SOUL SCRIBBLES

We got swept up in the Serumpun phenomenon — Mimifly fever hit us hard. It all began when we were planning a Hari Raya gathering at an ex-schoolmate’s house, and someone (who shall remain unnamed in this blogpost, but you know who you are) floated the idea of doing our own version of what we can confidently declare as THE Raya song of the year. We had three weeks to practice. Some of us actually did. One person only rehearsed when her family was out of the house — true commitment to secret stardom. Another practiced in the car, listening to the song at full volume and perfecting the hand gestures at traffic lights. She’s also the same person who, just one day before the gathering, asked, “Hey, what’s the name of the song again?” Yes, we made a video. Yes, it was chaotic. And yes, there was a lot of laughter — as there should be when you mix friends, music, and a shared delusion of grandeur. I’ve always believed that music has the unique power to transcend lan...

“Pandai buat Asam Pedas?” my mum asked casually—too casually—while I was visiting her in Putrajaya. I had come to accompany her, as my brother and his wife were away. Clearly, she had other plans. “Boleh,” I replied, confidently but cautiously. “Mysara pandai buat Asam Pedas,” she added with a twinkle in her eye and just the faintest touch of guilt-tripping. Of course. She had taught my niece to cook Asam Pedas. Such a classic move: praise someone else to subtly ask you to do the thing. In this case, cook Asam Pedas Ayam. Like a true Johorean, of course. To outsiders, Asam Pedas is just a dish. To Johoreans, it’s a personality trait. We like our food like we like our relatives—bold, fiery, and unforgettable. That tangy, spicy, aromatic broth is practically a rite of passage. One whiff of it simmering in the kitchen and suddenly everyone’s your best friend (or at least sticking around until dinner). In Johor, Asam Pedas isn’t just food. It’s heritage, pride, and probably the reason ha...

Why, you ask? Let me take you back to the 1970s, when I was a wide-eyed primary school pupil at the Convent of the Holy Infant Jesus in Johor Bahru. Yes, we had a dentist at the school. I don’t remember now how often we were summoned—twice a year, maybe? Time has blurred the details, probably as a coping mechanism. But the trauma? Crystal clear. The real suspense began when the school nurse strolled down the corridor. We’d all sit up a little straighter, pretending to be invisible. If she walked past our class, we breathed a sigh of relief. But if she knocked on the door, you'd say a little prayer that it wasn’t your name she would call. The chosen one would rise, pale as chalk, and trudge off to meet their fate. Some kids feared math. Others dreaded exams. But for us, true terror had a name—and it was spelt D-E-N-T-I-S-T. You'd shuffle off to the little white room of doom, your shoes suddenly sounding like thunder on the corridor tiles. The dentist's office looked inno...

Yes, I’m a hooker—but not the kind you’re thinking of. My weapon of choice? A 4.0 mm crochet hook and a ball of yarn. My vice? Soft fibres, vibrant colours, and the soothing rhythm of loop after loop after loop. It all started innocently enough. I’d seen YouTube videos of people creating beautiful blankets, bags, and scarves and thought, “Why not?” It looked oddly satisfying—therapeutic, even. “How hard could it be?” I asked myself. Fast forward a few hours, and I had crocheted my very first coaster. Started with small items such as these coasters I had no idea that this small act would grow into something much bigger—a source of calm, confidence, and connection. Also, I heard you can make money selling blankets and bags... assuming you ever bring yourself to part with them! Well, I have given away my  creations as gifts —coasters and face prayer mats for close friends, a blanket for a friend's sister stricken by cancer, and a bag for the telekung. Each piece carried not just yarn ...