The Higher They Climb, The Harder They Fall

Posted on | Tuesday, August 9, 2011 | No Comments

Ok, who am I kidding here? Certainly not myself. Call it wishful thinking that the high and mighty get their just desserts under the super speedy law of karma. But you and I both know it doesn't happen that way in real life.


What am I going on about? Manners. The lack of common courtesy among those who consider themselves the "upper crust" and hence feel they are entitled to be rude to "everyone else". Well, since this is a rant I better make it a good one, I wish them a prosperous fall--because the higher they climb on someone's back (or several backs) to get the higher rung, the harder they fall.


When you're on the receiving end of bad manners, it's easy to feel that there's something not right with you. I've felt it (not today, because I was hopping mad), but in the past. You may question yourself: is it me? Did I say something wrong or not look the way I was supposed to? Did I not wear the right clothes or shoes?


Do yourself a favour. If someone is rude to you, don't offer the other cheek. But do walk away. It's your god-given right to. No human being has the right to demean or demoralise you just because they can. I'm not asking you to run him or her over with your car. I'm saying: experience it and let it go. Buddhism has several teachers who preach the art of letting go. And it works.


I tried this today and I hope it helps you to let go of the unhappiness when something (or someone) throws a spanner in the works. Letting go, according to the late Buddhist monk Ajahn Chah, used the analogy of the flashlight to demonstrate this. He said it is about holding but not clinging:


When we see a flashlight we wonder: "What is this?" So we pick it up: "Oh, it's a flashlight." Then we put it down again. We hold things in this way."

Isn't that beautiful? I just wanted to share that with you because I had an encounter of the rude kind today and didn't really feel that much better until I arrived home and read this analogy. Before that I searched my mind, conversations with friends who comforted me and the past for some comfort. All the while it was lying right next to my pillow, in a little book called "A Tree In The Forest" by Ajahn Chah.

So now it doesn't feel that good anymore to curse that person, far from it. I wish the person a good climb, may he land on his nice cushy butt when the time comes. Amen.

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Red Ribbons (Chapter Seven) part 1

Posted on | Sunday, August 7, 2011 | No Comments

Chapter Seven (Part 1)

“Death was definitely due to strangulation; she died sometime between 11.00pm and 11.30pm yesterday,” Dr. Chin told Venkath. “The murder weapon was a fabric of some kind measuring about half an inch thick, just like in the Alicia Ling case,” he added.


“Were there red fibres on the body?” Venkath asked.

“Yes, there were some embedded in the ligature wounds, but I found none elsewhere on the body. She didn’t have any defensive wounds either. But she did have an RM1 note folded into a pyramid inside her purse. Her identification card was missing too.”


“Thanks for the update Dr. Chin. Please call me if you find anything else,” Venkath said before hanging up.


He looked around the hotel room. A police officer was dusting the door knob for fingerprints, while another was searching the bathroom. Shoba’s things were scattered on the bed, just the way she had left it. It had always amazed him how meticulously put together she had always looked, yet was steadfastly untidy with her belongings.

“Sir, we found this taped to the underside of the bathroom sink,” said the officer who had been checking the bathroom. He handed a slightly damp white envelope to Lawrence.

“Here, it’s addressed to you,” Lawrence said, extending the envelope to Venkath. Venkath put on a pair of plastic gloves handed to him by one of the officers and took the envelope. His name was written on the front. The handwriting was Shoba’s. He opened the envelope and to his surprise, there was a key inside. There was no note inside.


“What’s it for?” Lawrence asked.

“It’s the key to a bank safety deposit box,” Venkath said, raising an eyebrow.

“Which bank?”

“Bank of ----. She must have known something and left this for me in case anything happened to her,” Venkath shook his head sadly.

“Come on cuz, let’s go find out who did this,” Lawrence said, placing his hand on Venkath’s shoulder.


The bank manager was a short, portly man of about fifty, with a slight squint. A worried look came over his pug-like face when Lawrence showed him his police badge.

“Good afternoon, Inspector. How may I help you?”

“Hello, Danny. We’re here to look for a safety deposit box by one Shoba Muthu,” Lawrence said.


“Certainly, Inspector. Give me a minute while I check our system,” the manager said.

