tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42705447490046577092024-02-28T02:16:35.024-08:00prasanna krishnan speaksSiva Prasanna Krishnanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06210009726000818227noreply@blogger.comBlogger36125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4270544749004657709.post-75826128612085923442012-12-29T02:14:00.001-08:002013-01-13T22:24:12.331-08:00My Sister Siva Lowings aka Sivasree Krishnan aka Sheela<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: x-large;"><em>To Open the Windows One More Time</em></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: x-large;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #002060;"><strong><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Treasure every encounter, for it will never recur</span></em></strong></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<strong><em><span style="color: #002060; font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span></em></strong> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="line line-s" id="line_1">Paperback writer</span></div>
<span class="line line-s hover" id="line_2">Dear Sir or Madam, </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="line line-s hover">will you read my book?</span><span class="line line-s hover" id="line_3"></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="line line-s hover">It took me years to write,</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="line line-s hover">will you take a look?</span><span class="line line-s hover" id="line_4"></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="line line-s hover">It's based on a novel by a man named Lear</span><span class="line line-s hover" id="line_5"></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="line line-s hover">And I need a job </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="line line-s hover">so I want to be a paperback writer</span><span class="line line-s" id="line_6"></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="line line-s">Paperback writer!</span></div>
<br />
BEATLES - PAPERBACK WRITER <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<strong><em><span style="color: #002060; font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span></em></strong> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<strong><em><span style="color: #002060; font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=taADLPtyDb0">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=taADLPtyDb0</a></span></em></strong></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Family Blog Writer</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Dear friend or stranger</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Will you read my blog?</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
It took me months to write</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Will you take a look? </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Its based on my sister by name of sheela</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
So I need this blog</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
To tell the stories of the people of long ago</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Family blog writer...</div>
<em><span style="font-size: x-large;"></span></em><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "AR BERKLEY"; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-MY;">My name is Siva Prasanna Krishnan and i feel committed to recording memories of a bygone era of growing up in the Malaya of the fifties and sixties, as a child of immigrant parents from Kerala, India. I hope to chart briefly the journey of my family. But no number of photographs can capture pictures stored in the hearts and minds of people...... perhaps words might be able to do what pictures and albums are unable to do ......</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: AR BERKLEY; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: AR BERKLEY;"><span style="font-size: large;">The story of all of us Krishnan Children began with the story of the First World War and <span style="color: black; font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: AR BERKLEY;">its aftermath which saw many people leaving British India to come out to the East in search of a better life. My maternal grandfather C. A. Raghavan was born in 1900 in Paravoor, Quilon District Kerala, the second of three sons.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: AR BERKLEY;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: AR BERKLEY;"></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: AR BERKLEY; font-size: large;">He came to Malaya after the end of the Great War and was in Malaya during the infamous Japanese Occupation. My Dad came to Malaya at a young age with his aunt who came to Malaya after her marriage to Neelakandan, the older brother of my grandfather Raghavan. Neelakandan and family left before the outbreak of the war leaving my Dad who was then a teenager, with my grandfather in 15 Jalan Dhoby Johore Bahru. </span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: AR BERKLEY; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: AR BERKLEY; font-size: large;">There was much suffering for members of my family in India as well as in Malaya. I have often wondered how my paternal grandmother coped when her son did not return to the relative safety of India with the aunt/cousin who had taken him to Malaya in the 1930s. </span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: AR BERKLEY; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: AR BERKLEY; font-size: large;">The prisoners of war, made up mainly of Caucasians and Eurasians, suffered and died in very large numbers in prisons and concentration camps or the dreaded Siam Railway. This period also saw the rise of the Communist Party of Malaya. </span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: AR BERKLEY; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: AR BERKLEY; font-size: large;">After the end of the war, my maternal grandmother sailed to Singapore with her four children and Uncle Ayakutty as their escort, in 1946. Uncle Karunakaran, Dad's first cousin, travelled with my grandmother and her family from Kerala to Madras. </span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: AR BERKLEY; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: AR BERKLEY; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Post War Malaya and the birth of the Krishnan Children during the Emergency Years - 1948 to 1960</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: AR BERKLEY; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><u>A Changing Political and Social Scenario</u></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The turbulent political and social situation in post-war Malaya saw different political parties and citizens clamouring for independence. The Malayan Union was rejected and then replaced with the Federation of Malaya and all of us were born in the Federation of Malaya. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The British Empire was falling apart with the countries across Asia and Africa becoming independent. In Malaya, the people had lost confidence in the British and the Communist Party of Malaya with its manifesto calling for the creation of an independent communist Malaya, embarked on a campaign of terror.</span> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<o:p><strong> </strong></o:p><u><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Three murders and the Emergency Begins<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">On 16 June 1948, shortly before 8.30 a.m. three young Communist Terrorists on bicycles arrived at the office of Elphil Estate, twenty miles east of Sungai Siput in Perak. Walking straight to the manager’s office, they shot the manager, Mr Arthur Walker, dead with two shots at point blank range and thereafter left. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Half an hour later, twelve armed Chinese surrounded the office of Mr John Allison, Manager of Sungai Siput Estate, ten miles away and apprehended him and his young 21 year old assistant, Ian Christian, and shot them to death in cold blood, while they were tied up to chairs in Mr Allison’s office. The terrified estate clerks who had witnessed those crimes were assured by one terrorist speaking in Malay not to be afraid, they were out for the Europeans and 'the running dogs'. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The term, ‘running dogs’, was meant for British supporters and anyone who worked against the Communist Party of Malaya. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Meanwhile Mr Donald Wise, the Manager of Kamuning Estate, escaped death because his jeep broke down in the field and the communist terrorists became uneasy and left his office. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Thus the Communist Party of Malaya began their war on the country by trying to derail the economy of the country by acts of terrorism as they targeted remote tin mines and rubber estates, the economic backbone of the country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Managers and staff were murdered in cold blood. Workers were compelled to supply them with food and information.</span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Our friend Gordon's father was the manager of a rubber estate in Tanjung Malim when he was murdered by the CTs. His four year old sister was tortured and later died. Gordon's mum, brother and two other sisters had gone to Kuala Lumpur to do their Christmas shopping.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZe3td3P33gH17_GD5Bytk3V45a0TZvCmmufsJDG7Ua5edAuR3V7MZoZbE1P0MLaWGmU7uSbQZoSsF-Psbe8jS3OZY6PYHU9WpNJ5yrH4txRypdRLbuJt4jhp8N2uIzh9HBTkDktEP2ik/s1600/IMG_0077.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZe3td3P33gH17_GD5Bytk3V45a0TZvCmmufsJDG7Ua5edAuR3V7MZoZbE1P0MLaWGmU7uSbQZoSsF-Psbe8jS3OZY6PYHU9WpNJ5yrH4txRypdRLbuJt4jhp8N2uIzh9HBTkDktEP2ik/s320/IMG_0077.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: AR BERKLEY;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Times New Roman;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: AR BERKLEY;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: AR BERKLEY;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: AR BERKLEY;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: AR BERKLEY;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: AR BERKLEY;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: AR BERKLEY;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: AR BERKLEY;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: AR BERKLEY;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: AR BERKLEY;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: AR BERKLEY;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: AR BERKLEY;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: AR BERKLEY;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><u>To Open the Windows One More Time</u></span></div>
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I want to open the windows of Jalan Dhoby one more time, to catch a glimpse of and to relive days long gone, and bring back for a fleeting moment, the joys and pains of loving and living with people - some who are no more and have settled into and found their niche in the memory of others, who are still around. </span></div>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My older brother is Siva Prabha Krishnan. My younger sisters are Sivasree Lowings and Siva Sobha Bowe. My younger brothers are Harish Krishnan and Suresh Krishnan. The only place where all six of us have lived together is No 3, Lorong 2B Jalan Abdul Samad, the house where my youngest brother was born in December 1960.</span><br />
<br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW3kZGWWTKSTo5U6zOXdzWSEB-AGFLobJj97Y6hNSlmJIGorIrhFqs506UXnFac7dD5sqOWu0MkfR3LNvRrTUxeH9RikvtZLPQAnxNLpgyq0FNCTQaDTBVFasRq9E7S476R9nv2s9d_bE/s1600/IMG_0057.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW3kZGWWTKSTo5U6zOXdzWSEB-AGFLobJj97Y6hNSlmJIGorIrhFqs506UXnFac7dD5sqOWu0MkfR3LNvRrTUxeH9RikvtZLPQAnxNLpgyq0FNCTQaDTBVFasRq9E7S476R9nv2s9d_bE/s640/IMG_0057.jpg" width="449" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">A Chow Wah Studio Photograph taken in October 1963 before our trip to India</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">Clockwise starting from extreme right</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">Sobha, Mum Lakshmi Prasadini, Suresh, Dad P Krishnan, Harish, Sheela, Prabha, Prasanna</span></em></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidJjajdYAp85-4CuvTpOpehFnN5iEp2x4PXvJklNYML8q7g3hfUVjdLL5MEdTh7qzv0xFPpKkkuFvmgshKPSbg7Ti2eo-Y7ijV41FK4rPa1RFnVThlefd118C8Tsy5DB0YJYf1jOT6Wsw/s1600/IMG_0132.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="632" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidJjajdYAp85-4CuvTpOpehFnN5iEp2x4PXvJklNYML8q7g3hfUVjdLL5MEdTh7qzv0xFPpKkkuFvmgshKPSbg7Ti2eo-Y7ijV41FK4rPa1RFnVThlefd118C8Tsy5DB0YJYf1jOT6Wsw/s640/IMG_0132.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">From extreme right: Prasanna, Sobha, Harish, Sheela, Prabha, maternal grandfather Raghavan Vaidyar, Suresh</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">Taken in our garden, in the morning of the day of our departure to India, 4 October 1963. We sailed on the SS Rajula - a journey of a lifetime.</span></em></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"I am Sailing" sung by Rod Stewart comes to mind right now as I recall our days on board the ship as we sailed to India in 1963.</span><br />
<br />
Dad was sailing back to India for the first time with his wife and children. It was his second trip home to visit his parents and family since he sailed for Malaya with his aunt as a young ten or eleven year old boy. He did not share his views or feelings with us but from all the gifts that he bought for his parents, brother and relatives, we knew that they were on his mind. <br />
<br />
It was Mum's first trip home to India since she left as a fifteen year old with her mother and brothers to join her father who chose to remain in Malaya during the Second World War. His older brother Neelakandan and his younger brother Shankaran, left just before the outbreak of the war when war seemed imminent. Mum was a very talkative person and her infectious excitement engulfed all of us. <br />
<br />
<em>I can visualize my parents singing this song without ever having heard it or known Rod Stewart.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<br />
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">"Sailing"</span></strong><br />
<strong><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u1v60FITAfY">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u1v60FITAfY</a></strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
<div style="margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 10px;">
<!-- start of lyrics --><em>I am sailing, I am sailing,</em><br />
<em>home again 'cross the sea.</em><br />
<em>I am sailing, stormy waters,</em><br />
<em>to be near you, to be free.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>I am flying, I am flying,</em><br />
<em>like a bird 'cross the sky.</em><br />
<em>I am flying, passing high clouds,</em><br />
<em>to be with you, to be free.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>Can you hear me, can you hear me</em><br />
<em>thro' the dark night, far away,</em><br />
<em>I am dying, forever trying,</em><br />
<em>to be with you, who can say.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>Can you hear me, can you hear me,</em><br />
<em>thro' the dark night far away.</em><br />
<em>I am dying, forever trying,</em><br />
<em>to be with you, who can say.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>We are sailing, we are sailing,</em><br />
<em>home again 'cross the sea.</em><br />
<em>We are sailing stormy waters,</em><br />
<em>to be near you, to be free</em>.<br />
<br />
<em>Oh Lord, to be near you, to be free.</em><br />
<em>Oh Lord, to be near you, to be free,</em><br />
<em>Oh Lord.</em><!-- end of lyrics --></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><u>Crossing the Seas and Not Crossing the Seas - To Leave or to Stay</u></span><br />
<em></em><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I was the first to leave home. I left in June 1970 to enter the University of Malaya, but I had dreams of coming back to JB and being with my family again although I fell in love with Kuala Lumpur, the most beautiful of cities. I had dreams of the six of us as adults and our children getting along well with each other, of going to each other's homes for the holidays. But somehow it was not to be.</span> <br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfUuXCM2BBBmfG7DtG2z3lCFh359HdyNuT5yvxbamBrQNpFqpNm4trU8RjjIPJx4Fr6s8EDVBweQcOR1btHymKiQrfW4-crRUVBSwPiQwXX2jyOR2xLD-jff2TJG6Y7D_HWL-eF70eYek/s1600/274_28656091577_1908_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfUuXCM2BBBmfG7DtG2z3lCFh359HdyNuT5yvxbamBrQNpFqpNm4trU8RjjIPJx4Fr6s8EDVBweQcOR1btHymKiQrfW4-crRUVBSwPiQwXX2jyOR2xLD-jff2TJG6Y7D_HWL-eF70eYek/s400/274_28656091577_1908_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em>In my home in Tuan Estate Pahang in 1981</em></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em></em></span><br />
<br />
<br />
All of us had a fascination for airports - Dad used to take us for drives and one of the places he took us to was the airport in Singapore, the one at Paya Lebar, which was not too far from Uncle Rajannan's house. <br />
<br />
We did not go there to send off anyone nor to receive anyone. We were there to join in the excitement of people coming and going, watching planes landing and taking off and indulging in the sheer adrenaline flowing through us as we studied the passengers and their emotions. It gave us an impetus to want to travel and fly off to the horizon. <br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://shelf3d.com/hVAsOjJZBdw">http://shelf3d.com/hVAsOjJZBdw</a><br />
leaving on a jet plane sung by Frank Sinatra<br />
<br />
All my bags are packed I'm ready to go<br />
I'm standin' here outside your door<br />
I hate to wake you up to say goodbye<br />
But the dawn is breakin' it's early morn<br />
The taxi's waitin' he's blowin' his horn<br />
Already I'm so lonesome I could die<br />
<br />
So kiss me and smile for me<br />
Tell me that you'll wait for me<br />
Hold me like you'll never let me go<br />
Cause I'm leavin' on a jet plane<br />
Don't know when I'll be back again<br />
Oh baby, I hate to go<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>In 1974, my sister Sheela packed her bags and left for the UK </strong>to pursue a career of her choice in a country of her choice, and her departure left a void in my life which can never be filled. Lee Foundation helped with the money for the air ticket. She knew what she wanted to do. The break was painful for all of us especially my Mum, and also my silent Dad. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Uncle Prakash was with us then, and we knew he was not well but his illness was not mentioned nor discussed and everyone gingerly skirted around the issue. Prakash himself spent many hours in our neighbour's house in the evenings. Our neighbour was a pastor who gave him a lot of support and sad to say none of us in our house gave any support to someone who had made our childhood a magical one filled with laughter. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">He together with Uncle Prasad instilled in us a love for books and the arts. He bought us books and told us about the author. One book I remember and which is with Sheela is "What Katy Did Next". I can not ever forget the smiling face nor the laughter in his voice when he spoke to us and the love that he had for his only sister, our mother. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">I remember asking Prakash from the time I was quite young where the sky came down to touch the ground. He told me that it came down behind his school, Johore English College. I asked him if he had touched it. He told me that he had. I asked him what it felt like. He told me it was just like touching cotton wool. My Mum was not so romantic and told me it was rubbish. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Years later when I went to English College to do my Form Six, I strolled to the back of the school, walked along the fence, looked up at the sky and told myself that the sky might not come down behind English College for me to touch it, but I had to a small extent, reached up to touch a part of the sky by gaining a place to study in that prestigious school, about twelve years after I had first entered the school with Prakash, when I was five years old. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Ironically, in 1973 Prakash packed his bags in London and left for Malaysia, never to return to the country he loved so much, for its music, its literature, theatre and the arts. A year later Sheela packed her bags and left Malaysia for the UK only to return after that, as a visitor. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">I would say that my sister and uncle did things their way. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">I Did it My Way by Frank Sinatra</span><br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HJRG1DzGs-Q">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HJRG1DzGs-Q</a><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><em><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">So kiss me and smile for me<br />Tell me that you'll wait for me<br />Hold me like you'll never let me go<br />Cause I'm leavin' on a jet plane<br />Don't know when I'll be back again<br />Oh baby, I hate to go</span></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><em><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"></span></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">I wonder if Prakash sang the above song for his girl-friend Tina when he left her and came back home.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><em><br /></em></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxhyphenhyphenfXb0aTJth1VZBRjAIZnEwCrkshV3k5SKRQrKVc0SRxUeUuXf-Zpb9Gd-wm9-79oVrozz9Vkjnoch45gDXrRz-TvsIkkq41ElJ4z6cHl48UBSBDEHclvTBn_jpONIPLAjRl2zjyUL8/s1600/IMG_0204.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxhyphenhyphenfXb0aTJth1VZBRjAIZnEwCrkshV3k5SKRQrKVc0SRxUeUuXf-Zpb9Gd-wm9-79oVrozz9Vkjnoch45gDXrRz-TvsIkkq41ElJ4z6cHl48UBSBDEHclvTBn_jpONIPLAjRl2zjyUL8/s320/IMG_0204.jpg" width="269" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxhyphenhyphenfXb0aTJth1VZBRjAIZnEwCrkshV3k5SKRQrKVc0SRxUeUuXf-Zpb9Gd-wm9-79oVrozz9Vkjnoch45gDXrRz-TvsIkkq41ElJ4z6cHl48UBSBDEHclvTBn_jpONIPLAjRl2zjyUL8/s1600/IMG_0204.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxhyphenhyphenfXb0aTJth1VZBRjAIZnEwCrkshV3k5SKRQrKVc0SRxUeUuXf-Zpb9Gd-wm9-79oVrozz9Vkjnoch45gDXrRz-TvsIkkq41ElJ4z6cHl48UBSBDEHclvTBn_jpONIPLAjRl2zjyUL8/s1600/IMG_0204.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /> </a><br />
<br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span></em><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdvfmdYNC9XRwPSgTb9CeuoeU72RbHKAspY-DkDVBPCunrpTIW5A42eiB_brDl60q92blrhgSEDbWjUJOmK25SVmLg-DEv67HuwQ1vYhcKXbNq5dZlWpgza1aEjZhPXu_bXoV12s7bl9U/s1600/IMG_0001+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdvfmdYNC9XRwPSgTb9CeuoeU72RbHKAspY-DkDVBPCunrpTIW5A42eiB_brDl60q92blrhgSEDbWjUJOmK25SVmLg-DEv67HuwQ1vYhcKXbNq5dZlWpgza1aEjZhPXu_bXoV12s7bl9U/s320/IMG_0001+(2).jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">She sent home lots of photographs that allowed us glimpses of her life away from home.</span></em><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="left" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I think Mum did not want to believe and could not believe that her children were moving away from her home in Jalan Abdul Samad and charting lives of their own.</span></div>
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglAGIIg897qEXbaIcQQ-wAmtveRd-dvjjl4B8472lNmDZrEn8e5dCHfemBxzwSk6X-jsMWSy3PwWkGaj64JkZequzts_M0NQHPLs_l2DxL6lpVX3WUp6dE085qmwhL1EosFnsdGw4svjw/s1600/IMG_0049+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="499" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglAGIIg897qEXbaIcQQ-wAmtveRd-dvjjl4B8472lNmDZrEn8e5dCHfemBxzwSk6X-jsMWSy3PwWkGaj64JkZequzts_M0NQHPLs_l2DxL6lpVX3WUp6dE085qmwhL1EosFnsdGw4svjw/s640/IMG_0049+%25282%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><em>Taken in 1981 when my parents stayed with Sheela. Seated on the left holding a cup is Mrs Joan Pearce, the grandmother of Adam, Heather and Laura. She is one very special lady - our holiday in 1983 and the time spent in her home is priceless.</em> </span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3iRnkBhQFv21IBVL9LV5yy50L0c5HzoyLRG5LXzsmV8QHsHJefmY0SgqndMbn36Bc_sul0V4X5jOmv2lhX4VkeKZEj9A7MVEPAqCbwIhIHWnbiqkJteGMU307l4hyIRvI_wTvqCyWYLs/s1600/IMG_0037.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3iRnkBhQFv21IBVL9LV5yy50L0c5HzoyLRG5LXzsmV8QHsHJefmY0SgqndMbn36Bc_sul0V4X5jOmv2lhX4VkeKZEj9A7MVEPAqCbwIhIHWnbiqkJteGMU307l4hyIRvI_wTvqCyWYLs/s400/IMG_0037.jpg" width="388" /></a></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijXEP4a-V0qnyxdxSa6X71lhiDnaOxwdU7Hp5bU6ficvyMSXLzv4PU_ajfFX2A8h2VfPSNkCROBnwte9b_jIPWYe8WpIZmgLmFlDJZiQm-XCYV5J_-dfO3kq1NVehGyvpmJKsFKNDbnX8/s1600/IMG_0089.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijXEP4a-V0qnyxdxSa6X71lhiDnaOxwdU7Hp5bU6ficvyMSXLzv4PU_ajfFX2A8h2VfPSNkCROBnwte9b_jIPWYe8WpIZmgLmFlDJZiQm-XCYV5J_-dfO3kq1NVehGyvpmJKsFKNDbnX8/s320/IMG_0089.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em>L-R Heather, Adam and Laura, in UK</em></span></td></tr>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em></em></span></tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em></em></span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuYbgi4rGxEcV762wKlfwprXH7m_M7LuBpVccAbgVLXPoERocC4vk8G54MRbYg1y2iZLCLIpjBcMmujKQSRHFCVWpPxWbqyabLTBVxw9GgileO_ncxan36XlRzs0iBn9RjRoUgqCxHk_o/s1600/IMG_0045+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuYbgi4rGxEcV762wKlfwprXH7m_M7LuBpVccAbgVLXPoERocC4vk8G54MRbYg1y2iZLCLIpjBcMmujKQSRHFCVWpPxWbqyabLTBVxw9GgileO_ncxan36XlRzs0iBn9RjRoUgqCxHk_o/s400/IMG_0045+(2).jpg" width="268" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><em>In 1981 my youngest sister Sobha left for the UK.</em> </span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<strong><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em></strong><br />
<strong><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em></strong><br />
<strong><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em></strong><br />
<strong><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em></strong><br />
<strong><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em></strong><br />
<strong><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em></strong><br />
<strong><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em></strong><br />
<strong><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em></strong><br />
<strong><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em></strong><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<br />
<strong></strong><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmA7tpnEgJmVZDGiENeCtHATLY64S1Dmkzf-ivGfQ7lKqQFpZa1ExjFShhKT8diPYkN8AFVirY60h8BI2ZC0oQ1Rb2V9-dxvKyDFRqvKdD4r5Y_JOc5eCqxOLWqbJwKP-0knERbi2UXoM/s1600/IMG_0002+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmA7tpnEgJmVZDGiENeCtHATLY64S1Dmkzf-ivGfQ7lKqQFpZa1ExjFShhKT8diPYkN8AFVirY60h8BI2ZC0oQ1Rb2V9-dxvKyDFRqvKdD4r5Y_JOc5eCqxOLWqbJwKP-0knERbi2UXoM/s400/IMG_0002+(2).jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">In 1989 Harish moved to Australia.</span></em> </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdmLAYmeWE7mMmx6dFgXsnO1Jtzm3eRCsZI118seE1H_YdLGcVIPJD4yG_qFn6nwNSgX8moICUyD3R0Pmi2EDnnuDe1Py4EHE6zvM6cCD4oS3fp2kX_-OZwbnLfd9PlW-WTGMU5RgvapE/s1600/IMG_0047.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdmLAYmeWE7mMmx6dFgXsnO1Jtzm3eRCsZI118seE1H_YdLGcVIPJD4yG_qFn6nwNSgX8moICUyD3R0Pmi2EDnnuDe1Py4EHE6zvM6cCD4oS3fp2kX_-OZwbnLfd9PlW-WTGMU5RgvapE/s400/IMG_0047.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">My older brother Prabha, remained in JB.</span></em> </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ8whRD81UuxFHn83drLFtTPaLrI7E7V0O_g6oDteTpZYn-64Wy-IG6yO9Wr2i3GbfkfyJVVfVK77cC02L00PUeCz1zkX2tASIE-CUHatrBOPgn2bBSgBpt4QpV-Vwhp10oN6Tqhm0d3k/s1600/IMG_0058+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ8whRD81UuxFHn83drLFtTPaLrI7E7V0O_g6oDteTpZYn-64Wy-IG6yO9Wr2i3GbfkfyJVVfVK77cC02L00PUeCz1zkX2tASIE-CUHatrBOPgn2bBSgBpt4QpV-Vwhp10oN6Tqhm0d3k/s400/IMG_0058+(2).jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">My youngest brother Suresh, spent some years in Pahang and is back in JB.</span></em></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<strong></strong><br />
<em></em><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">All of us do not meet as often together as our hearts wish. We meet in batches here and there. To have brothers and sisters and yet to not have them near is quite tragic.</span> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The stories of our lives will be more than a tale of a couple of cities. The times we spent together can be described as: </span><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way..." </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">- Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities</span></em><br />
<div style="clear: both;">
</div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: large;"><em>Sheela was born in Johore Bahru in December 1953</em></span><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"></span></em><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When I think of Sheela I remember songs and books for she was always with the radio listening to Top of the Pops or some other music programmes or she was reading a book. </span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong>"I Believe"</strong></div>
<strong></strong><br />
<div style="margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 10px; text-align: center;">
<!-- start of lyrics -->I believe for every drop of rain that falls<br />
A flower grows,<br />
I believe that somewhere in the darkest night<br />
A candle glows,<br />
I believe for everyone who goes astray,<br />
Someone will come to show the way,<br />
I believe, I believe.<br />
<br />
I believe above the storm a smallest prayer<br />
Will still be heard,<br />
I believe that someone in the great somewhere<br />
Hears every word,<br />
Every time I hear a newborn baby cry,<br />
Or touch a leaf, or see the sky,<br />
Then I know why,<br />
I believe.<br />
<br />
Every time I hear a newborn baby cry,<br />
Or touch a leaf, or see the sky,<br />
Then I know why,<br />
I believe.<br />
<br />
<!-- end of lyrics --><br /></div>
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Glm8l2KzJtM">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Glm8l2KzJtM</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Sheela was a member of the Johore Bahru Holy Infant Jesus Convent School choir and she had the choir uniform which was a white coat-dress with gold buttons. When I went to the University, she gave me that dress. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"><em></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6HGtgakOLhUpKFIcIGtAUDkWHMtIcYeHa1gjQuDF6_0fe5GEPZzeF0Wi5fvahGPVgNmOyqE-PpIrDm9hlrOoFEItTbGxbn54mjgW_NJPX5MUmQGuc8v4IGPKaf6obQbC6vlyjofEAcfg/s1600/IMG_0082+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6HGtgakOLhUpKFIcIGtAUDkWHMtIcYeHa1gjQuDF6_0fe5GEPZzeF0Wi5fvahGPVgNmOyqE-PpIrDm9hlrOoFEItTbGxbn54mjgW_NJPX5MUmQGuc8v4IGPKaf6obQbC6vlyjofEAcfg/s640/IMG_0082+%25282%2529.jpg" width="500" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><em>Sheela, the ever smiling one, was born in December 1953 when I was 3 years and 5 months old and we were all living together with my maternal grandparents at 15 Jalan Dhoby Johore Bahru. I have vague memories and some clear pictures of the day she was born. She was brought back to my grandparents' house when she was about a week old</em>.</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">What was happening elsewhere in the world when my sister was born? Read The Straits Times dated 20 and 21 December 1953. Click on the websites given below.</span> <br />
<br />
<a href="http://newspapers.nl.sg/Digitised/Issue/straitstimes19531220.aspx">http://newspapers.nl.sg/Digitised/Issue/straitstimes19531220.aspx</a><br />
<br />
The Straits Times - 20 December 1953, the day Sheela was born<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://newspapers.nl.sg/Digitised/Page/straitstimes19531221.1.1.aspx">http://newspapers.nl.sg/Digitised/Page/straitstimes19531221.1.1.aspx</a><br />
The Straits Times 21 December 1953<br />
<br />
<br />
<em></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: x-large;">Anak or Child - does not matter if the child is Asian, African or Caucasian</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: x-large;"></span></em><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A song made popular by Freddie Aguilar. Do listen to the song if you have not heard it before.</span> <br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><strong>"Anak"</strong> (</span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Filipino_language" title="Filipino language"><span style="color: black;">Filipino</span></a><span style="color: black;"> for <i>child</i> or more accurately <i>my son</i> or <i>my daughter</i>) is a </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tagalog_language" title="Tagalog language"><span style="color: black;">Tagalog</span></a><span style="color: black;"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Song" title="Song"><span style="color: black;">song</span></a><span style="color: black;"> written by </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Philippines" title="Philippines"><span style="color: black;">Filipino</span></a><span style="color: black;"> </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Philippine_folk_music" title="Philippine folk music"><span style="color: black;">folk</span></a><span style="color: black;">-singer </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Freddie_Aguilar" title="Freddie Aguilar"><span style="color: black;">Freddie Aguilar</span></a><span style="color: black;">. It was a finalist for the inaugural 1977 </span><a class="mw-redirect" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Metropop_Song_Festival" title="Metropop Song Festival"><span style="color: black;">Metropop Song Festival</span></a><span style="color: black;"> held in </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manila" title="Manila"><span style="color: black;">Manila</span></a><span style="color: black;">. It became an international hit, and was translated into 26 languages.<sup class="reference" id="cite_ref-a_1-0"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anak_(song)#cite_note-a-1">[1]</a></sup> The lyrics speak of Filipino family values.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="contentdiv_leftbox_title">
<h2>
Anak (Child) </h2>
Freddie Aguilar</div>
<div class="contentdiv_leftbox_data">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">When you were born into this world</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Your mom and dad saw a dream fulfilled</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Dream come true, the answer to their prayers</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">You were to them a special child</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Gave 'em joy every time you smiled</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Each time you cried, they're at your side to care</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Child, you don't know, you'll never know how far they'd go</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">To give you all their love can give</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">To see you through and God it's true</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">They'd die for you, if they must, to see you here</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">How many seasons came and went</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">So many years have now been spent</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">For time ran fast and now at last you're strong</span><br />
<br />
Now what has gotten over you<br />
You seem to hate your parents too<br />
Do speak out your mind, why do you find them wrong<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Child you don't know, you'll never know how far they'd go</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">To give you all their love can give</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">To see you through and God it's true</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">They'd die for you, if they must, to see you near</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">And now your path has gone astray</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Child you ain't sure what to do or say</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">You're so alone, no friends are on your side</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">And child you now break down in tears</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Let them drive away your fears</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Where must you go, their arms stay open wide</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Child you don't know, you'll never know how far they'd go</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">To give you all their love can give</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">To see you through and God it's true</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">They'd die for you, if they must, to see you here</span><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LziKlSWtFOk">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LziKlSWtFOk</a> (Listen to Anak/Child)</div>
<div class="contentdiv_leftbox_data">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
I<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> would like to share the first pictures we have of our sister Sheela, starting from the time Mum was pregnant with her. Mum would have been almost 22 and Dad ten years older, when this photograph was taken outside my grandfather's house. I see vague images of Mum being pregnant and going for her ante-natal checkups with my father.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGEvNPWrls7Tal2PP1-0fpmsNEK7CuYOb2ZeizU0iQbqYMGD7feyVFrOp95ApVCDqXK-YpY82rmww07IONrAhghYJo-Orvucp97kkDP6b5DvCcCzwFFqEFHN9Yn1sC7FGeotuzPAvMK8I/s1600/337_37814781577_7934_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGEvNPWrls7Tal2PP1-0fpmsNEK7CuYOb2ZeizU0iQbqYMGD7feyVFrOp95ApVCDqXK-YpY82rmww07IONrAhghYJo-Orvucp97kkDP6b5DvCcCzwFFqEFHN9Yn1sC7FGeotuzPAvMK8I/s320/337_37814781577_7934_n.jpg" width="192" /></a><em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Mum kept up with the fashion of the day - note her shoes, her watch and her spectacles - she was simply lovely! We never realised nor appreciated how young she really was. That sari she is wearing is hanging in the cupboard in the middle room of the Abdul Samad house.</span></em><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<img height="255" src="http://www.bendav.nl/gif/ebay8/1054.jpg" width="400" /><br />
The Johore Bahru General Hospital in the 1950s - where Sheela was born<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Within a week of her birth, Mum would have sent a letter to India to inform all relatives and friends about the arrival of Sheela.</span> <br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitz_O3wsmssKGXmME_isvzVWtjr1GUri8ShwEumvVUZTCnzeQtUpm0iQydS8c9ayvyqb9dtrwQue4fgr15QfUXEvIapIkAnt7GRNVJd3IXjwWT_u1Qfvr-O0yJaM9JY_nbbmKx_wqzWdc/s1600/274_28655791577_30_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitz_O3wsmssKGXmME_isvzVWtjr1GUri8ShwEumvVUZTCnzeQtUpm0iQydS8c9ayvyqb9dtrwQue4fgr15QfUXEvIapIkAnt7GRNVJd3IXjwWT_u1Qfvr-O0yJaM9JY_nbbmKx_wqzWdc/s400/274_28655791577_30_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;">My paternal grandmother Meenakshi, my Dad's younger brother Uncle Sugunan and I, taken in 1977, outside my Dad's house, Nyarakkel, in Mayyanad, Kerala, where my father was born. There was constant communication via letters between my Dad's home and our home in Johore Bahru. </span></em></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<br />
<strong></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-size: large;"></span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-size: large;"></span></strong><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When I last met my paternal grandmother, I was filled with an intense sadness and could not hold back my tears. I am not given to emotional outbursts. She asked me why I was crying and I told her that I was sad to leave her. She told me to stop crying and not to be sad. I had with me only one hundred rupees. I gave it to her. And I gave her two bars of soap. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I kept thinking why, oh why do people have to part. Can't someone strong keep everyone together so that the family unit will be forever unbroken?</span><br />
<strong><span style="font-size: large;"></span></strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
<div style="margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 10px;">
<!-- start of lyrics --><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>"Keep, keep it together<br />Keep people together forever and ever<br /><br />I got brothers, I got some sisters too<br />Stuck in the middle tell you what I'm gonna do<br /><br />Keep it together in the family<br />They're a reminder of your history<br />Brothers and sisters they hold the key<br />To your heart and your soul<br />Don't forget that your family is gold</em></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>When I get lonely and I need to be<br />Loved for who I am, not what they want to see<br />Brothers and sisters, they've always been there for me<br />We have a connection, home is where the heart should be" </em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>- Keep it Together sung by Madonna</em></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: large;"><u><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></u></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: large;"><u><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></u></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: large;"><u><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></u></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><u><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The sights</span>, sounds, smells and the feeling of nostalgia for a bygone era - Johore Bahru as I remember her...</span></u></span><br />
<u><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"></span></u><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Johore Bahru and I have become strangers but it is a love affair that cannot be erased. When I drive through the city, I glance around and there is something so inviting and exciting and something in my heart tells me that I have a part of Johore Bahru in my heart. This love started from the time I first became aware of my environment and the place has turned out so right for me. But now we are strangers, me the person and Johore Bahru the city. Wonder how it is for my sisters and brothers. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Strangers in the Night by Frank Sinatra</span><br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hlSbSKNk9f0">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hlSbSKNk9f0</a><br />
<br />
<u><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"></span></u><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Johor is a </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Malaysia" title="Malaysia"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Malaysian</span></a><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"> state, located in the southern portion of </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peninsular_Malaysia" title="Peninsular Malaysia"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Peninsular Malaysia</span></a><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">. It is one of the most developed states in Malaysia. The state capital city and royal city of Johor is </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Johor_Bahru" title="Johor Bahru"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Johor Bahru</span></a><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">, formerly known as Tanjung Puteri (</span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Malay_language" title="Malay language"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Malay</span></a><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"> for Princess's Cape) and Muar respectively. The old state capital is </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Johor_Lama" title="Johor Lama"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Johor Lama</span></a><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /><br />Johor is surrounded by </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pahang" title="Pahang"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Pahang</span></a><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"> to the north, </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Malacca" title="Malacca"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Malacca</span></a><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"> and </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Negeri_Sembilan" title="Negeri Sembilan"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Negeri Sembilan</span></a><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"> to the northwest, and the </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Straits_of_Johor" title="Straits of Johor"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Straits of Johor</span></a><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"> to the south which separates Johor and the </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Singapore" title="Singapore"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Republic of Singapore</span></a><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">. The state also shares a maritime border with the </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Riau_Islands_Province" title="Riau Islands Province"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Riau Archipelago</span></a><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"> from the east and </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Riau" title="Riau"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Riau mainland</span></a><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"> on the west by the </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/South_China_Sea" title="South China Sea"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">South China Sea</span></a><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"> and the </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Strait_of_Malacca" title="Strait of Malacca"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Strait of Malacca</span></a><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"> respectively, both of </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Indonesia" title="Indonesia"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Indonesian</span></a><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"> territories.</span><br /><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span><br /><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Johor is also known by its Arabic honorific, Darul Ta'zim, or "Abode of Dignity", and as Johore in English.</span><br /><br /><a href="http://roy-mark.com/Pics_Bridge/SEAsia_1940-1.jpg"><img alt="Political Map of S.E. Asia, 1940" border="0" src="http://roy-mark.com/Pics_Bridge/SEAsia_1940-1_small.jpg" xthumbnail-orig-image="SEAsia_1940-1.jpg" /></a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="mw-headline" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><u>Etymology</u></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The name "Johor" originated from the Arabic word <i>Jauhar</i>, 'gem/jewel'. Malays tend to name a place after natural objects in great abundance or having visual dominance. Before the name Johor was adopted, the area south of the </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Muar_River" title="Muar River"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Muar River</span></a><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"> to </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Singapore" title="Singapore"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Singapore</span></a><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"> island was known as <i>Ujong Tanah</i> or 'land's end' in Malay, due to its location at the end of the </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Malay_Peninsula" title="Malay Peninsula"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Malay Peninsula</span></a><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">. Coincidentally,<em><strong> Johor is the most southern point of the Asian continental mainland.</strong></em></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<strong><em><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"></span></em></strong><br /></div>
</span>Ref: Wikipedia<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<u><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;">15 Jalan Dhoby - My First Home</span></u><br />
<u><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"></span></u><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Jalan Dhoby in those days was in the town centre and our home 15 Jalan Dhoby was in the midst of sundry shops, dhoby (laundry) shops, coffee shops (kopitiam) tailoring shops and even a carpenter's shop. </span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdxUIwXUfj8U-GZWePCdt2UJvREb6Qf3c5ns9ooNrKNV7QJqV3Kf6v4dmsMGtVYZq65T4-QovEkOf_sY_O-7fXCth5vCyugQU1vw59FEG748ELuxhcFo5try_rcOBlqTWYVENyVpQtA0D7/s1600/IMG_5969.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" closure_uid_dolpqw="3" height="400" nfa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdxUIwXUfj8U-GZWePCdt2UJvREb6Qf3c5ns9ooNrKNV7QJqV3Kf6v4dmsMGtVYZq65T4-QovEkOf_sY_O-7fXCth5vCyugQU1vw59FEG748ELuxhcFo5try_rcOBlqTWYVENyVpQtA0D7/s400/IMG_5969.JPG" width="400" /></a><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Jalan Dhoby in the early 1950s - look at the black car coming from the right, above that car is the balconey of my grandparents' house - 15 Jalan Dhoby, Johore Bahru. Look at the picture once again, at the far end of the road is a T-junction and in front of it, the old wet market of Johore Bahru. </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I wonder who the people in the picture are and what stories they carried in them. I can almost see them and feel them but alas, the road is no more like the picture. As I recall and remember the days of Jalan Dhoby and Lorong 2B the song that plays in my mind is</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"> "Try To Remember" as sung by Andy Williams</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span></em><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><u>TRY TO REMEMBER</u> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Andy Williams</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FOPKL9PX2Y4">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FOPKL9PX2Y4</a></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><br />Try to remember the kind of September<br />When life was slow and oh, so mellow.<br />Try to remember the kind of September<br />When grass was green and grain was yellow.<br />Try to remember the kind of September<br />When you were a tender and callow fellow.<br />Try to remember, and if you remember,<br />Then follow.<br /><br />Try to remember when life was so tender<br />That no one wept except the willow.<br />Try to remember when life was so tender<br />That dreams were kept beside your pillow.<br />Try to remember when life was so tender<br />That love was an ember about to billow.<br />Try to remember, and if you remember,<br />Then follow.<br /><br />Deep in December, it's nice to remember,<br />Although you know the snow will follow.<br />Deep in December, it's nice to remember,<br />Without a hurt the heart is hollow.<br />Deep in December, it's nice to remember,<br />The fire of September that made us mellow.<br />Deep in December, our hearts should remember<br />And follow.</span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span><em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIEIwEzLfIVgNgVi-rNROirFzO7SkRKKxteeSPiVaLrUJNjT65C4ydVZNOuZO2jk5WVWzmzd6id8MyKyeCjo2kW_9cYrXdyjK738UkLKfWnzeJh9wEo17-TF_qmGK2t71CYAT4qDHFdl8B/s1600/Watercolour+painting+of+Jalan+Pahang%252C+Johor+Baru.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" closure_uid_i7gd1w="16" height="292" qba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIEIwEzLfIVgNgVi-rNROirFzO7SkRKKxteeSPiVaLrUJNjT65C4ydVZNOuZO2jk5WVWzmzd6id8MyKyeCjo2kW_9cYrXdyjK738UkLKfWnzeJh9wEo17-TF_qmGK2t71CYAT4qDHFdl8B/s400/Watercolour+painting+of+Jalan+Pahang%252C+Johor+Baru.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Water colour painting of Jalan Pahang. The house on the extreme right at the back, near the car, is our grandparents' house. The upstairs window facing us, is the one in grandfather's consultation room from which we got a good view of the sea. It is also from that window that washed clothes were hung on bamboo poles and left to dry, every morning. When we lived in 15 Jalan Dhoby, that was our bedroom.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY1LocCZKcFjkSZad-ygktiQz5au4LexAjlCNsObFBukGPiq9OaB8oDwWgPp_iuFqa1wyurBezxnjOr1WuJia9VbM8n-PdmB0v9QBWu9bMsXoC9QB6-DiZ6Iz2Pslan3VeA_I3p4NoNzA/s1600/IMG_0110.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="287" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY1LocCZKcFjkSZad-ygktiQz5au4LexAjlCNsObFBukGPiq9OaB8oDwWgPp_iuFqa1wyurBezxnjOr1WuJia9VbM8n-PdmB0v9QBWu9bMsXoC9QB6-DiZ6Iz2Pslan3VeA_I3p4NoNzA/s400/IMG_0110.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Mum looking down from the balcony of 15 Jalan Dhoby. Taken in the fifties before we moved out in mid-1954. I cannot identify the other person in the picture. </span></em><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZe3td3P33gH17_GD5Bytk3V45a0TZvCmmufsJDG7Ua5edAuR3V7MZoZbE1P0MLaWGmU7uSbQZoSsF-Psbe8jS3OZY6PYHU9WpNJ5yrH4txRypdRLbuJt4jhp8N2uIzh9HBTkDktEP2ik/s1600/IMG_0077.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZe3td3P33gH17_GD5Bytk3V45a0TZvCmmufsJDG7Ua5edAuR3V7MZoZbE1P0MLaWGmU7uSbQZoSsF-Psbe8jS3OZY6PYHU9WpNJ5yrH4txRypdRLbuJt4jhp8N2uIzh9HBTkDktEP2ik/s400/IMG_0077.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">View from our balcony: Uncle Prasad's friend Gopal, carrying Suresh, and Sobha standing nearby - the background shows the top floor of shophouses in front of our house.</span></em><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Note the tall windows - they are like the windows in my grandparents' room and our windows were a dark green in colour. We children used to sit on the floor and let our legs dangle through the bars. </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">It was from those windows that we got a very good view of the annual <strong><u>*Chingay</u></strong> - held about three weeks after Chinese New Year. The whole procession would pass under those windows, for us to see and enjoy.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span></em><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">It is now 6.45 p.m. and I remember the evenings all of us spent together in Johore Bahru. </span><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span></em><br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w7tzYBLF2_U">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w7tzYBLF2_U</a><br />
As Tears Go By - The Rolling Stones<br />
<br />
<br />
<img alt="" border="0" closure_uid_bf1r6m="3" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704739099800664706" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu__AINjLLv7wScTZS4gkKsgbyGibDh0kwlLeMIH3d-vByhq0go3IPxin09G_O-7yDogUBzRRv8tkVkzqRdsgEZlT4sAfVyf9lyQWhRUQde6E5Ho23dBOPPn-9WASLSCW7vzYXAZn2q44/s400/children+cover+ears+at+noise+of+firecrackers+1971_best.jpg" style="display: block; height: 267px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>Chinese New Year was not New Year without children enjoying playing with firecrackers </em></span>National Archives of Singapore<br />
<br />
<img alt="" border="0" closure_uid_bf1r6m="8" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5694804946068924034" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOpj072ySlLWOB2FHLoYw_7lbXIs93oOMW_JoPR5OLBg0DqGfT0dQqtIikodASryRsDh_9ETTtQlEt233YzKqnXgRmNztLqZ2AkU855M8j3QFIJLiHZLwwK7QvnmPE1vV278tG5aCmwvQ/s400/cny+firecracker+1968e_sm.jpg" style="display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 267px;" /><br />
<em> Setting off strings of firecrackers. <span style="color: blue;">This photograph does not belong to me. </span></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Chinese New Year firecrackers - do you remember the tall building in Jalan Ibrahim, Foh Chong, once they hung long strings of firecrackers from the top to the bottom and they fired away for long minutes leaving a carpet of fine red paper on the road - long before fire-crackers were banned.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span></em><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><span style="color: #274e13;"><strong><u><span style="color: black;">*Chingay</span></u></strong> </span></span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #274e13;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #274e13;"> <span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-family: arial,helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Chingay is an annual street parade held as part of the Lunar New Year celebrations. </span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-family: arial,helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span></span></span></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-family: arial,helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The term “Chingay” is derived from the Chinese term <em>zhuangyi</em>, meaning “the art of masquerading”, a reference to the original stages or floats depicting religious and historical scenes that were carried in procession on the shoulders of men. </span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-family: arial,helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: small;"></span></span></span></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-family: arial,helvetica,sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6LeCgbVXptGKArpm1PyFfJLYt3Xe8gUHTB8rXgenZcWn6n7_k6cN094tMqbKOtYG2eYvzz91NmPh4uh9ZboqF0RQ-IBHAFK-EC4OVFgOi9TfwlhSB_EuJP7Z_jlozDakudBdhrGnC_W7O/s1600/event+jb%2527.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" closure_uid_vyovwj="15" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6LeCgbVXptGKArpm1PyFfJLYt3Xe8gUHTB8rXgenZcWn6n7_k6cN094tMqbKOtYG2eYvzz91NmPh4uh9ZboqF0RQ-IBHAFK-EC4OVFgOi9TfwlhSB_EuJP7Z_jlozDakudBdhrGnC_W7O/s320/event+jb%2527.jpg" width="217" /></a></span></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-family: arial,helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span></span></span></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-family: arial,helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Originally a religious festival with roots in China, it is believed that 19th-century Chinese immigrants brought Chingay to Penang, which became famous for its lavish processions featuring elaborate floats and huge flags. </span></span></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-family: arial,helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Verdana; font-size: small;"></span></span></span></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-family: arial,helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Verdana; font-size: small;"></span></span></span></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: arial,helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Chingay originated from China, where <em>Shang Yuan Chieh</em>, a religious festival of Taoist origin, was traditionally observed on the 15th day of the Lunar New Year to mark the start of spring. The occasion was associated with the <em>San Kuan</em>, the trinity of deities comprising the lords of heaven, earth and water. </span></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: arial,helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Verdana;"></span></span></span> </div>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: arial,helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-family: arial,helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">It is believed that migrants from southern China brought the practice to the British settlement of Penang during the 19th century. Early sources indicate that the practice of celebrating the Lunar New Year with the Great Chingay or Thanksgiving Parade was well established in Penang by the 1880s. </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-family: arial,helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /><br /><span style="color: #274e13;">Coinciding with Chingay was the religious festival devoted to the local deity Tua Pek Kong, popularly known as the God of Prosperity. The procession featured the distinctive Chingay floats. On each float were elaborate paper dolls and animals depicting religious themes and historical scenes, as well as lanterns in the shape of animals or fruit. </span><br /><span style="color: #274e13;"></span><br /><img alt="Chinese Big Head Doll In Chingay Parade, Johor Bahru, Malaysia" class="image" height="265" src="http://static9.bigstockphoto.com/thumbs/4/5/3/small2/35407229.jpg" style="height: 113px; margin-left: -13.5px; width: 170px;" width="400" /><br />Big face Chinese doll seen as part of Chingay</span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-family: arial,helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-family: arial,helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="color: #274e13;">reference:</span> </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Singapore infopedia</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;"><u> THE WAY WE WERE</u></span> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Like all children we had our dreams. Watch the redition of I Dreamed the Dream given below, it will motivate you about dreams coming true...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RxPZh4AnWyk">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RxPZh4AnWyk</a><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">From the time I can remember, Dad always took us to the town to view whatever was on display or show. We have gone to watch the Chinese Chingay without fail almost every year. We would leave early in the evening and park the car somewhere. Then we would walk to 15 Jalan Dhoby to have a good view. Once the procession had passed our house and was headed back to the temple and the crowd had dispersed, we would head for the car, tired but glad and wait for the next Chingay to come. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">During the Sultan's birthday and Merdeka Day, we would go to some place that gave us a good view of the colourful floats and enjoy the fireworks. In the fifties, Dad would take us to the town padang which I seem to remember as being somewhere near the Post Office and I have seen the joget girls on the stage and the men dancing with them. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Sometimes the circus would come to town and you can be sure Dad would take all of us to the circus. There was always something happening in town and we would be there. And so our childhood passed with us joining all the others in celebration and our love for this country grew. It was strong enough for our parents to decide that taking all of us and going to India was not a viable option for we would be strangers in the land of our parents. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">If there were no circus shows or stage shows like the Chinese Wayang, then Dad would take us to visit places like the Kota Tinggi Waterfalls, Jason's Bay, Kluang, Air Hitam or Segamat. We never really visited anyone's home, just went for the drive, ate in a Chinese shop and returned home. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">There were certain movies that Dad chose for us to view. He has taken us to see Spartacus, Ben Hur, The Greatest Show on Earth, King of Kings and The Guns of Navorone. We rarely went for Tamil or Hindi movies. He would take Mum for those movies and sometimes they went for the midnight shows. At other times Mum would go by bus with Sulo's mother for the 3.00 p.m. show and tell us to inform Dad when he came back and he would go and fetch them from Rex or Lido. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">During the school hoidays, if we did not go anywhere for any form of activity, we made our own Happy Family Cards and five stones and played amongst ourselves. We spent a lot of time reading story books and Sulo used to lend us her books which she got from her cousins. Sulo had loads of relatives and during the holidays her house was filled with guests and she would go off to Kluang or Muar or Singapore for the holidays.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Today as I sit here with the memories I remember that my mother did not like cats but our grandmother loved cats. I am indifferent to cats but I love the songs from Cats, so do sing along as you read on. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RhlJZdQDz5E">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RhlJZdQDz5E</a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Midnight<br />Not a sound from the pavement<br />Has the moon lost her memory?<br />She is smiling alone<br />In the lamplight<br />The withered leaves collect at my feet<br />And the wind begins to moan</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: #351c75; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><em>It was often way past midnight that we went to bed when Prakash and Gabriel came for the weekend. We would sit on the stone seats outside and there was not a sound from any of the other houses. We would look out for shooting stars and listen to stories shared among sisters and brothers.</em> </span></span><em><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-size: small;">Little did we realise that moments once gone may never come back and that Prakash would not be with us forever.</span> </em></span></span></span><br />
<em><span style="color: #351c75; font-size: large;"></span></em><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Memory<br />All alone in the moonlight<br /><strong>I can smile at the old days</strong><br />I was beautiful then<br />I remember<br />The time I knew what happiness was<br />Let the memory live again</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br /><em><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">One day when I visited parents in JB, in 1980 I think because grandmother was alive, I felt the need to record the family's history. Armed with a tape recorder, Suresh, Sobha and Mother we drove to 15 Jalan Dhoby. </span></em><br /><em><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"></span></em><br /><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em><span style="color: #351c75; font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">It was a hilarious session with both grandfather and Uncle Samy wanting to be the person authenticating the events. Unfortunately, the tape recorder did not work.</span> Today as I write this I want the memories of those days to live again.</span> </span></em></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />Every street lamp<br />Seems to beat a fatalistic warning<br />Someone mutters at the street lamp gutters<br />And soon it will be morning</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><em><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Remember Mother waiting at the lamp post near Seah's house when it was past nine and Annan had not come back home. She would keep a watch and not budge. Sometimes she would tell us that he would come when he wished. When she met him, she would be angry but until his arrival she was never angry only totally worried. Today my son goes out at eleven, saying that that is when the 'happening' things start to happen. </span></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><em><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Courier New;"></span></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><em><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Courier New;">For her 57th birthday I took parents to The Ship, a restaurant in Penang which had a disco upstairs - some heavy metal music and they sang a birthday song for her at the stroke of midnight. She enjoyed herself and I told her that she need not have worried about Annan and the boys going out. She told me to wait for Roy to grow up and go out and see how I would wait for him, worried out of my brains. I wish now that she had not been a prophetess!</span></em><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Daylight<br />I must wait for the sunrise<br />I must think of a new life<br />And I mustn't give in<br />When the dawn comes<br />Tonight will be a memory too<br />And a new day will begin<br /><br />Burnt out ends of smoky days<br />The stale cold smell of morning<br />A street lamp dies, another night is over<br />Another day is dawning<br /><br />Touch me<br />It's so easy to leave me<br />All alone with my memory<br />Of my days in the sun<br />If you touch me<br />You'll understand what happiness is<br />Look a new day has begun</span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<u><span style="font-size: large;">Our Footsteps Still Echo on Some of the Roads of Johore Bahru</span></u></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<u><span style="font-size: large;"></span></u> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
The front door of my grandparents' house opened into Jalan Pahang although our postal address was Jalan Dhoby. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZPv6gRKn1p27-X5rQBgOahSQ30VTgM68Bi_9p4wQW3N1Tyio67pIB8sQAqG7mLMUTowXUcmLIw224aCzCWLoCFNB1HJtqL1hgnlcYxah_VFPGifEj3MZD8IFksjBAI13JOoXqgNpYnQNq/s1600/j10+(Custom).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" closure_uid_ix80hp="12" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZPv6gRKn1p27-X5rQBgOahSQ30VTgM68Bi_9p4wQW3N1Tyio67pIB8sQAqG7mLMUTowXUcmLIw224aCzCWLoCFNB1HJtqL1hgnlcYxah_VFPGifEj3MZD8IFksjBAI13JOoXqgNpYnQNq/s640/j10+(Custom).jpg" width="404" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The balcony on the right is the balcony of my grandparents' house, as it is today with cars parked everywhere.</span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="color: blue; font-family: Trebuchet MS;">This picture does not belong to me.</span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="color: blue; font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Trebuchet MS;">There are times when sleep eludes me at night and I lie awake thinking of 15 Jalan Dhoby and the people whose voices I can hear. When I think of lying next to my grandma on a straw mat, looking at her back, I am reassured and I find myself drifting off to sleep. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Take me home to the place Jalan Dhoby, I belong to that place. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Country Roads by John Denver</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="color: blue; font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MWzeInQaUk4">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MWzeInQaUk4</a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="color: blue; font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span></em> </div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Looking down from the balconey of my grandparents' house, you will see Jalan Pahang, the short road leading to Jalan Ibrahim, the road in front of the sea. Before reaching Jalan Ibrahim, there is small cross-roads junction. You turn right or left and the road is <strong>Jalan Tan Hiok Nee</strong>. And the building at the junction has a balconey but a very elaborate one, compared to the simple, plain one in our grandparents' house. </span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy5A2-Sll2vAm2FoOu_Jcwi-W64v6_-1VMLGhwVnR1BV0M9yfZVxnnzXTb8JYVxy_cDixOQb4fu37f4hsBPXLIidpgqDrvx9dLgOMUtKUVefcwMEgHtkZ5A77MN5BLmMcU12ZZnsKlktOf/s1600/Chingay+Parade+along+Jalan+Tan+Hiok+Nee+%255B1950%2527s%255D+with+the+Red+House+in+background.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" closure_uid_303xfh="4" height="251" ida="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy5A2-Sll2vAm2FoOu_Jcwi-W64v6_-1VMLGhwVnR1BV0M9yfZVxnnzXTb8JYVxy_cDixOQb4fu37f4hsBPXLIidpgqDrvx9dLgOMUtKUVefcwMEgHtkZ5A77MN5BLmMcU12ZZnsKlktOf/s320/Chingay+Parade+along+Jalan+Tan+Hiok+Nee+%255B1950%2527s%255D+with+the+Red+House+in+background.jpg" width="320" /></a><br /><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The road you see is Jalan Tan Hiok Nee </span></em><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span></em> <span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Whenever our birthdays came round, Dad would go to the same bakery in <strong>Tan Hiok Nee</strong> and get us a plain butter cake with cherries but no icing. That bakery is one relic that has not been swallowed up by time. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There was a sari shop in Jalan <strong>Tan Hiok Nee</strong>, which was not as popular as Govindasamy's Sari Shop at Jalan Dhoby. The last time I visited that shop was with Mum and we bought some small items including the stick-on pottu. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgserqeFG65AeMIHOZ3TXoXahykemE1iUPhil4NyQ1deqe12tBTVc_dQKeH_fscrA3j6g0edgF4qywe-tfl39bGqzGCiLF5V-ibXW0EK1RQaIvPjEWr2Ycv1bHNc0cyK0AQKJfMzcIKMA41/s1600/j2+(Custom).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" closure_uid_7nvir1="9" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgserqeFG65AeMIHOZ3TXoXahykemE1iUPhil4NyQ1deqe12tBTVc_dQKeH_fscrA3j6g0edgF4qywe-tfl39bGqzGCiLF5V-ibXW0EK1RQaIvPjEWr2Ycv1bHNc0cyK0AQKJfMzcIKMA41/s400/j2+(Custom).jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;"><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Hiap Joo Bakery where our simple birthday day cakes came from year after year until the seventies. We enjoyed every crumb of those cakes with a few big red cherries on top and no icing of any sort. Today this bakery is famous for its banana cakes. </span></em></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="background-color: white; color: blue; font-family: Trebuchet MS;">This photograph does not belong to me. </span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="color: blue; font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="color: blue; font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"><u>Now Who was <strong>Tan Hiok Nee</strong>?</u></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<u><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"></span></u> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> wanted to know more about the people who had walked the same roads in Johore Bahru a hundred years before me and left their names on the roads for us. I was walking in their footsteps. I wanted a face for each one of them. Who were they, I constantly asked myself? </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">With them in mind I am including the information below, for all of us migrants and natives alike, share a common destiny - because for a moment in time, our roots met and merged and then went their separate ways, charting out their own individual destinies. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Tan Hiok nee (1827-1902) who succeeded Tan Kee Soon as the leader of the Ngee Heng Kongsi, transformed the Kongsi from a military revolutionary brotherhood based in rural Kangkar into an organization of Kapitans, Kangchus and revenue farmers based in Johore Bahru, the capital of the state of Johore. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a class="image" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Tan_Hiok_Nee.jpg"><img alt="" height="282" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/e/e5/Tan_Hiok_Nee.jpg/220px-Tan_Hiok_Nee.jpg" srcset="//upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/e/e5/Tan_Hiok_Nee.jpg/330px-Tan_Hiok_Nee.jpg 1.5x, //upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/e/e5/Tan_Hiok_Nee.jpg/440px-Tan_Hiok_Nee.jpg 2x" width="220" /></a> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Tan Hiok Nee</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<u>Jalan Wong Ah Fook</u></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Once in while we would get permission from Mum to go to town and do lots of window shopping, buy an item or two, have an afternoon out with our friends and eat ice-kachang. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
One of the more popular roads was Jalan Ah Fook with its numerous shops and its foul-smelling Sungai Segget that hardly moved, and was littered with all sorts of waste by a population that did not care for the environment. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Mum used to tell us of the only time she could recall our grandfather caning Uncle Prakash. After school, together with some of his friends he would go swimming in the filth. Nothing would stop him so grandfather finally resorted to the cane and those swimming sessions ended, or so we all believe. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Today you will not recognize Jalan Wong Ah Fook. Where have all the Chinese gone, long while ago, when will they ever come, when will they ever come? It is milling with foreigners - why have they come, why have they ever come?</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Sungai Segget was the only river we had seen for a long long time. By the river Segget we have walked many times. Once I met my old school mate Magespathy and her slipper had fallen into the river. She was most distraught and I did not help her but her tortured face has haunted me to this day. We were too poor to buy her a pair of slippers. We were too scared to have jumped into the river to retrieve her slipper. We left her there. Someone was with me and I wonder if it was Sheela or Sulo. From that day onwards, I have always tried to reach out to everyone who has sought my help. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
By the Rivers of Babylon by Boney M</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fGyfxOCYvtM">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fGyfxOCYvtM</a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<img alt="Sungai Segget Johor || Nikon D90 | F/4.2 | ISO-400 | 1/30" class="aligncenter size-full wp-image-132 " height="428" src="http://pyejal.com/photography/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/DSC7045-1201ews.jpg" title="Sungai Segget Johor || Nikon D90 | F/4.2 | ISO-400 | 1/30" width="640" /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Sungai Segget, 1955</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="description en" lang="en" xml:lang="en"><i>This image is in the <b><a class="extiw" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/public_domain" title="w:public domain">public domain</a></b> because its copyright has <b>expired</b>.</i></span><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="description en" lang="en" xml:lang="en"><em></em></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="description en" lang="en" xml:lang="en"><u>Who was Wong Ah Fook?</u></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="description en" lang="en" xml:lang="en"><u></u></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="description en" lang="en" xml:lang="en">Wong Ah Fook (1837-1918) was a Chinese Cantonese immigrant, entrepreneur and philanthropist who left his mark in Johore. He started off as a carpenter, moved into building construction and worked his way up to become the main government building contractor who built many of Johore's heritage buildings including the royal palace of the Sultan of Johore, in front of the Straits of Johore. </span><br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="description en" lang="en" xml:lang="en"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="description en" lang="en" xml:lang="en">He diversified into pepper and gambier planting, started the first Chinese bank in Malaya, the Kwong Yik Bank, and was the founder of the Kwong Siew Wui Koon - the association for the Cantonese. </span><br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="description en" lang="en" xml:lang="en"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="description en" lang="en" xml:lang="en">In 1892 the Sultan of Johore granted him some land on the east bank of Sungai Segget, which came to be known as Kampung Wong Ah Fook, and was mainly occupied by Cantonese. The main road is named after him and the three smaller roads Jalan Siu Nam, Jalan Siu Koon and Jalan Siu Chin were named after his three sons. The son who was best known was his fourth son Dato S. Q.<br />Wong, a lawyer and member of the State Council of Johore before and after the war. </span><br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="description en" lang="en" xml:lang="en"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="description en" lang="en" xml:lang="en"><u>Ref</u></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="description en" lang="en" xml:lang="en">"Past and Present Juxtaposed: The Chinese of Nineteenth Century Johor." <br />by Datin Paduka P. Lim Pui Huen</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="description en" lang="en" xml:lang="en"><strong></strong></span> </div>
<span class="description en" lang="en" xml:lang="en"><a class="image" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Wong_Ah_Fook.jpg"><img alt="" height="290" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/f/f4/Wong_Ah_Fook.jpg/220px-Wong_Ah_Fook.jpg" srcset="//upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/f/f4/Wong_Ah_Fook.jpg/330px-Wong_Ah_Fook.jpg 1.5x, //upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/f/f4/Wong_Ah_Fook.jpg 2x" width="220" /></a></span><br /><span class="description en" lang="en" xml:lang="en"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>Wong Ah Fook</em></span></span><br /><span class="description en" lang="en" xml:lang="en"></span><br />
<span class="description en" lang="en" xml:lang="en"><div style="text-align: left;">
<u>Jalan Ah Siang</u></div>
<u></u><br />We never went there by ourselves but Dad would drive us to Stulang Laut and it was one of the more prominent roads there. We would drive near the jetty and also look at the power station across the sea, in Singapore. <br />
<br /><br />Lim Ah Siang was a Ngee Heng Kongsi leader who was second in rank after Tan Hiok Nee. He had a number of businesses in Johore Bahru - a pawnshop, properties and concessions for logging. As head of Ngee Heng, he was in frequent contact with the Chief Minister/Menteri Besar Dato Jaafar ( remember the secondary school for boys, Dato Jaafar) and the two soon became close friends. <br />
