Getting away from home, from school
From the familiarity of everyday routines;
To be transported to a distant place where
Nothing else stands between you and
That elusive sense of inner calm.
Not with all that banality Life entails;
Not with the angst, the pain, the frustration -
Even capricious joy and transient relief.
Not with the engulfing din that refuses to cease,
Assaulting you no matter when and where.
You shut your eyes only to see the images.
The pillow over your head proves no match
Against the infilitrating noise that
Finds its way through insidiously -
Just as poisonous fumes would diffuse
So effortlessly, till every space is territorised,
Leaving you out of breath.
Solitude is no loneliness.
It is the quiet absence of troubles and din,
Its company well-loved and soothing.
When a crushing sense of helplessness descends,
You start to feel like a child all over again.
And so it's time to get away,
To take a breather and to find content.
Monday, August 22, 2005
Saturday, August 20, 2005
Portraits I
1. I was on the bus when my wandering eyes spotted someone who looked almost certainly like her. She was leaning against a pillar outside Macdonald's and talking on the mobile phone. Even for the brief moment that i saw her from the bus (which was moving along still), that unmistakable languorous and insouciant air emanating from her gave me an immediate sense of certainty that i did not spot the wrong person. (I later got off the bus and approached her, and indeed i had not spotted wrongly.) At that position where she she was standing, she moved languorously on the same spot, talking into the phone and seemingly oblivious of the rush hour traffic both on the road and around the area where she stood. Amongst the friends that i know, not any of them exudes that nonchalant, almost unbothered mannerisms that i have come to associate with her. When she speaks, however, she is forthright with her opinions and her speech projects a vivacious tone. I am not sure if this aspect is contrasting or compatible with the idly-like quality i find in her movements.
2. He is one of the many people who patronizes the library, a place where during school semester i have no choice but to constantly seek its services. With plain but ordinary looks, he is not someone who would catch your attention if you spot him from afar. Yet there's something about him that makes me want to steal a quick glance at him without him being aware of - because it is with unkind intentions that i have found him worthy of another glance. He has short but abundant hair that is not combed in any parting, and neither is it styled - this is no fault of course. He also spots a mole on his face, though i can't reall now which part of his face it is on. This is no fault either.
Alas, it is the humongous pair of black-rimmed spectacles coupled with the two aforementioned features that make him such a comical and conspicuous sight. The huge spectacles are by no means a fashion statement - they aren't the kind that fashion-conscious people nowadays wear to give themselves a retro look. Instead, i suspect it is a pair that can well be considered an antique, for it is big and squarish on either side of the rim that hold the two lenses, and i dare say it covers half of his entire face - which, if you imagine, is a rather amazing sight. In particular, it is the square-shaped appearance of the spectacles that renders its mammoth size. You wish someone you know were with you so that you could point him to the comical sight. Then something bothers you a little: why does this guy look so familiar? Then you realise why: with his ultra-gigantic square-rimmed spectacles, he is the regular guy whom you always see in the Hong Kong-made movies of the 60s and 70s, like those starring the Hui brothers (Sam, Michael and Ricky).
He notices that you have been looking at his direction for some time and seem to be carrying a look of stifled laughter. As it dawns on you that you could have been looking at him for too long a time to be deemed polite, you quickly turn your gaze elsewhere, not without having secretly relished the sight of a decidedly comical look.
3. It is hard to focus on his lecture and one finds himself distracted and getting bored all too easily. It may not be an exaggeration to say that it takes an effort of will to follow what he says and not lose attention. For others who are taking this course not out of some genuine interest, it is difficult to imagine that they will ever find themselves inspired about the subject, which is all too academic in nature. I try to find an appropriate analogy to describe the lecturer's conduct - which is proof that i am distracted - and my friend concurred with my choice, albeit in a somewhat patronizing way.
'He (who is around 50 years old) speaks like a moving train which stops or slows down every few seconds, all the time while the train journey continues.' You don't get a respite because you are a passenger in the train; you may choose to be unattentive but there's no shutting out the lecturer's halting speech. It is as if he is trying to find the right word to complete his thoughts all the time. Despite his way of speaking, people around me do not seem very affected though, the reason perhaps being that he is teaching seriously - and, really, what other choices do they have? Sometimes, though, the jokes - if you consider them funny - he makes helps to relieve the boredom a little, though this happens sporadically. For example, urging students to familiarise themselves with the university's schedule, which is different before and after the semester break (before the break, the week starts on Monday, which is normal. Then the mid-semester break commences on Sunday and ends on the following Thursday. After which, each academic week begins on Friday till the following week's Thursday), he declares in no uncertain terms: 'This system is designed to confuse all of us.'
