Alright. Perhaps it's time I quell the nasty rumor that has been going around. To those who have lost sleep over it, no, I am not Ryan Gosling's Hollywood body double. I have no idea how the rumor came about and I am deeply concerned over the confusion it has caused. Maybe some schmuck from E! or TMZ spotted me going to the gym. You don't get confused as Ryan Gosling's Hollywood body double just like that. It takes determination, discipline, a strict diet, and a blatant lie. But let's put that to rest for now. I guess it's just one of the things that happen to you when you start going to the gym. No wonder I've been seeing new fitness centers the size of international airports popping out of nowhere. The promise of a body to-die-for is just a membership away, for RM200 per month, with a 20% discount if you're willing to give out your friend's number, and end your friendship with him. To ensure results are delivered, you are assigned a certified trainer and termination of your membership is usually more difficult than entering North Korea. Nevertheless, that is the trend nowadays. People commit their monthly expenses to a contract that binds them to a place they'll never go. Not me, though. No sir. I've been shrewd enough to save the numbers of Fitness First and its cohorts in my phone -- just as I do with insurance agents. So dodging their calls is usually a breeze. Recently, however, my employers decided that their staff members haven't been healthy enough. So in the spirit of promoting work-life balance, 20 gym cards were distributed to be shared by the 200 of us. A generous card to staff ratio, if you ask me. Considering the number of people who actually utilize the card, a ratio of 1:200 would be more practical. I've never spent much time at the gym. There was the odd visit or two when I was in college. Visits that lasted no longer than 3 minutes. The sight of other students doing 400lb bench presses with biceps the size of Cee Lo Green was demoralizing. I was intimidated, if you will, by the grunts and groans of people pumping iron. And it didn't help that most of them were women. Considering that fitness isn't really an area of interest in the corporate world, I thought I'd give it another shot. How bad could it be anyway? Half the guys have waistline double their age. So I'm a part of the majority. Competition must be less aggressive around here. Above all, it's free. At least I don't have to pay to be humiliated. Hope that clears the air.
Alright you guys have waited 364 days for this so here it is, "My 2011, In Tweets". Goes out to all of my loyal fans out there. Both of you. January: Married the most beautiful girl in the world, @azaliasuhaimi. Here's the card I made (using her photo). http://yfrog.com/kipnx7j February: Drove into Singapore for the first time to watch Clapton live. Found out I had pack of Wrigley's in the car all the while. I win. March: MRSM Pengkalan Chepa Class of 2000 Reunion. A great nostalgic day out with the guys who are mostly married, and permanently pregnant. April: I turned 28. My wife took me to a boutique hotel on an island up north. Now I can't settle with anything that's not boutique. May: Man City lifted the FA Cup after 35 years of insurmountable pain. I was bleeped like a Kardashian during a TV interview after the game. June: Busking Barefoot, our travel blog, was launched. I do the writing and my wife does the photography. Most people come for the pictures. July: Moved into our own place and welcomed a new member to our small family, Zalo the plastic bag eating tabby cat. http://yfrog.com/h81igcqj August: First Ramadhan as a married man. A month of self-reflection, soul-cleansing, and failing to wake each other up for sahur. September: First Raya as a married man. The month I learned why men gain weight after marriage. Two sets of families, friends and Raya food. October: Sweet Charity and Blues Gang reunion. Minetrane's first gig, on stage with Blues Gang. And United 1 - 6 City. It was an okay month. November: Kicked off my venture into freelance copywriting. Hit me up if you've got a gig or two. It won't be that bad and that's a promise. December: My brother got married to the girl of his dreams. Welcome to the family Siti. Sorry the balding gene skipped me for your husband. 2011 has been a great year of learning and re-learning, whatever that means. Sorry for my bad jokes all year long. More to come in 2012. :-)
