SS Quah's Anything Goes

Grab, why?

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Fri, 10 Apr 2026 03:26:00 +0000

How I would drive to get home

Had to take Grab yesterday from an Icon City food court to get home. Car came fast, like 5 minutes, no issue there. Fare was RM11, time was around 1.30pm. Now normally if I drive myself, I’d just go straight into Chian Heng Kai Road, turn right into Song Ban Kheng, then keluar to Kulim Road. Simple, direct, done. But yesterday, it was a completely different story.

Driver went some weird, roundabout way. Even getting onto Kebun Nenas Road also not direct. He looped around inside Icon City first, which honestly I’d never do. Then from Kebun Nenas, instead of keeping it simple, he turned onto the old north-south trunk road, only then into Kota Permai.

How Grab drove me home

I thought okay, maybe that’s it. Nope, there was more nonsense after that. Grab map suddenly send him into Alma instead of just going straight like a normal person would. Then instead of turning into Taman Desa Palma, he masuk one small narrow kampung-style road where two cars also need to slow down and squeeze past each other, and came into my area from the back. Ended up travelling extra like 2km for nothing.

So now I’m thinking… why did Grab route like that? Why not just take the obvious, shorter way? Feels a bit suspicious. Like purposely make the trip longer so can justify the RM11 fare when it could’ve been cheaper if just went direct?

#Grab

A time of remembrance

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Tue, 07 Apr 2026 04:35:00 +0000

Cheng Beng (清明) is over for us this year. We finished it last week, spread over two visits. The first was on Monday at Sungai Lembu on the mainland, the second on Friday on the island. The mainland trip was for my father-in-law, who died four years ago. That Nirvana site, I must say, is very well kept. Clean, orderly, almost too neat in a way. There were attendants arranging tables, making sure everything was in place. Very convenient.

A few days later we went to the older graves, my two sets of grandparents at Batu Lanchang and Wat Pimbang On. These are out in the open, exposed to sun and rain, so timing mattered a lot. There was a time we used to leave at six in the morning, reaching Batu Lanchang around 6.45am, the cemetery cloaked in darkness but other people were already out and about to perform their own Cheng Beng obligations. In the past decade we eased that a bit, leaving at 6.30am and arriving around 7.15am, just as the sun nudged above the trees. This year we went even later. Left the house at seven, got there about 7.45am. The morning helped us out: a bit overcast, so the heat didn’t come down too hard.

From Batu Lanchang we crossed over to Wat Pimbang On, a Siamese cemetery that looked more chaotic and less organised. Somehow, I felt that many people have already abandoned the place. Untidy and unkempt with overgrown grass, vegetation all around. Even under the canopy of trees, we could feel the day catching up with us. The sun's rays were cutting through the humidity. After that, our final stop was the Triple Wisdom Temple, where we paid respects to the memorial tablets of my parents and aunt. A quieter ending, it was indoors but no less meaningful.

I remember as a child in the late 1950s or early 1960s, when we were still living at Seang Tek Road, Cheng Beng meant booking a trishaw pedlar from down the road to take my grandmother, my mother and me to the Batu Gantong cemetery. At six o’clock sharp, the trishaw would arrive and wait for us. Then came the slow, unhurried ride through York Road and Batu Gantong Road. Along the way we passed huge angsana trees, their small yellow flowers falling constantly around us and carpeting the road. After all these years, I can still remember the cool morning breeze and that feeling of calm and serenity.

Every year going through this Cheng Beng process, I find myself thinking about the alternate name people like to use, Tomb-Sweeping Day. It’s not wrong, but it never quite right either. Yes, we clear the lallang, clean the headstones and tidy up the place. That part is visible and easy to describe. But there's more to Cheng Beng because the sweeping is only incidental. It’s just something that needs to be done before anything else can happen. To call the whole day by that one act feels like missing the point. It turns something that has taken shape over centuries into a simple task, almost like a chore to be checked off.

Cheng Beng itself means “clear and bright”. It began as a marker in the yearly Chinese lunisolar cycle. As far back as the Zhōu Dynasty 周朝 (1046–256 BC), people were already observing the seasons through solar terms, paying attention to the small changes in light, air, growth and renewal. Cheng Beng marked the time when the sky cleared, the air sharpened and the earth began to stir again after the stillness of winter. It wasn’t a festival in the beginning, just a moment in nature.

But alongside that, there was always this deep-rooted practice of remembering those who came before. In the Zhōu world, burial grounds were under official care. Remembering wasn’t optional, it was part of maintaining continuity. By the Warring States period 戰國時代 (475–221 BC), these practices had been adopted by ordinary families. People began visiting graves, bringing offerings, acknowledging that their lives were part of something longer, something that didn’t begin or end with them. By the time of the Táng Dynasty 唐朝 (618–907 AD), with Confucian values firmly in place, filial piety became something the state actively encouraged. Cheng Beng became the natural time for these acts of remembrance.

So when we reduce it to “tomb sweeping”, something feels out of place. The clearing of grass and the washing of stone are just preparations. What's more important are the quieter moments that come after. The offer of food and fruits, the lighting of the joss sticks, calling the names of the forefathers, standing there for a while without saying much but having a quiet conversation with them in the mind, then the burning of paper offerings before leaving. Every time, it feels like we are continuing a process that has always been there.

There’s no festivity in it, and I don’t think there is meant to be. Just a kind of stillness, even when the sun is already up and the day is getting warm. Families gathering, not out of obligation alone but because something in the rhythm of the year brings them back. And in that space, between the living and the remembered, the connection doesn’t feel distant at all.

Blue-eyed soul

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Sat, 04 Apr 2026 22:26:00 +0000

I didn’t buy Blue-Eyed Soul because I was chasing disco. I bought it because it looked like something that didn’t quite belong. Most of my mid-1970s records leant one way or another: pop, folk, rock, soul. This one sat slightly apart. The name itself was curiously Asian: The Biddu Orchestra.

Behind it was Biddu Appaiah, who had come to England in the late 1960s and spent years trying to make something happen. His turning point came in 1974 with Kung Fu Fighting, recorded by Carl Douglas. It was meant to be a B-side of a 45 but it turned out be a hit instead. With Bruce Lee ruling the screens, Kung Fu Fighting ruled the airwaves. Biddu had arrived.

When I played my copy of Blue-Eyed Soul, what I noticed was how clean the sound was. The rhythm was steady, The strings didn’t swirl wildly; they arrive on cue. The brass didn’t compete; it supported the music. It felt assembled rather than jammed.

Summer of ’42, drawn from Michel Legrand’s film theme, could easily have tipped into novelty. Instead it was an elegant arrangement. Aranjuez Mon Amour, adapted from Joaquín Rodrigo, was something similar. Biddu took something formal and gave it a pulse without turning it into parody. Even Exodus followed that same path. He took a melody people already knew and let it move.

The title track, Blue Eyed Soul, summed up the mood. It wasn’t gritty soul in the American sense. It was smoother and more polished, more British. And that’s what this record really was: a producer’s idea of how disco should be. The Orchestra wasn’t a touring band. It was top-tier musicians brought together to realise one man’s arrangements. The producer as the central figure who shaped the sound, deciding the tone, setting the pace.

Which perhaps explains why the record felt different even then. It wasn’t chasing the disco wave. It was constructing its own version of it.

Addendum: In fact, Biddu was quietly helping to shape the early sound of British disco even before the genre fully exploded in the United States. After the success of Kung Fu Fighting with Carl Douglas, he developed a studio style built on tight arrangements, polished strings and disciplined rhythm sections, using top session musicians rather than a touring band. The emphasis was on precision rather than improvisation, with the producer firmly directing the sound. In that sense, records like Blue-Eyed Soul reflected an early shift toward the modern idea of the producer as the central creative force behind the music.

Side 1: Blue-eyed soul, Black magic man, Aranjuez mon amour, Joy-ice, Northern dancer

Side 2: Summer of 42, Couldn't we be friends (song for Su), Exodus, You don't stand a chance if you can't dance

Panguni Uthiram festival

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Wed, 01 Apr 2026 22:46:00 +0000

On my way to a hospital appointment yesterday morning, I was caught in a heavy traffic congestion that stretched almost a mile long. At first, I thought that there was an accident up ahead but when I rounded a corner, I realised it wasn't. It was an Indian religious festival taking place, every year around this time in Bukit Mertajam.

Along the road to the hospital, cars were moving bumper-to-bumper, going past temporary stalls and altars. Eventually, I passed by the Shri Maha Mangalanayagi Amman Devasthanam, crowded with devotees mainly wearing yellow. My curiosity was piqued. What an opportunity it would be to visit. But that would have to wait until my appointment was over.

Leaving the hospital at about 11.15am, I crossed the road only to be stopped in my tracks by the temple chariot being pushed and pulled to the main road. What luck, the procession was about to begin. Only then did I begin to appreciate what I had just stumbled into.

This temple goes way back to 1893. More than a hundred years old, it started off tucked inside a Tamil school, the old Ramanathan Tamil School. In those days, the deity was known as Sungurumbai Mariamman. Over time, as the school moved out, the community grew and the temple grew with it, eventually becoming what it is today, a full-fledged devasthanam. This was quite typical of how early Indian settlers in Malaya did things. They started small, built what they could and slowly over the years, those little shrines became proper temples.

Today, the temple stands along Jalan Kulim, not far from the hospital, with its towering gopuram and all the usual South Indian architectural features. And of course, that chariot I spoke of. Big, imposing, intricately carved, and I was standing just feet away. People say it is one of the largest in this part of the region and seeing it up close, I have no reason to doubt that.

The festival itself, which I had unknowingly walked into, was the Panguni Uthiram, the main event of the year for this temple. Everything had built up to this day. Early in the morning, special prayers would have been conducted. The goddess, Mangalanayagi Amman, would have been dressed in silk sarees, adorned with gold jewellery and fresh flower garlands. By the time I arrived, all that had already been done and the focus had shifted outside.

The chariot was brought out slowly to the road. The deity placed within, and then the long pull began. Devotees took hold of the ropes, inched the whole structure forward along a fixed route through town. Wasn't a fast affair, the procession could take the whole day accompanied by the steady beat of drums and the wail of the nadaswaram.

Along the route, people lined both sides of the road. Makeshift stalls were everywhere, a bit like a moving carnival except that underneath it all, there was a deep sense of devotion. I could see it in the faces of those carrying milk pots on their heads, fulfilling their vows. Others carried the kavadi, walking barefoot under the hot sun. These are personal acts of devotion, fulfilling promises made and now being honoured.

What struck me most was how the whole town seemed to adjust itself around the procession. Traffic slowed to a crawl, people waited patiently, nobody really complaining. Everyone knew what was happening. This wasn’t an interruption. It was part of life here.

The first thing I noticed on entering the temple was the dwajasthambam standing tall in front of the main sanctum that housed the Goddess Mangalanayagi Amman. But since the statue had been taken out for the procession, only the priests remained. Devotees continued lining up to pray before the sanctum, and the priests kept passing containers of cow’s milk inside. At the side of the sanctum, the emptied milk flowed out through an opening in the wall.

In the multi-purpose hall next to the temple, free food was being served. I was curious to see what was on offer and suddenly, an empty plate was thrust into my hand. A holy man urged me to join the queue, and I came away with a plate of Indian vegetarian rice that never tasted more delicious.

All these sights, sounds, smells and tastes at the temple. To think that I had almost dismissed them as just another traffic jam.

