Uranium interrupts my thoughts. ‘How did you like the trip?’ he asks.
‘Good,’ I say laconically.
The truth is that the choice of theme surprised me. The Japanese seem to be haunting Singapore in more ways than one.
‘Hope you enjoyed it,’ Sunkist says as we say goodbye.
‘I did,’ I say and I’m telling the truth.
Uranium takes her by the hand.
‘She’s my girlfriend,’ he explains in answer to my questioning looks. And then, he adds with a wide grin: ‘SPI is not a social club – but people do socialise.’
Tired from the trip, but still sober on a Saturday night, I am contemplating whether to go out or not, until I receive a text from Jacky: ‘In Taboo come str8 away’; I simply can’t refuse such summons.
When I arrive, it is well past midnight and Jacky is well past drunk. Not the best time to make a call to Tim.
‘Call him over,’ she demands.
‘Me? Why? You call him.’
‘No, you do it.’ She is insistent.
‘I’ll do it,’ says a member of Jacky’s entourage, takes her mobile and walks to a more quiet corner.
By the time I bring back the drinks, Jacky is jubilant. Tim is coming and she has put him down on the guest list to make sure he gets in past the long queue.
‘He’s coming,’ she says. ‘We’ll patch up now – as friends.’
‘Him sober, you drunk, not the best combination.’
‘That’s why you must stay with me all the time,’ she says.
Tim arrives after about half an hour. He looks restrained, as sober people do and Jacky is more exuberantly touchy-feelie than usual.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ I ask him.
‘Get me a coke, thanks,’ he replies.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Very sure. I’m sober for the whole of February. Detox.’
I look at Jacky. I don’t care about the next month, it is tonight I am concerned about. The coupling is well unbalanced.
‘I normally have January off. After Christmas,’ I tell him.
‘February is shorter,’ he replies with a wink.
So we sit in the chillout room and I bore everyone with stories about Bintan and the ghostbusting tour that wasn’t, until just me, Jacky and Tim are left.
‘I’m leaving next week,’ I tell Tim. ‘Are you coming for a last supper?’
‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘I’m leaving next week, too.’
Jacky sits up.
‘You’re leaving? Where to?’
‘I’m off to the US for a project. For about two or three months.’
Jacky is silent.
‘That’s my job. I go on short assignments abroad. Three months here, six months there.’
‘And you like this life?’ she asks with a quivering voice.
‘Yes, I do,’ he replies. ‘This is me.’
This was getting a bit personal; despite this, I decide to stay. Like a proper chaperone, I know that my presence puts a lid on the expression of any strong feelings and that’s how it should be.
Except that I’m getting slowly drunk. And there is also Dan.
Who?
‘Hello sexy,’ he says to me, and for a minute, I too, am younger, my arm in a sling, confronting and misunderstanding the Orient. Just for a minute, mind you, for now I have got under its skin and what you learn you can’t unlearn.
But you can have a second go at things left unfinished.
Dan waves me over. I look at Tim and Jacky and decide that it’s about time they sort out whatever they have to sort out.
I stand up.
‘See you later, guys,’ I say and follow Dan downstairs.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE QUESTION
The Hindu Monk couldn’t sleep; an awkward, metaphysical query had formed in his head and would not let him rest. He meditated for hours, then days, then weeks, and finally reached such a state of concentration that he approached the Four Great Kings of the Four Directions through his spirit and asked them his question:
‘Oh, Sages, where do the four elements, Fire, Earth, Air and Water cease to exist?’
The Four Great Kings looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders. ‘We don’t know,’ they said. ‘But you should appeal to the Thirty-three Gods of the retinue of Brahma who are higher and more sublime than us; they are the Keepers of all Knowledge.’ And they showed him the Way.
The Monk now advanced towards most sublime of spirits: the gods of Yamma and Nimmarati, the Sakka, the Santusita and everybody tending the Brahma Himself. He asked with utmost respect: ‘Oh, Sages, where do the four elements, Fire, Earth, Air and Water cease to exist?’