One wishes he would give more of such surprising comments in future so that the train journey would be more bearable.
We were all kids before
When you have relatives who live all over Singapore as well as across the causeway, sometimes it may take some years before you get acquainted with new additions to the extended family - or clan, if you like. Meanwhile, those whom you last met - and even then for only a brief moment - are growing up a little too quickly, and when you next see them, you realise to your horror they have morphed into something else you can't quite recognise. All would have grown taller, no doubt; but while some seem to have been underfed, there are those who would do well if they could give more of what they eat to their skinner siblings or cousins.
Altogether there are about seven to eight of them, an irrepressible bunch of kids. The youngest is around 3 or 4 years old while the oldest ought to be no older than 13 years of age. These little nephews and nieces are strangers to me, much like my family and I are to them. Unlike the rest of the kids who eagerly surround my brother and watch him play his computer games, the youngest boy is surprisingly unaffected by peer influence and the gripping source of attraction that has held the rest spell-bound. He's got a pair of sympathetic but somewhat melancholy eyes, and wears a dazed look that matches his habit of walking around absently - which is why he and not the others caught my attention.
Content to settle in his own little imaginary world - a world in which every one of us creates and immerses ourselves in when we were a kid - his quietness and seeming indifference to people and things around him set him apart from the rest. When i caught him uttering to himself at a little corner of the house, I lowered myself to his midget height and asked softly what his name is, careful not to speak unduly loudly for fear of frightening him to tears. Eyeing me with his charming but forlorn pair of small eyes, and looking placidly calm, he says gently, almost whispering, 'Derrick'. I smiled and he walked away indifferently, returning to his own little cloistered world, as if there had not just been an interruption. I knew only too well that this intruder was nothing and could not ruffle his placidness, for he certainly does not occupy a place in the privileged imaginary world of his.
It does not matter that most kids - like my nephews and nieces - behave shyly when they first arrive at the unfamiliar home of some very distant relative whom their parents have come to visit. Because, they being kids, all sense of unfamiliarity and uneasiness unfailingly disappears when the likes of computer games, toys and sweets are in plenty abundance to occupy their attention. (Kids can behave annoyingly, but there are many charms one can employ to turn them into obedient children.) Many a time though, some of these kids inevitably find themselves suffering the almost customary Auntie assault that all kids somehow would have gone through before: enduring the uncomfortable embrace of a loud-talking Auntie whom they have little affection for. Usually, their parents are either quiet accomplices or guilty partners-in-assault; using a combination of coaxing and threats - the latter more when their child displays stubborn resistance - they make sure their kid obliges the whimsical demands of the relative, who is probably someone of higher seniority, such as an aunt.
Typical profile of the Aunt: A little on the bulky side, with a crop of hair that has visibly been dyed many times over and again; gesticulates incessantly, talks and laughs a few decibels higher than normal, and makes small talk through sometimes unfunny or embrrassing recollections; but most important, displays an almost compulsive urge to grab or cuddle whichever hapless kid she fancies - though usually it's the youngest one (even toddlers are not spared).
Now, the hapless kid who finds himself in the doting embrace of his parents' aunt unfortunately doesn't share the same enthusiasm: he struggles to free himself of the persistent clutches of said Aunt, and with whatever puny strength of his, desperately fends off strong arms and hands that are all over his body, particularly on his cheeks. Meanwhile, he hears his unsympathetic parents authoritatively beseeching him to say some incomprehensible language to address the almost comical Auntie. As soon as he regains his freedom, he learns his lesson and steers clear of the vision and path of the Auntie. But before that, the Auntie-assualt is not over until that devastating, mouthful kiss is firmly planted on his face, to which he either rubs away instantly or seizes the opportunity to break free.
I look at kids and always find myself feeling a sense of joy and quiet happiness. Not only do they remind me of some experiences I've had when I was young, but their sheer presence and actions satisfy my selfish need for amusement as well. A perfect picture of guileless innocence and human charm, they represent the part of life which ironically is appreciated only when it becomes eternally eluded from us. Kids have a lot of fun at their age, unaware of adult problems and troubles in this world, but the fun and enjoyable times that they had is only fully realised when they have grown up - by which time they would already be too old to appreciate and relive the joy that is only bestowed on kids alone.
