By SUZANNE CHENG

A young lady recalls the many things she will miss about her grandfather, especially feeling the warmth of his fragile hands holding hers in a welcoming grip.

JUST like I do on every trip back to Ipoh, I find myself gazing out of the window at the familiar scenery along the highway. The same lush forests, the same tarred roads, the same signboards ... and the usual daydreaming.

However, this particular dream was different as my mind wandered back to the past.

I remember how white the house was – the walls, the marble floors, the cushion pillows and the bed sheets. Even his shirts were all white. I also recall running in circles around the house and being so fascinated by rooms that linked to each other in a circle. It was like being in a brick-walled maze.

I remember the afternoon naps that he took without fail and how we, the grandchildren, tried to be quiet so that we did not disturb him from his slumber. We spoke in whispers and ran around the house on tip toe playing catch and hide and seek.

I remember how important privacy was to him. No one was allowed into his room and if we were caught prying, boy, would we be in trouble.

I remember his daily visit at 3pm to Hollywood, the corner coffee shop. Everyone in that coffee shop knew who he was and who can forget that famous tea he ordered every time he was there?

I remember how he would wait until 8pm to catch the news every night and how he would turn the volume up and turn it back down when the advertisements were on.

I remember when I was a lot younger, I was curious about why he had a tweak upwards at the end of his eyebrows. I remember Mom telling me that his eyebrows resembled that of an owl because he was a wise man. I believed her. And I was not wrong in doing that.

I remember when I was in Form One, he suffered a stroke and it robbed him of his speech. I saw him lying on the hospital bed looking fragile, nothing like the man I had known as my Ah Kong.

I remember how things started to change. He was not allowed to drive anymore and he had to rely on a wheelchair and the walker to get around. He found it hard to say what was on his mind, and certain words sometimes came out wrong.

His eyesight was also not spared. It deteriorated and at one point, he needed assistance to the bathroom. That was when he lost his freedom.

I remember how my holidays were spent in Ipoh with him ever since the stroke. My mum, sister and I would go back there every holiday to visit and spend time with him.

We would take him out in the car and sometimes we would even go to the gardens to feed the fishes. I remember how we gave him bread to toss into the lake so that he could regain the strength in his arms.

We would also go for walks at the polo ground where my sister and I would compete to finish the rounds while my mum held his hand to guide him at a slower pace.

I remember how he used to laugh with us whenever he said something wrong. There was the time when he tried calling Mom’s name but it came out as “Mango’’. We had a good laugh over that. His open mind and attitude towards what the stroke had done to him was a lesson to be learned.

I will always remember how he referred to my sister and I as “young men”, and the handshakes he gave us upon arrival and whenever we say goodbye.

My day dream was cut short when we arrived at his house. The walk to the doorstep of the house and to his bedside felt surreal. Seeing him lying motionless on the bed instead of at his usual place on the rocking chair beside the window ... it finally hit me that he was gone forever. No handshakes this time.

Ah Kong, I am glad I got to spend all my holidays with you. I did my share of whining about that but now I am thankful for all those times we spent together. I already miss those walks in the park, the drives, the small conversations we had and everything else that we did together. But most of all, I miss you and your handshakes.

Rest in peace Ah Kong, rest in peace.

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Anne Carter

My parents shared a love of the outdoors, especially fishing. We lived in New York City, and opportunities to pursue these passions were few. When I was ten years old, my father decided we would spend part of our summer on the eastern end of Long Island. I was overjoyed at the thought of being out of the hot city and spending quality time with my beloved parents. Dad rented a small cottage on the bay that included the use of a rowboat. Each morning we would push off and row to an inlet where we fished from the shore. My dad also had a handmade crab trap, and mother dug for clams in the sand with her toes.

Directly across the way was a vast estate, and tied to its dock was an enormous yacht. My mother referred to it as the “Miniature Queen Mary.” Every day a very well-dressed older man was helped out to the end of the dock by a servant who set up a chair for him and handed him his fishing pole. We could tell by the thick dark glasses he wore and the way he was guided out onto the dock that he was blind.

I watched the man with great interest. He sat for hours, never reeling in his fishing line to see if he had caught anything. My parents agreed if we owned such a magnificent yacht, we would be out on it, fishing every day. The man was quite a mystery to me, and I hoped to get his attention by calling out to him every day as we left for home. 

