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Selamat Menyambut Hari Raya dan Ulangtahun Kemerdekaan ke-54

“Kini tiba masanya
Hati gembira di Hari Raya
Bertemu sanak dan saudara
Bermaaf-maafan dengan keikhlasan”
–Suara Takbir by Tan Sri P Ramlee

It’s that time of the year again for all Muslims worldwide, soon celebrating that day in their very own way. For the inhabitants of the Nusantara it’s the exodus back to their respective hometown, celebrating it with parents and kinsfolk that makes what Hari Raya Aidil Fitri is. For kids, it is that time of the year they get to be with cousins at their grandparents. For as far back as I can remember, that for me, would be in the early 1970s.

I can still remember the crisp cool morning air as we cousins wake up’ the younger cousins might not remember the old well by the side of the house. When they were old enough to remember anything, water was pumped from the well using the electric motor. Anyway, us cousins would queue outside the well a la P Ramlee. then get dressed in our Hari Raya best before walking to the village mosque for the Aidil Fitri prayers.

My late grandparents’ house, now being rented out

We would have returned to my grandparents’ a few days earlier. The ladies would have slogged it out in the kitchen area making rendang, curry and so on while the men would have made lemang, ketupat, dodol. At around 6.30pm, just before berbuka (those days Peninsula Malaysia was 1/2 hour behind the current time), we would light up the pelitas, then take our place on the floor with the other cousins, while the grandparents, parents, uncles and aunts would occupy the two dining tables. After the final berbuka, we cousins would be with our sparklers and firecrackers ’til late.

The last time we all went back for Hari Raya as a family to my grandparents’ was back late January 1998. When I left their house for KL with my brother the day after, it never occurred to me that it would be our last Hari Raya with them, and that was also the last time I spoke to my grandfather when he was still alive. Unbeknownst to us, he was already suffering from cerebral haemorrhage from an accident a month earlier. He would slip into a coma some two weeks later and never recovered.

My grandmother passed away exactly six months later.

My uncle lived in that house with my cousins until he, too, passed away from an accident four years later. The house has been rented out since. My cousins, siblings and I still yearn to go back to a kampung we could call ours, where we could enjoy that crisp morning air, enjoy making rendang, dodol, ketupat, lemang, kuih together – and this time see our children play sparklers together.

My paternal grandfather passed away in 1952, while my paternal grandmother passed away in May 1983.

For those of you who still have a kampung to return to, do so. And do so safely so that you could return to your kampung year in year out.

As for me, I can only share my wife’s kampung and envy her.

SELAMAT HARI RAYA DAN SELAMAT MENGHAYATI ULANGTAHUN KEMERDEKAAN KITA YANG KE-54

My late grandparents in Bangkok (1994)

It was December 1998, during the Muslim month of Ramadhan that I first set foot In Makkah. It was a trip that opened my mind and saw things from a totally different perspective.

Two weeks prior to that, I went for this briefing at the tour agent’s house on the do’s and don’ts of Umrah, and was given a guide book published by Tabung Haji on how to perform my Umrah. There were specific doas to be read each round I circumambulate the Kaabah, each round of Sa’ie and just before I snip some of my hair for Tahallul. Our group arrived in Jeddah at around 5am and got a taste of why the Prophet was from amongst the Arabs. We did the 6-hour bus ride to Madinatul Munawwarah and I broke my fast at the Prophet’s Mosque (Masjid an-Nabawi) with several Indonesians. It was still smack bang in the midst of the Asian financial crisis, and Dr Mahathir’s removal pegging of the Ringgit‘s peg to the US dollars had just taken effect. I had bought myself two lamb kebabs (yes, those days I was still able to eat lamb), but the Indonesians were only having lettuce and yoghurt. There were six of us seated on the cool marble floor outside the mosque. So I divided each kebab into three to share with the Indonesian pilgrims. They cried when we broke fast, being able to have the kebab, and thanked me for sharing.

I left Madinah for Makkah on the third day, stopping at Bir Ali to put on my Ihram and upon arrival, performed my Umrah. It was there that I stopped reading the guide book, and prayed in the language I know best – Malay; for Allah is All-Knowing. So I thought it was best for me to pray (Doa) to Him in Malay instead of probably asking Him for Pizza in Arabic. A Chinese family walked past me during Tawaf and were praying in Mandarin, and a Caucasian woman prayed in French. I returned to Makkah twice after that, all during the fasting month, and performed Umrah seven times each trip, doing one each for my late grandparents, my late uncle, my late sister, and myself (I performed for me first).

