Just do it, whatever!

In the late 1970s, as my future laid bare before me, I found no time in anything but my books. I looked at watching movies as three hours of wasted time that could otherwise be spent on something more worthwhile, so I thought. At that age, everything was either black or white, factual and goal orientated. Watching the then Tamil movie which showcased hirsute stars in unkempt hair and their un-touched up face narrating mind-stupefying cheesy village stories was a turn-off. Its songs, despite be blared incessantly by my neighbours on their music devices, were just white noise. 

Actually, it was an annoyance, as something I had to run away from to find solace at the quiet corner of the cemetery or empty classroom in the school to jam-pack precious information into my grey cells. That was the time when SP Bala and Illayaraja were churning out hits after hit that just passed me by. Occasionally a song or two would come to my attention clamouring from my father rickety radio. I did not, however, give any two hoods to it till now. Deep within me, I thought they were doing just what I wanted to do; to find a footing in life, for fame and fortune and to leave our mark in the society.

S P Balasubramanyam

The recent passing of the legendary playback singer S P Balasubramanyam, and through all the postings dedicated to him, highlighted his groundbreaking feats. Having sung 40,000 songs in 16 languages must be an achievement by any standards. Many musical analysts have dissected his exploits and his collaborations with music directors to bring to the fore many of the efforts in exploring new frontiers in music-making, music compositions and voice modulations. And everyone is impressed.

                                                       

SPB was quite popular lending his voice to movie-stars as they belted their love and emotional messages in melodious tunes to plicate what could not be expressed in dialogues. And they had everlasting impressions on the minds of its audience. Sometimes the story is forgotten but not the songs.

Every single thing that we do it in life is a revolution in the making. A little experimentation here and a little pushing the borders there are all bold moves to make the frontier further. We think what we do is a mere waste of time; not going to have any effect on the evolution of mankind. Maybe not, but a journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step.

We do what we think is right. Let history decide its appropriateness. Generally, people are kind to the deceased.

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.

The hand that whacks, embraces too?

@AryamanBodh

One of the regular feature during my childhood days was the visits by lonely housewives to engage in a prolonged banter with my mother.

In RRF, my childhood home, a new neighbour had just moved to our oft-emptied next door flat. In came a seemingly perfect family, the head of the family, a tall, lean man donning dark glasses in the midst of the dimly lit corridors of the neighbourhood. He would walk as if he had a severe case of cervical spondylosis, straight-backed, walking straight ahead without tilting his heads even for a moment as if he had a mission in life like a racing horse prancing on with blinkers. The wife, a slim lady with long wavy hair and polyester floral sari with a faced stained in turmeric powder, an Indian natural skin whitener and scar-blemisher, would follow suit, well aware of the roving eyes around her. To complement this seemingly perfect couple was a pair of children of every dream of a middle-class family of the 70s - a daughter and a son. Then some distant back trotted in a middle-aged lady, all dressed in white widow's saree and a matching short white blouse, and a chubby man in his thirties with eyes protruding out like a frog's and appearing not quite right in the head!

They went on their lives just as we did ours. There was not much communication between both families. Most of the time, they were left to their own devices.

Three months or so into their move into their flat, we would occasionally hear shouts, yelling, sounds of punches on raw skin and crying, sometimes interspersed with groans. Like what kind neighbours would do, my family would just mind our businesses and carried on life as if nothing happened.

One morning, after a night of yelling and screaming, the lady of the house made an appearance at the corner of our kitchen window. Like a drug peddler looking for clients, she whispered her problems to Amma. Occasionally, she would turn around and look sideways just to make easily volatile husband would suddenly reappear to make minced meat out of her. It would be a regular feature for the rest of stay in RRF.

Through inadvertent eaves-dropping, I managed to gather the going-on. She had a victim of abuse by her husband and her mother-in-law. Periodically, she would show her wounds and her racoon-eyed face like her badge of honour. Amma, in her own feministic stance, would suggest ways to set her life in order - how to go about making a police report, to get a medical report on her wounds.

Credit: Andy Capp

Like a broken record in the typical fashion of a battered wife, her actions are always predictable. She would be so gung-ho about 'letting it all behind', in 'starting it all over' and putting 'a full stop to all these' on the day after the whacking. And a few days later, it would be status quo. 'He is actually kind-hearted when he is sober', 'it is my fault, actually', 'I irritate him', 'I have to take it for children' were the usual replies.

In my naive mind, I could not understand why was it is so difficult for my stupid neighbour to make up her mind. When somebody is hostile to you, you retaliate!

