A Festival Night

The streets are decked up this Sunday night, psychedelic lights lining the archways erected down the streets of Little India in Singapore, the pavements overflowing with people who spill onto the roads for lack of space. Tourists from abroad watch bemused, curious and attracted by the bustle that refused to cease even at midnight. Juxtaposed against the cut-outs of lamps and Hindu symbols for Diwali are green banners that read 'Selamat Hari Raya' (Hari Raya is how Eid-ul-Fitr is referred to in Malay.)

Around midnight, a group of tired girls waits on the busy streets, trying to find a cab home. The seemingly ubiquitous yellow and blue cars almost disappear in the throngs; the ones that appear are already occupied or booked.

A cab finally draws up in front of us, and we immediately pile into it, immensely relieved. We're pleasantly surprised to find a lady at the wheel- she wears a scarf and the radio plays Islamic music for the festival. She welcomes us with a warm smile and says, "You're not Muslim, are you?" For a moment, it seems strange and an awkward silence reigns. We reply in the negative, and she promptly says she'll change the radio station to something we'll enjoy. We decline politely and tell her we don't mind, but she switches to an English music channel.

She is one of the few female cab drivers we have encountered, and only too happy to ferry us girls home late at night, no judgemental questions asked. She asks us if we're from India, and if we're Hindu. She points to the coloured lights and wants to know about Diwali. She asks us about our jobs and is surprised we don't have a holiday for the festivals, at which we try to explain the nuances of working in support. She converses pleasantly; there are a number of questions I want to ask as well, but I stop short, not knowing how they will be interpreted, and if they will take on unintentional religious overtones.

We're almost at our destination; I ask her when Hari Raya is, and she says, "Tomorrow- actually, today"- because it is now past midnight. We wish her, and she is delighted. She wishes us for Diwali, drops us off and drives away. I tumble into bed, gratified by yet another warm encounter- beautiful people turn up out of the blue; for that matter, everyone is beautiful, if you get to notice it- some people let the beauty lie dormant in a prolonged fit of perversity, and you have to break the facade down to see what lies beneath.

If only love and happiness were always easy to spread.

Cruelty is finding an invitation to jump the queue with a special discount on the Singapore GP tickets for 2010. They value my patronage. And I'm such a traitor.

When I'm still reeling from the Singapore hangover, it doesn't help to receive mails from the Esplanade for their best concerts and tantalising offers for F1 races. Oh, the heartburn of it all!

Saying Goodbye

Life isn't as predictable as it used to be. Not that it's a bad thing.

The past year has thrown up a number of surprises to relieve the monotony of unceasing weeks of work. Just when it began to seem that there never would be an end to listening to moaning users and reining in the unruly servers that insisted on crashing frequently, a little reminiscent of Indian politics, some special thing would come by to remind me that those few precious hours were what made life worth living, and I'd be a new person all over.

It is taking-stock time. Unpredictability, yes. I was supposed to return home this weekend, but after a few hours of suspense, will-they-will-they-not, my trip has been postponed to next Saturday. Doesn't make much sense to you, does it, that I would go around making such a fuss of just seven days? It does, to me. It is seven whole days that I am talking about, opportunity for another concert, or shopping (the song I'm listening to most now is Ka-Ching), or stumbling upon a perfect souvenir for somebody, going down an alleway expecting a hovel and tripping up on a castle- simply living out a dream for yet another week.

When you know it's time to say goodbye, it is hard not to ascribe a sense of finality to the smallest action of yours. Last week at Sentosa, it was about seeing the Merlion for the last time. It didn't hurt me much, because I've never been a big fan of this most famous tourist symbol and commercial money-spinner of Singapore- there are definitely better things here that the country can rave about. This morning, in a cab on my way to work, I watched with keen attention as the car burst through the Kallang-Paya Lebar Expressway tunnel (called the KPE) out into the open- and what a sight it was. Illuminated skyscrapers soared high into a dim blue sky irregularly patterned with splotches of hazily grey-brown clouds. A faint peach flush coloured the distance where the sun was trying to break through with promises of a fiery flaming morning. The clouds won. As we neared office, the windscreen was speckled with droplets of water. Rain, sweet rain.

I didn't ruminate over how many times more I'd see the splendid sight of the city rising majestically in the distance, clouds hovering low over the buildings as they kissed the sky, a glimpse of the street circuit, the grandstand and the domes of the Esplanade- there is still a while left, and besides, it just hurts too much when you have to say grim goodbyes to things you know and like well. I'd rather be thankful for the chance I was given to experience things I could only have hoped for in my wildest dreams- the F1 race (which tops the list without doubt), an Il Divo concert, an ice skating show, the libraries thrown open to my ravenous appetite, the malls (I have turned into a slight brand freak- but it'll soon pass), meeting people from around the world- oh yes, it is a rather long list.

Goodbyes needn't always hurt. With a little artful convolution, you can always instill a sense of optimism into them.

Stopping at Sentosa

I paid what is probably my last visit to Sentosa this afternoon. My roommates and I have taken in most of the attractions in our three trips there, and we covered the remaining parts of Fort Siloso (we saw most of it last time, and today it seemed surprisingly small and less impressive) and the visually appealing Songs of the Sea show. We learnt a lesson- never go by adjectives, especially when it comes to tourism. The 'longest' tunnel at the fort turned out to be a short walk, and it wasn't even much like a tunnel. It was damp and dank and smelt very musty, indeed- but apart from that, there was nothing sinister or extremely evocative about it.

We ended up at the souvenir shop like typical tourists, and as the man at the counter wrapped up my purchase, I asked him a question I'd been long wanting to ask the people working there- what it was like to come to work to the island everyday. He thought for a moment, and told me it was quite tiring- "but this is the retail shop with the best view here", and that his colleagues were fun to be with. I like optimism. He was very friendly and cheerful, and it must take a good deal of patience and saintliness to have to smile at every person who comes in and maintain an outward semblance of serenity, notwithstanding the rain or shine within.

Songs of the Sea is a tantalising treat- lights playing on water sprayed from the sea, huts on stilts forming the 'village' on the coast, colours conjuring magical shapes in the air, playing out the story of a sleeping princess awoken by a village lad's mesmerising song- telling how, along the way, he restores the lost arts and powers of various other beings. A short, simple tale, told in sparkling lights reflecting off the sea-spray, taking you back to when fairy tales were real, the whole entire truth, and being a child was all that mattered.

