The Catherine Lim Collection

by Catherine Lim

  CONFUCIAN SAGE: The Master he say give woman fish and she will have meal for a day. Teach woman to fish and she will have meal for lifetime. The Master he also say, give woman flower, and her stomach still go hungry. Therefore fish better than flower.

  SHARILYN ZELDA LEE SWEE MET: Oh Your Benevolence, you keep misunderstanding me. Well, I was so depressed that I was unable to get to work the next day. But a fortunate thing it turned out to be, for who should call, but an old flame! Somebody I had met briefly in England. He happened to be in Singapore on vacation, and he called to say hello and ask how I was. Oh, to hear good English spoken again! To hear refined laughter! Most of all, to hear my name pronounced correctly. Mr Chow Pock Mook is incapable of pronouncing the ‘r’ and the ‘z’ sounds, Your Benevolence, and as a result my name comes out from his mouth cruelly mutilated! I was so relieved at seeing this friend – his name is Mr Vernon Alexander James Wu – that I forgot about the special SEU programme for that day. Needless to say, the SEU was very cross with me and gave me the usual lecture about the ideal Confucian woman who is totally modest, chaste and faithful and who will never dream of playing around with other men.

  CONFUCIAN SAGE: The Master he give this warning to all flirtatious women: woman who play with men come to sticky end!

  SHARILYN ZELDA LEE SWEE MEI: Your Benevolence, you keep turning everything I say against me. I can see that it is no use talking any longer or seeking any advice from you. I wish now that I had gone to seek the advice of my English Bard instead; he would have been more helpful and sympathetic! Goodbye.

  ***

  MR CHOW POCK MOOK: Ah, Sir ah, I come to you because I want advice. The SEU it match me with this lady – her name very hard to pronounce – got all funny sounds – and I think some problem now. I promise to co-operate with SEU, they say they spend a lot of government money on the project, and I a very good civil servant, so I want to cooperate. My boss, he’s very good boss, he tells me if project of SEU succeed, will give his company good name, and he will give me promotion. Last promotion, I got increase $240. Actually, Sir, I want to go to Confucian Sage for advice, because I think he will understand me better, but this lady – her name Miss Sha-lilyn Jal-da Lee Swee Mei – she always speak of her English Bard, how you inspire her, how she learn so many things from you, so for her sake, I come to ask advice to solve problem. We are going out on the SEU programme many months now, it is good programme, but problem has crop up, and I think Miss Sha-lilyn Jal-da not very happy.

  ENGLISH BARD:

  The spot of rose on my lady’s cheek,

  Is it gone?

  ‘Tis a pity!

  Oh, to move worlds

  Till the spot is restored

  And my lady smiles once more.

  MR CHOW POCK MOOK: Sir, ah, problem is she don’t like me to smile. She don’t like men who have gold teeth, and I got this gold teeth for twenty-five years now; they very good quality gold, my grandfather had whole front row all gold teeth, and my father also, and I think they bring us luck. But Miss Sha-lilyn Jal-dah don’t like them. She is a very modern lady, Sir, and has the high education in England, and speaks the good high class English that sometimes very difficult to understand. I learnt English in school, Sir, and now I go for English lessons twice a week, but still cannot speak so good and so fast like Miss Sha-lilyn Jal-dah. Waah, Sir, she use big, big words – cannot even find them in the dictionary.

  ENGLISH BARD:

  Words, words, words

  Less a balm to the wounded spirit

  Than the soft touch of hand on cheek

  Or velvet sighs in the ear

  Or lingering silken gaze.

  MR CHOW POCK MOOK: I don’t understand what you saying, Sir, but I will go on to explain my problem, Sir. This lady is quite beautiful, Sir. She 35 already, I think, but can still have some children if marry now. She likes to wear the fashionable, fashionable clothes and the mini-skirt and one day she wear a very short black mini-skirt, make her look sexy when she sit on a sofa. I just look at her legs – all men like to look at beautiful women’s legs, do you agree, Sir? heh! heh! – and I wipe my glasses because cannot see so clearly and when I look again, she got up and look very angry. She said Singaporean men are very disgusting because very ‘hum-sub’. But the SEU lecturers say we must appreciate women’s beauty, must say lomantic things, but then when we get lomantic, they get angry. Ah, Sir, Singaporean women very hard to please. What for want to wear mini-skirt and then get angry if we look?

