If there be another time
When things are different
And love was uttered
With the passion
Of a lover
Then life would be different
And love is less painful
Hope will not be abandoned
Dreams may just come true
Today, on the first day of Ramadhan in the 52nd year of my life, while I was rummaging through some old stuff, I came across a letter written to me by my mother, folded and enveloped into a prescription drug package. My mother taught herself to write in Rumi, so some words are quite difficult to figure out. She was probably more comfortable writing in Jawi, but she knew her son is useless at reading it. The letter was not dated, but I would say it was written circa 1985, the year that I dropped out of UTM. The letter was an angry letter, as angry as my dearest mother would be. I cannot remember the occasion that warranted such letter, but I think I must have said something that hurt her. She wrote that I should have told her or father (unlikely) or my brothers and sisters that I am having difficulties in my studies. She wrote that I have ostracized myself from my family, and she understood that I did this because I do not want to be any more a burden to my parents and my sibli...
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