SS Quah's Anything Goes

A chess addict looks back

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Mon, 03 Aug 2026 08:57:39 +0000

July was sort of a momentous month for me. Not only was I given an award by the Penang Governor and then invited to the reopening of the Penang State Museum a few days later, there was also the release of a 90-minute podcast by the people behind Penang Hidden Gems. But be forewarned that the podcast was filmed in February 2025 and only now made available for viewing on YouTube. And so, some of the circumstances and references that I mentioned in this podcast are out of date. More than a year later, I have more or less forgotten what we talked about.

That was probably why, when I finally sat down to watch it, I found myself listening almost like any other viewer. The conversation brought back memories of things that I had not thought about for quite some time.

The interview was supposed to be about me, but in reality, it became a journey through several chapters of my life, from banking, writing, chess and community work to Penang Free School and the many people and events that shaped my journey.

The hosts introduced me as someone they called a “multi-hyphenate” writer, blogger, chess enthusiast and, as I jokingly prefer to describe myself, a chess addict. I have to admit that “multi-hyphenate” sounds rather grand. I usually just think of myself as someone who has been curious about many things and somehow ended up doing a little bit of everything.

During my working life, I started out at Ban Hin Lee Bank, where I spent 23 years before moving into something completely different. I joined JobStreet as Editorial Manager, a move that took me from banking into the world of content and communications. It was a major change of direction, though not as drastic as it might have seemed, since writing had always been part of my life. Instead of dealing with systems and banking operations, I found myself working on articles, announcements and promotional materials. Anything that JobStreet wanted to publish publicly would pass through my hands before release.

But when the conversation began, the hosts quickly steered the discussion towards the subject that probably defines me more than any job I ever held: chess. That was how I first came into contact with them. Eugene, one of the hosts of the podcast, had seen me at chess events, including Penang Chess Association activities and the old Penang Free School Open. To him, I was the familiar figure who was always somewhere in the background organising things.

Moe jokingly called me part of the “chess Illuminati”. I suppose after more than five decades involved in chess, I cannot deny that I have spent a large part of my life lurking around chessboards. My journey with chess began quite late in my school life, after Form Three at Penang Free School. Those were the days when, after sitting for the Lower Certificate of Education examination, there was not much to do while waiting for the next school year to begin. I picked up a chess book, learnt the rules and started playing.

When I entered Form Four, I joined the school chess club. The seniors noticed that I could play reasonably well and invited me to join the junior team. That year, I represented the school in inter-school competitions. And I lost every single game. But that was probably the best education I could have received. Chess, like many things in life, teaches you through your failures. You lose, you learn, you improve and you come back stronger.

Over the years, my involvement in chess evolved. I was no longer just a player but also became involved in organising tournaments and eventually as an arbiter. The arbiter ensures that the Laws of Chess are followed and resolves disputes when they occur. In the early days, disputes were more common, especially over the touch-move rule. If you deliberately touch a piece, you must move that piece if a legal move is available. Many players were unfamiliar with the rule and arguments would arise.

Another challenge was maintaining silence during tournaments. In those days, spectators were allowed to walk around and observe games. I still remember one gentleman who would go from board to board, look at the positions and loudly mutter suggestions to himself, “You should move this…” Of course, the players could hear him, and the organisers had to keep telling him: “Please move away. Quiet, please.” Fortunately, such incidents are much less common nowadays.

One topic that naturally came up was the Penang Chess Association. The association was founded in 1972, with the inaugural Annual General Meeting held at the then Penang Library on Farquhar Street. I was one of about 50 founder members. And more than 50 years later, I am the only founder member who is still actively involved. The hosts called me the “Yoda of Penang chess”. I am not sure whether I should be flattered or worried.

Time has shown that the Penang Chess Association has played an important role in developing chess in the state. Today, tournaments are organised regularly, sometimes large events and sometimes smaller ones, but there is almost always something happening. The association has also received recognition from the Penang State Sports Council. A few years ago, we were placed in Category A, the highest category for sports associations. That was a proud moment because it showed that chess, despite being a mind sport, was receiving the same recognition as other sporting activities. And at the last SUKMA Games, chess contributed five gold medals.

One of the interesting parts of the interview was discussing how much chess has changed over the decades. When I started playing, we learnt from books. If you were fortunate, you might find a stronger player willing to sit down and analyse games with you.

Today, everything is different. A young player can watch the world's best players online, access databases containing millions of games and use computer engines that can analyse positions far beyond human ability. The youngsters today have opportunities that my generation could only dream about. That is why today's young players are so much stronger.

But although technology has transformed chess, the essence of the game remains unchanged. The board is still 64 squares, each player still starts with 16 pieces, and the rules remain fundamentally the same. Yet every generation discovers something new and that's the beauty of chess.

Perhaps the greatest attraction of chess is that it is one of the few activities where age and physical ability matter so little. A child can defeat an adult. A young player can compete against someone old enough to be his grandfather. Men and women can compete together. The board does not care about your age, your background or your physical limitations. Even someone with a physical disability can compete on equal terms. The game only calls for a player to find the best move. And perhaps that is why, after all these years, I am still drawn to those 64 squares.

So watching the podcast was a little like opening an old photo album and the memories came flooding back. I am grateful to Eugene and Moe, the team behind Penang Hidden Gems, for giving me the opportunity to talk about the things that have been such a big part of my life: chess, writing, Penang and the many experiences that have come along the way.

Anyone interested in the full 90-minute conversation can watch it below. Just bear in mind that it was recorded in February 2025, so some references may be slightly dated. But then again, memories are like old chess games. Even years later, there is always something interesting to rediscover when you look back at them.

Penang Museum reopening

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Mon, 27 Jul 2026 06:46:02 +0000

Anyone visiting the newly reopened Penang State Museum could be forgiven for thinking that it is, in part at least, a museum devoted to Penang Free School.

That was certainly my first impression when I finally ventured beyond the curtain at the entrance. During the official reopening by the Penang Governor last Thursday evening, I never actually got that far. I had made a beeline for the marble plaque listing the donors to the building fund in 1895-96, then somehow got sidetracked into conversation with someone and never saw the rest of the museum.

So on Sunday, I returned with Saw See for a proper visit. We headed upstairs and found ourselves in a corridor paying tribute to Penang's historic schools. Along one wall stood four child-sized mannequins dressed in the familiar white uniform of Penang Free School, complete with school ties and crest badges. One even wore the dark navy-blue blazer of a School Prefect. A video projection showed Free School boys and prefects running down the corridor, as though eagerly hurrying off to class.

Following their lead, we arrived at the room at the far end of the corridor. It turned out to be entirely dedicated to Penang Free School. And why not?

After all, the museum building itself was once the school's home, built specifically for that purpose. Constructed in two stages, the first wing adjoining the Church of the Assumption was completed in 1896, while the second wing, extending towards St George's Church, was added in 1906. During the Allied bombing campaign of 1944 and 1945, carried out by the RAF and the US Army Air Forces to weaken the Japanese occupation of Penang, much of the later wing was destroyed. It was one of many colonial-era buildings that suffered damage in the raids. The surviving half eventually became the Penang State Museum in 1965: a history made even more tangible today by the excavated foundations of the lost wing, now preserved as an outdoor exhibit.

The recreated classroom is laid out with rows of old-fashioned desks facing a blackboard. Greeting visitors is the school's motto, Fortis Atque Fidelis. The walls are lined with displays tracing the school's more than two centuries of history, alongside a bust of Tunku Abdul Rahman, arguably the most distinguished Old Free of them all. There are also photographs of many other prominent Old Frees who have made their mark over the years.

It was here that I experienced a sense of satisfaction. Much of the historical information displayed in the room was adapted from my book, Let the Aisles Proclaim, which I wrote for the school's bicentenary in 2016. I had also supplied the museum with an updated summary of the school's history, leaving it entirely to the curators to decide how best to present the material. I can only hope I didn't overlook anything that some eagle-eyed visitor will one day point out.

Lest I give the wrong impression, the Free School exhibits occupy only a small corner of the museum. The rest explores Penang's history in all its facets through almost 1,200 artefacts, supported by multimedia and interactive presentations. Interesting though they are, I must admit I was rather biased. As an Old Free, I naturally spent more time in the galleries devoted to my alma mater.

That changed, however, when I wandered into one of the ground-floor galleries devoted to Penang's legislative and judicial history. Looking down from the wall were portraits of Hussein Abdoolcader, James Ambrose, Alfred Winslow and Wee Chong Jin. Hussein Abdoolcader was one of Penang's most distinguished lawyers and also served on the Straits Settlements Legislative Council. Ambrose, Winslow and Wee later moved to Singapore, where they rose through the judiciary to become Federal Court judges, with Wee Chong Jin eventually serving as Singapore's Chief Justice. Apart from the fact that they were from the legal profession, all four were also Old Frees. Goes to show that Penang Free School has had rather more than its fair share of producing lawyers and judges.

Before leaving, there was one final stop to the newly opened archaeological exhibit which I mentioned earlier. Here were the foundations of the bombed-out 1906 wing which had been excavated and preserved. Standing there and looking at what remained of the original structure brought the story full circle. Almost a century after Penang Free School left these premises, my alma mater had, in a sense, come home again.

My old ancestor, Oh Cheng Chan

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Sat, 25 Jul 2026 00:57:58 +0000

I attended the reopening of the Penang State Museum last Thursday evening. It was a grand affair graced by the presence of the Penang Governor, Ramli Ngah Talib, Chief Minister Chow Kon Yeow, members of the State Exco and a host of invited guests. I was also happy to bump into quite a number of familiar faces among the crowd and even made a few new friends along the way.

After the speeches and a rather late dinner, which didn't begin until well after nine o'clock, we were finally invited into the museum. But I didn't get very far.

Just inside the entrance, my attention was drawn to a marble plaque mounted on one of the walls. I already knew what I wanted to see. It had been on my mind for years, and I was looking forward to reacquainting myself with it. My eyes quickly worked their way down the list of donors until they finally rested on a familiar name.

OH CHENG CHAN ESQR

There he was. This gentleman from the past, who contributed Straits Dollars One Hundred towards the building fund in either 1895 or 1896, was my great-great-grandfather on my mother's side of the family.

Seeing his name there again gave me happiness and a sense of pride. Suddenly, this wasn't just another heritage building with an interesting history. My own family had played a small part in making it possible. Quickly, I asked someone to take photos of me pointing to the name.

As far as I know, that makes me at least the fifth generation of my family in Penang. I say "at least" because I have never been able to trace Oh Cheng Chan's birthplace or date of birth. If he had come from China, then he would have been the first generation here. But if he had actually been born in Penang, then I would already be the sixth generation. Unfortunately, history has remained silent on that point.

His donation of Straits Dollars One Hundred may not sound like much today, but at the turn of the 20th century it was a substantial sum. In terms of purchasing power, it would probably be comparable to somewhere between RM15,000 and RM20,000 today. He was one of several public-spirited Penangites who contributed towards the construction of this magnificent building, leaving behind a legacy that has endured for well over a century.

The building itself has witnessed more than its fair share of history. Construction began in 1896, with the western wing completed first so that Penang Free School could move into its new premises in 1897. The eastern wing was completed in 1906 and occupied the following year. It was in this very building that Penang Free School celebrated its centenary in 1916.

Twelve years later, the upper forms moved to the school's present Green Lane campus, leaving behind the lower forms to become Hutchings School, a name chosen by The Old Frees' Association in honour of Robert Sparke Hutchings, the founder of Penang Free School.

The building suffered its first taste of war in December 1941 when Japanese bombs landed nearby. One exploded within the compound of the St George's Church, and the blast damaged the building's doors and windows. It fared much worse in February 1945 when Allied bombing scored a direct hit on the eastern wing, reducing much of it to rubble. Hutchings School returned to the surviving portion in 1947 and remained there until their new school buildings were completed in 1960.