“Bye mister, see you tomorrow!” I would yell. He never answered.

My curiosity grew with each passing day, and when I couldn’t take it anymore, I set out on a mission. I was allowed to ride my bike after dinner one warm evening. I rode out toward the inlet, which didn’t appear to be that far away; however, it took nearly an hour of riding before I sighted the old man’s house. I stopped on the side of the road when I heard a car pull up behind me and watched as the driver got out and opened the back door for the passenger. 

It was the older man whom I had watched fishing every day.

He told me I was trespassing on private property. I apologized, but continued by saying, “Sir, I came out here to say hello to you in person. I watch you fish every day from the other side of the inlet and you never catch a thing. 

I thought I could help you.” The man cut me off with his laughter.

“How old are you, child?” he asked.

“I’m ten years old and my name is Anne and I love to fish and my parents love to fish and we live in the city and. . 

. .” Once again I was stopped by his very hearty laugh.

“Young lady, you’re quite a chatterbox. It’s getting very late. I think we’d better get you home to your parents before they start to worry about you.”

My bike was loaded into the trunk and I arrived home that evening in a shiny black limousine. My parents, both in shock, but grateful for my return, invited the gentleman in for coffee and dessert, and he accepted. He sat in our small kitchen eating my mother’s homemade crumb cake and told us the story of his life.

He had been blinded in a terrible accident that years ago had taken the life of his wife and his only child, a son. 

Although a man of wealth, nothing mattered to him after the accident. He sold his business, shunned the rest of his family and friends, and became a recluse. He said that he had bought the yacht for his son who loved to fish, and added that when his son died, he vowed never to take the boat out, and never go fishing again.

I had been listening quietly, but at this point I couldn’t help myself and blurted out, “But mister, I see you fishing on your dock every day!”

My parents gave me the look that told me I should have remained silent.

The man said, “You’re right, Anne. You do see me with a fishing pole in my hand every day, but I never put any bait on my hook. I just sit on the dock and reflect on the times when fishing meant so much to me and my family.”

I thought for a moment, then said, “I bet your son is very sad when he looks down from heaven and sees you so unhappy.”

This time my parents hushed me with more than a look.

After a long pause the man said, “Your daughter’s right.

What an old fool I’ve been.”

A few days later, the limousine arrived for us, and we spent the day on the yacht on beautiful Long Island Sound—FISHING. It was a day not to be forgotten. That night I thought about the smile on the man’s face when I thanked him.

“No,” he said, “I must thank you, as today was my happiest day in years.” I gave him a big hug and he hugged me back.

Years have come and gone since that day. Life has many pleasures for me today. I don’t get to go fishing very often, but I have a very full schedule. I have a wonderful husband, children and grandchildren, and I reside on Long Island. I hold fast to a lesson that I learned when I was just ten years old. Life is what you make of it. I treasure a picture that sits on my desk, faded with age, but a joy to behold. It shows a man smiling and holding a very large fish that he had just caught. The words written under the photo make me smile even after all these years. 

It simply says, “To Anne, Life will never be an empty hook again. THANK YOU!”

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By CHRISTINE JALLEH

A woman recalls a school holiday spent at a bookshop in a shopping mall and her love of reading which was nurtured by a kindly soul.

I WILL remember that day in December, 1983, forever. I was in Primary Three and was browsing around the stationery section of the (now closed down) Berita Book Centre in Sungai Wang Plaza.

Fascinated with all things cute and colourful, I spent almost an hour there before arriving at the children’s book section. I must have spent another hour immersed in books from the Ladybird series. It was my school holidays, and I had all the time in the world to browse while my mother worked at a beauty salon.

I must have been on my fourth or fifth Ladybird book when a young, Chinese man in spectacles approached me.

“Hello, how many books have you read already?” he asked with a friendly smile.

I shook my head as I really didn’t know – I’d simply taken the next one on the swivelling book rack after finishing one. Besides, my mother had repeatedly told me that I should not talk to strangers.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“I am nine years old.” I replied. He smiled and said that I was too old for Ladybird since I could finish so many books in one sitting. Then, he suggested that I follow him to another section where he was sure I would enjoy the books.

I remember being led to a section with rows and rows of paperbacks arranged according to their colourful spines – red, orange, yellow, blue, green and purple. He ran his finger across the books, stopped at one and picked it out.

“Try this and see if you like it. If you don’t like it, I can find you another one.”

