I was driving along the usual route connecting Ipoh and Seri Iskandar last night. I was expecting a half-deserted road, as it was already near 11 o'clock and usually around this time, lesser cars would be around... especially since it has been raining since the late afternoon.
Ayah came by together with Opah to my place in Seri Iskandar earlier just to take a look at my car. My car has been broken since last week, the battery facing problems. The MyVi is entering its fourth year now, and understandably, for any car especially local cars, things are starting to get cracky. Ayah having the car fixed, I decided to join Opah and Ayah for a night in Manjoi.
The drive usually takes around twenty to thirty minutes, sometimes forty, depending on the way you drive. There's no highway, so sometimes it takes longer time than going to KLIA from Shah Alam, rushing. Yesterday however, I felt numb. It felt as if things went only for awhile when I finally reached the already sleepy Silibin.
Many things gushed through my head when I was driving. Submission, of course, is around the corner but I just prefer to ignore the surge to be panicky. What for? Being panic, I think, will lead to a much more draining out situation, things emtying out while the demand is just there, pushing and pressing you for more.
It's not the first time I'd drive up to Manjoi at the eve of a submission or in the middle of a big assignment. And of course, it's not the first time I'd be anywhere other than the studio or at my workplace at home in the middle of a big assignment.
Last semester, I did a huge mistake of staying at my place like a freak at the studio, pointless, while my work is not progressing anyway and anywhere else, people are having something going on without me. I even cut my Hari Raya holidays short, skipping open houses and definitely missed one of my bestfriend's send off (one of the many send offs missed) just to go back to the studio (two and a half hours drive away in Perak) and continue with what, work?
I reached to my senses this semester: no point of being at one place mentally-exhausted and views obstructed while the ideas still float around, untouched. Travelling around makes more sense: most of my ideas I obtained this semester are not at the studio. Really, with the staleness, stark temperature and the off-white setting with people showing off bad music: how the hell is any idea is ever going to pop-up?
Then again, that's that. I didn't get any new ideas last night, or earlier this morning in spite of the good coffee, the shivery, cold water running in Opah's bathroom, or the refreshing air mixed with smells of kekabu pillows and mosquito coils. It's good also, I think, as things should be enough and should be put to a stop. It's already exhausting, the whole thinking thing. People demanding you achieving unthinkable approaches, people taking you for granted, people not appreciating you.
Opah found a diary of my late grandfather: whom I never met. The year of the diary is 1977, the very last year he lived. On the third day of Aidiladha that year, at the end of November, he passed away due to what we believe as liver complications. From what he wrote and from what I always know, my late Atuk was a very contributive man, loves to help around particularly in politics. Sadly, however, he was always rewarded less than what he deserved. It was an effort, I fear, that ended mostly in vain.
It was a sad thing, sadder of course for Ayah and Opah. It hit my heart when Ayah told us when people just didn't appreciate what his father was doing after how hard he was struggling to survive in order to raise the family back then.
Thankfully, thirty years forward, things are definitely better off for everybody. However it paused me, pondering: I know it hurts so much when people just don't appreciate what you're doing, especially after you have struggled so much. Especially when you have already been drained out. You thought it's worth it, but apparently it's not. It's big for you but it's small for others. Where to depart to if things are becoming that way?
Perhaps there's that little thin line of hope we can still grope on to.
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