<br /><br />In 1892 he received a grant of land in Stulang from the Sultan of Johore Sultan Abu Bakr which allowed him to open a kampung. He built a main road through his land and named it Jalan Ah Siang. He got the rights of a revenue farmer and his gambling farm was built on stilts over the sea in front of New Hong Kong Restaurant. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
<br /></div>
<a class="image" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Lim_Ah_Siang.jpg"><img alt="" height="250" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/0/0e/Lim_Ah_Siang.jpg/220px-Lim_Ah_Siang.jpg" srcset="//upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/0/0e/Lim_Ah_Siang.jpg 1.5x, //upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/0/0e/Lim_Ah_Siang.jpg 2x" width="220" /></a><br />Lim Ah Siang</span><span class="description en" lang="en" xml:lang="en"><em></em> </span><br /><br /><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<u>Jalan Ngee Heng</u></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
How can we ever forget Jalan Ngee Heng? Going home from grandparents' house in Jalan Dhoby, Dad would often go home to Abdul Samad via Jalan Ngee Heng. The army barracks was in Majidee. <br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Many of my Chinese friends also stayed in squatter-type houses along this road. And our tailor lived there and we used to go to her place so often with some fabric to make a dress. Then there was the Ngee Heng primary school where Mrs Lilly M B Dass was a teacher. The road is also a reminder of the only roundabout in old Johore Bahru town. <br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<u>Who or what is Ngee Heng?</u></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Ngee Heng Kongsi ( patnership) was a Teochew secret society that founded the oldest Chinese settlement in Johore which has a respectable place in the history of Johore Chinese. On 1st February 1913 the Ngee Heng Kongsi founded the Foon Yew School in Johore Bahru with other Chinese personalities. Its first Manager was Wong Ah Fook and the Deputy Manager was Lim Ah Siang. Today there are 5 Foon Yew primary schools with a total enrolment of over 11,000 students. My young nephew Daniel Ray Suresh studies in Foon Yew Primary School in Jalan Abdul Samad. He is in Standard 4 (2012).<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="The first Foon Yew school at the Jalan Dhobi and Jalan Trus intersection in Johor Baru." class="articleImage" height="215" src="http://www.nst.com.my/polopoly_fs/1.160657.1350918999!/image/image.JPG_gen/derivatives/landscape_454/image.JPG" style="display: inline; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="Photo: N/A, License: N/A" width="454" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em>The first Foon Yew school at the Jalan Dhobi and Jalan Trus intersection in Johor Baru</em></span><br />
Read more: <a href="http://www.nst.com.my/streets/johor/for-the-love-of-chinese-culture-and-tradition-1.160574#ixzz2GK42JflZ" style="color: #003399;">For the love of Chinese culture and tradition - Johor - New Straits Times</a> <a href="http://www.nst.com.my/streets/johor/for-the-love-of-chinese-culture-and-tradition-1.160574#ixzz2GK42JflZ" style="color: #003399;">http://www.nst.com.my/streets/johor/for-the-love-of-chinese-culture-and-tradition-1.160574#ixzz2GK42JflZ</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I first heard of Foon Yew when our neighbour told us that her children Sau Siah, Sau Meng and Sau Leng were studying in Foon Yew. They were our neighbours when we lived at 100 Jalan Lumba Kuda Lama. <br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<u>Johore Bahru Old Chinese Temple along Jalan Trus</u></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/a/a4/JB_Old_Chinese_Temple_3.JPG"><img alt="File:JB Old Chinese Temple 3.JPG" height="300" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/a/a4/JB_Old_Chinese_Temple_3.JPG/800px-JB_Old_Chinese_Temple_3.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Walking along Jalan Trus, you cannot miss the old Chinese Temple which is one of the oldest buildings in Johore Bahru. It is a place of worship and a symbol of unity among the Teochew, Hokkien, Cantonese, Hakka and Hainan Chinese Dialect Groups. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="ringtone">
<span class="phone_left"></span> </div>
<div class="ringtone">
<span style="font-size: large;">Where Have All The Flowers Gone</span></div>
<div class="ringtone">
Peter, Paul and Mary<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1QZq-wKaBWc">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1QZq-wKaBWc</a></div>
<div class="ringtone">
</div>
<div id="loader" style="display: none;">
<div class="translate" style="margin: 16px;">
Translation in progress. Please wait...<br />
<div style="margin-top: 6px;">
<img height="19" src="http://www.lyricsfreak.com/i/loader.gif" width="220" /></div>
</div>
</div>
Where have all the flowers gone, long time passing?<br />Where have all the flowers gone, long time ago?<br />Where have all the flowers gone?<br />Young girls have picked them everyone.<br />Oh, when will they ever learn?<br />Oh, when will they ever learn? <br /><br />Where have all the young girls gone, long time passing?<br />Where have all the young girls gone, long time ago?<br />Where have all the young girls gone?<br />Gone for husbands everyone.<br />Oh, when will they ever learn?<br />Oh, when will they ever learn?<br /><br />Where have all the husbands gone, long time passing?<br />Where have all the husbands gone, long time ago?<br />Where have all the husbands gone?<br />Gone for soldiers everyone<br />Oh, when will they ever learn?<br />Oh, when will they ever learn? <br /><br />Where have all the soldiers gone, long time passing?<br />Where have all the soldiers gone, long time ago?<br />Where have all the soldiers gone?<br />Gone to graveyards, everyone.<br />Oh, when will they ever learn?<br />Oh, when will they ever learn? <br /><br />Where have all the graveyards gone, long time passing?<br />Where have all the graveyards gone, long time ago?<br />Where have all the graveyards gone?<br />Gone to flowers, everyone.<br />Oh, when will they ever learn?<br />Oh, when will they ever learn? <br /><br />Where have all the flowers gone, long time passing?<br />Where have all the flowers gone, long time ago?<br />Where have all the flowers gone?<br />Young girls have picked them everyone.<br />Oh, when will they ever learn?<br />Oh, when will they ever learn?<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><u>Where have all the hawkers gone?</u></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><img alt="[Old+days+Fast+food.jpg]" border="0" height="216" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_f6fVn2YzAfw/SntUegsrz2I/AAAAAAAAR4A/PSjuN4dBZnY/s320/Old%2Bdays%2BFast%2Bfood.jpg" width="320" /><br /><br /><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Hawkers carrying their mouth-watering ware using a kandar stick which they balanced on their shoulders as they hunched and walked in a dancing gait with their food, from place to place - they would sit on a wooden stool and serve their customers. Unfortunately my Mum had come from India and was very fussy about what we got to eat. I missed out on something great by not having sampled such food. </span></em><br /><br /><u>Where Have All My Iceball Men Gone?</u><br /><u></u><br /><u><img src="http://community.jobscentral.com.sg/sites/default/files/images/uploaded/1328508621.jpg" style="float: left; margin-right: 10px;" /></u><br /><u><br /></u><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Remember Bee Hoon's sundry shop in front of the Convent and how we used to save 5cents to buy the addictive iceball after school. It would have some red sugar syrup and some boiled red beans in the middle. The vendor would give it to us on a piece of newspaper. <br /><br /><u>Where Have All My Kachang Puteh Men Gone?</u><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY7ejN48ZPUoAIwoUmGnysbuUj5YGdZTs36pJxCP9UEccIEdmFIpXN4fLjX7XP6jEmIl7mRK-M7ZisFHZxT45JkaAkq53Ig3Nw1lZWqXlcPnvboUQMcrUwz5EddIAz7FmiC31m1o9PteD8/s1600/Kacang+putih+seller.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" closure_uid_5c4dgr="6" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY7ejN48ZPUoAIwoUmGnysbuUj5YGdZTs36pJxCP9UEccIEdmFIpXN4fLjX7XP6jEmIl7mRK-M7ZisFHZxT45JkaAkq53Ig3Nw1lZWqXlcPnvboUQMcrUwz5EddIAz7FmiC31m1o9PteD8/s400/Kacang+putih+seller.jpg" width="331" /></a><br /><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=4270544749004657709#editor/target=post;postID=4693258122251648019">http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=4270544749004657709#editor/target=post;postID=4693258122251648019</a><br /><br /><br />The kachang puteh man plying his trade along Jalan Ibrahim and the other roads did not have a bicycle. He had a wooden stool with sides and placed jars of fried nuts and Indian snacks. He would carry the stool on his head as he walked the streets. He would also have a small bauxite light so that we could see what we were buying. He would place the stool on the ground and it would be the ideal height for us children. We paid him about ten cents for a paper cone filled with kachang. He could make the longest cones that I have seen. <br /><br /><u>Where Have All Old The Roti Men Gone?</u><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://allmalaysia.info/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/faceliftformobilefood03.jpg"><img alt="bread vendor" class="size-full wp-image-7036" height="260" src="http://allmalaysia.info/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/faceliftformobilefood03.jpg" title="Rotiman" width="400" /></a><br /><br />Our Roti Man would come at about 4 in the evening and ring his bell as he passed the houses. Mum would often tell us to look out for him. We would buy coconut buns, kaya buns, curry buns and sugee biscuits. Nalini's father would on his pension day, buy a cake for Suresh from the Roti Man. <br /><br />Our regular vendor came from Utar Pradesh and was a very handsome man. Today his son sells bread along Lorong 2B. I remember that their bakery was near my room-mate Selva's old house. During the festive season, Selva and sisters would make their cake batter and bake them at their bakery. Those were the days when most of our homes did not have an oven, for the kind of cooking that our mums did, did not require an oven. <br /><br /><u>Where Are All The Ice-Cream Vendors Carrying Flasks?</u><br /><br />Some used flasks to store their ice-cream as they walked on the streets, selling ice-cream.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjARxuhsCgiRFsRdPuVwOrG0PXaUlJ6HAFZX_Bfc2ITq3j3YOhgU842vYz4974wu4vrpz30rqAlekUpZOgbOSpPxsTFN9-CEPKnLd904ocDPqVo074E7yt5CmfIkQk8w2qb4DqUyp5h77me/s1600/belawai7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" closure_uid_y79a3u="2" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjARxuhsCgiRFsRdPuVwOrG0PXaUlJ6HAFZX_Bfc2ITq3j3YOhgU842vYz4974wu4vrpz30rqAlekUpZOgbOSpPxsTFN9-CEPKnLd904ocDPqVo074E7yt5CmfIkQk8w2qb4DqUyp5h77me/s320/belawai7.jpg" width="212" /></a><br /><br /><u>The Milo Van still comes to School</u><br /><br /><img alt="The Taste of MILO®: Off the Van and into Homes" src="http://www.nestle.com.my/Common/NestleImages/PublishingImages/Media/Events/milosejuk.jpg" /><br /><br /><br />
<div class="noprint" id="mw-page-base">
<span style="font-size: large;"><u>Our Currency</u></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_f6fVn2YzAfw/R8S5ac0-nmI/AAAAAAAADo0/b8u5AHySMGw/s1600/Malayan%2Bcurrency%2B1941.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="[Malayan+currency+1941.jpg]" border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_f6fVn2YzAfw/R8S5ac0-nmI/AAAAAAAADo0/b8u5AHySMGw/s1600/Malayan%2Bcurrency%2B1941.jpg" /></a><br />
<br /></div>
<br /><br /><br /><br />
<table class="wikitable" style="margin-right: 60px; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><th></th><th></th><th></th></tr>
<tr><td align="left"></td><td align="left"></td><td></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"></td><td align="left"></td><td></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"></td><td align="left"></td><td></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"></td><td align="left"></td><td></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"></td><td align="left"></td><td></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"></td><td align="left"></td><td></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"></td><td align="left"></td><td></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"></td><td align="left"></td><td></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"></td><td align="left"></td><td></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"></td><td align="left"></td><td></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Aa0MFV9uE_SNFsI8mhPDv0uqYHDu1izAbUmit3wHZW9IPOxIVOoiwPWesIDZSRIFzOScJ23b9Vn6NTpBOApfcH0jhKudDOs5nSxrHD_fqwSwdIiVP0vMsrOuOPwkRgIPpIPbb7huGVQ/s1600/IMG_0117.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Aa0MFV9uE_SNFsI8mhPDv0uqYHDu1izAbUmit3wHZW9IPOxIVOoiwPWesIDZSRIFzOScJ23b9Vn6NTpBOApfcH0jhKudDOs5nSxrHD_fqwSwdIiVP0vMsrOuOPwkRgIPpIPbb7huGVQ/s1600/IMG_0117.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Aa0MFV9uE_SNFsI8mhPDv0uqYHDu1izAbUmit3wHZW9IPOxIVOoiwPWesIDZSRIFzOScJ23b9Vn6NTpBOApfcH0jhKudDOs5nSxrHD_fqwSwdIiVP0vMsrOuOPwkRgIPpIPbb7huGVQ/s1600/IMG_0117.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Aa0MFV9uE_SNFsI8mhPDv0uqYHDu1izAbUmit3wHZW9IPOxIVOoiwPWesIDZSRIFzOScJ23b9Vn6NTpBOApfcH0jhKudDOs5nSxrHD_fqwSwdIiVP0vMsrOuOPwkRgIPpIPbb7huGVQ/s1600/IMG_0117.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Aa0MFV9uE_SNFsI8mhPDv0uqYHDu1izAbUmit3wHZW9IPOxIVOoiwPWesIDZSRIFzOScJ23b9Vn6NTpBOApfcH0jhKudDOs5nSxrHD_fqwSwdIiVP0vMsrOuOPwkRgIPpIPbb7huGVQ/s1600/IMG_0117.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Aa0MFV9uE_SNFsI8mhPDv0uqYHDu1izAbUmit3wHZW9IPOxIVOoiwPWesIDZSRIFzOScJ23b9Vn6NTpBOApfcH0jhKudDOs5nSxrHD_fqwSwdIiVP0vMsrOuOPwkRgIPpIPbb7huGVQ/s1600/IMG_0117.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><br />
<a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/0/0c/Malaya%26BritishBorneo_1Dollars_front.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="File:Malaya&BritishBorneo 1Dollars front.jpg" height="160" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/0/0c/Malaya%26BritishBorneo_1Dollars_front.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Aa0MFV9uE_SNFsI8mhPDv0uqYHDu1izAbUmit3wHZW9IPOxIVOoiwPWesIDZSRIFzOScJ23b9Vn6NTpBOApfcH0jhKudDOs5nSxrHD_fqwSwdIiVP0vMsrOuOPwkRgIPpIPbb7huGVQ/s1600/IMG_0117.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Aa0MFV9uE_SNFsI8mhPDv0uqYHDu1izAbUmit3wHZW9IPOxIVOoiwPWesIDZSRIFzOScJ23b9Vn6NTpBOApfcH0jhKudDOs5nSxrHD_fqwSwdIiVP0vMsrOuOPwkRgIPpIPbb7huGVQ/s1600/IMG_0117.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/a/a1/Malaya%26BritishBorneo_5Dollars_front.jpg"><img alt="File:Malaya&BritishBorneo 5Dollars front.jpg" height="182" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/a/a1/Malaya%26BritishBorneo_5Dollars_front.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/0/00/Malaya%26BritishBorneo_10Dollars_front.jpg"><img alt="File:Malaya&BritishBorneo 10Dollars front.jpg" height="184" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/0/00/Malaya%26BritishBorneo_10Dollars_front.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
<br />
<img height="384" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/2/28/Malaya%26BritishBorneo_10Dollars_front_1959.jpg" width="640" /><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>In those days my Dad could go to the market with ten dollars and come home with two bags full of food for the week and he would have some change as well.</em> I have never seen the thousand dollar note, it was outside our league. </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><u>The Landmarks of the Johore Bahru of our childhood</u></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<img alt="photo of the Bangunan Sultan Ibrahim government building" class="aligncenter size-full wp-image-422" height="269" src="http://malaysia.curiouscatnetwork.com/files/2012/10/bangunan_sultan_ibrahim.jpg" title="Bangunan Sultan Ibrahim building, Johor Bahru CBD" width="400" /><a href="http://www.malaxi.com/malaysia_news/uploaded_images/Johor_Bahru-722726.jpg" rel="lightbox"></a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.malaxi.com/malaysia_news/uploaded_images/Johor_Bahru-722726.jpg" rel="lightbox"></a><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The Government Office has not changed but our perception of it as a huge and imposing building, the definite landmark of Johore Bahru, has changed. Now you miss it most times, as you drive in old Johore Bahru. Its official name is Sultan Ibrahim Building but all of us referred to it as the Government Office building. </span></em><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I would like to state that the pictures of the currency, firecrackers, the movable 'cafe' and the government office, were not taken by me. They do not belong to me. I managed to contact one person who has allowed me to use his pictures of Sallehudin Bakery. Acknowledgement will be made at the end.</span> </em></span><br />
<br />
<img alt="" class="aligncenter size-full wp-image-25944" height="491" src="http://msn.goingout.com.my/wp-content/uploads/indian-temple.jpg" title="indian temple" width="365" /><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The Mariamman Temple (very colourful today) above, was a Hindu temple near our grandparents' house that we used to visit very often in the evenings with Grandma. We used to sit on the steps and speak very softly so as to not disturb the tranquility of that temple. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It was neither crowded nor elaborate but a simple place of worship with lots of open space within. Whenever we stood in front of the Durga/Kali shrine and see her with some intestines in her mouth, Grandma would tell us some gruesome stories that would immediately quieten us. </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjA9w3gq2TS6SLTL7x_9SrVWOzDVznPC5tfGDG3SU7yNBS0G_i0l8RgsOa6MjI4JtUGEiThd3OAJ4hSUGiYkWBZ8Ml_XqSctV2KxQ5HFsi897MLOxo1_7CmoXeQHY0kuLKrAVpRzrMQNA/s1600/IMG_0101.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjA9w3gq2TS6SLTL7x_9SrVWOzDVznPC5tfGDG3SU7yNBS0G_i0l8RgsOa6MjI4JtUGEiThd3OAJ4hSUGiYkWBZ8Ml_XqSctV2KxQ5HFsi897MLOxo1_7CmoXeQHY0kuLKrAVpRzrMQNA/s320/IMG_0101.jpg" width="238" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Aunty Subadhra my mother's cousin, my maternal grandmother Lakshmi Narayani, my mother Lakshmi Prasadini and aunty Subadhra's son Suni - taken around 1964 - enjoying a good laugh! My grandma because of her inability to cook made our childhood special because we got to choose what we wanted to eat and someone would get the food from Kerala Restaurant along Jalan Ibrahim</span></em><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"></span><!--Lyrics End--><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><u>Landmarks in our minds</u></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When walking to the railway station in the mid-fifties, to play on the swings and slides, or to the Causeway to enter Singapore, or to walk home to Jalan Lumba Kuda Lama from Jalan Dhobi, you had to pass the big Police Station. It is still there, quite insignificant in the midst of today's chaotic traffic and multitude of foreign workers milling around.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<a href="http://www.malaysia-traveller.com/images/JohorBahruHeritageTrailPoliceStation.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img align="right" alt="Sentral Police Station, JB" border="0" height="219" src="http://www.malaysia-traveller.com/images/JohorBahruHeritageTrailPoliceStation.jpg" style="border: 0px currentColor; margin-top: 8px;" title="Sentral Police Station, JB" width="250" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="float: left; padding: 0px 10px 5px 0px;"><img height="145" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_V-OZiFsW7s4/SmMd_vIj06I/AAAAAAAACF8/UAZVzLtp2Qo/s400/FMSR+200.JPG" width="195" /></span><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">From our Jalan Lumba Kuda Lama house we could see the train arriving from Tanjong Pagar Station in Singapore - we would then walk down to the station and meet Uncle Karunakaran who visited us most weekends. Today the Tanjong Pagar Station is no more and is the property of Singapore.</span></em><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLNCdC1qdYh_L2_N85gyIfxA0jFdTqXk5crL3NvvJclReRfwQdOHavPxN2BM56PuMGi7ANVT-LASQ7PjW5OIBuoVnsooHN7AfEaD8z859Z12a36cPDrWrSDARWd2Zz0KSNlKYrAnNUzhQ/s1600/IMGP0273.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" closure_uid_ykc9i3="3" height="226" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725812736967055986" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLNCdC1qdYh_L2_N85gyIfxA0jFdTqXk5crL3NvvJclReRfwQdOHavPxN2BM56PuMGi7ANVT-LASQ7PjW5OIBuoVnsooHN7AfEaD8z859Z12a36cPDrWrSDARWd2Zz0KSNlKYrAnNUzhQ/s320/IMGP0273.JPG" style="display: block; height: 283px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" width="320" /></a><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>The <span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Johore Bahru railway station was pure magic in the early fifties - there was a children's play ground on the right (when you face the station) with swings, slides and see-saws. Mum would be with us as we played and Dad would cross the road to the stalls in front of the station, and buy Kaka (Malayali Muslim) fried meehoon and hot goreng pisang/banana fritters for us.</span></em><span itemscope="" itemtype="http://schema.org/Lyric"></span><br />
<div class="defaultbg" id="bg-main">
<div class="clearfix" id="main">
<div class="clearfix" id="cols-wrap">
<div id="col-b">
<div class="content-wrap clearfix">
<div style="clear: both;">
</div>
<div style="clear: both;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Remembering the railways, I remember the nameless, faceless Indians who had come as indentured labour to work on the roads and railways of Malaya. Many of them were illiterate and found it impossible to remain in contact with the families they had left behind in India. The majority who never made it back to India, lost all ties with their families in India and this country is the only home they have.</span> <br />
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><u>Working on the Railroad</u></span><u><span style="font-size: large;"></span></u> <section class="taglistbox" data-id="1-8533"><div class="tagsubmittag" id="tag-add">
<span class="defbtnlink"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I've been workin' on the railroad,<br />All the live long day.<br />I've been workin' on the railroad,<br />Just to pass the time away.<br />Don't you hear the whistle blowing?<br />Rise up so early in the morn.<br />Don't you hear <span class="IL_AD" id="IL_AD5">the captain</span> shouting<br />"Dinah, blow your horn?"<br /><br />Dinah, won't you blow,<br />Dinah, won't you blow,<br />Dinah, won't you blow your horn?<br />Dinah, won't you blow,<br />Dinah, won't you blow,<br />Dinah, won't you blow your horn?<br /><br />Someone's in the kitchen with Dinah.<br />Someone's in the kitchen, I know.<br />Someone's in the kitchen with Dinah<br />Strumming on the old banjo.</span><br /><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Fee, fie, fiddle-e-i-o.<br />Fee, fie, fiddle-e-i-o-o-o-o.<br />Fee, fie, fiddle-e-i-o.<br />Strumming on the old banjo.</span></span></div>
</section><section class="taglistbox" data-id="1-8533"><h2>
</h2>
</section><br />
<div class="tagsubmit">
<form class="frmtagsubmit" style="display: none;">
<input class="tagsubmitip definput" name="tag" type="text" /><input name="itemid" type="hidden" value="8533" /><input name="typeid" type="hidden" value="1" /><input class="defbtn tagsubmitbtn" type="submit" value="Submit" /><a class="tagsubmitcancel" href="http://www.metrolyrics.com/ive-been-working-on-the-railroad-lyrics-john-denver.html#cancel" title="Cancel">cancel</a></form>
</div>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: large;">Years later during my university days in Kuala Lumpur in the early seventies, everytime the train pulled out of the station, taking me and Selva to KL I would sing, out of tune of course:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UDjO7F60wiY">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UDjO7F60wiY</a><br />
A Place in the Sun by Stevie Wonder</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Like a long lonely stream</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">i keep running towards a dream</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">moving on</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">moving on</span></em><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">like the branch of a tree</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">i keep reaching to be free</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">moving on </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">moving on</span></em><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">there's a place in the sun </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">and before my life is done</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">gotta find me a place in the sun...</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<br />
<img alt="[Johore+customs+1955.jpg]" border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_f6fVn2YzAfw/SStAWcOZA2I/AAAAAAAAJ7A/wszKTCUdpiI/s320/Johore%2Bcustoms%2B1955.jpg" width="320" /><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Singpore was an integral part of our lives - nearly all our relatives lived in Singapore. The Johore Bahru Customs checkpoint in the early fifities made entering and leaving Singapore so very easy, with no passports or stringent checks.</span> </em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Singapore to us was not a country but just a city where my father worked, our relatives lived and where we went to do our shopping. The Chinese and Indians there were no different from the Chinese and Indians living in Johore. We did not know any Malay in Singapore and therefore cannot comment about them. </span></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<br />
<em><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc__L6bBFovmZVxqwylVELhd1wa3M1ZmeCOUoQ4Ts46kBPsMeG1ngUOz14JD2Tay2PTP2NJOS-muFYl6mG21VIJxLWnLUzcNXj7gHEmsgXi-hXt-nf4QycfUNtQj8k4XKD_zvTMxVXiIk/s1600-h/x252.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc__L6bBFovmZVxqwylVELhd1wa3M1ZmeCOUoQ4Ts46kBPsMeG1ngUOz14JD2Tay2PTP2NJOS-muFYl6mG21VIJxLWnLUzcNXj7gHEmsgXi-hXt-nf4QycfUNtQj8k4XKD_zvTMxVXiIk/s400/x252.jpg" width="400" /></a></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The Causeway in the fifties - from Woodlands looking towards Johore Bahru</span></em><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<img alt="" class="size-full wp-image-11450" height="213" src="http://thelongnwindingroad.files.wordpress.com/2011/03/img_6884.jpg?w=510&h=340" title="IMG_6884" width="320" /><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Gone are the shops of Manthan the carpenter. He was called Manthan but his real name was Wong Mun Fatt.Gone is Bharat Store. Gone is Keng's coffee shop. Gone is the shop of Chow Wah Sing the tailor.</span></em><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<img alt="[Rubber+estate+house.jpg]" border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_f6fVn2YzAfw/SSs-XivDYAI/AAAAAAAAJ6w/VeirXK8WHZk/s320/Rubber%2Bestate%2Bhouse.jpg" width="320" /><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Our holiday in Voules Estate in Segamat in 1962 when we stayed with the Zachariah family - the surroundings were not so different as shown in the picture</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span></em><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><u>Time has stood still to beckon us once again</u></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">One shop which has remained unchanged until today, holding tight, the uncut umbilical cord binding us forever to the JB of the 50s - is an Indian bakery. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">From the balconey of my grandparents' home, we got a good view of the bakery which came alive everyday in the wee hours before dawn, to fill the entire street with the mouth-watering aroma of freshly baked bread. </span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-O9101K8rOng54r3I8kxXMR-_rM631Qo5hCUnrcMvuZ1szcoeVBEmXIRa6x_0STeim5WIXqx0geWCmor4zAkd6frHn7JEZuQnjtF1Ty8lBqk8gE45DSv4Ljrce63p40CtLYb5-PnsqhBc/s1600/IMG_7493.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" closure_uid_dolpqw="6" height="320" nfa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-O9101K8rOng54r3I8kxXMR-_rM631Qo5hCUnrcMvuZ1szcoeVBEmXIRa6x_0STeim5WIXqx0geWCmor4zAkd6frHn7JEZuQnjtF1Ty8lBqk8gE45DSv4Ljrce63p40CtLYb5-PnsqhBc/s320/IMG_7493.JPG" width="320" /></a><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Restaurant name: Salahuddin Bakery </span></em><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Address: 26 Jalan Dhoby, Bandar <place><city>Johor Bahru</city>, <postalcode>80000</postalcode></place> Johor Bahru</span></em> </span></div>
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim4eZabf0Tn7buqQb8b59ZTRpivyxpL3RP2_1OzzjyH4a9aG4fP1okXnqf1y_cBQo0oBkE8trqMNFSwsvbnPctbmWzFwE0JGt2-z5AzsVNp_5omYyvLHsU2kwEKZqoC8KhaRErTnj44DT7/s1600/IMG_6935+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" closure_uid_dolpqw="7" gda="true" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim4eZabf0Tn7buqQb8b59ZTRpivyxpL3RP2_1OzzjyH4a9aG4fP1okXnqf1y_cBQo0oBkE8trqMNFSwsvbnPctbmWzFwE0JGt2-z5AzsVNp_5omYyvLHsU2kwEKZqoC8KhaRErTnj44DT7/s320/IMG_6935+%25282%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">My brother's favourite mouth-watering curry puffs</span></em><br />
<br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Handmade bread of the fifties</span></em><br />
<em><img alt="" class="size-medium wp-image-1224 aligncenter" height="300" src="http://jbcool.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/03/salahuddin-baker-32-300x219.jpg" width="400" /></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Traditional oven</span></em><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjFvFHbUgb13SVbxLpaiE9CD3et6XTTVSvC2g3VS6hv5TxH2R4TwlW8fD4CGGqEvQ6w4vQvLP7HuiDGimm0egnpkURqtmwxeCJyOtlHZvrsRmHuglsJf7LLFa_SVzloU3gYdSEmG6peq_G/s1600/IMG_7468.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" closure_uid_dolpqw="8" gda="true" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjFvFHbUgb13SVbxLpaiE9CD3et6XTTVSvC2g3VS6hv5TxH2R4TwlW8fD4CGGqEvQ6w4vQvLP7HuiDGimm0egnpkURqtmwxeCJyOtlHZvrsRmHuglsJf7LLFa_SVzloU3gYdSEmG6peq_G/s400/IMG_7468.JPG" width="400" /></a><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Before the days of sliced bread - crusty on the outside and soft and inviting on the inside</span></em><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoo34pysb68RKbgB-GPRA2Pr4K8t-WDPPmVTLN4J0E6Nho6zH3AnMcfPINatkgNi1bY1q8xn5HEoGwA_nM4Nym2-e_1Nh-YjdIYYM63fFKuQRURoRMH9f-3T_RAgwzn7sdd3ezJyQ0YqzR/s1600/IMG_8822+(3).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" closure_uid_dolpqw="2" height="305" sda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoo34pysb68RKbgB-GPRA2Pr4K8t-WDPPmVTLN4J0E6Nho6zH3AnMcfPINatkgNi1bY1q8xn5HEoGwA_nM4Nym2-e_1Nh-YjdIYYM63fFKuQRURoRMH9f-3T_RAgwzn7sdd3ezJyQ0YqzR/s320/IMG_8822+(3).JPG" width="320" /></a><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Bread and cakes waiting to be sold - the man in the picture is from the same family that started this bakery at the turn of the twentieth century.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Note: Mahaguru58 gave me permission to use the photographs taken by him</span></em><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.malaysia-traveller.com/images/JohorBahruHeritageTrailLetterbox.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img align="right" alt="Johor Bahru Heritage Trail" border="0" height="256" src="http://www.malaysia-traveller.com/images/JohorBahruHeritageTrailLetterbox.jpg" style="border: 0px currentColor; margin-top: 8px;" title="Johor Bahru Heritage Trail" width="147" /></a><br />
<br />
<em>The solid red pillar boxes of yesteryears have disappeared from the streets of Johore Bahru.</em><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<u></u><br />
<u></u><br />
<u></u><br />
<u></u><br />
<u></u><br />
<u></u><br />
<u></u><br />
<a href="http://remembersingapore.files.wordpress.com/2012/06/nee-soon-post-office.jpg"><img alt="" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4460" height="316" src="http://remembersingapore.files.wordpress.com/2012/06/nee-soon-post-office.jpg?w=640&h=506" style="border: 1px solid black;" title="nee soon post office" width="400" /></a><br />
Nee Soon Post Office in Singapore - an old colonial building<br />
<br />
<strong>Atbara House, Gallop Road (1898-Present)</strong><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://remembersingapore.files.wordpress.com/2011/04/atbara-house9.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-1053" height="300" src="http://remembersingapore.files.wordpress.com/2011/04/atbara-house9.jpg?w=640&h=480" style="border: 1px solid black;" title="atbara house9" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
It was built in 1898 by architect Alfred John Bidwell (1869-1918), who was also the designer of Raffles Hotel, Stamford House and Goodwood Park Hotel. The two-storey house possesses a distinctive red roof and whitewashed walls that are still in a considerably good shape today, although some parts of the house have exposed their neglected conditions since the French embassy moved to another location in 1999.<br />
<u><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="http://remembersingapore.wordpress.com/2012/02/08/grand-mansions-bungalows-villas-of-the-past/">http://remembersingapore.wordpress.com/2012/02/08/grand-mansions-bungalows-villas-of-the-past/</a></span></u><br />
<u><span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span></u><br />
<u><span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span></u><br />
<u><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The Arrival of my sister Sheela</span></u><br />
<u><span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span></u><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><em>Now that you have an idea about the setting - Johore Bahru and Singapore in the fifties and the activities and people who gave that place its peculiar character, we come back to Sheela and the year that she was born.</em> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Before we moved out of our grandparents' house, my parents, older brother and I, stayed in the room that later became my grandfather's consultation room.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It was a small room with two sets of windows and two doors. One door led to the small living room and was always kept open. One door opened up to the narrow passage way that led to the front door of the house, leading downstairs. If you were to stand at the door leading to the hall and look into the room, you would be facing a window. That window gave a view of the sea (and Jalan Pahang that leads to Jalan Ibrahim, the road in front of the sea-side). </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">One morning, my parents dressed up early in the morning and were ready to go off somewhere. I was not dressed to go out and that meant, I was going to be left behind. I do not remember my brother making a fuss about wanting to do anything. He was an ideal older brother. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I shadowed my mother holding on to her sari. I do not remember my grandmother doing anything out of the ordinary that morning. My grandfather was coming around me trying to carry me but I refused to go to him. My uncles had gone to school. Mum, in order to pacify me, told me that she would take me along. But, I refused to let go of her sari. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When my parents reached the door leading downstairs, my father walked down first. Mum stood at the top of the stairs and removed my clinging fingers and called out to her father, to take me away from her. I screamed at that rejection and felt my grandfather lifting me from behind, turning me around and holding me close to his chest. In his usual gentle way, he told me that they were going to the hosptal. When I continued to struggle and lean towards my mother, he told me that he was going to give me a big green apple. I stopped struggling and looked at him.</span> </span><br />
<br />
<img alt="" class="rg_hi uh_hi" data-height="213" data-width="236" height="213" id="rg_hi" src="https://encrypted-tbn2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcS_6L20m__eJdXfhgvn-Lfj3zj_8Br7KiC8ZinfAG0xME6_rMmgOg" style="height: 213px; width: 236px;" width="236" /><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He was wearing a white veshti and a white sleeveless singlet, his usual attire when in the house. He said the apple was on the dining table and asked if I wanted it. I said yes. He told my mother to leave, told someone to close the door and led me to the dining table. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There was no apple on the table. I asked him for the apple and he told me instead, that my parents were going to the doctor, to be a good child and to play quietly. I remember feeling that I had been tricked and it was not a good feeling. I did not cry and I do not remember anything else about that day. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My next clear memory is of playing in the hospital grounds with my brother and my grandparents. It was early evening. As soon as I spotted my father I ran to him. He had in his hands a bag and inside the bag was my mother's sari rolled up into a ball. It was an orange coloured nylex sari. I held my father's hand as he spoke briefly to my grandparents. They hardly spoke to each other and my Dad always answered in monosyllables at the best of times. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">From the hospital grounds we walked along the sea front until we reached home. My grandparents held my brother's hand and I held my father's hand. My grandparents never stopped talking to each other and to my brother. My walk was mostly in silence but I loved the sea and never felt the need to speak when enjoying the sea-side. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I remember the cot in the room. My baby sister whom everyone called Sheela slept in the cot. My grandfather gave her, her daily bath on a Chinese metal enamel flat tray, that was to be found in most homes.</span> <br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><img src="http://galleryplus.ebayimg.com/ws/web/370298242549_1_0_1.jpg" /></span><br />
<em>Picture of the kind of multi-purpose flat metal enamelled tray that we used in our home </em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The new cot bought for my sister was covered with a white mosquito net. My sister would sleep peacefully and both my brother and I would play quietly, often under her cot, and not wake her up. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She was a gentle baby who was much loved by everyone and especially my grandparents. She was always carried by them and my uncles. I believe that would have been a great help for my mother who now had to care for three young children, when she was little more than a child herself. </span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF_OoGXdYkvNpqZm9KbP-ZVQISqiM8WOHaHz_NP29NQqdQc9RhUvg_RKrsXWvDoQY2ry6_iiQY8_FhpXSelHhbSTA76ZIXTaZLMRtXxbPYFs7XZKbEEyjb2IXsrDs3HAUUwQxe7zeVuQM/s1600/IMG_0005+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF_OoGXdYkvNpqZm9KbP-ZVQISqiM8WOHaHz_NP29NQqdQc9RhUvg_RKrsXWvDoQY2ry6_iiQY8_FhpXSelHhbSTA76ZIXTaZLMRtXxbPYFs7XZKbEEyjb2IXsrDs3HAUUwQxe7zeVuQM/s320/IMG_0005+%25282%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>Sheela - 6 months old</em><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When my sister was about six months old, our family moved out of our grandparents' house into a room in a huge old house that belonged to a Chinese family. The man who got that room for us was known as Kunju Kannan Master. He was called Master because he used to be a French teacher when he was in India. His family used the main room on the second floor. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7uXYoVz1EOAx1v9nc3D0u_uIDwZ5YGLWKBtJzqGHXzUy9AdODqrk18CLEiTmm38HnbedWVekXowlt-Eq5s4LSXMzIzTdSXVFAezeIks0UXLefSORJqHlvYxtbX-mle_9Bg_jV4dwpIZU/s1600/IMG_0012+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7uXYoVz1EOAx1v9nc3D0u_uIDwZ5YGLWKBtJzqGHXzUy9AdODqrk18CLEiTmm38HnbedWVekXowlt-Eq5s4LSXMzIzTdSXVFAezeIks0UXLefSORJqHlvYxtbX-mle_9Bg_jV4dwpIZU/s400/IMG_0012+(2).jpg" width="290" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">Mr Kunju Kanan Master and wife with their older son Narendran taken in the early fifties. Narendran and my brother Prabha are the same age.</span></em></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We occupied two rooms. One was our bedroom, our dining room and living room all rolled into one. The other one had a stove and mum stored cooking utensils, cutlery and crockery there. She rarely cooked and a tiffin would arrive from Purushotaman's shop everyday at about 11 in the morning. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I often wonder how my mum tolerated living within the confines of a room with no one to talk to the whole day. Most of the other tenants were Chinese and languge was a barrier in those days. Mum in India was used to a large garden made even larger because there were no fences. She was given the freedom to roam with her friends from one end of the village to another and she was never encumbered with housework.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When you entered the house the first thing you would notice was a big brass urn that was used to burn incense sticks. The whole house had the smell of Chinese incense and joss sticks. The Chinese landlords rarely spoke to us and neither do I remember us speaking to them. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Once you passed the big urn and the burning joss sticks, you would come to a dark wooden stairway on the right end of the room. As you proceeded to climb the staircase, you would slowly get used to the darkness and the feeling of decay that permeated that old building that housed both Indian and Chinese immigrants who needed a place to stay before securing a permanent home. I got the feeling that nobody was permanently going to be there which in part could be because of Mum constantly telling us that we would be moving to a good, clean home soon. </span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a class="image" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:PaoAnGongCenser.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" class="thumbimage" height="400" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/6/6e/PaoAnGongCenser.jpg/200px-PaoAnGongCenser.jpg" width="301" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">A Chinese brass urn that was used to burn incense</span></em></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My brother and I would sit on the one table in the room when Mum fed us. On Fridays, there would be sweet payasam for us. We were happy but I do not think my mother ever really liked living in the dark, dingy house where there were all sorts of creepy crawlies. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In the evenings Mum would carry Sheela in her arms while my brother and I played on the five-foot path outside the house. We would play with little stones and just run around in circles. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Next to the house where we lived, lived a Chinese tailor who sewed such beautiful clothes for us. She would sew in her house. Next to the sewing machine was a table stacked with fashion magazines. One of the more popular magazines was Lana Lobell. Mum would allow me to choose the pattern. The tailor would then advise Mum if the choice was a good one. Most times she would choose a pattern and convince me that it was the perfect choice. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Sometimes in the evening, a satay seller would come by and set up his stall outside the tailor's shop, along the five-foot path. Accompanying him would be his beautiful wife from Sumatera. I remember her beautiful long hair and she would sometimes carry Sheela and talk to mother. Then one day she informed Mum that she had got some bit parts in a Malay Pontianak movie. She too, like my mother, often talked about going back to her homeland when they had saved enough money.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then one day, to her intense horror, Mum spotted a centepede on the floor. It swiftly crawled under the bed where we slept and was not to be seen.</span></div>
<br />
<a href="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQbFjKDMvx438GheeB8Dcj6kx-vPxym39t0DbOfBKlksBKzLhlu" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" class="uh_hi" data-height="185" data-width="273" height="185" id="rg_hi" src="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQbFjKDMvx438GheeB8Dcj6kx-vPxym39t0DbOfBKlksBKzLhlu" style="height: 185px; width: 273px;" width="273" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Mum placed my brother and me on the table and she sat with my sister Sheela on her lap, until Dad returned from work. She was so afraid of it biting us and hurting us, and she herself was terrrified of it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXN_o0dU9wbVyX2Y7yXyooY6HPUShfUZvfpus34EwaGQARd11Ex2llebYiaaUS8HMcMF2xgaIfEwTI_AYnIbDf4D2roe1PhxQjLbRYplanjzkyZ7zg7tK_Fy4HKTrZbcO20iV5rxTZ9ig/s1600/IMG.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXN_o0dU9wbVyX2Y7yXyooY6HPUShfUZvfpus34EwaGQARd11Ex2llebYiaaUS8HMcMF2xgaIfEwTI_AYnIbDf4D2roe1PhxQjLbRYplanjzkyZ7zg7tK_Fy4HKTrZbcO20iV5rxTZ9ig/s320/IMG.jpg" width="194" /></a><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Dad and Master searched for the evasive centepede in vain. They moved the bed to the middle of the room and searched all the four corners of the room. Soon after that we moved out of that house. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It was also during that time that my grandfather noticed something unusual about my sister's urine. She had urinated on the floor of my grandfather's house and it went unnoticed. Hours later my grandfather noticed white specks and he told my mother to leave Sheela with them while he treated her. My brother and I remained at home with Mum and Dad.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My sister stayed with my grandparents for several months. Since she was too young to play with us, we did not miss her so much. It was during those months that my grandmother developed her life-long close attachment to Sheela. </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBgXIO2nkyyXjvK34jITiFwZ_Ork6qG5JOSDsSD0iGiJyRYSFmPk2RcQXht5hdyaeqmVZN0Ly_kG1vAA4GovVSY0JM-H-CkgI4FE7baC0ZxahqzkAUA5IqGgzXs4sy5l0iCTV4wFwOXv4/s1600/IMG_0176.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBgXIO2nkyyXjvK34jITiFwZ_Ork6qG5JOSDsSD0iGiJyRYSFmPk2RcQXht5hdyaeqmVZN0Ly_kG1vAA4GovVSY0JM-H-CkgI4FE7baC0ZxahqzkAUA5IqGgzXs4sy5l0iCTV4wFwOXv4/s320/IMG_0176.jpg" width="262" /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">My grandma always had a framed picture of Sheela on the chest of drawers in the living room of her house. My sister was in her Convent school uniform, wearing dark rimmed glasses. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The school photograph below is very similar to what our school photographs of the sixties would have looked like - the same Holy Infant Jesus uniforms and the Caucasian nuns in their habits.</span><br />
<br />
<img alt="" class="aligncenter size-full wp-image-2627" height="214" src="http://www.ipohworld.org/blog/wp-content/uploads/2010/11/f5chij-4blog.jpg" width="500" /><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">At last we moved out of that dreadful house and experienced the freedom of living in a single storey house with the freedom to step out of the door and be outside the house. The entire row of houses have been pulled down and I have been unable to procure any photographs of those houses. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We moved to 100 Jalan Lumba Kuda Lama, and we were the first occupants of that house. It was a brick house with a living room, two bedrooms, a kitchen, an open yard next to the kitchen and a bathroom and toilet. It was compact, neat and clean. There were no more fears of creepy crawlies, dark cob-web filled staircases and unfriendly strangers. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Mum sewed beautiful curtains for the front window of the house. The curtains hung on a piece of spring that was attached to both sides of the window. The curtains covered only two thirds of the window, letting in lots of sunlight. She also loved to crochet and made lovely doilies and placemats for the tables. </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsB-Gk_wKyUBl17QWjX-gTd0-4N4zkPGzUqYJp7e1Cn55_1uSjfwDyVV7TtcYyNQsFmi6SY6aU94JGoqaj-8NUOfmqRG9FX4bX9lOveQRuz-0C_CgAE7i0eur-PEZZunZLYwfv2JUlxk0/s1600/IMG_0044.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsB-Gk_wKyUBl17QWjX-gTd0-4N4zkPGzUqYJp7e1Cn55_1uSjfwDyVV7TtcYyNQsFmi6SY6aU94JGoqaj-8NUOfmqRG9FX4bX9lOveQRuz-0C_CgAE7i0eur-PEZZunZLYwfv2JUlxk0/s320/IMG_0044.jpg" width="202" /></a><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Uncle Anandhan and Aunty Indira stayed with us after their wedding in the mid-fifties. Uncle had a bicycle which he used to lean against the window. One day Sheela knocked the bicycle down and it fell on her and hurt her. Dad asked Uncle to keep the bicycle tied to the window in future. Soon after that they moved out and rented a room in a house occupied by Chinese, part of a shop. Mum was upset that they did not inform her until the day they moved. </span></em><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Number 100 Jalan Lumba Kuda Lama was the first house in a row of two houses and three shops. The first two were similar houses. After the second house, you went down two steps and there was a shop house. It was occupied by Sime Darby. It was their warehouse. Big trucks would come bringing stuff packed in boxes. Chinese coolies would be bent almost double carrying the loads on their backs into the shop. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">One item I remember is Wincarnis. Everytime my mother had a baby, my father would buy Wincarnis for her, to help her regain her strength and health. </span><br />
<br />
<img alt="Advertising blotters (two) circa 1900." src="http://gb.fotolibra.com/images/previews/28480-advertising-blotters-two-circa-1900.jpeg" title="Advertising blotters (two) circa 1900." /><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Each bottle of Wincarnis would come with a maroon plastic cup. There were days when bottles of Wincarnis would be broken. Some men would hold the bottle in one hand and smash it against the drain. The top end with the unbroken seal had to be returned to the company in Singapore. The maroon plastic cups would be given to us and we had quite a collection of Wincarnis cups in our house. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Next to Sime Darby was a shop that made coconut sweets. It was a hard, dark brown, cylindrical shaped sweet that you had to suck on to get the flavour of cocnut and sugar. Each sweet was wrapped in colourful celophane paper. </span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdcM53izbgQ9E1C9cBKzRcujvgERRkA283jMYRyN_Ssg-20mXpOmPuT4wZXLCrJB9TzaEb6KW6Gn35fEQhW01QxB_b3RSEEaAKJ2yHMagyFfXtS1UefvgWovaN2bQaiTg_O-d9mWbJgyk/s1600-h/IMG_6893.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304535492270867922" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdcM53izbgQ9E1C9cBKzRcujvgERRkA283jMYRyN_Ssg-20mXpOmPuT4wZXLCrJB9TzaEb6KW6Gn35fEQhW01QxB_b3RSEEaAKJ2yHMagyFfXtS1UefvgWovaN2bQaiTg_O-d9mWbJgyk/s200/IMG_6893.JPG" style="float: left; height: 134px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px;" /></a><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">On the days when the sweets were being made, all of us would get the lovely smell of boiling coconut milk and sugar. We would go to the door of the the shop and the workers would invite us in and give us a handful of sweets each. You can still buy such sweets in some Chinese sundry shops. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span> <br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The last shop in that row was a shop that made balloons. They were long thin strings of rubber tubes, covered with a white powder.</span> <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://encrypted-tbn2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcT8b0MeYI2EFXmvyk0M2UR76vA3VuRKlnbgp40KKT7nnEi7i3kO6g" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" class="rg_hi uh_hi" data-height="225" data-width="225" height="225" id="rg_hi" src="https://encrypted-tbn2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcT8b0MeYI2EFXmvyk0M2UR76vA3VuRKlnbgp40KKT7nnEi7i3kO6g" style="height: 225px; width: 225px;" width="225" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Just as in the sweet shop, we would go to the balloon shop and the workers would give us a few balloons each. Blowing the balloons was impossible until one of them showed us how to do it. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We had to put the end without the opening into our mouths and suck in the air and make a tiny blown balloon bit in our mouth, then we had to hold the part near our lips tight and not let any air escape before taking it out of our mouth. The next step was to place the opening of the balloon in our mouth and blow really hard and see the long balloon taking shape. Once the whole length of balloon had filled out, we made a dead knot at the end. The men then showed us how to create different shapes by twisting the balloon in various ways. That kept us occupied as well.</span> <br />
<br />
<img alt="" class="rg_hi uh_hi" data-height="275" data-width="183" height="275" id="rg_hi" src="https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRl0RCDFB2A8W3DKet3UFtE_Is0envETaWegohgQkghe0wLXX7wcQ" style="height: 275px; width: 183px;" width="183" /><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Those were safe days when we could roam up and down the five-foot path from our house, the first house to the balloon shop, the last shophouse in that row. Those were happy days as we discovered the free world we lived in. Mum would open the front door when she woke up and the door was not shut until the household went to sleep at night. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Some 58 years later, that is about 2 weeks ago, end of March 2012, when I asked Sheela what she remembered of those days, she wrote to me saying</span>,<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>"<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Thank goodness you can write descriptively and have the energy and motivation to sit before your computer and do so. I love reading them and it jogs my memory. The clogs or 'kah-teh' as we used to call them were beautiful in their red colors. Later in life I remember associating them with our "Aachi' who washed our clothes." </span></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<img alt="" class="rg_hi uh_hi" data-height="194" data-width="259" height="194" id="rg_hi" src="https://encrypted-tbn2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcScwDuTp04y4AGyTRifHYK08qPOub7THPhzzkt8j0hS4pkoR_2L" style="height: 194px; width: 259px;" width="259" /><br />
<em></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">That triggers the memory of the old washboards that were used for washing <em>clothes. </em></span></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><img alt="" border="0" closure_uid_209kt1="8" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727196413338551490" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizu611rv8wNYh7fPNdfYxWf1nPYFkgQHbpDmqTVQjv9XjRz2YlEk8rb4jQLVN3Zg7a7cd5O42jwV0hJSaWIEiMbcBkj467uSRHax5ZXdA0GOqIDJQiW2A2eX-RJUxROD9Jsx6tUpQhSnc/s400/water+is+precious+filmlet+1973_sm.jpg" style="display: block; height: 306px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></span><em></em><br />
Filmlet on TV in 1973 for the "Water is Precious" campaign. Photo credit: National Archives of Singapore.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><em> </em>Sheela told me<em> "I really wanted to be a washerwoman when I was young, at some stage in my life, as it looked such fun to wash clothes in that big basin and pour all that amount of water down the drain. Maybe that's why I loved those Enid Blyton books on the Far Away Tree as it had a washerwoman in it who would empty the water down the tree. Now of course, we would not dream of wasting water like that and would recycle that used water for the garden."</em> </span><br />
<br />
<img height="480" id="il_fi" src="http://lifeofspume.files.wordpress.com/2010/05/olw-ma-shu.jpg?w=520" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="480" /><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>"Will continue searching my memory - oh yes, Father used to drive around looking for those particular leaves for mother to make that particular appam that was cone shaped and she would stick a match stick thro the leaves to hold it together. I can actually smell it and taste it now. Pity we did not </em><em>write these recipes down."</em></span><br />
<em></em><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Making therali appam</span><br />
<a href="http://attukalpongala.blogspot.com/2010/03/making-therali-appam.html">http://attukalpongala.blogspot.com/2010/03/making-therali-appam.html</a><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Mum called the appams, vayanela appam referring to the vayan leaves that were used to make that appam. The pictures below show how they are made. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">It was Dad's duty to get the leaves for Mum. He would take my older brother and go in search of the tree that grew wild near our house. He would bring back lots of leaves and sort out the ones that could be used.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Mum would mix the batter and we would clean the leaves for her and help to shape them into cones and Mum would fill each cone with the batter and secure each cone with a tooth-pick. She would tell us stories of how they made the appams in India and how all the relatives would gather to help make them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">In the meantime a large vessel of water would be boiling and the steamer would be in place waiting for the appams to be steamed. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<em><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8pwb1vmOnNHIDH1a2dm7Or8xjDgMFTtKzW_8o6wwi6upE_gNWOlhGAlqRYZ8BlypJntCYE6bygjhnotuKsrnrl6fypFM649G-HOOOXtZfS3KNTz2PCtcMOKr_t3RNPUk5xZBAsRLVwgk/s1600-h/IMGA0306.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" closure_uid_pgqmf2="3" height="147" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443562991970107890" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8pwb1vmOnNHIDH1a2dm7Or8xjDgMFTtKzW_8o6wwi6upE_gNWOlhGAlqRYZ8BlypJntCYE6bygjhnotuKsrnrl6fypFM649G-HOOOXtZfS3KNTz2PCtcMOKr_t3RNPUk5xZBAsRLVwgk/s200/IMGA0306.JPG" style="height: 295px; width: 400px;" width="200" /></a></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Roll the vayana leaf to a conical shape and fill with dough</span></span></em><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDwuHy39BzRZaaKvxBOLIs2Ma4u-aegiI6qbuqyxFxRlEUiGZ_m0_wE7GWJMjC_rUKPJA0kSdVWAq1AZWPLZ0f95uJAORe8MvnkiX0dwa0blUEVGH3R7982NHBWuH33sP4XbZUA1ENUhA/s1600-h/IMGA0319.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" closure_uid_pgqmf2="5" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443562978084101730" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDwuHy39BzRZaaKvxBOLIs2Ma4u-aegiI6qbuqyxFxRlEUiGZ_m0_wE7GWJMjC_rUKPJA0kSdVWAq1AZWPLZ0f95uJAORe8MvnkiX0dwa0blUEVGH3R7982NHBWuH33sP4XbZUA1ENUhA/s400/IMGA0319.JPG" style="height: 295px; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><em><span style="font-size: x-small;">Place the filled cones in a steam cooker</span></em></span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2d_5Bp7zeV0KADbIX1IqeP95Ru-FqZhT_ZjqCRdbfT0gfO-N6QNC_klf5YTAdJ_76xq2aqz2M7D68-uF_76rlZ3d9TwBbXXLmghNoYvTZ5DTX-HhaXfVAapDuSXYCxxyaRd7SzyqR-18/s1600-h/IMGA0279.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" closure_uid_pgqmf2="6" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443562968213908370" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2d_5Bp7zeV0KADbIX1IqeP95Ru-FqZhT_ZjqCRdbfT0gfO-N6QNC_klf5YTAdJ_76xq2aqz2M7D68-uF_76rlZ3d9TwBbXXLmghNoYvTZ5DTX-HhaXfVAapDuSXYCxxyaRd7SzyqR-18/s400/IMGA0279.jpg" style="height: 257px; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><em><span style="font-size: x-small;">Steam cook for twenty minutes and therali is ready</span></em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><em><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span></em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><em><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span></em></span><br />
<em>"I<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> watched a tv show called "2 greedy Italians' and it's about these 2 middleaged guys travelling thro Italy and wanting to know if the young ladies and men know how to cook as previously the grandmothers used to teach them.They are worried too that the old recipes would disappear forever," continued Sheela.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-large;">My Frightened Little Sister</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Sheela had a great fear of the Punjabi security guard who would set up his bed at night at the front door of Sime Darby. Before seven in the evening, he would drag out his <em>charpoy</em> and get ready to assume his duty of night-guard.</span> <br />
<br />
<br />
<img height="295" src="http://www.stringbedco.com/images/hstry_2.jpg" width="218" /><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="color: dimgrey;"><span style="color: black;">The charpoy, a bed made from a wooden frame with taut woven "ropes", is the most functional and versatile piece of furniture of indian rural life to meditate, eat, sit, rest, play...</span> </span> pic taken in 1933 </span></em><br />
<br />
<img height="412" id="il_fi" src="http://design-flute.com/wp-content/uploads/2007/07/charpoy-being-restrug-circa-1900-photo-courtesy-columbiaeduebay.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="547" /><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The Punjabi night-watchman would sit on his bed and remove his turban. Then he would literally let his hair down and it uncoil into a mass of long flowing hair that reached his hips. Next he would do something to his beard and it would come to rest just above his stomach. He would remove his shirt and be in his singlet. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He would look around and if he would spy us, he would make a grunting sound. Once the man arrived Sheela would not come out of the house, such was her fear. Mum has always taken pity on the old watchman and given him some food. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Uncle Anandan who had an infectious sense of humour came home late at night and stopped by the watchman's bed to have his daily chat. There was no response from the still figure on the bed. He rushed to the house and informed us that the watchman had died. Mum urged him to call the ambulance. Uncle ran to the railway station to make the 999 call. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">The screaming ambulance screeched to a halt and when the man was carried up to be placed on the stretcher, it was a very irritated, screaming watchman who startled everyone by struggling to his feet in anger. He had had some drinks and was dead to the world when uncle had tried speaking to him earlier in the evening. Uncle was soundly scolded by both the ambulance driver and the watchman. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It was while we were staying in 100 Jalan Lumba Kuda Lama that Sobha was born and Sheela was no longer the youngest in the family. Mum had her hands full and she often placed the infant Sobha on Aunty Indira's bed so that she could get on with her housework. That is how Aunty Indira formed her great love for Sobha.</span> <br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When Uncle Anandhan and Aunty Indira moved out of 100 Jalan Lumba Kuda Lama, another family moved into their room. His name was Krishna Pillay and her name was Ratnammah. They had two children, Prabha and Devadas. A few months later, we moved to Bukit Chagar a far cry from Lumba Kuda and the Chinese. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In Bukit Chagar, there was no metallic road leading to the front of the house. The neighbours were Malays and further away in the railway quarters there were Indians. We have good memories of living in the Kampung style house amidst the Malays, although initially we could not adapt to the rural atmosphere of Bukit Chagar.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeFz2DDqPx51lO0TUze2FmJiVr0s8SawVV8-qm4umt-6GMfdk2_dJIjQ7DytqiY4q6E6LH9VGtk12aLwi3IrlDxAu-DTqRYB2w1g3cAd4gauaAQh60RdxoWbY7iEx_J09OiQfe0oYp0Xg/s1600/IMG_0105.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeFz2DDqPx51lO0TUze2FmJiVr0s8SawVV8-qm4umt-6GMfdk2_dJIjQ7DytqiY4q6E6LH9VGtk12aLwi3IrlDxAu-DTqRYB2w1g3cAd4gauaAQh60RdxoWbY7iEx_J09OiQfe0oYp0Xg/s320/IMG_0105.jpg" width="318" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-large;"></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Taken in 1958 in Bukit Chagar, when Mum was pregnant with Harish. Aunty Ratnammah on the left and Mum on the right. Left to right, front row: Devadas, Prabha, Sobha and Sheela. In the background is Safiah's house. That was the most idyllic place where we have stayed - open space, gentle Malay neighbours, bamboo fences and nature unspoilt. Sheela and Prabha are the same age.</span> <span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Note the rural setting.</span> </em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Soon after we moved in, Uncle Krishna Pillay, a clever handyman, built two chicken coops, one for his family and one for us and then some hens and cockerels were brought in. It was our duty to feed the chickens in the morning and evening. After a period of time, the hens began to lay eggs but not always in the coop. When the hen had laid an egg and announced it to the whole world, Sheela, my brother and I would run around to search for the egg. It was fun.</span> <br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Photo Shoots at Chow Wah Photo Studio and at home - the different faces/phases of Sheela</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW61YiISmeR1NZW2z3dIwB8A0OnRfzHMxgl3fl-Wq3lJehDuPXPbff4EUx4d_fMUipXm0JOwQTJ9TQopzkd8bk5eqDfb6oE6jApRSvgqKasaj0RKih18EVJISjdyDHgxeIwTKvjiRDd_E/s1600/IMG_0002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW61YiISmeR1NZW2z3dIwB8A0OnRfzHMxgl3fl-Wq3lJehDuPXPbff4EUx4d_fMUipXm0JOwQTJ9TQopzkd8bk5eqDfb6oE6jApRSvgqKasaj0RKih18EVJISjdyDHgxeIwTKvjiRDd_E/s320/IMG_0002.jpg" width="202" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>Sobha and Sheela in late 1958 taken at the Studio</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<a class="image" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Studijskifotoaparat.JPG"><img alt="" class="thumbimage" height="165" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/f/f4/Studijskifotoaparat.JPG/220px-Studijskifotoaparat.JPG" srcset="//upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/f/f4/Studijskifotoaparat.JPG/330px-Studijskifotoaparat.JPG 1.5x, //upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/f/f4/Studijskifotoaparat.JPG/440px-Studijskifotoaparat.JPG 2x" width="220" /></a><br />
old studio camera<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS9h0L4ES0tInHVm0lKb-JVqbB0iZmzJamPj-rd9rqdFwFW_iR1lcSQ4A_MmkwnHUMDy8Nb7Z9EiTzu3QEOcDjhKvMegq_-xyp1vAgO-0QngWmEZNaMVoULFG0iW5PuKuGToLED_sGwPU/s1600/IMG_0100.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS9h0L4ES0tInHVm0lKb-JVqbB0iZmzJamPj-rd9rqdFwFW_iR1lcSQ4A_MmkwnHUMDy8Nb7Z9EiTzu3QEOcDjhKvMegq_-xyp1vAgO-0QngWmEZNaMVoULFG0iW5PuKuGToLED_sGwPU/s320/IMG_0100.jpg" width="243" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em>Sobha and Sheela taken in late 1959 at our house in Bukit Chagar</em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS0NMg4JRBkaM8F7q6KLR2HDoI7L3YHHfPjV4MgfLk1tngm792V2U3CWYe3jH-2lC2iRCHT6DjptH-vbeU1CASWkWoytpceh52GSnmrpopWwdGYnyeSkOI9iuwlS8V1XGIXPm2QhOSkW8/s1600/IMG_0102.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS0NMg4JRBkaM8F7q6KLR2HDoI7L3YHHfPjV4MgfLk1tngm792V2U3CWYe3jH-2lC2iRCHT6DjptH-vbeU1CASWkWoytpceh52GSnmrpopWwdGYnyeSkOI9iuwlS8V1XGIXPm2QhOSkW8/s320/IMG_0102.jpg" width="245" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em>Sheela on the chair and left to right: Sobha, Prasanna and Harish, taken in 1959</em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLFYpOmBOVla0vDiwKYRZbM6vEeOGRq5nF5yQNr6cFp410FibGHo2hzxQO4qR4ImR8CQDyyIKFtetKuAr_ZPl9Pmg7uokBJxqRAF9SFDoL2VjwKBiA27WjRGWcTBV-HHqVzAcMUpFsGbg/s1600/IMG_0092.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLFYpOmBOVla0vDiwKYRZbM6vEeOGRq5nF5yQNr6cFp410FibGHo2hzxQO4qR4ImR8CQDyyIKFtetKuAr_ZPl9Pmg7uokBJxqRAF9SFDoL2VjwKBiA27WjRGWcTBV-HHqVzAcMUpFsGbg/s320/IMG_0092.jpg" width="312" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img border="0" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEionRcD2Nxps_CSOnkIbX5XWMSrFGAhtLeMdBt8kSI4aWkuIdKYHLuETKf-sbzXo0l9DjA-MZ0lAsPWOkxw96HfesH94T2NzcHemV6_Za6-Sl9AK0kici9gRoT2eNyl2xiEK0AovEYgbTE/s320/IMG_0087.jpg" width="320" /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Sheela when she was not well and stayed at our grandparents' house - January 1961</span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Unlike us, she was a very gentle and easily frightened child. She would cry easily and she would laugh just as easily.</span> </em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5f2q6PIj_AHvm0iKsQzviqj_PxJHCOkeLhkm_NIDpDs9gJJj3jEHgD5SEt8193wbEOA_tnrXkSw0-gcJrlCAQeabWO2u05hWMhgEyTJ9Sqm7bH8yUf7zwbMGvzCyHVUa7NkLJo3kpT_4/s1600/IMG_0109.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5f2q6PIj_AHvm0iKsQzviqj_PxJHCOkeLhkm_NIDpDs9gJJj3jEHgD5SEt8193wbEOA_tnrXkSw0-gcJrlCAQeabWO2u05hWMhgEyTJ9Sqm7bH8yUf7zwbMGvzCyHVUa7NkLJo3kpT_4/s320/IMG_0109.jpg" width="314" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Not sure where this is taken</span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiC3Vcpo2oMTMtaxSAlG0crDYytNaxebQ_VHmqcK_ZxbRvZKMnEmVQWhT9naWJ-t40skt9GJfnvn0huw47LNxbg3PzviPFLLcPIYMRJANEbRoUdS5rjqEQdclAKlyfXLDMxnwPkCuutnI/s1600/IMG_0112.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiC3Vcpo2oMTMtaxSAlG0crDYytNaxebQ_VHmqcK_ZxbRvZKMnEmVQWhT9naWJ-t40skt9GJfnvn0huw47LNxbg3PzviPFLLcPIYMRJANEbRoUdS5rjqEQdclAKlyfXLDMxnwPkCuutnI/s320/IMG_0112.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em> <span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Sheela, Suresh and Sobha 1961 in Jalan Abdul Samad</span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Appappan</span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJElcJHpyS2VW-uPAhFp7nz2ZLQU9Rmb6r41EC12eAAp_S_rnFXRseWkaLVVQi8wNxMPMCuZkkDIc94uqwV0lueYg1pnxaDjZ9LiHD3IXB-ekCstdFnbmKe0ARuy9aZpWDGFeXkE7BRFA/s1600/IMG_0113.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJElcJHpyS2VW-uPAhFp7nz2ZLQU9Rmb6r41EC12eAAp_S_rnFXRseWkaLVVQi8wNxMPMCuZkkDIc94uqwV0lueYg1pnxaDjZ9LiHD3IXB-ekCstdFnbmKe0ARuy9aZpWDGFeXkE7BRFA/s320/IMG_0113.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Appapan as we called him was our grandfather's paternal uncle. He had come to Malaya soon after the end of the First World War and worked in Singapore. To the best of our knowledge he was not officially married though it was common knowledge that he had taken a common-law Chinese wife and had a child. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">During the Second World War, he was given up for dead after he was captured by the Japanese and taken to work on the Siam Railway. He survived and came back months after the war had ended. He had horrendous stories to tell which our parents did not allow us children to listen to. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He smoked the bidi, wore a white shirt and khaki shorts and slippers. He was not very friendly but neither was he very unfriendly. When we lived in Bukit Chagar he got into a routine of walking to our house from Jalan Dhoby and taking his lunch with us. After lunch he would lay out a mat and take his afternoon nap in the hall. In the evening he would go back to Jalan Dhoby. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<img alt="" class="rg_hi uh_hi" data-height="190" data-width="266" height="190" id="rg_hi" src="https://encrypted-tbn1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQcKr2rr_qjq56t3NfIGvyckaZSHkr24GLd4gVVVxD8nSRXFhAN" style="height: 190px; width: 266px;" width="266" />bidi</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Something about his visits annoyed my Mum after a while. One day she spoke to Aunt Ratnammah about it and referred to him as 'pishashu' which more or less translates to devil. Unfortunately Appapan had heard this conversation. Instead of stepping inside the kitchen as he usually did, he decided to sit on the swing under the house. Sheela went up to him calling out, "Appapan" and he gave her a slap on the face. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My terrified sister screamed and ran back to the kitchen. The ladies ran outside. Appapan meanwhile had lost his anger and was quite contrite. Mum was angry and Aunty Ratnammah gave her silent supportt to Mum. I was the silent witness to the drama. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">That evening Mum went to my grandfather's house and thus ended Appapan's visit to our house for lunch. However, after we moved to Lorong 2B, he visited us occasionally. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdlx41hBu4PDehMd-fmw0yhvo39HLzuHit3jt9-9NB15SI_zvI1I1ssmhhNnzoR63V7HBHz2I9SsZVV-xlj6j0XJQ4rBRxWqwCMkH7bDa_ZTQzCQVsfQ55UDzt6Un0zIf8RS2td084_yk/s1600/IMG_0005+(3).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdlx41hBu4PDehMd-fmw0yhvo39HLzuHit3jt9-9NB15SI_zvI1I1ssmhhNnzoR63V7HBHz2I9SsZVV-xlj6j0XJQ4rBRxWqwCMkH7bDa_ZTQzCQVsfQ55UDzt6Un0zIf8RS2td084_yk/s400/IMG_0005+(3).jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">L-R: Dad, Sobha, Uncle Raghavan (father of Suni and husband of Aunty Subhadra, Appapan and Uncle Kamalan</span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The sleeping arrangements in Bukit Chagar</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">There were two bedrooms in the house in Bukit Chagar. My parents, Sheela and Sobha used the first room. Uncle and Aunty used the second room. My brother and I slept on mats on the floor of the second living room outside the bedrooms. Prabha and Devadas slept on a bed also in the hall. </span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">During the rainy season, the sound of rain falling on the zinc roof was music to our ears, the temperatures would drop and it would become chilly. Ocassionally there would be thunder and lightning as well. Then Mum would arrange the mats on the floor of the bedroom and my brother, Sheela and I would sleep on the floor. She would cover us with a blanket and we would all be engulfed in a feeling of intense cosiness and love and would sleep with such joy, loistening to the rain on the zinc roof, especially if the following day was a school holiday. </span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">We used to go to the seaside and pick shells and bring them home. We had a collection of shells. Uncle Krishna Pillay must have been quite an artist. He would paint colourful pictures on the shells and arrange them in their room and also keep some outside. Once he gave us a few which we admired greatly. Another thing that he did was to paint pictures on the wall of his bedroom. We had been invited to admire his artwork. It did make the drab room look very interesting. </span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">100 Jalan Lumba Kuda Lama had been a brand new brick house. 14 Bukit Chagar was an old run-down wooden Malay Kampung House.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf9YXDdtH4iTV-MUpgNtF6Xp1aDL4RoMFFEnj8v6xOX2zugsMzyfAnu0yFp7o3GBCiF5UUEw5ahU6ltQAcFd9-7U0jMJeKSbhSat1z2voWRTckGGa9flkrjl-VEuBFb4PT8svO-FlZ9a8/s1600/IMG_0078.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="387" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf9YXDdtH4iTV-MUpgNtF6Xp1aDL4RoMFFEnj8v6xOX2zugsMzyfAnu0yFp7o3GBCiF5UUEw5ahU6ltQAcFd9-7U0jMJeKSbhSat1z2voWRTckGGa9flkrjl-VEuBFb4PT8svO-FlZ9a8/s400/IMG_0078.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">L-R: Sobha, Mum, Prabha and the legs of Uncle Prasad</span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">The people in the picuture are in the living room of the wooden house. The open door leads to the area where my brother and I used to sleep on mats on the floor. The door beyond that leads to the kitchen. Note the peeling paint and the rattan chairs that we used. </span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-size: large;">The Arrival of Sarojini</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My grandmother took in boys who came from the rubber estates and gave them board and lodging and sent them to school. One day, a man came to our house with one of the boys, Govindan. The man was a Malayalee and his wife a Tamil. They were ruber tappers but wanted to give their children an education. My grandmother did not want to take in girls because there were too many boys in her house. The two boys who lived there when we were growing up were Govindan and Chellapan. Chellapan was a paying guest whose parents lived in Layang Layang Estate.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR1-QGtGYWNgNev06aNpPX-PppHRAhLfnQ8INHt-jriT79F7D_vuCRM6bX6ux9p9FrDR83Bnm6tzYbtOmV2w-0BOygUF9HGYzEnFTe3nqdcmFJmtc8qWJk9yLIvU18qLCf8pcOybD8pXI/s1600/IMG_0032+(3).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR1-QGtGYWNgNev06aNpPX-PppHRAhLfnQ8INHt-jriT79F7D_vuCRM6bX6ux9p9FrDR83Bnm6tzYbtOmV2w-0BOygUF9HGYzEnFTe3nqdcmFJmtc8qWJk9yLIvU18qLCf8pcOybD8pXI/s400/IMG_0032+(3).jpg" width="255" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">L-R: Chellapan Doraisamy, Uncle Prakash and Govindan Krishnan</span></em></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The man was Govindan's father. He told my mum that his daughter who was staying with the Sekharan family had to move out of their house. He pleaded with my mother to give his daughter a place to stay. After much persuasion, Mum agreed and that was how Sarojini came to stay with us for two years. Her departure from our house was tragic and something that should never have happened but it did.</span> <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPbDhSLdIIYUKgL6rJ1JBmXP4NtexTIDTFEAvsxtq_-uHHeQdGFW9j9SoX5G-LBid6XDQna1lBkewXYiV_HqUsSIof4R3F90cclr5kK56zFdxBj0FzzFcXupi1mEkI2U2MtRBWoBjqHxE/s1600/IMG_0093.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPbDhSLdIIYUKgL6rJ1JBmXP4NtexTIDTFEAvsxtq_-uHHeQdGFW9j9SoX5G-LBid6XDQna1lBkewXYiV_HqUsSIof4R3F90cclr5kK56zFdxBj0FzzFcXupi1mEkI2U2MtRBWoBjqHxE/s320/IMG_0093.jpg" width="318" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>Sarojini, Harish and Sheela taken in December 1960, the year she left our house</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: large;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: large;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: large;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: large;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: large;">The Arrival of Mr Appukuttan Nair as Sheela's teacher</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: large;"></span></em><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Prabha's father found Mr Appukuttan Nair to come to our house to teach Prabha and Sheela, since there was no kindergarten nearby for the two young children to attend. Mr Appukuttan came dutifully every evening and after having tea with the adults, he would proceed to teach the children. I remember that he was stricter with Sheela than with Prabha and most probably because he was Prabha's father's friend. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Soon, he found out that Sheela was a fast learner and had no problems understanding, learning and doing all the work set out by him. He was working for the British Army in Majidee and was a friend of Mr C P Thomas as well. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then one day Mr Appukuttan announced that he was going to India to get married. He was away for a couple of months and when he returned, minus his wife, to resume teaching, Sheela and Prabha were already attending the Convent of the Holy Infant Jesus in Johore Bahru. Sheela did not need a tuition teacher any longer and he stopped coming shortly thereafter. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">People like Mr Appukuttan belonged to a large group of Malayali men who came to work in British Malaya and left their families behind in India. They would visit India once in three or four years for about a month. Their wives and children, whom they hardly knew carried on with their lives. The husbands, in order to save money, would often share one room with four or five people. Prabha's father Uncle Krishna Pillay, sent his wife and children to India in 1961 and lived alone with friends until the British army withdrew from the Far East. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">If the grapevine is to be believed, when Mr Appukutan returned to India he found that his wife had left him for someone else and had taken all his hard-earned money which he had dutifully sent home to India every month. His was not an isolated case. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Onam Celebrations</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Mum and Aunty Ratnammah had been classmates in Mayyanad. Onam celebrations became a really big thing when we stayed together. The excitement would start at least a month earlier with the making of delicacies, new clothes, shoes, cleaning of the house, new curtains and we were allowed to take a day off school. Onam is not a public holiday in this country and the Malays and Chinese had no idea as to what it was all about except that my mother would send them some Indian cookies which they enjoyed eating. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Mum would rise early in the morning and proceed to boil water on the kerosene stove for us to take our bath. She would wake us one by one before the break of dawn. Prabha's mother did the same. We would be sleepy and shivering but the excitement of wearing new clothes and shoes made us forget the discomfort. Sheela never complained about getting up or taking her bath. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Mum being Mum would dress all three girls in similar clothes, so much so that we appeared to be in uniforms most of the time. We did not like it one bit. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Lunch was fun since we did not use plates but banana leaves and got to sit on the floor to eat. The food served on Onam is vegetarian. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img alt="" class="rg_hi uh_hi" data-height="194" data-width="259" height="194" id="rg_hi" src="https://encrypted-tbn3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTRImAzIPX1vLU5QHyXpKnLjOo5JWa8hb9e7Y754WL5YZreUlrE" style="height: 194px; width: 259px;" width="259" /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Half the fun was in bending over until our faces almost touched the leaf and trying to get the food to our mouths. The adults served us and we had to eat all the different kinds of stuff put on our leaves. At the end of the meal, there was no washing up, just the disposal of leaves. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">By mid afternoon the adults would be really tired and have their much needed rest and sleep. We children were allowed to run and play and it was one day when no one got scolded or beaten for any crime committed. We siblings did not quarrel either for it was Onam and Maha Bali had come for his yearly visit, even though we were not in Kerala!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong>*<span style="color: #38761d;">Onam</span></strong><span style="color: #38761d;"> (</span></span></em><a class="mw-redirect" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Malayalam_language" title="Malayalam language"><em><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Malayalam</span></em></a><span style="color: #38761d;"><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">: <span lang="ml" xml:lang="ml">ഓണം</span>) is an ancient </span></em><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">festival</span></em><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> which still survives in modern times and is celebrated by the people of </span></em></span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kerala" title="Kerala"><em><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Kerala</span></em></a><em><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">, </span></em><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/India" title="India"><em><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">India</span></em></a><em><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">.<sup class="reference" id="cite_ref-1"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Onam#cite_note-1">[1]</a></sup> The festival commemorates the </span></em><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vamana" title="Vamana"><em><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Vamana</span></em></a><em><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> </span></em><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Avatar" title="Avatar"><em><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">avatar</span></em></a><em><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> of </span></em><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vishnu" title="Vishnu"><em><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Vishnu</span></em></a><em><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> and the subsequent homecoming of the legendary Emperor </span></em><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mahabali" title="Mahabali"><em><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Mahabali</span></em></a><em><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">. It is the state festival of </span></em><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kerala" title="Kerala"><em><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Kerala</span></em></a><em><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> and falls during the month of </span></em><a class="mw-redirect" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chingam" title="Chingam"><em><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Chingam</span></em></a><span style="color: #38761d;"><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> (August–September) and lasts for ten days.</span></em> <em><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span></em></span><br />
