Nanyang Technological University

Of Cityscapes and
Dreams
Victoria Chang, HSS English Year 3, U0930463A

For Professor Jennifer Megan Crawford

4/8/2012
 1

The Place Where Time Stopped

There is a place where time stops.

Here stands an old, old part of the country.

Women who walked through forests in flowery two-pieces were beautiful to the men under the
dim light and shadows.

When the sailors approached the land, they realised it was a twisted, slumbering dragon. Trees
had cunningly grown all over it.

A black lake lies in the dark green of the forest. It holds exciting promises of giant snakes and
crocodiles.

Every now and then, their babies sneak out into the city canals to scare unsuspecting pedestrians.

Once, a fisherman caught a black dragon there which granted him a fatal wish.

When I lie next to it, I see red green shooting stars.

A two-storey house of colonial imagination sits alone at the top of a hill. It is red-bricked and
friendly with clean glass windows and a huge front door.

The staircase inside is carpeted.

All the day long, one hears soft thumps from the clothed steps.

There is a garden at the back of the house. It is guarded by a wooden fence and a kissing gate.

A red marble path leads to the gate. On rainy days, water would gather – floating and flowing
through the path like a red raging river.

A little koi pond resides there, surrounded by craggy rocks and miniature ivory pagodas.

A child sits on a wooden bench with half-tied shoelaces, waiting for the rain to stop beating on
the roof while the water distorts the slumbering koi.
 2

There is a place where time stops.

Signs and emblems of the city have been creeping in, slowly, but steadily.

Paths are no longer made of dust and sand but of firm concrete, giving you the illusion that the
world is a grounded one with clear paths to take you to where you wish to go.

The old buses without air-conditioning make their way onto sandy tracks. They are still fast
enough for the wind to rush into the faces of those trying to take a peek out of the windows.

Once, the whole country was a land of hillocks and valleys but land reclamation projects have
steadily flattened it into a wide expanse of green – now taken over by dazzling skyscrapers.

A little green still exists here and there, in margins of trees and flowery shrubs.

On festive days, we pose next to lit trees.


Jurong
(Note: I have previously submitted this for poetry class last semester so it need not be graded as
such – I just saw this piece as an integral part of the collection)
The city is a mystery to me. Grey blocks
catching colour as they touch the skies. A
hibiscus here, an orchid there – chased by two-
dimensional swallows and a cartoon Cupid.
When Sang Nila Utama landed on our little
island, little did he know it would be fair-ed,
square-ed, in despair – the rearrangement of
concrete slabs with no memories to
turn to. Scene after scene is gone,
What pillars, what trees, when all is lost –
On certain nights, when I take the lift from the
top floor down, when for once – I choose to look
far ahead from the top, I see in the misty night
sky, a picture blurred by smoke, bright faint
lights ahead brimming with hope – unbearable
hope – of murky dark green fields of torch lit
inexplicable torch lit fires in front of wood
houses of poky brown leaves – though it is really
the lights of incinerators and factories I see.
We used to have a countryside.
Jurong was the countryside. It was nothing but
swamps, roots sticking deep into the mud, deep
ones that screech in restless pain into the night,
back in the 60s when the lake at the Chinese
Garden was crocodile-infested and the snakes
3
rested deep in the roots and turned into fair
green white maidens in the night to dance with
the Pagodas.
Some swear the crocs still live down there.
Canoe at your own risk.
It was where Mother was born, with the pigs and
the rabbits and the smell of corn. Where Chinese
gave Malays a pound of sugar during Hari Raya
(“because Malays like sweet things!” says Ah
Kim with a beam) and children chewed on sticks
of Sugar Cane for 10 cents and saved up for
sticks of butter for 50 cents. Butter was gold
then! And it was what Mother saved up for
whenever she wanted an ang-moh treat. Now at
the age of 50, Mother is proud to say, “Yes I am
able to give my girl all the butter she wants and
she can even have it on German muesli bread,
fresh from Chinatown. Or I put it all in an
upsidedown pineapple cake. Sugarcane juice is
now squeeeezed for you everywhere. 1990 1
Dollar. 2000 1.20. 2011 1.50. Churned the
strong yellow pulp disintegrates into sweet
frothy green with a tinge of leafiness. “Girl ah,
you don’t know how lucky you are!”
 1