Nothing much really happened. She continued her mid-morning rendezvous at the corner of the kitchen window, telling her inner feelings and inner ramblings whilst Amma would go on with her stirring of her meals on the stove. It would all come to an abrupt when either Amma finishes her cooking, or the neighbour's husband comes marching back during his lunch break.

Economics: Amma's style

Back home in RRF, money was always hard to come by. Many a times we, as children, wished that those frequent squabbles of our parents over money (lack of) never arises. As part of economising and savings, Amma used to ink down a monthly budget for the family. Sundry goods were always enlisted and bought in advance from a particular shop, with cash of course. Amma made it a point never to buy on credit as she believed that it would always spiral out of control. She learnt her lesson well, thanks to her father who singlehandedly burnt off his whole family fortune in a single generation!

When I look at the budget that she had penned, it would appear as money was just enough. No place for unexpected misfortune or malady. Of course, she would supplement her income through her sewing skills. Pretty soon she carved a name for herself amongst the occupants of RRF. When the coffer started welling, never overflowing, she would give out loans to pathetically poor and uninitiated inhabitants of RRF who turned out to bad paymasters and I would be summoned to be the debt collector!

Her bank was gold. With the little savings, she would buy gold ornaments. To me, it appeared like a waste of resources, paying for the workmanship and risk of theft and I would express my displeasure and absurdity of displaying openly her
wealth for prying eyes and jewel thieves to see. Well, she looked at it differently. It was her status symbol, to be put in high esteem by her neighbours and friends. In case of emergency, she would quietly board the LSS green bus to pawn her priced jewel at a particular pawn shop near Prangin Bus Station. She is not dependant on anybody for alms. Periodically she would peruse the pawn chit to make sure that she does not miss the pawn expiry date. When the tide is high, she would proudly redeem her jewel, otherwise it would be another 6 months' lease. Hold behold, the day she missed the pawn expiry date. Everyone in the house would be in the line of fire for no obvious reason.

This, I think is the economic dynamics in most South Indian low middle class wage earning family in Malaysia a generation ago. The family on the outward may look patriarchal but deep down when it comes on to dollars and cents and the daily running of household, the duty falls on the wife. Answerable to the head family, in spite of the meagre income, she somehow stinges here and there to ensure non collapse of the family economics. She could use her ingenuity and living skills towards this end. She would sing the song of melancholy and hopelessness even in the best of times. Come dire straits, she would somehow needle out here and there out of thin air!

So, it all boils down to management. And that applies to all fields that we indulge or given the responsibility to take care.

In a lush equatorial country like ours with rain in abundance throughout the year with rainfall of close to 100 inches a year, we still have to keep up with embarrassing headlines of water shortages and water rationing hogging our newspaper. That why it is a water management board is there in the first place - to manage water and ensure supply during dry spell, not just cut water supply of non payers or just put up water disruption notices. You cannot blame in on the rain, the lack of it, contamination or
simply God. Period.

The disgraced lip-synchronising duo of Milli Vinilli

14 going 16!

16 Vayathinilae (16 வயதினிலே, At the Age of 16, Tamil, 1977)


This movie is considered a watershed in the Tamil film industry. It marked the superstardom of its three main actors, and it also opened the floodgates for outdoor shooting and 'art' life-like stories revolving around life in the villages. Slowly, the use of makeup diminished.
It was alright for the main characters to look unappealing, dark and oily faced!

After establishing herself as a child star, this 14year old starlet Sri Devi, acts as a 16-year village lass. After this flick, Rajnikanth and Kamal Haasan hardly performed together in a full-length feature film anymore as they became too big a star on their accord. This village themed flick became a precursor for the innumerable Tamil films of the similar genre that followed where unrefined colloquial language was the order of the day. Many copycat movies followed some bordered on testing the intelligence of the viewers with its thinly thought plot and ridiculous Neanderthalean practices of remote villages (if ever such methods still exist)!

The dialogue also started becoming very straight to the point with surgical blade sharp precision without the usual innuendos and symbolisms that the Indian movies are famous for. Little kids too were talking about things way above what little kids were supposed to know. As the conversation became more life-like, I became less of a chaperone for Amma and her movie buddy, Rajamah. Anyway, as my public examinations were imminent, the thought of spending more than 2.5hours of a day idly staring at a white screen was unimaginable. And the chance never came until many years later.

