be in the kitchen, serving lunch, then cleaning up, then making dinner, then cleaning up, and in all these various intervals, my sister'd approach.

"Mum," she'd say hesitantly. "Can I talk to you about something?"

"Yes?" my mother'd reply, her usual indifferent sort of self. My sister would blank, and with hurried mumble of 'nothing', she'd evacuate. It soon became clear she was not going to have That Conversation with my mother, so she had to wait for a certain someone else.

That someone is a girl called Sabriah. Subriah? Umm... wow. I don't even know how to spell her name. But basically, her family is really close with ours, our dads go back to sharing a house in their bachelor days, as they always remind us. Sabriah, she plays the role of both my older sister's close friend, and a kind of older sister for her too. She's the wise one. I have so much respect for her, because she was the one who got me to read Harry Potter. I don't know about you, but usually when my sister hung out with her friends, I'd be kicked out by all of them being the annoying kid sister, and they were never nice about it. Sabriah always made sure I had something to do. 

Anyhow, the point is, my sister kept all this turmoil inside until we visited them. The two of them disappeared into her room, leaving me with the piano that day, maybe. I don't really remember.

As soon as they're locked in, my sister bursts.

"Where are babies from?" she asks, finally allowing the panic she's been penting up to surface. "Because this guy told me this... blah blah blah... but I don't think that's right. It can't be right. It must be haraam. Allah would never allow something like that. It can't be."

Sabriah kind of blinks, and says: "Umm, I think you should say the shahadah, quick, I think you just went outside of Islam then."

I mean, they were both fairly young. My sister would have been 9 or 10, and I guess Sabriah would have been 11 or 12.

Anyway, as soon as my sister affirmed her faith again, Sabriah sat her down with a heavy sigh, one burdened with the weight of bad news.

"I'm afraid it's true," she said, much to my sister's horror.

And that's my sister's story. Why did I share it? Besides the fact that it amuses me, well, the moral is: my older sister was actually really cute once ^_^

So tell me, do you guys have stories about that one moment in your life? Know anyone else's weird or cute stories? I know a guy whose younger sister broke it to him, and he cried. My cousin also said that in our ickle village, if they don't learn it at school, the uncles break it to the boys just before they get married. Girls, due to our official change from girl to woman, learn it a bit earlier. And I mean, tell me, does anyone actually ever have That Talk with their parents, like I always see in movies and TV shows and stuff? I don't think I've ever met someone who has o.O

Peace in,
Laila

The 'Strong' Female Lead

I read this post a few days ago, and I'm just very happy about it :) Why? It's kind of like a 'my-thoughts-exactly' situation, only Derek Landy (and I guess, his 'Twitter-wife'...?) just added to it, you know, developed the idea to more sophisticated proportions that my brain couldn't do, on its own.

[INTERMISSION: Have you people read the Skulduggery Pleasant books? If you haven't, DO READ THEM. They are hilarious. So completely laugh-out-loudable. And yeah, the storylines are exciting, captivating (though admittedly, when he gets to specific fighting scenes, he loses me), and the characters, whether they're evil or not, you love 'em all. But for me, personally, they're just so funny and that's the main reason why you should read them :) ]

So anyhow.

Over the last year or so, I've noticed this certain pattern in some kinds of YA novels, the dystopian or fantasy or adventure-y type. Mind you, not all of them are like I'm going to describe, but still enough for me to make out this pattern.

Basically, there will be a leading female character. She will be a kick-butt, in-yo-face ninja type. Or she will try to be this type, for the purpose of her story. Completely tomboy. And then, added to that, she has this certain kind of 'angry' attitude - you know, she repels people, she finds it difficult to accept love, maybe she's socially awkward, she's just better at hitting people, blah blah blah. And sometimes, if you get really lucky, she's also contemptuous of all things girly, or the homebody type of female.

And I'd read this books, write up a review or whatever, and check out other people's opinions (other reviews, or just you know, ask friends who've read them), and the general view is kind of like "gutsy female lead, strong, resilient"... that kind of thing, you know?

And it really irked me. Firstly, it just annoyed me that this was the type that got all the praise. What, so now girls have to be angry and masculine in order to be deemed 'respectable' female characters? I mean, to me, those characters were highly unlikeable personally, but now they were the role models for what the perfect female character was supposed to be.