<em><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The subjects under Mahabali's reign were happy and prosperous and the king was highly regarded, so much so that even the gods under </span></em><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Indra" title="Indra"><em><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Indra</span></em></a><em><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> became jealous of Mahabali as was intended by </span></em><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vishnu" title="Vishnu"><em><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Vishnu</span></em></a><em><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">, and they approached </span></em><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vishnu" title="Vishnu"><em><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Vishnu</span></em></a><em><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> claiming that Mahabali is now equivalent to an Indra. </span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Once Vishnu was assured that Indra's pride has been contained and that a world with two Indras represents imbalance, Vishnu assumed the form of a dwarf: </span></em><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vamana" title="Vamana"><em><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Vamana</span></em></a><em><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">. Vamana requested three steps of land for him to live in. </span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Given a promise of three steps of land by King </span></em><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mahabali" title="Mahabali"><em><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Mahabali</span></em></a><em><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> against the warning given by his Guru </span></em><a class="mw-redirect" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sukracharya" title="Sukracharya"><em><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Sukracharya</span></em></a><em><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">, Vamana, enlarged himself to such dimensions as to stride over the three worlds. He had grown so huge that he could step from heaven to earth, and earth to the lower worlds in two simple steps. King </span></em><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mahabali" title="Mahabali"><em><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Mahabali</span></em></a><em><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> unable to fulfill the promise of three paces of land to the Supreme God, offers his head for the third step. </span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Thus, Vamana places his foot on King Mahabali's head and sends him down to the netherworld. Being worshipped however, by Mahabali, and his ancestor Prahláda, he conceded to them the sovereignty of Sutala (netherworld).</span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Verdana;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> In the meantime, with the grace of Vishnu, Mahabali visited his people on an annual basis. It is this visit of Mahabali that is celebrated as Onam every year. People celebrate the festival in a grand way and impress upon their dear King that they are happy and wish him well.</span></em><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMOJWJotEoNphdVG0eK4DVk2EzUmHkMJrXubmUKvXTVumS_ONaIw1yby84ViRmO3KYiwZEG_hPIDWh8DiCEd1WceRo_pEpaWhav3T922roTIUHzuE071lIOSjuBt7p8Xesvw3voFIoAU4/s1600/IMG_0143.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMOJWJotEoNphdVG0eK4DVk2EzUmHkMJrXubmUKvXTVumS_ONaIw1yby84ViRmO3KYiwZEG_hPIDWh8DiCEd1WceRo_pEpaWhav3T922roTIUHzuE071lIOSjuBt7p8Xesvw3voFIoAU4/s400/IMG_0143.jpg" width="310" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">Onam 1959 when Mr Lawrence Law came with my uncle Prakash, Mum's youngest brother who was then 19 years old and applying to enter the University of Singapore. Lawrence had just graduated from the same university</span></em></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><em></em></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">All good things come to an end</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My Dad and Uncle fell out over some disagreement regarding the Johore Bahru Grand Prix. The popular driver of those days was Albert Poon. My father was English educated and that uncle was not. So the men stopped talking but the ladies continued to be friends, since they used the same kitchen, and shared the facilities. We children were made aware of the need to be always on our best behaviour and to not antagonise anyone. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Life was a bit strained after that fall out. The swing under the house had been set up by Uncle who was a handyman. It was out of bounds for us. When we children were loud in our enjoyment of playing together, Mum always found a chore for us that broke up our play. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When I was ill and hospitalized for a long while, Mum heavily pregnant with Harish would come every afternoon to the hospital, carrying a tiffin and some porridge and an omelette for me. She had to walk a long distance to catch a bus and then from the bus stop to the ward and back. She came alone and it was Aunty Ratnammah who looked after my older brother, Sheela and Sobha until Mum returned. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Years later when it fell upon me to take Sobha, Harish and Suresh to the hospital for various ailments, I often remembered my mother. I took Sobha to the hospital for many years on an almost weekly basis. In order to save the bus-fare we would walk to the hospital and back. On the way back we would stop at Uncle Anandan's house and pick up Susheema their eldest daughter. She was a round little thing who did not like to walk and I had to carry her all the way home. In the evening Mum and Dad would send her home. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I do not remember ever having to do anything for Sheela who was almost totally self-sufficient. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em><u>The Johore Bahru Grand Prix</u></em></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em></em></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>One of the oldest races in Malaya, the Johore Grand Prix was first held in 1940. The next Grand Prix took place only in 1949, and was held between August and October. When the Malaysian Grand Prix (which took place at the Batu Tiga circuit near Kuala Lumpur) was introduced, the Johore Grand Prix was scheduled to take place a week after it in September to facilitate overseas participants who wanted to compete in both races. Due to the Confrontation and the state of emergency, the Johore Government prohibited the event from 1963 to 1966, and again in 1969. Thereafter, the event was not revived.</em></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em></em></span> <br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong><u><span style="color: black; font-family: Times New Roman;">History</span></u></strong></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><div>
<em>Organised by the Automobile Association of Malaya, the first Johore Grand Prix was held in November 1940 under the patronage of H.R.H. Sir Ismail Tungku Mahkota of Johore, in aid of The War Fund. It was a two-day event with four races each day. The circuit consisted of a portion of a newly built Johore bye-pass road (1.5 miles; 2.414 kilometres) and some connecting roads. Unlike subsequent Grand Prixs, participation at this race was by invitation only, and fifteen invitations were sent out for competitors who would represent the five states of Johore (includes Singapore), Perak, Selangor, Penang and Malacca.</em><br />
<em><br /> </em></div>
<div>
<em>The next Johore Grand Prix took place eight years later in 1948 with the newly established Singapore Motor Club (formed by a group of racing enthusiasts) taking up its organisation, similarly with the support of Tungku Mahkota who was himself a car enthusiast. </em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>The circuit was different from the 1940 circuit. Information on the Johore Grand Prix is sketchy except for the years from 1949 to 1952 and 1967 to 1968. </em></div>
<div>
<em>The Johore Grand Prix was extremely well received with entries and spectatorship growing over the years. In the early 1950s, an entrance ticket was priced at five dollars and available in Singapore and Johore Bahru. </em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>The number of participants at the race increased annually, with 88 entries in 1951 and 101 in 1952. And in 1952, there were about 35,000 spectators at the event. The scale of the event also grew from a one-day programme comprising four races in 1948, to a two-day programme in the late 1960s with motorcar racing on the first day and motorcycle racing on the second.</em></div>
<em></em><br /><em> </em></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">Sheela becomes a student of The Convent of the Holy Infant Jesus in Johore Bahru</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When I was in Standard 2, it was announced in school that those of us who had sisters who wished to study at the Convent, must bring our sister's birth certificate in order for them to be registered as students. I informed my mother. My mother informed my grandfather. My grandfather went to Jail D'Cruz. The matter was confirmed and the birth certificate was given to me in an envelope which was placed in my school bag.</span> <br />
<br />
<img alt="" aria-busy="false" aria-describedby="fbPhotosSnowliftCaption" class="spotlight" height="384" src="http://sphotos-a.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash3/548548_391486260873960_477595107_n.jpg" style="height: 384px; width: 512px;" width="512" /><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The school registered my sister and returned the birth certificate to me and it was duly returned to my mother who kept it safely in a chocolate tin. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When I was in Standard 3, it was announced that we had to bring the birth certificate of the sister who had been registered the previous year. The same process again, ending with Jail D'Cruz and the birth certificate was given to me and I duly returned it for it to go back to lie in the chocolate tin. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Towards the end of Standard 3, the school gave out the book list and that included the book list for the new batch of Standard 1 students. With the book list came a sense of urgency to get Sheela ready for school. This meant new school uniforms, shoes, socks, school bag, pencil box, pencils, ruler, eraser and the whole works. For Mum it meant one more person to get ready for school. For me it meant I would now have a sister in school and not be alone. Those were exciting days. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Off my mother went to the Chinese tailor in Jalan Lumba Kuda to get three sets of uniform - white blouse with sleeves and a peter pan collar, a blue pinafore with three box pleats in front and three at the back, a belt. I was still wearing my old uniform which Mum had made for me when I was in Standard 1. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">1960 came all too soon for me. I was dreading that year because my class teacher was a monster, Mrs Nancy Teoh. She had a reputation for hitting her students and being generally ill-tempered most of the time. I was also excited because Sheela was coming to Standard 1.</span> <br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I remember going to the corridor outside the parlour and was most happy to see my grandfather there. He was talking to Mrs D'Cruz a very popular teacher in the school, about Sheela's first day at school. She was the wife of Jail D'Cruz, my grandfather's friend. I must explain that in those days people were given an identity which was often used in front of their names. For example, Mr D'Cruz worked in the jail and therefore became Jail D'Cruz to differentiate him from all other D'Cruzes. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">One day I managed to convince my mother to allow me to wear my sister's new uniform to school. She relented and I was off to school dressed in the new uniform and sporting Sheela's hair-style as well. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I did say that my teacher was a monster. She called me to the front to reprimand me for wearing a uniform that showed my thighs instead of covering my knee-caps. I had to admit that it was my sister's. Then she focused on my hair which needed to be plaited instead of being tied up with a ribbon. I admitted that it was my sister's style. Mum did not say much when I told her what had happened at school. But I have to add that I enjoyed wearing the new uniform that day.</span> <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Brief History of HIJ Convent</span><br />
<br />
<a class="image" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Chij-badge.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="CHIJ Badge"><img alt="CHIJ Badge" height="152" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/thumb/6/6b/Chij-badge.jpg/120px-Chij-badge.jpg" srcset="//upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/thumb/6/6b/Chij-badge.jpg/180px-Chij-badge.jpg 1.5x, //upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/6/6b/Chij-badge.jpg 2x" width="120" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In 1662 Barré saw the need for the education of the poor in France.<sup> </sup>He therefore recruited educated women to help set up his first school near </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rouen" title="Rouen"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Rouen</span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">. As the enrollment increased, more schools were established, and four years later, the ladies in charge of these schools began to live in a community under a Superior. This was the beginning of a </span><a class="mw-redirect" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Religious_congregation" title="Religious congregation"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">religious congregation</span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> whose main work was the education of the poor. The year 1666, therefore saw the founding of the Congregation of the Sisters of the Infant Jesus.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The outbreak of the </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/French_Revolution" title="French Revolution"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">French Revolution</span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> brought about several social and political changes in France but the work of the congregation spread rapidly. Less than twenty-five years after the opening of the Mother-House in Paris, eighty schools for free education and forty boarding schools had been established in France. With the granting of official approval from Rome, the Sisters extended their work to America, England, Spain, Malaysia, Japan and Thailand.</span><br />
<h3>
<span class="mw-headline" id="Southeast_Asia">Southeast Asia</span></h3>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In 1849 a Catholic </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Missionary" title="Missionary"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">missionary</span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> in the </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Straits_Settlements" title="Straits Settlements"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Straits Settlements</span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">, </span><a class="mw-redirect" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Rev." title="The Rev."><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">the Rev.</span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> Jean Marie Beurel, a native of </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saint-Brieuc" title="Saint-Brieuc"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Saint-Brieuc</span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> in France, suggested to the colonial governor William Butterworth that it might be worthwhile to found a charitable organisation for girls next to the Church in Victoria Street. In August 1852, Beurel bought the house at the corner of Victoria Street and Bras Basah Road. He paid $4000 of his own money for it. Beurel then appealed to the </span><a class="mw-redirect" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Superior_General" title="Superior General"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Superior General</span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> of the congregation in France for Sisters to run a school.</span><br />
<h4>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="mw-headline" id="Malaysia">Malaysia</span></span></h4>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Four Sisters were sent to the East. After a long and perilous voyage, three of them landed at Penang in 1852; one had died at sea. The three sisters established a convent which contained an orphanage and school in </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Penang" title="Penang"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Penang</span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> that same year. The school, Convent Light Street, is Penang's oldest girls' school and has occupied its current site along Light Street for over 150 years.<sup> </sup></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">While on the </span><a class="mw-redirect" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Malaysian_Peninsula" title="Malaysian Peninsula"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">peninsula</span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">, the Sisters continued establishing schools with help from the local community such as </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kuala_Lumpur" title="Kuala Lumpur"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Kuala Lumpur</span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">'s oldest girls' school </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Convent_Bukit_Nanas" title="Convent Bukit Nanas"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Convent Bukit Nanas</span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">, now recognised as one of the city's premier schools. During </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/World_War_II" title="World War II"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">World War II</span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">, the Japanese </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Japanese_invasion_of_Malaya" title="Japanese invasion of Malaya"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">invaded Malaya</span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> and either took over or closed down many such mission schools, notably the iconic Convent Primary School in the hills of </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tanah_Rata" title="Tanah Rata"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Tanah Rata</span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">.<sup class="reference" id="cite_ref-5"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Convent_of_the_Holy_Infant_Jesus#cite_note-5">[5]</a></sup> The Tanah Rata convent is one of the few in the region which still contains an operating school and a church. Today, CHIJ schools can be found in most states and many major cities and they continue to educate local girls of all races and religion.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">(From Wikipedia)</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">The Move to Jalan Abdul Samad and the Birth of Suresh</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Meanwhile my Dad had paid for and bought the house in Jalan Abdul Samad and we were due to move by the end of 1960. Mum vowed that she would never ever share a house with anyone again. And we never did. We moved</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> in November about two weeks before the school year ended. Our parents could not arrange transport for us and Dad showed me how to get to school and return using public transport. I am not sure how Sheela managed. I have to ask her. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We were very sad to leave our Malay neighbourhood but excited about our new house. I cried when I said goodbye to Safiah who was two years older than me but so very kind and friendly. She was a student at the Sultan Ibrahim Girls' School and their uniform, was exactly the same as ours but the colour was a bright green. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Parents took the front room and in that room slept Mum, Dad, Harish and Sobha on the two beds placed there. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Sheela and I shared the middle room which had two sets of windows and gave us a good view of our neighbours on the left and the Towle family's house at the back. My older brother had the third room which doubled as the prayer room. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Suresh was born on the 13 of December 1960 and Sarojini was still with us. By now Sheela was seven, I was ten, my brother was twelve, Sobha was four and Harish was almost two. My Mum was 28 and Dad about ten years older. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We settled into our new house very quickly and happily leaving Bukit Chagar and its rustic Malay Kampung atmosphere. We did not miss Bukit Chagar too much because our new house was next to Kampung Baru which appeared to be a more modern area. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">To help Mum an Indian lady was employed. She occupied my brother's room and she was fierce and very unkind to all of us. It was only after she burned Harish with a cigarette butt for entering her room, that her services were terminated. We were happy to see her go and our kind mother take over from her. Sulo's father then got a Malay lady to help and from then until we left home, Achi worked in our house helping my Mum. Achi has a special place in all our hearts for her kindness and love, and she lived just down the road in her Kampung house.</span> <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf4JsDZ22q7adbIXixBGi36Rl5o6R6FGOiZyJ6n-xznWwpsg9FAJ7jGnI92EiH98RkzutFg-bo9dHlxff2uOhDzV-Dzp7pXMr_xlKwj65k0-E9ZksO54FWQSLiCkwRbSpss0me5Nk-thQ/s1600/IMG_0081.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf4JsDZ22q7adbIXixBGi36Rl5o6R6FGOiZyJ6n-xznWwpsg9FAJ7jGnI92EiH98RkzutFg-bo9dHlxff2uOhDzV-Dzp7pXMr_xlKwj65k0-E9ZksO54FWQSLiCkwRbSpss0me5Nk-thQ/s320/IMG_0081.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<em>Taken in early 1961, soon after we moved in. The grass has not grown. Mum has given birth to Suresh who is not in the picture. Clockwise starting from extreme right: Prasanna, Harish, Sobha, Prabha, Mum and Sheela. The smile on Mum's face says it all : At last a house of our own!</em><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">In January 1961 Uncle Karunakaran fixed his wedding datea and informed us about his coming wedding to be held in Kuala Lumpur. We were all very excited about the wedding of our favourite uncle. His father, my father's paternal uncle was coming from India to attend the wedding. This uncle was the one who had vehemently opposed my parent's wedding, since he did not approve of my mother as a suitable wife for his nephew. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">Mum made all kinds of preparations to welcome him to our home. She had to impress upon him that she was the best possible partner for my father and that she had all the qualities that he had thought vital. Soon after the wedding our grand-uncle visited us and stayed with us for a few weeks. He was most impressed by my mother and he never stopped telling her that. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">He also advised my father to invest his money in Kerala - land and houses, which my father did, thinking that one day we would sell up everything in Malaya and return to India to live happily ever after. But that was not meant to be.</span> <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOqhtRqgaklljqF33aOUniLKAt9blt-qf7RxZLeFGFnND8JHCVbtRjSaTZwu_b8PGHS0GVLb9lEnYBg0fQ4cQ6xdnqWoxchv1UX83zrju2Ws6_s2_Tf2rdtwcKb44-BExV2b1stjxceUg/s1600/IMG_0032.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOqhtRqgaklljqF33aOUniLKAt9blt-qf7RxZLeFGFnND8JHCVbtRjSaTZwu_b8PGHS0GVLb9lEnYBg0fQ4cQ6xdnqWoxchv1UX83zrju2Ws6_s2_Tf2rdtwcKb44-BExV2b1stjxceUg/s320/IMG_0032.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<em>L-R: My grandfather Raghavan, Prasanna, Grand Uncle, Sheela, Grandmother Lakshmi Narayani, Sobha, Prabha carrying Harish - taken in our garden in early 1961, after the wedding of Uncle Karunakaran</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-size: x-large;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-size: x-large;">The Wedding </span></em></div>
<em></em><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The wedding day loomed and mother was not able to go. It was decided that Dad, my older brother Prabha, my grandparents and I would attend the wedding in Kuala Lumpur. Mum was busy thinking of a suitable gift for the bride and groom, what we children would wear, who would comb my long hair and dress me up for the wedding. I suggested to her that she cut my hair but she would not hear of it, thus passed another ocassion when I could have cut my hair. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">One of Dad's friends had bought a new car and he was driving to Malacca. He offered to take us up to Malacca. It was a long and tedious journey. From Malacca we took a taxi to Kuala Lumpur. I remember reaching Kajang and going to Seremban and seeing the hills. I thought I was looking at the Himalayas! Johore Bahru is so flat and I had not seen a hill before. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We arrived at Uncle's house in the evening, two days before the wedding. Uncle took us to a shop and Dad bought me the most beautiful dresses I have ever owned. It was a blue dress and it cost $28 which was a princely sum in those days when dresses cost an average of about two dollars. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The next day I did what my Mum had told me to do - scout around for a lady who would comb and plait my hair for me and fix it with the new coloured ribbons that she had bought for the wedding. I did just that and found a cousin of Uncle Karan who was also my Dad's cousin. I made friends with her daughters Lily and Annie and we had a great time during the wedding. Aunty dutifully combed my hair, her children sported short hair. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The day of the wedding came and father gave me a chain to give to our new aunt and a ring to my brother to present to uncle. Mum had told me to give both the gifts to uncle since our new aunt would not know who I was. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Uncle Karunakaran took the gift from me and gave me a hug. This is what he said, "Mollu, you are giving me a gift for my wedding". I was so pleased especially when I saw the other adults beaming away and my father smiling quite happily. When my brother gave him the ring, he too got a hug and a similar comment I am sure. </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghBGFa_1dZBEW91I0W9kUkEjhJxHnzzDtdgBeAYZBjEx2KgYxtoUIAQQ11_SlG7HiOxSGke7WpsZsK3Mxa8QDECMQBpqailEofmjyxArlKneFolXJySWxMxFrKCZiN7XATUbzkYMavF0g/s1600/IMG_0039+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghBGFa_1dZBEW91I0W9kUkEjhJxHnzzDtdgBeAYZBjEx2KgYxtoUIAQQ11_SlG7HiOxSGke7WpsZsK3Mxa8QDECMQBpqailEofmjyxArlKneFolXJySWxMxFrKCZiN7XATUbzkYMavF0g/s320/IMG_0039+%25282%2529.jpg" width="201" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<em>Uncle Karunakaran and Aunty Rema on their wedding day</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: x-large;">The Visits</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We took the night train to JB. The wedding was over by lunch and I was in charge of handing out limes to the guests. We all came back to Uncle's house and I remember the tears in Aunty Rema's eyes and one of the guests teasing her that if she should be unhappy just to go to her mother's house which happened to be across the road. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Our house became a hub of excitement. The newly weds were coming for a visit and to stay. They came and there was the normal photo sessions at the studio. I am glad we had that tradition. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJpkDGYlK5WzLpmwR3ZYpgQSb1btvg9kLohfgQthFHV0Y4NJdCYOMpcCueTNeF0IdefEynOD6VpuScg03g1tbN1J3YEbz7lcqcCrfpktQ6TDgTEHl604Xrg8ViVl3J6JvsEL_7rwkLhTU/s1600/IMG+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJpkDGYlK5WzLpmwR3ZYpgQSb1btvg9kLohfgQthFHV0Y4NJdCYOMpcCueTNeF0IdefEynOD6VpuScg03g1tbN1J3YEbz7lcqcCrfpktQ6TDgTEHl604Xrg8ViVl3J6JvsEL_7rwkLhTU/s400/IMG+%25282%2529.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
<br />
<em></em><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>Seated L-R: Grand Uncle, Sobha, Grandmother, Mum with Suresh in her arms</em><br />
<em>Standing L-R: Prasanna, Dad carrying Harish, Prabha</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQJaVxHcKMcnYkxBg61bdYGd7A_pA2LNjDfI5wvekmtsvlusHSXt8pQa6J8XLftbsZSa-dWfNSrvmhuK5nEnN_1wP8zkF3xEBrsOESordtSoUSvH1t-00aUeG-GnY6n109xRNBpDPUyYk/s1600/IMG_0058.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="287" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQJaVxHcKMcnYkxBg61bdYGd7A_pA2LNjDfI5wvekmtsvlusHSXt8pQa6J8XLftbsZSa-dWfNSrvmhuK5nEnN_1wP8zkF3xEBrsOESordtSoUSvH1t-00aUeG-GnY6n109xRNBpDPUyYk/s400/IMG_0058.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
Seated L-R: Aunty Rema's mother, Aunty Sathi from Singapore, Aunty Rema, Grand Uncle holding Sobha, Aunty Rema's youngest sister, Mum holding Suresh<br />
Standing L-R: Sheela, Prabha, Uncle Karunakaran, Uncle Nganeswaran my Dad's older brother, Dad carrying Harish - taken in the first quarter of 1961<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then it was time for us to visit Uncle and Aunty in Kuala Lumpur. I would not say it was a very successful visit but neither was it a bad visit. It was just a visit and perhaps that is why we never ever made another visit to each other. Uncle attended my wedding, Aunty did not and we never asked why.</span> <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHl9DT2g1QQQkb2KF9_wo1o2pDI3vYLLvhJw1XmesA_oaOEGGWLtX1zsOecEDpGTZNIwh0oINJty8nhcdgq0lxDVPXywkL90nSEYKK9pC9bH7K8n3dhK0T0OZWGlXKq1QQ0r9j7qWZXXs/s1600/IMG_0055.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHl9DT2g1QQQkb2KF9_wo1o2pDI3vYLLvhJw1XmesA_oaOEGGWLtX1zsOecEDpGTZNIwh0oINJty8nhcdgq0lxDVPXywkL90nSEYKK9pC9bH7K8n3dhK0T0OZWGlXKq1QQ0r9j7qWZXXs/s320/IMG_0055.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><em>Uncle Karunakaran drove Dad's car and took us to many places and it was almost like old times when he was a regular visitor to our home. The above photograph was taken somewhere in KL. </em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><em>L-R: Prasanna, Sheela, Prabha with Hrish in front, Mum with Sobha in front and Dad carrying Suresh - taken in 1962.</em></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGAA23DKgbLhZOtAw_GoM-44N3ip2RfGcXRLTA8za6J9lZIf7zPghrSwM1zvt3Jz-_gxS8VmBBvVJ1mE02Z80YtnD0MfMXl2i1Tscx3sAhc9A13Gu2hFy-reuIt36uSxLyxyeJIM2Qe2s/s1600/IMG_0027.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGAA23DKgbLhZOtAw_GoM-44N3ip2RfGcXRLTA8za6J9lZIf7zPghrSwM1zvt3Jz-_gxS8VmBBvVJ1mE02Z80YtnD0MfMXl2i1Tscx3sAhc9A13Gu2hFy-reuIt36uSxLyxyeJIM2Qe2s/s320/IMG_0027.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>In Penang when the ship allowed us to disembark for a day - at the Botanical Gardens</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>L-R: Prabha, Dad with Suresh, Harish, Mum, Sobha, Prasanna and Sheela, taken in November 1963</em></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">As time moved on and on and on....</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><u>Sheela is quarantined</u></span><br />
<u><span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span></u><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In 1961, Sheela was ill with measles and she was the only one who was not well. In order not to infect the infant Suresh, she was quarantined in grandparents' house. We all missed her a lot and I believe it was Uncle Prasad who took many photographs of her in the house. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><u></u></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><u>Our Trips to Singapore</u></span><br />
<u><span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span></u><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Dad worked in Singapore and all our relatives lived in Singapore. In the mid-fifties Dad had made a downpayment for a house in Bukit Timah, to an agent. He turned out to be a fraud and disappeared with the money of all those who had paid him. If he had not been fraudulent, our lives would have taken a different turn for sure. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<u><span style="font-family: Verdana;">The Causeway</span></u><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<h2 class="date-header">
<span style="font-size: small;">Monday, August 25, 2008</span></h2>
<h2 class="date-header">
<a href="http://goodmorningyesterday.blogspot.com/2008/08/my-grandfather-tessa-mitchell.html">http://goodmorningyesterday.blogspot.com/2008/08/my-grandfather-tessa-mitchell.html</a></h2>
My Grandfather – Tessa Mitchell <br />
<div class="date-posts">
<div class="post-outer">
<div class="post hentry" itemprop="blogPost" itemscope="itemscope" itemtype="http://schema.org/BlogPosting">
<div class="post-header">
<div class="post-header-line-1">
</div>
</div>
<div class="post-body entry-content" itemprop="description articleBody">
<span style="font-family: verdana;">My paternal grandfather, <strong>Lewis Williams</strong>, lived and worked in Singapore in the early years of the 20th century. He was employed by a company called Topham, Jones and Railton and worked in Singapore from about 1911 until about 1930. Topham, Jones and Railton were the civil engineering firm who built the King’s and Queen’s Docks and in 1922 began building the causeway linking Singapore to Johor Bahru.<br /><br />Recently I was going through some photographs in my late Mother’s belongings and came across two large photographs from my grandfather of the newly built causeway in 1924. These have now been donated to <a href="http://www.nhb.gov.sg/NAS/"><span style="color: #336699;">National Archives of Singapore</span></a>.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: verdana;"></span> </div>
<div class="post-body entry-content" itemprop="description articleBody">
<span style="font-family: verdana;">Our grandfather's older brother Neelakandan was also involved in the building of the causeway but unfortunately there is no documentation available to us to support this claim. The Japanese doctor had his part too in the lives of my grand-uncle and grandfather. </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhxmdbZrzt3JgfTreU-Jhw187JTSj2oGXJAj0V0DwEe1bEw1mettkfJmd1AOC0GPeKo144GCYWzmoyI316ML6eHP6DxzZZB3CxXaICuGZcPT_t5iXS7NsAADFCHHvFHu_0w9TMMr2o2_k/s1600/IMG_0099+(3).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhxmdbZrzt3JgfTreU-Jhw187JTSj2oGXJAj0V0DwEe1bEw1mettkfJmd1AOC0GPeKo144GCYWzmoyI316ML6eHP6DxzZZB3CxXaICuGZcPT_t5iXS7NsAADFCHHvFHu_0w9TMMr2o2_k/s640/IMG_0099+(3).jpg" width="406" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Grand-Uncle Neelakandan</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="post-body entry-content" itemprop="description articleBody">
<br /></div>
<div class="post-body entry-content" itemprop="description articleBody">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: verdana;"><strong><span style="color: #000099; font-size: 85%;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5238445615769367810" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOPZi4FRccJgDIzE92f4NzUIXwCYU-O4unU3iAlNjxrxarLYIHVpanif2UW_EK0pofTLMS9Er-WDiwCW7ONtLWFEkdoCGENuNJ3nMrXlRRyaIyqFKGEQ8kKniCQhbDUr7agxAEiou60Hr5/s400/Causeway+from+north.jpg" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /><span style="font-size: x-small;">Causeway from North<br /><br /><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5238445822876609922" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4QJC00fZVwfG6-RILMQ3RVAwqwaASClc0X7R-S1ut1bZfipA-XXIVSeSoNxNVMBcHCol-CFzWpoM5IUT9JSGZLtuB8dc42AXwmct1ZQefbz-8Mq_X9NNLFSuLdS1hHXtkxOUGmYRg5vVE/s400/Causeway+from+South.jpg" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" />Causeway from South</span></span></strong><br />My father, Frank Ivor Williams, was born in Swansea, but spent his early years with his parents in Singapore. His younger brother, my Uncle Idris, was born in Singapore. Both boys were sent home to the UK at the age of seven or eight, only seeing their parents on their occasional ‘home leave’. Here is a photograph of my father at an early age with his Amah which is dated 3rd March 1911.<br /><br /><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5238446046988272290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsSNj1-ZDlEfv34gARQS_a6l8-unqQtYD3KKX5JLRmbuZkrhS6-cPkeqgTCXGPor_rlOVdVM2si28xQ9Rjdc6vtSigKhVAmOtEpg5he7Jlm3q4SoApjCkf-aO-mgHlgV9vsk1oXNHYuV7u/s320/TW+Father+and+Amah.jpg" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></span></div>
<div class="post hentry" itemprop="blogPost" itemscope="itemscope" itemtype="http://schema.org/BlogPosting">
<span style="font-family: verdana;"></span> </div>
<div class="post hentry" itemprop="blogPost" itemscope="itemscope" itemtype="http://schema.org/BlogPosting">
<span style="font-family: verdana;"></span> </div>
</div>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<a href="http://remembersingapore.files.wordpress.com/2012/08/old-tekka-market1.jpg"><img alt="" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4918" height="242" src="http://remembersingapore.files.wordpress.com/2012/08/old-tekka-market1.jpg?w=640&h=388" style="border: 1px solid black;" title="old tekka market" width="400" /></a><br />
<br />
<u><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Tekka Market</span></u><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="http://remembersingapore.files.wordpress.com/2012/08/old-tekka-market-1971.jpg"><img alt="" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4919" height="265" src="http://remembersingapore.files.wordpress.com/2012/08/old-tekka-market-1971.jpg?w=640&h=424" style="border: 1px solid black;" title="old tekka market 1971" width="400" /></a></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: small;">Some of the common places that we visited and had heard of spoken so often included the Tekka Market near the sari shops of Serangoon Road</span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><u>The Siglap Market</u></span><br />
<u><span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span></u><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="http://remembersingapore.files.wordpress.com/2012/08/siglap-market-1986.jpg"><img alt="" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4936" height="230" src="http://remembersingapore.files.wordpress.com/2012/08/siglap-market-1986.jpg?w=640&h=368" style="border: 1px solid black;" title="siglap market 1986" width="400" /></a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">The Siglap Market is very special because it was near Moira Remedios' house in Yarrow Garden. We used to walk with her to the market in the mid seventies, and it was from this market that I bought dresses for Daphne that were far too small for her.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<u><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Cathay Cinema</span></u><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="http://remembersingapore.files.wordpress.com/2012/06/cathay-cinema-1940s.jpg"><img alt="" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4156" height="253" src="http://remembersingapore.files.wordpress.com/2012/06/cathay-cinema-1940s.jpg?w=640&h=405" style="border: 1px solid black;" title="cathay cinema 1940s" width="400" /></a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This cinema at the end of Orchard Road and before the junction to Serangoon Road holds very dear and frightening memories for me. In 1960, on Christmas day, my uncle Prakash and his best friend Gabriel Lee, took me and Rose Lee (Gabriel's sister who was my age and a student at the same convent) to watch the movie Gulliver's Travels. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span> <br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">We left JB in the morning and had lunch at Rendevous, a restaurant in front of Cathay and then came home by evening. It was the most exciting trip for me for years. Every Christmas I think of my uncle and Gabriel, both 20 years old, taking two ten year old girls for an exciting and unforgettable outing. </span><br />
<br />
<u><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The beauty of the Katong Post Office</span></u><br />
<u><span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span></u><br />
<a href="http://remembersingapore.files.wordpress.com/2012/06/katong-post-office.jpg"><img alt="" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4456" height="260" src="http://remembersingapore.files.wordpress.com/2012/06/katong-post-office.jpg?w=640&h=416" style="border: 1px solid black;" title="katong post office" width="400" /></a><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I have never been to this post office but the beauty of the building brings sadness for most of them were demolished to make way for multi-storey characterless buildings of brick and mortar and no soul.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<u><span style="font-family: Verdana;">C.K. Tang</span></u><br />
<br />
<a href="http://remembersingapore.files.wordpress.com/2012/06/c-k-tang.jpg"><img alt="" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4098" height="271" src="http://remembersingapore.files.wordpress.com/2012/06/c-k-tang.jpg?w=640&h=434" style="border: 1px solid black;" title="c.k. tang" width="400" /></a><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Our dream shop when we were growing up and which found too expensive for us. Then when I was a student in Singapore, it was my favourite store. I stopped shopping there once their new building came up and I moved further and further away from Singapore. </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<u><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Bukit Timah</span></u><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://remembersingapore.files.wordpress.com/2012/03/bukit-timah-village-1910.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-3658" height="219" src="http://remembersingapore.files.wordpress.com/2012/03/bukit-timah-village-1910.jpg?w=640&h=351" style="border: 1px solid black;" title="bukit timah village 1910" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div align="left">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">Driving into Singapore meant holding our noses as we drove past Yeo Hiap Seng's kichap factory and then looking out for the overhead railway bridge and finally turning into Aunty Sumathy's house. </span></div>
<div align="left">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;"></span> </div>
<div align="left">
<u><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The sadness of Choe Chu Kang</span></u></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="http://remembersingapore.files.wordpress.com/2012/03/kampong-jurong-tanjung-balai-at-choa-chu-kang-1956.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-3640" height="230" src="http://remembersingapore.files.wordpress.com/2012/03/kampong-jurong-tanjung-balai-at-choa-chu-kang-1956.jpg?w=640&h=368" style="border: 1px solid black;" title="kampong jurong tanjung balai at choa chu kang 1956" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Choa Chu Kang brings sadness for the one and only time we went there was for the funeral of our uncle Nganeswaran whom we called Perappan, in 1970. The cemetery was in Choa Chu Kang. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="mw-headline" id="1945.E2.80.931972"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"></span></span></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He was the older brother of my Dad and he lived in worked in Pulau Blakang Mati. He had a tailoring shop and made uniforms for the soldiers. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVPssO682FHMFKFAg8lnSg6OkDL8faObdrK8BVYuPwEBwXn13SmGg27DsobX0iNal4M_F2X-ku3Km8zVdEqzYz4pcOZZ0HEi-400s0w4s4hXqgFC46hLH_kgUdh7q5ZCs8nuy5Dsb2Huw/s1600/IMG_0124.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVPssO682FHMFKFAg8lnSg6OkDL8faObdrK8BVYuPwEBwXn13SmGg27DsobX0iNal4M_F2X-ku3Km8zVdEqzYz4pcOZZ0HEi-400s0w4s4hXqgFC46hLH_kgUdh7q5ZCs8nuy5Dsb2Huw/s320/IMG_0124.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em>L-R: Prasanna, Uncle Nganeswaran (Dad's older brother) carrying Suresh and Sheela</em></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em></em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<u><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Boat rides and fun times in Pulau Belakang Mati</span></u><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://remembersingapore.files.wordpress.com/2012/09/pulau-blakang-mati-jetty-19561.jpg"><img alt="" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-5131" height="400" src="http://remembersingapore.files.wordpress.com/2012/09/pulau-blakang-mati-jetty-19561.jpg?w=640" style="border: 1px solid black;" title="pulau blakang mati jetty 1956" width="400" /></a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">We used to go to Pulau Belakan Mati by boat</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<u><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Visiting Uncle Rajan, Aunty Shantha and our 'posh' cousins</span></u><br />
<u><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></u><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In Singapore we had another uncle Uncle Rajan and his wife Aunty Shanta. They had three delightful children - Ranjit, Jeeva and the baby who was Suresh's age. Before we sailed to India in 1963, Aunty Shanta visited us with fabric for us to make dresses. In the photograph above taken with our paternal uncle Nyaneswaran carrying Harish are Sheela on the right and I wearing the dresses made with the material that Aunty Shanta had given us. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><u>Surprise visitors</u></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX_qIloD7T8blSddYdrWGxOSmVkeTLwx9JE27W97Y90m21u4r0XYqm5G8lEdOF9VnqzS5gXnrrmVPf8_dKO7mCkGSXnjaHFMJpc_Tp6GhN7jD4flsJ5FXfqgLAWrlhgFHzvGm-kY3uxUU/s1600/IMG_0081+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="412" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX_qIloD7T8blSddYdrWGxOSmVkeTLwx9JE27W97Y90m21u4r0XYqm5G8lEdOF9VnqzS5gXnrrmVPf8_dKO7mCkGSXnjaHFMJpc_Tp6GhN7jD4flsJ5FXfqgLAWrlhgFHzvGm-kY3uxUU/s640/IMG_0081+%25282%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em>One night after we had gone to bed, Uncle Prakash visited us with some visiting navy personnel from India. Mum woke us up and we met them and then took this photograph. It was in 1961 and Dad had gone on a trip with his friends to Penang. Left to Right: the children are Prabha, Sheela, Sobha and Prasanna. Unfortunately the picture is not clear.</em></span><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;"></span></em><br />
<div align="left">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><u>Our Dear Uncle Prasad - the dreams he had</u></span></div>
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;"></span></em><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU63PyVl3UTQ8e0w0tFvnIB1CS57j7GdKXt3pPYHXbSVfcm9LBHHkcE6swUibhhqVBE8LhgJG6x828T5ToPsOBV2dT0JoHp7F8sV2EAC5yDI88CblgKlt2ZL2NYRG8VCyT0xPDMFqtyJE/s1600/IMG_0046+%25283%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="412" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU63PyVl3UTQ8e0w0tFvnIB1CS57j7GdKXt3pPYHXbSVfcm9LBHHkcE6swUibhhqVBE8LhgJG6x828T5ToPsOBV2dT0JoHp7F8sV2EAC5yDI88CblgKlt2ZL2NYRG8VCyT0xPDMFqtyJE/s640/IMG_0046+%25283%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em>Taken in 1955 or before</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em>Uncle Prasad second from the left and Ramachandran Iyer second from the right</em></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<u><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The Different Phases of Sheela's Life in Lorong 2B</span></u><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3GvB4X6_WNgk8eKugztZTTimlaumnlwgq8uwv29m6uIucfWA5mKsnRur3n-7UPlfBcKwXrdQXd-T-RTOtPJCnLRziSOYpp3t2ijjDojTDSGG9NnhKJkO196V6CbS4BlHsOhghnGe_Wm8/s1600/IMG_0004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3GvB4X6_WNgk8eKugztZTTimlaumnlwgq8uwv29m6uIucfWA5mKsnRur3n-7UPlfBcKwXrdQXd-T-RTOtPJCnLRziSOYpp3t2ijjDojTDSGG9NnhKJkO196V6CbS4BlHsOhghnGe_Wm8/s320/IMG_0004.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em>Aunty Subadhra's older daughter Chitra, Sobha, Uncle Kamalan and Sheela taken in our garden, with Robbie our dog, sometime in 1964. Uncle Kamalan had a fantastic sense of humour and kept us laughing all the time. </em></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em></em></span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcQKGB1W3EVktKrLNaVEAVjg7A8Tt-1kzWLNI64MDbLfSrsR6vRRg9SUq27xJC1HZFCqr6H6je_6FXY9wGbPZFNifD8Fj4AhYH6yl3c6EEDP30XbFnEQxzsdlqROKiL3bsSoZDHpXDWoQ/s1600/IMG_0075.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcQKGB1W3EVktKrLNaVEAVjg7A8Tt-1kzWLNI64MDbLfSrsR6vRRg9SUq27xJC1HZFCqr6H6je_6FXY9wGbPZFNifD8Fj4AhYH6yl3c6EEDP30XbFnEQxzsdlqROKiL3bsSoZDHpXDWoQ/s320/IMG_0075.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgp1hnUzUeq4noJrHDEHwJV7tEiYeQ6T3WaHEYQKTMxldMAOlZHjt2Dn_ZTyDRZ_my0XdSPMlytNzAEgMWGn9GcL1j_8-9_cTEvWpzrfTS1XNOtYANr3afrcgLRMcVxprinAUGHhOghyE/s1600/IMG_0029.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgp1hnUzUeq4noJrHDEHwJV7tEiYeQ6T3WaHEYQKTMxldMAOlZHjt2Dn_ZTyDRZ_my0XdSPMlytNzAEgMWGn9GcL1j_8-9_cTEvWpzrfTS1XNOtYANr3afrcgLRMcVxprinAUGHhOghyE/s320/IMG_0029.jpg" width="224" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD3zO6o8SuhV8UQJIbres6rQ0kcMv7FeUiuT31V5YDZ4f5wxDuRk9xCazn1pcwKdcZw6UoCkZyTjKXZEllf-VR5BT3xXAObBdTikrTU7kO2Eg8b_kgJjpAgpUo9d-kTmiaiVCCfgEVmHY/s1600/IMG_0139.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD3zO6o8SuhV8UQJIbres6rQ0kcMv7FeUiuT31V5YDZ4f5wxDuRk9xCazn1pcwKdcZw6UoCkZyTjKXZEllf-VR5BT3xXAObBdTikrTU7kO2Eg8b_kgJjpAgpUo9d-kTmiaiVCCfgEVmHY/s320/IMG_0139.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3iRnkBhQFv21IBVL9LV5yy50L0c5HzoyLRG5LXzsmV8QHsHJefmY0SgqndMbn36Bc_sul0V4X5jOmv2lhX4VkeKZEj9A7MVEPAqCbwIhIHWnbiqkJteGMU307l4hyIRvI_wTvqCyWYLs/s1600/IMG_0037.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3iRnkBhQFv21IBVL9LV5yy50L0c5HzoyLRG5LXzsmV8QHsHJefmY0SgqndMbn36Bc_sul0V4X5jOmv2lhX4VkeKZEj9A7MVEPAqCbwIhIHWnbiqkJteGMU307l4hyIRvI_wTvqCyWYLs/s320/IMG_0037.jpg" width="311" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis3q28MfOKwMsRzqp2YwkHXO3TELeiyaAAtFoTudH0ecv8wrN6OBdDj6PNpPkL_6NTfq_Jf9Cbx71tHLiQILfbst2hxO8Ce1TW5UKaTsipBy0RKN3a0cL1DjgX7sXzPZcKNV6byc581JQ/s1600/IMG_0178.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis3q28MfOKwMsRzqp2YwkHXO3TELeiyaAAtFoTudH0ecv8wrN6OBdDj6PNpPkL_6NTfq_Jf9Cbx71tHLiQILfbst2hxO8Ce1TW5UKaTsipBy0RKN3a0cL1DjgX7sXzPZcKNV6byc581JQ/s320/IMG_0178.jpg" width="235" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGgqTX3lQgcTNro9qF34SxmNsx7qZvwitKFK2Ymd726MmsJ7b2MOaykPAGr9zfsNyztXNOgxGQD-_yNr6VPhyphenhyphenGi1MLYvpWiOB4AxVn4qPEsiRsuNLxfaAIdZUs-qKJd4VhfN-FTc_guRg/s1600/IMG_0181.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGgqTX3lQgcTNro9qF34SxmNsx7qZvwitKFK2Ymd726MmsJ7b2MOaykPAGr9zfsNyztXNOgxGQD-_yNr6VPhyphenhyphenGi1MLYvpWiOB4AxVn4qPEsiRsuNLxfaAIdZUs-qKJd4VhfN-FTc_guRg/s320/IMG_0181.jpg" width="241" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmH9nRvcfp_Gxxf8TykcfUqv2o1EozzqKm8RBXGiHPb-Mxq_WcaQaQKYX7De9bc0i030_DelVjBJK1bJcd2jReH-uCUFwqIzN8OMizDBw6P3Bdr1bwm6UJO5wP7et_gXAzUetdddWBAaI/s1600/IMG_0005+%25283%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmH9nRvcfp_Gxxf8TykcfUqv2o1EozzqKm8RBXGiHPb-Mxq_WcaQaQKYX7De9bc0i030_DelVjBJK1bJcd2jReH-uCUFwqIzN8OMizDBw6P3Bdr1bwm6UJO5wP7et_gXAzUetdddWBAaI/s320/IMG_0005+%25283%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
L-R: Dad, Sobha, Uncle Raghavan (Aunty Subadhra's husband), Appapan and Uncle Kamalan - taken in 1964<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMG5vky0K1sl_AYlgkHTiVZAB_cLIEwXasRAq19_tmQSCdcKaNcYtWkfipmilcmyNfWEiuVT5zWXrkVR2iD6r38tLHjwhuabBYlabzgdCPMOEroaVVRSlnqhY4dL8O19emlmam741R6Ng/s1600/IMG_0006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMG5vky0K1sl_AYlgkHTiVZAB_cLIEwXasRAq19_tmQSCdcKaNcYtWkfipmilcmyNfWEiuVT5zWXrkVR2iD6r38tLHjwhuabBYlabzgdCPMOEroaVVRSlnqhY4dL8O19emlmam741R6Ng/s320/IMG_0006.jpg" width="237" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Seated L-R: Sheela, Chitra, Suni her brother, Prasanna<br />
Standing: Vavachi, Sobha and Prabha - taken in 1964<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiImRhyphenhyphen70McfHtQ7S8B5uVii-tlUvkmVLr59fmieafUX7NIENKrbAEjKjuk0AAG6B_9iyT3Gi7G5mq4mQCbxq2hjsXCdSj-wlmZPeTLYKyTgyt1MgtIKfLecQlICwv5CFuHIbnyW_0HR5M/s1600/IMG_0146.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiImRhyphenhyphen70McfHtQ7S8B5uVii-tlUvkmVLr59fmieafUX7NIENKrbAEjKjuk0AAG6B_9iyT3Gi7G5mq4mQCbxq2hjsXCdSj-wlmZPeTLYKyTgyt1MgtIKfLecQlICwv5CFuHIbnyW_0HR5M/s320/IMG_0146.jpg" width="233" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Uncle Kamalan with Mum's younger brother Uncle Prasad taken in 1964<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqP6PVVcK7LHPj5gq8kvkQm3EFmk-wr_clvGs3xYd1rLG4PAN7druVwmUY2ocN-3_d0FgY7RA9spq7Q0rEvVScxxXSaYG0SDldPnxxWG99uzODjFxB_UaIWyn8vm6a5qifndk8B0JqKS0/s1600/IMG_0064.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqP6PVVcK7LHPj5gq8kvkQm3EFmk-wr_clvGs3xYd1rLG4PAN7druVwmUY2ocN-3_d0FgY7RA9spq7Q0rEvVScxxXSaYG0SDldPnxxWG99uzODjFxB_UaIWyn8vm6a5qifndk8B0JqKS0/s320/IMG_0064.jpg" width="226" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Taken after 1966 for sure because this is the white dress from the Woodlands market that we wore for Wasa's engagement</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><u>A Religious Fervour Set In</u></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<u><span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span></u> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yEyvAZOvADw">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yEyvAZOvADw</a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
listen to Raghupathi Raghava Rajaram</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<u><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Shanthi Bhawan</span></u></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<u><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></u> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Mr Bangah was a teacher in Johore English College and his daughter Shanthi was a student, my senior at the JB Convent. When she was about 15, she left school and became a very spiritual person. Her home became a temple and we used to go there to sing bhajans. Mr and Mrs Aravind were regulars there. Just as we started going there, so did we stop and I am not sure why.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<u><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Thaipusam and the hospital quarters</span></u></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<u><span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span></u> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Sometime in 1964 we started to go to the hospital quarters on the eve of Thaipusam and watch the prayers and the people carrying the kavadi being pierced with the vel. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">The man leading the prayers was Mr Shangkaran who lived there and worked at the hospital. He and numerous others would get into a trance and place their hands in boiling oil to take out whatever was being fried in the oil. The government gave some land and the Waterworks temple was built by Swamy Shankaran and his committee. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><u>Gurukulam in Singapore</u></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<u><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v0s0anVD104">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v0s0anVD104</a></span></u></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<u><span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span></u> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<u><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Hai Ram - my favourite</span></u></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<u><span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span></u> </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFe7dkOqTuoWVmkMLZgNwQxNNj2rPnykrxMYsINzg9gaaAdlHvUR9Cag1QWSlXZ9W6UWF-3FX7Kr6TI4W2TQ1R7W_Kq4dNWRv_yifujn7LiMzTW04IgKvYDERDt_S4pPRGmGzY6InUvPk/s1600/IMG_0007+%25283%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="420" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFe7dkOqTuoWVmkMLZgNwQxNNj2rPnykrxMYsINzg9gaaAdlHvUR9Cag1QWSlXZ9W6UWF-3FX7Kr6TI4W2TQ1R7W_Kq4dNWRv_yifujn7LiMzTW04IgKvYDERDt_S4pPRGmGzY6InUvPk/s640/IMG_0007+%25283%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em>Front Row L-R: Sobha, Sugatha, Susheema, Subagan, unidentified, Chelliah Girl, Laila Das, Chelliah Girl</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;"><em>Seated L-R: Grandfather Raghavan, Swami Nataraja Guru, Swamy Nithiya Chaitanya Yati, Grandmother Lakshmi Narayani</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;"><em>Standing L-R: Uncle Siva Das, Cheriachan Govindan Nair, Dad, Kolatha Maamen Karunakaran, unidentified, Prasanna, Sheela, Hector standing behind Sheela, Mum, Aunty Indira, Prabha standing behind Aunt Indira, Uncle Anandan, unidentified, Sushruthan, Aunty Mrs Gopal Das, Thangammah, Sulo's mother Mrs Raman Nair, Chellapan, Mrs Chelliah</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;"></span><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We used to go to the Narayana Mission in Singapore on Sundays, and listen to the talks given by the visiting Swamijis. Once I left for Kuala Lumpur, I never again visited the Mission. The picture above was taken after the Swamijis came to our house for a prayer session and a meal. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Swami Nataraja Guru and Mangalananda Swami visited Malaya in 1955 and parents went to see him. Mother got two notebooks and gave to Annan and to me to get their autographs. Mother would show us the books and talk about them. The above photograph was taken in 1966 some eleven years later. At that time and at that age, eleven years seemed a long period of time.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>Sheela leaves Lorong 2B in 1974</strong></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<strong><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: large;"></span></strong> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Sometime in March 1973 we visited my grandparents. Mum and Dad were in Soya's house. I remember entering grandma's room. She was lying on the bed. Sheela was with me. We called out to her and she slowly got up and sat on the bed without speaking. She looked at us long and hard.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Then we saw her dribbling and I saw her left cheek being pulled to one side of her face. I quickly called out to my grandfather. He told one of us or Chellappan to get an ambulance. The ambulance arrived and took grandma and grandfather accompanied her. I am not sure how we contacted our parents. Father came and took us to Soya's house and we broke the news to our Mum. Mum was very scared and did not know what had happened. Grandpa who was an Ayurvedic Vaidyar told us that she had suffered a stroke. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">We reached the hospital and found grandpa. They had warded grandma in the Thrid Class Ward because they said that she would be near the Nurses' Station and there were doctors and nurses there all the time. Grandma was unconscious. The doctors appeared not to care and I got involved in an argument with the doctors about the care being given to our grandmother. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">That night I stayed with her and Sheela stayed in the morning. That became a pattern over the next one month. We made friends with the doctors and nurses and the other patients in the ward. One of the doctors was a young Houseman from Penang, Inderjit Singh. He was a Colombo Plan student who had just graduated. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">At night, a familiar cry from the aged was, "Misy, nak kenching," followed by another similar cry. (Misy=nurse, I want to pass urine.)</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<strong><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: large;"></span></strong> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Although I was the first to leave our home in 1970, it never felt as though I was leaving for good. We all felt that I was going to further my studies and that I would come back home and we would all be together again. After a while I began to get the mobile screen and place it around their bed, get a bedpan and later clear up after they had eased themselves. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">I was never comfortable doing it but neither was I revolted. But, I began to feel the injustice of the situation - a geriatric ward with patients who are not mobile and everyone in uniform too busy to attend to them. They were there because they were ill. The uniforms and stethoscopes were there to care for the sick. So why were the sick left unattended in the midst of so many stets and uniforms ?</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">After graduation I got a job as a temporary teacher in Batu Pahat High School in April 1973. I stayed with the Pereira family and came home for the weekends. In November 1973 I got married and my husband was at that time working in Fraser Estate in Kulai Johore. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggp-VCmqVy2hybw_VaX5n_9_OSovKOM7uUNrcFtftsQvJlvAMsXE6BjNiwK_-6EfMLxZ-WA0btdyyNqCzhHvZ-DA6mnz9M2ZHxt5MadGcZNLvIOE-nRIt0KLRjPa4W8pjXHJWDWZzR-nI/s1600/IMG_0039+(3).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggp-VCmqVy2hybw_VaX5n_9_OSovKOM7uUNrcFtftsQvJlvAMsXE6BjNiwK_-6EfMLxZ-WA0btdyyNqCzhHvZ-DA6mnz9M2ZHxt5MadGcZNLvIOE-nRIt0KLRjPa4W8pjXHJWDWZzR-nI/s400/IMG_0039+(3).jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">L-R: Kumaran, Chandra, Prasanna, Padma on the ocassion of Prasanna and Chandra's wedding on 25 November 1973</span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">n 1974 Sheela got a job in Johore Bahru after completing her Form 6 as it was her intention to save enough money in order to leave for the UK. She made all the necessary applications and asked me to help get her a nurse's watch. By September she was ready to leave. The suddeness of her departure left my parents reeling. But she was determined to leave and chart her future in England. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">I was very sad to see her go. Somewhere deep within me, I knew that she would not return to live in Johore Bahru again. She went to my grandparents' house to bid them farewell. Grandma was an invalid.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: large;">Pictures, Letters and Gifts From Sheela</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: large;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">My sister never failed to bring us loads of gifts each time she came home for a holiday. It must have cost her more than the ticket to Malaysia. She brought lovely lingerie, china ware, cakes, biscuits, chocolates, cheese, nuts, souvenirs and so many things. I have with me the dinner set she brought commemorating the bicentenary of the English artist Constable, who used to paint English scenery. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: large;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTeyMU_IHwoyzn-naIrPL2GG8jMQdEGC3SAarplkj4vBa9_ZMahCZVrBBIRjLPO1NAMJBJVb3veuQaNGwMjgc4WAPM7f7F-hRz3u9TpCQAxbAJsjrPey5pV2j0004wbfwIrv3zmfn6OdY/s1600/IMG_0001+%25286%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTeyMU_IHwoyzn-naIrPL2GG8jMQdEGC3SAarplkj4vBa9_ZMahCZVrBBIRjLPO1NAMJBJVb3veuQaNGwMjgc4WAPM7f7F-hRz3u9TpCQAxbAJsjrPey5pV2j0004wbfwIrv3zmfn6OdY/s320/IMG_0001+%25286%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglcDn0QXGPRRBKeVcvGCrkWAtt2DidKNHNXAOf0McJJTv5CprBm4P_IAYZTL7dydb6SRLXsGZTPAhtenMz5-Cg80b_9X4BInIT7vAFtzZ5Jrf36w7JeSqXIi6kb-0sAJdJ8ZV-3A8soDY/s1600/IMG_0009+(4).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglcDn0QXGPRRBKeVcvGCrkWAtt2DidKNHNXAOf0McJJTv5CprBm4P_IAYZTL7dydb6SRLXsGZTPAhtenMz5-Cg80b_9X4BInIT7vAFtzZ5Jrf36w7JeSqXIi6kb-0sAJdJ8ZV-3A8soDY/s320/IMG_0009+(4).jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Sheela and Mum</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizG-01cxHHypHr6vVIt4VDQXpeLfwnM07vBXHuDE68A7pj70z-c0UgT26nigrKq0zxc29UE9DJF-Qb2mLjYEAz9zd35KCnc6isFGuyiSoEhPXxACJiHe15_BzekI-HdrDFsg8Trt-njOk/s1600/IMG_0017+(3).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizG-01cxHHypHr6vVIt4VDQXpeLfwnM07vBXHuDE68A7pj70z-c0UgT26nigrKq0zxc29UE9DJF-Qb2mLjYEAz9zd35KCnc6isFGuyiSoEhPXxACJiHe15_BzekI-HdrDFsg8Trt-njOk/s320/IMG_0017+(3).jpg" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Sheela and Adam</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPLmN-_cGgzRZyATC8owdsScVTp6Ulha2zujZfCJTzqITW2RYLcZQy2SPHzd1IYpMrfpl6WYQp7WDo6UQnDBzxn_fq8BX0wC7ZEzFKJOhwwFugT1HKSRh3LrGX808sTfeHSQHWRDGNRC8/s1600/IMG_0053.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPLmN-_cGgzRZyATC8owdsScVTp6Ulha2zujZfCJTzqITW2RYLcZQy2SPHzd1IYpMrfpl6WYQp7WDo6UQnDBzxn_fq8BX0wC7ZEzFKJOhwwFugT1HKSRh3LrGX808sTfeHSQHWRDGNRC8/s1600/IMG_0053.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> </a><br />
<br />
<span id="goog_1923052587"></span><span id="goog_1923052588"></span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK_J0Vciuma64a8iR9HxrpzFQCYhtxQjwkcig-NelPug7GxEXv9xe0ngCGJAZwOJzSK6KNUVJX2t-PKRPCHK3zCNifEySSxWQN20rOh9Jh2JMYxK0JVUREtx4T6A2JhwvWj8XCEsdqds4/s1600/IMG_0016+(4).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="451" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK_J0Vciuma64a8iR9HxrpzFQCYhtxQjwkcig-NelPug7GxEXv9xe0ngCGJAZwOJzSK6KNUVJX2t-PKRPCHK3zCNifEySSxWQN20rOh9Jh2JMYxK0JVUREtx4T6A2JhwvWj8XCEsdqds4/s640/IMG_0016+(4).jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">L-R: Ligy, Anita, Aunty Rema, Asha, Mum, Dad, Pradeep, Uncle Gengadharan 1981</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc-HPBaew6n7b5jYn4odMEK6JSSmimxlueI8gSELhV3KYYLRwPifspOeq-KT0v41sIndmQzWbH5nHuWxrW13dCemoq1YECGu1mbHj9l9S_2qNQJbgaCTnGY9VW1GEphyBYrcdizVeZR6o/s1600/IMG_0058+(4).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc-HPBaew6n7b5jYn4odMEK6JSSmimxlueI8gSELhV3KYYLRwPifspOeq-KT0v41sIndmQzWbH5nHuWxrW13dCemoq1YECGu1mbHj9l9S_2qNQJbgaCTnGY9VW1GEphyBYrcdizVeZR6o/s400/IMG_0058+(4).jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Dad</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj-R7bYesXYlM5Y-FDo2dR9vHNSOkfuGPrSDH6vxFe7LRWMH_gY9Ug5tRDwFDafNkDL8F0wWdzqTqL2tt6UUUbJKliJ1mJkzwIDRzVOTuuyrazzyUVUsL3HMB0dHrbZ0OQx9Wli5OKWAo/s1600/IMG_0021+(4).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj-R7bYesXYlM5Y-FDo2dR9vHNSOkfuGPrSDH6vxFe7LRWMH_gY9Ug5tRDwFDafNkDL8F0wWdzqTqL2tt6UUUbJKliJ1mJkzwIDRzVOTuuyrazzyUVUsL3HMB0dHrbZ0OQx9Wli5OKWAo/s320/IMG_0021+(4).jpg" width="265" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Adam</div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmp3i60a0t-vubDnVOvtNPJ0nrLFfNeZ_HZ3Pwgs8A8Q7997hW7-ZwyfJ427DXWAU-Mz9M3HOq8k2HkZ6IA50GsDDheazIlDyDr-NbRMrvryhTh-p2siXtJETz7NjZAIHpseVEmUY5keU/s1600/IMG_0028+(3).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmp3i60a0t-vubDnVOvtNPJ0nrLFfNeZ_HZ3Pwgs8A8Q7997hW7-ZwyfJ427DXWAU-Mz9M3HOq8k2HkZ6IA50GsDDheazIlDyDr-NbRMrvryhTh-p2siXtJETz7NjZAIHpseVEmUY5keU/s320/IMG_0028+(3).jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Adam with sexy legs Sheela</div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA5q7IdGJE30Q1Ew5gtpEtSaN2L_YMGtWhyCJx9YSPuObDil78123ffnZ6f73PzsldWqBAoxMJs7THgihKwRc7qkza92OC9JT-mgVtd1mmDXFY0gkNukXyHTBcrCL5wA04xnKkgeN_bo0/s1600/IMG_0035+(6).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA5q7IdGJE30Q1Ew5gtpEtSaN2L_YMGtWhyCJx9YSPuObDil78123ffnZ6f73PzsldWqBAoxMJs7THgihKwRc7qkza92OC9JT-mgVtd1mmDXFY0gkNukXyHTBcrCL5wA04xnKkgeN_bo0/s320/IMG_0035+(6).jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Sheela and Adam</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Aa0MFV9uE_SNFsI8mhPDv0uqYHDu1izAbUmit3wHZW9IPOxIVOoiwPWesIDZSRIFzOScJ23b9Vn6NTpBOApfcH0jhKudDOs5nSxrHD_fqwSwdIiVP0vMsrOuOPwkRgIPpIPbb7huGVQ/s1600/IMG_0117.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br /></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Aa0MFV9uE_SNFsI8mhPDv0uqYHDu1izAbUmit3wHZW9IPOxIVOoiwPWesIDZSRIFzOScJ23b9Vn6NTpBOApfcH0jhKudDOs5nSxrHD_fqwSwdIiVP0vMsrOuOPwkRgIPpIPbb7huGVQ/s1600/IMG_0117.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Aa0MFV9uE_SNFsI8mhPDv0uqYHDu1izAbUmit3wHZW9IPOxIVOoiwPWesIDZSRIFzOScJ23b9Vn6NTpBOApfcH0jhKudDOs5nSxrHD_fqwSwdIiVP0vMsrOuOPwkRgIPpIPbb7huGVQ/s320/IMG_0117.jpg" width="320" /><br />Laura</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNBYafzjQU4eE78vSha4ZYpBfpvtZCCtcGA7M-Lj_3scxu2KUotq4rkECvMoC3Cdr9xi5ZewoxtVyOovNcmW_R-QPaCLxC1LSO_ehPmGlUkeKjri18Hjt0uQ7c8qboJiMg7HP96ryB8iA/s1600/IMG_0041+%25283%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNBYafzjQU4eE78vSha4ZYpBfpvtZCCtcGA7M-Lj_3scxu2KUotq4rkECvMoC3Cdr9xi5ZewoxtVyOovNcmW_R-QPaCLxC1LSO_ehPmGlUkeKjri18Hjt0uQ7c8qboJiMg7HP96ryB8iA/s320/IMG_0041+%25283%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Adam amidst the books</div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWo67CSK_N6vOyDPaKzrrNqPoT0j1hbYE12amj2MdaZRiTwAjP0tKxND1wiSTHb5OL_6oaC95I8lX6UTkRUKSAI7RBMzkNAisFMOO5D4zD5QLCb34NvlP99IOS77JcAX707Kyg141uKq4/s1600/IMG_0049+(4).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWo67CSK_N6vOyDPaKzrrNqPoT0j1hbYE12amj2MdaZRiTwAjP0tKxND1wiSTHb5OL_6oaC95I8lX6UTkRUKSAI7RBMzkNAisFMOO5D4zD5QLCb34NvlP99IOS77JcAX707Kyg141uKq4/s320/IMG_0049+(4).jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Dad, Adam and the sheep</div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBoUG26FijIX0QIbXoG0yGymvnLP30Jpy68q6urmQNAEukzMcnm_Gkm1G0MJ5NL2mkM9JEM5AS_LmoCl51S9xte3Ef9METySX8MURZrQZuLr_q9gjuqDK7PmXgtUpTicj47cooYBgkKO0/s1600/IMG_0048+(3).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBoUG26FijIX0QIbXoG0yGymvnLP30Jpy68q6urmQNAEukzMcnm_Gkm1G0MJ5NL2mkM9JEM5AS_LmoCl51S9xte3Ef9METySX8MURZrQZuLr_q9gjuqDK7PmXgtUpTicj47cooYBgkKO0/s320/IMG_0048+(3).jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Adam</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9xKcGYJmWcocHK3B6T0nlTfmAxsJ3_gfOy05GJ4fkfpVwFqcTXTQFdq3O61c36KLSy7Bbmeqsu1phxsPPCmhS8K_kU-AoUx8D4b0GJ5pxB3TX4e-tFdmWmOOLJo9O_AlNQ6rvFowMZ44/s1600/IMG_0050+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9xKcGYJmWcocHK3B6T0nlTfmAxsJ3_gfOy05GJ4fkfpVwFqcTXTQFdq3O61c36KLSy7Bbmeqsu1phxsPPCmhS8K_kU-AoUx8D4b0GJ5pxB3TX4e-tFdmWmOOLJo9O_AlNQ6rvFowMZ44/s320/IMG_0050+(2).jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Dad, Adam and the cows</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMC57lXWlbJIbomnnuodUx5HixwPYG0roUv0RQbvh3K_qhZfCXhKb_fK0Pr5G7vuvZWITmf4aAxy-a660Su4zRya4MF5wsnjU2AD0KY00iLyEWV7F3BTKQV2BgYCsVvAw-lXB_3Q_ymTM/s1600/IMG_0063+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMC57lXWlbJIbomnnuodUx5HixwPYG0roUv0RQbvh3K_qhZfCXhKb_fK0Pr5G7vuvZWITmf4aAxy-a660Su4zRya4MF5wsnjU2AD0KY00iLyEWV7F3BTKQV2BgYCsVvAw-lXB_3Q_ymTM/s320/IMG_0063+(2).jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Daphne carrying Heather 1983</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrfx0-aHpfUzijYMiluZv2J98mRd75KAPOxv108Iq8DfE67m9zKtgolsus5sfwjoaRjVTSGmefyIJUL9kDXCynhyRSffu4lbpwhQKMpb1nciPZl8KCq1KojbwF4jrBBlFnzvulx0-aADI/s1600/IMG_0073.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrfx0-aHpfUzijYMiluZv2J98mRd75KAPOxv108Iq8DfE67m9zKtgolsus5sfwjoaRjVTSGmefyIJUL9kDXCynhyRSffu4lbpwhQKMpb1nciPZl8KCq1KojbwF4jrBBlFnzvulx0-aADI/s320/IMG_0073.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Roy and Heather 1983</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiiGUFGDfwHxkKqrlEUp6j3IpjxL3ja5azXhZLeEBCrs-KFw-4rmIB2gaxWSkA3mBIJomyrmpKt6cPN83pZ_j_CLjq_VGadoK5jfitJjFUUFeMYEBMlJJ4UOK8HJ9WQTq3o64F11aqrlU/s1600/IMG_0076+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiiGUFGDfwHxkKqrlEUp6j3IpjxL3ja5azXhZLeEBCrs-KFw-4rmIB2gaxWSkA3mBIJomyrmpKt6cPN83pZ_j_CLjq_VGadoK5jfitJjFUUFeMYEBMlJJ4UOK8HJ9WQTq3o64F11aqrlU/s320/IMG_0076+(2).jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Roy and Adam plucking raspberries in Grandma Pearce's garden 1983</div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQJOG6YOxidkZXqTfgv1-n9esNyxh6aP_fr8Unr4IeFHJt-8BNQi0_z7uWmiA2ebMnXFK5HP8ByxVfyZGPQo2ZpULXwanH18YG91zNuJpu60NozBQvqdv50eKkAwK5JLUB2EmbL-5Mtsw/s1600/IMG_0079.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQJOG6YOxidkZXqTfgv1-n9esNyxh6aP_fr8Unr4IeFHJt-8BNQi0_z7uWmiA2ebMnXFK5HP8ByxVfyZGPQo2ZpULXwanH18YG91zNuJpu60NozBQvqdv50eKkAwK5JLUB2EmbL-5Mtsw/s320/IMG_0079.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Roy and Adam by the beach at Poole 1983</div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjda2j_cv9Fhw_dUIvmsg8RV4PVbsYVG4XygSALDwTAZ6Q40mqLOIVVUP2Pos5HCvULciw-BK_dYzGSNBfjvNUat9oAeff_e-3tn7fG9MoVdTMWISMXOCOy-QbcB5hX5i_TrBuyy_84mDQ/s1600/IMG_0080.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjda2j_cv9Fhw_dUIvmsg8RV4PVbsYVG4XygSALDwTAZ6Q40mqLOIVVUP2Pos5HCvULciw-BK_dYzGSNBfjvNUat9oAeff_e-3tn7fG9MoVdTMWISMXOCOy-QbcB5hX5i_TrBuyy_84mDQ/s320/IMG_0080.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Roy, Adam and Sheela 1983</div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZVtP_RN-kSBXeU3QQiEbksMMAiCRR7rn4bybUdy88xQbrcyaP9aPFCv00D_QE-ctMWwGSxKQDnMSETOTmy-eM5ryKsIdIazYFLL5bh27MIDaO-hWnTAWwe4EI1W5jIowYckE5AbTPC7c/s1600/IMG_0040+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZVtP_RN-kSBXeU3QQiEbksMMAiCRR7rn4bybUdy88xQbrcyaP9aPFCv00D_QE-ctMWwGSxKQDnMSETOTmy-eM5ryKsIdIazYFLL5bh27MIDaO-hWnTAWwe4EI1W5jIowYckE5AbTPC7c/s320/IMG_0040+(2).jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Laura, Mum, Adam, Dad, Heather taken in Australia 1989</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6MCqshLe60ei7ucbvRzbgilJpk22ZYXHlDnSEHWKAVkC49I0ngMO35puWdRPalb6nVurlpK9cgmMwESTjCqZcQPY9romP2F-eJWPOpda2J9e_HP9SyVBB9ci-E8DHclJR2DDgqr6iyVU/s1600/IMG_0042+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6MCqshLe60ei7ucbvRzbgilJpk22ZYXHlDnSEHWKAVkC49I0ngMO35puWdRPalb6nVurlpK9cgmMwESTjCqZcQPY9romP2F-eJWPOpda2J9e_HP9SyVBB9ci-E8DHclJR2DDgqr6iyVU/s320/IMG_0042+(2).jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Censored Sharona and Jessy</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1-ArBg8fZIdaM_z7WV90nItprtWx3-Lc29Mf4ewQ1DQip2OrS4DuG4pVNuNPqxa3siZpYp0Iqm81n6yNdKhljZ4emIlzFv7S-PLA-LUGIE4d37tIR7b6WXEK2JTvC0OphTrByNGFJzIs/s1600/IMG_0047+(3).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1-ArBg8fZIdaM_z7WV90nItprtWx3-Lc29Mf4ewQ1DQip2OrS4DuG4pVNuNPqxa3siZpYp0Iqm81n6yNdKhljZ4emIlzFv7S-PLA-LUGIE4d37tIR7b6WXEK2JTvC0OphTrByNGFJzIs/s320/IMG_0047+(3).jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Dad, Mum, David, Sheela and Adam</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIhokVX2F32WJc7nqigFJK9k_E099vCyxIjJKN9xP2_NExlupHVeq7KkFMU7QwfIqn7ylx2zrsTkLCjP8AWVsRDNOlSBoSl_eqg14frfNBi6fy-Y_Tm5lqT0qSbuFUaYOvo1Y_qx0lPTY/s1600/IMG_0017+%25284%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIhokVX2F32WJc7nqigFJK9k_E099vCyxIjJKN9xP2_NExlupHVeq7KkFMU7QwfIqn7ylx2zrsTkLCjP8AWVsRDNOlSBoSl_eqg14frfNBi6fy-Y_Tm5lqT0qSbuFUaYOvo1Y_qx0lPTY/s320/IMG_0017+%25284%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Mum, Dad and Adam</div>
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPLmN-_cGgzRZyATC8owdsScVTp6Ulha2zujZfCJTzqITW2RYLcZQy2SPHzd1IYpMrfpl6WYQp7WDo6UQnDBzxn_fq8BX0wC7ZEzFKJOhwwFugT1HKSRh3LrGX808sTfeHSQHWRDGNRC8/s1600/IMG_0053.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPLmN-_cGgzRZyATC8owdsScVTp6Ulha2zujZfCJTzqITW2RYLcZQy2SPHzd1IYpMrfpl6WYQp7WDo6UQnDBzxn_fq8BX0wC7ZEzFKJOhwwFugT1HKSRh3LrGX808sTfeHSQHWRDGNRC8/s320/IMG_0053.jpg" width="219" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Dad and Adam in Johore Bahru</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="noprint" id="mw-page-base">
</div>
<div class="noprint" id="mw-head-base">
</div>
<!-- content --><br />
<div class="mw-body" id="content" role="main">
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" id="top"></a><br />
<div id="mw-js-message" style="display: none;">
</div>
<!-- sitenotice --><br />
<div id="siteNotice">
<div id="centralNotice">
</div>
<!-- CentralNotice --><br /></div>
<!-- /sitenotice --><!-- firstHeading --><br />
<h1 class="firstHeading" id="firstHeading" lang="en">
</h1>
<div class="firstHeading" lang="en">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrAS7wYYk7N_KpWJdlxd8O8sWylkFhkp2iRm0to7jJO6GLDNw_05NpuCSXtrjTSZmYSaDshLhpLyoevwU1reGYQFY1dwTO_XajERbvaFpo-rrRvGDNY3a0HqIFbBHi6AysG9YutFWqrss/s1600/IMG_0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrAS7wYYk7N_KpWJdlxd8O8sWylkFhkp2iRm0to7jJO6GLDNw_05NpuCSXtrjTSZmYSaDshLhpLyoevwU1reGYQFY1dwTO_XajERbvaFpo-rrRvGDNY3a0HqIFbBHi6AysG9YutFWqrss/s400/IMG_0001.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mum and flowers</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="firstHeading" lang="en">
</div>
<div id="bodyContent">
<!-- /tagline --><!-- subtitle --><br />
<div id="contentSub">
</div>
<!-- /subtitle --><!-- jumpto --><br />
<div class="mw-jump" id="jump-to-nav">
</div>
<!-- /jumpto --><!-- bodycontent --><br />
<div class="fullImageLink" id="file">
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ4pazJDJd96NoGMcNm-uhU14RI1GZ91hUeTPiwxtW4JIIkYZUxn9bj5EEIpJ8PfXf38ZEeL-bdmDojMjEuRErsm42gCXTSsoDyvLv56KGOrV8Xy_iF1qvpIBDzB00Os7gwy2VQJGePeo/s1600/IMG_0057+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ4pazJDJd96NoGMcNm-uhU14RI1GZ91hUeTPiwxtW4JIIkYZUxn9bj5EEIpJ8PfXf38ZEeL-bdmDojMjEuRErsm42gCXTSsoDyvLv56KGOrV8Xy_iF1qvpIBDzB00Os7gwy2VQJGePeo/s320/IMG_0057+%25282%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">L-R: Sheela, Indra, Roy and Sobha</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9kRCMOeKXC0y4k4fQ8cdk2T3ewWI-tp3gEhmprWaBuIkHBenHvMhZa95iudiIAXsfhUiGalGcaPadQ0yF_gkMvhA1s5O8luAXZ8i9gJyBz2T1BIHpA2KpdwNjam6LWxuMeJNKiNvIMlQ/s1600/IMG_0001+%25283%2529+-+Copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9kRCMOeKXC0y4k4fQ8cdk2T3ewWI-tp3gEhmprWaBuIkHBenHvMhZa95iudiIAXsfhUiGalGcaPadQ0yF_gkMvhA1s5O8luAXZ8i9gJyBz2T1BIHpA2KpdwNjam6LWxuMeJNKiNvIMlQ/s320/IMG_0001+%25283%2529+-+Copy.jpg" width="213" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table class="wikitable" style="margin-right: 60px; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><th></th><th></th><th></th></tr>
