'Nothing About Blowing Up Bridges'

Finding my grandfather's place in record time. Supposedly, his coffin was four pieces of plank, nailed together.

Joss paper, similar in design with our RM10-00 and 50-00 notes, so much so that a cousin commented that he would probably be able to walk into a shop, buy a pack of cigarettes with it, and receive change. If the lights were real dim.

A cow pissing. The stream was avoided like it was acid by oncoming vehicles; and me telling my mum, all the more reason to wash my car later.

My father's elusiveness, even from beyond. His grave was the most difficult to reach.

Paper offerings, cigarettes, the burning of shrubs and freshly-cut grass.

Mud, caking on my shoes.

Me, my cousin, and our maps.

A toad in an urn, calm amid the shortening joss sticks.

Reading the label of the wine used for libation (16% alcohol content; not to be consumed by those aged 16 and below).

Red ants biting and refusing to let go.

Mistaking the ice cream vendor's bell for a ritual one, upon entering the temple.

Walking through the temple, examining various memorials; noting pictures, names, birth and death dates, ages. Being on the brink of tears from all the smoke.

Petting a pariah pup minutes before eating a durian-flavored ais krim potong.

( _")