I have a junior college classmate who has invited her whole class down to her house to celebrate the end of the Muslim fasting month three years in a row. And every year I am amazed at the number of visitors that her family has thrown the doors wide open to – extended family from all walks of life, and ex-classmates and future schoolmates among others.
Last Sunday, my mother made an Instagram post of three things. Continue reading
Hastings Road was bubbling with an unusually expectant anticipation. The buffalo cart at the mouth of the road was festooned with coloured streamers. Visitors had come in their finest festive garb to the mini animal farm, bearing special gifts of bananas for the cattle, while a keeper indulged the animals with handfuls of boiled rice and turmeric. I had not just visited on an ordinary Sunday; I had arrived on one of the most important days in the Tamil calendar: Surya Pongal. The second day of the harvest festival Pongal, it was an occassion dedicated to the ritual cooking of the eponymous pongal rice pudding out in the sunlight as a thanks offering to the Hindu solar god Surya. It would also kick off the beginning of the month of Thai in the Tamil calendar in spectacular fashion.
Three sugarcane stems stood tied together at one end, over what appeared to be an innocuous clay brazier. It wasn’t directly under the glare of the sun as it is traditionally meant to be, but their leaves seemed to stretch for the sky beyond the white tent roofing sheltering the road. Sugarcane, as a signature harvest crop, symbolised prosperity and was thus an auspicious sign under which the all-important cooking of milk for the pudding would begin. Milk, as a life-giving substance and a product of the cow which is so sacred to Hinduism, took pride of place. The moment when it was cooked until it overflowed would usher in abundance and be a cause of riotous celebration.
Mr Manoj, a balding middle-aged man in a light blue kurta, set to work. Spreading out a variety of metal plates, he began arranging the ingredients – jaggery, ghee, raisins, cashews and the crucial dish of milk. A handful of turmeric leaves had been tied around the steel vessel that would be used for cooking . Onlookers slowly gathered, drawn by the lively charcoal fire that had been busily, but reverently, kindled. Pieces of hard orange candy were burned in a clay lamp, adding their own connotations of a sweet year to a growing stew of spiritual symbolism. Against the backdrop of a lively hubbub of Tamil commentary by an emcee, the man was quietly joined by more assistants. They anointed the corners of the objects with oil, stirred the fire with sticks and carried forth the banana leaf that would be the centrepiece for the food offerings.
More and more visitors began to gather. A Tamil woman wearing a cross around her neck stood with another wearing a hijab, eyeing the festivities as eagerly as their Hindu counterparts. There were curious Australian backpackers who had arrived next to Chinese onlookers toting cameras. The air was punctuated by waves of applause and shouts of ‘Pongal-o-pongal!’; cries of abundance in Tamil. The offerings were set out on the banana leaf: a pleasing mosiac from the colours of the ripe bananas, hibiscus flowers, and coconut shells that were quickly arranged at its corners.
Explosive festive music burst out from the sound system. The pot was uncovered and brought before the makeshift altar. Guests decked with flower garlands stepped up, to be passed a beaker of milk which they would take turns to add to the pot. A group of elderly men and women were brought toward the altar to do the honours, craning their necks to see what was happening. The crowd had grown so large I had to jostle to view even a slice of the festivities. The tempo of the music grew faster and faster.
Everyone was clapping in time, faster and faster. “We have to motivate the milk to boil over,” someone explained to me. Mr Manoj and an assistant in white crouched on either side of the pot, anxious, waiting.
The moment came in a split second. A huge fountainhead of white froth bubbled over, throwing the cover off its lid. The crowd roared. People cheered and laughed and cried out, “Pongal-o-pongal!” A woman in a red saree took the microphone from the emcee and made a high-pitched screeching call. The milk had overflowed – pongal, abundance, was ushered in for the new year.
Heady aromas of incense and the smoky scent of charcoal clung heavily to my clothes long after I left Hastings Road. All over the island, Tamils would be enjoying the pongal pudding, and its promise of sweetness for the year ahead.
