Kirkbyites Rendezvous in Melaka

Kirkbyites Rendezvous in Melaka

By  T. Balasubramaniam ( Kirkby 1958-1959)

Dear Kirkbyites, Our 2 day Kirkbyites Rendezvous in Melaka ended on Tuesday 09.05.2017. It was indeed a memorable event which Dato Kandan, President of the Alumni described in his speech as even better than the 2016 Reunion which he and his committee organized .He was being modest but I can say the Melaka Rendezvous was truly a fun filled event. We had an interesting Baba &Nyonya Show, a City Tour and a River Cruise. The Melodians performed superbly and the 2 MCs, Ling Suan and Sarjeet kept the crowd entertained during the 2 dinners. Chong Lay had asked me to post some pictures and so here are some that were taken during the cruise, City Tour, Baba &Nyonya show and the dinner. 

The Baba and Nyonya Show

Tarian Bakul Siah

Dato Kenny and wife performing a peranakan skit

The Melodians

City Tour

Sweet memories of Melaka

At the Stadhuys

River Cruise

Cruising down the Melaka River

I am also posting some of the feedback that I received. My purpose in doing this is to highlight to you what a great time we have when we get together and to encourage all of you to attend the next Reunion that will be organize by Kesavapany next year in Johor Bahru.

 Feedback 

“Dear Bala Thank You very much for organizing the wonderful Kirkbite Reunion in Malacca All of us enjoyed the get together very much This was evident by the participation of very senior members in their 80s taking part in the usual Kirkby style dances after the dinner We really appreciate the effort that you had put in to organize the event It definitely was no easy task We were indeed sad that in your closing speech you mentioned that this is the last Reunion that you will organize Thank you Bala for organizing a Happy and Memorable Reunion in Malacca K Nadarajah”

 “Hi Bala, I find it hard to put in writing to adequately express my appreciation for your great effort in organizing the Malacca Rendezvous single-handedly. It was a great success. Those who did not attend missed a great fun-time !! Chong Hong Chong” 

“Thank you Bala for the enjoyable & memorable time in Melaka. Congrats to you for putting together such a fun filled programme for the Rendezvous . Our thanks to your wife & your friend Dr. Selva too . Best of health to you, Choo Ngan Kau & Chew Gek”

 “Bala Our deepest appreciation for your most enjoyable Kirkby Rendevous in Maleka Wee Hee n Yan Pin” 

“Thanks Bala and all friends for making this a great trip,Adeline Louis.”

 “Bala, Jane & I thoroughly enjoyed the rendezvous, meeting up old and new friends. Your superb organisation ably assisted by our delightful and amiable DrSelva and your lively wife made the trip memorable. Thank you Surjeet and Ling Suan for a job well done as MCs. I didn't realise I could still do the twist....without bending of course 😜😆. Thank you everyone for your friendship and camaraderie even though we never got to talk to everyone individually. Looking forward to JB. With Pany as the flag bearer we have nothing to worry. Zainal Arshad “ 

“Thank you Bala for such a wonderful n enjoyable Kirkby Reunion in Malacca.Thank Dr. Selva too for looking out for us before n after the rondezvous in Malacca.A great n wonderful job well done KohPuay Neo” 

“The Kirkby spirit in you burns bright. Proud of your selfless service.Tunku Aziz Ibrahim”

 “A good job well done, Bala. All praises well deserved. Kandan o/b/o The Alumni” “Mr&MrsJagjeet Singh What amazed me the most was seeing how the kirkbyites n the crowd couldn’t stop dancing and swaying as if hungry for more. It was as if i had to put all their revelry to a sudden stop. That was painful n cruel. Here there were seniors with all sorts of ailments wanting to go on and on right fr the word Go but i had to stop them. Oh that was hard. The nite was not enough for the party revellers!” 

"Dear Bala, thank you very much for everything. You had done a great job organizing this trip. We both truly enjoyed ourselves thanks to your kind encouragement. Thanks again. Take care... from Fork Sin Mun and Edward." 

"Yes Bala the Malacca Rendezvous was a great success. It was the most enjoyable and memorable one. Thanks to you and your wife. Kim Giam."

Below is a Slideshow of the rendezvous in Melaka for your viewing pleasure.

