A General Reflection on Corruption.

 A General Reflection on Corruption. 

We all know FIFA is corrupt. Sepp Blatter was too, no surprise that Infantino is as well. Can’t recall who was before Blatter, but hey the entire organisation opened itself to corruption. What rankles is politicians getting involved in blatant corruption, acting entitled and with complete disregard for what anybody might think of them. Goodness. 

That this happens often enough everywhere else outside of FIFA doesn’t make it any better or more acceptable. Politically minded lobbyists, for instance, hide behind agendas that make them look “good”. Money goes where it can do “good”. A handshake may be all that makes the deal “good”. And two “good” people or parties walk away, thinking they’ve done something “good”. 

How do we define “good”? Is it the “greater good” that excludes or the more narrowly defined “good” that includes these “good” people or parties? Do they not all benefit in some way when money changes hands, votes are bought, and support is guaranteed? Money speaks. And its voice is usually heard whispered in quiet convos, exchanges of looks, an implicitly understood by the quid pro quo of granting of favours… all bought by an exchange of funds, the age old art of buying your soul. 

This is played out over and over again. A form of bribery that hides behind a thinly disguised veil of generosity, and philanthropy. Those who can, buy support, those who cannot were never part of the “good” to start with. You may have thought you were, or wanted to hope so, but it’s not about the have-nots. If you benefit, it’s almost incidental. 

Once money changes hands, the hands change. They tend to dig in pockets too deep, in pots with prices too steep, and carry blemishes that seep into the soul. Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely, and nothing corrupts the soul better than money, or mammon, as it’s often called. 

You want to be generous? Do it anonymously, with zero “good” convos, no expectations, no agendas, no applause or elevation. Do not give power a corrupting foothold, it will corrupt you absolutely.

Thanks for reading, 

Pav

The Echo of My Own Heartbeat

The Echo of My Own Heartbeat

I stopped to think of the things that bring me the greatest joy, and strangely enough, they are the things that are either out of my reach, or shortlived and fragile. 

The stars and planets in the night sky have long fascinated me. My life is full of moments of gazing at seeming constellations, looking for patterns in the night sky because it seemed to be first gazing out at me, comprehending me, in the cool of the night, my favourite part of the day. Is anyone out there? I will never know, they are too far away. 

Exploring the ocean, just under the surface, seeing the beauty of marine life and coral reefs up close, and just beyond them, the receding light hinting at a dark abyss with creatures hiding out of sight but likely there. Something must live in those shadows. Is anything out there? I will never know, they are too far away. 

My most beloved of creatures… the butterfly. To me the most fragile of living things, yet having gone through the most wretched of metamorphosis, not just a total change but an annihilation of self, every cell rearranged to such perfection. Long my dearest friend whose appearance, no matter how fleetingly fast, and brilliantly bright, or not, sparks joy. Look, a butterfly! That which I tried to gather in pockets as a child, helped nurture as I observed them transform, enthralled by their first flutter of wet wings as they took flight from my hand… so fragile, so soft, so beautiful, and a life over so soon. Too soon. Why do all the beautiful things in life die too soon? 

An echo with the fragile flower, where my joy at their complex construction yet simple design, brilliant hue, and fragrant perfume is tempered by the inevitable knowledge that this, too, must wilt, and die. I am enthralled by their beauty yet saddened by their impending death. Why do all the beautiful things in life die too soon? 

Maybe nobody is out there in the dark of space, or the ocean’s depth. There is nothing, or it remains a well hidden secret, an unfathomable mystery. It may well be that someone or something is, and hears me, and is gladdened. Or is that the echo of my own heartbeat, asking to be seen, and heard? And all the beautiful things in life die too soon because if they lived too long we’d never cherish them the way we do now, knowing their life is short. Do they know how much their fragile beauty gladdens me and I love them? Or is that only the echo of my own heartbeat, asking to be cherished and loved despite my mortality and fragility?

Ps. Mid afternoon musings amid thoughts of the natural world and my favs. Resisting slipping into David Attenborough mode, but perhaps it’s time to rewatch all his fabulous docus about the natural world! Starting with the ocean. ❤️

Thanks for reading, 

Pav

If I Hurt You, I Hurt Myself

An old reflection, from Sept 2016. 

I love this statement, "The mark you leave in another's heart is also left on yours" by Bryant McGill. An interesting thought, and one I have known to be true. That's why being kind is important, not only for the good it brings to others but for the good it brings to you. I have often felt that "if I hurt you, I hurt myself" applies in my life and in my interactions with others. It's a concept that extends especially to those we love and yet also to those we do not love. We are all interconnected somehow by virtue of our humanity. 

How deep and troubling is our struggle then when we are forced to take action to protect ourselves and in so doing we have to hurt others. Sometimes in life you simply have to do this. It's the hardest thing ever, to close a door that's been wanting to close, to leave it shut, to nail it shut even, and in the process feel the pain of those nails in your own heart. Love never dies. It never does. And so the nails we hammer into doors that need to remain closed serve only to remind us that sometimes in life we do have to hurt ourselves by hurting others, simply because it's what they want and it's what we need. You let people go because they want to leave, and in so doing you feel the deepest pain you'll ever know. 

The crucifixion of your own heart. 

All that keeps you going is the hope of a resurrection some day soon. That all that was good and kind and joyful and loving will come alive in your numb heart once more and the doors of your heart will open again because it'll be safe to fling them wide and feel alive. Until then one waits in the tomb, shrouded in the cold, dark womb of metamorphosis like the caterpillar awaiting the butterfly. It's a long process. Be still, my beating heart, embrace the numbness you feel... it's in survival mode. This, too, shall pass.

Thanks for reading, 

Pav

(10th Sept 2016)

The Beauty of Brunch

Brunch. That mid or late morning meal that is both breakfast and lunch. But also a term that means so much more. One of my fav brunch spots is 5 Oars Coffee Roasters in Siglap. A short walk from home, and I’m there. Ready to enjoy a delicious brekkie-lunch combo. 

