Something strange has been happening. (Insert the Twilight Zone theme here). I've almost been bumping into A. Kadir Jasin for the past few months. I don't know how much longer we can go on like this.

It seemed to start innocently enough. There is a certain corner mamak restaurant in Bangsar in which I have been known to hang out and indulge in the common group activities of lambasting crony capitalism and leering at SPGs. So far, it was a typical 2am, and all was right with the world.

But wait! I got a jolt when I turned around and spotted the familiar reedy countenance of the former NST chief. He was alone and appeared to be nursing, of all things, a teh tarik . Historical context: the time was January, and rumours of his being sacked were starting to be enthusiastically spread by, among others, myself.

"Don't look, but it's Kadir Jasin!" I hissed, to which my dim-witted companions immediately took as a cue to swivel as one and gasp. "Look at him, isn't he pathetic?" commented someone. "He obviously doesn't have any friends anymore," was another contribution. I, of course, pretended not to notice him. The man himself was either doing the same or was extremely short-sighted. Then again, maybe he didn't remember who I was.

We were never what you would call buddies. In fact, I don't think we'd ever even had a conversation. I was never an NST employee but I used to spend enough time there to be mistaken for one of the hired minions.

When my NST column was terminated in December, the word came from him. A month later, the word was out that he was sacked as well, an occasion which warranted a measure of incredulity and also schadenfreude (yah, look it up!) on my part.

I perfected my deadpan delivery at about this time. Various folks would ask, "Is it true that Kadir Jasin got the sack?" I would say, "That's what I heard." And they would ask, "But why?" And I would say, "Because he wasn't supportive enough of the government." The reaction each time would be the same: a sputtering "But...but...you can't be serious!"

I was assailed with a desire to look through some of his previous "Other Thots" columns. Nostalgia beckoned a re-read of the lilting, graceful one in which he likened Anwar Ibrahim to an "anal-boring worm" but NST had by then restricted its free Internet archive to one week. If you want to find out how odious he was, you now have to pay. Bummer.

The paper wheeled in A. Samad Ismail to help boost its credibility, and I started work on my movie. Life would have crept along at its usual pace were it not for the fact that, after the initial almost-encounter, our paths just kept on almost crossing, always without a single word being exchanged.

There were a few more occasions in that same corner mamak Bangsar restaurant, as well as the restaurant's sister in Desa Hartamas. We both obviously had too much time on our hands. When I went to watch the recent season of Iranian movies, he was there as well.

No, he wasn't watching the movies, which were obviously too highbrow for him; he was merely meeting a young friend at a coffee joint on the ground floor. This time, our tables were next to one another. He was using his hand-phone, and the espresso-scented air seemed to vibrate with that exaggerated Kedah accent of his.

Things were getting out of hand. I felt like the anti-hero of one of those Poe stories (like The Black Cat ) who keep getting haunted by reminders of the past. Matters were not helped by the fact that people took it as some kind of personal obligation to keep informing me of other AKJ sightings in locations that ranged from karaoke rooms to deserted beaches.

Are all of the sightings true? Or are there a bunch of AKJ clones let loose around the country for the express purpose of keeping media types occupied? What on earth does he think about? How much is that doggie in the window? Do you know the way to San Jose? These, gentle readers, are just a few of the questions I will not ask the next time I almost bump into him. I know not when, I know not where. I just know the suspense is terrible.