P. Ramlee was adamant about preserving Malay culture and entertainment. But he was fighting a losing battle, as more films from Hollywood started screening in Asia, and young people were turning to Western movies and pop music. P. Ramlee was fast becoming out of date. Sadly, the press, which had previously covered his numerous wins and awards, now vilified him. In his depression, he ate too much and put on a lot of weight, losing the svelte figure he had before. His face became rounder and fuller. I was so sad to hear that when he went on stage at the Dewan Negara, National Theatre, in KL, he was booed. How far he had fallen! It seemed poignant that the last song he wrote before he died, which was later recorded by his widow Saloma, was ‘Air Mata di Kuala Lumpur’, or ‘Tears in Kuala Lumpur’. The lyrics spoke touchingly of loss and the death of dreams, and a life that had dwindled into a lack of meaning. In the end, he had struggled just to feed his family and had to resort to low-level entertainment like singing at birthday parties or being a compere for stage shows. It was in these tragic circumstances that he died.
And yet, after his death, hundreds of people turned up at his funeral. Perhaps realising that they had been unfair to him, the press wrote columns and columns of accolades about his extensive repertoire of work. There was a revival of his music and films. Very much later, he was even awarded the Malay equivalent of a knighthood, Tan Sri, but it was all too late. He had died a shattered man, believing that his fans and his country had deserted him.
After my teeth were straightened by Dr S, I was a new person. I could not thank him enough. Instead of constantly pursing my lips tightly to hide the ugly overbite, I was now confident enough to smile, exposing my teeth. Dr S was involved in a national campaign to educate the public on dental health, and he asked if I minded the picture of my lips and teeth being taken and used for the national poster. Of course I could not refuse. It was strange to see a photo of a part of me, only lips and teeth, on a poster everywhere, on the buses and in various clinics and schools, though I was not identifiable from it. I wished I had kept one as a souvenir.
One of my postings was to the Maternal and Child Health Clinic in Mandai. Every maternal and child health clinic housed midwives, who helped women deliver their babies so that they did not have to make the long trip to KK. Rural folks during this period were still suspicious of hospitals. Such clinics always had a dental clinic section though it did not operate 24/7 like the midwifery section. This was really an ulu place, miles away from town and any shop. We had to bring our own lunch in, unless one of the midwives who was visiting a patient would come back with packets of food. There was not a lot to engage one’s time during our lunch breaks, and I always brought a book to read. At the Stamford Road library, I found a book that was to change my life.
Norman Vincent Peale, an American pastor, had written a book called The Power of Positive Thinking, and it was published by Simon and Schuster in 1952. When I read it, I realised the power of words, both positive and negative. I realised how I had allowed my father’s negative words to shape my view of myself. It was time to reverse all that. I thought it was that easy. Peale recommended looking for positive traits in myself to counter anything negative said about me. I examined myself in a mirror. I was dark, like my father said I was. Did that make me ugly? Now that my teeth were normal, I could smile. It was then that I noticed that my dimples appeared when I smiled. I told myself, I would have to smile more often. And I did.
That was when I met Boy Friend. Apparently he was attracted by my dimples.
I was attracted by his broad shoulders. We went to the same church. He smiled at me and I smiled back. For the first time in my life, I felt myself desirable. For once, my father’s words were proven wrong. The following week, we went to the same service and he looked out for me, as I was secretly looking out for him. He was very tall for a Chinese and deeply tanned, so we were well matched. Then he plucked up the courage to talk to me. We exchanged names and potted histories. I learnt that he was in the first batch of NS men, which explained his superb physique. He had just finished his annual reservist training, which accounted for his tan. I fell in love with this image of him, as he fell in love with the image he had of me, as a nice little nurse who would not talk back. But we both didn’t know it then and thought that what we had was real.
But that is another story.
Boy Friend owned a Ford Cortina. This was very impressive for a kampong girl like me. As I said, I fell in love for all the wrong reasons. He was the first graduate I had as a friend. He told me about his experiences at university, which opened new vistas for me. He took me to see his former campus at Bukit Timah, and most memorably, to its extensive library. From the moment I stepped into its hallowed grounds, I knew that I must get into university. The white colonial buildings with their arches, lower and upper quadrangles surrounding the lawn area, were magnificent. The walls seemed to whisper of ancient legends, steeped in esoteric
