MARRIAGE MADE IN HELL
I used the byline Zelda M because I didn't want to reveal too much about myself when I first started work in the Star six years ago. This is one of the saddest story in my life. Each time I am in Shah Alam, my heart skipped because that's where it all happened 22 years ago. I am a forgiving person but somehow I couldn't find the strength to forget this sad episode nor forgave this man who has hurt and battered me so much. The only good thing that came out of this marriage is Arif.

To Arif, I hope you will understand why I just could not bring myself to talk about your father.



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MARRIAGE MADE IN HELL
BY ZELDA M

I HAVE an enduring soft spot for older men. They make my heart beat faster. Young men are not for me because from past experiences, most of them regard women as Nintendo games - the minute a new version appears, their fingers itch to have a go.

So, as a young divorcee and student at a local university, I was flattered when 46-year-old Hardy showered me with attention. A lecturer in senior management, he was 24 years older than me with three sons from a previous marriage.

Hardy wouldn't start his lectures without me. He walked me to the library, spent more and more time with me and it wasn't long before he frequented my dorm. Though I felt suffocated initially, all this had a quaint effect.

I was gradually drawn to him. I used to listen raptly to all his stories. Hardy had a formidable character. He barred my friends from me. He would get very annoyed if I didn't pay attention to him.

But it was his unfeigned openness and persistence to "own'' me as his wife that really boosted my ego. He made me feel so desirable and attractive.

When he told me he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me, I thought that was the sincerest thing a man could say to a woman. I'd heard before from my father how he had to sacrifice his family and everything else to marry a rich Pakistani girl, my mum. By that yardstick, I thought Hardy was made of the same stuff as my father and I was elated.

After I graduated, Hardy suggested I work at the same place so that we could be together.
He proposed and bought me an exquisite platinum ring. I felt like a cherished treasure. My three-year-old daughter, Alya, was happy when told about her new daddy.

But Hardy had a few surprises in store for me after our wedding. First, he told me I couldn't keep the keys to the house in Shah Alam because he didn't trust me. I had to ask his permission if I wanted to talk to the neighbours or make a call. That came like a bombshell. Next, he told me I had to share his ex-wife's closet. But I thought he was just being practical.

On our wedding night, I grew restless waiting for him in the master bedroom while he dawdled. I went looking for him and found him cleaning his collection of kris and cooling them with lime juice.

Terrified, I tiptoed back to bed and covered myself with a blanket. When he finally came in and placed the kris underneath my pillow, I knew I was in for big trouble.

"The kris is like my spirit,'' he explained. I was never to disobey him or I'd be harmed, he warned.

The following night, I was in for another blow. Just after dinner, Hardy told me to get to bed. It was more like an order. He looked scornful when I told him I wanted to finish what I was reading. I recalled Hardy telling me I was openly defying him.

The minute I entered the room, I smelt traces of incense. He locked the room. I could see he was in a different mood this time. It was menacing and his voice was threatening. I shivered when he pushed me towards the bed.

Before I knew it, he had tied me up with a long rope. I put up a struggle but he was stronger. When I cried, he whipped me.

For Hardy, my groans of pain were the most sensual thing he'd ever heard. It satisfied his insatiable lust. By the time he had me, I was shaking all over. The trauma was too much for my small frame and my whole body ached so badly I thought I had passed out.

Although I was hurting all over, I could not sleep a wink and literally dragged my feet to the office next morning. It was the most disturbing experience I ever had. Till today, I go cold when I think of how he terrorised me.

Hardy loved my cooking and would demand a big spread even when there was just the two of us dining. Visitors, relatives or neighbours were out of bounds.

Sometimes, I forgot his instructions. Sometimes, I didn't understand, sometimes I was just plain stupid. Each time I failed to live up to his expectations, Hardy said I was rebelling against him.
In the days that followed, I felt like the prisoner of Zenda. The frequent heated arguments and his obsessive control over my every move made my first month of marriage excruciatingly painful.

I knew I was living dangerously - Hardy had an obsession with order and control, and a violent temper. I remember vividly, the first time Hardy hit me.

It was late one night, two weeks after the wedding. I was reading a book near the dining table. He tried talking to me. I remember that the conversation seemed to be going well.
We were really conversing, sharing ideas for the first time since we got married. We were not fighting, we were not sarcastic or nasty. I swear we were just talking. But I think it was the first time I disagreed with him and I was sticking to my guns. I held on to my side of the argument calmly.

He got up and hit the left side of my face. Then came a hard punch to my right eye. I felt like my whole pupil had popped out. Then, another good sock to my left ear. I heard this ringing sound. I found out later he had broken my eardrum.

By the second month of our marriage, I was getting used to my bruises healing and changing from black, to green to maroon and yellow before fading.


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The next attack came a week later. I was lying down on the sofa and recovering from a mild flu. I had just prepared dinner. He asked me what was wrong. "Maybe I'm pregnant but do you care?'' I answered.

This irritated him and we argued for a good 10 minutes. He got furious and hit me hard in the abdomen a number of times. I bent over, trying to protect my tummy. I tried pushing him away, which only seemed to make him angrier. He yelled that he didn't care if he killed me or the baby. That night, I plotted to run away or hide somewhere, anywhere as long as I got away from this hell.

I went missing for three days without taking my clothes or personal belongings. I couldn't plan my escape from his clutches because we worked in the same place. Right after work, I hid in a friend's house. But I wasn't settled. The thoughts of Hardy coming after me scared me witless.
Hardy came looking for me every night at all my friends' homes. In the end, my friends gave me up and I was forced to go back with Hardy. At that point, I really felt like a sheep waiting to be slaughtered.

The doctor confirmed I was pregnant. Riding home on the bus, I felt more alone than I ever had in my life. When I told Hardy about the baby, he was convinced I couldn't take care of the baby.
I can't remember any physical abuse during the first month of my pregnancy. But there were new problems - chronic black moods and silences that stretched on for days. It was the forced abstinence, I presumed. The kinky sex had stopped but "the spirit of the kris'' was there.
Sex had always seemed to settle his dark moods and made him happy. Much as I detested our love-making, that was the only time I did not feel rejected.

I was totally subservient but that didn't stop Hardy from coming at me for the slightest thing. He was like a big bully and behaved erratically.
By my fifth month of pregnancy, Hardy had slipped into a semi-silent mood. One Sunday, I was dusting the book shelf and arranging his books. The place looked messy and I suggested a library or something. Before I knew it, Hardy grabbed my hair and slapped me hard. I managed to run to the garden.

I remember crouching in a corner of the garage. He chased me to our bedroom. It was one of the worst beatings Hardy ever gave me. And I hadn't done anything but to suggest having a library.
I used to hit my hand against the wall in complete frustration, so much so that the platinum ring he gave me was bent out of shape. I also hid in the closet a number of times during that horrible, horrible year of 1983.

Sometimes, I would lock myself in the reading room, curled up in a foetal position when he banged on the door. The dark void was like a tranquilliser. I couldn't see him. But most importantly, it was so dark I couldn't see myself.

But I finally walked out after a beating on Alya's fourth birthday. I had bought a two-faced doll for her and promised to visit her at my parents' home. I cried, pleaded and eventually yelled at Hardy for not allowing me to see her.

I finally challenged him to divorce me. I guess I had finally realised that if I could not have Alya, that was it.

I walked up to him and said: "I miss her and I want to be with her and you can't stop me.''
His face was terrifying, filled with incredible hate and wide-eyed anger. I ran. He came after me and caught me right outside the room at the top of the stairwell. I never expected he would try to throw me over the banister.

