I 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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
To all adults who read this, when a child is sad, address his distress, you are so much older than he is.
Ashiwini was an only child to her parents.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Thursday, December 29, 2011
I 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.
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.
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.
- Let me not focus on the person or persons causing the problems.
- 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.
- 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.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
The river flowed in tranquility ... and the thought came randomly ... If guns kill people, do pencils misspell words?
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. - Lao-Tzu
This has been one month that dished out varying trying times and moments but as has been said, " the heart would have no rainbows if the eyes had no tears". 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.
L-R: Mrs Ignatius, me, Nithiya holding Manesh, (Standing L-R)
Raymond Tate, Mrs Tate, Shyla Thomas, Alexine at Janice's
wedding reception
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.
"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."
You are holding up the ...
My ears were saturated with words describing the inadequacies of everyone except two or three.
Is this justice?
Give her an ___ (tongue in cheek)
Yes, it was accepted. No words of inadequacies spewed forth.
Have mercy on me, dear lord. I looked back at great teachers to find out what they had to say:
"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." Bishop Desmond Tutu
Another view
"Cowardice asks the question: is it safe?
Expediency asks the question: is it politic?
Vanity asks the question: is it popular?
But conscience asks the question: is it right?
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.” - Martin Luther King Jr. 1929-1968
Anonymous
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.
The quality of mercy is not strain'd,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest:
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes. --Shakespeare
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest:
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes. --Shakespeare
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.
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.
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.
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.
I look at Nithiya. She is holding Manesh close to her chest. A quote comes to mind.
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. No paper would do it justice. It is a thing not of the mind, but of the heart. A feeling only felt.
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.
A good leader knows the way, shows the way, and goes the way.--Unknown
Manesh Johan and cat
Manesh Johan and cat
Failing Form 3 and the Rising of the Sun
Sometimes 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.
I would have spent a couple of hours a day doing:
asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj
(If you are wondering what the above mantra is, then it's Pitman's Lesson 1 for typewriting.)
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.
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.
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.
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!
As for history, with the neighbourhood wives as my close allies, I would have become an expert in local history:
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!
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.
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?
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.
I would have spent a couple of hours a day doing:
asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj
(If you are wondering what the above mantra is, then it's Pitman's Lesson 1 for typewriting.)
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.
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.
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.
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!
As for history, with the neighbourhood wives as my close allies, I would have become an expert in local history:
- who has run away with who (Parameswara was the not only one to run away after a fight with his father-in-law!)
- who has lice in her hair (never mind about the lies surrounding IMF or World Bank!)
- who has more cows or goats (never heard of Sharizat let alone her husband!)
- men acting like the Godfather of the low cost housing estate (Ramasamy is a common enough name)
- 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.
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!
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.
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?
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.
Sunday, December 18, 2011
"Love is Blind - Marriage Restores Your Sight" - Words of wisdom on a key-ring i gave to my husband
So 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. '
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.
I was in awe of so many things that evening:
The house along the main road to Klang which had once been a planter's bungalow.
The artifacts in the house.
Saras' husband Dr Sathiah was a lecturer in the Faculty of Medicine in the same university.
Their sports car.
His dressing.
His Cambridge accent.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
to be continued.
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.
I was in awe of so many things that evening:
The house along the main road to Klang which had once been a planter's bungalow.
The artifacts in the house.
Saras' husband Dr Sathiah was a lecturer in the Faculty of Medicine in the same university.
Their sports car.
His dressing.
His Cambridge accent.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
to be continued.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
When the Heart Stopped Beating
Why can't I write what I feel in my heart
Dear child, why did you depart?
Your tupperware's filled with cupcakes
You say your mother simply bakes and bakes
You come many a time with a little parcel in your hand
And with a smile and a greeting in front of me straight you stand
And give me the parcel - a piece of the cake that your mother had baked.
Where are you our dear dear little child
Your illness was really very mild
So why did you just go away
Why couldn't you stay
Were you so ill?