Perhaps, this is why kids are always so well-loved - not just merely because they are lovable little creatures, but that they are our connection with an innate part of our lives which would later become relegated to the vaguest of our life experiences, memories of which are triggered only when in contact with kids.
Altogether there are about seven to eight of them, an irrepressible bunch of kids. The youngest is around 3 or 4 years old while the oldest ought to be no older than 13 years of age. These little nephews and nieces are strangers to me, much like my family and I are to them. Unlike the rest of the kids who eagerly surround my brother and watch him play his computer games, the youngest boy is surprisingly unaffected by peer influence and the gripping source of attraction that has held the rest spell-bound. He's got a pair of sympathetic but somewhat melancholy eyes, and wears a dazed look that matches his habit of walking around absently - which is why he and not the others caught my attention.
Content to settle in his own little imaginary world - a world in which every one of us creates and immerses ourselves in when we were a kid - his quietness and seeming indifference to people and things around him set him apart from the rest. When i caught him uttering to himself at a little corner of the house, I lowered myself to his midget height and asked softly what his name is, careful not to speak unduly loudly for fear of frightening him to tears. Eyeing me with his charming but forlorn pair of small eyes, and looking placidly calm, he says gently, almost whispering, 'Derrick'. I smiled and he walked away indifferently, returning to his own little cloistered world, as if there had not just been an interruption. I knew only too well that this intruder was nothing and could not ruffle his placidness, for he certainly does not occupy a place in the privileged imaginary world of his.
It does not matter that most kids - like my nephews and nieces - behave shyly when they first arrive at the unfamiliar home of some very distant relative whom their parents have come to visit. Because, they being kids, all sense of unfamiliarity and uneasiness unfailingly disappears when the likes of computer games, toys and sweets are in plenty abundance to occupy their attention. (Kids can behave annoyingly, but there are many charms one can employ to turn them into obedient children.) Many a time though, some of these kids inevitably find themselves suffering the almost customary Auntie assault that all kids somehow would have gone through before: enduring the uncomfortable embrace of a loud-talking Auntie whom they have little affection for. Usually, their parents are either quiet accomplices or guilty partners-in-assault; using a combination of coaxing and threats - the latter more when their child displays stubborn resistance - they make sure their kid obliges the whimsical demands of the relative, who is probably someone of higher seniority, such as an aunt.
Typical profile of the Aunt: A little on the bulky side, with a crop of hair that has visibly been dyed many times over and again; gesticulates incessantly, talks and laughs a few decibels higher than normal, and makes small talk through sometimes unfunny or embrrassing recollections; but most important, displays an almost compulsive urge to grab or cuddle whichever hapless kid she fancies - though usually it's the youngest one (even toddlers are not spared).
Now, the hapless kid who finds himself in the doting embrace of his parents' aunt unfortunately doesn't share the same enthusiasm: he struggles to free himself of the persistent clutches of said Aunt, and with whatever puny strength of his, desperately fends off strong arms and hands that are all over his body, particularly on his cheeks. Meanwhile, he hears his unsympathetic parents authoritatively beseeching him to say some incomprehensible language to address the almost comical Auntie. As soon as he regains his freedom, he learns his lesson and steers clear of the vision and path of the Auntie. But before that, the Auntie-assualt is not over until that devastating, mouthful kiss is firmly planted on his face, to which he either rubs away instantly or seizes the opportunity to break free.
I look at kids and always find myself feeling a sense of joy and quiet happiness. Not only do they remind me of some experiences I've had when I was young, but their sheer presence and actions satisfy my selfish need for amusement as well. A perfect picture of guileless innocence and human charm, they represent the part of life which ironically is appreciated only when it becomes eternally eluded from us. Kids have a lot of fun at their age, unaware of adult problems and troubles in this world, but the fun and enjoyable times that they had is only fully realised when they have grown up - by which time they would already be too old to appreciate and relive the joy that is only bestowed on kids alone.
Perhaps, this is why kids are always so well-loved - not just merely because they are lovable little creatures, but that they are our connection with an innate part of our lives which would later become relegated to the vaguest of our life experiences, memories of which are triggered only when in contact with kids.
Monday, August 08, 2005
Of Episodes and Coincidences
In Aristotle's Poetics, the episode is an important concept.