The manager tapped away at the computer for a few minutes; agonizing minutes for Venkath, who felt that too much time had already been wasted. “Could you hurry up?” he said impatiently.

“We don’t have a Shoba Muthu in our system, but we do have a Shoba Das,” the manager said a little crossly.


“Yes, that's her. She must have used her married name. I'm her husband,” Venkath said.

“My condolences to you sir,” the manager looked sympathetic.

The manger escorted Venkath and Lawrence into the safety deposit vault, where he opened locker no. 5605. Venkath's heart pounded as the manager opened the box. What had Shoba left for him?

The box was empty save for a single roll of red ribbon. Lawrence put on a pair of gloves and picked it up. The ends of the ribbon had frayed, leaking fibres that looked very much like the red fibres that were found on Alicia and Shoba's bodies, he thought.

“Looks like she found the murder weapon,” he said.

Venkath looked at his cousin, realisation dawning on his face.

“What is it?” Lawrence asked.

“I know who killed them,” Venkath said.















Category:

The Star interviews Mo Hayder

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Today's edition of The Star features an interview with British crime novelist Mo Hayder, writer of "Birdman" and the hugely successful "Walking Man" series. Here's an excerpt:

BRITISH thriller writer Mo Hayder says her gruesome and gory tales help her deal with the darkness in her own mind.
“I don’t know what other writers are like, but I’m very unsettled in my head,” the 50-year-old says over the telephone from her home in the west of England. “My books are a way of metabolising my fears.”


Read the rest of the article here.

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Red Ribbons (Chapter Six)

Posted on | Wednesday, August 3, 2011 | No Comments

Chapter Six


Venkath stared at the body on the examining table. Her skin was a shade paler than its usual olive colour. The red ligature marks around her neck stood out against the fair skin, not as fair as Alicia’s, but a colour he remembered and still loved. Shoba's eyes were closed, but her lips were slightly apart in a silent ‘o’, just like Alicia’s had been. Just like her own mother, when they’d found her in the park four years ago.

“Venkath, it’s time to go. Let Dr. Chin do his job,” Lawrence placed his hand gently on his cousin’s shoulder.

Venkath nodded wordlessly and allowed Lawrence to lead him out of the mortuary. A volcano of emotions coursed through him. Anger at the killer for doing this to the only woman he had loved. Anger at himself for not being able to stop it. But most of all, a deep shame he couldn’t shake. Shame that he felt triumphant that Lawrence now could no longer deny they were dealing with a serial killer; one that was taunting Venkath with his killing spree.

“This can't be happening,” Venkath finally said when they were back at the station. His estranged wife had been in town and hadn't even told him she was here. And now she was dead, lying in a morgue like some lab rat for this Dr. Chin to cut her open. He had an image of a surgical knife slicing her chest open, sending a wave of nausea over him.

Lawrence said nothing, sensing his cousin's need to absorb what had happened. It wouldn't be easy;

Venkath had loved Shoba very much, even after she had left him four years ago. It had started with the case in KL. Venkath had had an indiscretion with one of his interns, who turned up dead outside a club in KL. Somehow Shoba had found out, but they managed to save their marriage. A year later, Venkath's mother-in-law was murdered while jogging in the park. Venkath was assisting the Penang police for the case, but none of the police's leads turned up anything. One evening after work, Venkath had found all his wife's things gone and a note on the fridge that said: “I can't pretend anymore. Goodbye.” Heartbroken, he decided to leave Penang and start life afresh in Kuala Pilah without her.

That hadn't worked out as planned. For whatever reason, the killer had resurfaced after four years to torment Venkath again. He was sorry he hadn't believed they had been looking for a serial killer, Shoba's death now proved that the killer had a personal vendetta against Venkath.

“Did you know she was back in town?” Lawrence asked, breaking the silence.

Venkath shook his head. “No, we haven't spoken in four years. I heard from mutual friends that she sometimes visits her old friends here, but they never tell me more than that. She certainly does...didn't,” he corrected himself.

“Okay. What I'll need is a list of friends she has here, I'll need to visit them to find out more about what happened,” Lawrence said.

“There are only two—Saras and Mala, her former schoolmates,” Venkath said, scribbling on a piece of paper.