Grandparents

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Tue, 31 Mar 2026 22:18:00 +0000

This story touches on the darker side of life and death. It may come across as a little sad, even depressing. For a long time, I hesitated over whether I should write anything at all about the passing of the people on my side of the family who were closest to me. I refer to my two sets of grandparents, my parents and a paternal aunt who stayed with me right to the very end of her life. But then I thought, I had already touched on my paternal grandfather before, how he died and how his remains were taken to the funeral parlour. That was my very first personal brush with death in the family. I was nine years old, and the unpleasant experience terrified me. Having gone that far, perhaps I should write about the others too.

Let me recap what I wrote last August 2025. My paternal grandfather (Quah Teik Beng) died in the wee hours of 10 December 1963 at the age of 66. Someone came round to Seang Tek Road to wake my father. By the time we arrived, his body was already cold. Later, a man from the coffin shop came to take the body to the Toi Shan Convalescent Home in Hutton Lane for the funeral preparations. Despite the name, the ground floor of this "convalescent home" was entirely a funeral parlour, divided into cubicles. Lighting was poor. At night, after the rituals, only a dim bulb lit the corridor. Shadows were cast on the walls, and if a candle was still burning, the shadows would dance. The dead, covered only with blankets, lay on wooden planks waiting for their coffins. As a young boy, I found the whole atmosphere terrifying.

One ritual involved wiping my grandfather’s darkened face and symbolically feeding him rice, placing a few grains on his lips for his final journey. That moment, staring into his lifeless face, has stayed with me to this day.

During the funeral, we had to wear black, topped with the mua sah, the rough hemp mourning cloth. My father wore a matching headgear made from the same coarse material. All of this was meant to show outwardly the depth of grief, that the mourner no longer cared for comfort or appearance. After the funeral, we were required to mourn for three years: wearing black for the first year, black-and-white for the second, then white-and-blue for the third. No celebrations were allowed. No angpow during Chinese New Year. Rigid rules, but that was the way things were done then.

Less than three years later, on 11 February 1966, my maternal grandfather (Oh Joo Siew) passed away, 68 years old. Although we had not completed the mourning period for my paternal grandfather, my parents and I had to quickly tnooi ang, literally meaning return to red, before going back into mourning again.

Of the two, my maternal grandfather was my favourite. He doted on me and much later, on my young cousin Irene. In the evenings, he would take me to a nearby Indian sundry shop. I was happy with the simplest things: sweets, crackers, biscuits. In return, I became very attached to him. So when he died, I was devastated. Just the day before his death, he was carrying his one- or two-year-old granddaughter happily in his arms. He could no longer walk while carrying her, having suffered from a mild stroke the year before. And that was the last time he ever held Irene.

At about five in the morning, my grandmother woke the family to say he was not responding to her call. We rushed downstairs to see him laying still on the bed. I shook him, beseeching him to call me, but all we heard was a gurgling sound from his throat. That was all. A massive stroke had taken him. Soon after, my mother’s sister arrived. She fell to her knees and crawled into the house, wailing that she would never see him again. That set my mother off again, though she had already been crying earlier.

Since he died at home, the wake was held in the house. The living room furniture was cleared, pictures removed, altars and mirrored surfaces covered with red paper. His body was placed on a narrow bed behind makeshift curtains. The curtains were drawn but if I climbed the stairs behind the living room to go upstairs, I could still look down at my grandfather's body. The coffin came the next day, and then there were the Taoist rites. My mother and aunt took turns kneeling beside the curtains, burning joss paper piece by piece, their mourning interrupted by fresh wails whenever relatives came. I was supposed to kneel and receive them as they entered, such was the custom.

As my grandfather hadn't any son, there was nobody in the immediate family to wear the mua sah during the funeral. Instead one of his nephews in Penang, his elder brother's son, stepped in to wear this rough hemp clothing and also carry the tong huan or paper lantern. For the year-long mourning period, we were wearing only black-and-white, which was comparatively a more relaxed requirement than my earlier experience.

Soon after, my paternal grandmother (Lim Poh Choo) and aunt moved in with us at Seang Tek Road. She was already unwell and my father wanted her nearby. For a time, both my grandmothers lived under the same roof, a rather unusual arrangement.

But my paternal grandmother’s condition worsened. She tried all sorts of treatments, including an enema to unblock her bowels, but it only left her weaker than before. By early 1967, just before Chinese New Year, it was clear she would not last. On the night she died at the age of 62, on the sixth of February, my maternal grandmother decided to go stay with her other daughter to avoid the inevitable, but it was too late. Just as she reached the door, my mother’s wails drifted down from upstairs. She was trapped, and had to remain in the house through the funeral process.

Because it was so close to Chinese New Year, few relatives came and we couldn't fault anyone for that. It was a quiet affair except for the obligatory wails by my mother and paternal aunt. The funeral took place on the eve of the Chinese New Year and that night, as neighbours lit firecrackers and celebrated, our doorway had no red cloth and our lantern remained unlit. My father and I sat on the five-foot way and watched in silence.

This time, we completed the mourning period of one year. After that came the tnooi ang ritual. A cleansing bath, followed by the sin tok or pouring scented water and seven-coloured flowers over the head before changing into red clothes.

In the mid-1970s, we moved to Lorong Zoo Tiga in Ayer Itam. I can’t recall the exact year, maybe 1974 or 1975. The landlord of the row of four Seang Tek Road houses wanted them back. All the tenants resisted but eventually, we had to leave. We moved in with my maternal grandmother’s sister. Space was tight. My parents, aunt, sister Judy and I crammed into one room, while my grandmother (Tan Kim Lean) shared another with her sister's daughter.

It was there that she passed away on 16 August 1980, aged 79. She had long suffered from weak lungs. On that day, her breathing finally failed and she collapsed on the bed in my mother's arms. I remember that on the first night of the wake, there was a power failure. The house was in darkness, lit only by a pair of candles at my grandmother's feet. Immediately my mind raced back to that funeral parlour in Hutton Lane in 1963 when shadows danced on the wall. When the lights came back, I felt a huge sense of relief. By the time of her passing, mourning customs in Penang were already beginning to shift. Some of the older, more rigid practices were being relaxed. For instance, the wearing of black-and-white was shortened to about 100 days, a more practical arrangement for modern times.

There is one small incident I should mention. There is a Taoist belief that the soul lingers until the seventh day, not fully aware that it has departed the physical shell. The living cannot see it, but there may be signs of its presence. On the fifth day after her passing, two days after the funeral, most of the family had gone out. Only my sister, my paternal aunt and I were at home. My sister, as usual, started talking her light-hearted nonsense, even making jokes about our grandmother. Suddenly, from the back of the house, there was a loud crash of pots and pans falling to the floor. We froze. Then my sister started crying. Was it coincidence? Or was our departed grandmother cross about the jokes and wanted to show her displeasure? We shall never know for sure.

I think I’ve gone on long enough for now. There are still more to say, but perhaps I’ll leave those for another time when I feel ready to return to this topic.

NOTE: This story is part of my reminiscence series which I've been adding to my blog once in a while. The series is meant to document things I remember about my younger and childhood days; my important memories, which may be pretty mundane to other people, to pass down to my son and daughter. Life as it used to be in the 1950s to 1970s, perhaps into the 1990s. But let's see how it goes...

#seangtekroad

Oh, what a Carry On

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Tue, 31 Mar 2026 04:01:00 +0000

The very first Carry On film I saw at the cinema was Carry On Doctor and from that moment on I was hooked on every Carry On film that ever screened in Penang. That continued until I temporarily moved to Kuala Lumpur in 1973 for my studies. Even then I believe I might have caught one or two Carry On films there as well, but I honestly don't remember much about them now. A lot of those memories came rushing back recently when I received this album, Oh! What a Carry On, from Anwar Fazal.

Come to think of it, the humour in those films reminds me a little of the Bawdy Songs and Backroom Ballads record by Oscar Bran,d which I mentioned a fortnight ago. Brand may not have been British, but many of the songs he collected and recorded came from the same old Anglo folk tradition of cheeky double meanings and playful innuendo, something the Carry On films turned into an art form on the cinema screen.

Oh! What a Carry On is a rather interesting little compilation that was released in June 1971. It brought together novelty songs and pop recordings by several stars from the Carry On movies. What made it unusual was that none of these songs were actually recorded for the films themselves. Most of them were singles released during the 1950s and 60s, later gathered together by the record company to ride on the huge popularity of the Carry On gang.

The LP contains 12 tracks. Side A opened with Be My Girl by Jim Dale, which was a genuine hit in Britain back in 1957, reaching number two on the charts. That was followed by You Need Feet by the towering Bernard Bresslaw. Barbara Windsor contributed On Mother Kelly’s Doorstep, while Frankie Howerd appeared with It’s Alright With Me. The real comic highlight of the side was Kenneth Williams performing as Rambling Syd Rumpo in Green Grow My Nadgers Oh! before the side closed with Spring Song by Joan Sims.

Side B continued the fun with The Ugly Duckling sung by Kenneth Connor. Jim Dale returned again with Piccadilly Line. Dora Bryan offered a cheeky rendition of Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend. Frankie Howerd popped up again with Song and Dance Man while Joan Sims sang another number titled Men. The album closed with another Rambling Syd Rumpo performance by Kenneth Williams called The Ballad of the Woggler’s Moulie.

The Rambling Syd Rumpo tracks are probably the most famous items here. The character actually came from the BBC radio programme Round the Horne which ran between 1965 and 1968. The writers came up with a clever trick to get past the BBC censors. They filled the lyrics with nonsense words that sounded extremely rude but technically meant nothing at all. Words like nadgers, moulies and cordwangle had audiences roaring with laughter while the censors could not really object because those words did not exist in any dictionary.

Another fascinating aspect of this album is the early career of Jim Dale. Long before he became a familiar face in the Carry On films, he was actually a teenage pop star produced by George Martin at Parlophone, years before Martin discovered The Beatles. Be My Girl, which appeared on this LP, was one of Dale’s biggest hits. Ironically he never enjoyed the life of a pop idol and preferred comedy, which eventually led him straight into the Carry On series. Much later he reinvented himself again as the narrator of the hugely popular Harry Potter audiobooks, performing more than a hundred different character voices.

Even the sleeve artwork is worth mentioning. The cover illustration was done by Tom Chantrell, the artist responsible for many of the colourful Carry On film posters that once decorated cinema lobbies.

Today, the record feels like a small time capsule from the golden age of British comedy. And for me personally, thanks to Anwar Fazal’s thoughtful gift, it also brings back memories of those days in Penang when a new Carry On film arriving at the cinema was always guaranteed to fill the hall with laughter.

Cataract routine

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Sun, 29 Mar 2026 02:43:00 +0000

It’s been almost two weeks since the cataract operation on my left eye. I’ve already gone back twice for follow-up sessions with the surgeon and, according to him, everything is progressing well. So far, I haven’t experienced any of the warning signs he mentioned earlier, no pain, no discharge, nothing out of the ordinary, so that in itself is already something to be thankful for. There’s one more follow-up scheduled towards the end of next month, just to make sure everything continues on track.

So how do I feel with this artificial lens sitting inside the eye? From the very first day, the difference was quite striking. Vision suddenly became very bright and very clear. Almost too clear, if that makes sense. The best way I can describe it is with the Penang Hokkien expression, Cheng Beng. It's the same term used for this time of the year when we Chinese make our way to the cemeteries to spring clean the graves of our ancestors and especially, to remember and fulfil our duties to those that came before us. Cheng and Beng, clear and bright. That same sense of clarity in the air, as if everything has been washed clean. That’s exactly how things look now. Colours appear more vivid, whites look whiter and there’s a certain crispness to everything that I don’t remember having for quite some time.