Aristotle did not like episodes. According to him, an episode, from the point of
view of poetry, is the worst possible type of event. It is not an unavoidable
consequence of preceding action, nor the cause of what is to follow; it is
outside the casual chain of events which is the story. It is merely a sterile
accident which can be left out without making the story lose its intelligible
continuity, and is incapable of making a permanent mark upon the life of the
characters.
...But it is precisely here that we realise the relativity of the concept
of the episode, a relativity Aristotle did not think through: for nobody can
guarantee that some totally episodic event may not contain within itself a power
that some day could unexpectedly turn it into a cause of further events.
...We can thus complete Aristotle's definition of the episode and state: no
episode is a priori condemned to remain an episode for ever, for
every event, no matter how trivial, conceals within itself the possibility of
sooner or later changing into a story or an adventure. Episodes are like
landmines. The majority of them never explode, but the most unremarkable of them
may some day turn into a story that will prove fatal to you.
---Milan Kundera, Immorality, p. 338-339
I know i sound very unrealistic but it is precisely such ideas and possibilities about events, fate and coincidences that always have me thinking a little more about life's enigmas, about how Life can be regarded upon. I do concede there's that element of romanticising in thinking about all this, though i wonder if there's not an element of truth in all this as well. Things happen, but sometimes they do not just happen but are instead triggered by some earlier events. There are words and concepts like coincidences, miracles and episodes that we humans use to capture and give meaning to various occurence-types in life. Sometimes i wonder if too much significance is given to them, because they could be just mere creations that humans use to express what happen in our lives. Yet sometimes i also wonder if it's the other way round - that such occurrences in life conform to and represent the same concepts which we have devised to explain them; that a chance meeting is precisely a chance meeting, and coincidences, however frequent and ordinary they are, are nonetheless coincidences still.
The other day i was struck by the idea that a particular characteristic of Life could be accounted for by this: that outside the linear progression of your private life, of growing up through different ages and stages, one important aspect is comprised of and given meaning by gatherings, meet-ups and so on. Imagine how in your calender and schedule there are countless number of social and/or family gatherings occupying your space and time. Consider how you came to know a group of friends, or a certain friend, through some particular institution or certain stage in your life (it could be JC, university, your first job, your seventh job, your church, your piano lesson etc). There comes a time when you would inevitably see them less often. And here comes the time when it seems almost necessary to arrange for regular or annual gatherings. In this manner, haven't such gatherings and meetings become woven into the beat of your life? If besides work and eat and sleep and sex that form the basic necessities in a man's life, aren't human interactions and gatherings just an indispensable part, unless you live a devotedly solitary life?
Therefore, in between the routines wherein you go about your life everyday, deliberate time has been set aside for meeting with different groups of friends and people. Almost unknowningly, these gatherings have come to occupy and define a part of your life that otherwise moves on ceaselessly without you taking time to ponder over their significance.
Two secondary school friends of mine, whom i have stayed in contact with, unexpectedly met our then-Literature teacher in a cafe. One of them called me up and passed the phone to my teacher, who had me guessing who she is. It was a really pleasant surprise, for i had lost touch with this teacher whom i enjoyed talking to a lot since a few years back. The next thing, my friend promised that a meet-up would be arranged, for the teacher will be leaving Singapore soon.
Is that just something innocuous and unlikely yet not to be surprised at? Or is this what would be called a coincidence (or fortuity), which seems likely to be producing certain consequences that are entirely attributable to that chance meeting, of which i wasn't even involved?
Reading the particular chapter from Milan Kundera's novel, his words struck a chord in me.
Enid Blyton or Roald Dahl
I suspect many of my peers must have been an Enid Blyton fan when they were young, probably in their primary school days. Either that, or they could have been reading Famous Five novels or Nancy Drew. (I hope i didn't get the names wrong, for they all seem so yesteryear.) I do remember reading one or two Enid Blyton books myeslf - there were many, many titles - but i was never enamoured of them. These days, besides that immensely popular Harry Potter series, i wonder what books our young are now reading.
I do have a favourite children's author though, and to this very day i still relish reading his books, which are absolutely delightful. I wanted to write something about this because of two reasons. First, i had bought a book by the said author during the holidays - and no, it's not one of his children books but his collection of Unexpected stories (hint!). Secondly - now this is a giveaway - the cinema is showing a film by the same title of one of his books: Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Incidentally, i just read that the film was given a good rating by Ong Sor Fern, the film critic with the Straits Times.