 There comes a point in every man's life where he needs to make a decision that will determine the course of his being. The action that he takes during this period shall define the journey toward his destiny and equip him for the rocky road that lies ahead. Generations have passed but no man has lived without fearing his encounter with this stage in life. I am of course, talking about hair loss. Growing up, I have always been a kid with a generous set of locks. Not that I was the talk of the town or anything. Unless it's on other parts of his body, nobody cares about a kid with hair on his head. But I was in a comfortable position in society. In school, I had the pleasure of making a mockery out of teachers who were less endowed, on their follicles. Behind their backs (of course), I called them names: "The Shining", "Bald Eagle", "Elmer Fudd" -- you name it. I showed little empathy. Full of disregard over the depression they were probably going through. It was a fun time I would later regret. Things got better in college. Instead of just the educators, my peers began losing hair as well. Some, as early as freshman year. So you could probably imagine how much the fun amplified. We're talking about college here. The immediate taste of freedom after a dozen or so years of oppression in school. It was a time to experiment, and grow that Kurt Kobain hair you've always dreamed of. Sadly, for some of my friends, the ceiling of their hair growth was Danny DeVito. Again, I would learn to regret my treatment of my friends at the time. It's unfair to put the blame entirely on me, though. I had no control over the majestic waves of hair growing out of my head. It wasn't my fault that I could flexibly middle or side-part my do as I wished. I had no reason to worry. Nothing could come near my bangs. I felt untouchable. There was a slight concern, though. My father, who in his younger days had an afro that would give The Jackson 5 a run for their money, began reflecting when he walked under a light source at the age of 40. Thus, by the logic of science, the same could happen to me. Halfway through that age however, I survived, while my younger brother did not. "Yes," I said to myself, as I witnessed his receding hairline. The gene must've skipped me. Or so I thought. I was at the gym the other day when I realized a bright, lighter colored patch near my forehead. Talcum powder, at first I thought. It was, after all, in the changing room. Unexpected sights and particles were all over the place. Upon further inspection, though, my heart shattered as I failed to grasp the beloved lock of hair usually crowned on top of my head. Memories of past flashed through me in lightning speed as I frighteningly try to reclaim my fading glory in front of the mirror; in shock, horror, and panic. Images of brighter days when I was at the mocking end came back to me. The table has turned. I have just been inducted, to the balding fraternity. Then again there's always the Trump comb-over.
 In case I haven't tweeted about it enough, we adopted a cat a few months back. His name is Zalo, he's a male tabby, he's coming up to a year old now, and his favorite food is my socks. (My wife gave him that name. Don't ask me how. It's one of the few things in the world only she finds amusing.) I was a bit uncertain actually, when we first saw Zalo in a box while having breakfast at the neighborhood mamak stall. A bit nervous, maybe, as I never had a pet before. Well there was this pair of rabbits my grandmother gave us when I was 8. They were such adorable fluffy little bunnies who couldn't stop eating. After realizing that 40% of our household income went to buying their food, my father decided that we had to return them back. It would be 20 years until fate brought me to foster another pet -- one with a more manageable appetite. Before the image of the bunny rabbits could fade from my memory, my wife was already holding the then-unnamed kitten in her arms; walking urgently to our car in case I change my mind, as if I have a choice. It was part persuasion and part empathy. She has been talking about adopting a cat since our wedding earlier in the year. And for someone who would have to live with my jokes for the rest of her life, it was a fair request. We drove home with Zalo meowing incessantly. In fear perhaps, on his first car ride. Little that he knew, the guy on the wheel was just as afraid of him. He did what any cat would expectedly do when we first brought him into the house -- sniff every inch of the area. Like a strict health inspector, he didn't miss a spot. The little guy seemed quite particular about the new place he was settling at. For a move from a Ribena cardboard box to a double-storey terrace though, I reckon he thought it was probably not too shabby. And so began my journey into the world of pet-owning, under the guidance of the veterinary expert that is my wife. At the nearby supermarket, I ventured into a territory I never bothered to swing by before: the pet aisle. I was baffled, to say the least, by the range of cat food, litter, shampoo, toy and tuxedo available in the market. Suffice to say, the only product that possibly hasn't already been designed (yet) for pets is a pet-owning guidebook. But choosing the right stuff for Zalo wasn't all that difficult. It wasn't long before we realized that Zalo wasn't all that fussy of a feline after all. He ate anything we fed him, including our food. I mean, especially our food. He jumps from the floor onto the dining table like a Bugatti Veyron speedometer would from 0 to 100. And he dives into the grocery bag faster than Juan Veron before his flop move to Manchester United. The only things that he eats and we don't are Friskies and -- behind our back -- cockroaches. (Zalo, not Veron.) Nevertheless, that's the pest control budget going into our savings right there. It wasn't hard to fall in love with Zalo. Yet it was pretty awkward during