This expressive bamboo sculpture of the Chinese God of Wealth, dressed in a Qing dynasty official’s cap and magua jacket with an abacus under one arm, was one of the many wooden sculptures I found within the Singapore Chinese Opera Museum. The museum was tucked away in a tiny lot on the first floor of Sultan Plaza, and I had arrived hoping to learn more about traditional Chinese opera forms. Instead, the first thing that leapt out at me upon my arrival were the rows of wood sculptures neatly arranged on tables and shelves lining the premises. The heady smell of camphor incense wafted through the air, accompanied by the soft lilt of qin (zither) music playing over the sound system.
These sculptures were all part of the personal collection of Mr Bian Huibin, a soft-spoken man in his forties and the museum’s owner. I first saw him quietly drifting in and out of the museum, while his wife Mdm Huang Ping attended to a small steamer at a side table surrounded by bowls of rice and pickled vegetables for his lunch. “I looked for and imported these all myself,” he told me, speaking in Mandarin as he ushered me into the area, beaming with barely-concealed pride over each of his valuable pieces. “The middle row,” he said while pointing to a line of dark-coloured Guanyin sculptures in the centre of the room, “are from Indonesia, and the rest are from China. There’s one sculpture in the corner that’s about 200 years old, but the rest are fairly new.” He admitted that as a Chinese opera instructor he used the space to conduct classes on the weekends, but seemed to take an especial interest in these artefacts. When I asked them why he collected them, he told me with a simple sincerity, “I like them. I like all forms of art.”
As I surveyed each of the sculptures, Mr Bian followed me steadily, eager to share his knowledge of each of these pieces. Each of them had been carved in the likenesses of various Chinese religious or historical figures, infused by the artist with a startling liveliness in their vivid expressions or the flowing creases of their robes. All of his sculptures gained a deep, soft lustre in the glow of the museum’s fluorescent lights. He picked each of them up in turn, flipping them over to reveal the rings that signalled each sculpture’s beginning as a humble block of wood. When I asked him in halting Mandarin which of them was his favourite, he answered within a heartbeat. “It’s this statue of Zhuge Liang at the back,” was this enthusiastic response as he moved swiftly to a sculpture that had been prominently displayed on a pedestal at the back of the room. “Zhuge Liang symbolises of wisdom in China, and this carving is so lifelike. It’s also very heavy, and I enjoy feeling its weight.” He went on to elaborate on the special features of each of the different types of wood used to carve sculptures, and how the density of each sculpture was indicative of its worth. I began to have a sense that he was taking pride not just in his role as a collector, but also in his efforts to highlight Chinese culture.
It took some scrutiny to find signs of the stated focus of the museum – Chinese opera. I had to peer past the statues to see the information on the histories of different types of Chinese opera on the walls. Each dialect group in different regions of China has its own variant of opera – besides the ubiquitous Beijing Opera there are other styles such as Fujian, Teochew and Cantonese (Yue) opera that have historically been prominent in Singapore due to its large southern Chinese diaspora. I looked at the pictures of actors and actresses in flowing, richly-embroidered brocade costumes; their faces heavily made up in the standard white and deep pink that is characteristic of the genre. Chinese opera is a demanding art, involving not just singing and choreography for distinct roles, but also martial arts training for the many mythological and historical tales that are the subjects of many a traditional play. It was also a vanishing tradition, with many troupes seeing slowing demand and a lack of young actors. I thought that he would have been more openly proud of this particular tradition that he was helping to safeguard.