<tr><td align="left"></td><td align="left"></td><td></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"></td><td align="left"></td><td></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"></td><td align="left"></td><td></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"></td><td align="left"></td><td></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"></td><td align="left"></td><td></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"></td><td align="left"></td><td></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"></td><td align="left"></td><td></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"></td><td align="left"></td><td></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"></td><td align="left"></td><td></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"></td><td align="left"></td><td>Do call me and let me know what i have missed out and the errors in my writing</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS9__G9ARE2Lel0HcHg_hXBI5r72QBW3AoVZP-zs0x5Qy6OAajejE253aRigT9Irxs0vCCTxRyPg0ttpZoSQRdwp-O_DHuWbOCwxhmnzGzFaAVEAXS6v1NKgNy3U2Ce81exmnm2ID9Hqs/s1600/IMG_0111.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS9__G9ARE2Lel0HcHg_hXBI5r72QBW3AoVZP-zs0x5Qy6OAajejE253aRigT9Irxs0vCCTxRyPg0ttpZoSQRdwp-O_DHuWbOCwxhmnzGzFaAVEAXS6v1NKgNy3U2Ce81exmnm2ID9Hqs/s320/IMG_0111.jpg" width="318" /></a>My little sister whom we missed terribly when she was incarcerated in our grandparents' home!!!!!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4naXsOn4I_cWzRB4-fdWFGJoumt6-HrSxS7wConCgxmjdDoY4N-bJbUi4oxluyPgwOkXFwUX8WN1fiMuH1LCCpIQWNeCneGiYvkdZGZOpROuQNj2tDatRCiJVRw-HoxgNHfG9vCtEVQs/s1600/IMG_0025+(5).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="470" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4naXsOn4I_cWzRB4-fdWFGJoumt6-HrSxS7wConCgxmjdDoY4N-bJbUi4oxluyPgwOkXFwUX8WN1fiMuH1LCCpIQWNeCneGiYvkdZGZOpROuQNj2tDatRCiJVRw-HoxgNHfG9vCtEVQs/s640/IMG_0025+(5).jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">L-R: Uncle Siva Dad, Harish, Grandfather Raghavan, Uncle Prakash holding Suresh, Grandmother Lakshmi Narayani, Mum Prasadini, Dad Krishnan</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;">Standing L-R: Sobha, Sheela, Uncle Yashodharan (my grandmother Lakshmi Narayani's older brother Paramooth's son), Chellappan, Prabha, Govindan, Uncle Prasad, Prasanna, Mala and her brother Moorthi who was my grandmother's pet</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;">The above photograph was the last photograph that we took in Chau Wah Photo Studio as a family</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Hi Che, you are an amazing woman with a fantastic sense of recall and a great story teller. Some ideas for you to add: the thin balloons covered in powder left by Sime Darby and the fun we had trying to blow them up and finding they hurt our cheeks. Seow siah and her beautiful cheongsam. Did her mum sell eggs or tahu? The Chinese clogs that were worn at that time and we had some. The Chinese bar in Jln Ibrahim with the saloon door and red lights at night and we would try not to look at the bar while driving by the seaside with parents. The little corner shop in Jln dhoby which sold greenwood drinks and the plastic stuff in the tube which we would blow to make " balloons" for want of a better word. Grandfather visiting us always with sweets which were wrapped up in newspaper and the same old sweets always.... Do you remember them? By the way my birthday is Dec 20 and not 19. Thank you for writing about me. Just remembered that I was also scared of the Singhs who used to gather below the balcony and we used to spit at their turbans. Reminds me of the time we were waiting for a bus after our singing lesson and threw stones at cars and this Indian man stopped his car and told us off. Many years later we realized he worked st the education dept. Again thank you dear Chechi. Will call you one of these days. Give my love to father. Love Sheila<br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">Sheela what you mentioned above will be included when i edit this in a few weeks' time. </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoCZtrKv0aVKYWHE_ionj-fCvZpWurl5Hny5hOdhdvTU3eVbwB9CYPFDIq8V5r1IRI1UeNQNtvBE779c2YTPR3avtu9f7v9uN8ysXIsjc2jNnqE7FS6ItbLyqlXrmrBzzCDLTGbq7vxdY/s1600/IMG_0001+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoCZtrKv0aVKYWHE_ionj-fCvZpWurl5Hny5hOdhdvTU3eVbwB9CYPFDIq8V5r1IRI1UeNQNtvBE779c2YTPR3avtu9f7v9uN8ysXIsjc2jNnqE7FS6ItbLyqlXrmrBzzCDLTGbq7vxdY/s320/IMG_0001+(2).jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
<br />
<a class="rapidnofollow" data-track="photo-click" href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/muradosan/4131190158/in/photostream"></a><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjas2yvBCWzYv5BEj2AIzk_9huYjTj4df2dXaf2Q2DP5L3gU_QsbThovk8MYx2kux1PdWtr5C0kBU87ow_CK6VsNa3s2moeSuXnuFmVhpm89XWkxhHGldKFAIvvL8cazeVhplrJScGFBH8/s1600/IMG_0001+(3).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjas2yvBCWzYv5BEj2AIzk_9huYjTj4df2dXaf2Q2DP5L3gU_QsbThovk8MYx2kux1PdWtr5C0kBU87ow_CK6VsNa3s2moeSuXnuFmVhpm89XWkxhHGldKFAIvvL8cazeVhplrJScGFBH8/s1600/IMG_0001+(3).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjas2yvBCWzYv5BEj2AIzk_9huYjTj4df2dXaf2Q2DP5L3gU_QsbThovk8MYx2kux1PdWtr5C0kBU87ow_CK6VsNa3s2moeSuXnuFmVhpm89XWkxhHGldKFAIvvL8cazeVhplrJScGFBH8/s1600/IMG_0001+(3).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjas2yvBCWzYv5BEj2AIzk_9huYjTj4df2dXaf2Q2DP5L3gU_QsbThovk8MYx2kux1PdWtr5C0kBU87ow_CK6VsNa3s2moeSuXnuFmVhpm89XWkxhHGldKFAIvvL8cazeVhplrJScGFBH8/s1600/IMG_0001+(3).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjas2yvBCWzYv5BEj2AIzk_9huYjTj4df2dXaf2Q2DP5L3gU_QsbThovk8MYx2kux1PdWtr5C0kBU87ow_CK6VsNa3s2moeSuXnuFmVhpm89XWkxhHGldKFAIvvL8cazeVhplrJScGFBH8/s1600/IMG_0001+(3).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjas2yvBCWzYv5BEj2AIzk_9huYjTj4df2dXaf2Q2DP5L3gU_QsbThovk8MYx2kux1PdWtr5C0kBU87ow_CK6VsNa3s2moeSuXnuFmVhpm89XWkxhHGldKFAIvvL8cazeVhplrJScGFBH8/s1600/IMG_0001+(3).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjas2yvBCWzYv5BEj2AIzk_9huYjTj4df2dXaf2Q2DP5L3gU_QsbThovk8MYx2kux1PdWtr5C0kBU87ow_CK6VsNa3s2moeSuXnuFmVhpm89XWkxhHGldKFAIvvL8cazeVhplrJScGFBH8/s1600/IMG_0001+(3).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br />Siva Prasanna Krishnanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06210009726000818227noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4270544749004657709.post-15707617788735859832012-12-21T17:48:00.002-08:002012-12-24T21:15:12.646-08:00A Child of the Wind<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em></em><br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "AR BERKLEY"; font-size: x-large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-MY;">My Youngest Sister Siva Sobha Bowe </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "AR BERKLEY"; font-size: x-large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-MY;">nee Siva Sobha Krishnan</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: AR BERKLEY; font-size: x-large;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: AR BERKLEY; font-size: x-large;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>She walks in beauty, like the night</em></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>of cloudless climes and starry skies;</em></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>and all that's best of dark and bright</em></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>meet in her aspects and her eyes</em></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><em></em></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>thus mellowed to that tender light</em></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>which heaven to gaudy day denies - Lord Byron</em></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<b><i> </i></b><br />
<b><i></i></b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: AR BERKLEY; font-size: x-large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh54VHDymWylqBkgne_SLIABEt8vs5zzlq8Tq3YUJVi0Jgm2gKtLajTStaipHcCwp7IqLnOS5nTbktT-S1HQbVanEgrsmCfrX6oNqq7aJ_0DdOHs9qz6b1_4C3MwhI9Rih7PLWTKe5BpDo/s1600/IMG_0041.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="325" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh54VHDymWylqBkgne_SLIABEt8vs5zzlq8Tq3YUJVi0Jgm2gKtLajTStaipHcCwp7IqLnOS5nTbktT-S1HQbVanEgrsmCfrX6oNqq7aJ_0DdOHs9qz6b1_4C3MwhI9Rih7PLWTKe5BpDo/s400/IMG_0041.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="tab-content active">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: AR BERKLEY; font-size: x-large;"></span> </div>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: AR BERKLEY; font-size: x-large;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: AR BERKLEY; font-size: x-large;">"Like branches on a tree </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: AR BERKLEY; font-size: x-large;"></span></div>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: AR BERKLEY; font-size: x-large;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: AR BERKLEY; font-size: x-large;"><div class="tab-content active">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
we grow in different directions </div>
<div class="tab-content active">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
yet our roots remain as one. </div>
<div class="tab-content active">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Each of our lives </div>
<div class="tab-content active">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
will always be </div>
<div class="tab-content active">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
a special part of the other." </div>
<div class="tab-content active">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
-Author Unknown </div>
<div class="tab-content active">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="tab-content active">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Today is the 25th of November 2012. I am thinking of my youngest sister Sobha. When I think of Sobha, I think of Byron, Shelley and Keats, her favourite poets. </span></span></div>
<div class="tab-content active">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: small;"><em><strong>"When twilight drops her curtain down</strong></em></span></div>
<div class="tab-content active">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: small;"><em><strong>And pins it with a star</strong></em></span></div>
<div class="tab-content active">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: small;"><em><strong>Remember that you have a friend</strong></em></span></div>
<div class="tab-content active">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: small;"><em><strong>Though she may wander far..."</strong></em></span></div>
<div class="tab-content active">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="tab-content active">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">As I put together pictures and memories of a shared childhood and home in Johore Bahru, I am selecting for her some of my favourite poems. I can picture her sitting in her living room, one winter's evening, with her cup of steaming tea, reading what I am creating exclusively for a very dear sister, who is much loved by her family. </span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: AR BERKLEY; font-size: x-large;"></span><br />
<div class="title" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: AR BERKLEY; font-size: x-large;">Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening</span></div>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: AR BERKLEY; font-size: x-large;"></span><br />
<div class="tab-content active">
</div>
<div class="tab-content active">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: AR BERKLEY; font-size: x-large;"></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPUHn1QO3QmIdHIVTmTMnndX8f3lIn3OE8p4dXruaBWUghwoAgrh2Wm9C2bXZEejY_8xyl8BqKF_480visHbpoCV660yuQk96YTuoDqstqw5_3FKeZUYzsHFYG9JZdJLDbDAyPPCj1vJM/s1600/250px-Site_throeau_cabin_loc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPUHn1QO3QmIdHIVTmTMnndX8f3lIn3OE8p4dXruaBWUghwoAgrh2Wm9C2bXZEejY_8xyl8BqKF_480visHbpoCV660yuQk96YTuoDqstqw5_3FKeZUYzsHFYG9JZdJLDbDAyPPCj1vJM/s320/250px-Site_throeau_cabin_loc.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="poem" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><em><strong>Whose woods these are I think I know.</strong></em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em><strong>His house is in the village though;</strong></em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em><strong>He will not see me stopping here</strong></em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em><strong>To watch his woods fill up with snow.</strong></em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em><strong></strong></em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em><strong>My little horse must think it queer</strong></em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em><strong>To stop without a farmhouse near</strong></em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em><strong>Between the woods and frozen lake</strong></em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em><strong>The darkest evening of the year.</strong></em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em><strong></strong></em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em><strong>He gives his harness bells a shake</strong></em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em><strong>To ask if there is some mistake.</strong></em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em><strong>The only other sound's the sweep</strong></em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em><strong>Of easy wind and downy flake.</strong></em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em></em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em><strong>The woods are lovely, dark and deep.</strong></em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em><strong>But I have promises to keep,</strong></em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em><strong>And miles to go before I sleep,</strong></em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em><strong>And miles to go before I sleep.</strong></em></span></div>
<div class="poem" style="text-align: center;">
<strong></strong></div>
<div class="poem" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><strong>- Robert Frost, New Hampshire, 1923</strong></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<h1 class="tab-content active">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "AR BERKLEY"; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-MY;">My name is Siva Prasanna Krishnan. </span></h1>
<h1 class="tab-content active">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "AR BERKLEY"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-MY;"><em>I am a Child of the Wind, like all other children - a </em>recorder of memories of a bygone era - of growing up in the Malaya of the fifties and sixties, as a child of immigrant parents from Mayyanad in Kerala, India. </span></span></h1>
<div class="tab-content active">
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br /></div>
<div class="tab-content active">
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br /></div>
<h1 class="tab-content active">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "AR BERKLEY"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-MY;">I am a Child of the Wind that comes blowing from across many unknown lands and seas to caress every being before breezing off to the unknown, never to come back again, leaving in its wake, memories of the soul - that linger on...</span></span></h1>
<div class="tab-content active">
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br /></div>
<div class="tab-content active">
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br /></div>
<h1 class="tab-content active">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "AR BERKLEY"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-MY;">I am a reader and writer of poetry and prose, and when dusk replaces day, i gaze upon long-gone people, places and eras...</span></span></h1>
<div class="tab-content active">
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br /></div>
<div class="tab-content active">
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br /></div>
<h1 class="tab-content active">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "AR BERKLEY"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-MY;">I am a capturer of moments of life giving to each one an eternity through pictures of the heart and everlasting words... to be passed from one </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "AR BERKLEY"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-MY;">generation to the next, what the wind and heart had once upon a time touched and felt.............. </span></span></h1>
<div class="tab-content active">
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br /></div>
<h1 class="tab-content active">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "AR BERKLEY"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-MY;">I am Child of the Wind without form, race, country or creed, </span></span></h1>
<h1 class="tab-content active">
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "AR BERKLEY"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-MY;"><span style="font-size: large;">I see, I feel, I imprint memories and I move on...</span> </span></h1>
<div class="tab-content active">
</div>
<div class="tab-content active">
</div>
<div class="tab-content active">
</div>
<div class="tab-content active">
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong>My imagination is a monastery </strong></span></em></div>
<div class="tab-content active">
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong>And I am its monk - Keats</strong></span></em><br />
<strong><em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span></em></strong><br />
<strong><em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span></em></strong> </div>
<div class="tab-content active">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYy83GewzjLhHG1u9aBPZYhILncreIMf177XLqX7hR1fIun1cXifxKb_xbavMc_sQ9W44C7K0vXRJqsUWGQ6sNFJu6LlQ-k1Wz66miG5LBYdl_Gwa-4Ak-xYisNED4x51Ils87rrtbA3I/s1600/IMG_0057.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYy83GewzjLhHG1u9aBPZYhILncreIMf177XLqX7hR1fIun1cXifxKb_xbavMc_sQ9W44C7K0vXRJqsUWGQ6sNFJu6LlQ-k1Wz66miG5LBYdl_Gwa-4Ak-xYisNED4x51Ils87rrtbA3I/s640/IMG_0057.jpg" width="452" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<em>A family portrait taken in October 1963 before we sailed on the SS Rajula to India to meet our Dad's family. Seated Dad and Mum. Standing from extreme right, clockwise: Sobha, Suresh, Harish, Sheela, Prabha and Prasanna. Mum loved to dress us in identical clothes and we did not appreciate the uniform!</em><br />
<em></em><br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<em>As I look at the faces of the children in the picture, I remember what the years have done to each one of us. My Mother who would have been 31 when the photograph was taken, is no more. My father is living with me now, trapped alone in a body that refuses to follow the dictates of his mind, living in a silent world, not of his choice. My older brother is in Johore Bahru with his wife Joyce, daughter Suria, son-in-law Max and two grandchildren Micah and Jasmine. </em><br />
<em></em> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<em>I live in Ipoh, semi-retired and thinking of going back to work again. My son Roy works and lives in Ipoh. My husband Chandra is based in Phnom Penh. My son's three dogs Jingo, Gina and Puppydoos, live with me. </em><br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<em>My sister Siva Sree Lowings lives in Adelaide and her children are around her currently. Her son Adam and wife Tracy and grandsonson Blayke live nearby. Heather lives in Melbourne with her husband Shane. Laura and Andrew with their son Cailin live nearby. Sharona has gone for an interview. Siva and husband Chris travel and work together. </em><br />
<em></em> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<em>Shoba lives in Kent with her husband Geoffrey and a pet dog. Her daughter Shelley and son-in-law Dean live in London. </em><br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<em>Harish lives in Adelaide with his wife Andrea and his two daughters Jessica and Kayla, live nearby. </em><br />
<em></em> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<em>Suresh lives in JB with his wife Salina and his son Daniel. </em><br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<em>And in our home, lives my Mum's pet dog Min Chu, all alone, cared for by my two brothers. My father's hands around the two boys (in the photograph above) is symbolic of my father wanting to keep us all together and today we are united by our memories of an unforgettable childhood with relatives and friends and an interesting neighbourhood. </em></div>
<em></em><br /></div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="tab-content active">
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">“<strong>What greater thing is there for human souls than to feel that they are joined for life - to be with each other in silent unspeakable memories.” <br />-George Eliot</strong></span></em></div>
<div class="tab-content active">
</div>
<div class="tab-content active">
</div>
<div class="tab-content active">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivwMFKjeQFz7YmiYQlgYhK7e_V83Uv3_vIrTBSYHX_oWD5lrJVLcnrcdrDu7mFRd9zL4fCpyXt_Lfu5gjAHRnRg09ItYL1AQjcCTGJoDMTWfTGR8lVPcKUKR8GIIKA900XXfR9_XULVIU/s1600/IMG_0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivwMFKjeQFz7YmiYQlgYhK7e_V83Uv3_vIrTBSYHX_oWD5lrJVLcnrcdrDu7mFRd9zL4fCpyXt_Lfu5gjAHRnRg09ItYL1AQjcCTGJoDMTWfTGR8lVPcKUKR8GIIKA900XXfR9_XULVIU/s640/IMG_0001.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<em><span style="font-size: large;"></span></em><br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em>Paternal grandmother Meenakshi and Prasanna, taken outside grandma's house Nyarakkel, in Mayyanad, Kollam District, Kerala, December 1977 when Prasanna visited her grandmother.</em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em>I first met my grandmother in October 1963 when my father took all of us to India to meet his family and it was the first visit back to India for my Mum since she came in 1947. We travelled by the SS Rajula. Uncle Sugunan met us at the harbour in Madras. We stayed at the Kashmir Hotel for a night and the next morning left for Quilon by train. Uncle Bhasy and Uncle Soman's wife Patmavathy travelled with us. </em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em>The train pulled in at Quilon station in the evening at dusk. Running along the slowing train with a crowd of people, was our cousin Vijayan from Chempottu, Perappan's son. Mum recognized him. We alighted, moved the bags out of the carriage onto the platform and managed to get two taxis and went to Chempottu, which was our Perappan's house. He was Dad's older brother. Grandmother thought that we would be staying with her and therefore she waited for us at her house. I am not sure why we never stayed in Father's house Nyarakkel. </em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em>From Chempottu, we walked at night to Nyarakkel. It was dark and it was a very very long walk. Our grandfather was staying at Chempottu, so we met him first. After what seemed to be an endless walk we reached our father's house. Grandma came out to meet all of us. She hugged us and held us to her bony body and exclaimed, "My children have to come to see me after so many years," and many tears were shed. Dad had moist eyes and a silent smile. Mum kept the conversation going. </em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em>Mum's uncle Karunakaran was there and he wanted us to read so that he could really believe that we could read in English. By the time we went to India we had switched from a Malayalam speaking family to an English speaking one. </em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em>I cannot remember what we had for dinner but it was something that grandma had prepared together with Uncle Sugunan's wife Aunty Arundhathi. Later that night we had to make the return journey to Chempottu. All of us were placed in one room in front of the house. Some of us slept on mats on the floor and parents and the boys slept on the large bed. That was how our two month holiday in India began. </em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em>Throughout our stay in India, our grandmother stayed with us in Chempottu. She supervised the cooking of all four meals - breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner. Dinner was a light meal. </em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em>My older brother joined us much later after his form three examination. He took a flight from Singapore to Trivandrum but we all sailed back together. My parents and grandma went to the airport to meet my brother. It was a happy holiday because our parents did not place too many restrictions on us. </em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em>The last time I saw my grandmother was a few days after the above photograph was taken. I gave her two bars of soap and a hundred rupees. I cried with heartfelt sadness and she kept asking me why i was crying. I could not tell her that i knew that i would never see her again. </em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em>The following year i helped to send my Dad to India to meet her for the last time, when we received a letter from India informing us that she was not well. A couple of weeks after Dad returned to Malaysia our grandmother passed away. I wish i had had more time with her. </em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<em><b><i>When we two parted</i></b><br /><strong><em>In silence and tears,</em></strong><br /><strong><em>Half broken-hearted</em></strong><br /><strong><em>To sever for years,</em></strong><br /><strong><em>Pale grew thy cheek </em></strong><br /><strong><em>And cold colder thy kiss</em></strong><br /><strong><em>Truly that hour foretold</em></strong><br /><strong><em>Sorrow to this - Lord Byron</em></strong></em><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZVM4eF2fiJFo7fNcXyY-9m7K3J9fIa3C0rF8UmMrsdK7WItg2flmfJMezUK_uNT_b6xYhLTsIm3M953d4TSPseBvPHWjGLgzgShCCh3GpuIcQ5zO4h0BBnB30bIlN981ZE3fhnebKSh4/s1600/IMG_0076.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZVM4eF2fiJFo7fNcXyY-9m7K3J9fIa3C0rF8UmMrsdK7WItg2flmfJMezUK_uNT_b6xYhLTsIm3M953d4TSPseBvPHWjGLgzgShCCh3GpuIcQ5zO4h0BBnB30bIlN981ZE3fhnebKSh4/s640/IMG_0076.jpg" width="454" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em>Seated - L-R: Romeo's maternal grandmother holding Dileep, eldest son of Aunt Radhabhai who lives in Kundara, Beena Romeo's sister, my paternal grandmother, Meenakshi</em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em>The boys behind are Sajan and Romeo (right) The girl on the left is a neighbour, not identified.</em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfAgUyiQxOpumGK9D1PKFxfNpYaWRIX3EUEaxCskve9mpZPiBVy0giY1S7W6l4qXTyupNw6iA8hkpwZjm_DEpTNlBHTbF0waBcEHNS2gs7AF_7W9WIF428H1qa6vyWocz9Hmeb58GJva4/s1600/IMG_0085.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="486" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfAgUyiQxOpumGK9D1PKFxfNpYaWRIX3EUEaxCskve9mpZPiBVy0giY1S7W6l4qXTyupNw6iA8hkpwZjm_DEpTNlBHTbF0waBcEHNS2gs7AF_7W9WIF428H1qa6vyWocz9Hmeb58GJva4/s640/IMG_0085.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em>Uncle Soman, his mother who is Romeo's grandmother's sister and a first cousin of my paternal grandmother and Uncle Soman's wife Aunty Shantha</em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em>I remember the Grand Aunt in the picture. When i went to India, my Dad got me a Titoni watch of which i was very proud. Then the aunt and her grand-daughter visited. The girl was about fourteen then and a very bright student. She was studying in a certain class and she needed a watch. So my dear mother called me to her and told me to give my watch to that girl. I was truly hurt and sad to part with my watch. I do not remember the girl's name and I wonder what has happened to my watch over the years because it was a really good watch. </em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6iyArWnzGTvV7qXUGzmYEBbE-Q0sbdL6pRPRJYrS3VEsxPT_06cYOKXVkdTSOuml0WBmXIYtzGRbY1kBjWAkXofo0yghIXRIUZMfkphWWMFOMUzGLCymbhrsVWnodTEsLfFAXKbg3IDo/s1600/IMG_0028+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6iyArWnzGTvV7qXUGzmYEBbE-Q0sbdL6pRPRJYrS3VEsxPT_06cYOKXVkdTSOuml0WBmXIYtzGRbY1kBjWAkXofo0yghIXRIUZMfkphWWMFOMUzGLCymbhrsVWnodTEsLfFAXKbg3IDo/s640/IMG_0028+(2).jpg" width="414" /></a></div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: left;">
<em>Maternal grandparents, C.A. Raghavan Vaidyar and Lakshmi Narayani with their youngest son Raghavan Siva Prakash, September 1964, before our youngest uncle left for the UK</em><br />
<br />
<em></em><br />
<em>My grandfather I remember as a gentle person who never ever raised his voice against any one of us. His house was a very peaceful place for us and we spent many happy days there. I remember living in that house until we moved out soon after Sheela was born. </em><br />
<br />
<em></em><br />
<em>My maternal grandmother was totally different from my paternal grandmother but loved us just as much I am sure. In the morning my paternal grandmother would cook all sorts of traditional breakfasts for us. My maternal grandmother would ask us each morning what we wished to eat and would get one of the boys to buy our breakfast for us. It was the same with all our meals, for the grandma in Malaysia did not know how to cook at all. </em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<br />
<em></em><br />
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgctQvEvIXWCwZ1Qe9BEpZg5lv-nIIw8TUxfxNiZeX5lvhKO4mL2WXcpJ2RZTdp7UDhS92gOU1Qe2hKTK0O0gInD8ds5EewF-_I1FSime0l4DV3egR0SLTfbkR2SBDKz2180vAeOxvEjtE/s1600/IMG_0010+(3).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="436" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgctQvEvIXWCwZ1Qe9BEpZg5lv-nIIw8TUxfxNiZeX5lvhKO4mL2WXcpJ2RZTdp7UDhS92gOU1Qe2hKTK0O0gInD8ds5EewF-_I1FSime0l4DV3egR0SLTfbkR2SBDKz2180vAeOxvEjtE/s640/IMG_0010+(3).jpg" width="640" /></a></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em>Mum and Dad in UK in 1981</em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em>Dad was the quiet one and Mum was the talkative one. Dad was the disciplinarian and Mum was the peacemaker and loving one. Dad would listen to all the conversations and not say much. I think he kept up with what was happening in all our lives by listening to my Mum talking to us so often on the phone. </em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em>Mum was about eleven years younger than Dad and I remember I was the girl in class, with the youngest mother. I remember her sense of humour which kept everyone laughing and her amazing ability as a story teller. She was a joy to be with though she had her moments and those were the times when she decided to be very Indian and could not accept that her children were not quite Indian in the way that she wanted. But she accepted all her sons and daughters in law.</em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em><strong>Only a dad but he gives his all,<br /> To smooth the way for his children small,<br /> Doing with courage stern and grim<br /> The deeds that his father did for him.<br /> This is the line that for him I pen:<br /> Only a dad, but the best of men.</strong></em></span></div>
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span></em><br />
<strong><span style="font-size: x-small;">Edgar A. Guest (1916)</span></strong><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="tab-content active">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoLpst1hgzJT54hg-BkCdPLoPC6XK__SjcTf6go16G64QIIU49bcFkJ7tpksnPfDeSAV9_QOGsmSMKhiK_af0xmHUMV52fkqqwg087H7-SlsfPuDvj0NGZHBncSvNQuCViKkKLDTPTzb8/s1600/IMG_0039.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoLpst1hgzJT54hg-BkCdPLoPC6XK__SjcTf6go16G64QIIU49bcFkJ7tpksnPfDeSAV9_QOGsmSMKhiK_af0xmHUMV52fkqqwg087H7-SlsfPuDvj0NGZHBncSvNQuCViKkKLDTPTzb8/s320/IMG_0039.jpg" width="198" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em>Mum age 15 plus before her wedding. </em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em>She always grumbled that she had never wanted to get married at such a young age but young as she was, she filled our home with her laughter and her sense of humour. She always wanted her daughters to have a career and not be a slave to their husbands and this reminds me of something I once read somewhere, "You start when you sink in his arms, you end with your arms in his sink!" </em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em>Mum had amazing dreams for all of us and she filled our lives with a sense of wonder. My earliest memories of my mother are of her telling us to look at the planes flying in the sky, fascinating birds that came to rest on the trees near our house, flowers that bloomed in colourful glory, insects that came hopping along our way, Chinese travelling hawkers, men who came at night selling sliced fruits, the satay seller as he barbecued tiny bits of aromatic meat while we waited with bated breath, or the kachang puteh man who literally carried his entire livelihood on his head ... </em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em>I remember the evenings in our Lumba Kuda house when my brother was about six and I was four and Sheela was one. Our house was the first house in a row of houses. There was a five-foot path in front of the house and then a drain, a sandy patch and beyond it a road. Across the road there was a huge house with a large compound owned by a wealthy Chinese family.</em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em>Between the drain and the road there was a sandy patch that must have been about eight feet broad. My father had planted a blushing hibiscus and it grew to be a big tree with lots of flowers. The big rose-like flowers bloom in the morning and are pure white. As the sun rises, the shade of the flowers change from white to a light pink. As the day gets hotter the colour darkens and by afternoon it is a dark pink and by evening they wither and die. One lifetime in one day and the aging process is seen in the changing colour of the flower. </em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em>We had two rooms. In our living room we did not have a sitting room set with sofas and armchairs. There were a couple of rattan chairs. Most of the time we sat on the floor on straw mats. Sometimes in the evening Dad would go out and return with Chinese noodles for dinner. </em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em>While he was away, Mum would place a mat on the floor and sit us around her. the front door would remain open. She would tell us stories from the Ramayana and the Maha Bharatha. She also told us stories of her childhood in India, her maternal grandmother Narayani, whom she adored, her school, her friends,her numerous relatives, the Onam clothes and festival, the days of hunger and deprivation during the War years and when there were no letters from Malaya and her father. Mum was a natural story teller and </em><em>it is she who gave me the memories that I am able to record today. </em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOvqYAINGp96uISNcu6louomZS7t8D5p5OwTLUMMF4vj89sN-sB5aG32WcqavwHEExy8XCOi2QW4OtnZWNbg1EDl0WLKsQ3fXtpujPAJbB6tiOVE4TqLLwVdbEtagm4okxOhiI4BcDjVE/s1600/IMG_0035+(3).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOvqYAINGp96uISNcu6louomZS7t8D5p5OwTLUMMF4vj89sN-sB5aG32WcqavwHEExy8XCOi2QW4OtnZWNbg1EDl0WLKsQ3fXtpujPAJbB6tiOVE4TqLLwVdbEtagm4okxOhiI4BcDjVE/s640/IMG_0035+(3).jpg" width="468" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">L-RL Mum, Uncle Prasad, Uncle Siva Das, Mum's maternal grandmother Narayani holding Uncle Prakash - Mum always told us that Uncle Das was the only one who owned a pair of slippers in the family</span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em>No story about my mother is complete without mentioning "Letters from India and Letters to India". Mother was a voracious reader and writer of letters. Almost everyday there would be a letter for her from soneome in India. The ritual would begin with the dog barking and Mum telling us that the postman had come and to go and get the letter. She would come out of the kitchen wiping her wet hands on her mundu. By the time she reached the front door, one of us would have brought the letter to her. </em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em>Mum would scrutinize the envelope before exclaiming excitedly, "Mother in India" meaning our grandmother or Rukmini, her best friend from India or some other person. All letters from India filled her with an infectious excitement. I believe she was often lonely for India. But it was an India that she left in the forties. </em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em>She would then sit on the chair and not proceed until all of us were near her and quiet and in complete listening mode. Then she would start reading. At the end of a few lines she would pause and make some comments and then continue reading. I remember a letter from my grandmother in India. She wrote to inform us that Uncle Sugunan had been blessed with yet another baby girl. She also added that while he was having daughters, the family cow was giving birth to male calves!</em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em>Mum would read the letter twice to us and then tell one of us to put the letter away carefully in the drawer in her room to be read a third time when my Dad came back from work. Sometimes he would read it and at other times, she would read it aloud again. On the days when there were no letters, Mum would take out some old letters and read aloud. </em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em>It was Letters from India and Mum making a ritual of reading those letters that kept us in touch with our Indian relatives. We knew each one of them by name, what they looked liked, how they behaved, their character, likes and dislikes. Before Mum passed away, she went through all her drawers and letters and destroyed them saying, "Nobody is going to read these letters because no one knows Malayalam." How I wish I had stopped her. Mum's letters would be invaluable today. </em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<strong><u><em>From Harper Lee to a young fan requesting that she send him a signed photo:</em></u></strong><br />
<em></em><br />
<em><strong>Dear Jeremy</strong></em><br />
<em><strong>I don’t have a picture of myself, so please accept these few lines:</strong></em><br />
<em><strong>As you grow up, always tell the truth, do no harm to others, and don’t think you are the most important being on earth. Rich or poor, you then can look anyone in the eye and say, “I’m probably no better than you, but I’m certainly your equal.”</strong></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>(Signed, ‘Harper Lee’)</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em><img alt="" class="rg_hi uh_hi" data-height="160" data-width="128" height="160" id="rg_hi" src="https://encrypted-tbn3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcR-LW0_skGKfdTPbvmBqHs1BIYn1USFX00_8kdQqMRFo1XzA4FSlg" style="height: 160px; width: 128px;" width="128" /></em><br />
Writer Harper Lee was born on April 28, 1926, in Monroeville, Alabama. In 1959 she finished the manuscript her Pulitzer Prize-winning best-seller <i>To Kill a Mockingbird<i>. </i></i>Soon after, she helped fellow-writer and friend <a href="http://www.biography.com/people/truman-capote-9237547">Truman Capote</a> write an article for <span style="font-style: italic;">The New Yorker</span> which would later evolve into his nonfiction masterpiece, <span style="font-style: italic;">In Cold Blood.</span><br />
<em></em><br />
<em><a href="http://www.biography.com/people/harper-lee-9377021">http://www.biography.com/people/harper-lee-9377021</a></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<br />
<em>My Mum was no Harper Lee but she applied the same wisdom as did millions of mothers the world over, when bringing up their young ones to face an adult world that can be hostile, evil, dangerous and yet so loving and beautiful. </em><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVNqIEPOPI0VIyZqYrSPh5dWWGusWthkZ_Uxrnzv3UmOeFqe4VSHTaGZ9-DSPNLzBC2FnGmKueS4jgfLolnKInmHZoanaYcH_hQ-Wv-PAXu1cU0MITbFm2ZqgHmlL8g8SxjFMMSEBicQA/s1600/IMG_0021+%25283%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="438" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVNqIEPOPI0VIyZqYrSPh5dWWGusWthkZ_Uxrnzv3UmOeFqe4VSHTaGZ9-DSPNLzBC2FnGmKueS4jgfLolnKInmHZoanaYcH_hQ-Wv-PAXu1cU0MITbFm2ZqgHmlL8g8SxjFMMSEBicQA/s640/IMG_0021+%25283%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Mum and Dad in the late 1990s</div>
<h1 class="art-postheader" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The Mother</span> </h1>
<h1 class="art-postheader" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">by</span></h1>
<div class="art-postheader" style="text-align: center;">
Kahlil Gibran</div>
<div class="art-postheadericons art-metadata-icons">
<span class="art-postdateicon"><span class="date"></span></span> </div>
<div class="art-postcontent">
<!-- article-content --><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong>The most beautiful word on the lips of mankind is the word “Mother,” and the most beautiful call is the call of “My mother.” </strong></span></em><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong> </strong></span></div>
<div class="art-postcontent">
<em></em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong> </strong></span></div>
<div class="art-postcontent">
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong>It is a word full of hope and love, a sweet and kind word coming from the depths of the heart. </strong></span></em><br />
<em></em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong> </strong></span></div>
<div class="art-postcontent">
<em></em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong> </strong></span></div>
<div class="art-postcontent">
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong>The mother is everything – she is our consolation in sorrow, our hope in misery, and our strength in weakness. She is the source of love, mercy, sympathy, and forgiveness….</strong></span></em><br />
<em></em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong> </strong></span></div>
<div class="art-postcontent">
<em></em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong> </strong></span></div>
<div class="art-postcontent">
<em><span style="font-size: large;"><strong><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">Everything in nature bespeaks the mother.</span> </strong></span></em></div>
<div class="art-postcontent">
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong>The sun is the mother of earth and gives it its nourishment of heart; it never leaves the universe at night until it has put the earth to sleep to the song of the sea and the hymn of birds and brooks. </strong></span></em><br />
<em></em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong> </strong></span></div>
<div class="art-postcontent">
<em></em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong> </strong></span></div>
<div class="art-postcontent">
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong>And this earth is the mother of trees and flowers. It produces them, nurses them, and weans them. </strong></span></em><br />
<em></em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong> </strong></span></div>
<div class="art-postcontent">
<em><span style="font-size: large;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="art-postcontent">
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong>The trees and flowers become kind mothers of their great fruits and seeds. </strong></span></em><br />
<em></em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong> </strong></span></div>
<div class="art-postcontent">
<em></em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong> </strong></span></div>
<div class="art-postcontent">
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong>And the mother, the prototype of all existence, is the eternal spirit, full of beauty and love." - Kahlil Gibran</strong></span></em></div>
<div class="art-postcontent">
</div>
<div class="art-postcontent">
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><u>The Arrival of Sobha</u></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Sobha was born on the 6th of June 1956 in Johore Bahru and she is the fourth child in our family of six children. When she was born, we had already moved out of the rooms that we had rented from a Chinese landlord and were staying at 100 Jalan Lumba Kuda Lama in Johore Bahru and Uncle Anandan and Aunty Indira were staying with us. Aunty Indira was expecting her first child then. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="art-postcontent">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: large;"><em>“A sister is a gift to the heart, a friend to the spirit, a golden thread to the meaning of life.” -Isadora James</em></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisEBR4lG5cYXPiHipOG7IGdkqYFDD8mImJ2QozFilvEjgBoEa5MwOxxXCJRpt8NXN5eMDfwTt13avXsOrHWzuRR4XKqszT_W9JIZhtcNWizjLMIdzi8_naX_0ySj1AyZgHN74ULy4FVps/s1600/IMG_0006+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="386" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisEBR4lG5cYXPiHipOG7IGdkqYFDD8mImJ2QozFilvEjgBoEa5MwOxxXCJRpt8NXN5eMDfwTt13avXsOrHWzuRR4XKqszT_W9JIZhtcNWizjLMIdzi8_naX_0ySj1AyZgHN74ULy4FVps/s640/IMG_0006+(2).jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="art-postcontent">
<br /></div>
<div class="art-postcontent">
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em><br /></div>
<div class="art-postcontent">
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em><br /></div>
<div class="stanza" style="text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;"><em><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><strong>Had I the heaven's embroidered cloths,<br /> Enwrought with golden and silver light,<br />The blue and the dim and the dark cloths<br />Of night and light and the half-light,</strong></span></em></span></em></div>
<div class="art-postcontent">
<strong><em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></strong><br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><strong></strong></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><strong></strong></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><strong></strong></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em></em><strong> </strong></div>
<strong>
</strong><div class="stanza" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><em><strong>I would spread the cloths under your feet:<br />But I, being poor, have only my dreams;<br />I have spread my dreams under your feet;<br />Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.</strong></em></span></div>
<strong>
</strong><div class="art-postcontent">
<em><strong></strong></em><br /></div>
<strong>
</strong><div class="signature" style="text-align: center;">
<em><strong>- William Butler Yeats</strong></em><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span><em> </em></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: x-small;"></span><em> </em></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWx1s_L-BVKsSFk1YbJuyAK4A6TkEOdfh0GiN6cjuctAE7ZdB175KHqf9p_tuCerzvXCXE2c7onfka9JYH1rCEWLJpifMWDxA2aIVcWzXA6qeIrw-1p4Vr-MkEV4e4xsvrqZSVVfvxGoY/s1600/IMG_0044.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><em><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWx1s_L-BVKsSFk1YbJuyAK4A6TkEOdfh0GiN6cjuctAE7ZdB175KHqf9p_tuCerzvXCXE2c7onfka9JYH1rCEWLJpifMWDxA2aIVcWzXA6qeIrw-1p4Vr-MkEV4e4xsvrqZSVVfvxGoY/s320/IMG_0044.jpg" width="202" /></em></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<em>1956 - Uncle Anandan and Aunty Indira</em></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><em>I remember Mum placing Sobha next to Aunty Indira on her bed, so that Mum could get on with her household chores. Uncle Anandan is an old family friend from the days of Mayyanad and Paravur, before the Second World War and the coming of Mum to Malaya in 1947. Until the end of her days, Aunty Indira loved Sobha like her own daughter. </em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="art-postcontent">
<em></em><br /></div>
<strong>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span></strong><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><strong> </strong></span></em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em><strong>The fountains mingle with the river,<br /> And the rivers with the ocean;<br /> The winds of heaven mix forever,<br /> With a sweet emotion;<br /> Nothing in the world is single;<br /> All things by a law divine<br /> In one another's being mingle;--<br /> Why not I with thine?</strong></em></span></div>
<strong>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span></strong><div class="art-postcontent">
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span></em><br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em>- SHELLEY</em></span></div>
<div class="art-postcontent">
<em></em><br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em> </em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<u>The move to Bukit Chagar in 1958</u></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
In 1958, we moved out of our house in 100 Jalan Lumba Kuda Lama where Sobha was born. Together with us moved the other couple who shared our house, Mr Krishna Pillay, his wife Retnammah and their two children Prabha and Devadas. We moved from an entirely Chinese neighbourhood that was made of bricks and cement, to a Malay neighbourhood and rented a run-down Malay Kampung house that we called home for the next couple of years. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="art-postcontent" style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="art-postcontent" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em><strong>Ye scenes of my childhood, whose lov’d recollection </strong></em></span></div>
<strong>
</strong><div class="art-postcontent" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em><strong>Embitters the present, compar’d with the past;</strong></em></span></div>
<strong>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em>Where science first dawn’d on the powers of reflection, </em></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em>And friendships were form’d, too romantic to last; - Lord Byron</em></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span></strong>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrroZpbtHe7th3StElPXtGVAD-FL7nr_N-cYIwkvuouBN5cxDX6IjOoL8fC-hbCc550xdzNYAiC3Jr9Q4rRzn4_whwb3yXs6d6gYTVSJ-Ijhfdhzw93hQ-NAxl_uBbiohU2xP7hHZph80/s1600/IMG_0105.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrroZpbtHe7th3StElPXtGVAD-FL7nr_N-cYIwkvuouBN5cxDX6IjOoL8fC-hbCc550xdzNYAiC3Jr9Q4rRzn4_whwb3yXs6d6gYTVSJ-Ijhfdhzw93hQ-NAxl_uBbiohU2xP7hHZph80/s640/IMG_0105.jpg" width="636" /></a></div>
</span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><em>1958 - L-R: </em></span><span style="font-size: small;"><em>Aunty Retnammah, Mum (age 26), Devadas, Prabha, Sobha, Sheela. In the background is Safiah's house which was a much bigger house than ours. Note the zinc roof, which was similar to ours. </em></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: left;">
<em>The dresses that Sheela and Sobha are wearing in the picture above, were pink in colour. At that time it was the fashion to have net dresses with a lining for the skirt. Mum always bought for us clothes that were in fashion. </em><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><em>Mum had loads of friends. She made friends with anyone anywhere and was not in the least bit shy. She would laugh when joyous and just as easily shed a tear when she shared someone's sorrow. </em></span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<em><strong>The following poem is for both my sisters.</strong></em></div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: left;">
<em><strong></strong></em><br />
<strong></strong><br />
<em><strong>My Sister! my sweet Sister! if a name </strong></em><br />
<em><strong>Dearer and purer were, it should be thine. </strong></em><br />
<em><strong>Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim </strong></em></div>
<strong><em>No tears, but tenderness to answer mine: </em><br /><em>Go where I will, to me thou art the same— </em><br /><em>A lov’d regret which I would not resign. </em><br /><em>There yet are two things in my destiny— </em><br /><em>A world to roam through, and a home with thee.</em> - Lord Byron</strong><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br /> </span><span style="font-size: large;"></span><span style="font-size: large;"><u>The house in Bukit Chagar</u></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><u></u></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The house in Bukit Chagar came as a great shock to me. I was born in Jalan Dhoby, in the middle of the town and the only grassy patches that I had seen or stepped on was at the seaside. Then we had moved to rented rooms in the middle of immigrant Chinese and to Jalan Lumba Kuda Lama, also a Chinese majority area. Bukit Chagar was a complete change of enivronment, that took some getting used to at the beginning. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">It was a wooden Malay kampung style house on stilts. When you stood in front of the house and looked at it, you would see three tall windows in the middle. On either side of the windows you would see a short staircase leading up to a door. So there were two entrances to the house. We used the right entrance. The left entrance was never used by us. The door had been locked and a single bed was placed against the door, inside the house. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">You entered from the front door into a fairly big living room. There was a door that led to another open area with two bedrooms on the left. On the right there were windows that looked out to our neighbours' house. After the second bedroom, there was a staircase that led down to the kitchen with a bathroom on the left at the end of the staircase. The only cemented areas in the house were the kitchen and bathroom floors. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS-qRS1otvV6qitO08yOkntkGI-F8J0aqcvE0jqqYE0OjoIjINn2qjtOSdH80OR5tdcmTYGYhonVqwKcwAhUbtAMIPuLsORzQMRTCdl2_KvsLfB_mEehayYYXVwIRWuFh2EWswOpYEGvI/s1600/IMG_0078.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="620" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS-qRS1otvV6qitO08yOkntkGI-F8J0aqcvE0jqqYE0OjoIjINn2qjtOSdH80OR5tdcmTYGYhonVqwKcwAhUbtAMIPuLsORzQMRTCdl2_KvsLfB_mEehayYYXVwIRWuFh2EWswOpYEGvI/s640/IMG_0078.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<em>1958 in our Bukit Chagar house L-R: Sobha, Mum, Prabha and the legs of Uncle Prasad</em><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">It was an old wooden house, with peeling paint, tall windows that let in lots of sunlight and air and had a zinc roof. It was like no other house we had lived in. There was no road anywhere near our house and therefore for the first time in our lives we did not see any motorised vehicles moving continuously in front of our home , like in Jalan Dhoby or Jalan Lumba Kuda. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><div align="left" style="padding-left: 14px; padding-top: 13px;">
<span style="color: #3c605b; font-family: Times New Roman; font-weight: bold;">Home, My Little Children, Here Are Songs For You </span></div>
<div align="left" style="padding-left: 14px; padding-top: 13px;">
<span style="color: #3c605b; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: black;">by Robert Louis Stevenson</span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="padding-left: 14px; padding-top: 13px;">
<span style="color: #3c605b; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: black;"></span></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em><strong>COME, my little children, here are songs for you;<br />Some are short and some are long, and all, all are new.<br />You must learn to sing them very small and clear,<br />Very true to time and tune and pleasing to the ear.<br /><br />Mark the note that rises, mark the notes that fall,<br />Mark the time when broken, and the swing of it all.<br />So when night is come, and you have gone to bed,<br />All the songs you love to sing shall echo in your head.</strong></em></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
The rustic surroundings, the gentle Malay neighbours and the lack of proper roads leading to the house brought us and nature together. There were no metal fences to separate people, doors were opened in the morning only to be shut at night, there were no grills on windows, we ran, we played and the whole village was our playground and everyone was an uncle or an aunt and it did not matter whether they wore a baju kurung, a sarong or a sari!</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
In front of our house was a fairly big sandy patch. I do not remember any plants growing there. Beyond the patch, were three stone steps and when you went up the steps you came to a tall durian tree and a coconut palm. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Next to our house on the right, was a large piece of land which was overgrown with all kinds of growth making it almost like a secondary forest. There was a sandy well-trodden path leading from the front of our house to Jalan Storey, which was a main road. To our little legs, it was a long, long way to Jalan Storey. Before we moved out of that place, the land was cleared for houses to be built. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
If we followed the path from the front of the house to the left, it went past Safiah's house and on to a Kaka's shop. We used to go there often to buy papadams. Kaka used to make the papadams and dry them in the sun. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
The back of the house was overgrown with cow-grass that came above our ankles and tickled us when we walked and often left us scratching our feet. There was a permanent smell that I cannot describe except as the smell of fresh grass and mud. When it rained we avoided walking there because the place would be muddy and the mud clinging to our feet was not a very pleasant feeling at all. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
It was also in that house that we heard many new sounds for the first time in our lives. Just before the rain, there was a loud eery and irritating sound. Mum told us that the frogs were croaking for the rain to come. We never saw the frogs but they never failed to celebrate the rain. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
At night we heard weird sounds and Mum told us that they were the night birds and insects. The sounds were not frightening but each creature had its own melody and music and with the rain it was nature's orchestra at its best. During the day, all kinds of beetles and insects visited our home. Mum told us that we were not to kill anyone of them except for cockroaches. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Two sheds with attap roofs were built by Uncle Krishnan and my Dad. Then one evening two small boxes arrived and in those boxes were the most beautiful creatures I had ever seen. Some were white, some black, some yellow, some brown and some a mixture of colours. After much coaxing Mum allowed us to hold one in our hands and that was the first time I had ever held a baby chick in my hand. You can see the beauty of God in the softness of a baby chick held against your cheek. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Years later when Sobha was studying for her Form 6, she decided to keep some chickens. They became her pets and followed her everywhere. She taught them simple commands like: </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Chick, Chick fly - and they would.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Chick, Chick come - and they would go to her. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Chicks and Sobha became very close and in the evening when it was time for bed and if Sobha had not come home, the chicks would all line up on the stone seats and wait for her to come, often nodding off. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em>Neighbours who visited would stop at the gate and ask if the chickens had been put in their coop for they did not take kindly to strangers and would go and peck them to keep them away from the home! I do believe that Sobha kept them after having read Jonathan Livingston Seagull and the parody, Jonathan Segal Chicken. </em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em>When Sobha left for the UK in 1981, she bid them a sad farewell. All six or eight of them by the way turned out to be cockerels so my mother did not get the eggs that she thought she would. And in the tradition of Jonathan Segal Chicken, the chickens were given to Chellapan and I do believe that some people enjoyed a hearty meal. </em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
We took our dog Johnny with us to Bukit Chagar. I do not remember the dog being an issue with our Malay neighbours. We never had any problems with our neighbours at all.<em> </em></div>
<em></em><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Slowly or quickly, I am not sure now, we made friends with our new neighbours. I remember Safiah's mother, a fair skinned matronly lady with a number of children. The eldest was Mat who was about 12 or 13 at that time. He was a quiet, polite boy who kept to himself. After him came Safiah a very beautiful young girl who was about ten. She was very friendly and all of us truly liked her very much. Then there was Awang who was about nine. He was naughty but fun. Then I remember a fair skinned young girl Faridah. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I remember their father very vaguely. He was brown-skinned, not very tall and portly. There was another lady, a relative who lived with them. She used to sew clothes and helped to do the cooking. I remember my Mum's and Aunt Retnammah's observations about the Malays.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em>"They are just like us, they get up early and take a bath in the morning. The Chinese did not bathe everyday."</em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em>"They are not shy at all, they remain with the sarong draped around them the whole day while doing the housework."</em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em>"Their food smells a bit like ours."</em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em>"They are very friendly and they are very kind. There is never a sound of anyone scolding anyone or shouting or fighting."</em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em>"The men don't do any housework."</em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em>"They do not get excited. They speak softly and in a sing-song manner. We can only understand them when they speak to us. But when they speak to each other they have a different slang and you don't know what they are saying."</em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
We children bridged the gap for the adults. If the aroma of their food wafted into our house, I am sure that ours visited their home too. Then one day, Mum and Aunt discovered that they could bake cakes. So the two ladies in our house observed the happenings in the neighbours' house very closely from our kitchen window. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
At the end of the day, the ladies in our house decided to bake a cake. The next day, they put together all the ingredients that they had seen and added enough liquid to make the consistency right and then to my horror I was asked to take the batter to the neighbours' house to find out if our ladies had got it right. Safiah's mum looked at the bowl in my hand, listened to me and followed me back to my house. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Mum and Aunt smilingly welcomed her and told her that they were baking a cake but wanted to confirm that they were doing it correctly. I remember Safiah's mother explaining with a smile that it was not quite right. She told Mum that she would get all the ingredients and come over the next day with her coal oven and help to bake a cake. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I am not sure what happened to the experimental batter. The next day I was not allowed to skip school and watch the baking session. Instead I had to go to school. When I returned at half past six, there were two types of delicious cakes on the table. Mum was full of praises for the neighbour and told us over and over again that she would not take any money for the ingredients. During Onam, Mum sent over the Indian delicacies that we had made and they were much appreciated by our neighbours. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div align="left" style="padding-left: 14px; padding-top: 13px;">
<span style="color: #3c605b; font-family: Times New Roman; font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: black;"></span></span> </div>
<div align="left" style="padding-left: 14px; padding-top: 13px;">
<span style="color: #3c605b; font-family: Times New Roman; font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">A Home Song</span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="padding-left: 14px; padding-top: 13px;">
<span style="color: #3c605b; font-family: Times New Roman; font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">by Henry Van Dyke</span></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em></em></span><br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em>I<strong> read within a poet's book <br />A word that starred the page:<br />"Stone walls do not a prison make, <br />Nor iron bars a cage!" <br /><br />Yes, that is true; and something more<br />You'll find, where'er you roam,<br />That marble floors and gilded walls<br />Can never make a home. <br /><br />But every house where Love abides,<br />And Friendship is a guest,<br />Is surely home, and home-sweet-home</strong></em></span><strong>:</strong></div>
<strong>
</strong><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em><strong>For there the heart can rest.</strong> </em></span><br /><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em></em></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Years later when my uncle Prasad got married, it was Safiah's mother who was the caterer and her food was simply delicious. We also heard that she had been become the royal cook at the palace, and was honoured with a title later. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
These were my earliest impressions of the Malays as a family unit, after my first close encounter with them when I was eight. My strongest impression of them was that they were not in the least bit racist. It was almost as though they did not know we were Indians!</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<u>Old classmates</u></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Mum and Aunt Retnammah had been classmates in Mayyanad before the war and they met up again in Malaya in the fifties and decided to share a home. When I was ill and hospitalised for a long time in 1958, Mum was pregnant with Harish. She would make two trips to the hospital everyday, rain or shine, all alone, with a tiffin filled with food for me. I did not realise then how rich my life really was. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Today I recall those trips. She would have had to walk almost a mile to reach the nearest bus stop to catch a bus to the hospital and make the return journey by two in the afternoon when visiting hours ended. She would be there at five in the evening with her tiffin and return at half past six with my Dad. Nothing stopped her from coming to see me. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
It was Aunt Retnammah who took care of my brother and sisters when Mum made the trips. Aunt Retnammah who helped with the cooking and feeding of the young children. I am glad that I grew up witnessing such friendship and kindness. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong>I shot an arrow into the air,<br /> It fell to earth, I knew not where;<br /> For, so swiftly it flew, the sight<br /> Could not follow it in its flight.<br /> I breathed a song into the air,<br /> It fell to earth, I knew not where;<br /> For who has sight so keen and strong,<br /> That it can follow the flight of song?<br /> Long, long afterward, in an oak<br /> I found the arrow, still unbroke;<br /> And the song, from beginning to end,<br /> I found again in the heart of a friend<br /><br />By H. W. Longfellow</strong></span></span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
When I watch my Dad as he is today, I remember the Man that he used to be - he was like clockwork - precise. I do not remember my Dad ever lying, wasting money or not putting his wife and children first. I am blessed to be given a chance to do for my father what he has done for all of us. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em></em></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em><strong>My father was a farmer upon the Carrick border,<br /> And carefully he bred me in decency and order,<br /> He bade me act a manly part, though I had ne’er a farthing,<br /> For without an honest manly heart, no man was worth regarding, </strong></em></span></div>
<strong>
</strong><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em><strong>Robert Burns</strong></em></span></div>
<strong>
</strong><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br /></div>
<strong>
</strong><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpaT3eJsOtab27_IzybJ7hru35_aEft5gXEkIFVyIgCNuGMFabWDOiZUlrY3e2FT3piX1G9JYlVYruVf7cbCpDr0fKHoM3atJhWfmJ_zSuY6fA5sW0rrmDrWaLCN0YRFoylH15RcO7Oiw/s1600/IMG_0047+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpaT3eJsOtab27_IzybJ7hru35_aEft5gXEkIFVyIgCNuGMFabWDOiZUlrY3e2FT3piX1G9JYlVYruVf7cbCpDr0fKHoM3atJhWfmJ_zSuY6fA5sW0rrmDrWaLCN0YRFoylH15RcO7Oiw/s640/IMG_0047+%25282%2529.jpg" width="408" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><em>Uncle Soman (left) and Uncle Prathabhasimhan his brother-in-law</em></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I remember Mum's first cousin Prathabasimhan who was also related to Dad, coming from India. He came around the time Sobha was born and stayed with us for a while. Uncle Karunakaran wanted to fix him up with a job in Singapore. We were then staying at 100 Jalan Lumba Kuda Lama. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
When we moved to Bukit Chagar, he moved with us. Then he went to Kuala Lumpur to stay with Uncle Karunakaran and from there he left for India somewhere in late 1959 or early 1960. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0BTCwYmRFK49G-lmGhApS4SyChye9WeUC6ri13pwSeHL8aVBMM1rU5QOKm6X2qemmRAEKeVWKr1jPRb9JnOD7bt6OqMILMNxPWyn_ivbuTFdq1eI-UBWPCKh2ZwW6NEDh9SDpwZ-hm5I/s1600/IMG_0048.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0BTCwYmRFK49G-lmGhApS4SyChye9WeUC6ri13pwSeHL8aVBMM1rU5QOKm6X2qemmRAEKeVWKr1jPRb9JnOD7bt6OqMILMNxPWyn_ivbuTFdq1eI-UBWPCKh2ZwW6NEDh9SDpwZ-hm5I/s640/IMG_0048.jpg" width="412" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">1958 and we were living in Jalan Lumba Kuda when we were informed that Mum's first cousin Aunt Remabhai, was getting married and moving to Singapore. Pictured above Uncle Soman and Aunty whom my mother referred to as</span> <span style="font-size: small;">Thangachi. Mum was very happy and told everyone that at last she had a sister in Malaya. </span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span></em><strong> </strong></div>
<strong>
</strong><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><strong>When Friendship or Love<br />Our sympathies move;<br />When Truth, in a glance, should appear,<br />The lips may beguile,<br />With a dimple or smile,<br />But the test of affection's a Tear;</strong></span></em></div>
<strong>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span></strong><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<strong>
</strong></span><strong></strong><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong>Ye friends of my heart,</strong></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong>Ere from you I depart,</strong></span></em><br />
<strong><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">This hope to my breast is most near:<br />If again we shall meet again<br />In this rural retreat,<br />May we meet, as we part,<br />with a tear.</span></em><span style="font-size: large;"><em><span style="font-size: small;">- The Tear by Lord Byron</span></em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span></strong><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><div class="tab-content active">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicXrrgY27cf5GAAL60MNjd2mQuH4fQkPOJPnycyCSY9WOkMNnhXLcbsB-oGsqmUVUr7vfCmwgUdgPQ4PMSfiMQ6JfUgQ4RU5pvfHwPO0Ai3mwpCnqBezKysBP5Q0JQ_T6ERnwCyZkTG5w/s1600/IMG_0100.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicXrrgY27cf5GAAL60MNjd2mQuH4fQkPOJPnycyCSY9WOkMNnhXLcbsB-oGsqmUVUr7vfCmwgUdgPQ4PMSfiMQ6JfUgQ4RU5pvfHwPO0Ai3mwpCnqBezKysBP5Q0JQ_T6ERnwCyZkTG5w/s640/IMG_0100.jpg" width="486" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">1959 - My beautiful sisters, Sheela (left) and Sobha taken in Bukit Chagar by Uncle Prasad. </span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">The greatest gift our parents gave us was the habit of giving. Mum was always giving to others and she never expected others to give to her. That is a trait that I see in our Aunty Rema in East Ham - always a meal for every guest, did not matter that those who came and dined with her, never thought to take her out for a meal.</span> <span style="font-size: small;">And I saw it in our cousin Romeo and his wife. He told me that his wife would cook for us and before I left for Malaysia, he gave us a lovely meal at his house. That evening was all the more special for I met his wife Prabha and his son Benoy and daughter Suria for the first time. What lingers in my heart is their warmth and caring - everyone of them. </span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">I was truly glad that years ago when they visited Kuala Lumpur and I was unable to meet them I got my son to meet them, take them out for a meal and make their visit a comfortable one. I was touched when they remembered that visit with Roy with so much of affection. </span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_MiinX487BWH31wXvbQKAwA-ZctXtfCDzhPonrt9r3PiC-ZNwmHF-wLYHb7ZflpulekGJCbTKoFJ2vlaGctvWqk-RV-mbCtXqT3HwMFcQKcOhC77A_0dPE6HMXJtg3dA7K3UMF70TpKo/s1600/IMG_0002+-+Copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_MiinX487BWH31wXvbQKAwA-ZctXtfCDzhPonrt9r3PiC-ZNwmHF-wLYHb7ZflpulekGJCbTKoFJ2vlaGctvWqk-RV-mbCtXqT3HwMFcQKcOhC77A_0dPE6HMXJtg3dA7K3UMF70TpKo/s640/IMG_0002+-+Copy.jpg" width="404" /></a></div>
<div class="tab-content active">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">Sobha (left) and Sheela 1959</span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Photographs for posterity. Once in a while, Mum and Dad would dress us all up in our Sunday best and take us to the photo studio to take photographs. The only studio that I can remember is Chow Wah Studio near my grandmother's house. I remember that my grandfather's brother was a photographer in Johore Bahru. He sold his shop to a Chinese and went back to India before the start of the war. I often wonder if it was Chow Wah Studio. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I am glad that taking photographs in a studio was a must for my parents, if not we will not have these pieces of paper that have captured forever, certain moments in time for the Krishnan family. We have photographs that help us remember.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="padding-left: 14px; padding-top: 13px; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #3c605b; font-family: Times New Roman; font-weight: bold;"><em>Remember </em></span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 14px; padding-top: 13px; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #3c605b; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-weight: bold;"><em><span style="color: black;">by Christina Rossetti</span></em></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial; padding-left: 14px; padding-top: 20px; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">Remember me when I'm gone away,<br />Gone far away into the silent land;<br />When you can no more hold me by the hand,<br />Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.<br />Remember me when no more day by day<br />You tell me of our future that you plann'd:<br />Only remember me; you understand<br />It will be late to counsel then or pray.<br />Yet if you should forget me for a while<br />And afterwards remember, do not grieve:<br />For if the darkness and corruption leave<br />A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,<br />Better by far you should forget and smile<br />Than that you should remember and be sad.</span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br /></div>
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em> <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVlcAXHzU9nKEMB3p25JMWPYUckSxvcROxGV_SgaIHQovagyIcZnMhAfCkVO8dDCSFoY05T7ngdL2o7aXvZA75HUYwgH6XjDJ1GLl7z7VRFnkzolYJvY0dPUU3TOMNaHLv-6mOBxLxhnU/s1600/IMG_0102.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVlcAXHzU9nKEMB3p25JMWPYUckSxvcROxGV_SgaIHQovagyIcZnMhAfCkVO8dDCSFoY05T7ngdL2o7aXvZA75HUYwgH6XjDJ1GLl7z7VRFnkzolYJvY0dPUU3TOMNaHLv-6mOBxLxhnU/s640/IMG_0102.jpg" width="490" /></a></div>
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">L-R: Sheela sitting on the chair, Sobha, Prasanna and Harish, 1959</span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTVYp3IFeBbhiFmKmLBd2lNuGMUFT8qFm6CYrCX72_4bKBFRuggcszHwcDWMAGXK5pTEJFDWosNE97c5eHPZtamiwON-PZ_fqSGQoC-ruLag46R675fMsuNzUut9c7IaFHY6L2chETCYE/s1600/IMG_0021+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTVYp3IFeBbhiFmKmLBd2lNuGMUFT8qFm6CYrCX72_4bKBFRuggcszHwcDWMAGXK5pTEJFDWosNE97c5eHPZtamiwON-PZ_fqSGQoC-ruLag46R675fMsuNzUut9c7IaFHY6L2chETCYE/s640/IMG_0021+%25282%2529.jpg" width="504" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><em>Sobha 1959</em></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_TwuA4pl6rDToTGZ3Eq_EsLBtLi6RKLP-PCgZIBY0njl6e_7_n2exrq67n86BdtsuanoPwy5okovxZEr7eSyiT1t3aQ6VaC0esDfvXnQbDp771DWBto7xUrDap9J08eJrUzpHt-EUnvo/s1600/IMG_0153.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_TwuA4pl6rDToTGZ3Eq_EsLBtLi6RKLP-PCgZIBY0njl6e_7_n2exrq67n86BdtsuanoPwy5okovxZEr7eSyiT1t3aQ6VaC0esDfvXnQbDp771DWBto7xUrDap9J08eJrUzpHt-EUnvo/s640/IMG_0153.jpg" width="372" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><em>Early 1960 Harish and Sobha</em></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>"Women opened the windows of my eyes </strong></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>and the doors of my spirit. </strong></span></div>
<strong>
</strong><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>Had it not been for the woman-mother, </strong></span></div>
<strong>
</strong><div class="tab-content active" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>the woman-sister, </strong></span></div>
<strong>
</strong><div class="tab-content active" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>and the woman-friend, </strong></span></div>
<strong>
</strong><div class="tab-content active" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>I would have been sleeping among those</strong></span></div>
<strong>
</strong><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong> who seek the tranquility of the world </strong></span></div>
<strong>
</strong><div class="tab-content active" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">with their snoring."</span> </strong><br />
<strong>- Kahlil Gibran</strong></div>
<strong>
</strong><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em></em><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiREpEhzX3ejNsUDgZsTcZBcBa3T8yMLc5_9ygbYmUzTweMZQCgnd6vpdb8AuRV-TjpME0hCXnFnU79becxMVhGucYALQwZboP8GxbmQv2s9muKOLei0lW_pUGz07snZ1aXW-nxusPNDAo/s640/IMG_0010.jpg" width="400" /> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><em>1959 - L-R Sobha, Prasanna, Prabha, Sheela and Harish on the chair, a Chow Wah Studio photograph</em></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><em> </em></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><em>Because there were six of us, we did not really need many other friends to have fun while growing up. We played, we quarrelled and we made up. We studied together, we helped our Mum in the kitchen and our Dad took us for long drives. We had one thing in common: we loved to read and we loved our dogs. </em></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Puppy And I</span></div>
<h4 class="poet_name" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">by A.A. Milne</span></h4>
<div class="poem_style">
<em><span style="font-size: small;"><strong>I met a Man as I went walking:<br />We got talking,<br />Man and I.<br />"Where are you going to, Man?" I said<br /> (I said to the Man as he went by).<br />"Down to the village, to get some bread.<br /> Will you come with me?" "No, not I."<br /><br />I met a horse as I went walking;<br />We got talking,<br />Horse and I.<br />"Where are you going to, Horse, today?"<br /> (I said to the Horse as he went by).<br />"Down to the village to get some hay.<br /> Will you come with me?" "No, not I."</strong></span></em></div>
<strong>
<em></em></strong></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><em><strong>I met a Woman as I went walking;<br />We got talking,<br />Woman and I.<br />"Where are you going to, Woman, so early?"<br /> (I said to the Woman as she went by).<br />"Down to the village to get some barley.<br /> Will you come with me?" "No, not I."</strong></em></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><em><strong>I met some Rabbits as I went walking;<br />We got talking,<br />Rabbits and I.<br />"Where are you going in your brown fur coats?"<br /> (I said to the Rabbits as they went by).<br />"Down to the village to get some oats.<br /> Will you come with us?" "No, not I."<br /><br />I met a Puppy as I went walking;<br />We got talking,<br />Puppy and I.<br />"Where are you going this nice fine day?"<br /> (I said to the Puppy as he went by).<br />"Up to the hills to roll and play."<br />"I'll come with you, Puppy," said I.</strong></em></span></span><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em> </div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em><br /><u>Our Move to Lorong 2B Jalan Abdul Samad</u></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><u></u></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">When we were living in Bukit Chagar Dad booked a house in Jalan Abdul Samad. I remember going with my Dad to see the ground that had been levelled, the big plot being divided into twenty-four smaller plots, the foundations being laid, the brick walls coming up, the clay and our feet getting all muddied, the windows, the tiles on the floor and Dad asking me what colour the tiles should be and I said pink and our floor is made of pink mosaic tiles. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Finally one day in early November 1963, on an auspicious day, we moved to that house. Mum boiled a pot of milk and made us all drink. She was the happiest person for at long last she had a house of her own and there would be no more rented houses and sharing or houses with other families. We children, we were proud of our new house which was near Kampung Baru. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Dad proceeded to plant the grass. My Uncle Nganeswaran said that we should plant some coconut trees and I remember that one of the uncles who planted the trees in our garden was the late husband of our Aunt Savithri in Paravur. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQAr76weCK7DCBq5tJE8-Wrdq8hlDQpLXim6usC56I3GWxyB_d-xmE5GNMKbvx_PSt9KroSUuX_0q1QnGVp5pfICFIOcJkCbCvR9mO-lZhDNMxOt8RRTZc161aUTkeccFIkAiDInsMW0c/s1600/IMG_0127+-+Copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="610" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQAr76weCK7DCBq5tJE8-Wrdq8hlDQpLXim6usC56I3GWxyB_d-xmE5GNMKbvx_PSt9KroSUuX_0q1QnGVp5pfICFIOcJkCbCvR9mO-lZhDNMxOt8RRTZc161aUTkeccFIkAiDInsMW0c/s640/IMG_0127+-+Copy.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">November 1960 Sarojini who stayed with us for two years from 1958 to end of 1960, and Sobha</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibxitV-ngMAV21ePXfwNdqHbC7Bk84Lq3vFgZ0KreaGMBykedKB0d2AfHFWPXVk5hA8RZrvVGeiyG9WW-Kdn3bTyyct7vPhXyNbF-hliMsLg8Ka1iflIq1q4XAOGR0T7JTGMAdDSuLzeE/s1600/IMG_0104.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="466" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibxitV-ngMAV21ePXfwNdqHbC7Bk84Lq3vFgZ0KreaGMBykedKB0d2AfHFWPXVk5hA8RZrvVGeiyG9WW-Kdn3bTyyct7vPhXyNbF-hliMsLg8Ka1iflIq1q4XAOGR0T7JTGMAdDSuLzeE/s640/IMG_0104.jpg" width="640" /></a><span style="font-size: small;"><em>1961 Harish and Sobha</em></span></div>