the first few days. I was worried that he would leave his mark around the house, in the form of his bodily waste. A bit like having one of my friends over for the night. So I was wary of his whereabouts, and mine. I kept a distance from the little creature and hid my guitars deep in their cases, only to find him conveniently hiding in there as well. It was a tough period. Until after a while, I learned that Zalo was naturally hygienic and needed no potty training. He knew when to go to his designated area when nature calls -- even better than my friends, at times. I warmed up to him before long. To see our four-legged friend running around in excitement whenever we come home from work is a bit too heartwarming for a man of my caliber to take. The herculean man among men charisma in me crumbled into the honey-scented charm of a Teletubby. Not to mention the times when I wake up to the little furball sleeping on my chest; unperturbed by the volume of my snoring. Plus we have a few things in common. We're shy when it comes to strangers and we're both afraid of my wife's hairbrush. Having Zalo as a part of our small family has changed me as a person. I can now see why people adopt pets. They bring out another side of you that you never knew existed. In my case, a calmer and a more sensible version of myself. I curse less, at least. Unless when I'm watching football or driving. I have also probably softened up a bit, to the amusement of my friends. Only to become the butt of their jokes. But that's a small price to pay for the gratification that I get from taking care of and growing up together with the little fellow. So if you have the capacity to adopt a pet, do give it a try. While it's no mean feat, it's not a walk in the park either. There is a certain amount of time and money that needs to be devoted but it's all part of building your character and responsibility. Somehow, I think pets do know when you're feeling down or blue. Zalo does hang around near me after a bad day at the office, or when he's hungry... more of the latter. Whatever it is, it does give me a certain level of comfort to ease the pain. They don't ask for much anyway. Just tender loving care, and a pair of socks to chew. 
The following article was published in The Star on October 28, 2011.  That's way more than three minutes of injury time At this point of writing, traffic into the Manchester City Wikipedia page is at an all-time high. New fans from around the world are gathering as much information possible about the club's history to claim they've been long time followers. Half of them, former supporters of Chelsea Football Club. "I've been a fan since the club was known as St. Mark's (West Gorton) back in the 1880/81 season." But that's the least of our problems. Glory hunters will always be there and they usually come together with success. Or even the slightest hint of attaining any. Gone were the days where I would stop and say hi whenever I see someone wearing a City jersey in the streets of KL. Doing that today would mean I’d have to approach every other stranger out there. Everyone is in blue with the name of an airline company on their chests. Very few of whom, have endured the pain of darker, “Typical City” days. That aside, the crux of my dilemma now, as a City fan, is figuring out where to begin after witnessing what pun-desperate tabloid headline writers repeatedly call, "Demolition Derby". It's been a few days now since Mark Clattenburg blew the final whistle of the 161st Manchester Derby at Old Trafford. (This time, without the obligatory “Fergie Time”.) But the buzz from the game is still resonating. I've been overwhelmed by the amount of attention that the game has garnered. We're talking beyond football fans here. We're talking women not posting about their multi-level marketing successes on Facebook but instead, the final scoreline of the match (1 – 6, in case you forgot). Some of them didn't even know which side was in red and which was in blue. Nevertheless, that's how special this little derby has become. It will be remembered for many things. We had initially planned to meet up in Hartamas, me and a few other long-time blue-blooded brothers of mine (I know). Unfortunately, with everyone all over the place, we had to call it off, leaving our Manchester born and bred friend Dave to be the sole survivor amidst the sea of red there. "I’ll be on TV! They asked why I’m the only blue here!" he texted us before the game. If only we could turn back time. So there I was in my fading Man City t-shirt watching the game with my father at home in the living room; barely staying put and mildly hyperventilating -- a Derby Day standard. I thought it would be nice to catch the match with my old man, the man who made me a City fan and put me in football fandom misery for more than a decade. There was a sense of nostalgia in continuing a tradition of watching the derby together while screaming and cursing in front of the TV to the fear of our neighbors. Only this time, there was little to be irked about. The only time I recall using profanity was when Mario Balotelli was booked for committing probably the most treacherous crime in modern