Taiping War Memorial

In a quiet garden off the Lake Gardens of Taiping town is the Taiping War Memorial. In neat rows upon a well-kept lawn are brown concrete stones, each inscribed with more or less the name, the rank and regiment and the date of death of a soldier who died on Malaysian soil during WW2. Quite a few have an epitaph written- some simple, some poetic, but all poignant. Individually, in front of each stone are small shrubs which vary from stone to stone, drawing focus to each of the lives commemorated here, even to the many inscribed “An Unknown Soldier- Known Unto God”. Collectively, the stones whisper of a sacredness of a battle fought against a common evil, uniting men from places as faraway as England, Pakistan, Holland and India. En Nie said she would like to read a book here, but I’m not so sure.

Amidst a pattering rain, Brian, En Nie and I walked amongst those rows on a Sunday afternoon after early-morning church and breakfast at Bismillah Roti Canai. Strolling those gravestones changes ones mood to something more sombre and pensive. Though none of us said it, the switch away from lame jokes and banter to the squishy plodding along the rows and silent pauses to read the short inscriptions was enough for the conversation to revolve around life, death, purpose and meaning. We were reminded of an activity that Christians are often urged to do- to write their own epitaph and thereby distill what is most essential to us in life. Beyond “Being a good Christian” and “To live life to the fullest”, the specificity of real sons and husbands and fathers dying young and yet fondly treasured by real parents and wives and daughters makes one ask “So what have I really done so far at 26?”

Brian managed to single out a soldier who had died on the date I was born. “P._, Driver”. It had to be more than coincidence, he proffered, that the dates should be so similar. I gave him a “Yeah…right” when Brian suggested my destiny was to be a driver. Honestly though, I read with small eagerness the inscribed epitaph, in some mystical hope that perhaps those words would be especially significant for me.

“THY PURPOSE LORD
WE CANNOT SEE”

With the dual purpose of continuing our pilgrimage around the rows and to look for a stone with Brian’s birthday on it (that he too may receive a revelation!), we continued our survey of the stones and talked about the strange melancholy inscription on P._’s stone.

“His family must have felt so cheated and unfulfilled at losing their son”, we suggested.

We tried hard to pick out hope or some other virtue.

“Perhaps they had surrendered to God, despite the painful loss”, we said.

All in all, we felt that that stone was an anomaly of confusion and unanswered questions in a field of noble purpose and chivalrous obedience. Brian motioned that my life was going to be like that- all confusion and struggles, an unanswered question mark, with only the feeble trust that God knew what He was doing as a small consolation. Which only strengthened my resolve to look for a stone with his birthday that he too may receive a “revelation”.

After a good 15 minutes of repeating “Thy purpose Lord, we cannot see” and deconstructing why and what it meant, and the ensuing discussion about life’s purpose and meaning from the angle of mortality and sacrifice, En Nie joined us and we hurried her over to get her opinion. As we stood staring at the inscription at the base of the stone, I saw that underneath the brown mud splattered under the two lines was another line of words. Scooping some water out of a rain puddle, I hurriedly washed off the mud.

“BUT ALL IS WELL”

I could have kicked Brian at that moment, but the serenity of the place discourages violence.

How I got my pot

Rapid KL had just launched their brand-new red-white buses and the old grey-blue Intrakota buses were on their tired way out. School holidays were coming. I was sitting in one of the new buses with Kok Onn. Sometime in between bus stops, we decided to go camping and got my brother to join us. Monday, bus ride. Thursday packing. Friday, camping. I remember we needed a pot. So I took one from the storeroom. An old, unused one. Sitting on the shelf. Out of reach unless you used a ladder. I thought it was retired and unwanted, fine for the rough and tumble of camping.

The pot was light blue because of the enamel coating, with a dark blue rim and a semicircular wire handle. Looks like the kind of pot a grandmother would use to boil soup. Especially the spicy Chinese New Year “Leftovers Soup” with all the pickled vege and chicken and duck leftovers. The kind of soup that sits in old, cobwebbed kitchens and bubbles slowly for hours. That kind of soup. That kind of pot.

Before we  went to the campsite, we stopped outside the stall at the rocky swimming pool. The lady at the stall asked us how many days. Three, we said.  That’s very little baggage for three days, are you sure? she said.

