Chapter 2 from Blind, Deaf

The first chapter tells the story from a perspective of a girl not quite twelve.  What happens to her years later?  Read on!

Chapter 2

Thirty Something

I gaze at the two pots of fiery-red poinsettia for the umpteenth time.  Clad in an orange turtle neck, carmine peacoat, black pencil skirt whose hem stops right above my bare knees, and stylish, deep lavender leather boots – a nightmare getup by some fashionistas’ standards –  the thirty something me still can’t decide.  C’mon, hurry up, I berate myself, this is not even an executive decision!  I don’t celebrate Christmas.  Yet I want to make sure it’ll be perfect as a gift.  It’s for Olivia, who picked up my outfit earlier and who won’t take no for an answer.  Thoroughly headstrong, she won’t settle for anything pale, or uninspiring.  I smile to myself.  I believe Olivia would more than like the plant in the terracotta pot.  I’m certain she’ll love it.

‘Amelia?’

I stop concentrating on the Christmassy plants.  From the opposite side of the table thronged with pots after pots of festive poinsettias, a tall, Asian man somberly looks at me.  I reckon he’s probably not much older than I am.  Definitely thirty something, I guess.  He studies me while I maintain an impassive watch on him.  Suddenly he seems to be recognizing something; a smile surprisingly and lazily breaks on his lips.

‘Amelia, right?  You’re Amelia?’ 

I note his voice is very soothing, one I’d love to hear over the phone.  My instinct tells me he’s persistent underneath his suave exterior.  There’s something regarding him which strikes me as familiar.  Yet I can’t put a finger to it. I certainly can’t forget a face I’ve seen, even from many years ago.   It’s a capability I’ve honed on the job and one I always rely on.  This stranger however is a challenge.  I deliberate fast and hard.  Despite the effort, I’m still stumped seconds later.  His identity eludes me and I’m dead certain I have no recollection of ever meeting him.   And how in the world does he know my name?  Unsure on how to react, I maintain my placid stare at him. 

To my wonderment, he commences to make hand signs and simultaneously mouth the message – You’re Amelia, right?  I’m very sure you are.  Don’t frown or you’ll look like –  

I only read his signs.  Somehow, I inexplicably grow irritated before his last silent message is fully formed.  His persistence triggers a memory some nine years ago when I responded to an attractive stranger who asked me out of the blue whether I was Amelia.  The stranger, similar to the Asian guy, was persistent.  The stranger, who eventually became my friend, went out with me for a number of years.  We were young, we were carefree, we had a good time.  I was unluckily the party who got hurt in the end.  They say there’s this thing called time which heals.  Yet, on remembering the pain, fresh despite the years, I resolve not to repeat a past mistake and end up with a heartache.  Before the guy completes his latest sentence, I brusquely state, ‘I’m not deaf, mister.’

He halts midway through his unspoken words.  He lets his hands drop to his sides.  He remains unaffected by my stare, cold and aloof now, and it peeves me.  His smile intact, he exclaims in a very relieved fashion, ‘You are Amelia!’

I throw him a hostile glare.  ‘What makes you very sure, mister?’

‘You’re definitely Amelia. No one but Amelia talks to me like so.’

‘Hey mister,’ I say as I quickly grab the pot of poinsettia closest to me and hurry toward the cashier.   Not looking at him, I remark matter-of-factly, ‘Read my lips. You got the wrong person.’

‘I can’t see your lips!’  he complains.  ‘I’m not blind, you know!  But you are Amelia!  I’m definitely certain.’  He keeps close to my heels.  A hint of satisfaction and confidence in his voice makes me bitter.

‘I’m not Amelia,’ I deny again.  I hasten my steps.  The cashier is now within sight.  Yet I begin to worry; Chad, the shop owner, is nowhere to be seen.  Isn’t he supposed to man the cashier now, especially this pest of a guy with a mouth running loose, trying to convince me I am Amelia, isn’t bucking down one bit?  The stranger’s way too near me.  The trespassing of my space makes my heart beat faster.  For all I know, the Asian guy, who’s not bad looking after all, might be a stalker.  A cute stalker!  Hmm, that’s worth a nice cup of coffee and idle chat with Diana at work tomorrow!