But of course, it’s not all perfectly balanced yet. The left eye is now long-sighted, while the right eye is still short-sighted. So when I look at something, the left eye sees it sharp and clear, while the right eye comes in slightly behind, blurred and struggling to catch up. It’s a strange sensation, like the two eyes are not quite in agreement with each other. At times I find myself unconsciously favouring the left eye, letting it take the lead.

I suppose this is part of the adjustment period. The brain probably needs time to sort things out and decide how to combine the two different images into something workable. For now, I just carry on as usual, reading, moving about, letting the eyes and the mind slowly get used to this new arrangement. How long that will take, I really don’t know. But at least for now, things are heading in the right direction, and that’s good enough for me.

Of course, there are all the little routines that now come with it. Whenever I’m outdoors in the daytime, I have to wear sunglasses. “Protect your eyes from the ultraviolet light,” the surgeon warned. For how long, I asked. “As long as necessary,” he said. I suppose that means quite indefinitely.

At night, I have to put on an eye shield before going to bed. It’s quite a ritual, sticking it on with surgical tape. For afternoon naps, it’s much simpler, just the sunglasses will do. Both are really there to stop me from accidentally touching or rubbing the eye when I’m not fully aware of what I’m doing.

Then there are the eye drops. Three different types, several times a day. And this, not counting my glaucoma eyedrops too! By now I’ve more or less settled into the routine. Life goes on. I’ve even resumed driving, although with the difference in vision between the two eyes, I do have to be more careful and alert. Night driving I’ve not attempted yet, leaving that to my wife for the time being.

On the hygiene side, showering is not a problem, although I’ve avoided shampooing my hair these past two weeks. Instead, I give the scalp a good wipe with a damp cloth. Surprisingly refreshing. The eyelid too gets a daily clean with damp cotton puffs, just to remove any accumulated dirt. But that’s as far as I go when it comes to getting water near the eye.

As for food, the surgeon more or less dismissed any need for restrictions. But my wife, after listening to various well-meaning friends, has taken a different view. So for now, anything involving prawns, shrimp, hehbee or belachan is off the menu. Pantang for three weeks, she decided. Thus, no Hokkien mee, no char koay teow. She is the "She Who Must Be Obeyed", as the character Rumpole in Rumpole of the Bailey would say of his wife. Woe is me.

As a postscript, perhaps I should say that inevitably, in the longer term, I shall need another operation on the right eye to balance up my vision. That is something for another day. For now, I’ll just let things settle and take it as it comes.

#chengbeng

Butterworth's PPC complex

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Wed, 25 Mar 2026 22:50:00 +0000

A few days ago, I made a passing reference to the Penang Port Commission Complex (PPC Complex) in Butterworth when writing about the 1988 ferry terminal tragedy. I used to pass through that building regularly on my way to work from about 1980 to 2000. Not quite every day, but often enough. Slightly more than 20 years of ferry commuting. So yes, I knew the place quite well. Here’s what I remember.

Not many people think about it now, but the old PPC Complex didn’t just fade away quietly. It went out in a blaze, literally. On 20 May 2001, at about five o'clock in the morning, a fire broke out in the building which most people simply called the Butterworth bus terminal. The fire started on the upper floors where the Parkson Ria Department Store and Tops were located. It was a major one which took the firefighters nearly 12 hours to bring it fully under control, only around five in the evening.

By then the damage was severe. The top floor, including parts of the roof, was badly gutted. The rest of the building was no longer usable. Not long after that, the whole structure was demolished. Today, Penang Sentral stands on the same spot.

The building itself went back to the mid-1970s. It was completed in 1976 at a cost of about RM3.5 million, which in those days was not small money. It was considered quite modern then. The ground floor housed a 24-bay bus terminal, along with a police post, ticket counters and taxi stands. And once you came down the staircases, taxi drivers and bus touts would be calling out, each trying to pull you towards their taxis or ticket counters.

The first floor was where the small retail shops and food stalls were located. That was where people hung around, especially in the 1980s and 1990s. Nothing fanciful here. Just everyday things, cheap food and a place to wait for connecting buses. Up on the top floor was the shopping area. Emporium Holdings was one of the early tenants before Parkson Ria came in later. At one time there was even a small cinema.

This Parkson Ria outlet, in particular, was one of the places on the mainland to shop in the 1990s. I remember once being there with the whole family when my son, probably three or four years old at the time, decided to play hide and seek among the clothes racks. One moment he was there, the next moment he was gone. With all those unverified stories going around then about children being abducted, we were alarmed and started searching frantically, calling out his name. He remained quiet and then suddenly, out he popped from between the racks, grinning away. For that little stunt, his reward was a quick smack on his bottom.

The PPC Complex wasn’t just a building. For many people it was part of daily life. Students passed through it on their way to school. Workers used it every day, taking buses and ferries across to the island. On the odd occasion, I would be there too, waiting for a bus back to Seberang Jaya when my car wasn’t available. It was also a convenient meeting point, the sort of place where people would say, “wait for me at the bus terminal,” and everyone knew exactly where that meant. And then there were those who went there to lepak, simply not knowing what to do with their time. People lingering, watching the world go by, making the place feel alive. And the occasional students playing truant, trying to blend into the crowd, though not always successfully.

The complex was linked to the Butterworth railway station by a long covered overhead walkway, maybe a hundred or two hundred metres. Somewhere along that stretch, a branch veered off to the ferry terminal. That was where foot passengers bought their tickets, passed through the turnstile and waited for the next ferry. I remember always having a book with me, thanks to my British Council Library membership. Waiting time was reading time, whether in the terminal or on the ferry itself. And it was that very ferry terminal that collapsed in 1988.

After the fire and demolition, the area went quiet. Buses and taxis were forced to operate from somewhere else close enough. Then, years later, something new rose in its place. Penang Sentral, opened at the end of 2018. Clean, modern, efficient. Everything the old complex was not.

But for those of us who remember, the old PPC Complex was never just a bus terminal. It was a meeting point, a waiting place, part of the rhythm of daily life. A bit chaotic, a bit worn, but very much alive in its time. Now, like so many things in Butterworth, it lives on only in memory.

#penangportcommission #ppc #butterworth

David Cassidy

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Mon, 23 Mar 2026 22:13:00 +0000

It's almost nine years since David Cassidy passed away. Looking back now, it’s hard to explain just how big he was in the early 1970s. These days we throw the term “teen idol” around rather casually, but in Cassidy’s case it really meant something. For a few short years he seemed to be everywhere: television, radio, record racks in the shops and the bedroom walls of teenagers all over the world. Even here in Penang you couldn’t miss him.

Cassidy first burst into the public consciousness through the musical sitcom The Partridge Family, which began airing in 1970. He played Keith Partridge, the son in a family band that travelled around performing. The show itself was light entertainment, but the music took on a life of its own. When the single I Think I Love You came out, it became a massive international hit. It was heard everywhere, from record shops along Campbell Street to radios playing in coffee shops.

But anyone searching for I Think I Love You on a Partridge Family album might have been slightly puzzled. The song first appeared in 1970 as a seven-inch 45 rpm single issued under The Partridge Family name, with David Cassidy on lead vocal, and it quickly became a huge international hit. That was the format most people knew it from at the time. In later years, however, collectors sometimes encountered the track again on compilations such as David Cassidy’s Greatest Hits rather than on albums credited to The Partridge Family. Back in those days, if you wandered into, for instance, Wing Hing Records on Campbell Street and asked for the song, chances were the proprietor would simply point you to whichever record that happened to have it in stock.

The recording itself also had an interesting backstory. Despite the television image of a family band, most of the studio recording was actually done by seasoned Los Angeles session musicians. Cassidy sang the lead vocal, but the backing band was part of the famous circle of studio players often associated with the so-called “Wrecking Crew.” The result was a perfectly crafted slice of early 1970s pop that went on to sell millions of copies around the world.

Of course, once the television fame took hold, the record companies wasted no time building a solo career around him. Albums like Cherish and Rock Me Baby began appearing in the early 1970s. Even people who didn’t follow The Partridge Family probably knew at least one or two of his songs. By the mid-1970s he was reportedly one of the highest-paid entertainers in the world.

But fame built on teenage hysteria rarely lasts forever. By 1975 the signs were already there that the wave was beginning to crest, at least in the United States. Musical tastes were changing, and the industry was moving on to other styles and new faces. Cassidy was still hugely popular internationally, but the days of absolute teen idol domination were starting to fade.

It was around this time that Bell Records released David Cassidy’s Greatest Hits. It was the usual record company strategy to gather up the familiar hits and sell them again while the name was still hot. But the album also ended up acting as a kind of summary of Cassidy’s first phase as a pop star. The songs on it came mostly from the years when he ruled the teen market: the Partridge Family period, the early solo records and the hits that had fuelled those screaming concerts. Soon after that, Cassidy moved to RCA Records and began trying to reshape his image.

When I listen to those early hits today, it’s easy to remember why he made such an impact. For a few years in the early 1970s, David Cassidy was one of those rare pop figures whose appeal crossed borders and cultures. His records travelled easily around the world, and even in a place like Penang his songs found their way into record collections and transistor radios.

That’s what makes Greatest Hits interesting now. It isn’t just a compilation album. It’s a reminder of a particular moment in pop history when a television actor with a good voice and a lot of charm briefly became the centre of a worldwide musical craze. For those of us who remember those days, hearing those songs again also brings back a time when a simple pop tune drifting out of a radio could travel halfway across the world and still find its way into a Penang coffee shop.

Side 1: Cherish, Doesn't somebody want to be wanted, Daydreamer, Please please me, Could it be forever, If I didn't care
Side 2: How can I be sure, I think I love you, Rock me baby, I am a clown, I'll meet you halfway

Butterworth ferry terminal tragedy 1988

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Sun, 22 Mar 2026 11:57:00 +0000

A few days ago, while I was just beginning my recuperation after the cataract operation, a story appeared in The Star newspaper revisiting the Butterworth ferry terminal tragedy of 1988. I’ll reproduce that story at the end of this posting, but first I want to say this: I was there when the terminal platform collapsed. This is my story too. My experience, my memory.

Almost 40 years have passed since that day. July has always been the time when the St Anne’s Church in Bukit Mertajam holds its annual novena, culminating in the Feast of St Anne, usually observed on the weekend closest to the 26th of July, with the candlelight procession drawing the biggest crowds. Every year the festival draws huge crowds from all over Malaysia and even from neighbouring countries. Not just Catholics, but people of other faiths as well, though perhaps not so much the Protestants or Muslims. In those days, many still crossed over from the island to the mainland by ferry, on foot or with their cars and motorcycles, even though the Penang Bridge was already there.

In 1988, also around July, there was another major event taking place. The committee of the Kong Hock Keong temple had announced that a once-in-60-years procession of Kuan Imm, the Goddess of Mercy, would take place on Penang island. That alone was enough to stir the imagination of the Chinese community. A rare chance to see the Kuan Imm images from this and other temples taken out and paraded through the streets of George Town.

Unlike the St Anne’s Feast, where people made a beeline for the church itself, the Kuan Imm procession would have people lining the streets to watch the floats go by. Since Kong Hock Keong was located right in the heart of George Town, long before UNESCO heritage status came into the picture, the ferry remained the natural way for people from the mainland to cross over.