Thanks to Aiyer, our friendly neighbour across our flat for the daily dose of the loud music of new Tamil songs, songs from this 1977 keep vibrating our eardrums like an ear-worm or a leach that just refuses to let off the skin! Once you hear the songs from the movie, like an avalanche, the nostalgia of RRF and the memories of staying in a 1-room flat come pouring in.

16 Vayathinele tells the trials and tribulations of a young 16-year-old intelligent girl, Mayil (Sridevi) who is love-smitten and thinks with her heart rather than her head. The society in which she grows in actually encourages the sexuality in her. One such tradition is the coming of age ceremony when a pubertal girl is enlightened with matters of sex and marriage. Another ceremony depicted in this movie is a 'Holi' like the celebration where maiden girls are allowed and encouraged to pour turmeric-laced water over the guy they fancy! So when this pretty lass is lovestruck by the newly transferred bored veterinarian, she is naturally careless with protecting her reputation. Hence, she is labelled as a loose character by village folks and primarily by the new kid-of-the block bad dude, Rajnikanth, who plays the role of a loafing card playing a baddie, Paratthai. A mentally challenged orphan, Sappani (Kamal Haasan) comes to the rescue when Mayil herself loses her only parent who succumbs to a heart attack precipitated by vicious bad mouthing razor-sharped tongue of the villagers.

The union of Mayil and Sappani is ridiculed. As Paratthai attempts to rape Mayil, as a punishment for insulting him, Sappani drops a boulder on Parrathai to fatally wound him. Sappani goes to prison. The movie ends with Mayil waiting anxiously at the railway station for Sappani's return....
Bharathi Raja, the debutante director, made his mark through this film by bringing forth the pure chemistry that developed between the three main characters.

*all the songs from the movie carry a special meaning to us kids, even though we never watched the film!
Senvanti Poo Mudika Sinnatha (http://youtu.be/Lzu2pOcCsek)
It was a special code for my sis to blackmail the youngest about her dark secret - of breaking the 'Fanta' drink.
Senthoora Poove (http://youtu.be/qfXAvRve-tk)
This melodious S. Janaki's award-winning song will lullaby you to the good old days of RRF, every time! Of the neighbour's gramophone record blaring in the middle of the day! 
Aatu Kutti Muttai Ittu (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EXVPl2aLQbc)
This loud song with the song of braying of a donkey was quite an irritant when you are trying to cramp in the concept of Form 5 physics!
Manjalkkulichu (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zaGfCOpb3xc)
Another irritant!

Roti Penggali @ Roti Benggali

HIP, HIP, HIPetizer! 
“Roti Benggali or “Benggali bread”, despite popular belief, does not get its name from the Bengali people group, but from the word “Penggali” which means shareholders. In 1928, Sheik Mohd Ismail from Madras, India, set up Roti Penggali (Bread Shareholders) as a business with his founding friends at Transfer Road, Penang. Local residents mispronounced the word ‘Penggali’ as “Benggali” and that, along with its mis-association, got passed on until today.
The bread is enjoyed in a variety of ways by the different cultural groups: the Malays, the Chinese and the Indians. It's so sedap with 'sup tulang', as 'roti bakar kahwin' and absolutely yummy dipped in 'overnight' curry! What's YOUR favourite way of eating Roti Benggali?

Balancing act

Scenes like this was common

around Block G. The blended

spice makers would be

balancing their merchandise

(masala) on their head,

not potatoes as shown here.

There was a time in RRF, when G Block was vacant for a long time. Later as the Kedah Road underwent some development programme, the bulk of its dweller were mass evacuated and placed in the lower couple of floors there. These people were initially were quite reluctant to vacate their Kedah Road ancestral homes but relented after much prodding. They were quite contended with their lifestyle and livelihood of selling grounded spices in the market nearby. Their ancestors, Mussalman from Thenkasi area of Southern India introduced the trade of aromatic freshly grounded blended spice for instant stomach tickling South Indian cooking. Their main reluctance of relocating being inability to continue using the mammoth wooden grinder with massive hand held wooden poles! They did not want the whole flat to rattle. Seriously, I think they thought the structure of the flat built with German technology and pre-fabricated concrete would not be able to stay the constant pounding. They finally agreed when an area between Blocks G and H was sanctioned for their pounding activities and their merchandise were marketed in the morning market nearby.

