“Waaah, two o clock aleady ah?” I thought in Manglish {Malaysian English} as I boarded the taxi from the Pasar Besar Taman Tun Dr. Ismail which is about eight minutes ride from my place. The day seemed autumy enough at dawn – I was awaken as early as four in the morning.
I couldn’t sleep.
I had been tossing and turning again in bed thinking.
“Wah, leng loi, is that all for today?” Helen, the vegetable seller asked.
Fifty ringgit worth of vegetables for the week is nothing really – I used to indulge at least on vegetables alone, something like a hundred odd ringgit weekly. With the price hike, and me being a rabbit {as some have previously called since I love eating vegetables}, I’d have to learn how to eat grass like all the other hares these days. “Cannot afford-lah” I added. “Yeah lor, things are costly these days…” she added. “Then don’t charge me tomorrow’s price lor Helen..” I added with a cynical smile. Elsa, a Parisian friend used to complain about how costly it is to live in Paris – I said, that once she earns in Ringgit Malaysia, she’d be lucky if she can afford her range of Dior cosmetics let alone keep up with the Jones’ since that’s what she, and most other plastic ‘friends’ in Kuala Lumpur adore doing.
They complain that I waste money on food – I’m grateful even for the little I have, and still look good at thirty-eight without having to spend thousands on anti-wrinkle or anti-cellulite cream! I look at them and wonder if these wonder cosmetics ever changed them one bit – if they had indulged in Chanel, it’d be a different story, and I should know I was once an haute couture mannequin …. yes, you can see the difference on day one itself, but I shan’t tell them to live like princesses, if their minds are locked within a limited lifestyle of the nouveau pauvre. Yet the cost of living in Paris is so much cheaper than living in the Klang Valley – in terms of Ringgit and sen, it’s scandalously cheaper. How some Parisians complain as if they’ve been eating caviar day in day out, least alone shop at the Gourmet section of Galleries Lafayette surprise me.
“Mais toi, t’es aussi Parisienne quoi!” some of them would say in disdain. I’m only Parisienne when I’m living in France. I take the colour of the nation whenever I am living – these days, I’m a kiasi Malaysian.
“Non! Et j’insiste que ce n’est pas cher de vivre a Paris” I’d tell them off as if living in Paris is hellish enough for these ingrates. Come and live in Malaysia, and you’ll taste the difference, but then again, I’m an alien – that would not account for being like them, since they’d prefer to hoard the cash instead of using it to create jobs for the rest of the community they live in. I remember living in Paris aeons ago, and my weekly stipend for food would equate to about one hundred euro then and that was like years ago when it was still in the glory of the French francs, when Chirac was not even President! And they’d hover around me as if I’m the Societe Generale’s daughter or something – I’d feed the unfortunate students then – they needed it, I’d say, for how could one digest Machiavelli’s discourse if one is constantly hungry in class.
Oh the envy these Malaysian Londoners who squander their parent’s bank account and flaunt their Gucci, and Dior to every known party in town, looking down at us who had to work our heart’s out in Paris. We were proud I’d say we were, for we didn’t touch our parent’s coffers nor did we ask a centime from them.
I spent almost two hundred today at the market – this time, I’d have to stretch even the lamb shoulders into tiny pieces not! Mutolib, the butcher asked if I’d prefer mutton. I shook my head, and insisted that I prefer lamb. “Do you want me to chop it up in tiny pieces?” he asked. I looked at him wondering why he’d ask me a silly thing like that…. “No Mutolib, I like it in strips please.” I said. Its such a joy to prepare lamb for dinner really – the meat is soft, and melts in your mouth like honey. It’s no wonder why honey is one of the secret ingredients in Middle Eastern cuisine.
Saturday I’ll be politically and professionally thirty-eight.
Don’t ask how young I am really – I do not live in your in-time, and hence the concept of age is seriously something trivial, and humans have to at best, overlook it during interviews – bloody hell, its not the age that matters! In comparison to what I’d ask? If the world is several trillion years old, would it make a difference if I’m thirty or ninety?
Its better for them these earthlings to work at something more worthwhile – like sowing tree seeds or finding inner peace instead of killing their own species or asking me silly questions about how and where I acquire the knowledge of the Universe {yeah right – like as if that would change the political scandals in the country!}.
“Nobody grows old merely by living a number of years. We grow old by deserting our ideals. Years may wrinkle the skin, but to give up enthusiasm wrinkles the soul.”
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