But really, brunch isn’t about the food for me. It’s about sitting with a person and catching up, one to one. Getting to know them better, and deepening a friendship. A proper heart to heart that moves beyond “What’s been happening?” to “How are you coping?”, and hopefully to “How can I help?”. Sometimes it’s even like rummaging about in your own heart, and spring cleaning. You discover things hidden away that come into the light, and the mere articulation to another of events, emotions, hopes, and fears brings clarity. 

That clarity bit is a little like my counselling sessions, except this is with a friend, usually with a shared history, and there’s mutual reciprocity. They also open up, as clarity comes from the affirmation of someone who truly hears and sees them. That’s the thing about brunch. It’s time carved out for reciprocal sharing, a giving and also receiving, speaking and also listening. It’s meant to be life giving, not soul draining. Sounds simple but it isn’t. One must intentionally determine to foster that reciprocity, and sometimes we do forget how necessary it is. Brunch is not a one sided convo. 

It’s not an open, single slice of buttered sourdough toast with all of me laid out on it. It’s a sandwich, of two happily met slices of buttered sourdough toast, with all sorts of fillings and flavours, constructed throughout brunch itself. A dash of spicy, a pinch of salty, a splash of silly, maybe a spill of tears, a rash of regret, a gaggle of giggles… all washed down with cups of warm affection on endless refill. 

The creation of a safe space between friends is a reciprocal thing that invites participation, welcoming the other into the shared space. The participation in opening up, being vulnerable, sharing deeply, baring one’s soul even… these are all optional add ons to the brunch menu. You must choose them, but only if you want to indulge. 

I think of them as essentials, really, and at brunch I always have them on my plate. I don’t do brunch otherwise. Why waste time being superficial when we can dive deep? 

Pix from 5 Oars Coffee Roasters while waiting for an old dear friend for brunch yesterday. Was a perfect brunch! We made a marvellous sandwich. ❤️

Thanks for reading, 

Pav

Musings on Quarantinitis

 Wrote this on FB on 29th April 2020. A reflection on “Quarantinitis”, in the time of Covid. 

What does one name a mysterious sense of listlessness despite being busy, and an underlying nagging sensation of dissatisfaction despite having everything one could need while being at home for weeks? I call it "Quarantinitis". A sense that something is wrong despite everything appearing to be right. Some kind of low level, almost inflammatory, unsettling wave, that ripples through you every now and then when you pause long enough to think about it. 

It isn't ennui per se because you have plenty to do at home and life isn't aimless. It isn't full blown depression because you do get out of bed daily and do the things you need and want to do, and they do bring you satisfaction. It isn't a lack of joy in living life because you still find joy in even the smallest of things, even at home. It isn't deep despair because life is still very much worth the living, and you have hope for the future. It isn't a numbness of heart that disables you from feeling a full range of emotions because you feel them all, especially at home. It isn't deep grief over any loss you feel being at home for weeks, and yet you do miss the things you freely enjoyed before. It isn't deep dissatisfaction with life because you remind yourself that you have so much to be grateful for, and truly you do.

But it is some kind of borderline disatisfaction or vague unhappiness or slight sadness that you experience and attempt to address in quarantine every day. You tell yourself not to dwell on what is missing but on what you have. To be truly, deeply, genuinely grateful for all that you have because others have so little, and yet on some level, that doesn't offer you enough comfort. You can't help having more of the material things in life, you just do. And your feelings and emotions, whatever minor or major thread of dissatisfaction runs through them, are real. 

We are often told to look at things relatively, and to do a comparative analysis of sorts with the underprivileged to see that really, we aren't so badly off because we have a beautiful home, plenty of food on the table, privileged kids who go to good schools, and can afford more than the simple niceties of life. In fact, many of us live in relative luxury to most of the world. And yet our feelings and emotions are as primeval as those of our ancestors, and very much a part of our shared humanity no matter what our position in social hierachies.

I grow weary of people reminding me of how good my life is and in the process, unknowingly negating the validity of my feelings and emotions. Yes, I have everything I need, and more than enough, but I can feel sadness, despair, grief, dissatisfaction, lack and loss, just like everyone else. To be told to count my blessings everyday is a helpful exercise but only if I have been listened to in the first instance, my feelings have been validated, my inner self has been seen, and made to feel visible, and I am able to process my feelings over time. To gloss over this process is to hinder the healing and growth of the soul.  

A blanket, "Be grateful for everything you have, you're so blessed!" or "What have you got to complain about, you're so lucky!", doesn't help provide space for those feelings and emotions to exist, and for you to sit with them. It only serves to bury feelings which can fester, and eventually lead to dissonance and despair. The soul suffocates and shrivels up because it cannot bear the burden of not meeting someone else's expectations of grateful living, and feels that something must be wrong with it, when, in fact, its needs were never acknowledged in the first place. 

It doesn't help to be told that one shouldn't be sad because there are far sadder people in the world, with the logical extension of that being that one shouldn't be happy either, because there will always be people who are happier than us. It's totally dismissive, and highly illogical. Even people who seemingly have everything can experience lack and loss in their lives. It's part of being human. As are compassion, understanding and empathy, all of which seem to be in short order these days.

Quarantinitis affects everybody in different ways. It's a relief to have basic needs more than met, and to be able to address emotional needs. Those emotional needs are important, and shouldn't be minimised in anybody. A big part of living a meaningful life involves dealing with one's feelings and emotions and the work that entails. It's the work of a lifetime, growing one's soul. Hopefully, being in quarantine is a good time to reflect and introspect... in addition to disinfect! 

Don't deny your feelings and emotions, dear friends. May your quarantinitis be lessened as you find those who can listen to you, and understand how you feel, and help the authentic you be visible. If you need to speak to someone, you can speak to me. Hugs and love, and stay safe. ❤

#Quarantinitis #StayAtHome #StaySane #StayConnected #PavListens #PatientVoices

Being Unchosen

So much to do on a Sunday, but I find myself writing a poem of sorts, and having a cathartic cry. A short one. Well, longish poem, shortish cry. As it should be lah. Been awhile since I’ve written through tears. 

