Anis Rozalina Ramli

Thirty years after the pandemic swept through the country swiftly and cruelly, forcing a state of emergency on the whole of Malaysia and the evacuation of the entire population, I found myself back in Kuala Lumpur. It wasn’t the city I remembered from memory. That one had flash floods in the middle of the day after a heavy downpour, and horrible jams immediately thereafter. It had double-parkers, tailgaters, and very little sense of polite civility. That one was also warm, chaotic, colourful. The people were divided by politics and religion, but united on the streets and at dinner tables. It was imperfect, but it was home. At least for the first 25 years of my life. And now, here I was in KL. A very different KL than the one I had left in 2020. A new government, new leadership, new laws. Together with the rest of the Southeast Asian countries, it made up the Greater Indochina Confederation, a new world order after the fall of Asia during the pandemic, under the single rule of the Chin

Can anyone tell me when this will be over? Or are we doomed to never see each other again? Visits and meetings online in clouds, chats and virtual spaces -- I'm not sure if I could do that forever -- Distancing myself and living apart behind this mask.

At midnight, I discover my daughter is an owl just like me.   Her frown of focus is just as intense as my scowl  of concentration. By Anis Rozalina

We both moved in the writers’ circle for the past five years, but it was only last year that we’d been introduced to each other. Jeremy Khaleed, the flamboyant editor of travel magazine Journeys had thrown a New Year party on the rooftop of a sleek Kuala Lumpur hotel.  She was pretty but what caught his eye was her vivaciousness. The way she threw her head back and laughed with abundance, shaking her head of curls freely. He saw in her the opposite of him. She was the free-spirited bohemian girl who dared to dive into any situation. He saw himself more of a recluse, calculating his moves before making any decision, and then due to the overthinking, eventually never acted on the decision anyway.  When they were introduced, she’d said, “Oooh...I’ve always wanted to meet a crime reporter. What was the goriest case you’ve had to cover?” ***** It took me two weeks to prepare for tonight. She didn’t want me to fuss about it, but I insisted. I made a reservation for an early dinner at Saray,

Our entire life is a story, no, multiple stories unfolding all at once. There are the heartrending tales of the great love of our life. The full-blown drama-minggu-ini detailing the ugly family feuds. The comedy – yes, in hindsight – that is our tragic personal life. Some of our stories are long drawn out sagas spanning many years. Some have quick unfortunate endings. Still others -- making them the most difficult ones to bear -- are left to fester without closures. Everyone has a story to tell, whether they realise it or not. Some have poignant tales that haunt us for days on end, others have happy anecdotes of a full life. From having lived, and in some cases, endured, their lives, these people weigh the words in their mouth and tell of fantastic fables and fantasies, exaggerated lives and inspiring parables. Many of the people I’ve met have been candid enough to tell me their stories. I would like to think that I am the reason for this frank disclosure. That I somehow give off an au

A poem for those days when I'm aspiring, yearning, wanting something more, written by a gifted painter, poet, sculptor, and printmaker, Latiff Mohidin, who writes poetry and prose that my heart cries for. kalau kau mahu kalau kau mahu ada langit biru yang lain birunya ada awan putih yang lain putihnya ada cara lain merenung purnama matahari ungu di musim kelima pagi yang lain sinarnya malam yang lebih pekat hitamnya pejamkan matamu sebentar di sini kita bernafas tanpa kalendar ingat tangis pertama disertai ketawa manisnya pedihnya bila mulut dibuka akan kukirim seekor rama-rama dari desa tak pernah ditimpa cahaya atau segenggam kapur biru dari gua digali dengan kuku dan lagu sungguh akan kukirim padamu kalau kau mahu sebuah perahu tanpa nombor dan waktu naiklah teman-teman tak beribu ada pulau biru yang lain birunya. latiff mohidin hong kong, julai 1970 Photo by  Luis Quintero  on  Unsplash

In Kuala Terengganu, on the day we were to depart for Kuala Lumpur, the weather was gloomy. The clouds hung low, the sun went into hiding. There was an earthy scent, an unusual coolness, in the air. The Editor, MazManja and I bought an 80 sen ticket for the bot penambang that would take us across the Kuala Terengganu river to Seberang Takir. The bot penambang was a quaint little water vehicle, painted in the bright colours of pink, yellow and green. It went chug-chug-chug over the murky waters of the river. The journey took less than ten minutes but it was a therapeutic crossing for me. I put my face to the window and breathed in the scent of the river. The engine purred lazily in a rhythmic, hypnotic tempo, and I set my pulse to it. I think I left all my worries on the Kuala Terengganu side of the river. The other passengers, so used to this life, carried theirs with them across the waters. Only a small river separated it from Kuala Terengganu, and yet Seberang Takir couldn't be m

