It's Very Good

Sawnja, the name I recently gave myself as the author of this blog (hakkaku→mumblebee→sawnja. It's the third one), was taken from an expression of my hometown dialect. It's transcribed そうにゃよか with hiragana characters, pronounced saw-nya-yoka, and it means "very good" or "very nice" in Kumamoto, a prefecture located on the island of Kyushu. Among all these words in our dialect,  そうにゃよか is mainly used by older people, and my grandmother used to say this phrase often.
"Oh that jumper you are wearing is saw-nya-yoka."
"That is a saw-nya-yoka bag!"
Gran Midori's compliments used to make me feel good and a little embarrassed at the same time.
The phrase makes me nostalgic. I  associate it with my grandmother. Thoughts of my grandmother lead to the memories of my chidhood; when Gran Midori was still active and driving the big blue lorry, and when Gran Kiku and Granddad Shigeyuki were still alive. My the other granddad died in WW2 when my mother was only a little girl.

I've lived my life with a policy of no regretting, no looking back, but these days I can't help myself but missing what's gone.
Sometimes I seriously wish I could time-travel to when I was 11, even just for a day, so that I could spend all day listening to my grandparents. There are so many things I want to ask them about and thank them for. And I want to do that being very much aware that it, the time I spend with them, is never going to come back.

It's Sunday Morning

"It's Sunday morning, and Sawnja is worshipping her favourite church."

Husband says as he comes downstairs, finding his wife in her usual Sunday spot in the living room.
I'm holding an empty mug and a plate of toasted rye roll with butter and honey, watching the second half of Jamie Oliver's 30-minute show on More 4.
This is only the first episode, there will be 4 more, I brief him. Of course, he replies. Husband asks if I'd like more tea or coffee.
"Coffee sounds good."
He bends his body, rests his lips on my hair as gently as a pair of feathers and takes the mug from my hand.

Sitting in an armchair with some hot drink and watching gorgeous food being made one after another by Jamie are some of my favourite ways to spend a lazy Sunday.

Hit the Road

My biggest childhood ambition was to run away from home.
That might give you a wrong idea. No, my parents didn't beat me or ill-treated me. I just wanted to go somewhere, some place else where nobody knew me. You might think I was a born wayfarer, but considering how much I need and love nesting now, I don't think I was.

Having said that, I still get this impulse to go somewhere sometimes. Pack my bag, get on a train and go to a place where people speak a language I don't have a clue of. I like it to be a seaside town. (Not a village, I don't do villages.) I would get a job at a fish monger as a "scale remover", and work from 7am to 3pm. After work I would go back to my little room upstairs of a dry cleaner and fix myself a smoked mackerel baguette sandwich. (Cut the baguette about 15cm long, halve and toast them. Spread generous amount of butter and some English mustard on the bread. Place a piece of smoked mackerel, some sliced tomatoes and onions, sprinkle some sea salt, freshly ground black pepper, and squeeze a quarter of lemon over the filling. Put the other half of the baguette on it. Bon appétit.) At night, I just read a book and talk to no one. Next day would be the repetition of this perfect routine...
These days my fantasy seems to have moved up to a whole new level. I am drawn to the idea of doing Walden myself. Am I really up for it? Nahh. But maybe someday...

No one tells me to hit the road and not to come back, but someday, I might hit the road for real.

In This Rain, in this Place

On the first page of Sula, Toni Morrison writes this dedication;

"It is sheer good fortune to miss somebody long before they leave you.This book is for Ford and Slade, whom I miss although they have not left me."

What do you call this in English? "Cherish"?

Today on the way home, after walking my son to school in the morning, I had to take the other footpath in the woods due to some construction work on my regular route.

Walking on the muddy road that's covered with dead leaves, I was regretting again about not having bought a pair of rain boots. Even with an umbrella, English misty rain moistened my face and hair.

There is a pond near the end of the woods. The water was clear, so I could see all the broken branches and colorful leaves in the pond. Their stillness made the water looked like jelly.

Then I looked up. There were a few tens of ducks, some moorhens and a Canadian goose, all lined up as immobile as the Sphinx.

It felt like I was witnessing a solemn ceremony.

I just don't love these moments in life; I adore and cherish them.

I think it's because we know nothing lasts forever.

And I know I will leave here someday.

I miss England although I haven't left it yet.

1993, Kuala Lumpur

It was lunch hour at Marco Polo. No one but the senior staff were eating in the retaurant.
I was standing near the big ceiling-to-floor window, looking at the reflection on the opposite building. It looked scorching outside. Derick was walking towards me.
He noticed the tears on my cheek.
"Is it Soon?" asked the man.
I turned my head to look at him and smiled wearily.
Derick was just about the same height as I was but somehow it hardly occurred to me. He was wearing a well-ironed crisp powder pink shirt and black trousers. Typical outfit for an office worker in Kuala Lumpur but he always managed to look neater than other Chinese men. I looked away from him.
"Soon caught me in somebody else's bed this morning."
"Who? You mean..."
"Yes, him."
Derick shook his head. Yeah, I know.
"How did Soon find out where you were?"
"Obviously, he's got a spy. He asked around. "
"Did he hit you?"
"No." 
Just left some bruises on my arm when he grabbed it, I thought.
Some customers came in and Mei, the hostess was taking them to a table.
"I'll see you later, ah?"Derick turned and walked away.
The staff; Big Chef, Betty the accountant, Steven the manager, KC the BBQ chef, Jenny the assistant manager and Mao Wong the maintenance guy were still eating. They were about to reach for their dessert. Pakistan mango, that is. I sighed and went to take the order of table 3 with "smile of the day" pasted on my face.