I performed my Haj in March 2001. That year, Formula One was in Sepang and it rained heavily. And I was in Makkah watching CNN when the space station Mir made its fiery re-entry into Earth’s atmosphere. I went on the last flight into Jeddah; and over Qarnul Manazil, I was already in my Ihram, ready to perform the most difficult of Haj – the ‘Ifrad. I was to be in my Ihram until I have completed my first Tahallul (Tahallul Awwal) when I can remove my Ihram clothes and wear normal clothes but will still be restricted from performing certain things until I have completed my Haj. For one week I had to watch what I do, wear only unstitched piece of cloth, no perfume or scented soap and so on.

Then one day, we left for Mina on the day before Wukuf, and at midnight, moved to Arafah in preparation for Wukuf. I met the Air Force officer I relieved in Alor Setar as the Squadron Officer-Commanding there after ‘Asar. After Maghrib, I went to Muzdalifah to collect some stones for the Stoning of the Jamrah rites in Mina. I made a pact with a religious teacher from Indonesia to go to Mina, then find our own way back to Makkah to perform our Sa’ie and Tahallul Awwal. After midnight, we hitched a ride on the back of a pickup, made our way back to Masjidil Haram and performed the Sa’ie, followed by Tahallul Awwal, after which, I went back to my hotel and changed into normal clothes.

The next day, I went to Mina throw stones at the Jamratul Aqaba. Despite the stories I’ve heard, I got to stand right in front of the pillar that I was sure to hit the pillar had I stoned it with my eyes shut. After this ritual, past midnight I rushed back to Makkah to perform my Tawaf If’adah (or Tawaf Haji) and I was free from ALL restrictions.

I spent over the next three days stoning the Jamrahs (Sughra, Wusta and Aqaba/Kubra) and completed my Haj. I spent another two weeks in Makkah performing Umrah (again, I did the mandatory one time for Haj, one time for myself and the other six for my late grandparents, my late uncle and late sister). I even took the opportunity to scale Jabal Noor, northeast of Masjidil Haram and managed to pray inside the Hira’ Cave just to experience it. I also scaled Jabal Thawr, southeast of Masjidil Haram, to see the cave where the Prophet took refuge from the Quraisy. On my second last day there, I met with a former classmate of mine, who is now a cardio-surgeon. The next day I left for Madinatul Munawwarah and spent six days there before returning home.

It was a journey of a lifetime for me. A journey that dispelled the myths that so-called religious people in Malaysia have told me. It is there that I finally realised that most of what we have been practicing in Malaysia are based on hearsay and not according to the Quran and aHadith as-Sahih, that many things have been added according to various human interpretations.

And most important, I realised God is NOT for the Muslim Arabs, but also the non-Muslim Arabs, the Jews, the Chinese, the Indians, the Christians, and that Islam is a way of life as prescribed by Him, not as interpreted by so-called Imams and Ulamas.

Bunny was my father’s pet for 6 years, initially being my brother’s who then passed the rabbit to my father in 2004. Bunny was unlike any other rabbit. It showed the loyalty of a dog, and the characters of a cat. It scratched sofas like cats do to sharpen their claws. Bunny was a huge purplish fur-ball that made it look larger than a Persian cat.

Every morning, upon release from its cage, Bunny would climb upstairs and knock on my father’s bedroom door with its hind legs. When it was let in, it would lie on top of my father’s chest, and would stay inside the room until my father leaves for the office. When my father prayed, it would sit next to the prayer mat and waited for my father to be done.

My father would hold it or carry it in his arms like it was a baby, or a cat. And Bunny would lie there and not move. My father is the only person, other than my younger sister, that Bunny was close to. When my father went abroad for the first time, leaving Bunny for more than two weeks, Bunny did not eat. Bunny only ate after my father called to speak to it. So, every time that my father had to go away, he would call home to find out how Bunny was doing.

Lately, Bunny had not been well. Yesterday, by the time my mother took it to the vet, Bunny was already having difficulty breathing then. And when my mother talked about the possibility of losing Bunny, my father was already sad.