</span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV3OywzIaLjXDJHIoLJPUaSCIz4eZ9u94X1unrKZRgYfhHhtpZxPz1vRP5VEiOBzhLT2VgZmySMl5hyphenhypheneNMrnL5dg0xCfPDhIJVGjGdgChmutyW-7CVjNoecD1gYz38Y3-Tb7QQHsUsa9k/s1600/IMG_0091+%25283%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="610" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV3OywzIaLjXDJHIoLJPUaSCIz4eZ9u94X1unrKZRgYfhHhtpZxPz1vRP5VEiOBzhLT2VgZmySMl5hyphenhypheneNMrnL5dg0xCfPDhIJVGjGdgChmutyW-7CVjNoecD1gYz38Y3-Tb7QQHsUsa9k/s640/IMG_0091+%25283%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>Harish, Ramdas and Surajah, November 1960</em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div align="center" class="poem_style">
<span style="font-size: large;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjixeMBsqdKVlCHfPite6aW-chk1Km3RZmc_WsfBq_tcj0wwN_pg87zvTzS5f-XBZA9KKPWIuo0HkfHXJE-nrrb25sc2IW87kVPQ-Tb-xLnmqys_ybCR1upxiO754MBvrXRS7EWPEKrb7o/s1600/IMG_0058+%25283%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjixeMBsqdKVlCHfPite6aW-chk1Km3RZmc_WsfBq_tcj0wwN_pg87zvTzS5f-XBZA9KKPWIuo0HkfHXJE-nrrb25sc2IW87kVPQ-Tb-xLnmqys_ybCR1upxiO754MBvrXRS7EWPEKrb7o/s640/IMG_0058+%25283%2529.jpg" width="410" /></a></span><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><div align="center" class="poem_style">
<span style="font-size: small;"><em>Uncle Prakash's best friend Gabriel Lee carrying Suresh, early 1961</em></span><br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em><br />
<a href="http://allmalaysia.info/wp-content/uploads/2012/03/perfectshots12.jpg"><img alt="Tunku" class="size-full wp-image-11080" height="439" src="http://allmalaysia.info/wp-content/uploads/2012/03/perfectshots12.jpg" title="Tunku Abdul Rahman" width="600" /></a><br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></em><em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;"><div class="wp-caption-text">
25 years later - Tunku Abdul Rahman taking a closer look at The Star after the launch of the new printing press in 1985 in Penang. On his right is Star Publications managing director, the late Gabriel Lee. - NG AH BAK/1985<br />
</div>
</span></em><em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em><br /></div>
<div align="center" class="poem_style">
</div>
<div align="center" class="poem_style">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMwq9pdDD_zRwoqL1bfkHbTjgq7a1kFmXwFbtwha3L2mtRSg2Ku7RYmPFLVIL2Lhow64X50JfFKmuMkd7KD2D_jslHJ2rPAp5ytxDcAJj3fboBsbMbQMSr4IGeOiT5lWPr6QKmunAkULs/s1600/IMG_0099+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="610" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMwq9pdDD_zRwoqL1bfkHbTjgq7a1kFmXwFbtwha3L2mtRSg2Ku7RYmPFLVIL2Lhow64X50JfFKmuMkd7KD2D_jslHJ2rPAp5ytxDcAJj3fboBsbMbQMSr4IGeOiT5lWPr6QKmunAkULs/s640/IMG_0099+%25282%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div align="center" class="poem_style">
<span style="font-size: small;"><em>February 1961, Our Malay maid Zainun who came to help Mum after Suresh was born in December 1960. At first we had an Indian lady who was a terror. She worked for about two months and bullied all of us. Her services were terminated when she burned Harish with her cigarette butt. </em></span><br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div align="center" class="poem_style">
</div>
<div align="center" class="poem_style">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN4fawPZurAzIHyQxjeVP7VYzia4mhK2_L8DVf2SSJPZzJiTdxGdLDDYEJI6AlbIG2pCAb_UuSHwDCMBHW2zNDuMAnjVh-vuIMZDcXorSD5GgbegUvcKp4mg1MpTFTpOMAjyj1Y7jpNLo/s1600/IMG_0112.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><em><img border="0" height="446" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN4fawPZurAzIHyQxjeVP7VYzia4mhK2_L8DVf2SSJPZzJiTdxGdLDDYEJI6AlbIG2pCAb_UuSHwDCMBHW2zNDuMAnjVh-vuIMZDcXorSD5GgbegUvcKp4mg1MpTFTpOMAjyj1Y7jpNLo/s640/IMG_0112.jpg" width="640" /></em></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><em>1961 L-R: Sheela, Suresh and Sobha</em></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><em>Suresh was the only one who was born in Jalan Abdul Samad and with his arrival our family of six children was complete. He is truly a child of the neighbourhood. Mum was twenty eight when Suresh was born and she decided that she would not have any more children. In those days it was very difficult for a lady of her age to have tubal ligation done but Mum was one very determined person.</em></span><br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjikiowiPjEQQAg7TRnJZ2VONzHEqLBxaNS4Ln1iV4pUd9IO36ABFAHnt7VJYXqnvuA5chQ_G1HUe8hvOUH9RSq89DRaaUk_adnN8Fp_-o-Rf2QRuYimY4uhd5zDartpW9s5trkozOU-Po/s1600/IMG_0148.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjikiowiPjEQQAg7TRnJZ2VONzHEqLBxaNS4Ln1iV4pUd9IO36ABFAHnt7VJYXqnvuA5chQ_G1HUe8hvOUH9RSq89DRaaUk_adnN8Fp_-o-Rf2QRuYimY4uhd5zDartpW9s5trkozOU-Po/s640/IMG_0148.jpg" width="628" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><em>Early 1961 soon after we moved into our new house, L-R: Prabha, Harish, Sobha and Mum in the background</em></span></div>
<div class="poem_style" style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="poem_style" style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="poem_style" style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="poem_style" style="text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;"><strong>There is a history in all men's lives. - William Shakespeare</strong></span></em><br />
<strong><em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em></strong> </div>
<div class="poem_style" style="text-align: center;">
<em><img border="0" height="462" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrjdu_o8y-8aTYgc70iKtaEHykCYp5YyscZlinoDW_UeCIY6FLF0UpLyNwXmUh7-TBp7h-luu__FULmQL4YW9sIrENI5Ht6Lpc3j0FT_mqcjIlFTWnE_9mZx1As8T1SY51H0jKdurkQOA/s640/IMG_0077.jpg" width="640" /></em></div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><em>1961- on the balcony of 15 Jalan Dhoby, Uncle Gopal carrying Suresh, Sobha on the right</em></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><em> </em></span></div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><em>Uncle Gopal was Uncle Prasad's friend, he was not our real uncle but we called all adults Uncle or Aunt as a mark of respect. What I remember as a distinguishing feature of our grandparents' house was the endless stream of friends who came visiting. Everyone in that house had friends who came to visit, and we children grew up with people calling at all hours of the day and being made to feel most welcome at all times. </em></span></div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em><br />
</div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><em> </em></span><em><span style="font-size: small;">Another feature of my grandparents' house was the number of books to be found everywhere. There were books in </span></em><em><span style="font-size: small;">every room and magazines too.</span> <span style="font-size: small;">Our uncles were avid readers and they passed on the love of books to all of us. Most of the time that we stayed there, was spent reading quietly from the vast selection of books. And much we learned in that house of books. We also learned to appreciate quotations because our uncles were so adept at coming out with suitable quotations. </span></em><br />
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><u>Oscar Wilde my favourite playwright</u></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><u> <img alt="" class="rg_hi uh_hi" data-height="275" data-width="183" height="275" id="rg_hi" src="https://encrypted-tbn1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRDhTlt_Fd6WTtklzS370dt0YPtlcsWYOsTyMS-vJ5jr62F_NCiXQ" style="height: 275px; width: 183px;" width="183" /></u></em></div>
<div class="tab-content active">
<dt><strong><em><span style="font-size: small;">"I have nothing to declare except my genius."</span></em></strong></dt>
<span style="font-size: small;"></span><br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"></span><dd><em><span style="font-size: small;">- Oscar Wilde (1854-1900) upon arriving at U.S. customs 1882</span></em></dd><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><br /><strong><em>"Some cause happiness wherever they go; others, whenever they go."</em></strong></span><br />
<dt><strong><em><span style="font-size: small;">"To love oneself is the beginning of a lifelong romance"</span></em></strong></dt>
<dd><span style="font-size: small;"><em> </em></span></dd><div class="tab-content active">
<br />
<dt><strong><span style="font-size: small;"><em>"A man can't be too careful in the choice of his enemies."</em></span></strong></dt>
<span style="font-size: small;"></span><br /></div>
<div class="tab-content active">
<br />
<dt><strong><span style="font-size: small;"><em>"It is better to have a permanent income than to be fascinating."</em></span></strong></dt>
<dd><span style="font-size: small;"><em> </em></span></dd><br />
<dt><strong><span style="font-size: small;"><em>"Bigamy is having one wife too many. Monogamy is the same."</em></span></strong></dt>
<dt> </dt>
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><strong><em>" Children begin by loving their parents; after a time they judge them, rarely, if ever do they forgive them."</em></strong></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><em><strong></strong><br /></em> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"></span><span style="font-size: small;"><strong><em>"Education is an admirable thing, but it is well to remember from time to time that nothing that is worth knowing can be taught."</em></strong></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><strong><br /><br /><em>"There is only one thing in life worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about."</em></strong></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><em>“Nobody's family can hang out the sign, "Nothing the matter here."</em> <br />-</span><span style="font-size: small;">Chinese proverb</span></div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"></span> </div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"></span> </div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
When I hear children complaining about their parents and making out that they were hard done by, that other families were happier families, I am reminded of a certain Chinese proverb. Many a time, when the girl tells her boyfriend or the boy tells his girlfriend how terrible their parents had been to them, they forget that they will one day be parents themselves and find that parenting is not easy. It is harder when you are alone and far away from your childhood home. <br />
</div>
<strong>
</strong><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<strong>
</strong><div style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em><strong>The Soldier</strong></em></span></div>
<strong>
</strong><div style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><strong>If I should die, think only this of me:<br />That there's some corner of a foreign field<br />That is for ever England. There shall be<br />In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;<br />A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,<br />Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,<br />A body of England's, breathing English air,<br />Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.</strong></span></em></div>
<strong>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span></strong><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><strong>- Rupert Brooke</strong></span></em></div>
<strong>
</strong><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em></em> </div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Mum was a great Indian Nationalist and regaled us with stories of the glory of Indian leaders, writers and poets. She never failed to tell us again and again, that Tagore was the first Asian to win the Nobel Prize.<br />
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">The Gift</span></div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
by Rabindranath Tagore</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="content"></a><br />
<div class="content richp" role="main" style="overflow: hidden;">
<em>I want to give you something, my child, for we are drifting in the<br />stream of the world.<br /> Our lives will be carried apart, and our love forgotten.<br /> But I am not so foolish as to hope that I could buy your heart<br />with my gifts.<br /> Young is your life, your path long, and you drink the love we<br />bring you at one draught and turn and run away from us.<br /> You have your play and your playmates. What harm is there if<br />you have no time or thought for us!<br /> We, indeed, have leisure enough in old age to count the days<br />that are past, to cherish in our hearts what our hands have lost<br />for ever.<br /> The river runs swift with a song, breaking through all<br />barriers. But the mountain stays and remembers, and follows her<br />with his love.</em></div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDYxC00qTviRq_rpmjXY8m4RbCdEqEhtegu69v2wmEIqxxVZPZxYrxbnJdKMWy3HqbTk6oSqOSLP7M9IoYkGIR0e0LUaUZ4WAXb4StvBP29Af3q7NVBPytg7bpsE3vEC9LJ9_1bG0GvdI/s1600/IMG_0032.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="470" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDYxC00qTviRq_rpmjXY8m4RbCdEqEhtegu69v2wmEIqxxVZPZxYrxbnJdKMWy3HqbTk6oSqOSLP7M9IoYkGIR0e0LUaUZ4WAXb4StvBP29Af3q7NVBPytg7bpsE3vEC9LJ9_1bG0GvdI/s640/IMG_0032.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><em>Early 1961 - L-R Maternal grandfather Raghavan Vaidyar, Prasanna, Paternal granduncle from India, Sheela, Maternal Grandmother, Sobha, Prabha carrying Harish (Grand Uncle had come to attend the wedding of his eldest son, our Uncle Karunakaran)</em></span><br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
My paternal grandfather went to Ceylon when times were hard, in the 1930s. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnFmVGLVOSprl5LA8J2qrpBOKtHLEIfapQpI37HNtzHZ1pHo4vJDZ5LZdypVgkZ2hdqLZbXzVX8xOSJnzZaf5ZaACB0FJhhv52vy_2-ePYP78r_5cOGjj3DdB7coB-k9Wsn254fqVV8n8/s1600/IMG_0036+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnFmVGLVOSprl5LA8J2qrpBOKtHLEIfapQpI37HNtzHZ1pHo4vJDZ5LZdypVgkZ2hdqLZbXzVX8xOSJnzZaf5ZaACB0FJhhv52vy_2-ePYP78r_5cOGjj3DdB7coB-k9Wsn254fqVV8n8/s640/IMG_0036+(2).jpg" width="524" /></a><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">My paternal grandparents with two unidentified children</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<br />
My grandmother and her three sons moved in with her brother, my paternal grand-uncle pictured above. My grand-uncle's wife was a teacher and so grandma took care of all the children. My Dad and his cousins were more like brothers than cousins. In the fifties when Uncle Karunakaran was working in Singapore, he spent most weekends with us. We remember him for his gentleness, his kindness and the love he gave to us. </div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em><strong>When a father gives to his son, both laugh; when a son gives to his father, both cry. - William Shakespeare</strong></em></span><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;"></span></em>Uncle Karunakaran was a regular visitor to our home almost every weekend when he was working in Singapore. He would arrive on Friday or Saturday and return on Sunday evening. Our parents would station us in front of the house to catch the arrival of the train from Singapore. Once the train pulled in, all of us would walk down to the station to meet him and walk back to the house holding his hands. He was always full of smiles for us as he chatted with Mum and Dad. Then, one day he told us that he would be moving to Kuala Lumpur. It was unthinkable for us to think of the miles that would separate us from our uncle and of the weekends when he would not be with us. </div>
<div id="authortab">
<br />
<br />
He moved to Kuala Lumpur in the late fifties. He came to our house with his things, the weekend he was moving to Kuala Lumpur. All of us walked to the station but with sadness. At the station to send him was another family from Singapore. My brother remembers the adults and one or two young girls. After the trained pulled out, the other family left for Singapore and we walked back to our home. <br />
<br />
Catches of conversation are remembered about that family. <br />
<em>The man had a problem with alcohol and the family faced an acute shortage of money. </em><br />
<em>Uncle Karunakaran supported them financially and was particularly interested in the girls' education. </em><br />
<em>From what we remember the girls were good children and good students as well. </em><br />
<em>We never met them again but whenever uncle visited us, which was quite often, he would refer to their progress. </em><br />
<em>Today, I do not remember any of their names or where they are. </em><br />
<br />
<br />
I remember his first car, him coming to our house and taking us all to Singapore. We used to wait for his visits. One day in 1958 my brother and I wrote him a letter. We asked him to bring a badminton racket for my brother and a hula hoop for me. He brought the racket but not the hoop. He told me that he did not know what it was. <br />
</div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
We did not tell our parents about the letter. We found an envelope, copied his address and stuck a used stamp and put it in the pillar box near our grandparents' house in Jalan Dhoby. He told us that he had to pay a fine before he could collect that letter because we had not used a valid stamp. Mum was most upset for days after that. She kept on nagging us that he would think she set us up, though he reassured her that he believed in her innocence. <br />
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6VVDMtRA53DyuNTrxC4rCvsIJyqledwx1YTPIt1PvKQnTvPA6j0JosgRx9664zrctthuFBoqER0l3GN_D9tG6sViC0tzziobbjWBihncrEVIqHTMlxU0uE3jPc8_niGD9zOsvoDvHGtQ/s1600/IMG_0058.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="460" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6VVDMtRA53DyuNTrxC4rCvsIJyqledwx1YTPIt1PvKQnTvPA6j0JosgRx9664zrctthuFBoqER0l3GN_D9tG6sViC0tzziobbjWBihncrEVIqHTMlxU0uE3jPc8_niGD9zOsvoDvHGtQ/s640/IMG_0058.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">Front row, L-R: Sheela, Aunt Rema's mother, Aunt Sathi from Singapore, Aunt Rema, Granduncle holding Sobha, Aunt Rema's youngest sister, Mum holding Suresh, Prasanna</span></em></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">Back row: Prabha, Uncle Karunakaran, Uncle Nganeswaran my Dad's older brother, Dad crrying Harish, taken in 1961 after uncle Karunakaran's wedding</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">Paternal granduncle is the older brother of my paternal grandmother Meenakshi and I am unable to recall his name now. He had three sons, Uncle Karunakaran, Uncle Sidhan who was with the Indian Navy and Uncle Logan about whom I know very little currently. Granduncle came to Malaya to attend the wedding of his son, our Uncle Karunakaran in Kuala Lumpur. He visited us and stayed with us for a couple of weeks in Johore Bahru. </span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPZwugU5wGSNvE8nJ9BLfr-myDCpGCJ6eDu57kTKlSOrkM0Y-M4BBRY8zGTle3Sjaog_QVYtgst8GNVcRu015cxfe_mGak9YrJ8Gg0GNUGAkfI9E14WGJxEsxRuSBSvpf1RuSKEVHMlPA/s1600/IMG_0046+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="404" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPZwugU5wGSNvE8nJ9BLfr-myDCpGCJ6eDu57kTKlSOrkM0Y-M4BBRY8zGTle3Sjaog_QVYtgst8GNVcRu015cxfe_mGak9YrJ8Gg0GNUGAkfI9E14WGJxEsxRuSBSvpf1RuSKEVHMlPA/s640/IMG_0046+%25282%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">L-R: Kolatha Maamen Karunakaran who is my Dad's uncle, Uncle Siddhan who is Uncle Karunakaran's younger brother and Uncle Nganeswaran who is my Dad's older brother, taken in the fifties when Uncle Siddhan who was with the Indian Navy came to Singapore</span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
After his marriage, Uncle Karunakaran came to our house with our aunt once. We made a visit to Kuala Lumpur to his house the following year and then, we did not see much of him any more. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ_k4-c2zGe3-0SmIdA6zCObOUN_ml02HzhS3LdfciwzUFksivvOrMaWbUB3FSPISZUzkCpa8cTySFWlX7VemKDgzZ92rQGNiP7ivKe4v_sjSGvGSgLlWfIhOvknWKubmXmz7hz95sCUI/s1600/IMG_0026.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="402" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ_k4-c2zGe3-0SmIdA6zCObOUN_ml02HzhS3LdfciwzUFksivvOrMaWbUB3FSPISZUzkCpa8cTySFWlX7VemKDgzZ92rQGNiP7ivKe4v_sjSGvGSgLlWfIhOvknWKubmXmz7hz95sCUI/s640/IMG_0026.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><em>L-R: Prasanna, Sheela Mum, Sobha, Harish, Dad carrying Suresh, Prabha, taken in 1962 by Uncle Karunakaran when we visited Kuala Lumpur for the first and last time as a family.</em></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I remember one last visit he made to our house alone somewhere in 1968. He came alone at night. My parents spoke and my Mum cried and he kept asking her, "Aniyathi enthini karayinu?" (Younger sister, why are you crying?) We children were quite upset with Mum for crying in front of him. Much as we loved him, we felt that he had ignored us after having given us so much love from the time my older brother was born. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Next I met my Uncle when I was at the University in Kuala Lumpur. I had met with an accident and he had come to visit me. Then a few months later my Dad's older brother passed away in Singapore. Uncle Karan came to inform me and he took me to Singapore to attend the funeral. We took the night train and returned the following night also by train. I took a taxi home from the station and I am not sure how he went home. I lived in Petaling Gardens which was very near his house. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
The next I saw him was at my wedding. Then after my wedding I spent a couple of days at his house in Jalan Gasing and then I never saw him again. His passing in 1975 is still painful for all of us. It was a heartbroken Dad who attended the funeral of a man whom he had grown up with, more as a brother than a first cousin. In those days, there was a striking resemblance between my Dad and my Uncle. </div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSvz6um87urnJ0J4hF0xkzF3e49EYsgmisFIU8TOlhBI6DFvViUJwfy9C8CEULMNXAzd88EbhES341axIPAsxL16-1z_rn0pflJikhAVAoOrItAIUW2W1MPCidFPff0D7YRF03Bl6V8No/s1600/IMG+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="466" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSvz6um87urnJ0J4hF0xkzF3e49EYsgmisFIU8TOlhBI6DFvViUJwfy9C8CEULMNXAzd88EbhES341axIPAsxL16-1z_rn0pflJikhAVAoOrItAIUW2W1MPCidFPff0D7YRF03Bl6V8No/s640/IMG+%25282%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">Front Row L-R: Prasanna, Paternal Grand-Uncle from India, Sobha, Maternal grandmother Lakshmi Narayani, Mum holding Suresh, Sheela. Back row: Dad carrying Harish, Prabha, 1961</span></em></div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em><br />
</div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">Please take a good look at my dress. That was the dress Dad bought for me to wear at my Uncle Karunakaran's wedding. Uncle Karan took us to the shop in his car and I was allowed to choose the dress. In 1961 it cost a whopping $28. It was blue with beautiful lace and it had blue lining and puffed sleeves. I was so proud of the dress and regretted growing out of it. Being the oldest girl in the family I never had to wear hand-me-down clothes. That dress would have gone to Sheela. I was not allowed to wear it at home and spoil it. </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<u><span style="color: #0066cc;"></span></u><em><span style="font-size: small;">There was another relative of my father's who attended the wedding with her children. I can remember two of her daughters' names - Lilly and Annie. She combed my long hair for me on the day of the wedding. One of her daughters married and vet and settled in Butterworth or Bukit Mertajam in Penang. When I met her about four years ago (2008) she told me that whenever Uncle Karan visited their family in the sixties, he would often speak of my brother and me with fond affection.</span></em></div>
<br />
</div>
<div class="tab-content active">
</div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><strong>You speak of Lord Byron and me;</strong></span></em></div>
<strong>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span></strong><div class="tab-content active">
</div>
<strong>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span></strong><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><strong>There is this great difference between us.</strong></span></em></div>
<strong>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span></strong><div class="tab-content active">
</div>
<strong>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span></strong><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><strong>He describes what he sees</strong></span></em></div>
<strong>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span></strong><div class="tab-content active">
</div>
<strong>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span></strong><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><strong>I describe what I imagine.</strong></span></em></div>
<strong>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span></strong><div class="tab-content active">
</div>
<strong>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span></strong><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><strong>Mine is the hardest task.</strong></span></em></div>
<strong>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span></strong><div class="tab-content active">
</div>
<strong>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span></strong><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><strong>- John Keats</strong></span></em></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: Arial;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: Arial;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8lyOdh3hN_-_SD8TMBjt_Sz0hML-vDKTHHIt5z79XhEgV-wrPhKII10jzF6JmWNIKI8G0kxlOtgyjNnB3lCrQP3-alNzzQ-pzdGZPmsFrt56L1s44TBI9RA-iCQAYWEcudKZ2kKPVpj0/s1600/IMG_0031.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="412" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8lyOdh3hN_-_SD8TMBjt_Sz0hML-vDKTHHIt5z79XhEgV-wrPhKII10jzF6JmWNIKI8G0kxlOtgyjNnB3lCrQP3-alNzzQ-pzdGZPmsFrt56L1s44TBI9RA-iCQAYWEcudKZ2kKPVpj0/s640/IMG_0031.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">On our way to India the ship berthed at Penang Port and we took this picture then, November 1963. Dad appears to be telling us to stay together but it was not to be. </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em><strong>How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is<br />To have a thankless child.<br />King Lear (1.4.280)</strong></em></span><br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em><strong> </strong></div>
<strong>
</strong><div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: center;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSKMC8VURDduHBeNEKSuMM6doY3gO1z7XjMC_i7j4TV9_bTMmU8v0KZC52IXiq6_MIEVbeO8C0m8R8V5NUzS34GYd3rP6KG8u78lNs_osMneyUzRuqUVJLTEhQZXU4yS0U6sP4N7xvtdo/s1600/IMG_0005+%25283%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="474" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSKMC8VURDduHBeNEKSuMM6doY3gO1z7XjMC_i7j4TV9_bTMmU8v0KZC52IXiq6_MIEVbeO8C0m8R8V5NUzS34GYd3rP6KG8u78lNs_osMneyUzRuqUVJLTEhQZXU4yS0U6sP4N7xvtdo/s640/IMG_0005+%25283%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">1963 after our return from India, L-R: Dad, Sobha, Uncle Raghavan (Aunty Subadhra's husband, Appapan my maternal grandfather's paternal uncle, Uncle Kamalan </span></em></div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">We moved into No 3 Lorong 2B Jalan Abdul Samad in November 1960. Mum was the happiest person for at long last she had a house of her own for her family of soon to be six children. In those days we had a constant stream of visitors to our house. Uncle Kamalan and Uncle Yashodharan, Mum's first cousin, helped to build the stone seats near our gate. They also helped to construct the kitchen at the back of the house. </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em><br /></div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">They were bachelors and used to come during the weekends and stay with us as the building works progressed. We enjoyed their visits because Uncle Kamalan in particular had a very infectious sense of humour and our house was filled with laughter. It also meant that we had special meals because of the visitors. </span></em></div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK2m067enjDfxZYPjDDi9tDKEMRoFltmLqF_bC9sGmhl03Qxoejt-I4qNRZeKOjsrw6IehN_8dWC52kT9E-eXIk4-wwwcQ1XEKSpojJPTUVZfyatGUY5mdayig0QuLifzv7ziUkRXiPQ4/s1600/IMG_0006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK2m067enjDfxZYPjDDi9tDKEMRoFltmLqF_bC9sGmhl03Qxoejt-I4qNRZeKOjsrw6IehN_8dWC52kT9E-eXIk4-wwwcQ1XEKSpojJPTUVZfyatGUY5mdayig0QuLifzv7ziUkRXiPQ4/s640/IMG_0006.jpg" width="474" /></a></span></em></div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">Seated L-R: Sheela, Chitra, her brother Suni, Prasanna, second row: Vavachi, Sobha and Prabha standing, 1963</span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">We are seated on one of the stone seats that Uncle Kamalan and Uncle Yashodharan built in 1961. All of us have spent hours there trading stories or just day dreaming and they are still there and in good condition too. If the seats could talk, they would have lots of stories to tell. </span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAumVftB59-HB8Nw9U5IQ6Dg-tJhmFeNewQxDvZZT7Bb1N_EBcxA6u9XMbM83ExFAdrhbSeXQtVvbfhrku2Ba3vSgXqlmCqIXcHlJE7Gv2gp-1q_O7G2G4E5qt87uOHnDaldFTtJFyfOw/s1600/IMG_0003+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAumVftB59-HB8Nw9U5IQ6Dg-tJhmFeNewQxDvZZT7Bb1N_EBcxA6u9XMbM83ExFAdrhbSeXQtVvbfhrku2Ba3vSgXqlmCqIXcHlJE7Gv2gp-1q_O7G2G4E5qt87uOHnDaldFTtJFyfOw/s640/IMG_0003+%25282%2529.jpg" width="476" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">L-R: Vavachi, Chitra, our neighbour Swarna Lakshmi Viswanathan Iyer,, Sobha, 1963</span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdm1zdixxAEIHjEXf6GHwmhQ5a38i_ZczuDVb8Pcw-tArMIHyBU8RysTQ7vbQEfbOn4mvG1VyUyMpSdE_Lt3ec5WQnKx3jsEXqr3OHyZ2YtHf3nveUwO4NmYSV38QxEIGBYAfcNBIVIhg/s1600/IMG_0004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="474" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdm1zdixxAEIHjEXf6GHwmhQ5a38i_ZczuDVb8Pcw-tArMIHyBU8RysTQ7vbQEfbOn4mvG1VyUyMpSdE_Lt3ec5WQnKx3jsEXqr3OHyZ2YtHf3nveUwO4NmYSV38QxEIGBYAfcNBIVIhg/s640/IMG_0004.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">L-R: Chitra, Sobha, Uncle Kamalan, our pet Robbie and Sheela in our front garden in Jalan Abdul Samad, 1963</span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSvqN1VjbG2f0CQcPwwJZxeUq1euTzXUjA8M81AkSwmoW1513_IODt_hnp0n0dTVGMO1BoGhdfLOpIGkpCQQKosTbBBXBrwEP2vEZqL9qJQ46b1WvSes1FtdV2D719gVGtmrHP98FS5vg/s1600/IMG_0048+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSvqN1VjbG2f0CQcPwwJZxeUq1euTzXUjA8M81AkSwmoW1513_IODt_hnp0n0dTVGMO1BoGhdfLOpIGkpCQQKosTbBBXBrwEP2vEZqL9qJQ46b1WvSes1FtdV2D719gVGtmrHP98FS5vg/s640/IMG_0048+%25282%2529.jpg" width="394" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">Sobha went to the Convent of the Holy Infant Jesus in 1963</span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">At the end of every year, the class teachers would take the studdents for a picnic and the most favoured venue was the Istana Gardens. All of us from the Convent during the sixties have great memories of gathering in school early in the morning without our books and with bags of food and drinks. </span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;">We would line up and walk to the gardens. It was not a very long walk. We would walk down Jalan Yahya Awal and turn right to the road that took us to the entrance to the zoo which was not too far from Bukit Zahrah School. </span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="http://www.limsimi.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/06/img_3522.jpg" rel="nofollow"><img alt="Wedding Shoot at Istana Garden (Sultan Garden)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-24" height="375" src="http://www.limsimi.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/06/img_3522.jpg" title="Wedding Shoot at Istana Garden (Sultan Garden)" width="500" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">Old Bukit Zahrah school</span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;">Not my picture, taken from the Internet</span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;">And from there we would enter the gardens and walk to the main area where the picturesque pond with a fountain just drew our breath away. A short distance away were the swings, the slides, the see-saws and undulating grounds for us to play 'catching'.</span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.limsimi.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/06/img_3533.jpg" rel="nofollow"><img alt="Fountain at the Istana Garden (Sultan Garden)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-34" height="375" src="http://www.limsimi.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/06/img_3533.jpg" title="Fountain at the Istana Garden (Sultan Garden)" width="500" /></a></span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;">not my picture, taken from the Internet</span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;">On reaching a suitable shady area, we would place our food on mats, we would remove our pinafore and be in our school blouse and bloomers. After playing for a while, our teacher would tell us it was time to eat. We would share our food and drinks. The most popular were the swings and some of the girls would swing really high. Everyone had a chance to play at the swings. </span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="http://www.limsimi.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/06/img_3518.jpg" rel="nofollow"><img alt="Istana Garden (Sultan Garden) overlooking the sea" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-20" height="375" src="http://www.limsimi.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/06/img_3518.jpg" title="Istana Garden (Sultan Garden) overlooking the sea" width="500" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Not my picture, taken from the Internet</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;">By noon, we would pack up, clear our rubbish and walk back to school with our teacher. There was only one teacher to care for the forty odd students. Those were safe days and we were pretty obedient children. </span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;">Another fascination for all of us was the Johore Royal Family. From the time I can remember Sultan Ibrahim would come to school with the Sultanah and Princess Mariam. After the demise of the Sultan in 1959, the next sultan was Sultan Ismail, and he was a regular at our school. So there was a close relationship between the Royal family and the Convent. As such we had great affection for the royal family and a great interest too. </span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoP6Bx9aSX0CKsXo-lDJBV9aflFv5KxkK0X0c_LVVmR_XNJ1XJlyDTIUGP7FqmOfYR37bg2x1QOFxKagej4CVRaVnJbm2qOQnhzi9EXjCX7rB7BlnUdm4Uyk1FXoxzwZ1-XlGbzEl1MfU/s1600/IMG_0022+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoP6Bx9aSX0CKsXo-lDJBV9aflFv5KxkK0X0c_LVVmR_XNJ1XJlyDTIUGP7FqmOfYR37bg2x1QOFxKagej4CVRaVnJbm2qOQnhzi9EXjCX7rB7BlnUdm4Uyk1FXoxzwZ1-XlGbzEl1MfU/s640/IMG_0022+%25282%2529.jpg" width="398" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em>Can you spot Sobha?</em></span></div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: left;">
As the years went by...</div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs-SWprJEcdu7biKnYpjZI3Ft8WzX76V6USIGNPjjs2hv21ZsEEPxr1KndfTxcvP5uPjrjdurZyM5GSDyZ7Hag44bgRA82V20dx36jPzlo8jGGUeIlzvBR1S0s5PnvJqwejJ_tSgYNn2I/s1600/IMG_0041+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs-SWprJEcdu7biKnYpjZI3Ft8WzX76V6USIGNPjjs2hv21ZsEEPxr1KndfTxcvP5uPjrjdurZyM5GSDyZ7Hag44bgRA82V20dx36jPzlo8jGGUeIlzvBR1S0s5PnvJqwejJ_tSgYNn2I/s640/IMG_0041+(2).jpg" width="428" /></a></div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">In 1966 Uncle Kamalan went to India and informed us that he was getting married. His wife was 22 at that time and uncle was 44. The following year he brought her to Singapore where she has stayed ever since.</span></em></div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div align="center" class="tab-content active" style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKtqSVqrYeb7U1MMdASOhk2UN41VhBFW4kBxAk8jkc5gQ6d0IVzSNOpkmK20jXdVhWyNwtFeUuqdcAFmmHYTM-g3_ueBDlozA0zoOo9z8KJmecfHXZnQldnpZl_6ChWTrJ6e0UOpJwjWE/s1600/IMG_0027+(4).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKtqSVqrYeb7U1MMdASOhk2UN41VhBFW4kBxAk8jkc5gQ6d0IVzSNOpkmK20jXdVhWyNwtFeUuqdcAFmmHYTM-g3_ueBDlozA0zoOo9z8KJmecfHXZnQldnpZl_6ChWTrJ6e0UOpJwjWE/s640/IMG_0027+(4).jpg" width="402" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">A family portrait of Uncle Kamalan's family. The boy on the left is Sanjiv and the one on the right is Rajiv. I cannot remember the little girl's name. </span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">All my life I had known Uncle Kamalan and from my very young days until I got married and moved out of Johore, he was very much a part of our family. Once he got married, aunty and the children became his top priority and we no longer saw him as often as we would have liked. We visited them when they lived in the annexe of a large Chinese mansion in Scott Road Singapore. Uncle never lost his sense of humour but somehow he had changed. Today, I would say that the mischievous boy that was in him grew up and he became serious and was no longer the 'fun uncle' that he used to be. </span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">Uncle passed away in the late 80s and I visited aunty and children with my parents soon after. I stood in front of his photograph in the hall and cried not just for an uncle who had passed away but an era that will never return - when people placed so much of importance on family ties. Today we are not sure where his family is. They have moved from their old home and there is no forwarding address. </span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii6fl9P0JSg018wgV9VSlr_K3NrNYKVgpKOstyklAXIwO-wc3_z5z9XYjahS1_a7ccg7UTkOKIQhhtU-Ot2gu_fe69QUzizJpk2s1oTWe0y7gMmAjZNI5_CIWsekYLqlFvXRLRt_Nr6J8/s1600/IMG_0029+(3).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii6fl9P0JSg018wgV9VSlr_K3NrNYKVgpKOstyklAXIwO-wc3_z5z9XYjahS1_a7ccg7UTkOKIQhhtU-Ot2gu_fe69QUzizJpk2s1oTWe0y7gMmAjZNI5_CIWsekYLqlFvXRLRt_Nr6J8/s640/IMG_0029+(3).jpg" width="408" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">Uncle Bhasy and Aunty Radha, Sudesh Bhasy and Sudha Bhasy</span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">Another totally unforgettable icon is Uncle Bhasy or Botak Bhasy as he was popularly known. As alike as chalk and cheese, Uncle Bhasy was the older brother of Uncle Kamalan. They lived in the heart of Chinatown in Singapore and he was known as the only non-Chinese leader of a gang! and had a passion for big bikes together with another Uncle Rajan also from Singapore. An accident in Johore Bahru apparently ended that passion for big bikes.</span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">Uncle Bhasy and Uncle Kamalan had a famous falling-out and everybody knew about it and yet did not know the reason for it. They did not speak to each other from the early 50s until the early 70s. </span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">I have known uncle and aunty all my life and we regularly visited them and they visited us. I have always looked forward to their visits because of my cousin Sudha who was some months younger than me. She was fun, witty, sported a short fashionable hair style and wore beautiful dresses. She spoke so well and we got along famously. </span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">There were times when she used to stay at our home during the holidays. Aunty was the only one of her generation to use sleeveless sari blouses and absolutely no jewellery. She was a mathematics teacher and she shared a very close and loving relationship with her daughter. I used to envy Sudha her short hair and her can-cans.</span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">In 1970 I entered the University of Malaya in Kuala Lumpur to study for a degree in English Literature and Sudha enrolled at the University of Singapore to read law. Tragedy struck the family and Sudha succumbed to cancer of the liver in May 1975 before completing her law degree, leaving behind a shattered family. It was her illness that brought Uncle Kamalan and Uncle Bhasy together again.</span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">In 1975 I enrolled at the University of Singapore and met up with the Nathan family who lived in Sembawang. Irene Nathan was a university mate and I met her sister Emily and her brother Peter who were lawyers in Singapore. Emily and Sudha had been university mates and friends and they spoke very highly of Sudha and her ability as an outstanding public speaker. When Sudha dropped out of Universtity due to ill-health the university promised to keep her place for her whenever she was well enough to resume her studies. </span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">I visited Sudha a number of times after she fell ill. Once I stayed over at her place and we spoke late into the night. We spoke of our dreams, the past, when she had short hair and I had long hair, the future and what we would do, but never the present for that would involve her illness which she never spoke about. Her humour, stayed with her and before the end, Aunt bid her farewell and went home and waited. She never saw Sudha again. </span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">I last met my uncle in late 1975 when I attended Soya's wedding. He went to India shortly after that and passed away in India. I last met my aunt at my grandfather's funeral in 1987. Sudesh Bhasy, her son brought her to my house at three in the morning and about fifteen minutes later he decided to leave. She too went to India and passed away there. Sudesh Bhasy was married to his cousin Lilly and has two sons, Don Reagan and Don Clyde. The last I heard, he was a preacher in Israel. </span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">I have no information about Aunty - her house name or where in Kerala she came from. I know that she was fond of me and that could be because of her daughter. </span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH3Y50xdlZiirbdRbolI8JSeC6CJ_oTur3t2yhGJ6XhKHX8vibaS1zsaKtKP445vCaUfbnBJo1Qm8CG5KfnAKPkePdLf8pgtxGzqez1E9hjRe5CdaSbXmo9CGOk-wmO-Hfd9NnkE2RBN8/s1600/IMG_0009+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH3Y50xdlZiirbdRbolI8JSeC6CJ_oTur3t2yhGJ6XhKHX8vibaS1zsaKtKP445vCaUfbnBJo1Qm8CG5KfnAKPkePdLf8pgtxGzqez1E9hjRe5CdaSbXmo9CGOk-wmO-Hfd9NnkE2RBN8/s640/IMG_0009+(2).jpg" width="473" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">Front row, L-R: Chitra, Suni, Vavachi, Sobha, Harish</span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">Back row, L-R: Prasanna, Aunt Subadhra, Mum carrying Suresh, 1963</span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">When Mum visited India in 1985 she met Chitra who is a teacher, Vavachi who is a lecturer in the Medical Faculty of Trivandrum University. I believe Vavachi's name is Legha. </span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtdj8E4B8O1w0C-E23KCc0r052XcBLRyujjf-XaOrttbidazSM29JyQwdO8v6tLI0ISMJrSx14wnWfGP_GLL84m_T-Zcxqqg5GPvQrfamVNTtmPSk-I-fiNMY87pAuCnMNiqxk9rNbHRk/s1600/IMG_0029+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="444" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtdj8E4B8O1w0C-E23KCc0r052XcBLRyujjf-XaOrttbidazSM29JyQwdO8v6tLI0ISMJrSx14wnWfGP_GLL84m_T-Zcxqqg5GPvQrfamVNTtmPSk-I-fiNMY87pAuCnMNiqxk9rNbHRk/s640/IMG_0029+%25282%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">1985 in India, L-R: Suni, Chitra, Vavachi, Aunty Subadhra and two unidentified people</span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">Aunty Subadhra and her husband Uncle Raghavan lived in Serangoon Road Singapore. She lived in front of the sari shops, in a shop house upstairs. They had rented two rooms from a Chinese landlord and lived there until Uncle Raghavan passed away. The family then moved back to India. However, their son Suni returned to Singapore. </span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">Whenever Mum wanted to buy saris we would all go to Aunty Subadhra's house and we children would play with our cousins while our mums went shopping. I remember the common bathrooms and toileta that all tenants had to share. A very common feature of such houses were the large ceramic jars with sculptures usually of dragons, brown in colour, which were used to collect water. </span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<em><span style="font-size: small;"><center>
</center>
</span><center>
<b><table align="center" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="product-catalog"><tbody>
<tr valign="top"><td class="border"></td><td width="5"><img border="0" height="1" src="http://ep.yimg.com/ca/Img/trans_1x1.gif" width="5" /></td><td bgcolor="#cfcbc8" width="1"><img border="0" height="1" src="http://ep.yimg.com/ca/Img/trans_1x1.gif" width="1" /></td><td width="5"><img border="0" height="1" src="http://ep.yimg.com/ca/Img/trans_1x1.gif" width="5" /></td><td class="border"><img border="0" height="1" src="http://ep.yimg.com/ca/Img/trans_1x1.gif" width="1" /></td></tr>
<tr valign="bottom"><td width="50%"><div class="floatleft">
</div>
<br />
<center>
<a href="http://www.silkroadcollection.com/tp0035x-antique-asian-ceramic-pot.html"><img alt="Large Chinese Antique Ceramic Pot" border="0" height="587" hspace="0" src="http://ep.yimg.com/ca/I/yhst-40539389554149_2239_4636190" width="640" /></a></center>
</td><td width="5"><img border="0" height="1" src="http://ep.yimg.com/ca/Img/trans_1x1.gif" width="5" /></td><td bgcolor="#cfcbc8" width="1"><img border="0" height="1" src="http://ep.yimg.com/ca/Img/trans_1x1.gif" width="1" /></td><td width="5"><img border="0" height="1" src="http://ep.yimg.com/ca/Img/trans_1x1.gif" width="5" /></td><td width="50%"><div class="floatleft">
</div>
<br />
<center>
<a href="http://www.silkroadcollection.com/tp0052x-antique-chinese-ceramic-dragon-pots.html"></a></center>
</td></tr>
<tr valign="top"><td align="center" width="50%"><center>
<a href="http://www.silkroadcollection.com/tp0035x-antique-asian-ceramic-pot.html"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>Large Chinese Antique Ceramic Pot</em></span></a><br /><span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em><img border="0" height="2" src="http://ep.yimg.com/ca/Img/trans_1x1.gif" width="1" /></em></span></center>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em> late 19th century, China, Ceramic (Cizhuan)</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>Price: $1,450.00</em></span></td></tr>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em></em></span></tbody><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em></em></span></table>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span></b></center>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span></em><center>
</center>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em> <em><span style="font-size: small;">The tap would always be on and the jars somehow never over-flowed. There was a strong smell of chlorine and the floor would be wet. There was no smell of urine, and we had to use the red wooden clogs, so popular amongst the Chinese of those days. </span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">They visited us regularly too and I believe they enjoyed our garden and our pet dogs. </span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5pMC9_zrkdr4DE1IS06ok1GrGal9uRqFzwGNmVGO4mU-x5y6XC76VOW0kG34jG6Hd8-4Ae4HyBS86gzwBEVYULGKt41OhMeg_Owj2GBU6axpTyMoy10ZriVuVFXFJLQGGru2hbydmYIc/s1600/IMG_0101.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5pMC9_zrkdr4DE1IS06ok1GrGal9uRqFzwGNmVGO4mU-x5y6XC76VOW0kG34jG6Hd8-4Ae4HyBS86gzwBEVYULGKt41OhMeg_Owj2GBU6axpTyMoy10ZriVuVFXFJLQGGru2hbydmYIc/s640/IMG_0101.jpg" width="476" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">L-R: Aunty Subadhra, my maternal grandmother and Mum with Suni, camera captured one happy moment in time, 1963</span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">Mum's cousins Aunt Sumathi and Aunt Subadhra and their families were regular visitors. They did not have to tell us that they were coming. They just arrived at the gate and we all got caught up in the excitement of Dad going marketing and Mum preparing lunch and us children generally being able to get away with murder.</span></em></div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6n5eWms8iXKIuK9wja61cISPHzbx_Oy9KzvOKB5BgCf71HMczye6SEIioxTa-k5fNVdKNTkfCSpeBYc3Pw3oyboPejtt1nqOVZ28bhyQCyWMGZRcTaQfYzn8TdAhr3Qro4LtSXqkWb6Y/s1600/IMG_0027+(3).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6n5eWms8iXKIuK9wja61cISPHzbx_Oy9KzvOKB5BgCf71HMczye6SEIioxTa-k5fNVdKNTkfCSpeBYc3Pw3oyboPejtt1nqOVZ28bhyQCyWMGZRcTaQfYzn8TdAhr3Qro4LtSXqkWb6Y/s640/IMG_0027+(3).jpg" width="470" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">The ever smiling Aunt Sumathi, my Mum's cousin - I have vague memories of attending her wedding in Singapore in 1953 and somewhere there is a family photograph taken at her wedding. She has three children: Dr Ranjit an orthopaedic surgeon in Singapore, Rani and a younger daughter whose name eludes me now. </span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">Mum and Aunty Sumathi both have a 'mani mala' beaded chain made of gold that they got when Aunty Sumathi got married. Just before Mum passed away she gave the chain to me. </span></em></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9EhZaFcj6ykTPD1BnFsFctQwIT8z8VtMOmm7rdE6Q5UGRwikgUHgRCfFJYsCAfqvNp2i6Y2zSeRFogsZXdD-e-4-1bB4oIK0Xq3nunfiM41QBm6E76cOimfbNxy9dTP4D27y5CapNjDw/s1600/IMG_0060.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="464" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9EhZaFcj6ykTPD1BnFsFctQwIT8z8VtMOmm7rdE6Q5UGRwikgUHgRCfFJYsCAfqvNp2i6Y2zSeRFogsZXdD-e-4-1bB4oIK0Xq3nunfiM41QBm6E76cOimfbNxy9dTP4D27y5CapNjDw/s640/IMG_0060.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></em></div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">L-R: Dad's uncle Kolatha Maamen, Dad and Uncle Ayakutty, early seventies before Kolatha Maamen left Singapore</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">Kolatha Maamen came to Singapore in the late forties. From the time I can remember he has been a regular at our house for Onam lunch. He would also visit us about once a month on a Sunday. He would come in the morning, have lunch with us, take a short nap and then leave for Singapore in the evening. </span></em></div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">He was a very pleasant person who had a loud voice and spoke in a hurried manner. As soon as he arrived he would take off his long-sleeve shirt and hang it somewhere and be dressed in his white sleeveless singlet and brown pants. He would speak to my parents and then spend time speaking to us, especially my older brother. He would talk to him about his school, his friends and what he had done. He knew my brother's friends by name and never failed to ask him about them. </span></em><br />
</div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">He had a daughter who was deaf. He would tell us stories about his family who lived near the Kollam station. He loved rambutans and he took home the seeds and planted it in his garden. He told us that one seedling grew to be a big tree but I do not remember him telling us about the fruits. I doubted that that lonely tree ever bore any rambutans. </span></em><br />
</div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">I last saw Uncle when he visited us in Paravur in 1987 when I accompanied my parents to Kerala. He was dressed in a cream coloured silk veshti and a jubba. He only looked a bit older than he did in Singapore. </span></em></div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></em><span style="font-size: small;">THE AYAKUTTY FAMILY FROM SINGAPORE</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQOyaF9ch61SZ8X3_wssddXTYA0YXt1LByRpP_LXbSWGHzdMd9CYDMFEFmgjL49I7tNSDCu12CjcCNhu_6mzX243df2zlpTPfTeN1PomzuN7CqeL0GSXDpQNZ7LicOFsmQgc6Mf1tUGbo/s1600/IMG_0018.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="459" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQOyaF9ch61SZ8X3_wssddXTYA0YXt1LByRpP_LXbSWGHzdMd9CYDMFEFmgjL49I7tNSDCu12CjcCNhu_6mzX243df2zlpTPfTeN1PomzuN7CqeL0GSXDpQNZ7LicOFsmQgc6Mf1tUGbo/s640/IMG_0018.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">L-R front row: Valsan, Raju (Uncle Ayakutty's sons) Suresh, Harish</span></em></div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">Back row: Uncle Prasad, maternal grandfather Raghavan Vaidyar, Uncle Ayakutty, Aunty Saradha, Sobha, Uncle Prakash, Sheela and Dad, taken before Sheela left for the UK in 1974</span></em><br />
</div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">Another family that visited us regularly were Uncle Ayakutty, a relative of Dad's, and his family. I remember Uncle Ayakutty bringing Aunty Saradha to our house soon after their wedding. We were staying in Bukit Chagar and it was sometime in 1958. My Dad and brother took them to the zoo - have no idea why he wanted to show aunty the zoo. They brought a box of Cadbury's assorted chocolates for us. One reason why we loved to have guests was because of the gifts they brought. Nobody would ever visit anyone empty handed. When we went visiting, buying gifts was a big part of the visit. </span></em><br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">Years later when we children visited our parents we always brought gifts. I have many wonderful gifts in my house given to me by my brothers and sisters and my parents. I do not believe that this is a totally Asian trait because I have many European friends who have brought lovely gifts each time they visited. </span></em><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-A06JGGRBUtgvbB0nSgIJLYDOZV4IM3ChEBIyyRSXBtJH_Bwzmy03mJYNoObafCiEyEGK5hZgoTWcIoa6K2xmxez4lVSrAW2dDbOko1GEI8ldC_6E84Tn0ChyDfC8trZwrlgh39lSrhI/s1600/IMG_0050.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-A06JGGRBUtgvbB0nSgIJLYDOZV4IM3ChEBIyyRSXBtJH_Bwzmy03mJYNoObafCiEyEGK5hZgoTWcIoa6K2xmxez4lVSrAW2dDbOko1GEI8ldC_6E84Tn0ChyDfC8trZwrlgh39lSrhI/s640/IMG_0050.jpg" width="458" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><em>Uncle Soman's family</em></span></div>
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;">Uncle Soman and family lived in Queenstown and visited us quite regularly with the family until he too moved to the UK. Mum lost the sister that she had always wanted. But I do believe that she caught up with them in UK when she visited in 1981 and 1985. </span></em><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjSqzJ1rSpE2u66LNGwYPwzmB6iGXM-D_aKJ02vKkzQzOmIY3GWSxPbacftRwdLK752NpoCqaADNbIclq4ygWpALej9FslFunW-kPyeejbUfo_sljFNR7ktAXX7UCdLe12bUFJPOJrI-8/s1600/IMG_0046.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjSqzJ1rSpE2u66LNGwYPwzmB6iGXM-D_aKJ02vKkzQzOmIY3GWSxPbacftRwdLK752NpoCqaADNbIclq4ygWpALej9FslFunW-kPyeejbUfo_sljFNR7ktAXX7UCdLe12bUFJPOJrI-8/s640/IMG_0046.jpg" width="406" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;">Romeo, his sister and his brother </span></em></div>
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;">I met Uncle Soman and Aunty about three years ago when Romeo brought his parents to visit me. To say that I was touched by that gesture is an understatement. They took the morning train from Kuala Lumpur to Ipoh and took the three O'clock train back. I gave a sari to aunty because I had nothing else to give to her. She was so very gentle and kind. I told her that being with her was like being with my mother again.</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;">What also impressed me that day was the relationship that Romeo shared with his parents. They are blessed to have a son like him. In 2012 November 11, I visited Romeo in East Ham and had dinner with his family. I enjoyed every moment of my visit and enjoyed meeting his wife Prabha and his son Benoy and daughter Suria. </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;">The years moved on and before I knew it I was almost twenty and about to leave home and enter university. I enrolled at the University of Malaya in Kuala Lumpur in June 1970 and became the first member of my family to leave home. Little did I realise that I would never be coming back to live in Johore Bahru with my parents permanently again. Once I graduated, I got a post as a temporary teacher in Batu Pahat and soon after that I got married. </span></em><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img border="0" closure_uid_6wf1cx="11" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj11MaZk6Qa86l-NLeiEV_MZhyphenhyphencE-Z5enH2KfxTY3bOMEk5gEvYArZ3K8Dzp-ZHayrL2aFEFF7gGCvhOQGmm0gQXDvP1nVFcu-ri_o-JrH31Zjcl450kepUlhrSUb5xTPR681H4Fe5bkbg/s640/IMG_0013.jpg" width="454" /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><em>Mum (age 48), Dad and Sobha in our garden in Jalan Abdul Samad in 1979 - Sheela sent the skirt that Sobha is wearing. She sent me a similar skirt but with maroon as the background colour. </em></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Kn7lcuU3J8a2V9-qeAR21TLccCjqEF06QLp6CoQ9upHreSxWy6dLExDcS4il8EoNnVAVEqSZzCBgFJ7Vs1FX4Z5U0slibUwYFicU2rtxtqZqslmZM1WBDFxc9Ms07_PpLx1S7Ob5xYE/s1600/IMG_0039.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Kn7lcuU3J8a2V9-qeAR21TLccCjqEF06QLp6CoQ9upHreSxWy6dLExDcS4il8EoNnVAVEqSZzCBgFJ7Vs1FX4Z5U0slibUwYFicU2rtxtqZqslmZM1WBDFxc9Ms07_PpLx1S7Ob5xYE/s640/IMG_0039.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">L-R: Sobha carrying Fluffy who was born deaf but a very smart dog, Mum and three other people only Sobha can identify for me. I believe they were Mum's neighbours</span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQdcb1bDhxfgV2raJnbyuq_y4q_OWRotoZN0cxE53IQFAJ7Mz2nCgQMPqqxMkkyy8XJvjaqg_AqxFj1KeEiPfUrLZa_6vZd7LEardKaL49a1_WxSDPXgIE0TNIWqEwgynleKeHcHCpKV4/s1600/IMG_0040.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQdcb1bDhxfgV2raJnbyuq_y4q_OWRotoZN0cxE53IQFAJ7Mz2nCgQMPqqxMkkyy8XJvjaqg_AqxFj1KeEiPfUrLZa_6vZd7LEardKaL49a1_WxSDPXgIE0TNIWqEwgynleKeHcHCpKV4/s640/IMG_0040.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">Front Row, L-R: Sheela, Prasanna, Indra carrying Roy, Suresh, Sobha</span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;">Back Row, L-R: David, Sunny Surit</span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;">Taken on 8 Jan 1980 - Roy's first birthday</span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">In 1981 Sobha left for the UK and I do believe that it was a very sad day for my parents. She came to my house in mid-1981, when I was living in Pahang and told me that she needed to go to the British High Commission regarding her visa. I broke the news to my parents. I remember the moment when my mum heard that Sobha was leaving home.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;">We were seated in the living room and Mum was sitting in an armchair in front of me. I told Mum that Sobha was leaving for the UK to commence her training as a nurse. She could not believe it. Her words were, "She is leaving me and going! Her departure is something I cannot bear." And then she cried as though her heart was breaking. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;">When she had calmed down, the story unfolded. Sobha had applied for nursing, and my older brother had helped her with all the letters and the paperwork. Only when her place was confirmed did she come to me on her way to Kuala Lumpur. Things then passed in a haze. Preparations had to be made and things had to be bought. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;">We visited Uncle Karunakaran's family in Petaling Jaya. His daughters were not at home. Aunty Rema was at home and we stayed there for a while before we left. That was the last time we met Aunty Rema.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;">I took my parents and Sobha to the airport. It was a very sad scene that I can still see unfolding in slow motion. Her flight was called. She walked to the gate and then rushed back in tears and hugged my father. She did not want to go but Dad told her to go and study and pass. I wonder if those words of his registered in her mind but they are unforgetable for me because my father at the best of times is a man of too few words. Mum was sobbing silently. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilWBkOPWBcmm4tsLWguhhHmj5NBrzElfQ6_KKI-Ym53zRFifrcBBvGdbzPxGXaGYxwYZpzwE6ig1pNIPWSIT8Pu7KyQQGeVjjniBYePHDN4rKZDU9CjTbNbDn9UiRyQjeVsMM2FvT1egs/s1600/IMG_0018.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilWBkOPWBcmm4tsLWguhhHmj5NBrzElfQ6_KKI-Ym53zRFifrcBBvGdbzPxGXaGYxwYZpzwE6ig1pNIPWSIT8Pu7KyQQGeVjjniBYePHDN4rKZDU9CjTbNbDn9UiRyQjeVsMM2FvT1egs/s320/IMG_0018.jpg" width="226" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;">Sobha's departure left a void in my Mum's life and it can be seen in the numerous letters that she wrote to Sobha. On Mum's fiftieth birthday, she sat alone in the porch and composed a letter in which she wrote, "Today is my birthday. I am fifty years old and I feel very lonely because all my children are so far away from me."</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;">Not long after Sobha left, my parents made their first visit to the UK in November 1981. They stayed there for almost a year. They made their second and last visit in 1985 and again they stayed for almost a year. The second visit saw the wedding of Sobha and the birth of Shelley. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;">Since Sobha left, we were able to keep up with her life via the photographs she sent home. Initially there were postcards and letters. After that phone calls and the letters stopped. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;"><br />Today, I look at some of the pictures that tell their own tales of where her life has taken her...</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;"></span> </div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilDaIRdEqPKTqBGZw43L9brdrRnGdLW_4PB2zVkekQZGL0X4K-4cV1xLOHtvoK2Lkj6jTutIQEIkRwNf-SififcpuChQ-xvEOaEB09WHZKyv6KFmvLcy3a6HEpxponPV84zLz13MtN3zM/s1600/IMG_0021.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="452" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilDaIRdEqPKTqBGZw43L9brdrRnGdLW_4PB2zVkekQZGL0X4K-4cV1xLOHtvoK2Lkj6jTutIQEIkRwNf-SififcpuChQ-xvEOaEB09WHZKyv6KFmvLcy3a6HEpxponPV84zLz13MtN3zM/s640/IMG_0021.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="tab-content active" style="text-align: left;">
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;">My grandfather's first cousin Aunty Rema and her husband Uncle Gengatharan and family were regular visitors and we visited them often when they were living in Bukit Timah, Singapore before moving to the UK in 1974. L-R: Mum, Ligy, Anitha, Aunty Rema. Taken in 1981</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4NAoiEwL0Y4QWnReyWc9pbuTjS96-S8Iyqn1d9D2nuSiL926f13xu0CVRlP9dPOnXSuib7essCuByFYGjChSzTgRfHmNK5TT9vqGWFt9aH5cCK97vN3HyQGmZf32W8qdCoH8OVUHSiwQ/s1600/IMG+(4).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4NAoiEwL0Y4QWnReyWc9pbuTjS96-S8Iyqn1d9D2nuSiL926f13xu0CVRlP9dPOnXSuib7essCuByFYGjChSzTgRfHmNK5TT9vqGWFt9aH5cCK97vN3HyQGmZf32W8qdCoH8OVUHSiwQ/s640/IMG+(4).jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;">L-R: Dad, Not sure, Ligy, Mum, taken in UK in 1981</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkdhWXVXnImR-Hb621PHYQttYmAXCWz16w1uHerMaoF_vsmmxE9inHhxbLPrJa92pzsNDgavrY3grPGUAxrWhoQuVcLZZPNoT39fUO_qSuI0eJxDNohK2QsAWTOpl1Fo5XdBpeeg_UrU4/s1600/IMG_0045.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><em><img border="0" height="418" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkdhWXVXnImR-Hb621PHYQttYmAXCWz16w1uHerMaoF_vsmmxE9inHhxbLPrJa92pzsNDgavrY3grPGUAxrWhoQuVcLZZPNoT39fUO_qSuI0eJxDNohK2QsAWTOpl1Fo5XdBpeeg_UrU4/s640/IMG_0045.jpg" width="640" /></em></a></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;"> L-R: Sheela, Dad carrying Sheela's son Adam, Sobha and Mum (age 50) in UK, 1981</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: small;"></span></em><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim7OgWlz5zbhXX1mzePiwgRuNU2n6z70C7pifEouzalV23U7xc4Hc5yIhbpWF3aS95iUpbu55HyEAdQf6GWmSpok1uvtbJUUQK5e3KdNtcLSCuv8XsVJOGAWOuVmxNb2leuEBrk6ojZ-U/s1600/IMG_0054+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim7OgWlz5zbhXX1mzePiwgRuNU2n6z70C7pifEouzalV23U7xc4Hc5yIhbpWF3aS95iUpbu55HyEAdQf6GWmSpok1uvtbJUUQK5e3KdNtcLSCuv8XsVJOGAWOuVmxNb2leuEBrk6ojZ-U/s640/IMG_0054+%25282%2529.jpg" width="619" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd_2-g9OIiEhfjC6RXAZniyL6zaFT7nBWSYQCTi4yAq_C8vBP9EsimIjB3P93o__QSinWKDCclApgseroHKcWAnMfzpvP86kMzsKfpqGZxprpEErmIzAaovMz8dtmY25-dcdzAPqnqfzM/s1600/IMG_0054.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd_2-g9OIiEhfjC6RXAZniyL6zaFT7nBWSYQCTi4yAq_C8vBP9EsimIjB3P93o__QSinWKDCclApgseroHKcWAnMfzpvP86kMzsKfpqGZxprpEErmIzAaovMz8dtmY25-dcdzAPqnqfzM/s640/IMG_0054.jpg" width="388" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-XMVGxTTZLlh7QLURtMaWFrhuu6xo3RcuyBBEOr0NeAV0z9wCDROBe3_smRAEjmgaOHJdgRtDb-m2OFzl8k8fT-KE3sXnj1fr7lxNN6J1pSP1846xJsmCZCUNyHHp-s8KiBYei9By_tA/s1600/IMG_0087+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br /></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-XMVGxTTZLlh7QLURtMaWFrhuu6xo3RcuyBBEOr0NeAV0z9wCDROBe3_smRAEjmgaOHJdgRtDb-m2OFzl8k8fT-KE3sXnj1fr7lxNN6J1pSP1846xJsmCZCUNyHHp-s8KiBYei9By_tA/s1600/IMG_0087+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-XMVGxTTZLlh7QLURtMaWFrhuu6xo3RcuyBBEOr0NeAV0z9wCDROBe3_smRAEjmgaOHJdgRtDb-m2OFzl8k8fT-KE3sXnj1fr7lxNN6J1pSP1846xJsmCZCUNyHHp-s8KiBYei9By_tA/s640/IMG_0087+(2).jpg" width="640" /><br /><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">Sobha and her friend Sheralyn and her baby</span></em></a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><strong> “A sister is a gift to the heart, a friend to the spirit, a golden thread to the meaning of life.” -Isadora James</strong></span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Sobha has always loved postcards. I strarted to receive postcards from her when she went on holiday to Scotland and one name kept cropping up - Geoffrey Bowe. Then one day she told us that she was going to marry Geoffrey. My parents were not only very supportive but also very happy.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Mum told me that at last she is at peace. Sobha would not be alone in a foreign country. Sheela was in London and Sobha was training in Cumbria, up north not too far from the Scottish border. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Then Sobha got married to Geoffrey Bowe. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzVd_YhdeFmyzenWjSnAJjlGI2fWHx__OzWSrkL9-ZImoCwmRgF2C9qBYTDD9mMmQKbCrCizBi5HKniKy2WY3nrvesoG-NNcAX-Q1RpMWvkIKLLlgDJ3PjCtU1nBUTaBxl5e3AYbssYuM/s1600/IMG_0001+%25285%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="430" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzVd_YhdeFmyzenWjSnAJjlGI2fWHx__OzWSrkL9-ZImoCwmRgF2C9qBYTDD9mMmQKbCrCizBi5HKniKy2WY3nrvesoG-NNcAX-Q1RpMWvkIKLLlgDJ3PjCtU1nBUTaBxl5e3AYbssYuM/s640/IMG_0001+%25285%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">Sobha and Geoffrey </span></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFxcGs0tCWBXiQ_qRd1rvtUkRgRvQOvA_BYGqM2aawJyKDscsTE5VVW3TNKeQLy_g-3HQqhWxW4OJ2NVf56Ri5gmw-6hoxVrBOoCHALtnK1HBEXDqZXt-6W91KGONDZxJnpce_RuRw88E/s1600/IMG_0008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFxcGs0tCWBXiQ_qRd1rvtUkRgRvQOvA_BYGqM2aawJyKDscsTE5VVW3TNKeQLy_g-3HQqhWxW4OJ2NVf56Ri5gmw-6hoxVrBOoCHALtnK1HBEXDqZXt-6W91KGONDZxJnpce_RuRw88E/s640/IMG_0008.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em>Sobha, Geoffrey and a person Sobha has to identify for me</em></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUiUkWk_2H7WAjHf-_Rttuy32V8Jyp-dUVzF5vrpOhVBCW19Qw6ay7cybVuCyP7t8voqjFOh8aQ9e4A_IgeX2hLpJyBhigtasutyfy6DMbpwyXMt2eisSr_xeDWApTHCN-UU_MZjB63H0/s1600/IMG_0002+(4).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="416" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUiUkWk_2H7WAjHf-_Rttuy32V8Jyp-dUVzF5vrpOhVBCW19Qw6ay7cybVuCyP7t8voqjFOh8aQ9e4A_IgeX2hLpJyBhigtasutyfy6DMbpwyXMt2eisSr_xeDWApTHCN-UU_MZjB63H0/s640/IMG_0002+(4).jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em>Need Sobha's help to caption this photograph</em></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqOTpiGRim-PMVzcpUqhV-aoGw4PB9SwIUMMci0KSmA9hHE-mSH8bIUU_t2I11_ISfmsYA2qd_-1puMNeV9wTZRI9bLInAB9B0RNqKYVGfDFjQWR77m8VUFaJVobi3K9Pwg2K39BzDD6A/s1600/IMG_0011+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="484" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqOTpiGRim-PMVzcpUqhV-aoGw4PB9SwIUMMci0KSmA9hHE-mSH8bIUU_t2I11_ISfmsYA2qd_-1puMNeV9wTZRI9bLInAB9B0RNqKYVGfDFjQWR77m8VUFaJVobi3K9Pwg2K39BzDD6A/s640/IMG_0011+%25282%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em>Sobha, Geoffrey and Kathleen Bowe</em></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Then a baby was on its way</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMAgrPVwhlClFAWiVODqE7FelD4HOL95AdXCnZJlSg3imUxhMp56TyPGQ-jKUBL6h5KyVWpXj2gHiqUZLy2InJSq8bWxYikYxFmRTnnQUqDuc897pviub5V2G_OovBYfSNKyZPj5MSLbQ/s1600/IMG_0013+(4).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="530" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMAgrPVwhlClFAWiVODqE7FelD4HOL95AdXCnZJlSg3imUxhMp56TyPGQ-jKUBL6h5KyVWpXj2gHiqUZLy2InJSq8bWxYikYxFmRTnnQUqDuc897pviub5V2G_OovBYfSNKyZPj5MSLbQ/s640/IMG_0013+(4).jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em>Clockwise from Sobha: Sobha, Kathleen Bowe (Geoff's mum) Geoffrey, Krishnan (Sobha's dad) Prasadini (Sobha's mum) Stan (Geoff's dad)</em></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: small;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifuHia_ClHLSGX-iNt3RNaf9SRGV43BaxuIp7LGJUx7MuniYaiq1he7_8JO0CYGRNkEqKSkoxt8ow7hk5fSrKJEtPzvJjPfnxE4zQONWfciIFmO-Y2d3nDFUh-IgZdzDiltaflE3wrMF4/s1600/IMG_0027+(5).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEqs0cHuvsBOonRTQALSMCKgGMNn4WfV7U_SrUml4O7Eb5RZQj8YqFMjRDJIjiCg1lVnSBu5772neZBvstV79dwm5mXYSEXrpn_Qhv5kvktrK-PfJSOxR0Ib7gASca1K-p5k1YTn1llQ4/s1600/IMG_0024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEqs0cHuvsBOonRTQALSMCKgGMNn4WfV7U_SrUml4O7Eb5RZQj8YqFMjRDJIjiCg1lVnSBu5772neZBvstV79dwm5mXYSEXrpn_Qhv5kvktrK-PfJSOxR0Ib7gASca1K-p5k1YTn1llQ4/s320/IMG_0024.jpg" width="320" /></a><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span></em><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOXVp9bUZsYBps6Pqj-zXkAAe8p6Bkn1ED0N1b8ojHNuVyZnyzsaN7mrWeV1-GK3f6iHoCLPAfP5MoUvXC87SloLollJgoRYbAEANuP43sHm3_ZwqBMD13e5aTDzMGg_XTT-4Bnaa_k54/s1600/IMG_0029+(4).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="154" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOXVp9bUZsYBps6Pqj-zXkAAe8p6Bkn1ED0N1b8ojHNuVyZnyzsaN7mrWeV1-GK3f6iHoCLPAfP5MoUvXC87SloLollJgoRYbAEANuP43sHm3_ZwqBMD13e5aTDzMGg_XTT-4Bnaa_k54/s200/IMG_0029+(4).jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIwz6CS_TfydMMRvHKV5ZienSAk87JeZofQJxVpeI-ygMKpeXIs3O8XuAk2BYD0VpixmN1u7ka9EE6s0BLO8H9uFs9GmaKtJvaWJGGyBCB8eI5Qv4-mwyBicOlnEFdaXTvH97sgTi0MIY/s1600/IMG_0042.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIwz6CS_TfydMMRvHKV5ZienSAk87JeZofQJxVpeI-ygMKpeXIs3O8XuAk2BYD0VpixmN1u7ka9EE6s0BLO8H9uFs9GmaKtJvaWJGGyBCB8eI5Qv4-mwyBicOlnEFdaXTvH97sgTi0MIY/s320/IMG_0042.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaaIhtdtOznWw0iU80dJGjip4bx4O6PO0TyU7vpiQDU9Er2E4N6cj4v5LKmFSykgIpDbRkoH0Dbl788oNO7y3wNFphxRrr2T0Nz6tUolYH0vEyHLXY0NJJIUkGfKkGc90g62Mh_qDwZz8/s1600/IMG_0049+%25283%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaaIhtdtOznWw0iU80dJGjip4bx4O6PO0TyU7vpiQDU9Er2E4N6cj4v5LKmFSykgIpDbRkoH0Dbl788oNO7y3wNFphxRrr2T0Nz6tUolYH0vEyHLXY0NJJIUkGfKkGc90g62Mh_qDwZz8/s320/IMG_0049+%25283%2529.jpg" width="320" /><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">Sobha, Geoff's grandmother Lilly Scott</span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ZkcOx3eB0pF6es_ESpoqHEufrZq96yzznRbgksJCiRM-ZEyqFwqwabS-BGx9B8kduio4xUGVdzKXxh-6-lWTeaAb6UXVzQKrMqZpAVSse4ShmR7y28-s4z5UmTBBRgr-D6Zrmb6OYiQ/s1600/IMG_0044+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ZkcOx3eB0pF6es_ESpoqHEufrZq96yzznRbgksJCiRM-ZEyqFwqwabS-BGx9B8kduio4xUGVdzKXxh-6-lWTeaAb6UXVzQKrMqZpAVSse4ShmR7y28-s4z5UmTBBRgr-D6Zrmb6OYiQ/s320/IMG_0044+%25282%2529.jpg" width="320" /><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em>need Sobha to name them</em></span></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUwIy51Z4659PdptTDNjiXFgBXuCosnXfjGfY3pbMu4EAB_iAtqzsYPeC7zxKKd_enl0gdEwB-M1wvcBRy3cQ7bjMjRa5XkYEWKnM4gRn_eJ-8OEqoJzGvkR25tJ97XklNlaWjJ3eB1cw/s1600/IMG_0048.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUwIy51Z4659PdptTDNjiXFgBXuCosnXfjGfY3pbMu4EAB_iAtqzsYPeC7zxKKd_enl0gdEwB-M1wvcBRy3cQ7bjMjRa5XkYEWKnM4gRn_eJ-8OEqoJzGvkR25tJ97XklNlaWjJ3eB1cw/s320/IMG_0048.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAiTPbUnQ4qkxY2y5c0qJW1PZRPEnCZ8iHEgO2cW_xAPW2YmDw1-6IvJpjJCq9frZ13_sl9BbmIzz7ZAS8ZXgJwFfxecyAKXPpLO0f_-jT_sPiq3NQ5B07JCguTpW25coF6F5kx-owCn0/s1600/IMG_0001+%25284%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAiTPbUnQ4qkxY2y5c0qJW1PZRPEnCZ8iHEgO2cW_xAPW2YmDw1-6IvJpjJCq9frZ13_sl9BbmIzz7ZAS8ZXgJwFfxecyAKXPpLO0f_-jT_sPiq3NQ5B07JCguTpW25coF6F5kx-owCn0/s320/IMG_0001+%25284%2529.jpg" width="320" />L-R: Shelley, Sobha, Harish, David Bowe - Geoff's brother</a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKM3KNBv_-lbnCJ77w7i9s04mOxiKkgIDNETUvQmyh6j0hxnhSfCU0DrkIouOPZF8uCj1Qsq0XKWpXFtpHG07Uk9F48cttHnLfMC7oEnUYXPhAVdWckItPVsXMbHOyM4s06mEWeE4Uu6k/s1600/IMG_0013+%25283%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKM3KNBv_-lbnCJ77w7i9s04mOxiKkgIDNETUvQmyh6j0hxnhSfCU0DrkIouOPZF8uCj1Qsq0XKWpXFtpHG07Uk9F48cttHnLfMC7oEnUYXPhAVdWckItPVsXMbHOyM4s06mEWeE4Uu6k/s320/IMG_0013+%25283%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAiTPbUnQ4qkxY2y5c0qJW1PZRPEnCZ8iHEgO2cW_xAPW2YmDw1-6IvJpjJCq9frZ13_sl9BbmIzz7ZAS8ZXgJwFfxecyAKXPpLO0f_-jT_sPiq3NQ5B07JCguTpW25coF6F5kx-owCn0/s1600/IMG_0001+(4).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiDwQjbuVg_5BS7MrJ0bexA4fJbT4IZWAQuobpUu4EdzT4jVG_FQTUG8wSoPNibSU3jSX6nUfOfmhAb13wuAZW3J1OcG_r9A85QfK0gI2pd9IQmJz9U87aZNWf0hfav-RxgiLqJwbB6mE/s1600/IMG_0012+(4).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiDwQjbuVg_5BS7MrJ0bexA4fJbT4IZWAQuobpUu4EdzT4jVG_FQTUG8wSoPNibSU3jSX6nUfOfmhAb13wuAZW3J1OcG_r9A85QfK0gI2pd9IQmJz9U87aZNWf0hfav-RxgiLqJwbB6mE/s320/IMG_0012+(4).jpg" width="221" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA1DkKXXXDo0OFKwbwtbXJbhSxrKAyAYtPbEcYRya5tTVRn8ovVqGpft9OBIY-8b0NG5z4sB3Q-JsAt1_3LjA3_J4frauiyTAN5riIWelkvv3beizQL_BXunuPR0LGa2WmfIM-maAmylU/s1600/IMG_0015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA1DkKXXXDo0OFKwbwtbXJbhSxrKAyAYtPbEcYRya5tTVRn8ovVqGpft9OBIY-8b0NG5z4sB3Q-JsAt1_3LjA3_J4frauiyTAN5riIWelkvv3beizQL_BXunuPR0LGa2WmfIM-maAmylU/s320/IMG_0015.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHBWflcIgUoblm8y-fep9Wq7CPJ-JRyNUQ8lUKnL2K_DCJSfakltKoDZhFMH3oyFqCDWAIdtXmtEFFm9lWyCf0U0HFPYvsviwiAyplJIgERzmw5PmtNwplBuxZrvMviNFVlG6LxJVs0wk/s1600/IMG_0020+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHBWflcIgUoblm8y-fep9Wq7CPJ-JRyNUQ8lUKnL2K_DCJSfakltKoDZhFMH3oyFqCDWAIdtXmtEFFm9lWyCf0U0HFPYvsviwiAyplJIgERzmw5PmtNwplBuxZrvMviNFVlG6LxJVs0wk/s320/IMG_0020+(2).jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /> Geoff, Shelley, Harish with Gwen Ryan in the background</span></em><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic_GHGIuqQ8kMD_yJiClQisfMcqMk8HuxDBbUx-OQw1yeer8xGliRAqeREwpm9ViUJzJP0ZU_oBXGtbIy92HwIoV54RH_s6CTDZt6URJWPTfr1lZyx7LtxWfqhOWvZ9lHVnIyEEIAW5Qk/s1600/IMG_0035.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic_GHGIuqQ8kMD_yJiClQisfMcqMk8HuxDBbUx-OQw1yeer8xGliRAqeREwpm9ViUJzJP0ZU_oBXGtbIy92HwIoV54RH_s6CTDZt6URJWPTfr1lZyx7LtxWfqhOWvZ9lHVnIyEEIAW5Qk/s320/IMG_0035.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiKSVUzI6doF536eRUzZO7e6usNR5h_6Aj_VZecoYFZsXefyT_WvQNo1MVnuXZtqohLTxLQeVs_26OtyF9PmO4MU1c9o3lFgFRAM8TpSehiBJqXzghdfnoLrZvL5T16fFUJpjawU9OhYk/s1600/IMG_0028.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiKSVUzI6doF536eRUzZO7e6usNR5h_6Aj_VZecoYFZsXefyT_WvQNo1MVnuXZtqohLTxLQeVs_26OtyF9PmO4MU1c9o3lFgFRAM8TpSehiBJqXzghdfnoLrZvL5T16fFUJpjawU9OhYk/s320/IMG_0028.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzVd_YhdeFmyzenWjSnAJjlGI2fWHx__OzWSrkL9-ZImoCwmRgF2C9qBYTDD9mMmQKbCrCizBi5HKniKy2WY3nrvesoG-NNcAX-Q1RpMWvkIKLLlgDJ3PjCtU1nBUTaBxl5e3AYbssYuM/s1600/IMG_0001+(5).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUiUkWk_2H7WAjHf-_Rttuy32V8Jyp-dUVzF5vrpOhVBCW19Qw6ay7cybVuCyP7t8voqjFOh8aQ9e4A_IgeX2hLpJyBhigtasutyfy6DMbpwyXMt2eisSr_xeDWApTHCN-UU_MZjB63H0/s1600/IMG_0002+(4).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGUvo1zHBNuJZG-z3Dzzo2A7x3iQCKu7mr5f7V3mpoGml1m2_CzlGWtflgpJX6hpE6TXxkXxDvyI6z7KFgVuQI6LPMCorevDDOcn1MiucUt02dececTfZmq068Q2vO1KVLKqawi_icJSg/s1600/IMG_0013+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGUvo1zHBNuJZG-z3Dzzo2A7x3iQCKu7mr5f7V3mpoGml1m2_CzlGWtflgpJX6hpE6TXxkXxDvyI6z7KFgVuQI6LPMCorevDDOcn1MiucUt02dececTfZmq068Q2vO1KVLKqawi_icJSg/s1600/IMG_0013+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGUvo1zHBNuJZG-z3Dzzo2A7x3iQCKu7mr5f7V3mpoGml1m2_CzlGWtflgpJX6hpE6TXxkXxDvyI6z7KFgVuQI6LPMCorevDDOcn1MiucUt02dececTfZmq068Q2vO1KVLKqawi_icJSg/s320/IMG_0013+(2).jpg" width="320" /><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">Arthur Ryan, Sobha and Harish in 1987</span></a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzVd_YhdeFmyzenWjSnAJjlGI2fWHx__OzWSrkL9-ZImoCwmRgF2C9qBYTDD9mMmQKbCrCizBi5HKniKy2WY3nrvesoG-NNcAX-Q1RpMWvkIKLLlgDJ3PjCtU1nBUTaBxl5e3AYbssYuM/s1600/IMG_0001+%25285%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUiUkWk_2H7WAjHf-_Rttuy32V8Jyp-dUVzF5vrpOhVBCW19Qw6ay7cybVuCyP7t8voqjFOh8aQ9e4A_IgeX2hLpJyBhigtasutyfy6DMbpwyXMt2eisSr_xeDWApTHCN-UU_MZjB63H0/s1600/IMG_0002+%25284%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFxcGs0tCWBXiQ_qRd1rvtUkRgRvQOvA_BYGqM2aawJyKDscsTE5VVW3TNKeQLy_g-3HQqhWxW4OJ2NVf56Ri5gmw-6hoxVrBOoCHALtnK1HBEXDqZXt-6W91KGONDZxJnpce_RuRw88E/s1600/IMG_0008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqOTpiGRim-PMVzcpUqhV-aoGw4PB9SwIUMMci0KSmA9hHE-mSH8bIUU_t2I11_ISfmsYA2qd_-1puMNeV9wTZRI9bLInAB9B0RNqKYVGfDFjQWR77m8VUFaJVobi3K9Pwg2K39BzDD6A/s1600/IMG_0011+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDjbTUbZisrfljI5bByeDtFsv7EwwOQ2QuOedyfiGI2US09zxn38UYFWrQyotyRQ-bzezCcz2gRTGn0I7Yc8rshd00KdrYsKsw4ng9TQYtkGINL1W_BveW8d76AHvk3opoQnWCBT_iZ0I/s1600/IMG_0005+(5).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4FXfl85-6zuMxdE_d4BJWa5O8F-9cAhKZ73b_jWP0dQ_ydIZm_6T0xHXhx5V56JkB37EqyRiyrUHHFvtL7bh6yLNYItU5fvKO6heCarNRcqEu3IxaWzl_QKOStnRqg_W9xZWLGvQ_WKU/s1600/IMG_0016+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4FXfl85-6zuMxdE_d4BJWa5O8F-9cAhKZ73b_jWP0dQ_ydIZm_6T0xHXhx5V56JkB37EqyRiyrUHHFvtL7bh6yLNYItU5fvKO6heCarNRcqEu3IxaWzl_QKOStnRqg_W9xZWLGvQ_WKU/s320/IMG_0016+%25282%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOIYj_Ig8qH6b6PqvHxsmU05UFPo4MnrOC3ssMj845tPRd8NtYwrRbhKdlWmmqJ2Es8KmmsEy2gaXet4c6vPPhadfU3yrd1hGVjD0m0Hm7BV91lMaGMEsXmeZFKHKNNppm3KNV6b9XNdQ/s1600/IMG_0016+%25283%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br /></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOIYj_Ig8qH6b6PqvHxsmU05UFPo4MnrOC3ssMj845tPRd8NtYwrRbhKdlWmmqJ2Es8KmmsEy2gaXet4c6vPPhadfU3yrd1hGVjD0m0Hm7BV91lMaGMEsXmeZFKHKNNppm3KNV6b9XNdQ/s1600/IMG_0016+%25283%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="446" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOIYj_Ig8qH6b6PqvHxsmU05UFPo4MnrOC3ssMj845tPRd8NtYwrRbhKdlWmmqJ2Es8KmmsEy2gaXet4c6vPPhadfU3yrd1hGVjD0m0Hm7BV91lMaGMEsXmeZFKHKNNppm3KNV6b9XNdQ/s640/IMG_0016+%25283%2529.jpg" width="640" /><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">Arthur Ryan, Shelley in red, Prasanna and Sobha in Canterbury in 1987</span></em></a><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFxcGs0tCWBXiQ_qRd1rvtUkRgRvQOvA_BYGqM2aawJyKDscsTE5VVW3TNKeQLy_g-3HQqhWxW4OJ2NVf56Ri5gmw-6hoxVrBOoCHALtnK1HBEXDqZXt-6W91KGONDZxJnpce_RuRw88E/s1600/IMG_0008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em><strong>WHO HAS SEEN THE WIND?</strong></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em><strong></strong></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em><strong>Who has seen the wind?</strong></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em><strong>Neither I nor You:</strong></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em><strong>But when the leaves hang trembling,</strong></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em><strong>The wind is passing through.</strong></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em><strong></strong></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em><strong>Who has seen the wind</strong></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em><strong>Neither you nor I:</strong></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em><strong>But when the trees bow down their heads,</strong></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em><strong>The wind is passing by.</strong></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em><strong></strong></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em><strong>Christina Rosetti - 1830-1894</strong></em></span><br />
<h1>
</h1>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs6pMl1rtgZuwjbGiym_OwoRwAlD5QT68YazjZqm3-4FaImEyuNu39Mtl7s0TE-tQaYDWOTdBqZ0rayxaWQBm-_Mj2pA5ee0NeKYajGcJaTrmMz1pSWZFF01yg4Pq_QC-mG6wDA6oVWIs/s1600/IMG_0012+(3).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs6pMl1rtgZuwjbGiym_OwoRwAlD5QT68YazjZqm3-4FaImEyuNu39Mtl7s0TE-tQaYDWOTdBqZ0rayxaWQBm-_Mj2pA5ee0NeKYajGcJaTrmMz1pSWZFF01yg4Pq_QC-mG6wDA6oVWIs/s640/IMG_0012+(3).jpg" width="620" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqOTpiGRim-PMVzcpUqhV-aoGw4PB9SwIUMMci0KSmA9hHE-mSH8bIUU_t2I11_ISfmsYA2qd_-1puMNeV9wTZRI9bLInAB9B0RNqKYVGfDFjQWR77m8VUFaJVobi3K9Pwg2K39BzDD6A/s1600/IMG_0011+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br />