He meanwhile keeps on telling me he has found me.  Finally, unable to suppress my mounting annoyance, I abruptly spin around and almost bump into the lean guy.  Caught off guard by my sudden move, he flinches back a step.  To my dismay, he does it suavely.

Exasperated, I cry, ‘Hey mister!  For the umpteenth time, I’m not Amelia.  Don’t you ever give up, mister?’

‘Never!  Not in your wildest dreams and wackiest fairy tales, Amelia Abas!’

His latest opinion silences me for moments.  I spot a twinkle in his eyes, a muttering of ‘Bull’s-eye!’   They incense me.  Keeping cool, I grapple for some just ripostes.  Yet before I get to say anything, a perky, familiar voice calls out from behind me. ‘Hi Amelia!’  I try to remain stoic.  One bad move, and my pretense will all be in jeopardy.  I’m fully aware if I swing around now, I’ll find, much to my dismay, beefy Chad.  I hear the clop-clop-clop of the black, ex-marine’s boots heading toward me. I jog my mind for a swift way out.

Unfortunately, Chad’s strides are long and fast.  He’s by my side within seconds.  ‘Ya’ve settled for that, huh?’ Chad points to the pot I’m carrying. ‘That’s a nice pick!  I told ya could find a good one on them table there, Amelia!’ 

I pretend not to hear Chad.  He’s as good as invisible to me.  Briskly leaving the Asian guy and Chad behind, I survey around the store to catch anything which can be a diversion.  Chad fortunately wends his way to a nearby group of women.  I’m slightly relieved to recognize a few faces among them.  They’re the hard core begonia lovers who’ll keep Chad occupied on providing plant care tips.  I promptly pray there’s another Amelia among the women.  Not much later, to my dismay I hear Chad repeatedly calling me.  Damn!  I internally scream.  I’m getting a bit panicky because I still can’t shake the bean pole off by wandering aimlessly from aisle to aisle as fast as I can.  He follows me, telling me how confident he is of my identity.  He claims I look the same as before except for my height and my hair, now shoulder length.  He excitedly states it used to be long, all the way to the middle of my back.  I hear him mentioning my lustrous tresses reminded him of Rapunzel’s hair.  He adds my hair is black, like Snow White’s, not Rapunzel’s blond.  I grimace and ponder what kind of a regressive schmuck I’m dealing with now. He should get a kick for such a remark.

‘Hey, what’s up, Amelia?’ Chad queries me as he nears me seconds later.  He gets into my direct line of vision.  I can’t escape him this time and I start to really sweat it.  ‘Amelia,’ Chad frowns at me, ‘you seem to be slightly deaf today.  I was calling out your name a few times just now, and I swear you didn’t seem to be hearing me.’

‘Damn!’ I mutter under her breath.

‘I’m right!  I’m right!  You are Amelia!’ the young man chants from behind me, ‘and you cussed!’

Chad leans sideways.  Much to my surprise, he widely grins to the stranger.  ‘I told ya could find her by the poinsettias!’  Chad remarks to the bean pole and gives the tall guy a happy wink.

*

An entirely different story than Rice, Fish, Squid and Lamb

Blind, Deaf is my second manuscript.  This love story centers on a fairy tale, which is made for three teenagers, but meant for two persons...

Chapter 1

A Pretty Girl

Once upon a time, a girl, not quite twelve, wandered to foreign land.  She was in a school prefect uniform – crisp, white, short sleeved blouse, a red tie, dark blue skirt, white socks and white canvas shoes.  Bread crumbs to guide her back to where she came from weren’t necessary.  After all, her place, an all-girls’ school, was merely across the street. 

That girl happened to be me.

‘Woi!’

I ignored the call.  Yet I spied its source, standing diagonally no more than eight feet from me.  A bespectacled, fat Chinese schoolboy dressed in a uniform a size too small, that was who he was.  Probably a good three inches shorter than me, he, almost neckless, reminded me of Humpty Dumpty. 