“Give me the addresses, I'll see to this. You'd better go home and get some rest, I know you haven't slept much since Alicia's murder,” Lawrence said.

“No, I'm coming with you. Besides, they're more likely to open up to me than to you,” Venkath said, his mouth set in a thin, determined line. Lawrence knew there was no point in arguing.

They dropped by the home of Mala, Shoba's oldest friend at around 6pm. They were greeted at the door by a thin, bespectacled woman dressed in a white blouse and black slacks. There were fine lines around her mouth and eyes, although she couldn't be older than thirty-five. Her eyes were hidden by huge bug-eyed spectacles, darting nervously around the room every few seconds. Her nose meanwhile was pointy and a little crooked, giving her an overall appearance of a giant mosquito.

“Will this take long? I have a cake in the oven for a friend's housewarming party,” Mala Rani asked, looking nervously at a clock decorated with ceramic birds that hung on one wall.

“We'll try and make this as brief as possible Ms. Rani,” Lawrence reassured her. “Perhaps you could start by telling us the last time you saw Mrs. Venkath,” he added.

“Why? Has anything happened to Shoba?” The woman's eyes grew wide with concern.

“I'm sorry to tell you that your friend was killed last night. The body was found in the park. Do you have any idea why she was in the park at that time of the night?” Lawrence asked.

Mala's eyes teared up and she put a hand up to her forehead. “I think I need to sit down,” she said, almost in a whisper. She wiped away a tear that ran down her cheek.

“We were at a charity dinner in the Royal Hotel in Seremban last night, Shoba had only checked into the hotel yesterday afternoon. She left early, after a long talk with Mrs. Ling. Mrs. Ling must have said something to upset her. Shoba seemed distressed after that conversation and left early, at around 8.30pm,” Mala explained.

“Did she say where she was going?” Venkath asked.

“No, she said she was tired, so we assumed she went up to her room,” Mala said.

“Who’s ‘we’?” Lawrence asked.

“Why, Saras and myself. We hosted the dinner to raise funds for a local orphanage,” she said.

“Did you hear from Shoba after she left?” Lawrence asked. Venkath listened quietly. His mind was full of cotton, making the voices around him seem far away and irrelevant. He forced his attention back to the present.

“She called me around 10pm, saying that she felt peaceful. She said she’d tell me everything in the morning. We spoke for about ten minutes, mostly about the dinner, then I went to bed,” Mala said.

“We found an ATM slip and a receipt from one Simply Floral in her purse. Did she purchase any flowers yesterday?” Lawrence asked.

“Oh yes, she ordered the centre piece for the VIP table. It was lovely, a nice bouquet of red roses. Shoba was always so thoughtful and generous like that,” Mala said, wiping away another tear. She began crying softly.

A visit to the victim's other friend Saras didn't turn up anything. Her story wasn't any different; Shoba had checked into the hotel the afternoon before and attended the dinner at night, then left early.

At the Ling residence, they were greeted at the door by Mrs. Ling, who didn't appear surprised to see them. “Come in, I've been expecting you,” she said simply.

She ushered them into the living room. “I know you're here to ask me about my conversation with your late wife, Mr. Das. Ask me anything,” she said.

“How did you know my wife has passed away?” Venkath said, frowning in puzzlement.

Her lips formed a small smile. “This is a small town. News travels fast, Dr. Das. Please accept my condolences,” she said, looking calmly at him. Again, Venkath felt that twinge of something unsettling about the woman.

“I didn't know that you knew Shoba,” Venkath said.

“I didn't,” Mrs. Ling replied calmly. The two men raised their eyebrows quizzically at each other. She continued: “I only met her at the charity dinner last night. She expressed her condolences over my daughter's death and then asked me a very strange question.”

“What was it?” Lawrence asked.

“She wanted to know if my daughter had received red roses from anyone the week before she died. I told her that Alicia had received many bouquets, for her birthday was the previous week. Shoba appeared very distressed suddenly and said she was feeling tired. She said she was going to get some air and then retire for the night,” Mrs. Ling said.

“Did Alicia receive red roses from anyone?” Venkath asked.

“Yes, her friend Boon Yee, for her birthday. But what does it have to do with anything?” she asked, looking puzzled.