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="height: 511px; width: 750px;"><tbody>
<tr><td height="60" width="510"><h1 style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="color: purple; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: large;"> <em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">When you are old and grey and full of sleep, </span></em></span></b></h1>
<h1 style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="color: purple; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: large;"><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">And nodding by the fire, take down this book, </span></em></span></b></h1>
<h1 style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="color: purple; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: large;"><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">A</span></em></span></b><b><span style="color: purple; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: large;"><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">nd slowly read, and dream of the soft look </span></em></span></b></h1>
<h1 style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="color: purple; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: large;"><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; How many loved your moments of glad grace </span></em></span></b></h1>
<h1 style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="color: purple; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: large;"><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">And loved your beauty with love false or true </span></em></span></b></h1>
<h1 style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="color: purple; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: large;"><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you </span></em></span></b></h1>
<h1 style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="color: purple; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: large;"><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">And loved the sorrows of your changing face; </span></em></span></b></h1>
<h1 style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="color: purple; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: large;"><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled </span></em></span></b></h1>
<h1 style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="color: purple; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: large;"><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">And paced upon the mountains overhead </span></em></span></b></h1>
<h1 style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="color: purple; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: large;"><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: small;">And hid his face amid a crowd of stars. - <br />Willaim Butler Yeats</span></em></span></b></h1>
<div align="left">
</div>
</td></tr>
<tr><td colspan="2" valign="top" width="240"><div align="center">
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="width: 130px;"><tbody>
<tr><td height="350" valign="top" width="130"><div align="left">
<br /></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
</td><td height="50%" valign="top" width="510"><div align="left">
<div align="left">
<b><span style="color: #9900cc; font-family: Times New Roman;"></span></b> </div>
</div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMAgrPVwhlClFAWiVODqE7FelD4HOL95AdXCnZJlSg3imUxhMp56TyPGQ-jKUBL6h5KyVWpXj2gHiqUZLy2InJSq8bWxYikYxFmRTnnQUqDuc897pviub5V2G_OovBYfSNKyZPj5MSLbQ/s1600/IMG_0013+(4).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCBusHRvessING0EBqatnJ512bsaOTmubYoHD_uG-JUya_GzAADQt_Ns8FPtMXi2ThhmhOqWNFNbaNZYZagRXMOT2Fm9zUckWVpftpfivb2cERsZCAT5ifsv-MV1mt0ADPK5Ove-9K7Kw/s1600/IMG_0014+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
</span><br />Siva Prasanna Krishnanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06210009726000818227noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4270544749004657709.post-81134060657721955372012-06-18T09:01:00.002-07:002012-06-18T09:01:13.493-07:00Memories of Batu Pahat High SchoolThe happiest day of my life was a day in late November 1967 when my younger sister came home to tell me that I had passed the Form Six Entrance Examination. That pass meant a lot of things to me. It meant that I would enter Lower Six in January. It meant I would be wearing the jungle green skirt, a white shirt, a jungle green bow string, black shoes and the whole world, well my world, would recognise me as moving nearer to my dream of going to university. <br />
<br />
My father dropped me in front of Johore English College before 7.30 in the morning. I walked to the hall and I cannot find the words to describe the feeling that engulfed my entire being as I leant against the wall of the hall and breathed in my unfolding dream. <br />
<br />
Nobody in that hall would have guessed what went through my head. Nobody would have guessed that in 1954 I had leant against that same wall and waited for my uncle who had told me not to move. He had taken me for a school concert and my neighbour Sau Siah's mother had dressed me in the little cheongsam the neighbourhood tailor had stitched for me. My uncle Prakash had told me that that school was only for bright students. He said that only those who were clever could gain admission into that school. That desire to study there had started then. Every exam that I sat for from Primary school through to secondary school had brought me that much closer to the wall in that hall. <br />
<br />
I opened my eyes and saw Saroja Meyappan from the Convent who had also passed the examination. Soon a whole lot of my Convent friends joined me and I had to leave the wall. We walked in a happy group towards the front of the hall and the stage. We walked up to the boards and read the names of past Head Masters and Head Boys - their names in gold. Slowly the old hall filled up with boys and a few girls. We recognised some Upper Six students who had come from the Convent. <br />
<br />
A teacher came and guided us to the area that we would occupy during assembly. The Head Boy Hasbollah Salleh called the school to order. I looked at Hasbollah and wondered what he would have to say if I had told him that his late father, Dr Salleh had been my mother's gynaecologist and he had delivered me! So did that kind of create a bond? He had no idea I existed and showed desire to know any one of us either. So the bond did not have a chance to grow. <br />
<br />
Then I saw a vision. He was dressed in College white, had longish hair falling over his eyes, wore black rimmed glasses and walked with a kind of draggy swagger. All our eyes were turned on him. He walked most nonchalantly across the stage, pulled back the seat and placed himself in front of the ancient piano, placed a music sheet in front of him and waited for a few seconds before we heard the opening bars of our National Anthem. Never had that song sounded so sweet to my ears. The song ended. The sheet was removed. The pianist stood up. The seat was pushed back to its original place and the vision swaggered across the stage and disappeared into the crowd. <br />
<br />
As soon as speaking was allowed we all turned and asked, "Who on earth is that boy?"<br />
Some of the girls who attended church said that he played the organ in church. <br />
He was from Batu Pahat High School. <br />
He was a very good student. <br />
He was an athlete. <br />
He was an artist. <br />
Of course I already knew he was a good pianist. <br />
<br />
What is his name? BK Chiu they said. That is how I fell in love with Batu Pahat High School and with BK C. Love at first sight? Love at first sound? I don't know but it was a feeling that made that year the happiest year of my life - no major exams, a green skirt to indicate that i had some brains, more freedom from my mother and brother, great friends and a boy who made my heart skip beats and kept me smiling all the time. <br />
<br />
1968 was a dream year. I made friends with BK and he introduced me to the world of music and poetry. He introduced me to his friend Wong Mun Kin also from BP High School and an artist as well. <br />
<br />
The days passed like a slow moving stream but eventually we moved in different directions and our worlds never collided again. <br />
<br />
Another reason why BP High School was magic for me was an old family friend of ours, Mr Lawrence Law, a graduate from the University of Malaya in Singapore and who was a Science teacher in that school in the sixties. Uncle Lawrence as we called him, emigrated to Canada and we lost touch with him over the years. <br />
<br />
I graduated from the University of Malaya in Kuala Lumpur and registered with the education department for the post of temporary teacher whilst waiting to be enrolled in the university to study for my Diploma in Education. That was how I was posted to Batu Pahat High School in March 1973 as a temporary teacher. I was assigned to teach General Paper in Form Six. Dejavu? <br />
<br />
Sunday was the first day of school. On Saturday i stayed with another old family friend Mrs Rajaratnam who was the former Head Mistress of a primary school in BP and well known in that town. She found the Pereira family for me and they took me in as their lodger. Their younger daughter Mabel was in Lower Six in BP High School. <br />
<br />
I have to be very honest, I was not a great teacher then. It was after my training in Singapore that I realised that I needed to go back to BP and teach the students to show them that I had it in me to be a good teacher. Great teachers take years to evolve and they need to be trained. <br />
<br />
My friends Cynthia Goh and Charanjeet from UM were also posted to that school. When I was introduced to the staff I found another old family friend, Mr Sugathan who taught mathematics. I walked all around the school and thought i was almost literally walking in the footsteps of BK and i came across the mural done by Wong Mun Kin whom i had met in EC. <br />
<br />
Of all the students I taught most were very good, they were motivated and focused on their goals. I remember Ng Yew Teck, Andrew, Philip, Kour Nam Ngam, Bee Hoon and many more who were among my students. I attended the wedding reception of Kour N N's son a couple of years ago in Kuala Lumpur. It was such a nice feeling when i met up with him in Tawau in 1990, at Far Eastern Pharmacy when I had gone there to raise some funds. <br />
<br />
Cynthia and I helped to stage a concert to raise some money to buy textbooks for the students. It was great fun and I remember Philip and his friend, the duet singers, one group staged The Green Green Grass of Home and other skits. We had fun. Mr Amarjit Singh a seniour English teacher guided us. <br />
<br />
Another incident that i remember is that i wore saris to work. I used to wear them low and i thought it was okay until one Chinese lady teacher took me aside and told me that i had to remember that the boys i taught were only about three years younger than me and it was not proper attire at all! Cynthia and i thought they were the prudes of the school. I continued to wear my saris. <br />
<br />
The Principal was Mr Khairul Faizi who was very kind to the young untrained teachers. After school we rode bikes in the school compound and then there was the Peace Corps Mr Christopher Reed. I remember one holiday when he had gone to Bangkok and came back with a lovely gift for me. Those were uncomplicated happy days. One night Cynthia, Christopher and I drove up in Sugathan's car to a hill top overlooking the sea and watched the ships that sailed in the night. Those were also safe days. <br />
<br />
<br />
Only one student told me that I was a hopeless teacher, after he failed to do well in one of my tests and his remarks bothered me for a while but then why had he not told me earlier that he could not follow the lessons, Cynthia asked me? One of my students in Upper Six Science B, was a Chinese boy who did not speak or write good English. GP was the only paper where he could not score an A. I told him to write an essay a day and he did. I marked the essays for him and pointed out his errors. I asked him if i was hopeless and he told me that I was the only one who had helped him. He did well and went on to become an engineer. Years later I heard about it again when I was posted to Tawau and was acknowledged as an effective teacher. This same person happened to be stationed there. His wife whom I knew casually was a very nice lady. <br />
<br />
I have gone back to BP but not to that school. I visit the Pereira family ocassionally. They still stay in the same house. Mabel is in PD. <br />
<br />
How can I speak of my stint in BP without mentioning two other people who had such an influence on me. One is the late Rotarian Eddy Fernandez and the other the late Father Martin from the Catholic Church. <br />
<br />
Going to church with the Pereiras reminded me of 1968 when i espied BK in the Form Six library. I went up to the librarian and asked him if there was a copy of the Bible in the library. He told that there was none. I then proceeded to sit and stand on my toes to look for the non-existent Bible! BK was there and I turned around and asked, "Can you please help me find the Bible?" We searched and we searched. Seeing my downhearted face, he lent me his mother's bible which i kept very safely next to my copy of the bible in my drawer. That was how i befriended BK from BP High School during my first week of school in EC. When Father Martin introduced me to Mrs C in church the bible she was clutching was not the one i had borrowed from her son five years earlier!<br />
<br />
The late Mr Eddy Fernandez, an architect by training introduced me to the world of Rotary and genuine service before self. He was always on the go doing something or the other for the less fortunate. His lovely wife Shirley was an amazing cook and years later when I became a Rotarian i never failed to tell my fellow Rotarians about Eddy. Sometimes i accompanied him when he went on his rounds to distribute food and clothes to the needy. <br />
<br />
Mabel introduced me to Father Martin. We enjoyed playing Scrabble and chatting and swapping books. One day Father Martin gave me a statue, the Legion of Mary and told me to go back and keep it with my heathen gods to be on the safe side. I am a born Hindu and have remained so. But going to church and listening to his sermons in English with a marked French accent and his sermons in Cantonese was sheer magic. I kept in touch with Father Martin for a while after i left BP. The nature of my husband's job meant that we moved frequently. <br />
<br />
Years later when i was going to Paris for a holiday, i learnt much to my sorrow, that he had passed away recently in France. Never at any moment in church did i feel that i was not a part of his congregation. <br />
<br />
BP High School, my first posting as a teacher. If any of the old boys or current students should read this, please check the Form Four English textbook that is currently being used. I am happy to say that i am one of the writers. It is not in the same class as Etherton's books which were for teaching English as a First Language. Look at the back cover and I am the person in the middle. <br />
<br />
Being my first school, i feel like i have had a love affair with that school, a love that never died. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Siva Prasanna Krishnanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06210009726000818227noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4270544749004657709.post-88711166462530086462012-06-18T01:19:00.003-07:002012-06-18T01:20:39.626-07:00Be kind to the youth of today, their future may equal your present. - ConfuciusIt was almost noon and another hour before we could call it a day and go home. The sun was up and the classroom was bright. The girls were getting restless when the teacher called the class to order and began to write something on the board. We were all told to read silently as she wrote. Most of us had our eyes glued to the blackboard as the white chalk began its journey across the board. <br />
<br />
I do not remember what was written but the day and its happenings are still very clear in my memory. When she reached the bottom of the board, she put the chalk down, dusted her fingers and turned to face the class. There were about forty two of us in the class. We were a mixed ability class and this meant that some could read very well but there were those who could barely decipher the letters of the alphabet. We were nine year old girls. <br />
<br />
The teacher called upon the girls one by one. Then she reached a girl named Jessy. All of us turned around to face Jessy. She was tall and quite plump. She had dark curly hair which she had arranged in two plaits that came down to her waist. Her skin was very tanned and she had puffy cheeks. Jessy was very quiet and she did not seem to have any friend in the class. She kept to herself and rarely opened her mouth for any reason. When we arrived at school in the morning, our usual habit was to place our bags next to our chair, unpack the books and place them in the desk before going out to play with out friends. There were lots of games that we enjoyed playing, all girls-kind-of-games. <br />
<br />
Children can be very cruel, me included and nobody really bothered about Jessy. She moved around like a slow shadow and often settled on the step and watched as the rest of the class very noisily engaged in all kinds of activities. I have never invited Jessy to play with us and I do not remember anyone else inviting her. No teacher told us to include her and my mother never did because I had never mentioned the girl without any friends and who could not read or write. <br />
<br />
Jessy slowly stood up and remained silent. The teacher repeated her instructions, "Jesssy, read loudly from the board." Jessy remained silent. The teacher repeated, "Read whatever words you can." There was silence. <br />
<br />
"Come to the front of the class, Jessy!" We watched as Jessy slowly walked to the front of the class and stood alone in front of the teacher. Standing in front of the class to be reprimanded was a very daunting experience for anyone.<br />
<br />
"Open your mouth Jessy," the teacher said in a low voice. We were silent as Jessy slowly opened her mouth. "There is nothing in your mouth. Now read the first sentence," the teacher told her in a menacing tone. Jessy remained silent. <br />
<br />
"Very well Jessy. Now open your mouth," and Jessy opened her mouth again. The teacher then picked up the small pieces of chalk from the board and placed them in Jessy's mouth until her mouth was full of chalk. "Go back to your place and when you are ready to read, you may take the chalk out of your mouth."<br />
<br />
All of us felt that we had witnessed something that should never have happened, not to a nine year old child at the hands of a teacher. That day passed. Many days, months and years passed. Jessy did not follow us to the next class. She was retained and we saw her moving like a shadow amongst the laughing girls and then we saw her no more. But many of us could never forget that afternoon in front of the blackboard. <br />
<br />
As I said many days and months and years passed until one day last year in 2011 I was sitting outside my Dad's house when a car passed by, slowed down and then stopped in front of the gate. The couple alighted and she was an old school mate of mine and her husband. I shall call her Sue. They spent a couple of hours in our house. Her husband chatted with my brothers while I engaged Sue in a conversation trying to find out about my old school friends with whom I had lost touch. <br />
<br />
Sue and I were never in the same class but the same form. I knew her vaguely by sight when in school and years later caught up with her after she had married the brother of a relative of mine. She then became a close friend of my mother's and often visited Mum. She has two sons and two daughters. I met her whenever I visited my late mother, during the festive seasons and even then our conversations were very vague. <br />
<br />
That desultory conversation with Sue in 2011, changed my life. I kept popping questions about girls who had left the school and whom I had never met after that. I asked her if she had enjoyed her school life. She asked me the same question instead of answering me. I told her that I had and gave the usual reasons about that wonderful school having given me my greatest gift - mastery of the English Language. How the school had enabled me to go on to Form Six in one of the prestigious schools in the country and finally to the top local university. Not a muscle twitched on her face. She listened to me as though I had told her that we have running water and electricity in our house. I became a bit uncomfortable and realised that what I hold dear to me would have sounded like bragging to her. <br />
<br />
In order to change the topic, I asked her if she knew a girl called Jessy who had been my classmate in 1959. She asked me why I wanted to know about Jessy after all these years. I countered by asking her again if she had enjoyed her school life. I knew she did not go to Form Six. She then told me that she hated her school life. I was stunned. "Why, Sue?"<br />
<br />
"The teachers were horrid. A few were quite nice but the majority were awful. They treated us badly and were very cruel to us. Many of us did not do well and it is because of the teachers. They did not teach. They shouted, they screamed, they called us names and told us we were stupid," she said in a very matter-of-fact manner. I realised that she spoke the truth. I had realised in Standard One when I could not speak English and therefore had remained silent for a year that if you were good at something, then you had lots of friends. <br />
<br />
Sue went on to tell me a story to emphasise her hatred for school. She was in the class where the girls studied Home Science. I was in the class where we did Literature and Drama among other subjects. There were only three classes. Whenever there was a function, the Home Science girls were in charge of refreshments. There was no pork allowed in the school and to the best of my knowledge no beef either. She then said that a certain group of girls from one ethnic group was in charge of making the famous sandwiches and drinks. Another ethnic group was only in charge of washing up and cleaning the kitchen and she belonged to that group. The first group got to eat sandwiches and have some drinks. The second group was not allowed that privilege. <br />
<br />
Sue could not wait to get out of that school and the complex that school had given to her and those of her ethnic group in the class. Everyday she counted the days when she could leave. I asked her when she had first felt the segregation. She told me it was from her primary days when she was called stupid by the teachers for not being able to read fluently or count accurately. Most times she could read at home, but the moment the teachers called up to read in class, she would stammer, stutter and be silent only to be labelled stupid and moron. After a few minutes of awkward silence, I asked her again if she knew Jessy. <br />
<br />
"Why and what happened to Jessy?" she asked me. I narrated the events of that afternoon and expressed a desire to see Jessy after 52 years. She told me that Jessy would not meet me. I insisted that I meet Jessy. She said no. Then she continued with her story. <br />
<br />
She left school vowing not to return. Her two daughters were enrolled at the same school and her two sons in a boys' school. Her pain, she told to her husband who encouraged her to study. She did not have the confidence to do so. Then she embarked on a mission, spurred on by her hatred of her teachers. She bought the necessary books and started to teach her children to read from a very young age. She taught them mathematics and when they started in Primary One, all her children could read fluently and count accurately. Each one topped the class and were straight A students in all public examinations. Three of them graduated from local public universities and one from the National University of Singapore. Then she said, "Everytime I have to meet someone or go somewhere I feel such a failure."<br />
<br />
"Why, Sue? Your daughter's a US citizen and doing well. Your second daughter won a government scholarship and has a Masters degree from a prestigious British university. One son is an accountant and the other won the ASEAN scholarship and is a doctor in Singapore. You have achieved so much. You are a brilliant and successful mother," I said, as it slowly sank in that the teachers had truly damaged the spirit of the lady who as she spoke to me, was a child remembering the wounds inflicted on her spirit. <br />
<br />
Then she said, "Jessy will not meet you."<br />
"How do you know?"<br />
"She is my sister!"<br />
<br />
I looked at Sue in horror as her husband told her that it was getting late and they had to go. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Siva Prasanna Krishnanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06210009726000818227noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4270544749004657709.post-34260594146943771452012-03-20T09:19:00.000-07:002012-03-20T09:19:32.468-07:00Bloomers! I want a pair and I am 61While speaking to my sister Sheela a couple of days ago, I told her one deep hidden desire of mine - I want to stitch a pair of bloomers for myself. But, I am embarrassed to get myself measured by the tailor and for her to know that I want to use them. My sister laughed her head off and told me to tell the tailor that they were for someone else. <br />
<br />
In 1957, I started my formal school life in Standard 1F at the Convent of the Holy Infant Jesus in Johore Bahru. My uncle took me to school on my first day and from then I was on my own. He took me to the school book shop which was on the ground floor of the block that faces Jalan Yahya Awal. He spoke most respectfully to the European nun who appeared to respect him too. He bought my school books for me and gave them to me. I held them tight, close to my chest and the smell of those new books linger on till today. I kept on smelling them and from that moment onwards, I have had an endless love affair with books. <br />
<br />
He walked me to my classroom which was at the back. It was the second classroom from the right. There were two Standard One classes in the afternoon - 1E and 1F. The class teacher of 1E was Ms Theresa Yagappan. The class teacher of 1F was Mrs Rogers. She was my class teacher and I was terrified of her. <br />
<br />
Mrs Rogers was a very brown skinned lady, slim, with short wavy hair that came to her shoulders and she always wore floral, sleeveless frocks with billowing skirts and a pair of high heeled shoes. From the first day, she laid down the rules and we listened very carefully, too afraid to utter a sound. We were each given a small green board and two boxes of chalk. One box contained about 12 pieces of white chalk and the other contained 12 pieces of coloured chalk. We were to handle the chalk very carefully and make sure that they did not break into small pieces. She wrote our names on the boxes. During the start of lessons she handed out our chalk boxes and collected them before we went home. On some days we could take our boards home. <br />
<br />
The only language allowed was English. If we could not speak English, then we could not speak at all. I remained silent for most of my Standard One year. I remember vividly the few ocassions when she spoke to me. <br />
<br />
The first ocassion was when she was giving me my box of chalk. She said something about broken chalk and I approached her trembling with fear. She opened the box, looked inside and then at me. She held my stare and said slowly, "Good,". I was so relieved. <br />
<br />
On another ocassion all the girls were removing their pinafores. They had on blue shorts with garters at the top and at the end of each 'leg'. It almost reached the knee. I did not have such an attire and I had no idea that I had to have one. No one had told me or my mother. I stood there without changing. Mrs Rogers said something which I did not understand. A girl nudged me towards her. I approached her most fearfully. <br />
<br />
When I reached her desk I decided to speak before she asked me something I did not understand. I said, "Mrs Rogers, I have no knickers," and she looked at me with a horrified expression. I felt thoroughly mortified. She got up and came towards me most purposefully, reached out for the edge of my pinafore and lifted it above my waist. She looked at me and said, "You are wearing knickers,". I shook my head and said, "I don't have that kind of knickers,".<br />
<br />
She laughed and so did some of the other girls. "They are not knickers. They are bloomers. Who lives near this girl's house?" Maureen Yong came forward. Maureen could speak English. She told Maureen to lend me her bloomers so that I could show them to my mother. She wrote the word, 'BLOOMERS' in capital letters for me. That evening when I went home, Maureen's bloomers followed me. Luckily, we stayed near the tailor. Mum walked to her shop and ordered one pair of bloomers for me. <br />
<br />
Then one day she told us to bring one dollar to buy something. She repeated the word several times. I kept on repeating the word until I reached home. Excitedly I told my mother, " Teacher wants us to bring one dollar."<br />
"Why?"<br />
"To buy mangosteen."<br />
"No. Father will buy mangosteens. They are cheaper when he buys."<br />
"The school mangosteens are different. You don't eat them."<br />
<br />
Uncle Anandan who was staying with us, got involved in the argument. "This is how the Christian schools make money. They use the children to get the money from the parents. They do this a lot in Kolam." I was upset with him for supporting my mother and for speaking against my school. <br />
<br />
As a consolation, when I was leaving for school, my mother tutored me on what to tell my teacher. So again I walked to her table as she was collecting the money. I said,"My mother said, I cannot pay."<br />
"Why?"<br />
"Father will buy, from town."<br />
"What? Your father cannot buy from town. You have to buy from us."<br />
"Mother said cannot. When father buys, it will be sweeter."<br />
"Sweeter! What is your father buying that is sweeter?"<br />
"Mangosteen."<br />
She laughed and again the class laughed. I was lost. She looked at me and said, "Not mangosteens. Magazine. School Magazine." Again, she wrote, "SCHOOL MAGAZINE" in block letters for my mother to read. <br />
<br />
At home. "Ma, I told you we had to take one dollar. Everyone paid, except me. I told you that what they were selling you could not eat." I then showed her what my teacher had written. Mum, Dad and Uncle Anandan had a big laugh and that story was told to all visitors who laughed as well. Whilst repeating magazine in order not to forget the word, mangosteen had crept into my mind. Though I smile at the memory of that day, on that day I felt quite ashamed of my Malayalam speaking status. <br />
<br />
The school sports. The trishaw rider came late and he took such a long time to reach school. He took me right up to the front of the parlour and I was afraid because I did not see anyone. He was a kind man. He took me by the hand and led me to the small hall with the huge stone steps. He told me to sit there quietly and wait for my teacher. He said that he would come and pick me up from the steps when it was time to go home. <br />
<br />
I waited and I waited. There was not a soul to be seen. I did not dare leave my seat. After eternity, I heard the voice of my teacher. "Siva, what are you doing here? Why didn't you come to the field? You have missed the sports." <br />
<br />
I was almost in tears. I was not sure how to tell her in English that I did not know where the sports was being held. We had all assembled in the small hall the previous day for sports practice. When I arrived on sports day, there was no one there. That was my first school sports. <br />
<br />
When I went home, Mum wanted to know about the sports. I did not speak much and they thought it was because I had not won a prize. I had missed everything. After a few days, I told her about my first school sports. She told everyone and I felt somewhat comforted when I felt their sadness. So I was not alone in my sadness. <br />
<br />
Although I hardly spoke in school and was rarely called upon to answer any questions, when the Mid-Year Examination results were announced, I was 12th in the class. Everyone was surprised. I had full marks for spelling, dictation, arithmetic and English. I had high marks for reading, writing and not very high marks for art. I learned one lesson - if you are good at something, then you will have friends. I studied hard for the next eleven years. <br />
<br />
The visit to the dentist. One day, my name was called out and I was one of the group of girls sent to the dentist at the General Hospital in Johore Bahru. We were so afraid especially when the girls started to share frightening stories. I do not remember the dentist but I do remember the nurses. They were very kind and they gave us some small plastic boxes as souvenirs. I got about five of them. I looked after them carefully and brought them back to my class. I placed them near my school bag on the floor and somehow forgot them when it was time to go home. The next day, I searched in vain but they were gone. Mrs Rogers asked the girls if they had seen my boxes. I was very sad and disappointed. <br />
<br />
The devil in the toilet. Ng Yeow Joo, a very talkative and bossy girl, came back to the class and told us that she had seen a devil in the toilet. It had just drunk a lot of blood and had drowned in the toilet bowl. It was white, covered with blood and floating. One by one we went to have a look. It was white all right, there was blood and it was floating. It did not look like a person. In fact it did not look like anything I had ever seen. When Mrs Rogers realised that we were taking turns to go to the toilet, she made a toilet visit and stopped us from going to that cubicle. My mother told me not talk about it again when I described the devil to her. Years later, I realised that we had actually seen a soiled sanitary towel. <br />
<br />
Poppy Day. Then one day, a European man came with Sister Helen and spoke to us about people who had died for us and who were actually heroes. To appreciate them we were told to buy a poppy flower. It was blood read with a black button in the middle. It cost ten cents. I had ten cents and I bought one. I kept the flower with me the whole afternoon. The whole afternoon Yeow Joo never left my side and kept on asking me for the flower. She was a bossy girl and finally she wore me out and I gave the poppy to her. I was hoping she would be my friend. Once she had got the poppy, she left my side and never spoke to me again spontaneously. You cannot buy a friend. I spoke to my mother about the poppy I had bought and given away. Dad told me the story behind the poppy. I still miss my poppy. <br />
<br />
The Joyful Vanguard. It was yellow in colour and had a few pages. It had comic strips and stories. The stories were not exciting but I liked reading. I also liked the look on Sister Helen's face when I placed 15 cents in her hand and she gave me a copy. After a few issues, my mother told me that she would stop my pocket money if I bought any more Joyful Vanguards. I continued to buy them on and off until I left school. <br />
<br />
Mrs Cora Danker. She filled me and still fills me with joy when I think of her Physical Education and Art lessons. She was a stunning beauty and she dressed like a dream. Her clothes, her shoes, her handbags - they all matched and were so fashionable. She had such lovely milky white skin, reddish hair styled so elegantly and the sweetest smile. She never said a cross word to any one of us. <br />
<br />
"What's the time, Mr Wolf?"<br />
"One 0'clock."<br />
"What's the time, Mr Wolf?" It went on until you said, "Dinner time!" It was fun. <br />
<br />
She taught us art. We had fun with colours and brushes and water. Our paintings would be left to dry on the floor and when done, would be displayed on the board. Time passed so fast when she entered the class. <br />
<br />
Then there was the lady who taught us craft and writing, Ms Maria Harun, the gentlest teacher any young child could ask for. She was always dressed in simple, colourful, traditional baju kurungs. She would walk to our tables and teach us how to cut paper patterns, make baskets, model plastercine and enjoy ourselves. Not one of us ever heard a harsh word from Ms Maria Harun. <br />
<br />
The days passed. I no longer travelled by trishaw but a Chinese driver would send me to school and take me home. In the evening, he had a passenger, Ms Theresa Yagappan. She would sit in the front seat and not talk to me at all. She was dressed in a sari. The driver would send her home first. She lived in a huge house on top of a hill facing the sea, near the mosque. The driver always drove to the back of the big house and dropped her near some smaller houses. She would open the car door, walk out and not look back. One day I told the driver that the house was a very big house. He told me that very big people lived in that house. I believed that Ms Theresa was a very big person. Years later, when I was a flower girl at her wedding, and met some of the VIP guests who attended, I found out that her father had been the driver of Tun Dr Ismail. That big house was his family home. <br />
<br />
The days passed and by the time the End of Year Results were released, I was 10th in the class and found myself reading, writing and speaking English. My days of solitude were coming to an end together with the beginning of the long Christmas holidays. <br />
<br />
Bloomers. I used them twice a week for PE and I wore that same pair until I finished my primary education. Today, I want to make a pair of bloomers for myself, wear it and re-feel those carefree days of bloomers, mangosteens, magazines and floating devils. If only I could have met Mrs Rogers, Mrs Danker and Ms Maria Haurn one more time. I really must be kinder towards my young students.Siva Prasanna Krishnanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06210009726000818227noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4270544749004657709.post-66997469647623652932012-03-19T07:20:00.006-07:002012-03-21T06:42:02.356-07:00Why? Why? Why? It rhymes so painfully with aaaiiiee!<em>WHY</em>? - one of the first few words that I learned in the English Language and yet there are moments in life when <em>WHY</em> can pierce your very soul, with its single syllable which rhymes so perfectly with sorrowful cries that explode from some great depth within your soul.<br />
<br />
I was very young when I met this aunty who was not really my aunty. We were brought up to address all adults as uncle or aunty. I cannot picture her husband but I can picture everything about her except her face. They were my mother's friends from India, they were Christian and visited us once every few months. And like all our visitors those days, they just arrived at the gate at any time of the day or evening. The arrival of guests would fill our home with a lot of excitement. Mum would go into a frenzy preparing meals for the guests. We children would have to display our best behaviour. My silent Dad would have to painfully dig deep within him to find some conversation pieces to keep the guests entertained until Mum emerged from the kitchen with her smiles and endless chatter.<br />
<br />
If the guests arrived in the morning, we would help in the kitchen by peeling onions and potatoes, scraping coconut, grinding whatever was needed for the curries and cleaning up. Mum would be at the stove busy putting all the ingredients together before the aroma would begin to entice the entire neighbourhood. It was fun because there would be good food to share with guests. <br />
<br />
If the guests came in the evening after the market had closed, then it would be vegetarian food with some sardines thrown in for flavour. But in the evening, we had to go through the motion of sitting with our books and present the image of studious children poring over books. This charade lasted until Mum instructed us to clear the table and set it for dinner. <br />
<br />
Coming back to this faceless aunty whose name has also been deleted from my memory, for the sake of this episode I shall call her Mary Aunty. They always visited us in the evening and that may be a reason why I see everything about her appearance except her face. She was almost as tall as my Dad. Her skin was not dark brown but lighter than the colour of chappatis. She was always dressed in a sari and had a soft voice. They had no children and after they left, Mum would mention the number of years that they had been married. <br />
<br />
There was a kind of stigma attached to a lady who could not bear children. There were people who did not want motherless ladies to carry their children for fear that she would cast an evil eye on their children. They would have suffered a lot of pain. Divorce was not common and the couple often stayed together but we had no idea if they shared any togetherness. <br />
<br />
Then one day in 1962, when I was 12, they visited, again in the evening. This time there was a difference. There were lots of loud chatter and laughter. We were not allowed to to participate in any adult conversation but if luck was in, we would get the gist of the story from the post-mortems my mum would have with my dad. <br />
<br />
Dad was quiet. I wonder if Mum thought he was a bit dim as well because she would tell him stories in such great detail even though he never asked any questions. Sometimes she would repeat the details using different sentence structures and examples. In this way, we got all the needed details. But if we were to comment, she would give us an earful. So we absorbed and stored the stories. <br />
<br />
As mentioned, this visit was different. There was a gaiety about the couple who always had a touch of melancholy about them. There was more laughter as they left. Dad dropped them off at the bus station to catch the bus to Queenstown. When Mum came back she told all of us, "Did you hear that story?" That comment from her to us, was not the norm. We shook our heads and she announced,"After 17 years of marriage Mary Aunty is pregnant." We thought that she was too old to have children. She was older than my mother and by 28 my mother had all of us six children, to her credit. <br />
<br />
Even my Dad smiled and Mum could not contain her excitement. The next day she told Sulo's mother about it and she told her brothers, my grandparents and all our visitors. Everyone was happy and we children too joined in the joy of Mary Aunty's coming baby. Then one day she came shortly before the baby was born, to tell us that they had booked their berth on the SS Rajula and would sail to Madras when the baby was about 6 months old. Mary Aunty would stay for 6 to 8 months but Uncle would return after 2 months because he could not get long leave. <br />
<br />
Days passed. A letter arrived from India about Mary Aunty's visit in India and the joyous reception and welcome that was accorded to her and especially to the baby. Life went on. Uncle never visited us during his wife's absence. <br />
<br />
Then came the night that I can never forget. Mary Aunty and Uncle arrived at our gate. It was my brother's job to open our gate. The rest of us all ran to the gate, except for my father. There was a loud howl and Mary Aunty collapsed in Mum's arms. Mum cried and we were not sure what we were supposed to do. <br />
<br />
"What happened?" I asked and Mum told us brusquely to go take our books and study. This was serious. We took our books, sat around the dining table but could not concentrate. Mum and Mary Aunty sat on the porch. Uncle and my Dad looked at each other in uncomfortable silence. <br />
<br />
Mum told me to get her a hot drink. I made a cup of Nescafe and took it to the porch. "Why? Why? Why?" she wailed and I remember thinking that 'why' rhymed so perfectly with her, "aaaiii" kind of wail. She was heartbroken. Then she said, "Why did God give her to me for 14 months? Why? aaaiiii!"<br />
<br />
"Something has happened," I told the others at the table when I returned after completing my chore. The men just looked at each other and nodded. Occasionally they asked unimportant things about their job. At last Dad got up and got dressed to send them to the bus station. This was really serious because no dinner was prepared for the guests. Their visit was also not a long one. <br />
<br />
All of us at the table dutifully got up to say goodbye to Mary Aunty and her husband. With tear drenched eyes, she touched our cheeks and said, "Molay, Monay, we are going. I don't know when we will meet again. Study hard and do well". Then after a few more wails had been shared with my Mum, the four adults got into the car and drove off. A kind of sadness and a feeling of impending doom descended upon our house. <br />
<br />
Mum and Dad returned. All of us asked my mother what had happened. Mum then told us this story. <br />
<br />
"They had all set sail for India and had a very happy time. Their little girl learned to crawl, to sit, to stand and even to walk. She talked incessantly in her baby talk that her mother understood so well. Uncle had come back after two months, when the Baby was about 8 months old. Mary Aunty stayed on longer than she intended because her parents and her siblings wanted her to stay there with Baby. <br />
<br />
Then finally when the baby was about 14 months, Mary Aunty finally decided to return. She booked her berth and the entire family went from Mayyanad to Madras and on board the SS Rajula until just before the ship sailed. Everything was fine and she could not wait to meet her husband. It was an eight day journey. <br />
<br />
On the fifth day, the baby developed a slight fever. The doctor on board treated the baby. By late evening the baby became very ill and a couple of hours later passed away in Mary Aunty's arms. Mary Aunty became hysterical and would not let go of her baby. The doctor and the nurses took the baby away. That night when everyone had gone to bed, at the designated hour, the body was wrapped in white and was gently lowered into the sea. The flag was flown at half mast."<br />
<br />
"Mary Aunty spent the rest of the days in bed crying," Mum continued. "When the ship finally berthed and her husband came on board to meet her, she could hardly stand. She just held out her empty arms. Somehow Uncle knew." (Those were the days before the telephone.)<br />
<br />
We were all horrified. The thought of the poor little baby we had never seen, lowered into the dark ocean, all alone, carried deep down, sent a shiver through all of us. We sat around in silence. Mum with tears, Dad in his silence and the rest of us not wanting to look at each other. I was haunted by images of sea creatures and a frightened baby for many months after that visit. Until today, I do not like to view a sea by night. The dark mysteries of the deep sea, frighten me and the thought of that baby comes to mind. <br />
<br />
We never met Mary Aunty again. Both she and uncle left Singapore and went back to India. Letters from them stopped coming. When I think of Mary Aunty, I can hear her words, "God should not have given me a child. Why? Why? Why did he give me a child for only 14 months?"Siva Prasanna Krishnanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06210009726000818227noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4270544749004657709.post-31982240340041848392012-03-13T01:50:00.011-07:002012-03-17T09:02:19.878-07:00Moments in TimeLife is made up of snatches of moments. Moments that keep returning to us, to be replayed only in the theatres of our mind. This screening goes on, until memory starts to fail and the shows are deleted one by one. <br />
<br />
My mind has started the deleting process and before all my memories are deleted, I would like to write down what I remember, as vividly as my imagination and skills permit, so that others, may get a glimpse of the many events of my life as I remember them. <br />
<br />
I am a school teacher. A reluctant school teacher really, because I always knew that I did not want to become a teacher and yet became a teacher. And with the passing years, the different students I met in class and the memories of my own teachers when I was in school, I became a fairly good teacher. I believe I became a good teacher mainly because of the teachers I was fortunate to have had in my growing, learning years. <br />
<br />
It was while I was studying in Form 5B at the Convent of the Holy Infant Jesus, Johore Bahru in 1967, that my class teacher, the inimitable Mrs Ramakrishnan called me to her table one day, to get some information about my ambition. <br />
<br />
Mrs Ramakrishnan was certainly not a teacher. She was a breathing, living institution of learning that moulded us, not with smiles and friendly words but with an unvavering commitment to values, a relentless drive towards excellence and a consistency that tolerated no nonsense from any one of us 48 girls in the class who dared to even think of standing in her way, as she drove us in herds to achieve a Grade 1 in the Senior Cambridge Examination in November every year. <br />
<br />
The class was always silent, waiting with open books, before she entered. The class was silent except for the sound of fountain pen nibs on paper, when she remained in the class. The class remained silent long after she had left the class. <br />
<br />
But she was human because one day, when the bell rang for interval, she called out to me, "Siva, go to the canteen and get me an ice-cream," and she put twenty cents on my outstretched palm. "She eats ice-cream!" all of us said to each other. <br />
<br />
Who was that ogre who reduced us to silence with one look, you might well ask? She was a slim, fairly tall, fair skinned, sari clad lady who glided silently, in and out of classes and along the corridors of the Convent where she had once been a student. She was soft-spoken, rarely raised her voice during the rare occasions when she had to chide a student, and smiled a serene smile as her words, heavily tinged with sarcasm rained upon our spirit. Her hair was pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck and not a hair was out of place. She was never absent from school and never late to class. Lessons started without fail, about five seconds after she reached her table. <br />
<br />
One day, she called me to her table to ask me what my ambition was. I had so many ambitions that I could not articulate my thoughts within the 2 seconds that she allowed me. As I stammmered and stuttered a bit, Mrs Ramakrishnan my English Language, English Literature and History teacher grew impatient and asked caustically, "All right Siva, since you are having such a hard time deciding what you want to become, perhaps you can tell me what you do not want to become!"<br />
<br />
"Teacher!" I blurted out to the lady who was such a fine teacher and example to all of us girls. She glared at me, wrote down something on the card in front of her and nodded me off, back to my desk. I was wondering what on earth had stopped me from telling her that I was going to be a journalist covering the war in Vietnam, who would one day become a famous writer. <br />
<br />
Well at least everyone knew that I would not become a teacher and be stuck within the four walls of a classroom with children who did not want to study and who constantly criticised their teachers, like we all did. I consoled myself. <br />
<br />
Days passed happily into years which passed into the day I entered Form 5 in Sekolah Menengah Paloh Johore, in January 1976 as a fully trained teacher of English and History. I looked at the sea of 48 faces of 17/18 year old boys and girls and I remembered Mrs Ramakrishnan. I would push them to pass with a Grade 1. They were the last batch of English medium students in Malaysia. <br />
<br />
Clutching the new class register and a few textbooks that the teacher in charge of textbooks had given me, I called out their names and they stood up to be recognized. I remember the blue dress that I wore on my first day. I had bought it the weekend before from John Littles in Orchard Road. I smiled and they smiled back at me. Everything was fine. <br />
<br />
I told them to take out a piece of paper and write down some personal details that I needed for my register. After that I gave them some work and called them to my table one by one to confirm what they had written. About forty five of them had written, " Labourer, rubber tapper," to indicate their parents' occupation. No one had a telephone number. The majority lived in estates, including Landak Estate, where my husband was the Senior Assistant Manager. <br />
<br />
The words labourer and rubber tapper took me back to 1960 when I was first introduced to Geography in Standard 4. It was another two years before my Dad drove me to Scudai early one morning so that I could see tappers at work. They had a light fixed to their heads. I had proudly gone to school and declared, "I know what a rubber tapper looks like. He has a light on his head when he goes to work," and the girls had looked at me with a sense of ignorant wonder. <br />
<br />
I was 25 years old and my oldest students were almost nineteen and the youngest seventeen. Something changed in me, that morning as I checked their details. I knew somehow, in spite of my ignorant inexperience, that the future of those students in my class, lay in my hands. They could follow either in their parents' footsteps and work in the plantations, or walk in my footsteps and go to college. I also felt a reaslisation, that I could be the one making their choice of which footsteps to follow. The choice of the road taken or not taken, lay not just in their hands but also in mine. I took their hands, gripped them hard and marched forward.<em> </em> I marched and I marched for the next 36 years without losing my tight grip on the hands of my students - hands that were held tightly in mine. <br />
<br />
<u>Remembering My Teachers</u><br />
<br />
My first teacher, I failed to appreciate until after she left my life forever. My first lessons were Hindu prayers that my mother taught me to recite from the time I started to create meaningful sounds. As far back as my memory takes me, I hear my voice reciting prayers. I did not know their meanings but I understood the rituals. Washing my feet and hands, sitting cross-legged on a mat and facing a lighted lamp, chanting words that held no meaning for me other than that they were holy and the chanting was to be done seriously every evening at sunset. <br />
<br />
Then came the black slate and the brittle pencil-like device that was used to write on the wooden framed slate. I was careless and broke so many slates by dropping them, but my mother faithfully got me a new one and reminded me that when she was at school, she never broke a slate.<br />
<br />
I learned to write the vowel sounds, long and short sounds, in the Malayalam script. Once I had got the curly wurly bits right, I would write in one of those cheap exercise books with 40 pages. If my writing was not up to the mark, then I would have to re-write them. This laborious task was carried out twice a day for about two hours in the morning and two hours in the afternoon. Yes, there was a lunch break, but no afternoon naps.<br />
<br />
Slowly, I progressed from Book 1, bought from Peter's shop along Jalan Pahang, to Book 2 and Book 3. I learned to read short poems in Malayalam. I still recall two poems. One was about calling a sparrow to come to me and build a nest and it offering bits of straw and other material to build the nest together. The second poem was more patriotic and proclaimed Kerala as my land. Those lessons slowed down a bit when my father registered me at the Public School in Johore Bahru in 1955, so that I could study some English. <br />
<br />
<u>My First Proper School</u><br />
<br />
I was about three when my father enrolled my older brother at the Public School in Johore Bahru. My brother would walk to school with Narendran, the eldest son of Kunju Kannan Master. I used to wait for my brother to come back from school and regale me with stories of school. I was lonely in the house without my brother. Fear about school must have touched me for the first time, sometime then. <br />
<br />
One day when my mother removed his uniform to give him a bath, she noticed the mark of a cane on his back. She was very upset and told my father when he came home after work. My father was furious and went to the school at once. The Headmaster and Headmistress of the Public School, Mr and Mrs Samuel, lived in the school premises. I am not sure what transpired but I can take a guess knowing my father's temper, but my brother was never beaten again. <br />
<br />
Then one day, my father bought two pieces of fabric. One was red and the other white. My mother took me to the Chinese tailor who sewed all my clothes. Some days later, I went to the tailor to try on the two sets of uniforms that she had sewn for me. Those were exciting days. Every few hours I would open the cupboard and touch the red pinafore and white blouse and hold them to my face. I was finally growing up. <br />
<br />
Soon it was time to go to school and meet the Headmistress. My mother had coached me the whole afternoon on what to say and do. I walked into the office with my father. We sat in front of the Headmistress who did not smile at all. She pushed a book in front of me and told me to read. I saw a picture of a cat and read out, "C-A-T cat,". She looked up, frowned and said, "Cat,". I froze and never read another word in front of her, though my father coaxed me to read. <br />
<br />
I watched as my father signed some papers, paid some money, collected some books and spoke to her in English which I did not understand. I then walked home with him. He asked me why I did not read. I kept quiet and he did not bother me. My mother was more vocal, "They will think that you don't know anything. Did you tell them that you can read and write Malayalam?" I withdrew into the safe world of silence and thought, "That is an English school. Perhaps I should have told her that I could read Book 4."<br />
<br />
I am not sure who took me to school on the first day. I was placed in a large class with lots of windows. As I looked around I saw Sintokh Singh my grandmother's neighbour but he would not look at me. There were two other girls of my size, the rest were all bigger than I was. The teacher made us read after her and then copy the words from the textbook into our exercise book. There was an interval when we could leave the class and eat and drink what we had brought with us. <br />
<br />
I stood by myself and slowly took out the bottle that my mother had filled with fresh cow's milk. The teacher came to me and told me not to break the bottle and mess the place. I looked around and the other two girls had colourful plastic bottles. I felt ashamed of my 'gripe-water' bottle. They had orange juice. I wanted to hide the milk. So I put the bottle back in my bag and pretended I was not thirsty. When I returned home, my mother was most annoyed about the milk. She gave me a long lecture and told me that plastic bottles had a smell and should not be used to store hot drinks. <br />
<br />
I had lots of stories to tell about my first day. My mother told me that Sintokh Singh was 16 years old. My father then told me that the war had disrupted the studies of many students. Life was very difficult immediately after the war and adults and children had to work. Life was becoming easier and that was why there were many older students in the class together with me. I was almost five. <br />
<br />
The first few days were pleasant and I found myself to be a fairly fast learner, though I did not speak at all in class. Everyday, I brought the milk back home, went to the back of the house and poured it down the drain and returned the empty bottle to the kitchen. I have no idea if my mother guessed what I was doing with the milk. <br />
<br />
One morning as I was busy writing, I heard the sound of footsteps on the wooden staircase next to the class. Everyone became very quiet. The teacher said, "shh!" and placed her forefinger on her lips. I could not take my eyes off the staircase. I saw the feet first in a pair of black shoes. Then I saw the bottom of the sari, the waist, the blouse, the neck and finally the face of the unsmiling lady who had said,"Cat," to me in a very reprimanding tone a few weeks earlier. She must have been watching me for she walked into the class, and came up from behind me and stopped just behind my elbow. My fingers stilled and I waited for her to move. She did not move. I did not move and time did not move.<br />
<br />
As I waited, my heart beat faster. I felt it first because I never saw it coming. I believe she boxed me, jsut above my right ear. The shock and the fear, more than the pain made me cry out. I looked at her, saw her monster eyes and howled loudly with my eyes shut tight. Not a soul in the class moved. Not a sound was to be heard. Then over the sound of my howls, I heard the sound of her shoes as she moved away from me and out of the class. <br />
<br />
I am not sure how long I cried or when I stopped crying, but I was very sure from that moment, that school was not for me. I would go home and learn all the Malayalam that my mother, who never boxed me, taught me so patiently everyday. <br />
<br />
The next morning, I refused to go to school. I kicked up a great fuss and cried and begged. My mother allowed me to stay at home. That evening we visited our grandparents. From there we went to Murah Market. Mum bought me a pair of dangling ear-rings which pleased me a lot. I wore them for a while and then they began to pinch my ears and I removed them and put them in my bag. I meant to go to school and show them off.<br />
<br />
With a fast beating heart, I walked to school. I went to my desk, put my bag down and slowly took out my books and my pencil. While waiting for my teacher to come, I took out my new ear-rings and put them on. I swung my head in all directions to feel the ear-rings beating against the side of my face. No one noticed my ear-rings. <br />
<br />
"Siva! Siva!" I looked around and it was a boy sitting near me. He asked to see my ear-rings. I took one off and placed it in his hands. Then the teacher noticed my ear-ring, walked up to me and told me to take off the other one and give it to her, which I did. She then took the one from the boy and we all heard the footsteps on the stairs. Slowly they came down. This time I did not look up. I looked hard at the tip of my pencil, so near the paper and yet not touching it to leave the mark of a word. <br />
<br />
I heard whispered words and the footsteps came to my elbow. My name was called. I did not move. It was called again. I looked up and the mouth told me that my ear-rings were going to be taken away from me and I would not get them back. I said not a word and after school I went home in fear. My mother would surely want to see the ear-rings. <br />
<br />
That evening, Uncle Anandan and his new young wife, Aunty Indira visited us for the first time. We walked down the road to greet them and walked up to the house with them. Aunty looked at my face and commented, "You did not pierce her ears!" My mother proudly announced that none of her daughters would have pierced ears. Suddenly Mum looked at me and said, "Go and bring your new ear-rings and show aunty." I was scared. I did not have them. <br />
<br />
When we reached the house, mum reminded me again. I told her that I did not want to show anyone. Mother was shocked by my rudeness. Rudeness was not a trait that her children possessed. She must have been too shocked to pursue the matter. I had to get them back. The next day in school, I plucked up the courage to tell the teaher that my mother wanted the ear-rings immediately. I got the second shock when she left the class and came back to return my ear-rings. Perhaps the Headmistress remembered the meeting with my father after she had caned my brother. <br />
<br />
I just hated school. Every morning my mother would dress me up and take me to the front door of our house. I would cry and squat on the ground. Mum would take a little stick and threaten to beat me. I would run a few steps and squat on the ground. This went on until I reached the front of Maureen's house. Often Maureen's mother would talk to my mother and tell her not to force me. Mum would say that I had to be like Maureen and go to school. Maureen and I struck up a kind of friendship that lasted until our university days. My first school friend, Maureen Yong. I think, finally my father took me out of that school and taught me at home. <br />
<br />
to be contd.<br />
<br />
<u> </u>Siva Prasanna Krishnanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06210009726000818227noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4270544749004657709.post-27292815121522495802012-03-03T06:07:00.011-08:002012-03-04T05:00:32.521-08:00Can someone please give me the answers to my questions? Part 1There are so many questions that have no answers. How do I find the answers? I can ask and hope that someone will read this and give me the answers that I have been seeking for so many years now.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><u>Ques<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">tion 1</span></u></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">In the early 1950s my family lived in two rented rooms in a house that I believe belonged to a Chinese family, in Jalan Lumba Kuda. It was one of the houses in a row of link houses, facing the main road. There were no fences. There was a five-foot path when you stepped out of the front door and gravel beyond that until the road. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">When you entered the front dooor, there was a huge Chinese altar. There was a gigantic brass urn filled with sand and stuck into the sand were tall joss sticks emitting a pungent fragrance that I forever associate with the Chinese. I have always believed it to be a temple. I am not sure who lived on the first floor. We lived on the second floor. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">I have no recollections of having seen the owner but there was always an elderly matriach seated on a wooden armshair, with an ornate pin in her hair which had been fashioned into a bun. She wore black silk trousers and an embroidered top. She looked ancient and scanned us with a very domineering, sullen look at all times, her narrow eyes darting from left to right to let us know that she never missed anything. She never smiled and never acknowledged us. Perhaps to her we were not people.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Many people rented rooms on the second floor. We knew the Master Family. Mr Kunju Kannan Master who lived there with his wife and sons Narendran and Chandrahasan had been a French teacher in India, hence the title. To us, he was the chief tenant and everyone was in awe of him. But he did not merit a smile from the matriach and somehow that made him drop a bit in my esteem. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">The rooms were dark and dingy. Mum and Dad converted the rooms into a home for us. Today, that row of houses is no more. Who owned that house? Who was the old lady who presided in such an unfriendly but majestic manner from her chair, on the ground floor? What was the story of her life?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><u>Question 2</u></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">We moved from the two rooms into the newly built No 100, Jalan Lumba Kuda Lama. Our house was the first house in a row that comprised two similar houses and four shops, all linked. Our neighbours were all Chinese. In front of our house was a five-foot path and a drain.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">That drain came from the top of the road on the left and was a pretty shallow drain when it reached our house. After the second house, we had to go down two steps to pass the first shop house and two steps to pass the second shop house and two steps to pass the third shop house and a final two steps to come to the last shop house. The shallow drain became deeper and deeper as it went down and left our house to finally end somewhere. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Quite often, from somewhere, someone would send down a torrent of water that would sweep all debris out the drain. The fast flowing water was clean and we would hear it coming before it reached our house. We would then run outside and sit with our feet in the drain and let the water flow with force over our feet. The feel of the flowing water made us all laugh aloud gleefully. Our laughter would bring my mother out of the house and she would join in our joy with big, wide smiles. Where did the water come from and for what reason? When did they stop that and why?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><u>Question 3</u></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">In 1955, in front of our house there was a palatial mansion with a big, beautifully kept lawn. That is what I remember. At the end of the lawn stood a large, brick house. The house was occupied by an important Chinese family. They had a beautiful black German Shepherd. The dog was trained to pick up and take back to the thrower whatever was thrown. Whenever he came to our side of the road, we would throw a stick or a stone and it would bring it back to us. This would go on until someone from the house whistled for the dog to return home. Who lived in that house? Where are they now? What are their names?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><u>Question 4</u></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Our immediate neighours were Chinese. The main tenant of the house was a lady in her forties who had come from China. She was a very thin lady and she sold eggs in the market. She had three children. The eldest a daughter, Sau Siah, followed by two boys, Sau Meng and Sau Leng. They all attended the Foon Yew Chinese School in Jalan Trus. We called her simply Sau Siah's mother and when we spoke to her, called her Aunty. Her husband was a very thin man and I do not recall him working. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">She introduced us to ancestor worship. She would make cakes to be placed by the roadside in front of her house. She would burn joss sticks and paper money. We would go and sit by the road side at times. My parents had come from India and were conservative Indians. Soon Mum began to notice that they served their ancestors a day before or after we served our ancestors. We served in the privacy of a closed room. Theirs was a public affair. We began to notice many common religious ceremonies and customs too.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Where are the three children now? Does anyone know the people I am talking about? Sau Siah was about fifteen then. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><u>Question 5</u></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Sau Siah's mother sold eggs in the wet market.<em> </em>I have seen her squatting in a corner of the market, with a wire basket filled with eggs for sale. I am not sure if she sold anything else. She would leave early in the morning and return when the market closed in the evening, with some wilted vegetables, a small fish or a piece of fatty pork. I am not sure how much money she made and how she ran her household. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">That house had two rooms. She rented out one to a Teow Chew family. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Once a year there used to be a grand market festival that attracted lots of people. Sau Siah's mother would tell us about it. We would wait eagerly for my father to take all of us to the market in the evening. The wet market would be so clean and dry. We would walk from decorated stall to decorated stall but not buy anything except some fruit perhaps. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Whole roasted pigs, chickens,ducks, fruits and vegetables were offered to the <em>Market God</em> . There would be the fragrance of joss sticks. The fruit stalls would be laden with imported and local fruits, so would the vegetable stalls. I recall seeing not just Chinese stall keepers but also stalls of other races. What was the significance of the market festival? When did that stop and why?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><u>Question 6</u></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">In 1957, my parents enrolled me at the Convent of the Holy Infant Jesus in Jalan Yahya Awal. They also found a Malay trishaw man to ferry me and Abhi to school. He was a very kind man and the journey from Jalan Lumba Kuda Lama to the Convent was a most leisurely and enjoyable ride with the wind blowing on our faces. He sometimes shared his food with me. Is there anyway anyone can remember a trishaw rider ferrying two young Indian children to school in January 1957? Unlikely. But miracles never cease. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><u>Question 7</u></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">In the middle of 1957 after Uncle Anandan found Abhi and me pushing the trishaw up the hill in front of Cathay cinema in the evening after school, the trishaw man's services were terminated and a Chinese driver in a black car took us to school. That driver gave me my first ang pow in 1958. There was a 20 cent coin in the red packet. I was so thrilled and till today the sight of a red packet fills me with joy. Who is that Chinese driver? And what was the name of the kind, fatherly man who took good care of us young children?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">The other students in that car included two Eurasian brothers Albert Scully who was ten and Dennis who was 8. The brothers were mischievous and they would bully me. I kept quiet and was scared of them. They had a younger sister, Patricia who was five. The boys studied in St Joseph's School. Where are the Scully boys now? They used to live in Majidee. Sometimes when the car dropped them off first I had seen their father in his army uniform, he would be carrying Patricia on his shoulders!</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><u>Question 8</u></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Down the road leading to the railway station, there was a big wooden house on the left. An Indian family lived there and they kept cows and had a big curry leaf plant. Mum would send me with a tumbler to get some yoghurt and curry leaves. The lady would pat my head and speak to me in Tamil which I did not understand and give me lots of smiles and a feeling of love and safety. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">She was older than my mother. She charged a few cents for the yoghurt. She was a slim lady, very tanned and had curly hair. We simply called her the 'milk lady'. I would run to her place with the tumbler once I got back from school. Sometimes Mum would ask me to get some curry leaves as well. When I returned with the yoghurt, I would have lunch with my mother. Where is that family and what are their names?</span>Siva Prasanna Krishnanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06210009726000818227noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4270544749004657709.post-89823542122331164072012-02-05T22:47:00.000-08:002012-02-07T05:09:46.654-08:00Finding Ranjit - Letters from Ranjit<div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">6 February 2012</span><br />
<div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">4 February 2012</span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="SandboxScopeClass ExternalClass" id="mps0_MsgContainer"><div><div><span style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div dir="ltr"><span dir="ltr"><span style="font-size: large;">Dear Ranjit<br />
<br />
It is really a touch from the past reading your mail, it's like a breeze that blows over your face once in while, bringing to your mind memories, names, faces and dialogues spoken by people who had lived and moved in another age and had left your life. We always enjoyed your visits to our house and our visits to yours. Your Dad's decision to leave was sudden, or so it appeared to us. We came to the harbour to send you off and did you all not sail on the SS Rajula? As the ship moved away from the shores of spore, we felt such a sense of sadness, most probably because my mother was such a dramatic soul and she could cry so easily and just as easily be smiling the next minute. <br />
<br />
I visited Kerala with my parents in 1987 and stayed in Paravur with Aunty Savithri's sister Leela. Your parents visited and your mum told me that you were truly unhappy about the move to India. She mentioned that your younger brother led a spiritual life and if i am not mistaken she too, became quite spiritual. <br />
<br />
I am really sad to hear of your Dad passing away. I lost my mother ten years ago and i dont think i shall ever come to terms with it. Parents are irreplaceable, more so because people like my mother who was an immigrant here, with her unique ways, her values, her views and most of all her sense of humour are hard to find. My dad has been living alone in jb with a maid. The last maid left and i brought him to my place. I live in Ipoh, a town that tin built, which is half way between Kuala Lumpur and Penang in the north. Suresh and his family came this morning from JB and i told him about how i had found you. I rang my older brother last night. He called me early this morning and i told him that i had not checked my mail. Today has been a busy day, with me taking dad to the doctor, then for lunch, then arranging Sharmilas trip to KL and going out with my son and suresh and family for dinner and finally i am here. <br />
<br />
Sharmila's husband and mine went to the same school in Ooty. When Sharmila was visiting Kl a couple of years ago, and it was posted on the Old Georgians, I contacted her and met up with her. She contacted me again recently to say that she would be in Ipoh this time and I brought her over to my house. She posted on FB and yesterday she asked me if i had a cousin Ranjit D and i said no. Then she said he was in spore and suddenly there was illumination. I could not believe it. <br />
<br />
My older brother Prabha, called Valsan at home, is married to Joyce of Chinese and Sri Lankan parentage, has daughter and a son-in-law from San Salvador, and two grandchildren. He became a Christian and teaches troubled children and his wife teaches autistic children. <br />
<br />
I am the second and my husband was a planter and is a consultant based in Phnom Penh. Currently he works for Ruchi an Indian company. I retired from govt service as the principal of the Methodist Girls School and am currently the principal of a private school. <br />
<br />
My sister Sree or called Sheela, has settled in australia and she has four children and two grandchildren. She is currently in Italy where her husband is based for a very short period of time. Her husband is British/Australian. <br />
<br />
Next is sobha, who lives in Kent, UK. She has one daughter whose wedding I attended last May. Her husband is English.<br />
<br />
Next is Harish, who is married, has two children and lives in Australia. His wife is German.<br />
<br />
Last is Suresh who is your brother's age. He is married and has an eight year old son. His wife is Malay. He is currently visiting me since my dad is with me now. <br />
<br />
When the British left, it was difficult for us too. My dad wanted to go to UK but mum did not want to leave her family, especially her mother. Dad could not get a job because of his age and also because he was not the right race and did not have the qualifications that prospective employers were looking for. I graduated in 73, majored in English and the only job going at that time was teaching. Slowly the others completed their education and we moved on. The days of visiting relatives came to an end. <br />
<br />
Mum sold her ancestral home and there were lots of heated arguments in our house over that. I now wish she had not sold it and that we could have built a home there on that land, which is now occupied by her first cousin. <br />
<br />
So our grandfathers were first cousins. I must slowly work out the family tree.<br />
<br />
I have started writing down what I remember of our lives in JB and the people in my life. </span><a href="http://prasannakrishnanspeaks.blogspot.com/2011/09/i-am-my-fathers-daughter-and-proud-to.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: #0066cc; font-size: large;">http://prasannakrishnanspeaks.blogspot.com/2011/09/i-am-my-fathers-daughter-and-proud-to.html</span></a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://prasannakrishnanspeaks.blogspot.com/2011/08/day-in-life-and-times-of-15-jalan-dhoby.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: #0066cc; font-size: large;">http://prasannakrishnanspeaks.blogspot.com/2011/08/day-in-life-and-times-of-15-jalan-dhoby.html</span></a><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">It might tell you a bit of our lives<br />
<br />
I was in delhi for about a week at the end of 2010, if only I had known that you were there. We have relatives who live/lived in gujerat, my grandfahter's nephew and his family, are they still there?<br />
<br />
My regards to your wife and family. <br />
<br />
Do keep in touch. <br />
<br />
With fond regards<br />
<br />
prasanna</span></span></div><div dir="ltr"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></div><div dir="ltr"></div></div></div></div><br />