  ENGLISH BARD:

  Dost hear the rustling of her skirts?

  Hush, my lady comes.

  Dost see her face upturned

  To gaze’upon the moon?

  Her hand upon her pale bosom.

  Oh to be that hand, upon that throbbing bosom!

  See, she sways, as in a swoon,

  Ah, my lady sways.

  MR CHOW POCK MOOK: Yes, Sir, my mudder, my grandmudder, my aunties they all say that Miss Sha-lilyn Jal-dah is very ‘suay’, is no good for me – if I marry her, it will be very bad luck for me. Chinese believe if marry certain type of women who are ‘suay’, man will suffer bad luck for many years. My mudder says Miss Sha-lilyn Jal-dah’s mouth not lucky mouth, and she has black mole on one cheek which my grandmudder says it will cause bad luck in family. Also, way she walks. Her feet point outwards, so pushing, pushing away good luck and money, whereas if feet point inwards, very good, keeping in good luck and money. I don’t mind too much, Sir, I educated man, so not so superstitious. But my mudder and grandmudder and aunties, they are still old-fashioned and they think Miss Sha-lilyn Jal-dah is a very ‘suay’ woman, no good for man. I cannot tell the SEU this because will feel very bad, because they already spend so much money on the project, and they say I am best civil servant and my boss say too.

  ENGLISH BARD:

  ‘Be not a servant to your passions,’ said my spirit.

  But how can I still the storm in my aching breast?

  How quell the passion and lust?

  Yes-lust-unashamedly I say it –

  O woe betide me! I am lost

  O Love’s Lust Lost

  MR CHOW POCK MOOK: Ah, Sir, ah, you speak the high class English too, that is not so easy to understand for me. Oh, Sir, I want to understand Miss Sha-lilyn Jal-dah but our meetings, always something happen to spoil our meetings. The SEU say must bring present for lady to make her happy, I bring her fish-head. Very good fish-head, Sir. I ask the fish-seller at my market to specially reserve for me. If not buy by 9.30 every morning, all his fish-head sold out. Very good quality, and cost me $9.50! I bring the fish-head to Miss Sha-lilyn Jal-dah’s house, and I look at her face, and she is not happy at all. As a matter of fact, she look very angry, and she just put the fish in the fridge and say nothing. Do this, not right, do that, not right, what she expect me to do? I think even if die for her, she will not be satisfied!

  ENGLISH BARD:

  Wouldst thou die for me? She cries.

  I wouldst for thee!

  Cold steel, gleaming in the darkness,

  Leaps, plunges straight into that heaving bosom

  And she dies

  With his name imprinted loving on her lips.

  MR CHOW POCK MOOK: Sir, I’m sorry to say I still cannot understand you. You speak all the difficult English and English poetry. I think, Sir, it’s waste of time to come to you. I should have gone to Confucian Sage instead; he give good advice, you only say poetry that appear all nonsense to me – goodbye, Sir.

  Goonalaan’s Beard

  The crowds are coming.

  The crowds keep coming.

  Goonalaan, standing on the raised platform, clutching the microphone in one hand and raising the other high in the air, in munificent act of bestowing blessings, looks magisterially upon the eager upturned faces around him. He begins to speak. A hush falls upon the crowd, and all eyes are riveted on the tall dark man on the stage, a man whose wild shaggy mane of hair blown about his face by the strong evening breezes, whose prot
uberant belly straining against the tightness of his cotton shirt down the front part of which run streaks of fresh ceray juice, all compel attention.

  Goonalaan begins to speak. “Oh Singaporeans, Singaporeans, now is time for you all to change. Change, change before it is too late, I tell you! This people in this country got a God, that people in that country got a God, they pray, they worship their God, they do good, holy things, but what is Singaporeans’ God? I will tell you. It’s money, money, money, money. That is the Singaporeans’ God!”