He held me by my hair and shook me hard. He broke my glasses with a punch.
That night, after he was fast asleep, I sneaked downstairs to call my father. I bundled my clothes in one of my caftans and despite my pregnancy, climbed down from the balcony, Rapunzel-style.
My father was shocked at my battered state. He wanted to challenge Hardy to a fight but my mother stopped him. That was the end of our eight-month-old marriage.
We went to the police station in Shah Alam. I didn't know what I wanted to do then. The bruise was beginning to colour. My father insisted the police photograph it for proof. The police told me they could issue a warrant of arrest if I filed a complaint. But I didn't want Hardy put in jail. I just wanted someone to talk to him.
I stayed with my parents throughout the rest of my pregnancy. My father chaperoned me to work and never allowed me near Hardy. When our son was born, Hardy wanted a reconciliation.
I acted fast. Just after my maternity leave, I asked for a transfer to another branch in Pahang. By then, the office already knew of Hardy's wife-beating reputation so my transfer was approved within 24 hours (the fastest ever by government standards).

Hardy wouldn't divorce me. In fact, he told all our friends I was legally his wife. I finally plucked up enough courage to challenge him in court. I couldn't take it anymore - not the slaps, not his control over me, not his compulsive cleanliness, his stringent household rules, his erratic behaviour nor his depraved ways. Enough was enough.

The relationship had many incestuous overtones. Hardy was old enough to be my father. The bitter experience taught me one lesson - if you marry a father figure, you cannot grow up. Father teaches, daughter learns.

MARRIAGE-GO-ROUND

I am no Elizabeth Taylor despite being much married. I don't have the beauty nor the wealth that Liz has. I wrote this using my pseudonym Zizi Machushla because I just love the name. It's not that I am proud of what I have gone through but I have often been misconstrued by people. There is much more to this story but don't try to read too much into the line because it might not be true.

Marriage-go-round
Byline: ZIZI MACHUSHLA

I'D ALWAYS dreamt of being a modern-day Cinderella, swept off my feet by a prince at the stroke of midnight, to a proverbial fairytale happy-ever-after. Instead I got married five times before I was 24! My marriages and children by different fathers have naturally made me a target for gossip. My first marriage was arranged. My parents were as conservative as they come.

I would even say that much of my rebellious streak is a reaction against their starchy ways. My father even followed me for what passed as first `date'. Under the pretext of returning a book, I met Rudy beside a cherry tree, near my house. It was the swiftest `thank you' and `bye' gestures because nothing else would have been possible under the watchful eyes of my father.

From then on, my parents made sure there were no more dates, no illicit romances, no boyfriends; but secretly I wrote lots of love letters to friends and admirers.
When my father knew I had several paramours - from the mail which he monitored secretly - he thought nothing of marrying me off. He was more adamant after learning that I'd walked away during my chemistry paper. I was game for marriage because I couldn't stand the grip they had over my life.

So, there I was an innocent bride to Joshua, a 26-year-old bank officer. Then came the exam results. They were fairly good - good enough for me to gain entry to university.
This led to fresh plans for me by my domineering father, even though I was already a married woman with a life of my own. Without my knowledge, he had enrolled me in a local university.

Soon, I was a student again, a part-time wife and halfway to motherhood. It sounds too good to be true. And it was. A call from a woman who claimed she was Joshua's wife burst the bubble.
My father was shattered. A bitter confrontation was followed by a temporary separation and then a divorce. At 18, after nine months of married life and pregnant, I was a divorcee.

When Ezra, my firstborn was one-year-old, I befriended a physics lecturer, Isaac, again under the hawk-eyed scrutiny of my father. As usual, there was no time for courtship and dating rituals.

So in less than two months, I married Isaac in a grand wedding. But the preparation lasted just a bit longer than the marriage: we were husband and wife for just one week.
When Isaac's parents learnt that he had just married a divorcee, they insisted that he deserved a better deal. So, there I was again, divorced and alone.

Husband Number 3 was my lecturer in my finals. He was very much older than I was. The union was an unhappy one as I discovered, after marriage, that he was abusive, possessive, cruel and regarded me like an object more than his wife. It was a turbulent marriage which lasted almost eight months. Secretly, I hoped and prayed this marriage would work. It was like hoping for a miracle. And there was none this time either. And once again, I found myself alone and pregnant.

At 21, I was thrice divorced. This was the blackest phase of my life since I had to seek refuge in another state from my abusive ex who was hassling me for a reconciliation.
People around me tried to be helpful. But there was no comfort. The more I looked at my two kids, the more desolate I felt. All I could think of was how to keep going and stay busy to keep my sanity. I needed my solitude badly.

A job transfer to Kuantan seemed the only solution. The office wanted someone for a PR job, responsible for the administration and welfare of the students and 40-odd staff - that sort of thing.
When they finally chose me, I felt a small current of hope as I thought of a new place, a new job and a new start.

I liked it. I found the whole new setting absolutely therapeutic. I don't remember having so much fun in life. For the first time, away from my father's watchful eyes, I could date the men of my choice. I was wooed by many men but was not interested in looking for another husband.

After a few months, I fell for Zack, who was gentle and - more importantly - unattached. I was 23 years-old. Zack insisted I quit my job. Like a fool I obeyed. That's when I discovered we were `squatters' in his cousin's house.

Zack also began to disappear, using his work as an excuse. My jewellery went missing, and my savings ran out fast.
When Zack went missing again for weeks - something that had become predictable - stories filtered back to me about his shady lifestyle.

When I confronted Zack after he finally showed up, he was so smooth that I just wanted to believe him. But deep in my heart, I knew it was over.
The day I discovered I had morning sickness, totally broke, I felt my humiliation was complete. I couldn't bear to face anyone. In my search for a fairytale, it never occurred to me that reality and men could be so heartless and cruel. It just shows how people's inner needs can cloud their judgement. My loneliness and fantasy had made me a target.

Just as I was about to give up, an old friend referred me to his superior, Larry.
A distinguished-looking man in his late 40s, Larry was a highranking law enforcement officer with the wellbred air of someone to the manner born.

There's something about mature men that sends shivers down my spine. Maybe I had seen too many movies and read too many romance paperbacks. Whatever it was, when I met Larry, all the others seemed to fade away. The snag: he was still very much married.
After learning about my marriage fiasco, Larry swiftly took me under his wing, and confronted Zack. The face-off seemed a wakeup call for Zack. It drove him mad with jealousy and he was "yours faithfully" for a while.

Then Zack's ex-wife, Sara, who had a hairtrigger temper and a madwoman's disposition, badgered Zack to leave me, and that he did.
But I had no time to wallow in self-pity because Larry was waiting for me the day I packed my things.
He lost no time making up for all the pain of my four failed marriages. He clothed me in designer suits, we travelled extensively, dined in the most exclusive places and wrote each other cards and letters.
Once, when I was in my parents house, Larry sent a telegram. My poor father almost had heart palpitations when he saw the message: `'Z, my one and only love. I miss you." On my 24th birthday, Larry gave me seven watches, eleven cards and a huge bouquet.
His concern for my unborn child was real and moving. The minute labour began, Larry was by my bedside. He was there for me and my baby, something which no previous husband had done.
We were married for 14 years, got divorced twice and had four kids. Larry wanted more children with me because he said he was different from all the other jerks I had married.
But all good things come to an end, some sooner than others. A heart attack struck two years ago. Larry collapsed one evening suddenly. Panic-stricken, all I could do was to let his face rest on my lap as he clutched my hands until the ambulance came.

I can still remember how his head lolled over, slumped and rested on my body that day; how I cradled him protectively.
When they wrested him from my grasp and loaded his still form into the vehicle and strapped him down, I knew I had lost him.

He was declared brain-dead on arrival at the hospital. When I signed the pile of papers the hospital gave me, that was one of the loneliest moments of my life.
When they lowered him into the ground, dropping handfuls of earth on his covered body as the priest said the final goodbye, I went numb. After everyone had left, I stood by his grave, silently talking to my dear husband.

I floated in and out of reality for a week. Every day after fixing food for my children, I would stare at the ceiling or into space until I was able to fall asleep. I was eaten by memories of Larry.
It is not easy to be a divorcee or widow in a conservative society. She must now, of course, live her life in a manner befitting her enforced single status.
To be a divorcee several times, like myself, is a virtual kiss of death.