Let me just say, I am not a 'girly girl'. I think I'm developing some 'girly girl' tendencies, 'cause, well, I'm a little more conscious about what I wear, and yesh, I do like pretty clothes, though perhaps not to the extreme of my sister, or feeling that desire to fit into the trends, or.... you know, I sound really defensive. And I'm digressing. 

But what I'm trying to say is, while I'm not into makeup and shoes and giggly-gossiping and shopping and checking out guys all the time, I don't begrudge that for other girls. Well, maybe the gossiping - sometimes I try to divert the topic and if it gets serious, I do start telling them off. BUT, generally speaking, if that's what they like, why should I be holding them in contempt? They're not hurting anyone. Except with the gossiping, maybe...

ANYWAY. The point is, the point is, when these female leads that I'm talking about start dissing the 'airheads' that are fashionable or lovestruck, I just get really annoyed. No, I mean, I wouldn't, if not for the fact that I've noticed it in multiple books this year and the last. If it was just one here or there, whatever, you know? But this is a pattern. A trend. An unhealthy one. That's mostly being applauded.

So yeah, I started getting really annoyed at this developing stereotype. And then I read that post by Derek Landy, and his Twitter-wife's article (although, admittedly, some of it was lost on me, because I'm not really familiar with all the superhero movie references she makes o.o), and I was just so pleased because they highlighted this issue, in their wise way, and did it without the raging and ranting that I would have done it with, and yeah. 

One of the messages is basically:

REMOVE THE LABELS. Let female characters be female characters. 

I mean, take Bella Swan. I remember, when I was in 'Camp Anti-Twilight', this girl on SW was doing a series of rants about different aspects of Twilight. And she was doing character focused ones, and when she got to Bella... well, you can imagine how much she had to say. Everyone has a lot to say. The common criticism is that she's weak (and angsty and annoying and co-dependant and pathetic and blahdiblahblah). This girl, doing her rants, was all like 'Bella is such a disgrace, while she so readily helps around the house and blah blah, you will never find her doing something that's not all wifey/motherly, you know, like painting a fence or something....".

And, even being in Camp Anti-Twilight, I still didn't really like that argument. Yes, Bella was angsty and all that jazz, but why the need to mention she doesn't do what she calls 'guy work'? So what? My older sister doesn't do guy work. She hates working outside the house. She hates getting her hands dirty. Big deal. I don't think that makes her a disgrace to womankind. And I don't think it's a crime to be weak, either. Boys and girls both can be weak, and in the name of making 'realistic' characters, why would it be such a bad thing to have a protagonist that was 'weak' in that way? 

""Strength" is one dimensional. It's saying "women can be strong like men", NOT "women are flawed, complex, brilliant, weak LIKE MEN."

(That being said, I'm still not a fan of Twilight, but to each his/her own *shrug*)

Also, that 'stereotype' that I mentioned was developing? I'm not really against it, in the sense that like Bella-Swan types of girls, there are obviously the angry-antisocial-tomboy types of girls too. I just want to remove this notion that they are the epitome of what the perfect female character - or female - should be. 

Really, read the blog post + the article. Much more worth reading than this post, for that matter x) 

Thoughts?

Okay, just some other things...

THE BOOK THIEF TRAILER CAME OUT!!! ZOMG. ZOMG. Okay. It's awesome. 

And you know, if you were thinking of Death, according to the amazing Markus Zusak: 

"…and I will just say to all the loyal readers out there who might be wondering if Death narrates the actual film, as he does in the book:

The answer is an emphatic

YES.

...

Just as he does in the book, Death will help look after us.

And he’ll do his very best."

 

Ummm... yeah. I have my first exam (French oral) on the 23rd of October o_o Scared. I donno. Everything's so close. Talking about the Valedictory dinner and the Farewell Assembly, getting the dates for final SACs, applying for universities, getting 'life talks'... it's just overwhelming. Trying not to think about it, but it just keeps coming back :/

Peace in,

Laila

The Fall of an Empress // Gender Bender

These last few days have been ... tumultuous.

On Thursday the 15th of August, my grandmother passed away. 

