I am afraid of no ghost!

Anybody there? Boo Hoo…

I have heard my share of people's experiences with the paranormal. Fortunately or unfortunately, I had never experienced any of their experiences. Fortunate because I did not get dragged into the unnecessary anxiety that it may bring. Unfortunate because I missed the opportunity to debunk their brush with the occult and possibly provide a rational, scientific explanation for their encounter.

I grew up in a multi-storey low-cost housing project in the 1970s. Malaysia was on the cusp of nation-building. Public housing was the priority. Many developed nations also contributed, likely seeking to atone for their past sins as colonial powers a generation earlier. German prefabricated concrete cast technology was used in Penang's iconic tallest public housing project, the Rifle Range Flats. 

In tandem with an increase in national prosperity, the increase in mental anguish must have been on the rise. Understandably, we, children who grew up in the flats, were oblivious to this adult stuff. What we knew was that every so often, once or twice a year, the atmosphere around the neighbourhood would turn noisy with a hive of activities. The inner courtyard of the 16-storeyed flats would play host to splatting jumpers. Jilted girlfriends, failed businessmen, and broken people would choose Rifle Range Flats to end their lives. Easy. The newly constructed living quarters with minimal safety guards and no security were an open invitation to anyone with suicidal intent. 

The Penang Bridge had not been built yet, and the suicidal had the turn to the high-rise building and the Ayer Itam reservoir to end their lives. The sandy beaches in Penang also bore witness to floating corpses. 

Everyone would tell their sudden, unusual experience after each jump. One would recollect an apparition with no legs. Another would sense the smell of jasmine or incense. Some will find a fellow occupant has suddenly disappeared. A friend of a friend would relate tales of a so-and-so who turned catatonic after such an encounter. The suspense would linger for a while, until the next jumper is reported. 

Human movement around Block E generally slowed after 9 pm. This was also the time we would finish our private tuition classes. In those days, education was becoming a highly sought-after commodity that the middle class would not want to be left behind. Even Amma, who was extremely miserly with household expenses, thought it prudent to invest in private tuition classes. 

The longest walk after the night classes, in our mind, was the wall from the flat entrance all the way to the lift. We had to skirt around the quadrangle, which was the flat's air well. It was the exact spot where jumpers would land. The bodies were long gone and probably decomposed or incinerated, but the memory of their distorted bodies sprawled on the concrete floor was imprinted permanently. 

My sisters and I would try to scare each other out of our wits. Sometimes we would tiptoe behind the other to give a deep-toned grunt to the terrified sibling. Sometimes we would just jump from around the corner. For the best effects, it was best done when the other sibling was walking alone. 

Sadly, not a single ghost came to disturb me or my other two siblings. The only thing close to that was us being irritating trolls to each other. This was happening even though our flat was overlooking a Chinese cemetery and was built on a land pregnant with tales of torture and killings. 

We, the children, were fed with stories of Japanese soldiers decapitating Malayan Chinese peasants when they occupied Malaya during World War II. Adjacent to the flats, a monumental Chinese cemetery still remained. The site was so vast that people used it daily as a shortcut to reach other parts of the city. No sightings of ghosts or paranormal activity have ever been reported. Anyway, no one in the correct state of mind would ever venture into the cemetery once it was dark. It was assumed that darkness was the domain of the netherworld. 

For the Tamil diaspora, noon can be a troubling time for restless souls. Young children, especially pubescent boys, are cautioned to stay away from areas that are believed to be teeming with spirits. Morunga, Bayan and Neem trees are notorious for harbouring spirits, especially the young, unmarried female kind, ready to pounce upon naive virgin boys. 

Banyan Tree

In the latter years, as our parents' financial demands increased to meet the children's educational needs, Amma would go into a whining frenzy. Maybe it was a cultural thing, but she used to go on an annoying tirade, blaming everything under the sun for her seemingly helpless situation, and it annoyed my siblings and me to the high heavens. 

I used to get out of the house and go for a run. The best place to do that, away from the high-decibel environment of the humdrum of flat-living and whimpering mother, was the adjacent Chinese cemetery. I used to go there without anyone's knowledge, of course. To top it up, as the major examination dates came closer and the decibel levels got annoyingly higher, I used to spend time reading the shade of a shady neem tree right in the centre of the burial ground. Just to test it out, I used to push my comfort zone to the limit. On school holidays, I used to camp out under the neem tree, at the height of midday sun, just to look out for any female apparition. 