Seconds later, he cupped his hands around his mouth.  ‘Woi!  Woi!  Woi!  Here!   Look here aaa!’

I pretended to ignore him while I paid the vendor for my favorite ice cream potong: a thick slice of delicious sweet corn ice cream wedged between two crispy, thin wafers.  As soon as the spindly ice cream man handed me my purchase, I held it by the wafers and began licking the edges.  The rotund butterball waved his hands toward me similar to one transmitting semaphores.  By habit, I’d head straight back to my school after buying my treat.  That late afternoon, I changed my mind.  I was charmed by the boy’s antics.  Something else too about him piqued my interest.  Yes, the roundness of his belly.  It reminded me of the pudgy dwarfs in Snow White. 

But whose belly should it be, I pondered, Grumpy’s, Sneezy’s or Happy’s?

I was standing near the entrance to the all-boys’ school, where the ice cream man had made himself a permanent fixture.  I decided two minutes there would be luxurious enough.  Then, I’d scram.  As a cover, I pretended to examine with interest the multicolored representations of flavors on the vendor’s ice box.  From the corners of my eyes, I observed the hyper boy.  Fatso persisted in getting my attention with yells and movements. A little later, he gave up trying to communicate in English, the common language trendy teenagers in Malaysia, a multi racial country, would normally converse in.  He moved on to Mandarin.  I believed he assumed I was Chinese; he called me Amoi – Chinese girl – and spouted Mandarin words at me.  Without doubt, he was seeking my attention for there was no other girl that side of the street.  I couldn’t blame his innocent assumption.  After all, I looked Chinese.  With my fair skin, I could easily pass for one despite my Malay last name: Abas.  In a while, the repeated shouts from the boy started to tick me off.  For all I knew, he might be ridiculing me at best, cursing me at worst.  I tried to remain uninterested, ignoring him like he was absolutely not worth a dime and my time.   I was about to return to the other side when he blundered; he switched to Bahasa, Malaysia’s national language, my mother tongue.  As far as I could remember, the first word he uttered made me feel like punching him.

‘Buta?’

My mouth hung loose as anger swelled within me.  How dare the halfwit ridiculed me as buta – blind!  I instantly thought the boy probably had failed the national language too many times at school.  His report card must have permanent red scores for Bahasa. 

‘Uh-huh.  Buta!’

His confirmed view I was blind incensed me and brought out my ugly side.  My ice cream held in front of my flat, pre pubescent chest, I sternly marched straight toward him.  Not expecting such retaliation, he stumbled backwards, chanting ‘Gostan!’ – Go astern! –  repeatedly.  His arms waved agitatedly in front of him as if to ward me off.  He simultaneously glanced over his shoulder.  His cries grew louder.  I wasn’t certain whether they were meant for me or signifying his distress.  Nonetheless, I didn’t relent in my approach until he couldn’t move anymore; he was fully pressed against another boy who stood behind him.  The fellow schoolboy – tall, thin, hapless and handsome – couldn’t budge any further as he was totally pinned against the red brick wall bordering the school ground.  At a standstill, I was mere inches away from fatso.  His arms were flailing by his sides like a lardy bird trying to fly, but too heavy to do so.  He reminded me of an overstuffed butterball turkey.

‘Woi!  Woi!  Woi!’ he cried out, panic written all over his face.

Lashing out in Bahasa, I scolded him for calling me blind instead of deaf.  I rubbed it in by insulting he was probably unschooled for not comprehending the meaning of blind and deaf.

Unruffled by my cutting remarks, he gave me his frank opinions in the same language.  ‘I go to school, I can not go to school.  Can’t you see I’m wearing a school uniform?’  He animatedly pointed his fingers at different angles to his outfit. ‘Little kid, you blind?’

His latest statement made me blow my top.  First, he had the nerve addressing me as little kid!  I suspected our age difference wouldn’t be too far.  Second, his repeat accusation of a disability I didn’t possess further stewed me.  What a gall he had! I fumingly shouted back at him, literally telling him his face was beautiful.  I used a Bahasa idiom which figuratively meant he had the gall to call me blind.  My sarcasm didn’t stop there; I threatened to smack him so that he’d be sorry for his remarks.

