“I wish it was not so too,” I said as Parvathi’s beautiful face flashed before me, her eyes large and lined with kohl. She did not even make it to her 17th birthday.
“Ah Phine,” Fatima said sadly. “I don’t want to die…”
Fatima started to cry. I put my arm around her and silently cursed a woman’s lot. When would we begin to make our own choices and live our own lives?
“Listen, your English is coming along nicely,” I said, referring to the English tuition classes I gave to the kampong children, to get money to buy my school exercise books. I used song lyrics to make it fun for them. “You just need to practise more and you can get a better job. Then you won’t be forced to marry. Come on. I will teach you Naomi’s ‘Happy Happy Birthday, Baby!’ song and we can sing it for Singapore’s first birthday on 9 August. ‘Happy, happy birthday, baby’…”
“Naomi must come from a rich Singaporean Indian family, not like Parvathi’s. That’s why she can pursue her dream of being a singer in a pop band,” Fatima said enviously.
Naomi and The Boys took their song to the top of the local hit-parade the previous year. Fresh-faced Naomi had a voice rich in resonance and could make people weep with her lyrics of tragedy. More and more local singers and musicians had been making their mark in the local music industry, singers like Susan Lim, The Crescendos, The Quests, Rufino Soliano, Louis Soliano and many more. Their music was played on Rediffusion, alongside the Beatles, Elvis, Cliff Richard, Johnny Matthis and others too numerous to mention. Because they sang cover versions of British and American popular songs in English, they were in demand, entertaining the British and Allied troops in Singapore. They were also featured on radio and television and at our National Theatre, as well as at tea dances and nightclubs. There was a sense of pride and ownership with local musicians and singers. They were ours. It was like our nationhood, it helped us to identify ourselves with this country. Our parents, grandparents or great-grandparents might have been immigrants, but we belonged here now. Our generation did not look to China or India as our home country. Singapore was our home. Ruled by our own people. We knew what it was like to be ruled by others, so we basked in the glory of our homegrown leaders.
In May, national re-registration began. Everyone above 12 was to be issued with an identity card for the first time, pink for citizens, blue for non-citizens. Those who did not want to register as Singaporeans went up-country, back to Malaysia. These were people who felt they had a better chance of a livelihood in a bigger country with better natural resources, since Singapore had none.
“We don’t even have our own water here, and have to get it piped from Malaysia,” one of them said in Hokkien. “What if Malaysia decides to cut us off? We will si kiao kiao. Die standing lah!”
“We have to believe in this new government,” others, who were staying, said.
The majority of us had moved from being British subjects to Malaysians, and now we were Singaporeans, three different nationalities in one lifetime, though some had lived under Japanese rule too.
“Come on,” Karim said. “Let us all go and see our first real National Day Parade at the Padang. I’m sure your brothers want to go too, Ah Phine…”
Karim was the local night-soil carrier man turned professional guitarist. He had long tapered fingers and was very graceful, except for a slight limp incurred after being caught in the infamous 1964 Malay-Chinese riots that had resulted from Prophet Muhammad’s birthday celebration procession. From slogging at the worst job ever of removing the disgusting, overflowing buckets from under our outhouses, to finding his niche, playing with local bands at the three worlds of entertainment: New World, Great World and Gay World. So, like other musicians, he grew his hair long. Unlike the Chinese, whose hair tended to be straight, the Malays had beautiful wavy hair.
“You mean there is a not real parade, Abang Karim?” Fatima asked.
“Well, we did have a National Day Parade in 1960 when we supposedly had self-government in certain areas. But that was a washout anyway as it rained heavily…”
“Yes, this will be our proper celebration now that we are truly independent. We must go to show our support,” Zul said. “The theme is ‘National Pride and Confidence in the Future’. The parade will begin at 9am. We have to get there early.”
“I tell you,” I said. “Zul has the makings of a Tuan Besar. He will be a leader one day.”
Pak Osman said, “Confidence in the future, eh? I doubt if I will see such a future. I don’t know if I am going to live through more parades. I’d better go whilst I can still walk. Now it is your turn to let me lean on you, Karim.”
When Karim had sustained severe injuries and could not walk properly after the Prophet Muhammad birthday celebration riot, it had been he who had to lean on Pak Osman.
On 9 August, a contingent from the kampong decided to go to the National Day Parade together. We had celebrated National Day in June after gaining self-governance in 1959, then on 31 August as Malaysians, but never on 9 August. This was a first. So, Karim hired an open-back lorry. Four long wooden boards were placed at intervals across the width of the lorry and fastened, to act as seats
