SOUL SCRIBBLES

I write this not knowing if I’ll survive the ordeal. No Wi-Fi. No cell signal. And — most devastating of all — no electricity.  The cell signal was the first to go, thanks to a forgotten phone bill. That one’s on me. Then, as if the universe had a personal vendetta, the condo management decided it was the perfect time for “preventive maintenance” on the electrical system. Just like that, the power was cut. And with it, the Wi-Fi — our last fragile link to modern civilization — blinked out. I was officially off the grid. No Facebook. No Instagram. No TikTok. No Netflix. Not even a sneaky WhatsApp message could get through. I lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling fan, which — thanks to the outage — was also taking a break. For 30 minutes, I contemplated life. My choices. And how long I could survive without memes. Then I heard it — the soft whisper of the wind squeezing through the closed window like a polite ghost. I got up and opened it. Fresh air. Nature. I was beginning to rem...

Yes, I’ve performed the Hajj. Alhamdulillah. I’ve stood on the scorching plains of Arafah, walked the sacred paths of Mina, and done more walking in five days than I usually do in five months. I’ve circled the Kaaba shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers who instantly felt like family. I’ve cried in front of the House of Allah, not just from emotion, but also from realising how much I still need to work on myself. But despite all this, I don’t use the title Hajjah. Now, before anyone gets offended on my behalf, let me be clear: I have the deepest respect for the title and for those who carry it. It’s an honorable reminder of an incredible act of worship—one that takes planning, physical stamina, spiritual readiness, and in many cases, a surprising level of patience for Immigration clearance, unexpected ground transport changes, and the occasional "spiritual test" involving lost slippers. So why don’t I add “Hajjah” before my name like a proud badge of achievement? Well, for one,...

Ask any Malaysian where to eat and nine times out of 10, the answer will be: “Jom, mamak.” It’s the magical phrase that solves everything from midnight hunger pangs to post-football heartbreak. Where else can you order roti canai, nasi lemak, mee goreng, maggi goreng, nasi kandar, teh tarik, and even Milo dinosaur?  At the mamak, food variety is so wide, you could already finished that glass of Teh Tarik while your friend was still ordering his food “Err… roti kosong or roti telur… ah wait, got roti cheese also ah?” You can eat like a king for the price of a small coffee at a hipster café that serves “deconstructed toast.” No one judges your third roti canai or your decision to dip fries in curry. Most places shut down by 10 p.m. The mamak? Open when you’re hungry, heartbroken, or just bored. Breakup at midnight? Go mamak. Finished studying at 3 a.m.? Go mamak. Existential crisis at 5am? Roti telur helps.  If your life is a mess, the mamak is the 24-hour therapist that serves ...

The internet is collectively losing its mind over Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf’s tiramisu. My friend stalked CBTL one fine morning, only to be told she can only buy two tiramisu at one time. CBTL’s tiramisu is tasty. Yes, it’s photogenic. The taste is further enhanced with the Espresso Cream Crown, which you have to buy separately.  But, it is not a sacred relic. It’s a dessert that’s been chilling in a fridge next to the other cakes. Let’s not act like it was handcrafted by an old Italian nonna. And about that boozy kick everyone keeps raving about? Hate to break it to you, but real tiramisu — the one Italians actually eat — doesn’t even contain alcohol. No rum, no Kahlúa, no “mysterious adult flavour” you pretend to recognise. Just espresso, ladyfingers, mascarpone, eggs (I don’t have it in my recipe) sugar, and cocoa. That’s it. Also — and this is the kicker — tiramisu is incredibly easy to make. It’s a no-bake dessert that requires zero cooking skill and minimal effort. If you ca...

Going out with former school friends is like joining an unlicensed tour group where no one really knows the itinerary, but everyone’s having a blast anyway. What starts as a calm and civilised “Let’s meet for brunch/breakfast” often ends up as an epic makan road trip that spans multiple states and several digestive cycles. Take for example that one time we planned a simple, innocent brunch—Mee Rebus at TTDI, they said. Next thing you know, we’re three expressways deep and pulling into Muar, standing in line at Asam Pedas Askar Pencen, sweating from both the sambal and the sheer disbelief at how we got there. Apparently, one detour led to kerepek and satay and later in the day, durian. Then there was that legendary breakfast in Nilai. A simple morning meet-up, or so we thought. We were just there for some Lontong and Lempeng—but by noon, we were cruising toward Banting on a totally unplanned kerepek expedition. Kerepek ubi, kerepek pisang, kerepek that none of us could even name—if ...

  Okay, let’s address the elephant in the Grab car: at 63 years of age, I still don’t have a driving licence. Shocking? Maybe. But honestly, no licence, not a problem at all. Sure, I did signed up for driving lessons and had actually passed the theory exam — big achievement, right? I’m basically a certified theoretical driver. I know my road signs, my rules, and can even tell you what to do if a traffic light turns red.  But the actual driving part?   After passing the theory exam, I thought I’d be on the road in no time. Spoiler alert: I was not.  I had zero desire to learn about the  mysterious world under a car’s hood. Yes, one of the requirements of driving school is for you get to know the car better. I don’t want to spend hours memorizing pistons, spark plugs, or whatever that magical thing is that makes a car go vroom. If my car ever breaks down, I have a whole crew of mechanics on speed dial — and if worse comes to worst, there’s always Grab or a tow tru...