Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Passing narrow walkways, whose atmosphere was filled with the aroma of 'dou-sa-bing' and humidity contributed by the sizzling hot taiwanese sausages barbecued in power charged receptacles, I finally arrived.
The Place of the Old
Be it the rejuvenating derivation of the modern day dame, the metrosexual business man, the pubescent, curious little one that altogether coalesces into a tapestry of vibrancy, vigor and vitality; the intimate, unwritten nostalgia, though faded through time, still stirs. It is mild, sweet, and mellow; it lovingly cuddles your mood. The tranquility it exudes seemed to act as a firmly built domicile of the generations that have lived in its very territory; their tears, their suffering, their fate.
This street was not merely Pagoda Street. It was the home of the opium-smoking coolies, the lavish tailor, the thrifty Samsui Woman, the devoted Hawker; the common ground in which its residents drew fresh water from the wells by Bullock Carts. It was indeed, The Sir Stamford Raffles Plan.
The shop houses, with its protuberant windows interspersed with minute spaces, once dominated by the Parakeet fortune teller, Clog Makers, Letter Writers and even the Street Barbers; have been replaced by the Changing Times. I plod on, reveling in the epiphany, imagining myself walking on a five-foot way, subconsciously eavesdropping on the gossiping housewives and listening to the hearty cries of playing children.
Upon following the bend that leads to Eu Tong Sen Street, the scene immediately transforms. It is no longer surrounded by warmth and surreality, but violence, unrest and turmoil. Grenades flit across, descending to the ground with fulminated dissonances. A pandemonium takes place-men in dirty green canvas suits, while riding on tankers, fire incessant shots with their ammunitions, sending civilians running helter skelter in an attempt to escape their tragic fate. A lady in a sarong carries a crying baby close to her chest and scurries away barefooted. However she has reached an impasse; shelter was nowhere to be seen. The bullet hits the back of her neck as she falls to the ground- her hands still firmly embracing her child. A half-naked drunk coolie walks out to the street with a can of beer in his hand, yodelling to the tune of the China National Anthem. The tank gives no mercy; it accelerates through him. The can of beer flies from his grasp, blood oozes from his forehead; he lay motionless on the ground with a smile, as if still drunk in death.
In the midst of the convulsion, the Japanese Flag stands strong. It brazenly oscillates; confidently, proudly, mercilessly.
For a moment, the dark history seemed to come alive once again, instilling profound retrospect of a place that spelled the fate of so many.
On Temple Street, the soundtrack of a Beijing Opera blasts from a roadside hawker. It paints the picture of a stage, with a panelled platform and roof supported by wooden sticks, draped by colourful fabric whose seams are long enough to touch the ground. A huge crowd gathers, watching the performance attentively. The Chinese, though constrained by their poor living conditions, still strived to maintain the culture left behind by their predecessors, and the wayang was one of them.
I leave with content and satisfaction, taking with me a piece of the past.
Niu Che Shui- or Chinatown, as commonly known today, is not just a labyrinthine of concrete floors, nor an epitome of mere traditions and cultures. It holds a priceless position, one that can be never taken away; one that will never vanish with time.
Because it is, and will always be, an indispensable part of The Singapore History.
12:17 AM
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