But I refuse to follow the road usually travelled by people in my situation. A woman has the right to bail out of a bad relationship, but that should not stop her from trying again and again until she finds the right one.
I may be divorced several times, but that doesn't mean I don't believe in romance and marriage.
But I will never walk into a relationship without being sure he is the right man for me and my children.

MY SOUL MATE IS A CYBORG

He is not my lover but we are quite attached. The attachment would set tongues wagging and assumed that we are having a romantic liaison. But that is simply not possible because he is a CYBORG.

This cyborg happens to be hundred miles away from me and yet we are closely bonded, both spiritually and mentally. My soul mate is Ahmad Shahril. He is also my best friend and constant companion. The predicament we are in now somehow draw us closer to each other. We care a lot about each other no matter what we do or say.

People described soul mate as an eternal partner made and given by God. Well, maybe that's true. Shahril knows what I am thinking even if we are not together. He can even predict I am munching "kacang botak" in the middle of the night. And I hate that.

"And what is that you are having by your side Madam...kacang is it?," said the deep-voiced Shahril over the phone one night. It just makes me want to put the phone down when he hits the nail on the head.

He provides the security and emotional stability for me, something that other men had failed to do. And he makes sure that I maintain my sanity by making sure I am emotionally ok with a short sms.

Our meeting in the year 2000 was never planned. There wasn't even any physical attraction just an instant liking that made us clicked straight away.

Never mind if I am years older to him, that did not make any difference. Its only when Shahril starts to control my diet and my cholestrol level that I feel the age gap. Sometimes he behaves like a dietician dictating what I should and should not eat. At times he acts like a gym instructor asking me to do simple exercise so that he could buy me "that little black dress in KLCC."

Shahril even understands my body language and knows exactly what I am thinking just by looking at me. We "speak" the same language and feel for the same people and things. Having shared many secrets together, I would say we are awesome buddies and could get along so well.
Our ideas and interests seemed to revolve around the same thing - music and movies.
But there were times when we had our differences and quarrels and were not on good terms.

I hate myself for all the "torture" that I made him go through especially when I am in that no-communicado mood. It's a bad habit of mine. I do this when I do not want to hurt a person. I would switch off myself and in the process, cut off and severe ties momentarily with any people who have hurt me. And Shahril is often one of them. I especially get very upset when he refused to understand me. The frustration and anger would make me snap at him. And the cool and calm Shahril would try to reason things out with me.

We've had countless disagreement over the years but none lasted more than a month. Most of the time, its my fault. The stubborn streak in me would never allow him to talk sense into me. His gentle and forgiving nature would make me give in no matter what. I try not to exploit this because knowing Shahril, he would know if I try to do that.

Shahril is accomodating to a limit. Once you pushed him to the wall, he would make his stand. A firm one but without retaliation, leaving the other party feel guilty. I have seen this happen to him many times. But he doesn't like confrontation nor does he like to be in any messy situation. He just doesn't like to get involved. Maybe that is a "selfish" part of him not wanting to be in anyone's bad book.

He is NEVER judgemental, a virtue which I really appreciate. He doesn't lie to me nor does he try to. I enjoying doing anything with him except for eating. He has this habit of deciding what is good for my body. A bowl of salad for lunch is considered a lavish spread for me. He would say in a matter-of-fact tone, "You are what you eat!" And goes on and on about what I should and should not it. As if it was a lecture, he would end it with..."understand. Any question."

Shahril lectures in one of the colleges in Penang. All his students love him. I gather this from the enthusiasm I saw on some of his student faces. He maybe a cyborg but I think he knows how to show his love for his loved one - Pendek, his cat. Pendek, who likes to feed on raw fish, is the only one who knows how Shahril feels. Whenever I call him at home, I have to greet Pendek first.

A practical person who never allows his heart to rule his head, that's Shahril. Matters of the heart do not interest him at all. Even if we were to hold hands, hug each other and talk for hours, I still wonder what goes on in his head. I still can't figure out how deep are his feelings. But what I know is he has a heart. He has wiped my tears and counselled me on many occassions.

At times when we are both busy we would just communicate vis sms. The reply that I always get would be ..."talk to you soon. Have a good day."
I think cyborgs have been programmed in such a way that they do not know how to respond to human feelings unless you change the chip inside them. I would not want to do that because I love my cyborg the way he is.

I often tease him with a cheeky private joke that we share like "Shahril, you sayang I tak?" And the reply would be a monotonous "Errr...I can't hear you."
But my feelings for Shahril will never change. He will always be in my heart and soul. Soul mates can have various types of relationships, which do not always include romantic love. I never have any regrets about our relationship because I know that my cyborg will always be there for me and make me feel so complete.

At times, I do have this urge to change the chip in my cyborg and see what happens. Now wouldn't that be fun!

THE DAY I BECAME A STALKER!

This article was written on Aug 4, 2000, five months after I joined the Star. Joon Yee, the editor almost gave up on me when I refused to do anything for seven days. I needed the exclusive interview badly. I just had to. This is a chance in a lifetime. My first meeting with the Bollywood King. No one should miss this opportunity especially a fanatic fan like me.

When every attempt failed to get the exclusive interview, I decided to write a small note to SRK and passed it on to Mr Rao. It read something like this ....."I know you are special, I am too. I think two special people should meet." With that note, I secured my first meeting which was scheduled at FRIM Kepong.

The journey to Kepong was a hillarious one. I bullied my way through my sifu Fauziah Samad (Jee) who volunteered to drive me all the way to Kepong. Little did she realise that she had to ferry me for the next three days driving endlessly to many places. Jee finally lost her cool when I pleaded her to be my "driver" for another session with SRK, this time at an exclusive hotel which was attended by more than 100 press including some groupies.

Jee was never impressed with SRK. She described him as "budak comot." I wrote my article and passed it on to her. She scanned through and look out for the mistakes. I think there was hardly any. It made us feel like the old NST days. When I gave her a picture of SRK, she carelessly put it aside on the kitchen stove. When I told her to paste it somewhere, she chose to do it on the side of her fridge which was partly hidden.

It ached me so much to see her doing this. How could she put my dear SRK there? But I just have to watch her. Afterall, she is my sifu and you don't scold your sifu.

When the article came out as the cover of Sec 2, the heading was "Stalking Shah Rukh." My friends call it the "Hair" story. You will never believe how many calls I got from this article. They all want to know where I kept the hair. I got the strand of hair framed by a frame maker in Old Town.

I told the Indian Muslim film maker that I had to frame the last strand of hair of my late husband for sentimental reason. He looked so sad. I am not good at acting but I did not wear the guilty look on my face. Still, my daughter said I wasn't convincing enough. She giggled and almost gave it away. The frame work was done in 10 minutes. Ok, so it was a lie but the late husband bit was true, NOT the hair though.



Eight days, seven nights
Byline: ZIEMAN
MANY call him a great star and an evergreen entertainer; others say he is full of himself, noting his commercialism and tendency to pander to the masses.

Whatever the perception of others, none had ever challenged or engrossed this writer more than when trailing the 35-year-old Bollywood badshah (king) Shah Rukh Khan for eight days during his recent visit here. From the private Bakti concert to the filming along a stretch of Jalan Ampang; the foothill of Genting Sempah, the alps of Genting Highlands; the pride and joy of Malaysia the Petronas Twin Towers and Suria KLCC; an old quarry site; the Tanjung Bidara beach in Malacca; the three-day shoot at the Forest Reserve Institute of Malaysia (FRIM) in Kepong and the press conference in Kuala Lumpur, trailing the Indian actor certainly made one feel more like a stalker than a journalist.