Our hearts fill
with sadness
This is madness
that you were taken
so suddenly from all of us
Oh please dear child when your heart began to stop beating
Why didn't you call out to us to tell us that your time was running out
We would have grabbed your hand tight
And we would all have fought
And not allowed you to walk
away and out of our lives
We had not the time
to hold you
close and
tell you
dear
that
all
of
us
are
never
going to
forget how
you touched our
lives in so many different
unforgettable ways that are uniquely
Harish and there can never be another you.
We love you, care for you and now that you have left
Father, mother, brother, sister, and friends feeling bereft
To be in God's hands.
May He keep you safe
Until the tide of life
brings us all
together
again
and
until
then
dear child
we bid you a sad
and fond farewell and God Bless.
Dear child, why did you depart?
Your tupperware's filled with cupcakes
You say your mother simply bakes and bakes
You come many a time with a little parcel in your hand
And with a smile and a greeting in front of me straight you stand
And give me the parcel - a piece of the cake that your mother had baked.
Where are you our dear dear little child
Your illness was really very mild
So why did you just go away
Why couldn't you stay
Were you so ill?
Our hearts fill
with sadness
This is madness
that you were taken
so suddenly from all of us
Oh please dear child when your heart began to stop beating
Why didn't you call out to us to tell us that your time was running out
We would have grabbed your hand tight
And we would all have fought
And not allowed you to walk
away and out of our lives
We had not the time
to hold you
close and
tell you
dear
that
all
of
us
are
never
going to
forget how
you touched our
lives in so many different
unforgettable ways that are uniquely
Harish and there can never be another you.
We love you, care for you and now that you have left
Father, mother, brother, sister, and friends feeling bereft
To be in God's hands.
May He keep you safe
Until the tide of life
brings us all
together
again
and
until
then
dear child
we bid you a sad
and fond farewell and God Bless.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Christmas in Lorong 2B Jalan Abdul Samad, Johore Bahru
Christmas 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.
Christmas is not about the 25th of December.
Christmas is a feeling felt in the heart, that is heard by the spirit and finds its exit in carols.
Christmas is not about whether the government will allow you to go carolling or not.
Christmas is not about whether one group is trying to convert another.
Christmas is not about groups calling each other heathens and pagans.
Christmas is the magic that fills my heart every year.
Christmas is the jolliness that permeates the neighbourhood.
Christmas is the lighted up trees and the smell of fruitcake and cookies being baked.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 tukang kayu's house. Whenever we went to catch a bus, we would take the short-cut through the workshop. Those were safe days.
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.
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.
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.
Lorong 2B in the 60s.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Take it! They said unanimously.
What would mother say?
We will eat it all up before she comes home.
So take it I did.
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.
It was 1965. The previous year Moira Boyd, her husband Clark and son George were our neighbours.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
The neighbourhood settled down to becoming a very Asian neighbourhood with Chinese, Malays and Indians.
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
Joy to the world
The party's begun
Let us enjoy the songs ...
Christmas is not about the 25th of December.
Christmas is a feeling felt in the heart, that is heard by the spirit and finds its exit in carols.
Christmas is not about whether the government will allow you to go carolling or not.
Christmas is not about whether one group is trying to convert another.
Christmas is not about groups calling each other heathens and pagans.
Christmas is the magic that fills my heart every year.
Christmas is the jolliness that permeates the neighbourhood.
Christmas is the lighted up trees and the smell of fruitcake and cookies being baked.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 tukang kayu's house. Whenever we went to catch a bus, we would take the short-cut through the workshop. Those were safe days.
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.
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.
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.
Lorong 2B in the 60s.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Take it! They said unanimously.
What would mother say?
We will eat it all up before she comes home.
So take it I did.
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.
It was 1965. The previous year Moira Boyd, her husband Clark and son George were our neighbours.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
The neighbourhood settled down to becoming a very Asian neighbourhood with Chinese, Malays and Indians.
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
Joy to the world
The party's begun
Let us enjoy the songs ...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)