What the Modern Woman Wants...
By Amanda Chong

The old woman sat in the backseat of the magenta convertible as it careened down
the highway, clutching tightly to the plastic bag on her lap, afraid it may be
kidnapped by the wind.
She was not used to such speed, with trembling hands she pulled the seat belt
tighter but was careful not to touch the patent leather seats with her callused
fingers, her daughter had warned her not to dirty it, 'Fingerprints show very
clearly on white, Ma.'
Her daughter, Bee Choo, was driving and talking on her sleek silver mobile
phone using big words the old woman could barely understand.
'Finance', 'Liquidation', 'Assets', 'Investments'... Her voice was crisp and
important and had an unfamiliar lilt to it.
Her Bee Choo sounded like one of those foreign girls on television. She was
speaking in an American accent. The old lady clucked her tongue in
disapproval......
'I absolutely cannot have this. We have to sell!' Her daughter exclaimed
agitatedly as she stepped on the accelerator; her perfectly manicured
fingernails gripping onto the steering wheel in irritation.
'I can't DEAL with this anymore!' she yelled as she clicked the phone shut and
hurled it angrily toward the backseat. The mobile phone hit the old woman on the
forehead and nestled soundlessly into her lap. She calmly picked it up and
handed it to her daughter.
'Sorry, Ma,' she said, losing the American pretence and switching to Mandarin.
'I have a big client in America . There have been a lot of problems.'
The old lady nodded knowingly. Her daughter was big and important.
Bee Choo stared at her mother from the rear view window, wondering what she was
thinking. Her mother's wrinkled countenance always carried the same cryptic
look.
The phone began to ring again, an artificially cheerful digital tune, which
broke the awkward silence.
'Hello, Beatrice! Yes, this is Elaine.'
Elaine. The old woman cringed. I didn't name her Elaine. She remembered her
daughter telling her, how an English name was very important for 'networking',
Chinese ones being easily forgotten.
'Oh no, I can't see you for lunch today. I have to take the ancient relic to
the temple for her weird daily prayer ritual.'
Ancient Relic. The old woman understood perfectly it was referring to her. Her
daughter always assumed that her mother's silence meant she did not comprehend.
'Yes, I know! My car seats will be reeking of joss sticks!'
The old woman pursed her lips tightly, her hands gripping her plastic bag in
defence. The car curved smoothly into the temple courtyard. It looked almost
garish next to the dull sheen of the ageing temple's roof.
The old woman got out of the back seat, and made her unhurried way to the main
hall. Her daughter stepped out of the car in her business suit and stilettos and
reapplied her lipstick as she made her brisk way to her mother's side.
'Ma, I'll wait outside.. I have an important phone call to make,' she said, not
bothering to hide her disgust at the pungent fumes of incense.
The old lady hobbled into the temple hall and lit a joss stick, she knelt down
solemnly and whispered her now familiar daily prayer to the Gods.
'Thank you God of the Sky, you have given my daughter luck all these years.
Everything I prayed for, you have given her. She has everything a young woman in
this world could possibly want.
'She has a big house with a swimming pool, a maid to help her, as she is too
clumsy to sew or cook. Her love life has been blessed; she is engaged to a rich
and handsome angmoh man.
'Her company is now the top financial firm and even men listen to what she
says... She lives the perfect life. You have given her everything except
happiness. I ask that the gods be merciful to her even if she has lost her roots
while reaping the harvest of success.
'What you see is not true, she is a filial daughter to me. She gives me a room
in her big house and provides well for me. She is rude to me only because I
affect her happiness. A young woman does not want to be hindered by her old
mother. It is my fault.'
The old lady prayed so hard that tears welled up in her eyes. Finally, with her
head bowed in reverence she planted the half-burnt joss stick into an urn of
smoldering ashes.
She bowed once more. The old woman had been praying for her daughter for
thirty-two years. When her stomach was round like a melon, she came to the
temple and prayed that it was a son.
Then the time was ripe and the baby slipped out of her womb, bawling and
adorable with fat thighs and pink cheeks, but unmistakably, a girl. Her husband
had ticked and punched her for producing a useless baby who could not work or
carry the family name.
Still, the woman returned to the temple with her new-born girl tied to her
waist in a sarong and prayed that her daughter would grow up and have everything
she ever wanted.
Her husband left her and she prayed that her daughter would never have to
depend on a man. She prayed every day that her daughter would be a great woman,
the woman that she, meek and uneducated, could never become.
A woman with 'neng kan
'; the ability to do anything she set her mind to. A woman
who commanded respect in the hearts of men. When she opened her mouth to speak,
precious pearls would fall out and men would listen.
She will not be like me, the woman prayed as she watched her daughter grow up
and drift away from her, speaking a language she scarcely understood.
She watched her daughter transform from a quiet girl to one who openly defied