It was The Tales of Betsy May by Enid Blyton. I said thank you and gingerly turned to the first page. I was getting nervous because he seemed quite enthusiastic about recommending the books.

You see, I knew very well that I couldn’t pay for the books. And my mother would surely scold me if I did something wrong at the bookshop – like reading all the Ladybirds for free. Was this man forcing me to buy a book?

He must have sensed my worry because he quickly assured me with another cheery smile, “Don’t worry. You don’t have to buy the book. If you finish this book and you would like to read another, you can sit here and read it also. Nobody will disturb you here. You can read all you want, okay?”

Wow, what magic words!

I felt an instant relief and attacked the book happily. He left to carry on with what he was doing.

I read the book and was soon immersed in Betsy May’s adventures. When the day ended, I took note of the page number, returned the book to its shelf and returned to my mother’s workplace.

I went back to Berita Book Centre every day after that but the young man never came to speak to me again. He smiled at me when he saw me coming but left me alone.

I soon finished The Tales of Betsy May and moved on to another book. I think it was The Naughtiest Girl in School is a Monitor, also by Enid Blyton.

My mother didn’t know how I spent my time until one day when I was completely lost to the world around me, experiencing the British boarding school adventures of The Twins at St. Clare’s, again by Enid Blyton.

I was enjoying the book so much I forgot the time! When I finished and glanced at my watch (my mother had specifically bought it for me to keep track of time), I was horrified to see that it was already 7.30 pm.

I was two hours late in meeting my mother!

When I didn’t show up for tea at 5.30pm, my mother waited a while. At 6.00pm, she had gone to the information counter and paged for me, at least 10 times. At 6.30pm, she was beside herself with worry and went around to every kiddy arcade and toy shop in the shopping complex to look for me. I think she enlisted my uncle’s help too.

By 7.00pm, they decided to lodge a missing person’s report at the complex security centre. While they were in the midst of describing my dress to the security guards and showing them my photo, I showed up.

I’m afraid I can’t remember if my mother was extremely angry or relieved to see me then. All I know is that the bookstore was the last place they’d think to search!

After that day, my mother was rest assured that I was safe at the bookstore and that was where I spent the remainder of my school holidays.

Thanks to the kind man, I went on to develop a love for reading, and amassed a huge home library of books. I also became an English teacher and continue to recommend or buy suitable books for my students, friends, relatives and their children.

I still don’t know who you are but I am truly blessed to have met a Book Angel like you. May God bless you!

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By Murray Lancaster

A little girl who was late coming home for supper. Her mother made the expected irate parent's demand to know where she had been.

The little girl replied that she had stopped to help Janie, whose bicycle was broken in a fall. "But you don't know anything about fixing bicycles," her mother responded.

"I know that," the girl said. "I just stopped to help her cry."

Not many of us know anything about fixing bicycles, either. And when our friends have fallen and broken, not their bicycles but their lives, none of us knows how to fix that. We simply cannot "fix" someone else's life, even though that's what we would like most to do.

But like the little girl, we can stop to help them cry. That is the best we can do. And that is a lot!

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By NG CHI YEAN

How do you know you’ve found a bosom buddy? A school girl figures out the true meaning of friendship in a pretty unusual way.

BEWILDERED, I stood in the middle of the crowd until somebody shoved me to one side.

It was the first day of secondary school. Just months ago I was one of the most popular students in primary school and was “somebody’’. Now, in Form One, I was officially a “nobody’’.

The bell rang and we all trooped to class. The seat next to me was empty as I slumped in my own refuge.

“Hey, is this seat taken?” a girl said.

I looked up and saw a tall, tanned girl with a bright smile. I gestured for her to sit and thought, ‘Maybe I should make friends with her’. Introductions were made and soon the awkwardness between us vanished as we fell into a humorous conversation.

By the end of the lesson, I had found a new friend and little did I know at that time, I had also found my new best friend.

Evelyn invited me to have lunch with her friends. They were as affable as her and soon I was hanging out with them every day. Every year my parents threw a Chinese New Year party and this time, I invited Evelyn and some of my new friends. I was not born with a silver spoon in my mouth but I was definitely had some luxuries, including a considerably big house.

Right after I handed out the invitations, I realised that I was not sure if my new friends are my real friends. So, I told them I live in a simple single-storey terrace house.