Despite my repeated attempts to provoke any female companions into my life, it failed miserably. No one in the real or even the netherworld was interested in me. 

Time flew. Examination, results, then off to the seats of the ivory tower. My teasing of the ghosts of Rifle Range flats did not show any living daylight, neither the height of noon nor the corridors of the favourite site of jumpers.

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No endeavour goes unnoticed!

Children Of Heaven (Iranian; 1997)

Written and Directed: Majid Majidi

https://www.filmslop.com/reviews/childrenofheaven

This film conjured an avalanche of memories from a forgotten time in my childhood, when poverty prevailed and every penny mattered. We, the children, were meant to be seen but not heard. We were expected to accept what was given, and demanding anything more was deemed abominable. Gifts were to be cherished and utilised until the next buying season. Shopping for clothes and footwear took place once a year, just before Deepavali. We could not complain if the items were torn, damaged, or outdated. Such complaints would be met with a barrage of insults or other forms of abuse. So, we simply made do with what we had.

On one hand, my sisters and I often wondered why we did not turn into raving lunatics while growing up in such a restrictive environment that suppressed all our opinions and desires. Perhaps we already are. Or challenging situations strengthened us, enabling us to endure numerous adversities without crumpling under hardship.

Perhaps the verse from the Quran, Surah Al-Baqarah 2:216, has merit: "But perhaps you hate a thing and it is good for you, and perhaps you love a thing and it is bad for you." It emphasises that our perception is not the best judge. There is always a silver lining at the end of hardship.

In impoverished rural Iran, nine-year-old Ali collects his sister Zahra's shoes from the cobbler. Although the shoes have seen better days, Zahra needs to wear them to school, as they are the only pair she has. Their father is unemployed, and their mother is unwell after delivering her third baby.

After collecting the shoes, Ali stopped at the sundry shop to buy potatoes, as his mother had requested. He left the plastic bag containing the shoes outside the shop, but the recycling man accidentally picked it up, mistaking it for rubbish. Ali panicked when he realised this. Despite his frantic searches, he was unable to find the shoes.

Not wanting to burden their already flat-broke parents, the children decide to share the shoes, as Zahra attends the morning school session while Ali participates in the afternoon one. Unfortunately, their respective schools are pretty distant from one another. Much of the film depicts the difficulty of getting the shoes across the village for Ali to use. They have to dash, but Ali invariably arrives at school late, receiving a ticking off from the teacher. All the running ultimately helps Ali win the cross-country race, which promises, of all things, a pair of new trainers.

In another subplot, Ali's father believes his bad times are over when he secures a job as a gardener. Unfortunately, the grand dreams he had built after receiving the money were consumed by medical bills and repairs following his bicycle accident. Man plans, God disposes!

A simple yet meaningful story, 4.8/5.

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On Assimilation and Integration

I am not ashamed to say this. As I was growing up, I used to ask myself why I was born an Indian. In Malaysia, the stereotypical casting of an Indian was that of a poor, unkempt, poorly educated, loud, smelly, hot-tempered and drunk. They are assumed to be dark-skinned and occupy low-ranking menial jobs. They were often the butt of jokes in social circles and even on the national TV.

Our perspective and values are formed by the association we keep with, so thought Amma. Coming from a Tamil school background but cutting short her studies after primary school for being born into the wrong gender, she had a very negative opinion of vernacular education. In her mind, the way forward is mastering the lingua franca of the most expansive Empire of her time, English.

My sisters and I could only speak English when we stepped outside our flat. We were not to show others that we knew Tamil, as that would, in her own words, draw unsavoury characters. These people would skew our minds away from our one purpose in life: to secure excellent academic results. She did not want us to know about the latest Tamil movie star antics or the latest fashion in India. By mixing with non-Indian peers, she thought positive values on education and self-improvement could be inculcated.

On the other hand, within the confines of our home, as if having a split personality, she would insist that we converse in Tamil, practise Indic practices, and be well-versed in Hindu culture. She was quick to condemn others of other ethnicities and races as being lost. In her mind, our ancestors had it all right, and we should follow without asking too many questions.