After that, the old building stood empty for a while and even came close to being demolished. Thankfully, Tunku Abdul Rahman stepped in and decided that it should instead become the Penang State Museum. Whether he was motivated purely by its historical significance or by fond memories of his own schooldays here as a Penang Free School pupil, we can only speculate. Whatever the reason, Penang owes him a tremendous debt of gratitude for preserving one of the state's most important heritage buildings.

So there I was, looking at the plaque and finding myself thinking about my great-great-grandfather. More than 130 years ago, he and many others contributed to a public building that would go on to educate generations of Penangites before eventually becoming the State Museum. I doubt he could ever have imagined that one of his descendants would one day return, stand before that very plaque and quietly read his name once again. History isn't just something we read about in books. Sometimes, it stares back at us from a wall.

A shot in the arm

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Mon, 20 Jul 2026 04:36:32 +0000

I had been dilly-dallying for years, but finally decided to go for my pneumonia jab yesterday. I first became aware of the pneumonia vaccine during the Covid-19 pandemic. At the time, I was encouraging my friends to get their annual influenza jabs. While the flu vaccine doesn't protect against Covid-19 itself, I felt that keeping the body's defences up against one infectious disease couldn't be a bad thing when dealing with another.

That's when one of my friends brought up the pneumonia vaccine, pointing out that it was just as important, especially for older people. He reminded me that pneumonia is one of the leading causes of hospitalisation among senior citizens and can be particularly dangerous for those with chronic conditions such as diabetes, heart disease and lung disease. Although the vaccine doesn't prevent every case of pneumonia, it greatly reduces the risk of severe illness and serious complications.

It certainly sounded like something worth having. Unfortunately, the price at the time was rather steep, so I shelved the idea. As often happens, one year became two, and before I knew it, several years had slipped by. Then about a week ago, something just clicked. I realised I had procrastinated long enough. We insure our homes, service our cars and go for regular medical check-ups, yet we sometimes hesitate over a vaccination that could help keep us out of hospital. The older we get, the less sense it makes to keep putting these things off.

So yesterday, Saw See and I, together with two other friends, kept appointments with a doctor friend who had kindly arranged for our vaccinations at cost price. I won't mention who he is or where we had the injections, just to respect everyone's privacy.

The vaccine we received was Prevnar 20, one of the newer pneumococcal vaccines that protects against 20 strains of the bacteria responsible for pneumonia and other serious infections. Unlike the influenza vaccine, which needs to be taken every year, this is generally a one-off vaccination for most older adults.

The whole thing was over in a matter of minutes. Just a tiny prick in the arm and a much lighter wallet, but also the comforting feeling that I'd finally crossed another important item off my health checklist. Come to think of it, the hardest part wasn't the injection at all. It was taking so many years to make up my mind.

Back to Farquhar Street

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Sun, 19 Jul 2026 07:18:54 +0000

This Thursday is a date I've been looking forward to for quite some time. After almost ten years behind hoardings and scaffolding, the Penang State Museum on Farquhar Street is finally reopening its doors. Like many Penangites, I'm curious to see how the old building has been restored. But unlike most visitors, the first thing I'll be looking for won't be the new galleries or exhibits.

I'll be making a beeline for the marble plaques mounted on the walls. Most people probably walk past them without a second glance. To me, they are among the most important artefacts in the whole building.

Many people don't realise that the building was never intended to be a museum. It was built for the Penang Free School after the school's original premises at Church Square had become hopelessly overcrowded. The first wing was completed in 1896, while the second followed in 1907.

Building a new school in those days was no small undertaking. To finance the project, the people of Penang rallied behind the cause. Individuals, families, businesses and community organisations donated generously because they believed in supporting education. To honour their generosity, marble plaques bearing the names of all the contributors were mounted on the walls of the new school building.

Many years later, while studying those names, I made an unexpected discovery. One of the donors was my own great-great-grandfather. Ever since then, whenever I visit the building, I make it a point to look for his name. It gives me a strange but satisfying feeling to know that someone from my family helped, however modestly, to build what would eventually become one of Penang's most historic buildings.

When Penang Free School moved to its Green Lane campus in 1927, the school ensured that the names of those benefactors would not be forgotten. A wooden honours board bearing the same list of donors was produced and mounted above the entrance to the Pinhorn Hall, where it still hangs today. Generations of Old Frees have probably walked beneath it without realising the story behind those names.

This Thursday, however, I'll have another reason for visiting. Some time ago, while restoration work was still in progress, the Penang State Museum contacted me with an unexpected request. The introduction came through the school's then headmaster, Syed Sultan Shaik Oothuman. Knowing of my work on the history of Penang Free School, he suggested that the museum approach me to write a concise history of the school for its new displays.

I was only too happy to help. Much of what I wrote was based on the extensive research and investigation that eventually culminated in Let the Aisles Proclaim in 2016. While researching that book, I discovered that a surprising number of accepted accounts of the school's early history were inaccurate. The same mistakes had been copied from one publication to another over the decades until they became accepted as historical fact.

Going back to original documents, newspapers and official records allowed me to verify dates, correct errors and, in some cases, completely rewrite parts of the school's early history. Besides writing the historical account, I also supplied some old photographs. They were only small contributions, but I was glad to assist. Whether the museum acknowledges my contribution is entirely up to them. That isn't why I did it.

For me, I'm happy enough knowing that I was able to contribute in a small way to preserve the history of a building that occupies such an important place in Penang's educational and cultural heritage.

This Thursday, I'll almost certainly pause in front of those marble plaques and again look for the name of my great-great-grandfather who helped build the school more than a century ago. Beyond those plaques are galleries that now also contain a little of my own work. History has a wonderful way of coming full circle.

Dewan Sri Pinang memories

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Thu, 16 Jul 2026 22:05:00 +0000

Just going to the Dewan Sri Pinang last Monday brought back memories of my long association with this grand old hall. It was not the first time I had walked into the building to receive recognition, but it was also certainly not the first time I had been here for something else that was equally memorable.

At the investiture ceremony, my wife was seated high up in the terraced chairs, giving her an excellent vantage point of the proceedings below. At some point during the ceremony, she took a photograph of the hall from where she was sitting. When she showed it to me afterwards, I found myself looking beyond just the picture itself. The sweeping view of the hall, the spaciousness of the venue and the atmosphere it captured brought back a flood of memories.

Because my first visit to Dewan Sri Pinang was not for an award ceremony. It was December 1972, the last few days of my school life. Upper Six and the Higher School Certificate examinations had just ended, and like many school leavers, I was standing at the crossroads, wondering what lay ahead. There wasn't much time for soul-searching, though, because I had been selected to represent Penang in the inaugural Majlis Sukan Sekolah-sekolah Malaysia (MSSM) team chess championship. It was the first time chess had appeared as a competitive sport in the MSSM programme.

It is tempting to attribute the inclusion of chess to the famous World Championship match between Boris Spassky and Bobby Fischer from July to September in 1972. In reality, the wheels had already been set in motion months earlier.

In April 1972, Dr Max Euwe, then President of the World Chess Federation (FIDE) and himself a former World Champion, visited Malaysia as part of a regional tour to promote chess. He stopped in Kuala Lumpur, and I was one of five players from Penang selected to take part in a simultaneous exhibition against him. If memory serves me right, he played about 24 schoolboys from around the country. We from Penang were myself, Khaw Teik Kooi and Khoo Chuan Keat from Penang Free School, and Beh Hong Pin and Lee Teik Leong from Chung Ling High School.

I actually caught him out in the opening when he played his moves in the wrong order. Unfortunately, my inexperience showed. Instead of exploiting the opportunity, I allowed him to recover, and before long he won the game. But I did earn something far more memorable. When Dr Euwe realised his mistake, he paused briefly, looked at the position and said, "You're sharp."

Just two simple words. Yet coming from a former World Champion, they meant the world to a teenage chess player. Following Dr Euwe's visit, the Ministry of Education approved chess as an MSSM sport, although initially only as a team event. The Majlis Sukan Sekolah-sekolah Pulau Pinang (MSSPP) was entrusted with organising the inaugural championship. The task fell to Fang Ewe Churh, then Headmaster of Han Chiang Primary School and President of the fledgling Penang Chess Association. Freshly returned from the Chess Olympiad in Skopje, Yugoslavia, where he had served as Malaysia's team captain and delegate, he was the obvious choice to organise the competition.

I honestly can't remember the selection process now, but by the end of the year I had been informed that I would represent Penang on first board. It proved to be a tough tournament. We defeated Johore and Kelantan to reach the semi-finals, where we overcame Negri Sembilan. In the final, however, Selangor proved too strong, and we had to settle for the runners-up spot.

The championship was held in the main hall of Dewan Sri Pinang. I still remember shivering throughout the tournament, not only because of the powerful air-conditioning, but also because of the tension of playing on first board for the state team. Over the years, I've returned to Dewan Sri Pinang many times for chess events. Games have been played in the main hall, the function rooms downstairs, and even in the foyer and first-floor corridors. But nothing can quite match the memories of that first tournament.

So now, whenever I step into Dewan Sri Pinang, it is not the investiture ceremonies or the medals that come to mind first. It is the memory of a nervous 18-year-old schoolboy, sitting at Board One in the inaugural MSSM Team Chess Championship, wondering whether he was good enough to do Penang proud.

No title attached, thank you

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Tue, 14 Jul 2026 22:05:00 +0000

I'm not one to chase state honours because I've never been a businessman or corporate leader, nor have I ever felt the need for the weight of a state or federal title behind my name. But if an award comes my way in recognition of my contributions to society, I certainly wouldn't turn it down. One thing is for sure, though: I would think twice before accepting any award that comes with a title. I still prefer to stay low-key and out of the limelight.

Last Monday, I attended an investiture ceremony at Dewan Sri Pinang to receive the Darjah Johan Negeri (DJN) from the Penang Governor, Ramli Ngah Talib, on the occasion of his official 85th birthday.

It wasn't my first state award. The last time I stepped into Dewan Sri Pinang for this purpose was in 2021, when I received the Pingat Kelakuan Terpuji (PKT) for 2020, the ceremony having been postponed because of the Covid-19 pandemic. And because of the pandemic, I never got to receive the award personally from the then Penang Governor, Haji Abdul Rahman bin Haji Abbas. But still, I had to dress up to the nines just to collect the medal. Before that, I have to turn the clock back to 1995, when I was awarded the Pingat Jasa Kebaktian (PJK).

Three medals under my belt. I think that's enough, lah. I'm happy, I'm contented, and I'm certainly not looking for any more.

There was another reason why receiving the award from Ramli made the occasion a little more special. Many people probably don't realise that he was the President of the Malaysian Chess Federation from 2007 to 2016. As I stepped forward to receive the medal, there was only time for a brief congratulatory handshake. I quickly told him, "This award is for Penang chess."

Whether those few words registered with him amid the hundreds of recipients that day, I really don't know.

Later that evening, however, there was an unexpected sequel. At the state dinner, as Ramli made his way along the red carpet greeting the guests, he shook my hand once again. This time, I simply reminded him with a single word: "Chess."

Before he could respond, his wife, Raja Noora Ashikin Raja Abdullah, who was walking just behind him, immediately looked at me and said, "He was in Norway." She was referring to the 2014 Chess Olympiad in Tromsø, held during Ramli's tenure as President of the Malaysian Chess Federation.

I found it fascinating that, completely off the cuff, she could instantly make the connection and recall that particular event. It was a fleeting exchange lasting only a few seconds, but it left a lasting impression on me.

As a postscript, I want to mention some other people who received titles and medals during these four days of the investiture.

Apart from me from the Wu Lien-Teh Society, there were also Clement Liang Chow Ming and Ong Siou Woon who received their PKT and PJK respectively. I thank the President, Anwar Fazal, for putting forth my application and the Secretary, Dr Hor Chee Peng, for the patience to prepare all the paperwork.
Then from The Old Frees' Association, other than me, Albert Moh See Eng was conferred the DGPN, Kannan Srinivasaraghavan received the PKT and Lim Wee Seong the PJK.
Finally from the Penang Chess Association, the recipient other than myself was Chong Kean Foong. There was also a Lee Ewe Ghee, but the one I know said that this wasn't him.