One weekend remains, and considering I have to use it well, I'd rather not do any planning.

Meeting Bernie

I met Bernie Ecclestone.

I am no fashionista, couldn't be one if I tried ever so hard, but I like walking down the corridors of the impossibly glamorous malls on Orchard Road, looking into display windows at absurdly clothed mannequins, giant handbags, shoes that would make the wearer tower over an entire NBA team. Turn left, it's Louis Vuitton and Chanel, look right and you have Prada and Dolce & Gabbana. Labels rule. Orchard Road is the best place to be at to savour completely the flavour of the F1 season. Tourists throng the malls, and apparently, celebrities too.

Standing by one of the exits at Takashimaya, a small figure with an unruly mop of grey hair, wearing the familiar white shirt, he could almost have passed off for a nondescript shopper (if people who actually buy things there can be nondescript). But Bernie is the man with the deep pockets and the hands that hold the reins of F1, and it is hard not to recognise him if you have, for months on end, seen him strolling down the starting grid, patting shoulders in fireproof suits, having a word with team bosses.

I was, of course, dumbfounded, and after the word "Bernie", I just managed to choke out an incoherent sentence which I don't intend to repeat. I told him I was from India, to which knowledge his first sentence came out completely naturally- "India. We are coming there next year." He seemed pretty impressed by the fact that I was from India, and if I have contributed the tiniest mite in convincing the powers that be that there is quite a sizeable population looking forward to F1 in India, I will feel my life has had purpose and meaning.

I was speechless when I met Bernie and shook hands with him. I would have positively swooned if I'd run into one of the drivers. This is surreal. There was a very pretty girl beside Bernie, presumably Tamara Ecclestone, his daughter.

(The real reason I went to Orchard was watch-shopping. Tag Heuer blew me away. Only, the price tags were a little steep. We walked into Chanel for a lark, and walked out laughing after we saw a watch worth $75, 300. Only. Finally, though, I managed to find myself a decent black Esprit watch, not flashy, but very attractive. Simple is nice.)

Tremendous uncertainties, possibilities of turning round the corner and running into an F1 star, the thrill, the actual experience of living out what I've always wanted to see- it's all so overwhelming! Can I hope to get just a little bit luckier? Sunday will tell.

Reporting from the Front

Today I am rather convinced that India is not exactly in a position to hold an F1 race on a street circuit.

No, I haven't joined forces with the Sports Ministry- sadly, we have people who cannot tell a sport when they see one. Seeing the length of the lines of cars jamming the roads of Singapore this week, however, I can't imagine a race through the roads in India, when it is already bursting at the seams and the traffic threatens to spill over into the tiniest crevice possible.

The lanes of the Marina Bay Circuit have been closed to general traffic this week, in preparation for this weekend's Singapore Grand Prix. Cars snake through the tunnels at snail's pace, and this is when you regret your decision to take a cab instead of the train that would have delivered you home in half the time. Now imagine blocking roads for a week in India. Of course, we have impromptu closures all the time, but then something of this magnitude, requiring the best possible infrastructure, is something I don't think we are quite ready to pull off at the moment. What an irony that many of the people working on construction and laying roads in Singapore are from India!

Living in Grand Prix country is a whole new experience. A week of excitement, an influx of tourists, F1 signs everywhere, designer boutiques more primmed up than usual, models of cars and art inspired by them. The thrill is palpable, and Singapore is glorying in the attention, notwithstanding the fiasco of last year's race and the Renault revelations.

Just one more day to Friday.

Magic on Ice

My theory of unplanned weekends turning out spectacularly has just received a shot in the arm. A big one.

After hours of planning and trawling through the Internet for a place to visit this weekend, we fixed on the Esplanade- not for any particular reason. It was the best thing we could have done.

Cinderella, revamped and reinforced with a meatier storyline, played out on ice by top-class ice skaters- Cinderella On Ice- was the show we treated ourselves to. It was sheer delight from the beginning. Cinderella plays a chorus dancer who finds herself suddenly offered the chance to play Odette in a production of Swan Lake, and incurs the wrath of her already envious step-mother and step-sisters. Her grace enchants the young son of the Lord Mayor of the town, and of course you know what happens next. The fairy godmother, interestingly, is a gypsy woman in colourful clothes, carrying a crystal ball.

Ballet meets ice skating in this spectacular show, enacted by European skaters who have, at some time, been involved with the sport professionally. Clever lighting and sets, delightfully authentic costumes and apt music add to the thrill. Flying artistes, fire and rain, tap dancing on ice. I remember the 2006 Salt Lake City Olympics on TV, the never-ending sessions of figure skating on DD Sports, watching Ice Princess on Star Movies, admiring their pirouettes and lifts. I never in my wildest dreams thought I'd watch it all for real.

Towards the entrance to the Esplanade Theatre, we were greeted by four violonists playing to a crowd lounging around, listening as they wove spells with strings. We had 30 minutes before the show began, so we decided to tuck in, as we hadn't really had a proper lunch. Adventures of people getting locked out of theatres because they were a minute late came rushing into my head, and so we crammed in our Swiss cheese and tomato sandwiches and gulped down the vanilla milkshake with the delicious whipped cream and the luscious cherry on top. When we made it into the hall, three minutes before the show started, we found somebody else already in our seats. (A brief line of background is due here- our tickets had been upgraded, and they had apparently messed up somewhere, giving us the wrong seats.) A profusely apologising theatre assistant helped us out, running as if somebody's life were at stake, changing our seats and giving us an even better view than we were originally offered. I wasn't a bit annoyed by the confusion- it all turned out for the best.

Violins, Cinderella, living in a city that's throbbing with excitement as it gets ready to host an F1 race in a few weeks, an Il Divo concert in the offing. I'm living a story here.

Playing Truant

It is thrilling. Honestly. Not a trace of compunction bothered me as I left work early to finish up some work that couldn't be postponed (or they'd chuck me out of Singapore)- I had to get my work permit renewed, and it is funny that with just a few weeks left, I should have to go through the entire process again- they won't let people work on a tourist visa, do they?