This morning, my mother woke up and instinctively hurried to have a look at Bunny. She found it lying limp, motionless. She summoned the maid to have a look at Bunny, but Bunny was already gone. The other rabbits stayed away. My mother ran upstairs and called my father to come down. He hurried to have a look at Bunny, and lifted Bunny in his arms, like he would when it was still alive.

Apart from shedding just one tear when my grandmother passed away 27 years ago, I have never seen my father cry. Apparently this time he did. My father sent my younger sister a text message that was forwarded to me:

Our dear Bunny passed away this morning in his cage alone where we had put him on the vet’s advice after the vet had said he was not well and was having breathing difficulties. He was supposed to have his drops twice a day but I think he wasn’t in time for his 2nd one. Shortly before 8 Mak was informed and by 8 when I picked him up, rigour mortis was just setting in but his forehead was still warm. It’s 8.35 now and we have wrapped him up in a white cushion cover, his left eye still partially opened. We are now burying him near the gate at the foot of the Kemboja tree. Bubble & Floppy, & even Bubu, have sensed Bunny’s death. He returns to his Maker after giving me so much joy. Can see him sitting erect beside me as I pray. Can hear him banging his head against the door wanting to come into the room. May he rest free of worldly pains.

I know how he feels right now. I lost my pet cat 33 years ago, and can still feel the pain.

Thank you, Bunny, for keeping my father company when things were bad between us siblings and he. Thank you for giving him the joy and love when you were around. You will always be part of the family.

Where Bunny was buried on 101010

Some of you might remember that my relationship with my family hasn’t been great since 3 years ago, and some even asked me here on this blog to defend myself, and explain especially to my parents about what was actually causing the rift. My standard answer would be, “It’s okay. One day they will know the truth. The truth will one day prevail.”

And every time I have a fall out with them, it would take 3 years before the circle comes to a complete round. And this time it has. It was just after my 41st birthday that my parents and I stopped talking to each other, and shortly after my 44th, I was having tea with my father again. And not only that, my wife sat next to my mother and watched badminton on ASTRO together.

And apparently, and with a big thank you to my younger sister who finally spoke out, my parents found out the truth about my younger brother and I, the former had to go through the same thing as I a year or so after I did. Luckily, my younger brother and I stuck together through it all, supported by our respective wife, and children.

Two nights ago, we went to my parents’ place again to celebrate my younger sister’s birthday. And this time, my parents and I reminisced about the years when I was still little, recalling some incidents that made us all laugh, and some that made us smile in silence. And my wife gained a mother-in-law that night, with my mother taking her on a tour of their new house, even to the master bedroom and my father’s newly-built study.

I know this year, my wife will finally get her wish – to be able to spend Aidil Fitri with her in-laws; her children will finally get to know of their grandparents who do not live in Batu Pahat; and we would all be able to take a family portrait – parents, children, grandparents, great-grandparents, grand uncles and grand aunts, cousins, siblings, step-siblings, and nephew.

Earlier today, my younger sister sent me a text message that reads:

“By the way, I forgot to tell you. I’m glad you went to see Ayah the other night. He’s been missing you and Joe (my younger brother) a lot. Always talking about you both as children. He’s talking a lot about not being around much longer so it;s good if we can make it good for him in his last years.”

This reminds me a lot about a posting that I had made about a book that I had read two years ago, that was written by the late Dr Randy Pausch about how family comes first in any case at all.

I hope that, in this twilight years of mine, and of my father’s, this full circle will finally come to a full stop.

Because we are a family again.

The family in June 2007 – before the fallout some two weeks later.

The meeting I was supposed to attend is now probably into its first hour. However, I am still in bed. Life has been such a rush lately that I seem to have put more important things aside.

MY LIFE

Everything at the office have been moving at such a high pace, trying to complete in two months what the previous partner could not in two years, and at the same time having to hop between offshore platforms and doing other work I term as ‘normal’. My mind has been so preoccupied with work that I am more withdrawn now, grumpier, at times lost in my own world, and suffer from BLANK-OUTS – eyes open but don’t seem to register anything.

One episode of a blank-out caused my car to hit a post as I drove out from the office parking. I have yet to send the car for repairs.

I talk less to the wife and kids. And my work schedule made me miss seeing my children for a whole month. I had to make trips out of KL starting on weekends and away for a week or so. I get irritated easily, and things I am normally sensitive towards I now find petty. When I get home, I no longer make a stop downstairs to say Hi to the kids, or grab a cracker from the kitchen. Nowadays I just walk straight to the room and there I’d stay until I leave home for work the next morning.