And yet Mr Bian was modest, if not reluctant, about mentioning his involvement in the Chinese opera scene. “You must enjoy looking at my pictures,” was his only wry comment when I came to a series of framed newspaper clippings at a corner. In bold Chinese characters, it proclaimed the couple’s status as one of the leading promoters of Chinese opera in Singapore, and mentioned the many shows they had participated in. His wife, herself still an active performer and instructor, gave no indication of the recognition she enjoyed in her hushed conversations with her husband while I was in the room. And yet under his mild-mannered exterior, Mr Bian had an eclectic of talents. He had published a photo album on the stray cats of Singapore and held his own exhibition, and a drinks menu pasted above a register referenced the opera-themed cafe he had opened along Kandahar Street.
“It’s tiring,” he put it bluntly. “I’m a musician. I also run photography classes and opera classes. It’s a rich life, yes. A rich life, but busy.” He appeared a man of simple desires, content to avoid the trappings that fame would have wrought upon him. Perhaps he delighted more in the joy he gained from his hobbies and the joy of an honest conversation than his hectic career as a Chinese opera instructor. The museum was in itself a product of his subtle but refined tastes, and reflected well who he appeared to be. Small and nondescript, but brimming with a rich and understated cultural life.
There’s always something exciting about something un-tested being brought out into the open. The production Now You Simi 2 was no exception. Continue reading
My father returned from the queue with a plate of cuttlefish meat and eggs. My momentary surprise was quickly broken by the arrival of the familiar dishes. Two bowls of thick rice noodles, topped with fried onions and sitting in a thin brown soup, were set on the table next to a large dish of sliced intestines, gelatinous pig’s skin and sliced pork belly steeped in a thick dark gravy. It was an unusual breakfast, but also one of my all-time favourites. The chewy, savoury, saucy toothsome goodness of all manner of pork coupled with the slippery kway (the chap refers to the soup used for the rice noodles) was a flavour that never failed to make me feel at home.
We had set foot at a small un-named coffeeshop on our way to the wholesalers’ at Pasir Panjang. A narrow grey tiled platform poked out indiscreetly from under a row of condominiums, scattered with foldable tables over which bent hungry customers. A stocky bespectacled man in a white singlet and Bermudas had approached our table and asked us if we wanted any drinks–standard procedure for drinks stalls at local coffeeshops. My father asked him in rapid-fire Hokkien for ‘snake-grass water’, and he returned with a cup of ice cubes and a tall grey can that read ‘Sparkling Oldenlandia Water’. (“I don’t drink it for the taste, but because it’s good at clearing heatiness in the body.” It tastes like carbonated water.) An odd quiet permeated the thick, humid afternoon air.
The murmur of chatting customers was punctuated occassionally by the crisp cries of the drinks-stall-man in fluent Mandarin, and the squeals of the young nephew of the vegetarian-food-stall-lady. He trundled around coyly asking customers if they’d like him to help clear their empty plates, and received two pieces of fried beancurd skins from a large tin on the countertop for his effort. The cuttlefish was a dish I’d never tried before, and I was surprised at the tangy sweetness that entered my mouth after I’d slathered each piece in dipping sauce. A fondness shone in my father’s eyes. “This dish actually takes me back to when I was a young boy eating with my father and grandfather,” he began.
“We used to live in a shophouse along Merchant Road. My father used to own one of those traditional Chinese medical halls. We used to go to eat Teochew porridge across the road. We would eat things like the cuttlefish, but now they hardly make it anymore. Last time Teochew porridge used to be a buffet. There will be steamed fish, like the ngoh hu (Indian threadfin) and also the ngeng. I don’t know what you call it, but it’s like the, you know, the mackerel. There will also be steamed crayfish, and steamed crab. It was very expensive in those days. They also had meat section, like kway chap, and vegetables. Not like stir-fry, but those salted vegetables. When my father was alone, he would just order porridge and maybe a fish and another dish. When there were more people, we’d order a lot more. Simple but elegant: that is the flavour of Teochew cuisine.”