football, asking a question. "Why always me?" Fresh from being rescued by the fire brigade after "his friend" shot fireworks in the bathroom and set his house on fire, Balotelli walked into the Theatre of Dreams in his typically coy and unperturbed manner, and graciously gave the Red Devils a nightmare. The first goal was a beautifully placed shot far beyond the reach of David De Gea and the second was a conclusive finish as a result of a clever play between David Silva and James Milner. The question is not why, Mario. The question is why not. My "Why always me?" t-shirt is on its way. Deeper in the heart of City's holding midfield was the formidable force that is Yaya Toure and Gareth Barry. Armed with their constantly misreported combined wage of £600,000 per week, Toure and Barry made closing down United's attacks look easier than styling Wayne Rooney's hair. Further down, with only Darren Fletcher's fluke goal beating him, it was a great day out as a spectator for Joe Hart. So much that there were reports of him discussing Glee episodes with Joleon Lescott in the middle of the match. If the highly-inflated numbers of the English media are anything to go by, the trillions that Sheikh Mansour has pumped into the club have been, to say the least, totally worth it. The investment is for the long run and City's newly announced training center for grassroot development is a glaring evidence of just that. An aspiration surely shared by the Glazers. On the red side of the pitch, one does wonder about the tactics deployed by Sir Alex Ferguson especially in the absence of their massive prospect wonderboy Tom Cleverley. And having Anderson, a product of their Paul Scholes Tackling Academy to wrestle Silva down at every opportune moment was a rather childish move. Evidently, United paid the price when Johnny Evans was sent off for doing wrongly what City kaptain Vincent Kompany did so professionally right to Danny Welbeck later in the game. Elusively pulling down your opponent without guilt (or getting sent off) is an art form not for the untrained. The red card for Evans was proven to be the turning point of the game. From being rubbish, United became utter rubbish and the City Slickers capitalized like Simon Cowell on a bad X-Factor contestant. The game opened up and lived up to its expectation as a mouthwatering affair. City defenders surged up the flanks in the form of Gael Clichy and academy graduate cum Balotelli lookalike, Micah Richards. With so much speed and splendor sandwiching the already lethal combination of Silva and Milner, and accidentally good positioning of Edin Dzeko, tragedy was written all over the green and yellow scarves of faithful United fans who have traveled from as far as London and Singapore. Sergio Aguero brought his club goal tally to 10, Dzeko scored two (one with his knee), and Silva waved his wand around the handsome goatee of fellow countryman De Gea and slot one in between his legs to turn the derby into a seven goal thriller. I lost count at one point. Then again, who wouldn't? It was, as one Wayne Rooney used to say, a lesson in football. But let's forget about the scoreline for a moment. The goals are all on YouTube. Let's shift our focus on the man who masterminded a victory that has surpassed the 5 – 1routing of our Silent Neighbors at Maine Road in 1989. With an English vocabulary of only five words more than Carlos Tevez, Roberto Mancini managed to gel a team of five Englishmen and six foreigners into a unit that was so entertaining and unstoppable, only the close-up of Ferguson incessantly chewing gum as his nose grew purple made me shun away from the TV during the game. Forza Mancini. In hindsight, we know both men have great respect for each other. Before the game, as a part of the mind game ritual of the league, Mancini called Ferguson his "teacher" in coaching while the great Scotsman reciprocated by saying that the way Mancini conducted the Tevez saga was a "management masterclass". Surely one of the journalists must’ve told them to get a room. In his post-match interview however -- still probably chewing gum -- the most successful manager in the history of the game called the defeat the "worst of his career". We're talking about the same man who was once asked if United will ever go into a derby as the underdog. He conveniently answered, "Not in my lifetime." Well, tick tock Fergie. Alas, the game was still only worth three points. And we’re barely halfway through the league. Sure it was the biggest derby win ever. Sure it was United’s first home defeat since April 2010. Sure City is five points ahead at the top. But we need to remember that there is still a long way to go. United is still in the running to win the league and City players must not get ahead of themselves. Same goes to the fans. The plethora of 6 – 1 jokes on the Internet is starting to get tiring and I for one sincerely hope we let bygones be bygones and move on. Facing the taunts of “CHAMP16ONS” and all is a small price to pay if United go all the way to retain the title. And they have proven that they are capable of doing it in the past. So United fans, cheer up. Every cloud has a Silva lining.