And yes, my only meal yesterday was lunch. I have yet to have breakfast today.

And I have trouble sleeping at night. It is always that endless tossing and turning and finally sleeping at around 4am, only to wake up two hours later. The only time I got to have more sleep was when I was on board the rig recently – at least four hours a night.

Usually I’d call my kids daily. Now there has even been a long stretch of more than a week of not talking to them over the phone, even when I was away.

Don’t even mention about going diving. I cannot seem to find time in the near future to plan a trip. From next month onwards, I will be going to the rig every month, spending between 4 to 5 days on board. That translates into at least 7 days a month being away just for rig audit and inspection. I haven’t added other outstation trips I know I’ll be making, like doing audits and inspection at our forward bases in Labuan and Kemaman. The only consolation is I no longer have to look after the vessels. Just the drilling side.

I miss going out for movies, I think the last movie I watched was Michael Jackson’s “This Is It.” I miss driving around at night. I miss walking around with the wife aimlessly. I miss listening to laughter. I miss seeing my friends, not just the friends I made when I got to know my wife, but my friends – my dive buddies, my college mates, my Air Force squad mates.

In short, I miss my life.

I have been too busy making a living that I forgot to make a life.

This morning I felt upset with Wifey for pulling a long face. Then I saw tears well in her eyes. It frustrated me even more when I asked her what was wrong but received no satisfactory reply. After a few quiet moments, she said:

“I miss my grandma.”

Then I motioned her to come close to me and held her, thinking back to the day her grandmother passed away.

It has been 2 years and 4 days since her grandmother left us. And 12 years since the last set of grandparents of mine left us. Yet, lately I have been thinking a lot of them, and of friends I have lost along the way. My maternal grandfather passed away in February of 1998, a month before my expedition to the North Pole left Malaysia, while my maternal grandmother left us in September the same year. When they died, I lost the very two people whom had stood by me when I was down, and whenever the world seemed against me. And three months later, when I went for my minor pilgrimage (Umrah), I would perform the Umrah for them after completing the obligatory one for myself, for my paternal grandparents, my late uncle Ainuddin (my father’s younger brother who apparently played football together with my friend Renek’s father), my late Auntie Zahariah (my mom’s younger sister), and my late elder sister, Juliana. I did this every year for four years, culminating in my Haj pilgrimage in March 2001. At one point while still in Mecca, I dreamt of my grandmother, her feet covered in blood, trying to clamber up a hill after my late grandfather. She turned to look at me and asked me for help. I got up, went to the mosque and prayed for her.

Just a couple of weeks ago after having a bout of anxiety, I had a vivid dream of an old friend of mine, Jamsuri Hashim, who was the telephone supervisor at the then-Air Force Air Training Command HQ in Tanjung Bungah, Penang. We became so close that when I was going to marry my first ex, he became my spokesman. He had this banged-up white 1968 Volvo 144S, the kind you could see in P Ramlee movies. It was in that car that he, another late friend of ours and also my Warrant Officer Abd Rahman Said (Rahman Senget), my Flight Sergeant Zakaria Din, and I, would go in for late night Char Kuey Teow sessions at Tanjung Bungah. I last saw him back in 1996 or 1997 after he had retired, by that time his eyesight was about gone because of cataract. Rahman left us in 1996, apparently a victim of his ex-mother-in-law’s magic spell (I saw how he puked out a 6-inch corroded nail along with other crazy stuff) when he underwent traditional treatment.

In that dream, I traveled with Jamsuri inside his white Volvo to a food court. But instead of having food at the food court, he got some pre- packed Char Kuey Teow, laid down some newspapers for us to sit on, and there we were, having a picnic by the drain next to the food court talking about old times. I don’t know what the dream meant, but I remember telling him I had to get and and go, and when I woke up, my heart felt heavy and sadness engulfed me.

And this all brings me back to my mention of Heraclitus’s Panta rei in my previous posting of the same title mashed up with the interpretation by Plato:

Ever-newer waters flow on those who step into the same rivers.
Everything changes and nothing remains still.
We both step and do not step in the same rivers. We are and are not.

It is the order I would give to the jump-pilot prior to dropping my skydive students from the Cessna 172 aircraft from an altitude of between 4,000 feet to 6,000 feet above ground level. The jump-pilot would then put the aircraft in a slight dive, throttle back to idle, and apply the parking brakes. By this time the aircraft would be directly overhead the drop zone.

