A Muted Monday And The Day After

Part I : A Muted Monday

The chocolate factory was having its 4-day maintenance shutdown, unwinding after a seasonal peak period. I was off duty on this day. The day after, I was scheduled to have a meeting that required brainstorming and regurgitating. Generally speaking, I'm not really comfortable attending board meetings, brainstorming sessions and the likes. These are the times and events when the extroverts have their upper hands whipping us, the introverts, like whipped potatoes. The Indians colleagues are all talented tellers of long tales, powered by their tilting heads and 'wordiness'. The Kenyan colleague is well-endowed with a stormy vocal cord to deliver his rich collection of analogies from his gospel and English-African literature. The Egyptians talk with pride as much as they are proud of their pyramids. Well, I have the discomfort being a player in this assorted loud orchestra. I have air locks in my verbal pipelines. Words don't come easily from my end. I have pauses that I miss my turn. In the last meeting episode, the extroverts snuffed my little light and stole my show when I should be riding the waves.

So what I was doing today, was shutting the valve, building up pressure and sorting of my thoughts in a logical order for the day after. Hopefully the air locks accumulated and broke off in a big belch before the meeting, leaving me with strong and sensible words in a good flow. I was hoping to leave the room, feeling good and contributing well. On this muted Monday, when I was consumed with own thoughts, I did house-keeping. My biggest achievement today was opening my door for the departure of piles of old newspapers out of my apartment.

Here in this part of Dubai, we have a man dropping the newspapers at my door every day. I met him only twice, but I hear him blasting the newspapers on the floor, in front of my door at around 6AM almost everyday. I have paid 400 dirhams for him to do this every day until October next year. This man contributes well in my life here. We mostly communicate in a muted way. He scrawled messages on pamphlets. Instead of calling him as he had requested in his scrawling, I last sms-ed a reply to him that read, "Away, 29/9 - 9/10, no need newspapers. No422, Bld 3, Discovery".

What is missing here is the scene of another man calling out, "Ole newspaper....surat khabar lamaaaaaaaa!". I have yet seen a man doing this in this part of Dubai, who can help me to accept the piles and perhaps pay me a few dirhams in return.

Also on this muted Monday, I washed my clothes. I skipped my last washing session, which was supposed to be last Friday. I still have another load to go but my little ampaian at the balcony, couldn't take more. By sunset things were in pretty good order in my apartment, and I would like to think it was the same in my head.

I broke free from the muted mode by dialling home. The kids were already asleep. My wife was narrating excitedly about their weekend trip to Melaka. They went on this river cruise and the kids were jumping with joy. Thank God, it wasn't a sampan. They spent the night in a hotel and they had great dinner only to be spoilt by my son, Hadiff who puked on the dinner table. I'm not surprised for this anti-climax. She was a great narrator like my Indian colleague and her narration reduced my Etisalat prepaid balance by 55 dirhams on this single long distance call. But it's worth it.

Part II : The Day After

I have the butterflies and moths flapping and rubbing the inside of my stomach. Even though, I was a debater back in high school and I have done public speaking and hundreds of presentations to many people, I still have the jitters attending this meeting. I guess it's because I wanted so much to make a big impact and to be in par with them...to be able to think and talk loud, effortlessly, with confidence.

As I entered Hilton Jumeirah Beach, I saw the list of meetings to be held on that day there. There it was...... our meeting, the third meeting on the list, my meeting with misery.

Our meeting was held in a great room called Fayrouz. It was a whole day event that staged the Operation Manager, Technical Managers, Production Managers and others in one room to outline a new portfolio of technical trainer within our organization.

As expected, the extroverts, the board room meeting champions shined like Donald Trumps' golden hair. They really spoke their minds out. All the good points crossed my mind were shot, snatched and served stylishly by these champions. I was left to raise whatever was missing on the table. I summed up the day having 90% of my time in that room listening to the volley of words and following the motion, and only 10% talking. I guess for now, I have to live with it. I can't change over night. It may take me sometimes to be loud and to be able to think under my feet. Of course, I left the meeting room feeling disappointed, but I had the beautiful sunset at the hotel foyer to tell me that life goes on.

On my way back to my apartment, I had witnessed a neglected beauty. We have clusters of these garden weeds in front of our building. I have been walking up and down the building not noticing them. One night, I took series of full moon photos and these weeds made their appearance on the photos as garnishings. I sent the photos to an old friend of mine. She is now a collector of full moon sightings from all around the world, from Manchester to tepi Sungai Langat. She and the others commented well about the moon, leaving the weeds weeping unnoticed. I stared at their elegance. I watched them waving and dancing with the wind of approaching winter in Dubai. Their colour was dark, brownish with purplish tinge, unlike the plain lalang in Malaysia. They grow in small patches, that they don't seem to look messy or dominant in this ensemble of garden shrubs. They don't required much maintenance. I reckon they need less water compared to other plants, planted with the support of the irrigation lifeline on the surface of this desert. I have no idea what they are really called and where they are originally from. Nevertheless, they are here adding colours in this gloomy blog.

The highlight of the day was the night when I had the garden pool all by myself. One of my favourite band in the 90s, REM, made a song about nightswimming. I was under the water, witnessing the ray of lights passing through the rippling water, hearing the tune ....and imagining being Sammy, the whale shark, captured and confined in the Atlantis...

Nightswimming deserves a quiet night.

The photograph on the dashboard, taken years ago,

Turned around backwards so the windshield shows.

Every streetlight reveals the picture in reverse.

Still, it's so much clearer.I forgot my shirt at the water's edge.

The moon is low tonight.

Nightswimming deserves a quiet night.

I'm not sure all these people understand.

It's not like years ago,

The fear of getting caught, of recklessness and water.

They cannot see me naked.

These things, they go away, replaced by everyday.

Nightswimming, remembering that night.

September's coming soon.

I'm pining for the moon.

And what if there were two side by side in orbit

Around the fairest sun?That bright, tight forever drum

Could not describe nightswimming.

You, I thought I knew you.

You I cannot judge.

You, I thought you knew me,

this one laughing quietly underneath my breath.

Nightswimming.

The photograph reflects,

Every streetlight a reminder.

Nightswimming deserves a quiet night,

deserves a quiet night.