Remembering...

Like chocolate on ice, the melting of the mind from the lure of words; thus provoking its submission to a strong turn of masculine hands that shape and style stories to a swift runaway finish, is often at the best of times, engaging.

Just finished reading J.P. Das's The Pukka Sahib & Other Stories as well as John Bingham's '60's paperback thriller titled Black Night Agent; furiously styled after a Scotland Yard whodunit.

So powerful are both books reminiscent to a Colonial style still cherished and treasured, that in my faraway mind's eye, I can see my father lost with friends, in a classic board game of caroms, topped with cold beers and sandwiches, on a hot afternoon in Klang.

As a little girl, I guarded my colourful Batman cards with possessive caution and sat to play under the brush of swaying palms, refusing to part with my toyroom assortment for any kind of toffee, marshmellowed Milo or walky-talky doll, the kind you had to wind up beforehand.

My father read such books, often losing himself in time and space - engulfed in a capsule of animated spirituality long after the midnight chime. Today, when the day was still young, I suddenly regaled in the celebration of all things old and loved.

Image Credit of Joker & Batman cards to: Denis Kitchen