Mak would strap Robert to a rattan chair, together with a pillow, so that he wouldn’t fall off when we had our singing sessions outdoors and he could listen. Even though Robert was nearly 13, he still looked like a little child and could not manage to sit without support. Sadly, our family never did have the resources to seek medical help for him. Mak had taken him to Badminton Hall once when there had been a spiritual healing session. But despite all the frenzied waving of the pastor’s hands and calling upon the Holy Spirit, Robert remained unable to sit, walk, talk or fend for himself. Yet, he loved music. He would thump his fists and feet in absolute delight and gurgle merrily at the repetitive refrain in the song, which went, “Whoa, baby you lied, you lied, you lied, lied, lied… yeah, yeah, yeah”.
The kampong kids also adored the song, and they attempted to sing along. But as their English enunciation had not been perfected, they ended up singing:
“Whoa, baby you lite, you lite, you lite, lite, lite… yeah, yeah, yeah.”
They were not the only ones. Most local folks sang it like them: “You lite, you lite, you lite, lite, lite…” Somehow our people found the “d” consonant at the end of a word difficult to pronounce, so bad sounds like bat, Dad sounds like dat, bed sounds like bet, mud sounds like mut and food sounds like foot!
Chinese New Year of the Metal Pig was ushered in on 27 January in subdued tones. The firecracker ban was lifted temporarily, but firing crackers was allowed only in designated areas. The majority of the Chinese felt the difference between previous celebrations and this year’s. The firing of the firecrackers was now at a distance, not at our doorsteps. We were saddened. I did not realise how the sound of my imagined horses’ hooves thumping the ground had been such a significant part of my Chinese New Year celebrations. Without that sound, it didn’t feel like Chinese New Year. Though we still had the tong tong chir, their prancing without the blast of the firecrackers felt wrong.
But the die had been cast. We would never return to the old ways anymore.
Some people felt that we were being straightjacketed.
“Don’t play with firecrackers. Don’t have more than two children. Don’t eat rice, eat wheat…” Ah Gu grumbled. “So many don’t, don’t, don’t!”
“You forgot. Don’t wear your hair long…” Karim said dismally. “Oh, and don’t play yellow culture music…”
Karim was referring to the banning of the song ‘Puff the Magic Dragon’ in 1963. Sung by the folk group—Peter, Paul and Mary—the lyrics were based on a 1959 poem by Leonard Lipton, a 19-year-old Cornell University student. I remember the song well. I was in primary six then and couldn’t understand how a children’s song could be banned. My imagination ran riot. I imagined the authorities sending out their officials with sniffer-dogs to sniff out the vinyl records in the way that pigs were sent out to sniff out truffles. Would they gather all the vinyls in one room, where the officials would then smash them to smithereens? What would happen if they caught any child singing the song? After all, we absolutely loved the song. Each stanza of the song was set in a quatrain with an aabb rhyme scheme, followed by a repetitive chorus that made it easy to sing. In school, we sang it, waving our arms, before assembly, or whilst walking along corridors and at recess. The beat was jolly and the tune was lively. Its story was about a dragon who was befriended by a little boy, though it had a slightly sad ending when the boy grew up and left Puff behind.
Robert displayed how much he liked the song when I sang it to him, by thumping his fist and leg rhythmically on the bed. The first verse and chorus went like this:
“Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honalee,
Little Jackie Paper loved that rascal Puff,
And brought him strings and sealing wax and other fancy stuff oh
Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honalee,
Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honalee.”
But some overzealous citizen in New York said the words of the song described a drug trip. People can always put meanings to things that may not have been there or intended. Peter, Paul and Mary denied the allusion. Our authorities were swift to react. Anything that smacked of drug-taking, flower power or hippies was forbidden.
“Don’t play that song!” they commanded.
Suddenly, the song was taken off the air and no one was allowed to sing it. We were upset. We loved the tune. Robert loved the tune. And not once did we see any link or reference to marijuana.
“Don’t this, don’t that,” Abu, Fatima’s elder brother, said, disgruntled. “I’m so fed up with so many rules here. Our family is planning to go to Malaysia to live.”
“I could write a song to that beat, Don’t, don’t, don’t,” Karim said.
I was devastated. Fatima was still my best friend. Was I going to lose her too?
“Ah Phine,” Fatima said, “I meant to tell you…”
“Ya, ya, ya,” I said in a begrudging tone. “About your boyfriend, you mean? I was wondering when you were going to share that with me…”
“Don’t be like that lah, Ah Phine,” Fatima said, pulling me aside