At that time I was working in Ban Hin Lee Bank. I was living in Seberang Jaya then, newly married to Saw See, and my daily routine was simple enough. I would drive to Pantai Road in Butterworth, park the car in the compound of a private house, walk through the Penang Port Commission Complex to the Sultan Abdul Halim ferry terminal, cross over to the Raja Tun Uda terminal on the island, and then walk the last stretch to the bank in Beach Street.

A few days before 31 July 1988, I suggested to my father and my father-in-law that we should go together to watch the procession. Everyone agreed. So on that Sunday, we drove to Butterworth, I parked in my usual spot at the old couple’s house, and we made our way to the ferry terminal.

We thought it would be easy enough to cross over, but we were wrong. There were already several hundreds of people there, and more were arriving all the time. Add to that those returning from St Anne’s Church, and you were probably looking at a few thousand people packed into the terminal building.

The four of us edged forward slowly with the crowd. The ferry service was still running, but between ferries the whole mass would stop and wait. Then when boarding was announced, those at the back would surge forward. At the front of the enclosed terminal, the pressure built up on the steel structure and the wooden flooring.

Somewhere in that slow, relentless push, my father became separated from me. I could see him ahead, but the distance between us kept widening. But my father-in-law was still beside me. By about 4.30pm, we had cleared the ticket turnstile. We thought we might finally be able to board the next ferry. Spirits lifted a little. My father-in-law and Saw See next to me, my father perhaps ten feet ahead. Kuan Imm procession, here we come.

Then came a tremendous vibration followed immediately with a loud whoosh.

At first I thought it was a jet flying low overhead. The sound was something like that. And then, in an instant, everything changed. One moment we were enclosed within the terminal structure, the next moment we were staring at open sky. The roof had given way. Hardly 20 feet away, the platform in front of us had collapsed, taking with it everyone standing there.

Panic broke out immediately. The crowd surged backwards. We three had no choice but to move with it. But where was my father? I couldn’t see him anymore. Was he on that section that gave way? There was no way to know.

We were pushed all the way back towards the Penang Port Commssion Complex. Nobody could go forward, only back. Somehow the three of us made our way out of the building. But I knew I had to go back and look for my father.

As I tried to push against the flow, I suddenly saw him. He was staggering unsteadily towards me, holding on to his cane. He was alright though. Shaken, but alright. I gave him a hug, more out of relief than anything else, and we made our way back to the car. Not long after that, we all drove home in silence.

The incident happened on a Sunday. The next day, Monday, it was back to work for many people. But how were we to cross over to the island when the terminal had collapsed? I didn’t know what to expect, but to my relief, the ferry service was still operating. The damaged terminal was cordoned off, and foot passengers were diverted to the vehicular ferries. For the next few weeks, until the authorities sorted things out, the lower deck of those ferries was opened to foot passengers. There were no benches, so we stood all the way from Butterworth to George Town and back again every day.

In the end, although the debris was cleared and investigations concluded, that old terminal, built in 1956, was never used again. The vehicular terminal was modified instead to handle both vehicular and foot passengers.

It still feels a bit unreal. One moment we were just four people trying to catch a ferry to see a procession, the next moment we were part of something far bigger and far more serious. Time has moved on, the old terminal is gone, and life has carried on. But memories like this stay with us, surfacing when we least expect it.

This past Chinese New Year, for instance, my daughter was talking to her old schoolmate when the topic of the tragedy was raised. They were only one-year-old when it happened. Later, she mentioned it to me in passing and I could see the look on her face when she realised just how close her grandfathers and parents had come to being caught in it.

So when I came across this recent article in The Star, it brought everything back in a way I hadn’t quite anticipated. I reproduce it here for the record.

Revisiting the 1988 Butterworth jetty tragedy
Story by ANGELIN YEOH, 18 March 2026
THE year was 1988, and The Star reporter Paul Gabriel found himself at the district hospital in Butterworth, Penang. It was past 10pm on a Sunday and he had set himself a crucial task.
Paul needed to get into the morgue. Five hours earlier, Paul had arrived at the Pengkalan Sultan Abdul Halim jetty where a wooden platform collapsed under the weight of a crowd estimated at around 10,000 people.
The crowd was due to the Buddhist Guan Yin (Goddess of Mercy) festival taking place in George Town on the island, with the annual St Anne’s Feast being celebrated in Bukit Mertajam on the mainland on the same day. The Guan Yin procession was touted as a once-in-60-years event, with tourists coming from as far as Hong Kong, Taiwan and Singapore.
Paul remembered the chaos that followed the collapse of the jetty platform - sirens blaring, helicopters hovering overhead and blood-stained ambulances rushing the injured to hospital.

For a reporter, the most important detail is to uncover and be accurate with the number of casualties – a figure that will let readers understand the full scale of the tragedy.
“It was getting late into the evening and the police were not ready with the full casualty list. I wanted to go the extra mile to get as close a figure as I could,” he said.
Paul was 25 and was a year into his stint as The Star’s Butterworth correspondent. He was familiar with the district hospital grounds as he had covered VIP visits and interviewed victims involved in other incidents.
But stepping into the morgue was new territory for him. He approached a security guard with a story that he was looking for a missing relative.
“I said I was concerned for a relative who had gone to the jetty. I pleaded with him to let me in just for a while,” he recalled.

It took some time for Paul to convince the unsuspecting guard to let him in.
Eventually, he was granted access and went in alone. Then in the dimly-lit morgue, Paul saw black body bags and began counting, notebook and pen in hand.
“I took it that the large bags were that of adults and the small ones that of children,” Paul said, adding that as nervous as he was, he tried to keep calm to get the counting over with as fast as he could.
“I was purely in reporter mode. My thoughts were focused on covering the news and getting the facts as best as I could.”
Paul said he was done in about 10 minutes and left the morgue with the grim task of reporting to his editor that 31 people had died.
Later, police confirmed that there were 32 casualties with more than 400 injured.
The story didn’t end there as Paul said there was more work to be done to interview survivors and ferry officials. Ultimately, how did things go wrong and who was responsible?
He knocked on the door of then-Penang Port Commission (PPC) chairman Datuk Seri Syed Mohamad Aidid Syed Murtaza's office seeking answers.
“I asked him point-blank what he was going to do.... how much of a responsibility he would take.”
Paul remembered how Syed Mohamad Aidid looked him in the eyes to say: “I will not quit. I am not going to run away from this tragedy. I will stay and put things right. That is my commitment.”
Ironically, the PPC chairman was among those who narrowly escaped death, being just five metres away from the crashing platform and metal beams.
Paul said covering the tragedy was one of the biggest stories of his career, one that had also taken him to shootouts and a tour bus hijacking during his time in Butterworth which was notorious for crime back then.
He had no regrets about counting body bags in the morgue. "There was no time to ponder. It was a challenge I had to rise to. Back then, there was no Internet or social media. Everyone was waiting for the news. People would wake up and grab The Star first thing in the morning! We had to be the best in delivering the news.
"As a child, Paul had fond memories of the ferries in Penang. He looked forward to being in the vehicular deck as his father drove the family across to the mainland.
“The sea breeze, the seabirds and yes, I think we also saw dolphins from afar!”
But now, whenever he returns to Penang and passes the Butterworth jetty on the mainland, memories of that fateful day 38 years ago come flooding back.
"The scene of the jetty platform collapse and bodies lying on the road is still etched in my mind," he said.
**On Sept 21, 1989, a 200-page report of a Royal Commission of Inquiry set up up to investigate the mishap found the PPC to be negligent. It said the ferry manager ought to have known the limitations of the upper deck, and that the duty of anticipating the passenger load lay squarely with operations which had figures from previous festivals.
The report concluded that overloading of passengers in the waiting area of the terminal caused the platform to collapse, and that the PPC’s operations department had pleaded ignorance on the maximum number of passengers allowed there.

#butterworth #ferry #tragedy

The nyonya kitchen awakens, part 3

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Wed, 18 Mar 2026 23:00:00 +0000

Reading back over what I wrote in Part 1 and Part 2, I realise that I’ve been mentioning all these Nyonya koay rather casually, as though everyone would know what they are. In Penang half a century ago, that might well have been the case. In those days the names were simply part of everyday kitchen talk, especially around Chinese New Year when trays of koay would appear one after another from the steamer or oven.

A typical array of Penang Nyonya koay available commercially today:
(outer ring) serimuka, koay bengkar ubikayu, koay lapeh;
(middle ring) koay bengkar, koay tatai; (inner ring) koay talam

A household like my maternal grandmother’s could easily produce 15 or 20 varieties over several days. Some were meant for the altar, some for visiting relatives and friends, and some simply for the family to enjoy between meals.

Today, a number of these koay can still be found in Penang, though more often at market stalls or specialty shops rather than in home kitchens. Others have quietly slipped out of common memory. So for the benefit of younger readers and perhaps to refresh the memories of older ones, here is a short glossary of the koay I have mentioned, and more!

Note: Traditionalists like the Malacca peranakans will insist on using gula malacca when the recipe calls for it but the more pragmatic Penang Nyonyas generally substitute it with brown sugar.

Glossary

Huat Koay – Small steamed rice cakes that crack at the top when cooked. The split crown is taken as a sign of prosperity and good fortune.

Tnee Koay – Sticky brown Chinese New Year cake made from glutinous rice flour and brown sugar. Traditionally steamed for hours, sometimes overnight. Will gradually harden over weeks if left untouched. To be enjoyed, the hardened tnee koay is sliced thinly and either steamed and coated with freshly grated coconut, or fried with egg and batter.

Ang Koo – Red tortoise-shaped glutinous rice cake filled with sweet mung bean paste. The tortoise symbolises longevity, although there can be other shapes as well, notably the Chinese gold bar and the peach.

Koay Kochnee – Banana-leaf parcels of glutinous rice dough filled with sweet grated coconut cooked in brown sugar, then steamed until fragrant.

Koay Kochnee Santan – A variation of the koay kochnee where each banana-leaf parcel is steamed with coconut milk that sets into a soft, jelly-like santan coating around the dumpling.

Koay Bengkah – A baked cake of rice flour and coconut, often coloured purple with the bunga telang or yam, with a lightly caramelised golden top. Usually cut into squares or diamonds.

Koay Bengkah Ubikayu – A separate cassava-based version made from grated tapioca (ubi kayu) mixed with santan and sugar, baked until the surface turns golden and the interior remains moist and slightly fibrous.

Koay Talam – Two-layered steamed kueh consisting of a pandan-flavoured base and a soft coconut custard top.

Pulot Tatai – Blue-coloured glutinous rice tinted with the bunga telang and steamed with coconut milk, then pressed into diamond shapes. Often eaten with kaya.

Serimuka – A glutinous rice base topped with a thick pandan custard layer, steamed carefully so the two layers remain distinct.

Koay Lapeh – Nine-layered steamed cake, alternating pink and white layers with a top layer of red, where each layer is added and steamed in succession. Children like to peel the layers apart before eating.

Koay Kosui – Small brown sugar steamed cakes with a soft, slightly springy texture, typically topped with freshly grated coconut.

Pulot Enti – Small banana-leaf parcels of steamed glutinous rice topped with grated coconut cooked in brown sugar.

Koay Tayap – Thin green pandan crepes folded around grated coconut cooked with brown sugar. Very rarely seen is the white crepe version filled with freshly grated coconut and white sugar.

Apong Bokkua – Soft fermented rice pancakes served with a syrup made from coconut milk and brown sugar. The Malays name this serabai or apom berkuah.

Onde-Onde – Small glutinous rice balls filled with brown sugar syrup and coated with grated coconut.

Koay Balu – Small sponge cakes baked in brass moulds over charcoal, crisp on the outside and soft inside.