Traditional grinder

The trade was left to the female folks whilst the guys usually indulge in jobs which took them away from their homes for months (from my astute observation, if it is indeed accurate). The women folks were usually imported as brides from India and were generally not conversant in the local languages. For convenience and security, they would move in droves with innumerable children in the eye catching multi-coloured attire. To keep tab on their crowd so as not to leave out anyone behind, they would usually make a big ruckus calling out each others' names to ensure attendance! Their antic would be a spectacle and sometimes embarrassing to fellow Indians as they would converse in Tamil, especially on a crowded bus. When I was young, I thought the balancing act of putting things on the head would pass in the future as Malaysia becomes 'advanced' as, to me, this practice was confined to under-developed countries of the Black Continent and some hill kingdom somewhere far away (and perhaps Chinese Acrobats and Circus performers).

Balancing at the fringe of civilization

As I listened over and over of the media propaganda of Malaysia progressing by leaps and bounds over the various 5-year programmes and industrial efforts, my assumption was reinforced.
Hold behold, 40 years later, what do I see? People in the fringes of the capital city still loitering around aimlessly with no documents to show their existence selling Java batik balancing their commodity on their heads and flashing their betel nut stained horrible teeth!

Farewell Amachee...

1927-2012

After living a full life to a ripe age of 80 something, Amachee slumbered off to the land hereafter.
It is funny that when someone passes on, we only think of the good times and funny times that we spent together in their lifetime. Amachee was one of the few relatives who used to visit us when we were exiled in RRF. Her lighting trips up north from Seremban (106, Templer Road) will be unannounced. Hive of activities will ensue to make the house presentable and tea will be prepared in a jiffy. She would update Amma about the latest happening in the family circle - who died, who married who, latest scandal, etcetera. The tea is not complete if not with some accompaniment. That is when I would be summoned to the rescue to buy some biscuits or such from the shop downstairs.
On one particular visit, I had a crash course on dentures and food selection after buying a variant of Mung Bean Pastry  (tau sar piah) with gooey sticky paste. Only then did I know that Amchee had dentures and it would get stuck!
I remember Amachee to be one of the adults in my childhood who could actually swim. This I discovered during my trip to Port Dickson beach in the mid 70s with my sister. I still remember how she demonstrated her swimming skills dressed in a sarong tied over her chest and the air bubbling through the garment!
Amachee had been a vegetarian as far as I can remember. The irony of it is she found great pleasure in cooking sumptuous elaborate non-vegetarian meals to all who visit her home without even tasting it for salt or flavour - but it just turned out delicious and perfect, every time!
Missed all these long ago when she was taken ill and slowly progressed into her own world into another dimension. She slowly said her farewells and is now united with her long lost husband and with her Maker whom she had painstakingly worshipped through her various prayers and early morning trips to her favourite temple.
Amachee, Thank you for everything. You are the closest to a grandmother I ever had. May your soul attain eternal peace and reach Moksha.

Memories of RRF: The tail end!

1981 was a good year. It was also a watershed year for the country. It was the beginning of the reign of DrM with the loss of independence of judiciary and the country embarked on its unsatisfiable appetite to glorify monetary values instead of human values as a sign of development and progress. (The money maketh a man) And 'Bette Davies Eyes' by Kim Carnes was No. 1 on the BillboardYear-End Hot 100 singles that year. Financial situation was improving in the Sham household and it was time to move from RRF back to BG.
1981 was the year the SPM results were out - sending smiles to all in the family, the first in the family (paternal side) to pass SPM! RRF Youth Club had decided to honour me with a gift as I was one of their tuition students.
Months before the results were out, Amma decided to send me to Mama's house to roughen and toughen me (a city boy) up, hoping that one or two of his street-wiseness and survival skills would rub off on me. (I do not know how much it did anyway!)
It did, however, help to build brotherly bonds with my cousins G, RR, P and LBM. We were roped in to guard the new bungalow that Mama bought in Klang whilst doing some odd jobs around the house all dressed in the army fatigue and farmer's hat! In the lonely days before Mama and family moved in, we had the opportunity to explore every nook and corner of Klang town which was not really so exciting. It was basically just a glorified village!
After the SPM results were out, thanks to departing gift from Mama, I arrived in style in Bayan Lepas International Airport - my first trip on the plane. The extravagance ends there. After disembarking the flight, it was back to reality. It was still public transport for me.
1981 was also the year I was exposed to co-education in Lower Six. It was a good year...

Memories of RRF: Lingering culinary thoughts!