George Town's world heritage day

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Fri, 10 Jul 2026 03:40:54 +0000

It is gratifying to see some of our state assemblypersons coming out on facebook to acknowledge and celebrate George Town's World Heritage Day on the seventh of July this year. Have I missed out on anyone's poster? I hope not! There were also public acknowledgements from several agencies and businesses but I shall not show the businesses here as they were too numerous.

(Buletin Mutiara)

Penang240

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Wed, 08 Jul 2026 22:34:00 +0000

I saw this posting on Ng Wei Aik's facebook account. He is a Penang-based politician who served as Tanjong MP (2013–2018) and Komtar state assemblyman (2008–2013), and was formerly a political secretary before being dropped as a GE14 candidate. On his facebook, he had asked a very interesting question: is the Penang Government doing anything to commemorate the 240th anniversary -- an anniversary which I would call by the Latin name bicentiquadragenary -- of the founding of Penang by Captain Francis Light? Here's what he wrote on the sixth of July:

Captain Francis Light landed in Penang on 11 August 1786. This coming 11 August marks the 240th anniversary of his landing, as well as the 240th anniversary of the founding of modern Penang.

Yet the authorities have remained completely silent. To date, no official celebrations have been planned, no commemorative ceremonies announced, as though this chapter of history never existed.

This inevitably raises an important question: when politicians constantly proclaim that they are defending Penang’s sovereignty, are they truly defending its history, or merely exploiting it for political purposes?

In recent times, whenever Penang’s status is discussed, politicians are quick to declare that they must “defend Penang’s sovereignty.” Yet when confronted with a significant historical milestone that embodies Penang’s identity and reinforces its historical consciousness, they have all fallen conspicuously silent.

To defend a place, one must first understand it.

Penang, as the state, international port, and modern city we know today, has an
undeniable historical beginning.

Commemorating the 240th anniversary of Francis Light’s landing is not about glorifying colonial rule, nor is it about celebrating British imperialism. It is about acknowledging the historical fact of Penang’s founding.

A mature society does not erase history simply because it is complicated, nor does it rewrite or delete history in the name of political correctness.

True sovereignty is never built on slogans. It rests upon historical identity, cultural confidence, and institutional continuity.

A society that dares not commemorate its own founding anniversary, yet loudly proclaims its determination to defend its sovereignty every day, is displaying not conviction but emptiness; not confidence but insecurity.

If we can simply ignore the 240th anniversary of Penang’s founding, then when others question Penang’s historical status, on what basis can we expect the next generation to stand up and defend it?

Defending Penang’s sovereignty should never be reduced to a slogan repeated at press conferences, nor should it become another performance staged on social media.

Real defence begins with respecting history, confronting history honestly, and passing history on to future generations.

Otherwise, the rhetoric of “defending Penang’s sovereignty” will ultimately amount to nothing more than a political slogan—one that may sound thunderous, but cannot withstand the judgment of history.

Now, this is certainly an interesting topic. After all, 240 years is no small milestone. We readily celebrate centenaries, bicentenaries and other significant anniversaries. Penang itself has never been shy about commemorating important dates in its history. The state's bicentenary in 1986 was marked by numerous events, while George Town's inscription as a UNESCO World Heritage Site continues to be celebrated every year on the seventh of July.

Yet this 240th anniversary appears to have attracted little public attention. Of course, the issue is not as straightforward as it might seem. Any commemoration of Captain Francis Light inevitably raises the larger question of what exactly is being celebrated. Is it the arrival of a British trader? The beginning of British colonial rule? Or the birth of modern Penang as we know it today?

Historians have long pointed out that Penang did not suddenly come into existence on 11 August 1786. The island had been known for centuries to traders and seafarers and formed part of the Kedah Sultanate. But it is equally true that Francis Light's arrival altered the island's destiny forever. What had been a lightly populated island soon developed into one of the busiest free ports in Southeast Asia, attracting settlers from China, India, the Malay Archipelago, Europe and elsewhere. The foundations of modern Penang were laid during those formative years.

Whether one regards Francis Light as founder, coloniser or simply an important historical figure depends largely on one's perspective. History is seldom black and white. What cannot be denied, however, is that his arrival changed the course of Penang's history.

In recent years, we have periodically heard renewed claims from Kedah over Penang. Such statements invariably generate headlines and emotional reactions before quietly fading away until the next round of rhetoric. Yet they serve as a reminder that history often becomes a subject of attention when it suits the moment. Understanding how Penang came to be what it is today is therefore not merely an academic exercise; it is part of understanding the state's identity, its historical development and its constitutional place within Malaysia.

Commemorating the landing of Francis Light need not be interpreted as glorifying colonialism. Nor should it be seen simply as a rebuttal of Kedah's periodic claims over Penang. Rather, it can be viewed as acknowledging a turning point in history: the moment that eventually gave rise to the cosmopolitan Penang we know today. Mature societies are capable of recognising significant historical events without necessarily endorsing every aspect of the individuals involved or the circumstances surrounding them.

There is another interesting perspective. This year's 240th anniversary comes at the same time as the United States celebrating the 250th anniversary, or semiquincentenary, of its own founding on the fourth of July, just a few days ago. The Americans marked that milestone with nationwide events, exhibitions and educational programmes, not because every chapter of their early history was beyond criticism, but because understanding one's origins is part of understanding one's nation.

Perhaps Penang, too, could consider whether such milestones deserve greater recognition. Not necessarily through elaborate celebrations, but through meaningful public commemorations that encourage people to reflect on the island's long and fascinating journey over the past 240 years. It has been a journey shaped by indigenous roots, colonial encounters, migration, trade and the many communities that have made Penang what it is today.

The Malaysian Chess Festival at Twenty-One

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Wed, 08 Jul 2026 02:01:00 +0000

Two days ago, my story on the Malaysian Chess Festival appeared on the ChessBase India website. It was only the second time I had written for this highly respected chess news portal. Interestingly, the first was almost exactly a year ago, when I had the pleasure of writing about Yeoh Li Tian's historic achievement in becoming Malaysia's first chess grandmaster.

This time, I decided to write about the Malaysian Chess Festival, which will be celebrating its 21st edition this year. Something of a coming of age for an event that first began in 2004. Since then, it has been held unfailingly every year except during the Covid-19 pandemic, when the 2020 and 2021 editions had to be cancelled.

I did notice that ChessBase India had edited my article somewhat, which is, of course, perfectly understandable. Editors have their own constraints and house style. Their version can be read here, and I hope it reaches far and wide, encouraging more players to enter this year's Dato' Arthur Tan Malaysia Open Chess Championship.

But for those interested, I'd also like to reproduce below my original version.

The Malaysian Chess Festival at Twenty-One

By Quah Seng Sun (former chess columnist of The Star, 1980-2012)
Come every August and September, the regional chess spotlight falls on Malaysia. That is when players from around the country and overseas converge on Kuala Lumpur for what has become one of the region's best-loved annual gatherings, the Malaysian Chess Festival.
This year marks the 21st Malaysian Chess Festival, which will be held from 28th August to 6th September 2026 at KL Gateway Mall in Kuala Lumpur. Over ten days, the venue will once again be transformed into a bustle of activity as players of all ages and abilities battle over the chessboard, renewing friendships while creating new memories.
It is remarkable how much the festival has grown. When it was first launched in 2004, it was a much smaller affair comprising just three tournaments: the Merdeka Team Chess Championship, the Malaysian Open Chess Championship and the Malaysian Chess Challenge. The latter was created with a simple but thoughtful idea in mind. Not everyone felt ready to test themselves against grandmasters and international masters in the Open. Players with more modest FIDE ratings were therefore given the option of competing in the Chess Challenge, where the opposition would be more evenly matched while still providing a serious tournament experience.
Those were also difficult days for the festival's founder, the late Dato' Tan Chin Nam. He was still coming to terms with the tragic loss of his youngest son, Arthur Tan Boon Shih. Rather than allowing grief to overwhelm him, Dato' Tan channelled it into something positive through a game that had long been close to his heart. Arthur himself had developed a genuine love of chess from a young age. On two or three occasions in the mid to late 1970s, I happened to bump into him quietly playing chess in Kuala Lumpur. He was never one to seek attention, but it was obvious he genuinely loved the game.
From those early planning sessions emerged the concept of the Malaysian Chess Festival. One of Dato' Tan's first decisions was to incorporate the already well-established Merdeka Team Chess Championship into the new festival. This tournament had begun in 1981 and was then entering its 25th edition. It was an inspired move. Players could begin the festival with two days of fast-paced team chess before settling into the longer and more demanding classical time controls of the Malaysian Open or the Malaysian Chess Challenge. It proved to be a winning formula.
Since then, there has been no looking back. The programme has steadily expanded to cater for virtually every section of the chess community. Various junior age-group championships, both individual and team, were introduced to encourage young players. Senior events were added. Blitz championships became traditional curtain-raisers and finales. Over the years, the Malaysian Chess Festival has grown into a celebration of chess in almost every form.
This year's programme is among the most comprehensive yet:

SMS Deen Merdeka Open Rapid Team Chess Championship (28th-29th August) — the 44th edition of Malaysia's longest-running team chess event;
Dato' Tan Chin Nam Merdeka Under-12 Team Championship (28th-29th August);
Merdeka Blitz Championship (29th August);
Dato' Tan Chin Nam Age-Group Championship for Under-6, Under-8, Under-10, Under-12, Under-14 and Under-16 players (30th August);
21st Dato' Arthur Tan Merdeka Open Chess Championship (31st August-6th September);
Daniel Yong Chen-I Memorial Merdeka Chess Challenge (31st August-6th September);
Dato' Tan Chin Nam Seniors Open Championship (31st August-6th September);
Dato' Tan Chin Nam Merdeka Day Age-Group Championship (4th September); and
Festival Blitz Championship (6th September).

While every event has its own attraction, the undisputed centrepiece remains the Dato' Arthur Tan Merdeka Open Chess Championship (previously known as the Dato’ Arthur Tan Malaysian Open Chess Championship). Over the past two decades, it has established a reputation as one of Asia's finest proving grounds for emerging talent. Long before many players became household names in international chess, they were already testing themselves across the boards in Kuala Lumpur.
The list is extraordinary. Future world-class stars such as Wang Hao (China), Le Quang Liem (Vietnam), Wesley So (the Philippines, later the United States), Alireza Firouzja (originally from Iran but now representing France), Dommaraju Gukesh (India) and Nodirbek Abdusattorov (Uzbekistan) all played in the Malaysian Open while they were still teenagers or pre-teens. A very young Gukesh played in three editions of the Malaysian Open from 2015 to 2017. Today, they are recognised among the world's elite, several having risen into the FIDE Top 20 and even the Top 10. Gukesh went on to become World Champion, while So and Firouzja both reached World No. 2 and Abdusattorov World No. 4.
Many others have similarly passed through Kuala Lumpur on their journey to international prominence, including Yu Yangyi (China), Li Chao (China), Ni Hua (China), Parimarjan Negi (India) and Lu Shanglei (China).
The women's list is equally distinguished. Current Women's World Champion Ju Wenjun (China) and former women’s champions Xu Yuhua (China) and Tan Zhongyi (China) have competed here, as has former World No. 2 Koneru Humpy (India) and current World No. 2 Lei Tingjie (China). Other recognised names include Dinara Saduakassova (Kazakhstan) and Mary Ann Gomes (India) who have appeared in the FIDE Women's Top 100.
Perhaps that is the Malaysian Chess Festival's greatest achievement. It has never tried to be merely another tournament. Instead, it has become a meeting place where schoolchildren play alongside senior citizens, ambitious juniors test themselves against seasoned professionals, and tomorrow's stars often appear long before the rest of the world notices them.
Although Dato' Tan Chin Nam passed away in 2018, his vision lives on. Every year his name continues to be associated with several events within the festival, a fitting tribute to Malaysian chess's greatest benefactor. The festival itself also honours the memories of Arthur Tan Boon Shih and Daniel Yong Chen-I, ensuring that their contributions to Malaysian chess are never forgotten.
For anyone who enjoys competitive chess, whether as a serious title aspirant or simply as someone looking for a well-organised tournament in a friendly atmosphere, the Malaysian Chess Festival remains one of the highlights of the regional chess calendar.
Entries are now open. Players wishing to participate may contact Tournament Director IA Abdul Hamid Majid at aham@pc.jaring.asia for further information, or register directly at http://register-datchesscentre.com
If the past twenty years are any indication, this year's festival promises another memorable chapter in one of the enduring success stories of Malaysian chess.