Unfortunately, sorry was the last state he’d ever be.  Baring his teeth in a huge grin, he eagerly admitted his face was beautiful.  Of course it was, he told me, because he didn’t have any Jelawat!  I thought hard and assumed he had trouble pronouncing the r in jerawat – pimple.  Such conclusion made sense instead of Jelawat, a type of local fish. He expressed he was sympathetic I was jealous of his beauty.  Of course, he explained as his eyes darted on my flat chest, that it was all due to my teenage hormones beginning to work overtime.  Pity, he said.  Noticing my confusion, the turkey explained my face was shiny, a sure sign my oil glands were overburdened.  Soon, I’d have pimples and I’d look ugly.  Shortly, I’d hit puberty.  My pimples would happily erupt like Krakataus, and I’d turn hideous.  Today, he reminded me, was just the beginning of such a painful journey into ugliness.  As I scowled at him, he paused to scratch his head.  He asked me if I was Malay and not Chinese. 

I rolled my eyes and offered my acerbic opinion, in Bahasa still.  My sentence, if translated literally, meant he was as deaf as a rhinoceros. Simply from the way I talked, anyone with half a brain could pick up I wasn’t Chinese.  My diction and pronunciation were unmistakably that of a Malay, a native Bahasa speaker.  Moreover, like any typical Malay teenager that time, I used Bahasa idioms for sarcasm when making a point.  I had figuratively insulted the portly boy he was dreadfully deaf, for he didn’t register I wasn’t Chinese simply from the way I spoke and the words I used.

Fatso’s reaction surprised me; he hopped a bit like a spastic child.  Unable to control his excitement, he exclaimed my face looked Chinese.  Given his reaction to my comment, I accepted he actually had some intelligence.  What I meant by some was anywhere say between a quarter and half a brain.  His IQ would probably hover no higher than upper fifties.  I squinted at him as I internally debated the actual amount of his gray matter.  On catching my grave expression, he tried to support his claim in broken Bahasa: ‘Skin much white, like hit by Kolox!’ 

I wondered whether he was complimenting or disparaging me with his latest statement.  ‘Kolox?  What’s Kolox?’

With his motor mouth, he excitedly explained, ‘Yes, that Kolox, you don’t understand?  Little kid, you where from?  Outer space?  You ET?  That Kolox much famous, for washing use aaa!’

I suddenly understood what Kolox stood for. Fatso had mispronounced Clorox as Kolox.  Thus his earlier statement meant my skin was fair, it looked as if it were bleached by Clorox.  Yet, I considered it a waste of time to argue on the point of bleached skin with the tactless dimwit.  He, I felt, could’ve been more courteous by describing my skin was as white as snow, as mentioned in one of my favorite fairy tales.

‘Yes, that’s right, mister,’ I shot back in English.  ‘I look Chinese and my skin is fair.  You have a problem with those points, mister?’ 

‘Haiya!’  The boy’s voice was fat with wonderment.  His gaze widened, too.  ‘Can speak English!  Why didn’t you tell me so minutes ago?’  To express annoyance, he had his arms akimbo.  ‘Eh, wasted my time only! Called you out many times, first in English, second in Mandarin, third in Bahasa.  Then, also got called a pekak by you.’ He obviously was irritated being tagged a pekak – deaf. ‘Woi! I’m not old, don’t mister mister me, OK!’ he complained, wagging a chubby finger at me. 

I held down a rising laughter.  A drop of fast melting ice cream on my fingers distracted me.  I gracefully stepped back a good distance from the twosome.  I concentrated on my treat, catching sides requiring the next lick.  Secretly, I kept watch on both schoolboys.  The duo by then had moved further out for more space.  Fatso spread his arms wide to his sides, twisted his torso to the left, right and left again as if making himself limber in a Physical Education class.  The tall boy folded his arms, and slowly shook his head as he observed the stuffed butterball.

Fatso stared at me.  His lips slowly puckered in distaste of something I didn’t know.  His whole reaction made me imagine a pimple had suddenly appeared on my face.  Not only that, the protrusion was slowly mutating into a mini Krakatau. 