“Out!” I would signal the student who would in turn clamber out the aircraft, hands on the wing strut and one foot on the wheel. The aircraft would then be slightly upwind and I would then look at the student and shout, “GO!”

Five minutes later the student would be back on ground euphoric.

My first exposure to skydiving was when I followed my father when he opened the Benta Police Field Force (now General Operations Force) camp in Pahang in the late 1970s. Members of the crack police commando battalion, known as the VAT 69 or Komando 69, jumped off Cessna 182s using their GQ Parachutes. Then, during the 75th Anniversary of the Malay College back in 1980, members of the Army’s Special Forces Regiment (now Special Forces Group) jumped off an Air Force S-61A4 Nuri helicopter and sailed down using their Parafoil chutes.

My first jump was performed out of a de Havilland Canada DHC-4 Caribou one January morning in 1989 from an altitude of 1,000 feet above ground level using the KS T-10 static-line chutes. I did a total of seven jumps before qualifying as a paratrooper. I did a total of 52 static-line jumps both with and without combat equipment using both the KS T-10 and MC1-1BD chutes before progressing to freefall parachuting in January 1993.

Above Gong Kedak, on the Terengganu-Kelantan border in 1993

On the upside, I became the stunt double for my friend, actor and former model Ridzuan Hashim, in the movie Lurah Dendam in 1995. It was during the shooting of the opening scene that I experienced my first cutaway when my parachute had a total malfunctioned.

Two years later, in March 1997, I was selected to represent Malaysia in the International Parachuting Competition held at the Phra Ram 6 Camp at Cha-Am, near Hua Hin, Thailand. 11 months later, I represented Malaysia as part of the parachuting expedition to the North Pole. I capped that by being the first Malaysian to perform a BASE jump and did that off the KL Tower on 3rd October 1999. In 2000, I was involved in the first Survivor series shot on location at Pulau Tiga off Sabah. My role was to drop an air cargo for the Immunity Challenge.

Landing at the North Pole at 1.48am, 21st April 1998

The cargo and back-up cargo for the Survivor series drop

Me (right) en route to Pulau Tiga

And along the way, I have had lots of students; including from the US, New Zealand, Japan, Singapore, India, Malaysia – and some are still in touch with me. They include my wife’s batchmate Rasidah Salleh (Course 07/2000) and Clement Thoo and Norikazu Kinoshita (Course 08/2000).

Rasidah (right most) after receiving her certificate

Clement Thoo upon landing at the Jenderata airstrip

The last time Rasidah, Clement and Nori jumped together was in June 2000 in Sitiawan during an air carnival. I could still remember how gusting and dog-legged winds blew most skydivers off the drop zone. But it was fun.

Sidah and Clement inside the Police Air Wing’s Pilatus PC-6 in Sitiawan

Last night, after 10 years of leaving the world of parachuting, I met up with Clement and Norikazu (or Nori as we call him) again. Clement still works for a software company while Nori now works for a power plant west of Kobe, Japan. It was good to see them again. Both Nori and Clement quit skydiving not long after I did. Clement got hooked to riding big bikes before an accident put that aside. He now scuba dives as well. Nori left Malaysia in 2006 and both Clement and I have asked him to take a longer leave to take up scuba diving in Malaysia.

Yes, I miss skydiving, the freedom of “flying” through the air at almost 200km/h before opening the chute. I miss diving out of the plane and watch the ground rush up to me. But I would like to remember skydiving as that favourite sport for what it was, not for the politics involved.

And I would just like to remember that last jump I did over Dataran Merdeka for the Merdeka Fund fundraising, officiated by the then-Prime Minister, Dato’ Seri (now Tun) Dr Mahathir. It was from the Fire and Rescue Services Mi-17-1V helicopter, 6,000 feet above ground level. I was jumper number six. I leapt off the helicopter, face down, watching the AgroBank and Dayabumi rushing up towards me. I tracked for a while, increasing my vertical speed to beyond 200km/h before arching my body to return to terminal velocity, stable out and deploy my chute at 3,000 feet.

I shall never forget that feeling, the feel of the resistance of the air that I felt on my face, and that sense of freedom. And that is how I shall remember skydiving.