The Thirty-three shrugged their shoulders. ‘We don’t know,’ they said. ‘But you can question the Great Brahma Himself. He will know. Just go to the place where light shines forth, and a radiance appears and He will come.’
And they led the way.
It was with the utmost trepidation that the Monk who was following the Thirty-three met the Great Brahma and asked him, ‘O Lord and Teacher, where do the four elements, Fire, Earth, Air and Water cease to exist?’
The Brahma said to the Monk: ‘I am the Great Brahma, the Conqueror, the Unconquered, the All-Seeing, All-Powerful, the Sovereign Lord, the Maker, Creator, Chief, Appointer and Ruler, Father of All That Have Been and Shall Be.’
The Monk fell silent. ‘Yes, Lord, you are all that, but where do the four elements, Fire, Earth, Air and Water cease to exist?’
The Brahma dismissed the Thirty-three with His hand and took the Monk to one side.
‘The Thirty-three Gods of my retinue believe that there is nothing I can not see; that there is nothing I don’t understand; there is nothing that my consciousness has not realised. But even I, the Great Brahma, do not know where the four elements cease to exist. Why did you come to me and bypass your Venerable Master?’
And with that, the Brahma and his Kingdom disappeared and the Monk found himself back to his monastery facing his teacher. Shamed and perturbed, he asked him the same question: ‘Master, where do the four elements, Fire, Earth, Air and Water cease to exist?’
And this is what his Venerable Master told him.
‘A company of sea-merchants had a bird in their possession that could always find the nearest shore from far away in the sea. When they lost their way, they let the bird free. It then flew upwards and then to a direction that they followed. If it did not see the shore in any direction, it flew back to the ship. It is thus that you have flown to the domain of the Brahma in search of an answer to your question, and you have returned to me.’
The Monk respectfully bowed his head.
- 35 -
For a moment I stand still, my senses stunned: the Leong Sang Temple is so much more ornate and more harmoniously balanced than I recall, its gratifying round bends fighting the tyranny of straight lines, considered evil spirits with no feeling for opulence. That black roof with its wavy tiles is a real stormy sea with serpents and ships; the giant pearl shines in the middle like an exploding supernova; dragons engarland the parapets like multi-coloured gargoyles. Last time I hadn’t noticed the majolica tile line below the ramparts nor the left-handed swastikas nor the bevelled paintings of the Eight Immortals.
Today the temple is also exploding in the acoustic dimension. Five Buddhist monks are chanting in front of a throng of black-clothed women. Their syllables are uttered in a nasal staccato rising and falling like two tape loops running at different speeds that reinforce each other in a positive feedback when they occasionally step in sync. I stand there absorbed, hypnotised. There is a trance-like, revelatory quality to the music, its effect mesmerising and soothing like a Brian Eno album – is there a Music for Monasteries? Occasionally the reed-like sound of the so-na, a wind instrument consisting of a tapered wooden seven-hole pipe ending in a flared brass horn, cuts sharply and brings you back down with an earthly shriek. This is more in the tradition of Byzantin
e liturgical hymnody or the Sufi’s qawwali harmonising tradition than either of them would admit. The Orient may well start in Vienna, after all.
In the midst of this, a mobile rings. I check frantically. Phew, it isn’t mine. It’s the Resident Monk’s – and it is the same one who asked me about my sling last time who runs outside to take the call that cut our mental threads so inappropriately.
I slip in the back where heaps of food are stacked in front of the ancestor tablets of the departed on tables ceremonially covered in heavily embroidered decorations of red, black and gold. There are flowers, oranges, pears and pomelos; tea and rose water; and a mind-boggling array of stir-fries, biscuits and rice clouded in pungent incense fumes. On either side of the Veneration Hall whole families sit and consume some of the foods which I now know to be sacrifices dedicated to the spirits of the ancestors.
I hear a solo voice and a smash of cymbals behind me. The ceremony is about to end. The monks have stopped chanting while the swish of cymbals is left to ring, sizzle and fade. I return to the main temple where the Resident Monk is back at his favourite spot, standing next to the statue of Confucius. With his small John Lennon glasses, shaved head and shiny demeanour, he looks more and more like the Dalai Lama. I approach him to ask what kind of service this was.