her, calling her laotu, old fashioned.... She wanted her mother to be 'modern',
a word so new there was no Chinese word for it.
Now her daughter was too clever for her and the old woman wondered why she had
prayed like that. The Gods had been faithful to her persistent prayer, but the
wealth and success that poured forth so richly had buried the girl's roots and
now she stood faceless with no identity, bound to the soil of her ancestors by
only a string of origami banknotes.
Her daughter had forgotten her mother's value. Her wants were so ephemeral, that
of a modern woman. Power, wealth, access to the best fashion boutiques and yet
her daughter had not found true happiness. The old woman knew that you could
find happiness with much less.
When her daughter left the earth, everything she had would count for nothing.
People would look to her legacy and say that she was a great woman but she would
be forgotten once the wind blows over, like the ashes of burnt paper
convertibles and mansions.
The old woman wished she could go back and erase all her big hopes and prayers
for her daughter now that she had looked out of the temple gates. She saw her
daughter speaking on the phone, her brow furrowed with anger and worry. Being at
the top is not good, the woman thought, there is only one way to go from there –
down.
The old woman carefully unfolded the plastic bag and spread out a packet of
beehoon in front of the altar. Her daughter often mocked her for worshiping
porcelain Gods. How could she pray to them so faithfully and expect pieces of
ceramic to fly to her aid?
But her daughter had her own gods too, idols of wealth, success and power that
she enslaved to and worshiped every day of her life.
Every day was a quest for the idols, and the idols she worshiped counted for
nothing in eternity. All the wants her daughter had would slowly suck the life
out of her and leave her, an empty souless shell at the altar.
The old woman watched the joss stick. The dull heat had left a teetering grey
stem that was on the danger of collapsing.
Modern woman nowadays, the old lady sighed in resignation, as she bowed to the
east bone a final time to end her ritual. Modern woman nowadays want so much
that they lose their souls and wonder why they cannot find it.
Her joss stick disintegrated into a soft grey powder. She met her daughter
outside the temple, the same look of worry and frustration was etched on her
daughter's face.
An empty expression, as if she was ploughing through the soil of her wants
looking for the one thing that would sow the seeds of happiness.
They climbed into the convertible in silence and her daughter drove along the
highway, this time not too fast as she had done before.
‘Ma,’ Bee Choo finally said. 'I don't know how to put this. Mark and I have been
talking about it and we plan to move out of the big house. The property market
is good now, and we managed to get a buyer willing to pay us seven million for
it. We decided we'd prefer a cosier penthouse apartment instead. We found a
perfect one in Orchard Road
. Once we move into our apartment, we plan to get rid
of the maid, so we can have more space to ourselves...'
The old woman nodded knowingly. Bee Choo swallowed hard.
'We'd get someone to come in to do the housework and we can eat out – but once
the maid is gone, there won't be anyone to look after you. You will be awfully
lonely at home and, besides that the apartment is rather small. There won't be
space. We thought about it for a long time, and we decided the best thing for
you is if you moved to a Home. There's one near Hougang – it's a Christian home
and a very nice one.'
The old woman did not raise an eyebrow.
'I"ve been there, the matron is willing to take you in. It's beautiful with
gardens and lots of old people to keep you company! Hardly have time for you,
you'd be happier
there. You'd be happier there, really.' her daughter repeated as if to affirm
herself.
This time the old woman had no plastic bag of food offering to cling tightly
to, she bit her lip and fastened her seat belt, as if it would protect her from
a daughter who did not want her anymore. She sunk deep into the leather seat,
letting her shoulders sag and her fingers trace the white seat.
'Ma,' her daughter asked, searching the rear view window for her mother. 'Is
everything okay?'
What had to be done, had to be done.
'Yes' she said firmly, louder than she intended, 'if it will make you happy,'
she added more quietly.
‘It's for you, Ma! You will be happier there. You can move there tomorrow, I
already got the maid to pack your things.'
Elaine said triumphantly, mentally ticking yet another item off her agenda.
'I knew everything would be fine.' Elaine smiled widely; she felt liberated.
Perhaps getting rid of her mother would make her happier...
She had thought about it. It seemed the only hindrance in her pursuit of
happiness. She was happy now. She had everything a modern woman ever wanted;
money, status, career, love, power and now freedom without her mother and her
old-fashioned ways to weigh her down...
Yes she was free. Her phone butted urgently, she picked it up and read the
message, still beaming from ear to ear.
'Stock 10% increase.'
Yes, things were definitely beginning to look up for her and while searching for
the meaning of life in the luminance of her hand phone screen, the old woman in
the backseat became invisible and she did not see her in tears.