By the eighth day of the filming of One Two Ka Four (One, Two or Four), the whole scenario and the tunes of Rukh Pyar and Dil Sachacha Chehra Jhoota had become so familiar that producer Nazir Ahmed from Glamour Films Bollywood and the main sponsor R.A. Rao from Siva Productions would probably have no qualms about signing me on as the handyman for Shah Rukh's next movie.
The One Two Ka Four shoot
On the set, Shah Rukh exuded the extreme self-confidence that is rare among actors. Repetitive and predictable though he was in Dil To Pagal Hai, Kuch Kuch Hota Hai, Yes Boss and Dilwale Le Dulhania Le Jayange, his fans simply love him no matter how he tackles his cliched lover-boy roles.

One Two Ka Four tells about a police officer Javed (played by Jackie Shroff), a widower of four children who is killed by a group of thugs. Before he dies, he leaves his children in Arun's care. Arun (Shah Rukh Khan) is a spirited bachelor who regards children as a burden.
He then passes the chore to Geetha (Juhi Chawla). In no time, Arun falls for both children and nanny ... think The Sound of Music and you'll get the picture.

The earlier filming of this movie was done in Switzerland.
During the shoot at FRIM in Kepong, local officials had a field day standing in as bodyguards when throngs of fans and curious onlookers jammed the place during the singing scenes.
Outside the main gate, Shah Rukh Khan and his ideal screen partner Juhi Chawla were acting out a singing scene from the movie. The two were garbed in neon yellow a tad shocking but still tame and stylish by Bollywood standards.

When Shah Rukh dipped his hand into a bag full of sunglasses to pick the right shades, his fans looked on as if he were in a goldfish bowl.

His hard-core fans came with banners, head bands and posters, and provided the unwarranted extra prop which contributed to the shoot being slightly disrupted by their overzealous antics.
But not once did the self-serving, camera-hogging Shah Rukh, who strikes the right notes and pushes the right buttons in his movies, lose his cool.

He switched his mood in synchrony with the demands of the shoot. One minute he would be flashing those boyish dimples and throwing kisses in the air to his fans. The next, he would be so absorbed doing his own thing that he would shut off his fans much in the same way he stubs out a cigarette butt.

The press conference

Then came the bad news the press conference would be two and half hours late. Patience was petering out by the time the star showed up. Surprisingly, the media people had been waiting good-naturedly.

The crowd poured in, fans came, clamouring outside and yelling to be let in. One teenage girl cried hysterically for Shah Rukh, pinning her face against the door pane of the bar. What a pitiful sight!
Inside the Mezzo bar, the paparazzi had gathered like vultures, cameras at the ready trying to get the best pictures.

The versatile actor confirmed his megastar status when he was escorted in by hordes of bodyguards. It took some time before the way was cleared of anxious photographers who snapped away oblivious of whether their gusto had further delayed the conference.

But before anyone could ask, "Why are you late?'', Shah Rukh displayed his utmost charm. In no time at all, Shah Rukh had the jaded journos eating out of the palm of his hand.

"(The organisers) did not tell us about the PC (press conference) until 4pm. This is my third visit and it's really marvellous. I enjoy coming here because there's so much, and the people are so friendly, is that what you want to hear?'' said an affable Shah Rukh, guzzling a cola drink.
Visibly affected by the overwhelming crowd response, Shah Rukh said, ``It makes me feel like an international star. I feel like Jackie Chan.''

So why don't you get into Hollywood movies like Jackie Chan?
"No, I'd rather rule in hell than be a slave in heaven. I don't desire to be known internationally. I'm happy being a frog in the well. There's so much talent in India as far as directors, technicians and creative people are concerned, more than anywhere else in the world. If they don't acknowledge it abroad, it's their loss, not ours. But, really, the issue here is not about making a name internationally or trying to break into Hollywood. I started in India and I want to remain there.''

According to Shah Rukh, people who do not understand him would perceive him differently.
"Like some people who find it difficult to accept me as a successful, rich and happy man an ideal package.''

Back home, his first home production, his Dreamz Unlimited movie Phir Bil Dil Hai Hindustani (PBDHH) was dismissed as just average.

"We tried a tongue-in-cheek approach to depict politics and the media world. The strongest point is, of course, the media, an important single unit which dictates what rules. The movie didn't do well because the audience, especially those in the rural areas, were not ready (for such themes). It fared better in cities like Mumbai and outside India. But we are not discouraged and we hope to make better films in future.''

He was referring to Asoka, Dreamz Unlimited's second project. This is an epic about the historical and dynamic ruler Asoka who turned a staunch Buddhist after he led his innocent people to war and bloodshed.
The most typecast roles for Shah Rukh are the romantic ones, something which he does not like doing but is forced to because that is what sells.

"Strangely, the films I don't like `click' (with the masses) and the films I like, don't do so well, like Koyla, Ram Jaane and PBDHH. Maybe it's my fault. (Perhaps) there's something wrong with my interpretation of the scenes. (They are) not so well-defined and understood by everybody ... (But) you'll see a lot of me in every film I do.''

What about all the talk pitting him against Bollywood's current favourite, budding actor Hrithik Roshan of Kahona Pyar Hai fame whom the press likened to a Greek god?
"I really pity that boy. I acted with his father, Rakesh Roshan, when he was just a small boy. I saw him growing up. He could never come near me because I am so damned good, really. He only has one film compared to my 30 movies. Let's be fair to him.''

There is other wild talk about his liaison with his screen and business partner, Juhi Chawla. In fact, a writer actually asked why Shah Rukh was smooching Juhi Chawla in the FRIM jungle. Was it part of the act?

"Do you want to be part of the act too? But, really, I am a close friend of Juhi's husband, Jai Mehta, and we are family friends. Jai Mehta handles the paperwork and business of our company. Aziz Mirza is the director and scriptwriter while Juhi makes sure we all do our work. So, we are all part of the organisation. That's all to it,'' explained Shah Rukh whose wife, Gauri, has just given birth to their second child and first baby girl, Suhana. The couple has an older son named Aryaan.

Is true that he doesn't give interviews easily?

"People like to believe that. When journalists write me off, I feel they are not being fair. The effect is damaging. I don't like to talk bad about anyone. I'd be ungrateful if I said journalists have not treated me well.

"I do things with a lot of good-heartedness and openness. But if there's anyone who says anything adverse about me, may God punish them because I believe in divine intervention.
"Anybody who does malicious things will have to pay for their acts because I am a very sincere person. I am upfront, honest and I take people at face value. But people like to analyse me and I don't like it.''

Stardom may not have influenced his personality but it does encroach into his private life.
"It's part of the deal ... my occupational hazard. I don't have privacy. But, really, it's no big deal. I chose this life. I'd feel worse if everywhere I go, I'm not recognised on the streets, not served first in a hotel or they don't play my songs; I'd feel terrible. Someone said the other day, actors are the strangest people. They spend all their lives to be known, and spend the rest of their lives covering their faces like wearing (sun)glasses. That's really stupid. I've worked so hard to reach this stage, why should I wear glasses?''

Shah Rukh the actor

Underneath the "I am the best'' bravado which is projected in a majority of his roles from Deewana (1986) to Phir Bhi Dil Hai Hindustani (PBDHH) this year, Shah Rukh is an intelligent actor. Maybe not as intense as Naseeruddin Shah or Nana Patekar but he is a fine actor and a great entertainer without equal.

Up close, the real Shah Rukh Khan is almost like the slick, result-oriented, quick-witted, self-assured television journalist Ajay Bakshi from PBDHH.
What's interesting is that Shah Rukh's screen presence can always be depended on. He is one of the few actors who can afford to have a few flops or even play negative characters and still come up tops.

This he did in Yash Chopra's Darr, Abbas-Mustan's Baazigar and Rahul Rawail's Anjaam or roles with shades of grey like the Jim Carrey take-off in Mahesh Bhatt's Duplicate or the slum-scum in Umesh Mehra's Ram Jaane. He exudes the aura of a bratty scene-stealer in whatever characters he plays, such as the spoofy detective in Badshah.

In fact, he has a timelessness akin to the legendary durability of Rajesh Khanna, Amitabh Bachchan and Shashi Kapoor all rolled into one.