The city is everywhere. But there is

still something ‘country’ about Jurong – how the
NTU students nickname the campus “Pulau
NTU” where you can find durians and the
occasional wild hog rooting about behind the
Hall 13, how the young people in Jurong
complained about the far-ness of town (Orchard
40+ minutes away!) and if you look hard
enough, you see the old tutu kueh store
(coconut? peanut? in sweet rice flour) tucked
away at the Jurong West wet market and the old
fishball uncle making his own fishballs,
bouncing them up and down to see if they are
‘q’ ‘q’.

It is where students focus on their studies on the

buses, so engrossed that they miss the cliché of
the tropical rain of dusky mornings, where
bright sparkling sheets of water drip down the
bus windows, fragmenting what-used-to-be-
forests where the wild hogs mated in the cool
shade from the rain – from the tigers which were
mistaken for lions – such fierce graceful wild
beauty but now all is tame, a university in place
–
where Mother pushes Ah Girl to go to learn how
to write, taking the sleep-inducing, trance-like
journey of the train from Lorong Chuan to Boon
Lay MRT that plagues the trendy dieters with its
greasy smells of you tiao tao huay nasi lemak
curry-o and the bus 179 (which doesn’t allow
food anyway) where readings are done in
artificially cold crammed unfriendly dark blue
spaces until finally, I look up from Baudelaire,
Woolf, Pessoa, seeing the cliché of the pattering
rain and go –

Ah it’s a beautiful day to write.

Incident at Tom’s Palette

It was an evening like any other one in the city. Of starless skies, a cool breeze wafting

now and then along the pavement...

Not that anyone really cared since all were under the bright electric lights in the constant

climate of the mall. And it is here, tucked away at the corner opposite the Thai restaurant,

right next to the yakitori stand, at the fantastic-yet-oh-so-cheap pasta place where we first

meet Petrina, Melanie and Katherine scavenging on the last remnants of their vongole which

was all too soon woefully and nearly done with.

“Ah boys ah why are they like this ah, leaving us hanging…”

“Pet you cannot let him treat you this way…”

“What does he mean by writing all the lovey-dovey stuff on your notes…”

“…Savage Garden…Cheesy max haha!!”

“I know, it was during that time in Greece only lah. In Turkey I was so sad I just couldn’t

eat though…”

It was under the Greek sun in Mykonos and the Turkish moonlit skies of Istanbul that,

charmed by lands so far from the city, with their endless relics and blue blue seas, the

harangued boy in question had romanced Pet with heart-shaped seashells and glass beads in

spite of the girlfriend factor (“horrifying!” Mel exclaimed with a clam in her mouth) back

home in the city, thus leaving poor Pet confused at his offer to take the same classes over the

new semester.
 Secretly, Mel and Kat were envious of Pet. After all, some love is better than no love and

it is only through the pains of love that one knows the joys of love.

“Forget it, let’s just go get ice-cream at Tom’s Palette. They have such awesome

flavours.”

Fantastic would have been a better word for the flavours of Tom’s Palette. At least, it

would be fantastic to those not of the city – for where else would you get Horlicks and salted

egg alongside seasalt caramel and strawberry cheesecake? “I will prove to you that I can

make this place a success and I will name it after you, so that you will always remember its

success!” the owner had infamously said to his good friend, Tom, before setting the place up.

Now ‘Tom’s Palette’ is one of those spaces in the city where the energies of youth gathered

in the forms of polaroids, scribbled post-its and scrawled napkins which had slowly gathered

onto an expanding notice board across the wall and under the glass table tops where people

‘chilled’ for hours over ice-cream.