8:00p.m. It was Friday and all the private rooms were full. Mr.Lim, the owner of Marco Polo walked in after his kids for a usual weekend dinner with his parents. He was smiling, which meant he wasn't in a bad mood, which meant Steven could spend his evening talking and drinking with his customers happily.
Someone called my name when I came out from Room B, after taking an order from a group of Japanese business men. It was Eric. Eric was a bodyguard. His boss was the chairman of one of Malaysia's biggest banks. He was standing next to the door of Room V.
"Hi, Ma Yau Yui."
"Hi, Eric. Are you stalking me again?"
"I wish I were. It's my busy boss I have to follow around."He smiled."So when are we going out?"
"Soon, Eric. Some time soon." I started walking towards the kitchen.
"How soon?"
I shrugged my shoulders and kept on walking. It hurt, ever so slightly.
The kitchen was noisy as usual with the shouting chefs and the head waitress, Ah Yok's voice. Ah Yok's job is not just waitressing. She usually stands at the entrance of the kitchen, tells the chefs what orders they've got, what's behind the schedule and what should be done next. In a way, the kitchen will be congested without her.
"Ah Yok. How much do we charge for a sultan fish for 10 people?"I asked her, still holding a pen and the ordering paper in my hands. She shouted the same question in Cantonese into the kitchen. The assistant chief chef shouted something back.
"200 ringgit."She translated.
"200? OK, no sultan. Pomfret instead." I passed the order strip to Ah Yok and walked into the kitchen towards the assistant chief chef. "Ah Leong. Two-Fish fried rice for 10 people, 20ringgit, can or cannot?"
"Cannot lah, Ma Yau Yui. Hou siu ah(it's very little)"
"No problem. They drink, no eat. Ga(Add) just a little extra for them."
"Ok lah." Leong agreed. I smiled and carefully walked on the wet and slippery kitchen floor back to where Ah Yok was standing. I wrote another order and passed it to her.
"Come. Pakistan mango for Room B. On the house."

11:00p.m. Most of the customers had left but Tan Sri and his guests were still in Room V. I could hear Steven and Jenny, singing a duet of a famous Mandarin song. I went into Room B to help clearing the big round tables. Ong was there.
"Hello Leng Jai!" I greeted him cheerfully.
"Leng Neui."He replied, smiling.
I started clearing the table with him. Some waitresses said something to Ong. He said something back to them rather sharply. I looked at him, with my eyebrows raised for translation.
"Ma Yau Yui, you'll get scolded. A manager shouldn't be doing such thing."
I felt something warm in my chest.
"What can I do as a manager, Ong? I can't speak Cantonese. I can't talk to Tan Sri in Room V because I don't know what to talk about."
"You CAN speak Cantonese!"
"Yeah right. Dirty words."
Ong chuckled.
"Tan Sri will be really amused to hear you say dirty words in Cantonese."
"I bet he will." I winked and passed the tray with a mammoth amount of glasses on it to one of the waitresses who said something to Ong earlier. She puffed out her cheeks but I ignored it.
I left Room B, closing the door behind me. I saw Eric leaning against the bar counter. He was talking something into his walkie-talkie. He caught me on the corner of his brown eye and told me to wait with his index finger. The noise from the radio was gone.
"Tan Sri is going to a nightclub now. Jenny is coming, too. Aren't you coming with us, Leng Neui?"
"No. I think your boss has enough leng neuis to occupy the room at the nightclub."
"Well, I'll be very happy if you are there."
All of a suddden, I felt exhausted. I couldn't care less. Must leave!
"Good night, Leng Jai."

When I finally got changed and came out of the restaurant, it was neary midnight. From the escalator outside the entrance, I saw four other bodyguards of Tan Sri standing a few meters away from the stairs. Two more were in Tan Sri's Mercedes. One of them, talking into his walkie-talkie waved me good bye as I was getting off the escalator. I smiled and waved him good bye back. It was a bit humid but cool night for Kuala Lumpur. I closed my eyes to feel the breeze. A tanned Chinese guy in the blue shirt and jeans was standing next to the newspaper stand in front of the building I'd just come out from. It was Soon.
I walked towards him without a word. He kissed me on my cheek gently and put his arm over my shoulder. We started walking. Still, neither of us said nothing.

I looked up at the starless gray sky, helplessly, with my sinking heart.