“We used to eat from there very regularly. The man who made the Teochew porridge had many, many workers working for him, not like this one with only one or two workers per stall. But now the shop is closed down. It became an underground tunnel connecting the CPE to Chinatown. His son didn’t take over the business. He went to join IBM. Such a pity. It’s because he thinks his dad’s business is low-class. If I were him, I would have stayed on and become a billionaire from the shop. True, you need to be in the kitchen from 4a.m., but he doesn’t really have to cook. He can just have his workers do it for him. I was aware as a child that his father was a prosperous man. But his son didn’t take over.”
“Maybe they should have competitions to motivate people to learn hawker cooking! I had one colleague who studied beer-making in university. It’s very complicated because they have to learn about chemistry and pressure and all these things. They would have to make beer to compete against each other, and he was the reigning champion for many years. But he didn’t start a brewery. He also joined IBM. But after he retired, he began making machinery for microbreweries. He also has a very rich life, full of expression, because of music. He can play the piano very well, like jazz style. Whenever we’re anywhere with a grand piano, he’ll go to it and play. His playing was so good and everyone would be clapping afterwards. He and his wife were in Bosnia during the war and saw the killings on TV. So he went to the border and picked up an orphaned baby from the street and raised her as his daughter. Okay, not really the street, but from the Red Cross. He said, ‘I can’t save all of these babies, but I can at least save one.’ You know, these people lead so fulfilling lives because they’re a lot more sensitive to their surroundings.”
“I think a bad thing about me is that I always cling on to things from the past. Progress can be good, but sometimes you end up losing things in the society. Food is one. Language is another. I heard a saying once, that the quality of life is determined by how many times you have your breath taken away. Amazing isn’t it?”
Outside the National Gallery, a crowd caught my eye. Many rapt gazes were fixed on a tall, sinewy man; a psychedelic scarf worn at a rakish angle under a dark wide-brimmed hat. Adults and children alike watched with a wide-eyed eagerness as he immersed the tips of a pair of long sticks into a vat of green liquid. “When I say ‘bubble’, you say ‘attack’!” he yelled to the crowd, drawing enthusiastic cries. Then, he unleashed a stream of bubbles—glowing rainbow in the setting sun, floating tantalisingly close to the crowd before vanishing as suddenly as they appeared. He thanked his audience and swept off his hat to a wave of applause.
He was a bubbleologist: Sandy the Bubble Pirate. Having only caught a glimpse of one of his performances for the Gallery’s inaugural Night to Light Festival, I was determined to catch the whole of his next show. Even before the performance started, he was answering the questions posed to him by the DJs with a warm, effusive charm. When asked about the composition of his bubble solution, he joked, “If I tell you, I’m afraid I’ll have to kill you,” flashing a winsome smile. There were three components to his performances, he said. First was for children—and children-at-heart—to pop the bubbles. The second was sharing the big bubbles—not popping them, but letting everyone enjoy them, because “not even the richest person can possess a bubble.” The third was outdoors performances—even considering Singapore’s finicky humidity. His mission was to spread fun and joy through the art of the bubble.
And what better place to carry out this philosophy than a bare, open space? He didn’t need many tools for his trade: three vats of mysterious bubble solution, a couple of giant bubble blowers affixed to poles, and a pair of hands (which could become very handy bubble blowers too!) But simply by engaging the audience, he transported them into a moment of joy, whether it was by eliciting excited squeaks when he accidentally rained bubble solution down over the audience, to gratuitously creating more large bubbles if the previous ones had popped just after they were created. The timid requests of children to take a picture with him and the hearty congratulations of grown viewers were testament enough to the atmosphere he had managed to create. Yet a question remained in my mind: how had he decided to become a bubbleologist in particular?
“I started with Smoky Bubbles,” he told me, producing a small blue tube from inside his jacket pocket. While he had lived in Singapore for 14 years, he had only begun performing with bubbles for the past 5 years. “It was a passion. Got into a bit of trouble on the MRT—became an incident in the news.” Nevertheless, he was able to find his calling. “I didn’t think I’d become a cook; I became a cook. I didn’t think I’d become an athlete; I became an athlete. I didn’t think I’d become a bubbleologist; I became a bubbleologist. It’s about finding purpose. Sometimes what you do is not what you’ll end up doing later.”