Tom was on duty that night. The owner had a family commitment to attend to. As he

stared at the happy patrons enjoying salt and oil in sweet cream, he found himself struggling,

just a little, to feel some measure of happiness for his friend. Entrepreneurship is a dangerous,

dangerous business. Such a damnably small mall to have a shop in, he thought. How is he

going to break even every month? Where would he even find the time to study? Jack of all

trades, master of none, he decided. He was just turning his gaze towards the endless,

abundantly filled containers of ice-cream when he heard the sounds of quick steps and

squeals of joy. Before he knew it, Pet, Mel and Kat had descended upon him like the fates

and were looking at ice-cream with him.

“Can I have a sample please…”

 “This salted egg yolk ice-cream is the best! Daebak!”

“Eh what did I tell you about this place eh!”

For about ten seconds the Tom was captivated by the three girls before him. There was a

beauty in the way they moved – a collar bone shifting ever so slightly as a loose navy tee

slipped over a shoulder…the soft rounded knees and thighs unabashedly revealed in

distressed denim shorts…The clear nude-complexioned faces that beamed like the moon…He

imagined how the colours of bright wedding make-up would be captured most inspirationally

on their faces…The sound of witty, derisive laughter at the follies of his gender gave him an

inexpressible longing he could not put his finger on…

The days of Shakespeare taught us that a serenade would have been made on the spot, or a

sonnet would be lovingly composed over candlelight in the night, then tenderly slipped under

the door of a mysterious yellow lady…

But here now, love is spoken with no rhyme or reason.

“Er, if you have your student cards with you I can give you a ten percent discount.”
Qi Ji
There is a little corner stall at #04-07 of an inconspicuous heartland mall, boasting of

Hong Kong noodles, popiah and nasi lemak. It is ‘Qi Ji.’ Qi Ji means miracle but there is

nothing miraculous about the work of Zaid bin Zahari. Day after day, he would compile four

different variations of Nasi Lemak with plastic-gloved hands.

Set A – Fried chicken wing, otah, omelette slice

Set B – Boneless fish fillet, chicken hot dog, otah, sunny-egg

Set C – Chicken cutlet, otah, sunny-egg

Set D – Fried kuning, otah, boneless fish fillet, omelette slice

Essentials: rice, cucumber, sambal belachan, ikan bilis and peanuts

Zaid was good at what he did. Creating a presentable nasi lemak set is harder than it looks.

First, a bowlful of rice would be scooped from the bucket and placed onto the plate. It had to

be a perfect sphere– a fragrant light green dome against the centre of the square green plate.

The mixture of ikan bilis and nuts had to be scattered delicately at the side, next to two thick

cucumber slices. A dollop of belachan would only be added on top of the cucumber after

double-checking with the customer. The belachan must touch neither the ikan bilis nor the

rice. The hastiness of the peak-hour crowd must not affect you. The omelettes were easy to

pick up but the sunny-eggs weren’t. You had to apply the right amount of pressure in

grabbing those sunny-side ups without breaking the jelly-like yolks in the middle. Omelettes

went to the side while sunny-eggs went on top of the rice. The chicken cutlet had to be cut

into six even slices with the scissors. Five for the boneless fish. The otah had to be removed

from the leaves intact.

 The same applied for take-aways – their boss had the sense to provide spacious,

compartmentalised, hard plastic boxes with sturdy plastic covers for the nasi lemak sets. The

take-out popiah had to make do with typical styrofoam ones which opened themselves up

most vexingly at unexpected moments on buses and trains. Ah Lin, the mainland Chinese

worker was in charge of the till. As soon as she got the orders down, she would yell them up

to either the Chinese chef in charge of the noodles and popiah at the kitchen round the back

or give Zaid curt phrases which never went beyond the likes of “two set A, one set B.” His

position was a prominent one right next to the till, where only a glass display of nasi lemak

condiments stood between him and the customers.

It was an evening like any other when he first saw her. She had been ordering two popiahs

from Ah Lin and did it with surprising grace in a lilting mixture of English and Chinese. Ah

Lin was a little overwhelmed at being sincerely thanked for passing on an order, and covered

it up by brusquely taking her money, gruffly calling her “mei nu” as she did with any other

female customer, fat, young, thin or old. She was dressed in a bright floral flared dress

splotched with roses and daisies, standing out almost garishly against the grey-white walls of

the shop. Her vaguely blonde hair had been put up in a messy knot and wispy tendrils of light

gold had fallen across her face. Her gaze was almost purposefully averted from his. She

absently alternated between staring at the open page of a book in her hand, which she never

did turn over, and looking up at the lighted menu above their heads.