Koay Ee – Small glutinous rice balls usually served in sweet ginger syrup. More commonly seen during the Tang Chek or Winter Solstice festival but still remembered in some festive kitchens.

Koay Bangkit – Light, airy coconut cookies made from tapioca flour and coconut milk, pressed into small moulds and baked until crumbly.

Koay Kapek – Chinese New Year love letters! Thin coconut wafers made by pouring a light batter onto a heated brass mould over charcoal, then folded or rolled quickly while still hot. The process requires two people working together, one baking and the other folding or rolling.

Pineapple Tarts – Short pastry filled with thick pineapple jam; the pineapple symbolises the arrival of prosperity.

Peanut Cookie – Crumbly cookies made from finely ground roasted peanuts, flour and sugar, brushed with egg glaze before baking. Sandy texture and strong peanut aroma, they are common in Penang homes.

Cataract done

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Tue, 17 Mar 2026 22:15:00 +0000

So I had my cataract procedure done on my left eye yesterday and I got through it okay. Many thanks to my doctor, Teoh Hian Jin, from Bagan Specialist Centre in Butterworth. I must admit that before the procedure I was mighty anxious and nervous because he had warned me that my iris was rather small and that he might have to use some alternatives to get it to open wider. And true enough, despite several attempts to dilate the eye, he eventually had to use hooks.

I probably wasn’t the perfect patient either. Several times he had to remind me to relax and unclench my jaw and turn my head slightly towards him. In the end, I attempted some basic techniques to calm myself down.

Maybe I should also explain why I chose to go to him in the first place. I discovered that he is also an Old Free but seven years my junior at Penang Free School, although he isn’t a member of The Old Frees’ Association. Still, that information was good enough for me. I would trust an Old Free any time and in this case my trust certainly wasn’t misplaced. Hian Jin did an exemplary job on me. Now I just have to wait for the world to look a little brighter through that eye!

Cataract

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Mon, 16 Mar 2026 22:29:00 +0000

Today's the day. Left eye. Wish me well.

Nursery rhymes

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Sat, 14 Mar 2026 08:00:00 +0000

I've written before about my kindergarten days. That particular episode goes back to 1960, when I was six years old. It was my first experience attending kindergarten and it turned out to be quite an eye-opening cultural shock. Until then the only children I really knew were those from my immediate neighbourhood and my cousins scattered across the island. Suddenly there were perhaps 80 or a hundred children all under one roof, learning our ABCs and 123s.

Ten years ago I wrote that the master of the kindergarten was someone I knew only as Mr Poh. Since then a little more has come to light. His name was Poh Thean Poe, and he ran the place, officially known as Seang Tek Road Kindergarten, from 1955 until 1973. By then he had already stepped back from the day-to-day running two years earlier and left for Kota Kinabalu to work in his mother's restaurant. Later he settled in Seremban. That much I know about him.

Music was a big part of my kindergarten days. I still remember those mornings when we were seated upstairs in the two-storey wooden bungalow that housed the school. The teacher would put on colourful 45 rpm records on one of those changeable record players and we listened to nursery rhymes.

I sometimes wonder whether kindergartens today still play these traditional English nursery rhymes. Songs like The Farmer in the Dell, Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and London Bridge Is Falling Down. They can still be found easily enough on streaming services like YouTube or Spotify. Recently I have been reacquainting myself with some of them and came across a collection recorded by Oscar Brand.

Who exactly was he, this Oscar Brand? A practical unknown in this part of the world but Oscar Brand was one of the most prolific figures in the 20th century American folk revival. Born in Winnipeg in 1920 and later based in New York, he built a career that stretched across more than 70 years as a singer, songwriter, author and broadcaster. He recorded nearly 100 albums and wrote hundreds of songs, ranging from sea shanties and patriotic ballads to political campaign songs and his famous, or perhaps notorious, Bawdy Songs and Backroom Ballads series.

Brand's recordings covered an astonishing range of material. On one hand he recorded gentle nursery rhymes for children. On the other he was equally willing to document the more mischievous side of folk tradition.

That series was Brand’s cheerful attempt to preserve a part of folk tradition that polite society often preferred to ignore. Folk songs were not always wholesome campfire
material. Sailors, soldiers and travellers had been singing slightly risqué verses for centuries, usually in taverns or other less respectable surroundings. Brand simply gathered a number of these songs together and recorded them more or less in the spirit in which they had originally circulated.

My copy of Volume Three in the series was given to me by Anwar Fazal, that well known figure in Penang's civic and cultural life. The songs are performed in a straightforward folk style with little more than Brand’s voice and guitar. Despite the title, the humour is mostly based on suggestion and wordplay rather than anything explicit. That probably explains how such songs managed to be recorded at all in that period.

When these records first appeared in the 1950s they caused a certain amount of fuss. Some countries even banned them for a time, which of course only made them more attractive to collectors. Brand himself always maintained that these songs were part of genuine folk heritage. In his view they deserved to be documented.

Brand was also the long-time host of the American radio programme Folksong Festival on WNYC. The programme began in 1945 and ran for more than 70 years, earning a Guinness World Records citation as the longest running radio show with the same host. Throughout his career Brand championed both traditional and contemporary folk music, giving early exposure to performers such as Bob Dylan, Joan Baez and Joni Mitchell. He remained active almost until his death in 2016 at the age of 96.

Listening to some of his recordings today, especially those old nursery rhymes, brings back faint memories of those mornings in the wooden bungalow on Seang Tek Road. It is curious how a few simple songs on a record can open a small window into a very distant part of one's childhood.

Nepal-India Day 16: Delhi and goodbye

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Thu, 12 Mar 2026 22:07:00 +0000

Dateline: 6 December 2025. Waking refreshed the next morning, we checked out of Hotel Africa Avenue after breakfast and began what would be our final full day in Delhi. The original programme indicated a visit to Lutyens’ Delhi, that grand imperial layout conceived in the early 20th century. However, the roads were closed due to visiting foreign dignitaries. Our coach could only crawl through the roads, offering us a moving glimpse rather than the intended walk.

Still, we saw the imposing sweep of the India Gate. Beneath its 42-metre-high arch now stands a 28-foot granite statue of Subhas Chandra Bose, installed in 2022 in the canopy that once housed a statue of King George V. Designed by Edwin Lutyens and completed in 1931, the India Gate commemorates more than 70,000 soldiers of the British Indian Army killed in the First World War and the Third Anglo-Afghan War. Its resemblance to the Arc de Triomphe is unmistakable.

Yet it was Bose who held my attention. A pivotal figure in the independence movement, he led the Indian National Army (INA) against British rule during the Second World War. The name was not unfamiliar to me. I have written about him before, particularly the INA’s activities in Malaya. I told our surprised guide how the INA had used my alma mater, the Penang Free School, as a training ground during the Japanese Occupation. He seemed taken aback that someone from our group could recount such details about one of India’s national heroes.

From imperial grandeur, we proceeded to Gandhi Smriti, formerly Birla House. It was here that Mahatma Gandhi spent the final 144 days of his life, and where he was assassinated on 30 January 1948. The museum preserves the atmosphere of those last days.

Born in 1869 in Gujarat, Gandhi studied law in London before forging his political conscience in South Africa, where he spent 21 years advocating for Indian civil rights after being thrown off a train for refusing to leave a “whites-only” compartment. Returning to India in 1915, he transformed the Indian National Congress into a mass movement. His philosophy of Satyagraha or non-violent resistance reshaped the struggle for independence and inspired global leaders such as Martin Luther King Jr and Nelson Mandela.

At Gandhi Smriti, a simple concrete path marked with footprints traced his final walk to the prayer ground. A modest pavilion marked the exact spot where he fell. Inside his preserved living quarters, we saw the sparse belongings that defined his life: spectacles, a walking stick, a spinning wheel, low writing desk. Outside, pillars inscribed with his teachings stand among traditional symbols such as “Om” and the ancient swastika in its original Indian context of auspiciousness.

In the afternoon we visited the National Museum. With approximately 200,000 artefacts spanning over 5,000 years, it was less a museum than a condensed archive of Indian civilisation. Walking through its galleries felt like compressing millennia into a single afternoon.

The Indus Valley Civilisation section alone contained more than 3,500 objects excavated from sites such as Harappa and Mohenjo-daro. There were sculptures from the Maurya, Shunga, Kushan and Gupta periods, coins and armour, textiles and jewellery, miniature paintings and manuscripts. Each gallery offered a different chapter in India’s long history.

But it was the section devoted to the Buddha that drew us all in the end. The most fitting end to our Indian journey. Here were sacred relics of the Buddha excavated from sites such as Piprahwa in Uttar Pradesh. These relics, believed by many scholars to be among the corporeal remains distributed after the Buddha’s cremation in the 5th century BC, were displayed in a specially designed chamber meant to evoke the serenity of a stupa.

A notice on the wall invited visitors to pay homage to the relics:

"Around 463 BCE at Kushinagar, Lord Buddha passed away or achieved Mahaparinirvana at the age of eighty. The residents of Kushinagara cremated his body with ceremonies befitting a Universal King (chakravartin). Buddha's relics were divided into eight portions and distributed among eight kingdoms. The sacred relics were commemorated into eight different stupas.

The relics housed in this hall are excavated from Piprahwa in the Siddharth Nagar District of Uttar Pradesh, an erstwhile part of the ancient city of Kapilavastu. The discovery of one inscribed casket in 1898 by W.C Peppe refers to the relics of the Buddha and his clan, 'Sakya'. Further excavations conducted by the Archaeological Survey of India in 1971-1977 discovered two more un-inscribed steatite caskets containing twelve sacred relics in the bigger casket and ten sacred relics in the smaller casket.

National Museum, New Delhi humbly invites the devotees and museum visitors for paying homage to the sacred relics of Gautama Buddha."

Here, the atmosphere was understandably hushed. Visitors instinctively lower their voices. One does not merely look; one contemplates. Our Chief Abbott signalled everyone for a session of meditation. Even visitors from outside our group joined in. Later, there were other Buddhist groups that arrived to perform their own sessions.

There were exquisite sculptures representing different artistic traditions: the serene sandstone Buddhas of the Gupta period, often regarded as the classical ideal of Indian Buddhist art; the Gandhara sculptures influenced by Hellenistic forms, where the Buddha’s robe fell in Greco-Roman folds; and Mathura figures carved in the red sandstone of India. Each style reflected how Buddhism travelled, adapted and absorbed regional influences.

The museum also displayed fragments of ancient stupas, votive tablets and inscriptions in various scripts. Together they charted not only Buddhism’s spread but also the evolution of artistic language across centuries. For us who had earlier stood beneath the Qutb Minar contemplating the rise of medieval powers, it was humbling to be reminded of an even older spiritual current that had once radiated from this land across Asia.

By late afternoon, the collective weight of the centuries seemed to have settled gently upon us. Once again, there was that familiar sensation of information and visual overload. Delhi had offered us monuments of empire, places of martyrdom and relics of enlightenment. All in a single day.

Within hours, we would truly be on our way home. As I reflected on our 16-day journey from Kathmandu to Delhi, what I had initially thought would be a long trip but which now felt unexpectedly too brief, I realised how much there was still to absorb. Not merely the sights, but the stories behind them, which I hope I have been able to do justice to here in my blog. Perhaps that is what travel ultimately offers: not simply movement across geography but a quiet passage across time.