Once upon a time, it seemed so very far. Whizzing past what previously appeared like an ocean of time, I now stare at the exit door. With time, it brought new clarity and new perspective of certain things. The purpose of this little place I own too metamorphosed in its purpose and role. What was once a place to privately manifest my inner thoughts and feelings on paper is and would now be a little note on the corner of the web for interested audiences to get a little slice of me. Well everyone, this is my story.

One after the other..one after the other..one after the other..

Looking down at the undergrowth with searching eyes, I trudged on with extreme caution. My M16 assault rifle slung over my back, waiting lustily for some bloody action. Bruises and burns decorated my well travelled body. Deep scars told the tale of hard times, fresh wounds of recent battles. My face, numb from endless gore that befell my dark and weary eyes. With every step, my breathing got harder..heavier..deeper…more intense. It has been just five hours bit it seemed like five days since I last slept. The last dose of painkillers was wearing off. My shirt was filled with blood of people forgotten. Shabby pants only just hung around my receding waist, covering the seven inch gash that ran along my inner left thigh right up to my groin. With soggy socks desperately clung on to my blistering feet, I marched on.

My eyes scanned the surrounding terrain like a hawk, scrutinizing every single detail. We were walking on a red clay road with two abreast, side by side. On my left was a deep valley with a raging river unleashing its wrath on jagged rocks. A lapse in concentration will result in an untimely demise. Maybe not untimely but certainly unforeseen. Massive five storey high trees grew imposingly on my right, stamping their mark in between the thick undergrowth of thorny bushes and poisonous shrubs. The white mountains lay north-east of my current position. The range of mountains where even the fiercest of men fear to trudge. The air grew thick, signaling the impending tropical storm. Winds swept the menacingly dark clouds over us, preventing sunlight to hit the damp earth. Somehow, a certain unexplainable uneasiness weighed heavily in my heart. With every increasing step, my sense of trepidation and anxiety intensified.

With the roar of a thunder, distant cries pierced the air. Gunshots rained down incessantly from all imaginable angles. We, the Marine Corp. who pride ourselves in our ability to outwit the enemy were now being ambushed by the lawless guerrilla. I stood still looking at the frenzy the surprise attack made. As a bullet whizzed past my ear, I snapped back to reality and assumed a tactical defensive position. Unlocking the safety, I shot several bursts of ammunition at the charging enemy. My partner instantly changed into a retreat stance with his back against a tree.

The strike on us was precise and well planned. It was aimed at dispersing us and conquering us in pockets. They cut off our communication with our brothers in arms by attacking in three weak spots where our defense was the weakest. By doing so, they manage to pin us to the ledge of the ravine. It was a tactical disaster on our part. With no possible means of calling for help and with our safety in mind, my partner and I retreated to a strategic spot, high yet secure. From there, we slowly started to clear a path for our brothers. The surge of enemies continued coming. Soon, our brothers’ cries were drowned in the swarm of insurgents. We were shell-shocked. Fear was all too apparent in their eyes…..

Walking on the leafy path which leads to the mountains, with drooping eyes and slumped shoulders, we dragged our legs forward, heading to the place fabled to break even the toughest of gods. A demon which lives in those lands, merciless and ruthless. With the pursuing guerrilla hunting for remnants of soldiers on our backs, we had no option but to face it. Doubts of surviving this ordeal invaded my clouded mind. Like the cogs of a clock, steps of survival were in motion…

One after the other..one after the other..one after the other..