‘What?’ I crossly blurted to the fat boy after growing uneasy by his unblinking watch. 

Startled by my outburst, he cried ‘Aiya!  Solly aaa, pleetty girl!’   

Solly, I assumed, was sorry, an apology to me.  I figured he meant to say pretty girl.  I guessed I was supposed to feel flattered.  However the tone in his voice and his earlier teases made me think he was joking.  I wouldn’t be surprised he was practicing saying words with r, which seemed to be a challenge to him.  Fatso called time out with the local lingo ‘choup’ and his hands making the T sign.  He turned around to the boy behind him.  To my surprise, both began to feverishly converse in sign language.  As I quietly slipped away from the duo, I caught the stumpy boy’s mouth moving in tandem with his hand moves.  In contrast, the tall boy only worked his hands.  I understood he had lost a great deal more than I’d initially suspected.

I had caught sight of the lanky, handsome boy many times before.  After school was over, come rain, come shine, an ice cream potong would be my indulgence.  Every instance I ventured across the street, he was there, watching me.  I considered the tall, fair-skinned boy, a school prefect by his red tie, similar to mine, and a ‘Prefect’ tag pinned to it, was among some of the good looking boys I’d ever encountered.  Except for his atypical large eyes, he appeared Chinese to me.  His eyes made me wonder from which side of his family he inherited them.  That evening, the further I was from the two boys, the more I thought of him.  I couldn’t help feeling sorry by my discovery.   His good looks were marred by his disabilities – being deaf and mute.  My imagination began to run wild.  Perhaps similar to the tale of Briar Rose, his parents forgot to invite the thirteenth Chinese fairy godmother for his one month celebration.  Did the boy therefore have to pay for the lapse with his loss of senses?

Many times before, I caught him spying on me even before I crossed the street.  When I neared the ice cream man and his vehicle, the boy would stare at me.  While I bought my favorite treat, he continued admiring me from afar. 

A proud girl on the outside, a shy person inside, I never returned his gaze. 

*

Ebook version of Rice, Fish, Squid and Lamb

My novel is now on iBookstore. Its ISBN is 978-1-105-16253-4

To check out the ePub version, please visit

http://itunes.apple.com/us/book/rice-fish-squid-lamb/id478659194?mt=11

Blind, Deaf: happy, sad and funny.

That’s how I’d summarize my yet to be published second manuscript.  I’m still hard at work editing the story and was looking through past versions yesterday when I thought, whoa!  The story has evolved!  In the beginning, my attempt on exorcising my guilt for ignoring a deaf and mute boy who wanted to befriend me led me to write the piece.  It was meant to be part of another project: a short story collection.  I started writing the fictional narrative in mid November 2010.  I however couldn't resist revisiting the tale and adding more stuff to it.  The characters in this story are very loud, especially this one boy called Wong Jian Fei/fatso who has a motor mouth and can't seem to properly pronounce some words with r.  Anyway, these characters kept on jumping up and down in my head, insisting that I put their story on paper, or in current terms, have their words digitized.   

Jian Fei is particularly good at harassing me, even in my dreams.  One time he told me, 'Sulplies!!!  Woi!  Sleep again one?  See, see, see!  I'm light!  I told you!  You eat lice too much during lunch, and now have to take a nap!  Haiya!  Stupid!  Get up!  Write some more!  I got more stoly to tell one!  You leally want to know aaa?'  

By end of 2010, Blind, Deaf became a full fledged tale.

I’d like to share with you one of the earliest and latest versions taken from Chapter 1.  Let me know what you think of the two!

Version 2

‘Woi!’

She ignored the call.  She sensed the bespectacled, fat boy, a good two inches shorter than her was clamoring for her attention.  True enough, in seconds, she glimpsed the schoolboy - standing diagonally no more than eight feet from her - cupping his hands around his mouth as he attempted a second call.

‘Woi!  Oi!  Oi!  Here!   Look here aaa!’