Taken from the KL Blues Facebook page. That's me trying to sing but instead ended up looking like Rocky Balboa. "Adrian..."  The Sun was just setting after a long hot weekend in Damansara Damai. But in the heart of the Damansara-Sungai Buloh border suburb, Hot Pot Cafe was just waking up from slumber, cruising into the evening with the return of the KL Blues Community Gathering. It’s been more than a year since the last gathering. And the local Blues scene has been on a break, or hibernating, if you will. The bands have been playing, here and there, but it’s been many moons since the last congregation of makers and lovers of the music. Time was nigh for the community to make a comeback. The owners of Hot Pot, Dino and Doc Fazah, experienced musicians in the industry themselves, were gracious enough to host the celebrated night. It was a milestone, so to speak, for KL Blues as the event marked the beginning of the organization’s journey to continue its mission in keeping the Blues alive. Hot Pot would be the first of many venues that the community plans to tour to in spreading the music and the love that comes together with it. Fresh from the historic reunion of Blues Gang the night before at the Dua Raksasa concert with Sweet Charity in Stadium Merdeka, Zizi and Jim got the ball rolling with their energetic rendition of evergreen Blues classics from the back in the day. One does wonder how they managed to lift the spirit of the floor and keep the energy high after a long night at the stadium. We all know that Jim is a seasoned runner, so perhaps we could ask Zizi next time he’s got any petua; and if it involves Tongkat Ali.  Taking over the stage were newcomers Minetrane. Formerly of The Big Pink and The Terence Chong Blues Band, Minetrane is made of four white-collar musicians who have been keeping a close eye on the expertise of their predecessors to keep on learning the tools of the trade. Gathering songs that they have performed separately earlier in different bands, Minetrane paid tribute to the likes of Stevie Wonder, BB King, Bill Withers and Jimi Hendrix. With Dino joining and adding some spice on the piano, it was certainly a good night out for the community’s latest four-piece act.  As the evening got warmer, with faces familiar and new filling the floor, crowd favorite Bluestreat came up to bring their game on. The band had previously, in an earlier KL Blues series, graced the grounds of The Duke in Duta Vista for their Tribute to Dire Straits gig. It’s not every day that you come across a band capable of paying an ode to Mark Knopfler and friends. But Bluestreat is not your everyday band. Performing their own compositions as well as Classic Rock tunes of Pink Floyd, Bluestreat got the crowd moving and dancing to the beat like a bonfire in a dark starry night. Joining them soon after, making his special appearance for the night, was the Godfather of Malaysian Blues himself, the one and only Ito of the legendary Blues Gang. The writer was in Stadium Merdeka the night before amidst the thousands witnessing the return of his band on stage. But to be inches closer to the man at Hot Pot was certainly a night to remember. With the crowd dancing to his Malaysian Blues anthem Apo Nak Dikato, Ito was joined on stage with his son. It was a father and son fare that signifies the inheritance of the local Blues scene to the next generation; for the old, to pass the baton to the young.  Speaking of the young, closing the night was local harp extraordinaire Zhin Wong and the musician who’s known by all, and has been everywhere, Aznan Aziz. They had earlier joined Zizi and Jim for a beautiful rendition of the Muddy Waters classic, I’m Ready and John Mayall’s Crocodile Walk. But when they took over the stage as the clock ticks closer to midnight, the energy of the place remained upbeat with Zhin’s energetic and soulful mastery of the harp and Aznan’s gorgeous singing and guitar works. The passion in these guys brings chill down your spine. With Monday looming closer to the end of the weekend, the first “return” of the KL Blues Community Gathering ended on a high note. It has successfully paved a way for the next episode of the series and the crowd simply couldn’t wait as it has now created a buzz in the community. So stay tuned, and keep on sweatin’ the Blues! 
The following essay was my entry to the Sun/1MDB "Malaysia and Me" writing contest. Totally shouldn've written about struggles with my inner demons instead of food. Selamat Hari Kebangsaan! 