It wasn't a surprise. She'd been on her last days for a while now. And truthfully, I hadn't been worried about her, but my father. My father... is really attached to his mother. I mean, really, more than any of his siblings. And I was afraid of how he'd take it.

On that night, I had just turned off my laptop, when I heard the most frightening sound ever. Of my 18 years, I had not heard my father cry once. But on that night, he wailed, and I don't think I'll ever forget it. Fathers are supposed to be the 'rocks', yeah? The foundations? Well, mine were shuddering and crumbling. When I cried, I cried for him, I think, more than anything.

My grandmother had 87 years. She had 7 kids - 13, actually, but five of them were caught between miscarriage and still birth. Her 7 kids, they made 24 kids - and there's a chance there may be more. She lived to see some of her grandkids make up to 19 great-grandchildren. She lived to see her legacy spread across the world; we have been/are in England, in Dubai, in Japan, in the US, in Australia, in Bangladesh, in France. 

At first I thought we didn't really have a connection, my grandmother and I. There was a language barrier. I mean, understood Tamil, but the words were awkward on my mouth, and every time I tried to put in effort to speak, my cousins would started their hyped up teasing: "Oh, oh, guys, come on - look, Laila's going to start speaking. This is going to be great."

So obviously, I'd instantly shut down. But I had tried to speak to my grandmother, the only other problem was, she could never hear me. I donno. Some say I have a quiet voice, but I don't think it's that quiet - in fact, my friends would tell you the contrary. But my grandmother, no matter how loud I talked, she couldn't hear.

So I thought, you know, we're not close. Everything I know about her, my cousins told me, and I envied them for the connection they had, but I was also glad to be hearing the stories she told them. Because she was a spunky woman.

I've always known her as teeny tiny and all wrinkly. I used to think her blue eyes were a thing of old age - you know, sometimes eyes go all... rheumy? I think that's the word. But anyway, her eyes weren't rheumy, they were naturally blue, and sharp. A startling feature for the average Lankan. 

But it was her height that was funny, because she was so tiny, and yet so commanding. My cousin told me this one story, back in the very very very old days, when my grandmother was a young mother, pregnant, and alone in an incomplete-house on a hill. My grandfather had gone out. A bunch of 'rowdies' came along, and they started banging on the front door, trying to freak her out and get her to open the door. What's more, there was a back door that wasn't actually fitted and lock-able, and they could've easily gotten in.

But my grandmother, she didn't panic. She didn't try to fix up the back, thereby alerting them to its weakness. She just yelled at them, through the door, while they taunted and teased. And while they stood at the front door, banging away, she poured chilli powder through the grate at the top of the door. They ran away in tears, apparently, and rightly so.

That story never ceased to make me laugh, but I was never surprised. This is a woman, who, in her weak 80s, never allowed any of my gentlemanly boy cousins, who hovered about, to help her down the stairs. This is a woman who hated slow drivers, who had a serious need for speed.

And I did have a connection with her. Just because she was my blood, just because she was the mother of my father. Just because even though we'd never been able to converse normally, she always had this special nickname for me, just me, and as small and trivial as it may seem, it was still there.

I heard that leading up to the days of her death, people flocked from all over the country to her house - her house. It didn't have a street number, it was literally named after her: Aneesa Villa. Practically her palace. These were the people who'd she helped, advised, encouraged, and befriended.

And they came to our house, too. In the last two days, visitors have been dropping by non-stop, people I didn't even know. I don't think it's just because of my dad - I think it's just her.

So I don't really pity her, nor do I mourn her too much. I know she's in the best hands, God's hands. I pray for my dad to have strength, but my grandmother - masha'allah, she had a good run, and insha'allah, she's heading to a better place.

There was another shocker, though. This one not tragic, but more... o.o I donno. Bizarre?

Yesterday, around midnight, when the last visitors were leaving, Kiko was finally freed from the room we'd had him locked in (for his own protection, mind you). After eating and drinking, he started making this really weird sound. I've heard it before - it's that other worldly sound that I hear cats making sometimes, outside, like, a mix between a baby and a meow. I wasn't worried, because, having heard other cats do it, I figured it was something natural. But I needed to quell it, or my parents would get mad.

So, as we all do, I Googled it.

The sound was to do with them being in 'heat'. Oh, cool, I thought. Cat just needs to get laid. Well, I ain't stopping him.