Masala Vadai

Most treasured memories in life are usually associated with food - whether at a wedding, a family reunion, or even when smoking the peace pipe between nations! Anyway, which soul can be at peace on an empty stomach? Even a funeral ceremony dedicated to resting the soul of the departed involves eating. Supporters of penance may disagree, believing that a little suffering helps in appreciating God's greatness. This is why we see the practice of self-inflicted pain during Thaipusam and hunger pangs during the holy month of Ramadan. If you ask me (though you probably won't), kavadi bearers enjoy the brief attention they receive — which they rarely get on an average day — and the festive spirit and binge that follow the fasting period.

In response to an enthusiastic follower (self-praise, sic) who asked me to write about foods available around RRF and Penang during my earlier days, I racked my brain, and this is what I came up with.....(Grey, crimson, and oily...)

How ironic life can be - when you have the appetite for food as a child, you lack the means; as an adult, if you have the means, you lack the stomach (i.e., health-wise, if you bother)!

RRF (outside the home) had much to offer to us as growing children in developing our culinary tongues, even though it had been ingrained in us from a young age that we only eat to live and not vice versa.
Let us look at all the mouth-watering hawker's food available outside the home while we were being cooped up and trying to be a bookworm to turn our fate around. To be fair, we had our occasional indulgences every now and then, especially around the time Appa draws his salary packet.
RRF was a big source of potential customers due to the large number of inhabitants who reside there. Hence, it drew many food vendors.

Some not-so-well-to-do kids (otherwise known as enterprising) used to sell traditional cakes (probably made by their mothers, just like in the old Malay movies) in their baskets, yelling out their products during school holidays.

• One Indian boy went on screaming.... Masala Vadai kueh!!! He sold uluttam vadai (a deep-fried, spicy black lentil paste South Indian doughnut) and masala vadai (savoury, deep-fried gram dal flat fritters). Talking about doughnuts, did you know that vadai is the original doughnut, glazed with loads of sugar. That is, if you believe what The Comedy Court duo of Allan Pereira and Indy Nadarajah said in one of their gigs. They said all foods are of Indian origin: crusted masala dosa is pizza; spring rolls are spaghetti; rasam is soup; fried chicken - where did the spice come from? India, of course! And the list goes on....   

• 

  Tok Tok Hard Candy

  
  

  An old Chinese man with his trademark Pagoda brand white T-shirt used to walk with a flat, large aluminium tray balanced on his head and a foldable wooden frame over his shoulder whilst knocking on a metal gizmo producing an irritatingly loud decibel noise of 'tok tok'. Hence, we used to call him 'tok tok man' and his merchandise 'tok tok' . What he was selling in his aluminium tray was hard, sweet candy, and his loud gizmo was nothing more than a small hammer and a curved metal tool that he would use to chisel out his hard candy into shreds before filling it up with tracing paper to serve it to his customers.
• Occasionally, we had young boys selling 'Malay traditional cakes' (kueh) in their baskets during school holidays.
• A Chinese lady (Ah Soh) used to do the same almost every day, but she sold only kueh kosui. I think kueh kosui is a Nyonya delicacy enjoyed by all.
  

• Then there was a boy who used to sell Chinese crispy deep-fried phallic-shaped fritters and their complementary round counterpart, yelling 'Ham Chim Peng'-'Eu Char Koay'.

If you are sitting at home and you are exposed to all of the above gluttons galore, it is not at all mind-boggling to imagine the varieties available out there outside the confines of my flats. Only affordability is the limiting factor! All around RRF food stalls could be found. The noteworthy ones include...

Bengkang (my fave)

• Again worth mentioning is the Block A Char Kway Teow, the ever-delicious, tasty, lard-filled, succulent, fresh prawn and cockle-filled dish, sprinkled with Chinese chives, individually prepared by Ah Long. (mentioned in previous post).
• The simple bee-hoon (thin rice noodles) or mee (plain noodles) sold by a push cart hawker between Blocks D and E, sold in the mornings and late at night after 8pm. Even though it was plain, with no additional ingredients (besides soy sauce, chilli paste, and small lard-fried cracker strips), it tasted heavenly! I realised that some people called them 'mee bodoh' (stupid noodles in Malay) as it contained nothing to talk about except for its taste - something like a dumb blonde!
• The morning market was a fertile playground for food lovers. Cheap noodles were sold at unbelievably dirt-cheap prices (25 to 50 sen, believe it or not?). I remember they used to sell curry mee with a brownish curdy stuff covering the noodles. Only much later did I realise that the brownish shiny stuff was actually cooked pork blood! The curry mee sold in Penang is actually different from what is sold as curry mee in Peninsular Malaysia, which is actually named Hockkein Mee in Penang!
• The Penang Laksa is also is in a different league altogether. One can smell the pungent smell of Penang Laksa miles away. Steamed round rice noodles are mixed with shredded pineapple, cucumber, and fish pulp, and immersed in a special gravy, with a twist of prawn or fish paste (otak-otak) and lime. Even though it may churn the inside of a vegetarian upside, it is sure to clear your sinuses.