Healthcare and batik

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Mon, 06 Jul 2026 22:15:00 +0000

Have I let the cat out of the bag? Apparently, I have. In my last posting about this year's durian glut, I casually mentioned that we had been in Kuala Lumpur. Well, the secret's out now. Yes, we spent a few days there last week, mainly to chill with our daughter and enjoy a short change of scenery.

One of our first stops was GHHS Healthcare, where we had booked ourselves in for
a Tuina massage. As it turned out, they surprised me with a complimentary session on their Yunohana Hokutolite stone bed. I had tried this before. You simply lie on a stone bed while letting a gentle warmth seep into the body. Whether it works wonders or not, I'll leave to those better qualified to judge, but I certainly came away feeling relaxed. Together with the massage, we spent a very pleasant couple of hours there before heading off in search of durian at Seri Kembangan. That, of course, turned into another successful expedition.

But if I'm being honest, the healthcare visit wasn't really the main reason we went to Kuala Lumpur. The real reason was batik.

The men in batik, from left to right: myself, R Subramaniam, Abdul
Rahman Ahmad, Chan Swee Loon, Hu Yu Kwang, Tan Bian Huat
and Christi Hon

My first brush with batik actually goes all the way back to 1978. I had been selected to represent Malaysia on an official chess delegation to China, and before we left, the Malaysian Chess Federation had batik shirts specially made for the team. It was a thoughtful gesture, and naturally we wore them throughout the tour.

One or two years later, the Penang Chess Association also thought that batik was a pretty good idea when our team travelled to Hong Kong for the Asian Cities Team Chess Championship. I was issued with a batik shirt again but after returning home from that trip, I don't think I ever wore it again. To me, the colour was simply too loud and, dare I say it, rather hideous. At that stage of my life, batik just wasn't something I could imagine myself wearing all the time.

And also from left to right, the Penang chess team in Hongkong:
Lam Leong Yew, Goh Yoon Wah, Jimmy Liew, myself and
Eric Cheah

Over the next few decades, I owned one batik shirt for official functions whenever the dress code called for it, but the shirt rarely saw the light of day. Batik was something I wore because circumstances required it, not because I particularly wanted to.

That attitude began to change only two or three years ago when we became involved in the activities of SAMENTA, the Small and Medium Enterprises Association. Their functions often encouraged members to wear batik for uniformity, and before long we found ourselves acquiring a few shirts that were much more tasteful than those I remembered from years gone by. The designs were subtler, the colours more restrained, and I found myself wearing them with increasing frequency.

Then came our trip to Indonesia which changed everything. Seeing batik in Jogjakarta, where it is not merely clothing but part of the country's cultural heritage, gave me an entirely new appreciation of the craft. We visited batik shops, watched artisans at work and came home with several pieces. Suddenly I found myself noticing the patterns, the colours and the remarkable variety of designs. What had once seemed little more than formal attire had become something I genuinely admired. We came home with pieces that we thought would surely satisfy us for quite some time.

Well, we were wrong. The more we looked at them, the more we wanted to see what else was available. It's rather like discovering a new genre of music or a favourite author. One purchase somehow leads to another. So while we were in Kuala Lumpur, we decided to continue the hunt.

Our search took us first to Central Market, where batik has long been one of the attractions. We wandered in and out of the boutiques, taking our time to admire the colours, motifs and different styles. From there we strolled around the Petaling Street area, popping into shops whenever something caught our eye. We even made our way to Publika in our search.

The SAMENTA people in batik

Not every shop yielded a treasure, of course. Some designs were lovely but beyond what we were prepared to spend. More often, others simply didn't appeal to us. But that's part of the fun. Half the enjoyment lies in the browsing, comparing and occasionally stumbling upon something that seems to speak to you. In the end, our efforts weren't in vain. We found something that pleased both our eyes and our wallets, which is always a satisfying combination.

I have a feeling this won't be the end of our batik adventure. Once you've begun to appreciate the artistry behind the patterns and the craftsmanship that goes into making them, it's difficult not to look a little more closely whenever you pass a batik shop. Who knows? We may well be wandering into yet another boutique, telling ourselves we're "just looking". I've learnt by now that those are probably the two most dangerous words a batik enthusiast can utter.

P.S. I should also mention that the SAMENTA batik shirts we wear for official functions were specially tailored at the Penang Batik Factory in Teluk Bahang. It's well worth a visit. Besides the showroom, visitors can watch the craftsmen at work and even try their hand at making their own batik prints in a hands-on demonstration section. It gives visitors a much better appreciation of the skill and patience that go into every piece. I also like the fact that Penang Batik Factory continues to use traditional cotton rather than silk or synthetic fabrics. Somehow, cotton just feels more authentic in our tropical climate. Maybe my appreciation of batik didn't begin in Jogjakarta after all. Indonesia deepened it, but Penang has been keeping the tradition alive all these years, right on our own doorstep.

Durian glut

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Sun, 05 Jul 2026 22:25:00 +0000

This is durian season. It has been going on for about a month now and, from what I can see, we're in the middle of a real glut. Not just in Penang, but in Kuala Lumpur and many other places as well. Prices have dropped to levels I haven't seen in quite a while. Musang King, for instance, has been selling for around RM15 a kilogram. That's really, really cheap. Even Black Thorn, nowadays the premium variety, has come down to about RM35 to RM40 a kilogram.

When the season first got underway a little over a month ago, The Old Frees' Association announced its annual durian outing to Balik Pulau. Unfortunately, I had to give it a miss as my brother-in-law and his family were returning from Singapore for a visit. Under circumstances like that, family comes first. No question about it.

Still, that didn't mean we had to forego our durian. Since they were here, I decided to take them to Junjong, a little town near the Penang-Kedah border. Balik Pulau may be the island's best-known durian destination, but Junjong is a close second. Technically it's in Kedah rather than Penang, but that's really splitting hairs. Good durian don't pay much attention to state boundaries.

We wandered from around before settling on seven durian for RM210: one Musang King, three Black Thorn, one Green Skin and two other varieties whose names have completely slipped my mind. The important thing was that they all tasted wonderful.

A few days later we found ourselves in Kuala Lumpur, where I suggested to our daughter that we should go for a durian session. This time we stopped at Seri Kembangan and came away with three durian - a Musang King, a Black Thorn and a D101 - all for RM110. Again, a bargain considering what these varieties usually fetch outside the peak season.

Since returning home, we've somehow managed to fit in a few more rounds. One day it was a plastic container of the D22 variety for RM20. On another occasion, while offering lunch dana at Nandaka Vihara, there were durian among the offerings afterwards, so naturally we weren't going to let them go to waste.

All things considered, despite missing the OFA durian trip, I really can't complain. One way or another, there have been plenty of opportunities to indulge in the king of fruits during what must surely be one of the best seasons in recent years. And the season isn't over yet. It usually runs into August, so I suspect there are still a few more durian feasts waiting before this year's glut finally comes to an end.

Prambanan's Hindu past

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Sat, 27 Jun 2026 22:37:00 +0000

The last significant heritage site our group visited in Jogjakarta was the Prambanan Temple compounds. We arrived there in the afternoon of our second and final full day, just when the Central Javanese sun seemed determined to test our endurance. After the misty disappointment of Mount Merapi earlier that morning, we found ourselves at the opposite extreme. The heat radiating from the stone pathways was intense and the occasional shadows cast by the soaring temple towers became our brief moments of relief as we wandered through the grounds.

By then, most of us were visibly tired. Although nearby Candi Sewu is regarded as one of the finest Buddhist temple complexes in Indonesia, time and energy were no longer on our side. We reluctantly gave it a miss and concentrated our attention on the main Prambanan temple complex which is also known as the Candi Rara Jonggrang. That was perhaps the one regret of the day.

After spending so much time among the serene Buddhist monuments of Mendut, Pawon and Borobudur, arriving at Prambanan felt like stepping into a different chapter of Java's past. If Borobudur is a vast stone mandala inviting contemplation, Prambanan reaches skywards with dramatic confidence. Its tall, slender towers seem almost weightless despite being carved from thousands of blocks of volcanic stone.

Built during the ninth century under the Hindu Sanjaya dynasty, Prambanan is the largest Hindu temple complex in Indonesia and one of the grandest in South-east Asia. The central compound of the Candi Roro Jonggrang is dedicated to the Trimurti of Shiva the Destroyer, Vishnu the Preserver and Brahma the Creator. The towering Shiva temple rises nearly 50 metres above the plain.

What absorbed me most were the relief carvings. Running along the galleries are exquisitely detailed panels illustrating the ancient Indian epic known as the Ramayana. Stone dancers, warriors, princes, celestial beings and mythical creatures emerge from the walls with remarkable vitality. Even after more than a thousand years, the carvings retain an elegance and movement that make them feel almost alive.

Elsewhere, one encounters finely carved kalpavriksha or wish-fulfilling trees, lions seated within niches and graceful apsaras. The craftsmanship is extraordinary. Each panel seems to invite visitors to slow down, linger and notice the details.

Yet Prambanan's history has been far from tranquil. For reasons that remain uncertain, the temples were gradually abandoned after political power shifted from Central Java in the 10th century. Earthquakes and volcanic eruptions took their toll and over time the complex fell into ruin, its stones scattered and reclaimed by vegetation. It was only rediscovered by Dutch travellers in the 17th century and systematic restoration began from 1918.

Even in recent times, the work of preservation has continued. The devastating Jogjakarta earthquake of 2006 damaged many structures within the complex, including Candi Sewu, forcing parts of the site to close temporarily while conservation experts assessed the damage and undertook repairs.

Through the decades, Indonesia has remained determined to preserve these monuments despite the enormous challenges involved. Restoring ancient stone structures in an earthquake-prone region is neither simple nor inexpensive. It requires patience, expertise and international cooperation. In recent years, India has pledged assistance in the conservation of Prambanan, recognising the shared cultural heritage that links the two countries across centuries of maritime exchange and civilisation.

Borobudur and Prambanan are reminders that Indonesia's history is diverse. Long before Islam became the faith of the majority, the archipelago was home to powerful Hindu and Buddhist kingdoms whose influence extended across South-east Asia. Modern Indonesia does not shy away from this inheritance. Instead, it embraces it as part of the nation's story. I sensed this in the care devoted to these sites, in the pride of the local guides and in the willingness to invest in their preservation. These monuments are not treated as awkward reminders of an earlier age. They are celebrated as symbols of cultural continuity and national identity.

That, I think, is something worth reflecting upon. There are countries, including our own Malaysia, where ancient Hindu and Buddhist heritage can sometimes be overlooked or regarded as belonging to someone else's past. Yet history does not cease to be ours simply because later generations embraced different faiths or identities. We do not have to feel embarrassed about the many facets of our heritage. We can acknowledge them honestly and face them squarely, recognising that they have all contributed to shaping who we are today. Indonesia, by contrast, seems comfortable acknowledging that history is not a single thread but a tapestry woven from many traditions.

As we trod wearily through the afternoon heat, I could not help but marvel at how remarkable these towers still stand at all. They have endured earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, political change and centuries of abandonment. And perhaps that is what makes places like Prambanan and Borobudur so compelling. Despite civilisations evolving, beliefs changing and societies moving in new directions, the past need not be erased to make room for the present. It can simply be remembered, respected and carried forward.