“Excuse me excuse me! I asked for set D, this should not have chicken wing inside!” He

quit his staring promptly and went back to his work. He was careful in making sure that his

hands did not shake. The belachan held its own on top of the cucumber. As she turned on her

heels and went out of the shop with her take-out popiah, he briefly noted that the back of her

dress had a cut-out portion which cheekily revealed the small of her back. His hand would

have probably fit right in there.

 In the following months, he would see her at approximately 7pm every night and she

would make her usual order of popiah. Two popiahs please, xie xie ah, thank you very much.

At times she would have her hair down, all tawny and lustrous. Other days she would have a

fluffy ponytail to the side or a braid that went round her head. Her clothes were always full of

surprises. She enjoyed dresses with big, flat collars or long blouses of high necklines with

elaborate lace and crotchet details, which she would contrast with a tight pair of jeans or

shorts that were barely seen. Once, she had on red bowler hat with a little pink feather pinned

to the side and a cream dress imprinted with flying blue swallows. Even on the occasional

days where she had worn black, the particular blouse or dress would have a shimmery touch

of glitter to it. He could never put a finger to her complexion. He never quite decided if she

was blessed with really good skin or had managed to invest in a fool-proof foundation. Her

eyes though, were always free from any artifice of any sort, not even spectacles. They were

most simple, neither big nor small – almost lacking in distinctiveness if not for her open gaze

which made them look like clear black pools. On certain nights back home in bed, he would

dream of her in pastel shades, floating into the store, looking around dazedly. Just as she

seemed as if she would finally turn her gaze upon his, he would sit up in bed with a jolt,

feeling his shirt cling onto his back with cold sweat. Often, he wondered if she ever did

notice him. She either fiddled with her phone or a book while waiting for her food. The

novels she held were usually of bestselling motivational material – ranging from books like

The Purpose Driven Life, The Five People You Meet in Heaven and, on a more practical note,

Who Moved My Cheese. She held her books as if they were stage props and never did seem

particularly interested in them, though obliged to carry them.

Today, she had entered the shop as usual in one of her bright outfits with The Tipping

Point in hand. He did his usual work of arranging sets while discreetly glancing at her every

now and then. Ah Lin acknowledged her with a brief nod. Everything seemed to be
proceeding as it should till the very moment she gave her order, which nearly made him crush

a yolk in shock. “One set B please thank you.” Ah Lin raised her eyebrows slightly at this but

gave no other outward sign of astonishment. “One set B!” she echoed to Zaid. The girl sidled

up to the glass display. For the very first time, he felt her gaze upon his. It was both

wondering and intent. He kept his head bent low over his work. Then, she spoke. “Take away

ya. Ta bao.”

In that moment, he had felt a crushing sense of disappointment. He thought he had

understood her but she was, like any other person then – just a customer buying a nasi lemak

set. That night, he no longer fell asleep while thinking long and hard about her. He no longer

dreamt of her.
Story-Telling
Clara was on her way to school in the bus. She was to have a poetry performance in an hour’s time,

in front of a whole audience of questioning students-soon-to-be-critics-when-they-got-bitter-with-it-

all. She had decided to do it on a whim, briefly seeing it as an adventure in which she might step out

of herself for a bit and see if her written words could live away from paper. She thought of the

students who defended themselves with ancient philosophies, modern theories – who spoke about

Aristotle, Brecht and Eisenstein like they were long-lost European relatives. Oh my god oh god my

what do I do? I never did something like this before. I can’t do it. Isn’t poetry private, like Emily

Dickinson? Your soul bared only to the ones close enough to you? She twirled and tugged at her hair

absently. A copy of the poem she was about to recite lay largely ignored on her lap.

Actually, Clara had performed poetry. Once, at the age of eight, in the dingy wood hall of primary

school, in the days where blackboards and chalk still existed and everyone sat on rough cement floor

where you can roll and play around in the grit and dust, in a storytelling competition, she had recited

the ‘Ladybird Poem’.