There’s A Grief That Comes With Being Unchosen. 

All of life we wait in the shadows, perfecting ourselves for someone else, waiting with hearts beating, silently hoping, “Choose me”. 

Waiting for the right time, for the right one who will find us the right one. 

The one who will say, “I choose you, be mine”.  

And in that brief moment, often frozen in time, the joy of being chosen captures you.

Out of all the people in the whole world, he chose me. 

Of all the hearts beating, waiting in hope to be chosen, he chose me. 

Of all the plentiful fish in the sea, he caught me. 

Captive in his net, eyeing him wondrously, I do not see the trap laid for me. 

Being chosen is beautiful, until it’s ugly.

Being chosen fills the heart with joy, until it shatters it, 

Being chosen makes you feel wanted, until you no longer are. 

The choosing is the promise to love and cherish, 

The chosen is the beloved. 

The unchoosing the breaking of a vow, 

The unbeloved the one left to grieve.

How quickly another beating heart, silently waiting in the shadows, is caught in his net. Chosen. 

Was I worthy but for awhile, and then no longer worth the choosing? Unchosen. 

Grief sweeps in and hollows one out, 

But slowly, something else takes its place.

The knowledge that I can choose myself. 

That I am my beloved. 

That everywhere I go, there am I. 

Not an inescapable burden, but an indescribable joy. 

I choose me. 

There’s a grief that comes with being unchosen. 

There’s a peace that comes with choosing me. 

Pav 

26th April 2026.

Ps. Trawling through tidal pools along the beach at Changi in 2022. Must. Go. Again. ❤️ Choose yourselves, dear frens, you are your beloved!

Love is Letting Go

Love is letting go. Always, and at every opportunity, we must let go. It’s not because we have no wants, desires, needs, expectations or hopes of our own, but precisely because of all that. All of what we have, lurking in our hearts, often unexamined, threatens to suffocate love.

We let go, and die to ourselves, over and over again. Choosing and preferring the happiness of the other over our own. In time, with conscious effort and consistent practice, this can become our second nature, our reflex, our go to MO for dealing with everything life brings our way. 

We don’t surrender our will as such, instead we humble it, and we teach it, as one might tame a wild horse. Kindly, but firmly. We harness the power of our own egos to bring others joy rather than pursue our own endless pursuit of happiness. It’s actually easier than we think… we need to reinforce it by truly valuing those in our lives. Do we really prefer them over ourselves? And why do we love them, even? 

My children have been teaching me to let go. Once, I was the centre of their tiny universe. Then it was their beloved friends, and slowly now, their loving partners. I learnt to watch from the side, relishing their every joy, there if needed but aware that they must lead their own lives. My children gave me this gift- of taming my wild will, my self-centred ego, and my critical heart. I let go, let go, let go. 

Love abounds where there is freedom. Without freedom, love is a cage. It’s not so much about letting them go and if they love you they’ll come back… that’s the funny adage folks churn out at broken romances. No, it’s let them go, and it’s quite alright whether they “come back” or not. It’s saying, meaning, and living the “I love you’s” whether you receive the same back in word, gesture or action. Love doesn’t love wanting only a response, as if it were an investment with a fixed rate of return, paying out dividends regularly. Love simply… loves. 

It’s more like the beautiful green parakeets I see outside my windows. Flying freely, settling where they need to be, and chatting noisily when dusk appears. They’re free. They’re gorgeous, and they bring so much joy while wanting nothing in return. Love can only live in that space created by preferring the other, dying to self, and a joyful exchange of freedom. Love needs to breathe, to fly, to choose. It cannot be suffocated, caged, or forced. It will die. 

Something to think about, and to ask myself how and why I love my family and friends the way I do. Dying to self is a lifelong process. I must remind myself afresh, and daily work at it. One of the handy things about growing older is that you worry a lot less about what others think about you. This frees you to worry a lot more about how you think about yourself. The work of a life time remains to be continued over the few years left to me. God grant me wisdom to number my days rightly! 🙏🏼❤️

A Reflection on Gaslighting

 Gaslighting is an interesting word, isn’t it? Just two words put together, to imply all sorts. Gas, possibly so ethereal, as is light too, so airy and luminous. Is gaslighting a flighty, unweighty, inconsequential thing, maybe just a passing joke or an off hand, back hand, short form for “let me twist the facts and make this your fault, because I can”? 

Or is gaslighting a very serious, weighty, elemental thing, the way gas and light have always formed part of our world’s very existence? Was the void filled with gas, swirling in the darkness, shapelessly soft? And didn’t God speak “Let there be light”, and didn’t the void become bright, and the world come into being? 

Light dispels the dark; is gaslighting but a way of dispelling one’s own darkness by shining a light on another, thus casting shadows elsewhere? What lurks in those shadowy spaces, hinting at truth but playing at hiding, pulled and pushed in many directions, whenever convenient to shift attention away from the gaslighter? Pointing always and only to a version of the truth most useful to the one who seeks to control the narrative to their advantage? 

Gaslighting. To be gaslit is to be used and abused, led and misled, unjustly judged, and blatantly manipulated… only for the benefit of the other. Even as it unfolds, and we recognise it, and feel it, maybe see it in our mind’s eye, we might find ourselves paralysed, unable to respond or to act. Paralysed first by shock, then fear, and finally shame, with flashes of anger along the way. Anger that quietly screams not to be ignored. Anger that propels us to take some kind of action. 

We want to speak our truth, to reverse the process, to unmask the gaslighter. Hasten not if anger is at the very heart of the gaslighting because you give them reason to say, “Aha! I knew it all along! You are the problem!” and you fall prey to their well placed trap, having hurriedly grasped the bait they dangled. 