Shah Rukh's massive energy knows no bounds. He eats and sleeps very little but he behaves like a marathon man dancing on the set for 12 hours at a stretch and working till the early hours of the morning, he said.

An absolute charmer, Shah Rukh appeared not in the least cocky, at least to this smitten writer, or plagued by the egomaniac syndrome which many stars have.
"All this (pointing at the hordes of fans around him) doesn't go to my head. It goes to my heart,'' he said.

Up close and the brawl

People clustered around the waterfall site in the FRIM woods, making it difficult to move up the path. Shah Rukh relaxed in a chair with a koleh (steel mug) of teh tarik in his hand. I reached him, fell on my knees and almost kissed the hem of his brown leather jacket.
Someone pulled up a chair for me next to him. Shah Rukh was just six inches away from me. A fantasy had come true.

Out of the blue, he said, "Juhi and I read your article four times,'' referring to this writer's review of their Bakti show.

The admission had an odd effect on me my heart fluttered. Then I chanced upon an inch-long strand of hair on his brown jacket. He followed my gaze and flashed an approving look, granting permission. Mementoes like this won't come by often. I flicked it onto my palm.

Suddenly a brawl broke out behind us. Apparently, a cab driver, envious of the close proximity we shared, wanted to get near Shah Rukh. The cabbie had slapped one of Shah Rukh's men and tried to fling a chair in the style of Tamil movies. A commotion ensued. By now, two groups had already converged the fans versus the bodyguards and FRIM officials.

Like a true hero in Badshah, Shah Rukh got up, said something in Hindi and comforted his aide, all the time holding onto my autographed notebook while I breathlessly clutched that strand of hair. For the record, The Hair is not up for auction! The whole heady, exotic experience will be a cherished memory for a long time to come.

THE INFATUATION!

I could never get enough of Shah Rukh Khan. Friends teased me of my obsession. Some even ridiculed me and said that I have gone overboard with my infatuation after I built the "shrine" in the corner of my house to keep all his belongings.

When I first "saw" him, I had butterflies in my stomach. And it wasn't even a real meeting. How can I forget those hypnotic eyes and cheeky smile. I love everything about him even his "big" nose. I just fell for him. These days, I just watch him from far. I suppose old age is catching up on me. Old women are more dignified when they are in love.

Pardes, the first SRK movie that I watched, jolted all the beautiful memories I have of him. It's one of my favourite movies. But English Babu Desi Mem is still the best though not many people have watched it. The thing that kept our "relationship alive" is the chemistry that we have together on screen. I have been in the shoes of Sonali Bendre, Juhi Chawla, Preity Zinta, Karisma Kapoor and Mahima Chaudary. That's how I enjoy watching SRK movies. I have to visualise and dream that I am these beautiful, curvaceous women.

I love SRK so much that I just had to call my favourite son, Ayan when his real name is Farhan. SRK's first born is Aryan. This is just one of the many similarities we share. We may not be together as often but we have a way of "connecting" to each other, through strange ways like the movies, our Scorpion zodiac, line of thoughts and the way we speak our minds.

I am so proud to tell my friends that I have all of his CDs, VCDs and now DVDs. And there's two copies of each, just in case someone decides to steal it from me. These personal belonging which I guard with all my life will never be shared. SRK is irreplaceable. No one takes his place nor his things.

None of my friends dared to say anything about SRK. If they rave about him, I would feel jealous and if they try to be analytical about his acting or looks, my claws will be all ready to dig their eyes out.

So, SRK is untouchable. He is the best and will remain that way, at least for me.
This review was done in 2000 and I was thrilled to bits when he threw a teddy bear at me. It landed not on my lap but straight to my heart! Happy Reading.

STILL THE BEST
Byline: Zieman

IT WAS an infatuation which, unbelievably, led to an intoxicating encounter when Bollywood's biggest star Shah Rukh Khan stood in all his glory two metres away during Bakti's exclusive Charity Concert at the Merdeka Hall of PWTC last Sunday.

The minute he flashed those cute, saucy dimples, this brazen fan was all ready to launch into an all-out flirtation (and who knows what else?) with the Bollywood King, vigilant eyes of several VIPs, Prime Minister Datuk Seri Dr Mahathir Mohamad notwithstanding.

Unfortunately, despite the "bodyguard'' tag on me, I had no access to this lover-boy idol of Dil To Pagal Hai, Pardes, Dil Se and one of the biggest box office Kuch Kuch Hota Hai. The closest I got to realising my fantasy was when Shah Rukh threw a teddy bear at me, which left me agog and starstruck. Unfortunately, a makcik seated at my feet rudely snatched it away, and in doing so, scratched me ....

Though the evening was filled with great entertainment by singers Udit Narayan and Nayan Rathod, and beautiful actresses Manisha Koirala and Juhi Chawla, the main star was undoubtedly Shah Rukh.

The euphoria he created in the hall was positive indication that his star power is far from diminishing. Predictions by Bollywood film pundits who anticipated his career ``obituary'' and dwindling popularity after new and younger heartthrob Hrithik Roshan came into the picture were completely off the mark.

The charisma and magic he exuded sent many frenzied fans in the hall screaming. Teenage girls went weak at the knees, mothers swooned and kids gushed at the sight of this megastar. Not forgetting the male species who watched with envy in while reserving their praises for this actor's acting, dancing skills and persona.

Getting crazy over Hindi songs and stars are a norm but going delirious over miming sessions (which was what the show was) is something else. It was unbelievable how his fans cheered and screamed when he broke into songs from hit movies like Koyla (where he was a mute labourer), Dil To Pagal Hai (a passionate dancer) and Phir Bhi Dil Hai Hindustani (a sharp, shrewd TV journalist Ajay Bakshi).

He interacted with his fans through autograph-signing sessions, "singing'', dancing and throwing mementos and souvenirs in the form of teddy bears and balls to the audience.
At one point, he recited a pantun. Though he struggled with his atrocious Bahasa pronunciation, the crowd loved him for the attempt.

The lovable Shah Rukh joked, pranced, mingled and made sure everyone had a whale of a time at the concert. He included songs like Mere Mehboob Mere Sanam from Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayange, Wah Hi Wah (Duplicate) and Bholi Si Soarat (Dil To Pagal Hai).

Female fan Vareen, an accountancy student was all goo-goo eyes over her idol and unashamedly made attempts to seduce him with her coy replies and tender gestures which made the amiable Shah Rukh almost speechless for once.

When she finally announced "Mum and Dad I am in love with Shah Rukh Khan'' and kissed him, no one could possibly blame her for the confession. The special moments were overwhelming for both Vareen and Shah Rukh Khan fans.

Earlier on during the show, the elegant and witty emcee Ruby Bhatia who last appeared over ntv7 in BPL Oye! kept the show spirited with her candid and smart delivery.
Young playback singer Nayan Rathod kicked off the fervour with a song from Hrithik Roshan's megahit movie Kahona Pyar Hai.

Another act which heated things up for the 2,500-strong audience at the hall was Manisha Koirala. The exotic Nepal beauty invited the first scream when she appeared in a shimmering misty grey and peach attire, miming the song from the movie Bombay.

At the sight of her exquisite beauty, unofficial photographers young and old started to scramble up just below the stage in front of the first row, rudely intruding the privacy and vision of my previously unhampered view. The security officials had to work overtime, making sure Manisha's fans were under control.

Manisha looked so sultry and composed (though she did not appear again for the curtain call as she wasn't well) and swayed and waltzed through a medley from movies Mann, Khamoshi, Agni Sakshi and Dil Se backed by four dancers.

The next repertoire had a calming effect on the audience. The melodious voice of playback singer Udit Narayan was simply enthralling as he rendered familiar tunes from the movies Kahona Pyar Hai, Mann and Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayange, complemented by the excellent back-up musicians of the eight-piece Rhythm Nation.

His controlled and limited choreography would have been a distraction if not for his voice. Though he tried hard to work on his confined moves, it was obvious that Udit is just another par excellence playback singer. Period.