Ladybird, ladybird fly away home.

Winter is here so fly away home.
The barn mice are sleeping,
The wet leaves are wringing.
So ladybird, ladybird fly away home…

Only to be utterly defeated by Claris Tan’s rendition of The Raja’s Big Ears. Heck it even got

covered in ‘The Straits Times’, while Clara remained the forgotten third. Or fourth. All she had

gotten out of it was a slip of a Dimanche Diller novel for a prize – now long gone after moving houses

thrice in her lifetime.

How exciting! They had exclaimed. Claris had worn a purple Malay costume, a curly moustache

and big pointy ears that made the little kids laugh and cracked the adults up.

Oh, the Raja’s got big ears, the Raja’s got big ears…
 While a shivering Clara focused on winters that held no meaning for a city of eternal summer,

Claris spoke of the hot sun of India that even left kings with sticky collars and sweat behind their ears.

Clara’s ladybird had gently drifted away with her voice. Increasingly, she saw in her mind’s eye –

fluttering spots of red and black she could not quite explain and her audience had steadily lost their

interest. All they saw was a little girl scared out of her wits. She had flown away and left them behind.

From backstage, Clara had listened to Claris, mesmerised by her clear unwavering voice. Her eyes

had bellied the confidence of a person who was sure of the story she had to tell – sure of the meaning

of the story she had to tell. Clara had remained grounded in her story the whole way through. Big

ears, big ears, big ears…

Terrence Tang, the great love of her time then, was a great admirer of Claris. “Claris is so smart

and beautiful… But you are my third love! Number three in my heart!” he had said to Clara hastily.

Terrence had had a penchant for girls with thick hair. Claris had a wonderfully thick, strictly school

adhering neat braid, pulled tightly to the back of her head while Clara’s own crazy locks had curled

harshly at her nape, curving in and out everywhere. Once, the discipline mistress had called them both

out in front of the school. She had pointed at Clara, “This is not what your hair should look like.” She

patted Claris fondly on the head. “Your hair must be like this! Neat! Straight!” It was a wonder she

had not burst into tears. She had felt a vague sense of being injured but it came with a sense of

puzzlement as well. She had never seen herself being different from any other girl in school, until she

had told her tale in front of everyone and Mrs Deevah had called her out in front of the school, pitting

her against Claris.

Of course, Clara barely remembered all of these – she was too young – but on certain gloomy days,

she finds herself inexplicably tugging at her bangs hard with her fingers, wondering why hair doesn’t

go the way you want it to – while Claris Tan, in keeping hair neat at the back of her head, now

suffered from a receding hairline she did not quite understand.

Today was one of those days. Though the day had begun in a bright and sunny manner, the bus had

been oddly cold and stuffy in spite of the sunlight streaming through the windows. The upper deck
she was seated in was largely empty of its usual peak-hour crowd. She had made the effort to get to

school earlier so that she could do some last-minute memorisation in peace. She felt surprised at the

deep sense of loneliness she felt at the absence of her fellow city-dwellers. This coupled with an

anxiety towards her upcoming performance had led her to such vague remembrances she could barely

account for. Languidly, she leaned against the bus window and shut her eyes.

Then, the rain came – most unexpectedly – first as a little dash across the window – past her cheek

– then as a splash – and the torrent against a sunny sky began. The sound of it comforted her. The bus

soon came to halt at her stop but her eyes remained closed.
Graduation Stories

Sarah struggled a little with the mandarins in her hands as she pressed the doorbell outside

the metal gate of Block 347 #05-16. “You wanna bet James? Auntie Mama will definitely say

the exact same thing she had last year,” she said to her younger brother with a slight grin.

“Damn cute lah!” he replied good-naturedly and braced himself with his usual toothy grin

that made the Aunties and Grannies at Church coo “Ah boy…” while gingerly fingering his

biceps.

Just then, the door was unlocked and the gate swung open. A beaming Auntie Mama filled

the little doorway.

“Ah Ying Jie ah! You slimmed down again! Zhi Qiang more and more handsome!”