She continued ignoring him while she paid the ice cream man for her favorite ice cream potong – a thick slice of sweet corn ice cream wedged between two crispy, thin wafers.  Holding the ice cream by the wafers, she began licking the edges of the sweet slab as soon as the ice cream man handed her the treat.   The rotund humpty dumpty began waving his hands toward her similar to one transmitting semaphores.  Normally, she’d head straight back to her school after buying her treat.  That late afternoon, she decided to stay around as she was curious what the portly boy was up to.  She stood near the entrance to the all-boys school, where the ice cream man made himself a permanent fixture.  The schoolgirl pretended to examine with interest the multicolored representations of ice cream flavors on the ice cream man’s ice box.  It was as if she had never seen such a display before. The fatso persisted in irritating her. He had stepped up his attempt a notch by switching to Mandarin and calling her Amoi, Chinese girl.  Of course he was seeking her attention, because there was no other girl around her.  For all she knew, he might be ridiculing her at best, cursing her at worst.  Still, she remained unflinched by the fat boy’s attempts.  She ignored him like he was absolutely not worth a dime and her time.

‘Butakah?’

Her mouth hung loose as anger rose within her.  That did it!   How dare that halfwit ridiculed her as blind?

Version 68

Once upon a time, a pretty girl, not quite twelve, wondered to foreign land.  Bread crumbs to guide her back to where she came from weren’t necessary.  After all, her place, an all girls’ school, was merely across the street.

‘Woi!’

She ignored the call.  She sensed the bespectacled, fat schoolboy, a good three inches shorter than her was clamoring for her attention.  True enough, in seconds, she glimpsed the Chinese boy, standing diagonally no more than eight feet from her, cupping his hands around his mouth.  He hollered again.

‘Woi!  Woi!  Woi!  Here!   Look here aaa!’

She pretended to ignore him while she paid the ice cream man for her favorite ice cream potong: a thick slice of sweet corn ice cream wedged between two crispy, thin wafers.  Holding the ice cream by the wafers, she began licking the edges of the sweet slab as soon as the ice cream man handed her the treat.   The rotund humpty dumpty waved his hands toward her similar to one transmitting semaphores.  By habit, she’d head straight back to her school after buying her treat.  That late afternoon, the schoolgirl in a prefect uniform – crisp, white, short sleeved blouse, a red tie and dark blue skirt – changed her mind.  She was charmed by boy’s antics she decided to hang around.  Something else too about the portly boy piqued her interest.  Yes, the roundness of his belly.  It reminded her of the pudgy dwarfs in Snow White. 

But whose belly should it be, she pondered, Grumpy’s, Sneezy’s or Happy’s?

The schoolgirl stood near the entrance to the all-boys school, where the ice cream man made himself a permanent fixture.  She examined with interest the multicolored representations of ice cream flavors on the ice cream man’s ice box.  It was as if she had never seen such a display before. From the corners of her eyes, she kept watch on the hyper boy.  Fatso persisted in irritating her. She sensed he had given up trying to get her attention in English, the common language trendy teenagers in Malaysia, a multi racial country, would normally converse in.  He had moved on, a different strategy now to Mandarin.  She believed he assumed she was Chinese with his calling her Amoi – Chinese girl – and spouting Mandarin words at her.  Of course he was seeking her attention, for there was no other girl that side of the street.  She couldn’t blame him for such innocent assumption; after all, she looked Chinese.  What with her fair skin, the girl could easily pass for one despite her Malay last name: Abas.  After a few seconds, the persistent shouts from the boy started to tick her off.  For all she knew, he might be ridiculing her at best, cursing her at worst.  She tried to remain indifferent to the fat boy’s attempt, ignoring him like he was absolutely not worth a dime and her time.   Then, intentionally or not, he made a fatal mistake.  He switched to Bahasa, the country’s national language, her mother tongue.  As far as she could remember, the first word he uttered made her feel like punching him.

‘Buta?’

Her mouth hung loose as anger swelled within her.  That did it!   How dare the halfwit ridiculed her as buta – blind! 