“Four years ago, my mother in law was murdered in the park, just like my wife. She received a bouquet of red roses from her best friend for her birthday, which was a week before she was murdered. It can’t be a coincidence. Where is Boon Yee right now?” Venkath asked.

Mrs. Ling looked shocked. “You mean this has happened before? Why didn’t the police catch the killer before he did this to my daughter?”


“The Penang police didn’t find any evidence at the crime scene, Mrs. Ling. The trail ran cold four years ago so they gave up looking for the killer. But it appears as if he or she has resurfaced,” Lawrence said. “We must speak to your daughter’s friend Boon Yee. She may know something,” he added urgently.


“I’ll go get her, she’s upstairs watching TV,” Mrs. Ling said.

A few minutes later, she reappeared with a bespectacled young lady by her side. The girl was petite, nearly a foot shorter than Mrs. Ling and had serious eyes. She wore a white t-shirt that said “I’m With Stupid” across the front and black track pants. She looked at them curiously.

“Boon Yee, this is Inspector Lawrence and Dr. Venkath Das. They have a few questions about Alicia,” Mrs. Ling said.

The girl looked surprised. “But I already told everything I know to Officer Ong,” she said.
“Officer Paul Ong came to see you? When?” Lawrence asked.


“He called me, we know each other through Alicia. He was dating her, you know,” Boon Yee said.


Out of the corner his eye, Lawrence saw Mrs. Ling raise an eyebrow. He ignored it and continued: “Mrs. Ling mentioned that you had a bouquet of red roses sent to Alicia for her birthday about a week ago,” he said.

“Yes, so?” the girl shrugged her shoulders.


“Where did you order the flowers from?”


“Oh, I ordered them online through my cousin’s website. How is this relevant, Inspector?”

“Everything is relevant, Miss Boon Yee. When was the last time you saw Alicia alive?” Lawrence asked.


“On her birthday last Thursday. We, as in Alice, Alicia and I, went out for dinner at Alicia’s favourite Japanese restaurant in KL. But I did speak to her on the phone from Ipoh on Saturday morning, she seemed happy and said she was going with Officer Ong to the Purple Room that night,” the girl said.


“When did you return from Ipoh?” Lawrence asked.

“I hurried back on Monday evening as soon as Mrs. Ling told me about what had happened to Alicia. Alice was on the bus with me too, she’s also from Ipoh,” she explained.

“Do you know where Alicia was on Sunday?” Lawrence asked, jotting down what she had said.


Boon Yee hesitated. She looked at Mrs. Ling out of the corner of her eye before speaking. “She said that she was meeting Nicholas for brunch in Bangsar. He wanted to borrow money from her and she said okay. She was supposed to have returned here to Kuala Pilah by evening to have tea with me and Alice, but she never showed up. That’s when I called Mrs. Ling,” she explained.

“That good for nothing boy borrowed money from my daughter? How could you keep this a secret from me, Boon Yee?” Mrs. Ling said, looking disappointed.

“I’m sorry, aunty. But she made Alice and me promise not to tell you she was still friends with him. She took the money from her savings and lent it to him so he could complete his studies,” she explained.


Mrs. Ling looked furious and opened her mouth to speak however Lawrence interrupted her. “Yes, we know about that. But Nicholas said the last time he saw her was at the brunch, which ended at around 2pm. We still don’t know where Alicia was for the rest of Sunday," he said. Or how Shoba ended up dead in the park, he thought to himself. The murders were somehow linked, he was sure of it now. But how? he wondered silently.

Category:

How Yoga And Meditation Help Me Write

Posted on | Monday, August 1, 2011 | No Comments

I was invited to tea recently at the home of a former school mate. It had been a year since I had met the hostess and a few months since I'd BK, another friend of mine, so the three of us had plenty to catch up on. Over vegetarian spring rolls and a delicious chocolate cake, stories of our school days somehow found their way into the conversation. During one particularly funny story, my friend BK told our hostess/school mate N that she had been amazed by the clarity of the latter's mind when we were in school. I had to agree; N is one of the smartest and most articulate people I know. 