A quart of Uncle Papa’s face appeared behind her.

“Aiyoh, for awhile I thought I was looking at your parents!”

“No lah no lah…You all too long never see us, that’s why! We are still the same, still the

same…Na! These are for you…”

“Haiyo, tell your mama don’t need to give us so many things! Last year September already

give us mooncake…”

“Ah-Yong kor kor not back yet ah?”

“Later later. He got to give tuition. But he specially took the evening off just for you all!”

For a little while, the annual chorus of compliments coursed through the corridor of Block

347. And then, the laughter continued into the house.

 The Lims may be staying in a pigeon hole but it was one of comfort. Two plump cream

sofas filled the living room and James beheld their new black plasma TV screen with awe. He

parked himself comfortably onto a sofa. One barely notices the old window grilles. A tilted

glance revealed a distorted reflection of them on the inactive TV screen. James took the

liberty of switching on the TV. Sarah took her place next to James and gazed at the old

corded army-green telephone squashed into a corner between the sofas. It made her think of

colour-book filling and kettle-cooked barley in little green cups. A glance to the left

reacquainted her with the sight of the storeroom door next to the kitchen. She wondered if it

still had that strange, musty old smell of Archie, Lao Fu Zhi , Xiao Ding Tang and Dragon

Ball comics. Once, when she had wanted to borrow a Betty and Veronica issue, Ah Yong kor

kor had said, “Careful, Ah Chuan really likes those books. He takes them everywhere with

him. By everywhere, I mean, EVERYWHERE.”

Auntie Mama was their equivalent an English nanny. For a small monthly fee, she took

Ying Jie and Zhi Qiang under her wing while Mr and Mrs Lee went about their jobs in the

day. They had each lived in Block 347 #05-16 for the first six years of their lives alongside

her sons, Teck Yong and Teck Chuan. Throughout the day, they would play, do their

homework and have their meals at her place. In the evening, their mother would pick them

up, all-sleepy.

One morning, as Mrs Lee kissed her five-year-old daughter goodbye at the doorstep of

#05-16 and let her slip out of her arms, she heard her yell, “Papa! I’m home!” as soon as her

back was turned. After that, Mrs Lee was careful in ensuring that the siblings respectfully

addressed their guardians as “Auntie Mama and Uncle Papa. “UNCLE Papa ok! Not Papa!”

she chided. Yin Zhen was Auntie Mama’s real name but no one remembered Uncle Papa’s

name. He was known, most obstinately in their heads, as Uncle Papa. “Eh…Could his name

be Lim Teck…Pa? Must be Teck something ma!” James jokingly speculated. All they knew
was that he had rough hands from his years as a welder and swarthy skin from being exposed

to the sun all day long in his youth. Though his eyes were constantly rheumy, they were

gentlest pair of brown eyes one ever saw.

Teck Yong and Teck Chuan were wild, free and fascinating to Sarah and James in the

days of their childhood. They had lounged about the house with their chests and pot bellies

pertly exposed – free men – in a staunch refusal to endure the humid weather any further.

James assured Sarah that they still did – just not in her presence. They were the cleverest pair

of brothers Sarah ever knew. Teck Yong was the eldest and had graduated from NUS with a

business degree, now dividing his time between a full-time marketing job and ten tuition-

hungry students. His name pronounced in Chinese was De Rong, which could be literally

translated as ‘may-I-gain-tolerance!’ He had been single all his life, save for a short, ill-fated

affair with a Taiwanese girl he had met online. In a bid to pacify his pesky relatives every

year, he would solemnly explain, “I…Want to be a monk.” This explanation never failed to

crack them up while Auntie Mama clucked her tongue in despair. Once, James proclaimed

that Teck Yong should have his very own YouTube channel, in which he would do nothing,

but chill shirtless on his cream sofa, belly out, coke in hand, while lashing out a diatribe

against the woes of the Singapore life. “I tell you, he would get more hits than Nigahiga!”

James predicted excitedly.