“Where it hurts most…..Where it hurts most”, the silky and ominous voice kept replaying in Abel’s head like a damaged tape-recorder. His legs and calf screamed out in violent retaliation to the punishing pace. A tempo that must not ease up. A little further, he willed them. Every movement of His body brought excruciating agony. With every draining step, His swiftness reduced in equal proportion. However, the damage was minimal. Just a laceration and not a puncture wound. Today, he is lucky. He would need more of it.

Thirteen paces behind, a man saw his quarry pass the evening market, through the arch and finally taking a left. A deadly mistake indeed on his quarry’s part. The man knew these parts of town like Santa knows his list. He cursed his lack of practice. However, he did not intend to be as charitable this time around. He vowed that his next shot will be his last.

A courtyard with high Victorian walls came into view. His lungs begged for air. Abel stopped and took in his surroundings. There were buildings on the right and a small shed on the left. In the center of it all, was a fountain with three statues of disfigured children, water spouting from their mouths. Their frail bodies, contorted in a way that resembled a three-headed gargoyle. He tore his eyes away from it, deeply disturbed. He managed to push that eerie image from his mind, barely. He knew that with only one entrance, it was essentially a jail. Knowing hiding here was not an option, he ran back the way he came, with all the speed a wounded and limping fox could marshal. As he turned the corner, a cloaked man sidestepped a pregnant lady, revealing a heinous grin that Stalin would be proud of. The only way forward now is back, back to the courtyard.

Excitement bubbled up within his guts. To him, the hunt was more important than the kill. It was his form of perverted art. Seeing his prey desperately struggling to avoid their impending doom was part of what makes him tick. It brought him unbridled joy, better than any prostitute can offer. He could smell their fear and desperation and that fueled him. They would beg, then struggle and then put up a meek defiance of their predetermined fate. But he would always decide the time and manner of their death. Always. This would not be any different. He is an artist and the Jericho 941F held tightly on his left palm is his paintbrush.
It was already evening. Orange light now bathed the building to the right, casting long looming shadows to the center of the courtyard, ever slowly creeping towards the fountain. The water itself shimmered and sparkled in the evening sun. A perfect setting for a masterpiece. His senses tingled with anticipation and excitement. He knew his prey was nearby. His eyes scanned the courtyard for any slight movement.

Up above, Abel hid in a small room on the highest floor. He knew if the pursuer found his position, the only way out was a fifty foot drop down to the dirty streets of Malaga. He knew his pursuer was here, silently hunting. He needed to know where he was in order to evade him. Slowly and silently, he crept up next to a window. He lifted the window pane to examine the situation. Down below, a silhouette was casted on the Victorian tiled floor. It would be the last mistake that he ever made.

Three thousand miles away, a spinster and her lover shared a bottle of wine under the moonlight.

Little Annabelle was a small town girl. She was living in a lonely world. She will take a midnight train to go anywhere. When she was eighteen, she met with a two roads. And as a traveler, long she stood. She looked down as far as she could. To try to see what was in store. To try to see beyond where it bent in the undergrowth. She foresaw a life with challenges ,excitement, adventure, a life of remarkable stories waiting to be told. However, she too envisage a place where strangers will be waiting up and down the boulevard. Their shadows searching the night. The xtreetlight people just barely living, hiding somewhere in the night.

Little Annabelle was no fool. She examined the other road. It was just as fair and perhaps even had better claim. It was grassy and wanted wear. Though for the passing there, had worn them really about the same. A path of familiarity lay before her. A place where she was more accustomed to. Tempting and inviting. A tricky decision indeed.

And as little Annabelle stood there in the early hours of morning, those two paths lay equally in lush green leaves. No one has yet trodden them. She stood there deep in thought. Choosing her path was no easy feat after all. In their choices, some will win and some will lose. Some were destined to sing the blues. By no straightforward choice, she kept the first for another day. However, little Annabelle knew how way leads on to way. The movie must go on and never end. It just goes on and on and on. She doubted if she should ever come back.

She was telling this with a sigh. Little Annabelle was not so little anymore. Telling this somewhere ages and ages hence, when she was twenty-two. About two roads that diverged, and she took the one more traveled by. She would pay anything to roll the dice just one more time. She did not stop believing. She held on the feeling and now, she has a chance to travel the first road she left behind four years ago.

I shall not disappoint..

Two words of wisdom i have held on to or used very often for the past six months..

1. Brick walls are an opportunity for you to express how much you want whats on the other side of it.

2. When a guy is romanitcally intrested in you, ignore his words but listen to his actions.

Pretty handy, don't u think?