Stand still. Breathe deeply. Not every battle deserves our attention. Time will bring the gaslighter to light, and standing bare under luminous scrutiny with all their machinations on display, they will be seen as they truly are. One need only wait and watch.

Contemplating My Mortality

My dear Ma’s passing is a constant reminder of my own mortality. Someday, not too far away, I will find

myself in a hospital bed, battling something potentially fatal and slipping away quietly  in the night, aided by Fentanyl or Morphine, or whatever pain or respiratory relief medication rules the day. 

I find myself struggling with a combo of my late parents’ health issues though thankfully not diabetic… really the Crohn’s that came  from nowhere aka the “gift” that keeps on giving is complicated enough. Will I find myself succumbing to a secondary hospital acquired infection as they both did? Who knows…?! Sigh. 

Sometimes, my mind wanders to the thought of who will be by my side in that twilight time when I fight my last battle and find a sweet release from the cage of this mortal existence. My spirit will some day be free, and my failing body will have served its purpose. Are we spirits in bodies, or bodies in spirit? It’s mysterious. I hope to return to my Maker, and to be part of creation. A host of many, and yet part of One. Paradoxes abound, but since life is a mystery, why should death be any simpler? 

I only hope that when my time comes it will be quick, and I will not linger for long, a sad, crumbling, rapidly decaying shadow of myself. Watching my sweet Ma deteriorate, in pain, and being treated with less dignity than she deserved, left me deeply saddened for her. Selfishly, and perhaps unsurprisingly, it also left me deeply scarred, thinking of my own turn at death’s door. 

Please don’t pray for me to linger, let me go, I am always ready, truly, perhaps you should be too. Please don’t be afraid to speak of death and dying, I can face it, and so should you. Please weep if you need to, and say whatever needs to be said, I can bear it. All you will hear from me is gratitude for having been a part of your life. Thank you, I love you, I shall remain with you, always. 

Someday, each of us will have to face death. I am learning to embrace it, not so much to rush towards it, but to dispense with the fear of it, and to consider its inevitability, and also its gifts. Certainly, time left is short, and are we not all moving towards our end, every single day of our lives? 

How long do any of us have? Perhaps I’ll have another 20-25 years more before I leave this earth. How do I want to live? What do I want to do? Who do I want to be? I think of my sweet Ma: if you were lonely, she befriended you, if you were hungry, she fed you, if you were lost, she helped you find your way. She was the hands and feet of Christ in this world, in her own special way. 

Ma, I miss you. When my time comes and if I am remembered with the same love, warmth, gratitude, and affection as you, I shall have lived a life worth living. Hugs and love, sweet Ma, I love you, always. ❤️

My Mother Was Me, and I Was Her

 Grief. Trying to understand it while you’re experiencing it is difficult. I often catch myself and step back, observing my emotions, trying to describe what I feel, and to understand them better. It’s a kind of self awareness, if you like. And what to do about the bouts of sobbing that come uninvited? How to “move on” or “move forward” as everyone tells you, or to “be strong” while experiencing the deepest of griefs… the loss of one’s self as reflected in one’s own mother? 

My mother was me, and I was her. And now a part of me is gone from this world, and I am heartbroken. I have not felt this kind of grief since my marriage ended, and I recall that it made sense to me then when I understood that the depth of one’s  grief reflects that one once loved deeply. We mourn because someone beloved is gone, because something or someone precious has died, or ended, and because we are adrift without the other. We are at sea. 

My mother was me, and I was her. I am so much like her, and I wasn’t ready to have the primary source of my selfhood leave this world. Now so much of her lives on in me, and while that legacy is a privilege and a blessing, I’d much rather have her embodying those qualities herself on this earth. She was so much more than I could ever be, and gave so much while she lived, and even in her passing. 

It’s been 15 years since my father passed, 12 years since my marriage ended, and a little over a week since my mother passed. It took me many years to get over my father’s passing. That I did not know him well helped in some way. When a marriage ends you eventually do move on for your own sanity, severing bonds that are no longer meaningful. But when your mother dies, the bond still remains, forever. I don’t think anyone ever gets over their mother’s passing. 

I don’t think I’ll ever really heal from this grief, and that’s okay. It’s been traumatic in a few ways, especially at the hospital, watching my mother on a rollercoaster ride, recover, go downhill and then leave us too soon. But it’s even more traumatic to know that her familiar face in her favourite spot, her trademark smile and cheeky laugh, her love and concern for all of us, her unconditionally generous and giving self… these are no more. 

We celebrate her life, and rejoice that she is with her beloved God. We are happy for her that she no longer suffers. But I am sad, selfishly enough, for me. 

My mother was me, and I was her. And now she is gone, and I am no longer myself. Grief takes as long as it needs, and reflects on the love that once was there. I’m not rushing it. I’m going to sit with grief, cry my way through it, allow my heart to grow because of it, and accept that I’ll always feel the loss of my mother. 

You were me, Ma, and I was you. I miss you, sweet Ma. Rest in peace. ❤️

Farewell to My Sweet Ma

 My beloved mother, Dalip Kaur, (Bibo) (8th Jan 1941 - 4th April 2025) passed away at 10.32pm Friday, 4th April. A light has left us, and a loving heart beats no more. Her health had taken a turn for the worse, but her departure is still sudden. She will be deeply missed, and forever cherished. 

Reposting a tribute I wrote for her on her 80th birthday. Farewell to my sweet Ma. Thank you for everything, Ma. I love you. ❤️

My Ma, Dalip Kaur Penu aka "Bibo", is a true survivor. Born at the start of WW2, she evacuated to the village in Punjab with her mother and brothers, and her cousins. Their ancestral village is Moghal Chakkhe, in Amritsar district. Their ship from Singapore was bombed but managed to limp into Bombay harbour. Apparently many prayers were made at Ma's feet on account of her childlike innocence, and the hope that God would save the ship because of her. A simple yet carefree life in the village saw them safely through the war and they returned to Singapore where her father had remained in the Police force. 