The 'playing truant' part follows- it was actually just about an hour. I knocked off work two hours early, and by the time I finished up at the MoM office, it was over half past one- doesn't make sense travelling from the Riverwalk back to Harbour Front when your shift ends at 2.30. So I just picked out the most interesting looking exit, which took me over Elgin Bridge over the rippling brown waters of the Singapore River, hit an intersection, took the road more travelled (though I'd never been there earlier), and went on straight- aimlessly. I wanted to get lost. Unfortunately, some convolution of fate took me past the heard-of Funan Mall, and in moments, I was in sight of the majestic white spire of St. Andrews' Cathedral. Sigh. Back at City Hall. No matter how hard I try to see different parts of the city, all roads seem to lead to City Hall. I avoided the trappings and temptations of Raffles City and turned left into Stamford Road. Oh, that lovely building- it houses some really classy galleries and shops which display a good bit of European influence. Wandering on, I hit the Armenian Street, and I came across an intersection with a signboard pointing to the Peranakan Museum. I had a choice- to turn left and lose myself in a bit of culture and history, or to walk straight on to Fort Canning Road and lose myself in another maze of traffic.

The museum won hands down.

Peranakan is the term used to refer to the descendants of the unions of foreign settlers such as the Indians and the Chinese, with people of the local communities. These inter-racial marriages led to a fusion of languages and traditions, and 'Peranakan' is indeed quite an adjective in itself now. It is housed in an impressive building constructed in 1910, originally a school and given up in the mid-nineties as the school moved to the suburbs to cater to larger numbers of students. Exhibits include clothes (sarongs, baju kebaya and other traditional outfits), jewellery, the finery and dowries at weddings (a whole section on a 12-day Peranakan wedding!), a coffin (depicting the death rituals), religious figurines and a model kitchen.

The sections depicting the lives of nonyas and babas (Peranakan women and men) are a real insight into Peranakan ways of life. The girls were traditionally brought up to be good wives and trained in household chores from early on. They were pressured to have sons, and a painting at the museum depicts it all so poignantly- a dejected-looking woman sitting down with her daughters around her- yet another example of how women were viewed as little more than instruments of procreation. The consummation of the wedding itself was accompanied by a ceremony- again, aimed at testing the purity of the bride, who could be rejected by the mother-in-law if she was not a virgin. How women themselves can turn against their own kind will remain a baffling mystery.

The section on cuisine had some interesting, colourful displays of crockery, and descriptions of the kinds of food eaten. All this while, I'd just heard of nasi lemak and sambal belacan- now I know what they actually are.

Baba Bling is a temporary exhibit at the museum- Peranakan-inspired jewellery. Hairpins, broooches, necklaces and bracelets encrusted with diamonds, pearls and jade were on display. They are all the more sought after now for the increasing rarity of genuine Peranakan jewellery in the market. There seem to have been quite a few wealthy Peranakans around!

(http://www.peranakanmuseum.sg/home/home.asp)

The afternoon could have ended after a quiet browse through the museum's souvenir shop (which, incidentally, is so strategically placed that most people enter it before they go into the museum itself). But no, I wanted more out of this promising afternoon. And true to the feeling that had been in my bones all morning, I got it.

Voices from the War

War, bloodshed, guns and anguish- it is difficult to believe something as ghastly could have taken place on an island as tranquil and lovely as Sentosa. Tranquil, that is, as it must have been between the end of the Second World War and the invasion of the island by commercial predators. Even now, though, there are large pockets on the island that do not swarm with pleasure-seeking multitudes (of which we were undeniably a part- even so), which do not seem to draw crowds with the tenacity of gift shops placed strategically at the exit of every major attraction- theatre, gallery, park.

Fort Siloso is a relatively quiet section of the island (or so it was yesterday, thanks maybe to the heavy rain that suddenly started to fall, dauting potential families of visitors, but not strong enough to prevent us from running across the road to the entrance), and we were taken to the buildings by a quaint green bus, reminiscent of the past century and its glories. Don't let the word 'Fort' mislead you as it did me- I'd expected a castle of sorts, huge intricate doors, gates and all, but it was more a military establishment. It was built by the British to defend Singapore and other Asian establishments from Japanese invasion, but that didn't deter Japan from capturing Singapore during WW II.

Now, as a tourist spot, Fort Siloso offers you enough glimpses of history to send shivers down your spine- pictures of emaciated soldiers, people ravaged by war and running helter-skelter to protect themselves from raids and firing, stern, cold men sitting across tables and signing treaties for control over people whom they could later kill and torture according to their whims. A cottage has been remodelled to depict the various sections on ships that carried soldiers to Singapore- the sleeping quarters, the kitchen, the laundry and the tailor's. Large fans sweep through the silent air in the room, their shadows falling eerily across the dimly-lit objects. As you step into the room, speakers play the voice of British generals shouting out orders mercilessly in harsh tones. You see the ingratiating smile on the face of the native tailor as he fits the Britisher, hoping, perhaps, for one kind word.

Large guns dot the hillside. How hard can it get to imagine ships wending their way into the harbour, spilling out tired, spent soldiers, or balls of fire being spouted out by the great guns and causing massive destruction to life and property? Through the rain, we got a spectacular glimpse of the harbour, the grey skies, the clouds hovering over the skyscrapers. The skies were menacingly grey as we looked up through the thick foliage, making our way to the Surrender Chambers. This is perhaps historically the most important part of the fort, featuring the surrender of Singapore to the Japanese: lifelike effigies of men at tables, working out (or destroying) the future of a people who had unwittingly been entrapped in the power struggles of two unconnected nations. Fort Siloso also served as a PoW camp after the British surrendered; imagine being isolated in dungeons on a secluded island, away from all civilisation and humanity, at the mercy of cruel men.

We peeked into a couple of underground chambers, but didn't go through the tunnels for lack of time- it was creepy and musty in there, with the doors open and the lizards crawling across the walls- you don't need high powers of imagination to think how it must have been back then, guns firing all around, never knowing when you'd be attacked. The fort indeed brings back to life the sounds and the sights of the war- the authoritarian voices, the stony eyes of murderers, the anguished cries of pain and separation, the mothers' wailing, the children's screaming- and the eternal question about the futility of it all, and why we still have so much faith in violence as the best solution to the problems of boundaries and territories. We're either incorrigible, or incredibly stupid, as opposed to all our claims of being the most intelligent species on the planet.