As curious minds, my sisters and I would not consider all her nonsensical practices gospel truths. Once, we were told that it was a time of lunar eclipse. Amma told us to finish dinner and go to sleep early. We should not be outdoors or engage in strenuous activities. Questioned why, she told us that the Goddess who had been holding the planet for so long had become tired. She wanted to take a breather, hence the temporary darkness. So, we should refrain from mocking the Goddess by doing work when she is exhausted.

Rubbish, I told her, as my teacher had taught me the day before about planetary positioning and eclipses. It was one of her relaxed days. She did not get upset but told me and my sister that we were all too smart for our pants. Our ancestors were not stupid.

Of course, we grew up imbibing the best of both worlds—learning the sciences and trying to scientifically explain the seemingly unscientific ancient Hindu traditions.

EV Ramasamy, at a time when his social reform lectures pushed the South Indians to earn self-respect, made a working trip to Malaya. In his address to the migrant Indian workers, he told them to leave all their traditional beliefs behind and learn from the locals and progress. He said, after all, their motherland had failed them. She could not sustain them and pushed them away to new shores. Rather than be sentimental about the whole thing, he advised them to emulate the other ethnicities from Malaya in earning self-respect, women empowerment and wealth.

It even makes sense in the 21st century, specifically in 2024.

 
The world has not changed much since the last time terrifying sirens were heard over Europe, followed by bombarding warplanes. It is still not a peaceful place. Economic migrants are still floating as they have been throughout the years. Wars, famine, and persecution push people from their borders. After settling down amidst many difficulties in host countries as guests, one would expect them to be eternally grateful to their host nations. Heck, no, at least the current wave of immigrants.

Like Amma, who thought her newfound country and its inhabitants were a notch lower in the civilisational hierarchy, these 21st-century immigrants run down their host. Instead of appreciating their kindness for helping set home in a new place after creating a cesspool of their country of origin, they sing praises of their motherland and their own civilisation, creating unrest in their host countries. Essentially, they want to bite the hand that feeds them. Like vultures scraping every sinew and cartilage off the carcass, they want to leave their host nation a barren wasteland as they did theirs.

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Nothing like being free!

Kummathy (Bogeyman, Malayalam; 1979)

Director: G Aravindan

Most viewers would not have heard of this movie maker, mainly known as a legend in the Indian alternative cinema field. Unlike the masala Bollywood kind of logic-defying escapism that excites the masses, these artsy films only fascinate people who see beyond the story and what is shown on the screen. Some label this film as the best Indian movie ever made.

The movie came to the mainstream's attention after Martin Scorsese's team restored the old, lacklustre copies found in the Indian film archives in 2021. Scorcese announced this movie was one of his favourites at its restoration premiere in Italy. The original cinematographer, however, still preferred the analogue version, as he thought it had more texture and character.

It has been popularised as a children's movie and is usually screened on International Children's Day.

The first thing one notices when watching this film is that he feels like a child. Remember the time in our childhood when we were mere observers, watching and learning, seen but not heard? There is hardly any dialogue, but there is never a dull moment. Scene after scene, we are overwhelmed with the fantastic landscape of Kerala's countryside (God's own country). It draws us to a time when life was simple, running to school was fun, playing with friends was exhilarating, and days were long. Every new discovery is a new adventure. It was not so much our own antics that thrilled us; we were fascinated by the peculiarities that adults exhibited.

Chindan and his similarly aged preteen friends have a gala time. They play, run, prank, and observe the world go by. They are particularly drawn to an eccentric shaman who periodically comes to the village, singing and dancing along the way. They suspect the shaman has magic powers. They befriend him. During one of their play sessions, the shaman playfully changes them into animals, such as a monkey, dog, monkey, etcetera. Chindan becomes a dog. Before the shaman can change them back to their usual selves, Chindan is chased by another dog and goes missing.

Chindan's family goes looking for him, but in vain. By that time, the shaman had moved to another village. Chindan's family only brings back the dog; unbeknownst to them, it is actually Chindan.

A year later, the shaman returns to the village. Chindan, the dog, runs to him for an emotional meeting. The shaman recognises the dog and changes him back. Chindan returns home. Understanding the torture of being trapped, he releases his caged pet parakeet to freedom. 

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God's great plan?

