Look ahead, her father’s reassuring voice came back to her, his strong hand clasping hers tightly. Always look ahead so that you look beyond the fear.
Pansy stops in the middle of the bridge to take in the new view, distorted beyond recognition or repair. The sea should have been near this. Goldie whips out her mobile phone to take pictures. The river rushes underneath them on both sides, and yet they cannot see it pouring into the sea. The sea had been moved! The wind caresses their faces; the salt is strong in the air. This feels like home, Pansy thinks. When she is too far away from the sea, she feels as if she has been thrust into a barren desert sans the smell of salt and fish.
When she finds her voice, she says, “Directly opposite was Kampong Padang Terbakar. That’s where the young man says his grandparents were from…”
“Let’s see what’s there now,” suggests Goldie.
They climb down the short flight of stairs on the opposite side and walk along the narrow path beside the river, through the tall lallang. This is obviously not an area where people walk and so it has been left wild. But soon, they are barred from further exploration by some wire fencing and a notice that says ‘Private Property’, followed by the name of the golf course. Pansy notices a small stream running alongside the property.
“Why, this must be the remains of Sungei Ketapang!” Pansy says. “Your father did mention that the two rivers have been diverted. It never used to pour into Sungei Bedok. It used to run all the way, directly to the sea. That’s why their positions looked confusing to me. So this golf course must be where the sea used to be. All along the former coast was a long beach of fine, white sand where the kampongs of attap houses on stilts used to stand. Further up towards Changi had been Kampong Mata Ikan. And around here, this would be where my village used to be, Kampong Tepi Laut, ‘village by the sea’…”
But there is no trace of it now. No one would know that a thriving village had once been here, a community of folks living and working happily with each other. Her voice trails off. Pansy feels that the past has already slipped away from her. The ache hits the stomach like a physical fist. She almost doubles over. Goldie comes closer and puts her arms round her grandmother, but does not intrude with supercilious sympathy.
Some mourning has to be borne on one’s own.
“It’s time to let go,” Pansy says after she recovers. “My ghost has been laid. Come, let’s go back to the spot where the wire fencing is, on the grassy side, so that we won’t be disturbed. Malays and Peranakans have the custom of spreading petals of flowers on tombs, rather than laying bouquets. So let us scatter the bunga rampay into the river in tribute to the lost villages and lost lives…”
Pansy and Goldie kneel on the grassy bank of the river and open the packets of bunga rampay, their fragrance rushing up to meet them. Pansy clutches a handful, bends over the river and releases the varied coloured petals into it. The swiftly moving water spreads and scatters them, the colours breaking up and moving with the tide. Goldie follows suit.
“May this be a floral tribute to the courage of the villagers… May my father and my mother, and all the villagers who have passed on rest in peace… May the scent of the bunga rampay convey them to their spiritual abode. Om Shanti, Shanti, Shanti. Om, Peace, Peace, Peace,” Pansy chants.
Not knowing what to say, but feeling she has to say something, Goldie says, “May the Force be with you.”
“It is done,” Pansy says, getting back up on her feet with difficulty, feeling somewhat drained. For a few seconds, the world around her shimmers in incandescent light.
Goldie rushes to help her grandmother up. Her sixth sense tells her that she is to be the new bearer of the old history. She has the task of keeping the story alive for hers and future generations. Without history, there is no foundation to build our future.
“Will you tell me what happened, grandma?” Goldie asks gently. “I get the feeling that you have a lot more to share…”
“I noticed that there were several stone benches on the other side of the river,” Pansy says in a frayed voice. “Let us go and sit there. You are right, there’s more to tell. I guess it will be good for your generation to know what took place. It is your history after all.
“I shall never forget the day that the bulldozers came to flatten our village. It was the same day that my mother, your great-grandmother, died so tragically.
“If you don’t mind, sit quietly and don’t interrupt till I finish. Otherwise I don’t think that I will have the strength to go through with telling you all that happened…”
Chapter 9
“It was in the early 1970s when we were told we had to move from where we had grown up and had lived all of our lives. It was not just us around the Bedok area, but also further afield towards Changi Point, where many other kampongs like ours existed, including Kampong Ayer Gemuruh and Kampong Mata Ikan. Here the eponymous red cliffs of Tanah Merah had overlooked the wide, open sea, free from the huge hulks of steel that plied the international waters, which were further away. The large houses, called bungalows, were more posh than our attap hut on stilts, as they were built for British officers