Then I was reading through other details of being in 'heat', and I noticed there were these 'symptoms' that in fact, Kiko had had in a supposed illness that we presumed, a few weeks ago. I was like... whoa o.o Poor dude. 

Then I realised that in fact, when speaking of cats in heat, they always referred to the cats as... she.

...

So, ladies and gentlemen, Kiko is now, in fact... Kiki. I keep thinking of all the times we teased 'him' about being such a pansy, such a girl. I think about all the times we assumed 'he' was having an identity crisis, when 'he' constantly preened 'himself', allowed 'himself' to be dressed in pink. I think of all the conversations I had with 'him', after 'he'd' come back from some proving-my-manhood escapade, and I'd assure 'him' that lots of girls dig a sensitive guy.

...

Also, in the morning, when I looked outside, I saw her snoozing with some other neighbourhood heartbreaker. My first thought was: DAMN, she works first.

Then when Prince Charming hung around all freaking day, just sitting and sleeping around where precious Kiki was sleeping, I, um, got a very bad/awkward/kindofexcited feeling. 

I think the cat is pregnant o.O

Do I know what to do? No. Did I Google it? Yes. Did it have an answer? Duh.

The big one was always 'have her desexed'. I can't do that. The very notion makes me sick. I mean, I know it's normal around here and everything, but to me it feels all wrong, like, who are we take that natural part of an animal away from them, just because we can't handle it?

So it's going to be stressful, and it's going to be insane, but I think I'm just going to let nature take its course. I hope it works out...

Peace in,
Laila

Eid Mubarak!

I reckon I'm three days late? But since Australia's ahead of everyone, I guess that makes me two days late. And because goes for three days anyway, I'm on time :)

How was everyone's Eid?

We had a 'quiet' Eid. My dad, in particular, wasn't feeling up to it because my grandmother is ill, with that disease that most people get to know: old age.

Anyhow, a quiet Eid meant we had Louise and her girls over for lunch. Oh, Louise's mother also came over from Pakistan, and they're all so cute and cuddly together. The girls love their grandmother; we went to an iftar at the masjid, and the grandmother was going to stay to pray taraweeh, with my mother, and the girls got really sad because they didn't want to 'leave her behind'. I only wish I had that connection with my grandmothers.

So yeah, they came over for the day. I was really excited because for once, we got all the little kiddies presents.

I KNOW. I know. That's supposed to be a natural with Eid, right? Well, my parents were never good at it, so I didn't really get many Eid presents, growing up. But at the start of Ramadan, it was SALE time, and I just had this brainwave: I know the strain on the family right now, in getting presents for the kids. But what if all of us, who had money to give, put in, say, $10 each, and at sale time, that covers a whole lot of toys. So I got presents for my little sisters - like actual stuff they'd like-

FLASHBACK: One Eid, my mother made the effort to get my older sister and I presents.  She got us a plastic footy thingie on a chain. One: it was a footy. We hated Aussie Rules Football. Two: it was such a Guy present. Like, all our friends were getting Barbie, and they could all play together, but we had this plastic footy thing and we'd always be left out. Three: I mean, the last two could be tolerable if in fact we could actually KICK the footy. But it was a plastic thing. Solid plastic. You couldn't even play stupid footy with it.

I told her she needn't worry about presents again.

- and they were just so thrilled. And I got presents for Louise's kids too, and my little cousins, and I was happy. Then I felt bad because I put in all my money for the kids, and I had nothing left over to buy Linchy a present (SORRY LINCHSTER o_o ). But hey, my Eid present was a rock. Literally.

I was riling my little cousin about how I had gotten her a present, and she hadn't gotten me anything, so she gave me that rock, which, btw, she hadn't even painted herself. And then she said my older sister and I had to share. Yes. Kids. Still, I'm sure the kid who painted it for her did it with love ^_^

And yeah, so I went to Linchy's for dinner, and we watched Wreck It Ralph which was so cutefunnysadandepic. And that was that.

And now, I got photos of my nephew! Lemme introduce:

Little Mr Dubai: Yousuf

SOOOOOOOOOOO CUTE.

Umm. That's it. Feel free to share your Eid happenings here, or link me to a blog, though I think I'm following most of you anyhow. Ta.

Peace in,
Laila