This morning, Sylvan and I came to the very enlightening conclusion that no girl should ever be born an Aries and no boy should ever be born a Pisces. We deduced that Aries women would be too much for any man to handle and that Pisces people are so dreamy, that only a woman could handle being one. Is that warped? But I say this with no malice or hurtful intentions to the gajillions of Aries women and Pisces men out there. How did that come about? It was over breakfast and Sylvan was saying that she believes that she will never ever ever ever marry. Don't say that, I said. Maybe the guy you're supposed to be with just haven't found you yet. We became silent after that, each pondering over our own thought bubbles. My thought bubble was that if I had never met Zane, I don't think I would ever have married. I vocalised my thought to Sylvan. I mean, some people go through life, falling in love so easily. From one relationship to another and another. And I was boyfriendless f

Anchored heart you've waited long moored by the bay of a thousand dreams. I'll cradle you in Neptune's arms drink his dreams but tenderly. Anchored heart don't bleed to death don't drown at the bottom of the sea Wait for the passing of these starless nights for my ship to come and sail away with me. Photo by Casey Horner on Unsplash

The room is dark, save for a nightlight burning an alien-green on the dresser, and we are about to settle into our bedtime routine on the spacious King-sized bed where we can roll about freely without bumping into our sleeping partner. In my head, I am going over the scenes of the day and making a mental list of things to do tomorrow. I glance over at my daughter beside me. In the dark, I can make out the soft features of her face and the curls laid out on her pillow. She looks peaceful. "What are you doing, Liz?" "Shifting," she says simply, her voice absolutely serene. I raise a brow, curious. "You mean you're trying to be a werewolf or something?" "No. Just shifting myself to Hogwarts." "Oh, it's a Harry Potter thing." "Shhhh..." she shushes me. I stay quiet for a while afraid to disturb her process. After a few moments, I hear her give a big sigh next to me. "Huh...it didn't work this time," she says,

It was a cool and quiet December morning and my guide, Han, and I were making our way to the east entrance of the Angkor Wat complex. He was ushering me past the local peddlers — young girls about eight years old, face full of grime, feet bare, hands persistently shoving cheap souvenirs towards me. They opened their mouths to trade their wares for some US dollars. In their voices, I heard the distinctive American accent, and I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the situation. That was among the many surprises Siem Reap tossed my way during the short three-day jaunt in this little city, whose atmosphere reminded me so much of Malaysia’s Langkawi island many decades ago. Though it seemed like a backwater village from the 1980s on first impressions, Siem Reap was clean and the people were gracious. Perhaps it was mirroring back the gigantic smiling faces of Buddha from the Bayon temple nearby. Our approach to the Angkor Wat complex took us along a red dirt path that threw up dust with

  On his 63rd birthday, after the guests had left, the plates all cleared, and we had the house — so huge, quiet, and still at midnight — to ourselves again, he confided, “My biggest fear would be to suffer.” He didn’t elaborate further, but I knew what was disturbing him. During dinner, we’d learned that a close friend, Kareem, had suffered another stroke. This third one, apparently, was debilitating, rendering him limp and almost lifeless. “If I ever get like that, please just finish me off with a pillow or something,” he said. “Of course…and then I’ll be hung for murder,” I said, chuckling, and was painfully aware that he wasn’t. Only the night crickets chirped on, blissfully ignorant. That night, I laid by my husband’s side, wide awake. His breathing fell into a comforting rhythm as he slept. I traced the contours of his face lightly with my finger, careful not to wake him. I contemplated the words he’d uttered earlier. It was suddenly painfully clear to me how our mortal, vulnerab

His buildings are familiar to us, and his name is, too. Yet, for a man who was instrumental in the design and construction of Malaysia’s many landmarks, little is known about Arthur Benison Hubback. At least 25 buildings in Malaysia are credited to Hubback as the architect, of which 13 — or more than half — are considered national treasures today. All of his works save two which were bombed in the war, still stand in all their glory. They may look a little weathered, a little worn, but the years have hardly diminished their beauty or magnificence, a testament to his design ingenuity. In the 19 years that he was in Malaya, Hubback designed some of the most iconic buildings of the time. The first he had a hand in was the Sultan Abdul Samad building, which was built to house the growing number of government workers then. Upon completion in 1897, the grand public edifice was hailed as one of the most beautiful buildings in the region. His prolific body of work, which includes the Masjid Ja

  M ention the word Tengkujuh and visions of extended rains, flooding and displaced villages come to mind. But Zainal Abidin Musa sees something else in the seasonal rains that pour down on the east coast of Malaysia at each year-end. His paintings in the “Tengkujuh” exhibition show none of the dreary pictures the media serves up to us: families living in wet, pitiful conditions; roads blocked by depths of water; cars submerged in rising levels of waters. Instead, the scenes come across as romantic and ethereal, a likely reflection of his many fond memories growing up and schooling in the east coast during his important formative years as a young man and a fine art student. The “Tengkujuh-Jambatan Sultan Mahmud, Kuala Terengganu” painting, for example, presents viewers with a romantic vision of the wet spell through dabs of colour and feather-like strokes that make this ordinary scene take on an almost dream-like and magical atmosphere. The indistinct shapes and forms present in the sc