This would be my 5th birthday post on this blog. I turned 44 today. I am overwhelmed with wishes on the phone and especially so on Facebook. I had this list of names of those on Facebook whom have wished me, thinking I could type them all here. Alas, the names ran into the hundreds. So, to those of you who wished me in any way and form, I would like to say a big thank you from the bottom of my heart. You know who you are.

So, what have I done for the past one year?

July 09

I launched our company’s first offshore support vessel on my 43rd birthday.

Posed at 58 knots on board a Ultrafast Patrol Boat with Khun Sateeb

AUGUST 09

Wifey finally becomes a diver

I attended what was the toughest short course ever…and passed with Credit while some failed

During the fasting month, we went diving at Tioman

SEPTEMBER 09

We celebrated Eidul Fitr in Batu Pahat

We went diving in Tioman on the 3rd day of Eidul Fitr

OCTOBER 09

I spent 15 days offshore between Miri and Bintulu

And I took my daughter Hana to dive in Tioman before her SPM examinations

NOVEMBER 09

I took Wifey to Genting after work for a surprise dinner date

DECEMBER 09

We had a dinner at home with friends ushering in MMX

MARCH 10

My photo was one of 42 chosen to be displayed at the National Arts Gallery

I attended two more courses back-to-back

APRIL 10

I went offshore again to do a platform inspection 80km offshore Sabah

We went for our first trip together to Mabul/Kapalai/Sipadan

MAY 10

Shah took his open water diver’s license

JULY 10

I did another platform inspection 200km offshore Miri

Of course it was World Cup 2010 season too

And this was me as I turned 44…

It has been a great year for me.

If you know London well enough, take a walk down the Mall; no, not a shopping mall, but Pall Mall. The name was derived from a mallet and ball game called Pell Mell or Paille-Maille that was a favourite game of King Charles II.

That, and badminton, are probably as English as games can get. Golf is Scottish while football (soccer to those who seem to think the World as we know it, lies in the North American continent) has been played for thousands of years by countless ancient civilisations. And in the modern context, the world would be watching one event every four years – the World Cup.

Since this blog came about, this is the second time that the World Cup is being held. And never in the dreams of both Dr Samuel Livingstone and Mungo Park would people from all continents converge onto South Africa to watch people battle it out on a pitch, country against country, tribes against tribes, and nobody dies. And it is during this month-long event, will one catch me watching football. Forget La Liga, EPL and what-nots. I just do not like to watch football.

Well, that statement above is NOT entirely true! Once upon a time, I used to watch Malaysians play football; and the Malaysian team of the 70s through the mid-80s was a force to reckon with. South Korea and Japan were nothing compared to our team. Hell, we even qualified for the 1972 Olympics! That was the epoch of Malaysian football. Somehow, the aspiration of players nowadays differs, and material gains are what drives the current players. I stand corrected but seriously I don’t think we can ever beat South Korea – ever again. I strongly believe I will never see the likes of Soh Chin Aun, Mokhtar Dahari, Santokh Singh, V Arumugam, Wong Choon Wah, ever again – not in this lifetime, judging by the way people play nowadays.

Therefore, I am so sorry when football officials make statements like, “We should support our local football teams.” I won’t waste my money watching people play worse than Seafield Estate United versus Castlefield Estate Rovers.

Unless someone has the guts and stamina to change the mentality of both the players and that of the officials of the Football Association of Malaysia.

Therefore, I shall enjoy the semi-finals and final games of the World Cup 2010, and not look forward to seeing Malaysia beat Red Star Belgrade ever again. Yes, we used to beat them too. And I used to enjoy watching football from on top of a FRU Truck, eating my cold One Ringgit Burger that a pedlar sold me. Those were the days of football at the Merdeka Stadium.

Oh, Seafield Estate is where UEP Subang Jaya (or more commonly known as USJ) is now, while Castlefield Estate is where the IOI Mall of Puchong is now. The football teams, however, are fictitious.

Anyhow, there is a joke on Facebook that’s going around that goes like this:

Three football fans died. A Japanese, A Korean and a Malaysian. They were all granted a question each to God.

“When can Japan win the World Cup?” asked the Japanese fan.

“In 200 years,” God replied, to which the Japanese fan cried.

The Korean fan then asked, “When, oh Lord, can the Korean team win the World Cup?”

“In 300 years,” God replied, and the Korean fan bawled hysterically.

Then the Malaysian football fan approached God.

“When will the Malaysian team win the World Cup?” he asked.

God cried hysterically.