Ma went to Raffles Girls' School and skipped a couple of years schooling, as did her brothers at ACS. While they went on to uni, she went to Teachers' Training College, and got married the day after graduation, at age 19, to my father, who was a Malaysian government scholar at University Malaya in Singapore. They returned to Malaysia, and travelled about as my father was appointed state auditor for Selangor, Perak and Penang, with each of us children being born in these various states, while Ma taught at govt schools. Sadly, things didnt work out between them, and Ma took the very bold step of leaving for her parents' home in Singapore with us 3 kids in tow in 1970, when I was three years old. 

We spent 5 lovely years with our beautiful Grandma, and Grandpa who retired from the Police and was a night watchman at a bank. Ma had a great job with the Children's Charities, driving her sporty yellow Datsun to meetings at the Istana to plan events and zipping about cutting a dashing figure in her embroidered saris or her practical pantsuits. She even won a "Belle of the Ball" prize which was a trip to Bali. I remember her energy and zest for life, and I think those were her happiest years. 

We returned to KL in 1975 after my father wooed Ma back, but eventually they parted ways again, and I rarely saw my father more than twice a year. To top it all off, we became Christians in 1981, and he disowned us, remarried, and adopted a child. Ma, however, dedicated her life to us. We stood by and watched God provide for our every need, and more, as Ma prayed for us, and opened up our humble rented apartment home to countless visitors who came by for food and fellowship. No one left our home hungry. Ma cooked the most delicious chicken curry, mutton curry, mixed veggies, dahi vadai,  chapatis and masala tea. Every single thing she cooked was the tastiest meal, no matter how simple. 

God became her rock and comfort and she overcame every difficulty life threw at her simply by praying her way through it, often in tears. She's one of the strongest and most generous people I have ever known. She gives, with no expectation of anything in return. Everyone who walked through our home was blessed by her generosity of heart and loving care, her hospitality and willingness to share, and her desire to share her love for God. 

My Ma was a missionary to the Barios in the mountains of East Malaysia, and to Nepal, having graduated from Bible School later in life, in 2001, aged 60, with several distinctions. If her health had allowed it, she would have continued being a missionary but she had to be grounded as she grew older after a chest infection floored her in Kathmandu. Ma remains cheerful, and keeps busy with her Bible study and copious note taking and sermon writing. She's a veritable storehouse of all sorts of information. 

She loves to learn, speaks several languages, and has a zany sense of humour that has seen her through tough times. I remember cuddling with her and watching tv together as a teenager, and being wrapped up in her warm embrace and feeling that I was in the safest and sweetest place on earth, and we'd laugh about her wobbly fats, and how all mothers have just the right amount to be the best pillows, and Ma is really the perfect pillow for snuggles. Those were the happiest times of my life, in Ma's embrace.

Ma taught me how to swim; on lazy Saturday afternoons in Singapore she would fry up chicken wings while we watched Sesame Street, and she'd take us to the Singapore Swimming Club and we'd swim, and some nights we'd have open air movie screening nights right next to the beach there because they hadn't reclaimed the east coast then in the early 1970s. Ma was a progressive, ahead of her time, prepared to push the boundaries as a woman, and refusing to be bullied or cowed by backward traditions that oppressed her. 

Multi talented and beautiful, she has a charm that is quite alluring, but as she reminds us, she never remarried because she had daughters to raise, and she worried about us. I think Ma has been happiest doing her own thing, being her own person, and living her own life, entirely on her own terms. I salute her, and her courage, strength, generosity, kindness, and her deep love for God. 

Like all of us, Ma isn't perfect, but her faults are tiny compared to her many strengths. I love you, sweet Ma, and I'm so very sad not to be with you on your 80th birthday. You deserve a big fuss, a noisy party, lots of yummy food and thoughtful gifts, and especially, I wish we could snuggle up like we used to, with both our wobbly fats now, and just giggle away, content to be with someone who knows our every failing and loves us unconditionally anyway. I love you more than you know, and I miss you. ❤

Of Family Feuds and Funerals

 Of Family Feuds and Funerals. 

Sometimes, an opportunity comes our way to make things right. To show grace, to forgive, and to heal. To put aside ideas of right or wrong, good or bad, and win or lose. To rebuild, repair, and restore. LWL’s passing was such an opportunity. Sadly, it’s not being recognised for what it is… a chance to end a family feud, restore relations, and reunite the nation. 

I’ve been reading comments online of folks arguing for LHL, and against LHY, and vice versa, and I can’t help thinking that it’s not particularly useful to polarise people and to imagine the best or the worst of them. All of life is about straddling that space between contradictions. We are all both good, and bad. How do we live with ourselves amidst these tensions? And how do we live with others, knowing full well that they, like us, are perfectly imperfect? Only with plenty of grace. 

In an ideal world, LHY would have returned for his sister’s funeral despite valid charges against him and whatever the consequences might be. Ideally, the house would be demolished, because, after all, it’s just a stone edifice, filled with a family’s memories, and now the cornerstone of an ongoing feud that has torn the family apart. It’s the cause of disunity, not just for the family, but for the nation. Division already exists beneath our nation’s superficial veneer, but surely a family feud revisited during a funeral shouldn’t add to fragile fault lines being further broadened. Unfortunately, it is adding to disunity. 

What’s the truth, who’s right, who should win? It sounds like a petty childhood squabble that will have no end unless the precious toy is removed. Take the house away, demolish it, and let’s carry on. It’s not really a loss, neither a hollow victory for anyone. It’s really just sanity prevailing. No need to feed egos, enable victimhood, and encourage division. Close the chapter, remove the spotlight, and retire gracefully from the arena of family feuds. It’s the best thing for the nation. If either party says they love Singapore, then they should stop tarnishing their family’s good name, and all of ours, and let the past go. 

Thanks for reading, 

Pav

AFP file photo of the house.

