23:00h, 30th June 2011
I have heard and read the news about Keretapi Tanah Melayu (KTM, or Malayan
Railways) ceasing its operations at the Tanjong Pagar Station for more than a
year now. The Utusan Melayu, that
journalistic relic from 1939 that my mother’s father and his colleagues had
shed tears, sweat and blood for, has tried to make the incident its cause celebre. But, what can a Malay
language newspaper with a rapidly declining readership and advertising revenue
do in the face of the modernity juggernaut?
With that defeated mindset, I switch on the
television set and surrender myself to the dispassionate coverage of that
moment when crass capitalism triumphs over history, legacy and sovereignty.
The screen captures the motley crowd as it
swarms the narrow platform of the railway station. Clueless youth pressed against
seasoned, nostalgia junkies with their smart phone cameras on standby. It is a ‘happening’
event that any ‘cool’ dude would be wont to miss.
As the seconds ticked and the temperature rises,
they work themselves into frenzy as they wait for the night's event to reach
its climax. It seems more like a jubilant celebration to welcome the dawn of a
new era than a sad farewell to a remnant of the link between the Johor
Sultanate and its former territory.
The mob stirs as they catch a glimpse of the
monarch and his men appearing from the belly of the night train that HRH has
personally driven from the Woodlands station. The royal entourage humours the
pulsating crowd as the Sultan and his bodyguards pose against the banner which
hangs on one of the passenger coaches' shells. Video-cams, manual and digital
cameras rolled, clicked and flashed to capture the historic moment.
The Ruler raises his hands for the customary do'a, prayers asking the Almighty for a
safe journey (perhaps). Then he leads the royal entourage back into the waiting
carriage. All aboard the Rhythm of the Night as it wakes up from its idle
stupor. He takes over control of the rail car from its designated driver. The
Station Master takes a seat in the front coach and feigns a weak smile,
relieved of the authority to blow the whistle and flag down the departing
locomotive. Instead, someone in KTM uniform rang a cast metal bell that strangely
resembles that of the Sun Sun ice cream seller. The other uniformed staff members
press their lips as they scan the crowd through the carriage window. The Sultan
waves to the excited crowd and press the levers that set the carriage’s wheels in
motion.