Former beauty-queen Juhi Chawla who is noted for her infectious giggles on screen mesmerised the audience when she appeared in a deep purple cape which she later discarded to make way for a glistening silver and yellow outfit which revealed a flawless navel area.

When Juhi started the first bar of the title track of the movie Ishq (which starred Amir Khan, Kajol and Ajay Devgan), the number of pseudo-cameramen in front of the stage doubled.
Promoter Raj Bhatt from Pro-Imej Production Sdn Bhd who retained the exclusive rights to bringing the awesome Shah Rukh Khan to our shores three times in a row should be commended for the brilliant effort.

To justify that he is no ordinary promoter, Raj took the mike and entertained the guests with his cool, polished and effortless rendition of Main Koyi Aisa Geet from the Yes Boss movie, making him the only promoter allowed to share the limelight with Bollywood stars.

The successful closed-door concert which ended well after midnight was aimed at underprivileged, spastic and handicapped children. The effect of the fun-filled entertainment would linger in our minds long after Shah Rukh completed his One Two Ka Four shoot this month.

All the fantasy came to an abrupt end when I was rudely jolted back to reality. I came away feeling like Rishma, the character who was obsessed with ``little-boy-lost'' Shah Rukh in Chahat.

I LOVE THE NAME AZIZ

Somehow, I could get along with anyone by that name. My favourite Aziz person is En Aziz Hamdan, the former THR.fm's CEO.

We hit it off instantly over a telephone interview. We became friends after I interviewed him over the suspended Kontrolversi programme, which was helmed by Richie Rahman. This controversial program was axed as it allegedly carried certain sexual innuendoes. Kontrolversi had created a stir after an MP brought the matter up in Parliament.

We spoke at length over the telephone. It was almost like meeting up with an old friend. From friendly talks, we gradually progressed to discussing projects. En Aziz is a supportive person who is open to new ideas. So, when I propose to do a radio talk-show called "Scoop Sensasi" a collaborative effort between WHAM and THR.fm, he was more than willing to give it a go.

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The talk show became a hit and En Aziz was quick to credit me for it. How could an idea take off if the support system wasn't there? With En Aziz it was so easy. He gave a lot of room for me to grow.

It was always..."Ok, we'll do it." And the rest just flowed.
En Aziz and I was especially proud of "Scoop Sensasi" as the program was a hit and ran for over a year. It featured journalists, top artistes and public relations practitioners in the entertainment industry. For one year, we had to field the best topics, issues and top drawing artistes to pull in the crowd.

It was hard work but no one complained. My reporter friends were all so supportive to chip in when the need required. I felt guity having to call the same people again and again but that's how it is. The reliable ones are a handful like Dalilah Ibrahim, Wani Muthiah, Abie Abdullah, Saharuddin Mustapha, Saniboey, Zainal Alam Kadir and Siti Rohayah Atan.
We had called Hani Mohsin and Chef Wan on air to discuss the dispute between them. The reporters acted like a team of firing squad who behaved more like a batu api. We felt guilty of instigating the hot discussion.

But memorable all the same when Chef Wan broke down on air and the phone never stopped ringing since. When we tried to grill Mohsin on the air in the next episode, En Aziz called in to ask us to go easy on him. Mohsin was an old friend so it was understandable. However, En Aziz rarely interfered in the running of the programmes but he was very involved.

He would listen raptly and passed his comments after the show. If we get an invite for an assumptuous lunch at American Chillis then we know it was a job well done.
Scoop Sensasi was provocative which touched on current issues like the failed Malay movies, the sensational cuts in Embun, the "bias" policy of Istana Budaya and how to master several langguages with multitalented Mahadzir Lokman.

Scoop Sensasi was created in 2002. Four years down the road, we have Fenomena Seni over TV1. Somehow, it sounded tame compared to Scoop. Maybe I am bias.
The next project that we worked together was the “feel good” mission for the Siamese twins Ahmad and Muhammad, inviting listeners to send cards, e-mails and letters to wish them a quick recovery after an operation to separate them in Saudi Arabia.
The station hit thousand well-wishes.

Then it was "Sumber Ilhamku" paying tribute to the greatest Malaysian composer Datuk Ahmad Nawab who had written more than 2,000 songs and groomed over 75 artistes which include the biggest names in the Malaysian music industry.

Having been around for 40 years in show business, Ahmad Nawab is still a hit with Malaysians. He could still blow his saxophone away to the delight of his fans. The program featured more than 200 golden melodies and it was aired non-stop for 14 hours from Aug 22 at 8pm.
The unusual record-breaking feat entitled Ahmad Nawab for entry into the Malaysia Book of Records as “Composer with the Most Number of Songs” and for THR.fm to get an entry for “Most Number of Songs in a Show”.

"20 Best Hits of Ahmad Nawab” on Aug 23 rounded-off THR.fm’s feat for that day. There were exhibition of Ahmad Nawab’s works, a karaoke competition and performances by music students from higher institutions, all were displayed and conducted at the Menara Kuala Lumpur.

“An exclusive dinner at the private Mega View Banquet Deck with 300 special guests was the culmination of the whole show." It was indeed a rare night for everyone. Especially so for me because I ended straight into Pantai Hospital on the night of the event as I had food poisoning which almost costs me my life as I was seven months pregnant.

En Aziz is a special friend who is almost like a sibling. We could sit down for hours at the coffee house sharing a plate of mee mamak and if we become the brunt of wild gossip. Our open friendship is an envy to many. Can't help it if we could click instantly.

Though we hardly spend time together as both of us are tied up with work, we would catch up whenever we have the time. Our favourite meeting places were Coffee Bean infront of PJ Hilton and Eastin Hotel, as it was most convenient for me.

En Aziz is a man of few words when he chose to. He often advised me to start writing my book and get it published as he thinks I am a good story-teller.
He still cuts a handsome figure with his distinguished good looks though he is a bit on the heavy side. A good friend is a rare gem and En Aziz is just that, the kind of friend who would help you no matter what.

Just last week he bailed me out again when I told him about my battle with termites. En Aziz has a soft spot for kids and seeing how my kids live in the ramshackle house infested by termites must have moved him.

I remember En Aziz giving me a Nokia handphone when I was mugged at McDonalds in SS2 in 2001. It was the sweetest gift that left me speechless for a while. I needed a handphone badly as I lost everything in my handbag. I was like a woman with no identity, no money and personal belongings. He knew a handphone is important so he gave it to me. Rosni, En Aziz's most trusted aide and our common friend, was just as thrilled when she saw my joy.

We also share the same passion for food. Evertime I talk to En Aziz, he would always ask me to be patient and take it one day at a time. Just because he has a jovial disposition, not many people know that he is actually a sensitive person.

He used to tell me stories of his "fair weather" friends. I could detect the hurt in his voice. Naturally, he felt the hurt and betrayal after helping these friends. I know exactly how he feels. I was there once and I am still there!

MY NEW FRIEND AND HIS MOLE!

This new friend of mine is queer in many ways. Though he has a humble and prince-like disposition, he is quite humble. DDSA is his acronym. I want him to remain as my mystery friend. Though we've only met, I found his traits most fascinating. He has a quick mind yet he could not stay focus for a long time. His attention span is rather short. Wonder how he does his job?

DDSA turned 45 last Saturday and he celebrated it with all his rich and famous friends including his circle of royalty friends. Now you know why he should remain anonymous. We are worlds apart. I would never be able to fit into his life. He may not talk about his socialite friends as often but I know he is in that circle. His affluent lifestyle makes me want to abstain from dwelling into him.

I choose my friends and most of my friends are like me. I prefer them down-to-earth, jovial, simple and warm. DDSA has all these qualities and more. He lives in comfort. From stories that I hear of him, I know he is a man of fine character.

I prefer writing about him than talking to him. DDSA is a true blue Taurus. And I know Taureans like the back of my palm. My late father was a Taurean. Like other Taureans, DDSA thinks he knows the most, loves good things in life, is a loyal friend and has great generosity.