The Long Way to Work

Cab drivers in Singapore are an ilk of their own. They can disarm you with their heartiness or put you off with their sullen taciturnity. When you open the door of one of the blue or yellow or white or silver cars, you can never be sure of what to expect.

Sample these:

After a night of work and breakfast at Komala’s at Farrer Park(where we’re almost always the first customers and my roommate was once requested to come in later as they hadn’t opened yet), we found a cab at the traffic signal. The driver was extremely loquacious and cheerful. He had a rumbling laugh rising from the depths of his belly and a deep voice. He pointed out a Buddhist temple to us as we drove down, and launched into a soliloquy (supposed to be a conversation, actually) on poverty in India. He was critical of businessmen buying their wives aeroplanes when beggars languished in poverty on the streets. He couldn’t comprehend why he could get to Delhi in a few hours from Singapore, but had to travel more than a day to get to Gaya from there. He told us about the large number of IT professionals who crowded into the restaurants of Little India come Sunday. (Of course, we didn’t tell him we belonged to that category too). There was something rather amusing about the way he spoke, though, and my roommate wore a very uncomfortable expression as she tried to keep herself from laughing out straightaway into his face. The most priceless moment, though, arrived when the driver, glorying in the magnificence of his country, mentioned the ‘Cocodye’ farm. My roommate looked up at him, puzzled, and he promptly snapped his palms, joined at the heels, at her. ‘Cocodye!’

“Crocodile!” I announced simultaneously, convulsed with laughter, for I’d already seen the Crocodile Farm pass by, and I couldn’t even bring myself to thwart the driver’s eagerness as he looked out of the window constantly, trying to find the place and telling us how you could purchase leather bags there (which made me wonder, on a serious note, if the farm bred crocodiles to kill or for conservation- their website says they practice ‘sustainable utilisation’- something I need to learn about).

Then there was the driver who asked us a question or took directions, and followed up every sentence we uttered with, “Thanks. Thank you very much. Thank you.” Three times. OCD? I hope not. Then another memorable one was a huge fan of Indian cinema who watched Hindi DVDs on weekends and got his daughter hooked as well. He went on about what a safe place Singapore was, and as he dropped my colleague off before me, told him that he would be taking me to a discotheque and not home- whereupon, in two minutes, I received a call from my colleague to make sure I’d got home safe and sound. Another driver, smelling the food we were carrying home to the other girls, asked, “Is that dosey?” They have varying tastes in radio channels, so you never know if you’re going to be treated to some Western Classical or pop or Chinese music, or be bamboozled by an incomprehensible game show (in Chinese, of course!)

Of course, this immense garrulity is limited to a few drivers. They aren’t always comfortable with English, and we’ve even had an instance when one of my flatmates was told that she didn’t know English (needless to say, she was left speechless). Many of them do make conversation, often intelligent talk, and it is indeed amazing how well-informed they are. They know a lot about India in particular, and not just the basic stuff that any interested foreigner would, but also politics. Many of them are people retired from regular day jobs, and it is heartening to find them doing a job which, back home, would be regarded as degrading and inconsequential- what a price we pay for our ignorance!

Unpredictable. That is what they are. And this makes each drive an adventure and a journey to look forward to (even when the destination is office).

Food Misadventures

My roommate is just as prone as I am to getting into scrapes. What happened today, though, quite tops it all.

At McDonald's for breakfast, my roommate ordered hash browns and an Egg McMuffin. Let me explain first that she doesn't eat meat, though eggs are okay with her. She asked the lady at the counter if the egg muffin contained meat- twice, thrice, just to make sure, and was told confidently that it didn't. When the muffin was passed to my roommate, she took a look at the layer of pink in it, assumed it was tomato, but asked the lady about it anyway- and was told that it was indeed tomato.

One bite taken, my roommate couldn't quite feel the flavour of tomato. She immediately rang her brother up and asked him to look up the ingredients of the egg muffin, and to her deep chagrin and his great amusement, he announced with a flourish that the pink layer was just bacon. Goosebumps erupted on my roommate's skin as her brother, with all the graciousness of big brothers, gave her a vivid, graphic description of what bacon really means, which part of what animal it comes from, and everything else that she didn't want to hear.

She has been lamenting ever since she came in, and has summoned up more expressions on her face than Katrina Kaif ever will in her entire career (even if she goes to acting school, trust me). What we're doing now is regaling the poor girl with definitions of various kinds of meat, laying emphasis on the fact that they don't all come from the posteriors of hogs; it is pretty hilarious to me as an onlooker, though I can imagine the state of indignation I would have worked myself into had I been in her shoes.

It isn't the first time such a thing has happened, is it? Such incidents are heard of often, and what is it, after all, that causes them? Ignorance, carelessness? The lady at the counter should have got her facts right before confirming things, she should have crosschecked with someone if she wasn't quite sure. How can you ever eat out if you can't even be sure of what you're being given, despite reassurances to the contrary from sales staff? Are they so desperate to sell their stuff that they don't believe in honesty any longer? Mistakes happen, but this doesn't quite seem acceptable. It isn't a religious or spiritual thing here, but having your beliefs encroached upon and violated so doesn't feel too good.

Experimentation doesn't quite work well when you're abroad. Seemingly innocent food often contains ingredients you wouldn't even dream of. We've often ripped open bags of cheese rings or potato chips before remembering to read the ingredients; what a shock it comes as later, when you realise that the snack contains traces of crustacea, seafood, prawns, whatnots.

I might have been careless often enough with regard to reading the ingredients or finding out from staff at a restaurant, but this episode is a wake-up call. I just hope something of this sort doesn't happen to me. It wouldn't be so hilarious if it did.

Through the Streets of the Orient

Chinatown never does fail to delight. Everytime I go there, the excitement is palpable, it courses through my veins, and I am never disappointed. I remember the first time I walked out of the train at the Chinatown station on an impulse, and the magic has lingered ever since.