Laksa Penang




• Even though Mamak Mee is freely available in bistros and hotels these days, nothing beats the ones found at the simple, no-frills hawkers, probably run by a single operator whose hygiene is much to be desired. You should probably not look at his multitasking rag that he used for cleaning the chopping board and the customers' table! He would probably wrap his cooking in old banana leaves and newspaper. It still beats the most hygienically prepared Mamak Mee any day.

If you venture further out into town, you would probably not come back home...

• 

  Pasembor

  Penang has a few varieties of food which are only found there. Pasembor is an Indian Muslim spicy snack, made with a combination of a spread of cut tofu, fried batter, fried prawns, turnip, cuttlefish, cucumber, and others, with a liberal spread of groundnut gravy over it. Taukwa rendang is another variety of the same, using mostly cut flat Chinese tofu. (See how national integration had fallen into place)
• In the 1960s all the way to the mid-80s, the corner shop at the Penang Rd-Magazine Rd-Brick Kiln Rd-Macalister Rd- Datuk Keramat Rd- Gladstone Rd (Simpang Enam) was held in high esteem by Penangites for its one-of-a-kind tasty Mamak food. Nobody actually remembers it original name. Based on the 'Craven A' cigarettes advertised on the signboard, the restaurant eventually became known as the 'Craven A Restaurant'. It was famous for its Mee Singapura (probably even Singaporeans would not have tasted such an indulging mee) and its Nasi Kandar. The Mee Singapura was usually prepared at night after 9 pm, and people would hang around the place to wait for the cook to start cooking so they could place their orders. Their nasi kandar used to be such a hit that customers just couldn't have enough of their food! The urban legend has it that their original cook used to spike the gravy with ganja (hashish) to encourage customers to make return purchases. The cook was apparently caught for his misdeeds by the Health authorities! Of course, the 'kas kas' used in its gravy is a kind of poppy seed of low potency! Craven A was also a hit with us, USM medical students. Convoys of motorcycles used to frequent this joint past midnight to make mass purchases to feed the souls of the midnight-oil-burning future doctors!

  

  Kuih Talam. 

  Interestingly, the best of this

  Nyonya delicacies in Penang are 

  prepared by Indian Muslim peddlers!

• After the cooks in Craven changed hands as the Indian cooks became richer, the quality of the food suffered. Apparently, now, a stall in Tamil Street holds the crown for the best nasi kandar in town! (According to our local expert that we appointed, Appa)

Bee Hoon Singapura

During the Hungry Ghost Festival, besides the noise that one had to endure to scare the ghosts away, there was also food, not to feed the hungry visitors of the underworld, but those walking of the walking kind from earth! One particular dish which I found extremely satisfying is the cuttlefish-kangkung preparation with spicy gravy...Mmm... 

Somehow, everyone thinks that foods of yesteryears fare much better in terms of taste and richness. We can put all the blame on the loads of chemical fertilisers, pesticides and the genetic modifications that we have done over the years. The real reason for its superiority is not caused by the above, but rather because of its lingering aftertastes that are laced with loads of memorable, heart-wrenching, cooling, zephyr-like thoughts of fond childhood memories, spiced up and seasoned with its carefree attitude to life. It is nothing to do with wealth and money!

Kuih Lapis

Nasi kandar

Mee Rebus Mamak Penang

Kuih Kosui

Hum Chin Peng

Eu Char Koay

Memories of RRF: The farmer and the donkey!

This one goes out to CC and all those who are undecided about certain things in life and decide to ass around with other peoples' probably less than 2-sens' senseless worth of bray (advice)! Also to those who are upset with certain comments of other individuals. My words of wisdom - whenever you feel down, think of this cute donkey and smile!