Tales that ride on the wings of a fruit bat

Tales that ride on the wings of a fruit bat

 By Wan Chwee Seng

Star2 November 4, 2016

As dusk fades into night, a fruit bat swoops low across the patio and streaks toward a neighbouring longan tree veiled in a cobweb of fishing net.

The sight transports me to another time and place.

World War II had just ended. In a darkening sky, a dark mass winged its way slowly and silently above grandpa’s house in Batu Berendam, Malacca. Lingering fear of war planes made us gazed at the overhead spectacle with a tinge of apprehension.

Flying foxes winging their way toward a rambutan tree

Suddenly, the boughs of a nearby rambutan tree began to shake as if hit by a gust of wind. Murky shapes and unseen plumage fluttered among the foliage. Giant fruit bats or flying foxes had descended on the tree to feast on the ripe rambutans. With veiled threats and shouts, my young cousins tried to scare them away. They rose and hovered momentarily above the tree and then settled down to resume their feast.

A rambutan tree

The next morning, seeds and rambutan rinds littered the ground while spiny shells hung like sea urchins from half-barren branches.

My cousin, Alan, had watched the unfolding drama with keen interest. Years on, the night’s incident would remain vivid in his memory.

On an adjacent land, next to the village well, stood a rambutan tree which in season was laden with luscious fruits. The tree was the pride and joy of our grandaunt and the envy of the village kids. She kept a vigilant watch on her prized tree and made it clear that it was strictly off-limits to the mischievous kids who roamed the neighbourhood.

On his way to the well, Alan would often stop to gaze longingly at the succulent fruits and wondered about their reputed sweetness.

One evening, on learning that grandaunt and her family were out in town, he decided to pull a prank on her and take the opportunity to savour the fruits.

Safely and comfortably ensconced on the best branch, his deft fingers began to pry open the spiny shells. Relishing the sweet and juicy flesh, he let the seeds and part of the rinds fall to the ground, while half-broken rinds were left to dangle from the branches.

Comfortably ensconced on the branch of a rambutan tree

Early the next morning on his way to the village well, Alan noticed grandaunt inspecting her rambutan tree. The scene that met her eyes bore the tell-tale signs of a fruit tree that had been foraged by flying foxes. Upset, she let loose a stream of expletives in her peranakan patois. Hearing grandaunt berating the innocent flying foxes, a broad grin spread across young Alan’s tanned face as he tried to stifle a chuckle.

Another evening found him creeping stealthily under the leafy canopy of tapioca plants on grandaunt’s tapioca patch.

In the fast fading light, he began to dig hurriedly at the base of a mature tapioca plant until the tuberous roots were exposed. From the clump of tubers, he selected three large ones. The loose soil was carefully compacted and covered with dried leaves until all traces of encroachment had been well concealed.

Uprooting a tapioca plant

The acrid smell of smoke and charred wood, mingled with the fragrant scent of burnt tapioca permeated the night air, as a bunch of playful youngsters sat round a smouldering wood fire to relish the simple yet delicious fare.

As the days slipped by without any hue and cry from grandaunt, the kids knew the evening foray had gone undetected. Later, if she discovered some of her tapioca was missing, she would most probably lay the blame on some burrowing rodents.

As night thickens, the wingtip of a bat brushes against my ear and my thoughts snap back to the present. Alone in the darkness, I smile to myself, as I recall the youthful pranks that Alan’s wife, Gillian, related to us. I remember life in the kampung was quiet and peaceful. We would roam barefoot around the whole neighbourhood without our parents having to worry about us getting abducted or robbed.

As burglary and theft were practically unheard of then, the doors of houses were open from morning till dusk and we could move freely in and out of the houses. However, fruits and tapioca occasionally went missing and the most likely culprits were the “foraging flying foxes” and the “burrowing rodents”.

Vacation at Sentosa Island and Marina Bay Sands, Singapore

Vacation at Sentosa Island and Marina Bay Sands, Singapore

By C S Wan

On the 13^th of December 2013, we joined our son, Andrew, our DIL , I Chun and our grandchildren, Audrey and Ethan for a vacation at Sentosa Island, Singapore. We stayed at the Festive Hotel which is one of the hotels at Resorts World Sentosa. In the morning the children had a splashing time at the Hotel’s swimming pool and later we visited the S.E.A. Aquarium which is home to over 100,000 marine creatures.