He is Roald Dahl of course. Right in the back of my precious little bookshelf is a series of his books that i had begged my mum to buy them for me when i was still very young. They are a treasure and i wouldn't for anything give them up. Although many of the plots of the stories have somewhat faded in my memory, there's no doubt that reading them had once given me infinite joy. Titles like The Witches, James and the Giant Peach, The BFG, Matilda, The Magic Finger and - yes - Charlie and the Chocolate Factory are true gems which simply nourish the imaginative powers of any child and adult alike. And that's because Roald Dahl writes with amazing wit and charm. He is able to write about characters that readers like me would find sympathy in and rally behind, and these characters are juxtaposed with delightfully caricatured nasty guys whom we all know too well and detest (because such characters are all around us). In short, as many novelists and critics have pointed out, Roald Dahl is that famous, superb master storyteller - that 'absoulte master of the twist in the tale'.
His adult short stories are equally fascinating, and every one of which indeed has an ironic, almost sardonic twist that accompanies the development of the story. For someone who is able to inject ironies into his stories with such seeming ease, i reckon he had lived an enriching life, where his keeness of mind and penetrating eyes had observed the many ironies that are replete in our lives. Yet it takes someone who has a certain wit and gift for writing to be able to produce those engaging stories.
My teacher used to read my class wonderful stories, using those gigantic books that are held on her laps to aid her story-telling. But when it comes to Roald Dahl's books, which were thicker and not available in those massive book sizes, she would simply sit us around her and read out the story to us as would a master storyteller. The class would listen intently, and sometimes, there would be illustrations in the books which my teacher would stretch her hands out and show to us. That's when little brats like us start to get excited and incorporate those pictures into our own mental pictures so as to visualise what and how the story would play out in real life. I still remember that Quentin Blake did the illustrations for many of Roald Dahl's novels. The pictures resemble the caricatured characters and they are somehow long and malleable-like. Most important, Quentin Blake's illustrations and Roald Dahl's vivid and ironic descriptions make a formidable pair. In any case, this was how i fell in love with Roald Dahl's books.
I wish i had time to revisit his books all over again. I tried in the holidays but ultimately, other necessary books and readings, plus many excuses and procrastination, had meant that i couldn't finish reading. I've started reading Tales of The Unexpected although i'm far from finishing. But it's all right. These are short stories which i intend to read every now and then - they are not like novels and my academic readings that need longer time and consistency to finish. Only thing is i have too many of both leisure reading and academic reading materials!
I do have a favourite children's author though, and to this very day i still relish reading his books, which are absolutely delightful. I wanted to write something about this because of two reasons. First, i had bought a book by the said author during the holidays - and no, it's not one of his children books but his collection of Unexpected stories (hint!). Secondly - now this is a giveaway - the cinema is showing a film by the same title of one of his books: Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Incidentally, i just read that the film was given a good rating by Ong Sor Fern, the film critic with the Straits Times.
He is Roald Dahl of course. Right in the back of my precious little bookshelf is a series of his books that i had begged my mum to buy them for me when i was still very young. They are a treasure and i wouldn't for anything give them up. Although many of the plots of the stories have somewhat faded in my memory, there's no doubt that reading them had once given me infinite joy. Titles like The Witches, James and the Giant Peach, The BFG, Matilda, The Magic Finger and - yes - Charlie and the Chocolate Factory are true gems which simply nourish the imaginative powers of any child and adult alike. And that's because Roald Dahl writes with amazing wit and charm. He is able to write about characters that readers like me would find sympathy in and rally behind, and these characters are juxtaposed with delightfully caricatured nasty guys whom we all know too well and detest (because such characters are all around us). In short, as many novelists and critics have pointed out, Roald Dahl is that famous, superb master storyteller - that 'absoulte master of the twist in the tale'.
His adult short stories are equally fascinating, and every one of which indeed has an ironic, almost sardonic twist that accompanies the development of the story. For someone who is able to inject ironies into his stories with such seeming ease, i reckon he had lived an enriching life, where his keeness of mind and penetrating eyes had observed the many ironies that are replete in our lives. Yet it takes someone who has a certain wit and gift for writing to be able to produce those engaging stories.