Growing up in a lower middle class family in the pre-Merdeka era must have been a good time for children to be exposed to story telling from their elders. Entertainment as we can imagine must have been scarce. When putting rice on the dinner is a daily struggle, everything else is secondary. Television was not existent - TV Malaysia came into existence in 1963. You have to be born with a silver spoon to have unlimited access to story books.
My sisters and I, born in early Generation-X (1961-1981, by definition), did enjoy a little bit of comfort by our parents' standards in the form of easier access to story books, newspapers and TV . The Penang State library was a favourite haunt for me, besides the class and school library. I use to read Enid Blyton books, mainly. The State library used to be situated in the Supreme Court building but was later relocated to Dewan Sri Pinang. Besides story books, I used to get my cravings for the imaginary world via TV and story telling. Some prominent storytellers were Periya Atteh (with her crocodile who wanted to eat a monkey's liver story), Susila (Amma's adopted sister) and Rajes-Parames and gang with their pati-pati and the children who ate durian and were later assigned to take care of her food and money stories!
Of all the stories we were exposed to, many of Aesop's fables stuck on to the mind like glue. And amongst all his fables, the one that stands out like a sore thumb is the story of the farmer and his donkey. It goes something like this....
Long long ago, the was a time when a land was hit by bad times. Famine and misery was the order of the day. The yield of the land that year was dismal and farmers had it real bad. So, this old farmer decided to sell his last worldly possession, a donkey, at the market place to feed his family.
The next day, he and his young son set foot to the market place. The farmer led the donkey by a leash and the son was following behind. Before long came a stranger who commented, "Are you stupid or what? You have a donkey and you don't ride on it!" The farmer asked the son to ride the donkey and they continued the journey.
Then came another stranger who chided, "What a stupid boy you are, your old father is all drained out and you are riding the ass gallantly!" So, the farmer obliged and both he and his son mounted the donkey!
Then came another wise guy who was an old acquaintance. After finding the reason for the trip, the Einstein proposed that (in order not make the animal appear weary and drained out when it reaches tits destination to be sold) they tie their priced possession by its feet and carry it on a pole to the market! And they did just that with much difficulty of a struggling donkey. 
Just before reaching the market place they had to maneuver through a narrow bridge. Of course the struggling animal fell into the river and died. The  farmer and his son went home wet, hungry, penniless and melancholic!
The lesson is self explanatory - use your brains, do not follow blindly and above all common sense should prevail! Sometimes what you are doing could be just the right thing to do.

Indra Shan and RRF

16.3.2010

Indra Shan and RRF

Every time the Shans and the Shans meet up, we will invariably be talking about our escapades in RRF. Just to set the family right – Indra and Rada (@Seetha) are daughters of SM Muthu whose father used to be a man of some standing in his heyday. He used to be a proud owner of a 3-storey mansion in Queens Street, Penang. As is the case with most Indians in Malaysia, we can only talk about our glory days. There is nothing much more for us to show, our ancestors have either drank or feasted our wealth to the ground. SM Muthu, in his single generation tattered his family wealth only to work as a worker in a printing press and later driver-cum-gardener in his silver years with his trophy wife. SM Muthu had 4 kids (Saroja, Indra, Radamani followed by Murthi) and 2 adopted kids (Sambu and Susila). The people those days were quite charitable. Adoption was a occurrence then. According to stories from my mother and Mama, SM Muthu was not an exemplary father figure or much of a provider. He seemed to be more concerned with worldly pleasures and self satisfaction. When his missus succumbed to breast cancer in 1959 (at the age of only 39 years), he left his teenage daughters and adolescent son to fend for themselves whilst he got married to a lady named Lily in Cameron Highlands to start a new family of his own. This was constantly a sore point in later relationship within the family and lack of filial piety of the offsprings to SM Muthu.

Saroja who was not the sharpest tool in tool box was swiftly married off to a Maniam who overindulged in intoxicants. After 3 kids, she went incommunicado and was later resurfaced as Soraya Bee Abdullah in Kampong Baru in Kuala Lumpur, married to Booram Shariff, a bread vendor.

Indra was married off to Shan, a high ranking Government officer in the Boys’ Reform Home and started the Shan clan – Joe, Usha, G and Daniel.

Radamani had to also fend for herself working as a helper in many places including in a whiteman’s bungalow. After a short stint staying with Indra in Johore Bahru (which apparently turned sour), she returned to Butterworth to marry Shan and start a family of her own after a little opposition here and there. On 27th August 1960, they tied the matrimonial knot in Queen Street Mariamman temple. Shan was working as peon in Mercantile Bank earning $110 per month and was the mostly educated person on his side of the family. Life was blissful. They moved from rooms to rooms (Penang Road, Green Lane, Lorong Seratus Tahun, Caunter Hall) till they finally their house in Brown Gardens for $8000 and a brand new Honda 50cub in 1964.