On the day of the party, I was fidgeting as I waited for Evelyn’s arrival outside my house. I saw the shock on her face as she stepped out of her car. I approached her and she said, “Your house is humongous!”

I smiled at her outburst and said, “Well good evening to you too.”

Evelyn waved her hand as if to cast away the formality and said, “I think you’ve jumbled up the words ‘single-storey terrace’ and ‘extensive mansion’. Why didn’t you tell me?”

I hesitated and said, “I wanted you to come as my friend, not as someone who’s interested in my background. If I had told you, I was afraid you would think that I was some rich snob.”

Evelyn plonked her hands on her hips and snorted, “I didn’t even know you were wealthy until today, yet I became your friend. Doesn’t that mean I befriended you for who you are and not for this?”, as her arm swept across her surroundings.

On that day, I was convinced that I had indeed found a true best friend.

Now, we are still as close as ever. We do get into arguments and disagreements but we get through those awkward moments. No friendship is perfect, right? I think arguing actually helps strengthen our bond.

Just the other day, we were bickering over a particular subject. Evelyn asked me why I was smiling so strangely and I told her, “You know, I think we’re bosom friends in this sacred link of life.”

She raised her eyebrow and said, “Sacred link of life? Since when did you became Confucius, nerd?”

I rolled my eyes and retorted, “Look who’s talking! You’re the nerd!’’

Can you tell we love each other?

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By NORMA ALIAS

A special tour guide makes a trip to China all the more memorable.

I NEVER fail to think of my dear friend, A.H. Lim from Kota Baru, Kelantan, during the festive season. On a recent trip to Beijing, I met another lady with the same surname, who has also become someone that I will always remember.

“Hello, I’m Lim and I shall be your tour guide,” she said in Bahasa Malaysia, with an Indonesian accent. Someone in our group naughtily whispered, “Isn’t there anyone younger to guide us?”

Lim Ze Hui was a plain-looking senior with a pleasant smiling face. Her hair was tied at the nape of her neck, and there was not a trace of make-up on her fair countenance. It was only during the tour that we really come to know her as a person and what she had in store for us. It was then, too, that I realised the truth of what Garth Dalmain (in Jane Eyre) said: “Plainness is not ugliness ... when (she) rose to speak, (her) face changed ... the beauty of (her) soul shone through ...”

Lim held a baton bearing a green flag high above her as she led us out of the airport to a waiting bus that was taking us to the Wannchin Hua Fu Hotel.

Learning from friends who had been to China that hand-held showers were not available in hotel rooms, most of us came armed with small buckets stowed away in our luggage. However, it surprised us when, on receiving our room keys, Lim announced that we could take the buckets she had personally brought for our group and we did not have to return them. Obviously, she had done her homework!

Though our breakfast was often at the Xin Jiang Muslim Restaurant, we also had meals at the Sai La Ma Can Ting Restaurant whose catchy tagline was: I fen chien, I fen hua (loosely translated as “you get what you pay for, less money spent, less quality gotten”).

Lim pointed out that there were so many qing zheng (eating outlets) for us to choose from without having to ask for “hui ming de”. One Muslim restaurant even provided its patrons with a lavish prayer hall and a spacious section for ablutions.

Lim made sure that we were satisfied with the food served. After three mornings of rather oily omelettes and fried eggs, a member of our group asked, “The locals are not used to having boiled eggs for breakfast, Lim?” She took her cue from that.

The very next morning saw her going from table to table during the first meal inquiring who would like boiled eggs, and she served them herself!

Perhaps it was a kind of marketing strategy in promoting tourism (and getting more “points” for her) but I am more inclined to believe that it was because of the mother in her. She cared.

I guess it was also why she was prepared with yuan notes to help out those of us who needed to change currency urgently.

She would ask if anyone needed to do so every morning as we got on to our bus. She also made sure that there was enough mineral water stocked in a box next to the front seat. We only needed to hand our money to the bus driver when our own supply ran dry.

Lim was a sincere person. She explained how tourists should be careful and beware of the street vendors and hawkers.

“They can switch your yuan with fake ones even before you could blink your eyes and they will claim that you gave them the fake ones,” she warned.

As she led us to the shopping complex at Silk Street and Wang Fujian Street, she let us know that we should not hesitate or feel embarrassed to bargain. “Ngak perlu tawar sampai setengah mati” (you don’t have to pester until you are half dead when bargaining), she said, implying that it would not take much to make a good bargain.