This handsome looking chap has a notable Taurean characteristics - a picture of calmness, charming in every way and is a pleasant company. But I believe he has a volcanic temper that would erupt when sufficiently aroused. Somehow I just knew that.

Though still new in the friendship, I could sense his stubborn streak just like a raging bull's nature which is incredibly opinionated and decisive. His friend, WN, would not dare to vouch for this. For DDSA, when something has been decided, its embedded in stone and nobody can alter it. Taureans are said to treat their love as their sacred possessions. I've not had the privilege to venture into this private zone. Asked him once and he denied it. I think I just burst his ego by asking him that.

DDSA claimed he can hold a tune and loves music. I have yet to hear how good his vocals are but judging by his artistic fingers, I think he is gifted with a natural artistic nature. And I think I know why he likes to express himself through singing because he has a tendency to hide his true feelings. His dogmatic qualities especially when he is persistent, pushy, thorough and single-minded can drive anyone crazy. Wonder how WN lived through this.

But WN is full of praise for DDSA. He thinks the world of him though I see it often that this young bull is constantly bullying WN. The patient and ever so cool WN has no complains.
"He is a real friend. Humble to a point that you would not think that he is what he is. We've been friends for a long time. And we've passed the test many times," said WN.

I would have dismissed DDSA as an arrogant chap the first time I met him. I suppose he is just shy. Underneath that humble, kind and soft-spoken exterior is a man with a facade. I accidentally chanced upon his black mole on his right palm one day and I told him that I know the meaning of moles like reading tea leaves.

Well, the black mole means something. But what? he asked. I had the pleasure of leaving him doing the guessing game. He begged for an answer. Its killing him to know what the mole means, knowing how persistent and pushy he is. It would cost him sleepless night he said. I pitied him so I presented the meaning in a riddle form, through an abstract poem, both in English and Malay.

He had no inclination what I was talking about. He was clueless. As if to console himself, he had to tell me that a Malay bomoh once forecast that he could make good use of his hand by helping people. Which is exactly what he is doing now being in the medical profession. Well, my prediction is rather different. I think he would turn gold anything he lay his hands on be it business. Whatever he chose to do, he would excel and shine.

Once I sms him wanting to know something in his office. He replied asking who I was. I knew straight away he had not saved my number. I felt slightly embarassed and irked even after he had apologised profusely blaming on the way the number was saved. I knew it was just an excuse. Ah, well. As I said to him many times before..."nothing hurts me anymore." The pain that I went through in life has made me numb. He should know that, afterall he is an Anaesthetisiologist.

He is MOST popular among his friends. His friends called him incessantly regardless where he is. He has the patience to chat with them even though he has people with him. Oblivious to what was going on around him, DDSA would still carry on his conversation. Now, I wonder if he just loves talking.

Despite his popularity, I don't think I can ever reach out to him because we are in different world. He is in a class of his own, in a different league. Though I enjoy teasing him with my repartees some friendship are just not meant to be. A man of fine class and distinction like him would never be at home with someone like me. I am just a poor woman in rags and close to penniless. Even in another life, I would never be able to be anywhere near his class. Well, as they say, birds with same feathers flocked together. And I shall add this, ONLY birds with same feathers fly together.

My friend has this endearing character which I find so fascinating. He loves to nag and nag until the cows come home. Its not an acquired skill because he is born with this trait like most Taureanst. He could repeat the same story four times without feeling guilty about it. No, its not boring or offensive, just amusing. And because of that, I shall call him

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from now on!

THE DIAMOND IN MY LIFE!

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I wrote this story straight from my heart and it was published on Valentines Day this year. It was my senior editor friend Veera Pandiyan who first suggested and then coaxed me into writing this beautiful love story of my parents.

Though many parts of the original story was butchered by June Wong the editor, she managed to capture the essence of it. It pained me to read the story. Yet, I always have this urge to read the story again and again. It's a therapeautic thing. Having lost both parents, this is the only way I feel "connected" to them.

Every moment, every second and every time I look at myself, I yearn for my parents. The memories they arched in my heart are so enormous. I just could not find the right words to express how MUCH I miss Mak and Ayah. Each time I thought of them, I would blink a tear or two. Its not just sadness. Its much more than that. Maybe its just loneliness and longingness.... Sigh!


Through thick & thin, for keeps

Sub Head: The diamond in his life
Byline: ZIEMAN

SHE was a rich city girl who became a nurse to escape her wicked stepmother. He was a poor, uneducated soldier from the kampung. They were both 21 when they met in war-torn Congo, Africa, and fell in love.

Such was the beginning of a nearly 40-year love story. It’s a story that I am intimately familiar with because the two sweethearts were my parents.

Father, Mohd Johar Bachik (left) and mother, Maduah Kamarzah@Maznah Kamariah Ghulam Dastagir. Standing in the front row (right) me, brother Marzuki Jamil Baki and my late sister Murni @ Nona.

My father Mohd Johar Bachik was a Javanese serving in the army. He was the first group of Malaysian troops to serve as peacekeepers with the United Nations Operations in Congo (UNOC) in 1960.

My mother, Maduah Kamarzah @ Maznah Kamariah Ghulam Dastaghir, who was of Indian Muslim and Pakistani descent, was a nurse sent on the same mission.

Their desire to marry, however, met with objection from both sides. Hence, there were no family members present at the ceremony. Their “wedding” photo show them both in uniform Despite the lack of wedding finery, they made an exquisite couple. Each time we looked at the picture, my mother would repeat the story of the “great Congo days” and how they “eloped”. My parents did not have an official reception or a proper bersanding but they had no choice since they had little money and no family support.

My stern maternal grandfather, Ghulam Dastagir Ghouse Miah who hailed from Uttar Pradesh, looked down on my father as a “stupid kampung boy” because he had merely scraped through his Primary Three in Malay school in Merlimau, Malacca.

In contrast, my mother came from a good family and was city born and bred. She was only a month old when her mother, Mas Jumah Bibi, died from a fall. She was raised by her stepmother with whom she did not get along.

The youngest of seven siblings, my mother passed her Junior Cambridge at the Convent Bukit Nanas with flying colours. The only reason why she quit school and joined nursing was to escape from her stepmother. Her dusky colouring did not meet the approval of my paternal grandmother, a typical Malay woman, who described Mak’s skin as “the lowest bottom of the kuali.”

After the wedding, my grandfather gave my father a cheap mattress and pillow as a sign that he had given away his rebellious daughter.

They and their children would become the outcasts of the clan. My siblings and I were never invited to any kenduri or weddings. But despite their different backgrounds, my parents made a formidable pair who raised us well.

My mother, Maduah Kamarzah@ Maznah Kamariah Ghulam

Because we were so self-sufficient, we never had the need to reach out to the rest of the family, no matter how rich or influential they were. That, in a way, shaped our individualistic minds and independence.

Ayah made up for his lack of education with charm and a great sense of humour. Though simple, he had a beautiful heart, endlessly helping those in need. He was extremely affable, and would hold conversations with anyone on the street, regardless of race, age or gender. His best buddies were Ah Seng, the fishmonger, Haji Bakar, his mosque comrade and Raju, the Indian barber.
He hardly knew a word of English but after being around Mak for more than three decades, he could speak the language quite decently. And each time Mak corrected his pronunciation and made fun of his tenses, there would be hearty laughter from them, which was a pleasure to hear.
Over the years, our family lived in several ramshackle wooden houses in squatter areas around Kuala Lumpur. Ayah finally presented Mak with their first, proper “brick” house, 15 years after they got married.

After the May 13 tragedy, Ayah quit the army and became a guard. He took up night classes and plunged into the goldsmith business, risking the little “gratuity” money that he got from the army.

His hard work paid off and he was finally able to give Mak her first gold chain, a modest car and a terrace-house in Petaling Jaya, in late February in 1990.

Ayah had always called his wife Intan, or Tan for short,which means rare diamond. And the name stuck throughout their 38 years of marriage.