Teck Chuan had gotten the President’s Scholarship and was presently in the States, mid-

way through his PhD in engineering research at John Hopkins. He had married a fair, plump

and adorable Singaporean girl from the same faculty, whom Teck Yong aptly described as a

moving sphere. They were currently living together on-campus. When Sarah and James had

attended the wedding dinner, she was a sparkling disco ball of silver and white. She was a

little like Auntie Mama in her younger days – short, smart and buxom.
 “Ying Jie, come into the kitchen! You really should learn how to make orh orh duck!”

Dutifully, Sarah plodded into the kitchen. It was still the same – full of silver kettles, metal

bowls, tin dishes and plastic plates too light to be true. The iron wok was already on the

stove. An electric kettle and toaster sat on the floor, slightly abashed, amidst a pile of Tefal

corrugated boards. She saw that Auntie Mama was standing, hunched, next to the sink at the

corner, diligently picking at the nostrils of a raw duck with a small sharp knife. If it were up

to Sarah, she would have chopped its head right off but Auntie Mama would have never

consented to such a lack of presentation. Uncle Papa had chopped the red onions, garlic and

chilli padi into neat little piles on the wooden block. He was washing up after her, his eyes

shining more than ever. They looked at home in their little ceramic-tiled corner, their elbows

almost touching as they busied themselves. Uncle Papa was never big on prominent gestures

of love. It had been years since he had given Yin Zhen a tight hug of affection. Her shirt was

always wet from kitchen work, clinging heavily onto her heaving bosom which now

threatened to spill over into the wok along with the duck that was gently laid into a puddle of

oil with a soft splash.

“Auntie Mama you really shouldn’t be cooking so much! I remember my mum telling me

that your back isn’t well!”

“It’s ok. One year one time…one year one time…”

What Auntie Mama termed as orh orh duck was, essentially, black black duck when

literally translated from Hokkien. She would stew a whole duck till it was sweet, brown and

black – topping it off with squares of beancurd that were a rich brown on the outside with soft

tender white insides that burst with flavour from the sauce. The duck would then be served in

a deep-dish, immersed in layers of savoury oil and gravy. She sliced the meat most thinly and

beautifully – putting Uncle Papa’s delicately skilled welding hands to shame. Its head was
grandly left at the edge of the plate, its webbed feet still prettily tucked away. It was

legendary. One could easily polish off three bowls of rice with just that honeyed sauce alone.

They used to have it once a week. Ah Yong kor kor had dreams of making it big by having an

online catering service but somehow, he had never gotten round to it. Ah Chuan kor kor made

it almost as good as she did. Faculty potluck lunches at John Hopkins were always treated to

what they termed as ‘Teck Chuan’s exotic roast duck’. Sarah never did manage to catch the

recipe in full. Year after year, it came to her in fragments – the pounding of chilli into paste

with a mortar and pestle…a tablespoonful of honey…a bubbling wok that was sopping in

oil…onions and garlic that were nowhere to be seen after being tipped into the wok…For

some reason, she had always found herself drifting away before the work was done.

“Jie! Ah Yong kor kor is back!” James yelled.

“Ying Jie you go see him first!”

In the living room, Teck Yong gave them all a burly hug. He was still as big and imposing

as ever. National Service had forced him to lose ten kilograms but he had put back another

twenty, all in a jiffy as soon as the two-year commitment was up.

“I brought Tako balls from the JP B1 store. It looked like they were gonna close down. Zhiiii

Qiang! I prepared two cans of logans for you. I remembered two wasn’t enough for you last

time! Heh heh! I just subscribed to a new movie channel! Go see got what nice shows now!”

Between talk, movies, sugared logans with ice and mayo-saturated flour balls, the hours

flew by and it was time for dinner. The evening had just begun and through the kitchen

window, Sarah saw that the sky was a dimming, cloudless blue. The Lims and the Lees sat
themselves closely at the plastic dining table that was pressed against the wall in the kitchen,

not unlike the rectangular ones one sees in coffeeshops. Teck Yong had cleared it of its usual

clutter of snacks and gave out the cutlery.

“So, you want the prison bowl or prison plate?”

“Plates for us please,” said James politely.

They began to eat.