“Namun perlu sekali tawar hingga lebih dari separuh harganya – bisa saja dapat pada harga gila-gila!” (However, you must bargain for more than half the price – you can get what you want at rock-bottom prices).

That, of course, made our shopping sprees even more thrilling!

During the bus rides, Lim did not only prove to be an experienced narrator, but a humorous entertainer as well.

The group enjoyed her riddles, quizzes, jokes and songs, not to mention her demonstrations of some easy dance steps.

“Bagus sekali sebagai latihan jasmani,” (it’s great for excercise) she said, as she shared her MP3 with us. However, she sensitively did not mention tai chi or qi gong.

She divided us into small groups, each one with a leader among us. To enliven our rides, she organised games and competitions for the groups. The winning ones would receive simple token as presents.

Other than simple words, we also learned one of her simple songs (sung to the tune of Clementine) and would all join in the chorus with much laughter:

Sin nien hao ya, sin men hao ya,

Chu her ta chia, sin nien hao

Wo men chan ke, wo men tia wu,

Chu her ta chia, sin nien hao.

The other song we learned was the world’s most popular song, Happy Birthday.

Chun ni sen ze kuai le, chun ni sen ze kuai le,

Chun ni sen ze kuai le, chun ni sen ze kuai le!

In fact, when one of us celebrated his birthday during the trip, we all sang that instead of the English version.

Towards the end of our tour, Lim told us that she grew up in Surabaya, Indonesia, which accounted for her fluency in the language. She had been a tour guide for 30 years, and with her passion, she showed no sign of quitting at 60.

“In China,” she told us, “those who are 50 to 65 years old are called young seniors, 66-75 are middle seniors, and those above 80 are long-life seniors.”

It seemed that the word “old” is not listed in the Chinese vocabulary and they have a positive perspective on old age. No wonder Lim was so lively and going strong – an attribute signified by the Ox, in the Chinese calendar.

Hopefully, it is not too late to tell Lim, “Though you may be miles away, you are the ‘memorabilia’ from China for me. Heralding the year of the Ox, here’s wishing you, Xin Nien Kuai Le!

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By MANSI K

The pain and hurt inflicted by family members can never be forgotten. But forgiving is necessary, if we are to heal.

AFTER 37 years, I have come to realise that not everyone wants to make an attempt to change for the better. The closest example of this is the man who is my biological father. His abusive nature, towards his wife and children resulted in us living in fear for years.

Because domestic abuse is always regarded as a “family” issue, no one stopped the beatings. My mother, who devoted her life to serving her husband unconditionally, endured all his physical, verbal, mental and emotional abuses daily, so much so that I found her inability to protect herself and her children disgusting.

My childhood was spent watching my mother being bashed up, be it in public or within the confines of her house. Once, she was even thrown out of the house. She would be beaten up for the silliest of reasons, for example, for not washing her husband’s handkerchief perfectly clean. I remember hiding my little sister behind a door to prevent her from seeing mom being beaten while the child within me cried for being so helpless.

There was not a day when my mother was not slapped or bashed up for failing to live up to her husband’s expectations. As for us children, we were hit each time we broke something, albeit it being an accident and even when we injured ourselves.

The worst would be when we failed in our exams, which saw our father threatening to marry us off to beggars or other scumbags of the earth. We got used to being called whores by our very own father, the man who was supposed to nurture us with love.

With the passing of time, my hatred for my father (I always referred to him as my mother’s husband because I could never relate to him as a father) grew. I hated the feeling of helplessness I felt each time he hit my mother.

I hated the threats he made: that if we children were to live in his house, and eat his food, then we had to follow his rules. There was no such thing as privacy in his house. He gave us the impression that we were just too much of a burden.

Years passed and I left my hometown for a big city where I secured a job and tried to get on with the business of living. But I learnt that the situation never improved at home. My father continued being the dictator that he is. He had no shame about hitting his wife in the presence of his other children.

His constant put downs of our mother (for she is illiterate) left me enraged, so much so that I harboured a wish of killing him or killing myself. He never allowed us a day where we could just laugh and have fun without harbouring fear. His temperamental nature snatched away our childhood and made life a living hell for us.

I cannot remember a day when we were a happy family, when I felt loved. I never felt safe at “home” and was only too relieved when I got the chance to move out. I do not know why this man called my father behaved the way he did. Maybe he wanted a perfect family?