My teacher used to read my class wonderful stories, using those gigantic books that are held on her laps to aid her story-telling. But when it comes to Roald Dahl's books, which were thicker and not available in those massive book sizes, she would simply sit us around her and read out the story to us as would a master storyteller. The class would listen intently, and sometimes, there would be illustrations in the books which my teacher would stretch her hands out and show to us. That's when little brats like us start to get excited and incorporate those pictures into our own mental pictures so as to visualise what and how the story would play out in real life. I still remember that Quentin Blake did the illustrations for many of Roald Dahl's novels. The pictures resemble the caricatured characters and they are somehow long and malleable-like. Most important, Quentin Blake's illustrations and Roald Dahl's vivid and ironic descriptions make a formidable pair. In any case, this was how i fell in love with Roald Dahl's books.
I wish i had time to revisit his books all over again. I tried in the holidays but ultimately, other necessary books and readings, plus many excuses and procrastination, had meant that i couldn't finish reading. I've started reading Tales of The Unexpected although i'm far from finishing. But it's all right. These are short stories which i intend to read every now and then - they are not like novels and my academic readings that need longer time and consistency to finish. Only thing is i have too many of both leisure reading and academic reading materials!
Thursday, August 04, 2005
That time of the year again
The surest sign that the Chinese 7th month Hungry Ghost Festival has arrived is not the chilly wind that brushes your face and arms while you hurry home in the quiet of the night: It's when you visit the hawker centre and see tables set up along the side-walkways, with elaborate set-ups consisting of a potpourri of altars and ash-filled urns cluttering the table. Before you even set foot on the hawker centre, the scent of burning incense would have already been detected from afar. And, depending whether you grew up in a family or in an environment where practices such as burning of incense and making offerings to Chinese deties or ancestors are a familiar sight, you may either walk on with ease, feeling not the slightest discomfiture, or you may hurry your footsteps while trying hard to bear with the noxious smell.
The first day of the festival starts only tomorrow, yet the atmosphere of the hawker centre has already discernibly transformed: there's a certain subdued liveliness, and a certain air of quiet calm seems to have descended on this mortal marketplace. Or perhaps this could be attributed to the thinning afternoon crowd - a common scene in our hawker centres - which has clearly caused your attention to rest firmly on the preparations by the hawkers for the first day of the 7th month. There are people busy setting up the tables that would hold the altars, urns and a constant supply of offerings (consisting of both cooked food and fruits) for the entire month. Others, including passerbys, respectfully take their turns to light up joss sticks offered to spirits or as prayers for Chinese deties - but you aren't really sure about that, and neither are you very bothered by your ignorance. Although a Chinese yourself, you look upon such practices and beliefs as mere traditions that have endured and been passed down for generations.
Instead, other trivia piqued your curiosity. You recall that on those tables that would be around for the entire month, who provides and replenishes the joss sticks and food that never run out? Can anyone just pick up the joss sticks, light them, say a prayer and stick them into the urn? Who takes charge of emptying the urns? What happens to the food that are being offered on the tables? It's just amazing that the Chinese are simply able to put aside many differences and commit themselves to the tasks necessitated by the occasion. Save for the Muslim stall holders, almost every store owner who is a Chinese would dutifully join the rituals. Especially because they are businessmen, ensuring that incense and food are offered - as appeasement? - is something that needs to be carried out piously.
On your way back home, you walk past a shop that on most days would not even have caught your attention. Its small store space and unattractive goods make it a perfectly inconspicuous shop in the area. But this time, you bothered to take a closer look, and you realised the shop has risen up in importance during this period. Cartons of goods stacked haphazardly outside it informs you that its goods are in high demand and sales, most probably brisk. Then you realise why: this is one of the few surviving shops around that sells the items the Chinese use for making offerings during important occasions; incense, red candles, paper money and various other items could all be found here. Again, you can't help but wonder just how does the shop owner survive in this trade. Sure, there aren't many such shops around and competition therefore isn't cut-throat. But these items are not like foodstuff and other daily necessities which people buy frequently. One can only guess that the shop owner possibly still makes enough to get by. And now is the period to make a lot of sales to compensate for quieter times.
Night has come and almost instantly, everywhere in the neighbourhood there would be some pious individual - some, families - burning incense and paper money. It's an all too familiar sight for someone who lives in public housing estates. At the fringe of the grasspatch that meets the concrete drains, candles and joss sticks alike sprout up all over. The flame flickers in the wind, which carries and fills the air with the waft of the burning incense. The surroundings are shrouded in a mild haze and the smell of burning joss sticks permeates the air, giving some an uneasy feeling.
