“What I do when village gone?” he asked no one in particular. “Where my goats go? No can move to HDB, right?”
His entire livelihood was at stake. At his mature age, what could he do to earn a new kind of living? How would he cope with being cooped up in a small, concrete flat instead of sleeping semi-outdoors outside his wooden corral for his goats, on a roped charpoy? Like him, our pig farmers further inside the village, whom we called Lai Par, also lamented about their fate. So too did our cowherds. The transition to a new way of life was going to take a toll on some people. Somehow, all of us felt at a deeper level that this was probably our last outing together, before our village was dismantled. What a difference in the size of our group compared to when we all went to our first National Day Parade after independence. If she was here, Fatima would have come with us. I missed her. I had written letter after letter since she left, but there had been no reply. Yet that was not totally unexpected.
The parade was held at 4pm so that it would not be too hot for us, or the participants. Umbrellas of rain trees threw long shadows where we had some shade. The performers had quite a few miles to walk, from the Jalan Besar Stadium all the way to Bras Basah Road, then on to Outram Park. Those who would be sitting on the floats, created from lorries, were in comfort, but the others were on foot.
People of all races lined the street. We could hear questions:
“What’s this Chingay?”
“Mean what, huh?”
I wished Pak Osman was here. He would know how to explain and put people at ease. He would have loved the razzmatazz of it all. Unlike the more formal formations of the National Day Parade which showcased the might of our nation, this parade was all about fun and gaiety, though it did showcase our Chinese culture. The lion dancers came out in full colourful regalia, accompanied by cheerful cymbals and drums. We loved the tong tong chir, and we clapped and gyrated to the beat. We craned our necks and stared in utter amazement as the faux-giant stilt walkers in their ancient China silk costumes strode right past us on their thin and tall legs. Wu Shu masters, clad in traditional pugilistic outfits, displayed their art and prowess in elegantly executed movements. I imagined them, agile, like the Kung Fu masters of ancient China, who leapt across temple roofs and mountains. They were followed by the various dance troupes, in ornate colours, prancing to jolly, uplifting music. Tourists stopped to take photographs. Perhaps one day the route might be changed to the more touristy district of Orchard Road, but for this first Chingay, it was created for our own people.
“What a relief from the drab silence of last year’s Chinese New Year,” I said.
As the shadows lengthened and the sun drew back, the sky turned crimson and gold. That was when the floats appeared, decorated in bright hues and lighted up with a myriad of coloured bulbs, with pretty girls and costumed figures waving from the platforms. We all waved back happily. Everyone was smiling. We were the first to watch the first Chingay! It was a moment in history. Every other Chingay after this, we could proudly say we watched the very first. It was a huge success. Okay, we still didn’t have firecrackers on our doorsteps, but considering the expense of lives, we could forgo having the sounds. This Chingay was better than nothing. It really made us feel less bad about the lack of firecrackers!
I was so sorry that Mak couldn’t see it. She always seemed to draw the short straw.
Two things happened in May which put an end to a way of life.
First, the renowned Kampong Potong Pasir fish ponds were filled up. Second, my teenage crush and idol, singer, actor, musician and director, P. Ramlee, died.
I had to admit that I could not have foreseen that the fish ponds would be filled. I was glad that Pak Osman did not have to witness this. It would have broken his heart as it did mine. The ponds were picturesque, and besides providing fish as food, gave pleasure to the villagers. We swam in them, caught our own fish and eels, and sometimes went boating on them, just as at Alkaff Gardens. When the beautiful lakes at Alkaff were filled up, I had been devastated. That had been a bit of rural Singapore that had historical significance, in an era when we produced and filmed our own Malay films, with our own local actors and directors. Now our Malay film industry was practically dead. A place of exquisite beauty had been uprooted and demolished. Did the authorities want to transform our whole island into a concrete jungle? Couldn’t they have left our fishing ponds as part of the rustic scene when they designed the future HDB estate? Surely it would have made more sense to incorporate the history of Kampong Potong Pasir into the landscape of the new HDB tower blocks of Potong Pasir, using the ponds as recreational facilities for the estate? But it appeared that every acre of land was precious, so our ponds had to go.
The owners of the fishing ponds had already removed the fish before they left.
Gigantic pumps arrived to pump out the water. The watercress, water hyacinths and kangkong were ripped apart, and they perished. If we had time-sequence photography, we could show how the banks of the pond dipped into muddy ravines as the water receded and was being drained. The elongated tubular pumps sucked out the liquid with a slurping sound, as if it was sucking out the ponds’ marrow