Ronnie's 27-0 score

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Sat, 27 Jun 2026 13:26:50 +0000

Old Free FIDE Master Dr Ronnie Lim, the Malaysian National Chess Champion in 2001, scored a clean sweep of 27 games at the first simultaneous chess exhibition organised by the Chess Section of The Old Frees' Association today. His opponents comprised OFA members, their children and grandchildren, as well as members of the Penang Free School chess team.

Before play began, I had the privilege of saying a few words as chief arbiter. I welcomed the participants and expressed the hope that they would make full use of the occasion. A simultaneous exhibition is not really about trying to beat the master, although if someone does manage it, we'll probably be hearing about it for years to come. The real value lies in watching how a strong player thinks, learning from the experience and, above all, enjoying the game.

I also thanked those who had made the afternoon possible. The idea had come from OFA Secretary Han Boon, and among the senior chess members our response was simply, "Why not?" With the help of Han Boon and fellow Chess Section members Tay Aik, Terry and Anthony, the idea gradually took shape. Hopefully, this will be the first of many such activities.

It also gave me the opportunity to say a little about the history of chess within The Old Frees' Association. Our involvement goes back to around 1991 or 1992, when I managed to assemble a team of eight Old Frees to compete in the Penang Chess League. That modest beginning eventually grew into more than three decades of regular participation in team tournaments around the state and in the annual Merdeka Team Chess Championship in Kuala Lumpur.

Over the years, more and more Old Frees became involved, not just as players but also as organisers and arbiters. Today, we have at least 30 members who have contributed to chess at state, national and even international level. Among them are state champions, national champions, FIDE Masters and three accredited International Arbiters. At one point during my introduction, I acknowledged fellow International Arbiter Tan Kai Ming, who was present with his grandson, one of Ronnie's challengers that afternoon.

Introducing Ronnie himself was perhaps the easiest part. I've known him since the mid-1990s when he was still a schoolboy at Penang Free School, representing the school in the Penang Chess League. Even then, it was obvious that he possessed exceptional talent. By that stage he had already been playing for several years, having taken up chess while still in primary school, and before long he was winning age-group championships around the country.

I briefly ran through some of his achievements: Malaysian National Champion in 2001, multiple national age-group champion, MSSM Under-12 champion, ASEAN Under-18 bronze medallist, SEA Games bronze medallist, two-time Penang Closed Champion, Royal Selangor Open champion, FIDE Master with a peak rating of 2349 and, away from the chessboard, a consultant radiologist by profession.

The simultaneous exhibition eventually stretched over three hours and 40 minutes. At the start, everything happened at breakneck speed. Ronnie moved briskly from board to board, making his opening moves almost without breaking stride, while his challengers scrambled to keep up. But as the middlegames began to develop and complications arose on virtually every board, his pace inevitably slowed.

After about an hour and a half, only five games had been decided. The remaining boards were still full of life, with players hanging on stubbornly and trying to find ways to make life difficult for the master. Gradually, however, experience began to tell. One after another, Ronnie's opponents were forced to resign.

As the number of games dwindled, the pace picked up again. During the final hour, only five or six boards remained in play, allowing Ronnie to devote much more time to each position. The last player standing was Chan Kah Poh, whose steady, solid game proved surprisingly difficult to crack. As is customary in simultaneous exhibitions, once only a single game remained, a chess clock was introduced so that the contest could proceed under normal tournament conditions. In the end, Ronnie's greater experience prevailed, bringing an end to what had been an absorbing afternoon of chess.

Afterwards, Ronnie admitted that about four or five players had given him genuine problems before he gradually gained the upper hand. What surprised me even more was when he quietly confided that this had been the very first simultaneous exhibition of his life. Considering how effortlessly he had moved from board to board, calmly keeping track of 27 games at once, I would never have guessed it. Having defeated all 27 challengers at his first attempt, he could hardly have asked for a better introduction to this unique form of chess.

There was a completely unexpected moment that made the day especially memorable for me. When I invited Ronnie to say a few words before the exhibition started, he looked across at me and remarked that he had first become interested in chess after reading my newspaper chess columns when he was in Standard Four. I must confess that caught me completely by surprise. One never really knows whether one's writing has influenced anyone. To hear that it had played a small part in inspiring someone who would later become one of Malaysia's strongest players was deeply gratifying.

Watching Ronnie move calmly from board to board while children, parents and grandparents all concentrated over their games, I couldn't help thinking that this was exactly the sort of activity the Association should be organising more often. Chess has a wonderful way of bringing generations together. Judging by the smiles around the hall, I suspect this first simultaneous exhibition won't be our last.

Disappointing Merapi

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Tue, 23 Jun 2026 22:36:00 +0000

In the morning of our second full day in Jogjakarta, we visited Mount Merapi. Our expectations were simple: to see one of Indonesia’s most famous volcanoes in full view. Instead, what we got was a wall of off-white mist that swallowed everything beyond a few metres. The mountain was there somewhere, I was sure of it, but it remained invisible, as though it had decided not to perform that day. I must admit, something of a letdown.

In a way, that experience captures what many visitors discover about Merapi. It is a name that carries weight as one of the most active volcanoes in Indonesia, often spoken of with awe, but the actual encounter can feel rather over-hyped.

Part of this comes down to how the visit is usually arranged. We went with the so-called “lava tours” from Kaliurang, the standard way of experiencing the area. On paper, it sounded like an adventurous off-road journey through a raw volcanic landscape. In reality, it felt more like a convoy of jeeps following the same route, stopping at the same places, with visitors taking the same photographs from the same angles.

There is the preserved house buried in ash, now a small museum of frozen domestic life. There is the so-called Alien Rock, a boulder hurled down by the 2010 eruption and said to resemble a face. I looked and looked, but there was nothing to stir my imagination. And there is the bunker that once served as shelter during eruptions but now a memorial to those who perished when lava overwhelmed it. Each stop has its own story, but taken together the experience can feel rather mechanical.

Yet Merapi is more than a tourist attraction. For the Javanese, it is a living presence with a guardian spirit, once embodied by Mbah Maridjan, the mountain’s spiritual custodian who died during the 2010 eruption. It also forms part of Jogjakarta’s sacred axis, balanced against the Indian Ocean to the south, known locally as the Southern Sea and personified in folklore by Nyai Roro Kidul. Annual offerings acknowledge Merapi’s dual nature as both destroyer and giver of life.

Visibility is Merapi’s greatest unpredictability. Cloud cover gathers quickly and by mid-morning the summit is often swallowed by a featureless white veil. Unless one arrives at an unusually clear hour, the iconic smoking peak remains more imagined than seen. Standing there before that pale emptiness, I began to wonder if the mountain was not refusing to reveal itself at all, but simply telling us that nature does not operate according to our expectations.

Unlike the lush, cinematic volcanoes one sometimes imagines in Indonesia, Merapi’s surroundings are shaped by its own violence. The terrain is ash-grey, broken rock and sand. Material is repeatedly thrown out over time and never quite softened back into the landscape. There is a bleakness and starkness to it all, far from any postcard vision of tropical grandeur. I was told that in some areas, sand-mining continues along the slopes.

In the end, perhaps the mountain is not so much over-rated as it is misunderstood. I arrived hoping to see a famous volcano in all its splendour and left having seen little more than mist and ash-grey slopes. Yet the stories surrounding the mountain, its place in Javanese culture and the respect it continues to command among local people suggest that Merapi is best understood through belief and imagination rather than sight alone.

SG Lim's run for cancer

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Mon, 22 Jun 2026 08:45:53 +0000

There was a huge charity event at Penang Free School yesterday and, much as I would have liked to be there, I had to give it a regrettable miss. Not through any lack of interest, but because several weeks earlier, long before details of the event had been finalised, my brother-in-law from Singapore had already arranged to return home with his family for a visit. Family took priority as rare reunions, like this particular one, are not something I can postpone lightly.

Still, I followed developments from afar because this was no ordinary event. It marked the conclusion of Old Free Lim Shyang Guey's remarkable Run for Gold journey, which was a 2,200-kilometre run (actual distance covered was 2,390 kilometres) across Peninsular Malaysia to raise awareness and funds for children battling cancer.

Better known now as SG Lim, the Class of 1975 (Form Five) alumnus began his journey on the 28th of March from the National Cancer Society Malaysia's Home of Hope in Penang. Over the next 86 days, he ran north to Perlis, crossed to Kelantan, travelled down the east coast to Johor and then turned north again along the west coast before returning home to Penang.

The final stage took him on an 82-kilometre route around the island, passing through Teluk Bahang, Balik Pulau, Batu Maung, Jelutong and George Town before he crossed the finish line at his alma mater, Penang Free School, one day before his 67th birthday.

There was something fitting about that ending. The journey had begun in Penang and it ended where another journey had started many years earlier at the school that helped shape him.

More than 150 teachers and present pupils of the school were among the several hundreds gathered to welcome him home, alongside family members, former schoolmates, supporters, volunteers and well-wishers that included Penang Chief Minister Chow Kon Yeow and Penang Island City Council Mayor Rajendran P Anthony. Standing before the crowd at the finish line, SG Lim looked skyward and spoke words that had carried him through the entire journey. "Firstly, my darling, we made it."

The tribute was to his late wife, Goh Joo Lee, who passed away from gallbladder cancer in August 2024 at the age of 63. The couple had once dreamed of travelling around Peninsular Malaysia together on foot after retirement. After losing her, Lim transformed that shared dream into a mission with a different purpose.

"We had wanted to walk around Malaysia together, every state," he said. "But I did not get to do it with my wife. She was there all along with me. Yes, we made it."

At its heart, Run for Gold was never really about running. The name itself comes from the gold ribbon, the international symbol of childhood cancer awareness. As Lim explained, "It's for the children. Children with cancer. That's why it's Run for Gold. I am running for the children. I don't need any more gold."

Along the way, he covered between 25 and 35 kilometres a day, staying mostly in homestays and shared accommodation, meeting families affected by cancer and listening to their stories. The journey also formed part of the torch relay for Relay for Life Malaysia 2026 which carried a message of hope and solidarity from community to community.

The campaign had initially aimed to raise RM600,000 for the National Cancer Society Malaysia. By the time he crossed the finish line, donations had already exceeded RM775,000, with funds earmarked for childhood cancer support services, including the Home of Hope programme, psychosocial care and survivorship initiatives.

Penang Chief Minister Chow Kon Yeow, who welcomed SG Lim home at Penang Free School and announced a further RM50,000 contribution from the state government, perhaps summed up the significance of the occasion best.

"SG Lim's 2,200km Run for Gold journey across Peninsular Malaysia is far more than an extraordinary feat of endurance; it is a powerful story of love, resilience and hope. Every step he took carried a message of encouragement for children battling cancer and their families, inspiring Malaysians from all walks of life to come together for a meaningful cause."

The Chief Minister also spoke movingly of the personal sacrifice behind the journey. "Dedicated to the memory of his late wife, Joo Lee, SG Lim transformed grief into hope, raising more than RM700,000 for the National Cancer Society Malaysia and proving that one person can make a profound difference."

What SG Lim accomplished over those 86 days was not measured simply in kilometres covered or funds raised. It was measured in something less tangible but perhaps more important: one person's determination and compassion that brought people together.

As Old Frees, we often speak about the values our school tries to instil: service, perseverance and concern for others. SG Lim embodied all of these qualities. In recognition of his remarkable achievement and service to the community, he was presented with Life Memberships of the The Old Frees' Association and the Old Frees' Association Kuala Lumpur & Selangor.

And there is something more. While grief has a way of turning people inward, here was a man who chose to transform personal loss into an act of generosity that will help children and families facing challenges far greater than his own.

Karajan's Beethoven

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Sun, 21 Jun 2026 08:05:16 +0000

I felt like listening to a bit of classical music today and pulled an old Deutsche Grammophon LP from the shelf: Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5, recorded in 1977 by the Berlin Philharmonic under the baton of Herbert von Karajan.

As the music began, I was immediately struck by the clarity and ferocity of the performance. Those famous opening four notes seemed to leap from the speakers with such force that I instinctively stepped back across the room, just to take in the full weight and flavour of the sound.