But for you, everything's just normal. Such are the things you've grown accustomed to living in a Chinese-dominated society and in the HDB heartland. After all, you've even engaged in these practices when you were younger, believing and fearing many of the things that your elders told you in hushed voices. However, as for now, other matters preoccupy your mind: the cleaners are going to have a hard time the following day clearing up the ashes and left-overs of the incense and candles.
The first day of the festival starts only tomorrow, yet the atmosphere of the hawker centre has already discernibly transformed: there's a certain subdued liveliness, and a certain air of quiet calm seems to have descended on this mortal marketplace. Or perhaps this could be attributed to the thinning afternoon crowd - a common scene in our hawker centres - which has clearly caused your attention to rest firmly on the preparations by the hawkers for the first day of the 7th month. There are people busy setting up the tables that would hold the altars, urns and a constant supply of offerings (consisting of both cooked food and fruits) for the entire month. Others, including passerbys, respectfully take their turns to light up joss sticks offered to spirits or as prayers for Chinese deties - but you aren't really sure about that, and neither are you very bothered by your ignorance. Although a Chinese yourself, you look upon such practices and beliefs as mere traditions that have endured and been passed down for generations.
Instead, other trivia piqued your curiosity. You recall that on those tables that would be around for the entire month, who provides and replenishes the joss sticks and food that never run out? Can anyone just pick up the joss sticks, light them, say a prayer and stick them into the urn? Who takes charge of emptying the urns? What happens to the food that are being offered on the tables? It's just amazing that the Chinese are simply able to put aside many differences and commit themselves to the tasks necessitated by the occasion. Save for the Muslim stall holders, almost every store owner who is a Chinese would dutifully join the rituals. Especially because they are businessmen, ensuring that incense and food are offered - as appeasement? - is something that needs to be carried out piously.
On your way back home, you walk past a shop that on most days would not even have caught your attention. Its small store space and unattractive goods make it a perfectly inconspicuous shop in the area. But this time, you bothered to take a closer look, and you realised the shop has risen up in importance during this period. Cartons of goods stacked haphazardly outside it informs you that its goods are in high demand and sales, most probably brisk. Then you realise why: this is one of the few surviving shops around that sells the items the Chinese use for making offerings during important occasions; incense, red candles, paper money and various other items could all be found here. Again, you can't help but wonder just how does the shop owner survive in this trade. Sure, there aren't many such shops around and competition therefore isn't cut-throat. But these items are not like foodstuff and other daily necessities which people buy frequently. One can only guess that the shop owner possibly still makes enough to get by. And now is the period to make a lot of sales to compensate for quieter times.
Night has come and almost instantly, everywhere in the neighbourhood there would be some pious individual - some, families - burning incense and paper money. It's an all too familiar sight for someone who lives in public housing estates. At the fringe of the grasspatch that meets the concrete drains, candles and joss sticks alike sprout up all over. The flame flickers in the wind, which carries and fills the air with the waft of the burning incense. The surroundings are shrouded in a mild haze and the smell of burning joss sticks permeates the air, giving some an uneasy feeling.
But for you, everything's just normal. Such are the things you've grown accustomed to living in a Chinese-dominated society and in the HDB heartland. After all, you've even engaged in these practices when you were younger, believing and fearing many of the things that your elders told you in hushed voices. However, as for now, other matters preoccupy your mind: the cleaners are going to have a hard time the following day clearing up the ashes and left-overs of the incense and candles.
I bemoan the demise of yet another blog. Although this blog RARELY saw new life
breathed into it - which the owner is only too well aware of - its termination
means there would be no chances of reading from someone who displays wit and
unfailing humour in his writing. =(
I left this message on my friend's blog after learning of his decision to stop blogging. Actually, the message is ironic, even superfluous - for his announcement doesn't change anything, as he hitherto posts a message on his blog approximately the number of times local opposition parties win electoral seats: few and far between. Hence, the content of his latest post makes little difference, really.
Yet I can't help but lament his decision, because on the few occasions that he blogs, i invariably relish reading his witty remarks and hilarious observations. Before, there were the regular and not so regular emails that provided opportunity to hear from him. A pity he wasn't an enthusiastic writer, and coupled with other factors, the emails soon petered out. Which is why his termination of his blog, however infrequently updated it is, can mean only bad news. Add to this the fact that he speaks as little when we meet up as i do when i visit my grandmother (who speaks only hokkien) - gosh, i am so not going to hear from him either in person or through writing in future!!
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