And why bubbles? “Bubbles are ethereal. They’re profound. They’re the meaning of life.”
Beyond the fun of bubble-blowing, perhaps one wouldn’t be hard-pressed to find a metaphor for similarly ephemeral human lives in the greater scheme of the world. But the bubbleologist’s main purpose would be to entertain, and his bubbles have the power to create positive memories that can never be bought by the richest person in the world.
Zorro was an interesting sight on the steps outside the School Of The Arts. He didn’t seem that unusual when placed against the surge of people crossing the road in the direction of Plaza Singapura–young men and women sporting shocks of red and green hair, arts school students and other pedestrians in shirts bearing anime motifs. His strident voice seemed somewhat muffled against the crowd as he crooned out a soulful ballad in Japanese, strumming on his guitar. What really set him apart was the little cardboard placard at his feet that read ‘From Japan!’–and the roguish warmth of his smile that he flashed me as I approached him, bringing to mind his namesake.
In halting English we struck up a conversation, where he revealed the ambition behind his modest performance by the street. From under his nondescript appearance shone a carefree cheerfulness, brimming from the joy of a free spirit that seems to have found a fulfilling release through his music.
“I’m travelling the world. I came from Japan. I come to Singapore because I heard it’s good for buskers. Earlier I was in the Philippines, but there the public order is very bad, and the divide between the rich and the poor is very big. After this I’m going to Malaysia, and from there I’ll be travelling to Central Asia, Middle East, Central America, South America, North America and maybe after that I will travel back to Japan. I told my parents; they’re just a little worried for my safety. Before this I lived in Australia and New Zealand. The nature there is very beautiful.
My dream has been to travel the world since I was fifteen years old. I learnt to play the guitar since I was young, but I mostly played for fun until recently. The suitcase contains all my belongings–sleeping bags, food, etc. I earn the money to travel by busking. I stay in one country to busk for a while before moving on to another country. I want to be able to produce my own series, and practicing through busking can help me to become good enough.
I think the best experience of travelling is meeting new people. Second would be food, and third would be the busking. I’ve tried chilli crab. I like spicy food, so I like Singaporean food. I’ll be playing here for maybe one more week then maybe I’ll go somewhere like Chinatown. Or somewhere local like Tampines or… Bedok.”
We ended our conversation with a mutual handshake. As I went on my way, I couldn’t help but be struck at how his sentiments seemed to echo my own. Perhaps in some way we are all travellers, and it’s the chance meetings we have when we collide with others on their own path that lead to the most meaningful experiences.
The first stranger whom I felt I had ever enjoyed talking to–and, in a way, the catalyst behind this blog–was an old man playing the harmonica outside the Isetan basement supermarket at the Orchard Road shopping district. I was on my way home one day when I noticed him, blowing away cheerfully at his instrument in the face of an oblivious tide of shoppers surging past him towards the escalators to Wheelock Place. Little had I expected him to stop what he was doing when he noticed me checking out the belongings he’d brought with him, greeting me with a “Hello little girl” and a warm twinkle in his eye. Thus began the first of my series of conversations with his amiable busker, who introduced himself to me as Uncle Loh.
I have not been able to visit him again lately, due to his having moved to another location along the same area in the Orchard Road shopping district, but his conviviality made a strong impression on me and as I was walking towards Ion Orchard, his honest smile and snippets of our lively conversations resurfaced in my mind. Not only had he changed my impression of those in the busking profession, but also sparked me in the thought to perhaps try to reach out to people in the same way he had reached out to me.