Freud's Last Session (2023)

Director: Mathew Brown

The day was September 3rd, 1939. Sigmund Freud was homebound in his house in London. He had fled Vienna to London and was nursing the constant nagging pain caused by his oral cancer and an ill-fitting oral prosthesis. Neville Chamberlain had declared war on Germany after Hitler failed to withdraw from Poland. Londoners stayed glued to their radios, bemoaning that the war had started again and were waiting for their leaders' latest instructions and progress.

Anxiety was high, and people were wondering how the next few days would be. Against this background, Sigmund Freud was spending the last few months of his life. He was in constant pain, needing morphine, but lucid enough to remember the life he had and to debate his favourite topic, the existence of God. 

It is said that on that fateful, it is believed that he had a visitor by a Professor from Oxford University. The visitor's identity was not found, but the screenwriter decided to place CS Lewis as the guest. 

Lewis grew up a Christian until his mother died when he was a young child. His depressed father lost all trust in Christianity and sent Lewis and his brother to a boarding school. CS Lewis was an atheist by the time he became a young adult. A short stint in WWI drew him to Christianity again, and he became an unapologetic Christian. In Oxford, he teamed up with JRR Tolkien through fiction work, and through their group Inlking, they emphasised the value of fantasy and narrative fiction. Lewis is famous for 'Narnia' and Tolkien for 'Lord of The Rings'.

Freud was born into an Orthodox family. In his childhood, he used to follow his nanny to Church. His father was not too happy about this, and he sacked his nanny for 'converting' Sigmund to Christianity. By adulthood, Sigmund Freud was a full-fledged atheist who thought that organised religion was a fraud. 

The fictional meeting of these two great minds is the crux of this film, which was initially a stage show. It was a sort of Freud's last psychoanalysis session. Both men open their hearts, talking about their childhood, their relationships with their fathers, and intense debate about the existence of God.  

Along the way, Anna's (Freud's daughter) pathological attachment to her father is discussed. Her sexuality takes centre stage, too. She was thought to be a lesbian. The question of God condemning his people for wrongdoings and criminalisation of pleasure, whether masturbation, casual sex or same-sex union, comes up. And where is God's place when Man is cruel towards each other?

After a long afternoon of discourse, both gentlemen take leave. Anna arrives home to introduce her partner, Dorothy, to her father. Anna goes to become the founder of child psychology. Freud died by assisted suicide, with the help of his doctor, a few weeks later.

Freud's meeting with the Oxford Don on September 3rd 1939, was Freud's last session. 

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When are we happy?

Three of Us (2022)
Director: Avinash Arun Dhaware

Memory changes with time, but time is independent of memory. Time, a construct of man, moves on as our Universe expands toward entropy, with or without our existence. The memory we hold so dear to our hearts has become our badge of honour as we traverse through life. Our memories of life are our crowning glory. In our minds, as far as our life is concerned, time fits into the concept of Sasa and Zamani as described by JS Mbiti as an African concept of time. 

Sasa covers a time already experienced and an extremely brief future. Our Sasa, the memory of the past, becomes more significant as we spend more time on Earth. It goes on as long as we, as an individual or a community, can remember an event or someone. After that, Sasa goes into Zamani, the graveyard of time where everything ends. The memory of loved ones and ancestors lives on in Sasa as they are reminded of them through regular rituals and anniversaries.

Hence, in African philosophy, there is no concept of the future. We live in the past as far as memory takes and the immediate near-future in front of us. The idea of a distant future, of an afterlife, is alien.

The past is nothing but the human mind as it remembers, the present is nothing but the human mind as it considers, and the future is the human mind in expectation.

At the end of time, we take a bow with the memories of everything we have experienced, endeavoured, and achieved in our lifetimes. This must be our parting gift as we wither away into the horizon, soon out of sight and eventually out of our memory. 

Losing our memory before our time is out can be devastating. By right, the physical body would wither away long before the thinking faculty fizzles out. Occasionally, our insight goes kaput. That is a problem, not for us, but for people around us as we misbehave in situations around us. But to count the days knowing very well that all that we understand and all the memories we have built in our memory cloud will be erased incrementally in the imminent future can be nerve-wracking. This film is the story of one such lady who is diagnosed with early-onset dementia. 