I am sure there is more to it than just my own curiosity about Chinese culture, because evidently, I am not the only person fascinated by the colours and the warmth of the area. The exit that I normally take from the station, the one that leads on to Pagoda Street, opens out on a flea market. Things are delightfully attractive and rather inexpensive, and even if you are not a huge fan of shopping, you can walk up and down the aisles between the rows of shops stocked to the brim with colourful clothes, artefacts and other curiosities. You lose yourself among the tourists, you are just one person in a stream of humanity; people searching for presents to carry home to friends, burrowing through heaps of pretty clothes, stopping to finger strange bits of stone or shells or beads at stalls that lie unabashedly open to susceptible, greedy eyes and purses.

It isn’t just the shopping, though. There is more to Chinatown than mere words can explain. Old, graceful buildings stand proud amidst the endlessly changing, milling crowds, red-and-gold lanterns suspended over the variously coloured people, bobbing briskly under the influence of the slightest gust of wind. Walking down the streets on a sunshiny afternoon gives you a profound sense of peace and quiet, almost like the serene calm of a clear pool untroubled by pebbles or wading feet.

The whole morning at work was spent waiting for 2.30 pm, when I’d get off and be able to make my way to the mesmerizing alleys of Chinatown, to travel backwards or forwards in time I know not, but to an entirely different, mysterious world for sure. Laughing Buddhas and frogs in jade and metal; unbelievably chunky jewellery, glimmering beads strung and twisted inextricably together; dolls dressed with loving care in bright ethnic costumes; beaded and brocaded bags; silken cushion covers and slippers; pretty fans, umbrellas and chopsticks- the stuff of plundered loot from ships returning from the Orient in the marvellous stories that we read and loved and still do.

The best part of the afternoon, though, was more spiritual than material. Bursting plastic bags in blue, orange and green notwithstanding, there was something I was really looking forward to- the visit to the monastery. Normally, too much grandeur makes me uncomfortable, but the red and gold décor within the Buddhist temple just left me awestruck without disconcerting me. The serene, benevolent faces of the deities, the powerful, overwhelming presence of the Buddha seemed to pervade the atmosphere within with a sense of incredible calm and reassurance, spelling an end to unhappiness and turmoil. Numerous incense sticks were lit in a huge cauldron just outside the doors, and the mellow fragrance wafted in on the breeze as people held up lanterns and laid their faith and conscience bare, in humility and surrender, to the inexplicable Power.

Stumbling upon a Mariamman temple next, I couldn’t quite let go of the opportunity to go in. It is incredible how, when you are physically spent, your head and heart conspire to carry you through. So it was, laden with shopping as I mentioned, that I walked into the temple with my friend. Strains of the nadaswaram and the rhythmic tolling of bells accompanied the ancient chants as curious tourists crowded in to take in the sights and the sounds of unfamiliar rituals. Walking around the temple courtyard, I looked up at the discoloured figures carved out on the gopuram and the walls, and then at the metallic blue-and-grey skyscrapers, which seemed rather incongruous when set against the more tranquil, less ambitious symbols of faith and beseeching.

And before the magic wears off, before the commonplace becomes life once again and drives away the wonder of the unexplained, I am glad I have written it all down.

Parent Attack

Trust not-so-young Indian parents to show off their "general knowledge".

Whether this "trivia" was put to good use in school and college and directed into useful channels of quizzing, or not, it certainly serves as a trustworthy irritant for reasonably young nerves. Not to talk of the poor, incomprehending child that is caught in the midst of all the ostentation.

"What animal is that?" Loud, clear, ringing tones.

"Tiger?" Meek, nervous, terribly unsure.

"The King of the Jungle?! Come on, you know it." Incredulous, coaxing and threatening.

Silence. A moment or two of the heavenly bliss that one craves for and finds in the most unexpected places. Oh, how much enlightenment can come from three-quarters of an hour of inane talk thankfully endowed with those blessed pockets of silence! From the silence, by the way, not the talk.

"It is a lion." The other parent. Defeat, submission, a tinge of embarrassment. The child isn't learning much. Let's send him to school earlier than we thought we should. And tuitions, too.

Before I leave you craving for a pocket of silence, let me also tell you that this is just a sample. The other things I was forcefully, unwillingly taught that Saturday night was that fawns are the young ones of deer (or deers, as our young Tamizh Maami insisted on calling them), tapirs have sharp noses, zebras have stripes, and those thick-skinned animals that wallow in the mud are bisons. There, now that I have dutifully shared my knowledge, let me explain what triggered off this whole rant. It isn't fiction at all; not a bit. It is based on a conversation which I cannot say I eavesdropped on (ugh! not the most obsessive-compulsive voyeur would choose to eavesdrop on something of this sort), or overheard (this, because it was carried on as audibly as possible). I was on the Night Safari with three of the girls, and we were ensconced comfortably in our seat, ready to lose ourselves in the mysterious wonders, habits and habitats of nocturnal creatures, when along came this couple with a very young son, and just our (or is it my?) luck, they plonked down right behind us. So for the entire duration of our trip through the park, in the lovely darkness with the breeze carrying the breath of the forests and some not-so-enticing natural odours, we were forced to put up with the agonising coaching of the parents, a most uninterested child squeezed between the two wildlife enthusiasts. (I cannot think of a more sarcastic term.) The mother, we came to a unanimous decision after the trip, was the most excited of them all, almost jumping out of the tram in her excitement to see the Indian buffaloes in their incongruous Singaporean setting, the prowling lions and the sleeping tigers. (Digressing: the guide on the trip said tigers are natural energy conservers and sleep a lot, upto 20 hours a day. Indeed? Um...can we have something more interesting than that, because we know enough human beings who do that, and that fateful night, I was actually in the midst of them. Lucky me, my flatmates don't read my blog.)

The trip, setting aside the unwanted presence, was soothing and enriching. When you see animals in their natural settings and watch them in their power and glory, you are awe-struck and want to see them flourish. The importance of conservation hits you harder when you see for yourself how nature abounds in wealth and how cruelly we are destroying it all. The gentle eyes of the elephants and the deer seemed to tell a story of immense suffering, and you just felt the urge to go stroke them and tell them that you'd be able to set things right.

Hope is a good thing to have. Almost as good as being single.