BK's observation led me to reflect on my own life as a writer. When I was a journalist, my best pieces were written when I was in my quiet zone. A place where my thoughts were linked like beads on a chain and transmitted effortlessly to my waiting fingers. It didn't matter where I was, or how noisy the surroundings were. As long as I was in my quiet zone, nothing else mattered but translating my thoughts into words on the screen. Or as BK said so succinctly: clarity of mind. 

I can't tell you where my quiet place comes from, or where it goes sometimes when I so desperately need to write but can't manage to crank out more than a paragraph or two. What I can tell you is that yoga and meditation has somehow helped me get there. I still haven't figured out how and maybe I don't need to. All I know is the mornings I meditate for more than 10 minutes and the days I have yoga class are the most productive I have.


A little web surfing unearthed some answers. According to Psychology Today magazine, "Neuroscientists have found that meditators shift their brain activity to different areas of the cortex - brain waves in the stress-prone right frontal cortex move to the calmer left frontal cortex." That explains why I feel not only calmer after meditation or yoga, but refreshed as well. A 2009 article in the Creativity Research Journal  meanwhile, said that meditation supports creative thinking (particularly the incubation and illumination phases), even in novices, by inducing broad, open awareness in a state of low cortical arousal (e.g., increased low-alpha) enhancing sensitivity, reducing habituation to external (and perhaps internal) stimuli, increasing cognitive performance on complex problems and supporting novelty-seeking. According to the article, meditation promotes cognitive flexibility due to its transcendent, detached witnessing effect. "Strong associative thinking habits are suppressed allowing for the generation of new ideas," it said.

In other words, science has proven the link between meditation and artistic creativity. I must confess that before reading these articles, I was skeptical towards the calming effects of yoga and meditation. The reason was that I was afraid they would make me "too calm and docile" and affect my writing. The reverse is true; I now write with more clarity and enjoyment than I did pre-yoga and meditation. And all it takes is 15 minutes of meditation each morning and half an hour of yoga a day. If you're an artist, try it out for yourself. Persist with meditation and watch your creativity blossom. 





Category:

The Greats On Writing and Life

Posted on | Thursday, July 28, 2011 | 4 Comments

While I'm contemplating digging into the durian sitting in the fridge, I thought to look up some of my favourite authors. Turns out they have plenty to say about life and the writing craft. Here are some of the more clever things they've said in the past:
“Music is a good shorthand way to delineate character. If you want to tell the reader a lot about a character in a small space, just tell them what their musical taste is. You'll get their age, their background, whether they're gregarious or a loner.” -Ian Rankin
“If from infancy you treat children as gods they are liable in adulthood to act as devils.”
P.D. JAMES, The Children of Men
“What the detective story is about is not murder but the restoration of order.”- P.D. James
“You can't get DNA results in 53 minutes.” Kathy Reichs
"A society gets the criminals it deserves." Val McDermid, Killing The Shadows.

“While most of the things you've worried about have never happened, it's a different story with the things you haven't worried about. They are the ones that happen.” Ruth Rendell
“It's criminal if successful authors don't support literacy. I challenge them all to write a check.” Patricia Cornwell
"There is nothing you can do about the past except keep it there." Michael Connelly, The Brass Verdict.

"You know what I did after I wrote my first novel? I shut up and wrote twenty-three more." Michael Connelly.

Category:

Red Ribbons (Chapter Five)

Posted on | Wednesday, July 27, 2011 | No Comments

Chapter Five

He was in the club with Alicia again. Smoke filled his nostrils, making his eyes water slightly. There were three teenagers, two girls and a boy, body slamming on the dance floor. Disco lights hung from the black ceiling. In fact the entire exterior was black, even the waitresses and bartender wore black. Why on earth was this place called Purple Room?

Alicia was hanging onto his left arm, a habit that he both loved and resented. It made him feel wanted by the most popular girl from school, yet there was a childish possessiveness in her touch that made him wonder sometimes if she was really with him or he was a trophy. With Alicia, he could never tell.

“Paul. Paul, are you awake?” Someone shook his right shoulder but when he turned around there wasn't anyone there. He put his hand over Alicia's and continued talking to her. Suddenly, her voice seemed far away.

“Speak up, Alicia. I can't hear you over this noise,” he shouted. But Alicia continued whispering and her face...her face began fading away. He reached out for her but she was so far away. He reached out one more time and felt a sharp pain in his arm.