After learning about her medical condition and probably taking early retirement from her job at a divorce court, she decides to return to the town she grew up. She had been putting off her plans to return for a long time. After getting embroiled in family life and work and bringing up her son, who is now 19, in engineering school.

Maybe because her doctors are unable to tell her how fast her memory would go blank, she has a compelling need to revisit the home where she grew up. Her family had left the house in a sudden after a family tragedy. She never really had a proper farewell from her friends and had lost contact. 

Shailaja's intentions of returning to her roost are to reinforce her good memories of her school days, to reconnect with her schoolmates, and to revisit her family home. Her husband follows her on her week-long trip. She wanted to reinforce these memories before they faded for good.

Like an onion, layer by layer, her backstory comes to the fore; of her sister who had an accidental drowning at the family well, her secondary school romantic crush and the little memories here and there which did not mean much then, but looks like a gem now, lost forever. 

The whole presentation is laid out in a well-composed, slow-moving, mature pace without much masala or melodrama. The men (husband and childhood friend) are civil, and so are the childhood friend's wife and the rest of the occupants of her village.

We all look at our past and go under the false impression that our earlier life had been so fine. We lament the good old days forever and wish to turn back the clock. Boy, do I have news? Only when we go back and relive the life we once had do we realise that life was never a walk in the park at any time. We had our struggles and our lows. It is just that our mind prunes off all those unpleasant experiences. We are never happy!

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For bringing the horse to water!

A lady, visibly struggling with her gravid tummy, was heard conversing with a fellow attendee at a maternity clinic. Excerpts from her conversing, which were anything but discrete, were soon made known to others. She was complaining about how she still had to go to school carrying a pair of twins in utero with just less than one month from her due date. This year alone, five teachers had gone on maternity leave, leaving a large vacuum for others to fill up. 

It does not help that her school had 80% of the teachers as ladies and that recently, maternity leaves had been extended from 60 days a few years previously to 98 days now. 

"I am just wasting my time teaching children who are not interested in learning, anyway," she was lamenting. 

Thanks, Mr Khoo!

I remember when a teacher motivated me to push my boundaries beyond my imagination, reaching for the unthinkable. I was just an average student trying to sponge whatever little knowledge my teachers were trying to impart. One thing I never did throughout my schooling life was to fail a test. Be it a public examination or a quiz, I may not excel, but I definitely will not falter. I did fail my motorbike licence test, though. I wanted to save the money spent on riding school but used my old bone shaker instead.

So, I was devastated when the monthly test result for physics was out. I found that I had scored 16%. I stared at big red-inked scribblings on the test paper with disbelief. I should not be surprised as the questions were based on the exact topics my Physics teacher had assured us we would not be drilled. Still, heartbreaking it sure was. 

Pensive mood, are we?

The subsequent examination would be the mid-term test, which would have some bearing on the school testimonials. This cannot be, I told myself. I had to pull myself with my own bootstraps. Frankly, I found it extremely difficult to understand what my Physics master was trying to teach. I felt we were in different lingos, like how a dog and a cat or a hen would talk to a duck. Sometimes, I thought he was the manifestation of an oracle of Delphi. He managed to create a sense of mysticism around the subject matter. At the end of the lesson, we, the students, will stay as ignorant as before. 

Penang Sunrise

The falter at the monthly test pushed me to learn everything covered in the syllabus. I burned the midnight oil in all barrels, leaving no stones unturned. So when the midterm examinations were out, not only did I come out with flying colours, but as the top scorer of the form, I went on to win a book prize. 

Never in my wildest dreams would I have thought of winning an academic award like that. If not for the direct or indirect prodding from my Physics teacher, Mr Khoo, I would have just been another student who passed through the school corridors, leaving nothing behind. Now, I have at least tasted the sweet, succulent taste of victory and personal satisfaction. 'Ain't no mountain high enough!' is no longer just a passing statement or a line in a song.

The recent secondary school reunion was a gesture to show our appreciation to our grand old school teachers who still remember us or at least put up a convincing front to tell us they do. Seriously, just as they made an impression on us, we did not know how much observation they made about us and live to tell us. 

Memorial for the founder, RS Hutchings

One for the album

N.B. Thank you, Teik Hock, Sow Wu, Guan Chiang, et al for the pictures.

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