Wrath, Sloth and a Walk in the Park

Wrath:

Another of my cousins was sacrificed at the altar of engineering studies in India nearly four years ago. He feels now, at the end of his term, just as I did a year ago. That four whole years, the time of ripe youth, romance and vigour, have been poured into unnecessary, irrelevant work at books, ploughing through pages that are easily forgotten and uninteresting, preparing for a life that will bear no connection to all the slogging and will bring challenge of an entirely different nature.

We know we are making mistakes, and what baffles me is that instead of learning from them, we persist in repeating them. Bruise, burn, more bruising, more burning, no learning. We condemn society for having set standards and norms that do not in the least matter, for giving undue importance to educational degrees and what you’ve read rather than what you know, conveniently forgetting that we are that society, those ‘practical’ people who nod their heads in wise agreement to what society, the ’sane’ people, think.

And notwithstanding the ranting, I’m still sitting back in passive discontentment, doing nothing. Ugh! Courage. Where is it gone?

Sloth:

On a Sunday afternoon, when you’ve managed to drag yourself out of bed, made the customary telephone calls and think of indolence as the most beautiful-sounding word in the dictionary, would you really want to change out of comfortable home clothes (you know what I mean) and get out among the crowds? Particularly when the people with you are girls who intend to go shopping? Walk to the station, take a train, end up among people and vendors in Chinatown.
To be fair, I am writing this in a fit of grumpiness. Exploring is something I ought to do while I have the chance. This is the perfect opportunity; with the Chinese New Year just a couple of weeks ago, the whole of Chinatown is bustling and sparkling, as the driver who drove us to the Botanical Gardens yesterday told us.

A Walk in the Park:

Last evening, we headed out to the Chinese Garden, but having had some sense knocked into our heads by the cab driver who told us of its surprisingly early closing time, we turned to the Botanical Gardens instead. (That we were destined to spend the evening in the midst of nature is indisputable; I am so glad.)

Tall, grand trees, comfortably rooted in the earth, looked down in magnificent benevolence from amazing heights; flowers and buds appeared from nowhere among the green foliage. The weeds, unduly despised in manicured, doctored lawns, looked at home, and genuinely pretty. The sprawling park spread out so you couldn’t walk through all of it at once; there were nooks to be explored, steps that appeared suddenly where you expected none, little gurgling brooks that wended their way through stones and over pebbles. A lake- Swan Lake, to be precise- stands in the park, murky and green, tortoises and swans living in perfect harmony, unfazed by human attention. I must admit that I was rather disappointed by the state of the lake. The name sure had inspired in me visions of a serene, sparkling pool of clear water, the music of nature wafting gently through the breeze stirred up over its ripples, swans gliding gracefully through the water. There were swans (real and artificial), and fish, and other aquatic creatures, but it wasn’t quite what I’d expected. Oh well! Just one of those things to be ignored and forgotten in a place of several attractions. Statues exquisitely crafted popped out from among branches, darkly silhouetted in the fading evening light. The grass on the undulating slopes within the park looked very inviting; notwithstanding the red ants, it seemed like a perfect place to spend a sun-warmed winter morning at. Oh, for a book, some decent music and plenty of time! I would love to go exploring amidst the inviting thickets, so dark and mysterious, full of promise. You could just look at the trees for a long time and not get bored.

The bandstand rather interested me. It is the kind of structure you would have expected Liz Bennet to spend an evening reading in, primly gloved, bonneted and veiled. Now, it is being invaded by couples in love, families with kids running loose, young women who have no idea of how usefully to spend a Saturday evening. From music to noise and irrelevant human prattle- what degradation!

The park, again, reminded me of the Presence. The Thing that is at work in the universe and keeps it in motion, unknown to us, carefully guarding its secrets. I felt that intense peace that arises from cleansing your head of unwanted thoughts and exuberant emotions, of thoughts that besiege you despite your attempts at resistance and drive you to desperation. This feeling yesterday was exhilaration of a different kind- subtle, in control and measured. Fleeting. So that you would look forward to it again with a sense of awe and eagerness, never knowing when it would take hold of you.

It appears in the unlikeliest of places. You happen to be walking through the most commonplace area, where probably everybody wants to go, yet feel sublime and superior. Or atleast, like you are as good as the person next to you. That is the best thing about Nature. She tells you what you are. She tells you the truth, and not what you want to listen to. She is a good friend.

PS to Sloth: I did manage to go to Chinatown today, and I actually enjoyed the trip. I got a few delightful things at the bazaar there, all red and gold and New Year cheer. Explicit details later.

By the River

Moral 1: Never forget to charge the battery of your camera before you go traipsing through the city.

Moral 2: Things might not always be what they promise to be, so be prepared for disappointments (but don't give them more importance than they deserve, for they'll most likely be followed by something spectacular as an alleviation).

Moral 3: Even if you binge at a restaurant at midnight, you are bound to get hungry (or have an appetite- however you choose to look at it) early in the morning, before you go to bed.

Moral 4, and the most important one: Never ever go out with a slightly sprained neck to admire a beautiful place, especially one where the structures rise straight into the sky without inhibition or hesitance.

Whew! Moralising done, Miss Preachy Goody-Goody can now revert to her true evil self and get down to the actual business of story-telling.

It started out as any other day. I woke up at my normal time (which would probably be called tea-time in more respectable parts of the world), lamented that another Saturday was going to go waste without a chance to understand better the culture of the city I'm living in, when my roommate suggested we go to the museum. We did set out with that intention, but not at the right time. When you leave home at 8 in the evening, no curator would really be willing to entertain you, so we decided to go to the Esplanade- no difficulty making decisions here- and headed for the sparkling domes that house theatres, a mall (naturally) and a library. An open-air concert was on, people were lounging around, talking, taking pictures, laughing, celebrating birthdays, waiting for a concert to begin, or simply walking around aimlessly, and you would know by now which category we belonged to.

We stopped at a cafe with a German-sounding name for some ice cream. After a sporting struggle with the near-frozen ice cream, the friendly (seemingly Indian) man at the counter gave us our generous scoops of rum-raisin and strawberry ice-cream in crisp cones. The rum-raisin was near-heaven. Absolutely delectable.

We peeped into a toy-shop, not realising that it was for expectant mothers, making a somewhat sheepish exit when the salesgirl asked us in rather unintelligible English if we'd come in to do some shopping for a baby or were expecting one or something to that effect. We wandered into a gift shop, looked through the windows of a darkened store that sold musical instruments- violins in finished and half-finished states, guitars, and other silhouettes catching some light from the brightly-lit passages of the Esplanade. It reminded me of the Old Curiosity Shop (please do not embarrass me by asking me about my progress with the book- that is a taboo topic for the moment).

