Friday, April 17, 2015

The Island Made of Steel

‘Familiarity breeds contempt’. Before I find my job a run of the mill to be written about, I would very much like to document it for future amusement.
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 I casted my vision across the waters. The ocean is so vast that she fused herself to the sky. Wind was omnipresent. Some stroking my hair. Turquoise waves were camouflaging local beings that I somehow managed to make out as a school of fish swarming. The evening was getting chilly as I let some hot chocolate warm my lips. I took a lungful of sea breeze again. Fresh scent of the salty sea streamed into my nostrils. At last, I am away from the city- a place where we appreciate aquatic geology as monsoon drains and man made lakes. It takes quite some conviction to down the fact that I am now water-borne, away from traffic jams and mobile phones. A good absence from land, which even the nearest from us lies hundreds of meters below our feet. I stand on a fa├žade so artificial, consolidated in the innocence of nature.

I am on a small island made of steel. I finally embarked on my first real job as an offshore field engineer on an oil rig. Before I signed the letter of acceptance nine months ago, I heard of caveats about the price of making a living with this profession. It did not matter to me. Nothing could come in the way of a fresh graduate, surging with veberating energy, who is underpaid in a monotonous desk-bound job. Though I worked in the heart of lacer-paced Kuala Lumpur, I felt everything else was moving except me. Hence, it wasn’t difficult to decide to high-tail to this company. I shall be prepared for the challenges! - I announced to myself. But no matter how much I prepared, I realized I can never be too ready for the actual thing.

This is what a rig looks like


Thursday, April 16, 2015

It's Not Wrong But It's Just Not Right

When I was taking my daily dose of Facebook this morning, I stumbled upon clip with a simple title that stole my attention anyway. After playing the clip, I felt a compulsion to put my rekindled opinion into words before it fades again. I may be putting friendships at stake or landing myself in tonnes of depreciation but I don’t give a hoot about it if it means even a small chance of diluting the moral decadence among youths today.



Where I learnt where I was from


Que Bonita!

When I was in Dubai for training not long ago, I was seated next to a guy that seemed like he ran out of smiles. I tried, in every unobtrusive way, to strike the slightest conversation with him. But then, I figured it was easier to talk to a cow. After three days displaying my affability, I gave up and decided to pretend that I was sitting next to Nobody till the course ended. So I relentlessly kept my sangfroid until the last week of the course. That one morning, he handed me the attendance list as his lips formed the perfect crescent revealing his orderly ivories. “Good morning! There you go,” he said as I drowned in his baby-blue eyes. By the way, the fellow I was sitting next to was also the cutest guy in class. And suddenly, Mr Blue-Eyes was vindicated of all the hostility and the package of things that he appeared to be. What happened to my immunity towards good-looks and staunch belief of inner beauty? That moment, I was slapped with the cruel fact that I have denied for so long. Good looks do matter. 
A comely face is always inviting


Cobbler's New Shoes

I was looking at my broken shoes and all I could think of were banks. It was not that buying a replacement triggered anxiety of punching the ATM machine. Nor did it mean remorse of the meager purchase. In my country, there are folks that we turn to when we are distressed by spoilt shoes. They hunch on their stools in a workshop made out of a picnic mat. There is always a rag laced on their laps which they use as work table. Beside them is a dusty briefcase equipped with the most complete set of tools and a loyal bottle of plain water. These are the street cobblers of Malaysia. You very often find them doing their shoe mending business most commonly at corridors of bank buildings and at the five-foot-ways. Thus, banks.