This LP formed part of Karajan's second complete Beethoven cycle for Deutsche Grammophon. By then, he had spent much of his career returning to these symphonies, revisiting them as recording technology evolved and as his own interpretations deepened with age and experience.

Karajan's association with Deutsche Grammophon, which lasted more than four decades until his death in 1989, remains one of the most influential partnerships in the history of recorded classical music. He saw the recording studio not merely as a place to document performances but as an instrument in its own right, working closely with engineers to shape every aspect of the final sound.

The sleeve itself is unmistakably Deutsche Grammophon: the familiar yellow banner across the top with a typography that reflected the label's sense of elegance and consistency.

Musically, this recording is all about control and momentum. Karajan's earlier 1963 account of Beethoven's Fifth has a certain warmth and lyricism, but the 1977 version feels leaner, more urgent and more dramatic. Recorded in the Berlin Philharmonie, it captures what many listeners describe as the "Karajan sound": smooth, rich and powerful, with individual instruments blending into a single orchestral voice. Some critics have argued that this sacrifices a degree of transparency for sheer beauty, but there is no denying its impact.

Karajan was also an enthusiastic advocate of new technology. He embraced digital recording early and later worked with Sony and Deutsche Grammophon in promoting the compact disc, famously declaring: "All else is gaslight."

Perhaps his lifelong engagement with Beethoven says more about him than anything else. He recorded the complete symphonies three times for Deutsche Grammophon. First was in 1963, again in the late 1970s and finally in the early digital era of the 1980s. Few conductors have left such an extensive recorded legacy of a single composer.

By the time of his death, Karajan had sold an estimated 100 to 200 million records worldwide, a figure that remains extraordinary in the world of classical music.

The Borobudur story

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Fri, 19 Jun 2026 04:03:28 +0000

Before I move on, perhaps I should say something more about Borobudur. I happened to pick up a brochure at the entrance into the archaeological park and I must say that it turned out quite informative. I thought of reproducing it verbatim here but the language was rather stilted and, at times, simply wrong. So the next best solution was to have a go at rewriting it myself. It proved to be a surprisingly refreshing exercise and I learnt quite a few new things along the way.

Most visitors arrive at Borobudur expecting to see a grand ancient monument. I certainly did. Yet the more I read about it, the more I realised that Borobudur is not merely a temple in the conventional sense. It is, in fact, a vast three-dimensional representation of Buddhist thought carved in stone.

Seen from ground level, Borobudur appears as a massive stepped pyramid crowned by stupas. Viewed from above, however, its true design becomes apparent. The entire monument is laid out in the form of a giant mandala, a sacred diagram found in both Buddhist and Hindu traditions. At its simplest, a mandala consists of a square with four gateways surrounding a circular centre. It is meant to represent the universe and the spiritual journey from the outer world towards inner awakening.

Borobudur expresses this journey through three ascending realms of Buddhist cosmology: Kamadhatu, Rupadhatu and Arupadhatu.

The lowest level, known as Kamadhatu, represents the world of desire. It symbolises the realm in which human beings remain bound by attachment, craving and worldly concerns. Much of this section lies hidden beneath an encasing base added during the temple's construction, although some of the concealed relief panels have since been uncovered and documented.

Above this lies Rupadhatu, the world of form. Here, desire has been overcome, but attachment to the physical world remains. It is within these galleries that visitors encounter the remarkable narrative reliefs for which Borobudur is so famous.

At the summit is Arupadhatu, the formless realm associated with enlightenment and ultimate liberation. The square terraces below give way to three circular terraces lined with perforated stupas, creating a striking sense of openness and simplicity. The symbolism is clear enough even for a casual visitor: as one ascends, distractions fall away.

The reliefs of Borobudur deserve special mention. Among the most important is the Lalitavistara, a series of carved panels recounting the life of the historical Buddha.

The story begins with the birth of Prince Siddhartha in Lumbini, in present-day Nepal. It follows his privileged upbringing, his marriage to Princess Gopā, better known in the Theravāda tradition as Yasodharā. and the profound encounters that changed the course of his life: old age, sickness, death and the sight of a wandering ascetic. These experiences prompted him to leave the palace in search of a deeper understanding of human suffering.

The panels continue through his years of study and ascetic practice, culminating in his enlightenment beneath the Bodhi tree at Bodh Gaya and his transformation into Gautama Buddha.

As I walked through the galleries, I found myself wondering how pilgrims more than a thousand years ago would have experienced these stories. For many of them, these carvings were not simply decorative art. They were sacred teachings in stone.

The Buddha statues themselves carry layers of meaning. There are 504 Buddha statues throughout the monument, with 432 of them placed in niches along the Rupadhatu galleries. Each displays a particular hand gesture, or mudra, symbolising different aspects of Buddhist teaching.

I confess that, at the time, I admired the statues more for their serenity than their symbolism. Only later did I learn that the mudras vary according to their position on the monument, corresponding to different Dhyani Buddhas and cardinal directions.

Borobudur's story did not end with the decline of the Sailendra dynasty. Between the 12th and 14th centuries, the monument was gradually abandoned as political power shifted across Java. Why this happened remains uncertain, although volcanic activity may have played a part.

For centuries, Borobudur lay hidden beneath layers of volcanic ash, vegetation and jungle growth. Although local communities never entirely forgot its existence, it was Sir Stamford Raffles, then British Lieutenant-Governor of Java, who brought the site to wider attention in 1814.

The first efforts to clear the monument began soon afterwards. Over the following decades, scholars documented its reliefs and attempted to understand its history.

One significant discovery came in 1885 when hidden reliefs at the base of the temple were uncovered. Some of these carvings contained instructions for the stone carvers in Sanskrit. The distinctive style of the script helped scholars date Borobudur to the middle of the ninth century, during the reign of the Sailendra dynasty.

Large-scale restoration work followed in the early 20th century under the Dutch engineer, Theodor van Erp. Yet it soon became apparent that deeper structural problems remained. Water infiltration and erosion continued to threaten the monument.

The most ambitious restoration project began in 1968 under UNESCO's guidance. Over the next 15 years, specialists from around the world dismantled and rebuilt large sections of the temple, installing modern drainage systems and developing methods to protect the stone from biological decay.

Their efforts ensured that Borobudur would survive for future generations and, in 1991, the monument was inscribed as a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

One final detail from the brochure caught my attention. Among Borobudur's relief panels are ten depictions of ancient seafaring vessels. In 1982, an English researcher named Philip Beale studied these carvings and became convinced that they represented ships used along the ancient maritime trade routes linking Indonesia with Africa.

His fascination eventually led to the construction of a replica vessel based on the reliefs. The reconstructed ship later sailed across the Indian Ocean, retracing what is now known as the Cinnamon Route. Quite remarkable that a monument so often associated with stillness and meditation also preserves evidence of long-distance trade, exploration and cultural exchange.

Perhaps that is one of Borobudur's enduring appeal. Information is revealed layer by layer. At first glance, it is a magnificent monument. Spend a little more time with it and it becomes a book of stone, a map of the Buddhist cosmos, a record of ancient maritime connections and a testament to humanity's determination to preserve its heritage. No wonder people keep returning to it, not just to admire its beauty but to discover something new each time.

Mendut, Pawon and Borobudur

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Wed, 17 Jun 2026 22:47:00 +0000

After our four days in Jakarta, our group from Nandaka Vihara flew to Jogjakarta for the next leg of our journey. Travel day aside, we had two full days to explore this historic city in Central Java and for all of us, there was little doubt about our first priority. We had come to visit the great Buddhist monuments of the region.

Our itinerary for the first full day followed a sequence that pilgrims have observed for centuries. Early in the morning, we made our way to the monastery at Mendut Temple. After lunch, we stopped at the smaller Pawon Temple before ending the afternoon at the magnificent Borobudur.

At the time, I thought of them simply as three separate places of interest located within convenient driving distance of one another. Only later did I realise that they were never meant to be experienced in isolation.

Although commonly associated with Jogjakarta, all three monuments are actually located in neighbouring Magelang Regency. Built during the eighth and ninth centuries under th
e Sailendra dynasty, they form a single sacred complex aligned along an almost perfectly straight east-west axis.

Mendut stands at the eastern end, Pawon in the middle and Borobudur at the western end. Archaeologists believe that the temples were once linked by a ceremonial avenue, suggesting that pilgrims in ancient times would have walked the entire route as one continuous spiritual journey rather than visiting each site separately.

In fact, this remains very much a living tradition today. Every year during Waisak, thousands of monks and devotees gather at Mendut before proceeding on foot through Pawon and finally arriving at Borobudur. A solemn procession that preserves a ritual pathway that has endured for well over a thousand years.

Our first stop that morning was the quiet Buddhist monastery beside Mendut Temple. Shaded by mature trees and set back from the main road, the monastery grounds had a peaceful, unhurried atmosphere. Prayer halls, monks' quarters and landscaped gardens were spread across the compound.

One feature that caught my attention was a gilded ceremonial chariot. From what I gathered, it is associated with the annual Waisak celebrations, when sacred objects including the blessed water and Dharma flame are carried in procession from Mendut to Borobudur. Standing there and appreciating the chariot from all angles, I imagined the thousands of monks and devotees who make that solemn four-kilometre pilgrimage each year.

Compared with Borobudur, Mendut Temple itself is modest in size, but stepping inside its dim interior was a surprisingly moving experience. There, seated within the sanctuary, are three magnificent stone figures: the Buddha Vairocana in the centre, flanked by the bodhisattvas Avalokiteshvara on the left and Vajrapani on the right. Unlike the stupas of Borobudur, these statues remain intact and protected behind wooden hoardings. One could easily imagine ancient pilgrims beginning their spiritual journey here, setting aside worldly concerns before moving onwards.

After lunch, we continued to Pawon Temple. Personally, I found Pawon the least interesting of the three sites. That is perhaps inevitable when it is sandwiched between Mendut's serene interior and the overwhelming grandeur of Borobudur. Pawon is small and compact, and our visit there was brief.

Yet its modest scale belies its importance. Pawon was the midpoint of the sacred journey. It was a place of transition and purification before pilgrims approached Borobudur. The temple's relief carvings include the Kalpataru, the mythical Tree of Life, on three sides of the temple.

After a brief stop for luwak coffee at a nearby shop, mainly to escape the midday sun, we proceeded to Borobudur. No amount of photographs or videos can quite prepare one for the experience of seeing it in person for the first time. Rising far in the distance with trees lining both sides of the wide boulevard, Borobudur possesses a majesty that is difficult to describe.

It is often called a temple, but it is really something much more ambitious: a three-dimensional mandala in stone. Pilgrims traditionally ascend it in a clockwise direction, moving through successive levels that symbolise the journey from the world of desire to the realm of enlightenment.

Yet Borobudur is not only a monument of stone and history. Local villagers still speak of Gunadharma, the legendary sage said to have designed the monument, whose reclining form is believed to be etched into the contours of the nearby Menoreh Hills. Others say Borobudur was built to balance the volatile spirit of Mount Merapi. These stories tell of Borobudur's place in archaeology textbooks and UNESCO descriptions, and also in the imagination where myth and devotion overlap.

Constructed during the eighth and ninth centuries by the Sailendra dynasty, Borobudur remains the world's largest Buddhist monument. Spread across six square terraces and three circular platforms are 2,672 relief panels, 72 perforated stupas and a total of 504 Buddha statues. Of these, 432 are placed in niches along the square terraces while another 72 sit within the bell-shaped stupas of the upper levels.

At the summit stands the great central stupa. Unlike the smaller perforated stupas, this largest stupa is empty. For many scholars, that emptiness is entirely deliberate, symbolising śūnyatā, the Buddhist concept of ultimate emptiness or the formless nature of enlightenment itself.

Yet there is a mystery associated with this central stupa. During restoration work in the early 20th century, archaeologists discovered a seated Buddha statue buried nearby. Today known as the "Unfinished Buddha", it is now displayed nearby within the Borobudur grounds.