Previous:

Nepal-India Day 15: Jaipur to Delhi
Nepal-India Day 14: Jaipuri

Nepal-India Day 13: Agra

Nepal-India Days 11 and 12: The Varanasi ghats
Nepal-India Day 11: Varanasi deer park
Nepal-India Day 9 and 10: Bodhgaya to Varanasi

Nepal-India Days 9 and 10: Bodhgaya
Nepal-India Day 8: Rajgir Nalanda

Nepal-India Day 8: Rajgir Gridhakura
Nepal-India Day 7: Vaishali
Nepal-India Day 6: Kushinagar
Nepal-India Day 6: Shravasti
Nepal-India Day 5: Lumbini to Shravasti
Nepal-India Day 4: The sala tree
Nepal-India Days 3 and 4: Lumbini and Kapilvastu
Nepal-India Days 1 and 2: Kathmandu and Nagarkot

Belly dancing music

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Wed, 11 Mar 2026 22:05:00 +0000

Some years ago a rather unusual record came into my possession. It was 51 Belly Dancer Favorites by Gus Vali and his orchestra. I did not buy it myself. The LP was given to me by Anwar Fazal, a well-known figure in Penang’s civic and cultural life.

Anwar Fazal, as many people know, has spent decades involved in consumer, environmental and public interest movements. He helped found organisations such as the Consumers Association of Penang and played a role in several international networks dealing with health and consumer protection. At some point along the way this curious record found its way into my hands through him. The LP has stayed in my collection ever since.

The album itself is a relic from the early 1960s when Middle Eastern themed music had a small but noticeable presence in the Western record market. The title sounds grand enough but it is really a clever bit of marketing. There are not 51 separate tracks. Instead the record consists of six long medleys, each one stitching together fragments of many melodies from across the eastern Mediterranean and the Middle East.

Vali was a Greek-American clarinetist and the clarinet is very much the dominant voice throughout the record. It weaves through those unmistakable oriental scales while the rhythm section keeps things moving along. Around it is a mixture of instruments like the oud, Middle Eastern percussion such as the doumbek and the occasional support of a Western bass and drum kit.

The medleys are grouped loosely by region. One sequence moves through Turkish and Greek themes, another brings in Israeli melodies and elsewhere the music shifts toward Arabic material. Each tune appears briefly before the next one takes over. The idea was not to dwell on any particular melody but to keep the music flowing without interruption. But to someone like me who had never been exposed to Middle Eastern music before, the transitions were a bit too subtle. The melodies came and went so quickly that I could hardly tell where one ended and the next began. To my ears, they all sounded much the same.

That format made sense for the setting in which this sort of music was often used. These medleys could accompany belly dancing performances in restaurants or nightclubs where the dancer might want to change tempo or mood without stopping the music every few minutes.

Listening to the record today, however, one cannot help reflecting how sobering the timing feels. The melodies come from a part of the world that is once again dominating the news headlines. Since 28 February 2026 the Middle East has been engulfed in another violent chapter, with the United States and Israel now openly at war with Iran. The same region whose folk melodies once circulated harmlessly on lounge records is again a theatre of bombs, missiles and political brinkmanship.

When this album was produced, the music was packaged as a kind of exotic entertainment for Western listeners. Few people probably thought very deeply about the cultures or histories behind those melodies. Yet here they are again, echoing faintly from an old LP, reminding us that the Middle East is far more than the grim news images we see today.

Perhaps that is why I keep the record. It is not particularly rare or musically profound but it carries a small chain of associations: a gift from Anwar Fazal, a glimpse of a musical tradition far from our shores and now a reminder that the same region continues to shape the world’s anxieties. A rather unlikely record to sit quietly in a Penang collection, but there it is.

The nyonya kitchen awakens, part 2

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Tue, 10 Mar 2026 22:08:00 +0000

When Part 1 ended, my maternal grandmother's kitchen had quietened down after the midnight steaming of tnee koay, the trays of huat koay and ang koo lined up, and I had been safely sent outside to avoid “spoiling” the delicate process. That was only the beginning. A full Penang Nyonya Chinese New Year table in the 1950s and 1960s was never just a few signature koay; it was a display of 15 to 20 varieties, some now almost forgotten.

Among them were pulot tatai, glutinous rice coloured by the clitoria flower, then steamed with coconut milk and cut into squares before eaten with kaya; serimuka, with a glutinous rice base and pandan custard top; and koay lapeh, the colourful dual-coloured, nine-layered steamed koay that children loved to peel apart layer by layer. The koay kosui, small steamed koay topped generously with grated coconut, was also common. Alongside them would be koay kochnee which was glutinous rice dumplings filled with sweet coconut and brown sugar, carefully wrapped in banana leaf before steaming so that the fragrance of the leaf infused the dough. Koay tayap, thin pandan crepes filled with grated coconut, would often make an appearance. Even apong bokkua or the onde-onde, small glutinous rice balls with molten brown sugar, might appear if there was time.

Preparing these required taboo rituals to be strictly observed. A child like me would always be sent outside the kitchen while the more delicate koay was steamed. A dropped utensil was considered a sign to pause and restart to avoid “offending” the koay; and in one instance, a steamer lid had to be lifted clockwise, never counter=clockwise, to encourage proper rising. No one knew precisely why, but the rules were fastidiously followed.

The koay for visitors often included pineapple tarts, peanut cookies, koay bangkit and small baked items like koay balu. These were sweet, delicate and required careful handling, especially with the coconut-based varieties, which could dry or curdle if steamed too long or stirred too roughly.

By the end of the preparation, trays would cover every flat surface in the kitchen and hallway. The aromas of pandan, coconut, sugar and toasted flour mixed into a festive perfume. Only then would my grandmother allow herself a small rest, knowing that the household was ready for the 15 days of Chinese New Year visits, offerings at the altar and the family gatherings.

It is tempting to think of these koay simply as food, but they were more than that. They carried memory, patience, skill and the quiet discipline of the kitchen. The taboos, the careful layering, the repeated steaming and pressing were all part of the dance of the festival, handed down over decades. Even as supermarkets and shops now offer quick substitutes, there is something in the deliberate care of those old kitchens that cannot be replicated.

When I see a tray of huat koay or a slice of koay talam, I can almost hear my grandmother's exhortations: “Don’t quarrel while steaming,” “Don’t taste until it’s ready,” “Move the tray carefully.” These are not just rules but echoes of a household that measured time, care and love through the preparation of food. In those days, Chinese New Year was as much about ritual, patience and attention to small details as it was about celebration. And that, more than anything, is what I remember most vividly.

There'll be a Part 3 to this story, in which I shall give a glossary of the Nyonya koay that I know.

Nepal-India Day 15: Jaipur to Delhi

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Tue, 10 Mar 2026 05:44:00 +0000

Dateline: 5 December 2025. The journey from Jaipur to Delhi took close to six hours, a long stretch of highway that gradually thickened with traffic as we neared the capital. By the time we entered the city, the afternoon sun had begun to mellow, casting a warm light that seemed to soften even the concrete flyovers and busy intersections. There was no pause for rest. The Qutb Minar was our first destination in Delhi.

Stepping into the complex felt like stepping back into time measured by centuries. The grounds opened wide and there it stood, the Minar itself, which rose in red sandstone against a pale sky, radiating warmth in the late afternoon light.

Construction began in 1199 under Qutb al-Din Aibak, founder of the Delhi Sultanate, and was later completed and repaired by successive rulers after lightning damaged its upper levels. Its five storeys remained clearly distinct. The lower tiers were more intricately carved with bands of Arabic calligraphy wrapped around the stone. Higher up, the surface became plainer, the ornamentation less dense.

Our tour guide, while explaining dynasties and dates, mentioned the name of a Sufi master connected with the early Sultanate period. Unfortunately, I cannot now remember the name he mentioned. Information overload. But the reference lingered. The Minar is commonly described as a victory tower where power was proclaimed with each new ruler. Yet the Sufis of that era were preaching something altogether different: humility, inwardness, love of the Divine beyond formal authority.

At the first opportunity, I mentioned the Persian poet Rumi whose verses on longing and union continued to resonate across centuries. And I confessed my long-standing admiration for Omar Khayyam whose quatrains, hovering between faith and scepticism, have always appealed to my temperament. The guide looked mildly surprised.

We could not climb its 379 internal steps since access has long been closed. At one point, two guards arrived to open the door briefly to go in and that was that. That was as close as we would get. From ground level, however, its scale was overwhelming enough. It did indeed feel like a vertical declaration etched into the skyline.

From there we wandered into the remains of the Quwwat-ul-Islam Mosque. Built in the late 12th century, it is considered the first mosque in Delhi. What struck me most were the pillars. Many had been repurposed from demolished Hindu and Jain temples. Carvings of bells, floral motifs and faint deities still lingered on their surfaces. One civilisation building on top of another. The vast stone screen of arches at the mosque’s façade seemed an attempt to assert a newer Islamic architectural identity upon earlier foundations.

Further within stood the Alai Darwaza, built in 1311 by Alauddin Khalji. Its proportions were precise, its red sandstone walls inlaid with white marble calligraphy and geometric patterns. It is said to be among the earliest examples in India of true arches and a true dome constructed with advanced engineering techniques. In the afternoon light, the contrast between red and white was luminous, almost delicate despite the solidity of the structure.

Nearby was the tomb of Iltutmish, the second Sultan of Delhi. Its exterior was plain, almost austere. Inside, however, the carvings were intricate with geometric patterns and calligraphic inscriptions etched deeply into sandstone. Not far away, the Tomb of Imam Zamin, a 16th-century addition from the Mughal period, offered yet another shift in tone. Its white marble dome and fine jali lattice windows contrasted with the rugged grandeur of the earlier buildings.

The complex was not merely a collection of monuments. It was a story told across eight centuries covering conquests and consolidation, destruction and adaptation, ambition and artistry. The Minar may dominate the skyline, but the surrounding structures give it context. Together they form a chronicle of Delhi’s long, long past.

From the Qutb Minar, we were returned rather abruptly to present-day realities. Some shopping was in order, and we were taken to a Pekoe Tips Tea outlet. While the others browsed shelves of neatly packed tins and fragrant blends, I slipped outside for a moment. The moon had already risen. It was one day past full, no longer perfectly round, but still luminous enough to command attention. After an afternoon immersed in centuries-old stone, that familiar orb felt reassuring and reminding me of home.

That evening we checked into the Hotel Africa Avenue. After the impressive accommodations in Bodhgaya, Varanasi and Jaipur, this Delhi hotel felt noticeably smaller. A little cramped and somewhat spartan, the furnishings simple and tired, the room lacking the polish of earlier stays. Yet it was clean, with amenities and the bed was comfortable enough. At that late stage of the journey, comfort mattered more than aesthetics.

The next morning we would be checking out. This would be our final night in India. And as I laid there, I thought back of our journey from Kathmandu to Delhi and thinking how much we had accomplished on this short trip of 16 days. Within 24 hours, we would be leaving for hime, carrying with us this story.

Next:

Nepal-India Day 16: Delhi and goodbye
Previous:
Nepal-India Day 14: Jaipur

Nepal-India Day 13: Agra

Nepal-India Days 11 and 12: The Varanasi ghats
Nepal-India Day 11: Varanasi deer park
Nepal-India Day 9 and 10: Bodhgaya to Varanasi

Nepal-India Days 9 and 10: Bodhgaya
Nepal-India Day 8: Rajgir Nalanda

Full moon over Jaipur

The nyonya kitchen awakens, part 1

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Sun, 08 Mar 2026 22:32:00 +0000

In the days of old leading up to Chinese New Year, my maternal grandmother would turn our kitchen into a small koay workshop. We were all staying in Seang Tek Road then. My mother and her sister worked beside their mother, measuring rice flour, grating coconuts and occasionally squeezing out the santan, and cutting banana leaves into neat pieces. I was normally chased out of the kitchen. The warning was always the same: don’t open your mouth and say anything, or the koay might not turn out properly.