Uncle Loh (declined to have photograph posted)
“Why I decided to start busking…. I think it was more of an accident than anything. I didn’t go around looking for busking oppurtunities or whatever. I’m almost eighty and retired and I used to be an engineer. But I like music, and could play the harmonica since I was a boy. So I happened to find there’s busking and I went for the auditions and I passed, so I’m here. So I can’t really say there’s a reason I come here. It’s more for fun.
You receive an endorsement, and go to a specific place to busk. So I came here. The best ones are always sent to Orchard. Some of them busk outside their legal place and if you’re caught you receive warnings. One warning, two warnings, then you’re out. There’s also another lady playing the guitar who used to be at the other corner. She decided she wanted to come in the morning and I come in the afternoon so we share this place. Oh yes, we all know each other, through busking! I perform here for three hours until three o’clock. There are some who make busking their livelihood, but not many. Like the guitarist at Novena, he does busking for a living. Of course I earn money,” he said, grinning, “but it’s mostly to relax. It’s a nice way to spend time.
The important thing is to keep fit. I haven’t been exercising as much since I started busking. Oh no, standing for three hours is no problem for me, but when I go on the MRT I fall asleep.
You can’t worry, ‘Oh my music today is not good.’ You can’t have a disruptive place to play in. Even if you think you’re bad, if you play everyday you get better. I get to play here, I enjoy myself and also earn a bit of money. But yes, the most important thing is to enjoy yourself. If you don’t enjoy yourself, no one will enjoy your music. If they don’t give money the first time they might walk by and say, ‘Hey that music is good’ and give money the next time. I’m a retired engineer, I have savings packed away so I don’t need the money. And health, health is also important. You must learn to keep fit.
In those days, a thousand dollar salary was worth more than ten thousand dollars today. Ask your daddy, he should know. We used to call it the ‘four-figure sum’. Everyone on the street would know the one with the thousand-dollar salary. If you drove a rich car the hotels would ask you to park in front of them–if not they’d chase you out! Now I enjoy myself beyond material things. I’m a busker and people ask me if I earn more and I say, yes, I earn more, but the value of money is different, you see. You shouldn’t live by loans. You shouldn’t live by installment. Even credit cards are no good; I never believed in credit cards.
I have no children; I live with my wife. Ah, no children in Singapore. They’re all grown up. You see, I’m getting glaucoma in both eyes. So I need to take eyedrops–I did it in one eye and after four hours I do it in the other eye and after two weeks it will be okay. My wife and I had cataract operations before and for two years we went to Changi Hospital and the doctors told me, ‘No you don’t have glaucoma’ and so I went to Eagle Eye and in two weeks I had a surgery. Now I can see you perfectly!
I actually go on holiday with my wife two times a year. But you don’t necessarily have a vacation when you go overseas. When you go on tours it’s so tiring–wake up early in the morning, carry your luggage, eat breakfast, travel here and there, climb the mountains…. There are a lot of mountains to climb, especially in China. We go to the more out-of-the-way places, like Guizhou and Wuhan. It’s very tiring to hike up at first but once you get to the top of the mountain you see a waterfall and think it’s worth it. The attraction is at the top.”
My feet had guided me in a somewhat unexpected direction on Friday–towards Clementi, which I’d felt I already knew seeing as I pass by the area every week. Nevertheless, I let my heart guide me to take a deeper look into what I’d felt was a relatively ordinary area. Somehow the things that are closest to you seem to be the most often un-noticed, and I was intrigued by what I found at the Clementi West Street Market and Food Centre when I arrived in the middle of a rainy afternoon. The bustle at the market had been dampened somewhat by the light shower, but the shopkeepers and vendors never seemed to let their pace slacken due to the diminished crowd, continuing to linger by their storefront advertising freshly-squeezed cups of fruit juice or standing vigilantly near the cooked food stalls ready to receive any customer’s order.