The statue earned its name because parts of it appear incomplete. Sections of the head, hands and robes were left only partially carved. Some researchers suggested that it was rejected because of imperfections in the workmanship. Rather than destroy a flawed image, the builders may simply have concealed it within the central stupa. Others believe the incompleteness was intentional and carried symbolic meaning, while some scholars question whether the statue ever belonged inside the stupa at all. To this day, no one knows for certain.

While descending from the terraces, my mind went back to the smaller temples we had visited earlier in the day. Suddenly, the sequence made sense. Mendut, Pawon and Borobudur are not three separate destinations competing for attention. They are three chapters of the same story. Mendut represents preparation. Pawon symbolises purification. Borobudur marks the culmination of the journey towards awakening. Perhaps that is why the ancient builders placed them along a single line. The physical journey mirrors an inner one.

Whether one walks the path as a pilgrim, a student of history or simply a curious traveller, I felt impressed by the vision of the Sailendra rulers who created this landscape so long ago. Maybe that's the real wonder of the Borobudur trail. Not that these temples have survived the centuries, but that they still invite us to reflect on ourselves.

A Jakarta experience

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Wed, 17 Jun 2026 04:34:43 +0000

For four days in Jakarta, our little group from the Nandaka Vihara Meditation Society found ourselves spending much of our time at Gedung BWE in the Mozia precinct of BSD City, a planned township in Tangerang within the wider Greater Jakarta region.

BSD City is one of those modern satellite townships that seem to stretch endlessly into the horizon, with neatly laid-out roads, residential clusters, shopping centres and office buildings. Gedung BWE itself is a multipurpose venue that has become an important gathering place for Buddhist activities in the Jakarta area. The initials BWE stand for Bodhicitta Wahana Edukasi, an organisation involved in Buddhist education and community work.

Over the years, the venue has hosted meditation retreats, Dhamma talks, relic veneration ceremonies and large-scale Waisak celebrations. Its spacious hall is well suited for bringing together monks, lay devotees and volunteers from different traditions and organisatio
ns. This year's four-day Waisak celebration from 29th May to 01 June was jointly organised by Yayasan Hadaya Vatthu, PATVDH Beji (Yayasan Meditasi Hutan Pandangan Terang), Yayasan Bodhinanda Pekanbaru, Yayasan Dhamma Sukha Dhamma and Yayasan Sundarabhūmi.

Although the district surrounding the Gedung BWE offered no shortage of cafés, shopping centres and other modern conveniences, we never really had the opportunity to venture there during our stay. Our time revolved almost entirely around the programme itself. shuttling from our hotel in North Jakarta to the Gedung BWE, and subsequently returning at the end of each day's programme. Still, we did get to see a little of Jakarta when we were not required at the venue, thanks to Epi, our volunteer guide.

At some point, I surrendered myself entirely to the ladies in our group who wanted to go shopping. So we found ourselves stopping at several neighbourhood markets to pick up things like packed groundnuts and buah emping, which we Penangites would recognise as buah binjai. My wife and I had arrived with two half-empty suitcases. By the time we left Jakarta, both were filled to the brim. Fortunately, everything was bulky rather than heavy, and we managed to stay within the airline's weight limits.

Our journeys took us through various parts of North and West Jakarta, offering fleeting glimpses of everyday life in this vast metropolis. One evening, we were taken to the Chandra building for dinner. The place was buzzing with activity. Finding seats was an adventure and we ended up sharing tables with complete strangers. We wandered off to order different dishes before returning with their selections to be shared among the group, all while a karaoke competition unfolded on the stage nearby. It was lively, informal and wonderfully communal, the sort of atmosphere that seems to bring people together with little fuss.

On another occasion, as we drove through the city, our vehicle passed a roundabout adorned with temporary Waisak decorations. There stood two large Buddha statues alongside an Aśoka pillar. It was a striking sight, and I could not help thinking that such a public display would be almost impossible to imagine back home in Malaysia. For a brief moment, amid the traffic and bustle of Jakarta, the city seemed to pause and acknowledge the significance of the occasion.

We also drove through Jakarta's historic district, the Kota Tua Jakarta, the old colonial quarter once known as Batavia. Compared with Jakarta's gleaming shopping malls, Kota Tua feels basic, slower, grittier and more textured. The malls represent modern Jakarta: air-conditioned, polished and driven by consumption. Kota Tua, by contrast, preserves traces of the city's past, with its Dutch-era buildings, museums and cafés. It may not possess the commercial energy of Jakarta's mega malls, but it offers something increasingly rare in large cities, which is a sense of place and historical continuity.

Food, naturally, was another highlight. One memorable meal was at Pagi Sore, where we enjoyed a delicious spread of Indonesian dishes. Quite unexpectedly, I spotted an Old Free friend seated at another table. He looked familiar, though I was not entirely certain it was him. Rather than interrupt his meal, I discreetly took a photograph and sent it to him. A short while later, we were catching up in the restaurant.

Another memorable occasion was a farewell lunch hosted by our Indonesian Buddhist friends at the Angke Heritage Restaurant before we left for Jogjakarta. Angke is well known for its Hakka cuisine, but what impressed us immediately was the setting. We had arrived early and, for a while, had the whole place to ourselves.

The restaurant exuded a wonderfully tranquil atmosphere. Traditional Chinese architectural elements were woven throughout the grounds with moon gates, courtyards, pavilions set over water and landscaped gardens. It was a delight for photographers and diners alike.

Two nights earlier, we had been treated to dinner at Da Fa Chinese Seafood Restaurant. The dishes were not all that different from any Chinese seafood meals we enjoy in Penang, which perhaps explains why we tucked into them with such enthusiasm.

There was also a lunch dāna during the Waisak programme itself at a restaurant known as Lembur Kuring, where we sampled Sundanese and Javanese dishes with their distinctive inland flavours.

We visited Aloha Pasir Putih PIK 2, a modern waterfront lifestyle destination designed around a tropical beach theme. The place is often described as "the Hawaii of Jakarta", complete with palm trees, surfboard displays and large Polynesian-inspired statues. Its centrepiece is an artificial white-sand beach overlooking the coast.

The concept is clearly aimed at city dwellers looking for a short escape from Jakarta's relentless pace. Families strolled along the promenade, children played in the sand and groups of friends gathered at the many cafés and restaurants lining the waterfront. It was all very photogenic and unapologetically designed for the social media age.

The day before we departed for Jogjakarta, Bhante Dhammasubho joined us on a sightseeing tour that included a stop at Jakarta Cathedral. Officially known as the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Assumption, it is one of Indonesia's most important Catholic churches. Completed in 1901 in a neo-Gothic style, the cathedral stands directly opposite the Istiqlal Mosque, Southeast Asia's largest mosque. The juxtaposition of these two great houses of worship has become a symbol of Indonesia's commitment to religious harmony. In recent years, the two sites have even been physically linked by a pedestrian tunnel known as the "Tunnel of Friendship".

What struck me about those few days in Jakarta was the contrast between the modern city and the spiritual gathering we had come to attend. We spent time within the peaceful confines of Gedung BWE, surrounded by chanting, meditation and Dhamma talks. Yet just beyond its walls stretched one of the world's largest urban regions, with its endless roads, shopping centres and constant movement. Perhaps that was what made the experience so interesting. Amidst the speed and scale of Greater Jakarta, thousands of people had gathered quietly and purposefully to celebrate the Buddha's teachings. And for four days, we were fortunate enough to be part of it.

The original Chipmunk music

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Mon, 15 Jun 2026 22:43:00 +0000

I must have been seven, eight or perhaps nine years old when my father brought home these two Chipmunks records from Wing Hing Records, his friend's shop along Campbell Street. At that age, few things gave me more happiness than listening to David Seville and the Chipmunks. I played those LPs over and over again until I practically knew every song by heart.

For a few years, they were constant companions. Then I grew older and gradually moved on to other kinds of music. The records went back into their sleeves, placed in a cupboard and left untouched for decades. Until recently.

Something stirred in me and I went looking for them again. When I finally played them again and heard those familiar high-pitched voices, I felt an unexpected lump in my throat. In an instant, I was transported back to a time when I had not even yet reached the age of ten. Wonderful how music can do that. A song lasts only a few minutes, yet somehow it can unlock entire rooms of memory that have remained closed for half a century. What more a whole hour's worth from Let's All Sing with the Chipmunks and Sing Again with the Chipmunks.

As a child, I never questioned who the Chipmunks were. They simply existed. After all, children do not worry about such details. Alvin, Simon and Theodore were mischievous little creatures who sang funny songs, while the long-suffering David Seville tried to keep them in line. Only much later did I learn that neither the Chipmunks nor David Seville actually existed. The entire concept was the creation of one remarkably inventive man: Ross Bagdasarian Sr.

Bagdasarian was a first-generation Armenian-American from California. Early in his career, record executives felt that his surname was too long and too ethnic for show business. During the Second World War, he served as a control tower operator with the US Army Air Forces and spent some time stationed in Seville, Spain. The city made such an impression on him that he adopted "David Seville" as his stage name.

Before the Chipmunks came along, he had already established himself as a songwriter. In 1951, he had collaborated to write the quirky song Come On-a My House. After spending months trying to persuade someone to record it, he finally found success when Rosemary Clooney turned it into a number one hit.

Yet success in the music business can be fleeting. By late 1957, despite his earlier triumph, Bagdasarian was facing financial difficulties. Supporting a wife and three young children, he reportedly had only about US$200 left. Instead of spending the money on household expenses, he took a gamble. He bought a dual-speed tape recorder and began experimenting with tape speeds at home. He discovered that by recording his voice slowly at a lower pitch and then playing it back at normal speed, he could create an entirely new sound: bright, squeaky and unlike anything listeners had heard before.

His first experiment was Witch Doctor, released in early 1958. The famous refrain, Oo-ee, oo-ah-ah, ting-tang, walla-walla, bing-bang, became an instant sensation, selling more than a million copies and helping to rescue Liberty Records from financial trouble. Asked to come up with a follow-up, Bagdasarian expanded the idea into three animated chipmunks. Their names were playful nods to the executives at Liberty Records: Alvin after company president Al Bennett, Simon after co-founder Simon Waronker and Theodore after recording engineer Ted Keep.

Creating their voices was a feat in the days before digital technology. Bagdasarian recorded every character himself; four separate vocal tracks for Alvin, Simon, Theodore and Dave Seville while matching the timing manually with extraordinary precision. The result was The Chipmunk Song (Christmas Don't Be Late), released in late 1958. It became a runaway success and won three awards including Best Engineered Record (Non-Classical) at the inaugural Grammy Awards in 1959.

A string of hit records followed, including Alvin's Harmonica and Ragtime Cowboy Joe. Soon came the first full-length albums: Let's All Sing with the Chipmunks pressed on red vinyl in 1959 and Sing Again with the Chipmunks the following year. Those were the very records, with their 24 songs, that eventually found their way into my childhood home in Penang.

But of course, the songs were only part of the story. Beneath the squeaky voices was something far more personal: my father's love of his child in bringing those records home, the excitement of discovering new music as a child and the simple happiness of sitting beside the gramophone with nothing else demanding my attention. The Chipmunks may have been fictional, but the memories they created were very real. And after all these years, they still have the power to make me smile.

Staircase danger

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Tue, 09 Jun 2026 01:11:21 +0000

A recent unfortunate incident brought back a memory that I had not thought about for quite some time. Four years ago, I had a close call falling down. I was standing on a collapsible ladder, only on the first step, when the whole thing suddenly slid backwards. It happened so quickly that there was no time to react. Fortunately, as the steps shot away beneath me, I fell sideways onto my right rather than backwards. The only injury was a bruise on my thigh. Over the next few days it grew impressively black and blue, spreading much further than I would have imagined, before gradually fading away and healing completely. At the time, I regarded it as an unpleasant but ultimately minor incident. After all, nothing was broken and life went on as normal.

Recently, however, I learnt of a far more tragic accident involving someone I was acquainted with. He fell down the staircase at his home and never recovered from the injuries. The news affected me more than I expected. Perhaps it was because the circumstances sounded so ordinary. Stairs are among the most familiar features of any house. We climb them and descend them every day without giving them a second thought. Yet a staircase can become dangerous when something goes wrong.