  The crowds roar their approval. By now, more people have arrived, and the piece of vacant land, approved by the authorities as the site for the pre-election campaign rallies, is filled to overflowing.

  “Here is the Singaporeans’ God!” shrieks Goonalaan, holding up high above his head for all to see, a $50 note. There is another roar of delight from the crowd.

  “We Singaporeans, we get more and more and more materialistic!” Goonalaan continues, his whole countenance aflame with righteous wrath. “We only think of money. When Singaporean, born, marry, make love, even die, can only think of money. Got money in their eyes, got money flow out of their ears, I tell you! EEEE! ” The shriek of dismay is not connected with the evil propensity of Singaporeans that is being declaimed, it is caused by a sudden gust of wind whipping away the $50 note from Goonalaan’s fingers. The note now sails serenely above the heads of the crowds, with Goonalaan’s arms waving in helpless pursuit.

  “My money!” gasps Goonalaan. But his distress is short-lived, for a young man in the audience snatches the errant note from the air, bounds up the stage and returns it to Goonalaan who returns it to his shirt pocket.

  “Oh, we Singaporeans, we don’t have heart left,” cries Goonalaan, bringing both hands down with a resounding thump upon the upper left side of his chest, “if you cut open Singaporean in operation, sure cannot find any heart! And we don’t have soul left,” Goonalaan continues, now jabbing the left side of his head with a forefinger, with equal force, to indicate that he is totally aware of the respective sites of residence of these two vital organs in the human body. “We only think of getting rich, so the rich getting richer and the poor getting poorer. We enjoy, enjoy all the time, we never got time for the less fortunate. And we pretend, pretend we so good, but all the time we are like the rotten meat, all nice outside but inside got all the filthy worms crawl all over!”

  Carried away by this analogy, Goonalaan now proceeds not only to describe the worms but to act out their movements; he wriggles and squirms and at one point actually writhes on stage, in imitation of a deadly snake. Nobody is quite sure at what point the comparison of Singaporeans to worms has been expanded to venomous reptiles, but the crowd loves it and applauds wildly.

  Springing up from the stage, Goonalaan screeches, “If you want to save our beloved country from evil, vote me! Vote me, Goonalaan, as your Member of Parliament! As Member of Parliament, I am promising that I will working very, very hard to change Singapore! I will change all people to be the good people with heart and soul, not the materialistic people only thinking of making money and very selfish towards others. I WILL CHANGE SINGAPORE!”

  Here the crowd roars its loudest. Somebody begins to shout “GOON-AH-LAAN” and the cry is taken up by the others –

  Three cheers for

  GOON-AH-LAAN!

  GOON-AH-LAAN!

  GOON-AH-LAAN!

  Deeply gratified, Goonalaan pauses to take a deep breath, then resumes the haranguing.

  “Look around you,” he cries, raising both arms high up in the air and effecting a graceful, semicircular sweep. “Everywhere in Singapore got tall buildings, big hotels, our hotel tallest in the world, our airport the best in the world, our big, big department shops full of expensive things London, Paris, New York, all got the goods in our department stores, ourMRT, our thousand thousand cars, our thousand ships and planes, our high-rise housing estate, condominiums ... ” The long list leaves Goonalaan quite breathless; he pauses, then raising his voice to a shrill falsetto that reverberates in the night air, over the heads of the mesmerised thousands listening to him, he cries out, “But what use of all this? What use, I ask you? Got one war only – BANG! – everything destroyed. You think our Singapore ships, guns, better than Russian guns? Or got one earthquake only – WHAM! – all big beautiful buildings will crashing down, all big big heap of rubbish. We build and build, this building taller than that building, this building tallest of all – every year competition – everyone want tallest, tallest buildings in the world – and you know what will happen? All will make Singapore to sink. Singapore such a small, little island only, cannot even see in the map of the world. You think can carry all the heavy, heavy tall buildings? Sure to sink one day. So one minute got Singapore, next minute, people ask, where Singapore? Where all the rich Singaporeans?”

