Tunnelish Memories

Last weekend, I did the unordinary in having lunch-cum-lepak session with some old college mates from my pre-University days.

There were four of us and over individual meals of Nasi Arab (three of which is of the very tender Lamb Kabshah variety) we caught up with each other’s latest in life development.

As is usual when long-time friends meet (I think!), there were also bouts of reminiscence in the “good/bad old days”.

I was really amazed with the recollection my fellow college mates had of the period a good 20 years ago. Such superb memories!

They remembered names, places and incidences right down to the most minor of details.

I am ashamed to say of having to go “Uh Hmm”, “Ah Yes, I remember him/her” and such just to keep pace even as I tracked into my own memory vault for something, anything to trigger any floodgate, however small, of whatever it was they were talking about.

There were, of course, bit and pieces – mostly nuggets in selective memory bank – which I could see with my mind’s eye, but for a good length of time during the (ahem) discourse I was as blank as a whiteboard at a MySpace “What’s our next plan?” meeting.

(Pardon the totally inane and witless metaphor)

It was good to reconnect with old friends, but it made me realized how far removed I am from the previous-life circles, where I stood today.

We come to these junctures on countless occasions, I suppose, and for some, they will not only collect valuable experience and enter life-changing decisions but also lifelong friends (sometimes even life partners).

Kid (Kelantanese guy from Bachok who’s into gym these days and who once sport a Morten (AHA) Harket hairdo) commented – quite exuberantly, in fact – that I had a pretty tunnel-like “radar” aka perception.

How very perceptive, I thought.

This could very well explain why I am so ill equipped when it comes to the glossary of life’s experiences. Either that or I just have a very, very lazy memory-bank workforce whose idea of file retrieval is limited to those file within fingers’ reach.

Is that good, bad or somewhere in between?

I don’t really know, but it does leave you behind during Alumnus and what not.

For what’s it worth though, I’m okay with my ROM, limited as it is.

I sure don’t mind improvements in my RAM, though.

Loved to have a greater level of zippiness to my thoughts...

Profumo di Donna

A Pashmina Model

The early 90’s Norfolk’s Norwich was a pensioner’s town that's dull with a capital D.

Dull could however still be enchanting as a night out with a beautiful course mate convinced me that romantic evenings are not the sole domain of perennial favorites Paris or Venice.

Pegs - her nick - was my senior at Law then although we were virtually the same age.

Sporting a boyish haircut and the sweetest smile owing to clearly define dimples in her rosy white cheeks, she was a picture of elegance that day in her knee length skirt, high boots and a muted maroon Pashmina draped around her shoulders.

Amongst the Asian students at the University we were both in, Pegs was right up there in the top tier for sheer attractiveness.

Her looks alone would literally floor anyone; a look that is both demure and confident at the same time, and, of equal measure.

Introduced to each other only a few days before during a Malaysian society courtesy call, the initial attraction I felt led for a very pleasant feeling when she said yes to a "Movies?" suggestion made much later.

We were supposed to catch a trilogy of now-long-forgotten movie, but found ourselves fidgeting after the first installment ended that a decision was made to forgo the other two parts and go on an evening walkabout around town.

There were hardly any pollutant in the chilly Norfolk air as such that, even at an appropriate distance, the young woman from Johor smelt fresh (and divine) without any hint of perfume being used.

There were others – couples, singles, families, etc – then, most minding their own businesses; some familiar faces, most complete strangers. We traded smiles with those we knew amidst curious glances.

There were some pubs around, though most are concentrated in the inner town area, yet there were little of the famed rowdiness that is an important British contribution to the world.

Hour passed the walkabout without us realizing it until we spotted a Turkish Kebab pushcart near one of the many medieval churches dotting Norwich.

Pegs cheerily suggested that we have a bite then and there so as to be spared from having to wander around town looking for a halal restaurant.

It was a good helping of hot shish kebab in full pitta bread for both of us, and Pegs was right in how good it tasted. The Turk – we thought and assumed that he’s one anyway - managed a good blend of fresh salad and meaty mutton and a balanced measure of sweetness and sourness.

We stood around at the pushcart finishing our kebabs, and later stopped at a small roadside café often frequented by our professors for its purported splendid coffees (latte was not much a buzzword yet at the time!)

The evening was fast deepening into night and I ended up – for the second time that week – at her place, where we spend the rest of the night looking at pictures and continuing with our small talks.

Honest.

We parted company as soon as the sun came up, and it was back to the daily grind of lectures, tutorials and the likes.

Sadly (but somewhat realistically) for me, it would also be the one and only (albeit a much cherished) evening of relative intimacy with her.

Pegs was all champagne and candlelight dinner. I, on the other hand, was home cooked meals and plain water.

And, although I didn't realised it then, my heart was already taken by another.

Someone close and yet so far away.

....

And yet, memories of Pegs sweet scent lingered until today.

Fate playing its role? Perhaps. I will never know.