The next day we stayed at the Marina Bay Sands. While the children had a wonderful time swimming in the rooftop infinity pool, my wife and I were content to relax under the palm trees and take in the panoramic view. From the Hotel we took a leisurely walk to the nearby Gardens by the Bay. At night we joined a few other guests at the Sands Skypark Observation Deck. Situated 57 levels above the heart of the city, we had a  spectacular night view of the city. 

Below are slideshows of our vacation. 

A tale of two towns

Rantau Panjang Town in the 1960s

                        A tale of two towns

By Wan Chwee Seng

Star 2 
Feb4 2017

As soon as dusk set in, we heard it, and our spirits sank. The distant blare of a horn was followed by a growing rumble, the screech of brakes and a stuttering hiss. The sound heralded the arrival of a train – the last train of the day to Rantau Panjang in Kelantan.

At the Rantau Panjang railway station

Pak Duk’s coffeeshop where we, teachers, stayed in the early 1960s was located strategically at one end of the town and was within sight of the railway station.

However, a clump of trees and a makeshift stall obscured it from our view. From our vantage point on the first floor of an open verandah, we watched forlornly as the train chugged past below us, rattling the iron bridge that straddled Sungai Golok before heading northward towards the Thai border town of Sungai Kolok.

The Rantau Panjang-Sungai Golok bridge

As it faded into the distance and disappeared in the gathering darkness, a deepening gloom descended upon the place. Rantau Panjang town then was still inaccessible by road and so the thought of our only physical link with the outside world being temporary severed, left us with a sinking feeling of being forgotten and forsaken.

During the day the local residents could cross over to the town of Sungai Kolok by using the narrow walkways that flanked the tracks of the railway bridge. An immigration post manned by one or two officers stood at Rantau Panjang’s end of the bridge and while local residents were usually allowed free access to Sungai Kolok, visitors needed border passes or other valid travel documents.

Sungai Golok, which formed a natural boundary between the two towns, also provided a convenient and expedient way of accessing both. Although it was illegal to cross the river by boat, shallow boats plied daily between the two towns.

Shallow boats plied between the two towns

Once the immigration post closed, murky figures could be seen creeping stealthily along the river bank. The border police had begun their nightly patrol of curbing illegal crossings and the rampant smuggling activities.

Without electricity, only the pale glow of oil lamps lit the town’s lonely stretch of unpaved road, while faint threads of light filtered through closed shutters of old wooden shophouses. Added to the gloom was the solemn stillness, broken only by the incessant chirping of crickets and the myriad sounds of other nocturnal insects.

Just across the waters, a nebulous glow lit the low night sky of Sungai Kolok town. The Thai border town had come alive. From the brightly neon-lit coffeeshops, the fragrance of fried noodles and the tantalising aroma of grilled chicken tingled the nostrils of food lovers, while the soft strains of ramvong beckoned the night-time revellers.

The residents of Rantau Panjang, meanwhile, were already getting ready for bed, as the town was virtually void of entertaiment, except for the occasional performance of the itinerant dikir barat troupe.

In the mid-1960s when the town was supplied with electricity, a makeshift theatre with plaited bamboo walls, palm-thatched roof and hard-beaten earth floor was constructed to cater to the entertainment needs of the local residents. Sitting on hard wooden benches, we would sometimes join the local audience to watch Hindi or Malay movies.

One morning, one of my pupils, Mohd Nor, approached me and said: “Sir, there is a good Elvis movie in Sungai Kolok.”

“I don’t think I want to see it, Mohd Nor. It is quite a far walk to the town,” I replied.

“It’s very near, Sir, if you go by boat. I can take you across in my father’s sampan.”

“Only 10 sen for the fare, Sir,” he said with a sparkle in his eyes.

Since I had not watched an English movie for some time and did not want to disappoint him, I finally agreed to his suggestion.

A weekend morning found Mohd Nor waiting for me at the river bank. He was soon paddling the boat confidently across the shallow water and within minutes we had reached the other side.

I paid him the fare and walked the short distance to the town centre. The theatre stood amidst a row of nondescript brick buildings, but it was easily discernable at a distance as a huge billboard with a hand-painted picture of Elvis Presley and the words “Jailhouse Rock” was prominently displayed in front of the theatre.

The moment I stepped into the theatre and my eyes adjusted to the dimly-lit hall, I noticed it was furnished with cushioned seats, while ceiling fans whirled overhead. The lights were switched off and the projectors came alive. I settled back to enjoy the show. Above the confused murmur of voices in English, a stentorian voice in Thai filled the hall.