As we grow older, we become more vulnerable. When we are young, a fall often results in embarrassment, a few bruises and perhaps a story to tell later. Age changes everything. Bones become more fragile. Reflexes slow down. Balance is no longer quite what it once was. A fall that a younger person might shrug off can become a life-changing event for an older adult.

Medical studies have shown that the direction of a fall can make a tremendous difference. Falling backwards is often especially dangerous because there is little opportunity to protect oneself. A person may strike the back of the head, neck or spine with considerable force. Falling forwards is not necessarily safer. The instinctive attempt to break the fall can result in fractured wrists, broken shoulders or facial injuries.

Then there is the question of height. One might assume that only a tumble from the top of a staircase is dangerous, but even a fall from the bottom few steps can have devastating consequences. A sideways landing can fracture a hip. For many elderly people, a broken hip becomes the beginning of a long and difficult decline involving surgery, rehabilitation and a loss of mobility.

What is particularly sobering is that the danger does not end with the initial injury. A serious fall can trigger a chain of consequences. Reduced mobility leads to muscle loss. Confidence disappears. Some people become fearful of moving about independently lest they fall again. Ironically, that reduced activity can weaken the body further and increase the likelihood of another fall.

As I thought about my acquaintance's passing, I found myself thinking not only about the fragility of the human body but also about how Buddhism approaches impermanence. We often associate impermanence with grand events: aging, illness and death. Yet there's also impermanence in the smallest moments. A misplaced step. A stumble from uneven floors of even one millimetre apart. A momentary loss of balance. An ordinary staircase climbed a thousand times before without incident.

We tend to imagine that major changes in life arrive with warning signs and dramatic announcements. More often, they arrive unexpectedly. One moment everything is normal. The next, circumstances have changed completely.

When I look back on my own accident, I realise how fortunate I was. Had I fallen differently, the outcome might have been very different. It was a reminder, one that I perhaps did not fully appreciate at the time, that we should never take safety for granted. These days when I climb a staircase, I find myself paying more attention. When I step onto a ladder, I ask someone to hold it. Not out of fear, but out of respect for the simple fact that our bodies are not indestructible. The older we become, the more we learn that life often hangs on small things: a secure handrail, a dry floor, a firm footing and perhaps a little good fortune. The loss of my acquaintance is a sad reminder of that truth. May he rest in peace.

Chan Ah Seng

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Mon, 08 Jun 2026 02:21:05 +0000

One of life's sobering moments comes when one attends the wake of someone one has known, however intermittently, over the years. Yesterday evening, I attended the wake of Dr Chan Ah Seng, a highly respected Obstetrician and Gynaecologist from Bagan Specialist Centre. Last Tuesday, he suffered a tragic accident at home and was rushed to the very hospital where he had spent much of his professional life caring for others. Sadly, the injuries proved too severe and he passed away on Saturday without regaining consciousness.

My wife and I first got to know him in 1990 when Saw See was expecting our son. Throughout the pregnancy, we consulted him regularly and in May 1991 he safely delivered a healthy baby boy into our lives. After that, as often happens, we lost touch. More than three decades passed before we met him again in March last year.

The years had changed all of us, of course, but he was instantly recognisable. By then he had become a volunteer at Nandaka Vihara Meditation Centre, offering free medical consultations once a month. It seemed entirely in character for a man who had spent his career helping people.

Last night's wake was attended by many from the medical fraternity as well as his former schoolmates from Sultan Abdul Hamid College. Listening to the conversations and seeing the steady stream of visitors, one could sense the regard in which he was held.

It was also there that I learnt something I had never known before. Dr Chan was the same age as me, though a few months older. Somehow that made his passing feel even more poignant. When someone of one's own generation departs so suddenly, it serves as a reminder of the Buddhist teaching that all conditioned things are impermanent. We may understand the principle well enough, but occasions like this bring it home in a very personal way. As life unfolds, all we can do is cherish the moment and the people we meet along the way.

Buah salak

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Sat, 06 Jun 2026 08:37:27 +0000

One of the unexpected pleasures of my recent trip to Jakarta and Jogjakarta was renewing my acquaintance with the salak fruit, better known to many as snake fruit because of its distinctive scaly skin.

Every morning at the hotel breakfast table, there would be a small tray of salak placed among the other fruits. There were usually only five or six fruits at a time and they tended to disappear almost as soon as the hotel staff brought them out. Before long, the group from Nandaka Vihara had developed quite an appetite for them. A few of our friends had never seen the fruit before and approached it with some caution at first. The skin looked unusual, almost reptilian, and certainly not like anything one would normally associate with a sweet fruit. But once they learnt how to peel it, many quickly became converts.

In fact, salak became so popular among our group that whenever the tray was emptied, all we had to do was ask. The hotel staff would smile and bring out another batch specially for us. By the end of the trip, some of our first-time salak eaters had become quite addicted to the fruit and looked forward to seeing it each morning.

We generally encountered two varieties. One had a dark mahogany maroon skin while the other was a lighter coppery brown. Both shared the same characteristic scales that give the fruit its snake-like appearance. Freshly harvested salak can also be surprisingly prickly. The skin is covered with tiny hard projections that can give an unsuspecting finger a little jab. Nothing serious, but enough to remind you to handle the fruit with some respect.

Inside, however, lies the reward. The cream-coloured flesh comes in segments rather like large garlic cloves. The texture is quite unlike most tropical fruits. It is not juicy like a rambutan or mangosteen. Instead, it is firm and crisp, almost like biting into a very dense apple or pear. The ones we encountered were consistently sweet and pleasant to eat, which perhaps explains why several members of our group became rather fond of them.

Salak is native to Indonesia but also grown in Malaysia. It is a thorny palm and the fruit grows in clusters at the base of the plant, surrounded by its natural prickly armour, and making harvesting a somewhat careful exercise. Indonesia produces many varieties, among them the Salak Pondoh from the Jogjakarta region, which is a variety prized for its sweetness even before it is fully ripe.

The more I ate it, the more I wondered why salak never became as internationally famous as durian, rambutan or mangosteen. Perhaps its appearance works against it. The rough scaly skin is hardly inviting at first glance. Yet those willing to look beyond the exterior discover a fruit that is both distinctive and enjoyable.

I also learnt that the fruit continues to attract scientific interest. Researchers have studied the seeds for various useful compounds, including oils and antioxidants. In parts of Indonesia, the seeds have even been roasted and ground to produce a coffee substitute. It seems that almost every part of the fruit has found a use somewhere.

For me, though, the strongest memory remains those breakfasts in Indonesia. A plate of salak sitting quietly among the other fruits. Friends reaching for one, then another. Curious first-timers becoming enthusiastic converts. Travel is often remembered through such simple experiences and for our Nandaka Vihara group, salak turned out to be one of the pleasant discoveries of the journey.

Maxwell Road

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Wed, 03 Jun 2026 22:10:00 +0000

Ever since I wrote about old Gladstone Road several days ago, I have been thinking that perhaps a story about the schools, cinemas and amusement parks that disappeared during the KOMTAR redevelopment would also be in order. Many of them were located along Maxwell Road, another old street that vanished during the same redevelopment period. But roads alone do not make up a city. What truly gives life to an urban neighbourhood are the people, the schools where children studied, the cinemas where families gathered at night and the amusement parks where crowds drifted through beneath bright lights and loud music. Much of that old social landscape disappeared along with the roads.

When the KOMTAR project was launched in the 1970s, it was presented as a vision of modernisation for George Town. Large sections of the roughly triangular-shaped district, bordered by Prangin Road, McNair Street, Magazine Road and Penang Road, were cleared to make way for the massive 27-axre complex. Hundreds of buildings disappeared in the process. For many people today, especially younger Penangites, it is difficult to fathom just how densely packed and lively that part of town once was.

Along Maxwell Road and the nearby streets stood rows of traditional pre-war shophouses facing the old Prangin Canal. Many housed long-established Chinese family businesses such as metalsmiths hammering away in narrow workshops, bicycle and tyre shops, provision stores stacked with sacks of rice and dried goods, herbal medicine halls with drawers of roots and herbs, coffee shops and small trading companies dealing in everything from household utensils to joss paper offerings. Opposite these shophouses were compact roadside stalls selling inexpensive local goods and daily necessities to workers, students and shoppers passing through the area. Cobblers too were a common sight, quietly repairing worn shoes for customers seated nearby waiting patiently for the work to be completed.

The district was also one of George Town’s busiest transport hubs. Along Maxwell Road stood the old bus terminals and stopping points for the Lim Seng Seng green buses, the blue Hin Company buses and the familiar buses of the Penang Yellow Bus Company that connected the city to the suburbs. There was even a public toilet built on a pedestrian bridge across the canal, and one could not help wondering whether the waste went straight into the murky water below or was somehow channelled elsewhere for disposal. The entire area constantly moved with people: office workers, market traders, schoolchildren, cinema patrons and bus passengers all crossing paths from morning until late into the night. For a brief period from 1980 to 1983, I too became part of that daily flow of commuters, waiting along Maxwell Road for a green bus that would take me home to Ayer Itam.

Among the losses were four well-known cinemas that had once formed part of George Town’s busy entertainment circuit. There was the Capitol Theatre along Maxwell Road, built on land originally occupied by the Windsor Theatre. Nearby stood the Paramount Theatre and the Royal Theatre, both especially remembered for screening Hindi and Tamil films and attracting large Indian audiences from across Penang. Somewhere around where Komtar Walk is today, crowds once queued outside these cinemas. Then there was the Eastern Theatre, another familiar single-screen cinema that disappeared during the early redevelopment phase.

In those days, cinemas were not simply places to watch films. They were social gathering points. Young couples went there on dates, families planned weekend outings around them, and workers escaping the day’s heat found refuge inside the cool darkness of the theatre halls. Before television became dominant, these cinemas formed part of everyday urban life.

Several schools also vanished during the redevelopment. One of the most historically significant was Chung Hwa Confucian Primary School at Maxwell Road, among the oldest Chinese schools in the country. Its old premises served generations of students before the final batches left in 1979. The school later moved to Ayer Itam and split into Chung Hwa Confucian A and B.

Li Teik School also stood within the redevelopment zone. Interestingly, its Maxwell Road premises had once belonged to the old Anglo-Chinese School long before ACS moved to Ayer Itam Road in 1929. Li Teik inherited that educational space and carried on serving the local community until relocation became unavoidable. The school eventually shifted to Macallum Street Ghaut.

Then there was Tong Sian Primary School along Gladstone Road itself. Unlike the larger brick school compounds, Tong Sian functioned from converted pre-war shophouses in the crowded heart of the old neighbourhood. One can only imagine what school life must have been like there, surrounded by metalsmith shops, traders, food stalls and the nearby Sia Boey market. When Gladstone Road disappeared, the school too had to move, eventually settling at Dato Kramat Road where it remains today.

And somewhere amidst all this stood the old Great World Amusement Park. Older Penangites still remember it as one of the lively entertainment spaces of central George Town. There were games, food stalls, music and crowds wandering about in the evenings. Nearby too was the Fun & Frolic Park, another amusement area that formed part of the same nightlife landscape around Prangin and Magazine Roads. These places belonged to an era before shopping malls and multiplexes, when entertainment was more open-air, communal and slightly rough around the edges.

The redevelopment that produced KOMTAR undoubtedly changed George Town forever. From the planners’ perspective, it was meant to modernise the city and prepare it for the future. But in doing so, an older urban world disappeared. Roads vanished. Schools relocated. Cinemas closed. Amusement parks faded away. A neighbourhood that once remained active day and night gradually gave way to concrete plazas, office towers and wide traffic systems.

Today, when people walk through KOMTAR, Prangin Mall or Komtar Walk, very few would realise how much life once occupied the same ground. Beneath the modern structures lies an older layer of George Town memory, one filled with schoolchildren, cinema queues, market traders and the sounds of amusement parks glowing into the Penang night.