Of Travels and Tales...Tupongato, Mendoza, Argentina

Picture this - you're sitting at the back seat of an SUV with the aircon on , it's end of summer, plains of dry earth greet the eyes on both sides of the road, and far in the horizon, you see Codillera de los Andes.  Your driver excitedly tells you the snow capped mountain that juts out the tallest amongst its compadres is a dormant volcano.  You lean in with interest as he adds, again excitedly, that soon you'll get to a place where you'll be lunching with a view of the vineyards and the same mountain range. 

You must be asking what I was doing in the middle of nowhere.  Ever in love with fine foods and breathtaking scenery, I couldn't resist braving this trip with my partner in crime to the far reaches of the wine country of Mendoza to sample the best of the area's local fare in an outrageously classy setting.

The place is called Andeluna.  It's about a 90 minute drive from the center of Mendoza.  You'll need to hire a car and driver to get there.  Road signage can sometimes be unreliable.

 

Entrance, Andeluna

 Reservation is essential and the highlight is the 6 course meal prepared on site.

Inside Andeluna

Vineyard and a view of the Andes

Dessert for the day.  Menu items will change according to seasonal produce.

Chefs hard at work

Of Travels and Tales...La Morra

I woke up this morning and looked outside.  One word came to mind.  Nebbia.  It took me to recall my trip to a small comune in Piemonte three years ago.

Autumn leaves in La Morra, Italy

It was late October and I was in the town of La Morra which rests atop a hill.  The sprawling view of the undulating country far below it was something out of a travel magazine.  One was treated to a patchwork of colors.  The grapes the region is famous for were more than ripe for harvest, days were getting shorter and Mother Nature had the plants shut down their food making factories. And by the way, the grapes are called Nebbiolo, probably derived from nebbia since when they ripen, their texture gives off a foggy or frosted look.

One thing which strikes me as uniquely Piemontese is the nebbia which rolls in around this time of the year.  When I was in La Morra, I had the privilege of witnessing the fog shrouding the town like a mystery.

La Morra, in nebbia

I took a few photos of this wonderful act of nature.  Here are some of my favorites:

Unfortunately when I leaned out of my window this morning, it hit me there wasn't any nebbia I could be thankful for.  It was the despicable haze...

Three teenagers, two adults and one bittersweet fairy tale.

Blind, Deaf - A summary...

The year is 1983.  In the sleepy town of Johor Bahru, Malaysia, three unlikely teenagers become fast friends.  Amelia Abas is a liberal Muslim Malay who’s mad about fairy tales; she won’t touch anything that’s not Grimms or Perrault.  Wong Ruo Li, a Buddhist Chinese who goes to school opposite hers, is tall, handsome and smitten by her.  He unfortunately is deaf. His brother, Wong Jian Fei has problems with his speech yet revels in mercilessly teasing Amelia for her love of fairy tales.  Fat and short Jian Fei secretly adores Amelia, but hides his feelings out of respect for his brother.  On Saturdays, the teenagers read, play games and converse by a stream.  Rumor mongering, where the participants pretend to either be blind or deaf, is one of their favorite games.  Amelia devises special names-Jack and Bean- for the brothers on one of the afternoons they spend together.  She too can't help concocting a fairy tale for the group and tells them they'll share sad rainfalls and everything nice.  Her fairy tale has a happy ever after and Amelia blissfully imagines her tall and handsome Prince Charming and her cutting a multi-tiered wedding cake.  Jian Fei, the skeptic, ridicules the whole thing as crap but Amelia doesn’t care.  At year end, the good friends make a pact to meet as usual on Saturdays even though they’ll be in distant high schools.  Fate intervenes; Amelia and her family disappear from town in 1984.

Twenty three years on, the grownup Bean serendipitously finds Amelia in California.  Both have changed: Amelia, now a single mother with a deaf child, disbelieves in fairy tales and Bean, surprisingly tall, handsome, yet still smitten by Amelia, is polite, far from the philistine he was.  The adults exchange stories to learn what the three friends have been up to over the lost years.  Thus begins a journey of discovery into startling coincidences they experienced which initiates Amelia to remember her long forgotten tale. 

But like all fairy tales, what are the bitter and sweet parts Amelia will discover?

Possible cover art for my second book