Here’s the latest familial report of Quickening’s extended family. My cousin, maternal side, a year older than me, had just got married. She lives in Pontian, Johor, so on Malidur Rasul morning, Mak had left house at 4 pm and will be expected home by the evening, late night if she stopped to shop in Seremban.
Wow, it’s been a while since I had last saw Cik-Nong and/or her daughter. I decided not to follow the balik kampong trip, mainly because I don’t think I can stand 4 hours of Celine Dion plus ABBA, crooning on Mak’s MyVi’s CD-player.
In receiving those news, Mak and Ayah also turned their attentions to the latest round of media frenzy on the Paul McCartney vs. Heather Mills divorce case.
Other than the former Beatle’s lawyer had a quick shower in court (given to her in a jug by the ex-wife), the surprise comes as it was apparent that the melodramatic queen was very much less than satisfactory with the pittance - an enormous million dollar pittance, but a pittance nonetheless.
It’s funny how Miss Mills seem to demand the money legally earned and accumulated by Mr. McCartney, a godly amount which the musician made before his marriage. What’s up with that? I speculate a lot of the shoving and grabbing was due to the correct inheritance that should be stipulated for the young daughter, only child of the feuding couple.
A series of rocky avalanches. Next thing you’ll know, they’ll state “property and financial allocation also will be reserved for the family pet/maid/butler/nanny/sex worker/gardener/yogi guru/septic tank cleaner/street sweeper/oh-and-the-lawyers-too to an amount of no less than $$$.”
Brainy, Baddie, come sing along that song with me;
“I don’t care too, much for money;
Money can’t buy me love.
Can’t buy me looooove, oh,
Can’t buy me looooove, ooooh.
Well, I’m not the one to promote tabloid-ism in my blog unless I have a core reason and that one follows the comments tossed between the elderly two people over my breakfast.
Malays, Muslim actually, had a more structured course regarding division of property when it comes to divorce, which we all obeyed to the letter. The ex-es don’t touch each other’s money made before the day they cursed ‘I do’. This system greatly reduces the need for the westernized act of prenuptial contracts.
Of course, Mak and Ayah never stick to one subject and let it die. They tossed horribly-ever-after gossip marriage tales, one that includes a guy recovering from cancer only to face both his wives in a battle of property that was stipulated in the even of his death.
Gosh, the cancer guy wasn’t dead yet (in face, was recovering) and already the two vultures he married are snapping for his cash.
My point is, that in the light of this bad-choice-of-soulmate discussion, I decided to finally confess to my parents something which I had been considering for some years.
I told them I never want to get married.
Don’t laugh please, and don’t b***h me either. I had put in a lot of thought about it for a considerably long time. It’s not that I’m having a Bridget Jones’s Diary phase. Rather, for some years now, I’ve been growing up to be quite leaning towards the merits of being a single woman from now till doomsday.
Single women, other than the freedom and the lesser responsibility, will not need to be accountable to a husband for her actions. Or her money. Or her house. The merits are few I daresay, but the risky possibilities of being a married woman really... irks me, to say the polite least.
Misuse of property rights.
Unequal division of inheritance.
Disrespect for familial obligations.
And most of all, rampant polygamy.
I swear I’ll die first than be introduced to the public by my husband as ‘his first/second/third/fourth wife.’
Yeah, I guess you can say I’ve been cynical and disillusion about choosing for a life partner. That and ever other granny-aunties shoving horror stories over nasi briyani at the wedding banquets I got dragged into. I’d like to say I’m keeping my mind - and my options open. And my wits with me.
Trust, courage, dependency, hope and mutual congenial affections.
Notice I took ‘love’ out of the equation. You may have heard me blogged this overly much but I’m a fan favourite of romanticism. In fantasy. And only in fantasy.
Romanticism in reality? That’s soooooooooo dead.
Don’t take my opinion for it, but to me, Love is a silly little putty of an emotion that’s good enough when confined to fictional characters going through a sequence of unfortunate events between the leaves of paperback novel or the reels of a blockbuster movie, best indulged with a Cadbury milk chocolate bar and a can of Seasons’ Ice Lemon Tea.
I don’t think I’ll seek ‘love’ if I ever have to need to fall for a guy in real life. I never let myself trust any guy I ever knew as deep as to include love, let alone posses a well-spring unconditional enough to reserve for any one person. Hell, I hadn’t had a crush on a man, any man, since I left hormone-induced secondary school.
: Maybe I’m gay?
*slams Baddie-self into the Dark Pit of Reasoning*
In short, I’m not the kind of girl who wears her heart on her sleeve or allow myself to bare my soul on bended knee.
That’s the part of Brutally-Honest-Me I keep only to myself.
Hence, my takes on marriage life. Zippo, gone, maybe-not, forget-it, tak-payah-lah, seram-nyeeeeeeea. I think I can be happy being single. A lonely future individually, but I have a large extended family, with cousins born by the hour (did I mention that twins run in my family?) and I know they won’t leave me to rot in a low-rate condominium and be devoured by wild dogs.
So I confessed my honest views to the two people I owe honor and obedience to.
Of course they thought I was joking.
So I made it extra clear in textbook English. I really don’t think I want to be a wife to any husband.
: By the way, as I’m writing this on my PC in mid-afternoon, a thunderstorm is brewing in. It just flashed lightning so damned big and loud and scary, cars alarms and house alarms in my neighbourhood turned haywire. Is this a sign from The Above, reading my blog?
*slams Brainy-self into the Dark Pit of Everything’s-Just-Coincidence*
My mom just rolled her eyes heavenward and my dad’s mouth turned grim. That’s usually the sign of a lecture to come. But then, Ayah always gave lecturers that didn’t mean nothing.
He reminded me that when a Muslim dies, his worldly materials have no meaning. Only 3 considerations would be brought along; the good he had done to himself (prayers, religious obligations), the good he had done to the world... and a good child who prays diligently for you.
Apparently, a full ticket to heaven costs one third of which must have a pious offspring. That’s Ayah. In a sense, he’s right. I always think that everybody’s got to leave an impact deep enough during their lifetime that leaves a lasting good impression on a impressible kid.
One of these days I’ll get that holy book, learn Arabic and meticulously read between the lines myself. I wonder if the angels would look at single women having infant adoption as a bonus under consideration no. 2?
But as my step-grandmother would say, jodoh itu rezeki dan rezeki itu di tangan Tuhan. Most people are so in a rush to get married and legally start humpin’ and knock out each other with booze and sex that they forgot that there’s a blessing to actually have someone you can call ‘soulmate’.
Rezeki, kurniaan, a gift that comes along right in front of you. You don’t plan it, you can’t command it, but it comes to you if you decide that you’re up to it. And it really is up to you to either help it flower or let it die. Paul McCartney ought to sing that money can’t feed love either.
Trust, courage, dependency, hope and mutual congenial affections.
Not for me though, I think I’m a coward. But I’ll think about again in 10 or 20 years maybe.