Some of their work took place late at night. I remember especially the steaming of the tnee koay, which would start well past my 10 o'clock bedtime. By morning, the koay would be ready, all warm, sticky and with a faint golden surface sheen.

This was long before there were supermarkets in Penang. In those days, a Nyonya household made all its festival koay at home. For several days, the kitchen became a small workshop of rice flour, coconut milk, brown sugar and banana leaves, with trays of freshly baked or steamed koay appearing one after another on the wooden table.

Some of the koay were unmistakably associated with the Chinese New Year. One of the most prominent was the huat koay, which are steamed pink rice cakes that cracked open at the top like blossoming flowers. This name carried the hopeful meaning of prosperity and every family wanted them to rise well in the steamer. If the huat koay split neatly into four petals, it was taken as a sign of good fortune for the coming year.

Another was the tnee koay, the sticky brown Chinese New Year koay made from glutinous rice flour and sugar. I remember vividly how the steaming would start before midnight. The open kitchen was warm with the rising steam. By morning, the tnee koay would be ready, all warm and sticky with a golden hue on the surface and releasing a deep caramel fragrance.

And then there were the red tortoise-shaped ang koo, moulded from glutinous rice dough tinted a bright, auspicious red and filled with sweet mung bean paste. Pressed into carved wooden moulds before steaming, they bore the patterned shell of a tortoise which was a symbol of longevity.

But the New Year table was never limited to just these three. My grandmother’s repertoire extended far beyond them, reflecting generations of Nyonya culinary tradition. There was koay kochnee, a coconut-rich glutinous rice koay, sometimes made richer still, set in santan; koay bengkah ubikayu, a baked tapioca koay with a golden crust; and koay talam, the familiar two-layered pandan-and-coconut custard koay.

Preparing all these koay required not just skill but adherence to a set of kitchen taboos. When making huat koay, quarrels and arguments were strictly forbidden. Sharp words, my grandmother would say, would stop the koay from opening. With tnee koay, the batter had to be stirred steadily and without interruption. Children were sent outside or quietly watched. I was always barred from the kitchen while the steaming went on. Even lifting the steamer lid had its own rules: clockwise only, never counter-clockwise, to encourage proper rising. Sweeping the kitchen, tasting the batter too early, or sudden noises were all said to disturb the delicate rhythm of the koay.

By the time Chinese New Year arrived, the kitchen shelves would be lined with trays and covered plates. Some of the koay were destined for the household altars, others for visiting relatives. The adults had the quiet satisfaction of seeing all those trays filled with perfectly formed, fragrant and colourful koay, making the long preparations worthwhile.

Today, many of these koay can still be found in Penang, though increasingly in markets and specialty stalls rather than home kitchens. The old processes of grating the coconuts and layering the batter, and the quiet discipline in the kitchen have disappeared into memory. But the smell of freshly steamed huat koay or the sight of a tray of glossy ang koo can still take me back, almost instantly, to that busy kitchen in Seang Tek Road and to the care that went into every piece.

There is more to tell about the koay for visitors, the full spread of the festive table and some of the rarer Nyonya treats now almost forgotten. That, and a few more of the curious taboos that surrounded them. I'll explore them in Part 2.

The "maha" word

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Sun, 08 Mar 2026 02:14:00 +0000

Over the past week, social media has been filled with posts about attempts to contact this person of interest. Opinions have tended to be very one-sided and why shouldn’t they be, when the authorities have deployed such heavy resources to trace the whereabouts of someone who could be as insignificant as a gnat?

I don’t normally like to add more noise to what is already a very noisy space, but in this instance, a commentary piece from the Facebook account of The Coverage Media, one paragraph caught my eye:

"In this country, opportunities seem reserved not for the 'Maha Miskin' (extremely poor) or 'Maha Genius' (exceptional talents), but for the 'Maha Entitle' (entitled elite) and 'Maha Tongkat' (those relying on the crutches of affirmative policies)."

Maha Miskin. Maha Genius. Maha Entitle. Maha Tongkat. Four “maha” categories to describe the polarisation in this country. No prizes for guessing who belongs in the latter two categories.

My disclaimer is that The Coverage Media is one of Malaysia’s fast-growing social news websites where one can find some of the most widely discussed news and issues regardless of whether they ultimately prove to be authentic or not. So don’t accept everything you read there at face value, okay? Disclaimer aside, this is the original piece. Go find the "maha" word there:

Anwar's Malaysia: Failing the Maha Genius, Rewarding the Maha Entitle - Malaysia Doesn't Deserve Patriots Like James Chai
Malaysia, under Prime Minister Anwar Ibrahim, does not deserve dedicated patriots like James Chai.
As a Malaysian Chinese student who achieved 12A1s in his SPM exams, James was denied a scholarship despite his exceptional academic record.
This is a story that repeats itself every year for thousands of talented, underprivileged students from non-Bumiputera communities.
In this country, opportunities seem reserved not for the "Maha Miskin" (extremely poor) or "Maha Genius" (exceptional talents), but for the "Maha Entitle" (entitled elite) and "Maha Tongkat" (those relying on crutches of affirmative policies).
Two years ago, an Indian student bravely asked Anwar about implementing meritocracy in university admissions during a dialogue session.
Instead of a thoughtful response, she was met with a harsh rebuke that left her visibly traumatized.
Everyone in Malaysia pays taxes, yet the funds collected to build public universities make it disproportionately difficult for individuals like James to access higher education.
If Anwar redirected resources from high-profile international engagements—such as the criticized RM200 million aid pledge to Palestine amid local economic pressures—these could fund scholarships for all deserving poor and brilliant Malaysian youths.
Such investments would empower them to contribute to nation-building, rather than fueling brain drain.
Despite the system's failures, James Chai excelled abroad.
He graduated as a top law student with first-class honors from Queen Mary University of London and earned an MSc in Criminology and Criminal Justice from the University of Oxford. He also topped Malaysia's Certificate of Legal Practice exam.
Thousands of similar cases occur annually: bright minds overlooked at home, thriving overseas.
With his qualifications and expertise in policy, AI governance, and economics, James could easily command a minimum salary of £7,000 per month in the UK—equivalent to about RM37,000 at current exchange rates.
Yet, defying expectations, James returned to serve Malaysia.
He joined the Economy Ministry as a special officer to Rafizi Ramli on a two-year contract, earning no more than RM3,700 monthly—a staggering 10-fold pay cut.
In return, James was instrumental in organizing the KL20 Summit, a landmark event aimed at elevating Kuala Lumpur to a top-20 global startup hub by 2030.
The summit attracted billions in potential investments, including deals with 12 international venture capital firms and high-tech companies, projecting over RM500 billion in value for Malaysia's startup ecosystem by 2030.
Do we even deserve public servants like him?
James's humility shines through his lifestyle: he owns only an old Proton Persona 1.6 worth RM12,000, choosing poverty over personal gain for the sake of national service.
His only "mistake"? His father isn't Anwar Ibrahim.
If he were James Chai bin Anwar Ibrahim, the narrative might differ entirely.
This echoes Anwar's controversial move to sideline Rafizi Ramli as PKR deputy president, paving the way for his daughter, Nurul Izzah Anwar—a decision that raised questions about nepotism and led to both James and Rafizi resigning.
Post-resignation, James briefly assisted ARM Holdings—a UK-based semiconductor giant—in a two-month transitional role, with no shares, directorship, high position, kickbacks, or conflicts of interest.
Everything complied with rules, laws, and regulations.
Yet, the Malaysian Anti-Corruption Commission (MACC) is now treating him like an international criminal, issuing a public search notice and probing a RM1.1 billion government deal with ARM that he helped coordinate.
This is not a country for people like James Chai.
It's why Malaysia faces a brain drain of nearly 2 million talented individuals—1.86 million according to recent estimates, or 5.5% of the working-age population, double the global average.
While the government claims a shift to "brain circulation" with returnee programs, the exodus continues as top brains flee a system that fails them.
Corporate mafias remain untouchable, while innocent, highly qualified Malaysians like James are targeted.

Nepal-India Day 14: Jaipur

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Fri, 06 Mar 2026 22:29:00 +0000

Dateline: 4 December 2025. We had one full day in Jaipur, and we began our activities at Amber Fort. It rose from the Aravalli hills in a way that required us to take a second look. Perched above Maota Lake, its walls followed the ridgelines in sweeping curves. This was once the capital of the Kachwaha Rajputs, and much of what we saw dated back to the reign of Maharaja Man Singh I in the late 16th century, with later rulers adding their own layers to the structure. So what stood before us was not the vision of a single ruler but an accumulation of several over time. The coach parked a distance away and we continued our journey by local transport, one that could negotiate tight and narrow corners easily.

We passed through the great gates into Jaleb Chowk, the first courtyard, where returning armies once displayed their victory spoils. Today tourists have replaced soldiers and cameras, swords. Beyond it was the Diwan-e-Aam or Hall of Public Audience, that stretched across a forest of columns capped with elephant-shaped brackets.

From there we moved through Ganesh Pol, the gateway to the private quarters. The frescoes and mosaics were delicate after the stern exterior walls. Beyond was the Sheesh Mahal or Mirror Palace, with its ceilings and walls set with thousands of tiny convex mirrors. The guide repeated the familiar tale of how a single candle could set the entire chamber aglow. Whether or not the claim was tested, it was easy to imagine the effect.

What struck me as much as the ornamentation was the engineering. Water from the lake below was drawn up through a system of wheels and channels to feed fountains and gardens within the fort.

Standing along the ramparts, looking across the valley, I could take in the horizon. It was a commanding view; the Maharaja could see danger before it arrived and if flight was necessary, a subterranean passage was there to enable escape. Yet inside those defensive walls were gardens, courtyards and mirrored chambers. This was a self-contained world that balanced vigilance with splendour.

We then descended into the city and made our way to the City Palace. If Amber Fort felt martial and elevated, the City Palace felt grounded and administrative. Built in 1727 by Maharaja Sawai Jai Singh II when he shifted his capital from the hills to the plains, it occupied the heart of the old city.

Mubarak Mahal, once a reception hall for visiting dignitaries, is now a museum displaying royal textiles and pashminas. Among them, an ancient Indian chess set caught my attention. In the Diwan-e-Khas or Hall of Private Audience stood the Gangajalis, two enormous silver urns said to be the largest silver vessels in the world. They once carried Ganges water to England for an eccentric maharaja unwilling to drink foreign water.

A short distance away was the Hawa Mahal. Though within walking distance, the e-scooter took a somewhat roundabout way to reach it. Its five-storey facade, built in 1799, resembled a honeycomb of 953 small latticed windows. From behind these jharokhas, royal ladies watched processions without themselves being seen. The latticework also channeled air through the structure and offered respite from the heat.

Along the main road below ran the bazaars, the true pulse of the city. Where one ended and another began was hard for us to tell. Shops spilled into one another, selling items like jewellery, enamel work, textiles and leather products. The storefronts shared that distinctive Jaipur pink. Vehicular traffic pressed forward without pause. Scooters wove through pedestrians who in turn darted in and out of the shops in search of bargain. Dynamic balance between sacredness at Amber Fort, sovereignty at City Palace and commerce here in Hawa Mahal.