All this while a young Dato Murthi (armed with ambition filled mind and confidence nurtured by his late mother) struggled to make ends meet to finance his education – ironing clothes to pay his school fees of $15 which was a gargantuan sum of money those days, making extra cash by selling match boxes in mainland Penang as the island was a tax-free haven then. During these desperate times, his relationship with Mr Jaganathan (a.k.a. Station Master) blossomed. His completion of Senior Cambridge herald a new dawn and a new lease of life carved by Dato Murthi, all done by himself which makes success even sweeter. We (the Shan and Sham clans) literally grew listening to stories of his trials and tribulations again and again. These stories were best heard from the horse’s mouth, often laced with humour and maybe a wee bit of exaggeration!

Sambu did not complete his studies and went on to do us odd jobs. Susila was a bit precocious for her age, her hormones were raging, and was quickly married off to someone in Johore Bahru but subsequently set off series of heart aches and affairs. Periodically they used to surface during my childhood just like a hippopotamus resurfacing after a dip and vanish just as quickly. Sambu was staying with Rada till all hell broke loose when he got engaged without his sister’s knowledge. Bridges were mended 15 years later when he had fractured his femur and is still in touch with his sister. Susila has no forwarding address.

Now…now…where was I? It appears that these tangential style of writing could be a tell tale sign or a precursor of me being dragged into the kaleidoscopic world of schizophrenia! The Beatles, however, described a girl with kaleidoscopic eyes after LSD in the song “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds”.

Oh,yes! Indra Shan and RRF…

The Sham couple was not really well received into Munusamy’s (father outlaw) household which was already overflowing past with 16 over children growing wild like lallang (Amma’s side of story; Appa’s side: silence is the code). Madam Visalachee gave birth birth to almost two dozen of children (in our last count, many many years ago), with at least 3 sets of twins, a few neonatal death and a few were given for adoption. Her obstetric career reigned between 1938 to 1968 (3 years after Sheila was born) – 4 decades of fertility.

This is supposed to be a write up on Indra Shan and RRF but I digress and I digress – oh, what the heck! Like I have said earlier, this is my blog. It is no exercise in literary skills like Lesley Gore sang in 1963, it’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to.

The Shams resided in RRF between 1970 and 1982. All the Sham’s clan’s memories of childhood will only include visions of RRF in its background and foreground. The 30 by 30 ft pigeon hole of a low cost flat situated on the 15^th floor of Block E housed 5 individuals – 2 adults and 3 children. Our unit had a sitting room which connects to a balcony (15 X 3 ft) overlooking another block of flat, a single designated bedroom (15 X 10 ft), a kitchen (15 X 7ft) and a washroom.

The Shans’ pilgrimage to Penang used to occur on an annual or sometimes biennial fashion. All 11 of us used to cramp up into this tiny flat after rearranging the furniture. There would be lots of laughter in the family. Rada and Mr Shan will be chit chatting till the wee hours of the morning about the childhood days. One peculiar habit (or skill) that they seem to have mastered is the ability to talk and laugh at the same time! They sometimes would be laughing incessantly for no obvious reason without uttering any words. Then they would stop for a minute or so, lull and the storm would start again. Amazing stuff! This, none of the other adults and children could understand.

During one of these trips, the two families decided to have a professional photograph taken at a studio. When we view the photograph now, everyone in it looks so alluring and like movie stars!

We also went for a family outing to the Kek Lok Si temple (a.k.a. Pagoda). During this trip, G got lost in the crowd. Everyone was looking out frantically for him at every nook and corner. G was smart, he was coolly smiling and waiting at the car.

Oh, boy! And I remember all the pranks that we, the cousins did at RRF…

My first exposure to cross dressing happened to me in the corridors of the fifteenth floor of block E. During a game of hide and seek, where I was the seeker, I spotted Sheila wearing Ramesh’s attire (T-shirt and pants) and hold behold Ramesh was wearing Sheila’s green floral batik dress that Amma had sewn, just to hoodwink me!

Then there were the “water bomb” sessions. We used to fill up plastic bags with water and throw them off the balcony targeting innocent people walking between blocks D and E. After throwing our water bombs, we used to duck and have a hysterical laugh especially when we get a hit and the helpless victim tries in vain to what and from where it hit him. These sessions got more boisterous as the days passed. Once, Encik Ahmad, the block supervisor came to our unit to question us after somehow managing to locate us. We, of course, put on our angelic faces and denied everything. Oh, boy! Those were the days…

Then the routine shedding of tears when it was time for them to leave for Malacca.