Thank you dear Telkom Vision Internet for your quirky internet connection. Your funky modem hasn't stopped blinking accompanying my lonely night. Lonely because your internet has decided to take some rest tonight, just like in the past week or two. What was I thinking really. Such fool I was to even think that your main job is to provide me, your paying customer, with a stable and - if it's not too much to ask - a somewhat fast connection.
But hey, at the very least, sometimes, when you're in the right mood, you would bless me with a burst of connection to the whole wide world.
"Oh, thank you Telkom Vision Internet!".
"Indeed, you should be really grateful, human. But three minutes is enough! Now back to your job of admiring the interpretive dance of my modem light."
Negotiation would not do. I tried to bargain a connection on the evening while he could rest during morning, afternoon, and night, but I guess it just doesn't fit his sleeping schedule. I was so desperate, I even tried to scare him with a possible destruction of his property. I looked sternly at his modem while transmitting strong signals of desire to crash and burn the damn thing. He called my bluff and also reprimanded me for calling his modem 'a damn thing'.
Having watched Oprah, I know that in this stressful situation, I should take deep long breaths. So I did. Deep long inhale, deep long exhale. After a couple deep breathings, it seemed that my little Zen time has shown its result. An enlightenment. Yes people, I'm that good. It is very obvious now that it is just tough love afterall. This wise and knowing Telkom Vision Internet has decided that I have wasted too much of my precious time in this world doing useless activities and he actually cares enough to put a stop to this. Graciously, he cut me off from my means to slack off, all for the better good of yours truly.
And so here I am now being productive. Only because of him that I am now writing a thoughtful post to my bare blog. Such rarity. And after this, I would spend the night by learning some life lessons from the movie(s), and I think I shall help the income of that little pastry shop by consuming its calorie laden pastry. And maybe, I would for once put more attention to my health and bid goodnight a little bit earlier. So there you have it, thanks to Telkom Vision Internet, instead of spending the night away checking my facebook and various useless blogs, I will create a piece of literature, dwell in the philosophy of life, give the much needed boost to the economy, and take better care of my health.
(Uhm, something doesn't feel quite right, but I don't know what that is. Maybe I should spend more time to meditate on this, but my movie is waiting, so maybe next time ... and oh, the internet is up anyway.)
Pak San
Monday, July 6, 2009
'Pak San doesn't walk. He runs.', my aunt observed.
And all of us nodded in unison.
Pak San was 59 years of age, but he didn't look any older than 45. Inhabitating a small figure and possessing a super human agility, Pak San did everything fast and efficient and still managed to give running commentaries to whatever conversation we had. Sometimes he even did it in Chinese. This, of course, annoyed my late grandma terribly. Here were her grandchildren, all clueless in their own grandmother tongue, and yet this driver could speak it oh so effortlessly.
Pak San had worked for my aunt for 18 years. He was my aunt's Bik Yah. Someone who had worked too long and known us too well, that he had grown to care about us, and us about him. Care enough that we would accommodate his all-knowing attitude and his quirky acts. In short, he was part of our extended family.
It was tragic and suddened. Two motorcycle riders did thoughtless acts. Double-lane crossing on his part, a fast and careless riding on another. They performed brain operation twice on him to reduce the blood cloth, but it was too late and too little. My aunt couldn't hold the tears, her eyes were swollen for days.
We all visited him at the hospital. He was already in a deep comma. They placed him in a ward of people who were just waiting for their time to exit the stage. 'At this point, there is nothing else that we can do. We hope you, family members and friends, can accompany the patient in his last moment', the doctor said. There were some painful moaning in the room, some crying, but mainly just blank hopeless stares. At one moment, there was quietness in the room before it was broken with the laughs of the young staff interns. Apparently someone just delivered one funny joke. I felt suffocated. I hate hospital.
After 5 days of comma, Pak San left all of us. 'At least he didn't feel any pain', we tried to cheer each other up. He was buried the next day, and life goes on for the rest of us.
I received an SMS a few days after, 'Thanks for the mangoes. They are very sweet. I'm eating them now while sobbing a bit remembering Pak San, hiks ...'.
My aunt is quite the jokester, and the visual of my aunt crying while eating mangoes made my mother and I smiled and saddened both at the same time.
Rest in peace, Pak San, and thank you for everything.
And all of us nodded in unison.
Pak San was 59 years of age, but he didn't look any older than 45. Inhabitating a small figure and possessing a super human agility, Pak San did everything fast and efficient and still managed to give running commentaries to whatever conversation we had. Sometimes he even did it in Chinese. This, of course, annoyed my late grandma terribly. Here were her grandchildren, all clueless in their own grandmother tongue, and yet this driver could speak it oh so effortlessly.
Pak San had worked for my aunt for 18 years. He was my aunt's Bik Yah. Someone who had worked too long and known us too well, that he had grown to care about us, and us about him. Care enough that we would accommodate his all-knowing attitude and his quirky acts. In short, he was part of our extended family.
It was tragic and suddened. Two motorcycle riders did thoughtless acts. Double-lane crossing on his part, a fast and careless riding on another. They performed brain operation twice on him to reduce the blood cloth, but it was too late and too little. My aunt couldn't hold the tears, her eyes were swollen for days.
We all visited him at the hospital. He was already in a deep comma. They placed him in a ward of people who were just waiting for their time to exit the stage. 'At this point, there is nothing else that we can do. We hope you, family members and friends, can accompany the patient in his last moment', the doctor said. There were some painful moaning in the room, some crying, but mainly just blank hopeless stares. At one moment, there was quietness in the room before it was broken with the laughs of the young staff interns. Apparently someone just delivered one funny joke. I felt suffocated. I hate hospital.
After 5 days of comma, Pak San left all of us. 'At least he didn't feel any pain', we tried to cheer each other up. He was buried the next day, and life goes on for the rest of us.
I received an SMS a few days after, 'Thanks for the mangoes. They are very sweet. I'm eating them now while sobbing a bit remembering Pak San, hiks ...'.
My aunt is quite the jokester, and the visual of my aunt crying while eating mangoes made my mother and I smiled and saddened both at the same time.
Rest in peace, Pak San, and thank you for everything.
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