Thank you Malaysia. You have shaped me into the person I am today, an overweight 28-year-old with permanent love handles. Malaysians love their food. We all know that. Food defines our culture like no other. Without food, we are left with the image of a mat rempit doing a wheelie or a cab driver arguing with a Middle Eastern tourist to portray the country. Imagine that on the cover of a Visit Malaysia brochure. That's how important our food has become to us. It has become our identity. It goes beyond providing nutrition. It provides nutrition and contributes a large chunk of income to local cardiologists. "You are what you eat," or so they say. If there's any truth in the saying, then by noon on a normal day, the average Malaysian is a plate of nasi lemak, two servings of roti canai, a glass of teh tarik and a bag of kuaci he's munching at work. The very image of a hardworking Malaysian. I am no different. Malaysian food to me is what the Batmobile is to Batman. I can't go anywhere without it. And I mean anywhere. When I was 17, for example, I was offered a place to pursue my studies in the United States. It was a dream come true. Yet, the prospect of being half the world away from the likes of mee goreng mamak and ayam tandoori brought shivers down my spine. Even the famed nasi goreng USA can never be found anywhere in the US. It was this fear of malnutrition that made me fly to Los Angeles with two large suitcases. One containing my clothing and the other, containing packets of instant sambal ikan bilis, rendang ayam and serunding daging. Half of the ration was chunked away by airport security. But I survived. Five years of living abroad taught me to appreciate our food better. Nothing comes close to the variety of food that we have here in Malaysia. Sure, America is a melting pot. But as staples of their diet, pizza is Italian and Chinese take-away is well, Chinese. The only purely American food I could think of is the Big Mac. We have got history to thank for what we have on our plates today. This country was partly built by travelers who came to our port to trade spice. Some settled here for good after marrying the locals and brought in their recipes together with them. Recipes that have evolved into different forms and fusions through our diverse cooking styles. This beautiful convergence of traditions is the root to the variety of flavors that have been spoiling our taste buds through the years. It forms the stories behind the mamak stalls, Chinese kopitiam shops and dimly-lighted Thai seafood restaurants that we see everywhere today. The same goes to the meals on our dining table at home. Growing up, I was often told by my mother that I should always be thankful and finish my food because back in the day, only Malay kings and queens get to eat the dishes that we eat on a regular basis today. Back then, asam pedas and sambal tempoyak were the food of the royals. Even then I knew it was just her way of stopping me from eating junk food and spoiling my dinner. But coming back to her words today, it does make sense because fixing these dishes requires meticulous preparation. One extra pinch of ingredient into the pot and you've practically ruined the entire mix. I can imagine how mind-boggling the chemical equations behind every dish are. And there's no turning back! Which is why I never believe my aunts when they say all you need to make the perfect Malay dish is to estimate and add the ingredients "secukup rasa". While I struggled to understand Einstein's Theory of Relativity back in college, I did finally grasp its basics. The concept of "secukup rasa", on the other hand, remains a mystery that continues to leave me in a bewildered heap. It's a secret code. A language only Malay women understand and Malay men refuse to understand. My Chinese, Indian, Sikh, Kadazan and Bajau brothers know what I'm talking about. It's the eating part that we're good at. And herein lies the beauty of Malaysia as a food nation. Our food builds character. It's the DNA that forms our personality as Malaysians. The palette that provides the many colors gracing the sights and sounds of this beautiful nation. People sitting by the roadside chatting over a plate of rojak and washing it down with a bowl of cendol. The mamak waiter who could remember all 600 orders he's taking and calculate the total by hand (though different amount every time). The Chinese uncle who could fix a plate of char kuey teow on his flaming wok at the blink of an eye. The list goes on and on, from every corner of the country. Coming from a family of a Kelantan-Negeri Sembilan mix, I was brought up to experience both ends of the Malaysian food spectrum. From the cili padi-laden masak lemak and sambal belacan from Kuala Pilah to the double dose of sugar in renowned Kelantanese dessert delicacies such as jala emas and the oddly-named tahi itik, I have grown to withstand any form of challenge to my tongue and tummy. Perhaps that is also why I am often referred to as being both hot and sweet. At least by my wife. I'm sure we have read enough about Malaysian food integrating its people. There's no denying that the plethora of food joints that we have across the country are bringing people together. It's a festival of our best culinary offerings which everyone is celebrating, all year long. And the world is taking notice. Malaysians stood tall when we witnessed Penang assam laksa making it to the top 10 of CNN's Most Delicious Food in the World ranking recently. Food makes us forget about our differences. It opens a new avenue of limitless possibilities for us to explore together as a nation. Food is what people of different races in this country understand. We don't say "Hello!" in this country. We ask, "Dah makan?" A short, two-word question that embodies the unity of our people in its truest sense. A question both young and old can understand. A question we can ask each other even as strangers. Only on this land, where everyone is always hungry. |
 Photography by Azalia Suhaimi
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This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 Malaysia License. |