Review of ATC in BH2 today

Also available on IG: https://instagram.com/p/BCQQOd1JVB7/ 

Across the Causeway

Farewell Shot With the Clan 

I remember

It was December ‘65
School holidays

Ma sprang a surprise:

“Siddi said it’s best we shift to KL”

What seemed like a few short days

She threw most of our stuff into some suitcases

And when the Fateful Day came

Yat and I put on our new stripe dresses with the Peter Pan collars

And pulled on the bright, white socks tucked into the brown Mary Janes

“Don’t forget the white hankies and zipped shiny purses for purchases”

When Ma heard the ‘Beep, beep’ sound of the horn

And sighted the taxi without the permit   

With its engine running

And emitting smoke

On the dusty road

She said,

“Hurry up, girls, we don’t have the red carpet and the Rolls Royce at our disposal”

No sooner than the doors were slammed

It raced to the FMS Railway Station at the Cape of Fence

Sending us and our baggage flying for defence

Neighbours and uncles and aunties and cousins and friends

Were already there to say

Selamat Jalan!

Keretapi Tanah Melayu (KTM)

I tagged along

As Mal and Yat paced the platform

Trying to catch the sight of the Station Master in uniform

On the side of the grimy red engine

Were written the words Senandong Malam

The Rhythm of the Night was the night train's name
Which will transport us to our destination

As we passed by the shells of the cream and dark brown coaches

We thought of dust-covered vanilla ice cream blocks on thick chocolate wafers

No doubt thrown on the tracks by the grumpy Sun Sun Ice Cream Seller

The restaurant car was deep in the belly of the train

With shiny long tables and metal benches

And cooks-waiters in white aprons behind steel counters.

At the last few carriages, the writing Muatan Busuk Segera had us baffled

What indeed were these Perishables

That must be instantly loaded

At the tail of the iron centipede

Before they rot and stank and caused a stampede?

Soon the first ‘phritt’ was heard

T’was time to trace our steps back

We kissed our uncles’ and aunts’ hands

Hugged our cousins and friends

By the second ‘phriitt, phriitt’

We had to get our feet on the three short steps

Unless Ma let us pull some stunts

We daren’t jump on rolling wagons!

Our eyes in tears

Our cheeks wet

We jammed the stairs

Our bodies jerked

As the train made a sudden start

When the third ‘phriiittt, phriiittt, phriiittt!!!’

Trilled from the Station Master’s whistle

And his tiny, green flag was unfurled. 

We leant on the thin rubber padding 
With blood red vinyl covering

What passed as benches

On third class coaches

Our arms rested on the open window ledge

The glass was heavy and thick  

And the steel shutters slid down

Like guillotines!

The yellow lights were kind

But the ‘whrrr, whrrr, whrrr’ of the small ceiling fans

Kept yanking our eyelids up

Dozing off was really hard

When so many were milling about

And the ‘clacketty, clack, clacketty, clack’ as the ticket collector made his rounds

Punching holes into thick paper stubs

    Making sure no free riders were aboard

Link:            http://www.brianfloca.com/Locomotive.html

Hidayah Amin's The Mango Tree

The State vs Hidayah Amin and the casualty is the Mango Tree

While I've been dawdling back and forth through my drafts, Hidayah Amin has published her second childhood memoir, The Mango Tree.  Its launch is scheduled for March 16, 2013 (a Saturday) at the Pod@National Library, Singapore.  Since it's a children's book, there'll be a Nature Talk, Music Performance, Book Sale & Book Signing, Free Air-Brush Face-Painting (upon purchase of book), Special Gifts for those wearing or bringing something green or yellow.  Since space is limited, do RSVP to helang.books@gmail.com

https://www.facebook.com/events/469410049788294/

Well, if that doesn't spur me on to publish my own childhood memoir, then nothing will.  For a start, I've engaged an editor who has made recommendations for the overall structure and sections for the proposed title and should be editing each line of the second draft by now.  

So as to allay my doubts about who'd be interested to buy and read a memoir of someone who hasn't really made her mark in this world, I was also asked to answer the following question:

Why Bury My Heart in Kaki Bukit?

'To bury my heart' in a place where I had spent my childhood, a Malay kampong and a symbol of the Malays’ entitlement as the native settlers, means a sense of belonging and attachment to a place firmly lodged in the Singapore Malays’ collective memory and psyche.

 Draft Foreword (what to “expect” as in “why” the segments are as such)

 There’s something about the end of an era which set a train of thoughts in motion.  When the impending closure of the Tanjong Pagar Railway Station in July 2011 was announced, it opened a floodgate of memories of railway journeys with my mother across the Causeway - to visit my paternal grandparents in Klang, to view my father’s ‘paddy’ project in Kahang and, of course, to uproot ourselves and resettle in KL.

  However, my intention was not simply to reminisce about the past, nor present a personal tale of unresolved issues with my father’s rage or a tender eulogy about my mother’s strength.  I believe that my personal plight and my family’s misfortune are merely threads which weave into the larger tapestry of the collective experiences of the Singapore Malays of that era. 

  The turbulent years which followed the atrocities of the Japanese Occupation, the intense struggle for Independence and the UMNO-PAP contest over the political control of Singapore had left a deep scar in their psyche.  My story represents the narratives of those families who sought refuge in Malaysia.  For those who stayed or migrated elsewhere, their voices should be heard too.  

  Plus, I'm also experimenting with this opening - not sure if it will attract or repulse readers of my daughters' generation - the Gen Y.

1            The Turning Point

          You think that Singapore is all about Marina Bay Sands and The Eye.  Do you know that before there were urban renewal, skyscrapers and infinity pools, there were fishing villages, kampong houses and miles and miles of sandy beaches.  As a tourist, you think it’s cool to celebrate multiculturalism by traipsing around Little India, Chinatown and the Arab Quarter, but you don’t even mark the Malay Village in Geylang Serai on your map.  Please don't tell me that you're secretly ashamed to be a part of a race that’s been labelled backward and a culture that’s deemed deficient.  
          You might think history is not important.  The past has no place in the present. That it’s best to move on and let go.  But you don't know what it's like to be born and bred in a kampong created out of indigenous claim.  You don’t know what it’s like to belong to a land where your forefathers had traversed millions of years before you took your first step on that same soil.  You don’t know what it means to shed blood and liberate your motherland from the clutches of the colonisers.  You can’t imagine how humiliating it is to be downgraded from the status of natives with special rights to that of a mere minority.  It never crossed your mind that this people who’s accused of surviving on crutches and government hand-outs was once a proud race of seafarers, warriors and craftsmen.    

If you would only look at the course of history, you could see that the ’64 Riots was the turning point when an intelligent, articulate and fearless race morphed into an insipid, bumbling and spineless bunch of people.  In just a space of 13 months, they were to lose their grip on indigenous rights to their homeland, and, along with that, their constitutional rights to defend their language, culture and religion.