But instead, everybody shouted, “Apa itu, apa itu? What’s that? What’s that?”
As our houses did not have ceilings, we could hear shouting from all our neighbours. Mak was getting agitated. Robert started to whimper, so Mak folded him in her arms. Instead of the fat raindrops we had expected, we heard a clattering on our roof, as though small stones were being hurled across the layers of attap. The worst noise came over our kitchen roof, which was made of corrugated zinc, thudding and clattering. Everyone rushed out of their houses to look. To our shock, we were being pelted with small and cold, irregular shaped ice-cubes. The ice-cubes, some as large as golf balls, were raining down from the sky! We didn’t know what was happening.
“Oh my goodness!” Uncle Krishnan said. “These are hailstones!”
“How are they formed?” I asked
“Hail is just solid precipitation,” Uncle Krishnan said wisely. “When we get cumulus clouds and thunderstorms like this, water droplets turn solid.”
The village kids were scooping up the hailstones with glee. Some of them even sucked at them to taste them. It was the first hailstone storm we had experienced. Pity they didn’t last long, melting as quickly as they fell.
Those Were the Days
(1975)
WHEN we are about to lose something or someone we love, we focus on it more and become intense about it. It was the same with life in our kampong, knowing that our days in the village were numbered. The landlord told the families in our row of houses that we had to move out before the end of the year, as he was relocating soon and wanted his compensation from the government. Our beloved village was becoming more and more like a ghost town. As more HDB flats became available in Ang Mo Kio, Bedok and Toa Payoh, many people took up the government’s offer to move to better housing and amenities. Government officials in their safari-style suits came to our village with their clipboards, marking items and trees which would warrant some compensation. The officers walked around the village to ascertain which trees were deserving of payment and how much.
“Two dollars for this one,” Officer One pointed to a rambutan tree. “One dollar for the papaya.”
Officer Two busily wrote down as instructed, painting the trunk red with their code. They moved from tree to tree, whilst our villagers watched them.
“How much you pay for my goats?” Sivalingam scolded angrily. “You can house them in HDB or you must slaughter them and send to Tekka for sale?”
Uncle Krishnan placed a placating hand on Sivalingam’s shoulder.
The faces of the officers remain placid. They must have encountered such mutinous reactions from all the other kampongs they had visited, and had learnt to mask their feelings. We knew they were not to blame; they were only carrying out orders. But our grief had made us impatient and illogical.
“How much you pay for this…” Nenek Bongkok said waving her arm, flesh jiggling, to take in the features and atmosphere of our village. “How much you pay for loss of our entire way of life?”
“Sorry Makchik.” Officer One said, sheepishly.
“How much for my house?” Karim asked.
“How long have you owned it?” Officer Two asked.
“Not owned lah,” said Karim. “I’m only a night-soil carrier turned musician. Of course I can only afford to rent it lah.”
“Sorry,” Officer One said. “But we give money only to those who own their houses.”
“What???” Everybody said, unbelieving.
“Mampus lah! Die lah,” Nenek Bongkok said. “I might as well go and drown myself in the river right now.”
Mak went forward to hug her. We all felt the blow of the news.
“So how?” Karim asked. “So how to get money to buy an HDB?”
“So you have to rent from HDB lah,” Uncle Krishnan explained.
My family definitely could not cough up the down payment of $3,000 for a flat. At this stage, our rent for our attap house was $15 a month. We probably couldn’t afford the HDB rent. Were we going to be homeless? Mak was worried, and had long discussions with Elder Brothers. They were already living with their families with their in-laws, so we could not move in with them. We were in deep trouble.
Still, Mak tried to remain hopeful that something would turn up.
When the PA announced that they would take batches of people to see examples of the new HDB flats, Mak said she would go too. Second Sister volunteered to look after Robert. We went in the same batch as Uncle Krishnan’s family, Ah Gu, Karim and Sivalingam. Of our group, only Uncle Krishnan and Ah Gu owned their houses.
The officer, a young lady called Miss Yap, was waiting for us at the bottom of the block of flats at Bedok South. She was the type with a cheerful personality, and she beamed at us with warmth to make us feel better. Her colleague Mr Wong tried to smile as brightly.
“Only five people each time in the lift for comfort,” she said cheerfully. “Who wants to go first? Mr Wong will go up with you to show you how to work it. So easy.”
The lift did not look at all friendly or comfortable. Uncle Krishnan and his family went first. We saw the lift doors shut, and a rumble sounded before the lift whirred its way up. It looked terrifying.
“Aiyyoh, I no go in that box!” Sivalingam said. “Looks like coffin!”
“It’s a long walk up to the 10th floor,” Ah Gu said.
“My legs, I can trust. That thing, no!” Sivalingam retorted.
“What if it got stuck halfway?” Karim asked.
“This lift use electricity one,” Miss Yap said reassuringly. “Very efficient.”
The image of the trapped pregnant woman in the Robinsons fire came to my mind, but I did not mention it. We were nervous enough without added