If, somehow, it were the now me then, I would answer “That’s a very interesting observation. Hmmm…maybe we should see if we should get some extra supplies to supplant everything we forgot. Which is almost everything”.

But I was the then me then. So I said we’ll manage. She looked at our little blue pot. Wow that’s a nice pot she said. In Cantonese: “Leng Pou”. She was practically singing the praises of that old enamel pot. She said we should be careful with it, because it would chip easily. She was surprised our parents had let us use it. It was worth something. It was valuable. And why were we bringing it camping? Into the jungle?

Why our short exchange had such a profound effect on me is hard to say. I guess that’s the power of authority. Maybe because she knew utensils well, she could say with certainty which ones were valuable or not. Before that, the pot would look kinda at home if it sat there in the mud, or half buried in the leaf litter. Perhaps if it were chipped a bit, I wouldn’t mind. But now, it had an aura all of its own. A light blue haze seemed to frame it from the dull brown and mottled green of the forest background. Yes, if you close your eyes, you too can hear the shimmering music that accompanies such visions. Or is that the Hallelujah chorus?

My boss in FES often refers to herself as a cracked pot. Perhaps in reference to the fable of the cracked pot that watered the flowers along the path. Perhaps an allusion to her quirky sense of humour, hence “crack pot”. Who knows? But I think after long years in God’s service, she knows the truth more than many others that we are used by God despite our ourselves. Despite us being too young, too old, retired, not useful, sinful, arrogant, angry, insolent. God, like the lady, names us as useful and valuable even unto His purposes. Just when we find it hard to see that in ourselves. Just when we think we are no different from the mud and debris. I’m finding that more and more each day, both the sense of unworthiness and yet the grace from Him to be part of His plan.

Anyway, we left Our Lady of the Light Blue Enamel Pot to sell the rest of her nasi lemak and headed off on our trip. I might as well have been carrying a Ming vase into the jungle with me. We were lazy alright at that camp, but there was always a sideways glance in the pot’s direction, just to be sure. It rained terribly one night, and we huddled inside the dripping tent, with one sleeping bag between the three of us, miserable until we finally fell asleep. In the morning, I peeked out into the wetness to be sure the light blue pot had not run off in the rain.

By mid-morning of the third day, we decided enough was enough. There’s a maximum number of hours you can possibly sleep in three days. And we had reached that point. Hmm, probably the day before actually, but we always transcend our abilities. We packed up. Or stuffed everything back into our bags. Means the same at that camp. I hugged the pot in my arms and we trekked out to catch the bus back to Pudu and from there to catch the LRT back home. I put the pot back safely in its shelf and soon after bought a cheapo aluminum pot that could be dented and scratched and thrown about. Sometimes a pot should be a pot.

And that is how I got my pot.

Earth

My father taught me to love the earth,
And all that is within it,
Every mineral, rock, stone, fossil:
Here and there, outside and in it.

Shale shallow and crumbling,
Granite gravel resting on roads,
Diamonds durable forever,
Limestone that erodes.

Ridges riding high above,
Veins twisting far below,
Deep purple of amethyst,
Fool’s gold with pyrite glow.

I’ve watched men feel the soil,
In Gladiator and Shawshank,
I’ve read Christ use the dirt,
To restore a woman’s rank.

But none have I yet seen,
Who hold the earth as dear,
As the man whose fav’rite hymn,
Is “This is my Father’s world”

Morning Market at Terengganu Rd. Flats

_I

_­I sat in the busy marketplace

And watched the coffee pour from

Stained tins into gaudy china cups

Thick, black and strong

I sipped it for quite long

A cup of coffee and me

Black and brown with the years

Sipped and served to people here

At elbow-dented tin tables

II

Weaving in and out

All of her grocery

In red and orange wrappers

Children munching fried bananas

She’s going home, preparing a meal

Happy living life, and it’s sealed

By the children and the choices made

Not weary, not afraid.

III

Here are some decorations

Hung at home for generations

Red and gold

Glittering, old.

We’re at home, we’re after a meal

We’re still alive, we’re sure we will

Live by sinewy strength we have

A toast to the years that are left!

Another easter

Sweat beads linking on my brow
The devil cannot take me now!
I will struggle, I will fight
Upon the hill, under moonlight!