So this is life after all that studying, thought Sarah. Living in a mixture of the dying old and

the growing new. Being neither rich nor poor, just getting by in this comforting, yet foreign

mix of food and objects.

“More rice for me please!”

“How about you, Ying Jie?” asked Auntie Mama.

“It’s ok for now thank you!”

“So how are your studies? I know both of you must be doing very well. I still remember Zhi

Qiang could tell the time when he was three! The neighbours will still ask me, ‘Where is that

pretty little girl you used to bring with you to Ah Chuan’s school when you had to fetch

him?’” said Auntie Mama proudly.

“I’m in my first year at Raffles JC now. Barely managed to squeeze in!”

“Wa Zhi! That’s damn good,” Teck Yong enthused. “I tell you my O’ Level story was the

best. ‘A’ for everything. But you know what? Fail English! Thank God I had higher mother

tongue to use as L1. But SAJC wanted me to retake English and pass it if not can’t stay. So I
went to British Council for help with three of my friends who kena the same thing. They gave

us each a folder. Inside got past tense, present tense, simple sentence and complex sentence!

In the end, two of us got B3. The one who failed again and had to take his A’ level papers

private. But you know what in the end? That guy got an ‘A’ for GP, I got ‘C’! Don’t know

how they mark our papers one!”

He shook his head and chewed hard on his rice.

“Girl, you leh?” asked Auntie Mama in concern.

“Oh! I will be graduating next year.”

“Oh god, graduations. When I had mine at NUS, all they did was to give us a powerpoint

slide with balloons flying up. Outside the hall they erected a big big board with a faceless

student in a graduation road – you know, the kind with a hole cut out so those who want to

feel like they graduated from NUS can put their face in pose! The most amazing thing was,

there was a long queue for the board the whole day! Don’t even get me started on the seating

arrangements. At least my parents could sit right in front.”

The general seating arrangements for Teck Yong’s 1999 convocation were as such:

Stage and Screen of flying balloons

--------------First Class ----------------------- Parents of first class

--------------Second Class--------------------Parents of second class

Everyone, every generation, knew where they stood.

“You lucky youngsters. I was a primary school graduate! I was very smart one you know! I

was always first in class. That’s why Ah Chuan and Ah Yong are smart! But last time, where

go money you tell me, where got money…” Auntie Mama trailed off with a sigh.

“Me too!” said Uncle Papa. He paused. “On second thought, I don’t think I did. I started to

work when I was ten.”

Such talk was making Sarah uneasy. She recalled an animated conversation she had

shared with her classmate on the train home the other day. They had been studying Philip

Roth’s Goodbye Columbus for the week. The main character, Neil Klugman, had been of

particular interest in class. ‘Klug’ meant clever in Jewish but it had an uncanny similarity to

‘klog,’ which meant cursed. Cherie had been speaking of the potential careers they could

embark on after graduation. She lamented on the general public’s limited vision in thinking

that teaching was all that they could do to earn a better living. She was angry with how the

government was only interested in art forms that supposedly denoted economic affluence and

a ‘cultured’ society – sculptures, avant-garde films, musicals and plays with champagne-

filled intermissions. “After all that we have learned…How can we bear to go back into the

world?” As Cherie spoke, the words clever, cursed, clever, cursed spun around Sarah’s head,

making her dizzy. They were cursed with the knowledge that there was more to the world

than just a typical PR or even a journalist job, where one would sit and write reports that

hardly required the high imagination of the Romantics or the clever, ironical witticisms of the

post-modern writers. The world for them had changed irrevocably. There was no way there

could look at it the same way ever again but they had to try to do so anyway.

“I think I might go for further studies,” she said in a rush.

“That’s good. The best days in life are the ones in school,” said Ah Yong kor kor seriously.

Auntie Mama smiled fondly at them. “I always knew you both would be successful.”
The sky was in complete darkness by now and cutlery was hitting the plates and the bottom

of bowls with soft thuds. Ah Yong kor kor and James belched loudly while Sarah gave a soft

burp in turn. Uncle Papa blinked the wet from his eyes and Auntie Mama started to clear the

dishes. At that instant, the world outside the window loomed large but they did not let it

bother them one bit.