Our next stop was Marina Bay. We walked half a circle to the spot where the emblem of Singapore, the lion with a mouth that spouts water endlessly, stands looking dispassionately at the massive lighted buildings all around, at the slowly rotating, colourfully blinking Singapore Flyer, undaunted by the numerous tourists making a celebrity out of it and taking pictures enthusiastically. The lights shone down on the thick, black ripples, casting a haze all around. Surprising, isn't it then, that we were actually able to see the stars in the sky? A slight, imperceptible breeze blew the spray in our direction, lion's saliva on my glasses and my arm. The Fullerton Hotel (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fullerton_Hotel) loomed majestically in the background, a lovely structure boasting a colonial past and great wealth, bedecked for Christmas and the New Year.

The area around is strewn with such marvels of British architecture- the Cavenagh Bridge, for instance- a brilliantly lit structure, built sometime in 1869, arching over the sparkling waters of the Singapore River. It is named after a Governor of the Straits, and conjured up some fascinating images in my head. Take away the tourists and tourists, strip the bridge of its lights, and you can hear the clash of metal, armies on either side preparing for war, a battle between the Covenanters and the Episcopalians, straight out of Old Mortality. (I know I went overboard with my imagining there, but I just couldn't help it.) The notice at the entrance to the bridge prohibiting cavalry had me confused, until I searched it out (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cavenagh_Bridge). We walked up the bridge to the opposite side, round to where diners sat at candle-lit tables outside the Museum of Asian Culture. Unfortunately for us, the museum was already closed, and we weren't exactly the tux-black dress type, dressed in jeans as we were, to even pretend to be invitees at whatever distinguished, classy gathering that was.

Nothing quite beats the pleasure of walking in an unknown city. Though the tall, umpteen-storeyed towers with the names of well-known international banks (learnt through distant advertisements, as sponsors of F1 teams or names in the financial sections of the newspaper) have now become familiar, there is still enough scope for discovery and wandering. I can do so in this city without getting lost- for how can I get lost in a city I barely know?

The water reflected the slew of colours thrown by the lights from buildings near and far; every conceivable colour, a rainbow of sorts trembling restlessly even in the still air, a boat quietly slicing through its deep restfulness. For once, I didn't complain about light pollution or man's wickedness in destroying nature and rip it of its beauty to prove his own illegitimate, borrowed supremacy. The architecture in Singapore is indeed marvellous. How concrete can mould and twist itself into such ambitious, domineering or graceful structures is inconceivable to my awed senses. It is a treat in every way, though, walking through unknown streets, not knowing what you are to be surprised by at the next bend in the road. Nights here are vibrant and exciting. You don't have to be a regular club-hopper or party-goer to appreciate the splendour and the thrill of being out in the city at night. (If, of all people, I am talking about going out at night, it has to be true.)

Need I say it another time? Well, I will. I love this city.

PS: The few pictures that I did manage to take before my camera's battery played foul are at http://flickr.com/photos/wanderingbrook.

Festive Season? Oh No!

In my diary, it is official. The festive season is absolutely the worst time of the year. Pardon me if I sound insensitive and crass, but I see no point in watching people have fun and make merry when I am closeted in office with absolutely nothing to do. I may not be the 'have fun and make merry' type, either, but it still doesn't feel good. I like visual and aural treats. I like to hear the carols and have my eyes blinded by blue and silver and golden lights. This is the time you can observe and absorb, capture pictures in memory to be translated to words at the earliest opportunity.

And what did I end up doing, this Christmas day? This. I watched my three monitors for a while, expecting some action. Nothing. So I walked to the window, where a colourless sky cast its colourless reflection on pale green ocean ripples. The ships were not in the harbour, probably cruising around some unknown island laden with people giddy with happiness and alcohol. I went to the pantry. I made six phone calls and three people answered. (Not a bad ratio, going by my normal standards.) I bothered my flatmate working at another desk on a different application. Then I went back to monitor a job and send out a report- the only genuine bit of work. No point doing this, either, because the users the report goes out to everyday were probably, at that very moment, divesting a once-respectable turkey of all its dignity and its flesh and consigning the bones to a heap of waste, the report the thing farthest from their minds. Who says slavery has been abolished by law? It flourishes and thrives and grows in leaps and bounds. Don't even think of looking further for proof.

I went through some documents related to our applications, found nothing wholly relevant or interesting enough (maybe I didn't search wholeheartedly enough- need we talk about that?); read the online version of the Hindu, wondered why Sania had been invited to participate in the Australian Open (no more Injury Fables- what has the world come to?); read some Maugham; went out with my flatmate when she left a good two and a half hours before I did and lost myself within the hallowed walls of one of the chocolate shops at Vivo City; read some more Maugham; indulged in some of the most useless, fruitless conversation with my colleagues; waited, watched the clock, waited some more; read about advertising and auras; heaved a huge sigh of relief when the people from the next shift came in.

You should see me on an ordinary day at work. Tearing my hair out, not knowing which monitor to look at, not knowing whether I'm typing on the right screen. And today, calm and placid like the waters of the Orinoco. (Is the Orinoco placid? I don't know; for my sake, please imagine it is, because that is the only synonym that comes to me easily at this moment.)

I came home in a white Mercedes-Benz, the high point of my day. At 90 kmph on silken highways, a fantastic cityscape of towering buildings brilliant with lights, then cosy, dream-like homes, and a simple avenue flanked by trees and swaying ghostly shrubs, the rain just beginning to fall softly- one of the loveliest drives I can possibly imagine. Sometimes, despite being an advocate of nature, I cannot help but succumb to the dazzle and the glamour of the superficiality of the city. Tempting, forbidden, immensely tantalising.

I love being here. Now. Festive season and all. Even if I am closeted in office.

Or wait. Ask me tomorrow. Boxing Day, London users. Not a very promising combination if I'm looking for some work to do.

When Things Go Right and Wrong

Does Yorkshire look a little bit like this?

The railway tracks, as viewed from the other side of the road.

I can't sleep.

