New Town, Old Friends

I meet up with my primary school classmates about twice a year. It is a chance for me to catch up with old friends and for past misdemeanors to catch up with me (a friend still delights in reminding me of the milk incident) [Correction: friend would like to point out that the incident involved a Yeo's packet drink instead of milk, "think was sugarcane", as well as a smashed piece of "butter/ fruit cake". the details, amusing though they may be, escape me ;P]. What I like about the gatherings is that any baggage has long since been cast aside in the name of friendship. Everyone realizes what a blessing it is to be able to keep in contact with like-minded friends made at an altogether more innocent stage of our lives and petty feuds and squabbles in our old primary school courtyard are now remembered only for the sake of a few laughs over a few drinks.

If I'm not wrong, our old primary school network was revived about six years ago when the guys were still serving their National Service. Since we parted ways thirteen years ago, I have often wondered how friends from the class of '90 have been faring: people I squatted coolie-style next to while brushing our teeth in front of a drain every morning with aerobics music blaring in the background, wringing thoroughly wet socks together after being soaked in the tropical rain on our way to school (we just about resisted whipping one another with them), and being fascinated by all the animals on excursions to the zoo even though they probably smelled just as bad back then.

When I was inducted back into the old school connection while still in University, the sense of rootlessness that has unconsciously dogged me over the years was finally quelled. Since then I've made it a point to attend every gathering even though I'm usually left clueless when the band members (I think almost every other Singaporean has a friend who is a band member in their school days) start talking about their ECA (call it CCA if you must, but students --- who are the ones who really matter anyway --- are oblivious to the supposed insinuation of the former abbreviation). Still, though I wasn't a protagonist in the stories, I was happy just to soak in the atmosphere as others reminisced over their past adventures in the band room. I guess other friends who turned up exhausted after a long day at work and sat relatively quietly in a corner of the table laughing over old times probably felt the same way.

Occasionally our former form teacher would join us in our outings as well. Given my propensity to daydream during lessons, it is probably a blessing that I was largely a nondescript student (apart from the milk incident) in a class of forty-two (incidentally, about fifteen people on average turn up for each outing). It is not fun and games all the time either, as former school mates and teachers who have unfortunately since passed away are remembered.

While all of us have chosen different paths to walk down, everyone still treasures our shared past from a bygone era and the mood of our gatherings captures the flavor of our friendship charmingly. Each time we set off to meet, we know that the harsh realities of life can be discarded fleetingly, safe in the knowledge that nobody will compare salaries with you, everyone will be dressed sensibly and we can all just look forward to a night of good, clean fun. To someone who does not have much, it means a lot. To those who have a lot, such unconditional friendship must seem doubly priceless.

Bus Journey

"Life is but a walking shadow.
It is a tale told by an idiot,
Full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing."
----William Shakespeare, Macbeth

This blog is neither full of sound nor fury. The complete absence of sound is due to, in no small part, my inadequate grasp of the complexities of midi sound files and the fact that they take an eternity to upload. And by and large, the reflective theme of this webpage is narrated in a mild-mannered tone. Not much fury to speak of, then. So the only link this site has to the above quote by Macbeth is that it carries many tales told by the same idiot.

But can that be right? I'm not disputing about the part about the idiot; but is it right to say that life signifies nothing? Oh, certainly not, you say, before going on to eulogize on the fulfillment that love, honor and friendship brings. But even if life signifies something, does death wipe its meaning away? Does it count for nothing in the end?

Most of us see death as a black hole that takes everything away, and so are afraid of dying. Zen Buddhists who have given up their material possessions and mortal wants have nothing to lose, and are at peace with the notion of dying. While I'm far from being spiritually enlightened, I think that death does not necessarily have to take away, but rather it can give meaning to life.

During Chinese New Year, it is customary to visit immediate and extended family members; a grand family reunion, if you like. This festival has always been a joyous and boisterous occasion to renew kinship, where literally the young and old congregate. While the festival was an exciting opportunity to have fun with my cousins in the past; now that we're all in our early twenties', I'd taken more interest in the older folk in recent years.

It might be a morbid and inappropriate thought given the celebratory occasion, but yet beneath all the festivities, in my mind's eye I see them dying. Their hair thinning and graying with each passing year, their faces wrinkling with age, and their eyesight increasingly beginning to fail them. And as my mind played back to my grandfather's funeral seven years ago, I saw myself at my aging relatives' traditional Chinese funerals, head bowed and knelt in front of their coffins, looking up and wondering if my converted Christian cousins were in attendance.

Albert Schweitzer wrote: When the path of life leads us to some vantage point where the scene around us fades away and we contemplate the distant view right to the end, let us not close our eyes. Let us pause for a moment, look at the distant view, and then carry on. Thinking about death in this way produces love for life. When we are familiar with death, we accept each week, each day, as a gift. Only if we are able thus to accept life---bit by bit---does it become precious.

So, instead of being afraid and pretending that the sceptre of death didn't exist, it might be more comforting to acknowledge that our limited time on earth makes us treasure and appreciate the people around us more.

I don't know where my ideas about death came about, but my grandfather's passing when I was fourteen taught me a lot about acceptance. I was very close to my grandfather, him having been a strong influence in my formative years with both of my parents working at that time. The line about people being harsh on their children but doting on their grandchildren is definitely true.

Anyway during that difficult period I had lots of negative emotions bottled up inside me. I was angry that certain people could just turn on the taps and weep unabashedly in spite of how they'd treated my grandfather. I was extremely guilt-ridden---for it was me who had discovered my grandfather when he was struck down by his stroke and didn't have the faintest idea of what to do. I was angry with my cousin for crying anyway even though he was too young to understand what death was, I was angry with my father for not being there at that ill-fated moment even though he might have, and above all I was angry at my own sense of helplessness.

I only got over my torment when I saw my grandfather again, in my dreams. I was walking towards the bus-stop opposite my house on my way to school as usual. Then I noticed that it looked the way it did ere its renovation a few years ago. Had time turned back, implausible as it may seem? Curious, I continued walking, studying the old bus-stop intently. There was an elderly man in blue shirt, black pants and shoes sitting under the shelter---my grandfather. Rapturous, I ran towards him and sank into his embrace, feeling his warm, comforting figure wrapped around me once more. I told him how much I missed him and that I loved him, oblivious to the crowd at the bus-stop.

One by one, the commuters left the bus-stop to board their respective buses, whilst I sat there confiding in my grandfather all the while. Eventually the bus to take me to school came, and my grandfather beckoned me to board it. I shook my head, looking searchingly into his benevolent eyes. Go, he insisted. Your bus is here. Reluctantly, I boarded the bus, and waved goodbye to him one last time.

That morning, I woke up basked in a light from a higher power. My grandfather used to walk me to and from primary school, and he had returned to release me from my torment. His journey was complete, he could now sit down resting at the bus-stop; but my bus had come calling, and I had my own long, arduous journey to undergo. But whenever I suffered bouts of motion sickness, I could always take heart, safe in the knowledge that my grandfather would be waiting for me at the terminal station.