‘A ceremony paying homage to the ancestors,’ he says. ‘We perform that three times a year.’
I point at the food in front of the altar, served as meticulously as it has been decorated. What was going to happen to all this?
‘It will stay there until about five in the afternoon and then we’re going to clear it.’
Are they going to eat it?
‘No. This is food for the deities; it will be thrown away,’ he says and points at the statues of Buddha and Guan Yin. ‘The food at the back – have you been at the back? – that is for people like you and me and we can eat it afterwards.’
I wonder if the food is less tasty after the offering.
I tell him that I have been here before and that we have talked together. He doesn’t remember me; I didn’t expect he would.
‘Although the Leong San is not on the main tourist routes, there are many who keep coming here. I don’t know why,’ he says.
I don’t know why either. Maybe it’s the sheer beauty of the temple, stuck as it is in a residential neighbourhood, maybe the fact that it is a living, breathing entity and not a museum piece.
‘Oh, we certainly are busy,’ he agrees. ‘Many people come here for funerals and other rites. Even those who are Christian want to honour their ancestors the traditional Chinese way.’
He takes me aside.
‘What’s your name?’ he asks me and when I tell him, he laughs heartily.
‘My name is Shi Miaodao,’ he says. ‘Every monk is given the surname, title, call it what you like Shi. But my previous name was John, too. I went to a Catholic school.’
It is clear he wants to talk more, and I encourage him by listening.
‘But the concept of Karma and awakening led me to Buddhism. It is the cause and effect of your own doings. Karma means that nothing is accidental. It is you who sows the seeds and eventually reaps the harvest. So don’t blame anyone and don’t fear anything. Everything that comes your way, embrace it. It is part of you. All your acts in your current life and your previous lives count towards your circumstances in this one. You can atone for your sinful acts and your punishment may be lessened, but you will still have to pay. In this connection, Buddha’s teachings help to guide one to self-salvation.’
There are many ways to the top of the mountain.
‘Absolutely! And it’s up to you to find your own.’
I point questioningly at the statue of the White Tiger. And this?
‘It’s all symbolism. That represents the wildness of the human soul. The stone bell is supposed to suppress this savage tendency innate in human beings. The ceremony, the chanting – we put on a show. What is important is what is in your heart. People come and ask me. How does my ancestor know what I’m offering? I tell them, if you offer it sincerely – that is what matters.’
He pauses.
‘Even a Muslim businessman came to see me, you know. He wanted to know Buddha’s doctrine because he wondered why the Chinese are so good in business. His friend told him to pray to Buddha and to draw divining-sticks which could predict his fate. So he comes here and asks to light some sticks and pray for good fortune. But I stop him. I tell him that his fortune does not depend on the sticks. I tell him that we all have a life force in us and, like a battery, it gets weak with usage over time. So we pray to the Buddha for enlightenment and blessings. This is the way devout Buddhists recharge their batteries. Luck comes only to those who help themselves. So I tell him you have to take more interest in your business than simply sit back and pay the salaries.’
I listen nodding with my head.
‘This other businessman comes to me. Chinese. He was retired. He was rich. His business was tended by his sons. He had been faithful to his wife all this time. And, shortly after he retired – bam – he started an affair with a 29-yearold woman. He was in his sixties. So he comes to me and wants my advice. He says he wants to break his affair. I ask him how sure he is. He says 80 per cent sure. I turn to him and say, no, to me you are only 20 per cent sure. It is either 100 per cent or nothing. Then comes an SMS – from her. I tell him not to reply. But I am sure he did afterwards, don’t you? It’s like eating durian.’
Eating durian?
‘Once you have tasted the fruit, you can not give up. You have to have another one and another one.’
I let this pass.
‘Chances are he’ll have another affair. And another one. It was that 80 per cent that convinced me. People are not sure about anything any more. Their business, their love life, their religion. So they come to us monks, because we are sure. They like that.’
