Anybody there? Boo Hoo…
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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.
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| Banyan Tree |
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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