Obituary for a Frangipanni Tree

Obituary for a Frangipanni Tree (6th Oct 2022)

Woke up this morning and found a frangipanni had fallen across the pond. It was the last of 5 frangipannis planted around the pond in 2011, when the house was first built. I am sad to see it dead though I feel I did neglect it while it was alive. Wrote a little something while munching my toast. Fare thee well, frangipanni tree.

Obituary for a frangipanni tree:

Planted by the pond your roots protested

An excess of water that lingered in the soil.

You watched palms and ferns flourish while other frangipannis died, 

Did you know you were the last to survive? 

Today, you broke, unsupported by brittle branches that carried the dry rot stemming from dead roots, 

Spreading like a cancer through your skeletal frame. 

Yours was a life unheralded, a tree amongst other plants, a part of the backdrop of a green screen.

One of several, your uniqueness finally being your solitary survival over a decade while other frangipannis fell early.

Frangipannis do not like water, we knew that, hoping that somehow you’d survive. 

And you did, until today. 

And I am shocked that I cannot remember the colour of your flowers. There have been none for a long time now. 

And I am sad that you were dying all this time, and I did not know.

Thanks for reading,

Pav 

A memory from 18th Feb 2020

After 11 days of self imposed home quarantine and venturing around the neighbourhood for short walks, I decided to go to the beach at the East Coast this morning. Left in the dark, hoping to catch the dawn but missed part of it while huddling with others at Mac's waiting out a drizzle. Saw a man probably enroute to Bedok Jetty for morning fishing, groups of cyclists, taichi groupies, solo folks and grumpy older men with their equally grumpy wives. 

Looked up from my cup of insipid tea and saw a man staring at me. Looked away determined not to look a second time, in case he was staring at me again, but then found to my dismay, when I casually looked up, that he had vanished. Sigh. Oh well. Told myself to smile at everyone on my walk, be friendly! Wandered off and walked for almost 2 hours along the beach. 

My older three kids were born while we lived in an apartment across from the beach, and I revisited so many happy memories this morning. Various kids (I have so many!) learnt to cycle, rollerblade, skateboard, wakeboard and sail here.  In their early years, they enjoyed being carried about in our bike kiddy seats. We camped overnight on the beach, knowing that if it turned out to be a disaster we could get home easily. No disasters, just the best fun ever. Highlight was cooking instant noodles in Dad's army cookware over a bunsen burner. Best noodles ever! 

Saw the pond where we released our two terrapins (naughty us!) that had outgrown their aquarium. Saw the hawker centre at which many a meal was eaten and a tahpao bought. Saw aeroplanes approaching Changi Airport, and remembered how the kids loved spotting them and guessing carriers, and the joy at recognising SIA's tail, their loud screams of joy piercing the air. Walked on the sand and remembered the hours of happy digging and playing and chasing waves, and how, truly, the simplest of joys are free. 

The wind messed my hair and I remembered how we ran around here like wildebeests, freely enjoying the breeze, the sand, the sky and the sea. How the kids learnt to touch a mimosa leaf and watch it close. How they met strange dogs and embraced them with open arms. How we met ants of various sizes, along with prickly casuarina cones, and other things to avoid while running barefoot for hours. 

From our apartment, we had a view of the sea from every room, and the ships filled the horizon. Once, an American aircraft carrier obliterated the horizon altogether, it seemed so huge. Every New Year's Eve, at the stroke of midnight, every ship lets off a flare, and we would watch this from our apartment with a clear view of the ocean. Our very own "fireworks" show. We'd wait for the inevitable laggards who were slow, or hoarding the limelight for themselves, until it became obvious that there were no more flares left. One day, I heard a huge explosion, and a barge carrying kerosene had exploded. It was scary! Thankfully, no one died. 

I remembered life in our apartment, our first home, and how very happy we had been in those years with the kids running about the condo, our lovely neighbours, hours spent at the playground, and the BeyBlade competition I organised, as well as the "Campaign Against the Change of Condo Colour Scheme". We were successful in swaying the opinion of the other 479 households in the condo against changing the colour scheme of the exterior of our condo blocks from a very mild green and beige to a frightful pink and purple concoction. The kids rallied and distributed fliers to every household, and cheered when we won! Today, the colour scheme is shades of blue, but I no longer live there, so it's okay. 

Those were the best times of my life, when life was simpler, and everyday seemed magical. You don't need much to be truly happy. So grateful for all the good in my life, of which there seems to be plenty. I have been, and continue to be, so blessed. A walk down memory lane where one focuses on the good is so refreshing! I simply love the sea, the breeze, the open vistas and the whole feel of being on the verge of something larger than one's self. Here, today, I felt my past merge with my present, and I felt at peace. May you find your peace, too. 

(18th Feb 2020)

Thanks for reading, 

Pav

I Love the Ordinary

Captivated by the ordinary, partly because it’s so much a part of our shared human lives, but also because it grounds me to celebrate the everyday in every way. This moment, now, calls out to be lived in. Am I present, or absent, hunting down a better moment in time? Happiness must entail living in the now, to some extent. Here’s an ordinary poem. 

I Love the Ordinary 

The way my toes curl in the morning cold, 

The way the kettle’s boil gets loud and bold,

The way my fingers warm round my tea mug’s hold,

I love the ordinary. 

The way my washed laundry smells so very clean, 

The way my duvet folds over with a satiny sheen,

The way my tablecloth tells of spills it’s seen,

I love the ordinary. 

The way my floor gleams after a gentle scrub, 

The way my tables smell after a lemon pledge rub,

The way my kitchen looks all tidied up,

I love the ordinary. 

The smell of sourdough in the toaster shrinking, 

The aroma from a teabag in my white mug steaming, 

The firm butter on the table gently melting, 

I love the ordinary. 

The sound of water gushing over me, 

The feel of hot water cleansing all of me, 

The heat of water comforting weary me, 

I love the ordinary. 

A head on blast of chilly air, 

The push of people rushing everywhere,

A noisy train taking me somewhere,

I love the ordinary. 

In smiles exchanged that reach the eyes, 

In words spoken that try to be wise,

In hugs goodbye where friendship resides, 

I love the ordinary. 