“Paul, wake up. You're in the hospital.” He recognised the voice. It was the inspector. But what was he doing at the Purple Room?

Slowly, Paul opened his eyes. A blinding white light made him wince and shut his eyes again. He heard the inspector call his name again. This time, he opened his eyes, shielding them with his right hand.

He looked around him. He was in a white room, with white walls and a white ceiling. Inspector Lawrence stood before him, with a grave expression on his face.

“How did you find me?” Paul asked.

Lawrence sighed. “We paid a visit to Nicholas Lim. He told us about the night you met at the club in KL. After that, I had a tail kept on you. Why didn't you come forward? You almost got yourself killed last night.”

“So what happens now?” Paul asked. He looked down at himself. His left arm was in a cast, so was his left leg. But why wasn't his free hand cuffed to the bed, like they did to all prisoners?

“There's an officer outside to ensure you don't try to bolt. But first, I want to hear it from you. Why didn't you tell us you were dating Alicia?”

Paul shifted a little and grimaced at the pain that shot through his left arm. “I couldn't. Alicia and I were dating secretly. She enjoyed keeping secrets, I went along with it because I loved her.”

“Did you kill her?” Lawrence looked at him sternly.

“No! How could I, I loved her!” Paul said, his voice rising.

“Calm down, Paul. You have to admit it looks suspicious, you found her body and then you went back to the crime scene. A jury would deduce it was to destroy evidence,” Lawrence pointed out.

“I went back to look for evidence. I saw something that had fallen down the stairwell, something metallic, maybe a pair of scissors. But before I could get it, I was run over,” Paul explained, his eyes wide.

The boy seemed to be telling the truth, but he couldn't be sure. Just like he still wasn't sure about Nicholas Lim. Still, he couldn't have run himself over so there had to be some truth in what he said.

“I want to believe you, really I do. Did you get a look at who ran you over?” Lawrence asked.

“No, whoever it was, hit me from behind. But I did get a look at the licence plate before I lost consciousness, the first two letters were “NW”,” Paul said.

“'NW'...can you remember the make of the car?” Lawrence asked, as he jotted it down.

“It happened so fast. That was all I remembered before I passed out,” Paul said.

“Ok, it's not much, but I'll see what I can do. In the meantime, try to get some rest,” Lawrence said a little more kindly.

“Sir, how long before I can go back to work?” Paul asked, bracing himself inwardly.


Lawrence looked thoughtfully at him before speaking. “The doctor says you have to be in the hospital for at least a month. Besides, you're currently suspended from duty pending the investigation. It was what the higher-ups wanted,” he said.

Paul nodded. “I'm not surprised. I'm sorry for not telling you, sir. But I don't regret going back there, I'm sure I would have found something.”

“Get some rest, some of the boys from the station will be visiting you after lunch. I have a murder to solve,” Lawrence replied.

On his way back to the station, he stopped by the hospital to speak to Venkath. “Things don't look good for the kid right now,” he said, adding more sugar to his tea. The hospital cafeteria was quiet, save for the occasional clang of spatula meeting wok in the kitchen.

“True, but I believe him and I know you do too. I'm not going to say I told you so, but the lab results came back. The red fibres I found on the dead girl's dress came from a ribbon. I'll bet that if you have Nicholas and Paul's homes searched, you're not going to find anything there. They're both innocent,” Venkath said.

“You still believe it's the same killer from Penang and KL,” Lawrence shook his head incredulously at his cousin.

“Yes. Neither Nicholas nor Paul are the right age, for one. I checked with Nicholas' boss at the clinic. He was attending a seminar in KL on Sunday morning, so he couldn't have killed Alicia. As for Paul, well you may want to ask him where he was on Sunday, though I doubt he's your guy,” Venkath said.

“You checked up on Nicholas without informing me first? I swear Venkath, sometimes you don't know where to draw the line between police work and being a doctor. You're lucky Nicholas isn't calling my boss about being harassed by the police. I told you...” His cell phone rang suddenly, interrupting his tirade.

“What? When? I'll be there in ten minutes,” Lawrence said, hanging up. He muttered a few curses under his breath.

“What is it?” Venkath asked, frowning.

“There's been another murder. Venkath, they think it's your wife.”

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