SOUL SCRIBBLES

  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...