In each moment of every single day,

Life happens, but where are we?

Absent as minutes pass, hours run away,

Hunting the extra-ordinary. 

Celebrate the laundry, the toast, the tea, the train,

The smiles, the words, the hugs, goodbye’s refrain. 

Ordinary moments when all of me is present all the way, 

Listening, sensing, truly seeing, 

The ordinary, imperfectly perfect day.

Pav 

12th Feb 2024

Thanks for reading!

On the eve of 2024

On a clear night, my view of the east of London stretches for miles, with lights twinkling like a sea of jewels, adding a sparkle to the horizon. As 2023 draws to a close I look back over the year, and I realise that my year has been filled with moments that have reminded me time and again that I am a survivor. My life is a sea of ups and downs, and each time, I’ve survived. 

Surviving unending heartbreak (the heart never recovers), divorce ptsd (the soul never forgets), chronic health issues (the body never heals), worrying insanely about my kids, selling my home, buying a home, moving house three times, moving across continents, starting uni, managing uni, living on my own for the first time in decades… it seems like 2023 has flown by in a complete daze. And somehow, I’ve survived it. I’m frankly rather exhausted on many levels, but I really do think surviving is what I do best. 

I’ve often wanted to shift gears and get to “thriving” instead, as if it was a level up from merely “surviving”. I’m going to stop wanting more and simply be grateful for what I have done, and what I am. I think I am content with surviving. I’m bloody good at it, and I’d like a medal but hey, I’ll settle for patting myself on the back. No matter what life throws at me, I always bounce back, I never give up, I keep soldiering on. I am a survivor. 

My life, a sea of shining moments that remind me of where I’ve been, what I’ve endured, and what I do best. I survive. And that is truly enough. 

Well done, my dear family and friends for getting through 2023 and all that it brought you, with your own sea of ups and downs. May you look back and see the moments when you shone best, especially in the darkest of hours. May you know how far you have come, and all that you have accomplished as you kept moving forward. 

Here’s wishing us all the continual strength, tenacity and determination to get through 2024. Happiest of New Year greetings to all, and all good things always for you and yours. 

With much love and affection, 

Pav

31/12/23

Truly Human, and Unafraid to Feel

One of the reasons we all love watching movies or plays is because actors and actresses get to portray the fullest possible range of human emotions. All the emotions we are too frightened to give in to, to feel, to display, to experience. All the emotions that if others saw in us, we’d be afraid they wouldn’t love us or they’d leave us, or despise us. 

So we weep alongside these portrayals of sorrow, loss, grief, anger, hopelessness, and rage. We are moved to tears by displays of joy, love, hope and faith, all the good that is battling to take the upper hand in us. Sometimes we are moved by the total numbness of not feeling a single thing, a luxury often not afforded to us because we have to function for others who need a smile, our loving and mindful presence, and our shoulder to lean on whilst we remain propped up on thin air, it might seem. 

Watching others vent what we cannot articulate is cathartic. Sometimes it helps us understand our own pain better, and give a name to what we thought we felt, even if we never truly recognised its magnitude, submerged as it may have been somewhere deeply within our subconscious mind, pushed away by a lurking fear of the unknown, and the potential enormity of what we have experienced. It is an enormity we do not dare to face. 

And so we live vicariously through the generosity of talented individuals who take on our limitations and help us release ourselves from them, setting us free to be truly human, and unafraid to feel whatever it is that we must, while knowing that perhaps we never truly can. Fully human, and unafraid to feel, that would be wonderful. 

Thanks for reading, 

Pav

What Letting Go Might Look Like (July, 2022)

Today is the 5th anniversary of my divorce, and as I woke up this morning I remembered what is was like to tearfully read the Decree Nisi Absolute that would replace my marriage certificate, and to try and comprehend those inexplicable words about my marriage having been “dissolved”. Dissolved? Like a spoonful of salt crystals in water? Isn’t that just salt in another form? What a silly word to use. One doesn’t simply dissolve anything immediately, nor cut ties cleanly, in fact, it takes tonnes of trauma, and loads of healing time to get to a place where you no longer care. 

Today, I realised that I no longer care. I did, once, very deeply love someone, and it was truly beautiful while it lasted, and truly frightening when it ended. But it did end, and while I struggled to accept its end, to let go, and to set myself free, I slowly saw that when love dies in someone indifference takes its place. 

An indifference to the sufferings of the chronically ill, an indifference to the struggles of single motherhood, an indifference to the emotional and psychological anguish of having one’s heart ripped out, and navigating the horrors of heartbreak alone, an indifference to just about anything in my life… and I realised that love cannot always win over indifference. If anything, one should stop loving the indifferent and cut loose from the one sided farce of being told by others that love, grace and mercy will win over hearts. I think love has a better chance against pure hatred than it does against indifference. Some hearts do not want to be won over, and one should close the door so firmly upon them lest they crush us with the weight of their uncaring indifference. I felt it crushing my soul because I cared so much, but I knew I had to shut the door and stop caring altogether. 

And so I did. Slowly but surely, I cut myself loose. Then one day, I let myself feel the anger, grief and hurt that I had suppressed, and I shut the door so hard that I knew there was no going back. I let go, telling myself that I deserve better, I deserve to be loved for who I am with all my imperfections, and that I cannot and must never depend on those who had abandoned me in my hour of need. I’ve always struggled to be firm with shutting doors that way, but now it’s much easier. Perhaps I am older, and just tired of playing nice, or trying to please, or being some kind of half baked paragon of grace, constantly battling with and suppressing my true feelings so God can work through me. I think God doesn’t need me to do His work in indifferent hearts. God wants me to preserve my own. 

I let go, and I feel free. Free in all of my relationships. So very free not to care about those who don’t care for me. So very free not to cross an ocean for those who wouldn’t cross a puddle for me. So very free to truly be myself, unvarnished and yet clearly beautiful. Even saying that is so hard for me, but I do want to say it. I’m a gem of a person, and anybody who doesn’t see that or value me doesn’t deserve my care, affection or love. 