He never had good words to say of his wife and children. But we children never pushed drugs or slept around. We did worse – we drifted away from one another!

I find little happiness each time I go back to visit my mother because her house is filled with bleak memories of the abuses that took place. If only the walls could talk, they would scream at how painful it was to act as a punching bag. Being in that very house zaps me of all positive energy. Every corner of the house has a violent history attached to it.

And at some level all that has made me aware of the need to heal myself. Like our mother, we children lived in so much fear, as there was no way we could defend ourselves. It was much later on when I was financially independent that I decided to confront my father and told him off. His denial was to be expected perhaps. But I still felt the confrontation was necessary. That was several years ago.

Recently, I went back to see mom and learnt that the “man-of-the-house” was up to his old ways again. He instead now verbally abuses his son, for no apparent reason. When news reached me, I listened quietly, not sure what to do. But when the man verbally attacked me for no good reason, I blew my top. Yes, I was mindful that he is my mother’s husband, but I was tired of being made to feel indebted for living in his house and eating his three square meals a day for whatever short time I was there.

I was tired of being assaulted, psychologically by my own father and I was worn out having to be an achiever just to make him proud of my existence. I was very hurt for not being able to feel safe in the confines of the house that I grew up in. I was angry at him for failing to be a good husband and a good father. There are hardly any pleasant memories of him with the family.

When I left the house after this recent incident, I promised myself I would never again let him have the upper hand, not in my life. If this is the example of how a father behaves, then I am better off without one.

His words hurt, his failure to allow his children to grow up in a safe environment hurt. Putting his needs first and putting his family down made me realise this man will never change for the better.

I, a sucker for a family and love, have finally come to my “senses”! Despite the hurt, I choose to forgive this man and get on with my life.

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By HORNG HAN TAN

Hard times call for drastic measures, and this writer believes that the economic downturn offers the perfect opportunity to show our resilience and fighting spirit.

ECONOMIC analysts the world over have simultaneously predicted that the global economy will take a further dip after Chinese New Year.

While many would be concerned with how they will continue their luxurious lifestyles, I personally believe the imminent economic slump has come at an opportune time.

Many of us should do one thing – reconsider what our priorities in life really are.

A few years ago, when my business was not doing well, I had two options to choose from: Either get very depressed and throw in the towel or keep persisting until great things came out of it.

I chose option two and I persisted all the way as that was the only way for me. It was during that time, when all odds were against me, that I became creative and surmounted all difficulties and challenges that came my way. I won the trust of my clients and generated a revenue of almost RM3mil in less than a year.

The current financial woes faced by many are similar to what I went through. Decades of living a good life has made us soft, as some politicians might say.

When I encountered difficulties in my business, I could very well have just relied on the support of my family, which was the easiest way out. However, instead of choosing to be a quitter, I decided to fight on.

As one wise man put it, “Suffering and deprivation are good for the soul’’. While my family is not, by any standard, affluent, but we are by no means poor either. However, I was brought up in an environment where quitting was a no-go, and persistence was always the preferred alternative. To a large extent, this upbringing has moulded me into who I am today – a fighter who does not bow to any obstacles.

Most of the world and much of Malaysia will lament the economic downturn, and I wouldn’t be surprised to see people start blaming the Government and our economic structure for their plight.

We have been told to tighten our belts. There will undoubtedly be suffering, which we must try our best to ameliorate.

Nevertheless, I think the hard times will hold a timely lesson for many Malaysians, especially those born after 1970 (like me) who have not really lived through difficult times.

Instead of sitting around lamenting over our plight, why not take this chance to transform ourselves into valiant fighters and invincible warriors in the face of trying times?

While we battle the challenging times ahead, we should also count our blessings. I am by no means a spiritual person, but I do know that to get what we want in life (happiness in particular), the balance lies in how much we are willing to “part’’ with in order to “receive’’.

At least we can still sleep soundly at night without worrying about bombshells falling on our rooftops. And we can walk down the streets of Kuala Lumpur without fearing lurking landmines under our feet. All we have to worry about is only hard times which might take away some luxuries.

So instead of complaining, how about channelling our energy into expressing gratitude? As that famous saying goes, “Where attention goes, energy flows and results show’’.

In the year of Ox, let us all strive to choose to be positive and have an abundant year ahead of us!

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