  The crowd, apparently undismayed by such a horrendous vision of their future, continues to cheer loudly.

  “So you see all this money, money and affluent society and materialistic, no use at all,” cries Goonalaan. He looks around challengingly, then prepares to deliver the coup de grâce. “What I want you to do is this,” he shouts, his eyes glittering, his mane of hair swept back from his face and pushed into an awesome halo of stiff upright strands.

  “I ask you to have heart and soul! I ask you to be good, kind, loving people, not selfish, greedy people. Good, kind, loving heart and soul will remain. They remain because they are the things of God. Buildings and hotels, MRT and fighter planes, they all things of man, and they will be destroyed. But things of God remain forever and ever and ever on this earth!”

  Here Goonalaan, to stress the importance of his message, raises himself on his toes and spreads out his arms wide. The effort causes the last remaining shirt-button, up to now bravely holding back the protuberant belly from view, to burst and fly off, so that the protuberance is now fully exposed. This confers upon Goonalaan a striking resemblance to those mendicant holy men in the East who are often depicted with great round bellies and strings of beads draped on these rotundities. Goonalaan’s round belly is bare of holy beads, but at this point, an admirer goes on stage and drapes a garland of flowers round his neck.

  “Thank you,” says Goonalaan softly.

  The crowds are coming.

  The crowds keep coming.

  Election day arrives. The returns start coming in at the polling centres. Goonalaan watches anxiously. The roars of approval and delight at his rallies are still ringing in his ears. As he pops another pellet of ceray into his mouth and begins to chew slowly, he smiles with quiet self-confidence. The votes are counted and announced.

  Goonalaan is not voted in.

  Goonalaan is invited to make a statement by the TV crew filming the results for the thousands of Singaporeans staying up through the night in front of their TV. Goonalaan is very calm and composed. But an implacable fire burns in his eyes, and the stiff tangled locks on his head give the aspect of an enraged warrior deity about to hurl a thunderbolt. Goonalaan says menacingly, “Today I know truth about Singaporeans. They say one thing and they do another thing. They not sincere at all. They very selfish and materialistic and get worse and worse. I give them chance to change. It is golden chance, one chance in one million years. But they refuse. They prefer to go on doing their wicked thing. They do not want to listen to my voice. They do not respect my voice. Okay, okay. They think will no longer hear my voice. But you think Goonalaan a coward? You think Goonalaan a weak person with no guts? You think Goonalaan lose election, means that he go away, like a big coward? NO! Goonalaan not that type, Goonalaan is man of principle – believe something is right, will try, try, try to do it. People in Singapore change, insincere, afraid, pretend, give up, but Goonalaan never give up!”

  Here Goonalaan pauses, gathering energy for the climax.

  “I will tell you what I going to do!” booms Goonalaan with ominous power: ‘You see this,’ pointing to a somewhat unruly stubble on his chin, the effec
t of some shaveless days. “You see this beard? Well, I not going to shave or wash my beard until Singaporeans become less materialistic! Even 100 years, I will not shave or wash. My beard will always be there, to tell Singaporeans what they really like, very evil and selfish people. People now no need to read newspaper article or magazine to know about Singaporeans, only look at beard and will know the truth! You don’t want to hear my voice, now you have to watch my beard!” And here Goonalaan, to emphasize the new and portentous function of that bodily feature, gives it three forceful tugs.

  The picture of Goonalaan then fades from the screen.

  Singaporeans talk of nothing but Goonalaan’s beard the next day, and the next.

  At first there is only amusement.

  Goonalaan positions himself in the centre of Singapore’s busiest shopping area. He spreads a newspaper carefully on the ground outside a large departmental store, sits cross-legged on it, closes his eyes and remains totally still. He is oblivious of the hurrying shoppers around him. But they are not oblivious of his presence. They are certainly not oblivious of his beard. In less than a week, it has sprouted ten centimetres! It is a bushy beard of a strange variety of hues. It is a beard that compels the attention of every Singaporean because it has been set up as the Singaporean’s moral barometer. It is the collective social conscience of Singapore.