“Those were the days my friend
We thought they'd never end
We'd sing and dance forever and a day
We'd live the life we choose
We'd fight and never lose
For we were young and sure to have our way.
La la la la,
Those were the days, oh yes those were the days...”
The tune was lively, and Karim took us through the singing of the chorus again and again. When the children got it right, he told us he would let us know when to come in, as he began to sing, “Once upon a time, there was a tavern…”
I knew the lyrics. It was one of my favourite songs too, though I never knew that one day it would become so pertinent to our plight. The words and sentiment of the song tugged at my heart strings, I could feel the tears close to my eyes. But I was determined not to cry.
After Uncle Krishnan and his family left, our kampong also lost its spirit. This village was no longer the village we knew and now there was almost an urgent need to leave it. It was painful to see Sivalingam slowly dispose of his goats, who had almost been like family to him. He had always used them for their milk, so it was devastating for him to sell them for their meat. He had always slept outdoors, on a string cot called a charpoy, right by the herd, and now he looked alone and lost without their bleating and their smell. He was supposed to break down the wooden enclosure before he left, but his heart was not in it. Overnight, he transformed into a very old man. We had asked him where he was moving to, and he mentioned a vague relative somewhere in a kampong in Johor. Then one morning, we saw that the charpoy was vacant, and he was nowhere to be found.
It was terrible to witness the slow disintegration of our kampong. It was like watching a loved one go through some life-threatening and debilitating disease that robbed him of his former self.
It was a huge relief when Third Elder Brother announced that he was getting married, and he was taking us to live with him and Sister-In-law. The two of them had applied for an HDB flat, which would be ready in three years, and they invited us to live with them. Buying a flat at plan before it was built, meant the cost was much lower, a down payment sum that Sister-In-Law could afford on her salary together with my brother’s. Meanwhile, Sister-In-Law was eligible to rent an apartment from PUB as she was their employee. They got married straightaway so that we could all move out of the kampong into their flat. She seemed like an angel then, who had been sent to rescue us from our dire straits!
The flat was located at MacKenzie Road, just behind PUB’s Waterworks and Transport Department, where vehicles attending to all the national issues concerning water and electricity were housed. This was a stone’s throw away from the popular Rex Cinema, across from Tekka market. Sister-In-Law took us to see the flat, which was in a four storey walk-up block with no lift. Their flat was on the first floor, at a time when we were still calling it first floor and not second storey or second level. Of course, by this time we were already familiar with the amenities that a modern flat offered, so we did not react like the swa ku way we did upon seeing the HDB flat the first time. The flat was larger than our kampong house, with two bedrooms, a living room, dining room and kitchen with built-in cabinets, an impressive gas hob, an oven and sink with indoor taps that had running water. Of course, Third Elder Brother and Sister-In-Law would have one room, whilst the five of us would squeeze into the other. To our delight, there was also a brand new ice box, an enormous luxury for us. Food wouldn’t be spoilt anymore and we could have ice cold drinks. Best of all, we had our own telephone. Up until now, if needed, we had made use of the village communal telephone. We were exceedingly grateful to Sister-In-Law. Yet somehow, we could not rouse ourselves to feel deliriously happy.
Amidst all the angst of moving, a letter from Singapore University arrived for me. The logo on the envelope was impressive and smart-looking. My hands were trembling as I slit open the letter. My heart thudded in my chest. I could not believe what I read and had to re-read it, my eyes swimming. I had been accepted! I was offered a place for the new academic year in July. How did this almost-not-educated kampong girl get to come so far? What would my father have said about me now? What would Parvathi and Fatima say if they knew? The good apples had fallen on my side of the fence after all. I was delirious with happiness. I had such good fortune while some of my friends didn’t. I felt then, that on some metaphysical level, I would be carrying with me all those who did not get the opportunity to get educated: my mother, Parvathi, Fatima and all the others in our village and other villages, especially the girls. And someday, I would tell the world about them so that they would get their due honours.
But first, we had to face the final hours in our kampong.
We started packing. Not that there was really that much to pack. Sister-In-Law and Third Elder Brother had bought new beds and wardrobes. They did not want our bed bug-infested mattresses to be taken into the new flat. Neither did we, as we hated the effect of bites from