After I had ordered a plate of mee goreng and found a seat to tuck in slowly, the pace of life in the food centre seemed to stop and slow down gradually around me. Hawkers rolled down the metal shutters over the fronts of their stalls in preparation for an early rest, and the tables around me were slowly clearing out as visitors finished their food and left. Those who remained were staring into the distance, seeming not to be focusing on or waiting for anything in particular, as the clouds continued to erratically scatter rain over the roads outside. At the moment the whole food centre itself seemed to be reclining and taking a deep sigh, discomfited by the usual lack of activity.
The consternation of the hawkers at not receiving as many customers didn’t seem immediately obvious to me when I met the one of the attendants at the fruit juice stall next to me. She’d finished a hearty conversation with a friend and left her with a few good smacks to the upper arm when she turned to me and chuckled. Both of us then proceeded into a conversation of our own in Mandarin, our words pattering fast like the rain outside, seemingly with the mutual knowledge that both of us wanted some company in the miasma of idleness that felt like it was hovering around us.
“She asked to be hit! She’s the lady doing spectacles over there, you know her? She likes to hit me so I hit her back! We’ve been friends for many years so we hit each other a lot.
When you look for a job, they won’t just look at your grades anymore. They want to see what’s in here,” where she placed her hand over her heart, “and your character. Even the students at NUS lament their degree is no use. I work at NUS sometimes so I hear them say this. So when you’re studying you shouldn’t feel pressured. Study as far as you can and it’s okay. As long as you can pull off your ‘A’ Levels it’s okay. i don’t force my kids. My son is doing Gym at ITE–they have a lot of courses, you know! As long as you have the interest you can do it. But of course when he studies Gym he needs to work out–you can’t have a skin-and-bones gym coach right! Auntie ponteng (Singlish for ‘playing truant’) Primary Three, but now I have a bit of literacy and can speak some English. All of us here can speak some English. You know why? Because we upgrade! We just learn and then we can do it. But today it depends on your skill-set. If you get good grades you can get a higher salary, so it’s good. I have some friends whose kids work and study at the same time. You just need to work five, six hours, enough to pay for your school fees. I have one friend whose daughter works part-time because she doesn’t want to be a burden to her mother.
Right now I have one kid. He’s going to serve NS soon so I’m worried. We girls don’t have to do it, but he needs to. Actually I also have one older girl, 25 this year, but at home it’s just my son. When he goes off to serve NS I’m going to be by myself. Don’t be angry when I tell you this, but since you’re so young the worst thing for you is to pick up vices. When you learn bad habits ‘A’ Levels, ‘O’ Levels, whatever levels will be no use anymore. So whatever you do, don’t pick up bad habits.
You know, Auntie also knows how to cook noodles and make coffee! I make noodles at NUS. No one taught me. I watched people and I learnt how to do it. You do, I watch. The hardest part about coffee is remembering what the customers want. All coffee tastes the same. But if I use a better brand and you use, say, one or two lesser brands then my coffee will taste better, because of the brand. You understand me?
You see that skinny lady, over there by the Western stall? She lives in Ghim Moh. I used to live there too. I pop in and out of NUS. Since my boss is here I just came here. I live just upstairs in the block of flats, so it takes me just around ten minutes to come down here. Late in the afternoon I’ll go upstairs for a rest, and come back down in the evening around six. Our boss will be here then. He’s a young fellow. Both of us are workers. If it weren’t raining I wouldn’t be sitting around talking to you like this. Yesterday we were so busy I thought I would collapse.
The way to be happy is not to go ‘this thing should be like that’, or be calculative over this and that. Don’t be petty and it’ll be okay. Study as far as you can, and don’t feel any pressure.”
As we were rounding up the conversation, a man in a wheelchair rolled by, singing in a baritone voice. I watched as he threaded his way between the tables, singing in Mandarin with a rich baritone voice to the accompaniment of a melody blaring from his portable speakers. As others reached over to place money into his collection box he’d give them broad smiles, shaking their hands and wishing them a Merry Christmas. I managed to catch up with him, and was entitled to a glimpse, behind his jolly exterior, of the narrative that had brought us both to this moment.