Mak and Ayah were almost inseparable, except for when they were both at work. I remember fondly the bahulu, muruku and capati-making sessions, which were very much family affairs.
We kids would gather around the stove on the floor and my father would dish out a spoonful of ghee on our capati that Mak had made.

Only Ayah was allowed to break open durians or cut mangoes, Mak’s favourite fruits. We children got our share but the best pieces were always reserved for her.

Where our religion was concerned, we had to balance between my father’s deep religious principles and mother’s liberal ways which shaped us into reasonable, moderate, well-grounded Muslims.

My father developed diabetes in 1995 and two years later had to have his left leg amputated. Mak was devastated. A day before his leg was amputated, he insisted on coming home from the hospital to hold a kenduri.

He invited all of Mak’s siblings who by then had accepted our family. His last message to them: “Please look after Tan when I am gone.”

My father passed away on April 2, 1997, a day after the operation. It was so unexpected that we were all in shock. Mak broke down and, like a scene from Bollywood, wailed, yelled and howled.
We had always joked that she was a drama queen each time she threw a tantrum with Ayah but we were still unprepared for the “drama” during the funeral.

Mak fainted three times causing much alarm. The most pitiful sight was when she collapsed at the grave.

My mother was an exceedingly voluble person but she changed overnight after Ayah left us. She found solace in religion. She wept openly in the months that followed, missing my father even more each passing day. After that, she withdrew into silent grief and locked herself in her room.
In August 1999, we learnt that Mak was dying of leukaemia. She took it very calmly. She loved us dearly but her love for Ayah was much more. During her last days she would whisper to me, “Zie, your father is waiting for me ... I can see him already.”

She passed away three weeks later on Aug 23, just five days before her 60th birthday.
I miss my parents very much but I always console myself that Mak and Ayah are together again and as madly in love with each other as ever!

TRIBUTE TO ALL MY SIFUS

When I started journalism, I was like a lost sheep groaping in the dark, wondering for the right words to come to mind. I failed miserably the first few months. But I never gave up because of all these people that I mentioned below. Without their help, I would never be able to make THAT first baby step.

In all my 23 years of journalism, I failed to take the time to say thank you to these special people who I will forever be indebted. These are the very people who showed that love and care goes hand in hand. And that means a lot to someone like me.

I WILL forever be eternally grateful to the angel-like N heart-of-gold Fatimah Abu Bakar, the Entertainment editor of NST who tolerated my nonsense for 13 years. Patiently and lovelingly, she showed me the rope on how to be a sensible journalist. We shared many memorable stories together. Most of it were so funny like how I wore a top inside out to my assignment in Central Market. Then there were the mismatched pair of shoes and counselling hours that she gave me. Fati was not only my boss, she was a big sister to everyone on the desk. She was a shoulder to cry on. I could talk to her about any subject and she world listened raptly. She would empathise with all my problem. She is warm, gentle, caring and most of all the pillar of strength for this "lost" cadet journalist.

I wanted the pseudonym Zieman for many reasons.
For the next 23 years, no one really know my real name. Even if people bothered to ask me, I just refused to explain why. The story is a long one. And sad.
To all my seniors who taught me how to get good stories and scoops, thank you for being there for me. Until now, I still have this habit of sourcing for a good story because somehow I feel my sifus are watching over me. Its just a feeling. And I hate to disappoint them.

Fatimah Abu Bakar, Rose Ismail, Aishah Ali, Fauziah Samad, Ku Seman Ku Hussain, Bahyah Mahmood, Tajaiyah Ihsan, Saodah Ismail and award-winning scriptwriter A.Wahid Nasir. All these special people have shaped my writing, influenced my way of thinking and have been there to pull me up when I fall. And somehow I always "fall".

Of all my sifus, Wahid is the closest to me. The prolific scriptwriter who has churned hundred gem of scripts is the kindest soul I've ever met. Though he is gentle, soft-spoken and slow in his mannerism, he is such a darling. At times my impatience would get the worst of me and I would snapped at him. Yet, the ever patient Wahid never take to heart the cruel jokes that I made of him. He would always retort in an expressionless way. He is almost like a big brother, only not so forceful because I often bully him and this I love to do. Sometimes I think Wahid looks like an ageing Thai prince who got lost in Malaysia. I suppose one of the reasons why I like to be in Wahid's company is because he is good looking and kind. Wahid is young for all his 50 years of age. It must be the tons of vitamins he takes. Yet, he would fall asleep at any opportunity he can seized, even in classroom right under the watchful eyes of our lecturers Garvan and Russell. The masterclass that we went together was full of fond memories. The asam-eating session, the long lunches and the short tea-break and the ride home with Mak (Quraishah) and Jayanthi were so meaningful. Wahid has always encouraged me to write my script. I made many promises. I guess I have to really deliver my "Izzara" soon as we would be working closely in future for our debut feature film.

I still keep in touch with Fati. Each time I thought of Fati, my thoughts would bring me to Jalan Riong where it all began. My NST days were both happy and sad. There were moments which I do not want to think how I have struggled to keep my sanity back then. I was coping with lots of personal problem. It was a bad patch in my life and Fati helped me a lot. The stress was tremendous.

But one thing that I still can't get rid off is living with the "humiliation" of being called deragotary offensive names. At 24, when I started my reporting days, everything was so tough, hard and painful. It was as if I was thrown into a place that I do not belong. Strangely though, I never had the urge to give up. I tried to cope and juggled with all the peer pressure, domestic problem and the demanding datelines. Each time, I encountered A snag, Fati would always be there for me. I really love that woman. She has a beautiful heart and it shows in all her dealings with the people around her. She has influenced me a great deal. I idolise her so much that most of my rail of thoughts aboit journalism and working habits are inspired by her.

Another man whom I can't take my mind of whenever I think of NST is the stern Shaik Osman Majid.
The late Shaik was a tyrant and tormentor. He literally shoved a Thesaurus on my first day of work. He was so irritated that I have not heard of the book. He wanted me to replace the word shy to describe Sudirman, my first article to be published. He decided the word used should be "reticent."
"Haven't you heard of Thesaurus before? Which school did you come from?," the mean looking editor said on my first day of work. On the months that followed, Shaik grew more tolerant with me. Perhaps its the naiveness, simplicity and my meek ways, giving in to him each time he barked at me.

The other oppressor was Pak Samad, the Father of all journalists. He was always judgemental about new female reporters. He hated to see me in long kebaya. The fact that I was a young divorcee somehow irked him. There was never a moment of peace whenever he is around me. I get yelled at ever so often. First I broke down and cried when he screamed his head off, then I started the defence coping mechanism by ignoring him. None worked. His scoldings were like music to my ears. Very soon, my rubber ears could take his insults, dirty jokes and vulgar remarks.

You really toughened me Pak Samad. Breathing down my throat with the grouchy "Mmmm" and shouting across the floor with "Mana janda tu?" was the ultimate attention that he had ever given me. And when he described my first story as "not even fit to be an essay", let alone be published, Pak Samad made it all the more dramatic by crushing the print, reducing it to a snowball size and threw away. As if the humiliation was not enough, he had to step all over the snowball and asked me to pick it up. The shameless me did as told and when I looked up, guess who was grinning?

With his shoe marks engarved on my masterpiece "story", I knew my life as a journalist is not going to be easy. But that old man has a beautiful heart. Though his actions were painful for me to accept as a rookie, I learned that he had wanted me to be a good reporter.
In the months that followed, he personally too the time to give me assignments that were out of this world. I knew he was thrilled with all my scoops. Well, Fati was the mediator who would counsel me with her gentle words.

One day, after I came back from Brunei, my first overseas assignment with Aishah Ali and Wirda Adnan covering the Royal wedding of Mazuin adn Pengiran Sufrie, Pak Samad summoned me to his room. He gave me a small card. I almost couldnt believe my eyes when I read the words..."Congratulations, you are now a full-fledged journalist." And to who do I honour this....THANK YOU SIFU!