<div dir="ltr"><span dir="ltr" style="font-size: large;">4 February 2012</span></div><div dir="ltr"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></div><div dir="ltr"><span dir="ltr" style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: large;">Dear Prasanna,</span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: large;"> When I spotted your name on an FB posting by Sharmila I was somehow certain who she was referring to. Oddly, I am not much on FB and rarely post anything, but passively check it every now and then to see what my friends are doing. On the other hand I (and Sharmila) are part of a yahoo group which sees some incredibly furious discussions on every possible topic under the sun. The binding factor is that all of us went to missionary schools in a former Portuguese enclave called Tangasseri on the Kerala coast. </span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: large;"> I think I have a lot of talking to do after what must be close to half a century. Our relocation to India was not entirely happy and to this day I wonder what got into my Dad – though the sudden assertion of the Chinese community after Brits left Singapore had a lot to do with it. Anyway we ended up smack in the middle of a large joint-family run by my maternal grandmother in Quilon district (of which Tangasseri is an enclave). For some years it was fine – sprawling house set in a two-acre compound and not a care in the world because of revenues coming in from coconuts and paddy lands. But the day my grandmother died things fell apart. Suffice it to say we saw 20 years of litigation after that before a settlement of properties could happen. </span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: large;"> Jeeva and I escaped most of it, she because she got married and settled down to a career as a college lecturer along with her husband – a chemistry lecturer, fulfilling a prophecy made in a horoscope drawn up by your astrologer grandfather (first cousin to my grandfather). Jeeva has a daughter who is currently doing a masters in architecture in Mangalore. I too escaped because I got admission to the Jawaharlal Nehru University in Delhi in 1979 and drifted into a career in writing and journalism. </span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: large;"> That left my parents and my younger brother, Rajeev, to carry on litigation to regain our share of the properties in Quilon. They first moved to Paravur (I think you and your parents visited while they were there) for a couple of years before moving on to a place called Puthur (Kottarakkara) where my mother had her ancestral home. Those were happy times, because we were once again on our own as a nuclear family and had sufficient land there to be comfortable. I would visit them every six months or so, often with my own family in tow – yes, I got married to Naintara, my colleague at the news agency I was working for in Delhi in 1991. That has resulted in a son, Lokesh, now in college doing BSc in Life sciences, a daughter, Vani, appearing for her school finals and, post scriptum, a son, Chintu, now in the first standard. </span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: large;"> Rajeev, meanwhile, got involved in a spiritual centre called the Santhigiri Ashram (reminds me of your uncle Sivadasan in Johore Bahru) located about 20 km north of Trivandrum. He and his wife, Archana (she is from Delhi, but met my brother on a visit to the ashram and ended up marrying him), work there. My mother now lives with them - dad having passed away about four years ago. </span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: large;"> That in gist, is what has been happening with us. I last met your parents in Delhi around 1982 where they had to flee because some people were trying to create tax problems for them (that’s Kerala for you) Never thought that would be the last time I would ever see them. They were such wonderful, kind and loving people. </span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"> It’s your turn now. </span></span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: large;"> Ranjit </span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><br />
</div></div></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Dear Prasanna,</span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"> Your letter and the blogs made great reading. Glad you are recording all those memories in that very readable style. I could relate to all of that 100 percent - No 15 Jalan Dhobi was more than a home, it was an institution. I’ve heard it said that it originally belonged to a Japanese officer and was acquired by ‘Shranku’, your grandfather’s wealthy elder brother. Shranku later settled in Nedungolam, near Paravur and whenever we passed the place my father would talk about him. One of Shranku’s daughters was married to a Mr. Soman who went off to the UK when the Brits departed. His two sons studied in the Infant Jesus High School in Tangasseri. </span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"> It is interesting how important the Quilon (Kollam) bay is in our lives, because it has Tangasseri at the northern tip and Paravur (Pozhikkara) on the south end of a curve that cradles Mayyanad and Eravipuram. So many families in Singapore and Malaysia have connections with this magical bay that has attracted the Portuguese and Dutch sailing ships, and in earlier times, Roman galleons, Arab dhows and Chinese junks. </span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"> Our trips to Johore were always punctuated by a stop at Jalan Dobhi. I used to bury myself in the vast collection of books and encyclopedias acquired I think by your uncle (Sivaprasad). I am sorry to hear of his passing and I know what you mean by a final link being broken with 15, Jalan Dhobi. (He used to drop by every now and then at our house in Sembawang Hills Estate and remark on the better standards of education in Singapore.) But best the best part of Johore was when we finally reached your place. You all seemed so bright, cheerful and savvy. Even wrote to the Kennedys and got black and portraits from them. </span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"> Valsan and I were forever arguing about which was better – Singapore or Malaysia. I recall the large compound with the muringa tree in one corner and curious objects like a hammock and inflatable beds (some were passed on to us and we still have them stored away). Also your collection of records. Even now when I hear ‘Sukiyaki’ I am transported back to Jalan Abdul Samad. Wonder if Uncle Krishnan remembers how he took us for a drive to the Johore Sultan’s palace grounds and he was stopped by a policeman for speeding and had to pay a fine. Yes, when the S.S. Rajula pulled away from Singapore harbour I could feel a tug in my heart. Not sure if I was puking from that or sea-sickness. I can understand your mother's feelings, because she really did regard my dad as a brother. Whenever dad and mom used to argue about who was the better cook, he would brag about how he made the sambar for Prasadini's wedding and everybody praised him for it. </span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"> I spoke with my mother on the phone this morning and told her about the reconnect – she was absolutely happy. She is in touch with Sarojini aunty in Serangoon Garden over the phone every now and then and they have many valuable recollections of those times gone by. We heard about Prasadini aunty's passing from Sarojini aunty. She is somehow related to ‘Photographer’, the uncle you mention in the blog, who went away to Ceylon and vanished. You really must continue with that blog while these people are still around. </span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"> Why not come over to Delhi again? I would like to meet Chandra - Ruchi, if I am not mistaken, is headquartered in Hyderabad. Does his job require him to come to India? Pls give my love and regards to the others – Valsan, Sheela, Shobha, Harish and Suresh. Do tell Uncle Krishnan that there is someone in Delhi who hold him dear and remembers him as a truly kind and strong soul. </span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"> I will send you some pics later and you must do likewise. We are in touch. Ranjit </span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><div dir="ltr"><span style="font-size: large;">6 February</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Dear Ranjit</span><br />
<br />
<div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">I am writing a blog: Discovering Ranjit - Letters from Ranjit. Aren't we all pieces of the jigsaw of life, as we move on the pieces fall into place somehow and the hand that finds the pieces come into our lives in such a roundabout manner too. The hand of Sharmila!!!!! The last person I expected, to bridge us. </span></span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">I brought my dad to stay with me. Two days ago he told the doctor that he would like to go back to Johor baru. As soon as i can arrange the maid, i will send him back. I want him to be happy and not feel that he is not in control of his life and where he stays. </span></span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">Please do write and do send me photographs, both old and new. Send me photographs of mayyanad. tell me about kakootimoola, kootikada.</span></span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-size: small;"> With warm regards to all of you</span></span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-size: small;"> prasanna</span></span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";">7 February 2012</span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"></span><br />
<div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">Dear Prasanna,</span></span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-size: small;"> Delighted and flattered to be part of this great enterprise. Who knows? A book may eventually come out of all these outpourings. A book that connects that bridges Malabar and Malaya (neither exists today) and tells of the travels and travails of so many interesting characters whose lives linked these two former British territories. More specifically it should deal with that beautiful bay that is Quilon, a town linked by an ancient railway (more than century old) to the port city of Madras (now Chennai) that enabled people to embark for Malaya via the P&O liner, S.S. Rajula. Some boat that, converying people and hopes and disappointments. </span></span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">Motorcycle incident: Yes, that was my dad’s dear friend Botak Bhasy. Don’t know if he is still alive, but he later married a lady from a publisher family that ran a printing press called ‘Karyalayam’ -not even sure if it exists now. But that incident left my father with a lifelong aversion to motorcycles and he ner got on one again. In fact, my brother and I were both banned from even riding pillion. </span></span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">Uncle Soman: He was one of those people who took advantage of the ‘UK and Colonies’ passport offered to people working for the British army. Both his sons studied in Tangasseri. The name Romeo was an unfortunate choice because of the un-Shakespearean connotation. Uncle Soman was a frequent visitor, mainly because he was caretaker of a house in Jalan Mengkudu, the lane next to Jalan Lanjut in Sembawang Hills Estate. </span></span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">Mayyanad and Paravur: Coastal towns on either side of the Paravur kayal (backwater rather than lake) and there is a sort of healthy rivalry between these two areas. Paravur got the upper hand because it managed to get a high school (Kottapuram) established before Mayyanad. Behind the school is the Ollal Siva temple with which the family from which our grandfathers came from is linked. As I understand it a legal dispute over land had arisen between the two branches a long time ago, but they continued to maintain ties as befits members of a ‘koottar’. They even saw the need to reestablish ties by getting one of Dad’s younger brothers (he had four), Sreenivasan, to marry Savitri, a first cousin of Prasadini aunty (father’s sister’s daughter). The four children from that marriage are mostly in Dubai or Abu Dhabi, which long ago overtook Malaysia and Singapore as destinations for enterprising Malayalis. Anyway, it is like that motorcycle crash – they seem to fight easily and make up just as easily. </span></span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">I can fill in you in on bits like the above, but you must make a ‘field trip’ to Mayyanad and Paravur.</span></span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-size: small;">We’ll keep in touch. Rgds, Ranjit</span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="SandboxScopeClass ExternalClass" id="mps0_MsgContainer"><div><div><span style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><div dir="ltr"><span dir="ltr"></span> </div><div dir="ltr"><span dir="ltr">7 February 2012</span></div><div dir="ltr"><span dir="ltr">Dear Ranjit<br />
<br />
I have never been known to be a great letter writer and therefore along the way have lost friends due to my inertia. But you are family and that too family we really enjoyed having as family. <br />
<br />
Last night i spoke to my older brother. He said that Uncle Soman the electrician is your Dad's brother. Please confirm. And his wife, travelled with us to India in 1973. Where is she and the family?<br />
<br />
I do believe that a book will emerge from this, collective recollections and there are enough skeletons in the cupboards to satisfy diverse potential readers. The skeletons are barely locked up. The people who came were brave, had hopes and dreams and many led make-believe lives - the story spun and believed in India was not evenly remotely similar to the kind of lives they lived in malaya/spore. I remember a particular relative, he lived in shared rented rooms in singapore and when he passed away in India, his wife believed that he was the owner of a house in Singapore and that his relatives here had gotten hold of his property nefariously. They worked for meagre amounts, saved almost all, sent home the money and visited ocassionally with gifts and foreign clothes and the entire clan would come and strip him of all that he had brought and send him back to slavery for another few years. <br />
<br />
Motorcyle incident, yes that was uncle Bhasy and yes he was called Botak after his shiny scalp. He had a certain air about him and he too travelled with us when we went to India in 73 on board the ss rajula. His daughter and I were particularly close. I believe that you had left spore when she, Sudha fell ill and was diagnosed with liver cancer. She passed away in 75. Her mother was a very strong lady, who used to give maths tuition, dressed in white, sported a curly untidy hairstyle and was a little sarcastic at the best of times, very unlike the run of the mill malayali ladies who said the right things in front of you and what they really felt behind you. Her father went to India soon after Sudhas death and he passed away in India. Aunty stayed on in Spore with her son, who i have to say most painfully is an evil boy. He can talk and act. His story comes for another day. He was evil towards his mother, got her property, sold it all off and is somewhere in Israel now preaching. One day he shaved off his mother's hair, kept her locked in her room with minimum clothes - i told you he is evil. Finally he sent her off to India and if the local stories are to be believed, she was no longer of sound mind and passed away there - in the 90s i believe. I was fond of her and uncle too but not Sudesh Bhasy. <br />
</span></div><div dir="ltr"> Romeo - the first time he visited and my son had to entertain them, i thought that he was too quiet ( i did not meet him, only heard a lot from my very articulate son). But when he brought his parents to visit me a couple of years ago, i could not fault him in any way, the politeness, the care, the sincerity towards his parents - could not have been an act. His wife is by all accounts a very friendly lady. I have not met her. I wonder why Uncle Soman named him Romeo. </div><div dir="ltr"> </div><div dir="ltr">Tell me about Mamooty Palam - the bridge that my mother said was a huge one and a frightening one. I could not get any information via google. Do tell me about Vellamanal School, my mother's alma mater. Do you know her best friend, aunty Rukmini who was a teacher and a headmistress and a politician of sorts too. Came from mayyanad. I do not know Ollal Siva temple and the link to our families. Please do put into writing what you know. Which Savithri are you referring to? My grandfather's sister's daughter?? Which sister? I really have to make a trip to Mayyanad. How often do you return to Kerala? I stayed with an aunty Savithri who is related to my maternal grandmother. A very beautiful lady with a great love story. </div><div dir="ltr"> </div><div dir="ltr">Where do you work? What exactly do you do? Do tell me about your family, your wife, your daughter, life in Delhi and how you ended up there. Do you remember aunty subadhra and her husband uncle raghavan? they lived in serangoon road, upstairs in a shop house, they had two boys and two girls. The boys are Suni who came back to spore and Prem, who passed away in spore when he was ten. Their daughters are Chitra who is a teacher in quilon or thereabouts and Latha who is a doctor, medical lecturer in Trivandrum. Aunty subadhra passed away before i visited kerala in 97. Uncle had passed away in spore. </div><div dir="ltr"> </div><div dir="ltr">do you remember uncle Bhasy's younger brother, uncle kamalan, whom we referred to karutha kamalan obviously because there was another kamalan who was not so dark skinned. </div><div dir="ltr"> </div><div dir="ltr">I believe we can write a book that will appeal to people outside our family.</div><div dir="ltr"> </div><div dir="ltr">regards to all</div><div dir="ltr"> </div><div dir="ltr">prasanna</div><div dir="ltr"> </div><div dir="ltr">today is Thaipusam day, a public holiday in parts of malaysia and spore. </div></span></span></div></div></div><br />
<br />
7 Feb 2012<br />
<div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Dear Prasanna,</span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span> </span>The electrician Uncle Soman that Valsan is referring to is my Dad’s cousin – his father’s sister’s son. <span> </span>Passed away many years ago. His wife Padmavati lived with her two daughters very near to my grandfather’s home in the Koonayil area of Paravur. The elder girl, Bindu, is married to a lawyer. <span> </span></span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span> </span>Botak Bhasy used to live smack in the middle of Chinatown. I remember that Sudha used to speak fluent Chinese and was otherwise brilliant.<span> </span>Sad to hear about his wife and the younger son. It really is unusual for anyone in our crowd to be ‘evil’ in this way. <span> </span>Jealously, dissimulation, backbiting and all of the human frailities – but they were incapable of being evil. <span> </span></span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span> </span><span> </span>Savithri is the daughter of Sharada, one of the three sisters of your grandfather (and Shranku and Photographer – they were six in all).<span> </span>She would have been a cross-cousin (murapennu) to my uncle Srinivasan and therefore eligible. <span> </span>Such alliances were common in the past and designed to keep families together as they naturally diverge down generations. <span> </span>In this case there was also a legal dispute over land (close to the Paravur railway station.) <span> </span></span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span> </span>I do remember Uncle Raghavan and Aunty Subhadra in that shop house on Serangoon road - <span> </span>and the children.<span> </span>Lost touch with them. Certainly know Uncle Kamalan, a frequent visitor to the house in Geylang where we used to live with Saroja (now settled in Sydney, Australia) before shifting to Sembawang Hills Estate in 1960. <span> </span>The Geylang house had a large basement with a stairway leading up to the main part. Jeeva, and I used to slide down the banister either taking turns or together. <span> </span><span> </span>One day, when Uncle Kamalan was visiting, we picked up so much momentum that both of us sailed into some rose bushes and Jeeva had to be rushed to hospital (by Uncle Kamalan) to take stitches on her forehead. </span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span> </span><span> </span>I <span> </span>will skip Mamooty Palam (the narrow railway bridge connecting Mayyanad and Paravur) and Ollal temple till I know more. I too am an expatriate of sorts – in many ways Delhi is like another country - and then my wife Naintara is not a Malayali. <span> </span></span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span> </span><span> </span>I left Kerala in 1978, after getting admission in the Jawaharlal Nehru University in New Delhi. I have tried to visit Kerala at least once a year, but got into journalism which is a demanding profession in India. <span> </span>Over the last 12 years I have been working for the Inter Press Service an international news agency which specialises in development reporting.<span> </span></span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><span> </span>For years I steered clear of matchmakers, because I’d become wary of Malayalis. I was just settling into life as a confirmed bachelor when I met Naintara.<span> </span>She was a trainee at the United News of India news agency (a lot like Bernama) where I worked as staff correspondent.<span> </span>We had completely different backgrounds and yet <span> </span>we could laugh and joke together. Before we knew it things got pretty serious – like in the script of some Hindi movie. Realising that the course of true love never did run smooth we decided to present her Kashmiri Brahmin parents with a fait accompli. So one fine morning, with support from our closest friends, <span> </span>we went to an Arya Samaj temple and went through the ceremony. Fortunately, her parents took <span> </span>a very enlightened way. <span> </span>Her father, then a top executive with a public sector engineering firm, made just one request – that he be allowed to have a proper and formal ceremony conducted with all his colleagues and clans people present.<span> </span>I readily agreed. My parents, thanks to those years in Singapore, took a broadminded view as well. </span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">More in the next instalment, <span> </span>Rgds, Ranjit </span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><br />
</div></div></div></div></div></div>Siva Prasanna Krishnanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06210009726000818227noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4270544749004657709.post-55858601419494043022012-01-23T07:15:00.000-08:002012-01-23T07:15:14.559-08:00Remembering Ashiwini and the lesson I learned: It is not important to be right, it's important to be kindI have learned many lessons from my students. As I sit here trying to get some words out on to the screen, I remember one lesson I learned from Ashiwini - should I be right or should I be kind?<br />
<br />
She was in Form 5 and the school was preparing for the Joint Installation of the Interact Clubs of SM Tenby and SMK Dr Megat Khas in Ipoh. The venue: our school. There was the usual last minute hustle and bustle to get all things right before the guests arrived at 4 p.m.<br />
<br />
I did not teach any class in SM Tenby in 2009. I saw her and told her to tuck in her shirt. She did not want to do it and I insisted that she went to the washroom to do it. She was sad but she did it. Only when she left did it strike me that that uniform is not suitable for those who are not very slim. Throughout the evening, I had a bad feeling within me, as my conscience smote me for my unkind deed. At the end of the day, I did not meet her. <br />
<br />
A few days later, I met her along the corridor. I spoke to her and I am glad I had it in me to apologise to a student for a mistake I had made. I told her that I was sorry for telling her to do it. She then spoke to me of her cancer, the treatment, how she had bloated up, the embarrassment of having to tuck in. After that she was always very friendly and would speak to me whenever our paths crossed. <br />
<br />
Then one day, my dearest Art Teacher Michelle Lim decided to put me on Facebook. Ashiwini requested to be accepted. She had left school and had gone to KL to further her education. I am sure she remembers the kindness of Mr Louis Rozario, her Principal when she was in Form 5. She used to send me greetings and I used to respond. <br />
<br />
In 2011 I heard that she had suffered a relapse. I wrote to her a number of times but got no response. I tracked down her contact number and called her. She was in Ipoh and on the spur of the moment I decided to visit her at her home. That evening I had dinner with Mr and Mrs Ham. Mr Ham told me to park my car at home and very kindly offered to drive me to her place. I did not have an address, only a general direction. <br />
<br />
We went up and down every street and asked people on the street. Finally she answered her phone and gave me the address. She was at the hospital. Her parents dropped her home and they went on to pick up her medicines. Mr and Mrs Ham, my maid and I spent about an hour with her. She had lost her hair due to chemo. Mrs Ham was most understanding and loving. She spoke to her at length, speaking most positively.<br />
<br />
In the second week after she started chemo, she would have sores that started from outside her mouth and went all the way down her throat, making speech impossible. She was waiting for a bone marrow transplant. When we left that night, she said that she was going into hospital the following day, she would call and when she was well, she would communicate via Facebook. <br />
<br />
Little did i know that I would never see her alive again. Today, 23rd January 2012, the first day of the new Chinese Lunar Calendar, she passed away at 4.45 p.m. in Kuala Lumpur. May her soul rest in peace. Our thoughts are with her and her grieving family.<br />
<br />
I recall vividly the day when I spoke to her about her uniform. It was not important that I was right about the way to wear the uniform. It was important that I should have been kind instead towards a pupil, that I did not bruise a child's heart, a child's feelings. Since that day, I have constantly told my teachers: Be kind to the students. When they are sad, listen to them. You don't have to argue that you are right, that the child deserved it. If it is within your capacity to change a situation and make the child happy, do it.<br />
<br />
To all adults who read this, when a child is sad, address his distress, you are so much older than he is. <br />
<br />
Ashiwini was an only child to her parents.Siva Prasanna Krishnanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06210009726000818227noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4270544749004657709.post-77382853135595389652011-12-29T05:37:00.000-08:002011-12-29T05:37:59.063-08:00I found the salve for my disturbed self"If you focus on the person who does the wrong thing, then you have anger. If you focus on the issue, then you have compassion. Worrying does not change anything and it only brings pains. Uncertainty is a natural phenomenon. It is a fact and we need to accept it. Just prepare and do our best!" - Ringu Tulku Rinpoche, The 7th Global Conference on Buddhism.<br />
<br />
The last one month has been a torment for me. Today, one of my ex-students posted this on facebook and it cleared my thoughts for me. <br />
<br />
<ol><li>Let me not focus on the person or persons causing the problems. </li>
<li>Let me focus on the issue - not a clean heart. But then who am i to judge them? I am looking for the compassion. Let me find it. </li>
<li>I shall worry no more and am already looking forward to my weekend at the PJ Hilton and the coming new year. I am not able to go with my sister to Italy in January but I shall go with her, if she goes, to New York in July. </li>
</ol>Siva Prasanna Krishnanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06210009726000818227noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4270544749004657709.post-52896943889286761982011-12-25T22:24:00.000-08:002011-12-25T22:48:10.553-08:00The river flowed in tranquility ... and the thought came randomly ... If guns kill people, do pencils misspell words?<div align="left" class="style2"><em><span style="color: #073763;">Water is fluid, soft, and yielding. But water will wear away rock, which is rigid and cannot yield. As a rule, whatever is fluid, soft, and yielding will overcome whatever is rigid and hard. This is another paradox: what is soft is strong</span></em>. - <span style="color: #073763;">Lao-Tzu </span></div><div align="left" class="style2"><br />
</div>December 2011<br />
<br />
This has been one month that dished out varying trying times and moments but as has been said, " <em>the heart would have no rainbows if the eyes had no tears</em>". The smiles and joy of celebration captured on paper, for us to sit back alone and enjoy with nostalgia, a moment that has passed and never would return. Captured on paper.<br />
<br />
<img alt="" aria-busy="true" aria-describedby="fbPhotosSnowboxCaption" border="0" class="spotlight" height="240" src="http://a4.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc6/269508_10150221187931966_587086965_7252241_2908181_n.jpg" width="320" /><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-size: x-small;">L-R: Mrs Ignatius, me, Nithiya holding Manesh, (Standing L-R)</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: x-small;">Raymond Tate, Mrs Tate, Shyla Thomas, Alexine at Janice's</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: x-small;">wedding reception</span></em><br />
<br />
Captured on paper? What else is captured on paper, that comes back with a haunting echo and eats into your soul at night, snatching away your sleep, pricking your conscience, tormenting your very being, for the words that you have written? Words that will affect the joys, contentment, emotions and lives of others. Others who trust you to stand up for them in honesty and fairness. The words of Nelson Mandela can be modified to speak for my teachers. <br />
<br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Verdana;"><em>"I regard it as a duty which I owed, not just to my teachers, but also to my profession, to the practice of education, and to the justice for all mankind, to cry out against any form of discrimination which is essentially unjust and opposed to the whole basis of the attitude towards justice which is part of the tradition of education worldwide. I believed that in taking up a stand against this injustice I was upholding the dignity of what should be an honorable profession." </em></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="color: black;">You are holding up the ...<em> </em></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="color: black;">My ears were saturated with words describing the inadequacies of everyone except two or three. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="color: black;">Is this justice? </span></span><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Give her an ___ (tongue in cheek)</span></em><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Yes, it was accepted. No words of inadequacies spewed forth. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Have mercy on me, dear lord. I looked back at great teachers to find out what they had to say:</span><br />
<br />
<div align="left" class="style2">"<em><span style="background-color: white; color: #073763;">If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor. If an elephant has its foot on the tail of a mouse and you say that you are neutral, the mouse will not appreciate your neutrality</span></em>."<span style="color: #073763;"> Bishop Desmond Tutu</span></div><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: x-small;">Another view</span></em><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #073763;">"<em>Cowardice asks the question: is it safe? </em></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;"><em>Expediency asks the question: is it politic? </em></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;"><em>Vanity asks the question: is it popular? </em></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;"><em>But conscience asks the question: is it right? </em></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763;"><em>And there comes a time when one must take a position that is neither safe, nor politic, nor popular- but one must take it simply because it is right</em>.” - Martin Luther King Jr. 1929-1968</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">Anonymous</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #073763;"></span><br />
<div align="left" style="line-height: 100%; margin: 2px; text-indent: 0px; word-spacing: 2px;"><br />
</div><div align="left" style="line-height: 100%; margin: 2px; text-indent: 0px; word-spacing: 2px;"><span style="color: black;">In 1965 I was in Form 3. I studied Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice and I had to memorize the speech made by Portia. Each passing year as I re-read the speech I learnt something new, something profound. Today, I go back to Portia seeking an answer.</span></div><div align="left" style="line-height: 100%; margin: 2px; text-indent: 0px; word-spacing: 2px;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="style2"><em><span style="color: #073763;">The quality of mercy is not strain'd, <br />
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven <br />
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest: <br />
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes. --Shakespeare</span></em></div><div align="left" class="style2"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="style2"><span style="color: black;">Christmas eve has come and both Nithiya and I are quite alone in our respective homes. In the evening we decide to go somewhere. We grab two sandwiches from Caltex, some drinks and I drive her car as she cuddles Manesh in the back seat. We drive out to Kuala Kangsar. I want to show her my favourite place. We pass the beautiful mosque, come up to the palace, turn left into a car park and come to the river and jetty. </span></div><div align="left" class="style2"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="style2">We take our food and drinks, place Manesh in the stroller and walk to the jetty and find a place to sit. There are two Malay men and some children. The men are fishing using their fishing rods. The children play quietly. The white cat is fast asleep. The river flows in all its grand tranquility. We are each immersed in our thoughts and bound by our friendship. </div><div align="left" class="style2"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="style2">The man talks to us. His father had worked in the palace. This is his hometown. After a long while, he sits next to Nithiya and speaks about Manesh. He is not intrusive. He shows a caring nature. The cat sleeps. </div><div align="left" class="style2"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="style2">A couple come with the professional photographer and assistant to snap pictures, to capture moments on paper for future nostalgic moments. They move on. Another couple come with another photographer and assistant. They too move on. The cat sleeps. </div><div align="left" class="style2"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="style2">I look at Nithiya. She is holding Manesh close to her chest. A quote comes to mind. </div><div align="left" style="line-height: 100%; margin: 2px; text-indent: 0px; word-spacing: 2px;"><a href="http://a4.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc6/223180_10150259489353549_636923548_7810562_2183878_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" aria-busy="true" aria-describedby="fbPhotosSnowboxCaption" border="0" class="spotlight" height="320" src="http://a4.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc6/223180_10150259489353549_636923548_7810562_2183878_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div align="left" style="line-height: 100%; margin: 2px; text-indent: 0px; word-spacing: 2px;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><em><span style="color: #073763;">Once in your life, whatever he was to the world, he becomes everthing to you. When you look him in the eyes, traveling to the depths of his soul, and you say a million things without a sound, you know that your own life is inevitably consumed within the rythmic beatings for his very heart. I love him for a million reasons. <u>No paper</u> would do it justice. It is a thing not of the mind, but of the heart. A feeling only felt. </span></em></span></span></div><div align="left" style="line-height: 100%; margin: 2px; text-indent: 0px; word-spacing: 2px;"><em><span style="color: #073763;"><b><span style="font-family: arial;"><small> </small></span></b></span></em><a href="http://www.thinkexist.com/english/Author/x/Author_2312_1.htm"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><small><em>Anonymous quotes </em></small></span></a></div><div align="left" style="line-height: 100%; margin: 2px; text-indent: 0px; word-spacing: 2px;"></div><div align="left" style="line-height: 100%; margin: 2px; text-indent: 0px; word-spacing: 2px;"><span style="color: black;"><em>We leave the man, his children, his fishing rod and the river and drive home before it gets too dark. Our Christmas eve was made special by the river, a Malay family and our friendship. The Muslim Malay personified the spirit of goodwill, kindness, joy and care that is quintessentially Christmas. The river brought us back to where we belong - a part of nature. </em></span></div><br />
<div align="left" class="style2"><em>A good leader knows the way, shows the way, and goes the way</em>.--Unknown<br />
<br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-size: x-small;">Manesh Johan and cat</span></em></div>Siva Prasanna Krishnanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06210009726000818227noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4270544749004657709.post-22956508327180896982011-12-25T08:37:00.000-08:002011-12-26T02:58:44.394-08:00Failing Form 3 and the Rising of the SunSometimes I reflect upon the hazards of passing examinations and the ill effects of passing well too. For instance, if I had failed my Form 3 examination, my parents would have been upset and then put Plan B into action for me. They would have sent me for typwriting classes and in those days tailoring classes, so that I could earn some money sewing some clothes for others. <br />
<br />
I would have spent a couple of hours a day doing:<br />
<br />
asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj<br />
<br />
(If you are wondering what the above mantra is, then it's Pitman's Lesson 1 for typewriting.) <br />
<br />
With the Pitman's certificate and the experience of having sewn some housecoats or sari blouses in my resume, my parents would have started to pass the word around and tried to arrange a marriage for me. <br />
<br />
The best part of failing Form 3 would be me setting my own timetable. I would have risen with the sun and prepared breakfast for my husband and children and sent them all off, out of the house. The rest of the day would have been mine to do as I wished until the children came home for lunch, and he came back in the evening for some tea and vadai perhaps. Then I would have watered the plants, chatted with the neighbours, watched the children play, warmed up the left overs from lunch and served dinner.<br />
<br />
As for Geography, I would have believed sincerely that the sun rose and set on my husband's head and not out there somewhere in the east and set in the west also somewhere out there. <br />
<br />
As for the Mathematics of it all, I would not need any geometry, simultaneous equations or calculus to work out or calculate how to spend my husband's money each month, after all I would be sewing my own sari blouses, and saving some money for the family! <br />
<br />
As for history, with the neighbourhood wives as my close allies, I would have become an expert in local history: <br />
<ul><li>who has run away with who (Parameswara was the not only one to run away after a fight with his father-in-law!) </li>
<li>who has lice in her hair (never mind about the lies surrounding IMF or World Bank!) </li>
<li>who has more cows or goats (never heard of Sharizat let alone her husband!) </li>
<li>men acting like the Godfather of the low cost housing estate (Ramasamy is a common enough name) </li>
<li>I would hear the call for prayers and enter my home modestly to light the lamp, dot my forehead with holy ash, forget my practical history sessions, and wait for the sun to set. </li>
</ul>I never needed the Science lessons to text the latest gossip, use the DVD player and watch the latest movies. Nobody would have convinced me to buy a DVD for RM30 when I could get it for RM 3, I would not have been that stupid. <br />
<br />
My place would have always been the front passenger seat. I would have looked at my husband with a sense of wonder and pride. I would not dream of getting into the driver's seat of the car, that belonged solely to my husband, all other driver's seats belonged to me! <br />
<br />
But I passed my Form 3 and my Form 5 and my Form 6 and my University and today I sit here and wonder if I am any cleverer for having passed. <br />
Is my life any pleasanter for reading about graft and crime, arguing about the unfairness of the war in Iraq, for having my letter published in the London Times stating my views on the war? Would my soul have been calmer if I only had to worry if Rajnikanth is bald or not bald?<br />
<br />
My husband would have been happier for sure if I believed that the sun rose and set on his head. Well it does for me metaphorically speaking, but .... I wonder if I should have been clever enough not to have passed the Form 3 examination.Siva Prasanna Krishnanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06210009726000818227noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4270544749004657709.post-13711643854819077842011-12-18T03:51:00.000-08:002011-12-24T05:40:28.712-08:00"Love is Blind - Marriage Restores Your Sight" - Words of wisdom on a key-ring i gave to my husbandSo many times so many different people have asked me how I met my husband. My son says that we are as alike as chalk and cheese. Let me start with the day before I met him. '<br />
<br />
A cousin of my aunt invited me to her house for dinner. After giving it much thought I decided to attend the dinner. One of my university friends, Uma Pannicker gave me a lift to Saras Sathiah's house. She lived somehwere between Subang and Klang in a grand house belonging to her father-in-law the late Tan Sri Dr Sathiah. Saras was a final year student when I was a freshie in the university. <br />
<br />
I was in awe of so many things that evening: <br />
The house along the main road to Klang which had once been a planter's bungalow. <br />
The artifacts in the house. <br />
Saras' husband Dr Sathiah was a lecturer in the Faculty of Medicine in the same university. <br />
Their sports car. <br />
His dressing. <br />
His Cambridge accent. <br />
<br />
And there I was an almost thouroughbred country bumpkin come to town. Thanks to the Nuns and my English teachers at the Convent who had spent hours training us to speak and read correctly, not many suspected the bumpkin in me. Other than Saras and Uma, I did not know anyone and moved around as Saras introduced me to the others as her cousin from JB. <br />
<br />
As I said I was in awe and never had I seen so much of food on the table or the sheer variety - and it was that party that has guided me whenever I host a dinner in my house - it was sheer food art! The paintings on the walls, the carpets on the floor, the selection of music, the lights, the electrifying atmosphere - I was introduced to how a certain society of Indians actually lived. <br />
<br />
It took me a while to notice that there was a certain Indian man hovering around me. He told me that he had met me in JB in my grandfather's house, when he had gone there to renew his passport. I told him I had never seen him anywhere in my life before. He told me that he had spoken to me during orientation week in the Arts Concourse. I shook my head. I am not sure what he said but I told him, "Look here I have a boyfriend and he is Chinese," before I walked away. Then Saras told me that he really liked me. It was then that it dawned on me, why she had invited me. I told her that he was wasting his time and to me he looked like an ikan bilis. I was not good with my words. The arrogance and folly of youth. <br />
<br />
Saras' husband dropped me home. The drive in his new car more than made up for the dubious reasons why I had been invited to attend that party. When I reached home, my landlady and daughter wanted to know about the evening. I told what I had seen and eaten. I did not tell them why I was the only one of the first year students that Saras had invited. Then I remembered that two men were coming to meet me in Selva's house the following morning. I had no intention of meeting any more Indian men. I went to sleep telling myself that they may come and go. <br />
<br />
The next morning, a bit of conscience hit me. Selva might get into trouble with her sister if two strange men came to the house to meet me. I put on a dress and walked to the Chinese coffee shop to make a telephone call to Selva. The shop is two doors away from present day Kavita, an Indian restaurant. I took with me 20 cents. The man would not let me use his phone. I decided to walk. Her house was on a road off Jalan Gasing. A bus came and I hopped into the bus. The conductor took my 20 cents. Well I would walk back, I told myself. <br />
<br />
I reached Selva's house. I told her that I was going back and to tell them that I could not meet them. As I left her gate and walked back, a car came behind and hooted. I turned around and I recognized only Rajan. There was the Indian driver and another passenger.<br />
<br />
I announced that I could not meet them. I was going back. They said they would give me a lift. I declined but they insisted.<br />
<br />
On the first day of my second week in University I met with an accident. I was crossing the road in front of the Science Faculty, at the zebra crossing. A motorbike hit me. That story is for another day. I suffered two fractures of the skull and bruises and was hospitalized. I was on ten weeks medical leave. It was during my medical leave that I attended Saras' party. That accident left me with agonizing headaches for many years. <br />
<br />
My head was hurting and the thought of walking back to Petaling Gardens was daunting. I entered the car and met Chandra, the driver and his other friend George Thomas.<br />
<br />
to be continued.Siva Prasanna Krishnanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06210009726000818227noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4270544749004657709.post-9205053836648416982011-12-13T06:36:00.000-08:002011-12-13T14:28:53.977-08:00When the Heart Stopped BeatingWhy can't I write what I feel in my heart<br />
Dear child, why did you depart?<br />
Your tupperware's filled with cupcakes<br />
You say your mother simply bakes and bakes<br />
You come many a time with a little parcel in your hand<br />
And with a smile and a greeting in front of me straight you stand<br />
And give me the parcel - a piece of the cake that your mother had baked.<br />
<br />
Where are you our dear dear little child<br />
Your illness was really very mild<br />
So why did you just go away<br />
Why couldn't you stay<br />
Were you so ill?<br />
Our hearts fill<br />
with sadness<br />
This is madness<br />
that you were taken<br />
so suddenly from all of us<br />
Oh please dear child when your heart began to stop beating<br />
Why didn't you call out to us to tell us that your time was running out<br />
We would have grabbed your hand tight <br />
And we would all have fought<br />
And not allowed you to walk <br />
away and out of our lives <br />
We had not the time <br />
to hold you <br />
close and<br />
tell you <br />
dear <br />
that<br />
all<br />
of<br />
us<br />
are<br />
never<br />
going to<br />
forget how<br />
you touched our<br />
lives in so many different<br />
unforgettable ways that are uniquely<br />
Harish and there can never be another you.<br />
We love you, care for you and now that you have left<br />
Father, mother, brother, sister, and friends feeling bereft<br />
To be in God's hands.<br />
May He keep you safe<br />
Until the tide of life<br />
brings us all<br />
together<br />
again<br />
and<br />
until <br />
then <br />
dear child <br />
we bid you a sad<br />
and fond farewell and God Bless.Siva Prasanna Krishnanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06210009726000818227noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4270544749004657709.post-10755400756391822642011-12-10T21:35:00.000-08:002011-12-11T17:50:32.964-08:00Christmas in Lorong 2B Jalan Abdul Samad, Johore BahruChristmas to me is pure magic and has been until now and so it will be until the end. The magic of Christmas was ignited in my heart for all the wrong reasons and when my mother began to protect us from what she perceived to be immoral behaviour on the part of the servicemen and their wives and girlfriends but which to us children was totally exciting to witness. It became an annual tug of war between the few Indian children and their parents for about a week in December. <br />
<br />
Christmas is not about the 25th of December. <br />
Christmas is a feeling felt in the heart, that is heard by the spirit and finds its exit in carols. <br />
Christmas is not about whether the government will allow you to go carolling or not. <br />
Christmas is not about whether one group is trying to convert another. <br />
Christmas is not about groups calling each other heathens and pagans. <br />
Christmas is the magic that fills my heart every year. <br />
Christmas is the jolliness that permeates the neighbourhood.<br />
Christmas is the lighted up trees and the smell of fruitcake and cookies being baked.<br />
<br />
The Indian parents and children knew it had arrived when the Caucasian neighbours came with bits of cakes, cookies and beer for us and told us that there would be parties and noise. Mum would accept the cakes and cookies, decline the beer with a sweet smile of thanks, turn around and tell us in a fierce whisper that bad behaviour was about to start in the neighbourhood! And we children tried our best not to display the excitement we had been waiting for.<br />
<br />
During the days preceding the party there would be much hustle and bustle which we observed from our gate. Furniture would be taken out into the garden of each house one by one. Trees would be brought in and decorated. The men would be shirtless, beer in one hand and a cigarette dangling from the lips. The women in their shorts and bikini tops. The Chinese amahs would be busy washing and cleaning. The carols would be blaring and we would all sing along since the nuns had taught us those carols. <br />
<br />
There would be a difference in my house too. Mum would be very alert and make sure the curtains were drawn, prepare early dinner for us and tell us to go to bed by eight. She would come around the outside of the house to make sure our windows were all shut and that we would not see what was going on in the neighbour's garden. <br />
<br />
Lorong 2B is a short road with six semi- detached houses on either side of the road. The land area of each house is about 5000+ square feet. Let me give you a picture of that area where I stayed from the age of ten till I married and left home and where my dad lives alone till today. <br />
<br />
Jalan Abdul Samad is a long road which begins from the sea-front near the hospital and stops at the cross-roads junction where Jalan Sungai Chat intersects. It then goes on passing the turning to Jalan Nong Chik on the left, the palace on the left and Lorong 2 on the right, past Johore Specialist Hospital and Radio Malaysia on the left and finally ends at a T-junction with Foon Yew Chinese School on the right.<br />
<br />
When you enter Lorong 2 there are three smaller Lorongs (lanes) on the left, starting with 2A, then 2B and finally 2C. On the right as you entered Lorong 2, there was a big Malay style wooden house with a workshop. It was a tukang-kayu workshop (carpenter's workshop) and that was the house of Musa Hitam's family. He was at one time our Deputy Prime Minister. Today the big house is gone, leaving us with memories of the sound of carpentry and the voices of the carpenters as they spoke and sang popular Malay songs. Today there is a very quiet nursery there and its distinctive quality is the silence that pervades the area and the chain-link fencing. But all of us old-timers to that area, still refer to it as <em>tukang kayu's house. </em>Whenever we went to catch a bus, we would take the short-cut through the workshop. Those were safe days. <br />
<br />
When we first moved in there, as we walked from the Jalan Nong Chik junction to Lorong 2, on the left there were only 2 houses. The first one, a typical Malay house on stilts was the residence of the Penghulu of Kampung Baru. I used to visit his house and spend many afternoons there. His daughter Hanim Ahmad was my classmate. I recall a much younger sister and an older sister who was already working. Her parents were like all Malays, very polite and very hospitable. Much as I declined, I would be given a cold drink and some tid-bits.<br />
<br />
The second house, a huge palatial bungalow was the residence of a Malay judge. He had a huge reputation as an honest, upright, law abiding person. His daughter Zaleha was my senior in the Convent by about two years. She was not friendly and never spoke to any of us from Lorong 2. I have only ever caught a glimpse of her father from a distance and her mother, never. It was known at that time that he was Malaya's first Malay judge. I am trying to authenticate this information. In front of his house was Lorong 2B on the right. <br />
<br />
Lorong 2B where we lived is the only Lorong with two rows of houses on either side. All in all there are 24 houses in Lorong 2. <br />
<br />
Lorong 2B in the 60s. <br />
As you enter Lorong 2B the first house on the right was occupied by Tony and his wife and their two young children. Tony's wife often changed her hair colour and she was neither friendly nor unfriendly. The first house on the left was occupied by an Indian Iyer family. <br />
<br />
The second house on the right was occupied by the Nair family and the second house on the left was our home. The third house on the right was occupied by Tony and his wife whom we called fatty Maureen. The third house on the left was occupied by June and her husband and child Graham. The fourth house on the right was occupied by a Maori and his white wife Angela and their baby. The fourth house on the left was occupied by an English family and their daughter Anne Marie. We did not know the names of the caucasian occupants of the other two houses on the left. The fifth house on the right was occupied by a retired Malay postmaster and the last house on the right by another English family with two teenage children: Norma and I forget the name of the serious looking handsome boy. The road continued after a bend with detached houses, all occupied by English servicemen and their families except for a couple of Indian families. So Christmas was in the air all around us. <br />
<br />
The activities would become more brisk as dusk approached. Most of them put their children in one house and had an amah take care of them for the night. Each of the houses would host a party so we had a number of parties to enjoy from our bedroom window. Fatty Maureen's house was barely visible. June's house was next to ours. By about ten in the evening, everyone would be in high spirits. <br />
<br />
Sulo who lived in front of our house had more freedom than we had. Her parents allowed her to watch the parties from her patio. One party stands out. The music, the smoke from the barbecue and the conversation set the tone. Then the dancing began. For me it was the first live dance that I had seen. It was movie come to life. They would change partners and the songs were all the latest songs. We used to sing along with the music. <br />
<br />
There was a commotion of some sort. We peered into the darkness. There was a man and a woman behind the house next door. The tall man we recognized as fatty Maureen's husband. The woman he was hugging and kissing was too short and slim to be Maureen. Another movie scene. When the woman passed next to our window we recognized her as the other Tony's wife, the one who changed her hair colour. The Tony who kissed her stood for a while, leaning against the wall smoking a cigarette.<br />
<br />
About four days before the party, she had come to my gate at about half past nine in the evening with a tray in her hand. She told me that her fruit cake had got burnt. It was edible and would I please take it. She was going to bake another one and her children were too young to eat it. It would only go to waste. My mother who was such a stickler when it came to accepting food had gone out with my father. My sisters and brothers came to the gate. I told them what she had told me, in Malayalam of course and asked them for their opinion.<br />
<br />
Take it! They said unanimously. <br />
What would mother say?<br />
We will eat it all up before she comes home. <br />
So take it I did.<br />
It was a big cake and we could not eat it all. We kept it in the fridge. When my parents returned, we told them that she had brought a cake, that it was slightly burned and it was in the fridge. Mum looked quite pleased actually. The cake was very nice but rich and we could only eat it in small pieces. <br />
<br />
It was 1965. The previous year Moira Boyd, her husband Clark and son George were our neighbours. <br />
Moira was a steady sort of person, she was 24. Her husband had got into a drunken brawl and was sent back to Scotland. She was a good neighbour. She kept in touch with my mother for years, sending her pictures of Baby George growing up. <br />
<br />
We wondered what was going through Tony's head. The party had taken another route and we weren't so sure if the feeling that we felt was disillusionment. Listening to the music, one by one we fell asleep. The next day my mother called us and told us that there was a big fight going on in Tony's house. And it was happening in the garden between Maureen and Tony. Then Maureen went over to the other Tony's house. Sulo's house stood in between. We never saw the two Tonys talking to each other again. But by evening Maureen and her husband were holding hands and walking down the road. <br />
<br />
Dad was with the British Army and he made monthly contributions to a fund. At the end of the year, he would get lots of new presents for his children for Christmas. He would bring toys, books, biscuits, chocolates and cakes for us. Mum would apportion the food for us and each one of us would get our toy. This was an annual tradition and the last time he brought gifts was in 1969. The following year, the British withdrew from Singapore and took this tradition home with them. <br />
<br />
The garden parties with the music went on until new year's eve. Then the neighbourhood would become quiet again. The people who occupied the house behind ours also had their parties but everything happened in the front of the house. <br />
<br />
When the British army withdrew from Malaysia and Singapore, the servicemen left and the houses became vacant and most of them reverted to being owner-occupied. <br />
<br />
Today, as I drive into Lorong 2 when I visit my father, the people who made up the exciting neighbourhood where I grew up are no more. <br />
<br />
The Iyer family next door, sold their house and moved away. Their eldest son, Dato Ramachandran Viswanathan had retired as a high ranking naval officer of the Royal Malaysian Navy. <br />
<br />
The Nair family in front - most of them are no more. Sulo went on to become Associate Professor Dr Sulochana Nair of the Faculty of Economics at the University of Malaya. The house is now rented to an Indian expatriate doctor. <br />
<br />
Further up the road, Mrs Titus lives alone for a few months of the year. The rest of the year is spent with her youngest son Thomas a lawyer in California. It was her eldest son Abraham I visited when we went to Belfast. That visit caused a lot of anxiety to Mr Loh and I thank Mrs Lai for the support she gave me in my endeavour to meet him after almost forty years. <br />
<br />
As I enter my house, there is our old faithful Min Chu - my mum's aging dog, my Dad and a Filipino maid. I can almost hear the footsteps of all of us who lived there so noisily and their voices echo in my head.<br />
<br />
The neighbourhood settled down to becoming a very Asian neighbourhood with Chinese, Malays and Indians.<br />
There are no more garden parties. The people going up and down the road are strangers. But I only need to look within and I can hear <br />
<em>Joy to the world </em><br />
<em>The party's begun</em><br />
<em>Let us enjoy the songs ...</em>Siva Prasanna Krishnanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06210009726000818227noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4270544749004657709.post-10595836414633615322011-12-10T08:40:00.000-08:002011-12-11T04:51:47.218-08:00An Evening with Dr Cheah Boon Kheng at the Ipoh Swimming Club<div class="column grid_2"> Mrs Lai invited me to attend the dinner talk at the Ipoh Swimming Club today (Saturday, 10 December 2011), the speaker: Dr Cheah Boon Kheng. </div><div class="column grid_2"><br />
</div><div class="column grid_2">I was introduced to History as a subject when I was in Standard 4 and my teacher Mrs Nancy Teoh described it as <em>His Story.</em> I love stories and therefore history has been one of my favourite subjects. Our history books in primary school were collections of short stories. My history book in Std 6 was <em>Malayan Junior Histories Standard 6 by P. B. Hilton. </em>Hilton was a Senior Lecturer in History, Malayan Teachers' College, Penang and the book was published by University of London Press Ltd, Warwick Square, London EC4.</div><div class="column grid_2"><br />
</div><div class="column grid_2">The Preface for the book, written by Hilton:</div><div class="column grid_2"><em>This book is designed to meet the needs of the pupils in the last year of the Primary Schools of the Federation of Malaya. it follows the Syllabus for History as laid down in 1958, covering Topics 8,9 and 10 of the Sixth Year. </em></div><div class="column grid_2"><br />
</div><div class="column grid_2"><em>Considerations of space and of expense to the pupil using this book have made it necessary to treat the subjects of these stories much more briefly than one would have wished. Teachers may be glad of the notes on the background to these stories, in the Teacher's Book to this volume. </em></div><div class="column grid_2"><br />
</div><div class="column grid_2"><em>I should like to express my gratitude to Che Ismail bin Ibrahim, Lecturer in Art at the Malayan Teachers' College Penang, for the maps for this book. </em></div><div class="column grid_2"><br />
</div><div class="column grid_2"><em>It is hoped that the language used will be found simple and straightforward enough for pupils' understanding, though it is not 'childish'. Some new words will inevitably be encountered, but for pupils who hope to go on to Secondary School, this should be useful.</em></div><div class="column grid_2"><br />
</div><div class="column grid_2"><em>Carlyle said that great people are always great company. It is hoped that Malayan children will find these men and women, some of the heroes and heroines of World History, to be 'great company'.</em></div><div class="column grid_2"><br />
</div><div class="column grid_2">The contents of this book, will explain why we found history to be so interesting. It will also explain why I was upset that the contents page of the school magazine was left out.</div><div class="column grid_2"><br />
</div><div class="column grid_2">CONTENTS</div><div class="column grid_2"><br />
</div><div class="column grid_2"><u>PART ONE: Stories from the West</u></div><div class="column grid_2"><br />
</div><div class="column grid_2"><ol><li>Wise men of Greece: Pericles and Socrates</li>
<li>To Conquer the World: Alexander the Great</li>
<li>The Greatest Roman of all: Gaius Julius Caesar</li>
<li>The Holy Roman Empire: Charlemagne</li>
<li>The Caliph of Baghdad: Harun Al Raschid</li>
<li>Men of the North: The Vikings</li>
<li>William the Conqueror, the Duke of Normandy</li>
<li>The Cross and the Crescent: Richard the Lion Heart and Saladin the Great</li>
<li>The Maid of Orleans: Joan of Arc</li>
<li>The Capture of Quebec: General James Wolfe</li>
<li>To be the Master of Europe: Napoleon Bonaparte</li>
<li>"England Expects...": Admiral Nelson</li>
<li>Great Americans: George Washington and Abraham Lincoln</li>
<li>To Rule Africa: Cecil Rhodes</li>
<li>Father of the Turks: Mustapha Kemal</li>
</ol></div><u>Part Two: Great Travellers and Explorers</u><br />
<ol><li>Chinese Pilgrims: Fa Hsien, Yang Chuang and I Tsing</li>
<li>From the West to the East: Marco Polo</li>
<li>The Traveller of Islam: Ibn Battuta</li>
<li>Ambassador of "The son of Heaven": Admiral Cheng Ho</li>
<li>The Sea-way to India: Prince Henry the Navigator, Bartholomew Diaz and Vasco da Gama</li>
<li>To the New World: Christopher Columbus</li>
<li>First Round the World: Ferdinand Magellan</li>
<li>The Elizabethan Seamen: Sir Francis Drake, Sir John Hawkins and Sir Walter Raleigh</li>
<li>For Freedom: The Pilgrim Fathers</li>
<li>To the Southern Seas: Captain James Cook</li>
<li>In Darkest Africa: David Livingstone</li>
<li>To the South Pole: Captain Scott</li>
<li>On "The Roof of the World": Sir Edmund Hillary and Sherpa Tenzing</li>
</ol><u>Part 3: Modern Inventions and Discoveries</u><br />
<ol><li>Better Roads: John Metcalf, Thomas Telford and James Macadam</li>
<li>From "Hobby-horse" to Motor Car: Carl Benz, Gottlieb Daimler and Henry Ford</li>
<li>Riding on Air: Charles Goodyear and John Dunlop</li>
<li>Ships: From Sail to Steam and from Wood to Steel</li>
<li>From Glider to Jet Aircraft: Wilbur and Orville Wright and Sir Frank Whittle</li>
<li>The Wonders of Electricity: Michael Faraday, Alexander Bell, Thomas Edison and Guglielmo Marconi</li>
<li>An English Country Doctor: Edward Jenner</li>
<li>"From a grateful humanity": Louis Pasteur</li>
<li>For Safer Surgery: Lord Lister</li>
<li>Painless Surgery: William Morton and Sir James Simpson</li>
<li>"The Lady with the Lamp": Florence Nightingale</li>
<li>Prevention Better than Cure: Sir Ronald Ross and Sir Malcolm Watson</li>
<li>The Courage Never to Give Up: Marie Curie</li>
<li>New Ways of Healing: Sir Alexander Fleming</li>
</ol>In JB Convent, we were promoted to the next class in November after the final exam, every year. We bought our books in November, and our teachers introduced us to the topics we would be studying the following year. During our long holiday in December, we would read our textbooks and enjoy the information to be found in them. Very often on the first day of school in January, the teacher would give us a short test and there would be homework as well! Our SR Tenby students got a taste of that system, when I introduced it two years ago. Students were okay, but some parents were confused. <br />
<br />
My dear mother kept all our textbooks and a few years ago I found this book in the cupboard in my mum's house in JB. I brought it back to read and to use in Tenby Schools as reading passages for the students. <br />
<br />
Today, I came back from the talk and took out this book. I have also taken out the book my Dad bought for me when I was in Upper Six: <br />
<br />
History of Europe, 1450-1660 by PJ Helm, MA, Senior Master, Queen's College, Taunton<br />
<br />
Dr Cheah's talk was on whether history was fact or fiction. He likened it to literature because of the use of language by historians. <br />
<br />
PJ Helm said, "<em>Because the historian, unlike the scientist, uses terms the meaning of which cannot be exactly defined, he must always be sure of two things: first, that he is quite clear in his own mind as to the meaning he is giving to the abstract words he uses; and second, that he makes this meaning clear to others...terms that are the shorthand of history are imprecise and useless until you, and those to whom you are talking, are clear as to just what you mean when you use them. Then you may still disagree, but at least you will both understand why you are disagreeing."</em><br />
<br />
My History teacher in Form 6, Mr Mahan Singh made history come alive because he spoke about the people in the book as though he knew them personally and he was a part of whatever they had done to earn a place in that book! So it was a little like listening to my mother telling me the local history of Jalan Abdul Samad. How Amalu Amma had come and spent an hour in the house telling her about her trip to the hospital. When my mother asked her who had told her that <em>so and so</em> had been hospitalized, she replied, "Nobody told me. About three times a week, I go to the hospital and visit all the wards. I am sure to meet someone I know. And if he does not have any visitors, I spend some time talking to him. Then I will let others know that he is in hospital so that they may visit him!"<br />
<br />
A smile comes to my heart as I remember Ammalu Amma, Sulo's father's aunty. She was a widow when we knew her and in the sixties she must have been in her sixties. She was quite bent, always in a white cotton sari and walked very fast. She visited most of the houses along our Lorong. She was most friendly and did not have a shy bone in her body. We could not hide from her for she would find us. Her straight hair was drawn into a knot at the back of her head. She was not grey. And she had a loud voice. We saw her at least twice a week. I am not sure where she lived but she came visiting every week carrying her black signature umbrella. When she passed away, my mother said, "This world will not see another Ammalu Amma," and she was right. For who today, will visit all the wards of the hospital and look for friends who might have been admitted and not have visitors?<br />
<br />
Dr Cheah said that different people have different views. Who is correct? <br />
<br />
Helm had a very interesting way of describing views. He used the Renaissance as an example. <br />
<br />
<em>"Are we to regard the Renaissance period as one of rebirth, or as a grand finale - a hopeful sunrise or a glorious sunset? The answer is that it contains something of both. In the spectrum the colour orange, for instance, lies between red and yellow; it is a colour with its own characteristics, but sharing the qualities of the colours on either side of it. Viewed in one way orange represents the 'decline and fall of red', viewed in another way it shows 'the rise and triumph of yellow' - and both views are correct. It is all a matter of selection. Much the same sort of thing applies to periods of history. By isolating different sets of facts it is possible to create a picture of a brilliant sunset or a promising dawn, for both aspects are present." </em><br />
<br />
Dr Cheah is right, about literature and the use of words. I have always found the above explanation by Helm to be very poetic and stimulating, a colourful freeing of my mind to see the world without having to accept the blindness of other people!<br />
<br />
Now my table had very interesting people. There was the silver-haired Mr Loh Ghee Juan who was very happy about the government pay rise. Then there was Commander (Rtd) Ian Anderson who was not happy that his book had not been promoted there. Mrs Lai our Director who was quite quiet today. Nithiya the person who persuaded me to accept the invitation, was worried about coping since her Indonesian maid was going on leave the following day. A lady from Kinta, an accountant by training, who had worked in Singapore for many years and whose name eludes me now, sat next to me. Jack Wong Kin Tung our History teacher who is a quiet person until you speak to him was next to the accountant. Avinesh the new PA to Mrs Lai, and who has a very interested look in the happenings around him rounded up our group. <br />
<br />
I met people I had not seen in a long while and it was an interesting social evening. Then something Mr Loh said, caught my attention. He told me that the gentleman sitting at the last table was a former Deputy Director of Education for Perak and the last non-Malay to hold that post. He went on to say that he was a very strict man. For no reason, other than that of habit, I asked what his name was. He told me his name was Mr Malayapillai. That was history. My history. <br />
<br />
I stood up and announced that he was my ex-principal in Johore English College and that I had to go and talk to him. Mrs Lai smiled. I left the table and found him deep in conversation with Mr Maniam, the retired principal of ACS Ipoh. I introduced myself and asked him if he was the same person who was the principal of English College in 1969. EC was the top school in Johore and was on par with Victoria Institution in Kuala Lumpur, Penang Free School and Raffles Institution in Singapore. Mr Henry was the Deputy Principal. <br />
<br />
I cannot describe the joy I saw in his face when I told him that I was his ex- student from JB. As he shook my hand, what registered was that his palm was soft. He is Indian so he probably has not done any housework! Like mopping and scrubbing. Just touch my palms now to know what I mean. <br />
<br />
He asked me what I was doing and my dear Mr Maniam spoke up for me. He said, "In the tradition of English College, she is very fair but strict and was the Principal of MGS". I am in reality four feet ten inches shorter than the ten feet tall that he made me feel. Again Mr Malayapillai's eyes lit up. Mr Subramaniam then told me that his late wife was the sister of Mr Henry!<br />
<br />
When I came back to my place and recounted what had taken place, (I ommitted what Mr Subramaniam said), the lady whose name eludes me asked if he recognized me. I said nought. Mr Loh said that he was strict. I remembered how a boy in Upper Six had used a four letter word in school which a teacher had overheard. The boy was sent to the Head Master's Room and he came out with two of the best. No one expected a Form Six boy to get a feel of <em>tickler</em>. Today when some students use expletives so freely, there are teachers who accept that behaviour as nothing seriously unacceptable. What kind of character are we building for our students?<br />
<br />
When I entered Form Six in 1968, my Head Master was Mr Bion Dury. Years later when Anderson School came up with their Centenary Book, I bought a copy after I found Mr Dury's name in the book. He was an old boy of Anderson. When I was in Upper Six, Mr Dury was transferred to Perak and Mr Malayapillai took over. He was a very strict Head Master and like Head Masters and Mistresses of those days, he filled us with a sense of awe. I left at the end of 1969 and never saw him again until this evening, some 42 years later. I shall contact him and have tea with him and his wife. As I shook hands with him and addressed him 'Sir' I found that salutation to be most natural and apt. <br />
<br />
Thank you Dr Cheah for making this evening an evening of historical relevance for me, by bringing my ex-Head Master and me together. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<img alt="WRITING INDIGENOUS HISTORY IN MALAYSIA: A Survey on Approaches and Problems" src="http://www.jstor.org/action/showArticleImage?image=images%2Fpages%2Fdtc.42.tif.gif&doi=10.2307%2F40860577" />Siva Prasanna Krishnanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06210009726000818227noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4270544749004657709.post-68574667764798231152011-12-08T08:33:00.000-08:002011-12-08T08:33:48.676-08:00Letter From Peking, Jeeva's Grandmother, cold toast and the Officers' Ward of the Johore Bahru General HospitalWhat a title! It sums up a few days of my life in June 1964.<br />
<br />
Everyone in the family caught a flu and got well soon enough. I did not. My mother got my Uncle Prasad to take me to the General Hospital and I was treated by Dr Oliveiro. He told my uncle that I needed to be warded. My uncle was a government school teacher and he signed for me to be admitted in the Officers' Ward of the Hospital. <br />
<br />
It is a double storey building, high up on a hill, quite separate from the main building, with its distinctive brick exterior. From the building you get a good view of the sea in front of the hospital. I was put in a room for four patients but during my entire week there, i was the only patient. So I had this big room all to myself. <br />
<br />
My uncle took me to the room and then left to inform my mother. I was not really very ill, the way I was when I was eight but I found myself looking forward to spending a few days in the hospital. My room was on the first floor and it faced the staircase. My bed was the first bed on the left when you entered the room. That room had lots of windows and fans. The nurse settled me into my bed and she left the room. <br />
<br />
I made up my mind to enjoy not having to go to school, not having to do any homework, not having to do any household chores and to lap up the luxury of solitude. After a while I realised that there was no sign of anyone from home. I also realised that I had not eaten anything and I was hungry. I rang the bell and waited. <br />
<br />
An elderly Ayamah came to the room. She walked to my bed and switched off the bell. Then she asked me in Tamil why I had called. I told her in Malayalam that I was hungry. She repeated her question in Tamil. I looked at her face. She had a tired but kind face. She was very light skinned and was dressed in white, the uniform for ayamahs. I had seen her before, but where? I told her in Malay, "Lapar,". <br />
<br />
She spoke again in Tamil and asked me if I could speak Tamil. I could understand her but for some reason I did not want to try the few words of Tamil that I knew. I remained silent. She then asked me if I was a Bengali. I told her, "Malayali," and she was offended I thought, from the tone of her voice. She told me that all Malayalis spoke Tamil. <br />
<br />
I touched my stomach and told her that I was hungry, in Malay. She grumbled a bit and walked out of the room. She came back about fifteen minutes later with a tray, which she placed on a movable table, made sure that I could reach the food, muttered and mumbled and left the room. I told you I meant to enjoy my stay. I removed the cloth that was covering the food and found a bowl of some yellow stuff, two pieces of toast, some butter and jam and a cup of hot milo. This is life, I told myself. <br />
<br />
That yellow stuff turned out to be custard. It was delicious. The toast was cold and the butter was spreadable. I buttered the toast one by one and settled back to enjoy my mid afternoon snack. Suddenly, she entered the room again. She asked me if I lived in Jalan Abdul Samad. I said yes. She told me that she was Jeeva's grandmother. Things began to fall into place. She also brought some magazines for me to read. I was touched by her gesture. <br />
<br />
She stood there and watched me and spoke as I ate. The cold toast was delicious as well. She helped to wipe away some bread crumbs as she asked me if I knew Jeeva. Jeeva was my sister's classmate. She lived with her sisters, mother and grandmother in one of the big old wooden houses along Jalan Abdul Samad. We had never seen Jeeva's father. When I had finished eating, she told me that they would bring my tea at three thirty and dinner at six thirty. She picked up the tray and left the room. <br />
<br />
I opened the first magazine. It was the Australian Woman's weekly. Those days, it was a true weekly and thin and smaller in size. Today although it is called Australian Woman's Weekly, it is a monthly magazine.<br />
<br />
The first article that caught my attention was the news article with pictures showing the wedding of the Raja Muda of Johore and his English wife whose Malay name is Kalsom. The three page spread was beautiful. That six year old magazine was of special interest to me because the daughters of the Raja Muda were studying in the Convent in Johore Bahru. There were three girls and they were so pretty. I decided to ask the nurse if I could take the magazine. <br />
<br />
As I continued to read every article in the magazine, I saw that the magazine ran a serial from a novel by Pearl S Buck, Letter from Peking. It was the story of an inter-racial marriage - an English girl and a Chinese man. I rang the bell. The same ayamah came. What do you want now, she asked me in Tamil. This time I spoke a mixture of Malayalam and some Tamil words and tried to make her understand that I wanted to know where she had got the magazine from. I failed. I asked her to get me a nurse. She thought I was ill and called a nurse. <br />
<br />
The nurse led me outside my room and next to the door to my room, there was another door. It was a big store room which was filled with magazines and books. I was happy. I spent the next morning going through all the magazines and found what I was looking for. As luck would have it, the last part could not be found. It took me more than six years before I found the book in the University of Malaya Book Store. <br />
<br />
Unlike 1958 when my mother came twice day to visit me, there was no sign of anyone till it was almost six in the evening. The uncle who had me admitted did not come either. Everyone in my family came to visit me. Mum touched my forehead, my neck, my arms, my cheeks and declared that I was not ill. I almost agreed with her. My sister said that I had lots of books to read. My father said that I would be all right. I enjoyed the fuss that they made over me. At home, under normal circumstances, I had lots of household chores to do. <br />
<br />
Mum asked me if I wanted any food from home. I said no. They stayed for a few hours and then they left. Looking back, I was not scared to sleep alone. Someone came and closed all the windows, tucked me in and switched off the light. A night lamp was left to keep the room comfortably dim. I slept well. Someone woke me up and I took my shower, changed into fresh clothes and got back into bed. Breakfast in bed. More time to read. Mid morning coffee and biscuits. Time to read. Lunch at half past twelve. More time to read. <br />
<br />
My Uncle Prakash visited me on the second day. He came in from University. He spoke to my parents about the riots in Singapore. Someone he knew, a journalist had been killed. There was curfew in Singapore and therefore the University was closed. He could visit me more often he said in order to cheer me up. <br />
<br />
The doctors came, checked me, did tests and said that I needed to stay a few more days. I finished reading the magazines and after the third day, I began to long for the chaos of my bedroom back home which I shared with my two sisters. I missed my two younger brothers and my older brother too. I did not fancy breakfast of half boiled eggs, toast and butter with milo any longer. I needed to share food and eat together with family. I wanted my own plate and glass. I missed my mother's food. <br />
<br />
Finally the uncle who admitted me visited me. I told him I wanted to go home. He went to see some doctor friend of his and came back and told me that I was discharged. He took me home. Till today, I do not know why I was admitted nor what was really wrong with me. But I read Letter from Peking, ate cold toast and had a fairly good stay at the Officers' Ward. <br />
<br />
The story of Jeeva and her grandmother is for another day. <br />
<img alt="" aria-busy="true" aria-describedby="fbPhotosSnowboxCaption" class="spotlight" height="300" src="http://a5.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc6/282666_242406505777017_100000230092013_900584_4273383_n.jpg" width="400" /><br />
<em><span style="font-size: x-small;">my husband Chandra and I outside our home in Ipoh</span></em>Siva Prasanna Krishnanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06210009726000818227noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4270544749004657709.post-67893666273244704872011-12-06T09:44:00.000-08:002011-12-06T09:45:58.037-08:00New Boy In The OfficeA new boy in the office. <br />
The new boy who is the first to read all my blog entries. <br />
<br />
I try to recreate moments that I remember of a life that will never come back. <br />
I attempt to bring back to life, people who have recited their lines and left the stage of life for another stage, that I cannot visit. <br />
I long to let others view how we were, once upon a time.<br />
<br />
Avinesh is the new boy in the office.<br />
New boy reminds me of new girls in the class. <br />
<br />
I am in Standard 2A, in Convent of the Holy Infant Jesus, Johore Bahru. It is January 1958 and my classroom is the last one in the row of rooms, with the first one being the Parlour, the second the office, the third and fourth being classrooms. If I look out of the door on the left, I see Jalan Yahya Awal, where the school is situated. If I look out of the door on the right, I see a small field where we play in the morning before school starts and also during our interval.<br />