I look across to the Temple of 1,000 Lights.
‘They are different from us,’ the monk says following my gaze. ‘They are Thai, closer to India and they keep some very old traditions. Them, and the Cambodians. And Burmese. There are a few differences between them and us. Now, we are vegetarian as you know…’
I interrupt him by pointing at the sumptuous god-feast at the altar.
‘All of them vegetarian dishes. Strictly. If you believe in reincarnation how can you eat chicken or duck, they could be your forefathers!’
He turns towards the Thai temple.
‘But they eat anything. This is, because in the old times monks used to wander around being dependent on alms. They didn’t expect people to cook for them, so they had to eat anything they were offered to keep themselves alive. So the Thai monks, they eat everything. But until noon.’
Noon?
‘Yes. From noon until sunrise next day, they eat nothing.’
How Ramadan, I tell myself. The Thais and Burmese are not only close to India, they are also close to the Middle East. I remember the Chinese worshipping like Muslims in the Bintan temple and wonder if the Orient is not a continuum of beliefs and variations of practices, after all.
‘They also tell you your fortune. Is this why you have come?’
I hate to say no, but yes, but no, but yes, he’s right.
Promising that I will keep in touch, I say good-bye to the Venerable Miaodao and make my way across to the Thai temple which is like I remember it: mostly empty. This time I ask for the exact number of lights – they are 989 – and go directly to the Wheel of Fortune where I pay my 50 cents, take a deep breath and spin the wheel.
The caretaker picks up the prediction:
‘The Wheel of Fortune says fate is like a little boat in the middle of a storm in a wide rough sea. You shall toil and sweat before you gain anything you wish but persevere and you will win help from a kind-hearted person and you will enjoy threefold happiness namely Marriage, Luck and a Healthy Son. But if you should institute any form of litigation you will have no success. Your fate is comparabl
e to the time when the Lord Buddha was incarnated as Maha Janaka who went to trade on the high seas and whose ship with cargo was wrecked and all was lost but he, himself who swam safely to shore with the help and guidance of Mekala, the angel of light.’
I liked the first one better.
- 36 -
I stop Richard before he goes to mix me a vodka and tonic which by now he does on auto.
‘Is the birthday boy here?’ I ask him and I have to repeat it, because the DJ at the back has pumped up the volume tonight.
Before he can answer, a round, rouged-up face with long, false eyelashes that could be construed as a deadly weapon kisses me on the cheek.
‘I’m he-ere!’ he pouts and shouts. ‘Thanks for coming, dahling, mwah, mwah.’
I hardly recognise Dan. Jackie Chan was never his model in the masculinity stakes, but, but...
‘You are in drag,’ I tell him, feeling stupid for stating the obvious.
‘Not yet dah-ling, not yet,’ he says, blowing me kisses as he disappears in the crowd and a good crowd it is, too: for a Sunday night the place is full. What happened to the Asian work ethic?
It’s early and I am not drunk and, as I sit in Tantric’s oh-so-familiar forecourt to escape that accursed Singaporean air conditioning, my mind wanders off on its own.The city-state is only forty-something and, like a grand Hollywood actress, she is at the peak of her beauty. She is rich, successful but also wiser and more experienced. No wrinkles, double-chins or bags under the eyes detract from her perfect aspect and any contemplation of future facelifts is fanciful, remote. More than ever, our diva is also at the peak of her professional prowess: she can dictate her own terms, choose the scripts carefully, and start directing films herself. The PAP government, like a dutiful husband who has managed her from her poor beginnings, sits back and watches her achievements with pride. Hollywood being Hollywood, of course, the tongues are wagging lethally. They wonder how the couple have stuck it together for so long and, instead of admiring their resilience, they claim that she wants a divorce, but her husband is using dirty tricks to keep her from running to the lawyers. Some decry her husband’s unscrupulous business techniques: producing new blockbusters is not enough – he wants to grind the competition to the ground as well. But then, what do you expect from Hollywood?
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