“I used to be a vocal coach! 30 years ago I was the champion at singing competitions. They selected the champions from the competitions, and from among the champions I was the overall champion. I have a stage name, but I choose to cover up my name. I coached several artistes–I’m not going to tell you their names–and at one point I had 300 to 400 students, all of different levels. At Kuala Lumpur and Johor as well I was the champion. Now sometimes they call me to take part in singing competitions on the judging panel. Occassionally they invite me to sing as well, but I don’t accept any sponsors or handouts they give me. I usually sing in my wheelchair, but one day I crawled across the stage and the audience gave me lots of ang pow (Chinese red packets). I didn’t do it again.
People throw all sorts of things into my box besides money. I’ve had someone throw in a necklace and Buddha cards. The Buddha cards are still in my box right now. Someone also threw in a Christian cross! I don’t take out and pawn any of them, I just keep them. Someone would also take tissues he’d blown his nose on and throw them in! The man standing outside the clothes shop over there would do that to me every time I passed by. One day when I saw he was about to stuff his tissue paper into my box, I grabbed his hand and chopped down on it with my other hand. I explained it to his older sister. I told her, ‘Your younger brother is bullying me, please tell him not to do this to me anymore.’
I have four children; three girls and one boy. The eldest is working. The second is diao er lang dang (a Chinese proverb referring to someone with a lackadaisical attitude). Spends all his money on gambling. The third is not good at her studies so she works at NTUC. My youngest is studying at SIM. Her school fees are $60,000. So I go out everyday to collect enough money to pay for them. My eldest is very smart. She wanted to quit school and said to me, ‘Pa, don’t go out every day.’ I told her, ‘I need to do this to support your little sister. Her school fees aren’t $6. They’re not $60. They’re $60,000.
Sometimes when I see unfortunate people I give some of my earnings to them. There are the ah mms and the ah bets (generic Singlish terms referring to old women and old men respectively) who will come to the tables with leftover food on them. They will take the plates and scrape all the leftover food into a Tupperware container. Whatever bacteria or diseases there are on the food will go into them. I went up to one of them and told him, ‘Don’t do this, you will get sick. You need to get some proper food.’ He told me, ‘I can bring this home and heat it up for dinner.’ I gave him $10 from my earnings and said, ‘Use this to buy yourself something to eat.’ Sometimes people will give me food, and when I have food that I can’t finish I’ll give it to the uncles and aunties cleaning the tables. I tell them, jiak ah, jiak (‘jiak’ means ‘to eat’ in the Hokkien dialect).
The most important thing for you is to stay safe. There are many bad characters in society. Once when I was on my rounds I met a man who would sit at that table and scream and throw Hokkien vulgarities at me when I was singing. He grabbed the handles of my wheelchair and pushed me so I flew across the floor. My wheelchair went so fast! I went up to him and I told him, ‘Please don’t do this to me. If you want to me to apologise, I will. I won’t come and kacau (a Malay word meaning ‘to disturb’ in Singlish) you anymore. Just don’t do this.’ For a while it was okay. Then I was outside performing and he came over and shouted at me again! A passer-by went up to me and said, ‘You know the guy who just screamed at you? He also insulted my mother.’ There was an old man who grabbed a pair of scissors and was preparing to attack the guy who’d shouted at me! Then there were two young men who chased after him. He ran so fast! After that we never saw him again. Yes, there are all sorts of characters in society.
I guess you could call this being a street artist. But there are others who will say, ‘This is the life of a cripple.’ Since this seems to be God’s destiny for me, I just accept it.”
I reached into my wallet to give him some money to help with his cause. He pushed it away. “Are you working?” he asked. When I replied that I wasn’t, he told me solemnly, ‘Come back once you are. Maybe I’ll still be around here. I have a feeling we will meet again.”
And as I was walking home that day, I couldn’t help but think of how remarkable a father this gentleman was, and how noble a soul he had.