“Must be an annoucement,” I thought to myself.

Then as the voice continued, it dawned on me that a narrator was giving a running commentary on the dialogue and action, and even romantic scenes were not spared from his comments. The continuous, monotonous narration was lulling me to sleep and I found myself sliding deeper into my seat. Fortunately, Elvis was given the liberty to render his songs without any interruption and so my eyes would snap open whenever Elvis’s voice came on.

It was mid-afternoon when the movie ended and as I had not made any prior arrangement with Mohd Nor for my return trip, I prepared myself for the long walk in the heat to the Sungai Golok bridge.

“Cikgu, want a ride to Rantau Panjang?” a voice behind me inquired in a deep Kelantanese accent.

I recognised the familiar figure of a trishaw rider from Rantau Panjang and the thought of the long walk made me accept his offer without hesitation.

The trishaw was soon gliding along the town’s well-paved asphalt road which ended at the edge of the town and then began to bounce along a bumpy dirt track pitted with potholes and flanked by tall grass.

A soft breeze ruffled my hair and my eyes flitted from side to side as I took in the vista. My movement must have caught the rider’s attention and perhaps thinking I was worried of being waylaid by armed robbers, he glanced at me and in an assuring voice said: “Cikgu, don’t be afraid. I have a pistol right under the passenger seat.”

Thereafter, whenever the trishaw hit a bump or swerved, I was more worried of the pistol going off than of being waylaid by robbers.

I was relieved when we finally reached the railway bridge. Then as I walked past the immigration post, I gave a cursory wave to the officer on duty, while my thoughts drifted to the still unused border pass, now frayed and discoloured, safely tucked away in my wallet.

Today, years on, whenever I think of my stint in Rantau Panjang, it brings back fond memories of a town that was once inaccessible by road and served by a steam locomotive.

Related article: Click below link

Warmth and kindness of kampung folks

Ever wondered what has become of your childhood home?

Our childhood home at Residential Area, Kuala Pilah

Ever wondered what has become of your childhood home?

Star2

April 15, 2016

By Wan Chwee Seng

I used to reminisce and dream about it. On festive occasions whenever my siblings and I gathered at our ancestral house, our conversation would invariably gravitate towards it.

“One day we must take a trip to see our childhood home in Kuala Pilah,” we would say, wishfully.

Busy with our lives, the years slipped by unnoticed. The trip remained an unfulfilled dream. Then early one morning, the phone rang and my elder brother’s voice at the other end of the line inquired, “Would you like to make a day trip to Kuala Pilah tomorrow?”

“Sure,” I said without hesitation.

And so one fine day, my brother, youngest sister and I, accompanied by my wife and niece, Joon, made the much-awaited trip. After more than 60 years, we wondered if the old house was still standing.

After leaving Tampin town in Negri Sembilan, we soon found ourselves on a winding road flanked by verdant hills, interspersed with oil palm and rubber plantations. At intervals we passed through small towns with just a single row of old shophouses. As the car hummed its way towards our destination, my brother was soon sharing memories of his childhood days in Kuala Pilah, while I chimed in at appropriate intervals. My youngest sister, a toddler then, had hazy recollections of her stay in Kuala Pilah, so she and the others just sat back and listened to the conversation.

“Tuanku Muhammad School!”

Tuanku Muhammad School, Kuala Pilah

The sudden shout that rose from the rear seat put an abrupt end to our conversation.

We decided to make a brief stopover at the school where my brother and I had our early education, and take a walk down memory lane. As our steps took us past vacant classrooms, they rekindled nostalgic memories of our school days. After a quick tour of the school, we were all ready and eager to find our childhood home.

The car made its slow descent down a narrow bitumen road leading to the residential area where our old home was located. As my brother began calling attention to once familiar landmarks, I felt a sense of mounting excitement.

“That’s the area behind our old house,” my brother said, pointing excitedly to a spot on our left. 

The sight that met our eyes was greeted with a look of disappointment, accompanied by a sigh of resignation. The whole area appeared as if it had been flattened by an earthquake. Mangled metals, jagged concrete and splintered wood lay scattered in unsightly heaps.

“Take the next turning to the left,” my brother instructed Joon.

