SOUL SCRIBBLES

Books have the power to transport, teach, connect, and transform us. We turn to literature not only to entertain ourselves but also to deepen our understanding of people—fictional or real—and the world they inhabit. A book that truly resonates tends to feature evocative writing, compelling structure, memorable characters, fresh insights, and emotional depth. When all these elements align, the experience becomes deeply satisfying: we feel both seen and challenged, comforted and moved. And, there’s a particular kind of frustration that comes from reading a book that promises depth but delivers only gloss.  Ku Li: Memoir 205  is one of those books.  With a figure as complex, storied, and politically significant as Tengku Razaleigh Hamzah, the expectation is naturally high. His life intersects with nearly every major chapter of Malaysia’s political and economic history—finance, oil, UMNO schisms, royal lineage, near-premiership. The material is all there. But the memoir never...

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...

Twelve years ago today, I adorned the hijab for the first time. I chose the eve of Muharram 1435/2013—rightly or wrongly—to coincide with the spirit of  Hijrah , of change and renewal. I could have waited until my birthday on the third of Muharram that particular year, but honestly, once I made the decision, I couldn’t wait. When you’ve been on the fence for that long, hesitation quickly turns into “let’s just do this”. It wasn’t an overnight decision. I took my own sweet time, complete with dramatic sighs in front of mirrors and silent debates with myself. By the time I finally wore it, I already had a collection of scarves and shawls ready to go—as if I was preparing for a fashion show that I never signed up for. I’d watched just about every hijab tutorial on YouTube. They made it look effortless, like origami with chiffon. Me? I was mostly poking myself with pins and muttering words not suitable for polite company. I would stand in front of the full-length mirror for hours,...

I love food. No, really—I LOVE food. My weight reflects it, my wardrobe fears it, and my friends accept it as part of my brand. If eating were an Olympic sport, I’d be proudly standing on the podium, clutching a gold medal in one hand and a half-eaten roti canai in the other. I enjoy trying new dishes, hunting down hidden eateries and indulging in everything from humble hawker fare to multi-course tasting menus where each dish is described in three languages and comes with foam.  And I have friends (you know who you are!) who enjoy doing this, too. Food, recipes, and new makan spots dominate our WhatsApp chats. Once, a simple plan to eat mee rebus at Rasta TTDI somehow led to us ending up at Asam Pedas Askar Pencen in Muar—that’s how spontaneous we can be! Eating brings me joy, nostalgia, and a deep appreciation for culture, creativity, and the human capacity to combine random ingredients into something magical (or sometimes, questionable). But despite this very enthusiastic l...

It started innocently enough: a free Saturday, a baking class, and a vague hope that I might finally find a recipe I could bake successfully—without turning the kitchen into a disaster zone. If truth be told, I’m not exactly what you'd call a natural baker. One batch could’ve been used to repair potholes. Another collapsed in on itself like it had lost the will to live. But in that class, with flour in the air and a cheerful instructor who spoke of butter like it was sacred, something clicked. I found the recipe. It was simple, elegant, and forgiving—the dough came together with just the right amount of sass and softness. They baked beautifully: golden tops, fluffy insides, and a rise so perfect it could’ve had its own motivational poster. And here's the thing: baking is basically science. Delicious, emotionally rewarding science. It’s all chemistry in disguise—flour and fat forming tender gluten bonds, baking powder setting off tiny edible explosions to create lift, suga...

Let’s be honest: fasting outside of Ramadan sounds noble in theory. But in practice? It’s tough. In Ramadan, everyone’s in it together. You’re hungry? So is everyone else. Outside of Ramadan? You’re the lone wolf while your friends happily devour croissants like they’re starring in a pastry commercial. During Ramadan, you wake up for sahur with military precision. Outside of it? You set your alarm... and hit snooze seven times. You wake up at 9am with dry lips, an empty stomach, and a vague sense that you’ve made a terrible mistake. When you’re fasting in Ramadan, you’re spiritually pumped. You feel like a pious superhero. Outside of Ramadan, though? You’re still righteous—just a bit slower, a lot sleepier, and the siren call of Netflix after Isyak is  real. In Ramadan, there’s samosas, dates, biryani, and desserts named after Turkish soap operas—the full spread. Outside of Ramadan: you break your fast with a glass of water and a bun, because surprise—nobody knew you were fasting. ...

When I turned 55, I made a quiet promise to myself: that I would answer Allah SWT’s sacred call and perform the Haj before I turned 60. In 2019, Alhamdulillah, that promise was fulfilled. For 26 unforgettable days, I walked the holy lands of Makkah and Madinah, performing Haj Ifrad with a heart brimming with awe, humility, and deep gratitude. But the road to Baitullah was not without trials. Just three weeks before we were due to depart, I suffered a fall—one that shattered the top of my humerus bone. Surgery followed. My arm was immobilized in a sling, and my body was still in pain when our names — my brother’s, sister-in-law’s and I — were confirmed for the final Haj flight.  I was uncertain. Could I endure the rigours of the pilgrimage? Could my healing body meet the sacred demands of this journey? And yet, my heart knew the answer. This was a calling I could not ignore. I placed my trust in the One who knows best. I handed over the pain, the worry, the unknowns—into the care...