So today I no longer care. I don’t live in a space of hurt and rejection any more, I refuse to do so. I’m not some sad victim, I’m a victor who has triumphed over a fair bit of difficulty in life, while creating opportunities for myself and raising four children. I remind myself every day to live my life fully, to love those who love me, and to pursue my own happiness. All of life’s relationships, no matter how much we love unconditionally, require reciprocity. When reciprocity is absent it’s best to reserve energy for others, to focus elsewhere, to pursue those who choose us. I’m excited to see where my life takes me, learning to love myself for who I am, looking forward to whoever steps in and out of my world, and I’m busy creating adventures for my own life. 

I no longer care, and I’m in a good place.

Thanks for reading, 

Pav

(Wrote this elsewhere on July 19th, 2022. A useful reminder to self.)

On the Eve of my Departure to London

Happily I have practically sorted out a myriad of things over several weeks and am now ready to fly to London tomorrow. So many things to think about as I moved house, set up a new home temporarily, and saw to all kinds of things with various deadlines. Relocating is a big job! I’m planning a year away, but who knows really. It’s my adventure, and even I don’t quite know where it’s headed. 

The plan is to renovate my new apartment in Singapore. Discussed early reno ideas with ID guy, and am trying not to have a forest theme in my new apartment (resist!). I’m feeling the slightly kooky bohemian nature lover side of me kicking in. Lots of interesting ideas, I just need to decide on what I like. That seems to be harder than I thought. I like many different things! 

Had to prep the new apartment for reno by making sure nothing I wanted remained here. Stuffed a bunch of important recyclables into storage, and have nothing left that I want to keep in my apartment pre-reno. Well, almost, but it’s really about learning to let go. Easier said than done, but ever so necessary at times. 

Said goodbye to very few people because I’m not going away forever, I think. Even if I were to, I’d still be in touch. Forever isn’t as long or as far as it sounds. It’s a year in London with options to remain, or return, or basically do whatever I feel like… the world is my oyster! And we’re in touch online so much as it is, that it might just feel the same, only harder to meet up for masala tea with friends!

Made an appointment with a gastro specialist in London to jump start my monthly jabs in September, and am looking forward to meeting the esteemed Prof Peter Irving, who looks like a movie star. Hehe :)  Gastro doctors are always so encouraging, and gutsy, I’m happy to meet more good ones. 

Transferred dear helper Ina to Grandma Dadiji who wanted a new helper, and both are overjoyed at the arrangements. Ina said, “This way I will have a chance to see you and the kids again”. We hugged and cried. She has been an invaluable help to me in many ways, especially with the house move, and the dogs. She cried when the dogs left for London. Her babies! 

The dogs landed safely in London, and were greeted with much joy by eldest son, his housemate, and dear daughter, who washed them and took them for walkies to the park and to the pub. Lucky doggies! I do hope they’ll enjoy their lives in the UK. I rather think they will. 

I’ve been tearful, saying and hugging goodbye. I don’t know why, really, but I think I should explore my feelings a bit more. It’s my great adventure… why am I sad? Even my doctor asked me to cheer up! I think I’m just exhausted from planning and executing a massive move while trying to stay well. It’s taken a toll. Plus, it’s the closing of a chapter, in the book of my life, such as it is. A huge chapter, hung in limbo, waiting for closure, and now that closure is seemingly here, I’m reminded that I’m a slow processor of everything that happens to me, and that really, there is no closure for some things in life. We simply learn to live with the wounds in our lives, and allow suffering to transform us, as we move on with grace and dignity. I’m trying, and some days it’s just hard. 

Here’s to restful days over celebrations for eldest son’s grad, a short holiday with dear daughter in Cornwall, a quick farewell to second and youngest sons off to uni, and a happy settling into classes of my own over the next few weeks. Plenty to celebrate in all our lives. 

I’ve enrolled into my course successfully, signed up for extra Intro to Anthropology refresher courses, started reading ahead and am asking myself how I can bring all my knowledge (such as it is), years of varied experience, and a multiplicity of interests together to create something new and meaningful for me. That’s exciting! 

The nitty gritty of temporary accommodations and then moving into my rental flat and setting up home, and grocery shopping and cooking for one… that sounds vaguely exciting too. I dont know how to cook for one! Haha! No mutton curry for just me! Here’s to a simpler life of less fuss, do what I like when I like, and nobody else to worry about unless they message me and need me. Otherwise, I’m busy living my life, adjusting to doing everything myself in a smaller space, and happily enjoying peace and quiet… until it gets too quiet. Haha! 

Standby museums and musicals, theatre and travels, parks and pubs, classes and classmates, lectures and lecturers, assignments and academics… here I come! I’m excited!!!

Thanks for reading, 

Pav

Pix of Ina and me in the kitchen today. I shall miss her sweet soul. ❤️

When You Are Silent, And I Am Quiet

(A poem from July 2020) 

WHEN YOU ARE SILENT, AND I AM QUIET. 

When you are silent, and I am quiet, 

Does that mean that we agree? 

Or are we simply waiting for one of us to do the deed, 

And for the axe to fall? 

When you are silent, and I am quiet,

Does that mean that we are dishonest? 

Or are we simply unable to find the words to express our truth,

Hiding behind veils of secrecy?

When you are silent, and I am quiet,

Does that mean that we are cowardly? 

Or are we simply saving energy,

Knowing this isn't worth fighting for? 

When you are silent, and I am quiet,

Does that mean that we are hopeful?

Or are we simply waiting for events to unfold, 

That hasten the end of all things? 

When you are silent, and I am quiet,

That means that we are grieving, 

Knowing well that thoughts unspoken and words unsaid

Mark the death knell of anything good between us. 

When you are silent, and I am quiet, 

Then it's truly over before it ever began.

Silently and Quietly,

Pav 

23rd July 2020

Thanks for reading.