An abandoned house stood at the corner of the road. I recognised it as the place where the bachelor teachers used to stay. The bamboo hedge, entwined with floral creepers, where we sourced for our “hockey sticks” and hunted for fighting spiders was sadly missing. Two more abandoned buildings came into view.

Abandoned houses at Residential Area

Then we noticed three houses with curtained windows. Our hopes soared. We cruised the narrow road, but there was still no sign of the house.

Joon made a U-turn. We had almost given up hope when something jogged my memory.

“Look for 246 B,” I said excitedly.

Tired eyes scanned the small number plates posted on the doors of the three houses.

“There!” someone shouted.

246 B, Residential Area

We were thrilled to find our childhood home, as it was one of the only three houses which were still occupied. But as we took in the sight, we were overcome with mixed emotions. It brought back pleasant memories, but we felt a tinge of sadness when we saw its dilapidated condition.

The concrete stilts on which the wooden house stood appeared to be shorter or perhaps we had outgrown them. I wondered how we managed to crawl under the house and play masak-masak and hide-and-seek within the claustrophobic confines. As Joon brought the car to a halt, a sudden movement behind the curtains caught my attention and I snapped out of my reverie.

I approached the house and an old lady peered anxiously from behind a hastily drawn curtain.

"I approached the house.."

“Auntie, we used to stay in this house, a long time ago. May we take some photos?”

“Sure, my daughter has just gone to the temple across the field.”

The playing field in front of the house

A young woman and her daughter hurried across the field to where we waited. After the initial introduction and pleasantries, we told her about the purpose of our visit.

She asked if we wanted to see the interior of the house, but not wanting to intrude on their privacy, we politely declined her kind offer. While my brother was busy explaining to her the changes in the physical environment, I quietly stole away to take in the surroundings.

Chatting with the occupant of the house

The open verandah where we used to sit and enjoy the cool night breeze and watch the flickering glow of fireflies, was now covered with welded wire mesh. No wonder we had failed to locate the house on our first attempt.

Across the field, the low brick buildings of the labourers’ quarters had been demolished. Gone, too, were the houses on the slope behind the old hospital. The Ulu Muar Club where my father used to spend many a happy evening with his friends, playing billiard and enjoying their setengah (a mixed drink of half measure of whiskey and soda water, served over ice), was now just a pile of rubble choked with a tangled mass of vegetation.

The dilapidated condition of the Ulu Muar Club
Photo courtesy of Mr Deva

The remains of the Ulu Muar Club
Photo courtesy of Mr Deva

The clump of tembusu trees that stood tall and stately in front of the club had also disappeared. I remember at dusk the quietude would be broken by an endless cacophony, as a multitude of twittering swallows sought refuge among the thick foliage.

As I gazed dejectedly at the remains of the Ulu Muar Club, I suddenly realised the morning air was strangely quiet and still. No birds sang; no leaves stirred. Time seemed to pause for a moment. However, something stirred within me, something heard a long time ago.

It was the sound of Father’s loud and infectious laughter that emanated from the club and drifted across the field to our shared bedroom. Knowing Father seldom came back empty-handed, we would struggle hard to remain awake and strain our ears for the sound of his soft footfall on flimsy floor boards.

There was usually something for our late night supper: fried bee hoon, char kway teow and our favourite sar hor fun (rice noodles). That morning, as we stood on the front lawn, my nostril tingled as I remember the distinct aroma of the delectable sar hor fun wrapped in upeh (arecanut leaf sheath) and secured with dry reed.

The front lawn which was well-manicured in those days was now covered with ankle-high grass. I remember how we used to sit on the concrete steps and watch our part-time gardener mow the grass with a wide sweep of a long, sharp scythe.

I strolled to the side lane where we used to play tops, marbles and a traditional outdoor game called kaunda kaundi. It was now overgrown with trees and shrubs.

The lane at the side of the house

Everywhere there were signs of neglect and disrepair. As I looked at the disconsolate scene, voices from the past floated eerily across the still morning air. I heard once again the incessant chant of “kaunda-kaundi, kaunda-kaundi” as a boy raced breathlessly towards the home base. I heard the boisterous laughter of childhood friends as they chased a tennis ball with home-made hockey sticks.

“Seen enough?” Joon’s voice from under a mango tree inquired.

Without realising it, we had been standing for hours on the sun-drenched lawn, soaking in the sunlight and the memories of our childhood home.