Our final stop was Birla Mandir at the foot of Moti Dungri Hill. After the histories of Amber Fort and City Palace, this white marble temple which opened in 1988 by the Birla Foundation felt almost too pristine. Its walls bore carvings not only of Hindu deities but also of figures such as Socrates, Buddha, Jesus and even Martin Luther King Jr. The main sanctum, however, was devoted to Vishnu and Lakshmi in finely carved marble. For unknown reasons, guards prevented visitors from taking photographs of the temple's interior. Futile effort, actually, because one could still take a picture of the deities with a long zoom lens from the outside.

The place was undeniably clean and orderly. Yet I did not find it impressive. Maybe I was simply too tired after a whole day of exploration. An overload of senses, of history, of culture. Perhaps it was also unfair to weigh a 20th-century temple against 17th- and 18th-century monuments. Still, Birla Mandir felt curated and unnatural, almost like a carefully assembled statement rather than something shaped gradually by time and trial.

All too soon the day drew to a close and we returned to our hotel, thankful for the rest. I sank into bed, switching off the lights and the noise of the day. The next morning we would leave for Delhi. After 14 days on the road, our journey was nearing its end.

Next:

Nepal-India Day 16: Delhi and goodbye
Nepal-India Day 15: Jaipur to Delhi

Previous:
Nepal-India Day 13: Agra

Nepal-India Days 11 and 12: The Varanasi ghats
Nepal-India Day 11: Varanasi deer park
Nepal-India Day 9 and 10: Bodhgaya to Varanasi

Nepal-India Days 9 and 10: Bodhgaya
Nepal-India Day 8: Rajgir Nalanda

Nepal-India Days 1 and 2: Kathmandu and Nagarkot

Tacoma in blossom season

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

The tacoma tree outside my house is in bloom again, and this year the flowering is unusually heavier than normal. Over the past two days I’ve swept up quite a pile of fallen blossoms and dried leaves from my compound and even from the stretch of road outside. There are lots more on the tree! Still, I’m not complaining. It’s all good exercise, actually!

This tree is one of the last tacomas left in the neighbourhood. When we first moved here about 25 years ago, they were everywhere. But one by one they were cut down as residents grew weary of sweeping up the constant fall of leaves and flowers. Along my street, I’m probably the only one still happily doing that yearly chore. The flowers are a delight to look at but the leaves, not so much. But what to do? You can’t have the best of everything. 🌼🍃

WAR greatest hits

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Wed, 04 Mar 2026 22:43:00 +0000

I wrote this story about the band WAR a week ago and scheduled it to go out today. Then real war broke out in the Middle East last Saturday. Initial bombings by Israel on Tehran, the United States joining in with their own massive hardware, quick retaliation from Iran following swiftly after. For a moment I wondered whether to hold this story back. But then, it's just coincidence. So here it is.

I’ve had this copy of WAR Greatest Hits for years. The sleeve is slightly worn at the edges but the record still plays perfectly. It represents the moment when War stopped being anyone’s backing band and became a force on their own terms.

Long before the hits, there were a couple of Long Beach schoolboys in 1962, Howard Scott and Harold Brown, calling themselves The Creators. By the mid-1960s they’d added Lonnie Jordan, BB Dickerson and Charles Miller, and changed their name to Nightshift.

Then in 1969 came Eric Burdon looking for something rawer than the British Invasion circuit. He was brought to see Nightshift at a North Hollywood club. The result was a new name, WAR, a none too subtle name meant to confront racism, hunger and violence with music. The Burdon era gave them the hit single, Spill the Wine. The collaboration didn’t last. During a European tour in 1971, Burdon walked off stage and left.

What followed, from 1971 to about 1976, is what this Greatest Hits record captures. The original seven members -- Jordan, Scott, Dickerson, Brown, Papa Dee Allen, Charles Miller and Lee Oskar -- didn’t need a new frontman. They all sang, played and built long grooves that could stretch past ten minutes.

One thing I can’t find on this Greatest Hits album is Spill the Wine. That’s because the Burdon-era recordings were released under different label arrangements, and by 1976 there were rights issues between MGM/ABC and United Artists. Even in music, wars over ownership leave their scars.

Listening now, what strikes me is how hard it is to categorise them: definitely funk but also some jazz phrasing, some Latin influence in the percussion. Lee Oskar’s harmonica almost functioning like a horn section of its own. Vocals often sung together, not spotlighting one personality but reinforcing a collective voice. Later years brought legal disputes, particularly over the name WAR. Eventually only Lonnie Jordan retained the right to tour under it while the other original members performed as the Lowrider Band.

And yet, when I dropped the needle on this 1976 compilation, none of the real-world wars or the legal wars mattered. What I heard was a band at its commercial and creative peak, confident enough to let their music speak for itself. Perhaps that is the irony. In a week when war again means missiles and reprisals, this other WAR reminds me that the word can also signify rhythm, solidarity and the stubborn act of making something communal out of discord.

Side 1: All day music, Slippin' into darkness, The world is a ghetto, The Cisco kid, Gypsy man
Side 2: Me and baby brother, Southern part of Texas, Why can't we be friends, Low rider, Summer

Over in the blink of an eye

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Tue, 03 Mar 2026 22:37:00 +0000

And just like that, Chinese New Year is over. All 15 days of it, gone in the twinkling of an eye.

Strange, considering the run-up lasted almost two months for me. The on-and-off spring cleaning, waking early to buy fruits for deity and ancestral worship, stocking up on fresh food for the long stretch of cooking ahead. And of course, preparing for the reunion dinner.

It’s not as though we don’t sit down regularly with my son and daughter. We do. But the Chinese New Year reunion dinner carries a different significance. A whole day is spent in preparation -- washing, chopping, simmering, tasting -- until evening comes and we finally sit down together to enjoy what we’ve made with our own hands. Usually roast chicken, garlic prawns, jiu hoo char, too tor soup. Sometimes a steamboat dinner, but not this year. The food tastes better for the effort.

Once that dinner is over, my annual pre-CNY duties begin. I gum strips of red paper carefully around each fruit, one by one, before arranging them neatly on plates for offering. Then come the gold-stamped worship papers, folded into paper ingots and lotus flowers. These will be burnt after the worship to Soo Kong, our house deity, and the Tnee Kong to welcome in the New Year. By the time everything is done, prayers said, incense offered, and suddenly it is usually close to 2am before we turn in.

The first day of Chinese New Year is vegetarian for us, from breakfast through to dinner. A tradition that has stayed, even as other habits have loosened over the years. We make our way to Bandar Tasek Mutiara to visit my mother-in-law, now the most senior member of the family since my parents and my aunt are no longer with us. Time does its quiet accounting. Generations shift almost without announcement.

Apart from that, we keep things simple. On the sixth day, when we are out visiting the Kuan Imm Teng and the Triple Wisdom Temple on the island, we drop by a long-time family friend’s home more out of habit than obligation. Otherwise, we stay home and wait for visitors, mostly relatives, the house filling and emptying in waves.

And then, before we quite realise it, Chap Goh Meh is upon us. On this day, I make my way to the Swee Cheok Tong, where my Kongsi makes its annual worship to the deities. Our principal deity is Tai Tay Yah, though Tua Pek Kong and Lo Chiah Kong are also prominent in the front hall. In the inner chamber are the Chow Moo Kong and Tay Choo Kong, along with the ancestral tablets. Once the noon worship is completed and the members have dispersed, I make my quiet way to Poh Hock Seah in Armenian Street to pay my respects to the resident Tua Pek Kong there. This is something I’ve done each year since my retirement.

So now, with the 15 days over, the mandarin oranges finished and the unused angpow packets put away, all that remain are the various unfinished Chinese New Year cookies. The red banner above the main doorway comes down, and the house returns to its ordinary rhythm. Two months of preparation. Fifteen days of observance. And it all passes as it always does.

Streets of London

noreply@blogger.com (SS Quah) — Mon, 02 Mar 2026 22:07:00 +0000

For years, I’ve been listening rather blissfully to this record unaware of any of its background. Only recently did I realise that this Ralph McTell Streets of London record on my shelf is not a new album he recorded at the time of the hit, but a compilation released by his previous record label to cash in on it.

Almost everyone knows Streets of London as a timeless song going back decades. McTell wrote it in 1965 but didn’t include it on his debut album because he thought it was too depressing. When it finally appeared on Spiral Staircase in 1969, it was modestly received.

By 1975 he had moved to Warner Bros Records and released a new studio album. The label wanted to call it Streets of London but McTell refused. He didn’t want his new work judged by the success of an old single. So the compromise title became simply Streets....

And that is where the record industry did what they often do. His former label, Transatlantic Records, quickly issued a budget compilation of his earlier material and titled it Streets of London. Same name as the hit, but it was a different album of older recordings. In the record shops, Streets of London was sold next to Streets..., thus confusing people.

Later, those same early recordings were licensed to Pickwick Records. Thin sleeve, economical packaging, explanatory notes on the back by one Albert Gayol, aimed at the listener like me who only knew the one famous song. These were the copies that ended up affordable, accessible and slightly misleading, which explains the record I own.

There’s an irony in all this. McTell insisted on using Streets... because he didn’t want to be defined by that one song. Yet the marketplace defined him anyway. The compilation sold widely. His new material risked being overshadowed. He later admitted that his refusal to use Streets of London may have been an error of judgement.

As for me, I rather like that my copy carries this small piece of industry history. It looks unassuming but it tells a story beyond the song itself. Not just about homelessness and forgotten people, which the lyric addresses, but about labels, contracts and timing. And about how, sometimes, the record on your shelf is not quite what you thought it was.

Here are the notes from Albert Gayol on Ralph McTell's album, Streets of London:

Ralph McTell left home in London and took to the road with five pounds in his pocket, a guitar on his back and little else besides a flourishing musical talent and the yearning of a free spirit to roam the streets of Europe playing for his supper.
The road which led him through the cafes of Paris, where McTell entertained the crowds as a busker, was eventually to take him nearly ten years on into the hallowed precincts of London's Royal Albert Hall and International prominence.
From busking, McTell began touring the circuit of British folk clubs, often booked on the sole recommendation of the highly respected guitarist/songwriter John Renbourn, but soon becoming something of a minor legend in his own right as he took to playing the large universities and concert arenas.
A series of highly successful albums followed establishing him, among other things, as one of the worlds finest finger style folk guitarists; he made regular appearances on television, including a film about his childhood in London that was inspired by a song of his called The Streets of London held by critics and the public as one of the best compositions by a British folk singer for years.
Ralph was not meteoric in his rise to success, more the gradual, but sure development of a gentle, quiet man who never went looking for fame and who only put out "Streets" as a single some ten years after having written it and after some thirty other artists had recorded it across the world.
His music heavily influenced by the jug bands of the twenties and the blues underlines a warm sensitivity and simple directness that is a true reflection of the man, and witnessed in the manner he is able to reduce the vastness of over 6,000 people crambed (sic) into the Albert Hall to the intimacy of a fireside chat.
It's a natural warmth that shows through on this record as well. The haunting melodies of his songs, their whistful (sic) delicate wording will command your attention from beginning to end, whether he is graphically portraying an imaginary scene in Brighton in the early 1900's or gently reciting tender words of love to his wife - Nannas Song.
Said simply, Ralph McTell's songs 'move you'.

Side 1: Streets of London, Hesitation blues, Girl on a bicycle, Clown, Michael in the garden, Blind Blake's rag

Side 2: Nanna's song, Last train and ride, England 1914, The mermaid and the seagull, Daddy's here, Kew Gardens