Kiss the crown that cuts and cuts
Prepare the self after the final sup
Hence to call the people with one cry
Crucify and crucify and crucify

Mentioned here that they know who
You are, but still they kick and bruise
And spit upon your bloodied frame
And hoist it up to stand in shame

And watch you breathe laboriously
And watch the sky mysteriously
And wrench from the heart its pain
And wave away what guilt remains
And surrender the soul to whence it came
And call the lost to your name

And die.

And live again.

Reign.

Before PLUS

In the beginning
The coastal road wound
Itself along the contours of
Selangor and Perak
(and further,
But I never went any
Further those days),
Along quiet roads
Visiting, however brief, abandoned
Mining pools full of shallow
Water and weeds and fish,
Along patches of grass rustling
In patches of mined, white sand,
Along kedai runcit So-and-So,
(On the white signboard, sponsored
By fizzly drinks that were waiting-
Red-packet days!),
A lone Caltex,
At the junction into
A kampung,
Perhaps a motorbike rider
With no helmet
Going in
Or out.

I would watch these,
Out of primary school eyes,
Out of sun-squinty eyes,
Before the Age Of The MPVs,
Before the Age Of The Highway,
Before anyone knew that
The days of
Shifting childishly backseat
To put My shoulder above Yours,
(Three at the back! Then four!)
Would be no more.

The hours
Wouldgofasterwhen
I
Looked up at
The power cables that
Attended roads-
Sun sagged under their load,
I
Traced those black vines,
Watched them loop
Up
and down
Up
and down
To my hometown.

Can we scream the lost?

Can we scream the lost?
Can we scream the sins of all men?

What horror cry must have torn
Darkest night hunched on the land.

What of the earth? Blood that fell
And soaked deep- and deeper still.

What of the wood? As the stains
To cover all sins stained like rain.

What of us? Standing before such
Scene- the cry! – always it remains.

Beside

I like to sit where I can listen
To water, birds, leaves, trees.
They whisper, with soft breath
In breathy spurts, packets.

Sun above me, wind blowing,
Survey a brown river-
The splashes of fish ,
Dead branches drift.

They always let me know-
That time passes slower-
Than we make it so.

Garden State of Mind

…The old broom was leaning quietly against the tree; propped up in equal measure by its foot of spreading lidi and the trunk on which it rested. Integral as it was to the upkeep of the place, it seemed strangely out of place in the well-kept garden where I spent my day off. I almost missed its slender profile and muddy, work-stained colour in the midst of green shrubs and glossy bark. Perhaps the gardener had left it there while he went off to enjoy his nasi lemak lunch, perhaps it had just been forgotten and left there till the next day’s rounds…

And perhaps they were at peace, the broom and the tree. The broom, when at work, must have done an admirable job of sweeping up the leaves and branches and twigs that fell regularly. It helped keep the tree from becoming too swamped in its own debris. The broom would gather these up into a tight pile, bringing it all into a focus that was easier to spot and to clear. Wouldn’t the tree be glad to see that someone was looking out for itself and making sure it was always presentable?

But perhaps they were not on the best of terms. The tree resented the broom for being so freewheeling and being uncommitted to one place and one soil, as it was. In fact, it probably thought the broom to be some kind of confused tree, what with it always standing on its spiky, lidi head. Either that or the broom was a very skinny tree with no hair on its head. The tree didn’t like the cool touch of the broom either because it reminded it of death and transition. True, once in the distant past, the tree had been as skinny as the broom, and embarrassingly with not much leaves on top. There had even been a cluster of wooden stakes around it as it was just too flimsy to stand on its own. But that was forgotten history and now the tree grew fat and proud, with burgeoning branches that sat heavily on a thick, lumpy trunk.

Perhaps the broom and tree will always be at either war or peace or will forever oscillate between both. Perhaps one day, the broom will topple the tree. Perhaps the tree is already rotten from the inside and the tiny, tiny weight of the broom is enough to push it over onto its side.

Tomorrow, the broom will probably be gone, whilst the trees will stand for many years to come. I’m sure someone will come and put the broom away after sweeping up the leaves. The garden is quite an artificial place, after all. Such is the state of the garden, but, thankfully, the garden is not a state.

…There were some other interesting trees to see as I went on the rest of my walk and afterwards I chose a shady spot with a little waterfall that gurgled in the background to finish reading my book…

Morning Coffee

Wisps of coffee-
Cooling.