<br />
I look around me on the first day of school. There are so many of us, 48 to be exact in one class. Every year we are mixed up and put into new classes, so that we can make new friends as we go along. One new girl in the class sitting near me, pretty, friendly and with kind eyes, short hair, brown skin and of my height is Diana Zat. Diana is my first Malay friend and she is the reason why I have such a fondness for Malays, especially Malay ladies and children.<br />
<br />
Then one week later another new girl enters the class and she captivates me completely. Her name is Valerie Boswell. She is very light skinned, has brown straight hair, freckles and a very confident manner of speaking. One of our daily lessons is daily news. We are required to come to the front of the class and share with the class some real news. Valerie would come to the front of the class and all her stories centred around her father and her baby sister.<br />
<br />
Mind you, I had just learned to speak English. So every day my mother met Valerie vicariously and in quite conflicting situations.<br />
<br />
<u>Situation 1</u><br />
<br />
"There is another race that is European and yet not European like our neighbours," I would insist to my mother. "They speak the language, they eat European food, they dress like them, but they are not Europeans," I would argue. Finally, my mother approached the one person who made the final decision in family squabbles, my father. He listened to me. Valerie is fair but her sister Audrey was perhaps only a shade lighter than me, I told him. Then my father introduced me to the word, "Eurasian". <br />
<br />
<u>Situation 2</u><br />
<br />
"Eurasian babies can speak when they are born. Why can't Malayalee babies speak when they are born?" I asked my mother. She looked at me and said, "No baby speaks when he is born".<br />
"Eurasian babies speak when they are born. I am telling you. Valerie said her baby sister speaks!"<br />
"That is not true."<br />
"How do you know? You have not seen a Eurasian new born baby."<br />
"I know. All babies are the same. They cannot speak when they are born."<br />
The next day, I spoke to Valerie. <br />
<br />
"Can your baby sister speak?"<br />
"Yes."<br />
"Could she speak when she was born?"<br />
"Of course not, stupid!" I forgot to mention that she was not very polite. <br />
"How old is she now?"<br />
"Three."<br />
"The why do you call her baby?"<br />
"I'm nine. She's three. She's my baby sister, silly!"<br />
<br />
"Ma, Eurasian babies do not speak when they are born."<br />
"I told you so," my mother told me kindly. I did not tell her that Valerie had called me stupid. <br />
<br />
<u>Situation 3</u><br />
<br />
"Ma, Eurasians are the happiest people in the world. They are not like us." I informed my mother. <br />
"Everyone is happy sometimes and sad sometimes," my mother explained. But I could not forget Valerie and the stories during Daily News. She spoke of breakfast with her dad, the way her father hugged and kissed her. That did not happen in my house. I went next door to Sau Siah's house. It did not happen there either. I asked them. <br />
<br />
She spoke of picnics and long car drives. She spoke of her father telling them stories that made them all laugh. Her parents and parties and dancing. <br />
<br />
"They dance and they are happy," I announced during lunch time. My mother was not really impressed. <br />
"Theirs is not a dance! Our dance is very old and it takes you years to learn. Padmini has danced in England and America."<br />
"Not Padmini's dance Ma. Her father and her mother dance. Her father makes her mother laugh all the time when he dances with her". <br />
"Keep quiet and finish your lunch," said my mother as she moved away from the table. "Your father does not have to dance with me to ..." I burst out laughing and my mother stopped to look at me seriously. <br />
"Why are you laughing?" she asked. <br />
"Just thinking of father dancing!" and I continued to giggle. <br />
<br />
<br />
My obsession with Valerie Boswell lasted for years. We were in the same class for three years. After standard four she left our school and the family moved to Kuala Lumpur. In 1969 they moved back to Johore Bahru and Audrey Boswell who was one year my junior was in Lower Six when I was in English College. I never met Valerie again. But ...<br />
<br />
In 1989 my younger brother Harish was going off to Australia. Mrs Nesadurai, a piano teacher and the retired Head Mistress of Sultan Ibrahim Girls School (Primary) lived along our lane. Her older son Henry Nesadurai had come back from England and was living with his mother. He gave Harish a fish tank and one fish. A black fish. One day when I visited my mother, Harish and Henry were there. In the course of our conversation, I discovered that Henry was a divorcee. His ex wife was Valerie Boswell. She had moved off to Australia. <br />
<br />
In 2007 Mr Skelchy, father of Peter Skelchy came to our house. Peter is Roy's friend. During the course of our conversation I made another discovery, that Valerie's father was Malaya's first Fifa referee, Norman Boswell and that he had come from France. <br />
<br />
To me Mr Boswell is the man who danced with his wife and made her laugh, who gave such joy to his daughter and who to me is etched in mind as the ideal father. All the more because Valerie could go home with any kind of marks for the tests in school, and she was not scared to face her father. <br />
<br />
While Valerie captivated everyone, with her stories, her passion for speaking and her natural prowess as a leader, I still spoke to Diana. Diana never said an unkind word, she never told us that she would not friend us, the way Valerie did if someone did not follow her rules. Yet, everyone was drawn to Valerie. <br />
<br />
To be continued.Siva Prasanna Krishnanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06210009726000818227noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4270544749004657709.post-50236735762749532272011-10-27T01:00:00.000-07:002011-11-06T11:40:38.249-08:00Nithiya, Cambodia and INithiya and I have known each other for about three years and we live in the same neighbourhood, The Dales, in Ipoh. This year we went on a holiday to Cambodia.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<img alt="" aria-busy="true" aria-describedby="fbPhotosSnowboxCaption" class="spotlight" height="300" src="http://a1.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc6/269511_10150221170001966_587086965_7252005_5052724_n.jpg" width="400" /><br />
<em><span style="font-size: x-small;">l-r Mrs Ignatius, me, Sharon Pinto and Nithiya at Janice's wedding reception at the Red Crescent Hall, Ipoh</span></em><br />
<br />
Nithiya and I are friends and our maids are friends too.<br />
<img alt="" aria-busy="true" aria-describedby="fbPhotosSnowboxCaption" class="spotlight" height="240" src="http://a6.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc6/260478_10150221192686966_587086965_7252289_6768727_n.jpg" width="320" /><br />
<em><span style="font-size: x-small;">l-r Silvi Nithiya's maid and Omneza my maid at Janice's wedding reception</span></em><br />
<br />
Chandra has been based overseas for the past 5 years, and in Phnom Penh since June 2010. He helped book our internal flights and hotel rooms.<br />
<br />
The holiday began when Nithiya drove us to KL. There was such a feeling of lightness as I left Ipoh behind me and took a cab from KL Sentral to Eastin Hotel. Roy and Vivian came over once the traffic jam in KL had eased and a short while later Chandra joined us. He had come from Jakarta.<br />
<br />
By five thirty we checked in and went to our designated gate, a gate that had no toilets!<br />
<br />
Chandra had booked his special red seat. <br />
<img alt="" aria-busy="true" aria-describedby="fbPhotosSnowboxCaption" class="spotlight" height="300" src="http://a6.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/384425_10150342659056966_587086965_8193754_1048189937_n.jpg" width="400" /><br />
<em>Elephant head tree at Phnom Penh Airport</em><br />
<br />
We were met by Saron and it was a pleasant drive to the city and the apartment.<br />
<img alt="" aria-busy="true" aria-describedby="fbPhotosSnowboxCaption" class="spotlight" height="300" src="http://a3.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc7/380863_10150342656441966_587086965_8193713_1045976436_n.jpg" width="400" /><br />
<em>l-r Nithiya and Saron, Chandra's driver</em><br />
<br />
Chandra's two-room apartment is really quite a nice one, made more comfortable by the maid who comes in on alternate days. <br />
<br />
Once we had deposited our bags and freshened up, we drove out to K West in front of the river, for a western breakfast. <br />
<br />
<img alt="The Sisowth Quay waterfront ." class="hero" height="133" id="currentMediaImage" jquery1320331584824="113" src="http://media.lonelyplanet.com/lpi/8482/8482-55/681x454.jpg" style="display: block; height: 413px; padding-top: 24px; width: 620px; zoom: 1;" width="200" /><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><em>The river front facing K West</em></span><br />
<br />
Mohan, wife and son joined us. I gave Mrs Mohan the Deepavali sweets that we had brought. <br />
<br />
Mohan handed over our flight tickets to Siem Reap and for a moment I had doubts as to whether I had done the right thing by booking the flight to Siem Reap without consulting Nithiya first. <br />
<br />
Nithiya and I decided to take a leisurely walk from K West along some interesting shops. I bought a sitting Buddha for Roy for about USD26. That Buddha signifies peace. I later saw a similar one in the market place for USD15! <br />
<br />
We visited a temple, then walked to the museum and finally decided to book a tuk-tuk for four hours for USD 10. <br />
<img alt="Tuk tuk, Phnom Penh, Cambodia." height="388" src="http://cache.virtualtourist.com/15/4751070-Tuk_tuk_Phnom_Penh_Cambodia_Phnom_Penh.jpg" width="640" /><br />
<br />
<br />
We enjoyed the tuk tuk ride. We visited another temple, fed the elephant some bananas and were able to keep our Buddha with the tuk tuk boy.<br />
<br />
<img alt="" aria-busy="true" aria-describedby="fbPhotosSnowboxCaption" class="spotlight" height="480" src="http://a4.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/305474_10150342660551966_587086965_8193776_948038265_n.jpg" width="640" /><br />
<em><span style="font-size: x-small;">Nithiya and the elephant that we had fed earlier with bananas</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
</em>Then we proceeded to Central market. <br />
<img alt="" aria-busy="true" aria-describedby="fbPhotosSnowboxCaption" class="spotlight" height="480" src="http://a1.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/391476_10150342724756966_587086965_8194382_1212042467_n.jpg" width="640" /><br />
<em><span style="font-size: x-small;">The entrance to Central Market - a flower among flowers</span></em><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span><br />
<br />
It was fun buying scarves and bags for our friends and family back home. <br />
<img alt="" aria-busy="true" aria-describedby="fbPhotosSnowboxCaption" class="spotlight" height="480" src="http://a4.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc7/300944_10150342657671966_587086965_8193734_1324330006_n.jpg" width="640" /><br />
<em>Scarves for sale</em><br />
<br />
I got a table cloth for Roy and a blouse for Viv. Nithiya bought a number of things as well. <br />
<br />
Next on the agenda was a visit to the Russian market and from there we went to <em>You and Me</em> for a massage. But heading for home, we had delicious, hot garlic bread and a cold drink in one of the numerous road-side cafes in front of the river.<br />
<br />
At the apartment we could not operate the lift since we did not have the security tag to activate the lift. We had to use the stairs to get the office lady to work the lift for us. We banged on the door, rang the bell and banged on the door repeatedly. Finally Chandra emerged and told us that he had left the door open for us!<br />
<br />
Dinner was at the Aussie Pub. Paramjeet Singh Gill, famous for being the father of Asha Gill (Discovery Travel and Living) joined us for dinner. We had roast pork and chicken. Param regaled us with tales in which he was the hero most times. After dinner we took a slow walk back to the apartment. <br />
<br />
It was a pleasant evening.<br />
<br />
<u>Day 2 of our holiday in Cambodia</u><br />
<br />
23rd October 2011<br />
We reached the airport early and got a seat in the cafeteria. <br />
<br />
<img alt="" aria-busy="true" aria-describedby="fbPhotosSnowboxCaption" class="spotlight" height="480" src="http://a1.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/383734_10150342662071966_587086965_8193809_1678507481_n.jpg" width="640" /><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<img alt="" aria-busy="true" aria-describedby="fbPhotosSnowboxCaption" class="spotlight" height="300" src="http://a8.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc7/299173_10150342663186966_587086965_8193830_1519595533_n.jpg" width="400" /><br />
The Angkor Air flight was not a long flight and it was quite uneventful. <br />
<br />
<br />
In Siem Reap<br />
<br />
<img alt="" aria-busy="true" aria-describedby="fbPhotosSnowboxCaption" class="spotlight" height="300" src="http://a2.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/383984_10150342664196966_587086965_8193844_657677897_n.jpg" width="400" /><br />
<br />
A guy at the airport desk arranged a taxi for us. The driver was Ra. He charged USD60 for a day. He took us to the hotel and after a bit of haggling, we got our room for USD60, 5 dollars cheaper than what they had promised Mohan. We also got breakfast for 5 dollars each. <br />
<br />
After breakfast, our trip to the ruins of Angkor began.<br />
<br />
<img alt="" aria-busy="true" aria-describedby="fbPhotosSnowboxCaption" class="spotlight" height="400" src="http://a5.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/305741_10150342674896966_587086965_8193939_807647152_n.jpg" width="300" /><br />
<br />
Ra, took us to Angkor Thom. I will let Nithiya's pictures speak for me. <br />
<br />
<img alt="" aria-busy="true" aria-describedby="fbPhotosSnowboxCaption" class="spotlight" height="300" src="http://a1.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc7/376145_10150342686661966_587086965_8194092_1374803340_n.jpg" width="400" /><br />
<em><span style="font-size: x-small;">The tree of life </span></em><br />
<br />
Then we went to Angkor Wat. <br />
<br />
<img alt="" aria-busy="true" aria-describedby="fbPhotosSnowboxCaption" class="spotlight" height="400" src="http://a3.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc7/309721_10150342687821966_587086965_8194100_1032503360_n.jpg" width="300" /><br />
<em><span style="font-size: x-small;">Maha Vishnu - Angkor Wat was a Hindu Temple first</span></em><br />
<br />
<img alt="" aria-busy="true" aria-describedby="fbPhotosSnowboxCaption" class="spotlight" height="400" src="http://a8.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/381390_10150342688491966_587086965_8194106_1970287074_n.jpg" width="300" /><br />
<img alt="" aria-busy="true" aria-describedby="fbPhotosSnowboxCaption" class="spotlight" height="300" src="http://a8.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc7/386615_10150342701771966_587086965_8194186_1425325346_n.jpg" width="400" /><br />
<em><span style="font-size: x-small;">Calm amidst the destruction</span></em><br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-size: x-small;"><img alt="" aria-busy="true" aria-describedby="fbPhotosSnowboxCaption" class="spotlight" height="400" src="http://a3.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc7/312999_10150342710286966_587086965_8194284_1077514351_n.jpg" width="300" /></span></em><br />
<br />
<em><u>The Lone Monk</u></em><br />
<em>As you sit there in your yellow robes</em><br />
<em>My camera with its lens probes</em><br />
<em>The inner recesses of your mind</em><br />
<em>But nothing does it find</em><br />
<em>Save the robes, the slippers and your face.</em><br />
<em>As I sit here and try to put into words the grace</em><br />
<em>That I see in this picture of you</em><br />
<em>I realise that like the dew</em><br />
<em>One minute you are here</em><br />
<em>The next minute you are a mere</em><br />
<em>Image taken by a photographer </em><br />
<em>To be put on a piece of paper!</em><br />
<br />
<br />
<img alt="" aria-busy="true" aria-describedby="fbPhotosSnowboxCaption" class="spotlight" height="300" src="http://a5.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/312796_10150342712716966_587086965_8194300_1263910212_n.jpg" width="400" /><br />
<img alt="" aria-busy="true" aria-describedby="fbPhotosSnowboxCaption" class="spotlight" height="300" src="http://a1.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/379434_10150342713841966_587086965_8194309_985874904_n.jpg" width="400" /><br />
<br />
<em><u>The Marching Monks</u></em><br />
<em>The place is in ruins</em><br />
<em>These are the only human beings</em><br />
<em>That bring the ruins to life</em><br />
<em>And make us forget the strife</em><br />
<em>That tore their country apart.</em><br />
<br />
<em>The young monks come in robes of yellow or orange</em><br />
<em>They do not strike us as normal or strange</em><br />
<em>They are young and innocent little boys.</em><br />
<em>Do their hearts feel the pain and the joys</em><br />
<em>That tore their country apart?</em><br />
<br />
<em>We are visitors to their country</em><br />
<em>We come, we see and write of their beauty</em><br />
<em>We visit the ruins and take pictures</em><br />
<em>Of people, buildings and sculptures</em><br />
<em>Do we really care what tore their country apart?</em><br />
<br />
<img alt="" aria-busy="true" aria-describedby="fbPhotosSnowboxCaption" class="spotlight" height="300" src="http://a7.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc7/393367_10150342714521966_587086965_8194320_2016862321_n.jpg" width="400" /><br />
<br />
<em><u>The Cambodian Shirley Temple</u></em><br />
<em>This young girl stood under a tree</em><br />
<em>And sang a song just for Nithiya and me. </em><br />
<em>A basket of leaves she placed at her feet</em><br />
<em>For the money from all she would meet</em><br />
<em>Alas I reget to say</em><br />
<em>That I did not pay</em><br />
<em>To hear her song -</em><br />
<em>I committed a wrong</em><br />
<em>By singing her a song!</em><br />
<br />
<img alt="" aria-busy="true" aria-describedby="fbPhotosSnowboxCaption" class="spotlight" height="300" src="http://a2.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc7/385309_10150342703346966_587086965_8194217_1178453568_n.jpg" width="400" /><br />
<em><span style="font-size: x-small;">Leaving Angkor Wat</span></em><br />
<br />
The temple with the banyan trees was scary. When he stopped at another temple, I stayed in the car and Nithiya took a walk. <br />
<br />
After all that walking and climbing up and down and viewing ruin after ruin, I decided to pamper my poor almost ruined feet. Nithiya originally decided to rest but soon succumbed to the lure of gentle hands. What luxury. <br />
<br />
Ra took us to a salon, run by a Chinese lady. That was our first encounter with a person who was less than polite and friendly. <br />
<br />
Nithiya was taken to the back for her hair wash and it was not a good job at all. When it was time for drying, they did not dry Nithiya's hair, they had only one hair dryer!!!<br />
<br />
We then proceeded to the restaurant to book our dinner cum Apsara dance show and decided against going back to Angkor to view the sun set. <br />
<br />
It was a buffet dinner with a very wide spread of delicious food which we enjoyed. The music according to Nithiya was very gamelan. The dance to me was a cross between something Thai and Malay.We did not stay till the end of the show, which I found to be a bit slow. <br />
<br />
<br />
<u>Day 3 </u><br />
<br />
We got up slowly, showered, changed and went down for breakfast. The selection was not so good. After breakfast we caught up with our new driver. I forget his name. <br />
<br />
We wanted to visit the Tonle Sap. He took us to some point and there were lots of locals and boats. We did not venture. We asked him to find another route. He drove us to another point and it was obvious that due to the floods, we could not embark in the normal way. We bought our boat tickets and found that we had to take a small boat out to get to the big boat. <br />
<br />
A girl got a chair for me and I got on top of the chair and from there into the boat. There was a boatman and a boy. The boy had a most enchanting face.<br />
<br />
<br />
<img alt="" aria-busy="true" aria-describedby="fbPhotosSnowboxCaption" class="spotlight" height="480" src="http://a2.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc7/385309_10150342703346966_587086965_8194217_1178453568_n.jpg" width="640" /><br />
Nithiya with the Jackie Kennedy pose when fleeing from the paparazzi!Siva Prasanna Krishnanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06210009726000818227noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4270544749004657709.post-89510978903262655532011-10-01T09:00:00.000-07:002011-10-02T04:40:46.968-07:00Johanes - My Timorese Security GuardMy husband was transferred to Tawau, Sabah in November 1998. I had very little time to get a transfer to Tawau for myself and my ten year old son. I had to get a release from my school first, then the District Office, after which the State has to release me and finally Kuala Lumpur approves me leaving Kedah and going to Sabah. I was working in Kedah at that time, which was really a blessing for me, because the officers in the Education Department in Kedah were very helpful and obliging. By the end of November, two days before school reopened in December we landed in Tawau. Someone met us at the airport and took us to Sri Kunak Estate, which would be our official home for the next five years. Sri Kunak Estate was an oil palm plantation owned by the company my husband worked for. <br />
<br />
That transfer was a promotion for my husabnd who was a planter. He went to Sabah as a Planting Advisor. I was a secondary school English teacher. My new school was SMK Tawau, 56 miles away from Sri Kunak. That meant I had to drive 112 miles everyday. All our lives changed somewhat. We were no longer staying in an estate managed by my husband. That was the first big change. Roy my son, went to school by school bus, since he was in the afternoon session, another first for us. <br />
<br />
My Principal was a wonderful lady, Pn Zaharah bt Mohd Kassim. Within a year, I applied for and was given one of the government houses next to my school. Our immediate neighbour was Huessein Perumal, his wife Noraini Chong and their four children. Next to Hussein's house lived Zainal and his wife from Kelantan. In front of Hussein's house lived Jimmy Cheng, his wife and two children. In front of our house, lived four bachelors and their neighbours were two single ladies, all teachers, except for Mrs Cheng, a housewife. <br />
<br />
We had great fun doing up this tiny house. Roy was especially pleased, because we had neighbours, no fences or gates and after the loneliness of life in the manager's bungalow of a plantation, it was a change to have people with children, living so close to you. <br />
<br />
Herma a young Indonesian girl from Sulawesi, who incidentally was one of the thousands of illegal immigrants in Tawau, became my maid for the five years that we were stationed in Tawau. After living in the teachers' quarters for about a year, our house was burgled in the wee hours of the morning. That burglary shocked us, the neighbourhood, and destroyed our feeling of security. It was a violation of our lives. Word went around that I was looking for a security guard. A number of people applied to become our personal security guard. I finally employed a Filipino man, Haji, a retired soldier. I must say that he did a good job of guarding my house, giving us back our feeling of security and sound sleep every night. <br />
<br />
The enterprising Haji helped himself to all the mangoes, the jackfruit and anything else growing in the garden. I did not grudge him that. He then set about making himself comfortable while at work. First he went to the school and found a couple of old desks and chairs, which he said he needed for sitting and writing the daily report. Then he found some sheets of zinc from somewhere and put up a roof. Then he found planks of wood and had three walls, the fourth wall was the wall of my porch. He got an extension wire and plugged it into the socket in my house and got electricity. A hose and he had water from the garden tap. He was happy with his home away from his home, especially after he came with a roll of carpet for the floor. <br />
<br />
Three years later, my feeling of great security was shaken when Haji told me that he had got a very good offer in West Malaysia and he would be leaving. He assured me that he would get me a good replacement. He brought the man the following morning. The new man was short, dark skinned, had curly hair, a strange odour, spoke softly, looked about 55 years of age and did not have the commanding personality of my Filipino Haji. Haji assured me that the new guard Johanes, was trustworthy. <br />
<br />
Johanes started work and never skipped a day. He did not write reports, did his work diligently and soon my family and the neighbourhood enjoyed good undisturbed sleep once again. Months passed and Johanes began to put little paper bags around the mangoes and then he began to harvest them. We got hundreds of mangoes. He took his share and so did the neighbours. I then found out that the neighbours had thought all along I had been keeping all the mangoes for myself. Then one day Johanes brought a huge jackfruit from the garden. I had always been told that the jackfruit was rotten and had to be thrown far away!<br />
<br />
One day my maid Ima told me that she would have to take leave urgently and be away in Indonesia for a month. She could not wait for my school holidays. She could not find a replacement for me. I was in a dilema. Roy was in the afternoon school, I was in the morning. My husband was in Sri Kunak and came back only in the evening. <br />
<br />
I approached Johanes.<br />
"Do you have any daugters? I asked him casually. <br />
"Yes, I have a daughter," he replied. <br />
"Can she work in my house for a month?"<br />
Johanes looked away, he looked around and then his gaze met mine and moved to my feet. "She cannot. She is young," he replied softly. <br />
I did not push the matter and left it. <br />
<br />
A few days passed and we could not get anyone. I approached Johanes again. <br />
"Johanes, can your daughter come to my house? She does not have to do any work. I will be kind to her. She just has to be here." <br />
Again he looked at me, and his gaze scanned the entire area around before returning to my feet. "Sorry Ma'am. Forgive me. She is young." <br />
"Is she schooling?"<br />
"No. She is staying at home." I felt frustrated but let the matter drop. <br />
<br />
My husband told me to tell him that after I returned from school, the girl could go home. I tried for one last time. <br />
<br />
"Johanes, can your daughter be here for just two hours? She does not have to do any work. She can just sit in the house and watch television."<br />
He was hesitant and then said, "Sorry Ma'am. She is young."<br />
I became quite irritated. It must have shown on my face for he looked very uncomfortable and began to move around. <br />
<br />
"Johanes! How old is your daughter?"<br />
"Six months old," he said. <br />
"Six months!"<br />
"Yes. She is very young."Siva Prasanna Krishnanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06210009726000818227noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4270544749004657709.post-36763605446794408932011-09-03T20:07:00.000-07:002011-09-26T07:14:52.359-07:00My Love for Johore Bahru knows no bounds<small class="commentmetadata"><a href="http://scottthong.wordpress.com/2011/04/27/johor-bahru-sin-city-poem/#comment-83663" title="">August 25, 11 at 11:49 pm</a> </small><br />
<br />
<script charset="UTF-8" type="text/javascript">
<!--//--><![CDATA[//><!--
PDRTJS_settings_4480608_comm_83663={"id":4480608,"unique_id":"wp-comment-83663","title":"Jay%20Bee%20my%20homewhy%20do%20i%20feel%20so%20alonewhen%20i%20visit%20something%20does%20not%20fit.What%20has%20happened%20to%20the%20soul%20of%20my%20townWhy%20is%20my%20face%20contorted%20into%20a%20perpectual%20frownWhere%20are%20the%20familiar%20faces%20and%20s...","permalink":"http:\/\/scottthong.wordpress.com\/2011\/04\/27\/johor-bahru-sin-city-poem\/#comment-83663","item_id":"_comm_83663"};
//--><!]]>
</script>Jay Bee my home<br />
why do i feel so alone<br />
when i visit<br />
something does not fit.<br />
What has happened to the soul of my town<br />
Why is my face contorted into a perpectual frown<br />
Where are the familiar faces and shops of wong ah fook<br />
All of you stop and take a look.<br />
<br />
i was born in Jalan Dhoby<br />
long before it was a city<br />
then it was home<br />
now its an empty dome.<br />
<br />
where are safiah, awang, mat, mariam and the others<br />
where are sau siah, her parents and her brothers<br />
where is the lady who sold us cow’s milk by the tumblers<br />
where did all the familiar people scatter<br />
<br />
oh how well i can feel what azly rahman feels in his heart<br />
how intensely lonely i feel as from a once-safe Jay Bee we depart<br />
But when night falls and my thoughts return to my childhood<br />
That is when i see my jay bee – for time – for me - still it stood!<br />
<br />
prasanna krishnanSiva Prasanna Krishnanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06210009726000818227noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4270544749004657709.post-23005253794169328102011-09-03T20:06:00.000-07:002012-02-19T01:36:40.913-08:00The Malays The Chinese The Indians and I<u>The Indians </u><br />
<br />
<u>Part 1 - The Wedding of Kunjunnie</u><br />
<br />
Today is Saturday, 10th September 2011. I chose this title more than a week ago and waited for something momentous to take place, so that it would give me the right substance and impetus, to translate into words my thoughts and thereby justify my chosen title. I had no idea what it would be but I had the conviction that such an event would occur. Today, something momentous did take place - the wedding of my former student, Captain Shashi Kunjunnie Narayanan of the Royal Malaysian Armed Forces. <br />
<br />
Let me tell you how my journey with Kunjunnie started in December 1994 when the new academic year started for Malaysian students. Now why did the school year start in December, you may well ask? Well each Minister for Education in my country, whether he is an educationist or not, most often he has never been an educationist, feels a compulsive urge to mark his place in the history of our country with a brand new change. The Minister responsible for this change felt that having a long break in December reflected our strong servile bond to our colonial masters and their celebratory festival, Christmas. So school holidays were changed and we were told that it was for the sake of the monsoon rains!!! and the public examinations!!!<br />
<br />
Silly sheep that we were and are, we followed and follow, instructions from one minister after another without question. Today that minister is a villain and has a strong bond of support from the very same people whose celebration of Christmas caused the change in our holidays. The year he was thrown out of office, we got back our December holidays once again. That my friends is called change.<br />
<br />
My journey with Kunjunnie started in December 1994 when I reported for duty in Sekolah Menengah Kebangsaan Kampung Pasir Putih in Ipoh. I had come from Sabah. I was an English Language teacher. Kunjunnie was in Form 2. By the time he reached Form 4 I was his teacher. He was a quiet, hardworking, polite boy who joined one of the Uniformed Units of the school, did all his work and was well liked by his teachers and friends. Due to some narrow-minded teachers' excitement caused by Malay students taking part in an English concert, my friend and co-teacher Dena had her share of problems and I received a letter telling me that I was transferred out to Batu Gajah with almost immediate effect, and the signatory to that letter was the husband of my principal, who happened to be a person of some position in the Education Office. Talk about coincidences. <br />
<br />
Over the years, I met Kunjunnie and his brother Giri in the Gunung Cherong temple on Fridays quite infrequently. Then some weeks ago, I received a call from him, telling me about his coming marriage and that he would like to come over and invite me for his wedding. A week later, he came to my house with his father. That visit was the start of one lesson about life which I was never able to learn properly from my mother. Today I graduated. And with my graduation, I know I am a part of the Malays, a part of the Chinese, a part of the Indians and I am a vital part of who they are as well. <br />
<br />
His father Mr Narayanan, an unassuming man, soft spoken, leader of a family, quiet at first, more vocal later, began to interact with me and share his views. <br />
<br />
"Is this a love marriage? I asked with a smile. <br />
"No, no. It's an arranged marriage. We are very traditional," he said. His son smiled and I felt suitably chastised. The boy added, "Teacher, my parents chose the girl and I know that they will choose the right person for me."<br />
"His job was to study and get a good job and salary first," the father explained. "Otherwise, their minds will be on other things and not their future. We will help them make right choices when the time is right," he nodded, looking at me for approval. I indicated with my shaking, nodding head that I absolutely agreed with him.<br />
<br />
How often had I heard that from my parents more than forty years ago. They were not speaking for effect. They were speaking a belief which they tried to instill into their children from a young age. Roles and responsibilities, choices and priorities. I had beliefs but no conviction. I had convictions and beliefs but no one listened and followed. Therefore I had no more convictions. They planned. I had no plans. Ad hoc, ad hoc, ad hoc became my shallow mantra.<br />
<br />
"Kunjunnie, I know you are in the army. What exactly is your job?"<br />
"I am a Captain. I am in Putrajaya," he answered.<br />
"What made you join the army?" <br />
"I was a member of the Cadet Corps, you remember?" he asked for clarification. I nodded my head, "And I always wanted to join the army, so I applied and when I got it, Teacher, I was really very happy." <br />
"Didn't you want to do anything else?" I kept probing. <br />
<br />
"Mrs Chandra, my son joined the army after he graduated from University Technology Malaysia in Johore. I told him that he had to go to University first and he did well." I then remembered Dena telling me that Kunjunnie was the top student of his batch. I looked at the beaming face of the proud father who continued, "He took a PTPTN loan and studied and now he is paying back his loan."<br />
"Well done Kunjunnie," and I meant it. I am truly happy with every achievement of each of my students. <br />
"I always listen to my father. He has always takes me the right way."<br />
<br />
The conversation moved away from Kunjunnie to things in general and that meant, am I a Malayalee, did I speak Malayalam, my house did not reflect my ethnicity. The English conversation shifted to a Malayalam one and soon everyone was convinced that each of us was a genuine item. It came back to marriage. <br />
<br />
"Is your son married?"<br />
"No."<br />
"Teacher, you know so many people. Why don't you arrange something for him?"<br />
"I don't think he will listen."<br />
"Teacher, but he knows you will do it carefully and won't do the wrong thing," he said with genuine surprise at my answer. "He will listen, he is your son."<br />
"People are different, he is different. I am sure he will find someone really nice."<br />
"I know, today people are modern," Kunjunnie conceded. <br />
"Yes," I said in a neutral tone, "people are far too modern". <br />
<br />
"But I'm sure you want marriage to be old-fashioned so that it's happy and lasts forever," said the father. I nodded my head. <br />
<br />
"Everybody is modern, their dressing, their music, their clothes and what they eat. But some things we as parents must make sure remain steady, like being polite to parents and elders, taking family life as sacred and marriage as unbreakable," he said with a shake of his head and an iron-clad conviction staring me straight in the face before turning to face his son. I remembered my parents. They stuck it out through good and bad times. I remembered all the older people who have passed on, marriage was a contract. You don't break a contract. <br />
<br />
The father and son then got up and when I rose, they moved towards me and placed a tray on my hand. On the tray was the wedding invitation card. "Mrs Chandra, I want you to bless my son and his life," said the father with so much of respect and trust in me. I took the card and held it against my chest. <br />
"Kunjunnie, you are a good son. Surely goodness will follow you the rest of your life," and I realised that was misquoting Psalm 23. I told them to wait and went to the pantry and got the huge bar of Cadbury's Milk Chocolate, which I had purchased in Changi, for the tray that I returned to the couple. <br />
<br />
I promised them that I would be present for the dinner on the 10th of September. I would not be able to make it for the wedding on the 2nd in Seremban. I asked the father how many children he has. He has 5 children. <br />
"How many children do you have? he asked me.<br />
"One."<br />
"One!" they both exclaimed in unison. <br />
"Yes," and I realised that my smile was a little sad. <br />
"I had to put five children through university. They are good children," the man acknowledged. <br />
<br />
"Are you working now?" I asked.<br />
"I retired about four and a half years ago," he informed me. I was overjoyed. <br />
"I am sixty one years old. You must be my age!" I exclaimed. He smiled and nodded. <br />
"Where were you working?"<br />
"XXX, technician. Now I work in some company and I go in only for a few hours a week and they pay me more than what I earned with the government. My children don't want me to work but I am very happy doing what I am doing." I remembered my gruelling hours and the pittance I earn for the long hours I put in. The job that you do and the amount that you earn does not raise good children, nor fill your home with piety, nor fill your heart with joy. <br />
<br />
"Teacher, you live alone here. Don't you feel lonely?"<br />
"I work long hours. When I come home, I take a bath, say my prayers, talk to my dogs and maid, read the papers, write, read a book and it's time to sleep I guess," I offered as a timetable of my life. <br />
"What about visiting your friends and relatives? My mother couldn't come because she was visiting some relatives with some guests," he explained. <br />
<br />
"I don't visit anyone in their home," but I did not tell him that in this miserable town, nobody invites you to their home. They hop, skip and jump to your place each time you invite them. Well to be fair, Nithya always invites me to her place and so does Mrs Ignatius. "And I am not from Ipoh. I have no relatives in Ipoh," I explained. <br />
<br />
"Teacher, you must come to my house and visit us," he invited, poor lonely me. <br />
"That will be lovely," I replied and realised that my answer was a response taught to me as the correct way to reply to an invitation. But was it an honest answer from the heart and not the lip? I began to see that I was a part of that boy and his father and their family and their values, when I was growing up in the fifties and sixties. Which turn at which cross-roads led me to no-man's land? A feeling of intense loneliness and longing for a way of life which had once belonged to me and of which I was once a part, filled me with pain and tears. <br />
<br />
The father left me with the words in Malayalam, "Take care of your son's life. That is our duty as parents." He was not patronising me. It is just that after more than 35 years of living away from my parents' house, I had forgotten how my parents spoke to us and constantly reminded us of our duties to others. <br />
<br />
<u>The Indians -Part 2</u><br />
<br />
<u>The Wedding of Mr Appukuttan Nair</u><br />
<br />
All of us in our house met Mr Appukuttan Nair somewhere in 1958, when I was eight years old and my younger sister Sheela was five. I want to take you to our house and introduce you to our neighbours before you meet Mr Appukuttan Nair. <br />
<br />
We left Jalan Lumba Kuda Lama in mid-1958 and moved into a run-down Malay Kamupung style house. Dad had booked a new house and we needed to save all the money that we could. The rental was RM40 and when it was shared between the two families it was most affordable. There was no tarred road leading to the house. Cars stopped in Jalan Storey and people walked along a sandy path to reach the houses. On either side of the path were trees and shrubs and it was like no-man's land. Our house was the first house on the left. <br />
<br />
There was a tall coconut tree and an equally tall durian tree. There were three steps going down into the sandy patch in front of our old wooden house with tall windowns and brick stilts. Our house was separated from our neighbour's house by a bamboo fence and there was a small natural gate in the middle that allowed access to each other's house. <br />
<br />
A large extended Malay family lived in the house next to ours. There were so many very interesting characters in that house. Our two-year stay in that neighbourhood cannot be emulated ever again, because people like them and those who occupied our house belonged to only that period of Malayan history. <br />
<br />
The Lady of the house was fair skinned and plump, always with a smile and a very majestic demeanour. From our kitchen window we had a good view of their kitchen. There was a huge table in the kitchen. Ladies sat on the table and did all the cutting and cleaning of vegetables. They took a nap on the table in the afternoon after lunch. They sat around the table in the evening to share their evening meal. Not sure what happened to the table at night, once the windows were shut for the day. <br />
<br />
There was another lady, light brown-skinned and very slim who did much of the work like washing the clothes, sweeping the garden, cleaning the house and she sewed beautiful dresses. She was full of smiles every time she met us. <br />
<br />
The Man of house was also brown-skinned, heavily built, not very tall, hair always neatly combed, bespectacled and in white shirt and dark pants when going to work and in a sarong and singlet after work. He did not smile or talk but always nodded his head when he met us and we in turn bowed and smiled most reverentially. <br />
<br />
The oldest child was Mat, a very serious looking young boy of about 15. He was very polite and hardly spoke but he was not at all unfriendly. His younger sister was the beauty of the house, Safiah. She was friendly, very courteous and came across as a very caring and helpful girl. She was about 12 when we moved in. <br />
<br />
Then there was Awang, the terrror of the neighbourhood. He was naughty, really very naughty. He laughed loudly, ran around very noisily and climbed trees and loved to irritate our dogs. He would call us names and disappear. The toilet was outside the house, an outhouse under the trees and the system was the bucket system. Whenever we had to use the toilet, he would make all kinds of noises and make us most uncomfortable and irritated. Most times, we had no idea what he was saying as he spoke in Malay and had a slang that was very different from the Malay that we learned in school. He was about nine or ten, very tanned and sturdy, the kind who never fell ill. <br />
<br />
Then there was little Faridah who was about six. She was slim, very light skinned with shoulder length hair and who played with us. I do not remember the others in that large house. <br />
<br />
The people of our house were also quite varied. My father worked with the British Army in Singapore. He was Malayalam educated in India and English educated in Malaya. His outstanding features were his silent nature and the Straits Times. My mother was Malayalam educated, could speak some English, could understand English quite well but never spoke the language. My older brother was in Standard 4 in Temenggong Abdul Rahman School, I was in Standard 2 in Convent of the Holy Infant Jesus, my younger sister was five and not schooling, and Sobha was about two. My 26 year old mum was pregnant with Harish when we moved in there. <br />
<br />
The other family that shared that house was a Malayali family, like us. The man was also Mr Krishnan, and he worked for the British Army but was based in Johore Bahru. His wife Ratnamma had been my mother's classmate in India. She was taller than my mother but hardly understood any English. Their oldest child was Prabha who was Sheela's age, Devadas who was four and horrendously rude and naughty and the baby Mohana Das who was about one. <br />
<br />
There were two bedrooms. We occupied the first room, the other family the second room. We shared all the other facilities in the house. Staying together was very trying for all of us. <br />
<br />
Before my brother and I reached school going age, Dad had registered us at the Public School which was near Jalan Lumba Kuda. Now we were in Bukit Chagar and there was no school for Sheela to prepare her for the Convent. After much debate, Uncle Krishnan and Mr C P Thomas who was also with the British Army in Johore Bahru found a tuition teacher for Sheela and Prabha. We waited with much anticipation for the arrival of the teacher. <br />
<br />
One evening at about half past five, there was some excitement in our house. The two ladies, my mother and Aunty Ratnamma prepared something for tea and we children hung around for the guest. He came with Uncle Krishnan and Mr Thomas. He was slim, tall and wore a long sleeved light coloured shirt and slim fitting pants. He had wavy hair, parted in the middle and combed away from his forehead. His skin was brown, more like nescafe with milk. <br />
<br />
We children gathered in the sandy garden in front. The three men walked down the three steps, and went to the steps that led to the house. He gave all of us a sweeping glance and a smile that swept our faces, the garden, the fence and ended on the steps leading to the front door. We became part of his entourage as he entered the door. Mum and Aunty Ratnamma stood near the door and gave endless smiles to no one in particular. There were a few rattan chairs in the hall. He was invited to sit on one and Mr Thomas sat on the other. Uncle Krishnan went to his room and his wife followed him. My father, who worked in Singapore had not returned. <br />
<br />
"This is Mr Appukuttan Nair. He is from Quilon district," Mr Thomas said, as he went on to name the exact locality. All eyes were trained on Mr A and he graced us with another smile. "He is very good in English and has taught many children to read and write," Mr Thomas continued in the wake of another smile. Our eyes went to Sheela, who was then a very timid child who was easily frightened. Prabha was a tougher person and she stared at Mr A. Sheela, slowly crept to my mother and held on to her sarong as it dawned on her that she was going to play an instrumental part in Mr A's association with our families. <br />
<u> </u><u>The Chinese</u><br />
<br />
The earliest memories I have of the Chinese date back to early 1954 when we lived in a house owned by a Chinese family I never met. My parents rented two rooms on the second floor of the old link house in Jalan Lumba Kuda, in Johore Bahru. <br />
<br />
The front door of the house was always open and there was a big brass urn with joss sticks burning. The floor was cement and it was a dimly lit room. Every time I entered the house I would look at the urn and the joss sticks and the smell and smoke from the joss sticks permeated the entire house. The dark staircase was at the front end of the room. It was a wooden staircase and we had to climb some twenty steps before coming to a landing. We would then make a 180 degree turn to the right and walk past closed doors on the left then come to another staircase, a 90 degree turn and climb another twenty steps to reach another landing. Turn right and the first two doors on the left, was our home. The second door opened a room that was our bedroom, our dining room, prayer room and living room. <br />
<br />
Our home, that room had a huge bed that was placed on the right side of the room. On the left was a simple table and some stools. Facing the door was a wooden window, that gave us our view to the outside world. My brother was five going on six then, I was three going on four and my younger sister was about six months old. My mother was about 22 years old and my Dad about 33 years old. The room was very bare except for some curtains that my mother put up. <br />
<br />
We woke up early, when Dad went to work. My mum would then dress up my brother and he would walk with the son of another tenant to the Public School. My sister would sleep and I would spend hours at the window. Someone from Purushothaman's shop would send a tiffin carrier with lunch for us. <br />
<br />
The Chinese who lived in that house are faceless and nameless to me now. They were neither friendly nor unfriendly. They minded their own business and we minded ours. Mum spoke only Malayalam and therefore conversation with them was almost nil. Sometimes Dad would go out in the evening and we would be in the room. Mum would then send my brother or me downstairs to tell the matriach who sat regally on a chair, with hair neatly arranged in a bun, that my dad was out and not to lock the door. <br />
<br />
Mum's first Chinese friend that I remember was a Chinese tailor who lived on the ground floor. She had two sewing machines in the living room and a pile of pattern books and new dresses hanging on a line. Every month Mum would make a dress for me. I would spend a long time going through the pattern books and choosing patterns. Mum would sit with me and go through the patterns. The lady would help us to choose. Sometimes when Mum found a pattern, the lady would offer to buy suitable material for the dresses. Once she sewed two beautiful dresses, one was pink and the other a light powder blue. The material was some kind of muslin. <br />
<br />
We moved from there to 100 Jalan Lumba Kuda Lama. Our house was the first house. The next house was occupied by two families. The main tenant was an egg seller in the wet market. She lived there with her husband, two sons and a daughter. The girl was Sau Siah and the boys were Sau Meng and Sau Leng. We became close friends. The lady worked very hard from morning till sunset when she would come home with a few vegetables, a small fish and a small piece of pork which they cooked for dinner. Dinner was not later than six in the evening, when we were having our tea. <br />
<br />
There was an old lady who would come and look after a few babies. I have no idea whose babies they were or who the old lady was. She would sit on a chair and proceed to feed the babies. My mum found their feeding habits just out of her world, but it was totally natural for them. The lady would pour a black sauce on the porridge, stir it until the whole concoction was a light brown. Then came the part that my mum could not watch. The lady would pick up a piece of meat and some rice and put the whole spoon into her own mouth and proceed to chew. Then she would put it back on the spoon and feed the babies. <br />
<br />
One day Mum decided to tell Sau Siah's mother about it. She wanted her to know what was happening to the children's food. Sau Siah's mother laughed and said that that was the way to feed babies who could not chew properly and they would not get a burnt mouth. Mum decided that they were most certainly not like us at all. <br />
<br />
In front of our house there was a large piece of land and at the furthest end stood a big house. The residents travelled by car and therefore we did not ever meet them. They had an annexe that housed their servants. In the annexe lived a fat, elderly Chinese woman who left early in the morning with a kandar stick across her shoulders. Hanging on the two ends of the kandar sticks were two big baskets. She would go waddling down Lumba Kuda Lama, in the direction of the railway station. <br />
<br />
In the evenings, often after the sun had set, the old woman would return. She would stop on the five-foot path outside our house and sit on a small wooden stool. The two baskets would rest on the floor and she would place the kandar stick next to the baskets. Inside her basket were so many little little things wrapped in what appeared to be coloured waxed paper. After some time, Dad allowed us to accept some of the wrapped things. Mum would give her some shillings. <br />
<br />
That was my introduction to Chinese dried stuff as we called them. There were dried olives wrapped in paper and rolled into a circle. We called them kana. Then there was the sour kana with salt on it. She would tell us to drink water with it and the water would taste sweet. Then one day, she forced my Mum to accept what looked like red crepe paper with sprinkled sugar. We had to chew on it and soon we all loved it. It was dried sotong with a hint of chilli and sugar. Mum would give her some water and then she would slowly get up, get her stick, hook the baskets and waddle off to the house in front. And we would go inside our house with the tidbits in our hands. Mum declared that they were very clever. Imagine making something edible out of orange peel!<br />
<br />
To the right of that large house was another detached brick house. That house was occupied by a European couple. I thought they were the most loving people I had ever met. Every evening at about six, the lady would walk down the road in a beautiful gown. She would grace us with a smile if we managed to catch her eye. A short while later she would walk up the road holding the hand of her husband. They would be chatting and laughing. In the evenings, when we sat in our darkened five-foot path with the kana lady, I would look out for the couple in the porch. Often she would be sitting on his lap although there were two chairs on their patio. <br />
<br />
One night there was a lot of laughter and that drew the attention of the people in my house and Sau Siah's house. Sau Siah's mother made a comment that I did not understand. As we watched, the man stood up, lifted the lady in his arms, kissed her as in the movies and entered the house and kicked the door shut. That brought forth a lot of comments from my five foot path. <br />
<br />
Then one night, there was a Chinese lady at my door. She wanted to see my mother. She talked to my mother and she was crying. My mother told us children to go inside. That meant there was something going on which in turn meant we hung as close as our ears could hear. Much later the lady walked over the house where the loving coupled lived. Mum stayed outside with Sau Siah's mother for a long time and they were speaking in whispers. Nobody told us what had happened. The lady came to our house again a few times, at night and in tears. <br />
<br />
One day about 45 years later when I was having lunch with my mother I asked her if such and incident had taken place or if I had imagined it. She had a story to tell. When the European man was away for a spell, the lady entertained other men in the house. One of the men was the husband of the lady who was crying. She had been in Sau Siah's house since afternoon and had seen her husband walk to the house and enter the house and close the door. She waited outside our house for him to leave that house. Mother declared that the Chinese were just like us, there was a lot of sadness in their lives as well. <br />
<br />
Once a month, the neighbours would make some cakes and offer with joss sticks and other stuff by the roadside. We would go to the kitchen and watch as they beat the eggs and sugar to a frothy stiff concoction, stirred in flour and baked it in a brass vessel with burning coal underneath and on top. In the evening, we too would sit by the roadside as they revered long gone ancestors. Mum said that their offering was a bit different from ours. We offered in a room and shut the door but they offered in a public place for one and all to see. They were not very different from us, she declared.Siva Prasanna Krishnanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06210009726000818227noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4270544749004657709.post-7065551879664607432011-09-03T19:12:00.002-07:002011-09-03T19:12:30.907-07:00My Love for Johore Bahru knows no boundsSiva Prasanna Krishnanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06210009726000818227noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4270544749004657709.post-39821764115271107082011-09-03T19:12:00.000-07:002011-12-18T02:35:41.325-08:00I am My Father's Daughter and Proud to be soOn the 13th of October 1931 Kunju Krishnan, the second son of Padmanabhan and Meenakshi was born in Nyarakkal House in Mayyanad. Mayyanad is in Kollam District. Kunju Krishnan is my father. <br />
<br />
<div align="center"></div><em><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></em><br />
<br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-size: x-small;"><img alt="" class="rg_hi" data-height="194" data-width="259" height="194" id="rg_hi" src="http://t1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQNG6G2h275l5UVKLipfz1Lg1igSEjBF8wuGnMPHcnvuTwpnyFI" style="height: 194px; width: 259px;" width="259" /></span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: x-small;">Mayyanad Railway Station which has not changed much</span></em><br />
<br />
<div align="justify" dir="ltr"><em><span style="font-size: x-small;">"Mayyanad is a beautiful village situated in Kollam district of Kerala and is about 10 kilometers south of Kollam city. Mayyanad can be reached by frequent buses from Kollam and Kottiyam and by local train from Kollam and Thiruvananthapuram. Mayyanad is situated on the banks of the Paravur lake. Mayyanad's costal line along the Arabian sea is famous for its fishing. This village is the birth place of well known personalities like C V Kunjuraman, C Kesavan and K Sukumaran.</span></em></div><div align="justify" dir="ltr"><br />
</div><div align="justify" dir="ltr"><em><span style="font-size: x-small;">Mayyanad village is made up of several localities including Mayyanad, Vellamanal, Koottikkada, Kakkottumoola, Pullichara, Umayanelloor, Mukkom, Thattamala, etc. The sole spoken (and written) language is Malayalam."</span></em></div><br />
<em><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkAYqkdqEDgRJxxZ4vcwZL0LaiRWPSuX80ndnLQvGiLPxE0l60ftKT4ODihtZMCYrDVG4yxDv1S9BF8Nce9VxGJ5wKgI8PUd65UOPwI1YZkJpvWuQz9NGURduvn_W13KhUBLNwn0Mu7Q4k/s1600/mayyanad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" closure_uid_i869f1="2" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkAYqkdqEDgRJxxZ4vcwZL0LaiRWPSuX80ndnLQvGiLPxE0l60ftKT4ODihtZMCYrDVG4yxDv1S9BF8Nce9VxGJ5wKgI8PUd65UOPwI1YZkJpvWuQz9NGURduvn_W13KhUBLNwn0Mu7Q4k/s400/mayyanad.jpg" width="400" /></a></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: x-small;">The land of the coconut palms and calm waters</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: x-small;"><img height="150" id="il_fi" src="http://www.mayyanad.com/images/photo_05.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="200" /></span></em><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">My paternal grandfather had his own business of which I know hardly any details. He had suffered monetary loss and went to Ceylon for a number of years. During those years, my grandmother Meenakshi and her three sons moved in with her very wealthy brother and his family. Her sister-in-law who had three sons and a young daughter, was a High School Teacher. My grandmother kept house for her brother and his family and they all lived as one family. My father from a very young age, formed a very close bond with his first cousins, and they were like brothers and sister in every way. </div><br />
My father's aunt, was married off to Neelakandan, a wealthy man from Paravur, in the late thirties. Neelakandan, my maternal grandfather's older brother had made his wealth in Malaya in the 1920s and 1930s. When my father's aunt left Mayyanad for Singapore, she took along my father as a companion. My father was nine years old. <br />
<br />
All of them settled in 15 Jalan Dhoby, Johore Bahru. My father was enrolled at the Union School, in JB. My grand-uncle and grand-aunty lived the life of the wealthy with their cars and drivers. My father did not have a happy life at all in that house without a mother or anyone who really cared for him. Years later, I heard the sorrow of his mother at having allowed her young son to leave home and go so very far away. Not too long ago, when my Dad came to stay with me, just before his 90th birthday, I asked him why his aunt had brought him to Malaya. His reply, "They wanted a servant."<br />
<br />
I formed a very close attachment to my taciturn, hot-tempered, unfriendly and lonely father from the time I was born. He came from a family of boys. My mother was the only girl in her family. After my older brother, when I came along, I think everyone was happy that there was a little girl around the place. I guess it was an accident of birth that brought me much joy. My father was as different from the males in my mother's family as an angsana tree would be to a raintree and yet both were big, strong, offered shade and stood in a class of their own. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/51266678@N06/5598667209/" title="Picture 720 by life ramblings 2008, on Flickr"><img alt="Picture 720" height="333" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5264/5598667209_4be9e57ff4.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
<em>Angsana tree in bloom</em><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><em><a class="image" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Pterocarpus_indicus_Blanco1.205.png"><img alt="" height="325" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/c/c1/Pterocarpus_indicus_Blanco1.205.png/220px-Pterocarpus_indicus_Blanco1.205.png" width="220" /></a></em></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><em>Leaves and flowers of the angsana tree</em></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><em><img height="300" id="il_fi" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitYit61KC6jwtw76tUoMY5Skhfzl4xI1bp_R2E8_xu_v6UcdB-oJZS3BSpvRJfRBCwvMwb04Bq-KvFXQMQPSjwOVSkCecw4npvdhr5BmTssqmXM4uKpdKTxklNNNXb-OeX13CDb-jtyks/s400/samanea_saman+2.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="400" /></em><br />
<em>A raintree</em><br />
<br />
<a class="image" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Flower_%26_flower_buds-_Samanea_saman_I_IMG_3407.jpg"><img alt="" class="thumbimage" height="184" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/b/b7/Flower_%26_flower_buds-_Samanea_saman_I_IMG_3407.jpg/220px-Flower_%26_flower_buds-_Samanea_saman_I_IMG_3407.jpg" width="220" /></a><br />
<em>The flower and leaves (and a bee) of the rain tree</em><br />
<br />
My earliest memories of my father<br />
<br />
I remember a doll that he bought for me when I was about three years old. Everyone in the house fussed over the doll that first day, except my dad. I was very happy to get the doll and I felt that my father was the only other person who was as happy as I was with the doll. That doll could cry. Everyone exclaimed what a clever doll she was and how lucky I was to get her. But I knew that my father created that joy for me and in my joy he found his joy and we were a part of an unsaid bond.<br />
<br />
King Kong a Caucasian and Dara Singh from Punjab, were well known wrestlers at that time. And any time they had a match the tickets would be sold out. I knew that there was some excitement going on in that house. A sixth sense told me that I was not part of the programme and so I kept very close to my mother and my father. I remember father carrying me and telling me that I was going out with Prakash, my youngest uncle, and that we were going to be doing some really exciting things. <br />
<br />
<span style="color: purple;"><em><span class="headline">Down the memory lane with Dara Singh</span><span class="headline"> <a href="http://www.bollywoodhungama.com/my/index.php?mode=my_clip_add&clip_id=3373&clip_category=f"><img alt="Click here to add this article to My Clips" border="0" src="http://www.bollywoodhungama.com/templates/default/images/clip.gif" /></a></span><br />
<br />
<span class="org">By Screen Weekly, December 19, 2007 - 08:57 IST</span></em></span><br />
<a href="http://www.bollywoodhungama.com/features/2007/12/19/3373/index.html"><span style="color: purple;"><em>http://www.bollywoodhungama.com/features/2007/12/19/3373/index.html</em></span></a><br />
<br />
<span style="color: purple;"><em><strong>"Champ on the rampage'</strong>Dara overthrew the notorious European wrestler King Kong to become the Indian champion in 1954. Post this fight, the humiliated King Kong beat a retreat to Singapore. Dara, on the other hand, was a champ on a rampage. He remained undefeated in Europe and lifted the Commonwealth title in Canada in 1959. Time was ripe for the invincible Dara now for the World title."</em></span><br />
<br />
In the evening, my mother dressed me up and Prakash my youngest uncle took me out. He could not have been more than fourteen years old at that time. 15 Jalan Dhoby was in the middle of Johore Bahru town. We walked down Jalan Pahang and reached the sea front along Jalan Ibrahim. We walked slowly and he told me stories. There was never a quiet moment with my uncles. They constantly talked to us.<em> </em> I remember asking him about my parents and where they were. I do not recall his answer. We stood by the seaside and threw stones at the water. We picked up leaves and flowers. <br />
<br />
After what seemed to be a long time, I told him I was tired. I really wanted to go home and make sure my parents had not left me behind. He told me that he was going to take me to eat something that I had never eaten before. That it was cold, colourful, very delicious, would make my tongue and lips red and that it was not ice-cream. That was my first taste of 'ice-kachang'. It was magic. <br />
<br />
<img alt="" class="lensPhoto" src="http://i2.squidoocdn.com/resize/squidoo_images/-1/lens11889561_1278027506ice-kacang.jpg" /><br />
<em>A bowl of ice-kachang</em><br />
We crossed the road from the sea-side to the shop houses and entered E H'ng cold storage which sold the best ice-kachang in JB town. My uncle ordered two bowls. I remember just looking at it and wanting to touch it with my hands. At home we ate all our food with our fingers. He told me that I had to use a spoon and a straw and not my fingers. <br />
<br />
The shaved ice stood like an iceberg above the bowl and it was drenched in pink and red, favourite colours of young children, especially girls, some milk and a dash of cocoa. In the middle there was sweet boiled red beans (kachang). He showed me how to eat it by scooping out bits of coloured ice onto the spoon and allowing it to melt in the mouth. I forgot my parents in the joy of eating shaved ice, sugar and colourful beans. <br />
<br />
It was almost dark by the time we returned to my grandfather's house. My parents and my brother were not there. I decided to cry but my uncle told me that after such a day and especially after ice-kachang children were not allowed to cry. Mum and Dad came back soon after and Dad carried me when I went up to him and raised my arms. He asked me about my day. I did not know it was ice-kachang that I had eaten. I only knew it was ice, colourful, sweet and you use a spoon and a straw to eat it. Mum was all excited about Dara Singh from India and King Kong, so perhaps she forgot that I was the only one who had not gone to watch the match. <br />
<br />
December 1953 my younger sister Sheela was born. My father took my brother and me together with my grandparents by taxi to the hospital. He left us in the extensive gardens outside the Johore Bahru General Hospital while he went inside to visit my mother. Even as I played with little stones, fruits from the trees that had fallen on the ground, interesting leaves and twigs, I kept a lookout for my Dad. I saw him coming with a bag in his hands. His most outstanding feature was his silent nature.<br />
<br />
He came and held out his hand and I put out mine to hold his. My grandfather held my brother's hand. I asked him what was in the bag and he showed me my mother's sari that had been rolled into a ball. He spoke very briefly with my grandparents. My father disliked them and the feeling I believe was totally mutual and therefore there was very little conversation between them. <br />
<br />
<br />
<img align="left" border="0" src="http://www.crc.gov.my/images/stories/CRC_Network/hsajb_building.gif" /><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The Johore Bahru General Hospital <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I was about four when my parents moved out of my grandparents' house and rented two rooms on the second floor of a house owned by a Chinese I had never seen. There were two Indian families living in that house. One was our family and the other the family of Kunju Kannan Master. <br />
<br />
Quite often after work, my Dad would come and take us to the town which was not far away. Mum, Dad, my older brother, my baby sister Sheela and I would visit my grandparents. The going was fun. It was the coming back that was difficult for me and my father, I am sure. We would walk up the road in front of Cathay cinema. The roads used to be dark and there would be incessant screeching of crickets and cicadas. <br />
<br />
<br />
<img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401225000539732514" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUm8dDBUwZ4ZF62XC1ypWIuR58eHGr6IAE3bjZmULjSuCP5Dr9cjcvMOyHPD7vckXxvH5Y5KaQrW5svLIUTRmjMIY-U7D2kCOAjnBNAST5QepruBBmmy7AQL4xIWfPIp5RQRNB5v5I3pBi/s400/JB2.JPG" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 141px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /><br />
<em><span style="font-size: x-small;">On the rigth, circled is Cathay Cinema in JB in the fifties</span></em><br />
<br />
Quiet, aloof, hot-tempered and frightening as he was, my father had a very kind and considerate heart. He was totally honest and straightforward. When he made a decision, it was always based on his beliefs and he was absolutely consistent. There was never an ocassion when something was allowed on one day and not allowed on another according to his moods. <br />
<br />
His kindness to me I remember with gratitude. I was ill for a long while when I was eight, and one day when my father came home after work, and found out that I was not getting any better, he realised that I had to be taken to the hospital. All along I had been going to a private clinic. <br />
<br />
We lived in a Malay kampung area and there was no access road to the front of our house. Father carried me all the way to the main road, in the late evening and got me to the hospital. Mind you, I was eight and I must have been heavy to carry all the way. I was warded. He stayed with me till I was settled before going back home. <br />
<br />
Every day he would visit me and bring me some fruit or sweet. Then one day he bought me my first story book. It was, "The Little Red Fire Engine'.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguo8Wb0zyokxBi0NqsGVitrhu87qiiO2WXf05AFfaIarGIafCG8RoVRdo8Lslatu6tpURSSNJxFThyKU0ZU273NGTJHZ7ijeNpDLR4JIaAa-xA6kfSpbIM8rxjlNaHflza0EAq3-e7Hl4/s1600/Greene+-+Little+Red+Fire+Engine+%28Craigie%29+-+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="417" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguo8Wb0zyokxBi0NqsGVitrhu87qiiO2WXf05AFfaIarGIafCG8RoVRdo8Lslatu6tpURSSNJxFThyKU0ZU273NGTJHZ7ijeNpDLR4JIaAa-xA6kfSpbIM8rxjlNaHflza0EAq3-e7Hl4/s640/Greene+-+Little+Red+Fire+Engine+%28Craigie%29+-+001.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYJyq8dHVPNCJSMkEan7vFl2c-PYMqoqWrjkHaifTz4sOfYuv7gEs4CTx94kFGwJMIOfj3f1Z0I6gef_S_KMPjCfeKHNakUK8CjQbwxWxZx8nrHLf5vc9-Utu-aSkPO8fYe7ac80Gejao/s1600/Greene+-+Little+Red+Fire+Engine+%28Craigie%29+-+029.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="404" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYJyq8dHVPNCJSMkEan7vFl2c-PYMqoqWrjkHaifTz4sOfYuv7gEs4CTx94kFGwJMIOfj3f1Z0I6gef_S_KMPjCfeKHNakUK8CjQbwxWxZx8nrHLf5vc9-Utu-aSkPO8fYe7ac80Gejao/s640/Greene+-+Little+Red+Fire+Engine+%28Craigie%29+-+029.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO0BkNLjLKsezhirgNoBdzqY7lVyv4-GXLAHZPqXlQh26KvEsG2GmAs8JqADUhe-6ha3ZuqMf2RffwrFKdytg1vQDtFhlkgd7ERkSbQv4esD7fjRXjBBP3HUcDZKXXJfjRRs0-CyQ2x6w/s1600/Greene+-+Little+Red+Fire+Engine+%28Craigie%29+-+047.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="409" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO0BkNLjLKsezhirgNoBdzqY7lVyv4-GXLAHZPqXlQh26KvEsG2GmAs8JqADUhe-6ha3ZuqMf2RffwrFKdytg1vQDtFhlkgd7ERkSbQv4esD7fjRXjBBP3HUcDZKXXJfjRRs0-CyQ2x6w/s640/Greene+-+Little+Red+Fire+Engine+%28Craigie%29+-+047.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
<br />
I held the book in my hand, I was too ill to get up or read. He looked disappointed. Then the ayamah came wheeling a trolley down the middle of the ward, ringing an ice-cream bell. On the trolley were all sorts of things for sale, from toys, to food, drinks and books. When she parked the trolley in the middle of the ward, a small crowd gathered around filling the ward with excitement as children threw tantrums to get what they wanted, parents began reprimanding children, buyers started haggling and others just commented and examined the products. My father turned to me and asked me if I wanted anything from the trolley. <br />
<br />
I told him that I wanted the ball of coloured plastic thread that was popular at that time for making artificial flowers and animals. My mother told me that I would not be able to do anything with it. My father walked up to the trolley and got me a ball of red string. <br />
<br />
<img height="198" jquery1315148597385="82" src="http://www.knitting-and.com/small-looms/graphics/loomsandyarns/swistraw.jpg" width="200" /><br />
<br />
<br />
I was given penincillin jabs which were making my skin sore and red. The jabs were very painful. I received four jabs a day. By the second day, I would start to scream and cry when the nurse approached my bed with the syringe. Once when the nurse came my father was walking towards me, I screamed and told him to tell her to stop, my father came towards me and then made a U-turn and disappeared. Later I heard him tell my mother, that my pain was too much for him. My grand-aunt Nurse Devaki, soon stopped the jabs. <br />
<br />
<img class="rg_hi" data-height="159" data-width="318" height="159" id="rg_hi" src="http://t3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcR13SkHK6ThLJHR-ymHTltwuHGMJXFvM3m5KZLyUfkCKw9UvCeTSw" style="height: 159px; width: 318px;" width="318" /><br />
<br />
Years later my younger sister Sobha cut her foot on a toy. Father took her to the hospital and when they were stitching the cut, my dad fainted!!! I have always felt the need to be close to him. His loneliness touched a chord in my lonely heart. I have felt that he was a very lonely man. My mum had her entire family literally eating out of her hand. She had very good family support. My dad was alone. I do not feel that he favoured me over the others. But, I do know that I always tried to avoid getting into trouble or arousing his hot temper. <br />
<br />
My father is like clockwork. There was such order in our house as we were growing up. Getting up late was unheard of. Everyone got up early when father was at home. Mum was more flexible. She would have a lie-in after father left for work and we would all lie around and read or just doze off. <br />
<br />
When we were not at school, in the morning, we had to all go into the kitchen and help my mum. The jobs included, scraping coconut, grinding some stuff using the grinding stone, peeling onions, potatoes, garlic, ginger, slicing, washing and wiping. Mum would do the cooking. We had to lay the table, clear the table, wash our own plates and put them away, although there was a maid in the house. <br />
<br />
In the evening, everyone had to have a bath before 4.30. The house had to be swept and the beds made and we had to be out in the garden. Father would come home between 5.00 and 5.10, never earlier and never later in all the years that he went to work. He entered a neat house, with clean children. He would hand over the newspapers and either my brother or I would get to read it first. <br />
<br />
Then we would water the plants and play with the skipping rope or sit on the stone seats near the gate and chat with our neighbourhood friends. When the call came for Azan at half past six, we would go in, wash our feet, light the lamp at the altar and say our prayers. Then all of us would take out books and sit round the dining table and do our homework, or study. This was our daily routine, except on Saturdays. <br />
<br />
Dinner was served quite late by Chinese standards. After dinner we would walk around outside for a while and then it was back to the table. Bed time was between nine thirty and ten. <br />
<br />
Hard times and books. By the time I was in Form Six, times were difficult. Many of the Indians who were attached to the British Army, like my Dad, had opted to go to UK. My mother did not want to go because of her parents, especially my grandmother. Dad always gave in to my mother's wishes at the end of the day. I believe he had to take pay cuts, the British Army was pulling out and my Form Six books were expensive. <br />
<br />
My father rarely went out to have a good time with his friends, he rarely bought things for himself, he never asked for any special food. He just set impossibly high standards. <br />
<br />
<img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408725557175440514" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgHQ1DG15BPl5z9535V3UaphXNfP7hMCi5b8FyAB4pR_QSeLr4c5URJNtcQ3tImOnXzchOG5cSjp9tIybaT8BhAQCvld2p-3NyiGGS0zXFsxz0Xzf7185zvjVs3hP1W27fvraT47VpxrBy/s320/British+pullout+announcement.JPG" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 307px;" /><br />
<br />
Most of the time, I did not ask him for books. I managed to borrow most of my books. Then one day, I had to buy the history book - History of Western Europe, 16th century. I came home and told my mother, who told my father, who told me to write the name of the book for him. <br />
<br />
<img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401224424987251778" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW-F_DZWV9NwN-QtltQ6ijVfeWGxGbIQot5bnMtyxR-F31WIcFNWIczdcbqw9cEJ1LIx2TOJFHL_qQMBbeQU_bm97QBsNdFoRKuj6evJYj5BqGJFsUfWKUt1Tg8qUn37cS6VEC-jM9N2lS/s400/JB3.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 132px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /><br />
<br />
He told us that he would be home by 6.30. He used to car pool with Mr Titus who lived a few doors away from our house. He took a bus from his work place to Bras Basah Road, got my book for $36 and reached home by 6.30. That book is still with me, the book he bought for me in 1969. <br />
<br />
The Form Six Entrance Examination Results are out. There was only one school in the whole state of Johore that offered Form 6 and only 44 places are offered to Arts Stream students. Some forty four thousand students vied for a place in that school. I wanted to go to that school from the time I was five when my uncle took me there for a concert. From the time I was in Standard 4 I was determined to go to that school. Every year a few girls from the Convent would be admitted and they would come back to visit the Convent in their new uniform. This was a motivating ritual for me. <br />
<br />
The Entrance Examination was held in May. The results were out in October. It was the May O Level Examination run by Cambridge. I studied really hard for the examination and prayed equally hard. Sister Helen, our Scripture teacher gave us a picture of St Jude with a prayer at the back. All of us memorised the prayer and prayed hard to him as well as to all the Gods we were familiar with. <br />
<br />
I left school by 2 0'clock and the results were not out. I came home, had my lunch and lay on my bed reading a book. My parents did not put much pressure on me about that examination and they were not expecting anything since everyone acknowledged it to be a tough examination. My younger sister Sheela came home at about half past three, all excited and smiling. She told me that the results had been posted on the notice board and she had checked, my name was there. I asked her so many times if she was sure. We had no telephone in our house and I could not check with anyone. She told me that Saroja Meyappan had also passed. <br />
<br />
I told my mother and waited for my father to come home. He walked in and mother told him that I had passed. He hardly smiled those days and he looked happy I thought. I knew he was happy when he told me that I needed to get my new uniform ready. Most of us were poor those days. I made contact with my Chinese friends and found that those who had passed were going to sew their own skirts, and one of them had got the paper pattern. She gave me a copy. My father took me to Golden City and we bought the dark, jungle green material for me to make two skirts. My mother helped me to cut the material and I sewed two skirts and waited for the new year to arrive.<br />
<br />
The Senior Cambridge Examination results are out in March. I was in Form Six and if I did not do well in the Senior Cambridge Examination, I would have to leave Form Six. Once again, I was home when Haridas came to tell me that the results are out and that I had got a Grade 1 with a number of distinctions. It was almost five and mother told me to wait for father. Father walked in and mother told him in all seriousness, "Baby failed her exam." <br />
<br />
"She failed!" he said and looked dead as he walked into his room. Mother ran after him and laughingly told him that I got a Grade 1. He wanted to see the results but they were still in school. He drove me to school and when I entered the car he asked to see the results. I gave it to him and he had such a happy look that it was worth all the hours I had put in. <br />
<br />
The next day he came home with a form and told me that his boss had given it to him, when he told him that I had done well in the examination. It was a form for a scholarship. I dutifully filled up the form and within a few months I was the recipient of <em>"Her Britanic Majesty's Ministry of Defence Scholarship</em>" which had a monetary value of a certain amount to cover my Form Six studies. I realised then that it was my Dad who made it possible for me to reach for the stars - it was his character, his steadfastness, his absolute reliability, his devotion to his family and the strict rules that he put in place. He set parameters for us. <br />
<br />
to be continued<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span>Siva Prasanna Krishnanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06210009726000818227noreply@blogger.com0