I can hear the wind chimes down the corridor, their glassy tinkle penetrating through the closed door and the iron grills. A strong, rather cyclonic wind is whistling and huffing heavily through the streets, bending the trees over, sending the raindrops slanting across the sunshades and the windows. It has been raining incessantly since last night. The few pauses, when they do come, don't really last long. The cars and the trucks are splashing through the thin film of water on the roads. The eighteenth floor does give you a good vantage point.

After having been sleepless all night and going to bed at four in the morning, only to realise that I wasn't sleepy yet, my roommate and I rose at seven, planning to pick up another of our flatmates returning from a week-long visit to India. My roommate was equally sleepless, thanks to a phone call at midnight that left her wide awake till morning. We picked up my laptop, fished about for flight schedules, and found the flight number, only to realise the plane had already landed, and getting through a couple of calls later, she asked us not to come all the way- she was already starting for home. While all this transpired, we were already in the elevator, and deciding that it would be a waste of dressing up and perfectly good weather, we went for a walk.

The weather was truly marvellous- a fresh, cold breeze was blowing, the rain had just stopped, and thin, white, filmy clouds were floating across a grey sky, just touching the tops of the trees in the distance. We promptly went crazy. (My roommate and I are normally considered the craziest people at home, for our tendency to set off and go nowhere on our own, not to be overly sentimental, not to be saccharine-sweet girlish- we were just living up to the label.) I had been wanting to go out on those open green areas that stretch out beyond where the eye can see, which I liken, perhaps ignorantly, to the moors. Impulsive that we both were, we crossed the road over to the grassy area, almost running up the slope, feeling the wind and the rain in our bones. I cannot begin to describe the sense of freedom I felt there, standing against the wind, turning in every direction to look at incredible beauty. Then the rain started falling softly, and we made our way home slowly, allowing the wind to ruffle our hair and make our clothes flutter.

Approaching our building by a rather normal route than usual, we had a call from our returning flatmate saying she'd already arrived, and would we please come and open the door for her. We cut the long walk short and rushed back up the elevator, to find her laden with bags, looking fresh and comforted by the trip back home, and rather unwilling, naturally, to set off for work in the afternoon.

I hadn't slept all night. I made an attempt to go to sleep on the sofa. I couldn't, as the girls kept coming in one after another, looking for something or talking. I tried watching the rain, hoping it would lull me to sleep. No good. I read for a while. My eyes grew tired, but sleep still evaded me. After a long while, just as I was dozing off, I heard an uproar in the kitchen. My roommate came and broke the news to me- our electric cooker had just stopped working. I am the eternal optimist, though. I told her it was a blessing the cooker belonged to us and not to the landlady. Also, we have enough chapati and rum-raisin chocolate to last us a day. Why worry?

The rain still hasn't stopped falling, the cars have had their headlights on since last night. The weather is lovely, and instead of curling up in bed with a book, I am setting off for work now. But oh, first I must have dinner. Dal-roti. Followed by chocolate.

A Superficial Look At People

The house smells of sleep and capsicum, overriding the floral fragrance of the detergent used for a round of washing at two o’clock in the morning. All is quiet and still, as usual, except for the dull roar of the table fan and the odd car passing by. There never is much noise around outside: occasionally, on the train, you hear men involved in an animated conversation, all incomprehensible, alien and safe from these ears wholly untrained to this foreign language and its various sounds.

What does a Chinese family live like? I am curious to know. I want to study their relationships and their spiritual lives. On my way to the LRT station, Kadaloor, I glance at the ‘Kopitiam’ restaurant, omnipresent in Singapore- supposedly multi-cuisine. Here, I see young men and women in shorts and sleeveless tops lounging on lazy afternoons or wielding their chopsticks on unfathomable dishes. A strong, smoky odour assails my senses as I pass by. Occasionally, you’d also find a maami in a cotton sari and wearing diamond earrings, sitting straight-backed, trying to make sense of the Indian food placed in front of her, looking rather uncomfortable, perhaps because she is sitting by the table of a man downing endless bottles of beer. This is also where you can find aged Chinese matrons with short-cropped grey hair, dressed in bright-coloured, flowered shirts and ill-fitting trousers, gesticulating wildly and explaining matters of importance to younger, less enlightened women. They stand there, feet apart, bent at the waist, and though there is a smile of contentment across their wrinkled faces, you know they have seen much and been through their share of hardship and suffering.

I remember how, in my first weeks of the morning shift, as I took the first train to work, it was a strange comfort to see a particular group of elderly women board the train, cheerful and wide awake, while people less than half their age would invariably nod off. Dressed in gaudy colours but never looking odd, appearing full of resolution and purpose, they would set off every morning to I know not where; but it is truly a delight to see such vigour and vim in faces worn by time, age and experience.

The train is, of course, a wonderful place to study people. The loners, the studious ones with noses buried in books (no prizes for guessing what category I’d fall into- though we can get rid of the adjective here), the women with flawless skin, any blemishes well hidden under layers of thick pancake-like make-up (making my own tremendous efforts at putting on lip gloss and kaajal seem like child’s play), children coming home from school or freshly scrubbed and dressed for a party, young gorgeous girls in little black dresses immaculately tailored, coming probably from one of the numerous boutiques in one of the uncountable malls. Men in mismatched shorts and shirts or smart suits, slicked-back hair, one or two coming in with some weird contraption like an oar(!) in hand, or a teenager with a video game console. This latter species is a definite presence in any train you board.

People everywhere. And yet, it’s all so quiet and peaceful. The storms rage only within the bosoms of men and women, and just sometimes manifest themselves in fearful forms. Through it all, the deceptive calm prevails.

Here Come The First Pictures

I have a new camera. Inevitable, isn't it then, that I should go over the top with excitement and fill this page with some pictures of Singapore? What you see here isn't the real thing at all, just a tiny portion of a vast residential colony. Note the sameness, how one building is so much like another; yet, it is peaceful, undisturbed living (except for the grating noise of the construction site across the road). On the next of my travels through the city, I shall attempt to get some pictures of the real thing, of the dazzle and the serenity, of the lovely roads lined with palm trees and bougainvillea, of buildings rising way, way up into the sky, imposing, incredible and splendid in their height and architecture; nature and modernity meeting.